#also SORRY i know u sent this a while ago

[aquaquadrant]

Headcanon time: Dr Atlas' overworld counterpart is the same scientist that created Doc and Stress (also trio trauma bonding, because why not)

Also I can't help but imagine this scenario happening if Tango gets kidnapped and taken back to Hels:

Non Life Hermits: "You're back early."

Life Hermits: "Tango was kidnapped."

Non Life Hermits: "What?"

Life Hermits: *grabs weapons* "Tango was kidnapped."

……. so how’d you feel if your ‘headcanon’ became ‘canon’

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

It's a Match! || 141 x Reader

[ Chapter 10 ] || [ Chapter 12 ]

Pairing: 141 x gn!Reader Words: 1.1K~ Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you? a/n: i'm in love with gaz

Chapter 11: Excuse me?

A DM suddenly shoots up to the top of the pile in Kyle’s Tinder DM list and his eyebrows raise when he sees your name.

It’s been a month and a half, maybe longer, since you two last matched and after the brief rejection and you having gotten with Price, his life moved on and he kind of forgot you existed.

But your sudden message whose preview starts with “hey sorry to be botheri-” intrigues him so he presses it.

you: hey sorry to be bothering u but i figured it was safe to dm u about this because between u and johnny u seemed to be the most mature one! is simon okay? he stopped replying to me like a week ago and im concerned

Kyle’s eyebrows shot up on his forehead upon reading the question.

Kyle: he’s been texting u? 🤨 you: HI! yeah he has Kyle: excuse me? 🤨🤨 Kyle: like texting texting u.  Kyle: as in you text him and he answers and u 2 chat? 😐 you: yes? 🙃 Kyle: tf kind of witchcraft did u pull on him? 🤨 Kyle: he doesnt text.  Kyle: not one of us can get more than a thumbs up reaction to our texts in the groupchat. 😑 you: he texts me! Kyle: 😫?? Kyle: jesus christ.  you: you didnt answer is he okay?? 😭😭

Kyle thought back on a reason why Ghost would suddenly, well, ghost you. But he can’t think of any… Ghost is a notoriously bad texter, it doesn’t surprise him that he went MIA…

And then it hits him.

It’s 8 A.M. in the rec room of their floor and Ghost was making tea just as Johnny was taking a seat in the couch.

Kyle oofed as Johnny hit him, throwing his legs over Kyle’s lap. “Watch it mate, fuck you’re bloody heavy!” He complained.

“AH, FUCKIN’ HELL!” Ghost cursed as he threw his hands up in the air the sound of water dripping on the floor catching his attention.

Kyle looked over to see Ghost had spilled his boiling hot water everywhere on the counter.

“You alright L.T.?” Soap asked a she lifted his head over the back of the couch to peer at Simon just like Gaz was.

“Great.” Ghost grunted as he picked up his phone from the counter, which was also dripping in water, while his other hand threw a rag onto the mess of water dripping down from the counter.

“Oh fuck… ‘s your phone dead?” Soap asked and Ghost grumbled under his breath, not quite answering the question, as he busied himself soaking up the spilled water.

Just then, Price showed up at the rec room door. “Simon, gear up. Got a briefing for a solo mission in 10.”

“Fuckin’ hell, yeah, yeah, I got it.” Ghost grunted as he cleaned the mess and then rushed out the door, leaving his mug of tea in the counter and clutching his now broken phone in his hands.

Kyle: hes fine. Kyle: he spilled water on his phone and killed it I think.  Kyle: and he got sent out before he could get it fixed. 🙃 you: oh okay good! you: thanks! you: sorry to have bothered you! 🙏 Kyle: now wait just a minute. 😤 Kyle: u need to explain how in the hell u and ghost talk.👀 you: ghost? Kyle: that’s his work name. 🤷‍♂️ you: fitting seeing as i thought he ghosted me Kyle: THAT’S THE JOKE I MADE JUST NOW TO MYSELF! 😭 you: were in sync it seems 😭 Kyle: answer the question tho. you: idk what u want me to answer with Kyle: wdym u dont know??? explain yourself. Kyle: how do you get ghost to text u???? you: idk? im funny ig Kyle: 😑 you: im sorry if thats not what u want to hear Kyle: wait Kyle: a couple weeks ago he was out all night Kyle: during morning training soap was talking about how he had a date Kyle: was he with u? 👀👀 you: soap? Kyle: johnny. Kyle: keep up cmon now. you: jeez don’t patronize me you: yes simon was with me Kyle: 👀👀👀 Kyle: i see. Kyle: tell me more. you: theres nothing to tell Kyle: thats a lie and u know it.  you: its not!!! Kyle: cmon. Kyle: u cant just meet with a bloke with a skull mask on and then say u dont have anything to tell. 😑😑 you: a skull mask?? Kyle: did he not wear a mask when he was with u? 🤨🤨 you: yes? you: a black one Kyle: with a skull print on it yeah? you: no??? 🙃 you: just black! Kyle: jesus christ. Kyle: and what? what happened? you: nothing?! Kyle: walk me thru it. you: we went out for a drink then came back to mine and watched a movie! Kyle: 🤨🤨 Kyle: and had a shag? you: NO???? Kyle: wdym no? thats what would normally happen with a bloke. you: and???? you: this is simon were talking about kyle you: nothing about him screams normal exactly 🙃 you: hes joked about being able to kill me with his bar ehands you: bare hands* Kyle: fair. Kyle: this raises more questions for me. you: what Kyle: like u would meet with a masked bloke that can kill u with his bare hands alone without protection? 🤨 you: i had protection Kyle: not a condom. you: oh 😅 you: well we met at a pub soooo  Kyle: what did u 2 do then Kyle: other than watch a ‘movie’ 🙄 you: played mario kart you: slept Kyle: as in Kyle: you SLEPT? like honk shoo honk mimimimi? you: yes🙄🙄 Kyle: im confused. you: ur confused? im fucking confused bro Kyle: wdym u SLEPT TOGETHER? 🙃 Kyle: WHAT KIND OF WITCHCRAFT IS THIS?  Kyle: wtf have u done to him Kyle: like ghost doesnt text, he sure as shit doesnt visit people, and he doesnt go on dates, he doesnt sleep next to people, im almost sure the man doesnt have feelings or emotions and only speaks in sarcasm  Kyle: how can u get that out of him?? 🤨🤨 Kyle: no one else can! you: well with that mentality you cant you: idk what to tell u you: we hit it off 🙄 Kyle: explain yourself. you: ive been explaining it!!!!! Kyle: no explain it better. Kyle: I think Im having a stroke.  you: idk how to make it clearer??? Kyle: thats it. Kyle: are you free rn?? Kyle: I need u to explain urself. 😑 you: Im at work? Kyle: whens ur lunch break? 👀 you: in 35 minutes. Kyle: do u like ramen? you: yes? Kyle: whats the closest japanese to ur job? you: Akira Kyle: meet me at Akira for lunch. Kyle: I’m buying. you: who said i want to meet up with u?? 🤨🤨 Kyle: man just get down there. Kyle: im offering to pay. you: fineeeee 🙄

Kyle quickly hopped up from his seat at his desk with a start and rushed back to his room to change out of his fatigues.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

taglist (CLOSED! not adding anyone else, sorry!): @daisychainsinknots , @bunnysdaydreams , @iite-cool , @lahniu , @pagesfalling , @tapioca-milktea1978 , @live-love-be-unique , @thelaisydazy , @littleghosthunter , @bossva , @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago , @chamomiletealeaf , @ghosts-hoe , @kariiiel , @ltbarnes , @irregulardongyoung , @spacelia , @hayleybarnesx , @infpt-zylith , @xxshadowbabexx , @frescoisnotinthemilitary , @leeeenistop , @lucienbarkbark , @zombie-freak , @wittleespur

@severenswife , @enarien, @agoodmoviekiss , @l0lziez , @whos-fran , @greatstormcat , @openup-yourmind , @neoarchipelago , @sodavrr , @cutiecusp , @lilliumrorum , @c-nstantine , @kneelforloki , @comeonatmebruh , @codsunshine , @waiting-so-long , @captainquake42 , @gazspookiebear , @mynameismisty , @reap3erslov3 , @reaper-chan666 , @poohkie90 , @kitwithnokat , @stick-the-dumbass , @mothsdrabbles , @justanerd1 , @thesinsoflust , @thriving-n-jiving , @blckbrrybasket

[covington-shenanigans]

so I'm on this app, Marco Polo, where you stay in touch with people by means of sending video messages. (there are probably other features, but I'm a free user, so I remain blissfully ignorant of them.) mostly I use it to annoy my sister. ("BITCH WHAT IF I GOT A PHALLOPLASTY AND HAD A BABY SHOWER FOR MY DICK. WE COULD HAVE ZUCCHINI FRITTERS. DICK-SHAPED PASTA. BANANAS FOSTER. DO U SEE MY VISION")

anyway, during the Hell Year of 2020, I saw my childhood best friend (let's call her Lee) was on this app. and like.

when I say "my childhood best friend", I mean the Weird Girl next door, who saw the Weird Girl that I was. I mean the girl I played with from age five until just shy of eleven, when my family moved away. I mean the girl I played with every day, for hours and hours, making up all kinds of elaborate scenarios involving our menagerie of stuffed animals. there were multiple overlapping, soap opera-style plotlines that lasted for years. there was drama. heartbreak. glory. she was the first friend I remember having. she was the first girl I ever loved, in my five-year-old way.

well, I hadn't seen Lee in at least 20 years and I was like, "holy shit! Lee!!!" so I sent her a "hey, nice to see you here, how you been" message.

again, this was late 2020.

now, I had been on T for a scant three months when I sent the first message, so I was a mere baby child, relative to the gruff manly man I am now. no beard, my voice had only started to wobble, still had tits... you get it. keep this in mind, it'll be important later.

I never heard back from her, but we're both Old, so I was like "eh, she probably forgot she installed the app" and forgot about it. we'd exchanged text messages at some point during the Hell Year, but like many people my age she doesn't really text, and I'm not calling anyone if I don't have to, so our communication had been sporadic, at best.

well. today I got a notification that she sent me a reply on Marco Polo.

I figured, well, she's replying to me 3.5 years late, but better late than never. I have ADHD and no friendship degradation mechanic, so I'm excited! yay! friend! :D

and then I remember. "...oh shit. she doesn't know I'm trans."

so. the thing is. I'm from Mississippi, which is. very very fucking conservative. I know Lee grew up Southern Baptist. I also know she's still living in the same town where we grew up and where she eventually graduated from high school and college. last I checked she was still attending the same Southern Baptist church where she grew up and her remaining living parent is still living in Lee's childhood home.

so this is either going to be Fine or it's going to be a disaster. lol.

in thinking it through, I figure either she's seen my updated profile pic, where I have the beard etc., or she hasn't. so either she's going to acknowledge this change or she isn't. okay. these are the possibilities. so I watch the message.

...the secret third option is... she seems to not realize when I sent the message? "sorry, I missed this when I was at work!" girl. what? I mean, you probably did miss it while you were at work... three and a half years ago. possibly she meant to reply to someone else and got me instead?

whatever. who knows. doesn't matter.

because I have the opportunity to do the funniest fucking thing in the world now

[macfrog]

ride it, cowgirl cowboy like me chapter ten

hey dudes. anyone up for some dbf? i seriously can't thank you guys enough for all the love y'all show this series. blows my mind every time. i have been super excited for this chapter for a WHILE. might be my fave so far. who knows. you can grab chapters 1-9 on my masterlist and also my ao3 if ur feeling fancy. love u all sm!!!!!! ✨💘💫

pairing: dbf!joel x fem!reader

summary: joel picks you up from a girls’ night. you’ve plans for when you get home

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) reader isn't an astrology girlie (sorry), more pining beCAUSE, alcohol consumption + a mention of the devil’s lettuce, very quick bit of unwanted touching, even quicker bit of protective joel, soft!joel, softdom!joel, one tiny mention of daddy, protected piv sex this time (feeling conservative slutty max will return), reader rides him into the sunset, age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), cursing

word count: 6.7k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist

You lazily drag yourself over and over Joel’s dick, each stroke drawing you nearer and nearer to your high. When your body starts to falter, you feel him shift, and open your eyes to see him leaning over to the nightstand. His fingers grip the rim of the black cowgirl hat you’d worn that night. He lies back, flat against the mattress, and reaches up, placing the hat on top of your head. You smile. Joel speaks in a low, gentle, but commanding whisper. “There you go, cowgirl. Show me how it’s done.”

You never believed much in the power of the universe. Astrology, moons, manifestation. Whatever. None of it ever really meant much to you. You knew your star sign, knew which cool little symbol resembled you, and that was about it. Everything past that was…confusing and, frankly, a little overwhelming.

However.

If the universe were to send you a sign, one huge, fluorescent, multi-colored, in-your-face sign, that it was on your side…this weekend might just be it.

Your dad’s downstairs, finishing up packing for his work trip. His departure is imminent. Sarah’s been in Nashville since last night. A series of texts she sent you at 3AM riddled with spelling errors and heart emojis tell you she’s been having a pretty good time so far.

You are Joel are…alone. All by yourselves. For a whole…twenty hours.

Can’t have it all, I guess.

Your eyes skim down the texts you sent him this morning, texts he is yet to reply to.

You: Merry Christmas!!!

You took his non-reply for confusion – he is almost fifty, maybe he doesn’t get the joke? It’s a pretty lame joke, anyways. Very lame. If your thumb hovers over the send button before you press it, it’s probably not that great a joke. And your thumb had most definitely hovered. So, you’d followed it up.

You: As in, today’s the day

You: I don’t mean it’s actually Christmas

You: I mean like, happy ‘we’re finally gonna be alone again’ day

You: Never mind

“Hello?” Anna’s voice cuts through your train of thought. “Are you even listening to me?”

You drop your phone, shaking your head clear of Joel. “Yep. Sorry. Just didn’t catch that last part. You froze.”

The image of her on your – pretty fucking dusty – laptop screen rolls its eyes, knowing you’re lying. “I don’t know whether to go with the pink or the black boots,” she says.

“Ain’t your dress yellow?”

Her head falls into her hands. She throws herself down onto her bed and slides her laptop closer. “That was, like, ten minutes ago. I’m goin’ with the pink strappy one now.”

“Pink does say rodeo.”

“Fuck you,” she snaps through a giggle. “Remind me what you’re wearin’, again.”

“Black hat, black boots, black dress.”

“You’re so boring.”

“Thanks. Really looking forward to our night out.”

Anna snorts and then stands back up, strides over to her closet and resumes rummaging. “Black jacket, too?” she calls over her shoulder.

“Uhuh,” you reply, glancing back down to your phone. “Although – it has rhinestones. And tassels. Not so boring after all, huh?”

Anna’s silence drags your eyes from the text thread back to your laptop screen. She’s frozen in place, twisted around with a dress in her hands, jaw on the floor. “Show it to me. Now.”

“Hold on,” you roll over and off your bed, your shoulder stiff from the position you’d been lying in, “I think I left it downstairs.”

“Tell your dad I say hey!”

You pad down the carpeted stairs in your socks, toward the sunlit hallway.

“Dad, have you seen my– Oh, fuck.”

As you round the corner at the bottom of the stairs, glancing over your left shoulder to the front door, your chest knocks into something hard. Steady. Strong.

Something you recognize the feel of before you’ve given him a proper look.

“Mind your step, baby,” Joel says, and your heart leaps.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” you whisper, peering around his body to look for your dad.

“He’s out front,” Joel tells you, then takes your shoulder and reels you in against his chest. “’m just here to help ‘im with his GPS.”

He plants a kiss on the top of your head and gives you a squeeze. Your head rests safely on his chest, arms link at his back. If you didn’t have plans tonight, and if your dad wasn’t, like, ten feet from you guys right now, you’d never let him go. Just follow him around, vice grip around his waist, surrounded by the smell and feel of him.

Not that that means anything. You’d do other stuff, too. You’re not…you know.

Your dad’s voice streams in through the open door and Joel releases you.

“It ain’t for workin’, Joel, I’m about to throw it at the f– Hey, kiddo.”

“Hey. What’s the matter with your GPS?”

You lean in to the tiny device in his hands. Joel’s elbow comes up to rest on your shoulder.

“Just won’t connect to the car. Every time I plug it in, it just…” He lifts his hands, screen loose in his fingers, and hands you a bewildered look.

You look at him, expressionless. “Why don’t you just use your phone?”

“Because I paid almost a hundred bucks for this thing, and I’ll be damned if I’m– Alright,” he stops himself, eyes shutting in exasperation, “I already explained this to him. I ain’t justifyin’ myself to the two of you.”

Joel’s laughing behind his hand, pretending to scratch his nose when your dad stalks off to the kitchen and throws the device down, snatching the instructions off the table.

The pair of you follow, both still trying to swallow your laughter. Joel wanders around the table and sits down beside your dad, fumbling with the screen. You dive into the coat closet at the bottom of the stairs and fish out your bejeweled, tasseled jacket.

“You lookin’ forward to your girls’ night?” Joel asks, eyes flitting up and down the leather jacket in your hands.

“Mhm,” you reply, opening your mouth to continue when your dad butts in.

“S’posed to be a girls’ night, but that boy Sam’s crashin’ it, ain’t he?”

“Well, we asked him.” You shrug. “It’s his night off.”

Your dad scoffs, shaking his head to Joel, who looks up to you with a confused expression. “’s the big deal with that?”

“Oh, wise up, Miller. He’s only goin’ ‘cause of…” He wags a finger in your direction, and a smirk peels across Joel’s lips.

“Is he, now?”

“Uhuh,” your dad replies, intense stare still on the instructions in front of him. “Makes no damn sense. I plugged it in using the cable they gave me in the box. Stupid thing…”

You shake your head to Joel, who’s still looking at you, bemused. He knows you and Sam are just friends. Also knows your dad is the most oblivious theorist to walk the planet. Just aiming his gun at the wrong target, is all.

“I’m gonna let you two get back to…that,” you say, turning to head back upstairs. “Anna says hi, by the way.”

Your dad’s eyebrows rise once, his eyes never lifting from his GPS. “Hi, Anna.”

“Hey, Anna,” Joel echoes, smirk on his lips.

“Not to you,” you throw back, hopping up the first step. You hear his chuckle as you disappear.

----------

Anna’s reaction to your jacket in person matches that over Facetime: a deafening squeal. A squeal which she repeats almost every damn time she sees you throughout the night.

“So – fucking – cute!” she exclaims for the fifth time, fingers dancing through the tassels. “And it goes so well with your hat.”

You sip on your cocktail, nodding enthusiastically, pushing your eyebrows up underneath the brim of the black cowgirl hat on your head. Trying to match her energy. Your mind’s elsewhere.

Joel texted you a few hours ago. Told you to have a good night, said something about Sam, but you were stood right next to the dude, so you quickly locked your phone and slipped it back into your clutch.

Now, standing with your back against the wall of Franks, watching Sam play pool with Eve, you feel safe enough to read over the message.

Joel: Have fun baby. Be safe. Tell Sam good luck from me.

You squint at the screen, pulling it away from your face and leaning back in to read it over. Good luck? The fuck does he mean –

You: Good luck??

He replies almost instantly.

Joel: Yeah. Good luck winning you over. Took me, what, a week?

Oh, fuck off. You roll your eyes and throw your phone facedown onto the table where Anna and Kara sit, about twenty minutes deep into a conversation you missed the beginning of.

Your attention turns to the room before you – brick-walled, metal dome lightshades hanging over each pool table. Glass-paneled door to your left leading back through to the main bar. For being a tiny bar on a backstreet, Frank’s is pretty lively. There are bodies everywhere, bumping by each other, drunken arms slung over shoulders, hips swaying with the soft rock song blasting from out front.

You imagine your dad here with Joel, maybe Hank and Bill, too. Playing pool, beer bottles resting on the felt while they take their shot. Or sat on the rooftop, sipping on a whiskey. Talking about you and Sarah. What does Joel say about you when you’re not around?

And what does he want to say, but can’t, ‘cause it’s your dad? What does he think, and bite back when it bubbles to the surface?

Your straw gargles, slurping up the last few sips of your drink. You lean over to Anna and Kara, holding your empty glass up.

“Another?”

They both shake their heads, and you nod, turning on your own back to the bar.

You squeeze between two older women, both dressed smart and sharp. One of them – clutching a Manhattan – shifts out of the way as you pass.

“…one more conversation with him about squash,” she tells her companion, “and I am gonna blow my brains out…”

You edge over to the bar and slot into a free space, propping your elbows up on the wood. One of Sam’s coworkers – her name escapes you – notices you and shuffles over, smiling sweetly.

“How you doin’?” she asks, running a damp cloth inside a tumbler.

“Good,” you reply. “Could I just get a Bud, please?”

“Sure thing,” she says, and reaches behind to grab one. You slide her a note and she hands you change, and then you’re on your way back to the pool room.

As you slink by the two women, a weight knocks into your shoulder, almost sending your beer flying out of your hand.

“Sorry,” a rough voice sputters on your left, and you glance in its direction. Some broad dude in a tight t-shirt.

“’s fine,” you mumble, clutching your hat; a smell of weed choking your throat.

He passes by behind you, one hand lingering a little too long on your waist, and you saunter back over to Anna and Kara.

“That dude stinks, right?” Anna whispers behind a cupped hand, and you snort.

“He smells like he’s having a good night.”

“We’re talking about Romeo and Juliet over there. We’re basically third, fourth, and fifth wheeling,” Kara says, nodding over to Sam and Eve, who’re finished their game of pool and have now graduated to darts.

“I don’t…think that’s a thing.”

“Eve asked me if Sam was single earlier,” Anna says, lifting her straw to her red lips.

“What?” Kara spits out, choking on her drink. “Eve has a boyfriend!”

Anna giggles. “He’s kinda an ass, anyway. Look at them, they’re so sweet.”

“You say sweet, I hear morally wrong.”

“Who says it’s morally wrong?” you chirp, alcohol pushing the words over your lips before your brain’s had time to stop them. Your fingers clutch your phone, still laying on the table where you left it. “You?”

“Uh, it’s cheating, dude. What if Nick found out?”

“’s not that big a deal,” you reply, phone screen lighting your face in a blue hue, “they’re just having fun.”

Anna points to you, lifting her glass. “Here’s to havin’ fun, I guess.”

Kara lifts her own reluctantly and they clink, but you’re distracted. Already typing a message to Joel. Bored. Drunk. Morally wrong.

You: What you doing?

Joel: Watching TV. What you doing?

You: What ya watvhin ?

Joel: None of your business. Go get another drink. Looks like you’re not drunk enough.

You lift your head with a giggle, almost ready to turn your phone around to Anna and Kara and say, look what the dude I’m sleeping with just text me. And then, thankfully, your good sense kicks in and you bring the screen closer to your chest.

You: Kinda bored. Wanna come home now please

Bored, horny. It all means the same.

Joel says he’ll be at Frank’s in twenty minutes. You rest your chin on your palm and watch as Sam cheers Eve for hitting bullseye.

“I think they’re cute,” you whisper.

Anna and Kara are already preoccupied, taking photos of one another across the table. Kara leans into you and you smile, flash blinding your hazy eyes for a few minutes afterward. A few more pictures, couple boomerangs of your glasses cheersing, and then your phone’s vibrating.

Joel: Outside. No rush.

That last part is where he’s wrong. There most definitely is a rush, and it’s in the form of the heat that starts to pool between your legs.

“Alright,” you shimmy off your barstool and stretch your back. “My ride’s here.”

“What?” Anna almost screams, her hand slapping down on the table. “You’re leavin’?”

You nod. “Sorry, babe.”

“Don’t babe me, traitor. It’s, like, midnight.”

“Uh, it’s, like, almost 2AM. I’m tired. I don’t know how y’all do it.”

She sighs, conceding, and agrees to walk with you to the front door. Kara and Eve stop off by the bar to grab another drink. Sam holds the door open for you and Anna and you’re hit by a wave of cold night air, instantly cooling your hot, sweaty skin.

“Is that…Mr. Miller?” Anna asks, mouth falling wide open.

You glance down the street and notice his black truck, parked up by the curb. “Mhm,” you reply, “my dad’s out of town, so he’s picking me up.”

“Can he take me home, too?”

Sam snickers. “Wow, Anna. That’s just…Wow.”

She shrugs, lips closing around her straw as she stares at Joel’s truck. Something inside you lurches at the idea of Joel sitting there, his eyes glued on you, watching everything you do, everyone around you. And then again at the thought of Anna and her doting gaze on him.

“Alright, I guess that’s my cue to skip.”

Anna pouts. “One more drink?”

“I’m good, thanks,” you scoff, patting her head affectionately. I got business to attend to.

You give her a quick kiss on the cheek and Sam wraps an arm around your shoulder, giving it a squeeze before you’re wandering off toward Joel’s truck.

“Hey.” Something – someone – hooks around your elbow, and you turn back. It’s that same guy who stank of weed.

“Hi,” you reply, as sweet as you can, but trying to loosen his grip.

“Saw you inside, you out with friends?”

“Mhm. I’m just leavin’, my–”

“Few of us are headed upstairs. You wanna come?”

You glare at him a few seconds, before yanking your arm from his grasp. “Nah, no thanks. I’m leaving. Have a good night.”

You stagger off, feeling his eyes on you as you go. Joel’s truck headlights switch on, dazzling your eyes, and you quickly click around to the passenger side, throwing yourself in beside him.

Joel doesn’t say hey, doesn’t squeeze your thigh, doesn’t even look at you when you settle into the seat. Just asks –

“Who’s that kid?”

“Uh…not sure. Bumped into ‘im in the bar.”

“He give you trouble?”

“No,” you lean over the console, pulling your seatbelt over your body, and flash him a tipsy grin, “thought that was my job. Givin’ trouble.”

Joel doesn’t reply. Doesn’t take his scowl off the dude outside Frank’s, either. Your eyes meander across to his hand, locked in a tight fist around the wheel. Your smile drops.

“Joel. It’s fine. Can we go?”

When you lift a hand to the crook of his elbow and he feels your warmth on his skin, he tears his gaze away and it lands on you. Soft, gentle. His lip isn’t curled anymore. His brows lift.

His eyes watch your lips as you whisper the words to him.

“Want you to take me home.”

“’s go, pretty girl.”

----------

Joel refuses, no matter how many times you ask, how hard you bat your eyelashes, how many promises you make, to stop by a drive thru.

“Please?” you ask one last time before he’s pulling in to his neighborhood.

He shakes his head. “Look at that, we’re already home.”

“I ain’t takin’ no for an answer, Miller, not until the engine’s off. We’re still driving.”

He doesn’t reply. Just pulls up in his drive, cuts the engine, and looks at you. Shrugs. “Oops.”

“Fuck you,” you groan, sliding down in your seat. “I’m starvin’.”

“Make you a big breakfast in the mornin’, how’s that sound?”

“Wanted a Big Mac, but whatever.”

Your fingers fumble for the door handle, clicking it open. You roll out of the truck and stroll around to meet Joel at the driver’s side. He snakes an arm around your shoulders, steadying you as you walk up his porch steps and into the house.

“I’m fine,” you murmur, glancing around his living room.

“Alright,” he says, tossing his keys and kicking his boots off.

Your eyes settle on the TV screen, paused. Probably around the time you text him. There’s a crowded hospital room onscreen, doctors in dark blue scrubs, all surrounding someone lying on a bed, someone who looks pretty familiar…

“Is that…fuckin’…Grey’s Anatomy…?”

Joel chuckles, peeling your jacket from your shoulders.

“That’s Meredith! When she–”

“She fell in the damn river,” Joel mutters, placing the tasseled leather over the back of his couch. “Derek had to go in after her. Intense stuff.”

“Right? I told you it was good!” You smack his arm. “I can’t believe you’re watchin’ it without me.”

“I ain’t watchin’ it,” he protests, “it was just on, ‘n I needed something to keep me awake. I’m still rooting for Meredith ‘n George.”

“We can watch it from the beginning.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, moving over to him. “And then I can be over here all the time, and you can make me all the grilled cheese I want, and we can lie in bed and…do stuff.” Your chin rests on his chest, flashing him a toothy grin. Hands swinging in his at your side.

Joel’s eyes narrow, but there’s a smirk on his lips. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk. I had a couple drinks. I’m not drunk.”

“H’many fingers am I holdin’ up?” Joel asks, raising his fist. You punch it away.

“Ha-ha,” you say tonelessly, and wander away from him.

“Baby,” he calls you from behind. Sure, you’re tipsy, and he can be a cocky asshole – especially when he has to take care of you, but that’s a sound you’ll never get tired of hearing. Baby. You’re his darlin’, his sweet girl.

You spin around, very nearly losing your footing, and he’s standing with an arm out, ready for you to take.

You smile dumbly. Meander over, and take his strong hand in both of yours, wrapping your fingers around two of his to let him reel you in against his body.

“C’mon,” he whispers, as you lean against his frame. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

You follow him up, knowing where he’s leading you. You’ve spent more time in there the last few weeks than you have your entire life.

His room is cool, not cold, but comfortable. It’s Joel all over; the muted colors, the décor, the smell that calms you as soon as you stumble over the threshold.

He sits you down on the edge of his bed and kneels, pulling your boots off one by one.

You giggle.

“You laughin’ at me?”

“You’re like my own personal tr…No, not trainer. Wait. Personal ch–”

“Chef?” he says, snorting. “Not chef. Try again, soberhead.”

“Oh, I dunno.” You throw your arms up as he sits your boots against the wall, then stands and takes your hat off.

“This,” he says, placing it on the nightstand at your side of the bed, “is very cute. I like it.”

“I’m cute, too, y’know,” you whisper, pouting.

He smiles, and leans down to give you a quick kiss on the lips, pointer finger under your chin.

“The cutest.”

“Ha!” you roar. Joel twists around you to undo the zipper at the back of your dress. “Joel Miller thinks I’m the cutest. Take that, Anna…”

He laughs. When he unzips you, he pulls the dress off your bare chest and down your legs. You don’t shy away, used to the idea now of him seeing you naked. Used to the idea of him seeing you in any vulnerable state; drunk, or naked, or in a sobbing mess on day two of your period.

You notice, even though you’re a tad dizzy with what alcohol is left in your system, that his eyes linger on your panties a moment before he turns and grabs a tee from a chair.

And something inside you ticks.

“Joel?”

He’s pulling the shirt over your head. It smells like him. Intoxicates you much more and much quicker than any drink you could order from Frank’s.

“Mhm?”

You feed both arms through the sleeves, swallowing the question you were about to ask. He’s standing up now, telling you to get into bed.

He walks over to his dresser and begins removing his own clothing. He only sleeps in boxershorts. Your eyes track him as he yanks his t-shirt up over his toned shoulders; fingers undo his belt, unzip his jeans. Everything is discarded to the side for now; he has something more pressing to attend to.

His best friend’s daughter, laying in his bed, a pool of wet forming in her panties.

He just doesn’t know it yet.

As he slips under the covers beside you, you pull off your underwear in one quick movement. Joel doesn’t seem to notice, or so you think; his arms immediately take hold of your waist and pull you against his body. You’ve gotten into the habit of sleeping pressed against his torso, his thigh between your legs. Joel settles comfortably with you draped over him, and lets out a deep sigh.

“Joel?” you whisper again into the darkness, growing braver.

“Hm?” he replies, starting to fall asleep.

You toss ideas over in your head. None of them good, you’re sure, but you’re getting desperate. How he can’t feel your damp core on his thigh, you’ve no idea.

But then, maybe he can? Joel doesn’t miss anything, especially not where you and your…arrangement are concerned. Can he feel you? Is he deliberately ignoring it?

Maybe he has something up his own sleeve?

“I…was just wondering…”

“Wondering what, darlin’?” His voice is muffled, spoken through unmoving lips. You glance up at his face. His eyes are closed.

You grow more desperate.

“…wondering what your body count is?”

You ask it as innocently as you can, your voice wavering on the words body count. It gets him, though, as his eyes blink open a few seconds after you say it.

“I ain’t tellin’ you that. Go to sleep.” He closes them again.

“I wanna know.”

He ignores you.

“Joel,” you moan.

He calls you by name now, and you’re not sure if you’re pissing him off or turning him on – or both.

“Go. To. Sleep.”

“I’m not tired, though. Not yet.”

In response, Joel lets go of his hold on you and rolls over without another word. It’d sting if you weren’t soaking wet right now, and didn’t have a strong hunch he was hardening under the sheets.

“Joooel…” you whine, sitting up on your elbow. No use.

You take hold of his shoulder and tug him back toward you, rolling him onto his back. Like a deadweight, he remains frozen.

“Ugh,” you groan, and drag yourself on top of him, knees either side of his waist, ass hovering. When you sit back onto him, your core lining up with his crotch, your suspicions are proven right.

He’s hard.

Not as hard as he can get, as you’d like him to be, as you’ve felt him before…but he’s hard.

“Joel…” you mewl into the darkness, starting to grind your bare center over his boxers. The friction feels good, so you apply more pressure.

“If you don’t stop that,” Joel’s voice finally grumbles, “I’ll be sleepin’ downstairs.”

“Sex in the living room sounds good to me.”

His eyes open. “We,” one hand comes up to point between the both of you, as if he doesn’t expect your sobering self to understand which pairing he means, “are not having sex. No sex tonight.”

You sigh, shoulders dropping dramatically.

“Huff all you want, baby, it is not happening.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because you’re a few drinks too deep and it’s three in the morning. I’m tired, it’s been a long night waitin’ for you, I–”

“So let me make it up to you. I ain’t even drunk anymore.”

“No?”

“Nuh-uh. Could count any number a’ fingers you put in front of me.”

“Funny.” He closes his eyes.

“Joel.” You drag your hips again. If anything, he’s harder than he was when you first sat down on him. “I had a few drinks, I’ve sobered up. C’mon…”

You bend your waist and lower yourself to align your lips with the side of his head, peppering the skin under his ear with soft kisses.

“I wanna ride you, daddy.”

This gets him. His eyes open again, staring up at the ceiling. His hands slowly come up to rest on your hips.

“Don’t– That’s low, even for you, kid.”

You giggle and straighten up. When your hands lightly trace down his chest, onto his midriff and follow the trail of hair to his boxers, he doesn’t stop you. Just watches from beneath hooded lids, tensing at each point your fingers touch.

You raise your eyebrows, watching his expression for any sign to stop, and it never comes. He remains in place when your fingertips hook around the waistband of his underwear, slowly pulling down.

Joel breathes in deep when you reveal the tip of his cock, springing up to rest on his lower stomach. You feel your core clench. If he’s not inside you in the next five minutes, you might scream.

Well, you’ll be screaming either way.

You look back into his eyes and tilt your jaw, asking for permission.

“Go on,” he whispers.

Your hands take him eagerly, pumping up and down his shaft, and his head falls back onto the pillow with pleasure.

“Uhuh,” you mumble, focusing on his solid dick, but desperate for more. You give him a gentle squeeze and a groan passes his lips, his grip tightening on your body.

You let go of him and grind your hips along his length, folds coating his shaft in your wetness. Joel’s humming, watching as you pull yourself up and down him.

Then, you lean forward, and your hands take hold of him again. You give him a couple more strokes, eliciting a deep groan, and then line his bare cock up at your entrance, practically foaming at the mouth to sink down on him already.

“Woah, woah,” Joel takes hold of your wrist, “slow down, cowgirl. I gotta get a condom.”

You huff as he leans over to his nightstand and opens the drawer. “Don’t want one, Joel, I’m on the pill.”

“No way, baby,” he says through a chuckle, silver wrapper in his fingers. “We already did that, one too many times.”

“So just pull out?”

“Nope.”

You sigh, frustrated.

Joel holds the packet out to you, smirk on his face like he doesn’t expect you to take it.

So, you do.

You steal it from him and tear the wrapper, fishing the rubber out between your two fingers. Pinching the top, you roll it down his shaft and pump up and down for good measure.

“Ready?” you ask, head tilted, cocky smile on your lips.

“Wait, wait,” he whispers, shoulders lifting off the mattress. He lifts the hem of your shirt, telling you, “Off,” before pulling it over your head, exposing your bare breasts.

He stares you down; legs wide open, straddling him, completely naked, nipples hardened, figure silhouetted against the slivers of light peeking through the shades from the streetlights outside. You’ve never felt so confident, mounted on top of Joel fucking Miller.

His eyes roll back and his head falls against the pillow. “Fuckin’ – knock yourself out, baby.”

You steady yourself with one hand on his chest, the other taking hold of his cock and guiding it to your entrance. You push his head through your folds a couple times, and Joel hisses at the feeling, before you sink down.

You stop after the tip the first time, but it draws the same reaction from you both. Joel groans even louder than before, and you moan as you push yourself back up.

Then, without warning, you sink the whole way down.

He’s so deep it brings tears to your eyes, so big that he’s stretching you out more than you thought possible, hitting all the right spots already before you’ve even begun.

Joel’s eyes are screwed shut, his grip on your hips digging into your skin so tight it almost hurts. His jaw is tight, holding back what you can only imagine are the neediest moans he could sound.

So, you decide to draw them from him.

You lean forward and begin bouncing, feeling his thickness pull out and push back into you, both hands on Joel’s chest now for balance. You’re whimpering, the burn of his cock stretching your tight cunt so good and borderline painful at the same time, but you don’t stop.

“Good girl, good fuckin’ girl,” Joel moans, opening his eyes to watch you ride his dick. “’attagirl, just like that.”

“Joel…” you cry, letting him bottom out each time, feeling his balls slam into your ass with each bounce.

“Yeah? You like that? Tell me, baby, use your words.”

“So – good – Joel – oh!” you shout.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl for me, huh?”

You fight against the urge to close your eyes; the pleasure between your legs and the knot beginning to tighten in your stomach are all you can see, hear, feel, but you want to watch him some more. You want to see what you do to him.

You lean forward even further, moving your hands to the pillow either side of his head, so you’re directly above him now. One of Joel’s hands comes to the back of your head, pulling you down until your foreheads are together, moans escaping your mouths only to be inhaled by the other.

Joel speaks to you quieter, through gritted teeth.

“Like ridin’ me, do ya? Like the way it feels?”

“Mhm,” you moan back, and he brings a hand down to slap your ass. You yelp. “Fuck…”

“You look so good, baby, so good. Such a fuckin’ whore for me, hm?”

Another stinging spank pulls a whine from you so filthy, so loud that you’re sure the neighbors will hear, even at this hour. Joel smirks back, resting his hand back on your hip, where he has a grip of you.

Then, he bucks his own hips, pushing into you deeper than before, so deep you see stars. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, panting through the searing pain so good that you never want it to end.

“Joel – I’m gonna – fuck, I’m gonna cum!”

“That’s it, sweet girl, cum all over me. Let go, baby, I’m here.”

That does it. The coil snaps, your walls clench. Joel lets out a guttural moan as you throw your head back and ride him through your orgasm. He coos you through it, squeezing your hips, whispering, That’s my girl, doin’ so good, baby as your body rocks back and forth on his cock.

When you come back down to earth, your lids heavy and breathing staggered, you swear your body can’t take anymore. You feel so fucked out that you’re not sure you can sit up straight on top of Joel.

But he’s always been able to read your mind, and this is no different. He pulls himself up and into you, propped up with one strong hand on the mattress behind his back, the other wrapping around your waist. His cock is still buried deep inside you.

“Joel…” you whimper pathetically. “Can’t do it anymore…”

“That’s okay, baby, we’re gonna do this one together, alright? I got you. Can you do that for me? Just one more?”

You link your arms around his neck and lean into him; his strong form doesn’t shift, just takes on your weight and keeps the both of you upright as he starts to bounce you on his length again.

You’re overstimulated; your cunt swollen, fucked-out, drenched in cum, but Joel makes you feel so good that it’s impossible to let him stop. Your arms pull him in closer to your chest to steady yourself, and his groans echo in your ear.

“Good girl, that’s– that’s it, so fuckin’ tight for me, pretty girl.”

When it all becomes too much to take – Joel’s hand squeezing your waist, your clit rutting against the bottom of his stomach, his fucking cock buried so deep inside you that you swear you can feel him splitting you open – you push him back down onto the bed.

Once when you still lived in New York you read something in a Cosmo about spelling the word ‘coconut’ with your hips when riding a guy. You’d tried it a couple times with hookups, and it’d never done anything for you. They’d never done anything for you.

But here you are, nearing your second orgasm, on top of someone making such a mess of you that you brain can hardly compute to spell coconut, never mind your hips being able to round the shape of the word.

You lazily drag yourself over and over Joel’s dick, each stroke drawing you nearer and nearer to your high. When your body starts to falter, you feel him shift, and open your eyes to see him leaning over to the nightstand.

His fingers grip the rim of the black cowgirl hat you’d worn that night. He lies back, flat against the mattress, and reaches up, placing the hat on top of your head. You smile. Joel speaks in a low, gentle, but commanding whisper.

“There you go, cowgirl. Show me how it’s done.”

It’s all you need. It’s all it takes, by this point.

You brace yourself against his chest again, positioning yourself just right, and bounce on him until your vision starts to blur.

The noises slipping out of Joel’s mouth each time your bodies connect at the base of his cock push you closer and closer; every groan and whimper which passes his lips makes you sink your hips down even harder, pushing him deeper and deeper with every bounce.

“So – fuckin’ – big – inside me,” you slur, and Joel moans in response.

When he takes your hips in his hands again, you know he’s there. He’s just waiting for you to fall first.

You give in to him, feeling yourself close around his length, throwing your head back in pleasure as your second orgasm washes over you, igniting every inch of your body.

Joel’s groans meet yours as you lean forward again, slowly rolling your hips to coax him through his own orgasm. Watching him release, buried deep inside, he looks so good that you feel like you could cum again just at the sight.

You feel his cock start to go limp inside you and when he opens his eyes, panting, you smile sweetly at him.

“Fuck, darlin’.”

You giggle, hips still driving gently against his. “Good?”

“So good, baby, did so well. You’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispers with a trembling breath, taking your waist in both hands and giving it a tight squeeze. You roll to the side, letting his cock slip out of you, condom full of his seed.

You tumble onto the mattress beside him, both heaving, moaning messes. Your chests rise and fall in sync, fingers tangling and untangling by your sides.

Then Joel gets up, and wanders over to the bathroom, where you watch him through the open door as he pulls the filled rubber from his soft dick. He bins it, then runs a facecloth under the faucet, dabbing it across his own forehead as he makes his way back over to you.

You can’t hide your grin as you watch his naked form approach; tan lines where his t-shirt must end, dark hair decorating his arms, legs, chest, the base of his cock. He sits at the edge of the bed, arm outstretched with the flannel in hand.

You go to take it from him, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. Just pats it over your face gently, soft gaze on yours, your fingers intertwined around his wrist. Your eyes fall closed, the cold cloth a relief against your warm, sweaty skin.

“Feel nice?” he whispers.

You nod in response. Your chest swells at how soft he’s being, how tender. When he stands to throw the flannel back into the sink, you almost find yourself reaching out to hold him down.

He climbs over you, springing back down onto the mattress with a heaving sigh.

You prop yourself up and shimmy over, positioning yourself on top of Joel, chest-to-chest. He looks down and smirks, running a lazy hand across your cheek.

“You’re so good to me,” he mumbles.

You tilt your head with a smile and lay down on his chest. You can hear his heartrate slowly calming down. His fingers twist through your messy hair.

“I have no idea what you’re laced with,” he says, “but you got me.”

You smile. “Yeah?”

Joel nods. You shift positions, adjusting your aching hips safely between his thighs. “You hurtin’?” he asks.

You nod. “Mhm. But I like it. It’s you.”

Joel’s hands run through your hair and his fingertips trace your shoulders. His touch is so light it almost tickles. You turn your jaw and kiss the back of his hand.

“My dad gone, Sarah out, free house…” you mutter.

“Hm.”

“So, you invite your mistress over.” You lift your head, smirking at him.

Joel’s chest vibrates with laughter. “You ain’t my mistress.”

“Oh really? What am I, then?”

“I am not having this conversation at 4AM, kid. Ask me again tomorrow.”

You’d think of something to throw back at him, messing with him, but your entire body aches, and your heavy eyes are starting to fold closed with how sleepy you suddenly feel.

You pull Joel’s sheets over yourself, turning your back to him. Joel instantly follows suit, pulling up right behind you, your back tight to his chest, his thighs cupping the back of yours, then slipping one between your legs.

His arms lock around your torso under the sheets. Safe. Secure. Nothing can happen to you as long as he’s got you.

“Ten,” his voice mumbles against the back of your head.

You turn so your ear is pressed against his lips. “Huh?”

“Ten. That’s my number. Includin’ you.”

Oh.

He doesn’t ask to hear yours. You wouldn’t mind if he did, but he doesn’t. You don’t think he’s telling you to hear yours in exchange. He’s telling you because you asked. He’s telling you because, whether in attempt to turn him on or simply to know something about him that you didn’t before – something nobody else knows – it mattered to you.

He’s telling you because you matter to him.

You nuzzle back into him a little, a form of reply, and, as you start to fall asleep, you feel him place a gentle kiss to your ear.

----------

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[malvoile]

Me and the Devil ; iv

ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴘᴀᴜʟ ɪꜱ ʀᴏᴜꜱᴇᴅ ʙʏ ʜɪꜱ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ. ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴄᴏɢɴɪᴢᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ.

word count: 11.7k warnings: canon-typical violence, allusions to serious injury, heavy descriptions of blood, family death, brief mention of dying during childbirth, plot (im looking at u rn. u know who u are), foreshadowing. v v v brief allusion to former feydxreader (finger sucking. blood. im sorry its over quick). besides that, fluff and light angst - and a fair amount of lore. btw. if you're russian and reading this i love you notes: hey cuties!! it has been so long and i apologize for that! i was in a cast for my hand for a few weeks, and then life got busy. things are still busy busy and rough but here's an update for u all for being so effing nice :) i rly hope you enjoy, fun things are coming i swear! love u all [header image is for aesthetic purposes only.] pls consider supporting authors with comments/reblogs :) previous series masterlist

Dearest Niece,

I hope this message finds you in good health, despite the trying times you have endured. I cannot begin to imagine the pain and sorrow you must have experienced in the wake of the tragedy that befell our family. To have been thrust into the midst of such turmoil and danger must have been unimaginably difficult.

Today I write to you also with heartfelt congratulations on your recent betrothal to Paul Atreides; While I understand that this union may have come at an inopportune time, I have every confidence that you will make for yourself a splendid future on Caladan. Duke Leto is a noble, honorable man, and I have no doubt that his son is the very same.

Please know that you are not alone in your sorrow, my dear niece. Know that our home is always open to you, and one day I would be honored to meet your new husband and welcome him to Ginaz. 

In the meantime, I hope this message brings some small comfort to your troubled heart. I have every confidence that you will emerge from this darkness stronger than ever before.

With all my love,

Lady Ginaz

- Message sent to Lady Bourbon from the Lady Ginaz. 10191. Caladan.

For the second time in his life, Paul is roused by his mother in the dead of the night.

At her hushed instruction, Paul blinks blearily, staggering after his mother’s grave visage, padding barefoot across the wing; a hall, lit only by the lick of waxed moon looming in the sky and the curling tendrils of slumber pulling at his mind. 

It is not until his mother opens the door that the sense of dread fully solidifies within his chest – a chamber at the end of the hall, an ornate chair placed in the center – and sat within it, the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohaim.

Any remnants of tired sighs and heavy eyes cease immediately; Paul’s eyes snap forward, blood thrumming and alert. 

Searing pain; a memory of years ago washed onto the shores of his mind – humanity, that nameless obscurism. The Gom Jabbar. A test. 

A bitter reminder of the consequence of trust; Paul spares a glance to his mother, his posture rigid. A crack in granite, a splintered thorn on a plucked rose. 

The reminder is acidic upon his tongue.

He is dropped within the choppy waters of silence and anticipation – a phantom memory of pain and disquiet alike; and with a square of his shoulders, Paul steps forward towards the shrouded woman. It is a test in of itself, his mind computes in a whirring, quick blink, steel yourself. Do not betray your mind.

 “What’s this?” His voice drips in condescension; no effort at all to hide such disdain.

The voice comes; a low drawl, chrisomed in black. “Tell me of your dreams, Paul Atreides.” 

It is the sharp, needle-like stare that sends that wave of dissent through him – and a sharp glare is then moved to level his mother. She merely nods towards the Reverend Mother, and Paul drowns in the waters. 

So, Paul steps forward, and he speaks of the hauntings that come to him each night. 

Lapsed by the less pertinent details of his dreams, Paul’s lips spill of eerie clearings, a shroud of ceremony white against the weeping earth; flakes of smoky snow raining from a clear sky, streaks of missiles cracking along the orange the horizon, splintering the world in two. A large pine, shivering and quaking as its limbs creak and bend, unfurling its burnt sap and smoldering barked skin.

“I’ve tried to make use of them,” he murmurs, brows furrowed with visions of soft skin, sharp gasps and ashy snow.

And they are a portent of doom – that crawling thing that clutches his chest and reminds him with a pang of fear about the very dream he’d been roused from not minutes ago; of the flash of silver, the sharp gasp, and metal, piercing soft flesh. 

Pain, in any other name. 

“They’re…elusive.” 

His voice is small and cold in the wide yawning chamber, and the piercing sparrow eyes of the Reverend Mother do not blink. His shoulders are weak, despite the way he holds them back; a weary voice, the swallow of a shaky worry, some hidden fear that nestles into his ribcage. 

“She’s always there.” 

And there is a small flashing under the thickened veil – a horrifying breath in which Paul reconsiders if he’d truly just seen the woman smile.

His stomach churns. There is no part of him which yearns to continue speaking – though a sharp glance from his mother draws forth the recent memories of his dream this very morning, the one he’d just been roused from. 

“And…the last dream, sh–” His jaw is increasingly tight, though his efforts to conceal emotion prove decent; a vision burnt bright in his mind, the sharp memory of tissue pierced and torn, a sharp gasp – a black hilted knife. An engraved blade. “Someone stabbed me.” 

He does not say what he indeed feels – the flutter of fear, the boiling anger, and that lick of worry that curls around corners of his racing mind.

You stabbed him. It was you.   

Paul braces himself for the far-reaching consequences, knowing he cannot afford to hide what plagues his mind as the Imperium stirs in the eve of war. 

Not if what you said about Sabberon is true. 

There is a small leak in the window in the far right corner – Paul can nearly see the small droplets as they fall from the wooden beams and kiss the stone floor, dripping slow and passing the time as a grandfather clock. 

“Your dreams hold great significance, Paul Atreides.” 

Unimpressed with her words of grandiose, Paul's jaw ticks in indignation; he could have guessed as much himself. 

It is an effort to resist a snarl; confusion is an unwelcome addition to anger and it simmers low in his gut. Great significance, she says.

“I am the heir to House Atreides," Paul starts, jaw tights, "The Imperium might hang by the brink after the coming Referendum,” as he spits, his mother places a hand on his shoulder, her sharp inhale bristling the hair on Paul's neck. It does not quell his anger. “I won't entertain any manipulations in the name of my fate–”

“Silence.”

Words dissolve on his tongue; lips shut, eyes roll, light disappears from their sconces in the murky corners of the room. 

And in that hazy, prickling way, he emerges from the momentary dreamstate with a wash of shame, of sheer wrath. She once again dares use the Voice?

But she has begun speaking, and Paul has no choice but to listen.  

“You are the heir to a great legacy. But with that inheritance comes duty.” 

He does not dignify her with any response. 

To his defiance, she tilts her head – a crow of black and veiled, her beading eyes glint through the low light. “Tread carefully, Paul Atreides. The choices you make will shape the fate of many.” 

A spoiled disdain of fanatic manipulations – the words are discomforting as they are incendiary in Paul’s brain. 

The Reverend Mother continues. “You possess a strength within you, a strength born of both blood and spirit; but true strength lies not in the wielding of power, but in the mastery of oneself. Trust in your instincts, but do not let them blind you.” 

His mother is fearful behind him. He feels it, radiating off of her; that pulsing worry that leaks from a wounded antelope in the twilight of a chase, the bleeding heart of a wounded animal.

It seems that the Reverend Mother grows tired of Paul's presence, for after a terse moment, she nods harshly.  “You may go.”

Paul finds no better relief than turning heel and stalking briskly towards the door. 

“–Not you, Jessica.” 

It is with fury that he nearly turns around; but somewhere in his mind is a hazy insistence from his mother – urging to leave them; and so he does, lingering with an ear to the doors as a child would, straining to find the hushed words whipped into the chamber.

“The boy..." and then, "the girl, too,” The voice is a whistled wind in the ears of an unwelcome fate; The fragments of sentences are chopped and warbled, “–down the right path.”

He does not bother to stay and hear the rest of it.

The morning crawl of sunrise comes crisp as you cross the halls to the training rooms.

It is early - far earlier than your usual training hours, though you still cross into the room, stopping upon your toes at the sound of fighting.

In lieu of the common sight of Duncan perched in thought, cleaning blades and awaiting your presence, you’re met with the thud of skin meeting skin, exercised breaths and grunts of focus; the sharp slice of blades against shields. 

You haunt the doorway, staring owlishly as Paul and Duncan spar.

It is an odd thing, you observe as the morning sun climbs higher into the cool sky; it is odd, the way that Paul Atreides fights; quite unlike the fluid but brutish style of your formerly betrothed, with his painted chest and curved blades.

These are slower; ones that awaken some dormant emotion low in your stomach. The patterned leaps and strikes, the circling toes; It is a dance – a rhythm that beats the same as the blood in your veins.

One, then the other – legs lunging, arms parrying, striking; hawks, in a circling prance. 

You realize, with creeping horror: You know this song. 

There is a melody in it, that old formulaic law of the vast universe, beyond the Imperium. Those whispers of the people who came before yours, who carved their faces into the mines within Sabberon’s tallest peaks. Their dance, their song.

The Zakon Roka. The martial art from your ancestors, who poured their song into the teachings of the Ginaz Swordmasters.

Your lips are wettened with your tongue as you watch the slide of thighs, a sharp spurt of strength emphasized with the glinting of rich curls; Paul has struck Duncan across the shoulder. The Law of Fate, as it were; a dance with blade in hand.

And in this waltz, you find that familiar beat, the quick jolts of Kozachok; A cautious precision. Soldiers with thick trousers and balanced on ice-bracketed boots; gliding between sword parries and swipes to the legs. Thick dresses and furs; whooshing in the passing air as pointed toes slice through cold, tapping upon ice with the kiss of a feather. 

Paul’s movements are fluid, graceful, calculated; your worry doubles but is only quelled by the growing discomfort in your ribs. 

So he is trained in the ways of your people. 

Something about it twists an ancient melancholy in your gut. 

Your mouth is bitter. He should, by principle, be little match for Duncan Idaho; A young man so clearly well-endowed in the areas of strategy, politics, governance, you’d hoped you could wheedle out some clear pitfall of the heir. 

But instead you watch, a phantom of snow and evergreen in the doorway, as his watery movements outmaneuver his counterpart; the lapping of cerulean waves against a frigid shore, the laugh of a hawk in a frosted forest – a game of échecs, placed upon a checkered board – or, in this case, a sparring mat. 

Nevertheless, the Atreides heir fights in a way all too familiar, and you’d strike yourself a liar if you said it did not coax some unwanted heat around your neck. 

Your heart throbs painfully in your ribcage. The boyish laughter of your youngest sister, hair unruly as she leapt to your brother, rapier prodding the shield protecting his precious skin.

Snowflakes still fell in those last days before you left for Giedi Prime; and you still held on to those foolish dreams of springtime in an Imperium that would soon be frozen in winter. 

A sunbeam streaks through the green of Paul’s eyes just for a moment, glittering just as that sea which lies beyond the horizon. Your skin has grown small gooseflesh; a shuddering breath from your lips, furrowing your brows as Paul leaps, avoiding a low swipe from the glinting blade of his counterpart. 

He fights like them, yes – like the wolves of Sabberon – but he too mirrors those quicker movements, the ones that were taken from ancient cultures of other civilizations; an amalgamation of the sharpest fighters in the Imperium, honed into one pattern of dance steps.

A waltz of death. 

You should have expected as much. 

After all, he's grown up here on Caladan – a Duke's son, trained to become a ruler one day; and he has been tutored in this dance by the greatest fighter you’ve known, a man who shared the blade with your people for many years.

Paul matches him blow for blow; and his cheeks, glowing and dusted with pink – to your dismay, barely a glean of sweat across his furrowed brow. 

A strike against Duncan hits unblocked once more; The older man, in turn, lets out a huff of laughter – pride leaks through that sound. 

Your blood turns to acid; and your patience is rapidly expiring in the knowledge that your betrothed is once again quite talented – and Duncan watches Paul as if he were his own son, an observation that festers somewhere horribly sore in the bruised chasm of your emptied, wanting heart. 

Anger bites at your heels, and though you know he had no control over your fate, the bitterness lingers. The bruises upon your soul, the clawing betrayal of abandonment those years ago. Of when you last saw him.

Harvest season came on Sabberon with gusts of spiced air and merry visitors – each revolution of orbit, with leaves of crimson and amber falling to the ground; the scent of roasts and cider blowing with the harvest wind with the first few flakes of wintertide.

Each year, Duncan Idaho would visit; and then, even when you were no taller than his elbow, it’d been a dance for you too – your body in step, giving and taking with his own. A Waltz of Death. The Zakon Roka. 

You’re brought back when Duncan's blade presses to Paul's side; Grunting, Paul cannot seem to parry – your eyes flicker with the red flash of the shield’s warning.

A vision behind your lids once more – viscous liquid, gleaming in the sun – a curved blade, dripping carmine. 

The blade is slow, and it penetrates Paul’s shield; Your veins thrum in excitement at the widening of viridescent eyes, the glance of a doe along the point of a hunter’s bow.

God forbid he hurts that precious porcelain skin. What color, you wonder absently, would his blood flow from such a blade? 

Feyd-Rautha's blood was so dark it was nearly black.

A crimson color when it smeared across his skin, though reflective and glinting in daunting light; a tangy, sharp metallic taste when you’d brought his bloodied fingers to your own lips.

A gasp echoes in your mind, a sickening squelch; the expiring rattle of breath, eyes desperate beneath knitted brows. Fear floods your stomach, a horrible thing as the outline of the sun leaks a halo over Paul’s curls. 

It seems your dream from this morning has not left you – the dread threaded into your muscles as you’d woken pulls at your lips, weighs upon your shoulders.

A phantom pain lingers in your stomach. 

Paul has escaped the slow blade somehow as you stood daydreaming; and he now moves along the ring of sunlight from the window.

His lips, furled in concentration – those lips, pinked and bitten in the haze of your memory, a dream of sighs and of bites against warm flesh. 

Heat creeps once more around your neck: And your haze snaps, any such grasp of patience you may have had is gone. 

It takes only a shift upon your feet to catch the attention of the two. 

At the sight of you, Duncan hesitates. Seizing the moment, Paul strikes and Duncan tumbles to the ground with a blade to his throat. 

You do not hide the lift of your brows. 

Paul releases his grasp, pulling Duncan up with himself. With a wipe of sweat from his brow, Duncan's eyes skirt to the clock and he huffs, “Sorry. Must’ve lost track of time.” 

Humming, you slink onto the mat; a panther stalking along the limb of a tree.

In greeting you receive a nod from Paul; though his gaze is more a fleeting brush from your face to the blade at your hip. It is a split moment – though the green in his eyes snags like a hook, reeling you back — back to the dream you woke fresh from this very morning. Of blood, bright as a jewel; A breath, shuddering its last. The sharp sting of fear - the whisper of a hidden blade.

“I’m early,” you reason, slipping past Duncan’s startled stare as he takes in your uncovered visage. It is the same look you received from the Houseworkers all morning.  

The fresh-faced Bourbon.  

Paul’s frame glows. A bathe of soft golden, flickering as his hand wipes sweat from his brow, chest heaving. A stirring deep in your chest turns bitter when it rises, warm and wanting, to your neck. You shove it down, recalling the ebbing gaze of his stare last evening aside the small tide pools. 

In the turn of only a few weeks, you will have to use this marriage as leverage; should the referendum reap rotten fruits — and if you ever want to make sure the Harkonnens stay off of Sabberon— you must build trust.

Paul might be your only bridge towards redemption if the arraignment crumbles. 

And so it is with these thoughts that you slink next to him, toes gracing along the floor, an ancient beat in your pulse. 

Paul’s gaze catches through the corner of his eyes before returning to the disinfectant in his hands, running it along the side of the knife. His offer held out in the glint of a blade is declined softly, with a shake of your head.

“No, thank you,” your hands find the hilt of your blade.

In a chilling instant, his visage turns and his gaze flickers lower; a green sea staring at the glint of your knife at your side. Lips, pressed tight into a polite smile. “Right.” 

He wastes no time. In his leave, he brushes your shoulder, brow gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. 

You begin to stretch, ignoring Duncan Idaho’s watchful stare.

It's only a moment before you run your mouth. “He fights like you,” you observe; and if it's instigative, you let it be.

Duncan’s hum is amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” 

The unsheathing of your blade conceals your eye roll as you begin to sharpen its edges — and in the creaking quiet, his stare burns into the side of your uncovered face. 

Your patience wears thin after only a minute; and so in the sterile silence, you lift a brow.

“Did you expect me to be bald under the veil?” you snap, tired of the stare burning into your visage.

He hardly blinks before you turned to him, some resent nestling familiar in your chest. “I lived there long enough, didn't I?” 

Duncan twists the blade in his grasp, eyes softening in that way that makes your heart race, an unknown urge to fight or to run. His voice comes out far too gentle. “You’ve grown up.” 

Your eyes sting. You turn away frilly, fighting the rising tightness within your throat; though his words come soft and far too close to your heart.

“You just…” he sighs. “You look like your mother.” 

Your stomach drops; you throw your knife onto the table, whirling to face him as the metal clangs. “Don’t.”

His stare is much too patient; your heart tremors in its cage, your vision swimming. A shaky inhale in the empty room. And then, the words spill. 

“I was never prepared to be the last Bourbon alive.”  Your step comes forward in some vague threat, though your mind is far beyond the sparring mat. “I’m barely a Bourbon at all anymore,” you laugh, a bitter thing that falls flat in the sterile room. Duncan has nothing to say to this, it seems.

“My betrothed had to inform me of my own culture’s traditions,” you spit, glaring sharp at the man standing before you, “Do you know how humiliating that was?” 

Your anger is misdirected; This you are well aware, and yet you must resist the urge to strike him at the words ringing in your head. You look like your mother.

It is a bitter laugh once more as you look out to the coastline warbling far beyond Duncan’s shoulder, a jeweled sea tickled by stray rays of sunlight. “My mother ensured long ago that any chance of my house’s traditions being preserved would die alongside with my father,” your jaw clenches, fury quivering in your breast. “So it doesn't really matter, in the end.” 

A gull flies far in the distance, circling the sea. “There’s nobody left to witness those traditions being broken but myself.” 

Duncan remains; and with a small nod, his voice comes heavy with the burden of bodies hanging above your heads. His words bite when they hit you.

“You don't have to face it all alone.” 

The disbelief must reflect on your visage as you let out a short bark of a laugh. “Then where were you?”

His face changes – a subtle shift, in the bright of his eyes, drawn in my a thick line of brow. The silence is suffocating. 

Shadows crawl in your mind, a whisper of screams, of ears pressed against heavy locked doors; you suck in a heavy breath. “I was there with them – with him – for four years. Four years!” Your voice cracks through the room, a whip sharp as you lurch in your pain. 

Your hand finds the weapons table as you snap. “Not one single fucking check-in, no visit, nothing. Nobody batted an eye when my messages stopped delivering?” Your voice, boiling and nearly splintering, warbles when you look back to Duncan, “When there was never a wedding?”

And, despite your rage, Duncan lets you continue. 

It is a spill of the festering thoughts you’ve kept within for years – since that fated day, waving weakly from the window of a ship as your family, five strong, draped in green and swathed in furs, waved back.

“–They had to have known what kind of monsters they’d shipped me off to,” you whisper, “House Bourbon was allies with the Atreides for centuries,” you shake your head bitterly, “We've always known what the Harkonnens are.”

You lift your shoulder, shaking your head. “And yet, they sent me happily to marry the devil.” You glare at Duncan. “To become one.”

You press your hands to your cheeks to soothe the heat; Thankfully, no tears fall. “I don't blame you.” You snap, and the words feel weak even to yourself. "I don't. but..."

You break the stare, gaze dropping to the mat below you. “You’re the only person left to be angry towards.”

His voice is heavy when it comes, and you fight the small instinct clawing at you to pull him into embrace. “I'm sorry for everything you’ve lost. Everything that’s–” he clears his throat, then, and the floor swims with unshed emotion below you. “For everything that happened to you.”  

You do not go to him – instead you stand, barren and alone, rooted evergreen in the middle of the floor.

“I should have been there for you.” He takes a step forward, “They should have, too.” 

And how ugly is your heart, to force him to say such things when his grief mirrors your own?

His voice comes once more. “It’s okay to still be angry with them – what they did to you – even if you’re mourning them.” 

Your throat tightens, exhaustion settles deep; a weariness, carved from years of fear, abandonment, festering anger. It has been far too long you’ve stood alone, always looking over your shoulder, twitching your fingers towards the blade that lives upon your hip. 

His eyes are too warm for what you deserve. 

“I shouldn't have treated you so coldly,” you admit with a sting of humility. “I…” your mind crawls to the message that sits in your chambers from the castle at Ginaz. Your throat tightens, your voice wavers weakly, and you curse yourself. “You're the closest family I have here.”

And Duncan remains patient as the Pine. “There is nothing for you to apologize for, Little Bourbon.” 

The name settles deep; your mind finds the melancholic memories of chilled cheeks, plumed breaths, flakes catching on blades. A youthful laugh bubbling through the buzzing anger in your heart – and despite yourself, your lips twitch. A ghost of a smile, from the ghost of a girl. 

He knows better than to dwell; and so you catch the blade he tosses to you gratefully.

But just as you roll your shoulders, the sound of footsteps disrupts you. A soldier walks through the room; though to your shock, he addresses you and not your master. 

“Lady Bourbon,” he nods, “the Lady Jessica wishes to speak with you over lunch in her quarters now, if you have a moment.”

Something within you deflates. A glance shot to Duncan, whose gaze is already set upon your visage with a mild interest that does very little to soothe your upticked nerves.

Whispers flood your mind as you blink numbly – a syrupy dizziness that finds you so often when you consider the Sisterhood, whenever you catch Lady Jessica's stark eyes. You cannot deny how unsettled you are by the thought of being alone in her presence right now. 

But you know better than to refuse the lady of the house’s wishes.

“And spoil my fun here?” You muse, sharing a wry glance with Duncan. 

You follow the soldier anyways. 

If there is one thing you can certainly appreciate, it is that Lady Jessica burdens neither of you with the pretense of smalltalk. 

In fact, lunch is hardly picked at before she brings it up.

“You were once on the path of the Bene Gesserit,” she starts over the soft clinking of silver and china. Your gaze remains steady, your spine uncurling as if awakened by an ancient memory. 

You nod stiffly. 

She continues – penetrating and warm, her eyes take in the curve of your shoulders, the pride of your spine. Her voice carries all the calm melody that your mother never possessed.

“Circumstances may have led you away, but your training has not been forgotten,” she sips the cup of tea before her. This change in subject comes as no surprise to you; in fact, since the very moment you stepped out into the rainy morning of Caladan that first day, you’ve been waiting for it to return, to curl in from the shadows. Somewhere in the murky ruminations of your mind, voices whisper. You blink them away. 

“Yes, my lady,” you set your own fork down and offer her a tight-lipped attempt at a smile. “I studied the Ways when I was younger.”

She nods. “Have you considered continuing this path?” She tilts her head, and an icicle slides into the soft flesh of your stomach. “Honing your skills once more— to strengthen your voice, your intuition, your presence?”

To you, the Sisterhood is an unforgettable chasm; memories flooding the fur-floored halls of your mind. Your mother's stern visage, relentless training regimens; elixirs, smoking incense, warm spice behind heavy doors. Knives flicking from sleeves, robes wrapped around you and your sisters, swishing as your hands found the soft skin of each other’s weakest spots.

Women veiled, with eyes that slithered; boxes which screamed, needles which threatened, words which controlled. A heavy past. 

And though it is skepticism that tugs at your mind at her words, there is still a part of you that can't help the twinge of curiosity; Such an ancient order – such power, the only kind possible to have as a woman in a cruel world such as your own. And then, there is that looming thing; for your mind trembles at the impending shadow of the upcoming arraignment. The thought of protection is a glamorous one. 

But you know better. 

You saw that very mistrust sewed in your own house; The crack between your father and his court, of the looming shadow of your mother and the sisterhood through the halls of Castle Bourbon, of the loss of thousands of years of tradition. 

You have been struck with a bout of dread, and your throat has dried. “I’m…” you purse your lips, “I haven't, my lady.”

Her voice is earnest as she leans closer. “I understand your hesitations,” her eyes flicker to the empty doorway and back, “but given the current circumstances, it may be wise to strengthen all of your skills. Including those you learned with the Bene Gesserit.” 

The dread swirls in like the tide, and you swallow thickly. “Circumstances?” You parrot, tilting your head. You know what she's implying; it doesn't ease the suspicion that rises, the feeling that the strings which tie themselves to Lady Jessica are being pulled from much higher above your head; somewhere unreachable, unattainable. 

“It's imperative to ere on the side of caution,” she murmurs; though you feel no such assurance at her message. You are unsettled as she takes in your posture, at your fingers, curled in your palm. 

“Tell me,” she starts then, stirring the tea in front of her, “Even after your time with the sisterhood, did you ever experience visions?” Her eyes penetrate, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up at her next words. 

“Dreams that stayed with you long after you woke?”

Your throat dries so quick you almost choke. A chill finds you when your eyes lock with hers.

So it was a look she shared with Paul at the strategy council yesterday. It seems Lady Jessica has been keeping close tabs on you, after all. 

Heat licks around your neck, creeping over your chest – you hope she cannot read your mind thoroughly, for she would likely not enjoy the more intimate parts of your dreams.

The dread has surfaced; your hair still prickled, you level your visage to hers, calm. Your voice is chill in the warm sunbeams of midday.  

“You seem to already know my answer.” 

Lady Jessica's lips press together. “Indeed,” she affirms; gentle, yet probing. She nods nearly imperceptively, “but I need to hear it from you.” 

You pause, grappling with the memories that surge forth at Lady Jessica's inquiry; The dreams, the visions— they haunt you, asleep and awake – and despite your reluctance to acknowledge them, they have persisted; lingered, a shadow waning in the corners of your vision. There is a thin sheen of sweat growing across your breast, in the insistent thump of your heart. 

And then your voice comes. 

“Yes,” your voice, barely above a whisper. 

She is a master in her own craft, and any attempt to analyze the twitch in her gaze would reap futile.

“I suspected as much,” her eyes swim, gleaming in the warm sunlight. A clink as you raise the tea to your lips, obscuring the tremor threatening to jolt your composure. 

“I must advise you, my dear," she nods. "Dreams are often the key to understanding the path that lies before you.” 

Cool dread rises to your lips, pressing wordless screams to your lips. You do not let them leak. 

Her words hang, exasperatingly cryptic; And you are, in your silence, forced to acknowledge for the first time that these dreams, torturous and haunting as they are, are still a calling, a beckoning towards something that you cannot ignore. A whisper comes in the back of your mind, a forgotten mantra, though you do not know what it means: The Shortening of the Way.

Your jaw has begun to ache; you force yourself to release the tension, setting your saucer down gently. It clinks in the empty silence of the room. 

Lady Jessica speaks your name once more. “I urge you to consider resuming your training with the Bene Gesserit,” she suggests, and your fingers twitch subtly. “Not out of obligation, but out of necessity. In times of uncertainty, it is essential to be prepared.”

Prepared. 

You meet Lady Jessica's gaze; and despite your reservations, despite the ghosts of the past, you cannot deny that which you have always known. Power comes to those who seek it - and it is a dangerous thing to wield a blade when its other edge is hidden.

Your mother’s voice finds your mind, a haunting ghost of a life lost to time and pursuit of power: To wield raw power is to bare yourself to forces far greater. 

You are overcome with the overwhelming sense that you are far over your head – and with a squared shoulder, you nod curtly. You are not safe.

“I hope you will understand my wish to reflect, my lady," you respond, willing your heart to remain untampered by your unease. “And I thank you for your guidance."

Lady Jessica offers you a reassuring smile, though it does little to quell the raging in your stomach.

And then, at her final words, your stomach drops. 

“Consider it, my dear,” she nods, gaze unceasing, penetrating. “To wield raw power is to bare yourself to forces far greater.”

That night, Paul exits his mother’s quarters as the moon kisses the coast. 

An exhausted drag of feet over the stoned flooring, Paul yawns against his palm, thinking quite fondly of his bed and pillow. 

In the empty corridor, his stomach groans; a normally ravenous appetite eluded in the wake of the Reverend Mother’s early morning visit today has left Paul on the edge of shaking hands and a racing, unsettled heart.

An evening sparring his mother on knife skills would, on an average night, be nothing of consequence to Paul; though the last few hours were tense, laced in the budding and unusual mistrust that has sprouted in the dawn of the day. Any such attempts to pry the truth from behind closed doors this morning had resulted in gentle stern looks and tight words from his mother. This sentiment, naturally, only serves to worry him further; and lost in the puddle of unidentifiable dread, Paul quickens his pace. 

Absent footfalls come and go as he passes towards his quarters; in the drooping tangle of his curled lashes, a shadow flickers. 

Of course, he realizes much too late that the shadow comes with a body. 

A careening impact, one that sends both you and Paul into a sharp inhale as you both rear back in shock; two does caught in the crosshairs of a hidden scope. 

He meets your eyes, and in them there is that particular glint; a cold thing in nature, but warming in his gut as he takes in your startled figure.

You, draped in warmth and soft clothes, with gently parted lips and wide eyes; you, so unlike yourself in the daylight. 

“I'm s-" he shakes his head faintly. "Apologies,” he stutters intelligently, inclining his head in a respectful effort to valiantly hide his suddenly warm cheeks.

Your lips twitch, and he watches the curve of gloss in the faint glow of moonlight. Your tormented stare follows his own almost reluctantly down the hall you both seemed to have been headed towards; and though the thought of accompanying you to your chambers when his mind is on the brink of exhaustion is less than favorable, it is highly outshined by the stroke of unease through Paul’s heart at the sight of the knife upon your hip. 

Not unlike your blade, your hair glints in the light, sliding against the skin peeking from your collar. Paul feels a tickle upon his neck. 

“No harm done, my lord,” you nod with that same guarded visage.

There is that unsettled, ashamed tug in his chest when your gleaming eyes find his own once again – and though it has been a day, he’s still starkly arrested by your bare countenance.

You don't have to look away, you know. I'm still the same beast as before.

His cheeks are warm. With a quiet cough, he gestures down the hall. “I was just heading–” 

“–So was I,” you interject with a surprisingly endearing lurch upon your toes.

Paul’s lips press together, plagued by visions of glinting blades and dribbling crimson; though still you fall into stride together, shadows slinking over the halls quietly. 

It is odd; perhaps in an ordinary world, Paul might feel giddy to walk his prospective wife to her quarters after a long day. But this world is not ordinary, and neither are you. 

There is a large casement on the eastern cast of the wing; the window kisses a silvery breath over your figure - so soft in the forgiving nature of evening - before hushing you back into the shadows again. An eclipse in his blinks, and he wonders vaguely what the moons are like on Sabberon. 

If there is one forgiving thing about the misfortune you’ve both happened upon in this late hall, it is that neither of you seem keen to speak – and Paul is more than pleased with this, knowing not what to say nor how to respond should you say anything first. 

But indeed, the twisting of your fingers, the sly glances up towards his visage, and the silence do not last; soon your lips part, and from them spill words that nearly stop him in his tracks. 

“I had lunch with your mother today.”

Your eyes are sharp; and he does not hide his consternation. Your gaze is intense – and if he were any less wary, perhaps he’d find it in him to flush under the sheer weight of your attention. 

“What did she tell you?” His accusatory tone is poorly concealed, and he once again chastises himself for letting you wheedle through the small cracks in his tenacity. 

You, with sharpened teeth and a gaze hungry for the scent of fresh blood; a brow lifts over your blinking eyes and Paul slows his pace. 

“Why do you assume she had things to tell?” You lilt. 

And damn you. 

A weary sigh from his worried lips must encourage the loosening of your own, for your jaw sets but still your voice floats, dreamy and melodic and wholly troubling all the same.

But you do not play this song and dance further – for that he is grateful – until you tell him. “She suggested I take up Bene Gesserit studies again.” 

Your stare drinks in his tightened jaw, the hardly perceptible shift in his breathing; and though his unease has spread to each stretch of his being, he wills it not to show. Words flicker in his mind, images of women whispering in corridors, of windy planets, of trickling gardens and sharp needles. 

Down the right path. 

In a breath of unease, he has quickened his pace; and your footfalls stumble only once as your frame turns to keep up, tilting your head up to him. 

His words are quiet in the hall, and his gaze is focused upon the doorway far on the left. Whispers curl around the dredges of his mind, a terrible tone that laughs at the thump of his heartbeat.  

And though the dread has spread, he urges his heart rate to steady. Paul gives a valiant effort to appear less than affected by this revelation.

 “She asked about your dreams?” It is not a true question, for he already knows the answer. 

And now it is he who watches for a reaction: Green eyes study, analyze, explore the curve of your cheeks, the swallow of your smooth throat. And in his search lies the answer – a blink of bare and curling lashes, a stuttered inhale. 

In that way you do, your spine stiffens; brows furrow over your jeweled gaze, tilting your head as a few stray tresses kiss along the fabric of your top gently. Your lips have parted in a flare of worry. 

“My dreams?” Your hand is warm as you grasp his elbow – a sturdy thing, tugging him to stop fully. “How–” 

But it seems you’ve wizened to the footsteps of houseworkers in the chamber just to the right of where you and Paul now stand before each other, transfixed in the harmony of stuttering heartbeats and the steady shake of uneasy breaths. 

And as the houseworkers fade to the other side of the wing, there grows a horrible bout of silence. 

His mother’s guarded visage flickers in his mind when his gaze casts once back towards the hall he came down; your breaths are much too schooled, far too even. Paul knows the flickers of Prana-Bindu, even when they are ingrained deep into veins and concealed within skin thick as stone. 

Visions; some sunsoaked melody of Weirding Ways, sharpened blades – of you, standing opposite his mother, raising that very same blade that haunts his dreams.

His gaze returns to the hilt that peeks from the soft drape of your tunic. Along the corridors of his mind comes the harsh lilt of the Reverend Mother this morning: Down the right path. 

There is danger there, something whispers to him – and memories of dreams, of lulling whispers, of sharp gasps of pain, soft sighs of ecstasy; the glint of sunset-streaked skies, rustling trees, the flashing of sharp metal – of hands that wander, that grasp, that plunge. 

The breeze through the hallway is a sobering one – and soon enough, there comes another echo down the hall. 

An inkling of fear creeps along Paul’s nape, and he shakes his head minutely. “We shouldn’t be speaking of this here.” 

You blink, and he cannot help but stare – a truly beautiful creature, hardened with subsistence yet so softened in the trickery of night. 

You merely nod. 

It could be a treacherous thing, he knows. The Bene Gesserit are a force that machinates far above his head – far above his mother’s, for that matter.

And although Paul knows not what silky ties such whispering hands might weave across the Imperium these days, and though spiders might descend wrapped in the trickery of gowns and sharply beautiful smiles, it does not mean he is completely blind to the signs of a webbed trap. 

“Come,” he requests; though in the starkly quiet hall, it finds his own ears as more of an order – and though he glances only sparingly at your neckline, his gaze hooks nearly regretfully upon the pendant clasped and catching the light just below your throat. 

At the memory, he cannot bring himself to meet your eyes. 

You do not try to catch his stare. Instead you merely follow, a silent tempest of resistance and obstination.

He opens the door to his quarters – and your sly glance around to survey for any witnesses brings a slight heat to his neck; still, your frame slips past where he holds the door ajar. 

Paul knows how active you’ve been in your time on Caladan so far; And yet here is a place of which you are completely unfamiliar.

 Paul’s chambers – where your spine stays rigid and your steps precise, where your eyes snake over each revealing aspect of his personality; tracing over books and figurines and the photo projector across the way. 

You repose upon the chair across his room, but he finds himself restless, standing before your expectant gaze. 

“Paul,” your voice brings his name in that crisp and yet breathy way, that accent that curls dense and throaty through the air.

It's a startle to his senses, for you to use his given name; and when he snaps his gaze once more to you, he finds you resting upon pointed elbows, a flicker of anxiety lurking beyond your limitless stare. 

“If we are to do this together, we must build trust," you murmur.

And you’re right; This – marriage, ruling Caladan, representing the House Atreides – and whatever else is to come. He nods solemnly; your tongue smooths over your bitten lip. 

“Why does your mother wish to know about my dreams?” You’re blunt – a thing he quite appreciates. “How did you know she’d ask me of them?” 

Answers come to the tip of his tongue and dissolve just as he opens his lips; you watch him, lying in wait, and yet the truth lies in some thick plane of dust, of sand, and Paul cannot stop slipping through it. 

“I don’t…” he swallows, shaking his head. Because he does know; and the truth sits heavy upon his shoulders. 

His sigh is sharp.  “The Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam visited this morning.” 

And if you are surprised, it only comes in the stiffening of your spine and the flat tone of your voice as it slips, a caress of silk in the low light of his quarters. “She visited Caladan? This morning?” 

He blinks at you, nodding once more. “My mother woke me early,” Paul murmurs.

“And... she came for the Duke?” you ask slowly – though Paul is no fool for the pattern of lies upon your tongue, nor the schooling twitch of muscle upon the curve of your cheeks, “...or for Lady Jessica?” 

His jaw ticks slowly, lifting his chin. Your own head mimics the motion. 

He admits it slowly, watching your stare trace the pattern of the words from his lips.

“She came for me.” 

You remain evergreen and cool in the shade of night, silhouetted by the warm glow of lamp shade. 

“What did she want with you?” 

And though instinct tells him to deflect, he cannot look away from your penetrating gaze. His tongue drips with verity. 

“I’ve been having dreams.” 

And he sees it in the sharp inhale, the way your gaze breaks from his eyes to somewhere near his stomach, just for a split moment. It is miniscule, a farce; but to so sharp a refined mind as his own, it is enough. You are scared. 

“You’ve had dreams?” Your voice is sharp. 

His own mimics yours. “About Sabberon.” 

And he’s firm, ignoring the foreboding tendrils of apprehension that lurk within his heart. He continues. “In those dreams, I feel like…” a stray curl comes loose in his vision, though he does not tame it. “...Like I have to go there. Like I’m... meant to.” 

Your skin has grown ghostly as you nod absently; and in the lapse of your words, Paul fills the silence with all he can admit. 

The night turns slowly, minutes folding by in the cadence of his voice. Your expression melts more and more as Paul recounts the Reverend Mother’s words, to his encounter with her previously those years ago. This, it seems, sends you into a state; for your eyes snap to him, unblinking. 

“The Gom Jabbar?” You ask suddenly. Paul nods, “Yes, it is a kind of test–” 

Your head shakes, tresses ablaze with the licks of lamplight, falling in tendrils across the soft fabric of your tunic. “–I know of it,” you interject purposefully, voice melodic and syrupy in that way your people are, “I also received it,” you explain quickly before your brows furrow in that way they sometimes do; shaking your head minutely. “I just do not understand why she might administer it to you.” 

In a nervous habit of childhood, Paul’s lip has grown raw from troubling it with his teeth. A pause sits heavy in the room, and the lull of his bed behind him calls quietly; Outside, the coast shines with ripples of lazy moonlight. 

Paul debates in his mind, glancing over the sharp turn of nose, the hook of your jaw – the curve of your lips. 

Knowledge – a weapon, a burden. 

His breath falls short, and he whispers your name as calmly as he can. “My mother has trained me in the ways of the Bene Gesserit too.” 

Your visage morphs; a momentary lapse in control, some flame burns bright in your gaze, a fury he knows not. 

It is gone in a moment, though it is ingrained into his retinas. 

It is only within a blink that you remain muzzled by this revelation – and after a breath, you return to his stare; it hits him at once, that shift. Your eyes are cold, sharp. 

Perhaps the dread he feels is not unrequited. 

Though there are larger beasts lurking in the depths of these waters; and you lean back upon palms, shoulders broad and head tilted to take in his standing frame. 

“She warned me, at lunch.” You speak bluntly, “That resuming to practice the ways of the Bene Gesserit is not out of obligation, but necessity. She told me…” and then your eyes flicker to the very same spot upon his stomach as before. “She told me something odd. That dreams are keys. To understanding the path before you.” 

Paul’s stomach drops. 

Down the right path. 

A crone, that Reverend Mother; playing you, his mother, and Paul; all of you, puppets strung high above the dark chasm of the Imperium, that shadowy something that lurks in the dark corners of each House’s history books. 

And dredges of childhood memories, of harsh whispers and trials-in-twos and of ears pressed to closed doors: Paul swallows thickly, heart pounding in his chest. 

“My mother spoke to my father once of a tale,” he rushes, biting his lip. “A tale, or– a prophecy. I was young, eavesdropping through the closed doors,” Paul has to shake off the sudden flare of amusement, some odd hidden recognition in your gaze at this; heat creeps round his neck, though he continues. “I didn’t hear most of it,  but I did hear… parts.” 

The tale comes choppy, haphazard – a stream of uneasy consciousness spilled to the only person who might be of any help deciphering it. 

“She said something about... dual contenders. About me being tested one day,” he mutters, hand swiping over the bridge of his nose. “And years later – the day the Reverend Mother administered the Gom Jabbar– she told my mother there would be two candidates for something.” Paul’s brow furrows, “Today…” his throat is tight, stomach pitted. “She spoke to me of my dreams. Said nearly the same thing my mother did to you.” 

You do not speak, and a lurch of nerves urges Paul to mutter: “I just..." he shakes his head absently, mind far away, "I find it troubling.” 

A heavy beat. Your lashes tangle when you blink up at him – and then comes a stark, shocking noise; a laugh, tumbling sharp from your lips. “You find it troubling,” you nod with a wry grin, “do you, Paul?” 

And he realizes quickly how much of an understatement it'd been; and despite the tug of indignation in his chest, his lips press together, biting back a boyish grin of his own.

Your laugh bubbles away with his own breathy chuckle, and in an ungraceful surrender, Paul finds himself plopped upon the chaise lounge beside you. 

Your fingers are adorned with bands; jeweled and draped with the bleeding hearts of your homeplanet’s jeweled mountain caverns, your fingers tap against the bland fabric of your trousers in an unwilling rhythm. They glint, jaded, emerald, even rubied; and in the night’s light, they seem to sing. 

Your words come just when Paul feels the deep pull of exhaustion drag at his eyelids. 

“I dream of it too.” 

His stomach forms a pit of ice as he stares. 

“Sabberon,” you supplement; though it is not needed, for he feels the pang of dizziness at the implications. It is never a good thing, no matter who you are, to share dreams. 

You continue, your hair falling in loose strands over your haunting visage. The lamplight melts the cool stab of your stare and he finds himself lulled in by the gentle rhythm of your accent. 

“My planet,” your brows furrow in that way Paul has come to recognize in your past day free of the veil, “we have a sacred Pine. It's symbolic of our Harvest.”

And though Paul knows this from the very book that lies across the room, he merely nods.

You bite your lip, “It has grown for thousands of years, upon a mountain beyond the Castle Bourbon. I’ve never actually been.” You shrug your shoulder, eyes glinting in veiled unease. “At least, not lucidly.” 

And you start again, pressing your fingers to your palms. “When I dream of it, I’m…” your gaze snakes over his posture, following the lines of his shoulders, up his neck, tracing the warmth as it spreads to his cheeks. Paul wills it away with a quick breath. 

You clear your own throat, a heat creeping along your cheeks that Paul staunchly ignores as his own memories of dreams come to mind. Your voice is sharp, though quiet. “I’m always there with you.” 

There is a special sharpness to your stare; Fear, Paul’s mind whispers. A similar feeling slithers over his heart, clutching it in ice. 

Despite himself, still he feels it: Another soul, trapped in this web of visions, and politics, and power; it is a dizzying thought in of itself, to sympathize so rawly with you – though he cannot deny that the gleam of worry in your stare is surely mimicked in his own. 

His lips part easily. “You're there. In my dreams, too.”

Minutes pass after his admittance. It is punctuated by the harmony of rising breaths and schooled exhales, of tapping metal and restless knees. 

Paul, slumped with consternation – and you, rigid with anxiety. He can feel it ebbing from you in waves, can feel the pulse of your heartbeat within his own. The silence has just grown comfortable with the resignation of fate when you speak once more. 

“Do you trust her?” 

Your voice is quiet, and it strikes fear deep in his chest: for it is a foolish thing to ask one of one’s mother – but it is just as telling that Paul hesitates, that he chooses his words with painstaking analysis.

That his words are not a true answer. 

“The Sisterhood instructed her to have a daughter,” Paul starts, “and yet instead, for my father, she bore a son.” 

He needs not explain to you how the Reverend Mother is still unhappy about his mother’s choice. It seems his words answer your question in a way; for your inhale is deep. 

Paul tugs at a spare thread that pokes from the chaise lounge below him. “I was dismissed this morning,” he murmurs, “but I stayed outside. Pressed my ear to the door.” And this truth brings some flicker to your gaze – a quirk, again, of amusement – that familiarity glinting in your eyes as if remembering some long past memory. 

“You seem to keep a habit of this,” you murmur dryly. Heat creeps along his cheeks at the curl of your voice. 

His laugh is quiet, shy – hardly audible. He pushes on, ignoring the glossy tresses that fall over your shoulder and bring a soft scent of citrus and forest. 

And the grin melts from his face as he recalls what he’d heard, the dread settling once more. “The Reverend Mother said something to my mother about–” he clears his throat, “the boy. And... the girl. Going down the right path.”

You peer at him from beneath evergreen lashes. “And then, your mother offered, quite abruptly, to tutor me in the ways of the Sisterhood once more,” you piece it together with pursed lips. 

There is a small figurine of a bull that sits upon the table before you; Paul’s gaze traces over the carved horns, studying it with an absent worry budding in his stomach. 

“It’s about us,” he murmurs, watching as your shoed toe drags along the pattern of his rug softly, brushing curves and pressing gently. “Whatever this is. But... it’s not about us.” 

Two candidates. 

You nod in his peripheral; a glinting of a pendant upon your chest, the tinkling of jewelry draped over your hands. 

“Will it ever be?” 

Paul solemnly shakes his head towards the bull, unable to look you in the eyes. 

I shall wear it like a dog. 

Your face is solemn – a permanent thing, one Paul has quickly grown used to. Admiring of, in a way, though it draws forth heavy visions, swirling fabrications of screams, of years spent in shackles – of families falling to the ground, of blood staining gowns. 

You tilt your head to him, hair catching the light from behind his own frame. “It is a heavy burden to bear,” you say softly when it becomes apparent that Paul cannot speak. Your voice echoes the exact sentiments that roam in Paul’s mind; Heavy, yes. And Paul knows you are used to burdens. 

He leans back in his seat, blowing away a strand curl from his vision in exhaustion; and though your eyes flick to him in his peripheral, he does not notice the way your eyes track the action and flick away almost shyly. 

The quiet is cold. 

“If only I’d had a sister,” Paul sighs. 

You snort softly from your nose, and it is an endearing noise – his eyes rove over the quirk in your lips, the faraway gaze in your eyes. 

“I had three,” you murmur quietly, “They were a handful.” 

It is the first time you’ve spoken of your family to Paul; his interest piqued, he hums gently – for he can nearly picture it for a moment. You, ten years smaller, just a young teen – traipsing and wrestling in a snowy field with three sisters, a little boy stumbling after you. Screams from nearby onlookers as the youngest sister jumps into a half-frozen and emerald lake – the dampened silence of white fields and evergreens forests slumbering in the distance, broken by cracking ice and sharp gasps of frigid thrill. 

Laughter – sharp and bubbling, smooth and melodic as you run and plunge, dress and furs, into the icy depths, pulling your sisters with you. Scolding nursemaids and soldiers in wolf armor running to fish you out. Attendants rushing to bundle and protect your young brother's frail, weak skin. Shivering, blistered cold – and then, hands cupping tea, toothy grins bit back, ruddy cheeks warmed before a grand hearth. 

“What was it like?” Paul wonders. 

You shift in your seat, your own gaze now tracing the curve of the bull’s horns before you. “Complicated,” you breathe out – Paul watches as your spine relaxes just slightly, arms wrapping around yourself. “We were close in many ways, though…distant in others.” You bite your lip, eyes hooked upon the wood carving. “There was competition. Always. Even when we were young, especially between me and my sisters. My mother was in the Sisterhood. Very strict.” Your voice has grown terse; he sees the flicker of fury in your gaze as you stare down the bull. “My elder sister died in childbirth after she married. She left Sabberon just before my twelfth nameday. I never saw her again.”  

Your boots are foreign against the rug on his bed chamber floor as you drag the tip across its swirled pattern. “They were my only friends,” you murmur – a lilt in your tone that makes Paul uncomfortable – a rawness that you are trying hard not to let through. “They made me laugh like no other.”

And when you look back towards the bull figurine, your gaze is far away. “I loved them very much.”   

It hits Paul with a rush of guilt: He's studied so much about Sabberon, learned about your House's old customs and traditions – but yet, he realizes how little he truly knows about you. And still, now - in the warm lit din of his room, you remain rooted in that chilly, resiliently ethereal way. The chill of your stare, the curl of your lips as frost bites the corners of windows in a winter morning. Your heart beats strong below your breast.

How foolish he’d been to think of you as any bit Harkonnen. 

Paul’s chest is tight; a pang as he swallows thickly.

“I don’t have siblings.” He clears his throat, “But I’ve always wished to be a brother.”

And to this, you turn to him. Paul is shocked to see your kind smile; glacial, small – his neck heats. “You'd be a good one,” you murmur.

Paul has to look away – and in a glance to your hands once more, he notices the small blemish lying in your palm. With a small nod, he gestures to where there had been a large irritation just yesterday. “It looks better.” 

You smile once more, a sheepish thing – and it brightens the room as you huff a small laugh, clearly relieved to be done with such heavy topics. “I thought you were trying to trick me,” you admit, “trying to make me look foolish.” 

 He hums at this, tilting his head with a small grin of his own, “I assumed you'd thought I was trying to poison you.”

Your voice is serious when you respond. “The possibility did cross my mind.” 

Paul has to hide his grin in his shoulder; You seem unaware of his reaction, though there grows a faint flush across the apples of your cheeks. 

Your eyes have wandered – and after a moment, you suddenly rise onto your feet.

Paul watches as you pad over towards his bedside, tilting your head to run your finger over the spine of the book that lies upon his bedside table. The Noble Lineage: Exploring the Customs and Cultures of the Houses Major of Landsraad: House Bourbon.

“Is this yours?” You wonder, hair splayed in the air as you lean. Paul’s cheeks are hot with embarrassment at your discovery, but he nods, soothing his palms along his thighs. “If you’d like to read it, help yourself.” 

You crane your neck back to catch his gaze. “Is it interesting at all?” 

For a moment, Paul flounders – but it dawns on him that you’re teasing; and with a small grin, he laughs, still quite unused to the privilege of your trust, no matter how small it might be now. 

“I haven’t decided,” he quips back. Your lips twitch before turning back to the book, your eyes tracing its spine. “Maybe I’ll borrow it, then,” you hum, “I’ve been sleeping very poorly. Perhaps this will finally be the thing to put me to sleep.” 

He cannot hide the huff of amusement that falls from his nose – nor the odd, melting sensation in his chest as he watches you. It is not until he sees your eyes blink rather slowly that he remembers himself and his manners. That despite the worry and the foreboding sense that has crawled into the back of your minds, you are still his guest – his betrothed.  

When he stands to meet you, he is struck by how your neck cranes to meet his eyes. “You should get some rest then,” he murmurs, “we’ve got the Strategy Council in the morning.” 

You blink, and soon your face is that cool slate once more. “Yes– apologies,” you clear your throat, “It’s been a long day.” 

Paul escorts you quietly to the main hall – where you insist with quick words and a small nod that he need not walk you all the way to your quarters. 

He watches the fabric of your tunic catch the corner of the hall as you walk away. 

The warmth that had enveloped you at such a late hour wears off quite quick when you return to your chambers. 

The shadows climb here; whispers, worries – promises of galactic war, of the haunting wraith of the Harkonnens – of the Bene Gesserit and their webs; of petroleum reserves and trade routes, of Sabberon and her insurgent factions. Of Castle Bourbon, standing alone and empty before the Pine. 

And those dreams – Paul, sharing them? Your cheeks heat at the mere thought; though your mind strays, an attempt to ignore the fear twisting in your gut. 

Paul's room had been very warm – and his eyes quite jeweled; he keeps his chambers neater than you’d thought, clustered only by books on planets, flora and fauna, biology, culture. 

And you must admit; Though the subject left you on edge, it is terribly reassuring to have someone who not only you could speak freely with about your dreams and the Bene Gesserit, but who seems to hold similar consternations as you. 

There remains upon your clothing a faint scent of his bedroom, and your neck heats as you catch yourself pulling your tunic tighter, biting back against the warm spread onto your cheeks. 

You are exhausted; but as your eyes catch upon your bureau, upon the daunting metal that stares at you gleaming from across the room, you resign yourself. 

The message remains on your desk, where it's been since being delivered a few days ago. You'd read it already, yes – read it, avoided it – but now, you suppose, it is time to respond. 

And in due time, it's finished.

My Dearest Aunt Ginaz,

Your letter arrived at a very uncertain time for me and for that, I am profoundly grateful. I apologize for the delayed responses – my keepers on Giedi Prime preferred I did not receive or send messages. 

For my betrothal to Paul Atreides, your kind words of congratulations reassure me; Truthfully, the prospect of marrying into such a noble family is daunting, yet they have been quick to ensure that I have felt welcomed.

The loss of my family continues to weigh heavily upon my heart, and there are days when the pain feels unbearable. But there are things here that help. I spend my days tutoring, training your old friend Duncan Idaho. I have begun to sit in on the Duke's Strategy Councils.

I believe I will live well here.

Though I am assisted by the Atreides', each day that the arraignment nears, I grow in my unease. I wonder, will you be in attendance? 

I look forward to visiting you and the family. In the meantime, know that I am safe and well, and that I carry your love and affection with me always.

With all my gratitude,

Your loving Niece

There are lies trickled through the entire letter – though you feel no such need to burden your mother's bastarded sister, a woman you’ve admired your whole life, with petty things such as your betrothal. 

Your Aunt Ginaz; who succeeded your mother's parents when they died, who inherited the noble last name as one of her father's dying wishes. They’d had several daughters – all married off to other houses, like your mother; and your aunt had been reared to run the Swordmaster School. She now rules over their house with her husband, who took the name Ginaz.

In an exhausted haze, your mind wanders too freely. Paul Bourbon. 

Your huff is less of amusement and more of shock, shaking your head to wipe yourself of such odd, childish thoughts. For it is late, and the ghosts of your dreams wait impatiently at your windows.

You’ll have Hestia send the message out in the morning; you sink into the mattress, and your eyes are closed as soon as your head hits the pillow. 

You know you’re dreaming this time.

Sounds are muted, blurred – and your head is heavy, numb. The hands that are on you are Paul’s – you know this. But you're not embracing, no – there is no pleasure. 

No. His hands are slippery against your flesh; you're gasping in pain, gasping for breath. You are bleeding.

Or, is that his gasp – his blood?

The ground is a muddy landscape of slush and crimson; and the hilt of your nameday blade glints in the sun, blood dripping from the tip.

Horror courses through you, heavy as the confusion pulsing through your veins. Who wields it? 

Paul leans against you, his weight heavy; the air is heavy with snow. 

Your brows furrow as a flake lands upon your lashes – but no, it is not snow; ash. 

Ash, that rains from the sky in flurries as the earth tremors below you, smoke gathering in thick clouds somewhere in the near distance. Your throat is thick with fear. 

Another flash of your knife, this time in a grasp. 

Gasping, your hand comes away from your own abdomen, tainted black – black as the sun you once lived under.

“Hello?” 

A fuzzy voice, laced with pain; warbled in this state, though you could pick it out of millions. 

You look into his eyes and see green; shining stones, glistening lakes, rustling needles, waving fields. Paul’s hands cup your cheeks, staining handprints over your trembling cheeks. An explosion somewhere in the distance–

“Paul,” you breathe, fear lacing every fiber of you. 

But then, his face changes. 

A sickeningly lucid recognition flickers over his features when you speak, and something shifts as his gaze pierces, brows furrowing. Your lashes flutter in some muted pain. There is something wrong.

And then Paul says your name as if he's surprised to see you; and it is wrong – as if you are in the wrong place. 

Paul’s groan of pain draws your horror – a wound, bloodied and black with expiring life; right upon his stomach.

Your cry of his name is silent to the whipping winds. 

He looks down, as if expecting to see something between the two of you; some memory of a bejeweled hand, draped with bands and jewels of green and gold, plunging a blade; but you gasp in horror. 

Because with his head tilted down, you squint, just barely making out the glint of another figure across the clearing.

Glowing skin, sickeningly pale. A creeping, black smile.

There is someone behind him, and he is holding your nameday knife. 

It has the blood of your husband on it.

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[justmeinadaze]

Inescapable: Letters (Steddie X You)

A/N: I give you treat my dear friends. A glimpse into inmate Steddie. I'm going to write a full story but for some reason the idea of them writing back and forth burned into my brain. Think of this as a prequel so to speak.

Enjoy!

Warnings: Older (Early 30s) Prisoner Steddie & Young (Early 20s) Fem college student Y/N, Everything is in letter format. Mentions of smut, some dirty talk, angst (because I'm me), both men were convicted even though they are innocent, near the end we get some glimpses of toxic behavior, Jealous Steddie <3, cliffhanger esc ending.

Word Count: 2918

"You can build a prison of stone and steel, but you merely present the prisoner with a challenge. Any truly determined man will find a way out but love, love is the perfect prison. Inescapable."-- Wilson Fisk (Daredevil)

July 1996

Mr. Munson and Mr. Harrington, 

I know you don’t know me but my name is Y/N Y/L/N and I’m a student here at Hawkins University. I’m supposed to be doing a project for my criminal justice class and with your permission I’d like to do it on you. 

I’m working towards getting my law degree and so many kids in my class are doing theirs on people like Bundy or Gacy. How does that help teach them? I’ve done research on your case and I feel like you both are innocent. Add in the fact that the judge wanted to make “an example” out of you two… it’s ridiculous. 

Neither of you had a prior history of violence and Mr. Harrington, your parents are prominent members of Hawkins! UGH! I just don’t get it. 

Sorry. I went off on a bit of a tangent there… I just hate how you both were treated. 

If you don’t want me to utilize your case for my class I’ll completely understand. If you don’t respond I’ll take that as a no as well. 

Thank you,

--Y/N.

################

July 1996,

Sweetheart,

You have no idea how good it made us feel to have someone reach out to us, let alone agree that we are innocent. Society forgot about us a while ago but thankfully Steve and I have each other. 

And now you we hope : ). 

We have no problem with you doing your project on our case. What do you need from us? Details I imagine but what else? Are we allowed to know more about you? We know your name is Y/N, you’re a law student, and judging by the intoxicating scent that wafted when we opened your letter you smell really fucking good. 

Please feel free to be open with us.  We’re nice guys we swear.

-Eddie

Y/N,

I hope Eddie didn’t come off too strong with his letter. I told him we need to be respectful but like he said people kind of forgot about us. It’s nice to feel appreciated. 

We have no problem with you using us on your project and you don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to. I understand that talking to someone in our circumstances can be a bit scary especially for a young lady like you. 

Are you only going to be speaking with us or do you need to talk to our families to? My parents gave up on me after I was found guilty so they probably won’t be much help. Eddie’s uncle Wayne Munson is a nice guy. You can tell him we sent you and he’ll answer your questions. We also have some friends people who were around the time we were arrested who can help to. 

We look forward to hearing from you, 

-Steve

P.S. You can call us Steve and Eddie. We already feel old enough : )

####################

July 1996

Eddie & Steve, 

Thank you so much! You have no idea how important this is to me. I don’t just want to do this for my class but I’d like to use this case for my graduation project as well. But we don’t have to think about that now. I barely like to think that far ahead so I use the excuse of that is two years away. 

Eddie didn’t come on too strong : ).

I AM a law student and a sophomore at Hawkins U. I’ll be 21 in a few months so I can finally move up to being a bartender at the restaurant I work at. College is expensive but soon it will be worth it. I’m attaching a picture with the letter just so you have an image of who you’re talking to. 

Growing up I heard all about you two. Hawkins High used to have your Hellfire Club, Eddie, but they disbanded it a couple of years before I graduated. The parents said they didn’t think it was right for their kids to belong to a club created by someone such as yourself. Since Dustin Henderson wasn’t there to advocate for you guys anymore…

I don’t have to reach out or talk to anyone you don’t want me to. I know most of the people involved in your case aren’t even in Hawkins anymore. 

I’m so sorry. It must be hard having everyone you know disappear. 

My parents aren’t exactly fans of my chosen profession. My mom hates lawyers since her divorce lawyer wasn’t able to get her more alimony from my father and my dad is cop so enough said hahaha!

I’ve been with my boyfriend for a few months. He’s a film major and keeps begging me to allow him to do an interview with you two. I keep telling him no. You’re people not circus animals. 

Let’s start with you two telling me whatever makes you comfortable in regard to your case!

-Y/N

####################

December 1996,

Sweetheart,

Merry Christmas! 

Did Wayne give you the presents we bought you? My uncle said it’s important for college girls especially soon to be lawyers to have tape recorders. I’d love to hear if you liked it and if you can use it in your classes. 

It’s been a couple of days since you called. I hope everything is alright. We miss the sound of your voice…

Y/N, I know I can come off a bit forward but I hope I didn’t scare you away by talking to you the way I did during our last conversation. I can’t help it, you know? You’re just so gorgeous and you’ve been so good to us that my brain promptly goes into flirtation mode. 

Anyway, yeah, I want to hear how your Christmas went and if Derek’s family was good to you.

-Eddie

Honey, 

Merry Christmas! 

Ed forgot to mention that we did get your gifts and are incredibly thankful for the books. Since I was arrested I’ve opened my mind when it comes to reading and Munson’s fantasy books at least take me away mentally to a different world. 

He’s right by the way… you are incredibly beautiful. 

Would you be open to seeing us in person? 

Just a nice friendly visit where we can talk about your project and get to know you more. 

If not we completely understand.

-Steve

##########################

February 1997

Eddie & Steve, 

I’m sorry I haven’t come by or answered the phone. After our last visit, I just…

I love Derek but I care about you both so much. When you kissed me We have to keep this professional. Not just because of my boyfriend but because I’m studying to be a lawyer. How would it look if I fell in love started a relationship with inmates I’m working with?

Please understand.

-Y/N

#######################

February 1997

Sweetheart,

We understand but you have to also understand that we’ve never met anyone like you. You’re so kind and beautiful. You listen to what we have to say and actually care about us. I can still feel your lips against mine and nothing in my life has ever tasted as sweet. 

Can you still feel me, princess?

For the first time in almost 11 years, I actually have some hope. 

Does he make you feel like we do, honey? Your heavy breath against my mouth when I kissed you tells me no. I know we’re trapped here for the next 14 years but, baby, we can still take care of you. We just have to be a bit imaginative with certain things but….

No one has to know, baby, not even Derek. 

-Steve & Eddie

#######################

February 1997

Baby, 

Fuck, sweetheart, you have no idea how hearing you touch yourself over the phone got us going. If we could have private phones we would have stroked our cocks for you so you could hear how much you turn us on.

I can still hear your heavy pants in my ear while you fucked your fingers. 

I’m playing with myself right now at the thought of how tight that young little pussy is. Fuck… picturing those sexy hips slam against me as you ride my dick. Do you like it rough or nice and slow? Delicate, just like you, pretty girl. 

Shit. I just came so hard. 

Would you let Steve and I fill you up? Make you really ours?

I wish we could fall asleep with you between us. I’d give anything to hold you in my arms and play with your hair. 

Can’t wait to see you again, princess. 

-Eddie.

############################

April 1997

Honey, 

How did your test go for your class? I’m sorry we weren’t more helpful but I’m glad you brought your stuff to show us what you’ve been working on. It makes us so happy to see you working so hard and achieving your dreams. You deserve all the good things in this world. 

I’ve been thinking about you since we last saw you. Aren’t you glad now you wore that sexy skirt?

God, I can still smell you on my fingers. I loved feeling you cling to my arm as I thrust them into your tight little cunt. We have to work on silencing those moans a bit more : ).

I keep having dreams about your pretty mouth wrapped around my cock just looking up at me with those big, beautiful eyes while I fuck your throat. 

Do you think about us? Tell us all your fantasies, baby. 

We love you. 

-Steve

#######################

April 1997

Eddie & Steve, 

You are such bad boys, you know that? I like it though…

Sometimes when I’m writing to you, Derek will walk by and I feel naughty but giddy. I’m doing something I definitely shouldn’t be doing. When we have sex, I don’t see him anymore. 

I just see you two. 

I wish I could take care of you the way you do me. I want to feel you both inside of me, stretching me open. I want to choke on Steve’s cock and ride Eddie till I can’t walk. I want to feel you both cum inside me and make me yours. 

I love you to…so much… 

I hate to ask this after everything but Derek would like to film you guys for his project. I’ll be there to so you won’t be alone with him and I can use the footage when I start working on my graduation project later down the line. 

After everything, if you don’t want to I completely understand. 

I’ll call you both tomorrow. 

-Y/N

##########################

May 1997

Please, 

I’m so sorry! The prison said you aren’t allow visits for the next month after what happened and you aren’t taking my calls. 

I didn’t know those were the questions he was going to ask you, I swear. 

After the stupid bullshit he pulled, I broke up with him and kicked him out of our apartment. 

I know you both are innocent and I don’t feel the same way he does. 

I love you so much. 

-Y/N

################

May 1997,

Don’t break up with him. He’s right. We’re fucking criminals and—

Y/N,

Eddie is still upset but we do believe that you didn’t know he was going to blind side us. We just needed some time to compose ourselves. The questions Derek asked about those kids, Nancy, and then seeing him kissing you when we walked in just fucking… It was too much. 

Add in the fact that he made some points, you know?

By the time, we get out of here we’ll be in our late 40’s essentially starting over. It’s going to be so hard for us to get a job and other things like a house or a car. People will always look down on us for something we didn’t do but they believe we did. 

You’re going to be this badass attorney with men your age groveling at your high heeled feet to give you the world. 

We’re scared about dragging you down with us. You deserve the world, baby girl.

Just give us a bit more time, ok? During this time, I want you to think about if being with us is the life you really want. Really think about it, Y/N. 

We love you to… no matter what.

--Steve & Eddie

###########################

August 1997

Eddie & Steve, 

I’m sitting in my first class this semester and I am already exhausted. I started my new job at The Hideout and I left at like 3am. I got some good tips though so that will help with tuition. I can also send you guys anything if you need something. 

I heard your appeal was denied again. 

I’m so sorry.

With cases like yours, it’s so hard to get those pushed through and approved. 

I’m thinking about you two every minute. When I crashed, I kept wishing I had your arms around me. 

I’ll call you tonight before my shift. 

I love you!

-Y/N

########################

August 1997, 

Baby, 

Yeah, we’re kind of over it now. After so many denials, you just kind of give up trying. It was like that with my dad and his case. Then again he was just a repeat offender and I’m a murderer so.

You didn’t tell us you were working at The Hideout. I used to play my guitar there with my band when I thought I would be a rockstar. I’m not gonna be anything now.

I’m sorry, sweetheart. I guess we’re just a bit low right now. 

I wish we could be there with you to. I want to fall asleep to your voice talking to me about everything. I could listen to you talk for hours, babe. 

Don’t overwork yourself. 

Love you,

--Eddie 

Honey, 

You never have to worry about sending us anything in here. We make enough money and then Wayne gives Eddie some to get by. 

My mom was there at our appeal. It was nice seeing her face again after all this time even though she didn’t talk to me or stick around to meet with me at the prison. 

I imagine my father didn’t know she was there. 

I agree with Munson, don’t over work yourself. 

We miss you. 

--Steve

######################

October 1997,

Y/N, 

We didn’t mean to scare you, baby, when you came to visit. We just… you were supposed to come visit us last week and you didn’t. You don’t answer when we call. 

We get worried. 

Please, sweetheart, answer the phone so we can talk. 

We love you, pretty girl. 

--Eddie

#######################

October 1997,

FUCK YOU! 

You don’t get to treat me the way you did when I took time out of my day to come to see you! Steve, you have no right shouting at me and degrading me in front of all your cell block friends. Eddie, you don’t get to grab my wrist and command that I “Lower my voice” when you both are sitting there talking down to me. 

The three of us know you weren’t worried about me but fucking jealous I’ve been brushing you off for someone else! 

I have shown you both nothing but respect and opened my heart to you from day one!

I’m sorry your both in the situation you are in. I genuinely am but I have given you no reason to think I’d ever hurt you by fucking cheating on you. 

I wouldn’t put my career and heart on the line like I have just to fucking throw it away that way. 

--Y/N

######################

October 1997

Little girl, 

I know you get off on being a bad girl but we swear to God, Y/N. You don’t get to talk to us the way you did during our visit. We understand that you have a busy life but that doesn’t give you the right to not show up or not answer the phone when you say you will. 

We may be convicts but we still have feelings. 

Telling us to “fuck off” or saying that bratty shit you said like “I’m sorry I’m busy” is not ok. 

Respect is earned. 

Let’s also not forget, Y/N, that you cheated on your boyfriend with us. It’s not farfetched for us to think you may spread your legs for more tips at the bar you work at. 

Don’t play this game with us, princess. You won’t win. 

Eddie & Steve

#########################

October 1997

Edward Munson & Steven Harrington, 

I always win and I have more self-respect than you both seem to think I do. 

We’re done. 

--Y/N

#########################

October 1997

Ed and Stev, 

I hate you sooooooo much. I fell in love wit you and did things with u I’ve never done with ANYONE! Except fucking obviously : ). I never did get to feel those “big cocks” streting tearing me open. Why is that? Oh yeah…because youre in jail!

I was willing to wait bcause I loved you. I didn’t care if you’d be 40 someting when you got out. You will NEVER find someone like me again. 

I’ll move on though. Always do.

Hey check out this cute boy I met. I took a picture of him sucking my neck. I’m not drunk enough to send a video but you can use your imagination. 

You’re good at that especially when u r imagining me cheating on you with men like him. 

Assholes…

--Y/N

######################

October 30th, 1997

Trick or treat, little girl.

See you tonight. 

--Steve & Eddie

##########

Donate to me

@nailbatanddungeon @dashingdeb16 @hardladyheart @thwippyparker @micheledawn1975 @utterlyinsanity

[squidpedia]

HI I’M PEDIA, MASTERPOST AND TAG GUIDE UNDER THE CUT BUT READ MY FAQ, BOY!!!:

Boundaries on reposting, dubbing, and pfp’s?

Dubs and reposts are ok just let me know please so i can check it out (and give credit duh)! Send it to my inbox or dm’s or something, anything, pleaseeee I’d want to see!!!!! PFP’s also don’t need permission, just include credit somewhere like your bio!

I sent you an ask a while ago/tagged you in a post but you never responded

I’M AWFUL AT RESPONDING TO ASKS AND TEND TO MISS A LOT OF NOTIFICATIONS I’M SORRYYYYYY. ITS YOU AND LIKE 150 OTHER PEOPLE I PROMMY IM JUST TERRIBLE. if you tagged me in a post don’t be afraid to rb it and tag me again, sorry for that!

I sent you a dm but didn’t get a responce

I mainly keep my messages open incase of questions/concerns, but otherwise when it comes to just casual chatting in the dm’s I prefer to limit that to my 18+ mutuals. I’ll probably leave you on read otherwise, sorry nothing against you!

I liked x thing you made. Can I make fanart, redraw it in my style, write a fic relating to it, make something inspired by it etc?

YEAH!!!! Flattered and happy I inspired you in that way!! Just 1) credit me and tag if youre posting it on tumblr, I would be so sad if I didn’t see it and would love love love to rb it and 2) if it’s a redraw, try to link back to original post if possible! 3) in regards to fics (wtf. fic writers ur too cool for me) still give credit, let me know, ask any questions and i’d be happy to elaborate on literally anything. If it involves any of my fallen human designs just know they all go by they/them and u should be fine

Socials?

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Pronouns?

Anyyyy

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TAGS:

#Undertale Heart to Heart -> posts talking about my designs and thoughts regarding my fallen kid OCs. Its mostly lilac sorry. individual kids got their own tags like #aimee hth but I'm not linking them sorry you have to find those yourself

#Happily Ever After and Then Some (HEAaTS?) -> copium everyone lives au idgaf please let me have shameless fun and be extra nice because im probably shaking in my boots sharing any and all headcannons relating to this. based on the events of uty

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OK PEDIA UTDR/UTY COMICS MASTERPOST

(uty comics are highlighted in orange if you’re more interested in the strictly utdr stuff)

Clover’s Memories (ongoing - i prommy)

Hiatus :(

Silence | Memory 1 | Memory 2 | Memory 2.5 | Sound | Memory 3 | Discrepancy | Memory 4 | Static

Clover’s Hat (post revive au)

Part 1 /// Part 2 /// Bonus

Kanako Integrity Duo (really short mini doodle comics)

Reconciliation // Introductions // Ceroba // Chujin

Miscellaneous:

Kris Clover Interaction // Kind Soul // Frisk vs. Clover’s POV // Bedtime // Who’s Your Friend? // Pipe Down // Family Visit // Unwell // Letter // Humor // Gamer // They // Kicked Out // It Keeps Happening // What’s In A Name // i dont think chara berdly and clover should be in a room together (i’ll probably make a cleaner version later) // Banter // Time // Block Out

Fallen Kids:

Dissapear

[ohmybueckers]

Never Strangers: Chapter One

Word Count: 5.7k

Warnings: drinking, author who is terrible about being consistent with tenses, incredibly down bad main characters (be gentle with Paige and Maya guys, the first love WLW situationship breakup is ROUGH)

Authors note: Not sure exactly how I feel about this chapter, but I feel like it gives a decent amount of context. Prepare for more flashbacks next chapter. Also this is highkey not proofread so … approach with caution there.

August 26, 2023

The drive from Stamford to Storrs is about two hours, traffic permitting. My mom waits approximately 20 minutes before she begins the inevitable interrogation session into the state of my life. More specifically, the train wreck it has become.

“You know, I really think you should consider rejoining mock trial. You loved it for so long, and look how many friends you made.” She rambles, her eyes never leaving I-95. “You probably would have never met Brooke if you hadn’t joined mock trial.”

Brooke and I met as co-counselors at a mock trial summer intensive for high schoolers at Yale the summer after my freshman year of college. Turns out trying to keep track of a bunch of hormonal fifteen year olds is a bonding experience like no other. She quickly became my formerly long-distance best friend and very soon-to-be roommate. 

“I told you, I’ll check it out when I get there.” I say, half telling the truth and half just trying to get her to change the subject. Clearly, my attempt was failing.

“I just want to make sure you’re making the most of college. I know University of Minnesota was not your thing, but I want you to find your why when it comes to Connecticut.”

I sighed. One of the perks of having a therapist as a mother is that you always have someone to listen to your petty problems without judgement. The downside is that she’s always trying to dig deeper, even when I really do not want to. “My why is being close to you. Plus, UConn is close enough to New York.”

“And close to Paige.” This remark nearly makes me choke.

“Mom!”

“Sorry, sorry!” She quickly apologizes, though knowing her she knew damn well what kind of reaction she would receive. I never told her full details of what actually went down between us - maybe because I thought it would be too embarrassing, or maybe because I knew that if she ended up in my mom’s bad graces, there was no coming back from that. All she knew is that at one point we were friends, then we were more than friends, and then things got messed up and we don’t talk anymore. She also knows that I really don’t like talking about it with her. “Does she know you’re coming?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know, I didn’t tell her.” 

The last text I had sent Paige was shortly after the basketball player announced she tore her ACL. Despite the tension between us, it felt wrong to say nothing in these circumstances. Basketball was Paige’s world, and I couldn’t even fathom the grief she must have felt. I received a “thank you maya, i hope you’re doing well. miss u” in return. It took everything in me not to call the blonde after reading the last five letters. 

Thankfully, my moms line of questioning ends there, and she returns to the driving playlist we made together the night before, an eclectic mix of 80’s hits with the occasional R&B ballad. Occasionally I hear her sing along, letting the crack of fresh air from the car window flow through her almost-black hair. Some people say I’m basically her twin: same dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin, and short stature. I just wish I got a fraction of her curves.

The rest of the car ride, I alternate between reading the newest Emily Henry book and messaging Brooke, who has been sending me updates on our new apartment. She moved into a couple of days ago while my mom and I were still on our girls trip to New York City, and her texts ranged from “ill give you the room with the ensuite bathroom if i can have the bigger room” (deal) to “our neighbors are FINE” (knowing her taste in men, doubtful). 

After what feels like too long in the car (maybe I never actually got over my tendency to get carsick), we pull into a lot. there it is: My new apartment, a small building surrounded by others similar to it and tall trees, still wrapped in vibrant green hues untouched by the incoming fall. I hear a yell from across the lot as I step out, but I’m so overwhelmed by the new sensations in Storrs that it takes my brain a moment to process that the tall figure running across the lot with a truly impressive speed was my best friend.

Brooke barrels towards me, wrapping me in a hug that nearly tips me over. “About time you got here!” She grabs my shoulders, her white acrylics a comfortably familiar sensation on my skin, before turning to my mom with her award-winning smile. “It’s so good to finally meet you! I’m Brooke. Wow, you could have convinced me you two were sisters. You’re gonna have to give me your skincare routine before you leave.” She gestures to my mom, who giggles. I can tell that her day has been made.

I will never fail to tell Brooke Jones that she is perhaps the most charismatic person I have ever met. When I’m in Mock Trial, I will fight to make my voice heard. Outside of the courtroom, however, I tend to lean on the more reserved side. On the first day of counselor training, it was as if she could sniff out how nervous I was and made it her personal mission to befriend me. And one thing about Brooke: she will make you talk. Somehow I don’t mind it as much when I’m with her. 

So it’s a great sight when Brooke and my mom trail ahead of me, hands filled with various decor items and chatting (I think I hear one of them mention bringing out photos of me in seventh grade, an action I know I will have to intercept later for my own sanity).  

About three hours later, with the hard work of the three of us supplemented by SZA’s discography, my space is set up just enough to where I can sleep comfortably for the next few nights. Brooke pulls my mom in first, after getting her phone number “for emergencies”. Next, it’s my turn. 

“Alright, you know what I’m about to say.”

“We’re not going to throw a party, I know you’re worried about the security deposit.” Behind my mom’s shoulder, I could see Brooke’s brows furrow as she mouthed don’t promise that. 

“No, I meant have fun. Take risks. Find your why,” She grabs my shoulders at the last word for emphasis, and it’s hard to believe that this is my real life and not some after school motivational special. 

We embrace one last time. Despite her cheesy moments, I am reminded just how much I’m going to miss seeing my mom every day. After three years of being in closer proximity to my dad, it was nice to spend the summer in Stamford, my days filled with NYT crossword games by the water and day trips into New York City. This summer solidified that it didn’t even need to be Boston - I was just happier on the east coast. 

“I like your mom, she’s sweet.” I hear Brooke say as we watch the white Toyota leave the parking lot from our third floor window. Our view is perfect, and I picture what it will be like to watch the leaves change from it as the semester goes on. It makes the last few hours of lugging furniture and suitcases up flights of stairs worth it.

“I love her when she’s not trying to psychoanalyze every decision I make,” I chuckle, moving to continue unpacking some miscellaneous items in the kitchen.

Brooke follows me. “Is that what that whole ‘find your why’ thing was about?” 

“Got a whole interrogation in the car. Everyone in my family thinks I’m having some sort of crisis,” I place a stack of plates (a gift from my mom’s boyfriend) in a cabinet. “She even suggested I came here for Paige.”

Brooke stands there, her lips falling into a flat line. She is taking far too long to respond for my preference. My jaw falls, eyes widening. “Stop.”

Brooke lifts her hands in surrender. “Ok, I would be lying if I said it hasn’t crossed my mind.”

My head falls into my hand, fingers pinching the bridge of my nose as my eyes shut. “I swear to god, why does everyone think I chose to go to UConn because of Paige?”

“Maybe because other people definitely have.” Ok, Brooke does have a point. While I have done everything in my power to not think about the blonde, everyone else has been increasingly trying to get in her orbit. I’ve even seen a handful of edits made for her in the past few months as people anticipate her first season back from her injury.

I shake my head. “I’m not that dumb. I’m here for-“

“In-state tuition and to be closer to me and your mom, I know.” Brooke finishes, coming around to wrap one arm around me. It’s her way to both apologize and check in on me. While I appreciate the gesture, a small part of me feels guilty - like I have gotten use to people extending pity to me for one reason or another: my parent’s divorce, the move to Minnesota, Paige, transferring schools. It gets to a point where I just want to win at something.

I lean into her embrace, smelling the citrus in her hair product. “I know I was down bad for a while, but I promise I’m fine.”

I feel Brooke nod above me. “Good, because she’s kinda everywhere on campus. Even if you don’t run into her, people don’t shut up about her.” This was to be expected, a fact I have been preparing myself for months for. I decided it’s just something I’m going to have to get used to, like many things in life.

“Well, why don’t we shut up about Paige and order some food. I’m starving,” I exclaim, moving towards my phone to pull up Doordash. Perhaps my first win can be proving to people that I can thrive at UConn and absolutely not fixate on Paige Bueckers. 

“Okay, okay. You good if we invite my cousin Adria to come over too? She’s chill I swear.” I remember Brooke telling me about Adria last summer, how she was entering her freshman year at `UConn at the time. I nod in agreement, excited to host my first get together in my new space. 

////

Just an hour and a half later, the three of us are sat in the sparsely furnished living room, eating pad thai surrounded by a large collection of boxes. Upon one look at Adria when she stepped through our front door, I could tell her and Brooke were related: both had the same long legs, clear deep complexion and white smiles that looked like they belonged on billboards. Where they differed was in dress: while Brooke wore the same blue sweat set that she helped me unpack in, Adria was dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a boho white tank top, a cascade of black and blonde braids down her back and an “A” necklace around her neck. 

Adria is only a sophomore, and yet from the first hour I have known her she appears far more put together than I was at this time last year. It’s evident in the way she talks about her pre-professional sorority, or in the way she talks about getting ahead of internship applications for the next summer. It would almost be irritating if she wasn’t also so charming.

“So what brought you to UConn?” Adria asks me from the other end of the couch. 

“Well, I tried U of M. My dad and his new girlfri… new wife,” The correction felt bitter on my tongue in a way that made me feel guilty. “They live out there, so I got in-state. It just wasn’t for me. I decided to transfer here just in case I still want to go to law school, since my mom lives in-state and I don’t want to go further in debt than I need to.”

“What do you mean if you still want to go to law school?” Brooke questions, her face incredulous. “Wasn’t that your whole plan since you were in, like, fourth grade?”

I love Brooke with everything in me, on the deepest platonic soulmate level there is. I tell her everything - except for the fact that I don’t know if I still want to practice law outside of college. I guess if I said it out loud to her, the girl who I once dreamed of going to law school with, practicing in the same city with before opening a shared practice, it would become more real: that I was seemingly blowing up all I’ve known with no plan B. She already thinks me dropping mock trial is some sign of an incoming mental breakdown.

“I’m just… exploring all of my options.” I muster, though from the furrow in Adria’s brow it must not be as believable as I would have hoped. Judging by the way Brooke’s shoulders appeared to relax, however, it at least worked on her. Eager to switch the attention off of myself, I turn to the younger girl once more. “Adria, what are you studying?”

“I’m kinesiology, trying to become a physical therapist. Maybe do some athletic training?”

Brooke chokes back a laugh, waving her hand. “She’s just saying that because she’s fucking someone on the basketball team.”

If there’s one similarity between Adria and I, it’s the way both of our jaws drop at Brooke’s candor. Her cousin seems particularly taken off guard, throwing her hands up with a, “Jesus Christ, Brooke!”

I can’t help but laugh at the dynamic. “Who is he?”

“She’s on the women’s team.” The word she rings in my ears as my cheeks get hot with embarrassment. I’m literally a lesbian, I thought she was above assuming sexuality based on looks after having it done to me throughout the summer by daddy’s money frat guys in Stamford.  Adria scratched the back of her neck, her cheeks flushing. “Um, KK Arnold?” 

I’ve only seen the name in passing, during a late night scan of the women’s basketball roster that I would never admit to. KK was the new recruit from Wisconsin to my memory … or was it Indiana? 

“She got a job with athletics over the summer. Somehow her and KK crossed paths and they’ve been hooking up since.” Brooke took a bite of her noodles between sentences, filling in the gaps that Adria left. 

“We haven’t even had sex, chill.” Adria held a hand up to her sister, but the shy look never left her face. “KK’s nice though. I think I could really like her, which totally sucks because basketball players aren’t exactly the relationship type.”

“Looks like you both have the same type.” Brooke says through another bite.

Silence falls on the room, followed by a confused “What?” from Adria. 

A part of me wants to be frustrated with Brooke for bringing it up - the last thing I want is to be known at UConn as just a girl who got with the basketball star. However, Adria seems like a kind person, and she did just confide in me about KK. Part of me feels like I owe her an explanation in some sick way. With a sigh, I give her the context. “Brooke is giving me shit because a long time ago, in high school, I kinda had a thing with Paige Bueckers.”

The younger girl looks at me for a beat as if she can’t believe the words that just came out of my mouth. Once she gets a minute to reboot, she explodes “Like Paige Bueckers Paige Bueckers?Holy shit!”

“Don’t say anything, it was a really, really long time ago,” I plea, recognizing that she was acquainted to one of her teammates. Oh god, the last thing I need is KK telling Paige that her … whatever Adria was … told her that her sister’s friend is still hung up on her or something.

“I won’t, I promise.” Adria holds both hands up, a move that must be genetic. “You’re not gonna hit her up now that you’re on her campus?”

“Yeah, I’ll pass,” I say, taking a bite of my own food. I try to ignore the way my stomach flips at how Adria claimed the entirety of University of Connecticut as belonging to Paige somehow. As if there was no room for me. “She may be great at basketball, but that girl does not do emotions.”

“Well, I’m not exactly surprised.” Adria shrugs. My head snaps back up, and Brooke shoots her cousin a pointed look.

“What do you mean?”

Adria continues, “I mean, its not a secret Paige kinda has a reputation here.”

So much for not fixating on Paige Bueckers. My mind races as I ask, “What kind of reputation?” although based on her tone and the context, I can make my own educated guesses. 

“She just gets with a lot of girls on campus.” Adria speaks slowly, her expression somehow guilty. “My freshman year roommates friend got with her. Said she slept with her one night and never talked to her again.”

It’s not like I had no clue that Paige had no issue moving on from me once she got to Storrs. For one, she didn’t seem to have an issue doing such a thing when we were together in the first place. She had also heard rumors through the grapevine at school during her senior year, with people saying that they knew someone whose sister was friends with someone who got with Paige or some outlandish connection like that. Hearing confirmation from someone in Storrs somehow made it more confirmed in my mind. That all Paige wants is to kiss as many girls as possible, touch as many girls as possible, fuck as many girls as possible. Maybe that’s why she started acting so cold and things fell apart. Maybe that’s why I wasn’t enough for her, I can’t help my mind from thinking bitterly. 

“Can’t say I’m surprised.” I force myself to breeze past the conversation, knowing that I cannot dwell on the past again. After a year or two of trying to figure out where everything went wrong, I have long since realized that there is nothing else to decode. I preferred to think of Paige as a painful memory that I’ve locked far, far away - it was just easier that way. “Who wants to watch a show?”

“You good, Maya?” Brooke asks, a small smile on her face. I know she feels guilty for bringing it up in the first place. But really, I have no reason to be mad: I was the one who ended things, and years ago at that. Being hung up over Paige Bueckers was ridiculous at this point.

“Yeah.” I answer, my voice more sharp than I intended. Fuck. Shaking my head as if to shake off any sort of doubts in their mind, I smile as I stand and walk towards the kitchen. “Believe me when I say I do not care what that girl does. She can do what she wants, and so can I. And what I want right now is to drink some prosecco and watch the Bachelorette.”

The sight of me pulling out the bottle of wine seems to strip Brooke of her doubts, because she agrees with a “Hell yeah, lets do it.”

Thankfully, once the TV is on we all settle into a groove of gossiping about strangers on our TV, not the very real people in our lives. Brooke in particular is enthralled, even though I had to beg her for weeks last summer to give the show a try. Even Adria chimes in as the two contestants cry over these men with a yell of “stand the fuck up!” I am quickly reminded in this moment that these two girls are, in fact, related. At one point in the night, Adria whips out her phone and snaps a photo of Brooke and I, grinning under a pile of throw blankets with our wine glasses in hand, an act I fail to question. After all, she had been checking her phone sporadically throughout the night.

Soon enough, we catch up on the past two episodes, our heads buzzing with the wine we consumed and our eyes struggling to stay awake as we say our goodbyes for the night. Adria pulls me into a hug, my head surrounded by the scent of her vanilla perfume as she whispers, “I’m so sorry about saying that stuff about Paige. You should know you… you absolutely did not deserve that shit, whatever she did. For the record, I think you’re awesome and that its completely her loss.”

I smile, happy to hear her words even if this is just a wine happy trail of thought. “It’s okay, Adria, I promise. It was so good to finally meet you.”

Brooke walks her out, and I can barely make it through brushing my teeth and washing my face before collapsing on my bed. The mattress is not the best quality and Amazon still says my mattress topper won’t be here for a few days, but I drift off easily, my thoughts filled with nothing except gratitude for my first night in Storrs and eager for my new start.

It’s safe to say this feeling does not extend in the morning, when I am awoken by the sun blazing through my window. My mouth is dry as I reach for my phone, eager to check the time and groaning when I see it is only 7AM. My groan is not audible for long, though, as I am quickly silenced by my most recent notification. One that has been awaiting me since 12:37AM.

Paige (DO NOT CALL): You go to UConn now???

August 26, 2023

“Go, go, go… Let’s fucking go Dorka!” I yell, watching as my old teammate scored in a game against the Liberty. It’s the Saturday night before the start of classes, and while the streets of Storrs are filled with people on their first night out of the semester, my teammates and I have all been moved into our current apartments for a little over two months. When your summer breaks are filled with workouts on campus mixed with brief vacations or visits home, that first night out doesn’t exactly carry the same novelty.

Which is why some of us were sat in Nika and Azzi’s living room, game on the TV as the two hosts prepare whatever alcoholic beverage they are subjecting us to from the kitchen separated by a counter. Three of our freshmen sit in the room with us: Ashlynn is on the floor, Ice is right above her on the couch with Aaliyah and Aubrey, and KK is next to me, typing hurriedly on her phone. Being one of the oldest players this year, I feel it’s especially important for me to get to know them - not just how they play, but who they actually are off the court.

“If UConn gets me playing like that,” Ice gestures to the TV, “I’ll know I made the right decision.”

“No turning back now.” Aubrey clapped her on the back, an over exaggerated grin on her face, which Ice responded to by shoving her off playfully. Ashlynn giggles, but doesn’t respond beyond that. It’s not abnormal for her to be quiet - what is abnormal is how silent KK is, her phone apparently more interesting than any of us. Aubrey seems to notice too, because she calls over to her.

“Hey KK, what did you think of that play?” No response. The typically extroverted girl has her chin in her hand, still staring at the screen in her other hand. Ice grabs the nearest pillow to her and throws it at the girl, prompting a jolt and a startled “What?” from KK and a “Ay, cut it out!” from Nika across the counter as she stirs a pitcher of God knows what.

“Bruh, KK, you’re not even watching,” I roll my eyes.

“Probably busy texting her girl,” Aaliyah mutters, although clearly she wasn’t trying that hard to be quiet. Hold up … her girl? Now the entire room quickly turns away from the game and to the freshman, who sits up from her slouched position with a death glare.

“I told you that in private.”

“Yo what? KK, you’ve been on campus for, like, five seconds,” Nika pops in the room.

“Clearly that’s all she needs,” Ice shrugs, earning her the same pillow thrown right back at her.

“Y’all suck,” KK slumps back into the couch, crossing her arms with a slight pout. I feel bad, wondering if we’ve been too hard on the teasing.

“Ok c’mon, we’ll stop. Let’s see her.” I gesture her to bring her phone closer to me, an act that she ignores for now.

“She’s not even my girl,” she mumbles.

“Do you want her to be?” Nika asks, eyebrows raised as she steps closer. All of us watch as KK bites her bottom lip, looking down at her sneakers. Hold on… she’s blushing. I may have only known the girl for two months, but i’ve never seen her do that before.

“Holy shit,” Nika exclaims. “KK’s a lover girl.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of, just surprising is all,” Aaliyah clarifies, “not many freshmen are too into settling down.”

I notice Aaliyah, Nika, and Aubrey turn to face me, their stares deadpan. “What are you lookin’ at me for?” I exclaim, pointing at my chest. The heat rising to my face reveals that it’s no secret, even to me.

“What do you think?” Azzi calls from the next room. I sigh.

It’s no secret among the team (or anyone, really) that I had a pretty… entertaining first two years at UConn. Once COVID restrictions began lifting and the team was able to see other people outside of other players, some of the older players made it their mission to show the younger ones what they had been missing, one of those things being who they were missing. Honestly, it’s what I thought I needed at the time: being trapped in my dorm the majority of the time I wasn’t in practice gave me a lot of time to think, and with thinking came regret. More than once I jolted up in my bed in the middle of the night, dreams of dark hair, tanned skin, and that laugh replaying in my mind. It was torture.

Being in a different girl’s bed every weekend silenced it, just momentarily. Some people viewed me as a player who got off on getting any girl she wanted. The guilt of it finally caught up to me at the beginning of my sophomore year, when I thought about all of the girls I hurt, the ones who thought I wanted more than just one or two nights. It just reinforced my worst fear about myself: I was a womanizer who was incapable of caring about anything aside from basketball. 

“Aight aight,” I surrender, shifting my attention back to KK. “We not talking about me right now. Let’s see her.”

KK unlocked her phone, typing a username into the search bar before handing the phone off to me. Nika and Ice were quickly at my side, craning their necks to see a peek. The girl (Adria Taylor, I discover from her bio) is tall, with deep skin and long braids going down her back.

“She’s so pretty!” Nika gushes, and I would have to agree.

Ice, unable to resist the pink circle surrounding Adria’s profile photo, taps on the waiting story before KK can protest. The phone illuminates with a photo of two girls smiling on a couch, captioned “first night back” with a heart and a couple of mentions, presumably her friends handles. I don’t even need to take a look at what is written, however, because my eyes seem to have zeroed in on the girl further from the camera, and my mouth seems to go dry. It can’t be, but it is.

Because the girl in the photo is Maya. 

“Holy fuck.”

I don’t even realize I’ve said it until the three girls turn to look at me, confusion laced in their faces. “What?” Nika asks, concern evident. My heart is racing at a million miles an hour and my hands suddenly feel impossibly sweaty, but I refuse to reveal myself to them. 

I fake a cough, covering it with one hand while the other goes to scratch the back of my neck. “Uh, nothing. Thought I saw something but um,” Suddenly the sight of my lap clad in Nike tech sweats is the most interesting sight in the world. “She’s cute, KK.”

Almost like some sort of angel sent to save me, Azzi appears with a tray full of drinks that are a bright pink color and look entirely too sweet. “Drink it slowly guys, I’m not really sure I measured correctly.” She looks embarrassed at the admission, passing them around the room. Upon my first sip, I wince. Yep, definitely not too sweet. Will I still drink it? Yes. It would be a shame to let a perfectly good drink go to waste, and I now have something to run from tonight.

We continue watching the game, or at least I am. During commercials I spark conversations with anyone who will listen, including asking Ashlynn about some country concert she went to with her parents over the summer. I don’t even really listen to country, but it was nice to see the typically shy girl light up over something. Plus, it gave me an excuse not to think too hard.

Truthfully by the end of the night I was fucking hammered, not bothering to keep track of how many shots I chased down after whatever concoction Nika and Azzi made. Everyone in the room knew it too, to the point where Nika took it upon herself to walk me back to my apartment once the game ended, even though I only lived one floor down and KK and Aubrey were both still at her apartment. 

After I promised her I would chug some water before bed and take the pain reliever she laid out for me in the morning, she agreed to leave and let me go rest. I collapsed in my bed, which suddenly felt like the most comfortable place I had ever been. My brain, on the other hand, was providing anything but comfort running at around 100 miles an hour. Unable to resist, I look up Adria’s profile on my account, clicking the story. Sober me probably would have thought about how it would look if I showed up in her profile views, but drunk me clearly didn’t care enough. 

Sure enough, she’s sat there with a glass of wine in her hands. My heart jumps as I realize that she’s still just as beautiful as she was when I first met her, just more grown up this time. Her face is all defined cheekbones, glistening eyes, and a smile - God, that smile, that never failed to brighten my day if it was directed at me. It’s been a while since I’ve glanced at her profile - though we still follow each other, she barely ever posts and I don’t remember the last time she’s interacted with anything I’ve posted. Viewing her profile is reserved for nights where I’m filled with just enough delusion to convince myself it’s a good idea. Nope, never is. 

The girl next to her (Brooke, I assume from the tag) is leaning into her slightly in a way that makes my stomach flip. She’s not entirely unfamiliar to me - I’ve definitely seen her in a photo dump by Maya last summer. A part of me wonders if that’s the next girl that gets to treat her the way I should have. What if she came to UConn for her, I think. Nope. Can’t do that. Maya hasn’t been mine, not for a while.

The urge to reach out has died down through the years, going from entirely unbearable at times to more of a constant dull itch that I feel as though I can’t ever scratch. Her texting me after my ACL tear last summer provided temporary relief. I mean, it had to say something that she cared enough to show that she cared. A person that hates me wouldn’t do that.

But then, she never responded to my reply. A person that hates me would do that.

So yeah, there is nothing I want more in this world than to text Maya one last time, just to tell her I’m sorry. That I still think about the way I treated her, and how I’ve been too afraid to be with another girl since I’m worried I’ll do the same thing. That I know I don’t deserve her, not even platonically, but feelings aside I miss being around her. I wish we could be friends again, or acquaintances who occasionally text each other on birthdays and holidays, or something. At the very least, I want her to know I’m sorry.

But beyond everything, I want her to be happy. And if me not talking to her makes her happy, as stated the last time I saw her physically where she stated she “just needed time”, I was willing to suffer through that.

Somehow knowing she could be anywhere right now, even just a short walk away, made the suffering unbearable right now, in a way that I hadn’t felt since freshman year. 

Blame it on the alcohol, or the picture, or whatever you like. Doesn’t change the fact that I opened my contacts in search for one particular one. Doesn’t change the five word text I sent that took an embarrassingly long time to think of. And it doesn’t change how my fingers pressed send before any other doubts could enter my brain. Putting my phone on do not disturb, I plug it in and turn off my lights, deciding that chugging water can wait until tomorrow. For now, I need to sleep off everything I’ve seen tonight and the memory of what I just did. 

[ddejavvu]

im not like an overly creative person when it comes to requesting stuff (sorry also im a lil drunk rn) but i saw ur thing abt wanting ppl to send u anakin stuff n i jus want u to know that like. that blurb u wrote abt him sticking his fingers in his girl's mouth destroyed me im jus imagining him playin w my mouth in the morning to wake me up

this was sent in almost a month ago but i sincerely want you to know that i read it at least once a day. i haven't had the time lately to give it proper attention but it's been on my brain since conception, thank you <3

this post is 18+, minors dni.

It's not the sunlight that wakes you, nor is it the traffic outside. It's fingers, fingertips, prodding at your stiff gums and making the malleable flesh of your cheek extrude. There's an ache when it's pulled too far and your eyes open, not enough of a startle response as you should have when you wake up to someone poking and prodding around your teeth.

You're unsurprised to find Anakin staring intently at you, his eyes locked onto the pink flesh of your gums as they whiten where he presses. He pulls at your bottom lip when he notices you're awake, and you move your head with it so that he doesn't tear it clean off.

He feeds your lip right into his mouth, kissing you with fervor he shouldn't have this early in the morning. He had tugged on your lower lip but it's your upper he fixates on, tongue tracing your teeth like his fingers do. Your lower lip suckles lazily against his own, and his nose briefly butts against yours before he angles his head differently to pull you in impossibly closer.

He does something so entirely Anakin, something you'd recoil from if it came from anyone else: He takes a moment to gather a mouthful of spit from his own throat, then pushes another kiss to your open, waiting mouth to feed his saliva past your lips.

It's messy, some streaks down the side of your mouth and soaks into the silken pillowcases you'd bought to preserve both your hair and Anakin's. They're new and you mourn the stain on them, but your brain isn't able to worry for very long before Anakin pulls his mouth away from your own to study the way his spit drips down your face.

He prods between your sealed lips with his fingers, but he muscles your head into a semi-upright position so that the load of spit in your mouth doesn't spill. It soaks his fingers but he watches it blend with your own, watches it spread around your mouth, drown your teeth, coat your tongue.

His breath puffs from his thoughtfully parted lips, fanning over your own and beginning to dry the spit on your face. You let him watch, content to lounge while Anakin's spit becomes your spit. When it's mingled with your own, when there's no discerning which saliva is his and which yours, you tuck your tongue to the roof of your mouth, swallowing it all as one blended essence.

Anakin doesn't speak- this odd habit of his, this unusual fixation is never one he feels he needs to explain or apologize for. All he does is lean in and kiss your mouth again, much less wet this time than the first.

When he draws back he reaches into your mouth one last time with spit-soaked fingers. He grabs hold of your tongue, pulling it from the protection of your teeth and leaning in to press his puckered lips to its surface. Your gag reflex begs to constrict your throat but you muscle it down, letting Anakin's nose eclipse the crescent-moon of your lower jaw.

You chase it with a kiss when he draws back, and his brows furrow, his face curving into an amused grin like you're the weird one. You ignore it, though, letting him sink back into the warmth of the slept-in sheets.

His chest makes the perfect resting place for your face, and his hand raises to blanket your jaw. His palm covers your cheek, and his thumb rests against the seal of your lips. You don't need to part them- he will, if he wants inside. You simply let your eyes flutter shut, leaning in to the pressure against your lips and puckering them gently against the pad of Anakin's thumb.

[who-killed-audrelia]

Stupid Feelings, 2

📑| after finding out the lump on your breast is not cancerous, you get sent home by wilson. you still have some medical check ups to do. at this point, wilson is still hiding himself and his expression from you.

part 1

genre: drama, fluff, no smut

pairing: james wilson x patient!reader (she/her)

warnings: harshword, inaccurate med stuffs, house saying horrible stuffs

a/n: omg I'm so sorry for not mentioning the gender (?? cmiiw) of 'y/n'. I just realized that after couple of days. and I think, I don't have to put 'house saying horrible stuffs' as a warning lmao. reblogs are appreciated! happy readingggg

james wilson

- hey

- its james

- todays your 1st appointment day, just wanna remind u

- cya

me

- dw james

- im alr in waiting room

today is one of your tiring day. one hour ago you've attended a meeting full of legal officers and the pressure is still intact to your mind. and now you're sitting in Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital's waiting room, waiting for your first appointment. still in your overall, you read through a pamflet from this room.

"miss y/l/n?" a nurse came out of a room, calling for you.

"I'm coming!" you entered the appointment room and saw wilson standing there while reading your chart. "hey"

"oh, hey y/n. i assume you've drank some of the pills that i prescripted?" wilson started the conversation and assist you to sit down, "sit down please"

"yeah, once a day right?" looking at his outfit, he looks so tired. sleeves already rolled up and hair messed up. "I also drank two or three painkillers because when I was working, the pain came up and- yeah"

when you talked about the pills, wilson sat down in front of you. then, the previous nurse that called you before started to help you take off your overalls, not taking off your shirt. you then took off the shirt by yourself, leaving the bra that still on your body.

"can you take off your bra please?" wilson then looked at your chart again, he felt nervous to look at your breast that is really in front of him. then you took of your bra, revealed your breast and the lump.

"okay... let's see." wilson started to obverse the lump on your breast. "it feels like the lump already shrinking a little bit..."

"that's a good news!"

"yeah. you can put on your clothes now" looking at your chart again, wilson still felt nervous, you put on your clothes one by one but not the overalls. "nurse, could you please leave the room? I need to talk to the patient privately."

"sure" without hesitation, she left the room.

"uhm?" you just stand there silently.

"do you want to go dinner with me after work?" the long awaited wilson's intention is now blurted by him.

still confused, you nodded, "yeah of course, just text me when you're done"

"ye- yeah sure. here's the prescriptions" he handed it to you. and you walked to the door.

unexpectedly, house opened the door, "you two lovebirds can't do it in my appointment room"

"house, shut up" wilson put his hands on his waist, "and what do you mean by 'it'?"

"sex?"

"wh-"

"I assumed that because you sent out the nurse I told to supervise you both," house walked away, "ew"

wilson came closer to you, "I'm so sorry y/n. that's dr. house if you remember"

"yeah.. I know him- I remember him"

"here's your prescription for the next week, take care of yourself" wilson handed you his written prescription.

"thanks, bye"

--------------------------------------------

it's 7pm and wilson already texted you for dinner. while putting your dress on, wilson knocked your apartment several times.

"give me a minute!" you shouted from your bedroom. then you walked your legs to the front door, opened it for him. "I'm sorry, I haven't ready yet. but you can come in, it's cold outside"

stunned, wilson just stand there while looking at you.

"james?"

"oh- yeah, of course" you both walked in to your apartment. he sat down on the sofa and watched you walk back to your bedroom.

after a minute, you came back with two color option of mini cardigans. "I thought it's cold outside and I'm not confident with my breast's current situation you know," you giggled it off, "which one suit my dress better?"

wilson stunned again with your fashion ideas, "you shall not wearing any..."

"huh?"

"I- I mean you shall not wear that red one, I think white suits you better" he almost said it.

"thanks.." you said it with confused tone.

--------------------------------------------

"so, how's your life?" he opened the long awaited conversation after you both started the main course.

"pretty good..." you giggled it off again while slicing the steak in front of you, "actually kinda bad. I recently broke up with my ex boyfriend"

"is it bad?"

"well yeah, at least he was not my husband" ouch, that part hurted wilson's heart a little, "how 'bout you?"

"not to much going on, just cancer and cancer"

you smiled, "thank God I'm not one of your cancer patient"

"yeah"

when you guys are chatting, wilson looked outside. he spotted house standing there menacingly. house, being himself, walked in to the dinner.

"hey, how y'all doing"

"good, before you came in," house scooched on the seat beside wilson, "and why are you here?"

"to tell y/l/n your exes"

"you got exes?" you startled, because you thought wilson is just a baby that can't touch a woman.

"wife"

"house, shut up" wilson blushed of embarrassment.

"I need to tell her the truth," he picked a piece of french fries of yours, "I'm preventing it to happen again"

"I can do it by myself" wilson tried to push him over

"hey, I'm a martyr in here"

"james, that's okay, dr. house can stay here" they both looked at you and sat down quietly like you're their mother.

house cleared his throat, "I just don't want it to be happened again"

"tell me more about his exes, house" you put a bite of steak in your mouth.

--------------------------------------------

after the craziest dinner, wilson drove you both home. house sat down on the backseat, drunk. and you sat down beside wilson, trying to kept awake.

"can I take him to his house first? his is closer" wilson opened the conversation and woke you up.

"that's okay"

after sending house home, it's just you and him in car. he drove silently and you were fighting the urge to not close your eyes.

"y/n"

"huh?" you startled, visibly.

"sorry-" realized you were surprised by his voice, " 'am sorry for house's behaviour"

"that's really okay.. I mean... he's house" you explained. ten seconds later, you both arrived in front of your apartment.

"wanna stay for a night?" you asked while unbuckling your seatbelt.

"sure, why not"

... to be continued

[sixosix]

hiii i fear tumblr may have ate my ask so i'll say it again just in case--if not im so sorry please ignore this i don't mean to rush you or anything :')

wanderer, candy(does that count?), fluff!! :D

(oh oh also can i be 🪐anon/saturn anon? if not thats fine! i just thought i'd ask since i think i've been sending asks consistently enough to identify myself ^^)

notes wc 800; HII your ask wasnt eaten, i was just taking a long time writing the requests LMFAO. of course u can be saturn anon!!! welcome welcome to the blog (this ask was sent a month ago and i am very much late. idek if anon is still active here…) tbh i wrote this and just went with the flow HAHA

5K EVENT SPECIAL | EVENT MASTERLIST

You unceremoniously dump the pile of imported goods on the table, causing quite a scene in the silence of the House of Daena. They scattered about, and some even clattered onto the floor. You grinned proudly at your friends’ dumbfounded stares.

Tighnari was the first to speak. “I’m assuming you had fun on your vacation in Inazuma?”

“Do you even have money left?” Alhaitham asked, quite incredulously. The most emotion you’ve seen from this month.

It took you a moment to respond, and you felt momentarily distracted by the strange sensation of being watched. “Well, no,” you said eventually. “But I bought all this for you guys! Be more grateful, will you?”

Kaveh clapped his hands. “This is incredible! I haven’t gotten the chance to try any of these local delicacies from Inazuma!”

You nodded approvingly. See? Was that so hard? “Yes, I know. Aren’t I such a good friend? You’re welcome, all of you.”

Belatedly, they mutter their thanks.

You went on a tangent, reciting the food sales pitch you memorized from the sellers, feeling remarkably intelligent. They didn’t have to know that, half the time, you were the personification of a lost tourist/foreigner/idiot in Inazuma and just decided to play it safe and keep most of the souvenirs as food.

They segregated their wanted share and thanked you again. They left you some of the candy, which you had no qualms about eating for yourself. As you all fell into the lull of a conversation, the feeling worsened, and you’ve had enough.

You turned to your friends. “He’s been staring at me for about 30 minutes now…”

They each cast their discreet glances.

“Are you scared?” Kaveh asked worriedly.

“Look at that look in his eye!” you said. “I’ve seen that same look in Rishboland Tigers!”

“He’s not going to eat you,” Tighnari sighed. Well, he wouldn’t know that. Only Alhaitham has met Hat Guy, and he seemed to be amused instead.

“Violence is not permitted in the Akademiya grounds,” Cyno said seriously.

“Maybe it’s not you he’s looking at…?” Tighnari tried.

“Cyno, switch with me,” you ordered.

Wordlessly, he obeyed. The group watched in disbelief as Hat Guy’s gaze simply moved to where you sat next. He wasn’t even trying to hide it.

“Maybe he’s interested because it’s a candy imported from Inazuma,” Cyno supplied thoughtfully.

“That’s a good point. I’m surprised you didn’t make a p—”

“Don’t you mean—” Cyno held up the box that displayed the Inazuman Electro symbol on the front, “shocked?”

You hung your head. You spoke too soon. “OK.”

Tighnari watched your face for a long moment, but it didn’t feel as charged as the guy sitting a few tables away. “You don’t seem to hate the attention,” he concluded at the sight your giddy smile.

“No, I really don’t,” you admitted sheepishly. “He’s smart, and he’s handsome. Of course I’m interested. I just wish he would be a bit more normal about his flirting—if he’s even flirting. Should I give him some?”

You didn’t wait for an answer as your chair scraped backward and you faced Hat Guy directly.

“Make sure it’s just the candy you’re giving!” Kaveh called out.

“I see that Sparks are flying,” Cyno said.

Walking over while you held his gaze was excessively awkward, but it was worthwhile seeing Hat Guy’s little smirk grow like he was pleased you were taking his challenge. It was a bit of a problem, however, that he was undeniably attractive. If he was cute from afar, he was drop-dead gorgeous up close.

“Y/N,” you said, in place of a greeting.

“They call me Hat Guy,” he mused. “Those from Inazuma?”

“Yes.” Suddenly embarrassed that the bullshit you were spewing was picked up on by the guy who everyone was pretty sure was born in Inazuma. “Did you hear me?”

Hat Guy shrugged, plucking one candy from the pile on your hands. “You did pretty well. But I only have one criticism, and I can tell you bought most of them from the same place.”

Ah, you did do that. He tore off the plastic and popped it into his mouth, expression turning sour. “The best ones come from the locals. You should’ve asked the kids,” he advised.

Mouth dry, you said, “Yeah, I should’ve.”

Everyone told you that the mysterious new student—Hat Guy, you now learned—was prickly and slips off when someone approaches him. His birthday was apparently a very thrilling event—in the case that everyone had to hunt him down to give him his cake.

“Want a tip?” he asked, head tilted and looking entirely pretty. His tongue rolled around as he ate his—your candy.

“You seem to know best.”

“Take me with you next time.”

[midnightsnyx]

girl at home | mat barzal | part 4

pairing: mat barzal x fem!reader summary: you’re eighteen when you find yourself pregnant after Mat leaves for hockey. nearly eight years later, Mat finds out about your daughter and you have to deal with the consequences of not telling him about her.

warnings: not edited, angst, mentions of alcohol, pregnancy, food word count: 1.3k authors note: sorry it's late & short but i was sick and then had writers block. i hope u guys like it!! if u like it let me know but if you hate it also let me know. also HUGE thanks to @barzysbaby for the help with this chapter!! it probably wouldn't have been finished without your help! if anyone wants to be added or taken off the tag list, let me know! you can shoot me a dm, send an ask or fill out my tag list form.

requests are open 🫶🏻 masterlist masterpost ask box taglist form

After your unexpected heart-to-heart with Mat, you begin to realize that you’re starting to tread on some thin ice with your relationship with him. Letting those feelings you’d tucked away start to come back was a recipe for disaster because you had Nora to think about. If he really wanted to be a part of her life, the two of you couldn’t start a relationship because if it went wrong, it would ruin the opportunity for him to be in her life comfortably. 

However, the problem is how perceptive Nora can be. 

Letting yourself have ‘just one moment’ with Mat last night was a bad idea because you wake up on the couch the next morning, Mat holding you close, and a grumpy six-year-old demanding breakfast. 

“Eggs please,” Nora demands, curious eyes watching you and Mat. When you make no move to get up off the couch and get her breakfast, she stomps a foot and crosses her arms.

“Grandma said I could have eggs for breakfast,” she says and then pauses before adding: “and she said I could have pancakes. Chocolate chip pancakes.”

“You’re not at grandma’s, are you?” you reply, watching her frown. 

“Well then can you bring me to grandma’s?” she replies without missing a beat.

You open your mouth to tell her no, you won’t be bringing her to grandmas with that attitude when Mat interrupts. 

“I’ll make some pancakes,” he mumbles sleepily, sitting up and pulling you with him. You turn to tell him no but your mouth goes dry because you forgot how good he looks in the morning. You’re staring long enough that he notices and a smirk tugs at his mouth but he doesn’t say anything, instead standing up and offering a hand to Nora. 

“Let’s go make mom some pancakes,” he says and she smiles up at him and it’s just so damn domestic that you want to cry.  

You watch them walk over to the kitchen and start preparing the ingredients while you sit there, trying to pull yourself together. He’s falling so seamlessly into being a parent that you can’t decide how to feel. His attentiveness and patience with her could be temporary and then when he realizes how hard being a parent really is, you’ll be left to clean up the mess he leaves behind. On the other hand, he might be serious about the entire thing and everything could work out.

Nora's giggles catch your attention and you look to see Mat cracking an egg on her forehead like the video he had sent you a few days ago, claiming that he would try it on Nora. Almost as if he can sense that you’re watching them, he looks up and catches your eye and grins, tilting his head slightly.

“You wanna help or just sit there all morning?” he teases so you stand up and make your way to the kitchen to stand next to Nora, kissing the forehead when she grins up at you. 

“How can I help?”

. . .

It was inevitable that the hockey world would catch wind that Mathew Barzal had a child. Whether it was his now ex-girlfriend, or just someone from home that spilled the beans, suddenly all the sports sites had articles up about it. They can't legally say Nora’s name or show photos of her because she’s still a minor, but they can definitely dig up old high school pictures and find your instagram.

It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together for people to realize that you were his baby mama. You had to turn your social media accounts private because you were suddenly having people comment on your photos, and sending DM’s. Most of them weren’t the nicest, accusing you of kid-trapping Mat and while you knew that it was useless to be upset over it, it was hard. They didn’t and would never know the details but it bothered you to no end, and unfortunately, you took your frustration out on Mat, who took whatever you threw at him. You said things you regretted the next morning and he would just smile and tell you it was fine. 

But it wasn’t, and everything crashed down about two weeks after the first article was posted. You woke up to your phone buzzing, calls and texts from your mom, Jax, some other friends and even Liana. 

And a single text from Mat that had just two words, and a link attached.  

baby daddy: I'm sorry. instagram.com/matbarzal 

It was a statement, clearly written by a PR Manager from the Islanders organization. The statement basically said that Mathew Barzal did not in fact have a child. It was just a rumor floating around that a disgruntled fan spread. A lot of people called it bullshit, saying that it was PR cleaning up a mess, which technically they were doing. Then, there were the fans and journalists who did believe the statement and tried to take back whatever they may have said that was mean. 

It wasn’t the things other people were saying about it though, it was what Mat wasn’t saying. After the post, he ghosted you for four days, ignoring all the texts and calls even when they were about Nora. Liana and Nadia still asked to see Nora on the weekend that she normally does so you dropped her off Friday evening, noticing that Mat’s car was nowhere to be seen. Nadia and Liana didn’t say anything about the situation, just thanking you for letting Nora stay over for the night and promising to call if anything came up. You didn’t have anything planned so you went back to your apartment, hoping to catch up on some overdue work you’d been letting pile up.

Halfway through writing a draft for a chapter, there’s a knock on your door. You’re once again suspecting it to be Nadia or Liana with Nora but you come face to face with Mat.

Again.

His eyes are trained on the ground, refusing to meet yours. There are a thousand things you want to say, most of them not nice at all but what comes out is: “beer?” 

His head shoots up, clearly not expecting that response from you but he nods his head and walks in when you step to the side. He toes off his shoes and walks straight towards the kitchen. By instinct, he opens the fridge to get himself a drink and then pauses, looking at you sheepishly.

“Beer?”

“Water,” you reply and he nods, passing you a bottle of water. You both sit at the kitchen island, drinking your respectable drinks in silence until he clears his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know that they were going to write that. Our public relations manager wrote it and just told me to post it. My agent asked her to clean things up a little because it was getting out of hand. I didn’t want to hurt you or Nora, I swear.” 

“It’s too late for that,” you say sharply. “You said you want to be in Nora’s life but she can’t be a secret, Mat! You can’t say you want to try, and then turn around and tell the world that she’s not yours. If you’re not going to be in this one-hundred percent, then you shouldn’t be here at all.” 

He must take your last statement as a dismissal because he stands up, slips his shoes on and leaves, closing the door a little harder than necessary. 

You sit in silence far too long, part of you foolishly hoping that Mat will come back but you know he won’t. Not today at least. So, you go back to working on your draft but you can’t focus. Part of you wants to try and put yourself in his shoes, to try and understand why he didn’t fight harder against what public relations wanted but you can’t. You can’t imagine not being Nora’s mom and you wonder if maybe this is the way out he was hoping for. Maybe he decided that being a parent was fun for a little while, but when he understood the real consequences and struggles that come along with it, he realized he didn’t want it. That he didn’t want Nora.

Maybe this is his out.

tag list: @literatureluster @dasiysthings @barzyblogbabe @teapartydreams @diary-of-jj @heatherawoowoo @fallinallincurls @topguncultleader @shadowsndaisies @lovinbarzal

[svtoose]

Palace Rendezvous ft. Joshua Hong

pairing: joshua x fm!reader

word count: 1.2k

F : pretty fluffy

warnings: palace au, reader is a worker, kissing

summary: you and josh are two staff members at the palace. how will you keep your relationship a secret?

a/n : i made a banner hehe. ps. I'm sorry if u read this before I proofread bc gosh what was wrong w me!!

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"We're going to get caught, Shua." You whisper into his ear. He continues to kiss your neck, moving his lips freely among your skin.

"Please, baby. I can't risk it." You plead. He finally releases you from his arms and frowns at you. You and Joshua both work at the king and queen's palace, but are forced to date in secret cause of a 'no dating' policy for the palace staff.

"I have a dress to sew, and you have a prince to tend to. Don't let the prince find out his right hand man is violating a rule." You whisper against his lips in a teasing fashion. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. Before he lifts his lashes, you sneakily slip out of his grip and start speed-walking down the dimly lit hallway.

"This isn't over, Y/N," you hear him threaten as you giggle, continuing on your path to your quarters, where there is a garment waiting for you to complete.

With quick steps, trudge to the basement, fearing your boss's dismay at your tardiness.

"That's two in a row, Miss Y/N," your boss says after you enter the premises. Her eyebrows are raised, and a subtle smirk sits on her lips. It's almost as if she knew what you were doing just a few minutes ago.

"I apologize. I'll be extra early tomorrow." You speak guiltily, avoiding eye contact.

As you scurry toward your workplace, her next words make you stop at your place. "It's a boy, I presume. He must be the reason you're always late."

'Oh, no. This could be the end' you think to yourself. Is it that obvious? Well, you can't really admit it to your boss. Both you and Josh could get fired and sent home. Worse yet, you guys could be injured in front of all the staff to "set an example."

"No Miss. I just lost track of time while getting ready," you reply to your boss, hoping she believes your lies.

"Sure, you did. Just get to work."

You nod your head and quickly walk to your station, continuing to pin the hem of a dress you're working on. The gown is sheer pink, with an intricately embroidered bodice and a tulle skirt. It's absolutely perfect for the 16-year-old princess. It's definitely one of your more extravagant pieces.

Your hands steadily prick needles into the ragged hem of the dress as your boss walks around, critiquing and admiring your and the rest of the girls' work.

She finishes her rounds and takes a seat beside your isolated workspace as you mentally prepare yourself to be berated some more. Your boss was a kind woman in her fifties, but she did not appreciate any misconduct. Nobody ever wanted to be on her bad side.

"Exquisite Miss Y/N. Very elegant. I'm sure the princess will be delighted. Do you plan on adding straps?"

"Thank you. Yes, I do. I could also leave it strapless, but I know the princess prefers the support."

"Perfect then." She's about to leave before she pauses and looks at you.

"Miss Y/N. I know you know there are rules about personal affairs in the palace.

"I'm not having any personal affairs." You cut her off, lying through your teeth. You are usually not this abrupt, but the anxiety of her finding out about your relationship is surely terrifying.

"A chance to finish, Miss?"

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry."

"You're a terrible liar, you know. As I was saying, I know there's a boy. I know you're scared right now that I might get you in trouble. But I'm not looking to ruin your life. As long as it doesn't interfere with the quality of your work, which it obviously hasn't, then there's nothing to report. Even if the queen were to find out, she's a complete sucker for a good love story. She would be more than glad to turn a blind eye. And as for the king, he barely notices the staff. I'd be surprised if he knew my name. All I ask is that you come on time so you don't raise any suspicions among the rest of the staff. Does that sound reasonable?"

Do you hear her right? You and Shua won't have to worry about it anymore.

"It sounds far better than reasonable. Thank you so much. I promise I won't let you down, and I'll be on time from now on."

"Alright then. I'm glad this could be resolved. Get back to work. The dress is due in a few hours." She winked at you and walked away to her own station.

'I've got to tell Josh the news!' you think to yourself.

Though you are quite distracted for the duration of the work day, you successfully complete the dress, straps, and all. You quickly hang the completed garment on a rack and speed your way to your room, where you hope to freshen up for your date with Joshua.

You remove your hair tie, allowing your locks to lay freely, before you swipe a sheer shade of rouge over your lips. 'He's going to be so happy.'

You take steady steps toward the rooftop, where you know Josh will be awaiting you, imagining the smile that will adorn his face after you share your news with him.

After a few seconds, a beautiful scene reveals itself. Your dear boyfriend stands against the railing, admiring the acres of green that are accompanied by the sunset.

"Shua?" You call out with a peaceful smile on your lips.

He perks up, turning around to walk toward you with open arms. No matter how many times you see him in his uniform, it never fails to take your breath away; the suit is just tailored so perfectly to his frame.

"C'mere, sweetheart." He calls you in for a warm embrace, while you just cannot wipe the smile off your face.

"What's got you so happy?" He asks, releasing you from the hug. You grab his hand and walk back to the railing, pulling him behind you. While his arms enclose you as you both stare out into the sunset, you begin to reveal the news.

"I was late to work today... and..." He lays his chin on your shoulder, leaving sweet pecks on your neck.

"Well, my boss had an inkling that I was with a boy and told me that... it was okay. She wouldn't tell anyone we were together as long as I came on time." You feel his kisses pause as he lifts his head.

"Does that mean..."

"Yes, Josh. We don't have to fear for our lives anymore. We can be together."

"Oh, baby, that's so great." His arms tighten around you as you turn around to hold his face in your hands. The happiness in the atmosphere is blooming as your lips inch up toward each other in a deep kiss.

"I'm so happy, Josh."

"Me too, Y/N." You turn back around and continue to admire the nature that surrounds the palace. You can just feel it in your bones that life is about to get better.

[bluecanvasshoe]

Runaway

Part two of Arthur Morgan & teen!reader

Warnings: BIGGGGG Rdr2 spoilers, mentions of racism, after the gang gets split up, big time jump, no beta reader, i tried to be historically accurate!!!, descriptions of a panic attack

Summary: It's been a few years since the gang split up. You don't know anyones whereabouts, nor do you know if they're alive or not. But in your new, mundane life, you find a lead to your past. (PS: the most of the story is snippets of the gang splitting.)

AN: sorry this took so long.......... stuff is happening in my life and i found this in my drafts while looking for a distraction. i also didnt know if this was good or not, and idk if u guys would like the big change in the story but i hope u guys like this!!!

word count: 1.9k

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

------

Beaver Hollow sucks. Everything sucks. Honestly, maybe this entire gang sucks.

Dutch sent you two out, acting as messengers for Eagle flies and his father. Neither of you agreed that what Dutch was doing would benefit their tribe, but Eagle Flies was determined. His courage, although strong, blinded him.

After you and Arthur had gone on that fishing trip not long ago, you’ve found yourself hanging around him more often; not that he minded. Naturally, you two started talking. You opened up about your past before the gang, and he told stories of his youth that hadn’t already been shared around the campfire.

However, this came with some downsides.

You and Arthur had an argument the other day. Well, you tried to have an argument, and Arthur listened.

You and Arthur went hunting this time. The sun was setting, and crickets emerged along with god-awful amounts of mosquitoes. After countless tries at Arthur’s bow and arrow you grew more and more frustrated. Turns out, it’s not as easy as pull and release. Because of the added factors of your now seemingly constant anger and the frustration of each failed attempt, you blew up at Arthur.

This included the usual, “people are worried; Dutch is insane; do something,” pleas coming from you, and Arthur’s “i know, kid; kid, I know; we’re trying our best; keep it down the camp’s gonna hear,” replies.

You went to bed that night fuming. ’We’re doing our best’? Come on! After all that’s happened, the best is far from the current situation of the gang. He’s just lying through his teeth, and for what? 

You can take the truth.

The path below you two crunched as gravel dug deeper into the earth, your horses occasionally huffing as they walked along the trail. Tall, top-heavy trees were scattered amongst pine, birds chirping and singing on sturdy branches. Wildflowers that sprouted in vibrant shades of orange and purple were scattered along the sides of the path, mingling with short grass that wasn’t entirely green, yellowing as the year grew old. 

Critters, mainly squirrels or chipmunks, ran across the beaten path. It gave both of you quite the scare as you rode along, not wishing to kill the poor creatures for no inherent reason. The air was chilly, but not cold. It wasn’t warm, but it was stuffy. From the ridge, you could see more trees separated by a shimmering lake in the distance, which was surrounded by… more trees.

“It’s been a weird few days,” Arthur spoke up, his voice gravelly, rough. He sounded hesitant and almost awkward, like he was trying to talk, but couldn’t find a good starter. 

You cleared your throat, “Yeah. Do you… is Dutch… Does this sorta thing happen often?” you asked vaguely, glancing at Arthur in your peripheral vision. 

“What do you mean?

“...This. Y’know the runnin’ east, and… people dyin’. It’s makin’ me worried, Arthur.” 

Arthur fell into a short, thoughtful silence, disrupted by a harsh cough to the side. He cleared his throat and looked forward again, reaching ahead to pat his horse on the neck. “This ain’t happened before. Lots of folks are worried, but… We’ll do what we can, kid, just try to stay strong.” He replied, using the same excuse he’d use for every other person at camp.

You hesitated. The gang had been doing what they could. They had for a long time, but it only seemed to kill people. Dutch lead the gang with determination, mowing down anyone standing between him and his unachievable goals. These decisions, however, came with sacrifices. Sacrifices that stood behind him, praised his actions and followed his lead like a lamb, because they wouldn’t be able to do such a thing if it weren’t for him. Sacrifices that never stood in his way. Sacrifices that were lucky to have a grave, to be spoken of afterwards.

What if you became one of them?

“But Dutch, he- he made these choices, and… I don’t… he’s not right in the mind,” You reasoned in the nicest way possible, praying that the man beside you wouldn’t be ticked off by your remark. Judging by his opinions on the gang’s recent affairs, though, you don’t think he will.

Arthur, again, was silent. You took this as an opportunity to continue.

“I’m scared, Arthur. I’m really scared.” God, that’s not how you wanted to sound. Saying those words sounded like a plea, like you were a child. But what you said was partly how you felt, and maybe honesty was what was needed at the moment. Anxiousness and anger bubbled under your skin, the seeds of upcoming dread sprouting from when they were sown at the Blackwater robbery. “It- this ain’t normal. This is bad, Arthur, there must be somethin’ we can do.”

“I know, trust me, and I wish there was,” Arthur sighed, adjusting his gambler hat. “I’d be lyin’ if I said I weren’t scared, too. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. It ain’t fair to you; you’re just a kid.” He finished, neither agreeing or disagreeing with your previous statements. “But I’m… look, we’re all doin’ our best.”

Now, you know that’s true. You’re not stupid; but really? I mean, the gang had been on the run for months. So many people have died, and now Arthur’s saying that’s the best that they could do? Bullshit. Frustration simmered in your chest, like an urge that needed to be quelled. It itched and burned, your jaw tensing as he spoke.

“I know, but that’s- we wouldn’t be here if we were doin’ our best, I mean, God, come on, so many folks are dead, and it ain’t gettin’ better-” “Kid, please-” “and people are worried! People have died, Arthur, and Dutch won’t give up. Please, Arthur, just listen-” “I am listenin’, but-” “nothin’s getting better, people are scared, and- and what’s wrong with you? You ain’t been actin’ like you usually do, people are worried-” “That’s enough. We’ve already discussed this,” Arthur interrupted, his voice serious and hardened. It cut through the sound of birds chirping, the sound blurring into the background as your stomach practically dropped. Arthur never spoke to you in that way, meaning you likely crossed a line; with the tensions and questions coming from the members of the gang, it’s not surprising he was a little fed up.

You took a deep breath, glancing at him before looking forward once again. “I just- Arthur, we’re worried. We wanna know what’s wrong.”

The two of you fell into silence once more. This time, though, the sound of birds, leaves, or wind didn’t fill it.

“Kid, look, this isn’t your business. You shouldn’t be the one worried about this stuff, this ain’t what you should be spendin’ your time on.”

“Arthur, please-” “No, and I ain’t gonna say it again.”

So that was that.

In the back of your mind, something screamed that you had to do something, anything. But Dutch was so on edge, and after Micah did who knows what with the dog, Cain? You’re a little scared to step out of line.

But when Molly was shot by Ms. Grimshaw, you screamed at her. Then, when everyone chose sides, you went with Arthur. 

Dutch stood at one side of the camp, shouting at Arthur with Micah by his side. With him stood Micah and Javier, though the latter was aiming his gun towards the hazy, darkening sky. You, despite the fact that the others told you to go, stood with Arthur, Sadie, John and Charles. Without a gun to aim at the others, you simply stayed to show who your loyalty lay with. 

And then the men came.

The law.

You ran, and you ran hard. But horses were no match for a scrawny teenager's legs, and you didn’t get far before a lawman tackled you down. 

At the moment, the only thing running through your head is that this has got to be a nightmare. No, this is a nightmare. Your vision almost seemed to darken, everything around you growing suffocatingly close. The lawman’s shouting drowned in the dark abyss of tree shadows and your cotton filled ears. Your heart beat out of your chest, and in the back of your mind, you knew that this was happening. That this isn’t a nightmare. 

They dragged you away kicking and screaming, away to the shit filled streets and swampy air of Saint Denis. You could’ve sworn you’d seen John before you were taken away from the gang’s campgrounds.

Now, your life lay in the biassed hands of the law, and not a mentally ill middle aged man and the snake in his ear. You thought that you would’ve been sent to the gallows without another thought, but despite being an ‘outlaw’, you never truly committed crimes. At least, no one saw you commit your crimes. Therefore, the law deemed you a kidnapped child in need of a ‘civil’ way of life.

So, you were taken to what they called the “orphan trains”. An ominous thing that you were not thrilled for. They were trains that’d take orphaned kids from big cities to the lonely midwest, a place you were so unfortunately familiar with.

-----

It had been years.

Years of helping the woman you were supposed to find maternal collect eggs, of tilling crops, of scrubbing dishes with rowdy, annoying kids you were meant to call your siblings. Of birthdays past without the gang; and now, you were almost an adult.

But one day, your foster dad left his newspaper on the dining table, a mistake he would regret later. The newspaper said something that, after months of mundane and domestic boredom, piqued your interest.

Morning light streamed through the lacy curtains of the kitchen’s windows, the wood of the house creaking under the pressure of the wind. 

Your foster dad, David, was reading the daily news, an ankle on his knee as he went about his morning routine while you were sitting at the dining table quietly. Your foster mother, Anne, was washing dishes from breakfast when one of the boys you’d been living with barged through the door of the house.

The woman startled, dropping a dish into the water. “Jeremy!” Anne scolded, looking at the boy.

“I think one of the horses is having a baby!” he shouted, two of the other kids following him and saying things along the lines of ‘hurry up, come on!’ at the man and woman. David shot up from his seat and Anne dropped what she was doing, telling you amongst the chaos to finish up the dishes as she left the house.

You stood from your seat, watching everyone rush out with slight annoyance. When the door shut, you pushed out your chair, the wood making a screeching sound as it slid across the hardwood floors. Standing up, you walked over the creaky wood to David’s newspaper that sat on the dining table. 

It was full of boring deals and uninteresting stories, but one stuck out. It was about an underground fighting ring, which wouldn’t have caught your eye if it weren’t for the witness statements.

One in particular said some very distasteful things about a man of mixed race, but the summary was that he was Indigenous and African-American.

Indigenous and African-American.

You only know one man who is of those two ethnicities. Granted, you don’t know many people; but still, Indigenous, African American, and an outlaw? Come on.

The second after you read that passage, you made a plan. You’d leave at the dead of night, as soon as possible. Maybe it’s not solid, nor is it well thought through, but there’s no time for that. That night, you pack your things as light as possible.

And then, you finally start your journey back to Saint Denis.

[sm-baby]

HIII ive been lurking on ur account since ur first showtime posts thank u sincerely for dragging me into that hole but id just like to gently ask if its possible to do the funky lore, secret text stuff without having to use the ALT text function? it *is* a feature with a designated purpose for those that have trouble reading or interpreting pictures and tho im not one of those ppl i have seen it steadily get more misused over time in other fandom spaces and platforms and its just not a great sentiment

i totally get it if im kinda speaking for an audience that doesnt gaf / if you already know this kindly say so, not trying to make a big deal out of it or anything. just figured id send a heads up for whatever it's worth ^^

I've noticed that some of yall have ALSO have been hiding secrets in the ALTS! Please stop doing that for the sake of our visually impaired friends! :(

Hi!! Oh my goodness this was an old ask! I hadn't realized that I normalized this until I went into other blogs that followed me! I'm so sincerely sorry! I do not want this normalized! thank you very much for telling me, asker! And I'm so sorry for the late reply ToT

since this ask was sent, I've stopped putting things in the ALTS; the last one was quite a while ago. I've been trying to find more creative ways to hide things.

Wah... I've been waiting to post this at a time when it wouldn't be quickly buried, and since I'm taking a break I figured now would be a good time <:) sorry again for the trouble!

[christronomy]

Hi!! Its the anon who sent in the chan car ride hard thought with the insta reel, if u remember me. But i have came to give u a new hard thought. First off, HAVE YOU SEEN THE VID OF CHAN DOING THAT LIL FINGER MOVE IN HALL OF FAME?!? i feel dizzy. 😵‍💫 anyways, onto my hard thought, picture this, y/n is scrolling on twt and that tweet that says imagine chan fingering you till you cry (or sum like that i hope you know what tweet im talking abt) and it has the chan vid attached to it, THEN BANGCHAN COMES INTO THE ROOM AND CATCHES Y/N AND FINGERS HEER OMGGGG (also i jus noticed that i used twt and tweet instead of X, sorry lol)

of course i remember you! hi, love! and YES, of course i saw that tweet, and i feel totally not normal about it! i would link them but i can't remember which accounts they're from sigh. also i hate calling it "x" bc cause wtf is that. LMAO

but onto this gem of a thought. honestly, he'd tease you so much if he caught you gushing over those tweets, he'd be so sweet about it though. if you don't mind i wanna add some more to this under the cut cause it just came to mind hehe (it's so long and i didn't proof read. help).

he caught you trying to finger yourself in his dorm room after spending almost hours scrolling through your timeline. you weren't really expecting to see anything interesting, but the only thing that popped up was the clips of him and that finger movement that caught your attention and immediately drove you insane. you couldn't help but keep watching the same clip over and over again in awe. it was just so attractive, especially when he made that certain expression and looked right straight at the camera, almost as if he were looking right at you.

so here you were now, desperately bucking your hips up against your hand, sticking your fingers as far inside your cunt as you could, palming your clit to gain some extra friction. you whined exasperatedly as you failed miserably yet again, not being able to get that stimulation you so desperately wanted.

chan got home a few minutes ago, so he's already been watching you, chuckling to himself softly cause you just look so cute like that—legs spread, face flushed a bright red, fucking your fingers in and out of your sopping hole. you keep going for a few more minutes, until you finally toss your head back to groan in frustration because it's just not enough.

his cock is already twitching, straining in his pants at the sight of you, so he can't help but open the door, and he finds it cute how you immediately close your legs and draw your hand back, the surprise of having been caught in the act showing on your face. he laughs softly and sits next to you on the bed. "what's wrong, love? you upset?" he asks, his tone teasing, yet sweet, and you can tell it's because he knows exactly what you were doing.

you nod and sigh, trying your best to come up with a reasonable explanation as to why you were naked on your boyfriend's bed, alone, when you knew he'd always expected you to wait for him whenever you needed to get off. "i was scrolling through twitter, and i saw these tweets about you... i got curious so i spent a while looking at them, and then..." you trail off with a gasp as he suddenly grabs your phone from where you'd put it next to you on the bed. you try to snatch it back, but he's a lot quicker than you. he scrolls a little bit, his expression serious, and then a smug smile plays at the corner of his lips as he looks at you again.

"aw baby, is this why you were so hot and bothered?" he asks, as he shows you one of the clips he was looking at, the same one from earlier, and your face turns an even darker shade of red as you nod. "that why you were using your cute little fingers, even though you know they're not good enough? you've got me right here. you could've asked me instead of just watching videos of me. i'll do whatever you want as long as i can make you feel good."

you feel like you're melting at the way condescension practically drips off his tongue, and you let him spread your legs for you again, this time using his own fingers to tease your swollen bud. he's such a dream come true. "'m sorry i couldn't wait for you," you start, but he shushes you softly. "that's okay, baby. i'm here now. i can help you," he says, and you want to thank him, but your words are cut short by the almost embarrassingly loud squeal that escapes your throat when he suddenly sticks his pointer and middle fingers in without warning, curling them just right, just like in that clip, finally giving you that pleasure you'd been chasing for hours now.

he watches you intently, from the way your back arches, to the way you clench around his fingers, but his expression stays blank. it doesn't take you that long to cum, and when you do, he doesn't stop. you look at him with furrowed brows, whining from the overstimulation, and he simply chuckles at your expression, not saying anything as he keeps torturing your walls with his fingers mercilessly. he's pushing you close to the edge all over again surprisingly quickly, and once you reach your second orgasm, you're already asking him to slow down, stop for a minute, so you can catch your breath. still, he doesn't. by the time you reach your fourth orgasm, you're already a sobbing stuttering mess as he makes you even more dumb on his fingers, begging him to stop, but that only makes him go much faster, his palm smacking your clit as he does so.

"this how needy you are for me? wanting to get yourself off without me cause of some video? you poor thing, thinking your fingers alone would satisfy you. you know you can't do it without me. guess i just have to remind you, hmm?"