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fletchingbrilliant · 7 months ago

Text

Crossroads

•• A story of choices by Fletch ••

(with special contributions from @zaebeecee)

Read on AO3

CW: Historically accurate reference to racially charged violence and cruelty (as pertains to the USA in the early 1900s, particularly in the Deep South), Graphic Violence, Reference to SA

•••

This is a headcanon minific I've referenced before with this piece.

Zae and I concocted a backstory for Alastor that we thought was pretty rad and I wrote it out (with Zae handling Alastor's New Friend). Is it perfectly in line with everything confirmed in canon? Probably not but we did our best and we like how it reads anyway.

If you like the vibe injected in aspects of Alastor's inception, check out The Dunwich Horror. It's in the public domain. And if you've read it, I hope you enjoy the references I sneaked in there! :D

•••

It was always said that the boy was born wrong.

On a sweltering hot night in early August, deep in the swamplands of Louisiana, Ezora Castrie was in her little shack at the edge of the village screaming with the pains of labor. Well over two hours had passed before her help came in the form of Miss Eugénie and two other ladies who were to assist her. They made frequent stops to check on Ezora in her condition over the course of her condition, but this kindness lessened as the days grew hotter and thicker, even though her belly was growing bigger and bigger. As the resident medicine woman, it was usually Ezora who handled the responsibilities of the midwife, and she had intended for it always to be that way. This was never meant to happen. But happen it did, and everyone had to find a way to make do.

It was a difficult pregnancy, and everyone agreed that it was because of the ill nature of its conception. Even Ezora conceded the ugly truth, and though she would not give many words to the matter, she knew it was wrong beyond the transgression of that white vagabond. Whatever signs and portents she had gleaned through her conjuring, she was keeping them all to herself. Her secrecy would have caused the village to lose much of their trust in Ezora, but they never trusted the woman to begin with. She was known to be skilled, and a hoodoo woman was a valuable asset and usually much loved in her community. But Ezora was not like others who worked hoodoo. She had strange ways about her, and she was not friendly. Most folks believed that she had dabbled with things that turned her into a madwoman. They could not have guessed how mad she would become after she brought those things into the world.

Miss Eugénie and her helpers attended Ezora as she wailed, bleeding on the floor. Beads of sweat were as pearls along her brow, glistening in firelight. Orange, brown, and black waves were cast over the walls, fading in and out over an ocean of red. The midwives thought for sure that the child had been lost, but Ezora screamed that it was still squirming inside of her. When they pulled him out he was silent, and they had to unplug his mouth of primordial slime before he would breathe. He wouldn't cry. They smacked the child's backside. Still he did not cry. But the baby's unsettling demeanor was quickly overshadowed by the bloating of Ezora’s stomach, and her cries that it was not over. Miss Eugénie had to face a terrifying realization.

There was a twin.

It took two of them to ease its passage while the third held the first infant, and Eugénie wondered if maybe there were two more of them and their flesh was fused up together. She'd heard of that sort of horrific thing occurring with some folks. It was abnormal, but so was that man that they never did find. The white man who forced his seed into their medicine woman, then vanished with no trace save for the results of his foul crime.

The strength left the mother, and she hollered with one final cry, “That's not my child! I have one child, one child!!” Then her head rolled back and she slept, her skin stretched and tore, and the thing fell out of her and into the arms of the terrified midwives. When the horrid lumps of pink and yellow flesh squirmed in some attempt to live, the real baby finally made a sound. And the midwives all said that his sound was like the most horrible, beautiful music they had ever heard.

Ever since that night, Miss Eugénie and the others swore that what Ezora brought into the world that night was not of this or any other place they knew. Both the boy and the thing were foul and strange, and they said that only bad things could come of them being around. Not that they ever did anything about these beliefs, content merely to gossip and wonder and spread even stranger stories as the years went by. Most of the village didn't believe them about the thing. Eugénie said that they threw it away into the creek behind the house and hoped it would just drown. If it was alive – and they swore it was alive – it had to have a mouth. And it had no proper limbs to save itself, so it was surely the best thing to do. It must have died in the creek, they said. To the baby, they could do no such thing. It was a baby after all, by all appearances, and Ezora came back around too quickly for them to trespass further than mere contemplation. She agreed that the thing was better left for dead, but was furious when they told her they left it so close by. All the same, by sun up the thing was gone. And no one but the four women who were there that night ever saw it, or even truly believed that it existed at all. And only Ezora believed that the thing was still out there somewhere. Ezora called the boy Alastor, and even though his skin was lighter than hers and would remain a constant reminder of the monster he came from, she determined that she loved him and that she always would. What became of the thing that was his twin – because of course it didn't really die – Ezora never lived long enough to see.

•

The horror made its way through the village some fifteen years later, emerging from the bayou much larger than it had been, but unseen by any eye that attempted to observe it. Houses were destroyed, families vanished, and then it seemed to leave. It was only when a white family was wiped from existence and their house caved in like a broken eggshell that things got so much worse. They had heard of no horror, they refused to believe that unknowable things could and did exist in the world and in the space between worlds, and chose to blame the entire village instead. One excuse to fuel their cruel actions was as good as any other. And they came with weapons and with fire and with hatred in their hearts. Alastor saw it all happen. He saw the horror when no one else could. He saw his people – distrusting though they were – being rounded up and beaten. And his mother… he heard the shouts that Ezora was chased into the swamp. He had been outside of the village when it all began, gathering materials for his mother’s work.

He was too late to save her.

And he was too late to catch the ones who did it.

But the horror, the thing that was Alastor's twin, did not survive. It brought death and destruction to the village, it skulked about the marshlands in an incomplete agony, and when Alastor caught up to it eager to take out his rage on the thing, he heard it cry out a name that shook him and crawled into his blood. He didn't know to whom the name belonged, only that it would live in his blood forever. The thing then died, and Alastor was left alone.

The strange boy called Alastor held onto every wicked thing he ever saw, and each wicked thing he gathered was stored in a different place within his mind. Some wickedness brought fulfillment, whether through vindication or the pursuit of knowledge. Some wickedness was pointless; cruelty for its own sake was not always satisfying. Those who could not defend themselves were never to be targeted (save for very particular circumstances), and often it felt good to defend them. As for who qualified as a defenseless victim… Alastor observed that those parameters were often subject to change. His aim, however, never changed. His mother had spent his childhood teaching him everything she knew, from the ways of root conjure to cooking proper creole meals. The people of the village called him a monster, and his mother did too. But even though he was a monster, his mother still loved him. And he knew that if anything he had ever felt was love, it was what he felt for his mother.

With the thing that was like love and the wickedness he calculated, Alastor developed a plan. It could be said that there was nothing left in this world to keep the boy tethered to it save for the music of his voice, which he kept alive ever since the song he sang on the day he was born. So he went to the crossroads, carrying his journal which possessed all the notes he scribed from the books he'd gotten his hands on, candles and charcoal and matches and water in a flask. Other things too were in his pack, all for putting together his strange ritual.

There were many ideas as to how to summon a spirit at the crossroads, and many ideas as to what the spirit might do. Some things were constants. A crossroad was a place in between places, that much was agreed upon. And as an in between place, it was one where spirits walked more easily, especially those that still meddled with life on this earth. Then there was a book Alastor had acquired. It talked of different spirits – demons, they were called – who granted different boons to those who called on them. He found the one who could grant him what he desired, the first in its number, and he drew its sigil in the ground. It even looked a little like a crossroad, or perhaps like the cosmogram. He lit the appropriate candles, burned the appropriate herbs, then rose and sliced his arm open over the seal, his blood glittering under a full moon. And he called out for the demon with the words he had read. For some reason Alastor himself could not discern, the words came out in a haunting melody he had never heard. But he let it flow out of him, singing into a bright night with his desires flowing freely from his heart.

The night air, so warm and balmy, suddenly grew chill as it swept past where Alastor stood, teasing his hair and rustling his clothes. Underneath that chill was a smell, something odd and unnatural; it was so faint as to be difficult to discern, but it was distinctly unpleasant in the moments before it seemed to vanish, never staying long enough to identify.

A voice whispered something to him, but they weren’t words he knew. It may have simply been the wind.

Yog ot ah'ehyeagl ng ph'nglui n'ghftog.

With a flutter of wings, a black bird lit onto the old wooden signpost that stood in the grass just off the crossroads. It was the size of a largish crow, somehow strange, its upper beak broken into a jagged point and its plumage ratty around its neck and tail. It stared at Alastor with an eye that seemed to glint a brilliant green—a green so bright that he could only say he had seen it from a distance in the finest dyed silks—in the moonlight overhead. It opened its mouth and released a sound that Alastor had never heard before; it was the sound of a bird, surely, but no bird that the boy could identify. The sound echoed in the still air like many voices, and to Alastor’s ears, it sounded like a question.

Excitement took hold more than fear or uncertainty, though it would have been a lie to discount any one of the three. He steeled himself and addressed the bird.

“I call upon Bael, head of the infernal powers. He who possesses knowledge, love, compelling voice, who moves unseen and understands ambition and growth. I demand he speak with me in the space between spaces.”

The bird let out another cry, and this one seemed to double over itself, and then again, growing and doubling and growing, until the sound echoed all around him. As the noise bled into itself and began to lose meaning, it changed: laughter, somehow both subdued in nature and rich in tone, from an unseen man. It was joined by more laughter, other voices turning to a chorus of sound that cut off with an abrupt snap so visceral Alastor nearly lost his balance.

“And what might a mortal child, not yet possessed of his own manhood, desire from the embryonic birthplace of spirit? What demands might a boy presume to make of the immured voices?”

The voice did not come from the bird, for the bird was no longer there. The voice didn’t seem to come from anywhere. But Alastor could feel something stalking around him, unheard and unseen but so very cold and so very present.

He kept his hands firmly at his sides but could not stop himself from shivering and shuddering, his jaw clenched against the unpleasant feeling. Even beholding the horror had not gripped his heart so. But no matter what, he could not falter. No matter what, he had to remain true to his goal. “I c-call on you to demand your gifts, the… the gifts you bestow on those who show the will to take them.”

A voice exhaled somewhere near his ear, a noise somewhere between a soft “ah” of understanding and the sound of a draft that pushed its way under the crack of a wooden door in an old house.

“You desire my gifts… Alastor,” the voice said, again near and far, everywhere and nowhere. “And you believe your hands to be capable of wielding such a tool? What a fascinating child it is that has called me from the senary bridewell. Tell me, Ahnah Eyhe, what would you give for such a gift?”

“I would give…” Don't let your eagerness be known. Don't give what you can't afford to lose. “...I would not give my mind. Not my heart, either.”

“Oh, I have no use for either,” the voice chuckled. “Your mind is much more useful in your head, child, and your heart is a tar pit whence nothing living shall ever emerge. What I want… is something you are sure not to miss.”

Alastor felt something touch the center of his chest. It felt like a hand, but bigger than an adult’s. He couldn’t pull himself away.

“I want your soul, Alastor.”

The soul is not the mind. It is not the heart. Alastor had always reasoned this. Of all he knew, all he had learned, the soul truly was not something he would miss. If this creature could give him what he wanted, and he did not need his soul for that power… it didn't matter. His goal was more important.

“And in return,” the boy said, shuddering, wishing he could keep away from that horrible pressure. It felt as though he'd lose all his breath, that his voice might leave him. Why was it so weak when he could not even see the thing?? “You will give me the ability to reach my true potential.”

“True potential…” the voice purred, like a contented cat. “It’s a deal.”

The hand left his chest, and though Alastor still could not see the demon, he knew there was a hand in front of him, offered like a handshake.

Don't do nothing stupid, my boy

This wasn't stupid. This was the first step in becoming what he was meant to be. He would butcher the men who murdered his mother. He would slaughter their families in front of them. Then he would take that blood on his hands and use it to create the painting of his life.

Knowledge

Feeling

Experience

Suffering

It would all be his.

He extended his hand into the empty night air. It would be such an odd sight for any passerby. A tall and gangly black boy standing in the middle of a crossroad, surrounded by flickering candles and clutching an arcane text, holding his hand out to no one. Alastor's hand was shaking, his breath withheld, his elbow straightening… and it made contact with cold flesh.

The instant it did the moon disappeared from the sky. Though there were no clouds, the stars vanished too. Only the candles could have provided any illumination to the scene, yet Alastor could make out the dark figure as though it were as bright as midday. The spirit appeared as a tall man, much taller than Alastor was himself. He was black, but not the way Alastor was, not even the way his mother had been. His skin was like a brick of charcoal, but it was as smooth as satin. He was gaunt and narrow, bony to the point of emaciation. Hair thick and black like tar hung like tentacles about his face and trailed in ropes down his back. His eyes were sunken, only visible by the way they glittered wetly beside such dry skin. His lips were curved yet thin and hid long razor teeth, his nose long and straight as a rod. He was dressed not in a suit or slacks of any kind, but in a long robe or dress, black as well. It was bound in straps of black leather forming geometric patterns, all of it gilded and lined in decorations of gold and purple. And when rich green light began to emanate from their joined hands, it seemed to Alastor like a sick sort of Mardi Gras celebration.

In spite of his fear, or perhaps because of it, his face cracked into a smile. And when the pain began, he began to laugh.

The demon smiled when Alastor laughed, a grin wide and unnatural and sick. Those wickedly sharp teeth were unnaturally white. “Oh, Ahnah Eyhe, you are precisely what I seek,” Bael said, his words somehow so clear even through Alastor’s growing hysteria. “I see now why it was you who could call into that place and find me. You are touched by Madness, child, and now all I ask is that you end the lives of any you deem unworthy of living, in any way you feel… appropriate. It is through this that you will thrive.”

While his laughing subsided, Alastor's grin would not fade from his face. Both monsters stood illuminated in green light. At the edge of his vision, he almost thought he could see pitch black chains, glowing green, floating and undulating like the tendrils of a squid. But he could not look away from Bael’s face. And their hands were still joined.

“They say that my birth was a cursed one. But what are those words you call me? Ahnah Eyhe.”

Bael’s grin sharpened. “Little One,” he almost purred. “And Ahnah Eyhe you shall remain, until your growth shows otherwise. You are but a fledgling, child, but the human soul has infinite potential. If you wish to see the limits of infinity, I am happy to show them to you.”

Infinite potential. Then I shall never be done growing stronger.

Never

“And all you received in return was my soul?” the arrogant boy said. “It appears I got the better end of the deal, devil.”

Bael laughed, a raucous noise that, were anyone else able to hear him, surely would have echoed all the way back to the village. “Perhaps you did, child. But know that this contract is permanent,” he said. It didn’t sound like a warning, or like advice, because it was far too late for that. Just a statement. “So young, and already condemned to Hell… by your own hand, no less. I would advise you make the most of your life before your fall.”

The laugh made him dizzy with fear, and he might have fallen if it had not been for the demon’s own hand holding him up. “What should I fear from Hell? I am already a monster!”

“So long as you heed my advice? Nothing,” Bael said. “Even Lucifer himself would one day pose no threat to you. You need not fear humans, nor demons, nor angels, nor Heaven, nor Hell, nor even death itself. The only thing you should fear, Ahnah Eyhe…” He leaned in quite suddenly, and his eyes flared that same blinding green, like they were sucking Alastor into an endless pit of poison, “is me.”

He wanted to tell him he wasn't afraid of him. He wanted to laugh in his face, to reject any power the demon might hold over him. If he could just pull away, close his eyes, anything to keep this thing from confirming the awful truth.

That Alastor was weak. That he was afraid. And this creature was the first thing to ever make him feel small.

Alastor's throat grew so tight that he could not speak.

The next moment, Alastor’s hand was empty. Bael was stalking around him, so close that Alastor could feel the cold through his clothing, Bael’s fingers trailing across the line of his shoulders. “You wished for my gifts, did you not?” Bael asked, his voice rumbling low, as though it traveled up through Alastor’s feet to his gut, then through his lungs and heart, before finally touching his ears. “And, as you know, the Goetia are keepers of many kinds of knowledge. And what you wish to know… …is how to extract suffering, is it not…?”

His own shuddering body shocked his mouth open and he gasped out a pained, “Yes.”

Bael chuckled, and the hand vanished from Alastor’s shoulders. “The only way to know how to extract suffering, my dear boy…”

Cold metal snapped around Alastor’s throat, yanking him forward a single step. Bael was a few feet away, a black chain that radiated a strange green light wrapped around his hands and leading to what seemed to be the thing around Alastor’s neck.

“…is to experience suffering yourself.”

Alastor had only enough time to yelp in shock before he felt a blinding pain around his neck. His knee hit the ground, his hands went to his throat. He pulled and recognition struck him like a bolt of lightning. There were hooks digging into his flesh. Hooks so long and deeply curved that when his fingers curled around the metal collar and he started to tug, skin and sinew only stretched and tore, warm liquid pouring over his palms.

“Devastation of the flesh is the most sublime form of suffering,” Bael said, his voice cutting through the panic in Alastor’s mind like it took precedence over all of his senses. “To injure the heart and to injure the mind are both sweet, to be certain, but a wound to the flesh can scar the body as well as the mind and the heart. It is a tool to harm, to humiliate, to humble. You can kill, of course, but more than that… you can cripple. You can mutilate. You can disfigure.”

Bael was behind Alastor, and he only had a moment to think before he felt the demon’s heel slam down into his Achilles tendon. His chest hit the hard ground, his chin following. Dully he thought his teeth were cracking, but it was pointless to wonder in the face of the agony this creature was putting him through.

These words are a lie. He's not going to train me.

He's going to kill me.

“But you cannot give pain if you do not know pain.”

Something impossibly sharp stabbed into Alastor’s back, followed by a second something, and then a third, and then a fourth. Fingers twisted into Alastor’s hair from behind and began to drag him upwards, forcing his body to slide further onto whatever it was stabbed through his torso and into the ground. For some unfathomable reason, in spite of the crippling pain, Alastor’s mind was clear. Even as blood pooled at the back of his throat and began to flood his mouth, even as it stained the front of his shirt, his consciousness did not even begin to falter. It was for that reason, and that reason only, that he could see the things stabbing through his body and into the ground: they were black, like obsidian, and they looked like they were… moving.

His cracked and gritted teeth pulled into a grimace that Alastor mentally commanded to become a grin. Even as his eyes widened and his mind cracked, those things moving inside of him, those things not of this world… they were not of any world he might have fathomed.

“Wh–” he managed to gurgle out, the sound pairing with a thick glob of blood that oozed out of his mouth like sludge. “What… are… y-you…”

The question, malformed, had no clear meaning, but if he could speak properly, he would probably still have no idea what he was really asking.

Bael was in front of him again, and he leaned down enough to look up into Alastor’s eyes. He held one hand up between them. “Opening your mind to infinite possibility.” The creature flexed his hand, and sharp, black claws jutted out of his fingertips. He then seized Alastor’s shoulders and dragged his hands down the boy’s arms.

Finally he screamed. For some moments it didn't seem to come from anywhere near him, let alone from his own lungs. And then, from the copse of trees several yards from the edge of the road, he heard it echo back and then grow. It grew into the sound of a great gathering of whippoorwills singing, turning into a frenzied cacophony. It drowned out his own screams, yet somehow Alastor could still hear the splattering of his own blood hitting the ground, waterfalls cascading from the deep lines Bael drew upon his arms.

“Ahaha… the song of the whippoorwills,” Bael said, his laughter echoing with the cries of the birds. “Ygnaiih… ygnaiih… thflthkh’ngha…” he murmured, a sharp reminder of the recent horror that had rampaged through Alastor’s village.

He didn’t have the breath to ask.

“Kill those who wronged you, Ahnah Eyhe. Make them bleed. Make them suffer. If you believe a living soul deserves death, then serve it to them, for that is how you will reach your true potential.”

Those claws touched Alastor’s abdomen just below his navel. He only had a moment to contemplate the meaning of that touch before they carved into him, slicing him open all the way up to his sternum.

With a sharp snap, the black things holding him up coiled and slipped from his flesh, dropping him hard onto the cold, bloody ground.

“Do not disappoint me, child, or you will regret the day your own reflection makes you scream.”

Alastor remained face down in the chillingly cold dirt, fingertips braced, hyper aware of the individual grains slipping beneath his nails. They shifted against each other like two particles preparing a reaction of a size far outclassing their insignificant nature. He didn’t dare look up, his senses overwhelmed already by the nightmares that were forced into him, so he didn’t see the way the demon departed. He only knew that it had. And even so, he found he could not bring himself to move for a long time afterward.

•

The boy had been born wrong. Everyone said it was so.

And now the boy, the monster who was loved by his mother and feared by all others, had taken hold of what was wrong, and was turning it into power.

In the hours after Bael disappeared, Alastor finally found the strength to move. Still the pain of his torment ached through each of his cells, into his core. But when he felt his body, it was intact. His guts were held inside his skin, even his arm was no longer bleeding. But he did carry a scar. Long and mottled, it was where he cut his arm to perform his grim summoning. It was raised and inflamed, and appeared infected. But it remained closed thanks to rough black cording that had been used to suture it. He found the skein the cord had come from, paired with a long sharp needle, at the site of the ritual, and he took them home with him.

For the rest of Alastor's living days he felt Bael’s presence. He was with him when he slaughtered the families of the men who butchered his mother. Bael was with him when he finally ended their lives as well and he laughed at their agony. It was so for every life Alastor stole. And for every life Alastor stole, another scar appeared on his own body, reflecting the brutality he suffered at the hands of the one who now owned his soul. The demon was there in all of the moments in between, distant yet present, tearing away little by little at what sense of sanity Alastor possessed. Merely by looking upon him, Bael knew what he was. And so did everyone else. They looked at his face and they seemed to know everything. A glance at a single one of his cursed scars, and they truly knew.

There was nowhere to hide.

There would never again be any place he could hide his true face.

Not from everyone. Not from Bael.

Not from himself.

In the dingy old mirror, his eyes looked back at him. They looked through him. It became true to Alastor as he watched and was watched that he had given up a piece of himself that left him forever changed. An emptiness ate away at him now, and he was certain he would never feel whole again without it. He could see what he was, the monster he had been born as, and the monster he had become. And it was a horror unlike any he had seen before.

The cord was rough in his hands, and pulling it made his fingers bleed. It was in this way that Alastor stuck the needle into his own face, piercing and pulling, dragging twine through flesh, black glowing green. Over his lips, from cheek to cheek, pulling over his own screams. Because he was screaming.

On the day his own reflection made him scream, Alastor crafted his perfect mask, one he would never remove, even after his death.

You will regret the day your own reflection makes you scream

Even as his chains grew tighter, and the reality of his decision became clear, Alastor never stopped reaching for greater power…

…and he never stopped smiling.

#my writing #hazbin hotel fanfic #hazbin hotel headcanon #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor's mom #alastor's contract #tw gore #tw blood #tw violence #tw sa mention #tw racism

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saenora · 1 year ago

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ZENNNNNNN. Since you heard about my Subie selfship. Tell me about yours with Sae. Do you guys have a selfship name too?

omgggezzzzzzsujs!! HAIII ALBIEEE!!! our shipname >.< its zae!! YOHOHOHOHO we're childhood bffs to lovers <3

we're an old boring couple w no energy to move around and we're always calling each other names 🤭🤭🤭 i am the teaser and sae is savage (HE IS SO SASSSYYYYY sometimes he ends up shutting me)... yes we keep a score tahts how we keep it interesting... i knowww he is a sad baby <//3 so i make sure to hold him tight everynite and kiss him alottttt... he's my little spoon🥹 istg if you look in his eyes, words would be the last thing you'd need to understand him. and he knows me like the back of his hand... ALBIEEE HE is the sweetest (on contrary to his mean personailty... HE IS MEAN ALWAYS... BUT HE DOES LITTLE STUFF... angy littol baby... THAT PUTS A SMILE ON MY FACE) and always keeps up w my dramatic crybabyass ... we're total opposites so i gues we complemt each other in a way... its a but hard to communicate w him sometimes but he is so patient and calmm that i hopelessly love him sm.

to conclude he is a total pouty baby and ass to me.

#albieee AAAAAAHH I LOVE TO TALK ABOUT HIMM #i will never SHUTUP ABOUT HIS EYES 😭#ITS GONNAA BE HIS BIRTHDAYY SOOON AND I AM SWINGINGG AROUND THE HOUSEEE #zaecore #albie !!! 🫶

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barbieaemond · 1 year ago

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Aren’t we the perfect family? (Yes we are)

Showed my sister two lines from my wip and she scrunched her face going like "god, why he's always such a cunt?"

me (dreamy tone) : he is, isn't he?

Said it before and I'll say it again: writing cunty diva Aemond is free therapy.

#lena my wife #zae our baby #cunty diva aemond for the heart and soul

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thatssonanii · 8 years ago

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Rescue Me

****So...I don’t really like it but I figured I would post it anyway cause whatever. This will be my ongoing series for my blog. fingers crossed! I suck at previews so just enjoy! Let me know what you guys think!

Ft/ Roman Reigns

"Where we going?"

Glancing in my rear view mirror, I smiled at my three year old daughter, Zaleigh. Her eyes were on, Ellie, her elephant build a bear, a wide smile stretched across her face. Usually her hair would be hanging in her face but for the occasion, I pulled her unruly black curls back into a bun. Having her hair out of her face showcased her deep dimples and light hazel eyes. Everyone would say she looked like my twin but it was only the dimples, other than that we have nothing in common.

"You remember I told you we were gonna see some of our family today?" I asked her putting my focus back on the road ahead of me.

"Mmhmm. With the pool, mommy?"

"Yep, Zae."

She didn't ask any more questions, she put all of her focus back on Ellie.

This was our first time back in Florida since Zaleigh was about nine months old. Her daddy moved us up to Kansas. He said it was for the betterment of our family but that wasn't it at all. It's been the longest years of my life without physical contact with my parents, other family and friends. But we're back now, that's what matters.

******

Zaleigh's excitement had turned into nervousness after I had taken her out of the car. Usually she would opt to walk, or run, instead she begged me to pick her up and clung tightly too me when I did. There were so many cars parked in front of my parents' house, I realized they probably called all the family we have here and more. I could smell food from the grill and hear the laughing and talking that was going on in the backyard.

Figuring no one would hear the doorbell, I walked us over to the tall, beige picket fence and opened it.

Familiar faces of my cousins were the first people I saw. They hugged me and attempted to talk to Zaleigh but she was having none of it. Laughing it off, I told them to give her a little time in a few minutes she would be ready to talk. Walking quickly through the throng of guests, I made my way to my mom, who was sitting in a lawn chair with two women siting opposite her in lawn chairs as well. I approached her with a big smile feeling tears fill my eyes.

"Mama." I called out catching her attention.

Without any words, she jumped up and wrapped her arms around me and Zae. In response to the contact, Zaleigh wiggled around to see who it was. Her eyes lit up.

"Nana!" Zae squealed holding arms out to her.

Even though, Zae hadn't seen her grandparents in the flesh in years I was still able to FaceTime with them so they had a relationship. Happily, my mom took her from me squeezing her gently and placed kisses on the side of her face.

"Is that PopPop's angel?"

My dad marched right over to us smiling and holding his arms out for Zaleigh. My mom passed her to him then wiped the happy tears from her cheeks. Daddy kissed my forehead before walking away with Zaleigh.

"My babies are finally back," Mama squealed pulling me back to the ladies she was talking to.

"Oh, Melanie, you remember Patricia and Morgan?" She asked me as she pulled me to sit beside her.

I nodded greeting them politely. Morgan is my mom's best friend from high school and my godmother. And Patricia is my mom's other best friend who has lived beside us my whole life. Her, her husband and their four kids. We all grew up together, her youngest son and I were best friends until I left for Kansas. I haven’t talked to or seen him in person in years.

"Is that your baby? She's so big."

"Yep, that's my baby, Ms. Patricia," I laughed looking over at her and my dad. "She turned three on Christmas Eve."

"She is so pretty. She clearly got it from her mom."

Before I could tell Ms. Patricia thank you, my mom butted in playfully telling her that Zae got her good looks from her. The compliment made me feel a little better. Back in Kansas the only thing people ever said was how she didn’t look like me at all and only a little like her father.

“I think she looks like someone but I can’t put my finger on it,” Morgan added looking lost in thought.

My mom gave her a certain look then smiled at me again, pushing me towards the back door. "Go inside and bring those other plates out, Melly."

Mama sending me inside meant there was something she wanted to say that she didn't want me to hear. It was probably about Zaleigh's dad. I'm just not sure what else there is to say about him that she hadn't already. If that’s what she was going to talk about.

I searched and searched the walk-in pantry for the plates but I didn't see them.

"I didn’t think you were really here."

Jumping from the voice, I turned to face them clutching my chest. I was going to yell at them until I realized who it was.

"You need a freaking bell, Joe."

He laughed stepping inside the pantry away from the doorframe.

"And you gotta stop being so scary, Melly. You act like something was gonna jump out at you."

"This is why I never liked you."

Him and I smiled at each other as he closed the gap between us and pulled me into a hug. He smelled as good as I remembered. He towered over me in the hug but I don’t mind. It’s always been like this through our friendship. Cheek to chest.

"It's been a long time," He whispered still holding onto me.

I nodded trying to pull away from the hug.

"Not yet. Just let me hold on to you a little longer so I know I'm dreaming."

He must have find out about what happened between Zaleigh's dad and I. I wouldn't be surprised if everyone in the backyard knew. Nevertheless, I stood in his embrace holding onto his waist. I'm glad to be back with my family and friends.

Joe and I ended up siting in the kitchen, at the breakfast bar, talking and joking around. We connected like we never left one another.

"I can't believe you." I laughed reaching over to hit his shoulder.

"I swear that's what happened," He said holding his hands up a if he was praying, "You can ask my brother."

As he continued on with his story, I couldn't help but admire him a little. He looked a lot different since the last time I saw him. Longer hair, leaner, a lot more built and a full beard. I always thought he was handsome and is even more true now.

"Mommy! Mommy!"

Zaleigh ran through the backdoor straight for me giggling as she came over. Scooping her up in my lap, I kissed her cheek and brushed hair from her face.

"Baby! Baby!" I squealed back at her.

She bounced in my lap happily. "Can we stay here?"

"I dunno, Zae. I kind of wanted to stay at our house tonight," I told her avoiding her puppy dog eyes, "Don't you wanna stay in your new room?"

And here comes the pouting. I swear I hated when she pouted. It was something she did with her father all the time. Whenever she pouted, cried or even looked pitiful he would give in to whatever she wanted. He may not have been good a person to anyone but he was to Zaleigh for a while. That was all that mattered to me.

"No. Wanna stay here. You go.”

Narrowing my eyes at her, I gave her my best mom face. To be honest I’m still perfecting it, sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. Once she decided to look away, I moved my attention to Roman who was smiling at us.

“You should let her stay.”

Zaleigh jumped at the sound of his voice. She turned in my lap to face him, her once pouty face now shifted into a smiling face. It was because she knew she was about to get her way.

“Oh, no!” I said catching his attention. “You will not spoil her too. Her father and my parents have done enough.”

“Not my daddy,” Zaleigh mumbled lying her head back on my chest. Joe and I locked eyes after she said until I looked away. “Just let her stay, Mel. You and I can do some catching up.” After all was said, him and I just stared until he grinned at me wiggling his brows. The wiggle had made Zaleigh laugh but it was the grin that got me. That damn boyish grin, it made him look so innocent but I knew better. That grin has gotten me in a lot of trouble in the years that I’ve known him.

Joe held his arms out to Zaleigh and surprisingly she reached out for him. As much as she talks, she can be super shy so with this being her first time seeing him, that she remembers, and she goes to him is shocking to me. She made herself comfortable in his lap facing me. Joe held her tiny hands in his larger ones and leaned down so he could talk to her.

“If you wanna stay you gotta smile at your mommy, Princess,” he semi-whispered looking down at her. “No sad face?” The genuinely confused face made the both of us laugh. She is a character. “Nah. See mommy can’t turn down a smile.” Zaleigh seemed to be pondering it for a second, looking back and forth between Joe and I. She squinted her eyes and sighed, “How you know?”

“Cause I’m mommy’s bestest friend,” he told her smiling over at me. My cheeks started to heat up and hurt from the big smile on my face. “Mommy best friend a girl.” Joe laughed taking a second to smooth his hand over his hair. “I’m her real best friend.”

“Whats your name?”

“Joe, Princess.”

“Ace,” she squealed moving to throw her arms around his neck. With a confused look on his face he hugged her back and gave me a crazy look. All I could do was laugh, it was what I used to call him when we were kids. My mom told her about him a few times before. He hadn’t heard it in years I’m sure. “That’s me,” he said pulling away, “Now come on. Let’s smile at mommy and ask her really nicely.” They mushed their cheeks together and smiled, making me giggle. They looked absolutely ridiculous.

“Can I stay, mommy? Peaaaase??”

“Yeah, Mommy,” Joe added, “Peaaaase.”

Staring at them, I tried to keep a straight face but failed miserably. When I fell into a fit of laughter Joe told her that was yes and to go tell her grandparents that she was staying. “You know she’s gonna expect you to rescue her like that all the time right?” I asked standing from my seat. “That’s alright with me. As long as I can rescue her mama, too.” Joe dropped his voice, something he did when he flirted. Some things never changed.

“You’re my best friend, remember,” I asked.

“For all intents and purposes, you’re right,” he shrugged pulling me to stand between his legs, “But there were times when we weren’t. Yeah?”

“I don’t recall.”

“We’ve got some time to go down memory lane.”

“I’m a married woman, Joe. You should not be flirting with me.” I put my naked ring finger in his face making him laugh. Grasping it, he placed a kiss to where my ring should have gone.

“I have reason to believe that you’re not married. And my sources never lie.”

Slipping my hand from his grasp, I stepped away from her backing up to the back door. “We should get back out there before they send a search party.”

“You’re right but we’ve gotta leave at some point. Right?”

#roman reigns #roman reigns imagines #roman reigns/oc #rescue me

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happynaturalhair · 7 years ago

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Happy Birthday 🎂🎉🎈🎊🎁 2 Our H2BN Client Zae Juanito & My Baby 👶🏾 Brother All Born on March 1st Many Blessings In Your Special Day you blessed Mother Earth 🌏 with Your Divine Presence 🎉🎊🎂🎈🎁🎉🎊🎁🎈🎂🤗😘😍👑🤴🏾🌻🌷🌹👊🏿💋#happybirthday #happybornday #happyearthday #happyearthstrong #mybrother #peace #gratitude #grateful (at Happy 2BE Nappy)

#happybornday #gratitude #mybrother #happyearthday #happyearthstrong #peace #happybirthday #grateful

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pinescent-and-gingerbread · 1 month ago

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Zae IS back babies!!

Damn, I said it a hundred times before and I'll say it again, I missed you and your writing. The way you always set up things so beautifully; from the first paragraph, that's it, we're immersed; we're in the saloon with them, we're a part of the gang. As if they've really been family for years. As if we could turn our heads to the side and just talk to one of them. I loved the way you portrayed Karen and Sean, and how you included Jenny and Davey, god, everything just felt so right!

And grrr, you know I have such a soft spot for a drunk Arthur and the way you wrote him!! I can't! The perfect blend of his drunken funny and (flirty) playful attitude, and this unspoken vulnerability. Perfection.

Once again, I'm also in awe of your dialogues; you've told me you felt a bit rusty, but girl you haven't lost your touch, believe me! Oh my god, the part when he asks for the room, I thought I was going to pass out, the way you mixed some of his canon lines "you're beautiful" and "you smell so nice" with the “You’d be a fine Missus Morgan,” just after, God!! I felt my cheeks blushing instantly, I could hear his accent in this fine and it made me feel things 🤭

"Listening to him talk, even drunk off his ass, was like floating downstream on a lazy river, easy and impossible to resist."

-YES,YES,YES! This is exactly what it feels like! How do you always put such relevant words on extremely precise feelings or sensations?!

“Great lakes glimmered down at you, full of longing and quiet intensity.”

-This might be the most beautiful way somebody has ever described his gaze.

And I'm not even talking about him going all "no filter" mode and telling just how good he'd treat her, how he'd "bed her right". Oh my god, my body is feeling unspeakable things rn.

To sum up, I absolutely LOVED it, what a way to come back, and the cherry on the cake it's a multiple part!! What a day, Zae! I'm so hyped for the next morning, ooooh Lord knows I am. Is Arthur going to remember his words and be ultra awkward/ashamed of it? Is he going to remember anything at all? I can't wait to see the aftermaths of this wild night!

(Okay this was maybe a little bit too much, but you have to understand me guys, I'm making up for all the time I didn't get to give her work some appreciation <3)

Piquancy- I

Summary: You and Arthur spend time at the saloon. Pairing: Arthur Morgan X Female Reader Word Count: 3,093 Tags: High honor Arthur, developing relationship, alcohol and intoxication, fluff, before the Blackwater Massacre

a/n: I took a break from writing, and when I started again, this came out lol. Got carried away, so I divided it into 3 parts. Part 1 is very tame; I can't say the same for the next 2. I'm feeling a little rusty, but I hope you still enjoy!

piquancy: a sharp or stimulating quality that provokes a strong, often intriguing reaction.

A thunderstorm reigned over West Elizabeth, and several associates of the Van Der Linde gang had holed up in the Blackwater saloon, seeking refuge from the downpour. A handful of them sat at the poker table: Sean, Karen, Davey, Javier, Jenny, Arthur, and you. The gang had taken advantage of an unlimited supply of beer––provided they had the cash–– and were a few drinks deep. You were the only one hanging onto your sobriety and the only one sober enough to keep your head in the game.

You felt particularly lucky tonight, partly because you’d played a few good hands and partly because Arthur, whom you’d long admired from afar, had taken to being stuck to you all night.You'd convinced him to dance with you earlier in the night when Uncle hounded the pianist to "play something good." Afterward, the broad-shouldered outlaw paid for your pot in the poker game “for the dance,” he'd said.

His generous donation turned into quite an investment for you as you dealt the last card of the round, a king of hearts, giving you a full house.

“Dammit!” Davey yelled, slamming his cards down and busting out of the game. He pointed an accusatory finger at you, “You’re a cheat; I know it!”

Karen glowered at him and rolled her eyes as she added her cards back into the deck.

“She ain’t cheating; maybe you just suck,” she mocked, smiling mischievously.

Arthur leaned back in his seat next to you, keeping his temper even but putting a protective arm around the back of your chair. “Tonight just ain’t your night partner; go have another drink, walk it off, and shut up.” He and Davey held each other’s gaze, both impassive and unreadable. Finally, Davey averted his eyes and mumbled under his breath.

Arthur leaned over, and the heat of his breath tickled your ear. A rumble of laughter built up in him as he whispered to you,

“he ain’t used to dealing with beautiful women with brains— you're making him feel emasculated. “

You peeked over at Davey, who had safely directed his gaze to the deck of cards and stifled the giggle that bubbled inside you. Arthur had straightened back up but kept his arm resting on the back of your chair. Warmth radiated off of him like sunlight in the spring. You wanted nothing more than to be basked in it, but a move like that wasn’t in the cards, so you focused on your winnings, boasting as you scooped the chips to your pile.

Your gloating session only lasted for a short second before one of the saloon’s working girls added the poker table to her list of stops. As she spoke, one of her gloved hands perched a little too comfortably on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Any of you boys looking for a good time?”

Leaning forward slightly, the cowboy shifted his chair closer to yours—not enough to draw attention, but enough to angle the girl’s gaze toward Davey. You were sitting closer to him now than anybody else at the table, and neither of you minded.

“Maybe another time,” Arthur told her, his tone kind but dismissive. His eyes flicked up to meet hers briefly. Then, with a knowing glance toward Davey, he added, “But my friend over there is more charismatic than he looks."

Davey’s demeanor did a complete flip, the look of aggravation on his face now replaced by a closed-mouth grin. By the time the woman was at his side of the table, he’d already stood to whisk her away.

“Men.” You mocked, and Arthur chortled low to himself.

“Amen, sister,” Jenny said, shaking her head in more mirth than annoyance as she watched the pair climb the stairs. A thick Irish accent joined the conversation.

“Don’t ya' go lumpin’ me in with the likes o' Davey. It’s not just about me when I’m with my lady. I make sure she’s properly looked after, too.”

Sean threw a lax arm around Karen's shoulders as he finished his declaration. She shrugged him off, faking irritation, though a coy smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

“Yes, the whole camp hears just how satisfied your woman is.” Javier chimed in, smirking at Karen over his glass of whiskey.

Karen shot him a sharp glare and stood abruptly. “You’re an asshole,” she snapped, pointing a finger at him. “And you—” she shoved Sean, “—“keep your hands to yourself.”

Karen stalked off away from the table, Sean close on her heels. “Ah, come now, darlin’! Don’t be like that!” he chased her clumsily, bumping into chairs, making Javier and Arthur laugh. You swatted Arthur’s arm and shot daggers at Javier.

“Men are like roosters,” you said, disapproving. “proud and obnoxious, but not a single egg to show for it.”

Jenny giggled to herself but looked dreamily across the bar to Lenny, who was engrossed in conversation with Hosea.

“I’d agree with you, but every time I’m with—” she cut herself off, averting her eyes and ignoring everybody else’s knowing gaze.

Javier whistled under his breath, and Arthur cackled, loud and toothy, as he waved an arm across the bar towards Lenny. "Atta boy, Lenny!" he yelled over the noise of the saloon. The young boy's furrowed brow made the whole table throw a fit, even Jenny, trying her best to look nonchalant.

Despite the merriment surrounding you, a twinge of something unpleasant scratched at your insides, something envious and wistful. You were happy for Jenny; she deserved someone like Lenny. He was a good kid, one of the finest you’d known, given his circumstances. And you wanted what they had, even if they were still figuring it out themselves. Though the laughter had died down, and the game continued, you couldn’t help but notice Lenny across the room, a smile on his lips as he kept his eyes trained on Jenny, studying her as if he’d never see her again. You were distracted by the thought. Arthur took notice and nudged you with his elbow.

“What’s that look?” he asked, and all eyes turned back to you. You were in the hot seat now, Javier having raised a brow and Jenny looking concerned. You turned your attention back to the previous conversation.

“I just never––” you trail on, trying to find the words, “well, no man I’ve ever been with made me––” you stopped, feeling like you were starting to make a fool of yourself. Arthur’s eyes turned timidly back to his cards, and Javier leaned back, smug.

“Ah, that’s why you always have a stick up your ass.”

Jenny and Arthur jumped in with a course of objections to Javier’s crassness, but you didn’t miss a beat. “You would be the authority on all things asses,” you hit back, “matter of fact, how’d that late-night job with Bill go the other day?”

You were rewarded with ripples of laughter from your allies at the table, Javier, clearly trying to hold in his own, frowned and clutched his chest in dramatic fashion.

“Ouch,” he voiced, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Alright, sorry. Take whatever I have left, but leave my pride, please,” he scooted his chips to the middle of the table and tipped his hat in departure.

The poker game died down with the last bits of laughter. Jenny had turned, placing her hand atop yours, her expression pensive.

“So you’ve never...” she trailed off, lowering her voice, “a man’s never made you...” she didn’t say the words as if realizing how taboo the conversation was, especially in front of a man. You cringed, the awkwardness crashing over you like a tidal wave.

“Forget I said anything,” you said, rising hastily. Before he could even think, Arthur’s hand shot out to grab your wrist. He let go just as fast as he’d caught it, but the rough touch of his fingers lingered on your skin like embers in a smoldering fire.

“Hey now, where you running off to?”

You smoothed your skirts and gazed down at him, “far away to not make a further fool of myself.”

Arthur chuckled, organized his chips with one hand, and stroked his beard with the other.

“Sounds like the fellers you’ve been friendly with ain’t worth their salt. They should be the ones embarrassed."

Neither of you tore your eyes from the other for a long while. Finally, you let out a breath and a doubtful sigh. “Maybe,” you murmured, then pointed over your shoulder at the bar. “How about another drink?”

Arthur joined you for your first and only drink of the night, then had himself another and another. Over time, you’d learned that Arthur was day or night when he was drunk. Tonight, he was all sunshine, laughing louder than usual and leaning too close when he spoke. In all his attention, you’d let yourself forget about your previous self-reproach.

Completely inebriated now, he tugged on your hand, pulling you away from the bar and back towards the piano, his chipped-toothed smile lighting up his whole face. You let him haul you towards the lively music, shocked by his sudden excitement to dance with you. This dance was different from the first; you were acutely aware of how his heavy hand settled firmly on your hip and the way he looked through you with yearning eyes.

“What happened to ‘I’m not much of a dancer’?” you asked as he twirled you to the music.

He didn’t respond, only dipped you and laughed when you yelped at the sudden pull of gravity. You clutched his forearms, trying to keep yourself from toppling over; you both fumbled a bit, him in his drunkness, trying to keep you both steady. With a quick yank, he pulled you back up against him, your bosom flush against his chest. You joined his laughter and decided chairs were much safer than the makeshift dance floor.

Jenny’s voice broke through your laughter as she and Lenny passed by on their way out. “Never seen you dance like that, Arthur,” she teased.

As the night grew older, the energy in the saloon dwindled, as did the number of people inside. The remaining caravan of outlaws rode back to camp, leaving just you and Arthur behind. Your conversations with the cowboy had moved past reminiscing about the good ole days and lighthearted banter to something more quiet and intimate. Listening to him talk, even drunk off his ass, was like floating downstream on a lazy river, easy and impossible to resist.

Sleepiness crept up on you, a yawn escaping mid-conversation; Arthur caught the contagious inhale like a passing train, his own yawn following close behind. Heading back to camp was the smart idea, but it was clear that Arthur was too drunk to even consider mounting a horse. He didn’t argue when you convinced him to get a room for the night.

“You’re lucky. Last key left,” the barkeep informed him, sliding the key across the counter. You started to step away, but Arthur’s hand found your wrist again, just like it had earlier in the night. He didn’t move this time, though, his grip steadfast and purposeful. Then he brought you in close, close enough to smell the leather of his hat, the cigarette smoke in his coat, and the whiskey on his breath. Great lakes glimmered down at you, full of longing and quiet intensity.

“Come with me.” His voice rumbled like distant thunder as he slid his hands into yours. Though his forwardness and touch weakened your legs, you tangled your arm in his to ensure he was steady. Chuckling to himself at the sudden role reversal, he dipped his head, his face close to yours.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, close to your ear. Goosebumps formed on your arms, like raindrops rippling across a stream. Then, you shivered when his head fell into the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, breathing you in with closed eyes. “And you smell so nice.”

Every fiber of your being fought to keep your composure; you didn't want him to move. You wanted to feel his lips on your skin and his hands in your hair. But you couldn’t be sure of his feelings—not with the whiskey clouding his thoughts and his words slurred from the bottle.

“Thank you, Mister Morgan.” You laughed to ease your nerves as you pulled him along to the stairs.

“No—” he said, shaking his head defiantly, “not Mister. Morgan, just Arthur,” he insisted, “unless you want to be Missus Morgan.”

A self-assured smile unfolded on his face as his boot made contact with the first step. “You’d be a fine Missus Morgan,” he slurred, one hand still in yours, the other clutching the railing for support.

You tried to trudge on, but Arthur wouldn’t, standing stiff as if the wood had turned to concrete. When you turned to face him, you expected that same smile you’d heard in his voice a second ago, but this time, his mouth was set in a deep line, and his eyes were not on yours but fixated on your mouth. He folded his lips inward, afraid he’d lose the ounce of control he had left if he stared at yours too long.

His chest rose in a deep sigh, and his voice came out quiet, a passing shadow in the night, “I mean it.”

Your pounding heart tried desperately to burst out of your chest. It pounded against your rib cage hard, as if escaping would relieve the unbearable pressure his words built within you. Tentatively, you tore your gaze away, patting his hand with your free one.

“C’mon, Arthur,” you said gently. Ignoring him felt safest, so you did, focusing on getting him to the room despite your heart hammering at his words.

When you finally reached the door, he reluctantly ripped his hand away from yours like a magnet being pulled from metal. The gunslinger drunkenly fumbled with the key for a moment and paused before twisting the knob.

“I’d treat you right,” he said, his back turned to you. “Treat you better than any of those fools–– Treat you how you deserve.” He looked back at you as the last of his words fell from his lips.

“Arthur, you’re drunk,” you said with a half-smile, pushing you both through the door. He disassembled himself like a tornado blowing through the room. His gun belt went first, hitting the floor with a clank, then it was his bandoleer, satchel, coat, boots, and socks right after that. When he was free of all his equipment, he flopped down on the bed with shut eyes.

“Might be drunk, but I ain’t a liar,” he mumbled, then chuckled, “not to you, anyway.”

Reaching for his hat, you took it off for him and set it aside on the nightstand.

“If you still feel that way when you’re not swimming in whisky, let me know, Mister. Morgan."

He grunted assuredly, then turned to face you, opening his heavy lids.

“I said just call me Arthur,” he insisted. You didn’t say anything–– just stared back at him. He spoke after another second, “always felt that way 'bout you,” he admitted, a look of quiet vulnerability washing over his features. Your legs wobbled like a newborn foal, but you stood firm.

“Goodnight, Arthur,” you said, shifting to leave.

“Wait." His voice came out fast and unsure. You froze and turned back to him, “would you stay with me if I asked?” And those sad, sad eyes made your chest ache. If he wasn't drunk off his ass, your silence would've unnerved him, but he was too far gone to notice.

He'd lost the fight against his eyes, and they were closed again. His hand fell limply over the edge of the bed, calloused fingers opening up to you.

“Shouldn't be on the trail by yerself in the middle of the night.”

And he was right; it was dangerous and stupid for anybody to be on the road so late at night, especially a lone woman.

“Can get my own room,” you stammered.

Arthur sighed deeply and desperate, running out of ways to convince you.

"No," he swallowed, "no, you can't."

And you’d remember the barkeep telling Arthur he was lucky to have secured the last room key as everybody sought shelter from the storm. “Just stay 'til I'm asleep,” he cut into your thoughts, "to make sure I don’t do anything stupid. Can’t have the camp golden boy out of commission now, can we? Who’s do all the heavy liftin', robbin', and killin' if I'm laid up with a broken arm?”

You didn’t argue anymore. The truth was you’d wanted to spend every moment with him. You wanted his arm back around you, and you wanted to relish in his laughter. He had that effect on you, both drunk and sober.

“Fine," you tried to hide your smile, "but only til you fall asleep.”

Bliss transformed his face from shadow to light as you strolled to the bed. Arthur shimmied over, giving you space. He laid flat on his back, and you followed suit, hands folded on your stomach, your body mirroring his. Silence fell over the room like fog, and you thought he’d finally gone to sleep. Then he let out another breath of amusement but didn’t open his eyes.

“Yep,” he bellowed, “I tried, you know. Tried to keep away from you. Not because I don't like you, but because I like you too much,” he continued, not giving you a chance to respond. “And I’d–” he paused, what little filter he had left trying to stop him, but it wasn't enough. “I’d bed you right too. Damn those bastards that had you and didn’t do it right. I’d do it right."

You froze for a long while, trying to build the courage to face him. Words were lost to you, but you rolled over to face him anyway. Mouth agape, his chest rose and fell with the cadence of sleep. Disappointment fell heavy on your chest as you adjusted your eyes to look at him, to really look at him like you'd never been able to. He was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen; the sentiment would've made him laugh if he could've heard it. You returned to your back, willing your feet to move, but they didn't. Before you knew it, you were fast asleep beside him, lulled by the crackle of the fireplace and his deep breaths. It was the first time years that you'd slept through the night.

Part II, III

#my zae-bee <3 #also the way he almost tripped on the stairs made me lol #and the what happened to “i aint much of a dancer”!!!#and the way he danced while drunk with herrr #loved everything so much #fic rec #zae fic #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan

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saexy · 7 months ago

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random silly hc for zae household bec im a lil 🥹🥹

sae's lil mio (our baby kitty) has THE BIGGEST CRUSH on RIN AND she literally gatekeeps him aand troubkess him so much TT.. she will throw his stuff so he gets a lil mad and then crawls to sae prtending to be inoccent.. and if rin even complains.. sae wont hear it. :'') she is evil!! i love herr!! and she often rubs around sae's legs and goes mao (meow)... you ll catch sae mao-ing (mewoing) back :'')

#Theyre BOTH MEMACESSS #zaecore!

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barbieaemond · 1 year ago

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IT’S A GIRL 🎀

Sign here, please 💖

All done 💕

#lena my wife #zae our baby

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barbieaemond · 1 year ago

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“All of this will be ours someday.” “In everything but name” she whispers reluctantly. “Is it my name you still want when I have given you so much more”

Can't tell you how much I loved this exchange. All the references to smut made me quiver even if they were just hinted. Also, all the descriptions about Aegon, Alicent and her feelings about him and the baby flowed beautifully, I'm in constant awe at your choice of words. A bit sad that this is over, as it also leaves me with many questions that I'm going to pester you with on discord, but this was utterly amazing, Zae.

The eye of envy

Summary: A maid at the keep finds her own flame through the words of the dragon.

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: implied smut, mentions of child death, burns and injuries, angst.

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Her body aches in ways it has never before. She has known hardship her entire life, strenuous work from dawn to dusk pushing her to the brink of exhaustion and fitful slumber. She wakes up equally restless now, deliciously sore as she gets to work hiding the bruises beneath the wimple she opts to wear. She finds his eye following her movements every time she enters or perhaps she’s more aware of his presence now that her longing has borne fruit. The sheets are changed more often with longer baths being taken together, grasping and clawing at each other till they're raw and need to be cleansed again. She finds herself visiting the sept more often, eyes on the lookout for his ardor as she begins honoring the Mother forsaking the Maiden before her. It is a wishful dream that she now lives every day, yearning for yet another part of him to hold and she’s answered soon enough.

The wails that haunt the hallways make her shrink in terror wishing for the Stranger himself. There are whispers of madness and horror floating around that make her want to retreat into herself and run away from it all. The servants are rounded up again and cast into the dungeons awaiting harsher trials as she paces around her quarters unharmed yet she knows she'll face her fate soon enough. The blood that she'd given to him so readily hasn't arrived with the moon's turn making her choke back a sob. Some part of her thinks he knows what lies within her and it is perhaps his clemency which shields her from his wrath yet every time he returns to her his touch is fierce and unyielding, punishing her with sweeter torment. He leaves with a smirk on his face and a kiss to her cheek with a lingering promise of more as she struggles in silence. The Mother seems to have confused her punishment for the son that grows within her blooms as the young princeling of six wilts and the screams only grow louder.

The days that follow are short and agonizing. She's confined to his chambers with little knowledge of what passes outside other than the whispers passed at meals delivered to her on time. The King has ordered the death of all the rat catchers of the keep along with servants who've been presumed guilty. The stench of flesh soon greets her despite the windows being shut tight. Their bars can only hold so much death.

It is a solemn occasion that greets her later as she dresses him in black. She feels him clench his jaw throughout the night in anticipation with no amount of coaxing soothing the guilt that he struggles to hide. She feels it too, a hand pressed to her womb in passing, feeling the pain she hears down the hall yet she braves it for him. He leaves shortly, assigning a guard to her door, prohibiting her leave as she's tucked into his bed with a lingering gaze. She knows the pain he carries now is for them both.

He becomes careful with her once the ashes of the little boy are strewn to the skies. His hands linger and ghost over her belly before retreating to clenching over nothing. There are days where she sees him only around the hour of the eel, woken up to being pulled close and taken in haste. There is an urgency to his movements which he tries to hide as he gives in to pleasure while not forgetting her own, yet he's gone before the sun rises leaving her locked and alone. She feels like a prisoner with more comfortable lodgings. She busies herself tidying his things yet she longs for home and the comfort of her own mother the most. It is days later when she's visited by one, clad in teal with her hands clasped in front of her. The Dowager queen looks as regal as she's spoken of, out of place next to a woman of her status as she bids her to sit. There is a sorrow that clings to her, haunting her beauty as she speaks.

“How are you doing”

“I am well your grace”

“That is good. You perhaps know why I’m here then”

“I make no demands of your grace. The prince-”

“Is quite fond of you, yes. It is why I've allowed him this fancy in the first place”

“It was not my intention”

“It never is” she responds ruefully. “The Mother has chosen to bless you child, in a time when she's tried us all” she continues fidgeting with her hands “Look after him” she whispers tiredly. She finds the woman that leaves is not the mother she hoped for but a crone gliding through the halls.

The first time she calls him by name is when he leaves for battle. She wakes up before dawn to ready him, helping him with his armour as he stares ahead. She cannot stop her tears as she finishes clasping his eyepatch in place before he pulls her to him whispering to her in the language of his ancestors. He kisses her farewell with a smile and a promise to return and that is what she finds herself praying for daily. She calls him by his name in her dreams, in the thoughts that haunt her while she kneels on stone. She lights candles for the Warrior to guide his blade and flame and for the Father to give them justice for the sorrow she sees amidst green. It is three moons later when word of victory reaches them before she finally approaches the Mother in peace.

The royal parade returns as her belly begins to swell. She hears the cheers in the distance and sees the head of the red horned beast that started it all, before seeing him fly triumphantly above. He returns to her with pride etched into him caressing her with longing burning through them both. It is only later she realizes how deeply the fire has consumed them all. The King screams in agony drowning the wails of his Queen who stares at him, pain etched into her features. She's been ushered into the room to help yet cannot stomach the sight before her. He's covered in bandages, salves and ointments lining his peeling skin, perpetually drunk on milk of the poppy to dull his senses. She sees her hold his hand and whisper something to him which is lost to the wind before she rises and leaves as the Dowager queen cries silently nearby. Aemond stands at the threshold observing it all with a blank face yet she knows what he sees. She remembers her mother telling her it is a curse to play chase with the Gods, yet as the man ahead of her screams as he's weaned off intermittently she can hardly summon any pity. Her heart lies with her lover at the threshold.

The night passes in flashes of anger with bolts of lightning illuminating the skies heralding imminent danger. She feels the empty bed next to her as her eyes adjust to the dark. It is cold as she struggles to wake up and explore. It is the last thing she should be doing but with him back she cannot feel anything but a semblance of security. She pads along the floor in her robe before making her way to where she thinks he is. She sees him stalking towards the monstrosity ahead as she lets herself in with a creak of the great oak doors.

“You shouldn't be here” he says as he hears her approach.

“Neither should you”

“It is to be mine on the morrow”

“Is it” she counters bravely “He still lives”

“Yet he's too weak to exert his will. It is I who’ll rule in his stead” he says, watching her reach him. “All of this will be ours someday.”

“In everything but name” she whispers reluctantly.

“Is it my name you still want when I have given you so much more”

“I want everything,” she admits.

“Greed doesn't become you”

“It seems to have found its place with you”

“This was always meant to be mine.” he remarks.

She sees another flash of lightning illuminate his face, silver and leather bathed in the moonlight, as she turns towards him.

“You promised me your protection as long as I wished to continue. That is all I still ask for” she whispers, taking his hands in hers.

“Do you know the story about how the Iron throne was forged” he asks “A thousand blades were melted to take its form. A thousand men fell for its cause”

“Do you plan to fell a thousand more for your own?”

She sees him smile in response as he replies “You shall have all that I have to give in time. Conquests do not yield their fortune in a day”

“Only King's perhaps” she finishes looking at him.

She dresses him at dawn with trepidation, her eyepatch now discarded for a new beginning. His sapphire glints in the dark as he clasps one around her neck.

“You are mine today for all to see” she thinks he means to tell her, as he pulls her to him from behind admiring the way it sits above her collarbones.

The ceremony is long and foreboding. She stands to the side in blue as he's crowned, curtsying with all the grace she can muster. She sees her father in the distance looking at her with confusion and her mother smiling knowingly before they bow. As the sun rises in the distance and steel finds a home atop a new head of silver, she feels the Smith at work, fashioning bonds aflame like the golden pin that glints on his collar. The doe ahead of her fumes in silence.

Taglist: @witheredoffherwitch @arcielee @chompchompluke @barbieaemond @watercolorskyy @b00kw0rmsworld

#fic recs #zae amore 💖👯‍♀️

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