#dark!fic

[lilyloveswriting]

so what if I said I will write Henry danger fics (mainly Yandere)?

[be-xkyy]

Warning: smut (mentioned), breeding kink, hybrid boyfriend.

Your pathetic snail boyfriend who makes everyone around you nervous and uncomfortable because he's always stalking and following you with those bulging eyes and excessively nervous attitude that your friends describe as a "creepy weirdo"

The poor thing is completely obsessed with you. I can't believe that a goddess like you would agree to be the girlfriend of someone as pathetic as him. That's why he wants to get you pregnant so badly, so you'll never be able to leave him. He would make you so happy... he would be the best father, lover, and husband. He would take care of everything, he would be your slave throughout your pregnancy, for your entire life...

Pathetic snail boyfriend who loses his mind when he sees you walking around his room in those short sweatpants that fit your ass perfectly. Why is your ass so sexy? He ends up clinging to you to hide the huge erection in his pants. He smells your hair, his penis throbs against your ass, his skin gets incredibly sticky and slimy, which makes you scold him, though you don't push him away...

Surely that means you want him to fill you with his eggs... right?

[hauntedbymiller]

Half way through my dark!dbf!joel fic…

“You make me fuckin hard…you’re the one fuckin dealin with it, girly.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Special Assignment

Warnings: this fic will include dark content and possible untagged elements such as noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

You voted, I wrote it. This is June 3rd’s fic!

Nick Fowler + “Why don’t you try it and see what happens.”

I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3

Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!

Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖

The tray balance on-top of two others leans dangerously. You angle with it to keep from disaster. You search for a place to put down the stack of coffee cups amid the agents sat around the tables and the devices and empty cups across the top.

No one notices you as they focus on the large screens and give directives. You go through the cups marked by balance of sugar and dairy. Jensen takes three sugar and three cream, Everett takes his black with a shot of espresso, and Barnes takes his with a single dash of milk. You cycle through the menial tasks of doling out caffeine. The last is Fowler. Plain black. Simple.

He focuses on the screen as the hazy noise of music rises from the speakers. There's a silence among the agents as they intently observe what's going. You don't dare look. Your credentials allow you to do the coffee runs and grunt work. You don't see any you aren't seen.

"We need to get in there..." Everett growls.

"No shit," Barnes retorts.

The two men scowl at each other. Jensen inhales nervously and Fowler sits back as he notices the freshly renewed cup. You clean up the empties as the agents fester in frustration.

"The woman." Fowler says and pauses to lick away a droplet of coffee from his lip. "That's the in."

"And what do you propose? This isn't your Tinder profile--" Barnes chides.

Fowler scoffs. "Jealous?" He sets his cup down and taps the side. "That's not what I mean but you know it's probably the easiest way in..."

Everett rolls his eyes and the other men groan. Fowler arches a brow and looks around as you drop the empty cups into the bin. The hollow clatter draws his attention. His cheek dimples.

"Mace is too old. Walker likes them young, doesn't he? All the other agents look like moms or worse, widows."

"Charming," Jensen comments.

"More than you, pal. Tell us again how Willa shot you down." Fowler rebuffs. Jensen sinks down.

You head for the door and something taps the table.

Your name stops you short. You nearly let out a squeak. You didn't think any of them knew it. You typically respond to the call of "intern" or snapping fingers.

You turn slowly. "Sir, is it the coffee?"

"Come here." He ignores your offer for a second run.

You glance around, wilting beneath the gazes of seniority. You cross the room, playing mindlessly with the security badge clipped to your belt, and approach Fowler. He spins his finger as you near.

“Spin.” He stands.

You take a step back but obey. You face the other agents and squirm. Fowler grabs your blouse at the sides and pulls it taut around your middle. You look down as your eyes round.

“Huh?” You utter.

“How old are you, sweetheart?” He asks.

You blink and shrug. You’re so confused and embarrassed you can barely think of the number. “Twenty-three, sir.”

“Bout the same age as Walker’s plaything.”

“Fowler, what are you on about?” Barnes crosses his arms and leans back, leg swaying.

“I know I’m the only one who can pull it off,” Fowler steps up beside you and slings his arm around your waist. You chafe and clasp your wrist to keep from collapsing. His other hand comes up to slide off your glasses. “Pop in some contacts, get some gloss on those lips,” he pokes your mouth with the end of the your glasses’ arm, “short dress…”

“She’s a goddamn intern,” Everett argues.

“Which means she’ll be believable as the mindless bimbo on my arm.” Fowler chuckles.

“Um, sir…” you protest weakly.

“Relax, honey. It comes with a pay raise.” He squeezes your side. “Besides, you’re young. Live a little.”

“The director’s never going to bite,” Everett snorts.

“Really? Maybe if you ask but she likes me.” Fowler folds up your glasses and hooks them over his jacket pocket. His arm slowly drags from around you. “We need to get in and we’re not gonna waltz in smelling of fuzz. So… she’s our way. Get in with the girlfriend or whatever.”

You sniff and frown.

“She’s gonna blow it. Look at her.” Barnes shakes his head.

“I got time to train her up right,” Fowler grins as he grips his hips. “Boys, how many times have I got shit done? Whole lot more than any of you.”

“If you exclude Barcelona,” Everett sneers.

“And Capetown.” Barnes adds.

You look around. “Um…”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Leave it to me.” Fowler turns and taps the tip of your nose. “I’ll get your clearance… and a stylist.” He saunters back and sits down. He lifts his coffee and you wring your hands.

“Uh, sir, my glasses…” You eke out.

He smirks. “Get rid of them.” He slides them off his pocket and holds them out. You take them and nod. “Good girl.”

👄

As much as your reticence keeps you in the background, it can just as easily get you into trouble. Your passiveness is hardly a defense to someone like Fowler. When he says something, he has no question that it will be heard. When he makes a decision, there’s not a single doubt that it’s what will happen.

It all goes by in a terrible whirlwind that leaves you breathless. You’re disoriented as you find yourself in a hotel room staring at a dress with too many straps. You cross your arms tightly as you chew your lip.

A soft noise brings your eyes up to the mirror to your right. Past the reflection of your new haircut and perfectly glowy face, you watch Fowler strap on his shoulder holster. Your nerves roil in your chest and you fidget. You look back to the dress and touch the glimmery fabric.

“Just follow my lead,” he says, for what would be the dozenth time. “We’ve gone over this.”

“Yes, sir.” You bring your thumb up to bite.

“No. No, sirs. I’m Tate and you’re Arielle. Remember the briefing.” He commands.

You flinch and look at him. “Sorry, I’m… I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be. I got you.” He assures as he slides his gun into his holster.

You look down again. You pick up the dress and hide in the bathroom. You change into the tight fit and face your reflection. You look ridiculous. All you can see is cleavage and thigh.

“Arielle, honey,” Fowler calls to you as the low hum of music comes from the suite. “Can’t hide all night.”

You sigh and close your eyes. You gather what courage you have and go back out. Fowler has his jacket on as he skips the track on his phone. A slow R&B groove plays as you sit and pull on the too high shoes.

“Come on,” He beckons to you.

“What?” You stare at him. “I can’t dance.”

““Why don’t you try it and see what happens. Gotta make it believable.”

“Er… I don’t know.” You struggle to stand but gain your balance. Despite practicing in heels for weeks, you’re still unsteady.

“Don’t know how to dance? Jeez, honey, you’re too damn young not to do anything.” He nears and grabs your hand. He pulls you against him. “Just feel the music.

“Sir– Tate.” You babble.

“Like this.” He grips your hip and presses your pelvis into him, guiding your arm over his other shoulder. “Close, sway with me.” 

You could melt as his warmth clouds around you and the scent of his cologne fills your nose. You mimic him as best you can, falling into the rhythm. He squeezes your hip, fingers stretching onto the cushion of your rear. He growls and inhales along your hair. His nose traces your forehead.

“Like that, good girl.” He coaxes as he moves you with him. “Pull your hand down, touch my chest.” He directs. You obey and feel his muscle through the layers. His collar is undone and shows off the top of his muscled chest. “Is that so hard?” He asks.

“Um… no, it’s… it’s okay,” you say.

“Well…” He moves his hand across the back of your skirt. “I know I am.”

He chuckles and kisses your forehead. You wince and push on his chest. Does he mean what you think? He snickers and squeezes your ass before he lets go.

“Gotta get used to it, honey,” he rubs his fingertips with his thumb. “Gonna have to play this out. Make it believable.”

“I know, I’m trying…”

“You can do it, sweetheart, I know you can.” He tugs on the top of his belt and turns, shifting as if to adjust his pants. “You know, it doesn’t all have to be work.” He grabs his phone and stops the music. “A little play never hurt anyone.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Be Sweet to Me

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon and coercion and possible untagged elements such as noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

You voted, I wrote it. This is June 2nd’s fic!

Lee Bodecker + “Just relax and it will be so much easier."

I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3

Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!

Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖

Hopper gives you lift across town. You barely hear him chattering about his jumpy engine or the no good youngins as they stand on the corner. You're too fraught over what's behind you and what awaits you.

You thank him as you get out, promising him some eggs from the hen the next time she lays. He says it's no worry. You head down the street as dread scales up your spine.

You sigh and stare at the metal star hammered onto the wood sign. The sheriff's office is one of the few buildings that isn't ramshackle and leaning. And it is unfortunately not so unfamiliar to you.

You hitch your hand bag from your elbow to your shoulder and scurry forward. Your hands shake as you balance the baking dish, the smell of cinnamon and blueberry wafting up. All it does is curdle your stomach.

As you enter, you greet Carrington, a junior officer sitting by a metal fan and sweating. You know him from the days he used to play with your son, Dale. It's too bad they didn't stick together.

"Cary," you greet him out of habit, then correct yourself. "Private."

"Ma'am," he dabs his pale forehead wothia handkerchief.

You give soft smile, nerves tied up in your cheeks.

"How much this time?" You ask as you clutch the dish tighter.

"Ain't got no bond yet." Carrington explains as his eyes dip down to ridged white porcelain.

You nod and your lips straighten. "What was it this time?"

"Ah, Mrs...." A drawl answers your question.

The sheriff appears behind the private, sauntering up with a coffee in hand. He stops by Carrington and pats his shoulder. "Ain't I tell ya to let me know when she got here?"

"Sir, she just--"

"Ain't no thing." Sheriff Bodecker tuts and slurps from his cup. "What we got today?"

You look down at the baking dish. "Blueberry crumble with a buttered crust, Sheriff."

"Always so sweet," he purrs and tosses the empty paper cup on the bin under the front desk. "Ya come back. There's talkin' to be done.”

“Alright, Sheriff.”

Carrington gets up to lift the door between the front and back of the sheriff’s office. He lets you through with a ‘nice ta see ya ‘gain, ma’am.’ Sheriff Bodecker waves you on with his arm and leads you from the side, walking so close his sleeve brushes yours and your wide hip presses against him briefly.

“You sure do know how to soften a man,” he reaches over to peek under the cloth over the dessert in your hands. “Too bad the mister up and ran like that on ya.”

“You know, I barely remember what his voice sounds like at this point.” You scoff.

“Mm, yeah. You’re a good mother. Specially to a boy like the one you got.” He stops to open his door. You hesitate. “Missus,” he leans in. “I figure this conversation is best done privately.”

“Oh,” you blink in alarm. “Is Dale okay? Is he hurt?”

“Now let’s talk. Just you and me,” he nudges you gently.

You nod and swallow. You step into his office and he follows, closing the door behind you. He twists the small plastic rod to close the blinds then turns to you.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” He insists.

You set the pie dish on his desk and rub your palms together. You shift on your low heels then make yourself sit. He paces as you stare at the files stacked on his desk.

“I know how hard you been tryin’ with the boy and for so long.” He intones.

“Oh, Sheriff, what did he do this time? Is it bad? Is anyone hurt?”

“Ah, ya see. You’re such a sweet woman. Minding everyone but yerself.” He rounds his desk and faces you. He leans on hand on the edge and reaches to slide the crumble across. “Your boy’s well past grown by now.” He tugs the cloth off the dish and sucks his teeth. “He needs to take care of himself. Ya know, one day someone’s gonna get him that don’t like home baking so much as me.”

“I’m sorry, Sheriff. I’m trying. I really am. I got him that job down at the hospital. I check in on him on my shifts, ‘tween folding sheets but… I don’t know.” You lean forward, clutching your handbag in your lap.

“How long we known each other, huh? You call me Lee.” He says.

“Sir, I… Lee,” you snivel. “I promise, it won’t happen again.”

“How many times have you said that to me?” He challenges with a tilt of his head. His thick fingers trace the edge of the dish.

“Too many,” you mope and sit back and defeat. “How long do ya think he’ll get?”

“Mm, now, we ain’t beyond bargaining,” he looks down at the pie. “Thing is…” He pushes his fingers through the crumbled top and down into the berry filling. “Pies and tarts and gonna pay his bond no more.” He moves his fingers up and down, coating them in the blue juice and jam. “Man gets hungry for more’n that.”

He pulls his fingers out completely and lifts them. He watches you as raises them in front of his mouth and sticks out his wide tongue. He licks the berry off slowly and pushes his fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean. The whole time, his eyes are on you.

You squirm and hug your purse tighter.

“I don’t got much from workin’ down the laundries, but Edwina said I could help in the field–”

“Mm mm,” he hums and licks his lips. “Money ain’t do much. I got ‘nough. You know, Howard Hewitt pays me ‘nough not to go in his shed.”

He chuckles and stands straight. He puts his hands on his hips and looks down. You follow his gaze down his stomach to the front of his khaki pants. The tenting is obvious as he wiggles his pelvis. You gasp.

“Sheriff.”

“Lee,” he insists as he grabs the back of his chair and rolls it out. He lowers himself down and sits with a sigh. He drapes his arms over the wooden rests. “Even with your hips, you can fit underneath.” He taps his toe under the desk.

“You can’t…”

“How long since you touched a man?” He asks.

You look down, lip trembling. “You can’t mean it, sir.”

“Why? Ya still a woman. Still got a pretty face, a pretty mouth.”

You wince and peek up at him. He runs his hand down his tie and smirks. “You love your son, don’t ya?”

You bat your lashes and nod, “of course.”

“And you’ll do anything for him?”

“I would,” you whisper.

“Then do it.” He demands.

You flinch. You sniff and look down. You grip the purse tight and slowly lift it. You shake as you stand and turn to put it on the empty seat.

The sheriff hums again. “That’s a nice skirt on ya.”

You close your eyes as your body goes rigid. “Thank you, sir.”

He clears his throat.

“Lee,” you correct yourself.

“Mmm, good girl.” He praises.

You shudder. You don’t think even in your youth anyone called you that. You keep your head down and turn with stiff shoulders. You near him cautiously. He rolls his chair back slightly and swivels to you.

He stops you with his hands on your waist. You quiver. He squeezes your soft sides and his thumbs press into the pillow of your stomach.

“You got a lot to offer a man,” he drags his hands up to your chest. “A lot…” he gropes you. “Unbutton your shirt.”

You keep your eyes down as tears tingle along the brims. You start at the top and pick free each button. You reveal the faded silk bra underneath. Your nipples poke at the seams.

“Woah, now… you do got a nice set on ya.”

He bounces your tits in his large hands. You close your eyes and shiver. His thumbs hook around the edges and pull the cups under your chest. He hooks his hand around your back and guides you to bend. He takes a nipple in his mouth and you gasp. He teases with his tongue and sucks. He pops his lips off.

“Tastes as good as your baking.” He growls and teeths your flesh.

Your body locks up as you swallow down your fear and shame. You open your eyes as you hear the chair creak. He sits back and purrs.

“Alright, you don’t touch a thing. You leave yourself just as you is and you get to work.” He reclines and puts his hands behind his head. “I know it’s been a long time but you don’t forget how.”

You brace the desk to keep yourself steady. You get down, one knee at a time. You stare at the khaki along his calves. He pushes his legs wide.

“Undo me. I’m startin’ to hurt real bad.” He commands.

You get closer and reach for his belt. His large stomach rises and falls with a gritty breath. You unbuckle his belt, fumbling to get it apart.

“Just relax and it will be so much easier.” He drawls as he reaches to pet your head.

You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re burning up in a pool of humiliation. You open his fly and stop to shake the tremble from your hands. It has been a very long time and your husband when he was around was never patient.

He lifts himself and helps you get his pants down. Then you roll down the elastic of his briefs and his dick springs free. You let go as he lowers himself back to the seat and you gasp. He chuckles as your eyes round. He’s a lot thicker than your husband. Longer too.

His length is lined with veins and twitching as you stare dumbly. He moves it with just a flex of his muscles and your lashes flutter. You lick your dry lips.

“All these times you brought me something sweet to eat and I never offered to feed ya, huh?” He leans forward and takes your head between his large hands. “Well, I got more’n enough to fill ya up, honey.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Life for a Life

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as brainwashing and suicidal ideation and possible untagged elements such as noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

If you are struggling, please seek help through a support line.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

You voted, I wrote it. This is June 1st's fic!

Bucky Barnes + “You can’t even take care of yourself, so why not let me.”

I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3

Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!

Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖

The wind rips across your face. The noise of the river roars beneath you, dark tides slapping and churning beneath a sliver of moonlight. From here, it looks so far but could be right beneath your toes.

Far enough. Deep enough.

You shiver and grip the metal beneath you. Just one push and it all goes away. You sniff, head so full it hurts, and breathe out through your lips. You can taste the river water.

One push.

One.

You can do it.

For once in your life, do something. A simple fall, a short end. That's all that's ahead of you. There's nothing else left for you. There never was anything for you. You never did anything.

So do this and be done with it. You close your eyes. You feel the rivets in the metal. You roll your shoulders.

"Well then." You say and push off.

Before you can plunge through nothingness and into the depths, a snag jars you. You dangle from some unseen obstacle, whimpering at the wrench that has your spine and neck ringing. You flail like a cat and look up at the unexpected safe fall.

The man is hunched and shadowed like a gargoyle on a stone building. You kick your legs and grab his hand, prying at in bendable fingers with a sob. "What are you doing?"

He says nothing. With no effort at all, he hauls you back onto the metal. You kick and smack at his grip. He ignores you.

"Let me go!" You plead. "I just want to go."

Not a word. Not a look. You couldn't see it in the shadow of the bridge if there was.

"Let me go." You beg weakly as you grasp wrists.

He flicks away your struggles and grabs your throat. You gasp. He squeezes until you can't breathe. Maybe he can still give you that escape.

You let your hands fall away. He tightens his hold until your throat burns and your head pounds. He lets you go and you fall back limp on your back, one leg dangling over the edge. He clucks.

Your vision pulses and your ears ring. He moves around you. He brings your hands together then your feet. You shiver and try to pull them apart. You can't.

"Why?" You croak.

The silence stirs with the noise of the water and the groan of the metal under his weight. He moves over you, feeling your pockets and clothing. He stops, his hand on your shoulder. His voice grates through the night as something dry and coarse fills your mouth.

“You can’t even take care of yourself, so why not let me.”

💓

You sink into a haze. Shock, dread, resignation. You wonder if maybe you did make it to the water and this is some twisted after life…

What else could it be? No one knew. No one cared. You didn’t tell anyone what you meant to do. Didn’t even write it in your diary. You just made up your mind. You just wanted it over.

Your lashes flutter as your eyes zero in. It’s all too real to be the last flashes of your synapses clinging to consciousness. The room is dim but vivid. Shadows gather in the mortar between thick cinder bricks; the air is still and frigid, and the chair beneath you is hard and unforgiving.

Your finger twitches and the tendon in your wrist strains. Your arms are trapped, your ankles too. Metal binds you to the wooden frame of the chair, another around your neck and forehead.

You shift futilely. What sick fate is this? Is it irony? You were so ready to give it all up that someone else stole your life away?

A sudden crackle makes you flinch. A light radiates in your vision and static fills a square screen. You blink, unable to move your head against the metal binding. You gulp as the black and grey speckles ache in your vision.

The monochrome dots blip away and white lines run up a black screen, a low click each time they reach the top of the screen. They ripple, the waves growing more intense until a vision fills the frame.

The silhouette of a bride in her veil kissing her groom appears beneath the classical wedding overture. A sterile voice says a single word as the image lingers. “Longing.” The couple begin to dance, feed each other cake, and the husband carries his wife over the threshold.

“Tidy.” The voice says.

The scene changes. A jacket being hung. Bristles dragging on tile. A tub full of bubbles surrounded by candles. The camera pans in on the spinning laundry through the window of a machine, making your dizzy.

“One.”

A man’s face flashes; blue eyes, sharp jawline, dark hair.

“Dawn.”

The morning beams warmly through windows, illuminating another pair of silhouettes before the scene switches to a garden and a trickling birdbath. The stir of water tickles in your ears and sends a cool flow down your spine.

“Apron.”

Thick hands tie the strings of an apron against a checkered dress, slowly looping and winding the bow, laying out the tails perfectly.

“His.”

The man’s eyes blink and disappear.

“Obey.”

A belt is pulled from the loops of a pair of trousers and bent in the same large hand, slapping the palm with an echoing noise.

“Bed.”

Pillows drop onto a bed, blankets are dragged down to the end, petals flutter onto the floor at the base of the frame.

“Only.”

The man again, arms outstretched.

“Home.”

The vision of a house, unmoving, standing on the screen, bold, so still it must be a picture. It stays there as the audio cuts out. The silence scrapes in your ear until you squirm then all at once it evaporates.

A whisper slowly rises from the speakers; “home, home, home, home.” The voice gets louder and louder and louder; until your eyes water and your ear drums thrum. Then, silence again. And darkness.

You sit in the void, shaking. You close your eyes and shudder. Then hear the television flick on again.

“Longing.”

💓

She’s soft, pliant as he leads her into the light. She shies away and he coaxes her further. She leans on him. She doesn’t notice that his arm doesn’t belong to him.

He takes her into the large bathroom and sits her on the small bench with the drawers in the bottom. Her clothes are dingy with the stale remnants of the river’s mist. That day on the bridge only remains in the soiled fabric.

As he tries to pull away, she grabs onto him. Her lashes flick wide. Bucky knows that look. He used to see it in the mirror. That glassy distance. On her, it’s not so bad.

“Doll, I’m just gonna get you washed up.”

She stares at him and nods, her hands slipping down his forearm. The sensation is like cool rain on a hot day, or sunshine after a grey winter. He smiles. Her lips tremble then she does the same.

“Yes, honey.” She lowers her hands to her lap and stares ahead.

He begins. He cuts off her clothes. She does react. Not even as he pauses to admire those parts of her that make him salivate.

When he is done with that, he fills the large basin of the tub. He goes to her but thinks twice of getting her up just yet. He undresses then goes to her.

He brings her in the tub with him. He can take his time. He doesn’t have to hurry. He leans her against him and sighs. She’s stiff and squirmy. He runs his hands up her sides.

“Doll, relax. I got you.”

He feels her obey. She slackens against his chest and lets her head rest on his shoulder. He strokes her stomach.

“Good.” He praises as he draws little swirls on her skin.

This is all he wanted. To feel someone close. To have someone who can never go away. To not have to be afraid.

This is what he deserves. And what she needs. After all, she was all too willing to throw her life away. He saved it, he didn’t take it. He’s giving her a new life. A life with propose; him.

[dragonnesswriter]

A ladies favour- Dark! Knight x reader

DARK! Knight x reader

warnings: This is a Dark/ Yandere work that contains dead dove do not eat, stalking, violence, non-con dry humping, talks of/ implies forced future marriage, threatened/ implied future Non-con

I obviously do not support nor encourage any of this behaviour nor these actions, this is simply a fictional work.

PLEASE DO NOT READ if any of this triggers you. I am not responsible for your media consumption. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: when a new knight comes to the tourney of your homelands, you make the mistake of giving him your favour, not realising he sees it as something more serious than you

word count: 1287

A/N: OKAY, so I know this isn’t AKOTSK, but I couldn’t get it out of my head. It’s inspired by GoT and AKOTSK and the whole jousting-system, but the character itself is just a random OC that came to my mind. It’s extremely short and rushed, and I’m lowkey hating it, but I’m considering maybe writing a full story of it sometime when I have more time. I am currently working on Part2 for “a family man” and hope to have it out this week, or early next week!! Feedback is appreciated :)

~~~

The joust was unlike any you had ever attended. The lists were packed with knights, high born and peasant born alike, all competing for the glory of a win. The air was thick with anxiety, sweaty horses and the pure adrenaline of knights awaiting wins.

His name was called, and he rode forth. His stallion shuffling underneath him as calm as any day, simply trotting up to take his place. As he rode by the stands where you were sitting, he looked your way, and you swore he was smiling underneath his helm. Smiling at you.

You had given him your favour. How stupid could you have been, you gave him your favour. That was before, when eyes had still been warm and kind. He had been so soft as he pointed his lance at you, gingerly asking for your luck in the tourney. You had blushed and giggled as you accepted, tying your ribbon around his lance before sitting down, still smiling like a fool. You didn’t know then just how much of a fool you were.

His opponent today was a skilled knight. An older gentleman, his shield bearing up a lifting swan as his Personal Arm. In shame you hoped, prayed, that the knight would knock yours out of the saddle, to forcibly put him out of the joust and loose the win. It was a feeble, desperate dream.

The winner of each tilt won the opponents horse and armour, and the looser would have to ransom it back. Your own knight had won all his tilts thus far and won a small fortune selling everything back. If he won the whole tourney, he would win so much money as to consider him slightly rich.

Rich enough to ask for the hand of a minor noble lady like yourself.

You dreaded the idea, the sick feeling returning stronger as you watched them stand on opposite sides of the tourney field. The older knight looked calm, he had done this plenty times before. Your knight also looked calm, too calm. Calculating and cruel in his shining armour. As the trumpets blew, both knights pushed the spurs into the side of their horses and raced towards each other, landed already tilting down.

Mud flew around the hooves, and the roar of the people were deafening. You were quiet, too absorbed in the match, to eager to see one win and one loose. In seconds, they would meet and one would emerge victorious.

1, 2, 3…

All you could see in front of you was his face, those kind brown eyes now muddled into some distorted version. That once sweet smile that had haunted your dreams, nightmares. What once seemed to shy, now a distant memory.

4, 5, 6…

His face, covered in blood. Dripping from his cheeks and fists.

The poor stableboy had done nothing wrong, not really, apart from speaking with you. You had searched him up, a foolish non important romance, if it could even be called that. You liked him and liked spending time with Derek, and he liked you. It would never be more than that, but you were young, and a secret romance had always seemed to sweet.

Your knight didn’t seem to agree.

You didn’t even know he was watching, nor that he had followed you there. Derek had stepped closer, to put a flower behind your ear. A sweet mistake.

Your knight pulled poor Derek off you and before anyone could explain, a fist had met his face and he did not stop punching. Not when you screamed, cried, tried your best to pull him off. Not when Derek passed out, lying in a pool of his own blood, barley breathing.

It wasn’t until he felt done and ready, he had released Derek and turned to you, smiling a wide smile, the smile of a predator. His hair flew loose around his face, the soft curls blowing in the wind. He had stepped closer, his eyes now dark and dangerous.

“He didn’t hurt me!” You cried. “I wanted to meet him”

“I know” he had simply answerd “but you are mine. You gifted me your favour, that meant something, right?”

You shook in shock and fear, completely bewildered by his words. You thought he had forgotten you, that the favour in the tourney was nothing more than luck and a bit of harmless fun. But the way he was advancing on you now left you feeling wrong. Everything was wrong.

The soft grass underneath you were a stark contrast to the ferociously with which you fought. He had pushed you down, falling on top of you and trapping you underneath him. You hit and scratched and kicked at him, anything your panic-driven mind could think of.

It didn’t help, and your knight (despite not wearing armour, only his tunic with the coat of arms on) was heavy. He took every slap and kick with a laugh, and slowly his hand inched up your thigh, pushing your dress up.

When you cried, he almost looked offended.

“I won’t rape you. I would never subject you to the shame of being soiled before the wedding. I will wait until we are husband and wife. It doesn’t mean we can’t do other things”

He licked the tears off your face, and you turned away in disgust. He merely chucked, before burning his face in your neck and licking stripes there instead. It was wet, and you shivered in panic. There was no way out.

7, 8…

His hips jerked against you in abandon, his clothed erection hard agains you. You still cried, but it didn’t stop him as he rutted into you. One of his hands hold a firm grasp on your thigh, so hard it will bruise, forcing you open. His other hand has a firm grasp on your neck, holding you down. He has a fast, steady pace, and his breath his hot on the side of your face.

Your back slides against the wet grass underneath with you the force of his thrusts, and your hand curl into fists as you hold onto his tunic.

He came without warning, at least you think he did. He let out a groan in your ear, and you shuddered in horror. His tongue was wet on your neck and you couldn’t decided what had traumatised you worst tonight.

Afterwards, he was different. He helped you up and fixed your dress as if nothing had happened. He pulled your hair to the side, checking to see if you were presentable, before he hocked your arm in his and quietly escorted you right back to your tent.

A short kiss on the forehead and he was gone. But his touch remains, and you felt dirty. You hadn’t stopped feeling dirty.

9…10… CRASH.

The lances hit the shields at the same time with such force they both shatter into tiny wooden sticks. The horses scream and the clanking of metal is loud. Both riders loose balance and fall backwards, desperate to stay on. You lean forward in your seat and pray, oh how you pray. But luck is not on your side.

It never is.

He recovers quickly, faster than his opponent and he turns his horse around so fast you cant keep up. With a new lance in hand, he once more pushes the spurs into the horse and they fly away. His opponent has just regained control over his animal, but the fight is already decided.

It’s something unnatural about the way he moves. So swift and fast, almost one with the animal. It’s like he is a fae, moving with grace and elegance, and something so dangerous about him.

Like he didn’t, for even a second, consider he wouldn’t win.

This time, when the lance hit the shield, the other rider has no chance of staying on. He flies off and dumps into the mud with a splash. The audience scream and cheer, everyone overjoyed. He is starting to become a local favourite, and with heavy wages on his name every small-folk and peasant see him as one of them.

Somehow, his gaze finds yours in the crowd. You don’t know how, but they do. He lifts his visor, waving happily at everyone, but he only has eyes for you. It’s like a promise, an awful, dreadful, frightening promise. He had decided since the first moment that you were going to be his wife, and it didn’t matter how many knights he had to force into the mud to make it come true.

You were his.

You shiver, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from crying. He hasn’t won yet, you try to convince yourself, but it is in vain.

You force yourself to applaud right with the crowd, cheer for his victory and glory. The sunrise on his shield of arms mock you, the rising sun flashing in the morning light.

You cant help but wonder if it’s actually a sunrise, because to you it looks much more like a dark ominous sunset, promising a future far more frightening.

~~~