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halcyone-of-the-sea · 8 months

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Blood-Stained Wool Spun At Midnight (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Werewolf!Ghost x F!Tailor!Reader (Set in Van Helsing Era/Aesthetic)

WORDCOUNT: 7.7k

WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, angst, mutilation, violence, death, being hunted, reference to unwanted attention from a man, 1890s period standards for men/women, religious references, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“Miriam?” Your voice carries over the open street, one of the two small steps leading into your nonexistent front yard firm under your feet. Across the way and one house to the left, your older neighbor, Miriam, readies her horse for you—kept behind the paddock door of her attached single-stall stable. Men and women shuffle past along the cobblestone, clopping hooves and tipping soft caps. Giggles and gloved fingers.

The city is lively today, and you’ll be glad to be out of it for the better part of the morning.

You brush down the front of your shirtwaist, patting at the pleating along the front before folding your shawl across your shoulders; hiking it farther into your high-collared garment.

“Miriam!” You call again, shuffling down that last step and trying to shove yourself farther into the crowd. Keeping your black skirt close to you, you sigh long and pray the pouch at your side will stay away from the hands of pickpockets—a tailor gets off well enough, but every penny was worth it. One setback could ruin you.

Which was the reason you were now making your way into the country on your neighbor's horse.

Miriam glances up from where she fiddles with the bridle strap, her head mixed in with the masses. You smile, raising a hand far above the sea as men sneer down at you, hearing the tinkling bells of her laughter.

You make it to her and Whistlejacket the Thoroughbred as you huff, rubbing your gloved hands together before the clicking sound of your heeled shoes can catch up to your ears.

“By the Lord, it’s chilly, Love,” Miriam utters, patting the horse as you softly rub the animal's neck. Black ears twitch to you, chestnut eyes soft and pliable. You smile before replying with a chuckle.

“And the chill won’t stop Mrs. Ida from having my hide for that wool-lined cycling jacket, unfortunately.”

“Ah,” Miriam scoffs, “Mrs. Ida. I’d tell that one to mind her manners to the fine lady who makes her husband's waistcoats.”

“She always asks for them a size small,” you hum, rummaging through your satchel to make sure you have the money you need for the wool that’ll go inside the order. “One with more of a brain would say she was trying to say something.”

Your eyes glimmer as you send your neighbor a glance. Miriam slides you a cheesy look.

“‘More of a brain’, the girl says,” she mutters as you laugh brightly. “A wonder you’ve not found a husband yet.”

You ignore the comment, sliding down Whistlejacket’s side to slip your foot into the stirrup, huffing at the beast’s size before shimmying up with all the grace of a young hooligan. Panting on the saddle, both legs over one side on account of your skirt, you take a breath and happen to glance at the dark house that borders Miriams.

“Miriam?” The words escape you in a moment of curiosity. “Pray tell…is Mr. Riley back from his trip to London yet?”

Mr. Riley—Simon as you know him to be called by only a whispered passing. It was apparent with your little…interest in him. It wasn’t a carnal interest, no, God forbid, it was a hesitant need to understand him.

You’d never sown nor mended so many clothes than to his own collection.

Frock coats, waistcoats, shirts, ties, and trousers all—ripped to shreds before being placed on your counter like it didn’t matter a smidge. And those deep brown eyes of his…endless; seemingly incapable of human emotion above the tight layer of silk that the man wears up to his nose. There was something strange going on with Mr. Riley, and you were determined to figure it out, but he was also quite alluring to you in a simpler sense.

You liked how he spoke to you.

“London?” Miriam asks, putting a hand to her wrinkling chin. “My, was that where he was off to—how do you hear about these things, Girl?”

You clear your throat, putting back on your smile. “Oh, never mind that. I was just curious, see.”

Whistlejacket’s feet shuffle from under you, the tall beast’s strength seen through his broad neck and well-bred attitude. Miriam’s husband had been a carriage driver, and when he died, the widow had taken Whistlejacket into her care as the only living family she had.

You rub at his neck again, and the horse nods his head up and down, knickering.

“You’ll take care of the old fellow, then?” The question is layered, anyone going through the forest to the farmer’s fields knows that the shadows grow long.

Knows what can hunt you.

You glance at the woman, nodding firmly. “And bring you back your share for taking the lovely creature out.”

With that you’re out, taking the reins in your hands before easing Whistlejacket into a walk and entering the flow of traffic; waving a hand behind you in goodbye. Miriam calls on the smoggy wind.

“D-don’t stray from the path, Love!”

A path wouldn’t save you from the Ghost.

—

It is the year 1897, and beasts live here.

They roam in the dark corners and the forgotten alleys of every city and street—silent, unseen. Waiting to strike with white fangs or sharp claws; a snarl or a whisper. Vampires, demons, specters lost to time…Werewolves.

Nowhere was safe, and so, the world had to adapt.

As Whistlejacket’s hooves meet the slowly depleting cobblestone of the outer city, the clink of the metal bit dances in your ears; your face roves back and forth through the fields, those far in between houses. In your bag, you have more than just money.

Holy water, a crucifix, and, of course, a knife made of pure silver. When in doubt, silver was always the safest bet.

But the forest…the forest was unpredictable.

You breathe slowly as it comes into view hours later, those creaking branches and the breeze that speaks to you—in your head, you hear the plea. Or the threat.

Turn back.

The both of you stop only a foot from the treeline. Whistlejacket knickers, feet shuffling. Your hand finds his hide, rubbing soothing circles as your lips thin.

“Easy,” you whisper, but nothing could be farther from easy. Your fingers brush through the horse's hair as he moves his head, hooves taking a step back. “Easy.”

The blackness of this forest is unnatural—the others in the city and town go around it; a four-day trip. You didn’t have four days. Like a moth to a dark altar flame, the oblivion takes you in and the forest expands in your view the longer you stare into it, down that path of overgrown grass and gravel. Rocks and twigs.

With one hand you grab at your shawl and pull it closer to your neck, holding the reins lightly as your fingers twitch around them with the other.

“Easy,” you say for a third time, quickly looking away from the path and clearing your throat.

Clicking your tongue, your boots tap Whistlejacket’s side and after a puff from his large nostrils, the animal ambles forward, far slower than he had before but still moving nonetheless. Your hesitance bleeds into him, and you know the horse's senses are far better than your own.

But you were stubborn—you’d come too far to go back now, and if you wanted to be home by supper you had to buy the wool you needed and leave as quickly as possible. Going through this forest would take up most of that time.

The trees enshroud you, and in their brimstone grip, they reach with gnarled fingers like a leering phantom. You lean to the side to avoid one branch, feeling it pull at your shaul slightly; trying to grab at you, it seemed. This place would devour you whole, but you were less scared of the general aura and more of the fabled monster that patrols this place.

The Ghost.

Whistlejacket is unsure of this, despite the journeys you’d both been on. It always worried you how such a large carriage animal could still get so nervous after years of desensitization—the horse didn’t flinch at the yells from the city; or the howl of mutts at midnight. But this brimstone forest made him shiver under you like a child in the cold.

As you speak to him lowly, your hand reaches into your satchel and grasps that tiny silver blade, attaching it to your cinched belt as your skirt sways in a dead breeze. A chilled puff of air falls from your lips, though there is no coldness in these standing sentinels—it is a dead-like atmosphere. Every pound of your heart can be heard.

“You know, old fellow,” Whistlejacket’s ear twitches back to you, but his eyes do not leave the path. You spare a tense chuckle. “I’ve half the sense to tell Mrs. Ida to shove that wool lining right up her��”

Something sharp echoes far off into the trees and you pull on the reins with a tight breath.

Whistlejacket squeals, trying to bolt, but you keep a strong hand on him—eyes flashing from one dark void to the next in between the trees as his hooves dance. Your head bobs with every jerk of his legs, yet you barely notice it.

A twig? You ask, heart hammering. No, no that sounded like an entire tree getting snapped in half.

Eyes glancing over your shoulder, you look back down the road and find the tiny speck of light that signifies the exit of this place, the last glimmer of home. With a heavy look around, you close your eyes and shake your head.

Mrs. Ida was…something else…but she was one of your best clients for all her abhorrent behaviors—money was tight as of currently, and the woman’s husband was incredibly rich due to his practice as a physician. This wool was needed not only for the jacket but for your shop upkeep and the price of fabrics, needles, and threads. This wool was an investment you couldn’t miss.

“Whistlejacket,” you click your tongue but the animal snorts and shakes his head, backing up. “Whistlejacket!” Your voice carries despite not even being above a hard whisper.

“I promise you, when we get to the farm I’ll let you eat all of the sugar cubes you want—my treat.” Your hand finds the space between his ears and below his skull, the soft black mane twisting in your fingers. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

Your eyes are half-narrowed.

That wasn’t a twig.

Monster Hunting was a booming profession—and many took to it out of glory or need for coin. Those hunters had been in and out of this forest for short generations, trying futilely to catch what was rumored to lurk here before they got ripped to shreds like their fathers had.

The Ghost.

Some say he stands over nine feet tall; and has fangs that are bigger than a man’s palm—claws like butcher knives. Blackened and dead is his brain, cruel and maniacal.

The Werewolf’s heart is chained to hell, and his soul to Satan. He is cursed ever to walk like a beast and feast on human flesh while in his wolf-skin and out of it.

A ghost.

The Ghost.

You close your eyes tightly, trying not to imagine the stench of blood or the injuries you’d seen those hunters bore—being dragged back into the city screaming and wailing in pain. Arms and legs ripped clean off, never to be found. Most never came back at all.

“Please, Whistlejacket,” you plead, bumping your forehead into his neck. Whispering into his skin, you take a deep breath. “We need to go on. Quickly. We can’t stop here.”

Stopping was making a bigger target on your back—letting your scent linger in the stale air.

With one last whinny, his fast flinching feet, the horse pushes forward as you click your tongue again; faster and more uneasy. But you didn’t slow him, no, if Whistlejacket was going to speed up, you were completely fine with that.

Moving again, you loose a sigh from your lips.

There were many dark stories living here, some too heavy to tell aloud, even—one specifically was the tale that you’d overheard in your shop while helping Mr. Riley fix a large hole in his waistcoat.

Riding along the path, you guide your steed down a small indent, blinking at the images your mind conjures up.

Mr. Riley had been far quieter that day than in the recent past, and you thought perhaps he was beginning to warm to you after a few long months of silence and clipped business talk. That day, though, you had your doubts.

Mr. Moore and Mr. Hill were coming in to inquire about the state of their overalls, working-class both and eager to have their second pair of articles fixed. Mr. Riley had been there first, and thus, you’d been talking to him for the better part of ten minutes.

“Mr. Riley,” you’d explained, holding his black silk waistcoat in your hands while opening and closing your lips. “I…I really must begin by asking how exactly you manage to do this to your clothes. In good faith, I half-believe you have a habit of getting into bar fights with a knife-wielding fiend in your free time.”

Brown eyes had stared at you above that cloth of his, soft cap on his head protecting blond tendrils of hair. Scars peel at his skin, old and pale.

You’d never been afraid of him, despite his large frame and his intimidating muscle—the gruff aggressiveness of his tone. It was strange, but you had a feeling he would never do anything nefarious…perhaps his morals shone through far better than his conversational abilities.

“Can you fix it or not?” He grunts in question, hands in his pockets. Eyelids blink at you slowly, long lashes caressing flesh.

You roll your eyes. “What kind of question is that? Of course, I can.”

In that intermission of silence, you’d heard the words from the men behind Mr. Riley—missing the spark of amusement that had coated those brown orbs as they watched you.

“Did you ‘ere, then, Mr. Hill?” A sharp, hurried whisper. Your eyes blink at the two as the man ahead of you slightly shifts his shoulders, tilting his head to the side to stare behind him. “There’s been killin' in the East district—they’re callin’ the ‘unters in, see.”

“Hunters?” Mr. Moore huffs. “They’ll not make a smidge of a difference now. I’ve heard about it—they say the Ghost slunk in from the Forest and ripped the man to pieces.”

“Aye! They found pieces of flesh hangin’ off the shop signs. Like he’d been put through a machine, I hear. Half a jaw was left in the street, an eye leading into the trees, and…and…”

“Gentleman,” you call, oblivious to how Mr. Riley is as tense as a rope, eyes small and tight on the two men. He barely breathes.

The two look to you as if being caught by their mothers. You frown. “Time and place.”

“Sorry, Ma’am.”

“M’sorry, Miss, lost myself.” You smile through a sigh and turn back to Mr. Riley.

“Well, now then, I…” He quickly walks to the door, boots heavy and knee-length frock coat swishing as he pushes open the barrier and slips through. You gape, confused for a moment. By the time you think about opening your mouth again, you can already see him entering his own house across the street and pulling the door closed firmly.

The curtains close. Black night leaking out around the illumination of the oiled street lamps. It was the news in the morning that called to the true horror that you’d overheard in your shop.

Mr. Lambert was never your favorite patron, in fact, you’d call him a creep at best—insistent on marriage to you and a hazard, considering that your home was connected to your shop. He knew exactly where you lived and when to use your time in his less-than-pure favor.

Mr. Riley had been a natural deterrent in recent months, but what really struck you was that the brown-eyed man had managed to show up exactly when you needed him regarding Mr. Lambert. The small silver bell above your door rang his arrival whenever the other was trying to lean over your counter, smiling sweetly at you as if you were a prize to him and his leering eyes.

Mr. Lambert would instantly straighten, tense, and dart away with a metaphorical tail between his legs while shooting nasty glances.

But you’d never imagined him to be dead.

You’d never imagined his body to be hung from the trees that border the forest like a trophy—the Ghost had dragged him out of his home, the door busted off its hinges, and the inside all but demolished by fighting bodies. Neighbors said they’d heard howls on the wind; yowling and wet snarls like a rabid dog.

Mr. Lambert was mutilated. Unrecognizable mass of flesh and hair, bone seen through shredded skin and tongue lulling from a ripped-off jaw. One eye and a branch through his toro to hold him up.

Now halfway through the forest, in the densest bit of trees, you can’t help but imagine becoming just like him.

You hadn’t spoken besides to reassure Whistlejacket, yet the fact was that you couldn't even reassure yourself—like a child, you cling to the animal below you and try to ignore the murmurs. Your shawl had been pulled up and over your head, creating a sound barrier for you that truly did nothing to help.

Looking slightly to the side at a large and moss-layered boulder beside the path, you shiver not from the cold.

“Maybe I should have just waited the four days…” Your whisper leaked out, and it seemed a sin to break the silence that had been layered here.

A shadow filters past the side of your eyes, a silent motion atop the boulder that you think perhaps is a crow. You pull at your shawl to show your face a bit more, turning your head upward.

Atop the stone is not a bird—it is not an animal of natural birth or of sound mind. It is a beast of ancient rites and white-fanged dreams; left here among the living in a sick game of predator and prey.

You don’t register that it’s really there, the Ghost, until its blackened form stands to its full height, great shaggy fur under the remains of clothes scraps, and muzzle curled to show off fangs and pink gums. There are his ears, atop that head; they point to the sky before flinching back to staple themselves to its elongated skull. Long hands that scrape the stone below it near the claws that dig into the rock until they make long scratches.

Like a demon made flesh, this Werewolf was the epitome of nightmares. So strangely human and monster at the same time.

Eyes like a burial mound.

You stare in numb horror, gloved hands steadily tightening over the leather reigns until your knuckles pop. Whistlejacket does not yet know the beast is here, glaring into your soul and branding it; taking a large step closer to the edge of the boulder as the moss flakes under his egregious large paw-pads.

A low rumble is all it takes, those pupils small and beady, from within the breast of the Ghost’s expansive chest. Whistlejacket’s nose sniffs the air, his head turning and already tense.

The horse screams like a dying banshee, spine curling and legs kicking out. He bucks as the Werewolf snarls through a loud howl, all four limbs connected to the stone and roaring. Your back slams into the ground as you’re tossed off Whistlejacket, your mouth releasing a scream to join the rest of the noises that echo off the foliage.

Crashing into the path, your neighbor's horse disappears with one last high-pitched squeal into the darkness as you feel your bones rattle at the connection to your spine. Tumbling down a slight hill, you quickly get your skirts in order before scrambling to your feet with pain brimming in your scraped skin. Looking back to the boulder, your pounding heart rampages.

But the Ghost isn’t even there.

“Oh, Lord Almighty,” you whisper, backing up multiple steps. “Oh, Lord.”

The blade is missing from your belt—you don’t know where you’ve dropped it in the fall and that might just be the death of you. Mr. Lambert’s story infects you; the other hunters.

You frantically look at that mighty stone, up and down, while skittering backward.

Where did it go?

Panting, you only stop when you hit the firm frame behind you, a large tree trunk of fur, and a hard chest that you sink into. You freeze—eyes wide and unblinking. A thin squeak exits your mouth, and a reverberating call purrs over your vertebra, making you shiver with fear.

Minutes draw before you gather the courage to delicately turn your head upward.

Those eyes meet yours again, small and coated over with rage; pale fangs so close to your forehead they’re like ivory with dripping saliva. One drop hits your flesh, but you fail to register it.

Those eyes.

Up close you’re completely stolen by them, sucked in and whisked away as a bride, this mixture of dark wood and earth. Brown so rich you’d never seen something like it…or…or had you?

Incredibly, in between your panic, something sparks you as being familiar in a way you can’t quite place in this state.

The Ghost is gargantuanly large, so much so that he bends his spine to lean over your entire body and growl down at you, the sound starting in his gut and expanding up to his throat. The fur around his neck is so thick it’s like the mane of an exotic cat, ironically, as tufts of hair are on the tips of his ears.

You stare and try to memorize the look in his eyes as clawed hands come up at your sides, horrifyingly human with long fingers; five-pointed except for the fact that the skin is blacked like hide. Sweating, you shake before your lips start talking for you, as they usually do.

“I do hope I’m not intruding, Kind Ghost.”

The beast halts his slow entrapment, right ear twitching forward at your voice. He doesn’t blink, and his mouth does not close.

“I…I only wished for safe passage.” Internally you wonder if you’d lost your mind—if it had broken in this moment of hysterics. Your voice is far more steady than it should be. “I must get to the other side of the forest, you see. Urgently. I have business that must be settled. Though,” you add quickly, tone cracking for a moment. “Though, I knew not how to contact you to ask.”

The Werewolf’s heart can be felt on your back, a deep thum of pulsing power and raw death. It watches, its mouth twitching a smidge more closed and lungs rising. Its feral heat leaks through your clothes into your flesh.

A furred hand connects with your hip and you squawk as you’re shoved to the ground very suddenly, thrown to the side onto the grass with only your palms to catch you. You’re flipped over, those same claws slamming beside your head before you can push back up and try to run. But there could be no running. Like a moth to flame the Ghost would hunt you down until there was nothing left of you but bloodied carnage.

You throw up your hands in front of your face, the great form splayed over you and a sniffing nose digging into your stomach. There is a low whine of a hungry maw as the shaggy head moves up and around. Like a human, the Werewolf’s hand grabs at your wrist, pinning it down to the ground as the other digs into the earth, dragging it up like a farmer’s plough.

“H-hey!” You shout, pushing with your free fingers at the muzzle—in sound mind, you’d never even think to do such a thing. “Get off of me!”

You should have been terrified, and maybe you were, but you’d gone past the point of knowing it. This beast was leering over you like Mr. Lambert, but far more dangerous and…and…

“Are you smelling me?!” Your angry voice makes his dark eyes snap to yours, and in an instant, you’re staring up his muzzle, body splayed out below him.

You shutter.

“Eh…Just don't…rip anything, would you?” You were talking to a Werewolf as if he was capable of higher understanding in this form—as if still human. Voice small, you thin your lips and feel sweat run your eyebrow ridge, heart pitter-pattering.

Why were you still alive?

The snout resumes, running along your shoulder and finally stopping at your neck with a pass of the Ghost’s tongue over his lips. You close your eyes tight.

This was it, you think. Of course, you’d be the one to lose the only blade that could let you actually damage this monster, the silver glinting in your mind as you curse yourself violently. You feel the puff of his vile breath on your neck, his claws peeling at your shirt collar slowly back.

Your breath hitches, fingers winding through the fur below your grip, but the confusion breeds with the horror. The sensation of his soft fur wasn’t unpleasant—in fact, it was perhaps the finest material you’d ever handled. While it wasn’t the time for this, your occupation was impossible to ignore…this texture was far better than any silk.

But he’s stopped moving entirely. Lids fluttering, you open your eyes slowly, afraid but addled at the inaction.

Brown side-eyes you closely, fangs dripping next to the meat of your neck and parted to show a lulling tongue. The beast purrs as you stare, looming with enough mass to block the sun and moving that muzzle closer to your pulse. In an act of pure desperation and womanly instinct at the sight, you snap out your leg and, not hesitating a moment longer as the animal’s tongue meets your flesh, you send your shoe straight in between the monster's legs.

A sharp yowl makes your ears ring, but you slip out from under the Ghost as it banks back, snarling and yapping before it rights itself with a shake and rabid hunger. The look from before is gone—but you’re already through the trees by the time the enraged hunting cry makes your neck hairs rise.

Guttural, savage, and devoid of humanity.

On the path you find your blade, and you snatch it as you gather your skirt in the opposite hand and dash away. To where, you have to tell yourself, you do not know. But it’s human nature to run, to sprint until your throat tastes like blood and your stomach rolls with bile—all of that can be tolerated if for the simple promise of survival.

So run you did.

Faster and harder than you ever had in your life, you sprinted into the brimstone trees and the dead thorns, not looking over your shoulder at the noises of snarls and breaking tree trunks; claws through the earth, and the primal howl of a hunt. Your throat is raw and scraping, clothes thoroughly ruined as you crash through a thorn bush while cutting up your arms and legs in tiny streaks of crimson.

Droplets make a path behind you, a path, and a scent to tell you by. But with how the Ghost had been smelling you too deeply, you doubted it would be long before he tracked you down to finish the job.

You lose a shoe in the mad dash, lungs heaving and whimpering from the sudden absence of sounds entirely—as if the beast had disappeared into thin air. Still, you don’t brave a glace behind as you take turns and bends in the earth at random, running deeper and deeper into the foliage.

Bloodied and running out of strength as you hop a small stream, yelping when you slip and bash your wrist into the ground, you had never wished for Whistlejacket more. All you could hope was that the horse was making his way out the other side of this hellscape.

You never should have come through here.

Tears stain your eyes, blurring the edges as you manage to run into a small clearing, head whipping back and forth from one area to another. Every turn was the same—every tree similar!

But the house was different.

No more than a hut, really, it was stone and had a thatched roof, nestled in a field of black flowers and wisps of dead grass. The door was opened, but the ground was torn up by claw marks—spanning up the sides and near a broken widow.

You rush to it without a blink, and just as you make it to the threshold, you grab the thick oak door with your torn gloves. Turning, you find him across the open glade.

Air is shoved from your lungs as you wheeze, the black shadow in the tree line. Brown eyes burn past flesh and bone—beady. Twitching lips and high-pointed ankles with rising fur. It was like a statue. Not even moving; barely breathing as it…watches.

What had happened to the snarling—the howling hunt?

Had…had he been behind you the entire time?

You whip the door closed and frantically slam the bolt in place, the blade brought to your side and shaking in your tight hold as you back up quickly.

“Oh, Miriam, damn you, you’re always right.” You gasp, back hitting the edge of a table. “Curse me for never listening.”

Your neighbor had expressed worries the day before your departure, but you’d been stubborn as always—wool, you said you needed. Just enough for a coat. It was nothing; nothing that should have led to this.

You feel like passing out, bile rising into your throat before you swallow it back down and breathe in quick heaves.

But the door didn’t cave in, and no great monster barreled through to eat you up and pin you into a tree branch. The house settled, the minutes dragged on…

…and nothing happened.

Your heart slowly goes back to a hesitant normal, like a mouse after being chased by a hawk; a lamb by a wolf. Standing up straighter with blood saturating your clothes, the uneven strides of your shoe-less foot mean little to you as your form slinks to the broken window. You don’t feel the pain in your cuts—the sweat or dirt—before you bend down and hiss at the stretching flesh.

Knees knocking on the floor, you peek above the sill slowly, eyes wide open and tiny pupils quivering.

“Why didn’t it come into the glade?” You ask yourself, seeing the large shadow in the far-off coverage of the dropping leaves. A steadily dying sun. You weren’t making it back home tonight. “Why is it staying away—it knows I’m in here.”

Surely it wouldn’t let you live?

Your brows tighten, swearing there are eyes looking back at you through the kaleidoscope reflections of the glass. You duck down, vibrating as your vision runs across the strange hut.

One room, it only held a table, a tiny desk, a trunk, and a bed. A fireplace with no logs. Dust lived in the corners, and candles that were unlit were melted in plates and cups all around your view—score of them as if the dark was something the owner feared vehemently.

This would be your sanctuary for the night.

“Do Werewolves not come upon hallow ground?” Your voice bounces off the stone. “Was this a priest's hut?”

If there was a church nearby in this damned place, that would truly be the best scenario. Churches held hunters more often than not.

Standing, you walk the space, feet aching as the adrenaline wears off and it all sets in. You place your blade into your belt, but your fingers never leave the pommel. First, you go to the desk, picking through letters and thin papers.

Blinking, you pass them over in favor of the journal, the one next to the hastily thrown down quill—the spilled ink.

Your hand touches the leather and flips it open, ears peeled for any noise from outside. The drawings come into focus quite quickly.

Diagrams and intense study fill your brain, images of the Ghost sketched so lifelike that you flinch back and physically recoil until you gather your bearings.

“I don’t suppose this would be of any help,” you utter with a frown. “Will it tell me how to make silver bullets? Give me a revolver?”

Shaking your head, you close the journal before the faded name on the cover register—you walk away slowly before you halt.

"Simon Riley."

Your heart tightens and those brown orbs come back to you. It’s like your mind expands in a millisecond.

Simon Riley and his frequent trips out of the city. Simon Riley and his shredded clothes exactly like the ones that the beast wears. Simon Riley and his silent, black, soul. His secrets.

“No,” you try to convince yourself, chuckling as your panic spikes. Every interaction whizzes past with surety. “No, that’s not possible. I couldn't have been that inept when he was right in front of me.”

Anger pierces you, and all sense leaves. You know it to be true, know it to be the reality even if you'd just put the pieces together yourself. This was too perfect that God himself must have come down and laid it out for you to find.

In a moment of raw rage, you stomp to the door—hand snapping to the bolt and reaming it back. The outside chill makes you growl, but you exit the hut nonetheless. It was like a spit in your face.

“Simon Riley!” You scream into the air, hand in fists. “Get your arse out here and explain to me why I’ve been fixing your fucking clothes while you’ve been galivanting around the bloody forest!”

Call you insane, but seeing your work constantly ruined made you more mad than being chased like an animal, especially if this animal had no intention of killing you. He'd had the option, but he hadn't.

That only serves to make you even more angry.

Your finger points into the tree line. “I spend my God-given time to make them perfect for you, and this is how you repay me?” A rustling from the bush to your left. You snarl and turn to find the upright form as it blinks at you, muzzle closed and ears forward. It steps out into the grass with one paw before you brandish your blade at it.

The Werewolf freezes, a low warning growl rumbling in his chest.

“I’m going to rip that damn fur from your body and teach you what it’s like to have your practice insulted, you twat.” Those eyes don’t stray, just like they never had in your shop.

Yet there was a more primal tint to them—more wild, unrestrained. Aggressive.

The monster stalks forward with slow and heavy steps, walking up to you until it can once more stare you down. You take down a shaky breath and press your knife into his abdomen as fur encompasses your field of view.

Your confidence wavers.

“D-don’t you know it’s rude to chase down a lady in her travel shoes?”

A snarl grinds itself out in cut intervals as if he were trying to speak to you, snapping fangs and tilting head. You have somewhat of an idea of what it means.

“I’m not apologizing for kicking you in the balls, Mr. Riley. You deserved it.” You lower the knife from his abdomen.

A nose pushes itself into your neck again before you shove him off with a curse. He doesn’t even flinch before he tries once more.

“Would you quit it?!” You yell, scoffing. “What in the devil is wrong with you?”

It was like he was trying to rub his head all over you—as if nothing but a dog scenting a bone.

Isn’t he? Your lips thinned. It wasn’t foreign to think he wasn’t in the right state like this. Of course, he wasn’t. Mr. Riley would never act like this, even with how often you saw each other.

Lord, you didn’t even know if he liked you that much, but judging by whatever this is, it happened to be quite a bit. You huff and push him back with a scene of finality, slithering backwards into the hut before slamming the door.

There’s a low grumble from outside, the barrier shaking as a large paw presses on it with immense force.

“No!” You order, pulse running. “No—you figure yourself out first! I’m not letting you in like that.”

The sudden enraged roar is so loud the broken window shakes. It makes your veins quiver under your skin. But there's a heavy slam of leaving feet moments later, the sound of screeching trees as branches are bent back.

You pause and stand straighter after a long minute. Your lungs inhale.

“It listens better than the man,” you breathe, feeling weak. Bravery was tiring.

Yet, there was still the problem of the dead.

Simon Riley was the Ghost—a Werewolf. He’d killed people, many, many people in these trees.

You grab at your neck softly, the scent of earth and blood stuck under your fingertips, infecting your very soul.

“...So why didn’t he kill me?”

—

You helped yourself to the clothes in Mr. Riley’s trunk, taking what you could find and slipping into it for bed. It was nothing more than a large undershirt and pants, but you wouldn’t be the one complaining. Luck was back on your side, as you also found a small package of bandages and matches.

Lighting the candles one by one, afterward, you did what you could for your wounds. You weren’t keen on traveling to find water to clean them out, so, for now, a wrapping would have to do.

The beast patrolled the glade.

You’d hear him occasionally bend by the door, shadowing along the crack before there was a tapping of claws on stone and a huff of hot breath. He’d always leave you unaccosted, a smacking of gums and licking of chops heard through the cracked window before the dog darts away.

Where fear had been previously, curiosity starkly remained at the forefront.

“Simon Riley,” you mutter, sitting on the edge of his bed after that same event that had happened not an hour earlier. And the same an hour before that. Clockwork.

A wolf stalking his hunting grounds, making sure all is where it’s supposed to be.

He smells you in here.

“It’s too damn late for this,” you huff, rubbing at your face. Ideally, you’d like a bath and a hot meal, but there was no supper here. No food at all, really.

You plop down into the feather pillow, face nuzzling into the deep scent that you remember smelling from Mr. Riley as he came into your tailor’s shop. This was demented—unholy action.

If this were a different woman in this bed, she might be praying to her God for some salvation, an angel to come down and whisk her away. But the thought is like a stake in your heart.

If there were a different woman in this bed…would she even be breathing as you were?

You shiver and burrow deeper into the covers, pulling them up to your chin. For whatever reason, Simon Riley, the Ghost, had stayed his fangs from your supple flesh; now you weren’t even sure that when he was leaning over you he had any intention to hurt you at all. He had seemed like he was…waiting for something.

Simon Riley, your neighbor.

Your neighbor the Werewolf.

You groan and hold yourself in the candle-light, unsure. You’d heard the tales—the murders. Mr. Lambert. Those countless hunters mutilated. Like a child, you pull sparse memories that bring it all to light.

Mr. Riley was quite the gentleman when you happened to catch him.

There was never a time when you had to carry in your own fabric shipments—he was always outside to grab them before you could get one hand on the carriage compartment; it all seemed like lifting a feather. You’d speak to him about his day and his trips to the bigger cities that he always frequented.

He’d told you it was because of his business, and you’d refrained from asking what exactly it was that allowed him to purchase such exquisite clothes—or even how they always ended up ruined.

As your eyes flutter in this bed full of long black hair, you sigh and listen to the howls from far off in the distance; shivering.

“Where do you need ‘em, then?” The accent was aggressive, yes, but the tone was casual. You smile over at Mr. Riley and see the large trunk in his hands as the carriage leaves outside.

“I don’t know,” you tease, “But I think you look quite dashing being such a ready and willing neighbor, Sir.”

“That it?” He raises an eyebrow, but no expression slashes his visible face. To even get that was something to celebrate.

You raise a hand and wave him behind your counter, chuckling.

“I jest, Mr. Riley. Right back here the same as always.” He wordlessly ambles forward, feet heavy upon your wooden floors.

You smell the scent of fresh earth as he passes, and your fingers twitch at your sides. Clearing your throat, you ask easily as the man strangely flinches as he brushes your arm, eyes flicking just a smidge wider.

“Any more travels this month, then? I am a bit curious to hear about where you’ll be off to this time.”

“London,” is a swift answer. Brown eyes glance at you as the trunk is set down with a puff of breath in the space below the shelves. “Ever been?”

You shrug.

“No, unfortunately.” Simon stands to his full height, hands finding the insides of his pockets. You should be hesitant of his stature—his great shoulders—but you find it suits him. He tilts his head at you, his cap off today to let his wisps of hair collect at his temple. “You?”

Mr. Riley grunts, feet shifting.

“Quite a few.” He blinks slowly. “Not missin’ much. Bloody filthy.”

You laugh and tilt your head down, staring at the floor for a moment as your cheeks heat up. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Simon puffs a sound of amusement, looking you up and down. He stares at your waist before he hums.

“That a new one?” You look down at your corset above your blouse, putting a hand above the embroidery and nodding earnestly, touched that he’d seen it. Mr. Riley was far more in tune with his surroundings than others.

“Yes, had a horrible time with the designs—I’m not quite sure I like it yet.”

“It’s nice.” The man seems just as surprised about his quick outburst as you do, wide eyes meeting each other to connect with bare emotion.

It’s a long pause that leaves you stuttering, your heart skipping a beat as your flesh burns with brimming affection. Simon grunts tensely and darts his eyes away to stare hard at the counter behind you.

“Well, I…” you tilt your head, beaming through a soft chuckle. “Thank you, Mr. Riley. That’s high praise coming from you.”

“It’s nothing.” He takes his leave, firmly moving past you and shifting his body to make sure he doesn’t accidentally run into you. “Wear whatever you want, won’t make a difference… You’ll still be lovely.”

Before you can gape into the expanse of his back at the blunt compliment, he’s already out of the door with a whisper. You watch him cross the street from the window and see him climb his steps, sucking down a shaky breath.

An embarrassing giggle meets air.

The man far across the street pauses in front of his door, gloved hand outstretched. He stays there for a hint of a moment, and you swear he turns his head to space you a tiny glance over his shoulder.

Suddenly feeling as if you’d gotten caught, though you don’t know why, you squeak and hurry away into the back room.

You wake up to the sound of the door opening.

Drowsy and fatigued, your ears twitch to the sound of low groans and clipped growls—thick curses that would make any mother go shy that slip in and out of your reality.

You should be afraid.

Footsteps stumble in, the thick closing and bolting of the door eching. Candles flicker through your eyelids, and you make a low noise in your throat as your face scrunches.

All sound ceases.

So quiet that death himself would vacate the area, your brain catches the end of a set of surprised footsteps coming to the bed and a sudden low exclamation of, “Bloody fucking hell.”

It all fades in and out, glimmering and glinting.

A swift cleaning of the objects in his possession, organization, and fixing—moving papers. Feet stop at every other minute, and eyes burn into your face from above the covers.

His fingers pull back at fabric, seeing the clothes you wear, the ones that he needs as of currently.

A deep chuckle encircles you; your sleep deepens. Those same fingers, like a plague of slumber, travel up your bandaged arms and twitch along your shoulder—moving up until they come to the pulse at your neck. They add pressure and a breathless grunt is expelled as you tilt your head farther up.

That touch is moved to your chin, moving it back down to hide your flesh from that brown gaze before a heavy sigh brushes over you. The covers are all at once pulled farther up along your form.

The shadow disappears, and with it, it takes the extra blanket from the end of the bed, harshly grunting as the fabric is shuffled around and wrapped. A tiny mutter.

“You have a fuckin’ horrible habit of complicating things.”

You sleep on, and, if you were conscious enough to realize it, you would have felt the gaze on you for the remainder of the night from the table—watching, barely blinking above the heavy press of eyes.

Silent, if only for the soft breaths taken and no sooner exhaled on long, even, airways.

As if not but a dog that watches the moon under starlight; the gentle sight of snow falling outside of the den.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlized, @waves-against-a-cliff, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @l-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

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thepersonnamedsam · 5 months

Text

carlos‘ song - cs55

pairing: carlos sainz x fem!reader

summary: you wrote a song about carlos

word count: 1.2k

warnings: angst, mentions of death, anxiety, sad stuff

note: i have been obsessed with carlo‘s song lately and i just had to write something for carlos, bc obv carlo‘s - carlos

masterlist / taglist

Standing on the rooftop of this bar in Madrid, your short hair blew in the cold air. Apparently it’s not just any bar, the bar is placed on a fire tower.

The sun was just about to set and you tried to keep your hair under control. „You know, I liked it more when it was long.“ Carlos looked at you with his big brown round eyes and it reminded you of a deer caught in a headlight.

„Oh really?“, you grinned. When you two first met you were only 12 years old, little best friend of Isa. You never taught you would one day stay on this roof top with her brother.

„Yeah, do you remember drinking in the parking lot? By the trail head? Yeah, I liked your hair that day.“

You felt heat rush to your head, you blamed it on the cold. „Okay, I can grow it out long, if you’d like that?“

You only just moved back to Madrid. Ida was supposed to pick you up from the airport but instead there stood a bright red Ferrari with not Isa but her brother Carlos instead. And he didn’t take you to his sisters, no he treated you to a drink on the fire tower.

Only the good die young was playing on the speakers.

„You know, I never understood what Billy Joel meant with those lyrics“, you thought out loud. „Didn’t you just study english literature?“ - „Yeah, and?“ Your eyebrows raised at him, silently questioning his thoughts.

„Like, aren’t you just supposed to know what he meant with his lyrics?“

„I mean, I have my own meaning, but it’s ridiculous.“ - „No, please tell me, because I always laugh at the lyrics“, Carlos said.

„I mean, obviously in the first verse he wants to have sex with virgin catholic girls. And ‚only the good die young‘ you can argue about that - young people who die didn’t deserve it, therefore they were good. Or old people aren’t good anymore, or many more.“

„Not ridiculous“, he smiled. „Huh?“ - „Your meaning of the song isn’t ridiculous, not in the slightest.“

You smiled, hard. Carlos was an interesting man and you wondered what more grew under that perfect skin of his.

„I think we are going to be good friends, Carlos“, you told him. „You think so?“, was his answer. You nodded and grinned at him.

Over the time you grew closer together, Carlos showed you parts of Madrid you only remembered vaguely from your childhood. But the distance of his job hurt more and more. You knew what a relationship with him meant. You knew only too good, heard Isa over the phone crying over missing her brother.

But the days he spent in between were the best you ever experienced.

„I want a big house out in the open. Where the sun always shines and all the light gets into the house!“, Carlos gushed. You were laying on the couch together and planned how your future would look like if money didn’t matter - not that it did anyway.

„Whys that?“, you asked him. „I don’t like the way my skin feels when it’s not shown on by the sun. I like the warmth, never liked the cold, brrr“, his arms snaked around your upper body and shook it like you were freezing.

Your laugh was heard throughout the apartment. Carlos grinned at you, his skin warming with the sound of your happiness.

„Why don’t you like the way your skin feels without the sun?“

„It makes me feel like I need to escape my own body. Like I don’t belong, it just feels wrong.“

„Well I hope you can escape your skin with me“, you smiled at the man you were falling more and more in love with.

But you still never went to a grand prix with him. And when he asked you why, you came up with a new excuse as not to.

You started to pick up more work, started to work over the weekends. You had less and less time to call Carlos over the weekend, making him question your feelings for him.

Until it happened. It happened on a Saturday at FP2. It was quickly over. You only heard about the incident the next day, as you wondered why Carlos didn’t start.

Isa called you. 48 seconds. That’s how long the phone call lasted. The news shattered your heart. Broken into millions of pieces. You couldn’t believe it, no, Isa was definitely playing pranks with you.

You fell, you fell deep into a hole. A hole you never knew you sighed it yourself. Deeper and deeper. Until Isa visited you. She brought you his clothes he still had at home. She brought his necklace that he was about to gift you. His initials graved into the back of the pendant.

But still, everyone who started talking about him being gone, you shut out. You shut them right out, because in your mind he was still alive, he was still racking and he was winning.

But the reality was none of that. And reality hit you, it hit you hard. His memorial was held at the end of the season. And Isa asked you to talk about him. You had to admit he was dead.

„I can’t do it, Isa.“ - „Please, you were his everything, he talked so much about you! Did you know he had been crushing on you since he was 16?“

„Did you set us up? The day you didn’t pick me up from the airport and instead sent him?“

Isa looked at you, just like Carlos had when he was caught doing something he shouldn’t have. This big brown eyes. Glistening with mischief - it was something that all of the Sainz family possessed.

„You caught me“, she shamelessly shrugged with her shoulders and smirked at you. „It was time? He was pining on you for so long, but you were away studying and he was so sad, I had to do it, it was his only chance!“

His memorial was beautiful, the whole grid present. Charles and Frédéric spoke about his time at Ferrari, Lando held a speech about their friendship and Isa sung a beautiful song. She still tried to convince you to speak, but you just couldn’t.

Isa and you still regularly talked to each other. She was doing good, better than her anyway. You almost never talked about Carlos. You weren’t bringing him up, neither did she.

The one thing Isa told you was: „Grief is just love letting go. It’s okay to let go.“

You almost cried - how could she say that like it was just spilled milk?

„Look at yourself, when’s the last time you cut your hair? You always kept it short, but now?“

You did visit him at his grave. Brought flowers and letters for him to read. Eventually you wrote a song. A song to remember him - Carlos‘ Song.

And one day you stood on a stage, at the bar they had their first date at and sung Carlos‘ Song.

Isa was there, smiling up at you and filming the whole thing. „I’m going to show it to my parents“, she smiled.

And you knew Carlos was smiling down on you and kept you alive.

°°°

@ironmaiden1313 , @topguncultleader , @biglittlesecret , @gulabjamooon , @lovelyy-moonlight , @peachyplumsss , @mistrose23 , @copper-boom , @love4lando , @champomiel , @serenityleah , @iloveyou3000morgan , @angelwithoutmywings , @elleeeee21 , @youkissedareaderinthedark , @mikauraur , @thybulleric , @lpab , @fdl305 , @mellowarcadefun , @teti-menchon0604 , @vildetry06 , @bibissparkles , @aurora-maria , @lunnnix , @sya-skies , @Buckywifeyy , @dakotali , @rechtrecht , @noncannonships , @1eclerc16 , @pitlanebabe , @sopheeg , @avengersheart , @thatsadsmallchild , @peachiicherries , @idkiwantchocolatee , @callsign-scully , @mehrmonga , @badbatch-simp24 , @lissyontour , @din0nugs , @elliegrey2803 , @gay-for-victoria-de-angelis , @10vely-yutazen , @daggersquadphantom , @azriel-the-shadowsinger , @i-love-scott-mccall , @darleneslane , @mikauraur , @heartmetaphor , @darleneslane , @ellswilliams , @thxtmarvelchick , @nataliambc , @dontjudgeabookbythecover , @hockeyboysarehot , @thehistoryone

#f1 x reader #formula 1 #f1 #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz x y/n #carlos sainz angst #carlos sainz fanfic #formula one #formula 1 x reader #formula one x reader #Spotify

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fandomwonderer · 1 month

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Evidence of Pearlina PT. 2

Otherwise known as a masterlist of every queer interaction between Pearl Hozuki and Marina Ida

This time: Picture-Proof pt. 2 since tumblr doesn't allow above a 10 image limit on tumblr mobile

Alternative 2D art of Pearl and Marina for promotional use:

Official Splatoon Twitter account Christmas art 2019:

Splatoon 2 DLC Octo Expansion official music disk cover:

Exclusive Japanese Inkpolife Magazine interview:

Splatoon 3 DLC Side Order:

Official Splatoon 2 Concert poster:

Flowers Vs dumplings official splatfest art:

#marina x pearl #pearl x marina #pearlina #splatoon 2 #splatoon 3 #splatoon 2 octo expansion #pearl splatoon #marina splatoon #splatoon idols #splatoon fandom #splatoon dlc #splatoon side order #pearlina evidence masterpost

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moonlezn · 7 months

Text

Ela quer, Ela adora

capítulo I igual ela não tem, 01, primeira dama

avisos: referências muito específicas sobre o subúrbio do rio, eu posso explicar se quiserem hahaha. pequeno crossover com Garupa. é isso, espero que gostem! masterlist

Se tem algo que o povo de Bangu sabe é passar calor e que você é do Renjun, vulgo Junin. O cobrador da B44 é conhecido pelo calçadão e pelo largo inteiro, anda pelos bairros adjacentes acenando e batendo nas mãos de quase todo mundo. Esse daí pega a van todo dia, falaí, trabalhador.

Cada final de semana é um convite diferente para churrasco de fulano de tal, festa do filho de ciclano quem. O queridinho de geral tinha que marcar presença.

De dia, ele rala e faz o dele; de noite, sai para as batalhas de rap e faz uns corres pela arte.

Foi numa dessas que ele te conheceu. Obviamente era sua primeira vez ali, foi porque seus amigos te convidaram. A roda estava cheia e as reações eram tão altas que logo o ambiente te fez participar também. Renjun massacrou todos os rivais naquela noite, não sabe dizer se foi inspirado pela sua curiosidade que o encarava, ou se foi apenas resultado da prática mais intensa dos últimos meses.

Quando ele finalmente ficou livre, te procurou entre os vultos que o elogiavam, mas não te encontrou. Contudo, essa vida é um sopro, se fosse para trocarem uma ideia, ia acontecer.

Dito e feito.

O que para Junin era uma surpresa, para você nem tanto. Já tinha visto o bendito várias vezes na van que pega para ir ao trabalho, por isso se admirou ao vê-lo no dia anterior. Nem sabia que ele era rapper, mas você não é parâmetro para nada. Não interage com ninguém no caminho de ida ou volta do trabalho. Entra muda e sai calada, com pagode nas alturas no fone sem fio mais caro do camelódromo de Bangu. Fora que sempre acaba se misturando com as dezenas de pessoas que saltam no mesmo ponto.

Logo ele, nunca ter reparado em você? Impossível.

O cobrador rouba vários olhares na sua direção enquanto espera a van lotar para sair. Você não tem medo, fita de volta, dá um sorrisinho. Assim ele não aguenta.

Levanta um ponto antes do seu, tirando o fone e pegando o dinheiro trocado no bolso.

— Vou ficar no próximo, Junin. — Chama-o pelo vulgo, e ele vira a cabeça tão rápido que quase bate.

— Opa! No próximo para, Nando. — Ele anuncia para o motorista sem tirar os olhos dos seus, nem mesmo confere as notas. — Tem certeza que é no ponto? Se precisar, a gente para mais perto, pô.

— Não, gatinho, no ponto mesmo. — Você diz, apoiando-se na janela quando o carro desacelera bruscamente.

Oferece um último sorriso para o garoto, agradecendo ao motorista também. Isso sim era novo.

— Ih, Juju, enfeitiçou a metida, foi? — Nando caçoa, e alguns passageiros riem com ele. O pessoal que pega contigo no mesmo horário nunca tinha escutado sua voz, com certeza tem algo aí.

— Qual foi, Nando, que isso. — Ele esconde o sorrisinho convencido ao fingir contar umas notas bagunçadas nos dedos. — Tu acha que eu tenho chance?

— Se tu não comer mosca como tu sempre faz, tem. — O motorista não perde a oportunidade de botar uma pilha. Na visão dele, Renjun é apenas um menino bobo que precisa acordar para a vida.

A história se repete no dia seguinte, e no outro, e no outro… Depois de mais uns dias de olhares travessos, de sorrisinhos óbvios e de muitas piadinhas das duas partes, o rapper decide te chamar para sair. Era a última corrida da sexta à noite, tudo que ele menos quer é perder mais tempo.

— Pô, só um chopp de vinho, falaí. — O menino anuncia, arrancando algumas reações dos passageiros restantes.

Você o desafia com os olhos debochados e um sorriso desacreditado.

— Não, não. Pra mim só uma cerveja mesmo, afogar a tristeza por causa dessa merda do Flamengo. — Um homem levanta a discussão, o tópico muda. Mas não para vocês dois.

Renjun chama sua atenção cutucando seu calcanhar com o próprio, fazendo com que se virasse para ele. O menino balança o queixo como quem pergunta o que acha da proposta que ele tinha feito. Você finge ponderar, mirando as unhas de acrigel que precisavam de manutenção.

Pega o celular e digita uma mensagem rápida para o contato que tinha te chamado recentemente no whatsapp.

só vou se for chopp do bom, com gosto de fanta uva nem me leva

Ele ri ao ler a mensagem, mordendo o lábio e ajeitando o boné para trás. Sextou, pai.

Na praça da Guilherme tem de tudo, e o barzinho novo de frente para a estação é para onde vão. Musiquinha ao vivo, petisco bom, papo melhor ainda, ambiente instagramável, tudo para te conquistar de primeira.

— Como você é tão bonita? — Ele diz ao perceber que você já o tinha dado condição o suficiente para chegar. Estão ainda sentados na mesa do bar, já bem mais perto do que antes.

O sorriso esperto, a mão no seu joelho, o chopp fazendo efeito… Você se aproxima também, deixando a boca bem perto da dele.

— Bonita não, linda. — Brinca, quase não resistindo aos lábios geladinhos com hálito de cerveja.

— Linda, — Ele não resiste, te dá um selinho. — mas tão metida.

Não era uma ofensa, principalmente com as tuas unhas arranhando o disfarce do corte recém feito. Tinha ficado na régua só na esperança de ter esse encontro contigo.

— Se eu não fosse tudo isso, você não estaria doidinho pra me beijar. — Retruca entre os selinhos que ficavam mais longos, mais profundos, mais molhados.

— Me. ti. da. — Renjun corta a palavra com beijinhos lentos que te deixam tonta. Após dizer a última sílaba, aprofunda o beijo com experiência. Usa a língua devagar, te puxando pela nuca, se perdendo nos seus lábios.

O que era para ser um encontro virou dois, três… Quatro ficadinhas viraram cinco, seis, sete… incontáveis. Um burburinho começou a crescer sobre um possível namoro dele contigo porque só viviam juntos. Porém havia um problema, Junin perdia a linha.

Certo dia, voltando da manicure com o alongamento tinindo de perfeito, você corre para o ponto na esperança de chegar em casa mais rápido. Chegando mais perto, vê o dito cujo todo se engraçando para cima de uma mixuruca risonha.

Ele não percebe a sua proximidade, estando de costas para você. A bonitinha não queria pagar a passagem e, além de cair na mentira dela, Junin está se querendo demais com essas risadinhas que conhece bem.

Já está mordida de uma briga boba que tiveram semana passada que ainda não esqueceu, hoje vai ver o que é bom para a tosse. Desta vez não vai deitar.

Tira da bolsa os quatro reais que tinha separado e, com toda raiva que tinha, espalma o dinheiro no peito do garoto, que leva o susto mais aterrorizante da vida dele.

— Princesa, qual foi?! — Renjun exclama, o rosto ficando pálido de medo ao cair em si: fez merda.

— Tô pagando a passagem da sua amiga, Junin. — Você sorri irônica, acenando os dedos adornados da extensão impecável.

Vira de costas antes que ele pudesse protestar, traçando o caminho até o ponto de mototáxi do outro lado da rua. Ao subir na garupa de Jeno, finalmente encara Jun outra vez, ele espuma de raiva. Você abraça o abdômen forte do motoqueiro, apoiando a cabeça no ombro definido também. Ele repara a situação, balança a cabeça negativamente e ri da sua gracinha, dando partida por fim.

O beijinho que joga no ar acaba com o cobrador. Ele não está apenas fodido, como fodido para caralho.

— Gatinha, aquele lá é o tal do Junin? — Jeno pergunta ao te deixar em casa. Você afirma com uma expressão desgostosa, ainda sem acreditar na pachorra de Renjun.

— É… — Suspira desanimada, devolvendo o capacete ao dono enquanto passa os dedos entre os fios embolados.

— Já ouvi falar dele. — Jeno comenta, preparando a moto para a nova partida. — Também já ouvi dizer que ele só tem olhos pra você, sabe como é o corre da gente, os caras falam.

Sorriu fraco para o mototáxi, agradecendo a tentativa de animá-la. Porém, as palavras mal deixaram uma impressão no seu interior, só consegue focar na imagem dele flertando com a outra lá.

Estão ficando há meses, ele te enche de presente, conheceram as famílias um do outro, todas as coisas que casais fazem. Mas o pedido que é bom, nunca veio. Agora, por causa do que viu, além de sentir o coração apertar um pouco, pensa se não está sendo otária. Quem diria, né. Vividona, toda bandida, caindo na laia de amor falso. Realmente estava achando que daria em algo.

O lance entre os dois é diferente, te dá frio na barriga, só de vê-lo fica mais feliz. Ama acompanhar Junin nos corres dele, andar de mãos dadas pelo Bangu Shopping nos finais de Domingo, pegar o BRT lotado para ir tomar banho de mar na sua folga, visitar a vovó do menino só para ela ter companhia no lanche da tarde… Talvez só você estivesse sentindo tudo isso. Quando foi que ficou tão cega?

O dia inteiro ele te manda mensagem, mas nenhuma resposta vem. Tenta até te ligar… nada. A cabeça do garoto gira rápido demais, pouco se concentra no serviço o resto da tarde. Ele começa a ficar agoniado, a culpa e o medo atormentam cada pensamento.

— Qual foi, Junin? Tá com cara de enterro desde cedo. — Nando indaga, estacionando a van na garagem.

— Ah, bagulho com a minha mina… — Ele responde envergonhado.

— Sua? Tu pediu em namoro? — O motorista usa um tom irônico que incomoda o mais novo. — Tá é de enrolação, isso sim! Vai perder já já, isso se já não perdeu. Avisei pra não ficar se engraçando com…

Para de ouvir. Renjun não fala nada, o choque de realidade o pega desprevenido. Ele estava tão nervoso por você não estar respondendo que não tinha nem pensado que aquela situação poderia desencadear no fim do que têm.

Deixando o cara sem entender nada, Junin sai correndo dali. Ele pega o celular para fazer uma ligação, a amiga atende logo.

— Lu, tem como pedir uma encomenda pra hoje? — Ele pergunta à menina que está enrolada com as entregas do dia, não fala nem oi.

A loja de presentes personalizados bombou no TikTok recentemente, então passou a tirar os Sábados para postar os pedidos da semana nos correios.

— Você não pode estar falando sério. — Ela bufa, sem paciência com os atendentes, com Renjun, com tudo no mundo.

— Por favor, por favor, por favor… É só o quadro de estrelas, da parada de data… — Tenta convencê-la. — Te pago no pix agora já.

— Porra, Junin. Que caralho, viu. Passa lá em casa exatamente às seis, vai estar pronto. Me passa a data, o nome e uma frase que você queira botar pelo whatsapp. Anda logo!

Lu desliga apressada, deixando um sorriso enorme nos lábios do garoto. Agora ele só precisa correr na Americanas e comprar os chocolates que tinha pensado. Vai dar certo.

Aproveitando que tinha recebido, o garoto escolhe vários chocolates, no entanto sente que ainda falta algo. Corre na loja de perfumes da Paris Elysee, sabendo de cor o cheiro que o enfeitiça.

Ao mesmo tempo que Junin monta o presente da forma mais delicada possível, o coração dele não para quieto. Não sabe nem se você vai dar essa moral para ele, visto que parece não querer vê-lo nem pintado de ouro.

Apesar disso, ele precisa arriscar.

Depois de quase duas horas em Bangu, pegou um uber para a casa de Lu, onde ela entregou a moldura impecável. As estrelas no céu da data do primeiro beijo, os nomes de vocês um ao lado do outro e logo embaixo:

“Pensando na primeira vez que te vi

Engraçado é eu não ter notado

Que o que eu procurava tava bem ali”

— Vê se com essa você para quieto, Junin. Ela não merece tuas pilantragens não! — Ela ralha bem alto no condomínio, o que atrai os olhares de alguns vizinhos.

— Qual foi, Lu. Papo erradão esse teu, na moral. — Ele se defende em vão, levando uma porta fechada na cara.

Confuso e quase ofendido, guarda tudo na mochila e vai caminhando até sua casa, que é próxima. Finalmente a ficha cai, as mãos suam e ele começa a ensaiar o discurso que faria.

Ao ver o portão branco de ferro entreaberto, a barriga dá cambalhotas. Sua família está sempre em festa, hoje não é diferente. Tem algumas bexigas sendo penduradas, umas tias organizando as mesas… sem sinal de você, todavia. Assim que ele bate no ferro, sua mãe sorri grande para ele.

— Oi, filho. Achava que você não vinha hoje, na verdade me disseram isso. — Ela te envolve num abraço apertado, deixando um beijo na bochecha.

— Bença, tia. — Renjun cumprimenta. — É, eu mudei de ideia na última hora. — Desconversa com um sorriso travesso.

— Ela tá na cozinha terminando de cortar pão, vai lá. — Sua mãe acena na direção da porta de casa.

Ele pode jurar que é capaz de ouvir o próprio pulso. Ouve uma música sair da caixinha ao passo que se aproxima do cômodo, é um mpb triste. Merda.

Na mesma hora que você se vira, Junin se encosta no portal, uma expressão saudosa na face tão linda. Porém você junta as sobrancelhas, deixa os últimos pães na mesa e limpa as mãos num pano.

— O que você tá fazendo aqui? Quem te deixou entrar? — Põe uma das mãos na cintura nua, o cropped e o shortinho jeans que veste te deixam linda. Você está sempre linda.

— Ei, precisa disso? — O menino toma uns passos na sua direção visando poder te abraçar. Não contava com o braço estendido que o impediria. — Que isso, minha metida, faz assim não.

— Não me chama assim. Eu sou metida, mas sua… só se for nos seus sonhos. — Você gira o corpo, e ele revira os olhos. O que ele foi arrumar?

— Eu quero me explicar, melhor, me desculpar. — Ele assiste você balançar os ombros com escárnio ao rir. — Eu tô falando sério. Olha pra mim, por favor.

Não deveria, entretanto, atende ao pedido. O olhar sincero de Renjun se encontra com o seu machucado, ele só queria poder te beijar e te convencer a perdoá-lo.

— Você tem dois minutos. — Cruza os braços e se finge de desinteressada. Não quer demonstrar nenhuma fraqueza na frente dele, já extravasou as emoções como podia, só que ainda dói. É inacreditável que tenha sido feita de idiota a essa altura da vida. Por meses.

— Eu não devia ter dado confiança e flertado com aquela garota, foi mal. — Junin começa, desesperado pela falta de tempo. Você normalmente leva contagens muito a sério. — Me perdoa por ter te magoado e por ter feito você pensar tanta coisa, mas eu te prometo não fazer outra vez. Nunca mais eu vou te magoar.

— Nunca mais mesmo, a gente não tem mais nada. — Você declara séria, se repreendendo ao sentir a garganta doer. Que palhaçada é essa, mulher? Por um ficante?

— Não fala isso nem de brincadeira. — Ele arregala os olhos, apavorado de verdade. Traz a mochila para o peito, abrindo todo desajeitado.

— Que porra é essa, garoto? — Nunca o tinha visto assim, chega até a ajudá-lo a abrir o zíper.

Ele tira a pequena cesta de palha preenchida por inúmeros bombons, barras, trufas e outros doces da bolsa. Você segura o presente meio estatelada, não esperava isso hoje. Talvez daqui uns dias.

Sempre que brigam, é assim. Não se falam, mas depois de um tempo, ele aparece e te mima de diversas formas.

— Jun… — O apelido que só você usa escapa automaticamente dos seus lábios.

— Bota na mesa, tem outras paradas aqui. — Ele anuncia com a mão dentro da bolsa ainda.

Assim que você fica com as mãos livres, Junin revela o pacote do perfume primeiro. Sorri com os olhinhos pequenos ao perceber que você se controla para não demonstrar que amou.

— O meu tava quase acabando, obrigada. — Agradece sem jeito, escondendo também a curiosidade sobre a embalagem misteriosa que ainda falta.

— O melhor deixei por último. — Ele te entrega o presente, e você começa a desfazer o laço com cuidado.

Nada paga a carinha que você faz quando entende o quadro. Seus olhos ardem com as poucas lágrimas que ameaçam um choro, dando brecha para Renjun, por fim, te abraçar e te encher de beijos por onde consegue. Estava morrendo de vontade de fazer isso desde que chegou.

— Jun, você não pode me dar esses presentes assim e a gente continuar do jeito que tá. — Dá um ultimato nele, já completamente entorpecida pelo jeitinho marrento dele. O boné para trás colabora. Muito.

— A gente continua de outro jeito. — Junin diz, mordendo os lábios, falando bem devagar. — Não tem outra que eu queira, você é minha primeira dama, minha número 1. Sempre. Quer namorar comigo?

O seu bico relutante se transforma num sorriso em questão de segundos. Agarra Renjun pelo pescoço e o beija com tanta vontade que fica complicado.

— Isso é um sim? — Ele pergunta, tomando seu lábio inferior com os dentes.

— Sim, seu idiota. — Murmura entre mais um beijo que avermelha ainda mais a boca desenhada do menino.

Com mais firmeza ele te aperta, feliz que não cabe em si. Ainda se beijam quando, gritando, sua tia entra na cozinha.

— Olha a putaria, tem quarto não? — A mulher brinca, rindo escandalosa.

As borboletas conhecidas se manifestam quando Jun ri, escondendo o rosto na curva do seu pescoço por vergonha. Você sempre acha uma graça.

— Ô Simone, vem dar um jeito no teu povo!

A exclamação impossivelmente alta da tia atrai sua mãe para a cozinha, onde contam que até que enfim estão namorando. A festa da casa ganha outro motivo, então. Todos os parentes, vizinhos, amigos, os cachorros… ficaram sabendo do início tão esperado do namoro. Até as altas horas da madrugada o papo rende, regado de salgadinho, cachorro quente, guaraná e, claro, muita cerveja gelada.

— Eu te amo, sua metida. — Como uma promessa, ele segreda ao te abraçar na cama, preparados para dormir. — Não, sua metida. — Sim, cafona desse jeito, a tal ponto. — Eu também te amo, mô. — Sussurra sonolenta, caindo no sono nos braços do pilantra mais romântico de Bangu.

#renjun fluff #renjun scenarios #renjun fanfic #renjun x reader #renjun angst #nct pt br #nct br au #nct x reader #nct dream x reader #nct scenarios #nct dream scenarios #nct dream fluff #nct fluff #nct dream fanfic #nct dream imagines #renjun imagines #nct imagines

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topguncortez · 11 months

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Father's Day | Dragon & Rooster

Dragon & Rooster masterlist | Opposites Attract Masterlist

synopsis: Dragon made a vow to make Father's Day a special day for Bradley

word count: 750

warnings: mentions of miscarriage, parent death, bleeding, mentions of child death

Father’s day had always been a tough day for Bradley. When he was younger, he would be the only child sitting and watching as other children made cards and gifts for their dads. He was thankful that his childhood friend, Ben Stone, always invited him to sit at the same table as him and his dad. And it even got worse when his mother started dating. Bradley could remember a time, when he was about 15, that his mother suggested getting a father’s day card for her then long-time boyfriend, Paul. Bradley had gone ballistic, and to this day, the words that were shared between him and Carole, haunted him.

Even as Bradley got older, and got married to the love of his life, Father’s Day had been a tough day. It was Father’s Day three years ago, that Dragon had woken up in immense pain, blood coating her thighs. Bradley sat by her side through it all, holding her hand, whispering sweet nothings to her. He even sat in the bathroom with her for hours as she withered in pain and waited for the miscarriage to be over. Dragon had promised him that day, while he was brushing her hair ever so gently, that he would get a good father’s day. That he would have a day to be celebrated, and be cherished with his children right there next to him.

And true to her word, she kept up on her promise.

Dragon moved around as quietly as she could, hoping to not disturb her sleeping husband. She smiled as she took in the soft features of his face. His soft pink lips were slightly parted as soft snores left his mouth. His cheeks, which now supported a light stubble from having a few weeks off, were pink from the warm morning sun. Bradley was never a heavy sleeper, and since having a baby, he had become such a light sleeper that even the slightest move had him waking up. So waking up before him was no small task, and Dragon cheered quietly as she walked down the hallway towards the nursery.

“Good morning, baby,” Dragon cooed softly, noticing the very alert and awake three-month old, looking up at the mobile that hung above their crib. The mobile once belonged to Bradley when he was an infant, and Maverick had it restored and gifted to them. Dragon gently reached in and pulled her child from the crib, kissing their temple, “You didn’t even cry to someone’s attention, my independent duplin’. Let’s go get daddy up.”

Dragon changed and dressed the baby, singing softly to them. She kissed the baby’s temple as she picked them back up in her arms, rubbing their back soothingly as they walked down the hallway. Dragon shook her head, seeing as Bradley was still fast asleep, now laying on his back, sprawled out in the middle of the bed.

“That dad of yours… he’s something else,” Dragon whispered, “Here, tell Daddy to wake up.”

Dragon gently kneeled on the bed, just enough to reach the center of Bradley’s bare chest, and gently placed the baby down. Bradley didn’t even wake up, putting his hand instinctively to his child’s back, holding him to his chest. Dragon chuckled and Bradley stirred, slowly waking up and blinking, looking around the room. His brown eyes opened and looked down at his chest, seeing very identical brown eyes looking back up at him.

“Hey buddy, how did you get here?” Bradley said, his voice groggy.

“Someone wanted to come to say ‘Happy Father’s Day’,” Dragon said, coming to sit by Bradley. Bradley smiled and looked up at her, tilting his head up. She leaned down and placed a soft kiss on his lips, “Happy Father’s Day.”

“Thank you, love,” Bradley said.

“You know Ida wishes you a Happy Father’s Day too.”

Bradley sighed and nodded, running his hand over his child’s brown hair, “I know she does. I wish she was here too. She’d be two now.”

“Yeah…” Dragon swallowed, taking a deep breath, “Two years old and full of attitude, I just know it,” She chuckled, “But she would be the best big sister to you, sunshine.”

“One hundred percent,” Bradley smiled and lifted his child up in the air. The baby smiled widely and Bradley brought them back down, placing kisses all over their face, before lifting them back up, “My smiling baby! You’re always just so happy, my happy baby. My rainbow baby.”

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assortedseaglass · 1 year

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Come Back To Me - Epilogue

Billy Washington x OFC

[Masterlist]

Warnings: 18+ Language and Smut.

Author’s Note: How are we feeling after the photoshoot, pals? Are we okay? Have we gone insane? Have we gone completely feral? It came just at the right time for the epilogue…

This is the last instalment of Come Back To Me. Thank you all so much for your support with this story - as I have said before, sharing my writing has been very nerve wracking but you have all made it so worth it! Your kind words have meant the world, and I feel much more at ease to share more in the future.

Billy and Ida occupy such a lovely little corner of my mind, and I must admit I’m sad that this fic is over. I’m glad that my version of Billy has been received so well, and that Ida has been so accepted by you all! Maybe in the future, I’ll write more about the pair of them. Send any suggestions, requests or ideas my way! Here goes…

Word Count: 5.6K

Billy stepped off the train and was met by the gentle smell of foxglove, campion and cow parsley. May, ten months after Cranstead Fields. Spring in Woodwell was in full bloom; bunting was strung from the village pub, swifts split the air with their wings, and scent of suncream was brought in with the season’s first tourists.

Billy breathed deeply the fresh air, shouldered his bag and followed the few other passengers that had left the train to the station steps. Flicking his glasses off his head and onto the sharp bridge of his nose, he rounded the corner into the warmth of the sunlight and began the short walk home. A sharp whistle rang through the evening air. Billy was grinning before he even turned around.

“Where you heading?” Her hair was lit by the setting sun. Billy watched insects flutter in the hazy light around her, and occasionally a robin or blackbird darted out to feast on them. Billy knew they were catching dinner before settling in for the night, but it looked as though she had summoned them herself. His wild thing. As she leant against the door of her car, a seductive smirk played on her lips, whether she knew it or not.

“Got a girl waiting at home,” he replied, walking slowly towards her.

“Lucky thing,” the woman snaked her arms around Billy’s neck and leant against the car, bringing him with her. Billy laughed as he kissed her. He pulled away and she pulled him back. He laughed once more, kissing her between chuckles.

“You’re insatiable.”

“If you only knew,” she smiled against his lips. “How was it?”

“I fucking hate the city.” Billy stood back to admire her. “You look nice.” She blushed and flattened her skirt a little. He moved towards the passenger side but was stopped by her voice.

“You’re up, big boy.” She threw him the car keys and laughed brightly, touching his arm as she passed him by. “You feeling up to it?” Billy kissed her cheek and nodded. He opened the door to the driver’s side, glancing around at the spring scene. Taking a deep breath, he sat down. The leather of the steering wheel creaked as he gripped it. He checked the mirrors, checked his seatbelt, and leant over to check the glovebox. A hand snapped out to grip his wrist.

“You’re ok,” she said soothingly, rubbing the skin with her thumb. Billy swallowed, nodded almost imperceptibly, and started the engine.

After the events at Cranstead Fields, Billy wouldn’t go near a car. Couldn’t. The smell of leather or petrol made him gag. A single thought about driving saw him dissolve into a sweating, sobbing frenzy. For a while, he got the bus, train or even walked between his parents’ house, Ida’s flat and his weekly therapy sessions at the hospital.

Through it all, he and Ida talked about leaving the city. Sofia and Faisal had launched into their wedding plans, and Ida offered to move out so that they may begin married life alone. They had protested, but really, Ida was keen to start her own life. She had never felt quite at home in London. She craved the wild intensity of the country. Of the coast. To be bustled about by the wind and rain rather than the city dwellers.

Billy, too, found London life stifling. There were too many painful memories lurking around every corner now. He remembered once telling Ida that she had outgrown him, outgrown their life on the outskirts of London. But now, he felt he had joined her. Every day he felt the tips of his fingers yearning to reach out and grab something. What that was he wasn’t sure, until Ida burst into the flat one day beaming from ear to ear. A heritage charity based near Dungeness had heard about her work from one of her PhD tutors. Impressed by her dedication to teaching, they offered her a position and cottage in nearby Woodwell. Not a month before Ida earned her PhD and they moved to the cottage, Has appeared on the Washington’s doorstep. Was Billy around? He had recently left the service citing “bad knees and enough adrenaline to take him to the next millennium” and had started a charity using sport to help rehabilitate military veterans. And so, Billy found himself studying sports therapy with funding from Has’ charity while helping veterans find community in the form of weekly football matches.

The winter months passed them by in a blur of packing, teaching and exploring. Billy hadn’t been able to face the two-hour drive from London to the village, and so when Sofia and Faisal finished helping them load the moving van, he boarded the train and met them at little Woodwell station. He had felt ashamed, childish and heartily embarrassed. Recognising the first signs of Billy drifting too far into his own mind, his three closest friends boosted his ego by asking him to carry the heaviest boxes.

Slowly, with the help of Ida, Billy was gradually reintroduced to driving. When they first moved to the village, Ida drove them to nearby beauty spots so that they might explore, fuelled by picnics or flasks of soup. Occasionally, Billy drove. Only short distances, dropping Ida at the train station or grocery shop. His first big journey was to Dungeness, thirty minutes away. They stopped three times to calm Billy’s nerves and Ida had driven back, but boy did she reward him afterwards. When spring first arrived, Ida took him to a drive-in cinema to see Casablanca. Only last weekend, they’d been to watch dirt track racing with Lana and Thom. Ida was determined to rewrite his memories of driving with happy ones. Today was no exception.

“Mum and dad send their love,” Billy said, his arm resting against the open car window. He looked at Ida briefly and winked. Not long after Cranstead, Ida visited the Washingtons and apologised for her behaviour the day of Billy’s birthday. She still stood by what she said. Perhaps, just not the way she said it. Water under the bridge. That’s what Jeff had said. Ever since he nearly lost Billy, he was a changed man. Quieter, gentler.

“Did you see Gran?”

“I did, actually. She was heading out with her fancy man!”

“Maybe we’ll have another wedding to go to!” Ida laughed, but the idea of her grandmother finding happiness after all she had been through filled her heart with starlight. “Turn left here.” Billy did as he was told, mind flooding with images of Ida in a white dress. They turned onto a narrow country lane lined with high hedges.

“Where are you taking me, woman?”

“It’s a surprise! Left again at the end of the lane.” Ida reached behind her to grab her bag, and Billy swallowed hard when the slit of skirt parted. She had gained some happiness weight since their move to the cottage, and fuck he loved it on her. The flesh of her thighs looked so soft and beautifully warm. She pulled down the passenger mirror, applied some lip balm and teasingly puckered her lips at him.

Billy barked a laugh. “You’re an idiot.”

Ida wound down the window and Billy saw, from the corner of his eye, her hair whip about her face in the breeze. He placed a hand on her thigh, and Ida felt the first frisson of excitement fizzle there. “See that track, up the hill?” She rasped, fighting to keep her emotions in check. “Just up there.” Billy removed his hand to change gear. Ida could still feel the heat of where it had rested on her. The car hobbled over the track and broke through a clearing of trees. Woodwell came into view at the bottom of the valley. From their vantage point on the hill, the ocean could be seen on the horizon, hazy in the evening light. The swifts were still screeching overhead, and Billy watched as a few deer pranced in a field below.

“Ida-”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it!? I told that old lady in the pub, you know, the one that always sits by the fire? Never takes off that fur coat? Well, I told her that we were new to the area and exploring, and she told me about this place. Apparently, it’s the best place to see the stars and no one comes up here!” Before Billy could open his mouth to reply, Ida dashed out of the car and round to the boot. She opened it up and came back with blankets, pillows and a flask of hot chocolate. “It’s not quite summer yet, hey?”

Billy gazed at her. His girlfriend. His best friend. His Ida. “I love you.”

Ida stopped pouring the hot chocolate and looked up at him. “Where did that come from?”

“I’m just making up for lost time.” And it was true. Billy was making up for all the lost I love yous he should have given Ida over the years.

“I love you too.” Her breath caught. His smile barely left his beautiful face these days. “I didn’t think it was possible to love you as much as I do, but it just keeps growing.”

“Don’t be soft,” he laughed, though his eyes watered and his hand moved to cradle her face and bring her into a tender kiss.

For an hour or so they sat with their seats reclined, watching the sun descend beyond the sealine and stars rise to freckle the navy sky. They spoke about plans for the cottage. Ida wanted to paint the door red; she had always dreamed of a house with a red door. Billy had already made work on the garden, planting the sweet pea seeds Gwen had given them and the nasturtiums that hung in baskets by the door. Billy had plans to build Ida a little reading nook at the far end of the garden, under the willow tree. The reason was selfish. Ida loved to read, but he loved watching her read more. The way her mouth twitched into a small smile, or tears glazed her eyes. The unusual positions she sat in, legs propped up against the table while her hair dangled over the back of a chair. No matter how closely Billy would come to know Ida, she forgot the world and herself when she was reading.

Every now and again, Billy turned on the radio to see what music was playing. When Say You Love Me played he sang along, and Ida had to fight every urge to kiss him senseless. The night was dark now, the only light coming from the moon, stars and dim car dashboard. Ida poured the last of the hot chocolate into their flasks and handed one to Billy. She watched his lips curve around the cup.

“I’m so proud of you, Billy.”

He smiled. “What for?”

“For so many things. But today, the driving.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he finished the last of his drink, placed it in the footwell and reclined once more in his seat, cushioned by pillows and blankets. Ida did the same, lying on her side to look at him. “’Rewriting the memory’ for me.” He finished, quoting her.

Ida’s voice was low when she replied, not once looking away from his face. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

Goosebumps of anticipation spread over Billy’s skin, and suddenly he felt shy. “It’s getting cold,” he whispered, though he knew full well his goosebumps weren’t caused by the chill air.

“I’ll warm you up.”

Billy swallowed.

In the reclined passenger seat, Ida leant on her elbow. Her face was still turned towards Billy, and she was thankful that the red light of the car was dim; she didn’t want him to see the nerves so brazenly decorating her cheeks. What he had said was right, Ida was insatiable. She had always loved sex, even more so now that she had Billy, and Billy’s body. But part of Ida was terrified by that side of her. She had always struggled to reckon people’s view of her as serious and studious with the free and lusty person she knew she could be. It was something she so often read in her books, sadly; women have minds or bodies, not both. She pushed the thought away. She had been waiting for this all day, had planned it for longer, and nerves were not going to ruin it. Ida pulled one of the pillows between the reclined seats so that she wouldn’t fall into the well between the two. She really had planned this. Ever so slowly, she leant towards Billy. He tried to keep composed but his eyes widened, just a little, and a bolt of confidence shot through Ida.

“You’ve been so good,” she whispered in his ear. Ida ran her nose down his neck, saw his pulse quicken and bit the taut skin of his collarbone before running her tongue back up his to his ear. “So, so good.”

“Fuck,” Billy’s breath staggered. Ida leant her arm against the head rest of Billy’s seat and lowered herself so that her breasts pressed against his chest, bringing her lips to his in an open, languid kiss. Billy hummed when her hot tongue skirted over his lower lip. She pulled back. Through heavily lidded eyes, he watched her gaze as it flickered hungrily to his lips. She ran her tongue over them once again but gave him nothing more. As Billy raised his head to chase her kisses, he caught sight of her hands untying the knot that held her skirt together. Ida had worn it intentionally; this was the same outfit she wore that first night when Billy turned up at the flat, rain-soaked and hungry for her. The thin fabric fell away, leaving Ida in her simple top and a pair of lace knickers that barely covered the ample flesh of her bottom. Her body, exposed to the cold, tensed and Billy found his voice.

“I’ve not seen these before,” Ida swung her leg over his hip as he said this, and his hands flew to her waist. She hovered over him, arms either side of his head.

“Well, you’ve been such a good boy,” she smirked. “You deserve a reward.”

Billy’s hips involuntarily bucked, desperate to meet hers. Ida laughed and, agonisingly slowly, pressed her clothed core to Billy’s hips. He moaned as she ground against him. She could feel just how painfully hard he had become through the rough fabric of his jeans.

“Already hard and I’ve barely touched you.” Billy whimpered as she dragged her core over his bulge. The grip he had on her tightened as he helped to rake her hips across his. Ida moaned at the friction the rough fabric caused on her centre. Continuing to roll her hips against Billy, she took the hem of her top and pulled it over her head. She felt a rush of power as Billy’s pupils blew wide with lust. He reached out a hand to cup one of her full breasts, the bare flesh warm under his hand, its pink nipple hardening instantly as his fingers ghosted over it. Ida rolled her hips once more, the action pushing her breasts further into his touch. Billy reached to grab the other, and he marvelled at how perfectly they filled his hands. Ida moaned, tipping her head back and rubbing her clothed pussy needily against him.

“Fuck, Ida.” His large hands trailed down her sides and came to rest on her thighs. He gripped her hard, holding her in place against him. Billy watched as she lifted her arms to tie back her hair. He didn’t think he could get any harder but this angle granted him the perfect view of the curve of her breasts, and he watched as they bounced a little with the movement of her tying her hair.

“Your tits are incredible,” he whispered, smirking. Ida giggled and rolled her hips to silence him. Billy’s head fell back against the head rest and he scrunched his eyes shut. His arousal was beginning to hurt. “Ida. Please.” Without warning, her weight disappeared from his hips. I didn’t want her to stop! Billy’s eyes flew open to be met with Ida’s face a hair’s breadth from his.

“Patience, my love.” She kissed him again, this time with hunger. She wound her hands into his hair and tugged. She rubbed her body across Billy’s. She moaned wantonly into his mouth, and Billy was seeing stars. When Ida broke away to bite at his neck and rub her hand across the swollen bulge of his trousers, he almost sobbed.

“No, no don’t go!” He was desperate now, pleading as he watched her return to her seat, kneeling to face him. Ida slid a hand into her own underwear, lips parting as she used her fingers to release some of her arousal. Billy watched, frozen, as Ida pleasured herself opposite him. He stared with burning intensity as one hand worked at her core, the other massaging one of her pink nipples. Each whimper and moan from Ida’s lips sent Billy further into madness and his breath became ragged. All those lonely years of moaning her name shamefully as he pleasured himself, of keeping his sinful thoughts at bay when she didn’t know he was watching her closely. To think now, that she had always wanted him as much, and that he could induce this kind of reaction in her only made him love her more. Want her more.

“Take them off,” Ida commanded breathily, indicating to his trousers. Billy fumbled with the button and zip of his jeans. Hooking his thumbs in the waistband, he shoved them roughly to his feet along with his boxers. His cock was freed and Ida felt her core clench. It was rock hard, the tip swollen and glistening with precum. She wanted nothing more than to have him inside her, but that wasn’t part of the plan. Yet. Billy’s breath hitched, his mind dizzy. Bending forward, Ida brought her face to his length and ran her tongue its shaft.

“Oh fuck,” Billy’s head flew against his seat, then snapped backto watch Ida work him. She ran her tongue along him a few more times, savouring the scent of his arousal as she did so. Spit coated her lips and, lit by the red light of the car, her eyes bore a wild glint as they stared into his. She looked like she was going to devour him. It occurred to Billy that she probably would, and his stomach twisted with excitement. No sooner had Billy come to this realisation were Ida’s lips on him and he gripped the seat belt with white-knuckle focus. The sensation of her hot mouth around his cock caused his hips to buck and she hummed with pride, the vibrations sending pleasure straight to Billy’s balls. He was transfixed as Ida bobbed her head, hollowed out her cheeks and took him into her mouth as deeply as she could.

“I swear to God every man dreams of this.”

Ida released him from her mouth and smiled. Pure and proud and so eager to please. She wrapped a small hand around him and pumped his length a few times, watching as precum dripped from his tip. She brought her tongue to lick it away from his slit and enveloped him with her swollen lips once again. “You taste so good,” she said when she next broke for air, before going back for more. Every now and then, she would stop to sing more praise between ministrations. “You’re so big,” “Your cock’s so pretty,” “I can’t wait to have you inside me”. That last almost had Billy spilling into her mouth. His chest heaved with staggered breaths, the act doing nothing to ease his light-headedness. A few more times Ida swirled her tongue along the tip of his shaft, her hand working at its base. When she finally released him with a sloppy pop, a trail of saliva connected his cock to her mouth and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. Billy brought his hands to rub his face, as though he were dreaming.

Ida’s plan was to drag his pleasure out for as long as possible, but my God did he make it hard for her. Watching him, a panting, quivering mess before her, did nothing to quell the throbbing between her legs. Sitting back in her chair she hastily removed her underwear and straddled Billy’s hips. Ida grabbed him by the shirt and yanked so that he was forced to sit up.

“Take this off.” Billy obeyed. He discarded his shirt and brought his hands to run along Ida’s sides. Ida, in turn, ran her hands along his chest. The toned muscle, each little freckle, the sprinkling of hair and the chain that hung around his neck. Her core throbbed again. “Are you ready for your reward?” Billy nodded eagerly. Excitement curled in both of their cores. Hands moving to grip her behind, he helped guide her as she lowered herself onto him. It took everything for Billy not to thrust up into her. For a moment, the pair paused; Ida’s mouth open, Billy’s own lips parted as he watched himself disappear within her. The tight heat of her pussy overwhelmed him momentarily, and he bit his lip to contain the whimper that threatened to escape him. Instead, he focused on Ida. Her brows were tight with concentration, lips parted as she sank further onto his cock. When he was fully inside her, she shuddered. “Billy,” she breathed. “You feel amazing.” They kissed each other desperately. Billy was silent for a while, utterly intoxicated by Ida. No woman had ever loved him this way. He understood how he could let people down with his actions, this last year had shown him that, but that was his doing and under his control. And yet, whenever he had opened his heart to someone before, shown them the most vulnerable parts of him, as he was in this moment with Ida, they were unsatisfied and unsatiated. Near the end of their relationship, after yet another loveless encounter with Becky, he snapped.

“Why bother when you detest being near me? Why not go and find someone else to fuck?” He spat bitterly at her.

“Shut up, Billy.”

“Don’t talk to me like that!”

“It’s not my fault you’re a dreadful fuck. You’re mind is always elsewhere. With her.”

“No it’s not-”

“Maybe we’d both enjoy it more if you imagined I was Ida.” She said nastily. In that moment, Billy wanted to hurt her. How dare she sully Ida’s name like that. Drag her into their mess.

“Get out.”

Ida ran her hands through Billy’s blond hair. “Hey, are you ok?”

“S’good,” Billy swallowed. “It’s good. Please don’t stop.” Ida raised her hips before bringing them down on him. Billy groaned as she sank on to him over and over, any thoughts of Becky and his worthlessness fading. The slow pace that Ida tried to set didn’t last long. Every flex of Billy’s muscles as he held on to her, every grunt that rumbled through his chest drove Ida into a frenzy and she wildly slammed her hips onto him. Heat from their bodies steamed up the cool windows of the car, and sweat was forming on Billy’s forehead. He frowned, jaw clenched as he focused on Ida’s body. Her plump flesh glistened with sweat, a few beads running between the valley of her breasts which bounced mesmerically as she fucked him. Her hair, still tied up, was coming down around her face and plastered to her cheeks. From this position, Billy could just about see himself disappearing into her with every thrust, her slick arousal coating their thighs.

“What’s that grin for?” Ida panted as she looked down at him. An idea had popped into Billy’s head. In one fluid movement, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled himself to a sitting position. Ida made the most of this new closeness and kissed the underside of his sharp jaw. Billy smiled and kissed the side of her head, before reaching behind her.

“What are you doing?” she asked again.

“Patience, my love.” He echoed. Still holding her steady, Billy reached his hand for the rear-view mirror, angling it down. “Perfect,” he whispered to himself before laying back in his seat. “Keep going,” he nodded to her. Ida looked over her shoulder, and at the mirror, before turning back to him.

“You dirty boy,” she smirked. He huffed a laugh back.

“Move,” he whispered.

“Only if you say please,” Ida whispered back, rocking her hips just a little.

“Please.” Ida gripped onto Billy’s shoulders for purchase and resumed the quick pace of her hips. Billy’s eyes travelled from her breasts to the column of her exposed neck as she tipped her head back, to the rear-view mirror. There, he watched the ripple of Ida’s backside with every slam of her hips. The moan that escaped Billy was obscene, as was Ida’s when his hands gripped the flesh of her cheeks and pulled her harder onto him. How he wished he had moved the side mirrors before the condensation settled on the windows. Seeing her from every angle awoke the animal in him, and soon, Ida was no longer in control. Billy grabbed Ida roughly and pulled her flush against him. She squeaked in surprise, and Billy brought his foot up to brace it above the footwell. This new angle gave him greater control over the harshness of his thrusts and the pace of their fucking. As he took one of her breasts in his mouth and resumed pounding into her heat, Ida cried out. Billy brought a hand to hold her waist down on him, and the other ran gently up her back to hold her neck. Ida sighed at his touch and he released her breast from his mouth. Billy ran his thumb across her bottom lip. Bliss was etched on her face. She took his thumb into her mouth and sucked gently.

“Oh my god, Ida-” He removed his hand to kiss her fervently. “You take me so well.” Ida whimpered against his lips. “It’s like you were made just for me.”

“Billy,” his last admission sent joy straight to her centre and pleasure to her core. “Billy, I’m close.” His thrusts sped up and the hand that had caressed her face found its way to her sensitive bundle of nerves. Anything for his Ida. He grazed his thumb over her clit and Ida’s hips bucked unsteadily. She pressed her forehead to his as she ground herself harder on him, desperate for any friction she could find. “Harder,” she moaned. Billy gripped her waist so hard that she knew she’d bruise. One hand on the steamy window, the other on his chest, Ida forced herself frantically down on him. The car was creaking now, though the sound was barely audible over the slap of their skin and lusty moans. Billy’s hips juddered, his pace becoming sloppy. It was over for Ida the second Billy released a few deep grunts with every thrust into her. Blinding heat spread through her body, every inch of exposed skin crackling with electricity. She cried out, tensing around Billy as an earth-shattering orgasm washed over her. Through the haze of her climax, she heard him rasp her name and felt the heat of his seed leak out of her. Looking down through half-lidded eyes, she watched him shudder beneath her, eyes tight shut, biting down on one hand while the other braced against her belly. They stilled, both shaking as their paroxysms of pleasure died away.

“I love you,” Ida said simply, smiling down at him. Billy giggled.

“I love you too.” When he giggled again, Ida joined in. His happiness was infectious. Billy patted his chest and she lay there while he remained seated within her. A few minutes passed while they caught their breath.

“The lady at the pub told you about this place?” Ida hummed a yes. “I’ll have to tell her thank you.”

Woodwell, a year to the day that Ida saved Billy’s life. Having left the car at the end of the lane, Ida walked to her and Billy’s little cottage laden with flowers and a cake fresh from the bakery. The pink evening sun was still warm, and Ida welcomed it on her face. From over the clematis border Ida heard music and, rounding the corner, found Billy sat on the front step with her Grandad’s guitar. A glass of beer was forgotten by his feet as he strummed, the chickens digging up weeds happily around him.

“Hey you,” she said softly. He looked up at the sound of her voice and smiled. “Give us a hand.” Ida gestured to the flowers, which Billy took and carried the table in the garden. There was still a lot of work to do on the cottage, with wood and tools stacked against Billy’s worktable. But for today, it would do. Just like at The Swan, Billy had strung fairy lights from the trees. The table was set with glasses and a few bottles of wine, and next door’s cat was already curled on one of the seats, enjoying the last of the day’s sun.

“How long until everyone gets here?” Ida was determined that today would not be one of unhappy introspection and had invited their families over to spend it with them.

“Lana and Thom should be here in about half an hour with Sofia and Faisal. I think mum and dad are bringing your gran for about 6ish?”

“We’ll have to be quick then.” She winked and ran into the house. Billy watched her go, stunned momentarily before coming to his senses. Dropping the flowers hastily on the table, he sprinted across the yard, scaring the chickens and slamming the red door behind him.

“You alright, my love?” Val had asked Ida when they arrived later. She took Ida’s face in her hands and examined her red cheeks and the slight sheen on her forehead. “Your colour’s up a bit.”

“It’s all this country air,” Gwen said from behind her.

“Something like that,” added Sofia, causing Lana to cackle.

“Hush,” Ida whispered to her friends, placing the cake on the table. She watched as everyone began to assemble around the her. The clink of glasses and plates took up. Lana and Sofia continued to giggle, Billy was making Thom and Faisal laugh, and Gwen and Val were chatting about the garden. Jeff sat in a chair at the end of the table, looking around just as Ida was. When they caught each other’s eye, they smiled gently at each other. Here were their favourite people, happy and altogether. That was enough for them.

Ida dashed into the house for her camera. She hadn’t forgotten, not this time. Unlike all her other photos, she had already picked out a frame for this picture. She stood in the doorway that led from the kitchen into the garden and raised her camera, snapping everyone before they realised she was there. None but billy heard the click of the camera. He looked up, and Ida was quick to take the picture. Her Billy, smiling that lopsided, boyish smile, his hair ruffled and glowing gold in the summer sun. Looking at her as if no one else was around. As if she were the last woman in the world. Ida lowered her camera and smiled back it him, and for a few moments they watched each other.

Billy winked and held out his hand. He was happy, and if any memories of last year were intruding on this moment, he didn’t let it show. With Ida at his side in their little corner of the world, Billy Washington felt for the first time in his life that maybe, just maybe, he was going to be ok.

Note: Woodwell is a village that I made up! And just in case people aren’t familiar with heritage charities (there are a lot in the UK), they generally look after sites of historic interest through research, arts, sciences and public engagement. Quite a few of them are historic properties and have places to live in for the people that work there.

Thank you so much for reading and for all the love. As I said before, any ideas that might make Billy and Ida appear again are welcome!

Tags: @jessssica1234 @anditsmywholeheart @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @aemonds-wifey @slytherincursebreaker @valerie977 @i-killed-ramsey @greenowlfactif @yentroucnagol @schniiipsel @multiple-fandoms-girl @just-emmaaaa @tosiaf @kage-no-sonzai @reblogedworks

#ewan mitchell #billy washington x oc #billy washington #ewan mitchell x reader #trigger point series

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kenjiro-kun · 1 year

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My Hero Academia: Izuku "Deku" Midoriya, Katsuki Bakugo, Shoto Todoroki, Fumikage Tokoyami, Mezo Shoji, Denki Kaminari, Eijiro Kirishima, Tenya Ida, Yuga Aoyama, Dabi, Shigaraki, Twice

‼️ Male Reader ‼️

Can be read as gender neutral with masculine terms (no usage of pronouns in scenario below. cannot be sure of future scenarios).

Scenario #1: He First Sees You

Masterlist

---

Izuku "Deku" Midoriya: He never really got the chance to meet you when he first walked through the door of the 1-A classroom. Though, he surely saw you, and he was intrigued to find out more -- you could say that for really everyone that he saw. He could tell you weren't someone to underestimate with the genuine charm you carried around.

Katsuki Bakugo: As arrogant as he could be, he shows his respect in many ways. He knew you had a quirk that wasn't to be messed around with, but to be frank, he doesn't care for you -- not yet anyway.

Shoto Todoroki: Never really knew you to make an opinion based off appearance alone. Many here were young and full with potential, so he could assume the same was for you, but he didn't know your story to assume such things yet.

Fumikage Tokoyami: He wasn't all social -- though through the power of his enjoyment in the shadows, he greatly enjoyed the little similarities you two possessed from afar.

Mezo Shoji: He found you, like any other, someone that he knew would cross his path. He didn't see you like many saw him -- a monster of some sort.

Denki Kaminari: He had his moments where his thoughts were hindered by certain thoughts, but relatively he wasn't like that. Sure, he thought you were cute at first glance, but he doesn't know you.

Eijiro Kirishima: Just someone he's ready to friend during his time at the school.

Tenya Ida: Someone he hopes isn't a troublemaker that would cause him more stress on his plate

Yuga Aoyama: You were handsome, but not as close as him.

Dabi: Another hero to squish under his boot and torment.

Shigaraki: A obstacle in his plan, may not even cross paths again, but who knows.

Twice: A rival! No! A bitch!

#my hero academia #deku x male reader #bakugo x male reader #todoroki x male reader #tokoyami x male reader #shoji x male reader #kaminari x male reader #kirishima x male reader #tenya lida x male reader #aoyama x male reader #dabi x male reader #twice x male reader #shigaraki x male reader

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helreginn · 6 months

Note

Hey! I know this seems random, but I’ve been looking for people to rp vikings and I’m Norse, have you found many people? I would make a blog for a Viking character if I knew there were people out there. Let me know, thanks! - ooc.

@mcu-pep

Hope you don't mind me posting this publicly. I myself am in search of people. I even resurrected @theroleplayingedda (a masterlist of rpers) in hopes of finding people with limited success. But I did find as many active (this year, at least) blogs in my followers and in the tags that I could. So I figured I'd put this here in case others were having trouble too.

Really hope you guys do not mind me tagging you like this... If not, lemme know and I'll remove you. :)

@nykrose Nyk, the Näcken.

@valkxrie Brunnhilde, the Valkyrie

@varldsormr Jormungandr, the world serpent

@eddapoetic Havar, a fun fusion of many trickster deities

@starwrittenfates Sigyn, too many monikers. IDK, man.

@astridnorddottir Astrid, a valkyrie

@wildserkr Victor Halvorsen, a berserkr

@gulldrengur Baldr

@brknmnds Ivar, Sigurd and Hvitserk of Vikings as well as Angrboða and Jörmungandr

@arcanigenum Loke and Ull, the gods

@yggdrasilushxrt Dvalinn, one of the four deer of Yggdrasil

@savstaroth Thor, the god and a couple of OCs that might fit the descriptor idk like Ida Fjalarsdóttir, a witch

@mistressesandmastersofmythos Odin, Hel and Freyja, gods

@cryptiique Angrboda, Atreus (loki), Heimdall and Freyr (Of God of War canon sorta)

@storiedhistories SO many God of War muses.

@tessastormrp Baldr, Freyr, Harald Finehair, Loki, Tyr, Ubbe (GETS HIS VERY OWN TRIGGER WARNING!) Ragnarson and Sihtric of TLK

@all-that-is-gold-is-now-gone So many Vikings and Vikings: Valhalla and The Last Kingdom muses!

@entangledmuses Lagertha, Anma and Katia of Vikings. Eadith from TLK and lots of ocs with Viking and TLK verses!

@eclipsecrowned Fenrir, Freyja, Hel (Listen. LISTEN, Kadian's Hel is the BEST Hel. I DO make the rules), Hnoss, Laufey, Odin, Sigyn and Utgard-Loki

@belcvednanna Nanna

@melodicwitchlight Kiwi Hel (XD), Aslaug, Thorunn, Floki, Siggy,

@moonhoundman Hati, son of Fenrir

@berserkerofrealms Garmr, Hel hound

@paracosmms Angrboda, mother of Jormungandr, Hel and Fenrir

@bebbanburged Uhtred of the last kingdom

@sigynthevictorious Sigyn mother of Narfi and Vali

@bruadcr Þrúðr Þórradóttir, Sif, Ullr Lokison, Sigyn & Jormungandr

@runaljod Magni & Móði Þórsson, Fenrisúlfr, Þór, Loki, Frœyjɑ, Angrboða, Óðinn, Jörð and Loki

@mystiokinesis Bergfinnr Thrymrson

@kingoftheravens Loki, Fenrir, Jormungandr, Hel, Angrboda, Hati and Skoll

@deficd Ragnar Lodbrok, Hilda Ragnarsdottir, Gyda Ragnarsdottir, Sindre Ísleifsson, Solveig Ísleifsdottir, Valka

@crowsandmurder Bjorn Ironside, Ragnar Lothbrok

@alldaddy Odin

@kissofthemuses Freyja, Sigyn,

@heartsdefine Sigyn

#asks #Vikings Rp #Norse Myth rp #Norse Mythology rp #The Last Kingdom Rp #The Almighty Johnsons RP #The Norsemen Rp #Valhalla Rising Rp #The Northman RP #Beowulf RP #Viking Rp #OutofÉljúðnir #How to Train Your Dragon RP

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precious-little-scoundrel · 1 month

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Those Who Can || series masterlist

-gorgeous gif credit to: @staud

OC x pairing chart

Rifle Broads

Ida’s Law

Showers

First Night

What Took Him So Long?

Greatest Fear

Candy? -as in Kendeigh?

Female Complaints

My fellow Colonel (post liberation)

Answered asks for this universe can be found under #Those Who Can

This series is now open to prompts. Ideally I’d like this series to end up being exclusively prompt-inspired and will be putting out prompt lists accordingly. I think that will be a fun way to keep the interaction going, stretch my own skills and explore all the different scenarios that may intrigue y’all. So far I’ll be keeping it to POW camp and post liberation timeline.

#masters of the air #mota #mota fanfic #mine #mota oc #Intergrated au #those who can #gale cleven #john egan #john brady #gale cleven x oc #john egan x oc #Ida brady #Maureen Kendeigh #austin butler #callum turner #austin butler fanfiction

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baeklination · 6 months

Text

Rural

Date: 231110

Warnings: SMUT 🔞, general fucking, fingering

Pairing: Baekhyun x F. Reader

WC: 4k

NOTE: Story 3 of Theme BAMBI. This is a soft one.

Masterlist

¤¤

Some days blue, some days grey, the mountains roll in the distance. Even when you get as far as farm country they lie farther still. Silent and never changing - a mystery that lends solace.

Between them and here lies all you’ve seen in the world, but from the home where you grew up surrounded by golden fields and wind rushing through corn stalks to where you now live, on a very quiet edge of a very small town, it doesn’t seem so bad. In fact, with a little more than a modest salary you could save some each month and visit one of those big cities the ladies at the cafe are always talking about with so much shock and fascination…but it’ll keep.

If anything, what you would consider these days is a tour based on temperature; anywhere where it’s not scorching before the clock has struck eleven.

Scorching.

Scorching…

“Rats..!”

Sticking the pin in the paper haphazardly you run down from upstairs to the kitchen, knowing you’ll be met by smoke billowing out from the oven - but you’re not. Saying a prayer of please, please, please, you grab a mitten, open the oven and pull out the cobbler.

“Thank god..!”, you sigh, relieved to see you haven’t ruined the afternoon goodies you’ve promised Ms. Ethel to bring round before work.

Peering into the oven you see the culprit, a classic: edibles from a previous use turning into charcoal.

“All in a day’s work”, you mumble to yourself, scraping the burnt piece away.

“Oh, you hadn’t forgotten about me”, Ms. Ethel chirps as soon as she opens the door.

“It’s not that late, is it?”

“Not for an old hen like me, but you ought to be on your way already. Or are you taking the day off?”

“The week’s just started, Ms. Ethel, I don’t need to rest just yet”, you smile at her on your way to the kitchen. “I’ll be on time. Either way, Ida has a key as well and I don’t suspect they’ll be breaking down the door on a Tuesday. Now, what do you think? Presentable?"

“I think the ladies will be fighting over it. I’m fighting myself right now”, she laughs, smacking her lips.

“Go on, have a bite. It’s best fresh outta the oven.”

“And serve a cobbler with a gaping hole in it? Oh, the jokes would never end, sweet girl.”

“Come now, Ms. Ethel. You don’t serve it whole. Cut it into pieces before they come and they’ll never know the difference.”

“M-hm… Well, the cook knows best… I still have some coffee in the pot, it’ll go fine with a bit of sweet.”

“Go sit down, I’ll bring it.”

Having survived her husband of fifty-three years, Ms. Ethel is going on her seventh year alone. She says she isn’t lonely, and you reckon she mostly isn’t because she keeps herself busy with a visit here, a trip there all throughout her weeks, but nonetheless spending every morning with someone for fifty years is a habit you don’t wean off easily and that’s why you try to stop at hers a few days a week, to make sure. Suppose it is also for your own benefit. With your folks out on the countryside she’s become like a relative of sorts and being around her, doing little chores to alleviate her burden, is comforting.

Sometimes - like right now - seeing her sitting by the window, half smiling with curlers in her hair, she’s so cute it breaks your heart. You don’t know why exactly. It just does. But coffee and cake won’t wait for no one, so you snap out of it and join her in the living room.

“Here you go. Give me your most- second most honest opinion.”

“You never disappoint. If these hands of mine were still working proper I’d tell the ladies I was the baker.”

Lifting her spoon in cheers, she winks before eating it, and since it’s rude to wait for an evaluation you look out the window. Her view is almost the exact same as from your own, barring the houses farther down the street being visible here. You could tell the day was heating up fast on your way over, and the cat resting under the neighbour's tree tells the same story. A car breaks first the silence then your view; your heart skips. Shielded by the angle and speed, the frame is gone in the blink of an eye, but that's all you need - the tan arm, checkered shirt rolled up, holding the steering wheel of that red truck, is his.

“Mm!”, Ms. Ethel exclaims, bringing you back. “Sweet and deep just like I like it!”

You’re a capable woman. A business owner - albeit small - making and mending clothes, paying rent on time, handling salary and meetings with your accountant by yourself. Even got your own house and home. But one hint of him and you turn silly. Knowing Baekhyun’s in town rattles your brain and instead of solely focusing on the job at hand you’re preoccupied with thoughts of how to see him. Should you head over to Joe’s pretending to need some electrical advice and hope Baekhyun’s stopped in to buy some new tools? Or the grocery store? The diner? You don’t want to be too obvious and get the folks talking - so maybe it’s best to stay put? Look as if you’re only minding your own and hope he’ll stop by and say hello. But what if he doesn’t? If you occupy yourself with something in the front part of the store, say fixing the mannequins or do a bit of sweeping you might see him across the road. Of course, one waves in such a situation - and of course, he’d be encouraged to come over…

This ridiculous merry-go-round occurs every time he's in town. Only a few times have you missed each other, be it because you were tending to a customer while he was loading up his truck or you stepping out just before he came in looking to buy a set of assorted buttons you know he didn't need.

Oh, but why is he such a fool? There have been times you know he’s on the verge of taking a step towards confessing, but being interrupted or simply not quite finding the courage he’d held his tongue. He’d smile and chuckle, squeeze the fedora in his hands before saying goodbye with a hint of sadness.

And while neither of you said anything it could be weeks before you saw each other again and sometimes you'd imagine that next time he wouldn't be alone. How uncomfortably the pit in your stomach sits when you think he might’ve been set up with a “nice girl” from there and you’ll find out about it on a regular day like this. Like the day the little bell over the door chimed, announcing his entry - accompanied by a woman you didn't recognise. He must have seen it then. How your stomach churned, making you too sick to even greet her with a smile. You knew it was all over, too late, on account of your own cowardice. And he must have seen how vigour was breathed back in your body when he explained how the woman had merely asked for directions; a visitor driving through town finding herself in need of a seamstress due to an unfortunate rip of her trouser leg.

Sometimes you acknowledge that driving the matter forward can't fall solely on him. After all, everything you've gained since you were seventeen has been by your own efforts and decisions. You've lived precisely as you've wanted to - with courage. So why is this so difficult..? If it were to end up a fiasco you'd barely see him anyway, right?

Right!

But if it did end up a fiasco you'd still be wretchedly in love with him. Not giving him a chance to say yes also means he can't say no.

You saw him way across the street but of course put on a smaller act of coming out to give your little café set in front a wipe with a cloth - just in case.

"Hiya, Byun..! How's that crop 'o yours surviving..!", Humphrey, owner of a small shop for tinkers to the far left of you, jovially shouts.

"They're hanging in there, Mr. Thomas..!", Baekhyun calls back to him. When his head is turned a thin veil of sweat on the back of his neck glistens in the sun, carrying down the way under his shirt collar. Sympathizing with his situation of doing manual labour in this heat, you think how uncomfortably warm it must be under both flannel and undershirt. Before you're aware, the thought that he must have that film of sweat over his shoulders and chest comes into your mind. If his skin was touching yours…

"I'm sure your fabrics are doing fine as ever in spite of the sun?"

"Oh… yes. I guess I picked a good product", you smile, certain a flush is branding your cheeks, that he knows what you were thinking just now.

"You have a long drive home, let me get you something to drink. Sit."

Going to the back of the store to fetch a bottle you take a quick look in the mirror and can determine your facial colour hasn't undergone any dramatic change. Thank you.

On your way back you stop for a second, mesmerized by the way Baekhyun wafts his hat in hope of some alleviation. The awning has gotten him away from direct sunlight but the heat is so pressing it's only a marginal change. He looks up from his seat when he hears the click and fizzle, and humbly accepts the bottle of Nehi soda. Gulping half of it down in one go he exhales loudly, the way all of us do after drinking carbonated drinks and tips the bottle in your direction.

“You're a lifesaver.”

“It's just a soda on a hot summer's day… So, are they? Your crop hanging in there alright?”

When it comes to Baekhyun, you're terrible at smalltalk, but luckily he doesn't seem to notice or leastways not mind.

“I’m not in any peril just yet. I upgraded my irrigation system last season. Cost me a penny, but it's been worth it. You know how-” Stopping, he chuckles and knits his brows. “I'm sure this isn't the least interesting for you.”

“No… But it's all French to me…”

“Well, then, how's your folks doing? I think it's been a while since I saw their car passing out there. They move?”

“They're still out there. But my father took a tumble, so they've been staying in. On account of his leg.”

“Oh, that doesn't sound too good. Has he been to the doctor's?”

“Mm. It's broken. I'm going over on Friday to stay the weekend, do some work around there. If the buses start going again, that is…”

“I can give you a lift.”

And just like that, an opportunity like no other opened up.

“I’m sure you’re busy, I wouldn’t like to put you–”

“I always have time for you.”

To say your mind has been preoccupied elsewhere this Friday is an understatement. At times it seemed like time wasn't moving quickly enough. Other times it was moving too fast, no doubt a result of nerves. It was a tiny, white lie you told Ida about having tons to do before you depart and therefore would be locking up early, but she didn't mind either way - an extra few hours of weekend is nothing to complain about.

The tons you had to do was to give in to vanity; change into a fresh dress, dab some powder on your face. The lipstick stayed in the drawer - you don't want to be too obvious. And not fully admitting it even to yourself, if Baekhyun sees you put some effort into it he might not wish to smud- anyway, your folks would wonder about the pageantry.

You can’t help wondering if he really was planning on coming up here or if he made it up. Of course he didn’t make it up; driving all that way just for you? Maybe he would. He said he always has time for you.

“I always have time for you…"

Such butterflies go through your body when you think back on how he said it, so matter-of-factly, and you promise yourself that, if he doesn’t take the first step today, as the sun is your witness, you will.

You were ready forty minutes ahead of time and after sitting on the hallway chair for ten minutes you got so restless that you decided to step over to Ms. Ethel's. It was actually a good thing since she'd just done the laundry and hanging it to dry gave you something to do as well as it unburdened her.

You've learned to recognise the sound of his engine after all this time so he doesn't have to come into view for you to know.

"That will be your lift then?", Ms. Ethel asks when she sees your reaction.

"Seems it is. You're alright, nothing else you need? Trash to take out?"

"Go on, I'll make due. Say why isn't Mr. Byun married yet? A fine gentleman like him ought to have a wife, don't you think?" She's not blind. Her eyes twinkle when she opens the door and continues "Mm. And a fine woman like you should have a husband…"

You want to confirm what she already knows, share your secret, but now is not the time so you simply swat your hand smile.

"I'll see you Monday, Ms. Ethel.”

If smalltalk is one of your weaker points, then smalltalk around a subject is weaker still. All throughout the hour-long drive you spoke about this and that. Mostly memories from when you were growing up, the difficulties of Baekhyun having a different background than most, why you left, why he stayed and so on, but in the back of your head you tried to find an “in”, as they say. Some way to get talking about the two of you, but whichever line you had seemed contrived, and plainly put: you were too scared. But when he offered to lend your parents a book about irrigation and new gadgets, you jumped at the chance, deciding that following him in under the guise of wanting to have a look at the old place, would create the perfect moment to tell him. Away from the road and him having to concentrate on driving was best anyway.

You take a few steps before realizing it's raining. Calling it rain is almost an overstatement. It's what you refer to as god's flower mister; rain so fine it feels like someone is using a giant sprayer from up above.

Baekhyun leaves the door open so you walk in, curious to see if it's stayed the same. It mostly has. Maybe a new kitchen table or sofa, you don't remember that well. It's only a minute until he's back with the book and it's too soon. You can't even find anything unnecessary to say, some remark about the place.

“Do you want to have a look around?” He's awkward and fidgety. He's thinking the same thing as you are. “It's all the same, but…”

You're on the verge of doing it. Right there, with a lump in your throat. He must know what you're thinking.

“Oh, okay. Well, then I think I know it already.”

You turn around and grab the doorknob, your lungs tight and pulling. Say it. Say it, say it, tell him! You know you can't do it. A coward.

It's over…

"Wait."

Baekhyun's hand goes to the door. Tentativeness like never before is painted on his face. You dare not move and ruin the delicate momentum. Sliding from the door to the knob, he takes your hand, holding it with the utmost tenderness…then bends forward and presses his mouth onto yours. A whirr goes round your head. His lips are so soft. Moving back he considers your expression then leans forward again, sighing out his relief just before your lips touch. Parting yours, you let your tongue slide onto, under his, feeling his hands gently close around your waist. This elation might not be emotional - if you were to look down you might see your feet hovering an inch off the floor, so wholly does the weight off your shoulders and happiness in your heart feel.

During a moment's breath, Baekhyun glances at the stairs - a Freudian slip of the eye or a question? Either way you do the same then allow him to take your hand and lead you upstairs.

It's just a short walk but nervousness, giddiness, impatience all fit in there.

The room doesn't look like you remember it from growing up, when it belonged to his folks, but neither does it seem like he's taken an earnest interest in the decor, not minding a frill on the curtains or flower pattern on the bedlinen.

It's really happening.

Amidst the softness of his lips you can't help noticing the fumbling of his hands against your neckline.

"I'm a klutz", he laughs shyly, leaving the dress buttons to you.

All of a sudden you become vulnerable. While getting undressed in the course of kissing follows a natural flow, taking your own clothes off with eyes wide open leaves you exposed and becomes somewhat of a revealing of your body. But you gather Baekhyun feels the same way, slightly turning as he does, to put his own garments on a chair. When the undershirt pulls up along his back you can't help pausing; his lean muscles are a testament to years of physical labour and carry on over his shoulders, arms and his torso. In front of you he's turned from the sweet man to infinitely alluring.

Oh…

You're glad that he's the one to remove your bra. After he's pushed the straps from your shoulders you let it fall to the rug beneath and his fingers whisper over your back; biding his time, perhaps waiting for courage.

Then, you feel the touch of his palm as he puts it to your breast, as lightly as if you were made of glass, but daring to put some pressure on it once your lips meet again. Taking a few steps forward he carefully steers you to the bed where he pulls the covers aside for you to get in.

The hairs on his legs against yours with none, the press of his stomach on yours. Him. Stroking hair from your brow, he studies your face with warmth then smiles.

"I guess you've known for some time that I love you."

You take a deep breath, trembling because finally, it's been said. You nod, pull his head closer.

Under your fingers you feel the muscles on his back contract and relax with his small movements. By his fingers the hem of your underwear slips down to be taken off completely when you raise your hips. When he latches his thumbs under his own you're shy to look, as if being attracted to that part of him is shameful, but you are. He's hard, swaying, when he lies back down. Further opening your legs, he guides himself to your entrance amidst showering you with his lush lips; a hint of salt and imagined earth.

On your slick coating he slides the head in with ease, distributing buzzes and whirls as moves.

"Uh……." His soft sigh over your face is a treasure. Pushing further in each time until completely lodged he whispers "Tell me if I'm going too fast."

His elbows frame you in and props him up, leaving only his stomach against yours as he softly claps with his groin.

Allowing you to sneak through with your arms you put your hands on the small of his back, feeling the billowing from below.

Pushing your leg up, he thrusts faster, resting his head on your shoulder so that his hair tickles your cheek. The gentle hums and moans are replaced by heavy exhales and short groans while he's coming closer to climaxing. Your insides swirl and twinkle. The evening hour doesn't matter - in this heat, sweat accumulates between your rocking bodies and mixes with the damp smell of a weathered house.

Panting hard, the quiver in his voice giving it all away, the clapping eventually turns irregular and unbridled, ending with his orgasm.

His heartbeat is on fire - yours is too - and the heat feels strong enough to burn your chest, but even with the desperation for oxygen, his weight on top of you is a rapture unmatched.

Looking at his hands intertwined with yours you're struck by how well he's managed to keep them decently gentlemanlike in spite of his work. He's been perfectly still for some time now. Since he managed the mammoth task of moving his body to lay behind you. Just as you start listening for sounds of snoozing his nose feathers across your back, then he kisses the same place and unclasps his hands. Propping himself on the elbow, he puts his head against your arm and moves his hand over your stomach.

"Do you think you'd like it if I…"

You feel silly not understanding what he means, especially if he's embarrassed to say the words, but you can't do anything other than wait for him. He huffs, bites his bottom lip and rolls you onto your back.

"If I…touched you…" Seeing the perplexion in your face he quickly wants to reassure you "We don't have to, it's okay. If you don't like-"

"No, it's not…" Truth is, in your limited experience with men, none of them ever did or asked to do something like it, so you don't know what it would be like if someone else did it. But you feel like you want him to. "I, um…"

The words wedge in your throat, but he understands you perfectly by the touch on his arm. Placing a dollop of saliva on two fingers, he lets them disappear under the sheet.

"Ah-h…"

You can't help catching your breath when you feel his fingertips run softly over your clit. Slowly lowering his face, he envelops your lips with his, pushing them in sync with his delicate movements. Up and down he caresses, then gathers some more liquid from below and rubs his fingers quickly from side to side.

Turning into the pillow, Baekhyun's face hovers over your side with anticipation so strong it's felt in his breath against your cheek. The whirr intensifies, coming up to the surface, your backside and thighs go tense, you press your hand on mattress, open your mouth…and just then the dam bursts, spilling over electric magic between your legs, inside you, while you shake and try to smother your whines.

Baekhyun groans mutedly and repeatedly places kisses on the side of your face as he draws big circles with the new fluids.

You find him sitting on the patio, watching the sun between clouds in pinks and lilacs. There's not a sound except the grasshoppers so you almost don't want to go out for fear of disturbing this picture. The patio flooring is damp under your feet and only a tiny squeak here and there is heard, save from the swish of the blanket you've wrapped yourself in. Looking your way, he takes a deep breath and opens his arms for you.

“Hi there.”

“Can I ask you…”, you say, playing with his hair. “Why did you look so sad right before you kissed me? Surely you already knew?”

“But I didn't know. I thought. Suspected. So I thought, if I'm wrong and you turn me away, this might be the last time I see you.”

“But you're happy now. Right?”

“Mm. All I want is you and me.”

Looking at the sun you can tell what time it is, so you sigh.

“I think we have to get going…”

Finding his way under the blanket, his hands gently caress your waist, breast. Cupping your face, he presses his lips onto yours.

“Once more before I take you..?”

●

#baekhyun #baekhyun smut #BBH-NET

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vendettaparker · 2 years

Text

Bound to You: Chapter Fourteen—Listen Before I Go

“If you need me Wanna see me Better hurry 'Cause I'm leaving soon” —Billie Eilish

Summary: With Ida’s life on the line, (Y/N) is finally forced to come face to face with the demon in her court. The resulting battle is calamitous.

Word Count: 10.5k

Warnings: ANGST, SMUT, major character death, mention/hint of sexual assault, hostage situation, typos, depictions of grief

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

You had the letter crumbled in your hands now as Tom spoke, trying to explain what his plan was and how this had happened, but all you could hear was the blood rushing through your ears. All of his words turned to lies, all of his explanations turned to mere stories in your mind. You couldn’t be bothered to even listen to him; it wasn’t like he had listened to you.

All you could feel was anger. Complete and utter outrage. You could feel your own face heat up as if it was being held beneath the sun.

“(Y/N), please don’t cry,” Tom tried to soothe you, but Dahlia was already asleep in his arms.

Seeing the tears silently fall down your hot cheeks was killing him.

“I can—will fix this, m’love,” Tom said gently.

“How did he even get her?” You asked sharply, “She was with Dahlia all day.”

Tom’s frown deepened, “My mother said she saw her last when she went to the nursery to see Dahlia. She said she left the room and never came back.”

“Take Dahlia to your mother,” you told Tom, “you and I need to talk about this and I have a feeling that this won’t be an easy conversation.”

Tom looked down at the sleeping baby in his arms. He was hesitant to leave you here, worried that he’d come back and you’d already be gone. But he also knew that Dahlia was just a baby. She was too innocent to be privy to the conversation you and Tom likely would soon have. The venom you would spit was too harsh for her delicate ears.

“Okay,” Tom nodded, “but please, don’t leave this room. Wait for me, (Y/N).” You didn’t even look up at him. Tears blurred your vision as your hands played with the ruined parchment in them. It was all you could do to keep them from shaking.

Tom came back within minutes. He raced back to your room the minute his mother had Dahlia in her arms. He found you rummaging through his trunk of clothes, pulling out trousers and a white linen shirt one he would usually sleep in. No way would you be able to face Hawthorne in this god-forsaken corset.

“I have to go after her,” you stated, once you heard the door shut behind him, “I brought her here, now I have to save her.”

“No, (Y/N),” Tom protested, “you don’t have to do this alone.”

“I do,” you insisted, “he said to come alone. He’ll kill her, Tom,” you looked over at your husband with fresh tears glistening in your eyes, “you know that he will.”

“Tell me where to find him, I’ll send Ivy and her guards there—”

“No,” you shook your head, “you know I can’t do that. I can’t risk that—”

“But you’ll risk your life for this?!” Tom snapped, “Our entire future? You’d hand that over to him?”

“I have to do this,” you said quietly, “it’s not just about us, Tom. Ida deserves a future too.”

“You’re not listening to me!” Tom yelled.

“And you’re not listening to me!” You yelled back, “You haven’t been for a very long time, Thomas! That’s why we’re in this mess!”

Tom squared his jaw and ran his hand over his face. He turned away from you and shook his head. He knew you were right. His failure to listen to what you had planned for your future is what brought Hawthorne to England. He was an easy target. He should have to pay this price, not you.

“Tell me what to do,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Tell me what I have to do to make you stay,” Tom turned back to you, tears running down his cheeks, “because I’d do anything, (Y/N).”

“Tom,” you set the clothes on the floor and walked over to him, “there’s nothing you can do,” you placed your hands on his cheeks and felt the wetness of his tears on your palms and between your fingers, “and that’s okay.”

This is exactly what he wanted to avoid. You sacrificing yourself over his mistakes. You paying the price for his incompetence. If anything happened to you, he'd never be the same. He knew that when he first fell in love with you. He could remember vividly thinking, if I fall for her, I’ll never be the same. Nothing will be as it was. And he was back then he was okay with that because he knew things would be better. Now, he could not hold the same optimism or sentiment for the path his story was taking.

“(Y/N),” Tom wrapped his hands around your wrists, “you can’t take the money from the treasury. At least, not now. It would take days to get those funds. We may never even get them. Ida is just a chambermaid, the lords will likely not be willing the spare the expense. How are you going to do this alone?” You looked up at Tom and the look in your eyes said it all. “No,” Tom’s face fell deeper into sorrow and fear, “you can’t go, (Y/N).”

“I have to,” you whispered, “when you go to the council and tell them he’s taken me rather than just some maid, they’ll be much more willing to give you the money. We just have to hope time is a luxury Hawthorne will grant us.”

“What if he doesn’t,” Tom snapped, “what if he takes you from me?”

“Then you prepare for that,” you ran your thumb over his cheek to catch the new rush of tears that were coming, “and you tell Dahlia that I love her. You tell her every day—”

“No,” Tom pulled his head away, “I won’t. You’ll tell her yourself because you aren’t going.”

“Tom, I have to. This is my duty, my responsibility—”

“Since when have you ever cared about those things?” Tom cried, “You never once cared about those in the past. Stop caring about them now and get back into that damn bed with me!”

“You know I can’t just let this go,” you said quietly, trying to keep your own voice calm for the sake of your husband, crying in your arms, “if this were you, and it was Harrison or one of your brothers who had been taken, you wouldn’t hesitate—”

“You’re right,” Tom agreed, “I wouldn’t. But you would stop me. You would keep me safe and try to keep our future alive. That’s all I’m trying to do, (Y/N). That’s all I want.”

You looked at Tom sympathetically, “That’s all I want to,” you sniffled, “but I can’t build this future on Ida’s death. I can’t possibly think of our future when her life is on the line.”

Tom nodded but the tears in his eyes didn’t cease.

He let go of your wrists and quickly wrapped his arms around you. He rested his head atop of yours and didn’t speak as you both swayed.

“Just give me some time,” he whispered, “let me try to fix this. I can’t lose you. I just—I need time to think and plan—”

His plea was so raw and torn. There was nothing else he could say or do other than beg for you to stay by his side. He felt hopeless and broken. Part of him wished he never showed you the letter, but deep down he knew it would have been worse to keep it from you and attempt to solve it himself. If Ida had died without you knowing she was even gone, you would’ve never forgiven him.

You needed to trust him. This was the final test of your love and trust in him.

“Tom…” you pulled away, “we don’t have the time now. Our time is up.”

You turned to walk away, back to the task at hand: getting his clothes, changing, and then saving Ida.

Tom wrapped his arms around you from behind. He moved your hair from your neck, exposing it to himself. He pressed kisses to your soft skin, a selfish attempt to break your resolve.

“Please, m’love,” Tom sniffled in between kisses, “we have a future. I need that future.”

He began to nip and suck at your skin as he spoke, “There’s a summer palace in Italy we can run off to. For a few months, it can be just us and Dahlia. We can have more children. We can have dozens. I want more children, (Y/N). I want it all with you. I want to give you the world.”

His hands found the ties of your corset and began to undo them, “I want to grow old with you.”

“Tom,” you turned around and placed yours over his, stopping him, “we can’t.”

“Please,” Tom’s eyes were red and his cheeks were wet with tears, “please tell me you love me.”

“I do love you,” you assured him, “more than I’ve ever loved anyone.” You pressed a kiss to his lips, savoring the taste of him, relishing in the fit of his lips against yours, before pulling away. “But I won’t choose you over saving someone who also means so much to me. She’s in danger because of me, Tom. I brought her here—”

“No, she’s in danger because of me. I did this, let me fix it.”

You held Tom’s face in your hands, “you have to let me go.”

“Please don’t make me,” Tom cried, a new batch of tears falling from his eyes at your words, “please, please…”

You quieted him with your lips on his once more. You kissed him hard as tears gathered in your own eyes. You hated seeing him cry and you hated even more that you were the reason for his tears. Tom didn’t hesitate to kiss you back fiercely. He tangled his hand in your hair and used his other to finish loosening the corset he’d set to work on earlier.

His mouth was hot against your skin as he moved from your lips to your jaw, and then down your neck. And the moment your corset was loose and undone, he moved to the tops of your breasts.

“Tom,” you sighed, running your fingers through his hair as he pushed your dress down your body.

He couldn’t stop. He was a man on a mission and his mission was to remind you of the love and passion the two of you share—the reason he could never let you go.

He removed his lips from your skin only to remove his own jacket and shirt. Once those were gone and his chest was bare, much like your own, he pressed himself to you again, to feel you close to him. He could feel all the blood rushing south. Just the thought of feeling you again after so long was making his head spin.

He undid his belt and let it fall to the floor along with his sword and with that he shoved his pants down as well, freeing himself.

He pushed you down onto the bed and fell atop of you, kissing his way down your body until he was placed between your legs.

“I’ve missed this,” he sighed, breathless from merely the look of your weeping heat, “I’ve missed having you like this.”

“I’ve missed it too,” you breathed out as Tom began licking your pulsing bud, tasting your sweet juices. He moaned into you as your closed your legs around his head. It’d been so long and you were so sensitive.

Before he could really even get into it, you flipped yourself over into a position where you were straddling his chest. Tom chuckled at your change of dominance.

“I want you like this,” you said gently, pressing a kiss to his lips.

“Whatever you want,” Tom hummed, rutting into you with his length against your leg, “as long as you stay.”

You worked your way down his body, licking and kissing each divet in his sculpted torso. You did love him, more than anything, and you want him to feel that love. You wanted him to feel worshipped.

You slithered down until your knees hit the floor and you were between his legs, length in your hand. You pumped him with one hand, tearing soft grunts from his lips. He bit his thin lips in an attempt to keep the noises in as to not disturb the baby sleeping soundly on the other side of the bed.

Tom’s eyes were shut and his face was scrunched in a beautiful scowl and his eyebrows furrowed with pleasure. You bent down and enveloped his head into your hot mouth, making him hiss.

“(Y/N),” he moaned, abs clenching as you sucked him in. He ran his hands through your hand, holding you to him. You released him and rose to the bed, straddling his thighs, keeping his cock in your hand.

“I love you,” you peered down at him through hooded eyes as you sunk onto him, drawing his length in your wetness. Tom grunted and placed his hands on your hips, giving him a squeeze.

“I love you more,” he sighed, sitting up to capture your lips as he began thrusting into you from below.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Tom slept peacefully with you in his arms. He always slept better with you around. These past few months had been filled with sleepless nights and dreamless slumbers, so to have to wrapped in his arms after having you in a way he hadn’t in so long, sleep came naturally.

But you didn’t sleep.

Instead, you savored these moments in his arms as though they would be your last. You pressed kisses to his hand, one for each knuckle, before moving to his face. You counted his freckles like you so frequently used to do. You missed that—the counting of the stars upon his face. How could you have taken such scattered beauty for granted?

You pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, just below his eye. His eyes fluttered behind the lids, but he remained asleep, just as you needed him.

The sad thing was that you did want to stay with him. You could feel your heart clench looking at how small he was. Hearing his pleas for you to stay nearly broke your resolve. And now, laying on the bed, vulnerable and at peace, he looked like a child that you were abandoning.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, “Forgive me, my love.”

You got out of bed and replaced where you were with a pillow for Tom to hold. You were dressed in his clothes; a white shirt and trousers. Something simple and easy to move in.

You had a plan of your own. Reckless as only you knew to be.

Looking back at Tom, you knew what you were doing would hurt him. There was great potential for loss here. But the risk was one you had to take—a sacrifice you were willing to make for Ida. Furthermore, it wasn’t solely for Ida—it was for yourself as well. You had a demon you needed to face. It was time to stop hiding away.

Looking at Tom made your heartache, knowing that this battle with the demon in your court may not end well, knowing that you might leave him, the one thing he begged you not to do. Tears sprouted in your eyes as you sighed out a shaky breath. You walked over to him one last time and pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the warmth and the gentle thumps of his beating heart. You pulled your hand away and wiped your tears. Now was not the time for them, now was time for you to be strong.

You went to your desk and pulled a piece of parchment out and began writing.

Tom,

I’m sorry I left. I hope you know how much it pained me to do so. I pray that we will see each other again when this is all over. I pray that the future you envision for us comes to pass. I pray for that as I write this, and I shall pray for it as I make my way to Hawthorne.

If we never see each other again, just know that I have only one regret in this life, and that is not loving you sooner. I feel as though I wasted precious moments I could have spent loving you, hating you. In our next life, I promise not to make the same mistake.

With that same thought in mind, you must tell Dahlia every day how much I loved her. Make sure she can feel my love.

Hawthorne will be at Arthur’s grave. It’s his last cruel jest towards me. Meet us there with the gold if you should get it.

With all my love,

(Y/N)

You left the room quickly, in fear that staying any longer would keep you from the task at hand.

“Your grace,” A guard stationed outside of your door stopped you immediately. He noticed the clothes you wore and the sword in your belt and a worried look formed in his eyes, “you can’t leave this room unaccompanied, I have direct orders from the king—”

“That’s ridiculous” you cut him off, “I shall traverse in my own home on my own terms.”

“I must insist,” he grabbed your arm.

“Unhand me,” you pulled away harshly, “before I take that hand from you as well as your titles. Who do you take orders from?”

“The king, your grace.”

“No,” you shook your head, “you take them from me, your queen. Now, you will stay stationed at this door and you will let me go in peace. Is that clear?”

The guard hesitated, but your unwavering stare and self-assuredness convinced him to concede, “exceedingly, your grace.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

“Your grace,” the guard at the door of Nikki’s chambers shrouded worry as he took in your appearance. The outfit accompanied by a sword at your side, “you shouldn’t be out here by yourself. Where is his grace, King Thomas?”

Not again, you thought. Though, you had to commend your guards for being so painstakingly cautious and aware of what they were doing, even if it made your tasks harder.

“Asleep in our chambers,” you said curtly, “I‘ve just come to see my daughter.”

“Alone? You should have accompaniment. Where’s your chambermaid?”

“I don’t need accompaniment,” you said simply, brushing past him and opening the door for yourself.

Nikki was sitting by the fire with Dahlia in her arms, peacefully sleeping. She herself looked worn from the day’s stresses as her eyes drooped.

“Nikki,” you whispered to her.

She turned and furrowed her brows before registering who had spoken her name, she smiled as your face came into focus in her vision.

“(Y/N)?” she whispered back, “what are you doing here? And dressed like that…?” she trailed off as she studied your attire.

“I just wanted to see you,” you said quietly, “and her.”

Nikki handed you Dahlia as you took a seat on the cushy chair beside her, “She’s precious,” she smiled softly at you, “you’ve got a perfect angel there. If only I had been so lucky.”

“Lucky?” you chuckled, “You had four strong-headed boys, if only I should be so lucky. I love my daughter more than life itself, but Tom is right, we should try for more. There is security in numbers.”

“Boys are trouble,’ Nikki sighed, “though, I’m sure you’d have no trouble at all,” she smiled warmly at you, “you always handled my boys with such…passion.”

You smiled back, “You mean aggression?”

“Whatever you did, it got the job done,” Nikki chuckled, “especially now, in such times of sorrow and suffering. My boys look to you for comfort, but also they look after you. You did something to all of them—it’s something you seem to do to all the people you meet; you make them care. You ignite passion and fire—the same you have on your own, you share it, and spread it. You’ll be the best queen there ever was, (Y/N),” Nikki reached for your hand, “I know it.”

“Nikki,” you said softly, eyes sparkling at her words, “I’m nothing special—”

“You are to me, and to my boys, and to your girl there, though she might not know it yet,” Nikki smiled down at the baby in your arms, “and that just covers my world, so imagine how special you are to all the people in yours.”

ou let out a sigh as you rocked Dahlia in your lap, “You’ll always be there for her though, won’t you? To watch over her and make sure she grows up to be a good ruler.”

“Of course,” Nikki said slowly, “but you’ll be there for her too. There’s nothing that can replace the love of a mother.”

“You could,” you looked up at Nikki, “your love was better than my mother’s ever was. I wish you were my mother.”

Nikki cooed and stood up. She hugged your head to her chest and stroked your hair, “I am your mother,” she smiled, “and I love you very much.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

You left Nikki’s chambers close to tears, knowing that there was a chance you’d be leaving your daughter behind. Nikki was right, nothing would be able to replace you in her eyes, and perhaps it was selfish of you to deny her a chance at your love.

But Ida needed you and Hawthorne needed to be dealt with. You were done hiding in your chambers like you had for the majority of his stay in England. You were ready to face him and whatever evil was behind that man. And if tonight would be your last, then you’d be sure to drag him to hell with you.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Ida was just waking up, a bruise over her cheek and an ache in her jaw to truly set the tone of the trouble she had found herself in. Hawthorne was pacing around, reciting the prayers of the lord he could remember to himself.

Ida was bound and tied to a tree. Her immediate struggle clued Hawthorne in on her consciousness, prompting him to come towards her.

“Do not be frightened, little one,” he said quietly, “this is not your fight,” he shined his lantern in her face and held up a piece of bread, bringing it close to her lips.

Ida spat at him, “you snake! You filthy, dirty, snake! They’ll have your head for this!”

“Hm,” Hawthorne hummed, “you are much like (Y/N). It’s as though her own personality has rubbed off on you. You two must be close. That is good, that means my assessment is correct. So fear not, wench. Help will be arriving soon.”

“No,” Ida shook her head, “They won’t come for me. No matter what it is you asked of them, I am not worth the risk. You'll be dead by daybreak, as you should be,” Ida sneered.

“For someone so close to (Y/N), you seem to know nothing of her loyalty,” Hawthorne scoffed, forcefully showing the bread into Ida’s mouth, muffling her insults and screams, “Yes,” he said as he rose again and looked out towards the castle, where you’d be coming from, “even for a poor wench like you, she is loyal. A terrible flaw; her Achilles heel.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

It was sick of him to hold Ida captive at the graves of those you’ve lost. Past the large oak tree on the hill, through the field, and on the other side, where you laid to rest your loved ones. It was sadistic. That’s how you knew he’d be there. He wanted to remind you what he was capable of as he held Ida captive over Arthur’s grave.

At the top of the hill, you could see him down there. He even had the nerve to wave at you. A friendly wave, beckoning you towards him.

“Here she comes,” he smiled sinisterly, “our little queen.”

Ida wept when she saw you making your way towards the two of them. She wanted to scream at you to run back the other way, to leave her. To forget about her altogether and live your life.

Hawthorne had untied her from the tree the moment he saw the light of your candle. He wrapped cloth over her lips to silence her cries before kneeling her in front of him, sword to her neck.

“Your grace,” he proclaimed when you had made it within earshot, but it was mocking. It was a joke to him, the fact that you held such a title, “I see you’ve found us. My note made it to you alright I presume?”

“I don’t have your gold, Hawthorne,” you stated, “I’ve only brought myself.”

“That’s a shame then,” Hawthorne pressed the sword closer to Ida’s neck, causing her muffled cries to a crescendo. You could see the tears streaming down her cheeks glistening in the light of the lantern.

“Stop,” you held your hand up, “please, I’ve come with a better offer.”

“Speak then, before I grow tired of this distraction.”

“For a man who claims to be a king, you clearly know very little about finances in the court,” you spat, “I would never be able to receive enough money from the treasury to satisfy you.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I wouldn’t be able to get the funds to spare her life,” you looked down at Ida, “but she can go back to Tom and get the funds to spare mine. It’s a simple trade.”

“How do I know this isn't a trick?” Hawthorne accuses, yanking Ida’s hair, pulling her head back to expose her neck more to the blade. She yelped beneath the cloth over her lips, silencing her, “You’re a venomous snake, I hear.”

“If you don’t get the money, I die,” you explain, “you can finally rid yourself of me. Just let her go because you know deep down that this vendetta is ours, and only ours. And this is the only reasonable way you’ll get what you want.”

“You’re a real bargainer, aren’t you?” Hawthorne clicked his tongue, “I could almost say I’m proud of you. Now get on your knees.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

“Help me! Help me, please!” Ida’s lungs were burning when she finally made it inside the castle. The edges of her dress were muddy and ruined and her face was red. Her eyes were puffy and her throat her as she screamed for help.

Guards rushed to her side, one holding her up and she nearly collapsed in his arms, “M’lady,” he looked down at her, “what’s wrong.”

“He has her,” Ida cried, “Hawthorne has her grace, (Y/N).”

The three guards looked at each other, all silently knowing the direness of the situation.

“Come,” the one that held Ida’s arms said, “we must tell the king.”

The four of them raced off to Tom’s chambers.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

“None of you stopped her?!” Tom yelled at his guards. He was livid when he heard that you had gotten away, slipping past all of them so effortlessly. Though it wasn’t just anger, it was fear. He could feel it in his gut. He had a lump of dread lodged there—if he were any weaker of a man it would have incapacitated him.

“She’s our queen, your grace,” the guard stationed outside yoru chambers tried to defend himself, “I follow her orders as well—”

“No,” Tom snapped, “you follow my orders. Mine alone! She’s gone now because of you!”

“Your grace,” Ida spoke up, “please, this isn’t solving anything. We must gather the council and get the money from the treasury. Hawthorne won’t wait past dawn.”

Tom took a deep breath and motioned to the door, “Go then, all of you. Gather the lords and my brothers and have them meet me in the great hall.”

They all left quickly, leaving Tom in his chambers by himself.

For a moment, he didn’t have to hold it in anymore. The second the door closed behind Ida, he could feel the dam behind his eyes break. He fell backward onto the bed with a sob, muffling it in his hands. He held his hands over his face as he cried, pushing the palms of his hands into his eyes, grounding himself with the pressure.

He hiccuped a few more cries and he wiped his eyes. His breathing was uneven as he rose from the bed and began getting dressed. And on his way to the trunk of his clothes is where is found your note, sitting neatly on your desk.

He picked it up, his wet hands smudging the ink of your name as he read it. As he read, more tears fell onto the parchment, staining it with his sorrow.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

“Why are you doing this?” you asked before Hawthorne could put the cloth over your lips.

“You know why,” he said simply, “I have to get out of this country—”

“No,” you shook your head, “why do any of it? Why did you kill my father? He was a good man, he was good to you. I thought you cared for us.”

Hawthorne placed the cloth over your lips and tied it tightly, causing you to whimper. He almost looked regretful to see what this had all simmered down to, but then he smiled, and the demon was back.

“You know nothing, little princess,” he dragged your body towards his and held you close, “I would think you of all people would understand that if you want something, then you should just take it.”

You squirmed in his grasp as he sat and moved you to sit in his lap. Panic filled your eyes at his advances.

“Shhh, don’t worry,” he snickered, “I’d never sully you like that. You’re just protecting me,” he explained, “in case your charming husband has the wise idea to shoot any arrows this way.”

Hawthorne held your hair in his hands and began to play with it, “Remember how I used to braid your hair?” he asked as he began to plait it, “I was quite good at it, I think. Your mother always laughed though, whenever she saw my creations.”

You shook your head, “Hold still, little princess,” Hawthorne chided, “or how else shall we pass the time?”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

All Tom could think about was your body in a casket. Six feet under. Covered in dirt. Your eyes milky with death. Your hands cold and grey. Your lips frozen against his. He didn’t even notice that all the lords had arrived and were seated, all looking at him, wondering why he would call a meeting at such an ungodly hour.

The calls of ‘your grace’ fell on deaf ears it would seem. So finally, Harrison placed his hand on his friend's shoulder, and addressed him as such, “Mate,” he squeezed Tom’s shoulder, “are you alright?”

Tom looked up at his friend, his blue eyes familiar and comforting. His own eyes were red and tears were kissing the edges, threatening to fall over.

“No,” Tom shook his head, blinking, letting the tears go, “Hawthorne took (Y/N),” he breathed out, “and I have to get her back.”

Harry and Sam looked at each other, both of their faces had dropped the same. The room's murmurs ceased as the air grew thick.

“What do you need from us?” Harrison asked.

“Money from the treasury,” Tom said, “enough to appease Hawthorne.”

The silence in the room was deafening. Tom’s heart constricted when nobody immediately jumped with their declarations of love for you, nobody immediately agreed that you were worth more than any sum of gold Hawthorne could want.

“Ida,” Harry turned to the girl, still shaken up and bruised in the chair beside Tom, “where is Hawthorne?”

“Just past the field at the end of the hill,” Ida said, “he’s alone.”

“Then I say we go after him,” Harry stated, “we don’t give into the demands of a madman. What would father say? If we let a man like that out into the world? He’s one cowardly man against a kingdom.”

“He has (Y/N),” Tom reasoned, “I’m not risking him hurting her,” he shook his head, “I won’t—I can’t lose her—”

“Harry’s right,” Sam nodded, “(Y/N) would understand why we can’t just give him his money and send him on his merry way. She—”

“She traded her life for mine!” Ida cried, “I don’t care if he’s just one man, he’s taking everything. He acts like he’s a god. I-I can’t let her sacrifice be for nothing,” she rose from her seat and began to walk towards the door, “if you need me for any more information on Hawthorne and how he has her, I’ll be with Dahlia, but I can’t sit here and listen to you talk about (Y/N), so ready to sacrifice her. She would have given her life for any one of you, and she did for me.”

Ida slammed the door shut and Harry shook his head, he rose from his seat as well, prepared to get up to calm her down—

“Sit,” Tom ordered, “you can fetch her later, I still need your council here.”

Harry reluctantly returned to his seat, “So what then? We give Hawthorne all of our gold and let him roam free? That’s not right.”

“Let’s do both,” Harrison suggested, “let’s get him the money, get (Y/N) safe from him, and then dispose of him. It’ll be hard to see the setup he has, but that’s our best bet on getting her out alive as well as ridding the world of him.”

The lords around the table all nodded and mumbled in agreement, but Tom was unconvinced. If somehow, this was to go wrong, and you were put at risk, he’d never forgive himself. He knew he’d never move past it. He could hardly stomach the thought of a life without you.

These past few months, without your touch, he felt empty and alone, but at least you were still alive. At least he knew you were safe, you were warm to the touch still. Even if you only gave him the cold shoulder, even if your words were only venom dripping from your viperous lips, he still pick that over truly losing you.

And then you told him you loved him. He held you in his arms again. He had you to hold again, and everything felt right, if only for a moment. And when he slept, he dreamt of you and Dahlia, out in the sun, singing melodies with smiles on your faces. He dreamt of you happy. He woke up happy. That was until he realized the reason for his slumber being invaded, and the moment his tired eyes met Ida’s frantic ones, his heart sunk, and it hadn’t risen since.

“Ivy,” Harrison looked at the guard, waiting patiently by the door for her next orders, “how many men can you spare tonight?”

“As many as you ask of me,” she said certainly.

“We’ll need men to surround where Hawthorne is, but they must stay far away enough to be undetectable. If he tries to run, we must make sure he doesn’t make it far,” Harrison got up and walked to a bookshelf in the corner of the room, one that held maps for any stretch of land in Europe. He came back and unrolled the map onto the table, “The trees over here will shield any guards,” he said, running his finger across the tree-line of the forest, “that’s about a quarter mile from the graves. You can circle your men throughout, so long as they’re under cover of these trees.”

“What about here?” Ivy asked, pointing towards the hill and the large oak tree, the one that came right before the field.

“I’ll be there,” Tom said, “with the money.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

“I never wanted to hurt Lola,” Hawthorne hummed as he braided your hair, “she was just…in the crossfire. Tough, I suppose she wanted to be involved, so in a way, she did it to herself.”

Your response was muffled against the cloth pressed to your lips.

“Oh, right,” Hawthorne lowered the fabric.

“Lola was just a pawn,” you spat, “and even with her loyalty to you, you betrayed her.”

“Loyalty?” Hawthorne scoffed, “She sold me out the minute things went and got tough. You though, you hold loyalty well. Why is that, little princess?”

“Because I, in return, am loyal,” you said, “I love my family and my people—”

“But still, you left your sister here to fend for herself in a dangerous court. She died alone, (Y/N). that doesn't seem very loyal of you—”

“I loved her!” you snapped, “Don’t you dare question my loyalty or love for her—”

“And your dear mother, I hear you’ve locked her up,” Hawthorne clicked his tongue, “to rot away in her chambers—”

“Stop it—”

“Now I will admit, your father, that was my own doing,” Hawthorne chuckled, “that was a crack in my loyalty. But at least I don’t preach myself to be so high and pious. I never claimed to be a good person, my little princess. And when I drove my sword through your father's back—”

You flung your head back hard, connecting with a resounding crack against Hawthorne's nose. You tried you squirm away, but Hawthorne recovered quickly, grabbing you by the hair and pulling you to him.

“Fucking whore,” he spat, slapping the side of your head, hitting you right on the ear, and knocking you to your side. He kicked you in the face, chest, and stomach repeatedly. Everything started to burn, but at some point, right before he stopped, it all went numb before the endless aches came.

You could taste the metallic sting of blood in your mouth and you could feel the aftermath of Hawthorne’s aggression in the way your head pounded.

Hawthorne grabbed you by the hair and lifted you to face him. He crouched to meet your eyes and he smiled at his work, “You have your father’s eyes.”

“Fuck you,” you spat blood onto his face.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

“Mother,” Tom gently shook his mother awake.

He felt like a little boy again, waking his mother up in the middle of the night because his head hurt, or because he had a nightmare. Although, this time, he was in a nightmare, and it was ever-present in his mind.

When he was little, Dom would scold him for always running to their room every time he heard a bump in the night, but even his father couldn’t be too hard on the boy. The two of them always ended up in the kitchen at some ungodly hour of the night, eating sweets while Dom told Tom stories about when he was a boy.

His father was gone now, and even if he wasn’t, eating sweets in the kitchen while he listened to him rambling, while a welcomed distraction, would not soothe Tom’s mind this time. Though, he would give anything to have just one more moment like that.

“Darling,” Nikki immediately saw the tears in her son's eyes, it was the first thing she noticed, “what’s wrong? Come here,” she opened her arms for him to crawl into. And though he didn’t fit anymore, the bulky man that he now was, he curled into her arms, as though he’d still sit comfortably.

“(Y/N) left,” Tom sniffled against her shoulder, “and H-Hawthorne took her. And I can’t—I can’t think straight—” Tom began to heave sobs against Nikki’s nightgown.

“Shh, shh, my darling,” Nikki cooed, though she too was now feeling the stinging prick of tears in her eyes and the hard clench of her heart. So that’s why you said all those lovely things tonight, she thought. You weren’t just assuring that Nikki would be there for Dahlia, you were asking her to be, “breathe.”

Tom tried to take deep breaths but he could hardly get through one without it being cut off by his own choked sob.

“She’ll be okay,” Nikki tried to assure him.

“No,” Tom cried, “I—she won’t. I can feel it.”

Nikki knew immediately what Tom meant. It was that dread he felt in his gut that had now consumed his whole body. The same she had felt the night before Dom died. It was all-consuming and inhabilitating, knowing that something bad was going to happen and feeling powerless to stop it.

“Tom,” Nikki pulled away from the man crying in her arms, “you don’t know what will happen. You're not powerless in this.”

“I feel like no matter what I do, he won’t spare her.”

“Have you called your lords? Your brothers?”

“Yes,” Tom nodded, “they’re preparing now.”

“Okay, good,” Nikki placed her hand on her son’s cheek and wiped his tears with her thumb, “so what I’m hearing is, you did everything you could. No matter what happens from here, it’s not on you, my love.”

“It is, though,” Tom cried, “she—she’s only with him because he took Ida, and he’s only here because I invited him into our home. He—he killed Arthur—”

“I know,” Nikki hugged Tom’s head to her chest, “and he will pay for his sins. But his sins are not yours. Now, my darling, you must dry your eyes and put on your brave face. (Y/N) needs you. And if anything should happen to her, Dahlia will need you.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Harrison ended up going with Tom, to help carry the sacks of gold down to the other end of the field where he was to meet Hawthorne. The walk there was mostly in silence, save for the crunch of their footsteps over leave and dry grass.

“We need a rain soon,” Harrison noted, looking down at the brownish-colored grass beneath his boots. It was strange to have such dry weather in England, it almost felt wrong, but then again, there seemed to be a lot of things wrong in the English court as of late.

Tom only hummed and trekked on. He kept his pace swiftly in front of Harrison. He was a man on a mission, and Harrison could hardly blame him for seeming so cold and focused. He would be the same way if the role in this was his to play.

“I’m going to ask Ivy to marry me,” Harrison said suddenly.

Tom stopped for a moment to look back at his friend, “You are?”

“Mhm,” Harrison nodded, “with your blessing as our king of course. Ivy made vows that can’t be broken, but, I was hoping with your blessing, we could look past those?”

“A knight's code is very strict, Harrison,” Tom clicked his tongue as he continued on, “but, for you, I’d make an exception,” he smiled.

“Thank you,” Harrison beamed, “I know things have been rough for her and me, but after the last few weeks in Norway, I’ve realized that I don’t want to be without her. I only hope she feels the same.”

“If she doesn’t, then that’s on her,” Tom assured his friend, “but as for my end, you have my blessing and she will be pardoned of her vows to chastity.”

“Keep your sword on you,” Tom said as they made it to the oak tree at the top of the hill. He squinted down to the edge of the field where he saw the light from the lantern and two bodies, one knelt before the other, “I see them.”

“He here comes,” Hawthorne smiled widely when he saw the sacks Tom and Harrison carried, “our generous King.”

He grabbed you by the hair and pulled you to your feet, holding you tightly in from of him.

“Just take the money and go,” you pleaded as he held his blade to your throat.

“I will,” he assured you, but we’re going to have some fun first.”

Tom’s stomach did flips when he saw you. His first emotion was relief; you were alive. That was all he could ever ask for. But then he noticed the blood on your brow, and how a trail of red spilled from your lips. He could see your eye dazed and puffy.

“What did you do to her?” He asked quietly as he approached the two of you.

“Only what she deserved,” Hawthorne smiled, holding your face with his other hand, “doesn’t she look better this way? So calm and submissive? I’m shocked this isn’t how you prefer her.”

“Let her go,” Tom spat, throwing his sacks of golden on the ground, “you have your money and your freedom. Now—”

“Not so hasty, my friend,” Hawthorne chided before nodding down to the bags, “open them.”

“What?”

Hawthorne pressed his knife harder against your neck, causing you to gasp, “show me the gold.”

Tom pressed his lips into a thin line and looked over at Harrison, who had his hand held to his sword. He gave him a small nod, signaling him to stand down. He bent down and began opening the bag, expecting to see the shimmering yellow of gold, but when he didn’t see it, he began to panic. Opening the back wider, he only saw the grey dullness of pebbles.

Hawthorne looked over your shoulders, watching Tom’s face drop as he opened the bag wider. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly, “You can’t trick me, little boy,” he said.

He moved the blade from your throat and held it behind your back instead, about to run it through.

“Tom!” you cried, feeling the tip of the knife against your back.

“No!” Tom yelled, jumping towards you, only for Hawthorne to press it further, drawing blood. He backed up and held his hands up, “Please, just—that wasn’t me. M-My brothers did that. They didn’t know—”

“Then her death is on them,” Hawthorne said simply, running the knife through your back until Tom could see the glint of metal peeking through your stomach.

Your scream was cut off by Hawthorne’s hand around your throat. But the pain burned. It felt like he did it so slowly, as though he was taking his time. Perhaps he was remembering all those years ago when he did the same thing to your father.

He pulled the knife from you, letting the blood drip out from the gaping hole. You turned your head slightly, just to get a look at his face as he did this to you. And in his eyes, you saw nothing. Where so long ago you saw someone you trusted, you now only saw darkness.

The minute he let go of your body for you to fall limp to the ground, you held onto the wound. You felt a gush of blood seep through your fingers.

“No!” Tom yelled the second he saw that sinister smile on Hawthorne’s face, but he wasn’t quick enough. By the time he got to you, Hawthorne had thrown your body to the ground.

Harrison was right on Tom’s heels, sword out and clutched in his hand. The minute Hawthorne saw it he started running the other way. Harrison threw the sword at him with all of his strength and anger and the blade found its home lodge through Hawthorne’s chest.

Harrison ran to his body, flipping it over with his boots. He was dead. Dead at last, after taking far too many with him.

He looked back, “He’s dead,” he called to Tom.

Tom had your body gripped in his arms. He was on the ground with your head laying loosely on his shoulder. Your blood was seeping through his shirt and staining his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut, more tears falling from them each time, in a sorry attempt to wake up from this nightmare, but it was real.

“Tom,” Harrison ran to the two of you. He knelt by your side and took your hand in his. He placed his hand on Tom’s shoulder as you offered him a sad smile, “I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at you.

“Go get help,” Tom whispered through gritted teeth and frantic eyes.

“But Tom—” Harrison tried, knowing that leaving would be futile. If anything, he would just gather an audience for your death. He wanted to say goodbye as well.

“Go!” Tom snapped, “Or are you too fucking stupid?!” You were in his arms and you were getting colder by the minute.

“Tom,” you whispered, scolding him even as you lay bleeding out in his arms, “please, don’t—”

“No,” Harrison said softly, “I’ll go, you’re going to be okay,” he smiled sadly at you, stroking your hair, “Ivy and her men are just beyond those woods, it’ll be quicker than running to the castle.”

Tom nodded as Harrison pressed a final kiss to your forehead, “I’ll see you soon,” he said, but you could hear the crack in his voice.

“Okay,” you nodded before he ran off.

He let out a sob at your voice, so tired and worn. You were probably exhausted. He took your hand in his.

“Tom, it’s okay,” you squeeze the warm hand in yours as hard as you could, but it wasn’t hard enough for Tom.

“It’s n-not okay,” he cried, “Harry and Sam—they were supposed to put gold in there—” he was cut off by his own cries.

“Don’t blame them,” you said softly, “please. Don’t let hate take refuge in your heart.”

Tom sniffled and held your hand to his face. He wanted you to wipe his tears like you always did, but your hand was so cold and so limp. You could hardly move your fingers. You slowly moved your fingers against his cheek, catching the few tears that you could.

You looked at him through the tears in your own eyes, “At least I get to see you one last time,” you offered him a small smile.

“Don’t say that,” Tom held you closer, “one more time isn’t enough for me.”

You got quieter as Tom held you, and though it had only been a minute, maybe two, he began to panic.

“(Y/N)?,” he cried, “(Y/N)?!”

“I’m here,” you said. You sounded so sleepy. You had lost so much blood by now.

“Please don’t leave me,” Tom pressed a kiss to your hand, uncaring that they were stained in blood. He winced when he saw the scar on your palm. Your hand was facing upwards in his, and the two twin scars you both had were one it the same. They were your physical proof of each other’s love; the willingness to sacrifice for each other.

“You,” your breathing was heavy and raspy, “take care of Dahlia,” you said, “I’ll take care of Arthur.”

The sun was rising, making the sky a cold dawn blue. It fell over your face, highlighting the light in your eyes that was dying out.

“No,” Tom shook his head, “this wasn’t supposed to happen,” he cried, “you were—we were supposed to gr-grow old together. I—I can’t live without you. Just hold on a little longer, please,” Tom’s tears streamed down his cheeks, dripping off of his chin and onto you.

“I love you,” you sniffled, looking up at Tom.

“Don’t,” Tom shook his head, “you can tell me that when we’re in bed and you’re okay. Don’t say goodbye to me.”

“Tom,” your hand went limp in his, “I’m sorry.”

“Stop it,” Tom cried harder as your eyes closed, “(Y/N)? Stop it, come on—(Y/N)!”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Tom had never felt like this before.

Not when Dahlia died, or when he thought Lizzie carried his bastard, or when you had hated him—every time you did so—, or not even when his dad died. Tom had never felt this emotion if it was only one. That was something he couldn’t pinpoint, nor did he give himself time to ponder.

It was sadness, overwhelmingly so, and anger. It was emptiness and brokenness and nothingness. He held your dead body to him until Harrison came back with Ivy and her men, all of them. And they all got to see the king at his worst.

Ivy, a woman who was usually so strong, so unmoved by the forces around her, fell to her knees at the sight. Harrison fell with her, hugging her from behind as she removed her helmet and cried.

And when your body was carried back to the castle, everyone saw.

The castle was bustling at the time, with lords and ladies getting ready for a start to their day, cooks getting the breakfast prepared, and maids running fresh linens to the rooms. Everyone stopped when they saw the entire king's guard returning with the king. They all gasped and fell to their knees when they saw the two bodies; one belonging to the queen.

Harry and Sam knew, just by the look Tom threw their way, that he blamed them, despite what you had said. His eyes were red and puffy, and he could hardly look at them. When he did spare them a glace, it s quick and it held all the malice he could muster.

Tom didn’t talk to anyone, he just went to the nursery and looked down at Dahlia, who was sleeping peacefully. She had no idea the pain that he was going through. She had no idea what she had just lost. He envied that of her.

Nights were the hardest. Tom hardly slept, if he did at all. Every time he closed his eyes, every time he dreamed, for months, all he could see was your body, dead in his arms, all he could hear were your screams. All he could think about, day and night, was how he never said goodbye. He cursed himself for being too stubborn to tell you he loved you too.

“Tom,” his mother sat on his bed. It had been a week since you died, “come on, my darling,” she was dressed in all black, and she too had held the pain of your death in her heart, “it’s time.”

“I’m not ready,” Tom looked out the window at the oak tree in the distance.

“You’ll never be ready, my love,” Nikki said sadly. She patted the spot on the bed next to her, “come on,” she said, “just for a moment.”

Tom sighed and sat next to her. He rested his head on her shoulder as he ran her fingers through his hair.

“Her side of the bed is cold,” he sniffled.

“I know,” Nikki said.

“And I keep reaching over, thinking she’ll either be there or it will at least be warm again.”

“I know,” Nikki nodded as tears fell down her cheeks, “trust me, I know.”

They sat in silence until there was another knock at the door. “Come in,” Nikki called, wiping the tears from her eyes.

Ida walked in with Dahlia on her hip, “Your grace,” she came over to Tom, “Dahlia has something to tell you,” she had a small smile on her lips.

“You do?” Tom wiped his tears and reached for the baby, who held her arms out for him. He smiled as his daughter babbled in his arms. She was the only one he could muster a brave face for.

“Come on, Dahlia,” Ida encouraged her, “can you say it again?”

Dahlia looked curiously at Tom as he looked at her with hopeful, kind eyes, though they were red-rimmed and tired. She loved having all the attention on her. She giggled as Nikki cooed at her, pinching her chubby cheeks.

“Mama,” she finally babbled out, causing more tears to spring to Tom’s eyes.

“Oh, darling,” he said, hugging her to him, “good job, my sweet girl.”

“Her first words,” Nikki smiled, patting her head gently.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The funeral was like no other held at the castle. Tom kept it small, only the people you knew and loved attended. Though all the people in England sent their condolences to the castle in the form of letters and gifts. The actual ceremony was just Tom, his mother, his brothers, Harrison, Ivy, Ida, and Dahlia.

Instead of keeping you in the family tomb, he had you laid to rest next the Arthur and James, so you could take care of him, just like you said you would. He liked to think that that’s what you would have wanted. However, he put all of your personal possessions in the tomb, next to Dahlia’s grave. Your little Russian doll leaned against her casket daintily, always watching over her.

“Tom,” Harry came up to his brother that evening at dinner. They hadn’t spoken since that night, “I’m sorry.”

Tom shook his head before looking up from his plate, “Go away, Harry.”

“Please, I didn’t know—”

“You should have listened to me!” Tom snapped, “She’s dead because of you.”

Harry recoiled at Tom’s harsh tone, “I was just trying to do the right thing…” he said quietly.

“Well, you didn’t,” Tom said, “you got her killed,” he glanced at Sam who was standing behind Harry, “you both did.”

“Tom, please—” Sam pleaded with his other brother, but Tom just got up and stormed off to his chambers, ignoring the downcast glances from everyone at the table.

Tom stayed in his chambers for the rest of the evening. It was the only place he could stomach because it was the only place he could be alone. If he was lucky, he could close his eyes and still smell your perfume, maybe he’d even trick himself into thinking you were actually there.

But the room was devoid of your personal charm now, it even seemed dimmer than the last time he was in it just that morning before he had so many of your things moved out. The only thing he had left now to hold onto was the memories. The ones of you and him in this bed, making love. The ones of you and him giggling on the balcony in the early hours of the morning, taking in the cool summer breeze. The ones of you waking him up with your gentle caress of his face. That’s all this room offered him now.

“Tom,” Ida didn’t even bother knocking, she knew it was futile that he’d even respond.

“Get out.”

“No,” Ida shook her head, “not until you listen to me.”

“Nothing you say can make this any better,” Tom said dejectedly, “(Y/N) is gone.” it was the first time Tom had said it out loud and it sounded bitter on his lips. The words tasted like ash on his tongue.

“She kept a diary,” Ida said, ignoring Tom’s moping, “she kept it under one of these floorboards.”

“Why?”

“It had personal things in it, things about her family, private thoughts, things she wouldn’t want to get out into the wrong hands,” Ida moved across the floor, stepping on all of the boards, and listening for a specific creak, “but you’re not the wrong hands.”

Once she heard it, she got to her knees and began lifting the board, digging her nails under it, and pulling the plank of wood up. Inside was filled with dust and dirt and one lonely book. Ida picked it up and dusted it off, blowing on it and patting it clean before handing it to Tom.

“How do you know about this?” Tom asked as he took the book in his hands.

“She told me about it,” Ida said simply, “sometimes she’d read some entries to me when she was teaching me how to read and write. You won’t like all of them,” Ida warned him, “the first one is from when she first arrived from France, but anything after the wedding, I think you deserve to hear.”

“Thank you,” Tom looked at Ida with tears in his eyes, “truly.”

“Of course, your grace,” Ida nodded, “you deserve to know how she truly felt about you, through it all.”

Ida left quickly after that and Tom opened the diary to the entry from the day you and Tom were wed.

Although we were supposed to consummate our marriage last night, Tom did not force me to. I appreciate that from him. He told me at the alter that he would be whatever it is I need him to be, and last night, he was just that: a confidant.

If only he were always such a gentleman instead of a brutish, frog-face—

Tom skipped to the entry from the night you first made love.

Last night, Tom and I made love. I let him have me in a way I’ve never let anyone have me before. It was magical, extraordinary, and inconceivable. I’d never be able to describe it in words, just how lovely the experience was. And afterwards, he said he loved me. I didn’t say it back, I refused to, and perhaps that was a mistake. Because as I am writing this and thinking it over, I think I may harbor feelings for Tom that I’ve never once harbored for anyone before. I do not find him nearly as frog-looking as I did before. Dare I say, he’s the most charming man I’ve ever met. Perhaps I do love him.

Then there was the entry from the night of his birthday party.

My heart is shattered irrevocably. My punishment must finally be upon me for abandoning Dahlia in England, for today, my happiness was ripped from my grasp.

Although the day began lovely, waking up in Tom’s arms, it ended horrifically. Lizzie Farley has claimed to carry Tom’s bastard, and in turn, Tom will have a child with her. I have yet to give him an heir. Is this what my life is to become? Second to her? I’m so sick with heartache, I can hardly breathe.

And the day you found out you were pregnant with Dahlia.

After missing my bleeding days and waking up feeling grotesque, I have come to the conclusion that I am with child. Tom and I have been trying for months now to conceive an heir, and although I am thrilled with the possibility that I may give Tom a baby, I am worried that something may go wrong. I‘ll tell him soon when I feel more sure of my conclusion.

And then, just a few pages down, there was something special Tom found.

Tom,

If you’re reading this means you’ve found my diary. It also means that you’ve been snooping, which you must remind me to scold you for.

Of course, nevertheless, I hope you are reading this in good health and with a smile on your face. I assumed at some point in time you’d either find this or I’d cough it up and hand it over, just because so much of it is about you.

I love you. I hope you know that by now. I mean, as I am writing this, I am carrying your child, so I’m sure you are aware of my affections. Even so, it doesn't hurt to express it more. Sometimes I feel like I don’t tell you enough. So, I love you with all of my heart. And I love the life we have created.

Even though this isn’t the life I wanted and you’re not the man I thought I’d fall in love with, there is such beauty and privilege in being yours. I love being bound to you.

Love you forever,

(Y/N)

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

A/N: and thats a wrap! finally, this series is complete! there will be an epilogue posted soon, i am already over 1k words in on it, so look out for that!

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✧tags & moots✧ PERM

@ptergwen @princessofguineapigs @peterbenjiparker @cherrytholland @itsapeterthing @justapurrcat @kelieah @celestialholland @hollandcrush @scarletspideyy @blissfulparker @spidernerdsblog @spideyspeaches @andilovetowrite @sinisterspidey @annathesillyfriend @lovelybarnes @white-wolf1940 @arvinsescape @super-not-naturall @allthisfortommy @selfcarecap @misshale21 @morganwilliams-blog-blog @loveaffaire @angelmavmurdock @pogueslandia @tomshufflepuff @hallecarey1 @a-daydreamers-day @holland-styles @cloudyfeel @peni5parker @slut-for-steve-rogers @kitkatt18-blog @kitkat2015-blog @bookfrog242 @slutforfics @wildxwidow @prancerrparkerr @petesrparker @arlo-sanders @sxuxgarplxum @peter-parkers-gf @namoreno @andrewgarfields-girlfriend @byersboys @xoxokiaraaxoxo @hollandsvogue-blog @marvelobsessed10031917 @z3ndaya @sunflowerfive @yunho-leeknow @xxxstormyninixxx @marvelhasmyheart235 @lowkey-holland @blahblahblah-boo @nocturnalms @happyt0exist @kpostedsum @noemiix1 @mischieftom @sophi54 @allazay101 @spideybrina @rqmanoff @rory-cakes @parkerdarling @samaraaaaa-blog @freds-slut @misslady246 @tonystarksfavoritedaughter @adayasgeorgia @mn-jun @spider-man-stiles-gubler @wildholland @demirunner @marvelobsessedteen @lolooo22 @moniffazictress11 @sleepybesson @sweetpeterparker @bradtomlovesya @teenwishes08 @hogwartsmarvelmommy @dracoswhore007 @elishi03 @beth-gallagher22 @hunnybunimdun @badbatch-simp24 @raajali3 @vibezayn91 @heyyitsreign @iamsherloki-wholocked @itscaminow @blankspaceblankday @denkisclown @spideysloverera @minejungwoo @dirtytissuebox @whoeveniskendall @princessnnylzays @katie-navarro @hollandscherry @demirunner @lucypevensie111-blog @dottirose @tiaamberxx @wh0re4zaynmalik @luvwanda @kinlie-l @cevans-winchester @502spidey @wondergal2001 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @inlovewithremusjohnlupin @belovedholland @randomstufflol29 @t-lostinworlds @kaitieskidmore1 @milkiane @pandaxnienke @onceuponameli @ju1cyang3l @maximoffbarnesprotectionsquad @indouloureux @d22malfoys @chaoticevilbakugo @princessnnylzays @cmrxac @edgycatx @seolaseoul @evermoresilk @uwiuwi @meghanmhill1 @esposamultifandom @princessatoru @evanstanwhore @alohastitch0626 @f-ergj @lovesanimals0000 @eichenhouseproperty @1-800-imagines @aslutformarauders @thelaststraw3 @s-we-e-t-t-ea @queeniequinn @totheblood @liltimmyst @jayheartswritting @ptrsprincess @1-800-mocha @zendayassimp @varshhyy @miyukiistuff @lnmp89 @chxosunbound @eviemarvel @Dasha-Aaliyah @kazbekkarluvbot @bath1lda @gypsytraveler86-blog @madsttx @bitch616 @alicjaalaki @tessas4 @crvshnburnn

✧tags & moots✧ TOM HOLLAND

@harryhollandsgirlfriend @hollandlover19 | @worldoftom @hollandsrecs @theonly1outof-a-billion @thevelvetseries @moonchild-s-blog @lmaotshollandd @tomhollandlol @outshineallthestars @masonslovie @summer-paris-lights

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