#A Midsummer Tights Dream | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

theragethatisdesire · 6 months

Text

quick bright things - eren jaeger x afab!reader, 18+!!

okay hi. after my many-months writing hiatus, i am offering up this humble creation. welcome to the world of quick bright things, caught somewhere between a fairytale and a shakespeare play and a priceless piece of jewelry. this was inspired by....a lot of things, from midsummer night's dream to saltburn to the secret history to romeo & juliet like, you name it and i've probably crammed it in here. eren is a lot different than i normally write him (or read him, for that matter), i hope you all find him as lovely as i do! this will be 2 parts (for now...), i'm not sure what else to say except i'm happy to be back and i hope you all love part 1 ₊˚⊹♡

pairing: eren jaeger x reader

wc: 10.4k

DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. if you are a minor, please do not read below the cut.

cws: alcohol, swearing, smut, fingering, reader has female anatomy, wet dreams, allusions to cannibalism (idk that's a stretch it's more of a metaphor), exhibitionism, cum-eating, creepy stepsiblings, rich assholes, throat-closing amounts of sexual tension, i honestly don't even know what to put here

without further ado...

"Last year I abstained / this year I devour / without guilt / which is also an art."

“Now don’t forget: university is for discovery, for adventure.” Your mother tucks the front of your shirt into your skirt, tugs at your collar until it’s sitting prettily against the cliff of your collarbones. It’s not a good fabric, this shirt; it’s cheap and scratches uncomfortably at the summer sunburn still lingering on your chest. “It’s for finding your passions, your life path, yourself…”

“Darling, you’ve been philosophizing since breakfast. You’re going to give the poor girl a conniption.” Your father chuckles lightly, swinging the hammer at the wall of your dormitory and finishing the hanging of one of your many posters over your creaky, lofted bed. The posters are bright and colorful, almost garish in the pristine, ancient light pouring in from the windows. With a slow blink, you realize you’re going to take them down later, that they feel incongruous with the dust particles and the oak furniture.

“It’s alright, really.” You manage a smile of compromise, lips clamped tight to hold the flutter of nerves in your throat at bay. “I think I’ve got it from here.”

There’s an expectedly teary goodbye, a small monologue from your father about how much you’ve grown, and a few reminders from your mother to separate the darks and the lights when you do laundry, to focus on your studies. Just before she slips out behind her husband, she grabs you by the shoulders and presses her lips to the side of your head, kisses a blood-red print into the shell of your ear.

“Don’t forget. Find something.”

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

Whether it started with that conversation or with the buildup that accompanied the thirty-six months of monotonous paper-writing and numb boredom of your first three years at Oxford, you can’t be sure. In truth, maybe your first three years weren’t all that boring, and they only seem so by comparison of everything that came after, but you can’t be entirely sure of that either.

What you can be sure of is that something down the line—between meeting Sasha in that class on Milton and squeezing her hand as the plane landed and the dozens of bottles of champagne you’ve consumed over the last weeks—something led you to this moment, standing in this kitchen somewhere outside Verona with your bare feet against the hot clay tiles, staring at the sharp angle of an unfamiliar, tanned collarbone.

He’s coated in linen: a half-unbuttoned, burnt-orange drape of a shirt is rolled carefully up around strong forearms, and one large, boyish foot peeks out from his baggy jeans, propped up on its throne upon the opposite knee. A golden cross winks at you from his chest, nestled in the sparsest dusting of chest hair and dripping with the same peach juice that’s sliding down his Adam’s apple, from his strong chin, from the crooked smirk that’s pointed at you like a knife.

You recognize him before he speaks– this must be Eren. Sasha’s mentioned him enough times: the shock of rich, dark hair, the lakewater eyes, the way he leans back in his chair like a king and cocks his head like a trickster. This is Eren, and you tell him so.

“Guilty.” The sun compliments everything about him but his smile, a little too sharp with too much danger behind it. It’s a smile made for moonlight. “And you are?”

A memory surfaces in your mind, a cautionary childhood tale. “You can never let a fairy know your name,” Emma tells you, graver than death, crouched in the bushes beside you, “or they steal you away, and you can never be human again.”

“Well?” Eren says expectantly, head leaning even further to the left. He’s studying you, the baggy linen pants pooling around your toes and ruby-studded ears poking out of a fray of frazzled bedhead. You feel naked, feel a wild urge come over you and wonder how his eyes would glow at you if you were. You shiver, goosebumps raising in the stuffy summer air. When his lips twitch, you realize Eren’s noticed; you feel feverish.

You mumble your name at him, as if it’s something given unwillingly. Waking the espresso machine seems like the right thing to do with your hands, and you’re grateful for the noisy mechanical sounds it provides to shatter the still morning. You bring an absentminded hand to rub over the tip of your ear, feel if it’s grown to a point yet.

“We haven’t met, have we? I feel like if we had, I’d remember.”

God, you wish he’d stop talking.

“Well, do you go to Oxford?”

“Sometimes.” You roll your eyes, and he laughs, little bells and glass shattering. “I’ve been abroad for the last semester. I flew in from Egypt a couple of weeks ago.”

“Hm,” you hum to yourself, choosing a small red cup for your morning coffee. You aren’t sure what to say; the most exotic place you’ve ever visited was a seaside town three hours from your house.

You can hear his newspaper crinkling; the sound of him putting it down betrays his arrival behind you, but you still don’t expect the puff of warm breath over your shoulder. He comes into your space like he belongs there, like there’s never been a door that wasn’t held open for him to stride through. “Are you still asleep?”

Before you can answer, you hear a shriek from down the hallway, and you breathe a little sigh of relief, thanking whatever ancient gods that belong to the hills you’re in for the interruption. Venus springs to mind, and you swat her and her entourage of Graces away from you with a huff.

“You absolute asshole!” Historia comes barreling into the kitchen, dramatic, fluffy dressing robe spilling out into the unrelenting summer heat behind her. You realize that in the three weeks you’ve spent with her, you haven’t once seen her in the actual kitchen, watching the way the breakfast chef’s eyes widen at the sight of her as he hurries by with an armful of eggs.

“Stori!” Eren elegantly catches her best attempt at a tackle with the good grace you assume he does everything with, breaking out into a warm peal of laughter. “Since when do you not love a surprise?”

“Since always.” Historia’s face is scrunched up where she’s buried it into the crook of his neck, forehead red with the effort of squeezing Eren as hard as she can. “You could have at least called, I mean– ugh, I didn’t even get the chance to get your favorite–”

“Relax.” Eren urges her, rubbing soothing circles into the small of her back. He carries them both over to his seat, plopping down and curling her up in his lap like a child. Eren holds his cup of coffee to her lips temptingly, and Historia shoves it away with another scowl. You hide your giggle at her antics behind your espresso, not wanting to remind them of your presence, but enjoying the show all the same. “Brat.”

“Ow,” Historia hisses when he pinches her thigh, expression lightening when she catches sight of something on the wall. “I always forget how pretty the kitchen is here.”

“Where’s your brother?”

“Still getting dressed.” Historia’s blue eyes turn to the frescoed ceiling with an irritated huff. “You know he can’t stand to be seen in his pajamas.”

“That’s because he doesn’t wear any,” Eren remarks with an eye roll of his own. “You could have called to let me know we’d adopted such a pretty houseguest for the summer.”

Your face burns with acknowledgement, and you can feel your toes curling into the clay bricks of the floor hard enough to scrape the tip of your pinky. Eren seems satisfied at your bewilderment, letting his eyes drag over your hardly-covered chest lazy as a wandering mouth.

“Why would anyone wear pajamas under those heavy duvets? It’s almost thirty-two degrees out.” Armin breezes in in a feigned display of nonchalance, but you can see the way his eyes skim over Eren like a ship narrowly avoiding an iceberg. The Titanic was inevitable, and so is the gravity of Eren sitting golden on the other side of the room.

“You look good, Min.” Eren squints his eyes at Armin’s shirt, nearly identical to his own. “Where’d you get that?”

“You left it last summer,” Historia hums, tucking her head under Eren’s chin and nuzzling into his chest more completely. Armin makes a soft snort of irritation, grabbing for a fig in the bowl of fruit on the counter and beginning to rummage through the cabinet drawers.

“Do you want half a fig?” Armin’s cool gaze slides to you, and you shake your head, feeling a little underwater as two lifelong relationships unfurl in front of you, your mind still fuzzy from last night’s wine. “Historia?”

Historia says no as Eren says yes, and Armin makes his sound of annoyance again before continuing his rummaging, muttering about the inconvenience of finding a knife.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” Sasha, still disheveled with sleep and grinning bright as Christmas morning, pops her head around the doorway. “Shouldn’t you be overseeing the construction of your pyramid?”

“I’m not dead, Sasha,” Eren laughs—it really is distracting when he does that—pulling Sasha onto his other knee, ignoring Historia’s grumbles of discontent. The NYU Men’s Lacrosse t-shirt that Sasha cropped too short rides up, exposing the swell of her breast, but no one acknowledges it. Eren’s hand tucks in snugly around the curve of her hip, easy and natural, and you wonder if his fingers have ever itched to travel up under the hem of her tiny sleep shorts.

“Not dead yet.” Historia glares up at him venomously, reluctantly making room for Sasha to pile onto Eren and smother his face with kisses. Sasha pulls away from him suddenly and frowns.

“Peaches?”

“Where are the knives in this fucking kitchen?” Armin’s growl of frustration is loud enough to make you jump, and Sasha giggles at you.

“Jesus, Armin, you’re going to kill her, and it’s not even noon.” Sasha slips off of Eren’s knee, practically bouncing over to where Armin’s viciously jiggling a locked drawer. She slides open the drawer next to him and draws a long, wide knife from it, passing it to him with the blade extended and her eyes on you. “Did you meet Eren?”

“Careful of his hand!” Historia squeals, shooting an arm out towards Armin as if she can deflect the tip of the blade from across the room.

“It’s fine, Stor.” Armin’s voice floats across his nearly-bare shoulder, mild and careless as it grazes the collar of the too-big button down sliding off of his slim frame.

“That knife’s a little big for a fig, Sasha.” Eren stands, placing Historia on the table and pinching her cheek when she scowls at him.

“There’s no such thing as a too-big knife– listen to me. Did you meet Eren?” Sasha’s fingers are gripping into the flesh of your arm– hard. Your eyes widen in surprise at the urgency in her eyes, like if you haven’t been introduced to Eren, there’s grave danger afoot.

“We met.” It happens quickly and easily, the slide of his heavy arm around your shoulders. You can feel your body tense under the lazy weight of him, big hand wrapped around you like it belongs there. “I don’t think she’s particularly fond of me.”

Eren shoots you a wink that you’re sure is intended to mean something, a reference to an inside joke that you have yet to establish, maybe.

“I didn’t say that,” you say in your own defense, wanting to yank Sasha to the side and demand to know why she hadn’t warned you that Cupid himself was going to greet you in the kitchen this morning. Armin slices the fig neatly in half, a strangely practiced motion performed by small, soft hands. He offers it to you again insistently, and frowns when you shake your head.

“I said I wanted it, ‘Min,” Eren says with a hint of red to his words, snatching the halved fig from Armin’s hand and biting into it voraciously, little pieces of the flesh spattered around the corner of his mouth.

“You’re such a brute,” Armin scoffs, picking the meat of his half out gingerly with an oyster fork that you don’t remember him grabbing from the drawer.

“Why don’t you like Eren?” Sasha pouts at you, grabbing the hand that’s squashed between yours and Eren’s hips. Your palm feels hot against her fingers.

“I said I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say much of anything, to be fair.” Eren’s got the fig pressed to his mouth, digging his teeth and tongue around in the husk of it obscenely enough to make your cheeks warm. Being so close to him is filthy, that cross around his neck is looking you straight in the eye to make sure you feel it.

“Eren’s always a pest,” Historia provides from her perch on the kitchen table, picking at her perfectly manicured toenails, “why would she like him?”

“You like him plenty,” Armin says, not looking at her. It’s not the first time that’s been brought up, if Historia’s answering sneer is anything to go by.

“You’ll love him if you give him a chance.” Sasha smiles hopefully at you, nodding.

“Yeah,” Eren grins down at you, teeth colored with fig, “give me a chance.”

“Eren, you’re going to scare her off,” Armin says with a roll of his eyes, peering around Eren’s broad shoulders to look you up and down. The way his eyes drag over you makes you feel like there might be a stab wound somewhere on your person that you don’t know about yet, the adrenaline of the moment keeping you numb.

“Back off her, Eren,” Historia echoes, “she’s fun, I don’t want you to make her leave.”

“She’s not going to leave.” Eren looks directly at you as he says it, something in his smile growing imperceptibly darker. A dare. How much will you let me get away with?

You stare and stare at him, ignoring the continued bickering of Armin and Historia in the background. He’s golden and blood-red, oil smeared on his forehead and a crown of thorns nestled in his dark thatch of hair if you look close enough. If you’re not imagining it, his hand might be tightening around your shoulder, maybe he’ll leave a purple bruise on it.

“Of course not,” Sasha interrupts your thoughts, thumbing at your cheek affectionately, “she belongs here. With us.”

“She’s our little fairy,” Historia giggles dreamily, referencing the long-winded fairy tales you drunkenly make up every night, casting each other as heroines and knights and dragons.

“Right,” Eren agrees, not breaking your gaze, “our little fairy.”

The only thing that comes to mind is your childhood friend, Emma, looking on at you sadly with her muddy toes, watching the wings sprout from your back.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

Days lug themselves by, barefooted and dragging their heels, and most of the time, even the monotonous rise and fall of the sun doesn’t help to differentiate one calendar block from the next. Like a bat, or maybe a slinky, silvery fish in an underwater cave, you rely on your other senses to track the passage of time.

For example, today, you know it’s a Wednesday because Maria, one of the three house chefs, brings fresh peaches up from the co-op down the hill every Wednesday. Sasha’s spent the last thirty minutes hand feeding you peach flesh as you lounge by the pool, insisting that you suck her fingers clean of juice and feeding you little sips of champagne each time you sober up enough to tell her that that’s lewd. Historia swats at you and giggles at the smacking and slurping sounds you make around Sasha’s fingers, oiled-up palm landing on oiled-up hip with a wet slap; Armin admonishes her quietly from his seat beside her, insisting the girlish noises emanating from the three of you are tearing him from his book. You can feel Eren watching, too– that’s all, though. Always just watching.

You wonder how opaque the lenses of Armin’s sunglasses are, perched haphazardly on your nose, wonder if they’re doing a good job of masking the slow lick of your gaze over Eren’s skin, wonder if you care. Maybe the champagne is finally getting to your head.

“We should go in soon,” Historia sighs, a hand tossed across her forehead. She’s a little movie star, built for the golden age. “It’s so hot.”

“It’s always this hot,” Sasha argues, and you can practically hear the furrow in her brow, not willing to take your eyes off of the trickle of sweat running down Eren’s chest to see it for yourself. You’re really getting the hang of it, this opposite-sense thing. Everything’s upside down here in the heat.

“She’s getting hungry,” Armin supplies, wiping the sweat off his palms to reach up and turn the page of his novel. Brideshead Revisited. A little on the nose, isn’t it?

“I am not!” Historia hates when people point out her appetite, but not really. She kicks up a fuss because it’s “ladylike”, and she’s advised you to do the same.

“You are,” you sigh, really feeling the heat sink into you even with the heavy, lazy movement of lolling your head to face her, “you always get hungry around this time.”

“What time is it, then?”

You don’t reply– you don’t know the answer.

“I think we’re all hungry,” Eren, ever the peacemaker when he can find the time to be so, sits up, letting the shirt that’s been shading his face fall into his lap. Your eyes track its descent– even that seems slow. He says something to you, managing a crooked grin while he squints in the heat of the sun, but you don’t hear it.

“Huh?”

“Everyone except you, anyway,” he repeats himself, reaching over Sasha and smearing his thumb through the peach juice collected on your chin. Eren’s thumb disappears between his pink lips, and when he sucks on it with a satisfied hum, your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt.

“I guess it’s getting close to dinner,” Sasha says regretfully, picking her wristwatch, a priceless Braus family heirloom, up from a puddle of orange juice and tanning oil. “We should probably clean off.”

“I might even shower twice,” Armin rubs a hand over his belly with a grimace, “this tanning oil makes my skin greasy.”

“I feel disgusting,” Historia agrees, sliding red toes into her sandals and standing with a dramatic stretch.

“Filthy,” Eren murmurs in agreement. He’s still staring at you.

“I’ll be in soon. I’m so close to the color I wanted for today– I just need, like, ten more minutes.” You peel down the strip of bathing suit stretched over your hip, showing off the distinct mark of yesterday’s color and today’s tan.

“You’re crazy,” Sasha scoffs, throwing some designer sarong her mother lent her over her shoulder, “I’m melting.”

Armin and Historia pause their bickering over who gets to wear Armin’s Cucinelli belt to dinner—Armin wants it for his trousers, Historia for her maxi dress—just long enough to offer a momentary goodbye, breezing along into the house with Sasha. You settle back into your chair and take a deep breath, letting the sun sink into you just long enough to forget that you’re not alone.

“Open up.”

You’ve been enjoying this game of trading one sense for another, and you keep your eyes shut firmly, letting your jaw fall open and your tongue hang out. A piece of peach, fleshy and dripping with juice, finds its way onto your tongue, pinched too roughly between strong fingers. When you close your lips around the fruit, the fingers stay with it, frozen in their pinched position and forcing you to suck the peach from them, to swallow around them, to run your tongue along them and get as much of the meat as you can. When the fingers withdraw from your lips, you open your eyes and gasp quietly.

Eren’s leaning over you, a solar eclipse that smells like tan skin and sounds like Campari, and in the silhouette of the sunlight, you think he’s smiling.

“You’re still hungry,” he says, a question that’s left its punctuation mark behind. You think of Historia, of the improper shame of revealing your appetite. You dodge.

“I’m never hungry.”

“Never?” Eren crawls over you to kneel between your legs, propping one of your ankles up on his shoulder. The game you started is ripped out of your hands, chess pieces flying into the pool, scattering across the table, knocking over bottles and matchbooks. It’s so silent out here in the sun it hurts, and you almost miss the constant buzzing horseflies of early summer.

“Never.”

“If you’ve never been hungry,” Eren muses, tilting his head so that his cheekbone fits into the sensitive arch of your foot, reaching a hand down to splay it wide on your belly, “you’ve never been full.”

“How do you figure?” Your words come out throaty, waterlogged.

“Can’t have one without the other.” Eren shrugs, turning his head to the side. His lips brush against your heel, your Achilles’, the swirly seashell dangling from your anklet. You dig your teeth into your bottom lip, toes twitching behind his ear. “I don’t believe you, anyway.”

“No?” You try to tilt your head coyly, like your heart’s not clawing and scratching against your throat to get to him. Hungry, indeed.

“You wouldn’t stare like that if you didn’t want to.”

You’re taken aback, but not enough to fall out of the moment– Eren’s lips closing around the knob of your ankle slowly, like the pit of a fruit, make sure of that.

“Didn’t want to what?”

Eren’s hands meet the cushion on either side of your head hard enough to rattle the chair, his long, tanned body stretching over yours. He’s close enough to brush his nose against yours, but you can still see the hazy green of his eyes flicking here and there on your face: from your eyes to your lips to the beauty mark on your cheek. Your poolside lounge feels more like a butcher’s block under your taut spine.

Sasha’s told you about the wolves in these hills, that they howl murder at night, but they’re sleepy and indulgent in the heat of the sun. One of Eren’s canines catches the light and glints at you as he grins.

“Eat yourself sick.” He practically spits it into your mouth, one thigh pressed into where you’re sticky and sinful, and he chuckles under his breath when you shudder under him, feverish in the late-afternoon heat.

Before you can even think of biting back, Eren’s off of you, picking your sandals off of the ground and sliding them gently onto your feet, stopping to run his palm from your ankle to your kneecap with an appraising hum.

“We should head inside,” he says evenly, offering a hand to pull you to your feet, “I’d hate for us to miss dinner.”

You don’t have anything to say back to him, letting him lace his fingers through yours like lines in a play, interspersing seamlessly with the summer scenery. Eren leads you through the kitchen, waits patiently for you to take your sandals off, and waves you on your way up the stairs, saying he needs a cigarette. As the distance between you grows, your mind grows clearer, and you turn on your heel, calling down to him from the top of the stairs.

“Eren? Eren? Where are you, Eren?”

“Call me something else,” Eren pokes his head around the corner, smoke pouring from the grin on his face, “whatever you want, really. Make your own name for me.”

“You stare at me, too,” you say, tearing through his impishness. Eren cocks his head, unperturbed, smile growing wide as he nods.

“I do.”

“So you’re…” You can’t bring yourself to say it, not where it might echo in the cavernous hallway, where it might take the form of a confession. You scamper down the stairs, nearly sliding on bare feet, almost crashing into Eren when he appears at the foot of the staircase, catching you with two broad palms on either side of your ribcage. You pluck the cigarette from his mouth, stick it between your own teeth, narrow your eyes accusingly, and whisper: “You’re hungry too.”

“For every man hath business and desire, Such it is.” Eren takes the cigarette back, pulling on it and making a clear show of trying to hide a smirk.

“Hamlet?”

“A woman with teeth and a brain,” Eren tilts his head at you, “aren’t you something?”

“Do you always quote Shakespeare when you want to fuck somebody?”

“Only when I want to fuck you.” Eren stubs the cigarette out on the ancient oak of the staircase railing, grins up at you brilliantly, smiles brighter when he notices how obviously flustered you are.

“I need to go take a shower,” you say hurriedly, choking on the remnants of your shame and your confidence as they burn out in your throat, making an attempt to back up the stairs away from him. Eren laughs at your attempted escape, catching you by the wrist and pulling you close to him, close enough to dizzy you on the tendrils of smoke still sticking to him. Your breath stills, your heart slows as Eren wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you together, skin on tacky skin.

“Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” Eren coos to you, mouth moving against your cheekbone. “C’mon, just one bite.”

“He that is proud eats up himself,” you hiss a quote back at him in response, ripping yourself from his grip and scrambling up the stairs, heart pounding and cheeks burning. You can hear a lovesick sigh follow you up to your room, and hope that the slam of the door behind you is enough to keep it from touching you.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

The murky waters of your vision ripple out into clarity, and you’ve found yourself in a forest. You’ve been here before, you recognize the tall, thick trunks and the bed of fallen leaves under your feet. You’ve been coming here since you were a little girl, been wiggling your toes in the greenery since before you could remember. You never come alone.

It appears just as you remembered: a blinding glimmer of light, a flame for a head, and ribbonlike wisps of energy that beckon you like arms, like love. One step towards it, and it disappears, vanishing into nothing with an echo that might be laughter. You think it’s happy to see you.

When it reappears a few feet away, you take your first steps, sighing at the feeling of the wild enveloping you, of the prickling of your skin, kissed by the chill winding through the trees. You wish you could explore this place, so familiar and so strange all at once, but you know you have to keep moving, keep following the lights as they lead you deeper and deeper into the forest. They won’t hurt you; you aren’t sure why that’s true, aren’t sure why you keep moving. You just know better than to stop.

They lead you over a familiar path, winding past a creek, over a bed of flat stones with an ice-cold creek running over them. You never tire here, legs pumping and arms working to push yourself faster. You’ve never caught the lights, and you aren’t sure if you ever will, but again, you know better than to doubt. It feels like hours, feels like minutes, feels like purpose, chasing these lights through the forest, but suddenly, something’s new.

There’s a little chirping sound, almost conversational and too high-pitched for you to understand; you’re not even sure if you recognize the language. It ricochets around the bones in your body, touches something ancient in their marrow. You almost jerk your head to the right to find the source, but you resist, pushing ahead on your path as the lights lead you deeper. You get the feeling that you’ve gone off-script somewhere, that this is a part of the forest you haven’t seen before, but the warmth in your bones shoos your doubts away. You’ve never been this far, but it feels like home.

A growl curls around the shell of your ear, plants fear right in the center of your chest. Your eyes widen at the light before you before it disappears; you frown at the next one, not daring to speak but demanding an answer anyhow. The lights will save you, won’t they?

Shrieks from overhead, guttural, animalistic calls, howls and chatters of excitement; you never presumed to be alone in this forest, but you never presumed to be in danger, either. The lights urge you on, vanishing and regenerating at an alarming rate, your feet drumming against the forest floor faster and faster. A sliver of moonlight begins to glow from the trees a ways off, an indication that there’s a clearing ahead, and you shove the bile in your throat down, swing your arms faster, ignore the frantic fluttering of your pulse in time with the bestial chorus ringing clearer and louder from the trees with each passing second.

You do, against all odds, manage to launch yourself into the clearing, and the moment you feel the soft cushion of moss under your feet, as opposed to the branch-littered, crunchy path of the forest, you nearly stumble to your knees as your eyes adjust to the sudden brightness of the clearing. The grumblings of the woodland entities have quieted, an almost awestruck silence settling in the open space around you.

“There you are.”

Your head snaps up comically fast– “You?”

“Me,” Eren says, that razor-sharp, moonlight smile lighting up his face. He looks…right here, as if the forest is extending a sense of belonging, as if he’s been here longer than the ancient trees themselves. Even the little crown nestled atop his head is fitting: a tangle of brambles and thorns and leaves tucked into his dark locks. Is that a throne under him, that mass of branches and leaves and some silvery metal you can’t place?

His eyes glow in the starlight, illuminated with a certain hunger that you can feel reverberating through your bones. It should be frightening, but it’s enticing. You feel welcome.

“What are you doing here?” Your tongue is slower on the uptake than your mind, and you can feel the suspicious expression folding your facial features, hiding the thrum of anticipation the sight of him brings.

Eren cocks his head pityingly, smiling at you in a way that would seem predatory if it wasn’t so entirely disarming, so entirely inviting. Your feet are bringing you closer before he even speaks— you know why you’re here before he says it.

“I’ve been waiting so long,” Eren beckons you onto his lap, firmly grabbing your shoulder and silently demanding you straddle him when you try to turn away from him, “you’re beautiful, so…alive here.”

He takes a bit of your hair between your fingers and rubs it, satisfaction flickering over his face. It’s then that you realize how little fabric covers you; really, it’s only a thin, wispy excuse of a dress, hanging in tatters around your body and leaving your skin free for the taking. Taking notice of your dress leads you to take notice of another pressing matter: Eren’s naked beneath you.

“Where are we?”

“Does it matter?” Eren reaches up to toy with your hair again, smiling gently. He tilts his head up, asking you for something you can’t identify, but that you already know you’re willing to give. Your soul, maybe.

Your lips meet his in a tentative brush, a motion that feels shy, but practiced. It’s a reflex, an instinct, to kiss him this way. Eren groans gutturally against your mouth, pressing into you deeper, digging his fingertips into your bare skin. The chorus of inhuman chatter erupts around you both again, and you jump, almost pushing away from him before he stops you with a firm hand against the small of your back.

“Sh,” he whispers, nipping at your chin, “don’t pay them any mind. You’re with me, remember?”

It’s difficult at first with the ever-growing hum of life around you, but it grows increasingly easier to melt into him, to lose yourself in the rhythm of him. He’s thick and hard underneath you, pressed right where you’re already slick and ready for him, and he’s got a tight grip on your hips, working you against him to make sure you feel it and oh– do you feel it.

A debauched gasp pours from your mouth to his; Eren sinks sharp teeth into your bottom lip with a grunt of approval, pulls you up to situate you over his twitching cock. You can feel the lecherous eyes of the woodland creatures, spirits, monsters, whatever they may be around you, looking in on the sticky, tangible arousal building between your bodies. The steady glow of Eren’s eyes, the prick of the thorns in his hair under your fingertips, the insistent weight of him pressing against the wet heat of you: all of it keeps you grounded, keeps your hips rolling into Eren like your life depends on it, like it’s what you were born to do.

“Are you ready?” Eren murmurs, quiet as the grave, stilling your hips and lifting you.

“I’m not sure, I–”

“I’ve been waiting so long,” Eren interrupts, “so long for you– you’re ready for me, I know you are.”

And with that, he’s sliding you down onto his cock, splitting you open, dropping your jaw. The cacophony from the forest grows deafening, but the glowing eyes in the brush streak and blur as your eyes flutter closed, a stuttered moan falling from your lips.

“Oh–”

“Knew you were ready,” Eren sinks his teeth into your collarbone, lets you wiggle and roll your hips until he’s situated comfortably inside of you. “You were born for this. For me.”

You can’t even bring yourself to disagree, to refute, to question. It’s godly, the way he fills you, the twinge of pain in the pit of your belly that doesn’t waver, no matter which way you squirm. The longer you sit, perched upon him– you feel something akin to divinity, akin to prophecy ringing through your bones. You were born for this.

“Eren…” It’s more of a sigh than anything, a confession and an admittance of guilt, a repentance. He likes the way it tastes, you can tell by the way his hands grip you harder, roll you along his cock faster with an urgency that betrays his calm, adoring gaze. He’s sinking his claws into you, bit by bit, and you’re better for it. You belong here, with the night on your skin and Eren nestled inside of you.

“Don’t ever leave,” Eren smiles gently, as if it’s a choice, “stay with me forever.”

The pleasure’s beginning to peak in your stomach, the howls swirling in the air around you start to feel more like a blanket, the moonlight like a crown. His hands are so hot they almost burn, his tongue licking up your neck feels like a baptism. Your back is arching, your blood is rushing, the stars are speaking to you– what are they saying?

Your fingernails have left angry indents in your throat where you’ve clutched into the skin in a desperate attempt to regain your breath, shooting up out of your slumber with a vicious jolt. Your head spins with the sudden movement, the antique furnishings of the room bleeding into candlelit blurs as you heave for breath.

“Sleeping?”

You nearly jump out of your skin at the gravel of Eren’s voice, having believed yourself to be alone. Some instinctual part of your mind almost remembers falling asleep on the loveseat in the glass-enclosed sunroom earlier, one too many martinis to thank for that, but you can worry about that later– Eren’s your priority now, shirtless and leaned against the doorframe with one eyebrow raised and a very telling flush rising to his cheeks. The chilly wetness between your legs brings your dream to the forefront of your mind. Had he heard, somehow?

“What are you doing down here?” You do your best to narrow your eyes into something convincing enough to pass for annoyance, unsure if you’ve managed to pull it off with the rapid rise and fall of your chest.

“Water,” Eren says simply, raising a glass you hadn’t noticed he was holding, “but it seems like you might need it more than I do.”

“I don’t–” He ignores you, crossing the room to hand you the ornate glass. Your throat is dry, and so you drink, eyeing him suspiciously as you sip.

“Dreaming?” The corner of his mouth twitches almost imperceptibly.

“Nightmare.” You push yourself up to sit, crossing your arms defensively over your chest. “How’d you know?”

A long pause, Eren’s eyes dragging over you slowly, your skin burning. “You were squirming.”

“It was disturbing,” you say truthfully, looking over your shoulder and half-expecting to see some horrible monster leering at you from the doorway, salivating over you and Eren, “but I’ve had this same dream since I was a kid. Part of it, anyway.”

“Need company?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaken by the dream and how low Eren’s pajama pants hang on his hips, “I just need to get to my real bed. I’m sure sleeping outside had something to do with it.”

“That’s not true.” Eren’s scooping you up into his arms before you can open your mouth to argue, as if you even would. This isn’t unusual for him; you’ve grown used to his tendency to touch you, to hold you close to his chest as though you belong there. It echoes in your head, you were born for this. A shudder wracks through your body. “Cold?”

“Mhm,” you hum, not trusting your own voice. Eren nuzzles your head deeper into his shoulder, lets you get a noseful of the scent of him. Dewdrops, mankind, a rotting forest floor. It gives you a disconcerting sense of deja vu.

“Sleeping outside is good for you,” Eren goes on, scaling the stairs with impossible ease, “my mom used to tell me that.”

“Is that so?” It brings a sleepy little smile to your face, despite yourself: the image of a messy-haired, fussy baby Eren, curled up in his mother’s lap and looking up at the night sky.

“Sure.” You can hear the nostalgia in his voice. “The stars can talk to you that way, through your dreams. They show you where you’re supposed to go.”

Your blood runs cold at that– does he know? How could he? He’s a man, not a mind-reader, not a mystic. Right? You let him carry you to your door in silence, the only noise being the padding of his bare feet down the Turkish carpet runner in the hall. When he gets to your door, Eren finally starts to move to let you down, and your mouth moves without your permission, voice small and echoing in the still nighttime air.

“Eren?”

He freezes, muscles locking you in place against his chest. “Yeah?”

“Was I talking in my sleep?”

Eren settles you on your feet before answering, leaving one lingering hand on your hip and bringing the other up to brush at your cheek. Your eye must have been watering– his thumb catches a stray tear. His smile is a little too sharp when he answers.

“No, why?”

“Just wondering.” Relief courses through your body, but your muscles stay taut under his touch.

“Okay,” Eren looks you up and down one more time, as if he’s making sure you’re all there, “goodnight, then. I hope your dreams get better.”

When he turns to go, the broad silhouette of him growing darker as he retreats, you remember something fragile underneath the floorboards.

“Wait, Eren! You forgot your water.”

“My what?” When he turns to face you, he’s still grinning– baring his teeth, more like. You think you’re imagining the glow in his eyes, too fresh from that dream.

“Your water. I think I have a cup in my room if you need it.”

“Oh.” Eren waves a hand nonchalantly through the air, catching a stray stream of moonlight. You can see the dust particles dancing around his hand, enchanted by his movement. “Wasn’t thirsty."

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

It’s a slinky, dazzling dress; Elie Saab, Spring 2005, maybe? 2006? Sasha had lent it to you, insisted upon you taking it, really. It’s got to be worth at least your years’ rent payment, dripping with Swarovski and cut low and square across your chest, and easily the most decadent thing you’ve ever worn but– it’s family dinner night. No expense is spared.

Historia sits across from you, reaching one dainty hand out for Armin’s negroni, nearly dipping the massive drop-pearl charm on her bracelet into the first course: a cold, cucumber soup. Armin nudges her meaningfully, scowling and handing his glass to her, glancing apologetically at the stiff-backed butler across the room, who wasn’t looking anyway. Sasha’s at the head of the table, working on Historia’s serving of the cucumber soup, dunking focaccia bread into it in a voracious manner that you’re sure wasn’t outlined in the etiquette courses she’d endured as a child. And he’s next to you, naturally.

His dinner jacket looks out of place on him, oddly enough: angular and overly formal, as well-fitting as it is. You wish it was a little greener, a little more playful, something to match the Eren you’ve gotten to know under all the glitz and glamour. It’s too human for him, really, but that thought makes you shudder faster than you can shove it to the side.

“Wasn’t that the girl from Luxembourg?” Sasha asks through a giggle, finally leaning back to allow the butler to collect the remnants of her first course. Historia frowns at her, gulps back nearly half of Armin’s cocktail.

“No, the girl from Luxembourg was a slut. He wouldn’t have touched her.”

Armin and Eren exchange a look that implies that, whoever the slut from Luxembourg might have been, she didn’t escape their clutches unscathed. Historia notices the guilty smile dimpling Eren’s cheek and smacks Armin in retaliation.

“Ouch, Stori!” Armin scowls right back at her; if you didn’t know about Armin’s father’s remarriage to Historia’s mother, you’d think they were actually related.

“She was a slut,” Historia sniffs, finishing the rest of Armin’s cocktail in a second swig.

“It was Eren’s idea– you’re always punishing me for what he does.” When the staff place the second course, some sort of ceviche, in front of him, Armin crosses his arms over his chest and looks away like a huffy child. Sasha laughs and swats at his shoulder.

“Don’t pretend you don’t have your own hand in things. You can’t blame everything on Eren.”

“Maybe he can,” you shrug, the champagne going to your head. You’re feeling impish, feeling like one of them. Wildly, you reach a hand up to pinch at Eren’s cheek, smiling to yourself when you feel it turn warm under your fingers. “I mean, just look at him. He’s a devil.”

“Am not,” Eren scoffs, slapping a hand on your leg and shaking it playfully, “you weren’t there anyway. Min’s very convincing when he wants to be.”

“I am.” Armin smiles at you, head tilting intrepidly. “I can get Eren to share anything I want, I bet.”

It feels loaded, like a challenge, and Eren’s fingers tighten where he’s gripping your leg. When you chance a glance to the side at him, his jaw is tense, gaze focused on Armin like a threat, like a predator.

“Not anything,” Eren says, voice low and dangerous, more somber than you’ve ever heard him. Armin’s face falls for a millisecond, scrunching his nose at the murderous glint in Eren’s eyes, before he clenches his jaw and glances between the two of you with a haughty smirk.

“Est-ce vrai? En êtes-vous sûr? Tu l'as dit toi-même - je suis convaincant quand je veux quelque chose.”

“Ne commencez pas avec moi, pas pour ça.” It’s hardly louder than a murmur, but the threat carries all the same. You look to Sasha with widened eyes, hoping for a translation, but she’s chewing slowly on a bite of her ceviche, looking at Armin, Eren, then Armin again with a strange expression you’ve never seen before.

A heavy silence settles over the table, Eren’s fingertips leaving sore spots through your dress where they’re digging into your thigh, and Armin’s eyes dancing over Eren’s face, that same smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Daring.

“You two are so in love,” Historia gripes with a roll of her eyes, smashing the carefully-cubed ceviche on her plate into a mush. You eye the smear of meat on her fork disdainfully and set down the bite you had been about to pop in your mouth, opting for your glass of bubbles instead.

The jokingly grumpy lilt of Historia’s comment seems to cut the thread of tension that had grown taut between the two men, as Armin allows Sasha to pull him away from Eren and back into his corner of the table with her and Historia. Their conversation drones on, the ethics of Eren and Armin’s tendency to tag-team women fading into the background as you wait for Eren’s hand to slip from your thigh. It doesn’t.

His thumb rubs idly over the slit of your dress, brushing it back and forth over your bare skin for just long enough to get you used to the pressure of his palm beaming heat through the thin fabric, get your guard down. And then his fingers slip underneath, grabbing into the hot flesh of your thigh.

You jump ever so slightly, flighty as a fawn, and Eren chuckles under his breath beside you when you choke a bit on your champagne. He’s cool—stoic, even—as he bashfully bats away the scandalous insinuations of Sasha and Historia’s storytelling, the lewd raise of Armin’s eyebrows at the mention of a certain leggy redhead in Prague. His hand stays steady, possessive and permanent on your leg. When Armin and Historia start arguing over yet another of Armin’s alleged missteps with one of her college friends, Eren takes the opening to lean into you, murmuring into your ear.

“What’s got you so jumpy?” His breath puffs out hot and sensual against the shell of your ear, and you can feel your earring lifting with the movement of his lips. He’s so close.

“Not jumpy,” you answer under your breath, trying to keep your composure.

“Hm,” Eren hums, leaning back just enough to study your profile, “wasn’t sure if you’d dozed off, started dreaming again.”

Your head whips towards him in what is surely an uncouth accusation of insinuation, borne of shock, but luckily, Armin’s too busy being hand-fed ceviche by Sasha and scolded by Historia to notice. Other than his eyes, Eren’s stiller than death, watching over the antics with the littlest smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. His eyes, though, flick down to you, glinting like a dare.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means something?” It’s a challenge, and you realize too late that the rope around your ankle has cinched, and you’re caught in his trap.

“No,” you say, hoping for more conviction in your voice, but it comes out as a breathy whisper. The corner of Eren’s mouth twitches, and it pulls an irritated huff from you.

“Tell me about your dream. The one that woke you up the other night.”

“Tell you�� w-what? Here?”

“Yes, here,” Eren repeats you, quiet and calm, keeping one eye on your bickering friends to ensure you’re kept all to himself, “unless it’s something you can’t share.”

The blanching of your face tells him everything he needs to know, and that sickening admission almost overshadows the fact that he knows. He undeniably knows, now; maybe not the specifics, but enough to know that you had woken up sticky and gasping after a sinful dream. Maybe he even knows it was about him.

You’ve given up on trying to understand the otherworldly elements of Eren; the way he seems to appear at inopportune moments and know what you’re thinking at every turn, but this is too much. You quickly realize that while you’re not sober, you’re certainly not drunk enough to deal with him, and you finish your glass of champagne in a single gulp.

“You’re one to talk about sharing,” you hiss at him, trying to will away the goosebumps prickling your arms as his fingers inch higher, skating along soft skin. Eren’s demeanor falters, if only for a moment– he looks frustrated.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Eren leans into you, brows furrowing. “I don’t share just anything, and especially not just because ‘Min wants a taste.”

“Am I yours to share?” That heavy swig of champagne has gone straight to your head it seems, as you turn your face up to him defiantly, finally saying the quiet part out loud. The weight falls off your shoulders like a head, and you can almost feel the itch of the guillotine at your neck as the words leave your mouth. Eren, ever the gentle executioner, only lets the calm fascination return to his face, brings his fingers further up your thigh.

“Tell me about your dream, hm? They’re not listening, it’s just you and me.”

He’s only inches away from where you’re already beginning to grow hot and wet– he hasn’t even done anything, and you want to chastise yourself over the undeniable need beginning to bubble inside you. Eren’s smiling so sweetly, as if he’s lulling you into a sense of complacency, and your tongue hangs heavy in your mouth, eager to spill your secrets.

“I…I’m scared.”

Eren’s eyebrows raise and his smile grows a bit toothier, disbelief written plain on his face. “Of me?”

“Sometimes,” you say, small and honest as the grave, “it’s like you aren’t real.”

“I’m very real,” Eren insists, two fingers pressing against the damp silk of your panties, his eyes lighting up when you stifle a gasp, “doesn’t that feel real?”

“Wait–”

“The dream,” Eren says again, increasing the pressure of his fingers, “were you scared of me there, too?”

“Yes,” you whisper, ashamed and painfully cognizant of the feel of him between your legs, “I was in a forest, running after the little lights, they– I’ve seen them for a long time.”

“Since you were a child,” Eren repeats your confession from the other night. He’s reading you, you realize, not like a book, but like a poem. You couldn’t put the difference into words if you had to, but there’s a certain melody to the flickering of his gaze over your hot face.

“They’ve never led me anywhere before,” your words hitch in your throat, stopped dead when Eren’s fingers start rubbing circles over your swollen clit. The silk is thin and soaked, and his fingers slide over you in a way that feels god-given. Your jaw hangs ever-so-slightly, the butlers coming to change the course. You wait for Eren to slip his hand out from under your dress, fearful of the staff watching as he toys with you, but he only nods encouragingly.

“Keep going.”

“Um,” you stammer, swallowing thickly and glancing at the plate of bleeding, rare filet in front of you, “they took me to a clearing in the forest. There were creatures, ones I’ve never seen before.”

“Did they hurt you? Any of them?” A furrow appears between his eyebrows, deep and concerned. Some small part of your brain, muted since Eren’s hand slid beneath your dress, worries itself with why Eren seems so disquieted with your dream– it’s not like you actually could have been hurt, it was only a dream. Wasn’t it?

“No, they stayed away. They just made a lot of noise, but they all got quiet when…”

A knowing smirk. “When?”

“When I saw you.”

Eren pats your thighs gently, urging them apart; he looks relieved, exhilarated, unreal. If you didn’t know better, you’d think his eyes were glowing in the candlelight. Armin, Historia, and Sasha’s clamor across the table grows louder with each passing second, but as soon as you begin to wonder if you should be doing a better job of hiding what’s very clearly happening under the slit of your dress, Eren’s fingers have wiggled their way beneath the fabric of your silk thong. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, eyes widening.

“I was glad to see you,” Eren says quietly, “in the dream, I mean.”

“You said you’d been waiting for me,” you whisper, keeping your voice low to hide the whine scratching at the back of your throat, “that you’d been waiting a long time.”

“I bet I was,” Eren hums thoughtfully, grinning viciously when he sinks a finger into you, clearly relishing the way your fingernails tighten into his wrist. “I never lie.”

“Even in a dream?” You feel fuzzy and warm, blinking moony, worried eyes up at him. Eren shakes his head in confirmation, curling his finger and making your thighs clench. “You put me in your lap, and–and, you had a crown. It was nighttime, I think, and the moon was really bright. You were inside me.”

Eren slides another finger in to match the first, and you’re hardly able to stifle a moan when it comes fluttering through your teeth, a breeze of a sound compared to what you’re struggling to keep captive in your chest. Eren’s other hand reaches forward to grab a small piece of the carved steak, brings the meat up to your mouth and brushes it over your lips.

“Eat,” Eren instructs, smiling placidly as you mindlessly obey, biting into the red meat, “but keep telling me.”

He waits patiently for you to chew around the bite of steak he’s offered you, eyes searching you for something– what it is, you can’t be sure. Your mind is wobbling around the flashes of memory of your dream, distracted every few steps by an overwhelming rush of pleasure from between your legs, Eren’s fingers curling incessantly against your walls. You swallow, never taking your eyes off of him.

“You fucked me.” The confession is breathless when it leaves you, and even through the haze of what you pray isn’t a rapidly-approaching orgasm, you don’t miss the way Eren’s shoulders stiffen, the way his eyes flash.

“Did I fuck you, or did you fuck me?” Eren murmurs back to you, mischief in his eyes and a tense gravel to his voice. “You said you were in my lap, after all.”

“I—oh, god—I don’t know,” you’re barely able to keep your voice low, a little whimper interrupting you, “Eren–”

“Keep going, it’s okay,” Eren’s fingers don’t slow– in fact, they begin to move more harshly, “you’re safe with me, you know that. I showed you in the forest, didn’t I?”

“Mhm.” You can’t stop your forehead from falling onto his shoulder, teeth digging into your lip so hard you aren’t sure if that coppery taste is from the steak, or your own blood. The conversation in the room, despite being made by only three people, feels like a deafening rush in your ears.

The realization hits home that Eren’s going to make you cum all over his fingers in front of your friends, the staff, and your dinner, and he’s going to wrench it out of you in a matter of seconds, if the tightening of your gut is anything to go by.

“What else?” Eren practically growls in your ear, low and hoarse. “Is there anything else?”

“You asked me– fuck, you asked me something.” Your hips are canting forward into his palm, your face tacky and warm thinking about the couture fabric under you, now drenched in your cum and sweat. “Eren, you have to slow down, please–”

He’s merciless, pumping his fingers into you ceaselessly, rendering you a lost cause. “What did I ask you?”

“You asked—oh, my god—asked if I, if I would stay with you forever.”

“What was your answer?”

You can’t respond, not with the way you’ve stopped breathing to swallow down the debauched moan bubbling in your chest. Your entire body tenses, strung tight as a bow around Eren’s fingers as the knot in your stomach unravels, cool, inevitable release finally crashing over you. Eren works you through it, murmuring little hushes into your hairline, and placing a comforting hand over your fingers that are digging into his wrist, smiling against your forehead as you slide your hips back and forth over his hand.

You manage to pull the whole thing off impressively subdued, no more than a tinny whimper leaving your lips, only to be absorbed by the sleeve of Eren’s dinner jacket. When you dare to sit up, to meet Eren’s eyes, he’s still looking at you expectantly, as if that wasn’t enough.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” you whisper, waiting for Historia to chastise you, or Armin to make a lewd comment. The three of them are still arguing, Sasha stealing bites from Armin’s plate each time he turns to snap at Historia, who’s now sitting amongst a crowd of empty crystal glasses.

“What was your answer?” Eren says again, pulling his fingers from you and smirking at the glisten that stretches down into his palm.

“I woke up,” you say with shaky conviction, trying to glare at him.

“Are you still scared of me?” Eren asks innocently, picking up a piece of his steak with his hand and feeding it to you again. Your cum mixes in with the flavor of the steak, gives it a certain tang and salinity that makes your heart beat faster, even though you’ve just floated back down to consciousness.

“I– I don’t think so, but…” you trail off, looking down at the plate. Eren brings another piece to your lips, letting you bite half and giving the rest to himself, not missing the opportunity to suck on the tips of his fingers. Your thighs press together when his eyes flutter shut, knowing what he’s tasting and watching him revel in it.

“But what?”

“I don’t think I understand you,” you confess breathlessly, “I think that’s what scares me. I spend all day looking at you, and I never feel closer to understanding you, to really touching you. It’s like you’re not…” you trail off in search of the right word.

“Real?” Eren cocks an eyebrow at you.

“Human,” you say without entirely meaning to, widening your eyes at him in apology. “I’m sorry, not in a bad way necessarily, but– you feel…like you’re above me. In a sense.”

“Above you?” Eren frowns, forgetting his dinner entirely and looking straight at you with rejection written all over his face, wrinkles you want to smoothe over with your thumb.

“I just…” you sigh, finding it harder to meet his gaze by the second, “I don’t understand what you want with me.”

“Still?” Eren tilts his head. “Even after that?”

“The dream?” You nearly chuckle in exasperation. “It was just a dream, that’s all.”

Eren frowns a little, reaches for your glass of champagne– oh, god, when had that been refilled?– and hands it to you. He watches you take one sip, and then another, that concentrated pull of his eyebrows never ceasing until you reach a shaky hand out for your fork, beginning to feed yourself small bites of steak. His perplexed expression ripples out into one of contentedness, smiling gently as he watches you take care of yourself.

“All days are nights to see till I see thee, and nights bright days when dreams do show me thee,” Eren finally says, looking at you very much like you’re supposed to be parsing something out from his quote.

“On to the sonnets now, are we?” You cock a playful eyebrow at him, despite your tired, slouching posture and your repeated attempts to keep your guard up. Eren grins mischievously, leaning in as if he means to press the tip of his nose to yours.

“I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say–”

“If it be love indeed, tell me how much?” You’re quicker than him on this one, a vicious little smirk cutting across your face when you manage to cut him off. Eren’s eyebrows raise, impressed, but you don’t keep him down for long.

“There’s beggary in love that can be reckoned,” Eren finally says, twirling the ring on your pinky absentmindedly. You don’t even remember when he laid his hand atop yours, but it feels heavy and comforting, and so you let it lie there, just for the time being.

Your post-orgasm exhaustion hits you like a train, the temptation to slump against Eren’s shoulder winning out over your propriety. You’ll sit back up by the fourth course, you tell yourself, nibbling on a large piece of parsley that had come as a garnish on your plate. Eren doesn’t seem to mind the weight of your fuzzy head nodded into the cotton of his shoulder; in fact, he seems to adjust himself so you can nuzzle closer, eyes blinking owlishly as you reach for your glass of bubbles. You’re teetering dangerously close to the edge of unconsciousness, and you almost wouldn’t care, until something catches your eye.

Over the rim of your glass, Historia is staring at you. It’s not a look of admonishment, but more…caution? Concern? Pity? All you can discern for certain is that Historia must have seen everything Eren did to you, everything he’s still doing to you, taking a caviar bump off the back of his hand and laughing at Armin, shoulder shaking under your cheek. Historia’s brows furrow at you, her bottom lip wavering slightly.

You sit up suddenly, ignoring the way the room spins with the speed of your action. Eren turns his head to you, surprised, only to follow your gaze across the table to Historia. You’re trying to keep from looking at him, but you can’t help yourself, watching his expression crumple into something stern and disparaging.

Historia withers for only a moment, before narrowing her eyes at him threateningly. Eren squeezes his hand around yours. Sasha shoves Historia admonishingly for not listening to her joke. Armin’s eyes focus in on where your fingers grip your champagne flute hard enough to turn white.

You think you see a few pairs of familiar, glowing eyes in the bushes outside, peering in on the scene at the table. You think you need to go to bed.

#eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren jaeger smut #eren yeager smut #eren jaeger fanfiction #aot #aot fanfic #eren jaeger x you #eren yeager x you #attack on titan x reader #aot x reader #that's all for now folks!!!!#more to come in part 2<3

361 notes · View notes

malegains · 11 months

Text

I use Bing to make my pics. Go to Bing’s website, click images, click create. Make an account if you need to, it’s worth it. You can use a throwaway email. Use naturalistic language, separate phrases by commas, the closer to the top a phrase is the more it’s weighted.

I make this post because I get the strong sense the Bing party will be over soon. Every day the AI cottons on to phrases and chokes on things you used to be able to sneak past. Stuff that was safe and useful a day or two ago now result in a dreaded Prompt Blocked (too many of those and you’ll get suspended, it hasn’t happened to me but it seems the threshold is low).

Safe prompts return four images. Fewer than four mean the missing ones were “not safe.” A prompt that processes but gives no results, or “egg dogs” is not too much of a cause for worry - retool, try again. Sometimes I don’t even change anything, and the one result I get on the second try is such a freakshow that it was worth it.

A prompt that is rejected without processing IS a worry and you should probably abort, as explained. However, keep in mind it’s not just sexy stuff that can trip that wire. I once got a harsh warning because I put “Phoenix park, Dublin.” I deleted that and it ran no problem. Avoid any and all political controversy (sigh. I know).

Recommendations:

Using age, profession, and nationality can influence the look of the model very easily. “French rugby player” is a go to for me, for example. In general, “rugby player” is cheat code for “make him sexy.” The mind of the machine, what can I say.

Use descriptive phrases of action and location to engineer what you want to see. Be creative and be specific. “Reading a placard at a botanical garden,” for instance. It seems this allows more extreme kinky stuff to sneak past the filter. I usually start with “side view” because otherwise you only ever get models looking straight ahead.

Grey sweat pants has become a trigger (they caught on). However, “gray pants” still works and gives some very tasty results.

High social cache locations and activities also seem to help. I got some WILD and EXTREME hyper images from adding “goofing around on stage at Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre.” Paired with “cast as a fairy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream” and the mega bubble butts and thick thighs were BULGING, as long as you didn’t mind a little tutu and fairy wings (the corny goofy masculine dude having fun facial expression that the earlier inclusion of “goofy” brought really worked in this instance). Most of these freaks were NAKED and I didn’t even ask for that!!! (No dong of course, this is Microsoft still)

Mention of glutes, butts, asses, etc are very dangerous and usually get you in trouble. I found some traction with “gluteal mass” but it got wise, and “bulging lower back muscles” used to be interpreted as glutes but seemingly no longer. “Disturbingly huge hamstrings” or “jaw-droppingly large hamstrings” does work to get That Ass sometimes, I guess because the computer has a fuzzy idea of the posterior chain.

Also, “pecs” used to be safe but is now also on the danger list. “Pectoral muscles” still seems safe, for now.

ALWAYS include shoes or footwear if you don’t want a tight cropped image. Black athletic shoes, sandals, converse sneakers, dress shoes, fluevog shoes if you’re making a fancy beef heap. Avoid boots. “Leather boots” once got me in trouble with the filter all by itself.

Adding a personality or mood descriptor near the top seems to humanize and give vitality to the outcome. Intense, goofy, outgoing, exuberant, shy - these have all done wonderful work for me.

If you’re into hyper / immobile muscle, imagining scenario where they’re constricted by space is useful. A prompt which just (“just”) gives a realistic super heavyweight will give an appalling mockery of the human form if you add “crammed into the front seat of his car.” Get creative. Elevators and doorways haven’t worked well, but cars, trains, planes, busses, subways, and CHAIRS of all descriptions have done well. Also, scooters and bicycles and mopeds really bring out the super freaks for whatever reason.

I write this to encourage you to go create some fleshcrafted sexy abominations of your own while it’s still possible. My sense is this party is only going to last a little while. I’ve already got more than 1000 images to share so, my larder is stocked to supply this blog for a while. But the more freaks we make while the freak factory is still in production, the better.

Get cooking!

#ai muscle #ai muscle growth #ai help

294 notes · View notes

revasserium · 1 year

Text

twst request are open :) send me a prompt and a character!

those who make sandcastles

leona kingscholar; 1,394 words; fluff... bc i was thinking about leona's power and... well.

he has never fancied himself a romantic (more a lazy realist, how could he not be, after all he’s seen, all he’s suffered, being born who he is — what he is), and yet the first time he makes you laugh, he wonders if he hasn’t just been lied to about what romance is for his entire life.

because how else is he to explain the way you make him feel, the way he can’t stop himself from staring when you move to brush your hair behind your ears, how his eyes are drawn to the sloping line of your shoulders when you sit across from him at lunch, shrugging or laughing at something someone else said. how else does he explain away the purr already curling up his chest the first time you reach out to run your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly on the ends, marveling at the softness, saying that you wished you had hair like this — so beautiful and thick.

“it’s the royal blood that does it,” ruggie had teased, giggling to himself, and leona had considered glaring, but it’d been too hot and he found he couldn’t be bothered, not when you were still absently running your fingers along his scalp, making a mess of his thoughts.

“i dunno,” you’d said, looking down at him from above, his head pillowed on your lap, a grin perched on your lips like fireflies on a midsummer’s night, “i think it’s all the napping. they don’t call it beauty sleep for nothing.”

“hn, you should try it sometime, it’s pretty nice,” leona had said, letting his eyes fall shut, his tail tapping lazily against the gorgeous green lawns, the shade of the massive willow tree above them sending dappled sunlight across your skin in patterns he wishes he could paint into the darkness behind his eyes. just so he could trace them over again with his fingers, trail them over with his lips.

and at first, the tells himself that it’s a summer thing — the both of you driven to incoherence and passion by the warmth, the heat, that something like this could never last, like building sandcastles in a desert storm but then one night, you tell him that even if that were true, nothing would change. that you’d still be here in the morning.

“but…”

“why?” you finish for him, turning to look at him, your cheek pillowed on your folded arm, your eyes a pair of twin stars, locked in orbit in a distant galaxy and, not for the first time, leona finds himself caught in the sheer gravity of you.

you smile, and he thinks he feels the entire world around him spin to a stop, the wind shushing itself in the ruffling feathers of sleeping birds, the jungle a respite of silence for a single beat, a single held breath.

he reaches out to trail a finger along the silken smooth of your cheek and you reach out to catch his hand, pressing his palm to you.

“because… even if this ends one day… it wouldn’t change what i feel for you now. and just because a thing might break or fall apart one day doesn’t mean it isn’t worth building in the first place.”

leona laughs, the sound deep and rich as it rumbles from him, even as he shakes his head and pulls you closer, pulls you into his chest, tight enough for you to squeal, pushing back against him, squirming in his arms — he breathes you in and lets himself sink into the scent of you, the sweet and musk of your skin, the slight tang of your sweat, the fragrance of your body layered over his sheets.

that night, he falls asleep with you in his arms.

the next morning, you wake up to find him already awake, watching you with half-lidded eyes, a broad, easy grin on his lips.

“good dreams?’ you ask.

“mm,” he says, stretching slow and deliberate before twisting in a swift motion to pin you beneath him, “the best.”

you blink up at him, slow and sleepy and soft, “what about?”

“about… all the castles i’d build for you one day.”

“one day?”

“yeah,” he says, leaning down to nose at the juncture of your neck, shivering as he feels your fingers tangling in his hair, the breaths quickening in your chest.

“why one day?”

“cause…” he hums, trailing his lips gently along the exposed skin one your shoulder, savoring the way you gasp when he lets his teeth catch along your collarbone, “i don’t want to build you sandcastles.”

you laugh then, and he drinks in the sound, leaning down to catch it between his lips, silently thanking the heavens that the temperature of the dorms is so carefully controlled.

“so… what kind of castles will you build me?” you ask, pulling away, all the sleep now gone from your eyes, replaced by a sharp, scorching desire, the kind of look that sets leona’s entire body aflame.

he growls, deep in the registers of his throat, his chest, his whole body rumbling with the sound.

“i’m gonna build you castles of glass.”

“glass?” you quirk your head, your fingers pausing in their slow but certain journey down the front of his already half-opened sleep shirt.

he grins, catching your hand and bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your wrist and watching you gasp.

“yeah, from what i hear, they’re quite a bit sturdier than sand.”

“th-that they are but…” you hiss as he kisses up your arm before placing your hand behind his neck, his hands settling around you waist, “w-what’s all this about, all of a sudden?”

leona smirks before rolling the pair of you over to settle you over his hips, your hair spilling over your shoulders as you squeak and steady yourself with your palms on his chest.

“cause i’ve decided that i don’t want this to be over — i don’t want this to break or fall apart… i want this to last for —“ he still hesitates over the word forever, because sweet god, when did he become that kind of person, the kind of person who promises forevers, anyway?

“for a long, long time,” he says, finally, even as you press your lips and smile down at him, your thighs on either side of his, the morning sun washing the horizon in pinks and oranges, your cheeks a mirror for the blushing sky.

“and… what’s stopping you from doing that now?” you ask, walking your fingers up his chest, tracing your thumb along the line of is lips. he catches it between his teeth just to hear you moan.

“well… turning sand to glass isn’t exactly easy… we haven’t covered it in alchemy class yet.”

you tumble into a fit of giggles, burying your face in his chest, and leona finds himself laughing too, wrapping his arms around you, letting the laughter wash through him in waves, ebbing and cresting till he’s full to bursting with it.

“alright then, i’ll look forward to it,” you say, when finally, the pair of you have settled back into your bodies, your skins still tingling from all that laughter.

“you better. it’s gonna be incredible.”

“the most beautiful thing on the entire savannah.”

“mhm. and they’ll be strong enough to withstand any kind of storm.”

you grin, leaning up to press your lips to his jaw; he turns down towards you, catching your kiss against his.

“hm… but you’ll have to be careful,” you say, a bit breathless when you pull away.

leona hikes an eyebrow, “and why’s that?”

“cause glass is breakable, isn’t it?”

and here, he shrugs, casting his eyes back up at the high ceiling of his dorm.

“sure, but… if it breaks, then we’ll fix it. if it shatters then… we’ll build another one. a bigger one — a better one.”

because leona has never considered himself particularly romantic, but with you, he’s slowly come to realize that love, even more so than sand, is infinite. and you can always, always make more of it when you need it.

#leona kingscholar #twisted wonderland #twst #leona kingscholar x you #leona kingscholar x reader #twisted wonderland x you #twst fluff #leona kingscholar fluff #twisted wonderland fluff #twst x reader #floofy floof floof #no; i still haven't been able to finish chapter 2 in game but i'm watching the subbed story on youtube #also yall the manga is so good. not that i'd expect anything less from the LEGEND that created black butler bUT STILL #'nyway -- been thinking a lot of about braiding leona's hair..... so im just gonna...#keep on thinkin about that.

412 notes · View notes

tanjamikaelson · 10 days

Text

STRANGE LOVE - CHAPTER 1

MASTERLIST CHAPTER 1: | IT'S GOOD TO BE BACK |

Allison hadn’t seen the Outer Banks since she was seven years old. Now, years later, she was back, her heart caught in a delicate mix of excitement and anxiety. The memories of her childhood summers spent here flooded her as soon as she stepped off the boat. Aunt Anna was standing on the dock, arms wide open with a welcoming smile. When they hugged, it was more than a simple embrace—it was the warmth and comfort of all those years apart, melting away instantly.

As they loaded her suitcases into the trunk and began the drive to Aunt Anna’s house, Allison gazed out the window, soaking in the scenery. The Outer Banks had changed, but it had somehow stayed the same. The sprawling beaches, the giant houses, and the crisp, salty scent in the air felt both foreign and familiar. There was an ache in her chest, but it was softened by the thought of being here again.

Finally finishing school had been a huge relief, and her parents letting her spend the summer at the Outer Banks was like a dream she’d been waiting to relive. She had missed this place more than she ever admitted—the sandy shores, her sister Kie, and her best friend Jessica, whom she'd known since birth. Though distance had kept them apart, Allison and Jessica had somehow managed to maintain their friendship over the years. The thought of reuniting with her brought an excited flutter to her stomach.

Arriving at the house, Allison’s heart pounded in her chest. The house stood before her like a relic of her past—different, yet still carrying the same charm. And there, on the porch, was Kie. Her face lit up the moment she saw Allison, and they both broke into a sprint, running toward each other. They collided in a tight embrace, tears of joy brimming in their eyes. It had been far too long. The house itself had the same cozy atmosphere, with its wrap-around porch and the familiar scent of blooming flowers mixed with the ocean breeze. Inside, the warmth of the family photos lining the walls brought a rush of nostalgia, the space feeling lived-in and loved.

Kie pulled back from their embrace, her eyes shining. "Can we go somewhere? We have so many things to catch up on," she said eagerly.

"Two of you should probably stay here," Mark interjected, his voice tinged with concern. "They said the hurricane will be bad.”

Allison laughed, brushing off the looming threat with a light-hearted joke. "First night back and already a hurricane? Didn’t know I had that effect on the island."

Both girls burst into laughter, the tension easing.

"Help Allison move into her room, and we’ll start dinner," Anna suggested, giving them a knowing smile.

Kie nodded and grabbed one of Allison’s suitcases. Together, they made their way through the house, down a hallway that ended with a familiar door. When Kie opened it, Allison paused to take it all in. Her eyes landed on the nightstand, where a framed photo stood. It was from the last Midsummers before she moved away—Allison, her parents, Kie, and Kie’s parents, all dressed up for the event. Allison picked it up with a bittersweet smile.

"This is still happening, right?" Allison asked, holding the photo.

"Yes, unfortunately," Kie replied with a hint of disdain in her voice.

Allison raised an eyebrow, puzzled. "Why unfortunately?"

"I’m not a fan of Midsummers anymore," Kie admitted. "Too many stuck-up Kooks in one place."

Allison let out a laugh. "But we are Kooks," she pointed out, teasing.

"Oh no, maybe you are. I’m with the Pogues now," Kie corrected her with a proud smirk.

"Really?" Allison’s surprise was clear, her eyebrows shooting up in curiosity.

"Yeah," Kie confirmed.

Allison couldn’t help but prod further, a playful grin tugging at her lips. "So, boys, girls, both?"

"Only boys," Kie answered with a roll of her eyes.

Allison’s grin widened as she leaned in, teasing her sister. "Are they cute? Is that why you're hanging around with them? You like one of them?"

Kie’s defense was immediate, and her cheeks flushed slightly. "No, I don’t. No Pogue on Pogue mackin'," she said with mock seriousness, though her smile betrayed her.

Allison laughed, shaking her head. "Yeah, like that rule ever works."

For the next half hour, the sisters caught up on their lives, filling the gaps that distance had created. They unpacked Allison’s belongings, reminiscing, joking, and reconnecting in a way that felt like no time had passed at all. When they were almost done, Kie’s parents called them for dinner.

Afterward, Allison took a long, soothing shower. The warm water cascaded over her, washing away the fatigue from her journey. She let herself relax, the anticipation of the summer ahead finally starting to settle in her bones. By the time she crawled into the queen-sized bed, her body was heavy with exhaustion. It didn’t take long for sleep to claim her, her dreams filled with the promise of new adventures.

・ • ・ • ・

The next morning, Allison woke to the soft sound of birds chirping outside her window. The golden light of dawn spilled into the room, casting a warm glow over everything. She stretched and got out of bed, feeling refreshed and eager to start the day. When she glanced out the window, though, she saw the damage left behind by Hurricane Agatha. The backyard was a mess, and though the sight wasn’t pleasant, she was grateful that she had slept through the storm.

After taking a shower and going through her morning routine, Allison headed downstairs. The rich smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen.

"Morning, sweetheart," Anna greeted her with a smile as she poured a cup of coffee. "Did you sleep well?"

Allison nodded, smiling back. "Morning! Yeah, I slept like a rock." She sat down at the kitchen table. "How bad was the storm?"

"It was pretty rough," Anna admitted, handing her a plate of waffles with chocolate syrup. "But we're all safe, and that’s what matters. Breakfast?”

Allison thanked her, digging into the waffles with enthusiasm. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until the sweet taste of syrup hit her tongue. After finishing, she leaned back, satisfied. "Where’s Kie?" she asked, noticing her sister wasn’t around.

"She’s with Mike at the restaurant. We should head over soon. There’s some cleaning to do before we can open again," Anna replied.

Later, when they arrived at the restaurant, Allison and Anna quickly got to work alongside Kie and Mike. The hurricane had left quite a mess, but they worked efficiently, the hours slipping by as they cleaned, organized, and prepared the restaurant for reopening. By the time they finished, Kie had packed some sandwiches and was ready to head out with her friends. Allison watched from the porch as they arrived, deciding she would meet Kie’s new crew another time. There was still plenty of summer left.

・ • ・ • ・

Later that day, as Allison organized her room, her phone buzzed. It was Kie, inviting her to a kegger party at the Boneyard. Allison couldn’t hide her excitement. She always loved parties and was eager to meet new people. After applying some light makeup, and slipping into her bathing suit, and a short summer dress, she made her way to the party, the energy already buzzing within her.

When she arrived, the party was in full swing. Pogues, tourists, and Kooks mingled under the twilight, the air filled with the sound of music, laughter, and waves crashing in the distance. Despite the clear divisions, everyone seemed to be having a good time. Allison scanned the crowd, her eyes landing on Kie, who was sitting on a fallen tree, talking to a guy. She waved, catching her sister’s attention.

Kie beamed when she saw her. "My friends can’t wait to meet you," she said, grabbing Allison’s hand and pulling her closer.

As they approached, Kie's friends — John B, JJ, Pope, and Jordan — were laughing and holding beer cups. Their attention shifted to Allison as Kie introduced her. "Hey, guys, this is my sister, Allison."

Allison smiled warmly, shaking hands with each of them. "Hi, nice to meet you." She couldn't help but notice Jordan. His quiet, laid-back energy drew her in, and there was an undeniable attraction between them.

Jordan, too, seemed captivated. He kept his gaze on her a little longer than the others. When their eyes met, he poured her a cup of beer with a small smile. They exchanged glances that were more than polite—a silent understanding that neither of them needed to voice.

Suddenly, a familiar voice cut through the music. "Allison, is that you?"

Allison turned around and her heart swelled as she spotted her childhood friend, Jessica. "Jess!" she exclaimed, running over to hug her. "I can't believe you're here!"

Jessica’s face lit up. "I can’t believe you’re here! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?"

"I wanted to surprise you," Allison laughed, soaking in the reunion. "Looks like it worked."

They spent the next hour catching up, dancing, and laughing. Jessica filled her in on the local gossip, while Allison updated her on her life away from the island. The beers kept flowing, and soon enough, Allison was pleasantly tipsy, the weight of the day lifting as the night unfolded.

As the night wore on, Allison decided to find Kie and her friends again. She made her way back to where they had been earlier, but only Jordan remained, sitting alone with his beer.

"Hey, where's Kie?" Allison asked as she approached, her curiosity piqued.

Jordan shrugged casually, his easy smile making her heart race a little. "Not sure. She’s probably off somewhere with JJ, John B, and Pope."

"Mind if I join you?" Allison asked, feeling the pull between them grow stronger.

Jordan nodded, shifting slightly to make room for her beside him. "Of course not." His voice was soft, the kind that could easily put someone at ease.

The atmosphere around them felt intimate, despite the loud music and crowd. The connection was undeniable. As they sat together, their conversation flowed easily, with Allison teasing him playfully and Jordan responding with a mix of humor and charm. When Jordan noticed her empty cup, he offered to refill it.

"One more cup and that’s it for tonight," Allison said with a grin, grabbing his hand as he stood up. "But only if you drink too."

Jordan smiled down at her, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Okay, one more cup for me too."

"Good," Allison teased. "I don’t like to drink alone."

He handed her a fresh cup, and they clinked their drinks together. "Well, here’s to new friends and being back," she toasted.

"I feel like it’s going to be a great summer," Jordan said, raising his cup to meet hers.

"Now that I’m back, of course it will be." Allison winked, playfully bumping her shoulder against his.

Jordan laughed, clearly enjoying her confidence. "Confident, are we?"

"Always," Allison smirked, taking another sip of her drink.

"As you should be." Jordan leaned closer, his tone a little more serious now.

Allison felt a spark of attraction flare between them. She edged even closer, her breath mingling with his. "So, do you like confident women?" she asked, her voice low and teasing.

"Who doesn’t?" Jordan replied, his gaze locked on hers.

"Some guys don’t," Allison teased. "That’s why I’m asking."

Jordan’s smile deepened. "I like confident women, but I also like making women feel confident."

Allison raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Now that’s a good answer," she said, her attraction to him growing by the second.

The firelight danced in his eyes, and the pull between them intensified. Allison bit her lower lip, feeling herself lean closer.

"But," she said with a mischievous grin, "I hope you don’t have a crush on my sister."

Jordan blinked, surprised, then laughed. "What?"

"You know, four guys, one girl," Allison teased. "It’s hard not to start liking someone."

Jordan shook his head, his laugh rumbling softly. "No, I don’t have a crush on her. But I can’t say the same for the others."

Allison rolled her eyes playfully. "I don’t care about the others. You’re the cutest."

Jordan smirked, his gaze darkening slightly. "Oh yeah?"

Without hesitation, Allison stood up, taking his hand and pulling him with her. "How about we move this somewhere else?"

Jordan allowed her to lead him away, curiosity and excitement playing on his features. They wandered to where she had parked her car. Allison hopped up on the hood, pulling him closer as she locked her legs around him. Their lips met in a heated kiss, her tongue softly licking at his bottom lip.

Jordan’s hands slid over her thighs, gripping her skin and pulling her dress up higher as their kiss deepened. Allison’s heart raced as she guided his hand to her inner thigh, just grazing the edge of her panties. She moaned softly, the heat between them intensifying.

But just as the moment built to a peak, Jordan pulled away, glancing around nervously. "Someone will see us."

Allison’s brow furrowed in confusion. "So?" she asked, her voice breathless. "You’ve never had fun in public?"

Jordan chuckled, brushing a hand through his hair. "We could move into the car."

"Hmm, maybe later," Allison teased, her voice filled with desire. "I want you to touch me here, now."

Jordan’s gaze darkened, and he let out a soft laugh. "Okay, okay, just be quiet if you can."

Allison grinned widely, leaning back against the hood. "Yes, sir," she whispered, pulling him closer again. Her body responded to his touch, her skin warming under his fingers as they slipped beneath her panties.

But the sound of chanting and the word "fight" suddenly pierced the air, cutting through the intimate moment. Jordan paused, his head turning toward the noise. They both looked toward the water, hearing the crowd chanting the names "Topper" and "John B.”

Curiosity and concern replaced the passion as they rushed toward the crowd. Just as they reached the clearing, Allison’s breath caught in her throat. JJ had a gun pressed against Topper’s head, his face a mask of fury.

"You move, broski," JJ warned, pressing the gun harder into Topper's temple.

The crowd watched in stunned silence, some starting to back away, fear creeping into the air. A few stayed, holding their breath to see what would happen.

A girl Allison didn’t recognize stepped forward. "Put the gun down, JJ," she pleaded.

JJ hesitated, then slowly lowered the gun, but the tension didn’t dissipate. He lifted the weapon toward the sky, firing two deafening shots into the air.

"Okay, everyone, listen up!" JJ shouted, his voice ringing out above the chaos. "Get the hell off our side of the island!"

The sound of gunfire sent people running, scattering in every direction. Allison stood frozen, her grip tightening on Jordan’s arm as the shots echoed in her ears. Her heart raced in her chest as she watched Kie and Pope rush toward JJ.

"Are you crazy?" Pope yelled, pushing JJ backward.

Allison stood frozen, shocked by the violence and chaos. This wasn’t the carefree summer she had imagined. The summer that began with nostalgia and excitement was quickly turning into something much darker and more dangerous.

A/N: Just letting you guys know that Rafe will show up in the third chapter.

#rafe cameron #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #obx #outer banks #rafe cameron x oc #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe cameron smut #rafe x oc #outerbanks rafe #obx fanfiction #outer banks fanfiction

22 notes · View notes

takaraphoenix · 2 months

Text

A Midsummer Night's Mischief

Tags: m/m, Erica Lives, Boyd Lives, Jackson Doesn't Leave, magic, curses, fluff, m/f

Main Pairing: Derek/Stiles

Side Pairings: Scott/Allison, Boyd/Erica, Jackson/Lydia

Teen Wolf Characters: Mieczysław 'Stiles' Stilinski, Derek Hale, Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd III, Isaac Lahey, Jackson Whittemore, Lydia Martin, Scott McCall, Allison Argent

@writersmonth Prompts: fairy + stage

Summary: A traveling production of A Midsummer Night's Dream comes to town. Only that it's all fairies and they leave the town, and the pack, cursed to only tell the truth.

This Fic on FFNet | This Fic on AO3

A Midsummer Night's Mischief

Stiles Summer Stories 2024

It was supposed to be a fun night out for the pack. A traveling production of A Midsummer Night's Dream had come to visit a few days ago and Stiles was eager to see the premiere. When he noticed that Lydia, Allison and Boyd were just as on board with it as him, he decided this should be a whole pack outing. Scott was on board when he saw how much Stiles and Allison were looking forward to it. Isaac seemed indifferent but okay with going. Erica and Jackson were the ones fighting him the most on it, until Stiles used his secret super power – somehow, inexplicably, being able to convince their Alpha to do most reasonable things (not everything, but somehow Stiles was the best at convincing Derek) – and once Derek put his foot down and gave that commanding Alpha growl, Erica and Jackson gave in. And so, that Friday, the pack prettied themselves up to go to the theater.

Stiles loved that, wearing a suit, seeing his pack look all fancy too. Lydia had taken everyone shopping so they would have appropriate attire – even though this wasn't some big theater, it still felt nice, sophisticated in a way they never got to be. Allison looked stunning in her silver dress and Scott had actually run into the entrance door because he had failed to take his eyes off his girlfriend. Lydia wore green, coordinated with Jackson whose dress-shirt matched her dress. Erica's dress was tight, purple and sparkly, while Boyd had a purple handkerchief in his breast pocket to match his girlfriend. Looking at the three couples, Stiles tried not to think about the fact that him and Derek were both wearing red. It wasn't a secret that red was Stiles' favorite color, and of course did the Alpha wear red. Just a coincident. A coincident that made Stiles blush.

It was supposed to be a great night, them just having fun with something different for a change – instead of training or running or fighting monsters or just sitting in the Hale House to watch movies together. Naturally, Stiles didn't get a fun, fancy night with his pack. No, the actors on stage turned out to all be fairies. Seelies and pixies and trickster sprites. The night ended in a magic prank.

By the time the pack was filing back into the Hale House, they were all arguing. The fairy curse was one that made people speak the truth, but not just the truth, an unfiltered truth, because normally, people still had the option to not speak instead of saying the truth. Ironically enough, Stiles was the one the least affected by that curse. He generally didn't lie around the pack anyway because what was the point of lying with a bunch of living lie detectors, and he's never had a brain-to-mouth-filter to begin with. It was his pack who were really suffering.

It had started innocent and funny enough because Scott just started listing every single thing he loved about Allison, like literally every single thing. Which, admittedly, did get annoying by the time they got back home. Then Erica and Boyd started fighting, because Boyd admitted he hated her new shampoo, it made his nose itch, and Erica got upset that he never just said things like this he just smiled and wanted to please his girlfriend. Lydia and Jackson were in a full on discussion about The Notebook, why, Stiles had no idea, those two had a really weird relationship with that movie. Things stopped being funny with Isaac though, because the blonde puppy blurted out that he thought of Derek as a father and that he was so afraid that he shouldn't, that that wasn't how he should look at his Alpha even though Derek was his guardian but Derek was only his guardian because he was his Alpha – and it really hurt Stiles to hear the panic in Isaac's voice.

They were all forced to be brutally honest, even about things they weren't ready to admit. Because on its own, it was nice to hear Isaac admit that, Stiles could even see the pride on Derek's face and it made Stiles feel all fuzzy and warm. Isaac's panic about it had the opposite effect.

"Okay, so we have to figure out what kind of curse this is," Stiles cut through the bickering. "If we do, we can break it. Fairy magic is usually a type of bargain."

And with that, Stiles fell into a rambling rant about fairy magic, culture and bargains. Fascinating topic, he had hyperfixated on it during the summer. He was glad it paid off, as most of his supernatural related hyperfixations did. Yay, his ADHD. He got about two minutes into his rant.

"Stiles," Derek growled. "Shut up."

That didn't just shut Stiles up, it also shut the pack up. They all looked at their Alpha startled. It had been months since Derek last told Stiles to shut up, not since Stiles had joined the pack officially. Because Derek actually valued Stiles' opinions, knew that Stiles usually had the solution to whatever problem there was, heck, the Alpha had even learned how to filter through the rambling for the important information. It wasn't that Stiles was insecure, necessarily, but… he had been told to shut up all his life, he was so used to people being annoyed by his rambling, he was used to it… and now he'd kind of gotten used to the pack actually valuing his opinions and letting him ramble on, even when it was completely random and unrelated, just because they knew he needed to ramble, just because they knew he cared. That was what pack meant. So it hurt, a lot, to hear Derek growl at him again to shut up, like he used to before they were pack.

"Right," Stiles cleared his throat. "Sorry. Focus. I know it's annoying-"

"No," Derek growled again, this time in frustration. "It's not annoying! You're not annoying."

Stiles stared at him in confusion. "Then… why would you tell me to shut up?"

"Because it makes me want to kiss you," Derek ground his teeth together, his arms crossed over his chest as he looked at the floor, away from Stiles. "You're so passionate and enthusiastic and I love the way your interests make your eyes sparkle, it makes them look like liquid amber instead of their warm brown, and when you figure something out and smile I just want to kiss you."

"Oh, finally," Lydia groaned, leaning her head back. "I thought we would have to watch the sad, mutual pining until we graduate high school, this was getting painful to watch."

"Ma—aybe we should leave them to it," Boyd suggested when their Alpha growled. "Let's go, everybody, give our Alphas a little privacy."

"Privacy is overrated I want to see them kiss, babe," Erica pouted.

She still let her boyfriend pull her along though. The pack left the room, Boyd dragging both Erica and Isaac along, while Allison herded Scott and Lydia ustairs, Jackson being the only one who very eagerly fled all on his own muttering about how he so did not need to see this, all of them heading upstairs, until just Derek and Stiles were left. The curse should make Stiles blurt out all kinds of things too, but his brain wasn't working yet, it had come to a full stop. He just stared at Derek.

"Say something," Derek's voice was near pleading. "Anything at all. You're never quiet. You being quiet is unsettling, it… it makes my wolf snarl and want to tear apart whatever made you quiet."

"Right, yeah," Stiles cleared his throat, laughing a little nervously. "I… don't know what to say. You did it, you left me speechless, the impossible feat, I guess…"

"I know," Derek sighed, looking dejected. "You don't feel the same. How could you. You are so amazing, so strong, all the things you went through, as a human, and still you chose the pack, without having any obligations, you chose my pack, and I'm just grateful to have you in it, I don't need more, even if I want it, I understand that you don't… feel that way about me. I threatened you too often, I growl too much, I… half the time, I don't know what I'm doing still, even though I try."

"What," Stiles blinked up at the wolf. "Are you crazy. You try so hard and you improved so much, you became a great Alpha who actually respects his pack and helps them, and if you're lost, you at least learned to ask for help and I'll always be there to help you, Derek, our pack means everything to me. There was never a choice for me, I'm ride or die, you must have noticed that."

"Thank you," Derek whispered, visibly relaxing some. "I don't need you to love me, but I need you in my pack, I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Hi, yeah, wait, can we rewind to the bit with the love? What. Wait, there was also a bit about kissing what did that mean, what do you mean?"

"I love you, Stiles," Derek looked at him, unusually vulnerable. "I love you more than I ever thought I could. When you start talking, all I want to do is pull you into a kiss and never let you go again, I want to listen to you for hours just because I love how passionate you are about the topics you're interested in. I love your little fidgeting because it's so cute. I want to run my fingers through your hair, ever since you grew it out, my fingers itch to feel if it's as soft as it looks. I could get lost in your beautiful eyes and count all the shades of Earth and whiskey in them. I want to hold you close and never let you go, I want to lead our pack together, with you."

"That's like… the most words I ever heard you speak in one go," Stiles whispered in awe. "And I am struggling with computing any of them. I mean, you love me?"

"I know," Derek heaved another sad sigh. "You could have someone better, should have someone better. Someone your own age with whom you can be without the fear of your father arresting them. Someone who can… communicate their feelings better…"

"Yeah, no, shut up," Stiles threw his hands up. "First of all, my dad would absolutely not arrest my boyfriend, like, damn mom was seventeen and he was twenty-two when they got together, it would be a total hypocrite move to do that, and it's not like you are a decade older than me or anything. Besides, he absolutely would never arrest someone I love and I love you so much, Derek. I mean, the growling is actually kind of hot if you're not threatening me, but also even the threatening was kind of hot when it involved you pinning me against a wall. I love you, I love how much you're working on yourself, and on the pack, you… you suffered so much, and you lost so much, and you deserve to be happy and I'm so glad that you're actually rebuilding the Hale Pack, rebuilt the Hale House, reclaiming what others took from you. I'm so proud of you and I'm so in love with you."

Derek stared at him warily, like he expected this to be a lie of sorts, before the wolf remembered that what had started this conversation was their inability to lie right now. Stiles swallowed hard, staring at the man he'd been in love with ever since Derek had come running into the hospital to protect Stiles from Peter after the two figured out who the Alpha was.

"I want to kiss you, right now," Derek whispered, yearning in his voice.

Stiles nodded jerkily and walked over to Derek. He rested a hand on the Alpha's cheek before pulling him down into a slow, soft kiss. He gasped at the feeling of Derek's stubble against his skin, the softness and warmth of his lips, the way Derek's tongue slipped into his mouth.

"I love you," Stiles repeated once more, as soon as their kiss broke. "I love you, Derek. Hear me and believe me, okay? You deserve me, if you want me. You deserve to be happy."

Derek made a small, wondrous noise, as though he couldn't understand that this was real. His arms wound around Stiles' waist and for a moment they could enjoy peace. Until the bickering from upstairs got loud enough to remind them that they still had a curse to break and fairies to fight.

~*~ The End ~*~

#Fic: A Midsummer Night's Mischief #Stiles Summer Stories 2024 #Sterek #Sterek Fanfiction #Fluff #Derek Hale #Stiles Stilinski #Teen Wolf #Phoe's Fics

23 notes · View notes

imthefailedartist · 8 months

Text

Just had the longest. Scariest. Darkest hannibal themed dream nightmare.

Hannibal and Will worked at a museum. No one knew who Hannibal was, not even Will. But they do still have that weird predator/prey relationship and are they about to kiss energy.

Hannibal is the biggest unknown killer in their world. He kills people and preserves them in glass boxes 3' x 1.5'. It's dream science they are tight packed but not cut or bloody they have empty space. Some floral and greenery. They look frozen in time, but not, in their little scene. One of the victims was Aubrey Plaza, but not. If you've ever watched Hannibal, the boxes induce that horribly beautiful feeling you get when you see the crimes on that show (especially the mushroom garden, beehives, and the eye) think like closed living terrariums. Or Shakespearean faerie nudes. A Midsummers night dream(I've never seen or read it). Think like you searched greek roman mythology on pinterest and the pictures that would show up.

He killed Will and a woman puts him in a box hugging his face buried in her chest. I think Will was planning to leave the museum, in turn leaving Hannibal and he couldn't have that.

The scary part is 4, including Will, of Hannibals Boxes are on display in the museum. He gives tours on them.

The dream ends with him at a late night event where he is playing several games with museum goers at once. A lady is rude to him and a kid, so she goes on the list. One of the guys he's playing against is a sore loser. Hannibal does a rally of all the games he's playing and comes up behind the guy and whisks him away, no one notices. Somehow, the woman becomes the last person in the museum, in the dark a black cloak clad Hannibal runs out and snatches her up her screams are the last thing I hear, and then I wake up.

#nightmare #hannibal #mads mikkelsen #hannibal lecter #hugh dancy #will graham #dream #dream world #dreams #lucid dreams

35 notes · View notes

klbwriting · 7 months

Text

Not Romeo, Not Juliet

Chapter 10: Never Did Run Smooth

Fandom: Red Hood

Pairing: Jason Todd x f!reader

Warnings: none

Summary: YN comes to see Jason, he tells her the truth

The course of true love never did run smooth

— A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM, ACT 1 SCENE 1

“What are you doing here?” Jackson demanded as he approached YN. She stood up from the bench, fists clenching as the three seniors surrounded her. Jason walked up quietly, listening to the conversation.

“I’m here to see someone,” she said. She noticed Jason but kept her attention on the others, her fists relaxing. She had no reason to fear Jason and she knew that he wouldn’t let anyone hurt her.

“Who are you seeing?” Matt asked. Chelsea took a step closer to her, making YN roll her eyes.

“None of your business,” she said. “Now please, can I just wait in peace?” Chelsea glared.

“Watch your tone here bitch, you’re not in Gotham anymore,” she said.

“Clearly, I’m in Bludhaven home of mediocre John Hughes movie,” YN said. Chelsea looked confused. “Lord, just leave me alone…” Chelsea shoved her hard enough to have her sit back on the bench. Her hand moved to slap YN, but Jason caught her arm, sliding himself between the seniors and YN, who stood up behind him.

“Hands off,” Jason said. He reached back, taking YN’s hand. Once he saw no one moving back towards her he looked over. “You want to go somewhere else?” She nodded. Chelsea glared.

“Is this the girlfriend Jason?” she asked, saying girlfriend like it had a nasty taste. He held up YN’s hand. “Gross, traitor.” Jason sighed.

“It's high school theater Chelsea, not tsarist Russia,” YN said. “In another year no one here will care that you ever went to this school or did a shitty job playing Ophelia.” The seniors looked scandalized as Jason gently YN and they started walking towards the outdoor lunch area.

“She looked like her head might explode,” Jason said with a laugh. He looked down at YN, seeing a tight smile on her face. “My brother blocked your number.”

“I figured something like that, didn’t think you were the type to just disappear,” she said. He set down his bag on a bench by small rose garden that surrounded the lunch tables. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure why he hates me, but I’m sorry about it. I mean I didn’t ask to be born poor…”

“Its not because you’re poor,” Jason said softly. He didn’t know how to tell her about her father. How do you break that kind of news to someone? ‘O ya, your dad is a crime lord and my brother things you’ll become one to, so I’m not allowed to date you because my dad once had a hard on for Catwoman…o did I mention he was Batman?’ Ya, that would go over well.

“Then why doesn’t he want us to see each other?” she asked. He looked down, not sure what to say. “Please tell me, I miss you, you honestly are my best friend Jason and I thought, well, even if that’s all we are I just want my friend back.” The look in her eyes and the break in her voice pushed him over the edge.

“He found out who your father is,” Jason said. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open, that was clearly not the answer she was expecting. Jason slid an arm around the back of the bench, and she automatically leaned towards him, staring at him. He wished he could look into her eyes forever. “Your father is Sal Maroni, the crime lord, Dick used his connections to find out about that and…” he really didn’t know how to continue.

“Tell me,” she said, voice barely audible. She had tears threatening to spill over now and she had started gripping his hand hard, needing to ground herself into the moment.

“According to Dick’s sources Sal thinks you might be his best bet on a successor to his business. I guess he’s the one paying for your school and your apartment, and when you graduate, he’s going to offer to pay for your mother’s treatment in exchange for you joining his ‘family’” he said. He winced a little at how hard she was squeezing his hand. The tears that had been forming were now spilling from her eyes. “Dick seems to think…”

“That I’ll go become some underworld crime boss to try and save my mom’s life?’ she asked, voice now full of barely contained rage. Jason nodded. “What do you think?”

“I think you would never do anything like that, I think that you’re a good person and you love your mom, but you would never run off to become some kind of gang leader,” he said. YN nodded.

“You would be right; I love my mom. Which is why I would rather stab Maroni in the testicles than join him. How dare that fucking asshole decide that my mom’s life is only worth something if he can use it to get something out of me. How fucking dare he think that I would ever…” she was fuming, standing now and pacing the grass. Jason stood also, watching. “And your brother…how did he find out about this?”

“He’s Dick I honestly don’t know how he finds out anything…”

“He’s a dick alright, judging me by my parent’s. If I did that with you, I’d think you were just some drunk drug addict, or some playboy depending on which parents I wanted to go with, but no, I don’t look at you and think like that, I just think I love you…” she rambled before biting her lip and looking down. Jason felt his heart stop.

“You love…me?” he asked, words almost failing him. How could she possibly love him? How did anyone love him? Jason had never been good with self-esteem, not when he was a little kid who wasn’t worth enough to his mother to get clean, when he lived with Bruce and never seemed to live up to the standard that Dick set, and not with Dick where he couldn’t seem to do anything right, how could he ever be worthy of love? YN looked at him like he was insane.

“Of course, I love you,” she said as if it were fact, a small smile on her face. When he was quiet a moment too long her face began to change, her smile fell, and she looked worried. Jason wanted her to smile again but his mouth was dry, and he couldn’t seem to find words, so he stepped towards her, gently taking her face in his hands and he kissed her. She answered eagerly, hands finding purchase on his chest and Jason suddenly felt at peace. He’d never felt this way before, even when he died he could only remember chaos, but this, her lips on his, hands gripping his uniform shirt, his hands feeling the warmth of her skin, this was peace, this was heaven, this was what being alive was about. When they parted he wanted to immediately kiss her again, feel that peace and that happiness. He took a deep breath, leaning his forehead to hers.

“I love you YN,” he whispered. He hugged her close, just holding her for a while. “I’m going to get a phone on the way home, one my brother won’t know about, I’m sorry that I didn’t get one sooner.” She just nodded into his chest, head sitting right over his heart. “Let me take you home.” She nodded, taking his hand as they walked towards where he parked his bike.

Jason woke up, groaning as he looked at the phone Dick had bought him. It was only 4AM, why did he have so many messages? He opened them, frowning several of the other theater kids were asking about him and YN and what was up with her dad. His heart dropped as he clicked the link one of them sent. It opened to a Gotham news article, a video playing that clearly showed him and YN talking on the bench. It was their whole conversation and the kiss, the article talking at length about him being the missing son of Bruce Wayne and YN being the illegimate daughter of Sal Maroni. Jason felt his world spinning. Not only was Bruce going to definitely know he was alive now but everyone would know about YN, including several people who would very much so like a conversation with her. He reached under his mattress for the burner phone he had bought, finding several missed calls from YN. He called back.

“Jason?” he heard, her words slurred.

“YN? I’m coming right now,” he said, already up and getting dressed.

“I don’t want anyone to hurt my mom…” she said, clearly still sobbing.

“No one is going to hurt her or you, I’m coming to get you, I don’t care what Dick says I will bring you both here and we will figure something out,” he said, getting on his bike. “Give me five minutes, I’ll be there.” He hung up and took off. The streets of Gotham were nearly empty this early in the morning and it did only take him five minutes to pull up to her apartment. He ran up the stairs two at a time, but froze when he saw the door standing open, hanging by one hinge. He stepped inside the apartment where her mother was lying on the floor, panting.

“Are you hurt?” Jason asked, kneeling by her, helping her to stand slowly. She shook her head.

“Someone took her,” she said. Jason nodded, swallowing hard. He needed to stay calm. He got her mother back to bed, calling the emergency nurse they had to come see to her. Then he started searching. The living room looked like there had been a struggle, furniture out of place, the coffee table in pieces, her phone smashed on the floor. Then he saw the note lying nicely on the kitchen table. He walked over, careful not to touch it. He felt a surge of rage go through him.

Maroni, she’s at dock 15, bring the evidence and 50k, Falcone

#jasontodd #jason todd #redhood #red hood #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood x y/n #notromeo

25 notes · View notes

tallulah-caseys-misadventures · 3 months

Text

In which snogging is discussed and werewolfery happens.

#tallulah casey #the misadventures of tallulah casey #a midsummer tights dream #Georgia Nicolson #the confessions of georgia nicolson #by any other name (or shape)

1 note · View note

lovelyballetandmore · 6 months

Text

Ashton Roxander | Philadelphia Ballet | Photo by Alexander Iziliaev (aka Sasha)

#ashton roxander #balletphotography #philadelphia ballet #brown tights #ballet slippers #puck #the dream #a midsummer night's dream

45 notes · View notes

portgasmalia · 1 year

Text

taking what's mine, rafe cameron second part to 'daddy's favourite' pairing: rafe cameron x female reader summary: after leaving him in the library without satisfaction, rafe takes revenge at the midsummers, but goes further than wanted. malia's notes: please, i can't with myself. currently writing so many parts for this one drabble i did because it got so many notes. send me to hell for having rafe 24/7 in my head... even during sex? lol I'm so proud of it, and I'm definitely making this a damn series, cause I'm obsessed lol.

azure material wrapped your body in an extra layer of protection. yet, the long slit on the left side of the bottom long gown ended in the middle of your thighs. revealing enough skin to gain the attention of a suited company who wouldn’t ruin the reputation of your family. after the cameron’s strutted in, heads held high and waving from left to right, you and your parents walked into the venue. a little midsummers ritual since the two most influential man had to be praised like gods.

eyes directed at the choice of outfits, the satin material of your mothers dress and rose’s lady liberty inspired head piece. people whispered to each-other, their grimaces hidden behind the glasses and the truthful opinions drowned by the alcoholic liquid. “you look beautiful, like fucking beautiful.” rafe appeared beside you, hands deeply in the pockets of his suit trousers. instead of feeling grateful for the loving compliment, you snorted.

receiving such nice words from rafe had a double meaning. While most girls with gosh about the appearance of the blonde, and almost backed him to drag them away to the bathroom, you had a better self control than the kooks around. the gazes of multiple, curious people already lingered on the two of you. being part of figure eight meant to either work off the ass to bring home a steady income or laying around in the sun, occupying themselves with talking trash and spreading rumors.

turning the head to face the male who didn’t move a step, your eyes raked over the well-dressed figure. engulfed in a certain light shade of baby blue, the fabric mirrored the cloudless sky on a sunny day. sadly for you, the color matched the ring around his pupils perfectly. simply said, rafe cameron looked extremely attractive in the suit, which rose probably picked out for him after thousands of protests.

bottom lip caught in the tight grasp of your teeth, you could not stop your eyes from taking him in. instead of releasing a sly comment about you being obsessed with him, rafe chuckled and took a step back to allow you a better, overall sight of his appearance. “shit, you really went all out for tonight.” it was a compliment wrapped in amusement that escaped your mouth.

for a moment, you forgot about the possessiveness rafe has shown in the past weeks. after the multiple meeting in the library, and the sharing of loving or rough touches, he almost called you, his. but it was far from what you wanted to be. nothing about the cameron’s seemed right, but you could not figure out the wrongs yet. still, after declining his offer of becoming his girlfriend, he started to up his game in trying to seduce you.

the ideas popped up in his head randomly, and tonight, after seeing how tightly the fabric of your dress wrapped around your curves, he would take it a step further. he had to after listening to the comments of the boys around him. filthy words about your body, your status and their fantasies while nobody knew that half of their dreams were already fulfilled by rafe.

while he disappeared when topper and kelce shouted his name repeatedly, you found your way towards the bar and ordered a strong drink. there was no chance that you would get through this awful event without at least a sip of alcohol. but after the third glass was drowned too quickly and the fourth already stood on the counter, a large hand appeared and grabbed the glass, you paid for.

“woah stop. i paid that, that’s mine.” you wildly gestured through the air with one hand, not glancing around the see the thief. the effort of turning quickly, and the sudden spinning, would cause dizziness. you wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of the residents of figure eight.

a heavy-breathing chest pressed against your back, tightly and not leaving any space between. the hand on the counter retreated, lifting the glass to the dry lips and pouring a sip into the mouth to taste the liquid. “mhm.” a low hum of approval rumbled in his chest, the vibrations traveling straight down your spine.

the warm breath of the male fanned over your exposed neck as he lowered his head. “wouldn’t have taken you for a bourbon woman.” the voice got raspier through the amount of alcohol he drank throughout the evening, yet, it was the most familiar melody you’ve ever heard.

“surprises everywhere, rafe.” you leaned your head back, your loose curls scattering across the pale blue fabric of his suit jacket. this small contact between the two of you was enough to cause a drama if your father would see the interaction. fortunately, he was deeply in a conversation with ward cameron. probably, another business plan or attempting to create a bond between the influential families. hell, the connection already existed before they even found a solution for both their sakes.

“you know, it’s pretty unfair.” rafe muttered against your skin, his chewed-up lips pressing soft but quick kisses around your neck. little moments of affection, but still his teasing manners. “what do you mean?” you furrowed the brows, confusion twisting your gentle features.

“i’ve been standing over there, the entire time. having a good up-and-down talk with my mates when my eyes find you, again. standing at the bar, tapping your heel against the tiles, stretching and moving from left to right.” his words were barely a whispered confession as you felt the gentle touch of his fingers graze down your rips towards your waist.

“and?” the confusion clouded your mind, his explanations of unfairness made no sense to you. letting his hand wander, you wanted to prevent being seen by your father. but escaping rafe’s skilled fingers and precise touches happened to be more difficult. “you moved to the left, and stretched out your leg. the little slit on your lovely dress slipped slightly to the side and revealed those beautiful scarlet red, lace panties underneath.”

pupils grew as he continued to confess what he was able to witness from the other side of the room. as observant as he was, it gave him a clear advantage in most situations. mainly because no one else seemed to notice how much she exposed of her body without realizing it. attempting to pull down the fabric further and cover more of your thigh, rafe acted quicker and swatted your hand away. “don’t think about it, babygirl.”

the thin fabric between his rough fingertips, he hiked the dress further up until a little bit of cherry red lace was seen. “stop, what the hell?” you wiggled yourself out of his comforting hug, and immediately pulled the material down again. “we’re in fucking public, rafe. if my father sees us..”

“let him.” rafe shrugged, taking a step back and letting his hands disappear in the pockets of his suit pants again. “i don’t fucking care anymore.”

“god damn it, rafe. stop being foolish.” you snapped, snatching the bourbon glass out of his hand and stomping towards the house. most guests gathered in the gardens, enjoying heywards food and the last warmth of the sun before the midnight blue hid it.

pushing past the groups of people, you felt the need to sulk in loneliness for a moment. it wasn’t easy to deny rafe a love he desired so badly. after all, he needed one call to pick you up, spend time with you, share a midnight conversation or use his fingers to fuck out your brain. a simple thank you wasn’t enough for what he has done, but you didn’t trust him enough to engulf in a relationship.

too many lies. too much coke. enough problems.

your feet carried you to the dressing rooms down the corridor where the jackets of the guests were stuffed away in wardrobes. running the palm softly across your face, you felt the alcohol in your blood. leaning against the wall beside you, shivers spread across the exposed skin of your shoulder blades. the coldness of the stones a complete difference from the warmth of your figure.

“oh dear, you should take a seat.” rafe’s voice echoed through the empty corridor, ringing in your ears. “are you following me? really?”

“just looking after what’s mine. can’t have any of the other lads touch you with their dirty fingers.” rafe shrugged again, simply stating the thoughts on his mind. once, you were out of sight, the blonde panicked and feared for your safety. not every young adult kook had a plan of being nice, and rafe knew it exactly. „i’m not yours.“

he chuckled, a deep and dark sound erupting from his chest. „that’s where you’re wrong babygirl. you’re mine, and mine only.“ strolling towards you, rafe found his spot in front of your slightly drunk figure, taking in the mesmerizing picture. he couldn’t count how many parties of his you visited, and how many times you declined the alcohol after having one drink. you never accepted substances, you‘ve always somehow been the good girl.

yet, you were about to get shit-faced, while the kooks around, laughed, and danced. rafe placed his hand above your head, mirroring the position from the library a week ago. it’s been a long seven days, without his touch or the indescribable compliments. while you waited for him and the revenge plans he plotted, he never came around until today.

leaning in closer, his warm breath fanned across the top of your nose. disparate kinds of whiskey lingered in the air, he probably had a couple of glasses with topper and kelce. at least the little white powder didn't stuck to the outsides of his nostrils like couple of times before, when he quickly wiped it off with the pad of his thumb. "so," he muttered, dipping his head lower to receive access to your collarbones and side of the throat. featherlight kisses blown against your smooth skin, the effects of his small, genuine gestures already created shivers along your spine. "i'm claiming what's mine."

hands traveled across her figure, carefully bunching up the expensive dress around her waist. he would hate to destroy the material that clung perfectly to your body, hugging your curves tightly. "rafe, what are you doing.." you questioned his actions, the sudden change in kisses and how his teeth dug into your soft flesh underneath.

"told you, claiming what's mine." fleshy fingers pushed the lacey fabric of your panties aside, the rough tips stroking carefully through the lips of your pussy. wetness pooled between your thighs, and rafe greeted the warmth with a smug smirk. "are you insane? anybody could walk in!" you protested, trying to wiggle out of his grip once more but this time, he used much more of his strength to keep you in place. this time, you would not run away from him and his intentions.

"ditching me in the middle of the midsummers? that's one thing. but leaving me with a fucking boner in the library, having to take care of myself after i pushed those beautiful, little whimpers out of you? that's another and I'm taking my reward for good work." without another second of hesitation, two fingers pressed against your entrance. slowly pushing inside, and stretching your walls in preparation. a satisfied moan slipped out of your mouth, followed by a deep groan from rafe.

the sounds you made, whimpers and moans, always made him mad crazy for you. even more, than he has been before. "rafe, stop. if my dad sees -"

"i don't give a fuck about what your dad sees, or what he thinks. you understand that, baby girl? if i have to, i'm going to show him who you truly belong to." the words were punctuated with the thrusts of his long fingers, pushed in deeply and curling to reach the little spot, he knew you loved. your lips were sealed shut, pressed together in a thin line and yet, the moans slipped through like your mouth was widely open. "looks like you've waited for me the entire night."

as quick as his fingers disappeared inside of your pussy and spread your wetness over your clit and lips, they were gone. swirled around, the side of the face pressed against the wall and the dress still bunched around the waist, you couldn't see entirely what he was doing. overstepping the boundaries you set or just wanting to pleasure you in a completely new position because the alcohol twisted his mind.

the scarlet red panties further pulled to the side, the string rested on your left ass cheek. the tip of his tongue darted out, licking over his chewed-up bottom lip at the sight. delicious in any kind of way. awaiting patiently his fingers to be pushed deep inside your pulsating walls again, the rustling of a belt being opened, and hitting the tiles on the floor caused a feeling of fear. “rafe, what do you think your doing?” you stammered together nervously, trying to push yourself off the wall to examine what kind of madness he intended to do. but rafe beat you to it. his weight pressed tightly against you, squeezing your body between the warmth radiating of his tall figure and the shuddering cold of the wall.

your question dissolved when his hard dick pressed against your exposed ass. the bead of pre cum smeared across your smooth skin when he leaned down once more. face nuzzled in your neck and the wild mess of hair, he chuckled. a deep sound, almost dark and filled with pure evilness. “oh my ducking god. rafe, stop it!” you fought against his grip, wiggling your body from left to right. an attempt to escape his plans, but it didn’t work at all.

“keep pressing your fucking ass against my dick. it will only convince me more that i should take what’s mine.” he muttered into the mess off your hair. a hand wandered down your body, across the curve of your back until rafe reached his destination. beads of pre cum spread across your ass, the small reminders glistened in the dim yellow light. a sight, he was utterly pleased about.

“rafe, no. please.” you whined, pleaded with him to stop the madness. everything you instructed him not to do, was about to be broken. a low growl rolled off the tongue when his long fingers wrapped around his painfully hard shaft. crouching down a little as he was towering above you the entire time, you felt his tip graze over your pussy, covering himself in the wetness pooled between your thighs. “just taking what’s mine. as i should have done long ago.”

you heard the chuckle, the devilish sound coming from rafe’s mouth as he pushed the tip in. manicured nails scratched at the wallpaper, your eyelids fluttered close at the sudden sensation. trapped in a haze, between pain and deep pleasure, a strangled moan escaped your mouth. rafe’s narrowed eyes watched how his shaft slowly disappeared in your pussy, welcomed by the warmth and the strong pulsating of your stretched out walls. a feeling, a situation, he thought about in any possible scenario. made out scenes, came up with ideas but the one right now, it was pure spontaneity.

“see, princess. your body ached for me.” his hand wandered across your ass, rough fingertips caressing over the smooth skin before finding a rest at your waist. in this moment, the very gentleness he treated you with vanished under the hooded gaze. your walls clenched around him, needing and wanting more as your body betrayed your mind. “don’t worry baby. i’ll fuck you good.”

underarm laid out across your ass, the left hand on the right waist, rafe slowly withdraw his hips. the reddened tip was the last part of him that stayed in your pussy, until he decided to thrust into you again. rough and deep, from the very first second. “holy shit, you’re so fucking tight, babe. am i your first?” rafe got lost in the feeling. your walls gripping him tightly, screaming for more, and the pleasure-twisted expression on your face. like his addiction started growing further.

teeth dragged along the smooth column of your neck, calloused palms pressed into the curves of your waist. “yes.” you forced yourself to not decline the question that lingered in the air. for any possible person, the answer seemed like a genuine statement, the truth unfolding while roughly examining half of your face. but rafe’s mind worked in another pace, and around the usual. he felt the hammering jolts of your pulse, the intensity of your thudding heart increase and the way, your walls attempted to keep him deeply inside.

“holy shit, rafe.” his name slipped out of your dried mouth like a perfectly sung melody, decorated with a little crack in the end. intrigued by the thought of being seen by a possibly influential kook, his harsh thrusts complimented the moments of an almost-bliss. the chance of being close was denied multiple times by you. “say my name. i wanna hear you scream it, princess.” rafe’s voice a rough mutter, coaxing out the words out of his dried mouth as he particularly focused on how perfectly he fit into your drenched pussy. it was close to a heaven-like moment, just like he predicated to his mates earlier.

the two males who stood at the staircase, waving away the people who tried to trespass while rafe busied himself with your body. a statement he made to topper and kelce before leaving abruptly to hunt after you. tonight, your games were certainly over. forcing you into the first time wouldn’t be a very gentle movement, but you would come around for more, beg and plead to feel rafe inside of you again. the exact days he aimed for.

the thrusts became relentless quickly, after testing the waters and your reactions, rafe certainly dropped the act of gentle and soft. calloused pads dug into the azure material, leaving marks through the thin fabric around your hip bones. the palm of your delicate hands smashed against the wall, frustrated about the situation and close to an orgasm washing over you. hidden in a bliss-filled haze, you still attempted to free yourself before being forced to carry rafe inside of you for the rest of the night.

but in every single step, you decided to take, the determined kook beat you to it. pushing off the wall, ended up in your back painfully arched, and your ass further in his direction. the large palm of his placed over the back of your hand, holding you against the wall and leaving no way to escape. "princess, enjoy it as long as it lasts. you will crave me after."

roughly, muttered promises, he had experience with. times, way before your father decided to move to the island, and create another successful business. they begged him, and the image of you, on your knees for him, pleading for release or at least a touch, it made rafe feral. possessive. greedy for more. "come on, princess. let yourself go a little."

the hand on your waist wandered over your back, and around your left hip to reach between your legs. wetness spread across your pussy, flooding down the insides of your thighs. pleased by what his rough tips felt, rafe chuckled. "so fucking hot." emphasizing his words with the hard press of his pads against your bundle of nerves, a loud gasp mixed with a needy moan escaped your mouth. a sound, you could not prevent any longer as your body completely betrayed your mind.

"good girl." he growled, starting to rub irregular circles over your clit while the pace and strength of the pounding stayed rough. by the way, his breaths became hasty, and with the almost inaudible groans that spilled out, he showed how close he was to painting your walls. "come on, princess. cum for me, squeeze my dick."

as the times before, words worked like a deadly spell on you. the unwanted tingling spread, his tip brushing against the soft spot regularly, and the moans were accompanied by filthy whimpers. you were embarrassed, completely disgraced by what was happening but the feeling was intensely good. walls clenched tightly around him, your orgasm washed over you before gaining a clear thought. rafe and his experience the only thing on your mind left.

"shit, rafe," escaped your mouth, nails scratched on the wallpaper. you spasmed from the intensity of the orgasm, head falling forward as his name was spoken like little, thankful prayers. the exhaustion and the sore feeling settled in rather quickly afterward, the aftermath of his roughness.

squeezed tightly by your pulsating walls, the way, your sweet voice praised him and repeated his name, triggered his orgasm. one, two, deep thrusts were enough, pushing his hips against your ass, the fingers which stroke over your pussy, pressed against the little bundle of nerves again. harshly but not strong enough to hurt you, as he painted your insides with white, hot spurts.

face placed in between your shoulder blades, rafe wanted to stay forever in this place. cuddled up with your body, feeling the warmth radiate from your figure after such an intensive experience. yet, he knew, he could not as the midsummers were still in full swing downstairs. slowly leaning back, he pulled out, and you winced at the loss of contact.

lacey pants hooked underneath one of his fleshy digits, he placed them back between your cheeks without cleaning the mess he made. "walking around the entire night, while I'm dripping down your legs." the male chuckled, crouching down to pick up the baby blue suit pants and pull them back up. closing his belt to keep them in place, his hooded gaze watched how you carefully pulled the expensive fabric of the gown down again, smoothing wrinkles with the delicate palms of your head.

you turned away from the smugness that covered his face, the mischief twisted in his features, and walked towards the staircase. the mess of strands placed over your left shoulder and collarbone, hiding the reminders in a mixture of blue and purple that rafe left along the side of your throat. one glance at them, and your father would instantly find the attacker, and find a reasonable argument to have them disowned by their family. "don't be like that, princess."

the sole of the polished, brown leather shoes boomed against the floor, the sounds coming closer with each step hurried after the leaving woman. "you've had fun to, i heard that."

amusement placed aside, you did not find a second to joke about what has happened. "yeah, great fun, stomping my rules of not being fucked by you, without actually being with you." you hissed over the shoulder, glancing forward instead of backward to the man who followed like a lost puppy.

"well, we can be, if you want." rafe shrugged his shoulders, it was precisely what he wanted after the past midnight meetings. the memories made in the library, or underneath the blanket of golden stars. "i tried to trust you entirely first. what's going on behind the curtains, rafe, that sarah runs away with a pogue, and denies her inheritance and family?"

you stopped the escape from his convincing warmth and turned around once you reached the staircase. one answer, you did not like, you have the greatest way to run away. arms crossed over your chest, rafe's thumb and pointer finger outstretched across his forehead, slowly massaging the temples on each side.

"nothing. she's just being a dumb, little girl. falling in love and shit."

"that's enough of an answer. thank you, i won't be a dumb, little girl then and fall for your tricks further." ashamed by what you have done for the man in front of you, the lies you told your parents about your whereabouts, and the multiple times, you covered for him. all for nothing, or maybe not?

242 notes · View notes

concretevampire · 2 years

Text

Early Morning Breeze cont.

arthur morgan x f!reader ꔫ 8.1k ꔫ domestic sadness + angst, some violence too, idk what happened but this got kinda sad // based off of the Dolly Parton song // religious themes

A/N: this is a pt. 2 because people to seem to be asking for it! can be read by itself/ as a stand-alone but if you want to read pt 1 it's here: Early Morning Breeze

“So, tell him with the occurents, more or less, which have solicited. The rest is silence.” Your head lolls to the side, tongue sticking out. Jack giggles. You crack an eye open. “You don’t make for a very convincing Horatio, Jack.”

He giggles again, leaning back into the grass. “I don’t know how it goes.”

Propping yourself up onto your elbows, you hum. “That could be an issue.”

“What happens next?”

You think, trying desperately to remember a play you haven’t read since you were a teenager. A gunshot sounds in the distance. Ravens fly into the air in a wild blunder, black embers ripping across the sky.

Just a hunter. You pray it’s just a hunter.

“Now cracks a noble heart. Good night sweet prince,” you grab Jack, fussing his hair with a tight smile, “And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!” You turn back to the forest, eyes narrowing. Another gunshot sounds. “Why does the drum come hither?”

He pulls away, hands on your shoulder. “What does that mean?”

“Well it means,” and you try to come up with an intelligent answer. You couldn’t be bothered. “It means Horatio is very sad.”

“That’s sad.”

You nod. “It is, isn’t it?”

Jack stands up, eyes searching the grass for a stick. Something to wack and stab with. “Are there any happy plays?”

You snort, laying back in the grass. “Maybe.”

“Do you know them?” He bends down, poking around in the mud.

“It seems the happy ones haven’t stood the test of time, Jack.”

He turns back to you, twig in hand— small and frail— too skinny and too young to be a sword.

“Uncle Hosea said the same thing.”

Your eyes look to the sky, gray and heavy. The sun never seems to shine in Beaver Hollow. Another gunshot sounds.

“He did.”

Jack circles around you, swinging his twig uselessly. “Did Uncle Hosea like Hamlet?”

You sit up, knees coming to your chest childishly, as if Hosea were still blonde and still alive.

“Uncle Hosea liked it.” He didn’t. He liked A Midsummer Night’s Dream more. Lovers gone mad and neurotic. Deluded by their own frivolous needs. Or deluded by pixies.

Pixies would be preferable.

You clear your throat, shrugging. “But he liked reading all sorts of things, not just plays.”

Jack drops his twig, already gone in search for something stronger. “Reading’s boring.”

“Well, you will be the most bored lawyer in the world then.”

He groans, head dropping. “I don’t want to be a lawyer!”

You snort, standing and brushing at your skirts of any grass or mud that could have stuck. “Tell that to your Ma.”

Jack huffs as if the gray skies have fallen to his little shoulders: the weight of the world settled onto a four-year-old.

“She doesn’t care,” he bemoans.

Your hands go to your hips, head tilting as you look his little body over. “She doesn’t care?”

And he nods furiously, pouting indignantly.

“Well then, if she doesn’t care you would be stuck at Mr. Bronte’s,” you poke at his ribs, “eating pasta for the rest of your life!”

He smacks your hand, frowning. “I like pasta!”

You wave him off. “You’d get tired of it after a year.”

“Not true!”

“True.”

“Not!”

Laughing, you bend down to fix the collar of his jacket, tightening it against the chill that permanently hangs over north New Hanover. Just another beast to fight against with the impending militia of Pinkertons, Cornwalls, and O’Driscolls.

Another gunshot sounds, closer this time. Jack grabs for your skirts, eyes peering into the forest– more curious than scared. Thank God.

“It’s just a hunter,” you sooth, patting his back. But he stares for a moment longer. Another torrent of ravens flies over the both of you, cawing loudly. North American banshees. They seem to break his stupor– he grabs for your hand and pulls you from the trees.

“Let’s go home,” he declares. And you follow, knowing it’s best to get back anyway, lest suspicion grows.

Whether it be crazed or not, suspicion is suspicion.

Molly was not spared, and though you have been with the gang longer than most, there’s a growing despair in your heart, an amalgamation of wailing demons that’s telling you mercy would not be shown. Your efforts, everything you’ve given– whether it was your all or not– will not save you.

This is out of your control.

Now, admittedly, it has never, ever been in your control, and you would be a fool to think it ever was.

But beyond control, you barely have a choice anymore. What can you possibly do? As Dutch’s mind rots away– festering and bubbling synapses– you can only act as an audience member, chained to your seat.

It’s maddening.

But you blame the cold. The frigid air for the sleepless nights and trembling fingers. The biting breezes for your nauseating headaches.

Arthur’s getting worried about you.

You’re getting nervy in your old age, Sean used to joke. But it’s not his supposed old age; it’s not him at all. It’s Dutch and it’s you and it’s the loss of Hosea. His devastation is apparent but he refuses to speak about it, like a stubborn child holding their breath.

Refuses to admit it because, just like you, he thinks that if he does, something bad is actually happening. And there’s only so much you can do for a person who can’t stand help in the same way he can’t stand celery in his stew or the way you tuck your cold hands under his stomach as he sleeps.

Once again, this is out of your control.

But you let yourself ignore it as Jack tugs harder, pulling you into camp and towards the dying fire.

It was quiet at Shady Belle, but here in Beaver Hollow it is silent– and this aching, foreign silence ripples excruciatingly through your bones as Jack warms his hands. But you prefer it. Prefer it over the arguing and killing.

Better it be silent.

But it seems your luck has dwindled— not a new development— and Dutch is now hollering. For you.

Shit.

There’s an attempt to ignore him; you would cut your ears off and burn them in an act of morbid defiance if that’s what it took to get him to stop. But Micah is watching. His Cerberus.

So you bid Jack farewell and step towards Dutch; back straight, fingers clasped tightly as if you were entering a confessional.

You have no sins to reveal though. Nothing to worry about. So why are you?

“There you are, my dear,” and he closes the flap of the tent behind you.

“Dutch,” you greet softly.

“I have a gift for you.”

You turn to him, brow raised. “A gift?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he walks over to his nightstand, “it’s insulting.”

You laugh breathlessly and shake your head. “Sorry.”

And he gives you a book. It’s not big, not very extravagant, but that’s why it intrigues you. Because with Dutch, things are always big and always extravagant.

He doesn’t really know how else to live. As a fish to water, a man to money.

Carefully, you open the cover, eyeing the title. “An Essay Concerning Human Understanding,” your mouth hangs open, almost in confusion, “this is,” frankly, “old.”

“I know. He’s no Miller or Emerson, but Locke certainly had some things to say.”

All men do if they think hard enough.

You nod a bit. “I think I read it before. When I was in school.”

Dutch leans back on his desk. “Have you really?”

You flip further, hands delicate on the yellowed pages, drying leaves at your fingertips. Another frailed, withering mind contained in words. “Something about parrots.”

He chuckles, crossing his arms, and you look into the air. Thinking beyond your body.

“Therefore some, not only children, but men, speak several words no otherwise than parrots do, only because they have learned them, and have been accustomed to those sounds.” You turn back to the pages. “Parrots.”

Dutch eyes you wildly. As if maybe he could cut your brain out and replace his with yours.

You pretend not to notice, deciding to shut the book and turn to him.

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

You can’t help but wonder. “Why these essays? Why Locke?”

He shrugs lazily. “Thought of you when I saw it. You did always like the analytical ones.”

Not really. It was always such a drag, having to read fifteen pages on one point. They were actually Dutch’s favorite, but you never had the heart to go against his taste. And now, a question lies laced in your exponentially drying saliva— though you should leave while the silence still hangs.

While you still have a chance.

“Is this it?” You ask, pressing the book to your side.

“No,, no.”

Of course. But you bite your tongue and accept your fate. It is in part your fault.

“What is it, Dutch?”

He comes off of his desk, approaching you slowly. “I need a favor from you.”

Funnily enough, you smile coyly; like everything that’s happened in the last few months subsequently hasn’t. Like you’re still in Blackwater. Like you’re still one big, messy family. “When do you not?”

He smiles at you too, gently and softly, the excrements of a memory.

“What’s the favor?”

“I need you to go to Blackwater.”

You freeze. And your despair deepens, cauterizing every cell and nerve until you become numb. “What?”

“Now, I know it sounds crazy, but I have a plan.”

“You always have a plan,” and it comes out harsher than you intended. Harsher than you really expected. And it makes him freeze, face dropping, eyes darkening infinitely. Ravens.

“Listen to me,”

“Dutch, no.”

“Listen,”

“I can’t,”

“Listen!” He grabs your shoulders harshly. You can almost remember how the act used to be comforting. Why does it feel so long ago? His breathing is harsh against your cheeks and nose— panicked— as you wait for him to put a bullet in your head. Why doesn’t he just do it already? “I just, I have a plan but I need your help.”

“Blackwater? Blackwater!?”

“Just hear me out!” And there’s an urgent shake to your shoulders, silencing you. “You go in anonymously, or disguised,”

“You go in disguise!”

“I can’t,”

“You,”

“I can’t! They know me, they know my face, they’ll know it’s me! They know Arthur and everyone else, they know us. You have to do this for me,” his plea is frenzied, strange and uncoordinated on his deep voice.

“And they don’t know me?!” You counter. “Dutch, they know me too!”

His grip tightens on your shoulders. “There’s money there. More than you can imagine. I need you, I’m begging you to do this,” his hands raise to cup your face.

“I’ll die.”

“No, no you won’t,” he takes a deep inhale, “I have a plan.”

“I don’t care.”

“Listen. You go in, wail about how the Van Der Linde gang kidnapped and raped you,”

“For eight years?” You add incredulously. He pulls away, hands gripping into fists, begging.

“They’ll let you live. You’re lucky to be a woman.”

Lucky.

“You have plausible deniability,” he continues, “and then you can grab the money and go. And then it’ll be okay! We’ll be okay.” He revises. “We can go to Tahiti or the Philippines, whatever you want, just as long,” and he takes a breath, “as you get that money.”

You shake your head desperately.

“You have to.”

Silence falls, one pair of terrified eyes looking into the other. You trust this man; a strange blemish of a father figure; and you can only pray that he sees your humanity and eases.

But perhaps that part of him has finally been discarded: the understanding caretaker. You have entered Exodus.

You rack your mind for options or scapegoats; something that will keep you far away from that city and maybe alive. “Does Arthur know about this plan?” You ask hesitantly. It’s a stupid question, makes you feel like a real whore, but you know it’ll make Dutch pause.

And he turns away, huffing. “Why does that matter?”

“It matters to me,” you say, diminishing your earlier aggression. Anger will get nowhere with him. It’ll only send him into another paranoid fit: guns blazing, mind wilting.

Spreading plague and famine.

Dutch looks back at you, eyes gleaming with a kind of savagery that humans were never even meant to know. “And if he did know? And he agreed? What would you do?”

You swallow. “I’d put a gun to his head.”

He raises a brow, grossly curious. “Really?”

You take a deep breath. “I will not risk my life for this plan.”

Something snaps. You’re not sure what it is, but it does. “You won’t risk your life for this gang,” he says pointedly. Accusatory. And any sort of love or affection he ever had for you has left. Gone is the man who pulled you from the arms of abusive professors and ravenous nuns. Gone is the man who dressed and fed you like his own. Gone is the man you first believed in.

Now you’re being confronted with Dutch Van Der Linde.

“I have always risked my life for this gang.” You assert, your fingers shaking, almost dropping the book.

“Have you?”

“Yes. I have.” You step away, eyes unable to stay with his. “I always have.”

“So why don’t you now?”

“Because I’m,” ‘Tired. Worn. Sick of fighting for an imaginary future,’ “Because I don’t want to die, Dutch.”

“You won’t die.” And unlike the former compassionate assertion that statement used to be, it’s grown cold: a matter of fact.

“You have such a way of promising things,” you muster, lips pursing with grief. Grief for a man who is standing and breathing.

His hands rise, fingers pressing into his temples as if he could will the rot from his mind with one simple act. “Go.”

And you do. You won’t waste a second if it means life or death.

You’re relieved to feel just how cold the air is outside his tent. It’s chilling, almost painful, but it’s better— angel’s breath across your furrowed brow. But the relief is eradicated when you make eye contact with Micah who, of course, is sitting just outside Dutch’s tent.

His fingers fiddle grotesquely, preparing to dissect and devour.

“Since when did you go yellow? You were always the feisty one. Morgan must be rubbin’ off on ya.”

Your jaw clenches.

“It’s a shame really,” he grins, revealing rows of crooked teeth. “I always liked that about you.”

You walk away. He follows.

“Oh, but you have been so uppity lately. I wonder what it is. Morgan hurt ya?” He taunts.

You continue your path, neither speeding up nor slowing down.

“Nah, he ain’t the type. Too soft and too dumb to be hittin’ his woman.”

There must be something someone needs you to do.

“Ohhhh, I know what it is,” Micah feigns realization. “Bet he hasn’t fucked you in a while. Broodmare missing it, ain’t ya?”

The camp seems so empty.

“I can help with that,” Micah steps closer, voice louder. “Why don’t you meet me tonight?”

Your hands twitch uselessly at your side.

“One o’clock. Outside. Just you and me. I’ll give it to ya good.”

You pause.

“Out by the Kamasa. No one will know. Morgan won’t know.” And he finally comes into your peripheral, a mass of sin and maggots. “What do you say? Yes or no.”

Turning slowly, you eye him with a violent look. Something vicious that Dutch taught you. But you walk away again— and this time he doesn’t follow.

Entering your tent, you slam the book down onto your cot before collapsing next to it, face mashing into the pillow; a rotten peach to an oversized, cotton pacifier.

You scream a bit. Then sigh. Scream a bit more. Roll onto your side. Stare at the photos Arthur has hung up.

He looks like his father. The first time you saw the mugshot you told him that too, and he didn’t seem pleased with the notion. But they’re twins.

Same easy eyes. Same strong jaw. Same pout.

You’ve always wondered what his parents would think of you. Would his father think you were a waste of time? Or just a whore? How about his mother? Was she kind? Would she have been protective? It doesn’t matter though, and you should probably stop groveling.

Especially because the tent has opened, Arthur stepping in with searching eyes. His nose crinkles into a funny smile when he sees you.

“There she is.”

“Hi.”

He walks over, sitting at the edge of the cot by your hip. “Gonna tell me why yer in a mood.”

“No,” you rise, scooting to sit next to him, “mainly because I’m not in a mood.”

“Yer always in a mood.”

“Says you,” and you stand, flicking his hat as you do. For a moment you think to stop, ask Arthur if he’s heard anything about Blackwater from Dutch. But you decide against it when you see the darkening eye bags, the deepening cheekbones.

He’s been running himself dry.

It’s painful to watch— he really has been reduced to a workhorse. Something to plow the fields so that Dutch can sow the seeds of another fruitless plan.

And the worst part? He’s afraid: just as much as you and everyone else.

But he will never admit it.

He couldn’t. Because if anything, no matter how much he hates it all— this weight he’s pulling— he cares too much to let it go. He would rather collapse under the strain than leave you without something to pick at; fruit or not.

It’s a pattern of self-inflicted abuse he revels in.

Because when love is shot in bullet dosages, you learn to lick your wounds and ignore the blood. I’m used to it, Arthur will tell you. It doesn’t help. There was a time when you had hoped to show him something different, and you have, but you’re starting to believe it will always be an uncomfortable novelty.

Your silver spoon, a frivolous nuisance.

Sighing, you bend down and kiss his cheek. “You should rest.”

“I ain’t all that tired.”

“You certainly look like it.”

“Callin’ me ugly?”

You scoff, shoving his shoulder gently. “You do that enough for the both of us.”

“Guess so,” and Arthur plays with your hands a bit, thumb rubbing at your ring finger— what used to be a pale band of skin there has tanned and calloused. Time has gotten the best of you. “Got a pretty good catch today, so maybe the stew won’t be so bad,” he speculates out loud.

“That’s like hoping a dog hasn’t licked itself.”

Arthur snorts, rising to wrap an arm around your shoulders and kiss your jaw. “Bah, I ain’t that hungry anyway.”

“So much on your metaphorical plate keeping you full, hm?”

“Sure,” and he rubs your back a bit before pulling away. “I’ll see ya tonight though?”

You bite your cheek. “Maybe.”

“Just maybe?”

“I don’t know, Arthur.”

“What don’t you know?”

You smile hollowly to yourself, shaking your head. “It’s nothing. Just thinking.”

“You do that too much.”

“Yeah, and so do you, so,” and you push him towards the tent’s exit, “go manhandle a log or something.”

“Sometimes I think ya hate me,” he complains, but he’s smiling. And naturally, you smile back.

“Maybe I do. Woe is you.”

His face drops. “I hate when you talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“A damn pompous fool.”

“Awe,” you smile, patting his cheek. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

He raises a brow. “I’d rather you not.”

“No, it’s a quo- oh nevermind.”

“Thou art more lovely and more temperate,” he finishes for you. Seems Hosea taught him something. You beam.

“I am, thank you,” and you fix your apron around your waist, “see ya later.”

“Tonight.”

“Okay.”

He sags in the corner of your eye. Beaver Hollow has created a strange, shared disappointment. It’s new, and you’ve both grown too weary to try and fix it.

Once we get out of here, Arthur keeps telling you. Over and over again, his mantra. It used to be comforting but now it just makes you sick, cigarette smoke blown in your face: insulting and demeaning.

You won’t have it anymore.

So you walk away— off to find another meaningless chore that will distract you for the time being. You have nothing else to do with yourself.

Moving hay bales around, you ouch and ooh at the way the straws poke and scratch, but pay no real mind. The horses have served as some source of comfort during this time; you often find yourself drifting towards them thoughtlessly.

Precarious creatures they are, but there’s an inherent kindness to their mannerisms.

You brush and pat them; feed them sugar cubes and peppermints because you might as well spoil something. Sadie joins you eventually, braiding Hera’s mane lovingly. A sister in arms.

You don’t know Sadie very well. Well, you know she’s good with a gun and has a temper, but you like that. She reminds you of yourself when you first joined the gang.

Ruthless.

Though you can’t say you blame her. In fact, you’d rather she be ruthless and mean and brutal. To an extent, you admire that sort of malicious strength— praying you still contain it.

You offer Sadie a peppermint for Hera, and she smiles politely, uttering a thank you. And then you’re off again, searching to make yourself useful.

Dinner is as peaceful as it possibly can be. Jack’s already dozed off, but you, John, Abigail, and Arthur sit at a table, scraping away at stew. Knights of the Roundtable and their extravagant feast.

Few words are shared, mainly John and Arthur passing half-hearted jokes at one another. Sometimes Abigail chips in.

It’s been like that lately.

Arthur’s knee bumps against yours under the table, though you don’t flinch nor do you move away. You don’t even acknowledge the contact. Instead just continuing to miserably eat as if his legs were simply the breeze; there because, well, where else would they be?

And Arthur prefers it this way. Prefers the normalcy of it all.

It’s a sliver of hope.

The thought that you can still stand his touch calms him more than he cares to acknowledge. That at least if he can’t voice his worries, he can show you he still cares. Show you that he misses your voice and your thoughts, and the way you used to dawdle idly during dinner.

But there’s a heartbroken passion to the way you smile at him and fix his hat. As if you were begging for him to save you; from what, he’ll pretend not to know.

The hand he has resting on his knee tightens into a fist. He’s failed you. But with the eyes watching all he can do for now is brush your hand away and continue eating.

The usual.

Only when Arthur has you under him does he ask. You’re nipping at his neck, trembling fingers clawing at the cotton of his shirt, chemise messily pulled down your shoulder— and yet he can’t.

This culminating dread is keeping him at bay, keeping him from going further. He’s had enough.

And so he pulls away, looking you over carefully. He looks sad, like you’re a stray mutt. Hungry and cold, shaking with the need for affection. But your eyes shine piously for him.

He’s seen the look before.

In a chapel back in Blackwater. After you had vowed impossible things to him and to God where after he could only gasp ‘I do’.

Hands drifting silently, they come to play with his hair. And you have always liked it a bit longer— just for the fact you get to brush it away. Arthur’s not sure what to do next.

Option one: ravage you entirely.

Option two: let you rest.

He chooses something in between, coming to kiss your lips again— gentler, less hungry— like you’ll never have sex.

And then he steels himself, pulls away, and clears his throat. “Are ya ever gonna tell me what’s wrong or do I have to guess?”

You’re breathless, brows scrunching as soon as he asks.

“What?”

Arthur pulls away further, swallowing. “Today,” ‘and the day before. And the entire week. And the weeks prior. And the entire month. And all the way back to Colter,’ “what was botherin’ you?”

You huff heavily, pressing your head further into the pillow. “You wanna talk about this right now?”

Arthur works his jaw, the telltale sign that he’s pressing his tongue against that chipped tooth of his; a frustrated habit.

“Yeah. I do.”

Your head lolls to the side, eyes distant before nodding. “Alright.”

And he pulls you up so that you’re sitting next to him. The way you hug your knees to your chest has his heart dripping with nostalgia— leaking into his stomach uncomfortably as he remembers a simpler time. When Hosea was still blonde and you both still wore your rings.

Arthur realizes you’re waiting for him to start and takes a moment to string the right words together.

“I just want you to tell me what’s botherin’ ya. I ain’t blind, I can tell it’s somethin’.”

You glance through the crack of the tent, into the darkness. Arthur looks there too. “It was nothing,” you start, “just,, just some argument me and Dutch got in.”

“‘Bout what?”

Your eyes narrow. “Something about Blackwater.”

Arthur’s head snaps to you. “What?”

You then turn to him, confusion and frustration marring your features. “So you didn’t know anything about it?”

“About Blackwater?”

“Yes.”

“No, I don’t know anythin’ about it.”

Confusion turns to anger. “I knew it.” And you stand, pacing the tent floor. Back and forth, and back and forth against the grass and mud— a deer caged by white canvas.

“What did he say?” Arthur supplies, still sitting on the cot. He watches you go left.

“It was just another one of his idiotic plans,” you say. He watches you go right. It starts to make him nauseous– your back and forth– so he reaches for you, gently, cautiously, like maybe you’ll stomp his hand into the ground and run away.

“I’ll talk to him about it,” he settles, fingers at your wrist.

It’s supposed to be comforting, and for a very long time it has been, but his words and touch have made it worse. Much worse.

Your anger is biblical.

And Arthur can’t identify it or console it, nor could he understand it coherently. It simmers under your skin in a blasphemous way. In a way that will lay him on a cross and rip holes into his palms and feet; and all he can do is starve and pray.

He’s already consolidated that you will be the one to bury him, and subsequently be the one to unearth his body.

Stupidly, your rage reminds him of when you had first entered camp— dragged in by Dutch in the middle of the night, covered in mud and bruises like dark lace— skirts ripped, lip bleeding. And he did not ask where you came from, and neither did you. Paired with your anger, that odd, mutual understanding laid a foundation.

“You’ll talk to him about it?” You ask incredulously. “And you think he’ll listen? Or care?” Your hand waves towards that dark crack in the tent. And though nothing is visible, Arthur can feel the hell that awaits outside of your lantern lit alcove. “You think he won’t turn you into another Molly?”

He fumes a bit at that, standing with his hands placed on his hips. Looming over you. He never did like using his size against you— not like this at least. “I ain’t some woman he keeps around to fuck.” Arthur bites.

“I know you’re not,” you eye him, “you’re his son. Which is arguably worse.”

Shaking his head, he purses his lips.

“And it’s worse for me,” you continue, “God, you should’ve seen the way he looked at me today! Like I had just ripped his prick off and thrown it in his face. I was so sure he was going to kill me.”

It’s a funny image. You’re both too upset to laugh. His frown deepens. “Did’ya say anything to him?”

Your eyes widen, looking into Arthur’s, disbelieving. “Are you serious?”

“I just wanna know.”

“Of course I didn’t.” You step away from him. “It’s Dutch, Arthur. He’s the instigator.”

“I know he is, but-“

“No. No, I will not let you put this on me.”

“That’s not what I’m doin’,” he says, reaching for you. You take another step back.

“Yes it is.” Silence falls. Tense and waiting. “I don’t know why you still believe in him.” You do know. He isn’t a religious man– and those kinds of men look for faith, for vision, in something else. Desperately. Hopelessly. To ease whatever craving for enlightenment humanity was cursed with.

“Once we get out of here he’ll come to his senses,” Arthur utters stiffly. Your hands grip into thoughtless fists; that familiar emetic feeling consumes you, ripping through your pores.

“We will never get out of here,” you seeth. And it’s the first time you’ve ever defied the promise that he’ll save you. It hits him bluntly– a hoof to the chest– the anguish in his eyes and slacking shoulders apparent. Dead weight. “And we will die if we stay here.”

“Don’t say that,” he commands perilously.

“What am I supposed to say?”

“We jus’ need more time.”

Your eyes close, willing hot, angry tears to stay in their damn place. “It has been months,” you quaver. “Months of running and hiding and killing.” And the anger dissipates, a sorrow beyond hope replacing it. “How much more time, Arthur?”

He’s quiet.

“Because if you give me a time, I will wait. So how much?”

“I don’t know.”

“A week? A month?” Your voice is shaking, “Two months? A year?”

“I don’t know!” He begs. “I just need you to trust me.”

“I do trust you, but you scare the shit out of me! Every single day you run off, doing God knows what for Dutch, and I never ever know if you’ll come back,”

Arthur backs away, opening his mouth to refute.

“And don’t you say a word about how it’s always been like that because it hasn’t. Because you’re not just going up against some dumb outlaws who pick bones for fun, these are people who seriously want you dead, Arthur, and,” you choke back a sob, “and for good reason.”

He’s gone still. Like a winter tree, his limbs hang frozen and useless, gone dead from the cold and other miseries. What does that make you though? A storm?

And you’ve stripped him of all his male inclinations; fostered and trained like an obedient dog. He’s no longer a man, but a person, sad and mournful as they come.

“What am I supposed to do?” He finally mumbles.

You shrug uselessly, sniffling. “Give up?”

Arthur smiles hollowly, shaking his head. “Twenty two years and you want me to give up?”

“I don’t want you to, but I’m asking you to. For your sake.”

“I can’t do that.”

You smile too, just as hollow and watery. Easily washed away. “I know.” That’s the worst part.

Arthur looks away, the line of his shoulders straightening. Back to being an angry moron. A dumb brute. A workhorse.

A man.

You nod as he turns back to the cot, sighing heavily. Collapsing, he runs his hands down his face, his back facing you. Exhausted. The argument was pointless but it was waiting to happen for weeks, prowling around you both; thoughts like coyotes.

You sit down at the edge of the cot, hands laying limply in your lap.

Arthur rolls over at some point, quietly watching your frame. “You gonna come to bed?”

“Soon.”

“Okay.”

And you wait. Wait for the crickets to crescendo and his breathing to decrescendo— to filter out into consistent whole notes— quiet snores a staccato on every other breath. You turn towards Arthur, seeing that he’s rested his hand by your hip, gentle and open.

You think of reaching out; wrapping your fingers around his in an adoring apology. Kissing each knuckle and soothing each callous. But you don’t.

Instead you stand, tremulously collecting yourself. Without bothering to dim the lamp, you approach the flap of the tent, staring into the eternal darkness.

A question. An opportunity.

To step into the depths of hell so that you can escape its pit. How many circles were there again? Nine? Feels like the tenth. And you stand there for a long time, still and silent, long enough for your nose, fingers, and toes to have gone numb from the air.

A statue amongst screeching souls. Crickets.

You look over your shoulder, seeing that Arthur’s still asleep. His hand is where you left it, reaching out. The Creation of Adam. It’s a chance. A beckoning option to return to his side and repent.

You step outside.

You don’t actually know why or where you’re walking but you know you have to– because if you stop moving, the darkness will flood your lungs: suffocating and choking until you drown on adrenaline and fear.

You’re terrified.

It’s uncontrollable, animalistic, and most of all irrational. He’ll kill me, you keep thinking. And you don’t know who ‘He’ really is; Dutch, Arthur, God; but you know you can’t turn back.

Not now. Not anymore.

So you sob. Quiet, hyperventilated gasps for air that leave you reeling for your consciousness even as you keep pressing forward. You must look pathetic– your face hot with heavy tears, paving a path towards irresistible exile. It’s almost impossible to remember the last time you cried like this; you were small, still hurt about why the world offered so little when it promised so much.

It’s disparaging how you will always be that girl.

Always scared and sad– wanting too much to be soft and kind– not knowing that it’s useless. You’ve tried so long to tuck her away, but you suppose, in the end, you never grew up all that much.

Just a tall child, running off with a broken heart once again.

Wiping clumsily at your tears, you stomp into the Kamasa, ignorant of its blistering cold. You let the water splash at you horribly, turning every bone in your body to ice. It’s tumultuous and piercing; so you let yourself sniffle loudly, hiccuping against the sobs.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You pause, a wail catching in the back of your throat. Right on the edge.

It’s Micah.

And you turn to him, standing still as the current blunders against your thighs. A deer in lantern light. His eyes are narrowed, gnarled fingers branching out over his holster.

“So did’ya come out her to take a bath or fuck me?” And his silver eyes sweep over your figure. Your chemise has gone sheer from the water, clinging to your figure: hiding nothing, your body exposed to the world, and worst of all to him. But you continue to stand eerily in the river, not caring as it shoves at you. A siren. He grins evilly. “Not like I’ll give you much of a choice”

Something ruthless awakens. Bloodthirsty. Those demons in your heart.

You hide it though, approaching Micah clumsily from your spot. His smile splits his face, folding and creasing in all sorts of unnatural ways. And the strain of growing arousal in his trousers is obvious; but you ignore it, coming closer.

“Heard you and Morgan arguin’,” he teases, “that’s all it took for you to run to me, huh?”

Your eyes raise to meet Micah’s.

“Oh, I just cannot wait.”

Your hands reach for his hips.

“Eager, aren’t ya?”

Quickly, faster than you can really even process, you grab for the hunting knife hooked to his belt and stab it into his shoulder. Through muscles and tendons it goes, slicing across red hills. And you press infinitely hard— up to the hilt— just for good measure.

This euphoria in violence is savage.

Micah releases an agonizing scream, ravens shooting into the air violently. But you continue, twisting the knife to add to his torture. Rivulets of his blood run down your fingers, crimson drops of his soul bleeding out into the world.

Just the two of you as witness. Him and the devil.

And you had never enjoyed torturing things: it was always a quick kill: a snap to the neck, a shot to the head. But with Micah, you’ll draw it out. Push the knife deeper, twist it harder, until he’s reduced to nothing but a pile of evil and limbs.

Let him suffer. He deserves it more than anyone you know.

Revenge is a fool’s game, Hosea used to say. Arthur’s started saying it too. But you couldn’t care. Not when Micah is screaming and bleeding under your touch.

You could do this forever. Keep him here for infinity.

“You bitch!”

Your knee jerks up, slamming into his crotch. Micah collapses, gasping for air as you rip the blade from his flesh. And you watch him for a moment, reveling in the desimation, before stepping away, spitting in his face, and walking off.

You hear him howling curses as you enter the forest.

John finds you shortly: he’s on watch tonight. Must’ve heard Micah scream. And you’re sure you look beyond crazed, not even human. A piece of clay on ecstasy.

“What the hell happened?” He asks, gripping his shotgun tighter. You glance at your bloody, knife-occupied hand.

Shrugging, you stumble past him, not bothering anymore.

Oddly enough, the sight of Dutch standing at the edge of camp washes some manic form of peace over you. That maybe he’ll kill you— put an end to this all. A new form of mercy. But Abigail and Arthur stand guard at his side, the both of them looking equally mortified as you step nearer and nearer.

It’s been some time since anyone has looked at you like that.

You drop the knife when Arthur grabs you, dragging you away into your tent. You can tell he’s trying to be gentle but he’s failing miserably; grip like a vice on your bicep. And he practically throws you inside, breathing harshly.

“Have you lost your goddamn mind?” He hisses, nearly shaking with ire. “What the hell were you thinkin’ runnin off into the night like that knowing damn well someone coulda killed ya?” He glances at your red hand. “What the hell happened?”

You sniff. “I stabbed Micah.” Simply stated.

Arthur stares. His lips curve up but he certainly isn't happy. He’s polarized between chewing you out and giving congratulations. “You stabbed Micah.” He repeats.

“Yes.”

Sighing, his head knocks back to stare at the canvas ceiling. “So you have lost your goddamn mind.”

“I think so.”

He looks you over; checking for bruises and scratches, having no other natural way of telling you he was worried. His hands come to cup your cheeks, turning your face this way and that; and they stay there even when he finds nothing.

“Is this about the fight we had?”

You lean into his palms, eyes closing. “I don’t know what it’s about anymore.” And it’s the truth. There’s no other way for you to put it. Somehow, this madness is because of everything and nothing all at once. Real limbo, heaven and hell mixed.

Pursing his lips, he swallows. “You can’t stay here anymore.”

Your face scrunches up into an ugly sob, but you have no tears left to cry. Nothing to offer in your sadness. Nothing to argue in your despair. And he’s right. You can’t stay. Not only because you denied Dutch and stabbed Micah all in one day but because this last month you have been crumbling.

Falling apart right in front of his eyes. A prolonged, devastating erosion.

And Arthur can label himself The Provider all he likes, but you were always the strong one in the relationship: emotionally stable, mature, good with your words. You were the one who took his bullshit and shoved it back in his mouth so he knew it was more than just him suffering consequences.

But you were too kind to let him suffer through it. Always have been.

It’s you who sits with him on bad nights, and it’s you who feeds him when he couldn’t be bothered, and it’s you who undresses him at the end of the day.

But here you are, entirely deprived of all your sanity, begging for his help. And he can’t even think coherently. So he has to let you go. What else can he do? He at least won’t allow you to be tormented– not by Micah or Dutch, or even him.

You have to leave.

“Yeah,” you whimper.

His bottom lip tucks under his top one; and you know Arthur– know that he doesn’t cry– but you know that means he wants to. Bending down, he brings his face next to yours.

“Did you do this on purpose? To force my hand? To make me throw ya outta here cause you’ve gone mad?”

You shake your head, hands raising to hold his wrists gently. “No. No, if it was on purpose you would be coming with me.” You explain. And none of this was on purpose. None of this was premeditated or thought out, and it was all driven by a need to feel human again.

Arthur presses his forehead to yours, breathing deeply. Quiet. Thinking. Something he says he doesn’t do. “Is Dutch gonna kill me?” You whisper after a moment.

Arthur pulls away, shaking his head. “Nah. Dutch ain’t gonna kill you. Someone was gonna stab Micah eventually.”

And you remember what Dutch had said to you earlier today.

“They’ll let you live. You’re lucky to be a woman. You have plausible deniability.”

Lucky.

Funny, maybe you are.

Arthur moves around the tent, grabbing your things and hurriedly shoving them into a knapsack. “Get dressed,” he mumbles at you, distracted.

“I’m sorry.” You say suddenly. It makes him pause. And he turns slowly, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m sorry, Arthur.” You stare at your hand.

He’s silent, not knowing what to do. You don’t really ever apologize, mainly because it’s usually him who’s in the wrong. It’s unprecedented and there’s no plan to move forward. No routine you’ve developed. It scares him.

“That’s alright,” he says.

You grimace, amused. “That’s alright? Really?”

He sends a pursed smile. “Jus’ get dressed.”

And you do, slowly but surely. As you rinse yourself clean and pull on petticoats, there’s a heavy weight hanging– a profane fog. The both of you are too scared to acknowledge that your time together has suddenly become very limited.

Cut short by your lack of control and Arthur’s suicidal loyalty.

And Arthur wants to be angry at you.

Wants to scream at you for your thoughtlessness, for your act of revenge— but he can’t. Firstly, because something like this was bound to happen (he just didn’t think it’d be you) and second, because even if he was dying, losing all his strength— the one thing he has— he would carry you out.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Dutch tries talking to you when you exit the tent. You keep your eyes trained on the ground, not seeing if he wants you dead or wants to know what happened.

Arthur puts a hand on his chest, shaking his head. Telling him to “ignore the fool”.

And you can feel the eyes on you as you leave. It’s best that way. To escape alive and crazier than you came rather than dead and entirely sane.

You can hear Jack’s quiet, tiny voice fussing.

Arthur takes you to Annesburg, having you sit at a bench as he buys a ticket. One ticket.

And then he joins you, takes his spot next to you as you watch the sun rise over the water; peeping a childish hello. Patching up whatever transgressions occurred during the night. Kind and new, eastward, a distance you’ve both been running from throughout your entire lives.

“Here’s the plan,” he hands you your ticket, “this’ll take you to Wallace Station. Once ya get there, there’s a track going up to Oregon. When ya get to Oregon,” he shuffles around in his satchel a bit before pulling out an incredible stack of bills, “you get settled there.”

You stare at the money.

“And when I take care of things here, I’ll come lookin’ for ya.”

You shake your head and he grabs your hand, placing the money in your palm heavily.

“It’ll be okay.”

You give up, dropping the money in your lap worthlessly.

“Where did we go wrong?” You mutter, eyes trained on the horizon. Arthur does the same.

“Maybe when ya married me,” and he coughs a little, patting his chest, “just a thought.”

“That would mean it’s entirely your fault.”

“Ain’t it?”

Pulling the silver chain from under the collar of your blouse, you undo the clasp perilously, slipping the ring off. For a moment Arthur thinks you’re going to hand it to him— a final rejection.

You’d become a final glowing pearl in his line of women.

But instead you slip the band on your finger, fiddling with it a little in a familiar way. Just how you used to all those months ago. “I don’t regret it.”

“Maybe that’s where we went wrong,” he snorts.

You shrug. “You loved me. I loved you. It was enough.”

Arthur scowls. “We still love each other.” He defends. God help him if you don’t.

You shake your head, eyes still on that sunrise. Golden and warm. Fleeting canary. “We do. But it stopped being enough for both of us.”

Arthur wants to argue. That it’s still enough, that this is enough, but you’re leaving. And that’s that.

“Guess so.” He mumbles.

You glance at the money, sniffing. “Do you think it’ll be enough?”

“It better be,” Arthur grumbles. “Worked my ass off for it.”

You smile a bit. “Maybe I’ll get the chickens we talked about. And that dog.”

“Dog would be nice.”

“Missing Copper?”

Arthur smiles. “Always. He was a good boy.”

You smile too. But then you seem to remember yourself, and the smile drops. “Do you think I’ll be able to find a job?”

“You will. Yer smart. Don’t worry too hard about that.”

“I’ve never had a real job before.”

“Yer tellin’ me robbin’ and killin’ ain’t a real job?”

Usually you would laugh. But you don’t, reserving yourself to the sun. “We wouldn’t be here if it were.”

He sighs. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. “Is it nice in Oregon?” You fill.

Arthur mulls it over, head nodding back and forth. “Sure, from what I remember. But I dunno if it’s the same as that.”

“That flower your Ma gave you is from Oregon, right?”

He nods. “Cliff Maid. Grows on the mountains.”

You smile a little. “Maybe I’ll find some.”

Arthur opens his mouth to reply, but he can hear the train in the distance. He knows you can too. An impending doom that you both willingly signed up for. Funny, how resigning yourself to hell doesn’t make it any better.

“I hope I won’t have to wait too long for you,” you mumble.

“Not if I can help it,” and he pats your hand.

You almost roll your eyes. “Sure.”

The train shrieks. “Gettin’ close,” he says idly.

“Yeah,” and you stare towards the tracks before shoveling the bills into your knapsack.

Something overcomes him then, a primal devotion that has him leaning forward and brushing a hand against your shoulder so he can kiss you. And Arthur has always hated public displays of affection— turning him awkward and uncomfortable— but in this situation it’s easy.

And you lean into him, hand clasping around his gently. Maybe if he keeps his eyes closed for long enough he can imagine you’re still in Blackwater. Imagine that he’s just recently started going sweet on you— not even together yet.

It’s pleading and desperate; one last act of adoration before you go.

And for once, Arthur prays. A real religious man.

He prays for your safety and your happiness, but most of all, he prays that he’ll come back to you and that you’ll be waiting for him. Maybe he will or maybe he won’t because Arthur doesn’t believe in God. Doesn’t really believe in anything anymore.

He’s lost his faith and the will to care.

And when he pulls away, you smile. Real, genuine, the happiest he’s seen you in quite some time. So he can hope things will be okay. It’s highly likely they won’t.

And if anything, he’ll die and leave you waiting permanently in Oregon. We shall see. But at least he can say he prayed, if it matters.

The train arrives, ravens ripping into the air as it does.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan fanfiction #reader insert #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfiction

215 notes · View notes