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andypantsx3 · 4 years

Text

in cinders | 1 | considerations

pairing: Todoroki Shouto / Reader

length: 24,362 words / 9 chapters

summary: You’re just trying to fairy godmother your best friend into a happily ever after. If only the prince would stop hanging around and cooperate.

tags: cinderella AU, prince!Shouto, romance, misunderstandings, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut

It was the deep of winter when the castle exploded into preparations. Prince Shouto would have twenty-one winters at the end of the season, and word throughout the servants’ halls was that the king sought him a princess. The castle was overflowing with the appropriate requisitions for a winter masquerade; fanciful game, yards of brightly-colored silks, and all manner of gifts pouring into the palace halls like water burbling from a spring.

You liked looking at the gifts as they piled up the hallways, petting the wild furs and soft silks with a covetous appreciation. Best of all were the books, stacked up in the corridors until they towered in tall, unsteady cliffs. You liked running your fingers over their freshly-inked covers, enjoying the rustle of the pages and the crackling peel of the spines as they opened. You wondered if the prince would ever have time to read all these, wondered what knowledge could be gleaned from their soft pages.

Not that you would find out, seeing as you couldn’t read.

There was, of course, no need for a kitchen girl to know her letters. Your duties included much more enthralling pursuits, like cleaning vegetables and scouring pots, and the very engaging task of fetching hot water for tea and washing. It wasn’t as if the mop and bucket would ask you to recite your alphabet.

The work did come with its benefits, however. You spent a fair amount of time smuggling pastries into your skirts to be delivered later to all your palace favorites; Hagakure in the laundry room, and Ashido in the cramped workrooms of the seamstresses’ offices which were always spilling with bright fabrics and delicate threads. You occasionally snuck a sweet cake into the hands of Denki Kaminari as he patrolled the courtyards, brimming with good cheer.

The major benefit of your work, however, was that it left plenty of time for gossip with your best friend Ochako.

Which is what you were doing the morning where it all started.

“Can you imagine?” Ochako asked, bouncing a little and accidentally slopping water over the sides of her bucket. “What it must be like to go to a ball!”

You side-eyed her. You didn’t have to imagine, considering you had been wrangled into carrying plates at the last mid-winter ball. Balls were, in your opinion, just an excuse for nobility to get drunk and behave badly. Last time, you’d nearly run yourself dry spitting in every goblet you ferried to Duke Shishikura’s table after overhearing his remarks on the shape of another serving girl’s backside.

Still, you hated to discourage her.

“It sounds great, Ochako,” you said, hoisting your own water bucket against your hip and spinning to return to the castle, “it must be a lot of fun.”

She scrambled after you. “All those handsome men and pretty dresses!” she said, “I’d wear a pink one, floofy like Lady Yaoyorozu does. With little pink ribbons on it.”

You could picture her, the rosy hue of her dress matching her always pink cheeks, spinning circles in a ballroom.

“And dancing!” she exclaimed, catching you up and bumping her shoulder against yours. “I wish I knew how to dance. Those girls always look so elegant when they twirl like that. How do they know where to put their feet?”

She continued as the two of you passed into the shadow of the castle courtyard, ducking into a small door to the servants’ halls, “And the food! We work all month preparing for the feast, it would be so nice to eat some of it!”

Now that you could get behind. Weeks out, provisions had already begun to arrive and you’d caught yourself mooning over the sweet nuts and berries, the colorful spices imported from the border kingdoms. You’d have to be more careful with how much food you pilfered this time around, as plenty of servants were sure to be doing the same.

“I’d bet it’s amazing,” you conceded. “I would eat a thousand platefuls and spend the whole evening by the refreshments.”

Ochako laughed. “You wouldn’t dance?”

The two of you turned into the large, drafty passageway that led into the main kitchens.

“I’d leave that to you,” you said, grinning. “You’d be the most beautiful girl at the ball, in your pink fluffy skirts. Your dance card would be full within minutes.”

A snort, echoing in the open passage, startled you. You whirled, finding Kamiko Ito behind you.

“Maybe if she was the only woman under sixty in attendance,” Kamiko quipped.

You glowered. Though she looked just like an angel with her glossy hair, big eyes, and full mouth, Kamiko was bad news. She was a chambermaid, one level above you in the servants’ hierarchy, and she never failed to make you feel it. She wielded her station like a sharpened sword, needling at you--though mostly Ochako--simply for the pleasure of seeing someone bleed.

“Fuck off, Kamiko,” you growled, moving to block Ochako from her view.

“Feeling brave today, are we, Y/N?” she hissed. “I would hate for the housekeeper to find out you’ve been running your mouth again.”

You grit your teeth. The last time the housekeeper had caught you swearing at Kamiko, you’d been lashed three times and given a week of extra duties, swilling the floors with lye long after the other servants had gone to bed and scraping the ashes out of the kitchen fireplaces. You’d spent the better part of the week with soot staining your cheeks and layering in your hair - too tired to even wash up before falling straight asleep the moment you made it back to your bed.

“Leave Ochako alone,” you groused, hating the way your voice forced itself into a more medial tone. You’d only just gotten all the soot out of your pillowcase and blanket.

Kamiko smirked. “Or what, cinders?”

Fortunately, you were saved from responding by the sound of heavy glass breaking in the kitchens beyond. You wheeled around, taking Ochako by the arm and dragging her into the kitchens.

“Y-your highness!” The cook’s normally deep voice was reaching a squeaky register you’d never heard him hit before. Rikido Sato was normally placid and calm, only ruffled when a dessert didn’t turn out the way he’d wanted. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Over Rikido’s burly shoulder, you could see the tall, lean form of Prince Shouto Todoroki, looking entirely out of place in the chaos of the palace kitchens. Beside him, his tousle-haired attendant Izuku Midoriya glanced around brightly, as though cataloguing every detail before him.

At Rikido’s feet, the shattered remains of a pitcher littered the floor.

You set your bucket down and moved to get a broom, going to your knees in front of Rikido to swipe the shards into a dust pan.

“My apologies for startling you,” the prince spoke in a deep, even tone. Even from your angle at Rikido’s feet, you could see how much more handsome he’d become since the last time you’d spotted him.

Having spent most of your life in service at the castle, you’d seen plenty of the young prince. Most of your sightings had been during his gangly teen years, when he’d spent the majority of his time out in the courtyards, learning the swords and the bow from the guardsmen. He'd trained hard for someone who - it was rumored - could bring down an entire fortress with the deadly combination of fire and ice magic that roiled within him. It was clear now that he’d grown plenty in the years since, his form broad-shouldered and strapped with lean muscle, hinting at the promise of power. The only admission to the boy he’d been before was that distinctive mop of red and white hair, his piercing heterochromatic eyes, and the scar that circled his left eye like one half of a masquerade mask.

“I came to make a request for the ball,” Prince Shouto continued, “for those cold noodles you served at the summer festival. You, ah--you don’t usually make them in the wintertime, so I thought…”

He trailed off, looking uncomfortable. He’d probably never had to ask for anything in his life before.

Rikido swept into a hasty bow, almost knocking straight into you as you climbed to your feet. “Anything, your highness! We will be sure to serve cold soba at the feast!”

The prince’s gaze flicked over you as you stumbled back behind Rikido, dustpan clutched in your hands. Beyond him, Midoriya seemed caught on something behind your left shoulder, mouth agape a little. You glanced quickly behind you, finding Ochako, eyes fixed resolutely to the kitchen floors, pink deepening her already rosy cheeks.

“Thank you,” the prince said, slowly. “You must be quite busy already. I shall take my leave.”

He leaned forward, executing a bow, though not nearly as deep the one Rikido still held. With that, he turned and swept from the room, his green haired valet hobbling alongside him to keep up.

Even after his exit, a ringing silence muffled the kitchens. It was likely that many of the servants here had never even seen their prince before, as royalty rarely made their way into the cramped passages and drafty rooms of the servants’ quarters. Even you could admit that Prince Shouto must be overwhelming to look at for the first time if one had not had the experience of seeing him as an awkward teen.

His very presence was latent with quiet command, and he was so very handsome.

“My god, he is so very handsome,” Ochako squeaked from behind you.

You turned to her. Her cheeks were still flush with pink and her water bucket was loose in her arms like she’d almost forgotten it was there.

Rikido finally swept out of his bow to look at her, and you laughed.

“He’s something, alright.”

Ochako blushed even deeper. “His eyes! And that hair - so ruffled. I wonder if it’s as soft as it looks.”

You thought back to the prince. His hair had seemed orderly enough to you, maybe a little windswept from the cold, but to each their own, you guessed.

Before you could respond, Kamiko swanned her way into the kitchens, bumping Ochako as she passed. “Not that you’ll ever find out, kitchen wench.”

She strode off, button nose pointed in the air, so much like the ladies whose rooms she cleaned. You felt an irritation rise within you as you watched her retreating figure. Where did a mere servant even get such a high and mighty attitude?

Ochako let out a heavy sigh. “I suppose she’s right. What business would I even have with him? He’s so far above me.”

Your notorious temper flared a little hotter at that. Kamiko was a toad. Ochako was sweet and kind, and deserved anything she wanted, whether it was a pink fluffy dress and an evening at the ball, or her soft-haired fantasy prince. You had no doubt that given an opportunity to speak with her, Prince Shouto would fall all over himself for her pink-cheeked charm. Any man would be lucky to be spared a moment of her time.

You gave her a considering look as you picked up your water bucket, and she stared back nervously. There might be a way to get her her evening at the ball. If you played your cards right, there might even be a way to get her her prince.

In your mind, a plan began to form.

You were going to teach Kamiko a lesson, even if you had to bathe in cinders to get there.

#fanfic #todoroki shouto #todoroki x reader #bnha #todoroki shouto x reader #boku no hero academia #bnha x reader

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sailtoafarawayland · 3 years

Text

Entwined: Family Outtakes Ch. 3

Summary: A little bit of Wish Captain Cobra bonding from early on in the Entwined universe.

Rating: G

AO3 - FF

Chapter Three: An Unexpected Emergency

Henry lunged forward, nearly leaving his seat on the couch as he slammed the joystick home and button mashed to gain the last kill of the round, letting out a whoop of victory. He scrolled through the stats while his friends went for another bag of chips, pausing when he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket.

Pulling it free and glancing at the screen, he saw the house number pop up under his mom's name. That was weird – as far as he knew she was at work with Killian, and Hook didn't typically call him. He frowned, immediately worried. They did live in Storybrooke after all, and even though things had been peaceful since the Black Fairy, there was always that lingering worry that any day the other shoe would drop.

“Hello?” he asked, raising the phone to his ear and moving from the couch to the window, pushing aside the curtain and glancing down the quiet street to make sure there were no signs of strange colored clouds billowing.

“I'm glad you answered, lad,” Hook's voice came through the speaker, his discomfort clear in the heavy exhale that followed. “I've a bit of an emergency at the house.”

“Have you called Mom?” Henry was already moving back through the living room, motioning to his friends that he had to head out as he grabbed his bag and shoved his feet into his sneakers. “Are you okay?”

“Perhaps emergency was a tad overzealous, but I – I didn't want to disturb your mother or Killian at work. Is there any chance you could stop back in?”

“I'm already on my way,” Henry reassured, wondering what could have gotten his...well, not his dad, and maybe not quite his stepdad yet, but Hook had certainly slipped easily into a space above 'his mom's boyfriend', and Henry knew one day he'd care for him the same way he did Killian, the man who had become a father figure to him. “Can you tell me what happened? This isn't like a curse thing or something, right? Because if it is, we should really – ”

“Not unless you consider this bloody machine accursed,” Hook spat on the other end of the line, several more curses that Henry was pretty sure his mom would not appreciate him hearing following alongside the sound of something clanging against metal.

“I'll be home in five minutes, okay?”

“Aye,” Hook sighed, “You've my thanks, lad.

Henry nodded and smiled even though Hook couldn't see him.

“Just try to keep everything in one piece until I get there. See you in five.”

Henry took the steps to the front door two at a time, the handle leaping out of his reach as Hook yanked it open, the muscle in his jaw ticking wildly as he ran his hand through his hair.

That was what made Henry notice the bubbles – clumps of frothy bubbles clinging to Hook's ear and streaks of them dissipating along the edges of his jaw and between the strands of his hair.

“The bloody washer box is possessed,” Hook growled, stepping back and letting Henry inside to shoulder his bag onto the floor, his eyes widening as he took in the steady stream of suds pouring out of the laundry room and into the hallway. “I thought I'd help with some of the laundering, and I've seen your mother do it often enough – put them in the front, pour the lye into the box, push the buttons, and then they come out clean.”

“Yeah,” Henry hesitated, stepping gingerly across the damp floor and peeking around the corner into the laundry room. “I guess you could say that's about how it works...how much soap did you use?”

“Your mother just pours it in, so I did the same – and all seemed to be going well until I came back down to this. I've pushed every button on the bloody thing, but it won't stop.”

The lights across the top of the washer were a steady blue, the drum still churning out an ungodly amount of suds that bubbled and fell from around the door seal, making their way across the floor. Stepping carefully, the tile slick beneath his sneakers, Henry made his way to the machine and held the power button, hoping that would solve the issue, but the washer ignored him, all of the lights staying stubbornly lit.

“I guess we'll have to unplug it,” he grimaced, glad that the cord was at least accessible above the unit.

“Unplug it?” Hook questioned, standing in the doorway, the bottom of his jeans damp from wading through the bubbles.

“Yeah,” Henry, muttered, heaving himself out of the water and entirely on top of the machine, making sure his sneakers weren't touching anything wet. “You might want to back up, so you're not in the water – and just, don't touch anything with your hook, okay?”

“Aye, that sounds simple enough,” Hook agreed, glad to be relieved of the burden modern technology presented. He backed across the hall and dropped to the bench seat, hook in his lap.

Henry carefully gripped the edge of the large plug and – after a tense moment of quiet prayer that he wouldn't get shocked – the rhythmic shushing of the machine came to a sudden halt, the bubbles crackling meekly from around the door as it stopped agitating.

“Well done, lad!” Hook called, getting up from his seat and peering into the laundry room, his hand running wearily through his hair and dislodging a few more bubbles. “I was beginning to think not even magic could have ceased its destruction.”

“No magic here,” Henry smiled, waving the gray cord in his hand. “Machines don't work in this world without being plugged in – this thing's kind of like its heart, so when you take it out, it – ”

Henry stopped as Hook's smile faltered and disappeared, his throat bobbing as he swallowed, gaze dropping to the floor and fingers tightening against his palm.

“Hook, I'm sorry,” he rushed, dropping the plug to the top of the washer and sliding back to his feet, feeling like the biggest idiot in the world. It wasn't as if he didn't know Killian's history, and he knew that Hook shared almost all of it – including the thing that had cost him his hand and turned him into a revenge-obsessed pirate for hundreds of years. “I shouldn't have...that was stupid, I – ”

“It's quite alright, m'boy,” Hook sighed, the tension slipping away from him as quickly as Henry's words had brought it on. “I've lost many things in my life,” he said, stepping forward and clapping Henry on the shoulder, “but I've gained much as well.”

He couldn't help but smile at the weight of Hook's hand and the way the sadness in his eyes was tempered by joy – it was the same look he'd seen so many times in his own mom's eyes, and Killian's as well.

“We're gonna find her, I know it,” he promised, lips tightening with determination. “My mom won't stop until we figure out how to fix your heart, and neither will Killian – it's kind of what our family does, we always find each other – and we've never let a curse stop us before. We are going to get her back.”

“I hope so – I think you'd love Alice. She has an imagination just as big as yours, and a love for books as well, though you'll have to explain the – what are they again, video games?”

“Yup, and I bet she'll love them too. I can't wait to meet her.”

Hook nodded, stepping back into the hall and surveying the mess around their feet once more.

“Well, I suppose I should see to cleaning this up, and you're free to return to your day off, lad – I can't thank you enough. Learning everything there is to know of this realm, it's not been easy, and I hate to be a burden.”

“You're not, you should have seen Killian and...well, a lot of other people too when they first got here. Maybe next time just, use less soap – like way less soap.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Hook saluted, eyes narrowing as he stared down the washing machine. “I certainly never imagined I would lose a battle with the bloody washing box. I think perhaps I'll leave the laundering to either Killian or your mother in the future.”

“At least the floors will be clean,” Henry shrugged, grinning as he headed back toward the front door, Hook's dry chuckle following him as he picked up his bag and headed back out. “I'm gonna check in with Regina, but I'll be back for dinner...it's not fish, right?”

“I think by the time I'm finished righting this mess, it's likely to be pizza.”

“Perfect!” Henry called back, shutting the door and skipping down the steps.

There were no curses clouding the horizon, no Leroy running down the street screaming, no Black Fairy plotting to tear apart his family – life was good. It was better than good, and even though they'd yet to find a solution to Hook's cursed heart, Henry knew it wouldn't be long – he just believed.

END

Tagging: @justanother-unluckysoul @kmomof4 @the-darkdragonfly @teamhook @zaharadessert @xarandomdreamx @jrob64 @wefoundloveunderthelight @tiganasummertree @pirateprincessofpizza @lfh1226-linda @alexa-fangirl-forever @alifeofdreams @superchocovian @donteattheappleshook @hollyethecurious @caught-in-the-filter @snowbellewells @itsfabianadocarmo @stahlop @karlyfr13s @elizabeethan @rkrbirdgirl @batana54

#Captain Swan #CS fic #cs fanfic #entwined #sailtoafarawayland #wish hook #henry mills #wish captain cobra #captain cobra

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babbushka · 4 years

Text

Next Time

Outlaw!Kylo Ren x Outlaw!Reader (Wild West AU)

2.2k ; Content Warnings: Mentions of scars, NSFW (Masturbation [Kylo jerking off], leather kink, scent kink/turned on by smells, mild praise kink)

Kinktober Masterlist || Available on AO3

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Sparkling blue waters, crystalline and deep. Kylo stares into them, into the ancient bend in the canyon there, and lookin’ back at him his reflection blinks. The water’s so still that it looks like it’s supposed to be made of glass, smooth and delicate. That ain’t no river, Kylo thinks to himself when he wades in, can’t be. No, surely it must be some kinda mirage out in the Arizona desert, a place like this couldn’t be real.

When the water ripples around your naked body just some feet away, he’s pretty damn sure you couldn’t be real neither.

You’re bathin’ there in the river. It was your idea, had been your idea to wash the clothes and scrub your hair. Kylo sure as shit wasn’t about to go complainin’ for nothing – he couldn’t remember the last time he had the time for a decent scrub. He had a small brick of hard lye and castor oil soap in his hand, but even that had been tossed at him by you.

You, what a damn woman you are. He’d never seen nothin’ or nobody like you. The way you look at him with disdain and trepidation makes his dick hard, and he tries desperately to think of something else, anything else, as he moves further into the river. He’s naked just as you are, and though he’s seen plenty of breasts in his day, he ain’t about to go gettin’ himself shot by bein’ too casual and lookin’ at yours.

Almost as if you can read his mind, your voice rings from the few feet away where you’re standin’. You’re a little father upstream and Kylo finds that he don’t mind the dirty water eventually comin’ down to him. Something about it feel precious, that water, knowing it has cleansed you and in turn will cleanse him too.

“Are you lookin’?” You ask, although – and now Kylo could be wrong about this like he is so often wrong about things like this – you don’t sound defensive, or angry. Just curious.

“No.” Kylo says. He almost wants to say ma’am, but he bites his tongue. He knows you don’t like to be called that, and he doesn’t want to offend or upset.

“Do you want to?” You speak so softly that Kylo almost misses it, probably would’ve done so if the breeze hadn’t carried your voice to his ears.

He turns to face you, and there you are.

Standing in the waist-deep water with your tits out, nipples hardening from the chill of the river, hair tousled ever so gently by the breeze. You’ve got the sun on your freshly soap-scrubbed skin, and Heaven help him, but Kylo thinks you really must be some kinda angel, glowin’ at him like that.

You don’t move, and neither does Kylo. As he takes you in, he lets you do the same, lets you see the scarred muscles he keeps hidden under his shirt. He knows he’s got a lot of ‘em, but he ain’t too embarrassed or shy – they’re battle wounds most of ‘em, and the others, well. They were part of him one way or another, and he wasn’t about to go hidin’.

You show him all of you, standing there in the river. He’s not got the want to do anything other than the same.

Hesitantly, he takes a step towards you. He’s askin’ for permission in this silent way, a hand outstretched. You’re dispistoled, so you can’t go takin’ his other eye out, and that makes him hopeful, makes him bold. Surely you’d have an inklin’ of trust for him if you’d go out into the water without your gun.

Maybe more than an inkling, Kylo hopes beyond hope, when you bite at the inside of your cheek so hard you’re sure to be bleedin’, and begin wadin’ through the water to him. Eagerly, he moves to join you, the two of you meetin’ in the middle and suddenly, Kylo’s restin’ his forehead against yours. His shoulders are hunched over just a bit from it, but he don’t mind, not when he gets to see you this close.

He ain’t so sure he’s ever really seen a woman’s face this close before.

You don’t say anything, you’re not really one to say much, Kylo has started to learn. He wonders what secrets you’ve got locked behind those angel eyes, wonders if you’ll tell him one day. It’s gonna take a real long time to get to Colorado, maybe you’ll tell him.

He’d tell you his, he’d tell you everything.

But you ain’t sayin’ nothin’ now, and Kylo doesn’t know what to do, so he says the first stupid thing that comes to mind.

“I like the way your leather smells…when you’ve been ridin’ all day.” He doesn’t break his gaze from yours, lookin’ from your left eye to your right with the only one he’s got left.

“What’s it smell like?” Your ribcage expands when you take a deep breath, a steady breath. It’s a challenge in some way, but he don’t know what.

Kylo breathes in too, breathes in time. He can still smell it on you, the leather. There’s so much of it that you wear – your boots, your gloves, your chaps around your legs. Even your holster is made of it, and all of it, every damn piece, swirls and curls up into his nostrils whenever you’re close to him like this. Well, you ain’t never been this close to him, but that ain’t the point.

“Like sweat, the earth.” He replies, his dick twitchin’ about it, about thinkin’ of the way it must feel so supple and hot against your skin. He’s jealous for a moment, jealous of your holster. He wants to be tucked against your thigh, on your hip. “It smells warm, like it’s still alive. It smells like you.”

“And what do I smell like?” You stare at him seriously, it’s a challenge, it’s a test. He never did so well at those in school for the five years he went, but this was much more important that letters ever were.

“I – I don’t know.” He admits, heart pounding in his ears.

“Do you want to find out?” You whisper, eyes wide with fear of somethin’, maybe rejection. Kylo doesn’t know. You don’t give very much away.

A falcon soars overhead, it’s call cryin’ out and echoing through the canyons, and he whispers, “Please.”

Your hand smooths up his chest, feeling each and every ridge of the scars that he’s covered in. You blink hard and fast, chin pinching in. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t want to ruin this, to break this spell. You’re so generous, and he doesn’t want you to think him ungrateful. That hand’o yours moves up up up, around his shoulder, his neck, fingers weavin’ into the hair at the base of his skull.

When you push his head closer towards you, push it down a little so that he can rest his forehead on the crook of your neck, he goes so quickly, carefully. He takes in a deep breath and oh, damn do you smell good. Even with the soap, even with all of the scrubbin’, there’s still an undeniable scent of you, of the leather.

It’s tanned and salted, he can smell it, can feel it in the back of his throat. In his mind’s eye, he can picture the way it hugs your body when you’re ridin’, can visualize how those chaps of yours fit nice and snug where they’re supposed to, how your holsters wrap around your body in ways he can only dream of.

He gets so turned on by it, by these big gulps of air against your skin that he’s takin’, that Kylo doesn’t realize at first that his dick’s pushin’ against your stomach. He doesn’t realize until your hand is closin’ around it, and his eyes fly open, worried that he’s upset you.

“Your cock’s hard for it?” You lick your lips, voice that same kinda curious as it was before.

“Yes.” He says immediately, hatin’ how raw and rough his throat feels. He’s thirsty, so thirsty, just by bein’ near you. All the blood from his brain’s gone down to his dick, he can feel it pulsin’ thick and hot in your hand under the cool water.

“For me or the leather?” You whisper, but you don’t give him time to answer, instead makin’ him groan in the back of his throat when you say, “You can take care of it, if you’d like. If’n you need to.”

Releasing his dick, Kylo groans at the loss. His hand replaces yours, but damn it felt so much better when it was you. His face is still tucked into the crook of your neck, and he’s still breathin’ you in, breathin’ in the smell of that leather, of your body as he begins a slow stroke over his cock.

He grunts a little, speedin’ up when he feels like he needs it, twisting over the head of his dick and swipin’ through the slit with his thumb. Kylo’s breath comes in a little faster, puffs of hot air against your throat where he can nearly feel your pulse thrummin’.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, voice wobbly with how he’s workin’ at his dick, jerkin’ himself off. You’re right there, your lips are right there, and he’d bet every dollar that he ever stole, that your lips were sweeter than the sweetest wine.

“No.” You shake your head, and he sucks in a sharp breath, the rejection stinging – but not stinging enough to make him discouraged. It’s a playful no, if still a no. As Kylo’s hand speeds up still, back and forth back and forth, Kylo counts his graces that you haven’t shot him yet. You seem to think something over, and eventually the hand in Kylo’s hair redirects his face to a better angle and you say, “But you can taste me. Come on cowboy, taste me.”

Immediately Kylo’s tongue is pressin’ against your pulse. He moans outright, his hips bucking up into his fist, shoulders curlin’ in on themselves so they can press him closer to you. Your breasts hang beautifully and brush against him, as your other arm curls around his waist.

He opens his good eye and looks down, watches how his cock is curved up in the small space between your bodies. His knuckles graze the flesh of your stomach with each stroke, and he grunts and groans and moans and drools against your neck as he laps up the taste of your salty sweat, stealin’ peeks at how if you’d let him, he’d come all over your chest.

You taste like the leather, like the earth. You taste like heaven and the moon and the stars and everything in between, and it makes Kylo’s mouth water. He wants to kiss you, but he will not refuse this gift he’s been given, and so he kisses your throat, your shoulder. He laps you up, fucks his fist there under a powder blue sky.

“Angel, oh – ughn, that’s good.” He moans, voice gravelly and deep, the back of his throat clickin’ with want.

“I’ve got you.” The hand in his hair cards soothingly, sweetly, and Kylo whines, tears springin’ up in his eyes. He blinks them away, tries not to let you see with how he shoves his face further against your neck, his nose inhalin’ you, his tongue tastin’ you.

“Mmm, ah, ah,” He shudders as he spills over his hand, his fingers blockin’ it so it don’t go arcin’ up onto you or nothin’.

You just got clean after all, he don’t want to go dirtyin’ you up again. He comes onto his fist, eyes shuttin’ tight tight tight as he lets out a long breath. He can taste you on his tongue, your sweat. He knows that soon you’ll dunk yourself back down under the water and the trace of his touch will be gone, but Kylo thinks there ain’t enough baths in the world that could scrub off the way you make him feel.

“Fuck.” He sighs, wincin’ at how indelicate that sounds, but you only chuckle.

“Hm?” You don’t step away from him yet, you don’t go nowhere. You stay close, right there, close enough that he can smell that leather, smell the soap, smell you.

“Probably shouldn’t’ve done that in the water we’re supposed to drink.” Kylo grumbles, not knowing what else to say. He can’t say what he really wants to, not now, not so soon. You’d kill him for it, probably, so he says this instead.

You give him a strange look, like something between amusement and suspicion.

“I’ve already filled the canteens, but the current will take it.” You say matter-o-factly, before finally untanglin’ your arms from his body and walkin’ back to where you’ve left your brick of soap on a rock juttin’ out of the river. You’re so matter of fact, that Kylo’s taken off-guard by the way you toss over your shoulder, “Next time aim somewhere else.”

He turns his gaze to the sky, not a cloud in sight, and prays to his lucky stars that are out there somewhere, that he lives to see a next time.

#kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren/reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren/you #kylo ren smut #kylo ren reader insert #adam driver character #adam driver fanfiction #adcu #wild west au #outlaw!kylo ren #my writing #kinktober 2020

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you-can-wear-my-face · 4 years

Text

Thomas Hewitt/Selectively Mute!Reader, part Four

Summary: The Sheriff picks you up after you broke down on the side of the road. You know this can’t end well, but he makes you an offer you can’t refuse; use your nursing skills to heal the giant man he brings you to, and you can go free. Unfortunately for you, he obviously needs more than a nurse. (And how can you be sure he’ll really let you go when ‘Thomas’ is healed?)

Content Warning: medical maggots, ‘meat’, self-harm reference, traditional gender roles referenced without nuanced commentary.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

After killing several maggots with your testing, you finally found a mix of dilute lye that the maggots could survive. You had no way of knowing if it sterilized them or not, but it was better than nothing. ‘Washing’ the maggots netted you exasperation and impatience from Hoyt—thankfully, Luda Mae’s presence seemed to keep him from escalating to something worse. You were grateful for her supervision, and even more grateful that no one demanded you talk; you didn’t think you could manage it right now.

Finally, you lifted the jar of ‘clean’ maggots and bandages and approached Thomas. He eyed the jar with a kind of resigned tolerance that caused you to take his hand, squeezing comfortingly. The resignation faded into surprise. You managed to find your voice for him.

“Okay, Thomas, I’m going to put these on your chest. I don’t have any plaster for a proper setting to keep them in place, so we’re just going to try a loose bandage, okay? It might be uncomfortable, but they’re only going to eat the dead skin, so you shouldn’t be in much pain. I know talking’s hard, so if it starts to hurt, you just squeeze my arm, okay?”

He nodded slowly, looking at you like he’d never seen anything quite like you before.

“Okay, let’s get started then.” You reached into the jar, and pulled out a handful of squirming maggots, carefully distributing them along Thomas’ wound and trying to keep them corralled with nothing but cloth, bandages, and a little tape.

Hoyt whistled. “Well, the girl’s not squeamish, I’ll give her that.”

“That she ain’t,” Luda Mae said thoughtfully.

You tried to ignore them, focusing on Thomas instead. “How’re you doing, big guy?” His eyes widened a little and you saw his Adam’s apple bob. “You doing okay?” He nodded carefully.

Hoyt snickered, the sound making you stiffen. The hair on the back of your neck stood on end; the sheriff’s inappropriate laughter had been your first clue that he wasn’t a genuine officer of the law. You swallowed hard, trying to keep working despite the sudden trembling in your hands. Hoyt began to say something, but Luda Mae gave him a long, hard look. “Why don’t you get some meat outta the locker?” she said. It was not a request. “I gotta get started on dinner soon. Tell Monty we’re gonna have a guest, and I expect him to be on his best behavior. You too.”

He sniffed, the sound rattling in the back of his throat. “You think that’s a good idea?”

“Well, we ain’t gonna let her starve.“

He just grunted. “All right. What do you want? Shoulder? Ribs?“

“Sausage’ll be fine. ‘Less our guest is fond of headcheese.” She eyed you speculatively.

“S-sausage. Please,” you said. She nodded, but Hoyt was still giving you an unnervingly close examination.

Finally, he finished staring, then he just grunted again and slipped outside. Luda Mae made a show of collecting anything sharp or potentially dangerous before she left you to your business—reminding Thomas to be polite as she did. Your nerves settled, and you exhaled shakily.

Thomas cocked his head, looking at you with his brows furrowed. Blushing, you glanced back at the locked door and, lowering your voice, said, “Nothing against your family, but they’re a little intimidating. I’m happy it’s just you and me now.”

His eyes widened. He made a low sound, deep in his throat. It seemed like a question. Taking a guess at his meaning, you asked, “Do I think you’re intimidating?” He gave a little nod. You shook your head. “No. Now, don’t get me wrong—I bet you look pretty fierce when you’re angry or if someone’s bothering your family. But that’s a man’s job, isn’t it? Protecting the people he cares about.” You patted his arm, trying not to notice the scars that covered them. You knew what caused scars like that. “I hope I haven’t done anything to make you mad, though, have I?” He shook his head, still looking at you as if he’d never met anyone quite like you. “Well, then, I got no reason to be afraid of you.”

His silence grew pensive, and he watched as you adjusted the bandages and checked to make sure none of the maggots could easily escape. Idly, you began to hum to fill the silence. When there was nothing more you could do for the injury, you raised your hand to his forehead—reassuring him you only wanted to check his temperature when he jerked away. You pressed your wrist to his skin, and he shut his eyes, looking almost pained. “Still hot,” you murmured, trying to think of what else you could do for him. A cold compress, perhaps? You resolved to ask Luda Mae when she returned.

For now, though, there wasn’t much you could do. You looked around the room, then, really taking note of your surroundings. It was a humble room, with few frills. You noticed a small stack of old quilts and crocheted afghans neatly folded and set aside for the summer. You touched them, studying the patterns, and Thomas made a sound—not quite a growl, but close. You pulled your hand away, pushing your hair out of your face. In the chaos and the heat, it was falling out of its braid. “S-sorry,” you said, idly beginning to unwind it from its braid. “They’re—pretty. Did your ma make them?”

He didn’t reply. You ducked your head, shaking out your hair with one hand. “My gran used to sew,” you said. “She taught me, but I didn’t have the patience for it. Making something pretty out of scraps. Weren’t for me, I guess.” You began to braid your hair, but it was obviously off-center. You sighed and let your hands drop, shaking out your sweat-slick hair and letting it curl around your head. You tugged the handkerchief down, though it didn’t help with the heat. You gave him a smile. “This is your room, isn’t it? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosy.”

He stared at you for a while before motioning you forward. You were immediately at his side. “Are you okay?” He nodded, lifting his hands, but you caught them. “Thomas, don’t hurt yourself. Do you need something? Water?” He shook his head again, pulling free of your grip to cup the sides of your face. His hands were huge, and you felt suddenly very small in his presence.

Gently, he pulled your hair back, centering it at the back of your head. “Oh.” You pulled the band from around your wrist and he took it, tying your hair back. “Thank you,” you said. “It’s unmanageable in this heat. Sometimes, I just wanna cut it all off.” He huffed and shook his head emphatically. You grinned. “No? You like my hair?” He eyed you, then looked toward the wall, his own hair falling into his face. You smiled, realizing he was shy. “Well, lucky for you, I don’t have any plans to cut it.”

The doorknob turned, and you remembered all at once that this wasn’t just a house call. You were, technically, kidnapped. You drew away from him and faced Luda Mae as she entered the room, good mood doused.

#thomas hewitt x reader #thomas hewitt/reader #thomas hewitt #leatherface #luda mae hewitt #sheriff hoyt #charlie hewitt

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theateared · 4 years

Text

Don’t Look at me Like That... ❜

Summary: Sometimes, the only way to deal with the law is to play bad cop.

For most sensible people, Kuro Braav was not a man to be crossed. Not only was he built like a mountain, he was the Sheriff of Huron, meaning that he had a lot of power at his disposal. He was ever-so-smart, equipped with a silver tongue and a healthy trigger finger - and that was precisely why Edgar had decided to approach him directly.

“Do forgive me, Officer Rigsby,” he said with a growing smile, amusement lighting up his eyes as he stared down at the smaller man. He has the muscle but no backbone. He’s just another kid with a head full of dreams. “But I think it would be best if I surpassed the Sheriff’s lackeys and spoke to him directly.”

“He’s busy…!” The man called as Edgar skirted around him with ease, coat flapping behind him as he all but slid to a stop in front of the man’s office.

“Believe me, agent, he is not too busy for me.”

He gave only a brief knock to signal his arrival before he pushed open the door himself. He was immediately greeted by the sight of the Sheriff stood in a peculiar web of photographs and notes; red string had been woven around his space, secured to cork boards and walls with pushpins, and case file details were strung along them like clothes on a washing line. Despite the fact that Edgar couldn’t for the life of him determine where the cluster of information began or ended, Kuro seemed undisturbed by the chaos.

This is a fellow smarty-pants at work. This is who I should be speaking to.

“What have I told y’about waitin’ fer me t’open the door?” Kuro asked without turning around.

Edgar allowed a moment's pause before he closed the door behind him, clicking his tongue. “My apologies, Sheriff.” He watched the subtle shift of the other man’s body language; his shoulders rising ever so slightly as he realised that he wasn’t speaking to an associate. Slowly, he turned around, blank face disturbed only by a slight crease of frustration in his brow. “I have much to discuss with you.”

“Then make a call.”

“Calls do not suit me. Nor do appointments.” He allowed the firm statement to settle like dust between them before he cracked a smile, clapping his hands together as if to celebrate something. “Don’t be so terse, Sheriff! This matter is urgent.”

The huro ducked beneath the strings he had hung, dipping low in an effort to not get his horns tangled in them, before folding his arms over his broad chest. “A murder is urgent, Edgar. Yer little mind games take a backseat t’that.” He pointed to one of the nearest photographs, noting the lack of a response as the lye set his gaze on the image of a girl who had been torn apart. “Y’take a backseat t’her.”

“Yes, that’s very touching,” Edgar replied with a sniff, gaze shifting low to inspect one of his claws with disinterest. “But I’m afraid your civil service is of no use to me, so your sentiment is void.”

His ears twitched at the sound of a heavy sigh being released into the air. Even before Kuro had spoken, he knew that he had won.

“Y’have ten minutes. That’s all.”

Though he didn’t appreciate being told what was what, Edgar allowed himself to nod. “Very well. For the sake of diplomacy.” His body came to lean against the door, arms folded behind his back as he watched the other man sit behind his desk, retrieving his cup of coffee. “I’ll be blunt. I wish to discuss the possibility of my creed and I having some sort of place here in Huron.”

Kuro’s sip was interrupted by a splutter. After a moment to collect himself, he raised an eyebrow at him slowly. “Yer jokin’, right?

Edgar smiled, far too sweetly. “Am I laughing?”

“Y’oughta be,” Kuro said with a grunt. “D’y’know how much shit I’d get into if it was found that I was out here makin’ deals with lyes? I care about my integrity as an officer. Also the paperwork. Think’a the fuckin’ paperwork, Edgar.”

“Your concern is a signature…?”

“My concern,” Kuro started, irritated now. His dead eyes matched the derisive curl of his lips all too well. Had he been a huro, Edgar may very well have found himself intimidated by this man’s air of confidence. “ -- is people losin’ faith in their police force because they’re makin’ sketchy decisions behind their backs. Whether it interests y’or not, there’s tension between Huron ‘n’ Vide for this exact reason: the Vide task-force is shit. Since it’s been brought t’light, people are abandonin’ it. I don’t want t’follow in those same depressin’ footsteps. Try t’put yerself in my position-- I know it’s difficult to envision yerself with a conscience but just try--”

“I have a conscience, it’s just incredibly dusty.”

“ -- just. Try. T’envision how scared it’s gonna make people if they find lyes in their backyards. Give me one good reason why I would subject huros t’that kinda fear. Just one. I’ll fuckin’ wait.”

Silence befell the room. It was disturbed only by the Alpha clicking his tongue, crossing one ankle over the other as he leaned more firmly against the door. He hadn’t come here with the intention of declaring war on the Sheriff, but if he was going to be difficult then he didn’t see what else he could do. In truth, he was very well-prepared.

“Al-right. Since you seem intent on forcing my hand.” He moved until he was standing in front of the desk, hands pressed flat against it until he was leaning over the other man. To his credit, Kuro didn’t flinch; his eyes were unrelenting and stern despite the fact that a lye loomed over him like an oncoming storm. “Think about how scared people will be having a lye at their doorstep. Think about how terrified people will be when they learn that lyes are going to come into Huron freely, with no place to settle, and rob the meek of assets until their needs are satisfied. Think about how disillusioned with the police people will become when they learn that they can do nothing about it, because they have limited guns, and limited bullets, and Mister Lye has a whole battalion of willing, hungry animals at his disposal.” He cocked his head to the side, sharp teeth shown as he cracked his signature grin. “Is that a good enough reason for you, Sheriff?”

Kuro leaned forward in his seat. “Yer really threatenin’ me while askin’ fer a favour?”

The hybrid tilted his head from side to side, making a show of ‘thinking’ about it, before he nodded. “Absolutely. I find fear is a stupendous motivator. Of course, if the safety of Huron isn’t enough to motivate you then… I wonder if the safety of your best friend is?” He tapped his chin in an almost playful manner, eyes fixed on the ceiling as he continued to consider it. “I’d hate to use Aléjandro as a betting chip after all the kindness he’s spared me, but I suppose I know what makes him tick.”

The quiet returned full force, and he had to admit, Kuro’s silence was making him slightly worried. The fact that he wasn’t cowering with fear made him wonder just how strong the Sheriff was. Though he had no doubt that he wouldn’t have much trouble overpowering a mere huro, the fact was that his opponent was armed. With the threat to his dearest friend’s life thrown into the mix, Edgar imagined that he was feeling a tad angry at this point.

“Why the sudden interest in Huron?” He asked suddenly, reaching into the drawer beside him for a notepad. His pen was retrieved from his breast pocket, cap flipped off. It made an unceremonious clup against the wooden floorboards before rolling away. Though his eyes had been drawn to the impromptu projectile, Edgar found Kuro’s eyes a moment later. Are you even looking at me? It feels like you’re looking at my neck.

“Aww. Don’t look at me like that, like you’re afraid of me.” The lye straightened out, watching as Kuro paused in order to light a peculiar looking stick. Smoke ascended from it slowly. He could already tell that the Sheriff was irritated. “ … listen, Kuro. If there’s one thing you should know about me it’s that I take the safety of my creed very seriously. I’m not actually interested in a war with Huron. Huron can help me. Like you made peace with the Viders, there can be peace between you and lyes too. It’s just business.”

“So y’heard about the Crossover.”

“Word travels fast.”

He watched with some interest as Kuro scribbled something down on the piece of paper. They were quiet as the lines steadily began to fill with words. After some time, Edgar continued.

“I’m not asking for somewhere free. We will give you something in return. Aside from not killing everybody in the town, of course.” Kuro paused in his writing, looking up at him with an arched brow. Edgar huffed. “It was a joke. My word, you’re a depressing soul.”

“So…” With his attention redirected to his page, Kuro began to tap his pen against the desk “What exactly are y’askin’ fer?”

“Just one building. Wherever is most convenient for you. Think of it as a… safehouse, kind of deal. My idea was to have it built as an establishment of some sort; business on the bottom and a simple living space upstairs. That way, we lyes can at least work to earn our keep while we use this space. Like I said, I’m not asking for somewhere free.” He gestured to himself, steepled fingers resting against his chest. “I’m a civilised creature, Kuro, I believe in compromise wherever possible. It isn’t of any use to me to make more enemies. If I go around constantly forging bad blood between me and others, where can I turn when they all decide to rally against me? I am but one lye, and my creed is but one group. I am interested in peace.”

It wasn’t an easy request for him to make. He was far too used to doing everything by himself. Though he was no stranger to making agreements with people for the sake of avoiding fights, the truth was that he was far more accustomed to doing as he wished. Whether people believed him or not, killing others wasn’t at the top of his agenda. He would do it without restraint if necessary-- he believed in discipline, despite his calm, collected facade-- but if he could avoid behaving in such a manner then he would. Eliciting fear through implication was much more inspiring to him anyhow.

Kuro paused in his writing, fingers pressed to his mouth as he thought. This man is intelligent, Edgar thought as he watched the gears turn. I can see that much in his eyes. We’re alike; we’re thinkers.

“ … alright. I’ll talk t’the High Court about the possibility’a buildin’ somethin’. Come back t’ask about it after a week or so.” He paused, inhaling from his smoke before exhaling heftily. In a controlled voice: “You’d best make good on yer word. I can have it built, I can also have it taken down again. Rest assured, y’start unsettlin’ the people here, I’ll put a bullet in yer fuckin’ head. I don’t give a shit about my life; y’kill me, I’m fine with that. I’d sooner turn in my badge than let y’run feral in this district.”

“Ohh… you’re actually somewhat threatening. That’s good. Don’t let the higher-ups flatten that out of you.”

It was good to know that somebody with as much influence as the district’s Sheriff wasn’t a snivelling doormat. Though he had expected compliance from the beginning after he’d made his threats, he was surprised by how much resilience this man possessed. If there was one thing he was certain of at this point, it was that Kuro Braav would make a formidable enemy; for that reason, it was best to stay on his good side if possible.

After a moment of consideration, the lye dipped a hand into his coat pocket, retrieving an old-looking pocket watch. Its face was protected by a thin sheet of metal, a peculiar symbol etched into the weathered silver. If one cared to look, they would find that it matched the mysterious symbol that formed his bolo tie.

Edgar snapped his fingers, smile wide. “Well, would you look at that! Nine minutes is all it took. You’re very efficient. You can go back to your slice-and-dice now. It was a pleasure working with you.”

He left just in time to cut off a begrudging “fuck off”.

#☆ — tell me how you hate me. ❜ ( ooc. )#drabble *#/ VERY DIALOGUE HEAVY I ADMIT BUT IN MY OPINION IT'S A JOY TO READ #BECAUSE IT'S TWO POWERFUL MEN JUST LOWKEY ARGUING BUT ALSO NOT LMAO #idk i like the chemistry between him and edgar; i have more drabbles in mind for them in the future #i like writing threatening!edgar yessiree

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saxxxology · 5 years

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THE CURSED - Ch.2

Being an English Princess in 1739 is everything for Y/N, a Princess from a prosperous, powerful kingdom, to be happy about… until her parents arrange for her to marry a Prince from a nearby kingdom against her wishes. Unable to join her on her journey, the Royal family hires the Winchesters, two experienced Rangers, to guide her. However, the Princess and the younger brother begin to display affection for each other, and when her heat threatens her life, Sam makes a possibly deadly decision to save it.

PAIRING: Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader

WORD COUNT: ~3000

OVERALL WARNINGS: a/b/o dynamics (heat/rut, claiming, knotting), age gap, smut of varying levels, descriptions of injury and gore, a tad of dub-con and 18th-century sexism from time to time, occasional bits of angst, fighting, and violence, eventual minor character death

NOTE: Edited by @crispychrissy and @quiddy-writes - please heed all warnings! Please keep in mind that this series is set in the 18th century - society is not what it is today. I do not control where your eyes go; if you feel disturbed or think something may trigger you, it is your responsibility to either stop reading or scroll past.

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THIS WORK IS 18+ ONLY. DO NOT REPOST MY WORK ON ANY OTHER SITES.

The following evening, they came upon an inn. As they entered, a woman, tall, with graying brown hair, dressed in a brown and white tavern maid’s outfit looked up from the bar. When she saw Sam and Dean, she smiled, revealing rather straight white teeth.

“Well, I haven’t seen you boys in a while,” she reached over the bar to clap the boys on the shoulder with a grimy hand. She had a soft Scottish accent and had a glint in her eye that Y/N had often heard stories about. “I’d know that damned Winchester scent anywhere. Where in God’s name have you boys been for the past six months?”

Sam laughed and shrugged his fur cloak off before draping it over the stool next to him. “Miss Ellen, this is Y/N, Dean and I are escorting her to her… her wedding.”

“I thought you boys were bloody Rangers.”

“We are,” Sam explained, “but when you’re promised two thousand crowns…”

“Ahhh…” Ellen eyed Y/N as the girl perched on the edge of a barstool. “Pretty little thing, in’t she? And young.”

“Eighteen.” Sam smiled as the barmaid set down three tankards of mead. “Y/N, try the mead. Miss Ellen here’s got the best in the land.”

“God willin’,” Ellen crossed herself and smiled proudly before shooting a glare towards Dean. “And you, my Joanna Beth had better be safe and happy or I swear I’ll stop ye from knotting anything ever again.”

Despite the threat, Dean grinned. “She’s safe in Dolgellau, ma’am. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“And no babes yet?”

“I think we’d be quicker to tell you if there were.”

“I’d hope,” Ellen flicked her soft brown eyes to Y/N. “Tell me, Y/N, are you a prayin’ girl?”

Y/N nodded and sipped at the sweet liquor. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” Ellen brought her kitchen towel down on Sam’s shoulder, making him jump and spill mead from his overflowing tankard on himself. “Better pray this young buck here doesn’t take you for his own.” She laughed as Sam blushed heavily and tried to wipe himself clean and Dean sniggered. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, Winchester, we both know how y’are. And your brother was just as bad until he settled down with my little girl.” She looked at Y/N, who was watching the banter with a slight look of nervousness on her face. “Took her right behind my back without even askin’ me first."

“I’m not—” Sam fell silent at the look Ellen shot him and took a long swallow of his drink. “Well, we’re just passing through, but we could use a room for the night.”

“Keep two open all the time.” Ellen nodded and reached for two keys that hung from a belt around her waist, handing one to each man. “Always expect you boys to come around, they’re all yours for as long as you need.”

***

Sam insisted on sleeping in the same room as Y/N/ He couldn’t deny that Dean’s presence around her was bothering him, and Dean retreated to his own room after exaggerating a yawn, bading them goodnight, and shooting Sam a look that said don’t try anything.

Days of travel had caused them to become dirty, and Sam filled a small metal tub with warm water heated over the fireplace. Y/N, contrary to what Sam had initially believed, did not mind nudity. He’d expected her to be shy and fearful of exposing her naked form in front of a man she’d known for less than a week, but nevertheless, she tugged her muddy bodice and dress off and sank into the steaming water. Sam turned his back—out of respect, not because he wanted to—and occupied himself with cleaning his bow and straightening the feathers on his arrows.

Y/N quickly scrubbed herself with sweet-smelling lye soap before wrapping herself in a sheet and stepping out of the water. When she dropped it to put on a nightdress from her travel case, Sam couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of one small, firm breast silhouetted in the firelight before it was covered in soft, cream-colored fabric. If she knew he’d seen her, she didn’t say anything.

After Sam washed, they used the soapy water to rinse their muddy clothes and hung them by the fire to dry. By the time they were cleaned up and ready to eat, it was dark. Dean was nowhere to be found, so Sam and Y/N journeyed downstairs to take advantage of the roasting meat and fresh bread that had been rising in the kitchen when they’d first entered, and Sam soon left Y/N at a table to catch up with Ash, a scraggly barkeeper he hadn’t seen in a while.

She was halfway through her meal when a large, grubby hand took her by the arm and yanked her upwards.

“Mm…” a voice growled, in her ear, “you smell delicious, little Omega. Bet you’re ripe for the pickin’, huh.”

Too frightened to scream, Y/N froze in terror as another hand groped at her breast through the fabric of her dress.

“Young, too,” a different voice muttered, and Y/N looked up to see two very tall, very large Alphas staring her down. She trembled violently in their grip and winced as the Alpha gripping her breast gave her nipple a violent pinch. An audible gasp of pain and fear left her lips, and they laughed.

“Ahh, Tucker, I think she likes you.”

“Yeah, I think she does.” The man called Tucker gripped Y/N’s hair and tugged her head back. “What do you think, darlin’? I can smell your heat coming, you’re gonna be beggin’ for me to claim you when it's fully come ‘round.”

“Sam!” Y/N found her voice and cried out. “Sam, please, help me—!”

“Shut up!” Tucker roughly shoved her back against the wall and wrapped his fingers around her throat. Patrons were stopping to look, and Y/N felt ready to pass out from the panic racing through her. “Stupid little Omega, crying out for your Alpha.” He grabbed her still-damp hair and pushed it to the side, exposing her neck as he searched for a mark. “But you’re not claimed yet, are y—”

He fell away as something large and heavy slammed into him. He collapsed to the floor, the wind knocked out of him. Y/N looked up with tears blurring her vision to see Sam standing over her would-be attacker; he’d body slammed the man with every ounce of strength.

The powerful Alpha rolled his shoulders back as he prepared for a full-on brawl. “Get away from her.” He growled, and Y/N swore his eyes turned yellow, the pupils long and slanted in the golden orbs. “She’s mine.”

Tucker stared up at Sam, horror spread across his face. “You… what are you?”

Sam bared his teeth at the man and advanced, sending him scuttling back and into the legs of a stool. “Never mind what I am,” he muttered, “you were going to claim her against her will. That is a crime, you know that. From what I hear, the punishment is being put in the stocks and getting a hundred lashings before having the title of your crime branded onto your forehead.” He drew a dagger from his belt and traced it up the man’s chest and over his arms. “And I wager that I could bargain my way into bein’ the one to deliver both. Now, is that really worth claiming an Omega that rejects your advances?”

“I—” Tucker gulped and raised a hand as Sam stood over him. “I was only having a laugh, I swear, I wasn’t going to—!”

“Answer me!” Sam bellowed. “Is it worth it?”

“N-no!”

With a predatory growl, Sam slit the knife over the man’s cheek, leaving a deep cut that would inevitably scar. Tucker yelped and clutched at the wound as blood began to drip through his fingers.

“Take that as a permanent warning and get out.” Sam snarled. “And if I ever see your damned face again I swear on my life that I will rip you apart piece by piece and put your head on a pike. Do you understand me?”

The two Alphas left as fast as they could, pushing through the crowd and racing through the open door. Everyone stared after them as Sam turned back to Y/N, blue and green flooding the fiery yellow that had temporarily inhabited them.

“Come here.” He held out his hand and pulled her through the crowd and up the stairs, and the second they were safely inside their room, he locked the door.

Y/N was shaken up and repeatedly touched her upper arm and chest where the Alpha had brazenly grabbed her. “Sam, I didn’t provoke him, I swear—”

“It wasn’t you,” Sam rolled up her sleeve and touched her arm gently. “He could smell you, half the Alphas in there could. They just chose not to act on it.”

Y/N’s eyes filled with tears. “If you hadn’t come…”

“Don’t think about it,” Sam lifted her chin to look at her throat, rage burning in his chest at the sight of the reddening marks. “You’re safe now."

“But what was that?” Y/N asked, “your eyes, they turned… they turned yellow. Why?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“But—”

“It doesn’t concern you.”

Sam responded louder than he’d wanted to. Y/N shrank back and folded her arms protectively across her chest, and Sam apologetically reached out for her. When she flinched away, a pang of guilt filled his stomach.

“I scared you.” He knelt in front of her and bowed his head in shame. “I didn’t think. I let my emotions and my feelings control me and I did something in front of you that was… unbecoming. I am sorry.” Sam took a deep breath and waited for her to speak.

“I forgive you,” she murmured, “I admit, I wasn’t expecting you to react that way, but what’s done is done.” She took his hand and helped him to stand, and Sam noticed that although her voice was steady, tears threatened to drop from her eyes. “Come on, let’s get to bed.”

Sam’s chest ached when he saw her rubbing at her eyes as they settled under the thick blankets. Several minutes later, he was just about to doze off when he felt Y/N shudder next to him. Thinking that maybe she was cold, he turned to check.

The moonlight illuminated tears trailing out of the corners of her eyes, and she promptly wiped them away when she caught him looking.

“Y/N?”

“I’m okay.”

Sam rolled onto his side and raised himself up on one elbow. “No, tell me what’s wrong. I know that Alpha scared you, but he won’t touch you ever again, I won't let him. I won’t let any Alpha hurt you.”

“I don’t—” she sniffed and wiped her eyes on the pillow. “I don't want to get married. I won't be happy, I just know it.”

Sam swallowed and watched fresh tears spill from her eyes. He felt himself growing angry again; he didn't believe in forced or arranged marriages and Y/N was entirely right to be upset. But he wanted her, needed her. The actions of the Alpha downstairs had solidified that, and if his life and soul wouldn't be in danger afterwards, he’d solve the problem and make her his right there as she lay next to him.

“You don't have to if you don't want to,” Sam tilted his head and gazed at her. “You could always come and stay with us.”

Y/N shook her head. “I could be killed if I don't… or my family could be punished…”

She sniffed again, burying her face in the pillow. Sam gently touched her shoulder and felt her tremble at the feeling. It seemed like every time they touched, the mutual feeling they had grew stronger and stronger.

Sam shook the feeling off. “Are you more upset because it’s arranged or because he’s not an Alpha?”

“Both.” Her voice was quiet and thick with emotion. “I want to marry someone I love, not someone who won't be able to properly—”

“—satisfy you.” Sam finished her sentence for her.

Y/N nodded and swallowed thickly. “I’ve heard of Omegas dying because their heat makes them too ill and improper mates can't satisfy them… I don’t want that. I just want someone to love me and not treat me like some breeder they can use to solve their problems.”

Ignoring the throbbing in his gut, Sam pulled her into his arms and rubbed her back soothingly. She curled up against him and cried silently into his chest. “I'm sorry this is happening to you,” he whispered, “but you won't be alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“You think I'd just leave you there?” Sam smiled affectionately down at her. “I'd come by to see you, I'm not heartless.”

Y/N swallowed and tearfully returned the smile. Sam had to fight the urge to dip his head and kiss her. He doubted she’d ever been kissed before. Before he knew what he was doing, he was leaning in and pressing his forehead against hers. He breathed in her scent and closed his eyes as he reached up to grip her shoulder.

“Sam,” Y/N breathed, “what are you doing?”

He gritted his teeth and fought against the pull in his gut that told him to kiss her. “I… I can’t lie to you, I’m finding myself very attracted to you.”

She stiffened against him and he felt her press her thighs together. “We can’t, Sam. I admit, I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t care. You saved me tonight, I’m thankful for that and I owe you…”

He shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Without a second thought, he kissed her, sliding his arms about her body and pulling her close. She pressed her palms against his chest, torn between pulling him closer and giving him a slap across the face for not waiting until she’d finished crying. When he deepened the kiss, taking her lower lip between his teeth, she felt a pang of need course through her, and she instinctively parted her lips to return the kiss, a small moan escaping her lips as she did.

When they separated, both of them stared at each other, breathless and in shock over what had just happened. Sam was the first to speak.

“We shouldn’t.”

Y/N nodded in agreement. “I’m betrothed.”

Sam chuckled and ran his fingers over her back. She was naked underneath the nightgown she wore, and he barely managed to restrain himself from grabbing handfuls of her ass and pulling her on top of him. “I know… but I don’t care about that.”

“I don’t want to marry, but…” she pulled herself from his grip, and Sam almost whined at the loss of her touch, “I can't do it, Sam, I just… I just hope that was enough.”

“Not nearly,” Sam gripped her hand and brought it to the base of his length, grinning as she trembled at the feeling of his cock, hard and warm through the thin fabric of his trousers. “This is what you’ve made me feel for days. I just refuse to act like that Alpha downstairs…”

She gazed up at him. “I’ve never…”

“I’m not asking you to,” he sighed as her hand withdrew from him. “I wish you’d allow me to touch you. Taste you.”

Y/N shivered. “I can’t, my husband would—”

“He’s not your husband yet.” Sam implored. “And he never will be. Just like you said, a husband loves his wife, cares for her. He doesn’t treat her like a piece of meat he can stick his cock in whenever he likes.” He rose up on his arm and gazed down at her. “Your heat is going to start soon, Y/N, and when that happens…”

“I know,” she replied, her eyes fluttering closed, “I know what I’ll want, what I’ll need. It scares me.”

Sam clicked his tongue and brushed his fingers over her cheek. “You needn’t be scared. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. But if it comes to your life, I’ll save it, no matter the cost.”

Y/N swallowed and turned her face against his palm. “I’m a virgin, Sam, you must know that.”

Sam hesitated. He’d only been with one virgin Omega before. The thought of hurting her scared him, but something more important ate away at his mind. There was a wedding that needed to happen, if she was knotted before—especially by an Alpha of Sam’s size—her Beta husband would surely know on their wedding night.

“I don’t care,” he decided. “I wouldn’t care if you were whoring yourself out to every man in the world.”

Y/N laughed at that. “I can't believe we’re here. I never thought you even liked the idea of having to escort me anywhere, much less my own wedding.”

“Well,” Sam took the opportunity to press himself back against her, “I was very interested in the money, but then I realized I had something better than the money.” He kissed her again. “You.”

This round of kissing was softer, more tender, and Sam put everything he had into it, eventually pulling her atop him so that she lay across his chest, her arms at his shoulders. She was almost comically small, and that only made him want her more.

“Thank you, Sam,” she finally murmured, resting her head on the pillow once they’d broken apart.

He chuckled and let her rest her head against him. “You're welcome, Princess.”

If you want to see chapter 3, reblog and leave a comment! Feedback is my fuel!

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ao3porcelainstorm · 3 years

Text

poison ivy & stinging nettles 3

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 2 - Chapter 4

Chapter 3- Embers

~~~

Sherlock isn’t the type to blend into a crowd unless he really wanted to. Couple that with an out of place American and myself, and you have yourself quite the show.

Folks on the Tube recognized him immediately, and swarmed him asking for pictures. A few younger ladies asked if Amelia was his girlfriend and she would jokingly change her answer each time.

“I’m his cousin.”

“-his administrative supervisor.”

“-his testicular oncologist.”

That last one scared away any fans who lingered about.

It was difficult to tell if Sherlock was disappointed by the lack of attention or impressed with Amelia’s ability to be make someone so uncomfortable, they walked away.

~~~

“Can you stop wiggling your foot?” she snapped her head toward Sherlock who’d been bouncing his leg impatiently. They were three stops away from the bank, and after a brief fan frenzy, Amelia was relieved that the whole ordeal was almost over.

In and out, she reminded herself mentally over and over. She had no reason to believe someone would attack her in the middle of the day, at a busy London bank, with two quasi-celebrities. It would draw too much attention.

Still, it only took a moment for someone to look away from her and she could be snatched up, gone without a trace. Locked away in Chemco’s basement until she died.

“Can this train move any faster?” Sherlock had shot back to her, continuing to bounce his leg.

“Come on Sherlock, she’s nervous,” John tried to intervene, but the detective ignored him like a petulant child.

“John, I don’t know how you handle him,” Amelia murmured, her jaw clenched as she watched the dot on the subway map move closer to their stop. “I’d have murdered him by now.”

“Good luck with that,” Sherlock replied snidely. “I bet you wouldn’t know the first thing about how to get rid of a body undetected.”

The train stopped at their station and he stood up, gliding out of the doors, leaving Amelia and John jogging to catch up with him.

“A lye solution at 300 degrees Fahrenheit for three hours,” she snapped back at him, catching sight of the bank and crossing the street without another comment.

The building boasted some of the best security in the world. It provided top of the line security personnel, fingerprint scanning, and a nearly impenetrable vault.

Granted, all Amelia needed was access to the security boxes and the key in her front pocket. It would have been too risky to leave any traces of her presence even in such a secure location.

The bank was ornate, suitable for some of the biggest businesses in town. Amelia wouldn't have been surprised to find if the bank held billions in cash behind the well dressed clerks and smiling attendants.

“And where would you even find a proper container to break down the flesh components? Lye is a very corrosive base,” Sherlock’s voice floated over her shoulder while she waited in line to speak with a bank employee.

“Jesus-!” Amelia caught herself in the chest, nearly startled out of her skin at the detective’s sudden presence.

“You should learn to watch over your shoulder,” he mused, and if Amelia knew him better, she would have seen a twinkle of mischief in his blue eyes. “Especially when hired hands are out to get you.”

A middle-aged female employee stepped up to the pair, and Amelia smiled her way through explanations before she was lead to the back vault with her security box.

“You’re unassuming enough to throw people off their suspicions,” Sherlock noted quietly, watching the employee leave the room. “Even with the accent.”

“I’m just a nice person,” she replied, unlocking the box and sliding the metal panel off of the top. "Sometimes people are decent to you if you don't act like a baby from the start."

"That's not what happened on the train," he reminded her. "I would even venture to say you were even quite rude."

She ignored him, focusing on the security box.

Sure enough, sitting at the bottom of the velvet lined box, in a hard plastic case, was the hard-drive. Plucking it out, she opened the case to double check that everything was still in place, before passing it to Sherlock.

“That has everything I’ve got for proof,” she explained while he tapped the plastic case impatiently. Clearly someone had big plans for the evening. He waited while she closed things up, summoning the employee to lock up the vault once again.

“Why didn’t you close the account?” he asked once they’d stepped out of the bank.

“All of my IDs are back home,” she replied sheepishly. “Honestly, it’s a little concerning they didn’t check anything there. I mean, this particular ID is fake, but they don’t know that.”

“Speaking of, should we try and recover what we can over at the shop?” John hurried over to pair, checking over his shoulder. "Check for clues and the such?"

“Are we allowed?” she questioned with a nervous frown. Sherlock and John exchanged an amused look before the detective summoned a taxi with a wave of his hand. Giving the shop’s address, Amelia chewed her bottom lip as she thought through the last twenty-four hours. Certainly her uncle would have heard about the fire and tried to contact her, but her phone had been left behind by the register.

She really needed to start carrying things on her person.

There’d be insurance adjusters, not to mention, the fire marshal said he was going to swing by at some point in the week to double check the burn patterns and her report.

When the taxi arrived, Amelia’s heart sank when she saw the extent of the damage.

The building was just about gutted, the fire having spread from the shop to her small apartment above. Hopefully, the small fire-proof safe she’d purchased for her passport and birth certificate held up to the heat in her closet.

John paid the taxi driver while Sherlock and Amelia stared up at the blackened mess. It still smelled like burnt wood, the wind catching a few ashes and scattering them at her feet.

“Shall we then?” John took the first step toward the entrance, lifting the yellow police tape that blocked the way, ushering Amelia and Sherlock underneath.

If the outside looked bad, the inside was even worse. Hollow shells of her previously cheerful shop were all that remained. The refrigerator with the roses was just shattered glass and blackened metal. The register had all but melted to what remained of the wooden countertops.

Lifting what Amelia assumed was her cell phone off of the rubble, she sighed.

“I don’t know what I expected,” she confessed, stepping through the debris pathetically. She had the place barely two months, and already it had gone the fate of all her other hopes and dreams. John and Sherlock were picking through piles of ash for anything that survived.

Wandering into the back room where she had been preparing some wedding centerpieces, Amelia found broken vases and charred flower remains. Her desk was, surprisingly, still standing, though covered in burn marks.

All of the extra storage containers and seedlings she’d been babying had been destroyed. All of that time and money, gone in a few hours.

“I’m headed upstairs,” she called to the men, earning a pair of affirming shouts in response.

The stairs leading to her apartment were covered in water and soot, with a few spots nearly breaking under her weight as she went. Watching her feet, she was thankful to see that a few things upstairs had survived the fire.

The safe was her first priority. While she was looking through her closet for the small metal box, she was surprised to see it already pulled out and open on the floor of the bedroom.

It made sense that someone would have checked for the hard-drive there, though they’d been kind enough to leave behind her identifying documents (albeit a few hundred dollars in cash that were noticeably missing.)

At least she’d be able to get a new phone and banking card. She wouldn’t have to sleep on the old couch at Baker Street that night.

Pocketing the papers, she dug through her clothes and found a few outfits that had been saved from damage. Searching the small space, she located her backpack hanging near the staircase, the lining only slightly melted from the heat.

Stuffing anything she could salvage into the bag, Amelia saved anything that would just need a good wash.

Fortunately, her photographs and scrapbooks had been moved to Ruthie’s storage shed in Kent a few weeks previously, leaving mostly clothes and small knick-knacks she’d located around London.

Locating a pile of singed sketches and soot covered canvases, Amelia picked through the pile trying to save as many art supplies and pictures as possible.

The irony of her flower portraits being burnt around the edges wasn’t lost on her, and she piled the papers and sketchbooks under her arm, grabbing any unburnt pencils and throwing them with her clothes into her backpack.

“Any luck?” John peeked up from the stairs with a curious glance around the space.

“The essentials were still in the safe,” she confirmed, pulling out her passport. “And a few changes of clothes, so I’m not totally destitute.”

“And art supplies?” he perked up, walking more fully into the room to look at the ruined mess at her feet. Lifting one of the more aggressively burnt canvas’ he clicked his tongue in disappointment. “What a shame, these were beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Amelia was genuinely touched by the doctor’s compliments. It’d been some time since she’d shown anyone her work, much less and objective stranger. “I guess it means I have to work on something new.”

“It looks like you were able to save some stuff,” he noted with a nod toward the bundle under her arm. “I’d like to see it sometime.”

“You did lend me your sofa last night, so I’d say it’s a square deal,” she chuckled, ducking past a fallen ceiling beam and moving toward the stairs again.

She asked him about his hobbies, and he confessed there wasn’t much outside of crime solving.

“We should have a paint and pour,” she joked.

“A what?” John blinked as they rejoined Sherlock.

“We drink wine and paint a picture,” the detective interpreted coolly. “There wasn’t much left for clues as to who the men were. The fire effectively destroyed any organic evidence.”

“I’m not surprised,” Amelia kicked at a melted water bucket on the ground. It was pretty good at destroying all living things, she silently added.

“Shall we get lunch?” John turned to the pair. It was obvious he was trying to cheer up the sour mood between his two companions. “I imagine you probably have to go apartment hunting as well, we could look for listings in the paper?”

“Great idea John, I’m famished,” Sherlock was out the door first, not bothering to wait up for Amelia or John.

“At least he has the data,” Amelia tried to assure John, who looked after his friend in confusion.

“He was fine a second ago,” John mumbled, shrugging off the behavior and helping Amelia over the rubble and back outside.

They discussed meal plans, but Sherlock continued to remain quiet, lost in his own world. John didn't seem to pay much mind to it, aside from the initial confusion in the shop. So, Amelia followed his lead, despite her gut telling her that something was off.

Deciding on Speedy’s Cafe back at Baker Street, the group elected to walk the few blocks instead of paying for another car. John carried the canvas’, chatting about the general fare at the cafe, asking about what else Amelia would need to get done and offering his cell for her to call her uncle.

Stopping outside of 221 B, Sherlock quickly excused himself into the apartment, telling John and Amelia to get a table.

“You know what? Drop your stuff off in the flat, and I’ll meet you guys here in a few minutes?” he offered, passing the art back to her. Amelia agreed, and was not very far behind the detective.

“Hey Sherlock where should-,” Amelia stopped mid sentence when she saw the flower sprig Sherlock was examining under the light.

Seeing the new comer, he immediately thrust it behind his back.

“Ah, you know, wherever,” he gestured vaguely around the room, watching her pointedly while she deposited her items on the couch.

“Whatcha got there, Sherlock?” she inquired, taking a step forward, bending to get a look at his back.

“Nothing,” he jumped away, turning toward her. “Shouldn’t you be with John? I’ll be down in a second.”

Amelia frowned, starting toward the door, and whirling on her toes just before leaving, catching Sherlock by surprise as she tackled him to the ground.

They hit the old wooden floor with a thud, Sherlock whacking his head on the floorboards and Amelia smacking the back of her head on John’s side table.

“Ugh, that was poorly planned,” she grumbled, rubbing her head. Sherlock seemed to agree with a grunt, absently rubbing the back of his head with the hand holding the flower.

Eyes wide, she took her chance and plucked it free, hopping up, and immediately identifying it.

“Aconite?” she asked, shaking her head. "Where on earth did you find this?”

He stood up and snapped it back, moving to his chair and examining it under a magnifying glass he pulled from his pocket.

“Also known as Monkshood," he supplied dryly, snatching the flower back. "I found it at the shop."

“You’re quite the clever one, Sherlock Holmes,” Amelia snarked back. “But I know for a fact my Monkshoods were still seeding in the back room, so it’s impossible I had one in full bloom. So unless someone dropped it-”

She stopped when he looked up at her with raised brows. Her mouth slowly fell into an “oh” shape.

“You said the flowers have their own language,” he turned it over between his fingers, holding it up toward her. “Care to enlighten me?”

“‘Hatred’,” she recited meekly, paling at the implication. “and 'be cautious’.”

Chapter 4

#sherlock original female character #sherlock #sherlock BBC #sherlock Holmes #Sherlock fanfiction #sherlock/ofc #reader #sherlock/reader #john watson #watson #fanfic #sherlock fanfic #writing #sherlock/oc

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