artistesoiree

[artistesoiree]

Nightfall in Sunridge Ranch {'70s Jack Daniels x Fem!OC)

Chapter 2

Chapter 1 Rating: Mature Warnings: smoking, drinking, nudity, mind reading spicy thoughts, sexual tension, cowboy hat rule makes an appearance, flashbacks, turning into a vampire, copious amounts of blood, Veronica going into detail describing the men she loves, conflicting feelings, WC: 3.8k

A/N: Here's the second chapter, y'all! I'm sorry it took so long. I was finishing up my college degree and packing my apartment to move back in with my mom. I changed some things about Veronica and her Maker/Husband Armand; he's eccentric; I hope you like him as I do! The aesthetic collage features what Armand and Veronica look like! In my art too :) headers by @/saradika

I confided in Jack about my vampirism one evening after our shift ended. The topic came up when he realized that the math of my age didn't add up. Surprisingly, I felt comfortable sharing this information with him, as he had already seen me at my lowest point when I fed on those mice behind the diner. The night was truly enchanting, to say the least.

Jack's laughter filled the air like a baby tickled with a feather, and the moon shone brightly overhead. It had been an incredible night so far. I had changed into a stunning floral green dress with elegant bell sleeves, a plunging neckline, and a hem that fell just midway down my thighs. I had purchased it the day before, and it perfectly complemented my captivating green eyes. I adore this dress and the confidence it gives me.

“Let me help ya sugar, you ain’t in your right mind to walk,” he says, walking over still giggling to himself as he grabs my hands, helping me to my feet. “Thought you could handle your liquor,”

“I can!” I reply defensively and dusting road rocks from my face, making him laugh even more with that cigarette in his hands. “There is something different about the liquor here than in France,” 

“Ah I forget yer European for a moment, they tend be hussies,” he tells me and taking a puff with his cigarette. I squint my eyes, and he smirks even more. “If you tryin’ to scare me it ain’t gonna work, a pretty like you don’t scare me. I jus’ thought you could handle whiskey,” 

“I can handle whiskey, Mister Jack Daniels, ironic you’re even named after that company. Your mother must’ve loveeeed it,” I tell him, leaning forward to make fun of him, and it only makes him grin even more, that cigarette still between his lips. But that leaning only makes me dizzy. “Oh mon Dieu, j'ai la tête qui tourne…” (oh god I am dizzy). 

“Do ya always speak more french when yer drunk Miss Vee?” He asks and I sigh.

“Give me the cigarette; it is my mother tongue, but I dislike that country anyway.” I hold out my hand for a puff of his cigarette and wait for him to give it to me. But he takes a couple minutes and I realize what he wants. Sighing heavily I say,  “Please hand it to me,” 

“There’s our manners,” He teases me and gives me the cigarette. “Now it’s clear you’re much too drunk to be doin’ anythin’, me too for that manner. You’re stayin at that motel ‘cross the way lets go there and I’ll sleep on the couch of whatever,” 

That doesn’t sound like that bad of an idea, do I have my room key? Quickly checking my purse, okay thank god I do. “Let’s do that, if I can walk properly,” 

And something I hadn’t done in a long time, Armand had taught it to me when I was first turned many years ago, I hear Jack's thoughts as plain as day. 

 I had forgotten I could even do that. 

‘Love to make her not walk properly. Sure she could ride me realll nice’  I hear him say, and my eyes widen as we walk over to the motel. Thankfully, I’m walking in front of him so he cannot see my shocked expression. Widened eyes, but a smirk to my lips. 

It seems we have always had the same idea. 

Once inside my room, Mister Jack flops his body on the couch of the conversation pit, it makes me giggle as he nearly tripped even getting there. “No laughin at me sugar! I am no more able to do anythin’ than you are!” He says, his voice all muffled from the cushions. His cowboy hat falls off when his head pops back up to look back at me. 

But his beautiful brown eyes, eye me up and down and his thoughts pop into my head like before. “I ain’t sure if this the whiskey speakin…but that figure deserves to be without any clothes, covering her far too much..Maybe wearin’ my cowboy hat too…she’d be real pretty ridin’ me..” 

“Let me ask you something Jack, what would happen if I..” I say, swaying my hips and walking to him, and leaning over the back of the sofa. Subtly using my arms to press my breasts together, seeing his not-so-subtle ways of staring at them. I can understand, I have been blessed with wonderful breasts, and their larger size has always helped men stare at me. If that is a good thing, I will never know. “Took your very handsome cowboy hat and put it on my head…would I have to do something in response? Is there a special code I had broken by doing that?”

Jack's eyes are still settled on my breasts as I ask my question. A playful smirk plays on his lips as he thinks of his answer. “There is a certain rule, ladies and cowboys abide by. If a cowboy's hat is taken and placed upon your head sugar, you must ride on said cowboy.” 

“Fascinating! What a lovely rule,” I giggle in response before reaching out and grabbing his cowboy hat and placing it on my own head. My eyes slightly widened with the biggest grin on my lips, seeing his reaction. And as I expected, his thoughts pop back into my head like before. 

‘Well I’m feelin’ like a tornado in a trailer park, she’s lookin’ mighty fine in my hat..she’d be even better with her clothes off and on the floor with only the hat..but who is that man in the frame seated on the nightstand..is she married?’

As I sat engrossed in Jack's conversation, my attention was inadvertently drawn to the photograph resting on my nightstand, capturing a beautiful moment frozen in time.

In the picture, Armand stood proudly beside me, my body adorned in my mother's exquisite wedding dress, holding an intricately arranged bouquet of vibrant flowers. His presence in photographs evoked a sense of timeless charm; he radiated an especially striking handsomeness. His wedding suit exuded impeccable tailoring, and his long, flowing, firey red locks cascaded down like a silken river. The memory of his love-struck gaze and the mystifying golden color of his eyes, brimming with the most romantic smile, became prominent in my mind. His skin was always so sun-kissed, a golden tan that beautifully looked beautiful with his hair.  As I reminisced about that momentous day, I couldn't help but recall that it occurred just a few days before my twenty-second birthday.

It's strange, isn't it? Finding love in the mere presence of his photograph does not fully align with my conflicted emotions toward him. "I see you are looking at this photo..." I remarked as I rose from my seat, retrieved the picture from the nightstand, and walked over to Jack, offering it to him for a closer look.

"Handsome fella," Jack muttered, his finger tenderly grazing Armand's suit in the photograph. Indeed, his observation was accurate. Armand had always been undeniably handsome. He was my husband, and that fact would remain unchanged. I am his wife, and there will forever be a certain love that resides in my heart for him. He had shielded me, even if it meant that I had to clean up the aftermath of his actions. I am and will always be his wife, and that has always been the reality. “Who is he sugar?”

As I run my fingers over the emerald nestled in the center of the silver band, I can't help but smile to myself. Some might find it strange that I still wear my wedding ring, but for me, it brings a sense of comfort and familiarity.

"He is my husband," I say simply, watching Jack's eyes widen as he quickly sets the photo down.

"You're married, sugar? Why didn't you mention this before?" he asks, caught off guard. I can't help but let out a soft laugh.

"It just didn't come up in our conversations," I reply, giving him a gentle smile. "And I'm still trying to find the right words to express my feelings about him. Our marriage has always been filled with ups and downs, but there's always been a deep love for him that I hold close to my heart. Even when my thoughts about him don't quite align with it”

Jack tilts his head, his expression reflecting the conflict of thoughts in his mind. I understand - what I've shared is indeed conflicting. Just as my own feelings for my husband. “I can tell you about him, if you’d like to learn about him Jack. As I fear I am hiding more from you than just my marriage,”

He looks interested, “What would that be sugar?” 

“Have you..learned about what vampires are? Or know of the mythology about them?” I ask and Jack nods.

“Ain’t those those bein’s who got fangs and drink blood, can’t be the sun kinda thing?” He replies, and I nod, and before I can respond, the gears in his head begin to turn. “Wait a damned minute, weren’t you drinkin’ blood when we met? Does that mean..but I have seen you in the sun.”

"I need you to remember this, Jack," I say, leaning in closer and fixing my eyes on his. "I am a vampire, but I'm not like the others. I can walk in the sunlight without any harm." Jack looked at me with disbelief and curiosity as he sat on the worn sofa, trying to process my revelation.

I continue, "The man in the photograph is not only my husband, but he is also the one who turned me into a vampire. He's been alive since the 1700s, and I was just a woman he took a liking to. I met him in Paris in 1904 when I was only twenty-one. My art captivated him and insisted I come to his estate and paint him."

Jack chuckles nervously, thinking I was spinning an elaborate tale for unknown reasons. His laughter faded as he saw the sincerity in my eyes. "You’re paintin’ a pretty picture, but there's no need for these wild stories," he said, trying to make sense of my words. “I ain’t a child at bedtime needin’ to be put to bed.”

I hold his gaze and reply, "I'm not lying, Jack. I may be a conflicted woman, but this is not a fabrication." As a slight smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, I add, "I can understand why it's hard to believe."

Confused but intrigued, Jack asks, "Why are you sharin’ this with me? I'm just a simple man from Tennessee—nothin’ special."

I pause momentarily, carefully choosing my words before responding to Jack, "I trust you, Jack. You mean a lot to me, and I want you to truly understand who I am. I believe you deserve to know me just as Armand did. The man you see in that photograph knew me. If you're interested in knowing the real me, I'm more than willing to share myself with you in that way.”

Jack thinks for a moment before giving me a slight smirk as a response. “This husband of yours..seems quite fun, sugar. Tell me about him.”

-

“My dear, now that we are wed, I must share something with you, it is only fair a woman of your beauty and your cerebral must have it as well.” Armand murmured against my ear, I can feel the strength of his hands against my waist, how he wishes to pull my wedding dress from my body so he may see me bare. “A woman as extraordinary as you..as lustful as you..deserves this more than anything..” 

“Wh-what would that be..” I whisper shakily, closing my eyes to feel his touch against my body. He has never been this tender, this sensual, or this heated. I see him in a new light, he is my husband, I am his wife, and we are joined together. “My husband…” I breathe out, the words flow easily from my mouth, like a smooth and delicate silk dress enveloping my body, comfortable. They feel so natural and familiar, as if they've always been a part of me and always will be.

I love him. I love him. 

The sensation of his elegant hands gliding across the delicate fabric of my wedding gown sends shivers down my spine. As he reaches the intricate lace detailing on the back of the gown, I can't help but feel grateful that we are alone in the privacy of our own home. The wedding guests have long gone from our home, it is only us. Only us. 

“I have not been a truthful man..” Armand's lips ghost my ear, opening the back of my dress, pressing the most tender of kisses upon my skin. “I keep a secret from the woman I love most..and she must know the most intimate of details about myself. My darling wife, the moon that kisses upon my brow, I have the dark gift. The gift that allows me to never feel mortal again, to encompass immense amounts of strength and lust for the iron-rich liquid that flows in your buxom body..and I wish to share it with you. My eternal life.” 

As he fills my brain with lust-filled whispers, the sleeves of my dress are removed from my arms. His large hands rest on my chest, squeezing my breasts, making a yearning whine escape my lips. A rush of this liquid rests in my cheeks, my body feels hot, I must remove my wedding dress. “You wish for this..?” My voice is filled with air as his actions are taking parts of my brain, and I fear I cannot function. 

I want it this way. I want his desire swimming in my veins forever. I wish to never find my words so my lips may make sounds that can only communicate it. “Have you made a vampire before? Will I be your first?” I ask, opening my eyes for a moment, gazing at him from underneath my eyelashes, needing to see the sculpted beauty of my husband. “And will I be your only?”

“Mon seul et unique pour toujours..” The breathtaking golden color of his eyes meets my own, his sculpted face and body, his beauty rivals my own. “My only forever..you will be bonded to me...I will feel your desire and your pain for eternity. Do you wish for this?” 

“Please husband…please I wish for this. Make me yours, bond yourself to me.” I beg, whines leaving my mouth as his lips attack my neck. His hands delicately cup the back of my head, caressing me and keeping me close to him. 

He is ravenous, so filled with desire as I can feel the sharpness of his fangs pierce my neck. I am a puddle within his hands as he feeds upon my blood, draining my body of life and becoming his in the process. Keeping my eyes shut, feeling every shot nerve and ounce of pain—this is what I want. I desire this. 

My dress falls from my body as he picks me up effortlessly, leaving me bare in front of him. He continues to ravish me as he carefully lays me upon our marriage bed, will we consummate our marriage now? I have wanted this, have craved this for so long. 

“My darling,” Armand whispers into my ear, “Open your eyes. There is one last step you must take.” I do as he says, but my body is heavy, and I cannot lift myself. I watch as blood drips down his chin and his chest as if it were the rubies of my love. He has removed his blouse and coat, leaving him in his pristine and beautiful trousers, his chest bare to me as I am to him. That is my blood upon his skin. Oh, how he looks so beautiful with it. 

His fangs rip at his wrist, making blood cascade from the wound. “Drink at my wrist. Then we will be as one forever..” Armand’s voice is laced with passion as I sit up, grabbing his hand and pulling his wrist closer to my lips. As the blood spills from him, it drips upon my breasts and makes me feel a rush of arousal within my body. 

Biting into his skin, he groans, and I can feel the dark gift begin to rush into my veins. All the power and desire I wish for is taking over every cell of my body. My eyes are clenched shut as I feed from him, tasting his blood. I can hear him praising me to continue until I cannot anymore. Once an overwhelming urge to gasp overtakes my body, I pull away from his wrist. Panting with exhaustion as his blood fills my body, taking root and staying. 

Gasping, I open my eyes and gaze upon my husband's magnificence. My heartbeat has ceased, and my hunger remains the only thing that remains. Armand’s watch rests upon my figure; he can see the gift taking over my body. “We are one, my darling, my eternal one. The eternal gift has blessed itself within you. Oh, the beauty you radiate!” He laughs with such love filling his voice, his hand cup my cheeks as he kisses me with such passion that I am in shock. “How do you feel, darling one?” His voice mumbles with the clashing of our lips, and I cannot respond right away, only the sounds of my whines are the answers he is given. Our bodies are filled with such lust and need, he is the only one I crave. The only one I desire in this midnight hour. 

Armand gazes at me with such intensity, his voice resonating with a deeper timbre and his brow furrowed with longing. It feels as though his desire was my own, so closely were we bonded. "Please, let me see, my darling," he implored. With a gentle touch, he traced my cheek, and I obediently revealed the fangs that had freshly emerged. "How beautiful and magnificent they are," he murmured, his admiration evident. "They suit you, my eternal one. And now, I have another gift for you."

As Armand gracefully rises from our bed, I find myself propped up on my elbows, unable to take my eyes off him as he leaves the room. His hair, with its radiant sheen and delicate curls at the ends, captivates me every time. It glows like fire in the light, adding to the allure of his chiseled physique, reminiscent of a stunning Greek statue. His beauty is striking, and at times, I can't help but be captivated by his feminine qualities, which contrast so elegantly with his undeniably masculine form. The way his powerful chest muscles contour beneath a robe never fails to bewitch me, evoking a sense of wonder that momentarily overwhelms my senses. It's as though a new consciousness takes hold of me every time I lay eyes on him. I often ponder what I must have done in this life to be blessed with a husband as exquisitely beautiful as him.

When he walks back into the room, he is gracefully balancing two elegant wine glasses in his hands. A wide, enthusiastic smile lights up his face, accentuating his soft, inviting lips. His eyes locked with mine, and a sly smile played across his lips as he tilted his head in curiosity. 'What has caught your attention so completely?' he inquired, his voice filled with intrigue. All I could manage was a mischievous smirk in response, relishing the suspense that hung in the air between us.

His perfectly sculpted form seemed as though it had been chiseled by a master artist. As I gaze at him, my words failed me, and a smile spread across his face. Setting his glasses aside, he placed a hand on his hip and slowly turned, casting a provocative glance over his shoulder. “You have a way of driving me crazy,” I murmured.

“You seem to have a poetic way of admiring my physique,” Armand chuckles softly as he takes a sip of the wine he has brought to our room.

"You resemble a figure from ancient Greek mythology, a living sculpture worthy of admiration; I am sure your makers felt the same way," I continue, sitting up and following his every move as he handed me a glass of wine. Armand's laughter lacked its usual carefree tone and seemed tinged with discomfort. "Oh, did I say something wrong?” 

"No, no, do not worry," Armand says with a nervous laugh, his eyes peeking above the rim of his wine glass. "My creators were not the most loving people... so I aspire to be everything they were not for you."

He gazes at me with a warm smile. "I'll share more about them later, not now. Let's focus on this joyous moment! You've embraced the dark gift, and I must say, you look absolutely magnificent with it."

I can't help but giggle softly. "You're quite the master of flattery, just as I am with you," I remark, and he responds with a playful wink, his expression adorned with the most mischievous smirk.

"As a woman as resplendent as yourself, it's a duty I gladly fulfill. I want you to always feel cherished and see the true extent of your own beauty. It's as if you've stepped right out of a painting. If only I possessed the artistic skill to capture your essence and immortalize your beauty on canvas!" He tells me as he leans over and kisses the back of my hand. “I am a very lucky man to have someone with such beauty inside and out,” 

-

Jack chuckled to himself as I continued recounting the events of my wedding night, causing me to pause mid-story. "What's so funny, cowboy?" I asked, to which he responded with an even wider grin.

"That husband of yours seems like quite a handful," he remarks, pausing to sip the whiskey he had just poured from the well-stocked bar cart. "Part of me is curious to meet a man as eccentric as him. God bless him," 

I can't help but roll my eyes in response. There's no denying it—Armand has always been known for his eccentric behavior. His way of expressing love may be overwhelming, but I have treasured every compliment and cherish every little love note he left around our home in Paris. Despite me running away, I find myself yearning for his presence. Even in the electric presence of Jack, Armand will always have this grasp within my heart. 

 There's a lingering hope that he will track me down. Our time in Paris was exhilarating, especially our post-killing rendezvous. I can't shake the feeling that he's the only one with the ability to locate me, not his vampire friends, but only him. But then again, how will I settle my feelings? Jack has a certain electricity and suaveness that makes him wonderful to be around. But Armand is...Armand, I suppose. And that was always enough for me.

 He will find me again, I know he will.

taglist: @morallyinept @604to647

[artistesoiree]

edits for NISR

okay yall, I made some edits to the first chapter of Nightfall at Sunridge Ranch because I realized it did not convey what I wanted for the second chapter. As I am working on it right now.

Veronica sees her maker in a nicer light, which what I want. i am sure you will find him fascinating in the next chapter ;)

[artistesoiree]

Nightfall in Sunridge Ranch

Chapter 1

{'70s Jack Daniels x Fem!OC)

Chapter 2

Rating: Mature Warnings: Mentions of blood and draining blood (she's a vampire, I feel it's a given), drug mention, mc is a bit eerie and her thoughts can be a bit troubling, Likely incorrect things about the 70s and Paris, France, as I was born in '02 and haven't been outside the PNW since I was born, Jack's too suave for his own good and probably shouldn't flirt with vampires, I hope he isn't OOC? Veronica's maker is interesting…(and is named after my favorite IWTV character) but I'll get into that in later chapters, takes place in the late 70s in a made-up Texan town WC: 3.8k

A/N:

Howdy, y'all! I wanted to write this because I've been recently inspired to begin writing again. I was inspired by Interview with the Vampire, 70s Texas, little bit of Ethel Cains Album Preachers Daughter, and my own OCs. The writing might be rough, but I'm proud of it. It's told in the first-person POV, and I hope you guys like Veronica as much as I do. She's a wreck and a weirdo .Oh, and the introduction was inspired by the beginning of The Vampire Lestat by Anne Rice.

headers by @/saradika

I am Veronica Sharpe. I am a vampire who stands six feet tall. I have been blessed with my mother's black curls and my father's family's white streak in it. I have my mother's pale complexion, cheekbones, plush lips, and aquiline nose. I have my father's slender green eyes. My father gave me his height, while my mother gave me the gift of a body with feminine curves. Over the years, while I have maintained my feminine body, I have gained muscle, which has dramatically complimented my figure. I am a strong woman. I am proud of that.

I was only twenty-one when I was turned in the year 1904. I lived in Paris, France, and several lovers sought my hand. One of them was my maker, Armand Sharpe. He was a tall man with a fine figure, and he loved his beautiful clothes and long silk like red hair. He collected art pieces and hung them in his home. He had found me painting in the Jardin des Plantes and asked kindly if he could buy one of my paintings. Armand loved his beautiful women; I was flattered to be one of them. 

He always talked about how I should be grateful that I remain eternally beautiful, that I will never age like most women, and that my youthful beauty will never leave. He always seemed too proud of it. And I am grateful, his beauty is like mine, eternal.

Although I am thankful that I remember my mother, father, and sister, Armand, when we first met, had made it possible for me to have photographs of my family. While I don’t remember my family name, I remember their names. My mother was named Estelle, and my father was Laurent, and my sister was Lucille. But sadly, I don’t know the name my mother gave me when I was born. I expressed my discomfort with not remembering my name to Armand, and he thought of a name for a moment until he told me that my name must be Véronique. It is a beautiful name, a one I deserve.

As time passed, my name changed from Véronique to Veronica. This transition came in ‘64 when a waitress misheard my name and called me Veronica in a thick southern California accent. She was a lovely gal. She was a Barbie blonde wearing a baby blue uniform, which suited her tanned skin tone. Her hair was styled like Farrah Fawcett's and smelled like Adorn Self-Styling Hair Spray. Veronica stuck. The transition was freeing from the name my maker and husband had given me. The name Armand would use to beckon me to his room was the name he would call with desire. 

I am very thankful to the waitress at that Los Angeles diner a couple of years ago; she gave me a new name, and may never know what it meant to me. I am sure Armand felt the same way, it is a gift to give a name to someone.

As I make my way along the winding Interstate 10 in Texas, the sky is painted with the last hues of the sunset, giving way to the emergence of countless stars. The radio fills the car interior with the nostalgic melody of John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads." This song has been the background to my travels for the past couple years. With my hand resting on the smooth, black leather steering wheel of my 1964 Ford Mustang, I tap my fingers in time to the music. The car, painted a deep raven black, seems to blend seamlessly with the night. Despite the darkness, I wear my circular black sunglasses with their delicate silver frame. It might strike some as odd to wear sunglasses at night, but I do so to conceal my naturally eerie and unnerving green eyes, a feature that has often drawn unnerving attention. 

I’ve never understood why they were unnerving. They’re my eyes; they’ve been green since childhood. Is there something I’m missing? Green is the color of the earth, why must I have to cover my beauty.

The fuel gauge on my dashboard is hovering dangerously close to empty, and as I glance out the window, a highway sign catches my eye. It reads, ‘Visit Sunridge Ranch, Texas! The Cowboy Capital of the USA!’ I find myself humming in response, realizing that not only do I need to refuel, but it might also be a good idea to find a place to stay for the night. The sun will rise soon, and although I won't burst into flames like in fiction, its rays will still leave me with a nasty sunburn, turning my pale skin red. It’s embarrassing. Armand would scold me like a child when I would come home red. As my husband, he often acted like a father, not my own. Oh no, he decided my father wasn't useful and took him away from me.

As I made my way into town, I was struck by its quaint charm and the subtle nods to its cowboy past. Before heading to the nearby motel, I decided to fill up my car with gas. As I approach the motel, I couldn't help but notice the small sign featuring a cowgirl riding a horse and the name "Desert Ranch Motel." It seems like a beautiful place to spend a day. The sign advertised a pool I plan to enjoy once the sun had set.

I hear the soft jingle of a bell as I push open the heavy wooden door to the front desk. Standing behind the counter is a woman who seems out of place in this ordinary setting. Her immaculate appearance and bored expression tell me she'd rather be anywhere else. I glimpse her name tag and see "Barbara" etched onto it. 

"Welcome to the Desert Ranch Motel, where the Old West meets comfort," she recites in a dry, monotone voice. "What kind of room are you looking for?"

The weirdest thing is that Barbara jumps when she looks up at me and tries to act as if she hadn't jumped. Am I creepy? Surely it cannot be my eyes, they cannot be creepy in this light. Was it my staring? My eyes burning into her.

As she asked if I was interested in the suite, I responded, "I will take the suite." I respond, there is nothing fancy about the way I said it. It was monotone. Following my response, she picked up the check-in book to check for its availability, or at least that's what I assumed she was doing.

"Sure... that'll be no problem," she says, keeping her pretty blue eyes on my figure as she checks the lodging book. That will be 15 dollars for the day," Barbara says uncertainly as I hand her the cash. She carefully notes my name in the lodging book and gracefully passes me the key. "The room is 28B. I hope you have a pleasant stay, ma'am," she says.

The prominent feature of the chain is a weathered cowboy pendant suspended from it, effortlessly enhancing the town's rustic charm and Western essence. I wonder who made it; it looks like an artist had a hand in making it. 

As I make my way down the hallway to 28B, the weight of my luggage is a reassuring reminder of the countless times I've journeyed down this similar hallway. I navigate the stairs quickly. Arriving at the end of the hallway, I reach for the doorknob and swing the door open. A smile spreads as I take in the view before me.

The wooden door creaks open as I enter the room, unveiling a spacious living area. The room features a sunken seating area adorned with vibrant patterned cushions encircling a central sunken pit that could double as a fire pit. The brick fireplace is the main focus, making everything warm and comfortable. 

Large windows flood the space with natural light, offering picturesque views of the pool outside. The high ceiling is adorned with several elegant hanging lights that glow warmly throughout the room. The inviting atmosphere makes it a pretty space to spend time and relax.

Behind the conversation pit, the bed steals the attention, decorated with a striking orange comforter and decorative pillows. The bedframe and nightstands complement each other, showcasing a matching wood. The clock on the nightstand displayed 3:02 am, signaling the impending arrival of dawn. Hungry from my long drive from San Antonio, I couldn't ignore the persistent itch of blood thirst at the back of my throat. As the first light of dawn began to break over the horizon, I felt the familiar hunger gnawing at my insides. It is different from a human's regular hunger pains; my stomach feels as if it’s going to turn inside out, and I might die. 

The craving for blood pounded through me, and I know I couldn't ignore it much longer. But living in this arid, desolate town presented a challenge—no nearby life sources could quench my thirst. Then it hit me: In such a deserted town, there is an option: to search for the presence of rats. Although I don't like the taste of rat blood, it satisfies my thirst for blood. Or perhaps the local diner could provide a solution. I could order a rare steak and let its rich blood juices satiate my hunger for the night. I always thrived while killing; there is something so satisfying about that iron-rich liquid spilling down my throat.

As I leave the dimly lit motel room, I check that my purse is securely slung over my shoulder. I mentally record the contents within—my wallet holding a substantial amount of cash, my ID, and the all-important hotel room key. Opening it, I make sure that my favorite perfume is safely nestled among the other items. Knowing I'll smell good despite the bloodbath I’m going to put myself through does put a smile on my face. 

I stroll across the road from the motel to The Kingsman Diner, relieved to see that it is open 24 hours a day. Knowing that no matter what time, I can always find a warm meal here is a comfort. Approaching the front door, I couldn't help but notice a small cluster of mice scurrying around towards the back of the diner.

Sneaking towards the back of the restaurant, I quickly grab a mouse and sink my fangs into its body. Draining the blood from it and tossing it into the garbage. I continue doing this to a few more mice, draining and tossing.  It is not human, but it will do for the night. I need to drink multiple in order to feel fine.

Lost in my bloodthirst, I fail to notice the creak of the back door swinging open. Suddenly, a gruff and low voice startles me from behind.

"Darlin, what are you doin’ near my garbage?" The man asks, and I freeze, realizing someone had caught me. I feel my heart racing as I quickly toss the mouse into the garbage and turned to face him. There was a little blood on my chin, and my hands are stained from the unsuccessful attempt to clean up the mess.

What am I doing? Did Armand’s lessons in cleanliness and manners exit my brain the first moment I stepped foot on American soil? I should vanish now. Wipe his memory, he never saw me.

But as I answered, "Nothing," he gave me a questioning look, and I’m grateful for the overhead light illuminating his face. He was very handsome, with a man in his forties with a strong, tall frame, warm brown eyes, and a mop of dark brown, short hair. A well-groomed mustache adorned his upper lip, adding to his cowboy appeal. He stood before me in well-worn jeans cinched with a leather belt, an apron over his chest, and a vibrant blue flannel shirt. He held a black Stetson cowboy hat in his hand, completing the look of a true cowboy. God, he has kind eyes, clean-shaven eyes, and a beautiful smile. And a confident swagger to him, Armand never really had that sort of confidence or swagger. He was quiet and foreboding. 

"Why do you have blood on your hands and chin there, Darlin?" The man asks, squinting his eyes and furrowing his brow as if trying to assess my appearance. My mind races as I desperately tried to come up with some sort of plausible excuse. "Were you drainin’ those rats?"

I stammer nervously in response, causing his brows to furrow even deeper. "I, uh, yes...?" I admit, my voice trembling slightly. "I may have taken ecstasy in my motel room. It seemed like a good idea at the time. In the past I loved to drink the blood on ecstasy, it feels lovely."

"Why in the world would drinkin’ rat blood even cross your mind as a good idea?" the handsome man asks, leaving me speechless. Incompetent to conjure a coherent response, I found myself unable to answer him. How about we forget this ever happened, and I whip up something to satisfy that hunger of yours?"

I nod eagerly, awaiting his following words. "What are ya in the mood for?"

"Can you make mashed potatoes and a rare steak? It's been far too long since I've had a meal like that, not since I left San Antonio," I tell him, wiping the extra blood on the sleeve of my black blouse. It won’t be seen anyway. His face cringes for a moment as I do that. God, he needs to stop staring at me.

As the man mulls over my request briefly, he gently scratches his chin and nodded in agreement. "Come on in. Why don't ya take a seat at the counter," he offered as we entered the cozy diner. "Maybe after you freshen up a bit..."

Pausing, I glance down at my hands and suddenly became conscious of my messy appearance. The fancy clothes I bought for myself have blood splatters on me, and my hair is nowhere near presentable. I should’ve washed up in my motel room. 

"Oh, excuse me, where can I find the restroom?" I ask, and he gestures towards the doors at the back of the diner, clearly marked 'Men' and 'Women.' 

"I'll be back. I'm sorry you had to see that, handsome stranger," I say to him with a wry smile, trying to lighten the mood. His chuckle is a welcome sound as my eyes wander up and down, finally landing on the name tag labeled ‘Jack’' "Jack, a handsome name for a handsome man," I remark, a twinkle in my eye, nervously laughing. Has it been this long since I’ve been around a man? He must think I'm an idiot. 

Jack’s chuckle resonates through the room, carrying a warmth that seems to surround the entire room. "Not a problem, darlin'," he says in a soothing, reassuring tone, his words comforting to my ears. He flashed a kind and friendly grin, and as he did, the well-earned wrinkles around his eyes deepened, adding character to his face. A rush of heat floods my cheeks, betraying the blush that crept up in response to his gaze. Sensing my reaction, he arched an eyebrow ever so slightly, his eyes shining with a knowing glint. 

Dieu qu'il est beau. (god he is handsome)

“I will be right back, Mr. Jack,” I chuckle nervously before heading toward the restroom. Mr. Jack?! Why would I call him that? Also, I says I would be back not even a minute before. Must I repeat myself like a babbling imbecile?!

I quickly went to the restroom, but the encounter was still fresh in my mind. As I stand in front of the mirror, I meticulously wash away the stains from my face and hands, taking care to remove every trace of the blood. It's hard to believe that my first impression of this rugged man was being covered in blood. I can't help but wonder what  Armand must think of me. I did always turn to him for advice. He was always a posed man; he would get angry when I wasn’t. 

But I do not remember even doing anything that vastly embarrassing with him. Did I do something wrong when I was with him? Have I always been this way, and he was helping me? Should I have not left him? I cannot act like a lady around a handsome man who saw me draining mice near his garbage. Well, not that it is a ladylike thing to do, but there are nicer ways of satisfying my thirst. But fuck being ladylike, Armand would use that word so often I never liked it.

Wait, that businessman wanted to get with me at that party in ‘71. Why am I realizing this now?  Have I always been this aloof? I need to do better.

“Bloody lady, ya doin’ alright?” I hear Mr. Jack from just outside the door, “You’ve been in there for twenty minutes or so,” 

“Sorry, I got lost in thought. I’ll be out in a minute!” I reply, and my cheeks redden due to my embarrassment. Splashing water on my face, I walk out of the restroom with a slightly embarrassed smile, rocking on my heels momentarily. “Sorry about that, it’s been a long day.” 

Mr. Jack chuckles again, “‘s alright, darlin’ you not from ‘round here, aintcha?” He asks as I sit down at the counter where he’s prepared my food. God, it looks delicious. Staring at him, a little confused, he smiles again. “You ain’t got an accent like us, ya almost sound European.”

“No, I’m not from around here. I was born in Paris, but I’ve been traveling alone for a while,” I reply, grabbing the fork he’s set out for me. He tilts his head, confused.

“Ya look lil young to be travelin’ for a while,”

“M-My…uhh-” I begin trying to find a good excuse: “My family ages well. I am in my thirties,” Okay, that’s not a bad excuse, and it’s true I do not age. Thanks, Armand; one of the only good things about this gift he gave me. He still deserves to die, though. 

"Well, I’ll be damned ya do look good, sugar,” Jack tells me with a suave smile on his face, “that white streak in ya hair is real pretty too, them eyes of yours are real pretty too. I always liked green eyes on ladies,” 

“Why thank you, Jack. You sure know how to make a lady blush,” I giggle momentarily, hiding my face behind my hand, and while taking a bite of the steak he made me, and god if it isn’t delicious. That cowboy sure knows how to make a meal. 

He and I both chat for a while and continue eating the meal he had prepared. He pauses for a moment before asking, “You says you were born in Paris, that meanin you french?” 

“I suppose?” I reply, thinking for a moment. “I grew up there, my parents were born there too. But I have not been there for good while, I am losing my accent.” 

“Clearly, you barely sound French anymore, sugar. Are you still speakin’ the language?” he asks, and I nod with a bright smile.

“Oui, j'aime toujours cette langue,” I say, and his eyebrows raise. Is he impressed? “I say, yes, I still love the language.” 

Jack chuckles as he takes my empty plate and cleans it quickly while I wait at the counter. Should I wait for him to come back? Or should I leave? This feels weird. My legs begin to sway underneath the counter, waiting for him to come back, my chin resting on the backs of my hands. 

He comes back a couple of minutes later, and I've been looking around the diner, taking in the details of it all. It’s a very cozy diner. The warm lighting adds to that. If I lived here, I would be a regular, I know it. 

“How long you in town sugar?” He asks, snapping me out of my daydream. 

“As long as I want, I tend to keep myself in different towns for a few days before leaving. But I can stay in a spot for months if I’d like. Why do you ask?”

“I wanna offer you a job, if you’d like it. It would be watiressin’ but it pays good with tips.”

My eyes widen for a moment. Is he serious? His expression says he isn’t; extra cash would be nice. I have been running out of it since I left France and stole an excellent sum of Armand’s fortune. It would be nice to stay in one spot long and not be on the run. He also did find me with blood all over me. Why is he offering me a job? Did he not find me in the back with blood all over me..he does not have good awareness.

“I like that a lot. It would be nice to have extra money and save up a good sum.” I say to him, and his lips curl into an almost sly smile. He looks too mischievous with that mustache of his, but that is a reason he’s a joy to be around. He is much better than Armand, so much better.

“Sounds like a plan darlin’ let me get ya the uniform,” He tells me, walking to a closet in the back and coming back with two things, a red dress, it has short sleeves and seems that it would end at my knees. What’s in his other hand is an apron, simple enough. “Here’s the uniform, keep your hair in a bun and simple earrings. You got shoes that could go with it?”

Pausing, I think back to the clothes in my luggage, more specifically, the shoes I’ve been carrying with me. There are a couple of options, and others that would never work for that uniform.

“Would a pair of red-heeled sandals work?” I ask, unsure if that’s what he is asking for. 

“I believe they would darlin’. You can wear those with the uniform. Have you ever waitressed before?”

“When I was in Paris, I worked briefly for a cafe. Is this similar to that?”

“You’ll do great sugar. Now go get some rest and I’ll see you here at 2pm okay?” He asks, and I nod quickly, my arms gathering the uniform he handed me in my arms. 

When I leave the diner, the sky is empty; spare it for the stars sprinkling in the sky. This town is eerily quiet. Paris was loud, and so was Los Angeles. I like quiet; I've always liked quiet. Maybe I should stay here. Until Armand uses his fledglings to find me again, then I will run. I do miss him, the chase is more fun knowing he misses me. But for now, I will stay. 

I hope y'all enjoyed it! I do plan to have more chapters, as this is just the beginning; I've got a bunch planned!

Taglist: @morallyinept @604to647

[artistesoiree]

I know it’s not gonna happen but I think the funniest possible course for Armand to take post-S2E5 is to say “Damn, my memory cuts off there too. WHOOOOO could’ve done this?”

[artistesoiree]

Daniel Malloy making fun of telenovelas only to discover he’s got an amnesia plotline

[artistesoiree]

Too Close to Saying Goodbye

Summary: Tav gets injured fighting the Absolute, and its too close of a call for everyone but especially Karlach

Warnings: typical in game violence, somewhat graphic depictions of blood/injury, near death experience, angst(happy end!)

Authors note: my first time writing for BG3 and Karlach, so go easy on me please if its not the greatest

Word count: 1956

Karlach Masterlist BG3 Masterlist

What you currently stand in was once, no doubt, a beautiful open field near the forest. Now however, it has become a shell of its former self. The once green grass is now a dull brown, and it's marred by trails of upturned dirt that lead off into the distance towards a camp of Absolute forces that have clearly been stationed here a while.

   In the distance you notice a few pillars of smoke rising into the sky, showing you exactly where the enemy is camped down at. With the hours growing late, you assume the fires mean that they've decided to settle in for the evening. You wager this means only a few will be out and about on their regular patrols, which would be easy enough to deal with if needed, so it should be the most opportune time to take your companions closer in order to observe and see just what you're dealing with.

   This however, proves to be the wrong decision. For some reason, a small squad had been out on a patrol. And unfortunately for you, they had spotted you snooping nearly at once. There isn’t time for your party to hide or retreat, making a fight the only option. It truly isn't ideal with how they outnumber you, but you trust in the strength and strategy of your companions.

   As the battle commences everything seems to be going smoothly. You’ve watched all your friends land a multitude of blows against the enemy, even managing to down a handful of the cultists despite being outnumbered. But, as all things with your little group, nothing can ever be as easy as it initially seems.

   You had just managed to take down a rather large Orc, and were wrenching your blade free from his flesh when a Drow decided to take advantage of the situation and charged at you. You'd managed to spot him in your peripheral area in time to block the first blow with your bracers, but without a weapon you were not so lucky when the second blow came. And with a sickening squelch, the blade plunges into your shoulder.

   Your yell echoes across the area, and Karlachs eyes frantically begin searching for you. Relief floods her when she finds you, but that relief is short lived when she notices the precarious situation you're in. 

   “NO!” she shouts, quickly felling the cultist in front of her before dashing in your direction. The drow pulls his blade free, causing blood to start pouring from the wound in a manner that has panic flaring within her, especially when she watches your knees give out as you crumble to the ground.

   Worried that any time wasted fighting could prove fatal to you she summons all her strength and when she strikes, she easily cleaves the cultist responsible for your pain in two. His body falls to the ground not far from where you lay, and her bloodied ax clatters down next seconds before her arms are pulling you into her lap, “No, no, no. Tav!?”

   You hiss in pain as something presses against your wound, but recognizing the warmth that now encompasses you, you call out, “Karlach”

   “I’m here” she replies, pulling you even closer as tears cloud her vision, “I’ve got you”

   You smile, but it lacks your usual warmth and doesn't quite meet your eyes. This makes her stomach drop even further and her eyes frantically start searching the battle again, this time for signs of the raven haired Cleric, or even one of the druids. But to her frustration she can currently spot none of them.

   “I'm sorry” you mumble, effectively getting her gaze back on you, “I really did wanna explore the city with you….”

   She shakes her head, “Don't talk like that. We'll make it to Baldur's Gate. Together.”

   “Karlach…” 

    “I'm the one that's got limited time, remember, not you. So, you're gonna be just fine” She responds, clearly in denial of just how bad the situation is, “Just need some healing and rest. That's all”

   The smell of your blood being spilled had brought another of your companions to your side, and though he's used to the sight of the coppery smelling liquid, when he sees the sheer amount of yours that's soaking into the grass, even he became queasy 

   “Karlach, is Tav…are they…?”

   “Astarion, they need healing! Please get help!” she responds in such a panicked tone that he knows the situation is as serious as it seems, if not worse

   He sprints off in a blur to where he had last seen the Cleric, he'd be damned if he was going to fail you now. No, not after all you've done for him, or for the others. No, you were truly too good of a traveling companion and friend to die so soon, and like this. He’d get you help. You would be fine.

   As his footsteps fade into the sounds of the battle that still surrounds you, you become all too aware of just how bad the situation is. The dizziness and black edges to your vision tell you that you're losing too much blood far too quickly, and even if Astarion does find Shadowheart, with all the chaos going on there's no guarantee that she’ll even be in a position to come to aid you. 

   So despite the pain you're currently in, you're determined to offer some comfort to your beloved tiefling who cradles you in her embrace. You somehow manage to lift a hand to her cheek, and your thumb wipes at her tears, “You are truly incredible Karlach. How lucky I am….to have gotten to spend the time that I have with you….”

   “Please, just stay with me love. Help will be her, it will”

  You exhale shakily, “I’m not sure I can…

   The way your voice is so small, so unlike you, has her bottom lip trembling and her grip on you becomes impossibly tighter, “Please, you can’t go yet…”

   When Astarion spots Shadowheart a twinge of hope twists in his chest, and he wastes no time in running up to her and grabbing ahold of her forearm, “You're needed!”

   “I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment, in case that's gone without notice!” she reptiles, pulling her arm free to cast a firebolt at an advancing goblin

   “I don’t care how bloody busy you are! Tavs dying, damn it!!” he snaps, “Go tend to them and leave these bastards to me!”

   Her eyes widen for a brief second before determination takes over her features. She nods to the pale elf in understanding before darting off in the direction he had come from. Astarion swallows the lump of anxiety in his throat before turning to face the few goblins that she had been dealing with.

   By the time Shadowheart reaches you she's almost afraid that she's too late, but the slight raise of your chest calms her fears, if only temporarily. A blue-green glow encompasses her hands as she kneels next to you, opposite Karlach.

   “Tell me you can fix them Fringe, I can’t fucking lose them”

   The Cleric takes a deep breath as she looks down at your wound. Normally something this bad wouldn’t be a problem, it would exhaust her but she could manage. But after using up as much energy fighting the cultists as she has…she's worried she may not be able to fully mend you.

   “I…I can only try my best Karlach”

    Though she nods in an attempt to remain stoic, a small sob does escape her, and it successfully breaks the half elfs heart. Shadowheart focusses her all on your shoulder then, letting the mending magic flow from her hands and onto your shoulder. The wound begins to close up and your breathing remains steady, which are both good signs. All that's left to worry about is the bloodloss. 

   The feeling of your flesh stitching itself back together is definitely strange, but what's even stranger is how it doesn’t seem to be helping your faint feeling. Your lover must be able to sense your confusion, or at least the fact that something is still off.

   “What is it? What's wrong?”

   Your brows furrow and you choke on your words before going limp in her hold. Panic completely overtakes her then, “Tav?!”

   The sound of feet padding against the dirt nearby is the first thing that your senses register, the next thing is the small stuffed bear tucked under the arm that had been uninjured in battle. You smile softly before opening up your eyes, it takes a moment to adjust to the dimly lit surroundings but once your eyes adjust you can see the silhouettes of everyone sitting around the campfire in the distance. Well, everyone except Scratch and the Owlbear cub who are laying at your feet, standing guard. And Karlach of course, whose pacing was the source of the sound that had likely made you stir.

   “Karlach” you croke out, grabbing her attention immediately 

    She's beside you in a second, her warm hands gently cupping your face and caressing your healed injury, “Oh thank the Gods”

   “I think thanking Shadowheart may be more appropriate”

   A smirk crosses her features, “Oh believe me, I’ll get to that. But right now…Right no I just want to look at you. And hold you.”

   You nod your approval and she gently scoops you into her arms. You return her hug and feel your heart clench in your chest as she nuzzles against your neck, letting her tears land against your bare skin, “Oh, love…”

   She shakes slightly with a sob, “Don’t you ever do that again, you hear me? You had me scared, so fucking scared, soldier.”

   “I’m sorry love, I’ll be more careful in the future.”

   “Damn right you will be. You won’t be allowed to fight more than an arm's length away from me, and I mean that!” she clarifies, snaking her tail around your waist, “I can’t lose you. Not after everything.”

   You hum and run a hand through her hair, trying your best to ignore that pit in your stomach that tells you that all too soon you’ll be the one in her shoes. Begging her to stay, begging for more time and cursing the unfairness of it all.

   “I’m not going anywhere, not while I have you”

   After a few more seconds of soaking in your presence she pulls away to rest her forehead against yours, “We should go see the others, they we worried about you too”

   You lean forward and press your lips against hers briefly, “Alright, let's show them all I’m alright”

   She helps you get to your feet, but when she sees how wobbly you still are she opts to just carry you over to everyone, “Look who's awake!”

   Everyone's heads turn to look at the tiefling carrying you, and the look of relief on their faces as Karlach holds you brings a smile to your face. It truly warms your heart to see just how close this group of misfits has become.

   “Glad to see you're alright, I wouldn’t have known how to comfort any of these weirdos if you weren’t” Astarion quips, but you see the real amount of care and worry in his eyes

   “Well, I can’t leave you in that situation now, can I? Guess I’ll need to be more careful so I can stick around”

   “That would be preferred, yes” the Cleric agrees, offering you a small smile which you return

   Gale passes you and Karlach both bowls of stew, “I agree, we all would be quite lost without you to guide us. But let's stop being melancholy and enjoy this night together”

   You smile and glance back at your lover, “Yes, lets”

[artistesoiree]

Soul Meets Body

After the final battle with the Netherbrain, you and Halsin have found solace in what was once the Shadowlands. Domesticity and nature interweave with your every day life now that you are parents, but for the past few months, something has been missing. Halsin shows you how much he's missed your body.

Pairings: Halsin (dad!) x fem reader (plus sized after giving birth)

Warnings: SMUT, p in v sex, oral (female receiving), breeding kink, body image issues, swearing, angst, hurt/comfort. 18+ MINORS DNI

Word Count: 5.2k

Requested: yes

A/N: As a plus sized fan fic writer, I hardly see plus sized stuff, especially for Halsin so I decided to write something! This fic deals HEAVILY with body image issues of a plus sized reader after giving birth, so please read with caution if that is a trigger for you! ALSO: based on notes and patch updates from Larian, the Shadowlands were renamed the Reclaimed Lands, and in original notes for Halsin, his last name was Silverborough! So that's why those details are included. Also also dad Halsin is my fave ok bye.

The sun hung high in the sky midday, casting beautiful shadows through the leaves of the trees. The nearby laughter of children cascaded throughout the village, leaving a permanent smile on your face wherever you went. Your baby Lora, wrapped snug in a sling on your chest, cooed as you weeded the perimeter of the village, tossing the uprooted plants in a basket for Halsin to use later on.

Little feet scampered past you, calling your name in greeting as you knelt in the soft earth. Every time a little voice graced your ears, you perked up - what a life you were now leading, filled with such hope and joy. You felt lucky from the moment you woke up, to the moment you went to bed, for three reasons: the beautiful children that graced the Reclaimed Lands, which was once the Shadowlands, your beautiful daughter Lora, and of course, Halsin.

Your life had taken on new meaning once the final battle against the Netherbrain was won. Throughout your journey, you thought that the one thing you wanted more than anything was to return to your old life - to go home to the familiarity of Baldur's Gate. But when you had met Halsin - and subsequently fell in love with him - everything had changed, and you found yourself back in the Reclaimed Lands with the Alderman himself, becoming the unofficial parents of more children you had ever expected to have.

Of course, some adults came to the Reclaimed Lands to start anew as well - people pushed out by the curse returning home, or some wanting a fresh start. The little village you now claimed as your own was growing by the week, and nothing filled your heart more than knowing the love you and Halsin had put into cultivating the safe space.

A mere two months after you had gone home to the Reclaimed Lands, you discovered you were with child, baring the tiny bulge of Halsin's baby. It was no surprise to either of you - the elf who wanted to do things "as nature intended" acted on those natural instincts as often as they found him, and the idea of starting a family together was something both you and him couldn't get out of your head.

Once you had become pregnant, Halsin was unsurprisingly the perfect partner. Caring and attentive, you never needed nor wanted for anything. As if he could read your mind, before you could even ask, Halsin would appear with whatever you seemed to crave. Whether it be the particular berries near the river you seemed to want at night, a massage under his giant hands, or even a shoulder to cry on whenever your ankles swelled or back ached, Halsin was there to provide for you.

Your lovemaking never ceased while pregnant, either - in fact, your sex life with Halsin seemed to do nothing but increase. Often times, you caught Halsin staring at you while you absentmindedly cleaned up after dinner, or played with the children during the afternoon - his eyes falling to your growing belly. At night, while you sat on top of him, legs wrapped around his hips as he thrusted into you, he sucked and nibbled on your swollen breasts, his hands gently caressing your belly and large behind.

"How beautiful you are," He would breathe into your ear, your bodies slick with sweat, "Creating this beautiful life inside of you. You are ethereal...I am in awe. I am not worthy of your beauty." He'd cup your cheek and suck on your bottom lip as you quietly cried his name, tears overflowing from your eyes from both pleasure and love.

When Halsin was feeling more territorial, taking you from behind, but still being more gentle than usual, he would lay his chest flat on your back so he could be as deep as his cock would allow. "Knowing that everyone can look at you and see that I did this," He would grunt, his thrusts strong and pleading, "Knowing I filled you with my seed. That I love you so often and so well that the future is growing inside of you. I need it. I crave it," His would say through gritted teeth, "Everyone knows you're mine. And I am yours. Forever."

Once Loradove was born, your sexual appetite had basically ceased. Nights that were once full of screaming and thrusting and panting were now full of changing diapers, aiding cries, and soft lullabies. Halsin, of course, was the most doting father - taking Lora without asking so you could rest, playing with her so you could do some chores, or even doing the chores himself. He was the perfect father - you knew his urges to have you were increasing tenfold as every month passed that you didn't make love. But you also knew he would never complain...thinking only of his sexual urges made him feel selfish, you knew, and he would never want to act selfishly towards you.

It had been five months since Halsin last touched you in that way. Truth be told, it wasn't just that you were too busy with the village and children and your own daughter to have sex. You also couldn't bare to look in the mirror at your newfound "mother" body. A body that, once, when fighting goblins and monsters alongside Halsin and saving Faerun, was taught with muscles and curves. Now, your belly was soft and expanded, the defined muscles you once had nowhere to be found. Stretch marks decorated you stomach and thighs, and you needed a completely new wardrobe. You dreamed of being the type of mother you had known throughout your years - weeks after giving birth somehow going back to what they once were - small and desirable.

You only felt ugly. Looking at Halsin's body, rock solid and sexy, there was absolutely no way - in your mind - he could have found your softness alluring, especially when he had met the smaller, more attractive version of you. The idea of being fully naked in front of him used to send shivers down your spin and make your heart race, but now, it was enough to make you cry.

A child's playful laugh snapped you out of your day dream, your hand limply holding on to a bundle of mugwort that you had pulled a few minutes prior. Shaking your head, you placed it in the basket near your feet, watching Halsin appear into the village around the bend. A few children had run over to him, immediately hanging on his large limbs like he was a tree branch. He smiled and lifted them in the air, sending them flying before he caught them, gently kissing their temples and placing them on the ground.

As his usual way, he scanned the village, his eyes softening when they found you. You stopped weeding and stood, your smile matching his. A few moments later he was by your side, the children trailing behind him. He bent his head to give you a soft kiss - one that still gave you butterflies.

"My heart," He spoke gently, his hand immediately finding your waist. You winced inwardly as he gripped the soft rolls of your side. He slowly pushed back the cloth wrapping that hid Lora's face, and when her eyes met his, she instantly cooed. The smile Halsin reserved for her appeared on his face, and he gently pulled her from the cloth, holding her close. "My little one. How beautiful you are! Were you helping your mother today?" He eyed you, his eyes glittering. You chuckled.

"Quite so. If she wasn't swaddled, I'm sure she'd be reaching for the belladonna to try and have an afternoon snack," You sighed, smiling and wiping your brow, "She's lucky she's so cute."

"Cute?" Halsin asked, his eyebrows raising, "She's magnificent. Breathtaking. She is perfect...cute is nowhere near the word to describe Loradove Silverbough." Suddenly, Lora screeched, causing Halsin to furrow his brows immediately.

Laughing, you gently placed your hand on his bicep, "I think she also is tired."

He chuckled, pressing a small kiss on her cheek, "I will put her down for her nap. Go, do whatever your heart desires, my love. I will see to it that you have the afternoon for yourself. Daddy's got it from here." He winked, causing you to blush.

How the word "daddy" had changed in your lexicon in 9 months.

A few minutes later, you found yourself at the nearby creek on the outskirts of the village, your sweater off and laid beside you in the afternoon heat. Your feet dangled in the cool water, the laughter of the children still around you as you dozed in and out of a nap in the sunlight. Moments like this one were not rare - with Halsin, it truly was a partnership, splitting responsibilities 50/50.

When you opened your eyes again, the sun was setting, a sure sign of heading home. It was almost dinner time, you knew, which meant that you had spent at least a few hours dozing off by the creek. Your feet, wrinkled from being submerged for so long, felt chilly as you took them out of the water. Holding your shoes in your hands, you made the short walk home, passing by the children being herded inside by the adults.

As you opened the front door to your cottage, a whiff of food hit your nostrils, sending your stomach growling - some sort of roast was being prepared, with the sounds of banging pots and giggling coming from the kitchen.

"My heart!" Halsin cried, "Is that you?"

"Yes, I'm home, Halsin." You shouted back, dropping your shoes by the door.

"Lora! Mama's home!" You heard Halsin proclaim, to which Lora responded with a delightful squeal. You smiled, wiping the immediate happy tears from your eyes.

Lucky, lucky, lucky.

As you rounded your way to the kitchen, you found Halsin plating up dinner, Lora in her little feeding chair, bits of mushed food all over her face. She immediately reached for you when she saw you, so you scooped her up, grabbing a towel from a nearby table and wiping her face gently.

"My precious angel, you eat like such a little whirlwind." You murmured, kissing her eyelashes. She cooed and grabbed at your hair as felt Halsin's hand on your shoulder. Turning towards him, he smiled and leaned down to kiss your check, then slowly moved to your earlobe.

"My love," He breathed, his voice low. A shiver went down your spine as you leaned into his body. Your eyelids fluttered shut, the familiar feeling of comfort warming your body. He sighed contently and ushered you towards the chair nearest you, "Sit, my heart. Dinner is ready."

You sat, opening your eyes again and smiling. He placed the plate in front of you, and was about to take Lora from your hands but you shook your head, holding her closer.

"I missed her."

Halsin chuckled and sat across from you, "Of course. If she gets too rowdy while you try to eat, I'll put her back in her chair." He made a face at Lora, who made the same one back - their version of a secret handshake.

Idly chatting about your days, you ate dinner slowly, savoring the moments with the two of them. Soon Lora was starting to fuss, alerting the two of you to her nearing bedtime.

You bathed and dressed her, putting her down in her crib while Halsin washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen. Walking into your bedroom, he was discarding his clothes for the night, slipping into the bed the two of you shared. As you walked in, he smiled.

“Did she go down easy?” He asked. You nodded.

“For the most part. Some tears when she realized that it was bedtime, but she was so exhausted that she went down almost as soon as her back hit the bed.” You took a sleep dress from your closet, putting it over your day clothes. Underneath the dress, you slipped the straps of your shirt off, and then your pants; the way you had gotten changed every night since Lora was young. Halsin said nothing of the intricate dressing, but you knew he watched you every night, probably wondering why his love wouldn’t stand naked in front of him. You turned and he smiled softly, patting the bed next to him.

As you laid next to him he tucked the blankets to your collarbone, kissing your forehead. “Early night? I have quite the day ahead of me tomorrow.” You yawned and nodded, nuzzling into him.

“Yes. I, myself am also exhausted.”

Halsin blew out the lamp and wrapped one of his strong arms around you, falling asleep almost instantly. You closed your eyes as well, but sleep came harder for you - the nap you took earlier in the day apparently robbing you of sleep this evening.

After an hour of tossing and turning, Halsin’s voice spoke in the dark room. “My love…are you alright? Your stirring woke me.”

You huffed as you moved on your side, throwing your arms at your side in the blankets, “I’m sorry, Halsin. I’m having a hard time falling asleep.”

Halsin was silent for a moment, but you felt him move closer to you, as he had drifted a bit during sleep, an arm wrapping around your waist. He started to pepper kisses on your neck, his breath hot in your ear. Eventually, his hand lightly palmed at your breast, your nipple gently pinched in between his fingers.

“Well…if you can’t sleep…maybe we can make use to the extra time given to us.” He whispered in your ear, rolling your nipple in his hand. Your heart fluttered, but you felt your stomach drop. Gently pushing him away, you turned to him.

“Halsin…” You started, unsure of what to say. This wasn’t the first time Halsin had tried to have sex with you since Lora was born, but every time he had tried previously, your excuses of being tired seemed more plausible. Now that it was five months, you weren’t quite sure what to say.

The hand that palmed your breast found its way to your cheek. “Please, my heart. Talk to me. I don’t want to pry, especially after you have given me the gift of our beautiful daughter…but why won’t you let me make love to you?”

In the darkness, you felt like you could cry. How could you explain to this man - this sweet, caring man - how you felt so uncomfortable with the idea of sleeping together? How you were afraid to show him what your body had become…how you were afraid that, if he saw you, he wouldn’t think of you the same?

It wasn't as if you didn't want to have sex with him - your heart stirred often when you saw him. There were so many nights where you just wanted to reach out to him - to bury his head in between your legs, or take his member in your mouth. Often you were so pent up with sexual frustration that when Halsin left the cottage, and Lora was down for a nap, you had to pleasure yourself in order to find some sort of release.

As his thumb stroked your cheek with such care, you knew it wasn’t fair to him to leave him in the dark like that. To leave him wondering if he had done something wrong, no matter how embarrassing your reasonings seemed.

You swallowed your nerves, placing your hand on his. “My body…” You started, your voice low. You could already feel the tremble in your voice as you held back tears, uncomfortable with your admission of these feelings, “My body is not the same as it was when we first met. When we…first fell in love.”

“Of course it isn’t,” He spoke plainly, “You have given birth, given Lora the gift of life. It is as nature has intended it - change is inevitable, and your body is meant to change when you grow full as one does when pregnant, my love.”

“No, that’s - that’s not what I meant,” You sighed, trying again. “What I mean is…my body is not…as nice as it was when we met. As…beautiful. As…sexy. I’m afraid you’ll look at it and be…disappointed. Dissatisfied.” Though you couldn’t really see him, you cast your eyes down to your sleep shirt, unable to look in the direction of his eyes.

A large span of silence passed. Slowly, he lowered the hand cradling your cheek. Heat rose in your body, flushing your cheeks.

"How...could you say something like that?" Halsin eventually asked, "Your body is beautiful, no matter what it looks like. You think a little softness will deter my yearning for you?"

"It's not just 'softness', Halsin," You said, the tears spilling from your cheeks, "It's...rolls. It's stretchmarks. Dimples and expanded skin where there was none before."

Suddenly, the oil lamp on the bedside table was lit. Halsin stared down on you, his brows furrowed in sadness. He took your face in his hands, kissing away the tears that had spilled.

"Oh, my love," He sighed in between kisses, "If only you could peak inside my heart...inside my brain. So you knew that my words match how I really feel, that I am not exaggerating," Pulling away, he smiled softly and looked into your eyes, "Your body. Is beautiful. It is a beautiful work of nature - of art. Your size does not dictate how badly I want to be inside of you. Your soul does. I love your body in every way it comes...would you stop stirring for me if I had added rolls and marks? If I had dimples on my thighs, or added skin on my belly?"

You smiled at his tenderness, which you always somehow knew he would respond with. "Of course not."

"So please know that when I mean my body stirs for you, I mean it. I would never want you to feel pressured or uncomfortable, but know that I have fantasized about ravaging you ever since the cleric gave us permission to make love after Loradove's birth. If you'll have me...please let me show how much I yearn for you."

You bit your lip, looking at him. He was completely nude - as he slept every night - and was on top of you. The very sight of him was causing an ache in your core, and you pressed your thighs together. Slowly, you leaned your head forward, pressing your lips to his.

At first, it was gentle, but as you felt his body press into yours, you very quickly found yourself get carried away, your tongue pressing into his mouth. Very gladly he opened his mouth, his tongue dancing with yours. He immediately wrapped his arms around your waist, and as you felt his erection press into you, you moaned. Nervously, you reached down to the hem of your sleep dress, but desperate to feel Halsin's skin on yours (and to get it over with), you grabbed the dress and pulled it over your head, discarding it on the floor.

There.

It was over with.

The one thing you had been so anxious over - finally being naked with Halsin again - had finally happened. You had discarded your clothes in front of him, being fully naked with him for the first time since you had given birth. Holding your breath - wracked with nerves - you watched his eyes take your body in. He didn't speak for several moments as his eyes moved from your head, all the way to your feet multiple times. He moved one of his hands from behind your back, to slowly tracing lines down your body, sending shivers up your spine. Dipping his head to your body, he started to slowly kiss you, gently planting kisses on your stomach, on your thighs, paying extra attention to the stretchmarks that covered your lower half.

Finally, he looked into your eyes, and you realized they were glassy with tears. He shook his head slowly and he enveloped your lips in a kiss that was so passionate, it knocked the wind out of you. When he pulled away, he cupped your cheeks once more.

"For you to think that you are anything other than beautiful is a thought I never want you to have again," He spoke, his voice low, "I covet every mark, every dimple, every soft roll on your body. Regardless if you gave life or not...your body is a beautiful work of nature, and if I need to make love to you every night in order for you to see it, I will gladly sacrifice." He smiled lightly, kissing you again. Shivers ran up your spine as he lowered his fingers to tease your clit. Once he felt how wet you were, he moaned into the kiss, "Silvanus help me, you're going to make me finish before I even start."

His touch sent shockwaves through your system - five months of your pent up sexual desires for Halsin were starting to unravel, causing you to careen to your orgasm faster than you ever have in your life. As Halsin rubbed circles on your aching clit, you whimpered, your arms finding their way around his neck. He held you close as he brought you closer.

"My gorgeous, gorgeous, girl," He whispered, kissing your temple. The combination of his increasingly deep movements on your clit, and the tender whispered nothings in your ear was leaving you overstimulated.

"Halsin...I'm already close." You whined, gently biting down on his shoulder. He chuckled and growled at the bite, taking his fingers off of your clit and inserting two of them inside your cunt.

"Already? My heart...I'm afraid I will be sending you over the edge many times tonight if that's how long you are going to last." As he pumped into your pussy, you threw your head back, pressing your back into the bed. Quickly, he slid down your body, gently kissing you along the way. He never stopped pumping his fingers, but as soon as his head reached your core, he pressed your legs open with his nose to suck on your clit, taking it in his mouth in its entirety. He moaned loudly, his tongue lapping over your entire pussy, the wet sounds emanating from the two you absolutely sinful.

Arching your back, your vision started to fuzz as you squeezed your eyes shut. As you looked down at Halsin, he seemed absolutely enthralled by you, his face reminiscent of the eating a delicious meal. His fingers curled upwards as he continued to switch between sucking on your clit, to lapping at your folds with his large, flat tongue.

"Gods, I'm going to come!" You whined, gripping his hair as he sucked. He didn't deviate from his movements, completely focused on making you feel his ecstasy. As you bucked your hips into his face, your orgasm crashed around you, Halsin inserting one more finger to pump into you to send you over the edge.

You screamed his name, so loudly you felt like you were going to blackout. Halsin continued on for several moments before he pulled away slowly, taking in the sight of you writhing underneath him. His chest was heaving as he gripped your thighs, his eyes dancing as he took you in. When you finally calmed down enough, you opened your eyes, looking into his.

Immediately, you burst into tears.

"I was so scared to do that." You confessed, your tears spilling over. You laughed, embarrassed, as Halsin leaned forward to kiss you.

"Never," He said, his tongue sliding on your lower lip, "Never be scared with me. Never again."

Resting your hands on his solid chest, you felt your desire focus, watching Halsin stroke his cock above you. You moaned at the sight of him - large, and beautiful, and fucking perfect.

You would never go this long without him again.

"Halsin, if I don't have you inside of me soon, I think I'm going to go crazy." You said, reaching down to help him with his strokes. His mouth fell open and he lolled his head back, murmuring your name. He took your hand from his erect penis to his mouth, kissing it gently before he lined himself up with you.

"Anything you desire, my heart." He said, before taking your hands and pinning them above your head. He held your wrists with one hand as he slowly slid inside of you, never breaking eye contact. The further he slid in, the more you two moaned, brows furrowed. Once he bottomed out, he growled. "Hells - I do not think I'll be lasting too long, either."

You laughed and he chuckled, winking at you before he began to thrust. Slow and deliberate, he grunted with his movements, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

You couldn't help but moan - there was no trying to stay quiet anymore. The past few months of not having Halsin had made you so pent up, that any touch from him seemed to cause your core to stir.

Picking up his pace, the headboard creaked. Halsin palmed at one of your tits, dipping his head to suck on your nipple. You arched your back so he could take you deeper in his mouth, and soon, he started to suck on the skin around your nipple. Heat rushed to your head as waves of pleasure continued to spread throughout your body.

As the two of you fucked, you were sloppy, messy. Noise and juices and movements shared between the two of you with no regard, with no holding back. Both of you were desperate for each other's touch, your whole body felt like it was on fire.

Eventually, as Halsin thrusted into you, he spread your legs with his other hand, abandoning your wrists above your head. After he spread your legs, he pressed one of his large fingers to your clit, circling it slowly.

"You, are so beautiful," He spoke, every word accentuated with a thrust, "The most beautiful creature nature has ever created. The most beautiful creature I have ever seen."

"Gods, Halsin - you make me feel so good. You fuck me so good." Your whimpers were bordering on incoherent as he fucked you, but it didn't matter. You were safe - you were fucking the love of your life, and Hells did it feel good.

"That's it," He spoke, moving your legs so you were on your side. He stopped thrusting for a moment to adjust you, closing your legs on his cock so he could thrust deeper, "That's it, my beautiful goddess," He be began to thrust again, and palmed at your tits, "I love this body. You are so beautiful. I love you."

"I love you too," You moaned, your back arching, gripping the sheets underneath you, "Daddy, I love you."

Halsin's eyes were set ablaze at your words. Your use of Daddy before Lora was around during sex, but you had a feeling that it took on a whole new meaning while you fucked him. He smiled, wiping the sweat from his brow. You could tell by his thrusts that he was nearing his edge, which was soon for Halsin.

It seemed the five months had the same affect on him, too.

"Daddy's fucking you good?" He groaned, grabbing a fistful of your ass. He squeezed hard before winding his hand back, giving you a tight slap on one of your cheeks, "You like it when Daddy fucks you like this?"

"Yes!" You screamed, grabbing hold of his forearm, "Gods, you make me feel so good!"

His grip on your ass tightened as he started to switch between his thrusts - slow and measured, and rough, pounding into you so hard his cock coming in contact with your cunt made a loud SMACK noise with every movement. Your walls clenched around him as he roughly gripped your hips, his hair becoming wet with sweat. Every time you clenched around his cock he growled, a noise that reminded you of an animal - feral, full of wanting.

"You're going to make me come," He said, his chest heaving. The sound of his cock and balls slapping against your wet core filled the room at an increased pace, and he didn't stop. "I'm going to fill you, my heart."

"Fill me," You commanded, looking into his eyes. Halsin groaned and leaned forward, his forehead touching yours. With three more thrusts, he growled and released, filling you with his orgasm. A silent scream came from his lips, followed by him murmuring your name over and over again. He bucked his hips a few more times to drain himself in you before he slowly slid out, immediately cradling you in his arms.

Both of you were panting, sweating, but you didn't care. You were holding on to each other for dear life, thankful for how the night turned out.

Halsin kissed every inch of you from your chest up, cupping your face with the utmost care. Pulling away, he looked at you.

"You put the stars in the sky, my heart," He spoke, gently kissing you. "The moon...the sun...they pale in comparison to your beauty," Gently running his hands over your body, he titled his head, "How do you feel?"

Still catching your breath, you smiled at him, "Incredible. Beautiful." You answered, honestly.

Halsin's face lit up and he pressed a kiss to you again. His tongue found its way into your mouth, and soon, his body was pressing against yours again, his pent up desire found his movements.

"If you give me just a bit of time, I would love to make you feel beautiful again." He spoke, sending shivers up your spine. Brushing a piece of hair out of your face, you were about to reply.

Suddenly, Lora cried from her room. Both of you stopped in your tracks, and when you realized she wasn't going to stop, you bot started to laugh. You went to get up from bed, but Halsin gently pushed you down, springing up himself.

"Rest, my love. I have here," He started to walk out of the room, but turned back quickly, "When I come back into this room, you better not have put your clothes back on."

You giggled and titled your head, feeling seductive for the first time in Gods knows how long, "Mr. Halsin, if you don't watch yourself, you're going to have put yet another baby in me."

Halsin's eyes darkened, and you knew you hit his desires on the head. His cock twitched and he coughed, trying to control himself. "Who says that's not the plan?" He asked, before slipping into Lora's room.

You laid back down on the bed, your breathing returning to normal. From the other room, you heard Halsin speaking softly to your daughter, singing her a lullaby to get her to go back to sleep. Pulling the covers over your body, you relished in the feeling of the blankets on your naked skin. Sighing happily, you moved your legs around in the bed, the sensation spreading warmth throughout your body.

How lucky you were.

---

If you liked this one, don't forget to leave a comment. Thank you all for reading!

[artistesoiree]

Rockford & Roses - A Detective Tim Rockford One Shot 🌹

Summary: Tim's coming home to you on Valentine's night with a heavy heart and secrets that threaten to tear you apart. Can your love for him survive the ghosts of his past that still haunt him? More importantly, are you willing to make room for them in your already strained marriage?

Pairing: Det. Tim Rockford x Wife!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 5k-ish

Scoville Smut Rating: None, it's fluff. Mostly angst. Definite angst. You're safe. Kinda.

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/Triggers: Alludes to smut, nothing detailed/mentions details of a case involving the murder of a child, nothing too graphic/alcoholism/A N G S T in abundance/some dark themes in the sense that Tim is self-destructing. Tim is very a broken man, poor lamb. Give him a hug, will you?

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: This story evolved massively from the direction it was going in originally, and I'm actually kinda pleased about that... It's something different from your typical, "schmoozy" Valentine's Day story, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.🌹

MAIN MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

Detective Tim Rockford had been sober for almost a year when it all fell apart completely on that terrible night. 

But it wasn’t until the winter was in its latter stages, that he would tip fully over the edge into regular, almost daily, bouts of oblivion to keep himself from falling off the ledge completely.

To keep the nightmares and sense of guilt that he drowned in on a near constant basis at bay. 

He unscrews the cap from the bottle of dark amber liquid he’s craftily been hiding under the seat in his car, and swallows it all back letting it slip down his throat.

Without him giving it permission to, his mind replays over the events from that fateful night, four years ago, and is brought back to the little girl lying at the bottom of the ravine just off of the ridge. 

A call had come in about a missing child on the morning in question, and he and his partner Peter ‘Petey’ Harman went over to the home of the parents to talk to them about it. You know, do the initial questioning; worker bee stuff. Try to suss out if she was a regular runaway or if in fact one of them had stuffed her under the foundations and was crying wolf.

The family home was nice; an average run-of-the-mill house, in an average run-of-the-mill neighbourhood. Tim was presented with a photo of her from her mother and he remembered thinking that he’d missed his chance to be a father, to watch your belly swell and witness the miracle of life forged from your love, and it left a bitter taste. 

She was cute as a button; all brown hair and freckles, and she had this blue, silk princess-dress, with lace collars and cuffs, wearing a gonky smile that was missing a tooth or three. 

‘Find my baby, please Tim.’ Her mother had begged him whilst Harman took down the notes - he was good with that stuff - and Tim promised her that he would - knowing that a detective should never promise that - if it was the last thing he ever did. Not knowing that he would actually make good on that word further down the line. 

Looking again at the picture, he learned it was her favourite dress, her mother had said it through the red eyes that she wore that pretty dress everywhere, and that she turned into the spawn of Satan himself when she tried to get her out of it so it could be cleaned.

It was also the same dress Tim had found her wearing when he discovered her remains.

The search had been dragged out as much as it could be, but there was no trace of her. Leads had been exhausted; those pulled in for questioning were found innocent and their alibis solid.

It was as if Rainie Thompson had vanished off the surface of the planet in a click of a finger.

The search efforts began to die off around the four week point, mostly due to the heavy snow settling in and it pained him to know that everyone was giving up on finding this little girl - a little girl that he was convinced was still alive - she just had to be; he could feel it in his gut.

Some perverted bastard had her and he was determined to make them feed from a tube for their rest of their life when he found them.

Tim was determined to find her, despite his colleagues and even Harman at times, convincing him it was a lost cause. He’d been spending most of his time - including down time - combing the woods, the parks - everywhere and anywhere he could think to try and find her.

Where are you, baby? She consumed him wholly.

She was what kept your husband away from you.

Left you sat at the dining table alone, with an uneaten plate opposite you and a creeping draft settling into your bones. The creaky sounds of the house seemed louder when you were alone, and soon they were your only companion; their creaks soon turning into words of comfort at an absent husband.

Tim left the space in the bed vacant, crease-free and cold beside you. 

Tim wasn’t exactly devout or the God-fearing type. He’d been to church only a handful of times in his life; to marry you being the most notable, but after that day he’d especially not been back to a church since.

Tim’s whole world had come tumbling down when he’d picked Rainie up and cradled her small, cold body to his chest and wailed like he had lost his own beau.

No, baby... no.

He cursed up to the sky, as though having it out with God himself - God, who had allowed this innocent, beautiful child to die.

This is how faith dies in a person; violated and fractured. Altered and hollowed out from the inside and everything pure and good is obliterated by the poisoning fingers of the darkness in the world, wrapping their hands tightly around its neck and simply snapping it in two.

Fuck you, God! Damn you, you son of a bitch! 

Rainie Thompson was the one who killed him. 

She had been thrown down in there like a puppet whose strings had become entangled with themselves; she was six-years-old.

Rainie Thompson was six-years-old and she had a little, blue dress and played Hopscotch and liked drawing pictures of red roses, and eating chocolate ice-cream until her tummy hurt.

To date, he hasn’t found the killer and it’s been four years. A one-off, grisly murder that hinted at possible cannibalism, but later was discovered she’d been partly eaten by a wild animal scavenging; it left very little in the way of clues or evidence, because there was very little of her left.

Tim cried through the drinking, mourning her like his own and mourning the part of him that was dying with her; a hollow husk of a man soon to be filled by the familiar numbing void that alcohol had to offer.

It would make him forget the horror; forget the depravity, although the nightmares would never relent, he would be certain of that - they never do. 

Most of his team concluded it absolutely was an animal of some kind, a cougar happened upon her perhaps, or a bear after she'd wandered off? But Tim did not quite believe that - they didn’t see her. 

He closed up, closed off and began unknowingly cementing the spiralling destruction that was to be his life. He’s fifty-eight and has nothing anymore.

It’s changed him, changed something within Tim to see the world for what it is. The band-aid has been ripped off and once you see that shit, you can never unsee it again.

And Tim's seen some pretty fucked up shit in his career.

Well, that’s not entirely true, he has you.

He swigs again at the bottle. It feels good; the warm, numbing sensation flooding through his veins down both his arms and legs. The giddy onslaught of amnesia begins to twinkle around the edges of alert thinking as he slowly succumbs to the light buzz.

Despite the distance that has grown between you, evolving from carnal desire to ships passing silently in the night, you remain steadfast in your love for Tim, silently supporting him as he battles the demons that threaten to consume him wholly.

Yet he can’t help but feel that he's condemned you already in some ways. Watching as those demons hold you down and tear pieces from you until, one day, they'll be nothing left. 

The wife of a gritty detective doesn't bode well in a happily ever after.

His decades long career is the reluctant third wheel in your marriage, and at first you admired his dedication; his passion to solving mysteries. Getting excited yourself when he'd use the dining room walls to gather his thought maps, pinning up mug shots, red thread lines linking people and place and circumstance. Weapons of choice like an elaborate game of Clue.

And he'd talk to you about them in those early days, the tamer cases he had. Mugs of coffee and thoughtful kisses exchanged as you offered your opinion and challenged his thinking.

Now it's getting harder not to resent that damn gold badge.

He closes his eyes and lets himself teeter on the edge of it, welcoming the calmness like an old friend. 

His first heavy session had led to his first blackout and it had scared him; scared him that he could lose a chunk of time that was unaccounted for out of his life - waking up at home fully clothed in the armchair, sometimes the kitchen floor, knowing he'd driven severely under the influence, and equally amazed and relieved that he hadn’t killed anybody in the process. They would take his badge for that recklessness if they knew. 

No-one knew. Or if they did, they never mentioned it.

His father never prepared him for that shit and was right when he said he hadn’t got the cajones to be a police officer all those years ago.

But it wasn’t enough to stop him. It got him through the paralysing fear of handling those dark days, which were particularly brutal, and the other fucked up cases he’d had to solve since.

They tell you; tell you that it will be difficult and bad, but you’re never prepared for it.

His father headed up the ranks of Chief in a suburban precinct elsewhere and eventually made Commander, like Tim knew he would, probably just to spite him. He also told Tim in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t "Commander material." Hell, he wasn’t even Detective’s material, and for a while, Tim believed sincerely that he was right.

Although, he’s six feet under now, so what the Hell does he know? Shot in the back during a supermarket raid gone awry when he’d popped out to buy a newspaper and a some smokes. Commander John Rockford shot by a drugged up lil’ pipsqueak looking to get cash for his next score - what a legacy! 

His death left a nice, fat pension for his mother who squandered most of it on a gambling addiction that she’d always had looming in the background of his childhood; the root of many a ferocious argument witnessed between his parents when they thought he was tucked up in bed, and he could literally hear the punch from his father’s fist make contact with his mother’s jaw.

But that didn’t stop the fact that his words clung to Tim like a bad shadow most days, even now, long after his theatrical send off like he was a Goddamned hero or something. He wasn’t; he was a mean little asshole with a bad temper and Tim had been glad to see the back of him, too sloshed to remember much of the funeral at all and cutting his no good mother out of his life soon after. 

Tim swigs from the bottle once more, the sting dying out slowly and melting into an alkaline that soon tastes of nothing. It’s all nothing; emptiness and voids that are getting harder to fill. Disassociating himself from his shitty past life; from his first wife and her erratic behaviour, which took him years to figure out, was probably his erratic behaviour that had pushed her away and out of their home for good, not that he’d truly cared to notice.

Work all but consumed him. And he was happy to let it.

Of course, he’d gone to AA; out of town where nobody would know who he was - an upstanding pillar of the community, yeah right - talking about your problems, laying them all out there in front of a bunch of strangers who were just as fucked up as you were, was difficult because, up until that point Tim had never recognised or considered that he had a problem; just a mechanism he relied upon that helped him cope. 

But he did; was sober for a while, until Rainie Thompson obliterated him.

Having to take a moral inventory of himself and dig into the suppressed emotions he was hanging onto, and using them as an excuse to inebriate himself through the day, was hard.

The hardest thing he'd ever done, doubting he was strong enough to climb those twelve steps - and he wasn’t even really sure that he wanted to.

He takes another quick swig after spotting Harman coming out the Gas n’ Guzzle and shoves it back under the seat covertly.

Harman finds Tim sitting as he left him, squeezing the steering wheel inside of his deft hands, over and over, trying to make sense of everything and when exactly the world had become such a terrible and unforgiving place - but is coming up short. 

Gas stations are the most uninspiring places to get a decent cuisine that won’t make you shit ten tons the next day, but it's late; Detective Petey Harman is tired and hungry for just about anything right now, no matter how crappy it would taste or make him feel in twelve hours’ time as it burns through its exit out of his anal passage.

Once back inside the car, Tim scrutinises the large brown paper bag filled to the brim that Petey rifles around in, before pulling out a dire looking sandwich and handing it to his senior. 

“You planning a sleepover with your girly friends or summin’?” Tim questions him.

There are several boxes of microwave pizzas, a bag of extra-large puffy marshmallows, various microwaveable meats in packet sauces that look questionable in their paleness, a jar of chocolate dipping spread and a large bottle of orange and pineapple Cactus Cooler. 

“Nah... No girly friends for me.” Petey says, sombrely. “Weekly shop.”

“Well, watch your damned cholesterol.” Tim tears into the plastic packaging to be met with disappointment the moment he puts the sandwich in his mouth. 

Petey can smell the waft of alcohol lingering in the car but he doesn’t mention it. Just like all the other times he's smelt it coming out of Tim’s mouth when he speaks, making his eyes water.

Petey was not long into being a newbie; a junior ranking officer in the department and up until a year ago or so now, had been making pretty good at busting low-level criminals successfully, to the point that he hadn’t really taken the gig that seriously, thinking at times he was invincible.

Instead, Tim was mirthed with disappointment as Petey's cheeks flushed a crimson red as he stared into his laminated menu, tacky with barbecue sauce residue, and tucking said balls firmly inside himself.

So much so that he had his thumbs in his belt loops and his shooter on show proudly like they do in Miami Vice as he and his reluctant mentor Tim, solved bleak mysteries together.

They’d stopped in for a burger break at Lafferty’s Grill on the day of Rainie being reported missing; talking about the pretty waitress giving Petey a lingering smile, and Tim trying to persuade him that he actually had a pair of balls and should use them to go and talk to her.

Petey had to grow up fast; he knew that the moment he’d heard Tim yelling at him crazily when he’d found the child’s remains whilst they scouted around for her aimlessly one night after Tim was trying for weeks to hold it together.

It was an image that still gave Petey nightmares, and the sounds of Tim sobbing still made his blood run cold when he thought about it, but it was far less frequent now.

He’d been promoted since to Detective, taking the job more seriously and knuckling down; his life coming up roses whilst Tim’s fell out the bottom of his ass. 

“Shit.” He mutters. 

Speaking of roses, Tim looks up mid-chew on something that the label assures him is tuna fish, and spots something red and velvety clustered in the window of the gas station.

He spies the date on the radio and sighs out heavily, tossing the sandwich back in the plastic packaging. 

“You good? I got a BLT if you want that instead?” Petey asks. 

"No. Fuck no. Wait, you gave me the shitty tuna when you had bacon?" Tim frowns.

"Was gonna save it."

The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting a harsh glare over the rows of snacks and drinks lining the shelves. His weary eyes fall upon the sad display of the florals. A few wilted roses, their once vibrant petals drooping with neglect, sitting haphazardly in a cheap plastic bucket.

With that, Tim exits the car, the driver side door squeaking on his beaten Pontiac and his trench coat billowing in the wind as he makes his way inside the gas station.

Tim grimaces, knowing they’re far from the bouquet you deserve. 

His mind flashes back to the drawings of roses on Rainie Thompson's bedroom wall and how, for a time, they engulfed him, tracing his fingers over the waxy ridges of their messy circles.

Tim was sitting on her bed, clutching a stuffed bear with a plaid neckerchief that smelled of talc and her mother informed him the bear's name: Tim. Or Timmy. Timmy the Teddy.

He remembers squeezing that damn bear tightly as he took in the surroundings of the little girl's room, trying to work out where she was - where are you, baby? - When he spotted the drawings.

He kept one, pulling it off the wall and folding it neatly into squares until it fit in his wallet. A reminder that she would be with him, crying in his ear for him to bring her back home to her mommy and daddy.

She never stopped crying and wailing in his ear; the pitch growing until he drowned it out with the booze.

With a resigned sigh, he plucks a handful of the least wilted roses from the bucket and makes his way to the counter. The clerk eyes him curiously as Tim approaches, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of their lips.

He remembers the pictures, full of clumsy scribbles, bulbs of red crayon petals and skinny green stalks. Kind of how the roses look now in the bucket staring out at him; a sad little gift from beyond the grave in their macabre despair. 

He hears it again now, that crying, right beside him. He squeezes his eyes shut, a few moments of forcing it into white noise.

Tim ignores the silent judgement, focusing instead on paying for the flowers and grabbing a bottle of wine from the shelf by the counter. The wine selection is vastly limited, but he purchases a bottle of red without giving it much thought and hoping it won't taste like sharp vinegar.

He pays for his thoughtlessness, and hurries back to his car, the weight of his guilt and exhaustion pressing down on him like crushing lead.

“Get out,” he gruffs to Petey as he starts the engine. 

Petey gulps down his sandwich with a splutter. “What?”

“You’re walkin’ home tonight.” Tim announces with eyebrows knitted, and Petey rolls his eyes, fumbling with his shopping and splitting the bag in the process. 

"Aww man. You're kidding me?"

“Roses won’t cut it this time, Tim.” Petey whines, as Tim reverses before he can even shut the door. 

"I gotta get home. You didn't tell me it was fuckin' Valentine's." Tim scowls.

"Big deal. It's just another day." And Tim can hear the bitterness of being single and alone awash in Petey's mouth with stale bread, lettuce and bacon.

"Out." Tim presses.

He’s right. Despite his bumbling ineptitude, Petey’s right - it won’t cut it.

Tim can’t even believe the sight of the wilted roses sitting on the passenger seat, mocking him and reminding him of all of his failings to you. It wasn't always like this, he's sure of it. Somewhere in the recesses of his tempestuous mind, he knows you were happy; he made you happy at some point, right?

It’s late, almost midnight which ironically, is the earliest Tim has been home in a long time.

He remembers how happy you were when you exchanged vows and gold bands, gorgeous in your little lace smock dress, beaming up at him. Fuck, it seems like a lifetime ago.

Burgers and beers on the bonnet of his car, he had a chevy back then, and watching breathtaking sunsets, and going to the movies when he was off duty.

He would bring you roses then. Fluffy, sumptuous blooms that almost guaranteed him a bigger helping of your cherry pie with the perfect, sweet crust, and extra kisses that led to him detaining you in the sheets, reminding you that you had the right to remain loud, to scream his name when he made you come.

He brought you real roses back then. Not these... weeds.

With a deep breath, he gathers the roses in his arms and makes his way to the front door. As he pushes it open and steps into the warmth of your shared home, the scent of your perfume catches his nose making it twitch.

He remembers that scent, like a sucker punch to the jaw. As he inhales deeply, the memories come flooding back, transporting him to a time when life was simpler, when the weight of the world hadn't yet settled upon his broad shoulders.

He can almost feel the warmth of your hand in his, your laughter echoing in his ears like sheet music. The feel of his cock inside your wet tightness as he fucked you into the mattress and you clawed at the expanse of his back leaving red welts on his skin from your nails for days after.

You couldn't get enough of each other once, and now you're barely strangers.

He steps into the deep bellows of the house searching for you, and finds you on the couch, wiping frantically at swollen eyes that have obviously been crying.

And the guilt drowns him instantly, crushing him like a tsunami as he sees you there, small and withered, worse than the roses he dared to bring home to you.

He longs to spend time with you, his darling wife, but the relentless pursuit of justice consumes every waking moment, pollutes every free thinking thought.

Looking down at them and frowning, Tim is disgusted with himself. He tosses them onto the table wanting to be free of the wretched things.

He protects you from his work now, but consequently, and unwittingly, protects you from him, too. 

You can only watch from afar as Tim pours himself into the work, and pours himself another glass to compensate for the scars it leaves.

You know he’s haunted by the very vestiges of unsolved cases stacking up on his desk that he never talks to you about anymore. Closes the files of grisly crime scene photos before you have a chance to see them.

Often, you’d wake in the early hours of the morning to find Tim slumped in his armchair, surrounded by case files; his brow furrowed in comatose concentration, glasses almost fully sliding off the bridge of his nose.

Each night, you would leave a warm meal on the table and wait anxiously for his return, hoping that he’ll come home early to eat with you, your heart heavy with worry and your hair turning whiter in the process.

More often than not, you dine with bitterness and disappointment.

An empty bottle always rusticates beside him on the floor.

You can’t remember the last time Tim slept in your bed with you. The last time he held you in those strong, broad arms of his that you know he has hidden under that trench coat. 

You can't remember the last time Tim made love to you and whispered how beautiful you are in your ear with whimpering grunts as he filled you up. 

“I ordered your favourite. Number seventy-three with a side of nineteen.” You sniff. "I got extra twenty-two because they always give us an odd number."

Tim is crestfallen as he steps forward, the faint glow of something flickering on the dining table pulls his sight.

A candle, close to being exhumed by the deathly kiss of its barely remaining wick, and unopened boxes of now cold Chinese take-out litter the table. 

“Darling, I...” Tim stops, for he knows nothing he can say can absolve this. On the most romantic night of the year, Tim has failed you, yet again. “I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t, Tim” you raise your hand shaking your head despondently. “Just don’t.” 

"I didn't mean to be late. Not tonight.”

A small ghost of a smile evaporates on your lips. “You never mean to be late. Yet you always are.”

“The case-”

“It's not about the case, Tim," you say, your voice foggy with emotion. "It's about us. About the fact that you're always putting everything else before me."

He notes the roses again, bearing witness to his shame; their haggard state mocking him once more and he curses inwardly. 

“I’m so, so sorry,” he approaches as you stand, arms wrapping around yourself and glass cutting tracks down your cheeks. 

“I packed a bag…” You say as his eyes follow yours to a small suitcase in the hall that he didn’t even notice when he came in. passed right by it, oblivious. And he suddenly wonders what else he's been missing all these years, as it registers in his gut.

But you shake your head, tears falling freely now. "I can't do this anymore, Tim," you say, your voice barely a whisper. "I can't keep waiting for you to come home to me. To open up to me and tell me what’s eating at you. I know it's something bad, something terrible. And I want to help, I do, I'm your wife. I want to make it better. But you make it so difficult. You push me away."

“No.” Tim states with a croak in his throat. He shakes his head vehemently. "No, darling."

Tim steps forward, the suitcase filling him with terrific dread. "You're leaving me?"

You're surprised that he's surprised.

“To protect you.” He says with a low voice.

“Who's protecting you, Tim?"

"I don't-"

"I don't know who you are anymore. The man I fell in love with, he's... a ghost.”

“Tell me, or I’m leaving... for good.” You warn. "If you ever cared about me at all, you'll tell me what's killing you. Please..."

“I…” words fail him as you look at him with a deep sadness that will stay etched on the thin fibre of his soul forever. A stain that won't wash out, no matter how much he scrubs.

You were the one. You're his one. And he's fucking losing you.

You shake your head in despair, wiping your eyes harder now, when he doesn’t say anything. Just swallows the lumpy constriction in his throat and stares at you with hollow eyes.

"Goodbye, Tim." You sniffle.

“Rainie Thompson, she loved roses...” Tim mutters thickly as you approach the hall.

“They look just how she drew them.” Tim says, his voice breaking, until his face caves in fully, features drowning in the onslaught of emotions, and for the first time you witness this unwavering man crumble completely. 

You stop, turning to face him.

"Who's Rainie Thompson?" You ask fearing the immediate worst.

You expect him to reveal to you that he's been unfaithful. That's he's not just been putting the hours in solely at work. That he brings roses - roses that are alive - to another woman. He eats her cherry pie now, fucks her into the mattress.

That he drinks because of the guilt of hurting you. But what he says instead alters a part of you that you don't think you'll ever get back.

And it terrifies you. For if he, the strongest man you've ever known, can break like this, what hope is there for you?

You rush to him as he collapses to his knees with a heavy thud, and wraps his arms around your waist, sobbing into the softness of your tummy.

You shush him and stroke your fingers through the greying curls, matted with sweat at the back of his neck. He holds onto you tighter than he’s ever done and you're afraid to let go of him. 

Afraid that he won't ever stop bawling, as he mumbles incoherently and snottily into your abdomen.

Hours pass by, Valentine's Day gone in a blink of an eye, and you listen carefully and woefully as Tim recounts the haunting tale of Rainie Thompson, and how she's slowly killed the man you love.

Away from his cases, away from the horror of it all. Hell, he even mentions early retirement in his pertinent desperation, until you pat his hand gently and ground him with a stroking cup to his grizzled cheek.

You sit at the dining table with his thick, gun-calloused hands inside of yours, stroking over the ridges of his knuckles and listening to him swear to you that’ll get help with the drinking.

That he’ll take some leave and the two of you can go to the beach, or the lake, or somewhere where it can just be the two of you for a while.

You smile lightly as you gather the roses, and try to push aside your cynicism and wonder if you’ll regret not actually leaving tonight. Wonder if all what Tim has fed you is more empty promises when he'll eventually slip back into that expected monotony.

“They’re already dead.” He mutters apologetically to you, shaking his head at the sight of them. 

But you can see some swill of sincerity and regret inside the brown muddy pools of Tim’s tired eyes that you've never seen before.

He silently watches you pull the dead outer petals from the roses before placing them in a vase with fresh water. 

“Some things can come back to life, Tim, with some love.” You smile softly and Tim wants to just die in your arms right now. 

“I don’t deserve you, darling.” Tim says, reaching for you.

You lick your lips as you graze your nose against the warmth of his neck, allowing him to finally crush you close to his broad chest, before the handle of his gun digs you uncomfortably in the breast.

He hasn’t yet taken off his trench, and you help it from his shoulders, the smell of worn leather from his holsters greeting you this close.

You've forgotten what he smells like as you inhale deeply. The scent of the leather leads a rugged and slightly musky undertone to his familiar aroma that’s swilled with coffee, cedarwood and sweat underscoring the gritty, primal edge to him. 

He braces to kiss you, sweeping his lips delicately against yours, but you flinch. A reaction that slashes at Tim’s gut.

“Just hold me tonight, Tim.” You plead to him.

He nods, a solemn heaviness in his eyes as well as on his shoulders. 

And when he says it, your emotions hiccup out of you and the tears fall again. 

“I’ve missed you so much.” He admits.

Hearing him say it offers some vindication, but you know that these wounds need layers of bandages to be changed daily, and not some flimsy band-aids.

"I've missed you too."

“I’m so sorry for pushing you out. I don’t wanna lose you. I can’t. I’ll do whatever it takes. I promise.” He takes your hand and presses it to his mouth, the soft scruff of his facial hair feeling like gossamer, and you'd almost forgotten the feel of that too. “I love you.”

“I love you, Tim,” you whimper. 

He takes you in his arms, those big, strong arms, and leads you upstairs to bed where he makes good on his word and doesn't let go of you all night.

You fall asleep listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat as he rubs your back gently, soothing you into sleep whilst he stays awake well into the night, staring up at the ceiling and trying not to listen to the dark thoughts urging him to finish that whole bottle of cheap wine downstairs. 

He came so close to losing you today, on Valentine’s Day of all days, and he knows he has to do better. For all his faults, you love him and he spends the night pondering on that. Pondering when it was that he last slept in the bed with you, until his eyes fall heavy and he succumbs to a short, stunted sleep.

In the morning, he rises, stiff and aching from laying in the same position all night with you curled tightly in his arms. Amidst his back cracking and feeling stuffy in his slept-in crumpled button up and vest, Tim silently leaves the bedroom, careful not to wake you.

After pissing for what feels like an age, Tim catches sight of his face in the vanity mirror. White-gray stubble spreads across his chin and top lip, and the weary look of a man of the law that’s seen too much and knows too much weighing heavy around his sullen eyes, greets him.

He rummages in the vanity for some Tylenol and pops two in his mouth, swallowing them down without water. He re-shapes his oil slicked hair and tries to avoid the face looking back at him.

It knows all his terrible secrets, and now, so do you. 

In the beginning the alcohol wouldn’t let him remember all the details, but its dropped its guard. The dreams were real; too real and he would find himself reliving the events each time he tried to get some damn shut eye.

He wasn’t supposed to keep seeing these things or to remember - it wasn’t part of the deal. Inebriation was supposed to wipe that shit out, but it'd failed to serve its purpose, instead serving as a beguiling wedge that expanded between you and him. 

After descending the creaky stairs towards the kitchen, Tim passes the dining table en route to make some coffee; his tongue washing around dry, tight gums.

He spies his mobile and checks it out of habit; a message or two from Harman, one about a lead on one of their minor cases, and the other enquiring about his 'night of passion with the Mrs' and if it went well, and Tim simply scoffs. He makes a mental note to kick Harman when he sees him next. Preferably in the balls.

Overnight, their wilted petals have straightened and regained their vibrant colour, as if infused magically with a newfound vitality. The once drooping stems now stand tall and proud, their green leaves unfurling to reveal a lushness that seems to defy their previous state of neglect. Shades of crimson glow in the stale morning light, their hues deepening and intensifying the longer Tim takes them in.

But out of the corner of his eye, Tim notices the vase of dead roses and stops to take in how they're now fully alive.

Tim reaches for one, revelling in the soft velvet as he rubs it delicately between his finger and thumb. His eyes widen in disbelief at the transformation before him. It’s as if the flowers themselves are reaching out to him, a silent reminder of the resilience of your love and the power of forgiveness. 

Some things can come back to life, Tim, with some love.

And Tim swears in that moment he’s never loved you more.

He swallows back a choke as he glances the wedidng photo of you both on the wall. Fuck, you looked so happy and beautiful that day.

The haunting, yet wonderfully brilliant sound, of a little girl playfully giggling beside him.

Feeling a new sense of budding rejuvenation settling into his tired bones, a tiny bud, but one still seeding nonetheless, he turns towards the kitchen and then freezes, feeling it as his blood runs cold over his skin.

Prickles shoot down the back of his neck as he hears the sound, as clear as day. But it's different this time.

Rainie Thompson isn't crying in his ear anymore, and Tim Rockford can't help but smile, closing his eyes as he listens to that sweet melody.

I found you, baby.

Thank you so much for reading. I'd love to know your thoughts and would appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy this story too. Thank you! 🖤

MAIN MASTERLIST

[artistesoiree]

You’ve got my body, flesh and bone

The sky above, the earth below

Raise me up again

Take me past the edge

I want to see the other side…

Won’t you show me what it’s like?

-The Summoning, Sleep Token

I’ve done it, everyone. Sweet lil Din Djarin is finally getting the affection he deserves from someone I KNOW would treat him right and I am IN LOVE. This took me what feels like an eternity, but truly nothing beats the feeling of finally being able to give it to you. You’ve all been so patient and I love you endlessly for it!!! And I hope the Dincobb nation accepts my offering 🙏

I fucking love Din Djarin and I fucking love this fandom. Stay hydrated and happy everyone, and have an excellent day!!

This is the way.

[artistesoiree]

one last time

pairing: abby anderson x WLF f!reader, set within tlou pt II timeline summary: when the woman you love comes crawling back in the middle of the night, can you convince her to stay? warnings/tags: [18+ minors DNI] mainly angst, mentions of death, established past relationship, wlw, includes mentions of seraphites and wlf from tlou2, contains spoilers and plot points from the last of us part II game below the cut, mentions multiple canon deaths from the second game so beware if you don't want the game/potential future show plot points spoiled. word count: 2k

There was someone in your room. It was the middle of the night, and you’d woken with a start, acutely aware of a shuffling sound, as someone closed the door and stepped into your space.

Slowly, trying not to make a sound, you slid your hand underneath your pillow and gripped the hilt of the dagger you kept there. Your heart raced, blood roaring in your ears as they strained to listen for any sign of the intruder getting closer to the bed where you laid. The living quarters were so small though, and with the door only a metre or two from your bed, you knew it was a matter of seconds before they were on you. Sliding the knife out from under the pillow, you tightened your shoulders and prepared to leap out of bed, until a soft voice spoke your name in the darkness.

Your eyes shot open, and you strained to see her through the black void. But you’d know that voice anywhere. You heard her say your name every night in your dreams, and woke up every morning to the crushing reality that it hadn’t been real. That it would never be real again. But that voice… it was undeniably her.

“Abby?” you breathed, sitting up warily.

You fumbled for the lamp beside your bed and tugged the string quickly, soft yellow light flaring around you. And there she was. That all too familiar angular face and strong arms. Long braid hanging over her shoulder, just the way you remembered. Dirt coated her skin, clothes damp from the downpour of rain that you could hear raging outside your window. Cuts and bruises littered her face, harsh scrapes marring the skin that you loved so dearly.

It had been months since you’d last seen her; since the group of them had headed off to Wyoming to find… him. And she’d been back at the base since, but you’d avoided her like the plague. Couldn’t bear to see her, after the way things had been left between the two of you. And then a few days ago, she was gone again. It was all anyone could talk about; how Abby Anderson had fled the base and was out searching for Owen… how they were both traitors to the cause.

Her blue eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot, and your heart panged with nervousness. She didn’t dare say another word, gaze trained on the knife you still held in your grasp, pointed out in her direction.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you asked warily, feeling your hand begin to shake. “How did you even get inside? Fuck, Abby, Isaac has everyone looking for you, he… he’s saying you’re a deserter.”

Abby shook her head slowly, face slack with an expression of hopelessness. “I’m sorry… I didn’t know where else to go.”

With an ache in your chest, you lowered the weapon, knowing you could never bring yourself to use it on her anyway. Her shoulders relaxed, and she shrugged off her pack. It hit the ground with a sharp clatter, and you noticed a bloodied axe clipped to the side of it. She slumped down on the edge of your bed, and the frame creaked with the added weight.

“He interrogated me, you know,” you shuddered. “After you went after Owen. Was convinced I was a part of it, that I kne-“

“Isaac is gone,” she interrupted quickly, not meeting your gaze.  

You stared, eyes widening a fraction, and slowly asked, “What the fuck happened?”

“Owen and Mel too,” she said hoarsely, staring down her at her hands. “They’re… I found them, in the aquarium. Both of them... she killed them.”

All the breath in your lungs rushed out, leaving you lightheaded. “W-what?” you stuttered. No.

“It’s her,” she ground out, eyebrows pinched together. “She knows who we are and she’s… she’s fucking picking us off, one by one.”

Shaking your head desperately you rubbed a knuckle into the corner of your eye, willing the brimming tears to dry as you absorbed all the information. You knew this would happen. You fucking knew there would be consequences, and yet she didn’t listen. She never fucking listened.

“Who are you talking about?”

“The girl,” she chuckled mirthlessly. “The girl that was with the smuggler. And his brother.”

It felt like the walls were closing in on you as you stared at her. The woman you’d loved for so long, who’s bed you’d once shared, who you’d held while she told you stories of her late father. The women who’d chosen revenge over a life with you... just to come crawling back in the middle of the night.

“What are you doing here?” you repeated, voice shaky and thick with emotion. “Why did you come back?”

“I needed to see you,” she whispered, finally glancing over to you. Her eyes shone brightly in the dim light of your room, and you could see the tears that stained her cheeks, the tracks they’d left through the dirt on her skin. “Things are bad, and I don’t… I don’t know if I’m gonna make it through this. I needed to see you, just one last time.”

“Abby,” you choked out, pushing forward to rest on your knees, hands hovering over her face as you contemplated touching her. You knew that if you touched her, all the progress you’d made, all the efforts you’d gone to in order to try and get over her, would be out the window. “Please,” you breathed heavily, shoulders shaking. She leaned forward so her cheek brushed your fingers and your face crumpled, allowing your hands to rest on her face, thumbs brushing along her skin.

“Please don’t do this, I can’t fucking do this again. I told you,” your voice cracked, thumb pausing on her freckled cheekbone. “I fucking told you nothing good would come from going after him. But you couldn’t just…”

“I’m sorry,” her eyes screamed in earnest. “I can’t… I couldn’t keep going without coming back here to say that. You were right, and I’m sorry, but there’s no turning back now. There’s no undoing this. She knows who I am, and she’s coming for me, but… but I’m gonna find her first, and I’m gonna make her pay for what she did to them.”

“How?” your eyebrows raised incredulously. “Abby, you’re alone, you can’t-“

“I’m not alone,” she said coldly, and you froze, staring at her in confusion.

“Abby,” you said quietly, shaking your head. Your hands dropped from her face. “You can’t be serious… it-it’s true? They said Owen killed Danny to save one of them…. are you with the Scars?”

“No,” she sighed in frustration. “He’s not a Scar anymore, he- he saved my life, and I trust him.”

“I can’t hear this,” you frowned deeply, lip curling up at her words. “You know I never wanted any part in this. If they find out you were here, they’ll lock me up, they’ll fucking interrogate me for information, Abby, I’ll lose my position. Don’t tell me anything else.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” she replied quickly, reaching up to rub her shoulder. She massaged the muscle firmly, fingertips dragging across her skin in a circular motion as she cringed.

“You’re hurt,” you murmured grimly.

“It’s nothing,” she shook her head. “I fell in Wyoming.”

“You’re a shit liar,” you grunted, nudging her thigh with your foot. She grabbed it, quick as a snake, her fingers curling around the arch of it and holding it to her thigh. Your face softened, and you frowned gently at her.

“I’ll go,” she whispered, meeting your eye. “I just… I wanted to be with you, just for a minute. Needed to see you. I couldn’t leave things the way they were; couldn’t have the last time I saw you be that.”

That day, weeks before, flashed through your mind. The two of you, in the very same room, glaring at each other.

 “If you go, this is over,” you’d told her. “I mean it Abby, don’t fucking do this. Nothing good will come from it. It won’t bring him back.”

“I’m going,” she’d shouted. “And they’re coming with me. Owen, Manny, all of them. They want what I want. And I thought you wanted it too.”

“Well, you thought wrong,” you’d said. “I’m not going. Why can't this be enough for you? To stay here, with me, and just forget about him?”

Wiping a tear from your cheek, you nodded slowly, leaning in so your shoulder rested against hers.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured softly. You didn’t stop her as she leaned in, resting her forehead against yours, and tilted her chin up so your lips brushed. Shaky breaths escaped your mouths, mingling in the air between your faces. Not for a long time had either of you been nervous around one another. So unsure, so hesitant… Pushing the thoughts aside, you kissed her firmly, ignoring the way your heart cracked as the familiar taste of her hit your lips. “I’m sorry,” you repeated against her mouth, and she whimpered, gripping your face gently. You despised the way your body reacted to such a small touch from her; the way your shirt was suddenly too tight around your torso, the way your underwear suffocated the warmth between your thighs. She was intoxicating, overriding every rational thought in your mind until all you could think was Abby, Abby, Abby.  

You fell backwards onto the bed, pulling her down with you, until her warm heavy weight rested against your chest. Her knee worked its way in between your thighs, pressing you down into the mattress. You clutched at her back, kissing her desperately, face still wet with tears. Her lips pressed longingly to yours, soft pants escaping her mouth as she pushed your head deeper into the pillows, holding you down and stealing the breath from your lungs. Your head was swimming, and you shivered at the feeling of her wet clothes dragging along your skin. She pulled back from the kiss with a gasp, tucking her face into your neck as she caught her breath. A soft kiss pressed against your pulse point and you sighed, closing your eyes and relaxing into her touch. She whispered something against your skin, but you couldn’t make out the words.

The sound of rain battering against the window filled the space with white noise as the pair of you laid in your small bed, limbs tangled together. Abby’s fingers stroked your cheek softly, and she pulled back to look at you, eyes watching you so intensely you could’ve sworn she was trying to memorise your features.

After a few moments, a soft sigh escaped her lips. “I have to go,” she whispered, eyebrows furrowing, and the crack through the middle of your heart deepened. She saw the look on your face and gave you a forlorn smile. “It took me half a day to get here,” she admitted sullenly, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’m sorry.”

You watched as she rose, stretching out her shoulder again before reaching down to grab her pack. She towered over the bed as she looked down at you one last time. Fat, hot tears brimmed on your lower eyelashes as you watched her turn toward the door.  

“Please,” you whispered to her back in the dim light, seeing her shoulders tense, head turning a fraction to glance at you from the corner of her eye. “Stay. We can figure this out, I… I’ll convince them to let you stay. Just please, don’t leave me again. Don’t do this.”

“I have to see this through,” she said quietly, in a tone that left no room for argument. Tears dripped down your face and onto your pillow, leaving wet patches in their wake. You made no effort to wipe them away as you nodded despondently.

“I love you,” you cried hopelessly. “Please.”

“I love you too,” she rasped, and you knew from the finality in her voice that this was it. The last time you’d see her. You could feel it in your bones; the undeniable truth of the moment.

“May your survival be long,” you choked out, shoulders shaking against your bed as you fought against the sob rising in your throat.

Abby’s hand gripped the doorknob, and she turned to look at you one last time. Her eyes raked over your body, and she offered one small, sad smile before she stepped into the hall.

“May my death be swift.”  

[artistesoiree]

Dress Me Up & Call Me Pretty - A Dieter Bravo One Shot

Summary: Dieter gets into your make-up stash, and all carnage breaks loose.

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It's you, bub.)

Word Count: 6.8k of depraved filth.

Scoville Smut Rating: 🌶🌶🌶 "You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here

Explicit - Established relationship/oral F receiving/M anal play/ass eating/pegging/dirty talk/come eating/playing dress up/feminisation kink/praise/sex toys/drug use/angst/Dieter being a fucking menace. 🐼

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ. ☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.  

Author’s Note: This was supposed to be a GIFLET... 🙄 I blame @for-a-longlongtime & @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin for encouraging me, you gorgeous rascals. Inspired by the BTS pic of Pedro on SNL with make-up on from his Miss Flores skit. Plumping lipgloss idea courtesy of the absolute legend @secretelephanttattoo 🖤

Finally get to play & write something for my homeboy, D - Yay! 💋

☝🏻If this story isn't to your taste, that's cool. Just skip past it quietly. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

“...I know I messed up, but this audition, it’s a game changer. Put me forward for it. I’m ready.”

The voice on the other end of the speaker sighs heavily. 

Brown, darting and bloodshot eyes flick up to the mirror, pale bottom lip chewed on listlessly. The rings on his pointer and pinky clack against the marble surface as he rocks his hand back and forth against it, increasing in speed. 

Clack-clack-clack...

“You’ve gotta fucking get it together, Dieter. I can’t keep pulling your ass out the gutter. That stunt at the Emmys? Shit man. Fucking memes are everywhere.”

A finger swipes in the tiny mountain of white powder and is brought to pale gums. He releases with a squelchy pop. The heady feeling bottoms out in his gut too quickly. 

“I know. I-I fucked up-”

“Fucked up? Jesus, Dieter!”

“I know. I’m just… I’m feeling the pressure, you know? I can’t fucking sleep.” He scratches under his chin. That little spot that feels raw and tight. "Just need some sleep."

“You checked in with your therapist?”

He snorts and bends over the vanity growling. “That quack doesn’t know me.”

Clack-clack-clack...

There’s a long sigh. “Get yourself straight. Sleep. For a week. Then we’ll talk about work.”

“Get me the script!” He wails.

“Goodbye, Dieter.” 

He tosses his phone into the sink and tugs at his hair. His eyes find his disapproving reflection staring back at him vacuously.

The mirror never lies.

It shows us the unbidden, hideous truth that we try to deny; shows us who we really are, even if we don’t know who that person is anymore.

Who are you?

It shows you your weakness, that disgusting perverse swill that rides inside your veins and is one with you - it’s a part of you and always has been; the root of its origin undeciphered. You’ve just known it to always exist inside of you; accustomed to the customs of your vile ways.        

Who the fuck are you, Dieter Bravo?

He points at his reflection. “I see you, you… fuck! I see you.”

Dieter is seeing it once again, the way he always had when he beheld his wrung out reflection staring back at him. The sight of himself in the mirror hung over the giant basin causes a tidal wave of images to stab at his eyeballs. So much so that he feels slightly unsteady on his feet for a moment or two.

A rush of recall; the sordid details of that fucking Emmy after party in all their purest, most vivid forms, taunting him and confusing him for a relapsed second or two, where he lets them slip inside his walls.

His guard relinquishes but if for a moment, and it's a singular moment that brings unbearable consequence and destruction with it.

It brings guilt, shame; unabashed disgust. It brings that look on your face as you shake your head and storm out, cameras flashing in his face as he chases after you and peddles fraying excuses that you've heard before. 

And once those feelings fester in, they’re hard to rinse out. A cataclysmic effect that renders him incapable of anything else but mental self-flagellation; an emotional top drop strangling him until he can no longer breathe.

Tasting the smells and hearing the colours that are laid out inside his head like sleazy schematics, drowning in the cloudy dopamine. A suffocating feeling engulfs him; a fire raging through the driest desert, burning up everything until there is nothing left to destroy.

He knows his dick was probably involved, it usually is. Drugs too. Lots of drugs. But he'd arrived sober and with you glittering on his arm. He'd been doing so well, polished up.

You were right, those people that surrounded him, they weren't his friends. They were enablers. Leeches. Revellers in his misery.

But your face, your pretty, pretty face... You didn't scream, you didn't shout. You just held him whilst he sobbed. All night. God, he hadn't cried like that in... well, he can't remember.

And he couldn't sleep that night, and hasn't been able to since.

He begs internally, to make it stop.

Screaming silently not to allow him to be the spectator anymore on his last deviances, but he’s still rendered useless whilst it omits the heinous, fucked up truths about him.

Truths that should have ruined him; if it was anyone else, it would have. Game over. Hollywood says bye-bye. But instead he’s celebrated for his bawdy reputation in the industry. One janky scandal after another, racking them up like it's fucking awards season.  

He scratches the underside of his scruffy chin listlessly. He taps his cheeks, hollowing his mouth open so it sounds out of his mouth like bongo drums and does that on repeat. His fingers are buzzing, his toes feel weird. What day is it?

Dieter grips onto the sink with both hands straining to keep himself up right and gasping as though he’s been punched in the gut; his reflection is not making it easy on him at all.

You did this. You fucking did this.

He dry heaves into the sick, but nothing comes up anymore.        

Sort your shit out.

He sees it. He sees his face. The mirror never lies. It shows you your real face; the one under the professionally groomed cheekbones and ageing skin pulled crinkly round the eyes. Perhaps he should get some botox.

He decides he loathes his face, it’s hideous and he wants nothing but to claw it off and leave it bloody and scarred.

He decides that he hates being alone and left to his own perilous devices like this, and wonders why you’re not home yet. Wonders how you can always silence the nagging and twittering, even though he is less than deserving of silence.

He snorts two more powdery lines and takes a deep, shuddering breath, clears his throat as though trying to find the right baritone as the sherbet fizz rips craggy down the back of it. 

The conversation with his agent leaves him ruminating further in the dark of the unhinged; ebbing paranoia starts to gnaw at him and he knows he has to calm down; somewhere in the static fuzz, he knows he should probably calm the fuck down. Regain his composure, even with a head full of luminescent bubbles that make his cortex feel uncomfortably numb. 

His fingers blindly selects a tool from the pot of brushes on the sink; he takes the fuzziest one with the biggest head and retreats into the bedroom, a lost boy, running its silken fibres up and down his cheek.

The gentle stroke of the compacted hairs feels like a tender touch, comforting, grounding him as he breathes in and lets the make-up brush, that you use to coat your cheeks in pretty fuschia colours, soothe him for a few seconds. 

And that’s when Dieter has an idea; cracking open his skull like a lightning bolt. Dashing back to the bathroom as though he’s shit all down the inside of his harem pants; the adrenaline, the rush floods down the veins in his triad inked arms as he scatters the brushes across the vanity clumsily and cackles wildly. 

The same rush he gets when he’s about to paint a new, heinous masterpiece. Only this time the canvas will be his own face. 

Layer by layer, he conceals the signs of his turmoil, the long, binge worn-in trenches under his eyes. As if he could mask and tame the chaos with every stroke. The eyeliner is meticulously applied, despite the visible shake in his fingers, although two more lines of coke will sort that out, give him sharpened focus, if but for a few minutes. 

The act of shaping his eyes allows Dieter to momentarily escape the storm inside his mind, even if he doesn’t take the opportunity to bask in its sloshy puddles. 

He looks back at his reflection and sees not the paranoid, reclusive and somewhat maniacal man he’s become, but an esteemed, Oscar-worthy actor who can transform into another character, if but for a while. 

And it stuns him, not his handiwork, although he’s quite in awe of it - he’s always been expressive with a brush - but the fact that he’s forgotten that he’s this person rather than the catatonic failure being held together with strained, thread-like seams. 

That he, too, could be… pretty. 

But Dieter knows this is only a temporary reprieve, another coping mechanism before the turbulent thoughts blow in again to rattle his tired skeleton. But for now, it’s enough to roll with, to revel in the ignorant bliss.

And it’s having a profound effect on his body as things start to tingle back to life again; fingers, nipples, cock… Pieces of him coming alive that have felt so anaesthetised for so long.

Staring at his lips, he frowns at their bareness. Rummaging through your make-up bag in a road to Damascus dash, he audibly growls when he can’t find it, the finishing touch.

He ends up tipping it all in the sink, burying his phone that has been incessantly pinging for days, as he searches for his coveted prize frantically with gnarled claws. 

“Fuck!” He paces out of the bathroom; a renegade hand partaking in the regular tug and twists at the curly hair on his nape. He pulls open the dresser drawers and rifles around.

No, not in there either. 

The bedside table shows no hint of the final piece that will complete the look.  

Sighing and feeling his fingertips throb, Dieter stops stomping when he spies it, taunting him on the side of the sink where it had always been.

Come here, big boy…

He pulls the cap off and twists up the bottom to reveal the velvet bullet, shaped down to a flat nubbin by your copious wear. He sniffs it; it even smells of you. The lipstick is a pretty, deep rosy pink.

He runs it over his lips and rolls them together. Blotting it with his fingers, a few soft taps like he’s seen you do a thousand times before; he puckers and licks around his teeth. He loves this colour on you, his favourite.

Loves that it leaves the markings of you all down his chest and around his cock. 

Dieter reaches into the front of his pants and adjusts the heavy weight of his dick in the throes of hardening and tenting them out. He gives himself a squeeze and the groan that escapes him sounds so alien.

He leans forward and kisses the mirror, leaving a print of his lips, and smirks.

"Would you fuck me? I'd fuck me. I'd fuck me hard. I'd fuck me so hard..." Dieter recites Jame Gumb imitating his accent, and snickers at his reflection.

He paints on a sticky glaze of gloss over the top of his lips, then retreats into the bedroom, back to the dresser drawers where he pulls out your silk and lace in abundance and laughs maniacally as he repeats the quote.

"I'd fuck me so hard..."

When you reach the bedroom, the carnage stops you in your tracks. For a moment, it looks as though there's been a robbery.

What the...?

There are clothes everywhere, on the floor; your delicates and unmentionables. Outfits strewn over the bed, sequins and suede crumpled on the chair like deflated ghosts.

The closet doors are wide open and you can hear the muffled sounds of him from somewhere amongst the throes of it. Garbled curses and strung out laughter that echoes.

“D?” You call as you place your purse down.

“Yeah!” He calls as you make your way towards the closet door, but he bounds out, wrapping his green gown tight around his waist.

He looks at you, hair dishevelled, but you stop in your tracks.

You smile, slowly and wide, as he stares at you like he’s just woken up.

“Babe.” He acknowledges, blinking widely and fast.

“Damn, you have good taste. That colour is gorgeous on you.” You say, zoning in on his lips.

“What?” He questions with a twinkly void in his eyes. He baulks then remembers his face is caked full of make-up.

“Oh. Yeah?” He blushes.

More scritching at the underside of his chin commences and he frowns at the foundation now embedded under his nails.

You smile softly. “Yeah. But let me fix your eyes. Come here. Got a little smudge there.” You say as he follows you over to the vanity like a loyal puppy and sits himself down, proverbial tail wagging crazily.

You smirk, noticing his legs are swathed in a black, nylon sheen under the flaps of his corduroy gown.

“Nearly fucking blinded myself putting that shit on. Don't know how you do that everyday.” He nods to the eyeliner that you pick up.

“Masochist,” you smirk. You dab at his eye corner, redraw the line and smile. “There. Perfect.”

He blinks a couple of times, as though there’s something in his eye. Or perhaps he’s having a stroke.

“You look…” You swallow as you can’t find the words.

“Do I look pretty? Do you want to have sex with me?” He puts to you, and it’s like he just whispered it directly to your clit. He stares up at you with perfectly lined, brown doe eyes.

Sucking in a breath you query “is this for a role, or…?”

“No.” Dieter shakes his head standing and his gown falls open. You see he’s wearing black stockings with lace tops, held up by suspenders. And your black, lace thong.

“D. Is that my thong?” You ask, bewildered and bemused, as he turns back to you.

“My thong now.” He simmers at you.

“Oh my God. Don't do this to me.” You say feeling the heat ignite your cheeks.

It suddenly feels very hot and stuffy in the bedroom as you take him in. Sweat makes itself known on the back of your neck and you feel damp between your legs. Your inherent need for him grows fangs and wants to sink itself into the meat of his thigh and suck deeply until you grow fat and full and fall off.

“I'm not doing anything, baby.” Dieter remarks, twiddling his curly tufts around his finger.

“Fuck, D. You're fucking hot like this.”

“Yeah I am.” He says twirling, and twirling a bit more vigorously, until you stop him.

You take his head in your hands and peer at his blown out pupils. “Are you high?” You question, eyeing him with a dipped frown.

“Maybe. It's irrelevant.” He shrugs and shakes out of your grip. You’re too good to him, and he knows it.

He is completely fucking unworthy of this, of you. Look at you; you’re stunning there in your effortless grace and the way you behold him like he shits out gold nuggets, even when he’s fucked up - again.

You’re a fucking Goddess, and the no good, piece of shit needs to worship at your feet and beg for your forgiveness for his latest relapse. He can’t look at you, he can’t look at himself.

He wraps his robe around his belly again.

This was stupid. Pathetic. Why does this fucking foundation itch so much? It’s your eyes, it’s as though he’s tumbling through tunnel vision, hurtling straight at your damn eyes. Stop looking at me.

But you pull him to you, wanting to get your hands on him. Wanting to reassure him and quell those shakes that rattle him. Wanting to scrape those scabbied layers off of him and bathe until the skin feels soft once more.

But he’s making it very difficult to concentrate on any kind of admonishment right now.

Right now, you just want to lick him all over.

You take his hands and his gown flaps open again. His little tummy paunch rests softly on top of the silk elastic of the suspender belt and you run your finger along the width of it. His cock barely fits inside your thong, and you’re trying not to dribble as you stare down at it.

Thick and swollen and hard. And thick... fuck.

“I like this.” You pant.

“Yeah? How much?”

“A lot.” You nod to him slowly as you look up at him. That clit of yours thunders like it’s kicking crazily at a locked door to get out. You clench, squeezing your thighs together and try to stifle your moan.

But he hears it. And he fucking runs with it.

“Am I your good girl?” Dieter pouts and flutters his clumpy mascara eyelashes at you.

“Oh-ho.” You whine, shaking your head and punching your fist against his bare chest gently.

Yeah, he went there.

You know exactly what he wants, how he wants to play this out. He's playing the part, and you're his partner in scene. So you give it to him.

“Yeah. You're such a good girl, D. So fucking pretty for me.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you make yourself all pretty just for me?”

He nods. "You like it?"

“Look at those blow-job lips… Jesus.” Your thumb pulls on his sticky, cerise bottom lip before he sucks it fully into his mouth and eye fucks you darkly the whole time he does it.

“What do you want?” He whispers coyly as your thumb pops out.

“I wanna ruin your make-up.” You husk.

“Fuck.” He says, giddy. "Do it."

“Wait here.” You say, scurrying over to the closet and disappearing inside.

“The strap on!” He calls.

Your head pokes around the door like a Meerkat sniffing out danger. “Yeah?”

He nods enthusiastically with serious eyes. “Fuck yeah.”

“Oh, you’re such a fucking cock slut.” You call back excitedly and giggle as you rummage around in the drawers in the closet. The drawers that are chock full of an arsenal of sexual weaponry. Dildos, plugs, vibes… Everything you can think of, and then some.

“It feels so silky and nice. I can't stop touching it.” He groans as he watches you step into the bedroom again with the harness and dildo dangling from your hand.

You pull down your jeans and step out of them, kicking them away in haste, and he bites his lip beholding you.

You're too much and not enough.

“Touching your little pussy?” You observe him running his hands over the silk of the suspenders and the stockings. He fiddles with the tiny bow on the thong.

“Yeah. My pussy feels real nice.”

“Show me how you touch it, Dieter.” You tempt.

He sits back on the chair, legs open, manky gown falling off his thighs. His hand cups over his cock that’s grotesquely hard. Thick, swelling and the head as flush and pink as his lips.

Poking out the top of the thong, it’s so small to hold him all in fully, and there’s a little sheen on his belly just below his slot machine button, that glimmers sticky at you where he’s leaking.

Your throat runs immediately dry because all the fluid in your body is pooling in your cunt right now and dripping into your panties. Fuck...

You watch him pump that hefty cock of his over the lace. You can hear him breathing hard and moaning with unrestrained pleasure as he goes. He hisses, you watch mesmerised and unable to look away, trying not to drool in the process.

He says your name and you feel it all over your body as it fires in your core.

“Mmhm, mmhm, fuck… feels so good.” Dieter purrs as he strokes up and down his thick length, taking the time to rub the pre-cum slick around his head.

You watch keenly as the insides of his thighs jerk each time he does it.

“Come here, pretty girl,” you coo sitting on the end of bed and tapping the space beside you.

“You want to do scissors with me?” He smirks.

“Fuck, D!” You groan.

You run your hand through his fluffy, messy hair as he reaches you. No matter how well put together he can look - and it’s rare - his hair always resembles a chaotic mess that you love tugging on.

You yank him forward by it, eliciting hisses from him. Those plush, pink coated lips of his are puffed out as you twist his cocoa hair tightly inside your fingers. He coos, enjoying your fuss.

“You feeling a little out of sorts, baby?” You whisper to him, kissing his crown as he kneels between your parted legs.

You know, you always know when he needs you. But never asks.

He sits back on his heels and doesn’t look at you, his hands wringing, fidgeting. The obvious signs that say he’s not ready to talk about it yet. He scratches under his jaw, in a patch that is soothed as he digs his nails into it again. You take his hands and he hangs his head.

“D.” You prompt. “Tell me what you need right now.”

Why do you do that? I hurt you, and will continue to hurt you, and yet you still want to take care of me...

You smile at him, plugging in and powering up the sun, and it tears at something inside of him.

Dieter leans forward, planting soft smooches up the inside of your thigh and leaving wet, lipstick kiss prints.

“This.” His nose presses into your crotch. He flicks his tongue out and up the front of your panties. “I want to taste that pussy, baby.”

“Yeah, you wanna lick my cunt, pretty girl?”

“Mmhm,” he says, his fingers now tugging your panties aside eagerly as those brown eyes lance at you for permission, for approval. His brain is yammering away twenty to the dozen.

Pussy-pussy-pussy-pussy-pussy-

“Eat it, Dieter.” You groan.

He runs his nose up your slit inhaling in deep and humming out in satisfaction at your scent. He slides his long fingers up underneath your panties and pushes them to one side to reveal your soaking lips glistening at him.

He leans in, eyes still looking up at you in their droopy, tired haze, and runs his tongue against you.

You feel that wet muscle weave inside your folds and begin to lap you up like he’s starving.

He listens to them; those whimpers around his fingers as he slides them into your mouth as he tongues you, and the way you look at him; you trust him, you adore him, and it fractures him and leaves wounds opening up all over his body as he bleeds out, bleeds for you.

He reaches down and slides his other fingers inside your pussy as he slurps hungrily around your clit; so wet and so fucking tight.

Dieter watches every time you come; really studies your face and the sounds you make from his fingers fapping hard inside your cunt, bringing you to the edge, and instead of holding you back or denying you, he lets you fly. It's the best part. It's like fucking Icarus, man. He always flies too close. He wants to see your psychedelic colours and bask in their vividness as they blind him. Feel your corona melt his face.

He feels you tighten and constrict around his fingers, hilted to the silver bands at his knuckles, your slick soaking all over the metal. He knows this is real, not a spaced out trip. Knows that he makes you feel these things for him. Even when he feels like utter shit.

You can’t fake it when you’re this open, this vulnerable before him. He inhales you, he needs you. He lets you dissolve on his tongue. Needs you more than the nose powder, more than the glittering lights, more than the fans chanting his name and his face blown up on billboards.

You’re his fucking drug and he’s hopelessly addicted to feeling you flood through his veins.

The pointed tip of his tongue probes and flicks wildly against your clit, and you die. He grabs a hold of your waist, hoisting you up and back further onto the bed where he tugs your panties aside further and delves into your cunt with a heated fervour.

You watch, gasping, as that perfectly pink lipstick smears wet and sticky across his mouth and cheeks as he goes to town on you like he’s starved.

“So fucking good, baby. Just like that!” You gasp feeling dizzy and unbearably hot.

Amidst the heat of his lapping, you start to feel a subtle, yet almost electric feeling that radiates on your lips and clit. It’s like a cascade of tiny, pinprick vibrations; invigorating and soothing at the same time.

Tingles, leaving a pleasantly cooling sensation around his wet tongue.

“Mmm, you’re wearing the plumping lipgloss, aren’t you?” You smile as the tingles increase over your clit, pulling tight and localised; you start clenching internally as you feel it deliciously sharp and aching as that nub pulses whilst he teases and strokes it with his tongue.

“Mmhm,” he confirms with his mouth full of you.

“Good choice.” You groan. “Yeah, D…”

Your fingers rake through his crown, tugging his face closer into your centre where you start to grind. Snuffles of his nasally breaths are felt on your mound; his tongue diving deeper and you feel the thickness of his fingers sliding into you, immediately stroking at the fleshy spot where he knows to coax your orgasm out of hiding and into his waiting mouth. The beads on his wrist jangle and clack as he faps hard, finger fucking you into oblivion.

“Mmm, oh God, D…” You groan and writhe. “Just like that, pretty girl. You’re gonna make me come.” You pant glancing down at him and that darned lipstick is everywhere, all across his lips, peppering his scruff pink and smeared across your cunt and thighs.

“Oh fuck! Yes!” You caterwaul, your body tensing and pulling tight as you start to unwind and flood his mouth.

Drinking you down, he licks long and fat stripes up your pussy. He sucks on your plumpy clit and smirks as you catch your breath; your thighs clamp hard around his face from the overstimulation.

“On your hands and knees, pretty girl.” You instruct and he grins.

The gown comes off, flying through the air, to reveal him bare chested, clad only in your suspender belt and stockings, and that damned thong with his cock spilling out of it.

Bending over on all fours and presenting that ass up to you, Dieter groans as you grab his cheeks and bite into them.

“Yeah!” He growls as he feels your teeth indenting the skin. You slap his ass a few times, watching the fat of it jiggle; sharp, quick stings from your palm as he moans and stretches out like a cat pushing his rump closer to your face.

You part his cheeks, unhooking the black line of the thong riding deep up in that crack. Holding it to the side, you slide your tongue all over that pink, puckered urchin that's waiting for you.

“Oh, baby!” He groans.

You reach between his legs with one of your hands; his butt cheek closing against the side of your nose when you let go, and stroke his rigid cock as you lick and tease his hole.

You spit, lathering him up, and the wet clicks of your tongue flickering around his rim are filling the room obscenely.

Your tongue pushes in, delving into his ass deeper as you fuck him with it, and he whines and bucks. You pump his cock, feeling your hand sticky from his silky fluids, and his balls are full and swollen as you grope and pull on them gently. It makes his head feel all fizzy, like a soda pop all shook up, and he could burst and spew out at any second from the carnage your tongue causes as you push it deeper into his ass.

“Fuck!” He grizzles, his head hanging low like it's snapped off his vertebrae.

“You love it, look at you. I wanna watch you get fucked in this pretty little hole, D. Take pictures. So everyone can see what a cock hungry, little slut you are.” You say.

“Fuck baby, yeah.” He growls.

“Let everyone see you get ruined.”

“Ruin me, baby. Please.” Dieter grunts.

"Stretch you out and watch you gape for me."

"Fuck!"

You reach for the strap on and begin buckling it in around you as you carry on feasting. You take off your top and bra in between licking and sucking around his hole.

Once it’s on and secure, you tap his ass. He turns as you stand, and you jut the dildo towards his mouth.

“You look so good with my cock in your mouth.” You praise as he sucks on the end of it.

You stroke through his hair, and run your thumb across the lipstick smeared around his mouth. Shiny, sticky with the gloss and your cunt slick. He's a mess and it delights you.

Your hands clutch his head; the length of your rubber cock inside his mouth, his tongue swirling around it. Whining for it, able to take it in deep and getting a little too enthused for it that he chokes a little here and there.

“You like sucking cock, don’t you, pretty girl?” You cajole.

“Mmhm.” He nods with his mouth full, taking the dildo in as deep as he can to the back of his throat. It's impressive that he can deep throat so well.

“You wanna fuck this, hmm?”

“I do.” He gasps as he takes a breath. Strings of crystalised saliva pulling from his lips.

“Get the lube.”

He scrambles towards the bedside table and yanks open the draw so hard, the whole thing comes out and crashes on the floor. Grinning, Dieter tosses the bottle up at you and you squeeze it out over the dildo.

“Bend over, let me see that ass again.”

Dieter eagerly presents once more, and glances over his broad, tan shoulder at you. His sultry eyes are expectant, wanting - needing.

“Ready baby, deep breath…” You chime jauntily squeezing his cheeks.

His face scrunches, that initial pinch felt as the large, globular head of the dildo breaks through, but you can feel him instantly relaxing against it and welcoming you in.

You slide the dildo into him gently, slowly. All the way until you reach the hilt.

“You take it so well, pretty girl. That feel good?” You stroke and pat his butt.

“So good, baby. Fuck!” He groans. "Oh God, you're so deep."

"Your sluttly little hole can take it." You move your hips forward steadily, easing the dildo’s thickness in and out of him.

You watch as his ass indeed takes it; the lube helping to glide it in effortlessly as it squelches and bubbles around his rim.

“Nice and deep, D. God, you should see this right now. See how your ass just takes my cock.”

“Feels so fucking good.” He gurgles, trying not to dribble on the sheets.

“My big, fat cock filling you up, hmm?”

“Yeah. Fuck me."

His little breathless pants echo around the tincture and colour of his voice, barely able to come through as he breathes out through it all. “Oh my God, oh my God…” Dieter trails off.

“That’s it baby, take my cock.” You whisper at the sight of him doing just that. “So, so pretty.”

You work the dildo in and out as you reach underneath again and pump his dick up and down; squeezing and applying the right pressure as he fucks into your fist.

You still for a moment, just enjoying him pushing back and twerking on the end of you like some mad evangelist for anal. Marvelling at how his hips flex and his back arches and sinks like a cat as he works and fucks hinself on the end of your cock.

He flashes you an enigmatic grin over his shoulder again.

"Good girl," you praise.

You grip tighter around his cock and start to pump him in rhythm with your increasing thrusts into his ass.

“Oh you’re so hard, you like that don’t you?” You whine. “Look at my pretty girl taking this cock so well.”

You let go of his dick and press into his thighs as you lift yourself up a little and begin to fuck his ass harder and faster.

“Oh shit, baby!” Dieter whines. “Yeah, fuck my ass!”

He takes it, somewhat cross-eyed, as you go harder and deeper inside him. You see his large hands claw into fists around the sheets. He grits his teeth so hard the cords in his neck pop out.

He’s close. You always know. Those little telltale signs of an imminent climax when he starts to strain and tense before biting down his lip and panting wildly like a dog trapped in a hot car, reveal themselves like clues to solve an orgasmic mystery.

But just as he’s there, just as his eyes are rolling into the back of his head in sweet delusion, is when you pull out.

It’s the perfect, sweetly sinful moment to destroy him.

Dieter’s head immediately snaps round at you. “What the fuck?!”

You smirk and slap his ass.

“Please…” He whines. He tries to back his ass back on it as you step out of his reach.

You shake your head and then plunge back in. You do it again, and again. And a-fucking-gain.

It goes on for quite some time; the agony, the prevention - the acute thwarting of his pleasure. Leaving him on the edge of never, that peak where his body can’t unwind or uncoil or release fully.

You throw him up to that height, but don’t allow him to fall back down.

His body responds in all the right ways each time - the clenching, the jittery spasms; the gasping and incoherent babbling as it builds, and each time he thinks this will be it - that you’ll show mercy and let him fly free.

But then you snatch it all away from him; robbing him of his hedonism with a wicked smirk creeping across your mouth like The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.

Dieter growls out - and somewhat close to damn tears too through glistening, black lined eyes - when you pull out of his ass again and let go of his dick, just when he is on the cusp.

Keeping him balanced on the edge precariously for the final time.

"Baby, you're fucking killing me, please." Dieter whines.

You slather his butt and your dildo in more lube; you can see it dripping shiny down his crack and onto his balls. You slide back up into that puckered hole of his ass, taking him by surprise, forcing your way in this time - no pleasant warnings or easing him in.

“Going to destory this hole, D.” You growl, grinning as you grab a hold of his ass cheeks like he does yours, and you fuck the shit out of that ass of his.

You watch as the shiny dildo plunges in deeper each time as you draw back. “This ass is mine!" Tiny squirts of lube are felt pelting your thighs.

Dieter grunts away crazily, face pressed down into the pillow, covering it in foundation and eyeliner as it sweats off of his face. His body struggles to stay upright and you adjust your position.

You sit over his ass; the dildo plundering in so deep. Your hands rest on the back of his stacked shoulders, and go hard on him like riding a bronco.

“Fuck!” He mouths into the pillow. His cock rubs against the duvet deliciously.

“Look at you taking my dick,” you snarl in his ear full of awe. You lick across his cheek, over that little wondrous scruff, and then suck on his ear lobe, tasting the metal from his hoop.

“Such a good little cock slut for me, aren’t you D?” You tease.

Dieter groans out, his eyes crane to look at you. Jaw slack and nodding. You push your fingers inside of his mouth and you can feel him tonguing them as he pants with his ass chock full of your girthy strap on.

He mewls as your fingers slip out of his mouth all shiny from his saliva.

“Can I sit on it?” He asks and the request takes you both by surprise.

“You wanna sit on this cock?” You ask him, your thrusts slowing down.

“Please.” His voice is so tiny, like he can’t believe he is actually begging for it.

His dick brushes against the dildo as he manoeuvres upright to face you, and it makes him gasp and smile in delight. You clamp your hand around them both and jerk them slowly for a moment or two, bewildered by how he reacts to it with his mouth open in a small 'o' and glassy eyes smeared with mascara.

It’s so fucking hot, the state of his face; it’s a fucking mess, a pink cloud around his mouth and panda eyes, and your cunt is literally throbbing at it.

“Fuck…” Dieter curses as he throws his head back enjoying the sensation. It may be silicone or whatever, but crushed and rubbing against his own cock, it feels so damn good.

“You like that?” You put to him and he looks down at you nodding and placing his hand over yours as you both start frotting together.

He slips his fingers on his other hand into your cunt; ringed thumb stroking on your clit and bringing you close.

You’re both watching and panting together, all the perverted, lusty visions of it flooding your senses. You imagine him doing this with another guy - with another real cock - and it turns you the fuck on. You wonder for a moment if he’s thinking the same thing. You want to see that. You want to watch.

You make a mental note to discuss it with him at a later date. Your clit pulses in response to it, like it’s been zapped as he strokes against your spot expertly, and you squeal as you come over his fingers.

He sucks them and groans deliciously.

“Sit on it like you wanted, pretty girl,” You say, laying back on the bed.

Dieter kneels, straddling over you, as he lowers himself down slowly onto the dildo; whining out as it begins to fill him up again.

You can see him taking his time, being hesitant as he fucks the tip mostly. Sitting tentatively on the top so he can control the depth.

“Take it all in, D.” You instruct him boldly. You push down on his hips and he takes more of it in. His nylon covered thighs buckle and shudder, his massive hands grip onto your stomach for a moment and you can feel his fingers prodding at you sharply.

“Fuck all of that dick!” You order him and you buck up, the dildo going further into his ass and making him cry out.

You start to fuck him and he pushes back against you each time, taking it deeper and starting to whine and groan with sexy, gruff melodies again.

He sits backwards, his hands behind him and gripping around your thighs. His own cock slapping across your stomach and his as he bounces up and down on that dildo jammed into his ass that feels so fucking good.

Dieter starts rolling his hips around on it and almost passes out.

"Fuck..." he growls, eyes rolling back again.

“You're such a hungry cock slut, Dieter… that's it, ride it. Look at you, you can't get enough. Stretched all around my cock. Do you love it?”

“I fucking love it, baby.” He pants, sweat beading down his temples; his suprasternal notch shiny.

“Tell me you love my cock, pretty girl.”

“I love your cock. Ahh yeah… fuucccck!” He’s there again, so close. You can see it.

“Come all over my tits, D. Come on, you slut. Do it.”

“Fuuh-uuuckkkk!” His balls lurch and surge and you can feel him stiffen and tense in his body before he cries out through delicious grunts and strangled curses.

His toes are stretched out and he’s cricking against it; holding onto the pleasure for as long as he can until he eventually bursts all over your chest.

He sighs deeply as he releases; a geyser of pearly deliciousness spurting upwards and splashing onto your skin and nipples.

“Good girl.” You praise. “You gonna lick it up, like a good girl for me? There we go. Get it all.”

He runs his tongue all over your skin, licking and getting all of it. He then leans into you, kissing you and slipping his salt soaked tongue into your mouth so you can taste him too.

“Mmm,” he whines as he tries to control his breathing, cheeks as pink as his smeared lipsticked lips.

Dieter flops forward fully onto you, his weight crushing. The dildo slides out of his ass with a wet pop, and you both stay like that for a few minutes as you wrap your arms around him and kiss the top of his damp crown, over and over affectionately.

“You okay? Feel a bit better?” You whisper to him tentatively, the hair on his head tickles your lips as you speak into it.

He nods and reaches up for your face and strokes your cheek with his knuckles.

“Yeah.” he replies, satiated. “Fuck. That was-”

“I know.” You giggle utterly beside yourself. “Your make-up’s ruined.”

You kiss his fingertips and cuddle him tighter, wrapping your legs around his waist. As you do, the stickiness of his sweat squelches between you both and sounds like you just let rip ungraciously.

He snorts, his shoulders heaving against your chest, and you giggle into his hair.

He places a few lingering kisses on your clavicle. “We're doing that again. And I'm keeping these.” He says, flicking the elastic of your thong against his hips. “You hungry? I'm fucking hungry.” He croons, looking at you.

“I could eat.” You agree.

“Waffles? Or no, no, no, wait… Ramen. Fuck. Yeah. Then some waffles. Some of those peppery chicken things… you know with the Haberno sauce?” His eyes are still blown and you peer into him carefully.

He stops yammering and tries to look away, but you kiss him again, pulling him back to you. You sigh, as his head rests sweaty against yours, so close that it looks like he only has one, twitchy eye.

“You know this fuck up loves you, right?” He murmurs in the smallest voice you’ve ever heard peep out of him.

“Never doubted it.”

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He mumbles. Dieter presses a kiss to your cheek and gets up.

“D?”

“Yeah, yeah?” He reaches for his gown crumpled on the floor.

“Go flush it.” You nudge. “All of it. We’ll start over again, okay?”

He sighs. He doesn’t deserve you. You, and your soft eyes staring back into him encouragingly, with misplaced love and forgiveness that you force him to confront.

He wants to do it, wants to be better for you. He wants to be as pretty for you as you are for him. He’s tired of disappointing you, even if you never show it each time he falls back into the muddy, cold gutter. You always reach in to pull him out. How do you do that?

Padding to the bathroom, he pulls the thong out of his ass; a dishevelled, chaotic mess with a ladder running the length of the left stocking down the back of his calf, and you smile as you unbuckle the strap on.

Moments later, you hear the toilet flush in the bathroom.

“Good girl!” You praise, and you hear Dieter chortling wildly.

Dieter catches sight of his face smeared in the mirror. The mirror never lies, no matter how much your dress yourself up and call yourself pretty.

Sniffing in deeply, tasting some flavour of of a mild clarity, he reaches for a cotton pad and begins clearing the smeared make-up off of his face. Slowly revealing his features back to him with each swipe of the pad. New skin, a new man.

He smiles at himself, blushing.

You’re not afraid to be lost with him. To indulge him and be unabashed. And Dieter knows that eventually, you’ll help him find his way back to himself again.

Because you always reach in to pull him out of that muddy, cold gutter. And he loves you so fucking much for it.

Tagging the Dickin' Around With Dieter On Discord Lovelies: @secretelephanttattoo @rhoorl @maggiemayhemnj @trulybetty @for-a-longlongtime @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @goodwithcheese @musings-of-a-rose @avastrasposts @undercoverpena @gemmahale @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @linzels-blog @sin-djarin @beboldbebravethings @legendary-pink-dot @laurfilijames @ladybess-a03

🖤

(If you want to be removed, that's cool.)

MASTERLIST

[artistesoiree]

THE MILLERS 💖 - HALLOWEEN EDITION🎃

No outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader

(This can be read as a Halloween 🎃 stand alone, or as a continuation of THE MILLERS 💖, that was also inspired by this post here)

Summary: Joel takes his son trick or treating on Halloween and you three spend a beautiful family moment together

Warnings: fluff, sweetness, Joel being the best dad in the world, sexual tension, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of breeding kink, allusions to smut

A/N: besties, I could go without boy dad!Joel, he's the perfect husband and dad to take our kid trick or treating, am I right? Enjoy it ❤️

2.4k words

The moment Joel woke up that Halloween morning, Sammy was already all around him, so excited and wanting to play, but not only that, he couldn't wait until the evening came and it was time for his daddy to take him trick or treating. Joel on the other hand, had so many things to do at work, but he had already told Tommy and the other guys he would leave early, because there was no way he was going to run late for such special occasion with his life, as not showing up at all due to work wasn't even a possibility to begin with. 

You finished the scrambled eggs and served your husband a plate, Sammy played trucks on the living room carpet, he was never hungry in the morning, but he still ate a grape or two when you insisted on him too, but overall, all he wanted was to play and spend time with his daddy. Your heart was always swollen with pride to see how much your son loved his daddy and how similar they were. Joel was usually a tough man, but he was always so gentle and soft around his family, you knew you couldn't have chosen a better man to build a life with. 

Your husband sipped his coffee as he let out a satisfied moan at the taste of your breakfast and gently placed his big hand on yours, caressing it gently as he looked into your eyes 

"Is everything set for tonight? What about his costume?" 

"If by everything set you mean your son talking about it non-stop for the past week, then yeah, everything's set" you tilted your head and stared at him, Joel was such a handsome man, his features were both gorgeous and attractive and if you really could choose, you would like to drag him back to your room and and sit on his lap, kissing Joel for as long as you wanted and make sweet love to him. It was funny how it always alternated between the two of you; sometimes you wanted it hard and fast, you wanted him to be rough and sometimes all you wanted was to move your bodies in sync as you stared into each other's eyes. 

"I was hoping we could spend some alone time after trick or treating, you know…" you bit your lips and he picked the clue immediately, his hand left yours and went down the table, stroking your thigh very gently at first, even if his rough calloused hand didn't need much more than a ghostly touch to get you all worked up. 

"Am I neglecting you, baby girl?" He raised his eyebrow and made you blush softly, at the same time you shook your head, Joel Miller would never neglect his woman and her needs, but he had been busy for the past few days, and with a small toddler at home, it was pretty much a miracle when the two of you were actually full of energy enough to fool around a little bit. His hand now squeezed your thigh, running it up and down and appreciating the effect he had on you; Joel Miller was an addiction to you, no matter if you'd been married for a few years and if you had a baby together, he was still the one you craved and desired the most in your life. 

However, as life with toddlers wasn't easy at all, the moment you were ready to spice up a little bit, perhaps kissing his neck and nibbling his weak spot or casually resting your hand over his crotch, but tiny steps interrupted any flirting that was going on as your son's beautiful face lit up in a smile 

"Daddy! Morning!!!" He cheered excitedly and rushed to his papa Joel, climbing his lap and getting comfortable. He eyed his dad's plate and tiny fingers stole some of his scrambled eggs and you chuckled, it wasn't about breakfast, it was about his dad's breakfast. Sammy loved his daddy with all his little heart and cherished every single minute he could spend with him, to which Joel also appreciated and did his best to make sure it happened very often. 

Your husband chuckled and placed both hands on Sammy's tummy, holding him tight against his body and resting his chin on his head. His brown curls smelled so good, as you were always so careful with hygiene and you made sure to bathe your son every day. Sammy's hands rested over his dad's. The contrast between his tiny ones and his dad's big ones also made your heart clench. Your life was so good and a part of you feared it was just too good to be true. As Joel questioned Sammy about his costume, your son told him all about it. He was excited to go as an octopus, which surprised the both of you, you knew Sammy had taken an interest in sea animals after his uncle Tommy had let him watch 'Meg' in a very irresponsible move, your son seemed to be fascinated by such animals, so you assumed his chosen costume would be a shark, however, not long after he watched the movie, Sarah came home one weekend and made sure to take him to visit the aquarium and after that, your son seemed obsessed with sea animals. Apparently, octopuses were his favorite at the moment, judging by how frequently he drew them all over his sheets of paper. The fact that Sarah, Joel and uncle Tommy all bought him all sorts of illustrated magazines and books about sea animals, made him even happier. So when he told you about the costume, you had to drive around a little to find a good one, but when you did, your son was in love with what he was seeing. He was just so excited and happy, he wanted to wear it every single day and if you hadn't told him he should make his costume a surprise for his daddy Joel, you were sure he would've thrown a tantrum over not wearing the outfit every single day, but instead, he kept it a secret - and by secret he actually told his daddy every single detail of it - which very often made you and Joel laugh together. 

When your husband announced he was going to work, your son sighed disappointed and Joel felt as if something pierced through his heart. He really needed to take a vacation some time soon, he couldn't handle seeing how upset his baby boy was each time he had to leave and also how much you missed him on a daily basis. 

"Stay daddy, please…" he said with puppy eyes and you took his tiny hand 

"Daddy has to work my angel, you know he would stay if he could, right? But he will be back soon and we will go trick or treating tonight, remember the pumpkins we carved? We'll light them up and they'll look so nice…" you told him and played with his curls, so he nodded obediently as Joel painfully had to put him down and walk to his truck. 

You knew Joel would spend a lot more with you both if he could, but since it wasn't possible, you invited your son to run some errands with you in order to distract him until it was time to trick or treat. 

                            •••

Your son was running happily through the backyard as he loved playing with the plushie tentacles of his costume. He was so excited to be finally dressed up for Halloween and the fact the street was slowly getting more and more illuminated by the all the pumpkins and decorations his little heart was racing like crazy out of excitement and expectation, but nothing, even compared to the moment he saw his daddy's truck parking in the driveway. He squealed the word 'daddy' at the top of his little lungs and rushed as fast as his legs allowed him to, the butterflies in his tummy being so much he even slipped and fell, unharmed, simply getting up on his own and jumping on Joel the moment his daddy opened his arms to welcome him in a tight embrace. Joel chuckled and wrapped his arms tightly around his boy, his sweet Sammy could look like him, physically, but he was all his mommy, his intelligence, his wit and that tooth rotting sweetness he could have only inherited from you. 

"You look amazing, buddy!? You scared me for a while! I thought an octopus had invaded our garden" he tickled his son's tummy who giggled hysterically and wrapped his arms around his daddy's neck 

"You're silly daddy" he giggled and smiled big once you walked to them, you hadn't properly dressed up, but you did throw a nice black outfit, some boots, a darker makeup and a witch hat 

"You're so pretty mommy!" Sammy cheered and clapped his little hands and you pretended not to see your husband eying you up and down. You kissed your son's forehead and nodded 

"Are you boys ready to go? Uncle Tommy says he'll stay in and hand candies to the kids…" you frowned as you tilted your head "Sammy… we have a problem, we can't go trick or treating without daddy putting on a costume" you winked at Joel who shot an annoyed look at you, but the moment his son agreed and began blabbering about how important it was that he got dressed, you chuckled and handed him a hockey mask. 

"There you go, you already got the shirt and now the mask, now we can scare some little kids" 

"More like scare dickheads who dare staring at your ass, darling" he leaned towards you and whispered into your ear, giving your neck a quick peck while Sammy ran to the front porch to grab his pumpkin-shaped basket of candy. 

It wasn't the first time you three went trick or treating together, but the year before Sammy was still too little to understand it fully and enjoy everything that was happening, unlike that special evening you spent walking around the neighborhood with your family, it felt special, the kind of special you snapped a picture or two to keep it as a memory but not more than that, so you wouldn't be glued to your phone the entire time. Joel took your hand as Sammy walked a couple of meters ahead of you, his basket was full of candy and he cheered each time he found someone looking interesting or even scary, as he wasn't afraid at all. 

Joel looked at you with soft eyes, removing his stupid mask 

"You look gorgeous tonight, you know that?" He pulled you by the waist and smirked "once our little one falls asleep it's time for us to enjoy our Halloween and you're so damn teasing with this witch bitch costume I might just get you pregnant again" 

"What?!" You widened your eyes at his words and couldn't help but let out a nervous laughter "another baby?" 

Joel shrugged and kissed your lips 

"Imagine a year from now, Sammy will be trick or treating with his baby sister, would you like that?" You take a deep breath, taking a look at him as you lick your lips 

"Well… I don't know… would you like that?" You asked him, after hearing Joel call himself old over and over, complain about how he doesn't have energy to catch up with Sammy and how his back hurt, you assumed having a second baby was off the table. However, seeing his hopeful eyes, the way he looked at his and the way he looked at all the other kids, you could tell maybe he actually meant that. 

"Do you think I'd joke about that? If I didn't want it, I wouldn't have mentioned it but if you don't want then it's fine, I mean, you're still young an-" 

You interrupted him with a kiss, of course you wanted if he wanted, having a family with Joel Miller was the best decision you'd ever taken, there was no way you could pass that up. 

"Mommy, daddy!" Sammy called the two of you, he was dragging his basket since it got so full he couldn't lift it up, you chuckled helping him with the candy as Joel lifted him up. You knew your son well enough to see he was already tired, no matter how hard he tried to fight sleep, rubbing his eyes was the only thing he could do as he rested against his dad's chest. Still falling asleep in Joel's arms, you both got home, Tommy was just finishing with the candy leftovers and widened his eyes the moment he saw Sammy's 

"Really? Stealing candy from a two-year-old?" Joel raised his eyebrow annoyed at his brother, but you tugged his sleeve, showing him it was time to put Sammy in bed. He helped you take the costume off and it was alright if your son skipped showering for one night, he didn't even wait for dinner, but it was alright, because the next day he would eat a delicious big breakfast you made him and your husband. 

As you and Joel went downstairs, he pulled you by the waist, sitting on the couch and taking you with him.

"Have you talked to Sarah?" You ask nuzzling his neck as you know how much he missed his daughter 

"We video chatted during my lunchtime… she is very pretty and she was going to a party" he said with a hint of sadness in his voice, it was painful for him to see his little girl growing up so much, so you nodded and snuggled him. You placed your hand on his stomach, gently scratching down his belly as you pecked his cheek and then went for Joel's lips 

"So your desire for a new baby was just because Sarah has grown up too fast or you actually wanna do it?" You asked him gently, his arm pulling you even closer as he shrugged 

"I don't know… I want it but I'm also scared… it's a lot of trouble, it's a lot of money and Sammy is still so small, he needs us so much. But at the same time it's about having another little version of you, running around, playing and melting my old heart, I can't decide" 

"You don't have to decide anything right now, Joel, but we could get started, couldn't we?" You whispered against his ear, to which he kissed you.

Joel wasn't very sure if he wanted another baby or not, but he was so happy to have you and Sammy in his life. He loved his little family with all his heart and there was nothing he could ask for other than live a world of happiness with the two of you. 

____

[artistesoiree]

Had champagne this time. Dated Goth Dad. We’ll carry on.

[artistesoiree]

out of touch thursday

[artistesoiree]

If ur arabic ur great If ur arabic and muslim ur great If ur arabic and queer ur great If ur arabic and muslim and queer ur great I know it seems hard to believe but you’re not bad you’re not awful

[artistesoiree]

good game scribbles since the fandom on twitter came back to life yesterday

[artistesoiree]