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shomatoriashi · 7 months ago

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09/01/24; 04:40pm

{ 18+ headcanons / drabbles }

[ when they’re too busy with work, but you’re needy for them ]

featuring: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel

[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]

it was the middle of the night when you woke up with a start, eyes going blurry as you blindly reached out to the opposite side of the bed-

only to realize that the sheets were cold to touch.

your sleepiness dissolves in an instant, with a soft yawn coming from your parted lips as you carefully get out of bed. a shiver courses through you upon feeling the cold marble against your feet, but you ignore such icy sensations.

opening the door out of the master bedroom, you wrap your arms around your chest, trying to keep in as much warmth that you could manage while making your way towards sylus’s office. there was a bit of a drag in your steps, your slow movements serving as sole evidence of your exhaustion-

but you would not sleep without sylus by your side.

finally reaching his office, you give the rich, oak door a series of knock, alerting your lover of your presence before inviting yourself inside. yet the moment you saw sylus settled on the expensive leather couch, you could feel your mouth turn dry.

he was dressed in a suit colored in ebony and crimson, the colors matching his aesthetic as his rufescent eyes meet with your gaze. an achingly soft smile graces his features, and you felt a pang of heat running down your spine at the mere sight of him.

gripping at the sheer material of your nightgown, your breathing comes out in uneven breaths. your eyes darken, mirroring your desires for him before asking, “sylus, won’t you join me in bed? it’s getting late.”

sylus’s eyes flash, giving you a momentary glimpse of lust while letting out a string of curses. “sweetheart, as much as i’d like to join you and keep you warm while in bed, i can’t. i’ve got to get these orders ready for my client.”

you bite down on your bottom lip, already feeling the moisture collecting from between your legs. not daring to look away from him, you slowly lock the door to his office, earning a raised brow from the onychinus leader.

you remain silent, stepping out of your ruined panties as you allow the flimsy material to fall to the ground. hunger was seen in sylus’s gaze the moment you shed your body free of your nightgown, allowing it to flutter to the floor before sauntering towards your lover.

sylus wastes no time pulling you closer to him, allowing your soaked cunt to pulsate against his thighs as you gently rode him, allowing your sticky sweet arousal to coat his suit.

“thats it, babygirl. keep on riding me, just like that. let me work for a little while longer, then i’ll take care of you.”

your gasps end up filling at the room, with sylus steadily losing interest in cleaning the weapons the moment you began bouncing up and down his thigh. his eyes had long since lost its crimson shade, becoming so dilated and filled with desire for you that he could feel his sanity snap.

needless to say, when sylus tosses the gun back on the table before unbuckling his pants, freeing his erection as he harshly grips at your thighs before impaling your slick heat against his cock, you lost all of your senses. being so filled with him after riding his thighs created such a hedonistic friction that you quickly became addicted to, never once stopping as you rode him with a desperation.

meanwhile, as luke and kieran were ready to deliver the next round of weapons, they froze upon seeing the office door locked as sounds of your breathy moans and sylus’s grunts were heard coming from behind the door. both twins end up looking at each other, their flustered expression hidden beneath their masks as they slowly backed away from the door.

it was best not to disturb their boss and his queen while in the middle of their trysts, a lesson that they were all too familiar with.

it was early in the morning at akso hospital, and as the staff were prepared to switch out with their coworkers for the upcoming shift, they would remain blissfully unaware of how a certain cardiac surgeon was still tied up and locked in his office.

zayne tries to hide back his groans, having to force himself to bite down on his fist the moment you came into his office. he had simply been going over some patient profiles when you came into his office with an almost dazed expression on your face.

he was filled with concern for you, already taking off his glasses while shoving his patient files to the side. one moment, he was filled with guilt for neglecting you for a few days due to how he wasn’t coming home as much-

and the next, zayne found himself settling back against his chair, with you remaining hidden beneath his desk as his cock was in your mouth. he was already half-erect the moment you began kissing his inner thighs, so it came as no surprise when he became even harder when you unzipped his pants and freed his cock from the confines of his boxers.

“i’m not mad at you.” you continue speaking to him, already stroking his cock in a loving manner before licking away the beads of precum that leaked from his mushroom tip. “i know you’re working so hard to save so many lives, but i wish to spoil you, too.”

zayne’s eyes were screwed shut the moment you place your hot mouth against his cock, feeling your tongue tracing at his veins while letting out a gasp of your name. his large hands automatically go into your hair, gently moving your head back and forth over his cock.

you hummed in pleasure, feeling the familiar twitch within your mouth. you had every intention to take him in as far as you could, yet zayne doesn’t even give you a chance to taste his cum when he harshly pulls your mouth away from his cock.

with a strength you didn’t think zayne was even capable of, you feel your lover shove aside the items on his desk before placing you on it. not even looking down at you, he slides off your soaked panties before shoving it into the pockets of his pants. gripping at your thighs, he spreads your legs apart before sheathing himself inside of you in one swift thrust.

“i need to make up for lost time… for neglecting you…” with heavy pants of your name, zayne grips at your leg before tossing it over his shoulder, making your eyes roll to the back of your head the moment he reaches oh so deeper inside of you all while kissing at your ankles.

and when your moans were heard echoing across the department, no one dared to question it.

“you’re such a brat.”

xavier was heard hissing at you, trying to keep his voice even as he was on the phone with one of the higher ups at the hunters association. here he was, trying to gather information for his mission next week while you were trying to free his cock from the confines of his pants.

“i can’t help it. you’re telling me you’re going to be gone for two weeks, and you expect me to behave?” you scoff, finally shoving down his pants to reveal his half-hardened cock. a cheshire cat grin paints your pretty features as you made quick work of stroking him to full hardness.

xavier lets out a hiss of your name, but has to swallow his moans when a stern voice was heard coming from his phone. “xavier, are you ready to receive details for this mission?”

“yes sir…!” a low gasp escapes from xavier’s lips the moment you place your lips on his tip, giving it a light suck. it takes xavier a herculean effort not to moan into the phone, feeling your hands and hot mouth fully sending him into an almost painful erection.

he catches bits and pieces of information, but was solely focused on the way your mouth and tongue traces at every inch of his cock. his breathing becomes heavier, feeling his impending climax approaching when you suddenly removed your lips away from him. the young hunter was all too eager to shove your face back against his cock when you slowly began to undress in front of him-

and dammit to hell, you just had to wear that lacy set beneath your clothes!

your soft giggle echoes throughout the room, and as you straddle him, he saw the way you moved the material of your lace panties to the side, ready to mount yourself on his cock.

“you’ve got it sir, i’ll be there next week.” luckily, xavier had already ended the call the moment you sheath his cock inside of your wet pussy, the squelching sounds of you riding his cock echoing throughout the living room. with a growl of your name, xavier grabs a hold of your waist before proceeding to bounce you up and down his cock at an almost inhuman speed.

“is this what you want? for me to ruin you completely that you won’t be able to walk until i return?”

your mewls and eager nods were all that he needed to continue pounding mercilessly into you, eyes already going dilated as he had every intention of claiming you.

“i’m going to make sure that my cock is forever imprinted against your sweet little heat… so be prepared for it, little brat…” he finishes his statement with a particularly hard thrust, making you see stars as you had every intention to ride him for as long as you could manage.

rafayel had long forgotten about his commissioned painting the moment you began to eagerly bounce up and down his cock. the moment he felt your slickness wrapping so tightly around him was when he lost all train of thought.

you had come home from work late in the evening and wished to greet rafayel. however, when you saw the portrait he was working on, you began to feel envious of the gorgeous girl seen painted on the canvas. he tried to explain to you that a governor had commissioned him to paint a portrait of his daughter for her 23rd birthday, but you didn’t wish to hear it.

and now, he found that he could care less about finishing such a portrait with you bouncing up and down so eagerly against his cock. filled with his own desperation for you, rafayel tries to meet your downward thrusts with his own upward ones, panting as he begins to lose his breath.

being so captivated and drunk off of you, the young artist could feel a whimper being ripped from the confines of his throat when you began kissing him, swallowing his grunts and moans of your name. as you continued to bounce up and down his cock, he could feel the curve of your breasts and your hardened nipples against his own chest.

“am i prettier than her?” you ask in a breathless whisper, purposefully squeezing your cunt over his pulsating dick. it was no competition in rafayel’s eyes. “o-of course you are- fuck! you’re the prettiest girl in the entire universe. you’re my fucking princess.”

a pleased hum was heard coming from you when you lay back against his lap, moving your hips up and down his cock at this brand new angle that had the artist seeing stars. “f-fuck… princess… you’re squeezing me so tight! l-like you want to milk me dry.”

“hehe, that’s the plan…” feeling your legs and cunt tightening so sweetly around him makes rafayel gasp, stilling his hips before shooting ropes of his seed deep inside of you. with you remaining laid back, your back against his thighs, you allowed your release to wash over you, earning a grunt from rafayel.

as your honeyed arousal further wets his softening cock, your lover leans over to press a searing kiss against your lips all while returning your body closer to him. his tongue fights with yours for dominance, and he lets out a pleased hum the moment you yield for him.

when the need for air proved to be too much, rafayel was the first to pull away from you, giving you a gentle smile before asking, “did our copulation manage to ease you of your envy?”

you give him a thoughtful expression, placing your pointer finger against your lips before smirking at him. his eyes end up going wide when you began to bounce up and down his limp cock, stroking it back to full hardness with a determination seen deep within your eyes.

“not quite yet, rafe… i’m going to need this to go on the whole night to make me convinced that i am the only woman for you.”

and with one final groan of your name, rafayel knew better than to deny you of your needs.

end notes: i am still soooo thirsty for my lads men, so have this post 🫠

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

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wadwitchesonly · 4 months ago

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Lady Riya hummed thoughtfully. “Well, if it keeps up, I highly recommend the infirmary down by the square. They might be able to help.” “Oh yes, what a wonderful idea.” Mrs. Collins brightened. “The Viscount has done wonderful work there. Hardly anyone dies anymore.” “A ringing endorsement to be sure, Mrs. Collins.”

True Love Bites by Joy Demorra

#we all need a Mrs. Collins as our wingman #true love bites #hunger pangs series #joy demorra

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thebibliosphere · 1 year ago

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Not to be an unbearable plot tease, but I'm editing/rewriting a chapter from Hunger Pangs book 2, and while I adore all of my characters equally, Vlad and Ursula getting to know each other properly might actually be some of my favorite moments.

His realization that he can pester Ursula to tell him more about random historical events as they actually happened, not how they are portrayed in history books, is so, so sweet. He's like an excited labrador who just found a dinosaur bone.

Ursula's very much not used to this kind of attention.

She's used to people only being interested in her power. And here's a werewolf who couldn't give less of a fuck about exploiting her magic for his own gain, and a vampire who wants to ask her what textile production was like circa the fall of the Ecrecian Empire.

#hunger pangs series #hunger pangs meta #I like that I can still make myself smile with this #it means I'm probably doing something right #Vlad is me in this instance #if you gave me access to a time machine #I'd make a complete nuisance of myself wanting to learn the answer to every random historical query that has ever crossed my mind

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ch33z3grits · 23 days ago

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Crimson Obsessions | A Terry Richmond Vampire Series

pairing: Aaron Pierre as Terry Richmond x Justine Skye as Camille DeWaterson

summary: Terry scrambles to correct himself for a massive slip-up concerning Camille, seeking help from one of his most trusted sources. Camille begins to feel scrutinized by Aston, making her wonder just how well she’s hiding her feelings towards Terry.

warnings: 18+ mdni, mentions of sexual situations, dark romance, manipulation, obsessiveness/possessiveness, mentions of blood, mentions of violence, mentions of accidental death, angst

word count: 8266

glossary:

Indulgences: human beings that vampires deem romantically and sexually desirable

Shifting: the ability for supernaturals to change between their human-presenting form and their true appearance

Ambrosia: an aphrodisiac and euphoric substance that makes humans more open to the propositions of supernaturals

a/n: so i definitely planned to post this yesterday, but my wi-fi went out in my apartment 🙃 so posting this from work (where of course, today of all days, everyone wanted to look over my shoulder). hope y'all enjoy!

Terry’s song: Dark Red-Steve Lacy | Camille’s song: Love on the Brain-Rihanna

Pt. Five

Terry

Fuck.

Fuck!

Terry stared down at Camille's unconscious form, the weight of the moment crashing over him. Everything happened so fast, so fucking fast. One moment, she was looking through her purse. The next, she pulled her hand back, a trail of blood catching the light in a brilliant splash of red.

She hurt herself.

The blood was blindingly bright and had magnified her intoxicating scent: a rich blend of vanilla and jasmine that swirled through the air like an ethereal perfume. The droplets fell against the asphalt with a soft, melodic rhythm, like wind chimes. That was all it took for his carefully constructed resolve to break, the sharp pang of hunger shooting through him like wildfire.

His composure shattered in an instant. The discipline he had so carefully cultivated, the iron control that kept his primal instincts chained, snapped. It was only a few seconds, but that was all it took. His hunger consumed him, his drive to take. By the time his mind could even process what was happening, he had taken two desperate gulps of her blood, too much too fast.

Blinking rapidly, he forced himself to focus. His tongue, still coated in her delicious life force, reached out to lick the wound he had made on her neck. He watched as the marks began to close, the flesh knitting itself back together under his touch. He gathered her body into his arms and, with hurried movements, rushed to his car. He flung open the passenger door and gently laid her in the seat, securing the seat belt around her. He sprinted to the driver’s side, the engine roaring to life beneath him as he sped away without so much as a glance at his blind spot.

His hands shook slightly as he fumbled with his phone, dialing a number he called frequently, but never for anything related to this. "Come on, come on," he muttered under his breath, frustration building with every passing second. The phone rang, the seconds stretching into eternity, until a familiar voice finally broke through, calm but laced with concern.

“Terry? Everything okay?” the voice of his close friend and fellow vampire, Elijah, came through. Terry’s chest tightened, and for a moment, he couldn’t find the words. It felt like everything was falling apart. “You working today?” he forced out, glancing at Camille slumped in the seat beside him.

“Yeah, why?”

“I need help,” Terry’s voice raw with guilt and fear. “I... I lost control.” He could hear Elijah’s sharp intake of breath on the other end.

“How many pints?” Elijah asked, his voice low and measured, trying to keep the conversation as discreet as possible.

Terry’s heart ached as the reality of the situation sank in deeper. “Like one and a half, maybe two. She’s knocked out.”

“It’s going to be okay,” Elijah’s voice was calm again. “Just get her to the hospital now.”

“Yeah,” Terry replied, the words feeling like lead in his mouth. “I’m on my way now.”

He accelerated, his eyes locked on the road ahead, but his mind was still reeling, still trying to process what had just happened.

He didn’t mean to drink from her. He didn’t mean to siphon off a little bit of her life force. Not yet, at least. That was supposed to come later, far later, after he had her completely, utterly, helplessly in love with him. So deeply, that the revelation of his true nature would only cause her temporary horror. He would coax her into forgiveness, into a sense of security that made her feel safe with someone as deadly as him. And once she got comfortable, he would show her just how pleasurable and rewarding it would be to offer him her vein. He would make love to her, slow and deliberate, to put her mind at ease and relax her enough to get her blood rushing for the perfect bite. Let her cum a few times so her mind would be open to him taking her. Then, his fangs would sink into her as he plunged into her depths, letting her pussy clench around him as he sent her to a place beyond euphoria. And he would feast on her slowly as she cried over how good he made her feel. Camille would be hooked, eagerly offering herself to him as much as he pleased.

But in a moment of weakness, he lost it. Jeopardized his whole plan. His future with Camille. All because of one unexpected cut. He looked over to her once more, checking on her state. She was still unmoving. He reached his right hand over to her, placing it over her nose lightly. His body relaxed a bit, feeling her breath hit his fingers. But, they were shallow.

“Almost there, baby,” he whispered, extending his reach to stroke her hair. “Almost there.”

After recklessly weaving in and out of traffic and through red lights, Terry finally came to a halt in front of St. Joseph’s Medical Center, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t give a damn that he parked his Lamborghini Urus in the area designated exclusively for ambulances. This wasn’t just an emergency; it was his emergency.

Elijah was already there, standing at the curb with a gurney and two nurses already in position. They rushed to the passenger side, opening the door and swiftly pulling out Camille’s limp body. The nurses worked with practiced precision, their faces a blur of focus and urgency as they wheeled her away, the wheels squealing against the pavement.

Terry attempted to follow, but Elijah moved quickly, stepping directly in front of him and placing his hand firmly on Terry’s chest, blocking his path. Terry’s body stiffened, and his eyes blazed with fury. He shot Elijah a murderous glare, but Elijah met it without flinching.

“Terry,” Elijah said, his voice calm but firm. “I understand, but you need to calm down—”

“Man, get the fuck out of my way,” Terry growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Elijah didn’t budge. Instead, he raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Terry, I know you’re basically made of money and power, but there’s no amount that’ll save you if you shift in front of all these people. Don’t expose yourself.”

Terry’s chest rose and fell sharply as his brain processed Elijah’s words. He was right. Shifting in a busy area would be disastrous. There would be too many consequences to count. His grip on his control wavered, and his instincts screamed at him to act, to run after Camille, to make sure she was okay, but Elijah held him in place.

Terry inhaled sharply, his breath ragged as he squeezed his eyes shut, grounding himself. Elijah stood silently beside him, offering no judgment, just the quiet reassurance of his presence. “Focus, make sure your eyes are back to normal,” Elijah said softly.

With deliberate effort, Terry forced himself to take a few deep breaths. The scent of Camille’s blood, still clinging to his lips, made his mouth water, but he pushed it aside. Slowly, painfully, he concentrated on his usual form. His human facade. And when he opened his eyes again, he could tell that they were back to blue.

Elijah gave him a long, appraising look before nodding. “Alright, you’re good. Follow me.”

The two men hurried into the hospital, navigating the sterile white hallways with precision. Terry kept his head down, forcing himself to stay calm as the air around him buzzed with the sounds of chattering voices and beeping medical devices. His mind was on Camille, her pulse, her breath. She’s alive, she’s alive, he repeated to himself silently. After a series of twists and turns, they arrived at the room where Camille laid.

Terry let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. The sight of her, although still unconscious, hooked up to a heart monitor and an IV drip, brought him a sense of relief that almost made his knees buckle.

He leaned against the doorframe, letting the steady beeping of the monitor wash over him. His chest eased.

“She’s stable,” Elijah said, his voice softer now, but his gaze still sharp, measuring Terry. “But we should probably talk once she’s discharged. This isn't like you at all.”

Terry nodded, his eyes fixed on Camille. His guilt was only growing stronger. This wasn’t just a slip-up. It was a failure. He had always been unshakable and indestructible. He had always been able to control himself, especially under pressure. But Camille had obviously become his weakness. He was better than this. He had to be. If he was going to have her in his life, he had to stay composed. He couldn’t slip into some ferocious, lust-fueled hunger every time she got an injury.

“Hey,” Elijah's voice was gentle as he placed a reassuring hand on Terry's arm. “She’s going to be alright. Don’t be too hard on yourself.” With those few words of comfort, he gave Terry a firm nod before turning and heading down the hall, leaving Terry alone.

Terry exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face as his mind raced. He couldn’t allow self-pity to sink in. Camille needed him to have everything under control by the time she woke up, so she wouldn’t be burdened with any more worries than necessary.

First, he called the office, alerting HR to the fact that Camille had a medical emergency and wouldn’t be returning to work for the rest of the day. Next, he dialed up an associate who dealt with scenes related to these types of incidents. They would be able to retrieve her car, delete any video footage of what happened, and make sure any witnesses didn’t remember what happened. Finally, he sent a brief text to Elijah, requesting that he bring some ambrosia to Camille’s room. She would need to drink it soon in case her memory returned and she remembered anything about him…attacking her.

Terry let out another sigh, his body sinking into the chair beside her bed. He reached out and took her hand in his, gently lifting it to his lips and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her knuckles. "I’m so sorry, Camille," he whispered, his voice barely a breath. His thumb brushed tenderly against her hand, the softness calming his thoughts.

As he returned her hand back to her side, the door burst open with surprising force. Terry’s head snapped up, eyes widening as a woman stood in the doorway, clearly breathless. It was Kali. Her wide eyes darted between him and Camille, her shock palpable.

"Terry?" she asked, her voice thick with confusion.

"Kali?" he replied, his voice coming out a little strained. "You work here?" He raised an eyebrow, trying to mask his unease, but the wariness in her gaze made him anxious. Did she see me kiss her hand? He thought. Nah, she definitely would’ve mentioned something. Just stay cool.

"Yeah," Kali responded, smoothing her scrubs as she took a step closer. "I’m an RN in the NICU. Why are you here?" Her eyes narrowed slightly, still scanning him with suspicion.

"She fainted at a work event after cutting her hand," Terry said, his voice calm and controlled. "I brought her here. Didn’t want her to be alone." He gave her a reassuring smile, hoping that would ease her. Kali’s guarded expression softened, his explanation seeming reasonable.

"Oh, God," she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. She crossed over to Camille’s side, placing the back of her hand gently against her forehead, her face filled with concern.

After a moment, Kali turned back to Terry, gratitude flickering in her eyes. "Thank God you were there," she murmured, her voice tinged with relief. "Who knows what might’ve happened."

She wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me, he thought. He forced a weak smile, nodding in agreement.

"Yeah, I'm glad too," he said quietly, his eyes falling back to Camille. He cleared his throat. "The doctor said she was gonna be okay?"

Kali immediately moved to the wall, pulling the chart that hung there. She scanned it quickly, her brow furrowing as she read over the details. She glanced up at him.

"Yeah, it says she lost a fair amount of blood, but not enough to be in hypovolemic shock," Kali muttered, her voice trailing off. She looked back at Camille, the confusion growing in her expression. "But that’s strange. She should be awake by now..."

Terry’s pulse quickened. Fainting is common for humans during their first few feedings, he reminded himself.

Before Terry could respond, a soft whimper filled the room. Instinctively, both Kali and Terry turned toward Camille as her eyelids fluttered. Terry’s chest tightened as he watched her stir, a lump forming in his throat.

She’s waking up, he thought urgently, his telepathic message reaching Elijah. That ambrosia—still on the way?

Be there as soon as I can. It’s still mixing, came Elijah's response.

“Terry?” Camille’s voice broke through, fragile and hoarse, her gaze locked onto him. His heart skipped a beat as he leaned closer to her. “Hey, Camille,” he said. “How do you feel?”

She blinked, disoriented, her eyes trying to make sense of the unfamiliar surroundings. “Umm… a little lightheaded. What happened? Where are we?”

Terry opened his mouth to answer, but before he could find the right words, Kali spoke, her tone warm yet tinged with relief. “You’re at the hospital, babe.”

Camille’s head shifted to the other side of the bed, her gaze landing on Kali. The confusion in her eyes deepened. “Kali?” she whispered, obviously shocked. “You work almost forty minutes away from me. How’d I end up here?”

Terry hesitated, knowing he needed to stay as vague as possible. He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. “You cut yourself,” he explained gently, motioning toward the bandaged finger on her hand. “You brought something from the office to me… but you lost a lot of blood and fainted pretty soon after you got there.”

Confusion continued to cross her face as she struggled to remember. “What?” she whispered again, her voice laced with disbelief. “I don’t even remember leaving the office…”

Kali's voice was soft but filled with gratitude. “Thank goodness Terry was there,” she said, her eyes never leaving Camille. “He acted so quickly… this could’ve been much worse.” Her gaze finally shifted to Terry, a silent thank you.

Camille’s eyes also returned to Terry’s, her expression both apologetic and touched. “Terry…thank you so much,” she said, her honey-like voice making Terry’s heart, and dick, jump. “I’m really sorry this interrupted your day…”

Terry shook his head, crouching so they were eye to eye. His hand gently brushed hers, a quiet reassurance. “Don’t apologize, Camille,” his words steady but filled with unspoken emotion. “I’m just… really glad you’re okay.”

They exchanged a look and it lingered a moment too long. A look that shouldn’t have been shared, too warm, too soft. But before that gaze could settle, the door to the room creaked open, and the moment disappeared.

“Camille, I came as soon as I got the call,” Aston’s voice broke through the room, panting hard as if he rushed to get here. Terry nearly growled with irritation. Kali visibly stiffened, her entire demeanor changing as she watched him walk further into the room.

Hmmm, Terry thought. I wonder what that's all about.

“Baby, are you–” Aston’s words cut off abruptly when his eyes landed on Terry. A flicker of confusion flashed across his face, followed by irritation that was quick to harden into something sharper. Terry’s lips curled into a smirk, his gaze unwavering as Aston’s discomfort grew.

“Terry,” Aston greeted through clenched teeth. “What are you doing here?” Terry tilted his head slightly, amused by the way he reacted to him. He could practically taste his wariness. He wanted to be an asshole and say something slick, but for Camille’s sake, he just smiled politely. But before he could say a word, Kali’s voice cut through the silence, her tone full of venom.

“He’s making sure Camille is well taken care of,” she said, her eyes locking onto Aston with a cold, calculated gaze. “Which makes me wonder, why weren’t you here?” Aston’s eyes snapped toward her, a flash of disdain crossing his face. His lips curled into a slight frown as his dislike of her, clearly mutual, seemed to fill the room.

“Kaliyah,” he grumbled.

“Aston,” she shot back just as tightly, emphasizing the syllables of his name as if giving him a discreet warning. Her eyes narrowed in challenge.

Terry raised an eyebrow as they stared each other down.

Camille attempted to break through the rising tension. “Guys, please–”

Aston cut her off, his focus solely on Kali. “Since you must know, Kaliyah,” his voice bordered a snarl, straining to hold onto whatever composure he had left. “I was on the other side of town. For. Work.” Kali’s eye twitched, the tightness of her jaw telling Terry she was close to snapping.

Camille shifted in bed, the effort pulling Terry’s attention back to her. He moved instinctively, reaching out to steady her, to help her sit up. Aston’s eyes flicked over, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. Terry just shot him a harmless grin as he rubbed Camille’s forearm soothingly.

“But I do find it strange that you’re here, Terry.” The sharpness in Aston’s voice was enough to make Terry’s eyebrow raise again, his eyes narrowing slightly. Don’t start something you can’t finish nigga, he thought. He kept his calm, but the tension in the room was thick, the air hanging heavy with animosity.

“I brought her here—”

Aston cut him off, his voice raising. “And how were you able to do that if she was in the office and you weren’t?” His challenge hung in the air, mocking. Terry’s smile faltered. The mask he wore slipped for a fraction of a second, his expression turning cold and dangerous.

Aston faltered, shrinking under Terry’s glare. It was dark and unblinking, like a predator assessing his prey. Terry slowed his breath as his fingers flexed at his sides.

“Aston, this is not an interrogation.” Camille’s voice, low and firm, cut through the charged silence. Between her tone and the icy glare from Terry, Aston’s jaw tightened, but he fell silent.

Just as the room seemed to suffocate under the pressure, the door swung open once again, grasping everyone’s attention. Elijah entered, his presence immediate and commanding. A nurse followed closely behind, balancing a tray with a cup of nearly golden liquid. The sight of it made Terry’s pulse quicken and he let out a quiet, imperceptible sigh of relief—finally.

His body, which had been coiled tight with tension, seemed to relax for the first time since stepping into the room. About damn time.

Elijah’s eyes swept the room, brow quirking at the unexpected number of visitors. “Oh, there are more parties here than I expected,” he remarked, his tone light but observant. “Hello, everyone. I’m Dr. Elijah Baptiste.” His gaze softened as it landed on Camille, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Camille, glad to see you’re awake. Would you like everyone to stay while we discuss your diagnosis?”

Camille opened her mouth to answer, but before she could speak, Aston cut her off—again.

Damn, this nigga can never shut up, Terry thought, irritation running through him.

“Nope, just me will be fine,” Aston said, his words dripping with possessiveness, a clear attempt to reassert his control. Rage pulsed through Terry. His jaw clenched tightly as he fought the urge to lash out.

Elijah glanced at Terry, confusion momentarily flickering in his eyes, before turning back to Aston with a steady professionalism. “And you are…?” he asked.

Aston’s nostrils flared as though the question itself offended him. “I’m Camille’s fiancé,” he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “The hospital called me when she was admitted. They’re not related to her. He’s just a coworker. And she’s just a friend,” he stated, his voice taut.

Elijah nodded slowly, his gaze shifting back to Terry.

I thought she was your Indulgence, Elijah’s telepathic voice rang out in Terry’s mind.

It’s fucking complicated, he thought back, the statement fueling his irritation.

“Well, thanks for coming in,” Elijah said, his tone clipped as he nodded toward Aston, subtly signaling the conversation was moving on. He turned to Terry and Kali. “If you all don’t mind…” His voice trailed off, signaling for them to leave.

Kali moved first, still visibly disturbed by Aston’s presence. She leaned over the side of Camille’s bed, giving her a gentle hug. She whispered something in her ear that Terry couldn’t catch. When she straightened back up, she met Terry’s eyes, her smile faint but sincere. “Thanks for looking out for her,” Kali said quietly. Terry gave a small nod, the tightness in his chest easing slightly. “Of course, it was no problem.”

Kali then turned to Aston to roll her eyes before she moved past Elijah and the other nurse, vanishing into the hallway.

Terry lingered for a moment, his eyes locking with Camille’s as he squeezed her hand gently. She looked at him, her eyes almost pleading, like she wanted him to stay. But Terry knew better. If he stayed, Elijah would have to peel him off of Aston. And he didn’t need her to see that.

“Get some rest, Camille,” he said softly, his voice steady but edged with a quiet affection. “I’ll see you when you’re okay to come back to the office.”

He held her gaze for one last moment before reluctantly tearing his eyes away to give a subtle nod to Elijah and walked out of the room.

Camille

Camille watched Terry walk out of the hospital room, a heavy ache settling in her chest as she reluctantly let him go. His touch had been so soft, so full of care that seemed to linger even after he had pulled away. She wished that moment could stretch on forever. But the quiet of the room quickly brought her back. She took a slow, steadying breath, pushing the feeling deep within her, regaining her composure. Aston’s gaze pressed against her skin but she refused to meet it. Instead, her eyes fixed onto Dr. Baptiste. Dr. Baptiste gave her an amused look, making her wonder if he observed the moment she shared with Terry. But he just brought his chair closer to her bedside.

“Camille, how are you feeling?” Dr. Baptiste’s voice was calm as he leaned back in his chair, clipboard resting casually on his knees. She offered him a faint smile, her mind still struggling to shake off the thick fog clouding her thoughts.

“I’m okay,” she replied, her voice lacking conviction. “I just… wish I could remember what happened.”

Dr. Baptiste nodded sympathetically, his expression softening. “Terry and I go way back. He told me the details. Apparently, you cut yourself on something sharp in your purse. It was a deep wound, considering all the blood you lost.”

Camille’s forehead creased slightly, her mind reaching for fragments of the missing pieces. “Yeah, but…” She paused, uncertainty threading through her words. “I don’t know. I feel like there was more to it.”

For the briefest of moments, Dr. Baptiste’s gaze shifted, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. It was gone before Camille could fully process it, his calm demeanor returning instantly.

“Well, maybe this will help jog your memory,” he said smoothly, nodding toward the nurse who stood by holding a tray. On it was a small cup filled with what appeared to be apple juice with an almost unnaturally golden hue. “Just a little juice to boost your blood sugar. Down it as fast as you can.”

Still feeling disoriented, she adjusted herself, reaching for the cup. The moment the liquid touched her tongue, her brows knit together in surprise. It was… amazing. The sweetness was rich, more satisfying than any drink she ever had. She swallowed eagerly, but as the taste lingered, something about it gnawed at her memory, a sense of familiarity.

“Well, what if she’s right, Doc?” Aston's voice broke through her haze, his eyes tracking her movements as she drank. “What if Terry didn’t tell us everything? Maybe there’s more to this.”

Dr. Baptiste gave him a look, half dismissive, half irritated, before responding.

His tone was steady but had a subtle edge. “Like I said, Terry and I go way back. He’s not the type to leave things out. I’m sure he wouldn’t have withheld anything, especially not from Camille. He cared enough to bring her here.” His eyes flicked back to Camille, something underlying his gaze.

Aston looked dissatisfied, but he kept quiet, his gaze flickering back to Camille.

“You’ll be fine, Camille,” Dr. Baptiste said, his voice gentle now. “Just a couple more hours here to stabilize your blood levels. But you’ll need to take the next two days off from work. Just to get your strength back up.”

Camille nodded slowly, noticing how exhausted she felt. For a moment, she surrendered to the pull of sleep, but a shift in the room brought her back. She opened her eyes just as Dr. Baptiste rose from his chair.

“Thank you so much, doctor,” she murmured with gratitude.

Dr. Baptiste paused, flashing her another kind smile. “You’re very welcome, Camille. I’ll check in on you again in about an hour.” With that, he gave a curt nod to Aston, who stood silently near the door, before heading down the hallway, his footsteps fading into the distance.

Camille felt Aston’s gaze bore into her. She tilted her head, confused. “Aston, what's wrong?” she asked, her voice sincere.

He crossed his arms tightly, his jaw clenched in frustration. “Why’d you leave the office in the middle of a critical deadline?” His voice sharp and accusing. “What could Terry have possibly needed that was so urgent?”

Camille’s mind scrambled, but the haze still clouded her thoughts. She struggled to recall, everything feeling distant and blurred. “I’m sure it was important,” she said quietly, “but I can’t remember exactly…”

Aston let out a frustrated huff, his expression darkening as he moved to sit in the chair Terry had occupied earlier. “I wonder why that is,” he muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with suspicion, before his attention shifted to his phone.

The silence between them stretched. Camille shrank back against her pillow, his unspoken judgment making her feel small. She sighed, her body surrendering to the overwhelming exhaustion, her eyelids heavy once more. As Aston’s fingers tapped furiously on his phone screen, her mind drifted into the comfort of sleep, thoughts swirling around the unease she felt, not just about the day, but about Aston’s reaction.

Terry

Terry’s leg bounced slightly, the restless motion contrasting the stillness of his sprawled position on his couch. His fingers curled around the glass of bourbon in his hand, the amber liquid swirling in a slow, lazy circle as he gazed out at the Houston skyline against the starry sky. It was nearing the time Elijah had promised to come by to talk to him about the events of the day. A talk Terry had been dreading since he left the hospital, yet knew he couldn’t avoid.

He had originally wanted to cancel. It would only flame his feelings of failure. But the memory of his actions with Camille, the aggression, the lack of control… it nagged at him. He had always been a strong proponent of proper vampire-human interactions—he prided himself on being an enforcer of those boundaries. Yet, here he was, having crossed one of the most sacred lines in their world. And for what? A brief taste of her? A moment of weakness, a lapse in judgment? It was unacceptable. He’d never had an incident like this, ever, and the self-loathing that followed was starting to suffocate him.

But Terry had spent the entire evening lost in his thoughts, replaying the events of the day over and over again, so he knew he needed to hear whatever Elijah had to say. Partnering with an Indulgence is something he never had before. Of course, he had plenty of flings, plenty of fleeting romances with Indulgences. But nothing that he wanted to last forever. Camille was the first to draw him in to the point that he happily wanted to fall head over heels in love. She was everything he wanted and then some. But today showed him that he needed some help, some serious guidance. His bloodlust and sexual attraction were blurring into each other, making Camille enticing in more ways than one.

It was an experience not unfamiliar to supernaturals who chose to partner with humans, but it was always a fine line to walk. He knew what could happen if he wasn’t careful—the rare, horrifying instances when a vampire’s desire for their human partner spiraled out of control and led to injury, or worse, death. Terry shuddered at the thought, gulping down another sip of bourbon, the burn oddly soothing him. He closed his eyes for a moment.

Camille’s safety had to come first. He couldn’t afford to let this spiral into something darker.

That was why, despite his bruised ego, despite his embarrassment, he couldn’t refuse Elijah’s help. He needed Elijah. He was a rare case in their world, an anomaly that everyone aspired to. He’d been married to his Indulgence for over sixty years. Their relationship was something Terry could only dream of—blissful, serene, and above all, stable. It was the kind of union that Terry wanted with Camille. But today showed him that he might not be ready. He needed advice from someone who knew how to keep their desire in check, how to keep things from unraveling in a way that could cause irreparable damage. Elijah had the answers, and Terry was desperate to have them before he made anything worse.

A request for the penthouse elevator, a soft chime that echoed through his home, pulled Terry from his thoughts. He pulled out his phone and opened the surveillance app, checking that the request was coming from Elijah. The screen showed his friend casually pacing in the lobby, prompting him to approve the request. He stood from the couch, finishing his bourbon as he walked towards his front entrance. Just as he placed his glass on his island counter, a knock came from his door. He took a deep breath, further bracing himself before opening the door. Elijah stood behind it, greeting him with a small smile.

“Terry,” Elijah greeted as Terry moved to let him inside. “It’s good to see you again.” Terry chuckled as they dapped each other up and made their way to his central sitting area. “Yeah, it’s like I haven’t seen you since this morning,” he joked back, their laughter filling the space. Their conversation was light for the first thirty minutes. They vented about their jobs, the latest updates in the supernatural world, and everything in between. But, Terry shifted the conversation as he poured him another glass of dark liquor.

“So about today…,” he trailed off, sliding the glass to Elijah. Elijah nodded with a knowing look. “I really fucked up.”

Elijah gave him a sympathetic glance. “Look Terry–”

“I mean, you know me man. I’ve never done some shit like that before,” Terry continued, exasperated.

“Terry–”

“Part of me wants to cut ties and… j-just let her go, but I'm way too fucking obsessed–”

“Terry,” Elijah repeated, his voice calm but firm. Terry’s jaw tightened, his fists clenched at his sides. The interruption was maddening, but Elijah was one of the few he actually respected. So, he swallowed the growing rage and kept his mouth shut.

“It happens,” Elijah continued. “We hate when it happens, but it does.”

Terry swallowed the lump in his throat. He could feel the heat rise in his chest, his breath shallow. He couldn’t look at Elijah. Not now. Not while the guilt seemed to consume him.

"The important thing," Elijah went on, his voice softening with a touch of understanding, "is that you stopped yourself. Camille was discharged just fine and will have a reason to have a few days off from work, which she seemed excited about. It worked itself out, so you can’t beat yourself up about it forever."

The words hit Terry like a slap. He blinked rapidly, the sting of unshed tears blurring his vision, his hands shaking at his sides.

Terry’s teeth ground together as the words spilled from him, a low, guttural hiss. “Don’t try and pretend you know how I feel right now,” he spat, but Elijah remained unphased by his crackling fury. “You have no fucking idea.”

Elijah’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t flinch. He set his glass down, his fingers lingering on the rim for a moment before he leaned forward, elbows pressed against his knees.

“You’re right,” Elijah said calmly. “I don’t know how you feel, man. I don’t know at all. But I do know how you would feel if it had been worse.”

Terry’s eyebrows knitted together. “What are you talking about?” Elijah dragged a hand over his face, turning to look out of the huge windows.

“My first Indulgence…I had killed her. Accidentally, of course.” Terry’s eyes grew huge, his anger disappearing as his stomach fell.

“Yo, Elijah man…,” Terry began, “I-I didn’t kno–”

“It was in 1894. A Juneteenth celebration…her name was Violetta…,” he trailed off, as if he was no longer talking to Terry but more so talking to himself. “We had just made plans to get married. And…and I had gotten too excited. And before I could even process it, my teeth were already in her neck.” Elijah turned his attention back to Terry, a single tear sliding down the side of his face. Terry stared back at him, not knowing what to say. He was too mortified.

“She ran away from me, screaming the most heart-wrenching things. I didn’t get a chance to seal the wound, so she just bled out as she ran.” A silent sob shook his frame. “I tried to kill myself so many times, but you know we can’t do that. Then I tried to pay others to kill me, but they turned me down out of pity. So I punished myself the best way I could for over seventy years,” he let out a sad chuckle. “But then, I met Dolores. And I kept trying to run from my feelings. Run from our nature. But after she expressed her feelings for me, I realized that I’d been given a second chance. A fresh start.” Elijah scooted a bit closer to Terry, looking him dead in the eye.

“So yeah, you slipped up today. There’s no doubt about that. But I saw the way y’all looked at each other. That love…it’s real, and it don’t come too often for our kind. So get all your feelings out tonight. But tomorrow and going forward, take advantage of the second chance you’ve been given.” Elijah gripped Terry’s shoulder. Terry nodded, letting out a light sniffle.

“Alright,” Elijah sighed, leaning back and wiping a hand across his face, clearly done with the heaviness of the moment. “Enough of this sad ass shit.” His playful tone pulled a much-needed laugh from Terry. As Terry reached for his drink again, Elijah spoke again, but his tone now full of mischief. “So tell me, how you gonna get rid of that stuck-up white boy? You didn’t tell me she was engaged…and not to you.”

Terry’s eyes flicked to him, a smirk widening on his face as he took a slow sip of his drink. “He’s not gonna be a problem much longer,” Terry said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. The thought of the pending $80,000 in his account made his lips twitch upward. Courtesy of Aston McCoy himself. It was all falling into place.

"Hmmm...I hope so," Elijah continued. "Because I thought you had gotten soft." Terry cocked an eyebrow.

"What makes you say that?" Terry spoke, his voice laced with irritation. Elijah just cracked a small smile.

"Aye man, I'm not tryna doubt you or nothing. But your woman had to go home with another nigga today. The Terry I met back in Harlem all them decades ago? He would've never let that shit happen."

Terry's jaw clenched, feeling his eyes shift out of anger. "I can't just approach this like some fucking savage. This new era, all the fucking cameras, all the fucking eyes on you," Terry gritted.

Elijah's smile just grew. "Yeah, I know. But you might want to speed up this plan of yours...it's been three months. And that white boy seems to be onto you. He might just speed up this marriage thing."

As much as Terry wanted to argue, a quiet, reluctant truth settled deep within him. He couldn’t deny Elijah’s point. He was being too soft. Too cautious. He had been holding back, afraid of causing too much turmoil in Camille’s life. But now, maybe a little disruption was exactly what was needed to finally have her, all to himself. The realization sent a thrill through him.

As Terry and Elijah continued their conversation, the words a dull hum in the background, Terry's mind began to shift. He couldn’t stay in the shadows any longer, playing it safe. His thoughts spiraled toward something darker, more sinister. The idea took root: what if he took his plan to another level? It might be riskier. It might paint him as the villain. He would do whatever it took to make Camille forgive him, to make her see that he was worth the chaos. No matter how far he had to push, no matter how much he had to break along the way.

Stephanie’s song: I Put A Spell on You-Nina Simone

Stephanie

Stephanie eyed the small, weathered shack before her. A chill ran down her spine as she studied the door. Everything about the place felt off. Yet, she knew the answers she sought and the solutions she desperately craved were waiting for her behind the door. But still, hesitation gripped her in a way that was unfamiliar. And that was the last thing Stephanie Hodges was used to. She never hesitated.

She was THEE Stephanie Hodges. A woman who always got whatever she wanted with a mere flutter of her lashes, the curl of her lips, or the perfect, calculated glance. She never needed to beg. She took, without a care of who it impacted. And yet here she was, standing in front of this dilapidated little botanica. It was infuriating. Everything had been within her grasp, except for one thing. One damn thing.

The man vampire, Terry Richmond, had entered her life a little over two months ago. Yet in that short time, he’d completely consumed her. She had never believed in love. She only believed in lust, scheming, and social climbing. But Terry... Terry had undone her. The second he’d walked into her office, she knew she had to have him. His presence radiated with an undeniable allure, an intoxicating blend of power, wealth, and dominance. He was everything she’d ever fantasized about and more.

It didn’t matter that she had been entangled in an affair with her older, established boss, Mr. Grant. Terry’s entire being eclipsed everything. She didn’t just want him; she needed him. So, when he’d fallen into her seductive web within the first week of their interactions at the firm, she’d assumed he would be as simple as her other conquests. Easily secured, just like everything else in her perfectly controlled life.

But then... weeks had passed, and Terry’s interest in her seemed to fade. Slowly at first, but it was undeniable. He stopped asking her out for lunch. The flirtation that had once been so effortless between them had evaporated. She’d tried everything. Subtle touches, lingering glances, suggestive comments. But nothing seemed to reach him. He had pulled away leaving her confused and frustrated. And their sexual relationship had nearly slowed to a stop. During his first few weeks, he was dicking her down on every surface in his office, leaving her on cloud nine every night she went home from work. Now, he only entertained quickies every few days. And while the sex was always enjoyable, it wasn’t as intense and mind-numbing like it was before.

For weeks, Stephanie had turned the puzzle of Terry Richmond over in her mind, studying him from every angle, trying to determine how to draw him back to her. Every attempt to rekindle the spark between them had failed miserably. At work, when she tried to entice him, he would skillfully sidestep her advances, actively avoiding her. And then there was Camille, the ever-present distraction, the woman who seemed to effortlessly claim his attention.

Camille had a way of slipping into his world, always there for lunch, always showing up at work events, always the one to share private moments with him while Stephanie had to watch from afar. It drove her crazy. Stephanie’s mind replayed the countless times she’d seen Camille admiring Terry when he laughed or giving him a look that lingered too long during a conversation, her hand brushing his arm in a way that made Stephanie’s blood boil. Camille seemed to savor every moment of his attention, putting on a coy act while Stephanie’s needs went unnoticed, unfulfilled.

The thought of it had pushed Stephanie to a breaking point. That was why, when she saw Camille eagerly rushing to meet him, she knew it was time to act. To take matters into her own hands. Following Camille that day had been an attempt to put her in her place and make her understand that no one could come between them. But what she had learned about Terry had changed everything. The revelation had shaken her, leaving her reeling with more questions than answers, and suddenly, her approach felt naïve.

At first, she had a clear plan: blackmail him with the video that so clearly demonstrated his otherworldliness. She would use it as leverage, threatening to expose his secret and shatter his reputation, bending him to her will in the process. It seemed foolproof, until doubt crept in. The more she thought about it, the more she realized she had no real grasp of who he was or what he was capable of. He wasn't just a wealthy and well-connected attorney. He was something else entirely that added a chilling layer of complexity. With his power and resources, he could easily erase her from existence without leaving a trace.

At the office, he was always calm, collected, and polite. A perfect picture of composure. But she had learned enough to know that such flawless self-control could easily mask something far more dangerous. His demeanor might very well be a carefully crafted facade, hiding a cold, calculating demon underneath.

So, Stephanie turned to her roots, seeking refuge in the power of her Cuban ancestry. It had been years since she had practiced Santería, so she didn’t dare to try to do anything on her own. Stephanie knew she needed the advice of much more seasoned brujas who could tell her how to tame someone so powerful. They knew the supernatural secrets that could bend even the strongest will. Stephanie had always prided herself on being the one in control, the one who got what she wanted, no matter the cost. And that included embracing something far beyond her own understanding.

Taking a deep breath, Stephanie entered the dimly lit shop with her head held high, her signature arrogance in every step. The walls, lined with eclectic trinkets and dusty shelves, felt beneath her. She sneered inwardly at the ragged curtains and the cobwebs hanging from the cracked ceiling. The thick, pungent scent of burning incense hit her nostrils, making her frown and raise a hand to cover her nose, as if she could ward off the fragrant earthy smoke. The shop was a far cry from the sleek, polished spaces she was accustomed to, but she wasn’t here for aesthetics. She was here for something far greater.

Not to be deterred by the establishment, she continued forward, going straight to the back room that had a single tarot card taped to it: The High Priestess. She didn’t bother to knock, the woman should already be expecting her.

The room was nothing like she expected. Dozens of flickering white candles, their flames dancing in unison, covered every inch of the space except for a narrow path leading to a small, unassuming table in the center. Sitting there was a woman who seemed to be both ageless and elderly. She looked her up and down, nonchalantly, as if Stephanie was unimportant. Stephanie huffed, tossing her hair. Bitch, she inwardly grumbled. The woman cocked an eyebrow in silent acknowledgement, as if she heard the thought.

A sudden slam of the door behind her sent a jolt through Stephanie’s body, and she muffled a startled shriek. The woman only tilted her head slightly, her voice soft but commanding.

“Sit down, mija,” the woman said, her tone almost too light, as if she found Stephanie’s discomfort amusing.

Stephanie hesitated, a flicker of doubt passing through her. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe she was in over her head. But she shook the thought off instantly. I have to have Terry, she reminded herself, her resolve hardening. By any means necessary.

With slow, deliberate steps, she maneuvered through the maze of candles in her red-bottomed heels. She eased herself into the chair across from the woman, setting her Birkin bag on the table with a haughty flourish, casting the witch a glance that screamed unimpressed. The woman didn’t even blink, rolling her eyes in response, a gesture that only deepened Stephanie’s irritation.

“So…dearest Stephanie,” the woman began, her voice both silky and sharp. “Our mutual connection told me you’re seeking the devotion of a supernatural being, un vampiro? Is that correct?”

Stephanie nodded, her lips curling into a cunning smile. “He’s everything I’ve ever wanted and more,” she purred. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make him mine. Name your price.” She reached into her bag, pulling out a thick stack of cash with a dramatic flair, slamming it on the table between them.

The witch’s lips twitched upward, but she didn’t pick up the money. Instead, she stared at it as though it were as simple as a dollar bill. “To give you a fair estimate of what this will require,” she said, her voice as smooth as honey, “I need to know what kind of man he is. Can you give me a description of him?”

Stephanie grinned darkly. “I can do you one better.” She chuckled to herself, her fingers flying across her phone screen as she dug through her photo gallery. She found the video she was looking for. Terry, feeding from Camille, the raw, primal nature of it making her shiver. She slid the phone across the table, the screen illuminating the witch’s face.

The woman didn’t touch it. She simply peered down at the video, an impressed glint in her eye. “Ahhh,” she murmured, “So you want to claim one of the highest in the vampire world.”

Stephanie’s eyes narrowed. “You know Terry?” she asked.

The woman looked up from the phone, her eyes locking onto Stephanie’s. “Is that what he calls himself now? I come from a time where he was known as Isaac. I understand the attraction. He’s quite handsome and his connections and wealth were far-reaching when I first came across him. I can only imagine what they are like now.”

Stephanie’s heart fluttered at the thought of Terry at her feet, bound by whatever spell this woman could cast. She imagined a life of opulent shopping sprees, private jets to Aspen, Dubai, and the Maldives, every whim catered to. Her smile widened, lips curving in a predatory smirk as she pulled her phone back into her hands.

“So, are your services good enough to get me Terry?” she asked, her tone dripping with challenge. The woman let out a breathy laugh, her amusement ringing through the space like the toll of a bell. “Of course, mija. I’m the best at what I do.”

Stephanie’s gaze flickered briefly to the shabby surroundings, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows on the cracked walls. Then why do you work out of such a raggedy store, Stephanie thought. The woman’s laughter ended abruptly. Fuck, I forget she can hear thoughts.

The witch’s eyes flashed with a cold knowing. “But,” the woman continued, her voice returning to its unnervingly calm cadence, “Let’s not focus on my skills. Let’s focus on closing this arrangement. You’ll get the powerful assistance you desire, and I’ll get the money I’m owed. Do you have everything you were supposed to bring?”

Stephanie reached into her bag, placing them on the table. A small vial that held her feminine juices. A jar of honey she had spit in. And one of Terry’s hairs that she had found in his office. The woman nodded, pulling the items close to her. “Now we just need one more thing,” she stated, pulling out a sewing needle. Stephanie eyed it curiously. The woman gestured for her hand. Stephanie reluctantly placed her right hand in the woman's palm. With quick precision, the woman stuck her, a droplet of blood pooling at the tip of her ring finger. She brought a dish under her hand, squeezing the finger until several drops hit the dish’s center.

“Now this’ll take time, at least several days. This man…he also dabbles in the dark arts and keeps himself well-protected. I will have to maneuver around the rootwork he has established. Because of that, it’ll be $20,000, and I’ll need half up front.”

Stephanie’s eye twitched as she carefully counted out ten thousand dollars, the stacks heavy in her palm before she slid them across the table. Her fingers lingered on the edge of the money for just a moment before she pushed it forward. “Pleasure doing business with you,” she said as she stood from her seat. The transaction was done, and now all she had to do was wait.

But just as she turned to leave, the woman’s voice stopped her in her tracks. “Before you go, I must warn you. This love spell will be extremely powerful. It should be handled with utmost care because the consequences could be dire. If consumed by the wrong person, they could become violent—”

Stephanie’s mind began to drift, her focus fading with each word. Her gaze wandered absently around the room, the words a blur as she tuned out the endless lecture. She didn’t need a lecture on the consequences of magic; she came for one thing and one thing only: to secure the perfect, tall, dark, and impossibly handsome man.

She envisioned it already. A life of unparalleled luxury and a doting, well-endowed husband who would spoil her in every possible way. Camille, Mr. Grant, all the little nuisances that stood between her and Terry, they meant nothing now. Once Terry was under her spell, not a single inconvenience stood a chance.

a/n: imma be honest, pt. six might be a little late next week because I'm in the middle of midterms😃 But! I might drop 2 parts the following week😌💅🏾

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@nayaesworld @slvt4her @writingsbytee @notapradagurl7 @23jammy @kaylaahisthebestest- @theogbadbitch @wabi-sabi1090 @hotgyalaroad @nubiagurllll @lovedlover @dimepiece09 @lavaniiii @simplyzeeka @susanhill @next-bex-bet @sparklytemi @sonotlauryn @ranikyani @loveschrisbrown20 @daddyslittlevillain @blackchickinthedesert @sparklytemi @sonotlauryn @hello-therree @solunaseira @hotebonynearby @key05marie @moebuttta @winorlosetogether @nohatingpplbczhtingpplr @alexinmotion @queencb2462 @kismet83

#terry richmond #terry richmond smut #aaron pierre #aaron pierre smut #rebel ridge #terry richmond fic #terry richmond x black character #aaron pierre fic #aaron pierre x black!oc

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starlessea · 3 months ago

Text

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙏𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙈𝙚𝙣𝙙 [𝘿𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙡 𝘿𝙞𝙭𝙤𝙣 𝙓 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧]

Chapter 1: Tally

Series Masterlist: The Ties That Mend

Summary: Three-hundred-and-ninety-six days after the outbreak, you are discovered in an abandoned community college, covered in filth and barely able to speak a word. Despite the showers (multiple) and rehabilitation attempts (also multiple), it's apparent that your mind is elsewhere. Beyond saving.

This new world is chaos, but you're lucky to find good people in it. More so than any is a man named Daryl, patient enough to let you put yourself back together—one stitch at a time.

There’s no space left on the walls.

The thought sickens you; bile backs up into your throat before you swallow it down. There has to be something, somewhere—a small patch of unmarked paint for you to draw your next tally line. Desperately searching, your hands shake with realisation. There’s no more space on the walls. Nowhere left for you to mark the day.

How many had it been, again? Four-hundred—more?

You start counting the tallies in multiples of five, beginning with the wall nearest the door and working clockwise around your bedroom. It had been a supply cupboard initially, scarcely big enough for you to lie flat. Blankets were scrunched at your feet, the result of yet another restless night, and your few belongings sat tucked into built-in shelving. You had committed it all to memory—every inch, a map of your isolation.

Three-hundred-and-eighty-five… Three-hundred-and-ninety… Three-hundred-and-ninety-five—

A sound interrupts your counting.

There’s a thunk in the distance, barely there. You pause mid-breath. Soon enough, another follows. It’s a distant, hollow thud that sends ripples of panic through your body.

The response is immediate. The tremors start with your fingertips before spreading upwards. Every breath exacerbates them, and soon you find yourself violently shaking. Something is approaching. You know it before you hear the next noise, a clink some ways off that cuts through the stillness.

Instinct takes over. You’re on your feet before you can think it through. The hatchet under your pillow is cold, its handle familiar. It becomes an extension of your limbs as your fingers mold around it. Your voice, alarmed, races through your head:

How’d it get in—what entrance had you missed? How many? How many?

You find your footing. The supply door creaks as you toe it open; it needs greasing again. There’s a jerry can in the music room downstairs—you know—but you’d lacked the energy for the trip. The hunger pangs had been keeping you bedridden, and only when dark spots crept into your vision did you dare venture out.

Now you have no choice. Something’s coming, and you need to deal with it.

As you creep through the door, the smell of decay hits you. Gore and innards have seeped into the floorboards, your bare feet squelching atop the ichor. Before you, the corridor is lined with undead, their bodies shoved up against the walls to form a pathway through the middle.

At first, you’d made an effort to clean them away—burying and burning and scrubbing and praying. But as the days went on, they just kept piling up. There were only so many bodies one person could attend, and even that took its toll. Before you knew it, they were under your nails and in your hair, then sometimes your head.

It was pointless.

It didn’t matter if you locked them away in the auditorium; you were never truly rid of them. Eventually, you gave up altogether. They were just another fixture of your life. Another layer of filth that had come to define this world.

They’re watching you now. You feel them. Judging you, condemning you. Stop it, you think, fixing onto one—it’s face half-shredded, an eye hanging from the socket. Don’t look at me like that. But its gaze is unrelenting. You swallow hard, and continue past the corpse. He was a kind man, once. Back when he had been one.

Your hatchet is weighing you down. It’s far heavier than you remembered, and your body, more sluggish. Most of the food has perished by now—only a few cans left rolling about the cafeteria. You didn’t pick through them anymore. There were too many memories in there. Too many things left behind.

Malnourishment had taken its toll on you. Despite covering all the mirrors, you couldn’t avoid the contours of your hands, skin stretched taut over boney fingers, topped by brittle nails. In certain lights, you were not dissimilar to the undead—slowly wasting away.

“Man, this place is god-awful.”

You freeze. Voices slice through the cloying air.

“I’m telling you, something ain’t right here,” one says, close enough to spit. “Bunch’a dead walkers and you don’t stop to think, why? We got the meds, food’s nothing but dust, so what are we sticking around for?”

A second voice, lighter, and a bit strained rebuts, “I don’t remember making you in charge. Keep walking, and I’ll keep pretending like I didn’t see you stuff that bottle of pills down your pants.”

Pills? You blink, your mind struggling to piece the words together. There were pills in the sick-bay down the hall—yes. That was true. So these people… Were they real?

You deliberate for a moment. In your entire time here, you hadn’t seen another person since the outbreak. Not a real one at least—or living.

No, you decided. They were undead. They had to be.

The shuffling of footsteps grows louder. They’re close now. Too close. You’re shaking so viciously that your bones ache. It’s now or never. As the undead round the corner, you are decided.

You aim for the head when you swing.

Thwack.

The impact is solid—satisfying. But beneath the hatchet, the wall crumbles. There is no corpse, no contact with flesh. Before you, a man stares wide-eyed, his jacket crumpled in the fist of his companion, who had pulled him backwards in the nick of time.

Your breath catches in your throat as you ready yourself for another go.

They won’t fool you. There’s space in the auditorium—you’ll make space.

“Jesus Christ, put the axe down!” yells the man.

Each word is raw, grating on your ears. You don’t move; you can’t move.

“Bob, stop,” snaps the first man. His hands are up now, palms flat as though facing off with a wild animal. “Look, we’re not going to do anything,” he says, punctuating each word. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

Beside him, the other one reaches for his gun. Your mind flashes—weapon. They want to hurt you. They’re going to kill you. Your knuckles turn white.

Your head shakes of its own volition. You know fear; you’re looking at it in his eyes.

Was he… afraid of you?

“You’re alone, right?” he asks, unmoving. “We can take you back with us.”

No reply comes. Your head swims. You don’t trust him. You can’t trust him. But something in his tone—something warm and steady—pulls at you. You’re not sure why.

Something stirs inside of you. Back?

Despite your silence, your expression must have given you away. The man stands straighter, slowly letting his arms retract and settle in at his sides.

His eyes flicker to your hatchet before he clears his throat, “We have a community. It’s not much yet but we’re making it into a home,” he says, gesturing between himself and the cautious man. “Us and a few others.”

Your body is screaming from exertion at this point. The hatchet trembles in your hands, but you don’t lower it.

“Th—there—”

You pause; your voice isn’t coming out. It’s ragged and the stutter is a new development.

All this time… had you forgotten how it felt to speak?

You force a swallow and try again. “There are o—others?” you eventually manage.

The man with the frightened eyes doesn’t respond, but his companion—Bob, you recall—crosses his arms over his chest. “How long’s it been since you seen someone, huh?” he asks brusquely.

Three-hundred-and-ninety-six days.

You shake your head. The action seems to irritate him. He dares an approach, and like a trigger pulled, your trembles evolve into full-blown convulsing. Your heel slides back on a pool of blood, the shift in balance unsettling you.

“Hey, hey—” A voice breaks through, fixing your attention. “Look at me.”

The man whose name you do not know crouches just enough to toss his gun to the floor. The weapon lands with a dull splatter. Bob’s follows—much to his dismay.

The action does little to ease your concerns.

What if these men weren’t real?

Your mind has done this before—crafted strangers out of silence. It wouldn’t be the first time you mistook the undead for a familiar face. Worse thoughts suddenly cross you:

What if they are real? What did they want with you—what would they do to you?

Quick as a blink, you’re back on guard.

The weaponless man sighs. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve been through, or how you’ve managed to hide out here this long…” he says, pausing for a moment. “But you can’t stay. This place reeks of death.”

The word lingers in the air. He directs a grimace at the audience of blue-black corpses behind you.

“God, it smells so bad.”

Before you can reply, he's back looking at you—through you, almost—like he’s staring into the very foundation of your being.

“You don’t want to rot away here, do you?”

You stand frozen, unable to respond. Your throat tightens as you search for words, but none come.

Bob’s impatience cuts through the moment. “Glenn, let’s get out of here already. You can’t save ‘em all. This one’s bat-shit,”

The words don’t sting; they barely register. In this moment, your eyes are only trained on the man whose head you almost dislodged from his shoulders—Glenn.

He’s waiting. You can discern no pity in his face, no judgment. Just an offer.

You say nothing.

After a beat, Glenn gives you a small nod and concedes. Bob counters with a told-you-so sort of look before retrieving his pistol from the floor—wiping it over his jeans.

They prepare to leave.

“W—wait.”

It’s barely louder than a breath, but Glenn hears it. He stops, turning just enough to face you.

Your chest is heaving now, the anxiety, palpable. Every instinct screams at you to run, to hide, to stay locked in the little supply cupboard at the end of the hall.

“I’ll go,” you say instead.

Glenn doesn’t smile—there’s nothing triumphant about it—but his own fear seems to have left him. He keeps a good distance but beckons you with his hand; it’s clean.

“Come on then,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”

—

Bob is dry-heaving in the passenger seat.

The heat of the truck only amplified the stench of death clinging to you. They were right; it is awful. Back at the college, you did your best to bathe somewhat, with whatever water you could scavenge. But it was never enough. The foul miasmas had seeped into everything: your clothes, your skin, your sweat. It would take some time to air out.

Curling tighter to the door, you try to avoid Glenn’s strained expression in the rearview mirror.

“Told you it was bad,” he says. His tone is light, far too casual; it makes you want to sink into the seats. “Nothing a good shower won’t fix, though?”

You can’t bring yourself to nod. Perhaps you’d feel ashamed had it not been for the unadulterated panic ripping through you. Everything is too much: the thrum of the engine, the weight of the hatchet on your thigh, the sunlight—

How long had it been since you’d seen it? Four months?

That’s right. It had been four months since the generator had sputtered out, leaving you to exist in the dark for the remaining two-hundred-and-sixty-odd days. In truth, you’d grown used to it. Most windows you’d pasted with newspapers from the old art room, so even the sunniest days were reduced to a shadow. The open sky feels wrong to you now, like it’s exposing you to things you’d forgotten how to face.

You try not to blink. Each time the sun slices through the trees, it adds to the utter overstimulation. Your muscles are spasming, sapping the little energy you have left. The movement is making the smell worse. Glenn flicks the fans in a poor attempt to cycle the air, and almost immediately, you’re greeted by warm wafts of your own stench.

Bob sticks his head further out the window. You cough wetly—trying not to vomit.

“Deep breaths,” Glenn reminds. You catch his eyes flicking between you and the road. “We’re almost there.”

You don’t answer; you can’t.

“Though I am going to warn you about something,” he adds. Hesitation lines his voice, doing nothing for your nerves. “I don’t want you to freak out, but… our community is, uh, in a prison.”

A prison?

The word ricochets in your head.

Your jaw slackens as you process the words. Glenn hurriedly continues. “Hey, it’s okay,” he blurts, “We’re not gonna lock you up or anything.”

His reassurance does little to stem the panic.

“We’re locked up now anyway,” Bob mutters from the passenger side. “Stuck in this hotbox with a raging loon.”

Glenn smacks him. The truck veers as he forfeits the wheel, but he's quick to correct it. He finds your eyes in the mirror again. “I promise it’s safe. Safer than anywhere else we’ve found.”

You don’t believe him.

But before you can spiral any further, the truck slows, rolling to a stop in front of a chain-link fence. Beyond, a prison looms in the distance—a great hulking thing absent of any colour—and from it, a figure comes jogging to open the gates. You're here.

At the sight of another unfamiliar face, your doubts make themselves known.

Run. You have to get out. Run. Run. Run—

The door handle is in your hand before you realise it. The truck hasn’t fully stopped, but you shove it open anyway. The rush of motion tilts the vehicle, and Glenn curses as he hits the breaks.

The ground comes up fast. Your legs give out the moment they hit dirt. Above you, the sunlight is blinding. This time, you’re sure you’ll be sick.

“Whoa, hey, hold up!”

A woman’s voice brings you back. Before you can react, there’s a pressure under your arm—hands, firm but steady. You instinctively jerk away but you’re too weak to pull free.

“Don’t struggle. It’s okay,” she soothes. Trembling, you force yourself to look up.

Crouching before you is a woman with cropped hair, her features delicate yet hard. As her eyes sweep over your body, you catch a flicker of sadness in them.

“Goodness, you poor thing,” she murmurs. “Seems like Glenn’s brought home another stray.”

Her arm slips under yours again, and this time you let her help you up. There’s no fight left in you; it’s taking every morsel of strength to hug your hatchet to your chest. Each step is heavier than the last, but her encouragement—almost motherly—keeps you moving.

You try not to stare as she leads you toward the main building. People move around the yard. Real people. More than you’ve seen in months. Their voices blur together, too loud, too close, and you want nothing more than to shrink away from all of it.

As you make it inside, the air is cooler but no less stifling.

You're in a cell block. It's stark, structurally plain. Metal bars, concrete floors, and the faint scent of bleach that doesn’t quite mask something darker. In the center of the room is a makeshift cooking area, a hodgepodge of furniture surrounding a lunch table poached from the outer yard. A small group gathers there.

You do a quick count: Man. Man. Child. Woman. Baby—

Your brow furrows. Baby?

The woman cradling the infant has dark skin and neat locs, as opposed to the child, whose parents were probably another casualty of this world. She maintains her distance.

“Rick,” the woman at your side calls out, garnering the attention of everyone.

A man responds to the name. He cuts through the group with measured steps. His stature is lean, his features weathered. He’s dressed simply—dark jeans, boots, a tan button-down rolled to the elbows—but his stance, the set of his jaw, that air of gravitas… It all screams leader.

You plant yourself firm into the floor.

The man—Rick—scarcely spares you a glance. “Another one?” he asks Glenn from over your head. “Where d’you pick ‘em up this time?”

“Old community college,” Glenn answers.

Rick lets out a short, tired breath. “Okay,” he says, before directing his attention toward you. “Then answer me this: how many walkers—”

He stops mid-sentence. For the first time, he really sees you. His expression sours as he does a quick scan, taking in every detail from your bare feet to the stained-red hatchet embedded in your chest. You see his nose twitch as he inhales.

“Rick...” the short-haired woman interjects, placing a hand to his chest. “Not now,” she says firmly.

“Not now,” Rick echoes. The frown lines marring his brow soften slightly. “It’s okay,” he says instead. “You’re safe now.”

You blink once.

Safe? Why does everyone keep saying that—Like it’s some guarantee?

Something in his eyes tells you he doesn’t believe it either; like he’s said those words too many times before.

“It’s not much, but it’s a roof and four walls. It’s a place to raise our kids.” Rick nods his head at the child with his likeness, a brown-haired boy in a deputy hat, and then to the woman holding the baby. “We’ve got water here—food. Daryl’s a hunter, and a damn good one. We’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

You’re only half-listening. At the mention of another name, your eyes drift past Rick, settling on the figure at the edge of the group.

That’s the hunter—Daryl. You can tell by the crossbow slung across his back, and the dirt stains on his skin, far greater in number than the rest of them. His stance was casual but guarded, his sleeveless shirt exposing corded muscle. You catch his eyes, pinned under a mop of tawny fringe.

They’re the kind that don’t miss a thing.

You can tell he’s studying you just as closely as you’re studying him. There’s a tension in his posture, like a rubber band ready to snap at a moment’s notice. It unsettles you.

It frightens you.

“She should lie down,” Glenn says, breaking the silence, “Let Hershel take a look at her when he’s back.”

Rick nods. Instinctively, he reaches out to steady you as you sway on your feet.

“I can walk,” you mutter, words barely audible. “I can walk.”

No one listens.

There’s an exchange of glances between Rick and the short-haired woman. Then, with a gesture so slow it feels deliberate, she steps in close again, threading your arm through hers. Her grip is firm but unobtrusive; you feel yourself leaning into her without meaning.

Glenn attempts to relieve you of the hatchet, but you twist away, eyes flashing with warning. He raises his hands in surrender.

“Okay. You can keep it,” he placates.

The next thing you know, you’re being led into the prison’s interior. The cell they bring you to is small, the cot inside neatly made. But the room feels too open, too exposed. You hesitate at the doorway.

“This one’s yours,” Rick states simply. As he points, a keychain jingles at his belt.

You fixate on it. “The—The key?” you question.

Rick’s brow furrows. He hesitates, then thumbs through the chain until he finds the one he’s looking for—a long, slender thing with a dull shine.

“Here,” he says. “Take it if it makes you feel better.”

It does.

You don’t mean to snatch it from him, but the warmth of his hand is unexpected, and you find yourself clawing for the key. Tucking it into your palm, you slide the gate shut. It latches with a clink, and a shaky breath escapes you.

“Right, well...” Rick steps back, giving you space. “Get some rest. We’ll come check on you in a bit.”

He lingers for a moment longer, his hand hovering over the bars like he’s deliberating prodding an animal at the zoo. When you don’t respond, he straightens and beckons Glenn to follow him out. The kind woman gives you one last reassuring nod before retreating, her boots echoing down the corridor.

Alone again.

Despite your fatigue, you don’t move to the cot. It’s far too clean. Instead, you yank the sheets from it, piling them onto the floor in the furthest corner of the room. They bunch at your feet, turning the colour of rust as dried blood flakes from your skin. Quietly, you sink down into your new bed.

For once your mind is empty. Your eyes, unblinking, stare at the expanse of wall. It feels wrong in some way you can’t quite place. Instinctively, your fingers find the loose match in your pocket—the one you kept for emergencies. You strike it and watch the flame quiver for a brief moment before blowing it out.

With the blackened end, you draw a tally mark on the stone before you:

One.

There’s plenty of space on these walls.

A/N And that's chapter one! It's been years since I've written anything like this, but I have big things planned. My style has definitely changed (hopefully for the better) and this series will be heavier than my previous stuff... But that hopefully means better payoff. I'd love to hear your thoughts. In all honesty, I was a little nervous about sharing this. I don't know if anyone still reads my stories, or even cares, so some feedback would be appreciated :) See you in the next one x

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x you #twd fanfiction #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl x reader #daryl dixon x oc #twd #twd fanfic #daryl x you #daryl dixon twd #daryl fanfic #twd daryl #daryl dixon imagine #fanfiction #norman reedus #the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction

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not-neverland06 · 3 months ago

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𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚢

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

A/N: I've been working on this for a few weeks, debating if I should post it or not. I've been getting an influx of attention on my other Arthur work so I figure now's the best time to try my hand at another series. (Following the timeline of the game but is rarely canon-compliant with how certain events take place.)

Summary: Cold, alone, and abandoned by your poor excuse of a husband. You see lights coming down the path and know you can't stay in your desolate estate any longer. It doesn't matter how far you go, though, the O'Driscolls will always find you.

Fighting for your life after they're through with you, it's another outlaw that decides whether you see tomorrow morning or not.

You hunker further into your blankets and huddle as close as you can get to the fire. Your husband had said he would be back soon with more food and firewood, but that had been three days ago. The wolves had either gotten him or he’d finally decided to try his luck on his own. Neither end would surprise you, but you’d just wished he’d chosen to abandon you in spring instead.

The wind howls as it rages against the walls of your homestead. It hasn't always been such a bad life up here. This was once a beautiful, sprawling estate. Horses, cattle, and fauna roamed the grounds and your husband had an army of employees dedicated to his family home. Then, he started laying heavy into the liquor and all of a sudden your gorgeous home had wood rot slowly seeping into the skin of your marriage and poisoning you both.

Honestly, if the sorry bastard got his throat ripped out by a wolf, you’d call it divine justice- payback for all the scars you carry from him.

You hiss as the tips of your fingers tingle painfully. Any closer to the hearth and you’ll set yourself on fire. Still, you push your luck, as you always do. Your stomach is burning from the pangs of hunger, but you’ll take whatever warmth you can get at this point.

You haven’t seen a blizzard this bad in the years since you moved up to these cursed mountains. If this is truly the one that’s going to finally take you out, it better have gotten the man who dragged you here, as well.

You struggle to think of ways to fill your belly, to prolong your life for just a few more days. There’s no point in hunting. Any tracks you find will be buried by soft, white snow in seconds. And only a few employees remain on the grounds, Sadie and her husband. But they’ve got their own store of food. As hungry as you are, you won’t steal from them.

“-You see this?”

Your brows furrow in confusion as noises manage to seep through the thick walls of your home. It sounds like voices, men’s voices. There’s a gnawing feeling in your gut, beyond the familiarity of hunger. This is something else.

Forcing your aching bones up, you duck down and rush towards the window. Five men, all on horseback and each of them armed, ride up the grounds of your home. Their silhouettes are illuminated against the snowfall by the lanterns they hold.

They could very well be innocent travelers simply looking for an escape from the storm. But you know better than that. You didn’t make it this far in your life by naively trusting every man you meet. You’ve only made that mistake once, now he’s buried in the snow and you’re about to be killed by raiders.

You don’t see much of a way out of this. You’ve never been a good shot, certainly not good enough to take on five men on your own. For a moment you think of just making a run for it. Or even shooting yourself before they can get to you. Doing that would probably save you a lot of unnecessary pain. You doubt they’ve got much respect for the women they encounter.

Then, you remember the family sleeping peacefully on your property. Sadie and Jake deserve fair warning, you can’t just abandon them to the mercies of whoever these men might be. You push away from the window and grab your rifle from above the fireplace.

Your home isn’t as big as some of those fancier estates you’ve seen visiting the city. But it’s large enough for you to have a back way to crawl out of. You slip through the door quietly, immediately being shoved back into the wood from the force of the snow. You tug your shawl around your face, ignoring the bite of ice crystals nipping at your cheeks.

The snow is up to your knees as you trudge through it. You can see, on the other side of the house, the glow of lamplight steadily growing closer. As much as you try to rush, you can barely lift your feet. Your heart beats against your chest with panic as you squint across the way at Sadie’s home.

You see light coming from their windows and you know it’s only making the place a bigger target. Your toes are already going numb as sleet leaks into the tops. You tumble forward slightly, hands sinking past two feet of snow to a frozen ground beneath. “God dammit,” you mutter, tugging yourself up and practically throwing yourself forward.

This feels like you’re fighting a losing battle. Mother Nature herself seems to be telling you to just give up and turn your ass right back around. But you refuse, you’ve always been stubborn. You’re not abandoning people who entrusted themselves to you and your husband. If warning them is the last thing you do, then so be it.

After a few minutes and hearing your home get ransacked behind you, you finally manage to stumble onto their front stoop. Your teeth are rattling together so hard you can’t even hear yourself knock. You certainly don’t feel it, half your arm having lost feeling after your stumble in the snow.

Jake opens the door, hair mussed and face pinched like he’d just been dragged out of a deep sleep. Sadie ambles up behind him, tugging a scarf around her shoulders. Jake gasps out your name, tugging you inside quickly. “What are you doing running around out there? Mr. Rowe will kill me if I let his wife freeze on my watch.”

Sadie glares at him and directs you in front of the fire. “Ignore him,” she hisses. “But, what were you doing?” She sounds more suspicious than concerned. You rub your hands together, letting out heavy puffs of air as you try to get your jaw to unlock.

“M-men,” the word is a hassle to get out and you can tell from the look on their face they don’t have half a clue what you said. You curse under your breath and pinch at the fat of your cheeks, trying to bring some feeling back to them. “Raiders,” you finally manage to get out.

Jake’s teasing nature immediately drops. He takes the rifle off your shoulder and Sadie gives him an astonished look. “What the hell do you think you’re gonna do with that?”

“Get in the cellar,” he commands and you don’t think you’ve ever heard him tell her what to do. Not once since they’d joined your staff. Sadie opens her mouth to argue, scoffing at him. “Get in the goddamn cellar, Sadie, and don’t come out!” He shouts at her, running to the window and cussing when he sees whatever’s waiting outside.

You stand from the chair, taking Sadie’s hand in your shaking ones and leading her to the cellar. She fights you on it, digging her heels in and pleading with Jake. “Just hide out with us, you ain’t know how to use that damn rifle, Jake.”

He turns away from the window with a resigned smile. “Would you, for once in your damn life, just listen to me?” You release her, just long enough for him to embrace her in what you know will be their last touch. You don’t interrupt, just struggle with the latch on their cellar. Sadie comes up behind you, hands covering your own and helping you with it. She urges you inside first and you drop onto the damp ground, her following quickly after.

Jake stares down at you both, the light of the fire making him look bigger than life as he gives you a reassuring smile. “Won’t be long,” he promises. He leans down, closing the cellar door and plunging you both in such intense darkness you can no longer tell if your eyes are open or closed.

It’s cold under the house, the harsh weather seeping in through the ground. Sadie crawls away from you as you hear Jake push the rug over the cellar door, hiding you both away. There’s a slight click, like the sound of a match against a boot, and light blooms before you. Sadie holds an oil lamp, crawling back towards you and placing it between the both of you. You open your shawl silently and you both huddle under it, trying to keep each other warm.

It’s not long before you hear voices join Jake’s. The door slams open, boots rattle the floor above you and dust rains down on you both. You keep your face tucked to your chest, but Sadie’s eyes are glued to one spot. The same spot that you know, instinctually, is where Jake stands.

It isn’t long before the guns go off. Too many rounds for just one man. You hear the laughter and feel as Sadie sucks in a breath so deep you’re surprised her chest doesn’t cave. You tighten your arm around her and ignore the warmth that seeps through the cracks of the wood. Something red drips against your arm and you just drag Sadie closer.

You’re in there for most of the night, legs going numb as you and Sadie remain glued to each other. You probably could have survived the men were it not for them finding the whiskey. It only takes one drunken stumble and the rug is lifted off the cellar door. It takes one bullet to break the lock and suddenly the door’s being thrown up. Light burns at your eyes as a man leers down at you. “Well, ain’t this a nice surprise?”

“Even robbing a train doesn’t seem like a good reason for being out here. Not for O’Driscolls,” Dutch stares down at his boots, that look on his face that always spells trouble. Arthur glances back at the barn where the dead O’Driscoll boy lay.

Of course, up here in the middle of a blizzard surrounded by nothing but snow, they manage to stumble upon an O'Driscoll camp. “We should bring the women up here, it might be a good place for ‘em.” Arthur loads up what little supplies he managed to find on the horses and glances up towards the big house at the top of the hill.

No fires or noises come from it. He can’t imagine why the O’Driscolls would choose a run-down house to camp out in rather than that fancy estate.

Dutch shakes his head, “I’m not comfortable separating everyone.” Arthur opens his mouth to argue when a shrill scream rips through the quiet of the night.

“You stay away from us!” It’s a woman, screaming bloody murder as Micah cackles.

Dutch lets out a rough sigh, glaring up at the door and rushing towards it. “Micah!” He shouts his name, barreling through the door, “What have you done now?”

Arthur follows after him, nearly getting his face bashed in by a flying kitchen chair. He ducks out of the way as a blond woman circles the table, trying to keep away from Micah. “Look what I found in the cellar,” he taunts, lunging at her. She jumps back, kitchen knife pointed out as she hovers near a cellar door.

“Leave ‘er alone!” Arthur barks, peering around her legs and trying to get a look in the cellar. She notices him and jumps in front of it, glaring at him. She’d yelled ‘us,’ he wonders if she’s got a kid in there.

As always, Micah doesn’t listen. He lunges at her again and flips the table over, sending an oil lamp flying onto the rug. The glass shatters, fire spreading quickly over the old wood. Arthur curses, shoving at Micah’s shoulder and forcing him away from the terrified woman. Micah’s still laughing at the look on her face, even as Arthur forces him out of the house.

“It’s alright, Ma’am. I promise we’re not going to hurt you,” Dutch approaches her slowly, gently pushing the knife away and leading her towards the door. His eyes dart towards the quickly spreading fire, trying to get her out before the house comes down on them all.

“No, I can’t leave her,” she looks back at the cellar but Dutch keeps pushing forward. She’s growing smaller by the second, muttering to herself and struggling along weakly.

“Arthur,” Dutch snaps quickly, barely glancing over his shoulder at the cellar. He finally manages to push her out the door and Arthur moves quickly. He follows Dutch’s unspoken order, rushing over to the cellar and peering down. A woman lay curled up inside, a sickly sheen over her damp skin. The tips of her fingers are odd colors, from death or cold, he can’t tell. He drops down, dragging her closer and trying to listen for a breath.

With the wood creaking dangerously above him, he can’t waste time on her. He throws her over his shoulder with a grunt, crawling back out of the cellar and hoping there’s some life in her yet. “They came three days ago.” The woman tells them as Arthur walks out of the house. Her face slacks with relief when she sees her friend over Arthur’s shoulder. “They killed my husband.”

“It’s alright now, ma’am,” Dutch tells her. And Arthur doubts she believes a second of it. After her encounter with the O’Driscolls and then Micah, he doubts she thinks anyone will ever be safe again. Not as she watches her home burn down. Still, she doesn’t have much choice as Dutch helps her onto his horse.

“We’re bad men,” Arthur tells her bluntly, “but we ain’t them,” he mutters glaring at the O’Driscoll corpses littering the ground. The blood has already been covered by snow, bodies frosting over to become feasts for whatever starving predator lurks by the trees.

She watches as he loads her friend’s body on the back of his horse and shakes her head, “Don’t have much of a choice do I?”

Dutch shares a look with Arthur, diverting her attention from everything that’s happened. “What’s your name ma’am?”

“Adler, Mrs. Sadie Adler.” She glances at the other woman and whispers her name with a pained look. Arthur keeps one hand on the chilled body, trying to make sure they don’t lose it in the snow. He’s sure she’s just going to be another corpse to bury.

Every morning, Sadie sneaks into his room. She somehow manages to do it without him waking up, which is worrying enough. And every morning, he sees her standing over the woman lying by his fire.

To almost everyone’s surprise, you didn’t die when he brought you back to the camp. You were barely holding onto life, nearly in worse shape than Davey had been in. But still, you kept on breathing. Even if every inhale sounded like the rattle of death, you didn’t let go.

Sadie refuses to leave your side. Spending most of the day tending to you. It drives Miss Grimshaw insane because Arthur won’t let her bother Sadie into helping out around camp. Arthur’s a fool, but he’s not blind. He knows how uncomfortable all the men make Sadie. She was alone with her husband and you up in these mountains. Suddenly being surrounded by a camp full of the same type of men who killed her husband probably isn’t doing her any good.

Still, maybe he should try and force her around Abigail and Jack. She can’t keep hiding out in his room. Dutch doesn’t like carrying around dead weight. She’s going to need to start contributing around here, eventually.

He sits up in bed, running a hand over his ragged face and overgrown beard. Sadie’s already kneeling by the fire, taking a shawl from around her shoulders and putting it over you. You suck in another struggling breath and Arthur frowns.

“How’d she get like this?” Her shoulders tense at the sound of his voice. He’s been curious about it for a little while. It didn’t make sense how she could be in perfect health and you were barely holding onto life.

Sadie’s quiet for a moment, staring down at you before looking into the fire. “I mouthed off to one of them bastards. I don’t know what they were gonna do to me, shoot me or somethin’ worse, but she stopped ‘em.” Sadie chuckles slightly, getting to her feet and grabbing another shawl for herself.

“She grabbed a knife and nearly took one of their eyes out.” The proud look on her face drops as she stares down at her feet. There’s something like shame in her voice, “They took her outside and tossed me back in the cellar. I don’t know what happened but when they finally brought her back in she was barely breathing.”

“You know,” Arthur starts, unsure of where he's going with this as he rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not your-”

Sadie’s head snaps up and she glares at him, “It’s my fault. I don’t need you lyin’ to me to make me feel better. It’s not gonna do anyone any good.”

Arthur lets out a low breath and shakes his head. “Didn’t mean any harm. But you can’t blame yourself for stuff like that. She wanted to help ya, there’s nothing else to it.”

Sadie shoots him a glare but she doesn’t argue further with him. He knows she wants to, but he can also see the exhaustion weighing heavily upon her shoulder. The guilt’s eating away at her. Maybe letting her stay cooped up in this small room with you all day had been a mistake.

“Alright,” he gets to his feet, grabbing his hat from the table by the door and nodding her forward. “I need you out of here today,” she opens her mouth to protest but he holds up a hand and stops her. “Got business to discuss with Dutch, you can’t be here.”

He opens the door and waves her forward, “Come on, out with ya.” She huffs, loudly stomping past him and muttering something wicked under her breath. Arthur follows slowly behind her, chuckling slightly to himself. He throws you one last look before letting the door close.

The world is slow to shift into place as your limbs slowly tingle back to life. Your eyes are crusted with a week’s worth of sleep as you try and pry them open. A low whine of pain brews in your throat, but your tongue is heavy with weakness.

You remember nothing past those men opening the cellar door and you’re sure you’re better for it. Bit by bit, you test which parts of yourself are still alive. You flex your stiff fingers and toes, roll your ankles, and let your neck flop around.

You seem to have all your faculties in order, but the second you try and sit up, sharp pains shoot through your spine and legs. It's as though someone is dragging razor blades through every layer of skin and muscle.

An animalistic sound of pain rips out of your chest as you flip back down onto the hard ground. Whatever waning energy you’d tried to conjure has been beaten out of you.

There’s a creak of old wood behind you and the familiar sound of men’s boots. Your slow stutter of a heartbeat kicks into the pattering melody of hummingbird wings. Your blood rushes painfully through your skin as you pathetically crane your neck.

Try as you might, you can’t get a glimpse behind you. You’re so close to a fireplace that the cinders and heat burn out your eyes.

In the amount of time you’ve spent trying to collect yourself, you haven’t even considered that those men could still be around. It doesn’t make sense, though, this place doesn’t look like Sadie’s home. You suppose that they could have moved you both, but you don’t understand why they would want you so badly.

While you theorize, the man has only gotten closer. You can make out his pants from the corner of your eye as he rounds the corner. Every part of you wants to jump up and run. But even breathing is an aching chore. What chance do you have fighting a man twice your size off?

“Damn, you’re awake.” The man sounds awed. He doesn’t carry the cadence of someone who's only been waiting to hurt you. He kneels beside you and tries, as much as he can, to gently help you up.

Your teeth grit together and the thought of danger is long gone from your mind as screaming pain shoots through you. Everywhere he touches is like fire licking at your skin. There’s a worrying coldness buried deep in your veins waking up at the pain.

You can’t help the pathetic noises that slip from your mouth as he eases you up. “Alright, come on, you’re okay now. ‘M not gonna hurt you.” It’s easy enough to believe him when you’re completely at his mercy. It’s not like you have any other choice but to trust him and hope for the best.

Through watering eyes, you’ve got a good look at him now. He’s got sweet blue eyes with little bits of emerald swimming through them. The rest of him is scraggly. His beard is unkept, his face is dirtied, and his clothes smell too heavily of gunpowder. But if you just keep looking at those pretty eyes of his, you have no trouble believing him.

You nod your head as much as you can and open your mouth to ask him something. What- you can’t remember. Your tongue is so parched and throat so cracked that nothing more than a wheeze comes out.

“Hold on,” he mutters under his breath and leans over to the right a little. He takes you with him, contorting your body painfully as he grabs a small cup of water off an overturned bucket. There’s also a rag beside it and a few other things that look like they were used to care for you.

He straightens you again and nudges your head back with the tip of his finger. You don’t have much warning before he places the cup to your lips and simply pours. It rushes down your throat in an overwhelming wave of half relief and half fear of drowning in this man’s lap. You swallow it down as quickly as you can, the aches and pains slowly ebbing away. Your tongue just about twitches back to life as he removes the cup and you flex your jaw.

“You nearly killed me,” you accuse, voice still weak and cracking.

He gives you a disbelieving look before laughing, jostling you slightly with the movements. “Really? That’s the first thing you say when you wake up. You’ve been in a coma on my floor for a week, and all the times I wondered what you would sound like when you woke up, I’ve been expecting ‘thank you.’”

You have just enough energy to narrow your eyes at him, throat still recovering from the onslaught of water. “Thank you,” you say slowly, still working out the kinks in your voice, “for nearly drowning me.” The slightly smug look drops for one of bewildered amusement. You’ve barely been awake for ten minutes and you’re already pushing your luck with someone who looks like a feral mountain man.

“Oh, you’re just full of surprises, ain’t ya?” You can’t do much more than nod, already feeling the pull of sleep calling you back. He shakes you gently, hand slipping down your back slightly. It’s enough to make you jolt forward, skin stinging like he’s just whipped you. “What was that?” He demands, voice rough with something akin to worry.

You can’t imagine why this stranger would be concerned for you. Why does he even care enough about you to help keep you alive?

“Back,” you croak out, shivers racking through from the pain.

He skates his fingers over the thin cloth of your night shift, careful not to put too much pressure on your skin. There’s the quiet click of a blade unsheathing that has you tensing up before cool metal is placed against the back of your neck.

“Hold still for a minute,” he warns and you can’t tell if you hear a threat lying in wait. Like butter, your tattered shift parts readily around his blade. The cold brisk air from outside combined with the warmth of the fire makes the skin of your back pinch painfully. You bite your tongue, suppressing a wince and trying not to whine.

His silence speaks louder than his gruff words. Whatever he sees must be disturbing. He runs a finger over your shoulder blade and whistles lowly. “I see why we couldn’t get you better now.” His tone is clipped, disgust laying thickly on the edge of his words.

“What is it?” You try and feel worried for yourself but it’s taking all of your efforts just to stay awake. Your words slur together slightly as your tongue laves lazily over your teeth. Your head teeters forward slightly and he just barely manages to catch you before you tip over.

“Just hold on here for a minute, alright?” He crouches before you, tipping your head up and waiting for confirmation before he leaves. Your eyes remain closed while you nod your head. He hesitates for a moment before standing and walking towards the door. “Don’t,” he snaps, “fall asleep again.”

You don’t have enough energy for a response as he slips back out the door. The second he’s gone you let yourself crumple to the floor. Huddled under the blankets and stuck next to a small fire, you can almost lie and say the dusty hardwood is comfortable. Your eyes remain shut, but try as you might, you can’t fall asleep. Every time you think you might be lulled a little closer to the abyss, a sharp jolt of pain forces you back awake.

You’re nearly convulsing by the time he comes back. The door blows open, and the wind gusts through, carrying with it snow and the smell of camp food. You hear the noises of people outside and wonder just where you’ve found yourself.

“Oh, Mrs. Rowe!” Sadie’s voice nearly cripples you with relief. You feel warmth build in your throat, something burns at the back of your eyes as she rushes towards you. You don’t remember how you got here. You certainly didn’t remember whether or not Sadie even made it out with you. Seeing her kneeling before you is beyond comforting.

Not only is she alive and safe, she’s obviously been fed well. Her cheeks have the rosy glow of staying next to a fire for too long, and the clothes she’s wearing are clearly donated but well taken care of. If nothing else, at least you might have managed to prolong her survival a little longer. You’re not sure you can say the same for yourself.

Still, despite all the pain and the grief and fear you’ve both gone through, you correct her on your name. You chide her playfully, telling her to call you by your first name. “I’m not Mrs. Rowe any longer,” you laugh bitterly, wincing when it pulls the skin of your back taut. She clicks her tongue at you, taking both of your hands in hers and pulling you up straight.

You can feel the man hovering awkwardly behind you both, not quite sure how to help, or if he should. “Bastard went and left us all,” you gripe. You keep talking, cursing out your hopefully dead husband. You blabber to try and distract you from the way you can feel something festering under your skin.

Venomous pain crawls through your veins and rips at your strength. You lean heavily on Sadie to keep yourself upright. The cut-open back of your night shift slips open and Sadie catches your sleeve before it can fall. Her head shoots up, a hateful glare shooting straight toward the man.

He throws his hands up, “Now, Mrs. Adler-”

“You thought you could just have some fun with her, huh? Oh, you son of a bitch!” You can feel how desperately she wants to leap up and have a go at him. She’s practically trembling with anger. You squeeze her hands with as much strength as you can muster, trying to keep her grounded with you.

He scrambles to explain, taking a step towards you both and immediately retreating when Sadie curses at him again. “Now, that ain’t what happened-”

She cuts him off again and he huffs with exasperation. “You think I’ll believe anything you outlaws say? I should have known you were no better than the bastards that stole my husband from me.”

“Sadie,” you croak, “let the man speak, dammit.” She shoots you an affronted look, like she might try and yell at you next. The sickly sheen over your skin and your overall pathetic countenance are the only things that stop her.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he mutters, walking over to you both slowly. He approaches Sadie like one would a wild cat, trying to keep her temper from flaring up again. The only reason she and her husband ever managed to stay so long in your employ was because you always vouched for her. One day soon, though, that temper is going to get her into some serious trouble.

“I think they did something to ‘er.” He starts speaking in hushed whispers, talking about you as if Sadie isn’t holding you between them. Your eyes start to flutter as you listen to their quiet conversation, words fading in and out as you grapple with keeping a hold of your consciousness.

“Jesus Christ,” Sadie hisses, peering over your shoulder at something you’re probably going to be grateful not to see. “They whip her?”

“I think so. And it don’t look right, all green around the edges.” He pokes a rough finger against the center of your back and you cry out, jerking away from the touch. Sadie swats sharply at his hand and he glares at her.

“Don’t touch it you fool! We need medicine for her. It’s infected.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed Mrs. Adler but we’re currently stuck in the middle of a blizzard,” he deadpans. He motions towards the window of the small shack and the wind that whistles loudly behind it. The snow does its best to try and seep in. It pools in one corner of the room, melting into the floorboards below. You can’t feel the chill of it being so close to the fire, though. Or perhaps that’s a fever keeping you warm. You can’t feel much of anything, actually.

Sadie eases you off of her and he helps lay you on your side. They get to their feet, sneaking away from you as if you didn’t just hear them talking about you like you’re lying on death’s door. “We need something,” Sadie hisses, but you can barely hear it above the rushing in your ears.

Arthur mutters something back to her but you’re already falling back into the peaceful embrace of sleep. Body going limp as you try and escape the pain.

“Goddammit!”

“Quit whining, I’m almost done.” Charles has a gentle enough hand as he puts a salve over your back, but it still hurts worse than a lick of fire. It’s been a few days since you woke up in Arthur’s room. You were more cognisant the next day, more aware of the fact that if you went another moment without treating the wounds on your back, you’d most likely die.

You’re lucky you’ve made it this long without anything. You suppose you’re just stubborn enough to not let those bastards kill you from an infection. God, that would be an embarrassing way to go. It’s how your husband’s father died and clearly, that had been the worst thing to happen to the family in generations. It left your husband in charge to destroy their reputation and their livelihood.

You grit your teeth together as Charles’ calloused hand roves over the open wounds. They’re starting to feel a little better. They burn less now, more just ache when you extend your arms too far or cough too hard. You figure Charles has probably saved your life with this herbal concoction of his. Him and Hosea. It had been Hosea’s suggestion of using herbs for treatment that prompted Charles to go hunting for them.

You never imagined owing your life to a bunch of outlaws but you suppose that no one knows what direction fate is planning on taking them. “You’re not a real sweet nurse, you know that?” You grouse, talking to distract yourself from the discomfort.

Charles sighs behind you but you swear that it’s almost a laugh. “You complain a lot for someone who owes me their life.” You know he’s only teasing you. As shocking as that is. You didn’t think the man had a funny bone in his body when you first met him. Lo and behold he’s got just as much bite as you do. Still, you do feel a little guilty for giving him so much grief.

He starts wrapping the bandages around your chest. You help him around the front, being mindful of the still-present burn on his hand. “Thank you,” you whisper as he ties it off. You can’t bring yourself to say it much louder, still not used to being in someone’s debt like this.

Hell, you’re getting used to a whole lot of new things. You’d never dressed a deer before either but you didn’t have much choice but pull your weight here. You’re pretty sure Mrs. Grimshaw would skin you if you just lazed about like a prissy lady.

Charles pauses, he’s quiet for a moment before backing off and turning around so you can put your shirt back on. You expect him not to respond, to just slip out quietly. He doesn’t seem the type to indulge too much in a woman’s emotions. “I’m glad you’re better,” he tells you. You don’t get a chance to respond before the door closes again.

Sighing, you grab your jacket from the bed and tug it on. Your movements are still stilted, your body still stiff from spending so long in the cold. You now struggle to get your fingers to curl the right way. But you’re alive, and that’s got to count for something.

You slip outside, prepared for the biting cold, and still surprised as your boots sink into the muddy snow. You owe the women for collecting some clothes for you, even altering them so they might fit better. They don’t have the time as they tend to the camp, but they still help. For a group full of murderers and gunslingers, they’re possibly some of the nicest people you’ve ever met.

“Howdy, Mrs. Rowe, lookin’ might fine this morning.”

Besides, of course, Micah. He leers at you, licking his maw and tugging at his belt. You roll your eyes, ignoring him and trudging past. You hear him laugh behind you and wish you could kick his teeth in. Always gotta be one bad apple, doesn’t there?

Arthur isn’t too far ahead of you, loading something up on his horse. You speed up a little, hoping to catch him before he leaves. “Arthur!” You call out, his head shoots towards you and you wave a little. He gives you a small smile, leaning against the hitching post as you approach.

He tips his hat towards you, “How are you this morning, Mrs. Rowe?”

You let out an annoyed huff but there’s a slight smile playing on your lips. “How many times do I need to tell you to stop calling me that?”

He chuckles, turning back towards his horse and adjusting the saddle. “Apologies,” he acquiesces, but the tone of his voice tells you he knows exactly how much it irritates you. His gaze drifts to someone behind you and the amusement dips from his tone. “Charles help you out this mornin'?’”

He always approaches the subject with more grace than you would have thought him capable of. He must know how odd it is for you to have a man see you nearly half-naked every morning. You were raised as a proper lady, groomed to be a perfect, virtuous wife. It’s a shock to see how brazen some of the women here are. Not necessarily a bad thing, you can appreciate the freedom it provides.

You no longer feel the suffocating need to think over every word that leaves your lips. You’re not constantly walking around eggshells and fighting to be heard. But being bare before someone other than your husband has been difficult to stomach, even if it is Charles. Arthur seems to realize how hard it must be for you. Which is odd, you didn’t think someone like him would know much about proper women. You wonder if he’s ever had a woman of his own.

“Yes, he says it’s looking better. I shouldn’t be at risk of dropping dead now, at least,” you laugh, but there was true fear you might not wake up. You know some of the members in camp argued to just toss you to the cold, let the wolves feed on you. They didn’t think you were worth sparing the supplies for.

“That’s good ain’t it?”

“I suppose so. But, well,” you wonder if you should even be having this conversation. Maybe bringing up this worry will just put an idea in his head he hadn’t had before.

“Well,” he prompts, not impatiently.

“What am I supposed to do?” You ask, hands dropping to your sides with a heavy sigh.

“Whaddya mean?” His brows furrow in confusion and you curse yourself mentally. You’ve probably just royally screwed yourself.

“Well, when I’m healed. When I’m not relying on you or Charles everyday. Where am I meant to go? My husband's dead and my house has been ransacked completely. I’ve got nothing to my name.” Voicing aloud the fears you’ve been carrying for the past few days is like a weight off your shoulders. You’ve been fretting about this forever, losing sleep over it. As much as you fear his answer, at least you finally said it.

Arthur’s lips quirk up and you huff. There is nothing funny about what you just said. In fact, it’s incredibly worrying. Still, that doesn’t stop him from cracking up, laughing at your expense like you’re some foolish girl. “Arthur Morgan,” you chide, swatting weakly at his arm, “I’m being serious.”

“I know,” he sighs with a smile and you can’t help but return it. “We ain’t gonna throw you to the curb, Mrs-” he cuts himself off when you glare at him. Instead, he says your name with a comforting tone and reaches out, placing a heavy hand on your shoulder. “If you’re okay with it, you can travel with us or we can drop you off in whatever town we stay at.”

Your heart skips a few beats, hope filling your stomach with warmth. “Really?”

“‘Course, what'd ya think we were just gonna leave you up here in the snow?”

“Well, I know Micah wanted to,” his face falls at the mention of the man.

His brows furrow and his jaw sets with something akin to anger. He does that every time you mention the man. He just seems to put Arthur in a foul mood. “I ain’t Micah and I ain’t in the business of just abandoning pretty ladies up in the mountains.”

Perhaps you’re a fool, but about the only thing you caught from that was him calling you a pretty lady. Before you can continue your conversation, someone rides up behind you both. “Mrs. Rowe, Mr. Morgan,” Dutch greets you with a gravelly call of your name and a suave smile. You roll your eyes at the mention of your husband's name but bow your head in greeting nonetheless. “Excuse me ma’am, but I need Arthur this morning.”

“Oh,” you flush, not realizing just how much of his time you’ve stolen with your silly worries. “Of course, sorry.” You give Arthur one last smile, watching as he mounts his horse and backing up so his leg doesn’t swing out at you. “Where are you going, anyway?” You ask, peering behind them both to see other men in camp riding up behind them.

“Why,” Dutch grins, “we’re off to rob a train.” He kicks off and you’re left standing in the snow with a gaping jaw. Arthur gives you one last look before he rides behind him, the others quickly following.

So, this is the life of an outlaw.

Next Part

#Arthur Morgan x reader #Arthur morgan x you #Arthur Morgan #Arthur Morgan imagine #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 x you #rdr2 #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 x reader #Hell Hath No Fury

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occamstfs · 1 year ago

Text

Tenor Troubles

Masculinization spurred by a going from a Tenor to a Bass, bit of an odd one but hope you enjoy! -Occam

Max probably should have read his contract more closely. He knew that grad students across the board were getting shafted, but the agreement he has with the College of Fine Arts was some next level exploitation. He prided himself on his voice, being able to sing higher than even most of the Altos he has previously studied alongside. But his degree plan on the already signed contract suggests he is going to be enrolled as a Bass in the graduate program. Clearly there has been some misunderstanding that he’ll just need to work out with the department.

He knocks on the door of his advising professor and without waiting for a come in he bursts through the doors to see the man who is both his boss and professor staring at him less than pleased. Max’s face reddens in embarrassment and before he can even open his mouth to speak, Dr. Reyes addresses him.

“Maxwell is it. I trust you have a reason for barging into my office? I ask that you take more care towards decorum in the future.”

Max stumbles through an apology before getting to the matter at hand. “Y- yes of course I’m so sorry doctor it won't happen again, I swear.” He raises his eyes to his professor’s stern gaze, flinching back slightly as he goes on, “it’s just that, um, it looks like there was some kind of mix-up with my enrollment, I mean clearly you can tell I’m a Tenor right?” He raises his tone slightly and smiles awkwardly as he tries to make it clear to the man across from him that he certainly does not have the range.

Dr. Reyes rubs his beard, briefly covering his own mouth and wiping a smile from his face. “Well now Maxwell, there does seem to be a mismatch between your vocal training, and your preferred classes and yada yada,” waving his hands dismissively as Max’s face stains a deeper shade of scarlet by the second. Reyes goes on, “I'll see what I can do but all these changes take time If you must change your plan it’ll be at least a week. Until then if you could see to it that you fulfill the TA demands asked of you and attend your classes hm? You are under contract are you not?” The image of his signature at the bottom of contract feels burned into his retinas as he starts to reply, “well yes but-” An alarm goes off on the professor’s desk. “Very well Maxwell, if you would excuse me.”

Dr. Reyes makes his way to the next class smiling as he too thinks of the fine print of Maxwell's contract. ‘The student will become what the program asks of him.’ What a dunce one must be to sign that without an inquiry. Giving one last glance behind him to see the small student shaking with rage at the series of events, veins appearing to bulge out of his neck as he thinks about chasing after his professor, almost taking a step before grasping at his head. Max doubles over and grunts, after a painful second he rises once more and sees his advising professor enter a classroom. He exhales through his nose and walks to the concert hall with the undergraduate Bass students, the course he is, both legally and otherwise, compelled to assist with.

The Next Week

Max is inches away from just dropping out. He was well-prepared to be constantly stressed from grad school but the wrench of working with students who don’t respect him and professors that are expecting him to sing alongside the rest of these professional bassists, it’s impossible! Dr. Reyes must be doing some sick joke on him, there is no reason it should be so difficult to fix this! He shouldn’t be graded for the university’s mistake. Beyond the looming threat of flunking these courses for his inaptitude he is also constantly hungry. His stomach rumbles and sends pangs through his body as he sits through each course on vocal instruction. He succumbs to stress-eating assuming one plate must fall and it may as well be his waistline.

Every time he indulges in his hunger he finds weight almost immediately piles on. Alongside his meticulously honed falsetto he has always enjoyed just how tight and small he kept his twinkish figure, though this begins to slip as he finds himself straining his tight pants and his stomach showing through his button ups.

The final issue lies precisely in his private vocal practice, in lieu of the training his program should guarantee. As he goes about practicing the arias and vocalizations that he typically uses as warmups he finds himself struggling to hit the highest notes. He works his way through them slowly and slips up, finding his range is peaking out much lower than it ever should. He grimaces and refuses to deign and see if his range has increased in the other direction. He goes note by note, taking his time to feel the stress and vibrations of his vocal chords. Reaching the pinnacle of the piece he strains to hit the high note and his voice promptly cracks. He feels a tear. He coughs and gasps for air concerned that he has truly injured himself.

When no blood or further pain reveals itself Max finally clears his throat and drinks a glass of water. He tests his voice, “Uhhhh-” forcing his hand over his mouth before even getting a full syllable out. Eyes watering as he hears his voice is unmistakably deeper than it was not a minute ago. This spurs him to action as he storms to the college and bangs on the door of Dr. Reyes.

For his part Reyes is sitting at the desk finishing an email and grinning as he hears the banging grow only more fervent at his door. He finishes his email almost laughing at how effective he is at controlling the man at the door. Knock as he may he could not storm in if he wanted to, as he must desperately. Closing his laptop and reaching to grab a tea bag from within his desk he calls to allow Max entry, “Do come in Maxwell.”

Stomping into the room, unaccustomed to the new weight he carries, which Dr. Reyes is all too pleased to notice. He takes a deep breath as he prepares to shout at the professor, his chest growing as his already prodigious lungs expand. Before finishing though Reyes raises a finger and strikes him passive and mute. “Now Max, why don’t you have a seat.” He clenches his hands with a furor and sits, stewing in his mind while also rapt with attention. “How have you been liking your classes?” Max continues to sit silently watching as the prepare a pot of tea, beginning to forget his ire as he looks on in confusion at the man. Reyes turns once more and rolls his eyes, “Well go on.”

Shaking out of it Max finally starts clearing his throat a few times hoping the voice he has worked so hard to protect and train will return “I, ugh- Sorry it’s ugh!” Dr. Reyes leans against his desk and steeps the tea bag, eyebrows raised with a thin smile on his face. Failing to speak as he so wishes the rage returns to Max and he shouts out, “It’s my fucking voice! I came here to learn and all these classes are just a waste of my fucking time!”

Reyes pours the tea into a large mug and sets it in front of his student, “Now now, if you were having voice problems why didn’t you just say so Max. I am a professional after all! Have some of this and I’m sure it will set you right as rain.” The professor watches as Max grasps the mug and stares into it. He remembers that Reyes was already preparing it when he came in. But it’s not as if his advisor would do something truly untoward right? Sensing the hesitation Dr. Reyes’ eyes darken and he commands, “I did say to drink it did I not.”

Max quickly raises the glass and sips. His eyes remain dark and he continues, “what seems to be the problem with your voice young Maxwell?” Taking a break from drinking he starts to explain all of his troubles to the man who should be looking out for him. Gesturing to his clearly larger body, Reyes notices beyond the weight gain that the sitting man is adjusting himself as his pants begin to grow even tighter, his ankles growing exposed as if his legs were lengthening.

He continues to stumble onward with his recollection, forgetting what exactly bothered him enough to storm in. Reyes half-listens and takes care to refill the tea cup as needed, taking in the physical changes to the man rambling and wondering just how far they will be able to go. Eventually Reyes speaks up, “you were having trouble with your voice, yes Maxwell?”

Max’s eyes glimmer with recognition and he almost jumps with a start, “Yes! That was it I couldn’t sing the part I auditioned with in Nessun Dorma and I was-” His professor interrupts as he takes a big swing at Max’s psyche, “Is that so? What were you doing singing that Maxwell, that’s for tenors.” As if a grenade went off in his mind Max struggles to reconcile and remember what his problem was, did he not audition as a Tenor? But he couldn’t sing high to save his life right? Or no.

Reyes watches as Max’s brow grows sweaty in his inner struggle. He physically raises the cup to Max’s mouth helping him finish the entire pot of tea. Confident that the man before him is far enough gone to only latch on his words, Reyes offers him a bone, “which side of your range are you struggling with boy.” Feeling emasculated by the professor infantilizing him he feels an urge to test his lower range. Reyes sees the resolve in Max’s eyes and challenges him, “Go on, sing your lowest note, now.” Max takes a deep breath and produces a sonorous note sustaining it far better than he would have ever expected himself to.

Reyes smiles and shoots to plant another seed, “Well now Maxwell, I’m not quite sure what the problem is then. Your range seems to be what any trained Baritone’s should be.” The word Baritone echoes through Max’s head as he once more grows paralyzed in his own mind. He ekes out a “B- Baritone?” his voice cracking even deeper as he freezes. Reyes watches as his eyebrows knit together in confusion, they seem to grow thicker as they near each other.

Vocal range and masculinity don’t inherently match one-to-one but the professor is more than happy to allow it, staring as the weight from Max’s stomach begins to slightly redistribute itself, it slides up his chest, straining the buttons near his collar. Reyes shifts to look at Max’s face, eyes lingering on the Adam's apple making itself unmissable on his neck. He sees peach fuzz growing on Max’s upper lip and sideburns. Thoroughly pleased with the acceleration he has achieved today an alarm once more goes off on his phone and he readies to send his protege off.

“Maxwell dear, I thank you for your patience. Of course I know that you’d prefer to be with the other Baritone student’s though I am sure you are learning valuable information working outside your comfort zone hm? I’m sure we’ll have this snafu fixed by next week.” Max just stares in a stupor as he stares at his professor, the empty mug of tea still in his hand before he sets it down to scratch at his tighter shirt. Dr. Reyes offers him a kerchief to wipe the drool from his mouth as he leads him out of his office, “Why don’t you try your warm ups, I’m sure they’ll set you right as rain.”

Just as he did last time he takes one last look at his growing student as he begins to wander down the hall, his pants swiftly turning from slacks to tight capris. He hears the echo of the man humming to himself as he walks down the hallway to his own office hours. He’ll need to be ready for whatever his Bass performance students need right? Can’t have them out showing him even if he’s still working outside his comfort zone. Just one more week of this and he’ll get to show off to the Baritones, once more with his choral cohort.

The Next Week

Dr. Reyes stays abreast of how his star pupil is doing this week. He visits during private lessons and checks into lectures on music theory and rehearsals. He hears the man force his voice to be stronger. After any challenge he hears the man force himself to be louder. When struggling with curriculum, surely impeded by the doctor’s manipulation, he clutches at his head as his body surges larger, tightening clothes that were already sizes too large when he started his education here.

He sees Max looking at his reflection in the mirror of a practice room. He checks his beard from every angle, tilting his head up to see his large Adam's apple and smirks watching it vibrate as he hums. He unbuttons yet another button of his shirt, allowing an even greater view of his pecs as thick chest hair spills outward. Reyes hears his voice power through the soundproofed room as he approaches. He has clearly decided to leave Baritone behind without any prodding as he endeavors to show off his talents despite ostensibly singing to himself.

Dr. Reyes knocks on the door of the practice room and like an eager dog Max falls over himself to answer it. He now stands taller than his professor whose head now lies directly at the hairy pecs spilling from his opened shirt. Max’s eyes glimmer as he looks down to the smug face of the professor. He quickly sits down to lower himself below the doctor and eagerly awaits whatever is soon to spill from Reyes’ mouth.

“I must say Maxwell, you have truly outdone yourself. Truly you hold one of the most powerful Bass voices I have heard in my time.” Max sits quietly, his heart racing with excitement from such kind words. He struggles to stay silent, lest he speak out of turn, though he cannot hide the rumble in his chest as his deep breaths accelerate. The doctor struggles to keep it together as he sees a pulse in the unmistakable, currently growing, bulge in Max’s pants. He briefly wonders if he’s gone too far, before looking back to the man’s face, seeing his eyes still staring directly into him waiting.

Perhaps he can go farther. “Is it not a shame though, my dear Max, that you’re not a true Basso Profundo?” There is a loud tear in the room as Max’s body surges larger. He shoots up inches more in height revealing a hairy stomach and pubes that already spill beyond the bounds of his pants. Reyes hears a catch in his student’s breath and watches as his Adam's apple bulge even further from his throat. His cock bursts the zipper of his pants and Max moans loud and deep enough for the professor to feel it in his chest. Reyes can’t take his eyes from the hair covering his chest grows even darker, curling as each strand grows thicker.

Before losing control of himself and his desires Dr. Reyes forces one last statement through Max’s mind, “You know the department has always wanted a basso profundo coach. How would you feel about being an assistant professor, Max?” In response Max can only sit in awe as a look of what can only be described as pleasure stains his face, mouth lolling open as his eyes grow crossed. His hands clench the sides of his chair as he struggles to not lose control over himself and the professor. Thinking of staining the practice room only makes it more difficult to keep it together.

Reyes feels a hunger within himself as he stares down at the massive man seconds away from cumming all over himself. In time he too will only know Max as the powerful man he is now. At this juncture however the doctor sneaks out of the practice room and heads to return to his office to prepare for office hours, what kind of a professor would he be if he wasn’t there for his pupils after all.

Walking down the hallway he hears the man in the practice room lose control, his voice echoing down the hall before hearing him run out and to the nearest bathroom. He prioritizes increasing the soundproofing of the practice rooms before turning to see the new Assistant Professor sprint down the hallway towards the nearest restroom. Struggling to move swiftly or quietly in his far-too-strained clothing. Reyes returns to the desk and smiles once more to himself as he thinks of a future for himself, his program, and his new star Basso Profundo, before hearing yet another knock at the door.

“Do come in.”

#male tf #masculinization #mental change #muscle tf #hair growth #male transformation

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spatialwave · 11 months ago

Text

“𝓱𝓪𝓽𝓮’𝓼 𝓪 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭”

pairing: the ghoul x fem!reader word count: 1.8k words summary: you’re not sure how, but you, a vault dweller, managed to sneak your way into the ghoul’s heart. warnings: implied sa notes: just a little/poorly paced ficlet LOL, testing the waters of writing for cooper. kind of fluffy, the start of maybe a little ficlet series?? also taking request for ghoulcy or ghoul x readers! 🖤

-> next part!

being a so-called ‘vaultie’ had put you in quite the predicament while on your journey through the wastelands. unbeknownst to you, a bounty had been placed on your delicate head — a large bag of caps that would be sure to provide a ghoul with adequate supplies to keep from going feral.

you, on the other hand, were severely unprepared for what the surface would bring. several nights alone, your supplies depleting. hell, you hadn’t even known that bounties were a thing, or that you’d be needing to purchase your next meal with a handful of bottle caps.

if it weren’t for cooper finding you, you’d likely have died out in the wastes with the radiation eating you away until you were nothing but a pile of bones. still, you weren’t fond of the treatment he’d greeted you with.

when you first saw the shadowy figure, your naivety had you hopeful. you stepped closer and even spoke a soft, “hello?” before a lasso had been thrown in your direction and wrapping snug around your neck.

“were’t you taught that you shouldn’t trust strangers in the dark?” the voice of a southern man spoke, thick like syrup. sounding like the man in the movies you had watched with your dad back in the vault.

knowing what you did now, you wished that you hadn’t put so much trust in him, though, you had no idea a ghoul would be making himself known.

the first day was brutal, being dragged along like a dog with blisters forming on your feet and your lips cracking and bleeding from dehydration. you had tried to plead your case to him, explaining how you needed to find your father, but he hadn’t shown an ounce of remorse.

by the fourth day? well, for your own sake you wouldn’t say it aloud, but you were near certain that you had grown on the ghoul. he removed the rope that left reddened marks on your skin and even gave you the chance to clean yourself up in a bucket of rain water. even gave some jerky he’d dried out from some critters he killed—allowing you to indulge in food without resorting to cannibalism like he had.

you didn’t want to push your luck with him, but you wondered why he’d grown soft on you.

the man was far from soft or vulnerable, unafraid to push you around or tighten the rope when you spoke out of turn. so, when you had a moment of reprieve after cleaning yourself up, your hair damp and clinging to the side of your face, you forced yourself to ask the question on your mind.

“why’d you remove the rope?” you asked, sitting around a fire on the third night—having never felt safer than with him. your knees were pressed to your chest and you fought away the hunger pangs as your eyes drifted to the ghoul sitting propped against a tree, eyes unseen under his hat.

you were greeted with the sound of a soft grunt as he shifted in his spot, and you could tell that he was thinking of an answer. something he could say that wouldn’t translate to ‘i’m growing tired of treating you like a piece of meat’.

“i don’t needa’ reason,” the ghoul muttered, lifting a hand up to his hat and adjusting it so it covered more of his face, “but that pricey bounty on that pretty head of yours is higher if i make sure you’re alive and well. not my preference, but can’t argue with money.”

the compliment struck a chord in you, one that rose colour to your cheeks and had you turning your head away to look at the small fire. pursing your lips, you weren’t satisfied with the answer.

“i could run away, though. without the rope around my neck,” you piped up, brows furrowing.

a heavy and loud sigh came from the hole in cooper’s face, your eyes lifting to him as you watched him a lift a hand. that hand pushed back the hat on his head so those piercing eyes could meet with your own doe-eyed stare. a smirk grew on his lips and you felt your stomach twist nervously.

“how far do you think you’d get if you tried to run, vaultie?” the ghoul questioned you with that sickening look on his face, “the bounty prefers you alive, but don’t think i won’t hesitate to put a bullet in your head if you try to stir up some trouble for me.”

when day seven had rolled around, you found yourself in a predicament that only confused the everlasting fuck out of you. cooper had finally brought you to the man who had some caps for your head—a man who you didn’t even know, but claimed to know your father.

your heart shattered when you were thrown into a cage, bruises already forming on your skin when you had made contact with the shoddy brick wall. eyes fixated on the ghoul who was busy shoving caps into his pockets and taking precious vials from the box that had been offered to him.

what a fool you were to think that the ghoul would change his mind, that maybe he’d have an ounce of empathy in his irradiated body. you were no more valuable than what kept him alive… you couldn’t blame him for that.

“well, well,” the man spoke, his body covered in dirt and grime, teeth so decayed you could smell his breath even as he stood over you after entering the makeshift cell, “don’t try squirm on me now, we’re going to get ya’ all tied up… then i’ll have some fun with you.”

your lips quaked in fear, the first time you truly felt fear in days. cooper, the ghoul, had become your safety net and yet he tossed you away like you were nothing. into the hands of a pig, no less.

“don’t touch me,” you yelled at him, hearing the sounds of footsteps retreating.

you were alone.

“quit making a fuss,” the man spit at you, “the quieter you are, the less this will hurt.”

the sound of a distant gunshot had caused the man to pull away from you, and for you to perk up in your position on the ground. you hadn’t realized your entire body was shaking and you assumed the worst—someone was about to come in here and kill you.

why the hell did you ever think coming to the surface was a good idea?

you quickly sink back against the wall as you hear commotion, men yelling and more gunshots. it was a shootout.

“what the fuck is going on?” the man in front of you yelled, but no one answered. he spun on his feet and bent down in front of you, a heavy hand grabbing tight at your wrist, “get up, we’re leaving.”

“wha—“

you words were cut off when footsteps entered the room once more, the man quickly standing and dropping you back to the floor hastily where the back of your head smacked hard against the brick wall and left your vision hazy.

“you stupid ghoul,” the man roared and you felt your chest flutter, even as another gun shot rang through your ears and blood splatted across your face, a gurgling sound filling your ears.

through your blurred vision, you looked up just as the grotesque man collapsed in front of you, blood spilling out of the wound in his neck as he twitched until the blood loss killed him.

“cooper?” your voice croaked, the name slipping from your tongue easily. a name you’d wriggled out from him just a couple days prior.

a figure knelt in front of you, you immediately recognized those eyes even as your vision had grown spotty. you parted your lips to say more, but nothing came out.

“stay with me,” his southern drawl comforted you as you felt your mind edging the line of unconsciousness, the pain in the back of your head feeling cold now, “vaultie—“

the crackling of a fire was all you heard when your eyes fluttered open, red and orange filling your pupils as the smell of smoke filled your lungs. there was something underneath your body, leathery fabric… and something brushing through your hair.

smacking your lips together, you tried to sit up but failed immediately when you realized your body wasn’t ready for moving yet.

“slow down, cowgirl,” a voice spoke, “we’re in no rush.”

that’s when you realize that there were fingers in your hair. cooper’s fingers. why was he soothing you? when did you get here?

“you left me,” your voice was weak, still hardly able to keep your eyes open, but you figured a stimpack was the reason you hadn’t felt anymore pain from the back of your head. your first concussion.

“almost did,” he said, a heavy sigh coming from him, but nothing else to explain his actions.

tilting your head back just enough, you were able to spot cooper sitting next to you, legs outstretched in front of him and head tilted back against the wall he leaned up against. he’d found an old building to set up the night in, all of the windows shattered and broken, so the smoke from the small fire had a place to escape.

“but you came back,” you murmured, rolling slowly until you were on your back and cooper had to retract his hand from your hair, arms instead settling over his chest, “i thought you hated me.”

a snort, which you could only assume was his form of laughter, came from the ghoul. a smirk playing along his lips as you watched him from your position on the floor, his leather jacket keeping you from laying on the layer of dust that accumulated in the building.

“if i hated you, darling, you would’ve been gone the moment i laid eyes on you,” cooper answered honestly. you finally got that vulnerability you asked for.

your lips twitched, hiding back a smile as you adjusted yourself more comfortably on his coat that he so lovingly rested you on. as you laid there in silence, allowing your eyes to fall shut once more, you couldn’t help but wonder where you’d be in the coming weeks.

now that cooper had delivered his bounty, you wondered what could be next on his plate of adventure. you hoped that you’d be able to convince him to help find your father, but that was a conversation you’d wait for in the morning.

for now, you were content with the feeling of gentle comfort as his hand returned to your hair, calloused, weathered fingers pulling through the strands as you lulled back to sleep—knowing that you’d somehow found your way in the ghoul’s heart.

#fallout tv #ghoul x reader #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard #the ghoul #fallout prime #fallout fic #wordsbyspatial

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