#get you a man who sends letters to his horse

[ak-vintage]

Work of Art

Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Prompt: Marcus Acacius & Nose

Summary: Your pregnancy brings out a vulnerability in Marcus you never would have expected. When he reluctantly shares his insecurities with you, you are more than happy to reaffirm your affection for each and every part of him.  

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Second-person POV, no use of Y/N, established relationship, arranged marriage, POSSIBLE DUBCON (sex in an arranged marriage with a patriarchal power structure), hefty age gap, pregnant reader, inexperienced reader, insecurity, body worship, nose worship, face-sitting, oral (f! receiving), discovering that you’re in love with your spouse, SO MUCH FLUFF, high likelihood of historical inaccuracy (aiming for vibes, not perfection)

Written for @joelmillerisapunk PPCU Body Worship Writing Challenge

Dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

Read on AO3

It is barely sunrise when the messenger arrives at your door.

Coated in a layer of dust from the road, mounted on the back of a well-lathered horse, and bearing the colors of the empire, the young man demands your staff wake you to receive him – that he is under orders to accept no intermediary, that his message is intended for the lady of the house and no one else. The news of his arrival sends ice into your veins the moment you open your eyes; even as the wife of a general, you do not often receive messages from the front lines, and you could not resist fearing the worst. Curls loose and mussed with sleep, tunica tied almost haphazardly in your haste, you rush to the atrium as quickly as propriety will allow and take the messenger’s sealed scroll with trembling hands.

My dearest wife, it reads. The skirmish on the southern border has been quelled for the time being. In recognition of our efforts, and out of respect for our recent union, I have been granted leave to return to Rome for a period of respite. If the sea is calm and the road is easy, you can look to the horizon for my return in one month’s time. Prepare the household for my arrival. Faithfully yours, Marcus Acacius

The relief you feel at those words is so powerful that you sink into the nearest chair, weak-kneed. Thankfully, your staff are more than competent enough to manage offering food, a bath, and a fresh horse to the harried messenger without your guidance, for you have not the capacity to play hostess. It had been your greatest fear, you realize as you sit there reading and re-reading the general’s letter until your eyes begin to burn with fatigue. You had had such little time as husband and wife before Marcus had been shipped out to the border, and you dread nothing more than the prospect of joining the ranks of the widows of Rome before you even have the opportunity to fully know the man you had married. It would have been such a waste, you think, like a flower cut from the vine when it was barely a bud, cursed never to bloom for the rest of time.

The truth is that although yours had been an arranged marriage, one of convenience, you feel (perhaps naively) that it held great promise. The general had never married, choosing to prioritize his military ambitions over his personal life. However, now that he was getting older, he had determined that it would be wise to seek a wife who might give him an heir to the prestigious station he had earned for himself over the years. Your father, a wealthy, prominent senator, had brokered the match, and a mere fortnight after you had been introduced for the first time, you had been wed.

Marcus had proven to be a gentle husband, a great contrast to what you had believed based on the tales of his ferocity in battle. He had spoken kindly to you and listened patiently, giving weight to your words, treating you like a partner right from the start. He had given you free reign over the household and encouraged you to mold his domus and his staff to suit your tastes. You had had very little time in each other’s presence, but he nevertheless struck you as a man of honor, a man of principle. As a woman in your position, there was little else you could ask for in a match, and the thought had comforted you as you stood side-by-side with this near-stranger and signed your marriage contract.

On your wedding night, he had been as tender with you as he could. You had been able to tell that he was holding himself back, restraining himself from taking you as savagely as he might have wished, but for that, you thought him compassionate. Of course, there had been some pain to start; this you had anticipated. However, toward the end of your coupling, as the general had begun to growl muffled curses into the soft skin of your neck and thrust himself so deeply inside you, you swore you could feel his manhood in your belly, you thought perhaps that it might have begun to feel…good?

He had spilled his seed within you shortly thereafter, bringing your union to a sudden and dramatic end and leaving your tentative, blooming pleasure to fizzle and die in your veins.

You glance down at the swell of your belly at the recollection, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. The fruits of your union that night – and the nights that followed for the brief month he had been permitted to remain by your side – had made themselves apparent shortly after his departure. That had been five months ago now, and it had been an incredible relief to know that you had managed to fulfill your duty to the general so quickly. You had fully expected to give birth on your own, to share the joyous news with him via special messenger like so many other soldier’s wives. Now, to know that he is set to return so soon, that relief is compounded. Barring any emergencies on the front, he likely would be home long enough to be present for the birth.

Birthing was a woman’s business, of course. You knew there was little Marcus could truly do to aid you in your labors. But a part of you, perhaps a very foolish, girlish part of you, could not help but feel safer when he was near. You would sleep better at night knowing he was once again within the walls of your domus.

Easing yourself back onto your feet, you get the attention of the nearest member of your staff.

“Once our guest has been seen to, gather the others in the courtyard,” you command. “We have much to prepare. The general is coming home.”

General Marcus Acacius rides into Rome on a sunny afternoon astride a handsome black stallion. Escorted only by a small retinue of guards and vassals, he travels light, with the economy and efficiency of a man who has spent the majority of his adult life in an army camp. The servant boy you have stationed at the city walls every day for the last week eagerly tells you that he looks well, that he has been asked to report first to the emperors’ palace but that he expects to be home by nightfall.

The news of your husband’s imminent arrival has a riot of butterflies rising in your chest, and you feel the child you carry respond almost instantly, fluttering and twitching against the walls of your womb at your excitement. A smile pulls at your lips, and you smooth your palms over the rounded surface of your belly as if to say, “I understand. I feel it, too.”

You send a message to the kitchen staff with orders to ensure that the general’s favorite meal is prepared for this evening, as well as for his preferred wine to be brought up from the cellar. Perhaps it is a bit silly – this is his home even moreso than it is yours – but you have an odd desire to make him feel welcomed. You want him to know that you have given thought to his needs and his preferences, that you have managed and looked after his home with proficiency in his absence, that you have anticipated his return.

You want to make the general happy, you realize with a flush.  Not only for him to be happy, but you wish to be the cause of that happiness. Does that make you proud, you wonder? Or selfish? Perhaps. All you know for certain is that in the brief time spent by his side, all those months ago, you had begun to associate Marcus Acacius with feelings of comfort, of safety, of acceptance. Even perhaps…affection. You like him. Was it so wrong to wish for him to like you, too?

You are in the ostium waiting for him when the general arrives. The sun sets behind him as he approaches on horseback, still in full armor from his travels, and your first thought is that he is even larger than you remember. Blotting out the golden light with the incredible breadth of his shoulders, you think he looks almost otherworldly, like some mythical hero of old returned from a harrowing quest. You can feel your heart speed up behind your ribs, galloping like the hooves of his horse on the cobblestones, and you are thankful no one can hear it but you. You are a woman grown, wedded and bedded and carrying a child, the head of your own household, the wife of a prominent, respected officer of the grand army of Rome. The idea that you should become so flighty, so unmoored at the sight of your own husband is absurd.

When his gaze falls on you, your trembling hands find your stomach, a gesture that has become more and more instinctual as the bump has become more and more visible, and before he can even greet you, his eyes drop to where they rest.

Marcus pulls his horse up short, the soft expression in his dark irises sharpening, intensifying. You watch as his prominent brow draws up, something between shock and awe and hope washing over his face, and then he is swinging his leg up and over his mount, dropping to the ground, closing the distance between you in a handful of long, powerful strides. His eyes do not leave your stomach until he is a mere handful of inches from your body, and you catch sight of his broad, thick-fingered hands clenching at his sides as though resisting the urge to reach out and touch you.

“Dearest wife,” he rasps, his throat dry as he finally, finally flicks his eyes back up to meet yours. “Have you something to tell me?”

You swallow thickly, suddenly overcome with the intensity, the intimacy of his attention. “Welcome home…husband.” Your voice sounds tremulous to your own ears, but you do not allow yourself to dwell on it. Instead, you wrap both of your hands around one of his and bring his dry, scarred knuckles to your lips. Dropping a kiss onto the center ridge, you add, “It is a blessing from the gods to see you well after so many months apart.”

Your name is a sigh on his lips. “It is a blessing to be permitted to return home after so short a time,” he counters. “Now, if my eyes deceive me, I will beg your forgiveness and claim fatigue from the long journey as my excuse. But are you…”

He trails off, as though hesitant to speak the words aloud, and you could swear that someone had reached into your chest and taken hold of your heart for how tight it squeezes at the thread of hope woven into his words. Unable to bear it anymore, you finish his incomplete thought on your own.

“Yes…General Acacius – ”

“Marcus,” he interjects immediately, and you feel yourself flush at the familiarity.

“Marcus,” you echo. “I-I am with child. You are to be a father.”

The breath he releases is long and slow, his dark eyes shining in the setting sun, and if you did not know better, you might think that your revelation had rendered him speechless. However, it takes him only a moment to collect himself, and then he is reaching for your belly with both hands, palms outstretched almost pleadingly. “May I – ?”

You nod readily, feeling a grin split your face, and then his hands are on you, cupping your swelling bump with his sword-calloused touch. His skin catches on the fine material of your tunica, but you are unbothered. He is warm and vital against you, his touch more than welcome after so many months on your own, and as though the precious thing had been waiting for their cue, the child in your womb kicks against their father’s hands.

The general’s brows shoot up at that, his forehead crinkling beneath his dark, gray-streaked curls, and he lets out a rough, strained laugh. “By the gods. It’s true.” Keeping one hand on your bump, he brings the other to the side of your face, wrapping his fingers around the back of your neck, stroking your jaw with his thumb. It’s the most tender, intimate gesture he has ever shown you, and the heat of his palm has your knees weakening beneath you.

“You honor me, amica. Thank you,” he says, husky voice thick with emotion. He presses a brief, dry kiss to your forehead, and you cannot help but wish it had been to your lips instead.

Dinner passes in a blur of sumptuous foods and peppered questions, both from you about his time at the border and from him about how you are settling into your new home, your new role. This is one thing about your relationship that has been easy from the moment you met – it is clear to you that Marcus cares deeply about your perspective on the world. He never rushes you, never cuts in when you are speaking, never attempts to correct you in some demonstration of superiority. It’s a unique experience for you coming from a man, particularly one of his age and rank, and it makes you feel cherished in a way you never would have expected in a marriage like yours. You are under no illusions that yours was a love match, after all, but something about the intent way that Marcus holds your gaze, the way he nods along as you speak, the way he asks such thoughtful questions – it has you all but convinced that he cares for you as you are coming to care for him.

The two of you linger over dinner long past nightfall, but eventually, he stands from his chair at the head of the table, offers his hand to you, and leads you to the privacy of your shared chambers. He beds you that night, as you had expected he would after so long without the touch of a woman, and you go to him willingly. His touch burns with barely-restrained fervor, the expression on his handsome face twisted almost as if in pain, and just as you had on that first night, you feel something building within you as he takes you.

You have no name for it, and yet it feels altering in its magnitude. You feel like lightning, like lava, like some elemental thing ablaze with fire and light, and just when you are certain that the feeling is about to consume you, just as you know in your bones that you cannot take any more or you will surely die –

Marcus spills himself inside you, withdraws, and collapses onto the bed next to you.

The feeling recedes. You catch your breath. Your husband plants a kiss on your hairline, and under his lips, he finds the sweat of your exertion, of your truncated pleasure. He whispers “good night, amica” against your curls, and then he rolls away.

Moments later, soft snores fill the room. The general is fast asleep, but you…

You are going mad.

It is many days later before this madness finally comes to a head.

Every night since his return, Marcus has sought his pleasure in your body. He never forces himself upon you or hurts you in any way; he asks before touching you, always. But as you approach a full week of night after night of thwarted pleasure, you cannot help but begin to find ways to…delay the inevitable question. You have taken to engaging him in conversation as you lay in bed, asking him about the many visitors he has received over the last several days, or about his journey home from the border, or about his favorite horse, Tempestas. He takes this in stride, seemingly happy to indulge you, and the two of you spend long minutes talking softly by candlelight, warm and close under soft, shared sheets.

This night, you decide to ask him about the baby and how he feels knowing that you carry his heir, that his legacy is secured.

You anticipate the smile he gives you, the fond look in his eyes as he reaches out to feel the curve of your belly, as he has done now hundreds of times over the last week. What you do not expect is the earnestness of his words as he tells you, “I have never been a father before. At my age, I did not expect that I would ever have the privilege. Now that you have made it possible, I find that I care much less for legacy or inheritance than I do for…safety. Stability. Peace.”

You soften at that, and on instinct, your hand goes to his hair, brushing his graying curls back from his forehead with gentle, soothing strokes. You have found that this is something he likes, and he leans into your touch like a barn cat in a sunbeam. He seems pensive, and you allow the silence between you to linger while he gathers his thoughts.

“I mourn that this child should have a general for a father,” he admits after a moment. “I will be absent for much of his life. I will disappear for stretches of time that could number in years, and when I return, I will be like a stranger to him. Were it in my control, I would be more present. I wish to know my child. And for him to know me.”

“Him?” you echo, a bit impishly, and Marcus smirks.

“Or her, of course. I cannot claim to know whom you carry in your womb. I shall leave that mystery for the gods.”

You grin back him, enjoying the good humor sparkling in his dark eyes. “I am sure that however much time you are permitted to spend with our child – be it months or weeks or days – it will be enough.”

Lifting himself up on one elbow, the general fixes you with a skeptical frown. “How can you be so certain?” he asks.

“Because it does not take long to see who you are, Marcus,” you reply earnestly. “To see your nobility, your strength, your power. Your kindness. These are all things I learned about you in the mere fortnight before we were wed. Your child shall know these things about you, as well.”  

Tucking your hands beneath your cheek, you stare up at him from your pillow. The warmth of the candlelight casts shadows across his golden skin, highlighting the soft crinkles around his eyes, the bridge of his nose, the plush fullness of his lower lip. “Besides, even when you are away, I shall be around to teach them,” you add with a shrug.

“Amica…” He seems a bit overcome at your sincerity, and his low voice rasps like a sword on a whetstone in the darkness. “You are very generous.”

That riot of butterflies returns to your belly as the intimacy of the moment stretches on. Gods, but he is so beautiful like this. No one has ever looked at you the way he does – not with base lust for your body, not with envy for your wealth, not with dismissal for your sex. Marcus looks at you like something precious, like something to be valued. That look makes you foolish, makes your cheeks hot and your tongue loose.

When you speak again, it is without thought.

“When I think about our child…I hope that they look like you, so that even when we are apart, I might have some comfort in seeing your face every day.”

At that, the general lets out a full-bodied laugh and rolls his eyes. Flipping over onto his back, he shakes his head fondly at you like one might a mischievous child. “Now I know for certain that you are flattering me, wife.”

Your brows nearly reach your hairline as a flush of embarrassment races up the back of your neck, darkening your cheeks in an instant. “Wh – No, sir, I would never!” you insist. “I am being entirely earnest.”

“My face? My face upon an innocent babe?” He says this with a scoffing laugh, sounding amused, but when you catch sight of the tightness in his jaw, the wrinkle between his brows, you think that there might be something…authentic beneath his jesting words. “No, my dear wife. It would be far better if the child were to share your visage. Then they might truly be comely to look upon.”

Is it possible…have you stumbled upon a true insecurity, you wonder? It seems unlikely. This is General Marcus Acacius, commander of the emperors’ armies, a man two decades your senior who fought wars on behalf of Rome before you could even walk on two feet. He exudes power and strength and intelligence, and he carries himself with the kind of confidence and self-assurance that comes along with experience. He is a skilled strategist, an indomitable warrior.

Does he truly not see…

Scooting closer to him on the bed, you allow yourself to cup his bearded jaw, to turn his face toward yours. “There would be no greater gift than a child with your eyes, Marcus,” you say softly. “Or perhaps your smile.”

“But not this nose, surely,” he replies, tapping the end of his prominent, hooked nose with one calloused finger. He shakes his head with a wry smile, as though the idea is too preposterous to consider. “I would not willingly inflict such an eyesore upon a child.”

By the gods. He means it, you realize. He has truly surprised you. To your knowledge, the general is not a vain or self-conscious man. You have never known him to care overmuch about how he looks; it was quite a contrast to the pampered upper-class boys you grew up alongside, something you had found refreshing when you had first met. Had you misunderstood? Misinterpreted his lack of self-regard as a lack of care?

You decide it does not matter. All you know for certain is that your husband appears to be under the impression that his appearance leaves something to be desired, and as his wife, you feel it is your duty to demonstrate to him just how wrong he is.

The thought has your heartrate picking up again.

“Do you know…what I thought,” you begin haltingly, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, “the first day I met you, at my father’s villa?”

His dark brows knit together in a small frown, as though your words have surprised him. “Tell me.”

Swallowing against the sudden dryness in your throat, you confess, “I thought you the most striking man I had ever seen.”

“You flatter me, dear heart.” His words are soft, as is his answering smile, but you can hear the platitude in his voice. He does not believe you.

“No, no, it is not flattery.” With some effort, you push yourself up off of the bed, too emphatic to remain lying down for this discussion. You haul your pregnant body up to kneel at his side, tucking your knees into the warmth of his thick waist, and your long hair dangles over his broad chest as you look into his eyes. “I know that…the circumstances of our union were not exactly romantic, and I know that we do not yet know each other well, but I hope you will heed my words when I tell you that…I count myself extremely fortunate to have been married to so handsome a man.” Glancing down at your hands, you fiddle with one of the many thin, gold rings on your fingers in self-consciousness. “My father could have selected anyone he liked. The fact that it is you who shares my bed, you whose child I carry… It is a blessing.”

It is silent between you for a time, your words hanging in the air like a declaration, but then Marcus’s body shifts against you. Curling up to sit at your side, one of his thick, broad hands comes into your line of vision and wraps itself around both of yours, stilling your fidgeting.

You risk a look up, meeting his gaze through the length of your lashes, and you feel your breath leave your body as you take in the softest, warmest, most tender expression you have ever seen on his handsome face.

“It pleases me to hear that you are happy,” he murmurs, running one of his thumbs along the back of your hand. “And that your affection for my look is genuine. It would not do for you to say such things in an attempt to…endear yourself to me. There is no need. I am already quite fond of you.”

You are quick to shake your head. “Not at all! If I have ever given you such an impression, you have my deepest apologies.”

Now that your true feelings for your husband have been revealed, you feel as though you can no longer contain them. Under the affectionate weight of his dark eyes, more comes spilling forth, unbidden. “The truth is that even in the short time that we have known one another, I have spent many hours at my easel attempting to recall your likeness in detail so that I might recreate it. Your nose in particular, I find to be most…attractive.”

Your hand moves of its own accord then, slipping from his grip to float across the narrow space between you as though possessed by some covetous spirit. The very tip of your middle finger lands in the space between his eyebrows, and although you make no conscious decision to do so, you trace down the steep curve of the bridge of his nose with a touch so delicate it might as well have been a breeze.

Your own voice sounds breathless and far away to your ears as you whisper, “You look like a sculpture, Marcus. Like the great marble warriors along the garden path. It makes you look stately and…masculine and…commanding.” Between your thighs, you feel your most intimate muscles clench. You have grown swollen and sensitive there, a feeling you have become increasingly familiar with since your husband’s return home. It’s sweet and delicious and utterly torturous, making you want to squirm in your seat, but you resist.

At least…until Marcus traps your hand in his and brings your wandering fingers to his mouth.

Your eyes snap to his, and you watch as he presses slow, lingering kisses across each of your fingertips. The sensation of his hot, moist breath on your sensitive skin has you trembling, and gods, but his lips are so soft. Turning your palm up to the heavens, the general places a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the tender center of your palm, and you feel yourself swaying toward him as though under a spell.

The plush of his lips dances gently across the thin skin of the inside of your wrist, and your pulse thrums beneath his touch as he growls, “There is perhaps…one advantage of such a face.”

“Tell me.” Your echo of his earlier words comes out like a whine, like you are pleading with him, though what you are pleading for, you cannot say.

Marcus appears to consider your request for a moment, his eyes going sharp and calculating, and then he says, “Perhaps it might be better if I showed you. Do you trust me, dear heart?”

You are quick to nod. “Yes. I trust you.”

Inclining his head at you in acknowledgment, he releases his grip on your hand and pulls away entirely. He lays back on the bed then, scooting down so that his head is flat on the padded surface rather than on his pillow. He adjusts himself a bit, shifting back and forth, but once he is comfortable, he looks back at you and pats his chest with both hands. The sound is muffled by his soft linen sleep tunic but nonetheless audible in the silence of your bedchamber.

“Mount me,” he says without preamble, and you swear you can hear the whirring gears in your brain grind to a halt.

“W-What?”

“I want you to sit astride my face, as you would a horse.” No matter how intensely your face burns at the wicked suggestion, you cannot seem to look away. His deep brown eyes are bottomless in the dark, the depths of them reflecting the candlelight like water at the bottom of a well. You can feel yourself falling into them, can feel something at the very core of you tugging toward him, answering his call. If you were to glance down at the rest of his body, you would see the evidence of the general’s own arousal tenting his tunic, but your gaze is trapped, held fast by the magnetism of him.

“Come, amica,” he says after a moment of your silent, scandalized staring. “You may rest your ass upon my chest, but I would have that sweet cunt on my mouth.”

You swallow audibly, still making no move to obey. Wetness begins to pool between your thighs, slicking your skin and staining the fabric of your sleep clothes, and you lose the battle against your urge to squirm. Your thighs clench together, and you shift upon your calves in search of friction, but you find none. You need his touch…but what he is suggesting is –

“M-Marcus, I couldn’t possibly – I shall smother you, how will you – ”

He cuts off your protests with a growl of your name, and in that moment, you see not your noble husband staring up at you. Instead, you see the Roman General Acacius – sharp jaw clenched, nostrils flared, dark eyes blazing.

“I shall not ask again, wife. No harm will come to you or to me. Now do as you’re told and sit on my face.”

You hesitate for another beat, then two, and then you shuffle forward on wobbly knees to obey. Your husband’s eyes burn a path across your body as you approach him, tracing from your parted, panting lips, to your heaving breasts, to your swollen, pregnant belly. You feel the look like a physical touch, and the sensation has your skin flushing, has sweat breaking out at the small of your back and the nape of your neck. With shaking, uncertain hands, you reach out and brace your palms against the gold-filigreed headboard for stability.

“That’s it, nearly there now,” Marcus sighs as you clumsily, awkwardly swing one of your legs over his body. Your knee lands on the other side of his shoulder, and you feel the heat of his touch on your naked thighs almost immediately. With slow, deliberate motions, he pushes the hem of your sleep tunic up to your hips, revealing your bare ass and cunt to the cool air of the bedroom.

You draw your lower lip between your teeth to stifle a whine, and gooseflesh breaks out across your skin. You’ve started to shake, though whether in fear or arousal, you couldn’t say. Gods, you’re so exposed now. The wetness between your thighs is fully on display, mere inches from your husband’s face. It’s mortifying; if you could melt into the bed and disappear forever, you know you would.

Marcus, however, clearly has no such compunctions. His thick fingers knead the soft, lush flesh of your hips and thighs, using his grip to draw your forward, to draw you down. The groan that oozes from his lips into the hot slip of atmosphere between you sounds exactly like the one he makes when he first slides inside you, and you feel yourself clench involuntarily at the tremor of it now sounding between your legs. He must catch sight of this, your body’s own betrayal happening right under that stately nose that started this whole ordeal, for one moment he appears to be watching you settle in with rapt attention, and the next, he is releasing a dark, sinister chuckle and yanking you closer.

You give a thought for resistance then, consider pulling yourself from his hold, but –

Oh, you can feel his breath on your cunt, can feel your dripping curls shift beneath the current of air as he laughs.  

You shift a bit on your knees, settling so that your weight rests just above each of his shoulders with his hands gripping your hips from behind you. The lower curve of your ass brushes the fine fabric of his tunic, and you are certain that if you could see his face, you would find his chin mere inches from the part of you that pulses and throbs for his attention. As it is, the roundness of your bump nearly eclipses his head, leaving only wisps of the thick, graying curls on the top of his head to peak out around the edges.

“Marcus?” Your voice trembles with nerves around his name, and beneath you, he sighs.

“Well done, amica, you are right where I want you,” he assures you with a groan. You feel the well-trimmed stubble of his silvered beard brush your lower lips; the feeling startles a gasp out of you, and on instinct, one of your hands flies from the headboard to the top of his head. “Mmm, yes, that’s it – sink your fingers into my hair. Hold yourself steady on me.”

You hardly recognize the sound of your own voice as you whimper, “Marcus – Marcus, please.”

“I know what you need.” His touch on your hips is warm, gentle, soothing. “Don’t be afraid. Now rest your weight on me and let me taste you.”

The joints in your limbs feel like water at the general’s words, at the hot wash of his breath across your swollen center. The embarrassment at your precarious position above his face still fizzes in your veins, making you lightheaded, but molten desire has begun to drown it out. Your mind doesn’t fully understand what is about to happen or what he is asking of you, but it seems that on some level, your body does, because it is absolutely thrumming for it.

There is nothing for it anymore. You cannot refuse him. You do not want to refuse him. Whatever he is about to do to you, your body needs it, craves it in the same way it does air or water or food. When you sink your cunt down onto your husband’s waiting mouth, it feels both like a surrender and like a victory.

“Oh – gods, Marcus – ”

Marcus groans deep in his chest the moment you touch his tongue, and then he is bracketing his arms around your thighs and forcibly seating you even more firmly against him. Dragging the slick, pink muscle of his tongue through your folds in one long, languorous stroke, it doesn’t take long before your thighs begin to tremble around his ears. He is focused, meticulous, thorough in his exploration of your most intimate flesh – sucking delicately at your lips, dipping the gentle tip of his tongue into your soft, quivering hole, using the flat of it to dance around that swollen nub at your apex that pulses with the thunderous beat of your heart. The thick arms locked around your thighs angle you this way and that, and through the sound of your own gasps and whines, you can hear the way your wetness drips at his touch.

Every lick, every suck, every swirl of his tongue serves to drive you higher, and you find yourself mindlessly running your hands over your body to ground yourself – stroking your belly, gripping your hips, cupping your breasts. The latter has you accidentally brushing your hardened nipples with your thumbs, and even muted as it is through your tunic, the sensation has you crying out into the dark room.

And that tongue never stops. Marcus is relentless – inexorable and yet unhurried. You can feel all of the tension in your hips and thighs melting away under the heat of his touch, and yet deep within you, something has begun to twist, to pulse, to squeeze. It feels like it does when Marcus beds you – pleasure stirring, burning, building within you as he grows more and more intent, more and more hungry, oh, gods…

It is miraculous. It is unbearable. It is tantamount to torture.

“Marcus,” you gasp helplessly, your fingers knotting in his hair, gripping the headboard. “I – I need – ”

The general pulls away from your cunt with a growl like an animal, and the sound rumbles through your body as he rasps, “That’s it, beautiful girl. Ride my face. Grind those hips into me and ride my face.”

You understand each of his words individually, but they do not coalesce in your mind. How does one “ride” a face? For a moment, you feel self-consciousness and shame begin to creep in at the edges of your thoughts. There are others who would understand the general’s instructions, surely. Others who would know what he wanted and would do it for him in an instant. For the first time, you allow yourself to consider the women that follow the army camps, the women whose services you were certain your husband had partaken of throughout his extensive career. They would know, certainly. Was there truly anything you could offer him that they could not?

Just as you begin to lose that delicious curl of pleasure in your core, as the fog of desire begins to clear from your brain, Marcus flexes those thick, strong arms around your legs and encourages your hips to thrust, dragging your tender flesh across the stubble of his beard, the plush of his lips, the slick of his tongue. That tongue, suddenly firm and pointed, thrusts into your sex, lapping at your wetness, filling the place that clenches for his cock. With the hitch of your hips, that swollen bundle of nerves just at the top glances across the bridge of your husband’s nose.

“Ah! Marcus!”

Beneath your cunt on his face, beneath your hand in his hair, you feel him nod emphatically, and understanding crashes over you like a wave. “Riding” his face. “Mounting” him, like a horse. This is what he wants. He wants you to thrust your hips against his face, as if in the saddle of a warhorse. To rub yourself against his nose and his tongue.

He wants you to find your pleasure with his body.

As though all your joints and muscles had been waiting on this realization, your hips begin to move of their own accord almost immediately, thrusting against that relentless, ever-present tongue, driving it deeper into the hot clutch of your cunt, and fuck…that nose, that big, strong, curved, perfect nose, glancing off of that most sensitive spot with every thrust. Head thrown back, hands on your breasts, fingers twisting and pulling your tender nipples through your tunic, you experiment with different speeds, different pressures, different depths, but if you are honest with yourself, you are so far gone that it has all begun to feel equally intense, equally delicious.

And so you move with abandon – leaning heavily on the headboard for balance, gripping his hair, you grind your swollen, dripping cunt across your husband’s handsome face, fucking his tongue deep into your body, riding the hard curve of his perfect Roman nose. You feel yourself pulse and twitch and tremble with every thrust, feel him lap and slurp and suck at you with new fervor, feel his thick fingers dig into your hips so deeply you know you will bear his bruises in the morning. You had not known pleasure like this existed, had not known it was possible for you to achieve it. You feel drunk with it, the way it seeps into your veins like one too many glasses of wine, and Marcus drinks you down like the finest vintage.

Your clitoris drags across his nose once again, and you cannot smother your moan at the feeling. “Gods, Marcus, your nose – ”

Against your wetness, the general’s face vibrates with something like a chuckle. “I know, dear heart, I know – I told you, this face has one advantage.”

You shake your head fervently, feeling your long curls brush your back as you grind. “It’s perfect. Perfect, Marcus, I – oh, gods, I feel – ”

Another animalistic growl ripples through your husband’s chest, and you feel him nod beneath you. “Jus’ let it happen, amica. Take your pleasure,” he slurs, mouth full of you.

And you do. You take and take and take, clit grinding, hips thrusting, thighs shaking, lungs gasping, and with every pass, that bright, hot, vicious spiral in your abdomen winds tighter, tighter, tighter. Gods, it feels as though it is going to consume you – to swallow you whole and drag you under, to drown you in your own dripping sweetness, your own savage pleasure.

And then it plateaus, the sensations holding, holding, staying at precisely the same level, dangling you over the edge, and in a far away voice, you hear yourself whimper, “Marcus, please!”

Releasing his grip on one of your hips, the man beneath you lands a single, sharp smack to the meat of your ass, and over the edge you fall.

It’s everything you thought it could be – lightning in your veins, lava in your lungs, something primal and elemental and raw that rips through your body like a tidal wave that leaves you hiccuping whines and shaking like a leaf atop the general’s face. You spill your pleasure down his chin, into his mouth, along his jaw. It slips down his neck and dampens the embroidered collar of his tunic, and the way he groans into your twitching cunt, you would think that it had caused him pain. But no – he feels your ecstasy as though it is his own. You have left your body to soar among the clouds, and he joins you, overcome with the particular joy of being responsible for making his wife – the mother of his child – reach such heights.

When you come back to yourself, you are utterly spent – limp and boneless and sweating as though you had just run at top speed from here to the city gates. You start to collapse, and Marcus’s strong hands are there to catch you, to slide you down from his face to his lap. Gathering you into his arms, he brings you back down onto the mattress and tucks you into his side. His broad shoulder cushions your flushed cheek, and his fingers brush your disheveled hair back from your face as you catch your breath. Through bleary eyes, you catch the way his face shines in the candlelight. He’s covered in your slick.

For a few moments, you simply gaze at each other as the silence stretches between you. It is only punctuated by the sound of your labored breaths as each of you settle, but somehow it isn’t awkward, and you find yourself smiling in spite of yourself. He’s so perfect like this, your Marcus. Hair mussed, face pink, everything from his chin to his nose glowing with your pleasure.

There’s a softness around his eyes you’ve never seen before, an earnest warmth that burrows its way into your chest and makes a nest there dangerously close to your heart. It’s an emotion you have a name for, if you are brave enough to say it, and the thought has you gripping tight to his tunic.

You are in awe of him.

You…you love him.

“And what is your verdict, my wife?” he asks after a beat. His voice is a low rumble that travels through his chest and into your body, warming you inside. “Does this Roman nose still please you?”

A tired grin tugs at the corners of your lips, pulling you out of the seriousness of your thoughts, and you nod as enthusiastically as you can manage. “Indeed, I am not certain I have ever been quite so…pleased before, husband.”

“Hmm. Good.” Marcus tucks the arm around your body into your waist, pulling you even deeper into his embrace. “Then perhaps the thing may serve a purpose after all.”

You reach up and cup his cheek in your palm, feeling the stickiness of your spend in his beard on your skin. “The purpose it serves is that it is my husband’s nose, and as such, is a part of the dearest face in the world to me.” His dark eyes soften at that, and he turns to place a warm kiss on the heel of your hand.

“Though…should you find yourself forgetting,” you add with an impish grin, “I would not object to a…repeat demonstration of its value. If it would be of any help to you, of course.”

This startles a laugh from his chest, his dark eyes crinkling with mirth, and you cannot help but join in. Gods, he is gorgeous, you think to yourself as you chuckle together in the dark. Both in his soul and in his body, your husband is gorgeous.

A hand drops to the place where your child rests, safe and protected inside your womb, and you feel a little flutter against your palm.

You decide then that you care not whether your child bears your face or Marcus’s. Either way, they will be beautiful, for how could they not be, when they have come from this?

Latin Translation:

amica - darling, sweetheart

[dyns33]

Family respect

Alfie and his Shelby wife are back for more adventures.

"He's back." was the first thing Ada said to her when she picked up the phone, and that was enough for Y/N to understand who she was talking about.

If she had hardly known her mother, who died when she was young, she had not really known her father well either, while he was still alive.

The relationship between Arthur Shelby Sr. and his family had always been complicated. Long before Y/N was found by Polly when she was still a child, abandoned in an orphanage.

It had been luck or fate that her father quickly spoke of her in a letter sent to his sister, writing that he had made a little mistake during a trip. That was what he named Y/N, his little mistake.

The rest of Shelby didn't see her that way. They had adored her from the moment they saw the girl, welcoming her as if she had always been there, as if they had the same mother, and protecting her against this drunken and tyrannical father.

There was still respect for the elders. This notion was important to the romani, and some therefore found it difficult to completely rebel against the man despite his many faults.

This was especially difficult for Arthur. He admired him when he was younger, and even though he often stood up for his brothers and sisters, he blindly followed him in all his dangerous plans.

He had often gotten into trouble because of their father. Tommy was very angry with him for that.

This naivety was undoubtedly one of the reasons why it was not Arthur who managed the family affairs even though he was the oldest.

He never complained about it. As he followed their father, he followed Thomas without question, recognizing that his little brother was smarter, more stubborn, better at business and discussion.

But the few times their father had passed through Birmingham again, he had criticized this absurd hierarchy, and even if Arthur eventually bowed his head to Tommy, there were always several days when he was at their father's side, ready to believe that he had changed.

“Where is Thomas ?” Y/N asked her sister, because she didn't want to hear more about their father at the moment.

"Probably in one of the neighboring farms, with horses, to calm down and stop himself from shooting someone between the eyes."

"And the others ?"

"Polly is talking to them in the kitchen. She thinks dad wants something. Money probably. He'll leave quickly when he gets what he's looking for. But I'm afraid of what will happen in the meantime."

"I'll take care of it. I'll find Arthur." Y/N promised, because absolutely anything could happen to Arthur Senior, no one would be sad, but leaving her brother was out of the question.

Ollie asked nothing when she ordered him to send his best men to look for her older brother, and to watch what he was doing. He just nodded, calling her "Madam Solomons" with great respect.

According to Alfie, she had seduced the poor boy, as well as many of his employees, the residents of Candem, and even the dog.

"Before, Cyril sat with me by the fire. Now he moans by the door until you come home. Where have you been, love ?"

“You know very well where I was.”

"Damn right. With Tommy, dear Tommy. Tell me, treacle, why are my men outside a bar instead of working, uh ? Because when I asked Ollie, he just shrugged his shoulders, saying that those were the orders, but I didn’t give those orders. Remind me who’s in charge here ?”

“Cyril.”

"Very funny, love. Hilarious. Why are my men following this crazy dog who serves as your brother ?"

Of course Y/N could have told him. It would have been simple, and Alfie would have sighed and muttered insults, because the whole thing was nonsense and he didn't really care because it wasn't his family.

Since it wasn't his family, she decided there was no need for him to know the details.

There was no need for him to hear about her father.

So she simply replied that Arthur was in trouble, which wasn't a lie, and that she was just checking to make sure he wasn't going to end up in prison, or worse.

If he noticed that she was hiding something, her husband accepted it, growling when he saw that she was petting the dog before giving him attention.

Several days passed, and Arthur Shelby Sr did not leave. The whole community was nervous, which made the London underground scene much more dangerous than usual.

So Y/N went by herself to look for her brother in the tenth pub he had visited this week, finding him alone at the counter while their father was talking with some men in another room.

"Little sis ! In my arms !" shouted the eldest cheerfully, hugging her tenderly.

“Come home with me.”

"I can't. Dad needs me for a case. A big thing."

"You know very well how this is going to end. It always ends the same way."

"You sound like Tommy… He's changed this time. He wants to make amends, he has the right for a chance."

"He got more chances than Judas got silver coins, Arthur. Please."

"Y/N ? Is that you ? You grew up, I almost didn't recognize you ! Beautiful. When I think that I saw you as a mistake, I was wrong, right, son ? A charming girl, all men would want her."

In that moment, she saw in her brother's eyes that he knew he had a choice. He could defend her, saying that no one talked about his little sister like that, not even their father. He could also keep quiet, nodding his head and not talking about her marriage.

But he had drunk a lot, and despite all this time he still had resentment towards Alfie, so he opened his stupid mouth.

“She married a Jew.”

Their father turned to Arthur with a huge frozen smile, waiting for a follow-up to this joke, before looking at Y/N again with a darker look, understanding that he was serious.

"… A Jew ? You married a pompous old cheapskate ?"

"Arthur, come home with me." Y/N insisted, trying to ignore everything around her brother.

"He's not just pompous, he's crazy. And a coward. And mean. He can't be trusted. I'm sure he's putting on an act to get to us, holding Y/N hostage."

"Well said, son. It's quite possible that's what happening. They know how to play, those dirty rats."

"Arthur, come home with me."

"I knew right away he was evil. Even before he killed Billy and betrayed us. I don't know why Tommy agreed to work with him again, or give him our sister's hand."

"Thomas has always been less clever than you. They're a bit sodomite, you know ? He was able to seduce several of us for sure."

"No… No, that bastard son of a bitch, I'll kill him."

"Arthur, insult my husband once more and you will never see me again."

The threat caught her brother's attention for a second, like the tears in her eyes, but their father continued to criticize Alfie, and as always Arthur followed him blindly, considering that nothing could happen to him if he imitated his father.

A hand then rested on her shoulder, while she hesitated between crying and hitting him. Alfie's smile was quick, only for her, as he held her close, watching the two Arthurs who were surprised to see him.

Y/N thought he would say something, but he only placed a kiss on her forehead, leading her outside, to the car that took them home.

"… I'm sorry."

"Why, treacle ? Because your father is an asshole and your brother is a moron ? I don't see how this is your fault."

“I’m still sorry.”

"Nothing I haven't already heard. I promise I've never slept with Tommy."

"You are not funny." she whispered as she sobbed, letting the tension leave her body. He muttered that she was probably right as he took her in his arms, not knowing what to do to comfort her.

It was not easy to lose a family member. Y/N had been close to all of her siblings, but Arthur had always been there for her, like she had always been there for him, standing up for him, respecting his ideas, making sure he was okay.

She loved him, but she also loved her husband, and she could not tolerate him being insulted like this. If she said she wouldn't talk to him anymore, then she wouldn't talk to him anymore.

So it was a shock to find him in the middle of her living room the next day, holding his cap with two hands, looking miserable and embarrassed. Y/N almost told him to leave, before seeing Alfie standing in the corner, tapping the ground with his cane.

"Well, come on, mate. The lady is waiting."

"… I'm sorry, lil sis."

“Where is father ?”

"In prison, I think. He organized bets, the coppers caught him. They would have had me if… I mean if…"

"If I hadn't saved his sorry ass." Alfie translated, raising his eyebrows when Arthur growled at him. "Maybe I should have left him, he made you cry after all and I didn't like it."

"Y/N… I'm sorry. Your husband is a cunt, but… But he's not that bad, I think. I see that you're happy and he treats you well. I want you happy. I'll try… If he doesn't deserve it, I won't knock his teeth out."

"Mazel tov ! I'll buy you a drink, brother-in-law, but I don't drink and I want you to leave. Well, come one. Out."

Her husband still gave Arthur time to hug his sister, who accepted his apologies on the condition that he finally stopped following their father in his usual bullshit.

To avoid any problems, she only notice out loud after he had left that he had not winced when Alfie called him "brother-in-law".

“Hangover, probably.”

"Or he considers you part of the family now. Normally it's Polly, Tommy, John or me who keep him from completely tripping."

"If you hadn't cried, I would have let him drown in his beer and piss, treacle."

"I wonder how the cops knew, our father is often quite secretive. He moslty ruins everything by wanting more money or insulting someone."

"Oh. Someone who looks like Ollie may or may not have called the police on orders from their boss." Alfie muttered, pouting a little.

"… Arthur will kill you if he finds out."

"He said you were a mistake. Nobody says my wife is a mistake. Would you rather he be in jail or at the bottom of the Thames ? Now I'm sleepy, love. I've been running all night to find your stupid brother, come to bed with me."

“It’s nine in the morning.”

"So what ?"

The only true thing her brother had said was that Alfie was insane, but that wasn't a bad thing. His madness was charming, tender and funny, and if one day they had children, he would be the most protective and caring father in the world.

You only had to see him with Cyril to be sure, even if he slammed the door in the dog's face to be alone for a few hours, only letting him in because he couldn't concentrate anymore. cause of the squealing.

"There you go. Before, he stayed on the ground, now he jumps in my place to press against you, while it's me who opens the door for him despite the cold and my poor back."

“Shut up Alfie and go back to sleep.”

"It is noon."

"Come here."

"Very well, damn woman. You will explain to my men why I was not at work."

Since they had all heard about Y/N's family troubles, they adored her, and were quite happy that the boss wasn't there to yell at them, no one asked Y/N why Alfie had been absent. They even gave her flowers, which greatly annoyed the King of Camden.

They didn't ask if he wanted flowers too. The Shelby sent him some gifts, bottles, money and a horse, without having to say why, and Alfie was in a weird mood for the rest of the day.

Y/N only smiled, knowing that he was lost but proud to be accepted by her family.

[servicpop]

AUGH THE COWBOY FIC WAS SO FUCKING CUTE FHSHJSBUSKFDSKUS I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!!!!!! OUUUUUU

I ALREADY HAVE ANOTHER IDEA FOR THEM!!!! so the reader eventually has to get to the next town for a week or two for a series of shows, reader tells Cole where he’ll be and where he’ll preform so Cole can send him a letter if he’d like. Cole obviously send a him letters and reader writes back every time. But one day Cole doesn’t send reader a response and this makes him think Cole lost interest for some reason, so readers moping around and complaining about it to other show girls until Cole shows up at the place their preforming. Reader spots Cole in the crowd and gets excited immediately and the rest of the show he has a wide smile up until he can go out and talk to Cole who has flowers for the reader!!!

THIS CAN END FLUFFY OR SMUTTY OR BOTH IDC I JUST LOVE THESE TWO SO MUCH YOU DONT GET IT IM CRAZY RAH :3

-🎱

✶ ﹑ㅤletters & flowersㅤ﹏

NOW STARRING : Cole the cowboy x 'showgirl' m!reader

「ㅤSFW & NSFWㅤ」ㅤhalf is sfw and half is nsfw (the nsfw part will be separated and labelled as nsfw!)

✙ NSFW warnings — sub!top cole, dom!bottom/power bottom reader, cole is a virgin, riding, tummy bulge, cole is more vocal than reader, first time

notes ,, go to part one if you haven't read it already! Not proofread !!

You were able to extend your stay at Pinecrest just for a little while, and during your time here you were able to meet so many people and learn so many things about agriculture, farming, taking care of animals, and you even got to meet the local dog, Scout. More importantly, you were able to spend more time with Cole. He took you out almost every night to go sightseeing, taking you to his favourite spots whether it was in the mountains or by the lake. He even taught you how to ride your own horse and named her Taffy after you; since you were so sweet.

Nothing could've replaced those star-filled nights where it was just you and Cole with your horses, Taffy and Spirit, enjoying the cool breeze and endless conversations that seemed to meander. However, you were a busy man, especially while being in the entertainment industry you didn't have time to stick around forever. You could feel your heart sink just a little bit when your manager had announced that another show would be held in the next town for a few weeks. Of course you enjoyed your line of work, you loved performing, loved being on stage and hearing the cheers of others, but you also loved Cole's company. You knew that Cole had a role here at Pinecrest and it would've been selfish of you to ask him to come with you. But, it wasn't like you were going to keep this whole ordeal a secret from him.

"Cole?" Your voice seemed to break the silence; his head turned to look at you, "Yeah?" Cole's voice was warm, and gentle with a hint of ruggedness like honey dripping over gravel, and the way his eyes glittered when they met yours was enough to make your legs weak under the eye contact, causing you to splutter when you decided to speak again. "I– I have to leave tomorrow, I got another show I need to do at the next town," You mumble, shying away from his entrancing gaze. The cogs in his rusty little brain were visibly turning as Cole stared at you blankly with his lips parted like he was trying to comprehend your words. You can tell it finally settled in his mind when his face deflated like a sad puppy, "You're leavin' sugar?" His voice wavers as he stared at you; the fingers that were once tracing the rim of his glass paused, and the bartender took this moment of Cole's sad expression as a cue to refill his cup with root beer.

Oh, you couldn't do this to him. It was almost like kicking an abandoned puppy on the side of the road — totally cruel. You proposed the idea of sending letters and his sad puppy expression lifted just a little. Fishing in your bag you pulled out a flyer of your next show, sliding it across the counter so he could keep a copy for himself, "Here, send them to this address," you tapped the words in bold that say where you were performing. Cole — of course — takes the flyer eagerly, scanning over it to mentally note down the information written on it, "I'll definitely be sendin' you letters honey," Cole smiled with his dimples peeking through. He picked up his glass of beer and placed it between his lips to take a swig before he started blabbering about whatever came to his mind, a common habit of Cole, and you were always keen to listen to his rambles. You could listen to his voice all night long.

Unfortunately, Cole's most dreaded day came when you had to leave for the next town. He most definitely was one of the first people to wake up at the crack of dawn to catch you before you left, pressing a light, lingering kiss on the back of your palm as if you were a prince and he was nothing but a humble knight. After the townspeople waved you off, you and your fellow performers left via the vans. It was approximately a four hour ride, it would've been quicker if you took the train but your manager insisted to go by car for the scenery. You felt yourself missing Cole more than ever, more than anyone else that you've met and being in multiple towns and countries, you've met alot of people.

Your show was held over four days with a one day break in between and a few free days to explore the area — a total of one week and 3 days. As promised, after settling down in the new town, you received letters every morning from Cole. They usually contained heartfelt messages about his day, his animals, what he ate for every meal, some local gossip, and of course expressing how much he missed you. He even signed every letter with small doodles of what you assumed to be him and Scout. Sometimes, he'd even attach small poloroids of himself usually with Taffy and Spirit in the back. Every night when you had time to spare you scavenged your hotel room for a spare piece of paper and a pen, writing back a response with your signature and some doodles that were definitely not as good as Cole's. It's corny, but you kissed the envelop after sealing it before sending it off back to him.

One day after your 2nd show, you stopped receiving letters, and it really messed up your mood. Did Cole lose interest? Had he found someone better than you? Was it because you were away? All these thoughts ran through your mind and you found yourself slumped at the vanity, complaining and whining to the other showgirls on how you felt like he didn't like you anymore. Knowing how supportive the girls are, they always attempted to comfort you, patting your back and reassuring you that he might’ve just not had any time to write back, that he was busy tending the cattle and whatnot. But no matter what they said, that feeling if a pit in your stomach lingered for the 3rd show. Your aura wasn't the same, your energy wasn't the same, you couldn't perform as well as you did the first two shows.

But suddenly, you felt a strange, familiar pair of eyes staring at you from the crowd. Mid dance, your eyes scanned the sea of people and caught on that dear smile that seemed to light up even the darkest of nights. Cole. That stupidly charming cowboy was nestled in between the bodies of others looking at you. Just you with those eyes filled with admiration. Your heart skipped a beat — or multiple — and you felt your lips involuntarily curl up into a smile.

"That's it. That's the smile I love."

With a new-found burst of energy, your limbs no longer felt sluggish and that fake smile was replaced with a genuine one. All of the sudden, the spotlight seemed to focus on you, highlighting the sequins that glittered on your costume and your bright smile. The other showgirls seemed to notice your change in mood and they all shot you small smiles, watching at how your hips swayed with the beat of the music and how your dance lightened up the atmosphere. You couldn't wait to see him.

Once the performance ended and you and the other performers bowed, you immediately ran out into the crowd, searching frantically for Cole but no matter how hard you looked and pushed through the people, you couldn't find Cole. Your feet picked up in speed as you ran outside, looking around to find Cole leaning against a streetlight with a bouquet in his hands. "Hey," You huffed, catching your breath from all that running around. "You were— amazing, sweetheart," Cole smiled, extending his arm out for you to take the bouquet of dasies, "U–uhm, the daises are hand picked if— if you were wonderin'." From the way he was stuttering over his words like a highschool boy confessing to his crush, and how his eyes focused on anything but your face, you could tell he's never given flowers to anyone in such a romantic way. They were beautiful, all thoughtfully placed together to make the bouquet aesthetically pleasing with a white ribbon tied around the stems with a small bow. You took the bouquet before wrapping your arms around Cole in a warm embrace. He didn't expect you to hug him so abruptly but he for sure did not complain, taking only a second to return the hug, wrapping his arms around you protectively. "I've never seen you smile so wide before darlin,' were you excited to see me?" Cole chuckled, keeping your face pressed against his cheek as he tangled his fingers through your hair. A small laugh escaped your lips too as you teased back, "Don't get ahead of yourself now."

After catching up a bit on the way back to your hotel, you found out through Cole that one of his cows gave birth to an adorable baby he named 'Choco' from its brown coloured fur. He really did have a quirk in naming animals. Once back, he helped you find a vase for your daisies, filling it up with water before carefully plopping your flowers in them. You flopped onto the bed, bouncing slightly from how plush the mattress was, and Cole followed shortly, laying right beside you. As you laid on the bed with your eyes staring up at the white ceiling, you felt a hand tangle with yours, turning your head to meet Cole's grin and his hands holding yours tightly. "Thanks for coming tonight," You were more than happy that he actually took the time out of his day to come all the way here to watch you perform again, "You know I'd do anythin' for you sugar," He cooed, squishing your cheeks between his fingers before he brought your face to his, giving you a small peck on the lips. You always loved how soft and gentle Cole's lips felt agaisnt yours, and they always had a faint taste of strawberries on them.

"That's too corny,"

"You want corn? We can go to the corn fields sometime if that's what you want"

And that earnt a pillow straight to his face.

One kiss turned into two, maybe three, with you leaning over Cole's body while he was still laying down. His arm snaked over to hook around your waist, pulling you closer to him and tangling his legs with yours. As he presses his body agaisnt yours, you felt him poke at your thigh. He was excited, something that you didn't expect from sweet little Cole. He seemed to notice and it was evident through the blush that creeped up his neck, "S–sorry... it's instinct y'know?" His words stumble over eachother and he brings a hand to his face, hiding behind the comfort of his palms as embarrassment ate away at him. It was adorable! This guy being such a flustered mess just from a few kisses and you haven't even done anything that intimate yet.

You reassure him, obviously; you tell him that it's natural and that it's okay to react this way. But then it strikes you. He seemed so inexperienced, so shy about everything. Was Cole a virgin? "I've never done anythin' like this before... I've never felt this way about someone else," His usually loud and confident voice was now reduced to a soft, nervous whisper. He shuffled slightly, pulling you up and onto his lap, his eyes glittered with nervousness and excitement, "D'you think you could show me a thing or two?" Damn. The way he's looking at you with pure love and sincerity made your blood pump faster from how quick your heart was beating. You've been dying for this too, so why not?

You helped him undress before following shortly after, discarding your clothes somewhere in the hotel. He was surprisingly big— like really big. His pretty pink tip was already glistening with pre-cum from the previous kisses and he had a prominent vein that ran down the underside of his cock that was bound to be a sensitive spot for him. Cole was also more built than you expected, he had toned muscles that were most defined in his arms and he had pretty big pecs. They were like pillows, you'd have to convince him to let you sleep on them later. Cole refused to look you in the eyes while you rummaged the beside drawers for lube. You put a generous amount on your palm before placing the bottle down and turning to face Cole, who was trembling like a little mouse.

"Relax," you cooed, wrapping your lubed up hand around his shaft, pumping slowly to coat him. His body physically jerked once he felt the cool substance around his cock, and a low whine slipped from his lips. Cole's breathing became more heavy as you slowly stroked his length, his eyes fluttered with every movement. Once you deemed that to be enough, you slowly moved to hover over his lap and Cole's hands immediately went up to grip your hips for stability. You knew this would hurt; you weren't properly prepared but you didn't care that much. Slowly, you sunk down on Cole's cock, feeling the slight burn as you bit back small whimpers. "You okay sugar? 'Mnot hurtin' you am I?" Cole grunted, his fingers gripping your hips even more, guiding you down his length. He was concerned, yes, but he also couldn't help from twitching inside you.

"I'm fine," you replied with a small huff once you were able to take Cole in fully, relaxing a bit so you could get used to his size. Cole on the other hand was certainly not relaxing. You could almost see the muscles on his arm tense and he had this unfamiliar look in his eyes like he was desperate for something, any sort of movement from you. After awhile of just silence and stillness, Cole's resolve finally caved in, "Oh, please sweetheart, please move. Anythin'! I need to feel you, please," he whined like a little puppy, staring into your eyes as if he was going to die if you didn't give him any sort of relief. But that wasn't any fun now was it?

You leaned down, your hips rolling slightly in accord to your movements, and pressed a honeyed kiss on the outer corner of Cole's lips. That little movement with your hips almost made Cole cum on the spot. "You can't do that t'me," Cole's eyes gleamed over with tears, dampening his eyelashes. All wet and pretty. He swore he'd actually start crying if you didn't move. "Alright, alright, sorry," you apologised but didn't really mean it — he was so adorable begging you just to move. But, you weren't that cruel. A string of 'thank you's poured out of Cole's mouth as you rocked your hips rhymically, grinding down on his cock. His head tilted back against the silk pillows, his brown hair cascading across the pillowcase like flowing water. Cole's lips were slightly parted, and his chest rose and fell intermittently, some breaths short and stuttered, while others were deeper.

"It feels so good," Cole muttered out between pants. His voice was nothing short of a whiny mess mixed with a few moans and grunts. You lifted yourself off of him, almost lifting completely off of him before dropping your hips back down, earning a muffled whimper from you and a loud moan from Cole. He was undoubtedly alot more vocal in expressing his pleasure. His eyes opened with heavy eyelids, as he looked up at you; you could practically see the hearts in his eyes. Cole's gaze flickered down to your tummy and his mind went blank when he saw the small bulge in your stomach, "Oh mercy," he breathed out, his hand moved to touch your stomach, "You're gonna be the death of me if you keep— hah, keep teasin' me like this."

Your mind was just as lost as Cole's with the way his dick was able to reach your prostate so easily. It drove you crazy; his cock angled perfectly to hit it over and over again with each bounce. Your own neglected cock was sliding along Cole's happy trail, the warmth of his body made you twitch everytime you grinded your hips. "I'm— im close, so so so close, please— please let me cum." Beads of sweat rolled down Cole's temples and his forearms flexed, digging his fingertips into your hips hard enough to leave an indent — he was careful not to use his nails, Cole would never want to hurt you. "Im—" Cole sat up from his laying position, enveloping you in his arms and buried his face in the crook of your neck, needing something to hold onto while he orgasmed. His moans were muffled by your neck as his thigh spasmed faintly while he spilt his seed inside of you, filling you up to the brim. Your own orgasm followed after his, coating his abs with your fluid.

You two sat in the comfort of eachothers arms and the sound of your heavy breathing; your own arms were lazily draped over his shoulders with one hand stroking his hair. "When's your next show?" Cole asked, moving his head off your shoulder to look at you, "The day after tomorrow, but I have rehearsal tomorrow morning," a small pout spreads across Cole's lips as his eyes flicker to loon at your thigh instead. "Do you think you can walk properly tomorrow?" "Oh right..."

Bonus ♡

You winced as you settled down into the chair infront of the vanity. A few of the showgirls walked up to you, noticing that something was off, "You okay honey bun? You seem to be in alot of pain today," one of the girls ask, placing a comforting hand on your back. "He obviously got some action last night with that cowboy guy." "No I did not!" "It's obvious in the way you're limping sweetie."

Cole on the other hand, was still soundly asleep in your hotel bed, curled up with the blanket he stole from you during the night.

a/n ,, Cole oh sweet Cole . To be honest ,, I'm still not used to writing smut . I guess it's because I'm trying my hardest not to make it sound off or weird ,, maybe I'm just immature . The word cock sounds funny to me . Anyways !! I kinda rushed the smut . To be fair my main focus with Cole is how he's an innocent n' sweet guy but ya know ,, nsfw is what gets people going these days

[phfenomena]

❝sleeping alone ❞ || william h. bonney x f!reader

| A/N- was listening to flatland cavalry and i couldn’t resist a short n sad fic abt billy bc i’m evil

| WARNINGS- a sad man who misses his girlfriend a verrrryyy small mention of death and war.

william h. bonney x reader angst? fluff?

as billy lays alone in the hostel bed he quickly begins to regret agreeing to jesse’s proposal of this job in lincoln county. he’s almost a days ride away from you and he has no idea if you’re okay. he can’t believe he used to sleep like this every night, no one to hold.

his mind wanders to the prayers his mother used to lay over him and joe, before everything turned sour in his life. he can’t remember the last time he prayed, feeling like no one’s listening. he doesn’t need a god when he has you, but he doesn’t have you right now.

he clasps his hands together just like he did all those years ago. “i haven’t done in this in quite some time, sorry if it’s not uniform prayer. i just want my girl to be okay without me, and for her to healthy and safe. oh! and for me not to get shot. amen.” he suddenly feels very stupid and confused as to why he thought his words into the empty air would assist him at all, but anything’s worth a shot. especially when it comes to his girl.

he rolls onto his side, just like he does every night with you. he holds a pillow to front pretending it was you instead a bag of feathers. he never realized how warm you were until he couldn’t feel your warmth at all. his eyes drift close and he falls asleep to memories of you.

eight hours away by horse, you lay alone in your shared bed with billy. only it’s not shared for a while, it’s just your bed. he’s working, he loves working! you thought trying to make yourself feel better about being by your lonesome. the bed feels like it’s miles long with just your body inhabiting it. you stare at the stationary sitting on your desk, illuminated poorly with one candle.

you write slowly and methodically to billy. he won’t be home for months so you figured you’d might as well start the letters. you write paragraphs upon paragraphs of how much you miss him, how much you love him, and how quiet the night is without his laughs filling the air. you trail off and start telling him about the town gossip you’ve heard but eventually get back on track. spraying your perfume over the pages and an invisible kiss by your signature, you fold it up and press the wax to seal it.

billy and jesse walk back in the saloon below the hostel’s doors. “oh! mr. billy you’ve got a letter! from a lady” the young boy wiggles his eyebrows and hands the letter to billy. he tries to fight the smile but jesse pats his back, rather hard but a kind gesture nonetheless. “the girl of yours is already sending letters after a day? you’ve got her wrapped around her finger.” billy shakes his head laughing. “that’s where you’re wrong, it’s the complete opposite.” he confesses and walks up the stairs to read your letter in private.

he instantly notices the scent of your perfume and all of the tension in his body melts away. he’s smiling like an idiot the entire time he’s reading but holds your letter to his chest after. he walks over to his own desk and begins his own letter to you, he might not see you for months but he’ll be damned if he can’t talk to his girl.

he consistently writes to you and letting you know what’s going on and how stressful things have gotten. you’re proud of him for switching to tunstall’s side because it was the right thing to do, you’ll always admire that about him. the worry for his well-being overtakes the admiration as you quickly gather your necessities and get dressed. you’re out the door and mounting your horse within the hour, riding to lincoln. you’d rather walk to hell and back than not see billy before he gets hurt.

you reach lincoln county much faster than you expected, maybe your horse sensed the desperation leaking from your pores. you ask a kind-eyed woman about tunstall and she directs you a few minutes north. you thank her make your way slowly to your destination. as your eyes focus on the beautiful country home in the dark, your heart flutters. you almost feel sick with how anxious you are, your eyes haven’t laid on billy in three months.

you quickly tie your horse to a fence post and rush towards the door, knocking rapidly. an unfamiliar man opens the door and smiles at you. “how can i help you, madam?” he speaks confidently with a british accent, this must be tunstall. “oh well, um, i was just wondering if billy was here?” he snaps his fingers and turns his head to yell for billy.

billy’s stomach dropped upon hearing his name being called, he’s thinking it might be jesse trying to pick a fight but when his eyes settle upon you his world stops. everything slows down but his heart speeds up to impossible levels. he smiles wide and laughs while running to you. his arms envelope you and you’re drowning in his scent, squeezing so hard he thought you might’ve bruised a rib. “what’re you doin’ here, doll? did you ride here alone? do you know how dangerous that is? have you ate? are you okay?” you giggle at his ambush of worried questions and put your hand over his mouth. tunstall walks away with a grin, never seeing billy so happy.

“yes i rode alone, yes i know the dangers, no i haven’t ate yet, and yes i am okay. i just couldn’t take the thought of you being so stressed with the possibility of getting hurt without me here. i also figured it was due time for a visit.” you mutter softly, never taking your eyes off him. drinking in the sights of the man you love with every fiber of your being.

he quickly ushers you inside and guides you to a main room. “gentleman, this is my girl.” he introduces you and you smile and manage a slight wave. “this the girl you’re always talking about and never shutting up about how pretty she is?” billy goes slightly red and opens his mouth up to talk before closing it. just nodding at the embarrassment. you smile up at him “you tell people how pretty you think i am? you’re so sweet! that’s adorable.” billy sighs and leads you to a seat at the table and fixing you a plate for dinner.

as you both lay together that night in the same bed, everything makes sense in the world. you understand war, they just want this feeling to be safe. your eyes begin to fill with tears as you’re just so relieved and happy to be with your love again.

“i was gettin’ real tired of sleeping alone. considered climbing into bed with charlie but i don’t think he’s as warm as you.” you laugh and gently slap his chest.

all is right in the world, because your world is filled with love.

[dev1lm4n]

familiar face

ko-fi | series masterlist

pairing: porn star!joel miller x f!reader

summary: you're wicked fantasies' number one fan, who would've guessed that he'd be a part of your host family.

word count: 3.9k

warnings: explicit (18+), pre-apocalypse, masturbation, internet porn, age gap (joel's in his mid 30's and reader is in her early 20's), reader is an exchange student but nationality is not mentioned

notes: this is set on 2013 like the game, but characters are potrayed like how they did in the series. send me a req or chat me!

To say you’re obsessed would be an understatement to the severity of your addiction. 

Enslaved to this certain habit of yours, your mind was wrapped around it like a wrapper to a gas station lollipop. Tacky and overzealous. A constant revolting urge that needed relieving, tension that made guts throb and lungs squeaking out for dear life when not pleased. This addiction of yours wasn’t as customary as slender rolls of cigarettes and weed brownies, it was a little odd and shameful to admit to. Still, it was a part of you. Even when you’d rather shuffle it into a dark corner than be confronted by it.

You couldn’t remember how it all started, but it seems to have taken on a life of its own. Would it be shameless if you openly admit that you always open up a schedule for it? It became a routine. Perhaps the unfinished papers, the impossibly low marks, and the frequent suffering was what drove you to it. It served as an easy release. No hassle. No awkward ha-ha-has and faking ah-ah-ahs. No mindless chattering over football or the current state of the government to earn what you truly want: a good fucking orgasm.

This addiction comes in the form of a man. 

A man who exists within the confines of your 13-inch laptop. More precisely, within a specific site that begins with the abbreviation for pornography and ends with hub.

Your eyes cruised over the edge of your lousy laptop, which still continues to emit a weird helicopter noise despite your latest visit to a technician, to find the time. To your pleasure, it marked precisely 11 PM, the exact time in which you promised yourself to put an end to your essay despite how unmethodical it looked. A silent smile made its way to your lips as your cursor quickly pressed the x button, before surely making its way to create a new tab.

“P”

Just the single letter quickly brought up your most frequent website. A simple website predominantly black with splashes of yellow accents, though what was exceptionally appealing was the instant stimuli given from the front page. Your eyes twinkled like a starved pervert. What greeted your eyes first was a lady facing your way. Preppy rounded glasses with a shade of mauve lipstick you’re quite fond of, dressed in what you could only assume to be a dollar tree medical gown. She looked like she’s in pure bliss, like the curved cock stuffing her cunt was enough to leave her boneless. “Creepy Doctor Convinces Young Asian Medical Intern to Fuck to Get Ahead” - what an odd title you remark internally.

You scrolled lower with two fingers on the track pad as if it’d get interesting - you knew it wouldn’t, but you couldn’t help feeling curious at what other people jerk off to. “Amateur FOURSOME have FUN. Rough, wet, & sloppy” was what caught your eyes next by the sheer visual it played out as a preview. Two girls were slobbering on two separate weeping cocks. Blinding porn lighting harsh against their faces as they forced their heads down it with overdone expressions. You knew it didn’t feel good. Not when he’s rubbing her labia like a DJ. Not when he’s pistoning in her like he’s a horse in heat with no tempo whatsoever. Were you being way too tough on porn production? Unreasonably so.

Just like you’re programmed in your line of codes, you typed out his channel next.

“Wicked Fantasies”

His channel popped up on top with 150K subscribers, 4.1K friends, and 50.7M video views. For a minute, your mind raced to imagine if you’d stood out to him compared to the rest of his 149.999 subscribers. If he'd like you. If you're pretty enough to join his selected pick of co-stars. It’s stupid, you’re painfully aware, to fantasize about getting personal with a porn actor. You shook the silly thought away immediately as you slowly glided your fingers across your touchpad to admire his works. He was just so.. breathtaking in every single video despite the lack of face in some. A diverse line of co-stars - pale, tanned, dark - did nothing but help put his devilish charms forth.

You let your fingers stroke the inside of your thigh, the part that’s lightly exposed. It’s shameful to admit that you’ve watched all his videos, but you did. Each and every one of them with no fail. Despite the familiarity, every footage presented on his page does nothing but rile you up, sending you to a frenzied madness. You let out a small longing sigh. Your gentle fingers slowly brush over the thin material of your panties, over your throbbing hole, feeling the moisture grow there.

“20 year old Babysitter takes a rough fucking for extra cash Watch her face when it goes in!” appealed to you more than anything. Partially because you’d wish you could babysit his children if it meant you’d be able to get that kind of method of transaction, you practically salivate at the thought alone. The preview played. Short clips compiled together to compel watchers and god damn was it working. Your breath grew shallow as if the oxygen surrounding you was as good as solid matter. Still, you worked your way down the page to evaluate all your options thoroughly.

“Please cum in my pussy. Sweet May earns a huge creampie after a deep sensual fucking” was what you settled with. His promise was what drew you in, to cum in her pussy and show his masterpiece. The way you clicked onto the title was feverish, even more when you had it on full screen. Your laptop was cushioned on a haphazard of pillows, allowing you to get into a more accommodating position. You laid on your side, before shuffling off your shorts from the waist band. A nervous puff of air barely escaped your lips as you clicked play.

The video ran.

Your throat bobbed nervously.

His videos were always edited in a way that shows his age. Cursive letters noting down his and his co-star’s name - with a font you knew only people over the age of thirty would use - entered your screen for a split second before it quickly cuts off to another scene. What you could only describe as a reassuring grunt seeped through your cable earphones and onto your nerve receptors, causing your hole to twitch impatiently.

You could see him clearly now.

Well, not all that clear, but you could see his half hard cock prodding the girl’s soft lips. Her dirty blonde hair framed her face prettily as she took him in with such expertise. He molded her mouth to the shape of his cock - slow but sure - right to the very hilt, before pulling her back out. A sloppy wet trail left behind to gleam under the dim lights. It’s incredibly sensual, none of the obviously fake porny moans in motion, and it left you wondering if he’d morph your chaste mouth to the size of his as well. Would he like that? 

Another scene cuts through the view. This time he was gently running his calloused fingers down her core, barely over the thick stripe of hair, then it went over her hip bone and back to her thighs. May, who you knew by heart from all the videos she had with him, didn’t say a word. Not even a small hitch in her breath. If you were there, you’d sure to be a whimpering mess just by him touching. Just by that throaty chuckle he lets out when he's amused.

You’re five minutes into the video when he finally relieved you of your suffering. He was on his knees, bending her pliant body down on her fours. His large hands gripped over the skin on May’s hip for support as he sheathed himself in one go. It went deep, you know that for sure from the way she let out a satisfied moan. Her face contorted when he pulled back and thrusted all the way in once more. You could feel it now; the way your pelvis spasmed at the sight even when you’re barely hovering your palm over your clothed center. She was the one getting fucked, but you could feel his phantom thrust pounding slowly. Over and over again.

He was cut off right by the shoulder, but he made an appearance when he slightly leaned down to gather her hair into a loose bundle and he was a dream. Dark hair with light speckles of grays you could barely make out from the quality of the video. His brown eyes pierced into the camera - as if he’s watching your needy expression, making fun of the way you couldn’t help but rub your fingers over your sensitive nub because God does it feel good. It sent shivers right down your spine,  

You were entirely sure he was trying to edge you, because the next scene had you bucking your knees forward to add that extra pressure. He had May down on her back with his camera hovering over her, capturing the way in which he forced his way in. His ruddy tip nudged her hole as if it was a gentle knock to a neighbor’s door. It wasn’t enough anymore, you had to pull your panties to the side. With your bare cunt exposed, you gently tapped your clit with the tip of your finger, feeling the sensitivity start to build at the directness.

Your unoccupied hand slowly slipped under your shirt, tracing over your oversensitive skin before it nestled around your nipple, squeezing and running your fingers right on the center of the hardened lump. May didn’t even resemble you, but you could fantasize yourself in her position. He abandoned the camera spotlighting his close-ups to bend her in a nicer position. With her legs up together facing the ceiling above them, in order to create a nice tightness for him to make use of. May bit her thumb in exchange. A chorus of soft, feather-light feminine moans followed his every move. You could hear him now, breathing terribly unstable as he found a way to insert himself deeper.

“Such a smart girl,” he whispered.

He had her in a mating press. His large forearm supported the rock of his hips and you obsessed over it, how it’d perhaps feel when he held her by the thighs. How it’d feel if it found its way around your neck to constrict it, to choke you as he bullied his cock in your leaking pussy. You let your pointer finger spread the slickness down your heat, making its rounds around your clit, before probing it right inside. Just one because that's all you managed to get confident in. The cushy feeling was way too familiar for you and you wished it was someone else’s finger - maybe a larger one like Wicked Fantasies’ - but you’re well grateful with yours.

“Yeah. You like it deep?”

He asked with that Texan twang of his. The teasing lilt of his voice does well to compliment the skillful way in which he stretched May’s hole. You could barely see him in frame, but you’d catch glimpses of his boyish grin each time. It drove you to pump your finger faster, In and out, in and out, steady to the way he moved his hips.

“You feel it in your tummy?”

He attempted once again, but the helpless girl could only moan out a barely there response. You were reacting frantically though. So turned on by the sight alone that you had to dig your canines onto the tender skin of your hand. You wanted him so badly, it’s making you spill all over. Slick ran down your thighs to your unmade bed, drool spread across your hand as you continued to muffle out your pathetic noises.

“Please cum in my pussy,” May could hardly whimper. The desperation in her voice made you grind your pelvis onto your palm in an equally desperate manner.

“You want me to cum in your pussy? Want me to fill you up?”

Yes, please, please fill me up, plagued your mind. You curled your fingers inside, a pathetic attempt to stroke that sweet spot inside. 

Over and over again as the man in the video groaned lowly. When he let out an almost animalistic growl to end his rodeo, you faltered quickly. Your leg twitched as your orgasm began to taper. Quickly like a full sweep on a bowling course, knocking down all that’s left of your dignity. You managed to keep your voice low, but you couldn’t say the same about the absurd amount of wetness soiling your bed sheets. The scene cut off to him showing off his pearlescent load deep inside of her and it almost made you cum a second time.

Wicked Fantasies had 149.999 other subscribers, but you’re sure you were the filthiest out of all of them.

Austin was nothing like you’d expect. The vibrant blue van you’ve rode in for an entire day or so slowly rolled to a stop in front of a classic suburban home. Empty roads and loud calls of cockerels audible even from within the confines of metal walls. The van’s engine hummed softly as it idled, tinted windows reflecting the honeyed rays of the morning sun. This was your stop. A house of character with an eye-catching letter eleven hammered sloppily down the porch, a lone pick-up truck parked right down the center, and a red mailbox that was stuffed to the very brim with spam.

As you stepped out, you were quickly enveloped by warm air, causing beads to form evidently on your forehead. The humid climate was a good reminder that you’ve stepped into another realm, a new page to your life which held Texas’ scorching sun and faint whiffs of leather. You looked rather.. constipated standing on the very end of the driveway. Like a knock-off salesman with a large tote slung over your left shoulder and a suitcase tight against your right. The look on your face didn’t help either, a concoction of sleep deprived and nervous.

You willed yourself to march towards the front porch.

That went well.

What came next was to knock and you swore you get entirely weak in the knees when the realization came sweeping in.

After a series of pacing back-and-forth and tugging at both ends of your lips to train a polite smile on, you knocked on the large front door. Once. Twice. Then, one last time. Wooden doors always sound incredibly heavy and imposing, you cringed at the mere sound.

A few hurried thuds echoed to where you’re standing and you’ve never felt more desperate to make a run for it before someone made it to the front door. What if they’re a sleazy nasty couple who’d want to traffic you into some weird foot-fetish chain? What if they’re a pair of delusional flat earth believers that unironically declined the existence of climate change? What if-

The door swung open in one grand motion. 

You had always been a pessimist - the world always seems to fuck you up in the most creative way possible - but what met your gaze was a young girl. Her hair was like coils of pure earth, softly reflecting the light of the sun; each curl trembled subtly in a humid breeze, a compliment to her doe eyes. She greeted you with a gentle smile. One that speaks language the two of you understood without fail. In return, you tilted your head in a friendly manner as you adorned a sheepish look.

“Hey. You’re the exchange student, right? Come inside!” She invited you in with an astonishing amount of energy considering it’s barely past six. “I’ve been waiting for you all morning, y’know.”

You nodded surely as you awkwardly shimmied your way around her lithe figure. It’s taking all of you to not do a full head-to-toe scan of what she looks like out of sheer curiosity, but you thrive in the short glances you could catch of her. Was she the daughter in this family? It’d be nice to have someone you could relate to, maybe.. maybe you could even paint your nails together and relish in fun girly activities.

“Sorry. Our van broke down on the highway,” you gave your lousy excuse.

“No need. My dad’s not even up yet,” she spoke with a small sigh. Her long fingers massaged circles on her knotted temple as if emphasizing her irritation. “Just put your bags down here. I’ll sort ‘em out for you this afternoon.”

With her confirmation in mind, you pushed your suitcase over to one side of the hallway, along with the tote which weighed more than you do. Without the accessories you’ve been holding onto from the very start of your trip, you felt naked and exposed. Unsure of how to position your arms and legs. It wasn’t a good look, but you stood entirely still like a Barbie display. Both of your eyes stared down at the younger girl as she swayed her hips to the light music, cooking up something skillfully with the flip of her hand.

“What’s your name?”

“Sarah. Sarah Miller. I know what yours is from my dad,” she looked over her shoulder cheekily.

“Sarah’s a nice name.”

“Is it? I think it sounds aggressively Texan. Like I’d go yeehaw, howdy young lady with cowboy boots and a good plaid shirt on,” she chuckled. “Oh and then I’d lasso you real good.”

Her remarks were as refreshing as a summer breeze even when they’re a tad bit snarky. You already knew that she’s going to get along incredibly well with you. Witnessing her shimmy her shoulders carelessly made you unaware of the heavy thump steadily making its way down the stairs.

“There’s the genius who landed me the name,” Sarah whistled out, pulling you out of your hazy daze.

You turned your head in a one-eighty motion, every last inch of self-control being betrayed at the motion of being finally able to see the man who’d house you. The head of the house who’d you continue to see for the rest of the year. There was a lot of expectation you bore on your shoulders, but what fell beneath your eyes exceeded everything. You weren’t even doing a good job in pretending you’re not entirely taken aback, wide-eyes bulged out of your sockets and you looked more like a cartoon sheep more than anything.

He was beautiful. 

“Hey, babygirl,” he greeted Sarah with that rugged voice of his. You could hear the weight of his step as he made his way over to his daughter. Every move that he made, even the part where he hastily tucked his shirt in his worn-out jeans, made your blood drain. At his arrival, he wrapped his large forearm around her shoulders before landing a sweet kiss on top of her head.

“Our guest has arrived, hm?”

“Yes. You were rude not to greet her in front of our door,” Sarah protested openly as she took hold of the plates she cooked up. She made a double trip from the kitchen to the dining table for the first time in forever since they’re finally upgrading to a three person party.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he offered her a gentle apology before taking a seat in front of the piping hot plates. His legs spread out enough to occupy two leg spaces, though he was left in a masculine position that was charming enough to have you forgive the action. Sarah placed a carton of orange juice on the table aggressively. Some of the containings spurted out and left a pooling mess right by his plate.

“No coffee for you today, dad,” she huffed. Sarah was impatient in starting her breakfast, cutleries already in hand as she dug into the charred sausages.

That was until she realized that you were still standing there on the edge of the room, as out-of-place as ever, looking down at the two as if you’re watching a live sitcom show.

“You’re invited to breakfast too, y’know,” she laughed good-naturedly.

“Oh yeah. Sorry,” you muttered out a brief apology at that before making your way over to the empty seat between the two Millers.

For once, you hoped Sarah wasn’t observant enough to notice the way in which you had your eyes stuck to Mr. Miller’s face with every step that you took. He had the kind of face that stopped people in their tracks. You guessed he must get used to that, the sudden pause in a person's natural expression when they looked his way followed by overcompensating with a weak, embarrassed smile. It didn't help that he wasn’t so modest with it. You weren’t sure if you’re imagining things, but you swore his every movement held intention. What his intention was you couldn’t figure out just yet.

“So you’re in your third year of college?” He attempted small talk. You knew it was small talk, but the way he looked in your eyes with such grave intensity had you faltering.

“Yeah. I am.”

“Thought I’d bring a college gal in to bring good influence to this naughty daughter of mine,” he grinned. “She’s been slackin’ off as of lately.”

Sarah beamed him a petulant pout, in which he responded with a handsome smile. His dark brown hair bounced around seamlessly and for a second, just for a split second, he looked rather.. familiar. Was he an old neighbor of yours by chance?

“What d’ya major in?”

“Computer science. I know. Real nerdy, but I swear I’m not a nerd,” you explained before stuffing your mouth with a generous amount of scrambled eggs.

“I don’t know. You’re not all that believable,” Sarah teased. “Bet you read weird comic books for a hobby.”

You jutted out your lips playfully at her response, which earned a hearty set of snickers from your side. Mr. Miller was thoroughly amused by the banter you’ve played out in front of him and in response, blessed you with an array of gruff chuckles. One in which you swore you’ve heard before. The memory was right there on the back of your head, but you could barely reach out for it at the moment.

“Such a smart girl,” he spoke mindlessly.

It was the exact phrase that made your mind slot in the last piece of puzzle to what you’ve been searching for, a reason of why you think he was oddly familiar when you knew for a fact that he lived miles away from you. You weren’t hallucinating, nor were you delusional. 

You knew him.

Far better than you knew anyone else.

He was the man you’ve been watching every day of the week, whether in the depth of the evening or the early mornings. He was the exact man you’ve fantasized for years on end, stuffing your pussy with your fingers or even your toothbrush if you’re feeling adventurous to the thought of him ravaging you. You knew every part of his body, every beauty mark and calluses. You knew which things he liked the most, how he enjoyed being licked on his tip or how he enjoyed plunging into the very hilt. You knew the noises and praises he’d let out.

You knew him in the foulest manner possible.

“Are you okay?” Sarah’s voice brought you back into the real world. The world in which you’re sitting across your porn star crush, eating a good plate of breakfast as if everything is normal. 

“Yeah,” you breathed out the palpable tension.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

pls reblog n comment if u enjoyed this!

[pilot-boi]

Pilot, I know you primarily bully Jaune. But would you mind having a go at Papa Arc talking to the Vacuo mural?

Orion Arc is not a hero, even though his son always thought he was. He’s just a man who loves his family and tries his best to do right by them.

So it’s more than a little strange standing there, in front of a mural of his own son’s face. His boy immortalized and honored in ways Orion could never dream of.

His son looks like a stranger.

“Mr. Branwen thought it might help to talk to ya.” Orion’s hand brushes over the palm prints of countless children, all paying their respect to his boy. “Don’t see much point, ain’t gonna bring you back.”

His son watches him, all quiet confidence and bravery. A true warrior, a hero. Where is his brash anxious son who begged to join the Huntsman Academies? How much of his son did he lose when Jaune finally left home? Somewhere along the way his boy grew into a man and he wasn’t there to help him.

“Your uh…” He clears his throat. “Your mother misses you.” And it sounds pathetic even as he says it. Even in front of a facsimile of his son he can’t say what he needs to.

“She was beside herself when you didn’t come back from Haven.” So was he, even more so than his wife. Orion paced the house for days, worry driving him to throw himself into work, into anything that would take his mind off the attack and the fate of his boy. “We were so relieved to hear from Saph about you and your friends.”

His friends. A group of seven that from all accounts Jaune grew closer to than even his sisters. Orion glances up at the others in the mural. Four of which fell alongside his boy, and the other three were left grieving.

Ren, Nora, and Oscar, he remembers them being called. He never thought he’d see his grief echoed in faces so young.

“As soon as we saw the broadcast, your mother was packin’ our bags.” Orion chuckles. “You shoulda seen her, she was fixin’ to march up to the General herself and teach him a lesson. If I ever wondered where you got your fire, I got my answer.”

His face falls, crumpling like paper. “And I triedta douse that fire.” How many times did he tell Jaune it was okay if he failed? How many times did he refuse to train him? How many times did he let his fear guide him to crush his son’s dreams?

“When you walked into the livin’ room with your transcripts in hand sayin’ you were gonna be a Huntsman whether I wanted it or not, why…” His eyes are stinging. If there’s anything his son inherited from him, it’s his tendency for emotions to live near the surface. “Why that was the proudest day of my life.”

He’d never been more proud. Never. His boy standing there with those papers clutched in his fist, and a defiant look on his face. “I won’t let you down.” Jaune had said.

You could never let me down. It’s what he should’ve said. Why didn’t he just say it?

Orion scrubs the heel of his hand into his eyes. It does nothing to stop the flow of tears. “Did I ever once tell ya how proud I am of you?” His voice is cracking and hitching, but if he stops talking now Orion knows he’ll never start again.

“You’re so brave and you don’t quit when things get tough. I saw how hurt you were after the Fall of Beacon, but you just got right back on that horse.” His baby boy, the most caring and most stubborn of all his children. Strapping the family sword back onto his hip because “Somebody has to, dad.”

Letters where it’s clear his boy isn’t saying half the trouble, but he’s saying enough that they know what trouble is. Hearing about the attack on Haven, a week and a half of terror. Saphron sending word that Jaune made it to Argus.

And then nothing. Nothing until the broadcast from Miss Rose.

Packing in a whirlwind, sending the girls to stay with Saphron. Renting the first available airship to Vacuo and contending with his wife’s motion sickness. By the time they got there, they were met halfway by a near armada.

But no Jaune.

Orion’s hand rests on Jaune’s painted cheek. A child’s hand against the larger-than-life hero his boy grew into when he wasn’t there.

Did he ever tell his son how much he loves him?

“Come back to us,” Orion begs, no longer trying to stem the flow of tears. Why bother? His son isn’t here to see them.

[bokettochild]

So much for sleep! I sort of had a feeling we'd get an update soon, but I wasn't expecting to see the notif right as I was putting things away for the night and lying down! JoJo, our goddess, I swear she never sleeps!

Anyways! I have THOUGHTS!

First of all, I'm glad we get to find out about the letters' contents! Four's age is showing with him complaining about having chores when he gets home, and Twilight really just is a kid in his twenties wanting to enjoy shopping at a discount, huh? Contrast that to Warriors being the mature financier of their recent inn stay (and nobody believing him despite some of them being right there to see it) and I suppose it really shows us who's where in the age line up, huh?

This does too, btw

JoJo really said "let them be children!" and allowed this trio of terrors to start climbing crap like gremlins

and then get scolded by the mature adult of the group

Honestly, Warriors really is stepping into the shoes of a leader in this group, more so, i dare say, than we've actually seen Time do! No dissing on Time here, but Warriors is the one giving plans, guidence, and settling major issues, it's just that Time has the age and big voice so everyone's looking at him. i feel like that might change in future though, since our Old Man has made his priorities clear recently (his kid comes before the mission)

Speaking of Time, I see those Shade references, Twilight!

He is basically handing the old man ammunition to use against him in the future (now imagining Shade quoting him on purpose when the time comes)

That said, there's a tension here I wasn't expecting, but it makes sense! time is worried for his kid, and seeing the natural inclinations of a hero in someone he cares about... he's getting a taste of what it is to be in the shoes of all those he loves: watching the hero suffer and hurt because of duty, devotion and his own choices. I feel like this is building up to something. Maybe Time is going to try and "save" some of these boys from the fate of their legacy? protect them from being a hero so they can be people? Is that what's going to send him to the fate of becoming Shade?

Anyways, that's it for theories so far. I have a few things I wanted to love on before I end this though!

They are horse girls your honor! (althoughl Wars, hunny, that ain't how you lead a horse, especially not one that big and clearly excited!)

Twilight being confused that a "lady" is waiting on him (we all now a tiny part of him was hoping for Midna)

Four being the emotionally competent hero who knows when to push and make sure everyone's okay (FOUR IS BALANCE PERSONIFIED, FIGHT ME!!!)

he's also adorable (did I mention he's really just a kid?)

and lastly! obligatory Legend appreciation!

my guy is so pretty <3 T-T

[maybxlle]

✧˖°. 𝐢 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐞, 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐧𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

masterlist | home | rules

contains: a daughter of aphrodite panicking over our favorite white boy. and vise versa (jason grace x daughter of aphrodite!reader)

warnings: shitty ass writing, language, use of yn, and CRINGE. it's pretty bad, read at your own risk ⚠️

author's note: first fic! also, its probably gonna be bad (because i'm a shit writer 😃) im SO sorry about all the cuts! i cannot write. [send in requests y'all!] ALSO if you see any incorrections, no you didn't.

special mentions: thank you so much @canonfeminine for helping me come up with the joke percy says and @hopelesslyromanticshark because i kinda stole her formatting and her amazing advice (love ya coves!)

final word count: 2,098 words

now playing 𓏧 down bad by taylor swift

jason grace was walking outside cabin 13 when he heard you tweaking.

it was only 11am and it sounded like you had been up all night.

"y'all, you know that one song from taylor's new album? down bad? that's so me about superman." you sighed, "i don't even think he cares about me. not even a little."

"now i'm down bad, crying at the gym. everything comes out teenage petulance. fuck it if i can't have him. i might just die, it'd make no difference." you sang under your breath.

jason peeked in the cabin. he saw you hanging off hazel's bed upside down, piper was on the floor painting her nails, while annabeth was sitting in an armchair, reading, and hazel was at her desk, writing a letter to chiron about why they should have state of the art, gold-plated horse feed. they were only in the hades cabin because nico was with will in the infirmary. (awww <3)

"ma'am, we know all of this before. you never shut about hi-" piper began.

"SHUT THE ACTUAL FUCK UP BEFORE I SHOVE A FOOT DOWN YOUR THROAT."

annabeth made a condescending mom face. "yn," she said gently. "maybe you should go to sleep."

you just glared at her until she looked back at her book (rolling her eyes).

"maybe he does like me! he just doesn't know it yet." you triumphantly said.

piper snorted. you got up, and whacked her with your pillow until she fell over.

"ok, geez, i get it. cough cough bitch." piper um-coughed out.

"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST CALL ME? SAYS THE WHORE!"

hazel finally looked up, innocently, from her crazy letter, "ok, girls, let's calm down?"

you and piper obliged, scowling at each other.

"anyway, bACK TO WHAT I WAS SAYING. maybe he is in love with me, he just doesn't fucking know it yet!"

"wait, isn't superman jaso-"

"BITCH SHUT YOUR MOUTH BEFORE I GO TO THE DAMNED CABIN AND GET THE FUCKING DUCT TAPE. you don't know who the fuck is lurking."

jason took that as his cue to get the fuck out of there.

our favorite white boy RAN to his boys.

he gathered them in percy's cabin. "guys, i just overheard something."

"what? that the superman theme song plays wherever you go?” percy snickered.

while percy and leo... snort-laughed, frank actually asked what happened.

"basically, i was walking past cabin 13 and the girls were in there, right? so i overhear yn saying something about 'superman' and how this song -down bad i think?- relates to them or something."

suddenly all the boys had their thinking faces on.

"what if she's in love with the actor of superman?" frank suggested.

leo had this eerie look on his face. "grow a couple of brain-cells chinese canadian baby man. she's in love with jason."

everyone just looked at leo. "ok, think about it. who the fuck else flies here? only jason. who else flies? superman."

jason thought about it. "that would make sense since piper was about to say my name when yn cut her off-"

"WHY DIDN'T YOU LEAD WITH THAT???"

"i didn't think that yn would ever like me back." he said matter-of-factly.

to be fair, jason had a crush on you since he arrived at camp. you were so pretty but you were so lively too. your personality was bright and radiant and maybe a bit crazy. just a bit though. but in a good way!

you just radiated positivity as if you were the sun. to him you could've been.

jason didn't realize he zoned out until leo was about to shove a shoe in his mouth.

"LEO?! WHAT THE FLIP ARE YOU DOING?!"

"oh i got him back guys! you like... died." leo said.

"so you were going to resuscitate me by shoving a shoe in my mouth?"

"yeah, basically!"

jason didn't know what to say to that so he didn't say anything!

"can we get back on track?"

"yes," percy answered. "we shall."

"first things first, we already know that you love yn so much from the bottom of your heart. but how are you going to tell her?" frank asked.

jason was at a loss.

"don't worry, i'll sleep on it."

"hey sparky!" you exclaim.

"oh h-hey yn." you side-eyed him, wondering if he heard your gods-awful conversation yesterday.

then you slapped yourself. (mentally?) of course he wouldn't do that! he's your sweet little superman who you are hopelessly in love with!

"do you wanna race to the top of the lava wall with me? don't be shy, you always lose!" you asked.

"um, i don't think i can today yn, sorry."

you were a little lot disappointed. you just really liked him and he fucking rejects you??? what if you tell him how you feel and he doesn't feel the same way? what if you become the laughing-stalk of camp? “k, bye jase.”

after he left you sprinted to your girls.

"BITCHES, CODE RED. WHO HAS AN EMPTY CABIN?"

hazel slowly raised her hand. "just don't mess it up again. if piper doesn't want your foot in her face, don't put it in her goddamn face. ok?"

you scowled at her before sprinting to hazel’s cabin.

you guys took your seats from yesterday.

“JASON WAS ACTING FUCKING WEIIIIRD THIS MORNING.” you glared at piper.

“what the- wHY ARE YOU GUYS LOOKING AT ME?!” piper screeched.

annabeth spoke up, “you were the one who practically said jason’s name.”

“annie. you just said it. SUPERMAN ONLY BITCHES.” you said.

“what if that did happen?” hazel asked. “he’s not a pretty, perfect, goody-two-shoes princess? like you think he is. ”

“YES HE IS SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH HAZEL.”

annabeth, piper, and hazel all just looked at each other, tired with your shit.

“I CAME HERE FOR HELP, NOT THE BITCHY JUDGING COUNCIL!”

"i think she's onto me." jason said to his little boy band.

percy looked up from his game of chess with frank and stroked his chin, "why may that be?"

jason scratched his neck sheepishly, "um, she, like side-eyed me?”

“this is yn we’re talking about. she side-eyes everybody.” leo said.

“BUT NOT ME!” jason panicked.

frank tsked at percy, “what move you gonna make?”

“oh, shut it frank. i’m invested. what else did yn say?”

“i… don’t remember.”

all the boys collectively looked at him.

“I WAS NERVOUS! WHAT IF-”

“SHUT YOUR BLOODY MOUTH!” leo exclaimed. “we need a fucking plan.”

“do you have a plan leo?” frank asked.

“i actually do, frank. gather round children.”

after some meticulous planning, and a couple phone calls, a plan was set.

a prom dress, a boom box, and taylor swift.

exciting right?

it was two days after that stupid conversation (that jason totally didn't overhear).

annabeth, piper and hazel came to drag you from your seat at the docks where you were reading an angsty romance (like the sad emo girl you were after being rejected by the love of your life).

"what the fuck do you whores want?"

"ok rude," annabeth replied, "but you have to come with us."

"we have something exciting for you!" hazel said enthusiastically.

you looked at hazel, "haze, 'excitement', does not exist for me anymore. ever since the love of my goddamned life rejected me- "

piper cut you off, "ok shut up yn. first of all, he didn't even reject you. he just said he can't climb the lava wall with you. just come with us. please don't make a big deal about it."

you looked at the girls suspiciously, "what's in it for me?"

the girls shared a look, "that's a secret. but believe me, everything's in it for you."

"i look like a fucking bratz doll!" you screeched.

"ok, so?" piper replied. "I DON'T WANNA LOOK LIKE A DOLL THAT GOT BOTCHED PLASTIC SURGERY!"

piper was doing and messing up your makeup while annabeth and hazel were looking for a good outfit.

"also miss bitchy," you said, "why am i wearing this much makeup? and why is annabeth and hazel trying so hard to find an outfit?"

piper could see that you were clearly becoming suspicious. she just gave you a small (knowing) smile, "oh don't worry about it sweet."

you were about to jump her when hazel and annabeth came holding ... a prom dress and two inch heels?

“are you shitting me? what the fuck is this?” you asked.

“yn, just put it the fuck on! no. arguments. ” piper said.

you weren’t someone to refuse looking good. (even if piper messed up your makeup.) “fine, but i’m watching y’all.”

they nodded while you went to the bathroom to change.

you came out and hazel to do the back. “ok, how do i look?” you asked, deadpan.

“yn! you look stunning!” hazel exclaimed.

you looked decent. you had an old prom dress that the aphrodite cabin just happened to have and slightly crusty heels.

“this will definitely work. he’ll be drooling all over her.” piper said to annabeth.

you were so confused, what the fuck is happening?

"excuse me? what's going on? cause i am about to shit my pants." you said.

annabeth, hazel, and piper just looked at each other and said, "don't worry about it dear." and burst out laughing. (about what? that wasn't even funny???)

suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

"oh my fucking gods, who is it?!" you shout.

piper looked at you. "chill," she opened the door, "hey leo."

"why is leo here?!" she ignored you! leo pulled her outside, when she came back she nodded to annabeth and hazel.

"ok yn! time for your surprise!" hazel said, knowingly.

then, hazel blindfolded you, annabeth and piper grabbed your legs, while leo grabbed your arms. while you were screaming to satan.

next, y'all went on your merry way going gods-know-where!

suddenly you were dropped straight on the fucking ground so hard your ass hurt and all your bindings slipped off.

you were in the middle of the fucking woods. and you could distantaly hear hazel, piper, leo and annabeth running away.

really where you were dropped was gorgeous. you were at a clearing in the middle of the woods. it was around sunset so everything was lit up with the golden sunlight streaming through the leaves. you could hear the faint sound of a creek in the distance.

all of sudden you heard footsteps. you got up of your ass and cursed under your breath when you realized you have no knifes because somebody took them from you.

you turned toward the sound when you saw him.

jason, all dressed up in a matching suit.

"oh, h-hi jason. whatcha doing here?"

"oh, just waiting for a pretty girl so i can give her a dance."

you looked around confusedly. "jase, i think you went the wrong way. all the pretty girls are back at camp."

he chuckled, then pulled a boombox from his ass. "would you give me this dance milady?"

you were so so so baffled. what was happening? but your heart belonged to him. "um, sure?"

he clicked play on the boombox and 'you belong with me' by taylor swift started playing. he grabbed your hands and placed them on his shoulders. (TRUST ok? they're waltzing to "you belong with me", but its fine.

you felt like your heart was going a million miles a second but in slow motion at the same time. you were panicking but you felt so content.

the bridge was playing and you realized how much the song relates to you and jason.

you guys were best friends before you something happened two days ago.

y'all knew each other better than the back of your hand.

he would bring you ice cream when you were on your period and when you weren't.

anytime he had to go on a quest without you he brought you souvenirs.

you told each other about your crazy dreams. like when elmo was chasing you down rodeo drive.

the song ended.

"i-" you looked up.

"um-" jason cut you off.

"you go first." you were terrified, your heart pounding in your chest.

"well, i've had the biggest crush on you, yn. since i arrived, really-"

you cut him off, pulling his mouth to your own.

you were in euphoria for a minute until you both pulled away.

"soooo?" you were giddy, "what now?"

jason looked thoroughly confused, you were too. "i don't know but we'll get through it together."

your cold heart melted a little at that.

"i have a question," you asked, walking away. "did you have a crush only because of my fat ass?"

"oh my gods, yn!"

author's note: so yeah um... there it is. it sucks, i kinda hate it but i thought it was a good idea and i wanted to start writing.

[doberbutts]

I’m wondering if you have thoughts on James Baldwin’s “open letter to the born again”? I’m struggling a bit with what his point is in that piece; it feels kinda dismissive on Jewish zionists agency in creation of Israel? But I may be missing parts or not getting things

The text in question.

And the segment I think anon is struggling with:

I know what I am talking about: my grandfather never got the promised “forty acres, and a mule,” the Indians who survived that holocaust are either on reservations or dying in the streets, and not a single treaty between the United States and the Indian was ever honored. That is quite a record.

Jews and Palestinians know of broken promises. From the time of the Balfour Declaration (during World War I) Palestine was under five British mandates, and England promised the land back and forth to the Arabs or the Jews, depending on which horse seemed to be in the lead. The Zionists—as distinguished from the people known as Jews—using, as someone put it, the “available political machinery,’’ i.e., colonialism, e.g., the British Empire—promised the British that, if the territory were given to them, the British Empire would be safe forever.

But absolutely no one cared about the Jews, and it is worth observing that non-Jewish Zionists are very frequently anti-Semitic. The white Americans responsible for sending black slaves to Liberia (where they are still slaving for the Firestone Rubber Plantation) did not do this to set them free. They despised them, and they wanted to get rid of them. Lincoln’s intention was not to “free” the slaves but to “destabilize” the Confederate Government by giving their slaves reason to “defect.” The Emancipation Proclamation freed, precisely, those slaves who were not under the authority of the President of what could not yet be insured as a Union.

It has always astounded me that no one appears to be able to make the connection between Franco’s Spain, for example, and the Spanish Inquisition; the role of the Christian church or—to be brutally precise, the Catholic Church—in the history of Europe, and the fate of the Jews; and the role of the Jews in Christendom and the discovery of America. For the discovery of America coincided with the Inquisition, and the expulsion of the Jews from Spain. Does no one see the connection between The Merchant of Venice and The Pawnbroker? In both of these works, as though no time had passed, the Jew is portrayed as doing the Christian’s usurious dirty work. The first white man I ever saw was the Jewish manager who arrived to collect the rent, and he collected the rent because he did not own the building. I never, in fact, saw any of the people who owned any of the buildings in which we scrubbed and suffered for so long, until I was a grown man and famous. None of them were Jews.

And I was not stupid: the grocer and the druggist were Jews, for example, and they were very very nice to me, and to us. The cops were white. The city was white. The threat was white, and God was white, Not for even a single split second in my life did the despicable, utterly cowardly accusation that “the Jews killed Christ’’ reverberate. I knew a murderer when I saw one, and the people who were trying to kilI me were not Jews.

But the state of Israel was not created for the salvation of the Jews; it was created for the salvation of the Western interests. This is what is becoming clear (I must say that it was always clear to me). The Palestinians have been paying for the British colonial policy of “divide and rule” and for Europe’s guilty Christian conscience for more than thirty years.

Finally: there is absolutely—repeat: absolutely—no hope of establishing peace in what Europe so arrogantly calls the Middle East (how in the world would Europe know? having so dismally failed to find a passage to India) without dealing with the Palestinians. The collapse of the Shah of Iran not only revealed the depth of the pious Carter’s concern for “human rights,” it also revealed who supplied oil to Israel, and to whom Israel supplied arms. It happened to be, to spell it out, white South Africa.

Well. The Jew, in America, is a white man. He has to be, since I am a black man, and, as he supposes, his only protection against the fate which drove him to America. But he is still doing the Christian’s dirty work, and black men know it.

My friend, Mr. Andrew Young, out of tremendous love and courage, and with a silent, irreproachable, indescribable nobility, has attempted to ward off a holocaust, and I proclaim him a hero, betrayed by cowards.

For context: Andrew Young, considered the right hand of MLK Jr, had a longstanding and occasionally fraught relationship with the Jewish community. He stepped down from Congress shortly after being forced to choose between voicing support for Palestine and continuing to work towards black-jewish interests by his constituents and fellow politicians, as he felt very strongly about supporting both. This was a fairly unpopular move. While I don't believe he ever called himself Jewish by the strictest sense, he was actively involved in Jewish communities and the known "white" ancestry within him is a Polish Jew in his great grandparents.

To be honest, I don't really see much a problem with this as I think it fairly closely matches up not only with my understanding of the history of this problem but also my own country's part in it as well as my personal feelings on it decades later. It pretty blatantly says that Zionism is utilizing a machination of white supremist colonism due to the extensive history of antisemitism and having had the ancestral land dangled in front of them like bait on a hook from the British Empire, which owned Palestine at the time. It also goes on to say that many Zionists aren't even Jewish and are antisemitic in nature, but are Christians happy to get rid of as many Jews as possible and how that tracks due to the Christian church's millennia-deep history of antisemitism.

I don't think it lets anyone off the hook. I think it pretty much flat out says this is a problem caused first and foremost by white Christians who hate Jews and Arabs alike and have a vested interest in getting the two populations to fight because it'll be easier to kill off just the one group instead of both of them, if one ends up eradicating the other. It even talks about the friction between the black community and the Jewish community, what caused it, what drives it, how that friction in itself is a tool of white supremacy to hurt us both.

[aeskairo]

Wait.....I have a questions.....

" I thought that at the very end mother would be able to meet with the man she loved."

Okay....Smol!gata poisons his mom, out of the belief that his father would come to the funeral, and his mom would be able to meet the guy, because that seems to be the only thing that she wants.

He look to be 8 or 10 years old. He believed that if poisoned his mom, she would still exist in some form and his dad would come. She would get to meet him and she would be happy.

OKAY...

This is a map of Japan...

Ogata's family lives in ibaraki, which is just North of Tokyo.

Ogata's father is stationed in Otaru.

Bitch... this is a distance of 650 miles. Cell phones and texting did not exist. Phones in general did not exist. A postal service for snail mail existed, but was extremely expensive and only available major cities.

There was no home mail delivery. You go to the post office in a major city, pay an exorbitant amount of money and the letter travels to a different post office.

Did Smol!gata and his family even know where he was stationed?

Paper letters were delivered by horse, so it took weeks for mail to arrive.

Like was the plan to poison the mother, and travel to Tokyo, pay the equivalent of hundreds of dollars to send a letter, allow 3 weeks for it to arrive in the military base in otaru, and then have him come down several weeks later?

I mean that seems complicated, but maybe...... wait no just kidding!! The literacy rate for the rural poor in the 1800s was only about 10% because there was no organized system of education.

Who was going to write this letter? An 8-year-old who has never attended school? Two senior citizens who are also likely illiterate?

HOW THE FUCK WAS YOUR FATHER SUPPOSED TO KNOW ABOUT HER DEATH??

And even if they were able to, what would they say? Does anyone know Ogata poisoned her? Or would they assume that she poisoned herself? Given the shameful nature of suicide, would they want to tell anybody about how she died?

Look. This murder was perpetrated by an 8-year-old, who maybe did not quite understand that when you die you are gone. You do not change from a solid to a gas and then remain in the house waiting for your father.

Like, was there a plan to inform the father? How was he supposed to find out that she died?

Up until Ogata told him the story, did he even know that she was dead?

Like as an adult Ogata must have realized this, and perhaps it was too difficult to confront the sadness and horror that he killed somebody who cared about him. Sure, she was neglectful, but she still tucked him in, and sang to him and cooked for him.

It wasn't perfect, but it wasnt nothing.

And perhaps it was easier to convince himself but he didn't feel anything, and a child from a broken home grows up missing a a piece of their humanity.

[gilverrwrites]

Conjugal Visit

Captain Boomerang/F!Reader, 2.2K words

AN: I can't remember what inspired this, but it's just a cute, fluffy, smutty thing I've been working on between request and uni work.

Plot: Digger is rewarded for saving the entire world with a 1 hour conjugal visit. It's not much, but it will do. Rating: 18+

CWs: None really, its just fluffy smut! Very mild angst, swearing, unprotected sex, p in v sex, cunnilingus, woman on top.

Please remember: You are a super star!

He’s been sending you origami unicorns and gibberish-filled letters about his good behaviour for months, but the promised conjugal visit never came, at least not until after he’d saved Metropolis, and, well, the whole world, maybe even the universe from an alien invasion. 

When his figure popped up on the news, you’d know it was him straight away, even despite his zipping around like a bonafide speedster. 

Later, when Lois Lane showed clearer footage, had confirmed it was him your heart had thrum with pride. You’d told anyone who would listen “That’s my man! That’s my Digger, out saving the world!” You’d even texted articles to your family, to prove he wasn’t the layabout felon they’d always complained about. They didn’t need to know that he was part of some kind of suicide mission, only out there because the government considered his criminal(-ly cute) ass expendable. No, as far as you were concerned, he was a hero, who would save the world, and come home to your loving arms when he was done. At least that’s what you told yourself to help you sleep at night. 

The positivity paid off though. When Digger and his teammates had saved the freakin’ world, his leader, Waller had graciously offered him a few years of his impossibly long sentence and a whopping 3 hours with you. It was considerably less than standard but you weren’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Digger, however, was. His complaining had reduced his reward time to just one hour, and you were determined to make the most of it. 

As you approach the door, you eyed the various trays shelved next to it. Each one filled with different sizes and brands of condoms, all of which were too small for Digger, and you weren’t allowed to bring your own. Every finger and toe was crossed that the morning-after pill you’d pre-purchased would be enough. 

A straight-faced guard opens the door for you, you thank him as you step inside, disappointed to be the first one here. An ancient off-white plastic analogue clock on the wall loudly counts down each missed second as you wait for him, brushing your hair out with your fingers, sucking your teeth to make sure there are no remnants of breakfast stuck between them. When the door finally opens once more you have your skirt hiked up to your waist as you fiddle with your underwear. It wasn’t the comfiest, but it was Digger's favourite. 

Your efforts don’t go unnoticed, your jailbird boyfriend’s eyes are bulging as he takes in your form for the first time in too long. Your heart races as you do the same to him, suddenly feeling both coy and unstable as you examine the way his uniform hangs from his lean body. God you can’t wait to get those off him. 

From the excited look on his face, he was having similar thoughts about your outfit. You release the hem of your skirt, but before the fabric can even flutter back against your skin, Digger has you in his arms, using all his muscle to lift you up high by your thighs, head nuzzled against your stomach as he spins you around. 

“I’ve missed ya so much, you’ve got no idea. I can’t believe you’re really here. The real you, not just your pictures stuck above me bed.” He blurts all the things he’s wanted to say but couldn’t convey until now. “I stare at you every night, been dreamin’ bout this moment.” 

“I missed you too baby. Now kiss me, kiss me, kiss me!” You jiggle your weight until he begins to lower you. 

“Don’t have to tell me.” He chuckles, situating you at hip height, putting your faces in closer proximity, allowing you to wrap your legs around his waist, as you lock lips with him. He tastes like mouthwash, which was not unwelcome, but strange. Certainly different to the stale beer you were accustomed to. Regardless, Digger didn’t miss a beat, slipping his tongue into your mouth and kissing you with so much enthusiasm it made you miss him again already. 

The way he smiles into your kiss nearly makes you pull away to giggle. The way his calloused fingers tickle your skin as he snakes a hand up to cup your ass does make you throw your head back and laugh out loud. 

“That tickles! Stop!” 

“Nah, I’ve missed this sound too much.” He doesn’t stop, now deliberately tickling both your hips as you begin weakly hitting his shoulder. “You know what else I’ve missed the sound of?” 

You squeal as he releases you all at once, throwing your body onto the bed.

“That!”

You sit up on the bed, arms crossed as you wait for him to stop laughing at you. The bed itself is old, the springs of the mattress creak under every move, and the comforter is itchy as hell, but it will have to do. 

“I should be mad at you for that, but I’ll forgive you this once 'cause I missed you so much.” Leaning back, you spread your legs, revealing your underwear and offering him a come-hither look. 

He looks like a fox in a henhouse, pointy grin, big eyes, and it makes your pussy tingle with excitement. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you, Love, but I sure as shit am lucky.” His shirt and trousers are gone before he lands above you. Long fingers lock onto you, clumsily helping you undress until all that’s left is Diggers crew socks. He never takes them off for sex, ‘extra grip for when I’m givin’ it to ya real hard’, so you don’t bother trying to get them off him. 

“Digger, you’re a hero!” You argue between sloppy kisses. “Even if you weren’t, you still deserve good things.” 

“Yeah…” For a moment he looks at you, really looks at you, without the lust or the laughter. It might have felt scrutinising if you thought for a second that he knew what that word meant. “But you loved me before, an’ I really didn't deserve you then.” 

Before you can respond he’s slinking down your body, fingers pushing against your entrance and making you squirm. 

“You’re so wet already, you miss being all filled up by your old man aye? Bet you’ve been feeling so empty. I’m sorry I got me-self locked up. Sorry I left you so high and dry.” He slips one finger in, cupping your pussy, pressing down on your clit with his thumb. He hadn’t always known your body so well, but you’d spent so many nights wrapped up in each other that it was second nature now. 

“Don’t…” you try to speak between deep breaths. “Don’t be sorry, make it up to me.” 

No need to ask twice, in seconds he sucking on your clit and slipping a second finger inside. His crooked nose nestled against your pelvis area, mutton shops scratchy between your thigh as he begins to lap at your core. When he skims your sweet spot at just the right angle you whimper, tugging at his russet hair, which in turn causes him to let out a deep moan that reverberates against you. 

You whine and squirm against the wobbly bed as he continues, the fire in your belly building as duel licking and fucking pushes you closer to the edge. He hits that hot spot inside, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his head. With your orgasm in sight, Digger picks up his pace, slipping in a third finger as he concentrates his efforts on your clit. 

Reflexively, your back arches and your toes curl as your orgasm hits. Your hips roll, searching for more friction and Digger uses his free hand to press on your stomach, holding you in place until you come back down. 

“Ah, crikey. You taste just as sweet as I remember.” He comments as he comes back up, face gleaming with a mix of cum and saliva. “I missed that.” 

Before you can respond he places a wet kiss on your belly button. “An’ I missed this.”

Your sternum. “An’ this.”

“An’ definitely these.” He cups both of your breasts as he lowers himself and begins to rub his face between your cleavage. Green eyes peer up at you full of cheek when you grip his hair and tilt his head to look at you. “What?”

“We're on a time constraint, you wanna spend it all in there?” He purses his lips playfully, looking back and forth between you and your boobs as he pretends to consider the question. 

“I could die happy here.” To emphasise his point, he burrows between them once more before conceding. His cock bobs from side to side as he sits back, shimming his hips. “But we wouldn’t want Digger Jr to miss out on all the fun.” 

“Agreed! Let’s put him to use.” His hips feel pointed in your grip as you grab them, dragging him between your spread legs again. He runs the tip between your lips, teasing your clit and coating himself in your slick. When you feel his head at your entrance, your muscles tighten, trying to draw him in further.

This is the part you’d been craving and dreading. Even when you’d been sleeping together routinely, ‘Jr’ was too big to slide in with ease. The burn of your walls struggling to stretch around him makes your breathing uneven, the lubrication of your earlier climax doing little to ease the process. 

“Hey, hey, relax now, breathe.” Digger coos, leaning in close and cupping your cheek, reminding you that keeping calm is the best way to get through it. You nod, even though your body is in overdrive, you will yourself to relax, steadying your breathing and he gradually works his way into you. “That’s it, Darl’, let me into that tight little snatch.”

“Ew, Digger!” You groan and laugh at his atrocious word choice, but it works. It distracted you enough for him to bottom out. Smugly, he wiggles his bows and his cock at the same time, the motion making you pant and squirm, needing real friction. 

“On your back Harkness.” You order.

“Yes ma'am.” Hands gripping your hips he does the heavy lifting, flipping your bodies until he lays flat on his back, and you hover above him.

Comfortable, you waste no time bouncing on his lap, gripping his shoulders for support as you roll your hips up and down. “Fuck, Digger, that feels so good.”

“Oh yeah.” He agrees between gritted teeth, his hands reaching up to cup your tits, his hips jerking up to meet your thrusts. “This is so much better than jerking off to your photies every night. Nothin’ beats the real thing.” 

The more you rock together, the more he crumbles, face scrunching, hands abruptly grabbing at whatever skin he can reach, no longer just occupied with your breasts. 

“Shit Digger, your dick is the best.” You praise and you can tell from his pink cheeks and rapid movements that he’s on the brink. 

“Fuck. Touch yourself, touch yourself, touch yourself.” He begs, wanting you to cum but too lost to do it himself. You dip your finger between your legs, circling your clit with firm, circular motions, causing tension to quickly coil in your gut, but it's not enough. “Fuck, woman, hurry up and cum.”

“Impatient.” You scold, purposely pumping your body in fast, deep motions to aid Digger's climax.

“Can’t help it.” He whispers quickly, desperately. “You feel too good.” 

He’s a beautiful withering mess beneath you, gleaming under a layer of sweat. All sharp edges and soft freckled skin. Eager to put him out of his misery you press harder at your clit, rubbing as fast as you can muster until you can’t help throwing your head back, panting as you approach your peak, and Digger is right there with you, gripping you with bruising force as he finally lets himself release. Pleasure seeps through your body as you ride out your orgasms together, Digger grunting with every spurt of cum he releases inside of you. 

“Wow.” You pant, as you relax, collapsing onto his Digger's chest. “I missed that.” 

When he’s recovered enough, Digger wraps his arms around you in return, pulling you closer for a deeper hug. “We’ve still got it.”

“Still got it.” You concede. Sex with Digger is always good, but the come down, the cuddling and the pillow talk is comforting. As much as you want to, you can’t fall asleep in his arms, can’t have a thumb war over who has to go get snacks, can’t stay up all night talking about that guy you hate from work, or Digger’s latest heist plans. “I just wish we had more time to talk. I want to hear everything.” 

In sync, both your heads turn. Yours to the clock, Diggers to you. 

“Not much time, is it?” He probes, you know he can only read digital.

“No, just a little under 10 minutes.” Determined not to let your limited time together get you down, and feeling Digger’s cock already growing hard inside you once more, you offer; “Think we can squeeze in another quick?” 

“Don’t need to be quick, don’t care what they do to me.” Digger flips you over, his turn on top. “They’re gonna need one of them giant magnet thingys to pry me off of you, Love.” 

Request Info || Prompts || DC Masterlist || Ko-Fi

[razbunz]

V A M P

Sephiroth x Fem!reader CW: Blood and light gore, A teaspoon of smut, Petnames (Angel, Doll, ect) , Fangs used as an aphrodisiac, Sephiroth is OOC, takes place mid 1800s, slight angst, 6k WC.

It's desolate on the streets, no surprise from the recent stormy April weather. You can hope it's going to boost the flowering process in your garden. Just enough for some early daffodils to sprout from their buds into full flowers, for sweet smelling roses to travel with each draft. 

Even as a creaking stagecoach slows to a stop in front of your house.

“Madame!” A voice breaks up your thinking, you look at the man who calls for you, He has short jet-black hair that compliments his striking green eyes- they shine with the little sun that peaks through the clouds.

“Ah! Monsieur!” You bow your head and fix your posture “Need some assistance?” you inquire.

“Nothing but a letter for me to deliver ma’am.” He retrieves an envelope from his back pocket, it's dotted with a gold and green wax stamp.

“Why thank you.” Courteously thanking him, taking the letter cautiously and flipping it a few times over searching for a name; but there's nothing.

“Can I help you with anything else though Sir?” You ask as he shakes his head and offers a respectful bow. Giving you his name- Zack Fair.

“Thank you Mr Fair, see you around.” You wave gently as he turns to the wagon.

You close the front gate and enter your house looking for a letter opener, the glint of metal catching your eyes, going over to slit the letter open.

Oddly eager to see what's inside- you can hope for payments from your last event! But it's unlikely. Instead you're met with neat cursive written on crisp paper and reads…

Dear Ms L/N, I appreciate the floral centerpieces you made for us a few months back, Though the flowers are wilted my mind is still stuck on you. No dame I've seen has shun as bright and vibrant as you, With your smile and wit I have fallen. In love with your nurturing care towards others and the way you hold yourself. I acknowledge that you own the Wespritz Grove, so humbly I ask of you to join me at DawnField Castle for this next week.

Spend it by my side and perhaps you can see if palace life is befitting of you. As I can hope.

On April 23 I will send Zack to retrieve you, Please pack what you need to be comfortable- Though I assure you I will have most estentails.

-Sincerely S.

What? You can hardly believe you read it correctly. Questions run rampant throughout your head. What if he’s old and hideous? Or he just wants an heir? You shiver at the thought, But you’d be a fool to not give whoever they are, a chance. 

After all, you've briefly been past DawnField before, And nothing life threatening was mentioned.

Even if April 23d is only two days from arrival.

Waking up on that dewy morning is stomach wrenching, your head spins and twirls with every nauseating thought that passes through. So you try to keep yourself busy with dusting and pruning your flowers.

Ding ding

The door buzzes with life, you freeze up and carefully peak through the door jam. It's Zack, wearing a gray frock- his satchel gone in favor of a green pocket square.

“Are you prepared?” Zack asks and offers you his hand, It's gloved in a soft satin fabric. 

You look around once more- picking up your small suitcase.

“I suppose so.” A nod in confirmation is all you get before he leads you outside into the crisp morning air. Where a carriage rests outside the cobblestone street- He takes your bag and steps up into the Coach box, lifting you up inside the carriage where lush velvet seats meet you. 

He tells the driver to take off and the horses are set.

For hours you look listlessly outside, Peaking over wooden bridges to gaze at the rushing waters underneath and the trunks of trees.

Until the path becomes rocky and strewn with pebbles, and tall steeples of a palace grow from the ground. Seeing it from here makes you imagine how big it is once your feet hit the floor.

Clinking chains and aching wood is enough of a realization to peer out the windows to view the outer castle grounds.

Hash footsteps fill your ears, you reach for the door but Zack gets there before you, swinging it open to the cooler mountain air.

“Let me do that m’lady.” He gives a soft smile comforting your racing heartbeat.

Stepping down on the hard gravel it crunches beneath your feet.

You could never imagine that a castle would ever be this big. 

It towers over you with panes of meticulously crafted stained glass, it depicts an angel holding up a rising star.  Two giant oak panels serve as doors engraved with paisley swirls.

Doormen hold them open closing with a boom as Zack leads you in. High ceilings painted like the Sistine Chapel decorated with tiny cherubs and sirens line the marble pillars which hoist the ceiling up. 

You could have only dreamed of seeing this as an adolescent.

Large decorative paintings adorne the weathered walls, many depict vast nature scenes though many fade into desolate towns.

With him opening a lighter door in front of you, light green walls and a large canopy bed with tulle drapes is what you're met with. It smells dusty like the rooms never been opened.

“His highness has invited you to dinner, do join. Though if you need anything ring the bell- it'll bring someone to assist you.” He nods and turns away, not before you stop him.

“Do you need something?” he asks, tilting his head.

“No I- thank you.” You fumble with your words, he seems worried as you say it. 

“Don't mention it.” as he leaves with haste.

Sudden, is the only way you can describe his exit. 

Your bag is dropped off shortly later and you unpack the few clothes you have, A small tea dress and some other more worn ones. You wish you had something better to present yourself in- to the King? Lord? Someone with money and power whatever he is, it'd be for the best to look nice.

Knock… Knock… You scramble up from your bed to answer the door,

“Hello Madame, I'm Miss Davenshaw- Your personal maid. I’ll be here to help you throughout the week.” She curtsies even when you stand awkwardly at her.

“Umm much appreciated.” You attempt to form a shaky curtsy back. 

“No need.” she shakes her hands in front of her. 

You move out of the way for her to enter your room, she bustles past and goes straight to the large wardrobe in the wall.

Whipping it open to reveal dresses of different lengths, fabrics and colors are sitting in the closet. Unlike the room they smell new, and fresh. 

“Ahh there it is, He's requested for you to wear the emerald one, All your options are open though.” Miss Davenshaw hands it to you. 

It's gorgeous, decadent emerald silk that almost melts in your hands. It's a color that only appears in your Zinnia’s. Never in cloth.

“Does it suit your fancy?” she asks and wipes her hands down on her skirt awaiting your response.

“It's absolutely gorgeous.” you let out a soft chuckle, and look over the fabric once more.

“Then let's get it on?” she ensures and once you nod she starts to assist you getting you out of your road clothes.

To your surprise dress fits perfectly, It holds and hugs your curves and doesn't scrunch up much when you sit down. Once you're in your dress with a little bit of hair tasseling she leads you to the dining room. 

Arriving at the dining room the doors are locked with Zack standing guard out front, he greets you with a nod and looks you up and down, Quickly- as if it's a crime to look at you.

You bite the inside of your cheek, wondering if you don't look enough to be meeting whoever rules this castle.

He opens the doors, taking you into the space. Just like many rooms of the castle you've seen everything is fit, well for a king. A huge center table with a glistening candelabra lights up the room, while through the windows you can view the mountains off in the distance.

Someone sits at the end, it feels like a mile away. 

He pulls out his chair walking up to you- gesturing for Zack to leave. You almost don't want him too. Shockingly, the person who approaches you is young. And let out a smirk with the small cursty you give him.

Long silky hair that sways with each movement he makes, with bangs that cover some of his face- and as he stands in front of you his deep green eyes meet yours. They watch your hands twitch and the goosebumps that raise on your arms.

“Relax.” a cold hand covers your shaking one. 

“I apologize for the wait, I had business matters to take care of.”  He straightens his collars and looks back down at you. “I am Sephiroth, Lord of the castle, writer of the letter.” You look up at him, towering over you- it’s hard to muster an answer when he looks at you like that.

“Oh, it was very sweet… thank you.” You attempt to compose yourself.

“Sit with me?” he gestures to the table, walking to one end where you match him at the other.

Sitting down you adjust the dress, waiting patiently for him to begin to eat the food in front of him.

“Go ahead, I'm not hungry.” He reassures you as you open the cloche to eat the lean meat inside, it looks like venison. Bloody but delightfully warm- enough to keep you seated.

Sitting across from you he asks you questions, along the lines of ‘How was the trip?’ or ‘I hope this all accommodates you.’

Sephiroth is kinder than you thought, He's patient and unbelievably attractive.

When you finish your plate, you see Sephiroth approaching you,  he adjusts his gray vest and offers his hand out. You reach your hand out- his skin frigid and places a gentle kiss onto the top of your hand. It makes your cheeks heat up. You hope he can't tell in the candlelight

“Will you let me escort you back for the night?” His face is still so close to you, he smells like jasmine. 

“Please?” you pout up at him, begging without words. He takes your arm into his and walks you up the stairs infront of your door where he lets you go. 

“Au revoir che’rie” And waves you off as you enter the room. Hastily,you ring the bell for Davenshaw to undress you.

Once she leaves though the castle is eerie and dark, windows once bright in the day are now shadowed over with tall pine branches that curve and crack with the wind outside.

The entire place, once dark, has a sense of uncanniness. The oil lamp in the room is still going strong, and its light comforts you as you let down your hair.

You blow out the lamp and crawl into the sheets, the smooth cold fabric is easily recognizable as silk, you almost laugh to yourself imagining how much sheets cost.

It makes it easy to fall asleep.

*

Sunlight seeps through the flimsy curtains, without a doubt they are only there for decoration. Standing on the stone floors sends shivers up your spine, at least the ones near the windows are warm with the sun's grace. You don't believe anyone is up, at least not if they had a choice. Shimmying on a pale yellow tea dress, with little frills on the sleeves and hard buttons you place outside.

Closing the door with a soft thud, the castle sprawls out before you. Unlike night, it's much more homey. 

“Miss!” a shout echoes from down the hall, and you whip around to see a lady running after you. She carries a nude pair of flats as she sprints toward you. “I'm sorry to disturb you but I was sent for you this morning!” She explains as she attempts to catch her breath. “I'm just here to chaperone you around the castle, DawnField is much larger once you're inside I assure.” You tuck on the pair of flats she offers. You wait for her to fill her lungs before you continue walking, to join you it's best to be on good terms.

“I didn't know I needed a guide, sorry” you apologize to her. 

“It's okay! He just wants to make sure you're safe. And since you're a guest it's my job to give you some direction, no?”  She confirms.

Normally, walking around aimlessly isn't something you do, but given this morning. You cant help but see what the day could bring.

The girl explains a lot of the doors you go past, lots of them being spare bedrooms how many could you need? You ponder to guess- I mean there's even an indoor flour mill.

One room though that catches your attention is the library, you've never really had the opportunity to visit one. 

“Can we go there?” You ask.

“To the library?” She questions back to you “We can go.” she opens up the doors revealing endless shelves of books, reading seems like the perfect thing to do to pass some time.

You scrounge around looking for any novel to catch your eyes. A light rosette color with a faded gold lettering seems to be today's pick, you take it over to a tiny alcove with a daybed inside, laying down on the cushy fabric and adjusting the pillows.

“Can you read?” the girl asks you, while an innocent question it reminds you of what outsiders of the palace must appear as.

“That I can.” You chide and open the book.

‘Tales of the supernatural, Chapter one: Undead creatures.’ 

Pages after pages you read, clocks ringing with the hourly reminder of times passage. By the time you look up from your book it's 10 o’clock, sun is fully out.

Heavy footsteps take you out of your thinking.

“There you are!” a familiar man approaches you, its Zack with another guard by his side “His Majesty was wondering where you two ran off too.” Something about his voice sounds anxious, his fingertips twitch against his halberd.

You profusely apologize, “I wasn't trying to cause any trouble, what do you need Mr Fair?” you sit up dog-earring the page.

“You are invited to eat breakfast with the palace, if you are hungry?” The guard next to him moves forward, offering a hand. You take it and he helps you up. 

“I'd love that.”

All three lead you into a dayroom, a different area than where you ate dinner prior, increasing your questioning of how big is the castle really? The room is full of people who you haven't seen yet. As they follow you with their eyes, it's difficult to believe you're different from any of them.

In the midst of the people you spot Sephiroth, wearing simple dress pants and an overcoat. From where you stand you dont think there's a shirt underneath. 

He gestures you over, a maid pulling up a chair on the other side of the table. You're closer than last night- maybe only 4 feet apart. Upon sitting, conversations return to normal, and the room less tense. 

“How did you sleep?” He smiles, leaning in to ask.

“Rather well, Thank you.” You take a plate passed to you.

“Is everything to your liking so far?” He takes a sip of juice from his glass.

“It's a beautiful castle you have, Your majesty everything is so pristine~”  The castle is truly dreamy, if you're ignoring it at night…But you're not going to mention that.

“This makes me wonderfly happy to hear.” he claps his hands together and leans back into his chair. His skin almost glows in the sunlight, he still appears sickly pale though.

“Not trying to intrude, but are you not hungry?”  All he has is a glass of juice.

“Oh no, I ate with a merchant earlier, a ‘good deal always comes out of a meal’ is something I live by.” You laugh at his joking manner.

“I just want to see that you're alright, No harm meant but you're quite pale-”

His nails clink against the glass “No harm done, it's hard to catch some sun when I'm cooped up all day in here.”

He suddenly lights up “Speaking of going outside, we have a garden on the grounds! If you'd join me on a walk after breakfast…I'd be delighted.” His voice is honey smooth, dripping with elegance and charm.

“There's gardens!?” You ask, sitting upright and listening with full attention.

“Why of course, no castle is a castle without a garden, Darling.” He takes another sip. “And I'm sure one as familiar with plants as you are, might even be impressed.”

“That could be plausible.” You smile at him, enjoying the rest of your plate in a comfortable silence.

After breakfast, many servants retreat to their tasks while maids clean up whatever mess left behind, having someone do your dishes in front of you is different.

sephiroth waits for you under a large engraved oak arch, if you look closely the engravings are flowers, Angrec flowers…Maybe the gardens have some.

“Ready?” he awaits your reply, staying a step behind him even as your lead outside. Two guards stand mere steps behind you as well, so quiet you didn't notice them until they opened up outer doors.

“Sir, your coat?” one offers a long black coat, and Sephiroth takes it instantly.

“And one for the lady.” Sephiroth requests moments later “It looks blustery.” One guard goes away to fetch Miss Davenshaw.

The guard returns with a white cotton jacket, complementing your dress. You thank the guard as he helps put it on.  Sephiroth takes your hand as he leads you down the marble stairs, he wouldn't want to risk you falling of course.

Giant cypress trees make a wall of evergreens, smaller boxwood shrubs lining the path. 

Moving past the wall of trees, it opens up into what you can only assume is acres of land.

In the front are flowering roses, in the back you can imagine an orchard from the way workers are climbing up trees and shaking the branches.

“Thoughts?” he asks.

You wouldn't know how to even begin to explain to him the beauty of his gardens, not when you can smell the fruiting pomegranates from afar, not when you feel the chilled wind against your skin. And definitely not as he gently lifts up the furred hood of your jacket as you shiver, his fingers swiping against your cheek ever so slightly.

“Captivating.” you breathe into the morning air, turning just in time to see his mouth twitch up in a smile.

“I am overjoyed to hear this.” He claps his hands together, the guards behind you coming to attention.  Sephiroth ushers one over going to whisper a few words to him before both of them leave, and suddenly it's just the two of you left alone in the garden.

“I- where are they going?” you watch as they walk away.

Sephiroth speaks up “I'd just like some time for us, me and you. Unless that's a problem?” quirking an eyebrow he asks, focusing on your face.

“Nono, no problem, I was just wondering.” You stare at the ground, clicking your flats against the soil.

“Then you'll come with?” his eyes glisten with hope, meeting you soft gaze when you whisper a yes. He leads you through the garden through each row of blooming flowers to bushels of fruiting berries. 

“Is the castle your familys?” you ask looking at the ivory pillars supporting large potted ivies, large white feathers engraved in the smooth stone, you rub your fingers over it- feeling how with each cut it dips under your fingertips.

“It is.” he pauses to think “Why do you ask?” 

“Everything has a sense of cohesiveness, of royalty. All of the paintings I've seen are all gorgeous If I can add.” you continue to walk.

He nods “I appreciate that, But what about you?” A brush against your lower back guides you closer to him, his touch is soft- addicting. You clear your throat after his gesture.

“Well, what of me?”

“I want to know all about you, everything and anything that I can, your quite… what's the word?” he rubs his temple “Intriguing.” You beam at his complement, humming thinking of where to start.

“Hmmmm, Well when I was young I used to play with the earthworms when my mother asked for my help in the garden.” you scoff at yourself, looking up to Sephiroth for his reaction.

“She said it was ‘unbefitting’ of a young lady, that didn't stop me from laying them on a rock and naming them though.” you sigh at your reminiscing.

“That's oddly adorable” he chuckles “I can still see some of that in you today.” 

“Is that right?” you question him, all while he nods and smiles. 

He lets you go on with your tales, some recent, some old. He comments on them and laughs along with you as if you are old friends.

He's surprisingly easy to talk to, not once does he talk of his rank or power.

Right now, you're just two people on a walk.

Before you know it you're on the other side of the garden, laughing with him.

He leads you into the wooden building in front of you, he ushers you inside- and for the first time you're walking in front of him.

A neigh and trotting in the back confirm the smells of hay and dirt, they have stables.

“My Liege! What do you need?” A stablehand approaches him, bowing.

“Two of our finest horses, and a saddle for the lady.”  The stablehand bows before going to get what's asked.

Sephiroth shows you around the barn in the meantime, introducing you to the exterior staff.

He picks up a small pair of riding gloves, taking your hands in his- buttoning them securely onto yours. He lifts your now gloved hands and kisses the backs of them.

“Comfy?” He grins and lets them go, You can only nod dumbfoundedly. It doesn’t help that he chuckles at it either.

Luckily the stablehand comes in time to prevent you from an untimely death.

“I’ve brought Beau and Hazel sir, with a saddle for her.” The stablehand bows at you as well,

You thank him with a smile.

Sephiroth approaches a woodsy colored horse combing through his mane whispering his name. The horse whinnies at him and trots in place, he appears happy.

Sephiroth turns to you offering Hazels bridle to you, you take it albeit confused.

“Sir?” You attempt to gain his attention

“Yes?” He responds by turning towards you.

“I've never ridden before, I don't really even know how.” you rub the back of your neck.

“Oh that's no issue.” He brushes off  “I’ll give you a steady hand, if you need it.” he assures you. 

One of the stablehands helps you onto hazel, showing you where to put your feet on the stirrups, sitting there anxiously as Sephiroth switches to his riding gear.

“Are you ready to depart?” He hoists himself on the horse, taking the reins with confidence and sitting up straight.

“Now or never, I guess.” You try to imitate his posture and attitude, as many equestrians believe horses smell fear. 

Sephiroth leaves the stable first, and you attempt to follow after him. The horse is jumpy, jolting at you taking the reins. You hope it’ll understand your inexperience. Later down the path he waits for you, giving a few pointers to be more comfortable in the saddle.

“Is that an improvement?” he notes, watching you keenly as you roll your shoulders.

“Definitely better.” you remark and gently kick the horse to get it to move. Hazel and Beau stick by each other even as you try to guide them away.

Sephiroth guides down a winding woodsy path, only small strips of sun peaking through the canopy. Chittering of chipmunks and other small creatures can be heard underneath Sephiroth's low whistling. He whistles a tune that you've never heard of, and he hums some parts. And as the air gains a chill to it a stream pops into view.

You both dismount from your horses, staying behind Sephiroth like a lost puppy.  He keeps walking alongside the river, something silvery in his hand, it's a knife. You stay a little further back, silent.

“Are you okay? You're rather quiet.” he mentions as he digs through some brush.

“I'm just wondering why we’re down here. It's getting dark.” You look through the forest, you don't want to imagine what creatures might wander the woods.

Like some of the ones you read about- like a zombie, or even a wraith! His voice loops you back into reality.

“Oh, I didn't say?” he chuckles and shakes his head “ We are collecting water chestnuts for tonight's dinner.” The release of tension in the air is palpable and suddenly you feel like a fool.

“If you want you can help me, I have a spare knife in my saddlebag” he points to Beau.

You jog over there to fetch the knife, rubbing off the sticky rust-red substance on it.

“Glady.” and you go the opposite way of him, moving along the water looking for bushels of stalky leaves. Almost immediately you find some, digging it up with the flat end of your knife.

“These right?” You lift a bunch of them up for him to see. He squints before shouting a yes, moving towards you.

“Those are perfect, It takes me plenty of time to even find small ones.” He sheathes his knife 

“Though I suppose I am working with an expert.”  He winks at you and takes the bushel from your hand.

“Well,I wouldn't-” you attempt to defend yourself.

“Don't sell yourself short darling.” He claps his hands to cut you off. “No need to humble yourself around me, please.” You nod slowly, trying to make sense of what he's said, but his words are crystal clear. 

Grabbing the leather sheath for your knife you attempt to slide it in, but it catches one of the seams, slitting your palm open. You nurse your hand to your chest while inspecting the damage 

“Are you alright?” he comes up to you, gently taking your injured hand into his.

“It's just a little cut, it's not deep.” You try and fail to assure him. Sephiroth digs through his pocket, fetching a tiny handkerchief, Wrapping it over your palm tightly- his teeth digging into his lip to where it draws blood.

“Is that better?” He rubs the top of your hand- looking at you intensely as you move it with caution, nodding moments later.

The crimson seeps into the white fabric, staining it red. He turns away from you, gripping the reins to Beau until his knuckles are white.

“I think we should call it a night.” he barks out, there's no room for suggestions. You shuffle onto your saddle wondering if you did any wrong.

The ride to the castle is eerily silent, and once you arrive Zack hustles you to your room, where you're quickly dressed for dinner as another washes your face.

By the time your sat and served at the tables, he's not there.

“Zack?” you raise a question to him.

“Madame, what is needed?” he bows slightly. 

“Where is Sep-” 

“He is feeling ill.” Zack interrupts you, letting the servers aside to place down your entree.

The doors slam with an echo,Only two guards guard the entrances.

It's silent.

Every bite you take seems to echo, the meal is warm and tastes amazing. But it's different from before. Either way you finish up the stew and let someone in armor bring you back to your room. Your seamstress undresses you quickly with no words spoken.

Once she leaves you slump down in your beds burying your face into a pillow.

You didn't mean to fall asleep especially before bathing, but you do.

When you do wake up it’s too the sound of glass shattering next to your room. You peek outside the door to look at the commotion, but nothing is broken at all.

Remembering you didn’t take a bath yesterday you ring your bell for Ms Davenshaw to run a bath for you. The bath smells of lavender and warms your skin as she helps find an outfit for you.

She pulls from the wardrobe a lacy lilac dress with puffy sleeves.

Your day goes by rather slowly, mostly full of dragging your chaperone from the library to the garden, plenty of ways to waste time in a castle this large.

Sephiroth isn’t present again when dinner rolls around. You try to act cordial about it but it’s frustrating.

By now the dark night outside your window and a flickering oil lamp you sit and fiddle around with the corners of your bedding.

Tip tap

You pause, looking outside.

Scratch

You stumble towards the window holding a blanket to your body as makeshift armor, grabbing the dying oil lamp for comfort.

Holding the lamp to the window it shows nothing but the tall evergreens outside.

You pace around the room, listening keenly for each groan the wind seems to travel with. By now it’s not the wind that’s in pain.

Without a second thought you race into the hallway feet barren to the cold stone.

You follow the sound to a wall, to a wing you’ve never entered. Ignoring your more coherent thoughts you push the doors open and walk up the stairs lined with foreign rugs and the walls hung with extravagant tapestries that go ceiling to floor.

A giant chandelier made of silver and emeralds gives it a green lighting.

This must be where Sephiroth stays, right? If he’s in pain an attempt to help is better than none at all.

Entering his room it’s even more apparent that it’s his, Feathers of every creature imaginable are interwoven to create a canopy that covers the ceiling.

His bed is messy with blankets strewn everywhere, Your eyes travel to the floor where his clothes are doused in blood so much that it sticks to the floor.

Scratch marks are splintered into the golden wallpaper.

“Sephiroth?”  You call out for him, hoping for a response.

“Leave.” His voice rocks you to your core.

“Where are you? Let me help you.” You beg him, looking around the room.

“Just go.” He repeats, this time with more vigor. You stand still reaching out to where you hear his voice.

In a blink of an eye he appears in front of you, his dress shirt open and legs covered in the same baggy fabric. “I need you to leave.” His body shivers and he’s deathly pale, blood covers his mouth where two white fangs stick out- eyes slitted and pupils red.

You fall back at the sight, you would know if he was a monster!

“I didn’t need you to see me like this.” He gestures towards himself.

His nails are clawed from this angle, inhumane.

He looks you up and down staring at your face- his pupils dilate at the sight. 

“I just need you to help me.” He takes a breath “Help me Angel, please.” a whine leaves his throat, his nails gentle closing into the fat of your cheek, blood drips down his face with his skin sheened with a cool sweat. His shirt clinging to his chiseled body.Every atom in you begs to scream and run, but you don’t. He holds you in place and you nod, giving up to the vampire in front of you.

He lifts you onto the bed with him easily, lifting you onto his lap and brushing away any hair restricting his view of you.

“You're such a sweet girl.” you grimace at the feeling of his tongue tasting your skin.

“So smart yet so naive.” He huffs “Gorgeous.” He peppers kisses on your collarbone and neck.

“Will it hurt?” you ask, trying to fight off the warmth his tongue offers your body.

“Only for a second, my sweet girl.” He assures you as his teeth graze your skin.

“Promise?” a childish wish you ask upon him for reassurance.

“Of course darling, I promise the world to you.” He whispers into your skin  a puff of air blows over your skin, creating goosebumps in its wake.

“Relax for me, okay?” His voice is honeyed with hunger and bite, fangs glistening in the warm light.

He splays one hand over your stomach pinning you to his chest, while the other rubs over your inner thigh. And then he bites, everything in your body erupts into flames. Charring your skin and bones in an unstoppable fire- one that isn't real. 

“Shhhh shhhh, you're okay- it’s over now okay?” He gingerly laps up the warm blood seeping out of you, moaning at the taste. He sinks them once more into you, egging a whine from your limp body. It feels good.

You rut against him experimentally, gasping at the feeling it draws from you. Soon you're grinding on his thigh with no shame, biting your lip to quell any loose moans. 

Until you feel a large hand rub against your clothed cunt pulling your panties to the side, fingers slipping into your wetness. You freeze up breathing heavily at the foreign feeling as they curl up into you. Rolling your hips into his hands meeting his slow pace, moaning unabashedly as his thumb rubs the letter S onto your puffy clit.

He groans as you clutch onto him, breathing a low- “Make yourself feel good for me,Angel.” into your skin. Waves of pleasure continue to build up inside you, tears glistening on the corners of your eyes. His fingers rhythmically curl and scissor inside you- bringing you closer and closer to the edge. A pleased hum leaves him “Let go, let go for me.” he whispers to you.

It's all it takes for you to climax, releasing on his thigh with a sharp cry of his name.

He's all that you can think of, as he rubs your back in comfort.

Your eyes are hazed over in pleasure where only his name enters your mind,Sephiroth, Sephiroth, Sephi-

Too far gone to realize it's your neediness that's etched into the words spoken around the room. Everything spins slowly, drooping into his arms as if you're drunk. Though only one is drinking, it's your consciousness that slips.

Everything hurts… 

Is what you realize when you come to your senses, You can hardly move without feeling aching soreness. Opening your eyes shows Sephiroth clung to your almost bare body- your face burns red in shame. You try to shake away from his grasp “don't go, please.” His voice is soft but hoarse with the morning wakeup.

You avoid looking at the bloodbath on your right shoulder, taking every ounce of energy you have left to not gag. Even when you know it's yours.

“My dear- what have I done?!” he reaches out to hold your face, but retracts as his blood covered hands reach his vision. Cries of frustration echo in the room as he throws on whatever robe he could find. You try to follow him out but he gives you a harsh look, surprisingly the sheets are mostly undamaged which you're sure when he returns he’ll be thankful for.

Soft padded steps reenter the room, long white hair following the figure that comes into view.

“They are heating up a bath for you, they know as much as I told them.” His voice is curt, leaving no room for any questions. “You can leave now.”

He points towards the hall.

Arguing feels pointless against him, everything is nothing at once- Biting your lip is the easiest option. Miss Davenshaw escorts you outside as she covers you with an oversized sleeping dress, The blinds are closed in the hall leaving everything in a darkened veil, No words are spoken as she undresses you for bathing.

Warm water rolls over your skin loosening the blood stuck onto it with each scrub, By the time you exit the water the scent of lavender is what fills your senses now.

Zack drags you to your room and tells you to eat and rest, standing guard outside your room.

The heavy cloud of sleep over your eyes ushers you into your bed, sleep comes easy.

Upon Waking up you find that it's dark outside- ringing eerily similar to last night. 

A knock comes from your door creaking open to show green eyes meeting yours, but it's not Zack, Zack doesn't soften his eyes when he looks at you, and those eyes don't plead with you to let him in. And it works- your resolve crumbling as you let out a shy nod.

“I'm sorry, so sorry my dear.” he shuts the door quietly behind him, taking your hands into him. It's gentle, sincere. “They didn't tell me you’d be here, I promise I'm not here to harm.” he lets out an airy laugh “I want to apologize…tremendously for everything. If you desire to leave I cannot and will not stop you- Just don't lead the mobs back to me though I suppose I can't stop that either.” He shakes his head.

“I don't want to leave here, leave you.” You urge him.

“I am a monster, a beast that hides away for a reason, I shouldn't have ever brought you into this.” He furrows his brows and sighs.

“I- not to me.” you beg him to listen to you.

“Then you're wrong.” He finalizes and rolls his shoulders “Why don't you see what I am?” His voice is cracked,outlined in pain.

He takes off his jacket, black inky feathers falling from the coat he grimaces and in a blink of an eye black covers your vision. Feathers fall from every angle in the room, covering the floor in them. Sephiroth looks away as you scan his body and the wing that's sprouted from his skin.

There are droplets of blood where the wing came from, he hisses as you touch the line but lets you do so anyway.

Fangs peek out from his pursed lips, as him nails dig into the coats fabric-

“I told you.” he shakes his head and tucks his wing into his body using his hands to preen away any loose feathers.

“You didn't tell me.” you argue “You didn't tell me that the man I see in front of me is the same caring and beautiful man I've met over the last few days.” only breathing is heard in the silence.

“Not a monster, that's the last thing you are.” you put your hand by your side. “That's how I view you.” He looks at you with a gaze full of mixed emotions, and shakes his head.

“You're stubborn, and a little naive. Both traits I've happened to fall for-” he scoffs and beckons you closer. He wraps his wing around you suddenly, pushing you closer to his tall frame. “I was taught to not reserve the same fate as others before me. But with someone like you it has become difficult to not make another ‘mistake’ as many would say.” he looks down at you, cheeks flushing a light red. “If I ask you to stay though… would you?” his wing twitches and lets you go.

“I-” you can think of the rumors and speculations when your garden grows over, its unchanging. 

“I would.” His wing instantly pushes you to his chest, an arm wrapping around your waist, You find your lips parting themselves.

“I'll forever cherish you my love, I promise.” He leans down closer to your face, brushing your hair away from your lips. And as the feeling of sharp fangs dig into your lips, you smile.

Finis.

A/N- This was for shits and giggles at first, clearly that changed. If you enjoyed it support my ao3! Thank you, Razzy <3

[holdupjack]

The Asylum Pt.1

——————

Pairing: Hermione Ganger x Fem!Reader

AU: Earlier 1900’s & Horror

WARNING: 18+ MINORS DNI/SUGGESTED RÄPE/GORE

——————

Third Person P.O.V:

July 1899

Y/n let out an anxious breath as she looked upon the Brightwood Asylum in the remote location in the north of Ireland.

Woods surrounded the structure, they were all dead and rotted, Y/n couldn't even see a living tree anywhere around her.

A bad omen.

Two horse-drawn buses stood dormant in the vacant lot as Y/n strolled near it, the animals were nowhere to be found. Her eyes shifted across the straps that lay on the ground, they had been cut free intentionally, but why?

It was a long walk to and from, and she should know, no one would take her here in the town a few kilometers/miles away. The feeling of eyes on her as she trudged her way through the woods was very prevalent.

Y/n looked back at the building and noticed it was eerily quiet, which was confusing since this place had bared windows that were always open. People in town had said that they could hear the patients screaming at night after most of the citizens had gone home.

One man she had talked to had said that the shrieks were the most common, but the calling for help from anyone, god, and the devil was the hardest to bear when he was outside past dusk.

Y/n had asked about a new patient that was brought here a few months ago, a woman around her age, that was accused of witchcraft in England.

The man had asked for a picture, to which the young woman quickly dug one out of her coin purse and showed him.

Hermione Granger, her girlfriend.

It had been a dubious trail, a constable had grown quite fond of Hermione since they crossed paths on her way to work in the local factory.

She had turned down his advancements kindly, but that wasn't enough. He had tried to force himself upon her one night, but Hermione was able to get away and run back home to her 'roommate'.

Like clockwork a few days later, she was placed in handcuffs under the suspicion of witchcraft. It turns out that the constable was a very well-liked and influential man, his reach stretched far into the justice system.

When Hermione arrived at the courtroom later that week, she had asked for a barrister to represent her in the trial, to which she soon found out that the officer had blacklisted her from any willing help.

She was completely ostracized.

Before Y/n knew it, her girlfriend was sentenced to life at Brightwood Asylum as a 'willing participant' for their observations.

Y/n was horrified by the letters Hermione would send her before they randomly stopped a month ago.

Her hand snuck into her coat pocket and pulled out the last letter she had received from her girlfriend.

'June 11th, 1899

Dear Y/n,

As you remember in my last letter, I have been hearing rumors from other women in the female ward that an uprising was on the horizon. It wasn't till this morning that my fears were confirmed, a woman named Susan, who suffers from random outbursts of chaotic episodes, came into my room and told me to stay inside tonight. She told me to not come out no matter what I heard or saw and to keep my door locked until another woman came to get me.

Susan kept insisting that I should not open my door to any man or doctor. I'm terrified of what tonight will entail.

If you do not hear from me again, please don't come here looking for answers.

Please Y/n, I need you to stay safe.

I forgot to ask you in my last letter, but didn't the moon look lovely last night?

Patiently waiting for your letters.

- Hermione Granger'

Y/n eyes shifted back onto the seemingly empty asylum as she folded the letter back into her pocket, and sighed,

"I can't just sit in our home and wonder what has happened to you" she whispers as she looks around the lot one last time.

Then she noticed a horse chewing on some grass at the edge of the treeline, at first she thought it was one of the bus horses, but then spotted a constable logo on the blanket under the saddle.

The man's story in town popped into her mind.

"A few weeks ago the screaming just stopped. At first, everyone was relieved! We watched as the day shift was taken up the trail the next morning, but the night shift never came down. That's when we knew something horrible had happened, the chief of police sent a group of men up there that night, and guess what? They haven't returned either."

Y/n shook her head and slowly made her way up to the entrance of the building, the doors rattled as she tried to open them, but it was locked tight.

She raised her knuckles to knock, but hushed whispers seeped through the cracks.

"Someone's at the doors, do you think it's the chief?" a man asks as another scoff in detest.

"No, he's too much of a git to come up here. Too afraid to see the monsters he created" he replied as the voice got closer to the door.

"Who is it." a gruff man asks through the door and Y/n clears her throat to respond clearly.

"My name is Y/n Y/l/n. I've come to check in on my friend, Hermione Granger. I haven't received a letter from her in quite some time, and I am worried" she replies, and it's quiet on the other end for a moment.

"The Asylum is closed until further notice, have the Chief of Police contact us for further orders" he replies, and Y/n furrows her brows in confusion.

"The Chief of Police? What does he have to do with this?" she asks and a sad chuckle comes from behind the door.

"Everything kid...everything."

Y/n paused and began hearing footsteps walk away, which made her panic.

"Wait! Is she okay?" she calls out, and the footsteps stop.

"Who were you looking for again?" a frail man's voice asks, someone different.

"Hermione Granger, she's on the third floor of the woman's ward, room 11B" Y/n replies as she hears the shuffling of paper.

"She is still alive, but please, leave before you get hurt," he says and Y/n shook her head out of pure confusion.

Still alive? Before you get hurt?

What the hell is going on?

"Wait-"

"We must go, I'm sorry"

"Hey! Wait! Tell me what's going on here!" Y/n yells as she pounds on the door, but it is no use, her questions aren't going to get answered with a door between her and the voices.

Y/n backed up into the lot and looked around the front of the building, Hermione had written in one of her letters that her window had a beautiful view of the town, so that must mean her room in the front.

She had said the female ward was on the right, but did she mean facing the building or away?

"Dammit" Y/n sighs as she began walking around the huge facility, looking for a ladder or basement that they might have left open.

"Please be a ladder-please be a ladder-"

Of course, there was no ladder, just a small walk down towards a door marked 'basement' in the back.

"For love" Y/n reminded herself as she slowly stepped down to the door, which she now realized had a bloody handprint smeared on it.

"If that doesn't scream 'walk in here and we'll kill you', then I don't know what does" she whispers with a nervous chuckle as the door opened with ease.

The smell of sulfur was pungent, almost making Y/n double back in disgust as she pressed her wrist to her nose.

"Oh god" she mumbled in horror as she closed the door behind her quietly, the hall had a track on one side, and the words 'MORGUE' with an arrow painted on the wall towards the door she came through.

There was a small building in the back that had a smoke stack coming from its small metal pipe in the roof like a blazing fire was stuck inside.

Y/n wouldn't be surprised if there was a cremator in it, it was the easiest way to hide any evidence of foul play for an Asylum.

Hermione had said that they seemed to be experimenting on any patients which caused a ruckus in the building.

This happened a lot, because there were many people stuck in this building with mental illnesses and disorders we don't understand yet.

Y/n found it horrible what they did to people who just don't understand what they have done wrong. Sometimes she thought the doctors didn't know either

The light flickered above her as she slowly walked down the passageway, a small whisper could be heard as she made her way toward the stairs next to the closed elevator.

It was locked purposely, a chain was wrapped around the door that would usually be pulled back to let someone off. To Y/n's surprise, she found a young man curled up and rocking in the fetal position, in his late teens, he was the whispering she had heard.

"Dr.Matthews doesn't like it when I'm not in my cell-but where is he?-is he sleeping in the supply closet with Nurse Rose again? No. I think he was the next to be-"

Suddenly the man looks up and stares at Y/n, her eyes widening in horror at the missing skin and tissue that is supposed to cover his right cheek. She could see his teeth without him having to open his mouth.

"You're not supposed to be here" he sang as he stood up and got closer to the steel door, Y/n opened her mouth a few times as she stared into his eyes.

"Who locked you in here?" she asked as he fiddled with the name bracelet on his wrist.

It said, Regi Willis.

"Dr.Matthews said he would be back for me, but he never returned yesterday" he mumbled as Y/n looked around the hall, she gazed near the stairs and noticed a dragging trail of blood that led through the broken-down door.

"I saw Willie take him in there, he screamed for so long until he either got away or gave in" Regi states as she looks back at him.

"I'll be right back, let me see if he dropped the key nearby" she whispers as he just nods and stares at his feet.

Y/n slowly followed the trail that no one should ever purposely investigate, but she just can't leave him to die in an elevator.

Slowly she poked her head into the dimly lit stairway and shut her eyes immediately at the sight she saw.

Presumably, Dr.Matthews lay on his stomach against the stairs. His pants and undergarments had been forcibly ripped away, and it wouldn't take a genius to put together what had happened to him. Dried blood trails had left paths down the back of his legs.

"Oh god..." Y/n whispered as she opened her eyes again and slowly walked over to what was left of his pants, which lay next to his body.

Her hands shook uncontrollably as she searched for the key, hoping to save at least more than one person from this god-forsaken place.

"Help me" a horse voice whispers next to her, causing Y/n to stumble away, looking at what she thought was a dead body. His eyes were barely open, and his lips were cracked from lack of hydration.

"Dr.Matthews?" Y/n whispers as a tear falls from the corner of his eye onto the wooden stairs.

"Please help me," he said again, and Y/n nodded quickly.

"I am, I've come for my friend, but I'll have this place swarming with help soon" she replies as he begins to sob, either in relief that this nightmare was almost over or the fact that it would still be a while before any help came.

Y/n wasn't sure.

"He broke my spine, I can't move" Dr.Matthews whispers as Y/n quickly searches through his pants pocket, and finds the key.

"Regi might be able to help, let me go unlock him," Y/n says and the doctor sighs in relief.

"He's okay? Thank god" he states as Y/n quickly runs towards the elevator.

"Regi? Dr.Matthews needs your help. Do you think you can carry him to the town hospital?" Y/n asks as she finds him still standing where she left him.

"Yes. Dr.Matthews is my friend! He saved me from the room with the lightning" he replies as the Y/n shoved the key in the lock and watched as the chain fell to the ground.

As she opened the door, Regi quickly stepped out and walked toward the stairway, Y/n followed after and stuffed the key in her pants pocket.

"Hi, Dr.Matthews" Regi whispered as he stood at the doorway, biting his nails, the doctor let out a soft chuckle and sighed happily.

"Hi Regi, are you alright?" he asks as Y/n takes off her coat and places it around the man's lower region.

"I'm okay, are you okay?" he asked as he stepped closer and watched the young woman slowly flip the doctor onto his back.

"No, I'm not" he replies calmly, almost like he wasn't just desperately asking for help earlier.

"Regi, I need you to carry Dr.Matthews to town. He'll be able to get help and save some more of your friends in here." Y/n says as the young boy nods and begins to take the older man into his arms.

"You're my friend now, right?" he asked and Y/n smiled at the boy.

"Of course Regi, my name is Y/n" she replies as the boy smiles back, looking happy that she had agreed to be his friend.

"I have four friends now Dr.Matthews," he says happily, to which the older man smiled.

"That's wonderful Regi, maybe we could all get together and eat dinner after all of this?" he asks and the boy grinned, his loose skin stretching around his exposed teeth.

Even in tremendous pain, the doctor still cared about his patients more than anything.

"Oh Y/n, take this key in my front pocket before we depart" the doctor states as she quickly pulls out a silver skeleton key from his shirt pocket.

"This will unlock most doors in the facility," he says as his eyes meet hers.

"Will it open the cells?" she asks and his eyebrows flew up in surprise.

"No, why would you want to do that?" he asks and Y/n lets out a breath.

"My...friend is here, and she's not supposed to be" Y/n whispers as she averted her gaze.

"Who is it?" Regi asks as he taps his fingers on Dr.Mathews's side in an unknown rhythm, she quickly looks back at him with a smile.

"Hermione Granger, she's on the third floor" she replies as his smile resurfaces like an empty water bottle that had been held underwater.

"She's my friend too, she gives me her pudding at lunch" he stated as Y/n chuckled, and slowly escorted them back into the hall.

"That sounds like her, I bet she'd love it if all of us got together" Y/n states as points to the door at the end of the corridor. Maybe it was just to calm the boy's mind, or maybe it was to calm her own, but these promises did sound nice. Especially in the place she has not even been in for half an hour.

"Go out that door and follow the road back to town, Dr.Matthews will get help and hopefully get this mess handled," Y/n says as Regi nods as the doctor begins to speak to him in a quiet voice, something about getting him some honey-covered fruit. She watched the boy shuffle off to the door at the end of the long hallway, noticing the way his body shifted from side to side with each step.

Once she heard the door creak open and slam shut again, a sudden feeling of isolation took over Y/n's body. Feeling the way the air on her body stood at attention in the dim lighting, the distant songs of yelling and footsteps made it even more uncomfortable for her.

Her eyes slowly turned toward the stairs case, a beat of sweat across her forehead as she took a deep breath. One foot in front of the other. That's it. Just take it slow.

Each step up the stairs was quiet and calculated. All she had to do was sneak up to the third floor, get through the male ward, across the lobby, and into the female ward.

Easier said than done.

Once she made it to the main floor, she could hear the men from the front door were bickering to each other. Y/n slowly peeked her head around the corner, seeing their silhouettes dancing against the wall.

"Are you sure Willie has been secured back in his cell? God, did you see what he did to Dr.Matthews? It wasn't supposed to be like this man, we were only trying to get better care, but the-" the frail voice was cut off by the more dominant one, who silenced him with a simple wave us his hand.

"Yes, that monster is back in his secured cell, and speaking of Doctor Matthews, why don't you put him in the incinerator out back?" he responded and Y/n's eyes widened in fear. What the hell is going to happen when they realize he's gone?

"Incinerator? Do you hear yourself? That man may have been a whore, but at least he was kind-" he was cut off again.

"Don't you get it, Bernie? If the Chief finds out that we let one of our hostages get assaulted to death, don't you think he'll have us lined up against the wall?! This is life or death for us, so do as you're told! And kill Regi! His yapping mouth will give us away for sure!" The gruff man yelled as Y/n saw one of the shadows move quickly, which caused her to throw caution to the window and run up the next flight of stairs.

Y/n found the second floor to be completely pitch black, even the emergency lights were busted out. She squinted her eyes in the darkness before shaking her head and taking her chances to sneak up to the third floor. This time she was much quieter again, her head peaking over the railing to see a figure walking down to the basement.

She didn't have time, and a hiding place was the best option at the moment. Y/n took a small breath before finally making it to the fully lit third floor.

"Mark! Mark! Dr.Matthews is gone!" A voice rang out before Y/n felt the hairs stand up even taller, her body subconsciously moved into the empty hallway before quietly fitting under the nurse's station desk. Her heart pounded like someone was squeezing clay between their fingers and letting go.

She pulled in a chair to cover herself better on the exposed side of the desk. Y/n could hear the sound of footsteps running up and down the stairwell. Panicked voices repeating questions or not even getting them answered.

"Someone's here! Someone has to be here! Who would have let Regi out of the elevator? Dr.Matthews was dead! Or at least at its doorstep!" The man, apparently named Mark, says. The other one, Bernie, was mumbling incoherent prayers, almost like he was on the verge of tears.

Y/n swallowed the lump in her throat as she heard the footsteps get closer, slowly coming up the stairwell and into the hallway. Then it was quiet, a few sniffles from Bernie passed by until a deep breath was let out.

"That kid from the door...what was her name?" Mark asks almost directly in front of the nurse's station. Y/n covered her mouth to stifle the loud breathing that tried to escape her as her heart pounded like a drum circle.

"Y/n, Y/n Y/l/n" Bernie responded as he took a deep breath as well, but much shakier than Marks. Then there was silence again.

"She had said that Hermione was the reason she was here" Mark hummed as his footsteps slowly walked toward the other end of the hallway, back toward the stairs. Y/n wanted to move, but the chair was in her way, and she's screwed if it scrapped on the ground or slammed into something else.

All she had to do was wait.

"Look for her, now"

This might take a while.

[pastanest]

Jon Snow x she/her!reader

warning: brief reference to attempted SA

part one can be found here

Yours - Part Two

Tension rose between the two hot-headed siblings as they discussed the plan for their future, where such a plan would take them. Sansa was set on starting a war with Ramsay Bolton and taking back their home, saving you in the process, but having already been aged by the ways of war, Jon stood to his feet.

“I am tired of fighting. It’s all I’ve done since I left home. I’ve killed brothers of the Night’s Watch, I’ve killed wildlings, I’ve killed men that I admire, I hanged a boy, younger than Bran! I’ve fought, and I lost.” He was exhausted, in mind, body and soul.

But when Sansa stepped toward her brother and held his gaze, she knew exactly what she needed to say.

“You have not lost, because she is still waiting for you. She will believe until the day she dies that you are coming to save her, because that is who you are to her. You’ve fought, and now you must fight for her.” 

Something flickered in Jon then, a spark that only you could ignite. “I have always fought for her.”

“Then do it once more. This time, knowing she is on the other side. If we don’t take back the north, we’ll never be safe. I want you to help me, but I’ll do it myself if I have to.” Sansa raised an eyebrow, seeing the fire in her brother’s eyes and knowing that you have succeeded, as you always have, in bringing Jon Snow back to his senses.

It was only then, Sansa chose to disclose the nature of your capture. With every detail, Jon’s blood boiled in his veins. Chained by one wrist to the leg of a bed, forced to live each day and night on the castle floor, in complete darkness, save for when Ramsay Bolton decided to pay you a visit for a regular beating. That particular comment made Jon visibly flinch, fists clenching at the thought of getting his hands on the man that thought he had any right to touch you. While Sansa tried to free you, the door to the room you were trapped in was locked and she did not have time to search for the key, you would not let her, instead you had been shouting for her to go, to escape to the Wall, to Jon. 

In that moment, Jon Snow knew he was ready to beat Ramsay Bolton to death. And that was only exacerbated by the raven he decided to send to the wall, addressed to Jon, regarding his sister and younger brother, Rickon, with disgusting threats. There was no mention of you in the letter, but Sansa assured Jon this was a good thing, because it meant Ramsay did not intend to use you as a bargain, he did not think you were important enough, so he would keep you alive as his plaything. Jon did not find that as comforting as Sansa had intended. 

Following Sansa’s advice, Jon arranged a meeting with Ramsay Bolton upon gathering his forces. By no means did they have enough men to truly beat Ramsay, but Jon was certain that he alone could blaze through an army, knowing you were on the other side of it. 

Naturally, Ramsay arrived late to their meeting, leaving Jon, Sansa, and their accompanying party of Lords and Ladies from the northern houses that had rallied behind them, waiting in the clear field that surrounded Winterfell until Ramsay Bolton approached on his horse with his own display of Lords.

Smiling at Sansa on his arrival, Ramsay addressed her first, then looked to Jon, seemingly bemused by the sight of him as he greeted him with far less respect, if that is what his greeting to his wife could be deemed as. 

“Come, bastard, you don't have the men, you don't have the horses, and you don't have Winterfell - why lead those poor souls to slaughter? There’s no need for a battle, get off your horse and kneel. I am a man of mercy”

Jon smirked at him. “You’re right, there’s no need for a battle. Thousands of men dont need to die, only one of us. Let’s end this the old way - you against me.”

And Jon so wished the bastard opposite him would be foolish enough to agree. He could be the greatest fighter in the history of Westeros, and Jon would fancy his chances, for you.

Unfortunately, Ramsay laughed at that suggestion. “I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people in the North talk about you, you’re the greatest swordsman who ever walked. Maybe you are that good, maybe not. I don't know if I’d beat you, but I know that my army will beat yours. I have 6,000 men, you have, what, half that? Not even?”

Jon was thoroughly enjoyed taunting such a petulant child. “Aye, you have the numbers. Will your men want to fight for you, when they hear you wouldn't fight for them?”

Ramsay pointed to Jon, laughing. “He’s good, very good. Tell me, will you let your little brother die because you’re too proud to surrender?”

It was then, Sansa spoke up. “How do we know you have him?”

And with a nod from Ramsay, one of his men threw the severed head of Rickon’s direwolf in between their respective parties.

Trying her best not to show any kind of reaction on her face, Sansa nodded. “And what of my maid?”

Ramsay shrugged. “Well, dear wife, with you gone, I will have no choice but to turn to the others at my disposal, to…serve me.” 

It took more strength than Jon Snow had ever had to conjure up for anything, to not launch himself from his horse and tackle Ramsay from his, beating him into the earth below. With everything he had, he held onto what was at stake, what Sansa had advised him would keep him safest, and held his ground, restricting his visceral response to Ramsay’s words to the slightest clench of his own horse’s reins. “I wonder, will your men want to fight for you when they find out the only women you can keep at your side are your prisoners? A man who cannot please a woman is hardly one to inspire the heart’s of men.”

Ramsay tilted his head to the side, his ego clearly pricked by the notion of being undesirable. “Do you mean to tell me, bastard, that you broke your sacred Oath as well as deserted your post?”

At that, Jon scoffed. “No man would ask such a question, but a boy would. Killing your father does not make you a man, neither does forcing yourself upon a thousand slaves.”

Ramsay composed himself, Jon only picking up on the tiniest flash of a tantrum behind his eyes. “I have heard of your righteousness, bastard. That, I suppose, is the one thing you must have received from your father, and look where it got him.”

Oh, Jon Snow knew he was going to enjoy dragging out Ramsay Bolton’s death for as long as possible. 

For the rest of the day, following the conclusion of their meeting, Jon’s mind was spinning with the threats Ramsay Bolton had made against you and your virtue. He hoped to the Gods he had not given himself away in his fists clenched the reigns of his horse, but that was the most he could do to conceal the fury that raged within him. Even during the continued discussions of the battle plan he had formed with his men, thoughts of you tugged at the back of Jon’s mind constantly. Having once again butted heads with Sansa, she began to take her leave from the tent Jon was situated in.

Turning to face him one last time, she held his gaze. “If Ramsay wins, I'm not going back there alive. Do you understand me?”

Jon’s heart sank in his chest, immediately understanding what she was insinuating. “I won't ever let him touch you, or (Y/N), again. I’ll protect you both, I promise.”

In her angered, traumatized state, Sansa seemed almost offended at such a sincere promise. “No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone.”

He dared not argue with her, but he knew that she was wrong. Jon would protect her, and you, even if it killed him. To die for someone he loved would be a better demise than his first. 

That night, Jon Snow laid in the bed of his tent and stared up at the ceiling. He knew he needed the rest, but could not quiet his mind in the wake of what the dawn would bring. A war like none he had ever faced, with you on the other side. Reaching into the shirt pocket that sat directly above his heart, Jon retrieved the folded, aged piece of parchment that was worn and faded by the countless instances of him rereading it. Huffing beside his bed, Ghost nudged the back of Jon’s hand, bringing a soft smile back to his face as he tore his gaze from the page. 

“We’ll get her back, Ghost, we have to.” He whispered, and Ghost breathed deeply in response, agreeing in his own way.

Following suit, Jon took a deep breath of his own and closed his eyes, folding the parchment back into a neat square and slotting it back into his pocket, feeling a piece of him returning as he did. He envisioned himself as the boy he once was, lying in the godswood, under the weirwood tree, with his head on your lap as you ran your fingers through his hair. If he focussed hard enough, he could almost feel your fingertips against his scalp. That was the only sensation that could bring rest to his racing mind, on the eve of war.

The next morning, the sun rose high, illuminating the field of battle as Jon rode his men to their frontline. Seeing the army that stood between himself and you, Jon began to doubt whether he really could make it to the other side. That was, until a raven flew from one side of the field to the other. Upon one of the wildlings shooting it down, Jon was handed a small scroll of parchment tied with a torn black cord, a slightly crooked sword charm hanging from it, and a strand of your hair that fell with a wind that slowed time to a stop as Jon untied it with trembling hands. Seeing red, his eyes scanned the page, the words that were written on it, and the heart that he firmly believed still resided with you dropped to the field below him.

“She screamed terribly for you when I tried to take this from her. The bastard’s common whore screamed loudest for me, in the end. But fear not, she won’t be making a sound like that again, or any other for that matter. 

I’ll let you watch her rot, if you like. 

Come and see.”

The parchment fell from Jon Snow’s shaking fists, landing on the ground atop the hair that Ramsay Bolton had ripped from your head, but the necklace stayed clenched in Jon’s fist. It couldn’t be true, he told himself, he would feel it if you were no longer there, if you were not waiting for him anymore. As hard as it hammered in his chest, his heart felt the same way it did before, that it was not truly with him. It would have returned to him, were you not there to take care of it anymore, he thought. But deep within his soul, Jon knew that his heart would stay with you long after yours had stopped beating, for his heart had been with you when it had stopped beating in his own body. He truly believed that you were what had brought him back to this life in that sense. What would be the purpose in bringing his greatest motivation for winning such a battle, leading him to the field of war and then taking you from him. It did not make sense, Jon thought, and used that to rationalize to himself that Ramsay Bolton was simply lying for the sake of distracting him. Little did Ramsay know, Jon’s mind was solely on you regardless of such a threat.

And as he unclenched his fists to tie the black cord at the back of his neck, icy gaze fixed on the form he recognised on the opposite side of the field, Jon Snow knew that he would make it through any number of men to punish the one that dared to take a single hair from your head.

The short lived hope of being able to save his younger brother, Rickon, only set Jon’s resolve further into stone. Through a sea of arrows, Jon Snow rode his horse until he was thrown from it, and then he stood. Arrows at his feet that stuck upright, having failed in harming him in a way that reassured him the Gods were on his side once more. And as he faced the army that charged towards him, a single man serving as the front line, Jon’s life flashed before his eyes. He saw your smile, and over the sound of horses and men, he heard your laugh, your call of his name. For the briefest moment, Jon swore he could see you standing at one of the windows of Winterfell in the distance, but the version of you remembered so fondly was years younger than the one that he was here to save. The emotional weight of the sword charm at his chest and your first letter to him folded in the pocket over his heart, made it difficult for him to breathe, and he knew that this was it. Nodding to himself, he unclasped the belt of his sword and unsheathed it, standing to face the wall of men that charged for him, knowing that regardless of whether Ramsay Bolton was telling the truth, you were still on the other side. If Jon Snow could not save you, he would still fight for the right to rescue what was left of you and ensure you were laid to rest in the way you deserved, with his journey’s end being at your side when this was all over. The fury with which he would fight for you was unchanged, because it was still you he was fighting for, it would always be you.

And he fought harder than he had ever fought in his life, ending more lives than he could count without any regard for the men they were, whether he had known them once. If they were standing on the path that led to you, Jon Snow did not know them anymore.

Before long, the bodies had formed a wall at his rear and a living blockade of flayed-man banners at every other side began closing in on Jon and the men that had followed him into battle. His mind raced, every step and every swing of his sword accompanied by the mantra of your name, his very reason for being. For a fraction of a second, suffocating beneath the weight of his own army, he wondered if dying for you then was the best outcome, if you truly were not waiting for him in the land of the living, it would be his one means of returning to you at long last. 

And then, the Eyrie’s horn sounded, with Sansa watching on from afar as they rode into battle for her, for you, for Winterfell. Many had told her the field of battle was no place for a woman, but Sansa would never sit back and let Jon fight for you on his own. She said she would finish this herself if she had to, and she did.

Bursting free from the trap that had been set by the enemy, with WunWun the giant on his left and his dear friend Tormund on his right, Jon Snow charged the field on foot with one deserter in his sights.

At the gates of Winterfell, WunWun took arrow after arrow, but crashed through the only barrier remaining between Jon and his home. Defeated and exhausted, the giant collapsed to his knees with a mighty yell, sharing a long glance with Jon at his side before falling forward. Wildlings rushed to surround him, protecting the giant from any further harm, and the blood soaked Snow stood before his greatest enemy.

“You suggested one-on-one combat, didnt you? I’ve reconsidered! I think that sounds like a wonderful idea.” Ramsay taunted, readying his bow.

And Jon lunged for a shield on the ground, raising it just in time to take the impact of the first arrow Ramsey fired, then the second and the third. None dared to break Jon’s stride before he reached Ramsay and slammed the shield into him, knocking him to the ground. Like a feral animal, Jon Snow jumped on him, the fury of an ancient dragon awaking from an age-old sleep burning in his veins, vision crimson with rage, knowing nothing except for your name, again and again and again, with every crunch of his fists against the red of Ramsay’s face.

It was only when Jon glanced up at Sansa that he was able to regain some composure, his chest heaving as he rose to his feet and stood over the sputtering Bolton bastard.

“You will never touch my sister again. And if you have harmed (Y/N) in the same way, if you have done her any disservice, if there is a fingerprint of yours on her, I’ll know, and I will relive the joy of your death in every dream I have for the rest of my days.” Jon Snow seethed, the flayed-man banner falling from the walls of Winterfell as its children finally returned home.

Running to his side, Ghost began licking at Jon’s palm, and Jon turned to him, crouching down and staring into the direwolf’s eyes.

“Find her, Ghost, take me to her.” He pleaded, not truly understanding how much his companion could comprehend, but knowing the second the beast took off inside the castle that Ghost understood exactly what had been asked of him.

With the spark of you reignited within him, Jon hurried after the white, blood spattered direwolf, your voice in his head calling out to him, growing more urgent with each whisper.

In the darkness of your cell, you rock yourself, your arms wrapped around your knees, attempting to tune out the noise from beyond the confinement of your cage. A large thud against the door sends a shock through your shivering form and you suck in a sharp breath, squeezing your eyes shut and focussing on the first memory you can grab at, deep in your subconscious. 

“It was only a dream, (Y/N), it’s alright.” Jon’s hushed whisper reaches you, both so much younger than you are now.

“The fire, it was so-” Your younger voice was panicked, sobs catching in your throat as Jon’s arms squeezed you.

“You are safe, I promise. I’ve got you.” 

Another thud at your prison door pulls you back to the present and you shake your head rapidly, desperate to lock yourself away in the memory of being in your best friend’s arms again, the safest place in the world that you had come to know. If you focus hard enough, you can almost feel them around you. Almost hear his soft voice in your ears, comforting you, lulling you back to sleep. 

A final thud against the door sends burning light into the room and you squeeze your eyes shut harder, shaking your head and burying your face in your knees.

“It’ll pass, it’ll pass, it’ll pass.” You whimper to yourself, over and over again in an attempt to reassure yourself.

Large hands on your shoulders cause you to snap your head up, eyes wide and wild with fear and anger, but no tears blur them, you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“LET GO OF ME, GET AWAY!” You scream, trying to back away from him, but already having your back to the wall beside the leg of the bed that you are chained to.

The hands leave your shoulders and raise in surrender, either side of a blurry, bloody face that your terrified eyes can’t yet focus on. 

“(Y/N), (Y/N), it’s me, look at me, it’s your Jon.” A familiar voice reaches your ears, and your wild mind halts to a sudden stop, the fog clearing and allowing you to see the face before you.

Jon watches your rigid, frightened expression falter, before it softens completely, his fractured heart at seeing you so afraid, healing at the recognition now in your eyes.

Very slowly, he takes ahold of your hands and brings them to his blood spattered face, gently holding them there and staring into your eyes.

“It’s your Jon, it’ll always be your Jon.” He tells you, relief flooding through him at being able to say such a thing to you, alive and safe again. 

And after everything, after the countless days and nights spent surviving in darkness, locking yourself away in memories to avoid being mentally present in the regular acts of torture you were forced to endure, only when holding Jon Snow’s face in your hands and knowing you are truly safe, do you finally let the tears you’ve been burying fill your eyes. 

Without sparing a second, Jon shuffles forwards and pulls you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around you and softly shushing you as you sob into his chest. Covering your ears to shield them, not wanting to scare you, Jon yells out for someone, a ginger haired wildling running into the room with wide eyes at the sight of his friend, reunited with the love he had only heard him mention in moments when it wasn’t too painful for him to do so. With a nod, Tormund leaves the room and passes the order given to him by Jon amongst the wildlings, and between them they turn Winterfell on its head in search of the key for your chain. 

For the time it takes them to find it, you stay safely nestled in Jon’s arms, cries slowing to a stop, allowing you to listen to his heartbeat, a sound that you had not realized just how much you had missed. 

“D-Did…” You sigh, humiliated by your loss of ability to talk after being silent or screaming in an act of survival for so long. Jon squeezes your form gently in his arms, encouraging you to try again, he’ll wait, he’ll wait forever if he has to. Taking a deep breath, you clear your throat.

“Did you kill him?”

Jon takes a moment to reply. “Very nearly. Had Sansa not stopped me, I think I would have broken every knuckle I’ve got before I could have stopped myself.” He pauses. “The two of you should decide what to do with him, but you don’t need to worry about that now.”

Removing his arms from you briefly, Jon moves his hands to the back of his neck to untie the necklace. At the loss of contact, you lift your head from his chest to meet his eyes, and upon him opening his hand out to show you the necklace that had been so cruelly taken from you, you gasp, holding the base of your neck where it had previously resided. Turning away from Jon, he smiles softly and moves the necklace to your front, carefully tying it at the back of your neck. Feeling it back in place, you breathe deeply and settle back into Jon’s arms.

“That was all he took from me, you know.” 

Jon frowns. “What do you mean?”

“He tried to take more, but I bit him through his trousers, so he has been…out of commission, shall we say, ever since.” The subtle tone in your voice is one Jon is so certain he recognises as smug.

Kissing your temple, he can’t wipe the smile from his face. “I am sorry that you had to do such a thing, but I am so proud of you, all the same.”

Sansa enters the room then, Ghost at her side and key in hand. She gasps at the sight of you, running to you and falling to her knees. Taking ahold of your hand and passing the key to Jon, she closes her eyes in a pained blink.

“I am so, so sorry that I left you here, (Y/N). Can you ever forgive me?” Her eyes open then, searching yours and seeing only a smile on your face.

Freeing your other wrist from the chain it had been confined in, you twist and stretch it before placing your other hand over hers.

“There’s nothing to apologize for and nothing to forgive.”

Sansa shares a look with Jon, both of them with knowing smiles, as those had been his very words when Sansa had been apologizing for her treatment of him as a child when she had not long arrived at the Wall.

“You really are the best of us, (Y/N).” Sansa chuckles in disbelief. “It’s about time we got you cleaned up and out of those rags, too. I’m sure Jon will see to that, and I’ll get a room ready for the two of you.” With a teasing smile, she rises to her feet and all but floats out of the room, leaving you and Jon with flushed faces.

Busying yourself with greeting Ghost and rubbing behind his ears, you try your hardest to distract yourself from the butterflies that have burst to life in your stomach after so many years of dormancy. 

Clearing his throat, Jon taps your leg. “She’s right, y’know, we’d best get you cleaned up. There’s someone I’d like you to meet, when you feel up to it.”

Raising an eyebrow at him, you shakily bring yourself to stand, Jon’s hands holding your waist to keep you steady. “Who?”

At that, Jon Snow gives you the first dazzling smile that you have seen in Gods only know how long. “All in good time, my Lady.”

In your attempts to take your first steps on wobbling legs, Jon swallows the lump that forms in his throat, seeing the strong person that he adores more than any other, reduced to such physical weakness. If his hands were not on your waist, they would be returning to Ramsay’s face in several more punches for good measure.

Sensing your frustration and embarrassment at your own lack of mobility, Jon doesn’t hesitate to swing you up into his arms, carrying you like the bride he had always wished was his. 

“I take it I don’t have to ask you to retract the bedding ceremony from our marriage at this time?” You tease in reference to the thought that the two of you share in being carried through the castle in such a way, bringing a laugh from Jon that he feels he hasn’t heard from himself in as long as you have.

“Even in more ideal circumstances, I’d never let that happen. Wouldn’t be right to break a man’s jaw on our wedding night.” He says, eyes never leading yours as he traverses the winding staircases of the castle he has not ventured since he was a boy, but are etched in his memory regardless.

Giggling and patting his chest, you shake your heard bashfully. “Good to know the Night’s Watch didn’t remove your chivalry, Lord Jon.” You gasp. “Gods! That really is your title now, as Lord Commander, isn’t it?”

Having not had a smile on his face for this length of time in many years, Jon feels an ache forming in the corners of his mouth, but doesn’t care at all. “Aye, I was, for a time, but my watch has ended.”

It’s then, a confused frown that Jon remembers well returns to your face, years older than he had last seen it, but no less endearing to him. “But...your watch only ends as a dead man?”

Jon nods as he descends the final staircase and kicks an all too familiar door open. “It’s a long story, one for another time.”

You want to question him further, but when your peripheral vision registers where Jon has carried you, you turn your head to look around, your jaw dropping.

Though the room is dark, you recognise every corner enshrouded in the shadows. The large and ancient communal bath that sits atop the hot spring that is Winterfell’s source of heated water, that none use in favor of their own personal baths, but had been your preferred method of cleanliness ever since you and Jon had discovered the dark and “secret” room when you were children. Placing you back on your feet gently, one of his hands on your waist and the other cradling your elbow to steady you, Jon’s gaze stays locked on your expression at his side, remembering this place with as much fondness as you do. 

“This is about to be a bath for the ages. I will stay in this water for a week, at least, ‘til I am but a shriveled prune and you will have no choice but to drag me out against my will.” You tell him, tone so serious and words so humorous they pull another hearty laugh from Jon.

“We’d best get that week-long-bath started, then. I shan’t keep you and your heart’s true desire apart any longer.” He plays along, making you smile as you step in front of him, nodding to yourself.

Taking his cue, Jon lets go of you and turns around, expecting to give you the privacy to strip free of the filthy rags you have been kept in and stepping into the water to conceal yourself, until he hears you hiss in pain.

“Jon, I…I don’t intend to make you uncomfortable, but I do not think I can take this off without help.” You admit, embarrassed for too many reasons to list. 

“It would cause me no discomfort at all, but are you certain you are comfortable with me…assisting you?” Jon asks in a soft voice, careful with his choice of words.

“Of course. You could never make me uncomfortable, Jon.” You respond without delay.

Needing no further instruction, Jon Snow takes a deep breath and turns around. With your back to him, you raise your arms and wait for trembling hands to lift the hem of your dress - if you could call a ripped potato sack such a thing - up and over your head. Dropping the fabric to the floor, Jon immediately turns around again, face burning.

“Thank you.” Your voice is meak, filled with shame over your true love seeing you bare for the first time, filthy, bloody and bruised.

All the while, Jon Snow is trying to remember how to breathe while the mental image of your naked form imprints itself into his flailing mind. The dirt had not even crossed his mind. Your injuries, of course, brought him sadness and anger, but the triumphant emotion was one he is not willing to admit, even to himself.

Taking slow and careful steps, you reach the water’s edge and lower yourself to sit on it, slipping your legs into the water and breathing a sigh of relief as the heat envelopes you immediately, inviting you in until your body is completely submerged and at peace. Every ache within your beaten body is soothed and you are quick to scrub the dirt from yourself, to be clean of your days caged and the memories that clung to your skin like the dried blood of your wounds. 

Hearing the gentle slosh of the water, Jon settles as he realizes you are no longer standing behind him. Standing up straight, he fixes his gaze on the closed door and decides that he will keep watch. As you raise your head from the water, you see his silhouette standing at the door and smile, unable to withdraw the connection your mind makes between this picture and the one you saw so many times as a girl, of a much younger Jon Snow standing as he is now, shorter then, but just as determined to keep watch while you were vulnerable in the water. 

“Y’know, you could do with a wash, yourself.” You note aloud.

Jon chuckles airily. “Aye, you’re probably right.”

Smirking in advance of your devious plan to make Jon blush again, you glide over to the edge of the water and rest your arms on the cold stone. “Join me then.”

And you watch in absolute glee as Jon’s form turns rigid at your suggestion. He does not answer.

“Jon?” You call in a singsong voice.

He clears his throat. “Hm?”

“As grotesque as my body is in its current state, I did not imagine you would ever reject an offer to join me?” You tease, only half joking.

Jon’s reaction is visceral. In a second, he is standing over you with a harsh frown, having had no thought in the effect the sight of you below him in such a way would have on him, too focussed on his emotional response to the ridiculousness in what you had said.

“I cannot even bring myself to say such a word in association to you, the thought alone would be criminal. Do not allow yourself to think that I could see you as anything less than the most beautiful person to ever exist, as you have always been and will always be to me.” 

You have never heard Jon so serious in all your life. His words and the sincerity with which they are spoken renders you speechless for a moment as you stare up at him. 

“Won’t you let me share such a view, of you, then?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper.

And after a moment’s eternity of silence, as though practicing some ancient dance, the two of you step apart from each other and turn your backs, neither of you able to face the tension a moment longer.

The sound of Jon’s armor hitting the stone floor sends goosebumps erupting across the tops of your shoulders that peak above the water, your heartbeats ringing in your ears almost in unison. Even when you hear the splash of his body entering the water, you do not dare turn to face him. As quickly as he can, he fully submerges himself in the water and scrubs the blood and dirt from a battle won. Then, Jon Snow stands, slowly wading through the water until he stands behind you. It is your turn to take a deep breath as you turn to face him, your eyes drinking in the sight of his clean face, the scars on his chest sitting distorted beneath the water, and to take his mind away from the pain of what you assume are his battlescars, your hands lift from the water to trace the line of his beard with an admiring smile. 

“I always knew you’d suit a beard.” You compliment him, easing his nerves as he laughs, gracing you with another charming smile.

Your hands continue their journey around the back of his neck, feeling the wet, inky curls of his hair there and sighing deeply.

“Truly, you have the best hair in the seven kingdoms.”

And Jon laughs the hardest he has in longer than he can remember, throwing his head back and shaking it as though emphasizing the hair that you have never failed to shower in praise, making you laugh with him.

Taking ahold of your hands at the back of his neck, Jon brings them to his lips and places feathery light kisses against your knuckles, holding your gaze. 

“I have missed you more than words can say.” He whispers. 

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Is that your excuse for not writing me any, then?”

Jon sighs, closing his eyes and hanging his head in shame. “I am so sorry.”

Chuckling, you lift his chin with your finger until you can see into his eyes again. “Considering you won a battle for me today, I think I can forgive you for not having time to read my letters.”

Jon smiles at you gratefully. “I read them all before coming to get you, I swear it.”

“And I believe you, as I always have. I believed you’d read them, I believed you would rescue me, and both rang true in the end. It seems my faith is safe.” You beam up at him.

“Your faith in what?” He questions.

“My Jon.” You tell him, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world, and the moment he hears it, he agrees that it is. 

Unable to resist you a moment longer, Jon’s arms wrap around your waist and pull your body flush against his, lips falling on yours in a kiss softer than a summer breeze. Briefly, he falters, wondering if perhaps he has acted on his instincts far too soon, but then he feels your fingers running through his curls, pulling him into a deeper kiss than he had assumed you would be ready for, but you have been waiting far too long for this. 

Only when the two of you recall the human need to breathe do you have the strength to pull away from each other. But Jon’s lips chase after you, leaving a trail of kisses from the corners of your mouth to your chin, your cheeks, your temples, your neck, with pleading whispers in between.

“Will you be mine, my wife- my queen, should the north call for a king? I cannot lose you again, I cannot deny myself the dream of us anymore.”

And in equally flustered, desperate whispers, you answer. “Yes to all and yes to any. I have always been yours, Jon.”

For a time, it feels like the two of you are the only people in existence, the world having stopped around you, the Gods having paused time to allow you to hold each other for your own eternity. It is not the time for love beyond a passionate kiss, both of your bodies need to heal and rest after the battles you have fought and won, together, to get back to each other. To simply hold each other, after so many years apart, is the greatest joy either of you can ask for.

But, time cannot be slowed forever. Soon enough, there is a knock at the door of the bath and in a wild panic that has you in fits of giggles, Jon scrambles from the water and grabs his armor, holding it over himself to answer the door to the young squire that has kindly delivered fresh clothes and towels for the two of you to dry yourselves with. Nodding and thanking the squire, Jon takes the pile from him and closes the door, turning back to face you with a sheepish expression and only seeing the humor in it when he finds you wheezing against the side of the bath.

Once dry and dressed, the two of you make your way to the door, pinky fingers intertwined between you out of habit. Until your boot steps on something that does not sound like the stone floor and you frown, bending down to pick up a folded piece of parchment, worn at the edges and ink fading in the handwriting that you recognise to be your own as you unfold it. Turning to face Jon, you meet his gaze and know you do not need to say anything as you fold the parchment back into the neat square in which you had found it and slot it the pocket of his new,  clean shirt. Holding your hand over it, you lean up to kiss his cheek and, intertwining your pinky fingers again, you ascend the stairs together and step out into the courtyard of Winterfell. There, your eyes immediately lock onto the sight of the immense form of the hunched over giant, sitting against one of the stone walls as some wildlings watch over him. The child within you gasps, your hands covering your mouth in delight as you look between Jon and the giant frantically.

Laughing endearingly at you, Jon gestures to the giant and walks you over to him. “(Y/N), I’d like you to meet Wun Wun.”

Unable to tear your gaze from the giant, you approach him slowly. “Hello, Wun Wun, it’s…it’s been a dream of mine to meet someone like you, ever since I was a little girl.” Looking over him and his injuries, tears immediately sting your eyes. “I am so sorry that you got hurt, are you in pain? I can fetch you some milk of the poppy, if you like? Or fix up some stew for you?”

Wun Wun watches you with a frown that seems to be etched into his features, curious of you. Taking a few seconds, the giant processes what you have said, looks to Jon and then back to you.

“Snow princess.” His voice is like a tumbling boulder, thunderous and without the human pitch-difference that is associated with asking a question, but Jon understands what he is asking.

“(Y/N) would be my queen.” Jon clarifies, and Wun Wun blinks slowly.

“Snow Queen.” He attempts to maneuver his large form, but roars in protest at his own injuries.

Raising your arms, you attempt to stop him. “Please, don’t hurt yourself further!”

Jon remembers how Wun Wun had acted towards the Princess Shireen and takes a step forward. “You don’t need to kneel to us, Wun Wun, you are our friend, our equal. You bow to no-one, not anymore.”

Your eyes widen in realization of what the giant had been trying to do as he slumps back down with a large thud against the ground. 

Breathing deeply, Wun Wun looks at you. “Snow Queen.” He looks at Jon. “Snow.” Then lifts an arm and loosely gestures to both of you. “Friend.”

Jon scoffs playfully. “So (Y/N) is Queen, but I am just Snow?”

You grin at the giant, who acknowledges your expression with a thunderous laugh that is so loud it would hurt your ears, were you not enamored by the creature it comes from. 

“If she is not my queen, who’s queen is she?” Jon asks, bemused and hoping to catch out the giant, who considers the question for only a second before responding.

“Wun. Weg. Wun Dar Wun’s.” And despite how long it takes the giant to speak his full name, the impact of his own punchline hits just as hard, sending you into another wheezing fit of laughter while Jon shakes his head in disbelief. 

“Well, it seems both Wun Wun and I are yours, now.” Jon throws up his hands in dramatic surrender, causing you to laugh harder, the giant smiling at you fondly and Jon watching you with an adoring gaze, so relieved to see you relaxed and safe enough to laugh again.

When Jon asks you if you feel ready to eat, you nod, but request that you eat together, with Wun Wun, to ensure he eats and gains some energy to help his body heal, too. Naturally, Jon does not deny you of the endearing request and the two of you return to the giant with your own bowls of fresh stew and an extra large one for your new best friend. The three of you sit and talk, taking time to listen to Wun Wun’s responses, which take a lot longer than general conversations with a human would, but you don’t mind one bit. With every word he speaks, you are utterly mesmerized, having already pinned the creature as every bit as incredible as the giants from your favorite tales as a child. 

Though it is not late in the evening by the time you finish your supper, you are too exhausted from the events of the day to stay awake much longer. Having not walked around for any length of time in so long, your limbs are too weak to stand on your own again, Jon having to help you back to your feet with an arm around your waist.

Waving to Wun Wun, you give him a tired smile. 

“Goodnight Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun, I wish you pleasant dreams.” 

The giant gives you a smile that Jon has not seen him give anyone else. “Friend. Sleep good.”

With that, Jon begins leading you back into the warmth of the castle, walking you along the path to what had been his bedroom as a boy, without thinking of what the room could be now, his direwolf trailing behind the two of you. Thankfully, it seems that Sansa was thoughtful in the room she requested be prepared for you all, as Jon’s old bedroom door is open, displaying the candlelit room and the freshly made bed. The two of you share a chuckle in disbelief as you enter the room, Ghost instantly finding a patch of rug on the ground to curl up on and Jon walking you over to the bed to sit down on it before he leaves you to close the door and draw the curtains. 

Falling against the mattress, you groan. 

“I think this ordeal has aged me 20 years and perhaps it is time we retire. I could finally let Sansa teach me to sew and you could herd sheep with Ghost, what do you think?” 

At the mention of his name and in confusion at your suggestion, Ghost lifts and tilts his head to the side.

Jon laughs as he joins you, landing on his back beside you, the mattress bouncing slightly beneath you. “I think that sounds like a wonderful plan. Only, I’m afraid, my Lady, there is another war to be fought.”

You turn your head to face him, seeing the simultaneous amusement and seriousness playing in his eyes. “Surely, you jest. Against who?”

Jon sighs. “An ever growing army of the dead, unfortunately.”

Throwing your arms up and against the mattress above your head in a dramatic display of defeat, you scoff. “But of course! Winter is coming, I should have known.”

Jon smiles at you, having never felt so at ease when discussing the threat that looms over the entire world as he knows it and marveling at the wonder that is you. “Aye, but for now-” He stands to his feet, swings you up in his arms, kicks the bedcover from the mattress and lays you down on the sheet. “-we are free to rest.”

Shuffling to remove your boots and watching as Jon removes his to nudge them under the bed, you use the last of your strength to move over and allow space for him to slide in beside you. 

Turning to face each other, you snuggle beneath the bedcovers and share a smile, like the giddy teenagers that had been lost in your memories until now. 

“When is the wedding due, then, dear almost-husband?” You ask, amused but genuinely curious as to when the two of you will have the chance to arrange such an event.

“Whenever you like, dear almost-lady-wife.” Jon laughs airily, taking hold of your hands beneath the covers and staring into your eyes. “How do you feel?”

You take a deep breath, knowing that the time to set aside your humor would come soon enough. “It is…difficult to put into words. Deliriously happy to be with you and Sansa, to have our home back and to be safe again, of course, but there is still a dark cloud that looms over me and I cannot ignore it. At any moment, I feel as though the rain could start to pour and I could drown in it, lose myself to the fear. In truth, the thought of trying to sleep is terrifying.” 

Jon nods slowly, understanding you completely, as he always has. “However dark that cloud gets, however hard the rain falls and however scared you are to sleep, I will be here. To show you the sun again, shield you from the rain and guard you through your dreams, I will be right here, and I will never leave you again. I swear it, by the old Gods and the new.”

Tears threaten to blur the perfect vision of the candlelit Jon Snow, but you are quick to blink them away, removing your hands from his to run your fingers through his hair and pull him closer, until his forehead rests against yours. “And in return, I swear to protect you from whatever horrid memories plague you from the time when we have been apart, to hold you through them and remind you that no matter what, you are a good man, the best man, and the man that I love more than anything.”

Closing his eyes, Jon Snow takes a deep breath, and you do the same, sharing the silence and darkness in a peace that neither of you ever thought you would find again. 

“Can it be that this night, I’ll dream of you and wake to find you here?” You whisper.

Jon sniffles, having not let his relief and love for you truly overwhelm him until now. “Aye, this night and every night thereafter.” 

Gently tracing the line of his jaw with your thumb, you lean forward to close the space between your lips. “To be yours is to live nothing but a dream, Jon Snow.”

And for the second time since reconnecting to the rest of his soul, Jon Snow loses himself to you, falling into you and cradling every part of you with such care, having craved every second of these moments with you that he never thought he could have beyond the land of dreams. The two of you had lived separate lives for long enough, the Gods had no choice but to force you back to each other in an act of fate that defied everything Jon thought he could believe in, except for you. Every foe he fought, every task he took on, his first thought would be that in some distant way, he would be saving you from something, because he would be doing so from the frontline of your heart. To be yours was the only victory he truly felt. 

——————

taglist: @otteropera @neymarjrrwife @oliviabelova @nyotamalfoy

[spoiled-fawn]

Part 1: Meeting John Price

Western AU; Mail Order Spouse Trope

WC: 3,131 CW: None

AN: My beloved! John Price! Would love to hear your thoughts and comments, as well as any questions. I hope ye enjoy <3

Please see the following for the explanation and precursors to the scene!

Introduction, Biography

--------

Truthfully, you’re glad you didn't have many friends in town, as it meant no one to share unnecessary secrets with, nor did it spread any word of what you were up to in your free time. 

However, that isn’t to say that you trusted at least some people in the small town you lived in, such as your boss.

A scapegoat for you to write your correspondence letters was that you simply had to stay late on the farm, working extra long hours because of something that was messed up, or because you knew your parents wouldn’t argue with the fact that you were getting more money.

Feeling that you were a decent enough candidate for John to consider since you are working as a farm hand already, you decided to write your first correspondence the next day. Once sent, you received a letter back from him four days later and by god, did he sound like such a gentleman. 

You were able to soon confide in him on how you wanted to leave town, start fresh, but stick with what you know since you did work on the well-known “Loyal Laswell Farm,” and help out around their farmhouse with common jobs such as sewing, cooking, and even making a dirty barn looked organized- a man’s dream spouse.

With only two weeks passing and less than a handful of letters to be traded, you already had money and an open invitation to John’s ranch. Through your correspondence, John stated that he had already known of Kate Laswell, her having been a long ago buyer from him and even she had sought out advice on taking care of her lambs long ago. 

John connected the dots and realized that you were the trusty youngling that she hired early on; He already trusted your morale if Laswell had kept you after all this time. (And if Laswell did gloat about you once in a while, that was a secret between her and John.) After finding out about the mutual connection, you confided in her. 

Kate, already knowing of your family’s vices, was pleasantly surprised by your major turn of life events and how quickly your fate had been granted to you in the form of Price. She made sure your head was screwed on straight enough that if it didn’t work out, you could mail her and she would help you figure it out from there…

Kate’s wife chimed in and said you and Price would be a great fit.

The two women gave their aid to you in the form of gifting you your favorite horse to ride off on during your long journey. You only brought a handful of items from your parent's house, slowly, and used the remaining amounts of wardrobe you kept at the farm to pack up. With two bags packed and some food, feed, a gun being courtesy of Laswell’s wife, and a celebratory pack of cigars for John (Kate’s wedding gift), you were on your way. 

It only took you a week by horseback, luckily traveling near the Oregon Trail that had already had sorted paths cleared and lived-in, you only needed to stop when you and your horse did. You were able to send John updated letters, but were not able to receive them due to constantly being on the move. This left you daydreaming about him.

John wrote that he is originally from Deadwood, South Dakota. He comes from a long line of lawmen and followed in their footsteps in his early adult life. However, as John became sheriff and notorious for his hardened but fair demeanor, he began to see the justice system slip through the cracks right in front of him. Murderers would walk away and many left unjustly prosecuted in other cases. It angered and dwelled on him so much that he retired early on. John soon found his solace in the quiet mountain town of Pitkin, Colorado. John describes himself as a proud man who is protective and respectful, an old soul who loves his whiskey - and is looking for his strawberry wine. He is a weathered man who can fix any problems of yours, all at the cost of a shoulder to lean on and someone to spend the rest of his days with.

Coming into Pitkin, it brings forth a small town nestled within luscious green mountains and a strip of shops down the main road that highlights most of the town's activity. Riding through, you were an obvious sight to be had; a new face set out on a horse with minimal bags packed on the back. You didn’t seem like a traveler, no, you seemed like someone who was on a mission to find something- someone. 

Smiling and giving small nods towards those who stare, your cheeks have a faint blush from the attention as you ride down the strip and toward the end of the town. Soon, the signs have a label of a bull, a common connotation of a ranch, causing you to garner up a bit more hope and hold your head high as you click your horse into a canter. 

The sound of your horse's hooves thundering on the ground cannot beat the thrum of your heart; riding over the hill, you’re greeted with a breathtaking view of the Alpine mountains that dip into a valley with an absurd amount of leveled planes that make you believe the land was spread flat by an inviting entity. Your eyes come into focus on small black dots that move before you make out to be the shape of cattle grazing across the green and flowing grass.

There sits a house atop the hill that is before the dip of the valley, where a fence surrounds a large barn that is directly adjacent to the house. You bring your horse to a slow walk as you take in the view of the wooden house; it's a cabin-styled home but large in the additions that have been formed around the sides, making it one of the bigger houses in town. The barn rivals its size by double, and the open stalls along the side let you glimpse into the hay-filled homes of horses that linger near the fences. You have to do a double take when you see movement in the barn that is all too human-like, then pulling the reigns of your horse once a few feet away from the entrance to stop and watch. 

A man stands, low grunts leaving him as he stretches his back before grabbing a hay bayle and beginning to break it up. He wears a worn-out pair of jeans and a cowboy hat as his low whistling breaks the silence between the surrounding horses neighing at your new appearance. In an instant, you know immediately this is John.

To your surprise, your horse greets the others in a sharp jeer of noise, causing him to turn around in surprise his eyes dart up at you.

For a second, you’re humored at the look he gives, not expecting something so sweet as you to ride into his ranch and most likely expecting someone within the town to come to bother him. 

But in an instant, he knows exactly who you are. 

After his shock wears off, he sets down the hay and reaches up to take his cowboy hat off and place it on his chest as he walks toward you. Letting out a low whistle, his eyes roam over you with an enamored stare. “God was just showin’ off when he made you, sweetheart.” Comes the low timbre of his voice, sending a small fire of desire shimmying through your vertebrae. 

A soft smile graces your face in return, halting your horse for the time being as he comes up to you. “Good morning sir, would I be right to assume that you are John Price, the owner of this ranch?” You ask after a moment of your eyes trailing over him, taking in his face and ice-blue eyes while he approaches to help you down from your horse.

“That I am, Sweetheart. And I suppose you’re the one that I’ve been lookin’ so forward to meetin’, that right?” He asks in return, a small smirk taking his lips while he helps you lower down from the saddle. You smile at the extended hand, taking it as you swing your opposite leg out of the stirrup while feeling the touch of his other hand coming to caress your hip in a gentle fashion.

"I hope you've been as comfortable as one can be on a week-long ride," John comments softly, keeping his hand on you once you're firmly planted on the ground as his eyes scan you from head to toe. "How you feelin’?" He asks sweetly, now finding your eyes with genuine affection in his tone.

In response to his lingering touch on your hip, and feeling it travel to your waist with a brief squeeze before he lets it fall, you give him a small squeeze of the hand you're holding to. “Not too shabby; was able to get a room a few of the nights along the way. I’m thankful for the good weather I had while getting here.” You respond as you shift your saddle-sore hips for a moment and reorient your limbs to standing. 

"You're not so shabby yourself, sweet thing'." He compliments softly as he releases you, then grabs your horse’s bridle and releases the bit before attaching his own lead to it, and a small feeling of surprise crosses your mind at how easily he handles new horses. Then, gesturing for you to follow him. "Come on. Let me show you around." John leads with comfortable confidence, letting your horse sniff him while leading him to an open stall with some water and feed. 

“Thank you for letting me bring my stallion here, Laswell gifted him to me when I was sayin’ goodbye. Said you may remember him from when he was a foal?” You prompt with a tilt of curiosity at the edge of your words while you join them in the stall to unload your bags and take the saddle off.

Looking back towards him, his eyes are looking over the horse for any identifiers, hints that would make him remember. “Not quite sure I remember this one, sweetheart. He got a name?” John asks in response once finished doing a sweepdown of his mane and a quick swipe of his hair coat.

“Laswell said he’s always been named Captain.” You answer curtly, now looking to see his reaction, if any.

It takes a moment for you to narrow in on the way the left side of his mustache twitches slightly before he breaks out into an all-out smile. “Well, I’ll be damned…” John trails out as he moves back towards Captain's head.

His blue eyes shine in the light of the barn windows, meeting yours for a moment while a boyish charm takes over his face. “This slick bastard got you all the way over to me?” John speaks with a gruffness that intertwines with amusement; the way his hands move to rub over the horse's forehead and nose showcases a glimpse of a gentle side reserved for his animals.

As you scrunch your eyebrows up in confusion, John catches your expression and gives a hearty chuckle in response. “I helped birth this one the day that Kate came up here to buy some lambs. Her wife was cryin’, thinking that him and his momma were gonna die.” He answers before moving to give Captain a pat on his chest, a huff of his breath coming out in response. 

“He had both him’s front legs back during contractions. Had to help the mare by pushing his fat head on in to get him to readjust. Kate and her wife saw the whole thing.” He finishes with a hum and a distant look in his eyes only for a second, now coming back to your side and picking up a bag of yours.

“This all you got? Woulda expected a bit more from a woman movin' out west, especially to the cold mountains.” He states with a cocked eyebrow, eyeing as you bend down to hoist the remaining bag over your shoulder. You both give Captain a farewell tap before exiting the stall and heading towards Johns's house.

You wait on replying for a moment as you take a longer look at the structure, noting the wooden panels that exude a warm and weathered patina, a testament to the house's endurance against the harsh elements of the wild. The front features a symmetrical facade, with a steeply pitched gable roof that displays a combination of wooden shingles and iron accents. Windows are evenly placed on the front-facing sides of the house, and shutters open to allow glimpses into the inside.

“Didn’t have a lot to bring if I’m being honest. Just packed up what I liked and wanted, then left.” You answer with a confident nod, leaving it at that. “I did plan on finding some new or old fabrics to start making winter coats for myself.” You add on quickly, thinking over how quickly the chill must set in within the mountain valley.

You follow John onto the front porch of the house, “Ah, you do some of that fancy work or just plain work?” He inquires while gesturing for you to step inside the entrance. You’re greeted by a spacious entryway, designed to be practical and modest. The floors, made of polished wide planks, creak softly under the added weight of yourself next to John, a new soul to provide protection to in the house.

To the front of the entryway, is his living room, its centerpiece being a grand stone fireplace, providing warmth and comfort during the chilly evenings. Leather upholstered furniture invites warmth to the house, and you can see a good amount of hides used as a rug and even a throw blanket over the couch, while ornate coffee cans and some intricately shaped vases linger around the surfaces. 

The sound of your mouth opening and closing resonates in the silence of you two standing there before John shuts the door softly behind you and ultimately snaps you out of your daze. “Um, just some plain work. Never had the time or materials to work on some fancy clothes, would rather make things I know I’m gonna use.” You answer while moving to face adjacent to where he stands in front of the door.

His eyes track your own as your attention comes back to rest on him, a small smirk tugging on the edge of his mouth. With a quick laugh, he moves to place his left hand along your back, his cold fingers sliding to the place between your shoulders. “Welcome home, Sweetheart.” He smiles while speaking softly, leaning over to place a light kiss atop your head. 

When he moves back from your space, which you want to ultimately follow as you feel his warmth radiate next to you and already adore the way his voice dips impossibly lower when speaking so gently, his hand slides down to the small of your back and gives a small tap to lead you forward. “Come on, let's get you settled in.” He beckons you while walking to a door that is adjacent to the entrance.

Walking in, John’s bedroom exudes a haven, signifying his rest and relaxation at the end of the day. The warm, earthy tones of the wood and furniture create an internal warmth, in contrast to the view of the surrounding mountains of green and glimpse over the cattle that wander the land, the windows laden with lace curtains.

The bed was the average size for the master bedroom; The double bed sat its headboard against the wall to the right of the entrance, facing the windows. A large red quilt adorns the bed while the bed itself is a robust wooden frame with upright pieces of carved and sanded wood posted taller at each corner of the bed.

In the corner is another stone fireplace, where an armchair sits to serve as a place for John to unwind, read a book, or reflect on the day. A well-worn wooden dresser stands against one wall, its surface adorned with a few cherished mementos - a faded photograph of him on a horse, a weathered pocket watch that has seen countless sunsets, and a small collection of polished rocks, each one possibly a reminder of a special moment.

"It's not much." He pauses before speaking again, his tone becoming more personal. "And I'd love to have you share my bed when you're comfortable. However, if you need time to adjust, I can set myself up in the living room. I don't wish to pressure you if you're not comfortable yet."

The sweet and respectful offer doesn’t fly over you, and a small smile rises over your lips. “Thank you, John. That’s awfully considerate of everything you’re doing for me. I don’t want to burden you with sleeping on your own couch, I wouldn't mind.” You answer while slowly walking to the dresser, placing your bag down by the foot of it.

“It may take a few days to adjust and get to know you, but-” you take a second to turn around and look at his form with a small shy smile, “I don’t think I’ll keep you waiting long.” You finish as a soft blush rises to the apples of your cheeks. Your hands come to interlace together in the front of your lap as his heavy footsteps make their way towards you with a bright smile that borders a smirk.

He stops in front of you, holding eye contact as he places your other bag down. “Ain’t no way in hell I’d be letting you sleep on the couch, sweetheart. But, I do look forward to hearing your answer. When you’re ready for it.” He speaks in a gruff voice, eyebrows raised to make sure you're taking his answer to heart and understanding, his warm hands moving to enclose both of yours within his grasp.

Bringing your hands up to his lips, you watch with rapt attention at his mouth puckering and in turn, making his facial hair move in the action, then leaving a warm and gentle kiss on the back of each hand.

His eyes don’t stray from yours while doing so, his blue eyes bring an inviting wave of ice- the kind you actively seek when you’re feeling too hot or need to wake up. “Now, how about I show you the rest of the ranch, babydoll?” He asks with a soft grin, pulling you just a fraction closer by the grip of your hands.

[agyraty]

yandere kieran duffy maybe??

Of course!! Now I’m just going to warn you, I’ve never written Yandere once in my life, so I’m hoping this is good. I tried not to change him too much, keeping him as closely to his original character as possible despite the Yandere aspect.

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That’s not Love

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Kieran Duffy x Reader

Summary: Kieran calls it love, but you call it an unhealthy obsession.

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From the moment the O'Driscoll boy caught sight of you while bound to a tree, he was captivated. Your sense of style, the assertive stance you took with folks like Micah, and the kindness you showed everyone, him included, all drew him in. The sway of your hips as you walked, and your gentle beauty, fascinated him; he found you intriguing and admirable.

He’s finally been allowed to walk freely around camp, doing as he pleased. And he always found himself staring at you, watching your every move. Soon, he found himself volunteering to help you during missions, or brush your horse, even help you with chores, just so he could get to closer to You.

After awhile, you and him became friends. You’d always find yourself sitting with him near the fire or during meals, and on almost all of the missions Dutch sends you on, he’s almost there with you, which you found a bit weird, but you pushed it off as Dutch wanting to get Kieran working.

It’s just became a normal thing, you’re always with the man. You even stand up for him when Bill, Javier, or Micah tease him about being an O’Driscol. Which was another reason he found himself so attracted to you.

Weeks turned into months, and Kieran’s obsession just grew even more. He began leaving anonymous Gifts in your tent every night. Things ranging from flowers, love letters, to jewelry and small trinkets.

You found it odd, having a secret admirer leave you stuff. You so desperately wanted to know who it was leaving you such gifts, and you looked at all the possibilities at camp. Never once did you suspect it to be Kieran.

At first, you tried to figure out who it was, asking the girls if they heard about anyone talking about it, or maybe even seen who it was.

But no body knew who your admirer was, so after awhile you just gave up, excepting all the kind gifts you got without thought. Obviously who ever was doing it didn’t have any bad intentions, right?

You’ve also noticed that a lot of the guys in the gang suddenly started to avoid you, Only speaking to you when they needed to.. it was strange.

—

Well today wasn’t to different from any other day, you walked around camp, did your chores, conversed with friends, and of course, spent time with Kieran.

Currently, Kieran was busy tending to his horse, so you sat by the fire by yourself, relaxing your aching muscles.

Kieran brushed his horse, tending to its muddy coat, gently scraping out the dirt. He watched you closely as he did so, his eyes never leaving your resting body. His eyes scanned your face, watching as the fire shined against you, its Orange and yellow light dancing along your fine features, illuminating your beauty.

Kieran snapped out of his thoughts once he saw Javier striding over to the camp fire, a charming smile on his face as he stopped just beside you.

You brought a hand up to rub your eyes gently, looking to the side. Suddenly, you heard the familiar voice of Javier call out your name.

“Hey.” He spoke softly, taking a seat on the dirt next to you. “Hi, Javier.” You turned your head to face him, a soft smile playing in your lips as you watched him get onto the ground.

He starts a conversation, his words flowing effortlessly, filled with anecdotes and questions that draw you in. His hand gestures add animation to his tales, and he listens to your responses with genuine interest, his eyes alight with amusement.

On the sidelines, Kieran's presence is like a silent shadow, his eyes never straying away from the duo. The sight of Javier's easy manner with You stirs a storm within Kieran, his emotions swirling like leaves in the wind. There's a sharp tug in his chest, a possessive instinct that he can't shake off.

He knew he shouldn’t be thinking this, considering you were his, and he wasn’t yours, but Every laugh shared between you two feels like a personal affront, as if Javier’s challenging him, like Javier’s trying to take away what belongs to him. His fingers clench into fists at his sides, the brush that was in his hand now dropped to the floor, the mirthful scene before him fueling a strange feeling of anger, of resentment. A bitter taste of jealousy resided on his tongue as he stands back, trapped in his own troubled thoughts.

He couldn’t help but think that it should be him over there, laughing with you, tlaking with you just like always, not Javier. Javier was getting to close to what was his. And Kieran didn’t take to kindly to that.

Kieran decides that he’s had enough, that he couldn’t stand by and watch anymore.

Kieran's beginge to walk over, every move he made was carefully calculated. His smile is a well-rehearsed curve of lips, not quite matching the mixture of angry feelings he felt deep down. "Javier, always the early bird, I see," Kieran offers with an airy chuckle that sounds more like a challenge than genuine humor.

Javier, unbothered by Kieran's presence, smirks and replies, "Just taking in the good company before the vultures swoop in." He spoke casually, but his words carry an edge to them, a subtle acknowledgment of the tension between them.

Kieran leans in closer, his voice a low purr meant only for Javier's ears. "You know, it's fascinating how you always seem to linger. But then again, some people are naturally drawn to the light, even if it burns." The insult is wrapped in velvet, but the threat is unmistakable. You stand there, eyes darting between the two men. You had no idea what was happening, nor what they were talking about.

Javier's response is quick, his ‘Friendly’ smile never faltering. "And some are too busy casting shadows to recognize when they're standing in someone else's sun." The air between them is tense as they try to play off their obvious disdain for each other, each man marking his territory with words as sharp as knives.

The back-and-forth continues, Kieran's jokes becoming more pointed, his patience wearing as thin as the veneer of civility that coats them. Then, a particularly barbed comment from Javier pierces through Kieran's armor, hitting a raw nerve.

Kieran's laughter dies down and his expression darkens, the atmosphere quickly changed. "You think you're clever, don't you? Let's see how witty you are when you're the one being laughed at.” Kieran hisses, the mask of friendliness slipping to reveal a bit of what he was truly feeling.

You quickly looked over at Kieran, his sudden outburst shocking you. He’d never spoken to anyone like that before, he normally acted all timid and scared, but now.. he seemed completely unfazed, the expression on his face dark and intimidating.

The change in Kieran was startling, like witnessing a shadow come to life. His usual shyness was long gone, replaced by a steely resolve that seems alien on his normally gentle features. The atmosphere tensed even further, as if the air itself is holding its breath, waiting for what Kieran will do next.

You can't help but feel slightly uneasy, watching this new side of him emerge. It's as if he's shed his meek exterior to reveal something much more dark beneath. His eyes, once filled with hesitation, now burn with a cold fire, and his posture is straight and rigid, every muscle tense and coiled like a spring.

"Is everything okay, Kieran?" you ask, voice slightly caseous, the concern evident in your voice. You're trying to reach the friend you know, the one who's always been more keen on retreating from conflict rather than causing it.

Kieran's gaze quickly lands on you, and for a seocnd, you see the flicker of the normal Kieran that you know, the vulnerability returning in the depths of his eyes. But it's gone as quickly as it appeared, his expression hardening once more. "I'm fine," he says, though his tone suggests anything but that. “Just tired of playing the part of the harmless one, that's all."

Your eyes widen slightly. Playing the part? What does he mean playing the part? Has he.. has he been faking his personality this whole time? Your gaze remains on his body as you watch him closely, And you notice how everything about him has changed. He’s standing meow straight up and assertive, rather than his slightly hunched and shy posture. His face is more hard unlike his normal gentle expression. And the way he speaks, is so much more different.

The mere thought of it sends your mind spinning. The Kieran before you is like a puzzle with pieces that don't fit the image you've always known. It's slightly unsettling, the idea that he might have been wearing a mask all this time. His new demeanor is like a rude awakening – assertive, confident, almost a stranger compared to his old personality.

"Kieran, what do you mean?” Your question is gentle but probing, an attempt to peel back the layers of this sudden change. You're reaching out for answers, you need to get to the bottom of this.

Kieran's gaze flickers past and lands on Javier with a dismissive sneer. "Why don't you go bother someone else, Javier?" he snaps abruptly, his voice carrying a sharp and cold tone. The unexpected harshness in his tone seems to cut through the air, and with an annoyed look, Javier turns on his heel, walking away without another word.

With Javier gone, Kieran's attention shifts back to you, his posture relaxing slightly, but his expression remains intense. He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours for any type of reaction. "I'm sorry about that, but I couldn't stand it anymore," he begins, his voice softer now, but laced with a slight desperate tone, maybe even crazed. "I've been trying to keep this to myself, but it's driving me crazy. I'm in love with you. I'm the one who's been leaving you those little gifts you find, hoping they'd bring a smile to your face."

He takes a deep breath, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as if grappling with the weight of his confession. "And it's been me, joining you on those missions without even asking Dutch. I wanted to be there to protect you, to be close to you. I've been... I've been scaring off any guy that gets too close because the thought of someone else being with you—it's unbearable. That’s why people haven’t been speaking to you so much lately, but that’s a good thing. That’s how it should be.”

The expression kn his face was unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. It was almost crazed, desperate. If you were being honest, it scared you.

“.. And that’s the way it should be.”

You looked back at him as he said that. “What..?” You whispered, shock present in both your tone and present on your face.

“I’m the only one that you need, I’m the only one that deserves to talk to you.” He stepped closer, looming over you with an unreadable facial expression. You stumble back, trying to keep some space between the two of you.

Your brows were knitted together tightly as you tried to wrap your mind around what he was saying.

“Why can’t you see that this isn’t bad? That I’m what you need, and no one else?” He reached out to grab your hands in his, but you quickly swatted them away. “Don’t touch me.”

Your heart hammered against your chest, a mixture of fear and disbelief coursing through your veins. "You can't just decide what I need, Kieran," you said, your voice firm despite the slight tremble running through your body. "You can't force someone to want you or to be with you."

He looked taken aback, as if your resistance was something he hadn't anticipated, as if he excepted you to just be okay with this whole thing. “But I love you," he insisted, his voice softening. "I've done everything for you. Can't you see that?"

"You're talking about love, but what you're doing isn't love at all," you countered, finding the strength to finally counter his response.. "Love is about respect and choice, Kieran. You can't protect me from the world, just like can't lock me away from it either."

"I need some time to think about all of this..”

As you turned to walk away, You hoped that when you faced each other again, it would be with a new understanding and a healthier perspective on what it really means to care for someone.

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