#MARM\MORE

[ambivartence]

an apple a day keeps the doctor away... or so the saying goes

sporty apple gyu for @babytunninjadrac 🥰💕

[seasource]

sure why not lets do my whole sociological dissertation on splatoon

[marminko]

Here we go, watching and dreaming today my dudes

[victorluvsalice]

-->And then, right after noon, it was off to San MyShuno and Van Liddelton Groceries! Because I wanted my gang to sell some shit, damn it. XD I had Alice open the place up, then sent her and Smiler to grab some posters (don’t think they got any new ones though) while Marm and Victor went to one of the outdoor chess sets to play a game together as they waited for customers to show up. It didn’t take long for the first people of the day to walk through the big sliding doors, and Alice and Smiler had to hurry back from their poster-gathering adventures to greet Umber Grove and Ekram Elderberry respectively. The pair immediately put their customer service skills to work, and Alice ended up convincing Umber to buy a bottle of milk as the first sale of the day (possibly helped by the fact that Umber found her rather attractive), while Smiler “closed the deal” to encourage Ekram to purchase something from over by the herbalism shelves –

Only for poor Ekram to then run afoul of the “for some reason my Sims keep acting like they cannot get to you to ring you up” bug. *grimace* Oh, that just figures. I was thus forced to let Ekram just stand there until his shopping bubble timed out while sending the gang to tend to the other customers in the store (I mean, I kept TRYING to get them to ring him up, but it never worked). Sorry, Ekram! Maybe another day!

-->Fortunately, the rest of the sales day went pretty smoothly for the quartet –

I. Guy named Yosef yanked a cichlid out of the fish section while Smiler and Victor got their flirt on in the chess area, which was nice – not sure anyone has bought any fish before now!

II. Alice successfully rang up the first “proper” sale of the day: a guy named Asa buying one of Victor’s Potions of Emotional Stability, awesome

III. Smiler spent some time chatting with Leila, their semi-stalkerish buddy from Sulani (the one who kept interrupting the Valicer honeymoon) throughout the early afternoon – my INTENT was for them to talk her into letting them have some plasma, but they ended up accidentally convincing her to buy a can of green peas instead. XD They ended up getting their wanted drink from Brant Hecking instead – thanks Brant, it’s appreciated!

IV. Victor talked a guy named Valentino into buying some mayonnaise, then cleaned up some spoiled fizzy juice I spotted in the juice fridge (which is supposed to be a FLOWER fridge, admittedly, but it also works for that purpose) – once he was done with that he then rang up Clara Bjergsen for a single small mushroom. Which looks very funny written down XD

V. Marm kept trying to slip away from customers to mop some puddles outside (mood), but I did get him to talk to a guy named Tai for a while, which seemed to contribute to the old fellow buying a plantain. And then another customer who’d gone over to talk to Marm earlier while he was playing chess with Victor, Scarlet, bought another one right after, so I guess the robot inspires people to buy bananas. XD I eventually just let him mop the puddle (because it was bugging ME too), then told him to start recharging while he was out there because he wasn’t a fan of all the people anyway

VI. After some confusion about who was ringing up who during a rush because Victor insisted on walking all the way downstairs despite me canceling the “make waffles” interaction he had to ring someone up (*siiiiiigh*), Smiler eventually rang up a lady named Aleah (not the hermit, someone else) for a box of canned peas and a guy named Masara for some watermelon conserve, while Victor rang up Brent Hecking for a bottle of synthetic food tablets. Victor then tried to run off and make a hamburger on one of the outside grills until I went “just use Delicioso you fool” and had him conjure up some prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, which he went and ate on the edge of the big fountain I put on the side of the lot. *shrug* Okay then

VII. Speaking of the fountain, I caught Alice randomly playing in it as Victor was making his meal, and told her to go inside and ring up a guy named Tsutoma for a robot salvage part (first one we’ve sold!). She tried to slip back off to the fountain later, but fortunately ended up emptying the trash instead, yay. And then licked herself clean out there as she was getting a little manky and it was out of view of the judgmental customers. XD

VIII. While all this was going on, I woke up Marm to help Smiler with ringing up more people – he rang up a lady named Martina for some pumpkin conserve, while Smiler rang up a returning Leila for a jar of blueberry jam (she just can’t stay away from them!). Meanwhile, in the background, someone named Raven bought an egg, a returning Brant Hecking got a Gutsberry, and a lady named Mabel some chocolate milk. Talk about things just flying off the shelves!

IX. And finally, once he was done with his dinner, Victor rang up a guy named Masato for some canned fishcakes, while Smiler rang up a guy named Omar for some beeswax. All while Marm watched TV in the break room, Alice hung out by the trash can licking herself, and Thorne Bailey lingered by the robotics shelves attracting paparazzi and talking to fans.

Yeah, as you might imagine, at that point, I was done, and so were my Sims. XD Smiler officially closed up shop at 8 PM, right after ringing up Omar. As for the stats, our quartet had 19 total sales today, for a total profit of $996 – yeah, while there was a lot of buying going on, a lot of it was for pretty cheap items. *shrug* As I have said multiple times before, they do NOT need the money!

[thevalicemultiverse]

To the group (Cuddlepiles):

Here are some characters that I think match you guys.

Alice:

Alice in Wonderland 1951

I mean... It's obvious.

Victor:

Victor Frankenstein from Frankenweenie

I mean... He's basically you but younger. And from a different timeline...

Smiler: (I honestly don't know what you look like but....... I just think of this when I think of you)

The Joker from Lego Batman Movie.

Cuddlepile

Alice: [laughs] It is very obvious, isn't it? But I don't mind the comparison -- I'm just glad her Wonderland is nicer than mine. [pause] For the most part -- I've always wanted to hug her when she gets lost in the Tulgey Wood in that one part.

Victor: Heh, yes, I've heard the comparisons before. I suppose I should be flattered that people think I'm as smart as he is.

Smiler: [thumbs up] Congratulations on landing on the one Joker comparison that I will accept! (Oh, and as for what I look like:

How's that for a headshot?)

[javier-pena]

embers

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader

Word Count: 9.5k

Rating: Explicit

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

Warnings: smoking | drinking | canon-typical violence | allusions to rape | reader is a virgin | loss of virginity | descriptions of injury and medical procedures (Arthur gets stitches) | reader has hair that can be pulled | hand job | oral (m receiving) | masturbation (f and m) | mutual masturbation | dirty talk | voyeurism | exhibitionism | praise kink | fingering | (unprotected) p in v sex

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My father –”

“Your father planned this route.”

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

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

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

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

He only makes, “Hm,” in response.

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

“No,” is his simple reply.

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

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

“What about you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The horses …,” you start.

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

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

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm,” he makes.

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

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

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

“Ma’am …,” he says slowly.

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

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

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

“All of them?” you ask.

He winces. “If there were women …”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s so dark,” you whisper.

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

“Three days maybe.”

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“More than you know.”

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

“Hey!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We ain’t got any,” he growls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take it,” Graybeard orders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay down, big boy,” the man sneers.

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

*******

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

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

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

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

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

“You need stitches,” you tell him.

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh,” he grunts.

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

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

“No,” he replies through gritted teeth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And break the contract with your father?”

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

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

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

“Money,” is his short reply.

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

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

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

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

“You’re a pretty little thing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Yes. I still … I want you.”

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

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

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

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

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

“There you go,” he whispers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitate. “I’m not …”

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

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

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

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

“How does it feel?” he wants to know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

He’s quiet at first. “Your father –”

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

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

***

arthur morgan taglist: @cjillian97 | @hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmsstuff | @imaginativefanatic | @joelmillers-whore | @misspearly1 | @spacecowboyhotch | @tortor-mcgee | @wickedscribbles

perma taglist: @alexturner | @amneris21 | @din-jarhead | @harriedandharassed | @martellthemandalor | @nyfeeer | @nobodys-baby-now | @od-ends | @pedrorascal | @radiowallet-writes

[autisticlalna]

don’t have the braincells to do anything with this, so i figure i could just throw this out there for, like. the five people who’d know what this is.

anyway: sbk shadow people au 👀?

YOU HAVE GIVEN ME INFINITE POWER

a quick recap of what Shadow People AU is: alternate universe where 1.15, on top of everythin else it Actually added, included a poorly-documented new mechanic where you could summon a black-and-yellow shadow copy of yourself. if you killed your shadow you would get a copy of everything you had in your inventory when you summoned it, but it would also be stronger with each death. if a shadow dies enough times, they can evolve to the point of being able to strategize, to build, and to communicate. oops! theyre self-aware!

there's a lot more to it than that, but ill explain as we go. because my favorite thing to do ever is apply this concept to different mcyt series and explore what might happen, and ive been toying with makin a variant for sbk. SO LETS GOOOOOOO

Viking would use his shadow to dupe materials and as an extra hand when buildin farms, so his shadow would develop to be more work-focused i think. zeroes in hard on a task and will not give up until its done. leave him alone he's got Shit To Do. either Viking gives him a cool mythology name, he continues the season nicknamin scheme to match Summertime, or Avid calls him somethin dumb and it sticks.

Vintage gets Antique. bottom text. i can actually just point at Antique as-is and go "yeah that's her shadow" LMAO. recolor the colored bits yellow and give her her eyes back and Antique is good to go. fun fact: the only* thing that can kill a shadow is their summoner or another shadow. run.

(* theres more than that but this post is already pretty long. spau is Big.)

Ruby is probably where we first run into the idea of "entity corruption", because god knows whats going on with Cherruby. basically if you've gotten corrupted by an entity in any way (eg Scar and Cub havin Vex magic, Watcher Grian, Karl Jacobs gettin put in the time travel blender), that bleeds over to your shadow and can cause... problems. i have a lot of thoughts about how this applies to TSMP specifically, but im squintin at Cherruby going what is your deal because there is SOMETHING messin with zhem and whatever it is is gonna mess with xis shadow too.

Avid would not risk havin a shadow. the most obvious reason is bc his shadow would be Super corrupted bc of basically everythin that happened in Nightmares, but the actual reason is that it would look like Avoid and that would freak Avid out too much :,D

rose suggested Marmalade would have the Old Shadows and OOGHGHHHHH FUCK . that goes hard. basically there's an associated dimension called the Shadowlands, and you can royally screw up your shadow's data by goin there before theyve finished forming for the first time. the outcome is a maxed-out shadow with a god complex that is capable of whatever you think its capable of. Marm might've drawn a connection between the Shadowlands and the Void, tried to use it as another way to get down to the Limbo border when the Void wasn't lettin her in, and instead got the Abyss equivalent. probably just named Void because of initially assuming theyre an extension of the Void itself.

Trog would be the runner-up for the Old Shadows, i think, but also they probably thought about it and went "nah" and forgot to warn anyone else that thats a thing. continues the trend with my Trog hcs of lookin perfectly normal and Not Being Normal At All. not entity corruption, just, like. corruption corruption. somethin broke here.

wait lmao i just realized something really funny and its that Fool's shadow would literally just look like him but all shadow-y. bc Fool already normally has the yellow/gold cracks. solar probably will have more ideas on what to do with this guy but i am proudly announcing that it is now Two Of Them Thursday

i cant decide if Leon's shadow shows signs of ender-ification before he does, or if he stays Completely Normal while Leon mutates. the latter is probably more interestin bc shadows gettin messed with is a pretty common trait in the au so havin a situation of "the shadow is normal while their summoner gets more and more fucked up" is fun. also: shitpost incarnate. this penguin cannot be stopped by any mortal means

i dont know how the tube thing would affect the shadows, is the fun part. like, "mechanically" the way the shadows work is they're tied to playerdata, so the likely idea is that Cloneby would have Cherruby's shadow. that's fun and fucked up!

fun side note: shadows are ground bound. they can do the kingdom hearts heartless thing of going flat to travel up surfaces and fit through spaces but they cannot jump over gaps. skyblock is maybe the worst experience for a shadow ever LMAO

[varteeny1234]

angst idea:

-sbk avid tends to repress all of his emotions, his ENTIRE PERSONALITY, ANYTHING, when he needs to do something important to his mission: escape limbo. this may be translated into "avid is afraid of showing his emotions, because then he might lose control of his life"

-so, what if every time something happened to him that would normally make him cry, he just lets himself go completely numb? because in his mind, when he lets his emotions take over, that means he's more likely to lose control of everything. especially when other people are around.

-THIS can then spawn the idea of "what if no one on sbk has ever seen or heard avid cry"

-trog and marm both heard limbovid crying, and marm recognized his voice. however, neither of them knew who was CRYING. In trog's video, when they were telling avid marm and kitt about the crying sound, avid didn't take it seriously but he DID make a crying sound that trog said sounded like it. marm also wondered aloud if someone could be stuck down there but that's a different post

-at the end of avid's 15th episode, he sounded about 2 seconds away from having a panic attack when marm showed up

-headcanon time! this is the first time marm, or anyone for that matter, heard avid actually crying! marm of course recognizes it instantly and then realizes that if she'd ever heard avid crying before even ONCE, then she could have figured it all out so much sooner. guilt time :D

[skeletondoggy]

The people of Grafial were of three species. The Arthopacez, the Marms, and the Orgots lived full lives together on the continent, as their differences often brought them closer together.

SPECIES SHEETS I MADE FOR AN ORIGINAL FANTASY SETTING FOR A TTRPG I'M RUNNING!!! Primarily were made to help players make their characters, show off species diversity, and sprinkle in some fun regional clothing and world lore!! Ended up getting a little carried away but really proud of how these came out!

Also a little additional info and context under the cut (so I don't have to blast the 20 page lore doc at people LOL)

Most of the species specific info on the doc is Right There but wanna get a little more in depth so gonna just do quicker run downs here you can skip the bolded points if you wanna get to just the other stuff

ARTHOPACEZ: ARTHROPOD PEOPLE BABY! Primarily based off insects and crustaceans they have the hardest shells of all species! Most Arthoacez have an extra set of arms or two but only some work! Only SOME have wings tho and even fewer have working wings!!! They usually appear as a fusion of diff arthropods but most of the examples here are a bit more subtle, oops!

MARMS: THEEEE MAMMAL STAND IN! I wanted a species that let players be "humans" but don't like humans! Or what most settings do with them!!!!! So instead you get a "human" and weird goat tapirs as the same species, isn't that nice? MARMS all have tails, they all have fur or fuzz of some sort unless they have a genetic condition, and they're pretty loose with it! As the only species with predominately Skin on their body (Arthos get shells and Orgots get scales!) they also scar easier! And wrinkle easier! Also the only species with external ears, some senses for them are a bit more sensitive for better or worse!

ORGOTS: The dear fish-bird-reptiles of our dear setting here! They usually carry a mix of these species, and will have either fins, feathers, or both along their inseam as well as arms and legs! Orgots can also glide in the air, and even breathe underwater for a very very long time too! Despite their strong bodies though, they have really shitty immune systems and can get sick easily too...Orgots are very tall and very colorful! And they'll be your best friend like any other!

The classes ascribed to each character are setting specific! In order, the first job is their "Primary"/Main one that defines a lot of their character, while the 2nd one is a "Sub" Class that influences their life in smaller ways and pursuits! Currently the system holds 30 classes that are a mix of martial, magical, and professional ideologies!

TALKING ABOUT. Each region individually would take too much time so here's a small breakdown of each Zone (note: Grafial does not have boarders so these are all loosely defined!)

All the species can reach similar heights, but usually Arthopacez skew a bit shorter and Orgots skew quite taller! Marms are in the middle of it all.....(Of this group, Djerel is probably the shortest and Ciki is the tallest!)

Region clothing is usually tailored to be worn by any and all species though many personal seamstresses will make specific specific changes or additions!! For example, Mazeph and Conque wear more species specific clothing!

this isn't anything substansial but cannot tell you how fun it is to do one off designs like these and imagine their little adventures and stories. join me its fun

ok that's all for now bye I love you

[corvid-attano]

watching the newest avid episode and i didnt realise someone could so perfectly replicate throwing something over your shoulder until marm threw i hardly know her xiii into the void

that was art, more than anything

[galatially]

kendra!! imagine pietro in a western au though. he’s an outlaw that’s notorious for escaping capture for so many years. he’s so fast they give him the nickname quicksilver 🤠

JESSIE YOUR MIND!

but imagine that you're a barmaid working to settle your father's gambling debts with the sheriff in old west wyoming. despite the constant leery men and the gossiping church marms, you enjoyed working at the saloon.

when sheriff ross started having his men put up wanted posters of the man they dubbed "quicksilver", one of the working girls, sylvie, regaled you with the gossip.

"they say he hails from texas. killed his wife and sister in a blind rage when he found out she was steppin' out on him. his poor sister just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time."

"that ain't what happened," bruce banner, one of your regulars, piped up. "they say he comes from just a few states over. was the son of some rich fella and come back home from minin' to find his whole family dead: daddy, mama, sister. he's been huntin' the men that did it ever since."

sylvie let out a scoff. "well, did you hear about how he got his nickname? at least four states and ten sheriffs have been chasin' him for eleven years! he's always fifteen steps ahead!"

you shook your head, chuckling. "i didn't take either of you for the tall tale type."

"it's true!" bruce leaned in closer to you. "heard from a fella two towns over that the men responsible were a couple o' ross's boys: stark, rogers, and barnes."

you knew them; ruthless men that had on more than one occasion made their fondness for you more than known. steve, the leader of the trio, had told your daddy before he passed that you'd be his bride come hell or high water.

you shushed him, your eyes darting around the bar. "don't let anybody hear you! ross has eyes and ears everywhere, you know that."

"yeah, bruce, you're gon' get us all killed!" sylvia hissed.

the doors to the saloon swung open suddenly and the room went deathly silent. the stranger was well over six foot, cloaked head to toe in heavy brown leather. his heavy footfalls echoed throughout the bar, the only thing distinguishable on him were the piercing blue eyes beneath the brim of his hat.

he took the seat between bruce and sylvie, those eyes holding you in place. "an ale if you would, miss."

you nodded wordlessly, quickly getting the mug filled. "that'll be five pieces silver, sir."

ten pieces were set down in front of you. your eyes rounded.

"sir, i — "

he waved off your reply, a smirk in his eyes. "i am much obliged, ma'am." he leaned in closer. "but if i can be so candid? is it always this quiet?"

"we don't get many strangers here," you said, smiling sweetly. "what brings you rawlins?"

"oh, i have some business with a few men here. ol' friends of mine." distant shouts grew louder and the man chuckled. he knocked back his drink and spun around to face the doors. to your surprise, he said your name.

"yes?"

"how's about after i finish up with my friends here, we get out of here? montana's nice this time o'year."

you blinked. "what?"

"i got a couple friends out there that are helpin' me build a house. i'm gon' need a wife to tend to it when i'm workin' or out huntin'." he looked at you over his shoulder. "how do you feel 'bout four?"

"four...?"

"kids. two boys, two girls."

your face warmed. "now, hold on, you can't just come waltzin' in here, goin' on and on about marriage and babies, when i don't even know your name."

"sure you do, honey. ol' man ross's got my face done up all over town." your heart sank. "though, i suppose you're meanin' my christian name. that's —"

"maximoff!" anthony stark's gruff voice bellowed.

the stranger turned to face you again, a smirk deep in the corner of his mouth. "but you can call me pietro."

[seasource]

i’ve fixed my sleep schedule recently (after sleeping at 7am everyday for the past month) and i sleep around 9pm these days, but i havent had time for myself in the longest time since my partners staying with me (not that i necessarily mind). i finally got around to listen to minako yoshida’s album twilight zone tonight and i’ve stayed up hours just to soak this album up by myself. i’ve never wanted to burst more with emotion in the longest time honestly. its kinda crazy feeling like a real human person for the first time in possibly a year.

[cicerobussytransplant]

i don't think zendaya has a lot of range wrt facial expressions but shes a solid actor. when they put her in dune alongside timothee cholesterolé they really wanted her to struggle against that expressionless slab of marm. if they had put a bag over his head i think the creases of the potato sack would have done more work

[victorluvsalice]

-->And then – farm chores time, as always! For everyone except Marm, who flew up to Smiler’s room to use their computer to “troll teh forums,” then went limp to download enhancement data – a process that takes a LOT LONGER than I thought it would. They were out for most of the damn morning! *shakehead* Servos, man…

Anyway – Victor of course went to the greenhouse to help Elmer and Bugs with their efforts (the over-sized crops needed lots of weeding, watering, and bug-spraying), while Smiler sprinkled feed for the chickens, chatted with them, and got the eggs (six normal eggs and one hatchable this time) and Alice cleaned off poor dirty Moory. And then attempted to appease the specter bobbing around the cow paddock with her basic silver bracelet – only for the specter to go “what, no crystal?” and get all snippy. *shakehead* Damn picky specters… As Alice was hungry anyway, I had her flee the area in favor of going to the kitchen, where she set the table (I keep meaning to use that future more, so it seemed a perfect opportunity), cleaned all the spoiled stuff out of the fridge, then chowed down on most of a plate of spinach frittata for lunch. Smiler, meanwhile, made an eco-upgrade part, then fixed a busted water collector before going upstairs to have a nice bath in their newly-upgraded tub. Because no point in doing the upgrades if Sims can’t enjoy them! Once I was sure they were good, I had Alice head back over to Moory’s shed to refill her feed, then try to bond with the cow – unfortunately, the conversation went poorly. “Okay,” I thought, “let’s have her give the cow some prairie grass hay instead for a snack” –

And then watched as Moory VANISHED and Alice did the glitch thing of putting her hands behind her to “feed” the invisible cow. O.o I checked both her personal inventory and the household one, but didn’t see the cow. Fortunately she reappeared a little bit later, but that was WEIRD. Game – game, can you not.

-->Anyway – with that kind of sorted, I had Alice go do some more recycling, clearing out the bin and a bunch of rotten stuff in everyone’s inventories (including some of the massive amount of Granite-Falls-specific fruit and mushrooms in the household inventory – I’m not doing anything with it!). Once she was done with that, I checked the cow paddock anxiously – and upon seeing Moory was back to normal (whew), I thus sent her to give Moory a PROPER treat (Animal Party, to improve her social need) and milk her, getting the normal six bottles of milk. *nods* Good. Now let’s hope the cow doesn’t glitch out again!

While that was happening, I woke Marm from his “enhancement downloading” trance and had him chat with Smiler for a bit (gotta get him to bond with the other members of the household, after all), then had Smiler head down to see if they could help Victor in the greenhouse while Marm went to play with the cowplant again (I guess Toothy is now officially “his” pet). By the time they got down there, though, pretty much all the tending had been taken care of, so I instead had them initiate the great super-sell while Victor got the beeswax and honey from his bee box, and then collected a swarm to pollinate the trees at the back of the greenhouse. Victor then went in to use the bathroom while Smiler deactivated Bugs and Elmer (though they left them in the greenhouse, since they still have decent battery). Once that was done, I took a moment to make sure everyone was in a good spot and all the milk and eggs and such were in the fridge –

[blueberrypancakesworld]

It was his will - Under the banner of heaven

Priest!Samuel x fem!reader

warning : +18, smut, kinda naive/inncoent reader, religion as right for actions, implied serial rapist, kissing, some blood play, afab-reader, mentioning of kidnapping

Summary : The priest of a small congregation together is not easy. Especially when God is always giving you new plans and after an "accident" he had to build this existence. He did not pursue his nature until he laid his eyes on a beautiful single flower that was just waiting to be picked by him.

Info : So this has to be one of my darkest ideas for his charcters but I really wanted to write it. A corrupted priest using his power for his own right...jup I want that. So have fun reading this be aware of the warning and have fun reading ;)

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~

°Religion. He was the executor of God's word, so it was only right that everything the Lord told him to do went to him, wasn't it? It was his right, his power to do what he wanted because deep down in his inner being, which was not yet taken over by religion, he knew that he could do anything as long as he put the ,,Amen" behind it, it was too easy. Too easy, unlike his brothers, to become the leader here and not the tool like his brothers around him. Not a carpenter in his own company but a man of power...like his father. His father who had left blows on him after the first accident but then it was a marming and in the end it was egall. Because only the power of God mattered.

°Then the new beginning in the new little community of only a few hundred people, not even a thousand, it was perfect to build the church there and the influence of the Lefferty family was known throughout Mormon circles and for the first time he felt what this cohesion through religion really was. What power this could give one, this power that was simply given to him as he hammered the last nail into the wood for the church of the community, the only church in the community, the shelter under his leadership. Samuel Lafferty. He and his wife would become the example of the image of God with his children preserving the image of perfection but even without them he alone would be the leader of this group. 

°A group that was completely at his mercy, they were a community that had no one else to turn to and had only him as their patron and sanctifier. He was their god of all. He was God's power and word and always kept the lights on in the church and the lamps burning because he knew that lost souls would come to him and he hid behind his smile and understanding look as he had always done since the incident that forced him to leave the city and found this one. This sucubus, the demoness so stupid as to scream her filthy hands at him to push him a god away from her, he had no choice because he had to judge the evil and lewd, didn't he? He had no choice but to put his hands on her first to look at her body and take it to try to clean the body of the slut. He hadn't intended to spill blood...had he?

°But what did he care, it was over and he had left so much more blood that it wouldn't change the fact that God would forgive him. He was the voice of God, the wolf who took his sheep and ate them up with skin and hair until there was nothing left but an empty hollow to feast on again and again and again. On which he could feast, on which he could lay his hands, on which he could satisfy his lust, on which he had a place for his "seed" that he did not want to give to his wife. Because in reality he hated her, he hated her and the children, it was his father's duty that had compelled him. He had never been used to it, he had been destined to this by God. However, he wolf quickly realized that sheep felt comfortable around a hunter. That they didn't run away but came closer and closer until he could just grab them.

°Why he had his demoness in the cellar, the church turned off the light when the trap had snapped shut until he got bored, the fire of the hen, the demon went out and she got cold, he no longer had his fun now for one last time maybe but it was tiring and he felt he needed a new one. A new toy. A new toy didn't last long it was always like this the last few times and then it was dead his toy was a casual affair. Until he saw her in this enclosure with the sheep. She was perfect, she wasn't like the other sheep, she wasn't the same, she had a real demon inside her. A demon that he knew only he could exorcize.

°He then waited until the evening slowly came over the village and said goodbye to his wife, the kiss on her cheek almost making him sick. If he could, he would part from her, leave her and all this behind him, all he needed was the new sheep, all he needed was her and a place. It would be perfect, but the voices around him, his wife's verbosity and his children's giggles brought him back to reality. A reality that the wolf had to accept until the doors opened and closed and a broad grin appeared on his lips. My darling went through his mind and he walked through the group of people who were pledging for the evening mass to get to her.

°,,Good evening, priest," she said and he could see her tension slipping away as if this simple house of God was really demanding everything of her. He stretched out his hand and placed it on hers, feeling how his understanding was right - warm, soft skin, perfect to leave his mark on. ,,God will rule over you, lay his hands on you and make you clean from everything, my sheep, I'm glad you're here," he greeted her and finally took his hand from her before placing it on her shoulder. He brought her into the church and he saw it. Saw how she hardly dared to look at him, how she was beaming with warmth, she didn't seem to know what was happening to her. It was the natural attraction to faith in its form

°She sat down with the others on the wooden benches, he led the service and said the prayers, read from the Bible, praised his congregation and, true to form, his eyes were always on her. She was too special to be left in this place. It was only his right to take care of her and put her on the right path, to drive out the demon and exercise his power over her, because there was no such thing as rejection. She didn't have that choice, she should consider herself lucky and above all worthy that he had chosen her. That all the other victims of his word and deeds were nothing compared to her. She just let him burn in the fire of hell, she threw herself at him as if there was no other choice. He saw exactly how she was the last one to get up from the bench, probably the last one to stand when it came to the blood of the Lord.

°He held the golden chalice in his hand and gave one after the other a sip. He felt a wave of excitement go through him as she was the last to go, it seemed as if only she existed when she came to him. She knelt dutifully as if she had been made to do nothing but serve him, kneel for him, take him and fulfill his wishes. He put the cup to her lips with more force than necessary and had to suppress a grin as she backed away. A frightened virgin in the face of her true husband. However, he put his hand on the back of her head for a moment it looked to the others like he was helping her but he couldn't help but imagine her between his legs sucking his cock so good for him, the tears running down her cheeks forcing her to take more. But as quickly as he had these "righteous" thoughts, they disappeared again and he released her. He saw her brief, almost apologetic smile as if it was all her fault... but wasn't it?

°He saw her stand up again, her gaze going to the ground and back to the bench. It was only moments before, after a final prayer, he shuffled the sheep and made his way through the crowd until he reached her. Touching her on the shoulder, she turned to face him, but was met with kindness. ,,My dear, I have a request, well, you could say God's request. I would like to hang up some pictures of the children for tomorrow and prepare other things I thought you could help me?" he asked and saw after a few moments that she had no idea that her naivety would harm herself when she nodded and agreed to hide from her other sheep. He took her with him and told her to go to the alat and he closed the big double door to keep her with him. The sheep was in his paws and the wolf could drop his costume.

°,,You know, maybe I shouldn't tell you this, but we know each other, don't we? Tomorrow afternoon I'll give my blessing to the young new couples in our parish," he began and walked down the aisle towards the altar, seeing how he had her she naturally asked what it was about with a certain shyness. But he let her fidget it still took a little time so he walked past her his eyes still undressing her. The white cap on her head hid her hair and he wanted to slide his hand into it, pull it, see how she sounded. The dark blue dress covered her body, leaving only her hands free. A true virgin in this damned unholy place. He went to the altar, took the chalice again and looked at her reaction. Would she respond to this subliminal provocation or ignore it?  What would his sacrifice do, it almost drove him mad. ,,That's nice, our community needs more couples... even if I won't be there," she almost whispered and her gaze went to the ground, her eyes no longer looking at him.

°But he wanted it, he needed her to look at him, he wanted to see her reaction. ,,Why is that? You're a pious, good and pretty little flower," he made the first move and put the goblet down, seeing that she was still looking at him, her hands clutching the fabric of her dress. He made her nervous, turned her on and entered her head without her being able to do anything because it was her distorted thoughts, sinful thoughts that let him in. ,,Answer me why not dear?" he asked, placing his cool fingers under her chin, lifting her head and watching her despair grow. He knew he had power over her and it was stimulating.

°He could feel her tension, she was in a turmoil oh he could just hear it in her heart, in her hot bloodbane where the lifeblood was, he wanted to hurt her, wanted to see what she looked like, what she would do. What would she do when he put the fiery cross on her skin. ,,You need a mark, the touch of a man dear...it's your naivety that led you to the devil," he chided as he let out an excited grunt as his hand traveled up her side to her breasts. Not wearing a bra, with a flower in her hair and a smile that was too sweet. A slut, a demoness his next victim. He squeezed the soft skin and heard her gasp, the first of many sounds once he had her, down in the cellar under the church the real reason for the construction. Down in the purification room on the snow-white bed that would soon be stained with blood when he took her. He was sure no, he knew he was her first, that he would stain her, that he would take the brut if she carried one, that the pain would be nothing more than his care. ,,I beg no Samuel I will-" but he interrupted her pleas it wasn't meant for up here but his bitch had yet to learn that she would learn she would be good for him. With his hand around her neck, his hand that was on his slowly slipped away but he praised her with a kiss on her neck that she kept her hand on the cross.

°She kept it there a good girl in his eyes but he wanted more his now free hand ran over the fabric undoing the buttons that held the fabric together on her chest. Her cry came over muffled as he put his hand over her mouth, his fingers moving into her mouth, the warm fruit just one of her many inner assets. The coughing and gasping as she didn't know what to do but he wanted all the more from her. Letting his hand wander on her skin and down her torso, he left red streaks behind, her wiggling and her excited fear only made him press himself even more against her, his hardness getting a wave of excitement every time. ,,You have no idea how dirty you are but do you want me to tell you something?" he asked and the silence hung in the air for a moment before she nodded as best she could and pressed herself against him in a moment of surprise as his hand slowly went down to her center.

°She nodded again not knowing what to do but she had a choice in the face of a man of God. A man of God who wanted her, she should be grateful, shouldn't she? ,,I will take care of you, purify you, accept you and be with me due...but you are better than all the others, I know it" he told her what he was true, what he wanted and what he was going to do. His cool fingers ran over her cervix, lathering her cheeks as she should not have been attracted to all this. But maybe he was right. Maybe he was right about everything, manylicghf she was possessed, unclean and had to be cleansed by him.

°,,Please-my Lord...make me whole," she begged slowly, her head intoxicated by the wine that was different from the others, her insides burning with desire as the others simply trusted him and he could strike. His jaw closed around her and he ate her. He felt her attempts to get free diminish as the drugged wine did its best and after a few minutes she lay almost motionless in his arms. He carefully took her body in his arms, the light of the candles in the kitchen illuminating her. He watched her, still aroused, as her breathing slowed, his lust for her only increased.

°He looked around, his gaze averted from the cross and the candles went out, the trap snapped shut and the wolf carried its prey into the cellar. Down the stairs into the great room. It was pleasant, except for the blood on the floor, which was splattered on the walls, the bare light and the chains of eggs on the walls and the bed. He couldn't risk losing his darling, not as long as he didn't get tired of her. ,,Do you see how nice it is here?" he asked her, knowing he wouldn't get an answer as he laid her on the bed and placed the necklace almost over her neck, ankles and wrist. He could play with her, use her like his personal doll, direct her and show her off. Perfection as soon as the cross cleanses you went through his mind as he looked at the cross on his neck, the metal already dark from the flames of how often he had used it to place it on the skin of his victims, but she. She would get it often enough.

°He reached into his trouser pocket, took out the knife and began to cut her clothes off - she didn't need them for what he was going to do to her. He looked at her naked body, his hands wandering over her body, the flawless skin seemed so pure. He left red streaks on her and saw how warmth left itself on the scratches. Her breasts were so soft that he slowly moved to her on the bed, but she still didn't realize that in her dream she must have perceived it differently. ,,What are you dreaming about?" he asked, kissing his way down her neck, leaving bites and marks harder and harder. He wiped away the blood he had pulled from her neck.

°But like everything, it was only the beginning as he spread it over her body with his fingers. He tampered with her breasts, pinching the sensitive nipples and despite her fainting, a shudder went over her body. ,,Oh I know you can feel me, can you feel my lust? Consider yourself lucky for my attentiveness," he greeted her and rubbed his arousal against her, his hands around her neck, hardly waiting for her to wake up and see the marks he had left on her. The stains of his cum on her thighs stained the bed. He stroked her hair in farewell as he rose from her, looking at the demoness first, seeing the creature that needed to be cleaned. But inside he knew that once again, by his own word, his own right, she was his next perfect victim. His property forever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@angelsanarchy , @thatsthewrongwallcraig , @unforgettable444 , @roryculkinsgf , @icarus-star , @oceansrose2002 , @bibliophile221b ,