#the skirts are hideous i refuse

[inglimmer]

Hufflepuff Drip

#hogwarts legacy #harry potter #hogwarts legacy mc #hphl mc #outfits #hufflepuff #idc what anyone says #hufflepuff 4 life #the skirts are hideous i refuse #my mc running around hogwarts like she doesn't even go to the place #Shae Nova

[daenysthedreamersblog]

STRANGERS III - 'THANK YOU MR. PRESIDENT, SIR'

I’m happier here cause he told me i should be

You’re so handsome when i’m all over your mouth

part one & two here

summary: you hate president snow, hate him and his stupid ugly roses, but he might be the only one who can save you from the man buying your virtue.

pairing: president!snow x district6!reader

warnings: MDNI!! swearing, slapping, choking, manipulation/coercion, power imbalance, slight dubcon, smut, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, p in v sex, oral sex, fingering, BLOOD!, slight somophilia, breeding kink, let me know if i forgot anything!

notes: alexa play 'stockholm syndrome' by one direction. (jk strangers by ethel cain)

He didn't come at night, nor the rest of the week. He left you alone in the large guest room to sit frightened in a queen size bed. After a few days you walked the grounds, the gardens and greenhouse once more, no sign you had ever been in there. You walked around his large empty home, no children, no wife. So quiet. Except for the servants flittering through occasionally.

You assumed he had finally forgotten about you, time had moved on and so had he.

Until the stylist came.

You were crying before they even started working on you knowing what this meant. Knowing what was awaiting you downstairs.

"It will be over quickly my dear," They hushed you trying to put the makeup on. "Just hush no-!"

"Just get her a damn drink!" The other snapped.

Soon enough a small glass appeared in front of you with brown liquid filling half the cup. You drained it peering up at them with blurry eyes and burning lungs, "Will it hurt?” You knew it would, you were stalling.

She smiled, it was fake. "No." A lie. You only held out your glass for them to fill finally letting them prepare you for slaughter. They allowed you one more drink before getting you ready

It was another white floor length gown. Thin straps covered your shoulders, the skirt was covered in a sheer tulle material littered with white roses. They had done your hair up stray pieces falling prettily across your face. A neutral shade on your lids, a pretty pink gloss on your lips. They sprayed a heavy scented perfume across your body, spread some sort of glitter onto parts of you skin.

No underwear. They had refused to let you put them on per the president's orders.

"Tigris." You pleaded. "Where is she? May I see her before you take me?" She wanted to help you before, maybe not enough, but she had tried to talk to him.

They shared a look, the middle one speaking, "She's not allowed to work on you anymore." Your heart sank.

Then they were walking you out of the room.

You wondered who would be punished if you fought back, if the peacekeepers would gun you down as you sprinted across his lawn. You dug your nails into your palms as they walked you to the dinning room basically pushing you through the door. You stumbled slightly inside catching yourself on the large door before glancing up. He was slightly upset, but his eyes softened just a little when they took you in. His picture of innocence and beauty, his perfect white rose in a thorny garden.

He looked handsome, beautiful even in a deep red suit, white rose pinned to the front. His perfect blond hair sat styled atop his head, no stray piece in sight, piercing blue eyes gazing down to your morrow. He sat straight, commanding the room simply by existing in it. Your heart thumped roughly as if you were staring at a saving grace and you longed to be near him if only to stay away from the other man in the room.

Your buyer was smiling at you once you took your seat. The room was larger than the other, a long table stretched out filled with empty plate settings and various floral arrangements (mostly hideous white roses that filled the room with their stench). A large chandelier and various wall lights illuminated the room in a warm glow. "You look exquisite." The man held up his glass.

You smiled gently raising your own glass and downing it. You expected to be reprimanded, but maybe they thought it best if you were wasted and willing. Did Snow tell him? No that would ruin the image he was trying to present to his bidders. You held out your glass for a refill.

Dinner was four courses and once again no body spoke to you thankfully. They let you drown in you cups as they spoke about politics, the games, the animals in the districts. Music was playing softly in the background and you drowned them out while pushing food around your plate.

"Eat." Snow's voice cut through your dissociating. It was the third course and you were already borderline stuffed opting to fill yourself with wine instead of substance and you were consuming more than normal not feeling the effects of it just yet. You opened your mouth to explain, but he narrowed his eyes at you.

So, you ate. The man chuckled, "You've got that one trained well Snow."

Snow chuckled as well, "I can't take all the credit, she came that way." Like you had arrived in a crate just for him.

He glanced across at you, “How did you learn those manners out in 6?”

You looked at Snow, then back to the man, setting your utensils down to let your hands fall in your lap. “My parents.” He furrowed his brows at you. You forget sometimes, how lowly they viewed people from the districts, how confusing it must be to learn they aren’t all savages…for the most part. “My grandfather ran a tight ship, so did my father.” It was the simplest form of the story.

“Hmm.” He chewed on his food, swallowed, and spoke again. “And your father? What does he do?”

You fought the quivering sigh, “He's a mechanic of sorts, helps put together anything that comes back broken or malfunctioning.”

The man chuckled, “And he likes what he does?”

“I think so,” Your face burned feeling as if he was mocking you somehow, looking down at you.

He only smirked swirling around his drink as his attention turned to President Snow, “I heard they have a huge morphling problem out in 6.” You knew that, had seen it when you turned down a wrong street. You stopped listening as the conversation turned away from you. You missed your father, missed the smell of oil on him when he came home, missed how he used to put you on his shoulder when you were little to see the hovercrafts take off. You were forgetting that smell, smoke and oil that coated the air sometimes, now the air sat thick with the scent of roses.

That life was gone now, killed in the arena.

You drank more, you forced yourself to eat to avoid them talking to you anymore and when the man had thrown his napkin down letting you know the dinner was finished you wanted to puke everything up again.

You had your hands folded in my lap picking at your cuticles until pain pricked, blood blossoming up like a rose. You brought it to your mouth hearing Snow's chair screech backwards, "If I may?" He held out his hand for you which you took greedily, “How does a nightcap sound.” He wasn’t talking to you.

“Always Snow.” So informal. “What’s mine is yours.” He joked standing up to follow as Snow led the three of you wherever he wanted to go.

You glanced up at him, and he met you half-way with a sidelong stare. You wanted to beg him, plead with him to not go through with this. You hoped he could see the worry in your eyes, but he looked away. He stopped at a door down the hall pushing it open and pulling you inside. It seemed to be an office or study. A large dark wooden desk, books lining shelves against one wall, a small hearth, two armchairs and small table between them with a love-seat across it, and a makeshift bar with various colored liquor in glass decanters.

He sat you on the elegant love seat and went to the bar. You sat up straight, sucking the blood off your finger again before it got on your dress as you watched the man take up one of the armchair seats. He handed the man a drink, one in his hand, and sat down next to you. He didn’t give an explanation to why you didn’t get one, probably thought it best after drinking so much through dinner despite the fact you felt completely sober. You blamed all the food he forced you to eat.

“She’s not going to kill me once we’re alone right?” The man lowered his voice as if you weren't in the room.

“No,” Snow chuckled. “She’s completely docile.” He reached over to grab your hand. “Would you like me to be in the room just in case?” You involuntarily squeezed his hand feeling his thumb caress your knuckles in response.

The man shook his head unaware of the movement. “That’s alright. Will there be ways to…subdue her if it comes to it?”

“Yes of course,” Snow smiled. You body went cold. “I’ve prepared a room for the two of you…with supplies, and we’ll have guards close by.” You glanced at the man watching you, finding solace in Snow's warmth radiating onto you.

He seemed suspicious of you, “Are you sure she’s a virgin?”

“Yes.” You wanted cry out that you weren’t just to make him leave. But then he may find someone worse, someone perhaps crueler than this man could be. Snow had promised to pick out someone you would like, but you weren’t sure what the criteria had truly been. You didn’t realize you were crying until water landed on your wrist.

"Please don't let him do this to me." You whispered.

Snow’s blue eyes met yours satisfied with your emotions, and then he reached out to stroke a palm down your cheek. You nearly leaned into the touch if it meant you could get away from another, “She’s a good girl.” He looked at the man, “She’ll behave.” Blood ran down your finger from the small cut and he brought it up to his mouth sucking it slightly, “Isn’t that right?”

The man set down his glass loudly. “Well, thank you for the lovely meal President Snow.” He was standing up, and you were gripping Snow’s hand even tighter.

He shook it off, patted your thigh, and stood up as well. “A toast first, for a wonderful evening, and another successful game.” He walked passed the man, who was looking at you, while you stared after Snow. Your heart was thumping loudly in your throat, bile rising with each short breath.

His back went straighter as he glanced over his shoulder at you, his eyes narrowed in on your face, at the water welled in your eyes, at the blood still slowly dripping from the tip of your finger. Then he turned back to pour the drinks. He handed one to the man, "To victory." He clinked their glasses watching with dark eyes over the rim of his glass as they drank.

The man took a deep breath as he finished and handed his glass back offering Snow a polite smile, "I think we will retire for the rest of the night.”

“Of course,” Snow nodded. He motioned to the door, “Your room is right down the hall.”

The man’s hand wrapped around your bicep. "Please." You begged. "Please Mr. President!" He only watched you with cold eyes. "I'll be good! I'll be good for you!” Your buyer gripped you harder, dragging you away a litter rougher this time. You stumbled over your shoes, the dress, feeling him grapple with you to keep moving.

“Behave,” He hissed. “Like he told you.”

You wrangled within his grip. What had Tigris called him that day, what did she say; you squeezed your eyes trying to remember, losing your footing completely and letting the man drag you through the door.

He's possessive.

Your eyes snapped open meeting his, "Coriolanus." The room stopped moving, nobody breathed as your eyes widened with the plea, as your other hand outstretched for him. "I'm your good girl, don't let him take me from you."

The door closed in your face as he dragged you down the hall. It was quiet now all you could hear were your ragged breaths, his grunts as he dragged your fighting body to the room. He pushed open the door and you realized they truly had set it up so nicely for him. There were candles and atrocious red rose petals, a white silk nightgown to put you in if he wished. “Put it on.” His voice was cold and distant. You stared at him watching him glance up and down at you, and then he sighed. “I paid a lot of money for you. Don’t make me hurt you.”

You shook your head.

He shoved you onto the bed. “You’re so fucking sweet to him.” He began to unbuckle his belt. “Probably lap him up like he's sweet fucking cream.” This was it, you thought for a second staring at the ceiling. Then you fought back. You clawed at him feeling his skin breaking, you bit and kicked as he rustled with the skirt of your dress until you slashed him across the face with sharp painted nails. “Ugh!" He groaned gripping his bleeding face. “Do I have to fucking go get him so you stop fighting me!” You stilled, giving yourself away completely, and he straightened on top of you. “He’s a fucking liar.” His eyes grew vicious. “And you’re a fucking whore! I knew it, I thought I saw something strange going on. He’s fucking you isn’t he? Isn’t he!” He slapped you across the face, your head snapping to the side, cheek stinging with the blow. “You probably want him to come in, save you, con me out of my money.” He pinned down your hands as he pushed up your dress. “Tell him I want it back. I paid for a virgin, not his slut.”

One moment he was planting himself between your legs, the next, blood dripped onto your face. One drop, then a splatter as his nose leaked red liquid. He reached up to touch it, confused, and then he collapsed on top of you. He wasn't breathing, he wasn't moving, dead weight atop of you. Your hands were up, too shocked to scream out for someone, too confused at the dead man lying on top of you.

Weight was soon lifted off of you and a loud thud hit the floor, but you couldn't look, couldn't look as you heard them dragging his body out of the room. You couldn't look at anything but the space above you until he was hovering over you a sly smirk on his lips, "You are full of surprises bluebell.” He scooped you in his arms and carried you away from the room. You knew you were shaking, you knew you should be scared as he walked with you away, alone. He walked you up a set of stairs and down a long hallway finally opening up a door to set you on your feet.

He closed the door, locked you in with him.

"Did you mean it?" He whispered, his voice husky. "That you'll be good for me." Your mouth dried, but what did you expect when he came rushing into that room. It wasn't because he cared; it was because someone was touching his property. "That you don't want anyone to take you away from me.” Your eyes went wild, that wasn’t exactly what you had said. “You wanted me to save you, I saw it in your eyes. You wanted me, not him. You squeezed my hand. You begged me, and I saved you.”

You slowly looked up at him. “Did you kill him.”

He came closer, "You think I would really let him take what's mine.” His hand came around you, fingers pulling down the zipper of your dress. "You cried out for me that night. Screamed my name as I made you come over, and over, and over, and over again. Your pussy adores me, needs me, sucks me in like its starving, to be filled, be claimed." He smiled down at you, "It's mine, you're mine. You belong to me…and deep down you like that.”

You couldn’t look away from his face, "I didn't know your name."

But you did. Tigris had shot it through the room like a stray bullet when he forced himself on you. It ingrained into your subconscious and when he was fucking you with his tongue it had fell off your lips like sweet honey. Then you had called it out tonight…

Your body seemed to warm at the memory as you tumbled right into his awaiting palm. “Kiss me.” He whispered. He pushed the sleeves of the dress off your shoulders, not letting it move further. You did. It fell to the floor in a heap leaving you bare in front of him. His hand trailed down your naked body lightly tracing the curve of your spine to the top of your ass his hand splaying to grip the whole thing. “Kiss me.” His mouth lingered over yours a slight smile to it, "I know you want to, you like when I kiss you, you get so wet when we kiss." Your brows furrowed because no that wasn't true; unless that was what was sliding down your naked thigh. He grabbed your face opening you up for him to consume. His tongue fought yours, easily winning as one hand came up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple; you shivered, leaning into the touch. "You will listen, you will obey." He said walking you backwards to the bed. ”You will let me fuck you.” He lowered you onto the bed. He hovered over you sliding his mouth along yours, licking into your mouth, kneading your breast, biting down on your lip.

He stared down at you patiently awaiting your answer, as if he even cared what it was…maybe he did. But your shocked body ached for him to consume it, and was there really ever a version out there where you got to tell him no?

"Okay.”

He trailed across your face nipping at your jaw harshly, you winced. "I didn't let them serve you tonight." He sat up tugging off his suit jacket, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. "I had them switch it out for sparkling grace juice. I wanted you sober for this.” He pulled his shirt off revealing a toned muscled chest glistening with sweat.

You couldn’t help but stare at him for a moment, stare at his perfect naked skin. “You planned it all.”

“Of course I did.” He scoffed. "I told you I would choose someone you liked." And he believed that to be himself. He bent back down sinking his teeth into your collarbone tongue lolling against your skin. His mouth slid along your breast, sucking in your nipple, rolling his tongue along it. “And you are so wet by it.” You had ignored the slickness forming between your thighs all night, ignored how you had been rubbing them together under the table the more he looked at you. He reached his hand back, running his fingers between your folds, gathering the wetness up in his own hand and bringing it back to his face, "My dirty little white rose." He rammed his hand into your face smearing your own arousal around the tangy taste seeping into your mouth. Then he was dipping back into you, stretching you open with two fingers as he straddled your stomach. "You take it so well. You just let me do whatever I want to you hmm?" He curled his fingers and your face burned as you chewed on your lip. "You like it too, you fucking love when I make you cum." You squeezed your eyes as he stroked the sweetest spot inside of you, fighting down the agreement boiling in your lungs.

But your body remembered, and it was slowly tilting your hips to meet each brutal thrust of his hand. You tried to focus on anything other than how good his fingers felt inside of you, how the pressure was tightening in your stomach, how your skin was blazing in the wake of his touch. It didn't matter how hard you clenched your jaw, the second his thumb pressed down on your clit you let out the softest moan. You felt his hips grind against you at the noise his hard cock digging into your stomach, his fingers pinching your nipple then running it between them. It was cruel, truly, for him to make you feel such decadent things. To have this power over you, but then again, he always had. You were reaching for him, or trying to push him out, you weren't sure anymore but your nails were clutching his arm for dear life as the pleasure washed over you. You clamped down on his hand cumming for him like the savior he was with the tiniest whimper. He kept going, moving his hand harder, moving backwards to dive down and wrapping his mouth around your clit. It was too much, your vision blurred. You were shoving at him harder, "It's too much."

He pressed you into the mattress tongue swirling around you clit, and you couldn't move, couldn't see anything but stars and feel his mouth suck you clit in. Your stomach curled in on itself the second orgasm building too fast feet digging into his sides as tongue deftly moved along your over sensitive bud. You cried out that time as you came hand tangled in his blond hair unknowingly. "That's my girl." He smiled down at you, chin shinning with your pleasure. "That's how I know you like it."

You clamped your legs closed once he moved. He tried to pry them apart as your hands came slashing down at him, pushing at him to get off of you, to stop before he did something you knew you couldn’t come back from. "Open your legs." He growled fingers digging into your thighs so hard you felt skin busting apart. He was on top of you shoving his knee between your legs grabbing both your hands to hold them above your head. “You're mine.” He spoke so gently, so matter-of-factly, you were starting to believe him as a tear slid down your cheek. “You wanted me, remember?” Your teeth tugged at your lip. “It will feel good." You knew that. It was exactly why you wanted to stop him. “Kiss me.” He was leaning down, pressing his lips to yours sliding his tongue along your bottom lip, breaking your resolve. He was undoing his pants, and you let him slowly open your legs, let him slid between them. “That’s my good girl.” He smiled into your mouth and pushed into you.

The pain was blinding no matter how wet he had made you. He split you in two as he pushed inside of you inch by excruciating inch. You screamed so loud as every fabric of muscle broke open between your legs. You felt warmth rush between your thighs, the breath you tried to take cracking open your chest. He moved so slow, trying to move further inside your tight walls as they clamped around him. He was still for a moment enjoying the feeling of you wrapped around him, or maybe it was a shred of kindness preventing any more pain. All you knew is his eyes were squeezed shut, broken pants expelling from his mouth, his hand resting on your shoulder digging in so hard it almost distracted you from the throbbing agony where your bodies were connected.

You almost took a second to admire him, between the intensity, but then he bottomed out inside of you.

"Oh." A breathless word.

Your pussy fluttered around him and he shuddered, "Fuck."

Then he pulled back slightly, pulled back until you almost felt relief that he was out, only to slam back into you. You grunted as your vision went away, white the only thing you could see as he did it again, and again, and again. His hand fell off your wrist needing to grip your waist as he pressed his forehead to yours, lips capturing every small force of air he shoved out of your mouth. "You're so fucking tight." He groaned his other hand on your shoulder pushing himself deeper. You felt him in your guts abusing your cervix with quickened thrust. You weren’t sure what you were feeling, broken sobs leaving your throat, there was pain, but there was something else too, something that was turning the sobs into moans. "I can feel your pussy clenching around me, can feel you getting wetter by the second." He bared his teeth against yours letting you gasp out into his mouth. "Be my good little whore and enjoy what I'm giving you.” He leaned up and back slowing slightly, and it gave you a moment to glance up at him. Sweat coated his forehead a blond curl across it as he watched where his cock disappeared inside of you, fascinated as you sucked him in greedily. His hips slapped against yours, lewd noises resonating around his bedroom each time he rammed in and out of your drenched cunt. His tongue swiped across his parted lips as the pain ebbed away completely replaced by horrible pleasure.

You ground your teeth, you fisted the sheets, you did everything but let him know what you were beginning to feel.

His hand slithered down between your legs and he danced delicate motions against your clit. You shook with a whimper the fire shooting down your body, your toes curling with it. "Cum around my cock." He whispered his thrust slow and deep letting you feel every thick inch of him. Your back was arching, the feeling tightening in your stomach, and a throaty groan slipped out. "It feels good doesn't it? You like that I fucked you, wanted me to fuck you all through that stupid dinner, you were so wet knowing it was always going to be me at the end of the night.” He began to move faster again, his hand working your clit harder and you squeezed your eyes tight. “This pussy has always belonged to me; it will always be mine.” He slapped you across the face head snapping to the side fucking into you, pressing against your clit. “Look at me.” He growled, forcing your face towards him as your eyes shot open, "Look at me when you cum.”

You gripped him hard body shaking with the orgasm that rocked through, your vision blurry with blue eyes. Your body clamped down around him, gushed around him as it crashed over you and pulled you under. He was hovering over you tucking his arm under your shoulder his mouth at your ear his grunts seeming to drive your legs further apart for him, wetness sucking him in more. You were whimpering his name against his moist throat, open mouthed kisses planted after each breath as you squeezed around him. His body tightened and he spilled inside of you, you should have stopped him, told him not to cum inside, but he would have done it anyways. He lay there for a moment only thrusting a little to push his seed deeper.

He pulled back slightly as you blinked up at him. You stared at each other for a while as his cock twitched one last time. Then he pulled out of you and climbed off the bed. "Don't move." He left you there, closing the door behind him. You felt dizzy with confusing feelings, legs shaking, his cum oozing out of you. You fought the sickening urge to push it back inside you to not feel so empty.

But you laid there, waiting for him to come back to you. He did. He sat you up and pulled the white satin nightgown over your head only to lay you back down. Thank him, even when you're not thankful. "Thank you Mr. President sir."

He laid down beside you, wrapped his arms around your body, and pulled you in tight so you couldn't let go. "Mhm," He purred in you ear. "So good to me, my darling bluebell."

You cried yourself to sleep in his arms.

You were moving, pushed and pulled like a soft tide, knew pleasure floated through your bones ebbing, flowing out of you. You rolled your head, feeling your leg lifted, feeling pressure between them. Your eyelids were so heavy, sleep trying to tug you back under but it was so warm, it felt so good.

You heard the whine leave your mouth as warmth surrounded you, as it moved between your legs. Your eyes shot open wildly staring out into the darkness truly unsure of reality. You glance down, not being able to see all that well, but its him. You know its him by how your body arches for him, as hands find his hair. His tongue rolls over your clit, flicking at it as you whimper out for him pulling your legs up and out so he can take more of you.

A dream then, you figured, as his tongue dipped inside you. You open your mouth to try to warn him of his own cum leaking out of you, but he doesn't care as he feast on you, lapping it up along with your arousal, his tongue so deep inside you, you sigh out while he fucks you with his tongue yanking your legs tighter around his shoulders. He's licking up the center sucking gently on your clit, his tongue tracing it as a faster pace and your head falls back. You barely even make a sound as you cum, as you gush against his face pussy clenching around nothing.

He's moving, the bed shifts as he moves closer rolling your body to the side forcing into you, sliding in to the hilt as your body demands him to fill you. He's somehow all around, engulfing you, his thick cock pushing in deeply as his teeth dig into your skin. You mumbled his name trying to turn. He had your body twisted so he could shove inside you, his face moving to lavish your breast.

"Go back to sleep," He muttered kissing your side, his cock sliding within you at a gentle pace, like he had all the time in the world, like he had hours. He lazily licked at your nipple, swirling his tongue around it, sucking it softly, grazing it with his teeth. A quiet whine floated into the air your head falling back against the pillow. You were too drowsy, too spent to feel anything other than what he was giving you, so your mind gave up fighting your body. Letting him open you up more, feel him envelope you as he rolled his hips against you like you were the whore he had called you earlier. "That's my girl," He muttered onto your skin, teeth ghosting over your flesh. His cock was rubbing against a sweet spot inside of you as you turned towards him your lips parting against his face, back arching to take him deeper. It was slow, purposeful, each thrust lighting a low burning fire in your veins. You let him kiss your neck, let him suck on your flesh, his presence intoxicating you, soon finding your hand tangled in his hair.

And then he looked down at you, noses touching in the dark, and maybe it was the proximity, but you could see his eyes. You brushed your lips against his, "Yours." It slipped out between the heated exchanged and sealed in your fate.

His eyes blew out and he leaned down to kiss you. You can smell yourself on his breath, smell his cum mixed in it all and you want it in your mouth, the taste of him too delicious. You finally kissed him back, running your tongue along his mouth tasting him, tasting the whiskey he had drank earlier, your arousal and his cum, the sweat on his top lip. His hand slithered down your body, languidly rubbing your clit the pleasure tingling down your legs. You moaned in his mouth, moaned his name into the air as he fucked you deeper, fucked you harder, claimed whatever pieces of you he wanted. "Mine." He grunted out back down your throat. "Mine. Mine. Mine."

You came hard, whimpering against him, fisting his hair, feeling him cum deep inside not long after. You didn't care this time, didn't mind the heavy warmth that coated your walls. Not as it filled some void he had carved out earlier.

You fall back asleep with him still inside you, like you had never woken up in the first place.

You woke up alone, body sore and spread out across his king sized bed sheets, blankets rumpled and draped over you. Everything ached, your hips and thighs, your neck and shoulders, your breast...your...your...You squeezed your eyes remembering, remembering how his cock had broke through you, how he hadn't stopped after the first time, but took you time and time again during the night until you were more full of him than yourself. He was never satiated, an inherent hunger prowling under his skin demanding to consume every piece of you.

And you had kissed him. You had whined out for him, held him closer, sighed his name like a prayer. You forced yourself up running hands over your face trying to erase the memory, trying to erase how well your body took him. You threw the sheets off shakily climbing off the bed the nightgown falling on your tacky middle thigh, and then you turned to glance at the bed.

You threw up onto the floor.

The bed, white sheets and all were covered in blood. You looked down. Your legs were covered in blood, and dried cum, and other fluids. You had rolled every time he took you, as he changed the positions he wanted you in, smearing all that blood across the bed, across your body.

He had plucked it from you, seed after seed, and left you in his bed like a half-eaten pomegranate waiting for him to resume feasting. He had been born hungry, he will always be hungry.

You left his room. You padded away from it bare, sticky feet slapping against the hardwood floor as you kept walking. Your brain felt empty thoughts not making sense. His bedroom looked like a crime scene; you lying in, the sacrificial lamb at a slaughter.

You hated him.

He was awful, he had forced you into those games to kill, to die, to punish the districts. He had planned to sell you.

He didn't. He hadn't. And now blood ran from your maidenhead, a fountain for his youth, and all you could remember was how good it had felt, how he had fit inside you so perfectly it had never really hurt in the first place. Or maybe history had rewritten itself across the cosmos.

Fresh air hit you as you flung open the doors, sun blinding your face so you simply kept your eyes close letting whatever force commanding you to lead you, until the scent of roses floated into your nostrils.

The garden. The enormous ugly place filled to the brim with ugly white roses. It felt too pure, too clean to be here, like you had invaded Eden and the snake slithered between your thighs. You just stood there staring at a row of blooming flowers letting the horrid smell engulf you.

You couldn't help but think of him, his hair falling out of place, bouncing off his forehead as he thrust into you. You thought of the sweat dripping off his face, plopping onto your parted lips, you despised how good it tasted when it trickled onto your tongue. You thought of the heat in your cheeks when he whispered sweet, vulgar nothings into your ear, how it made you curl your toes.

You thought of how despite your hatred and disgust at him you moaned for him nonetheless.

The flowers didn't smell so awful anymore.

Time passed, you let it, standing there in a thin bloody nightgown and bare feet.

The door creaked open finally and shut behind him. You knew it was him from the shiver that danced down your spine, to the nauseating flip of your stomach as if your subconscious was glad he was there, as if it desired his presence.

A large hand brushed down your arm, "You should stay in bed." You focused on the light splitting through the windows golden and beautiful as he moved your matted hair off your shoulder to press a kiss to bare skin. You winced, the bruises and bites too tender. "Come now, bluebell." He smiled against your neck, "Let me take you back to bed."

"You were gone." It shouldn't have sounded so desperate, so whiny, like you genuinely wanted him there.

He chuckled, "I'm the President sweet girl. I can't be expected to lie in bed fucking you all day."

You were next to your father a large smile on your face as you watched them announced young President Snow. You had gathered in the square to watch it with the rest of your community. They spoke about how the districts were going to do so much better under his authority, how both the districts and Capitol would profit significantly with him taking over. You remember your father being hopeful, maybe a young man like him would bring good change.

"Is that what you wanted?" He planted the kiss under your ear goosebumps erupting over cool flesh. "To wake up again with my cock buried inside of you." He nipped at the shell of your ear, "Or feasting on your cunt." His hardness was pressing into the thin fabric of your nightgown as your body went taut in his arms.

You turned to face him. His eyes were so bright as the sun reflected off of them, and you held back the automatic yes on your tongue. Your gaze flickered around his face trying to read him, understand him even, but it was impossible. He was the President, and you were a victor, and those worlds should have never collided. Yet here you both were creating a black hole in the universe at your entwining.

He moved for you slowly.

You felt frozen feeling him wrap his arm around your body to begin walking back towards the house, numb as servants open the doors for the two of you so he could lead you back to your cage. It wasn't for concern or safety, he would tie you to his bed simply to know you would always be there.

The room had been cleaned by time you reached it, no evidence in sight, besides the blood and cum caked onto your thighs. He tugged at you walking you to the bathing room connected to his, "You scared the servants." He chuckled as he went to the tub and turned it on.

"I'm sorry." It slipped out, a trained response and your eyes fluttered close.

He filled the water with sweet smelling salts and came back towards you tugging your nightgown off your body. You glanced in the mirror at the red hand prints stained into the flesh of your breasts, your neck. You were more wounds than skin, littered with teeth indents, scratches, hickies. "Come here." You did, as steam began to replace the image. You let him help you into the warm water and sank down into it, biting back the sound of pleasure as it soothed every piece of you that was broken and sore. He leaned your head back dipping your tangled hair into the water. "Mhm," He mused sliding his hands along your wet body claiming he was wanting to wash you.

"It feels nice." You whispered his forehead pressed to your shoulder as his hands traveled along your stomach. It shouldn't feel nice, but it did, his gentle hands swimming across your sensitive body.

He didn't respond, but he let go and stood, the sounds of his clothing dropping echoing in the room. You jumped at the sound hoping he wouldn't take you in this tub, praying to whatever god you believed in, and you thought it sounded too close to his name. You knew your body was too sore to handle it, knew you would melt into his palms if he did. He climbed in behind you, his legs sliding along yours, his chest pressed to your back wet hair plastered between bodies. "You enjoyed last night." His hands floated over your legs removing the last remaining evidence of the encounter. You weren't sure if he was asking or telling. His lips ghosted over your shoulders.

"Why me?" You blinked out a tear.

His smile scorched your skin. "You were so pretty when you cried at the reaping." Another tear as you took a sharp breath, all of this because of your pain. It didn't seem like a good enough response for you, there had to me more of a reason why he took it this far. His mouth parted, "I starved him out, sent all his gifts to you, so when I did send something in, something to weaken him, he would eat it." It shouldn't have been so easy to take him down, you always knew that, chalked it up to luck or the element of surprise. The only thing he had managed to do was slice your leg open the scar still plagued on your skin. He did look sickly before his own blood coated his face. Maybe he had been begging to end his life, maybe whatever they gave him was hurting.

Please.

Your vision was blurry, eyes darting back and forth. "You helped me win."

"I saved you, bluebell." He caressed a hand down the center of your chest, where you had plunged that knife, and another tear slipped out. "You should be glad." A thumb stroke, "You should be grateful."

"He's possessive. His obsession can drive him mad sometimes."

It all made sense now in your head. He felt like he was owed something. He went through all of that hard-work to make you win, all that trouble to ensure you walked out alive so he could get his prize...you. You belonged to him, owed him a life debt, and the only way to repay his generosity was handing over every piece he wanted.

You could only stare at the faucet ahead of you as water dripped off into the tub.

Plop, plop.

His hand stilled, "Aren't you going to thank me?" You racked your brain for the answer unsure of what you were supposed to respond with.

Plop, plop.

"Thank you Mr. President, sir." Was the safest option out of your lips, but his body was tense behind you.

Plop, plop.

"For?"

You closed your eyes a slight shake of your head wondering what he possible wanted from you. Your eyes slid back open. He wanted the validation, he wanted gratitude. "For saving me, for making me feel good."

Snow relaxed, a kiss pressed to your shoulder. He was running his hands through tendrils of wet hair his hand slinking between your legs. You stiffened, hand shooting to his wrist to stop him, "What's the matter bluebell?" He whispered in your ear shaking your hand off like it was nothing. "Isn't this what you wanted?" He brushed down your folds as you whimpered for him, "Why you made me leave work early to bring you back to bed?" You felt his pouting lips against your back making a mockery of you, "Why you were so sad I was gone this morning?"

His fingers found your clit rubbing small, slow circles, "It hurts." It didn't, but you were worried if he went further it would, or perhaps it wouldn't and you would wind up screaming his name against the ceramic tub. Both were terrifying.

"I know." He pressed a little harder listening to the whine ricocheting against the walls of the room. "You can take it." You spread your legs for him joints aching at the stretch as your fingers dug into his thighs feeling him rub circles on that sensitive bundle of nerves. "That's my girl." He cooed teeth grazing a tender bruise, and instead of a wince, a moan came out of your mouth. You were leaning into the pain he offered as the fire burned in your core. You closed your eyes fighting the pleasure and desire rippling through every part of you, you wished your body wouldn't burn for him, yet here you were, mouth agape, a mewling mess for him.

Then you did something completely insane and reached between you to run your hand along his hard cock. At first, it was a soft hand down his cock and then you were pumping his length, hearing him release a groan into your skin and you only worked him harder, swirling your hand around him, lightly grazing his balls each time you slid to the base.

"Do you want to fuck me?" He rasped moving his hips with your hand as he brought you closer to your peak.

"Yes." No hesitation. You blamed the rot in your soul.

His hand pressed down harder and you cried out black forming behind your eyes, "Say it." He gritted out.

"I want...to fuck you." A light pinch to your clit making you yelp. "Mr. President sir!"

His hands left your body as he lifted them up allowing free reign to move if you chose to. You sat there for a moment contemplating the decision, then slowly turned to face him. You weren't sure if it was bath water or sweat but his face was misted eyes glazed over, hair disheveled, curling slightly at the ends. He looked younger, he looked like that man you had seen sworn in on stage years ago. You were on your knees between his legs climbing over him, letting his hands find your waist as you shook against him.

There was no going back from this.

You lined him up and sank down. You went slowly this time, letting him stretch you open, letting the sweet thickness of him take you. At some point he had pressed you to his chest, or maybe you had moved, but your teeth were in his shoulder, biting as pain and pleasure melded. "You're so fucking tight." His hands were wrapped around you, gripping you tightly, as you sank down to the hilt moaning out at the delicious feeling of fullness. You clenched around him hearing him hiss fingers digging into your back as they tried to move back down to your hips. You were afraid to move, afraid to take him like this, but you needed more.

So, you rolled your hips against him. He took a sharp intake of breath, fingers pressing in your hips beginning to help your movements, help you grind your pussy onto his cock. You began to pull back, away from him, but he sat up more, gripping the edge of the tub to keep your pace, while his other hand went to your neck forcing your lips on his. It was an open mouth kiss as you whimpered onto his tongue feeling him everywhere. You let him nip at your lip as you licked the roof of his mouth, along his top teeth hands tangling through his hair as you slid up and down on his cock. You clit was grinding against him as your body sucked him in deep pressing in that sweet spot and you knew you were close.

You let your head fall back blind pleasure taking over as you rode him. "Feels good right?" He asked mouth traveling down to sweep across your heavy breast, taking your nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue along it. "I make you feel so good hmm?" He mused sucking gently on it. "Treat you so nice." He grabbed the back of your neck forcing your forward once more until your forehead was pressed against his, "So good to you?"

"Yes." You sighed the fire in your core rippling through you ready to explode as water sloshed out of the tub. He began to fuck up into you the new speed sending you over the edge as your body shook in his arms. His hips stuttered and he was spilling inside you with a rough groan. You stayed like that for a moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each others air.

He smirked at you, "Greedy, greedy girl." He forced you down on his chest as his cock twitch one last time inside you. "Can't get enough can you?"

You couldn't find the words to respond, too dazed to comprehend anything. The ache began to return between your legs, but you were too afraid to move until he let you. He did after a while, and then he cleaned you again, got you out of the tub to dry off and put a new nightgown on.

Soon enough you found yourself sprawled out on his lap as he combed your hair. You glanced up at him, at the concentration in his face, at the stray curls hanging onto his forehead. You brushed them away with your fingers his eyes meeting yours.

He had told you to be more grateful, so you were.

"Thank you Mr. President, sir."

A week had passed and you were sure you were going insane.

He fucked you the moment you opened your eyes, then he would leave for work, only to come back and fuck you through the night. He dressed you in the morning (usually something that allowed him easy access), he had your meals brought up to his room, cleaned you up every evening, and sometimes even permitted you to walk down the hall to the small study he had, to allow you some entertainment of reading.

You couldn't speak to anyone (not that they could respond), you couldn't watch the news, you had no idea what was going on out in the world. Were your parents worried? Did they think you were coming home soon? Were you ever going home?

You picked at your dinner.

Something had changed within you.

Your stomach panged close to the times food was set to be delivered. You began to chew at the skin around your nails with anxiety until someone came through the door, mostly waiting for him. And when he came in, still in his Presidential clothing, you felt wetness seep between your legs. You weren't sure why it was happening or when it had started, but your subconscious had taken over, your body responding in ways you could never control. He had trained it somehow to follow his schedule, to respond to him, and it was working.

You took him greedily each time; ravenous for him, for his mouth on you, his cock inside you. You would wrap your legs around him so tight to pull him closer, mouth on his jaw, breathing the air he gave you, sweat glistening off feverish skin, savoring the warmth of his cum inside you.

You hated him, but you hated yourself more for how much you were beginning to not hate him. He had saved your life, prevented that man from assaulting you, he fed you and washed you, kept you safe and provided for.

But you were locked in a cage; his cage, and you never could see beyond the bars of your inclosure. You stared longingly out the window, pressed your ears to the floorboards just to see, to hear something.

You needed to leave, you needed your sanity back.

He came through the door at his normal time wetness pooling between your thighs. He shrugged off his jacket setting it on the back of the chair and sat down across from you. "How was work?" You asked. So ordinary.

"Dull." He sighed his body sprawled out, his hands across his stomach as he stared at you. "Come here." You were on your feet padding over to him to sit on his lap his cool hand snaking around your waist, "Kiss me." You leaned down and pressed your lips to his feeling the quick sweep of his tongue and you opened your mouth for him. He straightened up pulling you down with a hand on your chin his tongue gently melding with yours. You whimpered into his mouth as his hand came off your face and between your legs. He smirked in your mouth, "Wet for me already?" He nipped at your lip, "I'll never tire of coming home to your soaked pussy."

You body tightened, "Mr. President, sir." You pulled back slightly just as his hands brushed along your folds. You squeezed your eyes trying to remember what you needed to say.

His eyes were studying you intensely. "What is it?"

Don't stutter. "Are you truly going to keep me here forever?"

He stared at you for a second his hand resting on your backside, the other still between your legs. "Isn't that what you wanted?" He began to laugh. "I thought you'd be happier here."

Ice rippled through your skin; he was never planning to let you go. You cleared your throat trying to remain calm. Your eyes flickered around his face. "You're the President, surly you need a Capitol woman for a wife, and it would be bad news if this situation ever got out."

"It won't get out." His hand gripped you a little harder like you would fly away.

"Please," your bottom lip wobbled. "Please let me go. You will tire of me soon enough." Part of you ached at the idea of it, of leaving, but you shoved that lunacy down.

His blue eyes were dark. "No I won't. You belong here, in that bed, drenched the minute I step in the door. You belong to me." His hand squeezed your cheeks moisture spilling across your jaw. "You are mine."

You sighed water welling in your eyes, "You're right." You nodded leaning forward to capture his lips. "I'm sorry." You kissed him again hand reaching behind you. "I'll stay." You lied as your hand wrapped around the plastic fork.

Because why would the give a victor real utensils.

Then you sank it into his hand resting on your ass. You heard him yelp as plastic snapped off, but your didn't stay to see if it drew blood as you ran out of the bedroom. He roared your name. You were sprinting down the hall almost to the stairs when you heard him stomping after you. Guards were rushing up so you turned heading to the upper level of the mansion. You felt like you were in the games all over again, running from them, lungs burning as you took two stairs at a time.

If all else fails you would fling your body out of the window hoping the ground would kill you before he did. You weren't even really sure if he would kill you, or just tie you to the bed like you knew he really wanted. Your freedom had always been an illusion.

You hit the end of the hall when you heard him breathing heavy from the other end. You dared a glance at him blood dripping off of the back of his hand, calm fury on his face. You went to the nearest door fighting with the locked handle to let you in as you heard him come closer. You were sobbing as you tried another door realizing you were trapped in this hall with him, like he had always prepared for something like this to happen.

His hands wrapped around your body, "Nowhere to go now bluebell."

"Stop calling me that!" You cried out thrashing against him.

He gritted his teeth, "Now I'm going to take you back to my room, and you are going to stay there."

You bucked against him. "No! Let me go!"

He flipped you around, hand on your throat, and slammed you into the wall. "What is so wrong with that? Why do you want to leave me so badly after everything I've done for you?" He snarled, eyes wild, "Haven't I been good to you!" You clawed at his arm your feet rising off the ground as he choked you. You stared wide eyed at him, gaping for air that was never coming. You figured it would be okay to die here, knew it was always coming the closer you had gotten to him, and somewhere deep down it made you sad.

"I...loved you." You choked out feeling his hand suddenly pull from you like it had branded him. You held your hand at your throat as he stared down at you, as you tried to catch your breath. "I watched you sworn in as President, and everyone was so hopeful, and I loved you for it. I worshipped you, adored you for that hope, that you might bring change."

You glanced up at him breathing heavily like he had been the one with a hand crushing his esophagus. "When did it stop?"

"When my name got called at the reaping."

He slapped you across the face the skin on your lip breaking as you fell sideways knocking a flower vase to the ground with you. It shattered into pieces, white roses sprawling across the floor with you. "Is that why you take me so well." He spoke from above you. His foot slammed down on your back face banging off the hard wood, "Did you imagine me when you used to touch yourself back in your hovel?" You only glared back at him behind a curtain of hair, blood spilling from your nose. He laughed, "You did." His smile fell, "I've given you everything you ever wanted. I saved you. I spoiled you, and this is how you repay me. So ungrateful."

"I hate you." You spat at him.

The corners of his mouth quirked up. "Hate burns hotter than love."

You screamed as your hand wrapped around a shard of glass and you swiped at him blood dripping from how hard you gripped it. He jumped back but it slashed his perfect cheek. You swiped at him again this time drawing blood from his hand as he held it up to protect himself. That boy's face from 2 flashed in your mind, his poor sick face and you pounced on him straddling his body pressing the jagged edge to his throat.

"Sir?" You knew guns were pointing at you, heard the tap of his fingers on the trigger with each thump of your heart beat. You stopped caring.

He held up a hand, eyes never leaving your face, "It's alright."

You watched your own blood trickle onto his face. Your lip curled back as you pressed harder into his pale soft fresh, but he wasn't scared. He just stared at you.

He knew you wouldn't do it.

So you yanked back and held it to your own throat warm blood leaking down your chest. He rubbed his hands up your legs splaying his fingers across skin. His eyes, gods his eyes, were so calm, so dark and full of desire like he enjoyed the chase, enjoyed watching you bleed and claw for him. The glass clattered to the floor in limp arms feeling his cock straining beneath you, and you...you were aching for it.

Your eyes wobbled as tears fell, "What did you do to me?" Because something had fundamentally changed you, he had fundamentally changed you to crave him this way, rewired you to need him this way. There was no other explanation to describe what coursed through you.

He only stared up at you the slow smirk spreading across his lips. "What did you do to me!" You roared at him needing the answer, needing to know why you could hate him so much, despise him, and need him so desperately.

"I showed you who you are." His hands traveled to rest across your backside. Yours. You remember his nose pressed to yours as you brushed the word against his mouth. You wanted to feel regret at the intimate word you let slip out the first night he took you.

You hated that you had whispered it, hated that you knew it was true simply by the way your hips rolled against his. You ached for him, you wanted him to fill you again, empty at the lack of his commanding presence inside of you. You hated that he had turned you into a whimpering mess starving for his pleasure.

His inherent hunger was contagious and he had made you starving.

He sat up pulling you flush against his body. "I see you." He was so close. "You never needed to plunge that knife into his heart three times. The first had hit home, and he was dying anyways." Hot breath fanned onto your blood streaked face. "I've always seen you for who you are."

Your parted bruised lips brushed his, teeth grazing, tongue darting out in an upward motion to lick into his mouth. Heat pooled in your core as you felt his cock twitch beneath you.

"The victor."

Your hands were rooted in his hair as you crushed your mouths together, it was messy and intoxicating as you consumed him. A battle of teeth and tongue, spit spilling between you both as you refused to come up for air. You pushed him to the ground, tongue down his throat, and a hand down his pants breaking the buttons open to free his cock. He was leaking from the tip and you smeared it down his cock pumping him with your hand as you lined him up with your soaking entrance.

Moaning into his mouth, you sank down onto him until nothing separated your bodies. Your open mouth rested against his parted lips breathing the same air and then you were moving, moving your hips, moving your mouth to taste his jawline, digging your teeth into his neck feeling the metallic taste of his blood rush into your mouth. You rode him harder, foot planted on the ground to move against him better, took back all the blood he had stolen from you. You wanted to rip his throat out, taste his pain, lap him up like nectar until the two of you were nothing but naked muscle. He scratched at your body, shredding open the blood stained pretty white dress he had put you in. You returned the favor, tearing open his shirt, buttons flying across the hall.

It was animalistic, it was primal starvation.

You wanted to feast on him, consume him like he had consumed you. He had carved out a home for himself inside of you and now you wanted to bury yourself in his flesh.

You leaned up his blood running down your chin as you glided your pussy against his cock, clit rubbing along his body. "There she is." He hooked his hand into your mouth and you wrapped your hand around his wrist to suck in his fingers, tasting your mess along them. You would never be full of him. He ripped them away from you smearing the trail of blood down your naked chest. "Go on, make yourself cum on my cock like the little whore you are." You squeezed your eyes feeling that overwhelming feeling creeping up your spine raking your nails down his chest. It feels too good, his cock hitting every right spot, his blood in your teeth, his hand pinching at your nipples. His nails are digging into your hips as he thrust his hips up to meet yours, to fuck you deeper. Your body shakes with the orgasm when it ripples through you, pussy clenching around him moaning out into the open air for him.

And then he's pushing you back, flipping you onto the ground broken glass splintering into your chest. You don't care. You'd bleed for him ten times over, you'd kill that boy every chance you got if it meant Coriolanus Snow would live inside you. He's pulling your hips up until your on all fours and then he slams into you. You cry out, grasping for nothing the force of him shoving your body forward. He yanks you back only to continue fucking you at a brutal pace, rutting into you like a ruthless animal. "You like when I fuck you like the bitch you are hmm?" His hips snap against yours as fingers dig into the flesh of your ass. "You want me to breed you too hmm? My prized little rose," Your nails scratch against wood splintering off as his dick hits your g-spot. "Want to give me little heirs don't you?" He tangles a fist in your hair arching you up, letting your pussy suck him in deeper, "Say it! Say you want my cum you greedy girl."

"Yes." You whimpered. "I want it. Please Coriolanus. I need it."

He wraps a hand around your throat pulling your back up against his chest to thrust up into you, "You're mine, do you understand that. You're never leaving me." He abuses your cervix hand gently squeezing your carotid. "You belong to me." He nips at your ear, "To do whatever I want, whenever I want. Forever."

And that doesn't sound so bad after all.

Your vision goes fuzzy as his hand slides off your neck and in-between your legs rubbing furiously into your clit. "Yours." You whine, hands reaching behind you to grip his hair. He's kissing your neck, sucking and biting at the wound you gave yourself. You're so foolish for running, for wanting to leave this, it was too good to ever leave. He was right; he had spoiled you rotten. He's grunting hot and heavy in your ear, lights dance behind your eyes as you feel his pace pick up, his fingers swirling your bundle of nerves rhythmically.

You're screaming his name to the heavens as your body goes over its peak.

You hate him, gods you hate him. You don't think you could ever stop hating him. But when his cum spills into you as you clamp down around his cock, you think you might worship him.

He drops your shaking, messy body to the hardwood floor as he thrust slowly into you, pushing his cum deeper and deeper, keeping every drop inside. His hand is still rubbing your clit, fucking you into overstimulation and you whine in protest, but he holds you still.

"Shh," He whispered gently, petting your head and you stop fighting him. "Such a good girl." You push your hips back, arching for him more. "My pretty girl." Your arousal drips down your leg, onto the floor as he leans down and kisses your spine. "Come on give me one more." You couldn't stop it if you tried as he pressed a little harder, softening cock twitching against a sensitive spot, his cum still warm inside you. His thumb rolled over your nipple, tugging and playing with the bud and when it was taut and throbbing he moved to the other one. It was overwhelming, feeling him everywhere like he was stuck under your skin. Your thighs were shaking, but he's holding you up as nails scratch against wood until they chipped.

The pressure dragged you under and you threw your head back your climax exploding around you as you came one more time. You could barely move, barely see straight, only slightly feeling him take his hand off your clit, only slightly feeling his cock start to harden again inside you.

He flips you over onto your back as you gaze up at him in a daze. His mouth is on your breast lazily running his tongue along your sensitive nipple. You mewl for him.

"Are you going to run away again?" He asked. You shake your head. His nose began to drag up your neck until it was pressing into yours. "Are you going to be ungrateful again?" You shake your head. His mouth lingered at your ear, "Are you happier here?"

He straightened up to stare down at you, stare down to where his cock slowly begins to thrust in and out of you again, stare down as you open for him more, stare down as maroon stains your chin, your chest, as your mouth parts his blood coating your teeth.

"Yes Mr. President, sir."

He smiled down at you.

He told you he was getting married with his tongue between your thighs, gave you all the reasons he couldn't marry you. You were district after all, and he was the President. You didn't really listen as you orgasmed against his face.

He married Livia Cardew a few months later.

You weren't allowed at the wedding.

"You understand don't you bluebell?" He stroked your cheek as he got himself dressed taking in the sight of you lying naked on his bed cum leaking from your cunt.

She didn't know about you, you had figured that out on their wedding night when she had barged into his room, demanding to know why he wasn't spending it with her, screaming at the sight of him pile driving into you on his bed.

He made her sit and watch. He forced her into a chair as he took you over and over again, as you screamed her husband's name as he made you cum, as he spilled inside of you making her stare horrified when he took his fingers and shoved every spilled drop back inside you.

She tried to leave then, realizing the situation at hand, but he threatened to cut out her tongue before she left or he could string her corpse above his mansion door...whatever she chose.

She stayed.

You knew sometimes she would listen, listen to how he would fuck you into the long hours of the night, how you cried his name as you rode him. How you begged him to fuck you again once he had finished. You knew she hated seeing you next to him at the dinner table knowing her husband's cum was leaking between your thighs, that your teeth were the ones marking his skin.

He implanted you with birth control, you figured it would happen. You knew he couldn't have children with you, couldn't have district blood tainting the presidency line despite his want to breed your obedience into his children. Only on some occasions when he fucked you, he had to finish into a cup to bring to the doctor to artificially get Livia pregnant. He brought you beautiful roses every time he had to do it.

And once a year, he got to parade you on his arm for the annual hunger games. He loved watching you tuck into him to get away from lusting men, loved fucking you in the bathroom when the speeches were done. You didn't care if anyone could hear you, if Mags was disgusted by you.

You didn't care anymore. Not about Livia, not about how much you didn't hate him anymore, not about the games, not about your sad garden wilting away in District 6.

Coriolanus let you tend to his pretty, sweet smelling white roses.

You were a victor, his victor.

So, when you glanced over at him in the middle of the night, sleeping, moonlight spilling onto his peaceful features and you thought about slitting his throat, you decided to climb on top of him. You reached under the blankets, pumped his cock until it was hard and sank down onto him, fucking him awake.

"Such a good girl." He would kiss your cheek as his cum coated your walls.

"Thank you Mr. President, sir."

THE END

endnotes: ((this was supposed to be so much darker but god said 'no girl dont do that' lmao)) OMG IM SO SAD THIS IS OVER!! thank u so much for sticking with me and reading and all the kind words!!

divider credit: @rookthornesartistry

tags: @wearemadeofstardust0 , @astarborntowrite , @genderfluid-anime-goth , @merlieve , @darktrashsoulbear , @euphemiaamillais , @dousyskid , @bunny24sstuff , @bloobewy , @tmblrsexyw0man , @italiekim , @anthgoldenhrry , @becauseseaotters bold is tumblr wouldn't let me tag

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #coriolanus smut #coryo x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #dark fanfic #dark fanfiction #fanfic #hunger games #president snow #president snow x reader #coryo smut #coryo snow

[the-kr8tor]

...And The Deep Blue Sea

Pairing: Pirate! Hobie Brown x Fem! Reader

Word count: 13.2k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, No specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), CW food mentions, TW blood, CW violence, TW death, CW gore, CW injury, CW guns.

A/N: it's the end.

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Between the Devil and the Sea Masterlist

CHAPTER 15 >>>

“Hello, little birdy.” Mathias cackles like there's a pebble stuck in his throat.

He roams his sickly yellowed eyes at your body, sending shivers down your spine with every glance. “Or should I say Viscountess?” He laughs again. “You wear that gown well,” his eyes flick behind you, “Eugene, my boy!” The man beside you stiffens up. “Come get your bride and sit with me.” He drums at the table. “The Food is comin’, I heard that the bride and groom usually don't get to eat after everything is said and done. We don't want you to starve, ain't that right, lieutenant?”

The eye patched man standing in the corner nods slowly. His hands are neatly tucked behind his back like an obedient dog waiting for his master.

“You're alive?” You say breathlessly, teeth gritted, knuckles clenching tight on the skirt of your dress. Pulse rapidly thrumming, sending alarm bells to ring in your ear.

“‘course I am! No one can kill the king's flame, not even the red hydra,” he spits the name out. “or even a real fuckin' hydra.” Chuckling, scars mar his neck and hands, the only visible ones under his navy blue officer's uniform. It's still red and angry, you can tell some parts of it hasn't healed yet. You plan to add more, whether it's by your bare hands or a piece of cutlery; you're prepared to hit him where it hurts.

Numerous medals are on display on his jacket, shining under the sunlight filtering through the closed curtains. “Can you believe it? I go out to hunt the red hydra and I get myself a pretty bird.” He continues annoyingly, voice crackling, a dry cough escaping his pale mouth.

Mathias notices you still standing in the doorway, his eyes are dull, like a hurricane that's about to devastate a whole town. Eugene notices and he reaches for your arm to sit you down. You flinch away from his touch, eyes trained on the man before you.

“I said sit down!” Mathias’ booming voice rings out in the dining hall, his fist slamming on the table, champagne flutes fall over like dominoes with a harsh crack. “Fuckin’ grab her, Eugene! Don't be such a fuckin’ cock and grab her!”

“Y-yes uncle.” Your ‘fiance’ tentatively guides you towards the chair by your elbow, you brush off his touch, angry eyes gazing at his cowardly face.

Sitting down on the right side of Mathias, you intentionally choose a chair as far away from him as possible. But before you could sit, he clicks his tongue, finger wagging in front of his scarred face.

“Not there, gorgeous.” He pats the seat closest to him. “Right here.”

“No,” you stand your ground, shaking from anger, or is it fear that climbs in your stomach and crawls upwards to your quickening heart?

You refuse to get near the monster as Eugene stares across from you with anxiety in his eyes.

“Sit. Down.” Mathias enunciated, “or Lieutenant Dubois here will make you sit down.” Said uniformed man grunts, hazel eye roaming across the table, gaze boring a hole in between your twitching eyes. The sheath of his cutlass is engraved with tally marks among the ornate laurels and lions. “You already know what he'll do to you, he's quite amazing with a sharp object.”

“I am too.” You clench your jaw, still refusing to sit.

To your surprise, Mathias grins, a sickeningly hideous smile, teeth bared, tongue lapping at the gold in place of the fangs, lips wrinkling, he chuckles softly as something passes by his yellowed eyes.

“Sorry ‘bout that, you just reminded me so much of your father.” He leans on the back of his chair, hands gesturing towards you. “I literally saw him instead of you! It's fuckin' crazy innit?” He shoves Eugene by the shoulder, the viscount flinches, wincing at the ache. “Y’know, I recognized you— wait, lieutenant! Grab her and make her sit down! This story deserves to be listened to properly.”

“No!” You try to run back to the hallway, but the man is too fast for you. With the heavy skirt and weak leg, you didn't have a chance against him. “Motherfucker—!” With his arms around your torso, you kick and flail about, Mathias gives him a look and the man headbutts you from behind.

The room spins as he carries you towards the chair. The ceiling swirls, ears flooding with your rushing blood. With your muddled hearing, you swear you heard Eugene defend you, and you swear you heard a slap right after.

With a heavy thunk, the door closes behind you, your exit closes behind you. The only remaining door is across you, it's currently closed but you're sure it's unlocked judging by the draft coming from it. Head still aching, vision warbling, the one eyed man stands in front of the only exit.

“Now where was I?” Mathias continues like nothing happened. You glare at him through the corner of your eyes, your skin feels like spikes from the goosebumps rising above. “Ah, yes! I recognized you on the ship, before a literal myth came eating my crew. By the way, what the fuck was that, huh? Fuckin' weird, right?”

“Shut the fuck up.” You say weakly.

“Anywho, You looked a lot like your father but with your mother's beauty. I knew them, your father more so. Once upon a time he was my lieutenant, he was pretty good at it too. Too bad he had to disobey orders and marry above his station.”

“Why don't you ever shut up?” You lay your elbows on the table, arms flat, slyly covering the steak knife under your arm. “Are you a narcissist? Do you like hearing your own voice—?”

Mathias hurls a salad plate at your head. You dodge it in time before it shatters on the floor. You don't have time for this, you need to get to Hobie immediately, before it's too late. You have no plan, no weapons, but you'll be damned if you don't try. And you can still hear his screams echoing in your ears, as if he's already dead, as if he's already haunting you.

You need to try. Or it'll be your end too.

The monster before you clears his throat. “Don't be rude.” He points a finger at you.

You now notice how worse for wear he is, under the white paint and powdered wig lies injuries that haven't healed since the fight. You smell it, the herbs hastily smudged, and the rot in his flesh. It seeps into his bones, poisoning his body. You just wish it'll eat at him faster.

You're suddenly not afraid anymore.

“Anyway, before I was rudely interrupted. Your father, well, he fought a good fight on the Demeter. He stood his ground till the very end until a dozen or so bullets pierced his skin.”

The crescent in your palms gets deeper.

“He was smart though, smarter than you probably. You see, he rigged the ship to blow. He had the fuckin' balls to do it even though his entire family was inside. Ain't it funny—?” The double doors swing open.

The butler interrupts his speech, a handful of staff bring in an entire chicken at his plate. One pours him a glass of wine before he snatches the entire bottle and places it right next to his glass. Hot soup and meat pie is brought in also, the smell is appetizing but you place your hand over your plate wordlessly, telling them you're not hungry at the moment. How could you be when Mathias eats in front of you like he hasn't eaten in decades?

The tension is thicker than the cream placed in front of Eugene.

He munches loudly as he takes apart the roast. String of meat flies all over, the former white table cloth turns brown when he wipes his hands on it. Eugene spares you a look, eyes staring forlornly at his empty plate. His hand inching closer towards his goblet before deciding to just drink the ruby liquid.

You're on your own.

The wolves devour their fill whilst you plan your escape. Your mind screams for you to run, to run where no one can find you. The voice echoing in your ears is right at one thing, but you'll never hide anymore, not from Mathias, not from your past, not from anyone. You'd face it with fire in your veins just like your father had.

Mathias snorts, and you wish it was a choke. “He fought well, got a few of my men. How do you think the lieutenant here lost his eye?” He points at the stoic man using a half eaten chicken leg. “Your father was brilliant with a sword. A crack shot with a blunderbuss too. But, eh, it was all in vain. He shouldn't have messed with the crown and polite society.”

He continues to loudly eat, hands slick with oil, mouth full of meat. “You see, your mother was that fuckin' woman. Wealth, looks, title, she had it all. And the king wanted it too, greedy bastard he is.” There it is, the confession. But you still listen because you know something else will come after. “But your mum decided to run off and elope with the bastard son of an unpopular lord. The king was pissed off.”

Mathias laughs roughly. “But he got over it.”

Your eyes widened, but before you could hide it, the devil noticed.

“I knew you ain't as smart as your dear old dad.” He smiles, you can see the meat stuck in his golden teeth.

“He was the crowned prince,” Mathias rips open the chicken in half messily. “And he needed a wife from one of the big families.” He doused the meat in salt, “and the greedy fuck chose someone who didn't want him, just for the fun of it. Who could blame her, all he ever wanted was a brood of children to pass on his blood.” He takes a generous bite, teeth meeting flesh, the sound of his chewing makes you hasten your plan. “Thank fuck Frederick's father ain't as stupid as his son. That man sought out the opportunity when given to him and fuckin' took it. Too bad he didn't live long enough to see the fruit of his labour.”

Anger settles in your stomach, fury in your eyes and flesh, you want to damn him, and everyone involved. Especially her.

“It's her isn't it?” You say as you slither your hand towards the ceramic bowl. “The Queen, it was all her.”

Mathias smiles genuinely, “You finally got it, little bird!” He claps. “She's fuckin' brilliant, and so are her coffers. The pay,” he whistles out, “the pay was magnificent, still is by the way. I didn't even need to become an admiral for the money when I'm earning more than a fuckin’ duke.” Kicking Eugene under the table, he makes his godson choke on his drink. “See, I told you the little duchess here is just your type.”

His voice fuels your fury. Each vowel is grating in your ears, every wheezed breath he takes is a reminder that he still lives. A reminder that your knife isn't stuck in his throat.

“It ain't as bad as you think it is,” The navy man continues. “Married to my boy, you'd have a title, a home and a decent family. At least now you don't have mister Brown crawling all over you. He'd be dead by sundown, and I can't wait to see it.”

Mathias thinks his words would make you do something drastic that'll have his hands wrapped around your neck. But you've learned your lesson, so you bide your time, taking their attention away from your wandering hands.

“You're dying.” The heat from the bowl matches the fire in you. Your voice doesn't shake, nor your resolve. “Even with all the coin she gave you, you still can't save yourself. You are riddled with sepsis, I can smell it on you. A collapsed lung from the way you cough, and whatever the fuck disgusting shit you have in you. You are dying, rotting from the inside like how it's meant to be. And the world will be better off without you. They will forget you, first, your poor family, then your men, then the entire country. Even your bitch of a queen will forget you. Then the world. But Hobie will be remembered. His name will be etched in the annals of history while your name fades into obscurity.” You laugh humorlessly, teeth bared, eyes aflame. “And I can't wait to see it.”

He seethes in his seat, hand clenching around the cutlery. The devil doesn't show his anger bluntly this time, he hides it because you struck a nerve. With a grin, you promise to Hobie and to your parents that Mathias won't live to see the day end.

“Do you remember what I told you in the revenge?” You continue with a smile that sends shivers down the spine of everyone in the room. The quiet lieutenant remembers the day he lost his eye. “I intend to fulfill that promise.”

Through a clenched jaw, he coughs again, hiding his weakness from everyone in the room and how a drop of blood stains his pale lips. “I love it when women show me their claws. But I can't stay. I would love to see the ceremony and the festivities, but I can't miss the execution. That's why I came here earlier so I could pass on my blessings.” Mathias wipes his mouth clean harshly. “If you'd excuse me, I places to be—”

Before he could stand up, you quickly fling the bowl right on his painted face. The hot soup splashes on his skin, melting the white powder off his face. With his guttural scream, within a split second before his man could intervene, you take the steak knife and plunge it into his hand and into the table.

The screams he let out was music to your ears, holding the hilt of the weapon, you twist it before yanking it out of his flesh, tearing his hand in half, ripping the nerves and letting waterfalls of crimson into the white tablecloth. With a determined yell, you aim for his throat.

Mathias recovers a second before steel meets his skin, he backhands you with the same injured hand. The knife falls off your hand. Pain blooms on your face, and you go blind as your head hits the floor. His blood dirties your pristine white gown, splotches of red drenching the bodice.

Your left eye stings, cheek heated from the harsh slap. Despite your lungs gasping for air through your possible broken nose, you crawl over to Mathias. Your scorn drives you to grab his leg, pulling him down with a strong tug, he falls hard on his back, splitting the floorboards in half. Taking the crown off your head, you use the pointy end to stab his leg and his knee in quick succession. He yells and yells but you don't stop. The ichor from his wounds drenches your face and hands, you see red, and you see his untimely death in your blood soaked hands.

Climbing further up, you use the opportunity to aim at his groin. But a pair of arms stops you before you could hit your mark. Thrashing, slashing the hands around your shoulders, you mark the man with the same bloodied tiara.

“Fuckin’ bitch!” Mathias stands up, limping, he unsheathes his lieutenant’s cutlass from his hip. With a stomp over your thigh, he pushes in the heel of his boot as you let out a cry. The steel is pointed at your heart, his eyes demand blood for blood. “I should've just killed you instead—”

A shot rings out, the bullet hits the blade, breaking it in half. Mathias flinches before he smiles at the one who shot him. There on the opposite doors, stands Miguel O’hara with his gun raised, barrel aimed at his former comrade. Lyla stands next to him, her own blunderbuss raised towards the man holding on to you.

“Let her go and there won't be any more bullets flying around.” Miguel's voice is steady, back straight, eyes flicking over to you writhing on the floor.

“You better listen, cyclops, O’hara here might hesitate but I won't. Let our girl go.” Lyla reassures you with a nod, and you bite your captor's hand.

You tear his flesh open with your teeth, ichor filling your mouth as he hisses in pain, dropping you unceremoniously on the floor.

Mathias looks at you with wide eyes, disbelief in his burned face. “I guess you learned a thing or two from your man.”

You spit out the chunk of flesh whilst your eyes never leave his. Crimson dripping off your lips like rain, teeth the same colour as the wine spilled on the table, you smile at him.

“Come near me and I'll show you what else he taught me.”

The man before you laughs genuinely, yet his eyes never leave yours, making sure you stay away from him. You're more than ready to close the gap. The cutlass is still trained on you, you're about to pounce when Miguel calls your name with urgency. As if he can read your mind.

“Your girl is fuckin' insane ain't she?” Mathias addresses Miguel, like how a family member speaks about a niece he hasn't seen in years. Proud, there's a sense of pride laced in his tone. “Just like her dear old parents, eh?”

“I'm warning you, Mathias.” Miguel keeps an eye out for the uniformed man behind you. “Take your captain, Alexander, before I put a bullet in his heart.”

Mathias scoffs, legs shaking from the wounds you caused. “Please, you'd shoot me? You didn't have the balls back then, why would you do it now?”

Miguel raises his gun higher, aiming for the man's head. “Because she wasn't there,” he cocks his head towards you, “you didn't have a weapon aimed directly at my goddaughter.” Eyebrows knitted together in anger, his hand doesn't shake, eyes glowing red in the sunlight. “Now let her go.”

Mathias posture sags, “fine, but only because I've got an event I cannot miss.” He nods at his godson. “Make sure you're married to her by the end of the day or there will be consequences.” He clicks his tongue, Eugene melts into his chair, face turned away from you and his godfather.

Mathias gives you one last look. “Happy marriage, birdy.”

“You're going to die today Mathias, one way or another I'll get my hands on you.” You flick your eyes towards the man clutching his hand. “Death is coming for you too,” you say nonchalantly. “I'll finish what my father started.”

They leave with their fronts turned to you, not even twisting around to show you their backs that are susceptible to your attack. Or in this case, your teeth.

Lyla appears next to you, helping you by the crook of your arm. Pain lingers on your leg and face. “Christ, he burst your fucking capillaries.”

Sure enough, you feel the sting in your eye, a throbbing pain that leaves you nauseous. Miguel, tentatively closes the distance, weathered hand carefully holding your chin. You wince, as he moves your face.

“Fuck, you need to see a doctor.” He says whilst you flinch away from his touch.

“I'm alright, I need a horse.” You begin to walk away, Miguel and Lyla follow close behind you. “And I need my fucking knife.” I need him back, your mind whispers to you. “I need to save him.”

“His execution is in two hours.” Eugene says meekly, and you stop in your tracks. “I heard the officers talk, they're not going to hang him for his crimes, the crown gave him the ax.”

With quick steps, you take Eugene by his collar, gripping tightly as you spill venom. Miguel tries to hold you back but you blindly kick his leg.

“Delay them.”

“I can't—”

“Do you want to be under his boot your entire life? If we marry I'll be crushed with you,” You stare determinedly at his scared eyes. “because that will happen if you don't help. You said you cared about me, then help me and all will be forgiven. Please, you're a viscount, you have the means to help.”

He sniffs, lips curled into a frown. “I'm sorry, I-I can't—”

You scoff, letting him go. “If I fail, Mathias lives and that means you'd be dead too.” Walking away, leaving him cowering in his seat, your small entourage follows.

“Where are you going?” Miguel matches your stride, walking next to you, he stares with concern. “Y/N, where are you going?”

“To my room to pamper my nose.” With adrenaline coursing through you, his face flashes in your mind with every step. Save him, your mind yells, save him, save him, or it'll be the end for you too.

“Cousin?” Collette asks as you make your way towards the apartments where your chambers lie. She roams her worried eyes around your bloodied wedding gown, her hands that are clutching a bouquet of flowers shakes. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

“I stabbed Mathias and bit through a man's hand.” You say without stopping, she squeaks in place.

John stops in his tracks, “w-what the fuck happened?” The twins are both dressed to the nines, all fine fabrics and hair all made up. “Cousin!” He calls after you whilst you don't stop for anyone.

“Thanks for the hot tip, kids!” Lyla yells back to your cousins. “A bit of advice, tell the catering staff the wedding’s off!” She cackles. “Save me a macaroon though!”

“They called you?” You ask, your heeled feet ache but you press on. “Where were you Lyla?”

“I'm sorry, duchess, I overslept.” She shrugs. “But I'm here now ain't I? Also I got Miguel here so...”

“You should stop, Y/N.” Miguel says sternly. “You're hurt—”

“No.”

“Y/N.”

You whirl around to face him. Anger flares up once again. “You should've shot him where he stood.” You poke his sturdy chest roughly. “He's the one who killed them, yet you let him get away!”

“I know, I— there are repercussions to killing someone. Especially if they're an officer.” He falters but he composes himself. “Revenge is not the answer—”

“He killed them, Miguel!” Your broken voice echoes out into the vast hallway. “Him and the queen are the reason why they're dead, and you let him get away so he could kill Hobie.”

“It was the queen? Not—”

“Yes, not the idiot king.” You turn around to continue your trek. You curse the large estate. “I have no idea why she did it, but I'm gonna get her too. But I won't live to see that day if I don't save him.” Your tone falters as you pass by your mother's portrait. “I need to save him, even if it's the last thing I do.”

“You won't succeed.” Miguel stands in front of you to stop you, and you roll your eyes, wanting to kick him in the groin. “He's a pirate, Y/N, he won't do the same for you.”

“He has, and he would. I need to try, I can't let him die.” You choke back a sob. Reality crashes around you. What would you do once you get there? Will you be able to save him on your own? You have no one, you have no idea where the crew is, and he's going to die. You can't live with yourself if you don't try.

“Y/N.” Miguel says your name like a reprimand.

“You said back in the carriage that I can leave whenever I want, all I needed to do was ask.” You chuckle without humour. “Here’s me asking, Miguel.”

“You'll die, Y/N, I can't lose you too.”

“And I can't lose him.” Tears gather in your eyes. “If no one will save him then who will? I have to go whether you like it or not.”

“The people will,” Lyla pipes up, she casually leans against the wall, checking her nails. “there have been…whispers since they announced his execution. If you go, I'm sure you won't be alone.”

You face the taller man again. “See, I have help—”

“Rumours aren't enough! Don't you get it? You're better off marrying Thompson at this point.” You blink in surprise. He backtracks. “I–I didn't mean it that way, I meant, I'd rather see you settled than dead.”

“You might not be as bad as Mathias, but you might as well be.” You brokenly say. Miguel's face falls at your words. “You claim to love my parents and me by extension, but you're complicit,” you spit out the word full of venom. “you're only helping them by not letting me go. I don't want to be settled, Miguel.” You shake your head. “It isn't love if you make me.”

Miguel visibly shatters in front of you. None of the composure he showed to Mathias is left in his body. He hasn't seen this much devotion since your parents. He hasn't seen this much love since he felt their presence. He hasn't felt this hurt since his daughter left this world.

“You had time to grieve for them, I didn't.” You push him out of the way, controlling your sob. “Please don't stop me, or I'll fight you like how I fought Mathias.” You open the doors to your chambers.

Miguel lingers outside as you and Lyla make your way inside the familiar room. The man that has your dagger sits in front of the vanity, the large man is currently trying on a spare tiara, and is wearing one of the ruby earrings.

“You can keep those,” Your sudden voice makes him jump away, large eyes staring at you with slight embarrassment. “I won't tell a soul, just take them, give me my dagger and get out of Hazelside.”

The cogs in his head move, swallowing thickly, he nods curtly. “Can I keep the necklace too?” He asks gruffly.

“Sure,” You shrug, Lyla stifled a giggle.

Wordlessly, he shoves a ruby necklace in his pocket, then he unsheathes your dagger and places it on the vanity.

“We good, duchess?”

“Actually,” you have an idea. “You're a muscle for hire, correct?” You've noticed how he doesn't move like the other foot soldiers do, or the guards for Hazelside. His disheveled uniform solidifies your theory. The man nods proudly. “How would you like to take my entire jewelry box in exchange for you and your men's services?”

“That depends, what kind of work are we talkin’ ‘bout?”

Lyla adds to the conversation. “Murder of some pompous nobles and free a bunch of pirates. With a main focus on the red spider of course.”

“Kill the red spider too?” He asks, a thick eyebrow raised.

“No!” You say quickly, “free him and kill anyone who stands in the way.” You mutter a curse under your breath. “I don't have time for this.”

The mercenary thinks once again, he seems to be weighing the pros and cons.

Stepping closer, you practically breathe down his neck. “I'll throw in my shoes and gowns too,” you raise a hand for him to shake. “As long as you'll be there before the execution starts, and you keep my uncle and aunt distracted, scare them is all. Just don't touch my cousins or the staff.”

The scarred man chuckles deeply. “An offer I cannot refuse, duchess.” He clasps your hand, shaking it once. “Creating chaos is our main specialty.”

“Yes and I saw a glimpse of that in the barn.” You give him a tight-lipped smile, eyes lit with tamped down anger. “You better hold your end of the bargain, or you'll have my dagger in your throat instead of my necklace.”

“‘course, my lady. My men will be there.” He leaves with a grin, shoving Miguel by his shoulder.

“What just happened?” Your godfather asks as you lift your skirt to rip the metal of your petticoat off using the dagger. He turns around, closing the doors to your chambers and shuts his eyes while still turned around.

“Our girl here just used her charisma to strike a bargain. Oh they grow up too fast.” Lyla dramatically wipes a nonexistent tear in her eye. “Don't forget to change your shoes, my lady.”

You stare at yourself in the vanity, blood coats the front of your gown, a smattering of crimson coats the lace, splashes of ichor paints the front of the bodice right next to the pretty embroidery. Your face isn't any better, the makeup the handmaidens painted you with is still there, but now it coincides with Mathias' drying blood. It drips down from your cheeks down to your neck, it hides the gold underneath the crimson. Your left eye shares the same shade, capillaries burst, spreading your blood into the whites of your eyes. The gloves meant to hide the callouses and fresh scars are sticking to your skin, drenched in ruby, drenched like the floors of the revenge.

You leave it on, a reminder of your goal.

“I haven't forgotten.” Tossing the heeled shoes away, you make your way towards where you hid your old friend.

The sight alone of the weathered leather shoes would make you weep but you don't have time for that. Lifting your skirts up, still wearing the ridiculous wedding gown that has become significantly lighter, you quickly run towards the unicorn tapestry.

Dagger in hand, you're surprised to hear Miguel's heavy strides following you inside the hidden tunnels. Once the sun greets you and the grass crunches under your feet, you beeline for the barn.

A stable boy jumps at the sudden intrusion, he stutters, moreso when he sees your blood drenched form.

“Can you saddle Bernard quickly?” You ask, and the poor boy almost has a heart attack. “Please? I'm a friend of Hobie and—”

“Oh, Hobie! You should've said it earlier then. You're her! He told me a whole lot about you." He smiles at you, already picking up the heavy saddle. "You know how to ride, My lady?"

“No need for that.” You wave away the title. “And yes, perks of running away for years, you learn how to run away in different ways.”

He chuckles, yet the nervousness is still palpable in his eyes. “I'm on it, your grace.”

Smiling softly, you don't correct him anymore. Turning around, you see no one accompanying you. “Lyla?”

“She went off to get her horse,” Miguel appears from behind the barn door. “I'm keeping a lookout.” He returns to his post, acting casual while leaning on the door.

“You don't have to be here if you don't want to, Miguel.” You walk behind him, the wooden doors are blocking you from his view and vice versa.

“I…pondered your words, Y/N, and you're right. I don't want to make you do something you clearly don't want. I won't make that same mistake again, it cost me years without you. It won't make me lose another day without you, even if it means saving a damn pirate.” He chuckles, and you take his hand from where you stood. You hear his breath hitch, “I'm sorry. I think your parents would hate me right now.”

“I don't know them very well but, I think they'll be proud of you. You found me, you brought me home. You were doing the best you can with good intentions.” You squeeze his rough hand, placing your forehead against the door where his shoulders would lie. “Thank you for letting me leave. I think it's best for you to move on, uncle. They'd want that for you.” You hear him sniff, squeezing your hand back.

“Yes, I think it's best.” He lets your hand go, “starting with this,” Placing something round in your hand, he closes your palm around it gently. “They’d want you to have it, something to keep close to you when you're at sea. It helped me back then, I'm sure it'll help you now.”

“You're not coming with me?”

“Not yet, I'll follow you once I can. I'll keep your aunt and uncle here, making sure that they don't get their footmen to follow you. And I'll make sure the ruffians you hired won't go overboard and actually do what you asked them to.” Miguel tearfully chuckles, “just promise me you won't lose your humanity after you take your revenge.”

“I promise, I won't let it consume me.” You whisper your promise just for him.

Taking a peek at the object in your hand, your heart almost shatters at the familiarity of it. It's the same one your mother was clutching in her portrait. Opening the golden locket, you see a portrait of your mother on the left, and on the right, your father. They look younger in the painting, happier, more alive. They were right, you bear a resemblance to your father just as much as to your mother's features. You finally got a good look at them together, and your heart squeezes at the thought.

Sniffing, you look up at Miguel with gratitude, “tell my cousins ‘thank you,’ please.”

“I will. Keep the locket safe for when we meet again?”

“I will, I'll see you in the water, uncle.” He's the only person who's worthy of the title you've bestowed him. Lyla gallops her horse in the distance. “Now get out of here, or I'll end up not letting you go.” You tease, it has half truth in it. Your smile falters, "Tell my mother—"

“Come back and you can tell her yourself. She's still staying in the same town. I know she's waiting for you.” He finally turns around to face you. “Before you go,” shrugging off his coat, he hands it to you. “You'll get cold.”

You look at the fabric with tears in your eyes. Taking the blue coat, he helps you put it on. Sniffing, he turns you back around, rubbing the creases in the sleeves away.

“There, it's perfect but it's missing something.”

“Something blue, and now I've got something borrowed.” Joking, you smile at your godfather.

Miguel hands you a blunderbuss, it's an ordinary looking one, save for the purple leather handle that decorates it.

“It was your father's, he gave it to me when he named me your godfather.” He points at the silver barrel where three letters are etched on it crudely. “It's our first initials. He said that it gave him extra luck.”

“I—I can't take this.”

“Well, you've already taken my locket and coat, what harm falls on me if I gave you his gun? You're gonna need it wherever you're going.” Miguel shoves it in your hands, “just— save a bullet for Mathias and the queen.”

“That I can do.” You grin at him despite the pain in your chest.

“The party's here.” Lyla’ horse stops just outside, she exclaims with fanfare. “Ready to kill some motherfuckers?”

“Aye,” you nod with determination. The fire is blazing under your eyes, lightning in your fingertips, you wear the locket around your neck with pride.

For your parents that you've never met but came to love. For Miguel, for the crew and for all they've sacrificed for you. for Hobie, the love of your life. And for MJ.

—

You ride off on Bernard's back, flames in your chest, wind whipped cheeks, and hands clutching the reins tighter. Your father's blunderbuss weighs heavy on your hips, the smell of Mathias' drying blood stings in your nose. But the putrid smell keeps you awake, a reminder of your goal, a reminder of what truly matters— Hobie. Your love that is currently in shackles, hands bound tighter than the rope around his neck.

Lyla snaps you awake, her own horse huffing from the intense speed.

“Your eyes keep glossing over, duchess, keep ‘em clear for me, yeah?” She yells above the loud hoofbeats.

“I will, are you sure about your plan?”

“My guild consists of a bunch of sacks of shits that'll do anything for a quick coin.” You knit your eyebrows in worry. “But they're loyal to a fault, ‘sides, your captain used to be one of us, once upon a time.”

“What?” You spot the capital's sign, entering the city without stopping. There's a fork in the road as you ride towards the center of the city. The familiar smell of the sea fills you as you ride closer and closer to your destination.

“A story for another day, gorgeous.” She rides faster, her guns clinking against the saddle. “I'll ride ahead, gather as many as I can. Go to him, and disrupt the festivities.” Her voice fades as she hurries off.

Lyla heads towards the left whilst you ride on the right, trying to remember the directions she told you during the short ride.

Numerous buildings whizz by you as you ride faster and faster. Rickety stone buildings turn into elegant carved marble. The streets become smoother as you get closer to the palace. You heard the crowd before you saw them.

Bernard stops in his tracks, right at the edge of the thousands of people clambering to see the execution. He whines as you try to calm him down. Some of the common people are quiet, eyes straight towards the stage where a large man with a black hood stands. The scraping of the ax getting sharpened makes your heart stop.

The palace looms overhead, its golden terrace holds the royals, faces smug, wigs high as they look down at the crowd. Right next to them stands Mathias, hand hastily bandaged, still dripping in blood. His face contorts into pain as he clutches at his injury. You draw your father's gun out, resisting the urge to shoot at the man, but with how far you are, you know you'll miss.

Scanning the stage, you bite your tongue, preventing a pained whimper from getting out.

You've made it, and he has too.

Clad in a white undershirt with the sleeves too big for his frame, trousers too short for his legs, hands tied behind his back, face beaten. Hobie stands with his back straight despite all the red gashes under his thin shirt.

You whisper his name like he can hear you above the yells of the people. You're frozen, hands shaking, eyes unblinking at his form.

The uniformed men make him kneel, his knees slam harshly against wooden floors.

Hobie was never afraid of dying before, he avoided it a hundred times. Yet, his binded hands quiver, dull grey eyes scanning around the crowd, he tries to find familiar faces amidst all the strangers. Trying to find his crew, not for help, but the thought of dying in front of them fills him with sorrow. He doesn't see them, and he's glad. Moreso when he doesn't see your face, he doesn't want you to experience what he had seen before.

But there's a part of him that wants to see you for one last time before steel kisses his neck. He wants to feel your lips against his again, but for now, having the memory of it is enough. The pearl you gave him is cold against his chest, he wishes to hold it again.

Having you in his arms however brief is enough for him, he'll think of you when the blade strikes him down for the last time.

Even with his imminent death, he still finds the will to smile, the same smile you love so much. It's enough to snap you awake.

A navy officer yells above the crowd, scroll in hand, voice booming and commanding. “Here stands the notorious pirate Hobart Brown, he stands here waiting for his sentence. The crimes he has committed are atrocious enough that the crown has automatically given him the guilty verdict!” The people don't cheer, some even boo and hiss at the man. You inhale deeply, hand holding on to the reigns tighter, as you weave Bernard through the crowd. Surprisingly, they part for you.

“What say you, Hobart Brown?”

Hobie chuckles deeply, lips split and bloodied, he grins. “It's captain, actually!” His voice drives you to ride faster, gun raised. He twists around to look at the nobles in their high tower. “It's captain Hobie Brown, you fuckin' wankers!” Cackling, the officer kicks him down. He falls, gasping, neck landing harshly at the stone slab that still has remnants of its last guest.

Still, Hobie yells obscenities, “you haven't won! You might cut my head but two more will replace me! Just like how I replaced the emerald bastard from the south!” He tries to sit up but another man holds him down. “They'll be stronger and better than me! From my death, the people will gather at your gates and break your golden walls!”

The executioner raises his large ax, the sun bouncing off the metal.

Hobie quiets down at the glimmer of the ax shining in his eyes. Whispering the names of his loyal crew, then he softly calls for you like an acolyte prays for forgiveness.

The crowd parts for you like the sea parts for a sailing ship. Giddying up, hooves hitting loudly against stone, you aim.

It's the end, but it doesn't have to be.

“Hobie!” You scream as loud as you can before you shoot.

He blinks in surprise for a second, the man holding him down scampers away as a shot rings out. Now free, Hobie quickly moves away from the stone slab as your bullet hits the executioner's hood right in-between his eyes.

Gasping, the ax falls next to Hobie's head with a thud. The edge is embedded in the wood, missing his face just a few inches away. Eyes staring at the clear sky, he thinks he has died when your face suddenly appears in front of him.

“Scuttlebutt,” he softly says in disbelief.

“Hi, captain, I'm here to rescue you.” You smile at him, “hold on a minute.” Sitting up right, you shoot at the remaining officer. A body thuds, and you return to his side. “I've got you.” You say as you help him sit up, hands already untying his bonds.

Hobie looks at you like a sailor looks at the sea for the first time, with reverence, and awed by the sheer beauty. “You've got me.”

Ropes falling off his aching wrists, he moves to hold your face desperately. Without a second thought, he kisses you fervently. Life spreads back to him, fingertips electric as he holds your face close. Lips warm, you kiss back like it's just you and him. Hands instinctively sliding to his head, you pull away when you feel scruff under your palm.

“What did they do to your hair?!” You almost weep, hands roaming across his bare head. “Oh my god, they have to pay for this.”

Hobie laughs, still holding your face like holding on to a precious pearl. “It'll grow back.” Tears prick your eyes, mirroring his own. “I love you, you did good, scuttlebutt.”

“I did good?” You peck his chapped lips once more.

“Yeah, love.” He prevents you from looking at the military that has their weapons raised and their eyes targeting you and him. “You did very well—” tears escape his grey eyes when he hears the familiar click of a gun.

It's the end.

“I love you too,” you know it's the end. “I'll see you back at the revenge?”

“Save some of Finn's bread for me, yeah?” Hobie leans his forehead atop yours. “I'm sorry.” His voice falters.

“Don't be, I'm glad I fell in that net.” You hold on to him for dear life. Etching his warmth in your brain so you remember it until you're cold. “I'd run towards that dock all over again if I had the chance again.”

It's the end, and you hold him close.

As you embrace each other, as your love is displayed for all to see, your warmth radiates through the crowd. You burn together with him.

Fire consumes and burns but it also lights the way.

The silence wraps around the city center, then, someone yells, pushing off the officer who has his gun aimed at your head. The people follow, rioting against their oppressors.

You both stare below in disbelief, hand cradling your head, he shields your eyes from seeing the violence unfold. Just when bullets hit flesh, and knives slash at necks, an explosion booms above.

Hobie holds onto you tighter, battered arms wrapped around you protectively as debris and smoke fills the whole place. The building across the palace is in flames, and from the billowing ashes out comes a familiar face.

Gwen takes off her hood, feet precariously standing on the ledge, then another form comes out of the smoke, Miles takes his stance next to the first mate, handing her a long rope.

“Holy shit! It's them!” Hobie exclaims, letting you see them with your own eyes.

You grin as you spot them above, “it's them,” you say in shock. A second later, they jump off the building effortlessly, guns raised as they land on their feet right next to the stage.

“I'll cover you!” Miles yells above the chaos as more and more buildings around the palace erupt in a chorus of explosions.

Gwen clambers next to you, relief on her face, hugging the two of you. Embracing back, she leans away to stare at you and her captain.

“You fucking idiots! I'd slap you over the head if I didn't love you both.”

“We love you too, Gwendy.” Hobie smiles amidst the aches.

“What he said, Gwendy.” You beam at her with overwhelming love.

“Love you too, now we need to get you out of here.”

“I have a ship docked somewhere, it's called the osprey. Take it and—” You start but Hobie and Gwen interrupt.

“You make it sound like you're not comin’ with us.”

“Y/N,” Gwen warns as she helps you two on your feet.

“I’m coming with—” a gun goes off.

Blood splatters across your faces. Crimson blooms across Gwen's stomach.

“...oh” she looks at you with her eyebrows knitted together, hand pressing on her belly. You catch Gwen in your arms as you feel the fear in you spread. She calls your name weakly.

Hobie stares at you with terrified eyes as he clutches the back of Gwen's head.

“No, no, don't speak—just… oh fuck!” You try to stop the bleeding by ripping a part of your gown to stuff it inside her wound. Ichor spills out of her like waterfalls. “I've got you!” She yells in pain and you simultaneously hear Miles scream.

Flicking your tear filled eyes over to Miles, he has his back on the ground, face contorted into pain whilst Mathias has his boot on his shooting hand. Miles still fights, kicking and scratching at the man's leg.

“This is what happens when you disrupt—” Red appears on his side as Hobie uses your fallen gun to shoot him where he has his foot crushing atop Miles’ hand. Mathias yelps in pain, a throaty sound escaping from his pale lips.

Hobie is filled with rage, embers flickering in him, turning into flames and then a blaze that burns his insides into ash.

Miles coughs as Mathias runs away towards the enormous church right next to the palace. He pushes away people, blood trailing behind him.

“Miles!” You yell, in your relief, he stands back up, weaving around people to clamber up the steps of the stage.

“I'm here!” He crawls over to Gwen, gently clutching her pale face. “Oh god no, please,” Miles looks at you. “Fix her, please.” Tears slide down his cheeks. “Please.”

You look towards Hobie, not knowing what to do, but said man is nowhere to be found. You briefly spot him running around the crowd, cutting down coppers swiftly with your father's gun and a stray cutlass, following after the man who has shot at his family.

Not again, you think, hands drenched once again in crimson. Not again, not again. You've failed once again.

Someone calls next to you, familiar hands holding yours.

“Tell us what to do.” Yuri thaws you out from your frozen state. Gwen gurgles, grip around your wrist weakening. James appears next to Yuri as you see in your peripheral the same mercenary and his men shooting at soldiers. Lyla cackles near them, adding her guild to the mix in the chaos. “Y/N,” Yuri calls again sternly. “We need you.”

With a sniff, you compose yourself, for Gwen. “Keep your hands on her wound, pack it with cloth then keep pushing.” Gwen groans, you look at her apologetically. “I know it hurts, I'm sorry but we need to do this. Let us do this.”

“I saw a doctor's clinic near here.” James pipes up, “if we take her there will you be able to save her?”

“Yes, we need to—”

Pavitr runs towards the group, guns raised, eyes full of rage once he sees Gwen. “No…” he says weakly. He fixes his composure, for Gwen. “James and I will cover you while the three of you carry Gwen.” He instructs, voice steady.

“No, no, no!” Gwen protests. “It hurts— I can't—”

“You can!” Miles beats you to it. “D’you remember what I told you when we realized Y/N and Hobie weren't behind us after we got attacked?” She nods weakly, lips bitten to stop her pained whimpers. “I meant it, Gwen. I meant all of it yet I haven't shown it because I'm a goddamn coward. Let me show you how much I love you, but I can't do that if you don't let us carry you. So please, let us carry you.”

Gwen smiles, icy eyes staring fondly at Miles. They have a wordless conversation, then Miles gives her a gentle peck on her forehead.

“As long as the d-doc here follows our captain.” She says.

“What—? No, you need me.” You shake your head.

“We already know what to do,” she winces, “you're the only person that can stop him, he'll die, Y/N. Meanwhile I've got a chance with them beside me. And he's all alone.”

You look at the others, they all nod and you blink in surprise. “But—”

“We have her, wifey.” Yuri smiles kindly at you. “This isn't our first bullet wound. Go and fetch our captain for us would ya?”

You have no time to think about it, so you choose what they instructed you to do. “Keep your hands on her and support her back—” your eyes find the familiar large man wearing your rubies. “Oi!” He pauses from crushing a soldier's arm. “Get a handful of your men and help them get to the doctor's!”

“Do I have to?” He asks, shrugging.

“Yes! I paid you!”

The man sighs then he gestures to a few of his people to climb up the stage. Before you let go of Gwen, you stare daggers at the men in the fake uniforms. “Keep all of them alive and I might just give you a piece of Hazelside.”

“Say no more, duchess, we got ‘em.”

“Gwen—” You take one last look over to her.

“Go, I don't plan on dying today.”

“You better. Meet us back at the ship.” You roam your eyes at the crew like it's the last time you would see them. With a nod towards Yuri, you slide your hands away quickly, Yuri replaces the space you left with her own.

Wordlessly you turn away from them. You fight yourself from looking back. Running away towards Hobie, you hope that it's not too late.

Weaving through the crowd, dodging bullets and swords, you keep your head down and keep your eyes forward at the grand church waiting ahead. The spires are tall and sharp, reminding you of the dragons that rose up from the sea and blocked out the moon. Gargoyles decorate the roofs, all stone and eyes large, mouths agape, unmoving.

You lift the skirt of your tattered gown, it might be covered in blood but the white colour of it is a stark contrast to the dark chaos surrounding you. It acts as a beacon to the people as they see you in their ranks, a noble in their eyes that bears gold and silver around her neck and sleeves. Someone who fought everyone just to get to her pirate captain, they find it in themselves to continue fighting. A few even helps you get to your destination by blocking any guards or soldiers from laying their hands on you.

Smoke in your lungs, steel clanging against steel. Blades slashing at limbs, people screaming in all directions, both with rank and without, they all end up in the same fate. You run through the blood soaked field.

Feet sprinting across the field, people are few and far in between once you get nearer and nearer towards the church. Hands on the large doors, you push the heavy oak to no avail. It's locked, the evidence of it is the rattling noise it makes as you shake it in desperation.

Hobie's in there, and you'd do anything to get to him.

You go around the structure to find a window that's big enough for you to slither into. But all the stained glass windows are too high up for you to reach even if you try to break one. Losing hope, you turn a corner towards the back. You finally breathe when you see a wooden door. Without wasting time, you push it open with your shoulder, shoving it, the rust covered hinges creak with your strength. And finally, it bursts open with one final push.

The sight alone made you stop in your tracks. Clutching your dagger, a finely dressed man lays dead in a pool of blood. A sword embedded in his back, a cracked crown sitting next to his bloodied head. The person standing over the king is none other than his own wife, her face isn't one of sadness but of sheer happiness as she grins at her husband's dead body. Blood dripping off her royal hands, she lifts her head to gaze upon you.

“Hello, little bird, you finally made it.” Caroline stands in front of the altar, the kaleidoscope of lights from the glass windows acts as her spotlight. Her gown is in rich velvet, furs covering her shoulder. And a large tiara on top of her intricate powdered wig.

“You killed him.” Gripping your dagger tighter, you stay away from the bloody queen.

“I did,” Caroline giggles, a sound that sends shivers through your spine. “You look marvelous in your wedding gown by the way. A shame that you didn't get married to that fine young man.” Her voice echoes around the large church, its ceilings are high and painted with saints. They look down at you, eyes lifeless. “Lieutenant.” She calls and the man answers, coming out of the shadows and into the pews. “Do me a favour and kill her for me.”

The disheveled man walks over to you, hand still decorated by your bite.

“Why don't you kill me yourself? Like how you killed your husband.” You address the woman, taunting her.

The queen raises a hand and the navy man stops immediately. She smiles and takes the sword out of her husband's body with ease, then she steps over his body without remorse.

“With pleasure.” She unclasps her cloak, the heavy cloth thuds against the marble. “If I couldn't kill your mother personally, I'd settle for killing you instead.”

“What the fuck—!” The queen arches her sword, thankfully you parry it with your dagger. You know you'll lose in the duel with your smaller weapon against hers and her swordsmanship. A yell echoes from above, a distinct scream from who you hope is from Mathias.

“I wasn't lying when I said you remind me of her!” She slashes, right foot pointed towards you, dodging the sharp edge, the heels of your feet hit a pew, then you fall backwards, back and elbows hitting the hardwood. “But she wasn't much of a fighter just like you!” Her eyes are ablaze as you scramble away.

“Why are you doing this?!” Your voice carries off around the church. “You said you were friends!”

Raising your dagger to shield your face when she tries to slash at your chest, she stands atop you, knee right next to your thigh, leg perching her up. Steel dangerously close to your face, wrists aching from her push, you take your free hand to grip the sharp edge of your dagger to combat her own strength. You feel the knife dig into your palm.

“Why?” The queen cackles, leaning her mad face close. “Because she's the reason why I'm here, she's the reason why that man has ruined me until I couldn't even recognize myself—!”

Lifting your legs, bending your knees, you kick her right in her chest. Making her lose her balance, face falling flat on the marble floors. You take the opportunity to crawl and stand up, sprinting away from her. As you bolt off towards the altar, and towards the door to the bell tower, the stairs are within your reach, but Caroline yanks you by your skirt. You fall off the steps of the altar, body and dagger sliding off the smooth marble.

Groaning, she points her weapon towards your neck, taking your mother's necklace by her blade. “Why did you kill them? For revenge?” You ask, vision blurring from the way your head hit the floor. Everything aches in you, but you continue to fight.

“No, for the satisfaction of them being dead.” She eyes the golden necklace and you glare at her. “She was meant to take the crown, not me. Instead she ignored her duty and ran off with a bastard, and I was forced to marry that fucking beast!” Her voice booms, the saints above look down at the chaos. “Forced to carry his children, children I never wanted but loved nonetheless. Children that I never saw grow up because they were taken from me the second they came out of me!” Her hand shakes around the sword.

You slyly inch your hand towards your dagger that's only a hair width away from your fingertips. You let her continue as the tears in her eyes fall on your bloodied face.

“I never wanted to be queen, all I've ever wanted was to see the world. Your mother took that away from me, and now her daughter is living my fucking dream! The second I knew you were alive I wanted to wring your fucking neck. To hurt you just like her choices had on me.” She twists her sword so the blunt edge is kissing your neck, torture, she's planning on sawing your head off with the blunt edge. “If she can't pay, I'd settle for making you hurt instead.”

“You want to kill me because of what happened decades ago? You're fucking mad if you think sins are passed from parent to child! I never knew them!” You fight back despite the blade near your neck. “Do you understand that you caused the same pain to me that the king has caused you? Whatever you want to call it, it's still revenge!” Caroline pushes the cutlass closer, so close that you can feel it in your throat, choking you. “You're blaming the wrong people for your misfortune, blame the people who used you, who said yes to his every whim, not the couple who only wanted to marry the one they love!”

“I’m the victim here—!”

“You are, but who points the sword towards the innocent?” She blinks, lips wobbling. “Look at you, Mathias told me you're brilliant, but you never thought this part through, haven't you? What do you think the nobles of the land will do to you the moment they hear of your regicide? Who will they blame? Me, who bears the mark of your cruelty? Or you, who has the king's blood on your golden hands?”

You distract her enough to finally reach the dagger, swiftly, you plunge it to the nearest part of her that you can manage, her thigh. She screams in agony, sword and crown clanging loudly on the floor. The once favoured queen clutches her wound that's gushing blood, seeping out of her velvet dress and spilling over the white marble.

Unexpectedly, she cries as she desperately wraps her skirt around the gushing wound. You clamber up to your feet, eyes flitting over the stoic man when Caroline calls for him to kill you where you stand. He doesn't move from his position near the confessionals.

“Are you gonna fight me too? An eye for an eye?” You ask, hands shaking while you bend down for your crimson drenched dagger.

“No, your father and I are even.” The simple words turn your eyes the same shade as the fluid pooling around the queen.

“You're just gonna stand there?” You ask while Caroline's wails echo around the expansive church.

“I'm waiting for you to leave so I can help her.” He seems to be unbothered. A scream rings out from above, louder than the woman's screams. Alarm bells trigger in your mind. “Sounds like someone needs your help.”

“Don't follow me,” you threaten, knife pointed at him as you slither towards the door. “Don't help your captain.”

“Alexander!” She screams for the lieutenant.

“You're right, he's already dead anyway, not my problem anymore.” His eye follows you, “Good luck, duchess.”

With one look towards the mysterious man, you get a glimpse of him crouching next to the woman, hands casually tamping down the rushing blood. Locking the door behind you, you run once again.

The winding spiral staircase seems to go up forever, hand clutching your dagger, you don't even feel the pain in your ankles anymore. Numbness flashes over you for a second, but you carry on. The walls get smaller and tighter as you go on, the stone scratches your hands, the small windows barely provide any light for you. The sounds of struggle get louder, so you speed off with the last of your strength.

Rushing, you make it to the top where Mathias has his hands wrapped around Hobie's neck, with no ounce of hesitation, you plunge your dagger in the devil's flesh, right in between his clavicle.

With a shriek, Mathias lets go of Hobie. Your captain gasps for air, clutching his neck. You wrap your hands around his shoulders, relief washing over you just from seeing him breathe.

“I have you!” Holding his face, you thank the stars that he holds you back with his warm hands.

Hobie utters your name softly, “You have a habit of savin’ me, eh, scuttlebutt?” He smiles at you even with his left eye swelling, even with his mouth full of ichor.

You grin, getting him back to his feet. “The others are waiting—!” A large hand picks you up, wrapping a thick arm around your waist, the other is holding your own weapon in his cracked knuckles. Your own blade is placed harshly against your throat.

A trickle of blood drips from your flesh, and Hobie has the same look back on the revenge. Terrified, the swirling greys of his eyes are mortified at the scene in front of him.

Mathias still lives despite the laceration on his neck, despite his life rushing off of him in waves. He stands precariously on the edge of the tower, his back against the sea, the waves lapping against the cliffs below. He holds you tight as a noose when the wind rushes from behind.

There's a bout of silence hanging in between, Hobie's breath hitches in his throat at your fearful face.

“Don't—” Hobie's voice is broken, pleading desperately. “Please,” Not again, not again. The words scream at him. Not her, never her. “Take me instead.”

Mathias gurgles a response. “Just like old times, eh?”

As the blade kisses your neck, you could only look at Hobie. The copper bell is hanging behind him, large and magnificent, and he stands there with his hand desperately reaching towards you, his gun holds no bullets, sword lay broken in half near his feet.

It's the end, but he declines for it to end, for your life to end at hands of the same man that ended his old love three years ago.

He thinks fate is cruel, he thinks the fates hate him. He thinks his life is a Greek tragedy that was waiting to be written for the fates’ entertainment. He refuses to give them the ending they wanted.

You know it's the end, but it doesn't have to be the end for him too.

There's no other option, no other hope but, "No more sacrifices." You whisper to him even though you know he couldn't hear you, at the same time, you whisper an apology to him.

Images of the past six months flashes in your mind. Images of the tavern you once called home, images of the ship you still call your home. Images of the people you've come to love, images of your island and the sand in between your toes, and the sun on your back. Images of Hobie smiling down at you, images of him holding you close as you cry in his arms.

Images of you learning to love him.

You love him and all his sharp edges, all his anger and all his warmth. You loved him, and that's all that matters in life. To love someone so wholeheartedly that it burrows into your bones and digs deep into your marrows, never letting go. You loved him, and he's worth it for what you're about to do. To be loved back is a gift that he graciously granted you, you intend to cherish it until your end.

You call his name like the softest of silk wrapped around your tongue. "Hobie," and you smile at him, letting your smile tell him that he wasn't born to be a knife, letting your smile tell him that you love him more than the moon loves the tides.

He whispers back your name, pleading with you, for he knows you more than he knows himself, and he knows what you're about to do.

With a loop of your foot around Mathias' ankle, you pull hard, then you let yourself fall backwards.

“Alis volat propriis” You softly say, prying the knife from Mathias’ hand.

And fly you did.

Fear encapsulates him as you fall, the same fear flows out of you like spring water as you plunge into the dark depths.

Hobie refuses to look, frozen on the spot, unblinking eyes still staring at the space you left. His heart feels like it's about to give out as he says your name over and over again like a mantra.

He's a knife meant to grieve.

Slowly, his feet move for him. Body stiff, he makes it to the ledge. Grief stricken eyes darting below, he lets out a guttural wail that carries on with the wind.

Clutching his broken heart, he falls to his knees. He keeps repeating your name as he stares at the bubbles rising up on the surface, the waves deliver seafoam on the beach below, and with it, hope still clings to him.

“No,” A sob breaks through when you don't emerge a second later. “...no, c'mon scuttlebutt, don't fuckin' leave me.”

Grief rolls over his skin like tiny pinpricks of sorrow puncturing his insides and into his scarred heart. Your face flashes in front of him, and the voice inside him asks, 'will it be bad if you follow?'

“Brown?” A familiar voice calls behind him, Hobie whirls around, grief evident on his face, Miguel already knows what happend. He shakes his bloody head profusely, “where's— where is she?”

Hobie doesn't answer, he turns back towards the sea. Agony filling his very being as he stares below.

“No!” Miguel follows Hobie's eyes. And then he screams for you. He searches for you under the waves.

Hobie lays his head on the wall of the bell tower. A minute, it's been a minute since you fell, yet no sign of a body has floated up. The sky is still calm, the sun still shines, yet, you don't resurface.

He blinks away when he sees fingers reaching amongst the waves. “Did you see that?” Praying, praying to any deity out there that is listening to him, he prays that his mind isn't playing a cruel joke on him.

“What?”

Hobie stands up, taking Miguel's face to turn it towards the waters. Something moves under the seafoam, someone moves under the seafoam.

His heart picks up speed, and he rushes down the stairs. Miguel follows close by, their feet thudding loudly on the stairs. They ignore the various pains in their body, what matters is you, and they intend to get to your side as quickly as possible.

They go through the broken door that Miguel kicked, and they run over a puddle of blood without a body. Sprinting outside, the sea breeze greets them. They don't stop for anyone or anything, even though the palace burns to the ground behind them, even though the heat from the melting golden gates sears their backs. They continue downward towards the path to the beach.

Hobie trips on a rock, Miguel helps him up swiftly.

From the tides, you rise once more.

Heaving from the swim, drenched and sore. You grin at the two men rushing towards you. Like the waves lapping at your feet, relief washes over them.

You raise your arms in time just before Hobie crashes his body to yours. His face finds safety in the crook of your neck. Arms holding you tight and comfortable, he breaths you in, taking a deep shuddering breath. You smell like the sea. He can't believe you're alive, can't believe that you're back in his arms.

“I lost the dagger,” you say against his cheek as you press cold kisses on his skin.

“I'll get you a new one.” Tears flow out of his eyes, he feels like he's dreaming, he feels like fate has finally granted him reprieve. “I’ll get you a hundred more, fuck that, a thousand more if you asked.”

“I just want one.” You chuckle.

“I'll get you one then.” Hobie peels himself off you, fingers roaming your face, the heel of his hand is placed atop your pulse, making sure he didn't fall off the tower himself. “You're alive.” He says breathlessly, “you fuckin' swam!”

“I had a good teacher.” You say as you hold him tenderly. “He's dead, it's over, Hobie.” Salty tears in your lashes, he pulls you in for another hug. Eyes closed, you savour the calmness with the sound of the rushing sea behind you, knowing that Mathias lays beneath its waves with your dagger embedded in his eye. “It's over, and I'm alright.”

Holding your hand towards Miguel who sits on his knees on the sand, eyes glowing with consolation. You flex your hand towards him so he could hold your hand. He stands up, taking it willingly, squeezing once like how he held your parents’ hands once upon a time.

Miguel nods proudly at you, gently pressing a gentle kiss on your knuckles, he gives you and Hobie space. You mouth a thank you towards the man.

—

“Shit!” James exclaims, jumping up and down on the docks. “Look at her! She's magnificent!”

“Spell ‘magnificent’, James.” Yuri taunts.

“Don't ruin this for me!” He turns towards you, grinning from ear to ear like a child in a sugar shop. “You're actually giving us this ship?”

“Mm-hmm—” before you could finish nodding, James sprints off towards the fine ship. Yuri winks at you before she follows behind James.

The sun slowly sets, bathing the waters in pink and orange light. James isn't wrong, the ship is magnificent. It's bigger than the black hellion, much bigger. Two crow's nests sit at the highest point of the masts. The body is well maintained, oak still shining in the late afternoon sun. Silver violets and hazelnuts decorate the sides, a reminder of what could've been.

Looking at your new home, you shift your gaze to Hobie, knowing wherever he is, as long as you're with him, you're home.

Your tired eyes flick over the figurehead of an osprey with its wings outstretched around the head of the ship. Hobie taps your head with his own gently.

“It needs some work done.”

You chuckle as you fix your hold on him. Still in your wedding gown, skin still smelling like the sea, you move impossibly closer to him. You're both winded, but Hobie has sustained more injuries than you and needed more help in standing up straight. “Do you think we should change the name?”

“Love,” he turns his head towards you, his smile almost makes you kiss him right there and then. “I think I've got a few ideas, for now let's get the fuck out of here.”

“Alright— wait, where's Gwen?”

“Here, worry much, landlubber?” She asks on her stretcher. Miles, Pavitr and an unknown blond man carry her.

“Well you were shot, Gwendy, I think I have every right to be worried.”

“I'm fine now, can't even feel a thing!” She smiles and you recognize her state.

“I think that's the medication talking.” You eye the stranger, “and who might you be?”

“Oi,” Hobie points at the man. “You better not cause any trouble Stacy.”

You lightly gasp, finally noticing the resemblance.

“Not planning on causing any, captain.” Gwen's father smiles and gives you a curt nod.

“Can we hurry the chit chat?” Miles groans.

“You telling me I'm too heavy, Morales?” Gwen teases but the fatigue must've taken a toll on Miles as he takes it seriously.

“W-what? Of course not!”

“You calling my daughter heavy?” Her father jokes back. They're father and daughter alright.

“No! Let's just get on the ship.” Miles pouts, you send him a smile, wordlessly giving him your thanks. He shakes his head, hiding his grin in reply.

“Pav!” You call after Pavitr, “tea later?”

He beams at you, happiness almost blinding you. “Hell yeah!” Jaunting happily, he practically skips off, to Gwen's protest, who still lays on the gurney, shakes from his little dance.

Miguel taps your shoulder, Hobie lets you go so you could hug the man.

“Room for one more?” He asks while patting your back.

Leaning away, your eyes widen, smile widening. “What!”

“I meant for Lyla, kid.” Miguel laughs, smile lines appearing.

“Oh, you're not coming with us?” Disappointment is evident in your voice.

“No, sorry. Maybe one day. I've got unfinished business” He holds your shoulders, “you better take care or I'll chase you again.”

“Oh god, don't say that!” You giggle whilst he mirrors your smile. “If you're not coming, then you can have this back.” Taking off the locket, you place it in his rough palms. “A reminder of them,” you close his fingers around the gold. “Besides, I already have his gun. You deserve something of theirs too.”

The sun shines in his eyes. “This was Gabriella’s, she gifted it to your mother when she got sick. It's a family heirloom.”

“She was Gabriella's godmother, wasn't she?”

“Yes, and your father was her godfather.”

You tap his hand. “It's back in the right hands then.”

“Thank you,” Miguel sniffs, neck craning towards Hobie who sits on a crate. “And you,” Hobie dramatically points at himself. “Take care of my goddaughter, or I'll come after you again.”

Hobie, smirks, “aye, aye, admiral.” He mocks a salute.

Miguel shoots you a look, “you sure about that one?”

You gaze at Hobie, your Hobie. “I'm sure.” He winks at you and you wink back.

“God, I gotta let you go before I get sick.” You chortle as Miguel hugs you one last time. Pressing a kiss on the crown of your head, he nods once, staring at your face, seeing his friends’ faces in yours, saying goodbye to the three of you. “Be good, I'll see you in the sea.”

“Looking forward to it, uncle. Don't get caught by the coppers.” He lets you go with a laugh, unhitching his horse and then getting on, he rides off.

Lyla suddenly appears from the dust with a big grin on her face, she carries suitcases upon suitcases in her arms. “Where to, captain?” She asks you.

“Not the captain, he is.” You gesture towards Hobie who doesn't even correct Lyla. He just waves at her with a small shrug.

“I thought whoever owned the boat was the captain, anyway! Off to adventure!” She cackles into the sunset, feet thudding loudly as she hurls all her luggage on the ship. You vaguely hear someone yell ‘who the fuck are you?!’

You ignore it for now, how could you not when Hobie stares at you so sweetly that you prefer this than chocolate?

“She's not wrong y’know.” He says whilst you saunter towards him. Stretching his legs, he gives you space to stand in between them.

“Are you planning on giving me your title, captain?” You tease, sliding your hands up and down his arms. His own is wrapped around your middle, staring up at you with endearment.

“You're already a captain,” you raise an eyebrow, tilting your head. He sighs, so full of love for the woman in his arms. “of my heart—”

“I knew you would say that!” You laugh, feeling like the weight off your shoulders has finally turned into dust. And he feels like the fish bone stuck in his throat is finally gone.

Hobie smiles softly at you, heart shaped grey eyes full of life. “Are you sure about this? Stayin’ I mean.”

You squeeze the back of his neck, already missing how his hair would tickle your palms. But you love him even with his scruffy head. He looks handsome with or without it, you'll never tell him or his ego would implode. At least now you get the pleasure of seeing it grow, you can't help but press a sickeningly sweet kiss atop his head.

The sound of the anchors getting lifted up fills your ears so you lean closer for him to hear your words better.

“I'll stay as long as you want me too.”

“Forever then?”

“Forever.” You kiss the tip of his nose. “Until I'm cold, you can't escape me.”

Hobie has a lopsided smile on his lips, grey eyes aglow with affection. “You're still in your white dress,” you raise an eyebrow. “Y’know what that means—” Lifting you up like a bride, he carries you towards the ship as you yelp and giggle in his arms. “Off to our honeymoon then!”

As the sun sets, you set off to new beginnings. You've found where you belong, you've finally found home.

A/N: And it's done!! Thank you all so much for reading, interacting and genuinely showing your support whether it's by making fanart or sending your thoughts, I'm forever grateful for all of them!! Love you ❤️

Already missing the crew? They'll be back for Between the Devil and the Sea Book 2!! You can check out my ☕ page for a lil sneak peek!

#bdas #between the devil and the sea #between the devil and the sea chap 15 #between the devil and the sea series #the kr8tor's creations #hobie brown x reader #spider punk x reader #atsv fanfic #atsv x reader #atsv hobie #hobie brown x fem!reader #spider punk x fem!reader #hobie brown x you #pirate au #pirate! hobie #pirate hobie x reader #pirate! hobie brown #cw food mention #tw death #tw blood #cw gore #cw violence #cw injury #hobie x reader #hobie fluff #hobie angst #if you're looking at the tags to take a sneak peek at the ending i caught u lol 😆 #fanfic

[yveaart]

chaconne

jungwon x reader

genre : smut, dark themes (?)

synopsis : attending a ball as a prestigious lady, you had caught the eye of the prince who had left you in a trance by his dance.

warnings : mdni !!

how were you supposed to go to such balls in this era, incredibly unsafe. an era where people found about creatures lurking the earth drunk in their blood-lust daze, and what's worse was they held a physique of a human.

you grunted as your maids helped you get dressed in your gown, unfortunately you were going through your most hated part— wearing the corset.

"i have no care for such tiny waists when men get to fit their bodies in any sized suits" you fumed.

"milady, it's important for you to wear this, it will hold you and your gown up elegantly" your maid mary replied

"i may just not attend at all, i might be even exposed to those hideous creatures, what do you call them? oh, vampires" you left your snarky remark.

your maid refused to reply as to holding up your gown, it looked immaculate on you, you couldn't deny. your skin looking much paler contrasting to its color, blood red.

your hair was put in a beautiful bun with curls and gold designs on it. your neck holding a beautiful gold necklace that definitely costed a fortune, you were dressed completely and immaculately.

"i must go mary, as much as i do not desire it, take care" you waved your maid as someone assisted you into your carriage.

"i will milady, have fun" she grinned at your frowning face.

the ride to the palace was quite quick, it was a real wonder to you as to why it took quickly for your carriage to be met up with the entrance, where you perhaps early?

you got down holding your mask to your face and tying it behind your head, it had a tall black feather facing the skies, complementing your mask.

a masquerade ball. how exciting.

you mustered up your stance as you were pacing to the front of the big twin doors, the palace guards blew into the trumpets as they followed by opening the doors for you.

the ballroom was full, and they were staring at you.

everyone's eyes were on you, yet you paid no mind to it receding on the stairs as you held your skirts. the people continued on to dance, chaconne. you stepped through the sides of the ballroom, you stared at these people as they danced.

you felt eyes on you, but you don't know where to look. you reached out your hand to the server holding the tray of champagne, you sipped. now what were you supposed to do for the next hours.

someones cape covered your eyes, but just as quickly left your face revealing it's owner's face. the prince. your eyes met with his, it was intense and feline.

"how are you tonight lady park, was the champagne to your liking?" he smiled at you.

"it is quite well my prince" he took your glass as he took a sip.

"it is quite well milady, but perhaps much immaculate when it is from your lips" he smirked as the glass he held passed again to servant who was roaming around clearing dishes.

you were stunned by his boldness, you decided to keep quiet as you weren't sure how to handle such bold statements from the upper-highest class.

a new tune played along the background made the prince smile as he recognized the melodies.

"milady, would you like to join me in a dance?" his eyes staring into you, the mystique of the mask making you want to dive more into knowing him. he held out his hand as his outfit shifted, muscle seen in his sleeve, and his shoulder looking much wider.

the atmosphere outside castle was nothing but bathed by darkness, but inside this palace it was filled with gold filtered illumination, reflecting anything and everything in its reign.

your eyes traced back to the prince's eyes, it was inviting you leaving you dazed as you reached your hand unto his. your skin felt burning as it was against his.

it was like a spell leaving you falling in a endless hole but your feet was left tapping on the marble floor that was indifferently sequencing to the song.

"dance for me, baby" he whispered to your ear when his head leaned into yours. he leaned back and his eyes altered to crimson, you weren't leaving, why were you held back to stay.

"i-i feel like im burning, so hot" you whispered to him, the feeling leaving a distracted but dazed look on your face.

"we can go for fresh air, milady" he suggested as he pulled you after the twirl, leaving the music and the prancing people behind. you both discreetly had left into the airy halls of the palace, the air hitting your skin making you hum.

you reached the open garden, the both of you strolling through the blunt hardness of the ground and shortly trimmed grass, you were left admiring the flowers and pleasingly shaped shrubs, the maintenance was high and kept up with.

the presence of the prince loomed over your body, you felt the heat of his body. the next thing you knew is he held your hand making you face him.

"i wanna show you something, my dear" you did not where the sudden endearment came from, but you were instead intrigued by what he had to show you.

he was a prince, anything could be possible, the fascination of what it could be held you by your neck.

you entered once again the beautiful palace, traced back to the familiar halls but soon led to the elevated floors that were restricted to common people, you entered a double-door room, his majesty's study.

what could he possibly show you? a discovery? an object?

none of those actually.

he showed you photos of the both of you, letters made by him that were for you but never intended to leave these very walls.

"what is this?" you said with pure curiosity, how could it be, he had photos, we had photos.

"this is the very physical copy of my adoration for you, and i want you to keep it" he replied.

"you adore me?" your tone in total disbelief

"i very much do, in you i found love" he said as he clearly tried not to make it sound too cheesy, too unreal, like a lie.

"i found it surprising that you knew me for so long yet you treated me as if you're my servant, even with my title aside, even we are alone" he started

"you never failed to show me who you are, how you lived through your principles, a servant who does not lie and use such honorifics only to fake their praising"

"you lured me at first, with your sweet scent, your blood." your eyes snapped at his figure, could it be?

he chuckled expecting your reaction.

"i am indeed a vampire, and i vow to never have a taste of blood as long as i will ever exist, if i were to live with your love" he said with his voice hushed but stern, seductively luring you with his aura.

you stood up from your seat, placing down the photo-book, pacing towards the prince, the heel of your shoes were heard, thud by thud.

your eyes were already talking as though the conversation was paused, you stopped in front of him, staring at his face, his features highlighted by the moonlight, his eyes carrying the light color of crimson.

"bite me" you whispered, your breath brushing against his face.

he suddenly stepped closer to you, your arms willingly welcoming him, your hands behind his neck, your foreheads touching.

"god, you're so perfect" he panted in need of you.

you spent no time to waste as you presses your lips against his, your faces pushing feeling more needy but the passion was held between the two of you. where the gaps were lessened.

his hands held your face lightly, but his kiss heavy with adoration causing you to step back, your back hitting a double door, you were encased by it because of jungwon trapping you in such space.

your eyes opened seeing his forehead holding a knot, he was greedy for you, of you. his lips pressing onto yours licking and sucking into it, he swore to himself that it was better than blood itself.

you heard a click as jungwon opened the door to his quarters, quickly catching you on your back. he stared at you, he looked hypnotized by kiss as if you sent him under a spell.

your lips can't help but be retracted to the latter, your lips gliding across theirs, the feeling of pressing harder and harder made you moan.

"already? we haven't started yet milady" his voice deep fanning across your face

he laid you on the king-sized bed and took his blazer off, dropping it unto the ground. he continued to undress until he was left with his white polo and trousers.

you couldn't help but stare at his body, his neck exposed his shoulders wide, his physique moist with a layer of sweat.

he then laid on top of you with his elbows up-right to support his weight. you could see his built up form from this view, you held his chest, as you stared into him.

god knows how the person you were when you left the house would react to this, but it didn't matter anymore.

"do you really wanna do this? i could stop now... i don't think i will be able to when we start"

"don't you ever stop love" you shot him the look of neediness.

"i'll be yours, forever" his eyes turned crimson his lips latching upon your neck as his fangs graze upon your skin sheltering the pumping veins you had under it.

his fangs sucked into your skin as lightly as he tried, your blood pouring out to his lips, encased in his plump lips.

he moaned loudly as he pulled away his blood-stained lips stick to yours as he undressed you ripping your confusing corset. you gasped as your blood ran cold, the need for pleasure washing over you.

you sucked the blood that feel on your lips, moaning at the thought that he loved your blood.

he stood up his eyes daring you to do whatever you pleased, you sat upright removing his pants, fully opening his deep maroon dress shirt, the silk soothing your skin.

you made him sit down on the bed, he patiently waited for you, as he always did his whole life.

you stood under the moonlight swiftly brushing your skin on your shoulders making all of your clothing drop. your lover could only gasp at how immaculate you look, and how he was the only one who could ever see you like that.

your lust filled eyes fixated on him as you sat on his lap, your legs placed on either side of him. he sighed at the contact, your warmth— his home.

his feline gaze set upon you, his mouth smirking lightly. he may has been assertive but on his bed you ruled him.

you moved your hips, creating friction with his length

"baby, you're so hard" he could only blush at the comment.

your lips latching on his neck leaving wet kisses and love bites as he moaned relentlessly into your ears. his hands caressing your back.

"i'll want you endlessly" you hushed into his ear as you inserted his length in you, he moaned loudly, his voice pure and deep, you were unsure if it was what you said or what you did, but it has driven your ego.

you sinked fully into it as you started bouncing on top of him, he could only hold and stare at you grunting, admiring you, if there was anything within his eyes it was more than lust, exceeding adoration.

"i love- ugh you, my love. be my wife" he whispered under his loud sighs

you were the only company he could ever need in his endless lifetime.

he was washed with pleasure, his hands gripping the sheets, his dress shirt sliding down his broad arms. he could only burry his head within your breasts. your rhythm making him submit to you.

he swiftly grabbed your body switching his position on top of you.

he thrusted deeper and deeper within you, kissing him once again as his grunts were quieted by its union. you caressed his hair, occasionally pulling on it when you had felt his length hitting a spot inside you that makes you wither from pleasure. you were both painted with sweat and the sound of the union of skin echoed through the room.

his thrusts went harder and harder as you bite on his loose hanging collar trying to suppress your moans. he pulled his upper body away so he could see you under him, writhing in pleasure.

" 'm gonna fill you up so good my love, so you could only be mine"

his pace was going faster and faster as you both reached your orgasm, as you went back to your original position, on top of him.

" no jungwon. you're only mine" you caressed your lips on his neck licking and sucking, this mere action pleasuring him ridiculously, he was only ever sensitive and needy for you. his moans could only agree to your statement.

your lips inseparable for the night. but you wanted to show him another thing that was sweeter than your blood.

the excitement could only make your fangs grow out.

#enhypen imagines #enhypen oneshots #enhypen #kim sunoo imagines #lee heeseung oneshot #nishimura riki imagines #park jongseong imagines #park sunghoon imagines #sim jake imagines #yang jungwon #jungwon imagines #jungwon smut #enhypen smut #heeseung smut #jay smut #jaeyun smut #sunghoon smut #jungwon hard hours #jungwon x reader #jungwon oneshots

[ghcstao3]

Pirates!Ghoap au (I can't stop thinking about it - or about any other au but this one is so dear to me)

Hope you have a nice day ☺️

sort of inspired by the jack sparrow and angelica scene in potc stranger tides. because that is where my mind goes when Pirates

-

Ghost has spent many years cultivating his reputation as a revered, feared pirate, and for just as long he's had several people try to challenge that. Try to challenge him. Of course, they never succeed in such endeavours, but this is much different. This is a first.

No one has ever tried to impersonate him before.

His crew had just made port in one of their more frequent haunts, having barely gotten the chance to step foot on land before an old acquaintance is greeting Ghost with surprise—everyone thought he had already arrived, had already been drinking and picking off the idiots trying to fight him. Had already been spreading rumours of his next voyage; a teasing invitation, a dare for anyone to follow.

But obviously, such is not the case. It can't be, when Ghost is here, fresh off his ship, standing among the few men and women in this world that he trusts—not an ale nor scrap in sight.

So, rightfully confused, Ghost orders his crew to hang back while he investigates, and puts an end to whatever charade this may be.

Despite the piece of skull that obscures the lower half of Ghost's face—all part of his reputation, mostly, and he's glad to have it spark debate on whether or not the skull is real, and whether or not he's human—it's relatively easy to go undetected as he makes his way through the port village, his presence entirely unnoticed as he slips into the tavern that caters most to his... profession.

And just as it's not difficult to sneak around, it isn't hard to spot his impersonator; they're the centre of attention at the tavern tonight, and though Ghost can commend the guts it takes to attempt such an act, he's honestly offended that so many people believed it was really him.

Though, with as drunk as the crowd is, and if he squints just enough, Ghost supposes he could see how the mistake was made. Even still, Ghost isn't particularly pleased with the situation.

He hovers at the sidelines, melting into the shadows as he waits for the fake "Ghost" to catch his eye.

Ghost knows the moment they do, when he watches as they utter some excuse and make their leave. Ghost only follows with his eyes, at first, before deciding to push away from the wall, skirting along the edges of the crowd toward to the door the fake "Ghost" had exited through.

It leads to the back alley wedged between other buildings and darkened cobblestone streets. It reeks of refuse, and it's to no surprise of Ghost's own when moments after the door shuts behind him, the point of a cutlass is threatening his jugular.

He doesn't flinch, only shifts his gaze disinterestedly toward the owner of the sabre.

"Don't think you have much of a right to be doing that," Ghost drawls.

His imitator doesn't move for a long moment, cutlass held steady at Ghost's throat. Even in the dim light, Ghost can tell their eyes are blue, and suddenly he's again offended that this disguise was actually passed off as him.

Then the sword is finally lowered and sheathed. The fake's own tricorne and mask are removed (the skull is fake, Ghost thinks, no question about it), revealing a hideous hairstyle and a charming, shark-like grin.

"Was hopin' I might eventually get to meet the real Ghost," the man says, his voice tinged with genuine excitement.

Ghost... hadn't expected that.

"How long have you been doing this for?" Ghost demands, now irritated more than anything.

The man shrugs carelessly, casually, not in the slightest bit deterred. "Not long enough to damage your reputation, if that's what you're worried about. If anything, I've strengthened your reputation," he insists. Then he's offering his hand out to Ghost. "I'm John, by the way."

Ghost barely spares the gesture a glance. "I don't care. Why?"

John at least has the decency to act sheepish this time. "I had a proposition for you. Needed to get your attention somehow."

Ghost raises an eyebrow. His hand instinctually drifts to the pommel of his own sword. "And?"

John's gaze flickers to the movement and he hesitates, but only minutely. He then lifts his chin and rolls back his shoulders, and Ghost can almost see how John could have the gall to pull off the charade he had for who knows how long. "I want to join your cr—"

"No."

John scowls. "I wasn't finished," he snaps. "I want to join your crew. And if you let me, I can get you to that fountain of youth I hear you've been searching for. I swear it."

It's Ghost's turn to frown beneath his mask. Why would John want to help him for the measly reward of sailing with Ghost and his shipmates? Sure, some have called it an honour—but in exchange for guidance to a reward so mythical? There must be a catch. It doesn't make sense otherwise.

Ghost narrows his eyes, fingers curling around the pommel. "How can I trust you to make good on that promise?"

That toothy grin reappears, more mischievous in nature than Ghost is comfortable with. It warns him of trouble.

"S'pose there's only one way to find out," John muses. "Otherwise I might just continue what I've been doing. Maybe hitch a ride to another island, pretend to be you some more. Hurt everything you've built up. I've fooled enough people so far."

It takes a lot of restraint not to pull out his sword, and fight John right in the alleyway. But the man's right, as deranged as he may be—it's either bring him along, or continue on a fruitless journey to a place that may not even exist.

He doesn't want to accept the deal, but he can't afford to have John ruining his life's work, either.

With great reluctance, Ghost agrees to let John join his crew—he figures it should only be temporary, at best.

"I find out you're lying, I'll gut you," Ghost hisses, only once it's been settled. "I've yet to see a man capable of swimming with his intestines hanging out. Maybe you'd be a first."

John's grin transforms into something else, something Ghost can't quite place.

He hums. "Maybe. But I don't plan on finding out," John says. He nudges Ghost away from the tavern's back door before pushing it open, gesturing his arm out as if beckoning the pirate to enter. Then in a lowered voice, a tone Ghost isn't quite sure how to feel about, John purrs, "Captain."

Ghost is already beginning to think he had made the wrong choice.

#ask #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghost x soap #ghoap #alternate universe #writing

[dadsbongos]

PLEASE MORE AIRHEAD W GOJO SHOKO GETOU 🙏🙏PLEASE

5.1 K words

warnings - i borderline refused to proofread this, suguru wears a skirt and it awakens something in you, also suguru's anti-non sorcerers agenda, dumb timeline doesn't make sense (get over it), filler arc fic

summary - crack that i decided to take seriously, you and the gang go on a beach mission! and some things don't turn out as expected...

“Woah, ‘Toru, check out this yellow!” you jab a finger into the cold, hard plexiglass caging the many frozen flavors from onlooking civilians, “It’s, like, traffic sign yellow!”

“Who would eat that?” he grumbles, glaring at the engraving below the tub - advertising that specific hideous color as a special new taste, “For 4,000 yen?”

“Get me coffee, kay?” Shoko shoots you a glance from over her phone, thumb dancing across her cramped keypad, “And keep it down, you’ll piss off the vendor.”

“Yeah,” Suguru slips up beside you, nose wrinkled and chin tucked close to his chest to avoid the obnoxious scent of sweaty, huffing people, “You’re both making a scene,” his brows furrow over at your accomplice, “Didn’t you just get scolded by Yaga yesterday, Satoru?”

Suguru knows he did, actually, because who else would’ve been the one that held a bag of frozen peas to the hot red lump in Satoru’s forehead for thirty whole minutes?

“Hey,” but you’ve paid neither any mind, pointing at the other end of the display bay to a red-and-white swirled tub. The edges have browned together and its melting points have re-frozen in an unattractive slime, “Gross!” taking Satoru by the hand, you drag him over to the far corner, “Let’s check it out!”

“Hm, we’re way too early,” Shoko pokes her head through the turquoise and cream-striped tent flaps as you order.

“And one coffee scoop,” Suguru calls to you and Satoru when the clan heir beside you finishes demanding two cups of the red velvet cheesecake, pointedly ignoring the baggy-eyed, slouching teenager behind the steel counter.

“On it,” the boy grumbles, scooping up each order in hurried, jerky swings.

Satoru swings a lanky arm through one of yours, head leaning onto yours as he pathetically whines, “My blood sugar is crashing… Won’t make it much longer…”

Two plastic cups in illustrated covers of the stall’s logo slide to another awaiting couple as Satoru sets his card down in preparation to pay. You turn back to Suguru and gesture to the tubs of ice cream, frowning when he merely shakes his head. Shoko inches between you and Satoru, breaking your chain, and you take that as an opportunity to huddle into your broodier friend.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

Satoru turns back at the sound of your voice, abandoning his credit card on the counter, and Shoko watches silently.

“No, you enjoy it,” Suguru insists, smiling despite your puppy-eyed pout.

“But I don’t want you to miss out!”

“I’m happy enough that the four of us can go on a mission again.”

“How sweet,” Satoru wrangles an arm over Suguru’s shoulders, sighing with all the dramatics of a tantrum throwing toddler, “It has been too long since our last mission altogether.”

Shoko nods, moving next to you with one hand jammed into the pocket of her skirt, “It doesn’t help that you two,” she points at the boys, “decided to pick up a couple problem children.”

“Aw, c’mon,” you chirp, “That’s not fair to the girls, and Megumi’s really nice when you know him!”

“Ehh,” she waves her hand loosely, rolling her eyes, “I’ll cross those bridges when they get to high school; I’m no good with kids.”

Shrugging, you think of how well-behaved and kind both Tsumiki and Megumi are (well, Megumi has his moments), “Neither is Satoru and the Fushiguro’s seem fine.”

“Hey,” Satoru is quickly shrugged off his friend’s shoulder when he wails into Suguru’s ear with abandon, “Not fair! I’ve really improved over the months!”

“You still make him stir fry with bell peppers!”

“It’s delicious!”

You glower at his defense, “Doesn’t matter how tasty it is - Megumi’s not gonna eat it!”

Suguru can’t help but ignore the shouting in his ears in favor of appreciating the sight before him. You and Satoru and Shoko. Knowing Nanako and Mimiko are safe and happy at home. With your perfume and even Shoko’s natural nicotine cling working overtime to mask the scent of every monkey crowding this beach. Ignoring the monkeys got easier over time, keeping the real reasons he’s decided to carry on fighting in mind instead. Satoru and Shoko and Nanako and Mimiko and Haibara and Nanami and Yaga and, of course, you.

Two hands slam into his back, the rest of you just barely peeking out from around Suguru’s broad shoulders to glare at Satoru, who’s slung his tea shade sunglasses to the pad of his nose in a vague, blue-eyed threat.

Suguru claps a hand harshly against his friend’s shoulder, jostling the boy’s body, “Put them away, Satoru.”

Shoko bounds out of the small parlor with both hands in her pockets, murmuring something about needing a smoke break.

Satoru pulls his glasses entirely from his face, grinning at Suguru, “Aw, trying to be the big, brave knight?”

“Satoru,” Suguru calls lowly, impatience only thinly veiled.

Effectively cutting off the altercation, a hand cuffs the backs of yours and Satoru’s uniform collars and drags you both towards the open tent flap. Suguru curls his hands into fists at the sight but staves off a retort, even as both you and Satoru are thrown into the sand. A taller man with thicker arms, but the same sunken eyes and tight frown as the teen behind the counter squints down at the both of you, “And stay out!”

“Aw, we didn’t even get our ice cream…”

Shoko tosses her head back, melodic laugher ringing sweetly into your ears before she snaps forward, pinching at your cheek, “Sorry your boytoys couldn’t complete their mission.”

Quirking a brow at her, you don’t even bother to swipe away her fingers on your cheek, “Boytoys…?”

Satoru gasps, ‘tsk’ing at Shoko while covering your ears, “Hey, keep her innocent!”

Shoko removes her hand from you just to knock Satoru’s off the sides of your head. She looks over her shoulder, lips pursing as she surveys the cramped line of tented and umbrella’d stalls, “We should split up. You two are just causing trouble,” she grins at Satoru’s offended look, “As usual.”

Suguru hums, testy and wholly argumentative, “I think we should lay low for the next couple of hours and come back. The curse is more likely to come out at night.”

You frown at the thought of being stuffed into a yellow-walled, vaguely blood-stained, two bed hotel room.

And Suguru backtracks, “Nevermind.”

Snagging you by the arm, Shoko jerks you into her side and jabs a thumb over her shoulder, “We’ll be investigating some swimsuit tents, get a sense of any residuals or smaller curses,” then she points at the duo before you, “You two should find your own thing.”

You’ve given no say before being dragged off to a snowy white tent, sand kicked up and sticking to the flowy drapes. Even small shops for clothing can carry lingering, bothersome curses with anxiety over fat that naturally rolls and jiggles or peeking scars and colored splotches. And despite only having about two years of official sorcery under your belt, you’ve noticed that lingerie, typical underwear, and swimsuits were especially troublesome for gathering curses.

That’s especially noticeable when flyheads and low grade spirits crawl along the tarp, crinkling, unpleasant floor and clawing into the legs and necks of unassuming women. But Shoko has taken no interest in any of them.

Instead, she shoves another wood hanger into your face, “What about this one?”

“Mmm,” clicking your tongue, the sight of a neon orange with lemon yellow lining inspires no particular sparkles or electricity under your skin, “nah.”

Shoko nods and clinks the hanger back onto the rod, “Agreed.”

“Hey, Shoko?” you tilt your head at her, holding out the two swimsuit sets already dangling off your fingers, “How’re we paying for these?”

“Ah!” she snickers, fingers dipping into a skirt pocket before proudly displaying a black, plastic card in her palm, “The Strongest left his card out, so I’m teaching him a lesson,” tucking her hand back into hiding, she grins at you, “So rack up as many as you want.”

“Hmm…”

“He’ll hardly even know the money’s gone.”

“Isn’t that stealing?”

She shrugs, “No.”

Your lashes narrow at that response, brows furrowing, before beaming at Shoko with an enthusiastic nod, “Okay :D”

“That’s the spirit!” she claps you on the back, like a father after his son’s first little league championship.

And like a bushy-tailed young child unburdened by popularity contests and pinching pennies and needing to press the best words into the best order to feel adequate, you gaze out at the seven, stunted racks with wonder. Golden wheat fields that sway in long waves under the wind that whistles through pokey tree branches. A land all yours.

And like every conqueror before, you’re eager to feed on the dancing wheat you don’t yet own, “I wonder which one I’ll wear first.”

“I wonder if they’d want something…” Suguru mutters, only for his own ears.

Satoru blows a raspberry from behind his friend, chin settling onto Suguru’s shoulder and staring down at the wiry, iron shelf with painted, glazed shells and tiny red-lipsticked ladies with thick black curls and wooden curves on plastic, circle podiums and chunky plastic beaded necklaces.

“You’re so obsessed.”

Suguru grunts, slamming an elbow into Satoru’s gut and making no contact, “You were thinking it, too.”

“Not like you,” Satoru waves off, patting himself down for the thin outline of his credit card. When the first search comes up entirely empty, he looks over at Suguru, “Uh,” then returns to his pockets, hands dipping into the gaps, “Huh.”

“What?”

“I don’t have my card,” Satoru taps his foot once, then twice, then shrugs, “Oops.”

“‘Oops,’” Suguru snickers, “Are you gonna cut it off?”

“It’ll turn up somewhere,” stretching his hands above his head, Satoru yawns, “Sorry we can’t get your girlfriend anything.”

“And Shoko. And she’s not my girlfriend… We really should’ve just gone to a hotel, all the smaller curses will be attracted to the dock.”

Satoru can’t even be bothered to deny Suguru his natural right to feeling smug, just turning and waltzing out from the cheap, tacky souvenir stand under a peachy umbrella. Sweat beads miserably down his back and forehead from under his black uniform, shoes sinking into the sand with every step towards the coast.

It was something that nagged at the both of them, honestly. The surface-level pointlessness of this mission, especially the early nature of your group’s settlement. And especially especially because it was so immediately easy to feel where the strongest cursed energy was coming from. Like this buzzing, tender freeze that washed over the both of them - pulling towards one spot on the cluttered beach.

A lone dock by the crashing shore. Splintering, crooked pillars with a deflated, banana yellow ducky floatie dangling between two planks. Likely yet another test of courage spot, popular among vacationing families with young siblings and cousins; eight children of varying ages missing.

“It is weird,” Satoru lowers his glasses along the bridge of his nose, “that all four of us were sent out. Nanami probably could’ve taken this out by himself if it’s just another grade two.”

Suguru shrugs from behind his friend, “Must be a good reason we were all sent out. Maybe the eight brats.”

“Jeez,” Satoru bats a hand backwards in an attempt to smack his friend, he misses completely, “At least sound sympathetic!”

Just before Suguru can reply, your voice is singing out their names. The two turn and Suguru is a little ashamed in the way his body stiffens at the sight of you in a cherry-print bikini. Shoko lingers at your back, texting who you all silently agree to be Utahime. You bounce into the spot before your friends, hands behind your back and a blinding grin curling into your cheeks.

“You look nice,” Suguru’s own voice is lost on him, heart beating so loud in his ears that he can’t quite hear himself. He hopes he sounded suave. He hopes it makes you forget every time he’s embarrassed himself in front of you, and all you see is the charming Suguru that your mom would just love.

“Aww, thanks!” you giggle, holding your bundled uniform tighter to your chest. And he’s even more humiliated over the hope that you’re trying to hide the pounding of your own heart.

Satoru nudges Suguru with an elbow and the favor is returned with a foot jamming down on Satoru’s shoe.

“Shoko and I both agreed,” you unknowingly interrupt their spat, “that before we all totally die, we should have fun on the beach!”

“You shouldn’t say it like that…” Suguru sighs, but the smile is still plain on his face. That question from earlier rises in him - why were you all sent here?

“I think that’s a great idea!” Satoru extends an arm towards you and gladly allows you to tug him towards the water, only releasing hold to let him reactivate his infinity.

Shoko watches from the shoreline with Suguru. She looks up at the man, flipping her phone shut, “You never complimented me, you know?”

“Huh?” Suguru looks first at Shoko’s twisted simper, her raised brow, her low hanging eyelids that let her lashes flutter against her cheeks. Then he notices - a black bikini hugging her own body. He flushes, not over the sight - but because he was caught, “Sorry.”

“You’re such a sucker,” she snickers.

He was caught with that familiar lump in his throat and lethally beating in his chest that only you could cause.

“Hey!” and, of course, it’s you again who calls to him, “C’mon, we wanna play chicken!”

And he’s caught again, red-faced; stripping off his shirt and shoes and socks while Shoko laughs at him. She holds out her phone and watches as he carefully wraps it in his uniform overshirt before trudging down the sands towards you and Satoru. Shoko wades through the crashing water towards Satoru, her hands find his shoulders when they all notice he hasn’t yet joined.

You’re pouting at him and Satoru is groaning, “Just get in! They’re pants - they’ll dry!”

“Easy for you to say,” Suguru huffs, squirming at the feeling of water sticking his pants to his shins as he slowly creeps into the chilled ocean, “Just use infinity for everything…”

“What was that?!” Satoru cups a hand over his ear, neck craning outwards as Suguru approaches, “Didn’t catch that last bit.”

“You’re annoying,” Suguru declares, latching to your side and crouching down just enough for you to scramble up onto his shoulders yet still keep his boxers dry. He feels your arms wrap around his neck, then your thighs bracket shakily around his waist. Suguru palms your thighs and helps lift you to sit up on the broad expanse of his shoulders.

Meanwhile, Satoru yawns, hands on his hips, as Shoko tries yanking herself up onto his back.

“Hey!” she snaps, pounding a fist into his back knowing full well he wouldn’t feel it, “Bend down, would you?!”

“Huh?” Satoru turns to stare down Shoko over his shoulder, sticking his tongue out at her, “Oh! Oops, sometimes I forget how short you are!”

“Hey!”

Suguru tilts his head back to look up at you, both arms secure around your legs, “You okay up there?”

You nod slowly, fingers gently brushing the stray hairs of his bangs from his face, “Uh-huh.”

“See,” Satoru gestures out to you and Suguru, “even our favorite bubble-brain got it done. You’re just not trying hard enough.”

And once again, Shoko digs a fist into his back (and then another when he mockingly hisses and whines).

…

“Don’t be long,” Shoko exhales, noxious smoke rising from her lips with a cigarette perched between two fingers and, in that same hand, texting Utahime once again.

“It’d be quicker if you weren’t slacking off,” Satoru ‘tsk’s, already heading down to the creaky dock with his hands stuffed in his pockets. His cheeks are flaring red from hours prior in the sun, even after the four of you had crawled into a hotspot restaurant to change and cool down.

“Thanks again,” Suguru still clings to your side and you let him, even leaning into it.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, Sugu,” you grin.

You hadn’t been concerned with how civilians would perceive Suguru in your uniform skirt when he changed out of his soaked pants - not that he’d really care how non-sorcerers think of him anyway. But some bizarre part of you can’t stop looking at his legs in your skirt.

He insisted that you keep your leggings, so his skin is bare to the moonlight past his mid-thigh.

It’s bizarre, most definitely, the part of you that keeps staring at the flex of his thighs beneath your skirt as you both soldier through the sand dunes. Your hand finds Suguru’s and you cradle his arm against your chest, Satoru nowhere in sight. The both of you shuffling under the dock, eyes narrowing in search of your little white-haired friend. You shift closer to Suguru the longer your search goes, hand winding tighter within his.

Wind blows under Suguru’s stolen skirt and chills against your skin, the waves lapping at mushy sand. Your blood beats in your ears, Suguru already peering up at the midnight sky through the gaps in the dock.

Hot air puffs against the side of your face, pale skin bouncing moonlight into your peripherals in a flash, “Boo!”

“Ah!” you squeal, jumping somehow closer into Suguru, glaring at the cackling man through narrowed lashes, “Gojo!”

“Aw,” Satoru pretends to wipe a tear from his eye, flicking the nonexistent tear at you, “So formal! Aren’t we friends?”

“Not after that!”

“Satoru,” Suguru’s resilience is quieter than yours, the hand not entwined with yours is firm on his hip, “You really scared her,” you nod with a ‘hmph!’, “She was already on edge, looking for you no less.”

Satoru drapes himself over you like a frail Victorian woman in shock, “I’m sorry,” he wraps both arms around your neck and squeezes you into his chest, “Will you ever forgive me?”

“Hmm…”

A creak shutters just ahead. The deflated, wrinkly duck floatie shivers. All three heads turn into the abyss.

You tuck your chin close to your chest, wringing your arms around one of Suguru’s as you call, “Hey, Shoko?!”

“What?!” but her call is undeniably still in the direction where you three left her.

“Here it is,” Satoru murmurs, turning to grin at you, nudging his head towards the darkness just ahead, “Let’s go!”

Begrudgingly, you allow Suguru to guide you into the creaking, inky space under this dock.

“You’re making the curse stronger, you know?” Satoru turns to face you, walking backwards with both hands in his pockets.

You groan and go to argue back, but a blobby, brown, mucky curse plops in front of your group. The three of you pause and the little thing blinks up at your group.

It throbs.

“Ew!” you stomp down onto the curse, sand poofs up around your boot and the muddy body pops, splattering around your group’s feet.

“Didn’t even need a technique,” Suguru looks up from the scene of your crime, glaring back down into the darkness, “We weren’t sent here for that.”

The wind brushes past you again, your shoulders bunching up in a vain attempt to keep you warm with too-thin leggings. Suguru’s stolen skirt lifts and he pulls you tighter to his side. Satoru stares down the dock with a tight wound face, glasses slipping down his nose and eyebrows scrunched together with a scowl. You hadn’t seen him like this in a long while. Since Fushiguro, Toji had cut you down. Since that single, echoing shot in the dimly lit tomb’s main chamber.

“Ah…” Satoru switches the weight on his feet, snagging you and Suguru by the fronts of your uniforms and drags you both far to the right. Sand sloshes up in big, cloudy puffs; opaque, turquoise tentacles crash into the spot where your trio once stood, “This could actually be troublesome.”

“Stop being mysterious!” you pop your palm against the side of his head despite knowing his infinity is raised, “What’re you talking about?”

“This curse,” he rolls his eyes with all the annoying arrogance possibly mustered when you and Suguru tilt your heads at his pause, “This curse definitely has one of Sukuna’s fingers.”

“That would explain the loose ofuda,” Suguru notes.

You shiver at the mere idea of the King of Curses aiding your opponent, “How would that even happen?”

“Dunno,” Satoru shrugs and releases the both of you, flexing his fingers of the remaining tension, “We definitely need to take it back though.”

“Definitely,” you nod curtly.

A bulbous head sinks into the moonlight, shiny and smooth and thin, wiry purple webs spread across the surface. The gelatinous skin ripples, entire head jiggling before the turquoise splits and gives way to an eyeball - it bulges wide and the pitch black pupils darts around the surrounding area before settling, shakily onto you, Suguru, and Satoru.

Two big, clawed hands latch onto the back of your uniform top, retching you back. A look up confirms it to be one of Suguru’s more beastly stored curses. Your friend himself stares up at you, “Try and get the eye. Satoru and I will distract the tentacles.”

You nod eagerly, showing off a thumbs up before jamming your arms straight to your sides, “You got it!”

And like the most impressive cartoon clown, you explode out towards the curse. Thrown from Suguru's strong arms ( :D ).

You rip your hands away from your sides and throw them out in front of you, fingers stretching wide as you hurdle towards the fleshy eyeball. Your fingertips are mere inches from grazing the eye, when the pupil turns onto you. A loud crash through sand rings out behind you, two calls of your name, and your heart shoots into your throat.

And the eyeball sinks back with another round of grotesque, rippling skin. You slam into the round head and bounce back off with a freshly punched-out gush of air.

“I got you!” Satoru calls from below, arms out wide to catch you before you could plummet into sand.

“That was such a dirty trick,” you huff, steadying back onto your feet and glaring at the curse. The eyeball peeps out, bumping from the top of its head.

With a teasing hum, Satoru finally tucks his glasses into his pants’ pocket, “It’d be a lot easier if you could just hurry up and learn Domain Expansion.”

“You can’t do it either, Satoru!” Suguru comes to both of your sides.

One of the forefront tentacles flicks up violently, crashing through the unstable, weak wood of the dock. Slats and splinters rain down as the tentacle flies towards your spot on the shore. Satoru and Suguru split from your sides while you remain firm in the sand.

Your arms fly out wide, grinning as you cheer, “Come in for a big hug!” wrapping your arms around the heavy limb, you squeeze and squish your hands down into the fleshy tentacle. The cursed energy of your mother and your mother’s mother and her mother and so on, courses through you in a raging fire. Your nails dig into the curse as you shout once more, “Snip!”

And the tentacle goes limp.

Sliding out from under the weight, you spot Satoru wringing a hand back - some invisible, evolving mass heaving in his palm and drawing the large octopus head forward.

Satoru calls out, “If you wanna swallow this one, you better hurry up and do something, Suguru!”

Rolling his eyes, Suguru watches his Rainbow Dragon untangle, sand flapping out with its tail and tearing up a lonely palm tree. He sweeps you up and seats you in front of him while flying forward on the creature’s back.

“Try and keep it busy for now,” he sets you back down on relatively even sand, “Satoru, make it puke out the finger! I’ll get it from behind!”

“Phrasing!”

You eye the two special grades with a groan, “I’m not a diversion, ya know?!”

But Suguru is already behind and beneath the curse’s line of sight, drawing his own ball of mass into his palm.

And, unfortunately, this pseudo-plan is one you’re already familiar with.

You attack the limbs and divert attention with Satoru as back-up while Suguru condenses and consumes.

But, also unfortunately, this pseudo-plan isn’t usually employed against special grade curses post-swallowing Sukuna’s finger. A special grade (post-swallowing Sukuna’s finger) with the intelligence to avoid your Cursed Technique.

“This isn’t working!” you shout at Satoru after having yet another tentacle shot out of grabbing-range.

He lets one of the remaining tentacles bash close against his infinity, using the force to get to your side.

“Then how ‘bout a change of plans?” Satoru takes no feedback before shooting you up and towards the creature's head, snagging and yanking tentacles to twitch the head upwards.

A gaping, drooly maw is exposed; gnashing, gummy walls in place of teeth. And beneath layers of squishy pink, is a lashing gray tongue. And where there’s a tongue, there must be a stomach.

“Woohoo!” you flail out your arms, squishing between the gums to dig your nails into the creature’s tongue (“The radula!” Shoko would tease, if she were watching). A shaky, ugly groan comes from the creature and it hangs its mouth open, trying to slip you off its organ - the sand is far below. You squeeze tighter when a gush of saliva drips down the tongue - fire rushes through your veins, scorching at your fingertips as you chant, “Snip!”

From above, a loud retch, and the deep purple roof gapes with a single, fleshy finger falling out.

You reach out hurriedly, hands clapping around the cursed object before the sudden effect of gravity takes precedent. The sand begins rushing upward, wind whipping rudely at your hair as the curse above you is sucked into an ugly mauve ball in Suguru’s palm. Not seconds after absorbing the curse, he sends his Rainbow Dragon down after you.

One arm swings around you, pulling you over in front of him, while the other holds the grotesque orb. He holds it less gingerly than you hold Sukuna’s finger, cradling the item to your chest.

“Yay! Thanks, Sugu’,” you lean into his chest, hands still tucked to your chest as you both come back down onto the uneven, pitted sand with scattered, rooted palm trees laying around carelessly.

“Are you hurt?” Suguru scans the skin he can see, “It’s saliva wasn’t venomous, right?”

“Hmm, I don’t think so,” you shrug, “I’ll be okay!”

“And you, Satoru?”

“Don’t worry about me, I just got to be your pretty distraction.”

Suguru nods, turning away all the same to swallow his newest curse.

Satoru comes in front of you, white button up on display with his uniform jacket held out, he nods in the direction of your hands, “Here, we can wrap it in this until we get back.”

Dumping the finger into the center of his jacket, your attention is quickly stolen away by the way Suguru gags around the cursed orb. Satoru cradles the freshly wrapped finger to his chest, settling a hand against his friend’s quivering shoulder. You pat Suguru’s back, leaning your head against his arm as he shudders down the taste, watching his face stretch into a grimace.

But he quickly overcomes it when he notices how you and Satoru are preening over him, clearing his throat and shaking out his tense shoulders.

Another throat clears, further up the shore. A lithe, dainty hand waves, Shoko’s lips grinning around an unlit cigarette - her wave turns into a single finger, pointing up at the clear sky, “None of you put up a veil!”

“Oops…” you pout under the stars, they flicker as if winking just to tease you.

Satoru groans, flinging out his arms in exasperation, already wandering towards Shoko, “It’s nighttime, what does a veil even matter?!”

Suddenly, you perk up, nodding, “Yeah! Exactly!”

Suguru sighs, “Someone’s getting punished for this.”

You take his hand, dragging him through the sand, “Who do you think Yaga will choose?”

…

“It was her!”

Both Satoru and Suguru point over at you, brows furrowed in determination. Your hands squeeze tighter around your skirt (which you freshly got back from a re-pants Suguru), fists pushing into your thighs as the three of you kneel before Yaga.

Stubbornly, you shake your head, “No way, that’s really not fair! It was on all three of us!” when Yaga maintains his stern, crossed arms, you continue, “Shoko could’ve done it! I didn’t even really notice- “

Yaga unfolds his arms, waving you up into a stand, “You don’t have to give credit to save your friends when you’re who found Sukuna’s finger.”

Once again, you try to refuse, but Suguru beats you to the punch, “She was vital in obtaining the cursed object, we couldn’t have retrieved it without her.”

Satoru nods twice to his friend’s point.

“You can join Ieiri,” Yaga’s brows somehow wrinkle even more, a finger pointing in your face, “You’re free because you found the finger. Don’t forget a veil again.”

“Yes, sir!” you chirp, the back of your uniform collar being tugged upward by Shoko. She’s already dragging you out of your teacher’s (now principal’s) office, but you spare the time to turn and wave to your friends, “Good luck, ‘Toru and Sugu’ - I’ll get nice flowers to send your moms!”

Satoru squirms from where he’s kneeling, hand shooting up as soon as you’re out of the room. He can see it perfectly now, a big red welt on the back of his head and a matching one for Suguru, “Actually, she couldn’t have gotten the finger without us, so maybe this punishment isn’t necessary!”

Suguru glares at his friend, “You can’t undo a good deed like that, it’s embarrassing.”

“I could let you off,” Yaga hums, “But you forget, Gojo, this isn’t your first time refusing to put up a veil.”

“It’s not refusing!” he honestly just forgets sometimes! He swears!

Suguru would hit Satoru himself if he weren’t trying so hard to stay still, “You’re making it worse!”

…

“I hope they’ll be okay…” you murmur, hugging Shoko’s arm to your chest as the both of you head down the long steps from Jujutsu Tech, “Yaga didn’t seem too mad, right?”

Shoko watches your step down the stairs for you (your stare now focused on a gaggle of birds singing overhead), “We’ll see if white mums are on sale - take that as our omen.”

And when you both see that banana yellow sign in your favorite old lady’s flower shop advertising bundles of white chrysanthemums for only 1,000 yen a piece - you send a prayer to Satoru and Suguru’s souls.

#jjk x reader #gojo x reader #geto x reader #shoko x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #geto suguru x reader #shoko ieiri x reader #airhead reader

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Sticking Point 4

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, possible violence, illness, death, bullying, ableism, and other elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are sent in the place of your ailing sister to marry a stranger. (Regency AU)

Character: Loki

Note: It's Friday. I'll probably try to chill. Work is wild yall.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me 💞

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

There's a silence, weighed between three; Thor, Jane, and yourself. You feel is crushing you, resting across your chest, constricting your throat. You put your gloved fingertips on the table and rise.

"Pawdon," you cringe at your own voice, "I must see to my mother…"

Thor rises, Jane doesn't bother as she pats her stomach. You leave without further pretense. Your skirts ruffle around your slippers as you flee without true purpose.

It's an excuse. Your mother wouldn't want to see you, to be reminded of the burden she's left with. Your betrothed and his parents can hardly think better of the circumstance. Yet you loathe to think how it should be if this contract is declared null.

You enter the corridor and turn aimless towards the center of the house. Apart from the few rooms you've been shown into, you haven't much sense for the layout of the house. Loki never troubled to guide you and your mother kept herself cloistered up in her grief.

You shuffle forward. Perhaps a breath of fresh air or if you go so far as your chambers, you might hide in there. You proceed through to the drawing room and give pause. Low timbres in mid-hush, from behind a door not quite shut.

Your name escape the space between frame and clasp. You go no further, instead tiptoeing to hide behind a broad bookshelf, just between the hidden office and the entrance. You tamp down your breaths and listen, knowing you shouldn't, knowing you can only regret to hear the unbridled truth.

"...she can hardly speak a word…"

"Perhaps it is that you don't allow her too. You've always been one to do overly much speaking," Odin retorts, "Loki, have you considered her demureness may be a blessing? That the sort you are would do better with one who listens before they talk, eh? You could learn–"

"Father, she is not what I was promised."

"She holds the same bearing and she is not hideous. She's rather becoming, I think–"

"Oh yes, then why don't you have her? Have you tired of the maid already?"

"Careful, boy," Odin growls, "do not be so petulant. If you could restrain yourself you might realise what you've been given."

"A dumb mute–"

There's a strike of flesh on flesh. A grunt and a snarl, each from a different throat.

"She is to be your wife. Do not sow bitterness in the soil. You should pity that she must put up with an ingrate such as yourself. You are getting exactly as I promised, you will have your vineyard in Kyri, you will have an estate in tears when her father is regrettably gone… what else can I give you? Shall I cut my heart out?"

"If I refuse, I have Jade Park. It is mine by right."

"You haven't any right if you do not provide an heir to it," Odin rebuffs.

"She is not the only duke's daughter–"

"Of a dozen, I'm sure, but cruel as it is to say, they aren't all in queue for a second born."

"You needn't remind me. Thor has his pick, he may do as he pleases, and I get scraps!" Loki blusters, "fine, father, if only to rid myself of your mighty hand. I will marry and you will be gone from my estate. By my right!"

You press yourself to the wall and clamp your lips shut as Loki storms out. He has his hand on his cheek for a moment before tearing his fingers away. He does not look back as he crosses the chamber, stomping through the next doorway just as he sends a standing vase crashing to the floor with an angry swipe.

You stay stuck to the wall as you hear softer steps. It's too late to flee but the Grand Duke calls you out before you can think of it. Odin says your name just as he peeks around the bookcase.

"Apologies you had to witness my son's tantrum. At his age, you'd think he'd be past all that," he slants his lips tritely.

"Pawdon, yaw gwace, I didn't mean to intwude–"

"It mightn't have been your mission but along the way you did make the choice. I don't fault you that, curiosity is dangerous," he shakes his head, "I am ashamed, lady, to think my son is so stubborn and uncouth. It isn't how I've brought him up."

"It's… it's fine, yaw gwace, I know I am not… expected."

"Eh, none of us are, are we?" He tugs on his cravat with irritation, "what say you? Shall I show you the splendors of Jade Park as my sons steeps in his childishness?"

"Yaw gwace?"

"I presume you've not been given the proper look around. I admit my son is rightly jilted by me. I was rather reluctant to hand this over. It has ever been my most treasured property but even second sons need some value… and second daughters…" he offers his arm as he turns, "besides, it's been some years since a pretty young lady adorned my arm."

You look at his sleeve then his flinty hair. He does not censor himself but his truth is not mean. It is only just that. It is what is. You tuck your hand into the crook of his elbow and thank him softly.

"I should thank you, lady," he pats your hand, "I can appreciate someone who reveres silence."

He sets off, tugging you into step. You keep pace, comforted and for the first, at ease in this strange place. This place you must call home.

"We'll save the gardens, I've a little secret for you there."

🔹

“I must return to be sure the banns are read at perish, as they will be here,” your mother points Doreen to her luggage chest with her fan, giving a silent order. “Oh, to think, I must attend my daughter’s grave in the same week I sit to hear the other engaged.”

You’re silent, patient. You know it’s better to let your mother ramble than to interrupt. If any one cared to hear it, you might admit you’re not dismayed to see her leave.

“Be sure you behave. Your father and I made an effort to keep you aware of etiquette. Do mind your manners,” she chides.

“Yes, motha.”

“Oh, and…” she gives you a tortured look, “try to choose your words carefully.”

You nod. You know her meaning clearly. Avoid those syllables that underline your detriment.

“Good, good. Your father is devastated about your sister, you see? I must away.”

“I understand.”

“It isn’t so difficult to be a wife,” she comes close and looks you in your face, “it is part of being a woman. Give him an heir, or two, and you’ll have the rest of your life to be happy. Duty first.”

She touches your arm, squeezing it before she spins to remind Doreen not to forget her chain of pearls left on the vanity. You tuck your chin down and bite your lip.

Duty. What if your husband doesn’t do his? What if he cannot? If he is so repulsed by you, you might not even have the chance to provide him an heir.

🔹

As your mother departs, the Grand Duke and Duchess remain. The first son and Lady Jane take their leave as well, insisting on having the expectant wife home in case of a sudden labour. Even with a few additional guests, the house feels empty. You have only your novels and Doreen, and she is reticent company, a hard line drawn between you by status.

You tire of the pages. You’ve read them a dozen times at least. All of your books are well worn and near memorised. It’s easier to live in your head where you do not sound like a fool.

You approach the door and ponder without. You have a yearning to explore but a fear of what lays outside. You’ve never been much for social graces; you have neither tact nor eloquence. You tend to shy away and forget your posture.

You clutch the handle, battling your fear. You pull the door open, assured by the silence of the corridor, and emerge. You look right, then left, and turn to the former. You wander down to the door you recalled from your stroll with Odin.

The dark oak with the long vertical handles that spiraled at the top. You ease one open, edging quietly into the darkness within. You should’ve brought a candlestick but the windows allow enough light to limn the shelves and upholstered chairs around a single low table. 

You wade through the dull hue and stop before a shelf nearest the window, shifting a book to read the spine. Swift. You’ve not read anything by that author. You slide it loose and flip back the cover and flutter past the front page; A Tale of a Tub imprinted into the sheet.

You squint as you turn to the first page of cramped font. You bend your neck and turn towards a light, not realising the glow moves towards you, only focus on the unraveling of letters before you. A shadow nears until you are drawn up by its umbrous presence.

“Oh!” You gasp in surprise.

Loki looks down his nose as he holds a candlestick. You peer past him to the dark rectangle of the doorway that leads to the attached sitting room. You give a sheepish look to the floor as he reaches for the book in your hand. You let him slide it free, his thumb hooked over the pages before he snaps it shut in his hand.

“Satire. A musing of theology and science. Hardly a woman’s novel,” he remands. “My mother may have something to your preference.”

You take a step back and look at the window, the sun yellow and warm through the pane. You bring one hand up your arm to pinch your sleeve nervously. He is cold and you will never be used to it. A whole life to be spent in the tempest of his distaste.

“Funny, you should be repulsed by me?” He snorts.

You face him and feel the crease between your brows. He lets his eyes drift to the ceiling and gives a scoff. He spins on his heel and sets the candlestick on a tall table between the shelves.

“Let us not pretend either of us are happy. Even if you say little, it is written across your face. I saw it the moment we met. Then I heard you speak and I knew it was all a great joke on my behalf.”

You frown and squeeze your arm, keeping your arm bent across your front, like a shield, “what did you see… when we met?”

He shoves the book back on the shelf. You watch the fabric of his vest strain between his shoulders, almost admire how he’s folded his sleeves to the elbow, though the tops remain bloused. He tilts his head and strides along the wall of books.

“You act so innocent. I don’t believe it, not like the rest. You sit and pout and mope, expecting everyone to coddle you, to feel bad for you. I do not.”

“I do not act–”

“You lie like any woman does. Let us be clear, my wife will not lie. Not to me.” He turns and crosses his arms, leaning on the bookshelf, hooking one foot over the other. He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. “You will be quiet unless given leave to speak. I needn’t be further embarrassed. My father and brother have always made certain I am derided, you will not join them.”

“Loki–”

“Lord Laufeyson, husband, nothing else. Not your companion, not some kindred spirit, not anything but a convenience. A duty,” he raises a long finger as he speaks, “once I get a child on you, then we will be very much as we were before. Separate. Can you understand me?”

You bite down as hard as you can, until your jaw hurts. He speaks to you in the same tone your father used when he was agitated. He treats you like a child and yet, as Odin said, he acts like one himself. Spoiled and mean.

“I am not stupid, yaw gwace,” you say.

He narrows his eyes and stands straight, gripping his hips as he glares at you, “we’ve said all we need to say. You may go.”

You don’t move. Not right away. You don’t know why you don’t. Your heart is drumming and your ears are tingling.

“I am dismissing you,” he sneers.

You stare. Still regardless of the sharpness to his lilt.

He pulls his hands off his hips and balls them, posturing as he takes a step forward. You wince as a spasm of anger tics in his cheek.

You let the tension out of your jaw and drop your arm straight. You surrender but you do not hang your head as you turn to leave. You walk stiffly towards the door. As you reach it, he speaks again.

“Do not come in here again,” he bids.

You do not answer. You don’t argue. You don’t look back. You just go.

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #the sticking point #au #mcu #marvel #thor #jane foster #odin #frigga #avengers

[notyour-valentine]

The Boy in the Window 20 ~ Tommy Shelby x Reader (Series)

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Chapter Summary: They say one is only as happy as ones least happy child...

Notes:  Lets find out what happened between Tommy and Charlie, shall we? I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other.

Warning: Canon conforming mention of violence. Drug and alcohol abuse. Trauma. Suggestion of physical violence. Also dogshaming? (18/21+). Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Expect spoilers for Peaky Blinders Season 1-4.

Wordcount: 5057

Part 20

[Previously]

Needless to say, there was no rest for her that night. 

Before the children had gotten up, the doctor had come. She had seen him being rushed up to the house by Frances, only to be led to the other side of the house. 

Charlie had been deeply upset that they hadn’t left yet, only calming down when (Y/N) had sworn to him time and time again that she would not leave his side. And he took her literally on that, his hand clutching hers, and in replacement, her skirt as if she would dissolve into thin air if he let go for a single second, keeping that behaviour up for days, while refusing to go to bed unless (Y/N) joined them. 

But even if her nights were early, they stayed sleepless. 

Emma, on the other hand, took the change of scenery surprisingly well. After all, she had her mum, she had Charlie, she had Lisa, she had the horses and “the puppy”. 

The puppy wasn’t a puppy at all, and no matter how many times Emma cooed over him, stroking his fur, rubbing his ears, telling him he was the sweetest puppy in the whole wide world, it didn't make him any more attractive. 

In fact, it was the most hideous creature (Y/N) had ever seen. The dog had the colour of freshly poured whisky, apart from his pitch black ears and nose, and that reddish pink slobbering tongue which he was incapable of keeping inside his mouth. He had the rough shape of a barrel and his whole body swayed like a ship gone aground. His legs seemed far to short to carry a weight as his, a weight three times Emma’s, but it seemed her daughter was in love with the drooling beast. 

This dog was another thing Tommy had brought back without a word of warning from his holiday. Just like he had a gunshot wound. 

Of all the horrid revelations of that night, this one lingered. 

A gunshot wound was no joke, but apparently Tommy had tried his luck, which was the reason why the doctor came every single day now, always ushered in and immediately led away up stairs. 

Arrow House was a sprawling structure, with two main staircases alone.

The upper level, however, was forbidden for her, bar the part that led to Charlie’s nursery and play room, but since he was always with her, they had created a make-shift nursery downstairs.

Polly Gray’s orders kept her away, and to fulfil them she had maids sitting on chairs at the top of each and every staircase to ensure the upholding of her decree. 

It was as if they were guarding a treasure, but she knew the only thing they kept hidden from her was the truth of Tommy’s condition. 

She had half thought Frances’ words were a lie, but the doctor’s presence, and the bloody rags she saw the maids carrying day and night told another story. 

There had been orders too, that no one was to reveal anything to her, but it seemed that one cardinal rule of womanhood still applied. 

Whether it were in the small narrow spaces of Small Heath, those with large wooden tables in the farm houses or in the practically gigantic ones in Arrow House, the kitchen still remained a place of truth. 

And she frequented it often with the children, she picked up on things, on whispers in corridors, on rumours and more. 

As someone who had been overlooked for most her life, deemed unimportant and inconsequential, she was very good at being invisible. 

Tommy had returned from his holiday, which included a stay in a hospital, with a dog and a gunshot wound. He had locked himself away and been drinking so much they ran out of gin, but it would take a while for the house of Tommy Shelby to run out of whisky and rum too, so he had changed the colour of what he was poisoning himself with. 

Food returned mainly untouched, apparently replaced by cigarettes. Once he had fallen asleep and a pillow on his sofa had caught fire. That was the only time the maids were allowed to enter. Otherwise it was just Frances. More than once they had woken to find him lying on his back in the garden, at least one bottle close by. 

But he had been smoking more than cigarettes too, opium- some chauffeur had explained to one of the younger maids, probably to show off. And the doctor had given him morphine recently, to force his body into rest so that his fevering wound could heal.

All these things, she pieced together from whispers, rumours and fragments of conversations that died or were shushed as soon as she came near. 

(Y/N) wasn’t allowed to see him, to go anywhere near him, but even then she wouldn’t have been able to speak to him, so far gone was he still. 

When she had confronted Frances a second time, she hadn’t denied any of it. 

She had only assured her that they had taken good care of Charlie and kept him away from it, but whenever (Y/N) looked at the boy and felt his hands and eyes always searching for her, she knew they had failed.

While she did not know what Charlie had seen, he had seen too much. 

As he was far more comfortable outside of the house than inside, they spent most of the day in the gardens, but inside, Charlie was clingy and needy and drowning in his own thoughts. 

It wasn’t lost on her that while Emma played with Cyril the “puppy” or with the doll house or the other games, he was always clutching the fairy tale book, always staring at the same page. 

Crouching down next to him, she stroked over his hair. 

“Do you want me to read to you?”, she asked with a bright, cheery tone. 

Charlie shook his head, staring at the illustration. 

It was from Hansel and Gretel, showing the two children walking down the forest path, a loaf of bread in the boy’s hand, a trail of crumbs behind them. 

Always that page. 

“Why are you looking at the picture Charlie?”, she asked. 

He took a deep breath and snapped it shut, before dropping the book to the side and climbing into her arms, locking them behind her neck and pulling her close. 

She held him as long as he needed to be held. 

And yet after a day meeting Barbara and her boys at the green with a picnic basket, which both children enjoyed, she found him clutching the same book, staring at the same page, once he was out of the bath. 

Her heart thundered as she sat down next to him, watching him trace his fingers over the image of the two children. 

"What are you thinking, Charlie?", She asked. 

"That he's stupid.", He hissed under his breath, the amount of anger in his voice unusual for such a gentle child. 

"I think it's quite clever.", she argued cautiously, "trying to lay a path back home, even if it's just bread."

Charlie shook his head. 

"He's stupid.", Charlie repeated, his eyes flashing. 

"Why would you say that?", (Y/N) asked cautiously, her hand finding his arm. 

"He knows his father wants to leave him in the woods and he's stupid enough to go."

Her blood ran cold as her eyes were glued to him. 

"If he were clever, he'd have taken Gretel and run far away before his father could take them out into the forest to leave them there."

His tone betrayed him. 

This was about more than just the fairy tale, but when she asked if that was why he stole the pony, he tossed the book away and snuggled close to her again. 

She couldn't have asked for stronger confirmation, even if it left her with a world of questions. 

"Oh Charlie.", She sighed softly, stroking the back of his head. 

For a split second she feared he would pull away, but instead he only came closer. 

It was a long while before he gathered the courage to let go. 

~

Charlie's words haunted her more than any regret ever had. They made her blood run cold and the hairs on the back of her head stand. 

He was hurting. She could see it, sense it and feel it. 

There was the way his head snapped up every time someone opened the door. 

There was the way he clung to her in the night and the way he'd refuse to go upstairs. 

There was the way he only truly played when he was outside and the way he would stare at his father's many portraits with wide shining eyes. 

And then there was his silence, that agonizing, suffocating silence. 

It was draining him and it was draining her in turn. 

She did not know the cause of his sadness, but she felt it in her bones like it was her own. 

And nothing brought her even the slightest bit of joy, not even the things that delighted Emma, so long as Charlie was still sad. 

They were happy when together, as long as they were outside in the fresh air, with the horses during their riding lessons, but even then she could feel it radiating from him.

And she liked watching them, even if seeing little Charlie on such a big horse and her own darling Emma all the way up on a pony set her teeth on edge. 

But it also gave her the opportunity to talk to Frances without the children hearing and without Charlie getting anxious. 

And so she was glad when she saw the woman make her way over the green to where she watched the children. 

“You wanted to see me, Mrs Hale.”, she said politely. 

“How’s Tommy?”, she asked, knowing she wouldn’t get a proper answer. 

“Better.”, Frances said, watching her closely. 

“Tell me what you see.”

The cleared her throat and frowned as she followed her eyes. 

“Well, it’s Master Charles and Miss Emma, Ma’am. They’re riding.”

She was unable to keep the dubious tone from slipping through. 

(Y/N) nodded. 

“And how do they look?”, she asked, her brows furrowed. 

“Miss Emma looks very concentrated.”, Frances admitted with a hint of amusement. “She seems to take it very seriously.”

That made her lip twitch with the beginning of a proud smile. 

“And Charlie?”

“Master Charles looks…I don’t know how to say.”

Me too. 

He was looking at the horse, or at Emma, with great care, occasionally patting the animal in praise. In a way, he looked as if he was focussed and lost in thought at the same time, as if his mind was somewhere else. 

“You see it too, don’t you?”, she asked Frances. “You see he’s hurting.”

After all, the woman had cared for him for longer than (Y/N) had done, and not only in the way of performing chores. 

Frances nodded with a sigh and she saw the regret on her face.

“I want to protect him.”, she told Frances. “I want to make sure that whatever hurt him  will never happen again.”

She did not make this vow in a church, guided along by a priest, but she needed none of that to make it a holy oath. 

“Of course, Mrs Hale.”, Frances said. 

“So you understand I need to know what happened.”

She sighed and shifted as if (Y/N) had struck her, and in a way she had. 

Frances was loyal to the master of the house, but (Y/N) also knew she wanted the best for Charlie. 

For a while she could see the divided loyalties waging war inside her until she sighed. 

“Mr Shelby’s been in a bad way.”, she said. “His wound caused a fever, but he refused a doctor. He only drank and…other things.”

Opium. 

Still,  (Y/N) made sure not to let her emotions betray her as she just continued looking at the two children in the paddock riding in circles. 

“There was an incident with a maid. She had been rather close with Mr Shelby before he left for Birmingham and, well, she-”

Frances sighed, “I think she wanted to rekindle whatever they had.”

With pursed lips, (Y/N) nodded, beckoning her to continue. 

“And, well, Mr. Sheby didn’t take too kindly to that. There was a lot of shouting and he threw a bottle - not at her,”, she was quick to add, “but at the wall opposite her. Since then only I entered the office or his bedroom for safety reasons. A lot of the maids are rather young and inexperienced with matters like these.”

(Y/N) didn’t ask just how one got experience in matters like these, if that were even possible. 

“One evening when it was bad, Mr Shelby caused quite an amount of noise and hurt himself, so I went to fetch some bandages.”, she said, swallowing hard before she could continue. “And when I returned, Master Charles, even though he was supposed to be in bed, had entered the study. He didn’t touch him or speak to him, but he saw the state of his father, even if for just a moment.”

Frances shuddered at the memory and apologised profusely, but (Y/N) knew that that wouldn’t be it, as tragic as it sounded. 

Something was missing, something Frances did not know. 

And that unnerved her even more. 

~

She knew she had to pick her time carefully. 

It was a delicate matter handling a broken heart of any kind, especially that of a child. She needed to know, but at the same time she feared she could push too far and hurt him even more, and she’d never forgive herself if that happened. 

Both children still slept in one bed with her, even after all these nights and the daily offers for them to return to their own beds. 

Charlie didn’t want to leave her side, especially at night and Emma simply didn’t want to feel left out and so she went to bed with a child in each arm, sometimes with two heads resting on her chest, snoozing off to the sound of her singing. 

While they drifted off to sleep peacefully, it never stayed that way. 

Emma was a restless sleeper and before long she felt knees or elbows or feet prodding at her, making her turn so that she could at least shield Charlie from Emma’s knockturnal and unintended onslaught. 

But Charlie didn’t always sleep peacefully either. 

Sometimes he woke, and she would know because he’d always move closer, would always seek the warmth of her skin and softness of her body. 

When her hand found the back of his head, he realised she was awake too and looked up, pale blue eyes shining in the little light of the moon that snuck through the curtains. 

(Y/N) shifted, sitting up and leaning her back against the headboard, making sure not to wake Emma in the process. 

Charlie followed, climbing into her lap so that his chest was pressed to hers with his legs on either side of hers. 

She stroked his cheeks as she met his eyes. 

“Charlie love,”, she whispered, “please tell me what happened.”

He swallowed hard and dropped his head, leaning it against her chest. 

With a sigh, she brushed her fingers through his hair, closing her eyes and wishing on everything she could wish that he would be alright, that he would be carefree and happy again. She prayed even, for this child that had not been born form her body and yet he belonged into her arms the same way Emma did. 

He wasn’t her son, but he was her boy and the fact that he was hurting and she couldn’t kiss or sooth of comfort it away, shattered her heart. 

She’d give anything to make his pain disappear without a moment’s hesitation. 

When he spoke his voice was so soft she almost thought it was fragment of her imagination, if she hadn’t felt his breath on her chest. 

“Dad doesn’t want me anymore.”

Tilting her head forward, she bit back the desire to tell him that his father loved him. This wasn’t about her convincing him. This was about her finding out just why he felt the way he did. 

“Why do you say that?”, she asked, her lips brushing against the top of his head. 

“Cause he said.”, Charlie whispered, his fingers clutching her nightgown. 

She took a deep breath and wrapped her arms around him tighter. 

“What happened, Charlie?”, she asked. 

For half an eternity, there was just silence and the sound of Emma’s peaceful breathing, while (Y/N) held her breath. 

“I know I wasn’t supposed to go.”, Charlie finally whispered. “But there was a bang and the last time there was one Dad was bleeding, so I wanted to go and make sure he was alright.”

(Y/N)’s heart sank but she dug her teeth into her lip so that she wouldn’t interrupt him, not when he was finally speaking.

“He didn’t see me at first, only when I was right next to him. He’d fallen down again and I only wanted to help him up.”

Every muscle in Charlie’s body tensed as he snuggled into her as if he wanted to become a part of her and seek cover in her embrace. 

“He said…”

He broke off, rubbed his head against her chest again and took a shaky breath. 

“Tell me.”, she whispered, her voice strained with fear. “Tell me what he said, Charlie.”

“He asked what I was doing here…if I didn’t have enough already and- and then he screamed at me to go away. He was so angry he punched the floor and then he fell again and said he never wanted to see me again.”

Charlie’s words ended in a shattering sob. 

She gripped him tightly and pulled him up until his head was against her shoulder, rocking him in her arms as his tears ran down the side of her neck and under her nightgown while hers mixed with the tears on the top of his head. 

“He doesn’t want me anymore.”, Charlie whimpered. “He doesn’t want me anymore.”

Pulling back, he stared at her out of reddened teary eyes, his shining lips quivering as his cheeks shone with tears. 

“You want me, don’t you?”, he asked, his voice faint and filled with fear. 

The fact that he was doubting even that, hurt more than any punch, any stab, and broken bone ever could. 

“Oh my love!”, she whispered, her vision blurring with tears of her own. “Of course I want you.”

She cupped his face between her hands and stroked his cheek. 

“I want you and I need you, Charlie. You’re my darling boy - forever and always!”

Before she could finish, Charlie had flung himself into her arms again, crying softly as she repeated her promise again and again, wanting to banish any doubt he would ever have from his body.

She would say it a thousand times and prove it to him a million more, every day until that knowledge would come to him as naturally and as easy as breathing, the same way it came to her. 

~

Her promise made Charlie’s heart lighter, but it weighed hers down. 

In those days of uncertainty she had thought of any possibility that might have happened, but now that she knew, it was even more unexplainable to her than the alternative. 

Tommy loved his son, she had seen it with her own eyes- how he looked at him when he thought it could be the last time, how he held him before leaving to face death, how he clung to him when he returned from battle. 

She had seen watch him play and watch him sleep, had seen him hold him, had seen him kiss him. 

(Y/N) could have understood if his state had terrified the boy. Mere mentions of it was enough to terrify her. 

She would have believed that easily, but Tommy saying things like that to his son?

Her heart ached at the thought. 

But at the same time she knew Charlie wasn’t lying. 

He still stared at the pictures of his father with that kind of heartbreak in his eyes that came from the worst, the deepest kind of rejection that only the person you loved most could cause. 

Even if he felt safer now, knowing he’d always have a place with her and Emma, but it would not heal the wound deep inside him, if anything ever could. 

Not even the children’s play could tear her from her thoughts as she watched them running around the garden behind the terrace, throwing balls for the ‘puppy’ to fetch. 

For a monstrosity of these proportions, he was incredibly agile. 

The children tried to outrace him, and they sometimes, but not always succeeded. 

She had brought them outside for a reason. 

The last few days had brought significant change and if the whispers of the maids, as well as what Lisa told her were to be believed, Tommy was finally out of bed and even walking back and forth on the upper floor. 

There was also rumours of discussions in regards to the future. 

It couldn’t not make her nervous, so she wasn’t surprised when Frances approached her. 

Since she hadn’t asked for her or for anything, she knew she had news. 

“Mr Shelby and Mrs Gray had a conversation today, in regards to you and the children.”, she began, holding her hands steady in front of her chest. 

“And?”, she asked. 

Frances swallowed hard. 

“Mr Shelby has agreed.”

“Agreed?”, she asked, crooking her brow. 

“Agreed to let you take Charlie. You and the children can return to Warburton House. There will be more money and you will get greater control over the decisions in his life, as his primary caretaker.”

A few days ago, she would have jumped up, grabbed a child on each hand and ran, but since then she had discovered the cause of Charlie’s unhappiness. 

And things had changed. 

“I want to speak to Tommy.”, she said. 

Frances shot her down straight away. 

“That won’t be possible.”

“It is possible,”, (Y/N) said sharply, “If he is capable of talking to his aunt, he can talk to me.”

“Mrs Hale-”

When she realised there was no convincing the woman, she decided to take matters into her own hands and got up, making her way inside. 

She’d find his office or his bedroom or wherever he was. It would undoubtedly be behind the grandest door at the top of the grandest staircase. 

Frances was close on her heel, calling her name, asking her to stop. 

She didn’t. 

“Mrs Hale!”, she called again as (Y/N) made her way up the staircase. 

“Mrs Hale, please!”

She caught up with her at the top of the stairs, her hand finding her arm for good measure. 

“You can’t!”, she demanded harshly, panting slightly. “Mr Shelby does not want to see you and Mrs Gray has forbidden you from being up here.”

“If there is one thing,”, (Y/N) she snarled, “that I do not care about in the slightest is what Mrs Gray has or hasn’t forbidden.”

Frances looked at her with pleading eyes, before shooing one of the maids away. 

“I will speak to Tommy.”, she announced firmly. 

“You can-”

“I will speak to him for Charlie’s sake!”

Her voice echoed off of the wooden panelling. 

“You care about him!”, she snapped at her. “You should understand.”

Her anger raised her voice beyond her control. She wasn’t screaming just yet, but speaking so loudly, Frances wouldn’t have been the only one to hear. 

“He broke his heart and I demand to know why.”

Frances’ eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.

Good.

If it took some shock for the woman to understand so be it. 

“If I take him away now without an explanation, without an apology, that pain will only fester!”

Only when Frances’ hand on her wrist tightened did she realise she wasn’t looking at her, not any more, but rather over her shoulder. 

(Y/N)’s own head snapped around just in time to catch the final glimpse of him before he vanished through a door. 

For a split second she was frozen to the spot the same way Frances was, but she had come up her with one thing in mind and she refused to back down now. 

Tearing away from Frances she closed the short distance between her and the painted wooden door, twisting the cold brass to force it open. 

“Tommy!”, she called after him, seeing his figure move away from her, through this small living room of sorts. 

“Tommy!”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even flinch. 

When he slammed the door shut behind him, it nearly hit her in the face, but even if it had and shattered her nose, she wouldn’t have slowed down. 

“Tommy stop!”, she ordered, following him around a corner and into an office. 

She closed the door and twisted the door knob until the lock clicked into place, trapping her with him - or him with her.

At least they wouldn’t be disturbed by Frances of Mrs Gray or anyone else. 

Tommy heard the click too. 

He still had his back turned, staring out at his estate instead of looking at her. 

“Tommy talk to me!”, she demanded. 

He had lost weight, his once perfectly tailored undershirt hanging looser on his shoulders, no longer brushing against the lean muscle he had once had and when he had made an effort to get away from her, she had seen the slight limp on his left.

Under the baggy fabric she could see the bandage at his side. 

“Just fucking take him!”, he hissed at the window, his voice trembling. 

“He wants to go, you want to take him. Just fucking do it!”

(Y/N) shook her head, her hands coiling into fists. 

“No, not until you explain!”, she demanded. 

A shudder went through him, slumping his shoulders. 

“I thought you cared about him.”, he hissed, venom in his voice.

It was oil on her anger which she had nursed for weeks now. 

“I care about him!”, she snarled, rushing towards him and past the large mahogany desk. 

“I care about him more than I can tell and if I loved him any less I would take him away at once, but he’s hurting, Tommy. He’s hurting so badly right now and I demand to know why!”

She grabbed his shoulder, her fingers clutching his shirt as she forced him to turn. 

The sight almost made her gasp. 

He had always been pale but his skin was white and patchy. His hair, which had since the war always been shorn at the sides had grown longer than she remembered it, almost as long since before the war. It had been a while since he had seen a barber it seemed and a razor blade judging by the stubble on his chin and cheeks, but that was far from the end. 

His eyes had a reddish gleam to him, sunken and adorned with dark circles. 

His cheeks had fallen, and his already sharp cheekbones made his face resemble that of a skull more than that of a man. 

It was a terrifying sight that shook her to her core. 

Seeing her reaction, he scoffed and turned away. 

“You don’t understand.”, he muttered, reaching for his cigarettes. 

His hands shook as he reached for the matches instead of the lighter.

“You don’t fucking understand.”

She tore the cigarette from his lips and tossed it on the floor, making his shining blue eyes flash with rage. 

“No I do not understand!”, she insisted. “I do not understand how you could do that- how you could say that!”

His jaw clenched, but she was far from finished. 

“You love him!”, she cried as her eyes filled with tears of anger and shared pain. “You love that little boy more than anything and he adores and admires you-”

Her voice broke but she kept talking anyways. 

She had to. 

“How?”, she demanded to know, every word trembling.

“How could you do that to him?”

Tommy dropped his head in shame, his lips slightly parted and his eyes closed as if that would somehow change the truth of his sins.

“He is your boy! How could say you never wanted to see him again?”

His eyes shot up for a fragment of a second, but not to look at her. 

Instead they glanced at the pictures that stood on his desk. 

One was of Charlie, when he was but a baby still in the arms of his unfortunate mother, but that was not the picture he was looking at, that one stood on the other side.

No, the one Tommy’s eyes had found showed his own mother with her long, thick dark curls sitting surrounded by her children. 

Arthur and Tommy, barely twelve or thirteen of age were standing behind her, as proud as princes with their longer hair and old hand me down clothes.

It had been years before Finn was born and Ada still had her own long braids and round, girlish cheeks. She was standing on one side of her mother, with her closest brother on the other side. 

He too had the round cheeks of lingering baby fat, with light blond hair and blue eyes. 

That was the one Tommy had looked at, not Arthur, not his mother or Ada. 

And that was when it hit her, clear as day. 

The fever, the drink, the opium - it would have enough to dull even the sharpest, clearest of minds, let alone that of a man deep in grief, more than enough to summon demons from the depth of even the purest soul.

A hand shot up, covering her open mouth as she clutched the edge of the table for support.

“Oh my God!”, she whispered. 

Tommy shook his head faintly, and when he lifted his gaze she could see the tears in his eyes. 

Her own tears began to run down her cheeks, unable to be held back by this realisation. 

“Tommy- you thought he was John?”

End of Part 20

~

Part 21

Thank you for reading! I’d be very grateful for feedback of any kind!

Taglist (see here for more)

@lilyrachelcassidy @jyessaminereads @watercolorskyy @books-livre @chlorrox @quarterpastmidnight @lilyevanswhore @polishcrazyone @zablife @just-a-harmless-patato

Tommy

@knowledgefulbutterfly @babayaga67 @signorellisantichrist @lespendy

The Boy in the Window

@katiebugg03 @esistmon @chlorrox @theshelbyslimited @budugu @woofgocows @orkwardx0 @judig92 @100percentamess @kabbuu @esposadomd @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @starsnsecrets @ladylovesalot @katiepie67 @acoolnight @chaotic-onigiri @ohshititsfenharel @muhahaha303 @xoprincessmel @shittingonyourgrave @pessimisticbiitch @elisa20beth @simran-preet19 @majesticcmey @akiisbae @iwantmyredvelvetcupcake @vodkainthecoffee @pearlstiare  @jk-acc @cutecurly-hair @lovecleastrange @kishie8  @kirenia15  @nervousmumbling @babayaga67 @mbv2361 @pheitvsx @alessioayla  @kishie08 @butterfly-skinnylegendegend @mrsmalfoyshelby  @lostgirl219 @rangerelik @kishie8 @burninggracesandbridges @just-a-harmless-patato @globetrotter28 @blackravena

#the boy in the window #valentineswritings #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #peaky blinders #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #Thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #tommy shelby fanfic

[milomilesmib]

Alastor headcanons

He is aro ace, but would still accept/seek out a relationship/QPR for emotional reasons.

He definitely has sensitive ears, therefore hates when they're touched unless it's by someone he trusts.

He cares about Charlie but doesn't realise it. He realises he wants to be close to her/protect her and is like "ah yes, it's because she's powerful and useful. No other reason."

The more he cares about someone, the more brutally he will deal with anyone who bothers them.

He can and will wear anything and everything without a care. Skirts, suits, dingy hoodies, gym wear, hideous neons. Clothes are clothes, but he prefers to look nice.

He's always invited to tea parties because he has the best gossip ("I said no and now he's pissy, that's the tea!" "I know something you don't knowwww" etc)

He can use a laugh track as his laugh on command.

Bro definitely has some scars, and he doesn't like them. He wants to be in control and powerful, and scars are a reminder of the times he couldn't be.

He doesn't know he's aro ace. He thinks it's normal to not get crushes and that people just choose to get into relationships and pretend to be more into it than they are.

Insulting his mother is a death sentence. So much as one word against her and he explodes.

He likes making random little jingles on the piano, never really turning them into anything but still enjoying making them.

If he's ever injured/sick, he denies it repeatedly and refuses any sort of help (see above regarding scars)

He doesn't put much weight on his gender and sexuality, just wanting to go about the afterlife as himself.

He's a girl's girl. If one of his friends (they're all women) needs to vent, he's instantly all "spill the tea. What'd that man do, queen?" And he almost always takes their side.

He doesn't like coffee but definitely enjoys tea on a regular basis.

He likes wine and whiskey, but prefers not to drink at all

#hazbin alastor #alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin headcanons #hazbin hotel headcanon #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor headcanons

[demonic-charcuterie]

The Trancy Triples as older brothers with a human girl.

(Pretend Hannah’s you! Not proof read)

You were the young master’s cousin coming from the city when you first meet them. They we assigned to follow and assist you as you made your way about the manor. Alois is was loud selfish boy and hard to live with and you found comfort and their presence. Even more when Alois was having one of his fits and you stood in the corner with them and even joined in on the whispering the much enjoyed.

Claude stared at you through his lashes and you shiver and quickly turned around and walked away from them. You had come down from breakfast when you said blood on the floor and a Miss Hannah missing an eye. You rushed down and as one of the boys picked her off the floor and the others cleaned the floor. You brushed her hair away and ripped small piece of your skirt and wrapped it around her eyes.

“Oh dear cousin! Have you come down for breakfast?” Alois asked while Claude cleaned his to fingers. You looked as the red blood staining on your make shift eye patch and sigh. “I’m not hungry”

After that you did your best to avoid Alois and Claude by all means. The boys started bring dinner to your room and even staying in there while you ate. That turned into playing games while gossiping about Claude. The did your hair and you let them play with your makeup while using you as a canvas. She laughed on the bed together and Alois hated it.

One day you were in the garden when you saw the boys picking flowers for Alois’s latest waste of time, a butterfly. “What hideous flowers” you said coming up behind them. “Roses, so overused. No special value anymore” you said. She turned around the garden and clapped your hands together. You came back with Marigolds and placed them and the triplets hair. “Much better. For my favorite brothers.” She said while their arms formed a protective shield around you. “My big brothers.” You said. Their little sister, their harmless innocent little sister.

Suddenly their eyes glowed pink. No one while ever touch their perfect loving little sister. They’d loose hands to touch them with.

You stood and they did with you before lifting their arms and letting you out. The boys nodded to each other before turning to you. “Goodbye little sister.” They said as you waved. “Bye big brothers!”

After that everything changed. You started finding gifts all over your room. You started acting like the triplets two.

“The master clearly mental.” Said timber

“Why does he insist we speak up.” Saids Canterbury

“It’s foolish.” Saids Thompson

“Utterly ridiculous” she said

So in sync.

You started matching your dress with their brown and black vests. You put plum purple ribbons in your hair to match them. Alois didn’t like that more.

He threw to the floor and she screamed. “I’m your family! Not those useless three.” You cried for hours on the floor just like that while the boys stood in the corner their hands in fists

That..BRAT. THEIR FUCKING LITTLE SIDTER?! THEY OUTTA KILL HIM AND GIVE YOU HIS HEAD AS A GIFT!

They carried you of to your room and started to back your bags.

“Brother what are you doing?” You whispered into the night as Timber dug through your closet for some reasonable clothes. “We’re talking you away. We’ll all live together. No more of this” He said and he siloed her feet into steel toed boots.

You smiled. “A cottage in the woods. With a garden.” You said smiled and the smiled back. “What ever are little sister wants. She’s two cute to refuse.” They said. Thompson cracked open the window when I knock sounded at the door. It was Hannah.

“Where are you four doing?”

“We’re leaving.” Said Canterbury

“We are not contractually obligated to by here and our sister needs to leave.”

“She’s not your sister Canter. She’s a human.”

She boys glared at Hannah with sighs disgust which was shocking considering how much love they showed to her.

“ yn your cousin loves you. Dont waste that.”

She shook her hand. “Don’t lie Hannah. He only loves himself.”

Hannah scoffed and turned out the door. Timber lifted you up in his arms and you all ran into the cold bitter night. But it was warm and sweet for your beloved brothers were there to hold you.

“Thank you brothers.”

“Anything for you our little Marigold. There’s not line i would not cross” said Timber.

“No sea I wouldn’t swim.” Said Thompson

“Not a single land I wouldn’t conquer.” Said Canterbury

“For our little Goldie.” The said In unison.

(I hope you liked this story!)

#black butler #triplets black butler #triplets #alois trancy #trancy triplets #big brother #together forever

[edgelordfinalboss]

For @softchonk since you asked for more vampire cowboys 🤠💫 Hope you enjoy!

Part Two: Outlaws Of Santa Carla (The Lost Boys Fanfiction/Western American AU Fanfiction) 🤠🦇✨🖤

Dwayne didn't know the future.

Yet those who thought that he truly could read a set of well illustrated divination cards bought into his predictions. 

The stagecoach driver would find gold.

The rich woman with the hideous ostrich feather hat would birth the child of a millionaire who would come to invest in the biggest cattle stock of the US. 

Overwhelmed with fool's joy, they'd bought it and allowed him on the stage passing through the outskirts of Santa Carla, the current location of the man that caused most of the bitter hatred that lived in his heart for the mass majority of his depressing childhood, wishing to know more about his heritage.

"Where are you from, Mister?" The rich woman he believed that he heard being addressed as Clara leans in, elbows dug deep into the fine silk and cloth fabric of her skirt. Her golden curls fall from her bun. 

He didn't want to explain the complicated details out of fear that his cover might be blown. He was a lost boy after all, a runaway but what would it matter if he was approaching eighteen in only two days. The mystery that being under the guise gave him was too good to forfeit now. Mystery would be his friend. 

Clara reminded him much of the women who would show up to his orphanage in the place of their husbands, parading about in handsome gowns and fake smiles that came at cost of having their names broadcasted in the daily print. He was never adopted simply because of his refusal to conform to their standards, to rid himself of the heritage, of blood that he knew was inside of him. He was of indigenous descent and wanted to know more. He refused to cut his hair and be like them. There was no way that he would allow them to take that from him. 

"Does it matter where I come from if I know where I'm going?" Dwayne had taught himself how to make his voice as soft as duck's down, wrapping all those who listened to him in his binds. "For people like me, we go where our intuition drives us."

"I suppose." She winks her eye, the aquamarine eyeshadow shimmering in the light of the sun.

Dwayne turns towards the glass outlook, curling his fingers into the metal. The stage was far from what he was used too as the bars and glass reminded him of a cell and the gentle rocking shifting to massive bumps giving him the premonition that he's on a boat about to sink. Outside, long gone was the endless slopes of golden sand and stretches of nothing as it had become healthy grass patches, tall fences and uniquely American architecture. Pristine white houses dot the land, horses who've never missed a meal and children running and playing among the gathering of pine trees.

"Do you suppose that I'll birth a boy and girl?" 

Dwayne doesn't draw his eyes from the beauty of the higher class homes, their dream worthy drawn carriages and the pastel colors that kiss the eyes. It's all so beautiful, yet, none of it seemed to call him like an outside looking in. 

Clara clears her throat pressing against her cameo choker. 

"The child will be a female."

"Then who will keep up with the investment?" She tries to hide the panic in her voice at such a revelation. "A woman bidding in stocks or keeping up with the numbers in cattle. How preposterous."

"She will be strong enough to handle it." Though he could know less about what the future holds, he felt a burn of annoyance at the woman's thinking. 

Determined, Clara pushes against Dwayne. "Maybe I will try and by the grace of God, he'll allow me a son. Just like in the good book with Moses and Hannah."

Dwayne lifts his chin, hair falling in sheets from around his neck. "Tarot isn't known to run hand and hand with the bible. You will bear no sons."

"Maybe you should give the cards another read, just for the sake of-."

The stagecoach jolts back, nearly knocking him clean from his seat. The driver gives a sharp yell, stopping the horses as they snort and pull against him, kicking their hooves on the ground in an odd rage. 

"Just because a male is born it doesn't mean that he won't be an addlehead."

Dwayne stands up, tipping his hat to the lady who doesn't say another word. Her eyebrows knit as the predictions of Dwayne of being a millionaire's wife seem to no longer carry as much weight as heavy as birthing a daughter. 

"Be careful who you trust and the very best of luck to you, whatever you do with your fortune."

Leaving out the red door with nothing but a pack of cards and a will to find where he belongs, a strong fear fills him as he watches the horses in their madness, pulling and pushing with a strength that he never witnessed among the animals. The stagecoach driver seemed too focused on his whip, yelling demands that seem to carry no weight to say his goodbyes. 

"What is this?" Dwayne, confused, steps onto the dust street. Instead of a home sits a building bigger than any he'd seen his life. This was no home, it couldn't be. He had heard rumors that his father was wealthy, but this wealthy? This madness!

Massive stone walls arch towards the hills, dipping below in the distance. Gargoyles hang above three stories of large windows plastered against brick walls. Pillars hold lions snarling at the entry gate that hold not a single crack or error. Perfection. 

A shadow appears from the base of the gate, towering above Ambrose from behind the bars. "What brings you here to Atlantis Hotel?"

Dwayne's entire being could be swallowed up in the man's shadow, his face pressed into his skull and eyes huge. Meeting his eyes, he could melt in both the man's harsh glare and the heat of the summer sun.

"I'm looking for someone."

The guard's eyes knit together. "So is every other man."

"But I am the exception, Sir. I have coin to pay for my stay while I go about my adventures finding this special someone in their child's game of hide and seek." 

"Coin?" The man barks. "You'll need more than a coin to get in here."

Dwayne smiles, trying to recall all the smooth interactions that he had seen men in the town use to make the bartenders give them free refills. Even if it doesn't work, he would have to try something.

"Of course." Dwayne places his fingers through the gate bars. "Coin is simply play money for men like me."

"You mean boys?" 

Ambrose reaches into his pocket, revealing a rolled up fold of money. The roll, despite being large, wasn't filled with money but playing cards covered by one dollar bills. 

The man's eyes nearly bulge at the sight. 

"It isn't much but for some men this would be much more than poker money."  He had repeated the entire conversation from something that he had overheard before on the streets between the cry of buggies wheels and horses. 

 The gates open and like a charm, Dwayne walks through the gates. With a flick of the brown tie that binds the money together, he frees a few dollars bills won from an earlier game at the last saloon he'd visited. It wasn't much but enough to buy him a room for the next day. Enough to help him find his father.

"We have beaches." The large man drones on, his sharp and overbearing attitude long gone. 

"That is Santa Carla's speciality." Dwayne says blankly. 

"And great fishing waters if that is much to your liking." 

Dwayne stops, his eyes surveying the man. He has the upper hand now. "Do not kiss the ground that I walk on. I am not the president but a mere man blessed with money. Know your worth." 

"Of course." The man pauses before lifting his finger to gather Dwayne's attention again. "Have you heard about the vampires that roam this town?" 

Dwayne, drawn in by the silliness of the statement laughs. "Yes. I am one of them."

The design of the inside is far beyond his dreams. 

Everything is more grand than the next, striking him as more of something that belongs to the future rather than the present of 1870. He couldn't find the words to describe the anger raging inside of him at the sight. 

This is what my father owns. This is what he had and he pushed me away because of who my kin is, because of who he once loved. He was ashamed for nothing. 

"Greetings, new commer." A voice calls from the top of the staircase. "You look quite young to be here. Rich father? Mother inherited a will or something more?

Nothing stands among the gold railing. A cold wisp of air swings past Ambrose, drawing him back. Taking a stance against whatever it could be, the owner of the voice lays idly against the counter of the lobby, pale blue eyes looking out. White blonde hair glows in the light of a oil lit scone in the shape of a majestic lion. A rather handsome young man, but it was no way that he could be older than him.

Definitely not who I'm looking for. He thought with disappointment. 

"Cat has your tongue?" He croons, his voice deep. 

Dwayne shakes his head. "No. I'm just taking in the designs." 

"Really?" He turns his head, pushing his hands into the pockets of his tartan button up to revel a short writing quill. 

Dwayne felt a burning sink through his chest. This person was toying with him.

"My name is David and yours?" He asks, reaching for a gold bound notepad.

"Dwayne."

David snickers. "Surely you have a last name?"

"I do." 

"What might it be?"

"Stephans."

David smiles with his teeth, lowering his eyes in a near animalistic way. "You share a last name with our owner, Dwayne."

Dwayne could bite through his lip. "What a coincidence." 

#paul the lost boys #dwayne lost boys #dwayne the lost boys #alex winter #the lost boys paul #tlb 1987 #the lost boys dwayne #lost boys paul #the lost boys #the lost boys david #the lost boys marko

[lucerocosplay]

Akari Deguchi project thread

She will be ""quick"" and indulgent to scratch my growing idol itch. Literally every color illustration of this outfit is inconsistent, as are the BW drawings across panels so there will be some minor liberties taken. Her shoes are the one constant but because they are hideous I refuse to perceive them.

Fun trims and fabric layering will do the heavy lifting as all garments are fairly simple. I'll be making a white blouse, pinstripe waistcoat with notched lapel, a large pleated circle skirt along with some fun little accessories.

The story and especially this outfit are representative of a woman overcoming regrets of her youth, a bittersweet snapshot of a maiden in love trying to savor it a second time around. At least that is how I see it and that's the sort of concept I want to convey with fabric and trim choices. A marriage of a 30 something office worker who is also a magical 15 year old up and coming idol. Deguchi is awkward but sincere maybe to a fault, her personal style is plain and a bit conservative. Her first idol outfit is very reminiscent of a trendy school uniform but it needs more of a contrast to emphasize the magical element and also maybe how out of her comfort zone it is. Anyway, I have a lot of feelings on her character and love her a lot. I guess you could say...

#cosplay wip #akari deguchi #31 idol dream #31 ai dream #idol dreams #my cosplay

[gal-palanaeum]

Honesty and Kindness by rarepairs_only

Rated Explicit, 1500 words, Blushweaver/Mercystar Blushweaver visits Mercystar’s palace and…convinces…her to help.

Teen-rated excerpt with Warbreaker spoilers below the cut:

Blushweaver popped a grape into her mouth before offering the bowl to Mercystar. The other goddess sat on the other side of an over-stuffed couch, legs crossed primly. Her face and figure were gorgeous as always, their radiance managing to almost atone for the sin of the hideous gold and orange dress she wore. The ruffled skirt and fitted bodice clashed terribly with the yellow tufted cushions that seemed to cover every surface in the elaborate sitting room of this gods-forsaken palace.

Colors, thought Blushweaver. If I had to live in this hideous place I’d have given up my breath long ago.

Despite the horrors surrounding her, the Goddess of Honesty and Interpersonal Relations managed to hide her disgust and smile benevolently at Mercystar.

“So anyway, we were talking about prudent preparations,” she said earnestly. “Lightsong and I have decided it’s wise to consolidate security phrases for the Lifeless so that if one of us is…indisposed…the others can step in. It's clearly what's best for Hallandren, don't you agree, dear?”

Mercystar furrowed her brow, obviously thinking hard.

“But…aren’t the phrases supposed to remain secret?” Her voice was slow and girlish. “Did Lightsong really agree to this plan? He was here just the other day and didn’t say anything about it. Maybe we should wait and ask him.”

Blushweaver seethed internally. She glanced around at the priests standing on the outskirts of the room, faces stoic. No one was going to give her what she wanted, it seemed. She didn’t want to wait for Lightsong and she only partially trusted him, anyway. It was always highly suspicious when someone refused to be seduced by her. Not a single person besides that frustrating man had ever rejected her advances during the fifteen years since her return, in fact.

The thought suddenly gave her an idea…

Keep reading

#femslash february #wlw cosmere #cosmere femslash fic #cosmere fanfic #blushweaver/mercystar #blushweaver x mercystar #blushweaver #mercystar #warbreaker #warbreaker spoilers

[darklovecat]

April Favorites!!

Longchamp Gunmetal Le Pliage Large

If there's one bag I will always recommend, it's the Longchamp's Le Pliage. Look there's a reason Longchamp has a cult following and I've been lucky to have joined it in my first year of high school. I've lived with my black Longchamp on 3 continents.. Travel, class, shopping trips, gym, outings, work, it's been with me everywhere in good and bad weather. I'm clumsy, I don't baby my bags and just throw it over my shoulder or in a corner and despite that it barely shows any wear and tear except for tiny holes in the corners which are an easy fix but I refuse to get them done because they bring me comfort and they remind me of good memories. This bag is THE bag, it's always appropriate, it's classy, it's timeless.

This color is very ambiguous, it's sort of gray and blue and dark khaki and a washed out black all at the same time so I can combine it with most of my outfits. I bought the large one because I do a lot and this thing carries everything and more. I would recommend the medium one for a very classy look, large for busy people, small never - I think the small one is too unstructured to look good and the ones with short handles are not only hideous but also useless. For medium and large: I can't think of a single situation where this bag wouldn't work. I own a few both reps and original so it just made sense to invest in another piece. They're not too expensive but overpriced for a nylon bag, it's longevity makes up for it though and the leather handles are quite high quality.

A Pair of Handmade Mary Janes.

My everyday black beater ballet flats were falling apart so I needed another pair of black flats ASAP, it took me a few months to find an ample alternative because I am way too picky about my shoes. I don't really wear heels because they're uncomfortable and I live in a big city where I have to walk 10k on a bad day and my style leans elegant not sporty so sneakers don't look good on me either and I avoid them. I was open to a pair of Mary Janes, I'm not a big fan of shiny y2k patent leather chunky shoes, I think they look cartoonish, and I didn't want to look like a schoolgirl, so I was very very pleased when I found these classy ones online and immediately hit buy. I love it when I can look good with no effort and these do it every time. I'm thinking about getting them in velvet finish and smooth leather to add, not the full grain thing that's going on here. They're more grown up and elegant than the popular style, and they're flat. I wore them out a few times and I must say I am in love with them. The leather is smooth and buttery and they're as comfortable as house slippers. The bands are elastic so I don't need to do anything, I just jump in and I'm done.

A Pair of Back Seam Stockings.

My weapon in the event of an emergency. I love to spice things up once in a while, I may be covered from head to toe but that doesn't mean I can't lean into whatever I want to lean on, I'm doing it for my myself and god knows how love a good pair of stockings. I own all sorts of different lengths, derniers, models in my collection and I only own them in the black or a tan tone that matches my skin, all other colors look trash imho. I also dislike polka dots or any crazy patterns. My personal favs are lace and back seams. I hate to say it (I don't) but there is literally nothing more alluring then a pair of stockings on a woman and I love wearing them with my pencil skirts. Nobody knows what I'm wearing under my clothes and that's the way I want it. I'm wearing a visual emblem of my faith, I know and love who I am and what my identity means to me and millions of other women, it makes me feel so safe. And I love being a woman, I embrace my femininity and the power that comes with it, there's nothing like pulling up a pair of silky stockings and securing them with a garter belt so I am locked and loaded and good to go!

#fashion #style #darklovecat fashion #darklovecat #monthly favorites #beauty #hypergamous #high maintenance #high value woman #spoiled girlfriend #spoiled gf #spoiled #hypergamous fashion #hypergamous beauty tips #hypergamy tips

[thefamilyeldritchabomination]

Chapter Thirteen: The Greatest Show on Earth/Ad Astra Pt. 1

The night was dark and cold when the borrowed car started to sputter, breaking down on the side of the road. Plumes of smoke poured from the crevices of the engine when Roy Mustang hobbled out of the crap car with annoyance. Roy didn’t want to bring his new trophy car out for fear of it being damaged from the Fuhrer assassination hunt. The smoldering, very dead borrowed car stood as testament of what Roy feared would happen to his beloved beach car. The downside was that Roy was stranded in the middle of nowhere and the night was dark with no moonlight out to guide. Begrudgingly and rather foolishly, Roy started walking down the road in the dark in hopes of reaching a nearby town for shelter till he could get the borrowed car repaired. Ever since the start of the murder crazed Fuhrer rampage throughout Amestris, everything in Central had security doubled more than normal, especially with the surrogate leadership of Mrs. Bradley and her son being followed by bodyguards now. Things certainly couldn’t continue as is, especially with the rising body count all because Fuhrer Bradley couldn’t find that little clay abomination. That was exactly why Roy was out on such a miserable night like this, to hunt down the Fuhrer and put him down like a sick horse. The thought of setting up a campsite had crossed Roy’s mind when in the distance, he noticed the flickering glow of a campfire not too far away.

 A grin slowly spread across Roy’s face upon seeing that welcoming blaze as he picked up the pace towards salvation from the cold, moonless night. Clearly in the brain of the Colonel, it had to be the campsite of wildly attractive women in questionably smaller than normal skirts despite the cold weather. That thought kept Roy on track towards the campfire, feeling like this was a grace brought upon the Colonel by the cosmos itself. The dream of it being a group of inhumanly gorgeous women came shattering like a rock against a mirror when rightfully angry eyes of Scar who had set up camp for himself glared at the Flame Alchemist. Behind Scar was a tied up and bound Wrath who was making feral cat like sounds upon this unfair captivity. It was by chance earlier that night when Scar managed to catch the feral homunculus child and wasn’t going to waste the opportunity to use the crime against nature to track the Fuhrer. Roy, on the other hand, braced himself for a very possible lethal encounter with the vengeful man by the fire. Scar simply nudged a rock for the Alchemist to sit on, surprising Roy that he wasn’t going to be attacked at once. Cautiously, moving towards Scar, Roy sat uncomfortably on the rock by the known killer of State Alchemists. It was silent for the two men, saved for the beastly hideous sounds coming from the juvenile homunculus as the campfire flickered about its inviting dance. 

 “This is very unlike you, I thought for sure you would’ve tried to kill me.” Roy broked the silence as he glanced at Scar from the rock of discomfort.

 “I have a bigger target in mind that I’m saving the kill for.” Scar briskly said as he refused to look at Roy.

 “You’re wanting to kill the Fuhrer too?” Roy asked as he shifted a bit on the rock, predicting this will cause a hemorrhoid later on.

 “Exactly.” Scar looked over to Roy now intrigued with what was asked just now.

 “Then you and I are on the same boat then.” Roy admitted as he tried to warm up a bit by the fire.

 “I guess two is better than one, especially with that thing over there tracking him.” Scar motioned gingerly over towards the pissed off Wrath.

 “Wait, you didn’t kill that horrible thing?” Roy was taken aback by all the horrible creatures out there, that homunculus was allowed to live.

 “I’m the vengeful right hand of God, not an idiot. If I killed my main lead in finding the Fuhrer, I’d be ripping my own nose off to spite myself.” Scar explained as he glared at the annoying homunculus trying to inchworm away.

 “So you’re telling me that this horrible little beast there can track down the Fuhrer for us?” Roy perked up at a possible lead to find the Fuhrer faster than before.

 “Exactly, we’ll leave in the morning to hunt down the Fuhrer with this creature’s help.” Scar carefully went to pick up Wrath and placed him back to where the little monster was before.

 “I was hoping for hot women, but this turned out to be a much better deal right here.” Roy grinned finally now that he knew this was going to work out.

“You’re a bit of a creep, but I’ll be looking over that for now with this partnership.” Scar coldly said as he silently judged Roy for that gross comment.

 “The name is Colonel Roy Mustang. If we’re going to be working together, I’m going to need a name to work with.” Roy huffed a little as he got rightfully judged by Scar for said gross behavior. 

 “My name died at the genocide of my people, but, you may call me George.” Scar calmly said, deciding to be called ‘George’ as that weird but nice young woman had called him.

 “George?” Roy gave a weirded out look at the average name that was given to a man that had ruthlessly murdered multiple state alchemists and one very unfortunate chimera.

 “I was told it was an honest and earnest name to go by.” Scar simply replied as he added a bit more wood to the fire.

 “Fine, I’ll call you George.” Roy relented as Scar gave a smile at being called a nicer name instead of the scar on his face.

 The two men and their homunculus hostage would continue to make their assassination plans around the safety of the fire while far away, a certain Fuhrer was gleefully laughing in hysterics. The humans scurried from their homes like bugs after a rock was lifted when Pride went back to murdering away to resolve his emotional distress. Pride’s swords lapped up the blood of its victims, their thirst for more was strong. Talking things over was for the weak and this was giving Pride a much more satisfying emotional release that he wanted. The screams were like music for a carnival as Pride ripped through more innocent lives with his two blades. In the shadows, silently watching on, was Sloth who just watched the carnage emotionlessly and just apathetically thought of what a waste of time this was. Originally, Sloth was supposed to regroup with Wrath to handle the destructive nature of the rampaging Pride. However, this did not go as planned as Sloth couldn’t relocate Wrath for this job. All she could do, however, was watch and report to Dante until a better plan was formed. There was a pause in the rampant carnage as Pride looked over to Sloth after noticing her in the background watching all this unfold with a smile that for once made Sloth flinch in horror.

 “Oh Sloth, how has my babysitter been doing? You’ve heard about those handy dandy divorce papers my wife sent?” Pride started walking towards Sloth at an uneven pace.

 “Pride, Dante is not happy with you and the publicity that you’ve created over the subject called ‘Ernest’. You are to stop this at once.” Sloth warned, her voice cold as the steel of the blades Pride gripped.

 “Oh, so you all want to become foolish, cricketing little insects instead of the superior god-like beings we are? Well to hell with that, I’m invincible and there is nothing that little insect Dante can do about it. I’ll find Ernest and when I do, I’m going to have the most ‘pleasant’ tea party with the old crone after I leave her as a grease stain on the floor.” Pride started going on a hysterical fit of laughter looking like this horrific mixture of joy and sorrow.

 Sloth wasn’t going to deal with the nonsense of Pride as she slowly melted away into her watery form and slithered away before Pride could get the chance to fight her. The whole plan had gone down the drain ever since losing Liore and now Pride becoming unhinged over some trivial matters. It was clear Wrath likely died on his first mission, not that she truly cared if the young homunculus’s wellbeing from the start. In fact, Sloth felt more relief that the likelihood of Wrath being dead had brought. Sure, Wrath had instantly called her ‘mother’ from the moment they met, but that was never how Sloth truly felt towards the feral child. Motherhood made Sloth feel one emotion she was certain about, disgust. The sole thing the two Elric brats made her solely to be had always caused Sloth resent the very concept of motherhood and being called ‘mom’ made her seeth in that vacant stare. Slithering along the carnage was an horrific experience for Sloth, cursing at Pride mentally for the disgusting mess that was made by him. It would take hours or even days to get the gore out of Sloth’s body once reformed into a solid form. 

 “Come on Ernest! Come out and face me like the hideous little shit you are! Don’t tell me you’re afraid to face a GOD like myself in person!” Pride laughed away as he continued to plow down civilians mercilessly. 

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#Fullmetal Alchemist #FMA 03 #Writing #Fan Fiction #FMA Fan Fiction #The Wayfarer #Roy Mustang #Scar #Wrath the Furious #Wrath #Pride the Arrogant #Pride #Sloth the Indolent #Sloth #OCs #Homunculi #Homunculus

[usefullistanbul]

Children and grandchildren

They were of all ages, from eighteen up to eighty ; young mothers with children in their arms and two or three hanging to their skirts ; middle-aged women who had grown-up sons and daughters that had fallen under the sharp edge of the sword ; old grandmothers with children and grandchildren all swept away at one fell swoop.

They all told their stories with sobs and tears, beating their heads and wringing their hands in despair. And they were starving and houseless. We could not relieve their misery. We could only listen to their stories with saddened faces, and tell them to hope for better times, and promise to do something for them, if possible, when we should return to Constantinople. Vain hopes, and, I fear, vainer promises.

TATAR BAZARDJIK, August 2.

Since my letter of yesterday I have sapped full of horrors. Nothing has yet been said of the Turks that I do not now believe; nothing could be said of them that I should not think probable and likely. There is, it would seem, a point in atrocity beyond which discrimination is impossible, when mere comparison, calculation, measurement, are out of the question, and this point the Turks have already passed. You can follow them no further Daily Tours Istanbul.

The way is blocked up by mountains of hideous facts, beyond which you cannot see and do not care to go. You feel that it is superfluous to continue measuring these mountains and deciding whether they be a few feet higher or lower, and you do not care to go seeking for molehills among them. You feel that it is time to turn back ; that you have seen enough.

But let me tell what we saw at Batak:—We had some difficulty in getting away from Pestera. The authorities were offended because Mr. Schuyler refused to take any Turkish official with him, and they ordered the inhabitants to tell us there were no horses, for we had here to leave our carriages and take to the saddle. But the people were so anxious we should go, that they furnished horses in spite of the prohibition, only bringing them first without saddles, by way of showing how reluctantly they did it.

#Children and grandchildren