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gullemec · 28 days ago

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Cowboy Clean

A Red Dead Redemption One-Shot

main masterlist ao3

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader

Summary: Arthur Morgan has been a thorn in your side from the moment you met him. Things come to a head when you find out he's decided to treat himself to a deluxe bath in Valentine.

Warnings: rivals to lovers, lots of bickering/banter, reader gets covered in horse shit lol, jealousy/possessiveness, vaginal fingering, brief hand job, unprotected PIV sex, creampie, fluffy fluff

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.9k

A/N: So uhhhh I did this! I have a bunch of ideas percolating for an Arthur Morgan x reader series but that's a long way off and and I couldn't get this scene out of my head. Enjoy!

You scoop a handful of cold river water to your chest, the sting of it smarting like a snakebite against your already chilled body. It washes away the last traces of lye soap, though you’re not sure what’s worse, the stink of sweat and horse dung, or the way this damn water has you shaking like a leaf. Gooseflesh blooms a constellation across your skin, a shiver coursing down your spine as the current tugs at your ankles. The sun’s trying its best, but it’s still late April, and the wind cuts through the cotton of your wet chemise like it ain’t even there.

You can just about hear Miss Grimshaw’s voice now, all iron and vinegar, barking from the top of the hill the moment you make your way back up to camp.

“You fixin’ to catch your death out there?” she’ll snap. “Or are you just plain stupid?”

Probably both, by her standards. Of course, she'd hollered at you just the same when you came slogging into camp earlier, half-covered in horse shit. You reckon she’s gonna have to choose her battles one of these days.

You’d been out hunting with Charles, trying to put some meat on the table for the rest of them sorry bastards, not that anyone seemed to notice, or care. He'd spotted a wild boar off the ridge, and you’d notched your bow in a heartbeat, drawing for a clean shot. But just as you exhaled and your fingers twitched to release the arrow, a damn squirrel went skittering across the trail, spooking your horse.

Freya’s new. Barely saddle-broke and ornery as all hell. You paid too much for her, and you knew it the moment you led her out of that stable in Valentine. But by the time she bucked you off and sent you flying into a heap of her still warm droppings, you were certain of it.

Charles, bless his soul, bit his tongue and helped you to your feet without so much as a snort. The same cannot be said for the rest of the camp. Especially not him .

Arthur Morgan.

That man’s been a burr under your saddle since the day you met, both trying to rob the same stagecoach.

You remember it like it was yesterday. Your shotgun drawn, face half-shaded by a wide-brimmed hat and red bandana pulled up over your nose, the hooves of your horse kicking up dust as you charged after the coach on the road to Emerald Ranch.

You were closing in when another rider came up fast from behind, his horse just a touch quicker, his draw just a little surer. You glanced over your shoulder and met his eyes. Cold blue, sharp as a whetted blade. You both hesitated, long enough to share a breath and a heartbeat. And then the coachman, scared stiff, dove from his seat and hit the dirt.

You didn’t think, you just moved. Leapt from your horse and landed hard on the driver’s bench, barely a second before the man vaulted up beside you.

You spent the next half-mile bickering at each other something awful, shouting over the clatter of wheels and hooves.

“I saw it first!”

“Hell you did, I pulled on the coachman!”

“Don’t matter none. I got on first!”

By the time you realized your horses were long gone and the stage had made it halfway to Emerald Ranch, it was too late to figure who won. All you knew was that you hated him then. You hate him only a little less now.

Eventually, the two of you reached a compromise, if you could even call it that. Neither of you walked away pleased. You split the money clip down the middle, argued over every last coin. The bag of jewelry you divvied up piece by piece, squinting at each item like it might whisper its value if stared at long enough. You got the short end of the stick with the ammo, but figured it wasn’t worth drawing steel over. Besides, you had your pride, and pride don’t need reloadin’.

By the time you trudged back to the spot outside Valentine where your horses were meant to be waiting, only his remained.

That goddamn, good-for-nothing, swaybacked old Thoroughbred. You could’ve screamed. Might’ve, if you weren’t so damn winded from the ride and the day and the company.

You’d spent the last hour wanting to shove his bandana into his smart mouth and shut him the hell up, but to your surprise, he didn’t ride off and leave you stranded. Could’ve. Should’ve, maybe, if he’d had any sense. But instead, Arthur Morgan looked at you all quiet-like, eyes narrowed against the setting sun, then offered his hand like it weren’t nothing.

"Need a lift?"

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him, all suspicious, like maybe this was some elaborate scheme to gloat from a better angle. But he didn’t push. Just waited. Eventually you took his hand, scowling all the while, and he helped you onto the back of the old mount like a gentleman might. You felt ridiculous, perched behind him, clutching his coat like some damsel, your pride hitching in your throat.

“You got someplace to be?” he asked after a while, almost reluctant.

You didn’t. Not really. Not anymore.

“I ride with a gang,” he said. “A group, more like. We move around some. You could stay a day or two, if you wanted. Won’t twist your arm.”

You’d said yes, figuring you’d stay long enough to steal something worth your trouble. Just a few days. A week, tops.

That was months ago.

Arthur Morgan had offered you a lifeline that day. But damn if he wasn’t also a splinter under your nail.

Maybe it was lingering resentment from your initial meeting, both of you too stubborn to admit who had the better claim. . Maybe it was because Dutch and the others took a liking to you faster than they did him on some days, tossing you jobs that might’ve gone his way. Maybe it was the time you dumped a bucket of freezing creek water on his head after he kept you up all night snoring like a dying grizzly the night before a risky holdup.

Or maybe it was just the way things always turned to sparks and spitfire when you were in each other’s orbit for more than five minutes.

Dutch called it friendly competition , like that explained anything.

Hosea just shook his head and muttered that y’all were worse than Sadie and Pearson. And considering Sadie once threatened to scalp Pearson with a fish knife, that said plenty.

But the real nail in the coffin came just this morning.

You came riding back into camp, soaked with sweat, your shirt covered in brown stains thanks to Freya bucking you off of her. Your hair was a frizzy mess beneath your hat, and you smelled like the inside of a stable.

You barely had a foot out of the stirrup before you heard him.

Arthur was leaned up against a barrel near the fire, sharpening his knife and grinning like the devil come to dinner.

“Well, I always knew you was full of shit,” he drawled, loud enough to draw half the camp’s attention. “Guess now I know it for sure.”

The laughter that followed echoed like a buckshot.

You were halfway off Freya, shit-streaked and murder-eyed, when Charles stepped in. One arm looped around your middle, lifting you clean off the ground before your knuckles could connect with Arthur’s smug jaw.

“Easy now,” Charles murmured. “Ain’t worth getting blood on your boots.”

You kicked and cursed, and Arthur laughed harder, but you caught the flicker in his eyes when he met yours, something resembling apologetic. Like he knew he’d crossed a line, but couldn’t help stepping over it anyway. Like maybe he liked the look on your face when you were mad, wild-eyed and burning with fire.

You suppose that’s part of the reason you’re down here in this freezing river, scrubbing away the scent of horse and humiliation from your skin, and the memory of his eyes from your mind.

But the water’s cold, the sun’s sinking low, and some things aren’t so easy to scrub out.

Not the dirt.

Not the grudges.

And sure as hell not Arthur Morgan.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“Headin’ into Valentine,” Arthur’s voice booms across camp like a gruff church bell, startling you from the cusp of a cat nap. You jerk upright with a grunt, blinking against the brightness bleeding through the canvas of your tent. “Anyone need anythin’?”

You groan and flop back down, curling in tighter against the bedroll. The sun’s baked the canvas just enough to make the little space feel like a warm cocoon, and for a blissful second, you debate pretending you didn’t hear him.

But then, unfortunately, you catch a whiff of yourself.

You wrinkle your nose.

You’d done what you could yesterday. Scrubbed up in the river, fought a losing battle with lye soap and a patch of muddy shoreline. But nature only gets you so far. And you’re starting to smell like Freya after a long ride in the rain.

Valentine has baths. Warm ones. With those fancy, perfumed soaps Twenty-five cents for the kind of luxury that could make a girl feel halfway civilized again. That ain’t pocket change, not when you’d worked damn hard for every dollar you had. But it’s not a crime to treat yourself once in a while, is it?

At least that’s what you tell yourself as you heave a sigh and roll off your bedroll, string of curses muttered under breath as you shove your boots on.

You squint through the midday sun until you spot him, just across the way, pulling a saddle from the side of the wagon that serves as both a wall for his tent and the gang’s general dumping ground. His hat hangs low over his brow, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth like he was born with it there.

“Wait up,” you call, stumbling as your foot catches in the tent flap. “I’m comin’ with ya.”

Arthur doesn’t even turn fully around, just casts a lazy glance over his shoulder and squints. “What business you got in Valentine?”

You roll your eyes and march past him, grabbing Freya’s saddle from where it’s resting near the hitching post. “I could ask you the same, Mr. Morgan.”

“I asked first,” he replies, that damn smirk already tugging at the corner of his mouth like it’s got a life of its own.

“If you must know, I’m in dire need of a hot bath.” You toss the saddle onto Freya’s back with a dramatic huff. “Some of us like to smell better than Pearson’s two-day-old possum stew once in a while. Not that you’d know anything about that.”

Arthur snorts, adjusting the cinch on his own saddle. “Is that what this is about? You ridin’ all the way into town just to waste money on soap and water?”

You pause to glare at him over Freya’s back. “I ain’t wastin’ it. I’m investin’ in public health.”

“Uh huh.” He squints at you, cocking his head. “Or maybe you’re plannin’ to go courtin’ some poor soul in Valentine. That it?”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I ain’t.” You adjust your hat and shoot him a grin that’s all teeth. “Why? You jealous?”

Arthur barks out a laugh, short and sharp. “Of the poor bastard dumb enough to fall for a lady such as yourself?” He pauses. “Assuming I can even call you a lady.”

You haul yourself into the saddle with a grunt, lean forward, and scratch Freya’s ears. “Just for that, Arthur Morgan, I’ll replace your soap with a bar of caked horse shit. See if you even notice the difference.”

He swings up onto his horse with the ease of a man who’s done it a thousand times, shaking his head. “You try that, and I’ll throw you in the river myself. Clothes and all.”

You click your tongue and nudge Freya forward, falling into pace beside him as the two of you ride out of camp. “You’d miss me the moment I was gone,” you say, voice light.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he drawls, but there’s no bite to it. In fact, that shit-eating grin’s been plastered on his face since the moment you came scrambling out of your tent.

You glance sideways at him, watching the way he shakes his head and laughs to himself like he don’t quite know what to make of you half the time. If you had to guess, you might be so bold as to say Arthur Morgan enjoys your company just as much as it irritates him.

And if you had a little whiskey in your belly and the moon was high, you might even admit you feel the same.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The ride into Valentine is as dusty, loud, and as unpleasant as the town itself. Chickens squawk. Mud squelches under wagon wheels. Some poor bastard’s getting screamed at by his wife outside the general store. The whole place smells like manure and moonshine and cheap tobacco.

Arthur reins in his horse outside the hotel and spits into the dirt, scanning the street like he’s already regretting bringing you along.

“Well,” he mutters, climbing down from his saddle. “Here we are. The height of civilization.”

You dismount Freya and toss her reins over the hitching post. “Astute observation, Morgan. Next thing I know, you’ll be makin’ sketches of the saloon piss bucket in that journal of yours.”

He gives you a sidelong look, lip twitching. “Only if you’re the one cleanin’ it out.”

You hum as you dust your trousers off. “Lovely. Maybe I will find someone better suited to my delicate nature while I’m in there.” You gesture toward the hotel. “Someone who smells less like cigarettes and horse sweat.”

Arthur snorts. “Best of luck to you. Now go get your damn bath before you scare the locals off.”

You’re halfway up the hotel steps when you pause, glancing back at him. He’s lighting another cigarette, already looking like he’s halfway to leaving you behind.

“You sure you don’t need a bath yourself?”

“Nah,” he says, taking a drag. “Got a few things to take care of. Heard about a bounty at the Sheriff's. Might visit the gunsmith, maybe the post office.”

You raise a brow. “You writin’ letters now? That’s sweet. Didn’t know you had a pen pal.”

He grins around his cigarette. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

You lean one hip against a porch post and shrug, a smug little smile curling your lips. “And yet you keep lettin’ me accompany you places. Kinda gives the impression you enjoy it.”

Arthur flicks his ash into the dirt and shakes his head, chuckling low under his breath. “Get in there, trouble.”

You tip your hat at him and push the door open, letting it swing shut behind you. The wood creaks under your boots as you cross the lobby, already imagining the feel of hot water and real soap, not the lye-smelling, skin-flaying blocks you’ve been stuck with as of late.

Still, as the hotel clerk hands you a key and points you toward the baths, you find yourself glancing back through the dusty window.

Arthur’s still outside. Still watching.

And when he catches you looking, he tips his hat just so.

Damn him.

You disappear down the hall before he can see you smile.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

This bath is worth every damn cent.

You sink into the water with a hiss, the heat prickling at your skin before settling into something delicious and divine. Your head falls back against the smooth curve of the deep tub, and you let your eyes flutter shut. The smell of campfire smoke and horse sweat linger in your hair, but now the sweet scent of rose and jasmine override them.

It’s quiet here. Too quiet, maybe. Without the constant chaos of living in a camp with twenty-odd other people. Without Arthur's gruff drawl, the barbs he throws your way any chance he gets.

You’d never admit it aloud, not even with a pistol to your head, but you’d spent most of the ride into town studying him. The way his shoulders moved when he rode, one arm slung back like second nature. How his forearms flexed when he adjusted the reins. That deep, lazy drawl of his when he leaned forward on his horse, whispering kindnesses to her.

That’s my girl.

It’s infuriating. The way he can be so damn irritating one moment and then have the gall to go and make flutters erupt in your belly like that.

You huff and dunk your head under the water, the heat blooming against your cheeks, muffling everything. When you resurface, hair slicked back and dripping, you reach for the bar of perfumed soap and lather up your arms.

You scrub harder than you need to.

Arthur Morgan. Thorn in your side, pain in your ass. And yet, somehow, unavoidable. Unignorable. He drives you up the wall but half the time you’d rather he pin you against it.

You shake your head, water flinging from your hair in fat droplets, and mutter under your breath. Get a hold of yourself.

Because it’s just a bath. Just a hot soak and some soap. You’re acting like it’s boiling you til you’re soft, all because the man has nice arms and talks to his horse the way you’d like him to talk to you.

You sink a little deeper, until the water brushes your chin.

… Still, you wonder what he’s doing now.

Probably leaned against the saloon bar, nursing a glass of whiskey, charming some barmaid with that half-smile he thinks makes him irresistible.

That thought shoots irritation through you.

You shouldn’t care.

But you do.

You sigh and let yourself sink again, only this time, it’s not to escape the heat. It’s to escape the thought of Arthur Morgan and the way he makes you feel like you're always one step away from either throttling him or kissing him.

The water cools quicker than you’d like, the heat leeching away in slow degrees until you’re forced to admit defeat. With a groan, you climb from the tub, water sluicing off your skin, and wrap yourself in a linen towel that’s coarser than you’d prefer but does the job just fine. You scrub yourself dry, watching the bathwater swirl in lazy circles, now a cloudy shade of brown.

“Twenty-five cents well spent,” you mutter to yourself, smirking as you step back into your clothes. Clean skin under worn fabric is a small luxury in this life, where comforts are few and far between.

You take your time on your way out, fingers trailing along the wood panelling, relishing the way the wooden floor doesn’t kick up dirt beneath your boots like the camp’s packed dirt ground always does. At the front desk, you offer a quiet thank-you to the clerk, prepared to wander the main street of Valentine in search of Arthur, maybe needle him some more if he’s still loitering near the general store.

But then the man behind the desk stops you with a polite smile.

“Oh, if you’re looking for the fella you came in with, he just went in for a bath himself.”

You blink.

And then stare at him like he just told you he had a live rattlesnake wearing a top hat under the desk.

Arthur Morgan? Paying for a hot bath? After all that teasing? All that ribbing about you getting dolled up for some suitor in town? You’d half expected to find him outside rolling around in horse dung just out of spite.

Before you can gather a proper retort, or perhaps go storming down the hallway to wring his smug neck, a soft creak on the stairs turns your head.

She appears like a mirage in the desert.

Rouge on her cheeks, hair curled and piled high, her corset cinched tight enough to give a man ideas. Her chemise hangs off one shoulder, strap slipping in a way that seems both accidental and entirely intentional. She’s soft and sultry, gliding down the stairs like an apparition.

Your mouth goes dry.

The desk clerk straightens a bit, his tone easy. “Hattie. Gentleman in room two. Deluxe.”

She smiles, slow and syrupy, a curl of smoke practically floating in her wake. “Let me have a quick smoke,” she purrs, glancing at you with a wink sharp enough to cut glass. “Then I’ll be right in.”

She turns on her heel and saunters toward the hallway, hips swaying with practiced ease.

You're rooted to the floor.

Your thoughts, however, go flying.

That rotten, no-good, two-faced son of a bitch.

After all that grief, after the wisecracks and smirks, the whole you plannin’ to go courtin’? nonsense, he turns right around and orders himself a deluxe bath with a woman like that waiting on him?

The sheer audacity.

Your ears burn so hot they might catch fire, and you barely register the front desk clerk blinking at you, a little wary now.

“Miss? You all right?”

“No!” you snap, sharper than a pistol crack. “No, I am not .”

And with that, you storm outside, the door slapping shut behind you as you step into the dust and heat of the street, fury rising like smoke from scorched earth.

Arthur Morgan is about to get his damn comeuppance.

You don’t pause to think, don’t stop to weigh propriety or pride. You just follow the scent of tobacco like a bloodhound on the trail, stomping down the narrow alleyway between the hotel and the bank, jaw clenched tight.

And there she is.

Hattie leans against the frame of the hotel’s back door, a cigarette perched daintily between two fingers, lips pursed around it as she puffs. She’s got the look of a woman who’s seen too much and lets even less surprise her, but she startles when she sees you approach..

You draw in a breath, tempering the fury that wants to lash out in all directions. It ain’t her fault she’s the kind of woman men pay to have bathe them.. It ain’t her fault men pay for warmth and softness in bathwater and bed alike. And it sure as hell ain’t her fault that today, of all damn days, Arthur Morgan just so happens to be her customer.

“Hattie,” you say like you’ve known her all your life, your tone smooth as whiskey left too long in the sun. “Enjoyin’ your cigarette?”

She straightens a bit, eyes scanning behind you as though there must be someone else you're talking to.

Then she catches the pistol on your hip, the pants in lieu of a skirt, the storm in your eyes.

“Miss, please,” she says, lifting one hand defensively, “I don’t want no trouble.”

You blink, realizing what she sees. What you must look like right now. Mad enough to spit nails, armed, wild-eyed.

“Oh, Lord no,” you say quickly, raising both hands in mock surrender. “Ain’t here to rob you.”

She softens only a little, still eyeing you like you might go feral at any second. “Alright then… what are you here for?”

You reach into your satchel, fingers brushing over flint, bullets, an old piece of jerky, until you finally fish out your coin purse.

“What’s a deluxe bath cost these days? Extra twenty-five cents?”

“Fifty,” she says, flat as a skillet.

“Good God,” you mutter under your breath, grimacing as you tug the purse open. She shoots you a look. “Not that you ain’t… Not that your services ain’t worth that much.”

She smirks at that.

You hold out a shiny silver dollar, letting it catch the sun between your fingers. “I’ll give you this if you let me go in that room instead. Room two, with the gentleman.”

She cocks her head, narrowing her eyes. “You plannin’ on robbin’ him ?”

You sigh. Lord, you almost wish that were the case. Would be easier than the truth.

“Somethin’ like that.”

She takes one long drag, ash glowing bright, and watches you as she exhales slow and thoughtful. Then she leans forward and plucks the coin from your fingers like she’s done it a thousand times before.

“Second door on the right,” she says, tucking the dollar into her bodice. “Don’t make too much noise, ‘less you want the fella at the front desk pokin’ his nose in.”

You nod, one foot already inside the threshold. “You’re a good woman, Hattie.”

“And you’re a strange one,” she calls after you, her chuckle trailing smoke.

You move through the corridor like a ghost, boots soundless on the wood, heart pounding louder than it ought to. The door looms before you, seeming larger now. Steam curls from beneath it, thick with the fragrant smell of rose and jasmine.

You raise your hand to knock, affecting your best, most sultry voice. “Need some help in there?”

A pause.

Then that voice, deep and unmistakably Arthur. “Come in.”

You turn the knob and step inside.

Steam fills the room like fog on a mountain pass, the glow of a small oil lamp, casting everything in a dim amber haze.

Truth be told, you didn’t have much of a plan. You’d stormed in here thinking about tossing a bucket of ice water in the tub or maybe snatching his clothes and leaving him to drip-dry in shame. But those half-formed ideas vanish the second your eyes land on him.

Because there, sunk low in the tub, arms sprawled along either side like a goddamn painting, is Arthur Morgan.

His head is tilted back, hair slicked down, eyes closed. He looks peaceful more serene than you’ve ever seen him. And damn it, he’s glowing . Skin golden and wet, a few scattered droplets clinging to the scruff on his jaw. You stare. You forget to be angry. You forget how to breathe.

Then his eyes open.

He blinks once, slow, and sits up just a bit. Water laps at his chest.

“What in the hell…”

And just like that, the fire under your ass lights right back up.

“Arthur Morgan, you are a damn liar,” you snap, stepping fully into the room and letting the door shut with a click behind you. “Told me you didn’t want a bath, but that ain’t what I’m seein’.”

He looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “What’re you…”

“A deluxe bath, no less! That what brought you to Valentine? Didn’t want me gettin’ one ‘cause you didn’t wanna be caught playin’ cozy with some saloon girl?”

He tuts, jaw already tightening. “Now, how the hell’d you — ”

“I was there , Arthur! Stood right there when she got the order. Gave her a damn dollar to scram.”

That shuts him up. For a beat, anyway. Then his jaw works, and for a second, you think he might smile.

He leans back against the porcelain, eyes tracking over you slow. There’s a glint in them now, not teasing, exactly. It’s warmer than that, more curious. He’s not mad you’re here, just trying to parse why exactly.

“Well,” he says at last, drawl thick with steam, “you gonna stand there accusin’ me, or you plannin’ on helpin’ me wash?”

Your breath catches.

The steam clings to your skin, beads at your collarbone. Your shirt's damp at the edges, clinging to your arms. You should turn around. You should . But your feet don’t move.

But there he is, reclining in the tub like some damn river god, lips parted slightly, water beading along the muscled curve of his shoulders, sea blue eyes fixed on you. There was challenge in his voice, sure, but there was something softer too.

“I’d like to get my money’s worth,” he says, softer now. “Reckon you would too.”

As if possessed by the steam and the knowledge that he is naked beneath the cloudy water, you cross the room and kneel beside him.

He shifts, sitting forward just a bit. “Could use a hand with my back.”

And damn you if your heart doesn’t do a little flutter at that.

You reach for the cloth perched on the rim of the tub. Dip it into the water. Your fingers brush the edge of his shoulder as you begin to wash, and you feel it, that sharp little inhale he tries to hide. The tension under his skin.

Warm water runs down the ridges of his back, over scars and sun darkened skin. He exhales, head dropping forward, and for a moment it feels like the world gets very still.

“I didn’t… I didn’t rightly know what I was doin’,” you admit, voice small now, honest. “Just knew I was mad. Came up here all fired up, ready to start somethin’. And then I saw you sittin’ here, lookin’ like that, and…”

You trail off, cloth pausing over his spine.

He turns his head, gaze catching yours. “And?”

You swallow. “And I didn’t want some other woman’s hands on you.”

The shift is instant. His whole expression changes. Softens. Like he’d been waiting for you to say it.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe I don’t want that either.”

You scoff, but it comes out breathless. “Right. You paid extra for a deluxe bath ‘cause you didn’t want a woman touchin’ you. Makes perfect sense.”

His gaze flickers away. “I… hurt my back. Been tough reachin’ everything. Wanted to make sure it was done right.”

“Oh.” The irritation slips through your fingers like bathwater.

“Just wanted to smell nice, you know.”

“For who?” you ask, meaning it to sound playful, but it slips out softer than you intended. Barely a tease at all. “Plannin’ on courtin’ someone?”

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak for a long beat.

“For you. Wanted to smell nice for you.”

Your chest tightens. A slow, hot ache unfurls deep in your ribs.

You reach out before you even know you’re doing it, brushing damp hair back from his temple. He turns into your touch, eyes fluttering closed.

“I think about you all the time, Arthur,” you whisper. “More than I ought to.”

His eyes open. He searches your face, like he’s waiting for you to take it back.

But you don’t.

“Join me?” he asks, the words a little rough at the edges.

The hot ache in your ribs dives down to your core.

You could make a joke. Could throw up that wall again, tease him about not wanting to dirty yourself soaking in his dirty water. But none of that feels right now, not here, not with him looking at you like that. Like you hung the moon.

You rise slowly, taking a step back from the tub. Your hands go to the buttons of your shirt, and though they tremble, you don’t stop. One by one, you undo them, each one a step closer to something you’ve only let yourself imagine in the quiet of night.

Arthur bows his head, eyes shut tight like if he doesn’t look, he can keep control of himself.

“You don’t have to look away,” you say softly. “I… I want you to look.”

His eyes open, and what you see there undoes you. Like he’s looking at something sacred.

When you slip your trousers off, you swear the air gets thicker. Your chemise clings to your skin, damp from the heat, and when you finally slide it off, there’s nothing between you and him but the steamy distance across the floor.

Bare in body and soul.

You step toward the tub. The water laps at your ankles first, hot and silken, and then you ease down slowly, legs folding to the side so you’re facing him. The tub is small, and your knees touch beneath the water. The heat of him seeps into you like sunlight through your canvas tent.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, just watches you. He looks at you like he’s never seen you before. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real. His gaze moves slow, respectful, reverent.

Then he lifts a hand, wet and trembling, and cups your cheek with such tenderness it breaks something loose inside you. His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, slow and reverent.

“Let me wash you, too,” he says thickly.

You huff a quiet breath, a smile tugging at your lips. “I just had a bath, Arthur.”

“I know,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Ain’t about gettin’ clean.”

You nod once. “I’m yours.”

You know Arthur is not used to being given things without a fight. Not used to things being his. But you figure you’ve given him enough hell at this point. And maybe you’ve been his this whole time, since the day you laid eyes on him from across that damn stagecoach.

Arthur shifts forward a little, the water sloshing gently around you. His hand slides from your cheek down to the curve of your jaw, then to your neck. His touch is careful, deliberate, like he’s memorizing you one inch at a time.

“You sure?” he asks all low, like gravel soaked in honey.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” you murmur.

He reaches for the washcloth, soaking it in the warm water and wringing it out slowly. You watch the way his hands move so gently, those rough and capable hands you’ve spent so long admiring wrapped around guns and knives and ropes.The way his chest rises and falls. It stirs something deep and aching in you.

He presses the cloth to your collarbone, dragging it gently across your skin. The heat of it makes you shiver, and his eyes flick to yours, gauging your reaction.

You don’t look away.

He trails the cloth over your shoulder, down the line of your arm, the curve of your elbow. When he reaches your wrist, he turns your hand over and kisses the inside of it, soft and slow.

“I ain’t ever done this before,” he admits. “Not like this. Not slow.”

You let your head tilt, watching him. “Then take your time.”

He does.

The cloth moves down your chest, careful, reverent. He doesn’t rush, not even when your breath hitches as he grazes the side of your breast. His hand lingers, trembling just a little, and his thumb moves over to graze across your nipple. You lean into his touch, soft peak pebbling under the pad of this thumb, and into the space between you that’s growing warmer with every breath.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, voice thick with wonder. “More than I can make sense of.”

He dips the cloth again and brings it to your thigh, dragging it slowly upward. Your legs shift in the water, parting, an invitation unspoken but clear. His hand stills just above your knee, and he looks up at you, gaze searching.

“Can I?” he asks.

You nod, voice hardly a rasp. “Please.”

He slides the cloth higher, over your thigh, up the tender inside of it, so slow it makes you ache. You can’t hold back the soft sound that slips from your lips, and his jaw tightens like he’s holding himself back, like he’s barely hanging on.

The cloth slips away, forgotten. He drops it over the edge of the tub, and both hands find your waist, drawing you gently toward him. The water shifts around you as you settle into his lap, straddling him, bare skin against bare skin beneath the surface. He’s warm everywhere, solid, a wall of hard-earned corded muscle beneath you.

You feel him, hard and hot beneath the water, but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t grind against you or ask for more. He just holds you there, like this is enough. Like you are enough.

Your hands rise to his face, brushing the wet hair back again. “Arthur…”

He leans in, forehead pressing to yours. “You don’t gotta say nothin’. Just want to touch you. Feel you.”

But you want to say it.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you whisper. “Wanted you. ”

His breath shudders against your mouth, and then he kisses you.

Arthur Morgan is an outlaw, but when he presses his mouth to yours, you are certain he has only ever known tenderness. You are certain you have only ever known this feeling, of his body entangled with yours in a steaming bath, of being lulled into unreality by steam and the way he touches you.

It’s not hurried. It’s not rough. It’s deep, slow, devastating in the way it unravels you. His lips are soft, tasting of heat and longing. His hands grip your waist like he’s anchoring himself to this moment, like if he lets go, he’ll drown.

You deepen the kiss, one hand slipping to the nape of his neck, the other drifting down, skimming over the swell of his chest. He groans low in his throat, a sound that vibrates through you, and his mouth moves to your jaw, your throat, kissing a line down to your collarbone. Then he’s pulling a nipple into his mouth, suckling gently before turning to give his attention to the other.

“I could die happy right now,” he breathes against your chest, pressing kisses there.

“You’re not gonna die,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair. “Not tonight.”

Arthur’s mouth continues to lather both breasts in open mouthed kisses, warm breath ghosting over your skin, and you arch into him, your body asking for more even before your mind catches up.

He groans again, quiet and rough, as if your reaction undoes him.

One of his hands skims up your back, broad and calloused, fingers spreading wide as he holds you close. The other trails lower, slow and steady beneath the waterline, tracing the curve of your hip. His palm slides over the swell of your thigh, and then inward, the pad of his thumb brushing just shy of where you ache for him most.

You gasp softly, breath hitching against his cheek. He stills, giving you space, giving you the chance to stop this, but you don’t want to stop. You need him to keep going.

You tilt your hips up in answer, pressing closer, your mouth brushing his ear. “Please, Arthur.”

That word, please , shatters whatever restraint he was clinging to.

His hand slides between your thighs, fingers tentative at first, but guided by your sharp inhale, your body’s silent instructions. He finds you slick, warm, already undone just from being close to him. His mouth finds yours again as he strokes you, slow and patient, like he’s learning every inch of you. Like he wants to remember exactly how to make you come undone so he can do it again and again.

He gathers your wetness on his thumb and guides it up to your clit, rubbing slow and gentle circles. His thick middle finger teases at your entrance, and he pulls back to look you in the eyes as he pushes in. You pout at the intrusion, a low whine escaping your lips. He pumps you a few times before adding another finger, and that’s when he knows he’s hit the sweet spot.

Your head falls to his shoulder, fingers digging into his back as he fucks you on his fingers. The water laps around you both, soft and rhythmic, masking the sounds of your breaths turning ragged, your gasps swallowed into the curve of his neck.

“You feel so good,” he mutters, heavy with awe. “So damn good…”

“Arthur,” you whine into his ear, his name never sounding so pure and yet so filthy. “Don’t stop, please.”

The pressure builds in you quickly, quicker than it ever has when you do this yourself, and in seconds you’re falling over the edge, fingers digging into his back, his name falling from your lips amid a string of muttered curses.

He pulls you back to look at you coming down, admiring his handiwork. He’d look smug if he weren’t so desirous, if his cock wasn’t painfully hard and resting inches from your still fluttering cunt.

Sensing this, you shift in his lap, seeking more of him, the heat between you almost unbearable now. His fingers still at your hip, holding you steady as you guide your hand between your bodies and wrap it around him, thick, hard, pulsing with need.

Arthur’s whole body shudders. His head drops back, jaw tight, like he’s trying to keep from losing it right then and there.

“You’re killin’ me, darlin’,” he rasps.

“Then don’t wait,” you whisper. “I don’t want gentle. I want you. All of you.”

He grits his teeth, his hands finding your waist again, gripping tight as he positions himself. You rise up a little, just enough to line yourself up, and then you sink down, slowly, inch by inch, until he’s seated deep inside you.

A broken sound, your name, slips from his throat, part growl, part prayer, and your head falls forward to rest against his, both of you shivering in the aftermath of your bodies connecting at the root.

He fills you perfectly. The stretch burns deliciously, your bodies slotting together like they were always meant to. Like maybe this was written somewhere in the stars long before you ever crossed paths.

You begin to move first, slow, rocking your hips gently, savoring every drag of friction, every pulse of pleasure that builds in your core. Arthur’s hands roam everywhere, your back, your hips, your breasts, like he can’t decide where to settle because it’s all too much, too good, too real .

His mouth is everywhere too. Your tits, your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your jaw. He murmurs things you can barely make out between gasps.

So beautiful, can’t believe you’re mine, I got you, I got you.

You find a rhythm, the water sloshing gently with each movement, and your bodies fall into a perfect, desperate cadence, like a prayer whispered back and forth, over and over.

When it starts to crest, when the pressure builds and coils tight, you bury your face in his neck, your moan muffled against his skin.

You feel it again, that pressure in your core, the pull that drags you into ecstasy. His cock seated so deep inside you, his mouth lapping at your sensitive nipples, his fingers exploring every inch of you like he can’t possibly have enough of you flooding all of his senses.

He feels it. Feels the way your walls flutter around him, the way your movements stutter. “That’s it,” he groans, hands gripping your hips harder, driving into you deeper now, chasing the edge right behind you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel you.”

And you do.

It hits like a wave, sharp, sweet, overwhelming. Your body clenches around him, pleasure sparking down your spine as you cry out his name. He follows a breath later, hips jerking, breath caught in his throat as he spills into you, hands trembling against your skin.

For a long moment, all you can do is breathe. The world narrows to the quiet splash of water and the warm weight of his forehead against yours.

Then Arthur lifts a hand to your face again, brushing his knuckles along your cheek.

“You alright?” he asks.

You nod, a dazed little smile curling your lips. “Better than alright.”

He kisses you, slow and deep again, a promise sealed with steam and sweat.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

You both linger in the tub longer than any paying customer probably ought to.

The water's gone tepid, but neither of you seem to mind. Your fingers trail idle circles across his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing soothing beneath your palm. His nose brushes yours now and again, lazy little kisses shared between soft smiles.

Eventually, you shift, your legs tangling with his as you rest your chin atop his shoulder. “If we go back to camp now,” you murmur, all low and drowsy. “We'll wake everyone up ridin’ in.”

Arthur lets out a soft grunt of agreement, nuzzling into your hair before pressing a kiss to your temple. “Then we’ll keep ‘em up all night, too.”

You lift your head, feigning a scandalized gasp. “Arthur Morgan!”

“What?” he says, completely unbothered, though the crooked little grin tugging at his mouth gives him away. “You think I’m lettin’ you crawl back into your tent after that?”

You shake your head, hiding your smile. “What’ll the others say?”

“Don’t much care,” he says, sitting up, groaning as he stretches. “Think we earned a real bed tonight, though. What do you think?”

He climbs out first, grabbing a towel and then another, insisting on drying you off himself, all slow and careful. You dress in his flannel shirt draped over your shoulders, the hem brushing your thighs. Your chemise’s neckline peeks out where you didn’t bother buttoning all the way, your hair still dripping down your back..

You slip out into the hall together, Arthur’s hand low on your back, guiding you toward the front desk. The clerk is still there, chewing on a toothpick and flipping lazily through a tattered newspaper. He glances up as you approach and blinks.

Arthur clears his throat. “We’ll take a room. Just for the night.”

The clerk squints. “Weren’t you just in there for the deluxe bath?”

“Was,” Arthur says evenly. “Now I’m payin’ for a bed.”

The man frowns, glancing toward the back. “Where’s Hattie?”

Arthur raises a brow. “Didn’t need her, turns out.”

The clerk looks between the two of you, taking in the damp hair, the loosely buttoned clothes, the unmistakable glow of two people who just did a whole lot more than bathe. His cheeks redden and he hands over the key without a word.

You make it halfway up the stairs before you bite back a grin.

“So,” you murmur, tossing a glance over your shoulder at Arthur. “How’d you enjoy your deluxe bath?”

He smirks, deadpan. “Bit underwhelmin’. Tub was too small. No champagne. Woman wouldn’t stop talkin’.”

You laugh, bumping your shoulder against his as he catches up to you at the top of the stairs.

“Well at least you didn’t have to share it with a cowboy who dirtied your bathwater” you ask, playing along. “Maybe I’d have preferred your woman, seems awful sweet.”

“She was.” He pauses at the door, unlocking it. “Still talkin’ though.”

You scoff as he opens the door for you, stepping inside. “Ass.”

“Your ass,” he shoots back, swatting at your backside as he ushers you inside.

You don’t even make it under the covers before he’s got you in his arms again, falling back into the mattress with a satisfied grunt, taking you right along with him. You’re laughing as he pins you beneath him, one knee nudging your thigh as he brushes your hair off your face.

His gaze flickers lower, down to your collarbone. He dips his head there, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat, then inhales deep like he’s savoring you.

“You smell good,” he mutters against your skin.

You giggle. “Better than horse shit?”

He grins into your neck. “Oh, by miles.”

Then he nips playfully at your collarbone. “Still might have to take you back for another bath tomorrow. Just to be sure.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him closer with a teasing hum. “Well, if that’s the case… I suppose we better go for the deluxe again.”

And from the way he grins down at you, you’re certain he’s already plannin’ on it.

#arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan fluff #fanfiction #fanfic #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption fanfiction

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belovaballerina · 5 months ago

Text

I feel her heart beating in me

Wicked: Elphaba Thropp x fem!reader

Rating: Teen

WC: 1.4k

Prompt: “I'm everything she never was. Now everyone's out for my blood” -Anything Like Me by Poppy for @sweetspicybingo (Lyrical Bingo Collection)

Warnings: WLW, blending of book and musical lore, angst, SPOILERS IF YOU’RE NOT FAMILIAR WITH HOW THE MUSICAL ENDS

Summary: You’re on the run with Elphaba, finding a brief respite in Quadling Country

Elphaba’s hand furled tightly around yours, her pointed green nails nipping your skin as she tugged you along. You gasped for air as you focused on running as fast as you could, the Grimmerie tucked tightly under your other arm. There wasn’t any time to waste; Fiyero’s cryptic message arrived only moments ago, providing very little time for escape. The broom slipped between Elphaba’s thighs as you wrapped one arm tightly around her waist as she lifted into the sky. Behind you, the winged monkeys followed, and a few swooped down to attack the guards and keep them off Elphaba’s trail.

You pressed your face into Elphie’s shoulder, trembling as your other arm continued to grip the Grimmerie. “Where will we go?” you whispered.

“I don’t know,” Elphaba answered honestly.

When your wits returned, you suggested, “Quadling Country seems the safest choice. They’ve grown tired of being exploited by the Wizard. Surely, they might aid our cause.”

“Our cause, is it?” Elphaba teased, and even though you couldn’t see it, you knew there was a smirk on her face.

“We are in this together whether you like it or not,” you pointed out.

“I’m glad,” she replied honestly, resting one hand on top of yours as the other gripped the broom handle.

The hill to cross into Quadling Country was steep and rocky, and you felt relief when your feet finally settled on the smooth, red-paved road. Quadling Country mimicked the Emerald City, but everything was bathed in red instead of green. Even the occupants possessed a deep ruddy, and beautiful complexion.

“It is her! The Witch!” a woman screamed, pointing her finger accusingly.

“Hush! She stands against the Wizard, the man who has worked us to the bone and exploited us,” a man responded.

“We welcome you, witch!” a few voices cheered amongst the gathering masses.

“Her name is Elphaba, my good people,” you smiled.

“Miss Elphaba! Miss Elphaba! You are safe here!”

Her hand reached for yours, fingers entwining tightly as a sense of relief washed over you and her. Some of the crowd had taken to handing various fruits to the monkeys, clearly delighted by them, too. You and Elphaba were shown to a rustic farmhouse and given food and shelter. It would suffice for a day or two. You had no idea of how fast the Guard might catch up, and you only hoped this wasn’t a trick. It would be quite irritating to wake up with a knife pressed to your throat. The cup of red mint tea cradled in your hands soothed your nerves.

A fire roared in the hearth, bathing the spacious room in an orange glow. Elphaba removed her hat and stripped off her black robe, leaving her in a simple, dark purple, sleeveless frock.

“Will you help me loosen my braid?” she asked, sitting in front of you.

“Of course,” you smiled, sitting your mug down and moving your fingers through her thick, black tresses to loosen the braid.

“I’m exhausted,” she sighed, leaning back against your chest.

You wrapped your arms around her waist and rested your chin on her shoulder. “Me too. Let us try to get some rest,” you murmured, shifting so the two of you were lying down and facing each other. You gazed into her eyes, noting the hues of jade and olive, with flecks of dazzling seafoam around her inner iris. There were times when they appeared dark, bathed in amber and chestnuts. Elphaba was a peculiar being, unearthly and hauntingly beautiful.

The two of you intertwined, limbs furling until they almost became one. Her lips held a tinge of sweetness that you savored as her long nails pleasantly scraped down your back. Her hands slipped up your tattered shirt, her warmth spreading through you. You gazed into her eyes, noting the hues of jade and olive, with flecks of dazzling seafoam around her inner iris. There were times when they appeared dark, bathed in amber and chestnuts. Elphaba was a peculiar being, unearthly and hauntingly beautiful. It was hard not to fall under her spell.

Your forehead rested against her, allowing your eyes to close as you held Elphaba. It would be a new day tomorrow, and still, you were by her side. It was a small thing that you were beyond grateful for, and cherished the nights spent in her arms. You detested how she had been painted the villain and sought to spread the truth of the deceiving Wizard. If the Quadlings learned the truth, it would spread throughout the Land of Oz.

A few days passed, and Quadling Country continued to provide a safe haven. While the inhabitants were impressed by Elphaba’s sorcery and entertained by the winged monkeys, especially with Chistery’s attempts to speak, you made yourself valuable with other skills. Though Elphaba had taught you little spells, the townfolk enjoyed your trick of making a daisy rise from the pavement cracks or when you could summon a kaleidoscope of butterflies. It was fun to watch the monkeys fly after the multicolored insects. Apart from those limited feats, you were a gifted cook and a whiz with a needle and thread.

By the end of the week, it was time for you and Elphaba to move on, even though you had grown to love the Quadlings.

“We will spread your truth, Miss Elphaba.” You watched her face glow happily as she held the woman’s hands.

“I have a gift for you, Miss, since you cannot fly,” a young male smiled. He brought forth a beautiful dark black horse, its fur the same color as Elphaba’s rich raven hair.

Your eyes brimmed with tears of gratitude. “This is very kind of you.” You warmly hugged him, waving and calling out heartfelt goodbyes before departing with Elphaba and the monkeys.

Happiness was fleeting, was it not? Tears streamed down your face as Elphaba cradled it tenderly in her hands, her thumbs swiping away your tears.

“I will always love you,” she whispered before her lips captured yours in a deep kiss.

“Your name will forever be on my heart. Please be happy, my love,” you sniffled, holding her close.

The trap was set. The ruse worked, and all of Oz believed the Wicked Witch was dead when, in fact, she had fled with Fiyero by her side. You couldn’t begrudge him; love was an odd thing, and what you shared with Elphaba would never be forgotten or tarnished. You kept a lock of her ebony hair pinned to the inside of your dress; her scent lingered behind on your nose, and the warmth of her lips burned your own. Her hat had been left behind, a cherished possession you would never relinquish.

“She’s dead?” Glinda asked, her voice cracking as her shoes clipped against the castle floor.

You whirled around to face her. “I suppose you won.” It was imperative to keep this a secret, even from Glinda, even while knowing Elphaba had disappeared safely. Keep them safe; may their bones never break, and may they never die.

Her jaw dropped. “I was her friend! I was your friend! And that is all you can say to me?” Fury laced her lilting voice.

“You betrayed her! Made her the enemy to serve your own ambitions,” you snapped, fists balling at your side.

“And I regret that.” Truth strained in the word.

“Then help me make it right. Help me continue her legacy; what she wished to achieve can still be done,” you pleaded.

She swallowed hard, gripping the Grimmerie tightly.

“That’s what I thought.”

You stormed past her, stopping when she grabbed your shoulder.

“This is yours now. Protect it, and I wish you all the luck, my friend,” Glinda whispered, pressing the Grimmerie into your hands when you turned to face her.

You softened, glancing into her warm, doe eyes, and felt your anger melt away. “Thank you, my friend.”

Her lips were butterfly-soft against your cheek.

You tucked the Grimmerie safely into your leather bag and then mounted your horse, Zixi. You settled Elphaba’s hat on top of your head, your cape billowing behind you as Zixi galloped away. You cast your gaze to the sky while keeping a tight grip on the reins.

So if you care to find me, look to the western sky.

Your heart thrummed in your chest as you rode toward the west with newfound hope pulsing through your chest and a kaleidoscope of colorful butterflies leading the way.

“I will never forget you, Elphaba Thropp,” you whispered, disappearing into the forest with a promise to fulfill.

#fics: wicked #sweetspicylyrics #elphaba x reader #elphaba fanfic #elphaba imagine #wicked fanfiction #elphaba thropp x reader #wicked elphaba #elphaba thropp #wicked imagine

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yungistiny · 12 days ago

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THIEVES GUILD

[ J. Yunho ]

chapter two: The Nymph’s Touch

╚═════════

summary: yunho has been with the thieves guild half his life, he was there best thief, however, this particular treasure to steal will sit him on a path to his undoing

warnings: descriptions of violence, blood, fighting, virgin reader, eventual smut

pairing: werewolf yunho x elven/human afab reader

genre: epic high fantasy, romance, drama

word count: 5k

chapter one

chapter three coming soon

masterlist

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The first leg of the journey was spent in near silence, if not for the crunch of boots over earth and the rustling of trees overhead, Y/N might’ve imagined she was walking with ghosts.

She didn’t know how long they’d been walking. Hours, at least. The sun had climbed steadily, filtering through the leaves in golden threads, warming her shoulders. Her masquerade dress, torn and muddied, clung uncomfortably to her skin. Each step snagged fabric on brambles or twisted roots. It was as if the dress itself resented her.

San kept up a steady pace ahead, light on his feet despite the gear he carried. He hummed under his breath sometimes. The werepanther was unnervingly cheerful for someone who’d just abducted royalty.

Yunho walked a step behind her, silent, watchful. Always watchful.

She’d tried to ignore the way she could feel his presence even without looking back. He hadn’t said much since they left camp, but she could feel him, his mood, his breathing, the quiet restraint like something always just beneath the surface. It was… unsettling.

Eventually, the trees began to thin, and she caught the faint scent of woodsmoke. A small town waited just beyond the hill, it’s stone walls and mismatched rooftops barely visible through the haze.

San slowed as they reached the edge of the tree line, then turned to them with a grin. “You two stay put. I’ll grab some supplies and something for the princess to wear.”

He winked at y/n before slipping away down the slope, disappearing into town like he belonged there.

She watched him go, then turned her head slightly, aware that Yunho hadn’t moved.

“Let me guess,” she said dryly, still facing forward, “you’re not going to unbind me from this magical binding, but you are going to hover over me until he comes back.”

Silence.

“Correct.”

Of course.

She turned to face him fully then, eyes narrowing as she studied his expression. She hated how handsome he was. He wasn’t wearing the mask anymore, but somehow he still looked like he was hiding.

“You’re quiet,” she said. “Brooding. I’m supposed to be intimidated by that, right?”

Yunho didn’t answer, just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, eyes on her.

Y/N took a slow breath, trying not to let her frustration bleed out. The conversation between him and San lingered. Was he really a werewolf? She had never met one before.

The quiet was also starting to get to her more than she wanted to admit. It gave her too much time to think. Too much time to feel.

San didn’t stay gone long, he returned, carrying a small bundle in one hand, a folded cloak in the other.

“Alright, princess,” he said, cheerful again. “Found you something in that little tailor’s stall near the bakery. You’re going to look less like a kidnapped noble and more like a… well, a very fashionable runaway.”

He handed her the bundle, then held out the cloak with a flourish.

It was beautiful, deep emerald green, soft to the touch, with embroidered flowers curling delicately along the hem and hood. Tiny silver threads glinted between the petals, catching the light like dew.

She took it without thanking him and shrugged it over her shoulders. It smelled faintly of lavender and firewood. “Better,” she said, adjusting the clasp.

San gave a mock bow. “Anything for our favorite hostage.”

She turned slightly, the embroidered flowers dancing along the edge of her vision, but her eyes were on Yunho again, who, for once, wasn’t looking at her.

He was staring down the road ahead, face unreadable, hands clenched tight at his sides.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The path wound downward into a misty grove, the air growing thick with scent, wet moss, wildflowers, something strangely sweet beneath it all. The trees here were taller, older, their silver trunks twisting upward like fingers clawing toward the sky. Birds had stopped singing. Even the wind felt hushed.

Y/N pulled her new cloak tighter around her shoulders, the green a stark contrast against the pale fog curling low across the ground. San had also gotten her a fresh, clean, dress, a deeper green color than her cloak.

San glanced over his shoulder. “We’re getting close.”

“To what?” she asked, though part of her already knew.

“Nymph territory,” he replied, tone unusually serious. “Woodland ones, mostly. They don’t usually bother travelers, but…”

“But?” she pressed.

He slowed his pace to walk beside her, expression firm. “Don’t let them touch you. I’m serious.” Y/N raised an eyebrow. “What happens if they do?”

“Depends,” San said, lips twitching slightly. “Last time, one brushed my arm and I couldn’t think straight for three days. Wanted to fuck everything that breathed. Barely made it out without doing something stupid.”

She blinked. “You’re joking…”

“I’m not,” he replied, gaze unwavering. “Their magic gets under your skin. Touch is how they charm you, pull things out of your mind, your memories, your desires. They’ll twist it all and make you want it.”

Goosebumps crept up her arms despite the cloak. She glanced toward Yunho, who had been silent since they left town. He was walking ahead now, tense, shoulders squared and jaw tight.

San must have noticed, because he leaned in closer. “There’s a full moon tomorrow,” he said lowly. “He’s feeling it already.”

“Is that why he’s been so…?” She searched for the right word. “Closed off?”

San nodded. “Werewolves don’t have control under the full moon. Not like me. Not like other shifters. That part of him, the wolf, it’s stronger than he is when the moon’s full. He hates it.”

Y/N looked back at Yunho again, this time with new eyes. There was something animal in the way he moved now. A bit more rigid. Restless. Like something inside him was pacing.

“And we’re going to continue just going wherever it is you two are taking me with him like that?”

San shrugged. “I’ll handle it if it gets bad.”

The way he said it made her stomach twist. As if they’d already had this conversation before.

They pressed on.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The smell of the grove made his skin itch.

Sweet, cloying, thick with a magic that soaked into his lungs like honey and heat. His senses were sharper now, too sharp. Every heartbeat sounded like thunder in his ears. Every rustle in the grass made his hackles rise.

The moon wasn’t even full yet, but he could feel it. Like something just beneath his skin was stretching, clawing, whispering to be let out.

He kept his distance from Y/N.

The closer she was, the harder it was to think. Not just because of the moon. Not just because of the scent of her, or the memory of her at the masquerade. It was her. The way she looked at him.

And that made all of this more dangerous.

“Yunho.”

San’s voice pulled him back. He turned slightly.

“You good?”

He gave a sharp nod. “Fine.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Yunho said nothing.

San glanced at the sky, then back at him. “We’ll camp before the ridge. That clearing near the stream, we stayed there before.”

He nodded again. No words.

San hesitated before turning back to Y/N.

Yunho watched them speak, her face animated with curiosity, San grinning as he exaggerated something. His gaze dropped to her wrists, still bound loosely, though she hadn’t tried to run.

The rope glowed faintly with Yeosang’s spellwork. She hadn’t complained once since they left the town.

She was stronger than he expected.

More dangerous, too.

Yunho tore his gaze away and forced himself to focus.

The grove narrowed into a winding trail, lined by crystalline pools and glowing mushrooms that pulsed like heartbeats. Mist kissed the tops of their boots, curling around their ankles like silk, and somewhere deeper in the woods, laughter echoed, soft, musical, and not entirely human.

San slowed beside Y/N, shoulders tense.

“They’re close.”

Y/N tried not to stare too long into the trees. Shapes moved in the periphery, flashes of golden hair, bare skin, soft singing.

Nymphs.

She felt the magic like a slow bloom in her chest. It wasn’t violent or obvious. It was subtle, like heat under her skin, the prickling feeling of someone watching her and wanting.

“Stay close,” San murmured, fingers brushing her arm. “And remember what I said. No touching.”

She nodded tightly.

Yunho said nothing. He’d barely spoken since they left the last camp, his tension now something you could almost hear. He walked slightly ahead of them, muscles wound taut, eyes scanning the trees like he expected something to leap out.

And then, one did.

A figure shimmered into view, tall, willowy, glowing like morning sunlight through a leaf. She stepped directly into Yunho’s path with a grace that made her seem weightless. Her eyes were silver, her smile sweet and sly. She didn’t wear much, just flowers and mist, and her hair floated like water around her shoulders.

“Lost?” she cooed, voice like wind chimes.

Yunho froze.

“Come,” the nymph whispered, extending a hand. “You look tired, wild thing. Let me soothe you.”

“Yunho,” San said sharply. “Don’t!”

But it was too late.

The nymph’s fingers grazed Yunho’s wrist.

The world shivered.

Y/N felt it as much as saw it. Like the air itself clenched.

Yunho staggered back a step, but not enough. His breath caught, ragged and uneven. His shoulders rose, his jaw tightened, and then slowly, horrifyingly, something changed in his eyes.

Heat.

Ravenous, feral hunger.

His gaze snapped to the nymph first, then to Y/N.

San was already in motion, grabbing Yunho’s shoulder and yanking him back.

“Fuck!” San cursed, shoving him hard. “Y/N, behind me.”

She didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Because Yunho wasn’t himself anymore.

He looked at her like she was prey, and worse, like he wanted to devour her in a way that made her knees threaten to buckle.

Yunho blinked, sweat beading on his temple. His hand trembled, clenched into a fist at his side. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.

“She touched me,” he rasped. “Fuck….fuck.. she touched me!”

“I know,” San said, voice calm but firm. “You need to fight it. Right now.”

Y/N slowly stepped forward, ignoring San’s hand when he tried to hold her back.

“Yunho,” she said again, softer. She didn’t really want to be werewolf food if he snapped. “It’s not real. Whatever you’re feeling… it’s her magic. Not you.”

His eyes met hers, still too bright, the wolf inside him making them glow, too wild.

But they flickered.

She reached out, against every bit of advice and instinct. Her fingers brushed his hand. Not tightly. Not a grab. Just a touch. A reminder.

And for a moment, something cracked in him.

His shoulders dropped. His head bowed. He took a shuddering breath that sounded more like a sob than anything else.

The nymph laughed from behind the tree, fading into mist.

“Well done, princess,” San muttered, easing slightly. He’d never seen anyone able to calm Yunho down like that before. “Didn’t think that would work.”

Yunho said nothing. He just stood there, breathing hard, staring at the forest floor like it might swallow him whole.

Y/N swallowed thickly, her voice barely a whisper. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he rasped. “Not even close.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

They didn’t stop.

San led the way now, pace brisk, knife in hand. He barely looked back, but Y/N could tell by the set of his shoulders that he was listening, every step Yunho took, every hitch in breath, every sound behind him.

Yunho walked beside her, silent.

But the silence was thick.

It wasn’t the same kind they’d shared on the road earlier, when tension hung only in the uncertainty of the journey. No, this was something different. It buzzed under her skin. It rolled off him in waves, heat, magic, restraint. His jaw was tight. His eyes forward. Every movement controlled.

Too controlled.

He was fighting.

She risked a glance at him.

His hands were clenched in fists at his sides. Sweat gleamed at his temple despite the cool forest air. His breathing was steady, but forced, like each inhale had to be measured carefully.

“You should’ve let San tie you up,” she muttered under her breath. Only joking a little.

He gave her a sharp look.

“Not funny.”

She arched a brow. “You’re acting like a wolf trying not to bite.”

He stopped walking.

Just like that.

Y/N took a step before realizing he was no longer beside her. She turned to find him standing in the middle of the narrow path, eyes on her, not wide and frantic anymore, but heavy lidded. Burning.

“No,” he said lowly. “I’m acting like a wolf who wants to bite, but knows he shouldn’t.”

Y/N breath caught.

Something thrummed in the air between them.

It wasn’t just magic. It was heat. Desire. Something hungry and wild that had nothing to do with nymphs.

But maybe everything to do with her.

She raised her still bound hands between them, rope glittering faintly with Yeosang’s spell.

“Then keep walking,” she said, voice quiet but sharp. “Because if you lose control, I’ll choke you with these binding ropes myself.”

His eyes dropped to the rope, and his mouth curved, just barely. A half smile. Half warning. Half surrender. “I believe you.”

He fell in line behind her, a shadow at her back.

The rest of the day passed in a slow, humming haze.

Yunho never touched her, but she felt him, always felt him. The way his gaze brushed her like a hand. The way his breathing stuttered sometimes when she got too close. The way he’d catch himself staring and whip his head away like the sight of her burned.

The nymph’s magic was still in him.

But maybe… not all of it was the nymph.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

By the time the trees thinned and San called them to a stop, the sun was sinking low behind the hills, casting long, golden shadows across the forest floor. The air had cooled, quiet settling in the way it often did before night truly fell, like the world itself was holding its breath.

“We’ll camp here,” San said, already dropping his pack near the base of a thick, leaning pine. “Clear sightlines, water nearby, and it smells like we won’t be sleeping beside anything that wants to eat us.”

Y/N raised a brow as she stepped carefully over a tree root. “Unless Yunho loses control. Then, I guess we’re the midnight snack.”

San snorted, shooting Yunho a sideways glance.

Yunho didn’t say anything, just kept walking past them both, his jaw tight and unreadable.

Y/N lowered herself onto a smooth patch of moss, her cloak pooling around her. Her ankles ached, the slippers San had gotten her almost too small. Her wrists were chafed where the binding rope looped loosely around them, still enchanted, though not uncomfortably tight.

Yunho crouched a few paces away, wordless as he rummaged through his pack. He didn’t look at her. Not directly. But she felt his gaze flit to her every few moments, like he couldn’t help it.

And maybe, just maybe, like he didn’t trust himself not to.

The fire crackled softly, low and steady. San had coaxed it to life with the kind of ease that came from sleeping under stars more nights than not. Sparks danced upward toward the darkening sky, and the scent of woodsmoke curled around them, comforting despite the circumstances.

Yunho stayed on the other side of the fire, seated with one knee bent, elbow propped on it. He was quiet, eyes flicking to the trees now and then, but mostly he stared into the flames like he could burn the thoughts out of his head.

San, meanwhile, was pulling open a second bundle of supplies.

“Here,” he said, offering Y/N a smaller wrapped parcel. “Sweetbread. It’s not poisoned. Promise.” He tease, sending her a grin that showed his dimples.

She narrowed her eyes but accepted it, peeling back the cloth. The pastry inside was warm from being tucked close to the fire, dusted with what looked like cinnamon. Her stomach grumbled in response.

“You spoil me,” she said with dry humor.

“I kidnapped you. Least I can do is make sure your blood sugar doesn’t drop.”

She took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then glanced down at her still bound wrists. The enchanted rope glittered faintly in the firelight, magic pulsing soft and steady like a second heartbeat.

“So,” she said after a moment. “How long am I supposed to stay like this?”

San looked up from his own meal, eyes flicking to the rope and then to Yunho, as if silently passing the question over.

Yunho didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed. “Until we’re sure you won’t run,” he said finally. His voice was low, steady. “Or do something reckless.”

Y/N scoffed. “You mean like getting kidnapped by thieves in the middle of my own masquerade ball?”

San coughed into his bread to cover a laugh.

Yunho didn’t crack a smile.

“You’re still a risk,” he added. “And if you get hurt…”

“I can handle myself,” she cut in. “I have before.” The words left her lips before she could stop them, sharper than she meant. But neither of them flinched.

San looked between them, sensing the shift.

“I could try to spell a looser binding,” he offered carefully. Though his knowledge with runes and spells were limited. “Maybe one that only activates if you run too far from us?”

Y/N tilted her head. “What, like a magical leash?”

San shrugged. “Call it what you want, princess. I’m just trying to keep you from breaking an ankle in that dress.”

Her brow lifted. “You bought the dress.”

“And I stand by my taste,” San said without shame, flashing her a grin. “But maybe tomorrow, you can travel in something a little easier to breathe in.”

Yunho’s gaze met hers across the fire.

“We’ll find something,” he said quietly. “Something better.”

Something about his voice made her chest feel tight.

Not the words. The way he said them.

Like he felt guilty for all of it.

Like he hated that she’d ended up here because of him.

She looked down at the rope again. It’s glow pulsed faintly across her skin like it knew what she was thinking.

How long?

As long as it takes.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The fire had burned low, now only embers tucked beneath a cloak of ash. San was sprawled near the edge of camp, his own cloak pulled halfway over his face, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. The forest around them was thick with the sounds of night, distant owls, the rustle of leaves, the soft crackle of branches under the weight of unseen things. But none of it stirred Yunho.

What did stir was inside him.

He sat rigid, spine straight, hands clenched into the dirt at his sides. His skin prickled with heat that had no source. His muscles ached, not from strain, but from something deeper, something restless and volatile threading beneath his skin.

He could feel the moon, though it wasn’t full yet. It pulled at him like it always did days before, tugging at the boundaries he so carefully kept drawn. But now, layered beneath it, was her.

Not Y/N. Not the princess.

The nymph.

The one who had touched him on the outskirts of their glade like it was nothing, like she wasn’t pouring honey sweet magic into his veins with just a graze of her fingers.

Yunho clenched his jaw, teeth grinding.

His blood felt too warm. His senses too sharp.

Every flicker of movement from where Y/N sleeping curled beside a tree caught his attention. The subtle rise of her chest, the sound of her breath, light and soft, but not quite peaceful.

He hadn’t dared look too long. Not since he felt himself wanting to.

The nymph’s enchantment was seductive by nature, desire spun from silk, tangled around instinct and want. But under the coming full moon, that desire churned dangerously close to hunger.

And Yunho knew hunger.

He knew what it was to lose control of it.

He gripped the ground harder, letting dirt pack beneath his nails, grounding himself in the earth, in pain, in now.

She stirred.

His eyes snapped toward her before he could stop himself. Her silhouette shifted in the shadows, the faint glimmer of the binding rope across her wrists catching what little firelight remained.

“Can’t sleep?” Her voice was quiet, not mocking. Not yet.

He didn’t answer.

“Too busy brooding or growling at the moon?”

His lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk, gone as quickly as it came. “You should be asleep.”

She yawned instead. “So should you.”

He looked away again, breath leaving him in a tight exhale. “I can’t.”

A pause. Then footsteps, soft ones. Bare feet on moss. He tensed before she even got close, pulse thudding faster than he liked.

“Is it the moon?” she asked, quietly now.

He didn’t nod. Didn’t move.

“It’s the moon,” she said anyway. “And the nymph.”

That made him look up, sharply.

Her expression was unreadable in the low light, but her voice held no judgment. No fear, either.

“San warned me not to let one touch me,” she said, kneeling a safe distance away, cloak pooling around her. “He didn’t say what would happen if they touched you.”

“I can handle it,” he muttered.

“Liar.”

His fingers twitched. His vision swam for a moment, heat pressing against the edges of his mind. “You don’t understand,” he whispered. “It’s not just the nymph. The full moon’s close. I don’t…when it gets like this, I…”

He cut himself off, breathing heavy now. The edges of his self control frayed like thread near flame.

Y/N tilted her head. “You lose control.”

He nodded once.

She watched him for a long moment, then gave a quiet sigh. “So what happens if you do? You tear through the forest and howl at the moon while I watch San try to figure out if he needs to knock you out or tie you up?”

Yunho let out a breath, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “I’d like to see him try.”

“I wouldn’t. I kind of like him with all his limbs still attached.” She shifted closer by just an inch, eyes never leaving his. “You’re not going to lose it tonight.”

“And if I do?”

“Then I’ll scream so loud every guard between here and the border will come running, not even this binding will stop me,” she said sweetly, tone sharp beneath the softness. “But until then, try not to look like you’re about to rip your own skin off.”

He gave a short, quiet laugh, low and rough in his throat. It was the first sound that didn’t feel like it came from the beast under his skin. “I’ll do my best.”

And for a little while, silence fell again, not tense, not cold.

Just quiet.

The fire had all but died.

Y/N had pulled her cloak tight and drifted back into uneasy sleep, curled beneath the wide curve of a tree’s roots. Her breath slowed, lashes resting soft against her cheeks, her bound hands tucked beneath her chin like a defensive reflex. And still, Yunho couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Or maybe he just couldn’t look away.

The heat under his skin had worsened. His palms itched. His shoulders rolled restlessly, like his body couldn’t quite remember how to sit still. His hearing was sharper than usual, the pop of tree bark, the snap of twigs, the way her breath hitched every now and then in her dreams.

He should’ve moved.

He should’ve gone to the edge of camp, laid down far away from her, from temptation, from the nymph’s residue slithering through his blood.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

The moon hadn’t yet reached its peak, but the pull was maddening. Like it was under his skin, clawing from the inside out. His bones ached with it, his spine curling toward the shift that threatened to come early if he didn’t hold it back with everything he had.

The worst part wasn’t the moon.

The nymph’s touch had unlocked every forbidden thought. Every repressed instinct. And the moon amplified it all, turning lust into need, restraint into a razor thin line he wasn’t sure he could walk.

Yunho gritted his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache. He’d never been reckless. Never been the kind of creature who let instinct win. But right now, he could hear Y/N heartbeat from across the clearing.

And it called to him.

He stood, abruptly, too fast, and moved away from the fire, away from her, toward the thick woods on the edge of camp. His boots cracked twigs beneath them as he paced, fingers digging into the bark of a nearby tree, his breath loud in his ears.

You are not a monster.

He repeated the words like a mantra. Again and again. Until they meant something. Until the fire in his veins dulled to a simmer.

A snap of wood behind him made him whip around, heart thundering, only to see San, half awake, cloak wrapped around his shoulders, watching him with bleary but sharp eyes.

“Moon?” he asked groggily, voice low.

Yunho nodded.

“Nymph?” San added.

Yunho gave a humorless, strained chuckle.

San winced. “Shit.”

They stood there in silence for a beat.

“You going to be okay?”

Yunho didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know.”

San stepped closer, tone quieter now. “If it gets worse, say something. I’ll knock you out if I have to.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Yunho muttered, forehead resting against the bark. This time actually hoping San would.

“And maybe don’t stare at her like you’re starving,” San added. “You’re already scary enough.”

Yunho said nothing else.

All he knew was that the moon would rise higher tomorrow.

And he wasn’t sure how much of himself would still be standing by the time it did.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Morning came slowly.

Pale light crept across the forest floor, brushing over the remnants of the fire, over San still curled in his cloak, and over Y/N, still asleep, but frowning in her dreams.

Yunho hadn’t slept.

He sat against a tree with his arms braced on his knees, his entire body stiff from a night of pacing and suppressing everything clawing inside him. He could feel the weight of the full moon now like a vice tightening around his chest. It wouldn’t crest until sundown, but already, it’s call buzzed under his skin like a living thing.

San woke first, yawning into his shoulder and squinting up at the sky. “Still you,” he said after a second, nodding to Yunho. “That’s a good sign.”

Yunho didn’t answer. He didn’t feel like himself. Not entirely.

Y/N stirred next, blinking in the rising light, disoriented for a beat until her eyes landed on the two of them. “Still kidnapped,” she muttered, stretching awkwardly against the bindings. “Lovely.”

San grinned and tossed her a wrapped biscuit from the stash he’d picked up in town. “Eat up. It’s a long day ahead. And we’ll be moving fast.”

She caught it against her chest, raising a brow. “Still not telling me where we’re going?”

“Would it change anything?” Yunho asked quietly, rising to his feet and stretching his back until it popped.

San decided to ease her calm just a little. “We’re heading east for now. Through the edge of the Whispering Pines. After that, depends on what we hear.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The day passed in tense silence.

They kept off the main roads, moving through thickets and brush, avoiding other travelers. Y/N walked between them, hands still bound, cloak tugged tight against the early spring wind. Her glare never strayed far from Yunho’s back.

But even she could sense the shift in him. The way he flinched at loud sounds. The way his gaze lingered too long on her neck, her wrists, the delicate flutter of her pulse. Like something inside him was inching closer to the surface, no matter how hard he fought it.

By the time the sun began to dip, they’d reached a narrow forest pass. Twilight stained the trees in purple and gold.

San slowed his pace, head tilted. “Something’s wrong.”

Yunho caught it too, birds had gone silent. The wind had stilled. A crack of movement ahead sent both werecreatures instantly into motion.

“Down!” San shouted, shoving Y/N behind a tree just as the first arrow flew.

Bandits burst from the woods, six, no, eight of them, faces covered, blades drawn.

Yunho’s hands curled into fists. His vision shifted.

The moon crested the ridge behind the trees, and he felt it snap through his spine like lightning.

His knees buckled.

San drew his twin daggers and moved forward fast, blocking the path to Y/N . “Yunho?” he barked. “You good?”

But Yunho didn’t respond.

His breath came faster, louder. His fingers curled like claws. His shoulders cracked, bones realigning, breath shifting into something not human. His growl shook the trees.

San’s eyes widened. “Shit.”

Then Yunho shifted.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t quiet.

Bones cracked, tore, and dark black fur, same shade as Yunho’s hair, burst across his body like wildfire. His snarl tore through the woods, raw and primal.

The bandits didn’t stand a chance.

Yunho hit them like a force of nature. Teeth flashing, claws rending through leather and armor like paper. Screams filled the clearing. Blood hit the ground. San grabbed Y/N, hands still bound, and yanked her hard.

“Run!”

She stumbled after him, breath caught in her throat, eyes wide as she glimpsed Yunho in the chaos, nothing left of the quiet, brooding man from before. Just a beast. A monster. A terrifying, beautiful storm of fur and rage.

“Where…. where are we?” She gasped.

“Anywhere he’s not,” San snapped, dragging her deeper into the trees. “He won’t know us right now. Just run.”

Behind them, the forest echoed with howls.

The full moon had risen.

And Yunho was no longer in control.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

permanent tag list: @straycat420 @autieofthevalley @dejatiny @hannahlilibet411 @xh01bri @jintastic-yuyu @maddycline @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @wooyoungsbrat @lucid-galaxys-world @ecriggs1990 @straytiny127 @sannies-tiddies

tag list: @ateezbbys @juicyjaxxy @waywardstaytiny @inkling-things @hartsablaze @metalheadatiny

#yunho #jeong yunho #yunho x y/n #yunho x reader #choi san #san #ateez #ateez fic #ateez fanfic

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hometoursandotherstuff · 1 year ago

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The road leading up to the castle is long. (i.e. It has to be plowed in winter.)

Welcome to Bedford Castle in Bedford, WY. (That's what the desc. calls it, but a plaque says 'Heiner Castle.') It's a fairly new castle, built in 1992, but it's pretty impressive inside, for certain reasons, not all of them great. It has 5bds, 7ba and they're asking $14M. Well, it's on 40 acres of land, too.

It's built among the pine trees and mountains of Wyoming in the background. It looks a little like an Austrian castle. Can you imagine yourself running, dressed in a pinafore, singing "The hills are alive with the sound of music?"

In the summer, it looks like the Emerald City. We're off to see the wizard.

The grand entrance stairs. There's supposed to be an elevator somewhere.

In many ways it looks like a castle, with stone arches, but I like a more medieval look, with dark wood.

I wonder if the big lion would convey.

Check out the great hall/living room. It's kind of rustic, but with stone castle pillars.

Large dated kitchen. It looks like a house kitchen, not particularly castle-ish.

The dining room has a big fireplace with a modern insert. Is it me, or is that table ridiculously high?

Now this is a castle. Big white stone fireplace and columns. Very nice. Love the blue chandy.

Looking up at the mezzanine.

Here's the elevator. I can't tell where it's located, though.

Winding castle stairs.

What is that thing? It looks like a trapeze. Do you have to grab onto it and hoist yourself up?

Assuming that you got up here, this must be the primary bedroom.

I'm gonna say that this treacherous ladder, that looks like it has rollers for steps, goes up to the kids bedroom.

They have a bunker style room.

Very large bath. Dated. When you build something like this, you gotta think timeless. Oak cabinets w/carved fronts was a trend that quickly went out of style.

Here's another bedroom. I like the fireplace mantle with the thick columns.

And, this is one of the other smaller baths. Actually, I thought that was the elevator when I first saw it.

Metal stairs to the tower. This is super cool.

40 acres in Wyoming would be beautifully green in the summer.

But, you gotta be into snow, too.

https://www.trulia.com/home/2150-robinson-ln-bedford-wy-83112-299621690

#castle #houses #house tours #home tour

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tailsthetheorist · 15 days ago

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🦊 Tails' Joke Corner – Part 1 🦊

Welcome to the ultimate stash of Sonic laughs! Tails here, bringing you 100 jokes — with a splash of Shadow Generations glitch chaos too! Let's roll! 💨💥

1. Why did Sonic cross the road? To go faster than the chicken. 2. Why doesn’t Shadow like stairs? Because they’re not edgy enough. 3. What do you call it when Knuckles trips? An echidna slip-up. 4. Why is Eggman so round? Because he always comes back full circle. 5. What's Tails' favorite type of story? Whirl-wind tales! 6. Why did Shadow break the camera? It didn’t respect his power. 7. How do Chao stay organized? With Chaos Control! 8. What does Sonic say when he finishes a chili dog? "Gotta eat fast!" 9. Why did Rouge bring a ladder? To steal the spotlight. 10. What’s Shadow’s least favorite song? Let it Go — too much feeling. 11. Why is Silver always confused? Because it’s no use! 12. What do you get when Metal Sonic sings? Auto-tune attack. 13. Why didn’t Tails become a chef? He can’t whisk it. 14. What game does Shadow always win? Hide and Doom Seek. 15. What does Big the Cat say to Froggy every morning? “Let’s hop to it!” 16. Why don’t Badniks get invited to parties? They crash everything. 17. Why is Sonic always single? He's married to the speed. 18. Why did Amy bring a hammer to math class? To smash those problems. 19. Why did Infinite fail his evil plan? He wasn’t a-finite planner. 20. What’s Knuckles’ favorite hobby? Punching time cards. 21. Why did Shadow apply for a driving license? To get Shadow’s Edge over Sonic Kart. 22. What’s Eggman’s favorite music genre? Heavy Metal Sonic. 23. Why can’t Espio tell a good joke? He’s always too invisible. 24. What’s Sonic’s least favorite fruit? Slowberries. 25. What’s Blaze’s favorite fire type? Super spicy memes. 26. Why don’t Mobians ever lie? Because they can’t handle the truth rings. 27. Why did Shadow rage quit? Because the game disrespected his pain. 28. Why is Sonic never out of breath? He’s air-dashing through life. 29. Why did Rouge get kicked from the treasure hunt? She found everything too fast. 30. What’s the name of Sonic’s rock band? The Rolling Rings. 31. Why is Shadow always brooding? It’s part of his backstory contract. 32. Why did Silver take cooking lessons? He finally saw a future with food. 33. What’s Eggman’s bedtime story? The Boy Who Lost to a Hedgehog. 34. Why did the Chaos Emeralds go missing? Shadow borrowed them for a glow-up. 35. Why did Sonic get detention? He zoomed into the principal’s office. 36. What does Tails do during thunderstorms? Checks the tail-wind. 37. Why did Infinite scream “No!”? Because Sonic skipped his cutscene. 38. What’s Knuckles’ favorite drink? Punch (of course). 39. Why did Shadow glitch through the wall? Because he’s coded differently. 40. Why did Sonic bring a ladder to Green Hill Zone? He was going for higher ground. 41. Why doesn’t Rouge need maps? She follows the diamonds. 42. What’s Tails’ favorite snack? Spinach Puffs, for the spin dash. 43. Why did Eggman go on a diet? He wanted less Egg, more Man. 44. What’s Silver’s job in the future? Cleaning up all these bad timelines. 45. Why did Sonic ignore the loop? He already looped it 3 times today. 46. What’s Shadow’s favorite hobby? Spinning in cutscenes by accident. 47. Why does the ARK have no Wi-Fi? Because Shadow broke the router in 2001. 48. Why did Tails crash the Tornado again? Too many tabs open in his brain. 49. Why is Green Hill always sunny? Because the memes never stop shining. 50. What do you call a fake Chaos Emerald? A Ch-AI-os Emerald.

Tails: “Whew! I haven’t laughed this hard since Eggman tried skateboarding!” 🎉 Part 2 coming soon! Gotta laugh fast!

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papasbaseball · 3 months ago

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The Wizard x Reader (Wonderful Wonderful Girl) | Chapter 19

Pairing: Wizard x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Power Imbalance, Boss/Employee Relationship, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Sexual Content, Spanking

Summary: Being a maid in the Royal Palace of Oz is not half so bad. Despite the meager wages, everything else is provided for you for an honest day's work. It can be unnerving working for the most powerful man in Oz, but you are able to avoid him most of the time. This changes during Lurlinemas, your paths soon becoming inextricably intertwined.

Word Count: 2,248 of 49,773

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AO3 Link

The baker was kind enough to send me off on his flour cart headed south with enough bread to feed both me and Albert, some scrawny kid from the Shiz guard. He said he was 18 but looked all of 16 with a more bald than sparse, blond mustache across his top lip. Oscar arranged for both: Ronan, the baker, was some sort of secret brother, and Albert was redesigned as a hitchhiker in case anyone got the wrong idea about kidnapping or assaulting me in between Frottica and the Emerald City. We exchanged cheek kisses in the street — the ever-loving father sending his daughter off to Shiz to get better medical care for her injured wrist — before he placed me in the empty wagon with Albert.

Before pulling away from the second kiss pressed to my cheek, he whispered, "Don't worry, okay? I'm coming down with the troops from Shiz. We'll… we’ll meet you on the third day, alright? I'll have eyes on the place the entire time. If something goes south, I'm gonna get you out of there."

As I trudge down the last bit of dirt road — Albert had made sure that I stuck to the plan and was dropped a mile off from the camp's entrance to not appear suspicious — I can't help but worry. Branches broken from trees had been sharpened into pikes and bundled together to form a jagged barricade meant to kill any kind of horse-mounted assault. The horses would have already had a difficult time, considering the barricades are atop a pair of ten foot-high hills that were separated just enough for four horses to ride abreast through the gap between them. I'd almost think that the Winkies had built them themselves if they weren’t covered in a winter-dulled green grass that looked succulent with the dew from the hill's enormous shadow.

In this gap, two Winkie guardsmen stand, overwhelmed by plain and brutal dark gray military coats and caps. If I never have to see another uniform ever again… They yell something at me, but I can't hear them.

I continue my trudging towards the entrance, ignoring them. I'm nearly there when one guard marches to meet me and within 10 feet draws his sword.

"On your knees," he says, holding the slightly curved blade in one hand.

Ever a sensible person, I grimace as I kneel, green velvet to dirt path. Poor Galinda would have a heart attack if she could see the way I was treating the clothes I had borrowed from her.

"Don't you know what the word 'Halt' means?" he asks. The steel is pointed at my chin now.

"I said, 'I couldn't hear you,'" I retort. "I'm here to see Fiyero."

"You and the rest of the Emerald Army. You're a greenie, that's plain to see," he says, lifting my chin with the cold metal of the blade.

"Yeah. Still here to see Fiyero. He knows me."

"Probably wants to kill you," the guard offers, sliding the steel closer to my throat. "Maybe I should save him the time and do him the favor now."

"You'd kill his lover? I'm sure that'll go over well," I say.

"He's engaged," the guard offers back. The blade is now in full line with my neck and, if he wanted to, he could knock my head clean off.

My tongue wets chapped lips, and I pray that it doesn't tie itself into knots. "What Fiyero does at Kiamo Ko is none of my business," I say. Hot breath steams the air in front of me and briefly fogs the silver sword. "But I know he won't be happy if you kill me. He’s not the type to let that go. Eye for an eye."

The steel edge lingers on the delicate skin of my neck. The edge is so thin that I might not be able to tell it was there if my beating pulse didn’t leap against it with every beat. He lowers it and wrenches me up with a rough grip on my bicep. "I'm taking you prisoner. Arms behind your back."

Steam puffs out of me in relief at having the sword removed. I'll gladly let this asshole cadet manhandle me if it means I get to keep my head on my shoulders. He does manhandle me, roughly wrapping the worst possible rope — truly it feels as if it were made of the scrubbing pads that I used to use when stains wouldn't come out of clothes or carpets — around my wrists and all the way up to my elbows. I have to bite the inside of my lip to prevent myself from snarking about him worrying that a lady could overtake him.

We walk, me stumbling without the use of my arms to keep me balanced, to the gate. The guards exchange something in Arjikian, and my captor pushes me past the gates. I try to relax what muscles I have left to relax in my bindings.

The inside of the camp is firstly muddy. Whatever lush greenery had covered this meadow before they came had been demolished into an earthy and sucking dark brown. Khaki tents the size of small rooms have been set up all throughout the enclave, pennants of blue with golden hooked patterns topping them. They droop lifeless, windless. That is the second most notable thing about the camp: the unaired stench. There is the smell of animals, horses most likely, but also a sweeter, more disgusting smell that runs its fleshless fingers up my spine: death.

I hold my breath as the guard shoves me through the camp. My boots have to be pulled free from the muck with each step, my legs shaking from the effort. Eventually, it evens out, but we make a turn at a tent that has red splatters decorating the flap of the entryway. The inside of the tent smells better — clean linen and only a slight lingering smell of animals — and it is a lot warmer than the common grounds. I'd pull my cape around me for more warmth, but it’s trapped behind my bound arms. The same bindings do not help me recover when the guard shoves me onto the dirt floor.

"Don't think about moving," he says with a warning finger. "If you leave, I'll cut your hands off. I don't care what love affair you have."

I lay there on my side, trying to wiggle into an upright position. The guard leaves, so I stick out my tongue at him as the tent flap closes. If he'd seen it, he probably would have suggested cutting out my tongue too with that stupid sword of his.

He may have said he'd cut my hands off if I tried to escape, but I wasn't planning to let myself starve and die if they happened to forget about me. Best to try and at least sit up. It feels like it's been an hour of wriggling when Fiyero walks in.

"Serjos, didn't say he'd caught me a pretty little fish," Fiyero says, smile bright even in the dimness of the tent. "Lovers, is it? I thought we were pretty cozy on the dance floor, but I can't remember ever doing the horizontal tango with you. One doesn’t forget something like that." His eyes rake over my bound body on the last sentence.

"It's the only way I could get them to let me in," I say, trying to push myself up once more. My shoulder hits the ground again and Fiyero laughs.

"Don't you have a palace full of warmth and food?" he asks.

"Sometimes we do dumb things when we panic," I say. "I fled the city and next thing I know the gates were shut and here you are."

"Here I am," he agrees with a smirk.

"I was trying to survive on food I could steal from medics, but I can't do it anymore. I haven't slept in days because my stomach won't shut up, and I think I broke my wrist when I tried killing a squirrel." I flip over to show him whatever little he can see of my bandages through the ropes.

"Sweet Oz! Your hands are purple," he says, stooping to loosen the bindings. "I really need to have a talk with Serjos about proper prisoner detainment."

I hadn't realized just how numb my hands were until Fiyero loosened the bindings and I can feel them getting warmer, thousands of tiny needles stabbing my fingers to chastise me for having bound them.

"You might want to see if you could talk to him about cutting bits of people off while you're at it," I offer.

Fiyero scoffs at that. "He's all bark and no bite. You don't have to worry about him."

I eye him suspiciously, trying to rub away the feeling of pins stabbing my hands. "You try having a sword to your neck and see how you feel about it."

"Why are you here?" he asks, dropping the temperature in the tent by 10 degrees.

"A warm meal would be nice," I laugh. Those perfect white teeth don't bear a smile, so I stop laughing.

"This is an active war zone. There's plenty of passing merchants along the road. You could have easily found your way to Munchkinland with one of them."

The real reason that I’m back is unspeakable, of course. I hadn't told him about Fileah that night at the Lurlinemas ball, so he has no reason to suspect that I'm here to find her or any of the other hostages that they've taken.

"Would you believe me if I had told you that you were the first kind person I'd met in that palace in over ten years?" I ask. "I don't trust people. It’s a habit of the workplace. But then… you…" I tug my cloak around me, averting my gaze in what should be a "girly way that makes the boys go crazy" as Galinda had told me.

Fiyero touches a hand to my shoulder. "I saw what he did at the party. We all did." The pause suffocates the tent as I feel him staring through my skin. "Has he hurt you? You can tell me. You don't ever have to see him again."

I burst into tears, hiding my face in my hands. Fiyero, the doting prince, presses me into a hug, shushing me and stroking my dust coated hair. His jacket is equally dusty, but I press a wet cheek into his shoulder. I can smell the smoke of campfires on him mixed with sweat.

"Let's get something in you, okay?" he says. "Hunger doesn’t look good on you." He gathers me up with himself and pulls my cloak tighter around me, keeping me pressed to him until I stop crying. As soon as the sobs stop shaking my body, he pulls the hood up for the cloak, saying, "There, no one will see your tears. Let's go to my tent. Have you ever had Arjiki hash?"

"No," I sniffle.

"I think you'll like it," he says, brushing his thumb over my wet and shadowed cheek.

We walk arm in arm. Arjiki soldier eyes follow us as we trek across the muddy ground. Would Fiyero really take a lover? The Wizard and General Minkus had expressed doubts about the plan, considering he was engaged already. These soldiers know that, and yet Fiyero does not seem to have a problem walking past them with me on his arm. The rumor that I was his lover would have spread by now, so he has to know the implications.

"Don't look at them, and they won't look at you," he whispers as we crossed a path in front of a roaring campfire.

"I don't think they're looking at me," I say. "I think they're looking at you."

"Trust me, they're not. I'm not much to look at anyway."

I'm grateful for the hood because I roll my eyes hard.

His tent is wonderfully decorated in navies and golds, with deeply dyed rugs covering the ground. Steamer trunks are stuffed in the corners, and a makeshift battle table of a thin wooden board and trestles has been set up to take up one half of the tent. A sleeping area with a linen cot takes up the other. I sit down on the cot, lowering my hood as Fiyero quickly dips out and then back in with a serving of heavily seasoned potatoes and meat.

"Here, eat," he says, offering me the plate.

I take the plate from him and wolf it down. I hadn't eaten since last night in order to better sell the lie. "Thank you," I say, gasping for breath in between licking the fork clean of the earthy and spiced sauce.

"Can I get you some more?" he asks, reaching for the plate.

I shy away from him, looking at the dusty ground, untainted by rain or thousands of trampling feet and hooves. "Oh... I don't know if I should. Do you have any water?"

"Hey," he says, tipping my chin up. "I'll get you anything you want. You're my guest, alright?"

I nod, and he must take that as confirmation because he pinches my cheeks with a smile. He takes my plate with him. As soon as he’s out the door, I know I don't have much time, maybe two minutes max. My eyes scan the tent quickly. I need to find the Grimmerie.

#wicked fanfiction #wicked #wicked 2024 #the wizard x reader #the wizard fanfiction #the wizard #wicked 2024 fanfiction

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somepikminpostcards · 3 months ago

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#emerald hill road #singapore #old peranakan house

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novaursa · 2 months ago

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Hello ❤️ May I request an Otto Hightower x Tyrell reader fic, please?

When Otto is dismissed by Aegon in season 2, he travels to Highgarden before going to Oldtown. Lady Tyrell would be the widow of an old friend. Her and Otto would be familiar with each other, they exchanged letters frequently and/or she often came to court. He confides in her about being dismissed, his doubts about Aegon as king, etc. She is worried about her son going to battle. It would be lovely if they could share some intimacy, finding comfort in each other.

Thank you so much for your consideration. Much love ❤️

What Remains of Us

- Summary: Some things war takes, some it gives.

- Pairing: tyrell!reader/Otto Hightower

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

The banners of House Hightower flapped lazily in the spring wind, ivory and green against the emerald sprawl of Highgarden. The sun had dipped behind a veil of pale clouds, casting a diffused amber light over the Reach, where every hill bloomed with wildflowers and the air hung heavy with the scent of rose and honeysuckle. You stood beneath the carved archway of the eastern courtyard, where the ivy curled up the old stone like a lover’s grasp, your fingers clasped before you as your small retinue murmured polite courtesies and idle guesses among themselves. Your gown was a soft green silk, embroidered at the sleeves with golden blooms—modest but elegant, befitting a lady of your stature and one who had long ago learned the subtle art of courtly restraint. The letter he had sent ahead lay folded and unread in your chamber; you did not need it. You had read enough of Otto Hightower to know the measure of the man even before you saw the shape of him again.

He came through the outer gates at a slow canter, the dust of the road clinging to the hem of his cloak and the edges of his gloves, but otherwise, he bore himself with the same stiff dignity as ever. He rode like a man who had never forgotten who he was, even if the crown had tried to forget it for him. The lines at his mouth were deeper, his beard a touch more silver than when last you saw him at court, but his eyes—the keen, assessing ones that had always made you feel both admired and studied—had not dimmed. You stepped forward as his horse slowed, and he dismounted without waiting for help, the reins handed off to a servant before he turned to face you fully.

"My lady Tyrell," he greeted, bowing his head with a formality that made your chest ache for reasons you would not name. "You’ve not changed a whit."

You smiled gently, as you had so many times in the Red Keep’s gardens, over a shared cup of wine or the corner of some forgotten document. "And you’ve not grown any better at lying, my lord."

A flicker of amusement passed over his features. He did not laugh—not Otto Hightower, not here, not now—but the warmth in his eyes was real. "I had forgotten how sharp your tongue could be."

You stepped closer, and he did not flinch when you took his gloved hand in yours. "And I had not forgotten how heavy your words could weigh upon a heart. Come inside. You must be tired. The road from King’s Landing is long, especially with pride tucked beside you in the saddle."

His gaze held yours for a moment longer, and you saw it there—pride, yes, but also something frayed beneath it. You turned, guiding him into the shade of the trellised walkway, where wisteria curled above your heads and petals drifted like silk on the breeze. Your ladies-in-waiting lingered at a polite distance, and the guards posted at the gate looked on with the idle eyes of men not expecting trouble.

"It was not my choice to leave," Otto said once you were within the quiet of the inner garden, away from ears and judgment. His voice had the worn edge of iron struck too many times, and his hands folded behind his back like a man standing before a council that had already made up its mind. "The boy dismissed me. In front of the whole court. Not even his mother was consulted."

You stopped beside the stone basin where white lilies floated over clear water and turned to him. "You’ve written to me of your doubts before. About what kind of king Aegon might be."

He exhaled slowly. "I had hoped that, in time, he might grow into the weight of the crown. I thought… with Alicent beside him, and my counsel steadying his path..." He shook his head, and for a moment, you saw the weariness seep through the mask of the statesman. "But he is reckless. Cruel, even, though I daresay he has not the spine for true tyranny. He rules by whim and temper, and I fear what will become of the realm if he leads us into war."

You reached out and gently touched his sleeve, the worn velvet soft under your fingers. "You fear for the realm, but I fear for my son. Ser Lyonel rides for the Riverlands within the week. He’s but twenty, and I can see in his eyes that he’s eager to win glory he does not yet understand. If there is to be war, he will not be safe."

Otto’s expression softened. He covered your hand with his, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. "He is a fine young man. I met him once at court, do you remember? He asked me if dragons were truly as large as the stories claimed. You said he wouldn’t rest until he saw one with his own eyes."

"He still won’t," you murmured, the ghost of a smile passing over your lips. "But now he hopes to see one from a battlefield."

"I would not have had you worry like this," Otto said quietly, as if the words cost him something. "If I had held my place, perhaps I could have tempered Aegon’s more… dangerous impulses. But it was slipping from my hands even before the boy took the throne. And now I am an old man with enemies in every corner of court and a grandson who thinks power is his by birthright alone."

You looked up at him, this man who had always written to you not as a lord to a lady but as a confidant to another soul caught in the web of power and legacy. "You are not just an old man, Otto. You are a Hightower, the Hand who held the realm together for longer than most dared hope. And you are tired. Come. Rest, speak plainly, and let me bear some of the weight for a while."

He looked at you then, not as the Hand of the King or as a man measured by the legacy of his name—but as Otto. A man you had once exchanged poems with beneath the blossoming trees of King’s Landing, who had written of your late husband with such grace it brought tears to your eyes. A man you had never quite allowed yourself to miss until now.

"Only for a while," he said at last. "And only because it is you."

You smiled faintly. "It was always me."

The nights in Highgarden were warmer now, thick with the perfume of rose blossoms and rich dew clinging to every leaf. A hush had settled over the castle, the kind of silence that came not from sleep but from something deeper—from expectation, from unspoken thoughts swirling like mist along the River Mander. In the days since Otto’s arrival, you had spent every afternoon in quiet conversation or long walks beneath the green canopies, neither of you mentioning when he would leave for Oldtown, only ever speaking in the shape of the moment. You’d grown used to his presence again, the way his voice rumbled low when speaking thoughtfully, how his hands—so often still, deliberate—would sometimes twitch when he was lost in thought, or how his eyes softened each time they landed on you. You had known Otto Hightower for many years, but not like this—not like something close and tangible, like breath warming the hollow of your throat.

That night, the candles flickered low against the stone walls of your solar, and the fire burned gentle in the hearth. You had not summoned him, and yet he came—silent but purposeful, his hand resting against the edge of the door as though asking permission with nothing more than presence. You were seated by the fire, the laces of your gown undone at the throat, a shawl drawn loosely about your shoulders. When you met his eyes, there was no need for words. You stood slowly and crossed the room, each step deliberate, your bare feet whispering against the rug. He didn’t move until you reached him.

“Have you come to say goodbye?” you asked quietly, the words steadier than you felt.

His eyes searched your face for a long moment, as though committing it to memory. “Not yet.”

You nodded, heart fluttering beneath your ribs like a trapped bird. Then, carefully, you reached up and touched his cheek, letting your fingers trace the edge of his beard, the warm skin beneath. He exhaled shakily, almost imperceptibly, and leaned into your touch as if starved for it.

When he kissed you, it was not the kiss of a younger man, wild and eager. It was deliberate, full of unspoken things—regret, longing, years of restraint that no longer held. His lips were warm, dry at first, then softer as they parted yours, tasting of red wine and solitude. You clutched his shoulders and felt the tension in them, how tightly he held himself together. You knew then that no one had touched him like this in years—not truly. You led him slowly to your bed, your fingers unfastening the buttons of his doublet one by one, not out of haste, but reverence. Each layer peeled away until he stood before you in nothing but his skin and the truth of what remained between you.

He was not young. His body bore the marks of time—scars, silver hair, the subtle tremor in his hands—but none of it repelled you. If anything, it made him more real, more dear. When your gown slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet, he let his eyes take you in with a reverence that stole your breath. His fingers brushed along your waist, your spine, pausing at the curve of your hip as if memorizing every inch.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, as though it were a confession.

You leaned forward, resting your forehead to his. “And you are still a man worth loving.”

You lay with him as the fire crackled low, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, the hush of his breath mingling with your own. He was slow, reverent, as if afraid to break the moment—each touch considered, each kiss lingering. He held you as he moved inside you, and you held him in return, neither of you rushing toward the end. There was no desperation in your union, only quiet understanding—a meeting of souls as much as flesh. His name slipped from your lips like a prayer, and he whispered yours back, low and raw in the dark.

Afterward, he did not retreat or rise as you feared he might. Instead, he gathered you into his arms and drew the coverlet over your bodies, his hand resting at the curve of your back, his mouth brushing your temple. You curled into him, your leg tangled with his, your heart beating in rhythm with his chest.

“I was afraid,” he said after a long stretch of silence.

You turned your face to him. “Of what?”

“That I would lose myself in this. In you.” He looked down at you then, his fingers brushing lightly along your arm. “But I’ve spent so long being the Hand, the father, the keeper of peace. I forgot what it was like to just be a man.”

You traced a line over his chest with your fingertip, watching his skin shiver beneath your touch. “Then let this be your remembering. Even if it’s only for a little while.”

He kissed your forehead, lingering there, his breath warm. “It won’t be just a little while. Not for me.”

You closed your eyes and let yourself believe that, if only for the night. You fell asleep wrapped in his warmth, lulled by the sound of the fire and the steady beat of his heart. But when the morning came, you knew he would rise before the sun, and ride eastward to the Hightower, to duty, to the shadow of war. And you would remain, a garden left behind—but one he would carry with him, always.

#house of the dragon #hotd #fire and blood #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #hotd x reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #house hightower #house tyrell #hotd otto #otto hightower #otto x reader #otto x you #otto x y/n #x reader #reader insert

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tosomeonessomeone · 2 months ago

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Minas and love.

Brazil series.

words・4.7k /pairings・Chanbin x Male reader / genres・fluff, angst / warnings・ mdi, smut.

The van rumbled along the dirt road, kicking up dust that glowed like powdered gold in the late afternoon sun. Changbin leaned his head against the window, watching the sprawling urban chaos of São Paulo fade into a tapestry of emerald hills and cobalt sky. Three hours into the countryside, the world had softened—no more honking cars or flashing cameras, just the rhythmic sway of coffee plants and banana trees bowing in the breeze. When the van finally halted, he stepped out, his stiff muscles protesting, and inhaled deeply. The air here was different—thick with the earthy sweetness of soil after rain, mingling with woodsmoke from a distant farmhouse chimney.

A chorus of cattle bells clanked lazily in the valley below, answered by the whisper of wind combing through acres of cornfields. The farm sprawled before him like a postcard: terracotta-roofed barns, sun-bleached fences, and a riot of pink bougainvillea spilling over a stone well. At the gate stood Ana, the farm’s matriarch, her figure sturdy and reassuring as the ancient mango tree shading the courtyard. Her silver hair was braided into a crown, framing a face etched with laugh lines that deepened as she offered him a chipped clay mug of *cafézinho*. The coffee was scalding, bitter, and perfect, its steam curling into the crisp air.

“*Bem-vindo à Fazenda Esperança,*” she said, her voice a raspy melody. “Hope Farm. Where tired souls find rest… and hungry ones feast.” Her eyes twinkled as she nodded toward the farmhouse, where the scent of garlic and wood-fired bread wafted through an open window. “My grandson’s been cooking since dawn. *Vamos*—you’ll need your strength to keep up with him.”

Changbin hesitated, the weight of his exhaustion suddenly sharp against the quiet hum of the farm. But Ana’s hand, calloused and warm, patted his shoulder, and he felt something unclench in his chest. In the distance, a rooster crowed, and for the first time in months, he laughed—not for cameras or crowds, but because the air tasted like freedom, and the horizon stretched endless, and here, in this forgotten corner of Minas Gerais, he could finally breathe.

The screen door creaked open, its hinges singing a familiar tune, and there you stood—Ana’s grandson, backlit by the honeyed glow of the farmhouse kitchen. Your rolled-up sleeves revealed sun-kissed forearms dusted with flour, and your apron, splattered with remnants of crimson *goiabada* jam, hung loosely over faded jeans. At 22, you carried the quiet confidence of someone who’d spent years kneading dough at dawn and chasing stray calves through the mist. The scent of wood-fired bread trailed behind you, warm and yeasty, as you tilted your head toward Changbin.

“Hungry?” you asked, your English softened by the lilting cadence of a *mineiro* accent. Behind you, a cast-iron skillet sizzled with garlic and *linguiça*, its smoky aroma weaving through the air. Changbin’s gaze flickered from your flour-streaked hands to the mischief in your eyes—a look Ana often called *arteirinho*, “little rascal.” His English was hesitant, but your grin needed no translation.

He followed you inside, boots scuffing against the worn wooden floorboards. The kitchen hummed with life: jars of *pimenta dedo-de-moça* peppers lined the windowsill, and a battered radio crackled with *sertanejo* music. You tossed him a striped dish towel. “First rule of Minas,” you said, nodding to the dough resting on the table, “we work before we eat.”

Changbin hesitated, eyeing the sticky mound of *pão de queijo* dough. “I’m better at eating than… this,” he admitted, flexing his producer’s hands—calloused from studio work, not farm labor. You laughed, a rich, unfiltered sound that startled the tabby cat napping by the hearth. “Relax, *guloso*,” you teased, using the Portuguese term for “greedy eater.” “Even city boys can learn.”

Together, you shaped the dough into rough balls, your fingers brushing occasionally as you demonstrated the flick-of-the-wrist technique perfected by generations of *mineiras*. “These aren’t just snacks,” you explained, dusting tapioca flour over the tray. “They’re stories. My *vó* Ana used to trade them for medicine during droughts.” Changbin’s brow furrowed as he concentrated, tongue peeking between his teeth, and you bit back a smile. His first attempt looked more like a squashed tomato than a bread roll.

“Perfect,” you declared, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now they’ve got soul.”

When the golden *pães* emerged from the oven, Changbin bit into one and groaned, eyes slipping shut. “Dawn,” he blurted, then flushed at his own swearing. You barked a laugh, tossing a crumpled napkin at him. “Careful, *idol*,” you smirked. “Next, I’ll teach you to swear properly in Portuguese.”

The first rays of sun spilled over the horizon, gilding the dew-kissed fields as you dragged Changbin from his guesthouse cot. “Sunrise is the best teacher,” you insisted, ignoring his groggy protests. The kitchen still smelled of last night’s wood fire, embers glowing faintly in the hearth. You tossed him an apron stained with decades of splattered batter and handed him a bowl of tapioca flour, its texture like silk beneath his city-soft fingers.

“*Olha,*” you murmured, guiding his hands into the dough—a sticky, elastic mass of cheese, eggs, and memories. Your grandmother’s *tigela de madeira*, its grooves worn smooth from generations of kneading, held the mixture like a sacred relic. “When the mines dried up, *mineiros* survived on this,” you said, shaping a lump into a sphere with fluid, almost reverent motions. “No gold in the hills? No problem. We had *queijo*.”

Changbin’s brow furrowed as he wrestled the dough, his version bulging unevenly. “Looks like a *ddakji*,” he grimaced, referencing the Korean paper disks he’d played with as a boy. You snorted, flicking flour at him. “Better,” you said. “Yours has *saudade*.” He blinked, unfamiliar with the Portuguese word for longing, but the way your thumb smoothed a crack in his dough told him enough.

As the bread baked, you shared stories of the *fazenda*’s past—the drought years when Ana traded *pão de queijo* for seeds, the winters when neighbors gathered around this very hearth, their laughter mingling with the scent of caramelizing cheese. Changbin listened, elbow-deep in flour, his watch abandoned on the windowsill. Time here didn’t click forward in minutes; it rose and fell like dough.

When the first batch emerged, golden and blistered, you split one open. Steam curled into the dawn light, revealing a molten core of *queijo Minas*. Changbin bit into it and froze, eyes widening. “*Hyung*,” he breathed, instinctively reaching for the Korean honorific as if flavor transcended language. You grinned, licking cheese from your thumb. “See? Imperfect dough, perfect taste.”

He reached for another, but you swatted his hand. “Ah-ah! *Primeiro o trabalho, depois o prazer.* First work, then pleasure.” You nudged a second bowl toward him, your pinky brushing his wrist. “Now, make one for my *vó*. And don’t embarrass me.”

The rooster hadn’t even crowed when you shook Changbin awake, moonlight still clinging to the edges of the sky. “You’ll thank me later,” you whispered, tossing him a borrowed flannel shirt still warm from the hearth. He stumbled after you, half-asleep, to the barn where your *mangalarga marchador* horse, Junco, stood saddled and stamping impatiently. The gelding’s coat gleamed like polished mahogany in the predawn gloom, breath curling in silver plumes.

“You’re joking,” Changbin croaked, eyeing the horse’s height. You swung onto the saddle with practiced ease and reached down, palm upturned. “Trust me?” The challenge in your grin was brighter than the fading stars. He hesitated, then took your hand—calluses against calluses—and let you haul him up behind you. Junco snorted, adjusting to the weight, and you clicked your tongue. “*Vai, boy.* Show off a little.”

The horse surged forward, and Changbin’s arms instinctively locked around your waist, his chest pressing against your back. You were smaller than he’d realized—the crown of your head barely reaching his chin—but steady as a sapling in the wind. The rhythm of Junco’s gait blurred into the cadence of your laughter as you guided him past coffee fields and through stands of buriti palms, their fronds whispering secrets. Changbin’s grip tightened when you urged Junco into a trot, your hair whipping back to brush his cheek, smelling of smoke and cinnamon.

“Relax,” you called over your shoulder, voice warm with mischief. “You’ll strangle me before we reach the river.”

He loosened his arms—just slightly—but didn’t let go.

When Junco finally halted, the sun had risen, filtering through the trees in honeyed shafts. Before you sprawled a river so clear it mirrored the sky, its surface dappled with leaves floating like tiny emerald boats. A waterfall cascaded from mossy rocks, its song a liquid hymn that drowned out the world beyond.

“My secret” you said softly, sliding off the horse. When Changbin didn’t move, you glanced back to find him wide-eyed, lips parted. Taking in the dragonflies skimming the water, the toucans yodeling from kapok trees.

You shrugged, tying Junco to a branch. “When the farm feels too loud.” Kneeling, you scooped water into your hands and drank. “Try it. Better than any idol’s bottled stuff.”

Changbin crouched beside you, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The water was colder than he expected, jolting him fully awake. He splashed his face, droplets catching sunlight as they fell, and gasped. “It’s like… swallowing light.”

You smirked, flicking a droplet at him. “Poetic for a guy who called *pão de queijo* ‘cheese rocks’ yesterday.”

He retaliated with a splash, and soon the riverbank echoed with shouts and laughter, Junco snorting in disapproval. Eventually, you both collapsed on the bank, clothes damp and hair wild. Changbin lay back, staring at the canopy where sunlight and shadow waltzed. “Back home,” he murmured, “I forget to look up.”

You plucked a *fruta-do-conde* from a nearby tree, splitting it open to reveal creamy flesh. “Eat,” you ordered, passing him a slice. “Then we’ll swim.”

“Swim?!” He sat bolt upright. “There’s no— I didn’t bring—”

You tugged your shirt over your head, then your jeans, leaving only sun-bleached briefs. “Coming in?”

Changbin froze. Water sluiced down your shoulders as you waded in, oblivious to the way his throat bobbed. He’d spent years rehearsing restraint—smiling at fans, dodging rumors, locking desires in a box labeled *Later*. But here, with no cameras or managers, the box rattled open.

You dove under the waterfall, emerging with a shout. “*Água fria para alma quente!* Cold water for a hot soul!”

*Screw it*, he thought.

He stripped to his boxers, the air biting his skin, and plunged in. The shock of cold punched a laugh from his lungs. You floated on your back, eyes closed, and he watched the sunlight gild your collarbone, the water tracing the dip of your waist. *Liberdade* grazed nearby, her tail flicking at dragonflies.

“Why’d you bring me here?” he asked, voice low.

You turned, droplets clinging to your lashes. “Same reason *vó* taught me to make *pão de queijo*,” you said. “Some things…” You swam closer, until your knees brushed his under the water. “…are better shared.”

His pulse roared in his ears. He could count your freckles now, the scar on your chin from a childhood fall. The world narrowed to the space between your lips—chapped from sun, parted slightly—and the way your fingers skimmed the surface, ripples echoing the tremor in his chest.

A kingfisher screeched overhead. You blinked, breaking the spell, and splashed him. “Race you to the falls!”

He chased you, the water laughing with him, and tried to forget how your breath had hitched too.

The farmhouse patio clung to the day’s last warmth, its terracotta tiles still humming with sunlight as dusk draped the sky in indigo. You sat cross-legged on a frayed *tapete de palha*, a mountain of *pimenta cambuci* peppers glowing like embers in the copper basin between you. Changbin hovered awkwardly, holding a jar of vinegar like it might detonate. “This is… safer than horses, right?”

You smirked, tossing him a knife. “*Corte assim,*” you instructed, slicing a pepper into a starburst. “So the brine kisses the seeds.” He mimicked your motion, tongue peeking in concentration, and you bit your cheek to keep from laughing. His first attempt looked less like a star and more like a deflated soccer ball.

“*É horrível,*” he groaned, but you plucked it from his hands. “No,” you said, holding it up to the rising moon. “It’s *autêntico*. Like your…” You gestured vaguely at his face. “…*essa coisa de idol*. Perfection’s boring.”

He blinked, then chuckled—a low, unfiltered sound that warmed the cooling air. “You’d hate Seoul.”

“*Talvez,*” you shrugged. “But I’d love the street food. Teach me a Korean word, and I’ll trade you a pepper.”

The stars blinked awake as he pondered, the Milky Way smeared above like spilled *leite condensado*. “*Hyodo*,” he said finally, scoring a pepper with surprising grace. “It means… caring for your parents. Doing your duty.”

You repeated it, the syllables clumsy but earnest. “*Hyodo.*” The word settled between you, weighted and tender. “Now try *saudade*,” you said, nudging his knee with yours.

“Sow-dah-jee?”

“Close enough.” You sprinkled salt over the peppers, watching him from the corner of your eye. “It’s the ache of missing someone. Even when they’re right here.”

He stilled, knife hovering. A *sabiá* bird sang from the mango tree, its melody threading through the silence.

“Another word,” you demanded, softer now.

“*Jeong.*” He didn’t look up. “It’s… the bond that grows slowly. Like roots.”

The peppers forgotten, you leaned back on your palms. “*Jeong,*” you echoed, testing its texture. “Does it have a… taste?”

He met your gaze, the patio’s fairy lights gilding his cheekbones. “Like this.” He popped a raw pepper slice into your mouth. Fire bloomed on your tongue, and you gasped, swatting his arm as he grinned. “*Jerk.*”

“*Jeong,*” he corrected, laughing, and you threw a chili stem at him.

But later, when the jars were sealed and the farm slept, you found yourselves sprawled on the same *tapete*, shoulders brushing as you mapped constellations. “That’s *Cruzeiro do Sul*,” you said, tracing the Southern Cross. “Guides lost travelers home.”

Changbin’s pinky grazed yours. “We have a star like that too. *Chilsungbyeong*—the Seven Stars Spoon.” His hand lifted, drawing lines you couldn’t see. “They say it’s a ladle scooping up memories.”

“Which one’s yours?” you asked.

He pointed to the brightest flicker in his imagined spoon. “That one. It’s… a memory I’m not ready to drop yet.”

You didn’t press. Instead, you taught him the *mineiro* names for stars—*Estrela d’Alva* for Venus, *Três Marias* for Orion’s Belt—and he whispered Korean folktales of lovers torn into constellations. The night deepened, the peppers’ sharp tang mellowing into the earthy scent of dew-damp soil.

When his voice grew husky with exhaustion, you handed him a jar of pickled *cambuci*. “For Seoul,” you said. “So you don’t forget.”

He cradled it like something fragile. “*Gamsahamnida,*” he murmured. *Thank you.* Not *hyodo* or *jeong*—but the gratitude lingered, thicker than the heat of peppers.

The roosters were still asleep when the scent of toasted sesame oil and caramelized garlic curled into your bedroom. You padded barefoot to the kitchen, where Changbin stood bathed in dawn’s peach-gold light, his apron tied haphazardly over a faded *Flamengo* soccer jersey he’d borrowed from your closet. The counter was a mosaic of Ana’s clandestine generosity: fresh *goiabas*, a jar of *doce de leite*, and a handwritten note propped against the *cafezinho* pot: *“Para os jovens. Não estraguem minha cozinha.”* *“For the youngsters. Don’t ruin my kitchen.”*

“Surprise,” Changbin said, flipping a *kimchi-jeon* pancake with a spatula. The sizzle of batter hitting the pan harmonized with the *sanfona* music drifting from Ana’s antique radio. “Your *vó* may have… hinted I should cook for you.”

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Hinted? She gave you the keys to her *dispensa* and fled to the neighbor’s *fazenda*. That’s a conspiracy.”

He shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. “Maybe she thinks I’ll kidnap you to Seoul.”

“With *kimchi* pancakes?” You sidled up to him, peering into the pan. The crispy edges glistened with chili oil, and beside it, a pot of *juk* (rice porridge) bubbled gently, studded with *couve* (kale) from Ana’s garden—an unlikely, perfect fusion.

“Sit,” he ordered, nodding to the table already set with Ana’s chipped blue porcelain. “And try this.” He lifted a spoonful of porridge, blowing on it before offering it to you. Your lips closed around the spoon, and his gaze flickered to your mouth. “Good?”

The porridge was warm, savory, faintly sweet from caramelized onions. “*Perigoso*,” you mumbled. *Dangerous.*

He raised an eyebrow.

“If you keep cooking like this, I’ll have to kidnap *you*.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Noted.”

Breakfast unfolded in a dance of clinking dishes and shared chopsticks. He taught you to wrap *jeon* in *alface* leaves, your fingers brushing as you reached for the same lettuce slice. “*Yah*,” he scolded, swatting your hand playfully. “Respect your *sunbae*.”

“*Sunbae*?” You stole the leaf anyway. “You’re in *my* kitchen, *idol*.”

The nickname made him flush, and you filed that reaction away for later.

By midmorning, the dishes were washed, and sunlight pooled honey-thick across the floor. Changbin lingered at the sink, drying a bowl with unnecessary focus. “Your *vó*… she left something else.” He nodded to the pantry.

Inside, a bottle of *cachaça* sat beside two tiny clay cups, a red ribbon tied around its neck. *“Para a coragem,”* Ana’s note read. *“For courage.”*

You snorted. “She’s worse than the church ladies at *Festas Juninas*.”

Changbin picked up the bottle, thumbing the ribbon. “In Korea, we have *soju* for courage.” He paused, voice softening. “And… *confessions*.”

The air grew heavy, sweet as overripe *manga*. You took the bottle, your fingers overlapping his. “We don’t need it.”

His breath hitched when you stepped closer, the *cachaça* forgotten on the table. The kitchen smelled of lingering garlic and his citrus cologne, and you wondered if he could hear your heartbeat over the *sanfona*’s wistful tune.

“*Jeong*,” he whispered, the word a plea and a promise.

This time, when your lips met, there was no river to interrupt, no peppers to blame for the fire. Just the quiet creak of the farmhouse floorboards, the distant lowing of cattle, and Ana’s radio cheering you on with a lively *forró* beat.

The soft morning light lit bedroom becomes your sanctuary as clothes fall away between passionate kisses. Changbin's muscular body presses against yours, skin on skin creating electric sensations. Your Brazilian passion ignites as you guide him to the bed.

"Let me take care of you," you whisper, pushing him onto his back. Your lips trail down his defined chest and abs while your hands explore every inch of his body. When you reach his hard cock, you take him into your mouth, making him moan deeply.

His fingers thread through your hair as you worship him with your tongue, taking him deeper. The isolation of the farm means neither of you need to hold back your sounds of pleasure.

"Want you," he pants, pulling you up for a deep kiss. His hands move to prep your tight hole, working you open slowly and carefully.

Changbin's fingers work you open expertly as you writhe beneath him. His thick digits stretch your tight hole while his lips mark your neck. When he crooks his fingers just right, you arch off the bed with a loud moan.

"Ready for my cock?" he asks roughly, withdrawing his fingers. You nod desperately as he slicks himself up with lube.

The initial push has you both groaning - the stretch and fullness overwhelming as he sinks deep inside you. His muscular body covers yours as he starts a slow rhythm, making love to you thoroughly.

"You feel amazing," he pants against your lips, gradually picking up the pace. Each thrust hits your prostate perfectly, making pleasure build low in your belly.

Changbin's thrusts grow more desperate as pleasure builds between you. His cock fills you perfectly, hitting your prostate with each deep stroke while his hand wraps around your leaking shaft.

"Gonna cum," you moan, clawing at his back as the pressure builds. The feeling of his thick cock stretching your tight hole has you right on the edge.

"Cum for me *amor*" he pants, stroking you faster. When his teeth graze your neck, you lose control - cumming hard between your bodies as your hole clenches around him.

Your orgasm triggers his, making him slam deep one final time as he fills you with his hot load.

Changbin holds you close as you both catch your breath, his cum leaking from your well-used hole. His fingers trace gentle patterns on your skin as the afterglow washes over you both.

"That was incredible," he murmurs, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder. The morning light catches the sheen of sweat on his muscular body as he shifts to look at you.

Your hand finds his face, pulling him in for a tender kiss. The passion may have cooled but the intimacy remains, two souls connecting in the quiet farmhouse.

"Round two?" you suggest with a playful grin, grinding back against his slowly hardening cock.

----

The afternoon sun hung low, gilding the rows of coffee plants in liquid gold. You sat cross-legged on Ana’s checkered picnic blanket, a thermos of *cafézinho* between you and Changbin’s head resting in your lap. His lips still tasted of stolen kisses and the *goiabada* pastry you’d shared, sticky-sweet and fleeting. Your fingers carded through his hair as he traced idle patterns on your knee—a map of nowhere, everywhere.

Then his phone buzzed.

It lay facedown in the grass, a sleek black intruder in this sun-dappled world. Changbin stiffened, the peaceful curve of his mouth flattening into a line. You felt it before he spoke: the shift in the air, the way his breath hitched as he read the caller ID. “I have to… it’s my manager,” he muttered, sitting up too quickly.

You nodded, pretending to study a coffee cherry’s blush while he stood and walked toward the grove. His Korean was sharp, clipped, a language that suddenly felt alien amidst the *sabiá* birdsong. You caught only fragments: *“…flight tonight…” “…schedule in Tokyo…” “…yes, hyung, I understand.”*

When he returned, the farm seemed quieter, as if the earth itself held its breath. He knelt in front of you, grass staining his jeans, and cradled your hands. “I have to leave. In two hours.”

The thermos tipped over, coffee seeping into the soil like a secret. “Oh.” You’d known this was borrowed time, but the word *two hours* clawed at your ribs. “Ana will… she’ll want to pack you more *pão de queijo*.”

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t do that thing where you make it easier.”

You laughed, though it cracked like over-roasted beans. “*Mineiros* are good at goodbyes. We’ve had centuries of practice.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, his exhale trembling. “Come with me.”

You stilled. “To Seoul?”

“To the airport. Just—stay until I’m through security. Or… or *gate* B12. Or—”

“Changbin.” You cupped his face, thumbs brushing the shadows under his eyes. “You don’t have to bargain with me.”

The drive to Belo Horizonte was a blur of winding roads and silence. He held your hand the entire way, his grip tightening each time the city’s skyline loomed closer. At departures, Ana shoved a cloth bundle into his arms—*pão de queijo*, a jar of *doce de leite*, and the *cachaça* bottle, now half-empty from last night’s courage. “For the soul,” she said, pinching his cheek. “And the homesickness.”

When the final call echoed through the terminal, he pulled you into a corner behind a potted palm. His lips found yours, desperate and salt-tingged—he’d been crying, you realized. “I’ll come back,” he vowed, voice raw. “Or you’ll come to Seoul. Or—”

“Shh.” You tucked a folded paper into his jacket pocket. The *pão de queijo* recipe, stained with coffee and your grandmother’s annotations. “For when your hands miss the work.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, until a security guard coughed pointedly. You watched him walk away, shoulders squared like he was marching into battle, until the crowd swallowed him whole.

Ana found you staring at the departures board, Seoul’s flight number blinking tauntingly. “*Menino coração valente,*” she sighed, looping her arm through yours. *Brave-hearted boy.* “Come. We’ll plant new coffee seedlings tomorrow.”

You nodded, but that night, alone in your room, you opened your bedside drawer. Inside lay a single *cambuci* pepper, dried and preserved, and a post-it note in messy Hangul: *“내일도 같이 먹을래?”* *Will you eat with me tomorrow too?*

You pressed it to your chest and let the *saudade* take root.

One month later.

The package arrived wrapped in brown paper, its corners softened by the journey across oceans. Ana carried it to the porch where you sat shelling *feijão*, her eyes twinkling. “*Alguma coisa cheirando a amor,*” she teased. *Something smells like love.*

Inside, nestled in crumpled *jornal* pages from Seoul, lay three treasures:

1. A Vinyl Record: The sleeve, hand-painted with *flamboyant* flowers and Korean *norigae* tassels, held a single track—*“Nosso forró”* by a band neither of you knew. Scrawled on the label: *“Play at sunset. I’ll be listening too.”*

2. A Han River Pebble: Smooth and slate-gray, tucked into a *cachaça* cork for safekeeping. When you shook it, a slip of paper fluttered out—*“Found this mid-river. Thought it could use a farm adventure. (Don’t lose it—I’m sentimental now.)”*

3. The Photo: Changbin in a stainless-steel kitchen, apron askew, holding a tray of *pão de queijo* so misshapen they bordered on abstract art. His grin outshone the studio lights behind him.

You turned it over. His handwriting, once clumsy in Portuguese, now flowed with practiced care:

“Saudade is growing. Slowly. Wait for me.”

Ana hummed the *forró* melody already spinning in your head. “*Menino esperto,*” she murmured, thumbing the pebble. *Clever boy.* “He knows *mineiros* are stubborn. We’ll wait a hundred years.”

That night, you placed the record on Ana’s antique player. As the accordion wept and Changbin’s laughter echoed through the kitchen photo, you pressed the pebble to your palm and wondered if the Han River missed its stone—or if rivers, like hearts, learn to hold emptiness as part of their flow.

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nostalgicnarrator · 11 months ago

Text

Over Hill and Under Mountain

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Word Count: 1,555

Parings: Thorn X Bilbo

Description:

Thorin leaves Erebor to visit his dear friend Bilbo, will new feeling shine through? What will happen?

Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6

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─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Note:

Listen to me I’ve never done anything like this before, I have written and sure I have posted one of two things and immediately abandoned them. If you want to give me constructive criticism or feedback please do I wanna get better at this kind of thing.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Thorin had sent a letter to Bilbo not too long ago by raven, telling him of his departure from his kingdom and hopefully swift arrival. It had been a year since he had last seen his hobbit.

Thorin had found himself missing his hobbit. Even with the regular letters between them, now It had only been a week since he had gotten the last letter and Thorin had begun to feel a sort of ache in his chest the longer he went without contact from Bilbo.

Now the King Under the Mountain found himself hundreds of miles away from his Lonely Mountain, the one he had left in questionably capable hands, right back were it all began a year ago now, and getting himself lost once again on the roads and in the Shire. passing farms and burrows, even at one point finding himself on the road to brea. He had turned red when he realized, though he wont tell you that, and turned back hoping to find the burrow of his hobbit.

Thorin grumbled as he thought to himself and took another turn down a path he swears he’s seen hundred times before. ‘Now if I can just- have I already been here before?’ Thorin thought, sighing. ‘Mahal, am I even in the right place?’

When Thorin passed a deceptively familiar-looking farm, one he had to have passed twice now, he sighed and swung his pack off his shoulders to fish for a map. Maybe it can help him figure out where he was.

That’s when he heard a very familiar voice. “Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, as lost as a chicken with no head.” The voice was full of a teasing tone as it spoke.

Thorin whipped around and looked at the familiar small hobbit, his caramel-colored curls wild on his head, suggesting that he hadn’t done much more than wake up and throw clothes on. The hobbit seemed to be wrapped and almost gilded in gold in the light of the early sun, the old dwarf couldn’t fight himself from blushing at the hobbit.

His undershirt was a buttery yellow, a little warn but clearly loved, and his pants an emerald green that could put any gemstone that the king had seen to shame. The bottom of his pants were embroidered with flowers and other things hobbits seemed so enchanted by. The hobbit had no waistcoat, so his suspenders were visible. He stood not a few paces behind where Thorin stood. Thorin only just began to notice how long he had been staring at his hobbit.

Bilbo was smiling broadly, chuckling fondly at the sight of the bewildered and red faced king. Thorin didn’t wait long to rush forward and embrace his friend in a hug, which the hobbit gladly returned it with just as much enthusiasm. Thorin patted Bilbo’s shoulder affectionately and looked down at him when he pulled away from the hug.

Thorin smiled as he spoke. “Bilbo Baggins, and here I thought I’d have to stumble around here for a day until I found you.”

Bilbo laughed and grasped at the dwarf’s arms as he leaned a little closer before teasing. “Now what kind of hobbit would I be if I let one of my guests stumble his way around here like a newborn fawn?” Bilbo said as he moved to hook Thorin by the arm to lead him up a path toward his burrow. “Let’s get you inside and I’ll find you something to eat! I’m sure you are starving.”

And that’s where Thorin found himself, sitting in an uncomfortably comfortable armchair in the living room of Bilbo’s burrow. He watched the small hobbit as he made tea, to quote, ‘hold him over’ till Bilbo was done cooking.

The warmth that wafted from the kitchen seemed to almost lull the king to sleep. The next time his eyes opened, Bilbo was handing him a warm mug of tea that smelled and tasted sweetly of elderberry and mint And a cloth that held a sweet blackberry tart.

Bilbo headed back to the kitchen to continue his task of making breakfast for the two of them. Thorin stood to follow after him, leaning against the door frame as Bilbo mixed something together in a bowl. He found himself observing the hobbit’s every movement, from the way his curls bounced as he worked to the concentration furrowing his brow.

‘He really is quite charming,’ Thorin mused, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘The way he moves about his kitchen, so at ease, so… endearing. Why didn’t I see it before?’

Bilbo grinned at Thorin when he pulled himself a chair over. After a brief silence, Bilbo asked, “How are the renovations of your kingdom going?”

Thorin sighed, closing his eyes as thoughts of Erebor’s restoration filled his mind. They had found that the old techniques of his forefathers had been forgotten or abandoned for more useful skills during the time they had lost their home. But Thorin couldn’t help the pride that swelled within him at the thoughts of his people and how he and his Company had reclaimed his home. And how he feels that his hobbit was to thank for that.

Thorin let his voice sound as tired as he felt, as he spoke, “They are progressing well, but it seems many of the secrets of my people have seemingly been forgotten over the years.” He looked at the mug he held, now half full and tart long gone. He rolled the mug in his hands, it being a tad bit smaller than any other mug he was used to. It had flowers and soft things painted underneath its glaze.

“Still,” Thorin hummed and looked to Bilbo now. ‘Have his eyes always been so sweet?’ “It will be grand and restored to the best of our ability.”

Bilbo hummed and went back to cooking. He scrambled eggs in a hot pan. “Well, I wait patiently to see. You better keep me updated properly this time.” Bilbo said with a bit of a teasing tone and smile. Then he stopped what he was doing, looked at Thorin again as he set a plate down on the counter, and started plating food.

“I dare ask, you are staying a few days, are you not?” Bilbo asked. Thorin felt his breath catch in his throat. He had to think a little harder than he was used to, to speak.

“Yes,” Thorin nodded as he spoke. He found himself once again thinking of Bilbo, the way his eyes sparkled with curiosity and care. ‘Why does my heart quicken every time he looks at me?’ Thorin wondered, a bit confused by his own feelings.

“Then, who is running the kingdom in your absence?” Bilbo inquired.

“Fíli,” Thorin replied with a fond smile. “He is capable and eager to prove himself. And I am not one to disappoint.”

Bilbo nodded, seemingly satisfied with that answer. “Ah, well, I am sure he is quite excited, and I am sure Lady Dís is not pleased at your sudden absence not too long after you have taken back your mountain.” Bilbo teased lightly as his eyes shined with mischief.

Thorin found himself chuckling and nodding softly. “No, she is not, but it will be a good experience for the lad to practice how it truly is to run a kingdom.”

“I see…” Bilbo hummed and pulled a loaf from the oven, setting it at the table to cool.

“How has the Shire been?” Thorin found himself asking as he helped Bilbo’s food find its way to the dining room table.

Bilbo’s face lit up happily as he smiled “Oh! Well, the Shire has been peaceful, as always. You know how things can be here, quiet!” He started digging through the cabinets for more plates. “And! I’m sure you saw on your way here but the fields are green with new crops, the harvest looks promising.” He said.

As Bilbo went to grab his cutlery as he spoke he gasped and looked to Thorin before almost yelling. “Oh! Do you remember what I told you happened a week ago well! It had happened again!!Lobelia Sackville-Baggins has tried to make off with my good silver again!”

Thorin watched Bilbo with growing affection and amusement as he animatedly recounted the events of the Shire. ‘He gets so heated over these things,’ Thorin thought, finding it endearing. ‘How could someone be so fiercely protective and yet so gentle?’

They continued to talk as Bilbo and Thorin prepared and set up breakfast. The aroma of freshly baked bread and bacon filled the air. As they sat down to eat, Thorin felt a deep contentment.

As Bilbo went on about the Shire and what had been happening since his last letter to the king only a week ago, Thorin thought to himself, ‘This visit with Bilbo,’ he mused as Bilbo went on about how some children had trampled over his marigolds, ‘will be as lovely as I imagined.’

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There it is, please don’t get to mad at me if I have made a mistake or messed something up. Okay, please leave feedback! Let me know what I can do better next time!

#the hobbit thorin #the hobbit bilbo #the hobbit #thorin x bilbo #bagginshield #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield #thorin company #fanfic #one shot #writing #lord of the rings #but not really #i’m losing my mind #gay #fluff #cross posted on ao3 #cute #Over Hill and Under Mountain

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underdark-dreams · 2 years ago

Text

Not sure if anyone is still following this oneshot, but I ended up writing a second chapter. Turns out I couldn't stop thinking about giving them a happier ending. (Rated M now 👀)

Rolan x Fem!Tav (Unnamed)

Good Night For Company - ch. 2

Tags: Mild Angst, Sexual Content

Word Count: 4,794 [Read on AO3]

Rolan had spent many hours cursing his timidity that night.

He’d lain sleepless at his camp as the sky lightened outside the Emerald Grove, replaying each moment in his mind. The look in her eye when she asked to kiss him—her hand tugging him toward her tent—the lovely way she collapsed against him when his lips found her soft neck.

He'd escaped the very fires of Avernus itself with his whole family miraculously alive and in tow. Yet confronted with the puzzle of her hands drawing him down to her bedroll, his mind had seized up in uncertainty. How much easier could she have made it for him?

Although, he allowed himself, he had made some sense that night. For one who daydreamed of her face as often as Rolan, the strain in her features was instantly noticeable by campfire light. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and shadowed with dark, tired circles. Even her skin seemed drained of its usual color. She needed a good night’s sleep more than anything.

But as they said their goodbyes that night outside his campsite, Rolan's hands still holding her shoulders, he could have sworn she wanted him just as badly as he did her.

Rolan shut his eyes with a groan—her face only swam behind his eyelids, that same invitation drawing him into her gaze. He pressed palms to his eye sockets until she burst apart into popping stars.

When he opened them, he was back in the torchlight of Last Light Inn and sitting in his grim new reality. There was empty silence on either side of him where Cal and Lia should have stood chattering.

Rolan dragged his tankard back towards him across the bar, until he peered down and saw the bottom.

"You two," he snapped at the little Tieflings behind the bar. The boys' conspiratorial giggles hushed immediately as they both looked at him. "Are you tending bar or not?" He waved his empty mug toward them.

"I don't know," Ide said, brows lowering in a skeptical line. Rolan tutted at him.

"It's not difficult. Bottle," he pointed at the open dry red behind the bar. "Cup," he continued, waving a hand in front of him.

"Mistress Jaheira said not to over-pour," Umi piped up, clearly not knowing the term but understanding the sentiment behind it.

"Mistress Jaheira didn't save both your hides from the Shadow Curse, did she?" Rolan snapped. He badly needed another drink; unwelcome lucidity threatened to close in. "If it weren't for me, who knows whether you two would still be out there right now."

“Stop it, mister Rolan,” Ide insisted. Rolan was opening his mouth to chastise him before he caught sight of Umi’s lip trembling.

The child was already a timid thing. Through the recent memories of too many kin lying on the road, Rolan recalled Asharak, the childrens’ fighting instructor from the Grove. He’d been cut down before their young eyes just days ago. Umi seemed especially affected by the loss. No doubt the man’s body still lay spread-eagle on the path up the hill; the urgency of survival had left no time to bury their dead.

Rolan gave a heavy sigh as he watched the child’s forlorn face. Yet again, he felt like a monster. “Go. I swear I’ll practice moderation. And if Jaheira asks, tell her I ordered you off.”

The two of them scampered away without a response, clearly eager to get away from Rolan at the first chance. If only he could escape his own unpleasant company just as easily.

But that, Rolan reminded himself, was what all this wine was for. He lurched across the bar for the bottle and tipped the rest of its contents into his tankard. Its heat down his throat welcomed him back toward oblivion.

If he still lived, their errant paladin had everything to answer for. Whether he’d lost his senses to the curse or just lost his mind entirely, Rolan cursed Zevlor for the umpteenth time for fucking off with the cultists and landing him in this unwelcome position of authority.

Rolan was no leader…at best a very, very uninspiring one. The yoke should have fallen to someone brave and selfless. Someone like broad-shouldered Ikaron. But Ikaron was now another empty body lying along the Risen Road, to be slowly consumed by the shadows.

Rolan knew he was no beacon of encouragement. He’d done his best to herd the other panicked survivors onward, however, using every last bit of evocation knowledge he had to keep them surrounded with light and flame.

He also knew it was sheer good fortune that saved them in the end. If they hadn’t found the sanctuary of Last Light Inn when they did, they’d all be shambling undead by now.

Yet somehow in the days since the ambush, he found all the children hovering around him with frightened eyes, asking him questions he barely knew the answers to himself. How were they going to save the ones who’d been taken by the cult?

Perhaps his unpleasant habit of ordering others about was finally coming around to bite him in the ass.

Nevertheless, Rolan felt vexed and inconvenienced by the unasked responsibility. Weren't his siblings enough of a weight on his shoulders already? Saving everyone would be a miracle; all he could privately hope for was Cal and Lia returned to him.

If they’re still alive. Those were the thoughts that drove him to drink, and drink he did, tipping back the pewter vessel with abandon. In between bouts of liquor, however, Rolan’s mind was working as hard as it ever had.

Cal and Lia would be at Moonrise Towers. No question. Moonrise was the headquarters of this insane Absolute cult, the one whose small patrol had butchered their numbers on the road. And a fortress of that size had to have a dungeon of some sort on the lower level. Why would they go through the trouble of taking them alive just to kill them? They must have plans for them all—ones Rolan tried not to imagine in detail.

He had to think of a way to slip through unnoticed—possibly by river, if the rumors he’d overheard from the Harpers were right. How far could he get on his own? Asking any of his fellows for help was out of the question.

Rolan glanced across the common room at what pitiful few remained. Alfira sat near the open hearth, fingers going through the motions of tuning her lute strings. Her usually cheerful eyes were blank and distant. Rolan hadn’t heard her play a single note since Lakrissa had been taken with his siblings. He should have thought to comfort her, but that kind of gentleness never seemed to occur to him.

Rolan crossed his arms on the bar and dropped his horns to them. If only he’d thought faster, acted sooner, left the others to fend for themselves in order to grab hold of his brother and sister before their screams grew distant. His sharp nails dug into his palms as the sound replayed in his mind.

He wished he had anyone besides himself to be angry at. He wished he could be angry at her.

If only she'd never taught Cal and Lia how to hope to fight back or be heroes. If only she'd never taught him how to hope…for anything, he decided. For any single single thing he might wish were possible.

Through his haze of drunken self-pity, his ears pricked at some kind of shouting and commotion out front. No doubt another attack by some new shadow-cursed horror. Rolan heard one of the little ones begin calling his name.

"I’m coming, I’m coming,” Rolan spat, sliding petulantly to his feet as one hand reached for the quarterstaff leaning against the bar. “The damned hells is it this time?" He didn’t care what language the child might hear, but young Mattis was unphased.

“Stow your frown—” Mattis was grinning toothily. “Goblin killer finally made it!”

“What?” But the boy was already gone, bounding away from him through the front doors. Rolan swallowed dry against his fuzzy tongue. He felt fully awake for the first time in days, and he gripped the bar to steady himself before his feet stumbled forward.

Jaheira's enchanted vines were disentangling from her legs just as Rolan entered the courtyard. It was fortunate; he'd grown to respect Jaheira, and it would've been a shame to have to hex her. Rolan jostled through the gathered Harpers without a care in order to push closer.

She and her companions had been waylaid just past the bridge. Harper Lassandra was relaying a report in her defense, it seemed, but all Rolan could concentrate on was her face.

Her cheeks were splattered with dark, shadow-magic blood. One of her sleeves was ripped open at the shoulder, displaying another patch of blood-stained skin at the seam of her leather jerkin. By the dark circles under her eyes, she still hadn't slept properly since the Grove.

She was the most beautiful thing Rolan had seen in weeks.

Her eyes came to rest on his own face then; he watched her blink hard, as if she might be dreaming.

"Rolan?" She croaked out softly.

He had already half-closed the gap by the time she started toward him. They caught each other so hard Rolan felt the air leave his lungs in a huff, but he gathered whatever of her familiar scent he could, tinged with coppery blood though it was.

“I’m so glad you’re—I’m so glad,” she laughed shakily into his shoulder. Rolan wished he could kiss her, but it didn’t feel right in front of so many other eyes. He settled for standing back with his arms circled tight around her middle.

"Where's Lia and Cal?" She glanced around behind him, her smile fading. Rolan should have expected her constant concern for others by now, but could only look at her. Her eyes landed back on his face. "Zevlor?" She added quietly.

“Come inside.” Jaheira’s voice interrupted the silence between them. “We can talk over a drink.”

As the druid directed forces back to their posts, Rolan felt her slip out from under his arms. She approached Gale to ask something—Rolan saw the wizard glance his direction before he replied.

“Come on,” she said, jogging back into his embrace.

“What about Jaheira?”

“Gale can handle it, he’s good at talking.” She notched herself back firm against his side as they walked in. “I’d rather hear from you.”

Rolan tried his best not to stumble up the stairs beside her. He cursed his impulse to reach for the bottle at any sorrow—he must reek of it. If he did, she was kind enough not to say anything.

He led her to the empty room beside the cleric’s and shut the heavy door behind them.

“We were ambushed,” he said in a rush, before she could open her mouth. “Cal and Lia were grabbed up by those monsters on wings. Along with others. They’re being held at Moonrise.”

“We’ll find them.” Her voice was automatic and steely-certain.

Rolan nodded, borrowing what strength he could from her eyes. “We will.”

“I thought…Zevlor was leading you,” she prompted him slowly, as if she might not want to know the answer. He only shook his head at her. How could he explain what he didn’t understand himself?

“We took the same path here that you did,” she admitted to him. Rolan knew what she was saying. He remembered each and every blank, upturned face that shrank to a pinpoint in the darkness as he led the survivors away.

“I’m so sorry, Rolan.” His numbness was broken by her two hands rising to hold his face. “I just—I’m so fucking sorry—”

For some reason, his grief felt more real than it had yet. Rolan looked down at her bloodstained face and folded his fingers around one of her wrists. It would be idiotic to cry in front of her, so he kissed her instead.

His lips shook against hers, from sorrow and from want in equal measure. Rolan didn’t want to think about his dead friends, or his family waiting for rescue in a dark dungeon—just for a moment, he wished he could lose himself in her. She was the one person he could let himself unravel with.

“Rolan, wait—” But she didn’t want him to wait. Rolan heard it in her breathless voice against his lips, felt it in the way her hands clutched at his clothing to pull him closer.

He knew she must taste the alcohol on his breath. Hadn’t he said something to her that night in her tent? Something about wine and sex being a bad mix.

Foolish words of a foolish man who still thought he'd have time to do things properly. Rolan couldn’t remember them, and right now, this seemed like the best thing that could ever happen in such a desolate place.

Was it so wrong to want her? Even now, with the rest of his life crumbling around him?

Only his very real feelings for her could have broken through the haze. With a lurch of effort, Rolan stumbled back from her. The four walls of their room pressed in unbearably quiet without the sounds of hands and lips filling the air. Her eyes shone dark to him in the candlelight, pupils blown wide in a way that his deepest instincts recognized with primal satisfaction. He was certain his eyes blazed with just as much desire.

Rolan licked his lips, gathering his last shreds of control. “Tell me to go,” he rasped. “Say it, and I will.”

He was rooted to the spot to await her judgment. She was silent before him, only a soft pant from between her lips. Rolan stood there for what felt like an agonizing eternity as her eyes traveled over his face.

So slowly it felt like a dream, she raised one arm across to her opposite shoulder. The gesture made no sense to him at first. Until Rolan heard buckles clicking and watched the plates of her leather armor shed from her chest like scales to the floorboards.

Her tunic was next, and before Rolan could ready himself it was up over her head and thrown on top of her armor, her bare breasts covered only by a few stray wisps of her hair.

He swayed where he stood, lightheaded; her darkly shining eyes didn’t break from his for a moment, even as her hands were already moving to the fastenings of her belt.

Rolan felt an ache like loss. Those should be his hands—gently undressing her, taking his time as he slowly unveiled each new and beautiful expanse of her flesh—not the two of them rushing through this first moment of newness that they’d never get back. Because even as the thought occurred, he himself was ripping his own robes off his shoulders without a care for the state of them. They would have time enough some other night.

She was faster, already kicking her pants off her bare feet. She wore nothing underneath—the realization brought a groan from his throat. Once his last garments dropped forgotten to the floor, she practically pounced.

Rolan had just enough reflex to catch her as she threw her body against his. Her bare skin on his was electric, filling his mind with wild want even as he tried to take in every sensation at once. Her taut breasts pressed against his chest—fingers lovingly exploring the ridges on his shoulders and back—the heat between her legs barely grazing against his thigh, yet enough to send his mind reeling. She made him feel real again.

And her lips—how could he have already forgotten how sweet she tasted? He kissed her back with hunger, wishing he might dissolve into her soft warmth for good.

Rolan wasn’t as strong as he wished, and he was tipsy as all hells, but he did his best as he guided their bodies down on top of their clothing. Her hips and shoulders thumped under his weight against the wood boards. Surely it must have hurt her—but then he felt her legs cross behind his bare flanks, rutting their hips together, and every other concern was lost.

Slick wetness pressed against his pelvis as she rolled herself against him. The proof of how much she wanted him, if Rolan had any lingering doubts. He fell braced on his forearms around her.

“I missed you so much,” she gasped against his lips. Rolan paused everything as his eyes opened to meet hers, almost too close to focus. “Rolan, I wish we—I should have—” Her face shone with more yearning than he could bear.

"I know, dearest, I know—" The endearment fell with shocking ease from his lips. Though he might share them, tonight was not for regrets. There were enough of those going around to last a lifetime.

Rolan stopped them with his mouth, licking and tasting her as deeply as she would let him, one hand splaying under her thigh to angle her hips deeper against his own.

With anyone else, Rolan might have felt self-conscious about how hard he’d been since the moment she undressed for him. With her, what would be the point? She'd confessed more with her body and her words than he'd ever expected.

His ridged length pressed between them, his underside slickening with each rocking motion she made against him. He broke from her slightly.

"Tell me." The words came out husky. Rolan didn't mean them to tease her, only wanted her to direct him, but the way she squirmed under him was addictive.

"I want you," she breathed, and he felt fingers clasp behind his neck. "Please, Rolan—"

How could he deny her anything? Rolan grabbed himself to guide and nudge his tip to her folds, spreading her wetness along his length best he could. She deserved so much better than a hard floor in the middle of nowhere. But everything felt too urgent, like they were at the edge of the world’s end. And her face held nothing but eagerness as she watched him.

Gently, slowly, he guided himself just inside her. She was perfect; Rolan's head dropped to her chest as he exhaled with a shudder.

"Oh—" She only let out the little gasp, but her hands hooked under his ears, tilting his head back up so she could press lips to his forehead and eyelids.

"More," she purred against him.

Reflexive, Rolan pushed into her to the hilt and let out a groan at how perfectly she gripped him. She hummed in satisfaction, her legs pressing tighter around his hips to hold him there.

It was somehow tender and frantic all at once. Rolan's hips rolled into her with increasing urgency, even as he cradled her face up toward his with both his forearms, wanting to watch each sensation play out over her face.

When he hit a new angle inside her, her fingers actually gripped one of his horns as her lips gasped open. It sent a shudder reverberating through his core.

"So good," she gasped. "You feel so perfect—"

He would do anything to keep it feeling that way for her. He ducked his mouth to her breast, sliding his tongue over one tight bud and sucking her into his mouth.

"Fuck, Rolan—" Her voice canted up a register, and he felt her walls tremble and grip around him with each thrust. Her fingers clutched sweetly at the ridges over his shoulder blades.

In the back of his mind Rolan wondered whether the whole inn could hear his name on her lips, but he wasn't sure he cared, wasn't sure he didn't fucking love the idea in fact.

Both of them were starved for it, and neither of them could last much longer. Rolan groaned something into the flesh of her breast, words lost to the way her body shook under him just as he unraveled all around her. He collapsed against her soft chest and held her tight with trembling arms.

—---

"What did you say before?"

As he drifted back to reality, Rolan lifted his head from her to rest his chin on her stomach. "Hmm?"

She was looking down at him with shy curiosity. "When you came," she said. He loved hearing words like that casually tumble from her. "You said something, I didn't recognize the language."

Rolan realized with some embarrassment that she was right. "I did, didn't I." He moved to press his lips along her abdomen, as if it might distract her from the topic. But she was far too stubborn for that.

"Going to tell me or not?" He felt his insides melt as she traced her thumb along the lines of one of his pointed ears.

Rolan regretted letting her in on that fact about Tiefling anatomy, and he told her so with a grumble. She only laughed and gave his ear point a teasing tug.

Rolan closed his eyes against the feeling instead. "It's Infernal," he admitted to her. He hadn't spoken the tongue in many years; the fact he remembered any was a surprise even to himself.

"Oh." She didn't sound put off, only curious. "What did it mean?"

He carefully considered how to answer. "There's…not a word in Common that directly translates." Rolan met her eyes as his lips brushed absently near her navel. "A feeling that cleanses like holy fire. 'Love of salvation.'"

She gazed down at him. "That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard," she whispered.

Rolan reached to smooth her hair across her forehead. "Is it? To be cleansed, you have to be corrupted first."

"Is that an offer?" she asked, a grin teasing at the corners of her mouth. “I mean, we’re all pretty corrupted around here. Don’t forget I’ve already got a worm in the head.”

Abruptly, she pushed herself seated upright; Rolan caught himself back against his knees.

"I’m an idiot," she gasped. “Rolan—that’s how I get to the Moonrise dungeons. This tadpole makes me a True Soul. I can walk right through the fucking front door!”

Anxiety gripped him as he watched the excitement unfold on her face. Rolan wasn't sure he could watch her willingly rush into a den of vipers.

"I'm coming with you," he insisted, already knowing she would tell him no. She shook her head at him.

“I wish you could,” she told him, and he believed her. “You're not tadpoled, the guards would know. But I'll take as many of my companions as I can, I swear. We can do this," she added, gripping his forearm.

It was all too fast; Rolan caught her hand before she could rise. "Wait," he implored firmly. “Let me travel with you to the bridge, at least.”

That she agreed to. They dressed quickly—though Rolan couldn't resist grabbing her a few times to kiss what bare flesh was still exposed, absolutely adoring the way she melted under his hands and mouth each time.

When he and her party stood at the bridge to the Tower, Rolan regretted agreeing to this all over again. She only gave him a quick peck on the lips with the soft promise of more later, and headed down the walkway with her companions.

Rolan stayed back in the shadows to watch her speak with the guards. His heart pounded in his throat. There was a short exchange; even his sensitive ears couldn’t catch the words. But then the guards stood down, and she and her friends walked freely through the front doors of Moonrise Towers. He allowed himself to feel a sliver of hope.

Back at the Inn, Rolan paced around the hall for what felt like an eternity. Mol complained he was making her dizzy. In reality, it couldn't have been more than a few hours.

When he heard the soft shout of the patrol below, Rolan rushed through the wide doors and down to the underground port.

Cal and Lia stood alive and well on the wooden docks. Her too, further down the line—she even caught his eye with a smile. Rolan could have laughed in relief, but the guards curtly ordered him back while the Harper on duty checked them over with Jaheira's bottled tadpole.

Rolan deeply wished to aim a cantrip at the man's skull, but he clenched his fists to gather his last remaining shreds of patience.

When they were cleared, all of them dashed together. Rolan gripped Cal and Lia's heads with a hand each, holding them tight against him.

"You absolute fucking idiots—" Rolan was half scolding, half trying not to cry. "Don't you dare stick your necks out like that again, do you hear me?"

"I'll remember that the next time we get kidnapped by murderous lunatics," Lia's voice said into his shoulder, but she was squeezing his ribs tight.

"Sorry," was Cal's only meek response, and Rolan stifled the juvenile urge to rumple his little brother's hair.

"Just get inside," Rolan said as he released them. "When was the last time you both ate?"

They both complained over his continued fussing, but each of them obeyed him in the end. The return of bickering and normality somehow eased a weight from Rolan's heart.

As the Tieflings he knew and the deep gnomes he didn't all made their way up the stairs to the Inn, Rolan linked his arm around her waist beside him.

"I love you," he told her first, low so that only she could hear. Then—"thank you."

"Thank those lot up there," she told him, though he heard through the smile in her voice that she hadn't missed his confession. "They were ready to fight tooth and nail out of there. I just unlocked the bars."

In the dark Rolan placed a swift kiss on the crown of her head, and was rewarded by the feel of her cheek leaning sideways against his shoulder.

Last Light Inn still had an undeniable gloom to it, but it was lightened considerably by the reunions of friends and lovers. To Rolan's eye the hall seemed practically packed compared to a few hours earlier.

His siblings settled back at the bar, removed from the chatter at the hearth. Rolan watched them toast each other with two very well-earned pints. As they both launched into conflicting narratives of their adventure, Rolan felt a deep sense of ease soak into his bones.

"This one's fucking amazing, by the way—" Lia was gesturing her mug to the woman at Rolan's side. "Watched her cut down a Moonrise guard with one swing of a sword. You better have thanked her properly, Rolan," she added.

His sister was clever; Rolan strongly suspected she knew what she was doing. He decided to play dumb for the sake of the dear person beside him, whose cheeks he could practically feel burning from here.

"Believe me, I will," Rolan said. As he spoke, he drew her toward him again with an arm around her middle.

Cal was significantly slower on the uptake. "Eughh." He let out an amused noise of disgust. "Why don't you two just kiss each other alre—"

But Rolan's lips were already on hers, tilting her chin up and back with a hand so he could capture her mouth. His other arm wrapped her shoulders back against his chest, and he felt her fingers grip tight over his forearm. As they gently broke apart, the quiet lasted only for a second.

"Twelve pints at the Elfsong." Lia smacked the bar next to Cal. "That's it, you owe me."

"Taking bets on my fucking love life now?" Rolan began, his indignance slightly undercut by the fact that his love in question was shaking with laughter under his arm, both hands clasped over her face.

In the end, Rolan left his siblings to argue over the details. He was too overwhelmed with embarrassment and the desire to save her from any of the same.

As he drew her back up the stairs, Rolan felt her shoulders shaking with laughter again under his arm. He glanced sideways, wondering what had ruined the mood now.

“What?” he prompted her.

“Nothing, it’s just—” She was positively sparkling as she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Can we use the bed this time?”

With a mortifying jolt, Rolan realized there was indeed a perfectly serviceable bed in the room where he’d unceremoniously taken her on the floor.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

“Plenty of time for that,” she agreed, biting her lip as she drew him with her hand. “Now come on.”

#back to classic rolan pov because i am weak #rolan x tav #bg3 rolan #rolan bg3 #underdark-dreams #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 spoilers #baldur's gate 3 spoilers #rolan

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heradion · 11 months ago

Text

Emerald Star ( a s6 off screen Sterek ficlet)

Set after this scene.

As Stiles was finally given some medical attention and they had bandaged up his toe, he had calmed down and was breathing into a paper bag while a medic gave him some pills to help with the pain.

Derek had been asked to complete some formalities with the FBI and was taken away by some agents just moments before.

Stiles limped sitting carefully on the sidewalk by the road icing his toe waiting for Derek.

After a few minutes , Derek handed some papers to the agents before heading over to where Stiles was sitting .

" You're free to go ?" Stiles asked as Derek sat next to him

" Pretty much" Derek said " I see you're no longer screaming in pain, How's your toe?"

" Patched up for now,I'll be fine in a few days " He replied

" That guy said you're free to take a few days to recover before heading back " Derek said pointing at the agent in charge of the field operation.

" Of course he did" Stiles stated " They're worried that if this gets worse, I'd be able to sue them. Although I'm the one who convinced them to take me on the operation, I'm still an intern."

Derek nodded before standing up. " You could benefit from a few days off. Come on" He said reaching his hand out to Stiles who took it before carefully standing up

" You think you can walk? " Derek asked as Stiles handed the ice pack back to the medics

" I think so " Stiles replied trying to walk and wincing in pain

" Alright come on" Derek said putting his arm around his shoulder and one on his hip to help him walk to his jeep.

Derek helped him sit in the passenger seat before heading to the driver side.

" Where are we going?" Stiles enquired as Derek started the jeep

" My motel, it's a little further down from here" Derek stated

" You can drop me off at my motel and keep the jeep for the night " Stiles stated

" You'd better stay with me." Derek stated " For..uhm..your safety, so you don't end up injuring yourself more. "

" Oh, uhm Are you sure ?" Stiles questioned as Derek nodded

" Alright Can you stop by mine first? I gotta grab some of my stuff ." Stiles stated

Derek agreed as they drove in silence, a lingering sense of uncertainty and tension palpable between the two since the last time they had seen each other was when Kate had taken Scott.

Derek had left and decided not to look back at Beacon Hills which had bothered Stiles more than he'd like to admit because no one else seemed as perturbed.

Derek pulled over to Stiles motel and helped him to his room waiting outside as Stiles packed his stuff before checking out.

Derek helped him with his bags before they settled into an uneasy silence while Derek drove towards his motel.

Once they reached his motel, Derek grabbed Stiles's bag and helped him walk up to the room before unlocking it and letting him in.

Stiles walked in and crashed on the tiny couch looking around the room to find only one queen sized bed .

He pursed his lips wondering why Derek had told him to stay here when he had only one bed.

" Do you want to take a shower?" Derek asked

" Huh?" Stiles asked, his thoughts being interrupted.

" Are you going to take a shower or shall I go?" Derek asked grabbing a towel and sweatpants .

" You can go, I'll go after you" Stiles stated as Derek headed into the bathroom

Stiles dug through his bag to find a book to keep him occupied and was interrupted a few minutes later by a shirtless Derek walking through the bathroom door wearing only grey sweatpants with the towel around his neck as he dried his hair

Stiles lowered the book a little raising his eyebrows at the sight in front of him as Derek went to grab a shirt.

" Do you want to go now?" Derek asked wearing a black shirt that, of course clung to his body making Stiles roll his eyes

Does he always buy a size small? Stiles wondered before standing up and slowly grabbing a towel along with a change of clothes before heading to the shower .

" Are you sure it's safe to get your wound wet ?" Derek asked

" I'll just wrap a plastic bag around it, just to be safe " Stiles stated grabbing an empty take out cover he had stuffed in his bag as Derek looked at him questioningly.

" What?" Stiles asked

" Why do you have a plastic bag with you?" Derek asked

" It helps with panic attacks and stuff " Stiles shrugged

" it's not a hygiene thing, I'm very tidy , thank you very much " He snarked slowly limping to the shower

Once he had cleaned himself up, he headed out slowly walking with the plastic cover around his foot.

" You're gonna hurt yourself " Derek stated as Stiles sat on the chair by the side of the bed

" I'll be fine " Stiles stated slowly taking off the cover and placing his foot on the bed

Derek moved over so he was sitting by Stiles's leg before reaching over and holding Stiles's ankle gently putting it on his lap

" What are you-" Stiles asked trying to pull his leg away when Derek tightened his grp on his ankle not letting him move it.

" Calm down" Derek said looking at him " I'm only trying to help"

Stiles watched feeling a little uneasy as Derek's veins turned black and he felt a sense of relief on his injured foot before Derek gently placed it back onto the bed.

" Thank you" Stiles said rubbing the back of his neck nervously

Derek nodded before grabbing a book from his nightstand and moving further away on the bed to read .

Stiles narrowed his eyes looking at him wondering if he should let it go or say something about what was bothering him.

" Uhm, hello? " Stiles said as Derek turned to look at him " What the hell Derek? Where were you all this time and why did you just disappear after you left with Braeden ? "

Derek sighed placing the book down " That's why you've been giving me the silent treatment?"

" What, you knew I was pissed and didn't say anything ?" Stiles asked

" I was trying to give you some time " Derek said " and space "

" Time and space? " Stiles asked " What am I an astronaut?'

Derek rolled his eyes before saying " No , because I could tell something was bothering you, now I know it's cause of me."

" Of course it cause of you!" Stiles called out " Me and everyone else don't hear anything from you for months and the first day of my FBI internship you showed up on my screen as a mass murderer!"

" Why does it matter to you?" Derek asked

" Because it does, it just does." Stiles said " First you leave and don't look back , now you're getting caught up in this ?"

" I'm sorry, if I I recall correctly, you told me to have a safe journey and to enjoy when I told you I was leaving " Derek said shifting so he was sitting on the edge of the bed opposite to Stiles.

" Of course I did, you were leaving, did you want me to throw you a going away party?" Stiles quipped

" No, but when I told you I was leaving, that's all you said, then why is it bothering you so much now ?" Derek asked

" Because it does !" Stiles called out "Why is it so hard to believe that someone could actually care for you?"

"Because it didn't seem like it" Derek replied " If you cared, then maybe you should've said something more than have a safe journey. " Derek said furrowing his brows

" Like what ? What could I have possibly said to make you change your mind ?" Stiles asked throwing his hands up in defeat .

" You could've asked me to stay. " Derek sighed as he looked away

Stiles scoffed " Yeah like that would've made a difference "

" It would. " Derek said " I would've stayed if you had asked me to...but you didn't "

Stiles blinked in surprise at what he heard before leaning forward and resting his hand on his knee

" Derek I wanted nothing more than to have you stay" Stiles stated as Derek finally turned to look at him " But not because I asked you to...but because you want to."

" Beacon Hills was just a reminder for you of everything you lost, I know it got hard for you to stay and pretend like everything was fine.." Stiles shrugged " I'm not going to be selfish and ask you to stick around for my sake....not when you're unhappy. "

Derek took a deep breath shaking his head " I'm sorry I didn't call, I thought of it a lot but... decided not to because I thought it didn't matter to you."

" After everything we've been through, you still don't think I care ?" Stiles asked raising his eyebrows

Derek sighed, his gaze dropping to the floor, unable to meet Stiles' eyes. "I guess I was wrong."

They remained quiet , the weight of unspoken words hung heavy in the air, before Derek decided to break the silence by getting up to grab a pillow and heading to the sofa.

"I'll take the couch" Derek said and just when Stiles was about to protest,

"Stiles, You're clearly tired and need a good nights sleep more than me" Derek stated "Let's not argue about this."

Stiles agreed quietly before settling into the bed as Derek turned off the light.

Despite the words left unsaid, their shared history and the bond they shared spoke volumes, echoing through the silence that stretched between them.

(Part.1) / (Part.2) / (Part.3) /(Part.4) /(Part.5)

#sterek #sterek fic #oneshot #random drabbles #stiles stilinski #stiles x derek

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tinyfishtits · 11 months ago

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Reader, being a new member but oh so tough gunslinger as well, doing excellent at the latest heist with the gang. Micah seeing this, can't comprehend what his inner turmoil is about (pssst - it is catching feelings)

have a good day!

Another day, another Ask answered! Thanks for this prompt anon! Got carried away with the heist of it all but hope ya like it 🤠 TW: Some violence and brief mention of blood

“Need an extra gun?” I cut in, the group of men before me fell quiet. Bill and Micah practically sneered at me. Arthur, however, considered. He’d been the one to introduce me to the gang a week ago after I saved his ass in a robbery job gone sideways back in Valentine. He knew at the very least that I could handle myself with a gun.

With an exasperated sigh he said, “If it means I’m not stuck with these lugs… sure.”

Bill gawked at him, instantly going sour at the prospect. “Wha-” He stuttered, “You can't be serious!” Arthur ignored him, walking over to mount his horse. “Can’t believe this…” Bill grumbled to Micah, who was eying me up like a cow at auction, “First Arthur butts in now this?? There ain’t gonna be no money left to split!”

Micah narrowed his eyes at Bill, it seemed the man got on everyone's nerves, “There better be.” Micah warned, “You said there was a few hundred in that coach, you lyin’?” Bill just huffed in reply, stomping off to the horses.

With one last lingering glance at me, Micah strode over to his mount, the three men now waiting for me. “Uh-” I hesitated, “I don’t have a horse.”

Arthur pointed to a grazing horse a few feet away, “Have Kieran saddle that one up for ya.” Bill let out an exaggerated groan at the wait.

“Just get over here, doll.” Micah said, stretching a hand out to me. When I hesitated he added, “Baylocks a big boy, he can handle ya.” Taking my hand he effortlessly swung me up behind him, my ass on the horses bare back. Without a second to situate myself he kicked the horse forward and I jolted, white knuckling Micah’s leather jacket to keep myself from slipping off, much to his amusement.

Trying not to let the nervousness I felt at the prospect of tumbling to the ground show, I asked, “How far we goin’?”

“Dewberry Creek.” He said simply, though I could almost hear the smirk in his voice as he added, “Better hold on tighter than that, darlin’.” And spurred Baylock into a gallop. I gasped, my arms wrapping around his middle as I held onto him for dear life, my eyes clamped shut.

I could count the times I’d ridden a horse on one hand, never having had the luxury to learn. Nor was it a necessity in the small town I’d been brought up in. Shooting, however, was where I made up for my general lack of skill in most other areas. It came easy to me.

Micah steered us off the main road, following the creek up north as Bill told us the plan, if you could even call it that. “The coach should be coming down from New Hanover, We’ll get ‘em when they cross the creek.”

“Get them how?” Arthur asked, his tone laced with annoyance.

“Uh- Y’know… Shoot ‘em” Bill spluttered. “Bill…” Arthur groaned. We were already coming up on the fork in the road the coach would be passing through.

“Hell, I don’t know Arthur! You’re the expert!”

“You- This was your damn idea!” The two began bickering.

“Would ya shut up!” Micah yelled at them as the coach came into view on the hill above, along with four mounted gunmen flanking it on all sides and two more trailing behind.

“Shit.” Arthur muttered, “You said it wouldn’t be guarded!” “Well… I, uh, miscalculated.” Bill grumbled.

Then, instead of turning down the road to where we waited in the dried up creek bed, the coach kept going straight up toward Emerald Ranch.

“Dammit Bill…” Micah said, rearing Baylock to chase after them when Bill just… started shooting.

The coach swerved as the horses pulling it attempted to flee from the gunfire that sputtered erratically at the path in front of them. Veering off the road, the coach lost balance and tumbled to the creek below with a thundering CRASH.

Disoriented by the sudden chaos erupting around them, the mounted gunmen hesitated to retaliate. Still partially concealed by the steep hill of the creek's bank, they couldn’t make out where we were. Wasting no time, I slipped down from the horse, revolver in hand and began shooting.

No longer needing to worry about stopping the coach I focused my fire on the gunmen, picking them off one by one. After the first one went down with a clean shot to the head, the others rushed me. Two of them jumped from their horses, running toward me while the other three continued down the path and were quickly pursued by Arthur and Bill.

They came at me from either side, their aim so piss poor I didn’t even flinch at the gunfire which landed a good several feet from me. Pivoting on my heels I took them both out in a single spin. Though my aim wasn’t as perfect as I would have liked, having only got one in the head while the other writhed around, a hand clutching his throat as it erupted in a fountain of blood. I walked over and put him swiftly out of his misery.

Looking up from their corpses I saw Micah watching me, having only just dismounted his horse. A figure flashed in my peripheral, the coach driver. He fled up the hill, almost over the crest of it when, giving it no more than a sidelong glance, I shot him square in the chest.

I turned back to Micah who cocked his head, his attention fixed on me as he seemed to really notice me for the first time. I twirled my revolver around my finger before holstering it, shooting Micah a smirk. He prided himself on being a good gunslinger, he’d made that abundantly clear even in the short time I’d been at the camp. But by the look on his face, I liked to think I was giving him a run for his money and he knew it.

“Everything alright?” Arthur yelled to us as he and Bill rounded the hill. I walked up to the coach, whose rear safe had been busted open in the crash and let out a whistle. Bill was right, there was a good few hundred in cash alone, not even counting the two gold bars. “I’d say so…” I replied.

I could feel Micah’s eyes on me as he joined me by the coach, hands on his hips as he continued to look me over. I whipped my head around to face him when I caught a gleam of movement from the side of the coach. Another man crawled out from under the debris, bloodied and battered from the fall with a pistol in hand which he shakily raised, pointing it at Micah’s back.

Micah’s eyes flicked to my hand as I whipped my gun from my holster. Turning with my movement he shot at the man in the same second I pulled my trigger. Both of our bullets landing in his forehead and with a dull ‘thunk’ the man slumped over face first into the mud.

“Well, I think that’s all of ‘em.” I said. They all looked at me in silence, Arthur and Bill only just now reaching for their sidearms. The surprise on their faces wasn't as… vindicating as I had anticipated. I felt more annoyed than anything that they thought so little of me. Did I really come off that helpless?

Their attention quickly returned to the money. “Ha!” Bill barked a laugh, greedily grabbing up the gold bars, “I told ya!” He exclaimed, elbowing Arthur in the side, “Look at all this-”

“Remember to give the camp its share.” Arthur chided, snatching the gold and cash from his hands before dispersing it evenly between us all. Bill huffed and grumbled to himself before heading back to his horse. Only Arthur seemed to notice the bodies strewn about and tipped his hat to me with a quick, “Nice work.” Before mounting his horse as well.

“Now make yourself scarce!” He yelled back to us as he rode away.

Micah was rubbing thoughtfully at his facial hair when I turned back to him, eyes narrowed as he surveyed me.

“What?” I asked, not bothering to hide the annoyance in my voice at his wandering eyes. I felt a little stupid for expecting him to comment on my shooting, even more so when I was disappointed he didn’t. He straightened, clearing his throat his only response before he started off toward Baylock.

He mounted the horse expertly, reaching a hand out to me once more. My face crinkled at the thought of bouncing around on the horse's bare ass for the ride back.

“I want the saddle.” I said simply. Micah’s brows rose at the request, a smirk on his lips as he pushed himself over the back of the saddle and patted it. My attempt to mount the beast wasn’t nearly as graceful as his had been, though I was able to haul myself up on my first try, much to my own surprise.

Feeling a little over confident in my ability to get us back to camp, adrenaline still coursing through my veins, I nudged Baylock forward and he instantly started into a gallop. A shocked yelp escaped my lips as I grasped at the saddle horn, fumbling to keep hold of the reins at the same time.

Micah chuckled behind me, his hands reaching out to hold me steady. “You wanna keep yourself up with your thighs darlin’.” His gravelly voice whispered against my ear. If I hadn't been so close to sliding off the saddle I would have batted his hands away. “Move your hips with the horse… It ain’t called ridin’ for nothin’.”

My face blushed at his words, though they really did help. Baylock seemed to relax as I did, our movements becoming one in the same as we calmed to a trot back to camp. I’d half expected Micah to try feeling me up, but the moment I felt in control of the horse his hands disappeared from my hips. It was an unexpectedly respectful gesture coming from the sleazy, rude, flirt of a man I’d quickly come to know him as.

Our ride back to camp was quiet, no sign of the law. Which was a small blessing given any excitement would have surely resulted in me falling off the horse. I was getting the hang of riding, but that was it. My skill didn’t reach any further than simply staying upright.

We returned right as Pearson announced dinner, my mouth watered at the word alone. Dismounting, I gave Micah a nod and eagerly started off toward the steaming pot of stew when he called my name. I stopped, turning only slightly to acknowledge him.

“Would ya- Um…” He rubbed at his neck, the gesture almost… shy. “I could teach you how to ride, sometime. If you’d want.”

I cocked my head at him, considering. I’d never heard him offer to help anyone with, well, anything. “Why?”

“Forget it.” He huffed, turning back to tend to Baylock.

“No.” I said firmly. “Speak your mind, Bell.” He narrowed his eyes at me but sighed, giving in.

“You’re a good gun.” He continued, “A damn good one… But you should know how to ride. If you want to tag along on more jobs, that is.” He rose a brow to me in question, a smile spread on his lips, “As much as I like you all cuddled up to me darlin’, It ain't practical.”

I shrugged, and replied with a simple “Okay.” Though the satisfaction I got from his praise burned through me like fire. I turned back toward camp for dinner, the feeling of Micah’s lingering gaze boring into me the entire way.

If you liked this, check out my other Micah works!

★ My Masterlist ★

#I think Micah offering his time to you is like the ultimate baby bell flirt #im a sucker for it #micah bell #micah bell fic #micah bell x reader #fish reqs #red dead redemption 2

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