#Whiskey Woes

[transflynnscifo]

i think its kinda funny how some of my irl friends have noted in the past how i initially seemed intimidating/unapproachable, mostly because of my being quiet and having the e_e face all the time (or being outright asleep) but then i would login and keep on yapping and yapping. and also be told i am NOT intimidating. i love the duality of man

[shotmrmiller]

whenever simon needs a lay, he doesn't go for girls like you: all snarky attitude and self-assuredness in that hole-in-the-wall bar with the peeling wallpaper, dim lighting, and sagging ceiling tiles. he wants those insecure things; the soft, quiet ones who've been recently dumped and are drinking away their woes. the ones who'll take him to theirs in a drunken haze and wake up startled, kicking him out of the front door without their number and an embarrassed forget this ever happened.

can do, sweetheart. (see ya never.)

but you've caught his interest. maybe it was the way your face was bare— pockmarks on your cheeks and eyebrows untamed—yet you exuded confidence not even that loud bimbo with the fake lashes and vibrant ruby lipstick could ever recreate. maybe it was the way you held your own against that drunken man who attempted to grab a handful of arse over your faded, torn jeans, catching his pathetic bollocks and giving them a gnarly twist.

who knows. who cares.

what matters is that you've caught him by complete surprise.

he figured you were the type to want a firm hand. a couple of harsh slaps to your cheeks (both top and bottom), a fistful of your hair in his grip to pull, and to fuck you into the mattress until your body was imprinted on it.

wrong.

the moment he pulled your hair taut, you'd immediately tangled your clever fingers into his chest hair. "i'm no horse, brit. my hair isn't reins for you to lead me around with."

then he tried to bend you over his knee. proper brat like you needs to be put in'er place.

also wrong. "not that either. not yet anyway."

and then he's wrong a third time because you're no passive participant.

he sloppily eats your cunt like it's his first meal since coming back from urzikstan— warm tongue, thick fingers, and the occasional pinch of his crooked teeth on your swollen bundle of nerves. when he tries to pull away, your entrance more than slick enough to take him without much discomfort, you fervently dig your heels into the scarred tissue of his strong back., stopping him in his tracks.

"you stop 'til i finish and not a moment sooner." his whiskey breath is warm between your legs when he huffs out, "affirm." you're fluttering around his hand in minutes when you start to direct him on how you like it, which he supposes is fortunate for you since he's real good at taking orders and even better at obeying them.

your climax is sweet in his mouth with a subtle hint of brine. the exact opposite of you, he finds. simon doesn't even get the chance to tell you to say anything because you're flipping onto your knees and shoving his rigid length into your mouth. he can't help the strangled sound that escapes him when the tip of him touches the back of your throat, constricting when you gag.

bloody hell.

you look up at him; wide, glassy eyes and sunken cheeks and it's pathetic how he can already feel himself on the precipice of ecstasy and he hasn't even gotten to the good part.

when he watches you place a condom in your mouth and roll it on his cock without hands, simon had to squeeze his eyes shut and think of england to stop the fire that threatened to light him ablaze.

alrigh', enough. on your back.

"no. get on yours."

your small hands push against his barrel chest, gesturing he lie back— today preferably.

impatient bint.

you ignore that quip, opting to wrap your fingers around his thick base and sink onto him in one smooth motion.

slow, don't want ya hurtin' ya'self.

he gnaws on his tongue painfully— almost cutting it open with his canine— to keep from finishing because, bloody fuckin' hell, do you feel like the heaven he'll never see.

simon's hands curl and tighten around the swell of your hips— his blunt, square nails digging into your sensitive skin. "easy," you hiss, "i bruise like a peach."

taste like it, too.

you look so sweet, so pliant while being split open on his cock, hot cunt sodden with your earlier release— it sends mind-numbing arousal tingling up his spine, feeling it at the base of his skull. simon grunts when you begin to move, a languid up and down, gentle but firm. spots dance in his vision when you take all of him, his bollocks flush against your arse.

pretty thing with fire in your eyes taking him so well even though others have needed breaks to work up to it. muscle memory takes over then, his callused fingers automatically searching for your swollen clit, but you slap them away. "too sensitive, i'd only be uncomfortable."

yes ma'am.

you chuckle at that, pussy fluttering as you do and simon hisses through his clenched teeth.

keep tha' up 'nd i'll be done before the fun even starts.

this time you clamp down on purpose, your cunt squeezing his cock like a silken fist. "wouldn't that just be a shame. old man like yourself only got one in you?" the playful taunt sinks its teeth into the ego he's never cared about— leaving behind a mark that stings and lingers— and the lieutenant rears his head, if only for a moment.

watch it.

your eyes widen fractionally but your lips curl at the corners in amusement. "sorry, sir." minx.

his thoughts dissolve like sugar in hot tea once your hips began to rise and fall again, this time a much quicker pace. he surrenders to your unsatiable passion-- a hungry beast, feeding on want, on need-- with only his obsidian-black mask as witness.

for the first time in months (since price bent him over his desk post-op that one time) he's the one getting fucked.

and when you plant your feet by his sides, when your hips cant at the slightest of angles, his flared head presses against something firm and his world ceases to exist, the intensity of now reaching its peak.

when he comes to, your sweat-slick body trembles with effort, your pretty cunt still stuffed to the brim with his softening length. but he's not done with you yet, not by a long shot. now it's his turn.

in a quick movement, you find yourself on your back, looking up at simon, and the mewl that falls from your lips bounces off of the spartan white walls when he hooks your legs over his broad shoulders, and claims you again.

he plans on leaving a delicious ache between your legs that won't let you forget this night-- at least not for the next few days. (not like you could, i mean look at him. plus, he's going to magically forget his gloves here, maybe his pack of cigarettes. he's also definitely jotting down his phone number somewhere.)

forgive me i'm tired now so i lost some air at the end hehehe

[fourfuckinghorsemen]

Fucking back ache

[writersdrug]

*sigh* someone talk to me about bartender Ghost, big tattooed arms flexing as he pours a beer or buffs a glass clean, listening as people pour their woes into his ear as he slides them another glass of whiskey. Not much of a conversationalist behind that black surgical mask and brown eyes, still you feel a thousand daggers boring into your soul when you walk up and meekly announce that your his interviewee for the waitress position.

Plssssss send me asks about bartender Simon and waitress reader dear GOD

[cassiachales]

Journal Entry Two [And Realising That Grayson Hawthorne Has A Slutty Waist] 

note: i actually didn't expect people to like this and actually read it ajhhagfrkyuesyrk thanks for all your nice comments <33

Sunday– Simply put, I’m fucked. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Xander’s amazing plan began by throwing a party in Hawthorne House, and honestly, after drinking a bit too much last night, you didn’t find enough courage in yourself to drink more.

Because Xander’s parties always, always had a game of Whiskey Woes, and whiskey made your head spin.

Xander: Honestly, you should be glad I’m not locking you two in a room together 😏

You read and re-read that message countless times, not believing that Xander was actually trying to set you up with Grayson.

Like seriously?

You, someone who has life, and him, who’s a living statue? Even a random person on the street would say that the two of you didn’t belong together, no etceteras at all.

You: I don’t think whatever you’re planning is any better

Xander: Trust in me

Trusting a Hawthorne is the biggest mistake one can make. It’s a bad idea.

Unfortunately, you’re filled to the brim with bad ideas.

That’s how you found yourself in the sunroom of Hawthorne House at eight p.m., unopened whiskey bottles on the floor and papers with pens. Every single Hawthorne was there, except for Nash.

Bartending, apparently.

Avery was there too, sitting on the sofa with Jameson at her feet. And then there was Maxine Liu, who you knew to be Avery’s best friend.

Grayson was on an armchair, his legs stretched out and his body leaning to the side, his index finger on his temple and his elbow settled on the armrest.

Xander cleared his throat, and you began to dread what he was planning.

“As everyone here knows, no party is complete–or begins–without Whiskey Woes. Usually, we write a secret on a piece of paper, a secret that completely breaks you, and throw it in the Bowl of Woe.” He points towards a flowery plastic bowl in the middle of the room, decorated with chipped paint which illustrated roses and lilies.

“And then, we sit in a circle and ask questions. Each of you get one bottle of whiskey, and each time you pass a question, you drink a whole glass. When your bottle is over, you read out your woe. But this time, we’re doing things differently.”

Oh, no.

Xander smirked, and Jameson’s back straightened. Grayson’s eyebrow raising was the only sign of interest he showed.

“This time, we’re doing this in pairs. Choose your partners wisely.”

And then Xander extended his hand to Maxine, and Maxine took it.

They settled on the floor together, pulling one bottle of whiskey each and two slips of paper and pens.

“Well then, Heiress?” 

“As if I’m choosing someone else.”

Jameson took his place on the sofa, bringing with him the supplies to play the game.

That left you, and a certain Grayson Hawthorne.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── Whiskey Woes in a group is pain, but in pairs? With Grayson Hawthorne? No. Just no. Someday, I’m going to kill Xander for this, because it’s not like Grayson had any other choice other than teaming up with me. Whiskey, a game, and Grayson Hawthorne? Recipe for disaster. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“Do I have a choice on not playing?” Grayson asked, and honestly, points to him. You don’t want to play a game with whiskey involved with him.

Xander smirked again. “Do you want to quit, Gray?”

Grayson stiffened.

“Oh, and another rule. If you don’t want to drink the whiskey and not answer a question, you remove an article of clothing from your body.” Xander continues.

Now, you glared at him.

“Sounds like you’re trying to mix in Strip Bowling.” Jameson said.

Xander shrugged. “I made the game, I make the rules.” Then he says your name. “Planning on playing? Gray’s the only one left, by the way.”

“Can’t I just drink without playing?”

“No.”

You sigh, getting up from your seat on the floor and moving towards the armchair Grayson sits on. 

He looks at you walk towards him, and you want to combust.

You extend a hand. “Partners?”

He sighs, sitting up straight in his chair before lifting one hand and clasping yours in a stiff shake. “Partners.”

“Great.” You sit on the floor again. “Now sit down.”

He looks at the floor distastefully. “Must I?”

“It’s either you sitting on the floor or me sitting in your lap. Take your pick.”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── And you know what’s worse? I told him to either sit on the floor, or let me sit on his lap. I DIDN’T MEAN FOR IT TO COME OUT LIKE THAT, I SWEAR. IT SOUNDED LIKE I WAS GOING TO DO THAT SEXUALLY OR WHATEVER BUT SERIOUSLY, I DIDN’T MEAN IT LIKE THAT. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“Excuse me?” He doesn’t let you repeat what you said, though, sliding down from the chair and loosening his tie, sitting on the floor as though he’d rather be anywhere else.

He removes his jacket, throwing it on the armchair and rolling up his sleeves till the elbows.

You can’t stop looking.

“Done staring?” He asks, dryly.

You ignore him, writing your woe on the slip of paper instead.

I find Grayson Hawthorne hot. Yes. That’s it.

There. Something not too bad, but still suitable for Whiskey Woes.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── Trust me. I’m not going for sexual. It just happens. And no, I’m not writing down what I wrote. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Grayson tries to get comfortable when he writes, one long leg bent with the knee upwards, and near his head. His hair falls over his face as he writes, the paper on the floor.

He looks devastatingly handsome.

He takes your folded slip of paper and walks towards the Bowl of Woe, depositing the slips in the bowl and bringing back two bottles of whiskey.

He pours his whiskey into a glass, to the brim, and uncaps your bottle to pour in your glass too. And then:

“You start.”

You scramble for a question, before you settle on one.

“Do you actually tango?”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── I am embarrassment in a body ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“Excuse me?”

You blink once, twice, thrice before you look away, “Forget it.”

“Pfffft.”

His lips are in a small smile, which he tries to cover with his fingers. 

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── But tell me, Why. Is. His. Laugh. So. Hot. It wasn’t even a real laugh. Just a small pfffft and it was both cute and hot?? ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“Yes.” Grayson says, answering your question. “I’m assuming you get into tough situations a lot?”

You nod. “Now ask your question.”

His look is almost smug. “That was my question.”

“Did you know you’re almost cute when you don’t act like an entitled asshole?”

He drinks the whole glass of whiskey.

You blink. “That wasn’t a question but I’ll accept it.”

Grayson shrugs. “Everything’s a question.”

You don’t know how you ended up in your position around five minutes later. Around half of your bottle is empty, and his is almost over.

“Do you really have to ask such prying questions?” He asks, his eyes almost tired.

“Yes. My turn. Who’s the girl you kissed in Harvard?”

He frowns, taking a look at the bottle of whiskey.

Then he sighs.

You expect him to answer, but he doesn’t.

Instead, his long fingers move to his tie and removes it completely. He tosses it to the side. “One article of clothing.”

You hear Xander tut. “A tie doesn’t count, Gray.” And then the youngest Hawthorne downs a whole glass of whiskey.

Grayson’s fingers begin to undo the top button of his shirt, and he sighs again. “I absolutely loathe this game.”

It’s like watching a show. His long fingers unbutton each and every button before he removes his shirt and tosses it to the side.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── But then, guess what happened. He fucking removed his shirt. I will not tell him this, EVER. But Grayson Hawthorne has a slutty waist. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Journal Entry One ☆ Journal Entry Three

[notjoelmiller]

see you on the other side

MDNI

joel miller x reader summary: You're drifting from Joel, but you promise him you won't leave Boston. Even as things get worse. wordcount: 3k warnings: smut (p-in-v, m-receiving oral), angst, death (non-major characters), violence, injury, mention of alcohol and painkiller consumption a/n: no spoilers as long as you've seen ep1. hope you enjoy <3

Joel never liked Boston. He visited as a boy then again with Sarah. Both times he came to the same conclusion: Texas was home.

Now Boston’s home. Not by choice, certainly. Tommy wanted security and community. He had a pipe dream about a sense of normalcy like before and somehow convinced Joel that a quarantine zone would be worth the trouble.

It was, like Joel predicted, not worth it. 

Add on top of it the chilly winters and gray skies, Joel wanted to up and leave.

You moved in a year after them, in the next door unit in the designated “childless” apartment building– more like a barracks. 

Tommy tried flirting with you the moment he laid eyes on you. Joel was there– standing behind him and rolling his eyes so hard that he nearly missed the way your eyes flickered to his figure in curiosity. Dejected by your rejection, Tommy slips into Joel’s place too soon to notice the bashful smiles you two exchange.

Within a month, a picture of you and him sits on Joel’s fridge.

****

Tommy joins the Fireflies a year after you move in with Joel. Joel can’t understand why. He spends the better part of that winter tormented by migraines as he tries to understand where he went wrong. He hasn’t spoken to his brother in the better part of the season.

He worries for Tommy. He convinces himself that his brother has gone off on a suicide mission. He chest tightens with each step into the town square, convinced his brother’s body will be hanging. Dread of the possibility that he’s spoken his last words to Tommy looms over Joel’s head.

You’re less worried than Joel. You actually talk to Tommy, truly listen to his side of the story without letting rage take over. You become Tommy’s advocate. The Miller’s middleman.

He’s not stupid Joel. You know that.

Try sayin’ that when he gets his neck snapped by FEDRA.

Joel handles his anger– his premature grief –better than most people these days. He talks to you when things get bad, vents until he runs out of energy to talk. It’s usually those nights, when he’s loosened by frustration (and some whiskey), that you have your longest, most heartfelt conversations with the man. It’s during those conversations that your relationship progresses the most, albeit baby steps. They include the nights when he asked you to move in, first told you he cares about you, and told you about his daughter.

You distract him. He spends less time draining his decanter in favor of drowning his woes into you. He wakes you up at night, when the thoughts get too much for him, with a hand trailing up your side and his mouth on your neck.

He takes it slow those nights, on your sides and him behind you. He whispers to you, words emphasized by the slow pistoning of his hips. He thanks you, praises you. He begs you not to leave.

Afterwards, with his seed drying on your skin, his arm tossed over your still-clothed chest, you always tell him you love him. He never says it back.

****

The first time you sneak out, you confess immediately afterwards. Tommy needed help with a job, not for the Fireflies, but one he didn’t trust Joel to act hospitable enough for. You leave in the blanket of night and return before curfew ends, unscathed, but with a look of guilt in your eyes.

The next time you sneak out, you spare the details. Tommy had a job, you say. There’s less guilt in your eyes, especially when you tuck a thick pile of ration cards into the stash.

After the third night you sneak out, Joel accepts it as a routine. He knows not to question a good thing. Ration cards are a blessing, and your work with Tommy keeps the food coming in when Joel’s smuggling falls short.

Things turn after that. The Fireflies pull a stunt. They line up half of a dozen off-duty FEDRA workers in the square and beat them to death. Their blood flows down the street the next morning, leading crowds to the scene. Their bodies are marred, sitting in a pile underneath a messy Firefly, painted on an old brick wall.

They post their manifesto all around town, and for the first and only time in a year, the Miller brothers reunite.

You stand between them, staring down at the bodies collecting flies. The scent of cadaver fills the air, the spread of the scent expedited by the summer sun.

Tommy’s shocked.

Joel tells him, “It’s what you signed up for.” They’re his parting words.

FEDRA leaves the bodies on the street for the day, letting the people of the quarantine zone watch wives and children publicly grieve. It was their way of garnering support, of encouraging compliance. Every sob that echoes through the city is a question.

A mother cries for her son. Is this what you want?

A brother falls to his knees. Does freedom require such violence?

A child learns that their father won’t come home. Shouldn’t the Fireflies pay for what they’ve done?

The Fireflies fail, and their manifesto is ignored. FEDRA increases security within the zone. They crack down on illegal activity, not just the Fireflies. Jobs with Tommy become more risky. More hours go into planning, and execution takes twice the time.

Joel’s smuggling ring comes up with a code, something with decades of music. He refuses to share the details with you. He spends hours at a time sitting at the radio, scouring its stations for any sign of whatever. Some days he completely disappears into it, songs you haven't heard in years filling the apartment as incoming and outgoing signals.

Joel worries. You worry. 

There are hangings in the streets almost every day. It used to just be Fireflies. Now it’s everyone: kids sneaking out past curfew, the elderly pocketing extra ration cards, just about anybody they can deal an infraction to.

One night, when it’s too dark for him to read the vulnerability evident on your face, you tell Joel the truth.

“Tommy’s thinking of leaving.”

Joel scoffs. “That’s a stupid thing to do”

“It’s dangerous here.”

“It’s dangerous out there.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re not thinking of leaving.” 

You’re not thinking of leaving. It’s a statement, so presumptuous it makes you dizzy. But it shouldn’t. He’s right. You’re not thinking of leaving. You couldn’t leave Joel. He’s become a part of you. Leaving him would splinter some vital part of your very soul. It would shatter the pipe-dream of love in this world that you’ve somehow made true.

“I wouldn’t leave you, Joel.”

I can’t leave you, Joel. Not now.

****

He’s awake when you shuffle through the door. You don’t turn on the lights, just stumble through the apartment to the bed. You keep your right leg straight as you lower yourself next to him. Your pants are off already, shucked off by the door, he assumes. A bloody bandage wraps around your knee. It seems to stare back at Joel.

It’s blizzarding out. It’s one of the things he hates most about Boston. The bone-chilling storms that never seem to let up. He wonders if that’s why you’re back so late.

“Rough night?” He asks. You don’t answer.

You speak less these days. He doesn’t raise a fuss because when you do speak, you’re arguing. The two of you dance around each other, pretending like there isn’t an invisible wedge driving itself between you. Intimacy evades you, and your features come to harden more and more each time you sneak in past curfew. There are still peeks though, of that woman who smiled so bashfully at him: the way you smile when he greets you with a kiss, laugh at his dry humor, sigh as he sinks himself into you.

“Been two days,” he says. 

You hum in what Joel assumes is your attempt at a response. Your eyes are closed, that he can make out from the moonlight streaming through the window. You’re breathing heavily, either from frustration or pain from your leg. He selfishly hopes it's the latter.

“You should have left a note.”

“If I knew it’d be long, I would have.” Not an apology.

“You didn’t know?”

You sigh, and for a moment Joel thinks you’re going to ignore him, just turn on your side and fall asleep. But you push back, a warning lilt to your voice, “Things went wrong.” He can hear it between your words, I don’t want to do this right now, Joel.

He wants to stop, roll over and pull you into his arms and pretend like your lives aren’t on the line, like everything’s okay. But he’s worried. “Tommy’s gonna get you killed.”

You sit up, so fast Joel thinks you’re going to knock him off of the bed. There’s a sparkle– no, simmering –in your eyes. “Joel–” You stop yourself, a hand coming to pinch the bridge of your nose.

Silence returns to the apartment. You look older in the low lighting, stress pulling unfavorably on your features. 

Joel knows he should apologize for his roughness, but remorse isn’t something he can find within himself. Apologies come hard these days. He lets his anger, fear, and hurt control him, afraid apologizing would let all those feelings melt away, and leave him with an emptiness and need to face his cruel reality.

“Can we not do this?” You whisper, “Not tonight, please.”

Joel purses his lips, pulling you into his side. You let him hold you, feeling the pulsing of his heart beneath his ribcage.

Your hand slips from his shoulder. Lower– to his ribs. Lower– to the softness of his waist. Lower– to the band of the jeans he fell asleep in. He knows what you want. What you need. Most of your arguments end the same way. One of you stops it early, before things get nasty. There’s no resolution, just anger and hate and energy sitting in the air. It needs to be spent somehow.

But he’s tired. You’ve been gone since yesterday morning, longer than you’ve ever been out. And he was awake, waiting for you to walk through the door, weighing when and where he needed to storm off to find you. Adrenaline has come and gone and turned Joel to a husk.

“Tired, baby,” he mutters, placing his hand over yours.

“No, no,” you whisper, though you stall your movements. “Don’t worry about me, baby. Just let me take care of you.” You look at him expectantly, begging silently.

Joel nods and you send him the most honest-to-god beaming smile he’s ever seen as your hands unbutton his jeans. He’s– shamefully –half-hard by the time you work him out of his jeans, and the way you take his tip into his mouth, hands working the rest of his length, has him solid so fast he’s dizzy.

It’s unceremonious and awkward. You lean over your lap to fit him in your mouth. Your bad leg rests on the ground, straight at the knee. He wants to stop you, tell you to move into a more comfortable position, but then his tip hits the back of his throat and all bets are off. His hands knot in your hair as he groans. 

His length pulses in the wet heat of your mouth. He bites back a curse along with the carnal need to take control, hold your head and just thrust. You’d let him, too. That was the worst part of it. You’d let him just take control and abuse your throat. You’d look up at him with wide eyes, tears building up, maybe they’d spill over. 

You’d let all that happen because you were just so fucking good to him. So he stops you, pulling you off of his length with the hand fisted in your hair. You mewl, looking back at him with confused eyes.

The hand in your hair comes to your chin, bringing your face to him. “Lay back down, baby,” he mutters against your lips.

He doesn’t take off your underwear, just pushes it to the side as he presses a finger to your clit in a languid circling. Your hips chase his touch as best you can, mindful of bandages that seem to have just gotten bloodier over time. 

“Careful,” he tuts, though he allows two fingers to slip into your heat. Soaked.

Joel rolls himself on top of you, and your good leg comes to wrap around him, hugging him close. He wastes no time in sinking into you, starting with a brutal pace.

You entangle yourself in him, reaching to get as much of Joel into your arms as you can. You tangle your hands in your hair, trace the line of his jaw, put a hand to his mouth while he plants a kiss on your palm– you’re trying to get close to him, as much as you can without making the pain in your legs scream even more. 

He wants to tell you he missed you, that he’s worried, but then you flex around him, squeezing around his length. He’s reminded of how positively debauched this all is. The morning. He promises himself he’ll tell you in the morning.

His thrusts get sloppier, its staccato less rhythmic as he reaches his peak. You worked wonders on him with your mouth, and it’s biting him in the ass. The lingering of your touch and sensation of being close to you, after so long, has him fighting the urge to let go.

“Where?” He gasps, hips unrelenting in their assault. Your hands fist in his shirt, nails digging to bite at his skin through the fabric.

“Inside,” you rasp, and he almost finishes at the thought of his cum dripping from your cunt. You’d keep it in, 

“So fucking good to me, baby,” he grunts.

He’s close. You’re close. You’ve given up on biting back your moans– your neighbors be damned. You’ve begun murmuring beneath him, words of admiration he can’t hear with his bad ear, yet you mutter them all the same. You take advantage of these moments to share the most intimate parts of yourself without fear of his cold judgment. The same intimacy he’s never reciprocated.

He spits in his hand and slips it back down to your clit. He circles it once, twice, and you melt. The sensations are too much for you, the drag of his cock, the wetness of him swirling at your clit, his choked moans in your ears– they’re all cruel and make your vision go white.

Your orgasm pushes him over the edge. He curses, a rare sound in your ear, but continues his drilling into your cunt.

“So. Damn. Good.” He punctuates each word with a thrust, pushing his spend deeper into you. You clench around him, a vice-grip emphasizing the way he just fills you.

His cock twitches one last time before he draws himself out. A pear of your mixed release slips out with him. You watch his face as his eyes fix on the drip, as he contemplates it before scooping it up and back into your abused cunt.

He lowers himself unceremoniously back down on the bed. Your eyes aren’t on him anymore. They occupy themselves with the ceiling, glazed over with something akin to coldness. You reach for his hand, though, taking it in yours and pulling it to your chest. He leans into you. The arm over your chest pulls you close, while a thick leg traps you beneath him. His head nuzzles into your neck, breathing in your heady scent.

“I need you,” he mummers into your skin.

“I love you,” you say.

He doesn’t say it back.

Drifting to sleep, Joel hears a sniffle, muffled into the fabric covering his chest. It’s just the cold, he tells himself. You’re sniffling because of the cold.

****

He wakes up alone, head pounding with the beginning aches of a migraine. Not now, please. The last of the painkillers were traded to pay for winter heating in the apartment. The chill still finds its way in the crumbling walls of the building, though. Most days it’s bearable, when he can pull your body up against his. But you’re not here.

It’s dark out, still. There’s no way curfew was up. How much sleep did you even get last night? Did you even sleep?

He calls your name. His voice fills the space. When the sound echoes back to him, something in his stomach curls.

Your boots and bag are gone. In fact, your sneakers are missing from the small line of shoes by the door. 

He takes a moment to ground himself, breathing deeply before the pang in his stomach comes to consume him. Emotions aren’t easy to regulate, not when they come to you. Especially not when you’re out in a blizzard. Injured. And tired.

He goes about his day after that, anxious at your absence, but there was business he needed to tend to. It’s not until dinnertime, when the emptiness in his stomach is too much to ignore, that he discovers it.

The photo on the fridge has been his favorite. Tommy took it with an old polaroid. You’re tucked under Joel’s arm, beaming as he plants a kiss on your cheek. When you’re gone, and Joel’s feeling lonely, it keeps him company. It reminds him of an easier time, when FEDRA wasn’t on your tails. When being together was easier.

The picture is gone, and in its place is a note, scribbled on a single, crumpled piece of paper.

He can’t read the letter– refuses to put himself through loss like that again, even at the cost of closure– but his thumb traces the last line of the note. It’s written in bigger, messier text. He still recognizes it as your own. Perhaps it was an afterthought. Perhaps you didn’t want to be presumptuous, just to disappoint.

See you on the other side.

For the first time since you smiled at him in that hallway, Joel Miller feels alone.

[milkmanxreader]

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

.

.

.

.

.

You paused brushing your hair mid-stroke, head quirking to the side to look at the door. Faintly, the sound of the door opening and slamming shut could be heard. Dammit. You had really hoped your husband— Robert, a short round man with messy dirty blonde hair and dull brown eyes— would be working late, yet again. With a sigh of unease, you heaved yourself up from the stool in front of your vanity, gazing at your tired face in the clean mirror.

When had your appearance changed so much?

Of course, you were still stunning, your hair neat, and a nice colour. Despite all the years of a loveless marriage, your {E/C} eyes were still magnetic, and full of hope. Part of you really did hope your awful love-life with Robert could be fixed— even if deep down you knew it was far beyond repair. But it was a nice thought none the less.

"Where the hell is my food?" An irritated voice called from downstairs, snapping you out of your thoughts. Quickly, you made your way down the stairs with your hand gliding along the railing next to you.

For the most part, you loved your life, and home. Robert had a nice job, which meant you'd be able to live in this nice, large home, and not have to worry about getting a job you'd end up hating, though you didn't much like being a housewife either. You found it boring, and often fretted the common thing of husbands' cheating on their wives whilst out "working late."

Once you made it downstairs to the living room, you saw Robert pouring himself a glass of amber liquid, ice in the bottom of the glass. He brought the glass to his lips and quickly downed half of the whiskey. "Hello, honey," you offered lamely, brows upturned and a small smile plastered across your face— even if you didn't feel like smiling. He liked women who smiled, and Robert being happy meant less arguments in the long run.

He sharply turned his head to face you, glaring at you with contempt. 

"..I'll get your supper dished out,"

Robert nodded, before turning his head back around and going back to his drinking. Fucking asshole. With meek steps you scurried to the kitchen. Once there, you opened the oven, a pan which was still — thankfully — warm sat inside of the interior, and it smelled wonderful too. Putting on oven mitts, you took out the pan and set it on the counter. Meatloaf. 

.

Supper was silent, the only noise being the quiet sounds of eating, and forks scraping against the plates, a sound which made you cringe slightly. Robert acted like you weren't there. And maybe mentally you weren't.

Why on Earth did you want this life? To be a housewife? Growing up your mother was unmarried, nor was she dating anyone. She had always romanticized this life, her words laced with honey as she would pour out her dreams of finding some rich handsome man. Of course, she never did. But her raw adoration for such a simple, yet attractive lifestyle made you crave it just as much as she.

It was the worse mistake of your life. You loathed this, loathed Robert. His passion was long gone, with it your happiness, and sexual pleasure. Whilst "love"-making wasn't completely vanished, any of your pleasure being priority was. He was fast, rough, and awfully bad, too. Not a good combination. 

Not to say at one time you didn't mind the roughness, or fast pace, but that was back when he loved you. Now, he treated foreplay like a chore, and all you'd receive was bad dirty talk, and mediocre fingering, and hardly much of the latter. It was just all that— a chore.

You didn't even have anyone to properly weep your woes to. Robert didn't like you shooting the breeze with other men, and all of your women friends were cherry-picked by him, the wives of his friends

They were all rude bitches. It was as if they saw just because they were a bit older that they were somehow better than you. Or maybe they felt that way because of your lack of children.

Not that you were infertile, no, you could have a child if you wanted it. But that was just it, wasn't it? You didn't want children. Occasionally you'd have to look after one of your "friends" ankle-bitters, and they seemed much more trouble than they were worth. If you wanted something to take care of; just get a cat, or dog.

Robert seemed a bit upset with your lack of child, too. It was often a sore subject which led to arguments, so you seldom brought it up. And he did the same, for which you were grateful. 

You were a lonely housewife looking for some form of escapism. Cheating was never on your mind, but you craved excitement, and something far away from Robert.

.

.

.

Without wasting a single moment, the second Robert had finished eating he stood up and walked away, likely to the shared bedroom. With a grunt of irritation, you stood and collected up the freshly emptied plates, taking them to the sink to wash them.

Your hands slowly scrubbed the plates, wanting to prolong the time you stayed up into the night. Robert seldom cared if you laid with him at night, but the way he just.. ignored, turned away, or shoved you off stung, and often you'd have to blink away tears.

Half the time you couldn't even register your own feelings. Maybe isolated. Definitely lonely.

But, surely there was more out there for you, wasn't there? Maybe you could divorce Robert, move far, far away. You'd for sure be shunned if you got a divorce, nobody would want you— a woman who couldn't even be a right wife? Awful. But if you moved away, you could tell the new folks that you were.. a widow, or something. 

That sounded nice.

Even if deep down,

you knew,

Robert would never allow you to divorce him. It'd hurt his ego far too much.

[lovebugism]

can I request modern!steve meeting shy!reader at a bar? maybe she’s overwhelmed and he can tell and tries to calm her down? I love your writing!

Steve buys you a drink at The Hideout.

Not because he thinks you’re pretty (he does), but because he thinks you need one.

You’re brooding in a frilly white dress, practically a rain cloud in lipstick in high heels — far too gorgeous to look so sad. 

You sit in silence with your woe, like two old friends who’ve already said too much to talk. It keeps you company on the farthest end of the bar, a dimly lit section where the hanging lamps don’t reach because no one ever sits there. 

You only speak when you’re asking the bartender for another round.

Steve reads your glossed lips — “A lemon vodka spritzer, please. And can you make it a double?” 

He waits until your glass is running low to tell the man behind the counter to fix you another, on him.

Your sad eyes go wide when you’re handed another chilled beverage. “Oh. I didn’t—”

“From the gentleman with nice hair,” the server explains beneath his bushy mustache, tilting his balding head to the other end of the bar.

A pretty boy with cinnamon and honey locks hanging over his forehead is already looking at you when you turn to find him. He wears a whiskey-slicked smile on a rosy mouth, tightlipped and warm. Holding an Old Fashioned in one hand, he throws up two fingers with his free one in a sheepish wave.

He seems kind. Beautiful. He looks like poetry in his stripped collared shirt and circle glasses — something simple you could drown in.

There’s a twinkle in the chocolate of his eyes that you figure must be from the dim amber lights hanging from the ceiling — there’s no way you’re the one putting stars in them. The lamps cast shadows on his chiseled jaw, dusted with a fine layer of scruff. The Renaissance sculpture brought to life just bought you a drink.

He doesn’t know he shouldn’t want to be your friend.

Actually, you’re pretty sure that if your real friends hadn’t stood you up tonight, he wouldn’t even be looking at you twice. And you wouldn’t have blamed him for it, either.

All you are now is slim pickings in a sleazy bar and a total idiot for getting so dressed up just to be left behind. 

This is why I don’t leave the house, you keep thinking to yourself as you drown your sorrows in too sweet alcohol. I’m way too soft for the rest of the world.

The vodka spritzer the pretty man bought for you goes warm.

The ice cubs melt and the glass begins to sweat with condensation. Your eyes go glassy in a similar fashion. You try to tell yourself that they’re just sweating, too — that you’re not the kind of girl that cries in bars.

Burning tears finally trickle over when the low radio gives way to a live band. The suddenness of the pounding drums startles you from your sad girl stupor and pushes you far past the point of being overwhelmed. Through a tightening throat, you hand the bartender a tenner and ask him to return the drink. 

You’re nearly weeping when you repeat it for the third time because he couldn’t hear you over the music. 

That’s when Steve goes to find you — when the keep nudges his shoulder to get his attention and hands him a melted drink along with a folded-up bill. “She wanted me to tell you thanks, but no thanks,” the man yells gruffly over the metal band.

“She left?” Steve shouts back, brows furrowed and eyes wide beneath his glasses. His heart thrums something fierce, stomach twisting at the thought of having missed you.

“Yeah. ‘Bout a minute ago or so. Looks like she’s havin’ a pretty rough night.”

He pushes through the forming crowd and rushes outside like a madman, prepared to sprint down the sidewalk to catch up with you. He’s distantly worried that you’ve already called an Uber by now or that you’ve turned a corner and walked out of his life forever. 

He nearly trips over himself when he spots you sitting at the bus stop.

“No, I know,” he hears you assure into the phone pressed to your ear. “I get it, okay? It’s fine. I… I would’ve left me, too.”

You cover your gloom with a half-hearted laugh.

Steve feels like someone’s shoved a knife in the spot between his ribcage.

He idles by the entrance until you hang up. The hand grasping the phone falls helplessly into your lap, like it’s too heavy for your trembling fingers to hold. You sniffle and drop your head into your palms. Your shoulders shake as they rise and fall with uneven breaths — trying and failing to calm yourself down.

“Hey, uh— Spritzer?” he calls awkwardly out to you as he slowly approaches the bench you’re on.

He doesn’t want to startle you, but he does anyway.

You jolt at his presence, hand snapping up as you gape at him with wild eyes that glimmer beneath the orange lamplight. You’re frightened at the intrusion first, then shocked to find the pretty guy from the bar standing in front of you.

“Me?” you question, voice fragile and tight — feeling stupid because the two of you are the only ones at this bus stop.

“Here’s your ten back,” Steve says with a tight-lipped smile. He holds the bill between his pointer and middle finger and motions for you to take it.

Your glassy eyes flit between it and him. You sniffle. “No, that was— that’s for you. For the drink.”

“The drink I bought for you,” he corrects gently.

“…I didn’t drink it,” you confess, face twisting like you’re about to cry again.

“No, I know. I was just… I was trying to be nice.” His soft laugh fills the awkward quiet. His smile fades when he notices you aren’t laughing with him. “Uh, can I— Is it okay if I sit.”

He points to the spare spot on the bench beside you.

You nod and move over a few inches in invitation.

The old wood creaks under his weight as he sits.

Steve smooths his sweaty hands over his jean-clad thighs, not knowing what to say. He peers at you from the corner of his eye. You’re not looking at him, too focused on declining another call. Your thumb swipes over the screen when you turn your phone off entirely.

You wipe your nose with the back of your hand. “Sorry for not— for not drinking it. That was really rude, I’m sorry.”

Steve twists his head to look at you completely. His smile is still warm, his eyes still twinkling. You don’t know why he looks at you so softly, only that it could make you weep. 

“Hey. It’s okay,” he assures with a shrug. “It was just a gesture, you know? No big deal.”

You nod, then turn away to look up at the velvet night sky. He watches your profile scrunch in concern again before you glance at him, looking more sheepish. “But… why?”

His brows raise. “Why what?”

“Why did you… buy me a drink?”

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully, bouncing his shoulders. “You just looked like you coulda used one.”

A part of you is glad he wasn’t trying to make some kind of move on you.

Another part is disappointed by it, too.

“Right,” you nod, trying to smile though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Uh, thanks. For, uh… For noticing, I guess.”

For noticing me in my sadness, you would’ve said if you weren’t talking to a total stranger. Most of the time, I’m invisible.

“Thank you for not dumping it in my face,” he jokes.

Your nose scrunches softly. Your smile is barely there but more sincere. “Why would I have done that?”

“I don’t know… I feel like when a stranger buys a girl a drink, they’re either really into it, or they think it’s drugged or something—” he explains with a laugh. It fades again when your soft features twist in confusion. 

His eyes go wide in a similar horror.

“It wasn’t! I was just— I was just saying that… Some people might think that, you know? But I’d… I’d never.”

A smile pulls at your lips just before a giggle tumbles from them. 

The sound is too pretty for him to be embarrassed.

Steve smiles, too. “I’m making a whole mess of this, huh?”

“No,” you assure rather quickly, shaking your head in reassurance. “You’re… You’re actually taking my mind off of all this…”

“Yeah?” he wavers.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Can I… ask what happened?”

“It’s just… my friends. We were all supposed to meet up here, but they went somewhere else,” you explain, wrenching your sweaty hands in your lap. “And, like, I don’t blame them, you know? Concerts aren’t my thing, ‘cause they’re so… loud. That’s why they didn’t buy me a ticket... So, in a weird roundabout way, they were kinda thinking about me by… not thinking about me.” 

You end your rambling by shooting him a contorted glance, like you don’t even believe your own words. “Does that make sense?”

Steve nods slowly, then shakes his head. “Not really, no. They kinda sound like assholes, honestly.”

“It just wouldn’t have been as fun with me there—”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“…No?”

“No. I mean… I’m having plenty of fun with you now, so…”

You scoff and you roll your eyes. “Right.”

“I’m serious!” he promises, laughing. “I don’t know if you can tell, but that place is totally not my scene. I mean, honestly, I wasn’t even gonna come tonight, but my friends dragged me here and everything…” He trails off, smiling too sincerely as he looks at you with honey eyes. “Now I’m glad I did. “Cause, you know, I met someone as miserable as I am.”

You don’t want to laugh, still a little bit sad about the whole thing, but this boy brings a smile to your face without even trying. It’s totally not fair.

He laughs at your laughing. “And I’m having a lot more fun out here with you than I was watching some idiot scream into a mic, so… your friends are obviously blind.”

“Obviously,” you snort in return, still not believe him.

“I’m— I’m Steve, by the way.”

He holds his hand out, wide and warm. You take it in your own. His long fingers engulf your smaller ones. “Thanks for the drink, Steve.”

“Any time,” he grins and means it.

“Maybe… Maybe I can buy you one sometime,” you offer suddenly, flitting your gaze to a building across the street. You say it with a nonchalant shrug like you don’t care either way — like your heart’s not beating out of your chest just now. “You know, like, as a thank you?”

His smile widens. “I’d like that, Spritz.”

The newfound nickname makes you smile.

You don’t notice until then that your hands haven’t let go of each other.

[love-marimo]

Carry Me Home (Various JJK Men x Reader)

ー drunken hcs of jjk men/reader wanting to be carried home

Lolita's Note: As far as I remember, Gojo canonically doesn't drink bc he says he can't stand alcohol, so I wanted to make him extra whiny bc I think he's a cute little bastard for that~ Also it's been a while since I wrote for jjk!! Yay ~ ♡

Gojo Satoru

Poor, poor you.

You never get away from his attention seeking behavior when he's sober, what more if he's drunk.

Will make all sorts of funny faces just to hear your sweet laugh (it boosts him up and will increase the chance of him clinging onto you)

He gets really loud and more shameless when he's drunk (or if he's in a sullen mood he would have this sulking expression on his face as he tries to keep to himself)

Whines, whines, whines a loooot

"Babe, let's go~"

"I want to go to bed with you.~

"Satoru, we're outside."

If he gets too drunk he becomes unaware of his surroundings so you have to keep an eye on him.

Wants a piggyback ride home

You end up complying, but after a few minutes your body gave up so you had to drag him with you

Yes, he's a handful. A manchild indeed.

Though, the rare times where you're the one who gets drunk, he becomes really observant.

Will do his best to listen to your woes, dance with you, give you a kiss or twoー all that jazz.

Geto Suguru

This man… drinks his frustrations away.

No, scratch that. He drinks and ponders about everything.

Geto worries and thinks a lot. It's his second nature. Though he toned down a lot after he parted ways with Satoru.

Before, especially during his time at Jujutsu Tech, his choice of drink were beer cans strong spirits like whiskey and gin.

He drinks a lot, so naturally he also has a high tolerance.

But after he established his own cult, he settled for wine and saké. And he doesn't drink as much as he used to.

You really don't have to worry too much about him losing control of himself. He's got you, especially if you're a lightweight.

One time though, in his tipsy state he will suddenly walk to you and pull you into a hug and he'll whisper sweet nothings to your ear.

"I love you."

"Did you know that you're so beautiful tonight?"

"Oh, my sweet little darling has their cheeks painted pink~"

You got a little frustrated at his lingering touches so you suddenly challenged him to a drinking contest.

Which you lost to, and now you want nothing more than for him to take you home.

He'll laugh at your state for a bit before he sweeps you off your feet and obliges.

Once you pass out he'll take photos of your messed up state.

Maybe it's for times where he'll be drinking alone.

Before his thoughts eat him alive once more, he'll look at those photos of yours so that he can silence them all at once.

Nanami Kento

Now this is a man who drinks his frustrations away.

Whiskey is his favorite.

You'll either find him alone at the dining room or by the bar stool as he silently finishes his glass… that you probably lost count of.

"Love, you need to stop drinking for now."

Nanami often has this exhausted expression on his face that gets really highlighted when he drinks.

His eyebags, tousled hair and wrinkled suit are telltale signs that he's really on the edge of it.

"I should drive, okay? You're really drunk."

He nods and he presses a kiss to your cheek.

God, he reeks of the musky scent of whiskey.

He'll end up venting to you about his wishes for a more relaxed life. And he'll promise again and again that he'll make it come true just for the sake of you both.

Toji Fushiguro

Definitely someone who drinks beer and rum.

Although he doesn't drink often, he'll gladly join you if you invite him to drink with you. Even if he despises alcohol.

He prefers it if you come over to his place or a nearby bar (make sure you put everything on your tab, he's broke as hell).

Sometimes he drinks a beer can while he cleans his weapons.

"Hey. What's up, doll?"

"Don't you dare puke on me now-"

"Geez, you've made a mess."

Says him as you spilled your guts outside the club you went to.

"Let's get you home now."

He's got decent tolerance, but that's because he's not a heavy drinker. He prefers guarding you over drinking with you.

Def would piggyback you or carry you over his shoulder like a ragdoll as you whine at him for not letting you return back to the club.

He's not the best, but he cleans you up with a damp rag and places another one on your forehead to help lower your temperature.

The type you'll see shirtless the next morning while cooking you breakfast and hangover food.

ー Lolita

[teenandbeyond]

Hiiii, Can I request for the Frieza family when the human reader get a little bit tipsy/drunk?

Frieza Fam x DrUnK. Human Reader

About time I get a drunk request.

Want more from me? MASTERlist.

🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊

🧊Let Loose🧊 (DBZ or Dragon Ball Z)

Warning(s): Drunken-ness, short

And this is why you asked your ice jin to not let you get drunk...

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

Frieza

"[Name]? Are you alright?"

"Wuuuh? Yeeah, a-OKAY!"

You were not.

First you were quiet

Then you were quietly crying

"What saddens you, my dear?"

"I-We-You're so preeety. Why are you so pretty... it's not-it's not faaaair," you whined with a sob, forehead smacking against the table.

Frieza didn't know whether to be concerned or flustered. Both?

The next stage was depression

"I must escape my despair. Can you drown from whiskey?" you asked yourself blankly.

Then you were happy as could be.

"Frieza, look! A butterflyyyyy!"

"That's a chandelier, darling," he chuckled.

"But-but it looks like a butterfly...Frieza can we get a butterfly? I really, really want one."

Consider it done, you spoiled brat.

And from happiness, you become flirtatious.

Your hand brushes up his arm, "I'd love to see these arms caged around me. Are you single?"

He couldn't help but smirk past his blush, "No, I'm quite taken I'm afraid."

"Are they-hic-Are they cute?"

"Very, the cutest."

"I guess I have no chance then, woe is me!" you sigh dramatically.

And the last stage, you fall asleep, cuddled into your ice jin.

A shame you were too intoxicated to feel the kiss brush your temple.

King Cold

You were much more flirtatious than usual

Bold enough to say the things you wouldn't usually

You tried to cooly lean against the table but fell, you quickly got back up and played it off. Smooth for a drunk.

"Hey handsome, aside from being this good-looking, what else do you do in your free time?"

And he'll happily flirt back in amusement.

"I’d like to take you to the movies, but they don’t let you bring in your own snacks," you grip his thighs as you lean in.

He quite liked you like this, he had to admit.

"Neither of us would be able to attend if that were the case."

Somehow you ended up in his lap, brushing your fingers up and down his horns.

"If you let me borrow a kiss, I promise I’ll give it right back."

"That sounds like a deal."

You traded sloppy kisses until you grew tired and decided to take a snooze.

He couldn't promise to not let you get drunk again. You were quite amusing.

Cooler

Usually, you were more on the serious side, so it was nice to see you let loose.

"Hey, Cooler, let's dance!" you giggled.

No one was looking, so maybe a little dancing would be okay.

"But I don't know how."

"I'll teach you!"

Your teaching skills were a little sloppy drunk, but he got the point.

Swaying with you made him feel like he was in a different world

Your laughter filled the room.

That was all the music he needed.

You catch him staring at some point through your drunken haze

"Whaaa?"

"I want to kiss you."

"Do it then, coward," you tease.

Cooler isn't one to challenge.

Though the unexpected softness of his kiss almost stunned you out of your intoxication.

"I adore you..."

"And I want you to do that again."

[miller-n-morgan-2]

Take Me Home

4. John Fucking Marston

Arthur Morgan x Texas Red!Reader

A/n: GUYS I GRADUATED MY FROM MY COURSE! i give you this chapter as a token of my celebration... now I just have to make sure I don't have any models fall off the runway in my line up lmao

Summary: The newest arrival makes his way into camp, and inadvertently becomes the reason that chaos begins to spread. Luckily, his new uncle Arthur is there to carry the woes on his broad shoulders.

Warnings: mild swearing, canon typical violence, birth?? mentions of past death and Arthur remembering his deadbeat dad days. drinking, mild alcohol abuse?? also Hosea is a real one we love Hosea

WC: 4.5k

“Need I remind you of the price you’re gonna pay?”  “She’ll be safe with you. The boy, too. I ain’t leavin’ them in incapable hands.” “But you’re leaving them,” Arthur reasoned, trying his best to make any last effort to save what could have been, but he knew his found brother would not be changing his mind. His only thought at this point was to beg him to stay. If only because he was the one who asked. “Don’t do this. They need you, we need you.”

A week after the heist, Arthur’s shoulder was feeling better… but his head was hurting like hell. 

In fact, on this specific night, nearly everyone’s head was throbbing on account of the wails and cries of terrible pain coming from the edge of camp. 

Abigail had gone into labor around five hours ago, and the little baby had still not come into the world yet. As of right now, the men were huddled close to the fire, passing around a fresh bottle of whiskey in attempts to pass out so they could get some sleep. Meanwhile, the women were rushing to and fro about the camp, working their asses off to bring a new life to the gang. 

You figured it would help you bond with the boys more if you sat with them, moaning and groaning about the noise… but you’d much rather be helping, making sure nothing went wrong in the tumultuous process of birth. 

It wasn’t until close to one in the morning that a tiny baby boy was born, strong as ever, with lungs so powerful they could blow a lark out of a tree. His cries replaced Abigails, but after all that time, everyone was pleased to know the delivery was over, and both parties were healthy and sound. 

The men did eventually pass out, all except two. 

Arthur and John were up till the crack of dawn arguing, and it didn’t look good from an outside perspective. 

You were about to take back towards your tent when you came across them, hurriedly getting out of their line of sight so you could listen without suspicion. You knew you had no right to eavesdrop, but with everything you’ve heard from Abigail concerning John, you were bursting with curiosity in a way that turned your stomach. 

“I don’t see why I need to be convinced otherwise,” John ripped into his dearest friend, and even from behind a wall of tented fabric, you could imagine the look on his face. 

“You’re makin’ a mistake right now, and you ain’t gonna see it until it’s too late.”

“How would you know? S’not like you did any better,” the tone of his voice was bitter, almost. John caught himself, taking a step back and breathing more evenly after his fit of anger. “I didn’t mean that, Arthur… but you oughta know where my head’s at.”

Arthur was silent, and you wished more than anything you could see the look on his face to determine how Marston had gotten to him. Was he saddened or angry? Maybe even confused? You didn’t know, but you didn’t have long to dwell on it. 

“You listen here, boy,” Arthur’s voice sounded threatening, intimidating. It was perhaps the scariest you’ve heard him speak. “You ain’t got no idea what’s comin’ to you if you leave. There will be no place in hell you’ll be able to hide from the decision you’re about to make. It’ll follow you the rest of your days, and haunt you when you’re dead, you understand me?”

John didn’t speak, didn’t answer or even mumble an excuse, he just walked away. He walked towards Abigail’s tent, ducking his head under and closing the front panel. You stood there stunned, afraid to move… but then Arthur came up around the backside of the area and scared the shit out of you. 

“You hear all that?” He asked, a slanted look in his eyes and a distaste for you in his tone. It might be the remnants from his past conversation, but you hate the way it sounds. 

“Arthur,” you caught your breath from the fright he gave you just in time to mumble out an apology. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be listenin’, but Abigail’s been telling me things and I just…”

He managed to huff out one silent breath of a laugh, shaking his head. 

“Don’t be fretin’ on my account, I ain’t mad at you.” 

You sighed in relief, stepping closer to him now that you didn’t feel so burdened. 

“I don’t know him very well, but what I’ve seen… he doesn’t know his head from his ass. Is he really gonna leave?”

“I don’t know,” he started, crossing his arms and letting out a small yawn. He’s just as tired as you are. “I think I just bought a few days, maybe more, but who knows.”

“You think he can change his mind?” You relaxed your demeanor in front of him, but kept your head on a swivel just in case

He was so tired, you felt bad for keeping him awake, but you figured these thoughts were weighing heavy on him, and it might be good to get it off his chest. “He’s far too stubborn to do it on his own. We’d all have to raise hell for him to think badly of his own choices.”

You frowned, turning towards the tent of the new, young family… There were already so many problems in their unit. 

“Poor Abigail.” 

She’d be alone, and with a child to take care of. And meanwhile John would be scott free and having the time of his life.

“She’ll be alright, her and the boy. I’ll make sure of it,” he nodded towards where you were staring. “Around the time he started acting up, I told her I’d marry her, be the kid’s father if she wanted me to.”

Your head snapped around to him, and you processed his words. Abigail told you about part of his offer, because you’d given her the same one, sans one detail…

“You’re gonna marry her?” 

“Only if she wants me to, if John leaves.”

Good to know… but not really. It looks to you like John is pretty set in his ways, even if he ends up staying through the week, or even more. 

You nodded to him, but you hated the notion that he could already be promised to another person, even if you had absolutely no plans on pursuing him yourself. It was a small little envious monster that crawled in the pit of your stomach, and for a split second, you felt yourself resenting Abigail, who thus far, had become your closest friend after Arthur. 

“I actually offered the same,” you laughed, shaking your head and kicking your boot into the ground. “Not that it would last, but I just wanted her to know I was willing to help.”

“The whole gang chips in here and there, bein’ a family and whatnot… She’ll never go without help,” he assured, his posture becoming heavier with each minute passing. 

“Yeah,” you cleared your throat and stretched your arms out, faking a massive yawn that looked real enough to pass you off. “It’s probably time we all turn in, huh?” 

For some reason he seemed vaguely sad for the interaction to be over. 

“Just about… I’ll catch you later, then,” he waved you off, heading back to his wagon and you to your tent. Even though they were relatively close, the entry points were on opposite sides.

You fell back into your cot with a heavy exhale. It’s been a long night, and with a crying baby in the camp, it’s looking to be a long next few months. 

-

The next few days were wonderful, despite the ill attitudes of a few grumbly men, Arthur not included. 

Dutch has been going on and on since the birth of the baby that the newest member should be given a worthy name. You assume he suggested his own namesake a few times, but since he’s been nothing but playful about the whole thing, you know he isn’t too bitter when they do finally settle on a name. 

Abigail picked it out, and you understand why. 

John Marston Jr, or as the two have taken to calling him already, Jack. 

You were surprised to see that waking up in the late afternoon the day of the birth, John was being… really different. He was putting in effort to help Abigail, he was making sure the others knew of all the information as it came, and most importantly, he was being positive about the whole situation. You suppose Arthur did knock some sense into him, and it was evident in how he was carrying himself. 

You weren’t sure how long it would last, but you felt relieved. Not only for Abigail, but selfishly, for yourself. If John sticks around and pulls his weight, Arthur doesn’t need to be tied down to a family. Not that he would ever see it that way, but still. 

You didn’t know where you stood with Arthur. He was a dear friend, you knew you could say that by now. You think that maybe the playful banter between you holds more than just friendship, but you can’t be sure, and you’re too damn chicken to test the waters. And obviously, a plain and simple conversation is entirely out of the question, because of ridiculous reasons you don’t care to list off. 

Maybe you’ll never know, and you’ll always be playing the game of ‘will we, won’t we’, unable to come to a sound conclusion. You think you’d be well enough with that, even if you never settle down with anyone. 

It’s a terrible absolute, and you should have never decided on it, but you think that being open ended and in this endless cycle of banter with Arthur is better than being in a committed relationship with anyone else. It makes the one on one interactions with him that much sweeter, though. Like today, when it was both your turns to watch baby Jack. The others were working on something in the town, and Abigail and some of the women were napping, having taken care of him through the night.

“He might be hungry,” you suggested, laughing at Arthur’s attempt to sooth the wailing infant. 

“I get hungry too, y’never see me cryin’ about it,” he was joking, clearly. He shook his head and reached for the glass bottle Miss Grimshaw had prepared this morning. 

Jack fed on the bottle and stopped crying, and in the aftermath, you paused to watch the scene before you. A big, gruff outlaw, with his hair tousled and shirt out of place from tiny hands fisting at it, and relaxed in his arms, a tiny baby being bottle fed. It was such a contradictory picture, but one you couldn’t tear your eyes away from. 

“Cute,” you mumbled, nearly under your breath, but he heard you. 

“He’s somethin’,” he chuckled, a small smile on his face when mentioning the boy he held so close. Arthur was many things, but amongst them was gentle. He was a kind creature by nature, that had only been hardened by experience, and these soft moments let his internal goodness show. 

“I meant you,” you teased, and he rolled his eyes, shaking his head. He didn’t even know how to respond for a second. 

“I’m quite the opposite, but I’ll thank you for the thought.”

As tough as he was, and as rightfully boastful over his skill with a weapon or with his bare hands, he seemed to negate himself often. His intelligence, his artistic talent, his looks, even his presence during group gatherings. It saddened you, and you didn’t even know the root of his struggle.

“Why you always doin’ that?” 

“Doin’ what?” he asked, his head tilted to the side and a narrow look on his face. 

“Bein’ mean to yourself…” you answered, sitting down on the other end of the log he was relaxing against. 

What a treat it would be for Arthur to see himself through your eyes. He’d never think poorly of himself again. 

“M’not, just the truth.” 

And that was even sadder. Who on earth ever convinced this man that he wasn’t good enough? Whoever it was, you’d like them to be on the other side of your pistol’s barrel. 

You huffed out a sigh, leaning forward so he didn’t have to strain his neck to look back at you. 

“Y’know it’s too damn bad, I happen to think you’re a pretty decent person. I pity anyone who thinks otherwise,” you spoke firmly, laying it on thick so that maybe he can come to terms with believing you. 

“Is that so?” 

“Mhm, very much so…”

He looked back down at Jack, trying to distract himself from your complimentary onslaught. He didn’t much care for compliments, so he wasn’t even sure how to receive them, if he accepted them at all. He has a very strong belief system, and it’s constantly just a mantra of things like ‘I am a bad man, I do bad things, I am dangerous, I am getting old, I am ugly,’ and so on. He didn’t understand how much he had hurt himself by forming those beliefs in the first place. 

You sat with him in silence for a few minutes, just watching Jack finish the bottle and settle into Arthur’s arm for a nap. He slept a lot for someone that cries through the night. Hearing the soft cries in the night isn’t peaceful, but it’s better than the anxiety and feeling of dread his cries brought you the first day, when John was set on leaving. 

You keep replaying a moment from that morning in your head, when the sun was just over the ridge, and you were heading to your tent… 

“Arthur?” 

“Yeah?” He turned his head again.

“The day he was born… that argument between you and John,” you wanted to make sure you phrased this correctly, unsure if it was a sensitive topic. “He’d apologized for sayin’ something… Sayin’ that you didn’t do any better? What was he talkin’ about?” 

Arthur took a deep inhale and shifted around in his seat, the ground beneath him feeling like it could cave in just at your words. John had struck deep with what he’d said, but having to rehash it, and with you… it wasn’t a thing he’d ever do for fun, to put it nicely. 

“I mean, him talkin’ about leaving Abigail, and you givin’ her your offer… You’re already better than he is.”

“I wasn’t always,” he shook his head. “Holdin’ him like this, it makes me remember just how terrible I am.”

You sank down from the log and scooted closer to him. No one in camp was around to see, so you didn’t bother looking. His eyes got foggy without even going into detail, so you didn’t push… but he seemed to open up on his own. 

“I had a boy when I was John’s age. Same situation n’ all,” he shook his head, trying to keep his sights on the ground in front of him. The longer he held Jack, the worse this feeling got, but he knew it wouldn’t ever go away, not really. Not with a new and constant reminder of his past. “His momma and I, we didn’t get on too well, so I kept with the gang. Didn’t ever come around except when we passed through that town. Could count on two hands the times I saw my own son…”

You didn’t know what to make of this. He has a son? Does he keep contact with him? You’re unsure if you want to know all the details, because hearing it as is, sounds messy. 

“Where does he live?” 

You had no idea that you’d just asked the worst question in response… but how else were you supposed to know? This was the first you’d heard of Arthur’s son. 

“He uh… he died, about three years ago,” Arthur shook his head, swallowing back the lump in his throat, though his teary eyes persisted. “They both did... I came back one day, and found two crosses in the yard. I asked around, townsfolk said a group of robbers came through and raided several homes.”

“Arthur…” you grabbed his arm gently, trying to convey your sympathy, and your sadness. 

“I knew it had been my fault. If I had been there, my son would be alive, his mother, too.” 

A cloud had rolled over the sun, and shrouded in a temporary shade of darkened light, the mood felt heavier than even his words could convey. This man and his layers, being peeled away before you… it was both touching, and terrible. You had no idea a man was capable of feeling so deeply, of being so open about his past and regrets. You’d never seen a man cry before. 

“Issac and Eliza were their names,” he finally looked at you, tears escaping his eyes at a rapid pace. He let them fall, somehow knowing you wouldn’t judge him for it. “And they aren’t here because of me.” 

You gently raised a hand and wiped his cheeks with your thumb, leaving your hand there for as long as he would let you. 

“I’m so sorry, Arthur…” 

Nothing you could say or do would help to heal his wounds, but you wanted to try. Wanted to be there for him, whatever that meant. You and him got on well. You were friends, but there was competition between you, all a part of your banter. You supposed you’d feel inclined to let him win in any circumstance from now on, just because you couldn’t bear to make him upset. Seeing him this way broke your heart, but it also empowered you in some way. To be more empathetic, and kind, and to not let your anger get the better of you. You’ve proven to him in the past that you were a hot head, no pun intended. You would have to be mindful of letting yourself fly off the hinge to him in the future. 

“Even if John doesn’t leave… I swear I’m gonna do right by this boy,” he let out, his voice trembling but his words were of certainty. 

You felt a tear roll down your own cheek, and did nothing to stop it. This moment, whatever it was, you wanted to feel it. Wanted to keep it buried within the depths of your soul. 

You’ve been on the run for four years now, and in those four years, you’ve been on your own, making some sort of fantasy world for yourself where death was just the thing at the end of a duel, and you never had to pay the toll of those losses. 

You’d not been living in reality, and coming to this gang, meeting Arthur… it must have been preordained. It must have been fate. He himself, day by day, was restoring your humanity, and your ability to feel something that wasn’t just a farce.

“Thank you for telling me,” you whispered, but being so close, he heard you clearly. 

He let out a huff that you suppose was meant to be a soft laugh. “You don’t just hear me, Red… you listen to me. I guess I’ll keep on tellin’ you things.”

And soon both your attentions were pulled back to Jack as he stirred slightly. 

You took a turn holding him while Arthur went to grab some food, and you found you rather liked this particular baby. He was a sweet little thing, not so bratty like the tiny cousins you grew up around. You can only hope he’ll stay this sweet as he grows older. 

-

A month had passed, and John was getting more angsty. 

Arthur was honestly surprised he had lasted this long. It seemed impossible that he stuck around, especially when he had to be the one to take a turn with the baby during the night. 

Fights had broken out with various members of the camp, mostly over John and his unwillingness to help anymore. Dutch had chewed him up and spit him out, and after that, John had made up his mind, for certain this time. 

“You ain’t leavin’, just sit down,” Arthur pulled him back by the shoulder, trying to stop him from packing up and saddling his horse.

“What makes you think I would stay with a bunch of folk who hate me?”

“We don’t hate you, you’re bein’ ridiculous. Sit down, we’ll talk about it.” Arthur tried to reach out for him again, but John pulled himself back and out of the way, two steps from the hitching post. “Boy, you’re not goin’ anywhere-”

“I’m leaving!” John burst out, taking Arthur by surprise. This wasn’t just another hissy fit or tantrum where he would eventually let it stew over. He was really gonna do it. “The kid ain’t mine, I counted back. She’s just try’na tie me down, Arthur... I feel for her, but I ain’t stayin.”

“Need I remind you of the price you’re gonna pay?” 

“She’ll be safe with you. The boy, too. I ain’t leavin’ them in incapable hands.”

“But you’re leaving them,” Arthur reasoned, trying his best to make any last effort to save what could have been, but he knew his found brother would not be changing his mind. His only thought at this point was to beg him to stay. If only because he asked. “Don’t do this. They need you, we need you.”

“You don’t need me, Arthur. You’re the better one, always were…” 

“C’mon now, you know that ain’t true. S’just another excuse,” he waved his arms around, trying to emphasize just how stupid it sounded. Yes, it’s all Arthur’s fault that John is leaving. 

John doesn’t even answer Arthur, he just turns heel and readies his horse, all while the older of the two stands by and ridicules him for what he’s about to do. All John can do is tune him out, and pretend he doesn’t hear the distant crying at the other edge of camp, where Susan is trying to console a tired and emotionally devastated Abigail. Their son sleeps in Tilly’s arms, oblivious to anything happening around him, but what’s to come will put a damper on his previously bright future. 

By the time John is on his horse, loaded up and ready to head out, Arthur grabs hold of his leg, yanking it back from the stirrup. He looks to his eyes one more time, to see if there’s any guilt, any resolve, anything that might show he knows what he’s doing is wrong… but he only sees annoyance and pride. Two things John Marston usually wore on his face. 

“If you leave this camp, you best never come back again, ya hear?” 

And for the first time that night, Arthur saw just a shred of fear in the younger man’s eyes. 

“I hear,” he nodded, the fear turning into sadness in this last moment. “It just ain’t worth it no more.”

And with that, he turned his horse, and left the camp. 

Arthur went storming through the camp after the interaction, needing to find himself a drink. 

-

You were angry and rightfully so, stomping back into camp like a bear hunting its prey. Walking up to the campfire, there were only a few left awake. Pearson and Hosea sat, hunched over and with half full whiskey bottles in their hands. Probably from the stolen stash, the brand was decent.

“Anyone seen Arthur?” You asked them both, knowing that at least Hosea could tell you. 

“He passed out ages ago,” He nodded towards his covered wagon near the trees and rocks separating your space. “John left camp tonight.”

“I know, I caught him outside the saloon,” you sat down by them, reaching out for either bottle they were willing to hand over. “Gimme some of that, will ya?”

And of course, drinking was the solution at the end of the day. 

After a while, Pearson dragged himself to bed, leaving you and Hosea to sit and stew by the fire, milling about your tumultuous thoughts. You should have known he’d ask for details of your run in with John. 

“I was out scouting today… realized I needed to go to town for a pair of socks, mine got holes too big for sewin’,” you began, gaze trapped on the fire, the alcohol making it harder to focus on anything else at once. “Came outside and found him hitchin’ his horse.”

“You were the one who approached him, then?” 

“I thought about just wavin’, I thought I’d be seein’ him back here… but then I looked at his saddle. He was packed up for the trek of a million miles,” you sighed, taking another big swig of the pricey whiskey in your hand. You would finish the bottle in no time if you kept up like this, trying to quench your raging thirst for something strong and potent.

“What did you say to him?” 

“Nothing really, not at first. Just asked how the day had been, how Abigail was. I haven’t been here since this morning. I guess they started fighting real bad after I left. Dutch tore into him, too,” you spoke heavily, suddenly the swigs you were slamming back were making you a bit less understandable. Hosea though, was easily able to listen, because after years of Arthur’s drunk slurring, and having to make out sentences between, he was practically an expert. “All I said was that he shouldn’t leave, because he’ll regret it.”

“And I suppose that didn’t help.”

“Nah, he just told me where to shove it. I think he’s scared… not of the kid, and not of Abigail. I think he doesn’t wanna end up like his father. Arthur’s told me something about it, but in my opinion, he’s trying to get out before the resentment turns to abuse n’ all that.”

“I reckon you're right. We all told him time and again he’d be a good father, but he’s stubborn as they come, and when his mind’s made up… there’s no stopping that boy.” Hosea shook his head once more, his sadness reflecting in the light of the fire. 

“I guess Arthur’s gonna marry Abigail, now…” you knew you were just trailing into your thoughts, and that while getting more drunk, you shouldn’t be saying them out loud… but you couldn’t help it. Selfishly, on your ride back to camp, this is all you thought about. 

“He offered, it’s up to Abigail to accept,” he said gently, raising his brows in thought as well. He doesn’t see it as a good match, but he thinks it’s honorable that Arthur would do such a thing. 

“I hope she doesn’t,” you murmured quietly, but it seems he still heard you. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing, m’just gettin’ drunk.”

He chuckled under his breath, his side eye remaining on your features just a while longer before he stood up, patting you on the shoulder. 

“Don’t drink too much more. You’ll pass out before making the trip to your tent.”

And then he left you alone. With your thoughts and a bottle of whiskey in hand, who knows what more you could do in a situation like this. It was better to cut your losses and just turn in… so you did. 

Laying down on your cot, you expected sleep to take you. It should have, given how tired you were, but the single notion kept echoing in your head over and over…

Arthur Morgan isn’t mine, and he never was.

Tags: @photo1030 @sheepdogchick @snoopysshark @strvberrydoll @yyiikes @phantasyy @puffyhairedhipster @scorpio-echo

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Lambert’s stuck in a rut. His life’s going nowhere and his dreams never seem to leave the A1 architectural drawings he carries around in his rucksack. He has Aiden’s bar, his respectably placed outer London apartment and his Japanese Peace Lily. That is… until he meets a tall, silent bar tender with shoulders like the Qinghai-Tibetan plateau and eyes like twin suns.

CW: mutism, war injuries, Lambert running his mouth. Set up of a longer work which has never seen the light of day, but I like the opening a lot.

Lambert had been visiting the same shitty, rundown bar since graduating. Three years bachelors, two years postgrad, twelve months running after a middle-aged racist with a caffeine addiction—internship—and then five years of… this. No one prepared you for the heady heights of listless adulthood; that odd grey area between being a cutting edge, aspiring young whippersnapper and a washed out, lonely old man with seven cats. Lambert was staring down the barrel of thirty simultaneously wondering where the fuck his life was sprinting off to and what the fuck he had even done with it to begin with.

Every night he pulled a late one at the office labouring over his distant dream of sustainable, affordable housing for the working class that wasn’t a lifeless block of concrete. You know, the kind that drew inspiration from the hallowed corridors of nineteenth century Newgate prison. The kind of place that leeched the life and happiness from every one of its occupants until they were as grey and empty as their home. Someone’s community was meant to be at their heart, something that defined them. Like the roots of a tree—you know, the person being the… tree. Look, he was never so good at conceptualising his vision in words. He’d sooner draw you a fucking picture. Which is where we were fucking at right now.

Lambert had become an architect on the back of a dream he’d had sitting on a swing set in the condemned children’s playground at the very centre of his council estate. Half the kids he’d known had given up because life was grey, drugs were easy, so what’s the fucking point, right? If only they were faced with more than the grey—

That dream had driven him through his studies like a man possessed—by a demon comprising of an unhealthy amount of Monster and a stubborn, spiteful drive to succeed—followed by that tedious twelve months as a gopher, but now he was here… or there, or whatever spatial demonstrative you wanted to fucking use, he didn’t know what to do. The dream had shuddered to a halt. Red tape, politics. The kind of thing that stood fast in the face of an outsider. Because he would always be an outsider. Something—something—attitude problem.

The same thoughts gathered like a storm cloud over his head as he trudged down the steps to Aiden’s. Both the name of the place and the owner, because Aiden straddled the line between new money glam and old east end rust in a way that was both tackey and unique. He managed to pull it off somehow. Lambert threw himself down in his usual stool, dumping his satchel full of drawings at unceremoniously at his feet, and thumped his forehead on the bar. “Usual, Sal.”

Sal wasn’t his real name. His real name was Derek. But everyone called him Sal because of the time he’d stepped in for the chef, cooked the Friday night chicken curry and given everyone salmonella. Environmental health nearly had a fucking field day but, much like many of Aiden’s licensing and business woes, the matter had cleared up mysteriously overnight.

The glass tumbler settled gently on a place mat in front of Lambert’s head. He heard the pop of the cork and the slosh of expensive whiskey—he’d worked his nuts off for his salary, so he could drink it away if he wanted to, thank you very fucking much—and then nothing. No greeting. No, “‘ello mate, what’s the story?”

Lambert lifted his head to rip on Sal and ask if someone had half-inched his tongue out his ugly mug, only to almost fall from his stool in shock. The man standing before him wasn’t Sal. Nothing like him in fact. Easily clear of six feet with a few inches to spare, a scruffy mop of dark hair and a face like someone had tried to pry out his teeth with a claw hammer. There was a gap in his lip, twisted scars all the way up the side of his face to his eye and ear. Angry, red. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Lambert said, mouth running away with his thoughts before he could marshal them.

The barman didn’t even flinch. His fingers tapped on the side of the bottle, hazel eyes dropping to the fifth he’d just poured, and Lambert realised he was waiting for some kind of acknowledgement that the drink was satisfactory. Lambert tore his eyes away and tried to bury the squirming, uncomfortable feeling that came with making an absolute cunt of yourself in front of someone new. “Yeah, cheers. Uh… add it to my... tab, uh—” Lambert glanced up and caught sight of a name badge, “—Eskel.”

There was another badge next to it. Light blue, with dark letters printed in Arial font. ‘I can’t speak, but I’m a good listener’. Lambert stared at it for a moment, fingers tapping on cool glass. “Can’t speak, huh? That because of—” Lambert gestured at his own face and Eskel nodded, “—right, bummer.” Eskel nodded again, but Lambert could swear he was being laughed at. Those hazel eyes glittered with something, and it wasn’t unshed tears at being so cruelly gawped at. Well, that was a fucking relief. “Yeah, I guess bummer is the understatement of the century.”

Eskel tilted his head and ducked his chin, with a quirk of the eyebrow.

“So, if you know my drink order, you know I have mac and cheese, with crispy bacon bits, and a side of onion rings.”

Another nod. Lambert squinted.

“You know, I’ll… uh—is Aiden out back? Fucker owes me a pony from the last—”

Lambert didn’t get through his excuse before he was sliding from the stool and hot footing it around the rope barrier to the back room. The corridor leading to Aiden’s office always smelled of industrial strength disinfectant and drunken regrets, and Lambert rubbed at his nose as he pushed through the door.

“Please, come in, not like I’m up to my bollocks in paperwork,” Aiden murmured, ensconced behind a teetering pile of brown folders and a box-shaped computer monitor from the early noughties. He was in his late-thirties, with wisps of grey hinting in his neatly groomed beard. Sharp green eyes left the lines of neat print on off-white paper for barely a second to acknowledge Lambert’s presence. “Shit week?”

“About a six on the shit-o-meter,” Lambert replied, gaze sliding sideways as the pinball machine to his left squealed and trilled. Gaetan, short, with a clean-shaven head, docs and a cut-off denim jacket, grumbled irritably as he missed out on beating Lambert’s high score. “Alright?” he asked and received a grunt in return. Gaetan was just shy of twenty years Aiden’s junior and oozed ‘younger brother complex’ from his every pore.

“Six isn’t bad.” Aiden sighed and threw his pen onto the table. “So, what’s the rub? Bacon not crispy enough?”

“What happened to Sal?”

“He finally bought that ticket to Marbella. Him and the missus flew out last night on the red eye.”

“That selfish prick,” Lambert growled. “Not even a by your fucking leave.”

Aiden shrugged and tapped morosely at his keyboard. Most of Aiden’s employees were itinerant in some way; students looking for a quick buck at the weekend, job-hoppers still searching for their calling and lazy schmucks looking for an easy ride only to realise that bar work was hard going. But Sal had been a permanent fixture for the last ten years, always dreaming about a ticket to the sun, and then wasting his pay packet on the horses or weekend jollies to France for cheap box wine.

Lambert rubbed at his beard. “The new guy. He for real?”

“Eskel?”

“Yeah.” Lambert yanked a rickety old chair over from the wall and sat on it backwards, arms folded beneath his chin. “Looks like one of Emhyr’s goons used him as a scratching post. ‘I can’t speak but I’m a good listener’?”

“He’s former forces. Not sure which. He’s… uh, part of that new government initiative. Veterans’ Strategy Action Plan.”

“Thought that was meant to put them in prisons and healthcare and shit?” It wasn’t unusual for Aiden to get involved in charity cases. Despite his feeble attempts at cultivating a fearsome reputation, he was a soft touch with a heart of gold. There wasn’t an AA programme, drug rehabilitation scheme, ex-con reform schtick or fresh start for young offenders’ initiative that he wasn’t involved in. Something about giving back to the community, or doing right by his dad, or something. Everyone had their dreams.

“Eskel’s… uh, he’s got some shit goin’ on in his head, you know. What he went through was hard. He’s happy to do some security on Saturday nights, knows how to pour a good Godfather, so he’s a decent gamble.”

“Shit going on in his head?”

Aiden narrowed his eyes and slumped back in his chair. “You know that’s confidential, and I’ve already told you too much. Fuck off and eat your dinner, I’ve got shit to do. I’ll join you for a quick one before you leave.”

Lambert rolled his eyes and left the office, pausing only long enough to bid farewell Gaetan and receive another grunt in reply. By the time he returned to the bar, Eskel was placing his mac and cheese on a neat place mat next to his whiskey. Lambert paused at the corner, taking a moment to admire the line of Eskel’s waistcoat around his muscular frame. Not too shabby. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad having some new eye candy around the place. Eye candy that didn’t talk back. Winner-winner-chicken-dinner.

“He was busy,” Lambert informed Eskel as he sat down at the bar. Eskel afforded him another nod, with a quirked brow, and then turned back to wiping down the pint glass in his hands. Lambert picked up his fork and focused on wolfing down his dinner as quickly as humanly possible. He watched Eskel work discreetly, looking up only when Eskel’s back was turned or his focus elsewhere. Lambert watched his forearms flex as he restocked the fridge with bottled cider, the fold of his shirt collar beneath the rugged line of his jaw with its light peppering of dark stubble. It was because Lambert hadn’t been laid in—

He began to run the numbers and it was just so fucking depressing he stopped—

—which was why he was hyper focused. New slab of man meat. Yeah. It had absolutely nothing to do with the meandering thoughts set a-wanderin’ by Aiden’s vague comments. What was the ‘something going on’ in Eskel’s head? What did his voice sound like? What had happened to his face? What did he like to do at the weekend, and did it involve lube—?

It was too awkward. Every time Lambert opened his mouth to talk, he knew he’d get that same calm look, perhaps the eyebrow, and in the end, he said nothing.

Aiden appeared an hour later—for Lambert, it had been an hour of pretending to play Candy Crush on his phone while watching Eskel go about his duties—and they shared a beer, a few giggles, and then Lambert headed home to his empty apartment to water his Japanese Peace Lily. No, it wasn’t a fucking euphemism. Vesemir said he couldn’t be trusted with another living thing. Not even a goldfish. He couldn’t even cook (although Lambert argued that those two things definitely didn’t fucking correlate, and boiling pasta definitely counted as cooking). He laid in bed that night and stared at the ceiling, thinking about Eskel and his quiet, calm eyes.

[eightmakesonebraincell]

With the smoke and the strong winds (I can hear this is in Maddox's voice) , I was like sheesh hope our boys are doing okay

There's this gif of Jongho circulating around where he sips whiskey with one hand and mic in other with the wind sweeping his bangs and I fucking lose it everytime. On that note, I am absolutely FERAL for bf! Jongho from your texts.

On other (A)news (miss announcer yunho) While I am indeed losing my sanity, one of my abstracts got selected for publication. I am not telling many people around me cause I don't wanna jinx it but I thought this was a nice follow up to my online woes

Oh and I like how you can guess your anons to a certain extent through their writing style. Very cute

-bulleo bulleo anon

coachella!jongho with his wind-swept bangs is a ⚠️danger⚠️ to humankind because WHO LET HIM LOOK THIS YUMMY

but omg omg omg!!! your abstract got selected for publication??? THAT'S HUGE OH MY GOD??? THE BIGGEST CONGRATULATIONS TO YOU BUBS I'M SO PROUD OF YOU 🥹🫶 also you were the first anon i ruled out bc you use capitals HAHAHA

[redheadspark]

Can you do prompt 14 with Azriel and his best friend?

A/N - This is great for Azriel, Thanks for requesting this, Anon!

Finally

Summary - Azriel saves the day, in more ways than one

Warnings - Just some fluff!

“So you two….kissed?”

“Did I not just say that, Cas?”

“What?  I’’m making sure I’m getting my story straight!”

You were hiding your face in your hands, completely embarrassed at how Cassian was beyond casual with his whiskey glass in hand, leaned back in his chair as you were sitting in the outdoor area of Ritas.  The rest of the Inner Circle was going to meet up with you all for your monthly dinner, thinking it was a good idea to have it at Ritas that night since the war summer nights were too inviting to not eat there.  Cassian was holding down a massive table and near the terrace, seeing both you and Azriel walked up looking a bit embarrassed.  

Azriel looked more embarrassed, his ears were tinted red and his wings were tucked in far too tight while you were blessing madly along your cheeks and averting your eyes to the ground.  Cassian knew from the very moment he saw you two, something went down before you arrived. 

So you told him.

“Come on, tell me one more time what happened,” Cassian asked in a leisurely manner, chuckling as he took another sip from his drink.  Azriel growled as you huffed and held your glass of wine in a death grip.

“Azriel was meeting me at the shop to walk me here,” You explained calmly.

“As he normally does since you two are besties,” Cassian added, dodging the napkin that Azriel threw at him and laughing, “I’m just saying!  Anyways…continue!”

“My ex saw me leave me the shop, with his girlfriend,” You explained some more, Azriel grumbling a bit from the mention of your ex boyfriend to him.  Being your best friend, Azriel heard all the woes of your ex and what he put you through.  He hated the guy, mostly by associate because he hurt his best friend, but also the guy was well known for knowing how to woe women and not settle.  

Something Azriel knew would never be enough for you, his best friend and secret crush. 

You and Azriel have been best friends since you were teenagers, you befriend him along with Rhysnad and Cassian though your father and Rhysand’s mother and their friendship.  Azriel was the closest to you, and with constant jabs and jokes from the other two Illyrian brutes, you two never really thought about being together. Neither of your cared to listen or feed into the gossip, yet it never really went away as you two went your own ways in careers and professions.  

You still thought of Azriel, you thought of you as his better half and you felt the same.  The feelings lingered when you were young adults and well into your adult years, yet there were always obstacles that were in the way.  He became the Spymaster, you went to open your own shop in the town of Velaris and because successful.  You two stayed in contact with each other, Azriel even ripping you in to being part of the Inner Circle some years back when things were settling back down in Velaris after the Battle against Hybern. 

This ex, the very ex who dumped you after you found out he cheated on you with his own ex, Azriel hated him with everything inside of him,

“That guys a dick,” Cassian grumbled as he drank the rest of the whiskey down in one go, “So he saw you two walking and that’s when you two kissed?

“Well….” You were about to say as you looked over at Azriel and you saw him glare at Cassian.  Your ex was walking with his girlfriend, the very girl he cheated on you with, together wrapped in each other’s arms and looking blissfully happy.  The last you spoke to him was when you threw out his things from your apartment, making it a bit of a spectical in your neighborhood.  He didn’t think of it as a big deal as he gathers his stuff on the ground and waltzed away, ending up with his ex three days later.  

There he was, seeing you walking out of your shop with Azriel and he snorted from the site.  Hw and Azriel were cordial with one another when you were dating your ex, merely because they both wanted you to be happy and you wanted them to play nice.  Azriel thought of him as pompous, and your ex thought of him as a brooding wannabe.  So when Azriel got wind that your ex cheated on you, there was an instant target on his back with no sig of slowing down.  

Azriel saw you look at your ex and have a sour look on your face, and he did the one thing he’s both wanted to do and thought would be appropriate: he kissed you.

“Full on kissed?!” Cassian hissed, trying to contain the smile on his face as Azriel was rolling his eyes and you were fiddling with your wind glass with your fingers, “Man, Az.  Never thought you would be that bold,”

“Cassian, I swear to the Cauldron…” Azriel said to him in a low tone, but the bite was not there in his voice.  In fact, he sounded a bit softer than the scolding tone he had before.  You thought for a split moment that he regretted kissing you, and that was going to break your own heart since you knew your feelings for him were constant for the last century or two.  

But how could it be nothing, the way he kissed you and made your heart sing, how he cradled your face in his palm as he pressed another kiss against your lips and his spare hand wrapped around your waist to pull him in a bit closer.  

It felt like a fever dream, a dream that always plagued your mind as you slept or daydreamed.  Now it came true, in such an unusual way, but it was now exposed to the world as Azriel pulled away and stared dumbfondly at you.  Neither of you saw your ex look away quickly and rushed off with his girlfriend.  You and Azriel were simply watching each other, not saying a word or two and thinking of what to even say to break the tension.  

Azriel broke the tension with a smile, a massive one that was from ear to ear.

“Well this is great news then!” Cassian replied as he poured himself another small drink of whiskey in his glass, “I take it you wanna keep it under wraps from the others?”

“You know the answer to that question,” Azriel replied to Cassian whom nodded his head and laughed.

“I hear you, message received! Your secret is safe with me!” Cassian replied, then looking past you and Azriel and pointing with his hands, “There’s the rest of the group!  I’ll go get them, hang tight love birds!”

He waltzed away from the table before you and Azriel could warn him.  It left you and Azriel awkwardly sitting next to each other, a moment of silence as you finally spoke after a few long moments.

“That went better than I thought,” You hummed, Azriel finally smiling for the first time since you two made it to dinner, “I honestly thought he was going make it worse for us,”

You remembered the pair of you walking over to dinner a few minutes later, train to figure out what you were going to say to the Inner Circle.  Maybe it felt like you two were going to be caught in some kind of scandalous act, since it seemed like you two were the only ones who knew of each other’s feelings.  

“The lady over there just asked if we were a couple,” Azriel commented, gesturing to the older women behind you two as you were walking away from the shop.

“Well, we did just kiss,” You reasoned with him as your steps were echoing along the cobblestone streets.  Azriel smirked. 

“I know, but it’s still cool that we’ve finally been asked, don’t you think?” He asked you in a small coy manner, you had to blush and giggle.

“Oh good, we found you two!”  The rest of the Inner Circle came over to the dinner, happy and looking like they were ready for a good drink and some good food.  Both you and Azriel smiled, not showing it on your faces as the chairs were filled and a server came by to get the drinks of the newcomers.  But under the table, you and Azriel laced your fingers together and never once let go.  It felt right for you two, finally after some centuries of hiding it from one another.

And you two never saw Cassian smile behind his whiskey glass at the site of his two friends finally in love. 

The End

August Prompt Session

[cassiachales]

Journal Entry Three [And Noticing That Grayson Hawthorne Has Extremely Nice Arms]

note: y'all are so sweet with your comments like sjhfhdgjhs. anyway since some of you guys wanted to be in the taglist, i made one!! taglist: @f4iry-bell, @never-enough-novels, @reminiscentreader

Wednesday– Sunday was the last day I saw Grayson Hawthorne but that does not mean Sunday was the last day he was in my head. And oh my gods that waist. So slutty. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Xander crossed his legs from where he was leaning against the wall. “I thought Whiskey Woes would’ve been enough.”

You scoff. “Do you even know your brother? He’d rather drink his and my bottle of whiskey before answering any question.”

You remember how his lips looked on the full glass of whiskey, and how he drank the whole glass without looking away from you.

“If you get turned on by looking at a guy drink whiskey, I don’t even know who to set you up with.” Xander says.

“I don’t get turned on–”

“Don’t even start.” 

“Fine.” You huff. “But why is he so damn hot?”

“We have to make him fall for you.” Xander says, ignoring you. “Fall into his arms.” Xander wags his eyebrows suggestively, and you look away.

“One, I can’t trip on purpose, and two, that will make me look desperate.”

“Everyone’s throwing themselves at him; all you have to do is do it classily.”

You grin. “Like what? Like, oh no, the heat. It wounds my heart, Mr. Hawthorne.”

“That is such terrible acting.” A voice behind you says, and you groan.

Grayson Hawthorne is behind you, and you don’t know just how much he overheard.

And he’s leaning against the wall, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and top button unfixed.

And he looks hot.

“It was meant to be terrible.” You grumble, rolling your eyes.

“No doubt.”

You begin to wonder why someone who talks so dryly has some so close to capturing your heart.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── He talks as though he’s constantly in a business meeting, and he dresses as though life is business and he’s the chairman. Except for some times where he actually looks extremely ravished. Like today. Gods I just want to run my hands through his hair and mess it all up. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“I need to ask, why do you stare so much? Is it just at me, or do you stare at everyone you meet?”

Only the attractive ones.

He raises his eyebrow. “You find me attractive?”

And there comes your habit of saying things out loud. And the fact that there’s no Xander snickering behind you, he probably left.

Traitor.

“You know what, I just realised that I have three essays due. So like, bye.”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── He probably thinks I’m obsessed with him or something. Maybe I am but he’s never gonna read this journal so. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

He tilted his head to the side and watched you turn and go the other way before he called your name.

Your name.

Not a “Ms.” and your last name.

Your real name.

“Your car is parked in the opposite direction, in case you forgot.”

You turn around, before shooting a thumbs up. “Totally knew that.”

His lips quirk up, and you can’t help but stare. He looks so infuriatingly gorgeous in his neatly pressed suits and perfectly styled hair and you often find your mind straying to how he would look messed up.

His hair all ruffled and his shirt with slight creases and your lips on his–

Not the last one. That was just an extra thought.

“Would you like me to drop you off? To your car?” Grayson asks, and you feel like he could do anything and you would find him every bit the gentleman.

He could kiss you and make you look ravished and wrap your legs around his waist and even then, he would be perfectly gentlemanly.

You nod. “That would be nice.”

He pushes off the wall, using his hand to show you the way. “Then? I do not have all day, love.”

Your brain is lagging.

He called you love.

And Grayson Hawthorne looks like he knows exactly what that did to you. 

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── He called me love. LOVE. And by god, if that self-satisfied smile on his face means anything, he looks so smug seeing what effect that had on me. Bloody bastard. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

His confidence doesn’t slip at all, and you walk towards him.

His eyes are maddening.

It’s like a bottle of wine. Heady and intoxicating but you just want more and more even if it could poison you.

The two of you walk towards where your car is parked, and then, you feel as though the universe hates you.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── Guess what happened then. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You tripped.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── I tripped. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

On a pebble.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── I fucking tripped on a pebble. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You’re falling forwards, thinking you’re going to smash your nose against the pathway when two really strong arms come around your waist.

Very strong.

You notice how good his arms look when they’re flexed like that, and god, does he look hot.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── He caught me before I fell, but goodness. I thought his waist was the best part about his body. I was so damn wrong, because man, do his arms look amazing. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“Are you all right?” He whispers. You feel his mouth at the curve of your ear, and you shiver.

For a moment, you berate yourself for having such a reaction to just his voice.

“Yeah.” You whisper back.

You can hear the stupid smile in his voice when he says: “I guess you did fall into my arms after all.”

You're too lost in his touch to feel embarrassed that he heard you and Xander talk about it.

He pulls you back, making you stand steady on your feet, before he removes his arms from your waist.

But he doesn’t do it sharp and quick, as though you burned him.

He does it slowly, his long fingers featherlight on your waist as they pull away.

You can still feel his phantom touch.

“Why– How do you do this to me?” He murmurs, so low as though he doesn’t want you to hear it.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── Then he goes and murmurs about how I do something to him and his voice is gorgeous when he murmurs. I’m becoming one of those fangirls on the internet. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The man is seducing you, slowly. Everything about him is slow.

The way his lips touch the glass of whiskey and downs it in one slow gulp.

The way his fingers move from your waist and leaves a phantom touch.

The way he blinks now, leading you forwards towards your car again.

It’s like he knows what he does to you.

Oh, he knows.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── He knows that I’m falling for him. He knows that when I’m with him, I lose myself. Oh god, he knows. And I love it. ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Journal Entry Two ☆ Journal Entry Four

[greenunoreversecard]

OMG HI?! I HAD NO CLUE YOU TOOK REQUESTS AND WROTE FICS?? IM HERE FOR A REQUEST GREENY !!

anyway, my request is for husk x optimist!reader, like the reader is this person who tries to see the light in all the crappy situations hell throws at them and eventually just can’t take it anymore and goes down to husk’s bar and gets a drink (which is a rare occurrence for reader) and then just starts rambling on about how life is just awful for them and that it’s just so hard for them to push through and act like everything’s just fine and dandy? and husk helps em thru it and carries em to bed? :)

gn! or fem! reader is fine for this, whatever you want!! feel free to take some creative liberties with this haha i trust you!!

i can’t wait to see it!!

— mio 💕

jsjdowid I do!!! I also try and request on others pages to help spread the love :p

The Healers Broken Heart

->Husk x Gn! Reader

Youve always been know to rival Charlie's pep and optimism.

But it seems today just wasn't in your favor, was it?

Maybe it was sleeping through your alarm. Maybe it was seeing someone you'd rather leave in the past. Maybe it was the date itself. The reasoning isn't to important as you make your way through the doors of the hotel and beeline for the bar.

"Instead of a drink can you just hand me the fullest bottle of pink Whitney you have?"

Husk raises his eyebrow at you, before letting out a low whistle.

"Damn. Shit day?"

"Something like that."

"Well, angel drank the last of theWhitney, but i got everclear, and a couple flavored vodkas and some whiskeys, if any of those suit your fancy?" His voice low and gruff as he quietly lists the available alcohols.

"Fuck it, gimme the everclear"

He whistles lightly again, turning from the glass he was cleaning to the display behind him, grabbing the unopened bottle of everlcear and setting it in front of you.

He watches as you screw of the cap, and throw it back, chugging a good amount of the alcohol, unflinching.

"I was gunna ask if you want a chaser with that, but by the looks of it you don't." He pauses a moment, eyebrows still raised in shock as he watched you drink like a alchoholic of 30 years, before remembering himself and going back to the blank slate he normally keeps his face at.

"Wanna talk about it?" He treds carefully. But this question seems to hit the dam holding back the floodgates of emotions, and tears lightly prick you eyes so you take another large swig.

"Life fucking sucks, everything fucking sucks and I don't want to deal with it anymore." You go to take a third large swig, before his hands stop you.

"Maybe wait. Everclears stronger than a muthafucka, so give it a minute to set in, and then decide if you need more." He says, prying the bottle from your iron grip. "And when your ready, elaborate."

And so, after a moment, when you feel it start to set in, you do. You tell him all of your woes. Tears start streaming, at some point.

And at some point, Husk crossed the island between you two, and brought you head to his chest, gently stroking your hair and listening. Listening and caring. That's not something your particularly used to, So to speak.

And at some point, in your now drunken stupor. He dries your tears, assurance pouring from his lips like a waterfall, as he carries you up the stairs, and towards your room, setting you gently on the bed and helping you when you ask to change from jeans to sweat, always remaining ever the gentleman. He sets advil and a glass of water on your nightstand, before standing in front of where you lay, bleary eyed and lightly kisses your forehead.

And as you fall asleep, you realise. That maybe, just maybe, its ok to not be ok.

And maybe it's OK to cross some professional lines with the bartender.

Because in the end, you won't want have anyone but husk listen to you and care for you, and Carry you home.

Even the healers need to be healed.

----

A/N ending note: Hope this was OK, and hoped you liked it!! Thank you for requesting, i really liked it and enjoyed writting it<333 sorry if its short fiejfjks