#rolling down the stairs weeping

[eeriethacus]

Haymitch Abernathy..my shayla..weeps

[sublimitymp3]

Do you, brother?

Pairing ✵ Aegon Targaryen/Younger sister!reader

Warnings ✵ Hotd season 2 spoilers, incest, swearing, smut (Dub-con, p in v, fingering, choking, slight breeding kink), mentions of death, mentions of child loss, descriptions of birth, and heavy themes

Word count ✵ 2.6k

Summary ✵ The death of your son leaves behind a shadow upon everything, and after an overwhelming funeral procession for him, your evasive brother finally comes to you in the night.

Jaehaerys

Your little boy. Jae-hae-rys. The syllables roll off your tongue in a smooth manner, as they always have done. Sweet Jaehaerys. The very thought of the name conjures memories in your mind of the day you labored him and his twin into the world, screaming and writhing in pain as you felt as though you were being torn apart at the seams. He was a small, splotchy babe, who exited you covered in blood and wailing and squirming in the maester's arms. But even through your delirium and searing pain, you knew then what love was.

He was a precocious boy, eager to learn and to explore the world. "He has the makings of a very fine king," you recall your grandfather telling you once. The thought of Jaehaerys on that throne made your stomach feel uneasy, and the words loomed over you, lingering in the back of your mind and refusing to leave.

Even now it still lingers.

The once dreadful notion has been reduced to a silly daydream, for Jaehaerys will never be king. He will never grow, never explore the world, never ride his dragon, and you will never cradle him in your arms again.

It feels wrong to carry on. It feels wrong to do much of anything with the knowledge that your sweet Jaehaerys will exist only in memory now. Your mother tries to console you, to hug you in her cold arms, but you do not want her now. After all, what does she know about losing a child? The funeral procession your grandfather insisted on felt even more wrong than anything else.

Your son, the martyr.

Hundreds of the smallfolk clambered over each other to catch a glimpse of your little boy, and you. Your tears bought their sympathy and a new resentment for Rhaenyra, but it mattered little to you. They had sewn his head back on, you saw. It was an ugly sight, where black thread met severed skin.

Jaehaerys

How you longed to climb over to the cart carrying his body just so you could hold your boy one last time, but your mother's steadying and sobering grip on your knee kept you from doing so. "Deepest sympathies, my queen!" "Curse Rhaenyra!" "We love you, our queen!" Their shouts of support felt more like a ringing in your ear than anything. You didn't want this. You only wanted everything to be quiet.

You had a headache and felt nothing but exhaustion, and you couldn't even bring yourself to weep any longer. It was as if you were wrung dry. You cursed under your breath at the seemingly endless flights of stairs in the Red Keep, for all you wanted to do was to go and lay in bed. But then you saw him. First, you saw his hair, hair much like yours, only it was messily cropped short. Next was his eyes, violet in color and mirrors of your own. The scowl upon his handsome face, well, you didn't care for it, but you couldn't pry your eyes away. You found yourselves gawking at each other on the stairwell, and only then did you remember how much Jaehaerys looked like Aegon.

"Your grace, I-" Is all you can say before Aegon quickly turns away from you and hurries down the steps. You stand there, watching as the head of silver hair swiftly disappears from your line of sight. You snap your mouth close, pressing your lips into a firm line and continuing up the stairs. 'Foolish girl, when has he ever confronted anything in his life?' you cannot help but think.

You don't see your husband for around two weeks. Fleeting glimpses in the hallways, mentions of him from your mother, and murmurs about the king from the courtiers are all you have of him during that time.

As you prepare yourself for bed, you try to banish all thoughts of him from your mind to get some semblance of much-needed sleep. The nights seemed so long and torturous now, and yet you hardly could find sleep no matter what you did. Tonight was the first night in what seemed like centuries that you finally felt tired, and you wasted no time settling into bed to drift into a slumber.

You dream odd things, nonsensical things you'll forget when you wake, mostly. And even more odd, you begin to dream of Aegon. Of his strangely soft hands on you, of him pushing your nightdress up to your hips, and of him maneuvering you onto your back. It feels real, but you know it isn't. He won't come near you, no, not now. But even your mind begins to suggest otherwise.

With an irritated whine, you feel yourself being pulled from your sleep. It is only when you open your eyes to curse at what you assumed was a maid disturbing you, that your assumptions are quickly proven wrong.

Aegon is on top of you, staring unblinkingly into your eyes. Salty, hot tears drip from him onto your face, and his hand clamps down over your mouth before you can question him. You must make a face unwittingly, for he begins to speak,

"Shh, shh, it's alright, it's just me...just me," Aegon soothes, and you smell the wine on his warm breath. He's drunk. Or at the very least near drunk. "I-I am sorry, sorry for you, sorry for our boy. Oh, my poor son," his words are ever so slightly slurred, and he retracts himself to sit on the edge of the bed and weep in his drunken stupor.

You sit up, a bit startled to discover your nightgown bunched up by your hips. Your smallclothes were even pulled down a bit, but not fully. You realize now what he was attempting to do, and you can only sit in a tense silence with him. "He was my son too, you know," he mumbles like a petulant child, once he catches a glimpse of your resentful face.

"I grieve him just as much as you, mayhaps even more. He was my heir, my only heir," his words linger in the stagnant air, not sitting well with you. His gaze unnerves you even more, staring at you expectantly. The implications in his voice are clear to you; he means to beget another heir.

"Take another wife then, I am tired," The brazen words escape you (before you can think) in a whisper, and you lay back down, wasting no time to turn your back to him. "I don't want to again, I can't again. No more, Aegon." and you close your eyes, letting your tears roll down the side of the face.

You refuse to subject yourself to it all over again. To the aches, the uncomfortable swell of your belly, and the terrible pain birth brought. You know what it will all end in. It's a deep knowledge that has burrowed itself between your bones, embedded itself in your brain, and wrapped around your heart.

The Stranger will come for you all, surely.

The bed dips again as he shifts himself closer to you, and he grabs your shoulder in a bruising grip to turn you onto your back. His face gets so close to yours that the tip of his nose nudges your own, and you feel his warm breath fanning against your lips.

"I wasn't asking what you thought of it. You're my wife, my little sister. You were born for me to have. A king needs an heir, surely you understand that? You're not a stupid girl," he brushes his thumb against your bottom lip, mockingly, almost.

He manages to wedge himself between your thighs, and you feel his wandering fingers pull down your smallclothes. "Aegon-" "Don't say a word, don't say a damn thing," he interrupts, irritated by your unwilling mood. "Wouldn't it be nice to have another little babe to rock in your arms? Hm? We'll make more, yes? Enough to fill this fucking castle," Aegon grunts, pushing his fingers past your folds. A whine involuntarily escapes you at the invasive feeling, and even more so as he pumps his fingers in and out.

In and out, in and out, in and out.

You feel your body give into his ministrations and get wet. 'Betrayal,' you think. A pleased hum escapes from him as you leak onto his fingers, and you feel your cheeks burn with shame. This isn't right. No, no after what has happened.

"You weep down here too, did you know, sweet sister?" He mumbles, pulling his fingers out of you just to drag them along your dripping folds. A shiver runs up your spine at his actions, forcing you to bite your tongue to muffle any noises. You don't want him to hear you. You don't want to give him that satisfaction.

He fully retracts his fingers, and you know what is next. He undresses himself quickly, untying his breeches and tunic with a practiced speed before pulling your nightdress off of you, leaving you vulnerable and cold. He chuckles at your little shivers and the way you wrap your arms around yourself protectively. "Shh, do not worry, you'll be warm soon enough," he laughs as if this is a lighthearted moment between two lovers. Your stomach churns slightly.

"You're so beautiful, you know. I've never thought otherwise. So pretty like this, all for me," he whispers against the shell of your ear as he lines himself up with your cunt.

The burning stretch of the intrusion is what you feel first. It has been long since he bedded you, and your body had forgotten the feel of him. "F-Fuck, how are you so tight? Like you're trying to squeeze me to death," he groans against your neck, before suckling bruises into your soft skin. He bottoms out completely, and you feel his tip brushing against your sweet spot.

It's overwhelming for you. It's too much. You close your eyes and let your mind drift to happier days. Days long before you called Aegon husband, days when you would play with your sister by your mother's skirts. Days when the most daunting task was getting out of bed or letting the maids bathe you. It almost brings a smile to your face. Almost.

Your blissful daydreams and nostalgia are interrupted by Aegon gently slapping your cheek repeatedly, rudely reminding you of where you are now. "Hey, hello, where are you? Look at me, for fucks sake," he grumbles, slowing his thrusts you only now are noticing. He grips your face in his hands, forcing you to stare into his familiar violet eyes.

It's cruel to have to stare into your own eyes while this happens, you think.

"Don't do that again. Think of me," he whispers against your lips, his voice a bit shaky and heavy with lust. "Only me, and this."

His thrusts resume, and his lips are soon pressed against yours. He kisses you with a greedy, bruising force as if he's trying to devour you whole.

"Messy girl," he muses as he wipes drool off your chin with his thumb, and the action is oddly tender to you. The tip of his cock keeps brushing against your sweet spot, making your mind turn to mush and your legs turn to jelly.

You hate how Aegon has this talent to make your resolve slip with only a few touches and kisses. You could be upset with him for weeks on end, and yet all he had to do was hold you down and you'd soon forget whatever grievance you held against him.

"A-Aegon, brother, please-" you whine, even more so as he maneuvers your knees to press against your chest. He holds you down like this and the new angle allows him to push further into you. The sound of skin against skin reverberates in your chambers around you as he drives into you at a faster pace.

"Stay still, stay still. Quit squirming, don't you trust me, sweet girl?" He huffed, still irked by your light resistance. His hand reaches back down to your weeping cunt, and his thumb rubs gentle circles into your bud. The added stimulation makes you cry out with overwhelming pleasure, and you feel like your very bones are gyrating.

"There we go," he smirks, dragging out his words. He's found the combination that makes you fall apart around him and he finds it satisfying. "You like that, don't you? 'Course you do, sweet girl. You were made for me, made to take my cock and bear my children. You were born to be mine. Nothing more, nothing less," He groans, his own peak beginning to build up.

His words ignite a fire in your belly, and it feels so wrong. His words are mocking, demeaning even, and on any other given day and situation you'd have retorted and isolated yourself from him until you calmed down. But this night was not simply any other night. His words and his movements bring you closer and closer to the edge, and the coil in your belly tightens up as it prepares to snap.

"Aegon, gods, keep going, please don't stop-" you moan, lost now in the bliss of it all. You selfishly buck your hips against his, desperate for your own impending release.

"I got you, pretty girl. Go on, let go for me, sweet sister," and with his words, the tightly wound coil in you snaps. It is a white-hot pleasure that wracks through your body, and you feel as though you are floating.

You come to when you feel Aegon increasing the pace of his already rough thrusts. He is close, you can tell. You have no strength to tell him to pull out, to beg him not to finish inside. He's fucked you too good for that. Maybe that was his plan after all, you think.

"F-Fuck, I'm so close, sweetling. I'll fill you up, make sure you're nice and full with my seed. In nine moons time, we'll have another little boy, hm? Another silver-haired beauty," he pants, before his grip that still pushes your knees against your chest tightens. He brings one hand to squeeze around your throat, and you feel his fingers dig into the sides of your neck. There will be a bruise there in the morning, no doubt.

His movements are rough and fast as he chases his release, and soon, his steady pace falters and his hips stutter to a halt. "Gods be good," he moans, slumping over to bury his face into the crook of your neck. Spurts of his warm and sticky seed coat your velvety walls, a familiar feeling. Surely you will be with child by the next month.

Exhaustion is what you feel. Exhaustion, and a pang of sadness in your heart. Another babe you will have to labor into the world, another pawn in this war. Another victim of this needless bloodshed, as brother and sister tear each other apart.

Aegon gently kisses your lips, rubbing your stomach with his hand, no doubt imagining you are pregnant already. "I love you, I really do." He whispers, holding you close and breaking you from those thoughts of impending doom.

Violet eyes meet violet eyes, and you gaze upon his features that are not dissimilar to your own. The very same blood that runs through you, runs through him. The same blood that ran through your son, you think. You do not know what to make of his drunken declaration, and it is like your body speaks for you then;

"Do you, brother?"

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[rosepinks-world]

𝐃𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇! | house x fem!reader

summary: in which the team won’t stop talking to house about the new doctor who operates in the morgue…in the depths of the hospital.

warnings: a lot of death talk, house flirting, possibly ooc, unspecified age gap, joke about necrophilia, a lot of medical inaccuracies

“Just got results back from pathology. Patient had tb.” Cameron announced as Chase threw the file onto the table.

“The guy died like an hour ago? They already got the results back?” Foreman asked confused yet also impressed.

Cameron nodded. “Yeah. The unit got a new doctor. She’s really good.”

“And hot.” Chase added.

Foreman and Cameron rolled their eyes and House smirked.

“Pathologists are always freaky…and not the good kind.” House mentioned.

Cameron frowned irritated. “Yeah? How’d you come to that conclusion?”

“How do you not? Come on! Someone who wants to specialise in cutting dead people open doesn’t scream freaky to you?”

Cameron looked disgusted with house whereas the two men made faces that showed they were hearing house out.

“You guys are ridiculous. And we’ve got another patient. 35 year old gentleman who is quite literally the pinnacle of health had a heart attack this morning.”

“Fun.” House sounded sarcastically. “Page me if anything interesting happens.”

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

House was having his normally scheduled lunch with Wilson when the freaky girl was brought up again.

“Have you met the new pathologist she’s great.”

House rolled his eyes so hard they may have gotten stuck in the back of his head. “What is with this woman? Are you having an affair with her or something?”

“You’re a real dick sometimes.”

House waved him off and took some fries off of Wilson’s plate.

“I’m not having an affair with her. She’s nice and an extremely competent doctor.”

House rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah I get it she’s amazing stop before I vomit.”

Wilson chuckled, “Oh! Cuddys looking for you. She looks pissed.”

“She always looks pissed. She really needs to get laid.”

House was seconds away from making another comment when his beeper sounded making him bid Wilson farewell and walk away as quick as he could.

He walked into the heart attack patients room and was met with Chase announcing the patients time of death a weeping wife and brother standing next to them.

“Great you killed the guy.” House sounded sarcastically.

“We didn’t even start treatment he was completely fine until-“ Cameron tried to reason.

“Until he wasn’t.” House finished.

Cameron looked sheepish and stopped talking exchanging a shared angry look with Foreman.

House made a confused look as the nurses began to prepare the body for the morgue and walked away making a visit he knew he wouldn’t enjoy.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Carefully making his way down the morgue stairs House took in the new area he was in. It was well in the depths of the hospital, no sunlight, no voices, no commotion. It was creepy yet also calming. He saw a white lab coat rush by, seeming to be the only colour in the place. He watched intently as you poured various chemicals into test tubes and expertly prepared the autopsy almost dancing between steps.

House chuckled, “The guys not even cold and you’re dancing around his corpse.”

You let out a shriek in surprise almost dropping the test tubes you were holding. You turned in the direction of the voice and were met with a man likely in his 40s propping himself up with a cane. House chuckled at your reaction not being able to help finding your widened eyes cute.

“I know I’m no Brad Pitt but I can’t be that hideous.” He joked making his way towards you off the stairs.

You laughed clutching your heart. In all honesty you found the stranger rather attractive so his self deprecation made you laugh in disbelief.

“No! You see no one ever comes down here so you just scared me.”

He nodded pointing to the body on the table. “He was my patient-“

You frowned, “Oh I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head. “Don’t be. I don’t care.”

You made a confused look bewildered by the man as he made his way to the man on your table.

“What I do care about is why he had a heart attack when there was no medical explanation as to why it happened.”

You grabbed your scalpel, “I should have an answer in an hour or two. Fancy making any predictions?”

House smirked slightly, “With a guy this size he had to be taking steroids.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“Well what do you think?”

“Poison.”

House made a face of disbelief. “Are you serious you think steroids is a reach but poison isn’t.”

“Wanna bet?” You asked.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Maybe it was disrespectful, betting on the cause of death of a patient but that’s what you and the mystery doctor had decided to do.

With a cool $100 on the line you began cutting into the man the doctor watching you intently as you did.

“Who are you?” You asked the him.

“Greg House.” To that you made a noise of recognition to which he questioned.

“I’ve heard a lot about you Dr House.” You said as you began to cut out parts of the organs to test.

“All good I hope.” He replied

You laughed dropping the samples into the prepared test tubes, “Yeah… not really.”

He shrugged. “Can’t please them all.”

“It doesn’t seem like you please anyone.”

You paused after thinking about the double meaning of what you just said. By the look on his face he was thinking the same thing-his next words confirming it.

“Oh. You’d be surprised.”

The two of you made eye contact as he said that you being the one to break it suddenly feeling rather hot under his gaze. You averted your eyes to the body under you, immediately remembering you were performing an autopsy and that now was not the time to flirt with the infamous Greg House.

“I’ve heard a lot about you Dr Death.”

Swirling the test tube around you raised a brow, “Like what? And Dr Death. Really?”

“Just that everyone adores you. It makes me sick.”

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine?” You replied sarcastically sewing the patient up.

“I try to be as positive as possible.” He answered playing on the joke.

“Well Dr House the names Y/n L/n. And I’m telling you because you should know the name of the woman you owe $100 to.”

His eyes widened. “You’re lying prove it.”

You explained that the heart had very clear signs of stress typically seen on those with heart conditions and to confirm your initial theory you held up the test tube with the heart tissue sample explaining that the reaction that took place confirms the presence of poison.

He was speechless. You were really good at your job. God he hated when Wilson was right. Even worse he hated that Chase was right because Wow, you really were hot.

“Did the guy have a wife?” You asked.

“Yeah. He did.”

You shrugged, “It’s always the partner. If she’s still here I’d check if she has anything on her if I were you.”

Everything pieced together in Houses head. The hug the wife and the brother shared the crocodile looking tears the sudden death with no symptoms. House stormed back up the stairs as quick as his cane would take him and you followed hot on his tail curious to see if you were right and what would go down if you were.

The wife and the brother looked as if they had just completed the paperwork and were just leaving when House shouted at them.

“You poisoned your husband!”

You widened your eyes at his boldness. You were so fucked if you were wrong.

It took barely any provoking before the wife burst into tears admitting to the crime blaming the brother for planting the idea in her head so they could be together. Hospital security seized the two before the man could attack House and you stood in shock.

This had been the most commotion you’d seen in years. You should really get out the basement more.

House shook his head disgusted at the criminals as he walked away. “Well done Dr Death.”

You rolled your eyes following him. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Seriously? You’ve got to get out of that basement more.”

You nodded hearing him out. And he turned to the side asking a question he was dying to know.

“Why be a pathologist of all things? You a necrophiliac or something?”

Your jaw dropped in disbelief as you held a finger to his face to which he just smirked. Before you could say anything in return your boss interrupted.

“House!”

House stopped dead in his tracks turning around to meet Cuddy with a fake, sweet smile.

“Cuddy! New blouse? May I say it really flatters your breasts-“

Her eyes widened in anger. “Clinic. Now.”

She made eye contact with you. “I’m so sorry for him.”

You smirked. “He’ll be sorry if he doesn’t give me $100 for our bet.”

“I’ll make it up to you honey.” He winked to which you grimaced. “No I’d rather just have the $100.”

Cuddy looked disgusted by the two of you. “Please don’t tell me the two of you bet on a patient.”

House feigned outrage “Lisa! I would never do such a thing.”

Cuddy shook her head and walked away. Leaving the two of you alone.

“I wasn’t joking by the way. I can make it up to you.”

“Oh yeah? How?” You smirked.

He leaned in closer and went to speak when the two of you were interrupted.

“Viagra!”

You both furrowed your faces turning to look at the man.

“I need another dose of viagra. That stuff is great me and my wife have been at it like we used to when we were teenagers.”

You grimaced as did House. You pointed at the viagra dependant man and explained, “You see this is why I decided on pathology I know nothing about their sex lives because they’re dead.”

House nodded, “Yeah I’m starting to envy you Dr Death.”

Nonetheless House began to write the man his prescription and you took it as your cue to walk away.

“Oh! And to answer your question I can make our bet up, with dinner this Saturday.” He shouted handing the man the prescription.

You scoffed, “If that’s the case you should probably write yourself your own prescription old man.”

You smirked at House and turned on your heel walking back to the basement but you could still hear his voice from behind you.

“Is that a yes or no? L/n! You can’t leave me high and dry!”

[lilithrosexoxo]

Jackpot

Summary—You and Dante have always talked about pegging but, neither of you have ever made a plan to go through it. That changes after tonight, a night filled with new experiences and sensuality.

SMUT WARNING (18+ only): Anal Fingering, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Pegging, Anal

pairing: Dante x reader 

w/c: 2064

You run up to Dante with a giddy expression while holding a black bag in front of you. This is something you two have discussed before but never made a solid plan on when it would happen. You decided you wanted to surprise him today.

Dante looks at you suspiciously, you look like a kid in a candy store and it’s lowkey making him nervous.

“Babe, what do you have in the bag?", he questions.

“Take a guess, it’s something we talked about before’, you say with a mischievous smirk.

“Oooo is it the new dance dance revolution from Japan!? Aww babe you’re the best”, he says as he goes to hug you.

“Not quite”, you whisper as you slowly pull the box out the bag and show it to Dante.

You see his eyes widen and a blush flow across his cheeks. The box being displayed is a pegging kit for beginners. You two discussed trying it out months ago but neither of you ever took the initiative to make it happen but you decided to make that change today. You finally decided to explore the sex shop that you pass on your way home and lo and behold right in the window was a pegging sex kit. Right then you felt the urge to grab it before you could chicken out of the idea. You were so excited after the purchase that you raced home, driving way over the speed limit so you could get Dante under you as soon as possible. Just the thought of the man as a blushing blubbering mess as you ram into him had you feeling hot all over and running up the stairs to your apartment even tripping on the top step in your haste.

“Oh..  and you want to do it now?”

“Yes love, I've done plenty of research over the past couple of months and I promise to make you feel good”, you grab his hand and lead him to the bathroom’ “now let’s strip and get all cleaned up before we start”.

xoxo

You lay Dante on the red silk sheets below as you climb on top of him. Your kiss is a clash of teeth and tongue as you kiss each other desperately. You feel lust pool within your stomach as your tongues move against each other. His tongue just feels so good against your own it has you moaning. You bite his plush lower lip before moving to pepper his jaw with kisses as you move lower. You feel the heat radiating off his body and bite his neck, making sure to leave a mark. Dante is gorgeous and both men and women always have their eyes on him so anytime you get frisky you make sure to leave plenty of marks to claim him as yours. Yes jealousy is not a good look on you but you honestly can’t help it. You move to play with his nipples, twisting them between your fingers causing him to groan. You grind your weeping core against his cock and the feeling makes you a moaning mess as your clit grinds on his throbbing length. 

“Yeah baby use my cock, your pussy feels so good drooling all over me”, he whispers huskily in your ear. 

“Fuck Dante you feel so good”, you whine as you grind your hips faster. 

Dante holds onto your hips and starts thrusting his cock between your soppy folds. You almost get lost in the sensation until you remember this night is all about his pleasure and trying something new. You stop moving your hips and Dante groans underneath you.

“Dante tonight is all about you, let me make you feel good”, you say as you kiss him softly before sitting up.

You look down at his cock and his tip is flushed an angry red and leaking. You figure now is the time and grab the lube from the nightstand and apply it generously on your middle finger. Dante sits up on his elbows and looks down at your lubed up finger and gulps nervously.

You can sense the nerves rolling off him and the hesitancy.

You cup his face with your non-lubed hand and rub his cheek with your thumb, “Baby it’s me, you know I would never do anything to hurt you. You trust me right?”, you say as you take your hand away and begin gently kissing his inner thighs. You want this to be a good experience for him and have no problem taking your time to make sure he’s comfortable.

Dante knows you’re right. You would never hurt him and with this realization his body relaxes. 

“Yeah babe I trust you”. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest with excitement and nervousness swirling in his stomach. This is something he’s always been interested in trying but never trusted a partner enough to explore, that was the case until he met you. He feels your finger swirl around his entrance and takes a deep breath.

Your eyes meet and you gently prod at his entrance working him open. You slowly slide your middle finger in all the way to the knuckle. 

“You’re doing so good”, you coo sweetly as Dante groans. Fuck it’s only one finger but he already feels like you’re so deep. It’s a feeling he’s not uncustomed to but it’s not unpleasant as he wills his body to relax. He knows the sooner he adjusts the quicker it’ll feel better. He sees you squirt more lube onto your finger and feels you wiggling around like you’re searching for something.

“Babe what are you ee-”, He yelps as he feels a jolt of pleasure run through his body as you find his prostate. He sees you have a devilish smirk on your face as you insert another finger and gently massage the spot.

"What's wrong babe cat got your tongue?', you question as you rub against that spot.

He feels his brain going fuzzy as the pleasure zips through his body he can't even respond to you. Fuck he would’ve done this sooner if he knew it was going to feel this good. He feels pre leak from his tip and goes to wrap a hand around his cock that you quickly swat away. He groans as you pick up speed thrusting your fingers in and out of his puckering hole.

You feel blessed by the vision currently bestowing you. Dante is panting heavily and his cheeks are flushed a rosy pink. His eyes are closed in pleasure as he throws his head back and releases a high pitched whine. His fluttering hole is sucking your fingers in every time you pull them out. Just the thought of such a powerful demon hunter losing himself in pleasure from a couple of fingers has your core clenching pathetically around nothing. You decide to surprise him with some extra stimulation and lower yourself to lick a long languid stripe from the base of his cock to his reddened tip as you continuously thrust your fingers inside.

“Fuck, just like that”, he shouts so loudly you’re pretty sure the neighbors heard it. 

You lick all the pre leaking from his tip savoring the taste. You slowly sink further and further down his massive cock until you gag, wincing as you feel the corners of your mouth stretch to their limit to accommodate his girth. Taking Dante down your throat is always a struggle no matter how many times you do it but the look on his face makes it worth it. You slowly work your mouth up and down as pearly tears well up in your eyes and drool pools in the corners of your mouth. 

Dante feels like he’s floating on cloud nine especially when he looks down and sees you gagging on his cock.

He feels the pressure building in his balls from your skillful tongue and fingers. He feels like he’s about to burst at the seams.

“Y-Y/N, fuck I’m so close, p-please”, he stammers.

You’re surprised it usually takes longer for Dante to cum but the dual stimulation must be getting to him. You ease your mouth off and remove your fingers resulting in a whine from Dante.

“Now now don’t be so impatient Dante. This isn’t the main event”, you chuckle. 

You get up and insert your legs into the harness and attach the dildo. You grab the lube and squeeze a handful onto your hand before gliding the cold sticky liquid over your cock making sure you’re lubed up as much as possible. 

You look at the swell of Dante’s ass and can’t help but to slap his cheek leaving a red handprint in your wake. 

“Babe please stop teasing me and put it in already. The anticipation is killing me”, he whines.

You chuckle and push his thighs in towards his chest, “Hold them right there for me sweety”, you say and he quickly holds his legs in place. You rub the tip of your lubed dildo around his pink fluttering hole and slowly start to push inside. You hear Dante mutter a curse word and immediately stop.

“Fuck babe please don’t stop”, he groans.

You continue to push inside until you're buried to the hilt and your hips are flush against his ass. You don’t move to give him time to adjust to the feeling. The dildo in the kit wasn’t exactly small or large, just around medium sized but this was his first time being penetrated and you didn’t want to overwhelm him.

“How you doing Dante? Feel good?”, you ask as you pepper his face with kisses and gently thrust inside him.

“So fucking good, you’re so deep’, he slurs. He feels so full, it’s a new feeling but it feels euphoric, "Babe I'm ready you can move", he pants.

You begin to move and he can feel you continuously glide against his prostate and it has him panting hard. He hates to admit but he can already feel the telltale signs of an orgasm coming on. He looks up at you with hazy eyes and sees a warm genuine smile plastered across your face.

You give Dante slow sensual thrusts trying to convey your care and love to the man through your bodies. 

Dante is melting under you, not a thought is going on in his head besides how good this all feels. You’re ramming into his prostate with each thrust and it has him leaking like crazy. You take the time to pinch and pull on his perky pink nipples to add stimulation. He feels like he’s losing his mind from all the pleasure he’s experiencing.

“You’re taking me so well Dante” you coo sweetly, “Still feeling good baby?”, you check in as you slow your thrusts so he can answer.

“S-so good babe, please don’t stop. Fuck me!”, he shouts as he grips onto your hips and starts pulling you harshly to him.

Well if that’s what he wants and he’s feeling good you think to yourself as you pick up the pace. Loud squelch sounds are echoing through the room as skin slaps against skin. The headboard is banging against the wall and you’re sure you’ll both get another noise complaint from your sexual escapades. With Dante’s moans and groans floating through the air all the sounds are creating a nasty symphony that has your slick dripping down your thighs. You lean down and press your lips against his swallowing his moans.

He breaks away to warn you, “Babe I’m about to cum!”. 

Pride swells in your chest as ropes of cum spurt all over his abs as he cums untouched. It was a glorious sight to behold as his back arches, his face scrunched in bliss with his pink lips forming a perfect O and his milky cum glistening and dripping down on his abs. You stop thrusting to take a finger and run it through the sticky mess before moving your finger to your mouth and licking it clean. You moan at the taste making Dante groan underneath you at the debauchery.

“Babe that was freakin awesome but boy am I beat”, he says as he flops his head down on the pillow, “but don’t worry I’m not gonna leave you hanging. Come ride my face, it's the best seat in the house,” he says as he grins up at you.

[moonstruckme]

tumblr is hiding the request from me :( but here it is, thanks for requesting!

request: Would you be willing to write about(if you havnt already) Remus X a chronic pain having reader(joint pain kinda similar to his but like all over, maybe reader also has to use a cane from time to time) that's SUPER stubborn about their pain and HATES admitting there's anything wrong with them so they don't take pain killers or use their cane unless forced to.

cw: chronic pain, pain meds

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

You can’t get lost in your book. The words won’t pull you out of your body the way you need them to, so you’re watching raindrops race down the window instead. You bet on which one will win, sometimes changing your pick halfway through—because, really, you’re the one making the rules anyway—and then starting again from the top of the glass once the last round’s droplets puddle into the sill. 

You’re not sure who’s more miserable lately; you, or the sky. It’s been dull gray and weeping all week, clouds barely moving on cold winds. As if the weather isn’t making you ache enough, you slipped on the wet stairs outside your apartment yesterday and now have a nice, big bruise on your hip to boot. Remus keeps looking at the tinge of it peeking out of your trousers with a pitying little uptilt to his brows that makes you antsy. 

Remus groans as he shifts from his curled-up position next to you on the couch. He stretches his leg out, propping his ankle on the coffee table. You wince. You know he’s feeling this weather as badly as you are in his knees. 

“Alright?” you ask gently. 

He makes a low sound, halfway between a hum and a grunt. “I’ll live.” 

Remus turns his head your way, and you pretend to read your book again as you feel him scan you over. You try not to look too stiff in your own skin. To ease the grimace from your mouth. 

“How about you?” he asks. 

“Fine.” 

“Sure, dovey?” 

You know the endearment is meant to soften you. You look him right in the eyes. “Yeah.” 

He hums, holding your gaze. There’s sympathy in the warm honey brown of his eyes, the sort you can never decide whether to spurn or cling to, as well as a stubbornness to match your own. After a moment, he takes his foot off the table. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he says, standing. “I’m getting painkillers.” 

You stand, too, fighting past the protests of your joints. “I’ll go.” 

“I’ve got it.” 

“Remus, you’re in pain.” 

You know you’re pushing it—the limits of this lie, that you’re not in just as much if not more pain than he is—and it appears Remus knows it too. Rather than saying it, he only levels you with a look. You sit down. 

Remus doesn’t have to bring the bottle of pain medication back with him after taking his own dose, but he does. He sets it right on the coffee table next to a tub of numbing cream, which he opens before rolling up the leg of his trousers. One at a time, he massages it into his sore knees. 

You pretend to yourself that your own joints don’t feel any worse for thinking of what relief might be like. The words on your page blur past your eyes. 

“Give me your hand, lovely.”

You look at Remus. He’s finished with his knees, but now he holds his hand out for you, a dollop of cream on his fingers. “Hm?” 

Your boyfriend sighs, exasperation coated in fondness. “Don’t. You’re hurting.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“I can see it in your face.” 

You feel yourself frown. “It’s not that bad.” 

“What will it hurt?” His voice gentles. He keeps looking at you, until finally, you extend your hand. 

You know Remus knows how to be gentle with you. He’s good at helping without hurting, touch soothing over your skin and working the cream into every aching crevice. You hold in a sigh. 

“Sometimes,” Remus says in a thoughtful voice, “I catch myself dismissing my pain. And then I look at you, and I think how silly that is.” 

You take the opportunity to watch him while he’s not watching you. He looks peaceful. The furrow between his brows has shallowed, now borne of concentration rather than affliction or worry as he smooths his healing touch over your wrist and works his way up to your elbow. 

“I never want you to just put up with your pain. I don’t know why I do. But thinking about you doing the same thing helps me snap out of it, so,” Remus glances up at you, a tiny smile tugging at his lips, “thank you for that.” 

“Are you saying I’m silly?” You mean to tease, but your voice comes out infused with the sigh you’d held back. You sound tender and lovestruck; more vulnerable than you intended to be. 

“You’re silly when you won’t take care of yourself,” Remus answers unapologetically. “Even sillier when you won’t let me take care of you.” 

“It’s not your job,” you say quietly. 

He frowns. His thumb rubs softly over the tender jut of your elbow. “It’s both of our job.” 

“Thank you, but I don’t feel like I need the help. I manage it fine by myself.” 

“Sweetheart.” Remus looks at you. You’re caught like a fly in his honey trap. “It doesn’t make the pain any more or less real to treat it. You’re only helping it hurt you. It’s not a bad thing to take painkillers when you need them. Or to use your cane.” 

You stiffen at the introduction of a familiar argument. “I don’t need to use it.” 

“I know, lovely. You might not have had your fall yesterday if you had been, though.” 

Your hackles must be visibly raised, because Remus only looks at your face before softening his tone further, dropping a kiss on your shoulder. 

“I only wish you’d let us both look after you a bit better. And I hate to see you hurt.” His touch skims over that sliver of bruise showing above your trousers. “My poor girl.” 

You soften. Maybe it’s the tenderness of his touch, or the quiet ache in his voice, but you find yourself leaning over until your head rests on Remus’ shoulder. He continues massaging cream into your joints, diligent and loving. 

“It’s gotta go both ways,” you say, like you’re negotiating an agreement. 

“Of course it will.”

“You can’t just always be right. You have to listen when I tell you you’re being an idiot, too.” 

You hear more than see his smile. “But I so rarely am.” 

“Trust me,” you mumble, “it happens.” 

Remus chuckles and kisses your head. “Okay, dove. I’ll listen to you.”

[thefrontmanscockwarmer]

Teacher’s Pet (p2)

Player 001 x reader [SMUT] 📖

Masterlist <- comment here to be added to the Taglist

Part 1

Note: reader is 18, senior in high school. We do not promote underage sex on this page.

Texts: you’re pink, he’s blue

In Ho pulled up to his own apartment. Looking over to the seat you once sat in. Now, empty, nothing but the ghost of you there. He could see you in his mind, when he closed his eyes. Your smile, your kind gaze, your hair flowing around in the wind from the open window. He looked down to his soiled pants. The idea of you so overwhelming he just had to cum.

“I’m so gross” he said aloud. Fallen? For my student? How cliche. He thought to himself as he exited his car. Really In Ho, how more bookish could you be? He let out a sigh as he started to grab some trash from the floor as he did every Friday. Blue ink catching his eye, hand writing that wasn’t his.

“That girl” he smiled and shook his head, stuffing it into his pocket. Tossing the trash and grabbing his items, walking up the stairs.

Hours later he sat watching TV and grading papers. Your number teasing his eyes as he begged himself not to dive down into this rabbit hole. To not dive head first into you. Trouble at every step.

‘Hey, I think you meant to leave your number for someone else’ he wrote in the message bar. Your phone dinged as you laid lazily in bed, listening to music. You smiled as you rolled over to see a text.

‘No… I wouldn’t leave my number around for just anyone’ you type back.

‘How do you know I’m not a dangerous man?’ The messenger wrote back. You were into this mysterious facade he was putting on. He smiled on the other end, daring himself to continue.

‘Dangerous? The face of danger weeps when it senses my presence…’

‘A beautiful girl as you? I can bet you are indeed a presence to be bowed upon setting sights on. William Shakespeare writes about beauties such as you, I never believe he could possibly be telling the truth. But yet, I stood in from of my Juliet and dared to the a rose in her direction’ he wrote back. He cringed at his own writing. Too strong. I should’ve been light and fun. He face palmed, I’m so stupid.

You smiled at the message, saving it in your memory forever. A squeal escaping your lips. ‘Then do I dare call you Romeo? Or shall you be my Gomez and I be your Morticia’ you were practically drooling now.

His own mouth hung open in a smile. Your response lightening his heart. ‘We shall be whoever you’d like us to be as long I call myself yours and you as mine’ he replied. His heart palpitated with every word of yours he read. He eagerly awaited your response, he was desperate to, would you have me? Can I be yours? He begged to question. ‘Then Gomez and Morticia we shall be. Death got to Romeo and Juliet too early and I believe we deserve something more immortal’

Your heart jumped in your chest. He was asking to be yours, he wanted you as his. Though, it could be just romantical literature talk, nothing. You shrugged, nonetheless, the man you had been desiring since the beginning of Sophomore year was texting you.

He stared at your text. Immortal love he repeated a million times over in his head. ‘I’d love to invite you out but I am afraid we cannot be too public. Though, if I could brandish you proudly, I would.’ Your heart dropped as the solid reality hit you. You couldn’t be go out socially. ‘I don’t mind the idea of private loving, takeout and movie dates are cheaper anyway’ you said.

‘Private loving? Hmm sounds… scandalous’ he typed. ‘Dare I ask what that includes’ he said. Your heart fluttered at the text. ‘It includes you, me, and a bedroom’ you tossed your phone across the bed. Eyes wide at your own words. He was definitely gonna cut you off. Back to just being a student helplessly in love with a man you couldn’t have.

He stared at your text, his own eyes wide and glassy. His cock hardening in his pants. Sex. Love making. Fucking, you. His body on overdrive. He called you. Your phone rang, his contact name on the screen, you shook as you picked it up.

“H-hello” you say into the receiving end.

“(Y/n)” he spoke softly. “The way you have my cock straining in my pants is insane” he said breathlessly. Your stomach dropped at his words, butterflies erupted in your pussy immediately heating up and salivating over the idea of his dick.

“I’m sorry” was all you could force out.

“No. Don’t be.” In Ho responded, pulling himself out.

“If it’s any consolation, I’m throbbing for you” you say as you snake your hand down into your shorts. Rubbing circles on your clit.

“Are you really?” He said in almost a groan. His cock dripping with precum, his stomach fluttering with excitement. He stroke himself slowly. The forbidden ideas of you wrapped around him and begging for him to move faster playing in his mind.

“I really am… when would we be able to hang out?” You ask. Entering a finger inside your pussy slowly. Holding back a moan as you did. Imagining his cock inside you as he spoke,

“We can hang out whenever… tonight, tomorrow, whenever you’d like. It’s not a problem.” He said, trying to sound as normal as possible as his hand made fast work on his cock. “We can stay at my apartment, or your house. I’d be more than happy getting you a hotel”

“We can really do whenever. My house is always empty, my mom’s always working or cheating on my dad with her athletic trainer, and my dad is doing the same but with some secretary from his job. They seldomly come home” you responded. You were two fingers deep and arching into your own touch, pressing expertly on your g-spot as you fucked yourself.

“Oh that’s-“ he paused to breathe. His cock pulsating in his hand, his orgasm threatening to explode from his cock. “That’s terrible”

“Not for us” you say slyly. Your walls began contracting around your fingers. “Hey, Mr. Hwang?”

“Call me In Ho” he replied. Holding his breath as his heart sobbed to hear you say his name.

“In Ho… I should tell you now,” you began to say. “I’m a virgin” an audible groan left him. Your eyes widening at the realization that he was masturbating. The delicious idea making you impossibly wetter.

“I’ll be gentle, (y/n). I promise” he spoke. A small moan escaped your lips and made it to his ears. A wide grin spread across his face. “(Y/n), are you… playing with yourself?” Your breath hitched in your throat at the question.

“Y-y-yes” you say quietly. “A-are you?”

“Please don’t be scared to moan for me. You’ll make me finish” he said. He was already on the brink of exploding. He ran a finger over his tip, a deep inhale at the feeling.

Your heart was beating at twice its pace. Your bpm well over normal rate. You fucked yourself, letting your small moans escape your lips. His cock ached to be relieved.

“You sound so beautiful” he told you. “Will you cum for me, (y/n)?” He asked. You let out a strained and quiet yes. Confirmation that you were close. “I need to hear you say it, please” he begged.

“I’m going to cum for you.” You respond your head thrown back, moans and squeaks escaped from your lips as you did. You listened to his groans. The sound of his voice filling the quiet void of your room.

“Oh god” he grunted. Laying his head back on the couch as he moved faster. “I’m gonna cum, (y/n)” You were panting like a dog in heat, your orgasm was just a few pulls away.

“M-m-me t-too” you said in strained breathes. Your whimpering filling his ears.

“Cum for me. Cum for me, pretty girl” he coaxed. “Be a good girl” you let out a string of moans as you released on your hand, grinding your hips up to seek more friction. He pushed his orgasm through, finally allowing himself to cum. His cum spurted out in thick strands on his shirt. Little flecks hit his face. You laid in bed as you came down from your high.

“Date tomorrow?” You asked suddenly, basking in the afterglow

“Thai takeout and movies?” He asks as he basked in the last moment. Your moans replaying over again.

“Scary movies.” You say quizzically.

“Of course” he smiled. “You are a girl after my own heart. I have all the scary movies you can think of on disc” he said proudly.

“Even the Halloween series?”

“How could I not?” He chuckled. You guys talked for hours.

“I’m going to shower” you told him. “I can keep you on the phone or I can call you back?” You say unsure.

“Either is fine” he replies, hoping you would keep him on the phone.

“I’ll just keep you on the phone” you say.

Taglist:

@christinamadsen @sebbymybaby21 @player279achlys @galaxygurlll @whamzou @watasinekoru @angelofthorr @whamzou @amandalol1414

[ar-ghilas-vir-banal]

The howls of an injured wolf have stopped.

The roars of the dragon it was fighting have stopped.

She can hear… maybe more fighting, but she’s not focused there. His voice. She knows she heard it. Weak and exhausted but there! She’d know his voice anywhere.

But when Inquisitor Lavellan gets to the top of the tower, Solas isn’t there. Rook and two of their companions are there, Lace Harding she knows… then a Qunari.

“Wh… where is…”

“Sent him to the Fade… for Varric.” Rook fixes her with tired, hollow eyes that suddenly widen and dart away. “I’m… sorry, Inquisitor.”

“You sent- is he alright? Is he hurt?”

Rook doesn’t answer. Lace actually looks like she might cry. But the Qunari rolls their eyes. “Stuck him in the ribs. Sounds like the-“

They stop, Lace grabs their wrist, squeezes.

“Inquisitor… he wouldn’t stop.”

“Y- did you… please.” She doesn’t realize she’s crying. “Solas! Ma ghilana, Vhenan; ir abelas, ma lath suledin!”

She staggers and nearly falls, the sickening horror of what has happened crashing down on her. She can’t breathe. He’s gone and he’s hurt and he’s alone. He’s alone to face his regrets and the Blight. He’ll be swallowed by it. And with him, the Veil will still fall. What have they done? What have they done?! Her Solas… her Vhenan.

“Open the Fade.”

The voice cuts the dark. Morrigan steps from the shadows, her amber eyes cold and hard as she eyes Rook. “Let her follow him.”

“Wh-what? Do you know where-“

“Do it!!” the Inquisitor shouts with all her might, nearly flying at them in her abject rage. For a moment, Rook is half sure they see a green spark in her eyes, a glow not unlike Solas’ as he’d fought with the Blight.

They obey, stabbing into the aether with the dagger. It cuts an unearthly green wound into the Veil, and Lavellan doesn’t linger. She touches Morrigan’s arm and then hurries through. She doesn’t spare Rook the barest of glances; she will never forget what they did, but it’s pointless now.

She stands in the colorless expanse for a long time. There are several paths she could take. Stairs down and upside down, coiling and rising like so many snakes.

“Solas!”

There’s no answer. But then she sees… is that a tent? So Lavellan hurries into the prison, worry and fear and horror written all over her. The closer she gets, she realizes that it’s not a tent. It’s a coat. Metal pieces and rivets are all over it; it reminds her of the armor Solas wore in Arlathan. It’s cast over a fallen pillar, creating a sort of curtain between the hollow beneath the pillar. A shelter. Small, lonely, and pitiful.

Carefully, with shaking fingers, she lifts it away. He’s there. It’s impossible, it seems, but he is. Drenched in blood, much of which seems to still be coming from him, beaten and bruised, but it’s Solas.

She would know him anywhere.

Lavellan doesn’t speak. Instead, she simply begins to work over him. He wears a pale tunic, a little mail, and greaves. There’s nothing here to help her. There’s no potions or bandages, not even a waterskin…

Until she looks behind her at a soft sound and every single one of those items is in fact right there. Neatly arranged.

The Inquisitor doesn’t pause to consider how. She takes the supplies and first, lifts Solas’ head up to have a drink. He’s coughs, eyes fluttering open, and finally they see one another. The shock on his face is so visceral that Lavellan weeps.

Covetously, she holds him to her, letting her tears fall to his skin and bloody clothes. He lets her, collapsing against her, as helpless and content to be there as he can be. She thinks she hears him say her name, followed by his name for her.

“It’s going to be alright,” she tells him, cradling his battered head in her hands. “I’m going to take care of you.”

“How would you do this?” Solas asks, his words slow and pained.

They share a smile wreathed in tears. Memory. Regret. And possibly, hope. She remembers. “However I had to.”

[elysianightsss]

I have a request: how would the Techno react if Reader dies but appears a few months later alive but very injured?

Now this inspired me.

Warnings: 18+, angst, suicide mentioned, hints at nsfw, blood, alternate timeline where she was never pregnant; adding Athena and Apollo into this would have made me cry so no. 

————————————————————————

Techno was distraught, it was against his nature to love and be loved and yet you taught him how. You were his everything and more. From the moment you shot him in those woods all that time ago, when the voices went quiet when your face came into his eyesight, everything changed for him.

He loved you more than life itself, so when Phil broke the news to him that you were dead, he lost it. Standing in the living room of the home you had shared together, rage burned through him, his shaking hands ripping, shoving, destroying. By the time he was done, Phil had witnessed something he thought he’d never see.

Techno was weeping, sobbing, screaming for you. A broken man wanting the only thing he couldn’t have. For months Techno barely ate, barely slept, contemplated suicide daily. How could he live without you? Why would he even want to? Without you there was no meaning to his life. It was like a huge hole had been punched through his chest.

The absence of you was everywhere he looked, the little touches you had slowly added to the house over the years. Your perfume, oils and lotions on the white vanity in the corner of the room. Techno remembers vividly, when you had talked about wanting one and he worked for weeks to build and paint one you’d love. He sat for hours carving intricate designs onto the legs and around the mirror just for you.

The wardrobe filled with your clothes, the beautiful materials you covered your body with, he was always envious of them, they got to touch you all the time. Dresses hanging there that hugged your figure perfectly, that made his heart beat faster.

The bathroom filled with your sweet bath oils and bath salts, countless times he had come home from fighting and you drawn him a bath and washed him clean. Countless times had he taken you apart in the sweet smelling waters and steamy room.

The bed was the hardest to deal with, it reeked of you. The mouthwatering smell he wanted nothing more than to roll around in, it was always present when he slept. It was a slight comfort to him, but always left him distraught. He thought about sleeping downstairs but had to remind himself that he had destroyed the couch.

More time passed, around six months now since Phil had told him about your death. He was a hollow shell of himself, he had lost a lot of weight and always had dark bags under his eyes. He was surprised he was still breathing.

“Techno!” Phil had screamed, a dreaded, fear filled, confusion dripping scream. Techno sighed, it took so much energy out of him to simply stand. Feet practically dragging along the floor, he shuffled to the front door sparing a longing look to his axe of peace. Whatever was on the other side of his door was dangerous if Phil’s scream was anything to go by, and he was happy to let whatever it was kill him.

Opening the door and stepping out onto the wood panels just before the stairs that led down to the snow, red cloak and gold crown nowhere in sight, The Blood God isn’t who stepped out to fight, but a broken man ready to die.

That all changed the second he saw you. You who had been dead for six months, you who he had mourned for six months, you who was bruised and covered in cuts with blood dripping from them. You who looked just as starved and exhausted as Techno did, in fact you looked worse.

“Sweetheart?” Techno’s voice cracked as he uttered the term of endearment he hadn’t spoken in so long.

“Tec.” Your voice was small and fragile, your hand reaching for him. The clothes you wore were torn and certainly not enough to keep you warm in the freezing cold snow you had trekked in to get home.

He ran to you, feet moving quicker than they ever had before all so he could take you in his arms and hold you close. “I’ve got you darlin’, I’ve got you, hold on to me.” He used all his strength to help you into the house, Phil running to your aid too.

You took in the state of your home and honestly it was alot better than what you had expected. Glancing at your husband, he avoided eye contact sheepishly, normally it would have made you smile. You don’t even think you know how to do that anymore.

“Let’s uh, get you upstairs.” Phil said awkwardly, helping Techno carry you up into your bedroom, and onto the bed. You sighed in pure relief that you body didn’t have to hold itself up anymore, that you weren’t on a nasty cold stone floor too but the soft, Techno smelling, mattress you had been dreaming of for six months.

You were so happy you cried. You cried ugly, hard, loud. Letting all your emotions out. Techno was there stroking your filthy, greasy hair and holding your dirty, sore hand. “Sweetheart?”

“I’m just so happy, I thought this day would never come. I had convinced myself that it wouldn’t. And yet here I am. Home.” You sobbed out the words, looking at your husband through your tears blurred eyes, just about making out the crooked smile on his gorgeous face.

He wanted to ask what had happened, wanted to know who had done this to you. But just seeing your relief to being in a bed, to being home, he knew you’d need time.

Phil went home after Techno had asked him to, they agreed not to tell anyone you were back until they figured out what had happened to you and by who.

Techno ran you a bath and took extra time and care into washing you off, he had to pull you out of the disgustingly mucky water and run you a new bath. This one you could soak in, allow yourself to relax, even when the clear water did dirty again, only a little this time though.

You saw the look in Techno’s eyes as he washed you and you knew, remembering the vow he made to you all those years ago; “I love you, it took me a while to say it I know. But I need to know you understand—“

“Understand?” You asked.

“How much I love you. I’d destroy empires for you. Pillage country’s for you. Kill for you.” He pressed his forehead to yours. “If anyone ever even thought about hurting you, they’d be dead before they could finish that thought.” He growled, deep from within his chest. The ruby of his eyes shining brighter the more he talked about it.

“I understand.” Of course you did. You knew from the moment you said ‘I do’ exactly what that meant.

“You’re going to kill him aren’t you?” It was a question you knew the answer to but you still felt compelled to ask nonetheless.

“Yes.”

[perlelune]

no body, no crime | Coriolanus Snow | x.

Your childhood friend returns from his exile in district 12, but he's not the sweet, quiet boy you once knew anymore.

Warnings: NON-CON, Plinth!Reader, Gaslighting, Drugging, Murder, Forced Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, Loss of Virginity, Somnophilia

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

Disbelief shimmers in William’s green gaze.

“You’re joking…” He cradles your face, searching your eyes. They are steadily filling with tears. He releases you, retreating as his face distorts with shock. “You’re…not?” He runs his fingers through his brown locks. “God, I’m such an idiot.” He unleashes a humorless laugh. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

Your stomach sinks. 

“This entire time. I waited for you. I trusted you. And you just…What? A-Are you with him now?” The betrayal quivering in his tone shatters your heart to pieces. 

You lower your head and mumble, “It’s complicated…”

“No it’s not. It’s actually quite simple. Do you love him or do you love me? Do you want to marry me or do you want to marry him?”

William’s anger and frustration coat the air, his voice growing louder with every word. You tremble. Your fiancé’s never yelled at you like this before. You’ve argued, of course, like every couple does. But never like this. And never has he looked at you like that. Like you’re a stranger. You wish the earth would open up and swallow you. 

“I…”

“Answer me!”

You jolt and step back, the heel of your shoe hitting the bottom of the stairs. 

Your father appears in the corner of your vision. An exhale of surprise leaves you. He wedges himself between you and William.

“Do not dare raise your voice at my daughter, young man,” Strabo thunders. You gape at his back. It’s the first time you’ve heard your dad use such a furious tone of voice. 

William lifts his hands defensively.

“I’m sorry. I’m just trying to understand-”

“I think it’s best if you go. Now,” your father urges, pointing at the door. 

Your fiancé’s shoulders sag. He tosses you one last, heavy look, his jaw clenching.

“Yeah, maybe it’s for the best,” he belatedly grits out. 

The second William slams the door shut, you’re in your father’s arms. The fat tears rolling down your cheeks drench his shirt.

“Dad…”

“It’s okay, sweetie. It’s okay.”

He rubs soothing circles on your back as you bury your head in his chest. You sniffle as a sob spills from your throat.

You doubt anything will ever be okay. 

The rest of the day is spent in your room weeping underneath your blankets. It’s a wonder there’s any water left in your body, the ceaseless flow of tears soaking your pillows and sheets. Ma and Dad keep visiting your room, bringing you food and trying their best to lighten your spirits.

But nothing can keep you from drowning in your sorrows. William was the best thing that ever happened to you. You remember when you first met him at the University. The two of you were paired for a project and ended up hitting it off while working together. You didn’t even expect him to ask you out. It was no secret half the girls in your cohort harbored a crush on him. And with his boyish charm and outgoing personality, a contrast to your more withdrawn, lonely nature, you never imagined he’d seek your company past the project. 

But he did, constantly finding lame excuses to talk to you like asking for your notes on a class or lying about needing a pen for a quizz. One thing led to another and, after a few months of courting, he got on one knee and asked for your hand. 

Then Janus died. Your world collapsed. Colors dimmed around you. Everything stopped making sense. Still…William did. Whenever you were around him, you could pretend away your grief, laugh away your pain. 

Your heart wasn’t so broken. 

And now…you don’t think it’ll ever be put back together. 

For days on end, you don’t leave your bed. The sun rises; it sets. Yet the same pains shackle you to your bedroom. Quicksands of guilt and sorrow suffocate you.

…Until you’re swept by a sickness one day. 

It happens a little under a week after your return. You rush to your bathroom and pitch forward, dry heaving the near vacant contents of your stomach into the toilet bowl. You then huddle on the floor, hugging your stomach as pain pulses through your midriff. Your brows collide in confusion. Hardly a bite of anything has crossed past your lips these days, as you only chewed on a few glum bites of the meals Ma brought to your room. Yet you are nauseous, cramps twisting your insides.

You bolt upward, racing to the toilet bowl again as another surge of queasiness takes you. Following that, you crash into a heap on the floor. Shuddering, you wipe the back of your mouth.

You crawl onto the floor, all the way to your bed. 

Every day after this one, you awake sick and cranky, the same ache and nausea plaguing you. You also begin to experience faint headaches. It becomes dire enough for your parents to summon a doctor. However many times, he checks you out, he finds nothing amiss or wrong with you. Throughout the checkup, concern is etched on your parents’ faces. You’re forced to promise them that you’re alright and that, to prove it, you’ll show up for family dinner as you did before. Your father pats your cheek, visibly relieved, but the concern on your mother’s face doesn’t relent. She keeps scrutinizing you with a strange look on her face, one you’re not sure what to make of. 

Still, even as you hug Ma and Dad, dread creeps inside you. Something else could still be wrong with you. The kind of thing there isn’t a quick fix-it for. The kind of thing you’d have to deal with for the rest of your life. 

But you don’t let your mind wander there. Not yet. 

As you end the day with yet another bout of vomiting and stabbing cramps, your mother rushes upstairs. She sinks to her knees at your side and strokes your hair.

“Are you alright? I heard you.” She frowns as she takes in your shuddering frame. “Perhaps we should call the doctor again so he can do more tests…”

You bristle. More tests would mean exploring other possible causes for your affliction. You can’t risk that. Not with Ma and Dad involved.

“It’s nothing, Ma,” you dismiss with haste. You put a hand on her arm. “Could we go to the apothecary this evening?” Her puzzled look draws a nervous chuckle from you. Twisting your hands, you chime falsely, “I bet it’s just a nasty stomach bug.”

Her frown deepens. “A bug? But you haven’t eaten very much lately.”

You shrug.

“It can still happen.” You slip on a mask of cheerfulness. “I’m sure I’ll be right as rain again with some ginger and camomile, Ma.”

“If you say so,” she says, returning your smile.

You’re a bit unsettled as you find yourself outside. The brightness of the sun sears your eyelids. You squint at the blue sky. You wobble down the stairs as your mother holds your arm. You’ve grown so accustomed to keeping yourself cloistered inside, either by your own will or the will of…others. Strolling along the cobblestoned path while the winter breeze caresses your face has a strange tickle running through you. 

An awkward silence hangs between you and your mother once you’re in the back of a taxi.

Your fingers twiddle in your lap as you keep your eyes low. Who knows what Ma could discern in your gaze. You never managed to conceal much from her ever since you were a little girl. She was always freakishly aware of every blunder, bad grade and secret.

Her motherly instinct is infallible.

“Dad and I haven’t seen much of you these days,” she suddenly notes, causing your head to whip up. “I know you’re sad about William but…” She hesitates, gauging you before stating, “I think it’s a good thing.”

“Ma…”

“He was never right for you,” she insists, her inflection stern. “You’re a Plinth. You should aim higher.”

“Mother!” you hiss.

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but it needed to be said.” She reaches out to drape her hand over yours. “You’re hurting right now but it’ll all be for the best in the end. You have a bright future ahead of you. That young man, nice as he is, was just holding you back.”

Mouth agape, you stare at your mother. While you know that she and Dad have never cradled William near their heart and weren’t too  thrilled with your decision to marry him, you never expected her to be so callous about your engagement ending. In her mouth, it nearly sounds like a business deal gone wrong. But she knew William, talked to him many times, saw you with him. She has to understand how much losing him means to you. How can she be so cold and dismissive about it? You quell the budding sobs in your throat. 

The quickness of the drive to the shop is a small mercy you bask in. After your mother spoke, the air in the car grew heavier, every lungful becoming torturous. 

You hastily climb outside the car once it comes to a stop in front of the apothecary. 

Windchimes sing above the door as you enter, your mother at your heel. 

You linger by every shelf, pretending to be lost between all the labels. 

“We could call the clerk to help…”

“No, it’s okay,” you cut her off. You giggle and shrug. “I like taking my time. Actually, you know what?” You grab a vial and shake it, pretending to study the label. You wave your hand at your mother. “I’m gonna stay behind and gather some more herbs. You should go. I’ll be fine on my own.”

Befuddlement knits her brow. “I could stay…”

“I won’t be long,” you snap, your lips curving in a wide, painful grin. You squeeze her arm, your tone softening.  “I promise. Just wait for me in the car, Ma. Then we could stop by a café and have a bite. How does that sound?”

She yields with a nod. “That sounds lovely.”

Relief fills you when she walks away. 

The second she’s out the door, you’re racing to the front desk.

“I need a pregnancy test, please,” you blurt out, your voice barely above a breath as you keep stealing wary glances behind you.

The mere utterance of the request has your insides coiling in horror. For a while, you were in staunch denial of that being a possibility. But you mulled it over, long and hard. It made you realize that, besides the sickness you’ve experienced lately, you also can’t remember the last time you had your monthly bleeding. You’ve never been late before. Not even once. And while things are a little fuzzy in your head…you’re pretty sure over two months isn’t a good sign.

The clerk blinks at you, seemingly taken aback. Still, she silently moves her head in agreement and dives through a door leading to what you assume to be the back of the shop.

The wait is agony. You count every second, praying your mother won’t show up out of the blue and start questioning what you’re up to.

When the clerk returns, you free a deep breath. 

She places a small, clear vial inside your palm. You give her an inquiring look.

“You must…relieve yourself and transfer it in this vial,” she explains. “If it turns blue, well congratulations are in order.” Her smile dies as she notices your tight expression. “Or perhaps…not?”

“Thank you very much,” you say, carefully squeezing the vial and shoving it at the very bottom of your bag. 

For good form, you ask for some medicinal herbs, some for stomach pains and others for sleeplessness. Just in case your mother inquires about your purchases. One can never be too careful.

When you’re back inside the car, your mother beams at you. 

“Did you find what you were looking for, sweetie?”

“Y-Yes, I did, mother,” you stammer, clearing your throat and letting your gaze roam outside the window. 

You’re thankful she cannot hear the cacophony of your pounding heart. 

You spend the rest of the evening with your mother, drinking tea and eating cake while she babbles about trivial topics. You try your best to listen, giving vague, half-hearted replies.

But your mind is already far away, a million thoughts bumping inside your head.

The entire evening, you’re restless, eager to go home and get answers to your questions. 

It requires every morsel of self-control within you not to make a beeline upstairs once the two of you are back home. You give a swift apology and tell your mother the day’s exhausted you and you need a quick nap. She reminds you that dinner is in less than two hours and you need to dress up. You don’t argue, all too happy to finally be on your own.

Once the door to your bedroom is closed, you slump against it, all the tension in your body draining all at once. You take a minute to breathe, leaning your head against the wood.

You retrieve the vial inside your bag. Your hands quake. Your heart drums.

Hesitation slithers through you. What if you just tossed it out the window, forgot about all this?

No. This isn’t something you can cower or hide from. You have to face this.

Your entire life could change in an instant. And it might be about more than just your life.

Shaking from head to toe, you proceed inside the bathroom. You pee in a glass and pour a small amount in the vial.

Insides painfully tight, you chew on your lip as you wait.

Stay clear, stay clear, you pray in silence, as if the water could hear your plea and change the course of your fate by some fantastical twist.

After a few minutes, blue starts bleeding inside the water. It doesn’t stop until all of it has morphed into the horrifying color, bubbles rising to the surface.

The air in your lungs falters. The vial crashes to the floor, scattering into tiny shards as you collapse on the floor of your bathroom.

You gape at the blue puddle on the floor. Maybe it’s a mistake. Tests aren’t always foolproof. They’re wrong sometimes. Perhaps yours was defective.

For a while, you loiter in your denial, conjuring a plethora of reasons why this isn’t happening.

Then you slowly blink. You realize the puddle hasn’t moved. The shards are still on the floor. The blue isn’t gone.

An audible exhale bursts from your chest.

Despite your desire to pretend otherwise, you can’t escape the truth. The ghastly, awful truth. There are no more ifs and buts, no ‘perhaps’, no ‘maybe’…Just the reality that will make itself known to all much sooner than you’d like.

You’re going to be a mother. You’re carrying Coriolanus Snow’s child. The urge to puke, cry and scream all at once surges through you.

“Sweetie, dinner’s ready.”

Your mother’s abrupt call from downstairs has your heart miss a beat.

“I’m not hungry, mom,” you reply automatically, tamping down the quiver in your voice.

“You promised,” she yells.

Right. You did. Perhaps it was foolish of you. How can you carry on with dinner and smile at your parents as if everything’s normal? As if your whole life didn’t take a gigantic turn…the biggest one there could ever be.

You collect yourself. You rub your sweaty palms on your skirt and pick a random dress from your wardrobe. You’re a little shocked to find the closet half-empty, gut wrenching as you remember a good chunk of your clothes are still at the Snows’ apartment.

Emptying your thoughts, you get dressed, your fingers slipping as you fumble with the buttons of your dress.

Get it together.

You slap your cheeks and will yourself to act normal. You’ll figure out the next steps later. Right now, you need to make it through dinner.

The facsimile of a smile nudges your lips upward as you drag your feet downstairs.

However all shallow semblance of happiness evaporates from your face when you take in who’s standing at the bottom of the stairs by your parents.

His smooth lilt ripples through the room.

“Hey, princess.”

Your stomach drops to your feet. Victory sways in his cobalt orbs as he savors your reaction.

He looks the exact same as the last time you saw him, simply more put together in his crisp red suit and white shirt, his blonde locks slicked back from his face.

Every cell in your body is screeching at you to run from him. As far as you can. For as long as you can. And never look back. 

Your fingers clutch the stairs’ handrail.

Your appalled gaze turns to your parents. They are entirely too calm for your liking. In fact, they appear more wary of you than him.

“What’s going on? W-Why is he here?”

Your father takes careful steps towards you.

“Sweetheart, maybe we should sit, have a discussion as a family…”

You scoff, shying away from his outstretched hand.

“But he’s not…He’s not part of our family. Or did you forget, Dad?”

Your father’s shoulders fall, a great weariness settling upon his features. In that moment, he looks every bit of his years, all the built-up grief and exhaustion displayed on his face.

“Yes, but, in the current circumstances-”

“What circumstances?” you interrupt.

“Stop it,” Ma snaps. She sighs, approaching you. You stiffen. “We’re not stupid.” She lifts her hand to cup your cheek, her voice mellowing. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you, sweetie?”

Your eyes bulge, shock striking you mute.

Coriolanus uses that moment to join your mother’s side. He places a soothing hand on her shoulder.

Your heart threatens to leap outside your chest when his eyes lock with yours.

“Your father’s right, princess. How about you come down so we can talk about this…” He flashes you a wicked smile. “As a family.”

[dhampling]

one fem!reader, 2k

“Mummy and Daddy’s evening off though, love? Really?”

“Oh shut up, you horrid thing. I know.”

-

astarion is a newly-minted girldad. that's it. that's the plot.

word count: 2,028

an: fluff, fluff n more fluff. no smut this time. soon. promise. parts ONE and TWO linked respectively but can be read alone.

-

“She’s asleep, Astarion!” 

You are wide eyed, furious; speaking in a whispered shout at your husband.

His pale hands flit across the ties of your shirt, frisking every which way they turn. You slap them off like flies on fruit.

“Even more reason to take advantage of the situation, if you ask me.” He murmurs hungrily in your ear, hands now circling down to your waist to tug on your waistband.

“It’s a fine job I didn’t ask you then!” Gritted teeth. Eyes aflame. Cornered against the dresser.

The crib beside your bed holds your infant daughter - skittish and fresh to a world wholly unknown in every sense of the word. She rests rarely and wails often for company in these early months of being alive with you both. Pallid and red-eyed yet beautiful beyond comparison and entirely yours. 

Seeing you together brings him joy unparalleled. 

He has, genuinely; never been prouder of anything of his doing - saving the Sword Coast is a drop in the ocean that is completely and utterly awash with love for your youngling. The mistaken mess of his own bastard elven vampiric genetics now born unto another. This time it would be right. The hunger, the rot; the abuse and neglect, they were hundreds of miles away.

He would make it right. 

But it was already so. She was here, and you all cried together in that dark, sweaty birth chamber. His great guttural sob at her birth, wracked with emotion he never knew he could possibly be permitted to feel on this immortal coil. Your genuinely feral howls of pain turned weeping with pure joy.

Two full days of agony unlike any you’ve ever endured and she had arrived, breathing; wailing; skin of a changeling in birthing viscera and lungs keen to rival any bellow of the Gods.

Astarion weakly clinging to you both; tears salting your lips and wetting her tiny head for hours on end. 

The great weight of another being on your shoulders. His sincere - yet cliche - fervently whispered oath to her just moments after being placed in his arms.

She is home. She is loved beyond any unit of measure. She will want for nothing, and she will never know anguish like that of her parents and their complex lives. No matter who she is or what she becomes, she has two people who are in her corner. She will be fierce if she so desires. Cunning. Witty. Roguish. Barbaric. Horrid. 

It didn’t matter. It never would. 

She was yours, and his; and she would always have a choice.

He had spoken with her for hours, the nurse whispered to inform you once you had awoken from the deepest slumber of your life. Even then when you looked he was hanging over her small form in her cot, running his lithe fingers over her tiny hands and feet in a repetitive soothing pattern. 

When you queried the topic of conversation he simply looked at you with a grin so lovesick it would flip your stomach completely. Butterflies.

-

“We deserve a bit of fun though, darling. Mummy and Daddy’s evening off? No?” 

Astarion pouts, wrapping his arms around you - still pinned against the dresser - and inhaling your scent deeply. 

You return the gesture and cough reactively.

“You stink of Noblestalk. I know your tricks.”

You playfully shove him away and tiptoe from your room to the landing, the pale elf hot on your heels.

“I have never stunk in my life, thank you.” He sulks. 

You pointedly stop to look at him, before picking up a basket of waiting laundry and descending the stairs. He follows.

“I’m trying to fuck you, dear. Don’t make it weird.” He rolls his eyes and huffs. 

You hum. 

“Corpses tend to smell awful.” 

“Warning.”

“You started it.”

“Touché.”

A beat of silence.

“Mummy and Daddy’s evening off though, love? Really?” 

“Oh shut up, you horrid thing. I know.”

“You’re getting rusty.”

He captures you in a kiss as you reach the bottom of the stairs, slow and patient. Holding your free arm to keep you close. 

“Look at me. I’m the epitome of the fatherly jester!’

Waggles his free hand.

‘I have been blessed with brains and humour anew by the birth of our daughter, clearly.’

He grimaces.

‘Not necessarily superior versions of either, but I - am - changed.” 

From the moment of her conception you’d felt it. An old wives’ tale. The night you’d agreed to mother a brood alongside him, you knew she was there. That she was her. That she was brewing as something brilliant deep inside you and nothing would be as it was ever again. 

He’d called it ridiculous, gestured wildly and rolled his eyes to the deepest hells, but a hazardous hope never left them until you’d far missed your bleed and it was confirmed to be true.

From that moment onwards, something shifted even further in Astarion. 

The domestic tether to your townhouse in the city - no longer just a convenience to remain a steady base for you both, but a fundamental part of his scene setting, to plant roots and grow together. Two centuries of rot and abuse, and his reward was finally nearing completion.

His nesting phase began far earlier than yours and with greater intensity than you could’ve matched even without the issue of your later-heaving belly. Entire pinboards tacked with decadent fabric swatches for every occasion - be it swaddling or nursery curtains. Tailor’s tape around his neck each morning and notebook in hand to note your measurements and take inventory of your wardrobe; ensuring you never looked awry or felt anything less than wholly comfortable. 

Because gods forbid ill-fitted clothing stand in the way of you and your brutal vomiting spells, obviously. A pointed click of his tongue as he fixes your sleeve.

In the middle months of your gestation, the typically discerning clientele who visited you and Astarion in your tailor’s store at the dead of night were the first to become privy to the news. Rounder by the week, flushed; brimming with a deep fatigue and yet somehow absolutely aglow.

Children to be fitted for yet another presentation evening placed sleepy hands on your belly with a saccharine softness. Their parents jostle you - sometimes in congratulations, sometimes to whisper in sheer curiosity. Dhampir are a notoriously rare breed, and you’re certain there were rumours of a third party involvement in the process.

‘No, no. We just tried really, really hard.’ You’d smile, as if in a blissful stupor from just the recollection. He’d turn to you with his ridiculously brilliant hearing; needle between teeth, brow raised; lips upturned in a slight quirk. Devilishly handsome, never anything less.

-

You drop the laundry basket in the kitchen corner. A stuffed bear falls from it. Clive.

A pause.

“You never asked what I did with that shirt, you know.”

It takes you a moment to recall which shirt he’s referring to. He sits at the table and watches you lazily.

“Which? The one for Mr. Chugley? I didn’t think it needed much by way of adjustment, at least?”

A stale piece of burnt toast sits on the counter untouched. You bite and chew and bite and chew like a woman who has never once tasted a morsel so divine; so untainted by the evils of hot butter and a filling bronze crunch.

“Oh - Bunt? Gods, no.’

He sips his stone-cold tea. A fresh film wobbles on top.

‘Bunt Chugley.”

A snort of laughter sends it straight back through his nose and out onto the table. You begin to choke on your toast.

“Bunt Chugley.” You giggle, crumbs spilling from your mouth.

Astarion stands to wipe himself down, creasing over with an escalating laughter.

“Bunt Chugley.”

He waggles his hands, eyes heavy lidded with lack of rest. 

He looks purely maniacal.

“That’s- that’s what we should-’

You stop for breath, cackling now; hands over knees for a brief moment.

‘We should call the next one Bunt Chugley.”

He launches into a wheezing fit.

“How- How would that even work, darling? Like Bunt Chugley Ancunín, or- or-”

“No! No, no. Just that. Bunt Chugley.”

You hold both hands to your eye as if framing a canvas, looking through the gap at the ludicrous proposition in front of you. 

He takes a moment to still. Smiles at you dopily.

Crosses the floor and brings both hands down to your waist with a gentle grasp.

“I am so sorry, my love.” He grins and holds his forehead against yours.

You look at him, dazed.

“Hmm?’

He simply looks up. 

A profoundly gut-wrenching wail becomes apparent to you from above. Your face falls.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Astarion.”

-

He’s up the stairs before you can comment further, swiftly darting back into your chambers and grinning with an unbridled joy - though, you note, with lack of rest that grin is beginning to look more insane by the hour.

“Sweetheart! My darling girl. Shush now. You’re sounding something absolutely wicked.”

You watch on from the doorway, arms folded; stale toast in hand and jaws meeting in a firm chew.

He’s far too good with her. 

It somewhat surprised you at first just how innately fatherhood came to him, but as he picks her up and cradles her intently it’s as if there are fractures of his own childhood coming back. How he was loved, how he was held. 

A piece of him, now alive and breathing again after all these years of death.  

He coos at her, bouncing her small frame gently in his arms and hushing her with each wail. It takes very little for soft mewls to take their place as she reaches aimlessly in his direction. 

He leans towards her grasping fingers and allows her to take one of his ringlets from the front of his head as he kisses her tummy. She’s enthralled by him; recognises him. She wants to know more of him. 

As he lifts his head her grasp remains firm.

“We have some work to do on your sleight of hand, I think. Not to worry.” 

Ever so gently, he unpicks her fascinated fingers and kisses them all in tow. Her face looks almost ready to crumple before he reaches for one final kiss on the very top of her head.

“There, now. All better. Back to sleep?’

A gurgle. A puzzled blink.

‘Absolutely. Mummy does look particularly radiant today, doesn’t she? I’ll be sure to send your regards.”

He catches the smile on your face. Winks your way.

“You’re getting the baby to flirt on your behalf now?” You tease.

“That’s the lady of the house to you. She was simply passing on her praises.” He whispers as he places her back into her crib and steps back fondly. Sidles over to you as you finish the last bite of toast and pulls you in for a soft kiss.

“Stop playing coy. I know you feel the same way I do.’

He whispers down at you.

‘You want another one, don’t you?’

A kiss on the very top of your head.

“You’re projecting.” You smile.

You can’t deny him for long, he knows this. You don’t particularly want to. 

Since becoming a mother you’ve taken to parenthood almost as naturally as he has; and when the topic has come up since you’ve struggled to say no and mean it.

“Think, though. The sooner we try again, the sooner we can begin building our little mercenary force.” He looks at you with the face of a man who thinks he’s just had a really good idea.

“Oh! Yes! You’ve sold me!’

You pull him into a long kiss, the kind that still makes you swoon after all this time together. He tastes like cold tea and smells so clinical you can’t help but laugh heartily as you pull away.

‘That Noblestalk is getting to me. Have a bath and try again with a little less?”

He scowls before narrowing his eyes in thought.

“Does that mean what I think it means?”

“It just might, my darling dearest.” 

You wink this time.

The bath starts running before you’ve fully made it back down the stairs.

[xprakzif]

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 • 𝐦.𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐨

chapter 3 to tell him

chapter two here

parings: matt x fem!reader

warnings: this series contains: smut, cheating(don’t condone), suggestive content, cursing, angst, fluff, mixed emotions

summary: after matt confessed his love for her in front of her boyfriend, she found out the ugly truth. but they both realize they’re in denial..

“what’s going on..?” kian spoke.

“kian, i- i can explain this, just-“

“nah..i came to tell you i didn’t think this was gonna work out, but i think he did it for me.” kian pushed past her and matt, exiting the apartment.

she didn’t go after him.

“i was gonna tell him..” her voice cracking a bit.

“y/n, i’m sorry-“

“please, matt, just go..” she whispered, tears of something that wasn’t sadness rolled down her face.

“no- i need to talk to you-“

“GO!” she shouted, and with that, he hesitantly left her apartment.

the apology

it was her fault. she knew it was, it was all wrong. she didn’t want kian finding out this way. she wanted to explain, she wanted to break up with him. but he did it for her.

he didn’t answer her 27 calls or 11 long text messages in the span of 8 days.

i mean who would? she lied to him, backstabbed him.

she’s been avoiding the boys again. only going to work, caring for shadow, and sleeping the rest of the days away.

back at the triplets house, emotions were mixed.

matt blew up her phone, hundreds of calls, messages begging her to talk to him and apologizing for barging in. nick was oblivious to everything. but nick wasn’t stupid.

he knew his brothers knew something he didn’t.

“you two wouldn’t happen to know why y/n hasn’t been texting me back? ‘cause if you do, you better start talking. this isn’t okay,” nick stomped down the stairs to the kitchen where matt and chris were eating.

they both knew there was tension and both knew what was going on.

“hello?! am i talking to the fucking wall? clearly you know something i don’t,”

matt felt a lump creep up his throat, his eyes burning with tears threatening to fall. his lip quivered as he held back his urge to cry.

“i don’t know..” chris almost whispered, looking away. they both had lost their appetite at nick’s interrogation.

he wasn’t having any of it. “so.. we’re okay with our best friend being m.i.a? none of you care to go check on her-“

“it’s- it’s me! she’s mad at me- i didn’t mean to do this- any of this!” matt blurted out with his fist slamming against the table. the tears finally escaped as he put his face in his palms.

chris looked to him, not shocked, just surprised at the outburst.

“what..” nick approached the two and took a seat next to matt. “tell me what happened, matt. i’m not-“ he glanced at chris, “we’re not mad at you, okay?”

he lifted his head and nodded with red cheeks and puffy eyes, “well..”

she was curled up on her couch watching a movie trying anything to distract herself from the truth she had to face eventually.

her phone began to vibrate on the end table next to her. it was finally off dnd. it was upside down, no idea who was calling. her heart throbbed as she took a deep breath, reaching to grab the device.

it was nick calling.

a little disappointed that it wasn’t kian, but also relived it wasn’t kian, she answered.

“..hello” her voice soft and almost hoarse.

“y/n! i’m so glad you answered. how you feeling?” she couldn’t tell if he was happy or.. mad?

“i’m alright..” she lied.

“interesting, well where have you been?”

“home.. listen, i’m really sorry i hav-“

“no- y/n, i know everything. and i’m a little mad at you, for one you didn’t tell me this. i could’ve helped you! you didn’t have to shut me out, and two, you really hurt my brother..”

she weeped on the line, she knew. that was the reason she’d been ignoring him, all of them.

“y/n.. i think it’s best if you come talk to me in person. i think you owe someone an apology, and it’s not me..”

“i know, nick.. i know”

later on in the night, she was asleep in her bedroom. well she was trying to atleast.

her phone lit up the room indicating another phone call. this time, it was kian.

“..he-“

“kian! i’ve been cal-“

“no, i was only with her to get to her friends! she had hella famous friends,”

“wha..” she whispered. he was talking, but not to her?

“don’t worry babe, she’s gone now.” kian spoke. is she having a nightmare?

another voice was heard after his, “great, now i finally get all your time..” it was a girl.

“WHAT!?” she yelled causing shadow to leap off the bed and scurry away. she was loud enough for kian to hear her through the accidental call.

“oh shit- hello? y/n? what the h-“

“oh don’t worry kian, i heard it all.” she hung up the phone and threw it on the bed.

she was furious. she was being used all this time. at the same time, she realized she cheated on kian, but she wasn’t using him.

grabbing her phone once again, she blocked kian and deleted his entire contact as well as any photos she had with him.

on instinct, her finger tapped nicks contact and typed a message.

i think i’m ready and i have something to tell you

“chris clean this up!”

matt was trying to eat until he spotted chris’s mess of cereal was all over the counter.

“that’s what you’re here for,”

“i’m not touching that.”

“you’re closer, just do it!” their argument was shortly interrupted by the sound of their doorbell.

“who the hell is that?” the two stared at each other in fear and confusion.

“can you guys shut up? and clean up that mess, god!” nick came down the stairs passing his brothers. they watched him go to check the door.

“we’re we expecting someone today?” matt whispered wondering if he forgot.

nicks voice could be barley heard as he opened the door, “come in, i’m really glad you came!” the sound of his feet along with another pair made their way up the stairs.

“um, let’s just go to my room to talk for a second,” he appeared behind the wall that lead up to the kitchen. behind him was y/n.

both matt and chris had similar expressions. matt felt his heart throb at the sight of her. his eyes went wide and he stopped in his tracks.

“hi..” she softly greeted with a wave. shame and embarrassment was visible, she didn’t expect them to be awake so early.

“..hi?” the boys said in unison.

“didn’t i tell you to clean that up? whatever, come on, y/n” nick pulled her up to his room, avoiding the awkward encounter.

matt and chris couldn’t even speak, just spared a glance and continued with their breakfast.

nick and y/n sat on his bed. she explained what happened the night before with her now ex kian. nick comforted her and said to forget him.

he then told her matt told them everything.

“oh..”

“we aren’t mad at you, y/n. well i’m a bit disappointed, but that’s besides the point. you should talk it out with him.”

she looked away shamefully, “i know, i’m sorry i’ve been ignoring you guys. it was just a lot to take in,”

“it’s all good, we still love you!” the two giggled and playfully smacked eachother. it felt so good to have her bestfriend back.

but one thing that hadn’t settled yet was matt. after talking to nick, he assured her it was fine if she went down to talk to him alone.

this is how she found herself standing in front of his bedroom door, taking a giant deep breath. all the boys were settled into their own bedrooms, so it was easy for them to be alone.

she gained the courage to knock softly on the door, the same door she stood in front of that night, to the same room she’d been in causing all this chaos.

there was a moment of stillness. maybe he didn’t want to be bothered. maybe he didn’t want to hear from her after all.

ready to turn on her heels, the click of the knob sounded and matt was in the door frame. the pink shirt he wore brought out his worrisome, blue eyes. he still had a bit of shock on his face, although he knew it was her, his brothers never knock.

“can we talk?”

“yea.. come in,” he whispered. she stepped into the room with a white glow from the open curtains. he shut the door behind her as she hesitated to sit on the bed. his room was always nicely kept, that’s something she liked about him.

he sat beside her waiting for her to initiate the conversation. she gulped the nerves in her throat,

“matt,” her eyes were glossy, “i- i’m really sorry, for everything.. i never wanted to hurt you, i-i was just dumb! i wasn’t aware of my own feelings, so i messed with yours, and i’m so sorry. i really don’t wanna ruin what we all have- i’m a terrible person!”

she sobbed out her speech, holding back the tears that prickled at the corner of her eyes, clumping up her mascara.

he watched her the entire time. a frown formed on his lips. “y/n.. you’re not a terrible person. what you did was wrong, but we all make mistakes okay?”

he scooted closer for comfort, “i’m sorry too. for bursting in like that, on you and..” he hated that name. he wouldn’t say it.

“we broke up. he was using me, not that it mattered anyway..”

matt felt some sense of relief, then guilt. he wish he would’ve stepped in sooner. kian would’ve never been in the picture.

“can we all just be friends again? i miss being with you..” she pleaded.

they looked into eachothers eyes. he knew there was no way he could bare being “just friends” with her. but whatever made her happy.

he faked a smile, “of course, i’d never wanna lose you.” she suddenly embraced him by the waist, his arms wrapping around the back of her neck and shoulders, pulling her in as tight as possible.

this is gonna be painful.

the awkwardness

matt caught himself staring again.

she invited them to her apartment to film a video of them reacting to tiktok edits, for a change of scenery. she was feeding shadow, bent over to pour food in his bowl.

his eyes lingered for a bit too long, leaving him flustered with the view.

“hello? are you watching, matt?” nick snapped pushing the phone into his face.

“yes..”

although things were back to normal with chris and nick, her and matt still shared some tension.

everytime she came around it wasn’t like before. the conversations were shorter, the jokes weren’t vulgar, it’s like they were scared of eachother.

after the video, they sat around her bedroom. the room was filled with laughter and random noises mostly coming from chris.

her and nick were laying on the bed, matt sitting at the foot and chris laying on the carpeted floor. the bedside lamp illuminated their faces.

chris got up from the floor with a groan, “you have snacks? i’m so hungry,”

“chris, you ate 20 minutes ago..” nick mentioned the food they ordered not too long ago. he just shrugged and rolled his eyes.

“there’s stuff in the pantry, go ahead.” he wasted no time after she gave him an answer, heading out the room.

“i have to pee, brb.” nick followed chris out almost instantly, leaving her and matt alone.

there was awkward silence at first. her cat suddenly hopped on the bed and began meowing at matt, causing them to giggle.

“do you not want me on the bed, shadow?” he spoke toward the cat. “you give them a home and they end up hating you,”

all she could do was smile. the way he sat there and swatted playfully at shadow made her stomach flutter. getting lost in his blue eyes even though he wasn’t looking at her, had her in a trance.

until nick and chris barged in with the entire pantry.

“we should watch a movie!”

the accident

driving in the pouring rain, she was on her way back from work. the traffic wasn’t helping the fact that her stress levels were skyrocketing, the road rage was just a plus.

sitting in the traffic for so long, the night grew later and later. it was now 11, she got out at 9:30.

she decided to turn into a street she’d never been down before to beat the line of cars, and it worked except she didn’t know where she was.

the road was flooded, but the rain on her windshield made her blind.

there was so much going on and the car felt like it stopped moving. that’s because it did stop moving.

her car completely shut down after she drove through the pool of water, messing up her engine.

she tried pushing the gas, nothing. starting the car again, nothing.

“what?” pure panic rushed through her veins. she didn’t know what to do, she didn’t know anything about cars, besides how to drive one and she was barley good at that.

she clicked on her hazards to look around, not single sign of life in sight.

she grabbed her phone to see if she could call someone, scrolling through her contacts. most of which either couldn’t drive, or were out of state.

“you’ve got to be kidding me..”

the only one left was matt.

there was the choice of calling him for help and sitting through an awkward ride with him, or being stranded waiting for a tow truck.

clicking on his contact, hesitation flooded her nerves, she pressed call. a bold choice.

a few rings went by, her heart beat being louder than the phone itself.

“y/n?” he finally spoke.

“hey- sorry to call so suddenly-“

“no, no- you’re fine. is everything alright?!” he sounded genuinely concerned.

“yes.. well no, im kinda stuck. i’m not sure where i’m at but my car won’t start-“

“wait, huh? send me your location, i’ll be on my way,” eagerly moving on the other line, he grabbed his keys, not caring that it was storming outside in just a hoodie and sweats.

“..thanks matt,”

it was a long 20 minutes. she called her insurance company which sent her a tow truck that was taking forever.

a familiar car pulled up next to hers, she knew who it was from all the beeping they did.

grabbing her valuables, she switched cars getting soaked in the process.

“jesus, y/n-“

“i know, just- don’t.” she was already annoyed from everything going wrong. he stood silent for a bit.

there came the tow truck. she signed off the car to get repaired and brought back to her apartment.

“stay at mines, it’s closer anyway.. how’d you even end up over here? it’s nowhere near your place..” matt gripped the wheel trying to navigate through the floods.

“i was just trying to beat the traffic- no, i can’t stay. shadows at home.” she reminded herself and him of the soul purpose she was rushing home. “i swear it’s like having an actual child. i love him so much though.”

till that day matt was still happy he gifted her a kitten. he loved seeing the joy that came from her talking about it. “let’s go get him- it really would be better for you to stay with me- i mean us, since you won’t have your car..”

she thought about it for a minute. knowing all the outcomes and none of them were relatively good.

“alright, i just have to grab a few things then,”

pulling into the parking spot, the rain began dying down. it was still splashing down, just not as severe. she got out, matt followed her in.

at first she was confused, thinking he would just wait in the car. but that wasn’t matt. he wouldn’t let her do anything by herself as long as he was with her.

“shadow! did you miss me baby?” they dryed their shoes on her indoor mat after she unlocked the door.

matt awkwardly stood in the living room, unsure what to do. “you can sit, you know.. i won’t be long,”

he nodded and took a seat on the couch. shadow came and sat right on his lap waiting for pets. she went to her bedroom and grabbed a tote bag to put some clothes in. it shouldn’t have been long, maybe a couple days until her car was ready.

coming back to where matt was, she stopped by the kitchen to get shadows food and bowl, adding it to the bag.

“okay, we can go- are you sure you wanna carry him? i don’t want him to run.,” pointing to matt holding shadow like a newborn baby. “wait, let me get his kennel.”

they finally got back on the road. it was now 1:23 in the morning. the rain silenced and the streets were calm. they both hummed to the songs that played from matt’s playlist. she wouldn’t know that it was inspired by her though. she just thought it was a coincidence that all her favorite songs were on there.

“chris and nick might be asleep..” matt mentioned, opening the front door quietly. the house was dark, the only light coming from the kitchen hood.

she could tell what he was indicating. ‘nick was asleep and they shouldn’t bother him’ but what he really meant was ‘i just want you to sleep in my room.’

“that’s fine..” she replied. they made it to his bedroom, closing the door so shadow wouldn’t roam the house and bother the others.

“can i.. change real quick?” she was still in her uncomfortable work attire.

he wanted to do the same, his clothes still damp from the storm. “oh- yeah, i’ll just um- turn around..”

he wasn’t expecting her to just started stripping her clothes in front of him, but he couldn’t look away. his face displaying surprise.

she noticed after taking off her top layer, being left in a bra and panties, “what..? did i do something wrong? i mean- it’s not like you haven’t seen it before,”

“no- no! you’re right, i’m- sorry, just wasn’t expecting it..” he finally turned away to change himself.

once they were both ready, they found each other in his bed. again.

an awkward distance between the two.

“goodnight..” she spoke in the dark.

“..goodnight”

the acceptance

“oh- this looks familiar, hey y/n!” chris woke the two up, once again. “i was just coming to tell matt that we ordered food- shadow!”

this time they weren’t caught.. you know.

“alright, man- i’ll be there in a second!” matt groaned, rubbing his eyes to adjust to the sunlight.

chris let shadow out the room to let nick know his bestfriend was there. this was just a great look for her.

“y/n?! what’re you doing here? not that i’m complaining!” nick shouted too loud for the early morning.

“my car broke down in the rain last night,” she scoffed, “matt came to my rescue..”

“wow, if it was one of us, he would’ve left us stranded.” nick was joking but matt felt the tension.

“yea..”

“well, me and madi are gonna go get sushi in a few, you wanna come, y/n?” nick asked.

“i hate sushi,” she replied. “it’s okay, enjoy you’re date.”

“you suck!” nick laughed and went to his room to finish getting dressed.

the remaining three ate the breakfast that was ordered and got ready for the day. there wasn’t anything particular planned since the weather wasn’t looking too good.

they decided on staying in and hanging around the house. they played a few games since nick had left, and she used his computer. the rain outside grew heavier. the sound of thunder making her jump, along with chris barging into nicks room.

“i got bored of fortnite,” laying on nicks bed. “nick said he’s stuck at madi’s ‘cause of the storm.”

“chris! since you love shadow so much, can you go feed him?” she asked from the chair. matt came in the room confused to why they weren’t playing anymore.

“what hap-“

“we got bored,” chris got up to leave the room. “cmon kitty.”

“hey,” matt started.

“hey..”

he sucked in air between his gritted teeth. the tension was stronger than ever when they were alone. he needed to break it somehow.

“god, y/n! i can’t keep doing this- what’s up between us?!” he couldn’t hold back anymore. it was so sudden. but he felt like he had to.

she turned fully in the chair, shocked at the sudden outburst. “matt-“

“no-no, you think i’m cool with just dropping everything that happened? i mean you barley talked to me about it- all you did was ‘apologize’,” his fingers making air quotes.

“are you kidding me? matt, i did apologize, i told you what happened, and YOU,” she pointed at him, now getting up from the chair, “said everything was cool! you’re the one who agreed to being friends again-“

“shit- do you really think i meant that? how could i be friends with someone like you?” he raised his voice.

both of the bodies in the room became steaming with anger, regretful words spilling out like water. thunder clapped with each sentence that came out. they were competing with the storm at this rate.

“you know what- then don’t! we don’t have to be friends! why do you think i was avoiding you?!” the yelling they were doing hadn’t caught chris’s attention, not that either of them were worried about him. they were too focused on trying to hurt each other verbally.

“good for you! i wish you never came back!”

that was her last straw, she tried to form a sentence, but her temper got the best of her. she pushed past him and slammed open the room door.

running down the stairs, not caring about any of her things. she just wanted to be away from him.

matt instantly regretted his words seeing her storm out. he waited a second, then followed behind her. they were unintentionally stomping down the stairs, causing chris to look up from pouring cat food into a small silver bowl. he was as lost as the next guy.

she opened the front door and attempted to slam it behind her, matt holding it open for himself being hit in the process.

“y/n- where are you going?!” clutching the arm that was hit.

“why do you give a fuck? you wished i never came back remember?! so let me leave!” she was being a bit dramatic, the rain soaking her clothes and hair. it was such a beautiful yet chaotic scene. the gloomy sky being brightened with the occurring lighting.

and her in front of it all, being attacked by droplets, hurt matt more.

“can’t you see? i wouldn’t be doing all of this if i didn’t-“

“didn’t what, matt? care? love me? do you even mean it?” she started to sob, the tears mixing in with the rain. “what were you even saying that night? when i was trying to break up with kian?! like are you just trying to fuck with me, matt?”

he came from under the door, entering the storm and the battle. he was face to face with her. “no! i’m not trying anything- y/n- i fucking love you! i’ve been in love with you since i met you- i just couldn’t admit it and i’ve been hating myself ever since-“

her hands grabbed his face, pulling his lips onto hers. his arms wrapped around her waist pulling her in so their bodies were touching. the kiss wasn’t like any they shared before. the feelings were mutual this time, loving and warm despite the cold rain.

in the upstairs window, chris’s jaw was to the floor. “they were just fighting..” he spoke to shadow as if he would respond. poor shadow never got his food.

the two outside were too lovestruck in the rain to notice a car pull up, dropping nick off.

“what.. the actual fuck..”

fuck it guess we both ain’t shit🤷‍♀️

yes there will be a part four (potentially the last part!!) also thanks for all the love on the previous parts mwah 😽

tag list!! @sturnobsessedwh0re @ilovechrissturniolosposts @sturnsxbitvh @sturnsxplr-25 @sturniluvr @asimp4chris @mattspearlz @annsx03 @sarosfilms @sucretwin @little-bisexual-intern @idontknowwhyimhere33

[henrygrass]

Moodboard

I decided to go for my first fic ever, so here's a moodboard for Weep Not For Me! 3 months into their marriage, Carlos and TK are living their best life. That is, until Carlos gets involved in a murder investigation by Detective Washington, and TK starts encountering strange patterns. “Wha—” the fragile whisper dies in TK's throat.

He pulls at his hair, his fingers attempting to wipe his memory. He needs to leave.

He reaches for the abandoned flashlight and drags his body across the floor, barely feeling his limbs. He struggles to push himself off the ground, and the pain radiates through him as he takes the first step toward the stairs.

Everything is a blur. The flashlight slips from his fingers and rolls down the stairs, casting dancing shadows at every step.

He holds on to the rail with all he has left, draining his body of the remaining strength that courses through him. He crumbles to the ground as he reaches the bottom, this is as far as he can go.

He tries to stand up, but he can’t feel his legs. His whole body is growing cold, and he just lies there, staring at the sky peeking through the opening in the ceiling above.

He can feel his mind floating toward the stars—toward the dazzling net that shrouds the world in dreams.

The rules: Either: choose one of your published fics (or a WIP if you'd prefer), create a moodboard for it and share it along with a snippet. Or: Create a moodboard for your fave episode of the show, fave character, or a fic someone else has written that you love, and share it with some sentences about why it's a fave! (And tag people!)

Thank you @carlos-in-glasses for starting this! And thank you @strandnreyes @futures-tense @heartstringsduet @alrightbuckaroo @carlossreaders @bonheur-cafe @tellmegoodbye @whatsintheboxmh @thisbuildinghasfeelings for the tags!

Tagging

@emsprovisions @nisbanisba @welcometololaland

@lemonlyman-dotcom @decafdino @reyesstrand

@theghostofashton @eclectic-sassycoweyes

@herefortarlos @carlos-tk @lightningboltreader @sapphic--kiwi

@ladytessa74 @chicgeekgirl89 @ironheartwriter @everlastingday

@pimento-playing-hopscotch @goodways @liminalmemories21 + open tag!

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 54 (12.1)

part 1 | part 53 | ao3

cw: angst

Chapter 12

Steve drives to Chicago.

He wakes up to an empty bed and a sticky note by the kitchen phone, words scribbled over so the only legible thing left is the word sorry underlined in jagged black, and his breath sticks in his chest and he can't be here anymore. Epiphany ringing like a gong, sending ripples through his marrow, because the walls are closing in and Eddie decorated those walls — splattered himself over every inch of this place, and now he's just the newest haunt in a line of ghosts that Steve can't shake. He thought he’d gotten rid of them, but now he hears them louder than ever. In the hiss of the faucet, in the buzz of the fridge; they’re moaning in his bad ear and rattling his bones, and he can't be here alone with them he can't be here he can't—

So he drives.

Gets in his car with nothing but a spare jacket and a crumpled pack of cigs. If ever there was a time to pick the habit up in earnest. Eddie’s van is gone, and Steve’s heart is bruised; it's bleeding out inside him, pumping fresh hurt with every beat, so he lights a cigarette with shaking hands and heads north. Takes the back roads to the on-ramp of I-65, drives for hours; drives for years, speeding down empty stretches of highway with nothing but roadkill for company.

At some point he rolls the windows down until the icy wind makes his cheeks burn, but he can't really feel them. Can't feel his face, or his fingers, or his heart.

All the world is snow and asphalt, and Steve Harrington is alone.

He tries to drown it out with music. The radio mocks him with swooning quartets love songs — 'put your head on my shoulder' and 'life could be a dream' — and all the tapes he can reach belong to Eddie, so he pulls over on the narrow shoulder of an overpass bridge and screams and screams and screams while he chucks the cassettes over the edge.

Fuck Eddie.

Fuck him.

"FUCK YOU!!" he shouts to the foggy nothingness.

The words dig in sharp; pocket knife twisting in the space below his kidneys.

The fog doesn't respond.

Back in the car, his thoughts turn to his mom. Because he's driving to her, he knows — knew it in his splintering bones and haunted blood the moment he left town. He's driving back to his first ghost, as if confronting the original will somehow exorcise the rest.

Miles pass in silence, and Steve paints over the canvas of what-ifs again and again, oily streaks in the underpainting as he tries to set the scenes just right: quiet, tearful confrontations in his aunt's formal living room, graceless screaming matches out on the front lawn. In one version he never makes it past the guard at the front gate, and in another he just eggs the stupid lion statues leading up to the house while his mom silently weeps from the top of the stairs.

He doesn't know if his mom would laugh at that.

He doesn't know her much at all.

And that fucking hurts; that sits like acid in his lungs, because his mom was his first friend. When he was little — before the housekeepers and nannies, before his mom started tailing his dad on business trips like a trained dog on a leash — they spent so much time together. Trips to the playground, to the library, to the pool. He'd perch himself on her vanity when she got ready in the mornings, use her hairbrush as a microphone to sing along to 50s doo-wop, and she'd giggle and call him her little superstar, so he'd come up with stupid dance moves just to make her smile more.

He misses that. The script, the routine. How he'd spin around in his socks on the slippery bathroom tile and look up at her with her big hair full of rollers and her big eyes full of stars, and he'd say, "Hey! How come your eyes are all twinkly?"

And she'd grin and pinch his cheek and give the same answer every time: "Because you're the light of my life."

"I wish I knew what you'd say now," he whispers to the empty car.

For a moment he envisions that she's sitting there with him, that she's filling the blank space where the boy who broke his heart should be, but he can't remember her cadence well enough to mimic it; can't put words in her mouth when he no longer knows her lines, and with something a bit like horror and a lot like despair it occurs to him that he can't remember what she looks like. There's an apparition in his blind spot, but it's formless and unstable. The shade of its hair keeps changing; the texture, the length.

When he tries to make it speak, it shrugs and dissipates.

—

part 55

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[nanamimizz-archived]

𝚩𝚬 𝐌𝐘…

˖°.𓆩♡𓆪 .°˖ tags: written explictly for @prettyboykatsuki. south asian reader in mind. established relationship. age gap. fem presenting reader. nudity. set in rdr1 where reader is going with john to mexico. hint and joking of a daddy kink.

˖°.𓆩♡𓆪 .°˖ synopsis: john marston in his older age only wants to be there for you whether you scowl or weep.

You and John arrive to a small dusty town just by the Mexican border, so small and remote it was just a saloon, a shop and few dusty buildings. You were dead tired and filthy - when John had brought up getting a bath and staying in the hotel above the saloon you didn’t make some sort snarky comment about how his old age is getting to him. You follow him on your white mare, frowning along the way as you think about how you’ll have to brush her out soon. You hitch her up out the front of the saloon and turn when you hear the whistle John sends your way, holding the swinging door of the establishment open for you.

“After you, my lady,” He comments grinning even while sweating and covered head to toe in dust from the ride. His eyes don’t leave your form even has he watches you walk past him, a glint them as he follows in falling step with your gait. You went straight to the bartender, eying the sign of how much it will cost to spend a room and night. When he’s finally behind you, your head had turned to look back at him and John can already hear how your voice will fret over how much it would cost you.

Which is why he beats you to the punch and drops just enough for one bath and one room. One for the two of you. The bartender raises his brow at the two you with a knowing look. When you turned to look at him, annoyance painting your face you are met with the same grin on John’s lips as he nudges his shoulder to yours while grabbing the keys to the room.

“What? You were so worried about the price, this is halving it right, sweetheart?” Your face twists into a scowl.

“You are an annoying man Mr. Marston.” You hiss stomping past him, making sure your shoulder hits his arm in a your little petty way of getting back at him. You hear his rickety laugh as he follows you up the stairs and he opens the door for you just like he did outside.

“Quit trying to be the gentleman - it doesn’t you.” You snip as you enter into the threshold of the room, hand working to off your layers to hang them somewhere to be shaken off later. John laughs again, dark and deep as he takes his hat off and works to do the same with his coat. From his place on the chair by the desk the hotel provides he asks you,

“What is it that you think suits me then?” He is taking off his gloves, head tilted to watch how you strip down your layers until you are only in your bloomers and chemise. You roll your eyes not sparing him a glance as make your way to the bathroom attached to the room to start the bath you are aching for.

“Probably a dog with how filthy you are.” You say, laughing around the bite of your words and John only laughs in return, calling out back as he takes his shirt off.

“Oh but I am your dog aren’t I, my sweet?” He hears your groan from his sweet talk and it only serves to make him laugh harder as he hears the water start to run. John chuckles with a soft shake of his head, ever so fond as he works the rest of his clothes off. His gun belt is thrown over the desk, along with his hat and gloves. He’s left only his union suit as he walks to the bathroom door, now filled with pleasantly soft orange lighting and steam. He can see you, resting your head against the lip of the tub, the water filled with soap studs. Your face is lax and flushed and you don’t notice him until you feel rough lips press a kiss to your cheek.

“You enjoying yourself?” John asks you, voice soft as the steam against your skin. You hum your affirmation, tilting so you can look at him. There is a faraway look in your eyes, something aching and tender yet and John asks you, honorably and carefully.

“What you thinking bout?” You don’t say anything at first, merely gazing at him before your eyes flicker to a small painting on the side of the wall where on faces when they sit in the tub. The painting was of a flowers -white with cool purple edging the ends of the petals sitting on a lily pad in the water. There written on the bottom end of the painting, in neat cursive read, “Nymphaea nouchali. Water Lily, India, 1899."

1899. The year still stings.

“You thinking about your folks?’ He asks and you allow yourself to lean closer to him, resting your soft cheek against his shoulder that is above the steaming bathwater.

“I try not to but - when I see stuff like that…it’s hard not to.” You have lost all your edges, soft and vulnerable before him. John knows, and he knows you know which is why you can let yourself be like this with him. Dropping the outer exterior that you wear like armor and letting him to take care of you when you need it most. He’s your dog, he’s your man - he is yours completely and utterly. He moves his hand so he can hold your chin his his palm gently, reverently.

His thumb strokes the skin of the chin lovingly.

“I know sweetheart, I know that loss well and true,” he turns to look back at the painting too. The numbers 1899 make the wounds in his heart ache. “I ain’t saying this to cover up what you feelin’ but you are not without family. You have me and the ranch - as long you will have us.” John speaks to you and every word is forged of the same iron his bullets are. Forged with fire and blood and the promise of their conviction. It makes you smile and you hope John doesn’t see the wateriness of your eyes as you nod.

“Besides, you’re in good hands,” He says something mischievous and sleazy in his eyes now that you have graced him with a smile, “You might not have your pa around but you still got your daddy with me don’t ya?”

Your smile drops and replaced with a similar scowl that gets sent his way day after day but he only chuckles deep in his chest as he watches you step out of the bath. You shout at him, telling him to shut up and get in the bath as you wrap the towel around yourself and head to get dressed. John strips away his last layer and steps into the now warm and tepid water. He doesn’t mind - his body warm with the deep flush he caught over your cheeks and the way you never said no to what he said.

[lyralit]

romanticizing academia writing prompts in honour of @lovelaceandco

cramming for your test the next day the night before: sheets and sheets of scrap paper, pacing around to get the ideas right, muttering to yourself and glancing between your notes and the presentation

writing the same notes over and over to get it in your brain

teachers that can quote poetry off the top of their heads & students who will sit around to listen

holed in your room for hours with impromptu music breaks and a hot drink going cold

academic rivals (because who doesn't love them) Anne-and-Gilbert-style:

"what did you get" and not hiding your grades when you did do better;

trading away the coveted position for a job you know they will do better at and you will love less & congratulating them for the awards they win and they you;

bringing them notes for a class they missed despite them being your competition

prioritizing your friendships.

school skirts in the dead of winter, cardigans buttoned loosely

having an idea in the middle of the night and getting up so it won't escape you again

going down research rabbit holes on topics much different from where you began

joining competitions that require studying for the sake of learning;

doing it all for the sake of learning

weeping over grades only to grit your teeth and promise to do better

sneaking in women in suits and powerful women here because academia is indispensable without them

burning energy in between-class exercise: sprinting down the hallways and climbing up the stairs to the old building; swim practice before and after school; chasing the wind out the doors as the final bell rings

getting swept away writing research papers on subjects you didn't know interested you; writing much more than you expected you would

finally understanding a subject that kept evading you; the click when everything finally fits into place

a braid falling out of place and smudged lipstick

the wide-eyed mania after emerging from a particularly grueling subject

jumping from club to fair to meeting

strings of code and students gathered around a singular laptop, muttering to themselves in hopes of finding their error

looking for a book in the library and finding a dozen that interest you

a dazed student stepping back from a chalkboard of illegible handwriting; triumphant with their answer

one student arriving early and working quietly in the commons; their classmates trickle in one by one, making small conversation, until the place is full and the sun is high in the sky

inside jokes in Latin from the ancient studies class you dropped two years ago

thick coats in the winter, jackets zipped tight while you run for cover in the snow with your precious work, ringed hands around warm mugs, cheeks flushed dark, snow on lashes

the golden rainbow of fall, the crimson trees on your way home, the traffic lights lit up through rainy windows, coffee and early mornings, chemistry trips to the ravine, catching the sunset after classes

spring flowers breaking through snow, baked goods and getting the hang of things, lazy spares in the common room, hoodies and boxy headphones, warm enough for the nice shoes, the soft patter of rain, the chirping birds

the last stretch before summer, unbuttoned collars, legs slung on furniture and frantic note-taking anywhere possible, eyes fluttering closed, chasing down the bus on the way home, rolled-up sleeves and tucked-back hair, "okay so".

[ladylaviniya]

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 1 || Masterlist || Chapter 3

Chapter Summary: After your wedding night, you find Sherlock to be most unusual and confronting in nature.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Insults, Rough sex gone too far, internal bleeding, Menstration/Period, Arguing, Typical Victorian Era Sexism,

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: Hi all!! Here's the next chapter, sorry no smut but lots of tension. Love you all and appreciate those most that have been showing their support through comments or Reblogs or both ★

Inspiring Song: "Caprice N° 24" by Paganini

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12:49pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

Sherlock, as he paced his own bedroom was frustrated...and furious to say the least...he touched the cut on his bottom lip and hissed.

He was not equipped for this arrangement. He was unprepared for the handling of a wife. He was not aware he would be so much for his new bride to take...no whore in Mayfair Row demonstrated such complaints...however he reminded himself they were experienced women...you were a new lamb.

He hit the side of his bed, hearing your crying through the walls. Guilt became his executioner.

You were so frigid, he just didn’t expect you to struggle so viciously. You were unexpectedly a savage bitch!

He decided to take a deep breath. The deed was done.

He palmed his soft red cock and wrinkles his nose at the blood. There was so much...his throat clenched, mayhaps he was too rough...normally blood excited him...normally tears and sobbing made his member thick and hard...

He eyed the trunk chest at the foot of his bed...you could not survive his flavours. There was no possibility...He was a wicked handler and he knew you couldn’t ever meet that side of him...

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12:55pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221A Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

The Housekeeper slapped her novel shut. She heard the many thumps and shouts, and now she could hear the horrid sobbing coming up from the floor above...your bedroom.

She sighed...it wasn’t the first time she had heard such things from the apartment 221B. There was single difference...you were his wife...not some perfumed pretender with a pimp expecting a percentage of commission.

Mrs Hudson felt for you. She didn’t leave her apartment until she heard the stomping of Sherlock’s heavy feet going down the stairs.

Her eyes widened, surely he wouldn’t leave you when you were in such a state?

Mrs Hudson was an old woman, she knew it was expected she would ignore it and carry on with her daily activities, Mrs Hudson though knew many married women who had died from that lack of acknowledgement in a violent husband.

She stuck her head out her door and saw him making his way to the front door of the building.

“What have you done?” she scolded him as his hand clenched hard on the door handle.

His face was red. The elder gasped at the line of red rolling down his chin from a cut on his lip...His teeth were pink and set in a vile snarl.

“Nothing that concerns you Mrs Hudson, return back into your hole!” he hissed back as he left with another door slam.

Mrs Hudson tutted greatly and ignored his words all together.

She gathered her skirts and climbed the stairs to Apartment B. She slid the key into the hole and entered the premises speedily.

She heard your weeping in your room and followed to the closed bedroom door.

She wrapped her knuckle on the wood three times, “My dear,” she called, “It’s Mrs Hudson, may I enter?”

When you sobbed harder incoherently, she took it as a sign she should enter. In truth you didn’t know or have enough time to process what she had asked.

The elderly woman pushed the wood open and gasped in horror at what she saw...a naked girl...your bottom half and blankets drenched in crimson red. Your skin was covered in the stench of sweat.

She covered her mouth and tutted, “oh you poor, poor deary.”

You sobbed harder at feeling her cold hands touch your hot shoulder.

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

2:12pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

You hissed and sulked softly as your body sunk deeper in the warm bath water.

Your housekeeper had so kindly spent an hour filling the tub up with hot steamy water. During that time you cried and faded into light sleep before coming back to life with the painful memory of what your holy beloved had done to you

The elderly woman would come back every so often to check the packing of linen rags between your legs. For a honest moment she was afraid you might die. She called for the doctor...one she could trust...Doctor John Watson.

After the bleeding had lessened, she encouraged you to drink a cup of water and come out for the room to enjoy the afternoon bathwater...

You hadn’t said a word to Mrs Hudson this entire time. Too ashamed and shocked to form a word.

You couldn’t even form a ‘Thankyou Mrs Hudson.’ Only quiet tears would melt down your cheek.

The hot waves helped your muscles relax and sooth the anxiety under your skin.

Your head flopped on the lip of the bathtub.

With fluttering eyes... exhaustion took over and you fell asleep in the bath tub listening to the crackling of the wood and flames of the fireplace.

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

6:30pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

A hot hand touched your face and you gasped at the dramatic change in temperature. You were sitting in a freeze tub of water....it had gone cold hours ago...

Your eyes opened and focused on the deep smooth voice of a man. Not just any man however.

“Mrs Holmes...” he purred softly, “The bath is cold, it would be in best interest if you redress.”

Your body was incredibly weak and chilly while also impossibly hot. You were a slight dizzy and confused. Your lips parted and closed again repeatedly like a fish.

When his face met his voice and his nose and eyes came into true focus, you shivered and leant back and flinched away from his touch.

Your husband released a lengthy sigh and rolled his eyes, “Very well,” he murmured before forcing both his arms into the icy bath water and hooked them beneath your back and legs.

As he lifted you out, your stomach dropped and you squeaked, feeling that gravitational pull to which you might fall. Instinctively your arms wrapped around his neck and shoulders. You clung to him savagely digging your nails into his coat.

You felt him walk, your wet body trailing and dripping all over the carpet.

He journeyed back to your bedroom.

As the cold air hit your skin you started to tremble and felt him lay you down on your mattress.

Your mind was a mess.

Another person was in the room you noticed in the corner of your eye. You cowered in your nude state and whimpered. You felt delirious and confused.

You blinked up at the other stranger. Another man.

You didn’t know if he was real at first until his burning hands pulled from his black gloves and gently touched your knees.

“Sherlock, she’s sick.”

“Yes, how eloquently obvious Watson, check her,” you heard your husband hiss.

You tried to move away, roll and crawl but you were flipped once more onto your back, your legs weakly spread.

You groaned and your eyes fluttered. You needed to vomit.

You felt a body climb onto the bed with you. Sherlock. His thumb dabbed and rubbed across your wrinkled forehead, he hushed you softly like you were some weeping babe or startled horse.

You felt the doctors hand touch your intimates and you panicked, your breath hitched and you moaned a soft, “N-no.” You tried pulling your thighs together but Sherlock reached down and spread your knees forcefully.

You didn’t understand what he was doing and the worst thoughts washed over you, was Sherlock sharing you with another man like a sick villain?

You wept tiredly.

A cold hard contraption pierced the hole of your body. A shudder ripped out of you as you felt your vaginal walls expand.

“Minor tearing...what caused the amount of blood is your wife starting her menses.”

Sherlock sighed, “Thank god, I thought I almost killed her.” The metal object pulled out from between your thighs.

The room was lit by candles and kerosene lamps. And so in the low light, Sherlock’s face was softened. The shadows kissed his cheeks and lips.

“Bed rest and warm towels, give her a few days to rest, heal. Usually women finish their blood within a week.”

The doctor pulled away and you heard the snapping of a bag lock. You managed to catch a medical case in his hands in your blurry line of sight.

The doctor fled to your door, before he left, his hand clenched the handle and he turned lightly. He hissed at the detective.

“Be gentle next time you participate in these activities Sherlock,” John snapped, “She is your bloody wife, not your whore.”

Your husband, ever so gently pressed his hot lips to your forehead. You had not predicted such soft kindness after his mistreatment earlier today. He hummed. He held and pissed your back up, he forced you to bend you knees and slipped your naked body beneath the coverings. Your wet body soaked the sheets, your cheek dug into the soft pillows.

“My dear Watson,” you heard him snicker, “I am nothing more than a mere gentleman.” You heard the doctor scoff and shut the door behind him.

Warm hands squeezed your shoulders and rubbed your jawline.

Peaking up at Sherlock, he wore an unreadable expression...he did not appear happy nor angry, rather he appeared tired. Bags beneath his eyes could tell you that much. His bottom lip was slightly swollen, a little red line cut through it, you softly huffed, it was where you’d bitten him hours ago to get him off you.

You couldn’t believe you were back in the same bed he had hurt you in. It made you feel cold and a desire to be distant again...but the warmth of his hand and the blankets had a power over you.

Your chest was sore and a light cough climbed out of your throat.

He did not speak and for that you were grateful. It would’ve been a near impossibility to continue a conversation with him with the state of your being.

The nauseas sickness sweeping of your belly subsided. All you wanted to feel was the warm covers, the goose feather pillows and his warm hand, softly patting your head...it took you back to a happier time...a time where your father and you shared a bed and he held you until you fell asleep...some days it felt like a dream...

You didn’t want to admit it but you dearly missed those times. Sherlock smoked the same tobacco, the scent soaked in his vest. It brought you the tiniest comfort...

You yawned and lazily blinked up at him.

“Try and get some rest wife...should you need anything, knock on my door.”

And with that he climbed off the mattress. Your body flipping lightly as it sprung up. Your nose sniffled softly.

Your heart deflated, ah there it was again. The coldness, the disdain, the reminder...he didn’t want to marry you.

After his foul entrance earlier, you wondered if such a feeling was unanimous at this point.

You shut your eyes and moaned. You tried to roll onto your side...you hissed lightly at the sore stabbing of your pelvis and the stinging stretch inside of you.

As sleep carried you out of reality, Sherlock made his slow departure, quietly sliding his way to your bedroom door.

He looked over the room and shook his head slowly...this once was his friends chambers, and before that a space where he kept his fun tools and artefacts.

Now he had a sick woman in the bed, his wife whom he hadn’t meant to brutalise earlier.

You were finally snoring when he managed to find the courage to leave the room, put out the living room fireplace and finally return to his bed.

As he removed his own clothing, he stared at the wall that separated your rooms. He wondered how badly your sickness might continue and if it was permitted to leave you alone while you bleed so profusely. 

He thought about how these few weeks were in fact meant to be a honeymoon, how he had most furiously refused the ship tickets to France where his brother Mycroft insisted you both go for your romance to blossom.

Sherlock had very little intention to be a romantic for a woman he didn’t desire.

He tore off his shirt and rolled his eyes at the memories that transpired over the last two weeks.

You were nothing but a baby carriage to Mycroft, the future mother to the future Holmes son. So of course Sherlock could not understand his brothers incessant pandering to be a match maker of lovers.

The detective was no small minded idiot either...he knew plenty about you just from today...he knew about you before meeting you... He knew exactly why this marriage occurred on your end.

A bastard daughter of sir Y/L/N, son of the Lord and Lady Y/L/N. This was merely a way to keep your social hierarchy to a suitable and respectable level.

He had heard and read the scandalous rumours.

You were half the soft rose and half a weed in regards to your breeding...which meant you were a weed in the end, an illegitimate, unrecognised bastard.

He sat on his bed and untied his shoes.

Sherlock was not one to participate and discriminate the classes. Many a time it was speculated by John that Sherlock might’ve been a socialist.

The detective might’ve not cared for your breeding, but he didn’t appreciate being used as a climbing ladder of society which he didn’t receive well either way.

He was using you so that Mycroft didn’t cut him off financially, you were using Sherlock so that the people of culture no longer shunned and ignored your existence.

Mycroft was a down right fool if he believed such a union could ever bring together a matrimony of love. So Sherlock accepted it quickly...this would be what it was...a contract...you now needed to complete you aide of the bargain.

You needed to let Sherlock impregnate you...

With your stunt in rebellious adversity, you acknowledged his size and struggled to accommodate him, ergo your fear, pain and bite.

Sherlock huffed, he would need to wait another seven days before he could perform his husbandry duties upon you and press his seed within.

He laid back into his covers still staring at the wall...

He bit his lip. Oh if only he could punish you for such misdirected behaviours...he wondered how willing you really were and what lengths you were prepared to take to remain his Mrs Holmes so that the meek people of the middle and upper class might continue their false smiles your way.

A wicked smirk spread along his lips...

Perhaps a innocent bride was a perfect ingredient for his most filthy pleasurable plans...

Mycroft never stated how quickly it was expected of you to conceive and carry...he just said

“Soon.” And “Before he met the grave.”

He rolled onto his side and imagined you there with him in his bed. He imagined how your body curled up into such a small figure.

He envisioned the likeness of your tear stained face and an exhausted smile...

For now he would let you rest.

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

7:00am Tuesday 6th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

The sound of a loud violin cord strong woke you up from your hours of needed sleep. You groaned as your head began to ache....

You drowsily tossed your head to the direction of your door way...your eyes narrowed. Someone was playing a violin very loudly just outside your bedroom.

You sniffled unladylike as your runny nose clogged your breath. You lifted your hands to cover your ears. Onto shaking legs you pulled out of your bed and used the canopy wood to steady yourself. You walked slowly to the wardrobe and plucked out a nightgown.

You hobbled to your bedroom door and as you opened the wooden barrier, the buzz of Paganini hit your ears. You wrinkled your nose as you watched your husband play the instrument, leaning over a table covered in papers, maps, receipts and a plate of toast.

As he saw you, his eyes widened slightly...you were not dressed appropriately for the hour of the morning. At any moment he might’ve had a client come inside if it were not for his honeymoon.

“Good morning, Mrs Holmes,” said Sherlock as he placed his instrument down on the table.

You sternly eyed him. Your hands trembled lightly. His face. His handsome evil features upset you. He offered a soft smile and kind eyes. You didn’t dare fall for his trickery. From the moment you had met him he had provided a twisted exchange of false care that twisted quickly to brutal cruelty.

You decided, you did not like your husband and it was not something you would hide from him.

“My grandmother insists that is the devil’s music,” You proclaimed, “It is most wretched to hear of a morning.”

He sucked in a deep breath of air and grounded, “I do not entertain superstitious conversation,

Paganini was gifted and because of this, other composers jealously invented rumours of a pact with Satan to dissuade the public from ever enjoying the expanses of musical differences.”

You glared at him. Of course he would say something so infuriating and liberal in the works. His tone tilted on belittlement and you felt there was absolutely no standing that could allow him to talk to you like this especially after yesterday’s events.

You lightly snorted, “As it may be so, I still urge the request you refrain from playing it so early and while in my presence. It woke me up most fiercely.”

In truth it isn’t what woke you up…You could still feel him there. The memory of his violent embrace haunted the muscles of your lower half. He was like a ghost remaining between your thighs. It made you feel ill to think about.

He looked down. A deep frown on his face. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. He pushed the plate with toast closer to you, “Mrs Hudson bid you a fair morning wife, you should be up earlier from now on to receive her.”

You looked to the softly ticking clock on the fireplace mantel and blinked, “Indeed, I shall need to apologise to her,” demurely you conceded, “I usually rise by six in the morning.”

“You are ill,” Sherlock said now holding the plate out to you for your weak hands to take, “I insist you sit and eat and return back to bed for further rest.”

You wanted to raise your voice at him. You wanted to scream and yell that you were not I’ll but rather hurt and in suffering after his careless mistreatment.

You couldn’t figure out if his gentleness last night was really a delusional dream. This world around you felt like some vicious game.

You chewed the inside of your cheek. You wanted to be a spitfire and tell him he needed to apologise for hurting you yesterday before you take anything from him...yet as your insides tightened at the smell of the warm butter soaking the hot cooked bread, you obeyed his demand.

You glided over to him and lightly pushed some of the papers on the table around. Sitting at the end, Sherlock mirrored your seating and went about picking up a newspaper.

On the front was a illustration of Lord Thaddeus Pennicott, a baron who from the title of the paper had gone missing.

You looked back to your breakfast and pondered on your husband’s work. How the articles written by John Watson had designed Sherlock to be a saviour to the public with a intelligence that might put most scholars to shame. The Sherlock you had come to meet was nothing like the gazette’s description, rather he was rude, ill tempered and coarse in handling any woman.

You chewed the soft delicious toast and swallowed gradually.

It was difficult to accept but not hard to see, you had married a brute.

You glanced at Sherlock again. His face was hidden behind the paper, his thick long fingers cradled and framed the edges of the news securely as he flicked through the gossips.

You nervously fidgeted in your seat as you ate breakfast. You did not see any tea and assumed you slept through any Mrs Hudson might’ve deliver.

It was so unusual waking up in a foreign home, having to accept this would be your place of residence for as long as your husband desired to live here.

You noted the oddities of your surroundings...objects you didn’t much think of as you moved in yesterday. There was a underwater helmet, a skeleton of some type of odd mammal, and even a telescope sitting on top of a piano.

You read over some of the framed newspaper headlines which were the retellings of your husband’s crime and mystery stories.

The will to speak to him again with level head and calm tones was as hard as walking through mud up to your ankles. You squeezed your eyes shut. You couldn’t ignore him nor refuse to speak to him for your entire marriage.

You licked your bottom lip and coughed into a napkin. Looking back to Sherlock’s newspaper you nodded and called across the table, “Are you helping with the Pennicott case, Mr Holmes?”

He flattened the paper on the table and stared at you as if you’d said something obvious.

“Of course not. Clearly he’s a man who ran out from his wife. It happens more often than you think,” he cleared his throat and picked up his cup to his lips, speaking into the cup “Perhaps you should sit pretty rather than voice your false interests in my work which you have no business in.”

You didn’t like the tone he used on you. Condescending. Icy. You wouldn’t allow it to continue. You remembered your grandfather telling you to put your foot down as a new wife or else you would be unattended to. It’s not that you desired the attending after yesterday, but you wouldn’t accept rudeness.

“Sherlock,” you hummed and crossed your arms over your lap as you tongued the inside of your cheek trying to not scream at him, “I am your wife,” you said it sternly, “Not a child, when I inquire on the better part of your interest, do not speak down to me like a dog.”

You jerked your chin dignified, holding your ground despite almost dropping the last crust of your breakfast.

He pursed his lips with narrowed eyes and thought before spoke. It was a chilling moment before announced, “You are my wife, that is true...and so I shall speak to you however you tempt me to, and this very morning you’ve put me in a disagreeable mood.”

Disagreeable mood?! You refrained from rolling your eyes at him.

You sat back and sighed, abandoning the last and tiny piece of bread. He was so foul to think of himself so justified. You expressed a disinterest to his music tastes and that indicated his deflating concern for you.

Not once had he asked in your wellbeing. Perhaps he was clouded with shame? ‘he should be shameful, he hurt an innocent woman.’

“Perhaps, you should practice on controlling and restraining your moods then Sherlock,” you griped, “I do not much care for your habitable outbursts.”

For the first time you caught his face expressing a new design...shock, flabbergasted. His face grew a small hue of pink.

You smirked a little at the small victory.

His chewed his bottom lip, “My habitable outbursts?” he pried, offence costing his words.

You swallowed and nodded curtly you leant back in your chair, “Now here at breakfast, the church flee yesterday, and the marriage bed rage also yesterday.”

An indignant chuckled crawled from his throat.

“You bit me like a wild cat,” he voiced rightfully, pointing hard at the small wound still in his mouth. The redden skin was a symbol of your defiance and escape. Instead of being embarrassed, you surged with pride that you punished him in such a manner.

You quipped back quickly, “and you stabbed me like an merciless villain.”

“A villain, you say?” his brows now raised and his eyes widened.

“Quite,” You glanced down at the plate and muttered, There’s no other term for what you did to me.”

Rape was not in the current vocab for this situation you believed. You were married and he was taking what was rightfully his as husband, he could have been gentler however. Your grandmother never shared that it could be so agonising, surely your grandfather had never inflicted such abuse into her?

Your husband slowly rose from the table and leant across it. You flinched and squeezed your eyes as you feared his sharp hand. Sherlock Holmes had every strength to hurt his weak wife, so why did you feel so mouthy in the sense of easily provoking him to rage or even potential violence?

The handsome detective with hot pale hands ran his knuckle down your cold cheek...it was wet. A tear had escaped. Dear god...you were trembling and clenching your skirts beneath the table.

“I can think of a plethora of words for what I did to you,” Sherlock muttered, he pulled his hand away and scoffed, “I did not think Mycroft to saddle me with such a stupid bride.”

A fresh flow of hot tears flooded your eyes.

A growl of outrage accidentally climbed from your chest, it came out like a needy whine, “I beg your pardon?”

“Granted my dear Mrs Holmes,” he smirked and clapped his hands gesturing to the room you left, “Now off to bed with you, I see your withering state worsen by the moment. Doctor Watson informed me you needed rest during your delicate...situation. Perhaps it has brought you to these hysterical theatrics.”

A light gasp of horror and a written expression of disgust painted your face, “I shall not, nay! I shall sit an disembowel your words,” you sniffled and tried not to fall into a pathetic sob, “D-did you just call me stupid?!”

As his smile widened and you angrily threw the last piece of bread at him, hitting his chest.

“You sir,” your bottom lip wobbled “Are out of place and feverishly I have discovered your lack of empathy most stunning, that or rather the amount of your selfish conceived motion that I am a docile woman who will put up with your conceited arrogance!!”

How dare he hurt you as terribly as he did in humiliation and physical behind that he should also find it acceptable to brandish you with further insults of your intelligence.

Before he could sit back down, you slapped your hands on the table, the china tinkled as you pushed yourself up to your feet. You hissed at him as you wobbled around the wooden furniture, “You may be London’s finest Detective, but I am your wife.”

You mapped your finger harshly into his chest and snarled with great venom dripping from your tongue, “By the lord of heaven, if I had only known the telling’s of our futures, I would announce full heartedly that you Sherlock Holmes would be the very last man I would prevail to marry.”

The room fell silent. His cold eyes burned I to your gullet. He licked his teeth, left slightly speechless and unsure if he should entertain the argument any longer than necessary.

Your belly felt tight. The toast was not sitting well. You were anxiously awaiting his roar, his bite or his strike. Your chest rose and fell with every desperate breath you took as to not fall into a heap of wailing. Breathe through the pain and the fear.

He stared at your lips and fluttered his eyes, shaking his head at you.

“...Good morning Mrs Holmes,” he bid gruffly and bowed his head before leaving the table to head over to the coat rack.

“And where is it you run off to this time?” You raised your voice shakily and waved your hands as if to conjure the words of his locations destination, “The same place you fled to yesterday and yesterday evening? To hide in a bottle?”

Mr Holmes snapped his head back at you, his eyes scowered your poorly glad form beneath the dressing gown. It took everything in him not to fuck your miserable mouth off.

“No...” he swallowed harshly, “I seek the companionship of bearable company.”

Your chest tightened and the whimper left, that could’ve been anyone or no one with how mysterious your husband had proven to be.

You rubbed your hot forehead and grunted softly to remind him, “It is our honeymoon.”  

During the week of a honeymoon it was deemed improper to seek or receive guests and the company of any other than your married partner.

Sherlock leant forward, right down to your cheek, his lips scarcely touching the skin of your love and jaw as he whispered hauntingly, “And your honey is blood. I shall not interrupt your peaceful rest....” he kissed your face gently, and said at a room tempt tone, “Good morning Mrs Holmes.”

Argument over it would seem.

He picked up a walking cane and a hat, leaving the flat to yourself.

You sighed frustratedly and stomped a foot like a feral child. You wouldn’t put up with this, for this is not what was promised by the outline of marriage by every book, paper and word of mouth. You crossed your arms and sniffled. You wiped your eyes again.

Sherlock made you feel more like a child than a wife with how he used his words and the looks he threw at you. It was unfair and cruel.

You were a very smart young lady and practiced the skills of refine ladyship over the years of your teenage hood. You were a paragon of brilliance and etiquette...only for some lout you called a husband to drive you to irritation so unbearable that you felt it necessary to toss your breakfast scraps at him.

You ground your teeth and returned to your rooms to pick out a modest covering wrap over the dressing gown you already wore. It would be most annoying to have to strip your body everytime you vomited or perhaps didn’t reach the bed pan in time.

You shuddered and went about washing your face and fiddling with your hair...

As you stared at your washed out features, you heard your landlady arrive...

You thought about your wifely duties beyond the bedroom. With Sherlock going off to god knows where, you were totally left to your own devices and for the very first time in years, you had freedom to decide your days habits.

You thought half heartedly about calling upon Sherlock’s brother or the Doctor Watson to grant a visit and answer some questions beginning to form in your head.

‘Why is Sherlock so different in person compared to the papers?’

‘What displeases Sherlock into his outbursts and what pleases him to calm those said outbursts to dust?’

You tried to wonder on your marriage contract. You were not entirely privy to it even though you felt you had every right. It was a deal conspired by Mycroft and your grandfather after all. You wondered if Sherlock even caught a glimpse of it.

Why did Sherlock even agree to marry you if it was only to lead to his foul manners and hands to you?

Tapped your lips and shook your head.

What does every contracted marriage consist of? Land? Babes? Livestock? Wealth? Status?

You looked around your room and out the open door to the sitting room.

Sherlock did not strike you as someone in need of money...and yet...many of these items, surely were not affordable on a wavering wage as his alone? His family wealth most likely was directed towards Mycroft as the eldest.

And then you recalled your darling sister in law, her shrieking at the wedding, the words echoed back like a tunnel, ‘I can help pay off your debts when I marry’ she had said.

So it was money...debts...and enough to cause strains that would force him to accept your hand in marriage. You tried not dwelling on being reminded how undesirable you were as a bastard woman. This newly accepted information could be used to your advantage.

A fabulous idea occurred to you. An idea that would prove to Sherlock that you were in fact not a stupid imbecile.

Helplines:

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