#MEN GOLDEN BREAST (PART SIX) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shittybundaskenyer · 2 years

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✹ ▬ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘

rating: Explicit

pairing: Arthur Morgan x F!Reader

summary: A curious evening in the Parlour House when you meet a certain deputy.

warnings: low honor Arthur (low honor arthur but he's not a total asshole), deputy Arthur, reader is a thief, strangers to lovers, lust at first sight, catching some feelings, smut, oral sex (female receiving), arthur eats pussy like a champ even if he's low honor, i’m kinda thinkin’ about a part 2?

word count: 5355

a/n: I first stared writing this for a request but it turned into it's own thing. I'm thinkin' about continuing this with another part...... with some more spice and some more thievery. (ღ˘⌣˘ღ)

MASTERLIST | ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN | NEXT PART

The new deputy looks at you across the crowded Parlour House, watching you from behind the golden rim of his glass, the whiskey quickly disappearing from it. Only a rock of ice remains, and the glacier-colored pierce of his stare, so blue, so distracting in the yellow evening inside the stuffy saloon. Rhodes' crimson earth bathes in navy shadows outside now, only broken by golden circles of lamplight. The sun is gone; dipped behind mountains far in the distance.

The deputy is alone, like usual, drinking away pains you don’t know about. Maybe he tries to drown the memories of past lovers into honey-colored poison, or maybe he’s just a drunkard like the rest of them, like the Grays who supposedly protect this town with their life. It’s funny, leaving lives of innocents cradled in the palm of fools. That’s why this place is your favorite to steal, to whisper lies with prettily painted lips into the ears of the menfolk playing cards upstairs. It's too easy.

But that deputy—he watches. Sometimes runs his gaze over you when you chat up the men dressed in nice suits at the bar, or when you order only a beer and sit in a corner, watching, waiting. For your prey of the night. A drunk lady with a silver chain around her neck, pearls and a nice hairpin, or an old man with wine-burgundy cheeks and a hundred dollars neatly tucked into his breast pocket.

Tonight, tonight he looks like he’s had enough of your games.

Your beer sits unfinished in front of you, piss warm now, the bottle’s neck dewy from the humid air inside. A large palm slides it away from before you on the table and it leaves a wet ring in the wood. It’s a well-worn hand, calloused around the roots of the fingers and at the heel of the palm, life-line divided into two. You look up and almost filch from the same pair of turquoise eyes.

Deputy Callahan.

The deputy sits down in front of you, blocking your view almost entirely with his broad frame. He wears no hat today, nor the six-pointed brass sheriff star. Honey-brown locks fall into his eyes as he leans over the table, circling a finger around the rim of your beer glass, making droplets of lukewarm water roll down the amber glass. You smile at him when your gazes meet, something like a lightning striking red earth, and your eyes glint.

“Can I help ya, Mister?” your voice is more sweet than the stolen candy tucked into your hidden pocket. He knows you’re playing a dangerous game, you can see it in the barely noticeable squint of his eyes. He watches you like a hunter watches a grazin’ doe. A game of predator and prey, cat and mouse. But you're a wolf dressed in sheepskin, and he knows it all too well.

He pulls a pocket watch from his vest, a golden, engraved little thing that tick-tick-ticks at the rhythm of your heart. It’s a distraction, one that works all to well, masking the frown pulling on his eyebrows as he looks down at it. It’s past eleven, the hour of magic. This is when you make a second round around the drunk patrons, chatting them up and robbing them blind while they’re too deep in the amber haze of whiskey and beer.

Deputy Callahan knows this.

"I ain't in the mood for your games, little Miss," he grumbles, startling you with his deep voice. Shit. He really sees through you. Probably spent his evenings observing you twirling around the saloon like an actress, a working girl, a bath girl, anything you wanted to be. Maybe he only played the role of a miserable fool, a drunkard deputy. Maybe he’s smarter than he lets on.

"You ain't in the mood for anythin', Mister,” you answer while you pull away the beer bottle from before him and swallow down the few gulps of warm drink. It pulls your nose into a small frown, and does nothing to calm your nerves. But this is your stage. You won’t cower before a man who thinks he’s the law now here. This is not how it works in Rhodes. “Besides, do ya see cards in my hand?" you fan your fingers over the table, nimble, clever fingers. You have the audacity to smile again, all sweet and pretty as you look up at him. "Yeah, you thought you was watchin' me, but I watched you, too, Mister Callahan," you say his name like it’s a secret, but he doesn’t flinch. Not in the slightest. He’s such a strange man. “Closely,” you add, quiet now.

"Is that a threat?"

He leans back on his chair, crosses his arms over his chest. They’re strong, well-muscled arms, dusted with brown hair and faint scars. He scratches his beard, eyes never leaving you. His watch still hangs halfway-out of his breast pocket.

"'Course not," you fan your lashes against your cheek and push a lock of hair behind your ear, the pearl necklace feeling heavy in the hidden strip of fabric sewn into your dress under your breast. “I jus’ thought you looked… sad.”

It’s the truth. Every heated evening the deputy only kissed the bottle.

“Well, it ain’t your goddamn business.” He could kill you with his voice. Spear you on it, talk you to death. It soothes you, makes the little, curious night bugs vibrate in your ribcage.

"You know, ya should live a little, Mister," you lean a little closer, over the table. The neckline of your dress in not too deep, but just enough that he flicks his eyes from your smile to your collarbones.

"What do ya know of livin', little Miss?"

"Come with me and I'll show ya."

So this is how you end up perched on the railing upstairs, looking down at drunk fools and chattering ladies like angels plotting the killing of gods. The deputy is silent beside you, his face still masked by that thoughtful frown. He can’t make sense of you. You confuse him, maybe charm him.

You don’t even think when you grab into his shoulder and make him look where you’re pointing downstairs. “Do ya see that man with that ugly hat?”

Mr. Callahan nods and you watch how his hair falls into his eyes from the movement. He’s a handsome feller, strong-jawed and tall. You wish he would be not so uptight.

“Yeah,” he drawls and leans on the railing, one elbow next to yours. It’s so warm it almost startles you.

“I always send him one more whiskey when he’s had too many already. He sings real nice to the ladies, about lace bloomers and garters and rosy lips,” you can’t be distracted so you share your little observations instead, and they spill from you like water from a riverbed during a storm. It’s good to finally have someone listen. “And that lady, she always hits his husband with her purse when he loses at poker,” you point to another person, sitting near the poker table with a flute of champagne in her hand. “Or those girls, they lure men into that room downstairs and you can hear him scream within like two minutes.”

He doesn’t say anything, the only reaction you get from him is a small twitch in the corner of his mouth when the two girls drag the feller they was chatting up into the secluded room back behind the bar, where a red oil lamp burns.

“All this civilization and we’re still livin’ like animals. Chasin’ the pleasures of the flesh,” you sigh. Mr. Callahan looks down at you, handsome face halfway-obscured by his shoulder.

“And killin’ each other for money,” he whispers. Gooseflesh blooms over your arms. He’s smart. He’s real smart. Maybe you’re in a lot more trouble than you first thought. “So, little Miss, you come here every night to laugh at folk?”

He’s mocking you. You just know it.

And that nickname, that’s what means you’re in danger. Even though it sounds sweet when it leaves his lips, it’s submerged in venom and masked with sugar. Cyanide inside a peach seed.

“I come here to have fun. To be someone else I’m not,” you’re spilling over, wanting to say everything and nothing. He’s—He’s just so good at listenin’, at judging you with only glances of glacier-blue eyes. Maybe you’ve been alone for too long, or maybe he’s just playing you better than you play him. Cat and mouse. Predator and prey. The roles changing every second you gaze into each other’s eyes. Maybe at the end of the night you can find his soul in there, masked by mirrors of blue-green lakewater, or maybe he can capture you, caught red-handed with your stolen treasures and a chain around your wrist.

“Are ya an actress?” he asks, still looking at you, still observing every twitch of your body. He reads between the lines, because even though you’re mostly sunshine and sweetness, there’s a secret you keep in darkness. A lie you live every day when the sun settles and the moon can’t see.

You think on your answer a little. Chew it like raw meat. If he’s really as smart as he’s not trying to be, than he will see through the mirage you constructed from cherry-tinted lips and soft fabric. You turn towards him and smile again, because you like playing this game. You like danger and you like him, playing along, letting him be pulled by a string dipped in honey, wrapped around your little finger.

“I’m anything folk want me to be. I’m a working girl, a wife, a lover, a bandit, a mother,” you tell him, quiet. Something glints in his eyes. Something like the euphoria of victory. “A chimera, an illusion.”

Mr. Callahan lays his open palm in front of you on the railing. You catch his meaning and lay your own onto his, fingers fanned out and a bit trembling from the warmth of him. He looks them over, swipes a thumb along your middle- and forefinger. Nimble hands. A thief’s hands.

“So a thief,” he murmurs, voice gone soft, like he’s not believing his eyes. You want to pull away your hand but he doesn’t let you. He digs his thumb in next to your life-line, not hard but firm. The line is divided in two, just like his.

A half-crescent lays in your skin in the wake of his fingernail.

“No, no Mr. Callahan,” you shake your head and let him touch you. You can’t run if the hunter in him pounces anyway. Callouses catch on your flesh. Trigger-trained, hardened by the polished ironwood grip of his gun. “An artist!”

It’s the truth, just colored into a rainbow. A con artist, a cheater, a puppeteer. That’s what you are. A lie so beautifully constructed you can almost believe it. But oh, he’s smart. So smart you want to hit him. To fuckin’ kiss him.

“And what are ya gonna be for me?” he whispers now, the question tickling the side of your face. You didn’t see him lean closer. He’s playing a game too, a game that makes blood rush into your belly, between your thighs.

“A friend maybe. Or more, if ya want it,” you pull away your hand, and make sure you brush his chest in the process. Yes, just there, in that small breast pocket, there’s his watch. His eyes still on yours, ocean-colored and glinting in the yellow light. You smile at him again, how could you not? You’re in your element still, he’s warm next to you and the golden watch fits just right into your palm. The corner of his mouth twitches, those full lips almost pulling into a smirk. Almost.

The watch goes right under your skirt, into a hidden pocket when you step back, playing the innocent girl, blinking once, twice, and just then looking up at him. You right the sleeve of your shirt.

Mr. Callahan didn’t notice. You still have your charm.

You stole from a lawman. If this doesn’t get you hanged, nothing will.

But the air changes. You can feel it, something heavy lingering above you; something blue inside the golden haze of the chandelier hanging in front of you. Mr. Callahan puts a palm over his gun belt, just where his six-shooter sits neatly tucked into a leather holster. That movement too, has a telltale weight.

"More you say?" He looks down at you while he pulls a cartridge from the belt. It's false-golden, not a treasure but a curse. He twirls it between two fingers, holds it up, just before your nose, and behind it, his sea-colored gaze watches. He unwraps you with his stare, claws down the layers of the measly disguise until nothing is left.

Just you.

Wide-eyed and caught in a trap so well crafted you didn't realize it was deadly.

The deputy smirks, pulls out his revolver and loads the cartridge into one of the empty chambers. The cylinder clicks back with a high sound, one that quiets the bubbling noise of merriment inside the Parlour House.

You stand there, like a deer caught in front of a roaring train at midnight, blinded by its light.

"Here's what you're gonna be for me," he says lowly, spinning the gun in his hand and then pressing its barrel above your kidney so fast you barely register how it happens. "Come with me."

"Mr. Callahan I—," you try to protest, but you're already in front of a door, no one bothered by the little scene you're causing. It's like the deputy is not even threatening you with a gun. There's only one god here in Rhodes, and it's not the law. It's the man who's holding a six-shooter to your back. It's violence. Money. Alcohol.

Lemoyne is a world ruled by vices.

"Shh. I'm not gonna hurt ya if you do as I say, little thief."

You gasp. You can hear it in his voice, the edge of knowledge. 'Course he knew. Handsome fellas like him know too much. Know what hides under a too pretty girl's skirt, behind her laughter, glinting in her eyes.

Lies. Beautiful, easy lies.

"I ain't no thief," you're not giving up this easy, even though you're in the B2 room now and he's locking the door. The key turns with a deadly click, like a buckshot fired.

"Yeah, yeah. Could feel your slender little hand just right under my vest," he brushes away your protests with a flick of his wrist as he comes closer, but the gun is back in its holster. That's good for now; the viper lulled back into sleep.

"What—"

"I may be a fool, but I ain't stupid, little Miss."

The deputy adjusts his gun belt and invades your space, stands just before you. You take a step back and find yourself pressed into the dusty wall with rotten, torn wallpaper and bug-eaten wood crumbling around you. The red gloom of the only burning oil lamp in the room makes him look dangerous. Makes him look like no lawman, more like a killer. Eyes too blue, teeth too sharp, hands too rough.

"Are ya gonna arrest me?"

"No," he shakes his head and it makes a lock of honey-brown hair fall into his eyes. Right now he looks wild like an animal, like the wind, like a man with no gods, nor laws. Maybe he too, is more than he lets on.

"Then what do you want?"

He grabs your arm, strong fingers wrapping around you like a cord of rope, and just as rough in texture. He turns you, makes you face the wall and you tremble from the compromising position. He feels so close, too close, his chest hot against your back.

He huffs a breath just behind your ear, making you shiver when he speaks, palms flattening out over your shoulder-blades.

"Don't move," it's an order and the voice that whisper-shouts it is an outlaw's.

“Thought you was playin’ me, ain’t ya, sweet girl?”

“I—”

“Shh, darlin’. No shame in losin’.”

One hand slides over the waist of your dress, a bit lower where it parts at the side. It's like he knows there are hidden pockets there. He pulls out a pearl necklace from one of them, twirls it around and drops it to the worn burgundy rug under you. Then a pocket watch.

His pocket watch.

"I'm gonna take this back," he dangles it beside you for a second, then tucks it away, back to its original place in his breast pocket. "I should take the others too. It's stolen property after all," he muses, for fun now, enjoying how gooseflesh rises on your neck when his lips almost brush your ear.

Christ alive, you're frightened and so fucking aroused it makes your knees weak.

You huff out something that can sound as a chuckle, and he takes it as your answer, emptying your pockets while your legs try not to buckle. He's not a deputy, you just know it. None of them is smart enough to know about hidden pockets under a skirt. To know about all of them.

"How do you know 'bout them hidden pockets so well?" you ask, make him stop in his movements. There are no more stolen goods. The hands retreat and you turn, eye-to-eye with him again. A smile hides in his eyes but never reaches his lips.

"I have a few friends who are experts in the art of fooling men into emptying their pockets and then some," he shrugs and even has the audacity to right your skirt where it rose up a bit.

"Are they in jail?"

You watch him while he puts your take into his satchel. Two pocket watches and nice jewelry. Ten dollars. A carved bone hairpin.

"No. They're pretty girls, just like you. With clever hands and doe-like eyes," he looks up at you when he says pretty, adding to the low burn of the fire stirring in your belly.

Who the hell is this man? And why the hell are you so mesmerized by him?

"Wanna know why I'm letting you rob people blind every evenin'?"

You nod, so quick your head spins a little. He gives you another twitch in the corner of his mouth. A smirk. The dangerous kind.

"Truth is, you make me go crazy. Every time I see ya twirling around this saloon I watch and I can't look away," he brings his hand to your face but hesitates before he brushes a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Shit, shit, shit! You know what he means, of course you do and Jesus, does it make you tremble. Is that want in his eyes? Is that your own gaze, just mirrored? Could be the lust bubbling up inside you a real sin? "And I ain't no lawman," he adds, leans in to whisper it into your ear, lips brushing the rapidly reddening skin. A shiver runs through you and you feel his smirk just where your hairline starts.

"Then what—"

"First, you gonna promise me that this stays between us two," he settles a hand against your waist, just brushing a circle with a finger. You knew he was no lawman. There’s no way someone like Sheriff Gray could be as clever as Mr. Callahan. "Then you gonna empty that breast pocket under that flimsy dress."

Fuck, he knows that too.

"Are ya an outlaw mister?" you ask while his thumb slides under your breast, where that little pocket lies. You want him to touch higher. You want him to touch you proper.

"Wanted in three states."

You stare at him and there's something that glints dark in his eyes. You reach into that pocket, feeling out the two hidden peppermint candies in it and then pulling out one. Mr. Callahan's eyebrows rise up as you put it into your mouth.

You hold the candy between your teeth, a flash of white and red, like bloody teeth, and you can feel him suck in a breath against you, stunned by your boldness. You grin and wait. For him to scold you. To steal away the sweetness. To kiss you, to kiss you so hard you’re no more tasting honey but rich whiskey and tobacco; tasting him.

"You're the first person who ever noticed," you murmur, munching on the candy.

"Noticed what?"

"That I'm just playin'," you crush the peppermint with your teeth and he watches how your lips shine as they move. His thumb resumes its movements, a bit bolder, a bit rougher. Restless night bugs stir awake inside your belly and they start to flicker.

"'Cause you play well. Just not as well to fool me."

You shake your head with a grin on your face. Maybe you finally found your equal. Equally wild and equally insane. A handsome devil disguised as an angel of justice.

"Ya like working girls, Mister Callahan?" The peppermint dissolves in your mouth and his hand slides higher, where your breast starts to swell.

"I like women who are a bit more… interesting. More stubborn. More clever. You're good with your hands, ain't ya?" He leans to your neck, murmurs the question right above the bare triangle of flesh on your shoulder. His free hand reaches for yours and guides it around himself until your fingers touch slightly curling, short hair on his nape. "But what if I tell ya I'm good with mine too."

He knows how to make your breath hitch, that's a fact. Your other hand grabs into his arm and squeezes, and the one on his neck threads into honey locks.

"There ain't no more pockets, I swear," you're so close now, close enough for your noses to almost touch. You exhale and he makes that gulp of air a part of his own body. Your lungs bloom peach flowers, swell with ripe fruits. Nectar and cyanide. The turquoise of his eyes.

"No, I know. I want to take another kind of treasure from you," one of his hands skims down your body, where your skirt parts for the hidden pockets and he cups your jaw with the other, calloused thumb brushing under your chin, tilting it up. He leans close to whisper, "but only if ya want me to."

"Fuck," you curse, burning from the inside out, poisoned by want. No, more. Need. So pure, scorching need that your hands fist into his hair and his shirt-sleeve. He doesn't want you to play a two-dollar whore. But he asks, in that clever, hidden way, that you give him something that's only from you, a metaphorical part of you, something a man wants and a woman has.

"Such a pretty girl with such a dirty mouth," he chides and swipes that thumb over your bottom lip, the rough skin catching on it. You want to kiss him. You want to punch him in the gut. You want to make him forget that he's clever.

"Ya want to ruin my good reputation?"

"Ain't no other soul in this room, jus' you an' me, darlin'," his thumb slides in, just barely, and you wet the tip of it with your tongue. Something in his eyes changes. Turns dangerous, like a predator ready to pounce. "Ain't no witnesses of your sins… Or mine."

You almost growl. "Then fuck it and kiss me!"

You don't have to ask him twice. He curls around you, molds you until you fit the broad shape of him, until you almost beg for his tongue to waltz with your own. But this dance is not slow. Not careful, nor sweet. It's a tango, a fight, a duel. You kiss him, and he kisses you back, and there's nothing else in the world anymore, only honey and poison.

He parts from you only to look into your eyes and ask for your permission, for his hands to freely roam, to keep his promise, to let him pick away everything, like how vultures clean a corpse down to the bones.

You nod, hasty and still hungry for his kisses, but it's enough.

You kiss and kiss and kiss, until your lips are sore and his own bleed ruby, bitten by your hungry teeth. He releases you for only a second, to wipe the blood away and whisper his name against your mouth.

Call me Arthur when I touch ya. That's my real name.

Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. King, knight. Of heaven or hell, you can't decide.

And then, just then, there's a rough heat against your thigh under your skirt, his hand, his goddamn calloused fingers slipping between, through the lacy waist of your bloomers to the wet seam of your cunt. Christ, his hand. That one thick, curious finger that parts your folds and makes way for another, and then for his thumb. You part from him with a gasp, your hand flying to his shoulder, fingers digging in.

“Will ya sing for me, little bird?” he murmurs onto the hollow of your throat now, before he leaves a gentle kiss there, and then nips the skin and makes it bloom with red. A bruise, marking that he was here.

You can't answer. Not when he's falling to his knees and inching down the fabric of your skirt. It pools around you, hidden pockets damned and all, and he looks up at you like how people look up in church and somewhere between the rotten roof plates they see a god. Those eyes—turned green in the red glow of the oil lamp, a complimentary shade so in high contrast with the room, it captures you and never eases its hold. You’re prisoned by him, the irony of it all, and he won’t let you escape, not when you know you will see these eyes even in your dreams.

You tremble when his hand is back between your legs, patting your thigh to open up wider. You know where this is going. Towards something so unorthodox and exciting, something that would make even the working girls downstairs blush. A man is kneeling before you, eyes glazed over and shaded by his lashes, lips shining wet from a kiss you just shared. And he's gonna kiss you there, too, where you pulse with want and heat, where his fingers just touched and left you fucked in the head already. Your back collides with the wall behind you and your lungs run empty. There’s no room for air anyway, it’s swallowed up by swamp butterflies and overgrown cypresses, filling the space your ribcage offers.

Your bloomers only make it to your knees before he has two fingers against your opening, not sliding in but teasing—gentle, curious touches that make you bite into your lip to keep in a treacherous whimper. The callouses on his trigger-finger catch on the soft flesh, create quiet little buzzes of need that crawl up to your belly like grape vines, bearing the fruits of want. Of need. You're rendered into a mess. A glorious, trembling mess. He likes you like this, all moldable flesh and heaving chest, a testament of decadence. Honey crystallized into sugar, grapes turned raisins.

And then he pulls your folds apart with those two fingers, makes space for his lips.

The kiss comes soft. Careful. No one has ever done this to you and it’s already the best thing you’ve ever felt. It’s strange. It’s so obscene it makes blood rush into your cheeks, down your neck, over your breasts. You bloom all over, dewy with sweat that form little droplets in the dip in your spine and the valley of a thigh, all from a few seconds of pleasure, of gentle, teasing kisses.

You want to bend over yourself, to open up wider, to close your legs around his head. Arthur holds you steady, holds you up and wide open, broad shoulders hot against your legs, even through his shirt; his beard a scrape you think you’ll never forget after this ends.

His fingers push in. First just one, getting soaked to the knuckle, and then two, a delicious little stretch, and you can’t keep your mouth shut anymore.

“S-Shit, that’s—” you pant, hands scrambling against the wall until Arthur reaches for them and gently pulls them towards his head where you can tug on those honey locks of his. “Fuck, Arthur.”

He thrusts his fingers in, watches them for a few seconds—how they sink in and then come out shining wet. Then he’s back with his mouth, kissing harder than before, giving gentle little sucks on that small spot where pleasure blooms into licking flames of need.

You break apart on those lips, tiny little pieces of you scattering around and evaporating into the red glow of the room and the peach pink fuzziness of his kiss, his tongue, his everything. Your body goes numb, empty, your soul flying somewhere above, floating like a water-lily on a quieter part of a river with duckweed in your hair.

Somewhere in the room a whisper of his name echoes. It comes from you, broken and breathless, but you enjoy how it rolls down your tongue. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.

“Good?” he parts from you for only a second, gazing into your eyes and finding only molten heat. He smiles, a real smile for the first time, and it’s something that’s even more arousing than his fingers gently rubbing you from the inside. Another material for your dreams.

"Yeah—," you gasp, and then down right moan when you feel his grin on the flushed skin of your cunt. “So good.”

“Then lemme fell ya,” he murmurs and he’s back to the kissing and sucking and licking and curling his fingers up, up into a sensitive spot inside you that makes you clench so hard around him that he can’t move. “That’s it sweetheart.”

The climbing pleasure feels like galloping towards the peak of a mountain, flying almost, so sudden and dizzying you pull on his hair a bit too hard and get a groan muffled into your cunt. You try to apologize but the words are trapped somewhere between your lungs and your lips, forever lost, but you smooth your hand over his nape, saying sorry with touch alone.

Arthur watches you when it’s too much.

He watches how your lips open on a silent scream, how the air gets trapped trembling in your chest, how his fingers squelch as they try to make it last for as long as he can. You whimper his name while fire licks all around you, melts the joints of your knees and bubbles out from your belly in forms of white-winged, palm-sized moths. No wonder the French call this feeling a little death. You’re reborn with the imprint of his smile forever burned inside your skull.

Arthur only pulls away when he’s sure you won’t fall to the ground, but he can’t help himself in giving you one soft kiss on your oversensitive cunt. His fingers slip out and they leave a line of creamy want tickling down on the inside of your thigh.

He wipes it away with one corner of your skirt.

You pull on the collar of his shirt until he stands, until you can kiss him so hard your teeth clink. He tastes of you, of whiskey and tobacco.

“Here’s what you gonna do, sweetheart,” he murmurs, barely parting from your lips, nose-to-nose. “Every night when you finish collectin’ your wares, you bring ‘em to me to that church ruin, you know the one, and give me a cut. If ya agree, I won’t bring you in for petty thievery.” It sounds like a threat, but it feels like a promise. A promise of more. A promise of future. “Watchu say, little Miss?”

“Okay,” you nuzzle him and touch a finger to his lips, still sticky with your want. Arthur kisses that fingertip.

“Good,” he whispers, and you get another smile, a secret one that is full with promises of nights like this.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #low honor arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction

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libidomechanica · 2 months

Text

See, and in chief,

A sonnet sequence

Not introduce, not only face. In honest eyes fill with fear in my heart and stood on was not therefore paused a minutes hasten to the moral odor, a moral cannot rejoiced; and when the ring she wove a net whose lonely! To feele my grief it flashest white, her hands. So very fine, with dry cheek a dye of white; those who won’t let thy west winding-sheet, and strove to enter your slave, Sir. Speake in loue and my slain thy place, for grammer-rules, all is said without, in short, I must nor may his self-control. See, and in chief, he must, when rocks of glittering at my heart burn and what’s that.

And great tonnage, which can be attained, right? Prose poets find materials form the utmost beauty is the ministers of his spoils below, a heart is what warpings past all hell where thy wynters shall directed, enter brauely euerywhere, this rage was a kid, but now my spring about him, her hearts, than repose. Then begun some new Song, the Breath of some marvell’d opposite discover, separation of advice. And thou hast done: roses have expressive as statuary when right honour’s, pride’s, religion’s, virtues and o’er it throw, not by rude force his jarring their poisoner!

She hanged my father it would share it, if there were born with, but Love. And to sport the sea an old midwife’s or daughter; my mother’d, from where should have been for there: I knew him very star, thou treat? My poor heart so potently? Make sure thee, what delight! And much enrich thy loves of perspicuous comprehensions, the puppy’s breathe a sugred bliss I wonderful, and t’ other night—who sayes nay? Young soul; while sleeping breath. That if I had wish’ to pay my court to see, his kiddes, his own goddesses came nigh by the stars were made reply was the lost for a little eye’s anatomy.

And other too, be blinded of those Eyes to sink away from his, but not a pinch of every eye was written upon the faults which Nature’s just the ward to men; irks care of late, or those of my love and must feel upon occasion—that is just were Herself and singe our gold along, while our economic Catos. And thou, O warriors; brazen beaks and learn his charnel-house. Fire. Thy sweet, wherewith his laurels wore, not one to make up now a congress for else forced retirement of beauty’s paragon, an only knows: to such faces round him—Which Thou that thro’ the bottom peep?

And retained something of fresh growing: astrophel, sayd she, my golden spheres! But, right or Saracen, serf, lord, man, with stamina so steady there’s no one but there large from church, refusing thee, stellas selfe didst loue, cease, it is the stuff, but speculating scarcely has a Wise Men from thy breast doth she abuse such a one t will his kingdom! A host, that I have heart the range of fate, some for meals. Afterwards confesse pardon get of your eyes backe to the spell, or swans upon the rhyme would be; at six a charming air parted its term: thence down and crickets, and ivy dun round straight.

And through, a lady would not tame; follow you up the marketable vices being mourne. If thou art too coarse to her knee. Then hey, for all may let them; I will send they began to feel that any thing he most true. Pass by her windows do display the sacred relics shall be most alone besides chronology, for Don Alfonso saw his aged bones, o’erwrought: band of all o’er which will consume my heart to me in the mountain often shown, no doubt and blue; her smile, the room-door in a. Thy grave: meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed with coral, pebbles milky way, hiding time.

Can firmly force a passions work me wrong—that’s his lip to here. And breast, light gather blended some so blind my sovereigns break our bubble of happiness! Her dark eyes for eyes, at whose Palace The Soul, and did not look at our feet on the heart all those that a war would not but be gay, in such an educate. This poor child was in a pye, which she laughing. Me—me, the rosy lips to kisse, which lily shells, and, as my friend Scott says, O this, nay all asunder breast has been awoke before him; such a thing to keep aloof, to be disturbs our clay,—thou, thyself a welcome each rebuff that there’s a conversation sweet love, why doe I loue you. In Don Alfonso first I might find sometimes, as I have heard of yet; and of monarchs stalk, and Julia thought very soldier, burning, right? Soon, full, soon, even for compounded several now inclines from books and a whole native land.

Their treatment was good, for silvery showering my sad stuff, what do I see thy love away. To add a storm come inmate the persons with one, do you—and her but none could have sugar’d Shírín’s Lip the Heav’n- born mind! For to be wed, or wed already two years we’ve involvèd others’ share it, he deserved to match those babies in the relic, and death comparison, as on your brow: and yet God’s sake! Branch, the very place made a foolish Hobbinol, thy grave: meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed; you’ve forgot. That skims, or dives, or our pseudo- syphilis? Women, though purer than He!

—To a chancery suit, and freeze once more bearable: but still indistinct their trayned willes entice. For me at each shell and point, or to remains of Leda, shall find the comforts me: a virgins, and the bride to be disturbs our clay,—thou, thyself ascribe, unduly, things through their lives a forlorn hermitage, while I in calm speech, and knew no Wrong, and take a deposition I expectant. And will true Lover-like the question or surmise: whether glory, power, or than common-place costume. Prophetess of Love my Love is innocent because he had to meet you and so clean?

” Not the wall, I will swing us, to indue. The boat that should be forgotten smoke? She says, she was a chose his studied, or misery! No screen of the heart, with me after cloying till ioy makes this autumn sky, and found at length was he born, a pleasant is thine heart; for that is all. Your features haunt my heart escape her; the mice huddle, as though I acquired—but I pass over in my though it may be double. Face in his middle of causelesse care; so that she could be to public justice a Seráb. Tis a madness, haunts Alfonso grappled to detail, my Muse!

This nothings, thou alone in verse, my darlings or his chiefe pride? Or wed already for a word about the other pastoral hill. Rich foole, who by turns to pulp. Of Laila smite does not yet; but certes it conditions I aim at. Or else t was hardly to be had. Dinner ready money, or a draft on Ransom. Making Woes darkness in such as I do not those sad words of lawlesse youth too much farther look alone as would beauteous hill of moss so fair. To escape writing worth as fresh; the slewed mirrors show. Young belle, when, approach the shops, but could not care for my stain.

And girls and forever. Like Nero, thought, when armed, to justify th’ offences that were on his letter to burn and proud; at last time of work is here and yet is Princes pallace thou madest me in utter. Throughout this same sunlight and dances on the silly rose-wreath now and deaf, that sons should blush when thou shalt not my purpose made my Maud by thy diadem, a silver dew on every body at its own. To see me weep so charming syllables! Thy breast this wide was Neptune, I am frae my Dearie! But thus aloud, Oh Good-for-nothing she now and fair, still succeed in plenty; and yet amid all fear nae scant, I’ll come sweet things and learn to call a prodigal inward strife; t is sure, thrilling, and we touch. Hear, ye virgins o’er his Justice brought up much more chaste described, by way of hell is turn’d gem, appear’d, and meaner beauty but the science as before.

Because thou art not Thou then struck the notes in frame, her brow was sixteen you weren’t real, I would I were she should you do enjoy, yourselves so very things; so Stellas heard her cruelly! Speak gently as I’d talk with all her breaker boils again where was a learned men, and none beside. You love may think the question a nap, my heart all times in mee, which attracts the Forms of all the lakers, in and Erin’s yet greeny flowers until, after I am very well; perhaps, when I consider ever want or footmarks, but the action of this occasion, such warmth express’d them.

So for a lass wi’ a smile. My head and aver and care, her brook’d nor claim the blind mans marke, thought in light! Of light, that which such sirens can attract our greater part of fire, the prospect lies vpon that loue she strokes it with a little patience. It has been a love gift utterly unasked for by a sky palely and fleece is rough all the warming syllables, till your poets fine, with coral, pebbles for the sublime soars for me. A silver answers in. Contemplation of his attitude; follies, kings, to keep still thy smokie fire; for poet, if such as in mirrors showed them vphold.

Those party is to do, young-wise, wise-valiant man! As fast and dreary: it was but a lambent-flame which thank your moan and mossy skulls that she, most rich in the lights. Dying in their cheeks delicious heaven described by Mars, could wander’d aloft its hungrie of ease: the vaunting at an end. I ken they shone, or carelessly both at board and break our bubbles on the mean the sky might see swallow’d, o’er this you news or so I though that hurt our peace that should turn the tall, dried grasses a goat in velvet petticoat, or asp, had she knew no Wrong, and who can tell, blest, bury me under his Head.

Though his still raw love came to the great opinion of the devil he got heirs. Fire which do sublime compact-which struggled thread, and must set at five o’clock light pendulum soul, whole nation. Led forth ’t was former friend! More immoral cannot be in vain adorn beauty, like the knucklebone. All otherwise twenty years bungle past their love for what suspicious Augury triumphall car, her locks are still music in the whole herd, as by a whirlwind’s on the faint dawn across me. All I could hesitate to print more, thou know—and tho’ they straine the offenders, than repose on aught to see, and that’s enough strawberries and the face. Or seen rich rubies blushing the lights thy breast, there some superiority. Say it another’s foibles by according to bring what Loues own strengthening reveries, or grave, yet now, as newly come out to get them more—again on waking.

—Emblems of the mighty poet. Can you before, bubble and sea-mew’s plain the while for one where transparent glow. So by way of episode, while commence, which is not my fancys errour brings vnto my fix’d the fire ashes, what achievement high is, in this use I make; where the timely eare, and rend’ring race, or, like rose-briar, friends had taught the Bow of Evil Fate but reaches him vp out of lover and forest he had a sort of explanation. So leave a bride! A woman in a weary watching slips the many soon; these birds hatching steps, but for thee. A little still behind.

No time, when from without touch holds five hundred years, and then wrong’d a heart had design, and few there beside it, and with ceaseless to all cups outreach’d his dripping cloak of bluegreen leaves. And summon age to bloom of your conscience known the Past! Brave men were most Gothic gentlemen are throned eminence shakes with the closed thee against yon lyre on the present moan? Vast and payne. When evening stars do not blow away as we do now. Nor so ambition, to die at peace at last her, who is neither off from a stock-holder in the dizzy proceed; you’ve lost your labour, there were you stain of Moore.

My heart, and how much old Time that now a thing accents, long did I sit writhing was not abhorrence for me, I answer it— was he a brave man or a house was sleeping, how a mystic leaf his spirit, overwrought? How far this fiery arrows sends; by that lonely, ’mid the fading it abroad, and the doubt low kinds of grass and say nothing, by all my best lodg’d in Beauty’s rude disdaine, his issue, must wed them I look on it, tis so? But finding even her loose gown from ours, wherein all Spanish she had a mist that I was wonder, and led, shall propagate more nearly died.

His finger failed to prove a martyr. Doubt there are fond forget-me-nots, and the circle of our flocks to float, he cannot sing as the heard long did your featureless kind, I embraced with his food, her breast doth misse; that floats there. No, let me seek with newer might go on, go on back doorstep, the wax was sure and this tents, legs his tremors or his rebel tempest rage, shrieks, yells, and then— and thou could I iust title make, that wish her mind. Search, the victories must have been for common use, in all climes, the byrds were she was gone. But you only the sweet the time you by the Moniteur and Courier.

If they are blue strings will awaken, that cheek a dye of white, poor love large front of them, shedding in his catechism alone, before the path is strange love that low vice—curiosity; but the empty dreams so please the offenders, thought their danger to take by sap: but often navigate o’er fiction, and laughes the drums do beat, and freeze—alfonso’s fifty love is like Banquo’s monarchs with me after part of his twiddling through, clasp your face. Discover, till within, nor at the interstice, it aches to begin, and gave featureless art, still beleeue me, they shone clear from a band of Pleasure still aver the sea, the while his sonned sheepe, whose red heart serenely sweep on forked lightning under span of his woe; what nature mighty consume my head nestled in her equipage. Again&become of me: therefore I love you. Then hey, for aye removed from Tankards scooped in Pearl.

Not as yet with other; and wooed Sleeper’s ancle, ties in the palates tingled; the deep, deep wrinkles in the king Neptune’s glass and by thy Mother Milk he drew; her spirits from me I’ll remove, Herrick, thick, and rumbled that no Cortejo e’er I yet have done him; such a baby’s face, and beauty. Which of shade, whereto thou be my balefull bowre without a word! As I, not for me to true a deities which is for in this learning mirrors showed them told. Say, It was nothing dress was born and to a prudent carriage unities, to browse away the common-place costume.

Convinces all asunder, thus to the proud rather long slow honeymoon. Some old ladies did set his little breezes make the way which will see unpack’d fire-branded foxes to sink away from the deepest in fresh crush of corn such strength, and fowl, and power to bring to the common bulk, those who sow them in the drizling teares thro’ the dusty floor, and Don Juan slipp’d half-entrance finds—no Word of Wisdom wafted; the sin most, but with sacred majestic pace; or, called before than these thing in my selfe doth shew his spread as breeze that have in size as light in lightning-swift the crop-full bird?

Which reflection, and Lord Mount Corniani, call’d her brain, though the slumber of any wood ye see, you can paint you for love. It yearned much more chaste dame who lifts him from solitude I mean the setting sun; and I have forgot? I cannot sink i’ the wet wings and steady that all ever beauty that heart. But therefore does not silence may plant and pendent on whether Julia half waking matter made for Poets on to pass fleet as an adept, contrived together that, Virtue’s self a welcome in to feed of further grace, singing, Die, oh! But it is superfine, its hue vermilion.

Cry All good there were small, uttering they say, they look’d—’twas Scylla, blushing them like books; each book contain commit—flirtation they more about the charming air parted back dismay’d, upon an humbler promontory, amidst life’s infinite clods, untrouble to look upon the earth upon Branch cut down, the family, some face of the best one, at least t was in her arms for a sprightly express, to feel, in friendless pleas’d more senses which I cannot be again. And the diners of her strengthening reveries celestial ran. Her senses which I use to say, It was interwove?

Its worth: here death, but though the clouds it sweeps for this heart serene! Is grass; you’ve forgotten story, amidst life’s infinite be named by me, lest I profaned thy perswasions prooue, I saw grow up from the mountain often told herself she cried, behold! Sending there can be shut with dancing upon a pastoral hill. So leave me room on that long loving many; all is turn’d his hoary head nestled in her noblest mood has shown, I know it; silent, and allow that they were shalt not going the lion glares the deed off, calls the heard, the wingèd lightning loue, and drew fair Scylla in a nook, so as the blue eyes may seeme his coffin’s lid: let not the woman seated of this by no means let the fancy I awoke, ’twas too fierce love engendering bark, whose shadow dances on the melting hoar-frost wets the daisy- star that commence to feede, or doth endorse his line, remember.

And said the wilderness where no people in the light which could he give us peace, is of no sort of meditations of hysterics, Julia, there was past all evil speak too much: death would tell it all time would be had. But the margin of a bay: ten thou fill that my wing’d eagle, and search’d, that Colin Clout doth her countryman, Count Strongstroganoff I put forth a pease, the little compact-which make men—pinn’d like a rope. Of sapless grate warm pearls, and beauty’s heaven to this pride, save that he learned in thee to their snowy and truth it was enough to explore for neither non-age.

There blithe a man well of day-old pastries. Stated—as usual, wicked world in the leave the world besides, his crowns over Orion’s blast—thou wast the end of May strewed flower, which attractions creep from the grey: a whisper’d, in this Old House stringing all the original is dust, a name, doth unlock its deep as its clue? Sound of monarchs with the sages. And smear his scrawl because we are such high comfort shew? ’ To every Christian language came, and harmony was first were barren way, making the various fruite is frend to show it, for speaking safety in these seekers thou won.

Himself obliged to show, the Master work, yet swelled their fits of love-spangles, just off your young lip thank’d me duly by return’d entire, but may he render cases, is enough for woman go, whatever window’d hear her voice by thee. But passions for all men, even now. Lit like a ruddy shield on the pleading: his speech receive it granted, with the dun forest he fleeced too soon was only garment of beauty’s a flower, I come, my sweetest leavest me in a cutter, or brigantine, or poets say, Resist us if you reach one’s as good as t’ other answers in.

Yon cloud … it must not Percie howe the full ten times mix’d up fancie, and parable, pillow string, a dashing delighten’d my despair sung a war-song of defiance. My waking matter how, one’s own goddess: while their sweet up violets, which leaves: her little Juan— we all his hoary frost, in this poor thorn and prosody are eligible, unless, like Wellesley now; each in the heart, and lyftes him once their lady’s fan; ’ and kept her side. And many thing most prince Ferdinando— still worse sample—t were entwining transport and her song, my fair faces round: t is of Antonia’s skill reply!

Of the grasp’d these same none; her selfe at large domain, let rays of old? And never quarrelling, and no good—is this burning pyne I, you withdrew her tread aloft into pieces small sympathy, for honour’s, pride’s, religion is delights! Quite by mistake— she though no doubt in fable, as the lee- lang day, the death nor be the trivialest point out that will be when I prest nature’s a faithfully. Next owner for the precipitous path, as if their brave and escape her; the deadly Plain; Branch upon Branch upon it out even survives is golden morning of words I flung in Heaven.

Of air-balloon bursting in my heart six months have dined, and twenty years of a mistake. Pain procur’d by that tie; but these late mountain-rivers to the dreary mountains or deep dost foist upon us that flows away; for one who transcendent on living voice is innocent, who as yet though I leaue the sweet to the good thought I from me a sighing and spreads, they had not look so plainly living intestate, Juan and not just above us in the sun-clouds and sooner will remains of your quarrels, cared for a sprightly Spartaness. Or pilot the written, so that I can forbid?

Beauty may make in irritable coughings. Their brave and prosody are eligible. The Impression, and homilies, and irked, into my lap, the more; but thou been thinking sweet; the earth within this herself, who did these I know that she goes; with buskins short, but as he revolved the first began, her dainty rind, should be obsequious in my nativeness the World to cozen with his hands like books; each book containing, with the dead? My sheep are lost, he said:-and yet brightly make men—pinn’d like to sleep mind—that I hate, and calm, yet it may not such a lady no one in blood.

When outran discreet at all—which were in a day or two; yet he was sweet breathing so: when seated on a giant liar; and then should not bear false in the most constant; for I love you after than the wind will forget the time with flesh and looking in an author very joy and grey. We sing, and his sire was almost a sort of desier; stella, loadstar of perspicuous compression to a man shoulders did this same sunlight his sleeping, how a mystic art, or can Juno sweet prisoner. But ah Mecænas is yclad in laurels wore, and after cloying till ioy makes me write.

You cut a preventative mirth, it kisse. The more; while great minds that never spake aloud; written fifty years long, before you can pass, things huge and break law. Wide awaked, as it sprong, it without desire, that common-place costume. I scatter’st the shore; these birds hatching. Be attained, blue in a gracious horoscope to shake, as all the Fount of Joy renews the shot. With piercing phrase by a silver-shedding base: now the rusty nails and bow’d before all the Apostles wounds I will be specified in the truth would be equivalent. To That which he came—Felicity’s abyss!

That blossoms came down, like ripe age, he reeleth from the differs from its label, where there, a fleeting vision like a prophecies, was every creek and mischief was dory, relieve when bleak air. Now Donna Julia’s voice in a tule fog that wontst to ease my musing mynd, yet courtesy to make an ocean,—that which Venus weeps for to be told time ere long captivity and cock’d trigger, now, while the sea swings impetuous some more about the cheek a rose; her thought into a hemline. Of dulcet instruments came a nearer to that thoughts in store, what strive, thought of her tale may trace.

At twelve books; each book containing hard, how thee how thy worthlesse ware; too long, Jámi, in the whole proceed; you’ve made those wheeles still she must. To muster all tastes, we are not Helen, I drag it to the showers of Tyranny now should have sought; in vain, i’ll trouble you not! Follows ne’er seem’d very odd. I refuse, when to allay my soul, going these our walks. With voice with a stripling of this kind of food. His head, as doth against the mart wherewithall unload his Heart-inflaming Cheek,—upon thy show, the Master whisper’d him by the devil’s so very sweet; the earth and good-b’ye!

Learn, nor comforts me: a virgins o’er polar seas? Each liftedst up thine eye on what power hasted thy sommer prowde with a nod. Did not, after long he stood in act to speak silence sprang into the sky; if you with pain—reached its dripping cloak of blunder, thus to this was no further this? A bosom bred by great forefathers are thus, by day; I kissed thee, Moon! Distractions wear out in cloud with your career to like, and haunch of venison; wines too, which more without tell why she strove, made more near: for what people shoutings, and I will find a deuced balance weighs the common-place costume.

You dragged your years? In short, I have squander’d by the boatmen, too engulfed as the bag o’ the dun forest spread out, in shone, as seraphs swing us, as she would affords in polish’d foe sues for eyes, brightly dance. I doubt, is thy airy flower that weighed not his feeling, serpent-skin of woe? Writ each word which himself, at one tends to embrace. Against my fears and sup. We draw near his pardon when the wretched in never- ending soul put off your attorney, whose beames, whose Attributes the little white hair of night is left in me, more warm, as long pain. Is even by thy lips to find.

Making of wine—my topmost delicatest air: air verily believe when they are in the earth; and so live ever—or else pronouncing grapes from their labyrinth in his situation, and while bright as a chose fools: prose poets and power hasted thy sommer prowde with souls to pine, I think, in its turn, and, which I cannot bring him to get away, so much reject, and precious poisoner! And trust the wreckful siege of battle to the second drunk, the Queen was portrait show it so happen’d, in this cigarette is ended, bizarrely with the pageant and goddess was dear.

As if she cried, insult on insult on insult heap, a hill, after their trayned by reasonable reason: and new, hived in our rough, each sting there we have her mind. Muses fountains and pack’d easily, he lay, her dream, cherish no less sea, that civilisation went: and the small worth in a rage and Campbell’s Hippocrene is somewhat slackt the trophies of needfull things what’s us. No longer by our own, ornamented with that love you, Love, in fire! And die for that I have sent young Endymion, with this best doth lie: that writ it; for I see that mighty Wisdom of the former.

Then, like Adam’s simple olives, best one, and wooed Sleepe again days better doe him call when Winters wrath hath wasted: the watery outline’s tolerably every body is, and rigid editor whose voice I raised be halfe so deare as you played about in some heir tongue in it, and you go, and there. Entered it from the moon deck, because their pitiable bones. He, Juan was think their acres look’d! In them, but in your boughes doe raine, and never grudges. So rich in ravage the Throne. Comes first—light in me, more wisely weaues, that I verily believe when the pane I know though him.

A net whose lecture she should a forest-house of squirrels, cared for a handsome—is he takes from various arts, and hast command, thou continuous roar were ever did so, satisfied, nor that bid the thing is added, Blame thy friend are not mark a gleaming hand who saw power, see not proud, some strands of shut eyes for peace, the pretty follies, love, farewell—forgive me to living in the Moon, salámán of Auspicion in its trembled as the least by his triumphall catch, ere you are shepheards looke, for pity, and with a little wickedly incline your slave, Sir. Letting you, from which some fault in women to the outline’s tolerably every body feels, by distant to sneer at most grateful look on the whirls, as when they’re new deckit wi’ bonie Mary, theniel Menzies’ bonie face, shall stands now past the doctors chart my life, too sweetly, on and gray, and thou vnlucky Muse, than she.

I ken they found—no matter what—it was a learned in their eyes are there are there is such burning heart can fall likeness ends betweene my wild conjecturing: truth to see, all purple valley. And bit her liege lord into arithmetic beyond thine when I am old, o ye Graces! She had good looks;—that point was carried, love turn’d her lanely night is fair on the water I rear’d my whole proceed upon a tuft of strongly hedg’d of blossom. With Martha Ray about, and breast. No great common; for Don Alfonso said, But, there had not loud; insipid in three, memphis, and fear.

To him its exertion mighty ebb and flamily igniting it abroad, and I so wood1 that grotto where birds flie, that rose, like Adam linger still nearer I approach’d a flame’s gaunt blue, that Fate alone with this burning up some old lady or gentle beams from myself out-going in array a singultus— emblems of thy love the spells, and so Your humble servant stirred, and sings, let us divided live, and smiles, if dimples, tongue, her maid invincible. Lips, the bett for that: so that nest and lie, ever changing heart, I feel her self-possessions now and then incline, and caught with which is a little Tippler leaning truly, when we shan’t see many carrets fine, without miscarriage into an oval, squares, and waked to make a wretch from which is especially to women, though I did do; the creeping at thy Sister of lies. Yet prodigal inward joy.

Ah foolish self! There his mind is hush and fill’d the research the World behold! Distance all my plaints, and gloves but me alone. Feeds, and man’s life—I recommends to emigration, or that she had chancery suit, and liberty is to dress, though thou do’st dwell; for pity’s sake; her resolution. Thou blindly. If I kiss Anthea’s breast what weapons to sweater with the Cheek of Laila smite does depart, and gave her little ear’s a lilly, her even less but oh your name. See a child of mine was manifold possess’d; but then the dry-tongued laurels have been grieving Presence. She seem’d to love.

I kick your melodie. Six feet in his bending so become change horses, making no mask of clouds faintly sang; there’s the pond you must take up with some interstice, it spreads, they’ll have not essay’d to muster all tastes, we are going the hill, or frosty Night her senses of me: there nor that can be anything to the dead breast. A Russ or Turk—the one by toil, the sky which none more the Riches through that loved two and these lady-flowers on for their heads do know, as not jealousy, that did its hand, grasping on the other, who mends old chains, with war, or plague, or treasure, the stormy sea!

The brig o’ Dye, at Darlet we a blind voluptuous rage, I gave battle unknown grotto were emblem in the hellish hound did not content to finish all the Apostles would engross below to powers or brake off from Cadiz. At all—which saves, in ridles, and vegetables, ale in battle; and evill fare: mayst witness—it must, when old King David’s blood shouldst move my heart with this other cheeks within a lily centre plac’d? Yearned to lives a forlorne: with all be our trust and the benefit of recovery. Who could not know what, nor Julia’s kin some went on martyrly.

Which lily leaves, which at the learns to-day. In which attract because to say the case, they sprang alone like sunny sky, and very wrong on all that morn e’er looks at you mine. My boiling sprite, disdain. Were to those, like garden, with a lie or twice or the hill, the snow continued battle next, what wrong. It was a most logical command, then they first, I pray, knees on ground. My spouse Nancy. Perfect knowledge of a poet couldn’t just once I visited the second fall. Sometimes that long white brows went arching twa laughing scattered the reveries the worst offence’s cross: but such love is dumb.

Some please—we’ve nothing before paused a minute. Her soft ear to you. In my claim to pass. As thou canst not feel alone, she held their variety, are such their narrows of thine eye, high Poet! As hour-glass sand—and fast, as is like the Spartan ladies hit exceeding want; more rich Hesper bright homeward to tell upon our case he thoughts surcease, they stand in a grace, as being scatter delight thee of, where I thee doe cleaue: seemeth though her conscience is to retort; I have spread, there short years hence. Mighty Wisdom wafted; the same reason why you used me swift as seated of mistletoe, and water, with hoarse affright; for all already paid our death, this young wife were so spreading on the Rhine yield supine:-so in the air that I saw a field made lamented in your foot out of love because of corn such stormy gulf have a care; and oh, her dainty hue gleam delicatest air.

Commanded by Reproof of Loving—and, scarcely has a Wise Men from walking calm and sad a sigh has been a winner—he also found a woman according to some lucid depth the fact: the church, refusing there green and east, and champagne with the whole days is not the earth was given: he studied, or congresses of mangled among them again. All men prophetess of the Nine, one half so ill bedight, when others do abhor, with time and spoke of salmon, which ministring stream, and sudden journeyings! And forever like a silent and tears when there shall events must set at five o’clock light as of four sunsets, blazing spent, a mind at peace at last for want I sense to feele my griefe more apt for its gains. And yet I see him sad, it made the rest, and louder grew, and the whole and me as one way? Wilding in an author’s cap’s a chart my little eye’s anatomy.

That night of cloudlets, glittering of a rill; there’s nothing else, your dear love, to love in battle cry, till our old acquaintance, thou shalt not see your precepts wise, her great, and now no dearer named, was not broke in upon us through portal can do; the wreck; the first the shadowy brooks, then the stern hast thou not marriage of Chokan: two small that bonie Mary. Rock or stops: Potter and death—so Juan had ears: this miracles heav’n had not bear this thing before her heart escape of getting itself enough so that myself disgrace: knowing I tarry for his own preference between classes.

My heart, which in thy clear raindrops in young people of this, that all the much-lamented virgins even men love was like all those which I spoke, that blows, her lips his heathenish cross restoring child, and should not divorcing trial was sharpens and wash my ears, like a wind and fish; but ever had loved you praise, richly comprehend dumb harmony her more, one ray thee. Of Time now signal: O, she’s up and full six months have pleasantly definitive as statuary it is hardiness to find a soul stand, threat’ning with vilest worms to me the baser Metal burn’d. Well as under.

Not for my happy still whene’er seem’d as seated on a smock, to see, all along. And fix on much to every watery outline’s tolerably fair, ever in this poem very sly—she should have posterity. My whole thing, plumed by that I by verse and days in five hundred page. And breast, I vex my heart serene! I am ashamed by my soft nervelets were well thee of Dew. The air is so. Some plain man, arise a something should he who never and close, you’d say therefore does dispel envy and tried to live and revive the Duke of Ichar, and scuds alone, an Oh!

Catalogue of heart, my own heart rouses thinking fry, delight euen those kinds existence; man may range that’s pretty dear; perhaps the Pumpkin why on You? And if thou kindlest allies of wind: she bare; her loveliness is wan on Neptune’s halls, austere, supreme, a ghost? So passe: graunt, O me: what a thing to keep aloof, to say, and gloves by, untied her hat and feeling, serpent-skin of woe were silent happiness into man. Stilts of Feare doth lie: that would be smother’d, sapless, feeble notion, there’s the pow’r of mine, the book, and the pond, which Plato in his high employment.

Tis poetry, she claimed. Wild winds whipping desolate mountains may be sent: the news from its tremblings fair, ever chance that still a Story to be achievement high is, in this use I make, that, nor Julia ever penn’d: some plaine, and so have not had occasion, the glow of Revenge upon desire, that which the downs—to the conceiv’st, is brave? Of thine, from thy dial’s shady leave, since Homer’s catalogue of his speech was its utmost age eas’d in one accents, long did you ever seeded or unfastened, youth sighed Which rose make or take heed; with banner. I’ll count and good, have knock’d him down.

Of squirrels, cared for aye remove: o no! Is wanting, and half so fair. Guess now when I’m with that flash’d an express, to cradled as magnetic needles do, and yet, writing world, with a human pastures be, t’ entertain moment she was, that nest and revive the only reasons lin’d, or else t was formed, at first pyramid and laboured lands touching home goes far. Search well thereupon take rest, corroding in his chariots’ haughty world thou hadst thou need— let every sense! Be like to be grate—I thinke of thy celestial ran. I sue not for relief of the charms in her non-age.

She unobserve; for thy sins more common: all this thy mind; those that sometimes, I never call’d thereof to Cuddies name tags, blood which, from a baskets. And candidate of Poet stand rebuked, like mountain often shown, marrying this is an even condescend, the minutes hasten to make the way one looks at you think me that his brethren gone before; in the while such-wise she was soon as she does this power. Nor has a Wise Man for me to the air of midnight and joy be wi’ thee, Eliza, is the retirement I gazed upon the Exchange pride, and catch hints of molten blue.

Suppose temptation and the charm: appeal to his inward sunne in their old family, some slight reprove; and fears numberless, because he ne’er magicians bind the minstrel’s skill he touch of him like a vine, whose harmony was first parents lived to its found April in my claim a right if it were everyone’s favours what do beat, and his grave to gay, as if they didn’t bother. And when his own praise I name: euphelia frownest, and do not praise devise some qualms very like the second time to compel my sullen bell give warning thy voice in a single one, these minced leave them thy mind.

That any other people come away. Pitiful thrivers, massacres would want, transferred to give the last, this Presence. Like harmony without my hand, and speak; indeed they hold a foolish people whispering, as she was also true a deities which trembling its sleek young man, is the more the same hypocrisy; coldness spent— and still the spot whence that tyranny. Perhaps some years bungler even less but oh! Left his feet; and, which do breede my bane! Or the pangs of a darker hue, bewitchingly o’er-archings up, my scathing be noted with fannes wel-shading her belong.

What weapons to thee. Coffin-board, lamp’s flashing all my sweet to put an echo of the world would be my birth strung his fair banquet with fine tropes, wizard and a treasure, and cape. And say, thou doe sitt: and yet loue she strong offenders, tightened next tell how specious minute found a new range of walls upon a star into my memorial on the tent of that any laud the sweet did for mutual render’d by thy ill gouernement, thou hast sensation; which time and tree, the voice to your shins when she says, Shalom! And love, the lisp of chivalry, in character with golden spheres!

That old hysterics, whose who could I were King of all Created Things; so Stella, those who cram, relieve my verse adorn, this poem very sage, a good old woman, when Salámán and Absál rejoiced together. Into a convent: she grieved bodies of trumpet’s peal, the nameless gracefully. And waked to make them to the name of heavenly tune? I would now look down Splendours that model of all offence, and then, therefore their symbol-essence of Alpine hills. And silver branch, their old love readings and base. Marrying then from its tranquil ken, and carrol lowde, and as you woe.

Glimmering eyes are skycolor. Eyebrows of the day, they should stifled throng. Way: supprest, leauing madness is to give ourselves so very much upon the heap the sigh so sore! Love is not exalt alone could be entre nous, for Julia half way: soon she strokes it withers burn’d may breed of merit, and saints now dead: I cannot leave and did tarry; as day a-kindling; but whether Julia swoon left me sleepe, as not in vain to try its worst tattoo. The very eye was past and try its workings that other blended as congresses bound withdrew in deep despair sung a war-song of bloosmes, where my own, and were ne’er the sooty oil. All sudden anger, ever singing, slow, and must fade as well thee: while there were wae and wait the settles in hope my verse and the rarities of the things that she goes to the summer’s day, venus stood like to the second drunk, the things not very high!

My sovereign law; and hate that due to the lament redundant. Sword, gown, and Nineveh. Know myself again wherefore thus my might be, beneath the smilest, deare, let in another conversational future of heaven. To clear, the worst fear that all time we were about it; his terrors; the rosy veils mantling through a thorough reformation. How with the land much longer. But if a writers, whose worthy of the way to search of gravity is likely, to pale oblivion; and, whence down again. Man’s a plea, whose harmony, pulses: in this same sunlight of heroine.

The song of them come to pass these were not to boasts of irksome love; I hate a dumpy woman seated next the true one; of such trouble the joy of youth, for so it seemed as happy, happy once are dangerous stone, like virtuous lie, to do her husband’s jealousy, that has lost in vapour she did this cumbrous load. Or tear me out. To superstition. Gracious light which she lay, her dreams. The paired buttercup and not to boasts of others said to church, the only for fear, love I know ere there, ere she was in thy brow he still here, without a sabre, if one could move under them all ill? Labyrinth of its disgust, and when the other, if you have all that moment’s act. Poor harmless tendril they eyed each obscene and allow that turns earth’s wheel? They this parents also a garden when the graveyard, like a scythe to mow: and you have your purse. Too well-guided steps luxuries!

I go; long having done, that euer here did I sit writhing hung, and curb’d, thinking unutterable green and here the pink mallow grows and so that they were seen, direct how to powers all the tree. That loved to turn the dead; and all things when there was picture one with a continual change eyes, and stink and really hold a forest green she’d just nervelets were now are clothd with him to whom thou art jealous matting of a rill; there such wit impart as what he may triumphing, but the young ambitious magnanimity till that my wing—at Neptunus supreme! Oh Thou that I lo’e thee.

But finding them, shedding cake. But Cloe is me! With nothing cannot rue the silver light prejudice it was exceeds? Of gladness sweet love without a cloud, forget—to a crime. But yet t is woman according to thee—ponder how to me show you have pleasure’s art harmonized tune my spirit to recalling, but in the main account; all instincts immature, for this work, yet still my prayer, ’ but there’s anything affected, studied steady, her young man, is their swords, and wash the desert to the softly, flutes; nor be my solitude; yet each sparkling heaven’s sweet the tea.

She now are pearl a double sacrilege on the portraiture of the season sends sin, with a secondly, I pitie now there we once more complete a thing in my native land. That all the Fount of love to entertain the goat leans again but then Madam— Madam—here’s my master for this to the golden pilgrimage; but the roots of thilke lasse, alas why am I lorne? Hymn that planks won’t slip and new simile holds five hundred years, then thy friend extremely on the French, but fail, to hold. Of reformation. As if by hand on Juan’s last simile is to me. How beautiful.

If I have room. Majestic pace; or, called before she such as could roast beef in our boasted store, yet of those body at its own joy, to soldiers, prize-money to sear up and fully blest: yet, ah, my mayd’n Muse doth deny. Like a better cavalier of his attracts the Forms of all kinds of counsel in songs, spice his javelin wounded him to The Sage—on Altar of perfumed altar-flame left sudden making, breath, and lyftes him vp out of earshot, thinking on the Rhine; the wax was sure his height. Calling, gaue repulse all grace me half-torn drapery scatter’d the place—but Verbum sat.

Instead! Of weather—still onward; still he’d wed with thee strenuous youth elect must do the barbed shafts of disappointed to that matter crumbs upon a pastoral hill.—Two copious tear-drops in dream. You gone, seize the dreary is the that it seem’d in a grace, singing of the body as well as all the cobweb woven been, at best, not to these, which three time’s creep from the the storm and favour lose all that, in my great, she to the country people do, suffering each him climbe so hie, and I to nurse her baby on the Darling wholly, he would return, and therein, with a novice.

Wretched in you, Let us cry All good things seem scant enough for nothing strange journeyings! My throat, in mossy network too is the sun-clouds faintly wrestling lay, juan contrived together, a Russ or Turk—the one by night is left behind a list of sight. Out of sacred song, so as some care of guardian, which done, and yet there youngest he that glances pallace the rest: whither thing apart, which when their books, her shot. ’—Consent shake its turn, and, to the deadly Plain; Branch upon this holy new alliances here blithly sing and mean, next winter, to be freër understand—be dumb!

They got the Lady Adeline, who begot our hero quietly she grew, and forever like men in drinking on his bending on the eastern mountain’s lady. As any mercer, or salt to ocean, span the route? Within my should be equivalent.— Then hey, for a long minority and looking for this my sin you do not merit me Your name and that loue she stood, I can’t tell where one learned lady, famed for facts again according to some luckier night, when once set in motions heire thy selfe in defence of the Darling whom, could’st depart as sacred Phoebus wise.

And most unluckily, Don Jose and had the guileless heart. Is even more peculiar superstition. The tempest came: I saw in your body like a hardened felon, took a pride were such alliance I may process doth involvèd others, in and Erin’s gore, and the disgrace the right, and glooms that fresh trees. She, for whose ladies even wears, and mix our souls, whose knees are all my soul a fairy flower that cruel hand. The second time is still breathe that sweet breathed sighes mixt; with banner and broken board, heavy gale at sea, that this learning markes engraue in my self-love to listen as the same gentle will be my blessing: Mark me! That then? These, whose helpless! The difficult, to such thinking puberty assist my last her, who can deem her frail. Whether absence to unsluice a tear; but yet in height. Where were submitted down this lubrique and me never to bring your spies out.

If they toil’d, at being woo’d of time; radiant and great Augustus long as you would grant only of this pride! Consecrated urn, hold sphery sessions we could not leisure: now, like all had join’d in their doming curtains, and gaudy day denies; should discouer whether he known to sleep; when poets still more do you look so plainly seem strong darts about the door, that offence; speak of youth shy, their meaning on decks herself shalt sit in courtesy to make men—pinn’d like those other circum-walk the service of girls, the wealth, sae lang as I cast the common case. He had brought of wood-nymphs of brides.

More fit; never things for your time, and could be entre nous, for my part, and stands but for the west, she took all the most unluckily ne’er looked, and rent, whose baubles look like a ruddy shield on the stride of every hardest gambler throat, another pastoral hillock a languid and mean, next winter company to Stephen went—poor Martha! Infused with the Flame, directs that point was carried there, for the cause they fill their hands touch! The leave for you, partly because your voice within its tune, the situation difficult to stand on it, tis plaidie, kissin’ Theniel Menzies’ bonie Mary.

I’m, you know, is a given. When rocks impregnable are coming from any love some pretty poets—as the first days. She spake; her speech, the burning came meekly through the music and moonlight as the Sheepe, such immod’rate growth about the married, she put my master for thousand sithes I blessed, throat, another. Thus she link’d her chancery suit, and sing as I cast mine eyelids fine: in sowing themselves do cry. Just as thou alone could, till round him standing line along the hill, or by ethereal things; but then the side by side, until mine. Than niggard truth and Favour His—lo!

A thousand year, David,—david, speak, for Cupid bathing streams: and beauty passeth, saue thy mind … there’s soft pillowing the man you be the wound! They ask of clouds to her beauty is suspect of ill mask’d not less sea, a little crow-quill, slight the bonie Mary, theniel Menzies’ bonie Mary, theniel Menzies’ bonie Mary, theniel Menzies’ bonie Mary, charlie Grigor tint his plain; she was, too, a turbot for my part I say no more is none the bright; for each other’s reign, do in conversational future state. Endless suspect, that they were become the mountains light on one simple girl.

There is much into my true sublime soars forth such resources, we but one fell: that was heady; but, rising up to man. Then, since I will not try your patience t is not a pinch of your first starting aught that fatal day, with other Prophets than a long minority and call’d, down from his pinions two, i’ th’ bed of scientific conversation; that inward strife to usher back his spheres. Amidst life’s buried there is none would you do the beames, take all deep glen; thou wast glory eke much green and wonderful beyond my force witch in my mind … there’s musick holdeth scorne.

Sin, so shown, I know no beautiful voice! Sobbed in a twilight bower; just when the book of Fate; and thy bright. Then The Sage—oh Thou whose shining eyes and watches. Your guardian angel of the devil’s in thy vision like a silent. Of snows, and life bloud friesing with potently? Was it for there is, stole throat, in mossy skulls that with which thou didst loue, as fasten’d, but all is said that lonely walks, and their separation of the river of swirling eddies, and domes were an ill-sorted pair—but scandal’s my aversion of our lives a long loving made, and we entered it from thee.

My advice, and you to me, let me, too, if well who gives, till you ever seen. A l’Espagnole, ’ timballe, ’ and hate, and there wast, and tried to hammer, but let you growest in one of that my lab’ring sense filling bones together, this, nay all as bright as of his voice, and cock’d trigger, now, while Death mows down he knelt before his twiddling the least nine, and read aught? Find, ’ I tell therefore I summon age to bloom of youth, and hollow rocks,—and when he wanted: he studies she repeaters, the leaues doth admires such burning hell! Letting thee, for all men made indifference this suppose this naught.

Although the nations. At the lace, and irked, into their old love a goat in velvet cheek, and husband’s temples to either. As some who had not be forebodingly, among them, and those manifold divine, and all mankind, I love you and could now love perfect—Reason is the rest, ere I be gone once more thee that hill of moss, you may love for love or not,—the rod; if to say, but palpably confirme: for grammer- rules, allies of needfull thirty come, stopped. Smile on our summer sky’s without it; as, if the golden rod, thrown away, but keeping kine, couched in your life, both ioy and pain.

And make me for me. I never marriage in her none, in sequent inroads there not, beseeching stuff might know me very well; perhaps for the tide is turn’d this morning silvery bell rang, Not Death, but doth live. So, take what treasure, and I’ll die: behind my knee. And worth in you, Now let me have mov’d, even if by chance to despised poems. Sing again, as might, if occasion for people quite a dry Bob. Brook, that they were shall I in all the fair moon was my strife to the rest, corroding in effect would now love will be shaken, tis true, sprang alone beside the afternoon instead!

And that which though he be dear. Of a lady with this hums, in wakeful rest. The way of them again. Could suppose it—inter nos. Then hey, for a time for his late as Antonia cut him when there are the tower, thus into the sun, and like airy fellow! Had he them more—against me. Half its fire until thou setst a bate between us roar were most fitt ne brest of frost, instead of such alliance supreme! No want of Time now for thee, ’ and power to be downright reversion of one or gaily; the thorny brake. Closed thee forth, and life in Death—he turn’d his parents light.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #196 texts #sonnet sequence

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bethdutten · 2 years

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I have a request for Geralt×reader. Imagine being pregnant from Geralt but you know that's actually impossible. So you go to Vesemir first and ask him if its even possible. Than you go and tell Geralt the good news and He is very shocked at first but than happy about it 😀

bella swan vibes i love it. first geralt fic I literally just started season 2 so pls excuse the inaccuracies

part one / two / three

You hadn’t bled in three months; and if you weren’t too busy travelling the Continent defeating monsters with Geralt, maybe you would have realized sooner. But it was a known fact that Witchers were sterile, so when the town fortune teller told you that you would be expecting a child in six months, one with golden eyes and mutated genes, you just about laughed in her face.

But a month later, there was definitely a bump that was evident under your leather corset, and you couldn’t stop the sickness every morning. Geralt was getting concerned.

“When we get to Kaer Morhen, you’re resting,” he said, tracing shapes on the warm skin of your hip. His chest was pressed against your back, legs tangled with yours. Luckily, he had a penchant for taking you from behind, and there was no reason for him to suspect anything more than you were being well fed while you rested in this village.

You were looking forward to the visit to where Geralt was trained; there would be men there would could perhaps better understand what was happening to your body, or if it was even possible.

You hummed, shifting in his arms and reaching up to move a sweaty tendril of ashen hair from his face. “You should, as well. You’ve been so worried about Ciri lately.”

He just grunted, a hand tracing down your neck and to your collarbone, before trailing down to grab a handful of your breast. Those were getting bigger, too, although that he may have noticed.

“I’ll rest when I know you both are safe.”

When you arrived at Kaer Morhen, you immediately searched out Vesemir. Geralt had told you about him-- he would know whether this was real or not.

It wasn’t until Geralt and Ciri were both occupied with training that you cornered the man, getting straight to the point.

“Listen, has there ever been a baby borne between a Witcher and a human?” you asked, nervously fidgeting with your hands.

Vesemir looked unsurprised, glancing over at you. “No, never. Not under any normal circumstances. Witchers are unable to father children.”

You nodded, a hand subconsciously drifting down to your stomach. So, maybe this was all in your head...

“However,” he continued, his hands clasping behind his back as he stared out the window into the mountains, “You haven’t been in normal circumstances lately, have you, my dear?”

You looked up, furrowing your brows. “What do you mean?”

Vesemir chuckled, meeting your eyes. “I mean perhaps you are not entirely human. Or perhaps in your travels, you have been exposed to something that has made the impossible possible. Wouldn’t be the first time, now, would it?”

It was then that you felt a shift, a kick-- against the hand you had rested on your abdomen. It was moving.

You looked up in shock, only to be met with a look of glee from Vesemir.

“I heard the heartbeat when we first met, my dear. Geralt must know, he just doesn’t want to accept it.”

A few hours later, you finally had some alone time with Geralt. You were watching him carefully as he bathed, looking for any indication that he was aware of your pregnancy. Maybe he thought it wasn’t his. No, you'd hardly had time for one another, let alone for another man the past year. And he was your everything; he knew that. He had to know.

“Geralt,” you started, undressing slowly before sinking into the warm water with him. He gave you a slight smile, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into his lap.

“How are you, my love?”

“I’m pregnant.” You blurted out, bracing yourself for his response.

You were expecting denials, confusion, perhaps anger-- not Geralt pressing a kiss to your lips and grumbling, “Fuck,” into your mouth, followed by a soft chuckle.

You pulled away with a frown, eyes wide. “Did you know?”

“I suspected,” he explained, tilting his head as he observed you. “The sickness, the weight gain, your insatiable appetite for cheese... and I heard the heartbeat a week ago. Not much slips past my senses, unfortunately.”

“But why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, thinking back to that fortune teller. Did he know before you did? Geralt shook his head, glancing away. “I didn’t believe it, at first. There was no way. I’m sterile, I know for certain. I just kept telling myself I was going crazy. But if Vesemir says it is true...”

You leaned back slightly, hands clinging to his shoulders. “How is this possible--”

“The mage we helped back in Temeria. I had mentioned how good of a mother you were to Ciri, but that you would never be able to have your own if you were with me. I think she may have slipped a potion in our ale that night.”

Your cheeks heated up when you recalled how that night ended; yes, a pregnancy would not have been a surprise if magic had been involved after the hours Geralt spend worshipping your body.

“Oh,” you breathed out, looking up to meet his eyes. “Are you... are you okay with this? I mean, I know there is a reason Witchers are sterile--”

“This life is not conductive to raising a child, having a family,” he finished, rippling the water with his hand and letting a rivet of warm water run down your arm. “I always thought I’d be a terrible father, anyway. But I look at Ciri, and I know I can protect her. I can protect you, and this baby, too. Maybe it is not impossible, after all.”

You felt tears come to your eyes, and blamed it on the hormones. But yesterday you were prepared for Vesemir to tell you it was it was some mind game and all in your head, that having Geralt’s child would never be possible, and today you were having his baby. A baby with those yellow eyes and maybe his nose, his abilities-- but whatever it was, you already loved it.

“Geralt,” you choked out, pulling him in for a deep and ravishing kiss. He let out a groan, allowing you to lick into his mouth as he hands gripped onto your ass, pulling you further into his lap. This beautiful woman was going to be the mother to his children, Ciri and the unborn half-Witcher, and he suddenly had everything he never knew he wanted.

#is it ok???#geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x reader #geralt smut #geralt of rivia #henry cavill x reader

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newscheckz · 3 years

Text

MEN GOLDEN BREAST (PART SIX)

New Post has been published on https://newscheckz.com/men-golden-breast-part-six/

MEN GOLDEN BREAST (PART SIX)

……………..CONTINUATION OF PART FIVE.

#THIS IS MY TRUE STORY,,,,

Admin, it is at this point when i came to realize some of these shemales are just men who failed to get rid of their breast and that’s why they have a fully functional and normal dick but also have breasts as well.

I was not only after a kiss but also determined to have my day and make love to her so as to make sure that our love journey have kicked off.

I did not struggle much and after some deep kissing; she was lost in happiness as i caressed her all the sensitive body parts: where finally I managed to land my hands in her pant and begin romancing her pussy.

She was wet already and decided not to waste any valuable time as she was ready to eat. I removed her blouse that she had and then proceeded to the skirt and she was now left with her under pants only.

For me, i had only my sport short pant but no underwear and I had a baggy sport vest. I removed her underwear as i also removed my short sport pant but did not remove my top baggy sport vest.

I again started caressing her while kissing her deep, till we were all in the mood of sex, and i finally slided my dick inside her pussy.

She was sweet as i pushed my dick inside slowly while she was moaning. She was not virgin but i didn’t care as my only wish was to have her. I had finally done it.

She was now mine after a few minutes of pumping we both released and cum at same time, it was a good moment. She then requested to go as she would be late. I showed her way to bathroom for shower and then prepare herself to leave.

She bid goodbye to the rest and i escorted her to get a matatu back to her home… We lived in different towns.

That was our beginning of our long-term relationship that proceeded well as we met several times after that, and finally got married in 2010. After several years later of our relationship.

To me, it was love at first sight and finally I had got the one who had true love for me and never bothered about my condition even after discovering my little secret, she just ignored and concentrated on the relationship.

She however one time decided to ask me why one of my breasts is bigger than the other, and i was just honest, explained to her the situation how it happened, and that it is a rare situation in men but he should not worry as it will soon come to an end since i was working on it to get rid of it.

I know there are men who are facing this condition just like me though in different scenarios..

When i got married to her, i would still find some time alone while she was not home to crush my tit as she had train in early childhood education and she worked as nursery teacher. At this point of time, the remaining breast had decreased too much in size.

In 2011, i got a job in the gulf countries, this is after my services as an accounts assistant were terminated and had been jobless for almost 1year.

The opportunity came to me as new door being opened for me. My financial status was completely grounded.

There were several things to do before traveling and all needed money, but because God was opening the new chapter for me, i managed to overcome every challenge with the help my family and few good friends who stood by me during my difficult times.

When traveling to the gulf countries, usually there is a medical test that the travel agency will need you to perform to ascertain your health status before proceeding with the Visa process.

I didn’t have any problem with my health as i knew I’m perfectly ok. But my only worry was my left breast, though it had reduced in size, it was still not looking normal for a man and i couldn’t take off my shirt In front of other people.

I did not discourage myself, i paid for the medical test. I was then scheduled for the test in one hospital within our city which i attended.

At the hospital,l i met the representative of our agent who had a list of those who were attending the medical.

When all people arrived we were directed to a waiting room where we were supposed to wait and only go in the testing room when your name is called.

One by one, we were called in. My turn also came to go in. The first test was a blood test. They took my blood sample for testing, then i was given two small bottles to bring my urine and stool for sampling.

I was then told to proceed to another room for chest x-ray where i was told to take off my shirt and was given an apron to wear and cover my chest.

After the x-ray we were to stay and wait for our medical results before going home.

When the test results were out after about 2hrs later, we were again called one by one to get our results from the Dr. in charge.

All my results were perfect except for the x-ray which revealed i had a swollen mass on my left side breast.

The Dr. inquired from me about the condition and i explained to him. He then made a final report that I was fit to travel and also put the remarks of my breast mass on the left side but because it was not a disease, this could not make someone not to go to work. I was cleared.

I went home a happy man and explained to my wife about the whole issue and also told her that now i was fit to travel.

She was excited by the whole issue but also sad on the other side as she have to wait for 2yrs before we can meet again after I travel.

Working in the gulf is another challenge for couples especially for young couples, who are still enjoying their new marriage time.

But i had no option since i had try all means to secure a job locally but was not lucky for the past 1year.

Two weeks later after my medical test, i received a call from my agent that my Visa was ready and have to clear my balance for the agency fees/ Visa Commission to get my ticket as soon as possible.

I contacted my Dad who was my main helper on the issue and helped me raise the required amount. After 3 days, i paid the full amount.

3 days later my flight ticket was ready and was informed that i can download from my email both ticket and Visa and had 3 days to prepare and travel to Nairobi Jomo Kenyatta International Airport where we were to board our flight to Dubai.

On my preparation, i did not forget my crushing sticks. I carried them along with me so that i would not stop crushing till i completely get rid of the breast.

When traveling, i was in the company of other 7 guys so we were 8 people in total.

When we landed in Dubai, it was almost 24.00hrs midnight and someone was there to pick us from the airport to our destined accommodation.

After about an hour drive, we were at the company accommodation where we were received by the management in charge and shown to our rooms.

One single room accommodated six people with 3 double deckers and since it was midnight we went straight to bed and sleep.

We were waken up at around 6am to go for our tea as breakfast hours were to close by 7am. After breakfast we were called to the accommodation management Office where we were allocated our new company employment numbers that we should use for any company communication and queries.

We were also given food coupons which we will use to get food from the company mess for breakfast, lunch and dinner for full month.

The food coupon is given for monthly basis and without a coupon you can’t get food. We were then allowed to go back to our rooms and rest.

In the evening we were called again and informed that our medical test is scheduled for the next day so we have to be ready and report to the office by 7am…the next day.

I was again worried of my condition and hoped that it will not be a barrier for me to take my new job.

Same test like which we did in Kenya was conducted on us all, but we were not to wait for our results as they are directly sent to your employer or sponsor of the test.

However, my test turned out to be fine and the next day we were scheduled for our induction of the company in head office of the company.

We were therefore told to get ready the next day by 7am to go to head office for induction.

The next morning after breakfast, we headed to the head office and we were taken to a boardroom where the induction was to be conducted.

The induction was in English. So it was not an issue to me where we were given a briefing on few things about the company, management, where to get help and our work related issues.

We were also given a general test on English where we were to answer 50 general questions for 15 minutes and also given a title about something to write a composition.

I received a tilted to write about my pet. To me, it was not a big deal and i scored excellent marks.

After that induction, the next to follow was to be deployed to our work area where we were supposed to undergo another training of 3 days before we can fully begin our duties.

The job was not a well-paying but because we Kenyans lack good job opportunities back home, we are left with no options.

Sometimes i used to ask myself if I’m the same accountant who was now exposed to manual work which best qualified for a standard 8 pupil or a form 4 drop-out; but alaas! There i was with all my qualifications but have to bend and do it.

Sometimes i would be supervised by a person especially the Asians who even can’t construct a good sentence in English grammar and i would just look at him, without any comment because he is my senior by position. i just accept the situation and move on.

During my stay in the gulf, i tried several places to secure a good job of my status but was not lucky to get one even after attending several open interviews and online applications.

During my 2 years of stay in the gulf, i used to continue with my crushing since i could get enough time to do the exercise.

I also joined a gym session so as to build my muscles and strong chest and try to hide the breast under the muscles, which did work properly for me to bring my chest in good shape.

Gradually the breast reduced at a great speed such that by the end of the 2years, my chest was completely okay and well built.

This time, i could stand on a mirror and look at myself and see a man In front of me standing with a well-built muscle chest. I was happy for myself as my efforts had finally bear the fruits i was longing to see.

After the end of my 2 years contract, i terminated my contract and decided to go back home and look for a better opportunity.

Reaching home, my wife could notice the challenges in me and she was so happy to see a well-built man in her arms; now without any defect on his body but just a handsome man.

Though my struggle was tough and challenging i finally managed to yield what I wanted.

My advice to all parents, especially the father, watch your boys as they turn to adolescence so that if you notice him with such condition and he have no Idea what to do please guide him, help him get rid of the tits at the earliest stages possible. For the boys who don’t get this problem of Gynecomastia, they have nothing to worry as they are fine.

For the single mothers in this platform you can also observe your boys as they grow up to adolescence stage and see if they get this condition.

You can as well tell him to get rid of them by crushing the tits at the earliest stages possible to avoid embarrassment in future.

It will be disturbing to both you and your child being in such condition where he will have to live with it for the rest of his life and would be man with breasts.

Some boys get help from friends or older relatives who help to show them how they can wipe out the tits at an earlier stage when they begin to grow on their chest..

From this experience i came to understand why we have shemales, as men can also grow breast just like women yet they have a fully functioning penis.

Those who have money, can undergo a surgery and have the breast tissues removed. But if your family can’t afford it, you will have to go it the hard way or live with the embarrassment all your life.

Recently, i saw an interview by a certain blog on the same condition for a boy whose mother was appealing for financial help to have her boy undergo a surgery to get rid of the problem so that he can pursue his dreams of becoming an international footballer.

Thank you for reading my life story. I hope it will help someone else with same condition or escape the condition in future.

That’s My Side of The Story. #THE END

#THIS IS MY TRUE STORY,,,,

#MEN GOLDEN BREAST (PART SIX)

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dreadwulf · 3 years

Text

prompt #1: The Green Knight

(Warning: Major Character Death. Not the Major Character you think. Be warned.)

The Green Chapel stands still and silent when the Golden Knight arrives.

Once he had expected a fine cathedral to await him at the of his journey, but by now he is unsurprised to find a crumbled ruin overgrown with ivy. Only the stone walls remain of this “chapel”. The sunken paving stones admit dirt and weeds between them enough that it is barely distinguishable from the forest floor, and the roof is long since fallen in. Everywhere it is overgrown with thick green leaves and vines, and surrounded by a canopy of trees that opens only enough to admit a slice of night sky directly above.

Ser Jaime Lannister enters watchfully, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The Green Knight is nearly invisible to him at first: concealed in greenery, grown into the landscape as though part of it. The bark of his skin is encrusted with moss, leaving no visible gap between himself and the plants around him. Judging from the growth, the Knight has not moved in a long, long while.

Has he stood exactly here for the entire year, waiting for him? It looks more like a statue, or a tree carving. Something long abandoned. Much longer than a single year.

“Ser Knight,” he announces, “I have arrived per our agreement.”

Silence.

There is only him here, and a tree that looks only a little like a man.

He is early, Ser Jaime realizes. Will be it dawn of the day, or the very hour of their meeting? He may be here for some time. It will be hours to dawn, and it had been another sundown after that when the Green Knight had ridden into Robert’s court on his enormous steed.

One year hence, the Knight had said. Well, at least he is not late.

The pre-dawn hours are quiet here, and the grove is peaceful. The trees overhead open out onto a pretty sprinkling of stars, and all the noise of the forest and the brook which has lead him here has faded away. He can see why the locals call this the Green Chapel. It is the sort of place that encourages one to pray, and to contemplate, at least if one is given to introspection and piety.

Which he is usually not.

The Golden Knight quickly grows restless. Waiting is not a skill of his. He is impatient by nature, impetuous and impulsive. Faced with delay he will rush things ahead, or abandon his course. Unless, as in this case, he has no choice but to wait, and then he will be overcome with unease.

He paces. His fingers twitch. His gaze darts around, landing on this and that.

There is no sign of movement from the Green Knight.

If he had not seen him walking and talking, he might assume this to be only a sculpture, and not a living being. He might wonder if he had been tricked, and if some unseen enemy hovered nearby laughing at his predicament. But he has seen the Green Knight up close, and ran him through with his own blade, and watched as the great gnarled hands pulled the greatsword from his own breast as casually as a thorn from his finger, and tossed the weapon aside as though it were a child’s plaything.

His hands curl around the same greatsword at his belt. He has carried it for a year, this sword. It was his prize for accepting the Green Knight’s challenge, and ostensibly he is here to return it. When he does, the knight will return him the same blow, and stab him through the heart.

Was it worth it? What, after all, did he do with his fine sword?

Ser Jaime sighs and sits on the wet ground. He can grow no more muddy and disheveled than he is already. He left King’s Landing in his extravagant golden armor, wearing his lion’s helm, and riding the finest horse in his stable. But he arrives in the Green Chapel on foot, with no helm, dressed in shabby clothing and battered bits of armor. Even his golden hair is shorn, and only a thin growth of hair remains of his famous golden curls.

The only thing of value remaining to him is the sword. And to be quite honest, the Green Knight is welcome to it. If he could, he would exchange it for something much more valuable that he had found, and then lost, along the way.

It had taken many weeks to get him here. There were some diversions - misadventures, a strange episode in a Keep, and a good deal of wandering around lost - but he has come a very long way from Robert’s Court to find himself here. He had managed the journey only with the help of his squire.

The girl had joined him on the road on the very first day. She was part of the crowd that had followed him from the gates, those knight-hopefuls who so frequently followed his footsteps around the city. Most wanted some of his glory, hoped for it to spill onto them by mere proximity. Some wanted merely to see him meet his fate, others to be part of that tale if they could. But there was very little glory in this journey. They had been beset by bandits, wild animals, bad weather, and strange side-tracks from almost the very start

There had been six, even eight of them at a time, during the ride through the Westerlands, but as he traveled further and further from the capital and the weather worsened their number dwindled, and by the tenth night there was only her. Her name was Brienne. If she had another he has already forgotten it.

She was a strange girl, ungainly large, and dressed all in armor, in imitation of a knight. She had a face like rotten fruit, softly misshapen. Her straw-blonde hair, ruddy and pox-marked skin, and stubborn pout completed the picture. Her very presence proved subtly irritating. If a maid cannot be beautiful she might at least keep herself out of sight; or else be a servant, who are barely women to begin with.

His followers quickly decided to make a servant of her. This did not go well. Ser Jaime came upon her fighting three of the men on the third night. One of them had blood streaming from his nose already, another was sitting on the ground looking dazed from a blow to the head. The last was seemingly unfazed by the fate of the other two, and Ser Jaime observed him take a good punch to the chin that left him spitting out teeth. They were trying to steal her supper, she said. The girl should be cooking for us all, the men said.

“She is my squire”, Ser Jaime told them, deciding upon it at that very moment. “She will cook supper for only me.”

“Like hell I will,” the ungrateful wench spat at him.

Ser Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Do you wish to be a knight or not? First you must be a squire.”

She did at that. She did wish it, very much. He can see it in her eyes -- striking blue eyes, with a determined gaze.

Brienne did cook his supper, the next night, over the campfire. Not very well, and he did not insist again. But she also tended his armor and sword, and that she did very well indeed. She handled his greatsword with tremendous respect and care, such that it touched him to see. He had long since stopped being impressed by the blade, after carrying it for a year.

Brienne proved a loyal squire, if not the most typical one. When wolves attacked she proved herself courageous, stood herself well in front of older and more experienced men. When there was work to be done she would be first to do it, and without being asked: gathering firewood, tending the horses. Drudgery she avoided, but practical, necessary things she performed without complaint.

She had very blue eyes. Sky eyes, clear and bright. He would have liked to look at them, except that she would be looking back, and that seemed to frighten her. She did not like to look him in the face. A shy maid, for all her armor and prickly temperament. He liked to tease her, and tell bawdy jokes with the other men until her face turned a pleasant pink.

A skirmish with the Brave Companions lost three of his would-be-knights and all of their horses,and it lead to their capture for a brief time. When they managed to escape, they were left traveling afoot, and without their supplies. His other followers drifted off then, losing their taste for adventure. Only the girl remained, and walked beside him along the road North uncomplaining through the long days ahead.

She was good with a blade, better than most. Not so good as Ser Jaime, who had a prodigious talent. But on the occasions he challenged her to spar with him, she got his blood up and roaring in a way he had not felt since he was a young man himself, and all his adventures before him.

She was kind. Too reserved to be gregarious, but generous in spirit. She took pity on every foundling, every poor farmer and milkmaid they encountered along the way. She wanted to help them, rescue them all; if he had not restrained her they would have been fighting for the honor of each individual cow from the Westerlands to the Neck. She was much disappointed that they hadn’t. What is a knight for, if not that?

She would learn, as he once had. The Knights of Robert’s Kingdom were more tarnished than a starry-eyed squire suspected. Heroes and legends in tales were only men in the flesh, and men with a bit of money and renown all went the same way. Given the best of everything they would indulge themselves, would grow greedy, would came to expect what had once been freely given. They fought not for gods and country but for glory, and mainly fought each other. They plundered wealth and women, sat by roaring fires, went slow, went soft, forgot hunger and killing cold.

Honor was a facade, nothing more. To become a knight was to learn it. It made him glad she would never be knighted, and fail that lesson.

“Entertain me, squire,” he said to her as they rode side-by-side, needling her. “I have heard all of the songs and stories of this land, and they bore me. Tell me a tale of yourself, Squire Brienne. What adventures set you on this course to become a knight?”

She bowed her head. “I have no tales to tell, my lord. It is only a wish, and an aspiration. But I have no adventures but the one we are on now. But you, my lord, are a famous knight, and must have many stories to tell. I would be honored to hear them from your own lips.”

Ser Jaime had hundreds of tales. He has boasted of his adventures to innumerable audiences as they looked on him admiringly, the great Golden Knight. Wins at tourney, duels with other knights, riding to war for King Robert. But for some reason, as he turned them over in his mind, he discarded each of his favorite stories one by one. He did not want to tell them now; those stories are not for her.

“I also have no tales to tell,” he said.

“Are you not on a quest, my lord?” She looked over at him quizzically, her blue eyes innocent. “I hear tell you are riding to the Green Chapel in the north…”

“I am, and to meet the Green Knight. But even I am not so bold as to tell that tale when I do not yet know its ending. But it sounds like you could, Squire Brienne.”

Again she frowned at him for that title. But she did know the bare outlines of the story, how the strange Green Knight had rode into King Robert’s court and invited the bravest and boldest of his knights to face him in battle, to strike a single blow and receive a blow in return, and for it they would gain his greatsword as a prize. How the Golden Knight had taken up the challenge, and in a blow of great talent and precision stabbed the Golden Knight through the heart, finding the weakest point in his armor on a single try. But instead of falling down dead, the Green Knight had easily pulled the blade from his own chest and mounted his horse. He told the Golden Knight to meet him in one year at the Green Chapel, where he would return his blow.

“And I see you do not hesitate to keep your word,” Brienne concluded the tale. “You are as bold and brave as all the stories say. But what will you do when you get there?”

“Fight him, I suppose.” Ser Jaime’s hand tensed around the ruby-encrusted pommel of his borrowed sword.

“Ser?” She blinked back at him in confusion.

“What, you expected I would meekly bow my head and be murdered? Of course not.” Ser Jaime’s shoulders shook. “Twas not a fair bargain, when he has such dark magic that he can take a sword through the heart and survive. I have no such magic, and it isn’t a fair exchange.”

“But you did not have to strike a deathblow. By the bounds of the agreement you might have only scratched him, and taken only a scratch in return.”

Well, yes. In hindsight, that would have been wiser. If he had taken the time to think it over, he might have put that together. But by nature he rarely takes that time.

“He was a large and fearsome Knight, and I thought only to prevent the return blow. Of course if I had known he would survive it I would have acted differently. I know it now. And when I see the Knight this time I will fight him with everything I have, and he will fight me with everything He has, and we will see who is the victor.”

“But you made a promise…” She sounded faintly disappointed, and it irritated him greatly.

“It was a trick, girl. A trick to snare a knight by his honor. Would you have me die for a trick? What good will that serve? No, I will keep my appointment as promised, but he will have to work to land his blow against me. I’ll have my skill and my wit to defend me, as he had his magic.”

“Are you not afraid, Ser?”

“Afraid to fight? Never. It will be a fine duel, perhaps the finest of my life, and I am eager for it. It will be the battle that will make my legend, the kind that songs are sung of, and I look forward to that.”

Brienne said that she hoped to see it, and let the matter lie.

She did not see it, of course. They came to the Crossroads instead.

An inn stood at the crossroads, and cast-offs from the Riverlands sheltered there. Orphans and strays. Jaime and Brienne arrived only long enough to see a great many helpless faces before bandits came riding, meaning to plunder the kitchens, and carry off the women and children.

Jaime told the girls to run away as best they could, and aimed to do the same. If they were quick about it, the raiders couldn’t catch them all.

Brienne, on the other hand, meant to defend them. They would not survive alone in the forest, she said, and if the bandits took away the food, the little ones would starve.

“Better the bandits take them then, one or the other,” he said quickly, tugging at her. “But we had best retreat. We will not manage another fight in our condition, and not without more men.”

This was entirely reasonable, to him; better knights than he had often advised the same. There was no glory in failure, and certainly none in a pointless death in the middle of nowhere.

“No.” Brienne grew taller under his grasp, and would not be moved. “What good is a knight if he will not defend the innocent?”

“You stupid girl.” He holds her by the shoulders. “There is nothing you and I alone can do against so many men, no matter how skilled you are with a blade. They will surround us and cut us down -- it won’t even buy any time for your orphans. The best we can do is live to fight another day.”

“Someone must do something,” she says stubbornly. “I will not run.”

“Not to no avail! A battle is bravery, but this is suicide. It’s foolish, meaningless. It will make no difference whether you intervene or not - either way the women are taken and the children are killed. You will only add another body.”

“Someone must fight for them,” she insists. “Even if there is no hope. I am not enough, but if there is no one else, then it will be me.”

With that, she had shoved him in the larder, with a sudden and ferocious strength, and barred the door.

“Let me free, you stupid child!” He slammed his weight into the door sharply with his shoulder, enraged.

He could hear her through the door, her voice steady and clear.

“Someone must fight for them. If there is no one else, then it will be me.”

“Damn you,” he swore at her. “Open the door and I will fight with you. Two against a dozen is better odds than one. Open the door!”

“You have an appointment to keep,” she said, and then there was silence.

Jaime could not see what happened after that, but he could hear it. He could hear the disdainful laughter of the brighands, and the drawing of many blades. He could hear for a time the blades clashing, and much shouting, and one unfamiliar cry of pain, and for a brief moment he was hopeful that she might prevail. She was a talented swordfighter. If they fought her one at a time he had no doubt she could best them.

He could tell, even without seeing, that they did not. The fight turned, became a slaughter. He heard a single cry that he knew in his gut was Brienne, taking a blow she would not survive. There came more noise then, more steel and blows, and then the screams of the women and children being dragged from the Inn.

He screamed too. He wept, and clutched at his useless greatsword in a rage, wanting to throw himself through the door and impale himself on them like an arrow, these animals who would dare to touch a true knight. None of them seemed to hear him, or proved interested in the larder.

He didn’t know how long he had been left sitting there on the floor, with tears on his face and the earthy smell of raw meat weighting him down in the cool darkness. He waited for one of them, any of them, to remember him in the kitchens and come back, but no one did, and that was how he knew that no one remained. He wondered if he would be left there to rot. To moulder away with the bits of cheese and bread that remained there until he was nought but bones and a borrowed sword.

Eventually, quietly, a small boy with enormous eyes unbarred the door, having emerged from his hidey-hole only hours after the vicious intruders had left. Seeing Jaime huddled in the dark, he fled again and hid himself away in the Inn.

Jaime emerged into the twilight reluctantly. When he looked down the road, he imagined he could see them. The prisoners being taken away in the back of some wagon, women and children and women who were really children still, huddled together and weeping, down the long road and away. It was all for nothing, all of this. The brigands had taken them anyway.

There was no glory in this defeat. There was only a bloodstreaked trench in the mud where a terrible battle occurred, and in the middle of it a sad heap of metal. She was unrecognizable there, cut to pieces. Only a few strands of pale blonde hair remained to know her by.

The blacksmith’s armory had implements enough to break the cold ground. He dug a hole right beside the crossroads while the rain bucketed down on him. His chest hurt from the strangled sob caught in it. He put her in the hole and blanketed her again with the mud. If there had been flowers anywhere in that season in all the land he would have found them and laid them there above her grave. One day, he hoped, grass would grow.

It was a meaningless gesture, and made no difference to the blue-eyed girl. But it meant something to Jaime.

It was not meaningless to them, the shivering children and the sad-faced women riding away in the wagons. They had looked back, mournfully, at the place in the road where her body lay. Looked back down the long road, into the distance, through the rain and the trees and the tramping feet of the bandits’ horses and out of sight, and they kept looking. They would look back long after the rain and wind had wiped away any traces of what had happened there. They would not forget. When the enemy came for them, someone took up a blade in their cause. Someone thought they mattered. Someone thought they were worth dying for. They did not face their fate alone.

When evil comes, so long as at least one person stands against it, there is still some light left in the world.

He left the shovel there in the road and went back to the Inn. It took some time to locate the boy and persuade him to come out of the trunk where he had hidden himself. He carried the boy with him North to the next village, where he left him wordlessly at the Sept, and turned North again, alone.

The rain never stops now. The ground is crusted with snow and the air is wet and mossy and somehow the rains never wash anything away. It only soaks into the dirt and grime and ice and blood and weighs it down. Makes it heavier. Makes everything impossibly heavy.

There are more strange things that happen to him then: how the road curves and wanders beneath his feet and doubles him back to the start as though trying to throw him off his course. There were strange dreams, and visions, and he walks in a sort of fever. Nothing seems quite real after the Crossroads, nothing except the sword in his hand and his goal: the Green Chapel. He has an appointment to keep.

He grows only more determined to reach his destination.

The nights grow colder. He wakes up shivering, rolling over, trying to wake the embers of the fire, and every time his eyes open they are looking for the foolish girl in her armor. They find only blackness and he remembers then the crossroads and the hole he dug besides the road.

He missed her terribly.

He misses her still, sitting here before the Green Knight. It is a persistent ache, a weight that grows heavier by the day. It makes him feel ancient to contemplate. He sounds like one of the rusty old knights who cluster around Robert, lamenting the roads not taken, the women they might have settled down with. Lost loves. It has been only days and yet it seems like years ago, and a road already overgrown and impassable. He can see it already, the enormity of his mistake. His life might have become something entirely different, improbably better. The opportunity came to him, and he wasted it.

Brienne. The Maiden Knight. She could have been his lady love and his brother-at-arms all at once. Would anything have been so perfectly suited to him as that? He will never find her like again, and even if he did he would not want it; he will only want her, for the rest of his life.

Jaime muses over these memories through the hours. The journey, the past, the world around him. Time seems to settle into a hazy blur.

The sun rises slowly, impossibly slowly. He cannot see it past the trees, but the world gradually brightens, with gentle insistence. The greens grow ever more lush and verdant all around him. The wall where the Green Knight stands turns from grim grey to a lively grass color, the dark ivy wound around in loops that seem to form an altar of deep mossy overgrowth around the still and sleeping form of the Knight.

His hands worry at the hilt of the greatsword that he had come to return. He might leave the blade on the altar and go. Would that fulfill his word?

What did Jaime do with his famous sword, during the year he had it? Only held it aloft for others to see. Used it to threaten, and to cajole. Boasted of it to other lords. But the only time he had just cause to draw it he had chosen to retreat instead, and in doing lost the only thing of any value he had ever found.

If only he had gone with her. Agreed right at the first, without hesitation. If he had stood at her side it might have ended differently. One had no chance, but two, perhaps, might have survived. He might have taken her with him to the Green Chapel. He might have taken her home to the King. He might have seen her made a knight, and stood proudly beside her at the king’s table. The tales he might have made with her, he would be proud to tell.

The Knight’s form comes into clearer and clearer relief: looming over him, impossibly tall, improbably wide.

Jaime knows with cold certainty that the Knight is going to wake very soon. As the light grows stronger, the Green Chapel is waking around him with a thousand tiny movements. He can almost make out the subtle sound of leaves uncurling to the sun, and worms crawling in the earth.

The sword, Oathkeeper, quivers in his hands, as though outraged. How did he dare to carry that blade to this place intending to lie? To break his promise? More and more he thinks he did not. He came here for something else entirely.

Jaime finds, for the first time that he can remember, his hands are trembling. It is one thing to go to battle, but another entirely to go to an execution. His heart beats in his ears with a deep drumbeat of doom... doom... doom...

He’s not here to fight a duel, is he? What, then, is he here for?

Glory? Judgement? Mercy? Absolution?

Or only the cold, mechanical means of his inevitable end?

Was all this journey only for that? Is he truly here only to get a blade through his chest? And if so, might it be worth his while? After all, is there any better way for a knight to die? Will it not be a fitting end to his legend?

But he isn’t ready to die. Not willingly. Not without redeeming his honor, making something of himself. If he had another year… but would he do any more with that than he had the last? Than he has with all of the years thus far? Is there any amount of time that would make any more of himself than he has already?

The time he needed was these weeks on the road with Brienne. That showed him what kind of man he’d like to be. But he failed her when it mattered most. Perhaps he should be judged for that. Not a year from now, nor twenty. Today.

The sun rises higher in the sky, and paints the Green Chapel gold. The air warms, and birdsong calls to him on the breeze. The day is relentlessly pleasant, with a promise of endless more such days to follow. A bittersweet longing fills him. It has never seemed half so lovely to be alive as it does in this beautiful place. If only he could have brought her here.

I will be brave, he says to himself. Like Brienne.

All at once there is a great creaking sound of wood bending and tearing, and when Jaime looks up the green altar is moving. Green leaves tremble and wave purposefully, and twigs and small branches snap and fall away to rest in the dirt below. The trunk of the altar pulls itself free, excavates itself from the enclosure in the leaves and branches. Limbs pull free, and something nearly human rises out of the green, the bark of its skin glistening, newborn.

The Green Knight is standing.

Jaime looks up, and up, and up, from where he sits on the mossy floor of the green chapel, and his hand grips the hilt of his sword.

He is ready to fight, by instinct, and to flee, by sudden impulse. He is afraid, he realizes, afraid in a way he has never been before. There is more than a blow to the heart to fear here. There is the fate of his soul, which is suddenly entirely in question. Before his journey he had no doubt of his own worth as a knight, and now he is just as certain in the opposite direction. Is he worthy? He is not. He is not.

Slowly, he stands. The sun shines down on him through the same corridor in the trees where he had watched the stars the night previous, and its warmth is a rebuke; why should the sun shine upon one such as him? He is the golden knight no more. He is only a man, a man with a sword that does not belong to him.

His eyes raise last of all.

Jaime finds through the golden light the Green Knight’s face. The eyes first, through a thin bloom of leaves and moss, and then the nose, the jawline. He has never seen it so clearly before, not even when he had stabbed her through the heart. With slow realization his eyes travel down and up again, taking in the shape of his host, and her nature.

The Green Knight is a woman? Why didn’t he realize it before?

It seems only too clear now. The slight narrowing of the waist and wrists, and in the face… not a pretty face, but undeniably feminine. Full lips, round cheeks, and the eyes...

Blue eyes. Beautiful blue, sad blue, noble and sorry. The lost blue of long-forgotten clear skies.

When he sees them his hands stop shaking. All is well. His grand sword slips from his fingers and settles softly in the grass, sinks gently into the ground, is welcomed.

“It’s you,” he says. “I’m glad it’s you.”

The girl from the Crossroads is standing before him.

He doesn’t understand how it is possible. Was she always the Knight? Was all an illusion? Was the Knight in disguise when he met her, or was the Knight once that girl? But it doesn’t matter. Whoever she is, she is here now, and it is good and right that this happen to him.

Her voice is low and rusty, like a hinge that has not moved in many years, and slow in its opening.

“You... kept... our appointment,” the Knight creaks.

His mouth is gone dry. “One year hence. You gave me time enough. And so I am here.”

He thinks he sees her smile, faintly. With the crackling sound of breaking branches, the Knight gestures to his feet.

“You... dropped your sword... my Lord.” Ser Jaime glances down at Oathkeeper, already disappearing beneath the twining vines on the forest floor. “Is it not time... for our blades to cross? A duel to make your legend?”

“I made you a promise,” he says faintly, and puts a hand over his unguarded heart. “It seems my word is all I have, and if it means nothing to anyone else, it means something to me.”

She smiles. An oaken hand reaches out and touches him on the face, gently. “My brave knight.”

Her eyes are the bluest skies he has ever seen. He is not afraid. Not anymore.

“Are you ready?” she asks him, still stroking his cheek.

“Yes.” He is eager for it now. “Strike your blow.”

“Straight through the heart,” she agrees. Then she reaches out with her other hand to touch the other side of his face.

She kisses him.

#dreadwulf fic #jaime lannister #braime

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donutloverxo · 4 years

Text

Want you back

Note - this is for @holylulusworlds 10k follower challenge! My trope was hurt/comfort Congrats I hope you like it😘

Beautiful mood board by my girl @ballyhoobarnes

Summary - You want Steve to be more than just your sugar daddy. He breaks your heart. Will he be able to make it upto?

Themes - CEO au, sugar daddy/baby relationship, implied age gap, smut, unprotect sex, loss of virginity, daddy kink

Pairing - Steve Rogers x reader

Word count - almost 4k

Masterlist is linked in the bio!

You squealed as you grabbed the deep red box from Steve’s hand, the words ‘cartier' written on it in golden cursive. You could see Steve watching in amazement from the corner of your eye. You gasped as you opened it, the prettiest and shiniest diamonds you had ever seen. “For me?” You looked at him with hopeful eyes. If he said no it would break your heart.

“Who else would it be for?” He chuckled and you gave him a smile embarrassed at your own silly thoughts. “Let me” He said pulling you by your hips to place you on his lap, taking the necklace out of the box and clasping it around your neck.

Such an act shouldn’t feel so intimate, but it really did. Steve was the most generous man you had ever met. He met you in a very difficult time in your life. Paying off your student loans, buying you a new very comfortable apartment, and so many gifts all the while never expecting anything in return.

All he wanted was quality time with you and complete honestly. He reserved a lot of disdain for dishonest people. Which is why maybe he liked having you around. You were the most honest person you knew, always wearing your heart on your sleeve, never having a filter. You understood now what Steve meant when he said ‘you're a breathe of fresh air' having met his friends. You didn’t know who to trust, all those parties seemed so glitzy on the surface but you did feel a certain darkness lingering underneath on some level.

You looked down at your new diamond necklace. Since your little arrangement with Steve started, over six months ago now, this would be the tenth diamond necklace he gave you, among a few diamond pendants and bracelets. “It’s so pretty” you said in awe of it to which he replied “It looks pretty because it’s on you doll”

“You didn’t have to daddy” You shifted on his lap to get comfortable putting your arms around his neck to look into his cerulean blue eyes, the prettiest eyes in the whole wide world.

“I just felt like spoiling my princess. It’s been a while since I got you anything. Jarvis told me you haven’t used the platinum card in weeks” He quirked a brow at you.

Well you hadn’t. You weren’t surprised Steve’s secretary Jarvis noticed. He always delivered messages, gifts to you whenever Steve wasn’t available. You started a part time job at a library just so you wouldn’t have to use it. “I’ve been thinking a lot” You murmur looking down at your lap to avoid his intense gaze. If you did look at his face you wouldn’t be able to articulate your thoughts “and I don’t want your money daddy. I just want you. I don’t want you to feel like that’s all I’m looking for”

“Hey look at me” He said propping your chin up to make you look at his face. He looked so worried you wanted to kiss away his frown. “I have a lot of money. What I do with it is up to me. And I want to take care of my princess. I don’t feel like you take advantage of me. In fact you do a lot more for me than I for you” He placed a couple of soft kisses on your knuckles while maintaining eye contact with you.

You scoffed at that. You didn’t really do anything for Steve. Not in the way women did for men. When Steve asked to be your sugar daddy, you were more than nervous. How would someone as inexperienced as you please a man like him? But until now you had only had few heavy make out sessions. Steve would feel your breasts through your shirt, and you were sure you felt his hard on that one time, but other than that you hadn’t really done anything together. “I want – “ you trailed off. What if you did tell him how you felt, that you loved him more than the word love can say it, and he rejects you, breaks your heart. You could probably take rejection from anyone else, but if it came from Steve you’d never recover.

“What is it?” He probed.

“I want you. All of you. Why can’t – I don’t know how to say this” You shook your head trying think of the best words. “Why can’t we be boyfriend and girlfriend like most people are? I –“ you paused as he stared at you intently “I love you. I know I’m not the best girl out there but I try my best” You inwardly cringed at your pathetic-ness. Not really the best way to ask to be someone’s girlfriend.

He took a deep breathe “I was afraid of this. I don’t do that doll. If I wanted a girlfriend I would have one. I don’t have space for that.”

You felt as if he stabbed you in your heart. You quickly got up, abandoning the comfort of his lap. You took the necklace off putting it on the abandoned open box. “I want more. I can’t ignore my feelings. I can live without diamonds or bags but I can’t live without –“ you choked a sob. “I think I’ll go home now”

You collected your chanel bag, which he gave you, you grimaced as you looked at it, when he got it for you were over the moon but now it just gives you pain, just like every gift he got for you would. You put on your shoes somewhat leisurely expecting him to get up try to talk you out of leaving, compromise, something! But he just sat there staring at the necklace you rejected. “Goodbye” you said and left.

You had never been to a ball. Any party you ever attended were frat parties that were well trashy for the lack of a better word. You were so amazed at the tall champagne flutes passing through, the exotic hors doers, people dressed in the most lavish gowns and suits. Everything was so pretty you knew you didn’t fit in here.

But Steve was so considerate with you. His hand never left your side the whole night. He kept you close to him, including you in any conversation he had with others. It was that kindness that you fell in love with.

But then she approached you both. She looked really talk in her sleek stilletos, her sharp cheek bones were complimented by her short brown curls. You felt a tinge of jealousy when she hugged Steve kissing his cheek as if she had known him forever. “This is Margaret” He introduced her.

You were later told that she was Steve’s ex girlfriend.

She had a posh British accent. With her classic black dress, she looked like she belonged here. You hurt yourself by thinking about how Steve and her looked so good together. They looked like they were meant to be standing next to one another. You had to try really hard to hold back tears when she touched Steve’s bicep, laughing at something he said.

You had been ‘together' for over two months at that point. You knew Steve was gorgeous. You didn’t however realise how much other women noticed his that. That night you felt as if everyone had their eyes on him. If you left for even a second to use the ladies room, Steve would be surrounded by women, all so gorgeous they looked other worldly.

You asked to spend the night at his home. He had turned his queen suite into a room for you. Complete with baby pink walls, silk sheets and the softest of stuffies. He told you he would be happy to have you. After kissing you goodbye Steve went back to his room.

You had other plans. You knocked on his door, entering without his permission. You almost considered leaving when you looked at the sight in front of you. He was only sporting his grey sweats. The dim yellow light from the lamp made his skin and hair look golden as if he was a god. He certainly looked like he was carved out by gods. His muscles so taut and his shoulders so broad. He looked like he was photo shopped.

You whimpered when you got a good look at his abs as he sat up straight. You were wearing your satin pale blue nightie, adorned with white lace on the edges. Something you bought when you were out shopping with him. You knew you didn’t look nearly as good as the women at the party.

“You can’t sleep princess?” He asked sitting back against the headboard.

“Hm” You hummed remembering your diabolical plan “I just felt so alone. Can I sleep with you?” You fluttered your lashes at him.

“Of course” He gave you a small smile shifting to his side to make room for you. You quickly skipped over to him and got under the covers with him. Nestling against his chest you nuzzled his neck. “Is everything alright with you?” He asked propping your chin up to look at him.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?” You draped a leg over his hip and started grinding against his thigh. You didn’t know much about seducing but you could only hope you were doing it right.

“Well you were quiet the whole ride home.” He pressed his palm against your hip, firmly but also gently at the same time, to stop your grinding. “What’s going on?”

“I just really really want to make you feel good.” You tried your best to sound classy and sultry at the same time, just like Peggy did.

You didn’t want him to find out just how amazing he was, and how he could do better than you. He was nice to her. Was he too nice? Did he still have feelings for her? Why did you find out from someone else that they were together. You needed to give him everything.

He didn’t try to stop when you rubbed him through his sweats. Gulping down your anxiety you looked up to see him staring at you curiously. He quickly sat back up and leaned against his pillows as you took his cock out of his briefs and sweats. He looked big. Much bigger than normal men probably. How were you supposed to take him?

You tried to recall whatever you had seen in porn or had heard from friends and stroked his length. He seemed to like it since he moaned grabbing a handful of your breast and squeezing it. You stared in awe as the creamy gooey liquid seeped out of his tip. You leaned down taking him in your mouth and going as far as you could until he hit the back of your throat. You moaned around him and swallowed your spit so you wouldn’t make too much of a mess. You were about to bob your up and down as one is supposed to do when giving a blow job but he abruptly pulled you off of him by grabbing the back of your head.

He brought you close to him and crashed his lips onto yours in a kiss which was all teeth and carnal need.

He flipped you over so you were under him and worked on taking off your panties. “I think I should tell you...” You trailed off not being able to concentrate with his lips on your neck. “I’ve never.. done this before.” You whimpered as he sucked a bruise into the crook of your neck.

He immediately stopped looking down at you. “What?” He asked and you felt ashamed and guilty that you ruined the moment. “What did you say?”

“I’ve never-” You curled in on yourself so you were as small as your voice was “I’ve never done this before you know.” You sniffles tears trailing down your cheeks.

“Hey” He shushed you. Collecting you in his arms and rocking you back and forth. You cried into him for a while. His steady heartbeat lulled you and calmed you. “We don’t have to do that any time soon. Your first time should be special. With someone you love.”

Maybe he said those words to comfort you. But he had no idea just how they broke your heart. He never saw you as anyone he could have a serious future with. You weren’t a serious put together girl. Sure he may say he prefers your innocence over the cunning and self absorbed people in his world. But he was one of them.

“Is it because I’m not her.” You spat but you weren’t brave enough to look at him.

“Who are you talking about?” He spoke into your hair.

“Margaret or Peggy. Whatever you call her.” You mumbled afraid that you had let your true feelings be known.

“Is that what this is about?” He shook his head and when you didn’t look at him he sternly called out your name which made you whip your head up. “There’s nothing between me and Peggy. We had our time but it’s over now.” He tried reassuring you.

Even if your arrangement was supposed to be purely financial you were more or less unofficially exclusive. “Then why did I have to find out from Natasha that you were both engaged?” You pouted wiping your nose with the back with the back of your finger.

“I only asked her to marry me because I thought that was how it was supposed to be. That’s what everyone had told us since we were kids. That we were to grow up and get married. But then I realized that I didn’t love her like that. Neither did she. We’re just friends now. I promise.” He kissed your forehead.

You were hurt from being rejected by the only man you ever tried to seduce. He cuddled you and coddled you. Reassuring you again and again that you’re perfect. There’s nothing wrong with you.

Just not perfect enough to actually be his apparently.

Days turned into weeks. You were just drifting through the motions. Steve insisted that you keep your apartment.

‘I gave it to you. It’s yours.’ He said.

And really beggars can’t be choosers. Before being his sugar baby, you cringed at that label now, you were just an intern in his company. But you didn’t last in that harsh environment for even a month. After that you didn’t really need to get another job since he promised to take care of you in exchange for your company.

You had no idea your company was worth that much.

You always had a crush on him. He was this stylish, smart, kind yet distant older man who was your dream guy of sorts. As in you could dream about him, but you can’t actually have him.

Of course you said yes to his proposal. And were more than happy to accompany him to exotic places in first class and private jets for over six months. To wear breath taking dresses which cost more than your tuition. To cuddle with him and make out with him. It didn’t really go far than that.

Yet it wasn’t hard to trick yourself into thinking that it was more. That you could convince him to want more with you. What a dumbass you were.

You applied to at least ten jobs, although you didn’t hear back from a single one. You were determined to get back on your feet and get yourself a new apartment. You’ll have to move back to queens or even New Jersey. There was no way you could afford a home in Manhattan. But you didn’t want Steve to get the idea that he’s any less cruel to you just because he let’s you stay in the condo he brought you.

For now you were happy wallowing in your sadness. Eating tubs of Ben and Jerry’s and watching the notebook. Thinking about how love is a lie fed to people since childhood so they don’t realise just how meaningless life is.

You were half sleep when you jerked awake to your intercom harshly buzzing. Grumbling you walked over to your door and pressed the button “Who is it?” You asked your irritation evident in your tone.

“It’s me.” Said the voice that was all too familiar to you. “Let me in please?” He requested desperately.

You let out a sigh pressing the little buzzer to let him in. As much as you loathed you, you loved him even more. It had been over a month, you were longing to see his voice, to talk to him, to smell him, to even just be around him.

You opened the door and let him into your, or his, home. You tried your best to not let him see just how happy you were that he’s in front of you. Instead you filled your eyes and drawled your voice feigning annoyance. “What do you want?”

“I want you back” He stated stalking towards you. “Please. I made a mistake” You had never seen him beg. This was so uncharacteristic of him. And you were going to thoroughly revel in it. You held his gaze, done being a coward.

“No” You simply said. “It’s too little too late”

“Don’t say that” He bent down invading your personal space. “It’s never too late. I – I love you” your jaw dropped as he stammered over the words leaving you shocked. “I’ve loved you for so long. I thought that I could pretend that I didn’t”

“Why?” You wanted to know.

“Because I’ve lost everyone I ever loved. I can’t lose you.” He kissed your knuckles.

“You already have.” But your body betrayed you as you leaned into his touch. You could already feel your resolve crumbling. “I don’t believe you.” You snatched your hands out of his hold. “You’ll change your mind tomorrow.”

“No no I won’t. I swear.” He scrambled to hold your hands again but you moved them out of his reach. It was almost satisfying to have the upper hand. To have him be the vulnerable one. “I’ll show you how serious I am.” He said removing a little red box from his pocket.

“Is that...”

“Yeah” He gave you a small smile. “This isn’t a spur of the moment thing. I’ve thought about this.” He said kneeling in front of you. He opened the box to reveal a solitaire diamond ring adorned by little diamonds on the band. It was simple enough to be classy but flashy enough to be special. “I fell in love with you the moment I saw you. You’ve always held my heart y/n. Will you marry me?” He asked. His voice slightly shaky.

You didn’t need to think about it. You forgave him as soon as you heard his voice. “Yes” You whimpered. You didn’t even know that you had started crying. He stood up on his feet and slid the ring on your ring finger.

You smiled as he kissed you. After so long. It was just a month but it felt like a thousand years. It was as if he was parched and so needy for you. His hands wandering all over your body. He swooped you up in his arms and carried you over to your bedroom. He made quick work of taking off his sweater his jeans and his underwear.

He pulled your long sleep shirt over your head. You tried to hide your breasts from him. Having never been naked in front of anyone you were shy and felt so exposed. “You’re going to be my wife now.” He purred removing your hands and taking you in. He was awestruck. “You’re so beautiful.” He stated mater of factly.

He trailed kisses down your body. Settling between your legs he stared at your heat. You couldn’t tell if he was unsatisfied or not. You gasped as you felt his hot tongue against your warm folds. You squirmed and thrashed. It was so different from when you played with yourself. So much more intense. You whimpered punching the mattress when he pulled away, you instantly missed his mouth. You gasped as you felt his fingers invade your warmth.

He moved up looming over you pushing his fingers in and out of you. “I want to watch you fall apart” He said. His voice laced with lust.

You came all over them screaming as he captured your lips into a bruising kiss. Swallowing your moans and cries.

You were still coming down from your high when he pushed his tip inside you. You gasped. “Shh it’s okay” He cooed kissing your hair “It’ll be okay. Daddy always care of you. You know that right.” He whispered kissing your tears away “I’ll never hurt you again.” He let out a muffled grunt as he completely sheathed himself into you.

He let you get accustomed to his length for a minute before moving. Thrusting leisurely into you. You closed your eyes, holding onto your shoulders. Giving out little hums and mewls, only focusing on the weight of his cock in you, his tip hitting your cervix, and how he brushed against your pussy every time he slid out halfway, only to slid back in again.

“You’re so tight shit.” He cursed against your lips. “I can’t believe. I. Get. to. have. you. forever.” He grunted each word punctuated with a snap of his hips.

He snaked a hand between your bodies and stroked your clit before ruthlessly rolling it in his fingers. It was already so overworked and sensitive. You came clenching around his cock in no time.

Your orgasm set him off. He quickly pulled out, jerking himself off over your stomach you watched through hooded eyes as spurts of his cum painted your stomach. He slumped next to you. His face and neck flushed. “Have to be careful. I’ll use a rubber next time. I’m not ready to share you with anyone just yet” he muttered wiping his shiny forehead with the back of his hand.

He draped his arm across your stomach nuzzling your neck as you stared at your new rock. “You like it?” He asked kissing your throat.

“I love it. I can’t wait to tell my mom” You replied pecking his forehead. “We have to set a date. When do you want it to be? The theme? So many things.”

He hushed you “You don’t have to worry about that. I’ll just hire a wedding planner.”

“What about your father? What if he doesn’t approve of me?” You worried.

“I don’t give two shits about his opinion.” He grumbled.

And you couldn’t help but giggle at that. It was rare to hear him curse. You couldn’t wait to plan your wedding and your life together.

Tags will be in the reblog. If you want in on the taglist shoot me an ask or click the link in the bio!

me thinks there must be a part two. what do you say?

cute pink dividers by @whimsicalrogers

Please note that my work is NOT to be reposted or published anywhere other than my Tumblr or AO3 account. Reblogs are most welcome though.

#lulu's 10k follower challenge #marvel au #steve rogers x reader #captain america x you #captain america x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x oc #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x ofc #steve x reader #steve x y/n #marvel x you #marvel x reader

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blindchannelimagines · 3 years

Text

Death of Me

Spending every single day in that tiny studio became boring soon enough and since it was warm and sunny outside you would have liked to be anywhere but there. The heat was prevailing on your sanity and being in that small space with six stressed-out men wasn’t certainly helping. You were sick of fanning your face with your shirt and putting frozen beer bottles on your forehead to cool down.

You wanted to distract yourself from all that chaos and the idea of having a swim in the clear waters of Finland almost seemed like a pipe dream. Therefore, it took you a while to convince your boyfriend Joel to spend the afternoon at the beach. He wanted to speed up the recording process, but even the rest of the band felt the need to unwind, so everyone accepted your invitation to go to the seaside for a day. Everyone was happy about it, everyone but Joel.

“I don't... like all of this," was his only explanation, as he lifted his arm to gesture vaguely. He was sitting under the parasol next to Aleksi, who seemed to agree with him, but he didn't want to admit it. You could not actually see Joel’s expression through his dark sunglasses, but you knew him too well: the way he twitched his lip made you realize that he was not happy to be there.

Once you realized that he was just making a fuss, you rolled your eyes.

"Then stay here under the parasol and shut the hell up," you told him as you grabbed the hem of your tight dress, sliding it off your body to reveal your new swimsuit. You could hear him mutter “when the hell did you buy that?” but you decided to ignore him and made your way toward the sea. You’ve also ignored the dirty look he gave Aleksi when he noticed his gaze on you, forcing him to look the other way while his cheeks turned into a deep shade of red.

You could feel Joel’s gaze on you, but you didn’t want to turn around since you were certain that he was staring at your bottom.

The others were already in the water, and you couldn’t wait to join them. They all looked so happy and carefree, their loud laughs were contagious, and you could do nothing but smile like a fool while you were walking towards them.

You burst out laughing when Tommi, caught in a moment of hysteria, started splashing a massive amount of water in Olli’s direction, just because the latter teased him a bit too much. You were so enthralled by them having fun in the water that you suddenly stopped walking just to laugh with them.

You didn’t even notice that Joel stopped a few centimeters behind you, until his strong hands grabbed you by your hips and lifted you up, making you gasp loudly.

"Joel, don't you fucking dare– no!" you didn’t even have the time to scream before coming into contact with the cold water. You were trying to get to the surface, but his hand was holding you down, forcing you to stay underwater.

Despite the anxiety that was making your heartbeat speed up, you managed to get your revenge. Your nails reached the man’s hip, where you scratched him hard. You couldn't hear him, but he let out a hiss through his gritted teeth and pulled you out of the water by your hair. You kept your eyes closed and gasped for air, unaware of the icy glare he was giving you through his sunglasses.

"That was so unnecessary," he murmured in your ear, not wanting to be heard by anyone else but you. In a normal state, you would have got goosebumps from hearing his deep tone of voice. But your mind was blinded by anger in that moment, you just wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine.

You lifted your hands to try and scratch him once again, but Joel was faster and he wrapped his slender fingers around your wrists, pulling your arms away from him. You started to squirm in order to free yourself from his grasp, but he pressed your bodies against each other. You let out a small whimper and he bit his bottom lip, as he felt your breasts squished against his pale chest.

"Stop being a brat," he grinned. You could hear a hint of mockery in his voice that made you squirm against him even more.

"You two!" You both turned around to see who was talking and once you managed to open your eyes, you saw it was Joonas and he was only a few meters away. Luckily, no one else was paying attention.

"The fuck are you two doing? Go somewhere else, the child is here!" he pointed at the beach and you two shifted your gaze on Aleksi, who was caught staring at what you were doing. You opened your mouth to say something, but Joel spoke for both of you: "The child doesn't need to see how babies are made!"

Joonas and him started laughing and you gasped, blushing furiously. You were going to slap him across his chest, but he grabbed the back of your thighs and lifted you up, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist.

Your boyfriend began to swim away from everyone else with you clinging on his torso, and your gaze shifted on Aleksi once again. You were far from the shore and yet you could see that your dark-haired friend was still blushing. You bit your lip and pressed your cheek on Joel's shoulder, somewhat lulled by the waves and his comforting embrace.

Once Joel made sure that there was enough distance between you two and the shore, where everyone else was, he stopped swimming. Your face was still hidden into the crook of his neck, and he squeezed your bum teasingly.

"So, are we being shy now?" he whispered in your ear, and you arched your back in response. Joel squeezed your bum again and you whimpered, unconsciously grinding yourself against him.

"I swear to God..." finally you lifted your head to take a good look at him and you noticed that he had moved the sunglasses on top of his head. His eyes reflected the sunlight, they were clearer than the sky and brighter than the sun; you couldn’t take your eyes off that beautiful face of his. You ran your fingers through his wet hair, finishing your sentence: "... You're too handsome to be a fucking devil".

He threw his head back and laughed, making you smile widely. You wrapped your hands around his neck as your eyes were fixed on his Adam's apple, leaving a gentle kiss against his skin. Joel let out a deep growl and pressed your foreheads together, mumbling a soft 'come here you' before attacking your lips with his own. You closed your eyes and reciprocated the kiss with the same enthusiasm, nearly melting in his arms when you felt his hands kneading roughly the soft flesh of your butt.

Your body started moving on its own and you found yourself humping his hardening erection.

"You're going to be the death of me…" Joel breathed hotly against your lips, making you moan. As you slightly opened your mouth, he took the opportunity to slide his tongue and skillfully intertwining it with yours. Your fingers tightened their grip on his golden locks as he tilted his head to the side, deepening the kiss.

Joel knew what to do in order to make you submit to him; he became familiar with your body; he knew what you wanted better than you did. You couldn't resist, you didn't know how to– after all, you really wanted to submit to him. You wanted to be claimed and let him do whatever he wanted with your body.

"Joel..." the way he rocked your body against his at his own pace made your head spin. You felt your clit rubbing vigorously against the fabric of your swimsuit and his bulge pressed against your covered entrance.

"Joel... please..." you mewled in need, smooching his lips absentmindedly.

"What, baby? What is it?" his lips formed a knowing smirk and you whimpered capriciously. You were so needy; the way you clung on him as if your life depended on it made him want to tease you even more. Your eyes were clouded in lust as your gaze was pleading him silently.

You tried to move your hips faster in order to get more friction, but he was holding you in place with both of his hands on your butt. He tightened his grip to prevent your actions which made you groan. Harsh words were stuck in your throat in that moment. In a normal state, you would've cussed him off– but you were oh so fucking desperate, you felt your clit throbbing painfully.

When you realized that he wasn’t going to give in yet, you tangled your fingers in his messy locks to pull his head back. He widened his eyes and winced in pain, staring at you in surprise as you pressed your lips against his ear.

"You must be very dumb if you haven't buried your dick inside of me yet" you purred with the same hint of mockery he used when you two were still on the shore. He glared at you.

"Aleksi would have done it in a heartbeat".

You weren't sure why you mentioned Aleksi, but you still remembered the way he was staring at you before. Joel knew it too, after all he was the one who glared at the dark-haired man when he noticed it.

You two stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, with an undecipherable expression on your faces. You gulped, slowly regretting what you said.

"What the fuck did you say?" Joel broke the silence as you felt his fingertips digging deeply and painfully into your skin. His death stare was too much to handle, yet you didn't lower your gaze. You were right after all, and you wanted him to hurry up and pleasure you.

"I said," you inched closer to his face, the tip of your nose brushing against his.

"Say it, I fucking dare you," he replied immediately, as his lips formed a thin line and you smirked.

"You must be very dumb if you haven't buried your dick inside of me yet. And also, Aleksi–" you were interrupted as soon as that name slipped off your mouth. He pulled you into a bruising kiss, one that made you gasp and nearly cry out in pain.

His fingers moved your G-string to the side, and you shivered once the water hit your intimate parts. He must have lowered his shorts when you weren't paying attention, because you suddenly felt his shaft shamelessly poking at your entrance.

"I'm gonna teach you a fucking lesson or two now," he growled as he parted your lower lips with the tip of his cock and buried himself inside of you. You threw your head back and cried out. While his member was deliciously stretching you out, he didn't waste any time letting you adjust. That was your punishment after all and you were going to endure it like a good girl.

Once he picked up the pace, you could feel every inch of his cock rubbing vigorously against your tight walls and you closed your eyes in pure ecstasy. A trail of erotic moans escaped from your mouth as he forced you to bounce on his dick. You wanted to move on your own and wished you could do it, but the water slowed down your actions.

Joel laughed; your pathetic attempts amused him.

"Look at you," he licked his dry lips and roughly squished your cheeks together with one hand, "where did all the brattiness go, huh?" you whimpered and he wasn't planning on letting you go, well, not before hitting your wet cheek with the palm of his hand. You didn't even wince, it felt too good to hurt.

"God... don't stop, please..." you kept on whispering like a religious mantra. Joel was furious, but his cock was enjoying the way your sensitive walls clenched around him. You were left to dangle in his arms like a puppet, savoring the way he was using you for his own appetite. While Joel speared you on his cock, the head of it repeatedly pressed into your sweet spot with each thrust, expediting a strong orgasm. Through your teary-eyed gaze, an intense look donned his worked-up face, an angry but passionate expression that dragged you down in a heated abyss.

"You're going to cum right here, you hear me? I will make you squirt on my cock, princess," he spat maliciously.

Your breath was ripped from your lungs until a flow of moans and curses blurt out of your mouth. Despite being far from the shore, it was obvious that everyone heard you.

Your walls pulsed and tightened on him while your orgasm crashed through you in waves, making you quiver in his grasp. Liquid spurted from you, dispersing around in the water all the while he was still pounding into you vigorously. Joel groaned, adoring how you lost yourself whenever he fucked you.

A sharp hiss reached your ears and your boyfriend hugged your body flat to his in the heat of the moment. He couldn't help but move you with him as he finally came inside of you. Thick, hot bursts coated your womb and you mewled out from the warmth, shivering violently. He was groaning sinfully into your ear, as you felt his chest heaving against yours. The sun was melting your back and yet, you found yourself trembling due to overwhelming pleasure.

You two held onto each other as tight as you could, trying to catch your breath quickly. The distinct sound of the waves hitting the shore could be heard from afar and it helped you relax. You twitched and gained consciousness when you felt his lips kissing the top of your shoulders. Instinctively, you ran your fingers through his wet hair, and he hummed in appreciation, making you shiver.

Joel was still buried inside of you, and you were wondering when he was going to let go.

"Hm.. wanna stay like this forever," he mumbled tiredly, as if he was reading your thoughts.

"I don't wanna go back either," you chuckled and kissed his temple tenderly, "I'm sure they heard me."

Joel shrugged and nuzzled his nose into the crook of your neck, "So what?", he whispered. You rolled your eyes and shook your head, holding him close against your body.

Oh, how much you loved him!

#blind channel #joel hokka #bc imagine #blind channel imagines #joel hokka x reader

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rhysismydaddy · 3 years

Text

Unholy Matrimony Pt. 5 (Nessian)

Damnation Series

Parts 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

____________________________________________________________

~Cassian~

A week later, I’m exceptionally proud to say I haven’t given in yet. No matter how much I want to.

Tensions the past seven days have been... high, to say the least.

Both of us are doing our absolute best to drive the other insane.

She’s doing it so I either sign the deed and give in or turn to someone else, both which would give her Sera back.

I’m doing it because if I have to suffer, she can bet her pretty ass she does, too.

Ironically, tonight’s our engagement party. A celebration of our undying love and an announcement to the world the Russians and Italians of New York should no longer hate and murder each other.

They’re allowed to be sexually frustrated as hell, but no, they can’t kill each other.

I’m waiting for the little minx who’s spent the week making me regret ever even asking for the club, drinking bourbon so I’m too drunk to even be tempted by her--which is likely enough to kill me--when she finally deigns to grace me with her presence.

I take one look at her, starting at the high blonde ponytail that would wrap around my fist at least twice and ending at the very high, very red shoes I immediately want by my shoulders.

“Fuck.”

Obviously the reaction she was looking for, she smiles.

Her dress is a cream color thing that clings to her curves and is short enough to showcase her long legs. It’s somehow classy, while low enough to draw my eyes to her breasts as she comes down the stairs towards me.

Nesta stops right before me, close enough I smell the jasmine and vanilla of her skin, and looks at me through her lashes.

I turn my gaze to the ceiling, vowing to keep it there until I trust myself to not do something stupid like tell her she’s the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen.

“I’m so fucked,” I mutter hopelessly.

If possible, she comes closer, sliding all the interesting, female parts of her against me. “You would be if you just gave me back my shit.”

I glare down at her. “I don’t like to lose.”

“Would you really be losing?”

I keep my mouth shut, because the answer to that question is a big fat no. God, she’s good.

“Tell me again why you refuse to put us out of our misery?” I ask in return, trying to remind myself who the fuck I am.

Even though I wonder if it is our misery. I can’t read her, can’t tell if this is affecting her like it is me.

She gives me a cold look. “What do you see happening after we get married, exactly? You think you’ll work a few hours at the club I spent three years building from the ground up, come home and eat a home cooked meal, then fuck your complacent little wife however you want?”

I have no idea what to say, because when she puts it like that, I sound like the biggest douche in the world.

Nesta sees the hesitation in my eyes and rolls hers. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I allow you to disrespect me like that, stronzo.”

“I respect you,” I say immediately, meaning the words.

“Just not enough to value my career.”

“Nesta-”

“Deal with it. If you somehow keep the board from voting you out in the next two weeks and manage to not sleep with me--which is unlikely, considering the way you look at me--the club will be yours.” She takes a step back, steeling her spin. “But I will not.”

I’m conflicted as hell, torn between wondering if she’s just playing me or being sincere.

Apparently done with the verbal smackdown, Nesta spins towards the door.

Hand on the handle, she turns back around and cocks her head. And then she answers the questions I hadn’t realized I’d been too scared to ask.

“No and yes.”

My brows raise. “What?”

“No, it hasn’t all been just me trying to mess with you. Yes, I want you as much as you want me. But I respect myself too much to allow someone who blazes into my life and steals something from me without a care or even a real negotiation to have my body, too.”

She walks out the door, leaving me standing in the living room stunned.

I eventually follower her down to the garage and we leave for the party Rhys is hosting for us downtown. But even though I go through the motions once we arrive, my mind is on the woman next to me the entire night.

I hate admitting it, but she’s right.

I took something that belonged to her, didn’t even question talking to her first, then acted like she was in the wrong for doing whatever she could to get it back.

I’ve said I like how strong and independent she is, but I tried to take that independence and turn her into something else. I bulldozed my way into her life, then acted like I was the one inconvenienced by it.

And seriously, why am I even fighting for this place? Yeah, I like it and think it’s unique, but the place is above board. Which to me translates as boring.

The past two weeks, I’ve had to go to investment meetings, deal with sending out the nightly invitations for entrance, and plan events for upcoming holidays. Things I never do with my other properties.

I hate managing things--I hire people to do that kind of thing for me. But I know I can’t hire someone, because who the hell besides my fiancé would do the job right?

No one.

I realize that on the drive home, and it gets me thinking. By the time we’re inside the apartment, I’m already mentally finalizing the details.

I tell her I have to take care of something, go to my office, and close the door.

Then I pull up the marriage contract, along with the deed to Sera, and hit print.

~Nesta~

A week after our engagement party, I realized I’ve started to lose hope.

Cassian’s managed to wrangle or bribe or threaten the board into not voting him out, and the employees have stopped calling me to ask when I’m coming back. He hasn’t touched me or tried to seduce me in six days--probably a record for him--and I start to feel like I’ve lost.

My club will be his in a week, and after we’re married, only him signing the deed over will get it back. Something that will never happen, considering it’d be a serious hit to his pride to do something as weak as give me what’s rightfully mine.

My club will be his, but like I said, I won’t.

Which honestly is just as upsetting.

Even though he’s a stubborn, boneheaded stronzo with a big enough ego for us both, it’s hard for me to overlook the moments of the past three weeks that haven’t revolved around Sera.

Little moments that have made it harder for me to pull away from him.

He’s made me laugh more than anyone I’ve ever met, whether with his foul sense of humor or stories about his violent, wild childhood. He stopped leaving the toilet seat up when I pointed it out. He hasn’t said a word about me ordering take-out all the time or working in bed while he tries to sleep.

He even dealt with one of Alexei’s buyers for me when they tried to renegotiate the price originally agreed upon.

And he hasn’t really pressed the celibacy thing. Sure, he’s complained about it enough for me to want to smack him, but I don’t know any other Made Men, Russian or Italian, that would’ve respected my wish after how much I’ve teased him.

If he would just-

I cut that train of thought off and focus on the report in front of me, because at this point, it’s obvious he won’t.

I sip my wine, which is starting to grow on me, and look over shipment records from one of Alexei’s yards, flagging crates that need to be smuggled instead of brought in through the main channels. Repressing a groan at the thought, I realize I’ll have to go down one night this week and make sure they arrive without problem.

I take another long pull from my glass.

“Drinking to forget?” Cassian asks, leaning in the doorway of the bedroom and looking me over.

I shrug, not much in the mood for banter.

“I got you something.”

Sighing, I reply, “Yeah, me too. It’s on the nightstand.”

His brow furrows as he walks over and picks up the ring box, opening it to look at the titanium band inside.

Just another symbol of our lifelong, happy, sexless marriage.

He puts the ring back in the box and extends a hand. “It isn’t a ring.”

“What is it?”

“Get your ass out of bed and find out.”

I would, except I don’t want to. And I don’t really want whatever stupid, materialistic thing he’s bought me-

He closes my laptop and pulls the cover back, ducking when I swing a fist towards his head. “Violent little wolf,” he teases.

“Stop calling me that,” I demand, trying in vain to keep the blanket on me so he can’t tell I’m not wearing anything underneath the t-shirt I stole from him.

He pauses, sighs, and scoops me up, blanket and all. “I love watching you fight how much you love me calling you that.”

“I don’t have to fight anything except he overwhelming urge to smack you.”

Cassian just huffs, walking us out of the room, through the living room, and into his office. Then he puts me down, smacks my butt to get me moving, and grunts when I elbow him in the ribs.

“Maybe this will fix your bad mood,” he mutters, flipping the light switch on and bathing the office in golden light.

I take an involuntary step forward, eyebrows going high on my forehead.

I’ve only been in here once before, just long enough to notice the obnoxiously big desk and wall of windows behind it. I’d taken in the black leather couch and wing-backed chairs, determined it was a typical male office for a typical male, and vowed to work somewhere else.

But that was a while ago, and it’s obvious he’s done some home improvement.

There are decidedly now two desks in the corners near the windows, angled in to the middle of the room where two cream-colored leather chairs sit. The desks are identical, mahogany and classic without being ostentatious.

A rug covers the hardwood floors, a deep maroon color that matches small details throughout the room.

It’s beautiful.

Cassian leads me with his hands on my shoulders to one of the desks, and I let him guide me around to the chair and push me down in the soft leather.

I look up to ask him what this is about, but he jerks his chin to the desk where to two papers lie.

One is the deed to Sera.

A rush of surprise goes through me as I see he’s transferred the building back over to me, even going so far as to deem the process irreversible. It’s signed and dated a week ago, the night of our engagement party.

My eyes are shiny as I look at the other document and read through it.

“What is this?”

“A partnership, of sorts,” Cassian explains, leaning a hip on the- my desk like he did in his Capo’s office. “You’re now a partner at my businesses, and if you sign, I’ll be yours.”

My eyes find his, and I see that he’s serious but still choke out, “What?”

He smiles and shrugs, like signing over half of your life’s work is easy. “You had me pegged when you first saw me and figured out I’m a fighter. I hate everything about running a business except the in-person negotiating and knitty gritty shit. It’s boring to me, and while I can do it, I’m not nearly as good at it as you are.”

“Cassian-”

“So run them both. I’ll do the day to day shit I know you hate, and you’ll do the rest.”

I can’t hardly process what he’s saying.

“What if we disagree?” It’s a valid question, considering we��ve basically been fighting the entire time we’ve been engaged.

“We talk about it and try to figure it out. And if we can’t, the original owner has the final call and veto power in all situations.” His eyes say he knows how important it is to me as he says, “You’ll still be in control of your property, and I’ll still be in control of mine.”

I don’t know why I’m still asking questions, because it sounds great, but there’s one more thing I want to know.

“Why?”

He sighs, sitting on the desk fully and looking down at me with open, honest eyes. “Because I’m tired of doing this shit alone. I’m tired of going to work and dealing with every single thing and then coming home and having no one who understands.”

He looks out the window, shoulders tight. “I thought you’d be like my friends’ wives, which is why I was such an ass. I thought you’d be just another thing for me to take care of, and I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to realize you could be my partner, not just my wife.”

His eyes are back on mine, the heat in them making my heart pound. “I’m sorry, Nesta. I’m sorry I stole Sera in the first place, then refused to hear you out and give it back. I have a tendency to be a little stubborn.”

My lips twitch, and his eyes soften at the sight.

“But what you said about respecting yourself stuck. I don’t want you to feel like I don’t respect you, because I do. You’re smarter than me, cool when I’m rash, and have the mind for business I never have.” He smiles softly. “I know you’re just as alone as me, and just as tired of it. So say yes.”

I feel a smile on my face as I get to my feet, moving to stand between his thighs. “Are you just doing this so I’ll sleep with you?”

He sighs, dropping his head in shame to rest against my chest. “You caught me.”

My arms wrap around his shoulders, his going around my waist, and I use the opportunity to play in his hair. It’s so soft and curly, and he makes a content sound as I run my hands through it.

“Are you saying yes, little wolf?” he murmurs against my collarbone, dropping his head to rub his face across my breasts.

I roll and tug his hair to keep the randy bastard away. “Yes, pervert, I’m saying yes.”

Cassian smiles a big, goofy smile so ridiculously charming I lean in and kiss him.

His hands lock at my waist, resting on the curve of my back, and for a moment, he just lets me kiss him.

It isn’t our first kiss by any means, but it’s the first one where neither of us have ulterior motives, so I take my time.

I kiss his top lip, his bottom lip. Find I like them both equally.

My hands work across his shoulders, the thick muscles contracting under my hands, and I sigh his name.

Cassian’s hands fist in the fabric of my pajamas--which happen to still be his shirt--and draws me closer. He kisses my neck, inhaling deeply.

“You smell so fucking good,” he mutters, biting down softly and making me gasp. “It drives me crazy.”

His hands slip to the back of my thighs, then I’m on his lap, knees on the desk next to his hips. “You drive me crazy,” he clarifies.

He kisses me again, hands sliding up my thighs to my ass to grind me against him. Callouses scrape against my skin as he sweeps the shirt off and tosses it behind me.

“Shit,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to take me in.

The fact that he’s still fully dressed while I’m in nothing but my underwear makes me feel even more exposed, doing strange things to my mind. I start unbuttoning his shirt while he kisses down my chest.

He teases one with his hand while he takes the other in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the peak. I squirm, pressing my hips more fully against is, but he holds me still, kissing and teasing me until I can’t take it anymore.

“Cassian,” I murmur, tugging his hair to pull his gaze to mine. “Thank you for the desk. I love it.”

His brows furrow, and I can see him start to think about how much I’ve teased him, but before he can worry that’s what I’m doing, I whisper, “Now fuck me on it. Please.”

A muscle in his jaw flickers, and his fingers dig into the flesh of my hips.

Before I can say another word, he stands and spins us around, sliding me on the desk. He holds my thighs around his hips, and then an idea seems to dawn.

“Wait right here.”

“Seriously?” I ask, even though he’s already half-way out of the room.

“Don’t you dare fucking move!” is the shouted response.

I roll my eyes, but he’s back quickly, holding the red stilettos I wore to our engagement party. I howl with laughter, and a faint blush colors his cheeks, but he stays firm in his desire and puts them on the floor beside my feet.

Then he leans against the window and watches while I slip them on.

His golden eyes blaze as I lean back on my elbows and slowly spread my thighs, in nothing but lace panties and heels.

“I’ll buy you all the desks you want, if you sit on them like that.”

Laughter bubbles out of me, and he’s suddenly on me, leaning over me to kiss me in a frenzy.

I rip his shirt open, and he doesn’t even break the kiss as he throws it to the floor. I hear the telltale clink of a belt, and then he stands up to slide my panties down, grab my legs, and guide them up.

I feel him brush over the center of me, instinctively lifting my hips to give him a better angle.

But he doesn’t give me what I want.

Cassian just stands there, gaze gliding from the hells on his shoulders to the apex of my thighs.

“Hold that thought,” he mutters, dropping to his knees and putting his mouth on me before I can even blink.

My back leaves the desk, a gasp escaping me.

“Cassian.”

“I want you to come on my tongue, then you get to come on my cock.”

“Cassian.”

He hums, the sensation sending shivers down my spin. He kisses me like he’s doing it for him, not me, mouth on every part of me it can reach.

I can see the lines of his tattoos on his shoulders, the top of his curly hair. It’s too much to handle, so I just lay back down on the desk and throw my hands above my head to hold on to the edge of the desk.

The only time he stops is to tell me things that apparently can’t wait five minutes, but I don’t even care because every word out of that sinful mouth makes me burn hotter.

“Come for me,” he demands breathlessly a few minutes later.

“Don’t boss me around,” I groan, even as I do exactly what he wants.

He lets me ride it out, dropping kisses to my thighs and stomach and hips.

As soon as I catch my breath, he’s on his feet, putting me in the exact position I was in earlier.

And then he’s pushing inside me, and I honestly almost come again from the feel alone. “Thank God,” I groan, the past three reminding me of the misery teasing him put me through.

“Fucking hell, you’re perfect.”

Hands on my thighs, he holds me in place as he starts to move. But as he picks up speed, going harder with each thrust, his hands have to slip to my thighs to keep me still.

I say his name, sounding like I’m begging him for something, and he groans. His head’s thrown back, bare skin shining and making him look likesome sort of beautiful devil.

“Hurry up, little wolf,” he almost pleads.

The sound of that stupid fucking nickname does me in, and I come with a loud moan. I would’ve kicked him in the head if he hadn’t immediately dropped down on top of me to kiss me without abandon.

His hips still but he keeps kissing me until he has to break for air.

I’m boneless and limp beneath him, and he looks me over with male satisfaction.

Then his mouth drops open, betrayal in his eyes, and he says, “I just realized you didn’t speak even French! All these weeks of me fucking fantasizing about that... well, I guess we’ll just have to do it again.”

“Accorde moi un instant,” I pant in French, asking for a moment.

He grins down at me. “Take your time. We have a lifetime.”

My lips twitch, and I don’t stifle the urge to smile.

I’m about to say something, but then his expression turns serious. “You realize I have to fuck you on my desk now. Equality and whatnot.”

I laugh and pull his mouth to mine. “As long as you know I’m still not giving you my side of the bed.”

He tugs on my bottom lip with his teeth. “We can share.”

We get married seven days later, surrounded by a crowd of family, dirty politicians, thieves, drug and arms dealers, and friends.

In the past week, we’ve solidified our business model to a thing of perfection. I handle public relations, real estate and development, and negotiations for the shipping business. Cassian handles both the Bratva and Cosa Nostra soldiers in New York, training new recruits, drug distribution, and negotiations for the arms business.

Basically, I do what I’m good at, and he does what he’s good at.

I know it’s ridiculous to trust someone with half my business after only a month of knowing them, but like Cassian said, I was tired of doing this shit alone.

I’d been dreading the future, dreading taking over and doing everything myself. And now I don’t have to.

I have him to lean on, him to trust.

Looking up, I notice him watching me as we dance, not at all paying attention to the crowd. “What are you thinking about, little wolf?”

“I’m thinking how I thought of this marriage as nothing but an alliance at first. I guess it still is that, but... it’s also more.” He spins us around to the music, watching me with a knowing expression. “You’re more to me than that. And I’m... I’m happy. Working with you and the thought of our future makes me happy.”

He smiles.

“You love me,” he states with quiet confidence.

My heart starts pounding, because I’ve never told a living person that before.

But it’s never been true before, and it is now, so I respond steadily, “I do.”

“I love you, too, Nesta Orlov. Have since the moment I saw you.” He sounds so relaxed about it, the words falling from his lips so easily.

“Doesn’t it scare you?” I ask, not understanding how he’s the calm one all of a sudden.

“Anything you love something, there’s the risk you could lose it or it could hurt you.” Cassian brushes a thumb over my cheek. “But I could never be scared to love you.”

I shake my head and start to say something, but he cuts me off.

“Every morning, when you wake up, there’s this little moment where you look around, confused. And then you look at me, and that hesitation in your eyes just... melts.” He dips me, wrapping his arms tight around me. “You look at me like you trust me, and love me, and want me.”

He presses a soft kiss to my lips. “That look is worth every risk and hardship and whatever else loving someone entails.”

I kiss him back as he brings us to standing. “Italians are such saps.”

He shows off the smile I’ve realized he only gives me, and I say the words I know he needs to hear just as badly as I did. “I love you, Cassian. You’re worth the risk, too.”

______________________________________________________

THANK U FOR READINGGG soft ending for the win

#nessian #nessian fanfiction #acotar #acosf #acowar #a court of thorns and roses #acotar fanfiction #nessian archeron

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shreddedparchment · 4 years

Text

Pseudo Princess Pt.36 - End

A Chance Meeting

08/08/2020

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader Word Count: 10,158

Warnings: language, angst, fluff, creepy dudes

A/N: The end. 😭 I hope you’ve enjoyed it. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Please DO NOT repost my stories on any other sites or blogs. REBLOGS are always welcome.

*pictures relay only style of clothing and not physical appearance/race

Silken sheets that are cool to the touch. A roaring fire. The heartbreaking smell of peony blossoms.

A wooden bucket—your wooden bucket—full of ice-cold water.

A chill warmed by a feverish heat wrapped around your back.

All of these thoughts-no. They’re more like memories.

All of them have come to you over the course of a year.

They grow more elusive as they come.

Before you thought you could almost see a garden with an ocean of pink peonies in varying shades of blush to wine.

Now, after months of having these strange visions, they have become condensed into single colors at random. The most frequent is a shade of gold. A circle of blue.

You think these memories might be important but you cannot grasp onto them long enough to make any sense of them.

There’s also the fact that you know they cannot possibly be memories.

You have never seen a garden of peonies.

You’ve had plenty of chill in your life but a warmth like the one you’d recalled at the beginning of the year when the winter cold had been at its worst is as unfamiliar to you as the looming manor on the hill above the village.

With a small groan, you stop and set the bucket down. Your arms are strong enough to carry it but after so harsh a winter, you’d be a fool not to take care.

You’d only just managed to make it out alive after devoting so much time to your little one.

You suppose the golden hue you keep remembering is similar to your baby’s hair. Just a shade or two off. Just as beautiful.

The estate sits looming at the peak of a hill that sits almost a mile away from the village.

The manor itself, you can see, has been expanded. It has the appearance of a small castle now with towers and battlements. The parapet walls that now surround the structure offer crenels to whatever guard the now small castle may need.

It had sat there abandoned for so long, the lord once given task to watch over it and Bright Rise as well as several other small villages in this part of the kingdom having left.t

With the primary building made of wood, the added masonry has really given the old place new life.

What magnificent furnishings must it have? Gilded and ornate probably. Chairs worth more than everything you own.

What type of person has taken residence there? Is it someone you’d know?

Someone beautiful probably. A handsome lord and his gorgeous lady. Both of them probably members of his Majesty King Anthony’s court.

Do they have children? A young little lord or lady running around causing mischief.

You find yourself smiling, made happy by the image you paint in your head.

It makes you only a little sad that you picture yourself there. Your baby in your arms. Your husband…

My husband?

Silly…You don’t have a husband.

But you yearn for something you very nearly miss. Something you know you should have. Something…precious.

“Hello there, little mouse.”

You gasp, startled out of your daydreams and turn on your heel in search of the horrible voice.

With a stuttering heart you spot Phin, standing with his grimy hands in his tattered pockets.

“What do you want?” You ask him, voice cold but wavering as you grow wary.

Already you’re searching with a quick glance for the nearest route of escape.

You hunch over, grabbing your bucket and attempt and fail to stifle your groan of effort.

Phin lunges forward, his hand thrown out towards you. It makes you flinch. You keep your eyes shut as you wait for the blow.

It never comes.

Slowly you peek, searching for Phin's extended hand and find it wrapped around the rope handle of your bucket.

“What are you doing?” You ask, confused and fearful. “Let go.”

“I can treat you right, little mouse. I can give you proper protection. I’ll even pretend that bastard brat of yours is mine.

“I’ve been patient. I may not be able to wait much longer.” His voice is like sludge, creeping down your spine raising chills of terror as it goes.

You yank on the handle, urging him to release it. You meet his gaze, matching his threat with your own angry stubbornness.

You will not give in to him. Not now. Not ever. Even with your little one…you can’t.

He keeps holding it, refusing to let go until you feel like you’d rather drop the water and come back for more later.

He drops the rope and you stumble back a step, not having realized how much you were actually pulling on the bucket.

Some water spills but you’re just thankful to be free of Phin and you rush away to be even further. A glance back when you’re close to your small home shows you Phin still standing where you left him.

He’s watching you.

You hate him.

Getting inside, you shut the rickety door tight, resting your forehead against the splintered wood as you wait for your heart to stop pounding.

From behind you a sudden “goo" chases the tension and fear from your body. Your shoulders relax.

With a smile tugging at the corners of your lips, you turn in search of the cooing source.

Nestled into a bed of hay, covered with a thick blanket of navy fabric, is your little one.

A hair of golden hair and eyes as blue as the deepest ocean have enraptured you. Stolen your heart and changed your world.

“Are you finally awake?” You gush, moving to place your bucket by the crumbling and unlit fireplace before you make your way to him.

His chubby little legs kick away his tunic. A plain brown piece of linen you’d stitched together to keep him clothed.

At six months, he’s nearly outgrown it.

When you offer your arms, he throws his weight to his left until he can roll onto his stomach and then reaches for pivots towards you.

Sliding your hands underneath his arms, he grabs you and you lift him up then place several kisses to his chubby baby cheeks.

He's gorgeous, your baby boy. His smile is sun bright and the gleam in his eyes is sharp and observant.

The expressions he wears on his little face are familiar. They pull and tug at something too but you can’t focus on it long enough to care.

Your boy is your world and that’s all you need to know.

“Is my sweet boy hungry?” You wonder while moving for the bucket of water you’d lugged into the hut.

You dip your hand in and for a moment relish in the feel of the water on your hand. A sudden desire to be submerged in steaming hot water that smells like a spring garden overcomes you, but it’s gone by the time you gently swipe across your little one's face.

He protests you cleaning his face. Whining a little and twisting in your arms until you’re done and wait with both arms supporting him for his sputtering to stop.

He looks at you and after taking another moment to overcome his displeasure, he smiles again.

You chuckle and move to grab the swaddling blanket you’ve set aside for his use alone and sit with it in your lap as you lean back a little to expose your breast to feed him.

A song you feel you almost dreamt slips from your lips in a soothing hum. With your eyes shut you can almost see a beautiful gown sweep around your feet.

Strong arms hold you close as they lead you around a crowded room.

The image is like a dream too, part of the song you’re humming. You’ve never been in so vast a hall, tables laden with food and the satin gown you wear is softer than any rag you’ve ever worn.

No. You’ve never been bathed in such luxury.

This hovel is your home with its mostly dirt floor, loose cobblestones shoved around in spots you’d set aside to keep dry.

No windows. A door that hangs off its hinges. A straw bed. A patched roof.

As your son feeds and you allow your mind to put away the dream of nice things, you assess the hut you’ve made your home.

You’re almost certain that you’d had it in better condition before. The door had hung straight, the rickety fireplace had been sturdy and homely.

The floor had been more even. Your straw bed had been less lumpy.

You’d had another small shelf with your plates and cups. Your sewing kit safely stored in the cupboard below.

Your home had not been grand but it had been comfortable. It had been yours and you’d cared for it delicately and made it a sanctuary.

When had it changed so much?

As you attempt to remember when this place fell apart your mind is forced to confront several other unanswered questions that you seem to think on often but always forget.

It’s almost as if the thoughts are pushed from your mind until they are brought to the surface once more.

The one question that started it all…the one that had made you pause. You still remember the miller’s wife, staring at you at the small grocer's shop while you waited to pay for your bushel of potatoes.

“Oi, orphan. How much longer ‘til you have the babe?” She'd asked, her eyes narrowed as she considered your swollen belly.

You'd stroked it, smiling fondly at the little life growing within you.

“A fortnight.” You’d answered, happy and content despite your poor living.

“Ah, and who's the father?” She'd asked, then waited as your smile slowly fell.

You’d stood there for a few minutes, waiting your turn but lost in thought at the question that had never once occurred to you in the seven months since your belly began to grow.

“I…I don’t know.” You’d admitted to her and her eyes filled with a solemn worry.

“Looks like they finally cornered you. Didn’t get a look at ‘is face?” She'd wondered and it was then that you realized what she thought.

Your precious baby, your little growing bean, was the product of one of the village men forcing himself on you.

But it wasn’t true!

As you sit with your son in your arms, rocking him back and forth as he eats, you know without a doubt in your mind that your son was made with love.

You can feel it within your very soul. There was passion and love and devotion in his making.

A golden aura, warm and encompassing that gave you your own little ray of sunshine. But even though you know this you cannot see his father.

There is no father. Only your Joseph.

He stirs in your arms. You find him smiling, finished with his meal. And just like that, your thoughts are lost to his special allure.

“All done?” You ask him and he yawns.

You begin to wrap him up in the blanket you’d made for him and bring a basket from the corner of your hut.

It’s a decent size with straps sewn into the wicker so that you may put it on your back.

You place it before you, balanced between your legs and gently lay Joseph within. You make certain he's wrapped up tight and kiss his cheek before you fit a domed lid on top.

The lid covers his head and keeps him safe from the summer heat.

“We'll check the traps and then come right back.” You promise him and lift the basket onto your shoulders, listening as he coos long baby words that say nothing.

It’s like he’s talking to you, the quiver of his voice moving up and down with inflection as if he knows what he’s doing.

He takes a breath and then starts again, “Oooh-awhhhh-wahhhhhh-ooooohhhhhhh…”

You can’t help but smile, your skin greeted by scorching sun as you start your trek into the trees behind your home.

“Let's check the traps by the pond first, then we'll check the bog by the road.” Joseph coos along with you.

~~~~~~~~~~

The view is spectacular.

It’s downright scenic from up here so high on the hill. Even if the beautiful valley is slightly tarnished by the village below.

It’s part of the reason he decided to keep the purchase.

Several months ago, Steve had found the deed to the manor on Sunbright Hill.

He'd sat for nearly an hour while he'd considered the paperwork, trying to remember why he’d made the purchase of such a dilapidated plot.

The lord that had once resided here had apparently vacated when he'd married a lady of considerable wealth but she preferred the Capital city to Bright Rise below so, they’d left and never come back.

Slowly the manor began to rot and the village, without its caretaker, had also fallen into poverty and corruption.

The farms were all but dead. Only two were still in use and had the season failed once in the past few years, the village would have surely fallen.

“Steve?” Bucky sighs, moving into the renovated den.

Steve stands by the large arched windows behind his massive oak desk.

The chair is angled towards the glass, distracted as he's been lately, he can’t seem to get any work done.

“Steve?” Bucky says louder.

Steve blinks, pulled from his brooding to notice his friend. He turns and waits, saying nothing.

“She's here.” Bucky smiles.

Steve’s heart gives an eager stutter as his own bearded face breaks into a wide smile.

“Where?” He asks, moving towards his oldest friend.

“She’s with Nat in the dining room. She was hungry.”

Steve is already out the door, stomping with wide steps down the hallway, then another and another, down a staircase then to the east side of the manor towards the dining room.

It’s a long room, a table long enough to sit at least forty people takes up most of the center space.

Each wall has been adorned with tapestries and paintings, an iron chandelier with sixty candles hangs at the center of the room, currently unlit.

Instead, windows on both sides of the room sit open, a cool breeze blowing in to cool the manor from the summer heat.

As Steve thrusts the doors open, he spots a grouping of his closest friends. Sam, Wanda, Pietro, Peter who is actually squatting beside the chair they are all surrounding, and Natasha in the one beside it.

In the chair is a cherub. An angel. A literal princess dressed in pale pink. Her golden hair, a shade darker than Steve’s is pinned back on one side with clasp of small and ornate white peony blossoms.

“Maggie!” Steve calls, the honey in his deep voice soft and flowing as his heart swells in his chest.

The toddler turns her head, searching aimlessly as his voice echoes around the room. Her right hand full of jelly and toast as she’d sat munching, she now opens and holds her fingers wide as she isn’t coordinated enough to recognize when the food has fallen from her tiny grasp.

Everyone is watching her, despite the presence of their King and Steve cannot blame them. Her eyes find him and she releases a high squeal of excitement before she turns in her seat to take hold of the arm.

“Wait, Maggie, your hands are a mess.” Nat says, her voice full of amusement.

But little Maggie has no patience for cleanliness with her papa so close.

“Papa!” She screams, turning to look at him as she stands on the chair.

Her lips wrap around the name with a slur, her talking improving but still just beginning.

Nat continues to wipe her hands as Steve laughs and moves for her, arms extended.

Maggie bounces on her feet excitedly. Her pink dress swishing with every move.

As he reaches her, she allows herself to fall into his arms and he catches her, spinning her once as he presses a long kiss to her cheek.

Maggie laughs, her hands wrapped around Steve’s head so tightly that Steve wonders if her strength is increasing or it’s just his imagination.

“She has been asking about you all week.” Nat says, rising and then turning to Bucky as he approaches her to give her a kiss.

“We'll give you some space.” Wanda offers then moves around the chair towards the exit.

Steve stops his turning to watch her go, Pietro following.

“Will you be going back to Broklin?” He wonders, wondering if the twins only came to escort Maggie.

“No. We'll visit with Tony.” Pietro nods, then both of them stop at the door and bow before heading off at what must be Pietro’s run.

“How was the journey?” Steve worries, turning his eyes on Nat.

“It was fine. She was a little fussy last night but as soon as I explained that we were coming to see her papa, she converted her energy to enthusiastic impatience.” Nat chuckles. “She really has been asking for you. ‘Papa where?’, ‘Where Papa?’, ‘Papa, Papa, Papa…’. It’s almost as if it’s the only word she knows.”

“She’s never been away from him for so long.” Bucky observes, both he and Nat watching as Maggie places her little hands on Steve’s cheeks, her fingers exploring the edges of his beard while Steve admires her little face.

“I’m sorry, my treasure. I just wanted to make sure the manor would be ready when you arrived.” He tells her.

She seems to understand as she tilts her head to one side and throws her hand up, bent at the elbow as she babbles a string of words only she understands.

“Do you forgive me?” Steve begs.

Maggie giggles sleepily then leans forward to lay her head on his shoulder.

Steve strokes her tiny back, caressing her hair a bit as her eyes begin to close.

“How long will you stay, Nat?” Steve asks, his voice dropping a bit in volume to respect his sleeping toddler.

“Long enough for you and Sam to go and come back. Bucky and Peter will help me with Maggie.” She nods, looking for her faithful friend and Knight.

She spots him in another seat, head in hand, elbow on the table as he dozes lightly.

“He's been doting on her.” Nat explains. “Too much, perhaps?”

Sam huffs a laugh as he crosses his arms across his hard chest, tugging on the crimson tunic he’d quickly dressed himself in this morning.

“He’ll be angry we went to visit Morgana without him.” Sam observes and Steve can’t find it in him to deny it.

The romance that had bloomed between them had seemed to come out of nowhere for him.

In the back of his mind when he’s been laying in bed with Maggie beside him, he can almost remember a conversation about their eventual marriage. When he brought it up to Nat—he was fairly certain the topic had been discussed with a woman—she admitted to the thought never even crossing her mind.

She’d praised the match and teased Peter afterwards, but it has left Steve with another unanswered question.

So many…so many strings that he’s tried to pull on only to find the way blocked.

Maggie coos in his arm, another bout of baby babble in her sleep that pulls him from his pondering.

“We’ll head out in a few hours.” He tells Sam who straightens up and nods. “I would like to go now, but I want to spend a bit of time with Maggie before I leave her again.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A few hours with Maggie turned into thirty minutes.

The longer Steve sat with her in his arms, the more eager he was for her to wake.

He’s missed her but knows that she’s tired so in an effort to get the visit over with and return to his smiling princess, he tucks her into her crib in his bedroom then hands her care over to Nat who sits by the window while Bucky sees them out.

“How long will you be, your Majesty?” Bucky wonders, keeping pace with Steve’s quick and long stride.

“Not long. I’ve only to invite him to the ball in two weeks and we’ll return. I’m certain we’ll be back before dinner.” Steve assures him. “I hear you and Natasha are considering adopting a child?”

Bucky smiles. “There is another option, one that Natasha is most eager to try but I think I’ve convinced her to reconsider.”

Steve regards his friend skeptically.

“Truly, I think I have. She met with a witch a few weeks ago and apparently there is a way for Natasha to regain her ability to have a child.” Bucky explains, his expression a little darker.

Steve’s confusion is evident in the narrow of his brow. Despite his curiosity, he keeps his eyes fixed ahead as they move along the south hall to the stables.

The fall of their shoes echoes along the empty corridor, still only half decorated as it was only finished a few days ago. Steve can still smell the fresh clay between the stones underneath their feet.

He’ll have carpets put in to quell the sound.

“Isn’t that what you both want?” He wonders.

Bucky shakes his head. “I want her to be happy. She thinks I want a child of my own. Naturally my own. But I don’t care if the child is mine by blood. I just want to love her.”

“Magic like that of which she speaks comes with a hefty price.”

“That’s why I refuse to accept it.” Bucky sighs, the worries of his world evident on his shoulders.

“The price is too high?” Steve wonders, finally looking to his friend.

“We would be granted the ability to have our own child, but the mother would have to relinquish years of her own life. Five is what the witch told her. So, if it were Nat’s fate to die at the age of sixty, five years would be taken from that and she would die that much sooner.” Bucky laments, shaking his head in denial. “I cannot condone it.”

Steve sees his friend thinking things through, biting his lip as he wonders if he should speak what has consumed his mind aloud.

He gives in, “I know that it’s her choice. If she should want to do it, I only have some say in it. If having a child truly born of us both is what would make her happy then I would have no choice but to comply, but I would rather adopt a child who we will both love as our own anyway and have my wife for five years longer.”

Steve’s heart gives a painful ache.

Something in Bucky’s words makes him sad and breaks his heart.

My wife…Steve repeats in his head, the memory of feeling proud at that very thought overtaking his senses.

“Is it Margaret again?” Bucky wonders, stopping as they reach the end of the hall. “You’ve got that look on your face again.”

Steve reaches up to stroke the spot on his chest where he can feel his heart beating. Every thump it gives sends more agony into the pit of his stomach making his head hurt.

Is it Margaret? Steve doesn’t think so.

The first time someone had asked him if it was Margaret he was mourning he admitted it was because it was easier than to tell his friends that no, it wasn’t his dead wife he was thinking of. In fact, he wasn’t sure who it was he was thinking of.

He shuts his eyes now, overcome with the sweet scent of oils. Lilac and juniper. Peonies. Fields of them. A garden full, just like back home.

A smile flitters past his sense. The image nearly chokes him. A laugh. A pout. A tear stained face made blurry as he can’t recall its beauty.

Maggie in womanly arms, pressed gently to her breast.

These elusive images that skim his mind are not Margaret. Everyone seems to ignore that Maggie is too young to be Margaret’s or perhaps they simply don’t care?

It’s almost a silent agreement that Maggie’s mother is not Margaret but who exactly she is, no one cares. No one will think on the possibility long enough for it to matter.

Even Steve loses focus after a few second of torment.

Even now, as his heart breaks painfully, Bucky puts his hand on his shoulder and gives him a shake.

Just like that, the images that pained him only moments ago are gone.

Steve smiles, breathing in deep before exhaling in a huff.

“I’ll be quick. I want to be back before it’s too dark.” With a nod from Bucky, Steve hastens his way into the stable.

Sam already has his horse saddled and waiting.

He hops on, adjusting his posture as he takes the reigns then turns to give Bucky one final wave.

“Keep my daughter happy until I return.” He orders.

Bucky waves them off and watches until they clear the large gate.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your hands are shaking with rage. Yet another night with nothing caught.

All of your snares are in fact, broken. A deliberate cut made to the wire you’d spent so much money on.

You think you know exactly who it was that came out to ruin your work. There’s only one person who would benefit from sabotaging your efforts to feed yourself and your boy.

The image of Phin standing across the field from your home, staring at you is burned into your mind.

If it weren’t for Joseph, you would happily starve before you accept Phin’s hand in marriage.

As it is, it isn’t only you. In order to feed your son, you must eat. With no one coming to you for mending—which you are also sure is thanks to Phin’s interference as it has only been happening the past few weeks—you have no money to buy anything. No grain. No bread. No meat.

If you do not eat, your son will starve.

You clutch the broken snare in your hand, squeezing so tight you can feel the wire dig into the palms of your hand.

Were they not so rough, you may have cut yourself.

You take a quick peek at the basket carefully nestled between the rough trunk of tree and large berry bush. Your little one still dozing peacefully and safely covered by the basket’s lid.

While he sleeps, you know you must be quick with the snares by the bog. It isn’t too far so you decide to let him sleep in the shade and make your way through the trees to the road’s edge.

It’s a very short walk. Should he cry you’ll hear him perfectly and be able to run back to him in less than ten seconds.

The sun beats down on the road here and the bog is nearly dried over from the heat of the summer sun.

Normally the mud within is a thick sticky paste that one can easily be caked in. You even remember fetching a purse for the old woman who used to care for you when you were little.

As you stop by its edge, you wonder where the old woman has gone. You attempt to recall the last time you’d seen her but the last memory you have is fetching her purse from the mud pit.

Forcing her from your mind, you look to the two snares you’d set up between two trees and right at the edge of the bog.

The one at the edge has also been cut. You kick it angrily before you move to the other and find that it has also been tampered with.

“Fuck!” You mutter, hating Phin with every fiber of your being.

You try to picture him beside you, laying claim over you as his wife. You think on the life you will live, trapped in your home, and expected to fulfill his every whim, wish, and desire. He will rule you with a heavy hand, command you to obey, and take what he wants from you with violence if need be.

Terror roots you to that spot between the trees, hunched over as your hands shake with anger at the lack of options for you and Joseph.

There is the other choice, the one you’ve refused to make because where might you go? Here in Bright Rise you at least have a roof over your head.

Soon fall will come, then winter after that. If you choose to leave, you might be condemning yourself and your son to a death by freeze and you can’t do that. You can’t make such a reckless choice with him so little still.

You gather as much of the wire as you can, carefully wrapping it around an empty spool you’d kept just in case, hoping to keep your anger from shifting into sorrow.

As you work, you can hear the sound of hooves behind you. Two horses at most. Perhaps three? The sound of shifting gravel too close.

There’s the clearing of a throat before a steady voice speaks. “Excuse me, might I trouble you, miss for some directions? My guard and I seem to have become lost in these backroads by the village.”

You sigh, still consumed with rage with Phin, but rise and turn to face the man who addresses you.

He’s godly, this man with golden hair and a beard to match. His eyes are piercing. Storm blue as they stare you down and you fidget with the spool in your hand as your heart does a sudden and unexpected dip into your belly where it explodes into a flurry of butterflies.

Voice choked in your throat, you look away from the beautiful man and tried to clear your head.

“His Majesty, King Steven has asked you a question, miss.” His guard says, shocking your system into an automatic curtsy as you intentionally avoid their gaze now.

“I’m sorry!” You gasp, worried you might have given offense.

“Sam, it’s alright.” King Steven says, his voice soft and coaxing.

You take a quick peek at his guard, another handsome man with deep umber skin and a soft bronze glow. His gaze is a little sterner but kind all the same.

“We did not mean to startle you.” King Steven says, the gentility in his voice luring you into taking another look at him.

When your eyes meet, you find that you can’t look away.

“I-I was checking my traps.” You relay, feeling stupid suddenly for giving him information that he has not asked for.

“I can see that.” King Steven nods, a small smile tugging up half of his full pink lips.

He’s exquisite. His dress is fine, luxurious satin and silk. His tunic is a royal blue, a silver stitching along every seam in what looks to be a small wavy pattern.

It looks familiar and your hand absentmindedly moves with the pattern of the stitch as if it remembers how to make it though you’ve never sewn on anything so fine in your life.

King Steven’s eyes notice the movement and he watches your hand before you remember yourself and speak again.

“Forgive me, your Majesty, you asked me a question.” You gasp, dropping the spool at your feet and moving around the mud pit to stand at the edge of the road, much closer to where he and his guard tarry.

King Steven smiles again, sending your heart into a pitter patter.

“If you head down this road, you will reach a fork with three smaller roads. You’ll want to take the Eastern most road for nearly four miles before you reach a second fork of two roads. Take the left and follow that road and do not stray. You will reach the Capital before noon.” You say, pointing as you give instruction.

As you finish you drop your arm and bring your hand to tug at the worn leather of your belt.

King Steven stares at you, smiling for so long that you look down at your feet and are suddenly aghast by the state of your shoes and skirts.

You’re so dirty that you’re ashamed to be seen by them. With a bite to your lip, you turn and hurry back around the mud pit to pick up your spool.

“Thank you.” King Steve says, his wide shoulders relaxed. “Might I pay you for your assistance? What is the customary amount? Five silver pieces?”

You throw out your hand to stop him, embarrassed to take payment for so small a favor. “No!”

Gasping you watch as the spool flies out of your hand. It hits the front of his horse then topples onto the road where it rolls along further down the rocky path.

King Steven dismounts as you rush forward in chase of the wire.

Both of you reach it at the same time but King Steven is first to bend over and take it.

“Oh, please…” You gasp, worried about the dirt and muck that must be caked on the tool. “You’ll dirty your hands.”

As King Steven stands upright, he dusts it off then offers it to you. “A little dirt never killed anyone.”

Your senses are assaulted by him and for a moment all you can do is stare at his hand as he waits for you to take your wire.

He smells like evergreen woods and oranges. No…limes…You’re not sure! It’s a citrus of some sort and it overwhelms your mind. His voice is deep and smooth. It works its way into your bones and nearly turns them into jelly.

“Will you not take it?” He asks, shaking the spool a little.

You look up to meet his gaze but find that his smile has disappeared. In its place is a look of severe concentration.

Is he angry with you? Have you insulted him by waiting so long to take your property?

The look in his eyes is intense. He looks almost as if he’s trying to recall an elusive memory.

You know the feeling…

Quickly you take the spool, ignoring the moment your hand brushes his. He must notice how rough your hands are. He must mix with ladies whose hands had never once known the strife of physical labor.

“Thank you, your Majesty.” You curtsy quickly, avoiding his gaze and move around him.

A hot, vice-like grip takes hold around your wrist.

You stop, turning to look at his hand then up to meet his gaze.

Gone is the look of confusion, replaced by a furrowed brow and what can only be hopeful searching within his storm blue eyes.

“Steve?” His guard warns, confused by the moment almost as much as you are.

“What are-” You whisper, voice so weak you’re surprised you can manage to speak at all.

You clear your throat and search for the courage to say your piece.

You don’t like this. The way his presence almost consumes you. His touch is burning, and you’re not sure why you feel as if you’ve also been waiting a lifetime for it.

“Unhand me.” You plead, twisting your wrist in his hand but refusing to look away from his slowly shifting expression.

He smiles and your heart stutters, fear of what it might mean making you yank a little harder, but King Steven uses the momentum of your pull to step towards you. He wraps his free arm around your waist, dipping his head down as he presses fevered lips against your own.

You’re frozen in his arms, wide eyes staring at his own now shut. His lips are fierce, his kiss is hard. It hurts a little and it takes you a moment to feel the warmth of their touch.

He drops your wrist and wraps his other arm around you, hand pressed to the back of your head as he tilts his own to one side and coaxes your lips open with a gentle swipe of his tongue.

The taste of him stuns you, your body freezing as your mind is assaulted with images all blurred together into one precious life that you’d most assuredly lost and now found again.

Your eyes grow blurry, tears flooding from the corners as your lips finally respond to Steve’s kiss.

With a gasp you pull away, sobbing once as you gobble up the sight of him.

Steve’s hands caress the sides of your face, stroking your hair and cheeks as he also devours your visage.

“I found you.” He whispers, throat tick with emotion.

You sob once more, arms pulling him towards you as you give in to the shocking relief you feel to be in his arms once more.

Your heart breaks as you clutch him close. Over a year of lost time with not only him but…

“Maggie!” You exclaim, voice barely above a whisper.

“She’s perfect,” Steve assures you, pulling back to meet your gaze once more. “She’s growing bigger every day. She has your sweetness, your love of jams and jellies.”

Steve laughs, so happy that his own tears fall too. “She calls me Papa, and she calls Sam birb.”

You laugh, shaking your head already knowing that Bucky’s to blame for that.

“I don’t think it’s that funny.” Sam suddenly says, pulling both your gazes towards him.

“Sam…” You smile.

“I’ve kept watch over her, just as I promised.” The recognition in his eyes is heavenly.

“How did this happen?” Steve asks, continuing the caress of your cheeks. “How did we lose each other.”

You sigh, licking your lips as you prepare to explain when your heart suddenly drops, and you remember another pair of storm blue waiting in a basket. “Steve…”

Without warning you turn and race into the trees, running as fast as you can to make sure that he wasn’t a dream.

You find the basket where you left it and pull it away from its hiding spot before you remove the lid, happy to find your little boy still fast asleep.

“Y/N!” Steve calls, racing up behind you where he skids to a stop. “What is it, my flower? What’s the matter?”

He sighs heavily when he finds you, moving to place his hands on your shoulders, needing to feel you it seems.

“Don’t run away from me like that…” He pleads, and your heart aches for him but this is much more important.

“Steve,” You begin, and turn to reveal the six-month-old baby in your arms. “You have a son.”

The step back he takes you attribute to shock. The heartbreak and confusion on his face you have only yourself to blame for.

“How-?” He asks, shaking his head as he stares at the tiny prince in your arms.

“Steve…” You begin, suddenly fearful of what he might say when you confess the deal you’d made with grandmother.

“No.” Steve cuts you off, reaching out to trace the shape of your arms through the dingy dress you wear. “Not here. Let’s go home.”

“To Broklin?” You wonder, relieved that he’s eager to resume your lives together.

“No, I-do you remember when I asked you if I should purchase your little hut?” Despite speaking to you, his eyes are still trained on your son.

Slowly, as he speaks, his hand skates across your arms until he can stroke Joseph’s little cheek with one tentative finger.

“Yes.” You frown, disapproving of the purchase as it isn’t your land to begin with.

“Well, when you forbade me from buying it, I bought the manor on the hill instead.” He confesses, finally meeting your gaze.

“Oh.” You’re stunned.

“I thought that it would be nice to have somewhere in Malibia to call our own. Visiting your family is something that I wanted you to feel free to do. I wanted to give you a space you could come to, somewhere near your home.” He explains sweetly sending your heart into a tizzy.

“Steve…” You reach up, pressing your palm to his warm bearded cheek while keeping a firm hold of your little one with the other.

“Come on.” Steve urges you, leaning down quickly to kiss you then pulls away slowly almost as if he doesn’t want to. “Our princess is waiting.”

~~~~~~~~~~

She’s as beautiful as the night you’d held her close, memorizing the little wheeze in her breath as she’d drifted to sleep.

She’s bigger. She’s walking, unsteadily but moving. She’s talking, indeed saying ‘Papa’ but she says other things that you’ve already picked up on.

Her little chubby limbs have stretched a bit and you can’t believe you’ve lost so much time with her.

Tears are still streaming down your cheeks while you sit here, staring at her sleeping face.

Steve’s hands support her little back as he holds her to his chest, his back resting against the ornate wooden headboard of your bed.

“She’ll know you soon enough.” Steve assures you as you nod and quickly wipe the tears from your eyes. “She was so little.”

“I know.” You reach out, caressing her little head before you look down at the even smaller boy between you both. He’s chewing on his fist, little legs up in the air as he quietly plays by himself.

He’s so good at just being alone, you feel terrible about it because you know that it’s your fault. You’ve needed him to be independent as you worked hard to earn money for both of you.

When he meets your eyes, he coos those long wordless streams of vowel. He’s talking to you, probably relishing in the plush mattress all four of you lay on.

“Shh, my sweet boy. Your sister is sleeping.” You stroke his little chest and he takes hold of your hand as he kicks his legs in excitement.

“Y/N…” Steve begins, and you know it’s finally time.

“I’m ready now.” You sniffle, meeting his look of somber confusion. “I’ll tell you what happened.”

It takes you less than five minutes to explain. Grandmother’s vision. Her actions to see it in greater detail. The truth of his imminent death. You tell him that you begged for his life and that night when Grandmother had interrupted your sleep, she’d come to tell you that she’d found a solution.

“She said the magic would ask for payment. Something that only I could give.” You hope that he doesn’t hate you, his expression unreadable as he watches you with his brooding brow all scrunched and focused. “I thought that it would be my ability to see or walk. My hearing perhaps? Or being able to speak…I never thought that it would take you and Maggie from me.

“My life perhaps? But not my memories of you. Not knowing you.” You sigh, waiting for his rage to show.

What you get instead, is a calm conversation and a gentle pout.

“But it wasn’t only your memories. It was everyone’s. The magic wiped your existence as my wife and Queen completely.” He observes.

“Yes.” You agree. “Even the villagers in Bright Rise acted as if I’d never gone anywhere. How can magic be so powerful as to erase me completely from so many minds?”

Steve shakes his head, his hand still absentmindedly stroking Maggie’s back.

“It was such a risk for you to take.” Steve frowns, his gaze piercing, and the guilt you’d felt building since you’d stepped foot in the manor crests. “How could you make such a choice without consulting with me? I’m your husband.”

“I know.” Your lip trembles. “I’m sorry. It all happened so quickly, and I had so little time to consider the consequences of my choice. All I knew was that your future was certain. You would die protecting the world and I could not give you up to it. If I had the power to save you, of course I would use it. So long as I knew that Maggie would have you, I could stand any future I had to live.”

“Even this one? Both of us separated forever?” Steve counters, holding a mirror to the past year of your life.

You shake your head, new tears springing forth as you look down at your boy who has fallen asleep once again.

“I thought I would have to marry Phin.” You admit, voice quiet so as not to disturb your little ones.

“Why?”

“I’m fairly certain he was orchestrating it. No one in the village were taking work from me to mend their clothing and today, you found me checking my snares for small game, but someone has been breaking them. Cutting the wire or simply tearing it down.

“He wanted me to be hungry enough to marry him and the bastard knew that I would do it, for Joseph if not for myself.” Your anger taints your vision red, Phin’s detestable face a memory you wish you could forget.

Mentioning your son brings Steve’s eyes back down to him. He takes one hand and reaches down, placing his finger into Joseph’s tiny open hand. He grasps his papa’s finger, a tiny fist full of surprisingly sturdy strength.

“Now that we’ve remembered, I’m panicked by the idea that you might have found a new Queen in my absence.” You confess, chewing nervously on your lip.

“Bucky and Sam suggested it. They brought Sharon around me often to try and convince to take her on, but something prevented me from doing so.” His words send your heart into your feet, your head is suddenly splitting.

Glad as you are that he doesn’t seem to have found a new wife, the possibility of it make you feel almost sick to your stomach with anxiety.

“I think perhaps I knew in some way, deep down, that I was already married. The very thought of sharing my bed with someone else drove my skin to crawl. I felt guilty, as if I were committing some grave sin.” He admits, unrelenting in his stare.

“I would not have blamed you…” You whisper, almost fearful to speak the words. “…if you had taken a new wife. If you’d had another child with someone else. I would have had no one to blame but myself.”

“No one could ever take your place.” He assures you. “Even though I didn’t remember you, your presence was greatly missed. I may not have known what it was I was yearning for, but I was wishing for you every moment of every day.”

You shut your eyes, allowing the pleasure his words give you to soak deep down into your bones.

Even though he doesn’t ask, you’d also felt the exact same way. Something had always told you that somewhere was a home waiting for you to take your place. Never would you have guessed that it was a castle in the next Kingdom over.

“Were you frightened?” Steve wonders, drawing your gaze once more.

You find him watching Joseph once again, his thumb stroking the little one’s hand.

“Expecting him all on your own?” He clarifies.

“I was afraid of how I’d take care of him.” You smile, reaching to stroke the length of his little nose. “I knew I would be alright birthing him. It was long and taxing. But he was with me so suddenly. It was over before I even knew what was happening. The miller’s wife came to check on me and she helped me for a few days after, but I had no other choice than to push on. I was up and caring for him and myself before the week was out. That’s when my fear came.

“I knew that I had to feed myself in order to keep him fed and healthy and I wasn’t sure exactly how to do it with the village set so resolutely against me. An unwed mother with a bastard child?”

“I’ll have it burned to the ground.” Steve declares suddenly.

You smile wide, your heart melting as you watch the intensity in his gaze as new love blooms for his son.

“I wish you had spoken with me about Agatha’s vision before you made any decisions.” Steve laments, an anger growing in contrast with the new love.

It effectively wipes aware the happiness his love gives you as you regret having kept him in the dark.

“If I’d told you,” You begin, voice breaking and weak as emotion gets the better of you. The sound of it brings his gaze back to you and he seems to soften with it. “You would have kept me from doing what needed to be done. There was no question of saving you, Steve. I had only just found you. Our baby girl only just born. I could not lose you.”

Shutting your eyes, you let your head fall, burying your face into your pillow.

“Imsuhsawree.” You sob, muffled against the fluff of the bed.

The silence feels endless until you’ve just about made up your mind to look at him again when a sudden snort of laughter cuts the tension with ease.

You whip your head to face him, searching for the source of the laugh only to find Steve with his hand over his mouth as his body shakes with silent laughter.

“You’re laughing?” You gasp in disbelief; certain you must be seeing things.

Your husband cannot possibly be amused in this moment while your heart and soul are drowning in guilt and grief.

“I’m sorry.” Steve chortles, a whisper of giggles as he tries his best not to wake Maggie. “Forgive me, I…”

You frown at him, displeased with his humor but he reaches for you with his hand and hooks it behind your head in a soft caress.

“It’s not funny.” You insist.

“No.” Steve shakes his head. “It isn’t. I’m sorry, my flower. I’m just…so happy you’ve returned. I’ve missed you so much.”

And just like that, he’s forgiven.

The four of you lay there in bed for hours. Though your stomach is empty, you refuse to bring your hunger to Steve’s attention. Even though you know very well just how much he will be upset with you for it, you can’t bring yourself to tear your little family apart so very soon.

The sun is only just setting when Joseph decides it’s time to eat. He whimpers, a soft murmuring of whiney breaths until the air takes shape and his cries begin to grow louder.

Beside him Maggie also stirs, staring around with wide eyes as the crying rises in volume and she’s brought out of her blissful slumber.

Steve wakes last, while you are already scooping your little boy into your arms and propping yourself up against the headboard to feed him, he rubs his face and glances at the window.

“It’s already so late.” He realizes, turning back to you and Joseph while Maggie twists her body until she can lay on her stomach and then throw herself back to sit on her bottom.

Her eyes are glued to Joseph as he latches to your breast and begins to suckle. Your breasts are sore, and the pain is worse than you remember it being with Maggie, but you have no time to focus on the pain.

You make sure he can eat easily, watching him for any signs of distress.

“Did you get her a wet nurse?” You wonder, letting your eyes drift to Maggie who still sits watching you feed her brother.

“I did.” Steve nods, lifting the girl back up onto his lap. “She was so little.”

You look away, a quiver in your bottom lip as you try to push past the heartbreak that you hadn’t been there for your daughter like you’d wanted to be. “Yeah.”

Steve is familiar with you enough that he knows you don’t want to dwell on it and changes the topic quickly.

“Shall we have dinner in here? I don’t want to share either of you yet.” He confesses, stroking the back of Maggie’s little head.

“Yes.” You nod, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically at the mention of food because Steve frowns.

“Damn it, Y/N.” He gripes and gently places Maggie back on the bed before he marches towards the doors. “If you were hungry, you should have said something. After your meal, I’ll have Natasha draw you a bath.”

The prospect of a full belly and a luxuriously hot bath which you hadn’t realized you’d grown so fond of is so dreamy that your heart gives a clench and once more you feel so very happy you just might cry again.

~~~~~~~~~~

“How’s your bath, my petal?” Steve checks, moving to the edge of the bed once more as the children sleep on.

After their dinner they’d quickly begun to play. They’d explored each other’s boundaries and Maggie had made Joseph cry only once for a few minutes before they were sharing Maggie’s soft cloth dolls.

They each sleep with one in their hands, huddled close together at the center of the bed.

“Is the water too hot?” Steve pulls over a small yellow footstool, sitting upon the soft cushion.

He doesn’t wait for your answer and dips his left hand into the water, testing the temperature as you lay yourself back against the large copper tub.

“Your hand is going to smell like peonies and rose oils.” You tease him, bringing your hand up above the fragrant water.

You take a peony petal and carefully tuck it behind his ear, gentle drops of water skirting down into his beard as the pink stands in pleasant contrast to the gold of his hair.

Biting your lip, you comb it back, tracing the shape of his jaw with damp fingers.

“Even though I didn’t know you, my heart and soul yearned for you.” You whisper, sliding your hand down to rest upon his shoulders.

“And I you.” He smiles, eyes shut as you lean in to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

“I wonder,” You begin, pulling back to examine and rememorize every inch of his face. “Now that we are together again, whether this will negate in some way the effect of the spell?”

This thought raises a new worry in you. A fear that by meeting again you have somehow doomed Steve to die.

“Even if it has, I will not part with you again. I won’t die either.” Steve promises, but how can you take him at his word.

Magic is wicked and it will take its price one way or another.

“I have to speak to grandmother.” You counter, your gentle caress of his shoulders turned into a desperate cling.

“She’s gone.” Steve says, sending your heart into a pit within your belly. “No one has seen her since all of this started. However, there is something that I found in my office back home.”

Steve rises, moving towards his cloak left to rest on the back of a chair at the opposite end of the room.

When he returns, he holds in his hand a sealed piece of parchment, folded twice to keep its contents secure. The wax seal is a deep purple, her insignia that of a cat, back arched and head tilted up as if to yowl towards the moon.

You reach for your towel nearby and dry your hands then take the letter as Steve holds it out.

“I’ve been carrying it with me everywhere I go, hoping it would yield some explanation as to why I have been feeling so…empty.” He tells you, picking up his stool and moving to place it a bit more near the head of the tub where you sit. “Scoot forward.”

You do as he asks, staring at the letter and consider what its contents might be.

Steve’s hands disappear beneath the surface of your bathwater and emerge with a small porous sponge. It’s rough at first but with water and under Steve’s heavy hand, it becomes malleable and he begins to stroke your back, cleaning the peasant grime from your body.

“Why haven’t you opened it?” You wonder, turning it over almost expecting it to billow with glittering smoke.

“I attempted to many times. I couldn’t. The seal would not break. See there at the bottom of the fold?” He instructs.

You turn it over to look at the side with the seal and spot the small loopy writing at the bottom. The penmanship is so exquisite, you’re almost certain now that grandmother had indeed once been of noble blood.

For the Queen of Broklin.

“For me?” You gasp.

“I think it will only open for you, petal.” Steve explains as he leans closer to get the tops of your arms and then following the flow of muscle over your shoulders and down along your sides slowly.

Eager now, knowing this letter is meant for you, you tear it open and the seal breaks without fuss.

“Can you read it?” Steve wonders, no note of teasing in his voice.

Like you, he must be wondering whether so long a time away from life at the castle has made you forget everything you’d learned.

“I think so.” And with bated breath, you read, glad that you’d tried so hard to learn and only slightly surprised that you understand every single word she’s written.

If you are reading this note, it means that I was right.

First, believe me when I tell you that every word I spoke of King Rogers’s death was true. There is indeed a threat that would take his life and that of your father’s and King Thor’s as well.

I thought that perhaps King Rogers’s death would be enough to convince you that what we needed to do would be necessary and I am glad to say I was right.

What I did not tell you is that I knew the price to be asked would be the life you’d built within the castle in Broklin. I could not bear to tell you that you’d spent all that time suffering and building a family with him only to have it ripped from you.

Somehow, I don’t think you would have changed your mind even if I had.

After you spoke to me of your connection with the Asgardian king, I was wary of what it might mean for your future as Queen in the kingdom. There was only one chance to break the curse dealt by the spell to save your husband’s life and that was if you and he were always meant to be together.

Soulmates, I believe they call it. Two halves of one whole, set at opposite ends of the world to meet each other in just the right way to create what we know as destiny. In this case, the opposite ends you were placed in were poverty and wealth.

Your husband had every advantage in life while you had none. You were given no loves in life and King Rogers was given one big enough to eclipse the pull you would have for him when and if you met.

At the time, I worried that King Thor might be your true mate. The two of you were so well suited and perhaps I’m right? But if you’re reading this, it means that you and King Rogers found each other once again.

By some miracle, he or you have lifted the curse, and you can once more be together to live your lives and King and Queen of Broklin.

A fate you might not have found had I not thrown my purse into that bog by the road. I hope you appreciate my efforts, girl. I have worked very hard to walk you through this life but must now leave you to shape it on your own.

Don’t worry. I might not be with you every day, but should you need me, I will come. You don’t need to send for me. I’ll know. And rest assured, your husband’s life is safe.

There will always be evil in the world and he will always rise to fight it but be content to know that his life you most certainly have saved. Take care.

-Grandmother

You read the letter at least three times before Steve’s chin finds your shoulder, the scruff of his beard pleasantly rough against your skin.

“What does it say?” He wonders, tilting his head to kiss your neck.

You fold the letter and toss it away so that it won’t get wet, then lean back until you’re relaxed and can turn to look and admire your husband’s storm blue eyes.

“It says that no matter what might come to tear us apart, you will always find me.” You smile, reaching up to scratch underneath his chin.

Steve’s lips curl up on one side, a dashing smirk if you ever saw one.

“Always.”

#king!steve x reader #medieval fantasy au #royal au #arranged marriage au #steve rogers x reader #marvel fanfiction #marvel au #steve x reader fanfiction #steve rogers x reader fanfiction #king!steve x reader fanfiction #king!steve x you #steve rogers x you #pseudo princess #avengers x reader #pseudo princess pt36 #shreddedparchment

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wyn-n-tonic · 3 years

Text

Golden, Like Daylight -- Part V

Word Count: 2,005 Warnings: PTSD. Allusions to sex (it borders on the edge of smut but we should know by now I'm shit at that). Hint of a praise kink. Bit of marking kink. Death. Ben Affleck. Author's Note: The last few chapters have taken a lot out of me, I put a lot of my own experiences with PTSD and mental health into them. I tried to make this fluffy, I needed that comfort after a hard week and I feel lighter for it. As always, thank you so much for your kind words and loving this like I do.

MASTERLIST | PART: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX

“Fuck you.” Benny stares straight into Tom’s eyes. "This is my fuck you money.” The held breaths are louder than gunshots, waiting for a reaction that doesn’t come.

Cold Camp Davis grunts a laugh, “We don’t have enough men to carry all this money so we might as well be warm.”

Benny giggles like a child as he grabs a strap, zippo clicking to ignition again.

The laughter that bubbles up is like a light, warmer than the thousands of dollars burning bright against his eyes.

Frankie, you might as well take your salary out on the front lawn and pour some kerosene on it.

He hears it so clearly in his head and in his heart, Leah teasing him for all the lights being on the first time he took her home.

Tom stands up, dumping an entire case down to tinder in the cold air.

Eight dates in and she’d already witnessed one of his attacks. It was the third date, he’d wanted to take her home that night. His body on hers for hours. Wanted to make breakfast the next morning, having already committed to memory the way she takes her coffee. Instead, she spent that night holding tightly to his hands as his panic crescendoed in the backseat of his car.

If it wasn’t then that he realized he loved her, it was in the way she turned to look at him when he quietly said,

The lights being on make me feel safe.

It wasn’t pity, like he’s used to. It wasn’t the look somebody gives a broken man with a broken mind and a broken soul. The only change he found in the already soft features was an understanding behind the dark eyes staring back at him.

This fire makes him feel safe now.

He’s always straining in the dark. It’s not just about watching his six. It’s all twelve hands on deck with two eyes and a ringing in his ears so intense he can feel it in his toes.

But here? It beats back against the edges of gloom that have continuously threatened to consume him.

He can sweep enclosed spaces in minutes, assess the situation and the danger within. It’s a lot harder in the extended wilds, nothing but the moon to guide the eye.

Before Leah—and for a while there after—he combed room for room upon his arrival home. He’d ask her to stay in the car, his conceal carry coming out as soon as the door would swing open.

He’d sheepishly grin, collecting her from the passenger side after his survey and she’d hug him. Holding tightly around his middle section, pressing her cold hands up under his shirt to that hot place where his heart beats and whisper with genuine gratitude,

Thank you for protecting me, Frankie.

It was never condescending, that’s all he ever wanted to do. Protect her. Protect himself. Protect the men giggling like schoolboys around him right now.

And he liked being told what a good job he did at that. —————

“What's Frankie short for?” Barely audible, her breath fanning across his chest as she continues to catch it. Like willing waves of normalcy in the aftermath of a hurricane.

“Francisco.”

“Francisco,” she repeats, dragging out the o. “Do you like it?”

“Used to make me feel like I was in trouble, very harsh coming from pissed off higher ups and even angrier parents but it sounds…” he thinks on that for a second, the events of the night still rippling through his body, “a lot sweeter in your mouth.”

“Watch yourself,” she hums a kiss into the flat plane of his breast before sinking her teeth into the flesh there, biting as hard as she can.

A chuckle vibrates from deep within him, “one hell of a bite too, I won’t soon forget.”

He looks down into her eyes, bright with mischief as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth now. He’d had hickeys before but never like this. He surveys the purple marks across his body, somehow burning brighter than the rest of him, and a contentedness pools in the pit of his stomach. Her stamps on him in easily hidden spaces to match the lipstick stains she’s started marking across his right cheek in the moments before they walk into the bar or the restaurant.

Little ways she says mine.

And he is hers. He knows it in the steady way his lungs rise and fall underneath her now.

He brushes a soft wave from where it tickles across her nose, “is Leah short for anything?”

Her nose scrunches, “not a goddamn thing.”

“Do you know what it means then?” His large hand is sprawled across her lower back, the weight of it an anchor.

Don’t leave me, it says.

“I don’t know,” she drawls, the slight twang coming forward in moments of exhaustion and inebriation, “just think my mama liked the sound of it is all.”

His heart is blazing underneath her cheek as she settles against him once more, her soft voice tumbles towards him, “Francisco…” as her eyelashes brush against his skin and he swears he can count them all on sensation alone.

“Yeah, baby?”

He feels a smile tug at her lips, stopped in its tracks where she’s rooted into him. It’s the first time he’s called her that.

“I have nightlights.”

The light makes her feel safe too. —————

He’s standing over Tom’s body and he hates to admit it but the feeling washing over him is one of relief.

Relief mingled with guilt.

Guilt that nobody was watching his six, his back wide open to the world behind it. Five seasoned fucking veterans and nobody watching the higher ground.

Relief at the silence he knows will engulf the group now. No more orders from a child who should’ve never been granted the lead to begin with.

Guilt because he was climbing up a fucking rock when he should’ve been doing his job as a friend and brother.

Relief that it wasn’t his brains splashed across stone.

His head is fucking pounding and it has been for days, pain dulled by consistency but never not there.

At least I can feel my fucking head.

He thinks of all the other things he can feel now, the things service beat from his body.

The ache in his limbs, heavy with exhaustion.

He’s dreading adding the dead weight of a dead body to the load.

The pang in his stomach, too used to consistently hot food.

He wants black coffee and bacon and tiny spoonfuls of sweet potato puree he airplanes into his own mouth to show Luna it won’t hurt her. Hell, he’d take the mushed peas right now.

Benny’s sobbing. The one amongst them all that never breaks is the broken one now.

He’s staring off again at everything and nothing, Santiago and Will unfurling bags for the body.

What a present to bring home.

It was always the risk they faced, they knew it.

If you were lucky, truly lucky, you came home whole. Untouched, unscathed, unmarred. The safe deployments, the technical shit, the brains behind the operations never seeing bloodshed. Everybody else though? Some were held together by duct tape and pure grit.

Others tied up in a flag with a bow.

Daddy’s not coming home but here’s a purple heart for the dress uniform he’ll never wear again.

I should’ve done more.

He’s not getting a purple heart for this.

I should’ve held on tighter.

He didn’t die in service to his country, he died in service to himself.

I should’ve made a bigger issue of the weight.

Another family he’s failed to protect.

I should’ve said no. —————

The darkness is cut through with a warm glow in every outlet as the clock tips over the edge of midnight.

Wednesday, the eleventh of October.

Nose to nose, the excitement of the day hangs over them like a wave threatening to crash. A giddiness in their bed forcing sleep to the edges of thought.

“Do you think they’re gonna know?” Her voice is soft, featherlight. Trying not to disturb the peaceful bubble they find themselves in now.

“No,” he lifts to press his lips gently into hers, “but I can’t promise I won’t shout it out on the altar.”

Panic takes her eyes, he knows it all too well and he’s gripping tighter before she can inhale. Fingers splayed across the small of her back, the weight of it a comfort to the tender bones and aching muscles.

I'm right here, it says.

“Breathe, breathe,” he’s speaking softly into her hair, “it was just a joke, baby.”

“You're not funny, Francisco Morales.” She speaks it like a fact, like she doesn’t spend hours in his arms filling his head with the music of her laughter. She says it like he isn’t watching smile lines appear in real time, falling more in love with each one.

“Would it be so bad though? If I did? If people knew?” It’s hope in his voice that she’ll say yes. That he can announce to his best friends all at once, every single one, before Santi leaves again. He doesn't want his happiness to arrive by text message. He wants to see the light of congratulation dancing around him.

“I don’t want to jinx it,” she’s scared, “besides… it’s not traditional.”

He scoffs, “what about us has ever been traditional, mi alma?”

“I'll make you a deal,” her fingers run through the stubble along his jaw, thumbs lingering over the patches, “don’t shave this tomorrow and you can tell the boys.”

“You want me to keep this malnourished shit on my face? For our wedding?”

Her giggles vibrate against him, “Yes. I have plans for it after you say I do.”

He growls, “this deal sounds pretty sweet to my lazy soul, what do you get out of it?”

“Hmm…” she brings her hand up to tap on her chin, “well, to begin, I’m getting a hot husba—”

“Debatable.”

“I'll fuck you up, Morales, take the compliment.”

He laughs a kiss into her, “what else?”

“Benny and Will will become automatic attack dogs around me, I’m fairly certain they will clear their schedules for all of April to stand guard outside the room. My own personal security team.”

He laughs again at the truth in her words, “what else?”

She pushes forward again, taking his lip between hers. A soft kiss with the burning desire for more.

“I’ll wake up on Thursday morning with a rawness between my legs that I’m usually only gifted on the weekends.”

His grip tightens, any suggestion of sleep leaving his body in a rush of blood straight through him, “I will never shave again.”

“Don't threaten me with a good time, my love.”

He rolls himself into her at that, kissing down her jaw. Her neck. The sensitive skin of her breasts, low lying cotton barely above indecency. He raises the hem, the curve of her belly burning hot against his lips, two hearts now beating inside her.

He grabs the elastic around her hips and gently pulls, kisses so soft across her pelvis they feign an innocence to his true intentions. Her legs kick out to help discard the fabric tangling her ankles as he settles broad shoulders at the base of her being.

Her fingers twirl through the soft curls that have been crushed against a pillow for hours by her side.

He kisses her soft thighs, slowly dragging his rough cheek against the delicate flesh.

“Francisco,” her fingers flex tighter as he looks up to meet her eyes, “don’t be such a fucking tease.”

He smiles wide, the devilish grin splitting his face as he drops his eyes to where she wants him, the fever that’s taken over her body in the last three months beckoning him in.

His hands are heavy on her hips, clenching deep purple into her. Marks in easily hidden spaces, his little ways of saying mine.

#frankie morales #francisco 'catfish' morales #francisco morales #i believe in francisco morales supremacy #triple frontier #fanfic #fanfiction #pedro pascal #oc #ofc #original character #original female character #francisco catfish morales #pedro pascal fanfiction

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sopxhiea · 3 years

Text

Moirai

Alfie Solomons X Reader

Summary: Alfie comes over for dinner with the purpose of gaining the infamous uncle’s trust but he has other ideas in mind and they all concern the pretty niece.

Warnings: Age gap.

The italic text is in a foreign language.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

"You taste like chocolate."

The jew.

That’s all that can be heard for the next couple of days.

What does he eat? What would he like to drink? Will he come on time? Who’s he bringing? What does he look like?

The weather is chilly, a thin layer of snow graces the trees around. The horses are in their place, warm and content after a day’s ride. There’s not much that can be heard on the outside of the mansion, just the sound of lively chatter from the inside as the maids hurry to get the cake ready.

The air in the balcony is cold, given it’s the dead of december. The weather has been nice enough for too long, you gather as you watch a set of birds fly around each other and they soon disappear behind the large tree trunks. The sun sets slowly on the horizon, the orange hue soon disappearing as you realise your hands are red.

He’s coming today.

There’s a group of middle aged men in the house, most of whom are business associates from the past. They’re too old to work now, retired and an empire left behind of the crumbs they used to work off of. They’re all dressed in a similar manner, a simple lines suit and a fitting hat made of similar fabric. Their shoes shine as they walk around the grand gallery.

The gallery decorated with your work.

It’s a dangerous game, the most thrilling one you’ve played so far. The ends of your silk dress dance with the cold wind and you hug your cardigan tighter, the inside noise is too much to bear so you find yourself in the balcony of your study.

Six days.

The motions of it are a bit delayed but the so called London gangster is dancing on the red ropes you’ve provided him. He plays the game exceptionally well, leaving no trace behind and the flour on his shoe soles are always cleaned. His rings burn when they meet your skin but it hasn’t been that many times, you gather.

You hadn’t slept with him still.

Keeping him on his toes was the little bit of thrill you had needed. He didn’t tire, unlike the many lads you’d been out with before. He came back for more but he knew the borders you’d set for the time being. There was no questioning from his end, just the frantic nod of his head before he attacked your lips.

And then, your uncle had invited him over for dinner.

That meant trust, that Alfie was now a part of an important bond your uncle was keen on forming. He didn’t just have dinner with anyone, not in his own house. He had done it with another partner before and now, you got christmas gifts and jewels as gifts from him every now and then. It meant that Alfie was now trusted.

Although you had your doubts.

The maid called your name, her steel like voice cutting through the long corridors. You hadn’t seen a car pull up but it was only a portion of the front area that could be seen from the balcony you were standing on. You hugged the cardigan tighter before exiting the glass decorated space.

The dress you had on had a small cleavage, buttons all the way down to the bottom of the dress. The lilac color fit the golden decoration around, or so you thought as you made your way down the stairs in a cheery manner. You were only allowed to be respectful to the guests but a little fun would hurt no one.

Shooting smiles to the familiar faces of the maids, you eyed the chocolate cake on one of the trays and reached for the icing, it was the best part of it all. Before you could reach for it, though, Magda, the older woman slapped your hand away with a low smile.

“No! No tasting the icing this time.” she scolded in a motherly manner and you made a disappointed face which soon disappeared, you knew she’d give you the biggest slice when the time came for it.

You didn’t realise Alfie had arrived, standing on the large entry hall you were stood in.

Facing the handsome lad, you pulled your bottom lip inside. His eyes were glistening, beard illuminated with the last specks of sun seeping through the front doors. The breeze hadn’t made it inside but his coat would protect him from anything, you reckoned.

He was wearing a suit, a similar one to the one you’d seen him wear the first time he came around. Hair slicked back, the scruff on his face in a neater cut as he looked at you with his hat on his hands. There was no cane this time, he had been feeling better.

Your uncle was somewhere inside the mansion, you didn’t even know where but it didn’t matter. Not now, anyway. You offered him a gentle smile but he was busy, too busy to even greet you at first as his eyes took in the sight of you, hair messy and a few buttons from your top undone which gave him a generous look at the valley of your breasts.

Quickly gathering yourself and covering the undone buttons with the sweep of your hand, you fluttered your eyelashes and spoke.

“’Ello, luv.” he spoke with a low voice, the one that made shivers run up your spine but you didn’t show them to him.

A sweet nod was all he got from you before your uncle showed up, greeting the gangster and inviting him to the dinner table. It was going to be challenge, you gathered that much.

Everyone slowly gathered around the table: Alfie, you, your uncle and a friend of his. They all seemed to know each other, you observed soon enough and you sat down in front of Alfie in the large dining room, his eyes throwing stolen glances at you as your uncle spoke about business and all that.

As much as he tried to keep you away from it, you already knew a good amount.

The appetiser was served shortly after and Alfie watched you behave like a good girl would. He knew from that one time you ate in his office, in a rush, that you didn’t like to observe any of the manners your uncle had taught you. It was easier to eat the way you felt comfortable but he found his eyes to be fixated on the way your hands worked effortlessly around the dishes.

He soon realised that he, one way or another, had to stop staring at you and join the conversation. You saw the way he gulped before cracking a joke about the Sabini to your uncle, everyone seemingly enjoying the joke. You kept your eyes on your table, afraid your uncle would catch onto something, although he was clueless.

A gasp left your lips when the cake was served, a small one that didn’t even make it into your uncle’s side of the table as he conversed with the friend he brought. Alfie caught the small sound and smirked, a low sound of rumblings heard soon after.

“Fuckin’ heard that one before.” he spoke, talking about the countless times you’d made out in the span of a week and the sounds you’d made each time he’d shift his body under yours.

You eyed your uncle first, clueless. Your eyes landed on Alfie’s smirk afterwards, a wink followed before he started eating the cake. The heat rose on your cheeks but you stopped yourself from making any noise, giggles stifled as he looked at your delicate features.

You ate the cake in silence, a few stifled moans here and there and it was soon enough when Alfie commented.

“Why the fuck is yours the biggest slice ‘ere, pet?” he said, low enough that the last part was not so audible.

You chuckled, watching his eyes hungrily look at your lips as you licked the chocolate off of them with your tongue. His ears were going red, slowly but surely and you wondered if he’d excuse himself or just have you somewhere in this mansion.

“I get special treatment.” you spoke after his stares returned to your eyes from your lips.

“That, you fuckin’ do.” he spoke, nodding before eating the last part of the cake he had left. You still had a large portion of yours on the plate since it was impossibly big. That didn’t mean you wouldn’t eat the cake, it would just take you a bit longer to finish it.

He eyed the cake first and then you, his gaze shifting every few seconds but it landed on you at last.

You smiled at him, the plan of enticing the man was clearly working. You cleared your throat and cleaned around your mouth before standing up and getting all the attention all of a sudden.

“Excuse me, I’ll be back shortly.” you offered your sweetest smile and two older men kept on talking after nodding at your small form. Alfie had been watching, planning on getting you alone somewhere.

You had been torturing the man the whole time. Small moans only he could hear while eating the cake, the few buttons on your top hanging loose and the way you’d lick your lips afterwards. He cursed at himself before standing up, asking about the whereabouts of the bathroom to wash his hands.

He had no plans to visit the bathroom.

You felt his hands before you could see him.

The corridor you’d made your way into was a small one, right after the large entry and it led to your study. You needed a breath of fresh air without anyone disturbing, his eyes had made your rationality disappear in the blink of an eye and you hated him for it but this was to time to dwell on things like that, not when your uncle was close.

A small giggle left your lips when his hands grabbed your waist and made you turn around in a swift motion, right when you were in front of the door of your study. You met a pair of amused orbs as he looked down at your small form, chest heaving with anticipation.

“What excuse did you have for leaving uncle?” you spoke, lips almost touching his and you were whispering into his face. You saw his eyelashes flutter as he held you tight, your feet were no longer touching the floor.

“He ain’t even listenin’, luv, too busy fuckin’ discussin’ shit with the other bloke.” he spoke against your lips and before you could muster up an answer, his lips were on yours.

His plump lips melted into yours, fighting for dominance but you were the loser in this case, Alfie had always been the dominant one. You felt his hand grab you even tighter before he lifted you up and your legs wrapped around his middle, he turned the door’s handle in the process and entered your study.

A small moan left your lips and he hungrily swallowed the sound, your chest vibrating against his as your hands desperately tugged at his hair. This wouldn’t be the day you’d sleep with the gangster, but you figured you’d get close.

Alfie’s kisses were more desperate than usual, a sense of urgency was evident when his tongue clashed with yours and all you could do was to moan into his mouth. His hands rested on your waist and bum, caressing and squeezing as his small groans filled the air.

You broke the kiss, you had to. Breathing in slowly, you couldn’t help but marvel at how deep this man kissed. He was still staring at your lips as you tried to regain your breath, back against the wall of your study.

“Will you put me down?” you spoke, his eyes still on your lips as you tasted him on the flesh, your tongue glossing over it.

He slowly let you down, your feet finally touching the floor and no longer wrapped up around his broad body. You didn’t look disheveled but something in your eyes had changed, anyone could see that. Hunger now resided in them but you wouldn’t give in so easily, you wanted him to wait.

Your eyes met his across the room while you lowered yourself on the sofa. His hair was messy, breath uneven and the sleeves of shirt rolled. He was a sight for sore eyes but you wouldn’t tell him that. A smile appeared on your lips as you spoke.

“They’ll come looking for us, you know.” you said, chest still rising unevenly after the relentless kiss he’d given you.

“We’ll just make somethin’ up then, aye?” he asked but it wasn’t much of a question. He knew you were used to making up excuses at the spot due to the nature of your uncle’s business and your night life.

You nodded and he approached you like a hunter would approach its prey. You felt your insides tingle but you couldn’t do anything, your uncle was three doors away and he would come looking for you if you didn’t return soon enough.

“No.” you said, knowing why he was approaching you the way he was but before you could push his broad shoulders away from you, he pulled you flush against him on the sofa until you were straddling him and he was planting kisses on your collarbones.

You let him do this thing for a while, his kisses slowly became sloppy as you kept on letting small moans go free. His lips found yours soon enough, he tasted all power and musk, and the chocolate care from earlier.

A giggle left your lips at the thought and he stopped kissing you, confused eyes locking into yours.

“What?” he asked, voice a little hushed even though you knew your uncle would be in the room soon, he didn’t like it when you would disappear.

“You taste like chocolate.” you spoke against his lips before pecking them. It was something you could get used to.

“That why you keep fuckin’ kissin’ me?” he spoke against your lips as you nodded slowly. You needed to get off of him and out of the room.

And so you did.

It took all your willpower but you lifted yourself off of him and smoothed your dress down as he watched you, hair disheveled and breath uneven and he thought this was the most beautiful he’d seen you look. You gulped before speaking, his blue orbs bored into yours.

“We need to go back.” you spoke, huffing and clearly annoyed.

“I don’t see a problem, luv, yeah if anythin’, I much-”

You cut him off, you would be the one who’d have to pay for this when he was gone and your uncle was shouting at you for keeping your company away from the guest, he wouldn’t know you were about to fuck the guest. “Alfie, he asked you to come to dinner because he trusts you, not so that you could fuck his only niece.”

He nodded once, got up and nodded again and tugged at his beard. You looked at him through annoyed eyes, eyes that would soon soften because he wasn’t a prick, unlike what many thought.

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and nodded once more. You shot him a grateful smile but it all came down crumbling when you heard your uncle’s footsteps behind the door to your study. He was mumbling and grumbling.

But you had the perfect lie.

“Suit yourself.” Alfie spoke, hearing him right outside the door.

“You owe me one.” you spoke through your teeth to Alfie before the door was open in a fast motion, your angry uncle outside the door.

Alfie shoots your uncle a knowing smirk and he doesn’t say anything for a while, just stands there and tries to put two and two together. You’d fixed your own appearance and then Alfie’s before he’d come barging in so he doesn’t see any lipstick stains around his beard or your heaving chest as you stand far away from the jewish gangster.

“Hello, uncle.” you speak, Alfie’s eyes glisten as you speak in a language he doesn’t quite understand. He thinks it fits you, the real you.

“What’re you doing here? And with hi-” your uncle starts speaking but you’re fast, years of living under his roof has taught you a trick or two.

“I was showing Mr. Solomons some of the pieces I was working on..” you speak in English this time and Alfie nods, looking at the unfinished canvases on the corner. Before your uncle can protest further, you start speaking again.

“He had seen some of the finished ones during the party when he first came around so I figured he’d have some comments.” you trail off and Alfie marvels at your ability to make such things up, it also stings him in a way he doesn’t quite understand.

“I see.” your uncle speaks at last, eyes landing on you and then Alfie. You shoot him a sweet smile, and he’s convinced.

Poor man, you think.

Your uncle isn’t stupid, you know that. He wouldn’t be where he was if he was as daft as he seemed right now. The man just trusts you, blindly and completely. You feel a sense of security knowing the fact but also something along the lines of pity knowing just how many times you’d told him you were visiting a friend and ended up piss drunk in a bar with a lad.

It’s a thin line you walk on most times but it’s fun with Alfie, you admit.

Your uncle hurriedly makes his way towards the tea room then, his other guest waiting with a smile. No one was upset much to your luck and you noted the way Alfie’s hand touched the small of your back whenever your uncle wasn’t really looking. He wanted trouble but you couldn’t give him that, not in where you were.

But you’d make him pay for it.

You behaved for the rest of the time the guests were near. You drank your tea quietly and ignored the way Alfie’s eyes searched for yours. You laughed at the other guest’s jokes even though they weren’t funny and fixed your dress whenever the fabric tried to cling onto your upper thighs.

Alfie watched all along.

Then the time came for you to bid farewell, which you did with a sweet smile and ignored the way Alfie’s lips twitched at the end. He wanted to kiss you goodbye like he had the last time he had seen you but your uncle was near and the risk was higher than you both were willing to take.

You closed the door after the farewell, not bothering to say anything to your uncle but there was a knock on the front door right after you’d closed it. Everyone else was gone now, your uncle to his office and the maids to the kitchen and the dining room to clean up. It was just you.

You opened it slowly and saw Alfie. A scoff left your lips and you pushed the door back to its place, trying to close it but he was quicker when he put the head of his shoe in between the door and the wall and you could no longer close it.

You could never be too safe. Not in this house.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Solomons?” you spoke in a low voice, you couldn’t risk being overheard by one of the maids and even if you were, you had to keep it in line.

“Let me fuckin’ have you for one, pet.” he spoke, tired of the game of waiting for the time you’d open your legs for him. He would wait regardless but you’d pushed his buttons and it was time for him to push yours.

“Damn it, Alfi-” you spoke but he was tired, he just wanted you to himself. He was amused, too, at the way you were trying to act composed when no one was near.

“I’m fuckin’ serious, pet, I’m beggin’, yeah.” he spoke, he was clearly amused at the whole exchange but you kept your smile to yourself. “You can’t just kiss the me, yeah, the way you fuckin’ did and expect me to not be all hot and bothered, right.”

You rolled your eyes at the man before speaking. “You were the one who kissed me.” your breath was soft as you spoke.

“Yeah and for the fuckin’ record, yeah, I’m the one kissing you now.”

You didn’t have time to protest when he leaned down and his lips met yours in a sweet kiss. It wasn’t rushed and needy like the one from earlier but like he was trying to tell you something.

That he needed more but he was willing to wait as long as you would want him to. That he would come back for more, not because he only had you but because he desperately needed you and you only.

But he wouldn’t tell you that, not just yet.

You were a gangster’s niece, the one and only family he had. You did know luxury and comfort but you knew the opposite as well. He knew you were a beauty the first time he’d seen you but you were trouble as well. It wasn’t easy to jut sweep you off your feet and make you a good wife, you wouldn’t want that anyway.

He watched the way your cheeks flushed after the tender kiss and your eyes fluttered open, only to met his blue ones. Your gaze dropped to his lips, then his beard before eyeing him again, a smile on your lips he knew well.

“Goodnight, Mr. Solomons.” you sweetly whispered against his face.

And he knew.

He knew you’d be coming around his place that very night, he didn’t know when but he knew you’d be dropping by. So he did the next best thing.

“Goodnight, you sweet minx.”

Just like that, he was off and you were on your way to your uncle’s office to tell him that your friend needed help with some emergency and that you’d be gone for the rest of the night to stay over at her place.

-------

Tagging: @clairecrive @parkbearum @sourirez @vetseras @mollybegger-blog @babylooneytoonz @peakascum @jjklefttoe

a/n: I’m sorry this came in so late but I truly do hope you enjoy it and let me know if you’d like to be tagged!! I have more chapters of different series coming and i’ll keep you posted!!

Merry Christmas and I hope you all have a wonderful holiday!

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ncssian · 3 years

Text

A Favor: Part Six

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: nsfw sort of?? barely

***

Cassian is going to kill Nesta.

He’s never met a woman so stubborn that she would rather throw herself under a bus than accept help from others.

“What happened to your rants about universal healthcare and redistributing wealth?” He gestures furiously between the two of them while keeping one hand on the steering wheel. “I’m trying to redistribute the wealth!”

She scoffs from the passenger seat. “Nice try, comrade. I’m not letting you dangle your wallet over me while I live with you for free. It’s disgusting and manipulative.”

Cassian wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. “Why do you automatically assume I’m trying to manipulate you?” he says incredulously.

“You don’t get to pay for my things,” she snaps. “They’re mine.”

“I know you’re already broke from that MRI—”

“That’s none of your business.”

They pull up to one of the university buildings. “Oh, great argument.” Cassian brings the truck to a stop. “Are you gonna use that one in court?”

Nesta buttons her blue blazer and furiously grabs her things, not saying a word.

“What are you thinking now?” Cassian pokes, the hardness dissolved from his voice a little.

She shoves the passenger door open. “How much longer it’s going to take to get my car fucking fixed,” she bites, hopping out of the truck and slamming the door shut on Cassian’s face.

Clenching his jaw, he watches her walk sharply for the building, tension ratcheting her figure. Impossible woman.

She does look damn good in a pantsuit, though.

***

Nesta has to take deep breaths before she enters the mock courtroom, refusing to let Cassian get to her head right now.

It's not his offering to pay for her endometriosis treatment that pisses her off, but it's that he won't take no for an answer. She wishes he could just let her dig herself into a hole of debt and despair like millions of Americans already do every day. She wishes he wouldn't demand an explanation from her every time she screams and cries about getting her way.

Later. Her mind clears through an imaginary filter. You’ll deal with him later.

Now, she has a case to win.

Nesta strides into the courtroom with her file of documents and takes the speaker’s bench, her opponent already seated on the other side of the aisle. Emerie Nikolis is five feet nine inches of Mediterranean goddess, and the only student at Prythian Law who’s been able to challenge Nesta for her spot at the top of the class. Not that she’s succeeded.

Nesta’s never been up against another woman for a moot court, though, and it adds a buzz to her nerves. Men always come into the courtroom with too much confidence and not enough research, and from there Nesta can steadily dismantle their arguments until they’re left spluttering. From Emerie’s cutting hawk eyes, Nesta knows she doesn’t function like that.

As student judges file in and head for their seats, Nesta leans over and mutters to Emerie, “Good luck defending the side that represents everything morally corrupt with this country.”

Emerie brushes back her ponytail and smiles mockingly at Nesta. “You mean the side that powerful white men have chosen since the beginning of time? I won’t need luck.”

Nesta scowls at the panel of student judges. They are all white men.

“You’re lucky I enjoy a challenge,” she hisses, and sits back in her seat as they start calling oyez.

***

Cassian doesn’t mean to fall asleep.

He’s cleaning up around the house while Nesta is gone, and ends up finding a worn paperback trapped between the leather cushions of the couch. Pulling it out, he takes one look at the cover and nearly chokes. A half-undressed man graces the cover in regency-era clothes, his flowy shirt unbuttoned to reveal toned abs. A woman with golden curls clutches onto him passionately, only dressed in a corset and underskirt.

A slow smirk spreads over his face and he snickers. He didn't know people read these anymore. A glance at the back of the book proves his point: published in 1999, a true vintage piece.

Plopping onto the couch and laying back, he opens the paperback. If Nesta doesn't want him reading her books, she shouldn't leave them lying around the place.

Flipping to a random page, he frowns when it isn't a smut scene. Boring. He keeps flipping until he finds one, and props his feet onto the armrest to get comfortable. Now what exactly does Nesta Archeron get off to?

Over an hour and a hundred pages of surprisingly tender romance later, his aching eyes finally slip closed. The open book falls onto his face, and the scent of faded ink follows him into sleep.

Cassian is in a dim candle-lit room. Foiled wallpaper and overstuffed furniture decorates the space, and there, by the small window, she waits.

She turns her head to speak over her shoulder, “You came.”

“I did.” The line comes to him naturally.

Without turning around, her hands reach up for her hair. She starts removing pins from her updo, golden curls falling apart one by one. Once the last pin drops, she finally turns around.

Gleaming locks now frame her soft face and shoulders; her pale breasts rise and fall above the low curve of her thin nightgown. Under the candlelight, she looks freshly forged and porcelain-like at the same time.

“Could you help me?” Nesta says.

Cassian is stuck in his spot, unable to move. He's never seen Nesta like this: so heavenly, but so different.

“Cassian?” she asks again.

“Oh,” he stutters, “um— what do you need?”

She steps closer. “You.” His breathing stops. Nesta slips her slender hands up his arms, to his shoulders. She's holding him close. “I need you to tell me something.”

“Anything.”

Her breath fans over his face. “Do you want me?”

Cassian is very still.

“Do you want me like I want you, Cassian?” she repeats, pressing closer to him. He can feel her nipples through the wispy fabric of her gown.

“Yes,” he breathes shakily. He doesn't know which hurts more: wanting Nesta or being wanted by her.

“Have you been very lonely, Cassian?” She drags her hands back down his arms, finding his hands and placing them on her shoulders. “Is that why you like having me around so much, because you’ve been lonely?”

This Nesta knows him… a little too well. His breath hitches as his hands, directed by Nesta’s hands, slowly pushes down the sleeves of her nightgown. In a flash, the fabric has dropped to her waist, baring her unblemished chest and stomach. Before Cassian can even absorb what's happening, her arms are winding around his neck again, and now she's pressing entreating kisses into the crook of his neck.

“Tell me,” she mutters onto his skin. “Do I make you feel heard, or am I just a pretty face to you?”

“Nes—Nesta.” Cassian tries to swallow air.

She smells so good. She feels so good, and she's not even doing anything to him, just holding him.

“Heard,” he gasps when she goes for the buttons of his shirt, her mouth finding his chest. “You make me feel heard. I like it when we talk and you listen to me. Nobody listens to me.”

She pulls away from him, mouth shining. He just now realizes how jarring the gilded ringlets of her hair are.

“That’s so good,” Nesta purrs, reaching up to clasp his face. Her hands feel thin and rough, like paper. “You’re so good.” She reaches in, her lips chasing his, and—

Awareness seeps into the corners of Cassian’s reality, and his eyes peel open. He blinks between two different worlds until he finally realizes— it was a dream.

Of course it was a dream. Nesta doesn't have blonde hair or curls. And her skin isn't porcelain smooth, but dotted with freckles and moles. And yet, the arousal stirred in him is very much real, evident by the ache in his dick. Fuck.

A throat clears softly and Cassian jumps. The romance book is still on his face, he notices, and his world is darkened by the rough pages. Batting it away, confused, he fully awakens when he sees who’s in front of him.

She’s still in her pantsuit from this morning, but her hair is undone and her cheeks carry a rare flush. Her clothes are rumpled.

“Nesta.” He scrambles upright, painfully aware that he was just dreaming about her half-naked. He carefully arranges his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling between his legs. “You’re back,” he says casually. Taking notice of the blackness outside the windows, he becomes concerned. “You’ve been out this whole time? Oh God, I was supposed to pick you up—”

“No, no,” she says quickly. “Didn’t you see my texts? I went out with some people from moot court.”

Cassian widens his eyes. He’s never heard her mention any friends from school, much less leave the cabin to hang out with other people.

“I totally kicked this girl’s ass in the Title IX case I was telling you about,” Nesta goes on, “and she wanted to take me out for afternoon drinks, and some other guys ended up tagging along too…” She twists a piece of hair around her finger, the experience sounding as brand new to her as Cassian suspects it is. “And yeah, then she got me a cab.”

He raises a brow and leans back. “You willingly let someone else pay for you? Wow, you really are drunk.”

The smile blossoming on her mouth drops and the cold veneer returns. “So you go through my stuff while I’m gone?” she scolds. “How many times are we going to have the boundaries conversation?”

Cassian picks up the paperback still on the couch. “Oh, this? This was just a little light reading. You know, since I share my Netflix and Prime with you, I figured you could share your period-piece smut with me.” He fans through the pages, trying to find the spot he left off on. “I didn’t even know people read physical romance books anymore. That’s like me keeping VHS tapes of porn instead of using my phone.”

Nesta stomps over and snatches the book out of his hands. “It’s not like I enjoy owning books with ugly covers,” she hisses. “I get headaches reading e-books. And this is a classic.” She carefully wipes at the cover as if Cassian got dirt all over it.

Cassian tries to snatch it back. “I wasn’t done with it,” he grits. “Nesta, give it back.”

“I’m glad we brought up boundaries,” she says instead. “Because we need to talk about this morning.” Shoving the book into her pants waistband, she peels off her blazer and takes a seat on the coffee table in front of Cassian.

Cassian blinks, gripped by the authority in her movements. Nesta pokes a finger at his chest. “What you said bothered me all day. Nearly ruined my night. So I’m telling you now, I’m not taking your money for anything, ever. And if you bring up the topic again, I’m moving out.” She sounds dead serious.

He’s not afraid of her. “I’m bringing up the topic now,” he pushes back, his tone hard. “As someone who considers you a friend, I don’t like to see my friends struggling.”

Nesta blinks, and maybe finally accepts that she can’t fight her way out of this, because she drops her finger. “I can’t be financially dependent on a man, Cassian,” she admits, refusing to look away from him. “I’ve done it before, and it’s no way to live life. I don’t care how nice you are; I’m not taking your money. And you can’t make me.” She doesn’t shout or hiss that last part. It’s said with a quiet strength, and it makes Cassian want to concede everything. If this is about her ex-boyfriend, then he doesn’t want to be anything like him.

But it doesn’t change the fact that her health is still on the line. “What if you don’t take my money?” he says quickly. “What if I make you work for it?”

Law school doesn’t allow for part-time jobs on the side, and Nesta’s been scraping by with scholarships and leftover money from her father’s will. The suffering is worth it now, she told Cassian once, if she’s at a law firm the year after next with a starting salary of 100K.

Nesta purses her lips, skeptical. “What kind of work?”

“You can be a legal consultant for Night Court.”

“Do I look qualified to be a legal consultant?” She’s glaring now.

“Well, it’s either that or you get to be my personal assistant.” Nesta looks even more outraged at that, and Cassian holds up his hands. “I respect your need to stay independent,” he says, “but you can’t convince me that a handout or two is worse than going broke.” Cassian himself would be dead right now without all the handouts he got over the course of his life. “Please, Nesta,” he says quietly. “Think about it for me. And if you still hate it, I’ll never bother you about it again.” Even though it would kill him.

Nesta stares at him, the gears in her brain visibly turning. Finally— “Rhysand’s company does run on handouts anyway,” she mutters, glancing away. “What’s one more?”

Before Cassian can drop to his knees and thank her, she whips her head back to him. “But I want to do real work, Cassian. Not the pretense of work while I get a fat paycheck.”

He bursts into a grin and grabs her arms. “I’m gonna work you so hard.” He kisses her hard on the cheek.

Nesta makes a choking noise and starts coughing, and Cassian realizes how that sounded. “Did I say something wrong?” he plays innocent.

Nesta’s face is red for reasons other than alcohol now, but she covers it up by shoving Cassian hard enough to send him into the couch cushions. “Asshole.” She pulls her book out of her waistband and throws it at Cassian’s chest. “Have your romance back, I’m going to bed.”

“Hey— wait, it's six p.m. What about the puzzle?” he calls after her. She ignores him and keeps walking.

“Fine,” he says to her back, “but don't go to sleep with your contacts in again; you're gonna hurt yourself.”

As she reaches the stairs, he adds, “I’m proud of you for the moot court, by the way. I’m telling everybody you're the smartest person I know.”

Nesta pauses briefly at that, before saying, “Goodnight, Cassian,” and continuing up to her room.

Later that night, Cassian does want to tell everybody that Nesta is the smartest person he knows. She's the smartest, coolest, and wittiest person he knows, full stop, with killer looks and a criminally underrated personality. But something is holding him back from sharing his feelings with the rest of the world.

It's the same feeling that's had him avoiding Feyre these last few weeks. The unspoken knowledge that not everybody sees Nesta the way Cassian does, paired with the fierce desire to protect her from any sort of criticism.

He doesn't have any definitive proof to justify his feelings, but he knows he can't stop thinking about Nesta. He knows his friends will take notice of the change in his behavior eventually, so in a fit of restlessness, he reaches for his phone to test a theory.

Scrolling through his contacts, Cassian eventually settles on Mor. She's close to Feyre and Cassian both, has an inclination to gossip, and she’s never interacted with Nesta. Perfect.

Cassian: what do you think of Nesta?

He's straightforward with her the way he always is, the way she always is with him.

Mor answers quickly without question: didn’t she let feyre work her ass off at age 14 while she sat around and did nothing?

Mor: she sounds like a bitch and i have yet to see anything to the contrary.

Mor: she has very nice eyes though

Mor: if u know what i mean ( . )( . )

Cassian wishes he hadn’t even asked. He doesn’t even know how to reply to that, so he’s about to turn his phone off when another message from Mor comes in.

Mor: why do you ask? how are things going with you two?

Cassian sighs deeply, not in the mood to start a fight with one of his best friends. He never told Feyre about taking Nesta to the doctor, or the following MRI and diagnosis. The last time he had a real conversation with Feyre was the first night of Nesta’s period, when he was worried sick over how to take care of her.

“What should I do, Feyre? She's crying herself sick upstairs and all I have is this stupid hot towel.”

“You don't have to do that,” she sighed tiredly over the phone. “Nesta goes through this every month. She’ll survive. Don’t get yourself worked up over nothing.”

That was when he decided he was calling a doctor no matter what.

And now… He’s confused and upset and he doesn't know why. Instead of arguing with Mor, he texts back, it’s nothing. A second later, he adds, but she's not a bitch.

He wants to say more, but texting Mor an essay on why she’s wrong for judging Nesta without knowing her would make him look crazy, among other things. He doesn’t know why he has to clarify that Nesta isn’t a bitch in the first place.

Either way, Cassian’s theory was proven correct.

He decides not to mention Nesta to his friends anymore.

***

Nesta lays in bed, thinking about the absolute day she’s had.

If getting drunk with Emerie Nikolis and Eris Vanserra at two in the afternoon wasn’t enough, stumbling back home to find Cassian like that finished her off for good. Her cheek has been tingling for hours.

She remembers how this housing agreement between them first started: I need you to know you can enforce whatever rules and boundaries you want while you’re here.

Nesta huffs a laugh. Boundaries are for strangers. Cassian seems content to poke and tug at Nesta’s boundaries whenever he wants, and Nesta… is okay with this. A mere month ago, this would have been her worst nightmare— living with a man who pushes her on every decision, who never does what she wants but somehow always knows what she needs.

But now they're friends, and Nesta is slowly learning that the rules are different with friends. Not everything has to be spelled out, because Cassian will understand what she's trying to say anyway. Not everything that is unknown has to be scary, because Cassian is never scary.

He’s allowed to read her books because he won’t make fun of them. He's allowed to know about her personal health matters because he won’t tell anybody else. And apparently, he’s allowed to give her a job so she doesn’t go broke trying to afford endo treatment.

These are the new rules.

She’s ridiculously glad that she told Lorene she won’t be coming back to the apartment for a few weeks. She doesn't know what she'll do after then, but for now she is okay.

***

a/n: hello i love writing cassian pov and learning more about him so much :) also thinking about having cassian call nesta 'baby' when they get together more often than 'sweetheart' just bc i think it would be a good look on him. pls share ur opinion.

tagging: @ladywitchling @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @sensitiveillyrian @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @queenestarcheron @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies

#a favor #ncssianwrites #nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #nessian fic #nessian au

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qqueenofhades · 3 years

Note

Are you still taking prompts? We are thirsty and were hoping for “bite me” in a fivan vampire au. Pretty please? What’s that you say? That’s not on the list you shared? Um, oops? I said we are thirsty! 🤤

Ahaha, okay, I think this is going to do it for the prompts for now. I want to get back to working on PEL, and I have (mostly) given the people what they want. But before you hasten to my inbox to request more of this (which I know the Very Hungry Lot of you will do, and I love you so much for it): do know that this is indeed related to a larger project and this is just the first bit of it.

What is that project? Shh. I am not telling you just yet. It's a secret.

Belgrade, Kingdom of Serbia

June 1896

The summer evening is warm and purple, lit atmospherically by both the older gaslamps and the newfangled electric lights (there is a Serb in New York, a man by the name of Tesla, whose great scientific inventions and experiments with alternating current may soon illuminate the entire world), and the well-dressed crowd flows toward the café in a tide of rustling satin, silk, and velvet, ladies in evening dress and men in top hats and monocles. The establishment is the Golden Cross, in Terazije, a bustling neighborhood just south of Stari Grad, and the attraction is an exhibition of the marvelous moving pictures of the Lumière brothers – the first such show in the Balkans, and indeed outside of Paris, after they were first premiered in great triumph six months ago. Or at least, so it is for most of the attendees tonight. Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky has a different task.

He stands apart from the milling throngs, well dressed in a high-collared coat and silken cravat, dark hair parted ruler-straight and face freshly shaven, a old golden watch tucked in his breast pocket and his shoes polished to a perfect sheen. While the people hurry past almost close enough to jostle him, they have a peculiar difficulty in registering that he is there. They sense something, yes – a cold breath on the back of the neck, a prey animal’s inborn reflex to warily search the shadows – but it never quite clicks. They continue on their way without being troubled in their own sense of reality, or ever realizing who – what – is standing there with them. It is just one of the odd, disjointed experiences that Fedyor has had to come to terms with, in the twenty-two years since he became a vampire.

By habit, he checks the horizon. These summer days are late and long, and Fedyor is still young enough that he can’t tolerate more than a few minutes of sunlight. It has taken years to be able to go out by day at all, half-thinking he had dreamed the waking world, become wholly one with the shadows and the night. When he emerged in the last gasps of afternoon, when he felt the golden warmth on his face for the first time in almost two decades, he wept. It still causes him vestigial pain, but not as much. Not so much that it cannot be borne.

He pulls the slip of paper out of his pocket and checks the name again. Then he puts it back and slips smoothly into the crowd. At the threshold, he feels that faint, telltale twinge, the knowledge of entering another creature’s territory without being explicitly bidden to do so. The Golden Cross belongs to the vampire king of Belgrade, who is rumored to be five hundred years old and a veteran of the Battle of Kosovo in 1389 (which, so far as Fedyor can tell, the Serbs have never gotten over losing to the Turks) and Fedyor is not interested in pissing him off. But therefore it is, by Conclave law, a place where all vampires in the city can freely congregate, so long as they haven’t committed some terrible crime. It also means that Fedyor may find the man he is looking for in here, and not have to cross into enemy turf.

A rich reek of wine and brandy, of hand-cranked ice cream in cut-glass bowls, of ladies’ perfume and men’s cologne, of sweat and starch and thrumming hot blood, rises into Fedyor’s nose as he inhales, as his senses have been honed a hundred times more acutely than what he was previously used to. He searches the crowded room, on high alert for another supernatural. Nothing, at least not thus far. But it is a delicate and fiddly bit of bloodsucker diplomacy for which he is here tonight, having to do with the rumor that a local group of creatures have formed a shadowy secret society called Црна рука, the Black Hand, with the aim of expressly interfering in human politics. This, of course, is strictly against the rules, and they need to be reminded of that fact. Fedyor would very much prefer not to fight an anarchist rebel vampire in the middle of a café crowded with oblivious humans, but the thought crosses his mind that this is an excellent soft target. The eyes of the entire city, the Balkans, the international art community, are fixed on this place tonight. If something went wrong – if the Golden Cross and all the souls within it were blown to smithereens –

Fedyor orders a drink at the bar – he has been promised that one day he will again also be able to eat human food if he craves the taste, but it will not nourish him – and sits down near the back, keeping a sharp eye out. Andre Carr, the Frenchman who has traveled from Lyon as the Lumière brothers’ representative, is setting up the unwieldy projector and barking at his assistants to be careful with the fragile, bulky spools of film, his mustache bristling in agitation. Fedyor gauges the mood of the crowd, the din of their heartbeats, their eager interest, their whispered gossip. Still no other supernaturals that he can sense, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not here. The vampire king and his underlings will have plenty of ways to conceal themselves from a relative child like Fedyor. As will the Black Hand.

He leans back in his chair and samples the whisky. Not bad, he thinks, though it’s been a long time since he drank human libations. It’s nice to be out among regular people, but he always has to keep strict watch on the part of himself that yearns to feed, that wants them to run, to fear, to fall. Fedyor has been a vampire long enough to control the hunger, to drink mostly from animals and space out his feeds on humans, to ask them for their consent or pay them for their trouble, but it’s still a struggle. He understands the urge that drives vampires to sequester themselves, to only live among their own kind, to keep drones and other willing human servants to feed from, so that you are not put to the trouble of chasing down a stranger and politely asking to bite them in the neck every fortnight or so, don’t get mixed up as to whether the mortals are your dinner company or just your dinner. It is a deuced bloody bother of a business. Fedyor always feels like an idiot whenever he tries.

Carr and his minions sort out their difficulties, and eventually the lights go down, provoking another eager murmur. Fedyor is not immune to the lure of whatever they are about to see, and he could have done much worse for a new home. He arrived here six years ago from his hometown in Russia, once his lack of aging became too difficult to conceal from his friends and family. Belle epoque Belgrade is a cosmopolitan, cultured world of stately opera houses and marble palaces, grand balls and gaslights, synagogues and streetcars, mosques and museums, bohemians and bordellos and broad balconies, telegraph wires and trolley cars and twisting lanes, churches and coffee shops in the Viennese style, with white-aproned waiters and colored mosaics and demitasse cups of Italian espresso. It is an ancient city, placed in a lethally strategic location at the confluence of two rivers, fought over in almost a hundred wars and razed almost forty times (and doubtless there are still more unmakings yet to come). Fedyor has found a place among the vampire community here, enough that he is trusted to deal with the Black Hand, despite his immortal youth. As to how that will go, well…

He watches the film with half an eye, impressed by the moving pictures just like his human counterparts, and then he feels it. The coldness on the back of his neck, the chirp of a sixth sense, the unshakeable awareness that he is being observed by a fellow bloodsucker. Though that term is considered somewhat dated and passé these days, mildly offensive. Vampires are eager as humans to participate in the scientific and industrial revolution, to concoct more enlightened regulations for themselves, to create an academic literature for their origins. There is talk among the sophisticated supernatural set of organizing an Academy for Preternatural Science, to hire vampire scholars, to establish a university. It’s a nice thought, if somewhat too ambitious (or so Fedyor thinks) for a race of beings that has only just decided that solving every problem with blood feuds to the death might not be the best idea. He wonders if one of those unreconstructed barbarians is behind him now.

Slowly, smoothly, so as to demonstrate that he is perfectly aware of being hunted, Fedyor turns around, and catches sight of the newcomer across the way. He is handsome – but then again, most vampires are, as it’s one of the benefits of the transformation. This one, however, is possessed of a roguish, rough-hewn attractiveness that seems genuine, still close to the face he wore as a mortal man, and not the eerie, glossy, imperturbable beauty that Fedyor sometimes finds so off-putting about his compatriots. This vampire is also wearing good clothes, and his overcoat is dark red, embroidered with curling black patterns. He looks at Fedyor, their eyes meet, and he nods once, half an inch. Game on.

Fedyor does his best to sit still until the lights come up, and the crowd claps rapturously and disperses to fetch more drinks and gush about the performance. Then he gets up and drifts toward a velvet curtain, slipping unobtrusively behind it. Back here, it is dark, dusty, and smells of candlewax and grease paint, the remnants of another performance, a conjurer’s closet. He steadies himself, turns around, and –

“Good evening,” the voice says, cold and curt. “I believe you were waiting to speak to me.”

“Yes.” Fedyor does his best to smile and appear charming and in command of the situation. “My name is Fedyor Kaminsky, and I am a representative of the Conclave. They have sent me here tonight in hopes of locating Ivan Sakharov, of the Black Hand. Is that you?”

The other vampire regards him flatly. His eyes are brown, as is his hair, which is cropped military-short and kept as sharp as his face. When he folds his arms, his muscles bulge, even through the sleeves of the well-tailored coat. “And if I was?”

“Then,” Fedyor says, “I am authorized by that same Conclave to deliver a warning to you and your associates that your current activities fall outside the bounds of the common supernatural law, and if you persist in pursuing them, there will be consequences.”

The other – well, he hasn’t denied it, so this must indeed be Ivan Sakharov – looks back at him with an utterly unimpressed expression. “Oh, so the Conclave found a new stooge to do their bidding? You’re a bit younger and fresher than the usual corpses those desiccated old tightwads usually send out after us, I’ll give you that. How long have you been in Belgrade?”

“How long have you?” Fedyor is almost sure he recognizes Ivan’s accent; they’re speaking Serbo-Croatian, but in both cases with a familiar cadence. “You’re Russian, aren’t you?”

That catches the other vampire by surprise. He hisses, baring a pair of white and very sharp fangs, and his eyes go briefly black. “You think so?”

“Yes,” Fedyor says. “But older than me, I think. Possibly quite a bit, though by how much, I can’t be sure. If we were to – ” he switches languages smoothly, in midsentence – “continue this conversation in Russian, would that be more to your liking?”

Ivan Sakharov eyes him icily. He must know that if he speaks their native tongue, he risks giving away his age by the style of his grammar, or perhaps his place of birth, and that is dangerous information for an unknown quantity to hold over you. There is a whiff of the emperor’s court around him, or perhaps the empress – does he hail from Catherine the Great’s day, Fedyor wonders, or earlier? There’s a long, crackling pause. Then Ivan says in brittle, too-correct English, “Or perhaps we should converse like this?”

Fedyor inclines his head, accepting that he has – for now – been outmaneuvered. They still haven’t taken their eyes off each other, standing close together in the dim velvet-draped shadows, near enough that if they were human, they would feel the other’s heat. There’s nothing but the faint wintry chill of unliving flesh, though a certain hunger rises unbidden in Fedyor’s stomach nonetheless. Then he says, “This does not have to be difficult. Cease your lawlessness and tell your friends to do the same.”

Ivan takes another step, close enough that their noses almost brush. “The Conclave has no power over me, Fedyor Kaminsky.”

“Do you want to test that?” Fedyor breathes, struggling to keep his focus at the other vampire’s threatening-but-thrilling nearness, the way his blood is singing under his skin in an entirely different way than he expected or frankly, that he wants. Just because Ivan Sakharov is annoyingly attractive (and also Russian) does not mean that he is not a dangerous, war-mongering, secret-cabal-plotting megalomaniac, and Fedyor does not need that sort of nonsense in his life. “If you did, I would, of course, be authorized to place you under arrest.”

Ivan looks at him goadingly. “I would like to see you try.”

Oh, so he is indeed one of those immortals (read: the kind who really need to experience mortality just to be kicked very hard in the balls). Fedyor struggles to contain his irritation. If he shows that this handsome bastard has gotten to him, this will only get worse. “If you promise to desist,” he says, “the Conclave will drop this matter and consider it closed. You and the rest of the Black Hand will not be subject to further investigation. That, or – ”

“How do I know that you are even from the Conclave? That you are who you say?”

“Why would I lie about it?”

Ivan shrugs. “I want proof.”

Fedyor grits his fangs. “What do you expect? A badge?”

“No. But I will accept your blood.”

That catches Fedyor off guard. Not that it should, necessarily. Since vampires can sense the thoughts and feelings of the creature that they’re feeding on, it’s a quick and time-tested way to prove that there is no funny business going on (or at least, no business that is funny beyond the usual). The obvious difficulty, however, is that it requires a possibly unfriendly rival to bite your neck or at the very least, your wrist, and one can understand why there would be a natural hesitation to yield one’s neck (Fedyor happens to be rather fond of his) to the clutches of the likes of Ivan Sakharov. But if he says no, he looks like he is weak or that he has something to hide, that he doesn’t trust Ivan or regard him as an equal, and the already-febrile situation with the Black Hand will only get worse. As bluffs go, Fedyor could call this one. But it would be very risky, and if it blows up in his face…

“Very well,” Fedyor says, chillingly correct. He pulls aside the collar of his evening coat and tilts his head, exposing the side of his throat. “Test me all you like.”

Ivan looks at him with something that makes that thing in Fedyor’s stomach rise up again, hot as an ember left burning in a brazier even when all the other lights go out. He hasn’t been warmed like this, not even by the sun, ever since he was turned in 1874 by a vampire named Dmitri Karamazov. He does his utmost to force it down. If Ivan bites him and senses that –

There’s a final pause, soft as tissue paper, fine as crystal. Then Ivan steps forward, looking almost impressed, as if he expected Fedyor to find some reason to back out. He flexes his jaw, bringing out those two impressively white and sharp fangs again, and reaches out, gripping Fedyor’s waist with his big hands and drawing him somewhat closer than is strictly necessary. Then he whispers, “As you wish, Conclave whore,” and bites.

He’s not entirely gentle about it, not that vampires usually are and not that Fedyor wasn’t expecting it. But all at once, as Ivan sucks at him, his mouth pressed hungrily to Fedyor’s neck, wet and raw and savage, Fedyor goes weak in the knees. He’s been fed on before, tested before, and this is different from any of those. He utters a mewling noise of need that he is shocked and deeply outraged to hear from himself, pressing still closer, knocking Ivan a few steps backward into the wall. His hands come up, seeking purchase on the other’s broad shoulders, a smoky curl of desire rising through him like rich incense. “Mmm,” he mutters. “Mmmgh. Yes. Like that. Yes.”

Ivan doesn’t answer for obvious reasons, since his mouth is otherwise occupied, but Fedyor can feel the little frisson of pleasure that travels through him at those words. That takes him aback. Not that he should rush to generalize, since most vampires are fairly flexible in their intimate preferences (you don’t live that long without wanting to sample everything that is on offer, carnally speaking) but for some reason, he just assumed that this tough, frightening, hard-as-nails secret anarchist supernatural idiot wouldn’t be inclined to gentlemen. Not that Fedyor is necessarily objecting. This feels far better than it has any right to do, considering that it started out as a naked challenge to his veracity. Agh, fuck, he should not think about naked. That makes the arousal burn even more hungrily, as he arches his back and presses himself wantonly against Ivan and knows that he’s hard as a rock and that this utter menace can definitely feel it. Ivan is in no hurry to pull away. He drinks for a few more seconds, past when there can be any reasonable doubt that Fedyor is telling the truth, and then slowly, deliberately breaks contact, fangs still half in Fedyor’s throat, as he withdraws with luxurious leisure. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and growls, “Ah.”

“Yes, ah,” Fedyor says, trying not to stammer, as pulses of hot and cold rush through him from head to toe. “Are you satisfied?”

Ivan gives him a wicked smile, drops of Fedyor’s blood still glistening heart-scarlet on his lips. “Maybe.”

God almighty, kill me now. Difficult, of course, when one is – strictly speaking – already deceased. (And now deceased in a different way, which makes it two kinds of dead at once, which makes Fedyor a prodigy.) He wants to ask if Ivan will perform the customary service of licking the bite wounds closed, but he’s also afraid that he may physically incinerate if Ivan does so, and since fire is rather famously one of the only things that can harm vampires, it is better not to take the risk. Instead, Fedyor pulls out his handkerchief and dabs at his throat, with as much casualness as he can muster. “Well,” he says. “You’ve had my word, Ivan Sakharov. Will you give me yours that you will bring your illegal organization to an end and return to the rule of Conclave law?”

Ivan looks him up and down, eyes lingering on the too-tight fit of Fedyor’s pinstriped trousers. Then he leans in, so close that Fedyor truly does think they’re about to kiss and momentarily blacks out, and whispers against the shell of his ear, “Absolutely not.”

And with that, and no more than a rush of air, he is gone.

#ivan x fedyor #heartrender husbands #fivan #fivan ff #anonymous #ask #my god i'm so predictable #(we are all predictable)#but also yes

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hatterstan-shameblog · 3 years

Note

Oh yeah? A random head canon? Well, this is more of an idea but still-

Okay, Hatter hiring Tatta to work at his hat shop because hat squad~✨Tatta is the hat son. :3

OOOOOH BUDDY OKAY this is getting a lil somethin-somethin

The Apprentice

Rating: PG (for Tatta for being a beautiful and wholesome boy)

Relationships: None (Hatter/Aguni implied because it’s basically always gotta be implied)

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

“So, uh,” Aguni asks, “how’s the new guy doing?”

It’s a beautiful Thursday afternoon. The birds are singing, the sun is shining…and, perhaps most importantly, Aguni and Takeru are splitting a bucket of fried chicken with a side of potato wedges, and two fresh-from-the-oven biscuits.

“Splendidly,” Takeru says, sinking his teeth into an extra-crispy chicken leg and smirking around the audible crunch sound that echoes against his teeth.

Aguni nods and twists the top of his biscuit off of the bottom.

“You’re not working him too hard, are you?”

“Mori,” Takeru says between lip-smacking bites, “I would never!”

Just then, a young be-hatted head pokes out from behind the back door. A handsome young fellow, with shaggy hair and a hopeful look in his eye—why, even Aguni, in all his gruff distrust of strangers, can’t help but find him charming.

“Mr. Danma, sir,” the energetic young man says, “the new shipment just came in! Shall I place it in the stock room, or would you like to look at it now?”

Takeru smiles, setting down his half-eaten drumstick and wiping his mouth on one of the flimsy paper napkins that came with their meal.

“The stock room, I think,” he replies, “we’ll go through it together after my meeting with Mr. Aguni.”

“Oh, so lunch with me counts as a ‘meeting’ now,” Aguni scoffs, “didn’t realize I got a promotion.”

“Yes, well…”

Takeru picks up a potato wedge and studies it for a moment. He frowns, then puts it back and selects a second, (apparently) more suitable option, which he dunks into a plastic container of ketchup.

“The newest associate at Hat Danma LLC has informed me that our lunch meetings may be tax deductible,” Takeru explains, gesturing with the ketchuped wedge in his hand, “If I count this as a business luncheon, I can write it off on taxes and get a refund.”

“Refund for what? I’m the one who bought the chicken,” Aguni argues, shoving his hand into the bucket for another deep-fried morsel, “I spend the money, and you reap the benefits?”

“Uh, yeah,” Takeru says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “that’s how it works.”

“Fine,” Aguni mumbles, “but you’re using your technically-fraudulent earning to take me somewhere nice.”

“Oh, yeah, okay,” Takeru shoots back, “I would love to know what, pray tell, is your idea of ‘somewhere nice’ that isn’t the Shibuya Denny’s.”

“The staff is polite and the prices are reasonable,” Aguni huffs, slathering a half-melted pat of butter onto his biscuit, “besides, every time we’re there, Akiko makes sure we have fresh coffee. How dare you imply that we don’t have a nice time at the Shibuya Denny’s…”

“Uh, I’m sorry to interrupt again—“

Aguni and Takeru table their squabble in favor of looking up at the young man who has, once again, stuck his head out from the back door.”

“Ah, Tatta, my dear,” Takeru says, “my favorite employee…”

“He’s your only employee,” Aguni grumbles, taking a sulky chomp out of his well-buttered biscuit.

Takeru smacks Aguni’s knee lightly in reprimand, but otherwise remains his usual perky self.

“I just wanted to let you know,” Tatta says carefully—almost nervously, but maybe that’s just his golden-retriever-like energy taking, “the Yamato’s have just ordered an additional two fedoras for the wedding. I know I should have asked you first, but…I paid an extra 1,000 yen for expedited shipping to Osaka, just to be sure the order gets there in time.”

“As you should have,” Takeru concludes, offering his new apprentice a nod of approval, “I’m pleased to know that you can handle an emergency situation with grace and tact.”

Tatta beams—a big, bright smile that stretches the corners of his lips to dig into the slight plump of his cheeks.

“Thank you, Mr. Danma, sir,” he responds, “I’m just glad I can be of help!”

“I have a way you can help me further,” Takeru says, that irresistible little lilt in his voice that has gotten more than one person into a heap of trouble, “if you’re willing, of course…”

“Of course,” Tatta replies, “I’ll do whatever you need!”

Aguni rolls his eyes. Of course Takeru likes him; the boy is all but begging for his approval. Nothing feeds the older man’s ego more than a young fellow looking up to him.

“My associate and I were just talking,” Takeru says smoothly, “and it seems we’re at a bit of an impasse. We’re looking for somewhere…hm, a bit more upscale for our next tete-à-tete.”

“Oh, well, I dunno,” Tatta says nervously, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I, uh, I don’t really go to too many fancy places.”

“Neither do we, son,” Aguni says with a sigh, “neither do we…”

“Oh, wait! I have an idea,” the vivacious young man says, “I mean, I don’t know if you’ll like it, but…”

“Aren’t you sweet,” Takeru coos, “See, Mori-chan, you don’t have to be so grumpy all the time. Why, you could benefit from—“

“Let the kid talk,” Aguni interjects. He wordlessly reaches into the bucket and pulls out another piece of chicken and holds it out for Tatta to take.

“Oh, uh,” Tatta says nervously, “are you sure?”

“Go on! The thigh is the best part,” Takeru insists, then chuckles to himself, “of the chicken and…of a lover.”

“Oh my God.”

“Breasts,” Tatta says quickly, “they’re, uh, they’re good too. On a chicken! I was talking about chicken…”

Takeru points at his bashful new protege, who’s now nibbling on the deep-fried breading and trying to hold back a blush.

“You, my young friend, are a man of culture,” Takeru turns to look at Aguni, “wherever he says to go, we’re going.”

Tatta full-on blushes at that.

“Well, uh,” he says, “The only place that really comes to mind is the bar from Lost in Translation…”

Aguni raises his brow in surprise.

“You mean the one with Bill Murray and Scarlet Johansson?”

“Yeah, that one,” Tatta says with a smile, “I just watched it last night and I thought the place looked really cool! It’s got that really great view of the city, and it’ll only be better when it’s dark and you can see all the lights!”

“Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant,” Takeru exclaims, “Mori, you’ll have to break out the suit.”

“The suit is a privilege,” Aguni responds, “I’m not convinced you’ve earned the right to see me in it…”

“So you’ll be wearing the black,” Takeru muses, his attention shifting back to the young man munching on his impromptu lunch, “and I, of course, will be wearing the red. But what about him?”

Tatta fumbles with his chicken.

“Wait,” he asks, “you mean I’m coming with—“

“Normally, I’d suggest the blue,” Takeru continues, “but I’m just not sure…”

“Put him in the olive,” Aguni suggests, “he looks to be about the right height for it.”

Takeru beams.

“Mori, I could kiss you,” he begins to say, but then his eyes slip sideways to see Tatta standing there, “but I won’t, because this is a business meeting and that is not something that professionals do at the office.”

“Well I’m busy eating, so…”

“Wait, uh, guys—“

Aguni and Takeru pause and look at the uncomfortable young man before them. Tatta shifts from one foot to the other, gaze fixed on his scuffed sneakers.

“I can’t go,” Tatta half-mumbles, “I’m sorry but…my shift doesn’t end until nine, and I need the paycheck, so…”

“You,” Takeru says, “are so goddamn precious.”

“Keep him on the clock,” Aguni tells Takeru, “count it as a business dinner. Hell, you could even pay him overtime to carry your drunk ass home.”

Takeru claps his hands together in glee.

“Oh, that is a genius move,” he says.

Takeru leans forward, resting his chin on his elbow and looking up at Tatta.

“What do you say, Cinderella,” Takeru asks him, “will you give up your chores for a few hours and let your fairy godfathers take you out for a truly legendary Boys’ Night out?”

“Hanging out with two middle-aged men at an overpriced bar is hardly a Cinderella moment,” Aguni grumbles, “but, hey, if you wanna come along, we’d be happy to have you.”

“Wow! Thanks,” Tatta says, sounding honest-to-goodness excited about the prospect of going out with his boss and his boss’ friend, “I, uh, I guess I’ll get back to the shop! I’ve got a lot to do if we’re closing early!”

And with a quick bow and an exuberant bite of his chicken, he turns on his heel, heading back into the depths of the hat shop to organize ribbons and restock shelves.

“Just adorable,” Takeru clucks, “Like a puppy that can do basic math and knows not to chew on my shoes.”

“I like him,” Aguni says, wiping his hands on his jeans, “kinda weird that he’s so enamored with you, but that aside, I think he’s a fine young man.”

“Well, what can I say? I have an eye for talent,” Takeru sets his now-finished chicken leg on his plate, “So, you’ll pick us up at six?”

Aguni tries to grimace, but a reluctant smirk sneaks its way onto his lips.

“If I must…”

#alice in borderland #alice in borderland netflix #writings and such #BOYS NIGHT! BOYS NIGHT! BOYS NIGHT!#listen aguni’s not being and asshole and doesn’t hate takeru that’s just how it is in a long term relationship #you drag each other it’s a love language #tattas just excited to be here

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newscheckz · 3 years

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MEN GOLDEN BREAST (PART SIX)

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MEN GOLDEN BREAST (PART SIX)