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[spoiled-fawn]

CoD Western AU and Mail Order Spouse Trope

Howdy!

Welcome to my version of a Wild West AU & Mail-Order Spouse Trope. Introduction of the reader scenario will be down below and a little digital art will be added in to show our lovely options of spouses. This is Gender Neutral.

This was my first Au and trope project I’ve worked on. While I learn and decide how I want to upload this, I hope everyone enjoys or just gets a kick out of this!

Introduction & Backstory

Your life wasn’t awful, per se, but sometimes you wonder if you say that to yourself to cope with what you’ve been through. Simply put, you were your family's breadwinner, caretaker, and damage controller. You were poor-ish, where you had to use scraps of fabrics to make your clothes, but yet your father could always afford a bottle to be in his hand, and your mother out on the porch smoking whatever she needed that day to cope and try to be a mom and wife.

Coat of many colors indeed.

You worked, and you have worked from a young age to continuously support your family as you didn't have a choice if you wanted to keep the roof over your head. Although, you were thankful that your mother was adamant you went to the schoolhouse and got at least a good amount of education.

After attending school for a few years until puberty, you were in the working class; your job as a domestic servant included the taste of farmhand, tailoring, and working to cann fruits that were grown on the farm. After a long shift on the warm and humid spring day, you walked back home to hear your father yelling as usual but stopped when you heard your name being spoken.

“As soon as we sell that damn nuisance, we’ll be rolling in dough. I can’t believe that damn bastard politician wants our kin. Said once he’s back from his campaign up north he’ll come meet ‘em.” He laughs before taking another swig of his drink, your mother laughing along with him as she has a lit pipe in the house for the first time in a long time.

Now, you to truly understand the depravity of this; the seriousness of her celebrating with a lit drug inside the house.

Your stomach drops, nausea rolling over you at the thought of them selling you off to the old and decrepit wealthy politician for marriage to get money. Money that they’ll blow through, having never learned to control their vices turned addictions.

A cold sweat breaks out on you as you swallow down the urge to expel the minimal amount of food in your worn-out body, and promptly turn around and walk back into town.

Walking the dark streets, you navigate quietly and hide behind the shadows of the night with only a few dimly lit light posts flickering their oil flame light. While walking the edge of the closed shops, you see a dirty newspaper thrown on the ground and almost step over it until a small headline catches your eye.

“FRONTIER MEN, LOOKING FOR CAPABLE SPOUSE”

Your eyes scan quickly over the matrimony company advertising for men located in the frontier lands, each searching for promising spouses and wanting to marry soon. You read over the information, seeing that the listed men below are located in newly booming towns out west, a few even located in mining towns or having their own company.

Your body zings with a chill of adrenaline at the thought of diving head first into chance and change, but you knew something much better could be awaiting you…

Should you do it?

looking around, the humid and small town looks back at you as you enter a hardened state of mind; What would become if you stayed here? The disgusting politician's new toy just to break? Your parents are already planning on how to drain their funds dry within a month of letting their addictions take over? You don't have friends, your boss is the closest thing to one just because you spend hours each and every day working.

Yeah.

You're gonna fucking do it.

Taking a seat, your eyes quickly scan down the page of advertisements, looking over the small blurbs of descriptions offered. The correspondence cost would be 10 cents, meaning you have one chance to get his attention and get the new life you need.

Simon Riley Biography, Meeting Simon,

John Price Biography, Meeting John

Kyle Garrick Biography, Meeting Kyle

John MacTavish Biography, Meeting Johnny

Phillip Graves Biography, Meeting Phillip

Alejandro Vargas Biography, Meeting Alejandro

[justcomeoverandbiteme]

𝓐𝓹𝓹𝓵𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓔𝔂𝓮

𝟏. 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐒𝐡𝐮 𝐒𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐒𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐧! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐛𝐛𝐲𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐥 <3

Part 2

{𝐂𝐖: 𝐨𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 (𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭), 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐥}

   After the countless failed attempts at the Eve project, Karlheinz decided it might be best to level the grounds. While humans had the flair of added variables to his experiment, they were weak. Vulnerable. And frankly, too quickly disposed of. As try as he might, his sons never did care to make their toys last. 

  Previous brides had the restriction of ignorance, thrown into a jarring world of infinite night and bloodshed, it was no surprise they passed by the hundreds. However, perhaps with blood picked from the land of Eden itself, may his attempt at matrimonial successes with his sons finally be accomplished. 

  A new variable has been added to the experiment. A creature of daunting song and inexplicable beauty. Captivating all who stand within its presence, the tides have reversed, blossoming apples in the wake of Adam just begging to be picked. 

   The eldest son couldn’t say he was surprised another bride was being sent to the Sakamaki manor. The letters stamped with red wax had formed a home in a forgotten pile somewhere within Shu’s room, the amount reaching in numbers that could compete with Kanato’s wax doll collection.  

  However, there was a piece that had managed to catch him off guard. 

“𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐠. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐭𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝. 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐒𝐡𝐮 𝐒𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐑𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟.”

  …

  Matched? 

  The letter was discarded, slipping from the man’s diligent fingers and swaying to the floor.

  Predetermined?

  The idea was sickening, but perhaps not too shocking. The Eve Project had gone nowhere. Any fruits his father hoped to pick from the experiments’ outcome would be found instead in a drained woman or a pasty wax figure. In hindsight, who’d think to send a wide-eyed human, hot with pounding blood to a mansion of ravenous vampiric youth with a taste for fear? 

  Only the old man.

  Shu scoffed and let the thought slip from his mind as he plugged in his earbuds, leaning his head back to rest upon the sofa armrest.

  A week later

  Undoubtedly, the thought had slipped too far into his mind, seemingly lodged into the deepest crevices of his brain. 

  Shu had missed the bride’s arrival on purpose, too unmotivated to remove himself from the tub of warm water. The woman would inevitably fall to the hands of his brothers- coming face to face with her wouldn't alter that outcome at all. If she had been previously informed, and truly planned to court him, she would state the matter as it was. 

  But Shu didn’t have that sort of confidence for anyone, much less to believe a bride would go out of her way to state her arranged marriage to her arranged husband. 

    “Good-for-nothing.”

  Shu inwardly grunted, keeping his eyes closed.

  “The bride has arrived. However she informs me that she has specifically been chosen to be your bride, is this true?” 

  Shu was silent for a moment, allowing the question to hang in the prickly air. Then, the man sighed. “Yes. The old man sent me a letter.”

  Reiji scoffed. “To think of all his sons, my father would choose you to inherit the crown.” 

  Shu didn’t speak, contemplating submerging his whole body underwater to drown out Reiji’s spitting voice.

  What a bother. The thorns lacing his brother’s words pierced the svelte melody of his music, ruining a perfectly good ballad. 

   “Your presence is demanded of in the main foyer. The bride requests it.”

  Shu sighed, tempted to argue that if the bride wanted to see him so badly, she could come seek him out herself. But Shu knew his limits. This bride had specifically been chosen by no one other than his father, and while that didn’t vary much from the previous women who had entered this house, for some odd reason, he had been the predesignated groom. There was only so much interference Shu was willing to push before potentially being punished by his father for ruining his suddenly altered project.

  The man lifted himself out of the water slowly, grunting as if he bore the weight of clay skin when really, the only weight that clung to his skin was that of his drenched clothes. Reiji clicked his tongue.   

  “Do not soil your first impression with such a disheveled app-!”

  The glowing atmosphere of the foyer seemed to burn through Shu’s closed eyes as he appeared before the great steps of the mansion. The candelabras that lit the room emitted a fiery warmth casting a glaze that made the walls appear as though coated with amber. His nose twitched, detecting an unfamiliar scent amidst the fog of blood and hunger. Yet surprisingly, the twisting fragrance of fear was absent from the air. And instead, replaced by something else. Something different. 

  Shu blinked, coming face to face with Laito, whose green eyes were slitted from the smile on his lips. “Wow, groom-to-be finally decided to show his face~” The man cooed, a glint of jealousy lying beneath the man's cat-eyed gaze. 

  “You’re dripping everywhere.” Kanato whined, clutching Freddy closer to his chest and furrowing his brows at the oldest brother. 

  There was still that scent in the air, blurring Shu’s concentration as Laito stepped away with his signature giggle. His nose searched through the vampiric scent that had settled itself into the mansion and let out a soft sigh at the sudden whiff of sweetness, almost teasing in its subtlety.

  Where was it coming from-?

  “Just because you’re the oldest you think you can suddenly get everything?” Ayato’s fingers were suddenly clutching at Shu’s woven sweater, pale skin tightening against the beige wool. Shu glared at his younger brother’s face, Ayato’s teeth baring with hardly kept rage. “Damnit, Shu! What do you think you’re better than Yours Truly or something?!”

  “Actually, Shu had little say in the matter at all.” 

  A feminine voice broke through the rising tension. 

  There.

  Shu’s attention flitted to a figure only a few feet away. How he hadn’t noticed her before, he had no idea. With his eyes now fully trained on the bride, the fragrance seemed to amplify itself, unfolding itself like a cloud of wisteria to cloak the room.

  She spoke again, plush lips parting. “It just happened we matched upon compatibility. The King figured if there was a picked son prior to us meeting, it would decrease the chance of mortality if there was less…” Your hands, manicured delicately and painted an elegant blue waved over an area of air. “..infighting.”

  Shu had never felt so awake in the presence of anyone, much less a bride. And yet, he couldn’t tear his gaze away, letting his blue hues fall over the curvature of your body, accentuated by the tightness of the white silk blouse you wore which stylistically loosened right at your breasts. Your sleeves matched the flounciness of the bust material, traveling like sheer clouds down to your wrists. Black leather encased your lower body, high waisted leggings twisting deliciously along your hips and legs. Damn he hated his father, but the man knew how to pick ‘em.  

   When Shu looked upon your face, he paused for a moment, frozen. You were gorgeous. Undeniably alluring with eyes that seemed to tempt even the most persistent of sailors to dive to their depths. A small grin played on your lips, glazed with the slightest of red gloss to enhance their softness.  

  A siren.

  It took him a moment to realize you were no longer smiling at him. And instead looking at Reiji, who had teleported back into the main foyer. Disdain began to unfurl in Shu’s chest, a sense of wrongness arising at you turning your attention to his brother, of all people. 

  “It appears to me that my brother has failed in informing us of your presence, Miss (L/N). Even more so, of your clan heritage. Forgive me for the confusi-.” 

  Your voice sliced through Reiji’s own, the airyness of it almost overwhelming in the mansion that was almost rotting with the constant tension. “It’s whatever, I don’t mind.” You spoke dismissively. “I would really just appreciate being personally introduced to my future groom.”

  The ease that your voice sent through his body was almost sickening, widening a gap in the constant dismality of his mind that previously, only music had been able to achieve. Shu felt like he could finally breathe even though he hadn’t needed to for the centuries he’s existed. He was sure his brothers could feel it too, your tone infectious in its sobriety, that even Ayato had backed off the minute you began to speak. Reiji, who usually upon being interrupted would instigate an immediate punishment, was rather silent, brows furrowed at your smiling face. 

  “...Very well. Shu and Miss (L/N) are to be left alone until dinner.”

  One by one, the brothers dismissed themselves until finally, all that was left was you and Shu. 

  You were smiling at him, Shu realized, surveying him with those captivating depths that seemed to swallow him whole. So often it was spoken that a siren’s song was their most deadly trait, and yet here he was, unable to tear his eyes away from your gaze.  

  “Shu Sakamaki.” His name unfurled like petals off your tongue, and the scent of wisteria was suddenly dizzying. “My name is (Y/N), it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  You were grinning now, with teeth glinting in the candelabra glow. Shu found himself staring for a moment, frowning subtly at your canines. They were sharp and slightly thicker than the rest of your teeth. With their almost hooked like tips, it was no question they were meant to be sunken into the flesh of prey. Beautiful, yet deadly. 

  He looked back up at you, a sudden blankness in his face. Of course. The countless prey sent to the castle was counterintuitive, an expectation for success that was like hoping for frost to thrive in a desert. A predator stared back at him, flickering between a beautiful woman and a creature that bared its teeth. 

  A threat sent from his father. 

  “I hope you know I have no will to pursue the throne.” He mumbled, eyes growing half-lidded to limit the disorientation that came with your presence. “So if that’s all you came for, I recommend you choose someone else.” 

   The siren before him blinked, eyes widening into pools of confusion. Until suddenly, you giggled. Like soft bells twinkling in the moonlight, the blissful sound danced throughout the foyer. 

  “Oh, Shu~. I don’t want the throne.” You laughed gently, fingertips rising to hide the sharpness of your grin. “I just want you.” 

[darcylewisx]

Darcy couldn't help but chuckle at Klara's enthusiasm. "Yeah, she might be a force to be reckoned with, but the results speak for themselves," she replied, toying with her beverage rather than drink it. Darcy couldn't deny that the wedding planner had orchestrated a flawless event. "If I ever decide to take the plunge into matrimonial madness, I'll be sure to give her a call," she added with a wink, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "But for now, I'll just keep enjoying the show and maybe take some mental notes for future reference."

"You know," Klara started as she took a sip of her orange juice before turning her attention back to the other person. "Their wedding planner is ruthless and knows no mercy but damn she got the job done," she said, letting out a dreamy sigh as she looked around the venue. "I'm definitely booking her whenever I get married."

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[writefasttalkevenfaster]

Aaron Hotchner / Reminders and Reunions

Request: You and Hotch attend his high military school reunion together

Warnings: fluff, some angst, mentions of hotch’s dad, brief mention of what happens in “100,” some harassment by a dude, hotch saving the day, a little possessiveness from reader, 

Word Count: 3.155

“Are you ready yet?” You called from the bedroom, slinging your laptop bag over your shoulder, as you glanced back at the closed bathroom door, "Aaron, just because you stop replying doesn't mean you can trick me into forgetting about the reunion." 

"Are you sure?" You chuckle, turning as the door opened. You raised your eyebrows, watching him adjust his black suit coat, a crisp white button down underneath with a red tie — and you didn't miss the engraved silver tie clip you had bought him on your first anniversary, "because I have other ways of making you forget." He adds, raising an eyebrow at your gaping mouth and lingering stare. 

And yet he can still make your cheeks burn, rolling your eyes, as he faces the mirror giving you a very nice view of his ass, “Nothing could make me forget this — not even your cute ass.” 

He came close enough though. 

He sighs, adjusting his tie in the mirror before you rise, walking around him and taking the tie from his fingers. You make quick work of fixing the knot yourself, a tired habit at this point because even though he was fully capable of doing it himself, he loved to have you do it. His eyes softened as he watched you, his fingers brushing down the length of your sides, pausing at your hips, “Do we have to go? More importantly, do I have to go without you? Can’t I just wait for you?” 

“When you’re being honored at your high school for your service in the FBI? I don’t think so,” you smile up at him, your fingers finding his cheek. He leaned into your touch, despite his growing frown. 

“It’s military school,” he corrected you, lips a thin line now. 

“Yes, because you were a troublemaker — how could I forget?” He covers your hand with his own with a sigh, the corners of his mouths twitching, but still very much in a frown, “come on, I’ll be there soon enough. I just to—” 

“Drop something off to the office, I know,” he finished. You hum, as your arms wrap around his neck, his large palms grasping at your waist, slipping to your lower back. His lips are only a breath away, his lips nearly ghosting your own, your fingers toying with the hair that rested on his neck. 

“Tell me again how you know me so well,” he leans down, pressing a kiss to your now thrumming pulsepoint and he chuckles, the vibration sending a shiver down your neck. Another kiss pressed now to your collarbone, his fingers tug the collar of your shirt back, and he smiles against your skin. 

“Might be the profiling,” he hums, as you tilt his head back up to look at you again, “might be the holy matrimony.” and you don’t miss the way the metal band of his ring grazes your cheek as he cups it. 

“I knew I married you for a reason,” you smile against his lips as he kisses you, lips sliding together, parting as you giggled, “profiling makes being passive-aggressive so much easier.” 

He scoffs, slowly walking you backwards towards the bed, the bag slipping from your shoulder, “And here I thought you married me for my good looks,” 

“That too,” you murmur, as he presses you against the foot of the bed, “you’re doing a good job at that distracting thing,” and his lips find yours again, noses bumping, and your hands find his shoulders, finding it hard to say the next words that reluctantly leave your lips, “but you still have to go.” 

“But we could have our own fun here,” his voice is husky, and you know he’s right — you can think of several examples from this morning alone of ways you two could have fun, several of which involve the very tie around his neck, but— 

“Is there a reason you are so insistent on not going?”  you tilt your head, as his gaze drops, “because we really don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just thought it would be a nice way to reflect on how far you’ve come.” 

“I’ve come far?” and you roll your eyes, before pulling him onto the bed, your leg over his. You only wished you could really articulate how far he’s really come, how far you’ve seen him grow, how far you know he will grow in the future — but you can’t. Not really. You could list the things he’s done, the things he’s accomplished, the things he’s gained, the things he’s lived through — but nothing would do it service, nothing at all. Because words were incomparable to Aaron Hotchner, and you supposed, your fingers tracing his jaw, that’s why you married him. 

“I know you have — I’ve seen it,” your thumb brushes his chin, brushing his bottom lip and he kisses the pad, “and I can’t wait to see where else you go. But the reunion doesn’t have to be one of them, if you don’t want to. I just thought it might be a good reminder.” 

He sighs, “I haven’t been there since my graduation — did you know that was one of the last time I ever spoke to him?” 

And you purse your lips, watching the muscle in his jaw clenching, his fingers digging into his knee, “I didn’t know that — I knew you hadn’t spoken to him since military school but—”

He gives a bitter chuckle, “I didn’t even invite him — the school did,” he leans over, elbow propped against his knee, “It was the first time in my life I felt like I didn’t have to answer to him. It was the first time I was able to walk away from him and choose something for myself. And I chose to cut him out,” he rubbed at his chin, as your arms winded around his, one arm around his back and the other around his arm, “It wasn’t until he was sick, dying in the hospital that I ever saw him again, and by then...it was too late for words.” The weight of the words pressed against his chest still, a weight that would never ease from him, but your fingers intertwined with his, but one you hoped you could help bear. 

“Aaron—” 

“I don’t regret what I did, to him, at least,” he shook his head, eyes glassy,  “do I regret leaving Sean there? Yes. Do I wish I could have seen my mom more? Of course. But,” his eyes flicker to the dresser, lined with photos of your family — of him, Jack, Haley, you, and the team, and then back to you, “it’s what got me here,” he presses his forehead to yours, “it's what got me to you.” 

“If I have to thank that man for anything, and it’s very, very little,” he chuckles, as your fingers find his cheek again, “I would thank him for you existing, and for whatever he did or didn’t do, because you’re Aaron Hotchner because of it,” and then you shrug before adding, “and then I’d punch him in the face, but that’s besides the point.” 

He laughs, leaning forward to kiss you, pressing both of you into the soft mattress, his lips tasting of the bitter dark roast he preferred dancing in contrast to the sweet taste of something unmistakably him, “I love you,” 

“Right back at you,” you murmur, pulling him to you again. 

~~

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you curse under your breath, a colorful string of expletives that you hope no one caught wind of as you bustled down the street, only two minutes away from the venue, according to your phone. You promised to be there half an hour ago, but of course, someone had to screw up your paperwork, and it took five times longer to fix then it did to actually submit it. 

Lovely. 

And now you were late to the event that you had convinced Aaron to attend. His short, terse text message didn’t bode well of his time there without you, but you would be sure to make it up to him tonight. Trying to even your breath, you found the building, adjusting your hair and your clothes — you barely had enough time to change at the office. You were sure you terrified half the people in that office tonight, but you would apologize tomorrow — it was the only way you could get here on time tonight. 

And you did, pushing the front door open. 

Barely. 

You found your way to the room where the alumni were dining. No signs present — didn’t think that would be helpful would they? 

“Are you looking for the reunion?” a voice asked. You snapped your head to find a man standing beside you, a little too close for comfort. His snarmy voice matched his blonde slicked back hairdo, and his sleazy smile had you w “I couldn’t help but notice you looking utterly lost.” 

“I am,” you take a step back, shoving your disgust away, “can you point me in the right direction?” 

“I can, but I don’t believe I recognize you,” the man’s hands slips into his pockets, tongue darting out to lick his lips. You barely can hide your disgust, “You’re not crashing the party are you? It would very bad of you,” his teeth graze his bottom lip, his fingers running through his slicked back hair, “But I would be willing to teach you a lesson.” 

“I’ll pass on the lesson,” you keep your voice tight, knowing you would catch more flies with sugar then you would with vinegar and right now, you needed this fucking fly to tell you where the reunion was, “I’m not crashing, I just need to know where—” he tilts his head, jerking it towards two double doors down the hall. 

“It’s right through there,” and you head towards the doors, “I’ll see you in there.” he calls after you, and you shudder, right before you push through the double doors. A few eyes flicker to you as the door shuts softly behind you, but none of them Aaron’s. 

You bit your lip, scanning the crowd for him. You hoped you didn’t miss it — not after you had persuaded him to come, not after how hard it was for him to be here. But you didn’t, you know you didn’t when you find him on the stairs to the stage, his presence and posture undeniably too Aaron to miss. 

There’s a tapping on the microphone as the feedback reverberates through the room, “We wanted to honor a certain alumnus tonight,” a man’s voice booms over the microphone, “From here, he went onto George Washington University and then graduated law school summa cum laude. He eventually became one of the finest prosecutors in D.C. before joining the F.B.I.’s behavioral analysis unit, where he catches serial killers for a living. He is upstanding, true to his convictions, and represents the morals we wish our alumni to embody — Aaron Hotchner.” 

He steps onto stage, and you catch his eye despite the flashing cameras and roar of the crowd — he had plenty of practice after all. His lips curl into a small smile when he sees you, a nod, as he steps beside the announcer. 

“We would like to present to you with our distinguished alumni award,” he places the glass award in Aaron’s hand, shaking his hand with the other, as the room erupts into applause, “please, say a few words.” 

He blinks, stepping in front of the podium, clearing his throat before he speaks, “The last time I was here was our graduation. Like many of you, I had been sent here — for one reason or another we all ended up here. And I have a lot of bad memories associated with this place, as do we all. But it was a jumping off point — it took us places, it helped us find the right people,” his eyes find yours again, “and it helped us become the people we are today. It’s a good reminder, a needed one,” he holds the award up again, “Thank you.” 

The applause explodes around you, seats scraping against the floor as several rose to their feet, as he left the stage, walking over to shake his hand. You hang back, smiling as you watched him greet familiar faces. And you knew it was good for him to come here. 

“Still here, huh?” an unwelcome presence finds you again, slicked back hair and all  — he did promise that he would see you again. Persistent, like a rash. But now this rash has turned into a full blown infection, with drink in hand, the aroma of beer wafting with every word he spoke at you, “I still can’t place you.” 

“That’s because you don’t,” you cross your arms, “I didn’t go here.” 

“Oh I can place you,” you could hear the smirk in his voice, “how about in my bed tonight?”

You laugh, “I think you’re hallucinating,” still craning your neck to only find Aaron had disappeared into the throng of people by the stage. 

Irritation begins to creep into his voice, “I think you’d ought to have a little more respect for the alumni here, if there’s one thing they teach you here is to have respect for everyone.” 

“Well I didn’t go here, and the one thing I’ve learned is that people like you don’t deserve an ounce of respect,” you cross your arms, not bothering to look at him, “or acknowledgement. So why don’t you fuck off and leave me alone?” 

A tension began to ebb at your nerves. Logically, you knew you were okay — a crowded room, full of other people, your husband included who was a federal agent and had his gun on him — but still. Still — he was still physically larger than you, and possibly stronger. And if you weren’t in this room full of people, it could be a much different story. 

But I am in this room, you reminded yourself. You are. 

“Come on, who could you have more fun going home with tonight? 

“I have a few ideas,” Aaron slides beside you, his arm curling around your waist, FBI agent voice fully in action, his head ducking to press a kiss to your shoulder, “myself namely, but also every other person on the planet. 

“Hotchner,” the man scoffs, “Hotchner, congrats on the award,” his lips are a thin line, “you gonna put that up on your mantle with all your report cards? I thought you were much too busy to grace me with your presence.” 

“Never too busy for my spouse,” and you lean into Aaron’s touch, “something you should know well, Mason. Aren’t you still married?” as he tilts his head at the now dubbed Mason, who gapes at the two of you, as you grin brightly at him. 

“Nice to meet you, Mason,” you hold out your hand, savoring the slack jawed expression on his face, “You’re married that’s nice. I see it isn’t going too well, and I wonder why that could be.”

“I didn’t know you got married again, Hotchner,” he crosses his arms, “try not to get this one killed—” 

You surge forward, but Aaron holds you back, as you glare daggers at the fucking prick. You clench your jaw, your fingers fisting in the sleeves of his jacket. You needed to let him fight his own battles, and you knew he could — didn’t mean you wanted to punch him any less. 

“You know I’ve dealt with worse bullies than you, Mason, before and after you started shoving my head in a locker, and I’m not scared of you anymore,” you squeezed his hand, and he intertwined his fingers with yours, as he slid beside you, Actually, it’s nice to see some things haven’t changed around here.” 

The man surges forward, red in the face, but Aaron stops him with a firm hand on his shoulder. The room grows silent, and you feel the eyes of at least fifty alums dig into your sides, “Stop clinging to the past, and grow up,” Mason jerks his hand away, heading towards the exit, “I suggest you leave now. Unless you want to leave here in—” 

“Fuck you, Hotchner,” he says as the door slams behind him, and the chatter creeps back into the room. 

You scoff, swallowing the anger sitting on your throat, “Couldn’t even say it to your face,” you face him, his expression inscrutable as ever. Your fingers find his cheek, and he basks in your touch, a sigh on his lips, “you know you need a horse and a cape when you do that.” 

He chuckles, and relief floods you at the small smile on his lips, “I’ll come more prepared next time,” he glances at the door that Mason had just left through, and your fingers find his, squeezing his hand. 

“Are you okay?” 

His eyes flicker back to you, “I should be asking you that.” 

“He didn’t do anything besides make my ears bleed,” you huff, pulling him closer, his face in your hands, his eyes nearly glassy, “Now you didn’t answer my question — are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” he shakes his head, rubbing his thumb across your cheek, “I finally have some good memories here, and I feel like I actually shut this chapter of my life closed after all this time. And this place doesn’t seem so scary now — it’s smaller than I remember. And so are the people.” 

“Should we find Mason and see if we can prove that theory?” he snorts, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, lips lingering for a moment, before he presses his forehead to yours. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too,” you smile, leaning up to press a kiss to his lips, “do you want to stay a little longer or go? If we’re staying, I’m going to need you to say I love you a little louder in front of the group of women currently ogling you.” 

“Jealous?” he laughs, kissing your forehead, tilting your chin up, as your hands slide around his neck. 

“Possessive,” you kiss him, his lips smiling against yours, his fingers twisted in your hair to pull you closer, and your hand drifted to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thud under your touch, “Mine.” 

“I think we’ve made that clear enough now,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your pulse, “Now, I think we should leave because I believe I was promised some fun after this.” 

“Really?” you scrunch your nose, “I don’t recall.” 

And he pulls you through the double doors and out towards the deserted parking lot, pressing you against the car with a kiss, towering over you, as you tugged him closer by his lapels, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, “Let me remind you.” 

[wyofabdoms]

Undercover I Do - Chapter 5

Characters: Javier Peña x female reader

Summary: While on an undercover assignment posing as a married couple, you are attacked and nearly assaulted. Upon waking, all you remember about Javier Peña is what you remembering seeing from two photographs of the two of you posing as the happily married couple. As you struggle to regain your memories, Javi struggles with his own feelings for you.

Rating: Mature (Eventual smut)

Warnings: fake/pretend relationship, married and undercover trope, temporary amnesia, hospitalization, blood and injury, swearing, awkward Javi, unrequited feels, mentions of sex toys, feelings, pining, 

Word Count: 3132

Notes: You're released from the hospital, and Javi sets up house. While doing so, he stumbles across a couple of things that make him feel all kinds of ways!

Read on Ao3

You were released from the hospital two days later under the stipulation that you were to rest and were not to return to any kind of active field duty until fully cleared by the doctor and his medical team.  Over the course of those two days, some of your memories had seeped back in, like figures appearing through thick fog and slowly taking form and shape.  But, it seemed to you, not any of the really important ones were returning.  You remembered now some specific events from the last two years of your time as an agent: big busts you had made, critical incidents that had ended badly for your agency, colleagues that had been lost in the line of duty.  You had been able to recall many details of your work against the worst of the drug cartels in Colombia from the last two years and even further back...but most memories of things from the past three or four weeks were still a grey void with nothing in them, not even shadows to hint at memories waiting there in the fog.

You were rarely alone at the hospital: if Dixon was not sitting at your bedside, then Javi was there in her place. Between the two of them, you had managed to scrape together some large pieces that were missing about your relationships: you had worked with Dixon earlier in your career in San Diego and when she had risen in ranks and earned a seat down here in the thick of things, she had brought you along with her.  You had the feeling that she viewed you as a bit of a protege and you felt confident that the memories you had of her support and backing of you were true.  Memories about your relationship with Javi proved to be a bit more difficult to get confirmation on.  While both Dixon and Javi were very willing to discuss and confirm anything you asked about your mentor, when you inquired or asked for clarification on your history with your husband, both agents seemed to hesitate for a moment before answering you.  Dixon was more guarded than Javi and the older woman would often change the subject as quickly as she could when you asked her about your husband.  You got a distinct sense that she did not approve of your marriage to the man you had been partnered with during your time here.

You remembered that was how you had met Javi; you had been assigned as his partner.  You remembered the earliest days of working with him: how he had flirted with you and you had rebuffed him, how there had been moments when your partnership had skated the line of something more.  But it was only the older memories that seemed to come clearly to you...the closer to present day you came, the emptier your memories became.  You had tried to remember when exactly your relationship with Javi had made the jump from work partner to life partner.  When and how had the two of you told each other how you felt?  And you had zero memories of a proposal, a wedding....no memories at all of how it felt to touch and be touched by the handsome man who spent hours sitting in comfortable silence next to your bed. You couldn’t bring yourself to ask him questions about those things...not yet.

Surprisingly, Dixon was the one who escorted you when you were released.  After the older woman saw you carefully buckled into the passenger seat of the car, you inquired as to why Javi wasn’t the one driving you home.  Dixon’s eye flickered behind her dark sunglasses, and she mumbled something about him getting your apartment ready for you. She assured you that he would be waiting at your home when you got there.

Your home.  For a moment, your stomach sank, thinking about how you would be going back to a place that was foreign to you but was supposed to be a safe haven, a refuge, the home you shared with a husband you were supposed to be in love with.  Would you remember any of it?  Would anything that you found there help jog anything loose in your memory?

You could only hope.

***

“Fuck!”

Javi growled as he struggled to keep a box from teetering off the pile of other boxes that it was precariously stacked on.  His hands were full of his clothes on hangers, halfway between the box he had just removed them from and the clothing pole in the closet.  He had been struggling most of the morning with lugging half of his possessions down the two flights of stairs of their shared apartment building and trying to make it appear as though he had lived in this apartment for longer than a few hours.  Both he and Dixon had agreed it would be best for her to return to familiar surroundings...but they still needed to keep up the premise that the two of you shared a life together.

Javi had never given much thought to domesticity.  The closest he had ever come was Lorraine...and the brief moment of introspection he had had when he had seen her those several years ago at that wedding.  Thoughts had crossed his mind then: what would it be like to have a wife, to wear a ring on his finger, to have promised himself to someone forever?  To have a future that was shared with another person?  To make important decisions with another person and not just on your own?  To have 2.5 kids and a house?  But he hadn’t spent too much time dwelling on it simply because none of that was really who Javi was, was completely unimaginable to him.  He had never once really thought that sort of life would ever be one he would want, much less be able to live.  And, quite honestly, he wasn’t all that sure that that kind of life was one that he deserved.

Now, it seemed, life was playing a little gag on him: turns out maybe there WAS a way for him to see if married life was for him...although he did hate the fact that his partner had had to be injured in the process.  

One thing he was certain of at the moment, though: if getting married and divvying up and combining possessions was as big a pain in the ass for real as it was for this farce?...Well, that was a strike against matrimony in his opinion.

At first he had merely grabbed a small duffle bag full of items; things he thought he might leave at a woman’s house if he was spending the night or a weekend: a change of clothes, toiletries, firearm.  But when he had let himself into her apartment two floors below his in their building, it had struck him that that wasn’t going to be good enough. 

Her apartment was lived in.  Unlike his own, which he realized now seemed a little sterile and cold, her’s was warm and (though not a word he often used in his vocabulary) cozy.  She had artwork on the walls, shelves full of books from all different genres...even a few board games and some well-worn records on the record player stand. He spotted a rolled up yoga mat under a bench beneath the window and a couple of handwritten recipes and smiling photos tucked under bright magnets on the refrigerator. Her bedroom smelled of lavender and soft vanilla; the bed was neatly made (again, unlike his own) and dirty clothes resided in a hamper rather than tossed carelessly into a corner. The spare room that served as an office housed neatly organized work related content and photo albums of people from home, holiday decorations stashed under the guest bed; her closet had her clothes neatly organized (by color, who knew!?). He had quickly come to the conclusion that he might need to put a bit more effort into this charade.

So he had proceeded to spend the next several hours being swept into a whirlwind of imagining what a shared space would look like if the two of them were actually married.  He had started with the few books he had in his own apartment; a few biographies, some car magazines and a ratty copy of “The Art of War” and “The Hobbit”.  He had jammed them onto the neat bookshelves in her living room before returning quickly with some of his own records: some Cumbia records and an Eagles album, which he shuffled in with her own Steely Dan, Creedence Clearwater and Three Dog Night. 

He didn’t have much to contribute to the kitchen besides a few bottles of whiskey and a bottle of tequila next to her own bottles of red wine.  He had pulled a photo taken when he graduated from high school from his wallet and placed it on the fridge next to one of her with her huge family.  He paused a moment to assess the contrast in the two pictures: her in the midst of her five older brothers and parents, all wearing matching Christmas sweaters...him standing bashfully and stiffly next to his dad, who grinned proudly at the camera, one arm awkwardly slung over a teenage Javi’s shoulder.  The bathroom didn’t take long, either.  He added his razor, a bottle of Old Spice, and his toothbrush and comb; he glanced into the medicine cabinet as he placed his deodorant there and eyed what looked suspiciously like a package of prescription birth control...his mind started to wander and he slammed the cabinet door shut, heading back upstairs to his apartment for another load.  

He had strong-armed his clothes still on the hangers into some file boxes to make them easier to carry down the stairs, then had hauled shoes, underthings, suits, jeans, and (what he had not really realized until this moment) a ridiculous amount of the same style shirt in different colors downstairs and was now trying to wedge them into one half of her closet, trying to make it look like they had been there for a while and doing his best to not become buried by the haphazardly stacked boxes.  Once the last set of shoes was stuffed into the closet next to a pair of sky high red heels he had never seen her wear before, (he was CERTAIN he would have remembered those) he opened the dresser to shove his socks and underwear into a drawer and gulped. Staring back at him was a drawer full of his partner’s bras and panties.  

For a moment he felt like a creep pawing through her underwear drawer, but he steeled himself and carefully nudged the sensible pieces of cotton material to one side of the drawer.  As the material shifted, he spotted a brief flash of red lace and something that could be black and leather, but he refused to investigate any further; he could feel his face flushing and his heart pounding harder.  He dumped his own underwear into the drawer and shoved it closed, sighing with relief and opening the next one; socks wouldn’t cause his mind to wander into dangerous territory nearly as badly!  He carefully shoved the rolls of clothing to the side to make room for his own once again and felt his hand hit something.  His breath hitched as he uncovered what was very obviously a vibrator.  Next to it was a tube of lube and a small box about the size of a deck of cards.  Try as he might, he could not stop himself from carefully tilting open the lid of the box...Javi was quite educated when it came to knowing his way around a woman, but he was clueless as to the purpose or use of the two small colored balls nestled into the velvet inside of the box...although he was pretty sure he at least knew where they were supposed to go.  

His mind clouded with images of his partner stretched out on the bed behind him, bringing herself to orgasm using these items and he felt himself harden in his jeans.  He let out a puff of air and carefully nudged the items to the other side of the drawer, reburying them beneath the socks as they had been before.  He piled in his own footwear, then shakily closed the drawer, still trying to blink away the images playing out in his mind.  He wondered what her face would look like as she came apart.  What did she sound like?  Did she cry out when she reached her peak?  What would his name sound like tumbling from her lips in the middle of her climax, what would she taste like…?

He stormed out of the bedroom, furious at himself for going down that path.  He felt like a pervert, getting so turned on after snooping through her personal effects.  He was angry at Dixon for insisting that they do this; but he was frustrated at himself, more.  He shouldn’t be going through her things like this.  He splashed some cold water on his face from the kitchen sink and trudged back up to his own apartment, pacing for a while once he got there, trying to both ease his erection as well as determine what else he should bring with him back to her apartment.  His eyes settled on the shoulder case that had been retrieved from the house that had been used in the undercover operation.  He pulled out the two framed photographs that had been next to “their” bed; the photos that she had referenced when she had first woken up.  He stared at them, thinking that if he hadn’t been present at the time they had been taken, he would have believed they were real, too...that they were actual photographs of two people madly in love with each other.  

Maybe…

No.  He stuck both pictures under his arms, grabbed another box filled with work files, tossed his favorite ashtray and lighter in the box along with one or two small tchotkes, a couple of coasters and a small plastic plant from the window sill, and made one more trip down the stairs.  He dispersed the items randomly throughout her apartment, thinking to himself that it at least gave a more unified image of two different people existing within the same space.  

He hauled the box of paperwork into her second bedroom converted into an office space and plopped it down on the desk, taking one or two folders and strewing them about the top of the desk, again in stark contrast to her own organized, neat piles.  It started to reflect their separate desks at work now, which he found convincing.  He sat in the desk chair for a minute and quickly shuffled through the small desk drawers, double checking for anything glaring that might be difficult to explain.  As he opened the bottom drawer, his eye caught a blue leather bound notebook.  Flipping through it, he saw pages and pages of writing in his partner’s familiar handwriting.  As he thumbed through, he was startled to spot his name on one page.  He carefully flipped back, scanning the writing and was surprised to find that it actually appeared quite often.  He turned a page and began reading from the beginning:

“Everything sometimes feels so incredibly heavy here.  The job, the humidity, the pressure of being a woman in this man’s arena.  I hate it!  I hate that I have to be strong all the damn time.  I hate that it feels like I can’t seek the same comforts as other women...even if I have insisted that it be this way.  I’m so grateful and proud of myself...most of the time...like 95.5% of the time.  The other times, I just wish I could let myself cry when something heartbreaking happens.  When someone says something scathing that hurts my feelings at work.  When I watch Javi go off to sleep with yet another woman.

Javi.  That feels so heavy all of the time, too.  I can’t seem to ever level myself out when it comes to him.  Some days he drives me absolutely insane and I want nothing more than to bash his face in with a paperweight.  Other days, I just want him to put his arms around me and hold me.  Not do anything or say anything, just hold me tight…because he is, truthfully, the only single person that I trust.  

And yet, am I fooling myself in saying that...in saying that I trust him?  Because do I really?  If I really trusted him, why don’t I just go to him?  He only lives two floors up.  Why can’t I knock on his door and fling myself into his arms and kiss him and feel what it’s like to press my body against his?  Why can’t I bring myself to do that?  Well...probably because I don’t really ACTUALLY trust him...not with that part of myself.  Javi is the man I want having my back in a shootout...but is he the man I want to be next to me every night when I fall asleep and every morning when I wake up?  I dream about him sometimes...about him being in my bed with me, but we’re usually not sleeping...we’re doing everything but.  I dream about it and then I wake up feeling empty because he’s not there, because it wasn’t real.  The emptiness is heavy, too...”

Javi clapped the journal shut, feeling his stomach churn.  He shouldn’t have read that and guilt thrummed through him.  These were her private thoughts; never meant for anyone else but her to read.  Once again he felt like an intruder and he loathed himself...Dixon...that asshole Ortiz...for putting both of them in this situation.  He dragged a hand over his face, growling low in his throat.  He looked down at the box at his feet, still open with a few files and the two photographs staring back up at him.  He reached in and took out one framed picture, sitting it upright on the desk: the “engagement” photo.  He took the “wedding” picture out and then tossed the journal into the box, carrying both items from the home office.  He carefully set up the photo on a bookshelf in the living room, then put the lid back on the box and headed back up the stairs to drop the box off in his apartment and lock up.  Before he left, though, he made sure to slip the freshly cleaned gold band onto his left ring finger.

His wife would be coming home any minute now.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8,  Chapter 9, Chapter 10,  Chapter 11,  Chapter 12,  Chapter 13

[freddiesaysalright]

A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes - Chapter 1

Gwilym!Prince Charming x Reader

Summary: After losing your parents, your step-family makes your life impossible. That is, until Prince Gwilym holds a ball. It’s your one chance for everything to change.

Word Count: 3.4k

Tag List:  @psychosupernatural​, @someone-get-a-medic​, @bensrhapsody​, @deakyclicks​, @crazylittlethingcalledobsession​, @minigranger​, @crazyweirdocalledfriday​, @the-moving-finger-writes​, @assembledherethevolunteers​, @rose-writes-prose​, @queenlover05​, @26-7-49​, @drowsebaby, @im-an-adult-ish​, @queen-paladin​, @rogerina-owns-me, @mirkwoodshewolf​, @namelesslosers​, @headl0ng​, @captvianswaan, @xviiarez​, @baltimoresweethearts​ If you’d like to be added, let me know!

A/N: The first part, I hope y’all enjoy!

Warning(s): Descriptions of abuse and general creepiness

Moodboard

Prologue

Chapter 1 here we go!!!

“Father, please,” Gwilym groaned, setting his book down. “Not this again.” 

He had been reading - rather peacefully - when his father burst into the library and started asking him when he could meet another young lady suitable for him to court.

“I’m not getting any younger, Gwilym!” the king returned. “I’d like to see you settled before I go!”

“You’re in great health,” the prince argued. “And besides, why is it so important that I’m married before you die?”

The king hesitated before replying, which made Gwilym’s brow furrow.

“I need to know there’s someone looking after you,” the king said. “That you’ll be taken care of.”

“Father, I’m your son, not your widow,” Gwilym said, rolling his eyes. “And it isn’t a wife’s job to look after her husband.”

“What do you consider her duties to be, then?” the king challenged.

“To love me, that’s all,” Gwilym answered. “To be my partner.”

“Love, puh,” the king scoffed. “I tell you, the world is too different now. First, Prince Rami marries a village girl, and then Prince Benjamin finds himself a mermaid. If you’ve got some crazy idea because of them, then I’m telling you, boy, I won’t stand for it!”

“In fairness, the mermaid is a princess,” Gwilym said with a cheeky smirk. 

“Don’t play with me,” the king replied. “I’m serious, Gwilym.”

“I’m serious too,” Gwilym said. “If I meet the right girl - someone I love - then I’ll be happy to get married. But you must accept that she may very well be a village girl or a mermaid or a servant.”

The king huffed. “She may also be high born. Or at least a gentleman’s daughter.”

“She could be anyone, I won’t discriminate,” Gwilym said. “But I must love her, Father. If I’m going to get married, that is my condition.” 

“But who knows how long that might take!” the king cried, exasperated. 

“What’s the rush?” Gwilym returned with a shrug. 

He kept his eyes fixed on his father, whose face was reddening with heat. The king looked very hard at the floor, as if fascinated by the dust on the wood. 

“Father?” Gwilym pressed. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m not in great health, son,” the king admitted. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time left.”

Gwilym got to his feet and approached. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m ill,” the king said, finally meeting his son’s gaze. “It’s still early on and there is treatment, but I don’t know how much life is left for me. I’d like to see my grandchildren, and know the woman that will be my son’s companion. Then maybe, when I join your mother, I can tell her about them.”

Gwilym offered a faltering smile. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t want to worry you,” the king said. “Especially with me not even having all the information yet. But that’s what it is, and why I’m so concerned with it.”

The prince sighed. “Well, I can’t make you any promises. Love happens organically. It’s not something you can force.”

“It is something you can build,” the king rebutted. “Like your mother and I did.”

“It might embarrass you to hear this, Father, but I’d also like some passion in my marriage,” Gwilym said. 

The king’s face went beet red, and Gwilym bit back a laugh. 

“Well!” the king cried. “Times truly have changed when young men can so carelessly talk about matters of the bedchamber in broad daylight!”

Gwilym chuckled. “Look, I just said passion. If your first thought was the bedroom, then whose mind is truly in the gutter?”

The king’s frown deepened. 

“Don’t play with me, boy!” he warned again. 

“I’m sorry, Father, I won’t tease you anymore,” Gwilym promised. “But even so. Only a deep, true love will sell me on matrimony. Until then, we just have to enjoy our lives. The way they are.”

The king released a low breath, the redness slowly draining from his cheeks. 

“I want to,” he said. “But when I think about the future, I…”

“I know,” Gwilym said. “Let’s not focus too much on that. How about we go for a ride? Just you and me? For old time’s sake.” 

When Gwilym was growing up, his father used to take him riding for time away from the palace, especially if Gwilym was feeling upset or stressed. They’d saddle up their horses and just take off into the countryside. Fresh air did wonders. It seemed to clear the air inside themselves and they always had the best conversations. 

“Yes,” the king said with a smile. “Yes, I’d like that very much.” 

Gwilym called in a footman to get their horses ready.

***

“There,” you said finally as you tied the last ribbon on your stepsister’s dress. “All done. Is there anything else you need, Miranda?” 

“No,” she replied dismissively. “You can go now. Is breakfast ready?”

“Yes,” you said. “Your father and Eleanor are already downstairs.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” she snapped. “Now it looks like I overslept!”

“But, Miranda,” you said. “You did oversleep.”

“Well - Father doesn’t need to know that!” she argued. “Never mind. I’m going downstairs.”

She stormed out, slamming the door behind her. You followed shortly after, closing the door softly after you. Miranda and Eleanor could slam doors all they liked, but if Frank ever heard you do it, you were certain you’d be out on the streets.

You headed downstairs, below the main floor, into the kitchen. The tea would need to be freshened up soon, and you had a kettle warming on the stove. Elsie and Robert sat at the servant’s table, nibbling at their own breakfast.

“Y/N, take a seat,” Robert offered. “Bacon’s still hot.”

You shook your head. “I can’t. I’ve got to get their tea up quickly so I have time to visit Papa today.”

“Oh, it is the anniversary, isn’t it?” Elsie recalled. “It’s been so long, it slips my mind.”

“Yes, it has been a long time,” you sighed sadly. “But I miss him every day.”

“Of course you do,” Elsie said. “Well, hurry on then, I’ll make you something fresh to eat.”

You thanked her and ran the tea upstairs. You entered the dining room and instantly felt a frigid air about the family. You began to pour the tea, knowing better than to question things.

“So, Y/N,” said Frank, the usual stiffness to his voice. “I understand you have time for meddlesome pranks.”

“I - what?” you questioned. “I don’t understand.”

“I think you understand perfectly well, don’t play dumb,” he warned. “Toying with my dear Miranda’s clock to make her almost miss her breakfast is childish at best and vindictive at worst.”

“But, I didn’t -”

“Don’t interrupt me, Y/N,” he said, cutting across you. “If you have time for stupid games, then I don’t see why you need time off this morning.”

“Frank, it’s the anniversary of my father’s death,” you reminded him. “I go and visit his grave every year, you know this.”

“Well, perhaps you should have thought of that before acting like a mischievous child,” he said.

Tears welled up in your eyes. “But I didn’t, I swear!”

He ignored this.

“Today, before you head to the tavern for your shift, you will wash all the windows, re-do the laundry, mop the floors of the entrance hall, and polish my boots,” he said. “On top of all your regular duties, this should prevent you from temptations like practical jokes.”

“You can’t,” you said softly.

“I can,” he returned. “This is my house, and I won’t tolerate any tomfoolery. You want to behave that way, then you will face the consequences.”

“It’s not fair, Miranda just overslept, I didn’t touch her clock or anything in her room!” you insisted.

Your stepfather’s head snapped toward you, eyes wide. You had never spoken back to him, but nothing was more important to you than honoring your parents. Visiting your father’s grave was something you used to do with your mother, and it made you feel close to her as well. Frank shoved his chair out from under him and got to his feet. You stepped back, frightened. 

“Don’t you dare take a tone with me, Y/N!” he barked. 

He moved toward you, his form looming. You felt like you were actually shrinking under him.

“I - I’m sorry, I just -”

“Enough!” he cried, and he shoved you.

You fell to the ground on your side, catching yourself on your hands. You could already feel a bruise forming where his hands had gripped your arm. A shiver ran through you. He stood there, tall and proud, straightening his vest.

“That was undignified,” he said shortly. “But I also won’t tolerate disrespect. You will complete all your tasks today, Y/N. And if I find it isn’t done when I return from town, you will face far worse than a shout.”

“Y-yes, sir,” you replied, shaking. 

“That’s a good girl,” he said. 

He returned to his seat, and resumed his breakfast. You watched the tension slowly release from Miranda and Eleanor’s shoulders. A warm tear slid down your cheek. On trembling legs, you got up, and made your way back to the kitchen.

Elsie saw your pale, terrified face, and she jumped up, taking you in her arms. 

“What happened, dear?” she gasped. 

You let out a sob and told her everything that just transpired, almost disbelieving yourself. Elsie and Robert held you in their embrace. Since you’d lost your mother and father, they were the closest thing to a real family you had. 

“There, there, darling,” Elsie soothed. “It’ll be alright. Robert and I will handle those chores for you. You go on out to the cemetery.” 

“Are you sure?” you asked. “If Frank finds out, we could all be in trouble.”

“How will he know?” she replied. “He’s always out of the house, and as long as it gets done, there shouldn’t be a problem.” 

“W-what about Miranda and Eleanor?” you sniffled. 

“They’re going to town with their father today, they’ve got some lessons to attend to,” Robert said. “No one will know except us.”

You gave them a watery smile. “Thank you so much.”

Frank and the girls left straight from breakfast. Elsie urged you to go ahead and get to the gravesite and get back as soon as you could, just in case. You agreed, and quickly fetched your cloak and basket. Packing a few things, you headed out. 

It was a short trek from the main house, but you didn’t mind the walk. In fact, you loved walking. It gave you an opportunity to sort out anything on your mind. As a young girl, you used the time to imagine yourself as anything other than what you were - a sad child with no parents and a difficult future. On your little walks, you could be a princess or a warrior or mermaid or whatever you wanted. 

Now, as an adult, your imagination had dwindled. Harsh reality took its place. The only way to escape Frank was to have something to fall back on, and since he didn’t pay you, and worked you all day, you had nothing. But after this morning, you knew something had to be done. Frank was always distant and demanding, but that kind of aggression was new. And that was something you could not tolerate. Your arm throbbed in agreement.

You reached your father’s grave, and placed a ring of flowers against it. You lit a candle and set it beside the headstone. There was actually a towering statue there of an angel. In a way, you’d always seen your father as an angel, but he wasn’t cold and rough like stone. He was warm and gentle. You said the usual prayer for his spirit.

“Oh, Papa,” you sighed when you were finished. “I miss you so much, especially today.”

You opened your mouth to speak again, but shut it quickly at the sound of horse hooves. Fearing Frank had returned unexpectedly, you blew out the candle and stood up, pressing yourself into the angel statue. You heard voices and held your breath, straining to make out what they were saying. To your great relief, it didn’t sound like Frank. 

“Gwilym!” one man called out through a laugh. “Slow down, my boy!”

Another laugh rang through the yard - soft, friendly, and sweet. You listened as the horses slowed to a stop and the men caught their breath. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve lost your edge, Father,” the one called Gwilym panted. “We haven’t been gone very long.”

“I’m old,” the father replied. 

“You’re young at heart, though,” Gwilym returned. “Where are we?”

“Sir Frank Tarleton’s property, I believe,” the father answered. 

“He owns an estate?” Gwilym asked. “I thought he ran the tavern.”

“He does,” the father said. “He inherited the estate from his late wife. It was in the Y/L/N family for centuries before Tarleton got it.”

“What happened to the Y/L/N family?” Gwilym wondered.

“The man died, his wife remarried Tarleton,” the father said. “There was a daughter, I believe, but Tarleton cares for her now.”

You almost snorted. “Cares for” - that was rich. 

“How sad,” Gwilym said. 

Taking a chance, you peered around the statue, careful not to expose yourself too much. You saw the two men, clearly nobles from the way they were dressed, but you didn’t know who they were. The younger one - Gwilym, stood out to you. He was dashingly handsome; tall, blue eyes, soft dark hair, a strong jaw, and a gracious smile. The older one looked similar, with more gray in his hair and a longer nose. Otherwise, they might have been brothers instead of father and son.

Gwilym’s horse turned, so you leaned further out to keep looking at him. Unfortunately for you, it was a stretch too far. You lost your footing on the statue and tumbled into the grass landing on your already bruised arm with a sharp yelp.

Gwilym and his father whirled around and saw you. The former dismounted swiftly handing his father the reins, and he jogged over to you.

“Are you alright, madam?” he asked, offering you his hand.

You looked up at him in awe. He was handsome from a distance, but up close he looked unreal. Like a painting or a sculpture. He belonged in a gallery or a palace, not in a field, helping your clumsy self up.

“I - yes - sorry,” you sputtered, heat rising in your cheeks. 

“Let me help you,” he said gently. 

You took his hand and he lifted you carefully to your feet. He was surprisingly strong for his slimmer frame. You knew you shouldn’t stare, but you couldn’t help yourself. He was so...tall. 

“What’s a girl like you doing out here all alone?” he asked kindly. 

He took in your face and thought you fair, even with the dirt and soot that dotted your skin. The hood of your cloak covered your hair, but he found the color flattering on you. 

“Paying my respects,” you said, nodding toward the grave. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

Now, you looked everywhere but at his face, embarrassed. 

“Not at all,” he assured you. “We’re just passing through. It’s us who likely disturbed you.”

You shook your head. “No, sir. I was just leaving.”

His brows came together as he observed you. You were a striking girl, but the timidity concerned him. It was not a typical feminine play at being coy. You were genuinely fearful.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked. “We could escort you home.”

“Oh, no!” you cried, looking at him at last. Your gaze shot quickly back to his feet. “I couldn’t impose. And besides, I dearly love to walk.”

“It’s no imposition -”

“No, sir,” you said firmly. “Thank you, but no. I must be going now, I’ve got so much to do at home.” 

You bent down and snatched up a basket, drawing your cloak closer around you.

“Good day, sir.”

You offered a short curtsy and then turned and walked off. He watched you go until you disappeared over the hill. 

“How very odd,” he said to the king. “Do you think she recognized us?”

“I should say not, or you’d have gotten a lot more respect than a ‘sir,’” the king said. “Ignorant child.”

Gwilym mounted his horse.

“Don’t be so harsh, Father,” he said, settling into the saddle. “She’s only a servant, there’s no reason she should know us right away.”

“Let’s ride on,” the king replied. “I’ve got my energy back.” 

“Well then, you’d better keep up!” Gwilym joked. 

They took off. You heard them thunder away in the distance, and you wondered if you had just missed an opportunity to escape. You shook your head. That couldn’t be the case. Those men had no reason to help you. They knew Frank, and you had no way of knowing whether or not they were friendly. And yet...that Gwilym had the kindest eyes you had ever seen.

You went home and got started on the rest of your chores. By some miracle - mostly because you had Elsie and Robert’s help - you got everything done. Evening was drawing near, so you went up to change and prepare for a shift at the tavern. 

You were in your chemise when your door burst open. You gasped and covered yourself with your blanket, whirling around to see Frank standing in the doorway. You stepped back.

“Well, I see everything is in order,” he said. “Well done, Y/N.”

“Thank you, sir,” you replied coolly. 

He cleared his throat. “Regarding my conduct this morning….it was not gentlemanly.”

Your brow furrowed. Was he actually going to apologize?

“But I’m not sorry,” he said. 

Of course he wasn’t.

“You need to understand, Y/N, that I am the authority in this house, and I won’t stand for disrespect,” he went on. “But I will say, I admire that you bore it with such dignity.”

“I - thank you, sir,” you said again.

He walked in and stood in front of you, coming within inches of your face. His hand came to cup your cheek, and he brushed some ashes off it. You looked up at him with wide eyes. This was also new, and his touch made your stomach churn.

“Yes,” he said. “You are growing up to be a fine woman.”

Your mind went completely blank. You had no idea what he meant by that.

“I’ve just paid you a compliment, Y/N,” he said. “The polite thing to do is say thank you.”

You didn’t want to thank him. He had invaded your privacy and your personal space. It felt more like intimidation - to further squash any more thoughts of rebellion against him. He was asserting himself.

“Thank you, sir,” you repeated, but it didn’t even sound like it came from you.

“Good girl,” he said, stepping back at last. “Now, finish dressing and get to the tavern.”

He turned on his heel and swept out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind him. You sank onto your bed and drew in a deep breath. 

The tavern was already filling up by the time you arrived. You offered Zelda - the manager - an apology as you tied your apron on. 

“It’s been a very long day,” you told her. 

Your feet were already aching, but that was something you were used to. Your limbs and muscles always had a dull pain about them from working all day at the house, and all night at the tavern. 

“Understandable,” Zelda replied. “But jump on it, girl, we’ve been open half an hour already.”

“Yes, Zelda.”

You went up to the first table and jotted down drink orders. 

When you first began work at the tavern, the customers intimidated you. They were mostly men, who drank heavily, and were therefore loud. But you quickly realized the regulars were some of the sweetest people you knew. They came in to relax after working all day, and they sometimes even brought their wives and children. Those were your favorite days. 

“Y/N!” called one of the men, called Peter. 

“Good evening, gentlemen!” you greeted. “How are you?”

They all talked at once, so you smiled and nodded, feeling some relief. Work was a nice distraction from all of Frank’s new and strange behavior. 

You went to fetch them a pitcher of ale, but as you walked, you saw the front door open. In walked the last person you ever expected to see at the tavern. This wasn’t a place where people with his kind of money spent time. It was the man from earlier - Gwilym.

[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Five; Moonlight

Author: @punk-in-docs​ & @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: !!! Violence and gore in this chapter !!! As-well as graphic mentions of death - yeah Kylo’s a hungry boi. Gets a bit deathy when he’s around.

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

Not two days later and the Ashton’s are bid to the Phillips to dine.

 They are all in Westwell’s meagre foyer. Mother is fussing with Fathers cravat knot. Posy and Flora are fighting over who gets sole use of the looking glass. They tease at the spilling curls of their hair, they pinch at their cheeks to make them pinker.

 They’d already been scrapping all afternoon over who got to wear Iris’s sapphire earrings. Their screeches rang like sharp little butterflies all throughout the house. Posy won the battle for the gems in the end of all things. Iris stayed well out of it. She bid good fortune to the winner.

 She’s dressed tonight in another one of her ‘’matrimony inducing’ gowns. According to her mother. But she won’t deny it is a very pretty piece. It sits daintily rasped just off her shoulders, with three-quarter length sleeves. Indian silk fabric, the colour of dusky robin egg blue. It makes her hair look more brilliant, according to their local dressmaker, as she flapped swatches around Iris’s ears to help her mother make a choice.

 The neckline at the back drapes low to a row of matching blue buttons marching down her spine. Julia helped tease the teal silk ribbon Posy secured her, into her low done coiffure. Which sat braided and low at the back of her neck. Silver pins shining among the tumble of her dark hair.

 This wasn’t a ball and she could gladly forgo gloves. She’s wearing pearl drops from her earlobes. And mother insisted on a draping necklace around her throat. Simple silver necklace. With an oval aquamarine beryl, and a freshwater pearl dropping off it. It sits low in her clavicle and mother ensured the cut of her dress was low. Drawing attention to Iris’s shoulders and her comely bosom.

 She does as she’s bade - as ever. She steals a second in the mirror to check her coiffure. Now Posy and Flora are by the door, arguing over slippers and slipping the dainty things on their feet. Spitting fury at each other.

 Iris toys with her hair just for a second in the glass. At the wispy muddy bits that curl in front of her ears. She plucks them out of the hair arrangement. Aswell as one gentle curl down the nape of her neck. She lets it rest there. Clasping delicately at her skin.

 The care-worn face of her beleaguered father appears behind her in the looking glass reflection. With his greying rust hued hair, his squared fashionable sideburns and his tired, deep eyes the colour of jade marble.

 He loosens the linen knot his wife had just pinched tighter around his neck. His eyes warm like a sun baked green meadow when he peers at his eldest. Wrinkles bunch and crease at his eyes and at his mouth when he smiles. He had such a ruddy, open face.

 “You look very well tonight my dear.” He comments softly. Tugging at his tight collar. Fixing his green velvet lapels. Iris smiles at her father.

 He always was the gentle backbone of encouragement to her. Never once raised his voice to her. He never seemed to grow angry or vexed. Or have a swing of a temper. Those nasty sharp attitudes belonged solely and respectively to her mother. She’s the one who shouts and snipes. Father remains taciturn.

 “Thankyou, papa.” Iris beams at him. Turning around as he handed her, her indigo blue cloak. Iris seemed to be the one he favoured. Posy and Flora have slithers of acerbity in their temperaments, like mama. Iris seemed to flourish after his more witty and lenient nature.

 She brushes the lapels of his bottle green jacket down. Eyed the fraying seam that’s been stitched up in his shoulder. The faded linen of his shirt. It almost makes her want to go through with this marital farce that’s being forced so thoroughly upon her.

 “You look very handsome tonight too, might I add.” She smiles. Adjusting his cravat for him. Loosening it from the choking noose mother had tied. “I know how little you care for the Phillips.” Iris smiles thankfully. Not letting mama hear.

 “Mrs Phillips is most agreeable. Her husband however? Most odious man alive. It seems all he can converse about is how cumbersome the grouse is this season.” He relents quietly.

 “I deem it unwise to try and escape the acquaintance now. Mama would quite have a fit.” Iris supposed. Hushing quietly as she soothes down the points of his collar.

 He gives her a sober smile of agreement. His conduct and his temper always so agreeably timid. Humble. Like waves breaking on the dashed sharp rocks. Always yielding.

 She finishes with his coat and he goes to pick up his hat from the stand in the foyer, nestled by the front door. Julia is just helping Mama shrug on her coat. And pin her purple and black trimmed shako hat on securely.

 She harshly jerks her calfskin black gloves up her wrists with tugging severely sharp motions. Her coat is trimmed with the same onyx and lilac as that of her hat. And her dress beneath is a punchy lavender mauve. And she’s wearing her black lace fichu around her neck in a matronly manner.

 Posy and Flora have gone for their best washed silk dresses. Trussed up like twins. Posy is in a muted sage-emerald. And Flora has gone for a waxy and humble tulip-orange. Both have a white lace trim at the waist from the new Belgian lace they bought. Dainty white slippers and stockings on their feet.

 “We must go now. The dratted carriage better be here soon, or else we’ll be late.” Mama snaps. Fussing with her coiffure. Issuing orders to the maid after their departure.

 If Iris was lucky enough to be spared this outing? And be in their positions. She knows where she’d be. Curled up in the oak farmhouse chair in the kitchen, book in hand, with a cup of chocolate nearby as she warms her toes near the stove.

 As it is; she’s off for an evening of white soup by candlelight, strict conversation and a dazzling staggering show of the Phillips wealth. One that will grind mama’s teeth that they can’t compete with such affluence. And one that will have Flora, Posy, and father bored to tears within minutes. Wanting to gouge their eyes out with the ivory soup spoons for something to do.

 Iris will not have the time to be bored; she will have to comport herself and display her loveliness to every eligible man in attendance.

 She is at the door pulling on her warm gloves when Posy and Flora skip happily up to their elder sister. Posy sing-songs something about Lord Ren. “Maybe your suitor is invited tonight, Iris?” She teases.

 Iris levels her a look. Father turns around with his solid brow shooting up to his hairline. “I didn’t know you had a suitor, my dear?” He supposed kindly.

 Iris jams an elbow into Posy’s ribs. “That’s because I do not have one-” She insists blithely. Growling intemperately at her pest of a sister.

 “She does! She does Papa! And she’s smitten.” Flora speaks up. The little tick. Iris tries to swat at her with her gloves.

 “You say this about any man who so much as glances in her direction. Posy.” Mother says. Stepping past them all.

 “We should be so lucky that one of them might form an attachment.” Mother mutters under her breath. Fixing her cuffs and stepping out the front door to see the carriage drawing up ready to escort them all to the Phillips’.

 Iris shares a look of teeth gritting annoyance and forbearance with her father. Who pats her shoulder and gives her one of his crinkly smiles of comfort.  She steps up into the cold box of the carriage via the step. Shoving herself far across on the bench.

 Posy and Flora ram themselves onto the same bench with Iris. Sharp little elbows and knees digging into their sister; complaining of the lack of room they had. Mother and Father sat opposite. Not speaking. Which was their normality. Her sisters squawks and fusses more than aptly filled the silence.

 It’s not long before her mother starts speaking at her father about the household gossip of the day. She seldom expected him to respond.

 “Simpson told me today we must hire a new pair of hands for seasonal work up at the farm soon. We can not afford such an expense and reliable staff is so hard to come by in winter. I heard the Norris’s lost one of their farm hands just last night...”

 Iris tries to pay attention over Posy and Flora’s inane squabbles about their washed silk embroidered shawls. Posy has lost hers yet again- Flora was the suspected thief.

 “Apparently they found the man not five paces from the local tavern in the ditch. He’d drunk a skinful and then got run down by a coach. The fool...” She comments. Iris turns to look at her parents.

 “That is unfortunate. Poor fellow.” Father remarks in a detached manner.

 “Mrs Bishop wrote to me today too. And according to her, a manservant in her employ has gone missing. Her hall boy. And another labourer from Milton Farm was found just this morning in the woods outside Pembleton. Frozen stiff with cold, reeking of Gin, and he’d been attacked for the coins in his pocket. I honestly don’t know what this world is coming too. Really I don’t.” She remarks.

 Iris doesn’t know why. But a coiling slither of a snake wraps around her spine and squeezes.

 She shivers. And more worryingly, she can’t go about placing exactly why...

 “Perhaps a wild animal is loose hereabout these parts?” Father speculated. Uninterested.

 Mother harrumphed a snort of displeasure. “I say men who fall afoul of too much drink deserve everything they get. It’s simply not decent.” She says snappily. Sniffing loftily. Hands crossed in her lap. Brushing imaginary sullying specs off her skirts.

 Because of course she’s the type of woman who thinks insobriety and being lost to drink rightfully deserves being torn to pieces.

 “I do hope they don’t invite Mrs Norris tonight. She’s such a trying woman. And her daughter is such a useless untalented chit.” Mother says to herself. Posy and Flora hop on into the gossip.

 Iris watches out the window. She admires up on the smudged glow of the full moon. Sat pearly and proud in a sky netted full of of bursting white stars. So cold. So beautiful. Untouchable. Shrouding the dark world in silver from miles and leagues and scores away. She can’t understand how people don’t see beauty in this.

 It may be a cold, pallid light. But she doesn’t think so. It’s the misty magical cyclops of the night sky. The governing beauty. The crowning keystone of it, in her view. Chariot of pearl.

 She lapses into simply watching the night woodland pass by. The shadowed gnarled trees curling up to the heavens. Snow and frost still biting the air. It was thawing somewhat. But it’s not vanished just yet. It still crawls up the trees and lurks at the hard ground.

 They arrive at the Phillips modest Manor House. Not two miles outside Pembleton. A most pretty house. Abutting the lane leading directly up next to the small local chapel.

 There’s pink rosevines dead in winter, but still smothering most of the front of the white stone house. A modest Georgian manor of thirty rooms. Windows big and square and shining gold onto the gravelled drive that their coach crackles and shifts over as they arrive. Chimneys proudly blaze smoke. And the place looks merry and set on welcoming guests to a delightful dinner.

 The Ashton’s are seen inside by the astute white wig clad butler. He takes their coats to the cloakroom, gives them to the footmen. And then shows them to the drawing room, the main parlour, where everyone is gathering. Fireplace making the room stuffy.

 Candlelight drips apricot blaze of every wall. The parlour is furnished in trims of green and cream. Trimmed with luxurious velvet. Large gilded gold terrace doors overlook the frosty manicured gardens. Mrs Phillips does so love her tea roses. The air in the garden chokes with them even in this deadening winter.

 They all graciously curtsey and bow to their hosts. Mama sits with Mrs Phillips and the other elder matrons. Mrs Phillips sits with her little toy poodle in her lap.

 The fluffy little thing drowning under the weight of a ridiculous big pink silk bow tied at its neck. Papa begrudgingly folds his hands behind his back and gets beckoned over for a glass of port with Mr Phillips. He sends a look of dismay at his eldest.

 Posy and Flora sit and gossip with their friend. Primrose Phillips. Their daughter. Iris stands alone. She wanders to admire the painting hung up by the terrace doors.

 She leans closer, admiring the dark tones of the painting. The brushwork and the detail of the of the still life captured. A case of flowers. It’s very remarkable. She wished her parents appreciated such art over austere sketches of county churches.

 Her spine suddenly alights with thrashing hot nerves. Like she’s been scorched by a candle flame and had the burn soothed straightaway with ice. It’s sharply powerful.

 She turns where she had her back to the fireplace and all the gossiping Mama’s. Her breath catches just a little at the sight of Lord Ren filling the white parlour doorway.

 Coming to bid his hosts a good evening. And his thanks at the invite. Mrs Phillips genially flatters the big man. He towers over all the elegant ladies sat down on their settees like some huge tall dark tree she imagines standing in some foreign forest. Massive and wide. Struck by lightning. Charred to dark cinders.

 His eyes gaze downwards, and his jaw grits as Mrs Phillips ineffectual little lap dog starts emitting a low yappy growl. Snarling at the sable haired Lord.

 It’s pathetic little maw pulling back over it’s tiny blunt slobbering teeth that gnash at him. Kylo raises a brow and looks down at the fetid creature.

 He spears a slicing glance right at it for barely a second and then it’s cowering away.

 Whimpering into its mistresses lap. Burying its head into her armpit and cowering. She’s cooing and fussing the awful snappy little thing. Promising it a plate of sweet meats, and a saucer of warm milk.

 “I do so apologise, Lord Ren. Such a contrary creature. For my Puffin is never usually so shy of strangers.” She offers in her pitchy high voice. Almost as squeaky as that of her dog.

 Hugging the intemperate thing and bouncing it in her lap, coddling it like a firstborn baby. Big silk rosebud bow fluttering in the air. Ugly scrunched up little face and nose of it hiding from him. The dog recognised now who the alpha in this room was.

 Kylo tilts up a fleeting corner of his mouth in an attempt at a courteous smile.

 “It’s nothing to apologise for, Ma’am. I am often cursed myself, with the same affliction of being wary of strangers.” He says in good humour. Making the ladies all titter laughter.

 Iris blushes when he looks away from them and nods his bowed parting. Turns to look across to her. Focuses. Vision concentrated solely on her.

 Those onyx gems of eyes settle on the back of that neck of hers. Slice into her. Lingering along the dip of the material that skimmed her fine shoulders and spilled down her shoulder blades.

 His gigantic frame is not subtle in striding a swathe across the candle lit parlour. Coming straight to her. Making no secret about who he favours. Opening them both up to the speculation of the whole room-

 He doesn’t care not even one bit.

 The cool shade of him passes over her shoulder. Her cheeks flushed and she turns and politely curtseys to him. A politely soft “Lord Ren.” Leaves her lips. She feels the hair on the back of her neck raise a little in excitement. Bristling to stand like needles.

 He smirks. His kind were the reasons humans had that tingling gut sense. That primal indicator of visceral fear. The hairs on the back of the neck existed solely for the simple reason that blood lusting creatures, demons, such as him walked this earth. She should learn to trust in those instincts more.

 Danger present more than ever. For now, there’s a devil at her shoulder.

 “Miss Ashton.” He greets simply. Hands composed behind his back. Big chest swells again. No part of this man is small. Every muscle is a huge slab, big and brutally built. Long strong plains of him at every turn.

 He takes her hand and kisses it. He’s not wearing gloves. Neither is she. His hands are ice- must be the cold out of doors, she thinks.

 Their bare hands touch for the first time. Skin on skin.

 It’s electrifying. Sparks skip and shimmer through them.

 He bites back a growl as he finally finally finally gets a nose full of her bare skin. Touches her hand. His nose nuzzles her flesh for a second.

 Just one scant second. And then he has to enforce every shred of willpower he owns and knows, in order to pull away.

 She’s as exquisite as he dreamt. As he lusted about. Her skin is the most dangerous thing about her. Because it’s the hardest thing he’s had to do to resist tasting more of it. The gorgeous scent and the salt of the bare skin. Hint of spicy lavender. Chalky bergamot soap she used. The fragrance of silk on her skin.

 Bewitching. Her scent sends a tremor through his usually dead spine.

 Tonight his garb as is midnight ink dark as it usually is. Velvet black waistcoat. Obsidian breeches and shining proud boots and brushed overcoat. With a cream cravat and a white shirt. Like the full moon out in that black sky tonight. Pearl trim backed with sable. His cravat diamond pin glitters - oddly enough - like a far off star.

 If he looks like a winters sky shrouded by a pearly moon. She looks the opposite. Her blue dress is the colour of the brightest searing shade of a summers sky. Her eyes made brilliant by it. And he likes the silk blue ribbon tumbled prettily into her hair. Like some stream trickling through a golden meadow on a midsummers eve.

 “If I may say, how beautiful you look tonight. Miss Ashton.” He smiles. Hands folded back once more. His wide chest puffing out freely. His intimidating size at its usual ferocity.

 She feels her cheeks heat a little more. “Thankyou your, Lordship.” She flusters. “I’m sure I deserve no such meaningful praise. It is only a plain silk dress.” She dismisses.

 “Made striking by she who wears it.” He insists. She smiles at her feet. Diverting the attention.

 “How is that big beautiful horse of yours?” She asks nicely. He smirks a little. His eyes are charcoal-honey from the the nearby candlelight. He likes her enquiry.

 “He is very well. Misbehaving himself plenty. And nearly threw me yesterday on account of mutiny and protest for want of more carrots.” He jokes.

 “Oh dear.” She laughs. “I seem to have caused dissension in your own stables.” She apologised. Sorry he almost got hurt.

 “He shouldn’t be too perturbed at me. I’m the only one who rides him out.” He offers.

 “I should like to ride more. We only have the two horses on the farm and they are often reserved for use in labour out in the fields. And there always seems far too many errands stacked against me to indulge in the pastime.” She tells.

 “Then I must beg you come over and use Erland as much as you should wish to. He is rather fond of you. And Hellford is a vast estate of which ride on. I should be delighted it gets use beyond someone other than myself.” He offers.

 “I thank you for the invitation. I’ve never fully seen all of Hellford.” She explains. “Only the front parlour and that was very long ago. I was only a little girl then.”

 “You must come again and honour it with another visit.” He concludes.

 “Hellford’s grounds are very handsomely kept. The rose gardens are exquisite. And there’s 4 acres of woodland with plenty of good riding routes. I’d be vastly happy to show you them, any time you should like.” His smile tipped a little at the corners. Breaking up the stoicism of his usually stern scowl.

 “That’s very kind. As long as you are sure it won’t interrupt any of your business endeavours.” She offers politely.

 “My business was concluded days ago. I’m most happily and currently at my own leisure.”

 She smiles in agreement. “That must be so relaxing.”

 Iris wished she had one day whereby she could be at her own peace. Do as she liked. Go wherever she wanted and not have anyone else’s expectations hanging over her like heavy nimbuses.

 “It has its merits.” He smiles lightly down at her. Before his eyes flicker to the painting over her shoulder that she was admiring.

 “There’s even a Velasquez in the foyer at Hellford. Just begging to admired by appreciative eyes.” He adds. Her face lights up.

 “I’ve never seen a real Diego Velasquez in person. Only pictures from books in my fathers study.” She says in amazement.

 “His ‘Los Barrochos’ hangs in my hallway.” Kylo says with a hint of pride. “Now you simply have to visit, to come see it. Purely on unselfish grounds, Miss Ashton. Just for the arts sake.” He smarts.

 She smiles back. Apples of her cheeks pinking up again. “I would be delighted. No art should go unappreciated after all. You’re quite correct.” She smiles with good natured levity.

 His eyes gleam almost warmly, with wickedly pleased satisfaction. Crushed charcoal and honey of his eyes are captivating to look into. To drown in. That’s exactly what she does.

 Across the parlour, where a whole gaggle of mama’s and daughters are watching the room, speculating about it. They weren’t aware, but many eyes were glued to Iris and Lord Ren.

 Posy and Flora shared a pleased giddy look that the first time they’ve actually seen the severe man almost lets a smile crack his marble statue façade, and it’s because of their sister.

 “I think your dear Iris may have caught the biggest, richest prize in the pond. Mrs Ashton.” Mrs Phillips says with a smug proud expression, leans towards Iris’s mother and gently taps her hand. They were fond companions after all. Mrs Phillips other podgy hand, laden with pearl brackets and fat gemstone rings, was fondly stroking at Puffin’s ears now he’s calmed down.

 Caroline looks across at her eldest as she converses with Lord Ren. A slight frown crinkles her brow.

 “She would do vastly well to land a Lord.” Miss Smith Interjects. Sat on Caroline’s immediate right.

 She was a willowy woman. Figure like many twigs glued together. Gawky face. Beak of a long nose that she took great delight in shoving into business that was not her own. She was a harmless woman really. The general village busy body, and a spinster at three and fifty. Another close confidant and friend in the gossip vine for Caroline Ashton.

 “For Hellford is such a handsome house. Biggest land holding in all the county... Think what a lucky girl she would be to be mistress of it!” Miss Smith adds. Giggling in excitement like a young girl.

 Mrs Phillips steals another glance at the handsome couple. “They do make a fine pair. For she’s fairly handsome and he’s rich. Their children would be such darling things. Very dark colouring. But I fear he’s not to everyone’s taste...Something very, prohibitive, about his manner that I cannot place.” She decides.

 “I heard he takes little joy in anything. It is most odd.” Miss Smith agrees with their host most eagerly.

 “He does not dance. He barely drinks. His conversation is little and dry. And beyond the sport of his estate he rarely circulates in society. That must the foreign way of things in Bavaria.” Miss Smith sniffs with disdain. Turning her nose up at the merest intimation of something foreign.

 “Foreign and continental European manners are certainly nothing to admire.” Mrs Phillips declares. The ladies three then look at the young couple again.

 “Mmmm. I would suspect that an attachment is starting to bloom thereabouts...” She adds cunningly. As casually as if she was looking out her window and deciding the weather.

 “If they do marry. One can’t doubt the match would indisputably fine. But we would rarely see her if she marries a man so limited from the ton... what a cruelty that would be on her! Not to mention his estate is in Bavaria. What a grave loss she would be to us all.” Mrs Phillips croons sadly.

 Caroline looks over to her daughter. Where the shadow of the inexcusably large man and his dark shade looms over her. They are conversing quietly and genially with each other. If she’s not mistaken, she spots a brush of pink to Iris’s cheeks.

 “Indeed. I cannot doubt as fine a proposition as he would be... I would be more greatly comforted by her being settled here. At home. Nearer to us all.” Caroline insists to both her companions.

 “What about Brendol Hux’s son? Armitage. Wasn’t there a téndre between them some while ago? Now there. Perhaps that may be rekindled to better everyone’s satisfactions?” Miss Smith nods gladly cupping Caroline’s hand. As if Iris’s affairs were her very own to meddle with.

 “Indeed. I should not wish for poor Iris to marry so high above her dignity. She shouldn’t quit her sphere. Lord Ren should go and find himself an Heiress or a nice Duchess, if he must marry. That would do him well.” Mrs Phillips ultimately decides.

 Stouton, the excellently precise butler, enters the room and gives a dignified sharp nod to Mrs Phillips. Who announces to the room that dinner is ready. As the highest ranking gentleman in the room, Lord Ren escorts the lady of the house in to dine. Everyone follows in their lead.

 The dining room is very prettily done in shades of red and gold. The table groans with the amount of polished silverware. Glassware twinkles in the light off the fire and the numerous candles. Air spiced by the silver tiered platters of exotic fruit sitting in the table centre at measures intervals. Deep scent of plums and fleshy red apples gently radiate their sweet scent up the air. Red grapes drip from these rich arrangements.

 Everyone is seated according to rank and hierarchy. Mrs Phillips crowns the head of the table in her gown of demure blush muslin. Train drifted behind her like a galleon setting sail when the stout portly woman moved.

 Kylo is placed to Mrs Phillips’ right. Iris is lower down in rank. But she is placed two places opposite him across the finely laid table. Smooth as a square of white marble is the laid linen tablecloth.

 Mrs Phillips oversees the serving of the white soup. A frothy pallid broth made of veal stock, egg yolks, ground almonds and cream. To be eaten demurely along with the light conversation. Of which is quick to flourish along the table in this bored-rigid country society.

 Kylo sups down his soup, and he is caught by the change in topics as it shifts. Mr Phillips is speaking up to Mr Ashton about it.

 “Did you hear that the Norris’s lost one of their farm hands last eve. Just dreadful news...” Mr Phillips croaks up. Shaking his head into his wine glass.

 Kylo watches Iris innocently turn her head in the conversations intended direction. Two seats down from her. His eyes follow the pretty turn of her head. He tried not to look too closely at the elegant line of her pale throat. Nor at the little drop of red wine that lingered in the corner of her lips.

 He imagined it dripping its smooth rolling path down her neck. Over that pearl necklace. Only he didn’t exactly imagine it was wine...

 More people engage in the horrid nature of the conversation. Society being shocked by it. “Where was the Norris’s farm hand found?” Miss Smith piped up. Eager for details. Aghast. Clutching her chest in overdone fright.

 “Middle of the woods apparantly. He’d run for some time away from whatever terror hunted him. Looked like an animal had set to him something vicious, according to the local magistrate. Poor fool.” Mr Phillips announces morbidly.

 Ah yes. Kylo remembers the one. The second farm hand he’d feasted on.

 He’d watched from the shadows as the letch tried to snatch a young maids purse outside the chapel. She’d been coming back from a dance on her own late at night. He’d watched the man grope her with fat wandering meaty hands. Squeezed her bottom and her bosom and terrified her. Told her gruffly he could either take her money or her virginity. Left her sobbing in the dirt and ran off cackling with her purse.

 Kylo followed his foul stench. Gin and rot of sweat and various vile body odours souring his nose. He wasn’t hard to find.

 Followed the disgrace of a man deep into the heart of the woods. The idiot soon caught wind of his feral aggressor and ran fleeing. He caught him. And he ripped him to pieces and drank him all down. Was still picking bits of him out his teeth, come to mention it.

 His tongue idly strokes the front of one of his canines at the memory of it.

 “Is it man or beast that killed him?” Mrs Phillips asks.

 “Someone up near Lord Hearst’s estate say that a wolf had been spotted thereabouts lately.”

 “A wolf!” Miss Smith shrilled. “Oh, good heavens.” She frets. Dramatically dripping her soup spoon.

 “Do not be uneasy. Miss Smith.” Mr Ashton declares. Patting her hand nicely where he’s sat next to her.

 “It is folly. Surely. There haven’t been wolves in this country since the Hundred Years’ War.” Mr Ashton declares. “Fret not.”

 “Of course those are the rumours circulating on the estates. Especially surrounding Hellford.” Mrs Phillips pipes up. Turning her attention to Lord Ren. Many pairs of curious scared eyes swivelled to the man near the head of table, as he took a sip of his red wine.

 “I’m afraid I cannot offer any consolation nor relay any satisfaction upon the matter. I have seen no such beast on my land, Mrs Phillips. Maybe it is a stray dog... after all...” He trails away. Eating another mouthful of the white soup.

 “There is always such gossip prone to over exaggerate these things, is there not?” He drawls lowly. His dark eyes flicker up and land in Iris‘s own. His smile smoothly twitches. He couldn’t help it.

 His meaning scared her. For she did not know it’s intention. His eyes looked different when he remarked upon that. They looked... odd. Like cloud passing over a sunny day. Something then swarmed his eyes. And it looked feral.

 A shiver rockets down her spine. Makes her breath spurt out ragged and catch in her throat.

 Posy is sat on Iris’s left and she’s determined not to be left out the conversation. She must have her share in it. “My friend remarked that he heard it was a huge black Wolf with bright yellow eyes the colour of sunflowers.” She remarks.

 “Posy. I think that may be idle speculation.” Iris insists lightheartedly.

 Posy frowns stroppily. “I heard it directly from Mary Sampson’s mouth. And she never tells tall tales.” She insists firmly. Iris nods and goes back to eating her soup.

 “Maybe it’s the work of a mad man?” Miss Smith pipes up worriedly. Iris swore she hears the room collectively heave a sigh of annoyance into their soup spoons.

 “Some nasty beastly mad man roaming the countryside and cutting people up who come across his path. He might be vicious. What’s next? He could decide to come and murder us in our beds.” She panics pithily. “Cut our throats in the night!!” She says frenziedly.

 “Oh I shall have to get Barlow to put another bolt lock on my bedroom door or I shall never sleep again!” She declares.

 She did so fuss over the most inconsequential of things. Like the time she swore that the black plague was making a comeback - for she heard her maid sneeze three times in a row one day whilst bringing her tea. She was so prone to hysterics and exaggeration.

 Kylo wants to roll his eyes at her stupidity. Maybe his next victim should be her- maybe he should slaughter her in her bed. Rid the world of her vapid panicking.

 Iris smiles gently across at the flustered spinster. “Don’t overexert yourself, Miss Smith. I’m sure it’s just town gossip conjured up with the intention of frightening us.” She soothes.

 “I’m sure it’s not as evil as it first seems... There may be more reasons as to why they lost their lives.”

 Kylo does look at her right then. His little dove. Sat there with her brow all creased up with worry for this vapid inconsequential woman.

 She truly does have a heart of gold.

 Mrs Phillips speaks up again. “You know I did hear that two of the men were known drunkards. And one of them was found next to a lane. It seemed he wandered into the road after drinking a skinful and was struck by a speeding carriage. Poor soul.” She declares.

 “And the other man was robbed. Though he was rumoured to be the horrid purse snatcher who lurked around the chapel last week. Some other desperate thief must’ve caused his unfortunate death out of want of his loot. There, there, my dear. All is well.” Mrs Phillips ladled comfort into her friend. Smiling heartily at her.

 Miss Smith seems to settle down. She nods. Hand clasped dramatically to her chest. Mr Ashton pours her more wine and she takes back great thudding gulps of it.

 Iris shares another fleeting look with Lord Ren. He smiles delicately at her. Mr Phillips resumes his usual spouting on and on about the grouse season. He ropes Kylo into an invite to come shoot his grouse whenever he pleases. Miss Smith keenly traps the ladies into a conversation about printed cotton.

 They talk all through the next course about more savoury things. They are served broiled partridges with gravy for the next, and an entire haunch of roasted venison. Cooked to retain just a tinge of pink. And just a slight dribble of ichor when the meat was sliced into. Served with stewed sopping celery drowned in cream. And buttered carrots and boiled potatoes. The food swamped the table in great big heaped portions on silver platters.

 Kylo was glad they didn’t cook such a rich meat until it was a slab of boiled grey toughness. He tears his sharp teeth into the slices of roast deer and eats his big fill. Licks the iron-copper tinge of blood off his lips. It lightly sates the animal gnawing at his belly. But he needs proper blood.

 Needs the liquid metal rush of it pouring down his throat and staining his white teeth crimson.

 The full moon was bringing out his more feral senses. It always does. Gets him restless and baying for blood with a hell of a thirst. The need to feed more intense than ever.

 As the pudding arrives, Kylo is sipping more claret and letting his suave black gaze wander over to Miss Ashton again. She’s talking to one of her innumerable silly pests of a sister.

 He lets his eyes stroke along her, and admire her for a second. Such a gaze doesn’t go unnoticed by Caroline Ashton. Down the table she sees Lord Rens gaze linger on Iris- and she wonders...

 Her reverie is broken by the arrival of pudding. As it was still colder, a steaming great whitepot pudding is served. Bread and butter and cream with currants dotted into the sponge. Flavoured with mace and nutmeg. Alongside this is served a tower of marzipan fruit and cold fruit tartlets. Lots of sugar and whipped cream and strawberries steeped in sugar syrup.

 Lord Ren does not oblige himself in sweets. He’ll have his fill later. Find some wandering idiot drunk to indulge his true appetites.

 Evebtually, the ladies separate from the gentlemen. They are left around the table to smoke cheroots, or sip port, as the ladies retire to the parlour for embroidery or gossip.

 Kylo watches his little dove stand and head away. Smiling demurely at him before she goes. He snatched up every second of it.

 She turns and walks away, led by her sister. He longs after the nape of her neck as she departs. The pale arch of it kissed by dark twirls of hair.

 She feels like she can’t breathe until she gets out of the room. She takes a deep breath and wets her lips as they come to the second parlour.

 Mrs Phillips particular favourite room. For her particular use. Iris can see why; it’s gaudy and decorated to drowning point with rosebud fabrics. Its nature was definitely intended to be ladies room. Draped and stuffed with pink velvety drapes, cream carpets and gold gilded French furniture. Pillows and cushions stuffed onto the settee in blush rose print. Ruffles and flounces and so many more eye-watering trims.

 Iris feels a little nauseous walking into the sickly sweet room. But she sits dutifully on the settee by the window and sips whatever snifter Mrs Phillips put into her hand. Negus, Iris thinks it might be. A favourite punch at balls. Port mixed with boiled water, nutmeg and sugar syrup. 

 Mrs Phillips insists something warming helps aid with the digestion. Flora and Posy are feeding little nuggets of sweet meats to Puffin the toy dog as he yips for more. Mother is talking with her matrons again.

 And Iris is sat looking out at the moon. Candlelight casts up one side of her face. She lets it’s watery gently light wash over her. Listen to the matrons giggling in their corner. And Posy and Flora gossiping with Primrose.

 She thinks how nice it must be to be entirely thousands of miles away. Alone in the sky. Free of burden. Just being known for casting beautiful light onto the earth.

 “Pleasant, isn’t she?” Comes a deep voice at her side. Deeper and thicker than oozing warm honey.

 She smiles. The gentlemen have come in. Fresh from their all male talk and their port and their smoking. Brandy and cheroot smoke sticks to his coat. Though he didn’t imbibe in either. Just more port.

 Lord Ren is stood by her side again. Arms behind his back in their usual place. Looking up at the very orb of a thing that’s firing his blood. Then he glances downwards and sees the earth-bound mortal form of the woman who does the very same. Only she’s touched on more softer, hidden parts of him.

 “Such beauty.” She remarks. She tilts her head up at it. “Some remark it is a cold light. But-“

 “I disagree.” Lord Ren adds. Interjecting. Smiles down at her. When she looks up. The flash of her pale skinned neck and the side of her jaw cast in the moon and the candlelight makes his mouth water. Her eyes are divinely silver. Just like another soul he knows and loves...

 “There is mystery. For even the moon has her burdens and her secrets. The brightest thing in the sky has the darkest side that’s never revealed to a soul.” He supposed. His eyes catching in hers.

 She can see by the weighting of his granite eyes. That he means that phrase very deeply.

 “Much the same as people. I grant. Enigmatic, if they so choose to be.” She says.

 “Some darker sides of people, Miss Ashton, should never see the light.” He tells her.

 She feels like he’s speaking from experience. She opens her mouth to ask. But her mother hissing her name and gesturing her over with a spurring-curling motion of her hand, breaks the hypnotic spell his eyes gripped on her.

 She looks back up at him. He extends a hand to help her up. There’s that thrill of electricity again. Needles up her arm and wracks at her spine.

 “I think it likely my mother will encourage us home soon. I’ll take my leave of you now.” She says sadly. Though she doesn’t wish too- he feels her sadness and her dread.

 She curtseys. Bows her neck to him. Dips at her knees. He doesn’t relinquish his gentle clasp of her hand.

 “Until next time, Miss Ashton.” He drawls low.

 She dies on the spot when her turns her palm over and presses a kiss to her sensitive weak hand. Holding her fingers with one hand and rubbing his thumb over the spot he just kissed.

 His lips are devilishly soft and when he looks up at her her spine crumbles. She shivers and he hears it. Her chest flutters a breath with it.

 “I bid you good evening, Lord Ren. It was a pleasure.”

 “The pleasure was entirely mine.” He hushes so low. He manages to make his words sound sordid. Rascally and humming deep. So deep her bones rang with it and all her the soft tissue meat of her, quivers.

 This feels like seduction.

 Knee weakening seduction. She feels her cheeks beating out unattractive pink heat. Flushed from head to toe. Breath stutters into her pathetic shrivelling lungs. She doesn’t know what this is- what this man is wielding onto her. She’s never felt the likes of it before.

 She takes her hand from him, drags her eyes from the addictive granite pools of his, and steps aside to go to her mother. As she bade. She feels his eyes on her back as she walks away across the room.

 She curls her hand into a fist. So she might better preserve the searing memory of his kiss.

 It’s ridiculous and silly. But she keeps her hand fisted shut the whole way home. Thinks back to the hunger in his eyes and feels flushed whenever she remarks how it sat there- all for her and her alone.

  ~

  The whole world seems asleep. When the vampires roam to feed. Kylo swore this whole sleepy county is deaf and dull now. Even the very last scullery maid of every grand house, and kitchen skivvy had extinguished the very last candle hours ago. Night looms thick and bitter.

 The moon in all her pallid smudgy eminence, still owns the whole sky and blots out the glory of the stars. Gently kissing onto the navy heavens. Kylo has hunted under that very same silver moon.

 It recharged the restless rough animal in his bloodstream.

 Tonight, after dining, He took his leave. Took to the woods. Waited. Chased down his prey and drank his fill. Toasting his success under that watery bright light. Left the mangled and twisted body like a mortal offering of a sacrifice to the old gods. Basted the landscape in the blood he didn’t want, watering the icy crusted dirt of the earth. Staining the snow.

 Humans all went back into the earth at the end. Returned to the mud and soil and rot of where they came from. Decayed to frail dirty bones and that’s all that remains. He was just helping them get there a tad quicker.

 Crimson blooms down his white shirt and white cravat. It trails down the corner of his mouth and chin until he licks it clean. Sucks up the remains with his fingers til his face is clean. Garnet however is still marring his white square teeth.

 His eyes are still golder than coin. Fresh off the hunt. Dappled in blood. And he finds himself stepping through the dark-dead, grey wood. To a place that now seemed familiar to him.

 The house is dark. Every window dull. Even the dormers in the attic where their maids slept, even there all is deathly dark like the eye of a skull. He sets his sights on one bedroom window in particular.

 Her window was cracked open- and when he gets up to it, silent as a shadow, he sees why. The fire makes her room too muggy. This way the stifling sticky heat had somewhere to escape too.

 Her curtains are drawn, twitching on the breeze. And the fireplace lit at the end of her bed, across the room in the Morris wallpapered alcove of the hearth, casts the room in amber. As if she’s encased in it. Trapped. Preserved like an item of jewellery in this flamed room.

 That wasn’t too far away from an accurate description. She is trapped. One day she’ll be sold into marriage by her mother. Then she’ll be trapped by the fetid husband she’s supposed to serve obediently; to wait on hand and foot, and dole out his heir and a spare, like she’s shelling peas.

 He sneaks his big hand under the crack in the sash window, silently lifts it up and slips inside. Curtains rustle and he leaves them pushed apart to fit through. Steps down onto her windowsill, then onto the floor. His clothes barely make a rasp. His shoes don’t even scrape the whining buckled floorboards.

 He’s inside, and his golden eyes catch onto the sleeping little dove, huddled up as a lump into the quilts of her bed.

 Her hair is loose and crumpled around her head. Face turned away from him. Night down slipping off a shoulder. Wispy thin. Like gauzy moth wings. Exposing her chest, the shadowed mounding globes of her breasts. Swelling and falling.

 He can see the thud of her mortal heart wrack her skin. Pulsing her throat. Thudding out her wrists. Beating that lavender and bergamot soap scent out to his senses. Calling to him. Enslaving him. The creature she could never have a hope to tame.

 He gazes at her as he rounds the end of the bed. Softly paces around it. She won’t wake. His nature makes highly sure of that. Vampires are after all, darkly magic animals. Predatory too. He can stun his prey the way he wants. The way he needs too. He’ll lull her body into deep sleep like a newborn. Seduce her weak mortal self to bend to his will.

 He sits on the mattress near her hip. Watching her face sloped peaceful in gentle rest. His blood crusted hands reach out, drying rust caked at his nails, big fingertips slipping over her knuckles where her hand lay down by her side. The other folded across her waist.

 He strokes along her arm. Watches her rest. Soothes his animosity with the tactile soft of her innocent skin.

 His fingers travel upwards to her hair. He lifts it off her neck and rakes his fingers through the golden-brown wave of it. It drifts through his fingers like spun bronzed-gold that smells of French lavender.

 A big wave of heat and perfume of bare skin hits him when he peels her hair away. Warm from where she’s cosily snuggled into her pillow.

 He moans desperately. Like a wounded animal. The most gut-wrenching sob falls out his mouth.

 He can’t help it. Moth to a flame. He’s drawn across the bed until his lips hit at her skin. Tracing the jugular in her throat. He tremors with need. From being within the barest millimetre of being able to taste her warm skin. That manna sent from heaven, put on this earth for him alone to savour.

 “What in gods name are you doing to me, little dove?” He gasps. His speech muffled into her skin. He kisses at her hot throat and growls low in his when he feels her blood beat under his tongue.

 This close to her- and he didn’t want to tear open her throat with the white knives of his sharp teeth. She’s worth more than that.

 Oh, he knew she’d taste so sweet to feast on. He just knows it. She will. She’ll taste like thick honey and coins and sugared copper.

 “You take me so beyond any lust or any need I’ve ever felt in my entire life.” He promises to her.

 He’s still close. Kissing hot embraces of butterfly kisses at her neck. Gold eyes glittering so stark in the blue and amber half light of her bedchamber. Like yellowed cats eyes.

 “What is this?” He asks her. “What I feel for you- how does it never stop?...” He begs to know. Begs to be shown clarity over this force.

 His chest brushes into hers where she lays on the bed. He kisses up to her jaw. His adoring fingers skim over her cheek. Finding her cheekbone and trailing along its shape under her tender skin.

 He kisses her jawbone and moans again. Hum of his deep voice soaking trembling into her skin from his hot blooded mouth. Copper souring in his tongue and teeth.

 “I so long to kiss you.” He aches for it. Aches so deep it’s a physical pain in his gut. He groans, hard already at the merest thought of it. And that was just at tasting her mouth-

 “But I want you awake and willing in my arms when I kiss you for the first time. I’ll have you trembling and weak for me. Now I just have to wait to be able to taste those pretty lips.” He whispers onto her chin.

 Adores her face like this whilst he can. Top of his nose presses under her jaw and he takes a deep breath of her neck, whimpering with need.

 He pants into her neck once more. “Sleep well. Little dove.”

 He strokes her cheek kisses it one last time before he tears himself off the bed and slips away. Leaving her room as smoothly as a silent shadow.

  ~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

[releasemyad]