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huramuna · 4 months

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beware the sapphire peak - chapter 1.

aemond targaryen x wife reader x alys rivers a period piece, set in 1902.

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you're a young, american lady who is an aspiring author. you are wooed by a mysterious and charming savant from england. swept off your feet, you're whisked away to his family's ancient estate, Dragonstone Hall. but with all stories, secrets are hiding around every corner, and your suitor is no different. a crimson peak inspired mini series. (this will likely be about 3 parts)

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content: smut, angst, gaslighting, unhealthy relationships, manipulation, alys in her girlboss gatekeep gaslight era, no use of y/n, afab reader, pre-established alysmond, this isn't going where you think it is (it might be), infidelity-ish, polyamory

to death we dance - salem's heir • the flower duet - sabine devieilhe & marianne crebassa

“You were nearly late, miss,” one of the butlers murmured in your ear. “The music’s just started.”

“There is a quote about being fashionably late, isn’t there?” you mused, taking his gloved hand as he helped you up the steps.

It was a banquet for your father’s business, a celebration of having struck gold (oil) and turning a huge profit. Or, in your words, an excuse for the high and mighty to get plastered and dance the night away. Your fist clenched upon the train of your dress– a lovely evening gown in eggshell white, with hand embroidered lilacs and lavender petals on it, spindling up your bodice like a trellis. Your usually somewhat unruly hair was tamed into a braided and pinned up-do, with an expensive broach poked into the bun of hair in the shape of a falling wisteria branch.

Your father was the first to greet you, peeling away from the gaggle of portly oil barons. He kissed your cheek. “You look lovely tonight, my dear. A vision in purple, I must say.”

You smiled back at him. “Yes, well, you all but wringed my arm to get me to attend– and you shall hold up your end of the bargain… right?” you hummed softly, batting your eyelashes.

He let out a small sigh, nodding. “I will send your manuscript to the publisher– the editor in chief is here tonight, if you’d care to mingle. Amongst… many other eligible bachelors, I might add.”

Your father had spent the better part of the last three years gently trying to pair you up with a suitor for marriage. He was a patient man, as he had droned on about so many times before, but his patience was waning. You were twenty-one years old, and apparently, that was a ghastly sight– to be twenty-one and unmarried with no promising prospects.

Of course, you couldn’t care less. You were more focused on finishing your manuscript in that time– you had a knack for writing and reveled in works of fiction that tended to lean to the darker sides of things. It had finally reached a point you were somewhat happy with, and had convinced your father to chat up his well connected colleagues so you may be able to send the first draft to a publisher.

The price for that, however, was to entertain suitors. At a gala. Dressed and primped like a Thanksgiving turkey. It was all so dreary to you– the ladies stared at you and whispered, citing you as the dreary one.

Breaking away from your father with a tiny smile, you began to mingle– as well as you could, anyhow. You were awkward and a bit sheltered and it showed. However, once you said who your father was, dollar signs would flash in the eyes of the men you were speaking with, and they would push forward in the conversation. You weren’t ugly by any means and could become a good wife to some young entrepreneur– but you didn’t want that.

You were about fed up with it all three hours later, your nails clinking against the glass of champagne you were nursing for the better part of thirty minutes. Your look of slight annoyance managed to stave off any other wanton suitors– until another man approached you. You had exchanged some glances with him during the night, but you didn’t recognize him. He was tall, exceedingly taller than any of the other men there. His blonde hair, so pale it was almost white in hue, was cinched at the nape of his neck in a clean ponytail, falling between his shoulder blades. He was in a custom-fitted three piece black and green suit– you could tell from how perfectly it was hugging him, in all the right places.

A familiar heat came to your cheeks as you watched him saunter over to you with an intent in his pale blue eyes– eye? One of them, you noted as he came closer, was slightly off-color from the other and moved a bit slower. Likely fake, you thought. The light casted over the planes of his face, chiseled as it was, illuminating the slightly raised, puckered skin near the fake eye in a distinctual scar. He looked just like the perfect inspiration for a protagonist in one of your novels– or mayhaps an antagonist. He seemed to skim the line between the two in appearance alone.

Curious.

“My lady,” he greeted as he finally broke the air of silence between you, his arms placed behind him in a very calculated manner. “Are you enjoying yourself this evening?” he asked then, a brow perked. His accent wasn’t American– that you knew for certain– likely something European.

“As much as I can, sir,” you responded coolly, despite being caught slightly off guard by his sudden and overwhelming presence– a dark cloud in a perfectly tailored suit. “I hope that the…” you cleared your throat, trying to sound a little more confident than you likely were. “The… event is to your liking.” you mustered a smile, diverting your gaze to your champagne, hoping there may be the secrets to being a good conversationalist somewhere within the bubbles.

He chuckled, the sound low and husky. It caused a shiver to go up your spine. “The event is well and fine, my lady. Are you… the proprietor of the gala tonight? I wouldn’t expect a beautiful thing such as yourself to plan something like this.”

You glanced up at him beneath fettered lashes. He was complimenting you and insulting the party at the same time. “No– I am not. I’d never choose such… dreary musicians for an event like this. They’re playing for a wake rather than a party– that would be my father’s doing.” you slipped it into the conversation, that this was your father’s party, trying to gauge if this handsome stranger was after what all of the others were.

Surprisingly, his expression, smooth and cool with the barest hint of a smile perking at his naturally upturned lips, didn’t change. “Dreary,” he repeated, “Melancholic, gloomy, monotonous, vapid– all good words to describe the state of affairs.”

“You have quite the expansive vocabulary, Mister…” your voice trailed off, an inadvertent way to ask for his name.

“Targaryen– Aemond Targaryen. And you?” he reached his hand out to shake yours – how incredibly formal– as you returned your own name with a wide-eyed stare.

“Targaryen. As in… the ancient bloodline? Descended from dragons, close to royalty, Dragonstone estate Targaryen?” you asked, mouth slightly agape. From what you knew of them, they were as close to the height of English royalty, real royalty, as there was in the current year, 1902. Their wealth alone, minus all of the titles, made your father’s look like a pissant trust fund.

“The very same. You’re familiar with my family?”

“Ehm– familiar, more so I’ve heard of you all. Your family’s name comes up quite often in my father’s social circles. And I am quite nosy.”

“And what do you think?”

“About… your family? Mr. Targaryen–”

“Call me Aemond.”

“Aemond– I don’t really know much besides the height of your prestige– and your family’s estate, Dragonstone. My father brought me back some photographs of it from his trips over the pond. It’s quite beautiful.”

“Your father brought you pictures of our home?”

“N-not just yours! I collect photographs of old estates, mostly ones from Europe. I like to use them for inspiration for my… stories. I’m a writer– a novice, mostly.”

“A writer? Have you published anything I might know?”

“Oh, God no–” you laughed, covering your face slightly with your hand. “I’ve not yet been published. I actually sent my manuscript to… or will be sending one to a publisher soon. Hopefully.”

“What do you like to write?” he asked then, leaning a bit closer to you as if he was actually enjoying conversing with you. “Romance? Children’s fables?” he teased softly, his one eye gleaming. He was quite handsome, you thought.

“I like horror– mysteries, gothic fiction. I’m quite enamored with the… macabre and weird,” you admit. “I hope that doesn’t frighten you.”

Aemond grinned, his teeth shining, canines pronounced against his thin lips. “Oh, yes, it does frighten me. But, all good horror stories should frighten their readers, yes? I expect you’re a fan of Vampyre? Perhaps Dracula?”

“Both are good. My favorite, however, is Frankenstein. Mary Shelley is a genius. The Castle of Otranto is also wonderful and the pioneer of the genre. I remember trying to read it when I was younger and being scared of the dark hallways at night. Later on in life, those dark hallways enthused me enough to write about them– hence my… fascination with old houses.”

“Old homes certainly do have their fair share of secrets, don’t they?” he paused, straightening his lapel slightly before leaning back in towards you. “And do you believe what they say? That Mary’s husband wrote it and published it under her name?”

Your brows knit together in slight irritation. “Of course not. Why would he need to do such a thing? I hope you don’t mind me saying, but men already have enough advantages as is– publishing under a woman’s name instead might be considered a disadvantage.”

“Will you be publishing under your own name?”

You blinked, taking a sip from your champagne. It was something you considered and went back and forth upon. “I haven’t decided. I have a pseudonym ready just in case.”

“Do tell– so I know what name to look for on the shelves within a year.”

God, was he ever charming– and without even trying, really. He was well-spoken with a voice that was soft and almost whispery. It made butterflies bubble in the pit of your stomach– now that was a feeling you weren’t familiar with. “Dorian Gray.”

“Cheeky woman.” he mused. “Fancy a dance, Miss Gray?”

“... I suppose I could be swayed.”

–

Your dance together, to say the least, was a success– it started month’s worth of courting after. Aemond took you on the most splendid nights out, wining and dining you like you were a gorgeous, interesting debutante. It was exhilarating to say the least and made you feel… truly wanted– especially since his family was exceedingly wealthy, your father’s wealth couldn’t have attracted him.

He took you to the theater, out to wondrous restaurants, and bought you various gifts like jewelry, writing supplies and outfits to wear when you went out.

It all felt very much like a dream to you– something beyond your usual, weary routine that had hardly ever changed since your mother died when you were eight years old. You’d recused into yourself then, the dark hallways that scared you so fiercely just before her death now seemed welcoming. You thrived in the dark, like a moth.

But now, you felt something more akin to a butterfly, bathing in the sun’s light.

It wasn’t a great surprise when Aemond asked your father for his blessing to marry you. Your father, who had harped you for years to get married, was suddenly apprehensive.

He pulled you aside, arm around you. “Do you like this boy, dear?”

“Y-yes, father– very much so.”

“I’ll be honest, sweetheart. I’m not exactly keen on letting my only daughter go off with… some man–”

“He isn’t just some man, father! He’s a Targ–”

“Don’t interrupt,” he chastised firmly. “I’ve had my people look into his family further– it’s a whole mess, issues with succession, backstabbing, incest, the whole nine yards,” he took a measured breath. “But I’ve heard nothing but good things about… Aemond. But… you’d be so far away. You’d be off living in the annals of England, a whole boat’s ride away.”

“This is what you wanted, father! For me to marry, for me to be happy! This is the happiest I’ve been in… so long. You must see that?”

The creases in your father’s forehead relaxed as he regarded you for a long moment, before turning to Aemond, who was waiting patiently off to the side. He let go of your shoulder and walked to your beau, staring at him sternly. “Will you treat her right? Give her everything she deserves and more?”

Aemond perked up slightly, rubbing the side of his forefinger with his thumb in a seemingly nervous gesture. “Of course, sir. I’ll give her everything I have and more. She will be regarded as a Lady– the Lady Targaryen of Dragonstone Hall, and she wouldn’t be treated with any less respect than a Lady deserves.”

Your father’s gaze narrowed, taking it all into careful thought. “... very well. You have my blessing, son. But, one whiff of even a tear from her eye on your account, and your nads are forfeit. I may not be as well-off as your family, but I’ve got a lot of friends in a lot of places.”

–

The marriage was a quick affair, as your father, and now Aemond, knew you had no patience for pomp and frills. Aemond gave you a beautiful ring with an absolutely gigantic sapphire inlaid in the center, citing it as a family heirloom from centuries past. Your father saw you off onto the boat, bawling his eyes out. You’d never seen your father cry– not once.

As husband and wife, you both agreed to wait to celebrate your wedding night until you arrived in England at his family’s estate to your marital bed.

The trip overall was a little under a week’s time upon a luxurious liner, where you both enjoyed champagne and each other’s company. You craved your husband, and he craved you in the same, but you each wished to keep your agreement intact. But it was increasingly hard, as you held one another close each night and his need for you was clearly pressed to your lower back.

Dragonstone Hall was a few hours' carriage ride north of the port and was nestled upon a high-ridged cliff. It was as gorgeous as the pictures had depicted, even moreso. It was ancient, imposing against the skyline and mingling to the clouds, where sea birds and ravens alike swirled above the towering watch towers that were supported by stone walls with vines grasping to them like lifelines.

It was gorgeous, gothic and most definitely haunted– a perfect place for a woman of horror such as yourself.

Aemond helped you out of the carriage, a hand placed upon your waist as he guided you beyond the gates. Your eyes were wide with wonder, taking in the scenery like a breath of fresh air. Tears threatened to spill over suddenly, as you were just overwhelmed with everything going on. You were married to someone you loved, who loved you– and were the Lady Targaryen of Dragonstone Hall.

“Something wrong, my love?” Aemond whispered into your ear, his lips tickling your lobe.

“N-no– I’m just… very happy.”

He wiped the tears away with the pad of his thumb, clearing your vision. You glanced up at one of the windows on the third story of the castle. Someone was staring back at you.

A lady. Her hair was red, her skin almost translucent.

You must’ve been imagining it, surely. Looking to another window, another visage appeared.

Another– this time with dirty blonde hair, her blue eyes ghastly and bloodshot. She was practically see through.

You pressed closer to Aemond, blinking profusely– it must’ve been the exhaustion from the nights on the boat catching up to you. Once you rubbed your eyes, you looked back; the figures were gone.

As you approached the main door of the estate, another face caught your eye.

Another woman– with dark hair and sullen, emerald eyes. They pierced through you like two heavy jewels, making goosebumps prickle atop your arms. She wasn’t ghastly or undeathly like the other two, and when you rubbed your eyes, she was still there.

She was still there, very much a living person in the flesh, with flowing blood and a beating heart. And she was beautiful.

#aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #aemond x fem!reader #prince aemond #aemond one eye #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfic #aemond fandom #my writing #beware the sapphire peak #alysmond #alys rivers #alys rivers x aemond #alys rivers x reader #alys rivers x reader x aemond targaryen

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from-memphis-with-love · 2 months

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1849 - an Elvis Presley One-Shot

Summary: It's 1849 and the height of the Oregon Trail. Pearl, an innocent and inexperienced young woman, is plucked from the prairie and into a marriage with rough and tumble rancher Elvis Presley. She's practically paralyzed with fear on her wedding night. But all is not what it seems: he is actually loving and kind with her, and, with a little gentle coaxing, she soon comes to find out the true meaning of what her husband affectionately calls his "manly duties."

Beneath a velvet sky embroidered with stars, the sweeping prairie of the Willamette Valley undulated endlessly, its breezy grasses frosted silver in the gentle moonlight, swaying like the swells of a wheat-colored sea. The air, redolent with sagebrush and wildflower nectar, whispered tales yet untold.

A weathered log cabin, sturdy as an old oak, nestled harmoniously amid the untamed expanse. Inside, flickering candlelight danced upon the rough-hewn walls, casting writhing shadows that capered about. This humble abode was far more than a shelter; it housed two hearts newly joined in matrimony's sacred covenant.

Upon a mattress of timber and homespun linens lay the newlyweds. The sounds of crickets and distant animals floated on the night air, a natural lullaby straight from the land itself. They reveled in the hushed serenity of their nascent life together.

A stillness Pearl finally punctured with a question.

"Elvis?" she pouted, her reedy voice not fully her own. "You've stolen the blanket." Mistaking her complaint for invitation, Elvis sidled closer, his sturdy frame a barrier against the cool night air. He slipped his hand atop her opposite side, ensconcing her between his bare chest and muscular arm. "Might I perhaps have them back, please?"

He nuzzled nearer, his tone playful. "Chilly? Lemme warm you up, then."

Now, with mere inches between them, his radiant skin-heat seemed to flow directly into her own, quickening her heartbeat. She swallowed, her voice quavering slightly. "Do you... have a nightshirt, perhaps?"

"A night-what?" His confusion, genuine or feigned, hung in the air between them, charged with the unspoken energy of their touch.

Pearl closed her eyes, seeking refuge in inky darkness, away from the maelstrom roiling within. She wished to be anywhere but perched on the precipice of her wedding night, an apprehensive innocent bound to a man whose depths were only just beginning to unfurl before her.

Her thoughts meandered to distant places: endless prairies beneath boundless skies, their splendor unfettered and raw. She pictured the wind's caress, laden with wildflower perfume, conveying whispers of age-old tales. How she yearned for freedom, to roam unconstrained by society's fetters!

Her heart ached for the unknown, the thrill of novel faces and locales. Perhaps in a bustling metropolis, pulsating with a mosaic of sounds, she could vanish into the crowd, shedding her naïve bride skin. Or on a lonely mountain peak, inhaling the crisp air, losing herself in nature's majesty, finding peace in its seclusion.

No, she banished the thought, Elvis Presley never feels fear, and I'm a fool to think otherwise.

Somehow, this realization lent her the strength to open her eyes, letting curiosity temper her fears. Yet, the echoes of a strict upbringing whispered doubts, and she might feel more at ease about it all if Elvis kept some of his clothes on—at least for the night. She broached the subject of modesty. “A nightshirt. If you have one in that chest over there, I’d appreciate you wearing it,” she ventured.

Unlike Pearl, Elvis had no such compunctions about their intimacy, nor was he concerned with modesty. His hands, calloused from the laborious toil of ranch work, possessed an innate understanding of the contours that ignited pleasure. His lips held secrets of countless stolen kisses and whispered promises. He cocked a sly smile at her request.

“Honey, you know I don’t own no nightshirt. The closest I come is wearing my long johns in the winter, and now that I got you to keep me warm, I reckon I won’t wear ‘em anymore.”

“Then what, pray tell, shall you wear?”

In one smooth motion, Elvis lifted her until she sat upright before him, noticing with some relief that his trousers remained in place. Strong fingers carded through her hair, treating the auburn strands as delicately as silk.

"Y’know, the first time I laid eyes on you, you know I imagined you wearin’ nothin’ but your beautiful hair?”

Pearl froze, stunned by the vulnerability his words implied. To be so exposed, with only her hair for modesty, sparked an instinctual alarm...yet also fascination. Like a deer in a rife’s sight, she wrestled with the storm of fear and curiosity Elvis's revelation provoked.

Firelight danced in his eyes, flecks of gold glittering in that captivating blue. With care, Elvis gathered her hair over her breasts. Though clothed, Pearl shivered at the suggestive act, a blush creeping up her neck.

"Just like that," he murmured admiringly. "Sweet little rosebuds begging to be kissed. Peekin’ out to me and all."

Sitting there, Pearl felt Elvis's gaze wash over her like sunlight piercing through fog. His words stirred something deep within, blossoming warmth that spread from her cheeks down through her chest. But it didn't stop there. A swirling eddy gripped her belly, intensifying into a molten pull that sunk her deeper into this newfound swell of feeling. No one had told her a wedding night could feel like this.

She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing away the betrayal of her body's response.

Noticing her blush, Elvis leaned back, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "Seems I might be pushing my luck tonight," he mused, his mouth settling into a bashful grin. He caressed her cheek, his calloused thumb rubbing soothing circles into her skin. “My God, you are so lovely.” Though his touch was gentle, she tensed. "Little Pearly, are you really that nervous?"

Pearl's heart raced, her cheeks burning with a mix of fear and longing as she took in the sight of Elvis's bare chest. The raw exposure of his skin, the dance of muscles beneath, stirred a whirlwind of emotions—curiosity, vulnerability. Fear. An evil desire she wouldn’t dare name. The way he looked stirred a terrible hunger deep within, and she couldn’t help but long for a barrier between them, a shield to temper the intensity of their connection.

With a voice touched by nerves, she mustered the courage to voice her yearning. "I would probably feel better if you put on a shirt," she ventured softly, unaware of the intoxicating effect her request had on Elvis, who looked back at her with a mix of amusement and reverence. "Are you sure you don't have one, Elvis?"

"I can do it with a shirt on, but I reckon I’ll have to take my trousers off sooner or later," he quipped, then caught himself, noting the joke wasn’t helping. "Is there anything else troubling you, darlin'?"

Pearl straightened, clearing her throat. "I’d really appreciate it if you just get on with it, please. I want to get this over with. We can talk afterward, alright?"

Elvis's smile faded, his thumb stilling on her cheek. "Ah, honey, I’m so sorry. I need a good whuppin’, that’s what I need," he said, nudging his nose against hers playfully. He twirled one of her curls around his finger, breathing in her scent. "I’m just a big ole oaf, is what I am. Here I am jokin’ my head off and you’re as nervous as a fawn. I should be making you feel good instead. Makin’ you forget what it is you’re so scared about.”

Pearl’s eyes crossed trying to peer into his, so she let them flutter closed.

Cupping her face in his rough palms, Elvis lifted his forehead from hers, leaving a ghost of warmth behind. He pressed a feather-light kiss to the tip of her nose. Pearl's heart fluttered at the gentle gesture, her grip tightening on his broad wrists as he guided her back onto the bed. Sinking into the mattress, she felt a mix of trepidation and trust as Elvis settled above her, forearms bracketing her shoulders.

“My wife,” he whispered, chest grazing her breasts as he bent close. “Don’t be afraid, sweetheart,” he murmured, full lips barely brushing hers in a whisper-soft caress. “I’ll make it real nice for you. Pearl, I will never intentionally hurt you. I swear it.”

“Elvis...” She parted her lips to speak, but his mouth stole the words. His breath was warm and sweet with a hint of black coffee as she sucked it in. Soft lips trailed over the contours of her mouth, leaving desire in their wake. But when his probing tongue intruded, Pearl recoiled in shock and apprehension, questioning the unfamiliar invasion.

Pearl's world narrowed to the feel of his lips. They ignited longings within her, each touch kindling dormant desires.

Her racing heart stumbled over itself as his tongue gently challenged her limited experience. Fingers digging into his arms, climbing to the solid assurance of his shoulders, she wondered, silently pleading, What's happening to me?

Desire, raw and unbidden, surged within her. Yet a shadow of doubt whispered too, questioning her boldness. Still, as they kissed, warmth bloomed inside her, promising pleasure, promising connection. Though separated by her thin nightgown, his touch blazed lines of fire over her skin, pulling her into a dance between longing and hesitation.

For the first time, Pearl reveled in the forbidden delight of passionate kisses, a realm unknown to her sheltered life. The caress of his mouth on hers was a dance, each movement stirring longing she hadn't known existed. Every press and yielding response painted a portrait of contradictions—firm yet molten, unyielding yet accommodating. She prayed they would do this part of it frequently, whatever came next.

Catching her lower lip, he rolled it tenderly beneath his tongue, gently nibbling. Oh yes, she adored kissing. Their kisses grew bolder, back and forth, until his chest pressed firmly against hers. Her pounding heartbeat drowned out the owl's hoot outside. Arching against him, she dug her nails into his shoulders, overwhelmed by urgent, indescribable desire. She pressed into his rippling heat with greater intensity, seeking solace in his muscular frame.

Again, he delicately caught her lower lip between his teeth, rolling it tenderly beneath his tongue and gently nibbling on it.

Oh, yes.

She adored kissing him. Their kisses escalated until she was deaf to everything but her pounding heart. Arching into him, nails digging into his shoulders, she was overwhelmed with desire, seeking solace in his heat.

He relinquished his hold on her hair, breaking the kiss to embark on a tantalizing exploration of her face. His lips traced a path along her cheek, leaving a trail of teasing nips and touches that sent delightful shivers coursing through her body. With deliberate intent, he traveled upward, caressing her temple before retracing his path down to her eyelids.

Oh, what sensations!

His mouth against her sensitive skin was pure ecstasy. Venturing to her ear, his breath resonated as he nibbled her earlobe, flicking his tongue along the tender hollow beneath. A soft moan escaped her. Descending to her neck, his kisses made her tremble, breath hitching. She adored his skillful, desiring mouth. His presence enveloped her, intensifying the longing within, and she felt a curious pooling in her lap that startled her. Their hips pressed together, moving slowly, heightening the achingly sweet yearning in her veins. Lost in the moment, she faintly registered his trembling hands worrying the buttons of her gown, finally easing the fabric open. A gentle breeze brushed her bare breasts, sending delicious shivers down her spine - an unfamiliar yet delightful sensation.

A faint whisper of caution echoed in Pearl's mind, a remnant of scriptures urging caution against such intoxicating desire. Yet the allure was too powerful to resist. She surrendered to cascading waves of pleasure, losing herself in the intensity of their connection, exploring the passion dormant within her. The world fell away. All that mattered was the electric current drawing them closer in a dance of yearning and surrender.

"Good Lord," he rasped, voice thick with desire. "I can’t even breathe, I want you so bad.”

His scorching tongue blazed a path over her taut, yearning nipple. A jolting shock seized her, stealing her breath, causing her heart to falter. His mouth enveloped her with fervent intensity, sensations reverberating to her toes. Wide-eyed, she glanced down to see his flawless face nestled against her breast. Gradually he retreated, teasingly tugging her nipple, teeth capturing the pulsating bud before releasing, only to repeat the exquisite torment.

Shock rippled through her, leaving her gasping in disbelief. Yet he drew her back into his mouth, swallowing her essence with unyielding passion. Panic gripped her and she screamed, pushing against him with all her might, cries echoing. What is happening? What unspeakable act is this? Oh mercy!

She felt betrayed. His audacious promises were deceitful lies! He personified sinful, impure yearning. This pleasure was too good to be true.

As Pearl's piercing screams reverberated through the air, the sound struck Elvis like a lightning bolt, jolting him from his haze. Fear and concern etched his face as he sprang up, heart pounding. Reaching out with trembling hands, he gripped her shoulders urgently, as if to anchor them both.

"Darlin', what's the matter? Did I hurt you?"

She screamed again, scrambling away and hastily closing her gown with trembling hands, desperately trying to conceal herself - a raw, vulnerable moment, reminding them both of past wounds.

"Leave me be! Don't you lay a hand on me! You deceived me, you lied!" she cried, anguished.

In the corner, Get Lo, the loyal hound, rose with a mournful howl as footsteps and voices neared the cabin. Fists pounded the sturdy door, causing it to tremble.

"Boss!" Red's voice echoed. "Hey, boss!" More commotion. "Stand back! I'll kick it down if I have to!"

"No!" Elvis shouted. "It's alright, Red! Don't break down the door!"

"Show yourself then, damn it! How do I know someone ain't holdin' a gun on ya?"

"God damnit, I'll be right there!" Elvis shot an anxious look at his bride, now wedged into the corner between the headboard and wall. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry. One second and I’ll be right back, alright?"

But she appeared more inclined to a tooth extraction than entertaining that idea. Elvis muttered an oath and went to the door, lifting the bolt and cracking it open to let Red glimpse him in the flickering candlelight. "We're alright. Weren’t nothing, Red. Just a misunderstanding, is all."

Red's eyes blazed with desert-sun intensity. "A misunderstanding? She nearly shook the soul out of me, Elvis!" His voice held the edge of a man ready to face a nest of rattlers. "A misunderstanding?"

Elvis bowed his head, a shadow of remorse etching across his face. "I’m sorry, Red. This is my doing, not hers."

Red shot a knowing look and without a word, Elvis eased the door closed, his hand lingering on the bolt before it fell into place with a gentle thud. He turned slowly, his gaze drawn to the bed.

Pearl clung to a pillow, her eyes wide pools of darkness against her pale face. Fear and disbelief swirled within those inky depths.

"You lied!" Her shrill cry pierced the heavy air.

Brows furrowed, Elvis sank onto the mattress. "Sweetheart, I swear I didn't deceive you. Please, tell me what I did wrong."

She wrapped her arms around herself, clutching her shoulders with trembling hands. "You lied! You gave me your word!" Her voice broke on the accusation.

Elvis leaned forward, elbows on knees, straining to read her face in the dim firelight. Though just minutes ago passion had flowed between them, now she recoiled from his touch. Her chin jutted out defiantly. "Why did you lie?"

Steady but tinged with desperation, his voice cut through the tense silence. "What lie?" His eyes searched hers for any glimmer of understanding. He fought to remain calm amidst the storm raging within the room. "Sweetheart, please, tell me what you believe I lied about."

Her lips twisted in bitter disbelief. "Don't play dumb. You said you conducted yourself righteously, like the brethren." She spat out a harsh laugh. "None of them would ever behave as you did. You lied, plain and simple. And I was foolish enough to believe it."

Elvis ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, frustration creeping into his voice. "I did not lie."

"You most certainly did!" she shrieked, the words piercing the air. "You claimed to be free of impious inclinations!"

Elvis replayed his actions in his mind, struggling to pinpoint his misstep. He could only surmise he had unintentionally caused her harm. "Did I hurt your breasts when I kissed them? I didn't mean to come on too strong."

She let out a scream, shielding her face with her hands. "Do not speak such vulgar words! I am not married to you! Do you hear me? I am not!"

"Pearl, you’re not talkin’ sense. People don’t marry and unmarry over a misunderstanding. They engage in con-ver-sa-tion," he implored, sounding out the word slowly. “We need to talk this through.”

"Well, I did not enter into a marriage. I was deceived!"

Elvis sighed, running his fingers through his hair again. "Deceived, married...we have to talk. Please, tell me what I've done."

She persisted in hiding her face behind trembling fingers, oblivious to her gaping gown and the exposed breast it revealed. The nipple he had showered with affection remained erect, illuminated by the flickering fire. It seemed to beckon for more—a request he would gladly oblige if only she were more receptive.

"You know perfectly well why I'm upset," she accused, voice muffled.

"No, I truly do not," he confessed. Shifting to all fours, he moved closer, examining her tender nipple. Pink and raw, it stood erect, pulsating with her quickened heartbeat. He was too rough, he concluded with regret.

Grasping her knees, he gently unfolded her legs before straddling her thighs. Palms planted on either side, he focused on her quivering hands. "Pearl, please lower your hands and look at me."

"No!"

"I promise I won't do it again. Alright? I'm truly sorry. From now on, you hold the reins. Whatever pleases you is exactly how I'll do things, I swear. You just have to tell me what feels nice and what doesn't."

"Well, that certainly wasn't nice!"

"Then, you guide me on how you want it, and I'll follow your lead."

Pearl jerked away, a sob catching in her throat. Swirling emotions tightened her chest. "How can I trust you're not lying?"

Elvis sighed, the sound resonating deep within his broad chest. "Have I ever lied to you?"

The faint scent of leather and tobacco enveloped her as he leaned closer. She inhaled sharply. "Yes."

He raked a hand through his dark locks. "Sweetheart, let me show you the truth."

His warm breath grazed her ear, evoking memories of his teeth grazing her sensitive flesh. Goosebumps prickled her arms. "Was it nice at first?" His deep timbre reverberated through her.

"Yes."

"Well then, we'll only do what feels nice. I promise." His voice was like rich honey, urging her to taste its sweetness.

She peered at him through splayed fingers. "Do you swear it?"

His eyes smoldered like blue flames. "Honey, I don't just swear it. I'll prove it to you."

His head dipped lower, warm lips finding her breast. She jerked back with a shriek, her elbow catching his ear.

Elvis recoiled, clutching his head. "Damn it, Pearl Marie! Now I know I didn't hurt you that time!"

“Scoundrel!” Shame flooded her cheeks. She scrambled to escape, but her nightgown snagged beneath his knees. Strong hands grasped her shoulders. She balled her fists. "Don't touch me! If you do, I won't be responsible. I'll fight like you taught me and I’ll break your nose this time!"

"Why are you fighting me?" Hurt and frustration etched his rugged features.

She trembled, anger and confusion swirling within. "Why? You do a thing like that and you ask me why? You lied! You promised to do things proper, but you didn't!"

"A thing like what?" Elvis began to grasp the situation, though he struggled to believe he had it right. "Kissing your breast, you mean?"

She covered her face again, trembling. "Stop saying things like that!"

"Like what? Breast? Nipples? Titties? Yer cans?" he started to laugh. She made a keening sound. Get Lo joined in, throwing back his head and emitting a playful bark.

"Shut up!" Elvis yelled, his frustration mounting. Get Lo continued to howl, but Pearl jumped in surprise and began holding her breath. "Not you, honey." Elvis shot a fierce glare at the howling hound. "Get Lo! I don't need you interfering none!" The hound fell silent and grumbled.

Elvis figured he had his answer regarding the matter of the breast. He rubbed his face wearily and blinked. "Pearl, do you believe that kissing you there is ungodly?"

She removed her hands from her face, gaping at him in astonishment. "Of course it is! You promised to do things the regular way, and you lied!"

Realization washed over him. So that’s what this was about. “Well, what is the regular way, Pearl Marie? I guess maybe I ain’t real clear on that.”

The fire’s amber glow illuminated her face, but darkness still shrouded her eyes. She perched on the edge of the roughhewn log bed, hands folded primly in her lap.

"You're just supposed to do your... thing!" she insisted, biting her lower lip.

Elvis cocked his head, his brow furrowing. "My thing? What exactly is my thing?"

She shrank back against the headboard. "Just... you know. And nothing else!" Her words came out in a nervous rush.

Elvis sank back on his heels, disbelief etched on his face. "Is that what your mother told you? Honey, I think there's been a misunderstanding here."

"No, there hasn't!" She sat up straight, her voice sharp. "She spelled it out plain and clear!"

Elvis's mind raced, recalling the tales he'd heard about the strict sects with their restrictive ways. The kinds of places that squeezed the lifeblood out of a man. His gaze drifted to the plain black dresses and gray undergarments piled against the wall. A hollow feeling settled in his gut.

"Pearl Marie, are you saying the men in your church never touch a woman? They just...do it and leave it at that?"

She turned her face away, her chin quivering. "Yes. And Ma said I should just lie there and meditate, ignore the... goings-on while it happened."

A laugh burst from Elvis's lips before he could stop it. Hazel eyes flashed accusingly at him and he threw up his hands. "Honey, I ain't laughing at you. I swear it." He struggled to compose himself, leaning back against the sturdy log footboard. Maybe he should change the subject, but he couldn't help it. Laughter shook his body until he had to clutch his stomach, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"I ain't making fun, truly," he managed between fits. "Just had a funny thought is all."

He wiped his eyes, regaining a shred of control until he pictured himself in a black suit and hat, dutifully making sterile love. That image shattered his restraint. He laughed again until his sides ached, finally going limp against the footboard.

"Well, damn," he muttered, wondering what had set him off in the first place. Wasn't funny at all. The woman he loved wanted to recite psalms while he moved inside her. Heaven forbid he disrupt her concentration.

"Are you finished?" she asked crisply, buttoning her dress up to her throat once more.

Elvis looked up at her. "Reckon I am."

"Then let me take this opportunity to inform you that I don't believe we are compatible. Our marriage would be a disaster unless you abandon your sinful desires."

He sat up and met her gaze directly. "That just ain’t gonna happen. Ain’t nothin’ sinful about a man makin’ his woman feel good.”

She wrapped her arms around her waist, dropping her eyes. Longing pierced his chest, for he did love her. But he wouldn't surrender his principles to appease her church's notions of marital duties. There was nothing unholy about wanting to worship every inch of her. If she believed otherwise, well, she was just as confused as the rest of them. He knew she'd be happier once he showed her the truth.

"Remember when I said we're coming at this from different angles?" he began gently. "That it might take some time to find middle ground?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Well, I was righter’n I thought." He gave her a tender look. "But that don't mean we ain't meant for each other. Just means we gotta compromise, both of us."

"I won't compromise my beliefs."

"Honey, I ain’t concerned with your beliefs. It's your body I got my sights set on," he said, throwing her an innocent look, although looking harmless wasn't one of his natural talents. "We can work this out."

"How? I won't permit the things you did earlier. I won't!"

“Well, tell me something you will allow, and we’ll take it from there.” He leaned forward, propping his arms on his knees. With effort, he kept his mind off the image of himself in a suit. "What do the church men do exactly?"

She looked down at him from the side of the bed. "My mother told me that on my wedding night and every night thereafter, I should lie still on my back. She told me that my husband would come to me at night and join me in the darkness under the quilts. He would lift my gown to my hips and fulfill his manly duty swiftly. And there wasn’t much more to it than that," she gulped, her voice trembling. "And if I wished, I think of something else like prayer or meditation until he finished."

Elvis suppressed a chuckle. One stray laugh and she'd never forgive him. Instead he stroked his chin, hiding his smile.

"Well, now, you see? We already got half of it licked. At least now I know what I can and can’t do," he said.

Wary hazel eyes searched his face. He realized he'd shaken her world more than he’d thought. It was no laughing matter.

"So you might be willing to compromise?" Hope tinged her voice.

"Well, now..." Elvis considered swiftly."Is kissing like we did before allowed?"

"Yes," she answered.

He stroked his chin. "Let's see if I got this right. From your collarbone down to your hips, that area's off limits."

"Correct," she nodded.

"But from your hipbones down, that's free territory?"

"Correct," she confirmed.

"And in the area that’s mine, is there any rules?" he asked, a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

She appeared bewildered. "Rules?"

"Your ma told you their rules. So what do the church men do when they fulfill their duty? Tell me plain so I'm clear."

She shook her head. "She didn't say. They just... do it." She waved her hand dismissively.

Bingo.

"So, there ain’t no rules how I do my manly business."

"Not that I know of. That’s your business. A wife does not concern herself with such matters," she responded.

Elvis raised an eyebrow. "So, I can do my business as I please?"

She hesitated, sensing a trap but unable to grasp it. In her innocence, she couldn't fathom his motive. Guilt pricked Elvis, but experience had taught him that sometimes conscience was a man's worst enemy.

"I suppose you can," she finally answered. "It’s your business, after all."

"And you ain’t gonna protest? ‘Cept if I hurt you which I’ll try my damnest not to do." he asked. "Do I have your word? You just gonna think about scripture and let me do my thing? Let me conduct my manly duties as I see fit?”

She blinked at him warily. "You swear you won't engage in vulgar acts above my hips?"

"Honey, not unless you ask," he assured her.

"Why would I ever ask such a thing?" Incredulity filled her voice.

"Just leaving it on the table is all. Do I have your word?"

"Yes, you have my word," she replied.

Elvis suppressed a grin. "One more thing. How much time do I get?"

She gaped at him, eyes wide. "Well, I don't know. How long does it take?"

"Well, that's the thing. Sometimes longer than others. Can I have all the time I need?" he proposed.

"I... suppose so," she hesitated.

Elvis raised his hands. "Well, there you go. A com-pro-mise, just like you said. You promise you’re okay with this?"

She eyed the rumpled quilts where she had lain just moments before. A crease formed between her brows. Reluctantly, she nodded, though her pursed lips revealed lingering doubts.

"I promise," she replied, sounding skeptical. "On the condition that you swear to be content with the brethren's way of conducting ourselves, forever."

Elvis lifted his right hand. "I swear on my mama's grave, I won't lay a hand or lip on you from hips to collar—'less you ask me to."

“Shall I lie back down then?”

“I reckon.”

With a resigned sigh, she slid back onto the feather mattress. Stiff as a plank, she squeezed her eyes shut and folded her hands over her chest, bracing herself. In a small voice she called out, "Elvis?"

“Yes, darlin’?”

"Don't forget the quilts."

In response, Elvis reached behind, his fingers brushing against the rough woven quilts. Gripping the edges, he rose to his knees and gently peeled back the layers of fabric.

"Covered up to your chin?" he asked, his voice a tender whisper.

She nestled into the quilts' warmth, squeezing her eyes shut as if blocking out the world around her. "Please."

Elvis tugged the quilts up to her chin and slipped underneath beside her. "I can lay my arm over you, can't I? I've done it a million times already," he whispered, his warm breath caressing her cheek.

"Yes. That should be fine.”

With a feather-light touch, Elvis curved his hand around her waist, fingertips pressing into her soft flesh as he drew her closer. "Come here, sweetheart. You're still scared." Propping himself up on his elbow, he gazed down at her closed eyes, placing gentle kisses on each delicate eyelid. "I'm sorry for how I acted before, for shocking you. You know I would never do it on purpose."

She turned her cheek toward his lips, savoring their tender brush against her skin. "And... I'm sorry for hurting your ear. Are you alright?"

"I’m fine," he reassured, his voice low and soothing.

Elvis started to tenderly brush her hair away from her face, tucking back silken strands behind her ear. "You’re so beautiful it breaks my heart. Have I ever told you that?"

She lifted her lashes, a smile gracing her lips. "Oh, Elvis." She embraced his neck tightly, inhaling his familiar scent. "I apologize for all the cruel things I said."

He held her close, pressing his face against her hair that smelled of waterlilies, feeling as though he possessed all the world's riches in his arms. "It ain’t nothing, I know you didn’t mean it." She pressed her body closer to his, molding her curves against his hard contours. He couldn't help but smile, a spark of desire igniting within.

Kissing.

Pearl's lips melded with his, sparking an electric current that coursed through every nerve. The celestial stars themselves seemed to pale in comparison to the heavenly sensation surging within her. She yearned for more, quivering in anticipation of his touch. He claimed her mouth once again, exceeding her loftiest expectations. With torturous slowness, he traced her lips, exploring their delicate curves and coaxing soft sighs from her throat. As their bodies pressed together, his chest grazing hers sent delicious shivers dancing across her skin. She dismissed the friction as accidental, though an aching need stirred within her.

Each kiss scattered her thoughts, shattering her inhibitions. Clinging to him fiercely, she sought to draw him closer still, desperate to merge their souls. Her nails dug crescents into his shoulders, stinging pain he appeared oblivious to. His lips blazed a trail down her neck, igniting an inferno beneath her skin.

"Oh, Elvis..." she breathed, the words trailing off as emotion choked her voice.

“What, darlin’? Am I wanderin’ too close to your collar?”

Sensing the question hanging in the air, tears pricked her eyes. With a single word, she could end this exquisite torture. His taut muscles revealed his readiness to comply. Yet the thought of halting him brought inexplicable sorrow. Her fingertips glided over his shoulders, feeling the power coiled within him—power that belonged to her.

She recalled his sudden embrace the night before, his body pressing down, dominating yet tender. He could have taken anything, but treated her like fragile glass. Always in control, yet somehow still hers to command.

Last night, when she'd elbowed him in the ear, he'd instinctively withdrawn, putting needed space between them. The irony was not lost on her; she had become a threat to him. But it was his tenderness that stirred her emotions, now bringing tears to her eyes. She was deeply moved by his unwavering care and protective nature. Oh, how she adored him, her heart overflowing with immeasurable love.

"Sweetheart, you're crying. Did I do something wrong?" His words were laced with concern, a genuine desire to understand and make amends. Pearl found herself unable to form a response, emotions rendering her speechless.

"Should I stop?" he asked gently, his voice conveying both worry and willingness to fulfill her wishes.

“Oh, Elvis!” she finally managed.

His hand slid from her waist, slipping between her and the mattress, pulling her closer against his solid chest. "What's the matter, darlin'? Are you scared? I promise, I'll be gentle with you. Don't be afraid," he whispered in a soothing tone.

"I love you!" she exclaimed, clinging to him, seeking solace in his embrace. "I'm not afraid. It's just... oh, Elvis, I love you so much it hurts."

He tensed, her words both balm and challenge to his heart. "I love you," she said again, conviction ringing in her voice. "I love you more than words can express."

A tremor rippled through his sturdy frame. His rough, calloused hand were splayed across her back, yet he treated her like the most precious treasure. Despite his strength, his touch remained gentle and caring. "Oh, darlin’," he whispered, voice quivering. "I love you too. With all that I am and all that I’ve got. But it shouldn't make you sad."

"I'm not sad! I'm happy!" she insisted.

He pressed tender kisses to her other cheek, tasting the salt of her tears. "Well, damn..." Frustration and bewilderment colored his tone, making her giggle uncontrollably. She felt his lips curve into a crooked grin against her skin as he continued trailing kisses along her ear. "Pearl Marie, will I ever understand you? Crying because you're happy. Darlin’, sometimes I swear you’re just plum crazy. You don’t make a lick of sense!"

She tilted her head, surrendering to his kiss, the word "lick" igniting a fervent desire for him to tease her sensitive spots with his tongue once more. As if sensing her need, he found a delectably vulnerable spot just below her ear, eliciting a soft gasp as she melted into his touch.

"Yes, right there. Just like that. Oh, yes..." she whispered huskily. Her gown began to shift as he tugged it up, initially causing a spike of fear. But then his palm caressed her bare thigh, sending waves of pleasure washing over her.

Each touch felt like butterfly kisses, leaving her skin tingling with anticipation. Her heart pounded against her chest, and her breath turned shallow and unsteady. With feather-light fingertips, he traced a path to the very core of her being, teasing and tantalizing her with every stroke, only to trail away and trace maddeningly sweet patterns along her knees. It was as if her very essence had turned into a molten syrup, yearning to flow and merge with his touch. The quilts shifted, and suddenly she felt the moist, silken press of his lips against her thigh. Startled, she opened her eyes wide and stiffened with a mix of surprise and uncertainty.

"Elvis, what are you..." Her words faded to a breathless moan as his tongue flickered, tracing delicate spirals that kindled liquid heat low in her belly.

Through the quilts, his muffled voice vibrated against sensitive flesh. "Just relax, darlin'. I'm tending to business."

"But, I don't know if..." She clamped her knees together, but his broad shoulders gently eased them apart.

Pearl clutched the rough-hewn headboard, pulse racing. Was he really going to...? Oh Lord, the man aimed to kiss her there. Shock paralyzed her even as exquisite sensations spread like wildfire across her skin, urging her to surrender.

"This ain't proper," she managed, but her resolve wavered under the intoxicating caress of his lips.

He lazily circled her inner thigh, tongue painting glistening trails that seared like summer sun on bare skin. "Hush now, you're sweeter than cherry pie." His warm breath raised gooseflesh. "Let me take care of you."

"Darlin', reckon this here's how it's done?"

"Elvis, are you sure 'bout this? I... I can't rightly tell."

"Start meditatin’, sweetheart. This here's my territory, not yours. Got it?"

She closed her eyes, her voice quivering. "Mediating?" she repeated, sounding mighty puzzled. Drawing nearer, he raised his shoulders, leaning in closer to her. "No need to fret, darlin'. Remember what your ma told ya. Jus' lay still and don’t pay me no nevermind."

He continued his tantalizing journey upwards. She twitched, tightening her grip on the headboard, her gaze fixed on the heavens.

"I'll holler when I'm done, alright?"

Done? Pearl felt an intense longing surge through her core. Close her eyes, that's what she was supposed to do. But... oh, dear heavens. "How long will it... will it take?" she managed to inquire.

Rough palms grasped her backside. Pearl's eyes widened, a soft gasp escaping her parted lips. Merciful heavens, he meant to...

"Just as..." he trailed his tongue along her inner thigh, sending shivers of pleasure with every teasing lick, "just as long as it needs to, darlin'."

The first slow lap of his tongue drew a shuddering moan. Fingers clutching the sheets, she stared skyward. This couldn't be real. But the wet heat enveloping her dispelled all doubts.

When he found that one exquisitely sensitive spot, her body jolted as if struck by lightning. "Elvis, I can't..."

"You can, darlin'," he purred before capturing her swollen flesh.

"E-Elvis?" she stammered, her voice vibrating as if it traveled through her vocal cords on a wild bronco.

"Darlin', this part ain't your concern. Jus' lie still and let me handle my business, ya hear?"

"Oh God, please..." She twisted handfuls of his hair, no longer caring what was proper.

His low chuckle vibrated through her very core. "That's my girl. That's the rule," he drawled firmly. "This here's mine to do as I please, without your fussin', right?"

"Y-yes."

"Well then? You lie still and quit your worryin'."

With that declaration, he resumed his gentle lapping, causing her to arch upward uncontrollably. Small, high-pitched sounds escaped her lips. She clung to the headboard, her body rising higher and higher. "Oh my... oh my... mercy, mercy!"

“There’s a girl. Give it to me, darlin’.”

"Yes. Oh, yes," she breathed out, her hands digging into his scalp. "Oh, my God! Oh, dear heaven. Oh, pardon me! I'm meddling again."

He chuckled again, the deep rumble shattering her thoughts as his mouth claimed her sensitive flesh. His tongue swirled and flicked, sparking a blaze that raced through her veins. Digging her heels into the mattress, she arched up, surrendering completely as her hips moved with his. Muscles twitching to his rhythm, the pressure built sharper and sharper within her. Just when she thought she couldn't take anymore, his mouth surged, fiercely pulling until she fractured with a cry, sensations bursting in a kaleidoscope of colors.

She was precious to him.

Throughout his life, Elvis had longed for a woman to love and make his bride, but only now did he truly grasp the meaning. She was his salvation, a woman woven from delicate lace and sunbeams, with eyes as vast as the summer fields. She was warmth and radiance, the tender blossoms of spring. A beautiful and perfect gift. It felt as if he were discovering love for the first time. And in a way, it was. For Elvis Presley was a tough man with an untouched heart. Until now.

This girl held his heart in her hands, capable of making it sing with joy or bleed with sorrow. With a single arch of her spine and a lift of her slender hips, she could ignite him with bliss. He adored her. Her guileless urgency and unwavering trust nearly moved him to tears. No reservations. Just pure vulnerability. And as she shattered in climax, he tasted the rhythm of her heartbeats in the sweet throbbing of her flesh. Afterward, he tenderly caressed and kissed her, soothing her delicate sensitivity, easing the ache that lingered.

When her breaths steadied, he hovered right over her. With her eyelids drooping low and a dreamy smile on her lips, she looked up at him. "Are you done?"

Elvis leaned in for a kiss. "Nah, sweetheart. I'm just lettin' ya catch yer breath afore we go at it again."

Her eyes widened. "Again?"

He grinned and shifted to lie beside her, propping himself up on one arm to get a good look at her face. How beautiful she was, basking in the afterglow of the pleasures he brought to her for the first time!

Beneath him, she gasped as his finger delved deep into her slick heat, back arching, breasts straining against her thin nightgown. He watched each expression dance across her features - surprise, wonder, rising urgency. Teasing and pulling back, he brought her to the edge again and again. When she arched, nipple grazing his chin, he flicked it lightly.

She cried out, quivering, "Oh yes!"

Another deep stroke had her whimpering, begging for more.

Grinning, he met her gaze. "Want me to show 'em some lovin'?"

"Oh, Elvis. Do it again. Please."

Elvis lowered his head, gripping her nightgown with his teeth, and pulled it up her slender frame, exposing her bosom.

Elvis' fingers trembled as he grasped the thin fabric of her nightgown, the white cotton soft like a wisp of cloud between his teeth. With a gentle tug, he peeled back the garment, exposing her bare breasts to the fire's amber glow. Rosy peaks puckered in the chill night air, beckoning his touch.

"Ask me nice, darlin'," he murmured, breath warm against her chest.

Frustration flared in her eyes. Snatching a fistful of his hair, she wrenched him downward. "Just do it already!"

That sure as shootin' had "please" beat to hell. And he reckoned he had every right to tease her mercilessly before giving her what she desired.

Elvis swept his tongue slowly around one taut nipple, tracing its shape, feeling it swell beneath the caress of his mouth. A flick of his tongue made her gasp, then he returned to circling, building anticipation. When he finally closed his lips over the bud, its softness overwhelmed him. He suckled gently and was rewarded with the honeyed taste of her skin.

To his surprise, her body began to writhe, hips undulating, fingers twisting the sheets. The telltale pulsing against his palm revealed she was cresting that peak of ultimate pleasure. Twenty-one years without a lover's intimate touch, and now she came undone in his arms.

He savored each tremor that wracked her slender frame, the way she arched and cried out with abandon. Elvis brought her to that precipice two more times, worshiping her with his mouth until his own need could be denied no longer.

Rising above her, he gripped her legs behind the knees and nestled against slick, molten heat. Still lost in rapture's haze, she gazed up with heavy-lidded eyes, oblivious to the pain that awaited. The primal urge to plunge ahead warred with his vow to cherish her.

"This'll hurt just once, darlin'," he whispered, hating himself. "I wish to God it weren't so."

She blinked, her gaze fixed on his face, her eyes shimmering in the warm glow of the fire. "I understand. Just hold me close through it all," she implored softly. "With you beside me, it won't hurt as much. I won't feel afraid."

Tears blurred his vision. Elvis gathered her in his arms, surrounding her with his strength. She wrapped both arms about his neck, clinging tight. "I'm not scared anymore," she breathed against his cheek.

Though brave in word, her body tensed as he positioned himself at her entrance. In that moment, he would have given all he owned to spare her even the slightest twinge. The not knowing tormented him—how much agony she might suffer as he forged ahead. With infinite care, he nudged inside, felt her passage resist and then give way as she flinched in his embrace. The small cry that escaped her lips shredded his heart.

He buried his face in the silken veil of her hair, cursing the merciless act love demanded of him. To harm the one person who mattered most gutted his soul.

But the cabin cocooned them in its embrace—the familiar smells of woodsmoke and pine, the fire's soothing crackle, the handcrafted furnishings whispering of shared memories. Their sanctuary through so many storms past would shelter them through this too.

"Do it," she insisted, though her body still trembled with fear.

Panic jolted through him like lightning. "Jesus, I can't! I'm hurting you!" He started to withdraw, terrified of damaging her delicate frame. She was far smaller and tighter than any woman before. The risk of forcing himself deeper made his blood run cold. "You're too small, sweetheart," he choked out.

But before he could pull away, she lifted her hips, impaling herself upon him in one swift motion.

Elvis' heart stopped mid-beat. He felt her tight channel give way as she took him fully inside. Fear for her clouded his mind.

"Oh, God damn," he uttered, his voice laced with a mixture of desire and vulnerability. A soft, fragile laugh escaped her lips, and he felt the tension gradually dissipate from her body. With a tenderness that matched the love he held in his heart, she pressed her damp cheek against his neck. The touch of her wet skin against his sent shivers down his spine. In a hushed whisper, she reassured him, her words carrying a profound truth. "It’s all right now," she murmured. "It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought."

Pearl gasped, her back arching off the rumpled sheets. Elvis hovered above, his elbows planted on either side of her shoulders, beads of sweat trailing down his furrowed brow. His hips rocked in a steady rhythm, eliciting soft mewls and whimpers from his wife.

"Is this okay?" His voice was gruff, laced with restraint. Pearl's eyes fluttered open, pupils blown wide with desire. She nodded, breathless.

Elvis maintained his pace, relishing the slide of skin against skin. Pearl's nails raked down his back, leaving angry red trails in their wake. Her thighs tightened around his waist, pulling him deeper.

"Oh!" she cried out, the sound sharp in the quiet cabin. "Don't stop, please..."

Elvis complied, quickening his thrusts as Pearl's moans grew louder, more desperate. Her hips bucked to meet his, the bed frame creaking in protest. The musky scent of their lovemaking permeated the air.

Pearl's inner walls clenched around him as her climax crashed over her. The sensation tipped Elvis over the edge, his own release pulsing through him in waves. He collapsed on top of his wife, their hearts hammering against each other.

As their breathing slowed, Elvis nuzzled Pearl's neck, inhaling her familiar floral scent. Her fingers lazily combed through his hair. He pressed a tender kiss to her collarbone, overcome with gratitude and awe.

No longer was he a lonesome wanderer. Pearl had become his sanctuary, a beacon guiding him home. Elvis held his wife close as sleep overtook them. The distant howl of coyotes echoed outside their cabin, but they felt no fear in each others’ arms. Here, tangled together, they had found their own private heaven.

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theredofoctober · 4 months

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RUMPLESTILTSKIN— An Oliver Quick/Reader Saltburn DarkFic

Pairing: Oliver Quick/You, Oliver Quick/Reader (no gender specified, terms like pretty are used though just to mention)

Synopsis: Oliver finds You, the awkward guest at his birthday party, and takes what his dark heart desires.

Trigger Warnings (PLEASE READ): noncon, blood play, Oliver just being evil

Fic under the cut, keep reading

"Who are you, then?"

It was the small man that said it, the one with the slurring Nothern accent and eyes like ice picks, palely sharp.

You'd seen him swaying on the outer edge of the party, seeming both drunk and far too sober, all at once.

His face was odd, flat, and sleek, like a trickster in a German folk story: thief of children, bringer of gold.

You hated the boy in a moment, drawing back from him against a trellis, your hands wrapped fast through the slats. His eyes made you wish you'd drunk rather less than you had done, silver as scissor blades in the swelling night.

"I'm one of Venetia's friends," you said, though you knew Felix more, and Farleigh rather better than you liked to. "You don't know me. Who are you?"

The boy stepped around a plant pot, his balance the measure of sobriety. He wore deer antlers with an open-chested white suit, embroidered with leaves, the dress of a more handsome man. Only the slopes of his cheekbones, the soft mouth were beautiful.

His eyes made an autopsy of you. There was nothing in them but wanting, a starving colour. An absence of it.

You would have turned to run, only there was nothing then to fly from that made sense.

"I'm Oliver," said the young man. "It's my birthday party. Felix's family arranged it all for me."

"Happy birthday," you said, at once, a reflex.

You wished that he'd go away, that he would edge into the maze like a shadow thrown by the sun, and meld with the dark of the leaves beyond. Anything but approach as he did then, his compact form eating of the air between you with carnivorous haste.

He was slight enough that you thought you might push him down or aside with little effort, but the poise of him, as delicate as a barber's blade, gave you pause. He'd cut you if you touched him, you thought. Something would happen, and you would run crying as you had from a dozen birthday celebrations as a child, unwanted.

He brought that old vulnerability up out of you, somehow, though he hadn't yet done much but broach the most innocent of smalltalk.

"How come you're over here, on your own?" asked Oliver, his head at a sympathetic incline. "You're too pretty for that. You know that, don't you?"

His voice was a sing-song croon, then, all silken menace. He was trying to charm you, you knew that, yet you saw as though through the beads of a brothel doorway the hunger in him, the appetite of worlds.

You glanced right and left, realising, with an awful start, how very drunk you were, swaying and stupid with it.

"I needed some fresh air," you said, with a high, braying laugh— Oliver half-smirked at the sound of it, knowing its falseness, knowing your fear. "All that bloody champagne went right to my head."

"You'll need someone to look after you, then," said Oliver, and then he uttered your name, making a baleful ditty of its syllables.

How had he known it? Had he known it all along?

You'd glimpsed him watching you, before, an empty glass in hand, attaching himself to your heels like a stoat after a rabbit, all lithe cunning on the hunt. Likely he'd heard your name then, as Felix had bent down to kiss your cheek, all affable golden looks. Heard it, and slipped it into the pocketbook of his mind to tear free, when it was needed.

Your name was pretty on Oliver's tongue, sugar, and ribbon, and stained glass, as apt to break. Happily you'd have taken the pieces and cast them all out into the riverbed, have gone nameless rather than hear him speak it again.

"You don't know anyone else here, do you?" asked Oliver, and there was the word again, no longer ribbon, but rough as a noose, strangling as he came closer still. "Just the Catton family. Something in common, me and you."

You lurched vaguely to the right, and Oliver's arm came up against the trellis, gently, a tender trap.

"You're lonely," he said. "Haven't you always been, though?"

His face was close enough for you to note the punctuation of a mole on his right cheek, the lines at his brow, the riddled literature of him. What he saw in yours was a portal to the past, all features from the nervous mouth to the twitching eyelids telling of a once bullied child, an outcast brought in through charity from the cold.

"Go away, Oliver," you said, bravely. "I want to be alone. I can't breathe."

That was true enough. You were stifled in your plastic wings and ill-fitting garments, sweating and airless, almost wanting to be sick.

Oliver drew his face nearer, and your throat closed to the breadth of a lock in your dread of him, of those ink spill eyes.

"I don't want you to breathe," he said. "Not right now."

Then he darned his lips to yours, their heat, their softness like the death of summer blooms, and you pressed back into the trellis so hard that you thought the wood might break, so brittle did it seem.

You brought up your hands to battle his shoulders, only for them to be joined with his, your fingers tangling, a torsion of slick skin and bone.

There were no thoughts that survived the cruelty of Oliver's embrace, the insistence of his compact strength, the length of tongue, of arousal under clothing, at your thigh. You wanted to snap free of him like a spell, but he kissed you until your fight withdrew in sight of its fair winner.

No one came close enough to see you, or if they did they thought you drunken lovers, poised to consummate your pash against the fence.

At last Oliver moved back his head, the reflection of the night's obsidian in his mortuary eyes.

"Let me go," you whispered. "I don't want to do this. I don't want you."

"Well, I want you, though," said Oliver, with an authority that frightened you in its unshifting weight. "And since nobody else here does, what's the point in saying no?"

His hands, little and wicked, wore their way under clammy layers of clothes. In all the heat they were almost cold, dragging from you a series of ragged gasps that were lost in the revelling darkness.

You wished the wings at your back were feathered, those of swans; they'd have broken the bones in his arm and you out of this, far lovelier a transportation than the sticky taxi that would bear you home in the hours to come.

Yet had such pretty things hung from your back this beast named Oliver would have bitten them off and flossed their quills through his teeth, you knew it.

He touched you until his findings were of stolen treasure, watching your every tendon solidify to strands of stone through the art of such fell grief.

"You weren't what I came looking for tonight, you know," he said. "But you're mine, anyway."

You didn't answer, imagined any word drowned like a cat in the depths of him.

Oliver stepped into you with a dancing softness and kissed you again, sucking a plum welt into your lower lip, breaking it between his teeth to blood. Again you struck your hands against him, but Oliver, with liquid instinct, pushed your arms back through the apertures in the trellis, caring little for the splinters in your wrists, if at all.

Crucifixion could not be so painful, so martyring as your capture beneath him.

"Oliver," you said, and he smiled.

"That's me. The birthday boy. And what does the birthday boy get?"

He opened your costume with the hook of four fingers, touched the bruised rose of princely lips to your ear.

His breath was smoke, and champagne, and stolen blood.

"I get what I want," he said, and then his cock was an arrow at the heart of your waiting horror, his slight hips a harp played against you, moving in the strum of entry, into the gold he made of your pain.

You screamed, and the sound was devoured by the bacchanal night. Oliver took you slowly, with patient intelligence, feeling each trembling agony of your body and twisting it, by sorcery, into something else. His eyes were a witch's orbs through which he knew you, psychic, solipsistic—

You were ivy about the wand of him, a thing that would poison the man, were he not immune to its effects. He fucked you as though he thought it romantic, somehow, this violence in a friend's pungent garden, the scent of flowers and trodden grass and arousal a perfume to woo.

There was blood on both of your faces, on his bare chest, under the blazer. It frightened you, suddenly, a tarot spread of death in the summer night—

Your panic, the heaviness of lingering champagne, the attack like Zeus upon a swan; all of it made you limp, in Oliver's grip.

He paused in his taking of you to hold you upright, studying your face under the Midas yellow of a nearby lamp.

"Stand up straight for me, now," he said. "And look at me. Look at me."

He tapped your cheek— not a slap, far too soft for that, as though the concern in the vicious gossamer in his voice was real.

"You want me to make you feel good about yourself. Need me. Don't you?"

"No," you said, but as Oliver kissed you again, and a firework shrieked somewhere against your eardrum, you lost what temporary power you'd had to resist him.

Like a spindled sleeper you endured his lovemaking, swallowed his tongue like a precious key. Your body was a pulse in deep water, stirred by hands and cock into a dripping arc.

Oliver moaned against your tattered lips, his arms about you in embrace. The heat of him would follow you, afterwards, the haunting of his lust's smoke from dream to dream.

He moved away from you, aided you in pulling your arms back through the trellis. For a moment he tried to hold you, his murmuring at your hair, its comfort indistinct.

Then, as you ripped him from you like the segment of a rotten apple he wiped himself clean of your blood; the rag he used was something torn from your garments in the fury of his love, a token of it. A thread from the maze.

You sat down in the grass and stared up at Oliver, seeking some answer. Assistance from the breaker of will.

"Go home," he said, at last. "Felix doesn't want you. And now—"

Oliver shook his head, and the peat fire of his eyes was of the underworld, then, of sapphire death gone to ash.

"I don't want you either. Not anymore."

Then he turned from you, and walked away, towards the house, his fey shape a shadow puppet on the wall.

#saltburn fic #oliver quick x reader #oliver quick #saltburn #dead dove do not eat #darkfic #tw noncon #tw assault #tw blood #oliver quick x you

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ghouljams · 4 months

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Grgrgrggr Regency!Konig and Bee, Konig has already claimed her (the ribbon around her neck) but Bee wants to claim him too, (maybe embroidered napkin or tassels 👀👀)

You're right we need some claim on König. An embroidered cravat or gloves, maybe a nice lipstick stain on the collar of his shirt, or a broach with our portrait? Personally I want König's blood. That's unrelated to this.

#ghoul speaks

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gaiaseyes451 · 5 months

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Of Kings and Kids - A Good Omens Christmas Story

I'm super excited to announce that Chapter 1 of Of Kings and Kids is officially live on AO3! This is a collaboration with the incredibly talented @vavoom-sorted-art. We will release one chapter a day until all five chapters are available - the last release will be on 26-Dec.

Head to AO3 for the full Chapter AND additional, gorgeous illustrations!

An Excerpt:

----

Aziraphale stood at the town’s well, clay cup in hand, and drank, grateful for the cool water. While the journey from Nazareth hadn’t been particularly arduous, the angel was happy for an opportunity to rest after traversing the loamy, rolling hills; especially after guiding a flock of sheep and goats for the last five days. Michael had assured him, when she was briefing him on the Mission Messiah assignment, that Heaven had an alias prepared this time. Somehow, Silas the shepherd who was leading his flock of bovids to Bethlehem for the autumn livestock auction was not precisely the backstory Aziraphale had expected. Nevermind that Bethlehem had never held a livestock auction before, best not to question these things.

Bethlehem was built around the town’s well which stood in the center of a courtyard. Most inns and lodging houses surrounded the well while private residences were scattered among the slopes. The city was surrounded by a modest wall with roads granting access from the North and South. The land itself was lovely rolling hills with lush grasslands and natural grottos, perfect for grazing livestock. It would have been conspicuous if a shepherd had moved at the same pace as a woman who was about to give birth, so Aziraphale had arrived ahead of the holy family. He was glad for the chance to get acquainted with the town and for the brief respite before the real work started.

Preparing for the arrival of the Messiah really was quite stressful.

Having filled his waterskin, Aziraphale was about to head off to one of the rest houses to sample the local cuisine when a familiar voice called out.

“Hello, angel!”

Aziraphale stopped short. While he was always happy to see this particular demon on his assignments, having him this close to the savior’s birth was a tad disconcerting. He turned and greeted him warmly, even if his smile was a bit cautious. “Crawly! Hello.”

“Ah, actually, call me Crowley.” He said, casually.

“Oh, have you changed your name?” Aziraphale asked.

“Nah, not officially. Just tryin’ it out for a bit. ‘Sides, little odd to have a nobleman called ‘Crawly’.” He said, gesturing to himself.

Aziraphale took a moment to take in Crowley’s garb.The demon was wearing his hair a bit longer, russet waves held out of his eyes by a beaded headband. He was clothed in his preferred hues in a deep charcoal robe and cloak made from fine linen with patterns embroidered in red at the neckline and hem. The cloak was fastened at the shoulder with an onyx snake broach and synched at the waist with a burgundy leather belt with a serpentine fastener. The robe drew his eyes down to strappy sandals that accentuated Crowley’s calves. His wrists were adorned with wide, silver cuffs that emphasized his svelte arms and long fingers.

Aziraphale dragged his eyes back to Crowley’s face and attempted to make eye contact through the dark lenses. “Well, hello, Crowley. What brings you to Bethlehem?”

----

A warm thanks to @goodomensafterdark for the support on this project with thanks also to @sohoscribblers

#good omens fic #good omens #good omens christmas #crowley #aziraphale #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction

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waywardangel-wilds · 1 month

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anyway, based on the choice of the like, 2 people who voted, here's the first part of my BOTW Legend of Zelda fic. Did I originally write this thinking it would be a 3000 word max fic? Yes. Is it now a 12000 word monstrosity spanning months of their lives? Yes. Here's the opening scene [UPDATE: Here's the ao3 link]:

“May I ask… Do you really remember me?”

The princess gazed upon her knight hopefully. After one hundred years of pain, could one friendship remain? A touch of honey, after a mouthful of bitterness? The wind blew across the fields, scattering leaves and scents past them, a singular flower, a silent princess, billowed by. The knight’s gaze followed it for a moment, before returning to her own.

“Yes,” the sound of Link’s voice, still so unfamiliar, even to her, barely broached the silence. She felt herself smile, a small feeling of release settling in her chest. She turned away from him to gaze longingly back at the castle, now nothing more than an imposing ruin. What was left of Hyrule now? And what did it need a princess for, a hundred years too late?

“Princess?” Links’ voice surprised her again, as it haltingly cut through her doomed line of thought. “It will be nightfall soon.”

“Of course,” With one hand she gathered up her skirts. She turned towards him, walking down the slight hill she’d stood on. Her feet, now bare after a century of battle had eaten away at her leather sandals, were kissed by soft grass with each step. Once at his side she looked at him expectantly. “I trust that you, sir knight, have an idea of where we shall go?”

He made a startled sound but nodded. Bringing his hands to his mouth he whistled, long and loud. In the distance a horse answered his call and Zelda looked out onto the horizon expectantly. The thundering music of hooves preceded the arrival of a beautiful brown mare, bedecked in a traveler’s riding cloth which, upon closer inspection, had been hand embroidered with the seal of the royal family.

“Oh!” Zelda exclaimed as Link vaulted onto the horse in a flash, settling on its back easily. The horse snorted, marching in place once or twice to accommodate his weight. The knight looked down at her curiously, head cocked to side.

“My apologies,” Zelda answered his silent enquiry. “I did not expect you to move so suddenly.” She shook her head, embarrassed.

The knight offered her his hand, seemingly letting the awkwardness slide. Zelda glanced at it nervously, considering the height of the horse, the time since she’d last used her legs, and the heavy weight of her dress.

“I—” Zelda cut herself off. “Forgive me, it has been much too long since I’ve mounted a horse. I— oof!” Link grasped her hand himself and easily pulled her up and off her feet, swiftly grasping her by the hip and settling her on the horse before him. “Why, I never—!” the words died in her mouth as Link kicked the horse into a gallop, sending her scrambling to hold onto something lest she topple right off.

“Monsters roam the land, Princess.” Link’s quiet voice placated her. “We cannot remain here for long.”

“Right,” Zelda gasped, a wave of nausea overtaking her. It’d been so long since she’d last walked, let alone ridden, that all movement appeared to be most shocking. She screwed her eyes tightly shut, her fingers grasping the lip of the saddle. It would not do to vomit now, she told herself, breathing slow soothing breaths. No, it would not do at all.

The horses gallop settled into a steady rhythm, allowing Zelda to breathe out a sigh of relief. She opened her eyes and gasped, as the setting sun captured the world in a beautiful twilight painting.

“How lovely,” Zelda whispered, entranced. The knight did not respond, but she was keenly aware of his steadying presence as their bodies knocked against each other’s with every stride. Link’s arms pulled the reins to the side around her, guiding the horse onto the road. “Will we make camp somewhere nearby?”

Link made a sound in the affirmative but did not elaborate further. She settled against his chest, as there wasn’t anywhere else for her to go, a wave of exhaustion finally slamming into her. How many days would she have to sleep for, to catch up on a century of restlessness? The hours of unconsciousness stretched out before her in an endless line and her eyelids had no other choice but to slide shut.

Link guided his horse in the direction of Dueling Peaks. He didn’t want to be caught on the road once the moon fully rose, not with the princess in tow. He glanced up at the setting sun and cursed. There wouldn’t be enough time to reach a stable. He would have preferred the safety in numbers that a stable had, at least there he wouldn’t have to worry about something or someone snatching up the Princess while he slept. But that wouldn’t be an option now, regardless of how many times he kicked the horse into a gallop.

He slowed the horse down into a trot, pulling off the road and into a small patch of trees. He didn’t want their camp to be too visible, for fear of whom they might attract. If he were on his own, he’d probably ride the horse all the way home and face whatever foes might follow him into the night, but he wouldn’t risk the princess’s life, it was his sworn duty to protect her.

He settled for a nice patch of flat grass, flanked by tall trees, and hidden by a small outcropping of rock on one side. It would do for the night. Carefully, he slid off Epona’s back, the sleeping princess in his arms. Slowly, to not wake her, he lay her on the grass. It felt wrong to place her on the ground like that, but he’d need to put her somewhere, so he could build her a tent.

He doubled back to the horse and made quick work of unloading the necessary supplies. He had a tent he’d hardly ever used, but he was glad he had it. He built it against the rocky wall, thinking that such a placement would protect the princess from one side while he physically guarded the other. Carefully, he collected her from where he’d laid her previously, awkwardly sliding her into the safety of the tent.

Digging through Epona’s pack he considered the merits of starting a fire but ultimately decided against it. They didn’t need the unnecessary attention a fire might attract in the dead of night. He found some old roasted mushrooms and a hard hunk of bread at the bottom of the pack. He’d have to cook some other time, to replenish his stores. He could do that tomorrow, once the princess was awake.

He shook himself, trying to remain conscious as he sat before the mouth of the tent. He chewed his food without tasting it, thinking of all that had occurred up until that point. He watched Epona wander off somewhat into the tree line, nosing around for a patch of grass to her liking. He rarely tied his horses, even when he was camping. They typically trusted him enough to remain in his care, and rarely wandered too far from their master. He trusted the horse to settle down nearby once it was ready.

His vision slipped as he stared at Epona’s long neck, the horse mindlessly chewing on grass. He wouldn’t be able to resist the need to sleep, not after the long journey he’d just finished. He unsheathed the master sword, keeping it in his grip as his eyes slipped closed once more. If he heard something unusual, he’d be ready.

#the legend of zelda #zelink #i guess? idk they haven't even kissed lol

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shaswammy · 1 year

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i had a little idea for a post-death au, where they all have things representing how they died ! ran has devil horns to show how he was never truely a hero and was kinda like the worst Ever, charlie’s got a tv head and wires bc of security (IGNORE THAT I FORGOT HIS GLASSES I KNOW!!!!!!!!), etc

read more for other characters (no drawings…yet)

niki - two gunshot wounds with hearts kinda at the core, fire like effects spilling out to represent blood. a broach of a small dynamite stick on her blazer. a necklace of the peace symbol for her « im nice » bit.

sneeg - wires and a tv head, like charlie. a necklace with his wedding band. his hat from episode one (with the goop!). maybe a pin of a bone for frank, and a pin of a stick of dynamite.

ethan - streaks of purple in his hair. it’s still unclear what he died from exactly, but i was thinking maybe there were long spikes that either impaled him or shredded him. nonetheless, the same fire like effect to represent blood but with squiggly lines instead of hearts. a stick of dynamite embroidered on the sleeve of his hoodie.

austin - streaks of blonde in his hair. there isn’t much to extend with as he got crushed against a wall, but i was thinking he’s thinner (width) and bigger (length) to show. i was also thinking a big bandaid or plaster on his nose and cracks along his skin. a broach of a stick of dynamite on his blazer.

vinny - burn scars and missing skin almost everywhere on his body. a big cross body bag (for his trinkets!) and a stick of dynamite on it as a keychain.

the rest of the ensamble never really died so to say, but i think hetch would also have a huge gash on his side :3 also they all have the logo somewhere but ignore the fact i didn’t put that in any of the written ones

#generation loss #genloss #gl ranboo #gl charlie #gl niki #gl sneeg #gl ethan #gl austin #gl vinny #this show has taken me by storm and force #genloss art #ranboo fanart #generation loss fanart #shaswam art

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hawnks · 7 months

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Continuation of this

Pietro clutches at her skirts, but reels back obediently when she smacks his desperate hands.

“Please, my sweet,” he begs, trailing after her, resisting the urge to grab her again. “Please talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Kelsi doesn’t deign to look at him, simply storms through the estate — a historic castle that had been rather beautiful before her death — hunting down any scrap of her old life.

Her satchel and carpetbag are still in the downstairs closet, exactly where she left them. Even the contents is untouched, a few crumpled receipts and an expired granola bar buried inside.

She grabs both, and the big, red rain coat. Pietro always used to hide candies in the pockets; she stops herself for checking for one.

When she emerges from the closet, he’s directly behind her, so close she can see the tears budding in his eyes, not yet fallen. She doesn’t soothe him—she won’t.

The kitchen is dilapidated. She can’t find anything edible, only food so spoiled it can hardly be considered food at all, and a staggering amount of coffee grounds. Maybe he’d been surviving on caffeine alone, these past years.

“Please,” he tries again. “Kelsi, please?”

“You know my thoughts, Doctor.” She pushes past him, up the stairs to the second floor. The boards creak miserably under her weight, untreated, in poor condition. “I am very, very, very upset with you.”

Despite the derelict condition of the rest of the castle, her room could almost be considered clean. There’s a fine layer of dust on most of the surfaces, but it’s clear that the bedding has been washed somewhat recently, the curtains beaten to get rid of the worst of the residue buildup.

Her wardrobes contents is different, although not how she would expect. New clothes, garments shes never seen before, are hung amidst the rest. They’re soft to the touch, don’t show the signs of deterioration and rigidity that come with neglect.

Pietro had regularly washed each each of them by hand, ironing them carefully before returning them to their rightful place. He wasn’t sure why. During the first few months, he thought she should be comfortable, when she returns. Soon enough he hardly thought at all. It was more of a ritual, a lower-brain habit, to tend to her things, to hunt for any remnants of her scent among the items, to imagine her, vital and alive in these spaces.

She understands this, somehow, without a word. Another exhibit of the madness that consumed him in her absence. Grimacing, she starts shoving fistfuls of fabric into her bag, indiscriminately.

At the bottom, tucked away in the corner, is a pair of boots. Pretty, but functional, fine, embroidered details and treated leather.

The night before she died, she’d complained about her feet aching. They’d surveyed the entire surrounding woods, an arduous endeavor that left her exhausted, sore. He’d gifted her a warm balm, of his own recipe. Awkward as he placed it into her hands; he’d wanted to rub it into her tender muscles himself, she could see the desire in him. But it was a line neither of them had ever broached, a delicate, tremulous thing.

He’d pulled her out of deadly mires. She’d plucked poison barbs from his skin. They’d both risked their lives and reputations for each other, again and again. They knew one another better than anyone. At times it seemed like they could read each other down to the flickering soul.

And yet, there was another distance impossible to broach. Not due to lack of courage, but careful sensibility. It required investigation, a steady hand. Whatever it was between them, it often felt as fragile as spiders silk.

Now it was snapped, forever.

Kelsi shoves into the boots, swallowing down her distaste. It was this, or go barefoot on her journey. She snaps her bags closed. She’s ready to be gone.

Pietro stands in doorway, preventing this.

His head is bowed, fearful of her gaze, but even hunched his height is imposing. She always thought of his as a sproutish man, lean and lanky, but facing him now she’s not sure she could beat him, physically.

“Can you please—“ he bites his lip. “Can’t you be very, very, very upset with me here? Where you’re safe? Where I can see you?”

Kelsi just breathes for a moment. She’s so incensed her rage has surpassed physical revile; she’s only focused on undoing what’s been done, now. “No,” she tells him.

She takes a step forward. And another. They’re toe to toe, and she can almost feel his heart beating, a rabbit-quick pulse. His cheeks flush.

He presses himself into the doorframe, letting her pass. Yielding.

He falls in stride behind her. “Dearest, please. Things are not as you remember them.”

“I know,” she snaps. “You did that.”

His fingers brush her sleeve, cautious but beseeching. “Where are you going?”

“To get them out. I will extract them. Somehow.”

It takes a moment for her to realize Pietro is no longer right behind her. He’s paused in the center of the lobby, staring at her. His expression is hard to decipher, agony and confusion and something without a name.

“You can’t,” he says. She can barely hear it.

“I’m certain I’ll find a way. If there’s any trace of them left in me, I will pluck it out.”

“You can’t,” he says again, louder. “You’ll die.”

She shakes her head. “I already did.”

The great door was never her first choice for access. It’s twice her size, and so heavy she has to throw her entire weight against the wood to budge it. Pietro is saying something to her, but she can’t make it out, too focused on escaping his madness to try.

Finally, the door rocks open.

On the other side is a giant, bloodwasp.

The creatures, roughly the size of a toddler and infinitely more dangerous, had all but vanished from the estate and its surroundings after Pietro’s carnivorous plants took root. Kelsi hadn’t seen one for years after she moved in.

She’s certainly not prepared to deal with one, now.

In her shock she doesn’t hear the click of the bullet in the chamber, but the sound of it firing her knocks her to the ground.

The wasp falls too, dead, a perfect shot through the eye.

Pietro rushes to the door, shutting it quickly. Beyond him, Kelsi spots the thrumming bodies of at least three more wasps. Who knows what their numbers are, how many lurk outside.

Pietro sinks to his knees at her side, bundling her up with an arm around her shoulders, a look of ardent concern on his face. In his other hand, the revolver is still steaming.

“I meant to tell you that the roads are no longer safe,” he says, “but you wouldn’t listen. Now, let’s talk about this like civilized adults.”

But he makes no move to release her. Simply holds her there, against his chest, reveling in skin that’s warm again.

Weakly, Kelsi asks, “Dr. Pragma, where did a scholar learn to shoot like that?”

#a study in devotion #adoring mad scientist x darling he brought back to life who wants nothing to do with him #spoiler but um….#tw insects #tw wasps #pathetic wet dog of a man pretty handy with a gun actually #he is actually very strong under the tweed #Kelsi will ALWAYS win their fights though because he could never even think of harming her #I love them they’re SO fucked up and insane

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raddocwrites · 6 months

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Do you even lift, Bro Una

Una carries this crew. Literally.

“This really isn’t necessary,” la’an informed una as the commander approached.

“Of course, it is,” chapel contradicted her cheerfully from across the room. “You won the bet, didn’t you?”

La’ans eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember any bet.“

“I also do not remember committing to a wager-“ spock started.

Ortegas loud sigh cut him off. She rolled her eyes as she took a sip of her drink. “Whoever won the captains murder mystery dinner party, was to be carried in victory while the rest of us mere mortals cheered her name.” She shot them an impatient look. “It was in the invites.”

“It most certainly was not,” spock corrected her.

Uhura rolled her eyes and leaned towards him. “Just be glad we talked her out of insisting we call the winner the Supreme Investigative Detecting Queen of the Enterprise, for a week.”

Spocks eyebrow arched impressively. “Indeed. That would have been worse.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the captain mused. “It might have been fun.” The scowl la’an sent him made him grin even more. He leaned casually into his counter with one hand tucked into the pocket of his 1920s style trousers, the arm holding back the large, beige coat and his other rested on a thin strip of elastic that held up his pants, cleverly called-suspenders.

“What I want to know,” Dr Mbenga started, tilting the fedora he wore so it sat more roguishly, “Is how you figured out who the killer was?”

“Yeah,” uhura added. Her shimmery white dress was full of fringe and sparkles. It seemed to flap and dance every time she moved. She had a white headband that complimented the outfit perfectly. “How did you know?”

La’an just tilted her head. She was in black trousers, a dark blue button-up shirt with a black vest. Una had tried to convince her to wear a black fedora with it, but la’an hadn’t been sold on it. Though, looking at Mbenga now using the hat to such effect, made her wish she had. “I AM chief of security.”

Una rolled her eyes. “Yes. But the captain has been working on this for WEEKS. Getting the scenarios and the clues just right. How did you figure it out so quickly?” She wore a dark blue gown that was the same color of a midnight sky during a meteor shower, with a large, feathery contraption draped around her neck and shoulders. The feathers were silver and she had on matching long, silver gloves that went up to her elbows.

La’an raised an eyebrow then opened her mouth.”

“Wait!” ortegas cut in. “Don’t tell us.” The pilot had on a slightly oversized suit, hat and tie, which she assured them all was ‘peak gangster attire’.

“What do you mean, don’t tell?” chapel asked, confused. The nurse wore dark slacks, a white button up shirt only half buttoned and black suspenders. She had shiny black cufflinks that gleamed and caught the light as she moved her hands and matched her shining black shoes.

“Well, I think she should tell us. Because I, for one, would love to know how miss smarty pants figured it out so quickly,” pelia remarked over the drink she held in both hands. The diminutive blonde wore pinstriped trousers and matching vest over a red long-sleeved shirt. She also had a confusing amount of paraphernalia with her costume-pocket watch, several broaches, embroidered pocket square, jewelry and neck scarf. Everyone had the sneaky suspicion they were all genuine, but no one wanted to ask where/how/when pelia had acquired them. They all knew how the louvre was still calling about some painting…

“But if she tells us, it will ruin it for next time,” ortegas protested. The others thought about this.

“There will be a next time?” spock asked, slightly alarmed. He wore dark trousers with a dark blue button-up shirt, light blue suspenders and a matching blue bowtie. A grey, wool cap sat awkwardly on his head, but only because Christine had insisted he wear it.

“Of course there will be!” the captain exclaimed excitedly. “Next month im thinking of…”

But la’an couldn’t hear what the captain was planning for the next obligatory staff bonding session since una stood right in front of her and motioned for la’an to stand up.

La’an raised her eyebrows. “Seriously?”

Una just smirked. “Its this or,” she made a small mock bow. “Supreme Investigative Detecting Quee-“

La’an held up her hands with an eye roll. “Fine,” she agreed and stood up. At least this way it would be over quickly.

Una grinned. She stood next to her friend, bent slightly, and grabbed la’an around the waist. She straightened and easily lifted the Lt to her shoulder, holding la’an in place with a steady grip on her legs. The room erupted into delirious cheers. Una carried la’an three times around the captains quarters on her shoulder, with the others roaring their approval.

By the end, even though she still felt a little self-conscious, la’an grinned giddily. She laughed and looked down at una. The sight of her friend, who normally towered over la’an, shorter than her made la’an laugh even harder.

Una grinned at the sparkle in her friends eyes. She winked and la’an squeezed her shoulder. Her friend leaned over and shouted, “Who was going to carry you, if you’d won?” she asked breathlessly.

Una looked over to spock who cheered somewhat stiffly, lifting the hat off his head and waving it methodically in the air. “I believe mr spock would have been called to fulfill that duty.”

La’an and una shared a look then they both burst out laughing. Finally, only somewhat regretfully, una set la’an carefully back on the deck. She kept a hold of la’ans shoulders in case her friend stumbled, but of course la’an was as steady as a rock.

La’an shot her that side eyed smile. “Thanks chief,” she said softly.

Una smiled equally as soft and couldn’t stop herself from pulling la’an into a crushing embrace. Her friend hesitated only a moment before she returned it, then stood back.

“Come on,” una said conspiratorially. “Lets get out of here before the captain sets us to doing the dishes.”

La’an grinned and headed for the doors, not needing to be told twice.

#star trek strange new worlds #una chin riley #number one #una is insanely strong #being illyrian has its advantages #la'an noonien singh #drabbles

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finnified · 3 months

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it was the first time in what feels like months that finneas has been down to the beach unsupervised.

it wasn’t that his friends meant to restrain him, obviously, and he knew that- it was simply that half of them were creatures from the ocean, and the other half were intimately familiar with the consequences of his wandering habits. so, whenever he needed the sea air to right his thoughts and order his steps, he’d grown used to being accompanied by joanna’s delicate steps or lazuli’s absent chatter.

tonight was different, though- finneas was quietly, blissfully unaccompanied. jo and inigo were off the island for some kind of date, the likes of which he completely ignored the minutiae of, lazuli was nowhere to be found this late at night (sure, he’d told her he wasn’t going to go out that night but if they really got down to it it wasn’t really even night anymore- the hour was something more like morning) and he’d yet to even think about broaching the topic of being near to the ocean with neb, so it was just him, and his thoughts and the stars.

adalwulff had been to sea and back again, but finneas had missed their docking and, knowing them, zie would find him if she needed. while they were still on the mainland together, it had spent a week locking its jaw every time it talked to xem, trying to remember the consequences that would ensue if it told xem dante had been tormenting it again. finneas wasn’t done looking over his shoulder, but he’d allowed himself to settle into some kind of wary comfort, placing the full weight of his trust onto the promise inigo had raised to him. he would be protected when he needed it.

it was such an odd feeling, to be surrounded by so many people who cared for his well being without receiving anything from it. it still didn’t make sense to finneas, as he wandered barefoot through the slow surf, the foam coalescing in the fur that was exposed under the hem of his pants. maybe it was just the kestrel culture he’d never shaken, where people could forever be thrown away if it put you one step further to the next richest achievement. it was inherently against the pirate nature of his companions to come alongside him when he was weak, but they still did- for some incomprehensible reason.

finn kicked up a small arc of salt water as he considered the factors in his mind. pity was always a possibility, but maybe not for lazuli or inigo- so what was the common factor?

he was wandering further and further from what was considered the kite shore, but he was too lost in his own thoughts to notice. mentally he returned over and over to the times they had all gone out on a limb for him- these unlikely compatriots who regularly put themselves in harm’s way for his sake. he cast his gaze from the sea to the stars, falling silent, allowing his thoughts to still.

“my, my, finneas, how you’ve moved up in the world! a beast let off its leash- have they finally succeeded in domesticating you?”

the tide rolled back around finneas’s paws as he froze in terror. months it had gone without hearing that voice, and then he was suddenly yanked around by the shoulder to face it’s owner.

without his embroidered blue jacket, dante was the perfect visage of some holy force come down to smite it. the white sleeves of the kestrel’s shirt billowed around his hands, and- finneas jolted back a step as he realized- the pearl-handled pistol dante clutched at his side. his perfect blonde hair had at some point been cropped from shoulder-length down to a much shorter, sharper style that laid flat across his head. dante achuart looked clean, and perfect, and fake- like a flawless visage ripped straight from finneas’s mind just to torment him.

it couldn’t even dare to take another step back into the surf as dante stared it down. a thousand alarm bells were going off in it’s head all at once, none of them he could respond to. at some point it gasped, realizing it has forgotten to breathe in its terror, and dante laughed, a nightmarish thing.

“your little flock keeps quite a short leash on you, don’t they, finneas?” the blonde kestrel offered conversationally, as if there was absolutely nothing wrong with this situation. finneas stumbled through another breath, his chest hitching.

“my friends- they look after me- care about me,” he tried, although the effect was undercut by the fact that he could barely hear himself over the waves.

“oh yes, they do!” dante’s tone was disconcertingly cheery, not at all aligning with the disposition of a man armed and dangerous. “it will forever escape me how you managed to get inigo amor on your side- although he’s gone and courted a nightingale, so maybe fraternizing just runs in his blood.” for a second, it seemed as though dante was speaking more to himself than to finneas, until his cold blue gaze snapped back to the kite with a sneer. “or maybe it’s you.”

finn’s step backward didn’t even get a chance to hit the water before dante’s hand connected with his shoulder once more and the slender kite was yanked forward. the cool muzzle of the pistol rested heavy against finn’s chest as dante’s hand flew up from its shoulder to its chin, gripping it harshly and staring it down.

“you’ve gotten real full of yourself, finneas, thinking you can get away with showing me up publicly.” if looks could kill, dante’s eyes would have rent finneas asunder a thousand times in the existing moment alone. the whole depths of the ocean he was pinned under were reflected in that hateful gaze. “no matter who your little friends are, no matter who you try to hide behind or what you do or where you go, you will always be below me, as only a creature can.”

finneas’s breath caught on the intake as dante twisted the pistol into its frock-coat. “i don’t want any more of your games, finneas. no more tricks, no more hiding behind lovesick fools- if i come for you, you are not allowed to run. the rules never changed.”

the speed thoughts were moving through his head didn’t match the speed that time seemed to be moving outside his body. through the haze, inigo’s reminder came to him again- he can’t hurt you while i’m on your side. despite the absurdity of it all, finneas found itself believing him.

“i’m not beholden to your rules anymore,” and although finneas’s voice was still horrible, and shaking, it was louder than before. he granted himself half a second too long to look at dante’s face as the kestrel processed what finn had said before the smaller man yanked himself out of the pale grasp he was trapped in.

finneas’s shoulder exploded in pain.

the recoil sent him falling backwards into the shallow water as he cried out in agony, eyes screwed shut as if eliminating his sight would mitigate the damage. in rapid succession, something pinged near the side of his head and then struck him in the side- the kite couldn’t even manage a cry. he peeled his eyes open as a heavy weight landed on his chest- dante’s boot. the ghostly visage of his tormentor floated in and out of his vision as finneas struggled to focus his vision.

“what a shame, you idiot beast. i was thinking for a moment you could be reasoned with.”

and like that, it was over- the weight picked up off his chest, the pale wrath gone. he heard all of two steps on the sand before the waves rushed back up and engulfed his face. it was all he could to haul himself up with a jolt before his side exploded in pain and his head impacted the sand again.

he was going to die there, off the shore of a kestrel beach. the realization hit him like a cannonball.

finneas slowly maneuvered his uninjured arm to try to feel the injury in his side while simultaneously levering himself up to sitting. his fingers brushed over something cold and metallic, and then the wound gained strength once more. finneas couldn’t stop himself from yowling, although he could feel his brain beginning to simply stop processing the sensation of pain. that had been another bullet.

the kite heaved a massive breath, valiantly ignoring how his side screamed out in pain, and tilted his head back to see the sky. his pain receptors being stressed to their limit was making his mind foggy. the endless expanse of stars glittered above him, disappearing into the diffusing light where the sky met the sea. beautiful, but cold and unwelcoming. why was he just lying there? the kestrel town square wasn’t that far. he could go see his parents.

deliriously, finneas twisted his good elbow behind himself and rolled up to his knees, clutching the gaping hole in his side. he blurrily scanned the beach as he rose out of the water- the pearl revolver laid in the sand, but dante was nowhere to be found. if it squinted, it could see the faint impression of his boot prints and the path they led to the main walk off the beach. it knew that wasn’t the only way.

excruciatingly, he pushed one of his feet under himself, and shakily rose to standing. sunrise was not-quite-but-nearly filtering over the horizon. he could make his way by what little light he had. one foot in front of the other, ignoring the bloody trail he left in the silt, step by agonizing step until the sand gave way to cobbled stone. finneas cast his gaze to the buildings rising around him. none of these homes were familiar to him, except for-

a nightingale banner fluttering proudly in the early morning breeze, hanging from one of the windows of the houses near the beach.

the features of the house cut into sharper clarity as he stared. the intricately painted double doors, the dainty and beautiful beaded curtains visible through the stained glass windows. his mind, addled from blood loss, spat out a fragment of a memory; more of a sensation than anything concrete- the feeling of stumbling out of a bar, clutching a purple satin vest in his grasp.

jo and inigo’s house. he’d be safe there.

it was all he could do to drag himself up their front doorstep, his shoulder sliding down their beautiful front doors with a wet thump. he’d have to help them clean off the blood he was dragging all over the place.

not now, though. now, he needed to rest. despite of- or perhaps aided by- the thumping of his heart and the incessant radiating pain in his shoulder and his side, finneas’s eyes slipped closed, and then it was dark.

(face of a man who knows his friends are gonna kill him) uhhh… hey gang :3 !

#feather to quill and pen to page [writing]#oc: finneas [pirates smp]#oc: dante [pirates smp]#oc tag #he speaks [original posts]

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deathsplaything · 3 months

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It's Time for Tea || Alistair & Rhett

LOCATION: High Tea TIMING: Before What If PARTIES: Alistair (@deathsplaything) and Rhett (@ironcladrhett) SUMMARY: Rhett and Alistair decide to go to a high tea to cause some chaos. CONTENT WARNINGS: None

As far as Alistair McKenzie was concerned, gender was a social construct. As soon as the opportunity had presented itself in the form of a fellow unhinged blind man terrorizing fancy old women trying to enjoy a tea party, the necromancer had jumped at the opportunity, dressed in brown corduroy pants and a dark green buttoned shirt with a leaf pattern on it, as well as a pair of heeled ankle boots with dragonflies embroidered on them. Upon his head was a large, black, floppy hat with a dragonfly broach stuck through it. His shoulder-length red hair was half tied up and curled. Clearly, they’d taken a lot of care into their appearance today. In one hand was Brutus’s harness, who was dressed with a navy bowtie on his collar, and in the other was a smaller floppy hat with flowers attached to it. If he and this new friend of his were going to irritate the old women who frequented this establishment, they would do so as stylishly as possible.

The two had agreed to meet at the side of the fancy tea house before going in together. As the necromancer heard approaching footsteps, they raised a brow and gave a lopsided grin. “I hope you’re who I think you are and not the staff.” Alistair called out. “Otherwise I have a long uber drive home.” He handed the hat out in front of him. “For you, good sir, as discussed.” He gave a low bow, as if getting into character. “Shall we show these old ladies what a good time looks like? Drink some tea and maybe start a mini sandwich fight?”

They grinned, exposing their teeth at the idea. Alistair’s round sunglasses were the only thing concealing the mischief that was shining in their eyes. “The name’s Alistair McKenzie.” They introduced with a flourish. “Pleasure to meet your acquaintance, fellow creature of chaos.”

—

He’d barely needed to explain the plan to his daughter before she was clapping her hands together excitedly and announcing that they were going thrifting. He didn’t know what that meant until he was in it, climbing down off the bus after Ophelia with his metal leg and his cane, letting her hold on to his arm as they moved down the line of storefronts, until… ah.

It’d been an all-day affair, but the two had managed to find him something suitably flashy and obnoxious to wear, and Rhett actually found himself smiling, forgetting for a few hours all that he’d endured that’d brought him to this point, this state of infuriating uselessness. For a few hours, he was just having a good time with his kid, trying on ridiculous secondhand clothes and making her laugh. Ophelia, in turn, was just glad her dad had made plans with a new friend and that those plans weren’t going to be dangerous, just ridiculous. It was a breath of fresh air in what had otherwise been a pretty miserable few weeks for them.

When the day arrived, Rhett donned his blue plaid slacks and solid blue vest over a white button-up, honestly probably looking nicer than he had in quite a while. Ophelia pulled his curly gray hair into a flattering up-do, and carefully tucked a silk square into his breast pocket, then accented it with a fresh sprig of rosemary. You’ll look nice and smell nice, she’d insisted. Who was he to argue? His one shoe was a stylish boot, the other foot, well… some sort of three-toed, metal claw contraption he’d forged for himself. It was for balance, not aesthetics, after all.

Limping up to the agreed meeting spot, his companion was hard to miss. A smirk settled on his grizzled features as he approached, seeing the hat extended to him and taking it gratefully. “Aye, m’ the one here fer mischief,” he concurred, giving the hat a quick inspection before plopping it on his head. Wouldn’t you know it, the color of the blooms actually went well with his shade of blue!

Watching Alistair bow, Rhett snorted. “Hell yeah. Ain’t been in a proper food fight since I was three. ‘Bout time, eh?” An introduction was made, and the warden straightened himself up (even though Alistair couldn’t see it), clearing his throat slightly before speaking. “Rhett Tangaroa. Nice to… meet you, et cetera.” He wasn’t great with fancy verbiage, clearly. Tapping his cane on the ground, he looked in the direction of the entrance. “Right, well, best get on with it. Don’t wanna keep this captive audience watin’ any longer!”

—

Unable to stop the snicker from escaping past their lips. “Three? Well, maybe there will be time to stop at a restaurant afterward, as finger foods will barely do anything for you.” Alistair made a face, thinking of the little triangle cucumber sandwiches that will inevitably be served. “And by afterward, I mean when we’re kicked out so fast our heads spin.”

The spellcaster had almost forgone Brutus and chose to use a white mobility cane but decided if they were going to get kicked out for being unruly, they might as well teach the old bats something along the way. “Hopefully, I won’t be given a hard time for Brutus,” Alistair murmured as they approached the entrance. “Follow my lead,” they spoke before pushing the door open and walking into the building.

“Welcome to L'heure du thé.” The hostess said with a bright smile, looking between the two. She glanced down at the dog, noticed his bowtie, then smiled. “Just the two of you today?” She asked, which earned a nod from Alistair in turn. “Great, follow me.” She spoke, gesturing to the man who seemed to have some sight. Alistair gave a soft command to Brutus in Gaelic, which caused the big dog to follow the woman with his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

The woman was kind, taking the time to help Alistair navigate toward the seat. She said nothing about Brutus, which they were very grateful for. After the girl walked away, a man in a tailcoat walked up to the table and gave a polite smile. “Welcome! I am Jacque, your waiter for this afternoon.” Alistair tilted their head to the side then looked over in the direction of their waiter’s voice. “Could you read out the teas for me? I’m blind.” They explained with a polite but tight smile. If they were going to cause a bit of mayhem, might as well start off on the right foot as opposed to being trouble right off the bat.

“Of course, sir.” The waiter listed off the teas. “We have Earl Grey, chai, peppermint, camomile, fruit, herbal, and, of course, English breakfast.” Jacques clapped his hands together, that same air of superiority about him. “I’ll take Earl Grey.” Alistair spoke with a smile. “And give us the spread.” They quickly added. “My friend here has never experienced the fun that is high tea.” The spellcaster moved his head over in Rhett’s direction and gave the man a wink. “Very good, sir. And what tea will you have?” Jacques asked Rhett. Alistair, who figured the man knew very little about tea, smirked. “He’ll have chai.” Alistair answered for him, and the man went on his way.

After Jacques had walked away, Alistair tipped his sunglasses below his eyes, his almost amber eyes twinkling with delight. “I can smell fish and eggs. Seems like you will be eating fancy today.”

—

God, what an affair this already was. Unable to stop himself thinking that French really was a dumb-sounding language, Rhett was quiet while Alistair interacted with the hostess and waiter in turn, doing little more than raising an eyebrow at the coattails. The brutish part of him was annoyed the Alistair had ordered for him, but whatever remained of his logical brain realized and understood that it was for the best, so he was able to stifle the flare of vexation in favor of being grateful that he had yet to be put on the spot when it came to… speaking. He was not very good at speaking.

The glance over the top of Alistair’s glasses did bring a small smile to his face, but of course he remembered only after a beat that his companion couldn’t see it. Fuck’s sake, he was bad at this, despite being damn nearly mostly blind himself. Figured that he’d take what he still had for granted, that’s just the kind of person he was. So, for good measure, he added a soft, uncertain chuckle.

“Oh aye? Fish n’ eggs? What makes that so fancy? Posh folk like the stinky food, eh?” Stinkier the better, he thought. More fun to fuck around with. Not that he could really judge their taste in food… it wasn’t like he ate well. Hell, some of the things he ate weren’t even supposed to be eaten. Fish and eggs was probably a huge step up from whatever he’d been putting in himself the last week.

—

Alistair ran a hand through their hair after Rhett questioned the food choice, to which the redhead gave a shrug. “I can’t say I was let around the upper crust of society,” they responded as they put their chin in their hand. “And for good reason.” They added with a smirk. “I was sixteen when I first got into a fight with some rich bloke ‘round my age.” They remembered with a fondness, tilting their head to the side. “Went running back to their rich daddy who threatened to ruin me. Ruin what? I was sixteen.” They rolled their eyes. “Since then, I understood there was a very us versus them mentality when it came to rich folk.”

Alistair turned his focus to the women gossiping behind him, whispering loudly to each other about “How could they let a dog in here? Don’t they know that’s unsanitary?” One whispered to the other. “Not to mention the redhead looks positively ridiculous.” This earned raised brows from Alistair, who was about to turn around and give them a piece of their mind when they remembered the mission.

Turning their attention back to Rhett, hoping that he had heard what they had, Alistair grumbled something unintelligible under their breath, followed by “They’re my target. Someone deserves a face full of eggs.”

—

“Mmm… there’s a sentiment I can agree with,” Rhett responded. “Only thing a rich man’s good for is trickin’ him outta his cash.” He’d done plenty of that alongside his sister when they were children, before their father had sold them off and instead had them grifting in every town and city they wound up in. “Money makes ya stupid. Dependant.”

His attention slid to the two women, hearing their remarks as Alistair did. The warden snorted, leaning over to address Brutus, reaching out to pat his head. “Oi, don’t suppose you got a few rounds in the chamber, eh, lad? Those slags could use a little surprise under their table, I reckon.” Laughing to himself, Rhett straightened up and looked at Alistair again. “What you thinkin’, mate? Want me to huck it? I got damn good aim.”

—

Breaking out in a grin, Alistair nodded their head. There was an idea, maybe they should have thought of robbing all these idiots blind instead of throwing food into their hair. “Ngck. Next time we’re robbing them.” They decided with a smirk on their face. “What’s that saying the young folk have been using these days?” They thought for a moment, then raised a finger. “Money makes the world go ‘round, unfortunately.” They added as they leaned back in their seat, crossing one leg over the other.

Brutus began wagging his tail at the sudden attention from Rhett, tilting his head back and forth as he was spoke to. Alistair took a moment to look through his familiar’s eyes to see Rhett with mischief written all over his face. “While I can’t say my dog shits on command, I will take you up on the offer.” Alisair motioned with their head towards the gossiping women who were still none the wiser. “Go for it.” They spoke with a wicked grin on their face.

—

Their food was arriving as the go-ahead was given, and Rhett smirked to himself. “Aye aye,” he agreed, nodding in thanks to the waiter. With one hand, he got a serving spoon loaded up with whatever eggy dish this was supposed to be between them, holding it by the end of its handle and aiming the scoop in the women’s direction. His other hand reached for his tea, lifting the cup to his face. If they wanted this to last more than three seconds, he had to look preoccupied, after all.

“Alright. Now lean just a touch to yer left, my friend,” Rhett instructed Alistair, taking a more precise aim with his spoon. A glance around them told him that no one was watching, and once Alistair was clear of the line of fire, he took a sip of tea and flicked the spoon forward. Eggy mess soared through the air, and before it’d even made impact the warden had set the spoon back down. The food collided with the side of the woman’s head and she shrieked loudly in response. Rhett did his best to look surprised, but there was a bit of laughter that was hidden in his cup of tea before he set it back down, trying to appear just as confused as everyone else. “Ohh, no, what happened?” he falsely sympathized, pouting his best pout and shaking his head. “The nerve of some people, am I right?”

—

Upon receiving the instruction to do so, Alistair casually leaned to their left, feeling the wooshing of the egg soaring through the air. Then Alistair leaned themselves back to the previous position. “Why the nerve!” The women shouted as Alistair picked up their cup and snickered into it. It was nice to meet someone who shared a sense of mischief. The old woman’s eyes narrowed at Rhett as he attempted to sympathize with the woman. “Why, I…” she snarled, hurriedly searching around for a waiter, who was already rushing over. “Ma’am, if you’re going to cause a disturbance like this, I will have to ask you to leave.” He explained in a hushed tone, which only fueled her ire. “I did nothing!” She exclaimed, slamming her hands on the table as she shot up and pointed a finger towards Rhett. “The pair shouldn’t be here in the first place!”

Alistair pressed a hand to their chest at the woman's declaration, carefully practiced shock plastered to their features. “My dear, the two of us are simply enjoying a good afternoon outing. If we wanted to cause problems, we would’ve gone to a dive bar.” He spoke in an even tone. The manager was getting involved with the women at this point, and before they knew it, the women were being escorted out and not allowed to return. As soon as they were all gone, Alistair turned their attention to Rhett with a grin breaking out on their face. “You, my friend, are amazing.”

—

What a joy it was to see someone so full of herself get her comeuppance. Or at least that's what Rhett had to assume, given her remarks about the odd pair. He watched with neatly hidden delight as she and her companion were escorted off the premises, their shouting dying down as the front door was closed to them forever. “I dunno what they're all in a huff over,” Rhett laughed. “Who'd wanna frequent this place?” It was fun as a first time experience, though… well, probably only because Alistair was like-minded when it came to getting into trouble. They'd probably make a good friend, he thought, if he was still capable of such things. Time would tell.

“Amazing? Why, yes, it's about damn time someone noticed!” The warden gave a snort, earning him a glare from a different nearby table. He raised a brow, picking up his eggy spoon again and pointing it in their direction. They took the hint, hiding in their cup of tea and refusing to make eye contact again. he'd turn these types right around, given enough time.

Leaning back into their chair, Alistair shrugged. “It’s their little slice of existence they’ve carefully carved out for themselves, and God forbid that someone up and changes that status quo.” They responded, taking a sip of the tea, then made a face. “This is… watery.” They spoke with distaste dripping from their words. Without any decorum, they swiftly dropped the act. Old ladies could insult them all they wanted, but messing with their tea? That was unforgivable. “Let’s give them hell.” His tone was dark and unyielding as they picked up the teacup and turned it upside-down.

Then, the game was on. They couldn’t see Rhett’s excitement but could feel it radiating from him in droves. “Put that amazing skill of yours to work. Go for between the eyes.” They proclaimed before picking up a piece of fish and throwing it with wild abandon, for once not caring how they appeared. For once, they were having a good time with a complete stranger that maybe, for once, they could see as a friend.

Shrieks called out as the fish plopped somewhere, and Alistair grinned. This was going to be fun.

#time for tea #threads #ironcladrhett

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