Characters/Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Pregnant!Reader
Word count: 2313
Warnings: A/B/O dynamics,smut, slight breath play, knotting (mild?), foul language, labor inducing sex, water braking, NO labor, Fluff.
This one here is my first ever a/b/o piece and I think last, and because of that I didn’t want get in the middle of the messy (but super hot) stuff. So this is about a stablished coupple who already been through all that.
This is my entry for a compìlation of 4 different challeneges first time doing that too, so I hope this makes sense.
@dr-deanA/B/O Challenge, song prompt: ‘Build me up, Buttercup’ by The Foundations.
@whywhydoyouwantmetosaymynameOrion’s 1k Celebration Challenge, movie prompt: ‘That’s your problem, Ray. Your ideal girl… is you. With tits!’ FAQ about time travel.
@babypieandwhiskeyCam’s 200 writing challenge, Prompt: ‘Can I please con to the bathroom alone.’
@impalaimaginingSmut-entine’s day kink challenge, prompts: Pregnancy and Breath play.
“That’s your problem, Ray. Your ideal girl… is you. With tits!”
Your lips move in sync with the movie and you laugh at poor Ray; Pete will never stop being an ass. You feel the slight annoyance again and that familiar pressure on the bladder. You turn off the tv, with a puff and an eye roll you get up, gently, bit by bit and walk down the hall to the bathroom, for the fourth or fifth time tonight.
The toilet lid is cold, making you shudder. Looking down at your feet, you realize you can’t see anything past that sticking-out belly button; it looks so weird and dark, and every time you cough or laugh it goes even further out.
On the way back to the bedroom you yawn, bare feet stumping against the tiled floor, sounding heavy. Hating the fact you walk like a doped duck, you stop to catch your breath.
With a sigh, you sit back on the edge of the bed and stare at the bright red light on the night stand, 2:44, carefully enough not to wake up the sleeping alpha on the other side, although he wouldn’t wake up because of you plopping down next to him.
The promised early morning rain was moving on just as Claire and Faith reached the outer fields being used for the Quarter Day festivities. It had been a muddy walk over but the sun would soon dry out the paths. Not that such matters had dampened enthusiasm amongst the crowds. It was approaching mid-day and the place was packed.
Music could be heard coming from several different areas over the the fields. A small demonstration of traditional highland games was in full swing as were the various activities for children from sack races to sheep wrangling. Faith tried her hand at winning a goldfish with a ping pong ball. Faith (luckily) had a terrible throwing arm.
Every now and then, they would catch sight of someone they knew from Lallybroch in the crowd. Ian tended to draw the eye with his unusual gait and Jamie’s hair and height made him easier to see. They didn’t go out of their way to greet anyone, though. Mindful of Jamie’s observations, they remained two lost in the larger crowd.
Claire and Faith checked out the various strength challenges, impressed by the size of the competitors. She watched participants tossing around massive hammers, stones and logs. Not for the first time, Claire found herself thinking about the national psyche of the place.
How the games had remained the same generation after generation, still more or less using implements that were used then. Gooseflesh ran down her arms, these men, in kilt and boot, could have walked straight out of a rift in time.
From the corner of her eye she saw Faith standing in front of a cluster of women just as awe-inspiring as they readied themselves for a go and smiled for there was progress writ on today’s fields, too.
“Good luck, ladies!” She cheered them on as she reached her hand down to Faith and moved her a safer distance from the action.
After a time, they meandered through the crafts area, exploring everything on offer: gloves and socks made locally, candles, honey, fine metal, leather goods, cheeses and vegetables of all kinds. Nibbling samples and touching the knitted items as they went.
“Ooh…What’s it?” Faith asked on a reverent sigh after stumbling on a soft blanket in her favorite purple hue.
“Och, darlin’ ‘tis made from the finest alpaca, no’ more than 10 kilometers from here.” The squat man with a pipe hanging off his mouth proudly declared.
Faith pleaded with her eyes. Claire wasn’t certain if bargaining was part of the expected entertainment but her Uncle Lamb hadn’t carted her from hither and yon without teaching her a thing or two. By the time they were done she’d parted with £70.00 (down from £100).
She watched as Faith hugged the bag containing her new lovey to her chest, careful to keep it out of the damp path but she caught her surreptitiously rubbing her cheek against the soft corner that peeped out of the top. She smiled, knowing she’d gotten the best of the negotiation.
The afternoon sun was in their eyes as they made their way over to the bleachers set up for the shinty game. Though by the time they sat, the sun was behind them. A light breeze rising as the afternoon lengthened.
Faith had spotted Jamie right away, of course, and then noticed Jenny, Murtagh, Fergus. By that time, though, Claire had spread out the little picnic lunch she assembled from the various food stalls. A tempting array of snacks had kept Faith content and her mouth too busy for idle chatter.
It was a coed game, that much was clear but Claire wasn’t entirely sure about the teams or the rules. The players were wearing t-shirts of varying plaid designs in muted colors with Slainte prominently displayed. It looked as if Jenny and Jamie were on opposite teams.
Jenny had a wicked hook and didn’t shy away from muscling anyone who crossed her path out of the way. The game was physical. The smack of the ball against caman audible as were the grunts and calls of the players.
Claire watched for a bit and then concluded that whichever team Fergus was on, his only goal was scoring with a pretty blonde woman flirting right back.
The game looked like it might be winding down. Claire finished packing their food away then asked Faith if she wanted to visit the ponies. Just then, Jenny got in a particularly good shot.
Claire heard an appreciative cheer behind her, followed by young Jamie asking, “Did Mum score?”
She looked over to see Ian standing hand in hand with his son watching the field of play. She raised her hand as he smiled his hellos at them.
Faith called out “Uncan!” and pulled Claire up, urging them to Ian’s side where she promptly offered her lovey for inspection.
“Och, verra soft!” Uncan dutifully agreed.
Then Faith and wee Jamie began inspecting some bugs underneath the row of seats behind them.
Claire and Ian were chatting, eyes off the field when a sudden yell and the unmistakable sound of a collision rent the air.
Claire knew without looking that she would be needed. Wide eyes met steady ones.
“Faith?” She asked, even as Ian reached his hand out to the lass.
“I’ve got her. It’s no’ Jenny, she’s fine, I can see her still standing. Dinna worry, Claire. I’ll get the bairns back to the house. We’ll meet you later.”
Claire spun quickly and, running onto the field, reached into her bag for the kit she kept on her person at all times. There was a small crowd gathered around the centerline of the field.
With all of the efficiency of a master drill sergeant she split the crowd and was down on her knees next to the three people splayed out on the ground before she had even registered what she was looking at.
A woman, red cleats, long blonde hair, startlingly green eyes, another woman, short brown hair, shorter skirt- no, it was a skort– and glasses, not moving and a man, naturally, Jamie.
There was that kind of muted murmuring that happens at sporting events when players are injured. Claire caught Jenny’s eyes and with a minimum of mostly non-verbal communication was able to confirm that the first responders had already been called. They were housed under a special first aid tent set up between venues. They’d arrive momentarily.
She only hoped Ian had gotten Faith off the field and looking elsewhere. If she saw her parents, she’d want to come see them. No telling what might happen but there were too many people around to want to risk having to pass off anything Faith might say as accidental.
She eyeballed Jamie. His problem was obvious, though treatment for him could wait. He had a cut along his thigh. It would need stitches.
Red cleats was moving around but in pain, the skort was still flat out. Claire thought red had a dislocated shoulder, skort undetermined.
Skort then. Her skin was gray. A, B, C the three part emergency assessment vital to such situations.
Struck out at A - airway was compromised. She wasn’t breathing. Jamie was about to start chest compressions when Claire shot her hand out and stopped him.
“No, that’s– “ rather than explain she pushed at his body, understanding he was in the way, Jamie quickly moved to the side.
Claire dug her hands up and under skort’s back and hoisted her into a half sitting position, her body braced against Claire’s knees as Claire’s arms came around to the front of the woman’s chest.
Claire made interlaced fists just under her rib cage and then heaved for all she was worth, once, twice and a wheezing sound from skort told her she was on the right track, on the fourth squeeze a piece of rubber came flying out of the woman’s mouth.
Along with some water and what looked to be some fruit from lunch. An audible, grateful wheezing inhale told Claire that she had successfully cleared the blockage. Color was slowly returning to the woman’s face.
“You are alright.” Claire told her. “That’s it. Just shallow breaths, in and out. You’ll feel a lot better in a minute.”
Jamie was on the woman the second he saw she was out of immediate danger. He handed her a wet towel for her face and checked the rest of her out, even as Claire was doing the same.
“Lass, are ye ok? Anything else hurt?” She gave a grunt of negation to his question, still trying to get her breath back.
On a smaller wheeze Claire heard her breathe out, “Jaaaymee-EEE” in a rhythm that obviously had a hidden message.
Jamie chuckled in relief and responded with an answering grin, “Gen-EEEEVA. Tell me true, are ye ok?”
Claire smiled recognizing Wall-E calls – one of Faith’s favorite movies. By this point Geneva had readjusted her glasses and could see a bit better.
“Yes, Jamie, honestly I am. I borrowed my niece’s mouth guard, I guess I should have just skipped it?”
Jamie hugged her to him.
“Ye scarrit the hell out of me, dinna do that again.”
“Oof, get off! You’re a bloody mess and I just bought this skort!” She declared.
“Well, if I’m bleeding it’s because of you and yer wicked handmaiden -determined to take me out ye were! Between the twa of you and Jenny, I stood no chance!” Jamie pretended to be affronted.
Jamie was bleeding more heavily now. Claire quickly wadded up some bandages from her kit and pressed them firmly into Jamie’s leg.
He gave a grunt of pain.
She slapped his hand over the cut instructing, “Press here, hard, don’t move around too much.”
Jamie nodded at her but then turned to the other woman.
“An’ speaking of which, Geillie, how’s yer shoulder?”
Geneva gave a soft cry and turned her head around to find Geillis hurt though she had managed to sit up. Her eyes were closed and it looked like she was trying not to throw up or pass out. The shoulder needed tending.
Jamie crab crawled over to the woman.
“Geillie?” he asked. “Are ye ok?”
The woman’s eyes opened. She was clearly in pain but heard him.
“No.” She responded.
“Geillie?” Claire said to get her attention.
Her eyes shifted to Claire’s.
“I’m Claire I’m going to help you. You have a dislocated shoulder. Have you had one before?”
Geillie shook her head no.
“I know it’s painful but in just a minute or two you’ll feel much better.”
Jamie made to reach over and help.
Claire put her hands on his chest and pushed him backwards, repositioning his bandages.
“You stay right where you are. Damned stubborn Scot! Did you not hear me before? What do you think you’ll accomplish bleeding all over the place? Sit still, apply pressure. We need to stop the bleeding. Geillie will be fine, Jamie. I will take care of her, ok?” Claire reassured him holding his eyes. When she saw he understood she turned back to attend to Geillie.
With Jenny and Fergus’s help, she soon had Geillie in the right position. It took bit of maneuvering and two tries to pop the shoulder back in and she was sweating considerably before it was done.
“Oh, that feels much better!” Geillie said.
Claire gave her a quick rundown on aftercare just as the first responders came onto the field. They transported everyone off the field back to the first aid tent.
Jamie had declined the recommended visit to the Urgent Care clinic in favor of Claire stitching him up right where they were.
The ladies would be transported although Fergus had offered to drive them to save the ambulance fees. Geneva sat next to Geillie a comforting arm resting on her leg, the only part of her that Geneva didn’t think was hurt just then and waited for Fergus to pull up.
Claire numbed Jamie’s leg. There wasn’t a whole lot to look at in the tent so they all watched Claire work.
Jamie saw a small neat row of stitches appearing. Her hands automatically making the movements.
“Sassenach?” he began.
Her eyes came up.
“I…what ye did for Geneva? I dinna think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”
“I told you I was a doctor.” Claire downplayed but smiled when she said it. It had been nothing, every step drilled into her years ago.
“Aye, but there is a considerable difference between understanding something and knowing it. I wouldna figured it out in time. You saved Geneva’s life, Claire. I dinna ken how to thank ye for it but—”
Claire’s hands were still busy with the sutures so she contented herself with gently headbutting him and resting her forehead against his as she softly chided.
“Shh, you. That’s my job, it’s what I do.”
Jamie laughed as his hand reached behind her head and he pressed a lingering kiss of thanks and murmuring the same to her brow.
“Ladies? Shall we go, the car is just outside.”
Jamie glanced up, having forgotten that anyone else was with them. He watched as Fergus ushered Geillie and Geneva to the car. His eyes locked on Geillie’s and she smiled sheepishly and waved as she left.
Claire gently closed the door to the Laird’s room after making sure Faith was sound asleep and straightened her emerald green wrap dress a little as she turned.
She looked up to find Jamie ambling down the long gallery hall wearing a kilt with a blazer and a black Slainte t-shirt. The cotton worn and faded, it likely would feel soft as Faith’s lovey, she thought.
“Is the lass asleep?”
“Yes, but I’m sure a last cuddle from you won’t keep her up, she’ll be out again soon as her head hits the pillow. We had a big day.”
Claire watched him make his way toward her.
Jesus, the way he moved.
“Y-your– leg not troubling you?” Babbling tongue tied idiot! Claire admonished herself.
“Nah, I was in great hands and it’s no’ in a place that chaffs.” Jamie smiled, continuing to come towards her in slinky strides, as much big game cat as man. Something about the plaid changing his walk or his balance.
Perhaps it was just her, Claire thought. For whatever reason, she was especially aware of his body and how it moved within.
She normally tried to forget how freaking hot he was. He was her daughter’s father. Period, end, finito.
From the very first, she’d felt that pull, but normally she could pretend it came from the pit of her stomach and live with the white lie.
Oh, but not when he was wearing that …yum, no.
Now, she couldn’t help but be aware that the clenching in her body originated far lower down.
Claire made a funny humming sound in her throat as he brushed past her, the faded wool of his plaid caressing her hand. She shivered at the sound his heel made on the hardwood.
That caused him to pull back from the door just as he was about to open it. He turned his astonished gaze to hers and she could not hide her blush.
“Something I can help ye with, Sassenach?”
Jamie deliberately stepped in closer to her, rubbing up against her the tiniest bit. Not so much it was obvious but in a way that made her feel…why that ruddy Scottish bastard, he knew! He knew damned well how good he looked in his kilt.
A walking inducement to anyone with a pulse.
Too flustered to do anything about it she tried to soldier on.
“Uhm, no. I’ll just go down and —” Claire lost the train of her thoughts as his hand came up into her hair, light as a butterfly.
He was watching her closely. Pinned under that deep blue gaze, she had nothing to bluff with. His head moved closer to hers, she tried to move a little away but his body mirrored hers and followed where she led.
Aware of his mouth thisclose to hers, the sound of the soft rumbling noises he made, the smell of his soap, sandalwood and cedar. She tried to take a steadying breath but found herself panting instead.
“Sassenach?” Softly intoned on a whisper.
“What–what are you doing?”
She swallowed and looked up to find him watching her closely. His face so close she could feel the exhalations of his breath. If she moved a fraction of an inch he’d come straight into her.
Claire stared hard at his lips, tender and just a little sunkissed. He hadn’t shaved in long enough that the hair was just turning from prickly to malleable.
How would it feel against her tongue? She wet her lips.
He made a little sound that caused her eyes to lift up. He was staring at her mouth with as much intensity as she was his. An aching need spread through her.
She moaned a tiny bit imagining him leaning in with his body, trapping her solidly into the wall.
Unable to help herself, Claire pushed all the way back imagining how it would feel, the cool plaster behind her, the heat of Jamie in front, pressing inward until their bodies were joined.
He moved with her, but not pressing against her. He kept the sliver of space between their bodies. Oh, please!
His fingers traced her hair once more.
She squeaked a little and her lips parted as she shifted her weight on her tiptoes unconsciously reaching up toward his just as he spoke.
“Just getting this out of your hair, Sassenach.”
He said matter of factly and handed her a piece of crinkle paper from a box that Faith had been playing with earlier.
Claire looked at his hand rather stupidly. Then she understood what he had said.
“Oh, oh. Well, ah.” She couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought.
“I’ll see ye under the tent, shall I?” A raised brow of dismissal as he stole into the Laird’s room to kiss his daughter good night.
Chest heaving, Claire tried to slow her heartbeats down as she slumped against the wall and sighed too loudly to hear Jamie collapsing against the other side of the closed door trying to catch his breath as well.
Chapter Updates: Chapter 14: Into the Mystic/Kiss Me; Chapter 15: Like on A Date, Chapter 16: The Date (I think You Will Love This One), Chapter 17: Operation Lard Head, Chapter 18: Three Ravens
Summary: What would a man do to protect his family, wealth, and business? Marry his daughter off to Birmingham’s most ambitious: Thomas Shelby.
Word Count: 2608
Warnings: Choking and what I’d consider minor physical assault.
A/N: I’m sorry this is so all over the place. I’m a sucker for detail, while also wanting to get the story moving. Sorry for the length! I hope you enjoy! You ran your hands over the delicate tulle bodice adorned with crystals and pearl beads. Your eyes scaling your reflection in the mirror. You hardly recognized yourself in the tulle and satin sheath dress. You traced your index along pleated pattern at your waistline.
You wondered how long it took to tailor and just when your mother had time to fetch you a wedding dress with such little notice. You failed to remember your mother’s constant endeavor to find you a husband before you were worn and withered.
“You’ll ruin your nails.” Your mother pulled your hand away which pulled you from your daydreaming.
You nodded solemnly. You had never dreamt of your own wedding day. You figured you would grow old surrounded by family and one close niece or nephew. You would have never foreseen this travesty.
“Must I marry him?” You met stared at your mother with beseeching eyes.
Your mother’s lips were taut and she held you with a scrutinizing gaze. Her shoulders fell as a sigh blew from her mouth.
“Who do you suggest you marry?” She inquired softly with a raised brow.
You hugged yourself, “Must I marry at all?”
You looked away from her and out the stained window of the church. You had no one in mind. It would benefit you to stay close to home if you couldn’t stay at home. In that case, Elliot.
“It’s as if you fear marriage, child.” She wrapped her arm around you and held you as she looked at you in the mirror. You followed her gaze.
“You may feel like it is a cage, my dear, but you’re a (Y/L/N). A lady no less. You are the neck and you can turn the head whichever way you please.”
Something in her smile warmed you. Despite marriage being the last thing that you wanted, your mother made it less encumbering.
“Are you ready, child?” She rubbed your arms soothingly.
You nodded silently hoping to hide your true feelings. You refused to make this day hell for everyone.
Tommy followed a stairwell down into a kitchen.
Michael was lighting one up with the help of John who had a cigarette slowly deteriorating between his lips.
Arthur had plucked a bottle of champagne from a crate waving it cheerfully in the air.
Jeremiah, followed by Finn, entered from the cellar door. Tommy looked at the lot and motioned with his fingers.
The group came to and joined Tommy in a relaxed huddle.
“Alright men.” Tommy’s hands clapped together. “It’s my wedding day. You know what that means.”
Some lewd comments came from someone in the back. John grappled Michael in a headlock where Michael held his cigarette as far from John’s suit as possible. John snuck a playful jab to Michael’s abdomen.
“It means no rough housing.” Thomas pulled the two apart and shoved John back. “No fucking fighting.”
“Cocaine for the rich bastards.” Michael sucked soothingly on the end of his cigarette.
Tommy’s blue eyes darkened, he grabbed Michael by his lapel,” No fucking drugs.”
Arthur exchanged a look between the gents. He held the champagne up,” Drinking?”
The raven haired leader turned his attention to his older brother,” Lots of fucking drinking.” A grin stretched across his lips.
Cheers erupted from the group. Hands grabbed at Tommy pulling him into short-lived hugs and congratulatory pats on the back.
“Shall we, gentlemen?” Tommy rose a brow at his friends.
Your breath caught in your chest when you saw him waiting at the altar in a deep navy three-piece.
An unfamiliar softness had touched him. There was a warmth in his cheeks. The striking blue seas in his eyes were quiet and alluring.
You thought you caught a small smile curling at the corner of his lips.
When he took your hand, it was warm and his thumb swept reassuringly over your palm.
You could feel your pulse quicken. A bead of sweat gathered at the base of your neck.
You looked into the pews. Friends and family sat prim and proper expressing a mixture of emotions. Some looked blissful and other’s looked skeptical.
Swept up in your own regret and feelings, you tuned out the reality of your marriage.
“Thomas Shelby, do you take (Y/N) (Y/L/N) to be your lawfully wedded wife, to share your life openly, standing with her in sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow, in hardship and in ease, to cherish and love forever more?”
Do you (Y/N) (Y/L/N) take Thomas Shelby, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to share your life openly, standing with him in sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow, in hardship and in ease, to cherish and love forever more?”
The words choked in your throat. The pews creaked with curious onlookers. A gloomy cloud looked in his eyes.
“I do.” You forced breathlessly.
His hand came to your face, brushing his thumb tenderly over your cheek. His kiss was softer than expected but every bit expert as you assumed.
The rest was a blur. Your freedom as a single woman of the world was over. The reality of it was daunting.
The ring felt heavy on your finger. You stared at it. It was lovely. Celtic knots led to a beautiful diamond.
You only managed to look away when Tommy offered you his hand.
“Ready to go home?” He smiled.
“Home.” You mused distantly.
“And the reception.” Tommy reminded.
More distress weighed you down . “Right, of course.” You managed politely.
He pulled you into the carriage.
“Why a carriage?” You asked bluntly.
Get settled in next to you waving at the happy guests.
“It’s romantic. ” He turned to you with an amused smile.
“Oh? I thought Thomas Shelby was only good at fucking numbly.”
For a moment you thought he might turn cross. Instead, he laughed heartedly.
“I wondered where the rebel in you had gone.” He leaned comfortably back.
You looked away taking in the scenery with a satisfied smile.
The house was breathtaking. The architecture screamed Renaissance.
You were so captivated you hadn’t paid a speck of attention to Tommy.
“You like it.” His tone smug matching that triumphant glimmer in his eyes.
You glanced at him discontent. “It’ll do.” You corrected dryly.
“Everyone’s waiting. Shall we?” He offered you his arm.
The ballroom was beautiful. You wondered how often the room would be used. Who would fill the empty space?
People were already dancing and toasting to each other and the wedding. You were relieved everything seemed so ordinary and everyone carried on with ease.
“This was such a surprise, (Y/N). You married. We would have never thought.” Emma carried on.
“And to someone outside of Highbury. We’re surprised. Where are you from, Mr. Shelby?” Jane leaned in curiously.
Of all the people you had to greet tonight and thank, these two had lifted your spirits. They were certainly entertaining.
You could feel Thomas tense next to you from the chaotic chattering.
“Birmingham.” He answered nonchalantly sipping his champagne.
The two went on chattering. You could keep up with little trouble, but you could feel your new husband tiring of the foolishness. You reminded yourself to invite them often to your home.
“Excuse us ladies, I’m going to treat my wife to a dance.” He smiled at them.
They were silenced by him radiance. They nodded longingly.
You followed without resistance.
“You see them often.” He pulled you into him.
“Nearly every day.” You smiled devilishly.
“It’s good we didn’t stay in Highbury.” He looked around the room.
“They have one of the finest vehicles in Highbury. I’m sure they will visit often.” You mentioned lackadaisical.
Thomas grumbled something incoherent under his breath, but you felt successful in your efforts to put him in a bad mood.
You took another glass of champagne after the dance ended. “I think I might retire early. Marrying you was hard work.”
He shook his head at your words.”It’s only ten.”
“I’m sure you’re used to hosting without someone at your side. Or rather someone without a dignified title.” You sneered.
“You’re really trying to upset me, aren’t you?” He studied you dubiously.
“I need to know how to work you.” You smiled deviously. “Besides, it’s fun getting under your skin. You’re a - ELLIOT!”
You glowed. You set your champagne down and let him pull you in. His familiar honey and leather scent made you nostalgic.
“You look divine.” He hummed with his lips pressed to the side of your head.
You stepped back sheepish. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
“You look handsome as always Elliot. I didn’t see you at the ceremony.” You searched his face with modest concern.
He gave a forlorn smile,” I had business in London. I hurried as best I could.”
You were sure he wasn’t sorry he missed it.
“It’s so nice of you to come and celebrate our union.” His voice was buoyant, charming.
Elliot stiffened. His smile disappeared. “ I’d never miss a chance to celebrate (Y/N).”
“I believe it.” Tommy’s blue eyes were shadowed.
“May I?” Elliot turned to you a new song was being queued up by the band.
You stepped forward willingly, but Thomas’s arm forced you back. Your brows pulled together indignant.
“Not tonight, friend. (Y/N) was just about to retire. She is tired from the events today and I think we’d both like to get some rest.” He pulled you into him, hugging you from behind.
Your expression softened. You looked apologetically at Elliot. “I’m sorry, Elliot. I promise we’ll get together soon.”
Elliot nodded somberly at you. “I look forward to it.”
You turned away from the situation. Pulling out of Thomas’s grasp, you began the trek to your new bedroom.
“Goodnight, Elliot. Safe travels back home.” Thomas gave a curt nod and turned to follow you.
“I told you to be through with Elliot.” Thomas growled.
“Fuck off, Thomas. You can’t tell me who I can and cannot see.” You pulled clutched the train of your dress as you weaved through tables.
“You’re my wife! The hell I can’t!”
“Yes, your wife! Not your slave! I don’t have to obey your every word.” You bit back.
“You’re supposed to respect my wishes as the head of the house.” He fell into step with you.
“Shall I go to a new house then?” You asked menacingly.
“Don’t be a martyr.” He hissed.
You stayed quiet ignoring him.
Thomas caught your arm halting you mid step. You glared up at him, but he wasn’t paying any attention to you.
A haunting figure looked in a doorway not far off. A server was trying to get him to leave.
Tommy snapped his finger summoning John to his side. “Take her upstairs and lock the door behind her.”
“Don’t you dare, John.” You warned.
John smiled down at you,” No can do, love. I’ve got orders.” He practically whisked you out of the ballroom.
The last thing you saw was Thomas confronting the man with a threatening stance.
You slammed a fist on the locked door. “Damn it John, let me out!”
It was no use. He was gone.
You walked to another set of doors and slammed them in retaliation.
You turned away and looked angrily on at the beautiful decor. All your things from your room had been placed around the room including your vanity.
Hot tears clustered at the corner of your eyes. You wiped them away angrily.
You slipped out of your dress and into something more comfy. You sat on the edge of the bed in silence.
You were a prisoner here. You had expected to feel a much.
You heard the knob rattling and got up reading yourself for a fight.
Thomas stormed in,” Why do you have to be so difficult?”
“I don’t live to please you Thomas!” You shot back.
“You will not see Elliot ever again. Or else.” He pointed a finger at you.
You stomped up to him, letting his finger jab you in the chest.” Are you threatening me? You think you’re so scary. Please.”
“I said no more.” He growled through gritted teeth.
“Just try and stop me.” You turned away storming toward the bathroom.
“I will. Don’t make me.”
“By what? Locking me up like a prisoner?! I’m already a prisoner. You have your brother throwing me in here like a prison and inviting creeps into the house.”
“Don’t.” His voice was a low rumble borderline sinister.
“You’re a monster Thomas.” You tried to slam the bathroom door shut but he had his hand forcing it to stay open.
“Go away.” You pushed.
“No. You’re going to stop being a child. You’re going to wash up and let it sink in that this is your new life. No Elliot. No Highbury. No traipsing around trifling with all the men you see. You’re my wife, not a whore. No matter who you saw before me, you’re mine now.”
Hot tears streamed down your face. You felt humiliated. You were insulted.
“Is that what you think of me?” You wept letting the emotional floodgate break. “Well at least whores get some compensation. You couldn’t give me a damn thing that could make up for your callous, demented soul.”
He stepped back just enough to let the door slam. You locked it up quick and sank against it.
“Come on, (Y/N). Open up.”
He sighed.”At least come to bed. You don’t have to talk to me.”
He had given up shortly after. He cursed something and you squeezed yourself tighter blocking him out.
You couldn’t manage a steady breath. You had lost count of your crying and sniveling. You felt disgusting and exhausted.
You managed to drag yourself to the sink to wash up. Your mascara stained your cheeks and your lipstick smeared off your lips.
You washed up sluggishly. The last of your first fight disappeared down the drain. You pulled the clips from your hair and let it fall allowing the strain on your scalp to ease.
You debated sleeping in the fountain sized bath, but decided you would do better with a bed for as achy as you felt.
Your hand froze on the knob when you heard a series of cried and shouts. An unsettling gargle of asphyxiation had you ripping the door open.
Thomas was lying on the bed tossing and turning restlessly. His fingers tearing at his chest as if he was being burned from the inside out.
Sleep abandoned you as you bolted toward the bed. A bedpost jeered your attempt to reach him.
You bit through the pain and clambered on top of him. You gripped his shoulder tight shaking him with all your might.
“Thomas!” You cried horrified.
He screamed, fighting with someone who could not be you. His hands tore at your robe causing a tear in the seam.
His fingers bit into your skin. A mortified yelp uttered from your lips.
“Thomas, it’s me! Stop! What’s happening?! Please wake up!”
Your shook his chest ignoring the battering of your body as he tried to get rid of a ghost.
He gasped for unfound air. He went still. Your fingers trembled over his face to his neck for a pulse. You leaned to check for breath.
Mortified by lack of flow, you pressed your lips to his blowing in air. Your hands pumping his chest.
You leaned back. Nothing.
You banged on his chest.
“Thomas! Please don’t leave me!” You pled with tears stinging your weary eyes.
(written by BPAL, contributed by geminiloveca) - “His scent is a palette of somber colors, melancholy memories, and lupine, savage beauty: black leather, pale sandalwood, ambergris accord, and the memory of a long-lost Victorian fougère. His internal life seems to be reflected in his lair, so his perfume also possesses the scent of the wood of his guitars, the rosin from his violin bow, the musty wool of neglected Oriental carpets, the plastic, metal, and magnetic tape of his reel-to-reel, the dust that permeates everything.”
particularscarf - heather and honeysuckle vine. Ripe peaches with pink-and-golden juice. Cannabis. Car-seat leather. Patchouli, incense, and orange-oil wood polish from the confessional.
thingsididntknowwereerotic - Floor polish.Textbooks.Pencil shavings.Sea air.The cork of a bottle of red wine right after you pop it out and put your nose to the stained damp end of it.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
svenyves - champagne, wild flowers, cigarettes, fresh popped firework, and the lingering smell of pomade.
particularscarf - bergamot, old, unfinished wood, damp wool on a rainy summer night, snickerdoodles. Yes I said snickerdoodles fight me.
dirtyhiddles - leather, sandalwood, bergamot, pepper, the slight screech of a record as soon as you put it on, the scent of every F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, the amber sweetness of whiskey, smoke, lust, and the dried, lingering kisses of his latest conquest. He is the smell of night life, all rolled into one, with just a hint of the addictive lure of nostalgia.
thingsididntknowwereerotic Leather and overheated horseflesh, straw,… fresh-baked bread… tallow, frankincense (from church) and ambergris - (the touch of perfume from thE LADY WHOSE BED HE JUST LEFT)
thingsididntknowwereerotic - The caramel smell of the inside of an old guitar. Lucky Strikes. Slow hot breeze off a patch of dusty okra and pole beans. Fels-Naptha. Kerosene
beaglebitch - Warm leather, exhaust, motor oil, and just a touch of sweat.
thingsididntknowwereerotic - Hotel pillow. Motor oil. English Leather. The hyperchilled air conditioned sweat of an all-night gym. Rain on the desert sand. The stale canvas scent of an Army Surplus tent.
writernotwaiting - “Well, I suppose a Loki perfume might carry notes of leather, frankincense or amber, and cedar or sandalwood.”
justaderangedfangirl - Absinthe/wormwood, peppermint, eucalyptus, pepper, rosewood, leather, cedarwood. And something dark and earthy I can’t name.
geminiloveca - that scent of snow approaching, wintergreen, mint, pine, with a touch of mistletoe.
laterovaries - mahogany, crushed roses, dark spices, and a faint coppery undertone…
particularscarf - Blood-red roses. Belladonna. Treacle, star anise, and salt. Copper. Dust and leather-bound books. Firelight. (Incest.) (Sorry but you know it’s true.)
Sharpe would smell like dark chocolate and cherries, coal and sex.
particularscarf - One would smell like old leather, older vellum pages, and burning applewood, with notes of single malt whiskey and deep winter cold. The other would smell like limoncello, sun-dried linen sheets, and freshly cut grass, with a high note of salty ocean breeze.
thingsididntknowwereerotic - I might guess that there is a third scent that only gets brought out every once in a while during a new moon or an all-night research kick: licorice, dark pine, and ice. A little bit of Loki to waft through the air as he sits on the roof reading and smoking a secret cigarette?
amarafoxtraut I bet if you bottle up his laugh you’d feel a tickling sensation when you spray it on your neck
thafineness talent, potential, free drinks on a Friday night, stability, & chocolate chip cookies.
mrs-laufeys0n I imagine it would smell like daisies and smoked paprika. The first whiff smells happy and flowery, but as you get closer it smells warmer, more inviting, spicier.
quoting-shakespeare-to-ducks - Campfire, black ink, gorse flower, coal, mossy stream.
A definite trigger warning with this story. This is a dark fantasy and one that you may judge me for. For those that continue, I implore you to read to the end. For those that don’t, enjoy the picture :)
“Don’t tell me any more…”
As I sit in the dark, waiting for her inevitable return, I replay her words in my head, feverishly looking for hidden meaning or missed nuance. Frantic thoughts and nagging doubts spiral around my mind, vying for attention. I shift in the seat, uncomfortable and hot despite the cool midnight breeze through the partially opened window. I feel an insistent pressure against my leg, a rigidity that reminds me of what I’m about to do. As if I needed reminding. For the twentieth time, I check the pockets of the loose fitting pants I’m wearing. For the twentieth time I find the pre-looped zip-tie and the pocket knife, exactly where I expected them to be, and I try to relax. But no amount of reassurance can slow the quick jackhammer beat of my heart, or cool the burning of my skin, or calm my racing mind. Am I sure? The question bubbles to the surface of my racing emotions, momentarily becoming my sole focus. Am I sure? Am I sure she wants this? Her image forms in my mind, dressed as she will be tonight. Flowing, black cocktail dress; long, coltish legs, bare and tanned; pretty heels, strapped to her feet with a complex weave of thin leather. Her honey blonde hair is pinned up and back, revealing the pale fragility of her neck. Am I sure? Outside the house a car door slams, and I freeze in place. She’s earlier than I expected. I’m not ready. I consider running, consider standing and fleeing through the back door of the house, sinking into the shadows of the garden and forgetting this ever happened. But I remain seated, gripping the armrests of the wing-back chair, trying to slow my breathing. She wants this, I’m certain. Across the room, I hear her fumble the lock, the soft scratch of metal on metal as she tries to force the key home. She must have been drinking, I think to myself. A flush of irrational jealousy clouds my vision, causing me to exhale softly. Who was she drinking with? Did she speak to anyone? But I swat it away with a shake of my head. She was mine, mine alone. Nothing could change that. Outside the house, the lock finally capitulates to her drunken attempts and the door creaks open. I watch from the corner, cloaked in darkness, dressed in dark pants, top and a black cap. My heart hammers quickly. I’m sure she will be able to hear me. If she sees me, then it would all be over… She steps into the room and throws her clutch purse and keys on the table by the window, softly shutting the door behind her. I can hear the sound of her breath, quick and soft; I can smell the sweet aroma of her scent, like spring lilies. Deep inside me, I feel a rush of arousal, a familiar response to the sight of my obsession. I push it back, struggling to control my breathing, unable to move but unable to stop. She walks across the room, heels tapping on the wooden floor, swaying slightly in the dark. Then she stops, frozen in place by some instinct I can only guess at. Her head lifts up and she looks around, struggling to see in the near darkness. I catch my breath and sink into the seat, fixated on the dark silhouette of her body, framed against the dim light of the far window. Do I say something? Do I reveal myself? But then the moment passes. She shrugs and giggles to herself, then continues walking to the bedroom. This is it, I think to myself as she leaves the room, this is the point of no return. Any doubt I had has gone now, banished by the provoked emotion of her proximity, fuelled by the sight of her body and the faint hint of her perfume. As it always was. I stand quickly, silently, and pad across the room on soft sneakers. I stop beside the door to the bedroom, covering the width of the living room in four long strides. Standing with my back to the wall, I peer around the door frame, pulling back quickly as she turns on the bedside lamp. A warm light spills out of the bedroom and I feel a momentary rush of panic, robbed of the concealing cloak of darkness. But when I look again, she has her back to the door, fumbling with the zip on the back of her expensive dress. I inhale and close my eyes. Oh god, oh god… Then I move. Like a pouncing tiger I spring into the bedroom, grabbing her arms and forcing her forwards onto the bed in a single motion. She doesn’t react at first, too surprised by the swiftness of my assault, reactions dulled by the alcohol and the late hour. But her instincts quickly assert themselves and I feel her begin to struggle beneath me, slender arms and legs tugging at my grip. Working quickly, knowing I don’t have much time, I gather her arms behind her back, then reach into my pocket and retrieve the zip-tie, working to a script that I’d performed a thousand times in my mind. Slipping her wrists into the tie, I pull it closed with a quick jerk and she squeals. A momentary pang of shame clouds my vision. I’m sorry, my love… “Please, please…” she pants, breathless with fear and surprise. I say nothing, moving down her body and standing up from the bed. Then I grab her bare legs and pull her roughly back, draping her over the edge of the bed until she’s kneeling on the floor. She cries out again and thrashes beneath my grip, wrists twisting at the hard plastic of the tie, legs kicking out behind her in a frantic but futile attempt to find purchase. My instincts are driving me now, fuelled by desire and insatiable lust, tinged with a palpable fear. With trembling hands, I pull at the button and zipper of my pants, dragging them down my legs with one hand as I hold her wrists with the other, pressing the weight of my body against her ass to keep her in place. The strap-on falls free and hangs between us like an accusation. She feels it tap against her leg and she freezes for a second. Does she know? But then her struggle continues anew. I reach down and tug her dress up around her waist, revealing the ivory curve of her bottom, provoking a hot flush of renewed excitement inside me. With a second motion, I pull her gossamer thin panties down her legs to her knees. She cries out again, voice muffled by the soft comforter. She tries to pull away from me, perhaps sensing what was going to happen, but I hold her in place. I spit on my free hand and wet the length of the dildo with my palm, then I position myself between her knees. Forcing her legs open with my body, I plunge the dildo into her. Her struggle stops and she goes tense, head lifting from the bed as I enter her, mouth open in a silent scream of fear and relief. She’s wet down there, I note distantly, and I meet no resistance as I push the dildo home. I feel my own pussy surge as the strap-on harness tugs at my lips and my clit. I slide out from her slowly, then push forward with bold insistence. She begins to pant as my rhythmic strokes pick up pace. Her body rocks forwards with every thrust. Yet her struggles never cease, her wrists continue to pull at the ties, her head continues to thrash back and forth. Faster and faster I move, responding to the quickening cadence of her breath, driven by the rising crescendo between my legs. “Oh god, what was I doing?” I think distantly as I plough her. Then she comes, fast and hard, like I’d never seen her climax before. Her body spasms with a single jolt, spine arching up off the bed, slender neck becoming rigid with a thousand small muscles. Her breath catches and her lips part, then she releases her sigh in a stuttering trio of gasps. Finally, she falls forward, collapsing beneath me onto the bed, suddenly limp and lifeless. I slide the dildo out of her, breathless and buzzing with a nervous, aroused energy, then fall onto the bed beside her. After an eternity, she opens her eyes and gazes at me, angelic face forming a mask of surprised recognition, eyes twinkling and cheeks flushed. Her pretty lips curl up into a smile. She touches her finger to my mouth before I can speak and my mind is catapulted back to barely remembered conversation, back to a time of bold confession and the tender discovery of a new love…
A Sunday morning after a Saturday night, six months ago. Two lovers lie together, enthralled by the mere existence of the other, confessing feelings and desires like guilty accomplices. “I want to be… taken…” she says, a light flush setting her soft cheeks afire. “Taken?” I reply, unsure what she means. “I want to be… Oh god, this is embarrassing.” She pauses. “I kind of want to be raped. It’s a fantasy.” I smile impishly. “I can do that,” I say and squeeze her breast roughly. She swats my hand away. “No, I mean… properly…” I lie back and think for a second, the first glimmering notion of a bold plan forming in my mind. “Maybe… maybe I could…” She shakes her head with a knowing smirk and touches her finger to my lips. “Don’t tell me any more…”
Ella Ford is a dirty girl who writes sexy stories about lesbians, pantyhose and BDSM. Find more of her filthy works here: http://amzn.to/1iZSNgU
RAFE ADLER is an aristocratic PUREBLOOD, previously in SLYTHERIN house.
boggart: werewolf. patronus: cannot produce. affiliation: death eaters ( publicly. ) himself. ( privately. ) employment: previously an UNSPEAKABLE ( much like his parents. ) specifically responsible for studying time related artifacts. became a DEATHEATER after former slytherin students convinced him with WAR looming over their heads. wand: elm, unyeilding, twelve & 3/4 inches, dragon heartstring.
++++: genius, driven, methodical, able to perform nonverbal spells, blunt. —–: aggressive, arrogant, selfish, ignorant, rash, rude, stubborn, conceited.
ASSOCIATIONS / AESTHETICS:
winter, snow, ash, fire, stone, honey, black coffee, leather, lace, emerald, gold, silver, ebony, blood, death, fire whiskey, dark colours, violence, carnage, bloodshed, amber, secrets, deception.
ridiculously wealthy , all through his life.
scarcely saw parents. brought up by PUREBLOOD relatives.
parents both employed as UNSPEAKABLES. both incredibly loyal to the dark lord.
minimal interest in joining the DEATH EATERS. focused all through education on becoming an UNSPEAKABLE.
incredibly BORED during his time during hogwarts. spent most of his time DRINKING. rarely needed to study thanks to his own intelligence & his families pull.
always dressed in the latest releases of robes / designer wizard apparel.