#if she didn’t rape lip | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

javier-pena · 5 months

Text

embers

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader

Word Count: 9.5k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You're engaged to be married to a man you've never met. Arthur Morgan is supposed to escort you across the country to meet him. You should keep your distance, but the dangers of the road bring you closer and closer together with each passing mile.

Notes: So there's this post ... and It has been on my mind for months so I had to write this exact scenario with Arthur, naturally. Again, this is way longer than it was supposed to be, but working on this fic allowed me to daydream a lot, so I can't complain. As always, I wouldn't have been able to do it without Dani @alexturner, who pushed me in the right direction and came up with the ending (because I'm not good at writing those)!!

***

You’re not pretty. At least that’s what everyone told you from the moment you could understand those words. Your mother, the maid she hired to look after you, the boys working for your father, the marm, the people in town. Since you were little, you’ve been hearing it over and over again. “It’s such a shame she ain’t pretty, what’s she gonna do with brains?”

The thing is, you also don’t feel very smart. If you were, you’d have found a way to leave your godforsaken town for one of the big cities in the east as soon as you could read the timetable down by the train station. You would’ve found a way to get out of this marriage your father arranged for you. Ambrose Longabaugh was his name. Ambrose Longabaugh. From what you have heard, he shares your lot: anything but handsome, but at least he has money.

No one was sad to see you go, save for your little brother, who held you tight and made you promise to come back if you didn’t like your betrothed. You had promised, knowing you were lying. It didn’t matter if you liked him or not, he was the man you were going to marry. You weren’t getting out of this. Your father had made sure of that.

Mr. Morgan is riding ahead of you, sitting in the saddle with his shoulders slumped, a cigarette dangling between his lips. You can smell the smoke on the crisp fall air, even though you’re trying to keep your distance. It’s not that he scares you – not as much as other men do, not as much as your future husband does – but you don’t like him very much. Your father is paying him to take you out west where Ambrose Longabaugh will one day take over his father’s cattle business. And Mr. Morgan is doing it without complaint, hardly acknowledging your presence. He talks more to his horse than he talks to you.

You let your eyes wander across the mountains around you and sigh. The first time you had seen them, your mouth had hung open in awe. Now you feel trapped by them. You can’t go back, and there’s only one way forward. You sigh again. No, you’re neither pretty nor smart.

“Break?” Mr. Morgan asks from up front. It’s only the fifth word he has said to you today; the others were good morning and let’s go.

“Yes,” you agree, not because you need it but because it gives you something else to do.

You stop near a small river with a shallow bank where Mr. Morgan can refill your waterskins. While he’s busy, you stretch your legs and pick up a few rocks from the riverbed to toss them into the water. The rushing of the water fills your ears, drowning out both thoughts and sounds. You take a deep, calming breath and close your eyes.

When you open them again, Mr. Morgan has taken off his lambskin coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He’s washing his face and neck in the cold water of the river, a wet stain forming on his collar, drops running down his lean, muscular forearms that are still tan from working outdoors all summer. Your face heats up with an emotion you don’t quite understand, and you turn away from him, pretending to be interested in some moss-covered rocks. You’re not supposed to look.

He startles you when he touches your arm lightly, making you turn around. You hadn’t heard him coming over the sounds of the river. His coat is back on, but you can see his neck glistening in a few places still.

“You shouldn’t wander, ma’am,” he says. That’s four more words for today.

You look around. “Indians, right?” you ask with a small laugh.

His face remains serious. “No. White men. Gangs. They like to hide out here.”

You watch his Adam’s apple move as he swallows and your throat immediately mimics his. “Then why are we taking this road if it’s so dangerous?”

He shrugs. You realize he hasn’t let go of your arm yet. “It’s fast.”

“My father –”

“Your father planned this route.”

You swallow again. “I’ll be careful, sir. Thank you.” He lets go of your arm then, and you walk back to your horse, your face now heating up with an emotion you definitely recognize: embarrassment.

You make camp later that day where the trees are standing close together. While he builds a fire, you pick at a pine cone you found on the ground. Somewhere in the distance you hear a howl, but you’ve learned that if it’s not loud enough to make Mr. Morgan look up from his task, then it’s nothing to be worried about. And he stokes the fire, eyes fixed to the flames.

After dinner, he hands you a small bottle and when the sharp taste of whiskey makes you cough, he smirks. So you take another sip, holding his gaze. He looks away first, pulls a torn-up pack of cigarettes from his coat, and offers you one. You accept, surprised.

“Don’t let my father find out you’re corrupting me,” you tease.

He only makes, “Hm,” in response.

The smoke from the cigarette burns your throat, just like the whiskey, but this time you manage to suppress the cough. “Do you have family, Mr. Morgan?” you ask, watching how he uses a branch to stoke the fire.

“No,” is his simple reply.

Now it’s your turn to make, “Hm,” before you add, “No one you’re sweet on?”

You don’t really care about the answer, why would you? But when he gives you another, “No,” a careful one, it makes your heart pound faster. Until he turns the tables.

“What about you?”

“Oh,” you say, “I don’t know, I haven’t met my fiancé yet.” And you don’t want to be thinking about him right now.

Mr. Morgan looks at you, his head cocked to one side. “Come now,” he pushes, as if you’re being evasive on purpose. “That ain’t what I’m askin’.”

You sigh. “It’s not? I’m spoken for. I have no business thinking about other men.” You don’t mean to be so frank, but the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. And you can tell from the look on Mr. Morgan’s face that he still thinks you’re not honest with him.

“Hm,” he makes, and you dread what might be coming next.

“I’m going to bed,” you tell him, putting an end to your conversation. He opens his mouth to add something, but you don’t give him a change. You lie down and pull your thin blanket over your body, face hot with embarrassment. The last thing you see before falling asleep is Mr. Morgan staring at the flames, a quiet smile on his lips.

Later that night, you wake up to shouts. What pulls you from your sleep entirely is a gunshot that reverberates through the forest. “Mr. Morgan?” you shout, because he isn’t sitting next to the fire anymore and you can’t see him anywhere. Then you hear a sound that makes your blood run cold, a snarl, a growl, but animalistic, wild, unlike anything you’ve ever heard. You jump up from your bedroll, ready to run, but then you remember Mr. Morgan’s warning. It’s better to stay here, in the light of the dwindling fire, than to take your chances out there. “Mr. Morgan?” you try again, this time a hiss, as you frantically search the darkness beyond your camp. It gets so dark out here at night.

A shout is your answer, a deep, “Hey!” Short and fast. The horses whinny, and you’re only now realizing they’re stomping the ground, tearing up the soil with their hooves, the whites in their eyes visible, ears pressed tightly back. You try to swallow your panic, but it gets harder with every passing second.

Then something moves between the trees and Mr. Morgan stumbles back into the camp, a gun in one hand, a torch in the other. He has a wild look in his eyes too, just like the horses, but when they land on you, he relaxes, his face assuming its usual, stoic mask. “Mountain lion,” he says. “It’s gone.”

“What does that mean?” you ask, your voice trembling.

“Chased it off,” he explains. “It ain’t coming back here.”

“The horses …,” you start.

But he walks toward the fire, toward you. “You did good,” he says, dropping to his knees next to you, so close, too close. You can smell the gunpower on him, and the sweat; you’ve never been so close to a man before, not even your own father. “Here.” He hands you the whiskey again. “It’s gone, I promise.”

You wish your hands wouldn’t shake so much. He grabs yours with one to steady, his warm skin like fire against yours, unscrews the stopper with the other, not with impatience but oh so gently. You manage to take a sip on your own, but he watches you intently for any signs of distress.

“You’ll have to get used to it,” he says, stowing away the bottle. “This land out here … it’s wild.”

You nod. Now that the initial burst of panic is dulled, you feel tears sting your eyes.

“But you’ll manage.” His voice is so calming. “You’re a brave girl.”

*******

The hooves of your horse pound out a slow, steady beat against the hard ground. You’re tired, every muscle in your body is sore, but you push on without complaint, following Mr. Morgan up a winding mountain and back down on the other side. The days are so similar they’re bleeding into one – the mountain lion … did it attack three nights ago? Five? You don’t remember. All you know is that your heart picks up speed when he looks at you, that every evening your conversation around the fire becomes a little bit longer, that you wish you could go on like this forever, never to arrive at your destination.

Sometimes at night, when you can’t sleep but you pretend to, you can hear him sing, sometimes to himself, sometimes to the horses. Your heart almost flies out of your chest when he does it. He hasn’t touched you anymore since the night of the mountain lion attack, but you wish he would. Even though everything else about him confuses you, you wish you could feel his skin against yours again; such longing, it almost consumes you.

Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? Did your cousin feel like this when she ran off with that cowboy? Did your mother and father feel like this; is that why they got married? Are you supposed to feel like this when you meet your fiancé? Or is this something else entirely? Is there something wrong with you?

“Break?” he asks once the ground is beginning to even out.

“You know, you keep asking for breaks so much I’m starting to think you don’t want us to reach our destination,” you tease.

He just shrugs and stops his horse. You halt too and climb off, your legs steady when they hit the ground. It wasn’t like that in the beginning; the first few days he had to help you off your horse and you could barely stand. It’s astonishing what a difference a few weeks can make.

You stretch, then begin to walk up and down the path. It’s cold, sitting so still up on that horse, and you flex your fingers, trying to get some feeling back into them. Mr. Morgan, meanwhile, sits down on a tree stump to write in a leather-bound notebook. You’ve seen him use it before but you don’t quite know what it’s for. He’s probably tracking your progress or taking notes on the weather.

Careful to keep him in sight, you veer off into the underbrush, looking at the trees and the different kinds of plants growing on the ground. You pretend you can read the language of the forest, looking for tracks of animals or some mushrooms you might be able to eat. Just like you’ve seen Mr. Morgan do countless of times. When you do find something, you’re not sure what to make of it.

“Mr. Morgan?” Your voice is raised as you try to keep it steady.

You hear his footsteps immediately but you don’t dare to turn around, your eyes fixed on the sight before you. He stops next to you, and you can hear his steady breathing. The knot in your chest immediately dissolves.

“Hm,” he makes.

“What happened here?” you ask. Now the tremor in your voice is all too audible.

He hesitates just for a second, weighing his options, but then he says, “Some people were camping here, a family by the looks of it.”

“Where are they?” you ask, finally turning toward him. The cold, calculating look on his face sends a shiver down your spine.

“Ma’am …,” he says slowly.

“You can tell me. I can handle the truth.”

You look back at the burned-out wagon, the torn clothes hanging from tree branches, all that blood on a log next to a cold fire pit. You don’t need him to tell you. You just want him not to confirm your suspicions.

“They’re dead,” he answers. “Killed. For money.”

“All of them?” you ask.

He winces. “If there were women …”

“Can’t we help them?” You know you can’t, but you wish there was something you could do.

“Stay on the path next time,” he growls. “No more wanderin’ ‘round … ma’am.”

“Mr. Morgan …,” you try, but he’s already trudging back toward the horses.

You spend the rest of the day in silence, riding next to each other but avoiding each other’s gazes. You shouldn’t have called out to him; it was obvious what had happened in that camp. They were a group, and you’re just two people … your father couldn’t have known about the dangers of this journey, or he wouldn’t have made you go. He would’ve found another way. At least that’s what you’re telling yourself. Because you don’t want to even consider the other option and what it would mean. When the sun slowly disappears behind the mountains around you, dread settles onto your heart, the heavy kind you haven’t felt since you were a little girl, afraid of the dark.

Finally, Mr. Morgan stops his horse. “We camp here tonight. No fire.”

“It’s so dark,” you whisper.

“The darkness ain’t what’ll kill you,” he growls.

You can’t sleep; of course not. So you watch him all night, sitting up straight next to you, not so close that you could touch him, but close enough so you’ll always see he’s there. He doesn’t sleep either but he sits very still, keeping his eyes on the path, making sure nothing evil comes out of the dark. And you wish all you had to worry about were mountain lions.

*******

Two days later, Mr. Morgan’s face is pale and you’re frozen through. You haven’t had a warm meal since you found that destroyed camp, and Mr. Morgan has barely slept. You haven’t talked at all, apart from the necessities. And still you haven’t left those mountains and woods behind you. At least the daylight makes you feel less afraid.

“Is it far still?” you ask when the silence becomes unbearable.

“A week,” he answers, looking up at the sky, “if it doesn’t snow.”

The weather is the least of your worries. “And how long before we’re past the mountains?” You hate them now as much as they awed you at first.

“Three days maybe.”

Three more days without warm food. You straighten your back. “Have you come this way before?”

“Yes.”

“Has anything ever happened to you?” You don’t know if you’d prefer confirmation or denial.

“You’re safe with me, so don’t you worry about that.” There’s something in the way he says it that makes your grip tighten on the reins.

“I’m not worried,” you lie. “Just curious.”

“Hm,” he makes before going back to observing the surroundings with caution. “Bad people are everywhere. Not just here.”

“That’s a grim way to look at the world.” You try for a teasing tone, but it sounds like you’re reprimanding him instead.

“You ain’t seen much of it then,” he replies.

“More than you know.”

He looks at you curiously, just for a moment. “You –” he starts, but a shout ahead on the path interrupts him.

“Hey!”

You almost jump out of your skin and stop your horse reflexively. That’s your first mistake. The second one is to shout, “Arthur!” Because it costs him valuable seconds, that distraction. He turns around to look at you, and then suddenly two men are on him, pulling him out of the saddle. Two more appear next to you, a young, handsome one with a dark mustache and darker eyes, and a man your father’s age, but scrawny, with a mouth full of yellow teeth that he exposes to you in an ugly grin. You pull on the reins and your horse dances nervously, ears pressed tightly against its head. And then you hear a shot.

A fifth man stands in the middle of the path, a smoking gun held high over his head. His thick, gray beard quivers as he shouts, “Everybody stay calm and no one is gonna get hurt!”

You look at Mr. Morgan for guidance and see him struggle against the two men who are restraining him by holding his arms tightly pressed against his back. His pants are dirty from where he hit the ground when they pulled him off his horse.

“Get her down from there,” the man with the gray beard barks, and before you can do anything, thin but strong fingers have closed around your arm and you tumble out of the saddle with a shout.

The man who is holding you stinks of rotting things and nicotine. He twists one of your arms until it is pressed flush against your back and uses his other hand to hold your chin, so you’re forced to look straight ahead at the man with the mustache.

“Pretty little thing, ain’t she?” he snarls, and the other man licks his lips.

“We just want your valuables,” Graybeard says to Mr. Morgan.

“We ain’t got any,” he growls.

“I’m sure you don’t,” is the calm answer as Graybeard starts going through the saddlebags of Mr. Morgan’s horse.

You roll your shoulders but the man with the rotting teeth only tightens his hold on you. His companion takes a few careful steps toward you. A lump is forming in your throat as you begin to realize just how dangerous this situation is. You try to kick back, like a horse, but you miss your captor. It only earns you a cruel laugh and a pinch to your cheek.

Somewhere to your right, you hear a dull thud and a pained groan coming from Mr. Morgan. You try to look at him, but you can’t move, not because you’re being restrained but because fear has taken over your body and you can’t do anything but relinquish control.

“Check her horse,” Graybeard orders, but the man with the mustache doesn’t move. He’s only a few steps away from you now, his eyes hungrily roaming over your body. “Now!” Graybeard barks.

“There isn’t -,” you start, but the man who is restraining you clamps a hand over your mouth. You could vomit when you taste his skin.

“There’s this,” the man with the mustache says, holding up a cheap necklace your mother gave you as a parting gift.

“Take it,” Graybeard orders.

“What about her?” the rotting man asks and shakes you.

“Her too,” Graybeard answers with a nod. “Shoot the man.”

“No!” you shout, even though it makes the disgusting man get more of his fingers in between your lips.

The man with the mustache stuffs your mother’s necklace into the pocket of his jacket, then walks over to you. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears as he grips your skirt and begins to pull it upward so your boots and then your drawers are slowly exposed. A hot tear rolls down your cheek but it only makes him smile.

“I bet you’re lovely.” His voice is deep, almost as deep as Mr. Morgan’s, but hearing him speak only fills you with revulsion. “I bet you’re all tight …” He lightly strokes your cheek, then uses his free hand to unbutton his trousers.

“No!” you shout again, but it’s muffled, and your feeble attempts to free yourself are met with an evil snicker.

Then you hear a shot and all the life goes out of your body. It’s done. You’re alone now. And if you’re lucky, you’ll soon be dead too. Two more shots ring through the forest, each one as painful as if you’ve been hit by the bullets yourself. The man with the mustache doesn’t even flinch. His trousers hang open now, and you can see dark hairs peek out from between the fabric, before he cups one of your breasts hard and licks a broad stripe up your neck.

The other man moans, low, wetly, and it’s the most disgusting sound you’ve ever heard. He lets go of you, but it’s too late; you can’t run anymore. A wet, dull sound is followed by another moan, and you know exactly what he’s doing. You’ve heard people talk about it, even though you don’t quite know what it means when a man touches himself. All you know is that you feel bile rise at the thought of it.

The man with the mustache freezes and looks behind you, his eyes wide with shock. Maybe they have a different bargain, maybe he wants to keep you for himself and feels threatened. But then, so fast he’s only a blur, Mr. Morgan rushes past you, grabs the man by his collar, and pulls him off you, landing a punch against his jaw. You blink a few times as both men go down, not sure if what you’re seeing is real or if it’s a vision your panicked brain conjured up to calm you. The man with the mustache lands a kick between Mr. Morgan’s legs, gaining the upper hand. He pulls a knife from his boot while he straddles your companion to pin him down, but Mr. Morgan doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the man’s arm and bites down until he lets go of the knife. You catch a glimpse of Mr. Morgan’s eyes and where you expected him to be all feral rage, he’s cold and calculating. It sends a shiver down your spine and you stumble back a few paces until you step into something soft that squelches on impact. You don’t have to look down to know what it is.

Despite the loss of his knife, the man with the mustache is putting up a good fight. He lands a blow in Mr. Morgan’s face, then scrambles off him, grabs the knife, and pushes himself upward. Mr. Morgan moves faster than you’ve ever seen him move, jumping up while dodging the glinting blade of the knife.

“Stay down, big boy,” the man sneers.

Mr. Morgan shoves into him with such force the knife ends up in the dirt again, right next to the two men. But this time, Mr. Morgan has the upper hand, landing blow after blow in the face of the other, grunting with grim satisfaction when he draws blood, continuing even when the man retches up blood and spits it in Mr. Morgan’s face. He doesn’t stop until the man doesn’t move anymore and his face is nothing more than a bloody pulp, entirely unrecognizable. Only then does he grunt in pain and rolls off his opponent, lying on the forest floor, breathing labored and hard.

*******

You make camp that night as far away from that spot as you could travel before the light faded. Mr. Morgan gets a fire going while you sit on a log, trying to hide your trembling hands in your lap. You haven’t cried yet but you know it’s coming. He hasn’t said anything yet, and you’re not sure he will.

In the flickering light of the fire, you can see the cuts and bruises in his face, the sleeve of his shirt drenched in blood. And when you close your eyes, you can see the five dead men, their broken bodies left in the dirt for scavengers to feed on. He did that, all on his own.

You force yourself to stand up and walk over to him. He’s not the man who calmed you down after a mountain lion attack anymore; you’ve seen him beat a man to death today with his bare hands. No, he’s someone new now, someone you have to get to know first. And when you crouch down next to him, he looks at you with dark eyes like he’s never looked at you before and you feel all the air being pressed out of you.

“Let me take a look at your arm,” you say, pulling it toward you by his hand. The dried blood on his knuckles is rough against your skin.

He doesn’t protest, just watches as you carefully roll up his sleeve to expose a deep cut, undoubtedly left by the knife. It must have happened so fast you missed it. Even though it’s not bleeding as much as it used to, each pump of Mr. Morgan’ heart pushes some more blood out through the cut.

“You need stitches,” you tell him.

Before you can second-guess what you’re doing or change your mind, you’re next to your saddlebag, looking for the sewing kit your bother gave you. Only you’ve never used it for something like this before. You don’t even know if it’ll work, only ever having read about it in books, but it’s better than doing nothing. You also grab the bottle of whiskey from Mr. Morgan’s bag.

“Drink this,” you order, handing it to him once you’re next to him again.

He takes one big swallow, then another one, his throat working to get the liquid down. You pretend not to notice. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while you stare at the cut with much more focus than necessary. Taking back the bottle, you pour some of its content on the cut, drawing a low groan from Mr. Morgan that heats up your cheeks.

Your hands are shaking as you try to thread the needle. “Have you ever done this before?” Mr. Morgan asks, his face stoic as if he’s ready to accept his fate no matter the answer you give him.

“Technically, no,” you answer, finally pushing the thread through the eye.

“Huh,” he grunts.

“But I’m very good at mending stockings.” You offer him a feeble smile and he nods. “This might hurt a little bit,” you warn before pushing the needle through his skin. Holding his arm in place with your other hand, you can feel his muscles flex at the intrusion, and a short burst of breath tickles the top of your head. He doesn’t complain.

“Have you ever been stitched up before?” you ask him to distract him.

“No,” he replies through gritted teeth.

“Oh, good. Then you have to believe me when I tell you I’m doing a very good job.” What’s wrong with you?

He grunts again, but maybe, possibly that sound could be hiding a laugh.

“Still, when we arrive at our destination, you should have a doctor look at this,” you instruct.

“Eager to hear from a professional how good of a job you did?”

Your cheeks ignite and you drop the needle. “Shit.” He is laughing now, a low chuckle, as you try to locate a glint in the flickering light from the campfire. Luckily, you don’t have to look far – the needle fell straight down and is lying between Mr. Morgan’s boots. You wipe strands of hair from your face, then wipe the needle clean on your dress before getting back to work.

“No,” you answer his question, forcing your voice to sound steady. “Because I have no idea how to prevent an infection. Or if I’m even doing this correctly.”

Mr. Morgan leans down, his big hand closing around the bottle you discarded earlier, and he unscrews the cap with his thumb and forefinger. “Looks to me like you’re doin’ fine.” A big swig, then another one.

You glance up at him just to see his face looking unusually pale. “Does it hurt a lot?” you ask carefully.

“I’ve had worse,” he answers, but flinches when one of your stitches comes too close to the wound.

You blink fast a couple of times, trying to shake the image of him on top of that man, punching and punching until no trace of life was left. The memory of the sheer brutality makes your hands feel clammy. No, this wasn’t his first time getting hurt, just like it wasn’t his first time killing someone. And now the same hands rest peacefully in his lap, cut and bruised, yes, but a far cry from the deadly weapons you saw today.

“Thank you for what you did today,” finishing up with two final stitches, then quickly add, “There,” and pet his arm before he can acknowledge your words of gratitude.

He lifts his hand from his leg and flexes his fingers. “Thanks for this,” he replies, examining the stitches.

Your gaze lands on his knuckles that are covered in blood, his own and that of the men he killed. “Do you want me to take a look at your hands?” you ask, your throat tight all of a sudden.

“I’m used to that.” He stretches out one of his legs so it rests next to you, close enough that you feel the ghost of a presence next to your hip.

“I’ve never met a man who was used to so much violence.” Your eyes are still on his hands, bruised darkly.

“It was either them or us.” He shrugs.

Us. “I was sure they had killed you when I heard that first gunshot,” you tell him, lowering your gaze to your own hands that have some dirt on them, some streaks of Mr. Morgan’s blood, but that look so clean compared to his.

“And break the contract with your father?”

You laugh. “A father who selected this route knowing full well about the dangers we would face?” The silence that follows your question is filled only by the crackle of the campfire and by the sounds of creatures moving through the woods. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you,” you finally say.

“This ain’t the first time I had to save someone,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“And how did those other people repay you?” you ask, eager for his answer. Being indebted to him puts you on edge.

“Money,” is his short reply.

“I don’t have any,” you say, feeling a tug at your heartstrings. But maybe that doesn’t matter; maybe when you arrive, you could talk to your fiancé. He’ll want to reward the man who defended your honor and saved you from a horrible fate. Still, you wish there was something you could be doing for him right now. “There’s also other ways,” you say, very slowly.

“Hm,” he makes, a sound that has started to fill you with a certain warmth for reasons you can’t quite explain. Then he shifts, moves his legs a little further apart. And you’re there right between them, looking up into his face that betrays nothing except for the smallest glint in his eyes.

You’ve never even kissed a man, but you’re not stupid. You know what certain gestures and movements mean. You’ve watched your father’s hands when a woman walked past them, you’ve attended dances where everyone around you was getting drunk … growing up on a farm, you’ve seen things. But you also know that those things are wrong and they should only be happening between husband and wife behind closed doors, no matter what everyone else is doing.

It's getting harder to breathe, and you feel a tug low in your stomach, almost like an ache. You’ve never felt anything like this before and you can’t quite place it, but the way he looks at you, mouth slightly opened, his eyes deep and dark, only fuels that sensation. And when you think back to this afternoon, it becomes so strong it makes you shift on your knees.

“You’re a pretty little thing.”

It’s the second time today someone has said that about you. Whereas the first time made your skin crawl, the second time makes your cheeks heat up and your breath get stuck in your throat. You notice that Mr. Morgan unbuckles his belt, eyes locked to yours, and you make sure your gaze stays on his face. It’s only when he groans and his eyelids flutter shut that you look down and see he has his hand wrapped around himself, moving it up and down his length with sure strokes. Something in you is released at that sight.

“Here, let me,” you offer, shuffling closer on your knees until you’re trapped between his legs.

Before you can think better of it, you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock. It’s warmer than you expected, feels heavier than you thought when you move your hand up in the same move you saw him use. He groans again, louder this time, and removes his hand, resting it on your arm. You tremble.

Back home, you were taught that what a wife does in the bedroom is fulfilling the duty to her husband. It sounded neither pleasant nor enjoyable, and so far, you’ve managed to push the thoughts of what is awaiting you at your destination from your mind. But your mother couldn’t have meant this, because this doesn’t feel like duty at all. You stroke the tip of his cock with your thumb, he tightens the grip on your arm in return, and you feel a surge of pride well up. No, your mother couldn’t have been talking about this.

Eager to try more, you twist your wrist on the downstroke, then lower your head and kiss the tip of his cock. He growls this time, and his hand lands on the back of your head, pushing you down. You have no choice but to open your mouth further and take him in. The weight of him presses down against your tongue, the tip of him brushing the back of your throat makes you gag as tears shoot to your eyes. He grips your hair, pulls you off, then pushes you back down again, and you got it. It’s not so different from the hand.

Steadying him at the base with a tight grip, you pull off him again, but let your tongue run along the underside, the sharp taste of him filling every corner of your mouth. It will take some getting used to, but you’re determined to get this right, and from the way his hand trembles at the back of your head, you have a feeling you might be.

You close your eyes, focusing on taking him as deeply inside as possible because he seems to enjoy that. Sometimes, when you think there isn’t any room left, he pushes you onto his cock that little bit further and then groans contently, a sound that tightens parts of your body you didn’t know could tighten. You run your tongue over the tip of him, hum around him when your mouth is full of him, just to find out what kind of sounds you can draw from him. If this is what it’s like, you can’t imagine why anyone would call this a duty.

Mr. Morgan stiffens and pushes his hips upward so you take even more of him into your mouth. This time you can’t help the gagging sound pushing past him. But instead of forcing you to take more, he grips a handful of your hair and pulls you off. Your mouth feels strangely empty for a moment, even though his taste lingers, and you blink in confusion. Was that it?

You lick your lips and look up at him expectantly, waiting for him to say something. But he’s quiet, only placing his forefinger under your chin to tilt your head back a little more. For some reason, that gesture leaves you breathless. And you know why a second later when his lips lock onto yours and your breaths mingle, and you suddenly understand why people would kill for this. Why he killed for you.

You can’t help the moan that comes out of your mouth, don’t even realize at first that the sound is coming from you. His hand glides to the back of your head to grip you and hold you in place, and you push yourself toward him, one hand on his arm, the other on his thigh. He licks into your mouth and you try to mirror him, feeling a strange sense of pride when he opens up for you.

He pulls away, holding you in place by the hair at the nape of your neck. “Did you like havin’ me in your mouth?” he asks and his voice is so low you barely recognize it.

“Yes, Mr. Morgan,” you answer, and you also almost don’t recognize your own.

“Oh, you’re somethin’,” he says with a wicked smile, then stands and pulls you with him.

Your legs are trembling and your knees threaten to give way when he kisses you again, pressing his entire body to yours. Just when you think you could spend eternity like this, he closes his arms around your backside and lifts you up, so you don’t have any chance but to sling your legs around his middle. You squeal against his lips, but he just carries you past the campfire toward your bedroll. Beneath your palms, you can feel the muscles in his shoulders and arms flex and tighten with each step. Something in your stomach flutters as you remember he's strong enough to beat a man to death.

Before you know what you’re doing, you’re kissing his jaw and neck, biting down on a tendon that’s jutting out with the effort of keeping you in his arms. When he rumbles deep in his chest, you flick out your tongue to lick across the spot in apology, but he drops you to your feet. You both stand there for a second, looking at each other with heaving chests. His hands come up to grip the neckline of your dress, and he pulls, a tearing sound echoing through the trees. Your torn dress crumbles to the ground around you, exposing your undergarments, and even though your first instinct is to cover up you don’t because he pulls his shirt over his head to expose his naked chest beneath, and that sight is enough to distract you from any embarrassment you might be feeling.

His pants are next, and then he stands before you stark naked. You try to touch his stomach with a trembling hand, but he grabs your wrist and pushes you down to the ground. With precise movements, he pulls off your drawers, taking your shoes with them, then tears open your corset to expose your breasts. Your breath hitches when he cups one in his calloused hand and squeezes, making pleasure spike through your body.

You kiss him again, lean into his touch, and then you discover you can make him tighten his hold on you by licking over his bottom lip. You can make him press his hard length against you by moaning in pleasure. It feels so, so good to have this effect on him, to be able to do that to him without words. Never, in a million years, would you have expected that giving yourself to a man would feel like this, would make heat blossom at the base of your spine, would make you ache between your legs. You shove your fingers into his hair, deepening the kiss, and he sighs against your lips, a sound that makes your knees weak. How can all of this make you feel so good yet fill you with a hunger you don’t know how to satiate?

You run your nails over his scalp, testing to see what other sounds you can elicit from him, when he suddenly shifts both your bodies, pushing you to the ground while caging you in with his body. Your heart hammers in your chest so hard it’s almost painful, but even when your back is uncomfortably pressed against your thin bedroll, you still crane your neck to keep kissing him. God, why can’t you get enough of him?

With a sharp slap against your knee that sends another spike of pleasure through your body, he pushes your legs apart, then draws back to look at you. His lips are red and swollen, and both shadow and light are dancing across his face in quick succession. You reach up to touch his cheek, but he catches your wrist and pins it down next to your head with so much strength it steals the breath from your lungs.

“You’re the prettiest little lady I’ve ever seen,” he mumbles.

You feel your face heat up, but he doesn’t notice how flustered you are. With his free hand, he grabs himself, then lines himself up between your legs. You watch, eyes wide, breathing so fast your head is starting to swim. What comes next is a pressure that is not painful but not quite pleasurable either. And the more it pushes, the more it hurts.

“Stop,” you say, your voice not more than a whisper.

Either he doesn’t hear you or he’s ignoring you, but he continues to push up into you, and now it’s so painful you’ve lost all sense of pleasure entirely.

“Stop,” you try again, bracing your hands against his shoulders, trying to push him off you. He’s too strong for you. “Arthur, stop!” you bellow.

And he hears you. He immediately withdraws, and you scramble to sit up, pulling away from him as best as possible on the small bedroll.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, and the concern in his voice makes you look at him.

“Yes,” you answer, hugging your knees to your chest. You wish you weren’t so naked.

“Have you ever …?” He doesn’t need to finish the question for you to know what he means.

You shake your head.

A deep, red flush creeps up his chest and neck. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t –”

“It’s alright,” you interrupt him, his apology embarrassing rather than harming you. “You didn’t know.”

“The way you were kissin’ me …” He trails off again.

Your ears prick up at the compliment. “It all felt … good,” you stutter. “More than good. It’s just …”

“I can … we can slow down,” he offers. “If you still want …”

You look at him, kneeling before you, his skin glowing orange in the light from the fire. His dick is slowly softening between his legs, goosebumps are covering his arms, but he is showing you all of himself without shame. That bold display of his body makes your blood heat up again, but you hesitate. Touching his naked skin is one thing, giving yourself to him entirely is something you’ve been warned of your entire life. And yet … now that you’ve pushed through the initial shock, you slowly realize your body is demanding to feel him again.

You nod. “Yes. I still … I want you.”

Your cheeks are fever-hot, but the way his eyes light up is worth the embarrassment you feel. Arthur moves toward you, loosening the hold you have on yourself, and you relax, dropping your knees, letting him come even closer. He smirks, his eyes darting to your lips and then back up again before he leans in for a searing kiss, and it feels like the last few minutes didn’t happen at all. Without breaking the kiss, he reaches for your wrist, then slowly guides your hand between your own legs, while you tremble in anticipation. He doesn’t touch you, but when he presses your own fingers against all that heat and wetness, you moan deeply.

Arthur breaks the kiss first. “I want you to play with yourself,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

“I don’t …,” you start, suddenly unsure.

“Yeah, I know.” He kisses your neck. “You’re gonna figure it out though.”

You take a deep breath and nod, and when he captures your lips for another kiss, you move your fingers over yourself in a motion that makes pleasure shoot through your entire body. A shaky pant escapes you and lands on his mouth, turning his lips into a smirk even while he’s kissing you.

“There you go,” he whispers.

You find a rhythm and pace that makes you feel like you’re about to explode but that doesn’t light the final fuse, and he continues to kiss you for a while before drawing back to watch the hand between your thighs. Any shame you could have felt is replaced by pure lust when you see the arousal in his eyes; you shift to open your legs further, and he raises his eyes in surprise. You shift under his searing gaze and moan when you notice his hand closing around the base of his cock.

You’ve never felt like you’re feeling right now, completely in control but also like you’re surrendering yourself to him. It’s so addictive it makes you wonder how people don’t want to feel like this all the time. “It feels so good,” you groan, struggling to get the words out because your teeth are clenched.

“You’re so pretty,” is Arthur’s answer as he moves his hand up and down his length.

You can’t help but believe him. “I love you strong you are,” you return the compliment, and before you can think better of it, you raise your free hand and cup your breast, squeezing your nipple.

His eyes lock onto your chest. “Fuck.” Pleasure shoots through you from the tip of your toes to the top of your head. “You’re such a good girl,” he adds, and it makes your heart flutter so painfully you feel like it’s about to fly out of your chest.

“Say that again,” you demand, not recognizing yourself at all.

Arthur shifts closer until he’s right between your legs, fisting himself eagerly. You can smell the sweat and arousal on him, a scent so overpowering you wish you could bury your nose in his skin and inhale it forever. “My pretty, brave girl,” he says, and when you lower your gaze, too overwhelmed by what his words make you feel, he grips your chin and lifts your head. “Oh no, you’re gonna look at me.” You blink once but don’t lower your head again. “Yeah, that’s it.” He smirks. “Look at you … so eager to please me. You should see yourself right now … goddamn prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

You do lower your gaze then because it feels like too much. Your eyes land on his cock, on the tip that’s glistening wetly, and you lick your lips, remembering the feeling of him in your mouth.

“You want me inside of you, don’t you?” Arthur asks, and you nod. His rough, calloused hand closes around your throat and you can’t help it – you move your own hand faster, a crescendo building in the pit of your stomach. “Use your words, pretty girl. I know you can.”

You swallow hard, knowing he can feel your throat move against his grip. “Yes, I want you inside of me.” Your face doesn’t heat up this time as you realize you’re not only saying that to please him. It’s exactly what you want.

He rewards you with a deep kiss, then mumbles against your lips. “Are you ready?”

You hesitate. “I’m not …”

But Arthur doesn’t let you finish. “Let’s find out together.” He leans back. “Finger yourself.” The way his eyes darken when he says it isn’t lost on you.

You shift and move your hand lower, his eyes fixed to your movements. He has stopped moving, his hand grabbing his cock, holding it between his legs. You feel yourself flutter against your fingers in anticipation at the same time as he licks his lips. And then you push the tip of your finger inside of you, past the initial resistance, deeper and deeper until you can’t go any further.

“Breathe,” he instructs and you exhale sharply. “Did that hurt?”

You shake your head before remembering he likes to hear your voice. “No.”

“How does it feel?” he wants to know.

Carefully, you pull your finger out until only the tip remains inside of you, then you push it back in. “Good,” you manage. “Really good.”

“You’re sweet when you can barely talk,” he says with a smirk and the muscles inside you clamp down on your finger. You moan and close your eyes, unable to keep them open. “You like that, don’t you?” You hear him shift closer. “You like hearing my voice. Bet you’d like me to talk you through it, too.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you feel something building inside you. It’s like a wave that will drown everything out. You lean back further and further until your back connects to the ground, until you can raise your hips to meet your finger, trying to get it as deep inside you as possible.

Then his hand is covering yours and he pushes you to the ground, stilling you. When you open your eyes, you’re met with his, dark with lust, and you’re rewarded with the sight of his chest, flushed so deeply red it looks almost purple. His cock is leaking onto his fingers. “Not yet, sweet girl,” he says in a voice that sounds familiar to the one he uses to calm down his horse. “You’re doing so well, but wait until …”

Arthur removes his hand from yours, but then you feel the tip of his finger right where yours is disappearing inside yourself. You steel yourself for the pain you’re about to feel, but when his finger joins yours, stretching you open, all you feel is pleasure so intense it makes it hard for you to stay conscious.

“Fuck,” you groan, a short outburst, almost like a bark.

“You can say that again.” Arthur’s voice is so husky it’s almost impossible to understand. He cups your hand with his, and then moves the both of you in tandem, pulling back out and pushing back in. You tentatively meet his thrusts by rolling your hips and he growls. “Look at you, spread open just for me.”

You don’t know why his words make you feel like they do, but the muscles between your legs are working hard to keep both your fingers buried as deeply as possible. That earns you a smirk from him and you smile back in return.

“I think you’re ready.” He grips your hand tightly and pulls the both of you out, making you sob. To calm you, he cups your cheek and presses a soft kiss to your lips. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna fill you right back up again.” All you can do is nod.

He positions himself above you, stroking himself a few times, then lining himself up. It’s easier for you to relax this time because you know what to expect, but when he breaches that resisting wall of muscles, you still feel a burn and hiss.

“Shhhh,” he makes and kisses your forehead. “You’re doing so good.”

And then he’s inside of you, stretching you open as much as you can take. His eyes flutter shut and he groans, shifting to adjust himself. “You feel perfect.”

“You’re … you’re big,” you manage, drawing a chuckle from him.

He shifts again, then pulls back out before slamming back into you, making you see stars. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he apologizes immediately.

“No,” you press out through gritted teeth. “Do that again.”

He does, and you grip his arm, burying your nails in his muscle, slinging your other arm around his back. There’s a strange taste in your mouth and you only slowly realize it’s blood from biting down on your bottom lip. He kisses you, licks over the wound, pulls a sharp moan from you. And then he slams into you so hard you scream, clawing at his skin, leaving bloody streaks down his arm and back. The pain only seems to spur him on and when you pant, “Harder,” he doesn’t hesitate.

You clench around his cock in return and he whispers, “I like you like this.” You feel yourself clench again and he groans. “You’re perfect,” he repeats. You kiss his neck, then bite it, until he pushes you back down. “I bet you’ve never had an orgasm before, have you?” You shake your head and he mimics that motion, tapping your bottom lip with his thumb. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“No,” you manage to say, your voice hoarse.

He rocks into you, not as hard and fast as before, but it makes you pant helplessly nonetheless. “Yeah, I thought so,” he mumbles more to himself than to you.

“Please,” you whisper.

He smirks down at you, then shifts his knees ever so slightly to change the angle. Suddenly, he’s brushing against something deep inside of you that makes a sob erupt from deep in your chest.

“Do you even know what you’re asking for?” he teases, but there is a strain in his voice now, as if he’s struggling to hold onto something.

“Please,” you repeat louder, unable to fully grasp the meaning of his question.

Arthur’s thumb is back on your lip and then he pushes it inside your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the tip eagerly, then suck on it, grazing your teeth over his skin. His breathing turns ragged, and the warmth of pride erupts in your chest. With a wet sound, he pulls his thumb out from between your lips and pushes his hand between your bodies until it comes to rest on that small spot you were toying with earlier. You howl and twitch and your whole body erupts. You spill over, you lose sense of where and who you are, you’re shaken by forces beyond your control. All the while, Arthur pounds into you, strokes you inside and out, and you think you hear him say, “That’s it, just let go. You’re so fucking beautiful – just let go.”

As soon as you feel like you can breathe again, he pulls out of you, leaving you aching and empty and cold. Through hooded eyes, you watch as he moves his hand up and down his cock fast until he spills all over his hand and the edge of your bedroll, gaze not directed downwards, but staring at you with insatiable hunger in his eyes. And you return that gaze just as hungrily, wondering what it would feel like to taste his release on your tongue.

Arthur stands unsteadily and retrieves his coat from the other side of the campfire. You feel the cold of the night now and hug your knees to your chest, still trying to make sense of the world. “Now, no more of that,” he says when he gets back, draping his coat over you, the weight of it making your limbs grow soft. He lies down next to you, pressing his front to your back, one arm possessively slung over your chest, the other shoved under your head for you to use as a pillow.

*******

The morning sun is warm on your face as you ride through a slowly thinning forest. The plains and your destination cannot be far from here. Your thoughts are though; they’re still somewhere behind you, stuck at a campfire, busy chasing the feeling of the man next to you between your legs.

When you reach a fork in the path, you stop your horse and look off to your right, back into the forest and the mountains. “What’s back there?” you ask.

Arthur stops his horse next to yours and looks down the path. “Never been over that way,” he answers.

“Do you want to find out?” Your voice is firm, but you don’t look at Arthur.

He’s quiet at first. “Your father –”

“– already paid you,” you finish the sentence.

Arthur nods. “Alright,” he says, then looks back at the path you just put behind you, then off to your right again. “Let’s find out what’s over there.”

***

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #embers

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pinkrelish · 1 year

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲.

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶When Eddie gets a call at work telling him Adrie is sick, he rushes to pick her up from school, accidentally leaving his black notebook behind. Being you, you find the means to return it to him. But while at his trailer, you ask him the question he's been avoiding for months.

"Let's get down to those rumors, hm?"✶

NSFW — strong tw for a dark conversation surrounding eddie's past (accusations of murder, rape), heavy angst, comfort, drug/alcohol mention/use, slow burn, fluff, flirting, 18+ overall for eventual smut

chapter: 8/20 [wc: 14.1k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11 / 12

AO3

Chapter 8: The Munson Name

Leave it to Eddie to make your day special not two minutes into work.

Upon entering the garage, the back door was ajar as usual, but instead of phantom wisps of smoke swimming in the sunshaft, a shadow moved, and Eddie’s arm curled around to knock on the aluminum siding for your attention. His chain bracelet clinked from the motion, and his rings caught the light as he gestured for you to come over.

You peeked through the opening and saw him standing against the wall, but his morning smile wasn’t aimed at you, it was elsewhere, off to the side. You wrapped your fingers around the doorknob, and followed where he was looking.

A bright red cardinal sat perched on the round side mirror of Eddie’s car, chirping and hopping while fluttering its wings, spinning around in search of something, and after several twittering singsongs, it flew away.

“That was precious,” you whispered, breath fogging in awe.

“I’m glad you got to see him before he took off.” Eddie grabbed the door from you and pushed you both inside, shaking his arms in an intense shiver, and shrugging his jacket up around his neck while he hugged his hands around himself in his pockets. “Uhm..”

The goofy smile he wore was mutual, as was the dear silence. The energy between you had changed; it was charged with a new development in your relationship. One that did not need to be articulated in words. It was there, in his well-rested eyes owning a playful gleam when you looked at him, and his need to rock from foot to foot in a measured sway, like a subconscious impulse to recreate that beautiful night.

Then, he cleared his throat. You averted your gaze to the floor.

“You, uh, you said it was one gift,” he recalled with an audible wince squeezing the oxygen from his sentence.

Unsure on how best to approach you buying his daughter a generous amount of presents, and hearing the impassive edge to his voice, you shut one eye and opted for a joke, “It was one gift.. bag.”

“It was too much.”

Your demeanor sagged. “Oh.”

“No, no! Not in the bad way–No.”

You perked up. “Oh?”

A soft laugh poured from the snuggly place he had his chin tucked behind the tan canvas. He dropped his shoulders, and drove his weight forward into jaunty little steps towards you, closing the gap between your bodies. There were affectionate nuances to his fond expression when he corrected himself, “Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound that way. The gifts were great. Like, real home runs. Uhm, she loved them, and they were really thoughtful. Just.. really sweet of you.” Immersing himself in the steady eye contact you were both proud to uphold, he licked his lips, and raised his eyebrows. “You’re so sweet, in fact, it’s piling onto that thank you I owe you at a ridiculous rate.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I just like doing things for you and Adrie. Besides, I live rent free in a tiny town with an abysmal lack of nighttime entertainment for me to waste my money on, so I figured why not spoil my favorite four-year-old.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know I don’t owe you, but” –he moved his hand around in his pocket– “I’m gonna figure out a way to repay you. Do something nice for you. Something big. Until then, your favorite almost-five-year-old made you this.”

He presented his palm to you. Cradled in it was a bracelet made of plastic beads in an assortment of colors, some shaped as stars, some with glitter, and at the middle was a name arranged in white blocks with black lettering. M-O-U-S-E.

“I had to help her spell it,” he said, tugging up his sleeve, “but it matches mine.” D-A-D-D-Y.

There was no masking the effect the bracelet had on you; breath hitched on a raw noise, chest falling on the exhale, muscles tensed on the cusp of a bigger reaction–but you tamped down the wealth of feeling wanted, and spoke beyond the heaviness in your heart, through the strain in your throat, and behind the blurriness of tears, “A true Adrie Original. I love it, tell her thank you for me.”

You slid the elastic band over your trembling left hand. He wore his on his right.

Eddie leaned in to get a better look at you, and the amusement in his face was replaced by genuine surprise. “Are you crying?”

You crossed your arms over your chest and gripped your shoulders, laughing, smiling through the embarrassment of being caught. “Maybe! It’s–It’s really sweet.”

“I’m gonna tell her you cried!”

“Don’t!” you yelped, running away from his evil fingers advancing towards your ribs.

“But it’s cute!”

“Stop chasing me!”

Luckily for you, refuge was on the other side of the glass door you managed to lock before he could grab the handle. You guarded your safe space with a glare. He pouted, and said something. You cupped your ear. He grew more passionate, flapping his lips at a rapid rate and putting his hands up in a prayer, but you couldn’t hear what he was saying. You shouted you’d only let him in if he apologized for making fun of you. “I’m sorry.” The sincerity was lost on his smirk, but you gave in so you could make coffee and get to work, and so he could get said coffee and take your pen cup and put it just out of reach on the ledge of your desk while on his way out to the garage.

And unluckily for you, the first thing on your to-do list after the break was checking the flashing buttons on the phone. You picked up the receiver, pressed the playback for messages, and listened with a pen hovered over your new set of index cards.

The first one began with a startled, “U-uhm, right.”

The second one began with a confused laugh.

The third was a long pause before telling someone else in the room they’d try again later.

Dread pooled in your stomach. The recording button. The fucking recording button for an outgoing message taunted you. Faded yellow, and ugly.

With a clenched jaw, you prepared your racing heart, and pressed it. And oh God. You covered your eyes, more and more mortified as it played.

“We’re currently closed for the Holidays, and will open at 8AM, Mon–” Raspberry. “You! Why! That one was perfect. God, you are so–freaking–annoying. I swear. Obnoxious little..”

————

Standing at a respectable distance from where Eddie sat at the breakroom table with his notebook, you held up three calendars for the new year. “I’m replacing the one in the garage. Which do you want? Mythical Creatures drawn by Eric Carle, Coca Cola, or hot chicks posing on sports cars?”

He dropped his head back, and tipped his chair to balance on its rear legs. His bangs fell, showing his wrinkled forehead as he looked at you upside down. “Interesting options,” he commented.

“The mall didn’t have much left.” A lie. The calendar kiosk at the mall was stocked to the brim, you just had a hunch Eddie would go for one in particular.

“Does the mythical creature one have a dragon for a month?”

“Yes,” you said without checking.

“I’ll take that one, then.”

Predictable.

“Cool, I’ll give Mr. Moore the hot chicks, and I’ll take the Coke for me.” Speaking of–the front desk phone was ringing, and it was in your job description to answer it, you supposed.

You left him to get back to his writing, and put the receiver to your ear. The voice on the other end was politely stressed in the customer-friendly way. You left it in the cradle on hold, and called down the hallway, “Hey, Eddie, it’s Adrie’s school calling for you. I’m sure–” Stumbling out of his way, his jacket softened the blow of his shoulder knocking into you. He reached his hand back in an apologetic gesture, but his focus manifested in the flash of panic crossing his pale face. “I’m sure she’s fine,” you finished sympathetically.

He answered the woman on the line, and you waited along the wall, eyeing the scuff marks around the floorboards you should probably buff off at some point, and after his short conversation, he hung up.

“Adrie’s sick,” he said quickly, patting down his jacket. “Wayne’s not answering the phone, so I gotta go pick her up, and uh, I–” He pivoted in a circle, glancing around, fumbling for his keys in his pocket. “I–I’m sorry. She needs me.”

You drew your eyebrows in, and waved him off. “Yeah, it’s okay. You can leave. I’ll clock you out and let Carl know when he’s back from lunch.”

“Thank you,” he said in breathless earnest, leaving so quickly his boots left black streaks on the tile.

~~~

Lunch came and went. Carl came and went. The end of the hour posted under the CLOSED sign came and went. Eddie had yet to call the shop to update you, which was fine and dandy (aside from your anxiety over whether or not Adrie was okay), but in his rush, he left behind something important..

His black notebook with the devil-horned skull laid in the middle of the table like an ominous item from a horror movie.

And much like the horror movies, you as the final girl should leave it alone, right? Just.. walk away, and forget about it, and leave it for him to pick it up tomorrow, or whenever he’s able to come back to work..

But.

You were worried about Adrie, and when you went to the garage to replace the trash can liners, you saw his rings still on the black tray near the tool cabinet. Now, it’s not like he needed those either, however, what if you just.. returned them for him? And the notebook fell open while you were at it?

It was wrong. Everything about what you were doing was all so very, very wrong. Going inside Mr. Moore’s office and flipping the lightswitch, making your way to his desk in an innocent saunter, and–oops!–kneeling down to pick up a stray pen, and if the bottom drawer happened to be opened, and the plastic folder with the employee’s details from when he hired them was inside, who could blame you for taking the quickest, tiniest glance before closing it?

Yours was in there, of course, along with–

“Edward Munson,” you snorted. “Dorky name.” Duh his full name was Edward, but it was still funny to see.

You read over the top of the file where his address and phone number were. Thankfully, from your various car rides with Robin, you recognized the street name, placing it in your memories as the rusted sign next to the Forest Hills Trailer Park entrance.

The phone number you imprinted into your brain as a recreational activity, and put the folder away.

Closing the door behind you with a hefty jingle of heavy rings in your pocket, you approached the notebook, and gave it a pitied sigh. Having committed many sins in the past minute alone, you figured why not. You didn’t even feel shame opening the stupid thing after months of being teased by it. Besides, what’s the worst he could be hiding in it? It couldn’t be that embarrassing, right?

..Right?

“Okay, can honestly say I was not expecting a big tittied bird lady.” The drawing wasn’t overly detailed, but the artistry was above average. Small details etched the feathers covering her avian legs, and a gleam shone on her talons coming to a sharp point, posed to attack with milky white irises. Above her was Eddie’s stylized font: HARPY, with abbreviations and numbers in a column. His rushed handwriting filled the rest of the page. Reading it over, it appeared you opened to the middle of a story.

Thumbing through, you encountered your first dog-eared page.

IF CHEST IS CHOSEN, GO B

IF DOOR - ROLL FROM INDEX CHART POISON

Absolutely lost, you did see a box labeled B further down with a short bullet point list of what would happen, and more options to choose from on the next dog-eared section.

Flipping deeper towards the back, it was pages and pages of his handwriting. Names of characters fighting dragons. Fantasy towns housing creatures you’d never heard of. Countries with too many syllables and apostrophes. Whatever it was, you were more than happy to hop on your bike and ride it over to the trailer park, only second guessing your sense of direction three times, and releasing a grateful, “Thank God,” when you spotted it up ahead.

The place had an eeriness to it despite the slanted beams of afternoon sun gracing it in gold. Homes were tarnished with dents and algae staining the outside. Trailers slumped on their cinderblocks, buckling under the weight. RVs had permanent brush growing under their parking spots. A child’s scream echoed around the tree-less lot, but you couldn’t see them through the orderless blockade of dilapidated residences and abandoned cars. People watched you: glancing out their windows, or gathered around a charcoal barbeque. Curious eyes followed your trail down the main road. Bumping your bike around potholes, avoiding tetanus ridden nails and petrified clothes molded to the ground as if they’d been there for years.

Dogs walked their fences as you passed.

You were beginning to have some regrets when a beacon welcomed you. After a curve, an old van parked out front of a blue and white trailer came into view, but more importantly, dwarfed next to the Chevy behemoth, was a black car you’d recognize the red interior of anywhere.

The heat of parent’s concerned stares burned into the back of your neck as you rode up to the concrete stairs, leaned your bike against the metal handrail, and approached your fate.

Even though you were absolutely sure this was the correct address, you knocked with as much confidence as a dormouse. Any harder and the sound of your knuckles striking the aluminum would’ve been too loud in the creepy-quiet trailer park.

No answer.

You knocked again. Harder. Louder.

There was movement inside. Footsteps. A muffled voice. Your heart leapt. In your throat. Closer. Closer. This was so stupid. This was a mistake. This was a bad idea. The excuse in your mouth was weak, and you were about to embarrass yourself in front of your coworker by surprising him at his house, which you only knew where to find because you were snooping, and there was no amount of explaining that would help you out of your spot in hell–

Eddie swung open the door, and his heavy-browed, distrustful, annoyed, apprehensive, suspicious glare jumped to wide-eyed shock.

Your cheeks went hot.

“Nope!”

You winced at the slam, but nothing–no God’s will, no Devil’s agreement–would convince you to blink at the shuttered window where he once stood. No. No, no, no. No, never. Never would you want the searing glimpse at Eddie’s naked chest out of your sight before it was engraved into every second of every day of every night of every dream for the rest of your years.

In some part of your mind, you knew your gazes connected long enough to see the blood drain from his face, but your attention was soon urged downward, to the overwhelming amount of skin.

His hair was tied back, exposing a poetry of shadows. Hollow of his throat, to his clavicle, to the swell of his shoulders. Biceps twitching under a prominent vein when he caught himself on the trailer’s frame, and gripped the door handle. Muscles straining with fear, then soft with relief, then strong with fear again when he realized it was you who caught him in this shirtless state, discovering the beautiful line between his pecs when he flexed. Witnessing the fine wisps of softly auburn hair on his chest, juxtaposed to the wiry dark curls creating a blessed trail to the top of his sweatpants. Drooling over the eclectic collection of tattoos sporadically placed over his body. Too many to decipher in the brief encounter, aside from the dragon crawling up a sword etched into the subtle planes of his abs and curving around his slight stomach, with the blade ending at his waistband–a full picture of the tattoo you spied at the grocery store when he stretched his arms above his head.

The door creaked open again, and you’d yet to recover. But thinly obscured in the darkness of his home, he was visibly flustered as well.

Eddie hunched over, struggling to get the zipper of his tan jacket up, tugging it harshly, grinding the metal teeth in his anxious fight to cover his chest; and when it was snug to the splotchy kiss of pink on his neck, he squinted at you. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, voice gone hoarse from his dry mouth.

Knees locked, and oh so staring him directly in the eyes, you took the black notebook from under your arm (not remembering when you tucked it there), and showed it to him. “You left this at work.”

He took it from you slowly without a thanks.

“And, uh,” you continued, gathering the clinking jewelry in your jacket. “These too.” You dropped them into his cupped palm, brushing your pinky over a scratchy callus, experiencing the zing of intimacy of skin on skin.

And he felt it too, with how he curled his fingers in to seal the fleeting sensation.

Pocketing his rings, he stood meek in his doorway. The pain of expecting someone different to be knocking at his trailer had dwindled, but the tension was there in between his eyebrows, weighing on the slope of his gentle frown, painting brilliant highlights on the long line of his nose in the blazing dayglow threatening to invade his home.

The dull brown of his eyes glinted aside the honey as his mouth hung slightly open, tip of his tongue curled against the pearly dam of his teeth. The lined pages of the well worn notebook fanned out, flopping in his grip. “Did you read what was in here?”

Shifting your gaze to the sharp edge of the tin roof decorated in elaborate dangly fish hooks, you clasped your hands behind your back in a cute way, and delivered the answer he awaited with an inflection like it was a question, “No..?”

“For an actress, you’re bad at lying.”

“Or I’m being obvious on purpose so you tell me what it is.”

Working his jaw back and forth, he bided his time, each grind a consideration at his options in regards to how vulnerable he should be, and if this would be the final nail in the corroded coffin where you’d realize what a giant loser he was. “It’s..” You leaned towards him in interest, and he looked away. “It’s notes and stuff for Dungeons and Dragons,” he admitted in a mumble.

“Nerd! Nerd!” You jumped up and down, pointing, shouting, “I knew it! You’re a nerd!”

Twisting his mouth in a sarcastic sneer at your childishness, he snatched the side of the door and began shutting you out. “Okay, okay. I get it. See why I didn’t want to tell you?”

“Eddie, Eddie, Eddie,” you exhaled, switching on a dime from your teasing to a serious tone. You caught the door, and pleaded for him to stop being an idiot, “I knew you were a dweeb when you held me hostage for an entire thirteen minute lecture about your song lyrics. The Dungeons and Dragons shit is the third least surprising thing you’ve ever told me.” You clasped your hand over your heart. “Truly.”

“What’s the second?”

“Your music tastes.”

“And the first?” he asked, despite his better judgment.

“That you’re single.”

He announced his displeasure in a deadpan expression. “And I’m beginning to see why you are, too–” All of him went rigid, withdrawing slightly into the trailer with his head lowered, ear angled towards the right of him, listening as his gaze went unfocused.

After a few seconds, his lungs reawakened with a relieved breath. “Just coughing,” he said to himself. Dragging his attention back to you, he gestured weakly at his jacket to indicate his lack of clothing, still embarrassed at the situation. “Adrie, uh.. She puked on me earlier. That’s why I wasn’t–uhm–dressed.”

Worry edged its way into your question, “Is she okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s fine. Kids get sick from daycare all the time. Basically just sentient germs running around, licking their hands after touching everything.”

Your eyebrows ticked up at the memory of the awful Dayquil hangovers following the weekends you worked as a clown for children’s birthday parties.

You asked, “And what about Wayne?”

“Hm? Oh.” Recognition, and the ease of a casual conversation overtook the near-permanent anticipatory hardness to his features, softening his bristly nature around you; finding you comforting when he was in the place where he was supposed to feel safest, but didn’t.

Home wasn’t home for Eddie Munson, and you felt that icy statement behind your ribs as you watched him pat his pocket as a way to check his rings were there for reassurance, acutely aware there was an hostile world at your back, and you chose to only see each other.

There was a tender innocence to his lip crooking up in a lopsided grin as he remembered you asked him a question. “Typical old man. Wayne was outside and didn’t hear the phone ring, that’s why he didn’t answer. He’s at work now, though.”

“Mm,” you hummed. “Do you have soup?”

“Soup?”

“For Adrie,” you clarified.

He glanced over his shoulder, assumingly at the kitchen, and after some mental deduction, he shrugged in vague nonchalance. “Yeah, there’s probably soup for her.” As if you didn’t know him well enough at this point to read past the nervous habits weaving their way into his fidgety unsureness.

You backed down the stairs as you spoke, “Okay. Well then, guess I’ll get going since you have everything on lock down here. Got your sick kid, got your soup, got your notebook, and your uncle’s at work. Sounds like everything’s in order.” Hopping off the last step, you swung around the handrail and guided your bike to the road, beaming. “See ya!”

“Yeah, see ya,” he replied, settling into his usual side-ways glance around the trailer park, challenging the gawkers who watched a girl willingly walk up to his home and leave it smiling. They did not dare to say anything, of course; returning to their lives with sealed lips, pretending to pay him no mind. Just how it should be.

He held his chin high.

————

And when Eddie next answered the door, it was in the low blue hue of a setted sun, and he did so in his black jeans and a white tank top. His unzipped work jacket swayed prettily around his torso, low bun at his nape loosened to a mess, short curls in a frizz over his ears, and cheeks flushed. “I figured you’d be back,” he forced out evenly, doing his best to disguise his panting breaths.

You hugged the brown paper grocery bags to your chin, and grinned.

He stuck his foot behind him in an awkward curtsy, and swept his arm for you to enter.

Walking into his place for the first time there were many things to comprehend, absorb, fawn over, and ask about until he was tired of explaining their origins–and since you were already crossing an entire notebook’s worth of lines today, you inquired about the most obvious. “You, uh, like collecting hats and mugs?”

“They’re Wayne’s,” he grunted, unplugging the vacuum he left in the middle of the living room by yanking the cord out of the wall, and dragging it on his way to the hallway closet where he kicked and shoved things aside to make room, rattling the thin door that definitely had been punched through at one point, patched and painted over, and was now a canvas for crayon squiggles along the bottom. “Before he worked at the power plant, he was a trucker. Collected them at every rest stop in every state, that sorta thing.”

“Ah.”

In a quick spin, he surveyed the rest of the trailer, and made a similar “ah” sound when he saw the cleaning products and balled up paper towels on the tiny table squeezed against the wall. He lunged for them, stuffing the evidence and other garbage into the overflowing trash can. “I still keep up the tradition by getting him a mug for Christmas.” Jerking his chin at the shelf above him, he specified the one on the end. “This year was Looney Tunes.”

“How cute.” The bags crinkled in your arms as you stood in the entryway, nodding expectantly.

“Shit–Sorry.”

You smiled. He finished clearing a space on the wrap-around kitchen counter for you to set the groceries down, scooting a candle out of the way, flickering the flame he may have burnt himself on while lighting, if the red mark on his thumb was anything to go by. And he was back to pivoting, scanning the area, desperate to latch onto the object which would jog his memory on where he was in his cleaning: dishes dripped in the drying rack, Wayne’s grilled cheese endeavor was out of sight, the bathroom radiated the nose-burning scent of bleach.

He snapped his fingers at the overflowing trash can, and almost slipped in his frenzy to tie up the bag and rush for his boots, saying he’ll be right back on his way out, leaping down the stairs.

“Alrighty..”

The steady rumble of a washing machine rattled every loose bit of metal in the museum of belongings.

You waged war with your tennis shoes, wiggling out of them with the laces still tied, and stepped off the carpet dividing the trailer in half. The bubbling vinyl kitchen floor stuck to your socks, still damp from being mopped, and heaved the groceries onto the pale blue countertop, sliding them across decades worth of scratches scarring the material. Once you were sure you could let them go without a toppling situation, you took the goods out one at a time, but your attention was nosy and undivided.

Acting as foreground to the walls of hats and mugs was the rest of Eddie’s life. Laundry baskets occupied a couch with flattened cushions. A coffee table supported stacks of his daughter’s playthings after picking them out of the vacuum’s path. There was a fold out bed in the corner, and a modest TV situated on top of a VCR. To compensate for the lack of overhead light was an abundance of mismatched lamps on each surface.

It was a hodge podge, and it was cramped, and it was incomprehensible, and it was his house.

Turning, you began to guess at which cabinets he would store a bag of rice when you spotted the artwork hanging on the fridge.

Pinned under a teddy bear magnet was a decoupaged version of your Thanksgiving turkeys, cut out and glued to a single piece of construction paper, complete with the castle in the background. And secured safely under a smiley face magnet was a stick figure drawing of two people–one in a pink dress, one in all black scribble–and dated in neat ink by someone with less messy handwriting: 5/7/92.

Eddie came back to your wide grin, and two cans of baked beans held up in a question.

“They go over here,” he said, nodding at the skinny door next to where he stood at the small green table set for three chairs, organizing today’s mail in his hand.

You opened the pantry next to the recessed oven, and stacked the rest of the cans inside. Towards the back there were two white cereal boxes with plain blue text and nothing else, leaving you to deduce no one in his family stooped to eating unsweetened cornflakes even if that’s all they had. Meanwhile, he arranged overdue bills into a ladder style letter holder hung on the wall beside the phone, periodically taking one out and placing it down a rung, ordering them from most to least important.

“I was supposed to go grocery shopping yesterday, but I had to buy and install a new hot water heater,” he told you suddenly. Whether he was saying this because he was coasting on the fumes of his Christmas bonus until December’s child support arrived, or because he was simply too busy to go shopping, neither of you addressed it more than necessary. He accepted your help, and you didn’t pry.

“Unexpected shit sucks, huh?” you added for his benefit.

“Yeah,” he huffed in a short laugh, playing the same game.

And it was him who rested his forearms on the edge of the pale blue wrap-around counter, watching you commit good deed after good deed, guessing where groceries went in the cabinets, acclimating to his kitchen’s set up, and making room for a bag of grapes and three apples between his six pack of Pabst and block of Government cheese.

“Can I ask you kind of a weird question?”

You brightened at his voice, teetering on the edge of a smile just from that alone. “Always.”

He drew absent-minded circles with his finger as he tried to find the best way to word something he wondered about since the week you met. “When you saw Adrie for the first time, you had this really, uh, surprised look on your face.. Why was that?”

Your tone was dismissive in the wake of something that appeared to haunt him, “Oh, that?” You folded down the empty paper bags, and placed them on top of the fridge after he said Adrie would use them for arts and crafts. “Well, it’s like, Mr. Moore has dozens of pictures of his family on his desk, and Carl told me–approximately–ten different stories about his sons an hour after meeting him, and Kevin carries pictures of his dogs in his wallet. It just seemed like if you had a daughter, you would’ve shown me a picture too, like most dads.” You waved your hands around, and contorted your mouth in a silly manner. “I mean, it was just weird you never mentioned her.”

He took your assessment to heart, and opened the drawer closest to him. Amongst the clutter of junk was his black wallet resting on a coiled chain with clips on either end. Taking out the cheap leather, he cradled the width in his palm, and wiggled out a picture kept sealed behind a plastic window. He said, “Actually, I do carry a picture of her,” and handed it to you.

On instinct, you pored over the image of him first, prizing the crown of his head sporting the same wild haircut. He had his face tipped down to the newborn wrapped in a pink blanket in his arms, crooking her in their safety as he held a bottle to her lips. His knees were on display behind his ripped black jeans. His shirt was sleeveless. She was tiny and precious. He was decidedly emotionless from what you could see, sat on a couch that was not the same as the one across the room from you.

“That was taken at Harrington’s place,” he answered your unstated question, keen to the recognition washing over your face as you placed it as Nancy’s ugly pink floral loveseat.

You gave it back to him.

He looked over the captured moment in time, bleak gaze set on his little girl when she was so fragile, and small, and when he was so weak, and teetering on a long overdue breakdown.

“It took me a long time to carry this around,” he said, tone heavy with disappointment, regret, and shame. “Wayne and I were fighting constantly. And I mean, I don’t blame him. He gave up his life to take care of me when I was twelve, and I put so many gray hairs on his head that he went bald from my bullshit, and then there I was, bringing home a screaming infant I didn’t know the first thing about taking care of. Y’know, just proving I was a fuck-up right when he thought I was smart enough to get my act together.“ Tracing the sharp edge of the photo trimmed to fit his wallet, he placed it in its windowed slot and tossed it back in the drawer, closing the past from his sight. “I don’t have a lot of good memories from that time. Shit fucking sucked.”

“I can imagine,” was all you could say.

“I love her,” he said in the event you doubted him.

“I know you do,” you offered in return.

Steering the conversation in a different direction, you swung your index fingers at the extensive cabinetry, and asked, “Where’s a cutting board?” Right of the sink, he answered. “And a knife?” Top drawer next to your hip, he responded. But it took until you shook out the washed celery stalk, and snapped the ribs off, lining them up on the white plastic cutting board did he become suspicious.

He leaned more of his weight on his forearms, and kept his tone carefully neutral, “What’re you doing?”

Keeping your expression indifferent aside from your arched brows, you cut the celery into manageable sticks and began slicing them lengthways. “I believe I’m in Edward Munson’s trailer making him and his daughter soup.”

The crimson guitar pick at the end of his necklace swung forward, jostled from where it was stuck to the healthy sheen of sweat glistening along the top of his chest. “How do you know my full name?”

“A little birdie told me.”

He shifted his shoulders, head lowered, eyes narrowed, voice deep, “Better question. How do you know where I live?”

“A bigger birdie told me.”

“Someone told you about me?”

Rightfully confused, you pulled a face. “Huh? No. I was kidding. No one talks to me. Anyway, back to the soup.” You harnessed all your charm into impressing him by meeting his stare while you diced the celery, using your knuckles as guidance. “Are there any vegetables she won’t eat? Or stuff she’s allergic to?” Your flagrant insolence irked him: reading his notebook, inviting yourself to his residence, filling the voids in his kitchen with groceries, and now making him soup without ever asking if he wanted you to do those things.

Because of course he wanted you to do those things.

He surrendered to your kindness. “No allergies, and she’ll eat anything as long as it’s diced small–Yeah, like that–and cooked down to mush. It’s the one thing she’s always been good about.”

“And you?”

It took a few sad seconds for him to understand you were asking about his allergies and his preferences, not used to his needs being taken into consideration. “No, no, whatever you make is good. Uhm. Hey, you don’t have to do all of this. Don’t roll your eyes, I’m being serious. Adrie’s sick and I don’t want you to catch what she has.”

“Please,” you implored in thick sarcasm, “I’ve been coughed on by every disease known to man on the Q train. There’s not a cold or flu in existence I haven’t succumbed to. I’m immune at this point.”

You found a stock pot from the cabinet at the junction of the wrap-around counter and the sink, and set it on the cooktop to come to heat while you peeled and chopped an onion. Eddie dwelled in his observations; listening to you recount tales of working in kitchens because they were always hiring, collecting horror stories from being a dishwasher, a waitress, a morning food prepper; moving from title to title; birthday clown, bartender, craft store cashier. Flighty, flighty, flighty. He watched your hands move in quick chops and long sweeps down a carrot with skill he didn’t have the patience nor time to learn. He told you as much, how when he comes home he’s fucking tired, and doesn’t have the energy to make dinner.

“Now what’re you doing, sweetheart?” he asked in what he hoped was an exhausted tone, but he knew it was futile. The timidness was there, sneaking its way into his words when he made the leap to calling you an endearment in his own home. And how could he not when you pulled out a stack of tupperware, divided the piles of chopped vegetables between them, and wedged them into the freezer, still tending to the sweating mirepoix with a wooden spoon.

“It’s so next time you want soup they’re all ready to go. You don’t have to waste time cutting vegetables. Just dump a container in a pot and add broth and noodles, and call it a night.”

He made a fond noise in the back of his throat, looking at you through his lashes. “You’re really doing everything in your power to extort me for this ‘thank you’ I owe you, aren’t you?”

“You’re the one who promised me something good,” you reminded him.

Water splashed, sputtered in the pot, steaming into a cloud of savory humidity, filling the living space with earthy aromatics. You added bouillon cubes, and stirred the stock together while turning the dial on high to bring the soup to a boil.

“Yeah, guess I did,” he said, petering out into a mumble, straying further from the current topic. He wasn’t finished talking about the previous one yet, and he made it known.

Tracing his thumb along his plump bottom lip, he tested a boundary, tiptoeing into a realm he did his best to ignore. “So, uh, you employ the same strategy with jobs as you do dating, huh?”

“Oh, yeah,” you grinned. “Having an endless well of stories about shitty customers to pull from is perfect for stand up. Everyone loves the perpetually single girl who works in service or retail, and just can’t seem to find the love of her life, despite going on an insane amount of first dates with New York’s most average. It’s funny, and relatable.”

“And now you’re stuck as a boring receptionist in a nowhere town in a nowhere state.”

You released a sugary, syrupy, sweet giggle. “And now I’m stuck as a boring receptionist in a nowhere town in a nowhere state, and it’s the longest job I’ve ever held.”

His eyelashes fluttered from the nerves–the strong ache in his chest pressing down on him, stealing his breath. “And what about the dates? Gone on any with Hawkins’ finest?”

“Just one.” Though your back was to him while you washed and dried the cutting board, your smile was outlined in your banter. “But it was awful,” you emphasized in a dramatic sigh. “Worst date ever. He drank my Icee, wouldn’t stop talking during the movie, and, get this! He didn’t even tell me I was pretty. Not once.”

“What a jerk,” he agreed fullheartedly, scrunching his nose and twisting a curl of his hair over his stupidly smitten grin. “Sounds like a real asshole.”

“Actually, he was my favorite,” you corrected him, turning down the dial to where the coils lost their fluorescent glow. “Huge, huge nerd. Like, the biggest dork ever, but he was definitely my favorite out of any of my dates.” On your way to the green table, you bent close to his ear, and begged him in a whisper, “But don’t tell him I said that. He’ll get a real big ego about it.”

He made a zipping motion over his mouth.

“Soups gotta simmer until the potatoes are done. Might as well sit.”

He unzipped his mouth. “When did you cut up potatoes?”

“When you were staring at me all dreamy-like,” you supplied, words dipped in coy and flirt.

Undecided on which way to balk at your claim, he did them all: rolled his eyes, clicked his tongue, muttered a small “was not,” and slung himself into his usual chair at the table. He expected you to do the same, to match his silly theatrics with your own impassioned eye roll and smirk, but you didn’t. You sat across from him, poised, hands clasped together with the black notebook beside you.

The mood of the evening dipped visibly in your serious gaze set on him.

You tapped your knuckle on the metal spirals binding the worn pages of his latest campaign together. “No more secrets,” you punctuated. Three short words let go on an exhale. Three little words standing taller than the final barrier he built to keep others out. Not an ask, but a necessity if you were going to continue your relationship–platonic or not.

Your posture and expression were stern, but gentled by patience. “Let’s get to those rumors, hm.”

It was time.

No going back.

Whatever happens, happens.

Eddie took a shaky breath, and invited you over to the vulnerable truth. “Has anyone ever told you anything about me? Not like Harrington’s stories, but actual rumors?”

You shook your head. Between spending most of your time at work, or at Robin’s place, you didn’t have much opportunity to speak to random people, apart from small talk. And chit chatting about the weather was nowhere near as grave as what rooted itself in the solemn slow blink wherein he closed his eyes, and dipped his head.

“I’ll tell you everything, but can I ask you not to say anything while I explain?” he hesitated, knowing how it sounded. “I don’t know how else to word that to make it less rude, but this shit is difficult for me to talk about, and I’ll probably ramble, and go on tangents, and jump around the timeline, but, please, don’t interrupt me or say anything until I’m finished, okay? I don’t want to forget any of the details, and have to discuss this again. Can we do that?”

Digging your thumbnails harder into the flesh of your fingers, you agreed to the terms with a solid nod.

He swallowed. And when his tongue remained too thick in his dry mouth, he swallowed again, and sat up straight, pressing his back into the chair. “Okay.”

Two anxious stomachs twisted at once.

He cast his vacant stare around the room; never allowing it to land on you. This conversation was with himself and the green table and the shelf of mugs and the soup bubbling away on the stove and the washing machine entering its spinning cycle and the containers of Play-Doh on the coffee table; speaking to the non-judgemental objects instead of the person across from him.

“I’ll start with my reputation in school,” he said. “Probably doesn’t take much of an imagination to picture me as I am now with the same hobbies and opinions, just a lot louder about them. Heavy metal was the only music I listened to, and people called me weird for it. And I thought ‘weird?’ Was that supposed to bother me? I loved being weird! I wore the title ‘weird’ with pride. I didn’t want to be like everyone else. And when they saw I played Dungeons and Dragons, they called me a Satanist. Satanist? Like Ozzy, and all the bands I looked up to? Hell yeah! I thought being called a Satanist was so cool I sewed a Leviathan Cross on my jacket.” The corner of his lip jumped at a memory, smiling at something from long ago. Then, it faded. “Goes without saying I didn’t make many friends until I found other outcasts who shared those same views as me. We started a band together, and after some convincing, we made a DND club with me as the Dungeon Master. Of course people called me a cult leader for it, but being a cult leader sounded fucking awesome, so I encouraged it. Antagonized it. Weird, Devil-worshiper, cultist, freak. I wore them all like armor.”

He paused to crack his knuckles, expression falling blank as suppressed scenes unfolded in his head. “I got bullied a lot. Not that surprising. I was so aggressively opinionated about everything and never shut up. But the worst of it stopped when I got held back enough grades that I made “grown-up friends” and started dealing to help pay for my guitars and stuff.” He shrugged a single shoulder in apathy, and the tan jacket slipped down his arm, revealing a faded stick-and-poke viper above his armpit. “Unless it was Steve or someone in that friend circle, I was never invited to parties except to bring drugs. Weed, pills, whatever low scale stuff, nothing that serious, but I wasn’t very popular outside of that context.” The washing machine buzzed at the end of its cycle. “And as much as I told myself I didn’t care, I did. I did care when my friends were out on dates with their girlfriends, and I was alone, stuck in front of a record player learning a song just to give myself something to do, and something to say I did over the weekend when they all talked about the movie they saw together.. Made me feel like I was the outcast even amongst the outcasts.”

Listening, but not responding, you smoothed your thumbs over the divots in your skin your nails left behind.

Swallowing again, he faltered, “Girls didn’t like me. Even if I was the cooler, older guy who was so confident in everything he did, I was still off-putting. Or just weird in the bad way, because I didn’t know how to act, and came on too strong, or too–I don’t know–fucking dorky, doing shit like opening doors and bowing for them, laughing too loud at my own jokes when they didn’t find them funny.” It took everything you had to not to break your promise–to stay silent, and indifferent, and not gather him into a hug and assure him all those goofy mannerisms were exactly why you liked him. “I dated, y’know.. Had girlfriends here and there, but they never lasted more than a month.”

To close one chapter of his life and open another, he rubbed at his eyes, and ran a hand down his face, scrubbing over his chin as he spoke to the ceiling, “Now onto my old man.”

The hand he used to wipe the loneliness from his somber visage came to a rest on the edge of the table, and he ran the side of his palm along it as a way to fidget.

“He was in and out of jail for a number of things my whole life, but when I was twelve, he murdered someone. She was a nice lady. Well known in town, and well liked. Popular. Prom Queen, cheerleader type. Everyone loved her.. And he murdered her.”

Silence, silence, you remained in white-hot, visceral, sweat dripping, jaw-clenching silence.

“According to my criminal record, I was following in his footsteps. I had a penchant for stirring up trouble. It was fun. Stealing dumb shit, hotwiring an old car to drive us to the woods to get drunk when we were teenagers, dealing, begging Steve to throw ragers every weekend so I had an excuse to get shitfaced and run from the cops.. Yeah, it really looked like I was following in his footsteps. Following the Munson name.”

Eddie sat forward. Sleeved forearms sliding across aged coffee rings staining the green collapsible tabletop, and rubbing the backs of his fingers along the other. He was close enough for you to reach, to hold, to comfort when this was over, and the ghosts were put to rest from clouding his softhearted brown eyes.

“There was a New Year’s Eve party I was invited to” –he jumped his fingers in quotations– “on the rich side of town. It wasn’t one of Harrington’s, and I was out of my supply anyway, so I skipped out and spent the night here with my friends playing DND, and setting off fireworks in the trailer park, just having a good time.” The next inhale quivered his bottom lip, “I woke up in my bed to three cop cars blaring their sirens, and someone telling me I was being arrested for-for murder. Ah..”

You steeled yourself from blinking away.

“A girl died at that party. Prom Queen, head cheerleader. The type everyone knew, and everyone liked. And.. A-and, Jesus, I-I just need to get through this, I’m so sorry–but stuff was done to her body.”

The frankness hung in the room.

He screwed his eyes shut, and let the ugly reality spill from his mouth, “A guy from out of state went to that party with way harder shit than I sold, and she wanted to try some. They went to the bathroom together, he gave her too much, drugged her, she overdosed, and h-h-he..” His eyelids twitched with movement, and the tendons in his neck strained. You weren’t sure if he could hear the small, involuntary noise you made, but he chose the same words to avoid what you could infer. What all women could infer. “He did stuff to her body.”

His voice continued to crawl up an octave as his muscles braced in a reflexive cringe. “H-He left her there, and when her body was discovered, and the police were called, it didn’t take long before someone said they thought they saw me there, and once one person said they saw me there, suddenly everyone saw me there.” Hard swallow, palms wiped on jeans. “I was arrested the next morning, and even though I had three alibis, I didn’t have any hard receipts or any of that shit they wanted to establish where I was and at what time. And when my alibis were a bunch of Satanic cultist shithead troublemakers like me, they were brushed off. And why wouldn’t they be? It’s my friend’s word against thirty people who swore the long haired guy they saw at the party was me. Cops thought they caught their man, booked me, and had me in interrogation in under an hour from kicking down my door.”

He licked his lips.

“January of ‘88,” he said with an unsteady cadence, shooting out the sentences as they came to him, lurching faster and faster towards the horrid scars he’d never heal from. “I was so fucking lucky, so fucking lucky. DNA testing had only become a thing the year before. Mhm. That’s what saved my ass. But even then, it wasn’t like it is now. That shit took weeks to process.” He lifted his hands–fingers loosely curled, trembling. “For weeks they made me look at the pictures of her. H-Her body. The b-bruises around her neck.” He gestured at his own, and his voice swung higher pitched, “Interrogated me over and over again. For days, and weeks. Trying to get me to confess. It took weeks to prove I was innocent, and clear my name. Weeks, and weeks. A-A-And in those weeks–”

The trembling escalated to uncontrollable shaking.

“–Fuck–I don’t want to talk about this,” he said, volume fluctuating.

The air was too thick to breathe.

The wrinkles between his brows deepened, as did the lines bracketing his mouth. Red flush overtook his shuddering chest, his strained throat, his scrunched face with his eyes closed in refusal to acknowledge you sat opposite him, your expression slackened by dread.

“In the weeks between waiting f-for the DNA results,” each word wobbled worse than the last, “I found out Adrie’s mom was four months pregnant. And if I knew, then all of Hawkins knew. Everyone knew I knocked someone up, and.. and more rumors started..” He lifted his eyebrows, and his hands developed a violent shiver, hovering over the table, palms open, afraid and begging. “Because of.. what happened to the body.. People thought that she was.. That I..” each pause was a short wheeze.

Your blood ran cold with the slow realization of what word he was avoiding.

Desperation influenced his stammer, “I swear to you, w-what happened between us was consensual,” he stressed the last word in a whimper delivered straight to your dropped stomach. “She doesn’t answer my calls–but I could try, if you need to hear it from her–I promise, I promise, as soon as the rumors started, as soon as they started, she denied them. She tried to stop them from spreading. She tried. She told everyone it-it-it wasn't–that we both chose to–” he sniffed back the croaky sob, and without the grace of respite, he coughed the rasp from his throat, and ushered you into another apology you didn’t know you were owed, “I should’ve told you before we went to Adrie’s school. You had a right to know why people were staring. I’m so fucking sorry.”

In the room at the end of the dark hallway, his daughter who he sacrificed everything for rolled over in her bed, bringing the covers with her. In the belly of the trailer belonging to his uncle, you kept your feet tucked under your chair, letting the information wash over you in worse and worse crashes. In the lousy home he hated, Eddie held his breath until the aches reached their peak, and released them in a cough; and another, and another, until the pain subsided.

Deep breath, deep breath.

Your chair creaked from your uncomfortable shifting.

With time, the tension in his body waned to where his composed words could be heard in all the clarity they deserved, “I know this has been a lot to hear, and process, and I’m so sorry for unloading all of this on you at once, but I wanted you to know the whole story so you could make an informed decision.”

You weren’t sure if you were supposed to speak yet, but your whisper broke through, “Informed decision?”

Cheeks hot, but dry, and lower lashes clumped together from the rescinded tears, he answered you indirectly at first, “It took months to find and arrest the guy, and by then Hawkins didn’t care. Babe, you can be anonymous in the city, but this is how small town mentality works. All it took was one person to say I was at that party, and like that, my life was ruined. My name was stained. No one cared if I was innocent. The culprit was some other guy they’d never heard of from another state whose picture they flashed on the 6 o’clock news once. He might as well not even exist.” A pause. A change. A regret. “I want to protect you.”

There was pressure building behind your eyes, and you moved your gaze to the shelves above you in an effort to stifle the well of tears from falling–for him, for the dead girl, for what he was about to say next.

Eddie alternated between weakly slapping his hands flat on the table, then turning over to show his palms, then slapping them down again; guilt and shame and loneliness and fear working its way into every part of his gentle nature. “My name carries a stigma, and if you’re going to be coming around to my place, or be seen with me in public, you need to know there are consequences. Assumptions are going to be made about you. People are going to speculate, warn you, judge you. You don’t deserve that shit, so please, tell me, and I’ll accept just being friends at work, and leave it at that. I won’t ask questions. I won’t bother you. I won’t ask for more.”

“What?”

“I’ll understand,” he said, eyes tightening in a flinch.

“Eddie–” It came out broken. His encouragement for you to end the burden of this relationship at coworkers for the sake of your image stung like the tender throb of rejection–except, it was worse. It was him giving you permission to break things off because he didn’t see himself as worth the hassle.

Your poise collapsed. “You’re right, it is a lot to process, and it’s all I’m gonna be thinking about for the next week, a-and yeah, I wish you told me sooner, but Eddie–” His knuckles made a harsh sound when you grasped for his hand, knocking them on the table with the force of your messy coordination through the blur of true friendship disrupting your vision. “This changes nothing between us.”

Graceless under the circumstances, you took his right hand and wrapped your fingers around his thumb, fitting the meat of your palm into the curve of his. You delved your other fingers under his sleeve cuff, stroking them down, then up, slotting them beneath the stretchy bracelet. D-A-D-D-Y. He cupped his free hand over top of yours, enveloping them both, and waded through the entanglement to caress the prominent callus at the tip of his middle finger over the white blocks with black lettering. M-O-U-S-E.

“I’m with you,” you said. “I’m here. And whenever you want me here, whenever Adrie wants me here, ask and I’ll be on my bike pedaling as fast as I can.”

His face pinched in sentimental yearn. “Baby..”

Instead of suffocating the intensity of his emotions as he normally would, he slid his chair back and buried his head in the hollow of his outstretched arms; and in the pocket of space where he felt safest, he allowed himself the relief of two hot tears streaking through the fine sweat overtaking his puffy face. They clung to the tip of his nose, and dripped to his jeans in a loud splat.

He snorted, but it came out as a muted huff due to his stopped up sinuses. “Can’t believe I made it all the way through that sober and without crying, and then you just–went ahead and said something like that.”

You smiled. He probably did, too. Then as yours ebbed, his probably did, too.

The intertwined pocket where you clasped each other ran hot with body temperature, humidity, and the loaded implications of his confession and your subsequent acceptance. Heavy with the context for why people stared at him. Their significant glances at you, and the new depths and meaning beyond people thinking he was weird, and you were weird by association.

But at the same time, their stares didn’t last long. They were glances by every definition. A look over, a judgment, and then away, back to their own little world and their own little lives.

You asked, “Are the rumors still as bad as they were?”

The short curls at the crown of his head waved back and forth with his slow head shake. “I don’t think so. I think they’ve gotten better in a weird, fucked up way.” He sniffled, and wiped his nose on the inside of his sleeve before returning to the darkened confines of his arms, refusing excess stimulation until he could handle it. “Ever since Home Alone came out, my friends joke that I’m like that old man, y’know, the one all the neighborhood kids target, and turn one rumor about him into this entire narrative where he’s slayed over a dozen people, and keeps the bodies in his basement.” He laughed, truly. A warm, muffled thing. “That’s the sorta rumors going around now, I think; that I’m some Boogieman that gets blamed for every bump in the night. Adults probably know the accusations, but, like I said, Adrie’s mom did try to stop the other ones, but I guess I don’t know for sure if–when people look at you and me–that’s what they’re thinking. Uhm, I don’t know if I’m making sense anymore.”

“You’re good,” you consoled him. Your thumbs whispered sentiments on his skin, smoothing over the rough terrain from his labor, and catching on the excess sweat, wicking it away and creating more with each hindered brush across his inner wrist, trapped under the weight of his heavy hand copying you; running his fingers over wherever he could, needy, grounding himself to your presence, and seeking closure. “Thank you for finally telling me.”

“Thanks for listening,” he responded quietly.

Eddie shrugged his shoulders to his cheeks, and dried his face on his jacket to the best of his ability. Together, you sat in silence for a while longer, holding each other. Thinking. Decompressing. Plunging into the ice water of yet another development in your relationship, and emerging to the surface in unison, breaking the surface tension latched together by the same lifesaver.

You squeezed.

He squeezed back.

“I think I need a minute,” Eddie said, throwing his head towards the bathroom and letting go of you to inelegantly wipe at his runny nose. He drew further away from the table, standing up and walking in his odd, awkward way; playing with his bangs, and taking his hair out of the ponytail. “I’ll see if Adrie’s awake and wants soup, too.” The edge of the bathroom door flooded with yellowed light and a faucet was turned on high.

There was a nice moment where you nodded at the homely kitchen, lost in thought, absorbing the sounds and smells of the thick bubbling brew, and tomatoey pungence. Until it dawned on you.

“Shit, the soup–!”

Thankfully, as you stirred, the potatoes stuck to the bottom of the pot dislodged themselves, and nothing appeared burnt. Because, honestly, you couldn’t take the wound to your pride if the first time you ever cooked for Eddie Munson resulted in you burning soup.

After searching, you discovered the cabinet above the dish rack housed the dinnerware. You grabbed two mismatched bowls and hesitated on the shallow Little Mermaid one, until hearing the click of the bathroom door swinging open, and a squeak from the adjacent bedroom.

Soft footsteps announced his excitement before you could turn and see Eddie’s silly hand wave.

Come here, he mouthed, peeking from around the wall.

You dropped the serving spoon on the–had to be homemade–ceramic ashtray masquerading as spoon rest, and followed, hungry for new discoveries; the first being the (offensively ugly) pirate ship wheel chandelier hanging above the washing machine you had to have been an idiot to miss earlier. Deeper into the carpeted hallway was the coat closet with crayon squiggles, a shelf of kitschy knick knacks, and a thrifted painting of a lake scene with the curled-edge price sticker still on the corner of the glass. Passing the bathroom, you got a glimpse of a dark green shower curtain, a wet rag on a packed sink of various spilled products, and a bucket of rubber ducks next to the tub.

Eddie slowed, and you were confronted with his back. Slim shoulders on display from his oversized jacket falling further down his arms, thick canvas folding over itself around his tapered waist. The white tank top was stretched to fit him, hem of the armholes digging into his flexed lats as he eased the bedroom door open, back muscles contouring in the heavy shadows as he hunched and held his breath at the creaky hinges broadcasting his entrance. Edges of tattoos taunted you while he blinked into the darkness. And when the one who usurped his bed nearly five years ago didn’t wake, he straightened up and shook his hair out of his face.

He angled to the side, opening himself to you with his arm outstretched; an unspoken suggestion in his fingertips finding the edge of your cable knit sweater. You understood the glossy shine of unfiltered love in his gaze, and fit yourself between him and the doorway, stealing the soft filtered light brushing Adrienne’s sleeping form in tender illumination–made sweeter by the curls falling over her closed eyes, and the pale blue unicorn hugged in her arms.

‘Oh,’ you sighed in surprise, and clasped your hands on either side of your cheeks, craning to look up at him.

Just like the time he helped you hang decorations in the breakroom, your head made contact with the stick-and-poke viper, and his grin was instant.

His inhale cradled you. “She loves that thing,” he said, chest rumbling against your nape, stomach pressing to your side with an amused grunt, filling the gaps between you and him with warmth.

It was as if nothing changed. Not really.

Eddie canted his forehead to you with an expression of mild jealousy over your plush toy wrapped in his little girl’s arms when his cold plasticy ones sat at a miniature table in a pink playhouse pretending to have a tea party. His eyebrows were the same–raised, hidden beneath the wet stringy pieces of his bangs skimming his wrinkled forehead. His damp cheeks, jaw, and neck were the same after his cold water wake up call, splashing himself over the bathroom sink. His full lips were the same, pink and pulled back to show his teeth. His strong chin was the same, peppered with a recent shave. His handsome nose was the same, albeit red. The crinkles at the corner of his eyes were the same, if not slightly fuller from his recent cry.

But everything had changed.

Before, you lacked the understanding of the fear in his eyes when Mr. Moore had walked into the shop. How he had risked a painful bruise on his hip from the chair he knocked over in his scramble to get away from you. The tremble in his hands when he ran them through his hair in an urgent act to appear composed, and not like he was doing something worse with you. To you.

Everything was different, but it was felt, not seen.

The leftover adrenaline from the confrontation at his kitchen table faded, and in its place, rising from the truest, barest, rawest vulnerabilities of himself, was trust. A candid expression of respect in his palm at your back, fingers curled in to stroke his nails along the knitted design of your turtleneck. He confessed his secrets, you knew him to be an innocent man, and despite his worry for your reputation becoming infected by his, you promised him the same loyalty you always had, because there was not a lie in existence that would break the bond you facilitated months ago, born from your sheer desire to annoy the one mechanic who wouldn’t speak to you.

Felt, not seen.

A promise, and an urge.

The tingly pleasure of his nails scratching over your sweater advanced to a divine expression of affection.

He wrapped his arm around you, settling his hand in the curve above your hip. It lasted all of two seconds, long enough for him to bring you into the crook of his body for the purpose of whispering something in your ear, but it was a phenomenal improvement over the usual nervous flittering his fingers performed when in your company.

His voice was candy sweet after watching your face break into a smile for his daughter, “Maybe we should let her sleep, hmm?”

You leaned into him. “Yeah,” you sighed, rolling your head along his shoulder, guiding your silly grin from him to Adrie. “She looks so peaceful.”

“And quiet,” he observed in the wise tone of a single father after long hours of soothing his child’s headache when her cries created one of his own, and juggling the duty of cleaning up her puke from the floor, her clothes, his clothes, and bathing her while wallowing in the misery of doing it all by himself.

Eddie persuaded you into the hallway, and closed the door behind him, letting his arm fall to his side, ending the cocoon of warmth he provided with the harsh drag of the metal zipper scratching across the back of your jeans. He followed you to the kitchen and opened the fridge, muttering a string of words about deserving something as he snapped a silver and blue can from the plastic ring holding them together. “Want a beer? I don’t think you can get a DUI on a bike.”

“You actually can in some states.” You didn’t elaborate, and continued spooning soup into the bowls in questionable silence. “But no, thank you.”

Crack, tss. He held your stare over the rim as he tipped back a long gulp, pressed his lips together, and swallowed with a satisfied ‘ah,’ giving you ample time to ignore him. Finally, he moved his hand about, and asked, “Not gonna tell me why you know that?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.”

Moving on, you located two spoons from the absolute chaos of the cutlery drawer, and brought the bowls to the table while he reached into the pantry for an open sleeve of saltines, tossing them between the both of you and falling into his chair with a soft grunt.

“This looks great,” he complimented in earnest, voice and face alight with appreciation as he thrashed his arms to get out of his jacket, and took another sip of beer before crowding his side of the table with elbows, forearms, and hands; always holding the Pabst, or the soup, or reaching; always in motion, dominating the space you shared between your bowls, and beneath, where your legs were slotted in tight between his wide-spread knees.

His manners were about what you would assume after eating lunch with him many times, but that’s not what had you breathless.

He just.. took off his jacket like it was a completely normal thing he did dozens of times in front of you, sometimes accompanied by a hand rolled cigarette hanging from his lips, or joined by a sneer at some bad joke you told.

But it wasn’t normal. Not this time.

Hungry, hungry, hungry, you devoured the sight of his bare skin.

While he stirred the finely diced carrots and potatoes, you were afforded the time to admire the art no longer hidden by coveralls. Guessing at the older blotchy etches on his inner arm, theorizing about the origins of the souvenirs done in various stages between professional and very not professional, probably by himself or a friend. He didn’t have many, but it was easy to get caught up in the collection of motifs spanning from the top of his shoulders, and crawling in disorder downwards, to a tiny dagger at the apex of his bicep, two dice above his elbow, and a classic twist of barbed wire. Very cool and tough, but your roving stopped at one tattoo in particular.

Rather, one cluster of tattoos making up a whole.

“The bats..”

He perked up at your whisper–”Hm?”–and looked down at his arm. “Oh, yeah. These were my fourth, I think? Somethin’ like that. You like ‘em?” he asked, mouth cutting into the same delighted place a smirk originated from, but with more fascination as he too realized this was your first (technically second) time seeing his exposed arms.

Sucking in your cheeks to curb your habit of smiling at everything he said, you nodded in response, falling into a rhythmic head dip as you thought back to your first time meeting Adrie, and the picture she drew for you, and her Halloween costume, and how she chose not to dress as a princess like all her friends, but as a bat instead, because her daddy liked bats. “Yeah.. Yeah, I like them.”

He removed the twist tie from around the crackers and counted out three, stacking them neatly between his palms and, without warning, crushing them into his soup, sending a fine powder into the air.

It was obvious you were watching him on account of your untouched food, but it was beyond your control. Winter created a barrier between you and his skin. You needed to reap the beauty now while you could. Learn what you could, like the scorpion above his collar bone opposite the viper, and the eyeball monster with tentacles twisting over the bulk of muscles laying dormant in his solid forearms, and whatever the hell else was peeking out from under his tank top.

He scraped his spoon along the bottom of his bowl, and determined he needed one more cracker to make his soup as thick as he liked, and collected it from the crinkly pack. Yet another simple movement he had executed hundreds of times in front of you, and yet..

You stared. And stared. And stared. And made a sound of disgust. Rising from your chair, you loomed an impressive shadow over Eddie’s face as he gazed up at you with an expression of open confusion.

His eyes were trained solely on the pretty glint in yours.

Shiver. Goosebumps.

He jumped at your bold finger slipping under the strap of his tank top to move it aside. You pinched your brows, narrowed your eyes, and pressed your palm to his skin, enthralled by the sensation of him existing under you, aware of the full breath he took to fill out his chest as you introduced the touch.

Humming, you studied your hand cupped over the black widow spider inked onto his naked pec, and concluded, “That one’s smaller than my palm.”

The pale saltine cracker shattered in his grip.

Acting oblivious, you scooted your chair under you, sat, smoothed your hands over your lap as if a napkin existed there, and slurped your spoonful of soup as if you had done something as natural as point out the weather.

He released his surprise in a huff, and brushed the crumbs from his palms. “You are the lamest person I have ever met.”

“Have you met yourself?” At his weak glare, you slurped more of your soup. An amicable silence followed–the sort of camaraderie communicated through full bellies–but there’d been something on your mind since he willingly opened himself up to you and shared his past, expecting his name to become a forgotten word in your mouth and nothing more. “Hey, since we’re like, baring our souls and shit tonight, do you want to know why I created my ‘yes’ policy?”

Instead of a comically over-quirked eyebrow, he showed genuine interest in listening to your story. He set down his spoon, and turned his full attention to you. “I’m intrigued.”

“I’m tellin’ ya now, it’s not as riveting as yours, but uh,” you faltered on a pause, and fostered the same sort of nervous shrug he did. “Growing up, my parents were really.. negative, I guess is the best way to put it. Like, they wouldn’t let me hang out with friends, told me I’d never amount to anything, said I was a disappointment. Y’know, normal stuff. Uhm, I wasn’t allowed to do much, only really leaving the house to go to school or go to my job when I was old enough to have one. They said I’d never live up to their expectations, I was a failure, I’d never get a boyfriend, I’d be a bad wife, I’m going nowhere in life, and I’m an annoyance and take up too much of their time, and I was never wanted.” You swiped your tongue along your top teeth, and popped your lips after perhaps sharing too much. “Anyway, I made good grades in high school, so I took a lot of electives, and one of those happened to be Drama class. This may come as a surprise, but I was really shy at first, but after a while I got used to playing different roles, and fell in love with the freedom of becoming whoever I wanted on stage. And one day my teacher taught us a lesson in improv, and yeah.. the moment she explained the concept of ‘Yes, and..’ I was hooked. Just the mindset of nothing being rejected, and no idea was made fun of, or shot down was brand new to me. And as you can infer by now, I adopted that ideology for my own life, and, uh, yeah, I’ve been saying ‘yes’ to everything since then and never looked back. Literally, I’ve talked to my parents like, once since moving out, and that was about my insurance.

“Uh, anyway,” you said, still talking a mile a minute, “it did kinda create a people-pleasing complex for a while. I wanted to say ‘yes’ to everyone because it made them happy, since, y’know, I was always told ‘no’ and it did the opposite. But it’s whatever. And, uh, while we’re doing this, I wanted to apologize for always pointing out that you’re single.” You avoided eye contact. “Kinda harsh in hindsight.”

He broke into a laugh–a loud clap like thunder, and curling in on himself–finding the humor in your flustered state.

“Well, I’m glad you find it so funny,” you deadpanned.

“No, no, sorry–” He concealed his giggles behind his knuckle crooked to his lips. “I, yeah, I’m sorry for pointing out that you’re single too.”

“Appreciated.”

The brief teasing commenced to a slight frown between his eyebrows. His gaze drifted to his soup, worry twisting at his lips as the bubbles of oil sloshed across the surface of the reddened broth, trembling in ripples from his bouncing leg.

Eddie was emotionally fatigued. Words weren’t coming to him–none that carried the weight they needed–so he offered an alternative to hollow apologies.

He brought a shaky spoonful of soup to his lips, and dribbled some off the side as he overcorrected the angle he needed to slide it into his mouth. The next dive for a potato proved just as awkward, trepidatious, but the struggle of eating with his non-dominant side was worth it.

Your fingertips brushed over saltine dust as you accepted the proposal of his hand resting at the center of the table, palm open, and fingers coaxing you to reunite skin on skin.

“I like your policy,” he said, voice gone gruff with the exhaustion of the day.

“Really? On more than one occasion you’ve called it stupid, irresponsible, absurd, the dumbest thing you’d ever heard of, naive–”

He shut you up by curling his fingers over yours, setting your cheeks ablaze with his unashamed thumb pressed to your bracelet. “You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for your policy.”

A powerful move, and you matched the intimacy.

You hooked your thumb around to the scars lining the backs of his fingers, and lost yourself in the warmth of his embrace, giving yourself to him with each circle you massaged over his knuckles and between the joints. He did the same. Touching, touching, touching. Trusting. Melting into each other's palms. Holding hands with a man accused of so much, and forgiven so little. Holding hands with someone, just months ago, he brushed off as flippantly as her parents did.

He was sorry for the way he treated you.

You were sorry for the way the world treated him.

He squeezed.

You squeezed back.

~~~

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help?” you asked with a whine.

The pot of leftover soup still sat without a lid on the stovetop, and the serving spoon had a layer of scum dried to it. The dirty bowls and spoons were stacked in the sink, and Eddie hadn’t moved his wet laundry from the washing machine yet. Surely, you could help by wiping up the crumbs on the table, or cleaning up the spilled toothpaste on the bathroom sink, or–

He clapped his hands on your shoulders. “No,” he stressed slowly, “it’s late, and I’d prefer it if you got home before Buckley’s mom starts filing a missing persons report, and adding another rumor to my ass.” You cupped his elbows–barricaded from his body heat by his jacket–and opened your mouth, ready to argue. “And I swear if you don’t turn on your bike’s headlight, I’m gonna–”

You threw your head back, and groaned, “You’re so annoying.”

With the trailer’s door open, the quiet night penetrated the mix of air colliding from his warm kitchen and meeting the windless cold from the season, joining where your bodies connected on his cement steps. Your shoes dragged on the pebbly concrete in a woeful goodbye, making your effort to leave appear utmost arduous, tacking on a classic bottom lip pout when you both relinquished your holds on each other, and he shooed you off.

Not like you actually wanted to clean his house, it was just fun to annoy him into thinking you did.

Leaned against the doorway, he crossed his arms and tilted his head, mirroring your fondness in his gaze. “Yeah, yeah. Get out of here before people start gossiping about the pretty girl leaving my trailer, alive.”

The sudden belly laugh escaping you reverberated off the metal boneyard.

You slapped your hand over your mouth. “Sorry,” and after a thought, you asked gently while crouched to unchain your bike from the handrail, “Do you normally joke about what happened to you?”

His shadow shrugged over the hubcap hidden amongst the crunchy brittle grass. “Makes it easier, sometimes.”

“Noted.” You threw your leg over the seat, and made a big production of clicking on the headlight situated between your handlebars. “See you at work tomorrow, pretty boy.”

The scoff he was going for devolved into a snort. “Bye. Be safe. Please.”

Eddie locked the door behind him.

For minutes he stood at the center of his uncle’s trailer. It looked much the same as any other day when he came home from work, if not neater. But things had changed. As much as he liked eating across from Adrie, the two bowls in the sink were adult-sized, and it wasn’t the scent of stale smoke clinging to Wayne’s flannels that had Eddie throwing his arms over his head, locking his grip around his wrist, and twisting back and forth on the spot.

“Not exactly what I meant when I said I was gonna invite her over,” he informed no one but the darkness behind his closed eyes, remembering he promised Adrie that you’d come over soon.

Inhaling deep, he expelled a loud sigh and addressed the leftover soup. “But what a fucking night, huh?”

Inundated by the heaviness of feeling wanted, he opened the fridge and grabbed a tall boy stuffed behind the shelf of condiments. It wasn’t a drink of sadness as it usually was, but in celebration.

Afterall, he had much to celebrate. He held your hand. Twice.

And, not to mention, you know, how he showed you the gruesome details of the reality he lived in–his home, his reputation, his daughter sneezing into his open mouth when he was instructing her on how to take her temperature while you gagged from outside her bedroom. You knew it all, and you’d see him tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. Morning smiles, afternoon laughter. Maybe he’d even ask that question he’d meant to before you left.

But for now..

He ran his fingers over the old tattoo on his shoulder, and pressed his palm over it, replicating the weight of your head resting there when you so lovingly witnessed Adrie being his best wingman, hugging her stuffed unicorn while she slept. It’s what gave him the bravery to wrap his arm around you. And what did you do in return? You leaned into him with a smile, utterly charmed by his forwardness, if his cynical eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.

A voice in the back of his head whispered a seed of doubt, but after a sip, he dismissed it.

“Still fucking got it, Munson,” he complimented himself, downing a long gulp.

————

See you at work tomorrow..

You definitely didn’t see him tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next.

“Here you go, my lovely,” Robin cooed. She entered your room on tiptoes, ever so quiet, and placed your requested bottle of Nyquil on the bedside table with a glass of water. “How’re you feeling, sweetheart?”

You broke from your nest of blankets for the lone reason of glaring at her saccharine voice; somehow sweating through yet another t-shirt, while still shivering as if you’d just emerged from an ice bath.

“Aw, don’t look so grumpy, baby,” she comforted you with a pinch to your cheek. “It’s what you get for locking lips with Eddie.”

“I did not–” You cut your own self off with a round of coughs, making your attempts at speaking scratchier, and scratchier. And by the time you’d recovered, Robin had escorted herself out of your vicinity.

Her giggles haunted you from downstairs.

“Yeah, she’s fine!” She yelled to her mom. “Just lovesick.”

You rolled over, and sighed.

Goodbye extra sick day.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie munson smut #mechanic!eddie #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #the yes policy

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li0nn3stuff · 2 months

Text

You ask Aemond about Alys

English is not my first language, be kind.

Modern!Aemond x fem!Reader

About Modern!Aemond and Modern!Alys Masterlist

Warnings: kissing, talking of: sex, kinks, toxic relationship, domestic violence, violent sex, rape kink, degradation, cheating. Alys.

Aemond and his girlfriend had just come home after dinner with some of their friends, when she asked him something he never would have heard.

“Tell me about Alys.” She asked as they took off their jacket and coat, slipping out of their shoes.

His expression hardened at the name of his ex-girlfriend. He hated hearing her name, remembering her.

“No.” He said in a cold tone, taking her coat and hanging it as she put away their shoes.

“Why not?” She insisted as they went in the kitchen, grabbing two glasses and the water from the fridge.

“Because I don’t want to.” He grunted, pouring the water in the glasses. His tone is still the same and he keeps staring at the glasses ahead of him. He remains silent, simply refusing to say anything about his ex, as in his mind he replays in his head what happened the last time he saw her. He closed his eye and shook his head, ashamed of that memory.

“I want to know about her.” She said, walking to him, hugging him from behind and resting her head on his back.

He sighed and got silent for a second. His tone became serious as he started speaking. His eyes were focused on the wall ahead of him.

“Why do you have to stick your nose in something that doesn’t regard you? Uh?!”

He was pissed, he knew she would have kept asking until he would eventually tell her. She pulled away from him, taking her glass and leaning back on the table.

“Jeez, what has she done to make you react like this now?”

He turned towards her but he kept his eye fixed on the wall ahead. She could tell he was thinking of something unpleasant as he stayed silent for a moment before sighing and starting to speak again.

“You don’t need to know what she did, okay?”

He didn’t look at her as he waited for her response, but his voice is not as angry as a moment ago.

“But I want to.”

God, she was stubborn.

His tone is still serious, but he doesn’t reply right away, he looks down at the floor, and after a few seconds he speaks again:

“Why do you want to know that so bad?”

“I’m curious.” She raised her shoulders as if she was saying something obvious. “You told me she was older than you.” She added then

Hearing the word ‘older’ he seemed to be more uncomfortable. He sighed deeply and he spoke again.

“Yes she was older than me.” He admitted coldly.

“How much?” She sipped her water, interested.

“She was thirty-five.” He glanced at her to catch her reaction, but she looked calm, just curiosity in her expression. She took her time to ask her next question.

“How old were you?”

Silence. His tone is now more stern.

“Seventeen.” He kept looking at her, studying her expression, but it didn’t falter, he still saw no judgment in her face.

“So… you were underage.” She stated. He stayed silent again for a while before speaking.

“Yes, I was.” His eye drifted back to the floor, as he clenched and unclenched his hand around the glass. She pressed her lips together.

“How did you meet her?” She took another sip of her glass, looking away from him.

The question brings back some memories, but he remains serious. His tone was more bitter, as he turned his head to the side.

“At a party. Aegon dragged me into a club.”

She smiled to break the tension, and hummed in amusement.

“That sounds like Aegon.”

He stayed silent for a moment before slowly nodding his head a bit. She could tell he started speaking with more anger. He’s not yelling, not answering meanly, but she could see he was holding back.

“Yeah, sounds like him. And it was because of him I even saw her in the very first place.”

She hummed and looked away. She was the one to bring up the topic, yet she felt uncomfortable hearing about Alys, but since he was answering her, she decided to keep going.

“So how did you two… you know… got together?”

His tone is colder and the bitterness in his voice increases.

“She approached me.” He stares at the water in his glass. If he thought about it enough, he could still smell her perfume, or hear her voice, even if it was now… five years ago.

“Mh. What was she like?”

She hated that she wanted to know that, but she was curious, she wanted the image of that woman in her head, even if what he could say would have hurt her or made her burn with jealousy.

He stops for a moment, thinking about how he could describe her.

“Dark eyes and hair, a bit curvy. Always nails, hair and makeup done. She always used this… red lipstick of hers. Rarely saw her without it. She always wore dresses that would shape her perfectly and show her breast.”

She was perfect.

She looked away, feeling a pain in her chest, and jealous of how that woman apparently always appeared perfect. Aemond looked at her, he put down his glass on the counter and stepped closer to her, taking her hand and kissing its back.

“She was beautiful, charming, and charismatic, but she was manipulative, mean and...” He sighed and looked away, leaving the phrase unfinished. “She acted in a kind and loving way towards me, at least in the beginning.”

“What about after?” She looked up at him, as he cupped her cheek with his hand, and she covered it with her own hand.

“It became a nightmare.” She furrowed her eyebrows, confused and concerned.

“What do you mean?” She asked worriedly.

He stays silent for a few seconds but his anger is obvious in his voice.

“She changed, or, well, she showed herself for who she really is. She was no longer the woman I met at the club. Her charming and loving behavior disappeared and she started to treat me horribly. She cheated on me often. Despite that she managed to keep me in her claws for three years.” He said in a mixture of shame and anger.

“How did she treat you?” She asked then, getting more worried.

Silence. His tone was very bitter and he seemed to be almost on the verge of losing his temper. This was a sensitive topic for him.

“She was verbally... and physically abusive towards me. She hit me on several occasions and did several other horrendous things I’d rather not describe.” He couldn’t look at her. He felt stupid. He felt stupid even after all that time, and he was ashamed of telling her how stupid he had been.

“Then why did you stay with her?”

At first, he didn’t answer her question and his tone remained bitter and frustrated as he stayed silent for a moment. When he started speaking again, he was clearly not happy to answer the question she just asked. He still sounded bitter and angry as he started to explain.

“Because she made me feel she was the only person who really understood me, that she was the only one who truly loved me.... That I wasn't worth it and I was nothing... And that no one else would ever want me other than her, or other things like that..”

She was surprised.

What the fuck?

She was… horrible. Who could even think of saying such things?

“… Wha- What kind of other things did she say to you?”

He looked at her in despair, but he knew she wanted to know, so he just talked.

“She used to say that I was ugly, that I was a disappointment, that I was too insecure, and that I was weak... that I would never be enough... I would have never been able to find another woman... That I would be alone forever.”

She felt like crying. He had to go through all of this? She wanted to keep him close and protect him from everything, everyone. He didn’t deserve that. Sure, he was complicated and a bit of a douche sometimes, but no one deserves such treatment. No one.

“I’m… I’m so sorry. She was cruel.”

He stayed silent for a moment but his tone indicated that her words helped him calm down a bit. He was less angry and less tense.

“Yes... She really was cruel. But I guess that's who she was all along, and I didn't notice it back then… But I think what I’ll never forgive her is that she made me a freak.”

She looked at him pained and even more confused.

“What? What does it mean she made you a freak?”

He didn’t respond right away and his tone became much more frustrated, he looked… ashamed.

“She was… my first time, and she was into some… crazy, disgusting things… and she kind of passed them to me, or at least, now I’m into some of those things too.”

She paused. She tried to elaborate his words.

“Like what?”

“I told you they’re disgusting. Why do you want to know? You’ll only get scared or… or you’ll be disgusted with me.”

She frowned.

“What? No. I won’t. Aemond, I won’t. Tell me.”

He seemed to consider your words again and again, taking his time to speak. He was embarrassed but he nodded and slowly started speaking again. He still kept his eyes down as he spoke.

“She was into painful things. Some very unpleasant things.”

“…Okay. Like what?” She softly encouraged him to say more.

The uncomfortable atmosphere was almost palpable. This was not a subject he wanted to talk about, but still, she could feel the burden that was placed on him. He was silent but finally he started to speak again, he sounded much more bitter. She could tell that this was something that really bothered him and hurt deep down but he would not go into much detail.

“She liked it rough. Like really rough. More rough than what we’ve ever done. She liked… to be slapped, she liked it violent.” He paused, as if to contemplate if he should have gone further, say it all. He sighed and he decided to be honest. “She liked some roleplay, but she was always the dominant part. So… I started fantasizing, and… I… I got into… like haunting roleplay. Haunting the prey and… once I caught her…” Rape her. He couldn’t finish it. He was too ashamed to say it out loud, but it was clear she understood. Yet, all she did was nod, she didn’t judge him. Though it was new for her seeing Aemond ashamed of something regarding sex. He was usually straight forward, confident.

“Obviously that would be consensual, I…” He sighed and looked away.

“It’s okay, I understand.”

“No, I really think you don’t. I like it violent, disgustingly violent. I want to be the one to give it, not receive it.” He growled, as if he wanted to scare her away, as if he wanted her to be disgusted by him.

“I do understand, Aemond. I do.” She repeated softly. He shook his head and passed his hand over his face, rubbing his eye.

“How can you not be disgusted?” He mumbled, his face getting red with a mixture of frustration, anger and shame.

“You… You like what you like, there is no point in judging you. I know I can trust you.” She said with a soft smile. Aemond looked at her.

She was perfect.

It was all he could think. He leant forward suddenly and kissed her deeply, as she immediately wrapped her arms around his neck and kept him close.

She was perfect.

He slipped his tongue inside her mouth, drinking in all of her, her taste, smell, her soft touch.

She was perfect, and she was his.

He pulled away and she smiled at him, caressing his cheek.

“Can I ask more?” She asked, and Aemond smiled. Her curiosity amused him, he was even more amused as now she asked instead of just insisting. He knew she was dying to know more.

“Yes.” He leant back on the counter as she unwrapped her arms from his neck and caressed his arms.

“Did she do something you didn’t like?” She asked then. Aemond nodded.

“Yes, but I… I always let her do it anyway.” He said, and she nodded, waiting for him to continue talking.

“She would… hurt me. She liked painful things, humiliation, degradation and violence.”

She bit her lower lip as she looked at him in pity. She knew very well Aemond was not into those kinds of things, actually, he was right the opposite. He had enough trouble during his childhood with his eye and bullying that he could never handle going back to being ashamed or weakened because of it, again. She put her glass down and she went to hug him.

“Oh, baby… I’m sorry I’ve made you go this far. I was just really curious.” She says sadly. Aemond hugs her back but after a while he pulls her away.

“No, it’s fine. I want to tell you.” He rubbed the back of his head as he looked away. “You might be the best person to tell this stuff to.” He added. She smiled softly, nodding.

“She… she used to treat me like a child, actually. If I did something wrong she would… punish me, let’s say that. She would ride me as punishment, slapping me and degrading me as she did so.” He took her hand as he looked down at it, and he started playing with her nails. “She was mean, before, and during sex, but she… she was nicer after it, telling me now I could go back to being good for her… she played nice for a while, so I wouldn’t go away. Not that I would have anyway, I… It was like I was addicted to her. She knew it and she used it. She used me.” Aemond clenched his jaw tightly as she kept looking at him worriedly.

“Aemond… but you got out of it.” She stated, putting a hand over his to reassure him. His expression contorted into one of disgust, and shame.

“I… It wasn’t nice, what I did. How I left.” He said in disgust. She put a hand on his cheek and turned his face to her, smiling at him softly, looking him in the eye.

“I’m sure she deserved what you did.” She said confident, but Aemond immediately looked away.

“No. Don’t say that, you don’t know that. You can’t know that.” He said angrily.

“Aemond, after what you’ve told me, I doubt you did so much worse than what she did. You were…” She shook her head, not really knowing what to say, but Aemond continued for her.

“What? I was what? Younger? I should have known better.” He says with his voice full of bitterness.There is a long moment of silence, as she looks down as he keeps playing with her nails and fingers, and he goes back to looking at her.

“If you could go back, would you have done something different?” She asks then, still looking down. He sighs and he intertwines his fingers with hers.

“No. I wouldn’t. What I did to her… It was… fair, but that doesn’t change the fact that… It was horrible.” Again, she took her time to answer. Then, she looked back up to him.

“Just like she treated you.” Aemond pressed his lips together and turned his head to the side, frustrated. She kept defending what he did like it was right, and he hated it. He felt guilty, he felt he had to feel guilty.

“You just can’t say things like that. You weren’t fucking there, you know nothing.”He spat out. she didn’t get offended, she knew he wasn’t angry with her, he was angry with himself, with his past, with Alys.

“Is she alive? Yes, is she fine? Yes.” She stated, and keeping his head turned, he glanced at her.

“You don’t know what I did to her.” She nodded, and took a deep breath.

“Do you want to tell me?” She asked softly, caressing his hand.

“No. Not yet.” He looked back down, as images of that memory flashed in front of him.

She hugged him, and he immediately hid his face in her neck, bending down due to the height difference. He just wanted to forget, and be happy, even if he wasn’t sure he deserved it. He wasn’t even sure if he deserved to be with someone like her. She passed her fingers in his hair as she massaged his scalp.

He loved her.

Is this what love is?

All he wanted to do was keep her close all the time, feel her all the time, look at her all the time. He never had enough of her, not even of her stubbornness. She had her attitude, but just as he had his. Yet, he thought, he never felt he could fit better with someone. He knew she was the one.

He hugged her tighter as she responded by kissing his neck.

She was the one. He would never let her go. There was no better place for her better than his side, just like for him, it was her side. She pulled away from the hug and took his hand, talking softly.

“Let’s go lay down, yeah?”

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papipedroo · 4 months

Text

Rupture (Joel Miller x Reader)

Part Five of Whiskey Tears

Summary: You, Joel, and Ellie have been a trio from the start. You were a family, but you find your relationship with Joel withering when he starts to pull away. Now a new comer makes her way into Jackson and into Joel’s heart…

Joel was drowning. Not in the metaphorical sense that he has experienced from time to time, feeling as if the weight of the world was pressing down on his lungs… No. Actual drowning.

“Again.” Heather had four men shove him backdown into the river.

There was barely any time to gasp for breath with each shove back under the icy frost. It was as if he grew numb to the freezing temperatures each time his head went under water. He was going to start getting hyperthermia soon.

“Bring him back up.” Heather ordered and once again he was brought up to the surface from the icy depth.

Joel coughed up water, finally able to catch his breathe. His clothes were soaked to his skin and the rim of his eyes were rimmed red.

Heather crouched in front of Joel. A long sigh left her lips as she spoke, “We’ve been at this for a while… Are we going to talk now or do I have to bring Ellie out here? Tell me Joel, have you taught her how to swim yet?”

It was a known fact by anyone that Joel’s looks could kill any threat in his path. There was a promise looming in his gaze, one that only told of impending murder. Two of the men had tightened their grip on his arm and shoulder from the way Joel tensed.

“What.” He stated as if he wasn’t trying to catch his breath moments ago.

She crouched in front of him. Three steps and his shotgun was the only thing between them.

“It took three days and now this town and everyone in it, is mine.” She stated.

“Good for you.” Joel gruffed out, the least bit interested.

“You know what I want, Joel.” Heather was becoming irritated now, “I want your allegiance. I want your loyalty. I want you.”

He didn’t dignify her with a response, his glare the only thing keeping her from feeling empowered.

She sighed, “You know that your brother and his wife refuse to cooperate… For days now, my friends have talked about shooting them… They make a good point that it would put your family out of their misery from living in the way that the world is now. Especially with a new life that will be coming soon.” Her gaze flickered to the gun as Joel began to struggle against the four men in an attempt to ring her neck.

“I decided against that though. I knew it wouldn’t make you happy so I locked your family away instead. I promise you that they are safe…” Her hazel eyes looked past his glare and into his broken soul, “If you cooperate that is.”

Joel didn’t like the way her mouth curled into a condescending smile. She knew that she got him.

The warmth of the fire did little to create a comforting warmth in your body as you cried out into a soiled cloth from the overwhelming pain. Mikel’s hands worked to clean out and stitch the wound he caused to your leg as you faded in and out of consciousness.

“Just a little more, love.” His tender words did nothing, they were nothing, and he would never be anything to you.

You wanted Joel… You wanted your little Ellie… You wanted to go home… You missed your family and you regret that the last words spoken to Joel were of anger. You regret that you couldn’t see Ellie’s face that morning. You regret not having tea with Maria. You regret not helping Tommy surprise Maria with a baby crib.

“Why won’t the bleeding stop?” Mikel’s voice held panic, “I need to cauterize your wound.”

I shook my head faintly at that, but it meant no difference as he left and returned with a blade scorching hot from the fire.

There were so many regrets that you couldn’t amend and now… Now you might die without seeing what could have been.

“This is going to hurt.” Mikel said as he gently place a cloth in your mouth.

You screamed as soon as the blade touched your skin. It hurt more than the pain of the gunshot as your eyes rolled to the back of your head. Your body shook before slacking against the bed.

Your vision blurred as your mind went dark.

It took two days before you were able to gain your bearings. The pain in your leg was dull as long as you didn’t move it around too much. Your eyes tracked the motion of Mikel’s shadow pacing just outside of the cabin door. His words were set in a hush whisper as he spoke to someone else. Someone you didn’t recognize. You strained your ears to listen to what they were discussing.

“So… Jackson has been overtaken.” Mikel asked, “Are the townspeople alright?”

“Yes.” It was the voice of another man, “Heather did what she said she would and it…” You strained your ears to hear, but missed part of what he said. You did however hear him say the word, “Success.”

“That’s good.” You could hear Mikel’s sigh of relief, “I hope that with time my love and I can return. I want us to be able to live peacefully…”

“We are glad to have you apart of our group. I will see you and your girl soon brother. Let the red dawn rise.”

“Let the red dawn rise.” Mikel repeated and a pair of footsteps traveled away from the house.

You quickly lied back down and pretended that you weren’t eavesdropping on their conversation. Mikel stepped inside the hut, snow falling off his coat as he removed the cowboy hat from his head.

“I know that you’re awake little pisi.” He said. The sound of his boots traveled across the room as he walked closer.

You weren't sure if the last word was an endearment or not, but it made your stomach twist in knots. You felt nauseated at how quickly he tell into the role of a lover with the high expectation of you doing the same. You wondered if that could be your safest way out of here.

Maybe playing along with his delusion will help let his guard down before making your escape. It was the only option you had being as you were wounded and he had the antibiotics to help you and if you just shot him that would do you any good.

Yes, you would have control over yourself and medicine, but how long would you need antibiotics for your leg to heal and with Jackson being overrun… How were you supposed to get more? No... This was the safest option. You just had to play your cards right… For now at least.

"Who was that?" You spoke with a scratchiness to your voice from being in and out of consciousness these last few days.

Mikel's quick observations had him getting you a glass of water before you even had the chance to ask for some. It seemed he was a little too observant. Something that you had to be wary of.

"A new friend from town." His answer was vague, something that you had already expected. Of course he didn't trust you enough to divulge any information from the que that was staged.

"They've taken everything haven't they?" You asked another question or more of a statement.

He looked away from you and towards the fireplace, "It's better this way."

"For who? For you?" You scoffed before taking a sip of water. You didn't realize how thirsty you were until the cup was empty in less than a second. You continued, “Clearly you have gotten everything that you desired.”

"I did this for us." He snapped back, a glare held in his blue eyes as he got up from his stood as stormed to the fireplace to place some more logs in, “This is better for us. This place will be our home until you have settled in to our new life. Everything that we have and will receive soon is a happiness more than we can ever imagine.”

"How?" You muttered, "Everything was fine before. The townspeople were happy… I was happy. We were all comfortable and at peace in our own way. There was no reason for any of this. You took my choice away from me."

"But there was a reason." You could see the way his fingers gripped around one of the logs. You could tell that you were pushing his temper, “He was not good for you. Everyone could see that. He hurt you, discarded you, betrayed you. He did everything that I will never do to you…” Mikel gently traced his fingers over the bandage on your leg, “Again. I promise.”

You kept your mouth shut, afraid to set him off. He was clearly trapped in his own delusions of what could be and saying anything towards the two of us would clearly make him angry. Instead you focused on talking about the people who took him in. Who he once considered friends.

"How could you betray everyone?" You spoke quietly, "The people who took you in and gave you a home? You took their trust and ripped it to shreds Mikel."

"I didn't!" He threw the log across the room. The wood crashed against the wall before knocking over a crooked picture frame, the two crashing to the ground.

At least that was better than him crushing your leg.

"Tell that to the ones whose corpses litter the streets.” You replied, your voice still soft, but making its point across.

The room filled in a deafening silence.

Light flickered in through the cracks of the jail, creating enough light for Ellie, Tommy, and Maria to see. The raiders didn't care enough to turn any of the lights on for their prisoners, but at least they remembered to bring food and water.

"Bitch." Ellie exasperated as she pulled against the old bars of the jail.

"Language Ellie." Maria sighed as she rested against the back wall.

"I think this predicament calls for a little language sweetheart." Tommy murmured as he check the strength of the cell bars on the other side.

"Those bars were made to hold, you know this." Maria explained.

“I know sweets. I just want to make sure we’re not missing anything.” Tommy explained gently.

Maria nodded, "I know dear, it’s just… You both need to save your strength. We need a solid plan to get out of here."

Tommy thought for a long moment as he concocted a plan to safely get out of here.

"We'll wait till one of em lets their guard down." Tommy spoke quietly once a plan formulated in his mind

He stepped back from the bars, his military training kicking in as he spoke, "I've been watching their movements. They only care about how much damage they can inflict with the biggest weapon. They don't seem trained or vigilant. Their shift changes are every twelve hours. Group B is more docile, they’re tired from the day and are easily deceived. We can make our move towards midnight when they are exhausted.”

He looked at Maria, “This is where you come in dear. I need you to pretend that you are going into labor. Scream as loud as you can. Ellie, I need you by her side at this point and I need you to be loud and panicked. Once they opened the cell, I can get one of their guns. Then it'll be easy to get out of here. We have four hours left until shift change so we just have to be patient and don’t set off group A." He looked towards Ellie.

She raised her hands up in surrender, "What?"

"Ellie." He pressed.

"Okay okay." She sighed, "No setting them off. Got it."

And there it was. It was small and had barely a percentage of working, but it was a plan that could just as save their lives. As long as they played their cards right that is… Tommy sat next to his wife, wrapping her in his warmth to keep her from the cold. At least these raiders kept the blankets in here. He watched as Ellie curled into one to try and get as much rest as she possibly could. Tommy made a silent promise to himself that no matter what happens, he would keep his family safe.

He could only hope that his brother had everything under control on his end... If he was alive for that matter.

"My family." Joel huffed as he was shoved with the tip of a rifle.

"Follow me." Heather walked through the streets.

The snow was gently falling now making it easy to see, "You'll see them when I can trust you again."

“You’re the one who broke that trust.” He pointed out.

Heather of course didn’t like that as she huffed, “I did what I had too.”

No. You really didn’t.

Joel didn't reply as he quietly assessed the four men that were guarding him. He knew that Heather could handle a gun, but he can take her easily. The two to his left looked to be brothers with the way they mirrored each other, they were both to upbeat as if they enjoyed this kind of work. They would be easy to take down. The one on his left was skinny with a shaky hand and a frightened look in his eyes. Joel knew that if he took the two out on his left first then that one would go off runnin. Now the one behind him with the crooked nose and a nasty snarl... He was going to be a problem.

"You will be kept under guard here.” She said.

“My. Family.” Joel repeated. His was a man of few words, but he was persistent.

“They will be able to live here with you once I know that you can be trusted. Wouldn’t want you to get the band back together and ruin my entire plan, would we?” Heather gave him a look, “No more talk of this. Now get inside and change. I have plans for you and I don’t want you dying from hyperthermia.”

With that, Heather left and the four guards remained. One of the upbeat brothers shoved him inside the home. The three young men headed inside with Joel while the tough looking one kept guard just outside the door.

“I reckon don’t need to show ya where the shower is.” Link laughed as he took off his coat.

Joel didn’t give him an answer and began to make his way upstairs.

“Oh! And we found all yer weapons so don’t even think about looking old man.” Link’s brother Preston said as he pulled off his beanie, his short dirty blonde hair tussled.

Joel had an urge to punch that kid in the face. But he resisted as he reached the top of the steps and out of their sight.

“Don’t even think he’d be able to reload the damn gun even if we gave him one.” Preston laughed.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that Link.” The younger, scrawny looking one spoke.

“What?” Link wrapped his hand around the back of his neck that was covered by his shoulder length brown hair, “You scared of an old man Mathias?”

“All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t get too comfortable.” He said quickly moving himself away. Joel could hear the three of the shuffling to the living room.

“Yeah right.” Link rolled his eyes, “I could kill that old man with one hand tied around my back.”

The sunlight was beginning to drown in the dusk and Joel knew that if he wanted to get to his family alive then he would need to be smart in his next moves.

Joel carried himself up the steps, worn out and tired, but a plan formulating in his mind. He walked past each room, all of them open and ransacked. The bedroom to his door was wide open, the same chaotic mess dawning his floor.

A floor that hadn’t been tampered with. Maybe the heavens were on his side. He hoped that this same luck would stay on his side.

Joel only halfway shut his door. He didn’t want to make any noise for what he would do, but he also needed them to hear the creak of his door. He made his way to the bathroom, his boots hitting the floor rougher than usual to have them think that he was an old man, one that made noise wherever he went.

He turned on the water to his shower before silently walking back to his room. With the stealth of someone even a clicker wouldn’t hear, he retrieved a 9mm pistol and a tactical knife from under the floor board. It was the weapons that he got for his firefly and he silently thanked her for keeping them hidden here. He checked to make sure it was loaded before heading back to the bathroom to take a much needed shower.

He needed the cover of night to exact his plan.

“How did an old man like that even pull someone like her?” Preston wondered as he took a sip of the whiskey he swiped from Joel’s cupboard.

“I don’t know man, but I went by Mikel’s cabin the other day.” Link said.

“Mikel has a cabin?” Mathias wondered, “He’s a new member like me right? Does this mean we all have the choice to leave if we want to?”

“Mikel’s barely apart of this group and I ain’t tellin you where that cabin is.” Link shook his head, “You get any ideas of leaving, you know where your body is gonna be.”

“Dude, he has the life out there. I got a peak of her before he closed the door and let me tell ya, even half dead she’s a peach. I swear either he railed her so hard that she couldn’t move or that gunshot wound is really getting the best of her.” Link laughed with his brother chuckling along with him.

“Romanians man, they sure know what they’re doing.” Preston replied as he and his brother clinked their glasses.

Joel wondered if his favorite color was red with how much he has been seeing it lately. He silently creeped along the hallway and down the staircase, not one creek in the floorboards as he drew closer to the laughing hyenas in his living room. He wanted to kill them.

“You shouldn’t talk about women like that.” Mathias interjected, “That girl could be seriously hurt you know.”

“What would you know, you virgin?” Preston scoffed as he poured another glass of whiskey, “I bet you haven’t even seen a woman naked before.”

Mathias continued over stuttering words, “Just because I haven’t seen a woman naked before doesn’t mean I don’t know right from wrong. It’s not right to disrespect them.”

Joel briefly thought about sparing the kid. It seemed to him that he had no idea what he was doing with a group of blood thirsty raiders. If Mathias played his cards right then maybe he could survive.

“Sometimes… You really show your age kid.” Link shook his head.

“How about you come talk to us like real many when you’ve got your cherry popped alright?” Preston’s voice boomed in laughter, “I’m going to go take a leak.”

The other two though… There was no mercy left in Joel. He wanted to tear them apart until their guts painted his carpet his favorite color… But he thought against that because his firefly picked out that carpet and she would hate it if it got ruined.

Preston was easy as Joel waited in the hallway by the stairs. He was covered by the shadows that Preston didn’t even have a chance to scream as Joel dragged his into the darkness, a hand around his mouth and a knife imbedded deep into his neck.

And then he waited as patiently as he watched his next victim fall right into his trap.

“Yo Press! You get lost or somethin?” Joel heard Link yell.

When Link didn’t receive an answer from his brother, Joel knew he got him. He heard Link stand up as fear rippled down the raider’s spine. Link’s hands quickly grabbed his rifle as he called out again, “Preston!” And he listened intently for the response of his brother.

“You don’t think…” Mathias’s voice trailed off as he gulped.

“No. We would have heard that old man walk down the stairs if he were up.” Link shook his head, “He probably just can’t hear me, the drunk bastard. Go take a look.”

“What?” Mathias’s eyes widened in fear, “Why do I have too? He’s your brother. You should go see if he’s alright.”

“Because I’m the one with the gun and what I say goes.” Link pointed it towards the kid, “You want me to remind you of the last time you disobeyed me?”

Mathias shook his head in fear.

“Good. Now go take a look.” Link motioned to the hallway.

Joel listened as he heard Mathias trudge slowly to the hallway. Joel noted the kid didn’t have a gun, leaving him to believe that his was most likely by the front door.

“Preston?” Mathias stuttered out as he ventured further into the hallway. He was terrified, his hands shaking because he knew that something had happened and here he was being sentenced to death by a mad man.

“Please—” Mathias thought it would be best to try and plead for his life, but before he could finish, Joel’s hand was wrapped around his mouth.

“You don’t want to die right?” Joel spoke low, barely above a whisper.

Mathias struggled to shake his head no from the tight grip that Joel had, but he got his point across.

“Then go out there and distract him. Keep him from looking towards the hallway.” Joel commanded, “Do as I say and you live to see another day kid.”

Mathias gulped as he nodded. Joel let him go and watched as the kid tried to get his footing. Mathias straighted out as he tried his best to look normal.

“Anything?” Link asked as soon as Mathias appeared.

Mathias walked around him and waited till Link’s back was facing the hallway before he explained.

“I found your brother passed out in one of the guest rooms.” He lied. From the corner of his eyes he could see Joel creeping out from the shadows so he continued, “He probably thought that you and I could handle the rest of the night on look out.”

“Like hell I’m going to stay up. You and that big oaf out there is going to keep watch. I’m heading to—“ Before Link could finish speaking, Joel hit him across the head with the blunt end of his gun.

Mathias blubbered his words as he looked between Link and Joel.

“The man outside. He loyal to your cause?” Joel asked.

“Yes.” Mathias answered truthfully and he knew that he just condemned another one of his squad members to death.

“You gonna run?” Joel asked.

“No sir and…” Mathias spoke quickly, “I’m not loyal to them. I just want to survive, I swear. I barely know this group.”

“I know.” Joel took his knife out of his belt loop, “Tie him up in the kitchen. Ropes in the closet.”

With those orders, Joel left out the back door with one mission in mind. Embed his knife as deep as he can into the skull of the raider outside.

That left Mathias alone and he listened to Joel’s orders. He found the rope where Joel said it was and dragged Link to the kitchen where he heaved him up on one of the dining chairs and tied him to it.

“You know you deserve this.” Mathias muttered whether to convince Link or himself, he didn’t know, “I’ve sat by long enough as I watched you and your brother pillage, rape, and torture to get your way. You deserve this.” He made sure to tighten the ropes.

Joel rounded the corner of his house, his eyes focused on the man who stared straight ahead. He was alert as he sat in his chair, gun held securely in his hand. Joel prepared himself for an altercation as he veered closer.

With his knife raised, Joel took one more step just as the man clocked in on his position. The large man popped up from his seat as soon as Joel embedded the knife into his shoulder. With a grunt the man charged, trying to lift his rifle to aim, but the gun was too long and Joel was too close. Joel quickly grabbed the gun as they tussled on the front porch. Thankfully the tall muscular man didn’t try to yell or scream for help. I guess he figured he could take care of Joel himself.

Oh how wrong he was…

Mathias could vaguely hear the sounds of Joel and Kent fighting outside until suddenly it was quiet. He wondered with a racing heart who had won and if he should run? If Kent had won then maybe he could play victim? Say that Joel was the one who tied Link up. Should he hurt himself too? Try to make it seem more convincing? Before he could make a decision, the front door opened and in walked Joel who dragged Kent in behind him.

“He awake yet?” Joel asked calmly as if he didn’t just kill another man.

Mathias shook his head, “No.”

Joel set the lifeless body by the other one, both in sight of where Link was knocked out. Joel didn’t have time however, to wait for Mathias to wake up. He needed to find out just where this cabin was. He had enough, lying low now that he had all the information he needed about his family.

Joel stuffed a dish towel in Link’s mouth before shoving the knife deep into his leg. That was the quickest way to wake him up.

Link woke up with a scream as he felt pain rippling from his leg and throughout his body. His head was pounding and the world seemed fuzzy, but he could make out Joel leaning over him like a monster you would tell your children about.

“You’re going to tell me how to find my girl or you’re going to end up just like your brother over there.” He pointed towards the lifeless body, Preston’s shoes barely peaking of the hallway. He took the gag from Link’s mouth.

Link raged as he struggled against his ties, now he was fully awake, “You fucker! I’ll kill you!”

“Answer.” Joel twisted the knife.

“I ain’t tellin you nothin.” Link spat with venom.

Joel glanced over to Mathias, “Get me a bucket of water and another towel.”

Link’s gaze followed Joel to Mathias who was standing in the archway, “You’re with him? After I took you in? You dirty fucking little traitor. After all I’ve done for you, I should have skinned your ass when I had the chance!”

Mathias ignored him as he went on to collect the things that Joel asked for.

“Don’t look at him. Look at me.” Joel drew his attention back to him with the twist of this knife causing Link to groan out in pain. Joel spoke slow so that every word could sink in, “I am going to drown you. It’ll be slow and it’ll be painful. Or you can tell me where my girl is. The choice is yours.”

Link glared at him as anxiety and fear rippled through his body. He could see it in his eyes that Joel’s words rang true, “I don’t know.” He stated quickly as Mathias returned.

“Well now we both know that is a lie.” Joel placed a towel over his face, “Lean the chair back.” He ordered Mathias.

“You should tell him.” Mathias suggested.

“Fuck you.” Link spat back at him.

Mathias leaned down close to his ear, “You already did that, remember? Against my will.” Link shuttered from fear at Mathias’s next words, “You deserve this.”

Mathias leaned back up and nodded towards Joel, “Do it.”

The night was long with each pour of water, with each gasp for breath. Joel felt no remorse drowning a man with no morals and no regret.

“I don’t remember!” Link gasped as soon as he was allowed breathe.

“Try again.” Joel stated before dumping water on him as he struggled for breath against the soaked towel.

“Okay!” Link gasped, “Just please. Please stop! I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you!” Joel held out a map and a pen, “You’re going to point to where it is on the map.”

Mathias set the chair back on the ground. Link’s breath was ragged as he took the pen between his teeth and marked a spot a few hours away from Jackson. Once Joel was satisfied with that answer he glanced towards Mathias.

“He’s all yours.” Joel took a step back and motioned to the knife.

Link looked between them with wide eyes before settling on Mathias, “No. No. No. No. No. Wait. Please! Wait. I’m sorry! No! Please! Don’t!” The last words that fell from his mouth were blubbering pleas as Mathias shoved the blade deep into Link’s heart.

“Now you can’t hurt anyone anymore.” Mathias whispered as he watched the light fade from his eyes.

Mathias stood still for a moment as he tried to catch his breath and calm his racing heart. He felt numb, but he also felt free. He had a choice now as he turned to Joel.

“How old are you kid?” Joel asked as he grabbed the whiskey bottle from the table. He took a long sip as he waited for Mathias to answer.

“Nineteen.” Mathias answered as he looked away from his once abuser.

“I…” Joel’s words felt empty as he struggled to say them, “I’m sorry for what happened to you.”

Mathias didn’t give him an answer and Joel understood why, “Where are we going next?” Mathias asked instead.

Joel’s eyes widened slightly from Mathias’s question. He didn’t really understand why the kid wanted to tag along with him, but he didn’t refuse. Joel set the empty bottle down before handing over Kent’s rifle, “We’re going to get my family back.”

“Okay.” Mathias nodded as he took the gun. His green eyes shined bright with determination. It was as if he finally had a true purpose now and it felt exhilarating.

#joel miller x y/n #pedro x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #joel the last of us #joel tlou #pedro pascal #joel x reader #pedro is daddy #pedrostories #whiskeytearsseries #whiskeytears #joel miller angst #joel and ellie

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arabellasleopardcoat · 1 year

Text

Honesty (Daemon Targaryen × Reader)

Summary: In which Prince Daemon seduces his unwilling Lady Wife.

Warnings: Smut. Dub Con/ Non Con. Oral sex (F receiving), P in V sex. Stark reader. Convenience Marriage. No use of Y/N.

A/N: First time writing for Daemon. Reader is the oldest sister of Cregan Stark and acts as his regent. Might write the full story one day. High valyrian from an online translator, not explaining it because I wanted the reader to not know the meaning.

The shift was white, silky, and oh so tiny. You stared at it with contempt. It had cost you a pretty penny, as had the cosmetics Lady Manderly had so eagerly pushed into your hands. Red tint, she had said, to paint your lips and enhance your natural attributes in other areas. The woman had even had the nerve to point at your breasts!

It was ridiculous, this whole thing. Had you been born a man, there would be no need for this nonsense. Had you not been born a Stark, it would still be happening, but perhaps in not such a brutal way. Or had you not been tempered by the cold, made so brazen to insult and oppose Otto Hightower, perhaps your punishment wouldn’t be marital rape.

Still. It was your duty, and you intended to perform it. It was the only way to keep Cregan, Rickon and Sara safe. And you would do it. Prince Daemon, your lord husband, as he insisted you called him, could surely get the deed done faster with the proper incentives.

You took off your gown, having been previously unlaced by your trusty maid. You put on the dreaded, lacy shift. The latest fashion in Dorne, you had been told. For how expensive it was, it certainly was made of little fabric. You glared at your reflection, watching how the long sleeves had a vertical cut that made them useless. Your skin broke out in goosebumps, as you wished you could add more wood to the fire.

Some rustling could be heard outside your room and you panicked. You were running out of time. The tint! Made of some berries, you hoped didn’t poison you. You quickly rubbed it on your lips and cheeks, trying to seem less like the terrified girl you were and more like an appealing sight. You sat down, primly, on the foot of the bed just in time for Daemon to enter the room.

“Wife.” He rumbled, coming to stand in front of you. Daemon had docked his furs and armor, his sword no longer rested at his side, just as your agreement dictated. He had come to you unarmed and barefooted, yet it didn’t make him cut a less intimidating figure in the least. His purple eyes looked at the tint with curiosity, and plucked it from your hands. “Getting ready for me? I’m touched.”

You glared at him, trying to hide how much nerves pooled in your stomach, how you were cold from fear, skin clammy and pale.

“If I must…” You shifted to your hands and knees, and lifted your shift, exposing your naked folds and arse. It was quite the vulnerable position, and heat started to spread almost immediately to your cheeks and neck. You hated the humiliation it brought you.

Daemon’s breath hitched. Clearly affected by the sight of your prone, soft body, on the bed. “What are you doing, zoklītsos?” His hand went to your exposed folds, finding you as dry as the sands of the dornish deserts. You nearly jolted at the touch, and only his hand on your hips kept you in place. It was not a good omen, you had gathered, from nights spent exploring your body before the cold and worries had turned you into the frigid ice queen the lords in the South accused you of being.

“Go ahead. Do it.” You closed your eyes, keeping them tightly shut, and braced yourself for the pain. Daemon tsked, his warm palm caressing your bottom.

“Hells, you have been deprived.” He pulled your shift down, covering you.

“I do not understand.” You frowned, looking at him over your shoulder, still on your hands and knees. “This is right, I know. I have seen animals do it.” Your tone was of absolute confidence, petulant, even. To you, it was one of the facts of life. The sky was blue, the sun rose in the west, and fucking was done on one’s hands and knees, with the man behind you. It cracked Daemon out. He snorted, hands still busy fixing your shift. It soon turned into a full-blown belly laugh, at your icy glare.

“Poor little wife, your previous lovers have done you wrong.” He palmed at your ass. You hated how the warmth of his palms made you shiver. Good gods, how was he so warm, barefoot as he was and in only a linen shirt? You wanted to kick at him, at the offense of your virtue, perhaps make an icy comment, but you were frozen in shame. “Unless…” Daemon’s hands moved to your stomach, urging you to get up on your knees. He pressed a kiss to your exposed nape when you did, as if rewarding you. Stubbornly, you tried to escape his grip, but he only hugged you tighter. “Oh, what a treat you are… The gift that keeps on giving, zoklītsos.”

“Shut up and get it over with.”

“Don’t be like that, little wife.” He kissed your jaw, tenderly, and when you moved your face away from him, Daemon adapted and started kissing a path down your exposed neck. “You wouldn’t like that, sweet innocent virgin you are. I would tear you apart, and that's no fun.”

“Oh, by the…” You muttered, exasperated. You tried telling yourself that the red of your cheeks was out of rage and not embarrassment. Used as you were at being the smartest one in the room, you deeply disliked how out of your depth you were here. It was not your fault, being uneducated on these matters. Orphaned when you were a lady just flowered, there had been no time for anything else but caring for your siblings. “Why must every woman you meet burn for you?”

“Because I am the blood of the dragon. Heat is in my veins.” He mouthed at your shoulder, this time. His kisses felt like a trail of fire down your body. It was… Waking feelings you didn’t wish to have. Nipples pebbling, hairs standing up, pleasant shivers and all. You breathed in and out, trying to control yourself. Daemon pushed the sleeve of your shift down. “My proper little wife. My ice queen. You will melt, in the end.” He kissed back up and towards your ear, whispering, cruelly. “They all do.”

Your breath hitched. A slip. The first of the night. You could feel Daemon’s smirk against your skin.

“Do you really want to find out how the fire in your veins meets the ice in mine?” You remarked, coldly. It was an attempt at projecting a bravery you did not feel. Bravado. Nothing more. And Daemon could tell.

“Fire can melt ice.” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss on your throat. With the way he held you, curling and uncurling around you, Daemon reminded you more of a snake than a dragon. You felt as if you were in the grip of a boa, constricting around you, robbing you from your air, leaving you breathless. It was wrong, being so excited at being the sole focus of such a predator. But heat was pooling between your legs, you were getting embarrassingly slick.

“Ice can put out a fire.” You warned, one of your hands going to his silver locks and tugging. You got exactly the opposite reaction of what you wanted. Daemon’s eyes closed, expression turning into a delightful mix of pleasure and pain.

“Only a fool would meet your ice head on.” He kissed your sternum. You remained as still as a sculpture. He tugged at the sleeves, until they gave. There went the dornish shift, ruined forever. You felt a distant rage at having wasted so much gold on it for him to rip it apart. Daemon drank the sight of your exposed chest eagerly, seemingly entranced. You tried covering yourself, but he grabbed at your wrists.

“I think not, Lady Wife.” Then, very tenderly, he pressed kisses to the top of your breasts. You whined, low in your throat. It felt good, and he had no right, no right at all, to get your body to betray you like this. “You see… A tiny flame, if constant, can begin…” Daemon kissed lower, encircling your areola, purple eyes gleaming with mischief. “To melt your ice.” And with that, he took your nipple into his mouth, making you let out a little scream. You squirmed, feeling more wetness gather between your thighs. If you wanted to keep your dignity, you had to get away from him. But Daemon’s grip wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard you tried.

“No… I… Husband… Please. Please.” You begged, shame so deep you were nearly in tears. How it was that easy for him to take you apart, you didn’t know. Despite your pleas, his tongue circled your nipple, his lips making nearly a vacuum around it. His hand came up to pinch at your other nipple, warning. “I don’t want this, please. Just… Just…” But whatever you were saying got lost into your moans, until you were unable to know if you were asking him to stop the sweet torture or give you more of it.

When your tears started to fall in earnest, Daemon let go of your breast with a nearly obscene slurp.

“What is it, zoklītsos? You don’t want the attention of your Prince?” You nodded, and he gave you a mocking little coo. It almost made you think he would stop. Almost. If not for his hands, bunching up your shift until you were exposed once again. Under the candlelight, your cunt glistened with how much wetness you had produced. You tried to close your legs, but he kneeled, forcefully keeping them apart with his torso.

“No. I doubt that's the problem.” Daemon rubbed a finger against your entrance, not putting it in, but just pressing. “I think my little ice queen is melting. A big puddle, she is turning into.”

“You think…” You got cut off by a moan. Daemon had found your pearl, and it seemed he knew exactly what to do with it. “Yourself so smart. Smug…” He pushed a finger inside you, making you yelp, and effectively unable to finish your sentence.

“If you still have coherent thoughts…” He pulled away from you, taking his shirt off. Your eyes immediately were pulled, as if by magnet, to his chest. He had a warrior’s body, muscles all functional. Deliciously broad shoulders, toned stomach with the slightest hint of definition, yet still slender in the way most Targaryens were. Closer to gods, indeed. He bent down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, making you squirm.

“Lord Husband…” You warned, noticing how his kisses started to approach your privates.

“Lady Wife.” Daemon repeated, with a mocking tone. Then, he curiously pressed a finger against your button. This time, your hips bucked, and you were unable to quiet the moan that slipped from your parted lips. “Such a pretty cunt you have.”

“You don’t have to…”

“Oh, but where is the fun in that, zoklītsos?” He spread you apart, as if opening up the petals of a flower, gentle but so casual. “If I wanted a quick fuck, I would have taken one of your servants, or found myself a whore.” Daemon leaned down and licked a strip over your cunt. In your haste to muffle a scream, you brought one of your hands to your mouth and bit down on your palm until you tasted blood. It was the oddest feeling, a line of scorching hot electricity on your exposed sex. “I intend to enjoy you. As often as I can. That’s why I accepted marrying you.”

“I don’t… I….” You muttered, but you weren’t really opposing him anymore. It was impossible to think about anything apart from what he was doing, of how his heat and wanton ways were starting to warm your blood too. Daemon kept licking at you, making your hips twitch. He was entirely ignoring your pleas, apparently finding great pleasure in the way he took you apart.

You felt like you were burning up, as if something that had been long asleep in you had started to be awakened. Long hidden and forgotten desires that were making themselves known. You found yourself looking down, mesmerized by the sight of the blond shock of hair between your parted thighs and how it bobbed up and down with each eager lick he took. Your hand reached down, tangling in Daemon’s hair, and it was then, you got pulled over the edge.

Daemon would later say it had been the way he had groaned against your pearl, what had made your thighs quiver and tummy tense, an impossible amount of wetness dripping down your thighs. You would say, if asked, it had been the way his purple eyes met yours, mouth still busy at devouring your cunt and face twisted into the most smug and deviant expression you had ever seen. Whatever it was, it pleased him greatly.

“I knew you had it in you. You weren’t cold.” Daemon whispered against your skin, kissing a path towards your mouth. He was unhurried, dedicating lavish kisses to your hipbone, moving to mouth along your belly button, gnawing hungrily at your ribs. Under him, your body went lax and pliant, spent with the first climax you had experienced under his careful touches. “You just needed a dragon to warm you up.” He licked at the sweat collecting in the hollow of your throat, before finally pressing a kiss to your lips.

This time, you answered. You took his lower lip between yours, playfully. You could taste and smell yourself on him, and it was more alluring than what you had ever thought.

“Good.” He said, pulling back. He started to undo his breeches, and you felt panic grip at you some more. This was it. You had to fulfill your end of the deal with him, let him take you. As if he could feel your nerves, Daemon rubbed your thigh, affectionate. “Do not fret, zoklītsos. You will enjoy this, too.”

“It is meant to hurt.” You answered him, pouting. He tapped at your lower lip, gently.

“Put that away, before I have to bite it.” Daemon took out his cock and rubbed it up and down your folds, gathering the wetness. Despite your fears, a wave of desire overtook you. His fingers had felt good, so had his tongue. You wondered if this, too, could be pleasurable. Otherwise, there wouldn't be so many bastards being born in Westeros, right? But you were supposed to bleed. Bleeding was not pleasant, ever.

“I…” You grabbed at one of his hands, holding on for dear life. He may not have been your choice of husband, but he had vowed to protect you under his gods, standing in the sand and mixing your blood with him. Daemon took his valyrian vows seriously. You were desperate for any scraps of reassurance he was willing to give, even if in normal circumstances you would have rather died than be helped by him.

“It won’t hurt.” Daemon said, kissing your forehead. You looked up at him, eyes wide in fear. He squeezed your hand and lined himself up. You felt the tip of his cock nudge at your entrance, and wondered what it looked like. It felt blunt, and it was very warm. “I will do it on one thrust, like ripping a bandage off. You probably don’t have your maidenhead, with how fond you are of riding. And if you do, you are more than wet enough.”

“Lady Manderly said it hurt her, the first time.” You pouted again, and this time, he did good on his promise. He leaned down and kissed you, biting at your lower lip playfully.

“She has a fool for a husband.” Daemon muttered, kissing your ear. You shivered, nearly mewling. You weren’t aware of how sensitive you were there. “Trust me on this. I know more about it.”

“Taken many maidenheads?” You remarked, with a hint of a teasing smile on your lips.

“Jealous, ice queen?” Daemon licked a strip down the base of your neck towards your jaw. “You will have to admit you know little of the topic.”

“I would say I know plenty.” You answered, glowering, just as he thrust inside of you, seemingly tired of the conversation. At the sudden feeling of fullness, you yelped. But there was no pain, as he had promised. Only an odd feeling of being stretched and filled to the brim, and a slight discomfort. “Rude.”

Daemon smirked. He stayed still, letting you time to adjust. You took a deep breath, and shifted to rest your weight on your elbows, to take a curious look at where you were joined. To your disappointment, you could only see a cloud of light hair, mixing with yours, hips impossibly close.

“Did it hurt?” Daemon flicked at your pearl, absent-mindedly. He groaned when that made your walls tighten around him.

You glared.

“No.”

“You silly girl.” He laughed, starting to thrust. The friction felt good immediately, and you moaned, grabbing at his shoulders. “And you thought fucking could only be done on your hands and knees.”

You didn’t answer, choosing instead to cling to him, mouth falling open in moans you were unable to keep quiet anymore.

“Fucking is a pleasure.” Daemon insisted, pinching at one of your nipples, You whined. He could be telling you the secrets of the realm, and you wouldn’t care. “And I will teach you all about it.” He grunted in your ear.

You were too gone to care about his smugness. Your heels dug into his back, pulling him closer and closer. You met him thrust by thrust, scratching at his back until your nails were bloody. Daemon kissed you and tugged at your hair, desperate to claim you. You could hear his silent laughter, feel his mocking smile against your skin. He had finally gotten what he wanted, a reaction out of you. It could not be faked, this pure, raw emotion. Soon, his fingers found their way to your button, making you whine and squirm. It was too much for your poor, abused body. You screamed his name as you reached your second peak of the night.

Daemon thrust several more times, practically vibrating with smugness. He grabbed at your body, fingers digging in the flesh, surely bruising your hips. His mouth was slightly parted, and something stirred in you at seeing him so raw. Daemon had been right, you realized. Many moons before, he had said bodies spoke and were honest in ways their owners were not. And so, you let yours speak, tugging at his hair, sucking bruises in his pale neck. Perhaps there was something there, in the way he held you closer, shuddering and spilling himself with a muffled cry. Something that mere lust couldn't explain.

You both laid there, panting. Daemon looked down at you, and brushed your sweaty hair out of your face.

“I think, Lady Wife, that the coldness of the North might just be bearable.”

#daemon targeryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x y/n #daemon smut #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen x female reader

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butch-corvid · 5 months

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dumb little cockshy bitch, she whispered in my ear while she humped my tits. we had both smoked earlier, and she kissed me in a rush of euphoria. it’s just what dykes do. we can just make out a little bit. I’m a woman, aren’t I? you don’t have to touch it. but as we got closer, her kisses hungrier, her hands reaching under my shirt to twist my nipples, I found our bodies were pressed together. I could feel her cock, hard and insistent against my thigh. when I tried to pull away (“no, stop, you promised, I don’t like dick, I’m a lesbian”), she just said me too and pushed me on my back. i couldn’t stop her from grinding against me, essentially trying to fuck me through my boxers. when had she pulled her cock out? I couldn’t even resist, she was smothering me, holding me down, grinding that thing against my cunt. which was, to my horror, starting to soak my boxers.

I can feel how wet you are, slut. you really wanna try telling me you’re cock repulsed again?

my whimper was cut off when she forced two of her long fingers into my mouth. you know what I think? she thrust them deeper. I think you’re just shy. cockshy, you know? you need a little bit of…correcting. she pulled my boxers down. I jumped, enough to almost throw her off me. she laughed. lighten up, sweet thing. did you think I was going to rape you? I froze under her, heart pounding while she rubbed the tip of her cock against mine. against my will, my cock twitched. oh my god, you like that don’t you? you want me to rape you? is that it? is that why you keep making a fuss about my dick? god, all you dykes are the same.

“please don’t. please don’t fuck me. not inside please.” maybe it was just the drugs, but I was starting to tear up in shame at my arousal. her cock was so much bigger than mine, so much harder and thicker and needier, throbbing against my cunt. when she moved away, my wetness left a string of moisture between us.

to my surprise, she nodded, only to move up to straddle my chest. with one hand, she grabbed my tits like they were her personal property. with the other, she slapped her cock against my face. when I spluttered in shock, she rubbed the head against my parted lips, even as they twisted in revulsion. her pre stayed on my mouth, and I instinctively licked it up. do I taste like a woman? I nodded and she smiled. good boy. here’s what’s going to happen. I won’t fuck you yet. I won’t put my cock inside you until you beg for it on camera. we’re just gonna stay right here while I jerk off. consider it training. or exposure therapy. go on, spit on it. unless you want me to get the lube from somewhere else. her fingers rubbed my clit, slowly. a threat. I spat, and she took her time slicking her cock, no more than an inch from my lips, before wiping her hand clean on my face.

she moved her hands to my tits, pressing them together so she could slide her cock between them. i tried to dissociate, to block out the sensation, but every time my nipples were touched a jolt of sensation placed me back in my body. I didn’t even notice I was leaning down, lips parted, quietly pleading for more. with a laugh, she grabbed my hair, holding my head still while she rubbed her dick all over my face. I felt disgusting. my cunt ached. she slapped my face again. tongue out, dyke. her cock felt so warm, the leaking tip pressed against my tongue. you don’t deserve to suck it yet, bitch. so just hold still and let me use you. she jerked off on my tongue while drool pooled in my mouth and dripped down my face, smearing my tits with saliva. occasionally, she would hump my tits more, or reach behind her to feel my soaked cunt.

I felt drunk, delirious, craving nothing more than her cock in my mouth. she let me swirl my tongue around the tip, explore just a little bit while she jerked off into my mouth. and then, with a smug smile, she yanked me back by the hair, just to hear my desperate whine. see? just a bit shy. I did a good job of breaking you in, I think. agree with me. and get ready for your reward

“yes yes yes please yes” I murmured, trying to get closer with my tongue stuck out. I couldn’t even be ashamed of how I looked. she held me firm, pumping her cock faster.

some lesbians struggle with this part, but you’ve been learning quickly. soon I’ll be able to show you what real lesbian sex looks like. poor thing, only fooling around with cuntgirls. barely even women, you know? because they can’t. do. this.” with a groan, she came on my tongue, on my face, on my tits. and finally, finally, she shoved her cock into my mouth and rode out the last of her orgasm by grabbing my head and using my throat like a fleshlight. when she was done, she got dressed.

“my turn?” I cocked my head, spreading my legs to reveal my puffy wet cunt. i couldn’t remember the last time I was so desperate. she giggled.

oh you’re cute. try asking me that again after you’ve had a real woman’s cock in you.

#mine.#cnc.#edge.#identity.#diary.#transfem supremacy.#intox.#dyke.

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sepherinaspoppies · 2 months

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Only If For A Night (ii/?)

pairing: Dark! Book Aemond Targaryen x Modern! Reader

summary: In Dia De Los Muertos (Day of the Dead), she gets forcefully transported to Westeros and meets her favorite book character, Aemond 'One Eye'. She asks and begs for his help to send her back home after realizing this was a world she did not want to live in. Unknowingly to her, her favorite fictional man had already grown too attached to fully let her go.

warnings for this part: physical assault, derogatory behavior, mentions of rape, blood, violence, Aemond sorta unhinged in protection mode lol.

wc: 3,271

series masterlist

my masterlist

pt i

notes: lol so I've decided to make multiple chapters of this series I hope that's okay :)

When she was a little over the age of six, she remembers when her mama happened to be two hours late to pick her up from elementary school. She stood outside the school gates with her Hello Kitty backpack and her Bratz Dolls lunchbox in hand, waiting until she was the only kid left.

When she was close to giving up and deciding to walk the fifteen minute walk home, a tall dark haired woman with sunglasses stood in front of her offering her a ride home. She was a bit hesitant at first, the woman was a complete stranger, yet the way she was dressed, elegant with an expensive buttoned green trench coat and a Chanel bag, made her wonder what harm could be done in taking up the kind offer. The woman looked rich enough to adopt a kid of her own and besides she was a woman, just like her mama.

The woman must have seen the uncertain look in her face, resulting in her pulling out a Paleta Payaso out of her bag and saying she had more in her car if she simply followed. She remembers smiling and nodding, taking the woman’s hand while she unwrapped her favorite candy.

Mere seconds before getting into the car, she heard her mama call out to her and before she had time to explain, the woman in the green trench coat was gone into thin air. The only trace of her was the chocolate marshmallow candy in her hand…

Don’t take candy from strangers! Her mama warned. Except she did.

That occurrence that had been stored in her memory was what awoke her. There was a burn in her eyes as the sun’s rays hit directly at them from the window, blinding her vision. She wondered if her abuela intentionally opened up the blinds to get her ready for their usual mile walk around the plaza.

Except, she received no response after the three times she had called her out.

Odd.

She gradually sat upright, wincing at the pain radiating throughout her back. Gods, how long did I sleep for? She mused before releasing a long yawn, stretching out the ache within her muscles.

Immediately, she feels her stomach drop down to her feet as she takes in her surroundings. All at once she starts to recollect everything that Alyssandra did and said.

The tea. The blood. The marigolds. The sapphire…

She ponders if all had been some sick cruel joke or a scam to steal some pesos out of her mercado bag. Unfortunately, she had none. Maybe ten pesos which basically converted into sixty cents. Not much could be bought from that.

“Alyssandra?” She calls out, though it’s proven to be useless. It appeared that the cottage had no other occupants but herself. A series of spewed curses leaves her lips as she but all feels a strain in her back and neck. The saying of laying in a bed of rock, couldn’t be any more truer.

After a few stretches and rubs to her neck, she begins her search for her belongings: her dress, her mercado bags, and her Fire and Blood book. But to her bewilderment, none of her stuff laid previously on where she saw them last.

Everything of hers was gone. Or better yet, stolen by that bruja. Including her wallet, her groceries, her shoes, and even her bra and underwear.

Great. Shoeless and commando it is.

Without turning back, she exits the rustic cottage and tries to figure out some kind of explanation that didn’t sound implausible in the ears of her abuela.

Adivina qué abuela, en lugar de tomar un uber fui estúpidamente a la casa de un extraño porque estaba lloviendo. Y una bruja me robó mis cosas y me drogó. Por eso estoy vestida así, sin tus compras y sin zapatos. (Guess what grandma, instead of taking an uber I stupidly went to a stranger 's house since it was raining. And a witchy woman stole my stuff and drugged me. So that's why i'm dressed like this, without your groceries, and without shoes)

The word ‘tonta’ lingered in her head with the same scolding tone as her abuela’s. Yea she was tonta alright.

She figured with Alyssandra gone and the fact that she thieved her belongings, she sure would not miss a bundle of cempasuchiles from her garden. They were fresh and bright enough for the ofrenda and it was at least something she could bring back after being robbed.

She uses the small mental notes as a guide to lure her back to the pueblo and halts halfway into the forest depicting two vital things into her surroundings. One, it was daytime without the residual wet smell one would distinguish after it rained. Two, the grass beneath her feet was free from moisture as if it had not rained and stormed one bit.

Strange.

Instead, she smelled something faint amidst smoke and ash and something else she couldn’t quite identify. She shrugs, maybe someone left out the carne asada on the grill for far too long. (roasted meat)

The bundle of flowers in her hands nearly drops once she fully exits the forest, she expects to see the street that she had taken with Alyssandra but to her puzzlement she is met with an open field of uncut grass and hills that she had never seen before.

As far as she knew the pueblo only had mountains. For a moment she thinks she took a wrong turn out, but she was certain this was the same very path that she followed Alyssandra to. However, curiosity turns into panic, when she spots a large gothic looking castle in the distance that resembles where a particular vampire, Dracula, lived in.

Except this castle appeared to be in ruins or decaying and something told her that not only might have the Dracula resided in there but many ghosts as well.

Where the fuck am I?

It’s not long until she hears loud hoofs in the nearby distance, galloping closer and closer. She hides between a large tree and some bushes, covering up her mouth to restrain her heavy breathing and panting.

She peeks through her shoulder, spotting three men high on their horses wearing some sort of armor medieval knights would wear. In the middle of their chests, a green surcoat was worn over their armor, a golden three headed dragon engraved in the center.

A sigil.

The marking was vaguely familiar from somewhere. Some place. Something.

Through the corner of her eye, she sees all three men coming to a sudden halt. Not too far from where she hides, a middle aged man saunters with his head hung low examining thoroughly at the ground. He hums as his eyes find hers over the end of the trail of faint footsteps, giving her a cruel ‘I’ve got you’ tight lipped smile.

Fuck.

“Look at what we have here!” She gasps, the man grips her forearm impossibly tight, forcing her out of hiding into the views of the others. “We found ourselves a whore!” He whistles as the others laugh. “She’d be good use to us back at camp. Take her with,” Another man snickers.

Rage seethes right through her, “No, let me go. I’m not a whore!” She sneers, pushing his hands away from her body as the man snarls and takes a hold of the roots of her hair but she is quick to act as she curls her hand into a fist socking him straight in the side of his nose.

In that moment, she was thankful for learning such a bold move she mimicked from a Lucha Libre fight her cousins invited her to. (professional wrestling)

The man lets out a painful groan, holding a very bloody nose between his fingers, anger written all over his face. “You fucking bitch,” He hissed, using the back of his hand to slap her so brutally that it sends her directly to the dirt.

A metallic taste swims around her mouth, no doubt her own blood and looking at the few drops on the grass all but confirms it. She hears the other men laughing and she feels too hazy and shocked by it all to continue to fight.

“R’ ye done?” The man asks. She knows he is talking to her, and she looks up at him with furry eyes as she spits her blood against the top of his shoes as an answer.

All four of them rode back in silence. They cut through most of the trees with ease, passing by other knights with the same sigil printed on their chest, circling around a large cliff that hoisted up the ruined castle. Those who were not guarding, hauled lines of other contrarily dressed knights over wagons. Most likely prisoners, she assumed.

Gerald, whom she came to know as the knight who struck her, kept her securely bound with a knife to her throat as a warning to not try and fight him. She knew it was a foolish move to do so. But at some point, she deliberately pushed herself forward against the knife hoping this all had been some weird dream or hallucination that she could wake from.

But to her frustration, it surely was not.

Every single thing about this seemed odd… How did Alyssandra expect her to find a sapphire in this place? And where exactly had Alyssandra send her to?

So far, she’d been led astray, drugged, displaced (to put it lightly), insulted and assaulted. And somehow, she knew her journey had only just begun.

The smell of smoke and ash became more amplified as they barreled further up the cliff. She but all felt like a tiny ant amongst the rubble once the four of them arrived inside the castle’s gates.

There were five towers in total, she counted, all of them tall but not equally the same height. Erosion was a plausible effect of why the castle was in ruins. However, as she looked closely it was quite clear that it was not caused by natural agents of wind or water but that of fire.

But what kind of fire melts stone?

They stopped near the stables, where more men similar to them sat on wooden benches either dining or sharpening their tools. Tents were set up near the most bizarre looking tree she had ever seen. It had eyes with what appeared to be blood pouring out them, leaves that looked like hands waving to her as the branches pendulated.

“Move,” The guard said after he carried her off the mount. She glanced at her possible options of routes for escape. Not many were good enough for a safe return back to the cottage or better yet the woods. It would be a stupid move to run the way they came, guards guarded the main gates and most of the town.

Her best bet was going through the small hallway opening that led inside the castle itself. Perhaps through there, there might be some kind of exit that was unguarded.

No.

“Did ye not hear me, whore? Move!”

She gritted her teeth in fury as Gerald pushed her in the path of the tents.

All color and emotion drained from her face when she heard it. Screams and cries and small pleadings of ‘no’. Groans, growls, and the slaps of skin echoed right back.

At that very moment, it hit her that she was overhearing the acts of rape.

She felt her heart drop down to her stomach. Anger, horror, icy and deep sluiced through her for what these evil and vile men were doing. As she glanced up, tall flagstaffs waving tripartite pale, blue, red, and green on white sigil dresses up in the sky.

Their clothing…

She wanted so much to hurt them as they did to the women. Perhaps even more. Not a single person attempted to put an end to this and she had a feeling that they wouldn’t either. What kind of place did Alyssandra send her? And why did she choose this one?

Why Alyssandra?

She swallowed that useless and weak feeling that rested in her throat. If she couldn’t save them, she could have a chance in saving herself.

She glanced between the small opening and the knights, deciding. If her calculations were correct, she had a sixty percent chance of outrunning them and potentially hiding inside the melted castle. Luckily she was small enough to fit into tiny surfaces.

The guard shrieked as she stomped heavily on his foot and struck him right in the place she hit him from before. And with the adrenaline coursing through her veins, she broke out in a run before anyone had a chance to seize her.

By how fast she was running, one would’ve thought she was in the olympics. If her high school gym teacher could see her now. Perhaps she could’ve finally given her an A.

She saw one corridor unguarded and open and without hesitation, she took it. She glanced behind her, noticing a few men catching up to her and while her feet started to ache she ignored it and continued to run faster.

Carelessly and unknowingly, she felt the front part of her body collide against cold hard metal, causing whatever she clashed in to move.

It was then when she saw the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

Stop. Go. Now.

Rage sketched in his features at first. Then his eye locked into hers and that rage quickly went away into something she couldn’t quite describe.

Shock? Awe? As if he finally found what he was in search of.

“It’s you,” He said, his lone violet eye wide and wild as he stumbled backwards, a hand clutching at his chest.

Me?

She drunk in the rest of his appearance. He was exceptionally tall, the kind of tall where she could already feel a strain in her neck from looking up.

He appeared to be not that much older than her, perhaps around mid twenties the most. His hair, curated into a half up-half down hairstyle, was an angelic type of silver that reached just about the middle of his chest. It looked silky smooth and soft and she fought the urge to run her fingers through it.

A scar covers and paints the left side of his face underneath a leather eyepatch that suits him so well. Something about him feels eerily familiar. She had seen him before but to put a name on him was difficult.

This definitely was going to bother her.

She watched as he brought a hand to the left side of his chest, about to speak again when the guard from before came, gripping harshly at her forearm. “My Prince, I offer my sincere apologies. She outran us and–” Gerald’s anxious explanation was interrupted by the man as he held up his hand to silence him.

Prince?

Of course he’d be a prince. With hair that lucious and shiny and silver— Her lips parted open and her eyes widened in pure realization.

The sigil on the surcoats and on the banners. The black castle where they had taken her...

Holy fucking shit!

The one and only, Aemond ‘One Eye’ Targaryen, stood directly in front of her. How was this possible? How could it be? He was just a character. How could he be real?

Que mierda’s esto? (What the fuck is this?)

His expression shifted and his lone eye darkened, noticing her very sheer attire that left nothing to the imagination to what was underneath. Unfortunately to Aemond, if he could notice the outline of her breasts and hips, so could the eyes of his men. And he could not have that. No.

Her body was only for his eye to see. No one else.

So Aemond tore away his crimson cape from his armor, wrapping it delicately around her body, making her skin tingle with shivers.

“Thank you,” She manages to squeeze out. The top of Aemond’s lip lifted for a millisecond until it disappeared as he took heed of remnants of dried blood in the corner of her lip.

The one eyed prince became enraged, his lips turning into a sneer as his hand gripped tightly at the hilt of his sword. Who had dared to touch what was his? Especially in such a violent way.

“Which one?” Aemond whispered, his voice rough with an edge of unruliness. All she needed was to say the name of the assaulter and he would kill him.

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Aemond stepped impossibly closer, “Which one did this to you?” He asked again, tone harder as he gently traced his thumb to the swollen flesh of her lip. At her wince, Aemond was readying to kill the entirety of the army.

It didn’t go by unnoticed by Aemond, the way she shifted uncomfortably against the hands of the guard that was holding her in place.

Him.

He wanted so much to peel every inch of the man’s skin off his body for all the people of Harrenhal to see or mayhaps sever his fingers and make him eat it. Death by his dragon, Vhagar, was too quick. Aemond knew his dragon had not eaten and his corpse could be something of a light snack. But it all was too easy. He yearned for this man to die a painful death. Even if it meant one less guard for his brother’s army. Aemond abhorred any kind of violence directed towards women. Especially to his one and only.

“You,” Aemond pointed towards the guard with his finger. “Stand there” Aemond gestured towards the pile of decaying bodies of House Strong. She trembled in horror, her face going pale like the color of her chemise as she saw Aemond swiftly strike the guard right across his face in the same location he had slapped her.

She heard the man cry his apologies but Aemond was not having any of it. “It’s not me who you should be apologizing to. It’s her,” He pointed his sword towards her. The guard redirected his empty apologies to her but she stood frightened to say anything.

“Now which hand was it? The left or the right?” The man didn’t answer for he did not have time to. Aemond’s patience had always been thin, especially now as his one and only was here.

If she hadn’t thrown up before she did now as all hell broke loose. Two detached arms were added into the pile followed by high pitched screams of the now armless guard crying for mercy from the one eyed prince.

She should have run from such violence. Gone back to the little cottage from where she came from now that she had the chance to escape. However she was worried what the repercussions might be especially if what she read was true about the one eyed prince being ruthless and merciless.

What would he do to her?

Aemond had turned to face his one and only, wanting nothing more to take her up the castle and undress her and make her his now that he found her. To his dismay, he would not do such a thing until they were bound in marriage to one another. And when that day came he would be at her disposal worshiping every inch of her skin like the very image of a Queen she is.

“Never again,” He whispered before he turned. The guard’s head was separated from his body in the blink of an eye.

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#prince aemond #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen x reader #one shot #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #dark aemond x reader

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suckerforlovesblog · 10 months

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Pretty little thing

Pretty little thing Masterlist

Series summary: All Mr. Shelby wanted was to remarry. He had to find himself another wife after the death of Grace, not just to take care of his son Charlie but also to grant him access to the finer society of Birmingham. All he wanted the girl to be was a pretty little thing on his arm who simply submitted, obeyed and followed his orders.

And he did find the perfect girl - young, very good looking, of a good upbringing, smart but little did he expect her to have such a strong mind of her own…

All he wanted to do was break her in, like a horse had to be, and his new wife put up a good fight but eventually he is sure, he will break her and make her his completely.

Series warning: Dark!Tommy, toxic relationship, abuse, rape, non consensual intercourse, rough sex, age gap, Sir kink, choking - all the things that come with rough smut

Chapter 1: The perfect girl

Summary: Thomas Shelby is out searching for a wife. Most young women in Birmingham throw themselves at him but he doesn’t like that and goes out further to search for the perfect girl to be on his arm whilst hanging on his lips.

Chapter Warning: age gap, swearing, mentions of sex

Word count: 1.5k

~ tag list: @ncoleys , @amberpanda99 , @priyajoyy @tommyshelbywhore @swordofawriter @goth-cowgirl-03 @thenattitude @sheun-555 @meetmeatyourworst @bruher @frazie99 @blvebanisters @jessimay89 ~

I‘m very intrigued to hear your thoughts!

Also: please let me know what you would like to read! My requests are OPEN!

End of 1925:

Thomas Shelby was still grieving the death of his beloved wife Grace, even after an entire year, and everyone around him knew. He did blame himself for her death because he gave her the bewitched jewel to wear and even put it onto her himself. And she wore it that night, like a target painted on her forehead. But business had to keep going and Charlie desperately needed a mother figure in his life. Frances, the maid, was doing her best and Ada and Polly came to help out from time the time but it just wasn’t the same. He had even hired a governess, a very pretty thing, blonde and petite and at least fifteen years younger then him, to attend to his son’s needs because he couldn’t always be there for him. Thomas who was now nearing forty, also really enjoyed the governess presence, at least when he bend her over a table, fucked her from behind and she didn’t talk. Other than that he avoided her most of the time and let her do her work.

She fulfilled his needs but it didn’t help him with business.

So, Thomas Shelby called a family meeting at Arrow House and now everyone was sitting in front of him in the drawing room: Arthur and Linda, John and Esme, Polly and Michael, Ada, Finn, Charlie, Curly, Jeremia and his son, and Lizzie, of course. Sometimes he still slept with her but she would never be good enough to be his wife. He did like her but Lizzie’s social standing was beneath his new position as a business man.

“Thank you everyone for coming, eh!”, Tommy’s voice boomed: “I have an important announcement to make and I think I need everyone’s help.” All the people in the small room looked at him. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath and then said: “I decided that it’s time for me to remarry. It will be good for business.” Lizzie looked at him with wide sad eyes, knowing he would never share the feelings she had for him. Arthur stood up, smiling and went up to give Thomas a small hug, “Proud of you, Tom. Linda will help for sure.” Everyone else looked reassuring and Curly started babbling something no one was able to make out. “May I ask what kind of business you think of concluding?”, Polly said. “Yes but I will not tell just yet ‘eh.”, Tommy says, wetting his lip, “I just think a wife will open up new branches for us and make the company more respectable.” He then puts a cigarette between his lips, after fishing it out of the gold case from the pocket of his coat: “Anyways today is a day to celebrate and I invite you all to dinner. Now, Michael, John and Arthur stay, everyone else I see at dinner.” Thomas lights his cigarette whilst everyone leaves the room except for his brothers and Michael. He sits back down and explains the guys what he’s looking for in his future wife, mostly talking to Michael because the girl should be around his age, a very desirable age in his opinion. The four men make a plan to start the search for his wife tomorrow, starting with all the respectable families in Birmingham and then toast to their success with Irish whiskey, of course.

Early spring of 1926:

Thomas and Michael looked at all the young women in Birmingham, from a respectable upbringing at least. John joked that the two of them fucked their way through Birmingham and that was true to some extent. None of the girls satisfied Thomas’ needs however and Michael was growing tired. “If you keep going like that Tom, we will never find a girl for you. One is not tall enough, the next one doesn’t have enough tits, another one is too stupid, then she is pretty but not gorgeous. This is exhausting.”, Michael says looking at him from the drivers seat of the new Bentley Thomas got. The car was extremely luxurious and expensive.

“Well Michael, we gotta find the perfect girl for me, eh.”, he answered, taking a puff of his cigarette, “She needs to be smart and eloquent for me to be able to bring her around business partners. But she ought to be gorgeous as well because then negotiations will be even easier because men are dumbstruck if they’re accompanied by beautiful women.” Michael also lights a cigarette: “I get that Tom but if we keep going at that speed my dick won’t work anymore with the girl I may marry in the future because I emptied everything I have into some girls” They both laughed and kept driving to meet Alfie Solomons in Camden Town for business.

After driving past the first couple of buildings, he barks at Michael to stop the car and Thomas basically jumps out. He brushes his coat down, fishes a cigarette out of its case and puts it into it mouth leaving Michael more than puzzled. Thomas started walking towards a building, lighting the cigarette with a match and then enters a shop, a tailoring shop it appears. Michael still sits in the car, smoking a cigarette as well and waiting for him to come back.

Thomas looks around the shop, searching for the woman he just saw. He only saw her side profile but Tommy knew she was the one, now on his way to make her his, willing to do whatever it might take and hoping she wasn’t already married. Fuck, even if she was, he were to make her his for sure.

He was so occupied with his thoughts that he didn’t even hear the little bell ring as he entered through the door and then the people inside the shop turning to him. The pretty woman he searched for was sitting behind a desk to his right and he made his way towards her but was stopped abruptly in his step by the owner of the shop. “Sir”, the small man called out, “how may I help you?” “Aye, I need a new suit please and may I have a word with the young lady at the desk?”, Thomas answers. “For sure”, the man says in a low purr, scarred of the dominance in his voice, “we will leave you to it, Sir.” Tommy nods and the man leaves the shop through the back door, pulling a women behind him.

Thomas approaches the woman. She was already looking at him through her Y/E/C eyes, smiling lightly. “Hello miss, my name is Thomas Shelby, owner of the Shelby Company Limited. I saw you out in the street and you caught my eye”, he said and smiled an earnest smile. “My name is Y/N, my farther is the owner of the shop.”, the girl answered. He looked at her thoroughly and she got even more prettier the longer he looked at her. Although Thomas didn’t feel any affection towards her but she was very pretty for sure and he knew that she would be the perfect wife: young, a pretty face and fine features, nice hair, a slim figure. Her voice was very calm and had a pretty sound to it. He knew she would be the perfect little thing on his arm. He looks at her with his icy blue eyes, “Tell me sweetheart, how old are you?” “I just turned 18, Sir”, she said. The obedience and innocence in her voice made him hard, without help anyways, for the first time since Grace died. His heart ached for his lost love but he needed this to work and pushed the face of his dead wife out of his thoughts. “You’re not married, eh?”, he asked the girl more nearly twenty years younger then him. She shook his head, seemingly submitting him to, scarred of his booming figure. He really liked that and smiled: “Please get your farther to me, I need to speak with him. In private. And take the measurements for the suit I ordered, will you sweetheart?” She got up, nodding and getting her farther at first, afterwards measuring him and writing all the details down for his order. She was sent out shortly after, leaving her farther with the unknown man with the pretty blue eyes.

“Tell me Sir, is everything to your liking so far”, the old man asked Thomas. “Yes, indeed”, he answered with his thick Birmingham accent, “I would like to marry your daughter. I know this sounds rushed but she immediately caught my eye and I can provide for her very well.” The older man, the girls farther, looked at him reserved and averse. Thomas looked at him with his blue piercing eyes, radiating pride and dominance and the older man submitted. “Listen, eh, I give you a great deal for her and promise to provide and care for the girl.”, Thomas says, putting another cigarette between his lips, letting it dangle for a little while before lightning it with a match.

He pursued the conversation for a little while longer, settling everything important, like the wedding date and the money the family will receive. After it was all settled Thomas went outside of the shop, calling Michael to set up and then seal the document.

The girl came back into the shop, Thomas walked over to her and put his hand on her waist. She looked up at him confused but he just smiled at Michael: “Meet my darling fiancé, Y/N. We will be married in two weeks time and she will be Mrs. Shelby.”

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #Thomas Shelby #tommy shelby #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby fanfiction #tommy shelby series #tommy shelby smut #tommy shelby rough smut #tommy shelby x reader #dark!tommy shelby #dark!tommy

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Text

Wicked Felina (The Girl That I Love)

Part 1 - El Paso

Azriel x Reader - Angst - Smut - MDNI

The darkness within her became his obsession. She was his. Didn’t she know? When Azriel spies his wicked mate with another male, when he kills that male, what he knows as life shifts eternally. No longer is there life. No longer is there death. There is only Felina. Felina who has many secrets.

Series Masterlist - Part 2

Warnings: threat of self-harm/suicide, assumed character death (you’ll see), implied rape/non-con (some gross, shitty males discussing it in a tavern), dub-con, violence, obsession, dark themes, sexual content

One hour ago

Rhysand

All Rhys knew was that when Azriel returned from what was supposed to be a short inspection of the Illyrian war camps, he was different. His shadows whirred violently; his eyes… there was a darkness in them that he’d not seen even within the depths of harrowing interrogations; and while his scent remained his usual cedar chilled mist an iron tang tinged it.

“Az?” Rhys asked cautiously, trailing his brother up the stairs

“Not now.” Azriel growled, clenched fists shaking, pupils blown wide, sweat beading his brow.

Rhys said nothing more, following the frantic male to his room. Well- until Azriel slammed the door shut in his face.

Message received.

A few minutes later, Azriel re-emerged into the living area, a packed duffel bag in tow.

“Az? Talk to me.” Rhys pleaded. Fighting against the urge to dive into his mind. Azriel’s shields were ironclad but Rhys could break through them if absolutely necessary.

“Just stop. I’m fine.” Azriel growled.

He sure as shit didn’t look fine.

“I need to go handle some personal things. I have never asked for leave for anything. Can you please just allow me a couple of weeks?”

The High Lord’s brows creased, voice raising “Weeks? With no provided reasoning?”

“I said that it was personal.”

“As your employer, I can accept that it’s personal. As your family, Az, come on. What happened?”

“I’m leaving whether you grant me this or not.”

Azriel and Rhysand had many battle-of-wills over the years but this was different. Rhys could feel it in the very marrow of his bones.

And Azriel’s demeanor - Fuck, he’d always been dangerous but he was outright predatory in the moment.

Rhys shook his head. “I should kick your ass for talking to me like this but fine - go. Two weeks, Azriel, and then you’re back here or I tear the world apart looking for you. You aren’t abandoning us without reason. I will not accept it.”

Azriel’s only response was a tick of the jaw before stepping out the front door and launching skyward at breakneck speed.

Rhys spent the next hour nursing a glass of whiskey, fighting an internal battle of leaving his brother be or going to find him. Just when he began to lose that battle and head out searching, Cassian burst through the door. His hair disheveled from the wind and caked with blood, his eyes puffy and red as if he’d been crying the entire flight.

Rhys froze in his tracks at the sight of his brother who took a few steps forward before falling to the floor, knees giving out as he let out a deep, world-shattering scream.

Rhys sent his darkness to caress his mind, gently prodding for what could have left Cassian in such a state only to be met with crushing waves of grief. Rhys pushed his consciousness with great effort to cut through the viscous surge of emotion desperate for any sense of clarity.

He’d almost reached his own daemati limit when he was abruptly greeted by flashes of memory. Snow painted bright-red with blood. Azriel laying limp. Ash arrows littering his body. Lifeless hazel eyes. Long dark hair. Red lips. Eyes darker than night. Sounds of a female voice screaming. Tears falling onto blood coated hands.

Suddenly Rhys was thrust from Cassian’s mind as he fought against the induced slumber. Cassian’s body shuttered as tears broke free once again. His words slurred as he tried to communicate within his half dazed state, “Go. Ste-steppes.” Another broken sob. “Az is d- Oh gods!” He cried out. “Dead. And s-she’s”

“Who?” Rhys’ mind flashed to the female crouched over Azriel, screaming.

“Oh fuck, R-rhys. Go!!!”

Cassian fell back into his dream state before Rhys could press further.

Rhys willed himself to remain as calm as possible. Fighting to keep his mental voice steady before the grief could overtake him as he called for Amren and Feyre.

Elain, who had been in the garden, would stay with Nyx. Amren would keep an eye on Cassian and throw additional wards up, while Feyre retrieved Nesta from the House of Wind. Once Feyre returned she would be able to soothe his mind.

Feyre’s mental voice wavered, heartbreak surging through the bond at the news, but she agreed to keep details private until Rhys understood exactly what had happened.

——————

Three weeks ago

Azriel

War Camp inspections had a way of bringing out the worst in Azriel. As if his tolerance level for Illyrians was not already at a miniscule level, these inspections always seemed to inflate the egos of the Illyrians. Camp Lords and their cronies marching into meetings with puffed out chests and mouths spewing hatred particularly grated on his typically infallible patience.

Azriel had been staying at the River House for some time now, carefully avoiding Elain as much as possible, and trying his best to avoid giving Rhys anything to pull rank over. And fuck, he was so tired after a day of negotiations. With nothing but tension awaiting him at home and overwhelming fatigue, he found himself at a shitty Inn in the Illyrian Steppes.

He’d seated himself at a small corner table, shrouding himself in shadow as he observed the belligerent patrons of Rosa’s Cantina, a shoddy tavern attached to the Inn.

“Witch.” He heard a group of males call her. Their eyes fixed on a stunning female swaying her hips in time to the music flowing from a rickety piano at the front of the bar.

Remaining silent, the Spymaster listened to the ruddy males lecherous conversation.

“I wouldn’t mind being under her spell.”

“You’ll sooner find your balls nailed to a stake than completion - even with tits like that it’s not worth it.”

Azriel snarled to himself. Even outside of the Illyrian camps, the males in the Steppes were abhorrent. Backwards in every way. The woman continued twirling, her raven-black hair flowing with each movement of her supple body.

“Not if I tie her down first.” A burly male chimed in, his slurred voice gruff.

“I’ll bet you five marks that you won’t survive the encounter with all of your appendages.”

“Look at what the whore is wearing. She wants it whether she knows or not.”

The brute of a male stumbled up to her and Azriel sighed to himself, he really didn’t want to get into it tonight. But….

The male put his greasy hands on her and Azriel instantly jolted upright, preparing to step in. She tried pulling away as the male yanked her into him. The female whirled in his arms, looking up to him like a lover. The male immediately dropped his arms, palms in the air as if placating a wild animal, he began stepping away slowly. When he turned around, Azriel noticed the blood drained from his face as he threw gold marks on the table and immediately left the cantina. The males only laughed and went back to their drinking.

“Wicked Felina” they called her.

“Eh? How much money have you won off the males she scares away now?” One of the patrons chimed in.

“Enough to cover these boys.” The male slapped the new pair of leather boots adorning his feet.

Azriel hadn’t seen what the male saw in her face when she looked to him but his shadows whispered to him.

“Darkness”

“Like calls to like”

“Look”

And maybe it was the stale mead he’d downed but he did. He strode right up to the female and could have sworn he felt time stand still as the patrons of the bar watched.

He didn’t touch her, only spoke in a low tone, “May I have a dance?”

The female whirled towards him and Azriel had to fight to keep his footing steady. Before him stood the most breathtaking female he’d ever seen.

Her eyes met his and his heart sputtered as he stared into the depth of them. Blacker than night, constellations and blood and something “other” swimming inside of them. He could sense her darkness and instead of his typical urge to question, it drew him in like metal to a magnet.

As she took him in, he heard her heart skip a beat for only a moment, before that darkness invaded his senses once again. No, it wasn’t darkness to run away from at all. It was alluring, captivating, dangerous. And he wanted to drink it all in.

“You are a brave male.” She spoke with a slight, unfamiliar accent. So similar to those of Velaris but with something else mixed in.

Azriel’s shadows whirled around the female, winding through her hair and between her fingers. She didn’t balk from them, she only remained intensely focused on him.

Her scent surrounded them and he couldn’t breathe the female in deeply enough.

An hour later he found himself driving into her. Her breasts bouncing so beautifully that he nearly came from the sight alone. He’d spent so long fisting his cock as he fantasized of Elain that he’d forgotten just how glorious the feel of a tight cunt wrapped around him felt. And this female, Felina, her moans were like a sirens call, drawing him so deeply into her that he didn’t know where she ended and he begun.

He would have gone slowly with her, tenderly, worshipped every centimeter of cool, exposed skin, but she had begged him so prettily to fuck her until she forgot what she was. Who was he to deny a female who knew exactly what she wanted. He’d never fucked a female so hard and still she pleaded for more, sensing that he was holding back. When he finally let go of his restraint, he had to dig his nails into her moonlight pale flesh just to keep her from sliding away. She bit her lip and held his gaze through every thrust. Those damning eyes looking at him like she could read every fucking tendril of his own inner-void.

When she came, he came with her. The Inn shaking with the intensity of their combined orgasms. As he came down from the high, the darkness in her eyes banked momentarily a deep, blue flashing in them before once again overtaking them. He gasped sharply as a snap yanked in his chest. Gold tethering him to her.

“Mate” his shadows sang

“Our mate, our mate.”

Azriel’s breathing grew frantic. She climbed out of the bed, her exposed backside red from the slaps he’d pressed to her round ass. “Did you feel that?”

She turned her head over her shoulder, those eyes meeting his again. “Feel what?”

Azriel’s heart sank. “Nothing.”

“Hm.” She shrugged. “Intresting.” And poured a glass of water from a pitcher on an oak dresser with nonchalance. As if they hadn’t just had life-altering sex, like the ground itself hadn’t shook with the force of their coupling.

Her mouthwatering breasts bounced with each step toward him, her lightly toned abdomen baring silver, faded scars.

“Who gave you those?” Azriel asked.

“I’m as willing to talk about them as you are about those.” She nodded toward his hands.

Touché

“Curiosity can be a dangerous thing.” She stated before bringing his head to her chest and running delicate fingers through his hair until he drifted into a deep slumber full of darkness and a golden thread.

When he woke, she was gone.

And he would have thought he’d dreamt it all, had it not been for the nearly-healed crescent moon imprint of her nails littering his body. He hummed in satisfaction at the sight.

He only hoped that next time she’d leave marks deep enough to scar. He should have staked his claim on her too.

——————

Two weeks ago

Azriel

He searched for her, frantically, day in and day out but she was nowhere to be found. How could he have found his mate and been so foolish to lose her in such a short period of time. He hadn’t even told her his name.

Eventually, he had to take pause, and venture into the camps due to a couple of missing Illyrians. Through his questioning, he’d found that the males were shaking, reporting a fanged creature that swept from the trees and picked off several of their men, one by one. When they returned to reclaim the bodies, all that was left were scattered body parts. Fingers, tongues, and cocks mostly.

He remembered the whispers in the taverns of “Wicked Felina.” Surely it was just paranoia.

Azriel returned to the tavern each night, hiding outside within his shadows. She was never there.

His patience was infallible, no amount of space or time would deter him. He would find his mate, he would embrace that pit of darkness dwelling within her - even if she were the creature the men were speaking of. She hadn’t hurt him, she’d only awoken something within him. His Felina may be dark but she is not the villain. She couldn’t be.

He pushed the sight of the ghostly pale brute running away from her at Rosa’s far into the back of his mind.

——————

One week ago

Azriel

Something tugged at him that night, urged him to find her again. Felina had become the focal point of his thoughts, consumed with her 24/7.

He was a desperate male, he wanted - no, needed - to know every piece of this dark anomaly. Mind, body, spirit. He’d sought someone whose light cast upon his obsidian soul for so long - finding hope in the radiant enigma that is Mor and the gentle, sweet presence of Elain. But all along the mother knew he needed someone who could step into his shadow and find solace. When Felina stared into his eyes, he knew she saw it, saw home. He saw it in her too.

She was so new to him and yet so familiar.

His brothers would tell him he was infatuated, that this was just another Mor, but they would be so far from the truth. This was a need, as essential to him as water or air. He thrummed with desire for his Wicked Felina.

She was the other half of his soul and he would not lose out on the opportunity to make her his.

Tonight was the night, she’d be there, he felt it deep within.

And she was.

Not inside. No, in a dark corner of the alley adjacent to Rosa’s Cantina. With a silver haired High-Fae male, nearly as tall as Azriel, muscled, well-groomed.

And she - her back was pressed against the wall. Her head flung back from the crook of his neck it where her face had been burrowed, pure ecstasy written all over those seductive features. A moan escaping her plush lips.

And then he saw it. Blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.

No.

This couldn’t be.

He HURT her. She didn’t want this. Didn’t she know that he was her soul-bonded mate? She wouldn’t fuck someone in the dark corner of an alley willingly.

Didn’t she know she was better than that? Didn’t she know she was everything?

Visions of the scars on her abdomen and of the male who joked about tying her down to have his way with her came to mind.

No. Not his Felina. Nobody would harm her now that she was his.

Azriel didn’t think further as he barreled for them, unsheathing truth-teller and slitting the males throat before he could even lock eyes with him.

Felina let out a quiet inhale of shock, onyx eyes blown wide.

“No. No. No.” She dropped to the male. Her nostrils flaring at the sight of him, his bloodied neck, checking for a pulse.

There was none.

Felina looked up to him with near-black, pleading eyes. “Azriel.”

And despite the peril of the moment, the fact that he clearly misread the situation, his name rolling off those pretty red lips made it all worth it.

Until the thought occurred to him. He’d never told her his name. “How?”

“Az….” Her voice cracked, the slightest bit of silver lined her eyes before darkness began radiating from her, rage filling those deeper than night eyes. Her voice became cold, deadly. “I told you that curiosity was dangerous.”

Shouts from bystanders rang out, creating panic among the villagers.

“You need to go now. They’ll recognize you.”

He paused, mouth gaping as she looked to him. He knew what she was saying but remained frozen in place.

“Azriel, please!” She cried.

There it was. His name again. Had she been as taken by him as he was by her? Had she sought him out too?

It was then that she unsheathed a dagger and held it to her own throat. “If you don’t leave, I will end it all right now.”

If he’d have looked closely, he would have seen the way her hand shook, the way she couldn’t quite touch the blade to her pale skin.

“I will find you again, Felina.” He vowed - threatened - Don’t even think about escaping me. You’re mine.

“Go.” She mouthed.

——————

Four hours ago

Azriel

Staying away for days was impossible. When she’s wander at night, he’d watch her from afar, remaining unseen. The small village mourned the dead male, apparently the esteemed ruler of this shit hole place. He caught glimpses of a mourning Felina. He felt something in the bond but he couldn’t quite make it out.

Resentment, perhaps? Jealousy? Longing?

And despite the black apparel she donned through the village, her face remained neutral with only a tinge of sadness.

Villagers whispered as she walked by. She paid them no mind.

He imagined they likely suspected the death was over her. Azriel’s shadows reported he had a wife. Why would his Felina sleep with a married male? If he was willing to cheat on his wife with her, he couldn’t have been a good male. Azriel did right by the females for eliminating him from the picture, right?

It was then that a flash of auburn appeared. The male’s wife with several large males behind her carrying torches. “Whore!” She spat. “Only fucking my husband wasn’t good enough, was it?”

“You had to sleep around with another male, one you surely had under your spell, just as you had with mine. You vile witch! And now my husband is dead because some enchanted soul grew jealous over you. You will burn for this!”

Suddenly she was placed in shackles, his shadows zooming into her vision. She must have noticed them as she whipped her head searching for him. She mouthed “no”, shaking her head in the direction his shadows raced off to. They came back.

“Blue not black. Blue not black.”

“Still beating. Still beating.”

“Mate. Mate. Mate.”

It was then that wings burst out of her back. Like Illyrian wings but white, the light casting a holographic range of gentle hues of blues and purple, and pinks. Talons emerged from her nails, but her lovely face remained impassive.

His shadows stirred aggressively.

“Alike. Alike. Alike.”

Another shadow shot back to him, beginning to report something when Azriel saw the pyre lighting in town as the villagers threw obscenities in her direction.

Felina held her head high, accepting her fate so easily.

The fire grew and Azriel once again acted on instinct. They couldn’t take her from him. And to burn her? Rage roared within him.

Azriel flew in, obliterating the large males jerking her toward the fire.

“The Shadowsinger!” someone cried out. Azriel saw nothing but Felina and the rising flames. Never would his mate be subjected to licks of flame marring her flesh. She was far too precious to burn.

Anyone who tried to lay hands on he or Felina were eviscerated. “The key!” She cried, pointing to a dead male. She ran toward it. Azriel launched in front of her, his speed overtaking hers as he retrieved it. She caught the key but her talons made it impossible to unlock the chains quickly. Azriel grabbed the key, unshackling her, the talons and wings disappearing.

“We have to go!” She shouted. Azriel caught her, launching skyward, right as an arrow shot toward them, and straight into Azriel’s back. He fought through it, he had to get her to safety. Another arrow flew through the air, narrowly missing Felina. The attempt on his mate triggering a knee-jerk reaction in Azriel who turned to send a blast of power at the bastard shooting the arrows.

He was struck in the side as another arrow met him. Azriel shot another blast of power in the direction that it came from.

Azriel could feel power rumbling under Felina’s surface. “We don’t have time! You’re hurt.”

Azriel bit back a cry at the pain radiating through his body, the blood not slowing as it should. He began feeling faint, fevered. He struggled through it, needing to make it as far away as he could but his vision began to blur as his body weakened. Felina was crying out something but he couldn’t hear her. All there was was pain and the cool press of her body against his. Gods, she was so cold.

“We need to land, Azriel! You can’t make it further.” She commended. He felt the sting of her palm on his face. “Wake up! Land!”

The slap along with her frantic voice roused Azriel enough to land them, very roughly. He crashed down on top of her.

“Felina….” He rasped.

“Shh.” She hushed him. “Save your breath. I’m okay.” Reassuring him through staggered breaths. “We need to get you to help.”

Azriel placed a hand on hers. “Too far. There’s nothing.”

“There’s got to be something!” She choked out.

Commotion erupted from the trees as a group of males from the village drew toward them. Their torches lighting the night and their bows drawn and ready.

Azriel used the little remaining might he had to push himself up. Felina throwing herself on top of him, her hands coated in his blood.

“I’m sorry for this, Azriel.” She spoke and ripped the poisoned arrow out of him, stabbing it right into her bicep. “Fuck!” She cursed. Suddenly the talons and wings were back. Her scent shifted into something so fucking familiar that it made Azriel’s heart ache, and screams echoed as she shot bursts of power at them. The range was short and the damage limited but it slowed them.

A commotion distracted the group of males as flares of red shot from the brush. A large winged male approaching from the night.

“Cass.” Felina whispered in awe.

Azriel’s vision went dark again, his conscious only picking up on words as the males screaming became less and less with each blast of power from Cassian and Felina.

A light caress came over Azriel’s mind, stroking it into submission, his pain easing. This was it. He wasn’t going to make it out of here.

And at that moment the caress broke free, Felina releasing a piercing scream. He tried moving, tried to console his mate, but the arrow that had just lodged in his heart was too much.

Azriel fought to see her one last time, her darkened eyes now shining like the night itself.

“Mate.” He whispered.

“I know, Azriel. I know.” She sobbed. Caressing his face with those delicate, chilly hands.

All Azriel remembered was the darkness embracing him once again. The pain easing as he heard Cassian’s voice.

“How?” Cassian’s booming voice cracked.

“Later, Cassian. He needs help.” Her voice was so pitiful. Broken.

Azriel’s breathing grew so shallow, that sweet darkness lulling him, even his shadows were silent. All he saw in his mind was her but she was fading. Her touch no longer registering to his senses.

He tried fighting it but there was no use as Azriel took his final breath.

“He’s dead, Cassian.”

——————

Two hours ago

Cassian

Cassian had never flown so fast in his life.

Oh gods, his brother was dead. The female, she refused to leave his side until he left to get Rhys.

His mind roared at him that he should have brought her with him. But why? Who was she?

Who was she to Azriel?

All he could remember as the tears flowed freely was that his brother was dead. That he heard the call for help from the village, that the Shadowsinger had gone mad, only to find a group of men on the attack and his brother incapacitated.

He had to get to Rhys quickly and let him know about Azriel, about the female.

——————

Present

Rhysand

Rhys winnowed to the vicinity of where Cassian had been in the memories when he’d held his mind. He flew until he found the bodies of several men. This was the clearing Cassian had been in and in the center of the clearing was caked blood.

Caked blood and no Azriel. No female.

But the blood, there was so much. He couldn’t have survived.

Right?

——————

Two hours ago

Azriel

The darkness on Azriel’s mind eased only slightly. The crippling pain too much to bear.

He opened his eyes to his version of heaven, to his mate’s face. The arrow removed from her arm.

He was in so much pain only managing to rasp out, “Can’t leave you.”

“You have to make a choice now.” She cupped his hand. “There was no other way.” She spoke to herself more than him. “There’s no way Cassian could have made it back in time.”

She was trying to convince herself. His decision was already made.

She shook her head, bracing herself for his response. “You have only a few moments left.”

The black fog cleared from his mind, every ounce of pain returning, but his eyes opened.

“Look at me, Azriel.”

He blinked and where her canines had been were sharp fangs. “I can save you but I can’t guarantee this existence is worth it. I am still figuring it out for myself.”

To his credit, Azriel didn’t balk. A chance to be with his mate… his Felina. He groaned as he turned his head, exposing his neck to her.

“Azriel, if I do this. You are bound to me. I know I’m your mate but you don’t know me. What if I’m… too much? Can you bare that?”

He tried to speak. She would never be too much. He only kept his neck exposed, a warning rattle escaping his chest.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, as she pressed her fangs into his neck.

Blinding light erupted through him along with the worst pain he’d felt in centuries. Tears fell from those otherworldly eyes of night onto his neck.

He fought through the pain, biting back screams. He would be strong for her.

As she drank, she caressed his hair. A slight whimper and the scent of arousal escaping her. She tensed as she recognized the scent. And he could feel a hint of shame from her end of the bond.

Azriel had only heard legends of vampyr’s. Stories told in the camps to scare children who were prone to wandering off and now here she was feeling shame for her own body’s response to having him at the most intimate level.

As she drank, little gulps escaping her, he felt his strength returning. He raised a hand and grabbed her breast, massaging it as she lapped at his blood. A silent communication that whatever she was feeling did not frighten him, was not unwelcome.

Her body relaxed only slightly but he could sense her relief.

The pain began subsiding and Azriel’s strength had already returned in full, in excess, even.

Her drinking slowed and she fought against the urge to keep drinking, the greedy need for blood raging through her.

Azriel raised his hand from her breast to her face, stroking his thumb across her cheek. She leaned into it, grounding herself.

Suddenly she pulled herself off, gasping. Her chest heaving. Pain filled her eyes as she stared up at him. But he felt… incredible. Euphoric.

And there his mate was, reeking of sweet arousal. Chest heaving. Trickles of blood dripping from her mouth.

“You have to go now, Azriel. Get what you need and come back to me.”

He could hardly think. His need to be inside of her overwhelming every sense.

“Azriel. Listen!” She spoke firmly. “You have a couple of hours at most. Go home, get any healing tonics or sedatives that you may have, clothes, and blankets and come right back here.”

“I don’t-“ he started.

“You will. Can you still winnow?”

Azriel nodded. Had he winnowed in front of her before?

“Go. Now. Before Cassian gets home and bombards you with questions.”

Azriel didn’t want to leave, growing irate at the thought of it.

“I know it’s hard for you to leave. It’s a culmination of our newly tethered bond and likely the mating bond, Azriel.”

He stayed in place.

Finally she approached him. Staring straight past his eyes and into the depths of his soul as the urge to obey her taking overtook him. “Go now.”

Without another word, he left, winnowing directly to the River House, collecting a bag, and leaving Rhys with far too many questions. He prayed to the mother that he wouldn’t track him.

——————

One week later

Azriel

She’d begged him not to take her but she was declining far too quickly. They’d spent the past seven days in a daze. He had quickly gone from euphoric to delirious once returning from the River House.

And just as he’d made a life altering choice to be eternally bonded to her when she’d turned him, Felina made the choice to accept the mating bond by allowing him to feed off of her.

The combination of blood lust and the mating frenzy sent him into a spiral. They barely talked in the past few days, they’d have eternity to do that. He spent more time inside of her than out but she… she refused to feed off of him, citing that it was too risky with his newly turned state. When he wasn’t rutting into her, he was hunting for game but the blood wasn’t enough for her. He cursed himself for taking so much of her blood in his frenzied state.

She repeatedly asked that he not take her to his family but they would understand. It was the only option at this point. Her scent began shifting into that strange familiar aroma again, the darkness of her eyes swirling with flecks of blue. That “other” aspect to her diminishing slightly.

As she fought her consciousness, she barely managed to whisper “There’s more.” before going unconscious.

He’d waited so long to find his mate.

She’d saved him.

He didn’t want to go against her wishes but her condition was deteriorating rapidly. Her fever raising, her once-cool skin now burning as whimpers escaped her lips.

He did the only thing he could and prayed to the Mother that Felina would forgive him.

He flew her home.

They landed on the River House lawn in the middle of the night. Rhys appeared with a crack of thunder to confront the threat that breached his wards. Feyre, Elain, Cassian, and Nesta rushing out behind him, their eyes wide with shock.

Rhys shuddered, falling to his knees before his brother. “Azriel. Thank the mother you’re home.” He sobbed.

Felina let out a pitiful moan. Sweat beading on her brow. Her cool skin now radiating waves of heat. She slowly, weakly opened her weary eyes, the swirling black now bleeding into a blend of ultraviolet blue.

Rhys approached the female in his arms, Azriel tightening his grip on her. Time stood still as Rhys gently touched her face, carefully turning her head toward him. His face of relief crumpling into something earth shattering, the mountains quaking as he fell to his knees.

Azriel started, “This is Felina, my m-“

Rhys interrupted shaking his head as let out pained, joyous laughter. “No, Az.” He choked out. “Not Felina.”

Fighting to regain composure, Rhys clarified. “That’s Y/N.”

Azriel gasped as those now violet-blue eyes peered up into his, his jaw dropping as he carefully went to his knees with her in his arms.

That scent. Those eyes of night. Azriel’s mate was-

Rhys gave a disbelieving smile his voice again breaking at the sight before him.

“My sister.”

——————————————

A/N: Thank you for reading! For now, this is a one-shot. I have left openings in the story with the potential for it to become a series or at least part two with an explanation but have not yet decided.

This fic is loosely inspired by an old-western song called “El Paso” that I listened to growing up with my grandmother. The song is where I chose my pen name of “Felina” from. You may also recognize “Wicked Felina” as the title of the final episode of the show “Breaking Bad”

ACOTAR general tag list: @lilah-asteria

#acotar angst #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #Azriel #Azriel x reader #Rhysand #Cassian #azriel shadowsinger #sarah j maas #a court of silver flames #a court of wings and ruin #a court of mist and fury #a court of frost and starlight #Shadowsinger

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mcumorningstar · 2 months

Text

A Rose By Any Other Name || Part Three

part one part two

series pairing: tommy shelby x reader, hints of john shelby x reader, hints of tommy x lizzie

warnings: 18+ minors dni, implied rape (the aftermath so no detail), mild violence, typical peaky blinders content

summary: After a change of plans, you find yourself wondering why Tommy invited you to the Epsom Derby at all.

author’s note: I wanted to include the Shelby’s gypsy roots (however brief) but I do apologise for any inaccuracies. I have started a taglist for this series so let me know if you want to be kept updated :)

Tommy banged on your door late on Friday. At first, you worried you slept in but it was still dark outside. Slightly drunk, he walked through the threshold without an invite and leaned against the wall in the kitchen.

“I’ve got business in London,” Tommy’s deep voice rumbled in the dark of your house, “You’re to get the train to Epsom with Polly tomorrow at 9.”

“Polly?!” Your eyes widened and Tommy whispered, “Easy, ey, she can smell fear.”

An amused scoff escaped your lips. Tommy Shelby just made a joke. The pleasant rumble of his laughter softened your nerves. Tommy may be the devil by reputation but the man stood in your kitchen was... different.

“What’s in London?” It was a risk to ask but he was in a mood you’ve never seen before. There was a playfulness to his usual self.

“Arthur. Arthur is in London. May I smoke?”

You nodded and he lit a cigarette. Eyes trained to his every move, he was a vision in your humble living space as smoke fell from his lips.

“I’ll come find you tomorrow,” He pointed at you with his cigarette between two fingers and licked his lips, “You owe me a drink, remember?”

Failing to conceal a smirk, you raised your eyebrows at him and he turned to go, the shadow of a smile on his lips. You haven’t even fucked him and you were starting to understand Lizzie’s infatuation with him. He was unlike any man you’ve ever met.

The Epsom Derby was a magnificent spectacle; people with more money than sense flocked in the masses to the grand occasion. Everyone was in the best clothes, ready to indulge in a long day of drinking, dancing and gambling.

Alongside you, Polly strutted around the place as if she was King George himself and you meekly followed, taking in the extravagant sites.

“Chin up,” Polly grinned around her cigarette as you walked through the Derby, “Don’t let these bastards think they’re better than you. You’re a Blinder today.”

Lost for words, you accepted that fate and wondered if Tommy told her why you were there. From her statement, he must need you for a business dealing but that still didn’t make sense.

Why would he require your amateur assistance on one of the most important days of his career?

Stopping by a white fence, Polly scoped the area. Racehorses were displayed on the other side of the fence, trotting by with their trainers holding the reins.

Among the crowd, you spotted Tommy as he rushed down a set of steps with a blond woman in white and pink. A risky colour to wear in a field. Was that May Carlton, the posh horse trainer Lizzie told you about?

“Are you going to lay a bet, y/n?” Polly asked cheerfully, although her eyes scanned the crowds in search of something, or someone.

“I’ve never gambled before,” You realised, making Polly laugh, “But why not start at the most prestigious gambling event in England?”

She smirked at that and looked over at you, “I see why he likes you.”

An inaudible sound fell from your mouth as you struggled with what to say. What did she mean by that?

“Oh there’s Lizzie and Jeremiah,” Polly pointed to the pair as they walked through the crowd.

Panic rose in your chest, pulling at your lungs until a sharp gasp fought the taut struggle for air. Polly turned to look at you, sizing you up.

“Lizzie doesn’t know I’m here.”

Polly rose her eyebrows at that, amused by how boringly ridiculous it was.

Sighing you looked over to Lizzie, “She can’t know Tommy invited me. I don’t why he did and I can’t have her thinking there’s something going on. And I could hardly say no to the devil himself.”

“I think this is the most women my nephew has ever juggled at once,” Polly sounded a little impressed, “He has his father’s devilment. Lizzie’s a fool if she hasn’t realised it yet.”

Taking a deep breath, you nodded and listened to her. Tommy looked around fruitlessly before heading up the stairs with Lizzie a few steps behind.

Jeremiah disappeared into the crowd again before Polly called his name. The man approached with a warm smile.

“Jeremiah, this is y/n. I’ve some business to attend to so would you be kind enough to accompany her? You can look away when she lays her bet,” Polly addressed him but kept a comforting hand against your shoulder.

“Right this way,” Jeremiah smiled, gesturing through the crowd. Polly squeezed your arm and disappeared in the opposite direction. Jeremiah was a preacher, a friendly one at that, and so your nerves were at ease as you walked to your seats.

The race started and finished before you saw anybody else. Police officers left their posts and swarmed like flies on shit.

Now things started to make sense. The Blinders were burning other bookies’ gambling licenses, eliminating the competition. More money and business for the Shelby’s.

Bypassing the hysteria of the police and the indifference of the toffs, you made your way to the bar.

The blonde woman in pink and white stood by the bar in a heated conversation with a woman in red. Are these the women Polly joked were being juggled?

Abort, abort!

As the bar was off-limits, you redirected yourself to find John or Arthur. Surely they’ll know where the man who invited you was.

Sitting at a rickety table was the two Shelby brothers and Lizzie. Her glassy eyes caught you before you saw her.

“Y/n?” Her voice was weak and her hair fell in front of her face. A cigarette hung from her fingers, hands shaking as she held it to her lips.

Arthur’s thunderous voice, fuelled by the cocaine he was lining up, overpowered Lizzie’s meekness.

“What you doing here?”

Fuck it. Lizzie’s seen you now.

“Ask your brother,” You took a seat, “Fuck knows why, haven’t seen him all day.”

Lizzie glanced across the table at you, her head hung low but her eyes now fixed on you. A croaky gasp caught in her throat and a wave of sobs spilled from her.

“Lizzie?” You dragged your chair beside her and rubbed her back, “Lizzie, what’s happened?”

Sitting closer, you could see a bruise was forming on her cheek and a bloody scrape stretched across her forehead.

John leaned over your shoulder, the warmth of his chest against your back, “She was working. Caught a nasty toff. We’ll get her home safe.”

His face was so close to yours as your head snapped towards him in shock. Genuine sympathy was in his eyes and a soft smile graced his lips.

“But-“ You began before Lizzie cut you off, her voice thick with tears, “It’s fine.”

Your brows pulled together as you watched her wipe her wet cheeks. Lizzie didn’t whore anymore. Her only exception was Tommy.

“Is he here?” You turned to John, who shrugged with a mouth full of whiskey. Sighing and silently seething, you helped Lizzie to her feet, “Let’s get you home.”

As if she was in a daze, she complied and she didn’t speak another word for the rest of the day.

Once John and Arthur dropped you off at home, Thelma helped you get Lizzie to bed. Her wide eyed stare bore into you, “What happened, y/n?”

But you didn’t have time to explain. Lizzie was in safe hands and you had a man to find. From the limited time you’ve known Thomas Shelby, he was entirely focused on business and, after an event like the Epsom Derby, you knew exactly where he’d be.

Dusk had long settled and the danger of Small Heath loomed over you but it wasn’t long before you stormed into Shelby Company Ltd.

The double doors to Tommy’s office were wide open, as he and Michael toasted a whiskey. In a fit of rage, you marched right towards him.

“Y/n?” Michael asked, his eyebrows pinched together as he looked between you and Tommy. Your eyes didn’t waver from Tommy, grabbing the lapels of his coat and shoving him against his desk. His glass tumbler fell from his hand and hit the wooden floor with a thud.

The open palm of your right hand met his cheek, clipping at his ear too. So swift and firm that his head shot to the side.

Shaking him, you demanded, “What did you do?! She can barely fucking speak!”

You slapped him again and shoved at his chest. It was nothing compared to his past pains, you knew that, but you didn’t care. Tommy grabbed your wrists and you were powerless to stop him. He simply held you there as you struggled in his grip.

Michael put his glass down and approached you with his hands in front of him, like he was trying to calm an angry bear.

“Y/n-“ Michael started but Tommy spoke, keeping his eyes on yours, “Leave us.”

Michael nodded and hesitantly left you alone. You stopped struggling, almost collapsing into Tommy’s chest at the exhaustion of the past few hours.

“Is that why you invited me?”

It was out there now. A question you didn’t know if you wanted to know the answer to.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that,” He screwed his eyes shut and met yours again, “The path was blocked off for the King. I got there as soon as I could.”

He was telling the truth. Genuine remorse.

“Is that why you invited me?” You repeated with a sign, resigned to your fate.

Tommy let go of your wrists and wrapped his arms around your waist. As soon as his hands landed on your back, you shoved them off and stepped back.

“You,” You spluttered at his nerve, “You seriously think that’s appropriate for this conversation? I’m not going to be another woman on the roster.”

“Ey?”

“The woman in pink and white? Was that May or was that another woman at your beck and call? Lizzie’s on there too but rule me out,” The finality of your statement crumbled slightly as you caught his eyes.

Tommy cleared his throat and, when you crossed your arms over your chest, he sighed and said, “I dreamt of a deer, walking along Garrison Lane. The next night I met you.”

“I don’t..?”

“Polly says a deer in a dream is a good omen. That gentleness and innocence will cross your path.”

“Are you suggesting the deer meant me?” Your jaw was slack as you tried to grasp what he was saying. Tommy tilted his head to one side in a non-committal display of likelihood.

“But I’m a whore and I slammed a door in your face.”

“Polly is rarely wrong.”

Tommy reached for you and pulled you closer once again. You weren’t touching but you could feel the warmth emanating from him. Calloused hands cupped your face and blue eyes held you hostage in his gaze.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that and you were never going to be involved.”

Foolish as it may be, you believed him.

Dried blood spread across his temple caught your attention, “You’re bleeding Tommy.”

He brushed it off as your fingers delicately held his face to inspect the cut. It wasn’t deep but you kept your eyes trained to it as you spoke again.

“Why did you invite me?” Another bold question you were scared of knowing the answer to. A man like Tommy Shelby wasn’t accustomed to being questioned.

“You’re my good omen. We took Epsom,” A soft smile graced his lips, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone, making you meet his dizzying stare.

You were speechless. The Shelby’s are a gypsy family so his superstitions made sense, but is he sweet on you because of the dream or is this rooted entirely in his superstition?

Rendered a fool by his bright eyes and soft touch, you asked, “Who were the other women?”

Tommy pursed his lips, “Nobody worth your time.”

“If I’m gonna be your good omen, I need to know the truth,” You said softly, resting your hands on his stomach. Tommy fought a smile, wrapping his large hands around your biceps.

“May trains my horse. She deserves better than me,” Tommy’s voice rumbled lowly between you, “The woman in white and pink, is Grace. She’s married, sailing back to New York with her rich husband.”

There was resentment behind his words. Interesting that she returned to him now that he’s rich.

“She said she loves me, not him.”

Standing there in his office, between his legs as he sits on the edge of his desk, you wondered how many others had been in this position. How many women were weak to Tommy Shelby?

“So why is she sailing away?” Your fingers idly fiddled with the buttons of his waistcoat.

“Because I told her to,” Tommy was no longer touching you, his hands busy lighting a cigarette.

“You don’t love her?”

Tommy gave a short laugh at that, “She’s of the past. I do not concern myself with matters of the past.”

“Maybe if she’d been in your dreams..” You teased, hoping his guard was lowered around you. Tommy laughed, his blue eyes glistening, and pulled you closer, “You may be my good omen but don’t push it.”

His strong arms wrapped around your waist, securing you in place. A tension lingered in the silence between you and Tommy’s gaze drifted to your lips.

You were here to punish him, to hurt him for hurting Lizzie. Poor Lizzie… and you were here, a devilish smile and a compliment away from letting Tommy Shelby kiss you. What were you thinking?

Breaking you out of your stupor, you blurted, “I should go.”

Like Icarus and the sun, your resolve began to melt away. Tommy rose to his feet, your bodies now pressed against each other.

“I’ll drive you,” Was all he said.

Taglist

@sherbitdibdab

#peaky blinders #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby x fem!reader #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader smut #cillian murphy #cillian x fem!reader

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feyreswaterybowels · 2 months

Text

⭒The Silent One⭒

#4 Azriel x Fem!OC

⭒Part 1⭒Part 2⭒Part 3⭒Part 4⭒

Word Count: 4.3k

Summary: Cassandra visits Vale. They get the information they need and Cassandra…gets revenge and we see a glimpse of her powers lurking under the surface.

Warnings/Tags: graphic depiction of violence. mentioned/implied rape. mentioned/implied castration. female rage. protective!azriel. protective!bat boys.

Authors Note: All likes, comments and reblogs are welcome, appreciated and encouraged! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list! Bold italics are mental communication, regular italics are inner thoughts.

⋆ ݁⟡ ݁☾ ݁⟡ ݁⋆

“What’s going on?” Cassandra asked, looking at Rhysand then Azriel.

“Is everything okay?” Morrigan asks, setting her bags down, Cassandra following suit.

“We tried to question Vale today,” Rhysand responded, straightening out his suit jacket. Glancing at Azriel, who still wore that look of pure death.

“Tried?” Morrigan asks, her own arms folding across her chest.

Rhysand took in a deep breath, looking at Cassandra, a slight frown on his face.

“He said he’ll only answer our questions if you’re in the room—”

“No.” Morrigan cuts him off immediately, straightening her spine.

“Mor,” Rhysand warns.

“You’re actually considering it? You would let her be in a room with that—that monster,” She snarled, stepping closer to her friend’s side.

Cassanda’s eyes met Azriel’s again, less intense as if to comfort her but his shadows still a fury around him.

“He wouldn’t get anywhere near her. It’s not your decision, Morrigan,” Rhysand said, mouth in a tight line.

“It’s not yours either, it’s Cassandra’s,” Azriel said, “He doesn’t have to touch her to cause more trauma. You do not have to see him if you don’t want to.”

“But it would be a great help to easily get the information from him,” Rhysand said, giving his brother a warning look.

Cassandra chewed on her bottom lip. Morrigan was still standing partially in front of her, legs spread apart, arms crossed as if she would fight Rhysand if he tried to step towards her. Rhysand had an expecting look on his face and Cassian looked…awkward? Maybe he didn’t like his friends arguing this way. Cassandra knew she didn’t.

“What would I do, just stand there? Would I—would I have to talk to him?” She asked, and Rhys shook his head.

“No, of course not and yes you would just be there in the room,” Rhysand answers and Azriel hisses.

“That is not the full truth,” He says, siphons surging on the back of his hands, shadows darting in every direction.

“Azriel—”

“Tell me, Rhysand, please. I can handle it. I want to help but I have to know what I’m getting into,” She said, straightening herself out, stepping from behind Morrigan. How could she expect them to believe she could handle things if she stayed cowering behind Morrigan or Azriel? She could do this.

Azriel fixed her with a look, as if he was proud of her actions.

“He initially asked for Neema. She shut that down quickly. He then specifically asked for you because he…wants to look at you,” Rhysand explains and Cassandra felt her stomach flip, nausea overcoming her.

“I can get the answers we need in other ways without traumatizing her further,” Azriel growls at his brother, noticing her distress, “Cassandra, you don’t have to—”

“Look at me,” She repeated breathlessly. Blinking her eyes furiously to fight the images trying to flash before her. “That’s what he used to do. He couldn’t touch me because I would be damaged goods—he’d get less money for me. So he would make me stand there unclothed and look at me while he touched himself or Neema. Just let me look at you is what he would say.”

She heard the harsh breath Rhysand let out, she didn’t look his way.

“Cassandra,” It’s Azriel’s voice in her head but she shakes her head, breathing deeply.

In. Out.

She opens her eyes and looks into those hazel ones, patients and concern swirling there.

“You’ll be there?” She asked, and he nodded instantly.

“Of course, I’ll be there,” He answers. She nods to herself. Thinking.

“What happens to him after he’s questioned?” She ask, would he be let go? Locked away?

“He’ll be killed,” Rhysand answers bluntly.

“Good.” Is her answer. “I’ll do it.”

“You’re sure?” Azriel asks, worry creasing those brows while a relieved look comes over Rhysand’s face.

“Yes,” She answered. “When?”

“The sooner the better,” Rhysand said, and though he still looked relieved that Cassandra agreed she could see the apology in those violet eyes.

“I would like to put my things away first,” She said, Azriel crossing the short distance between them.

“I’ll help you bring your bags up,” He offered, giving her no room to protest before he scooped her bags up easily.

As they entered the house she could hear Mor as she began yelling at Rhysand.

Azriel let her lead the way to her bedroom, she was getting fairly good at navigating the halls. She liked to roam around in the middle of the night when everyone else was sleeping. This house was huge but she was sure she could get to the main areas of the house with little to no help.

When they got to her room she pushed the door open and walked in. She looked over her shoulder to see Azriel standing at the door. She raised an eyebrow in question and the corner of his mouth quirked up slightly.

“I can’t come in, remember,” He says, and she was glad to see some of that light amusement return to his eyes.

“Oh, well, come in,” she said, he looked skeptical for a moment before slowly extending his leg through the doorway before stepping fully in.

“Rhys doesn’t mess around with his wards,” He says when he notices the look on her face. “If you hadn’t invited me in and I tried to just walk in I would have ricochet off it straight into the wall back there.”

Cassandra let out a breathy laugh, gesturing to the bed for Azriel to put the bags down.

“Did you have a good day with Mor?” He asked gently and she turned to him with a small smile and nodded. She was grateful he asked. Talking about the day would distract her from what they were going to do after this.

“It was amazing, Azriel! I've never experienced anything like that. It was a bit overwhelming if I’m honest but Morrigan made it easy to enjoy myself,” She smiled again as he perched himself on the end of the bed, his attention focused fully on her. She grabbed one of the bags pulling it over—the one with all of the pastries in it.

“We went to this lovely little bakery,” she started, pulling out various treats. “Morrigan told me to pick out anything I wanted—everything looked and smelled so good, it was hard to choose.”

“It does smell delicious,” Azriel agreed, eyes scanning over the arrangement of food laid out on the bed, wrapped in papers and boxes.

“These two bags are just some clothes Morrigan helped me pick out, that one is a gown, I’m still not sure what I would need it for but it is very pretty,” She told him, grabbing that bag, unzipping it to show him the gown, the one that perfectly matched his siphons. If he noticed he didn’t comment.

“That is very pretty, you could wear it for Starfall coming up,” He said, a small smile on his face when she looked up at him.

“Do you think it would be possible for me to visit my mothers grave that day?” She asked, as Starfall was one of the few good memories she had with her mother.

“Of course, you never have to ask, we can go visit her any time you’d like,” Azriel promises, “What else did you get?”

Cassandra smiled at him, showing him the rest of her haul from the day. He snickered at the books but just as Morrigan had, said he would be more than happy to help her learn to read. It made her happier than he probably realized.

After she finished showing him everything he stepped out of the room so she could freshen up—change her clothes and mentally prepare herself.

She changed into an outfit that was a bit too big for her. Long sleeves and long pants. She didn’t want him to see her skin, she didn’t want him to see her at all. But what he did to Neema? To so many other girls? To her? She couldn’t sit by and not help get answers, justice.

She knew Azriel noted the outfit she was wearing but chose not to say anything.

“We’re going to winnow there, are you okay with that? We haven’t done it since that first night,” Azriel asked and Cassandra simply nodded, stepping closer to him, tucking her wings close to her back as he wrapped an arm around her.

The place they arrive at was beautiful yet terrifying.

“Where are we?” She asked, looking around. He doesn’t answer out loud as he leads her down a dark avenue.

“This is the Hewn City. The rest of Prythian does not know of the existence of Velaris. They believe Rhysand only rules over this part of the Night Court—the Court of Nightmares.”

“Oh.” Is her answer, she tries not to look at anything or anyone as thet move through the streets of this underground city—no, not underground, inside of a mountain. She wondered if it was the same mountain the House of a wind was on—she would ask later.

The walk was mostly silent. They walked across many bridges and flights of stairs. Going through most of the city. Down and around and down some more. Her legs and feet hurt and just when she was ready to tell Azriel she couldn’t go anymore they halted.

Cassandra looked at him in question. He simply nodded towards the wall, she didn’t see anything.

“He’s behind here,” Azriel explains, his eyes scanning her face.

“Okay,” she nodded slowly, not totally understanding since there was no door.

“Rhys will be there the entire time. Cassian will be there the entire time. I will be with you the entire time. Don't be fearful. Don’t let him scare you. If you find yourself feeling uncomfortable tell me immediately and I’ll get you out of there. He’s chained up, he will not lay a finger on you. If he even tried he would die,” Azriel promised. She looked up at him, unease filling her and took in a deep breath as he added , “Would you feel safer if I gave you this?”

She looked down, in his outstretched hand laid a black hilted dagger with a sharp and shiny blade.

She reached out, taking it gently from his hand.

“I’ve never used one before,” she whispered, looking down at the knife in her hand.

“You won’t need to use it, but if you did Truth Teller wouldn’t let you miss,” Azriel spoke confidently. “You ready?”

She looked up at him and nodded her head.

⋆ ݁⟡ ݁☾ ݁⟡ ݁⋆

Azriel hated this. Hated it. His shadows hissed in ear not to bring her in. To protect her. To grab her and take her back to the House of Wind.

And though he wanted to, he wouldn’t do that to her. She deserved to make her own decisions but this just felt so wrong.

But after he sheathed Truth Teller and tied it around her waist he felt slightly better.

She didn’t know the weight of the dagger, its power or what it meant to him. All that mattered in this moment is it made her feel safe and it gave him some peace of mind that if somehow this piece of shit got through three warriors she had a weapon that could kill.

“Lets go,” he says, offering his hand to her, she places it there gently and much to her surprise they turn to the wall and he led her straight through.

On the other side was a dark hall, no doors, lit only by a few lights and she grasped Azriel’s hand tighter.

“This is where we keep a majority of prisoners that haven’t been sentenced for crimes or are being questioned,” Azriel explained, voice low and quiet.

“Is Kamari here?”

“No, she’s in a cell under the House of Wind. She’s not dangerous—a terrible person yes, but not dangerous to anyone she could potentially interact with. We don’t want this guy anywhere near the females and too many of them live and work at the house. That’s why he’s here. No one can get in here except Rhys, Cassian, myself and anyone we choose to allow in,” Azriel explained, stopping at another seemingly empty stretch of wall. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” she said, fingers twisting at her side. “I’m scared to see him.”

“You don’t need to be scared but do you want to leave?” Azriel asks, taking a step closer to her, ready to scoop her up and take her home.

“No, I want to do this,” she shook her head.

“Okay, he’s right on the other side of this wall,” Azriel explained, trying to prepare her. “When we first walk in, his back will be to us so you don’t have to see his face straight away. You’re welcome to stand but there are chairs if you’d like to sit. Rhysand will be in charge of the interrogation if you believe he’s lying about something or leaving details out don’t hesitate to tell one of us. Rhys says he’ll have communications open so you can talk to him or Cassian easily if you need to. You do not have to speak to this guy but he will try to speak to you. He’s going to want to scare, to tell you all of the things he’s done—he knows what his fate is after we get what we want from him. You have the power here. You say stop then we stop and I take you out of there.”

Azriel watches as she takes a shaky break, closing her eyes to calm herself. When she opens them Azriel is still standing there patiently.

“Okay. Okay, I’m good,” She nods her head in a way that’s reassuring to herself, grazing her hand over Truth Teller before dropping her hands to her side.

She watches as Azriel approaches the wall, stepping through easily as they had done before. Another deep breath, wiping her sweaty palms across her pants before she too walks forward, straight through the wall.

The room is a bit brighter than the hallway and it takes her eyes a moment to adjust before they fix on the figure in the middle of the room. His blue skin and the clothes he’s wearing looks dirty, he’s chained to a chair and his head turns slightly as if sensing she entered the room, but not enough to see her yet. She wanted to cling to the wall and beg Azriel to come back to her side.

But she didn’t.

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of cowering.

She knew the three men in this room wouldn’t allow any harm to come to her. She scanned the room, there were two chairs further away from where the male was sitting while Rhysand sat in one directly in front of the male just a few steps away. Cassian stood with his back to a large stone, giving her a small nod when they made eye contact and Azriel stood there behind the man—in a spot she could see him from wherever she chose to stand, a look on his face she hadn’t quite seen before. She could tell only one thing about that look though, he would enjoy killing Vale.

Cassandra made her way to the opposite wall of where she had entered, choosing not to sit but to stand, using the wall as support, keeping her wings tucked as she leaned back against the wall.

“Come on High Lord, give me my sight back now. You said I would be able to see her,” Vale hissed, the sound of his voice like a shot of ice down her spine, she suppressed the reaction easily enough.

Rhysand looked over his shoulder at Cassandra, silently asking her if she was okay, if she was ready. She simply nodded. He waved his hand and those eyes, the ones she still had dreams about suddenly zeroed in on her. It took everything in her to suppress any reaction that time.

A grin spread across his face as his eyes tracked her body. Up and down, taking in every detail.

“Wow. Look at you,” he said, licking his lips, “you look even better than I remember. I…wish I could see more.”

“Yeah, well you can’t,” Cassian is the one to answer.

“What no hello?” Vale grinned again.

“She’s not required to speak to you, that wasn’t part of the deal,” Rhysand’s voice thundered through the room.

“Not that she could anyway” Vale sniggered, nodding his head, eyes still trained on Cassandra. “Alright come on, ask me the questions.”

He sounded bored but Cassandra wasn’t stupid and neither were any of the males in that room. There was fear in those black eyes. He did indeed know his fate.

“How long have you been in the business of purchasing females and selling them to sex houses?” Rhysand asked.

“I don’t know, a year maybe,” Vale groans at the look Rhysand gives home. “Look, man, I drink and smoke myself out every day I lose a good bit of time.”

“I was at the pleasure house with Kamari for 2 years and with him for almost a year.” Cassandra says, and Rhys nods in acknowledgment.

“Wanna think a little harder about that? It’s definitely been more than a year,” Rhysand said, Vale narrowing his eyes into slits.

“How could you possibly know that? Why ask if you’re just gonna say I’m lying?” Vale bares his teeth at Rhysand.

“Why lie in the first place? You know your fate, lying won’t change that. You know I could enter your mind and destroy it in a second while getting the answers I seek. I’m doing you a courtesy by asking this way.”

Vale is silent for a moment before glancing at Cassandra. “Four years.”

“How many women did you buy and sell during that time? How did you find them?” Rhysand asked, Vale took a deep breath, looking up at the roof as if thinking.

“Probably eighty,” He says, Rhys’ face hardens further at that—Cassian’s mouth falling open slightly.

“Eighty women in four years? Or 80 every year for four years?” Rhys asks through clenched teeth.

“Eighty in all four years,” Vale confirms and while it’s a relief, that’s still a lot of women. “Most of them were sold to me by family members who owed me money, but couldn't pay it back so they sold me a daughter, wife, sister instead.”

“How did you learn of these pleasure houses buying females from people like you?” Rhysand asked.

“Word gets around the streets. There’s only three that will buy the females. The Velvet Pearl, Hidden Desires and Lavender house. Kamari recruits men to find the women and sells them for money—usually addicts looking for a fix. She buys her drugs from me, that's how I got started.” Vale explained.

“How many of them did you keep for yourself?” Rhysand asked, and Vale just laughed.

“Not as many as you might think. It never even crossed my mind to have a little fun with the merchandise before selling to the pleasure houses. Neema—she’s the only one I ever kept seeing as she’s my mate and all,” Vale confessed and Cassandra couldn’t stop the gasp she took in.

“That’s right,” Vale grinned. “The bond snapped into place the night her brother sold her to me.”

“And you thought that was the proper way to treat your mate,” Cassian snarls. Vale simply shrugs his shoulders, looking back at Cassandra.

“If she hadn’t been my mate though, I would have kept you,” Vale said, smiling at Cassandra. “Everything I did to her I would have done to you—including removing those horrid wings. Tell me, which one of these bastards got the pleasure of bending you over and fucking you—”

Vale’s rant is cut off when one of Azriel’s shadows wraps around his throat. The blue skinned male chokes, eyes widening.

“I’d watch your fucking mouth if I were you,” Azriel hisses, only letting up his shadow’s grip when Cassandra nods her head at him.

“At least any one of these males could get a woman into their bed without having to rape her,” Cassandra retorts, Cassian snorting out an amused laugh, relaying the message when Vale looked his way, turning back and snarling at Cassandra like a rabid wolf.

The interrogation went on for what felt like hours. Vale answered the questions Rhysand asked. Cassandra confirmed if he was being truthful or not for certain things. And they all stood there as he described every awful, vile, disgusting thing he did to the women he bought and sold. How he had brutalized and assaulted them before selling them off to be salves for pleasure houses.

He knew none of their names. None except Neema. He didn’t even know Cassandra’s name and she was standing right there in front of him.

He did however know the names of all the ones who sold the females—they now had a list of where to start, of how to find the females that had been sold off to the three pleasure houses.

It’s was when they were getting ready to leave that things started going sideways. Azriel had check in many times with Cassandra to make sure she was okay. And she had been, despite this feeling in her stomach, this thrumming that made her skin feel like it was vibrating.

“So, I guess it would be out of line to ask for a turn with you before I go out?” Vale laughed, leering at Cassandra. And it was Cassian’s fist that landed the blow to his face.

“Fuck! You know,” Vale continued with a laugh, blood dripping from his mouth, “your father almost sold me your sister instead. Pretty little thing she is.”

He just wants to rile you up.

He wants to scare you.

He wants a reaction.

“Only he wouldn’t have got as much for her cause she’d had sex with some male. She was used—but man, if he had I would have kept her, too, I would have taken both of you and kept you just like that little bitch in my basement—“

Cassandra snarled and something inside of her snapped. Before anyone could blink she was across the room Truth Teller gripped in her hand and pressed against Vale’s throat as she crouched over him. Black eyes widened in shock—fear. Good. He wasn’t expecting it.

“Cassandra?” Azriel’s concerned voice sounded muffled and far away. She didn’t take her eyes away from the man cowering beneath her.

“She can shield?!” is Cassian's alarmed shout.

“Cassandra?!” Rhys calls out, feeling whatever shield was around her vibrate as he sent a blast of magic into it.

“I don’t think she can hear us, Rhys!” Azriel calls out.

Cassandra could hear them but the look on Vale’s face was too satisfying to look away from. She pressed the dagger harder against his neck, digging it into the skin there, scenting his blood.

“Are you afraid?” She asked, faces only inches apart. She wasn’t sure how she was talking to him but she didn’t care either. Not when the smell of blood mixed with urine as he pissed on himself.

“Please, p—please,” he begged, trying to pull away from the blade digging into his throat.

“Cassandra, come on, let the shield down, love!”

“I remember begging you like that before you took my tongue. I shouldn’t let them kill you, everything you did to me, to Neema, to all those other girls you deserve to have done to you,” she snarls, Truth Teller thrumming in her hand as if encouraging her to slit his throat and watch him bleed out.

“What the hell is happening, Rhys?” Cassian’s voice rings outside of that shield.

“Fuck!” Azriel hisses as he tries to touch that shield, his hand bouncing off of it immediately.

“I should take your eyes,” she declared. “So that you can never look at anyone again. I should take your tongue the way you took mine. Chop off your cock so you can never fuck again. I should do all that and let you live with it every day of your miserable life!”

He cries out, struggling under her and she laughs. Right there in his face she laughs.

This is the male she had been afraid of?

This is the male that tortured her everyday in that basement? This pathetic excuse of a male.

“Absolutely pathetic,” she spits, snarling at him.

She drops Truth Teller from her hand, falling somewhere between their bodies as she grips his head on either side. “Look at me!” She bellows, forcing his eyes to meet hers. Panicked terror looked back at her and she smiled.

“Kill me, just kill me, please!” He begged, thrashing under her, her wings spreading to keep herself stead where she was crouched over him—drowning out the voices beyond the shield. He’d had no remorse for anyone else, he deserved no remorse. She leans down, close to his ear, changing her grip on his head.

“No,” she mouths against his ear as it echoes in his head. Then her thumbs are pressing into those black soulless eyes, his screams echoing around them with nowhere to go, pressing and pressing until they pop. Turning into a bloody mess under her hands. His screams don’t stop as she speaks.

“You’ll never see again,” she said, grabbing Truth Teller once again sliding it along his exposed skin. “You're lucky I don’t take your hands and tongue. I won’t take your life either. You’ll suffer the way me and so many other girls did.”

She slides off of him, his screams turning into whimpering cries.

“Cassandra?” The voice sounded normal again and she looked up, green eyes meeting violet. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” She asked, glancing at the man she had just maimed without a second thought.

“I’m not worried about him, are you okay?” Rhysand asks again, taking a step closer to her.

“I’m okay,” she nods, slipping Truth Teller back into its sheath, not hiding the angry tears that welled in her eyes. “I want him to have to live with what he’s done. Death will be too kind for the offenses he’s committed—for the way he’s violated so many.”

“If you no longer wish death on this male so be it, we will lock him away to rot for the rest of his days,” Rhysand promises and I nod my head.

“I only have one request,” I tell him, glancing at the man still moaning and whimpering—whispering to himself about his eyes being gone and begging for mercy.

“What is it?” Rhysand asked.

“Take his cock,” I demand, there’s no question or judgement in those eyes. He nods but Azriel is the one to speak up.

“Done.”

Tag list: @aelinwya @starlightandsouls @fullmoon-94 @aetherl0l @caticorn61 @lilah-asteria @blackgirlmagicforever @div94 @purple-writer8 @little-missbookyworm @saltedcoffeescotch @namelesssav @slytherintaco @whatsupb @mariahoedt @railingsofsorrow @fightmedraco @nickishadow139 @a-courtof-azriel

#oh so much happened in this one #there’s a lot to unpack here #Cassian’s ’she can shield?!’ is giving ‘jack jack has powers?!’#Cassandra is quickly becoming one of my favorite OCs I’ve ever written #acotar #azriel #azriel fanfic #acotar fanfiction #Azriel x fem!oc

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cherienymphe · 10 months

Text

Love Bites III (Steve Rogers x Reader)

Warnings: NON-CON, suicidal thoughts, vampire!Avengers, mentions of Peter x reader, bloodplay, violence, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, jealous!Steve, modern setting they just wealthy af

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | divider by @firefly-graphics

➥ series masterlist

summary: In a coven, the master’s word is law, and humans are nothing more than pets to symbolize wealth and prestige. They tell you that being the master’s pet is a great honor, but the poorly constructed façade is broken when you forsake honor for love.

Your reflection stared back at you as you gazed into the mirror, feeling so far removed from your body as you brushed your fingers over the faint bite marks on your neck. They were something to be worn with pride, something to be admired—coveted even—but as you stared at them, all you could see was the physical evidence of your imprisonment.

As your lips parted, memories of a sweet-natured and soft-hearted vampire came to mind.

You absentmindedly wondered if you would’ve worn Peter’s mark with pride had you been given the option, and the silent question seemed almost silly because the answer was obvious. You would’ve happily let Peter leave whatever mark he wanted on you, because that would’ve been different. It would’ve been a mark you consented to, a mark that came from you willingly giving yourself to the dark-haired vampire. That kind of mark would’ve been the result of you surrendering yourself to him with perfect trust, and he in turn choosing to handle your trust and vulnerability with care.

It would’ve been a mark of love.

Such a thought almost brought tears to your eyes, but you pushed them back, refusing to let Steve smell them and come running. The thought of the blond angered you in a way that was hard to even describe. Since that night he’d raped you again, unable to stomach your refusal of him any longer, you hadn’t so much as given him a hint of anything less than a cold disposition.

Yes, you smiled at him when it was important, and you responded when he asked you things, but it was never with anything more than a tight and forced curve of your lips. Your tone never went beyond anything that could be deemed a polite neutrality. Even when he drank from you, you closed your eyes and held yourself as still as you could be.

A mere tolerance of Steve and your situation had turned into nothing short of repulsion.

It really hadn’t occurred to you just how much you hated all of this until Peter was no longer around to make it easier to swallow. You didn’t have a single friend in this place, every person in your vicinity loyal to Steve above all. It was lonely and depressing in ways that were too painful to think about, and with the knowledge that you were so close to one more year around the sun, you found yourself wondering if you had the strength to do this until the end of your days.

You had never considered ending it all until Peter was gone.

With him around, you’d at least still had something to look forward to, something to put a smile on your face when you woke up in the morning. Now…you had nothing. Your days consisted of nothing but Steve and his every whim, and when you stopped to think about living out the rest of your life exactly like this, it overwhelmed you.

“Steve is starting to get impatient, Y/N.”

The sound of Nat’s voice accompanied by a knock on your bathroom door was enough to pull you from your depressing thoughts. With a sigh, you straightened your dress and swiftly joined her in your bedroom. She was focused on fixing her lipstick when your gaze met hers, and she closed her compact with a comforting smile.

“I was starting to think you’d taken a swim in there,” she teased, gently pulling you along. “You know how Steve gets when you keep him waiting.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, swallowing down what you were initially going to say.

“I’m sorry,” you evenly apologized, knowing that Steve could hear. “I just got lost in my head for a bit.”

You could feel the redhead’s eyes on you as she guided you towards the hall, and she let out a hum.

“You’ve been doing that a lot lately,” she mused. “Should I talk to Steve about having someone come and see you? You know how important it is that you’re healthy.”

You both knew that she wasn’t just referencing your physical health, and such a comment almost made you laugh. If any of them had genuinely cared about your mental health and happiness, then someone would’ve talked Steve out of turning Peter to ash. The bitterness was hard to swallow, but you managed, turning to look at her with a small smile.

“No, it’s nothing more than birthday musings.”

At the mention of the date just around the corner, her beautiful face lit up.

“Are you excited? One year older…”

While the powerful beings around you celebrated their own birthdays, it wasn’t the same nor nearly as exciting as physically aging and literally being one year closer to death. At least, that was what Peter had told you once. He’d made it known just how fascinated they all were by the subtle signs of aging, the smile lines that weren’t there before, the maturity in the face that wasn’t there before. Something about the fragility and tragedy of it all, he’d said.

How funny that he had met his end before you.

“As excited as I was last year,” you told her as she walked you down the hall.

That wasn’t entirely true. You were much more excited last year for reasons that were obvious to you, and this year, you couldn’t muster up anything beyond a dreaded anxiousness. There was nothing to be excited about in your opinion, but to make matters worse, you would swear that Nat seemed more excited this year than she was last year.

There was a twinkle in her eye whenever the topic came up, and whatever they had up their sleeve, you only wanted them to get it over with.

It was a cloudy and starless night when you both made it outside, Steve standing by the car with a slightly pinched look on his face. You said nothing as Natasha apologized to him for the delay, quickly joining Bucky before they both disappeared into the other car. You ignored the feel of his intense gaze as the driver opened the door for you both, Steve’s touch almost nonexistent as he guided you into the back seat.

This was the first time you would ever be leaving the grounds, and instead of feeling something akin to excitement, you only felt…numb. Something about a gathering every hundred years or so, and how lucky for you that the next one coincided with your time as Steve’s pet. It was another mansion full of more vampires who’d see you nothing more than Steve’s property.

There was nothing in you that looked forward to this night.

“We’re almost late because of you.”

Steve’s voice filled the car, the partition providing some privacy.

“I’m sorry,” you halfheartedly murmured. “I lost track of time.”

You could feel his eyes on you as you looked out of the tinted window, and your silent prayers that he’d leave you be for the duration of the ride went unanswered. Your heart sank when you felt his hand reach for yours, cold hand clasping with yours.

“Natasha has impeccable taste per usual. I hate when the dresses she picks out are better than anything I come up with,” he told you.

At that, your eyes fell to the black fabric, the sheer extravagance of it all, fingering the bow around your waist. Natasha enjoyed playing dress up with her human doll while Steve had a habit of wanting you to look like the piece of meat you were. It had sparked many an argument between them with the redhead always walking away a winner.

“I’d die before letting her know that though,” he hummed, tone mirthful, and with a deep breath, you threw him a polite smile.

It wasn’t lost on Steve, and so you shouldn’t have been surprised to hear him heave a sigh, letting you go.

“I understand that the technical age difference between us is monumental, but you are still an adult. This…habit of refusing to act like it as of late is getting old. Don’t you think…?”

You fought with yourself on whether or not to engage in this back and forth with him or not.

“I don’t understand what you mean, Steve,” you breathed, gaze still on the passing trees outside.

You sharply inhaled when your breathing was suddenly obstructed, Steve’s hand around your throat and only growing tighter by the second. Losing your cool for a moment, you reached up, grasping his arm and looking at him through wide eyes. His own baby blues were unreadable, pink lips pressed together as he studied you.

“You’re behaving like a child.”

“I haven’t-.”

“Do you think just because you’re not cursing my name that the whole coven can’t see you’re angry with me?”

Steve’s lips brushed your cheek as he leaned in, and when he loosened his hold ever so slightly, you knew that he actually wanted an answer.

“I’m not,” you forced out.

Steve hummed, tightening his hand a bit.

“You are…but that’s okay,” he quietly said, pulling away. “Let’s just get through tonight.”

He fixed the top of your dress as well as the choker around your throat.

“You will not embarrass me,” he continued, and you stared ahead as he stroked your cheek. “For your sake…because you know how much I hate it when you force my hand.”

You blinked, ignoring the sting behind your eyes as Steve leaned back in his seat, heaving a heavy sigh.

“She is quite the pretty thing, isn’t she?”

The smile on your face was tight, fingers around your drink tighter as the strange woman reached out to touch your chin. Nakia, if you remembered correctly. She was just as breathtaking as the rest, her dark eyes drinking you in as she talked to the woman next to her.

“I’d heard years ago that Steve had taken a new pet. I’m so glad you’re still alive so that I could meet you,” the other woman said, her dark hair contrasting with her fair skin. “He has such a temper, that one. Hardly a tolerance for anything.”

They chuckled amongst themselves, and you forced yourself to swallow down your disgust and disturbance at how casually they spoke of the death of innocent people before your time. Yes, you’d heard the odd comment here and there over the years of how you weren’t the first of Steve’s trinkets.

You were just the first to last this long.

Your oh so gracious owner was off mingling with the host of this soiree, a burly blond man with the deepest voice you’d ever heard. You recalled the way his multicolored eyes had appreciatively taken you in, nodding to himself and Steve as if he was congratulating the other man on a job well done. You really hated that it took Peter’s death to fully realize just how much you really detested all of this.

You felt like you were in hell.

…and the devil himself was fast approaching.

The women with you quieted at Steve’s advance, quietly slipping away after acknowledging him. You, however, were focused on the woman at his side. You’d only seen her once, and that was earlier in the night when you’d been introduced to her husband, Thor. They made an attractive couple, positive that the brunette’s natural beauty had only been enhanced after her transition.

“Y/N, you remember Jane.”

Steve hadn’t been happy with you most of the evening, and the slight warning in his blue gaze had your tight smile softening some.

“Of course, it’s lovely to meet you again,” you told her.

“You as well. I mentioned to Steve here that you must be so lonely with so few of your kind around, and he suggested we get to know one another better. He thought it might be good for you,” she gently replied.

She seemed kind enough, kinder than most you’d been around, but there was something in her smile that seemed…off. She and Steve shared one last look as he left you, and the woman with the kind eyes looped her arm with yours.

“Every century the neighboring covens get together to discuss their discretion and orders of succession and all that,” she eventually started as you both slowly made your way outside.

Where Steve’s estate was dark and imposing and stereotypical in every way, Thor’s mansion was much brighter and welcoming. There was a Norse quality about the architecture, and something in you—when combined with the origin of Thor’s name—wondered just how old the blond was. Jane paused in front of a happy statue, gazing up at it with a small smile.

“This is my first time too, and I don’t doubt that you find it as boring as I do,” she confessed, shocking you.

You frowned at her a bit, having not realized just how young she was in their years, and you blinked. Even Peter had been over a hundred, and you silently wondered when she’d been turned. You didn’t dare ask, both because it wasn’t your business and also because a good chunk of you couldn’t care less. However, your interest was piqued when she answered your silent question.

“I’ve been like this for maybe…seven years now?”

Your eyes widened at that, meeting her honey brown gaze.

“I think you’re the youngest I’ve ever met,” you told her, voicing your thoughts.

Her kindness and softness suddenly made a lot more sense. There was still so much humanity left in her, her human life still fresh in her spirit, her short years as a vampire unsuccessful in desensitizing her and leaving her void of empathy. So far, anyway. She tilted her head from side to side, seemingly mulling it over with a hum.

“Probably,” she agreed. “I’m definitely the youngest I know of…as of yet.”

She looked back to the statue at that, and something about that last comment made your chest ache. Only you didn’t know why.

“Thor made me,” she breathed, sounding happy about the fact. “He decided that he didn’t want to be without me, and I’d felt the same for some time at that point.”

The details that she was leaving out had your mind whirling, and she soon put you out of your misery.

“There was a time where I belonged to him just as you belong to Steve.”

She finally looked at you again as she told you this, and you were unable to hide your shock, lips parting.

“…what?”

It wasn’t unheard of, but it definitely wasn’t common either. Humans were pets, and pets were property, but let Natasha tell it, there had been the odd case of a human pet becoming a lover and eventually…a consort. An eternal companion.

“I see,” you eventually added, getting a hold of yourself. “Well…I suppose I’m happy for you.”

The way she studied you made you uncomfortable, and you found yourself playing with your hands.

“Thor was kind to me, always had been, and he treated me like nothing less than a princess.”

You didn’t really have a response to that. After all, how kind—how well could he really treat her—if he had been keeping her prisoner to feed off of for years? Jane certainly seemed happy enough, but you kept your thoughts to yourself on how you saw her situation as nothing more than a glorified victim. She’d fallen for her captor, not unheard of, and no less tragic just because she was like him, now.

“Steve is quite taken with you.”

That came out of nowhere to you, and you looked at her again. Again, there was something in her small smile that unnerved you, a glint in her eye that made your stomach twist. For the strangest reason, you felt like there was something you were missing, and you didn’t like it.

“After all, the rumor is he’s never kept a human this long before. I hear he doesn’t tolerate much,” she continued.

“That’s not untrue. I dare say I have another…one…maybe two years before he’s finally fed up with me,” you lightly teased although there was a hint of seriousness in your tone.

Deep down, you hoped that it was less.

Jane laughed, and your eyes met hers as she reached out to adjust your necklace.

“Silly girl,” she gently admonished. “I can’t foresee Steve ever being rid of you. He’s much too obsessed with you for that. Watches you like a hawk, that one does.”

You swallowed uncomfortably, stepping out of her reach a tad and watching as her hand fell.

“Well, he’ll have no choice someday. I am human, after all.”

Jane tilted her head, shoulder length brown hair kissing her skin as she studied you. There was a slight frown on her face as she dragged her gaze over you.

“For now.”

Those two simple words had your heart stuttering, and your face fell as you gave her your undivided attention.

“There’s quite an easy fix to ensure you’re at his side forever,” she reminded you, and it was then…

That you understood.

You took another step back from her, almost stumbling in your heels, and you couldn’t fix your mouth to form the words that your mind wanted to say. This entire conversation was stirring up thoughts you didn’t even want to entertain, didn’t even want to consider, because the thought was preposterous. Horrifying even, but why else?

Why else would Steve think it’d be good for the two of you to talk? Of all the new vampires in the world, why the one whose former master had made her like him so that she could be with him forever? Why her? You tried to push it down, but it assaulted your mind anyway, and you dazedly shook your head at her, apologizing before excusing yourself.

There was blood rushing in your ears, and you pressed your hand to your chest as you stumbled back inside, fighting to calm your heart for multiple reasons.

No.

Absolutely not.

You didn’t even want to think it, but it couldn’t be helped. Steve wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t, but as you repeated that to yourself, you wondered how true that was. Wasn’t it months ago that he’d killed the love of your life out of jealousy and some misguided belief that he loved you? Hadn’t he killed a vampire he’d known and had been intimate with for centuries for the same reasons?

Tears kissed your eyes as you stared at the floor, feeling just as cold as Steve did to the touch.

There had been a time when the prospect of eternal life called to you, back when the man you loved was till around. You’d only wanted to live forever if it were with him, and once he was out of the picture, all thoughts of that had ceased. You had never entertained the thought of becoming a vampire anyway, and especially not with Steve. Why would you?

You leaned against the wall, a few tears spilling over as you fought with yourself, telling yourself that you were just getting a head of yourself, that’s all. Jane’s own thoughts in regard to your mortality didn’t mean they were Steve’s. Maybe it was all in your head, a mere coincidence, but the refusal to believe otherwise didn’t prevent your legs from faltering, hand sliding along the wall as you struggled to keep yourself upright.

“Steve, she’ll be fine. Listen… She’s waking up, see?”

Sam’s voice seemed so loud in the otherwise quiet room, and you grimaced as your senses came back to you, greeted with none other than a headache. You really didn’t want to open your eyes, but pretending to be asleep in a room full of vampires had never and would never work. With reluctance, you peeled them open, staring up at a familiar ceiling.

You heard a deep exhale, and it wasn’t long before you were joined on the bed, a hand on your forehead.

You didn’t need to look over to know that it was Steve.

“…and you’re sure she’s alright?”

“No concussion or anything of the sort. Nothing to be concerned with either. It appears she just fainted, perhaps lightheaded or hungry.”

Dr. Banner’s voice was surprising to hear. It had been some time since you’d seen the dark-haired vampire, and you slowly looked over as he wrote something down on a clipboard. Sam was standing behind him while Natasha and Bucky sat on your couch, the redhead the picture of concern while her husband appeared as if he couldn’t care less.

“So, she’s been neglecting herself.”

Your heart dropped at the drop in Steve’s tone, and you hesitantly glanced up, finally looking at the blond and unsurprised to find his gaze already on you. He didn’t look happy, and you looked away, mentally preparing yourself for an earful.

“I wouldn’t say that. Humans are fragile, Steve, you know this. Any number of things could’ve caused her to feel faint, and seeing as no one was around to witness the moments prior, who is to say what really caused it. All that matters is she is healthy,” Dr. Banner argued.

You crossed your arms over your chest as they finished discussing you, and when Steve dismissed the other three after Dr. Banner’s departure, you sighed.

“Had you eaten?”

“Yes, Steve, I ate,” you assured him. “I just got lightheaded is all.”

You could feel his eyes on you, and you knew that he wouldn’t be looking away anytime soon, so you finally lifted your gaze again.

“I found you,” he confessed, jaw taut, and you almost wished he hadn’t.

There was no telling the thoughts in his head when he saw you lying there.

“I heard your heart beat faster than it ever had before…and then it slowed so suddenly I thought you were dead.”

“Well…I’m not, so…”

“You scared me.”

“Why?” you harshly asked, gaze accusatory as you narrowed your eyes at him. “I’m easily replaceable. If I die…I’m sure you can find another woman to kidnap.”

The blond harshly looked away at that, and you eyed him as he rested a hand on his hip.

“You say that so callously…like it wouldn’t hurt me to bury you,” he murmured, and your frown deepened.

“It shouldn’t. Who am I to you other than a warm body and a nightly cocktail?”

You jumped when he swiped a figurine off of your table. It had been a gift from him years ago, and you swallowed when his cold eyes met yours. Right. Let Steve tell it, he loved you, and that same thought that’d made you faint hours earlier threatened to overtake you again. You dismissively looked away from him, and considering how many times it had been pointed out to you tonight, you wondered what line you’d eventually cross that would push Steve to just…drain you dry.

“I’ve told you before Steve…you don’t know what love is,” you quietly said, staring at your sheets. “…and while I don’t doubt the worry you felt when you found me tonight, I do doubt that it had anything to do with love.”

You desperately wanted to ask him why he’d been so keen on you talking to Jane tonight. You wanted to ask him if he’d ever entertained the thought of turning you for himself, keeping you at his side forever and dragging out what should’ve been one miserable lifetime into infinite. You wanted to…but you were so terrified of the answer.

You were confident that Steve wouldn’t, but there was some small part of you that said otherwise, and the more you laid there, the bigger that part of you became. The voice became louder, whispering the unthinkable, and you turned over, quietly and politely asking Steve to leave you be. You were sure he wouldn’t drink from you tonight, but you wanted him gone, nonetheless.

…because if there was truth to your newfound fears…

You would slit your throat in a heartbeat.

Steve listened to you, albeit reluctantly, but not without nearing your bed and resting his hand on your forehead again. He stood there for some time, just standing over you and watching you, and you squeezed your eyes shut when he brushed his thumb over your skin. Your eyes burned when he leaned down, pressing his lips into your hair and deeply inhaling. It was too reminiscent of something he wasn’t, too much like a lover, and you only relaxed again when he was gone.

The morning of your birthday was greeted with the finest of foods and finest of gifts. No different than the years before, but all the more depressing. Last year, you’d eaten your breakfast with the excitement of seeing Peter afterwards. You had smiled at Natasha as she ran you a milk bath, playing with the rose petals because you knew that you’d be spending most of your day with Peter. His presence had made the grand fanfare of your party something meaningful instead of the conceited and egotistic brag of Steve that it actually was.

Today, however…

Today you had nothing and no one to look forward to.

You were polite as you opened gift after gift, thanking Natasha for the dress or Sam for the bracelet or Bucky for the wine. The last one was done with a barely hidden sneer. After all, the wine was more so a gift for Steve than for you, the saccharine drink given with the purpose of making your blood taste sweeter.

Nothing about this day was actually for you.

Every gift and every praise were done to exalt Steve.

You had to look your best at your party tonight because anything less, and you’d embarrass Steve. Everyone had to ooh at the pretty jewelry Steve’s pet wore. Everyone had to aah at the gorgeous dress Steve’s pet wore. Everyone had to see how lavishly he spoiled you, how well he looked after you, how wonderful a master he was.

It made you sick.

“It might get old after some time, but it really is so exciting to celebrate an actual birthday,” Natasha told you as she dragged the small brush over your lips. “It’s so miniscule or even non existent with human eyes, I’m sure, but you do look a whole year older.”

“I feel ten years older,” you half joked.

She chuckled at the comment, either unaware or completely ignoring the implication that you felt so aged after Peter’s death.

“A mortal life is really so fleeting. A blink of an eye to us,” she mused with a small frown. “I swear, it was just yesterday that you were first brought here.”

The redhead paused, looking down at you with a wistful gaze.

“So young…so terrified…”

She hummed, continuing with her work.

You tried not to think of those first few months you were here. They were too painful, to be honest. After all, what was there to look back on but the loss of your best friend by the very same man you were forced to be around all the time? The years gone by had done nothing to lessen the anger and hurt every time you looked at Bucky.

An average day to him was one of the worst of your life.

When Natasha felt satisfied enough with you, she smiled, brushing her hand along your cheek.

“You look so radiant…like a birthday girl,” she praised. “Steve will be pleased.”

Your face fell some at that, reminded that once again, a compliment for you was never actually for you.

Like last year, the manor was full of vampires with the occasional human pet tagging along. Unlike last year though, there were way more people in attendance. You even caught sight of Thor and Jane, and you thought it was ironically fitting that the one year full of more extravagance and fanfare than the others was the one year you just wanted to drop dead.

Natasha was right, of course.

Steve was more than pleased with your look for the night, and he gave her a thankful nod as he took your hand. His own was gentle in yours, and you pointedly ignored the way he brushed his thumb over the back of it. Steve looked as impeccable as he always did, and your gaze passed over him as you looked around the room.

“You look beautiful tonight.”

You took a deep breath before looking at him with the perfect smile.

“Thank you, Steve.”

He stared into your eyes for a few moments before his own smile grew, satisfaction crossing his features at your dedication to be on your best behavior. When his small smile shifted into a small smirk, you were tempted to be defiant just for the hell of it.

He brought your hand to his lips as he walked through the room, leading you to the head table.

You spent so much of the night repeating empty thanks to faces both familiar and those not. You were positive not a single compliment was genuine, every one accompanied with another compliment to Steve. She looks as radiant as always. You take such good care of her. She’s the perfect reflection of you. It was dehumanizing in a way you couldn’t even articulate, and you thought that you’d be used to it after years, but again…

With Peter not around to soften the blow…

When you danced with Steve, you didn’t look at him. You kept your gaze on the guests around you, giving the impression of a thankful birthday girl when in actuality, you couldn’t really stomach the sight of Steve. An entire day that should’ve been dedicated to you being dedicated to him in a roundabout way instead was too disheartening.

“You look better,” he whispered in your ear. “You heart sounds strong too.”

You swallowed a sigh, your smile falling some.

“If I didn’t…would that stop you from coming to me tonight and doing what you’ve wanted to do for days?”

“Didn’t it stop me already?”

You didn’t respond to that, only sending Natasha a forced smile when you caught her eye. Steve’s hands fell to your waist, and he lifted you a tad as he spun you, sharp teeth winking at you as he grinned.

“It’s your birthday, my love…” your heart dropped at that. “Smile and be happy.”

You were still looking at him strangely when he led you back to the table, wondering where on earth such a term of endearment had come from. You pushed it away when he left you there, Natasha immediately pulling you into conversation. It was hard to focus, the feel of Steve’s hand in yours and the sound of his voice in your ear on your mind.

My love?

You wondered if centuries on this earth could drive a vampire mad. Nothing about what you and Steve had was loving, and it seemed that no matter how many times you pointed that out to him, he only became more deluded. It was like trying to get through a brick wall, and when the time came for Steve to give you his gift, you only wanted this night to be over.

“Y/N has been a part of this coven for years, now,” Steve said, standing beside you as you sat. “Something both surprising to others and myself…but I’ve come to find great comfort at the sight of her face every day.”

You looked up at him in wonder, thinking to yourself that his birthday speech from last year was far less intimate and more appreciative of the blood you unwillingly provided him a few times a week. You watched as he opened the jewelry box you’d seen him fiddle with all evening. The light glinted off of the necklace.

The diamonds were plentiful, but what caught your eye—and what was probably meant to—was the green stone at the center of it. Everything Steve had ever given you was excessive in some way, but this was different. It didn’t look like something passed down through the generations or some nice ring to compliment your fingers.

This was a necklace bought with intention.

You felt uneasy as Steve guided you to stand, fingers lingering on yours a bit before moving behind you. You looked everywhere and nowhere all at once, afraid to catch anyone’s eye. You were used to the attention, especially on this day, but you couldn’t stop the heavy feeling in your chest from growing. The necklace was cool against your skin, and you shuddered as it pressed into your throat with the tightening of Steve’s hand.

You swallowed, tempted to reach up when he finally loosened his hold, hooking it closed and adjusting it to his liking.

“You deserve nothing but the best on your birthday, but this necklace is fit for a queen,” Steve said, speaking to you now. “A mistress of the house.”

You slowly turned to look at him at that, face falling. Steve reached out, touching your face, and you couldn’t ignore the way your heart pounded in your chest. Your eyes burned at the meaning behind his words, telling yourself that it wasn’t what you thought.

“I’ve ruled this coven by myself for centuries…”

“Steve…”

“…and you’ve only been by my side for a few short years of that, but I intend to rule centuries more…with you right next to me.”

Your hands shook, and you realized that the loud noise in your ears wasn’t the rush of your blood or even your loud heartbeat, but instead the awed excitement of all the vampires before you. Steve took your hand, pulling you closer, and in your confusion, you stumbled towards him.

“As my wife…my eternal lover…my consort.”

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