#he needs a better frame but had to get him up | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

not-neverland06 · 2 days ago

Text

𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚆𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜

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

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: Jack's gone missing and there's only one place that's going to have the answers you need. St. Denis may just be one of the dirtiest places you've set foot in. Still, if stomaching a mobster chatting you up, means getting the boy back, then you'll just have to deal.

A few weeks later

Arthur’s shoulder is still sore where he’d been shot. You lay under his left arm rather than his right so you don’t irritate it any further. After he’d started moving around on his own again, you’d gone back to sleeping in the women’s tent.

He knows how uncomfortable the cramped tent is now that they have to make room for you and Sadie, so he let you sleep in his tent on days he wasn’t in camp. One night, he’d come back earlier than expected after a hunting trip and you’d been asleep on his cot. When you’d woken up, his good arm was wrapped around you and you had been tucked into his chest. Neither of you said anything about it, you just continued sleeping there, even on the nights that he was around. It’s comforting, having him watch over you again just like when he had first saved you in the mountains. There’s a familiarity to it that you’d been missing.

Still, as comfortable as you are sleeping beside him, your nights are restless. You’re plagued with guilt for what you’d said while he was sick. It almost feels like taking advantage of him while he was at his most vulnerable just so you could whisper what Dutch might call ‘your poison’ into his ear. You had a personal agenda, even if it was for his benefit too. You wanted Arthur for yourself, together and away from this life. Mostly, you wanted him out from under the control of Dutch, and safe. Still, you had no right to preach about Dutch being such a conman when you’re doing the same thing.

Tonight, you’re awoken by the same nagging thoughts. Your eyes flutter open as your stomach twists with a painfully familiar guilt. Huffing, you adjust yourself higher up Arthur’s chest, trying to force yourself to get comfortable again. His arm flexes around you as he shifts onto his side.

You tuck the rough wool of Arthur’s blanket under your chin but it doesn’t do anything except irritate you further. Trying to make sure you haven’t disturbed him too much, you risk a glance up at Arthur’s face. He’s the most at ease when he’s sleeping. It’s the one time you’ve seen him look his age, as the stress and tension melt away from him.

He’s healthier now and beginning to look alive once more. His cheeks are filling out, no longer so gaunt and hollow that the bone nearly pokes through. When he greets you in the morning his eyes are warm and bright. They don’t carry the flatness of fever and the threat of death. He’s slowly started to regain his appetite, clothes no longer hanging so loosely off his frame. And he finally shaved that horrendous beard he’d grown while he’d been sleeping. It’s a relief now that the reason for staying up all night isn’t because you're making sure he doesn’t stop breathing in his sleep.

Sighing, you carefully maneuver your way out from under his arm, sitting up in the cot. His hand drops from your shoulder to your lap as he readjusts himself to your absence. You look back at him and grimace. Just another secret to keep.

You killed your husband and no one except Charles and a whore will ever know about that. But that had felt right like you’d done the world a service getting rid of him. And you know, that getting Arthur to see past blind loyalty to the gang and to Dutch is better in the long run. But taking advantage of the fact that he was bed-ridden and couldn’t run away from having that conversation was wrong. You’re feeling like the scum you make Dutch out to be.

You brush your hair back and get to your feet, deciding to go sit with Charles while he’s on watch. It’s usually what you end up doing when you can’t sleep. Neither of you will talk but it's comforting just to have his calming presence near you. Your fingers are on the knots of the tent flap when a scream rips through the cold night air.

Eyes wide with fear, you stumble back a step. Arthur shoots up in bed and you whip around just in time to see him drag his revolver out from under the pillow. “What’s wrong?” He barks out the question as he leaps to his feet, coming to stand in front of you.

Your eyes dart between him and the gun. He’s wide awake like he hadn’t been deep asleep only a minute ago. And you didn’t even know that gun was there. You forget, sometimes, just how on edge these people have to be to survive. Thinking it’s you who screamed, Arthur snaps your name out when you don’t respond.

A shout rings out now, coming from just outside the tent. It’s a woman’s voice but you don’t know which one. Arthur guides you behind him and goes towards the tent flaps. When you try to follow him he barks out a brisk, “Stay” and runs out of the tent, half-dressed, gun in the air, looking crazed.

Ignoring Arthur, you push open the canvas just enough to poke your head out. Most everybody’s been woken up by the commotion. They’ve all got their guns out, looking for whatever threat has someone hollering like a dying animal. You look past them and towards the fire where Abigail is beating on John with every ounce of strength she has.

The fire casts a shadow against her wild eyes, making her seem larger than life, near inhuman. “You bastard!” She screams, slapping John so hard across the face you can hear it connect from where you are. “How can you just stand there!”

Arthur gets to them first. He tucks his gun away and grabs Abigail’s wrists, ripping her away from John so she’s forced to stop hitting him. He’s muttering something to her and you can’t hear it but you imagine he’s trying to calm her down and get her to explain herself.

John and Abigail don’t get along on the best of days, but this is odd even for them. You’d thought you’d seen her at her angriest when she’d found out what Karen and Sean had done in her bed, but this was an entirely different beast.

“They took him!” Choking back tears, she shouts, “They stole my son!”

Despite the urgency of Abigail’s situation, the priority remains to keep those still in camp safe. Jack’s kidnapping was a wake-up call. The gang will never have a moment to feel safe again. No matter where you run to or who you partner with, there will always be a threat hanging over your heads. Dutch has Arthur and Charles out looking for a new place to set up while the rest of you remain behind and pack.

Before, you would have helped the women pack up their tent and any other miscellaneous items. But your duties have shifted from working with them to what feels like Arthur duties. You take care of his things now, pack up his wagon while he’s gone, and throw your meager belongings in beside his. You feel remarkably wifely as you fold up his clothes and it sends a cold chill through your stomach. This is not a pleasant familiarity.

It’s not like you haven’t seen the transition from helping around camp to solely taking care of Arthur. At first, you had assumed it was simply because he was so ill that he needed the aid. But now it seems as though they changed your handler from Mrs. Grimshaw to Arthur. She no longer demanded anything of you or tried to take charge of how you act.

You wouldn’t say that Arthur has taken advantage of the situation. He never asks anything of you, what you do for him you do of your own free will. But it doesn’t ease the sense of dread you feel. You take care of him, his clothes, and his belongings because you don’t know what else to do. Never have you had the opportunity to choose another way of life. You had been born as an object to be bought and traded, sent to a finishing school that disciplined you in the arts of being a wife. You don’t know any other way and that terrifies you.

There’s a deep-seated worry that this infatuation with Arthur is only a way for you to survive. By latching onto him, you’ve given yourself someone to take care of and someone who will protect you. There’s no chance of abandonment now that the two of you are so connected.

It’s shameful, this fear of yours. Still, though, it lingers even when it’s unwanted.

Lady grazes lazily in the grass beside you. Her tail flicks with boredom, her head always perking up when she hears another horse huff and thinks Diablo might be coming back. They’ve grown remarkably attached and you can’t say that you haven’t noticed she’s been a lot calmer lately. You think being around him so much helped ease her into her new environment. You wonder if that’s what happened between you and Arthur, but you just never managed to fully assimilate.

Taking Lady’s reigns you hitch her up to the wagon and jump onto the driver’s seat. Without Arthur, you won’t have anyone else to ride with. Leaning back against the wood, you watch as Molly struggles with some crates. She stumbles, nearly tripping into the mud as she tosses them on the back of the wagon. Dutch doesn’t offer her help, he’s too absorbed in his hushed conversation with Hosea.

The way Dutch treats her, the dismissive coolness, and then the sudden surge of love every few weeks, frays at her mind. Her patience and sanity have slowly been dwindling and you can see it plainly on her face. She’s gone mad and temperamental and is never happy anymore. Is that the fate of any woman who loves an outlaw?

Trelawney has a family in the city somewhere. How often does he see his wife or his children?

Abigail and John are no great love story. She’d been the gang’s favorite whore before John got her pregnant. Then, he’d had no other choice but to take care of her and their child. Their relationship was born out of resentment and necessity. The most affection you’ve ever seen between them was her yelling at him for getting clawed up by a wolf.

Mrs. Grimshaw watches Molly struggle for a minute or two before coming over and silently offering her aid. They don’t speak and the tension is clear between them. Mrs. Grimshaw, Dutch's former lover, and his current jaded woman. Susan had the intelligence to get out before Dutch broke her completely, now she was nothing more than an associate to him. How quickly do the affections of outlaws fade?

But Arthur isn’t John and he certainly isn’t Dutch. You can’t compare him to anyone because you’ve never met another man like him. He’s not your husband. There’s no ties keeping you together. No oaths to break or rings to bury. You can leave anytime you want, the only reason you’ve stayed so long was because it was your choice.

If you keep looking for your old life in every aspect of your new one, you’ll never move on. If you keep looking backward, you’ll be terrified of everything. You can’t allow yourself to live like that again.

Grabbing the reins you take a deep breath and close your eyes. You picture your old house, the cracks in the foundation, and the holes in the walls. Still, you hear your husband’s voice carrying through the halls as he shouts at you. There’s nothing like that here, nothing to fear. The memory doesn’t carry any of the pain it used to. It’s like a ghost of a past you’ve nearly forgotten. You just have to finish letting it go.

Shady Belle’s name carries a certain elegance with it. It sounds like a dignified estate, one you might not find in the city but would certainly find near plantations. In your mind, the name brings about images of your childhood home. The same one that had been taken care of by your family for generations.

However, the rotting monstrosity of termite-infested wood and stinking mud is certainly no great estate. When Arthur proudly shows you the new camp he and Charles have found, it is an exercise in control not to grimace in disgust. You know you’re spoiled by the way you grew up. To these people, simply having a roof is a luxury.

Arthur looks at you expectantly as he gives you a hand off the wagon. You bite your lip, brows furrowed as you try and think of anything complimentary to say about the house. It’s difficult to think with the stink of the marsh flooding your senses. “It is certainly something,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at the door that’s not screwed on right.

You suppose, in a way, it reminds you of your husband’s estate. When the coffers were run dry and your husband had scared away the rest of the cleaning staff. Arthur chuckles and helps you around the puddles of mud blocking the entrance to the home.

“I know, I know,” he relents, sounding slightly amused by your clear disdain. “It is pretty ugly. But,” he grabs the door’s handle and shimmies it roughly a few times before the rusted hinges let out a loud groan and it goes swinging open. “We do get our own room.”

He motions you towards the stairs and your brows perk with interest. “And,” you glance over your shoulder at him and grin, “what, pray tell, would we need the privacy of our own room for?”

He rolls his eyes at your question and gives you a not-so-gentle nudge up the stairs. “I’m sorry, when did I start speakin’ to the Lady Rowe?” You turn around intending to playfully swat at his shoulder when he unexpectedly grabs your wrist and pulls you to him giving you a rough kiss.

Pulling back breathlessly, your surprised eyes dart toward his lips, “Well, you’re a real charmer, aren’t you?” You tease. Taking the lead, he guides you through the winding hallway until you reach the very last door in the house. He seems eager to show you and it almost has you excited.

However, from the way the wood floor creaks under your feet and you can feel the house swaying in the wind, you don’t have high hopes for the state of the room. Besides, when was the last time Arthur or anyone else in the gang had actually slept in a real house? You’re sure he’d get excited by anything at this point.

He gives you a small smile and throws the door open. You relax your expression, trying to make sure no unkind thoughts show on your face as you step through the door. Your eye twitches slightly and you bite your tongue. This was deplorable.

The “window” is a hole in the wall that looks like someone had been thrown through. When you look up you can see the sky through the roof. It’s about as small as your old closet and the moist smell is nearly unbearable. The humidity out in these parts is going to be the death of you. You go one step further and swear your heel nearly goes through the floor.

However, despite all of these issues, there is one very wonderful thing about this room. The bed pushed up against the wall actually looked half-clean and was far larger than Arthur’s tiny cot. “Well, Mr. Morgan, this is something indeed.” He lets out a proud huff and your gaze drifts through the “window.” You grimace as you spot a gator clamping down on a deer in the marsh outside.

Outlaw life you could handle, but living in the moors was certainly asking a lot.

If there were any trails left leading to Jack, they would be found in St. Denis. It was suggested that you use your former connections to try and find information on the boy’s whereabouts. The gang didn’t seem to understand that you had no connections of your own. They were either your husband’s or your father’s. And you certainly didn’t want to call upon any of your father’s old partners, that would lead to nothing but trouble. Though, you wouldn’t be surprised if you ran into them. As disgusting and poverty-ridden as the city is, it’s exactly where men like that love to linger.

“I’m still not sure bringin’ you along was a good idea,” Arthur frowns at how you have to ride side-saddle in the skirts you’d donned for this. As much as you’ve grown to love pants, that kind of modern-day fashion isn’t going to work for what you need to do.

After what happened in Valentine, you know Arthur doesn’t like dragging you into the gang’s business. But you’re reluctant to let him out of your sight now. You can’t trust Dutch to take any care or precautions for Arthur’s safety. Besides, Cornwall and the Pinkertons wouldn’t be so desperate as to start shooting at you in the middle of the street. There’s too much risk they might hit the wrong congressman and lose themselves their funding.

“Arthur, might I remind you that I’m more at home here than I am in camp.” A mangy mutt barks at the horses as you pass by. You can just imagine the fleas crawling through his coat, mud matted into what little fur he has left. A boy not much younger than Jack runs up to him and tosses him a stick. You can see the ribs poking through both of them.

Arthur lets out a heavy sigh and sets you with a firm look, “Really? This is home to you?”

Slowly, the run-down huts around you give way to smoking factories and haggling merchants. Smog and filth pollute the air, the fog parts just enough for you to see the high-end estates in the distance. The rich, watching their fortunes grow as their factory workers and servants die a slow death.

“Poor choice of words,” you acquiesce. “No, I’m much happier out in the wilderness. I only mean this is where I was raised to be born, bred, and die. There’s a culture to the sniveling men who live here, and I happen to be quite familiar with it.”

“Well,” Arthur sniffs and you watch him toss a coin into a beggar’s outstretched bowl. “I don’t feel like gettin’ comfortable here. Why don’t we make this quick?” You want to laugh at his impatience, but you can’t deny how your stomach is twisting at all of the decay bordering the city.

You nod your head, nudging Lady on a little faster. It doesn’t take long for the poverty to fade and make way for the “grandeur” of St. Denis. You still see filth, crime, and unseemly business tucked away into the corners of the city. No matter how hard the wealthy try, they can’t keep the dirt off their hands. It’s impossible to turn a blind eye to the murkiness of what you once thought was a black-and-white world.

“Where do we even start?” Arthur asks, nose turned up in disgust at the city. You don’t want to make him stay here any longer than you need to. If this is what the future of your country is to look like then you have no qualms becoming a feral mountain woman.

“If there’s anything rich men love more than making money, it’s losing it.” You nod toward the saloon up ahead and smile. “If anyone has information they’ll be there. Either at the poker table or watching it.”

Arthur nods and you see him nudging Diablo to go faster but you hold out your hand, stopping him. “Wait a moment, Arthur. We’ll need to get our story straight if we’re going to get anything useful out of this.”

“Oh, come on,” he huffs impatiently just wanting this to be over and done with. “We don’t need a story for this.”

“We most certainly do,” you admonish. You click your tongue disapprovingly at him and shake your head. “They’re not just going to talk to any hick off the street.”

“Hey-“

“You’re to be the help,” you continue, ignoring his protests. “Or, my escort,” you amend when you see the disgruntled look on his face. “They don’t let women at the betting tables so I’ll leave you to the men there.”

“And you?”

“I’ll work those at the bar. They’ll be the most loose-lipped anyway.” You lead the horses to the hitch posts by the side of the saloon. Arthur gets off Diablo and comes to stand by your saddle. He holds a hand up towards you and you swat it away with a rude huff. “Mind your place, sir. The help does not touch,” you inform him, nose turned to the air. It takes a herculean effort not to laugh at how easily his face screws up in irritation. You are enjoying this far too much.

The annoyed look drops when he sees you struggle to shift your legs to the other side of the saddle. He backs away, hands in the air and a smug look on his face. You peer over the edge of Lady and grimace. You seem to have forgotten just how tall your mare is without Arthur’s usual assistance. “Sure you don’t need help?” He asks, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the post of the saloon.

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Arthur.” You drop from the saddle with a jolt and wince a little at the impact on your ankles. He rolls his eyes as you pass by him.

“Come on, this is ridiculous,” his voice is pleading with you to not go in there. You don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t want you involved or just because he doesn’t want to talk to the men waiting for you inside.

“This will work,” you insist. “As long as you’re not too familiar with me.”

His face drops and his eyes narrow into slits. “Familiar?” He grumbles. You give him a dainty nod, dodging away from the hand that tries to snatch up your wrist. “Fine,” he snaps, spirit finally broken by your own stubbornness.

“But if this don’t work,” his hand drifts down to the revolver holstered on his hip. “I got somethin’ that will.” When will men learn there are better ways of getting what they want than whipping out their pistols?

“What?” You deadpan, “You’re gonna shoot every man you see until you get your answers?”

He shrugs his shoulders, stalking past you and towards the entrance. “Maybe.”

“Oh,” you scoff and pick up your skirts, rushing to keep up with his easy stride. “Come on you stubborn fool,” you grouse.

Right before you both reach the entrance, you clear your throat. He pauses, turning around with a glare. “I do believe it’s ladies first,” you remind him. His lips purse and he takes one reluctant step back. “Thank you,” you use your prissiest voice just to rub some salt in the wound.

“I hate this already,” he grumbles, glaring daggers at your back.

“Hush,” you bite your lip to stifle the laughter threatening to surface. You must admit, you’re getting a bit of a power rush being able to command him around like this. You’re so used to taking orders that you’ve forgotten what it feels like to give them out. You had once run your house until your husband took over. It’s been a long while since you fell into this role.

Taking in a deep breath, you straighten up your shoulders and close your eyes. Remembering the vanity that comes along with a role like this, you smooth out your skirts and open the door to the saloon. The chatter and cigar smoke bring you back to memories of sitting in your father’s office while he filled out his reports. He was so cruel if you’d made too much noise while he was working. His favorite thing to tell you was always, “The proper way of the lady is to be seen and not heard. Women are something to be admired, not understood.”

Looking around at the men in this room, you know they’d tell you the same thing. Women aren’t wanted here unless the men have a hand up their skirts or a business deal with their husbands. Even after all your time with the gang, you still find yourself being cowed. You almost want to turn back around and leave. But it’s Jack’s life on the line and you can’t let his mother down simply because you got scared.

You pull a wad of cash out of the beaded purse on your arm and lead Arthur toward the poker table. After haggling with Dutch for an hour, you’d manage to convince him to hand over some of the camp's funds. He didn’t need to know how much of it you were planning on pocketing for yourself.

The men around the table glance at you suspiciously out of the sides of their eyes. But they don’t say anything to you until you start to pull a seat out. “Woah, little lady,” one of the men raises his hand and quickly grabs the arm of the chair, jerking it from your grip. He chuckles patronizingly and shakes his head, “I’m afraid there’s no women allowed at this table.”

“Well,” you give him a sickly sweet smile. “It’s a good thing I’m not playing.” Arthur comes to stand beside you and the man’s face pales. With the brim of his hat just barely blocking his eyes, the only thing they can see of him is the revolver on his hip and the nasty looks he’s sending them. He grabs the back of the chair and jerks it out of the man’s grip, nearly sending him flying.

“My escort, here, will be playing for me.” Arthur takes his seat without another word and you slide the bills into his hand. Leaning over the edge of his chair, you whisper in his ear, “Try not to lose all my money, sweetheart.”

He tugs a cigar out of his vest and lights it up. He puffs silently on it and you spot the way his lips curl slightly at the edges. You can tell he’s doing his damnedest not to laugh at the little show you’re putting on for him.

“How are we doin’ today, gentlemen?” Arthur addresses the men at the table, voice rough and you can already see them getting antsy just being near him. He should have no trouble getting what he wants from them. He doesn’t even have to wave his gun around, he just needs to sit there and look terrifying.

You leave him to play his part and move towards the bar at the back of the saloon. There are a few men sitting around, but you have to be careful about who you choose. Someone too drunk won’t be of any use to you. And someone stone-cold sober is going to get very suspicious of a friendly woman who isn’t a whore asking them too many questions.

Rounding the tightly packed poker tables, you stand by the edge of the counter. There’s no point trying to order, they won’t serve a woman. Unless you’re one of the ladies employed by the establishment, you won’t be getting much service. You hop onto one of the stools, taking in the men slumped against the bar.

One of them is clearly a laborer who wandered into the wrong bar and was too embarrassed to leave. A few others aren’t too drunk, but they’re talking amongst themselves. You’d nearly left when you saw how crowded the place was, you won’t be able to handle a whole group on your own. The rest, except for one at the end of the bar, look like they’re about to tip right off their stools.

The man at the end is well dressed, his suit finer and clearly more expensive than any of the others in here. He’s nursing his glass of whisky, the bottle by his elbow and only a quarter-empty. He holds a cigar between his fingers, the smoke curling up into the air around his head. The expression on his face isn’t particularly inviting, but he seems like the best shot you have at finding something that makes this whole trip worth it.

Slipping from your spot, you drift towards his side, keeping only a stool between the both of you. The goal is to not draw too much attention to yourself. You only need something small for him to notice you, it can’t be obvious that you’re trying. Experience has taught patience in letting them come to you, not the other way around. Reel them in too early and everything falls apart.

“Excuse me,” you call out to the bartender, a small tilt to your lips as you give him a dainty wave. The man beside you only gives you a brief look before turning back to his drink. But you notice the way he’s turned slightly towards you, most likely intrigued by what a lady like yourself is doing in a place like this.

The bartender glances towards you with a nearly affronted expression. “Could I get a drink?” You force the pitch of your voice higher yet softer than it normally would be. You know the appeal of innocence and virtue to men like this, as disgusting as it is, it works.

The bartender shakes his head, voice gruff, “Don’t serve women here. You’ll have better luck somewhere else.”

“Well,” your shoulders slump and your face falls as you feign disappointment, “That’s a shame.” You feel the stranger watching you and turn like you’ve just noticed him. “I can’t exactly leave,” you explain to him. His brows perk, an invitation to continue even as he remains silent.

Waving behind yourself, you point out Arthur. “I’ve stolen my daddy’s favorite toy. I can’t leave until he’s won me enough money for this pretty necklace I saw the other day.” There was a time when you actually spoke like this, even thought like this. It almost feels simpler, those days when the most important thing was having the prettiest dress in the room. Given the option, though, you would never go back. Not now that you can see the world so much more clearly.

You’re entertaining him if nothing else. There’s a quirk to his lips as he listens to you talk. He doesn’t truly care what you have to say, but he likes the company. Turning towards the bartender he snaps and grabs his attention once more. “A drink for the signora,” your brows furrow together at the thick Italian accent.

You’d heard once, through your husband, that more Italian immigrants seemed to be moving to bigger cities like St. Denis. Italian mobsters seemed to flourish here. You just hadn’t expected to find one in this bar.

The bartender’s shoulders stiffen, his hands freezing in their idle movements of drying out a glass. You drop the ditzy look from your face for a moment, eyes narrowing in on the odd interaction. The bartender puts a glass before you, his hand trembling as he does. The Italian man watches it all with an eagle-eyed smirk. You can’t help but feel like you’re witnessing some show of dominance.

The Italian man waves him away and he pours some of his whisky into your glass. “It’s bold of you,” he tells you, not offering further explanation.

“What is?”

He smirks and takes a deep drag of his cigar. The smoke billows from his mouth like a cloud, wafting over your face and smothering the air around you. Your teeth dig into your lips hard enough to hurt as you struggle not to cough.

His eyes rove over you and you feel like a diamond under the scrutinizing eye of a jeweler, being checked for flaws and value. “Coming in here unmarried and without your father knowing.”

“Oh,” you wave him off and giggle, your hand drifting towards the back of his arm. He looks smug at the touch like he’s won something. The hair on the back of your neck stands up and you feel as though you’re being watched. Risking a glance over your shoulder you see Arthur already staring back at you. His eyes are practically slits when he sees the hand you have on the Italian’s arm.

You clear your throat and quickly take your eyes off of him. “Do you see how big my escort is?” You ask, practically talking down to him. “I don’t have to worry much when I’ve got him standing beside me. It’s just too bad,” you trail off as you reach for the glass beside you.

“What?” He prods, straightening up as you take your hand off him. You take your time answering, pressing your lips to the rim slowly and taking a long drink. It tastes of bog and burns the whole way down, and you have to turn away to hide your pinched as you struggle to swallow it. Still, when you turn back to him you manage to look pleased.

“To be quite honest, he’s touched. Got kicked in the head by a mule a few years back and isn’t good for much more than fighting and labor.” God, Arthur’s going to kill you if he hears any of this. You can’t risk looking back at him again, though. Right now, he’s nothing more than a prop.

“Still, an unclaimed, beautiful,” he adds as though that makes you sound any less like a piece of land, “woman out and about like this. I can’t imagine your father’s pleased.”

You titter, batting your lashes and shrugging. “What daddy doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, I’ve got serious business to deal with in the city.”

“Right, your pretty necklace?” His tone is familiar, you’ve been hearing it all your life. He’s not listening to you, he doesn’t care what you have to say, he’s just imagining what you’d look like on his arm. Or under him. It makes your skin crawl but you’re not so stupid that you don’t use his attraction to your advantage.

An Italian man who can terrify a bartender with a single word, lurking in the dark corners of St. Denis. He seems like just the man you’re looking for. You play into what he wants, making your voice lighter, younger than it is, and leaning so he can see the way your corset perks up your cleavage.

“Well, beyond the necklace. Though, that is just as important. I have this friend, Abby. Poor thing got born on the wrong side of life and had to do awful things for a living. Then, some no-good outlaw gets her pregnant. So, she’s stuck traveling with him now. And if that’s not bad enough, her poor little boy got stolen from her a few days back. I was hoping I might help her out somehow. Maybe send her a pretty dress.”

You shrug noncommittally as though it truly means nothing to you. He hums under his breath, putting his cigar out on the tray beside him. “I think I can help you out, signora. I’m having a party at my home tonight. I know a lot of,” he trails off, tongue licking across his lips like a hyena lapping at its maw. “Influential people,” he finishes. “If you’re willing, you can attend,” you’re about to agree when he adds one little stipulation. “As my date.”

“Oh, well,” you glance over your shoulder at Arthur now. He’s talking to some of the men around him but he’s still got one eye trained on you. When he sees you looking he frowns, turning to face you fully.

You want to say no so badly. You don’t want to deal with another man like this for the rest of your life. In fact, you’d be much happier going back to camp and pretending none of this ever happened. But he might have the connections you need, not just for helping Jack, but possibly to help the whole gang. You swallow down your discomfort and force your most flattered smile.

“I’d love to.” You answer, feigning a dreamy lilt in your voice. He pulls a fountain pen out of his jacket pocket and writes something down on a napkin. He slides it over to you and stands, taking your hand in his own he bends to press a kiss to your gloved knuckles.

“My estate, signora, eight o’clock.” You watch as three men in different parts of the saloon all get to their feet and surround him. He nods forward and they march like proper soldiers, your eyes drift toward the guns on their hips and you let out a rough sigh.

You take a glance at the napkin and see that he’s written an address on it. Wonderful, you’ve just gotten yourself a date with the mafia. You see Arthur out of the corner of your eye as he cashes out and gets to his feet. You bite your lip and frown, how in the hell are you going to explain this to him?

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” Arthur snaps as you both walk into The St. Denis Tailor.

“Arthur,” you bite your tongue, holding back the insult dancing just on the tip of it. “I’ve already told you that this is necessary.” He tilts his head with a disbelieving look and you throw your hands up in the air in defeat. “He might know how to get Jack back.”

“Yeah, but did you have to tell him I was your ‘daddy’s simple servant’?” He demands, taunting you with the rude words you’d used earlier.

You take in a deep breath, preparing yourself for a real and true argument, just as someone clears their throat behind you. Turning, you find a sheepish tailor standing behind the register. He waves slightly at the both of you, face flushed from hearing you bicker on your way into the store.

“Could I help you find something today?” You shoot Arthur a glare over your shoulder and approach the man with a tense smile.

“I need a suit and a gown for an event tonight.” You start pulling out the money from your bag as Arthur scoffs loudly behind you.

“A suit,” Arthur begins to protest.

“Yes, a suit!” You snap, turning around and giving him a sharp look. “You want me to go to this alone?”

He crosses his arms and sets you with an aggrieved look. “Obviously I don’t, woman. But if I’m just your fool of an escort, why do I need to dress up?” He looks smug, as though he’s caught you in a trap of your own design.

“Oh,” you’re close to stomping your foot like a child as you screw your face up at him. “You are impossible, Arthur. Do you want to find Jack or not?” He doesn’t answer you. Instead, he huffs and throws himself down on a seat by the door, refusing to meet your eye.

You turn back to the tailor with a strained smile and slam the bills down on the counter. “A suit and a gown,” you reiterate, already knowing this is gonna be hell to get through with Arthur.

The man takes the money, glancing between the both of you with trepidation. You pass him another ten and his face lights up. “Of course, madam, right this way.” He pulls back a curtain behind the counter and motions you both towards the fitting rooms.

The tailor won’t have time to make a custom dress for you tonight. You’ll just have to hope he has something close to your size. Still, you find yourself browsing through the fabrics and laces he has laid out in the front. Your fingers drift over the more expensive silks and it drags you back to the parties you used to attend with your family.

They were always filled with mindless drivel that was simply a cover for their true purpose. Conversations that always bored you were meant to probe your family for weaknesses. Being back here feels like throwing yourself back to the coyotes. Every face you pass, every conversation you hold, is carefully curated to present the image that person wants you to see. There’s nothing genuine about high society.

“I don’t want that damn bow tie,” Arthur snaps at the tailor behind the curtain. You roll your eyes and take a seat near the fitting room. You should have just gotten Arthur’s size and picked the suit out yourself. You hadn’t realized how difficult he would be about this.

You’re certain he’s only mad about you going behind his back and getting an invite to the party. Not only have you involved yourself in the gang’s business, you’ve placed yourself directly in the middle of it. It’s not as though you’re eager to be getting involved like this.

It’s just after what happened to Arthur, every time he leaves camp you’re starkly aware that there’s no promise of his return. Perhaps it’s given you this itch to be closer to him than normal, but you feel as though it’s a perfectly natural reaction after painstakingly caring for him for weeks. You and the other women had been the only thing to stand between him and death, you’re not willing to let Dutch throw him back into danger without a care.

The curtain slides back and you straighten up, waiting for Arthur to come out. One shiny black shoe slinks out, slowly followed by his leg. “Honestly, Arthur, you act like this is a punishment,” you complain as he takes his sweet time coming out.

“With the way this collar is choking me, it might as well be,” he snaps, finally stepping all the way through. Despite the way he roughly tugs at his bow tie, the suit fits him quite well. He could almost look like a gentleman if it weren’t for the sour expression on his face.

Letting out a soft sigh you stand up and walk towards him, “You look handsome, Arthur, really.” He shoots you a doubtful look and you send him a teasing smile, swatting his hands away from the collar. You loosen the bowtie for him and he gives you a grateful look.

A little bit of the tension ebbs away from you both, a bridge slowly rebuilding. “I feel ridiculous,” his tone contains just a tad less of the irritation from earlier.

The problem between you is that each of you desires to protect one another. Arthur wants you as far as he can get you from the gang. You don’t want to let him out of your sight. Neither of you are ever going to give in, it’s always going to be a constant push and pull of stubborn desires. Pockets of peace can be found in a simple moment like this, but you worry that there’s always going to be a divide.

“You certainly don’t look ridiculous sir!” The tailor calls out cheerfully, eyeing his suit on Arthur with pride.

Arthur huffs out a small laugh, “Alright,” he relents, “guess I’ll take this one.” You pick a piece of lint off his shoulder and take a slow step back.

“Your turn, madam,” the tailor parts the curtain for you and you give Arthur one last brief smile before stepping behind it.

It doesn’t take you long to find the dress you want. You don’t have many options so you choose the one that will fit, and the one that will hurt Dutch’s pockets the most- a rather exuberantly-priced ruby red evening gown.

Red gossamer wraps around your shoulders and one of the more comfortable corsets you’ve ever worn cinches your waist. Red silk ruches around your hips and back to give you more curves than necessary. It broaches the line of scandalous but it’s one of the only options the tailor has for you. Admittedly, it would better fit a lady of the night, but your goal isn’t to make a good impression. You only need information tonight, what the people you speak to think of you means nothing.

You pull the heavy fabric of the curtain back as the tailor stares with pride at his creation. Pulling the white gloves up your elbows you walk towards Arthur. “Well?” You hold your arms out, excitedly spinning to show off the back of the gown. You tip your head over your shoulder, anticipating a look of awe, a compliment, maybe even a kiss that will leave the poor tailor scandalized.

Instead, Arthur looks you up and down, giving away nothing. You smile broadly at him, heart picking up the longer he’s quiet. The tailor peers around the curtain, brows furrowed as he glares at your companion. “Sir?” He prods.

Arthur shrugs, “It’s a dress. Whaddya want me to say?” You hear the tailor gasp quietly in offense.

“Well,” your lips thin as you laugh, it doesn’t quite mask the sting of rejection, but you try.

You turn and look at yourself in the mirror. The woman staring back at you in the mirror isn’t someone you recognize. Circles under your eyes, wrinkles from squinting against the harsh sun, and skin that’s been wind beaten. It’s all so glaringly different to the woman you used to see. Months of muddy pants and cotton shirts have worn away the softer edges of your reflection, and this is the closest you’ve been to feeling feminine since the mountains. You’d been hoping for something less dismissive.

“You sure know how to make a girl feel pretty, Mr. Morgan.” Your voice is sharpened by hurt and anger. His face slacks and he winces like he’s finally realized just how callous he sounded. You shake your head, whip the curtain closed, and step back. The heat of disappointment strikes hot in your chest. What did you expect? Outlaws don’t know the first thing about courting ladies.

“You look gorgeous, madam,” the tailor tells you as he hands you your other clothes. You force a weak smile in return. Compliments like his are weightless. What would they mean from someone like Arthur?

It would’ve taken so little to spare you a kind word or even an appreciative glance. It makes you think of your husband, how kind he used to be before he grew tired of you. He’d been a “proper gentleman” raised in the knowledge of how to court and care for ladies. That ended with him in the belly of animals.

A lady and an outlaw, worlds apart in what they need and understand. How could a story like that end?

You feel your throat tighten, stomach-churning, as too many fears hit you all at once. You’re lightheaded and unsteady on your feet as you wonder if the divide between you both is too wide to cross.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @committingcrimes-2047

@m1stea @pokiona @fleouris

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

120 notes · View notes

girldriveroscar · 3 days ago

Note

Re: size of landoscar. Love your write up haha. Truly any narrative can be validated bc every pic looks different ‼️I do have two pics that are crucial landoscar comparisons imo:

https://www.tumblr.com/answerringg/770682515577077760/their-size-difference-oh-lando-is-getting

This pic is a screen grab from a vid but just in general he looks huge this whole video 😭 like you mentioned I think his bad posture eventuates that + optical illusion but wow. What a satisfying visual re: him vs Lando. Like FINE I’ll buy into the whole ‘Lando’s so small🥺’ that both Lando and Oscar like to perpetuate🤷‍♀️

there’s also a vid of Oscar+ a fan and the comments/fan all mention how surprisingly tall Oscar is. Like Lando said in that first Mclaren vid… Oscar doesn’t seem tall.. but he is. (tall being like 5’10/11 lol)

https://www.tumblr.com/mara-xx/770330916757372928/needed-a-last-minute-birthday-cake-so-i-called-up

^ And this one is just self explanatory 💗

Anyway sorry for the length but my last random thoughts — even as someone who’s never paid attention to lando til like 5 seconds ago, I can tell he’s gone through a massive glow up. And to make this rpf bc why not, how lucky for oscar —the guy who’s been a fan of forever— to experience Lando in his prime (thus far). Oscar said #invest #manifest

THIS and THIS for ease…

THESE SUITS WERE SO. fuck that ugly ass diagonal suit broOAUGH. this era..peak landoscar size diff cus like oscar Jus grew n lando had Not.

but ok like they r Literally always changing sizes. frm the front to the back to the outfit to the angle

i could find a Billion examples atp !!

why doesnt the big twink eat the little twink seeing this Reformed my brain n the way i see them bc. from the front they r so

0 and o

like oscars small horizontally (again FROM THE FRONT!) while landos smaller vertically. but theyre both Small Basically. (#f1drivers)

but at the same time. theres a lot of muscle mass packed into their frames. and as they shift arnd / have better or worse posture / flex and unflex. theyre either Twigs or Big.

its shrödingers landoscar… theyre big and small… i think the only real conclusion for this wld amount frm seeing them in the flesh. which i dont intend to do or ever report on. LOL. probably.

i fully believe oscars taller than he looks tho. ESP after this year. end of 2023 vs start of 2024 and end of 2024 for reference. i think its a slight growth spurt maybe i am… being kind to oscar though…

anyways thank u for the oscass pic. that photo genuinely makes me Claw and rattle the bars of my enclosure like he is so Perfectly bouncy in that. n lando is my pancake in a way…

and bc youre landoscaring im landoscaring. Under the cut tho.

the fact oscars not even.. big… n they stil BOTH push this narrative of lando is sooo itty bitty…

the way sue Cs it oscar is so giddy about being in on the “lando is the small and fiercely dominant” joke after following said smallest boys career When He was Actually the Smallest… like he is living out his 15 yr old dream please excuse his excitement he Literally is just in on the joke now. of course hes milking it. ijsk he wanted to b george russell soooo bad. hes Crazy. let him have this bit.

lando i think leans into his smallness as a shield bc its all hes ever known and been told. but thats a whole deeper convo. still cannot bring myself to edit that lando analysis Very apologetic the thoughts might hv to die in my drafts <\3

the #invest made me LOLLLL. hes so true. following a guy frm his feeder series bc u Saw the potential in him. Watching him get to F1. Moving frm adolescence leaving everything familiar to u behind to kart with the same team. Stumbling behind in his footsteps. Getting to F1 right by his side. And then u won a championship w him. brought glory back to ur team through the power of Literally Just getting along.. and u have these weird charged events of tension that Somehow get ironed out Somehow.. And ur so completely the opposite of everything he knows and yet the longest teammate he has Ever Had..oOh My Goooood

we rlly dont… give enough time and energy to JUST HOW crazy of a coincidence that is. js think ab how exciting it is for Us when the F2/F3 driver ur following makes it into F1 !! like if Luke Browning or Fred Vesti ever got a seat im Doing Actual Backflips. IT RLY IS LIKE. #invest #manifest now add on everything else??? LIKE WHAT!!!!! god they make me crazy. and somehow lando got super stupid hot and hes a race winner and can actually groan out loud when he fucks instead of whimpering pathetically. that’s crazy man. 🚬🚬🚬🚬

#welp. good luck charlie (oscar)#rambling #oscar piastri #lando norris #landoscar #asks

69 notes · View notes

stargazedwinchester · 2 days ago

Text

Haircare ♡ Sam

Summary: You spend a self-care day with Sam. Word Count: 896 This one's more descriptive than progressive, be honest if it's slow or boring, and I'll redo it. </3

Sam takes pride in his hair, he always has. Ever since you entered his life, he never fully took care of himself. Sure, he’d buy the occasional moisturiser, sometimes a hair mask, if he really fancied it. You hoarded a vast collection of self care products, ranging from skincare to haircare. It had always intrigued Sam, but he thought it would be wasteful to spend a lot of money and not use it.

“Hey,” Sam greets as he walks into the library. You look up at him and smile. “Hey yourself.” You reach up and plant a kiss on his lips, and he chuckles softly. “Could you give me a hand with cutting my hair? I don’t trust going to the barbers.” He laughs nervously, and you nod. “Of course I can!” You walk down toward the bathroom, but he pulls your arm back gently, making you turn around. “Do you think I could use some of your hair stuff, too?” Sam looks at you sheepishly, and you grin at him. “Yes, baby, you can.”

You place Sam on a stool in the bathroom. He looked silly sitting on something so small. You take sections of his hair bit by bit and snip the ends. Honestly, he had pretty healthy hair, a few split ends, and it felt soft. To say they have the shit kicked out of them every other day, Sam’s quite competent at looking after himself. You take the scissors to his hair, then brush the loose hairs from his shoulders. He sat shirtless, as it was easier to get rid of the loose hairs, rather than them sticking to his shirt.

You wouldn’t complain either way.

You indicate Sam to stand up, wafting at his toned chest and broad shoulders. “All done.” You admire his torso, his muscles relaxed yet still prominent. You could watch Sam in awe for the rest of your life. He glances down at you before tenderly moving past you to turn the shower on. He undresses and ushers you to do the same.

The droplets barely patter down on your chest. Sam’s large frame blocks the full power of the showerhead. He leans back and dampens his hair, and you take a quick look around for products to use on his hair. You have many to choose from, ranging from drugstore and salon brand. You decide on a higher end one, a deep purple bottle. Squirting a small amount onto your hand, you emulsify it by rubbing your hands together. Sam leans down, bending his knees so you can reach. Your fingertips massage the shampoo into his scalp. He takes over whilst you apply some on yourself as well.

“Leave it in for 5 minutes,” you advise, and he furrows his brows.

“Why?”

“If you leave it to soak in, it’ll work better.”

“Ah.”

You gingerly place your hand on his chest, reaching up to plant a kiss on his cheek. Innocently, he cups your face and lays a kiss on your forehead, then another on your lips.

You both wash the product out of your hair, you reach for a small, beige tub and scoop out a moderate amount. “So, since you have shorter hair, you won’t need to use conditioner,” you instruct, preparing to put the hair mask on his hair. “This is a hair mask. It’ll keep your hair soft but won’t overbear it with moisture.” You tell him, and he looks puzzled. You can’t help but giggle at his face, like he had no clue. He allows you to work in the mask anyway, trusting your intuition.

After the shower, you dried off and Sam sits with a towel around his waist on the bed. He’s still somewhat damp, but insists he can sit there and dry off naturally.

“You wanna do some skincare?” You ask him, and he raises his eyebrows. “Like… face masks?” Sam questions, and you nod. “We can even shape your brows.”

“You are not touching my eyebrows.” Sam spat, immediately reaching to touch his brows, as if to protect them from you. “Aw, come on, Sam!” you moan, hoping that he will give in. He laughs heartily at your response, then shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”

“You’re boring.” You turn away, sifting through the various packets and tubs of face masks. “A sheet or a tub?” You ask, holding up one of each. He hesitates. “A… sheet?” Sam sounds unsure, combing his damp hair through with his fingers. You put the tub down and get the sheet mask ready. Luckily, you have two of each, so you can match with him.

You pass him the mask and you both apply it to your faces. It’s slimy and cold, making Sam pull a face of disgust. “There’s no way you find that gross.” You point at the mask, and he freezes. “What do you mean?”

“You kill monsters, Sammy. That’s more revolting than putting on a face mask.” You cackle. Sam admits defeat and touches his face once more.

You decide to put on a movie whilst the pair of you are relaxing after a long, hard day of self-care. Sam shuffles across the bed so you can lay next to him. He raises his arm so you can bury yourself in the nape of his neck. His arms wrap around you, squeezing you into a bear hug.

#supernatural #spn #supernatural imagines #spn imagines #sam winchester #sam winchester imagines #supernatural imagine #spn imagine #sam x reader #sam x you #sam x y/n #sam winchester x y/n #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x reader

57 notes · View notes

neetily · 2 days ago

Note

hiii omg I missed ur writings!! ur my fav stardew writer <333 do u think ur ever going to put ur fics back on ao3? i was so confused when ur name disappeared from my subscriptions

small side request

a drabble abt sam getting a hard on after seeing the farmer working on their crops in just overalls during thr summer?

hi love! thank you for waiting for me to get to this request <3 i hope you're still here LMFAO. and though i'm sure you've already seen my answer to your ao3 question, i'll answer again for those who don't know.

i will not be reuploading fics to ao3, and you can instead read all of my old fics from a google drive link on my masterlist. the only fic i will be reuploading is the kent reddit fic when i finish the next chapter, since i'll have to reupload old chapters for it to make sense! ty for asking <3

warnings: public, male solo wc: 1,312

It's really really warm today. Surprisingly so even for a mid-Summer morning, which is what has led to him sipping at his usual morning Joja Cola on the front porch while you toil away on the farm all by yourself.

And he'd love to help you out— was helping in the beginning. Slinking away into the kitchen soon after under the guise of getting you a refreshingly cold drink when really, he just needed a break from the growing tension in his pants from watching you work so hard. All hot and bothered and not from the sun this time. And yet still, the Summer heat beats down on him despite the shade he's currently under, leaving him to feel all uncomfortable and sticky in the comfort of the small bench upon your porch.

Or— Perhaps he's feeling all gross and sweaty because he's currently got his cock out too? Fist tight around the base of it, choking himself out with light squeezes as a means to distract himself from the gorgeous view right in front of him, but he never had hope to begin with. Dunno, maybe that might have a little something to do with it, right?

Because despite nursing a heavy hard on in the wide open on such a lovely morning, the air remains thick. Suffocating in its sticky nature; especially against his exposed cock as precum rolls down the length of it to stain his white knuckles all tacky too. He's sure that he's hidden well enough from your prying eyes to stay private with his affections, positive that you're probably too busy making sure that the toil has been appropriately tilled, or that the weeds have been sufficiently removed, or that all the sprinklers you've made still function as well as they should. Too busy not paying attention to him, and the way he simply stares at you from afar. Joja Cola in one hand, and his cock in the other. There's no better way to start a morning, he selfishly thinks to himself with a final sip of his can before saving it by the table next to him.

He doesn't wanna drop it when he gets going soon enough.

And he's selfish indeed, from the way he huffs and puffs to himself in the heat of the sun, hiking his knees up just a little to rest against the fence of the porch, keeping his dripping cock out of your view so that he can pleasure himself in private. Something about enjoying quiet time with you in his own time, a pleasurable shiver running up his spine as his half-lidded eyes once again fall upon your picture pretty frame, and his cock immediately begs back in response. Twitching in his unfair hold for jus a little more, c'mon, she can't see you!

Not that it'd be an issue if you could, it's just fun getting to play this little game with you— even if you're left unaware. Because you're unaware, even. Because there's nothing more that he wants to do this lazy Summer morning than to dote on you in the secrecy of your own porch. The thrill of it all, of having his cock leak and dribble precum for anyone to rightfully see, zip down and cock fished out from the hole his boxers provide— God, it's just all so exciting to him. Has him giddy with enjoyment, offering you a wry smile when you wave innocently back at him, and his cock jerks for more of your attention.

It only helps that you've practically matched his state of undress in the unfair heat of the day unknowingly. Barely covered by the old and tattered overalls he so often sees you wearing day in and out; and y'know, he's never really thought of them as sexy before, but it's difficult to deny the way his cock throbs and eyes threaten to roll at another eyeful of your pretty side boob. The important parts still yet remain hidden, and yet still, he has to remind himself to swallow else he's sure he'd be drooling over the mere sight of you by now.

Just... Fuck sake, you look too fucking pretty for your own good. And he has half a mind to believe that you know it too, like a pestering little imp, intent on forcing him into getting off on such an otherwise pleasant morning together because you know he can't help himself when it comes to you. A low whine escaping his throat at the thought alone, and though it's quiet enough that you've got no chance of hearing it, he silently hopes you do. He hopes you get suspicious of the slight wiggling around he's doing thanks to the jacking off he promptly starts when you perfectly bend over to reach another melon, and fuck, what he wouldn't do to fuck your melons, and—

Oh he can barely breathe. Watching you through hazy vision is only making him more frustrated with himself, the grip on his cock tightening up to counteract the slippery sweat that coats his body in a light sheen. That, and the fact that copious amounts of precum spills for you and your tight fucking body, shit. He's only just gotten dressed really, and now he has to change with every slip of his fist up his cock, gasping for air on the quick tug back down. Repeating the action even as you just stand still to assess your surroundings, because he finds you that fucking hot in the sun. Surely dripping with sweat yourself, struggling to keep cool in spite of the lack of clothing you've decided to adorn— much to his cocks pleasure. And you're such a good tease too, it's too fucking easy to jack it to you. A slick squelch filling his little corner of the porch as he picks up the pace of his fist, fucking himself silly as dizziness overtakes him and he needs to cum right now, just— jus' bend over a little more. jus' a lil— fuuuuck, that's it, jus' like that—

Almost as if you can hear his thoughts, or have somehow caught on to exactly why his body shakes and jerks with every hump of his hips against his wet palm, you abide by his wishes expertly. But he's past the point of caring about his dignity already today, biting down on his tongue to hold back a loud moan when he catches sight of your perfect ass and yeah, it's all over for him with the sway of your hips when you struggle to get another weed out or whatever. He doesn't fucking care at this point.

Hasn't the capacity to, really. Unwittingly providing the perfect opportunity to him with your turned back, he finally lets loose enough to shoot a morning load against his chest, just barely managing to pull his shirt up in time so as to not dirty it too much with milky cum. Dragging his fist back down to the very base of his cock to instead hump the air to completion, fervently staring at your ass as if the combination would somehow simulate actual sex with you— but it works. As silly as it sounds, it has him milking himself empty with fast fucks against nothing but the hot and humid air, only to lay fat ropes of seed against his chest and tummy for you.

It's short and sweet and over almost as quickly as it started, but that's just the thing. He finds you so fucking attractive, you can't rightly blame him for flashing you a dopey grin when you finally turn around to the sound of his grunts and groans in the quiet lazy morning, and unfortunately see the state of him.

Though he has high hopes for the way you saunter closer to him. The weeds can wait, right?

#sdv smut #sdv sam smut #stardew valley smut #stardew valley sam smut #sdv x farmer #stardew valley x farmer #sdv x reader #stardew valley x reader #sam🛹#it's rather short but i LIKE IT

45 notes · View notes

purpleheartskies · 2 days ago

Text

In s6e7, Johnny heard Miguel bully Robby, but Johnny said nothing to Robby to encourage him or make him feel better. Johnny also didn't say anything to Miguel in the moment. Johnny really is coward pos! He's so useless to Robby. Of course, he is... Johnny himself is abusive to Robby. That Mexico trip and apartment fight were toxic af. Johnny psychologically and emotionally abused Robby to find Miguel in s5e1. Johnny handed Robby over to Miguel so he could take his anger out on Robby and beat the shit out of him in s5e5. Johnny said nothing but praise for Miguel's college essay that scapegoated Robby---by name!---, and then dismissed Robby's concerns for his own future in s6e2. Johnny stood here like a useless turd after Miguel said this to Robby in s6e7. In s6e8, on the plane, after Miguel had his hissy fit and called Robby "messed up", Johnny defended Robby for a like a second... Then, to appease Miguel because he started cold-shouldering Johnny, Johnny told Miguel "you're my son too" and basically defended why he was "supporting" Robby (which he clearly isn't) as captain. Johnny also admit in this conversation that the tournament is all Robby has for his future (indicating Johnny's words of encouragement to Robby in s6e2 were really empty). Robby is Johnny's actual son! Johnny should be defending Robby from Miguel always, not defending his support for Robby to Miguel. No kid should suffer because another kid doesn't have a parent. Robby must not suffer, especially at Johnny's hands, because Miguel doesn't have a dad. Billy's bs interview blatantly framing Johnny co-dependency with Miguel as wholesome is so beyond disappointing. "Johnny needed the boy who needed him." Robby is right there! right there! ... being bullied by "the boy who needed [Johnny]". Robby needs Johnny! Robby has always needed Johnny! Also, this must be said: "Tough love" is a euphemism for abuse and bullying. Miguel's behavior with Robby in s6e7 is nothing to praise.

In my last post, I mentioned this moment of Johnny's expression when Chozen said that Robby needs his father:

In that post, I included these quotes:

That scene in s6e7 and Johnny not actually helping Robby with his future (not even in encouraging him or giving 1:1 time to train him for his karate matches) are examples of Johnny not knowing how to nurture Robby's need.

"I want... I wanna be a father to you. I really do. I try to protect you. I try to be there for you. I just suck at it. I really suck at it. But I want to so bad... I love you too Robby." --- Johnny in s4e8

It's moments like these that people ignore or twist into a version that they want, but these are the moments that make up the real story. The one that Kreese alluded to in s1e10, "The real story has only just begun." It's not about the karate and the fights. It's about the characters.

This toxic blended family is a house of cards built on a foundation of the neglect, abuse, bullying, and scapegoating of a child. (Robby is a child wrt to Johnny and Carmen.) No way is this family going to get some "happily ever after" with Robby permanently beaten and bullied into place as an afterthought. Even if the toxicity of Johnny and the Diazs remains, Robby must walk away. He's the underdog in this family. In part 3, Robby must find the courage to let go of wanting Johnny and to walk away, as painful as it will be.

"It can clear up a lot of confusion around childhood trauma, when you realize abandonment is not only when someone walks away. It's also when someone who is meant to protect you, allows others to hurt you."

#cobra kai is robby's story #robby keene

29 notes · View notes

woodchipp · 3 days ago

Text

Sunny and Mari’s argument, as well as the events leading up to it, are fun to dissect because it’s all such dogshit writing on a thousand levels.

1) The speech Sunny’s friends give in the Christmas memory as they present him with the violin almost comes across as them guilt-tripping him into accepting the gift, as they put particular emphasis on the hard work they had to do to buy it. Moreover, the reasons they give for buying the violin boil down to “well he saw this and she said that”, which implies that none of them - not even his sister, apparently - knew Sunny as a person well enough to have a solid idea of what he’d actually like as a gift.

In a better story, this kind of thing would be used to symbolize how much a relationship sucks or how shallow it is. OMORI, however, frames this as a touching testament to the group’s friendship.

2) Mari, of all people, had to have known how huge of a commitment an instrument would be. Given that she apparently didn’t even know her brother well enough to know whether he’d appreciate a violin as a gift (and a violin isn’t something you gift as a surprise without being 100% sure it’d be appreciated), why didn’t she simply veto Basil’s idea to buy Sunny one? Is she stupid?

3) The photo album’s last three photos seem to imply Mari took part in other recitals before, hence why the one in the game is “Mari and Sunny’s first performance together”. With this in mind, an experienced perfectionist like her deciding to let a beginner like Sunny join her for no discernible reason is incredibly dumb.

4) Sunny got the violin on Christmas and started taking lessons after that. The photo album’s last three photos were taken in September. This means Sunny was practicing the violin for eight months by that point. Given that he “still made mistake after mistake” even by the time of the recital day, it’s safe to assume the lessons didn't help.

Why couldn’t he just quit like he did the first time around? He had to have noticed how much he sucked at it at any point during those eight months. Why didn't Mari just say "eh, you don't seem to be getting better" and decide to find another violinist? Wouldn’t she at least think “I don’t want my brother to embarrass himself on-stage”? If she allowed him to stay even despite seeing how much he sucks because she’s Jesus Christ so implausibly kind and patient, why would she bother insisting on a perfect performance to the point of overworking him?

5) Building off the previous point, if Sunny was so devoted to Mari that he was willing to start taking lessons just for the sake of playing at recitals with her, why would he be displeased about his inability to watch cartoons with his friends to the point of thinking the lessons are a “nuisance”?

If anything, his train of thought would be more along the lines of “well this kinda sucks but I’m doing this for my big sis so it’s worth it”

6) It’s true that Sunny rarely talks and tends to repress his feelings. He wouldn't have embarrassed his friends by telling them the violin wasn't what he wanted right after they gifted it to him. However, it’s hard to feel bad for his stress, given that it becomes relevant only in the game’s last half-hour and Sunny himself is never shown trying to deal with his frustration in less outwardly violent ways than taking it out on objects and his sister.

7) Sunny and Mari had to have practiced in the house’s piano room since Mari’s piano is located there. The room itself is on the first floor, yet the argument inexplicably has them teleport to the top of the staircase.

Wouldn’t Mari catch up with Sunny before he could ascend it? Why didn’t she just grab him right when she noticed he was about to storm out to prevent him from running away? How did Sunny have all the time to run out of the room, go up the stairs, look at the violin, and then throw it down?

8) Sunny didn’t need to ascend the staircase to break the violin. He could’ve simply smashed it against a wall in the piano room, the ground or even the staircase’s steps a few times.

9) Basil was in the house with the two of them as well. Assuming he was invited there for whatever reason (since it’d be too convenient if he happened to enter the house right as Mari was pushed and he shouldn’t have been able to enter the house by himself in the first place), why would Mari start an argument with her brother if she knew they had a guest? How come she got all anxious because someone happened to be nearby when she made a small mistake while playing the piano but felt comfortable yelling at Sunny when someone else was in their house?

10) Considering that a certain photo in the photo album hints that Basil feels compelled to “take care” of Sunny, why didn’t he intervene when he saw (and heard) Mari yelling at him? What, is he protective of Sunny enough to tamper with his sister's corpse for his sake but not enough to stand up for his best friend against the bile said sister was (allegedly) spewing at him?

11) There was nothing preventing Sunny from seeking Basil out after running out of the piano room and venting his frustrations to him. It’d only make sense, especially when the game itself hints Basil’s like a confidant to him. Instead, he chose to express it in a way more violent manner by destroying the violin.

12) A friend of mine actually calculated how much Sunny’s violin and the lessons approximately cost.

In one temper tantrum, Sunny flushed roughly $10,000 down the drain. Lovely kid, isn’t he?

13) Since there’s no conclusive evidence Mari restrained Sunny during the argument or used any sort of physical force in general - the most she’s seen and described doing is blocking his way downstairs by placing herself in front of him and yelling at him - there was nothing preventing him from escaping to his room and locking himself in there until Mari calms down. Or, at least, angrily shouting at her before becoming violent.

This implies that hurting Mari was a conscious decision, and that hurting her was a bigger priority to him than getting away from her.

#omori #omori game #omori sunny #sunny omori #omori mari #mari omori #omori basil #basil omori #omori analysis #omori fandom

29 notes · View notes

leona-hawthorne · 3 hours ago

Text

lorenzo berkshire: how a relationship would be with my favorite male manipulator <3

(@mattnott this came out of the chat we had the other day LMAO ily zoya)

on the surface, lorenzo berkshire is just that guy. he’s effortlessly charming, polite, intelligent, and the kind of person who could convince anyone he’s the perfect human being. he’s the type who walks into a room and immediately draws everyone in—not by being loud or flashy, but by knowing exactly how to make himself seem approachable, kind, and maybe even a little vulnerable. but all of it is just a mask.

enzo is a master manipulator. he knows exactly how to get what he wants, and he does it by making people think they’re in control. he doesn’t argue or beg; instead, he plants ideas like seeds in your mind. “if that’s what you think is best,” he’ll say with a soft smile, knowing full fucking well you’ll second-guess yourself. he makes you feel like every decision was yours, even though he’s been guiding you the whole time. and the worst part? you don’t even realize it until it’s too late.

emotional manipulation and guilt-tripping

enzo doesn’t argue outright, but he’s an expert at making you feel like everything is your fault. when you expresses your feelings or doubts about your relationship, he deflects and twists the narrative.

“you’re overthinking again, love. you always do this—it’s like you’re looking for reasons to fight.”

“after everything i’ve done for you, this is how you see me? it just doesn’t seem fair, babe.”

the constant emotional exhaustion of always questioning yourself and feeling like the villain slowly pushes you to the edge.

subtle isolation

enzo doesn’t tell you to stop seeing your friends or family straight up—that would be too obvious. instead, he plants seeds of doubt about them, turning you against the people who care about you.

“it’s just… don’t you think your friends don’t really understand you? they don’t see the real you like i do. they’re only here for a good time. they wouldn’t stick with you when things are hard, like i do.”

“your sister’s always been jealous of you. it’s kind of obvious when you think about it. in fact… i think i she was flirting with me at the lake trip last weekend…”

over time, you feel more and more alone, with enzo as the only person left in your corner—and even that’s suffocating.

his temper leaks through

enzo prides himself on being calm and composed, but even he can’t keep the mask on forever. when you push back—when you really challenge him—his anger surfaces.

“you think you’re better than me now? after all i’ve done just to make you happy? you should be grateful i’m still putting up with you. no one else would.”

“you don’t get to treat me like this. i deserve better than your constant doubts.”

while he doesn't resort to outright aggression, the quiet, cutting anger and emotional coldness are enough to make you feel small and utterly helpless against him.

hypercritical tendencies

at first, enzo is the type to shower you with compliments. but once he has you, the nitpicking starts. he frames his criticisms as “helping” you or “protecting” you, but they’re really about control. he wants to cut you down until his words are the only form of validation you trust; the only ones that matter.

“that dress is nice, but it’s not really your color, is it?”

“i just think you’d be happier if you didn’t spend so much time on things that don’t matter.”

it’s not that he truly thinks badly of you; it’s just his way of slowly implementing his control. the constant criticism erodes your self-esteem, making you wonder if you’re ever enough for him.

dismisses your autonomy

enzo frames his controlling nature as “taking care of you” or “looking out for you,” but it’s really about stripping away your agency.

he might make decisions for you without asking, like ordering for you at a restaurant or canceling your plans because he thinks you “needs rest.” you simply don’t get a say.

“i only did it because i know what’s best for you. you’d do the same for me if you cared as much as i do.”

over time, you realize you don’t have control over your own life anymore—and that terrifies you.

you start to feel like you’re losing your identity. the things you love—your hobbies, your friends, even your sense of self—have all been swallowed up by enzo’s world.

his fear of losing control turns ugly

when you start pulling away, enzo’s fear of losing you makes him tighten his grip. he might start tracking your whereabouts, showing up uninvited, or trying to manipulate you into staying.

“you’re not yourself lately, baby. i think you need me more than ever right now.”

“are you seriously leaving me after everything we’ve been through? i thought you were better than this. i thought you loved me—was it all a joke to you?”

his desperation exposes just how deeply insane, how utterly selfish he really is—and how dangerous it is to stay—but you still can’t help loving him.

the breaking point: seeing the mask slip

your breaking point comes when you finally see enzo for what he truly is. maybe it’s a moment of anger where his charm gives way to cold cruelty. maybe it’s realizing how isolated you’ve become or maybe it’s catching him in a lie.

“you know what? you’ll never find someone like me again. you’ll never find someone who loves you the way i do—or touches you the way i do.”

“go ahead and leave. but don’t come crawling back when you realize no one else will put up with you.”

and suddenly, the illusion you’ve clung to—the one where enzo is perfect, where his love is worth the pain—is shattered.

enzo doesn’t beg you to stay. no, he’s far more subtle. he sets the stage so that if you even think about leaving, the world around you becomes a constant reminder of him. your friends adore him. “enzo’s perfect for you,” they say, oblivious to his carefully crafted facade, oblivious to the fact that he doesn’t even want them within 50 feet of you. your family loves him because he’s gone out of his way to charm them. “he’s such a gentleman,” your mom gushes after he brings her flowers for no reason at all.

and when you confront him? he doesn’t argue. he doesn’t yell. instead, he sighs, looking at you with those soft, sad eyes. “i just wish you’d trust me,” he says, and suddenly you’re the one apologizing.

and enzo’s love isn’t love—it’s obsession. he doesn’t just want to be with you; he wants to consume you. he integrates himself so deeply into your life that it feels impossible to untangle yourself from him.

he’ll listen to all your favorite songs and tell you how much he loves them too. “this one reminds me of you,” he’ll say, and suddenly, every melody feels like it belongs to him.

he’ll watch all your favorite shows, quote them back to you, and make inside jokes so that even your comfort series becomes a part of his web.

he’ll charm your friends and family until they’re all on his side. “you’re lucky to have him,” they’ll say when you confide in them. and if you ever leave? they’ll tell you you’re making one of the biggest mistakes of your life.

“i just don’t understand,” he’ll say if you call him out. “everything i’ve ever done was for you. because i love you.”

and here’s the thing about enzo: even when he’s truly, deeply in love, he’s still toxic. love doesn’t magically make him a better person—it just changes the way he manipulates you. instead of using his charm to pull you in, he’ll use his insecurities to keep you there. “i don’t know what i’d do without you,” he whispers, and it sounds more like a warning than a confession. almost like he’s saying he’d become worthless without you.

but love does soften him in some ways. his need for control isn’t about power anymore; it’s about fear. he’s terrified of losing you, so he holds on tighter. he’s still manipulative, still controlling, but now it’s because he genuinely believes he can’t live without you.

enzo’s love is messy and overwhelming. it’s the kind of love that makes you feel like you’re drowning, but at the same time, you can’t imagine living without it. and that’s the tragedy of lorenzo berkshire: no matter what he does, you can’t help but love him anyway. even when you see his true colors, you’re already too far gone.

navigation. masterlist. lorenzo berkshire masterlist.

#lorenzo berkshire #slytherin boys #lorenzo berkshire x you #lorenzo berkshire x reader #enzo berkshire #enzo berkshire x you #enzo berkshire x reader #enzo berkshire x y/n #lorenzo berkshire fanfic #slytherin #harry potter #louis partridge #character analysis #lorenzo berkshire x female reader

24 notes · View notes

holyhadesimweird · 3 days ago

Text

would you fall in love with me again?

kisuke urahara x reader

summary : based on "would you fall in love with me again" from the EPIC musical. unknowingly to kisuke, you were held captive by the soul society after his banishment and you finally get reunited when ichigo and the others return after saving rukia.

notes : i just started watching bleach so if things are wrong or inaccurate, IM SO SORRY. ALSO i wrote this very quickly without reviewing so enjoy my word vomit of an idea :)

༶┈⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇┈⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇┈୨♡୧┈⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇┈⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇┈༶

kisuke had just sent ichigo and his friends to the soul society in order to save their friend, rukia. as he stood in front of the door where the teens had just walked through, he thought back to his life in the soul society.

he missed... he missed you. he missed the life you two had. he wasn't sure where you were or what happened to you after he was banished. he was banned from seeing you before he left the soul society, and though he did try to leave a message for you, he was sure they didn't deliver it to you.

he only hoped that that you were okay. his mind always wandered and he tried to shake the thoughts from his head.

"are you thinking about her?" kisuke heard tessai ask.

"yeah... i can't help it." kisuke replied. "i miss her, it's been a century and all i want is to hold her again. but i won't be able to and i don't know anything about her anymore. where she is, if she's safe... if she's dead."

"i miss her too kisuke. i think that if the kids run into her, she'll help save rukia and maybe she'll come to us with them." tessai reassured, watching as kisuke turned and started to walk away.

"i think so too. she's too kind to not want to help them. i just miss my wife." kisuke said quietly.

༶┈⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇┈⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇┈୨♡୧┈⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇┈⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇┈༶

kisuke was walking next to the river when he got a message from tessai saying that the kids were successful in saving rukia and made it back safely. tessai also said that he should come home as soon as possible as there's an emergency he needs help with, prompting kisuke to speed home.

when the shop was in sight, kisuke saw tessai standing next to the door, waiting for him.

"tessai! what's wrong? what's the emergency you need help with? is there something wrong with the kids?" kisuke said, running up to the man.

"it's better if you just come see for yourself." tessai said, opening the door to the shop for kisuke.

"...okay? i'm starting to get worried..." kisuke trailed off as he started towards the door.

as he entered the shop, he saw a silhouette, one that he hasn't seen in many years. he almost thought he was dreaming until you turned towards him and he could see your face.

"is it you? is it really you standing there, or am i dreaming once more?" you said, approaching him. "you look different, your eyes look tired, your frame is lighter, your smile torn. is it really you my love?"

"i am not the man you fell in love with, i am not the man you once adored. i am not your kind and gentle husband, and i am not the love you knew before." he said softly, slowly approaching you. "so tell me, would you fall in love with me again, if you knew all i've done? the things i can't undo. i don't know where you've been or what happened in my banishment, but i'm sure that you've been waiting."

"i will fall in love with you over and over again. i don't care how, where or when. no matter how long it's been, you're mine! don't tell you're not the same person, you're always my husband and i've been waiting for you!"

you two were now so close to each other your noses were practically touching.

"how long has it been?" you asked.

"a century." kisuke answered. "far too long."

"i've been in captivity and observed for that long?" you whispered.

"...you've been what?" kisuke asked, his face dropping.

"we can talk about that later. i think we have an audience." you laughed, peaking behind kisuke to see all the teens.

"did you two just basically argue about still loving each other?" ichigo asked, his face holding confusion.

"you'll understand when you're older ichigo. now excuse us, we have some catching up to do." kisuke started pulling you to his room.

"we might wanna leave before our ears are scarred." chad said, hoping to go home before anything was heard.

"a century apart is a long time, their reunion was so romantic." orihime sighed as they all left the shop.

#bleach x reader #bleach fic #kisuke urahara #kisuke urahara x reader #urahara kisuke x reader #bleach imagines #kisuke urahara imagines #urahara kisuke imagines

32 notes · View notes

amethystarachnid · 1 day ago

Note

we have to hear the ikea story from the tony first christmas one now you can’t keep us from that 😭

FROGS, GLOBES AND BURNT CHOCOLATE (prequel)

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: prequel of this one shot but can be read separately

ᯓ★ Word count: 3.3k

ᯓ★ Summary: the story of how Tony got banned from IKEA

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing just some innuendos

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as the two of you stepped through the automatic sliding doors, the cool air of the showroom washing over you. The familiar scent of cinnamon rolls and fresh-pressed particleboard filled the air, promising adventure—or chaos, as Tony had so ominously predicted on the drive over.

“IKEA,” he said, dragging the name out like it was the punchline to a joke only he got. “A labyrinth designed by the gods to test your patience, your endurance, and your willingness to assemble furniture using a pictogram manual written by a sadist.”

“You’re being dramatic,” you replied, grabbing one of the oversized yellow shopping bags from the stand by the entrance. “It’s just a furniture store.”

“It’s an obstacle course,” he countered, slipping his sunglasses into the pocket of his leather jacket. “But don’t worry, I’m here to guide you through it. Like Theseus in the maze, except I’m way better looking and much less likely to be eaten by a mythical bull.”

You rolled your eyes, suppressing a grin as you pulled him toward the showroom. “If you’re Theseus, does that make me Ariadne? Should I leave a trail of meatballs so we don’t get lost?”

“I like the way you think,” he said, draping an arm casually over your shoulders as you walked. “But let’s be real: I’d find the meatballs, eat them, and then leave you to fend for yourself. Every Stark for himself.”

The first few minutes were surprisingly tame. You strolled through mock living rooms and kitchens, picking out lamps and throw pillows while Tony alternated between critiquing the design choices and pointing out absurdities in the naming conventions.

“‘LÅNGFJÄLL,’” he said, squinting at a sleek gray office chair. “Sounds like a sneeze.”

“It’s Swedish,” you reminded him, tossing a cozy-looking blanket into the bag. “Not everything is meant to be Stark-level glamorous.”

“Oh, I’m not judging,” he replied, smirking. “I’m just saying if I had a billion-dollar empire to name, I’d go with something a little less…phlegmy.”

You nudged him playfully as you entered the bedroom section, where rows of neatly made beds stretched out like a sea of linen-covered clouds. Tony immediately flopped onto the nearest one, spreading his arms wide and letting out a dramatic sigh.

“This,” he said, his voice muffled against the pillow, “is where I live now. You can come visit, though. Bring snacks.”

“Get up,” you said, trying to keep a straight face. “We’re here to buy furniture, not embarrass ourselves.”

“I can multitask,” he quipped, sitting up and ruffling his hair. “What’s next? Coffee tables? Nightstands? An overpriced abstract rug we’ll regret in six months?”

“Beds,” you said firmly, dragging him toward a display of frames. “We need a new one, remember?”

He groaned but followed, occasionally pulling out his phone to snap pictures of the more outlandish setups. “For posterity,” he explained, zooming in on a loft bed shaped like a treehouse. “Or blackmail, depending on how this trip goes.”

It was around the third mattress test that things started to go off the rails. Tony, determined to prove that one of the memory foam options was subpar, launched into an impromptu demonstration of its bounce resistance by dramatically flopping onto it like a stage actor fainting in a Shakespearean tragedy. The mattress responded by launching a decorative pillow halfway across the room, narrowly missing a disgruntled shopper.

“Oops,” he said, feigning innocence as you tried to stifle a laugh. “Maybe they should rethink calling it ‘memory foam.’ Seems like it forgot how to be stable.”

“Tony,” you hissed, grabbing his arm as the nearby employee shot you a warning glare. “You’re going to get us kicked out.”

“Relax,” he said, pulling you closer with a grin that was equal parts charming and infuriating. “It’s IKEA. Getting kicked out would be a badge of honor. Now, where’s that bunk bed section? I’ve always wanted to test a slide.”

“I am not bailing you out if you break something,” you warned, though you were already losing the battle against his infectious enthusiasm.

You knew you’d regret saying it, but against your better judgment, you followed him anyway.

The bunk beds came into view like a beacon of impending chaos, a forest of miniature ladders and plastic slides. Tony’s face lit up with the kind of mischievous glee that usually preceded a major scandal or a ruined dinner party. You grabbed his arm, your reflexes honed after months of living with a man who turned everything into a science experiment.

“Don’t even think about it,” you warned, your voice low and firm.

“Think about what?” he replied, his tone laced with mock innocence. “I’m just admiring the craftsmanship. The ergonomics. The sheer audacity of a bed that doubles as a jungle gym.”

“You’re plotting something,” you accused, narrowing your eyes.

“I’m plotting nothing,” he said, raising his free hand as if swearing an oath. “Except maybe how to convince you to let me buy one of these for the office. Imagine the brainstorming sessions we could have on that bad boy.”

His gaze lingered on a particularly garish bunk bed with a bright red slide attached, and you could practically see the gears turning in his head. Before he could make his move, you steered him away, your fingers tightening on his arm.

“Focus,” you said, dragging him back toward the section with grown-up beds. “We’re here to find something for us, not for your inner child.”

“But what if my inner child needs closure?” he countered, pouting dramatically. “I was deprived of the bunk bed experience as a kid. I think it’s why I’m so emotionally stunted.”

“You’re emotionally stunted because you’re Tony Stark,” you retorted, though your lips twitched with the effort of holding back a smile.

“That’s fair,” he conceded, following you begrudgingly into the adult furniture section. “But I stand by my point. Bunk beds are an untapped market for innovation.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes as you released his arm. “Why do I feel like every time we go shopping, I end up babysitting you?”

“Because I’m irresistibly fun,” he replied, flashing you a grin. “Admit it, you’d be bored without me.”

Your response was cut short when you reached the display of bed frames, an array of sleek headboards and minimalist designs stretching out before you. Tony let out a low whistle, stepping closer to inspect a dark wood frame with clean lines and a tufted headboard.

“This one,” he said, running his hand over the polished surface. “It’s got that ‘classy but secretly kinky’ vibe. Like us.”

You choked on a laugh, shooting him a scandalized look. “Tony!”

“What?” he said, smirking. “Am I wrong?”

You glared at him, though the heat creeping up your neck betrayed your composure. “We’re not buying a bed based on…that.”

“Why not?” he asked, leaning casually against the frame. “It’s an important factor. A bed’s gotta be functional and…multifunctional.”

“Tony, I swear—”

“Relax, I’m kidding,” he said, though the glint in his eye suggested otherwise. “Mostly. But seriously, what do you think? Too much? Not enough?”

You stepped closer, trying to focus on the actual furniture and not the way Tony’s voice dipped into that low, teasing register that always made your thoughts wander. The bed was beautiful, its understated elegance perfectly suited to the vision you had for your shared bedroom.

“It’s nice,” you admitted, running your fingers along the smooth wood. “I like it.”

“See? We’re already agreeing,” he said, straightening up. “That’s progress.”

He moved to another frame, this one with a sleek metal design that practically screamed “modern bachelor pad.” Tony turned to you, raising an eyebrow.

“This one feels very ‘I make poor life decisions but look good doing it,’” he mused. “Too on-the-nose?”

“Way too on-the-nose,” you agreed, stifling a laugh.

You continued down the aisle, pausing every so often to inspect a bed or debate the merits of storage drawers versus a minimalist frame. Tony, of course, turned every option into an opportunity for mischief.

“What about this one?” he asked, gesturing to a canopy bed with flowing white curtains. “We could hang fairy lights and make it all romantic. Very Princess Diaries. Except with, you know, significantly fewer rules about what’s allowed in the castle.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are, furniture shopping with me,” he said, his voice dripping with mock smugness. “If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

As you moved toward the couches, the banter continued, each piece of furniture becoming a springboard for Tony’s running commentary.

“This one’s great if we ever decide to host a sitcom,” he said, pointing to a beige sectional with a vaguely 90s aesthetic. “Can’t you just see a laugh track playing every time I walk into the room?”

“No one’s laughing, Tony,” you deadpanned, though your grin betrayed you.

He plopped onto a sleek gray sofa, stretching out dramatically. “Now this is a couch. Look at this. Perfect for late-night movies, spontaneous naps, and—”

“Don’t say it,” you warned, holding up a hand.

“—strategic cuddle sessions,” he finished, his grin widening. “What did you think I was gonna say?”

You rolled your eyes, sitting beside him and nudging his shoulder. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know,” he said, his voice softening as he turned to look at you. For a moment, the playful spark in his eyes was replaced with something quieter, something tender. “And for the record, I love you too. Even if you do have terrible taste in throw pillows.”

“Excuse me?” you said, feigning offense. “You’re the one who picked out that hideous pineapple ornament for the Christmas tree.”

“That ornament has character,” he shot back, leaning closer. “Just like me.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you leaned into his side. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur, “you’re still here.”

Before you could respond, his lips brushed against your temple, a fleeting but deliberate gesture that sent warmth flooding through your chest. You turned to meet his gaze, and for a moment, the chaos of IKEA faded into the background.

“We’re really doing this, huh?” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the murmur of nearby shoppers. “Building a life together.”

He nodded, his hand finding yours and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Yeah,” he said. “We are.”

The moment was interrupted by a loud crash from a few aisles over, followed by the unmistakable sound of a frustrated parent trying to wrangle a toddler. Tony glanced in the direction of the commotion, then back at you, his grin returning.

“Speaking of chaos,” he said, standing and offering you his hand. “Shall we?”

You took his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. “If you promise not to break anything—or test any more mattresses.”

“No promises,” he said, leading you toward the next section with a wink. “But I’ll try to keep it under control. For you.”

“Lucky me,” you muttered, though your smile lingered as you followed him, ready for whatever chaos came next.

Tony was on borrowed time, and you knew it. You’d seen that particular glint in his eye—the one that said he was about two minutes away from unleashing some kind of chaos. It didn’t matter how many times you tried to corral him. Tony Stark’s ability to turn a mundane situation into a headline-worthy event was unmatched.

“Do you think Frank needs a friend?” Tony asked as he stopped at a display of oversized fake plants, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.

“Frank the Tree doesn’t need a friend,” you said firmly, pulling him away before he could grab the monstera that had caught his eye. “He needs a stable environment where his caretakers don’t cause disasters.”

“Wow,” Tony replied, feigning offense. “Did you just call me a bad tree parent?”

“I called you a disaster magnet,” you clarified, steering him toward the dining section. “Which, frankly, is generous.”

Tony grinned, unbothered by your jab. “I prefer the term ‘agent of chaos.’ It sounds more distinguished.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” you muttered, eyeing the sleek dining tables on display. “Now focus. We need something durable but not too big. Just enough for the two of us and maybe a couple of guests.”

Tony trailed behind you, his attention drifting from the tables to the bright blue dining chairs at the next display. “What do you think about these?” he asked, pulling one out and spinning it around. “They say, ‘I’m stylish but approachable.’ Like me.”

“They say, ‘I’m a bad idea in any room with white walls,’” you countered, shaking your head. “We’re sticking to neutrals.”

Tony groaned, slumping into the chair dramatically. “Neutrals are boring. Where’s the zing, the flair?”

“You are the zing and flair,” you shot back, flicking his forehead lightly. “The furniture doesn’t need to compete with you.”

Tony smirked, leaning back in the chair with a casual air. “That’s a good point. But you know what else I’m good at?”

“Causing scenes?” you guessed.

“Testing durability,” he said, standing and pulling another chair from the display. “These bad boys need to hold up to the wear and tear of daily life.”

Before you could stop him, Tony had stacked one chair atop another, balancing precariously as he climbed onto them like a child on a jungle gym.

“Tony, no—”

“It’s fine!” he called down, waving a hand as a couple of nearby shoppers turned to watch. “They’re built for this. I’m helping them with quality control.”

“Tony, get down before you—”

The chair legs wobbled ominously, and before you could finish your sentence, Tony was sent sprawling onto the display floor in a crash of tangled limbs and scattered chairs. A shocked silence fell over the aisle, broken only by Tony’s groan as he sat up, brushing imaginary dust off his jacket.

“Well,” he said, wincing as he stood. “I’d say they pass the durability test. Ten out of ten for resilience.”

You pressed a hand to your forehead, torn between exasperation and laughter as an IKEA employee rushed over, his face a mix of concern and annoyance.

“Sir, are you all right?” the employee asked, helping Tony steady himself.

“Never better,” Tony replied, flashing his trademark grin. “Just giving your furniture a thorough evaluation. You’re welcome.”

The employee’s polite smile faltered as he glanced at the scattered chairs. “Sir, we’d appreciate it if you didn’t, uh, climb on the furniture.”

“Noted,” Tony said, holding up a hand as if making a solemn promise. “I’ll stick to the ground level from now on.”

The employee looked unconvinced but nodded stiffly before walking away, leaving you to deal with the aftermath. You turned to Tony, arms crossed and your best glare locked in place.

“You’re impossible,” you said, though you couldn’t quite hide the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“And yet, you love me,” he replied, reaching out to straighten your scarf like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“God help me, I do,” you muttered, grabbing his hand and dragging him toward the next section. “Now behave, or I’m leaving you here.”

The brief lull in chaos didn’t last. By the time you reached the children’s section, Tony had regained his momentum. He wandered into a brightly colored play area filled with miniature furniture, his eyes lighting up as he spotted a bright red rocking moose.

“You’re not—” you began, but it was too late. Tony had already plopped down on the moose, his knees nearly to his chest as he attempted to rock back and forth.

“Look at this,” he said, his voice full of mock wonder. “Functional, stylish, and fun. Perfect for our future kids.”

You choked on air, your face heating instantly. “Excuse me? Future kids?”

“Don’t panic,” he said, grinning as he rocked harder. “I’m just saying, this moose has potential. We should take it for a test ride.”

“Tony, get off before—”

The rocking moose groaned under his weight, and with a loud snap, one of the legs gave way, sending Tony tumbling backward in a heap. A horrified employee appeared almost instantly, his face a mask of barely contained panic.

“Sir, you can’t—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Tony said, waving off the employee as he stood, rubbing his back. “No horseplay in the children’s section. My bad.”

The employee’s face turned several shades of red as he examined the ruined moose. “That’s not a horse. It’s—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll cover it,” Tony interrupted, pulling his wallet from his pocket. “How much for the moose? Name your price.”

“Sir, I don’t think—”

“It’s fine,” Tony said, patting the employee on the shoulder. “Put it on my tab.”

You groaned, stepping in before things could escalate further. “We’re so sorry,” you said to the employee, your voice apologetic. “We’ll pay for the damages and leave right away.”

The employee nodded, muttering something about speaking to the manager as he hurried off. You turned to Tony, your glare now fully justified.

“You’re going to get us banned,” you hissed.

Tony shrugged, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “If you’re going to get banned from somewhere, it might as well be IKEA.”

Before you could respond, the manager arrived—a stern-looking woman in a crisp uniform who radiated the kind of authority that could terrify even the bravest soul. She approached with an air of barely concealed exasperation, her gaze flicking between you, Tony, and the broken moose.

“Is this the gentleman responsible?” she asked, her tone flat.

“That’s me,” Tony said, stepping forward with a confident grin. “Tony Stark. You might’ve heard of me.”

The manager’s eyebrow twitched. “I have, and that’s exactly why I’m surprised by this behavior.”

“Hey, I’m just a man of the people,” Tony replied. “Testing the furniture, making sure it’s up to IKEA’s legendary standards. You’re welcome.”

The manager didn’t flinch. “Mr. Stark, we appreciate your enthusiasm, but your behavior is disruptive. And destructive.” Her gaze hardened. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

Tony’s grin widened. “What, no second chances? That doesn’t seem very festive.”

“Effective immediately,” she continued, ignoring him. “You’re banned from this location.”

“That’s fair,” Tony said, nodding as if he’d just been handed a parking ticket. “Honestly, I’ve been kicked out of worse places.”

“—and every other IKEA store worldwide,” the manager finished, her voice firm.

That wiped the grin off his face. “Wait, worldwide? Isn’t that a little harsh?”

The manager crossed her arms, unimpressed. “You broke a rocking moose, stacked chairs like a Jenga tower, and disrupted our other customers. Consider yourself fortunate we’re not pressing charges.”

Tony looked genuinely scandalized. “You’re telling me I can’t set foot in any IKEA? Even the one in Sweden?”

“Especially the one in Sweden,” she said, her expression unyielding.

Tony turned to you, his face a perfect mixture of indignation and amusement. “Can you believe this? Banned for life. I’m a living legend.”

“You’re a living nuisance,” you replied, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the exit. “And we’re leaving before you make it worse.”

“Fine,” he said, though he couldn’t resist one last parting shot. “But for the record, your rocking moose has design flaws.”

The manager didn’t respond, but her glare could’ve melted steel.

As the automatic doors slid shut behind you, Tony let out a low whistle, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Well, that was a first.”

“You’re incorrigible,” you muttered, your tone somewhere between exasperation and affection.

“And yet,” he said, leaning closer as the chilly air nipped at your cheeks, “you’re still here.”

You sighed, shaking your head as a reluctant smile tugged at your lips. “Yeah. I am.”

He grinned, brushing a snowflake from your hair. “See? I knew I picked the right person to get banned from IKEA with.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the absurdity of the situation washing over you. “Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” he said, his tone turning soft as he met your gaze.

“No more rocking moose incidents.”

“Deal,” he said, pulling you closer and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “But you have to admit, it was a hell of a ride.”

21 notes · View notes