#except for makin me sleep | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hyuniemyunie · 7 days ago

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Scream, Swoon, Repeat

billy loomis & stu macher x gn!reader

sfw

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(ФωФ): established relationship, pure fluff, lots of kissing and affection. a few random ideas i had idk its just fluff

i love writing physical touch and fluff stuff omfg. haha how could you tell im touch starve-

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･

A full day of doing absolutely nothing except smothering your two favorite psychos with affection? Yeah, that was the plan.

The problem?

Billy and Stu suck at being doted on.

Stu is the easier target. He wakes up a mess, limbs sprawled over the bed, half his face shoved into the pillow, mumbling nonsense about “aliens stealing his popcorn.” It makes him way too easy to attack.

You climb on top of him, pinning him down, pressing soft kisses along his jawline.

"Mmm," Stu groans, voice raspy with sleep, "’s too early for makin’ out, babe."

"Is it? Because I don’t care," you hum against his skin, trailing kisses up to the corner of his mouth.

His lips twitch, but before he can respond, you smother him completely, peppering kisses across his cheeks, nose, eyelids—everywhere.

"Jesus, get a room—"

Billy barely gets the words out before you pounce on him next.

"Oh, you’re not getting away either," you warn.

Billy scowls, but the second you cup his face and press a slow, lingering kiss to his lips, he melts. His hands instinctively find your waist, grip tightening, like he’s about to flip you over and take control—

But not today.

You pull back just before he can deepen it, grinning. "Nah-uh. Today, I’m in charge."

Billy narrows his eyes. "Oh yeah? We’ll see about that."

Stu groans, shoving his face into a pillow. "Ugh, you guys are so hot. I hate it."

---

Dragging them outside was a challenge. Billy had no interest in leaving the damn house, and Stu—while willing—was easily distracted.

"Babe, let’s get ice cream!"

"Babe, let’s go shoplift some candy!"

"Babe, I dare you to kiss me in front of that old lady at the bus stop—"

Stu, unsurprisingly, had no shame. He loved public affection, wrapping himself around you like an overgrown golden retriever. At some point, he slung an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his chest dramatically. “Look at my beautiful, gorgeous partner. What did I do to deserve this? Am I dead? Is this heaven?”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could say anything, Billy—who had been quiet the entire time—leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

Casual. Effortless. Like it was nothing.

Stu nearly choked. “DID YOU JUST—WAIT, HOLD ON, DID YOU JUST—"

Billy, already walking ahead, didn’t even turn around. “You’re embarrassing.”

Stu gasped. “Oh, I see how it is. I get called embarrassing, but you get to be all suave and mysterious?”

You just laughed, grabbing Stu’s hand and pulling him along.

---

By the time night rolled in, Billy was done. The sheer amount of affection you had dumped on him today was practically overwhelming, and you knew he’d never admit how much he secretly liked it.

So when you cuddled up next to him on the couch, lazily playing with his fingers while a horror movie played in the background, you weren’t surprised when he grumbled, “You’re annoying.”

"And yet you’re still letting me do this," you mused, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles.

Billy didn’t respond, but his grip on your hand tightened.

Stu, meanwhile, was half-dead on the other side of the couch, sprawled out across your lap. His head rested against your stomach, and every so often, he’d shift just to nuzzle closer.

"Man, today was amazing," Stu sighed dramatically. "I vote we do this every day. Just endless kissing. No murder. Just smooching."

Billy shot him a look. "We have priorities, Stu."

"Yeah, yeah, priorities, blah blah—babe, kiss me again," Stu whined, nudging his head against you.

Billy rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath, but he didn’t stop you when you leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Stu’s forehead.

And later, when the lights were off and the three of you were tangled together under the covers, Billy was the one to initiate a slow, lazy kiss against your temple before whispering, "Go to sleep, dumbass."

You smirked in the dark. "Love you too, Billy."

From the other side of the bed, Stu hummed, half-asleep. "Love you both, man. Like… so much. Like, insane levels. Like, I’d literally—"

Billy shoved a pillow over his face.

"Go to sleep, Stu."

---

The next morning, you woke up sore.

Not from anything particularly wild—just the sheer weight of two grown men practically crushing you in their sleep.

Stu had draped himself across you at some point in the night, his leg slung over your waist like a human seatbelt. Billy, on the other hand, had an iron grip around your torso, his face buried in your shoulder.

Trying to move was impossible.

You groaned. "Guys, I love you, but you’re both insanely heavy."

Stu mumbled something unintelligible, nuzzling his face into your stomach like a content cat. Billy just tightened his hold, making it very clear that he had no intention of moving.

You huffed, wiggling your arms free. "Fine. Guess I’ll just be trapped here forever."

Stu yawned dramatically. "Forever sounds kinda nice… ‘s long as there’s breakfast."

Billy finally stirred, shifting slightly, but instead of letting you go, he pressed a slow, lazy kiss to your collarbone. It was so casual—so effortless—that it sent a shiver down your spine.

Oh. So that’s how it was gonna be today.

"Alright, nope—" you shoved at his chest, but he barely budged, "—you’re not getting away with acting like that after ignoring me all day yesterday."

Billy smirked against your skin. "I ignored you?"

"Emotionally, yes."

"Bullshit." He finally leaned up, resting his chin on your shoulder. "I let you kiss me all damn day."

"Exactly! I let you kiss me."

"Ohhh, someone wants Billy’s full attention today," Stu teased, grinning. He propped himself up on one elbow, his hair a mess from sleep. "I get it, babe. Billy’s a hard guy to crack. But lucky for you—" he leaned in dramatically, voice dropping into a whisper, "—I’m easy."

You snorted, pushing his face away. "That is not the flex you think it is, Stu."

"Hey, shut up and gimme a kiss."

Before you could react, he flopped onto you again, his lips pressing against your cheek in a series of obnoxiously loud, wet smooches.

"Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!"

"Stu, oh my God—"

Billy rolled his eyes, but you caught the slightest twitch of his lips—amusement, barely there. Oh, so he thought he could just sit there and watch? Two could play that game.

"Hey, Billy," you called sweetly, tilting your head toward him, "why don’t you give me a real kiss? Show Stu how it’s done?"

Stu gasped in mock betrayal. "Oh-ho-ho, no way! You’re tryna make billy willy jealous? Babe, that’s evil. I love it."

Billy, unfazed, simply raised an eyebrow. "Jealous of him?"

"Ow," Stu mumbled.

You grinned, shifting so that you were leaning fully against Billy, your nose brushing his. His breath hitched, just barely, and that’s when you knew you had him.

"C’mon, Loomis," you murmured, voice low, "I’ve been kissing Stu all morning. Don’t you wanna—"

Billy cut you off with a kiss, Slow, deep, possessive.

Stu groaned dramatically. "Ugh, gross. Get a room."

Billy pulled back just long enough to mutter, "You’re literally in the same room."

"Yeah, and I don’t appreciate being left out!"

You barely had time to breathe before Stu yanked you toward him, stealing a kiss for himself. Unlike Billy’s, it was playful—teasing—his fingers tracing along your jaw like he was memorizing the shape of you.

"Mmm. Much better."

Billy scoffed. "You’re insufferable."

Stu grinned. "And yet, you’re still here."

Billy didn’t respond—just yanked you back toward him, kissing you again, like he was proving a point.

Stu gasped. "Oh, so it’s a competition now?"

You tried to protest, but it was too late—Stu tackled both of you onto the bed, smothering you with exaggerated affection, and suddenly, you were caught in an endless loop of soft kisses, dramatic whining, and playful bites.

The absolute audacity of these two.

You barely had time to catch your breath before you were pounced on, trapped beneath Stu’s ridiculous weight as he suffocated you in another flurry of wet, obnoxious kisses.

"Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!"

"Stu—" you wheezed between attacks.

"What’s wrong, babe? Thought you wanted some real affection today?" he teased, his grin downright wicked.

Billy, unimpressed, leaned against the headboard, arms crossed. His dark eyes watched—half-annoyed, half-amused—as Stu continued his assault, peppering kisses across your cheeks, your nose, your forehead—

"Alright, that’s enough," Billy muttered.

Before you could blink, Stu was gone.

Correction—Billy had yanked him off you like a cat picking up an unruly kitten. Stu yelped as he was tossed onto the mattress, his limbs flailing, landing dramatically on his back.

"Dude, what the hell—?"

Billy didn’t acknowledge him. He was too busy shifting over you, pinning you in place with his knee between your legs, his hands framing your face.

And then he kissed you.

Not playfully. Not teasingly, just pure, slow, possessive intensity.

The kind of kiss that burned, that made your stomach flip, that had you clutching at his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to the damn planet. When Billy finally pulled back, your lips felt swollen, your breath stolen. (haha swollen stolen. sorry.)

He smirked. "That’s how it’s done."

Stu, from the other side of the bed, clutched his chest like he’d been stabbed. "Holy shit—did you guys just have, like, a full conversation without saying a single word? Babe. Babe, be honest—are you two psychic? Oh my god. I’m the third wheel."

"Oh my god, shut up," Billy groaned, flopping back onto the mattress.

You just giggled, still dazed.

---

Breakfast—or rather, lunch—was a complete disaster.

Billy, being Billy, refused to let either of you touch his damn stove. Something about “last time you nearly burned the kitchen down” and “I don’t trust you idiots”.

Stu, offended, spent the next five minutes whining. "C’mon, dude, it wasn’t even that bad! The fire alarm only went off, like, three times!"

Billy didn’t dignify that with a response.

So while he handled making the food, you and Stu took it upon yourselves to distract him. And by distract, that meant:

Clinging to Billy’s back like koalas.

Placing loud, exaggerated smooches to his cheek while he stirred the eggs.

Stu biting his shoulder for no reason other than to be a silly guy.

Billy barely tolerated it—up until Stu reached for the spatula.

With zero hesitation, Billy smacked his hand away. "Touch it and die."

Stu pouted, cradling his injured fingers. "Babe, Billy hit me."

You, still wrapped around Billy’s shoulders, hummed. "That’s crazy. What did you do?"

Stu gasped. "You’re picking his side?"

"I’m on the side that gets me food."

Billy snorted. "Smart choice."

Stu groaned, dramatically slumping onto the counter. "This is abuse. This is a toxic household."

Billy just shoved a piece of toast into his mouth.

---

Billy should’ve known that blocking you and Stu from the kitchen would come back to bite him in the ass. Because now? Now it was your turn to be..you.

It started small, innocent. You kissed Billy’s cheek. Just once. Quick. Simple.

Then you did it again, and again, and again.

After the fifth time, he sighed. "Alright, what’s your deal?"

"No deal." You grinned, leaning in to press another kiss to his temple.

Billy raised a brow. "You’re up to something."

"Me? Never."

From across the room, Stu was barely holding in his laughter.

Billy eyed him suspiciously. "What did you two idiots plan?"

That’s when you struck. A full-scale attack—kissing everywhere. His cheeks, his forehead, his jaw—rapid fire, one after the other, not stopping once.

Billy went rigid.

"Oh my god," Stu wheezed.

Billy tried to escape, but you clung to him like a damn barnacle, giggling as you relentlessly smothered him with kisses.

"Get off—" he groaned, trying to pry you away.

"Nope."

Stu, in between fits of laughter, jumped in next, trapping Billy in an inescapable hug from behind.

"Aww, c’mon, man, let us love you!"

Billy visibly considered murder, but he was stuck.

Defeated, he dropped his head back against Stu’s shoulder, exhaling sharply. "I hate both of you."

You beamed, pressing one last, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. "We know." Stu just grinned, squeezing Billy tighter.

Billy sighed. "Unfortunately."

And yet—despite his complaints, despite his glaring—Billy didn’t push either of you away.

If anything…

His grip tightened.

Just a little.

-----

The first time you hear the floorboards creak, your heart stutters in your chest. It’s late—too late for visitors, too late for anyone to be walking around your house except for you. The chill in the air seeps through your open window, rustling your curtains like ghostly fingers, and you swear you can hear the distant hum of something… watching.

Then, a whisper, soft and teasing:

“Boo.”

You barely get a chance to react before a gloved hand cups your cheek, tilting your head up. A white mask looms above you, glossy black eyes empty yet somehow brimming with mischief. The second figure appears just as quickly, pressing in from behind, their breath warm against your neck as they chuckle.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Stu drawls, dropping his mask onto your desk before wrapping himself around you, arms banding across your waist. “You should see your face right now—so cute. Terrified. Makes me wanna eat you up.”

Billy, still in his mask, tilts his head, fingers trailing along your jaw. “What’s the matter, baby? Thought you liked surprises.”

You huff, pushing at Stu’s arms half-heartedly, but he refuses to budge. "Surprises don’t usually involve breaking and entering, you freaks."

Billy finally removes his mask, revealing that sharp smirk that always makes your stomach flip. “Technically, we have keys,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against your temple. “So it’s not breaking and entering. It’s just entering.”

Stu snickers, squeezing you tighter. “And we entered real good, huh?”

Before you can retaliate, Billy grips your chin, tilting your face up. His lips find yours in a slow, deliberate kiss—deep and possessive, like he’s trying to consume every breath you have left. His other hand slides down your side, settling against your hip, fingers curling into your shirt as he presses himself closer.

Behind you, Stu hums, nosing into your neck. “Damn, baby, you’re so warm.” His teeth graze your skin, not quite biting, just enough to make you shiver. "We should wake you up like this every night. Just sneak in, cuddle up, steal some kisses—"

"You always steal kisses," you mutter, breaking away from Billy just long enough to glare at Stu.

He grins. “Yeah, but you love it.”

Billy pulls you back before you can respond, kissing you again, this time more insistent, more urgent. His tongue teases against your lower lip, and you melt into him before you even realize what you're doing. His hands slide down, gripping your waist possessively, thumbs rubbing soothing circles.

Stu, ever the jealous one, makes a noise of protest and tugs you backward. "Hey, don’t hog ‘em, man. Sharing is caring."

Billy pulls away just slightly, his lips slick and pink, and raises a brow. “You’re not even trying. Just standing there, being annoying.”

Stu gasps, all exaggerated offense. "I’m literally holding them like my favorite teddy bear!"

Billy rolls his eyes, but his smirk softens. "Then act like it."

Stu doesn’t need to be told twice. He spins you in his arms, capturing your lips in a kiss so sweet it makes your knees weak. Where Billy is intense, consuming, Stu is playful, teasing. He hums into your mouth, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt as his lips drag from your lips to your cheek, then down to your jaw.

Billy, not one to be ignored, presses up against you from behind, trapping you between their warmth. His lips skim over the back of your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

You whimper, just a little, just enough to make them both grin.

"Awww," Stu coos, nipping at your cheek before kissing the same spot. "Is our baby feeling overwhelmed?"

Billy chuckles, his voice lower, rougher. "Good."

They don’t stop kissing you. Your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your neck—every inch of skin they can reach. Billy is methodical, his kisses trailing slow and deliberate, while Stu is chaotic, pressing quick pecks all over, whispering little praises in between.

"So pretty," Stu murmurs against your ear, his hands massaging slow, lazy circles into your sides. "So warm, so sweet. Can't get enough of you."

Billy's breath ghosts over your jaw before he presses another firm kiss there. "We should keep you between us forever.."

Something in his tone makes your breath hitch. Possessive. Protective. Loving.

You should be unnerved. But you’re not.

"You're both ridiculous," you whisper, though your voice lacks any real bite.

Stu grins. "Ridiculously in love with you, yeah."

Billy hums in agreement, brushing his lips over your temple. "Now, let’s get you back to bed, baby. You need sleep."

"After all that?" You scoff. "You expect me to just sleep?"

Billy smirks. "We'll make it up to you in the morning."

Stu wiggles his eyebrows. "Or we could keep kissing you ‘til you pass out. That’d be fun."

You groan, but you don’t pull away. You don’t want to. Instead, you let them guide you to bed, curling up between them as they continue peppering you with kisses—soft, slow, affectionate.

And as their warmth surrounds you, as their lips press lazy, lingering kisses against your skin, you realize something.

You don’t feel afraid anymore.

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comatosebunny09 · 2 years ago

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personal headcanons | leon k.

genre(s): humor, romance, erotica, modern au warning(s): female reader in mind, language, age gap, self indulgent, fingering, oral, p in v, voice kink, mentions of choking, bodily fluids, dirty talk, pet names, mostly me being a horny spazz for this man, not proofread now playing: funny how time flies - janet jackson

‣ most of your jokes consist of poking fun at your age difference.

‣ seriously. gen x vs. gen y is strong with this one.

‣ prime example: you give him shit about his car still having a cassette player.

‣ “get with the times, grandpa.”

‣ “fuck off. it’s retro.”

‣ “you’re retro, old man.”

‣ thinks the fact you still watch cartoons is endearing.

‣ but, “what the fuck is adventure time?”

‣ will “back in my day” you until you roll your eyes and scoff, shutting him up with a kiss.

‣ has your back despite how often you call him old.

‣ like you’re not getting up there yourself—your aching back and knees!

‣ goes out of his way to bring you little trinkets and snacks when he goes on missions in other countries.

‣ it eats him up that he can’t divulge the secrets of his profession.

‣ never wants to hide anything from you; you make him want to give you the world.

‣ but he knows he has to keep some secrets to protect you.

‣ you love him nonetheless.

‣ tug on his little heartstrings when you fall asleep on the phone with him.

‣ or when he catches you between sleep and consciousness on the couch when he’s had another late night around the office.

‣ secretly loves whisking you off to bed like some knight in shining armor.

‣ ridiculously gentle despite his imposing figure and calloused hands.

‣ sometimes riddled with those intrusive thoughts of choking you because he knows he could crush you with how small you are compared to him.

‣ not like you’d complain—sometimes, you ask him to lose a little control.

‣ and that scares him shitless because, who made you like this?

‣ despite how badly he wants to show you how much he’s missed you, he lets you sleep.

‣ holds you tight while you sink below the depths of unconsciousness.

‣ because sometimes, letting you go feels like you’ll disappear in a plume of smoke.

‣ but when you awaken before the sun…

‣ oh, it’s on.

‣ because you think you’re so slick, rutting your little ass against him in the wee hours of the morning.

‣ challenge: accepted.

‣ knows what his voice does to you. how the low rumble of it makes you clench and stutter.

‣ and when you rub your thighs together to ward off that fuzzy rush of endorphins between them…

‣ fuck.

‣ “did somebody miss me?” he croons, his stubble coarse in the junction of your shoulder as he litters your neck with kisses and holds your chin in his massive hand.

‣ loves to tease you into submission.

‣ will touch and suckle everywhere except where you want him the most.

‣ and he will do this for hours until you growl for him to “stop being a little shit.”

‣ “thought you were sleepin’, baby.”

‣ plays with your pretty nipples until they’re pebbled and straining against your clothes.

‣ flitters his tongue over them, groaning because you taste and feel so goddamn good.

‣ spreads you open like a flower with long, languid strokes of his fingers.

‣ and the sticky glide of your cunt against his fingertips makes his dick jump.

‣ “makin’ a mess for me already, love? so fuckin’ cute, aren’t you?”

‣ alternates between circling your clit and testing the barrier of your sticky, slutty little pussy hole depending on how your body responds to him.

‣ because when you undulate your hips against him in response, he soaks his joggers with pre-spend.

‣ will make you cum at least thrice on his hand.

‣ and will keep fucking you through your orgasms because, who told you to feel this good?

‣ until you beg him for something more filling.

‣ can give you a solid two rounds in pound-town.

‣ he’s not as young as he used to be, god dammit. cut ‘em some slack.

‣ apologetic if he cums before you, though he makes it his mission to ensure you get yours first.

‣ but will finish you off with his mouth if you so please.

‣ eating you out is his favorite pastime. he gets hard all over again just from being between your legs.

‣ will twine your fingers together and maintain some semblance of eye contact while he unravels you with his mouth.

‣ and will groan into your cunt to let you know how appreciative he is for the meal.

‣ vocal af.

‣ will continue until your thighs clamp down on his face, signaling him to “s-stop. to-too much.”

‣ god forbid he’s in a teasing mood because you’ll have to punch him to get him to stop.

‣ but, you’re irresistible when you beg, and—

‣ fuck. he’s suddenly up for round 3.

‣ aftercare is immaculate.✨

‣ has a hard time keeping up with your energy sometimes.

‣ but will definitely heft you up with one hand as he walks you into the house to kiss you stupid against the wall of your entryway.

‣ will definitely dance on the table with you in his underwear.

‣ and indulges you in your childish requests—pillow fort? he’s down.

‣ content with just existing in your presence.

‣ you’re his vice; his kryptonite.

‣ and he’s hopelessly romantic for you.

‣ because you have him doing all the cliche shit. kissing in the rain. swinging hands on the beach, walking into the sunset. sporadically showing up at your job with flowers and takeout.

‣ grabbing your ass in public to let everyone know that yes, this old man’s hittin’ that.

‣ he’s head over heels for you.

‣ and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

‣ because you make him feel something he thought himself dead to for years.

#leon x reader #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #leon x fem reader #leon kennedy x fem reader #leon s kennedy x fem!reader #resident evil x reader #resident evil x you #resident evil fic #self indulgent #tw: smut #tw: language #cw: bodily fluids #leon kennedy smut #leon s kennedy smut #leon smut #leon s kennedy headcanons #leon kennedy headcanons #leon headcanons

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

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hello!! i humbly ask for some price fluff… maybe sleeping on his chest or something or getting ready for bed

—Hum Me A Tune, Blue-Eyes

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [You listen to his heartbeat as he keeps you to his chest, his breath tickling your hair.] ❞

Your eyes are half closed and drooping farther by the second, a warmth so bone-deep blooming beneath the skin that it fully encapsulates your consciousness.

John keeps your head against his chest, one callused hand on the back of your skull and massaging in small circles. You hear him hum under his breath as he watches you; his own lids teetering up and down.

In the background, the gentle sound of the record player spits out Beethoven.

"You're makin' me sleepy," you whisper, nuzzling against John's chest and his shirt with a large sigh. The man grunts, and you feel his lips meet your scalp in a deep kiss. He smells like linen and beard oil.

Into your hair, John mutters, "Good." It's more a purr than anything else as you shiver at the sensation of his body grumbling from under you.

The living room is the picture of a Saturday afternoon—dishes in the kitchen sink, laundry in the basket to be put away; the couch you both lay on sinking with your combined weight. Sun streaming through the curtains.

You've forgotten how you both ended up in this position in the first place. Not that it mattered to you now.

"Like you here." The Brit huffs, the blue of his eyes dim and content. Pools of molten sapphire. It's as if whenever he holds you everything else falls away into a sheen of contentment.

There's no war here with you on his chest—no gunfire or yelling orders. Just the heat of your body and the swell of lungs as your chest bares down on him. John's lashes flutter.

"Course you do," you tease, slowly, before kissing his clothed chest. John stifles a chuckle, his lips curling along your scalp as his breath tickles your hair. His hands spread out along your back—curling as a snake would. Tight and firm. You don't mind in the slightest. "Careful, Captain...don't go sleeping on duty."

Briefly, you peek up at him through your addled haze. He lays a kiss on your forehead and his lips twitch as you continue. Such a greedy cuddler. "We still have sheets to put on the bed, y'know."

There was no way the both of you were leaving this couch. Not with John's large hands caressing your spine. Not with how you fit atop him so perfectly with your dead weight and adorable sleepy blinks.

This was fucking heavenly.

"Fuckin' hell," the brunette grumbles; he hikes you farther up as you let him drag you like a stuffed animal with a tiny grunt. John sighs, settling you. "Bloody forget about it. You're not movin' an inch."

"That a promise...or an order?"

"Both." You smile, letting his large lungs raise you up and down as if sleeping atop a grizzly bear. Maybe, you thought, you were.

"Sleep, Love," John whispers. "I'll be right here with you."

And as you close your eyes fully and slot your head under the man's chin, the gruff brunette joins not seconds later into the state of oblivion. Soft inhalations; greedy hands that anchor like steel. A scrape of beard hair against your ear.

The house settles, the music plays, and the two Lovers sleep; dead to all else except one another's arms.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

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ragingbookdragon · 1 year ago

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Life becomes a bit simpler after her chat with Price; the others definitely notice as she’s not calling Ghost “sir” consistently, and she’s also not avoiding him like the plague. It’s almost upsetting for both Gaz and Soap, mainly because it gave them something to tease Ghost about—it was hilarious watching the way his jaw would clench when they did so. She may not be avoiding Ghost like usual, but she doesn’t go out of her way to directly engage him either. She’s calm, cool, collected when he speaks to her, even smiles at him from time to time, like she used to.

It’s her eyes that unnerves Ghost though.

She knows. And he knows she knows because his skin crawls when he recognizes the look in them. He used to hate it when he saw that. Saw it in every soldier, every superior, every civilian’s gaze when they whispered in the halls about him. But where theirs held pity, hers shine with understanding. With grace. With welcoming.

It makes his stomach churn uncomfortably and weight like lead settle in his bones.

***

Ghost has a routine when he can’t sleep. Usually wakes up at one, drinks a cup of decaffeinated tea, and goes back to sleep by three. No one else is usually awake during those hours except routine security and he trudges into the kitchen, intent to make himself a cup in his tired state, when he stops at the entrance, eyes widening when he sees her sitting there with a steaming cup of tea in front of her, and a bottle of whiskey.

She looks up at the intrusion and smiles tiredly at him. “Hiya LT. Funny meeting you here.”

“It’s one A.M.” he mutters. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Can’t sleep,” she replies, looking back at her tea.

Ghost takes a step into the kitchen, goes to the kettle when his eyes fall on the table again, and he realizes she has two cups of tea ready.

“You’re a piss poor liar,” he says under his breath, abandoning the kettle as he pulls out the chair and plops down beside her. “You makin’ hotty toddy’s?”

“Those don’t have tea in them,” she answers, but pours a decent amount of whiskey in his teacup. “But yes, I am.”

He hums, lifts the mask above his upper lip and takes a sip. “Not bad,” he cuts himself off with a cough and she purses her lips, trying not to laugh at him. “Not bad,” he wheezes, eyes watering, but he feels something light in his chest when he sees her smile.

It’s a comfortable silence they find themselves sitting in, drinking tea and staring at the board on the wall across the room in front of them. It’s Soap’s turn on dishes for the week. He’ll probably try to smooch his way out of it—he hates washing dishes. He’ll most likely ask her to switch duties with him; he’ll probably win.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you the other day.”

She blinks and looks over at him, but his eyes are still on the board, moving like he’s reading. “It’s…it’s okay, LT.”

“No,” he answers back immediately. “No, it wasn’t. And I shouldn’t have done it. I should’ve acted like an adult and instead I acted like a ten-year-old.”

A laugh passes her lips and he looks over at her curiously; she shakes her head. Price said something like that.” Her eyes meet his. “I’m sorry I’m always up your ass. I know it can be annoying.”

Ghost shrugs. “I’m used to annoying.” He catches the way her expression pinches and he corrects, “You’re not annoying, you’re just…”

“A lot?”

“Will you let me try and dig myself out of this hole, please?”

She smiles and reaches over, patting his leg. “I know what you mean. I’ll try to not be it.”

Ghost blinks and looks at her hand then back at her. “I miss it, y’know? You being…you.”

“Really?”

He nods. “It’s too quiet around the base. I realize how much your laughter makes us all feel when I don’t hear it.” He sips his tea.

She stirs the spoon in hers. “��Price told me about your family.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

He shrugs. “I figured he’d said something.” He nudges her in the side. “Gave you a talking to, didn’t he?”

“You’re one to talk,” she retorts, and he grins for a moment before he lets out a sigh.

“My old man was a drunk arsehole.”

“LT, you don’t—”

“No, I do,” he interrupts and leans back, staring at the ceiling. “He was a complete cunt. Beat me and my mum and brother. Tommy was a drug addict, started stealin’ from mum.” Something flickers in his expression. Cold. Old hatred. “I beat the shit outta my old man. Kicked him out for good. Got Tommy into rehab.” His tone eases somewhat. “Things got better. Tommy married Beth, had Joseph. Things were good.” Ghost’s eyes take on a sadness, an ache, a wound that has never seemed to really heal, just scab over. “Things were good,” he murmurs.

“And then…”

He inhales and exhales, swallows, tries to speak, until all he can say is, “I don’t like talkin’ ‘bout Mexico.”

She lays her hand on his. “You don’t have to.”

“I got vengeance for the blood that was spilled from my family.” He inhales and exhales again, closing his eyes for a moment. “…I’m claustrophobic. An’ I hate being around people. I hate bein’ in a room where I don’t know the exits. I hate gettin’ new people ‘cause I’m afraid to trust ‘em.” When she gives him a funny look from the last statement, he adds, “The people you know can hurt you the worst.”

“LT, I would never betray you.”

“Don’t ever say you won’t until you’re in a—”

“Simon, I would never betray you,” she repeats firmly, gazing at him intently. “I would rather die than betray any of the people on this team.”

He searches her gaze for some kind of lie before he turns his head back to the wall. “I’m afraid to let more people in ‘cause I’ve already lost so much of myself from it. I don’t know how much more I can take losin’.”

She goes quiet for a moment, thinks on his words, then counters, “I’d rather lose the people I care about than never know what it was like to love them in the first place.” She can see the way the man beneath Ghost aches to wish he could still be that man. “I’d rather lose you as my friend than never know what it was like to know the man beneath the mask.”

“I’m not a good man to know,” he murmurs, and she scoffs lightly.

“That’s your prerogative.”

“It’s the right one.”

She turns in her chair, her knees brushing against the outside of his thigh as she affirms, “Whether or not you think you are, you are my friend, and I am a better person for knowing you.”

“Puffin,” he mutters. “You gotta aim higher, love.”

“Or you can let me in.” She watches the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I’m not going anywhere. You can either accept that and be my friend, or you can reject it and ignore me forever, but I’ll still be here.”

Ghost‘s face pinches and he gripes, “You’re a pain in my arse, you know that, don’t you?” Her smile is bright as he sits straight again and leans against his arm, her head on his shoulder.

After a moment, she whispers, “LT, do you think…do you think in a different life we’d be better people? Happier?”

He tears his gaze from the wall to look down at her and he thinks for a moment, then nods. “Yeah, pet, I think we’d be better.” He shifts his arm, wraps it around the back of her chair and adds, “But I think you and me are doing just fine in this one.”

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societyfolklore · 24 days ago

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Just Fixing Things

Title: Just Fixing Things

Pairing: Retired Cop!Walter Marshall x Female Reader

Summary: A quiet Sunday morning turns into anything but when Walter decides something in the kitchen needs his attention but now he also wants yours. But even on weekends work needs you.. but your husband has other plans, and he’s not letting go without leaving a reminder.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Domestic Fluff, fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, mild dominance/power exchange, possessive behaviour,.. soft dom!Walter, domestic setting, established relationship (married)

A/N: Decided to jump onto @darkficsyouneveraskedfor Househusbands AU mini challenge

The sound of the wrench clinking against metal had been going on for twenty minutes now. Not loud, just steady. Persistent. Like everything Walter did.

You had leaned on the doorway to the kitchen, still in your sleep shirt, his shirt, technically. The oversized cotton hung just past your thighs, worn thin from years of washes. You hadn’t meant to linger, but the view was… distracting.

Walter was half-under the sink again, broad back flexing beneath a faded grey t-shirt, riding up just enough to show the slope of his lower back. His jeans were slung low on his hips, dusty and worn at the pockets. Barefoot, like he always was on Sundays. The man had a whole drawer full of socks and never touched them unless it was snowing.

He had grunted softly, adjusting something with the wrench. You were almost certain the leak had been fixed on Friday.

“Walter,” you had called, voice still husky from sleep.

A pause. “Yeah?”

“You already fixed that pipe.”

“I know.” Another metallic click. “Just makin’ sure.”

You had padded into the kitchen, feet bare on the warm hardwood, crossing your arms as you watched him emerge from under the sink. He had moved slow, deliberate, like his body still ached from years of chasing monsters. His beard was thicker now, salt-and-pepper shadowing his jawline. Hair longer than he used to keep it, curling at his nape.

When his eyes had found yours, they were already warm.

“You don’t trust your own work now?”

He had smirked, the scar above his brow tugging slightly. “I trust it just fine. Doesn’t mean I don’t check it twice.”

“Uh huh,” you had said dryly, eyeing the perfectly dry sink. “And this has nothing to do with the fact you get to spend an hour on your back while I stare at your ass?”

Walter had straightened to full height, towering, arms glistening faintly with the sheen of effort. “If you wanted me on my back, sweetheart, you only had to ask.”

Heat had curled low in your belly at the sound of that gravelly voice paired with his casual, teasing grin. Damn him.

“Bold talk for a man elbow-deep in plumbing,” you had muttered.

He had stepped closer, dragging the grease rag from his back pocket and tossing it on the counter without breaking eye contact. “You’ve been standing there for a while now. Quiet. Watching. Figured you wanted something.”

Your breath had hitched. He was close enough now that you could smell him- soap and sweat and the bacon he cooked earlier. That specific, masculine warmth that never quite faded from his skin.

“Maybe I just like seeing you domestic,” you had murmured, lips tugging up.

Walter had tilted his head slightly, studying you the way he used to study suspects, except softer. Always softer with you. His hands had found your waist, big palms settling easily, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt. You had felt a smear of grease on your hip and shivered.

“You like this?” he had asked, voice low. “Me playing house?”

“I like you, playing house.”

He had leaned in then, so close you felt his beard brush your cheek, the whisper of his lips at your ear. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Your hands had fisted in the fabric of his shirt just as he dipped down, lips pressing against your throat, gentle, reverent. His beard had scraped in the best way. You had let out a sound—half sigh, half whimper. He had chuckled into your skin.

“You’re not cold,” he had said, lips brushing along your jaw. “But you’ve got goosebumps.”

You had swallowed, barely able to speak. “Maybe I’m just excited to see what you’ll fix next.”

Walter had pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. There had been something smoldering in his gaze, something that hadn’t dulled with age or time. It was quieter now, less reckless. But it still burned. And right then, all of it was focused on you.

“I’ve got a few ideas,” he had said roughly, voice dropping. “But they all involve this shirt coming off.”

You had bitten your lip, heart skipping.

Then, without warning, his hands had gripped your thighs and lifted you up onto the counter like you weighed nothing.

You had gasped, laughing breathlessly. “Walter-”

He had stepped in between your legs, dragging you to the edge until your hips were flush with his. One big hand had braced your lower back, the other slipping up under your sleep shirt.

His other hand had come up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking gently along your jaw before he leaned in to kiss you, slow, deep, the kind that made your knees weak even when you weren’t standing. His beard had tickled, the scrape of it making you hum against his mouth.

But you had pulled back suddenly, hands pressing against his chest.

"I have to go," you had murmured, guilt already creeping in.

His brows had furrowed. "What?"

You had glanced at the phone buzzing on the nearby counter. "I have to get back to the office. They need final revisions before Thursday’s handover. And someone's changing their mind about direction."

Walter’s expression had darkened, something shifting under his steady calm. "Really? Today?"

"I know... I'm sorry." Your voice had softened. You hated how often work pulled you away from quiet mornings like that. From him. From Faye, when she was over. But it wasn't optional.

"What about what I need?" he had asked, and the words came out like gravel. Heavy. Dangerous.

You had blinked, heart skipping. "What you need?"

His hands had grown more insistent, one sliding higher beneath your shirt while the other pressed at the small of your back, pulling you closer. He had rolled his hips just enough that you could feel the bulge of his jeans thick against your center.

"Surely they can't expect you right away," he had said darkly, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. His palm had dipped between your thighs, fingers teasing along your underwear. "This is supposed to be our time."

You had felt a twist in your stomach, arousal and guilt, tangled together. You had worked so hard to give him room to breathe, to recover from a line of work that had started to tear him under, and yet... there he was, eyes burning, hands hungry.

"I know..." you had whispered.

He had pushed aside the thin cotton of your underwear, thick fingers sliding slowly along your center, teasing through the wetness already forming there. Your breath had caught.

"Already wet for me," he had murmured, mouth ghosting over yours again, beard scratching at your skin as he tilted your chin up with one calloused hand. "How am I supposed to let you walk out the door like this? What kind of husband would I be doing that?"

His touch had circled deliberately, slowly, making it impossible to think. You had arched into him as his fingers found that tender bundle of nerves, breath stuttering, hands grasping the edge of the counter to ground yourself.

"Undo my belt," he had said, voice low and firm.

You had hesitated for only a second, the command sending heat through your veins, fogging your mind in the best way. There had been something grounding- relieving- about letting him take over, letting the burden of decision and leadership fall away. You had reached between you, fingers trembling slightly as you worked open the buckle, then popped the button on his jeans.

Walter had groaned softly, his finger teasing your entrance, collecting the slickness before returning to those slow, devastating circles. You had whimpered, lips parting against his jaw.

"Move forward," he had murmured, guiding your hips with his free hand, "and put me in."

Your breath had hitched, the air thick with need, your fingers reaching down again—this time to do exactly as you were told.

He was hot and heavy in your palm, the weight of him sending a pulse through your core. You swallowed hard, brushing your thumb along the tip, and Walter hissed through his teeth, his forehead pressing to yours.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Nice and slow.”

You guided him toward you, heart hammering, thighs trembling slightly against his hips. His hands never stopped moving, one gripping your back, the other still teasing lazy, maddening circles against your clit that made you jolt and moan.

And then you pressed your hips forward, the head of his cock slipping through your slick folds as you angled yourself just right.

“Fuck,” he growled as he slid into you, inch by thick inch, stretching you open in that slow, careful way that always made you feel so full it stole your breath. “Goddamn, you feel good.”

You clenched around him involuntarily, your head tipping back against the cabinets as your fingers gripped his biceps.

He didn’t thrust, not yet. Your husband stayed still inside you, buried deep, his hand slipping up your spine, guiding your shirt higher until it bunched around your ribs. His mouth found your collarbone again, kissing, sucking, teasing as his cock pulsed inside you.

You whimpered, rocking your hips just slightly.

“Not yet,” Walter warned, voice ragged but steady. “You wait for me, sweetheart. I’ll give it to you when I’m ready.”

You nodded shakily, every nerve in your body wound tight, the overwhelming fullness of him paired with the friction of his hand working you in slow circles.

“I’ve been patient,” he muttered against your skin, thrusting shallowly once, then twice, just enough to make your thighs shake. “You think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been walking around in nothing but my shirts once you’re home? Teasing me. Then running off to that damn office.”

You moaned, barely coherent. “Walt…”

“No,” he growled, pinning your hips. “You don’t get to rush this. I’m going to make sure you feel me for the rest of the day. Make sure you can’t sit in that office chair without remembering what you left behind.”

His rhythm deepened then, slow, punishing, precise. The thickness of his cock pressed right into that spot inside you that made your vision blur, each deliberate thrust wringing gasps and moans from your lips.

Your head tipped back, hitting the cabinet behind you with a soft thud, as stars danced behind your eyelids. He felt too good- too big, too deep, and too in control. You couldn’t think, could barely breathe. All you could do was feel.

“That’s it, baby,” Walter rasped, his voice barely holding together. “You’re so beautiful when you let me take you apart.”

His mouth found your neck, hot and wet and desperate, tongue sliding over your pulse before he scraped his teeth just hard enough to make you jolt. Your hands scrambled across his back, gripping the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer. One hand slid into his thick hair, pulling him in as your legs locked tighter around his waist.

His hips moved in slow, controlled circles, the kind that said he knew exactly what he was doing. He knew your body inside and out, knew how to draw it out, build it, break it.

“I’m gonna make something real nice for dinner once you get back,” he murmured against your ear, voice gravel and smoke. “Something hot and rich. Make the whole damn house smell like comfort.”

You whimpered as another wave of pleasure crested.

“But don’t stay too long,” he added, thrusting deeper, slower. “Not when I’m doing all this for you. Not when I’m waiting. Just like you waited for me, sweetheart. Let me do that for you now.”

Emotion laced through the heat in his words- need and love and aching gratitude and it made your whole chest tighten. Your climax hovered on the edge, trembling just beneath the surface, and when he reached between you again, circling your clit with maddening, practiced precision….

your body arched and broke.

You cried out, vision going white, fingers digging into his shoulders as you came hard around him, pulsing and gasping as his name spilled from your lips. Walter held you through it, letting the tension roll through you, never stopping, never letting go.

He followed just moments later, buried deep with a ragged groan against your neck. His arms locked around you, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, panting against your skin like he’d just come home from battle.

Both of you breathed heavily, foreheads pressed together, the kitchen spinning just slightly in the haze of release. Walter peppered soft kisses along your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

“My little advertising queen,” he murmured with a fond, husky smile, nuzzling his nose against yours. You wrapped your arms tighter around him, wanting to stay right there- bare, full, safe.

But the moment shattered when your phone began to ring, its shrill tone echoing from the bedroom.

You groaned. “Shit…”

Walter’s jaw tensed as he slowly pulled back, helping you off the counter with gentle hands even as his scowl deepened.

“Ergh. I need to get that,” you muttered, kissing the corner of his mouth.

He didn’t say anything, just stood there, jeans still undone, muscles taut, watching you leave. As you disappeared down the hall to clean up, he ran a hand through his hair and muttered under his breath, “Swear she keeps this up, I’m gonna tie her to the damn bed just so she can’t leave.”

#smut #walter marshall #Walter Marshall imagine #Walter Marshall Fic #Night Hunter fanfiction #Night hunter smut #Walter Marshall fic #Walter Marshal smut #henry cavill #henry cavill characters #Walter Marshall x reader #Walter Marshall x Female reader #Walter Marshall x you #househusband #househusband Au

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sab0dssey · 2 months ago

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Enemy!Kyle got me on my knees weak.

You walked through the streets of New York, illuminated with floodlights and billboards, extremely drunk. But accidentally drunk because of your friends. They forced you to drink. You never wanted to drink, right? How innocent.

The people passing, never giving attention to anybody but themselves. Which you loved about New York most. People minding their own business, not caring anybody.

You stopped at the stop. Looking for a cab. But too drunk for seeing straight. You mumbled something in your mouth. Narrowed your eyes, trying to see clearly, but car lights makin your eyes burn. With heavy sigh you gave up. Raised your arm, waiting for anything to pick you up. Since your friends dumped you by saying car is full. Bullshit.

You don’t remember how long you waited until you jumped with a loud honk sound. Groaned and lazily get in the cab. Pressed your head on window, sighed and closed your eyes. Exhaustion was winning his race.

The cab driver turned behind when he didn’t receive any answer from you, only to find you fall asleep. “Ma’am? Ma’am you need the tell me where are we going?” He asked.

When he was gonging to yell to you the car door opened. And a big, muscular man get inside. Carefully guided her head on his shoulder. And he gave the cab driver her address.

Cab driver was suspicious, but needed to submit when he felt the soldier’s deadly eyes on him. The cab driver gulped and turned his eyes back to the road, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.

The man sitting next to you was built like a tank—broad shoulders, strong arms, and an aura that screamed danger. His sharp jaw was clenched, and his dark eyes remained locked on you, as if making sure you wouldn’t slip from his grasp. His grip on your shoulder was firm yet careful, almost protective.

The ride was silent except for the faint hum of the engine and the distant noise of the city. Every now and then, the cab driver glanced at the rearview mirror, catching glimpses of the man’s hardened expression. He didn’t seem drunk like you—far from it. There was a sharpness in his gaze, an alertness that didn’t match the easy way he leaned back against the seat. A soldier, the cab driver guessed. Someone who had seen too much.

As the car took a sharp turn, your head slightly slipped from his shoulder, and he instinctively adjusted, pulling you closer. He sighed, running a gloved hand through his short hair before looking down at you.

“Always getting yourself into trouble, huh?” His voice was deep, barely above a whisper. A small, almost amused smirk played on his lips, but there was something else hidden in his tone. Something like concern.

The cab driver, still unsure, cleared his throat. “She’s yours?”

The man turned his gaze to him, and for a second, the driver regretted asking. The look in his eyes was cold, calculating. Then, he exhaled through his nose, gaze softening just a fraction as he looked down at you again.

“Something like that.” He murmured.

Driver’s eyes met with his eyes again, “What’s your name?”

“Kyle.” He answered gruffly. Driver nodded and turned to road. “She looks so vulnerable. Don’t leave her.”

Kyle looked a little longer to driver. And then sighed. Nodding quietly.

The taxi moved slowly through the rain-soaked streets of New York, while Kyle glanced down at the girl resting her head on his shoulder, her eyes closed. Her face looked peaceful, yet her brows were slightly furrowed—as if she was fighting a battle even in her sleep. He took a deep breath. Seeing her like this, vulnerable, unknowingly leaning on him, tore something apart inside him.

This girl had been a thorn in his side for as long as he could remember. They were supposed to hate each other, weren’t they? The arguments, the stubbornness, the way she always found a way to get under his skin… But now, even in her drunken state, she unconsciously trusted him. The feelings he had buried for years screamed inside him.

When the taxi finally arrived at her apartment, Kyle carefully stepped out, handed the driver his payment, and carried her in his arms. She was so light… Yet, when they clashed, she seemed like she could shake the whole world.

Once inside, he sighed, shutting the door behind him. Gently, he laid her down on the bed, removing her shoes and jacket, adjusting the pillow to make her more comfortable. But his gaze lingered on her face. Her smudged makeup was evidence of how much she had drunk tonight.

He sat down and quietly picked up a makeup remover wipe. Normally, he would never do something like this, but… but she was different. With careful movements, he wiped her face clean. Her brows twitched slightly, but she didn’t wake up. Now, without the makeup, she looked softer, more… real.

Kyle took a deep breath. At that moment, he realized he couldn’t hold back his confession any longer.

“I wish you could see me differently, just once,” he whispered. “I’m tired of looking like your enemy. But if that’s the only way… if these feelings are meant to be one-sided… then I’ll accept it. I’ll keep loving you in secret.”

He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head at his own foolishness. Slowly, he stood up, pulled the blanket over her, and took one last look at her.

“Sweet dreams, trouble.”

And with that, he quietly closed the door behind him, disappearing into the night.

#simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz x reader #kyle gaz x you #task force 141 #gaz x reader #gaz garrick #gaz call of duty #call of duty #cod x reader

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year ago

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Something Borrowed

Pairing: Tom Bennett (World on Fire) x f!reader Warnings: Smut. Word count: ~1.5k Summary: An addition to Best Intentions. Read as a standalone, if you'd like.

Author's note: A birthday gift for @hoosbandewan - husband Tom on your birthday. Happy birthday, Erin! No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

“God’s got bigger things to worry about than me makin’ an honest woman outta ya,” Tom had told her with a wink. “Besides, the money we save we can put towards a bigger do. Would rather everyone have a few beers and sarnies to celebrate, than sit in a stuffy church with their arses going to sleep.”

That had settled it. Her and Tom were to have a registry office wedding, with a reception at The Ducie Arms afterwards.

Even without money being as tight as it is she knows that this is what they would always have chosen. It’s just irrevocably them. Theirs is not a love born of grand gestures and material possessions. They share a soul connection, a lifetime of scraped knees, shared sweets, building their lives around each other, growing together. They are already two halves of the same whole, this is simply the string that ties it all together.

Despite keeping the ceremony itself modest, she feels like a princess as she stands in front of the mirror, her mum behind her fastening the last few buttons on the back of her wedding dress, as she places the last of the pins in her hair.

They’d gotten a deal at the haberdashery on some end cuts of lace and satin, and her mum had worked her magic with her sewing machine. The dress looks shop bought.

She smiles as she smooths her hands over the skirt, taking in the high neckline and draped sleeves, grateful that she’d woken early enough to clasp herself into the lingerie and slip that lies beneath - a wedding night treat for Tom - before her mum had arrived to help her get ready.

It had been a struggle to get out of bed that morning. Her mum, Lois and Connie had all popped round to the flat the previous evening to make sandwiches for the reception. She’d been half way through spreading margarine on a slice of bread when Connie had produced a bottle of gin from her bag.

“Well, if Tom and the rest of the lads are all at the pub, why shouldn’t we?” Connie had asked with a smile as Lois had rushed to get glasses down from the kitchen cupboard.

The pounding in her head the next day tells her exactly why she shouldn’t have. She wonders if Tom is in as much of a sorry state as she is. Thankfully, her make-up does a good job of hiding it.

Tom has called in a favour with a customer at the garage, so she can travel to the registry office in style. She has to stifle a laugh behind her hand as the sleek black motorcar pulls up outside the shop to pick her up. It’s the exact same one that her and Tom had vigorously made up in the back of.

As she slides onto the seat, gathering her skirt so that it doesn’t catch in the door, the memory of Tom laying between her thighs replays in her mind, causing her skin to heat up.

“Everything alright?” Her mum asks, climbing in next to her. “You look a bit flustered.”

She blinks, swallowing and nodding, startled out of her reverie. “Yeah, Mum, bit nervous is all.”

Tom stops fidgeting with his tie knot the moment he sees her, a grin spreading across his face as she walks towards him and the registrar. He lets out a low whistle as she stops beside him, turning to face him. She bows her head, giggling. She feels like a school girl all over again.

Time seems to stand still for her as she gazes into Tom’s blue eyes, not really registering the words being spoken, or the vows she utters in response, fixated only on Tom’s beaming smile. Once more he is that little boy, face full of sunshine and the sweetest little rabbit teeth she’s ever seen.

Except now he is hers. Her husband. She is a wife.

“Fuckin’ finally,” Tom mutters, surging forward once they are told they can kiss.

He grasps the back of her neck, pressing his lips to hers in a motion that steals the air from her lungs. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, smiling into it, her heart fluttering just as it had the first time they’d ever kissed. In a way, this is a first too, the first of many things they’ll share as a married couple.

“Hello, Mrs. Bennett,” he whispers against her lips when they finally part for breath.

The words have heat pooling between her legs almost instantly. She is certain she’ll never tire of hearing them.

As everyone heads in the direction of The Ducie Arms, she is confused when Tom pulls her back in the direction of the shop.

“What you doing?” She asks, brow furrowing as she resists his gentle tug on her arm.

“Left something in the flat, need to go back for it,” he tells her, nodding his head in the direction he wants to go.

“Can’t you just quickly go back for it on your own, and meet me at the pub?”

He shakes his head, tugging at her hand again. “Need you to help me, come on.”

She sighs, relenting and allowing him to pull her along. “We’re gonna be late to our own wedding reception.”

Tom smirks, glancing sideways at her. “They’ll wait, they have to.”

As soon as they’re home, he’s upon her, backing her up towards the bedroom as his hands grasp her waist and his lips find hers.

She giggles between hurried kisses, their breaths intermingling. “Is this what you forgot then?”

Tom pushes her back against the mattress, placing hot, opened mouthed kisses against her throat. “You look so good in that dress, darlin’, couldn’t wait any longer.”

She gasps as her hands slide up her skirt, bunching it at her hips. He leans back, arching a brow appreciatively at the white lingerie he finds beneath. His fingers hook beneath the strap that attaches her stocking to her garter belt and pull back slightly before letting go. It snaps against the flesh of her thigh, making her squeal.

“Tommy, we can’t!” She protests. “I’m wearing things that I won’t be able to put back on if you take them off.”

“Why ever would I take ‘em off?” He asks mockingly, cocking his head. “It’d be a waste.”

She whines as, forcefully, he pushes the gusset of her knickers to one side, swiping through her slick folders, grinning at the wetness he finds. “Gonna make us late to our own wedding reception with this. Naughty, naughty.”

Writhing against the bed, she no longer cares for her fancy lingerie, or if she rumples her dress, not when she hears the metallic clink of Tom’s belt buckle opening. The noise travels straight to her core, causing her to clench around nothing, until finally he’s lining himself up against her entrance and pressing inside. No matter how many times her and Tom make love she’ll never get used to the exquisite torture of that first initial stretch. It robs her of all coherent thought every time, only able to focus on the feeling of him pushing her walls apart.

She expects him to be quick and brutal with her, but he stills once he’s fully inside, resting his forehead against hers. It’s comforting to have him this close, just to feel the weight of him.

As she runs her hands down his back, met with the wiry yet solid expanse of muscle, she’s taken back to a time when he first returned from France and was so thin she could feel every vertebrae in his spine. This is testament to how far he’s come, how far they’ve come; not just the weight he’s put back on, but that he’s healed enough to be in a place where can be someone’s husband, and he has chosen to be hers.

Feeling a prickle of tears in her eyes, she blinks them back, feeling embarrassed when one strays its way down her cheek, until she looks back up into Tom’s eyes to see his are similarly wet.

He holds her close, he takes his time with her. It’s gentle, unhurried, and full of love.

“I love you, Mrs. Bennett,” he whispers to her.

They are late to their reception, but met with rapturous applause as they enter through the pub doors nonetheless. They drink lager, and eat spam sandwiches, and Tom treads on her feet when they attempt to slow dance to ‘Sentimental Journey’ by Doris Day. She can’t imagine a more perfect evening, that is until Tom guides her outside.

They walk back towards the wall, their wall and Tom helps her up onto it, before sitting beside her. Her legs don’t dangle as high from the floor as they used to, and it’s odd to look down and see her legs draped in white lace, instead of littered with scrapes and bruises.

She grins when she turns to Tom, watching as he produces a paper bag of sherbet straws from his inside jacket pocket. “Just wanted to say thanks for helping me with my maths homework fifteen years ago,” he says with a cheeky smile, “Mates, yeah?”

Warmth spreads throughout her chest as she leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Always.”

<< Epilogue | Series masterlist

#tom bennett x reader #tom bennett smut #tom bennett fluff #tom bennett x y/n #tom bennett x you #tom bennett imagine #tom bennett #tom bennett world on fire #world on fire tom bennett #tom bennett fan fiction #ewan mitchell #tom bennett fanfiction #tom bennett fanfic #tom bennett fan fic #world on fire #world on fire fan fiction #world on fire fanfiction #world on fire fanfic #world on fire fan fic

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cookiescribble · 7 months ago

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Flufftober Day 6: Mistaken Identity

A/N: Me? Writing about a comic book character? Who would have guessed??? Lmao I had this idea sitting in my brain for a while so I’m very happy that I get to write/post it as part of this month. Enjoy, guys! - mod ghost

Ship: Dick Grayson x GN!Reader

Summary: Dating a vigilante has its ups and downs, but little do you or Dick know, you’re both about to experience that rollercoaster firsthand

“Hey, you” Dick greeted with a grin as he looped an arm around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder as you cooked “Whatcha makin’?” he peeked into the pot before you pushed his face away.

“Get outta here, it’s a surprise. But I did miss you so before you go, get over here.” You turned around in his arms to give him a kiss, feeling him grin against your lips as you did. He lets you get back to your cooking soon after, though, so it doesn’t burn, even though that doesn’t stop him from keeping his arms around you.

“Should I cover my eyes or something so I can’t see what you’re making?” He teased, covering his eyes with his hand anyways to make you laugh.

“No, no, no, just get outta the kitchen.” You waved him off, and he left the kitchen without much more protesting. You two have been dating for a few months now, your relationship filled with moments like this one, but both of you had the same big secret without actually knowing that the other had the same secret. You heard Dick turn the tv on behind you, a news report of yourself as a vigilante flashing on the screen which made your heart rate quicken for a moment.

“Have you heard about this?” Dick called back to you, to which you shrug, not turning to face him.

“There’s so many vigilantes out there, I lost count of who’s who,” you replied, keeping your voice calm and collected to keep him from suspecting anything. To your surprise, the subject seemed to be dropped for now. From there, the day quickly turned to night, and you were leaving Dick’s apartment to go back to yours. You had a long night ahead of you, and you didn’t exactly want your boyfriend to know about your double life just yet, just in case he’d worry.

“Leaving already?” Dick questioned, a sly grin on his face as he pulled his arms away from you so that you could get up now that you had your shoes on.

“Yeah, I have an early meeting at work that I actually have to get some sleep for,” You ruffled his hair as you stood up, pausing to stretch your muscles a bit since you and Dick had been cuddling for a while to watch a movie.

“You could sleep here, if you want,” He offered in a soft voice as he stood, wrapping his arms around your waist and tucking his face against your neck.

“I would, if we’d actually get to any sleeping,” You paused to kiss the top of his head, slowly detangling yourself from his arms, as much as you didn’t want to. You had a night job to get to, to keep people like Dick safe. “I’ll be back after work tomorrow. Promise.”

“You better. I wanna hear all about this important meeting that is so cruelly taking you from me.” He talked in the same cheerful and teasing tone that he usually did, walking with you toward the door.

“Oh, trust me, you’ll get the full play by play,” you chuckled as he opened the door, turning back toward him once you’d stepped through the threshold. “Bye, Dick, I’ll see you tomorrow.

“See you tomorrow,” Dick answered, leaning forward to give you one last kiss goodbye before closing the door.

As soon as the door was closed, you rushed to your apartment to change into your suit before embarking into the night, a mask concealing most of your features. You, like many other vigilantes in this town and all the others, traveled by rooftop. Tonight was no exception as you stood on one of the taller buildings in the city, looking over the bustling nightlife for any sign of danger.

“Hey, you,” said a familiar voice from behind you, though this time it made your heart freeze in paralyzing fear.

That sounded like Dick’s voice, but there was no way he’d be up here. Or even know that you were…well, you if he did somehow get up here. The cadence in his voice was also different than this morning. This was more of a ‘hey, that person over there’ than a ‘hey, person that I like very much’ kind of tone. That was also about the time that you realized that you hadn’t responded to what he said yet.

You slowly turn around, catching the eye of the one and only Nightwing. The white of his lenses felt like they were piercing directly through your soul. You were almost afraid to speak, knowing you’d give yourself away. But then it hit you: if Dick was Nightwing, then would he really be mad about you being a vigilante? He surely wouldn’t break up with you over something like that.

“Uh…hey?” You awkwardly reply, a shockwave of emotions running through you.

You saw realization dawn over his face, as he seemed to recognize your voice.

“…Hold on”

You start to hear your heart pounding in your ears. He’s onto you, you know he is. His adoptive father being Bruce Wayne is starting to simultaneously make a lot of sense and add more questions to your repertoire even though you’re not sure how that correlates to this moment.

“Now, before you say anything—“ You try to get out ahead of it, to tell him that you didn’t mean for him to find out this way.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dick’s voice had that familiar delicate cadence it had this morning, dripping with awe and care as well as an undertone of hurt.

“I could say the same thing about you,” you replied in a similar tone of voice, your arms crossing your chest as you watch him step closer to you.

“You could get seriously hurt doing this—“

“So could you! Don’t be a hypocrite about this,” You stop yourself from saying his name, "All of the feelings you’re having right now? The hurt of keeping secrets, the fear? I have them, too. I’ve lost too many people to this job to not know what I’m talking about.” You cut off any kind of speech he was about to give, and a tense silence fell over the two of you, which only ended when Dick let out a quiet sigh.

“Alright…I don’t…we shouldn’t be fighting about this. We both know that neither of us are going to stop doing what we’re doing…But maybe we can work together. At least for tonight, and we can discuss more details later. That way, we can protect each other and don’t have to worry… as much. Deal?” He extended his gloved hand to you, smiling hopefully as he waited for you to respond.

“…Deal,” you grabbed his hand as if to shake it, but instead pulled him in for a quick kiss, “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I mean, I love you, too, but is now really the first time you wanna say that to each other?” he laughed, his arms still holding you close to him.

“Better now than ever. Race you back home?” You asked as you quickly slipped from his arms before he could give an answer, hopping to the next roof.

“Hey, no fair! You cheated!” He called after you, running to catch up

#dick grayson x reader #dick grayson #batman #batfam #batfamily #flufftober2024 #dick grayson fanfiction #dick grayson fluff #dc titans #mod ghost #nightwing #nightwing fanfiction

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howlett-n-morgan · 7 months ago

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Take Me Home

4. John Fucking Marston

Arthur Morgan x Texas Red!Reader

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

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

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

WC: 4.5k

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

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

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

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

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

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

The men did eventually pass out, all except two.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Poor Abigail.”

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

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

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

“You’re gonna marry her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Abigail picked it out, and you understand why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why you always doin’ that?”

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

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

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

“M’not, just the truth.”

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

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

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

“Is that so?”

“Mhm, very much so…”

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

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

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

“Arthur?”

“Yeah?” He turned his head again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where does he live?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m so sorry, Arthur…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you say to him?”

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

“And I suppose that didn’t help.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What was that?”

“Nothing, m’just gettin’ drunk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 #red dead fandom #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x original female character #arthur morgan x you #texas red

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niceutossu · 7 months ago

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Misconceptions | Osamu x Reader

-Osamu lives in the same area as you

-he has seen you look so CEO-ish early in the morning and he’s convinced you’re some super important business person

-he’s developed an innocent crush since you both always get coffee at the same convenience store, at the same exact time

-you were very punctual and so was he (it was good motivation to see your sweet face)

-when you would leave you would always turn left and he would right and that was that

-it’s nice to see you smile while holding the door open for him or when he does the same for you and he gets to hear your soft voice say ‘thank you’

-beyond that, he’s never talked to you, he feels like you’re from two completely different worlds so he’s content leaving things as they are

-one night, his usual delivery boy has only one order left but unbeknownst to Osamu, he’s also been on the verge of hurling his entire shift and throws up right before he can complete it

-Osamu sends him home because he refuses to not follow food safety guidelines (plus he also feels a little bad he was unaware that his employee had pushed himself so hard)

-since it was also for someone who lived in the same building as him, he really didn’t mind being the one to drop off this last order

-while packing up to leave his employee makes a cheeky remark, something along the lines of “Thanks for doing this, though we’ll be even after you see the babe it’s for.”

-Which Osamu completely disregards because there were a lot of beautiful women living at his complex (as once commented by Atsumu) so he wasn’t really all that excited about the prospect

-he was tired and he just wanted to go home and get enough sleep before he had to rush out the door in the morning to catch a glimpse of your face

-when he finds the apartment, two floors above his, he knocks and is getting ready to leave when the door swings open and he looks up to find you looking back at him

-except you don’t look anything like how you usually do

-you weren’t wearing your black blazer and matching skirt, both of which were clearly ironed with lots of care

-the white lace of the crisp white blouse you normally wore wasn’t peeking through the collar of your jacket, and your hair wasn’t pulled back into the neat half updo he had grown a bit fond of (how could you pull off something so simple so well?)

-instead, your hair was down and damp, your shirt wrinkled, and you were wearing athletic shorts so oversized they almost reached past your knees

-the smell of shampoo meant you weren’t wearing any make-up but you looked the same to him, the only real difference was the glasses perched on your nose

-he couldn’t tell if they were real or blue light but he didn’t care, you looked good

-you looked so good like this, so cute

-he had always thought you were attractive in a mature way, radiating confidence that made head turns everywhere you went

-your tight clothes did you justice, and your ‘I have my shit together’ attitude was undeniably magnetic

-but the way you looked now, so small and tired, clearly irritated from hunger but ready for bed was what made the little crush he had on you turn into a full-blown ‘like’

-Osamu liked seeing you like this, maybe even more than he did seeing you be a professional

-before he could continue to gawk any longer you took the food from his hands and stared at him for a moment, squinting your eyes before widening them in some sort of horrible realization

-“Wha- where’s the usual guy?” You asked, blushing in a way that had Osamu feeling a mix of confused and a little bit annoyed

-“You got the food…so does it matter?” Even if you were cute, he wasn’t about to pour his feelings out to someone who was still a complete stranger, and currently, a seemingly unsatisfied customer

-you scrunched your nose at his response, huffing slightly and seemingly contemplating for a moment before speaking again

-“do..do you not recognize me?” You asked hopefully, eyes looking up at him past the glasses and making his heart twirl as he held back the smile that tugged at his lips

-“Convenience store.” He replied, keeping it short but only because he couldn’t handle the implications of the entire interaction

-did you also think of him beyond just seeing him once in the morning?

-your eyes lit up at the acknowledgment before offering him a smile he hadn’t seen before, one that was more carefree now that it was just you two alone and in private

-“I had no idea you worked here.” You spoke, pointing your hand towards the bag of food he was still holding while offering him friendly conversation

-“And I had no idea you were a customer.” Osamu said while handing you the bag, deciding to use the chance to show off a bit and maybe even get you to come visit in person

-“How long have you been working there?” You questioned, eyes glazed with genuine curiosity that made his heart curl

-“Well, I kinda own it so, since I opened it?” He replied, feeling nervous and now stupid for the way he had explained himself. There goes his opportunity to show off

-despite his awkwardness, you laughed at his stupid joke and he felt himself bubble with pride, he needed to hear more of that

-he suddenly thought back to what his employee had said about you being a ‘babe’ and felt himself get annoyed, he’d definitely have to convince you to start coming in person

-“you’re funny and the owner of your own business? Man, you’re doing way better than I am.” You admitted, the nervous atmosphere settling into a more comfortable one

-at your words Osamu frowned, were you not some up and coming CEO yourself?

-you looked at him, confused as Osamu suddenly realized he had asked that out-loud

-you both stared at each other as a couple beats of silence passed before you suddenly broke out into laughter again like he had just said the funniest thing in the world

-he should’ve been more annoyed given that you were practically laughing in his face but he was intrigued more than anything else

-“CEO would be awesome but I’m nothing more than an intern at the moment.” You admitted after calming down, still letting out a few giggles as your cheeks were now flushed from having laughed so hard

-Osamu thought you couldn’t look more perfect than you do now, face rosy from something he said and pretty eyes focused solely on him

-so you weren’t some fancy CEO, that was a relief but he also knew somehow in his gut you wouldn’t stay an intern for long

-he didn’t know a lot about you past admiring you for always being on top of it and on time, unknowingly inspiring him to do the same

-but now he wanted to get to know you more than anything, to see you become the boss you were clearly meant to

-“well, just know when the time comes you’re already the perfect, pretty picture of a CEO.” Osamu complimented, somehow confident in your abilities despite your status as strangers

-at his compliment your blush deepened, the sweet tone and sincerity in his words causing a rosy red to stick to your cheeks

-the word pretty rang out in your mind as you unconsciously went to tuck a piece of damp hair behind your ear, something that made Osamu’s lips finally twitch into a smile

-to know and see that he had an any sort affect on you, like you had on him all these months made it hard to hide the giddiness he felt

-he really had to get to know you, he had been so wrong about you this entire time and he needed to get it right, to get to know you fully

-“Jeez, you’re not supposed to flirt with customers y’know?” You joke, voice light as you poke at his chest playfully

-your eyebrows raise ever so slightly as you feel all the muscle underneath the simple black t-shirt and you give him a shy glance

-“I promise I’ll try and come by in-person. But only if you promise me one thing in return.” You speak, finger unmoving from his chest as your eyes remained fixated on his own

-he swallowed thickly before responding with a small ‘hm?’

-“Same time tomorrow?” You asked, referring to your daily morning routine

-Osamu felt himself practically soar at those words, even after having seen you almost daily this time- this time you’d both know that you were each there hoping to find the other

-“you know I’ll be there.”

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #osamu x reader #miya osamu #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu osamu #osamu miya #hq x reader #hq fluff #haikyuu!!#this has been sitting in my drafts for a few days #had to show some love for the other miya <3 #niceutossu

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the-californicationist · 1 year ago

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Guile & Guilt (Ch. 09)

Soap/Reader - MDNI/18+ AO3 Link

WEDNESDAY — Evening: 2 days until the wedding

The worst part was the pretending. You thought that you’d be in the most pain when you were alone, sobbing in your room, clutching Marlowe like a comfort stuffie, but that wasn’t it. The hardest thing, actually, was smiling when you should be smiling.

No, the hardest thing was staring down at his bed and knowing you had to sleep in it because why shouldn’t you sleep in it? What reason could you tell her that you weren’t able to climb into his sheets and smell his scent in your nose again?

You couldn’t tell her that the softness of his Rangers jersey felt like thorns to you now. You couldn’t tell her why you’d prefer to sleep on the couch, the floor, outside — anywhere but his bed. No. You had to smile, and it needed to be believable. It couldn’t be a masked grimace through tears like you’d been using to get back and forth from the coffee shop and your bed, unable to even make yourself a boiled egg.

You’d come down, as planned, for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night, and the real kicker — the stake that just twisted right into your heart — was that Johnny and his whole team would be down, too. Of course all the hotels (of which there were one) and the bed and breakfasts were booked solid. So, they’d all just crash here, as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing except for you.

You were anything but ordinary. You were desperate for some sort of relief from the pain in your chest. Every time you looked down at your phone, you felt it. You ignored the 47 missed calls and the countless text messages, keeping it on silent no matter what. You’d gotten calls from him, from all of his friends, even one from Ghost. You didn’t return them. You thought he had even come to your door one night, but you didn’t answer it. You couldn’t. All you could do was tell yourself to breathe, to eat, to shower, and to make it to the next hour in one piece so you could get through this wedding without falling the fuck apart.

“You all set in here, babe?” Pidge asked behind you, watching you stare down at the empty bed, “Johnny’ll be here in just a bit so be sure to claim the good side before he does.”

She laughed. You laughed. You sounded crazy.

“Makin’ your favorite tonight. Chicken tikka,” she was talking to you like a parent talks to a child when they know something is wrong but are determined not to pry.

“Thanks, Pidge. I’ll come help in a moment.”

“Alright,” she smiled again and shut the door.

You dropped your bag and waited what you assumed was a normal amount of time before heading out into the kitchen, a brave mask on in place of your face.

She set you to work after you washed your hands, and you were grateful for it. Pidge was talking for you, retracing her steps from her hen do, telling you the parts she couldn’t remember. It was as if everything she’d said to Johnny had just disappeared into thin air, and you wondered how much of that was by choice or by accident. She didn’t even remember you getting a cab.

Now, she was gushing about how amazing her photographer was, and how he was coming down for the walkthrough. You nodded when you needed to nod; you smiled when you needed to smile.

“...told him you’d stand in for me at the altar.”

“What?” You’d missed something important.

“The photographer needs to shoot Hamish and I, but we cannae be at the altar until our wedding, obvi, so I told him you and Lachlan would be the stag and hen for that practice shoot. Is that alright?” She was looking at you like she’d made a mistake.

You shook your head,

“Yeah, yeah. That’s fine. No problem. Whatever you need me to do.”

The front door creaked open and you almost dropped the saucepan onto the floor.

“Pidge?” His voice called through the house.

“In the kitchen!” She called back.

You stirred the sauce.

He must have been staring at you because Pidge made a comment,

“We’re doing chicken tikka. It’s her fav, and I thought she deserved it after what I put her through last weekend.”

“Aye,” his tone was odd, “I’ll go drop my bag. The lads are on their way in.”

You could tell he left the room. It was as if your body could sense it somehow. You wondered if he was staring at the bed. You wondered if it would feel like thorns for him, too.

Why would it?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You screamed inside of your mind. Get it together.

You stirred the sauce. It was the only thing you could do. If someone had tried to take the pan from you, you might have smacked them with it.

Hamish came up beside you with the cream,

“Ready for me?”

“Sure,” you held your spoon away so he could pour it in.

“Smells great. Go sit, lass. I poured you a wine. I’ll make your wee plate.”

You smiled at Hamish and marched yourself over to the table. Price came in and saw you sitting there, and after he said hello to Ham and Pidge, he sat next to you in some sort of act of mercy. Hamish poured him a wine as well and they caught up. Small talk. Just the weather. You performed your vanishing act, becoming invisible.

Until you weren’t.

His eyes bored into you from the hallway as he made his way into the kitchen. He was forced to sit all the way at the other end of the table, as far from you as he could be, next to Gaz and Ghost.

Everyone was chatting, drinking, eating. And you worked hard to be unseen. But, he just kept staring. You felt his eyes when you took a bite, when you dropped your fork, when you wiped your mouth… he may as well have been pinning you down with his huge hands; you were so scrutinized. You felt like you were being dissected, a frog on a student’s desk, your heart plucked out for examination.

What was he looking for? Forgiveness? Wrath? You didn’t know, and you didn’t want to guess. You wanted to melt into the carpet like a fallen ice cube, to evaporate into nothingness so you didn’t have to feel his eyes on you anymore.

Suddenly, you looked up at him, catching him. Only then did he look away. He must have seen something inside of you that answered his question.

You cleaned up the plates, making an excuse to do the dishes while everyone else lounged in the den.

Then, disaster. Hamish cut himself while putting away his knives. Blood rushed out of the cut and down his elbow, dripping onto the counter and the tile. You rushed over with a towel,

“Here, put some pressure.”

Pidge took over for you, and she told you,

“Go check Johnny’s bag. He’s got a wee first aid kit in there, I know he does.”

You looked around for Johnny to make him do it instead, but he’d gone outside to smoke with Price, so you jogged off to his room alone. His bag was on the bed, and you took a deep breath before unzipping it, staying tight to your mission. Then, you spotted the little red kit near the bottom. You pulled it out in a hurry, and the rucksack dropped to the floor, spilling its contents.

“Shit,” you muttered, bending to clean it up.

You tossed all the clothes back in, but you noticed a journal that had fallen out. It was splayed open, its spine facing you. Your hands shook a bit as you went to pick it up. Then, you saw the one thing you hadn’t expected to see: you.

Your face was sketched out in careful detail. There were little scratches of pen for the shadows, and negative space for the highlights. Your eyes were looking off in the distance, and your smile was soft, almost like it wasn’t even there. You looked beautiful.

You couldn’t help yourself. You flipped the page. You found a map, and a sketch with some attack dogs, but in the margin you saw Sonnet 91. You turned the page again. Your face was everywhere. Your body, your eyes, your hands… you were scattered across the paper in bright blue ink. Then, Sonnet 145. Coffee stains and what may have been blood marred the masterpieces he had left behind. You flipped again, and it was you. Pieces of Sonnet 29. Then you. You were on every page. All of the images of war and maps and guns disappeared and now it was just you, you, you.

Your heart slammed into your mouth and you couldn’t breathe. You thought of golden sunrises across the Urzikstani desert half a world away, imagining him sitting on the open tailgate of a Humvee with this book open in front of him. You thought of how closely he had watched you for months; how his hands had traced the curves of your body so beautifully sketched before you. How he had noticed the three freckles on the side of your eye, the ones you thought no one could see.

You shoved the book back in the bag and ran back into the kitchen, first aid kit in hand.

Pidge noticed something was wrong.

“You alright, hen?”

“Just squeamish,” you feigned nausea, pointing to Hamish’s blood.

Johnny came back in from the porch, looking at you, distress creasing his brow,

“What’s happened?”

“Hamish…” You gestured at the injured man, pointedly avoiding looking at Johnny.

“Don’t like the sight of blood, thief?” Price asked, using your nickname. In your periphery you could see Johnny stiffen at the comment, but no one else seemed to notice. Price continued, suggesting, “Why don’t we go for a walk.”

“Thanks, John,” Pidge smiled at him, glad that he could tend to you as she was tending to her fiance.

You let yourself be led out of the house through the front door. Price had you by the arm, none too gently, you thought, and walked you into the cool night air, wrapping his jacket around you and shutting the door.

He was relighting a fat cigar, letting the smoke linger in his mouth, walking slowly, aimlessly down the path, without a destination in mind, leading you nowhere.

“Are you alright?” He asked, knowing the answer.

“No.”

You weren’t sure why you told him the truth. He was just going to run back and report to Johnny. But, there was something in his eyes that made you think he genuinely cared, and you so desperately needed someone to care.

“Have you listened to his side of it?”

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

You didn’t answer. You wanted to say no, but something stopped you.

Price stopped walking, his boots scraping in the gravel of the path, his bright blue eyes icy and a little sad.

“Listen,” he frowned, “I’ve known Johnny a lot longer than you. I’ve seen him broken. I’ve seen him scared. I’ve seen him mad, and drunk, and happy, and beaten… but I’ve never seen him like this.”

You crossed your arms in his jacket, trying to find some warmth. Suddenly, you felt Price’s finger dig inside of the neckline of your shirt. You almost knocked his hand away, but he put up his other in a sign of peace. And when he found what he was looking for, he smiled.

He’d pulled out Johnny’s dog tag from beneath your shirt, and you knew you’d been caught. Price held the coin up to you like the sacrament, discovering your shame, bringing your sin out into the open. In that moment, you wanted to bend down on both knees and take it into your mouth, and you wanted him to make you whole again with it.

“This isn’t like him,” he said, the porch light made the silver gleam, and it blinded you for a moment, “He’s generous enough with his smiles and compliments, but he doesn’t give freely of himself. Not like this. Would’ve thought you’d known. He’s kept himself hidden all this time. But, not from you.”

You cried. You didn’t want to. You bit your lip and furrowed your brow. You swallowed your spit and tried to breathe through the tears, but they came anyway. He held you to his chest, and you knew his tee shirt would be wet from your weakness, but he kept a steady hand on your back, regardless.

He tucked the tag back into your shirt and it lay cold against that spot between your breasts; the same spot Johnny had kissed you when he’d taken your guilt from you the first night you’d been together, there, in his bed. You thought Price would make some sort of face, some judgment. But, he didn’t. He simply walked you back inside and held the door for you.

You went through it on your own accord, and Johnny’s eyes were the first thing to greet you. He raked them over you like a forest fire, burning you from roots to boughs, seeing Price’s jacket over your shoulders and lingering on it for a while until you handed it back to his captain.

“All covered!” Hamish chuckled, holding up his bandaged finger to you, “Sorry, babes.”

You smiled,

“No worries. I think I’m just tired from the ride in. Gonna lay down early.”

Pidge caught your attention,

“Don’t forget, you and Johnny have to make it before two. Pictures are at two.”

You nodded, retreating to what used to be a sanctuary. Now, it felt more like a cell.

Your goal was to get to sleep before he could join you. You knew it would be too suspicious for him to follow you into his room, so you had the advantage of time. How strange it was to avoid what you had been craving.

You climbed into the sheets, and you did your best to ignore all of the memories that kept rushing back. The smear of her purple lipstick across his soft earlobe haunted you like a ghost.

THURSDAY — Midnight: 1 day until the wedding

He came in as quietly as he could, but you woke up anyway. You tried your best to pretend to be asleep, keeping your breathing heavy and long. It was pitch black, and when he sat on the bed, you heard the familiar creak of the coils.

He pulled the covers back, he fluffed the pillow, he took off his watch, and then he just… laid there.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting he would do. Wake you up? Demand your attention? You’d shut him out completely. He knew his company was unwanted.

The dark voice laughed at you in your head. It knew the truth. It wanted him to fight for you. It wanted him to beg for your mercy. It wanted him to take you in his arms anyway, despite your protests. It wanted him to ignore your wishes. It wanted the animal in him to claim the animal in you, to remind you that you were his woman and that he could do with you as he wished.

But, he wasn’t an animal. He was a man, and he respected you enough to stay on his side of the line.

It was only when he thought you were well and truly asleep that you felt his finger graze the metal chain of his dog tags on the back of your neck, not heavily enough to wake you, but enough to feel that they were real. You wondered if Price had ratted you out or if Johnny had noticed himself. You thought it was the latter, knowing him.

You passed out eventually, listening to the sound of his quiet snoring, your pillow soaked from tears that had spilled out across the bridge of your nose. Tears he wouldn’t be able to touch.

THURSDAY — 2:00PM: 1 day until the wedding

Saint Patrick’s church was quaint, and the interior was minimalistic compared to other Catholic churches you’d visited before. There was something sort of liminal about the space, as if it were unfinished. You wondered what it would look like when it was full of people.

You were standing at the altar, fake bouquet in hand, pretending to be a blushing bride. The photographer was very much in charge of this ordeal, and he was as outspoken as he was confident.

“Okay, perfect. See? She’s perfect. Can you be perfect, too, Mr….?”

“It’s Lachlan. Lachlan Black,” he reminded him for the third time.

“Ugh, okay. Lachlan. If only you were a little more memorable, but my brain just — whoosh!” The photographer, Gary, made a little noise and a motion with his hand like a bird flying through a window.

“And you’re just too damn tall, you know that?” Gary sighed.

He looked around the room, appraising all of the bridal party like a dealer at an auction, looking for the solution amongst the chaff. Then, he waved Hamish up from the front pew, getting him to stand. Gary looked him up and down, and motioned for him to sit again. With a snap of his fingers, he said,

“Hey! You. Mohawk. What’s your name again? You know what — that’s enough names actually. Mohawk will be groom instead. Nice and tall, but not too tall. Yes, yes… okay, thank you, Lachlan… buh-bye.”

You were face to face with Johnny at the altar.

You felt the panic make your blood rush into your cheeks. It was hard to catch your breath.

Of all the times you’d imagine being at the altar with Johnny, this was certainly not it.

You stared at your fake, paper bouquet and prayed in your mind, loudly, for a sudden plague. Toads, rivers of blood — whatever you’ve got, Heaven! Throw it down here, please. You begged for a miracle or a smiting. Either would do.

The Lord did not oblige you.

“Okay… better! Yes, this is much better. Cute. Can you scooch in a bit, mohawk? She doesn’t bite, I don’t think.” Gary winked.

Mohawk scooched in. You dared to look up into his eyes, and when you did, you knew you made a mistake. You were trapped in him and he was trapped in you. You felt like you were frozen in place, unable to breathe or speak or scream, no matter how badly you wanted to.

You had a whole conversation with him in the span of those few seconds. You asked him why he’d been covered in someone else at the bar. You begged him to give you some evidence that you hadn’t seen what you saw. You told him about all the nights you’d lay awake, about all the times you’d thrown his tag into the corner of your room, only to crawl on your hands and knees to retrieve it, clutching it to you and feeling sorry that you’d done so.

He was telling you something as well, but you couldn’t hear him. He was screaming it, you knew that much, but it wasn’t loud enough.

Gary interrupted you,

“Okay, hold hands around the bouquet, pretty please…”

He grasped your hands, and it was so familiar, you almost melted into him. By some magical power, you held yourself together, but as the camera clicked and flashed, with every moment you lost a little more control.

“...annnnnnnd now the kiss? C’mon. We’re all adults here. This lighting is shit — forgive me, Father — and I can’t deal with the actual money shot being trash. Today, people!”

You hesitated. But, Johnny didn’t. He seemed to set himself, his mouth in a tight, resigned line, and then he held your face in his hands, just as gently as he always did. When he kissed you, he really kissed you. He didn’t fake it for the cameras, and he didn’t hide his passion from Pidge or any of the others. You couldn’t help but kiss him back, letting him guide you as he liked, his big jaw shaking a bit as he let go.

“Perfect! Okay, and now the happy couple is smiling at the crowd…”

Gary took a step back into the aisle, and Johnny held up your hand in the air in mock triumph, posing for a gleeful moment that didn’t exist. You looked right at Pidge, but she was laughing at something Hamish had said, fully oblivious to the war raging right in front of her face.

“Alright… well, I don’t know if I’d call that smiling, necessarily, but here we are. Okay. Mohawk, you’re done.”

The way Johnny dropped your hand made you feel like you were on fire, as if he could no longer stand to hold you, or like he had been burned. It was sharp, and you weren’t sure what you were expecting. Did you want him to linger? To profess his undying love in front of his sister and ruin her one special day? You didn’t. So you let his absence cut you like a blade, severing you like a limb from a tree.

THURSDAY — 7:00PM: 1 day until the wedding

The rehearsal dinner venue, the Auchentoshan Distillery, was gorgeous. Johnny had spared no expense on the stylings, and there was food everywhere you looked. The cakes were elegantly plated, the roast hung shining, its drippings making the shank glitter, and even the boiled potatoes made your mouth water.

Johnny had obviously arranged the table settings a few weeks ago, because you were sat right next to him and Price, across from Gaz and Ghost. Pidge was two seats down, and the rest of the girls were across from her and Hamish. Lachlan and the other groomsmen were on the opposite side. But, other than for the initial dinner, you hadn’t been made to sit by him much at all. He mingled around the room, talking to everyone except for you, making sure all of the cups were filled and all of the faces were smiling.

He was an impeccable host. His charisma was electric. And he looked upsettingly handsome. He wore a kilt tonight, one of his hunting tartans, with a sharp button down embellished with gleaming pearl buttons. His shoulders were bursting through the fabric, pulling it taut against his wide back. If you looked carefully enough, you could imagine where his tattoo peeked through.

Gaz cleared his throat, whispering low,

“Have you talked to him, then?”

Your eyes tore themselves away from Johnny to stare at Gaz. You checked over your shoulder to see if Pidge had heard him, and he glanced at her, too.

“No.”

Ghost spoke at full volume, not caring who heard him,

“Are you going to?”

Price dropped his fork so that it clattered on the plate, giving Ghost a chastising glare.

“She’ll talk to him when she’s ready to talk to him, and it’s none of our bloody business.”

You didn’t hear much else out of Gaz or Ghost, but as they chewed their food, you could tell that they didn’t believe Price for one damn second. It very much was their bloody business.

And maybe it was. Price had certainly made it his business on your walk last night, and it seemed like your relationship with Johnny was slowly becoming everyone’s business. You had tried your best to return to that same old invisibility you were used to, but it wasn’t enough now. You felt like you were on full display.

“Excuse me,” you got up and fled to the bathroom.

When you opened the door, you saw Bekah and Anjali inside, freshening up their makeup.

“Hey!” They said in high-pitched unison.

“Hey,” you replied, inching by them to get into the stall.

“Where’d you disappear to the other night, babe?” Anjali called out to you through the door.

“Just got too drunk. Took a cab,” you told her, hoping that would end the conversation.

“Fuck,” Bekah laughed, “That was me, too. Did Cherise tell you about that bloke at Max’s?”

“No,” you said, captivated like a prisoner.

“Arsehole thought he could put something in my drink. Soap saw him and beat him within an inch of his fuckin’ life! You should’ve seen the man. Needed a damn doctor, so he did,” Bekah confessed.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you said, genuinely. Bekah was not your friend, but she didn’t deserve to be assaulted.

Anjali laughed,

“Soap had to carry her out! She was stumblin’ all over the road.”

“Wasnae my fault!” Bekah protested, “But, he was a gentleman. Drove me home. Him and Gaz.”

“Oh, that Gaz is fine, no?” Anjali interrupted.

“Aye. I thought Johnny might kiss me back, just this once, but he still didn’t. That lad is harder to wear down than the goddamn Pope, I swear. I’ve given up.”

“Didn’t you sleep together?” You asked, torturing yourself.

“God, no! He won’t have any of us. Pidge thinks he has, but I’ve never slept with him. Definitely would though,” Bekah gushed.

“Hasn’t Cherise?” Anjali asked.

“No! Cannae believe it. All this talk for being a big slut and he’s a choir boy,” you could hear Bekah’s voice get louder with her disbelief.

“Shame,” Anjali lamented.

“Aye, a shame,” Bekah agreed, “Was he a good kisser? He looked it. You were quite a pair up at the altar. Maybe he’d go for you, hen.”

You pulled open the stall door and joined them at the sink. Your hands were trembling.

“Babes,” Bekah noticed, “Are you alright? You havnae seemed well since the hen do. You’re working too hard for this wedding.”

“I’m alright. I think I just need some fresh air,” you smiled, pushing your way out of the door.

When you walked back into the main hall, everyone was standing. A waitress with a tray found you and handed you a glass of champagne. You moved to the side around the crowd to see what all the commotion was, and it was Johnny. He was standing next to Pidge with his glass raised high, clinking it delicately with the side of his fork.

“Alright, alright. Settle down,” he smiled at his sister, “I know Lachlan is the one supposed to be up here haverin’ about Hamish, but he was kind enough to give me his go because I needed to talk to my sister.”

His eyes found you and settled there, no longer scanning the crowd. You watched him take a breath before he continued,

“If you dinnae ken me, I am Johnny MacTavish, Sergeant of His Majesty’s Special Air Service —” he was interrupted by proud applause, “Uh, thank you. And I am the younger brother of our darling Brigette here. While I was away, Pidge has taken care of my life for me. She took care of our ma when she was ill, and she buried our da without me. She managed to keep the wee house from fallin’ into the river, and still she has time to volunteer at Saint Mary’s children’s ward on the odd weekend.”

More applause. He paused and went on,

“All that to say, my sister doesnae need anyone. But, love isnae about need. It’s about choosin’ to be with a person who makes you feel like you can be yourself, that you can confess to all the desires and the wants and the hopes and the fears that you have inside of you, and you know that they understand you. They see you for who you are, and they love you for it anyway.

Love isnae patient, and it certainly isnae bloody kind. It loves to boast! And it falls prey to envy. Love is in a rush, and it eats you alive from the inside out. Love isnae about needing. It’s want, pure and simple. To Hammie and Pidge, may you live a hundred years, and may you want each other endlessly in each of them. Slàinte mhath.”

“Slàinte mhath!”

You drank your champagne, numb and panicking.

Someone shoved a small microphone onto the strap of your dress, clicking it in place, and you stared down at it while everyone else stared at you, waiting.

You breathed into the mic, listening to your breath come through the speakers. You wanted to talk to him, to tell him you’d learned the truth. But, you were surrounded, literally, by all of his friends and family. There was no worse time for your truth-telling. So, you tried to lean on the speech you remember preparing, mashing it together with words that kept pouring from your heart.

“Hello,” you tried out a smile, “I’ve known Brigette for years, and she is the only real family I have. I’m not Scottish. I know the accent gives it away,” some polite laughter, “But, I’m wearing the MacTavish boar around my neck because Pidge welcomed me here with open arms and took me in as if I had been here the whole time. Like it was the most natural thing to do. She’s selfless in all the ways you should be, and she always promised that I would have a home with her. And I love her dearly for that.”

You spoke directly to Johnny, just as he did to you,

“I’ve been thinking about selflessness, and about making promises. I’ve been thinking about the type of man who does the right thing, even when it’s hard. I’ve been thinking about the type of man who breaks a promise when he needs to break one, and I’ve been thinking about the consequences of our actions. But, when you love someone, the consequence is just… more love. There’s really nothing else, is there? You could get a shovel and dig until you reach the bottom of the earth looking for them, but there are no real consequences when you’re in love. It trumps… everything.”

You paused for a long time. Johnny was captivated by your eyes, hanging on every word, and you’d been silent for too long. You said, directly to Pidge,

“So, I hope, when you’re wondering if you’ve done the right thing or not, and you’re digging around for the consequences of that, I hope you just keep pulling out more and more love. Just love all the way down. Forever. Cheers, to Hamish and Pidge.”

“Cheers!”

You finished your champagne and walked over to Pidge. Everyone was applauding and talking loudly again, laughing and sharing their own joys about the happy couple. You were overwhelmed, but you wanted to see her.

Pidge held out her arms and folded them around you, clutching you tightly to her chest, whispering I love yous and thank yous into your skin. You kissed her on the cheek, whispering to her,

“I’m gonna step outside for a moment, are you alright for now?”

“Yes! Go. Take Johnny with you. When he gets sappy, he starts to hover,” she swatted Johnny away as he leaned in to kiss her, fighting through her protests.

She gave in, melting into him and smiling as he planted a kiss to her cheek.

“I love you, Pidge,” he said to her, not letting her go.

“I love you, too, Johnny-boy. And I’m sorry for all the mean things I’ve said. You’ve changed. I dinnae ken what’s gotten into you, but all this…” She looked around at the reception hall, “All this has made me realize that you finally see me, you finally see what I’ve been going through, and I’ve been unfair. Thank you, brother.”

He kissed her forehead, trying to blink away tears as he did so, lingering with his lips on her skin before removing himself from her embrace.

“C’mon,” he nodded at you and took you by the hand, right in front of her, leading you out to the back courtyard.

The distillery was situated right next to its water source, north of the River Clyde, and the waters churned from a pump run by the whisky makers. The flow of the water was invigorating and challenging, but the calmness of the lake itself was still and quiet; a dichotomy. It was the same within you, a roiling, tumbling sea of glass, ready to shatter.

Johnny turned and looked at you like he knew what you would say. As he approached you, slowly, he held up his hands, trying to hide that they were shaking, offering peace, carrying no weapon, for once. You unfolded your arms, still clutching yourself around your waist, waiting for him to prove you wrong, for him to confirm the truth you’d overheard from Bekah.

“Are you willing to hear me now, thief?”

“I already heard,” you said, “From Bekah. And I saw your journal.”

He was speechless. All of the things he’d planned to say to you had dried up, and now he was left chewing on their remains. He put his hands on his hips and looked out at the water,

“I’m so goddamn in love with you, it hurts.”

He pinned you with his gaze, then. Watching you take in his confession. He continued,

“It hurts when I wake up, and it hurts when I go to bed. I dinnae ken how to stop it from hurtin’ like this. Feels like I’m burnin’ up, like I’m on fire inside of me. And when you left me, I…” he had trouble forming the words, “I wasnae… I couldnae ken how bad it would be. It was worse, somehow, and I was prayin’ to whatever god that would hear me for some sort of mercy. And I had none. Until I saw, or I thought I saw…”

He came closer to you, reaching around your neck and pulling out his tags just like Price had done. His eyes shone with unshed tears.

“You made me hope.”

He took your hand in his and held it tightly, as tightly as he dared, and looked you right in the face,

“I didnae sleep with Bekah, nor Cherise, nor Anjali.”

“I know.”

“I didnae want to, either.”

“I know.”

“I’m in love with you, mèirleach.”

“I’m in love with you, too.”

Johnny used his tags around your neck to pull you into him, kissing you harshly, not allowing you to let go. You kissed him back, pressing at him with your tongue, tasting the champagne in his mouth, feeling his shaven face bristle against your smooth cheek. He moaned into you, speaking to you in a low whisper,

“Please, mèirleach, forgive me.”

“Johnny, there’s nothing to forgive.”

He hugged you to him and you rested your head against his neck, finally able to relax into him after days of being on a knife’s edge.

But, you were distracted by the sound of a loud knocking against glass. You turned back toward the distillery and saw Ghost tapping on the huge floor to ceiling window and pointing to a microphone in his hand. You looked down and realized you never handed them back the mic from your speech. You were still wearing it, and the red light was on.

You showed it to Johnny, stunned by your own idiocy. He spun to see Ghost waving slightly, and the rest of the wedding party — hell, the whole distillery — standing behind him in shock

+=+=+=+=+=+=+

Chapter 10 (Ending)

#call of duty fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mwii #john soap mactavish #soap call of duty #johnny mactavish #call of duty #cod #soap x you #soap x reader #soap smut #soap mw2 #soap mctavish #soap cod #johnny soap mactavish #john soap mctavish x reader #cod soap #guile and guilt

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tunastime · 2 months ago

Note

wrapped: 27? it’s my lucky number :D

hi hi!! apologies to all for getting to these so late! let's check out 27 :3

ah... of course. band of all time. my second top band of the year. my beloveds. this song goes incredibly crazy, and I think the vibes are different than what this fic represents, but the softer parts of the song... so very them to me. some very choice lyrics in the tags for them two. oh SEN we're in it now... I hope you enjoy some SEN docsuma! (627 words)

Doc wakes up to Xisuma’s face pressed into the soft of his neck. His first instinct is an easy one: curl closer.

It’s natural for Doc to find his way into X’s side or his arms or across his chest. Xisuma slept heavily, sprawled on his back, dead to everything except the person sleeping next to him. So when Xisuma found him, wormed his way close and into the cavity of his chest, or the pocket of his side, or with one arm over his back, it was Doc’s first thought to lean in with great joy and accept the weighted warmth that his admiral’s body provided. X’s nose was cold against his throat, and the body tucked carefully in the concave space between his prosthetic and his ribcage was curled tight. He spreads his fingers, palm flat on the rise of X’s back, his sleep-addled brain kicking down a few gears as Xisuma sighs into his skin.

“‘Suma,” he mumbles, words muddling. X makes a small noise. “‘S everything okay?”

Because, contrary to popular belief, Xisuma only curled this close in his arms on occasion. And normally (because Doc was clever, and Xisuma came to him when he needed his help, and he took a small morsel of pride in this fact, that he was that trustworthy and reliable and needed), this meant something was wrong.

He drags his synthetic palm down Xisuma’s curved lower back, following the narrow channel of his spine, as Xisuma speaks dryly.

“Jeez,” he mumbles. “Can’t even catch a quick snuggle before I’m called out?”

Doc snorts. He lets his eyes shut.

“Never.”

“Had a bad dream. ‘S all.”

Doc thumbs a notch of his spine. Xisuma physically relaxes into the touch. Real, present touch.

“And you’re alright?”

“Mmh,” Xisuma grumbles, digging his nose into the soft space between his neck and jaw. Doc hums warmly. “Could be better. Just wanted to remember you’re here.”

“Can’t get rid of me,” Doc mumbles tiredly. Xisuma snorts, but the hand cupped around Doc’s hip twists in the corner fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t really catch the murmured set of words X says against his neck, but it sounds a bit like hope not somewhere in there. Doc shifts him just a fraction closer, cupping his free hand over the part of Xisuma’s jaw still exposed, running his thumb over the space between his cheek and ear, all the connecting bones and soft cartilage hidden under the pale-soft, freckled plane of his face. His hold on Xisuma is firm, but not tight, carefully tucked snug against his body, soaking in his body heat and his stable breathing. Xisuma sighs shakily.

“Sweet Xisuma,” Doc hums. His hand finds purchase on the rise of Xisuma’s hip, thumb finding the patch of skin where his sleeveless shirt meets his waistband. X leans a little further, until his shoulder is near-uncomfortably eclipsing Doc’s own. He’s quite literally crushing himself into Doc’s chest, but the sound he makes is soft and seemingly pleased, especially as Doc huffs, and chuckles, and groans dramatically at the added weight. “So cozy!”

“Needless cruelty,” Xisuma huffs, muffled by Doc’s shirt and skin. “Makin’ fun’a me.”

“Calling you sweet is an insult?” Doc retorts.

“‘S the way you said it.”

“Ah, right.”

Xisuma huffs again, but doesn’t say anything else. Doc goes back to soothing over that bare patch of skin until his eyes feel heavy and dry and he shuts them against the dark greys and blacks of their room. X’s muscles go slack bit by bit, sinking into his side as he lets himself drift again. Doc barely misses the small, soft, thanks, mumbled out between long, slow sighs. He smiles, and leans his cheek a little firmer to his head.

(send me an ask with a number 1-10 and I'll write something!)

#hermitshipping #docsuma #docm77 #xisumavoid #SEN au #hermitcraft au #hermitcraft #hermitcraft fic #mcyt #mcyt fic #hermitcraft au fic #text #fics #asks #starrysilv3rse #spotify wrapped ask game 2024 #ohhh i really like them. i really really liked writing a softer side of this song HEHE #the 'i'm your second nature / never leave your side.' and 'i'm patient when you're in pain / i can keep you close when it's getting late'#those really gripped me this time around #docsuma chokehold NEVER ends #but its just in these damn aus JKHSRKGJHSKDFJGH #i really do love sen docsuma though <333 hehe #they can just be something so soft and healing for each other #despite the mutual intense trauma they went through #and the emotional manipulation. and the grief. and the loss.#sometimes you just need to be held tightly and told that everything is fine #and it will be fine. because you have someone to help you #what if they were so tender with each other! what then!#anyway. behold docsuma

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her-gracious-lady-herald-bits1 · 28 days ago

Text

Title: a death sentence with better company

Pairing: Leliana/ Female Tabris

Setting: pre-Ostagar

---

Leliana doesn’t bother trying to sleep. The cot is stiff, the air close, and Sister Mildred’s snoring grates against her ears.

With a quiet sigh, she pushes off the blanket and pulls on her boots.

(A walk, then. Maybe a prayer.)

The stone floor is cold, her boots useless against the chill. Still, she moves quietly. Lothering’s Chantry is small — nothing like Val Royeaux’s grand halls — but the moonlight makes it almost beautiful. Silver light slips through high windows. Shadows stretch long against the stone.

She reaches the chapel doors and stills.

Someone else is here.

She stops. One hand against the stone wall.

The sound isn’t quite a sob. Raw, uneven. Something close to breaking.

Leliana steps forward, careful, quiet. Habit.

The chapel is empty—except for her. (Alone. Or trying to be.)

An elf, kneeling before the statue of Andraste. Tawny skin, long unkempt curly hair. Traveling clothes, scuffed and worn. Two serrated daggers at her knees. Always within reach.

Leliana knows who she is.

Duncan’s new recruit. The one who kept to herself. The one who glared at anyone who looked too overlong.

"I don’t even know if you’re there."

The elf’s voice cuts through the quiet. Low. Rough. Not meant for an audience.

"Maker. Andraste. Whoever’s listenin’." A pause. "S’pose it don’t matter much now."

Leliana stills. The accent is pure Denerim — sharp vowels, dropped consonants. (Alienage, maybe?.)

"Should I feel sorry? That what they want?" The elf sways slightly. Leliana catches the scent of cheap ale.

(Drunk. Speaking to Andraste like she would an barmaid at last call)

Leliana should walk away. Give her privacy. Instead, she leans into the shadows and listens.

"He deserved worse."

The elf’s voice is steady. Cold.

"Put my teeth right through his throat. Watched him gurgle on his own blue blood." A rough, humorless laugh. "Only regret is not makin’ it slower."

Leliana exhales, slow. The confession hangs in the air. Sharp-edged.

"Shianni—." The elf sways slightly. Her fists clench. "I don’t know how she is. I don’t—" Her voice catches. "And the other girls—"

A sharp inhale.

"What that bastard and his friends did." A long silence. "I’d do it again. Kill ’em all again." Her breath shudders. "Only worse."

Her head drops forward. Shoulders tight.

"So if you’re up there, don’t expect me to beg forgiveness." A pause. "Not for that."

Leliana stays still.

"But I just—I need to know." The elf’s voice is raw now. Bare. "If there’s a reason. For any of it." A breath. "My mum dyin’. The alienage. All of it."

Silence.

"They say the Maker turned from us." Her voice drops to a whisper.

"Sometimes I think—I don’t blame him."

The flask uncorks with a soft pop. She drinks deep. Leliana watches her throat move as she swallows, then lets her head tip back against the altar.

The Elf pushes herself upright. Stumbles.

Her hand slaps against the marble base of Andraste’s statue. One of her daggers slips from her belt, clattering to the floor.

"Shite."

Leliana steps forward. Doesn’t let herself hesitate.

"Let me help you."

The elf’s head snaps up. Eyes sharp despite the drink. Her hand flies to her remaining dagger.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Leliana lifts her hands. Open. Empty. Keeps her voice soft. "Leliana. A lay sister here at the Chantry."

The elf squints at her. The candlelight flickers. Her grip stays tight.

"And you?" Leliana asks.

A beat. elf watches her, wary. Then: "Kallian."

"Didn’t mean to intrude Kallian," Leliana adds. "Or your prayers."

Kallian snorts. "Wasn’t prayin’." She exhales slow, the tension easing just enough. "Just... talkin’ to myself, looks like."

Leliana bends to retrieve the fallen dagger. (Good steel. Well cared for.) Runs her fingers over the edge, weighing its balance before holding it out, hilt first.

She turns the dagger in her hands. Fine balance. A careful edge.

"Fine blades."

Kallian takes it. Their fingers brush—her skin fever-warm, calloused in places, raw in others.

Leliana starts to pull away—then notices it.

A brand, faint but unmistakable, burned into the base of Kallian’s thumb. A crude "T."

(Thief.)

The skin around it is old, long healed. But Leliana has seen brands like this before. Orlesian lords marked pickpockets this way. (It seems Fereldan's too—if they didn’t just take a hand instead.)

Kallian notices Leliana looking. Her fingers twitch, then curl—(a practiced motion, hiding the mark with her palm.)

"Were me mum's," she says. Her voice is flat, but her fingers tighten on the hilt. "Before some shems cut her down in the street."

"You said that you were looking for a reason." Leliana keeps her voice even.

Kallian’s eyes narrow. Bloodshot, but alert.

"You were eavesdroppin’."

"Yes."

A pause. Then Kallian snorts. "Least you’re honest. More’n I can say for most."

She drops onto the nearest pew, rubbing a hand over her face. Leliana studies her in the dim light—young, barely twenty. Dark circles under her eyes. Tawny skin sallow with exhaustion.

"When’s the last time you slept?"

Kallian exhales through her nose. "Properly? Before Denerim." Her gaze flickers away. "Before everything."

Leliana sits beside her. Not too close.

Sweat, leather, the sharp bite of ale. And something else, faint beneath it.

(Embrium.)

"You said he deserved worse," Leliana says. "That you’d kill him again."

Kallian doesn’t look at her. Her fingers drum against her thigh. Restless. A tell.

"Yeah?" Kallian mutters. "What of it?"

Leliana watches her. Weighs her next words. "Who was he?"

Kallian snorts. "What, you keepin’ a ledger of murderers in your Chantry?"

"No." Leliana tilts her head. "But I wonder what a man must do to earn that kind of hatred."

Kallian exhales sharply. A humorless laugh. "You’re askin’ the wrong questions, Sister."

"Am I?"

Kallian finally looks at her, one eye sharp, assessing. "Ain’t like it matters now. He’s dead."

"And yet, you’re here," Leliana says.

Kallian’s jaw tightens. She exhales through her nose. "What, you expect regret? Tears? You think I should be prayin’ for my soul?"

"No," Leliana says simply. "I think you blame yourself."

Kallian goes still.

It lasts only a second before she scoffs, shaking her head. "You don’t know me."

"No," Leliana agrees. "But I know that look. I’ve worn it myself."

Kallian barks a laugh, sharp and bitter. "Yeah? What’d you do, Sister?"

Leliana doesn’t flinch. "Not enough."

Kallian exhales, slow. "Yeah," she mutters. "That’s the real bitch of it, ain’t it?"

Her fingers twitch toward her flask. Leliana doesn’t stop her, just watches as Kallian takes a long pull.

"Duncan says we leave for Ostagar tomorrow." Kallian’s voice is flat. "Darkspawn to kill. Blight to stop."

Kallian huffs a laugh, though there’s no humour in it. "Traded the hangman’s noose for a death sentence with better company. Guess that’s an upgrade."

(A death sentence. She says it like it’s already done.)

Leliana watches her. "You don’t think you’ll survive."

Kallian tilts her head, considering. "Does it matter?"

A beat. Then, quieter—not quite for Leliana, not quite for herself: "Duncan seems to think so."

"And you?" Leliana asks.

Kallian scoffs. "You ask a lotta questions, Sister."

"It’s a habit of mine."

Kallian exhales through her nose. Picks at a loose thread on her sleeve. "Ain’t much left for me, one way or the other. Suppose fightin’ darkspawn is better than hanging."

"Yet here you are," Leliana says, "talking to Andraste."

Kallian exhales through her nose, rolling the flask between her palms. "Told you, I wasn’t prayin’."

"No," Leliana says. "But I could."

Kallian’s head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing. "What?"

"For your cousin," Leliana says simply. "For Shianni."

Kallian goes still. Her fingers tighten around the flask.

"Don’t need your pity, Sister."

"It’s not pity," Leliana says, calm, steady. "It’s a prayer."

Silence. Kallian doesn’t look at her, but she doesn’t snap back either.

Leliana folds her hands in her lap, bowing her head slightly. She doesn’t ask permission—only offers.

"Maker, look upon your child Shianni," she murmurs. Leliana folds her hands in her lap, head bowed. (Someone should say the words. Even if no one listens.) "Grant her strength where the world has left her weak. Grant her peace where men have left her broken."

Kallian swallows.

Leliana doesn’t look up, but she hears the breath Kallian takes—shaky, uneven, almost too quiet to notice.

"And grant those who love her the strength to carry what she cannot."

Kallian exhales slowly. Like something inside her just unclenched—just a little.

She doesn’t thank Leliana. Doesn’t acknowledge the prayer at all. Just tips her flask back, takes a long drink.

Leliana watches her carefully. Then, instead of pressing further, she simply says, "Come. Let’s get some air — and I have something better than whatever’s in that flask. It won’t leave you with such a headache tomorrow."

Kallian raises a rakish brow. "Sister, are you offerin’ to take me for a drink?"

The air shifts—(a test, maybe?. A deflection, certainly.)

Leliana smiles, light but steady. "I’m offering you a better vintage than whatever’s in that flask." A pause. "And company, if you wish it."

Kallian watches her. Weighing something. Then, blunt—"Why?"

(Not just why the offer. Why bother at all.)

Leliana holds her gaze. "Because I know what it’s like to wonder if anyone’s listening."

Kallian snorts, shaking her head. "Pretty words." But she tucks the flask away.

"Do they bother you?" Leliana asks.

Kallian exhales. "Dunno yet."

A beat. Then, she pushes herself up, stretching her shoulders with a wince. "Alright then, Sister. Lead on. But don’t say I didn’t warn you—I’m pretty shite company."

"I’ll take my chances."

Kallian eyes her. "Suit yourself."

Leliana extends a hand. Not an expectation. Just an offering.

Kallian looks at it. Then, slowly, she takes it.

Her grip is calloused. Warm. Steady.

---

#dragon age #dragon age orgins #leliana #warden tabris #dragon age fanfiction

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makeyoumine69 · 2 years ago

Text

The Light in the Darkness 2

— PAIRING: Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader

— SUMMARY: Patrick has always seen himself as an outcast with no desire for ties that would bind him to anyone or anything. He never even considered having a future with anyone else, but you came into his life and rocked his world. One morning, as he comforts you from a nightmare, Patrick realizes how ready he is to take the first step toward building the bright future he so desperately wants by your side.

— CONTAINS: Smut, fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, somnophilia, oral (reader receiving), fingering, unprotected sex (p in v), creampie, possessive behavior, Breeding kink, Size kink, Praise kink, body worship, nipple play, dirty talk, pet names, sweet & horny Patrick Bateman himself.

— WORDS: 1.5k

— SONG REC: Taylor Swift - Ready For It

— A/N: I just couldn't ignore my need to write some smut with breeding kink and possessive Patty. Many thanks to my dearest @sleeplessphantom for all the inspiration and support you give me. I love y'all and hope you like it!🖤

— LINKS: [MASTERLIST] [Part 1] [support]💗

Screaming, you were falling into the abyss, not realizing it was a dream. Not yet. Cold fear and numbing despair consumed you faster than the speed at which you were falling, and you didn't even know what to do, it seemed that no one was going to save you — you were alone, and that feeling was the most painful for you to bear. Loneliness was destructive and devastating, but when you met Patrick, you finally understood what it was like — to be loved, to be needed, to have a person who genuinely cared for you.

Your slight fidgeting was enough for Bateman to wake up and carefully check on you. With a gentle movement, he rolled you onto your back, pulled the blanket down, and ran his finger over your tense face as if he already knew what was going on.

"It's okay, Bunny," he murmured, dipping down your neck to plant small kisses along your sensitive skin. "I got you."

You jerked as his large palm slid across your rapidly rising chest, teasing your hard nipples that were too tempting to ignore. Slowly, Patrick tugged down the straps of your nightgown, exposing your lovely breasts and gasping at how inviting they looked. To be fair, the urge to fuck you senselessly had been tormenting him since he came home, but your mental state was far more important to him than his own physical needs. Of course, if it were anyone else in your place, he wouldn't think about their feelings for a second. But you? You were his exception, his true obsession.

"Mmhmm... Patty," you whimpered in your dream at the gentle touch on your cleavage, but then a muffled moan escaped your dry lips as Patrick's plump ones wrapped around one of your swollen little tips and sucked it hungrily. "Patrick!"

The dream had changed, and you stopped falling, but your heart began to beat even faster as the electrifying sensation in your lower abdomen became stronger, especially when Bateman caught another nipple between his fingers, twisting and pinching it so skillfully that you squealed again, and this time it was really loud.

"Babydoll," he purred in a charming voice against your lips, watching you frown and breathe heavily. "You sound so sweet. Mmm, the things I want to do with you," Patrick slowly traced a wet line down your neck and licked the artery that was pulsating really fast. "I hope you will excuse my little weakness."

With that, he made his way down your pretty little body, pausing on your stomach to plant a loving kiss — Bateman did his best to control himself, even though his inner beast yearned to be unleashed.

"Ahhh," you almost choked on the air at how good his mouth felt on your oozing, taut lower lips. "Mmm—please..."

The sight of your sleeping, fragile form, along with your innocent pleading and intoxicating taste, made his lungs burn with need as he was overwhelmed by surging desire.

"I'll give you even more than that, Bunny." He said, spreading your legs wider, making himself more comfortable between them to have better access to your juicy pussy.

At first, Patrick just drew a wet line across your inner hip, but then he moved down to your mound, kissing it and nuzzling against your tender flesh as he moaned softly at how tasty you were. You nearly sobbed with the pleasure his warm tongue was giving you, sliding over your delicate petals and sometimes brushing your sensitive bud just to tease it.

"Awwww," you whimpered briefly as he rested your leg on his shoulder and slipped two fingers into your dripping opening just to make you feel full. "Patty..."

You were the only one Bateman allowed to call him that because he just found it extremely sexy, but he never confessed about it. Huffing, Patrick lapped at your pussy, holding you tighter as you jerked from the tingling in your lower abdomen every time the tip of his strong tongue flicked against your blushing clit.

The power he had over you was too tempting, too mind-blowing, and at some point Patrick thought he couldn't take it anymore, so he slowly pulled down his white underwear and stroked himself while he was eating you out. With every single lick your body was on fire and Bateman was relentless in the way he devoured you, catching every little drop of your sweetness and ignoring the way his chiseled chin was covered in your wetness, glistening in the sunlight.

"My perfect little Bunny." He groaned in a low voice, sending vibrations to your little nub, and your legs began to shake. Smirking, Bateman just chuckled at your body's reaction and straightened up a bit to cover your small frame with his muscular one. "I love you so much."

With these words, he drew close to your neck and slowly kissed it while he lined his veiny dick against your soaked entrance, smearing your juices around his swollen tip. The urge to be inside of you was unbearable, he even had to bite his lips to suppress a loud moan as he began to sheath himself inside your tight little hole.

It felt astonishing, his fat girth stretching you so deliciously that your inner walls spasmed around him, forcing your eyes wide open — you tried to scream, but he closed your mouth with his big palm and pushed himself further until you felt him poking at your cervix. And that sensation made you feel so numb that you almost bit one of his fingers.

"Shh, Babydoll," he murmured, watching you bat your big eyelashes in such an innocent way that it drove him crazy. "You can take it."

With a mischievous smile, he grabbed your hip and rammed deeper into you, the curve of his dick hitting all the right spots in your womb as he knew your body better than anything in this world. Whimpering, you didn't even notice how you were moving towards him, looping your legs around his back, so he could push himself even deeper. His long, raw strokes, accomplished by the friction of his pubis against your feverish clit, provided you with the release you needed for so long. As soon as Bateman felt you clinging to him, he replaced his hand with his lips, kissing you hard and sucking your tongue. Moaning, you clutched at his massive shoulders, and this time you fell into the chasm of pleasure and delight.

"That's my girl, such a good little girl," he crooned from above as he broke away from your lips and finally let you breathe properly. "I'm gonna pump that delicious pussy, I want to watch my cum pour out of you!"

The things he just blurted out made your heart skip a beat and your eyes widen in shock: "Patrick… you didn't use a condom?"

Bateman just snickered and pounded into your wet cunt with a plap."Remember—argh—r-remember you told me you wanted to have a baby?"

God, his words made you want to scream.

"Yes," you felt a tear roll down your cheek, you couldn't believe this was really happening. "B-but you told me you weren't ready."

"I changed my mind," he tongued your earlobe briefly before cupping your face and wiping away your tear, making you look into his brown eyes. "You're so small and cute, you're going to look so beautiful with your pregnant bump."

Instinctively, you hugged his neck and pulled him closer to kiss his cheekbone, his nose, his temple, you covered his face with little pecks wherever you could as you found yourself unable to hold back your emotions.

"I love you!" Your voice almost cracked, so you tried to say it again, but he stopped you with a finger, pressing you down with his massive weight, thrusting his hips into yours with a slapping sound.

"'Yeah, I know," he gave you his perfect, full-toothed grin, kissed your forehead, and then grasped your hips, nearly painfully, to bury himself as deep as he could. "Open up for me, Bunny… let me make you a sweet Mommy."

"Yes… y-yes please!" You moaned as you felt his thrusts become ragged but sloppy.

Fuck, the way your soft walls encased his dick felt like heaven. With a guttural sound, Patrick nipped at your neck, rolled his hips and exploded right into your womb, filling it with his fertile seed and plugging it with his pulsating dick. Never in your life have you shared a more intimate moment than this, and as he lay on top of you, sniffing really hard, you ran your fingers through his messy wet hair, sobbing from being so overwhelmed as you realized that he had just planted a seed of love inside you, and soon it would grow, and your future child would be the light in the darkness for both of you, shining and making you both happy like never before.

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my side blog @makeyoumineagain and turn on notifications to know when I update!

#american psycho #patrick bateman x reader #patrick bateman imagine #patrick bateman #patrick bateman x female reader #patrick bateman x you #slasher x reader #slashers x reader #slasher x you #slasher smut #patrick bateman smut #patrick bateman headcanon #christian bale smut #christian bale x reader #patrick bateman reader #christian bale #patrick bateman imagines

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