#here is an image of a beautiful horse:

[hoofbeatss]

The Horse Whisperer

[foreverdolly]

ೃ࿔ SAVAGE BONDS part 2 『 feyd rautha x atreides!reader 』

summary: destined to one another since conception, your very life belongs to feyd rautha. as a token of good will you are sent to the strange planet of giedi prime a week before your wedding ceremony, only to learn that it is far more hostile than you imagined it would be. a failed assassination attempt has tempers flaring and sparks flying when it is decided to be safer to sleep alongside feyd. you hate to admit it, but he has played the part of a "protector" better than the guards who were tasked to watch over you. whilst you have been dreading this union all of your life, feyd has been anticipating it. meeting you as children had left him awe-struck. . . and a bit obsessed.

warnings: !SMUT HEAVY IN FUTURE PARTS!, feyd is super overprotective in this fic and kills multiple people in your honor, blood and gore, it's a dark romance folks, political marriage, forced proximity, temporary unrequited love, a lil dubious consent in some scenes, there's a lot of talk about breeding, enemies to lovers (in your mind, not his), there's a "who did this to you" scene, knife play, blood kink, breeding kink heavy, lots of scent marking/marking.

word count: 4.5k

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Legs tangled in gray sheets. The lightning-quick flash of a silver dagger, held by a pale hand.

The images in the dream are more like fragments- impossible to discern and decipher. On the bed, asleep and vulnerable. . .

There’s you.

And then Feyd wakes up, heart hammering in his chest so hard he can feel it in his throat. Slowly his fingers crawl up, up, up the expanse of the bed in search of something. In search of warmth, of you. Nothing. He’s just as alone in his room as he was when he drifted off into sleep. He lays awake the rest of the night, tossing and turning with worry.

This dream felt more like a warning than just another disjointed nightmare. It felt real. He was used to having dreams every now and again which clearly depicted a future outcome. He saw you in his dreams quite often, more so once he was no longer a boy-child.

If someone thought to hurt you… he’d just have to hurt them first.

The customs you and your people practiced were completely different to those that were normal on Geidi Prime. You watched one of your ladies-in-waiting as she brought over another small bowl of sweet smelling bath salts, dumping it in and using her hand to properly dissolve them. For a moment you felt self conscious, running your fingers through your hair as you looked at their perfect complexions and shaved heads. What did they see when they looked at you? Someone beautiful and strange. . . or an alien?

Still, you would eventually have to disrobe and bathe. Pressing your luck and refusing their help would only solidify your place as an outsider. You were sure that whispers of your arrival were already spreading like wildfire, and it was almost guaranteed that no one was happy about it. An Atreides amongst Harkonnen’s? You were nothing more than a pariah on their industrial wasteland of a planet.

The air was even more acrid in your lungs than it had been the night before, and while the smell of the rose body oils and salts were thick and hazy in your room, you could still catch the scent of pollution. Already you missed the cool, crisp air of Caladan. You missed your horses, your parents and your brother to the point of pain. This was not where you belonged. Not here in Geidi Prime. Not here with Feyd-Rautha.

The urge to cry yourself hoarse was practically undeniable, and yet you somehow managed to resist. You were late to breakfast already, and surely the Baron was making some unsavory comments about your family and their taught “manners”. So you untied the front of your nightdress and shimmied out of it, letting the soft cotton pool at the ground beneath your feet. The women couldn’t help but gawk at the tiny imperfections they saw there- a beauty mark you’d had since you were a child, a scar you’d received while training with Gurney. You weren’t used to feeling so self conscious, and so you were quick to grab one of the women’s extended hands so that you could sit down in the murky bath water.

They rubbed floral smelling soaps into your hair and on your skin, making sure to handle you as though you were as fragile as porcelain. You wished they would scrub you raw. Even then they wouldn’t be able to cleanse you of your fears. You were in the hands of the Harkonnen’s now.

No one could save you.

“We are not very used to styling hair, my lady. It might not be to your liking.” One of the women said anxiously. The way that her hands shook as she gripped the hairbrush was not lost on you.

How cruelly were they treated here? Or even worse- what did she think of the Atreides family? What lies had they poisoned these people’s impressionable minds with? You didn’t care to dwell too much on such thoughts. Reaching out you gently removed the brush from her hands, flashing her the kindest smile you could muster before shaking your head.

“Leave this to me then. Why don’t you pick something for me to wear from my things?” Your bags were still packed, lying exactly where a few servants had laid them last night. You had denied every offer to have them unpacked for you.

Denial. You refused to believe that you were actually stuck here. This would never be your home. It couldn’t be.

“He’s not here,” Feyd was sitting at a long, slate-gray table by himself. The food on his plate had barely been touched, but he had busied himself with chopping the meat up into miniscule pieces, too small to even fit on the prongs of his fork. “If you were planning on trying to make a good impression, you can forget about it. He always has his food sent to his quarters.”

You thanked the two ladies that had shown you through the colorless halls under your breath, moving to sit on the other side of the table. At least eight chairs separated you from the Na-baron and it still wasn’t enough. You wished you were on an entirely different planet, lightyears away from the Harkonnen scum.

The room was practically empty aside from the large dining room table. No art decorated the walls or rugs to cover the floor. It was all cold, black marble with white accents.

“I don’t care, actually.” And you were being truthful. You didn’t care about getting on the Baron’s good side any more than you cared about getting on Feyd’s.

He smiled then, staring at you long and hard before licking one of his black painted canines. He was amused by the blase way you brushed off his uncle so easily. Indifference wasn’t something he was used to, especially not when everyone in the galaxy had tried so hard to get on their good sides. People tended to tread lightly as far as the Harkonnens were concerned. They were as wealthy as they were cunning.

“Be careful, little Atreides. Saying things like that might get you hurt around here.” His gruff voice was but a whisper now, and suddenly you felt as though there weren’t twelve feet of dead-air separating the two of you.

You had picked up your fork, ready to eat whatever bland food had been prepared for you, but froze at his words. Heat rose to your cheeks and you were quick to lean back in the ornate high-backed chair, the cool iron seeping into your back through your clothes.

“Do you mean to threaten me?” Your words were icy, tongue sharp and ready to give him a proper lashing.

“It’s not a threat, darling.” He was practically purring, reveling in the joy of referring to you whilst using a pet name. It suddenly looked as though a switch had been turned on, his eyes narrowing on you. “I know him far better than you do. He’s killed people for far less. Be careful.” There seemed to be something he wasn’t telling you. There was genuine warning in his tone.

A pause.

“Please.” And then he went back to eating.

So were you supposed to act gutted at his uncle’s absence? You picked up the fork and took a bite of whatever had been put on your plate. It wasn’t at all what you were used to. Even the food tasted. . . fake. The meat tasted like it had been pumped full of chemicals and was mealy in your mouth, like sand. Still, you swallowed despite your distaste and shoved the plate away from you.

“Who have you assigned to be my sparring partner? I’m sure that my father made your uncle aware that I train daily, correct?” If you didn’t physically exert yourself and blow off some steam then you were bound to get no sleep tonight.

Last night you had tossed and turned, unable to stay asleep when your body was constantly alerting you to possible dangers. Even now you were on high alert, eyes locked on the knife that sat on the right side of Feyd’s plate. Your own fingers danced towards yours it you watched. Waited. Worried.

“Training?” He tilted his head again, eyes narrowed in disbelief. You could almost see the cogs turning as he mulled over your words. “What good would training do you now? If there are any threats then I am here to protect you- that’s my duty as your husband.”

Ah, yes. Why would a woman train when she could just sit back and play the part of a perfect little wife instead? You could spit.

“Would you rather I just hunt down one of your servants and kill him for sport?” You hated that he was so good at getting a reaction out of you. Maybe you were acting too much like a brat, but you wanted to see him squirm. Seeing him mad must be better than seeing him. . . like this.

For a second he sat there, arms perched nonchalantly over the armrests of his chair, staring at you with a crooked smile. You jumped in surprise when a chuckle escaped him, the act itself so out of place, so surprising that all you could do was stare in horror. The chuckles soon morphed into frenzied laughter, and he was quick to lean back in his seat so that he could place a hand on his chest.

“Was that funny to you?” You spoke through gritted teeth.

He watched the muscle in your jaw clench and unclench with wild eyes, sucking in a deep breath in the hopes of calming himself. Still, to hear such a beautiful woman speak such hideous words. . . it was wonderful, bordering on perverted.

“If you do kill a servant, please make sure I’m there to watch.”

He was too busy watching your face to notice the knife that you slid into the sleeve of your dress. With a huff you stood up, your skirts dryly brushing along the ground as you started to make your way out of the large room.

“I require a trainer.” You tried to mimic your mother’s tone, straightening your shoulders as you turned to look at him.

Lady Jessica always had a way of commanding a room. She was powerful, your mother. You needed to channel that same power now.

“You’ll train with me then,” He stood up from the table, the height and build of him alone nearly causing you to take a step back. You’d forgotten how large he was. How formidable. “Consider it a wedding gift.”

This had you balking, mouth opening and closing as you tried to think of some way to refuse. He was already stalking past you though, ignoring whatever retorts you were bound to make.

“I recommend getting changed. . . Unless you want me to tear that dress to shreds.”

That awful, ugly, no good- 

“Bastard!” You whispered under your breath, wadding up your dress just to angrily toss it onto your bed. 

You sank to your knees, braiding your fingers into your hair so that you could give it a few good yanks. He was doing this to fuck with your head. All of this was calculated on his part, it had to be. Was it all just to get a rise out of you? Or did he truly want to try and hurt you? You couldn’t figure him out, and that boiled your blood. All Harkonnens were cunning, blood thirsty schemers. You wouldn’t put it past him to be unhappy with the marriage arrangement, choosing to resort to violence in order to end things. 

‘Now. Now is the time to strike.’ 

You’d already hidden the blade under the mattress of the bed. The Baron wouldn’t allow you to live if you killed his precious nephew, but you’d much rather put up some sort of a fight than be put down like a dog. After taking a few steadying breaths you somehow managed to pull on your trousers and shirt, your mind plagued with dangerous, dangerous thoughts. If the moment called for it you were certain that you could not kill Feyd in hand to hand combat. His skills with a blade was well known across the galaxy, and while you were more than able to defend yourself, you weren’t delusional enough to think that you could manage to beat him without using underhanded tactics. 

You’d have to wait until his guard was lowered. 

“Do all women take this long to get ready?” 

You hadn’t heard the door open, nor his footsteps approaching. Who knew how long he had been watching you. The intrusion was an unwelcome one. You looked up to glare at him, trying hard not to balk at his appearance. The clothes he wore were skin tight, a black material that caught the dim lighting- like it was made of pitch black oil. His pants were tucked into big black boots, laced up high on his calf. 

He stretched his arms up, leaning against the doorframe so that he could continue his awkward staring. 

He did a lot of that it would seem. Any time you turned your head to face him you found that he was already looking in your direction. It was odd. . . off putting to say the least. Of course you couldn’t know that he was currently tracing the lines of your face with his eyes, committing every detail to memory. You were so different when he compared you to the females that he was used to seeing. You were all soft lines, long lashes and doe eyes. He found it impossible not to look at you. Gorgeous… you were gorgeous. 

“It took me a while to get out of my dress on my own.”You shoved your way past him in the doorway, his chest warm under your palms. 

You were quick to jerk away, startled by the fact that this was the first time that you’d touched him since the two of you had reunited. 

You didn’t hate the feel of him, but you should have. 

“Then you should have asked for some help.” He said, reaching out to grab you by the back of your shirt when you started to walk off in the wrong direction. 

Feyd pulled you along like he would a pet on a leash through the triangular halls, ignoring your mumbled curses as you tried swatting him away. 

The shield vibrated in your ears as you switched on the button, enveloping you in its warmth. 

You used to find it uncomfortable as a child, the tight, foreign warmth triggering a mild case of claustrophobia. You were used to it now, wearing it like a second skin. You waited for Feyd to turn his on as well, the blade clutched tight in your palm. 

You waited. And waited. And waited. 

“Where’s your shield?” You asked him, motioning towards his hip with your free hand. 

There it was, that crooked smile again. He was laughing at you. Was he trying to infer that you were weak? Was he so confident in his skills that he didn’t even see you as a threat?  

“I don’t see the nee-” He didn’t get very far. 

You kicked your leg out, catching the back of his right knee. His legs buckled, and he was quick to adjust himself, his left arm flying up to catch your wrist before you could sink the blade home. For a split second the two of you just stared at each other. Mild shock in his eyes, your own alight with an anger so consuming that you feared you might be burnt up with it. He gave your arm a sharp tug, hard enough that the joint rolled uncomfortably in its socket. 

You kicked your leg out before he could throw you over his shoulder, landing a sharp blow to his ribs. You heard him let out a pained moan before you hit the ground. Using your weight to your advantage, you tucked your body in, rolling to the side so that you could easily stand up to your knees, blade poised at your side and ready for an attack. 

“You fight well, Atreides.” Feyd purred, spinning his blade between two fingers before letting it fall back into his pale palm. 

“Turn on your shield.” You growled, rising to your full height so that you could begin circling him, a panther ready to pounce. 

“Was it Duke Leto that trained you?” Still, he was ignoring your statement. 

“No.” 

“No, of course it wasn’t him,” He took a step closer to you, eyeing you down. No one had looked at you like that before. . . and it made your skin crawl. You didn’t want to be desired by this man, the thought alone was miserable enough to have bile rising in your throat. “Your father is too weak-spirited to ever train you himself, lest he accidentally harm you.” 

Your heart was beginning to pound in your ears now, vision tunneling. All you could see was Feyd. All you could imagine was the blade that you were currently white-knuckling sunk hilt deep into his chest. 

“How horrible it must be for Caladan to have a Duke so. . .  spineless.” 

You bared your teeth, and for a second you were sure that you would snap the hilt in half with how hard you were gripping your blade. You demanded blood for such an insult. How dare he. How dare he. 

“I should cut out your tongue!” You screamed, pointed the blade at him. 

‘Don’t come any closer’ you urged with your eyes, feeling the angry tears causing your vision to fog. A Harkonnen was insulting your father. He was insulting your family and now he was smiling at you. The bastard had the gall to smile and this time all of his teeth were showing. Wide, unabashed in his joy. He was terrifying. So much so that you felt your legs begin to shake underneath you. 

“But you’ll want to put this tongue to good use eventually.” His gravelly voice purred. 

“Silence!” And before you could even control yourself you were using the Voice. 

You might not be as talented as your brother when it came to hand to hand combat, but your mother had taken the time to teach you well. Feyd’s mouth snapped shut so hard that you heard his teeth clatter together. 

“One more word and I will gut you.” Your voice shook and before you could rethink your actions you were lunging forward, the blade cutting through the air. . . 

Aimed at his throat. 

He was quick to push your arm away with his forearm, and even with the shield up you could feel the bone shattering pressure he put behind the movement. He was stronger than Paul- stronger than even Gurney. He took advantage of the fact that you were put off balance and grabbed a fist full of hair, the shield around you flashing red as he pressed his blade as close as he could to the base of your throat. Your scalp exploded in pain, eyes watering as he gripped harder to yank your head back so that you were staring directly into his eyes. They held no malice towards you, even despite the fact that you were obviously trying to maim him. 

And then he leaned in closer. And closer.

“If I didn’t know any better then I would think that you were actually trying to kill me.” He whispered against the shell of your ear. You could practically feel the warmth of his lips against your skin as he spoke, your heart roaring in your ribcage. With your chests practically touching like this you could smell him.

 You’d only caught the scent of spice once in your life- and it was akin to bitter cinnamon. There was something else though, something more complex to it. Aromatic spices you couldn’t quite put your fingers on and. .  . the natural musk of his skin. 

“So you can speak again?” You managed to tease him through your pain, wincing as he brought you even closer against his chest. The blade that you clutched in your hand was now pressing against his side, the pointed edge digging into his skin. 

He didn’t wince, even when you put more pressure against it. 

“You think it wise to use the Voice on me in my own home, little girl?” He hissed as he pulled away from your ear, and the fire that was in your eyes was now mirrored in his own. 

Slowly you moved the blade away from him, the metallic clanging echoing around the room as you let it fall to the floor. Your palm hurt from the vice-like grip you had been holding it in. 

“Release me now.” You didn’t shy away from staring into his eyes, unwavering even when he pressed the blade even tighter, the shield vibrating louder and louder around you. 

He leaned in, even when your hands moved to press against his chest, willing him to give you space. You could barely breathe with him this close to you. His own knife clattered to the ground, and using his free hand he ripped the shield from off of your hip. The gasp that escaped your lips was uncontrollable. You could feel his breath on your lips as his eyes continued to swallow you up whole. 

They looked even bluer when you were up close like this, framed by long black lashes. For a split second you wondered what had become of that beautiful little boy you had met. Had Baron Vladmir beaten the beauty out of him? Or perhaps it had never truly been there to begin with. 

When Feyd looked at you, up close like this, all he saw was the object of his ever-present affections. Something yawned to life in his chest- the need to protect. All at once he felt wrong, disgusting and horrible for causing you any sort of pain. 

But you looked so lovely with those tears in your eyes. So much so that he gave your hair another small yank, a shuddered breath escaping his lips as you yelped in pain. He saw the hate in your eyes and he detested it. 

‘Fear me’ he silently urged. ‘Love me, do as I say and I will become your slave.’ 

His lips brushed against yours, achingly slow- painfully soft. 

“I yield.” You were quick to say, pulling as far back as you could even with the grip he had on your hair. 

Fire. Your scalp felt like it was on fire. 

And then he released you, taking a step back with a heaving chest. The spell now broken, it felt like the world around you suddenly resumed its orbit. Wordlessly he pressed a hand to his side- the side that you had pressed the knife- and when he pulled it away you could see that it was stained with blood. 

“Didn’t you say that you were going to gut me?” There was no hint of humor in his voice now. 

“I wanted to.” You conceded. 

“Then you should have tried harder.”

Again you lay in bed awake, unable to fall asleep. You told yourself that it was just homesickness that had you clinging to the blankets, but you knew better. What had happened today left you rattled and confused. 

There were a hundred times today that Feyd could have killed you. Everything that Gurney had ever taught you had disappeared like smoke in the wind the second that your father was mentioned. You had acted on instinct alone. 

And if it was an actual fight to the death then you would have lost. Miserably. 

There was something strange about it though. It never once felt like an actual training session. He taught you nothing and gave you no feedback. Not only that but. . . it never felt like he actually wanted to damage your pride. He didn’t turn on his shield before and after taunting you, almost as though he actually wanted one of your attacks to land. 

He had allowed you to get everything out of your system. You hated that it had worked. It wasn’t helping you to sleep tonight though. No, you had other things on your mind now. 

Like the fact that he had almost kissed you. 

Your knowledge was limited where men were concerned, but you were nearly positive that there was something sexual about the way that he had treated you. It was like he didn’t want to actually hurt you, but still went out of his way to touch you. 

You’d be sure to ask for someone that might be willing to train you again tomorrow over breakfast. Someone who wasn’t Feyd, preferably. Lunch and dinner had been spent in silence on your part tonight. He had tried to strike up conversation a few times, even baiting you in ways that might warrant annoyance and anger. You didn’t budge. Why? Because you hated how nervous you felt in his presence now. 

Was it because you were afraid of him? That had to be it. Hearing about his proficiency in fighting and seeing it first hand were two different things. He had practically swung you around like a ragdoll. It was absolutely humiliating. 

Yes, that had to be it. . . well, you hoped. 

“Atreides.” 

The sound of your name had you bolting up into a sitting position, willing your eyes to adjust to the non-existent lighting in the room. The sound of footsteps had your heart jumping up into your throat, adrenaline flooding your system once you realized that it wasn’t a voice that you recognized. 

No one had entered the room since you’d gotten back from dinner, which meant. . . 

Whoever this was had been hiding, waiting until you completely lowered your guard. You were in danger. Horrible, horrible danger. 

‘Be careful. Please.’ You remembered Feyd’s words from earlier. 

He had been trying to warn you.

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ೃ࿔ savage bonds taglist:

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the wonderful line “fear me, love me. do as i say and i will become your slave” is from the movie “the labyrinth”!

[frannyzooey]

Short Days, Long Nights: One Shot

Series Masterlist

Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: E

A/N: I missed them, so here you go ❤ one million bajillion thanks to @bageldaddy for looking this over and for typing the words "do a crux check, I think it's here like five times". She was right, as she often is 😌

--

The brothers ride in silence, snow crunching under the hooves of their horses. Everything covered in a fresh blanket of white, they leave fresh tracks behind them as they make their way towards the gates. 

“You gonna tell me what your problem is?”

Joel glowers, his grip tightening on the reins. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

Tommy smirks, a white cloud of heat puffing from his nose. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

A muscle in Joel’s jaw ticks, but he says nothing. He shifts in the saddle, his thighs squeezing to spur his horse on faster.

It’s fuckin’ cold, and his knees ache. 

“I think you scared ‘em,” Tommy says, flicking his chin towards the two riders behind them. The boys – new to patrol – give them ample space, their skinny frames swathed in coats in their seat in the saddle. “Just about tore their heads off every time they made a mistake.”

“They shouldn’t be makin’ em,” Joel replies easy. 

Tommy laughs. “Like you never made a mistake in your life.”

Joel shakes his head, squinting at the brightness of the fresh snow. Each night has brought a fresh few inches, and he wonders if the kids have been outside in it. He pictures them making snow men, building forts. The snowball fight they had last week with the neighbor kids comes to mind, and a warmth fills up inside of him. Snow wasn’t a thing for him when he was growing up – not in Texas – and he’s glad they get to experience it. 

Even if it’s cold as shit. 

He pictures the front window of the house, the warm glow it would cast across the snow as darkness falls. You in the kitchen, maybe, and the constant movement of the kids. The image invites him even from beyond the gates, and sighs. 

Tommy continues to poke, in the way that only little brothers can. 

“Oh, I get it. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

Joel frowns. “Since what?”

“Since you got some alone time. With your wife.”

Tommy’s eyes are bright with teasing, and Joel would normally rise to the occasion – but he doesn’t have it in him. Instead he gives his little brother a sidelong glance. 

Tommy chuckles. “I knew it.” 

“Hard with all the kids in the house all the time,” Joel grumbles. “Always underfoot, never giving us a moment’s peace.”

“Seems like every time you get a moment’s peace, you end up with another kid, brother. Maybe it’s a good thing.”

Joel shakes his head again, the edge of his mouth lifting for the first time in days. 

“It does, doesn’t it,” he says, and Tommy laughs. 

“Let me take those little monsters for you,” he offers. “Maria’s been wanting to see them anyhow, and then maybe you won’t walk around anymore lookin’ like you wanna fight anyone who steps in your path.”

Joel scoffs, though he doesn’t argue. 

The gates of the settlement come into view, the guard towers built along the top capped with mounds of snow. He pictures the bustle of people that will appear when the gates open – the mess hall, the stables, the familiar facade of the town he’s come to recognize as home. And somewhere, in all that, you.

His mind strays to the image of your face: your beautiful, soft smile, the warmth of your body that he’s missed at night. Weighted heat builds low in his hips, and he begins to thicken underneath his fly. 

“Goddamnit,” he mutters. 

It really has been too fucking long. 

“Tonight,” he says to Tommy, giving him a look. “Can you take ‘em tonight?”

Tommy grins.

–

Joel needs to see the little monsters first. 

He needs to listen to June’s endless chatter as she curls up next to him on the couch, wants to see Hank play with his trucks on the carpet, needs the weight of Dolly sleeping body on his chest. His lips brush her downy curls, and he relaxes into the cushions of the couch, surrounded by his children. 

“Yea, darlin’” to June, and “tell me more, bud” to Hank and murmurs of “hey, sleepy girl” to Dolly. 

His head tips back against the couch, his eyes closing for a second. 

“You gonna make it, old man?” you tease, tucking a sleeper into the backpack in front of you. A teddy next, a blanket following it. 

He turns his head to look at you, and his eyes slip down your body and back up again. He’s been half hard since the second he pressed a fleeting kiss to your mouth in greeting when he walked in the door.

“I’ll show you old man once these kids leave.”

Your movement halts for a split second, and the corner of his lips tip up as you start to pack faster.

–

You’re still tidying the kitchen when he gets back from Tommy’s. 

“I thought I would have more time,” you frown, scooping up the dinner plates to set them in the sink. He stands at your back, his hands curling around your hips to pull you close. His mouth brushes along the column of your neck, his beard tickling your skin. “I wanted to be upstairs, waiting for you. Assuming you’re still up for–”

He turns you, cutting off your sentence with the press of his mouth. 

It’s been so fucking long. So long since you’ve really kissed him, too long since you felt his strong grip, too long since you’ve done anything more than a peck here and there between the daily chaos of life. Patrol, the green house, your duties around town, the kids – too many nights have gone by with you falling asleep on the couch while he picks away at his guitar, or collapsing into bed together the second the kids turn in. 

You’ve missed him, and you can tell by the way he kisses you, he’s missed you as well. 

His deep kiss lingers until he breaks it, resting his forehead against yours. 

“Dance with me, honey.”

A smile curls at the edge of your lips. “There isn’t any music.” 

“Never stopped you before,” he replies, kissing the corner of your mouth, guiding your arms to wrap around his neck. 

Every time he mentions your time at the cabin, a sweet ache blooms in your chest. A time when it was just the two of you, nothing to exist on but the sustenance found in each other. A private, tender time, full of intimacy and closeness, of quiet peace in a world filled with anything but. It’s not like you miss it compared to the safety of Jackson, but…sometimes you do. 

You’re reminded of it in the mornings, with his warmth curled along your spine, his nose tucked into the nape of your neck. 

You’re reminded of it when you work alone in the garden, the kids down for their naps. 

And you’re reminded of it now, as he turns the two of you slowly in a room with no music. 

Drawing him in, you bring his mouth to yours. You lean into his sturdiness and breathe him in, your fingers slipping into the curls at the nape of his neck, and he sighs, melting under your touch. 

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss and his hands cup your cheeks, his fingertips brushing against the curve of your jaw. Shuffling his feet forward, he guides you towards the counter until the edge of it presses into the small of your back. His mouth moves with more intent, and the toe of his boot nudges your feet apart, making room for himself between your thighs. 

“Upstairs?” you mumble against his full mouth, and he shakes his head. 

“Right here.”

The husk in his voice makes your eyes flutter shut, an instant liquid heat pooling in the cradle of your hips. It intensifies when his hand takes your own and he slides it down his torso, your fingers brushing over his belt buckle. Lower still, and he wraps your fingers around the heft of his cock, clearly outlined through his jeans. 

His hips buck forward into your touch, and a soft moan breaks free of your throat. 

“You really did need it bad, huh?” you tease, a breathless thing dripping with your own want. 

“So bad, honey. So bad.”

His fingers work the button of your pants open, and you start doing the same to his belt buckle until he swats your hands away, and starts tugging at your pants and underwear. Kneeling, he drags them over the curve of your ass and down your legs, his mouth laving hot kisses along the front of your thighs as he helps you step out of the fabric. 

“Joel, your knees. Baby, get off the floor.”

He pays you no mind, his hands forcing you up onto the counter. Spreading your thighs, he shifts closer until his mouth hovers right over where you need him the most: your gleaming, soaked center. 

“Fuck my knees,’ he groans, leaning in for a kiss. 

Your head tips back against the cabinet with a small thud, your fingers pushing through his hair. You flex your hold, the strands silky underneath the palm of your hand, and he lets out a muffled groan into your center, smearing his tongue flat up the center. He slides it over the pearl of your clit, circling the bud a few times as his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs. He laps at your clit, taps it with the tip of his tongue, slides his tongue around and then over it, over it, over it and when you start to rock your hips against his mouth, he latches onto it with a gentle suck. 

“Oh God,” you breathe, your hooded gaze fixed on the crown of his dark curls. His brow furrows in concentration and pleasure, his whiskers catching the delicate skin on your inner thighs and when he presses himself even closer to bury the bottom half of his face, you arch your hips up to meet him. His hand slides up your side in a weighty drag and palms your breast in a full handed hold, giving it a squeeze as he sucks harder. Focusing on the pebbled peak he feels underneath your shirt, his thumb drags over the bud and you feel it between your legs, in time with the steady licks of his tongue. 

Your thighs start to tremble against his cheeks, and his hand curls around the bottom of your knee, pushing your leg up to rest your heel on the counter. The position spreads you wide open for him, something he takes advantage of to slip two thick fingers into your soaked core. They fit in snug to the knuckle; your other leg crooked over his shoulder with a tense hold as he starts to stroke a spot deep inside. His full touch tucks tight against your walls, the pressure paired with the wet glide of his tongue tips you over the edge of your release, your moan joining the sound of his. 

His knees crack when he stands, and his lips slide against yours. His mustache and chin are damp with you, your taste in his kiss and you deepen it, winding your legs around the back of his thighs to pull him closer. He palms your bare ass, grinding his denim covered crotch against your slick curls. His movements get faster, more desperate, and then he pulls back, his gaze dropping down to watch as you roll your hips into his. 

“If you don’t stop, honey, I’m gonna fuck you right here on this counter.”

His words are a low threat, that rumbles from his chest, his eyes never leaving the crux of your thighs. 

“Do it.” 

Your own gaze is fixed on the bulge behind his fly; your cunt an empty, needy thing. You know just how well he fits, just how good it feels when he slides inside. Snug and thick and filling and your eyes close, a frown pulling at your delicate features. 

“Please.”

“If I start here, I won’t be able to stop. I wanna lay you out.” He leans forward, crowding you against the cabinets. “I wanna fuck you too hard for this counter top. I want you too much.”

The words make your stomach drop with need, and you grab his face to pull him in for a frantic, consuming kiss before pushing him back so you can slide off the counter. You can feel him right on your heels as you race up the stairs, a laugh bursting from you when he slaps your ass on the way up. He rushes you through the bedroom door, his hands already grabbing at your remaining clothes. 

“Come on, mama. Take that shirt off for me.”

“You first,” you reply, tugging at his blue button down. The snaps pop open in a straight line down his chest, and he tugs it off, flinging it onto the floor. You strip with him: first your top, then your bra. Sliding onto the bed naked, you watch him peel his jeans down his legs. His briefs go next, and your thighs part to make room for him as he crawls on the bed to join you. 

Your bodies are a tangle of limbs lying sideways across the bed, his mouth presses against yours the same time his hand dives down to line himself up. The crown of his cock slips right in, and his hips drive forward, forcing you open around him. 

“Joel,” you moan, your eyes closing tight. 

In the cabin, sunlight pouring through the window across your writhing body, his shoulders between your thighs and his face buried at the crux. 

“You feel so fuckin’ good. So good,” he breathes, rocking his hips against yours. 

In the woods, the bark of a tree rhythmically scraping against your back, the hot pant of his breath across your skin. 

His low groans blend with your softer, higher pitch ones as your fingers dig into the meat of his ass to force him deeper. 

Clothing scattered on the bank; shadows scattered across the rounds of your bare shoulders as you ride him, taking him inside you again, and again. 

Heady need blooms behind your belly button, your toes curling as your heels dig into the back of his thighs, and every rock of his hips against yours is a filling stroke, a smooth slide forward and back. Whole is what you feel – pressed underneath the weight of his body, the heat of his skin flush with yours, his cock filling every last open inch that belongs to him. 

Threading your fingers through the gray at his temple, the open, pleading expression on your face tells him everything he needs to know. 

“You gonna come again, honey?”

You nod frantically, the roll of your hips picking up pace. Your nipples tighten against his chest, the hair there scraping each sensitive peak. He braces himself above you, his fists curling into the bedding as he fucks you harder, deeper. 

A shudder slips through his solid frame as he watches you come underneath him, and his hips stutter, a deep, reluctant groan rumbling from his chest as he pulls out. Sitting back on his heels, his fist works his cock with an audible, slick pump. 

“Where do you want it this time?”

It’s a question he asks now. Jackson has birth control methods, but with scarce supplies, they aren’t something you can always get your hands on. Condoms are more readily available, but you hate the thought of a barrier between the two of you. 

Instead, you push your breasts together in a silent invitation, and shift closer to him, positioning his cock right above your chest. The view of his broad chest and strong shoulders has you biting your lip, his arm flexing as he pumps his thick cock filling your vision and your thighs squeeze shut, even though you are more than satisfied. 

“Play with ‘em, honey,” he begs, his deep voice straining. 

You do, and with one of his hands wrapped around his cock and the other gripped white around the top of the headboard, he comes in spurts across your chest. You keep playing, smearing the milky pools across the tops of your breasts, circling the tight buds of your nipples until they are glistening peaks as he works every last drop out of his cock, and sated, his frame finally relaxes. 

“Jesus,” he sighs, dropping down on the bed to lay next to you. 

You roll onto your side, your skin damp with his release. His pulse is a steady drum underneath his skin, his cheeks are flush with heat, and the gray along the curve of his jaw stands out even more in the dim lighting of the bedroom. He’s older now, the physical signs more visible. Lines that surround his eyes, more gray threaded throughout his hair — but his hunger is the same. Still the same needy, firm grip love that you’re used to; his calloused hands sliding over your skin. Your gaze slips down his strong profile, lingering on his parted lips and you shift closer to him, tucking yourself closer.

He cracks an eye open to look at you, a dimple appearing in his cheek when he grins. Rolling onto his side, he faces you, slinging the weight of his arm over your waist. 

Your fingers brush along his collarbone, and for the first time in days, you feel yourself fully relax. 

You know patrol is part of the many pieces keeping this community together, but you’ll never get used to being separated, not fully. You’re half of a whole when he’s gone; half of your heart venturing out into the dangerous world. You’re tense from the second he heads out to the stables until the moment you see him through the front door. 

With him finally home, you breathe him in, curling closer. Right where you belong. 

His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, and you smile. 

“You’re so beautiful, honey.” His nose skims along yours, his lips brushing over your cheek. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too. It’s hard to sleep without you here.”

The kiss he gives you is slower this time, more lush. His mouth molds against yours, savoring your familiar taste and you swallow his soft groan down, holding him close. He starts to fade, his kisses slowing into lingering, soft presses. 

Rain sliding against the window, flashes of lightning illuminating his profile. 

His mouth stops, his eyes fluttering shut. He sleeps the way you never saw him sleep on the trail, the way he was never afforded before the cabin either. The way he probably couldn’t while on patrol, either. 

A book resting open and face down on his chest, his breathing steady and deep. 

A bone-deep sleep, sated and safe. 

Still, when your thumb skates across his full bottom lip, his mouth purses – an unconscious kiss, even from the depths of his slumber. His hand flexes, smoothing over your skin. 

Reaching for the light, you click it off, and pull the quilt over the two of you. 

Another worn quilt, another bedroom. 

Tucking your face into the space between his chin and chest, you close your eyes.

[chesterfieldblossom]

"AMERICAN WEDDING"

Arthur Morgan x Reader (1k words) "Well you can have my mustang / That's all I've got in my name"

SUMMARY | Arthur and you had been in a discreet relationship, but everyone on the camp knew your commitment. But of course, he wanted to make a bit more official. NOTES | It's really short, like just and idea I had on my notes when I was listening American Wedding by Frank Ocean. But I hope y'all enjoy. Also, dividers by @cafekitsune WARNINGS/TAGS | Oneshot, fluff, wedding proposal, f!reader RATING | Teen

"Well, you can have my Mustang." He drawled, voice low and quiet, as though he didn’t want to disturb the night. "That's all I got in my name."

You glanced up at him, the moonlight casting faint shadows across his face, highlighting the lines of weariness that came with the life he led. His eyes, usually hard and distant, were softer now, vulnerable even. Arthur Morgan was not a man who gave easily, and yet, here he was, offering you what little he had—his horse, his loyalty, his heart.

You had thought about marriage before—when you were younger, when life seemed simpler and oblivious. But the image had always been different: a small church, family gathered, maybe even a white dress. Not this—lying on a dusty cot, surrounded by the wilderness, with Arthur Morgan of all people. But that was the thing about life, wasn’t it? It never turned out quite like you imagined.

"Arthur..." You whispered, unsure of how to respond. The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. He wasn’t just talking about his Mustang. This was Arthur’s way of saying everything—his past, his future, his soul. You could feel his uncertainty, the tension in the way his fingers hovered slightly above you bare arm, as if he was waiting for you to make a move, to push him away, to tell him no.

But you didn’t want to. God, you would be out of your damn mind if you say no.

You reached up, placing your hand on his, stilling his gentle caress. His hand was large, warm, and rough from years of hard work. It grounded you, made you feel safe in this world of chaos. "I don’t need a Mustang, Arthur." You murmured, thumb tracing circles on the back of his hand. "I need you."

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, and for a moment, no one spoke. You could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady, a reminder of the man beneath the outlaw. You could see the boy in he for the first time, a glimpse of your children. You wondered if he ever imagined this for himself, or if he thought he was too far gone for something like love, like commitment.

"I ain’t got much to offer." he finally said, voice hushed, like he was scared the words might break something between you. "Ain’t never been good at... well, any of this. You know that."

You smiled softly, shifting closer to him. "You’re enough, Arthur. Just you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted."

He didn’t speak for a while, just stared at you, as if he were trying to make sense of how someone could want him—just him. The world had not been kind to Arthur Morgan, and in many ways, it had hardened him. But beneath the roughness, the gruff words and guarded glances, there was a man who felt deeply, who cared more than he let on.

As if making a decision, Arthur suddenly shifted beside you, reaching into the pocket of his worn coat. You watched, curious, as he fumbled for a moment before pulling something out—a small, delicate ring. The band was thin, silver, and simple, with no extravagant jewels, but to you, it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

He held it out to you, almost sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "Picked it up in town a while back." he admitted, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "Didn’t know if you’d... well, if you’d want it. Ain’t much, but it’s real silver."

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart swelling in your chest. The fact that Arthur had gone out of his way to find a ring, something so traditional, so symbolic, meant more than words could express. You could see the way he was looking at you, searching for some kind of approval, some sign that this was right.

"Arthur..." You whispered, the voice breaking slightly. "It’s beautiful."

Without another word, he took your left hand in his, his touch gentle but sure. Slowly, almost reverently, he slid the ring onto your finger. It fit snugly, as though it had been made for you, and the cool metal sent a shiver through your skin. The moment felt timeless, as if you were the only two people in the world, surrounded by the quiet wilderness and the faint glow of the stars.

"There." he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Now it’s official, I guess."

You couldn’t help but smile, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. This was not the wedding you had once imagined, but in every way that mattered, it was better. Arthur Morgan was yours, and you was his, bound not by law or tradition, but by something deeper—something unbreakable.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his, the noses brushing, breaths mingling in the cool night air. "I love you, Arthur Morgan." You whispered, the voice thick with emotion. "More than anything."

He closed his eyes, his arms wrapping around you as he pulled you close, his lips pressing softly to your temple. "I love you too." he murmured, the words coming out rough, like they were foreign to him. But they were real, and that’s all that mattered.

As you rested your head against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing, you looked down at the ring now glinting on your finger. It was simple, yes, but it was yours. Arthur leaned forward, lifting your chin to gave you a kiss. You happily returned, your bodies shifting closer as he embrace you and the lips moved together.

"But Jesus Christ don't break my heart." He whispered. The warm breath brushed on your lips, making you want to kiss him again.

"This wedding ring won't ever wipe off." You promised to him, whispering back.

[wildfairies]

✧*̥˚ wildmelon cas game *̥˚✧

i've been seeing lots of oc challenges on pinterest recently, so i wanted to make a cas game that doubles as a little personality quiz! i'm sorry if your real favorite is missing from a category, just go ahead and choose your favorite out of the options provided :) things like skin tone and gender identity are up to you/the occult type! the entire challenge is typed below the cut in case the image is too hard to read for anyone ♡

✧*̥˚ here's my sim! (she's a spellcaster btw, i have a december birthday ♡) tag me and show me the sim you make! *̥˚✧

species: your birth month

january/february: human march/april: alien may/june: plant sim july/august: werewolf september/october: vampire november/december: spellcaster

hair length: your sociability

if you’re an introvert: long hair if you’re an extrovert: short hair if you’re an ambivert: medium hair

hair color: your favorite fruit

banana: blonde hair strawberry: red hair blueberry: brown hair apple: black hair kiwi: green hair watermelon: pink hair mango: blue hair raspberry: purple hair

eye color: your favorite season

winter: blue spring: green autumn: brown or hazel summer: grey

extras: your favorite subject(s)

history: add freckles english: add tattoos math: add beauty marks foreign language: add eye bags art: add colorful eyeshadow science: add piercings

clothing color: your ideal pet

dog: red cat: black lizard: green snake: orange guinea pig: neutrals hamster: pink fish: blue horse: yellow

[aspirationalpeony]

Dark Horse

Summary: As a cameraperson on the Abbott documentary crew, you've always had a good working relationship with Melissa Schemmenti. One flirtatious night at her home sends you spinning as you try to figure out if this is really real—not to mention how everyone at Abbott seemed to know about Melissa's crush on you, long before you ever did. (See author's note at the end for prompt credit.) Content Warnings: Lots of smut, a bit of emotional confusion, and me having absolutely no idea how filming anything works. I just faked my way through it, very horribly. Oops! :) AO3 Link

It all starts with a late shoot.

It's just you and the mic guy and one other crew, and your camera trained on Melissa Schemmenti. She talks, in a way she's done rarely so far. A season and a half and she's always conscious of the stare of the lenses, quick to dart around a corner or cut herself off if she knows the opps are listening.

She takes big sips, almost gulps, from her wine glass. She leads you back and forth across her house, reaching over tables or pointing along walls to find a photo here, another there, and talks. "Me'n Kristen-Marie... This one—" pause for more wine—"from my college graduation." It's the two of them, almost mirror images of each other at that age, with a tall man whose lean face makes you think he has to be their father; on the other side of the girls is their Nana.

There's no trick in this photo: no wedding dress, no blood, no hint of drama between the sisters at all. They just look hopeful and desperately young. This feels private, that Melissa could have been so young—something that shouldn't be content for the show—and you feel an impulse to duck the camera away, hide her secret. When you look at Melissa again, she’s watching you; there’s a glitter in her green eyes you can’t interpret: not hostile, and not the look she gets when she’s hustling someone, either. The gaze she’s giving you is strangely soft.

“Whaddaya think?” she says, to you, not to the camera.

You swallow. Nothing you say will make it to the final cut, but the editors will hear your answer, so you can’t tell her she’s beautiful in that picture. “I think I’m lucky you’re showing me this,” you say at last.

Her eyes move over your face. You feel it almost like a touch, intimate and slow, and you aren’t making it up: her gaze stops at your mouth and hovers there. She bites her lower lip before she lifts her wine glass again for another pull. “Maybe I like ya,” she says. “Maybe you’ll get luckier.”

You’re still blushing when you wrap for the night. You sit on your couch at home—you’re always insomniac after shooting at night, your brain and body still buzzing with the work—and put on Netflix on low volume and you don’t watch, just feel your cheeks still burning, thinking about her lipstick on her wine glass.

Of course, the whole crew knows the story by the next morning. When you turn up, Pedro, your best friend on the crew, says, “Look at you! Dark horse!” and it makes your face sear with heat all over again. He lowers his voice, leans in and nudges you. “C’mon, nothing in the contract about that. You deserve a little fun. Let your Italian mama take care of you.”

You cringe. “Please,” you say, “never say ‘Italian mama’ to me again. Okay?”

“Just sayin’,” he says, and leaves it alone.

Of course, it doesn’t leave you alone. You’ve learned the best way to sneak up on a conversation with Melissa and Barbara is to come at it around a corner, so you’re hovering down the kindergarten hall, camera on the two women, when you hear your name, making you stiffen.

“You said that?” Barbara’s voice is incredulous, sharp. “What did she say?”

“Nothin’, really,” Melissa says, “she was on the clock, y’know.” The smile starts in her voice before it grows on her face. It’s a Cheshire smirk bigger and deeper than you’ve ever seen. “She got all flustered. It was cute. You think she knows I was shootin’ my shot?”

“I think you could have ‘shot your shot’ with a little more dignity,” Barbara says crisply. “Like an adult does. Politely. Pleasantly.”

“Soberly,” Melissa says. “Listen, if it works, it works. I just gotta find out if it did, y’know. Work. She’s kinda shy.”

“I didn’t know you cared for that.”

"What, the quiet ones?"

You have to pull away. You're going to miss the rest of the conversation, but your face is burning again, your heart is pounding, and you're grappling with the reality that Melissa and Barbara are talking about you, that you're subject enough between them to be chatted about so casually, that all this footage is... God, are you ever going to live this down?

You'll go shoot some Janine and Gregory. That's always a crowd-pleaser; the audience loves the sweet tension between them, the way the space between their bodies turns tangible the longer their eye contact holds. You try not to think about Melissa's gaze on yours last night. You try to do your job.

That goes as well as you might expect. Fifteen minutes into some uninspiring quiz-grading ("oh, I never fail anyone," Janine says, "I just give 'em a different colored star—they like the gold ones best, so—") Pedro comes to find you.

"Hey, listen," he says, "I need you to come take care of your Calabrian chili pepper."

"What?"

"You know, your spicy linguini. Your Italian ma—"

"Stop." Your head whips toward Janine at her desk and then back to Pedro. The only thing you can think of to say, your heart thumping all over again, is "She's Sicilian, not Calabrian."

"She's giving us nothing. You got to come do her talking head. She keeps trying to square up to Kai and he doesn't wanna fight her."

"What makes you think she won't fight me?"

He gives you a look over his glasses.

The change in Melissa is instant when she sees you approach. Those folded arms, her squared shoulders, her broad, foot-planted stance—it all melts. She leans into the wall, her head tipping, one booted foot lifting for her toe to play in idle lines along the floor, and, yeah. Whether you picked her or not, this is your Sicilian chili pepper, and you swallow hard as you approach.

"Heya, hon," she says, "who's this clown they got me workin' with? Don't they know I only do this with the professionals?"

You mumble a little as Kai looks between the two of you, rolls his eyes, and backs off.

"We were talking about her Friday night plans," Pedro says. "It's school game night and she's not going."

"Yeah, the kids are too easy to hustle," she says, "it ain't even fun. What, do I look like I wanna spend all Friday winnin' their, I dunno, their Yu-Gi-Oh cards?"

Now's when Pedro should prompt her, ask a question. You glance at him; he nods his permission. "Not sure those are a thing anymore," you say.

"Their Pokemon cards," she says. "Whatever. Point is, it'd be like taking candy from a... Jacob."

You don't look at her; you focus on the camera. It's easier than holding her green gaze. "Is that where you draw the line?"

"Gotta draw it somewhere," she says.

You can't help it. Cautiously you look up, try to make your voice neutral: "So how are you going to spend Friday night?"

She lolls her head to one side and looks at you. She sticks her tongue into her cheek. "Prob'ly practicing tricks," she says.

"Tricks?"

"Yeah," she says. "With my magic wand."

You don't really remember the rest of the interview. You sure you babble some other questions, and she gives you some smirking answers, but your head is full of white noise and a singular image: Melissa Schemmenti with a vibrator between her legs.

You're sure other things happen that day. Pedro definitely ribs you some more, you and Kai go get lunch and he complains for a while, Gregory and Janine have one of their not-flirting conversations where he draws up a tightly-plotted itinerary for game night, trying to prove it's possible to run a children's event without delays (it all goes back to his father, of course), at some point you go home and numbly resume your post on the couch in front of your TV screen, trying to make sense of it all.

That picture won't leave your head. You think of the look she gave you that night at her house—intimate, caressing—and how she'd look deep in her pleasure, drunk eyes half-open, her face pink, her hair wild. Does she get naked when she touches herself? She seems too impatient—more like a jeans around her thighs kind of woman—but for a night she's planning ahead—a night she's set aside, just for her pleasure...

Your head drops back and you shut your eyes to see her more clearly. You can imagine the scattering of freckles over her shoulders and chest, the shift of her heavy breasts and the hard peaks of her pink nipples—how does she like to be touched there? Maybe she grabs one breast while she uses the vibrator, plays with a nipple, imagining the rough, confident hand of a lover. You can see the soft field of her belly, the abundance of her hips, her thighs, picturing her cunt, the head of the vibrator against her clit—she doesn't tease, can't tease herself, you imagine, not Melissa.

You can almost smell her sex, you think, until you realize it's yourself you're smelling. Your cunt throbs. You could shove a hand into your underwear now and just take care of it, but...

Your small toy collection lives in a box under your bed. It's nothing fancy, but you do have a small wand vibrator. You peel off your trousers and underwear and drop onto your bed, back against the pillows, holding the purple toy in one hand. Does Melissa have one this size? Or a big, classic one, the kind that could buzz your clit right off? You click the toy on and draw it up your thigh. As it nears the sensitive crease between your leg and your sex, your thigh twitches without meaning to, your clit aching, and you think, okay, no foreplay.

You can't help but wonder as you delve the thrumming head between your folds: does she know you're doing this? Was that the idea—plant herself in your head, grow over everything, including your common sense and your inhibitions, until your whole world flowers Melissa? Could she be doing the same—getting a head start on Friday's plans—thinking of you, right now? You're normally quiet when you do this, but that makes you groan aloud. Your clit pulses.

How does she do this, on a school night, like tonight? Back to the image of her with her trousers halfway down her legs, her hand and her toy crammed into the space between the fabric and her body. You can't help but see her in the outfit from today, that green, clinging top, the black blazer discarded somewhere, slacks caught just above her knees, her hair mussed and tangling against the pillows as she works the vibrator over her clit. No playing games for her, either; just getting the job done, hard and fast.

You come, watching her in your head, her name on your lips; you hope she comes tonight, too, thinking of you, of what she’s doing to you.

The next day, Janine, Gregory, and Jacob are in hushed conversation by the supply closet. You pick an angle from just inside the nearest classroom and train your camera on the slight crack of the open door and you can hear them, even though they think they’re being quiet—classic them.

“I don’t know, what do you think?” Janine is saying. “I think it’s kind of nice.”

“I think,” Gregory says, “it’s like…” He pauses, picking his words. “Like watching a dog shake a chew toy.”

“I think it’s very brave of Melissa,” says Jacob, and your heart drops into your stomach. “Considering the historical era in which she grew up and started her teaching career, being openly bisexual in the workplace must be a very—”

“Please don’t let her hear you call her ‘historical’,” Gregory interjects.

“It’s cute she has a crush on the camera lady,” Janine says. (“Cameraperson,” Jacob corrects.) “I just want it to turn out nice. You know, the vending machine guy didn’t work out, so. And now he doesn’t stock Gushers anymore.”

“Maybe she’ll be a little more relaxed,” Jacob says. “A little more… Open, fun—”

“She’s not going to start liking you because she’s dating somebody.” Gregory, with characteristic bluntness.

“One can hope,” Jacob says.

“The camera lady—person—is so quiet, though,” Janine muses. “Melissa is so intense.”

“Bet that’s what she likes,” Mr. Johnson says, making them all jump. He steps out from the supply closet; he’s holding a Teachers Without Borders coffee mug you know has to be Jacob’s. He takes a long, slurping sip, making sure everybody sees the logo on the cup. “Melissa gets a sweet little thang to take care of. Camera lady gets an Italian mama.” He says it eye-talian. (Where is everybody getting this phrase from?)

“Please don’t say ‘Italian mama’ again,” Gregory says, giving you a little flush of vindication.

“Why not?” Mr. Johnson says. “When I was on tour in Rome—”

That’s enough for you. You decide the rest of the conversation can go unrecorded. You check the time and it’s nearly lunch—thank God, because you don’t want to make eye contact with any of them for a while; you don’t know how to feel about them all talking about you. You know it’s not you, really, they care about. It’s Melissa, her caginess at odds with how boldly, openly she’s been flirting with you, an attraction so obvious even the younger teachers that she’d never confide in can see it.

Something light and effervescent swirls in your stomach, but there’s a leaden weight there, too. Nerves. And desire. You let Pedro know you’re taking lunch and leave your camera behind, finding Kai a block down, away from the school, hitting his vape. He passes it to you and you take a pull, letting candy-scented vapor out of your nose. You don’t really smoke anymore, but anybody would need a little comfort under these circumstances, you think.

“So what are you going to do?” he asks.

“What?” You didn’t know Kai cared about that. “I mean, I guess I’ll talk to her, maybe give her my number, then see—”

“For lunch.”

“Oh.”

You get hoagies together, eating them over a public trash can, standing up. Back at the school you scrub your hands clean in the bathroom and duck Pedro and your camera and you find your way down the second-grade hall to the classroom that's usually the noisiest. It's quiet now: the kids are at the library doing a reading circle with the librarian. Maybe it says something that you know their schedule.

She's in there, glasses low on her nose, working. You pause just on the threshold of the open door. You try to piece together everything you know about her, to make it all fit into the person you see, just a small woman with a love of pleather and a never-ending supply of high-heeled boots, a baseball bat taped under her desk (you've seen it), a guitar propped in one corner of the classroom (does she ever play?), how now she's focused and reading with scrupulous intensity, doubling back on a sentence from time to time, her manicured hand coming up to twitch away a lock of red hair.

You knock on the open door. You see her hand pass under the desk toward the bat before she realizes who's standing there. She cracks a grin, lifting her glasses up to the top of her head. Her eyes travel up and down your body in another look that feels like a touch.

"I was wonderin' when you'd stop by," she says.

You give a little hum. You cross the room to lean against a student's desk, just opposite hers.

"No camera?"

"No," you say, "I wanted it to be just us."

"Huh." She taps her pen on her paper a few times. "You here to let me down easy?" She lifts her chin. The look she gives you isn't intimate now: it's far-removed and challenging, like the gaze of a duelist across a plain. You've seen this before, the way she starts closing herself off, armoring up.

You shake your head. There's a shift in her expression, but the walls don't quite come down. "I guess I wanted to ask what you want."

"That ain't obvious?"

"I mean..." Your arms come up, folding over your chest. "You know, I was here last season, when you were dating that guy... Hulk Hogan."

It surprises a laugh out of her. "Yeah, Gary."

"You asked him out and it was... Different. I mean..." You can't think of how to say it. At last, you say, "Do you take me seriously?" No, that's not it. "I mean, are you just trying to hook up with me? Because, I..." You're starting to burn up again. You rub the back of your neck. "That's not the kind of... Listen, you're beautiful, and sexy, but that's not what it would—I mean, to me, it—"

"You're so cute when you're all shy," Melissa says, sounding equally mystified and amused. She stands. "Look... Maybe I did this all wrong." She circles the desk. "Kinda treated you like a piece of meat."

"Just a little bit," you say.

"I take you serious, hon." She doesn't cross the gap between you two, but mirrors your pose, leaning on the edge of her desk, arms crossed over her chest. "Look, Gare was a nice guy. But he didn't have, you know... He didn't make me wanna..."

You think of Gregory's metaphor. "Shake him like a chew toy?"

Another laugh. "Yeah, that. And I guess I felt... You know, I'd kinda uncorked the bottle, datin' him, when I thought all that part of my life was done, and when you were at my place the other night, you just looked so good, and I just wanted..."

You smile, eyes down. The cold uncertainty is trickling away and there's warmth pouring into the spaces it's left behind. "Okay," you say.

"Okay?"

When you look up, she's moved a little closer. You can smell her perfume again, warmed on her skin over the course of a long day. You've had the privilege of seeing her in detail, so many times: the fine, thin skin around her eyes, the creases at the corners of her mouth that forecast her smile, the tiny hint of gray growing in at her temples, the mellow warmth of her green gaze, the slope of her nose crooking slightly to her left. It's different with no lens between the two of you, when you're close enough to touch.

"Yeah, okay," she says to whatever she sees in your eyes. She lifts her chin and drops her gaze to your mouth. It's a clear request.

You answer it. You dip your head; there's a moment where your noses nearly bump, but you change your angle, catch her lips with yours. There's a tackiness from her lip gloss and an incredible softness underneath. The warmth of her almost shocks you, vivid past your imagining. Her hand pets at your jaw; you feel the other curl into the collar of your shirt. She pulls you closer by the fabric and you gasp.

You renew the kiss, lips sliding over hers. Your hand rubs down her lower back. You can feel the divot in her spine where it meets her pelvis, just above the generous curve of her ass. Before you can overthink it, your palm is gliding over that curve, your fingers digging into its lushness, Melissa gasping against your mouth as you squeeze.

"Oh," she says faintly when the kiss is over and you're catching your breath. "Huh." Her look is glazed and a little bewildered.

"I, um, I don't want to send mixed messages," you say, "but about Friday..."

"Friday?" she echoes.

"Yeah." You bite down on your smile, watching her try to remember what the hell you're talking about. "I was thinking... I know a few magic tricks of my own."

"Oh," she says again. You watch her eyes spark with understanding, her smile appear slowly, then all at once. "I guess you could come over and show me your stuff." Her hands tighten in your shirt and pull you back in for another kiss.

"Hey, gimme your phone," she says, much, much later, when you're wearing more of her lip gloss than she is. "I want to give ya my number." You don't think before you're unlocking it and passing it into her hands. She lowers her glasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose and thumbs her way around your phone, creating a contact for herself.

You have a flash of nerves—what if she opens your Instagram and sees all the stupid accounts you follow? A vision comes of her seeing all the dog-using-buttons-to-talk videos you've liked, her libido instantly withering... Then she's giving you back your phone and smirking at you, wiping at your lip with her thumb. "Might wanna stop in the bathroom before you get back to work, hon," she says.

When you leave her classroom, it's like floating; you've never felt so light. You stop in the bathroom and you wipe all the lip gloss off your smiling mouth. You catch yourself humming as you and Kai catch some footage of Ava pretending to organize game night, Gregory trying to involve himself, Janine admitting to a little competitive streak.

Your phone buzzes, chimes. "Sorry," you say to Janine and Pedro, who's leading the interview. You wait until you can lower the camera lens to check the notification. You always keep it silenced during the day—did Melissa turn the ringer on?

Italian Mama iMessage

Your face burns. You take a corner away from Pedro and unlock the phone.

Italian Mama You made me real happy

Your blush intensifies; something flutters in your chest. The phone vibrates in your hand as another message comes.

Italian Mama Don't know how I'm going to wait until Friday

The echo of your own thought in her words makes your heart flutter again. You bite your lower lip and type back, Me neither. An electric spark of daring moves you, makes you send her, Maybe I'll practice some magic just to make sure I'm on top of my game.

Is that too much? You hope not. You've basically made a sex appointment with her for Friday—sex appointment, you think, and wince at yourself, your own awkwardness; it's a date—and you don't—your breath hitches as three dots appear on your screen, showing that she's typing.

Italian Mama Oh yeah?

Italian Mama Better practice hard

You feel a pulse low in your belly. You're ready to type a little more flirtation when another message arrives and makes you gasp aloud, quickly clamping your hand over your mouth before Pedro or somebody else can hear you.

She's sent you a photo. It's herself pulling down the scoop neck of the hot pink blouse she's wearing today. You can see just the tip of her nose, her chin, the proud line of her soft neck, her freckled sternum, and, holy shit. She's showing you her breasts cradled in a bra made of black lace. And you stare. And you stare.

Italian Mama Little incentive for you

Your mouth is watering. You can see the rosy shadows of her nipples against the lace. You barely register yourself typing back, You're perfect.

Italian Mama Thought you'd like em

You're typing before you can stop yourself. All I'll be able to think about now is what I'm going to do to you.

Three dots appear, then disappear. Appear, then disappear. Your confidence wavers.

Italian Mama I want you to tell me

You've never imagined you'd be turned on in the halls of Abbott Elementary, but suddenly you're so aware of your cunt, you can't stand it. You're throbbing. You peer around the corner; Pedro isn't even looking your way, he's talking something over about the schedule with another producer. You have time. You glance up and down the hall; nobody except an aide going into a room at the far end.

Your fingers fly over the keys. If you stop to think, you'll psych yourself out, so you blurt out every thought, the iMessage equivalent of babbling—what you'd be doing in Melissa's ear if you could have her right now, in your arms, again...

You're so fucking sexy

I've thought about you so much

I touched myself thinking about you the other night

I'm going to kiss you until you go crazy and you're so turned on you can't take it

I'm going to undress you and I'm going to kiss every fucking inch of you

I'm going to play with you until you're begging

Do you like it rough or gentle?

Three dots.

Italian Mama Little of both

You're typing again in a flurry. You can feel your heart pounding, your breath coming in harder. You probably only have a couple minutes left to really make her feel it.

I'm going to be so gentle with you until you beg me to be rough

I want to bite you

Do you like being bitten?

Italian Mama Yeah

I know you do

On your neck, on your breasts

I'm going to bite your thighs before I eat you out

"Homie, you coming?" Pedro says, with the best and worst timing—and phrasing—he could possibly have.

"Yeah, one sec," you say, and you're proud of how your voice doesn't wobble at all. "Let me just send this. Sorry."

I have to get back to work

Italian Mama Fuck you

Italian Mama How am I supposed to teach like this

Italian Mama Come here and finish what you fuckin started

You laugh, breathless and surprised. You text her, YOU started it! If she hadn't sent you that picture... You scroll back up and look again. In the bit of her face you can see, she's smirking, because of course she is. The luscious curve of her breasts—you can almost feel them, what it would be like to drag your nose down between them, mouth at the soft skin...

Pedro's waiting. You send her a bunch of blowing-kiss emojis and put your phone away again. You're still buzzing with arousal, but you feel a strange satisfaction, knowing that Melissa is a few halls away, squirming behind her desk, thinking about all the promises you've made.

The day passes, somehow. It's a strange mixture of slow, syrupy boredom and electric, frenetic activity as more preparations are made for game night, and your phone periodically buzzes with another message from Melissa. Thankfully (for your pussy—you think it might fall off if it keeps aching like that), the two of you leave the subject of sex, and just talk.

She asks you your birthday, your favorite food. Where did you grow up? What's your favorite color? Each one makes you smile. You feel like you're on the receiving end of a Schemmenti interrogation, a mob boss with her goons behind her. You get her answers back in turn: July 19. (You respond in shock, You're a water sign??? and you can almost hear her voice when she dryly responds, I got no clue what that means, hon.) Pasta con sarde. Grew up here in South. Pink.

Your heart flutters with every new thing you learn. Even though you go home (and rub one out) alone, she's a presence with you, not just in your fantasies; you find you're texting her until you fall asleep, phone sliding out of your hand onto the bedspread. And when you wake up the next day, preceding your alarm by a bit, you find a text from her waiting for you, just a few minutes ago: Good morning, baby.

You levitate all the way through Thursday. You spot Melissa a few times that day, but it's a packed day for her two classes, so mostly it's in the hall as she marches lines of students to and fro. She gets you back for yesterday, though: pauses in the doorway of her classroom as she's filing the kids in after lunch, and gives you an up-and-down look of such searing intensity that your body heats, scalp to toes. She smirks before she vanishes into her room.

She makes you crazy. God, she's incredible. You're texting her every chance you both can get, though she's sparser while she's with the kids; it's all light stuff. Get lunch here today, she tells you, Shanae made beef patties, and when Shanae slips you a couple of golden-crusted pastries, you bite into them, smelling warm, floral curry, savory beef on your tongue, and think of how Melissa it is, feeding you from a distance.

That afternoon, just after dismissal, she calls, "Hey," to you from her classroom door. You try not to jump to attention. "I gotta do a lot of work," she says, playing with the strap of her Apple Watch, "or I'd ask you over, but..." Strangely, her eyes drop. It's a hint of shyness and it makes your heart patter, tenderness and affection for her pouring into your chest. "I was thinkin', why don't we go out and get, like, food or a drink or somethin' tomorrow? You know, before you come over."

"Okay," you say. Her eyes flick up and as soon as she sees your goofy grin, her shyness melts away, turns back into the smirking self-assuredness you're more familiar with.

"You pick the place," she says, knocking the wind out of you at once.

Oh, crap. You remember what it was like with her and Gary: he tried to take her to a shitty spot for their first date, and she flicked him away from her like a bug. She's challenging you, you think, asking to be impressed.

You can do that. Dark horse, right? "Okay," you repeat. "I'll pick."

She leans back against the doorframe. All at once she's in that lolling, casual, flirtatious posture that she assumes for you and only you, her face tilted up, gaze intimate and a little sly. "You headin' out? I get a goodbye kiss, or what?"

"Okay," you say a third time, and you can barely kiss her, you're smiling so widely. You take your fill of her, in every sense, one more time before you leave for the day, nerves and excitement and that thread of arousal all tangling together, like a knot of live wires.

You're texting her later, because of course you're texting her later. Do you want it to be a surprise?

Italian Mama I dunno

Italian Mama Surprises never seem to work out for me

That gives you a little twinge. You find yourself running the tip of your finger up and down the side of your phone, the way you'd touch her hand or her cheek, if you could. How about just this one? you ask. And if you hate it, I'll never surprise you again?

You wish you could see her face. It would help you know if she's resigned or wary or scared. You don't want her to be antsy or nervous going into tomorrow; you want her to feel like she makes you feel: like you've got balloons and not bones, like a wind could catch you and carry you off, you're so light and so happy.

Italian Mama Ok

Italian Mama I'm gonna trust ya

It makes your heart do its now-familiar flutter in your chest. It's like there's a bird in there, some delicate fledgling thing eager to start flying. It wants to soar, holding its precious cargo: Melissa Schemmenti's trust.

The next day. Friday. Friday. Somehow, the school day rockets past you. Game night preparations have gone disastrously, and it's time for a patented Ava save, with the help of Janine and Gregory.

"Wow, who could've guessed," Kai mutters to you, and fidgets in the pocket you know holds his vape.

Your hand fidgets in your own pocket, around your phone. You and Mel exchanged good morning texts, a few kiss emojis, promises to meet up before dismissal to solidify your plans, but you haven't had a chance to see her at all.

"I don't know," you say, "I think they'll get it figured out."

"I think she's probably going to use it to mine Bitcoin somehow," Kai says.

Honestly, that sounds plausible. You shake your head anyway and make an excuse and scoot past Pedro. He's not encouraging Ava to stream game night live on Instagram, per se, but everybody knows that will guarantee some Coleman-style silliness, so he needs to get her there somehow. (Can you mine Bitcoin through Instagram?)

You don't need to send any directions to your feet; they're already walking you toward the second grade classrooms. Mel doesn't have lunchroom duty today, so you know she'll probably be catching up on two classes' worth of quizzes, or restocking art supplies, or prepping the next lesson's props and tools. Her door is shut and you peek in through the window.

She's writing on the whiteboard, looking back and forth from a worksheet in her hand, glasses on her nose. You knock. When she sees you, the narrow-eyed look of interrupted concentration melts away; she gives you a smile that shows her teeth, the kind that changes her whole face, turning her girlish, almost a little goofy. It makes your heart melt.

You open the door. "Hey," you say as she puts her glasses on top of her head and caps the marker. Being in the room with her, after not seeing her all morning, feels like coming out of the cold to a blazing fire. "Uh, hi. You look beautiful today." Then, for the third time, stupidly, adoringly, "Hi."

"You missed me, huh?" she says, putting down the marker and paper. "C'mere."

As soon as you're in grabbing distance, she takes two handfuls of your ass and pulls you in for a kiss. You're lost in it for long, long seconds.

She pulls back after giving your lower lip a bite that makes you squeak. She tucks her hands squarely in the back pockets of your jeans, holding you against her. "You look beautiful today too."

"Thanks," you say, barely registering the compliment, the way you're chasing more contact, kissing the corner of her mouth, nosing at her cheek. She's so warm in your arms. She's wearing one of her tough-girl outfits, a blazer and matching top in military green, and you sneak your hand under the jacket, finding a little stripe of bare skin between her shirt and her slacks. You touch her there with a teasing trace of your fingernail.

She shivers. Is she sensitive on her lower back? You file it away to investigate later tonight. The thought of being able to have her all to yourself tonight—hours and hours—sends sparks skipping through you. You have to kiss her again.

"You think it's unprofessional, doin' this at work?" Mel asks you breathlessly when you part again.

"I don't know," you say, "but whatever Gregory and Janine have been doing is worse, kind of."

"Yeah, that's for sure," Melissa says, and gives you a third kiss; this time, the delicate muscle of her tongue laps at you, little frissons of heat that go right between your legs.

"I came to talk about dinner," you say at last, when you think you can survive without kissing her.

"Oh, yeah," Mel says, "right. What am I wearin'?"

"Uh..." You hadn't considered it. You're just going in your usual date outfit—a button-up, a nice pair of trousers. "Business casual?"

"Okay, easy. Do I get a hint where we're goin'?" One eyebrow goes up. Her gaze acquires a competitive glint, one you've seen a hundred times through your camera. "I bet I can guess it."

"Here's your hint," you say, "it's not Italian."

"Smart cookie," Melissa says, which leads you both into another kiss, and then another. "It ain't a sandwich shop, is it?"

"No," you say, "I can't beat cousin Rocco."

"Soul food," she says.

"No. I'll come pick you up, is that okay?"

"Yeah, come, like, at five. I gotta change and do my face and stuff." She leans back, giving you a squint-eyed look of scrutiny. "Tell me it ain't French."

"It ain't," you promise, and seal it with a kiss. "I have to go. I'm pretending to be in the bathroom."

"Oh, shit," she says, eyes going wide, "we gotta catch up on this freakin' math unit and I forgot, I haven't peed in, like—"

"Go, go," you say with a laugh, letting her extract her hands from your pockets.

When you return, Kai narrows his eyes at you. You shrug at him and you're ready to get back to work, when he reaches across and plucks something off your shoulder: a single red hair. Crap.

"Damn," he says. "Dark horse."

"What's up?" Pedro glances over at you two. Fuck, you don't know if you can take his teasing today—you know he'll want all the details, and you love him, but you want to just get through work and get to Melissa...

"Nothing," Kai says, and drops the hair. He gives you a nod.

You nod back, warmth and gratitude making you smile. He doesn't smile back—you don't think you've ever seen him smile, actually—but you think you see the corner of his mouth curve up, just a little, as he peers into his camera.

Dismissal, a quick goodbye kiss with Melissa, home to get ready. You're normally an all-black kind of girl—it's just easy—but you pause in your closet and find a pink button-up. It's a mellow, soft shade, the same color as a silky blouse you've seen Melissa wear.

You put on your cologne, you style your hair. You look at yourself in the mirror. It’s funny: this is the same face you’ve always had, but three days of Melissa have done something to you. Your eyes look larger, softer; there’s a smile on your lips, small but persistent, that’s been there all day.

You haven’t always been lucky with women. You have love in your heart—God, a lot of it. Sometimes it feels like the water of an ancient lake, going down almost infinitely deep, and yet somehow about to overflow. You spent years going around offering it to anyone who would take it, and once they’d drunk their fill, they just moved on, satisfied, never giving a thought to you, never thinking you might want something back, even just gratitude.

So you pulled away. You just hurt too easily: keep them at arm’s length, never close enough to bruise. The quiet one, the shy one; that’s who you became over time, knowing that if you gave out of your abundance, you’d only be depleted. No one’s ever filled your cup.

You find yourself chewing your lip, staring at yourself. You want this to be different. You want this to be something else. Can it be?

You park your car in front of Melissa’s and find yourself wondering: text, or knock? You’re starting to get out of the car when the front door opens, and a rush of surprise and pleasure comes at the thought of Melissa waiting, watching for you. Then your breath catches hard in your throat.

She’s wearing a little red dress that… “Wow,” you say, before she’s even close enough to hear. The square neck of the dress is cut lower than her usual wear, and shows an abundance of skin that makes your mouth water. There’s a princessy quality to the cap sleeves, a delicate detail that’s perfect for Melissa: blazing, challenging red, with a hint of sweetness. The hem stops just above her knees. The fabric shows her body in intimate detail, the delicate rounding of her stomach and the flare of her hips, straining across the perfect shape of her thighs.

Her hair is down. Even late in the day it has a bit of curl. Her green eyes are like gemstones in the early evening light. Her heels have got to be four inches, but she walks with the steadiness of a queen. She’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.

You circle the car to get the passenger side door. “Hey,” she says, surprised, coming closer, “it’s pink,” and touches your sleeve. It’s not even contact with your skin, barely contact, period, but it sends tingles up and down your arm. “That’s my favorite color.”

“Yeah, I know,” you say, grinning like a fool.

Her eyes drop—that hint of shyness again, that tenderness that makes your heart strain against your chest, trying to reach her—before they flick back up. “How do I look?”

“I could look at you for hours,” you tell her honestly.

"I'd kiss ya, but you'd mess up my face," she says. "Here, you get one." She turns and offers her cheek.

You're smiling as you lean down to kiss the offered skin. She's soft and warm, and you get the powdery scent of her makeup, the richness of her perfume.

"Now, c'mon, feed me," she says, and you laugh and open her door.

You drive. She's exactly the kind of passenger you expected: "Hey, check it," every time she sees a car nosing out past a stop sign, or "On your left," when you're trying to merge. "Hey," she barks when somebody cuts you off, a gesticulating, accusatory hand in the air, "cazzo, you wanna watch where you're fuckin' going?"

Melissa. Abrasive, loud, bossy, and you don't feel bulldozed at all. You feel charmed. The smile won't leave your face. You don't know if she could be more herself than right now, in your ancient Volvo, wearing the sexiest outfit you've ever seen on her, looking simultaneously bold and delicate and delicious, and hollering out the window like an angry truck driver.

She's checking her phone as you pull up outside the restaurant, and doesn't look up again until you're opening her door. "Oh," she says, surprised, looking at the place: it's a red brick building, no sign; just a single hanging red lantern beside a white door. You can see her trying to puzzle it out, glancing at you and back to the door.

"It's a bar," you explain. You open the door to your favorite izakaya. Low, golden light and warmth spill out with the Jrock playing over the speaker system.

Melissa cocks her head and looks at you curiously. You only notice that her hand's in her clutch purse when she draws it out again; you hear the rattle of her keys dropping back to the bottom. "Thought you might'a been about to take my other kidney," she says. "I was gonna fight ya."

You blink. It's one of those Melissa-isms, delivered in her dry voice, that you think might be a joke, but it might not be, either. "I wouldn't win if you did."

"You sure as hell wouldn't, baby," she says, and lets you hold the door for her as she steps inside.

You love this place. It feels a bit like your first apartment after you left home, a lot of exposed brick, shoddy white paneling creating an accent wall, and decor that's a little vintage, a little silly: a big, ornate mirror that might have once decorated a cheap theater, brass sconces for lights, Gojira posters in the style of classic ukiyo-e. There's booths on one side of the room and a mirrored bar on the other, with a wall of sake and Japanese whisky.

The hostess recognizes you, waves hi, gestures toward the room for you to seat yourself. It won't start filling up until a little later, so you have your pick of the booths; you take the side that puts your back to the door, letting Melissa have the sightline to the exit.

The low light flatters her. Any light flatters her, but there's something about the dim, intimate, golden warmth of it that makes you stare as she studies the menus, first the drinks, then the food; her eyelashes cast delicate shadows on her cheek, the curve of her lips carving lines there.

She looks up and catches you. The thoughtful twist of her mouth turns into a smirk. The question, though, isn't what you were expecting. "What made you pick here?"

Huh. "I..." You rub the back of your neck, dropping your gaze. "I really like it." That's a start, but not all of it. "I thought you might not have this kind of food all the time. I never see you eating it and I wanted you to have a nice change. And..."

"I come here alone a lot." You shrug. "I have... Good memories here." They are good memories: people-watching, trying new drinks and food, chats with the bartenders, a karaoke night where you fell in with a group of laughing, drunk women who all worked at the same office, who tried to persuade you to bar-hop with them until last call.

But it's always been you, alone; sometimes folded in with somebody else out of goodwill, sometimes noticed for your familiar face and your generous tips, spared a few more minutes of a busy mixologist's time, but always a separation, a glass wall between you and the rest of the room. No one's been on this side of it with you before.

"I wanted you to have a good memory," you say, finally. "I wanted to share it with you."

You glance at Melissa. She's watching you with a look you recognize. It's the one she gave you that night at her house—just earlier this week, but it feels like a lifetime ago. It's tender and intent. It's encouraging. Like she's watching a flower bloom.

"It's already a good memory for me, hon," Melissa says. Something nudges your ankle. It's her foot in its killer heel, gently insinuating between both of yours. You feel her knee against yours, your calves aligned together. She smiles at you. "We're here together."

Your heart does one of its aerial flips.

"You sure get shy for somebody who was talkin' about suckin' my tits before, though," she says.

You choke on nothing. Your face and ears burn. She laughs, her head dropping back, the light glinting on her saints' medals.

"Biting," you squeak, when you can get air. "We were talking about biting."

"Biting," she says, "right. How come you can say all that to me but you're nervous tellin' me you like a bar?"

It's not a bad question. You trace the grain of the wooden tabletop for a second or two, eyes down. "I'm used to giving other people what they like," you say. "I don't mean—it's not that I was lying or faking. No way. I meant it, I mean it, everything I say to you. So much, Melissa." You dart a look up to make sure she understands. "I mean, it's easy for me... For other people, I can express..."

Her hand finds yours on the table and stills it. Her manicured finger gently swipes along the curve below your thumb, down to the sensitive inner skin of your wrist, and traces slowly there, back and forth. She's giving you that look again, gentle and focused and intimate. "I get it," she says simply.

A rush of relief fills you, settling the rattle of your anxious nerves. You turn your hand over and hers settles into yours.

The server appears for your drink orders. You order the house sake, and Melissa says, "Yeah, me too." With your small glasses of sake, the two of you pore over the menu, picking a few things Melissa knows, a few things she's never had before.

The first few plates come out: shumai, hamachi, a bowl of spicy pickle. She gets pieces of toro, unagi, and salmon, and you get a roll and a plate of chashu buns. She gives those a look of pure lust.

"Take one," you say, and push the plate toward her.

She doesn't hesitate. At her first bite, she lets out a guttural moan that goes right between your thighs. You're suddenly much more aware of her ankle still caught between both of your own.

"You think I could get this recipe?" she says of the chashu after the bun has vanished.

"I think you can get whatever you want." Especially from you, especially if she keeps making those noises.

"I sure can," she says with a flirtatious bat of her eyelashes.

You've seen Melissa eat before, scraping the last bite of salad out of a tupperware or sipping from a Stanley Tucci mug, but it's different like this, sharing a meal. You love watching her small, plump hands with her chopsticks, her drinks; you love her expressive eyes, the way they widen or flutter shut at a perfect bite. Everything she tries she makes you try—insistent, "Here, you taste," like you're not the one who's had the whole menu before, and you oblige, trying to taste it for the first time, like her, letting each one blossom over your tongue, letting yourself fall under her spell.

The bar is packed by the time you're through and she's nibbled her way through a couple of frozen mochi. "We gotta come back here," she declares as the two of you leave, hand in hand. "I wanna try more. You got good taste."

"Yeah, I do," you say, looking at her. It's full dark now, but the streetlights and the moon illuminate her, outlining her red hair in silver, the shape of her hips.

"You gonna take me home now?" she says. She moves closer. "You made a lotta promises, you know."

"I know." Your hands settle on her hips. She tilts her head up; you catch her lips, tasting the plum wine you two shared. It's your first real kiss of the night, and she's mellow, soft, delicious. Still, you tell her, "We don't have to, tonight. I want to, but I don't want you to think..."

"I know," she says, and gives you another kiss. "If I thought you were buyin' dinner to make me put out, I would'a had way more food." Another kiss. "Come on, let's go. Or maybe you don't wanna get lucky?"

You drive back to Melissa's place, her hand on your thigh the whole way. Back over the welcome mat that reads GO AWAY, into the picture-lined place where it all started over a glass of wine.

Melissa takes your coat and her own and gives you her back, hanging them up in a closet by the front door. "I can get you another drink," she's saying, but all you can see is the back of her dress: the silver line of the zipper running from collar to hem, almost invisible.

You move closer and she stiffens when she feels you there, your chest to her back. You gather her hair, move it aside. Above the collar of the dress you can see the line of her nape and the muscle where her neck and her shoulder join. You lean down and kiss it.

Breathing in, you can smell her perfume again, her makeup again. Now, her skin. It's a scent you couldn't begin to describe, something living and animal and sensuous. And her hair: warm, intimate, a little bit of hairspray. You kiss the side of her neck.

"You have no idea," you say quietly. You nose against the shell of her ear. Its soft cartilage is cold from the night air outside, but warming quickly, flushing pink as you kiss it. "You have no idea how gorgeous you are. You don't know what you've been doing to me."

You lift your hands and find the tongue of the zipper. Her breath hitches. You slowly draw it down. The rasp of it is loud between your bodies.

The band of her bra. Red lace. Down her back to the luscious curvature of her hips. You're holding your breath. Her panties are red lace, too, a high-waisted thong that hugs her belly and hips but, oh, fuck: leaves her ass almost totally fucking bare. Of course, in that clinging dress. Couldn't risk panty lines.

"Jesus fucking Christ," you say, and slide the dress fully off her body. It's a puddle of red fabric on the floor. You push her chest-first against the closet door and drop to your knees.

"Oh my God," she says weakly as you hold her hips and kiss your way up the back of one thigh, then the other. The flesh here is dimpled with cellulite, a mark of her perfect abundance. You nose over the curve of her ass and bite one cheek and she squeaks and gives a weak, "Huh," afterward, like she'd surprised herself, and you bite the other cheek and her hips rock back into you.

She's still in her heels. You're starting to smell her sex. You think about having her bend over and put her hands against the door and let you eat her from behind until her knees shake and give out. Fuck, you want to, but you've been making promises; you have plans.

You straighten back up, brushing kisses up the line of her spine. "I want to see your bedroom."

"Fuck," she says dizzily. "Okay. Uh..." She starts to step away from the closet door and for the first time all night, she wobbles in her heels. She gives a little growl of frustration that's so Melissa you can't help but laugh, making her glower your way as she toes out of the shoes.

She leads you up to her bedroom. The big bed is made, but there are plenty of signs of life: the vanity against one wall, scattered with makeup; the bedside table with a dog-eared book and a pair of her glasses; there's a bra tossed over the cracked closet door.

She turns to face you, unself-conscious, and grabs you for another kiss, deep, dirty, her tongue licking into your mouth. "Can't believe you wore my favorite color," she says breathlessly, and starts fumbling with the buttons of your shirt. "God, you look so hot."

Your shirt's halfway open when you get your mouth on her neck. She groans, hands loosening on the fabric. Soft, right along the line of her jaw, under her chin, down her throat where you feel a moan vibrate through the skin. "Harder," she says.

You stay soft. The hollow of her throat, her clavicle. You nose one strap of her bra. She whines, "Harder," and grips your hair.

"I told you," you say. "I'm going to make you beg." She gasps. Your cunt pulses. You wonder if the same thing happened in her classroom that day, if she sat at her desk squirming, little hitches of her breath betraying her.

You squeeze her ass and she sways into you. Your hands shape her hips, up her sides, over her back, feeling the landscape of it, the valley of her spine. You trace the band of her bra. It's so pretty, you almost don't want to take it off.

"Where's your vibrator?" you ask.

"Huh?"

"Your vibrator," you patiently repeat, and lean back. You see in her eyes when it clicks. She leans away from you toward the nightstand, pulling open the top drawer. Inside, there's a pack of melatonin gummies, a lavender and chamomile room spray, a mini bottle of Jack Daniels, and a hot pink wand vibrator. Her sleep aid drawer, you realize.

You pick up the toy. It has a good weight, and the silicone is almost as soft as her skin. You find the power button, click it on, and cycle with a few presses through the three strength settings. You settle back on the first one and test it against the inside of your wrist, feeling the rumble against the sensitive skin there.

You look up again and Melissa's sitting on the edge of the bed. She's breathing hard, staring at you, and she's blushing.

"Lay back against the pillows for me, baby."

She scoots back, gives you a challenging look, and spreads her legs. You can really smell her, a thick, rich, saline scent that makes your mouth water. The drawer's still open and you spot a small bottle of lube; you take it out just in case, then slide the drawer shut.

"You gonna get naked?" she says as you join her on the bed.

"Not yet," you say and kiss her again. And again. The vibrator sits on the mattress, turned off, and you want to make her forget it's there. You take your time, licking at the serrated edge of her teeth, sucking on her lower lip until she's whimpering.

You couldn't have imagined that sound coming from Melissa Schemmenti. You chase it, have to have it again. Her lipstick is smeared, almost gone. She keeps tugging on your hair as you kiss her, starting to squirm beneath you, saying things like "More," and "Harder," but not please—not yet.

She slides down against the pillows, laying herself more fully under your body, and the motion makes the vibrator roll down the mattress to bump her side. Her breath speeds up all over again, and her eyes flick from it to you.

You pick up the toy and click it on. "Keep your legs spread."

"Oh, fuck yes," Melissa says, then whines aloud when you touch the vibrator not to her clothed pussy, but to the inner crease of her thigh. "Fuck, c'mon."

"C'mon, what?" You trail the vibrator up the inside of her thigh, toward her knee, and back down again.

"You know—" her breath stutters when you switch legs. "You know what I want."

"And you know what I want."

That makes her moan. Her head drops back, her chest heaving. You lean down to kiss her sternum, to finally nose against one perfect breast, the way you've hungered for it since that photo. The lace of her bra scratches your cheek. You can feel her nipple through the cup, taut against the fabric. You bring the vibrator up and tease its rumbling head over that peak, making her shudder, then replace it with your mouth, letting her feel the heat and wet, just barely, still separated from you by her bra.

"God, fuck," she says, "fuck you," and you switch breasts, teasing her other nipple to aching stiffness. You nuzzle the skin that her bra offers up, the plump perfect roundness of her breast, part your lips, drag your teeth over it. She's so soft here, so much, and it's perfect. Your hand drops with the vibrator and you trace it over her hip toward her sex, making her squirm, as you busy yourself with soft bites and sucks.

You change your angle a little, propping a hand against the pillows so you can lean over her. Your body casts a shadow and her green eyes look up at you from beneath it, somehow both pleading and mutinous. You idle the vibrator back up along the waistband of her underwear and then slowly down toward her cunt, playing it over the plumpness of her mons.

"Fuck," she says, "fucking fuck you, okay, please," and you smile. "Please, I said please, will you fucking please—"

You bring the wand down over her pussy. Her head rolls back and she groans, starting to squirm. "Pull down your bra for me," you say.

"What?" Her voice, face, are foggy and vague, but after a few seconds she understands, lifting her hands to tug down the bra's cups, showing you her perfect breasts. They're begging for your mouth, and you promised her you'd give her what she wanted when she begged, didn't you?

You drop your head. Kiss over one breast, then the other. Mouth at the flesh—so fucking soft, so good against your lips, sucked into the wetness of your mouth. The tops of her breasts have a small scattering of freckles that you have to dust in turn with adoring kisses. Her hard nipple brushes your cheek and you draw it past your lips as you trace the wand vibrator up and down, from her clit to the entrance of her cunt, back again, never letting it linger.

You switch to her other nipple, leaving her breast damp and reddened from your mouth. Her head tosses back and forth against the pillows as she whines, squirms, moans, says, "Fuck," and, voice breaking a little, "You're still fuckin' teasin' me—please, please, I said it, please—"

The words, her need, are electricity surging straight to your aching clit. Your voice is a rasp to match her own when you lift your head and breathe in her ear, "You sound so good like this, Melissa." She gives a broken whimper. "You're so perfect. I'll give you more. I promise. I'll take care of you. Take your panties off for me, sweetheart."

With a grateful sob she lifts her hips and shoves her underwear down her thighs, no further. You flash on that fantasy you had of her, getting off after a school day, slacks and panties around her knees as she fucked herself. Looks like you were right.

"You might need," she starts to say, but you're already reaching across to pick up the bottle of lube. You click off the vibrator and let her watch you drip the lube over your fingers, slicking them up. She's panting harder and harder just watching you.

With your other hand freed from the vibrator, you can pull the thong all the way off her legs, leaning back on your knees to do it. You push one thigh then the other wide apart. Her pussy is plump and gorgeous, red and swollen, her own wetness gleaming from between her spread labia. You add to it: the softest touch of your fingertips against her sex, trailing up and around the peak of her clit, not touching it directly.

She makes a noise you can barely describe, a groan of misery and arousal and desperation. Sliding your fingers back down toward the heat of her cunt, slipping one slowly inside, watching her as you do it. Her eyelashes flutter, her lips parting. Once you're sure she's wet enough, you add a second finger. The lube and her own gathering wetness makes a slick, dirty sound as you begin to stroke inside her, all delicacy, all torment.

"Oh, fuck," she says, "don't stop, Jesus Christ, please, don't stop, I need it, I, I..." Now she's babbling, the way she's made you do, one hand fisted in the bed covers, the other grabbing your wrist. "I need it so bad, I need you to fuck me, I've been waitin', please..."

"You've been waiting?" It occurs to you that this version of Melissa, already begging, might be willing to tell you some embarrassing truths. "How long?"

"Since we met," she gasps. "Since—oh, fuck..."

Since you met? That was the very first day of shooting—getting all the establishing shots, the very first moments and interviews. She intimidated you—her and Barbara both did—but Barbara, at least, gave a little, showed a bit of herself to the camera. You remember how Melissa was, arms folded over her chest, cool and hostile with Pedro as he tried to coax her out, get her to introduce herself.

Her eyes had moved from him to you, looking past the camera. "You Sicilian?" she'd asked you. She smiled at you that day and it transformed her sullen, cagey face, turned her, however momentarily, sweet. "Italian?" she'd continued, then her eyes darted from you to Pedro, over to the boom mic guy, trying to get a read on all of you. "You from South?" Her smile vanished. Her voice tightened up again: "Okay, you guys workin' with the cops? 'Cause you gotta tell me."

You reward her for the honesty with a press of your palm against her clit. Her hips jerk up. "I remember that day."

Her head drops back again, her eyes squeezing shut. The words leave her in a breathless rush: "You were so cute'n I hated the cameras but whenever you were there I would just—and you were always so, you were gentle, and—I always knew when you were lookin' at me—"

"I was looking at you every chance I got." You watch her face as you begin to ease a third finger inside her. This one has to burn a little; you can feel her body, resistant at first, starting to stretch to take it, and you don't push; you wait to see her eyes open again, their needy, yielding look. She lets go of the covers to grab one leg under her knee and pull it wider apart to help you. You add a little more lube, just in case, not wanting to hurt her.

"I was always looking at you, Melissa." She stares up at you. There's a crease between her brows, her swollen lips parted; she looks stunned, overwhelmed, face pink, as you slide that third finger inside her.

"I was always looking at you," you repeat, and begin to gently fuck her. Her cunt opens for you and desperately clenches against your fingers, grasping and irregular, trying to keep you. "You're so beautiful. I always wanted you. I thought you were the sexiest, meanest—" that surprises a panting laugh from her—"woman I'd ever seen. You were so smart, so funny—you protected everyone, and you took care of everybody—" her eyes squeeze shut. "Let me take care of you now."

You reach over and pick up the vibrator. You click it on. Her eyes open again at the sound of its buzz. You press the button again, then a third time, bringing it to its strongest setting. Melissa's eyes are huge. She's panting, staring, knowing what you're about to do, and the look of vulnerability and desire on her face, her smeared lipstick, her messy hair, she's perfect, so perfect, and you need to make her come now.

"I need it," you tell her, holding her gaze. "I need it. Let me feel it, Melissa." You bring the vibrator to her swollen, begging clit.

A moment of nothing but her breath caught in her chest and her wide-eyed gaze on yours. Her pussy clamps down around your fingers and you feel the ripples of her orgasm start before she drops her head back and gives a wounded, animal cry.

You chase the waves of her climax, fucking her through them, coaxing them toward you; you rub the head of the vibrator along her slippery clit. Her head tosses back and forth on the pillow like it's too much, but her hand still grasps your wrist, keeping you right where you are, and her hips are working, riding your fingers.

"I can't," she starts saying when she can heave a breath back into her lungs, "I can't, I can't, oh, please—" you click the vibrator off and throw it aside; it nearly rolls off the mattress. You spread the lips of her pussy wide and you lean down and bite one shaking thigh, then the other, then seal your lips over her swollen, tender clit.

Fuck the vibrator: this is your new favorite toy. You play with it and play with it and Melissa comes again, or keeps coming, you're not sure which. One leg goes over your shoulder and her hips twitch and writhe until you have to hold her down.

"Oh my G—oh my God, oh, baby," then, just chanting over and over again, like you could ever tell her no again, like you can deny her anything in the world: "Please, please, please..."

Anything she wants. The whole fucking world, if it were yours to give. You suck and lick at her cunt as her hands find your hair and yank.

How long can she go for? How many times can you make her come? You want to know. You want to fuck her until she faints. But that's not for tonight—not without planning, not without her consent—so when she starts making airy noises that are weak and almost pained, you ease off, slowing your mouth and fingers, letting her come down.

You rub her hips and thighs and her soft belly, and give light kisses to the mound of her pubis. She stops pulling on your hair, grip going slack at first; then, as she comes back into herself by slow degrees, she scratches her nails gently against your scalp.

Kisses for her stomach, her ribs. "Here, baby," you whisper, and reach under her body; she lifts up so you can unhook her bra, sticky fingers brushing her skin. You ease it off and drop it to wherever her panties went. She's nude under you now, flushed all over, body loose and relaxed against the mattress; you pet every inch of her you can reach.

You cup her cheek. Her head turns into the contact. There's sweat gleaming along her hairline and her upper lip. Her eyes, mascara and liner blurred, open to meet yours; her gaze is bleary at first, then sharpens.

You expect another fuck-you, or a joke, or even a "thanks, I needed that," but what she says is, "Now you sit on my face."

Your mind whites out. It's possible you forget the English language for a second or two. When you're back from wherever your soul departed to, she's pulling on the buttons of your shirt, brow knit and wearing an impatient little scowl, yanking the last ones open. "What?" you say weakly.

"I said," Melissa says, fully herself again, no longer the begging, needy, squirming creature of minutes ago, "now you sit on my face. C'mon. Get this off." She grabs the buckle of your belt and works the tongue out of it with a metallic clink.

"I," you say, "I," and she drags your trousers down your legs. You have to lean back off her to get them and your underwear all the way off. Your shirt still hangs open, showing your bra, your bare stomach. She leans up to kiss your sternum with an open mouth, tongue flickering hot against your skin.

"I told you," she growls against your neck, "to sit on my fuckin' face," and there's no more of anything in your world but her, you scrambling up onto your knees, spread wide, her sliding down the bed to get under your cunt.

You falter for a moment; she grabs your hips and yanks you down. There's no playing, no teasing. She drags the flat of her tongue up the folds of your pussy and takes your clit into her mouth and sucks. Her green eyes are open and staring up at you and you see your own dazed pleasure reflected in them.

It takes about five embarrassing seconds before you come in her mouth. She moans loudly against you and tries to hold you where you are, but your legs are shaking badly; imagine if you broke her nose the first night, God—you lift one knee so you can get off of her and drop onto your back.

She follows you. Clambers on top of you intently but unsteadily, still wobbling from her own orgasms, and kisses sloppily down your stomach to get back to your pussy.

"Melissa—" you're gasping, and she's putting her tongue inside you, angling her head to get it in as far as she can. She licks, sucks, wraps her arms around your hips and holds you against her as you try to buck away. The wet noises of her mouth against your cunt are obscene.

You come again, and maybe one more time, you're not sure; your mind blanks again. When you can think, feel, process again, she's giving little kitten licks to your sensitive sex that send shudders up your whole body.

"Okay," you say. Your throat hurts a little—how much noise were you making? You clear it. "Okay. You win." You tap out on the mattress like a boxer. She's wearing a look of supreme satisfaction as she lets you go, her face covered in slick wetness, her makeup a disaster, her hair a messy tangle. She's so beautiful. Your heart does a now-familiar backflip.

She crawls up your body and flops onto her side next to you, curling onto your chest. There's long minutes of just you two breathing, the sound filling the room, a tingling starting in your pussy that you know is the herald of after-sex soreness, her damp fingertips tracing idly on your skin.

You start to smooth out her hair. It'll take a shower and a comb to really fix—maybe you'll suggest it. You trail your fingers down and follow the freckled curve of her shoulder, the roll of flesh on her side along her ribs, the dip of her waist before it opens onto the perfect field of her hips and ass.

Her eyes flick up to yours. They're softer and happier than you've ever seen them; the look on her face is gentle and content. You bring your questing hand up to cup her cheek. She kisses your thumb.

"I'm hungry again," she declares.

A laugh bursts out of you, full of affection. "What?" she says, clearly about to be offended, but before she can go any further, you pull her fully into your arms, wrap around her and squeeze.

You press your face into her neck and inhale, smelling her sweat and skin and sex. "You're perfect for me," you say into that warm curve, muffled against her skin. "You're just perfect." You peck a kiss onto her jaw and lean back to touch her cheek again. "Should we make something? Do you want pasta?"

She grins at you. It's that big, Cheshire smile you saw on her face a few days ago, telling Barbara about how she shot her shot, full of preening satisfaction. She leans in and brushes your nose with hers.

"I knew I picked right," she says, simply, happily. She laces her fingers with yours. "Come on, I got a robe you could wear. You like carbonara?"

She leads you off the rumpled bed. You can see you've left a blurry pink bite mark on one cheek of her perfect ass. She brings you a fuzzy shortie robe ("I like your legs, baby, lemme see 'em") and puts on a silk one herself, and takes your hand again as she opens the bedroom door.

You feel good. You're happy. You realize as she brings you to the kitchen, to the very heart of her home, that you're not alone anymore.

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

Author's Note:

I received the following prompt from an anonymous reader on Tumblr:

"can you write some fluffy smut for Mel x reader where everyone thinks Mel would be in charge in the bedroom because she’s so tough and reader is so shy. but actually reader takes care of Mel."

Back when Season 2 was airing, I saw a few fan posts saying that Lisa Ann had suggested there was a cameraperson on the crew that Melissa thought was cute, which led to the rare scenes where Melissa opens up to the camera. I'm not sure if this is accurate to what she said, but that idea has stuck with me. When I received the above prompt, it went into a blender with that thought, and this is the smoothie that resulted.

I hope I've done justice to this lovely prompt!

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

The Meet-Cute - Zoro's Story - 3

Source for pic

Trouble 3

Word Count: 4959

Tags For The Whole Story: Fem!Reader; Protective!Zoro; Soft!Zoro; Sexual Tension; Teasing; Flirting; Mature Audiences (I'll always tag the NSFW chapters); Modern Day AU; Reader is being stalked; Fear; Paranoia; Angst; Rom-Com Vibes; Mild Gore-like Descriptions; Blood; Dead Animals Mentioned; Reader in a terror-like state; Fluff; Romance; Banter; Manipulation; Miscommunication; Frustration; Reader is very clumsy;

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Summary: After moving away from the hustle and bustle of Grand Line City to help your father around the property following a horse-riding accident - and in the hopes of healing your broken heart after your asshole ex-fiancé cheated - you settle into the country calmness of the Calm Belt. You and Zoro are slowly returning to your easy friendship filled with banter and flirting and you actually begin to glimpse a future with the green-haired cop. But then you start to receive weird gifts. They quickly escalate to manipulative texts. And now you're stuck in a spiral of terror and there's no way to get help because the Stalker, whoever he is, is threatening something other than just your life.

Notes: I should have chapter 4 already finished... but it's not completed yet... I haven't written almost anything this week! I know with the hollidays it will be hectic around here, but I have a few days where the office is going to be closed, so maybe I can write a bit more! Fingers crossed! Until then, please enjoy the calmness before the storm!

Masterlist

“Morning, Bug.” Shanks fills a mug of coffee for you and sets it down on the table near your plate of bacon and eggs, beside a bouquet of wildflowers. 

“Morning, Dad. Thanks for the coffee, but aren't the flowers a bit too much? It's not my birthday…” You mumble between yawns. 

“They're not from me…” Shanks smirks and nods at a note that's tucked in with the silk ribbon. 

Brow rising, your fingers brush the petals of a deep crimson poppy before they catch the note between them. ‘Wild and beautiful, just like you.’

What? Who? 

Despite the lovely gesture, you can't shake the slightest feeling of unease, it tugs at your stomach, leaving you queasy and suspicious. 

“Who's it from?” Shanks tries to hide his curiosity but falls short when he reaches over your shoulder to glimpse the note. 

“I have no idea.”

“Come on! Not even the slightest hint?” You shake your head while your mind conjures up images of a slightly not-safe-for-work dream you had with a certain green-haired cop, and you blush unintentionally. 

Obviously. Shanks picks it up. 

“You and Zoro seemed pretty cosy when I arrived yesterday…”

“It's not from him… I think.” You deflect the implications, not wanting to read too much into it yourself. “He’s not the type for grand gestures.”

Shanks hums in agreement while placing his coffee cup in the sink. “I see what you mean.” But then he places his hand on your shoulder, forcing you to look at his unbearable smirk. “Though do not underestimate a man in love.”

“Dad!” You feel your ears getting hot as you get up suddenly, looking for a vase to set the flowers on. 

“I’m just saying.” He shrugs. 

“He’s not… we… we’re just friends! I just got back.” You fuss with the flowers until they’re all spread beautifully on the vase and then set them at the centre of the table.

Shanks pouts and stares at you through the flowers, across from you. “Friends.” He air quotes with two fingers. “I’ve been there, Bug.”

“Agh! You’re impossible, Dad.”

But he might also be right. Because if last night was any indication, you and Zoro might be crossing the ‘just friends’ barrier soon. 

And, honestly, there’s nothing wrong with that. 

-*-

Shanks tells you to put a hold on your job hunt because he’ll be gone for about three weeks to a month for a horse show on an island in the South Blue and he’ll need you to take care of the animals and manage the farm chores. 

So you spend the next week getting reacquainted with most of your father’s tasks in addition to the ones you had taken over ever since coming back. 

The gifts keep coming. 

Every morning there are chocolates, or flowers, or stuffed animals, little trinkets… The notes are rather simple, always evoking your beauty, but short and nondescript. You are no closer to knowing who they’re from now than you were on the first day you got them.

Shanks keeps hinting that it might be Zoro, but you doubt that very much. Besides the fact that he’s not one for romantic gestures, he would’ve said something about the gifts after six straight days.

And it’s not like you haven’t been chatting… not in person, since you’ve been busy at the farm and he’s been pulling double shifts to have the Saturday off again, but you text every day.

Short texts, to the point, much like Zoro is, but he always asks how you are and if you need anything. 

And knowing he’s trying to take care of you leaves a very warm feeling in your chest. Especially because your clumsiness almost brought you to the clinic twice just this week. You have to thank whichever deity is watching over you because, even though you hurt yourself, it’s never serious enough to send you to the hospital. 

“When are you leaving?” You ask Shanks while packing beverages, muffins and a cake you’ve baked for today’s chosen group activity. 

“Let’s see, today’s Saturday, Beckman says his helper will arrive Monday morning to keep in charge of his farm, so sometime Monday afternoon, Bug. Why? Missing your Daddy already?”

You are.

“No! I just want to make sure you carry all of your medicine and that you have Dr. Law’s emergency contact with you, in case you need it–”

“I’m not going to drag Law all the way to the South Blue just because–”

“I called him and he said you should call anytime, so you’re going to call if you need him!”

“Fine!”

“Fine!” Shanks has got to be the most stubborn man you’ve ever met. 

“Where are you going?” He hisses when you swat his hand away as he tries to steal a salty bacon muffin you’re storing in a container. Then you relent and let him have it.

“Just one, Dad! We’re going on a picnic in the park.” You say with a grin. “Nami organised it, of course. We’re going to spend the day hanging out, playing games, and socializing.” 

Shanks nods, never breaking your gaze, while trying to surreptitiously steal another muffin. This time you slap his hand with the lid of the container, and he yelps. His pout is quickly replaced by a smirk. “Is Officer Zoro going?”

You’re sure your nonchalant look can’t disguise the crimson blush tainting your cheeks, but you try to pay it no mind.  “Yes. And Luffy, and Usopp, Chopper, Sanji–”

“I was going to tell you to be careful, but I’m sure Officer Zoro is going to keep you safe from all harm.” Shanks taunts and you seethe, hands flying to your hips. 

“What are you, Dad, ten?” He guffaws as he successfully manages to distract you and steals another muffin before sprinting away from you and the kitchen.

“Be safe, Bug! Have fun!”

Seriously. How is this man a father?

-*-

Nami swings by your house with Vivi to pick you up for the picnic. You notice Robin’s absence in the car, and both girls giggle.

“Sabo’s picking Robin up. They’ll meet us there.” Vivi answers, and your mouth hangs open.

“Are they a thing?”

“Not yet, but it shouldn’t be long.” Nami laughs as she fixes her hair in the rearview mirror while waiting for the light to turn green. “Much like you and Zoro, I think.”

You choke on your own saliva, and it takes you a good minute to regain proper breathing functions, all while Nami and Vivi erupt into cackles and giggles. 

“We’re just friends!” You say after you’ve caught your breath.

“Sure, honey. We all believe that.” Vivi turns on the front seat to pat your knee in a condescending manner while you blush. 

“There’s so much heat coming off you two whenever you’re close that I don’t know how you still haven’t spontaneously combusted.” Nami quips, and you purse your lips. She’s not wrong there. “I mean, you’ve always sort of clicked, but now… daaaaamn!”

You sigh and bite your lip, trying to contain a giggle from erupting. “Who else is going to meet us there?” You ask, changing the subject and Nami shakes her head, knowing all too well what you’re doing, but not pressing on the matter. 

-*-

It’s a beautiful day for a picnic, and the park is the perfect setting for the beginning of a wonderful midday. There are rows and rows of trees, shade galore, small cobblestone pathways for long walks, and even a small creek providing a soft lull alongside the soft giggles of children. 

You and the girls are setting up rows of blankets on the grass, by the shade of the tall trees, when the group begins to arrive. You lift your head, hand sheltering your eyes from the sun, and scan the crowd. Luffy, Barto, Usopp, Kaya, and Chopper are approaching the treeline. They probably rode together.

A slight breeze dishevels your hair as your eyes linger behind, but there’s no green mane of hair in sight yet. An absent sigh leaves your lips before you spy Nami’s knowing smirk aimed your way.

She doesn’t say anything, but you blush anyway. Her unspoken words linger around you like a thick fog. You are eager to see Zoro. She knows it, you know it, hell, anyone who saw you two interact lately knows it. 

But you vow to retain some semblance of dignity and pretend to fuss over the blankets and small folding chairs. You’re so absorbed in your task that you don’t even see him approach.

“Hey there, Troublemaker, making trouble?”

The smile that graces your lips is instant and unstoppable. You turn slightly and bite your lower lip when your eyes meet his. Why does every shirt he wears seem so tight against his muscles?

“Hardly! I’m just setting up chairs!” But as you deliver the words, the chair you were opening snaps shut, almost catching your fingers, and you yelp. 

“You’re a menace.” His tone is both amused and resigned, almost as if he knew something of the kind would happen, was expecting it, even. 

“It attacked me!” You defend yourself weakly, a giggle bubbling up in your chest because he is right. You are a menace.

Zoro ends up helping you set the chairs, and you don’t even try to stop him. Both because you’re very likely to end up either hurting yourself or breaking a chair, and because he keeps brushing his shoulders and hands with yours, and the touch is welcomed. 

Robin and Sabo arrive with flushed cheeks - you can almost see Nami registering that fact for later probing - and soon after, Franky and Brook, two older men you still haven’t met but Luffy quickly introduces you to, saying they’re also part of the gang. 

You see Sanji already setting up food on the blankets, and he greets you warmly. “Hi, Sanji. You rode with Mosshead?”

“Oi?” Zoro snaps, and you ignore him.

“I did, Madame, and it was the most unpleasant ride of my life. Please remind me not to do it again.”

You giggle when Zoro’s brows knit together, his hands clenched into fists. “Tch, shitty cook, next time you ride with me, it will be in my patrol car and I’ll be dragging you straight to prison.”

Sanji starts to fume, his pursed lips crumpling the cigarette dangling from his lips, and you grimace. “Hey, hey, boys, it was just a joke!”

Nami sighs as they butt heads and continue arguing. “Never mind that.” She tells you. “Any chance they get to get up close and personal, they take it. They have a weird bromance thing going on.” She raises her hands defensively in the air. “I swear, for a moment there I thought they were going to be a thing, but Sanji loves women too much and Zoro is a man with a goal-oriented mind. Even if it’s someone he set his sights on a lifetime ago.”

Your brow raises at her as she smirks that all-knowing smirk. But she leaves it at that and stands in the middle of the boys, dragging Sanji by the scruff of his dress shirt, telling him the girls are hungry, which promptly sets him back to the task of setting up the food. 

“Shitty cook…” You hear Zoro mumble as he sets his hands in his pockets and kicks a blade of grass. It’s cute how flustered he gets. Then his eye sets on you and he frowns with a low grumble. “Oi, I didn’t forget you called me Mosshead.”

You set a hand on your heart, feigning repentance. “Oh, do forgive me, Mr. Mosshead. I forgot your title.”

“Trouble…” He lowers his tone in mock warning, and you smile, taking a step back, hands in a defensive stance. 

“Lord Moss, Knight–” Your antics are cut short by a piercing yelp when Zoro jumps and tries to catch you, but somehow, you swerve away from his grasp and start to run, an unbridled laugh filling your lungs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I was just joking!”

“Repentance doesn’t dissolve the crime! Come here, Trouble!” He sprints, though you suspect he’s hardly even trying, and you cackle, running faster, the voices of the group fading into the distance. 

“You’ll have to catch me first!” Maybe you should’ve measured your words, because as soon as he hears the challenging tone in your voice, he sprints faster, and you barely have time to breathe before his arm wraps around your waist and he swirls you in the air, making you scream and laugh before he pulls your back against his chest.

Heart pounding against your ribs, cheeks flushed from running and breath catching in your throat, you feel your legs shaking when Zoro’s warm breath tickles your neck. “Gotcha.” He whispers, and you notice he’s not even out of breath while you look like you ran a marathon. 

The world dissolves into just this moment. The chirping of the birds and the rustling of the trees are nothing but background noise to the deafening pounding in your chest and the buzzing in your ears. 

Turning your head slightly to the side, you catch Zoro’s eye fixed on you, a wild smirk on his lips. “What now, officer? Are you going to arrest me?”

Damn. That was supposed to come out playfully, not sultrily. Right?

“Depends.” Did his voice get huskier? “Are you going to resist arrest, Trouble?”

You feel your throat bobbing up and down at all the wild fantasies running through your mind. The way he uses that nickname manages to send shivers down your spine and heat straight into your core. 

“Obviously.” You sound breathless, and it's a good thing you can blame that sorry state on the run, or you wouldn't know how to explain it. 

“Figures.” He chuckles low, and you feel it rumbling in his chest. Then, with a swift movement, he turns you, bends his knees, and hoists you up, slinging you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. 

“Wha–”

“Let's go.” Your flush deepens as you feel his strong hand against the back of your thighs, holding you in place. “The humiliation will teach you not to call me Mosshead.”

“Come on, Zo, I said I was sorry!” You whine, and he stiffens, his pace slowing for a beat, and you feel his shoulders shake slightly. Then he resumes his pace. 

“I like that.”

You stop pounding your fists against his back and raise your brow. “What? Me apologizing?”

He grunts and keeps walking, the blanket and your laughing friends nearly in sight. “That nickname. Way better than Mosshead.”

Oh! Zo! Another small blush creeps into your cheeks, but before you can reply, Nami whistles. “What you got there, Zoro?”

You hear your friends laughing and bury your face in your hands, feeling mortified. “Someone’s been naughty.” Zoro replies with a smirk and an edge of amusement in his tone. 

“Seriously?” You grumble, pushing against his back to try and wiggle out of his embrace, though it’s all for naught because he has an iron grip on your legs. 

“Well, either set her down so we can all eat or take her to naughty jail and punish her. Away from our sight, please.” 

“Nami!” You yell, exasperated, but Zoro merely chuckles, swerving right as if changing directions. 

“Naughty jail it is, then.”

“No, no!” You whimper. “I’m sorry!” Chopper stares at both of you, not sure if you’re being serious, so you try to take advantage of him and stretch your hand. “Help me, Chopper!”

He reaches his hand out before Nami swats it away. “Let them be, Chopper. They need some alone time.”

You seethe at Nami, a pout on your lips. “Traitor.”

Zoro lets out a low chuckle before settling you down at the edge of the blanket. “Learned your lesson, Troublemaker?”

You steady yourself, hands against his chest, and a permanent blush tattooed on your cheeks. “Damn you. I’m never calling you Mosshead again. You won.”

“I see you’re a fast learner.” His smirk is impossibly smug. “Zo’s fine, though.” Then he turns his back on you, opens the small cooler, and takes out a beer, cracking it open with one hand and chugging at it without another look back at you. 

And, damn it, if that doesn’t mess with your heart.

-*-

“Who wants another drink?” You ask and count the raised hands before getting up, heading towards the cooler to satiate your friends’ thirst. Zoro moves his hand before you reach it, and smooths the blanket before you can trip on its raised edge.

You smile at him, but he’s not even looking at you. His eye is shut, one arm behind his neck as he leans against the tree, though you know very well he’s attentive to everything. You pass the drinks around, then return to get your own.

“Watch your head.” Zoro mumbles, and you raise your brow but don’t heed his advice and, therefore, hit a low branch of the tree, releasing a string of curses while rubbing your forehead. “When are you going to start listening to me, Trouble?”

“When you stop sounding like a smug jerk.” You mouth, annoyed at his attentiveness and at how he seems to perceive danger before you even realise it’s there. He chuckles and you retrieve your drink, returning to your seat.

After a while of relaxing in the shade, Luffy drags everyone to a frisbee game. The boys are all down to play, but the girls just sit by a bench near the open space the boys chose to throw the frisbee and tackle each other. 

You sit on the back of the bench, a case of water bottles by your feet because you know the boys will be thirsty soon. Vivi sits on the grass in front of Nami’s legs, and Robin and Kaya are on the bench. 

After a small chit-chat about meaningless stuff, you decide to bring up something that’s been bothering you. “So I’ve been getting a lot of gifts lately…”

Four heads whip your way, and you sigh, already expecting that reaction and the bombardment of questions that follow. So you raise your hands, and they stop to let you continue. Though you decide to focus on the game in front of you instead of the way they’re all staring at you.

You especially focus on a very athletic green-haired man who constantly gazes up to where you are before focusing back on the game. 

“It’s flowers, chocolates, stuffed animals… It started last weekend, after the party at Luffy’s. They have notes, but nothing personal. No name, no nothing… I don’t know who they’re from, and I don’t even know if I should be flattered or freaked out by them.”

“How do they make you feel?” Robin asks, and you shrug, not quite knowing how to answer that question.

“The first ones made me feel good. I thought they were from– I thought I might know who they were from. But since he didn’t say anything about it, I doubt they're from him. So now they just feel weird…”

“Honey, we all know you’re talking about Zoro.” Nami says in a very condescending manner, and all the girls agree.

You sigh and bury your face in your hands. You’re so obvious it hurts. 

“Fine, yes. I thought they might’ve come from him, at first. But he’s not one for romantic gestures.”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly.” Nami quipped back, a smirk tugging her lips as her eyes fell back on the game. Sure enough, Zoro’s eyes are back on the bench - on you, to be more specific. “I think it’s quite romantic the way he’s always checking to see if you’re safe. Keeping you away from trouble and making sure you don’t hurt yourself.”

A small blush creeps its way into your cheeks. It is quite romantic. “That’s just Zoro being Zoro. He’s a cop. He protects and serves.” You roll your eyes.

“Oh, I’m sure he would like to serve you.” Nami giggles and all the girls try to stifle their own laughs. “But you’re wrong about that. Sure, he’s always attentive to any kind of threats, but it’s different with you.”

“What do you mean?” You can’t stop the way your heart pounds maddeningly against your sternum. 

“She means that Zoro doesn’t usually go out of his way to keep people from tripping on stuff or from bumping their head. And with you, he’s always extra careful.” Robin finishes with a small smile. 

“Like the way he’s playing now, but keeps looking at you to see if you’re still in one piece. It’s like he’s expecting you to spontaneously combust or something.” Kaya adds with a giggle. 

“It’s very endearing.” Vivi finishes, and your blush deepens, so you bury your head back into your hands, stifling a loud groan. 

“But you’re still right.” Nami continues as if you’re not breaking down in front of them. “I don’t think he’s the one leaving the gifts…” She laughs suddenly. “But there’s one way to tell for sure.”

You raise your head from your hand cocoon to tell her to keep her mouth shut, but Zoro is already halfway to the bench and you squeak. “Nami…”

“Hey, Zoro!” She starts with a wave of her hand. You see Zoro raise his eyebrow at her, his long strides bringing him closer to the bench. 

Shit.

He’s sweaty all over. Fat droplets of perspiration drop from his temples to his perfect jawline and neck, and you gulp, feeling hot and bothered. So, it comes as no surprise that when he reaches his hand to grab a bottle between your legs, you lose your balance and fall back on the bench.

Yelping, you expect to hit the floor with a dry thud, air escaping your lungs and sharp pain blinding you. Instead, you feel a strong hand wrap around your forearm and tug hard, then your face being squished against a muscular, sweaty chest.

Zoro saved you from an ugly fall. Again.

“Seriously, Trouble? Why?” His voice is gravelly and rough, but with an edge of exasperation lacing it. “I’m starting to feel like I have to be with you 24/7 or you’re going to end up in the hospital.”

Your breath is still leaving your lips in ragged gasps because of the slight scare of facing an inevitable fall, and your face is still pressed against Zoro’s chest. You feel the girls’ gaze on both of you and Zoro seems completely unfazed by it, while saying you’re embarrassed would be the understatement of the year.

So you disentangle yourself from the predicament that is Zoro’s muscles and laugh it off, a hand scratching the back of your neck. “Ah, thank you. I got… distracted.”

“By what?” He asks while taking a sip of water.

“Well, Zoro,” Nami begins, and he shifts his focus to her, “we were discussing who could be her secret admirer, and then you showed up. Curious.”

“Secret admirer?” Zoro’s gaze falls back on you, his brow scrunched.

“Ah, no. It’s nothing like that. It’s just–”

“She’s been getting gifts. Flowers, chocolates, love declarations…” Why is Nami exaggerating? Is she trying to fish for information or make Zoro jealous? “You wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with it, would you?”

He drinks the water in three long gulps before answering, his scowl now permanently etched on his lips. “Do I look like the kind of guy who would do that?”

You look down and bite your lower lip. You knew it wasn’t him, but maybe, secretly, there was still a little part of you that hoped he could be showering you with that kind of attention. 

“Well, I just thought–” Nami begins, but she’s swiftly interrupted by Zoro, whose eyes can’t seem to leave your figure.

“When I want someone, I make it clear I’m interested. You’ll know.” He finishes drinking the water just as your eyes meet his, and the fire burning there scalds and melts. Was he telling you he’s interested? Was he saying he’s about to make a move?

With a smirk, he turns his back, grunts a gruff ‘try not to fall again, Trouble’, and gets back to the game, leaving you more confused than ever. 

“Did he–” Nami starts.

“Nobody says anything. We’re going to act like nothing happened.” You mumble before getting up and chugging down an entire bottle of water yourself to try and calm your nerves.

It doesn’t work.

-*-

The frisbee game makes everyone tired - and hungry - so, after all the bellies are filled again, the crew is relaxing in the blanket, enjoying the warmth of the late afternoon and the lulling sounds of the park. 

Chopper, Usopp, Luffy, and Barto are enjoying a card game. Franky seems interested, but he’s only overseeing and throwing advice that only seems to make Usopp lose the game. Robin has a book in her hands and Sabo’s head on her lap, his eyes closed with a blissful smile on his lips. 

You have serious doubts that she's paying attention to the book, especially since she seems to be stuck on the same page for over ten minutes, but you don’t say anything. Kaya is braiding Vivi’s hair and Nami is snapping photos of the crew, taking little candid shots with her cellphone. Brook is gracing everyone with a nice, mellow song on his violin - he's a wonderful musician - and Zoro seems to be sleeping peacefully, leaning against the tree.

Everything seems peaceful, quiet, and idyllic. 

But you can’t seem to shake the feeling of unease in the pit of your stomach. It’s like someone is watching you, but you can’t quite pinpoint who or where. It’s a prickling on your neck, something you’re already growing so used to that you start to think you should have this checked out by a doctor. 

With a heavy sigh, you stand up, stretching your arms to justify that action. “I’ll be back soon.” You say softly to Nami, who’s closer to you and she nods. Then, you look around before taking a step. The park is one big open space - with the exception of some trees here and there - except for the dense treeline behind you. 

So that’s where you’re headed. 

-*-

Zoro senses you getting up and opens his eye slowly, following you with his gaze and scowling when you don’t see the tree root sticking out and stumble a little before steadying your pace. 

You’re such a damn klutz.

And damn it, if he doesn’t want to be there to catch you and protect you from everything. 

His heart constricts slightly at the thought, and he sighs softly. He thought absence had made him forget how he felt about you. He even had some ‘relationships’ while you were away. Wait… can he really call something that never went past three months a real relationship? He never truly bonded with those women. Never truly cared.

No one ever made him feel the way you did.

The way you do.

But time and distance did nothing but make him pine harder for you. When Nami told him casually that you were returning, he almost didn’t believe her. You didn’t even come back for any of the holidays or to say ‘hi’, let alone come back for good after experiencing life in the big city. 

But you returned.

And then he thought he wouldn’t quite forgive you for having literally abandoned them. No text, no email, no letter, nothing. He would be salty, at least. Grumpy and upset, at most.

But he forgave you instantly. 

One look at your dishevelled form, chasing a goddamned tire with dirt all over your clothes and face, and he was a lovestruck teenager again. 

Fucking heart, what a useless organ. 

All those thoughts forgotten, he simply reached out. And you reached back, almost like no time had passed between you, and you could basically continue your story where you left off. 

And he was willing to try.

Though he didn’t want to rush too fast - damn Nami should just stop intruding and let you two figure things out yourselves. He’d get there. He almost kissed you already, so the feeling is mutual. 

He’s got time.

Sitting up, he watches as you peek behind trees, a cautious demeanour to your posture making him raise his brow. What the hell are you doing?

“Just go to her, dumbass.”

“Shut up, Witch. Mind your own business.”

Nami sticks her tongue out at him and snaps a picture of his grouchy face before turning her phone towards you and snapping another candid shot. 

“You look like a lost puppy in love. It’s cute, you know? The way you keep looking out for her.” Zoro feels his ears heat up and leans back again, trying to close his eye and return to a state of relaxation, but he can’t very well do that when you’re doing God-knows-what near the trees, looking creepily at everywhere and everything. “Just make sure you make your move soon… or maybe that secret admirer will one-up you and poof!” She makes an exploding gesture with her hand, and Zoro scowls at her. 

“You’re insufferable.” He quips before getting up and dusting his jeans.

“Word of the day? How smart of you, Zoro.” She giggles when Zoro passes by her and messes up her hair with his hand, earning an indignant gasp from the orange-haired girl. “I just went to the salon, you brute!”

Zoro smirks at her reaction and starts pacing towards you, Nami’s antics behind him. Well… all except one…

‘Make sure you make your move soon…’

Perhaps he should. He doesn’t want to lose you before even having the chance to have you.

Tag list: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @lycoriskalmia @daydreamer-in-training @iloveyoushanks

|Chapter 4|

[taintandviolent]

Rien ; Marquis de Gramont x Reader

summary: You get a new job as stablehand at the luxurious palace of Marquis de Gramont, and the job is everything you thought it be. Marquis, however, isn't.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 4.7K | French dialogue (translations provided), smut with a sprinkling of plot, fingering, female reader, dirty talk, degradation (name calling, spanking), humiliation, abuse of power / power play, manipulation, Vincent being an absolute asshole (because he is one), abuse of power, brief food play, uhhhh - I think that's it.

a/n: deepest apologies for any errors in the French; I studied it in briefly in college and speak like a child. I tried to use google translate as little as possible, so most of this is just... painfully scraped from the confines of my mind. banners by @/saradika and @/strangergraphics!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

Exactly two weeks after you’d started working for him, you’d laid eyes on the elusive Marquis. Most of the time, you were ordered by other staff to ready and bring out a specific horse before returning to your duties, never interacting with the infamous owner. However, one afternoon, he, the Marquis, walked through the stables himself. You had been brushing Bellefleur, a beautiful mare with the temperament of an angel, when you heard his voice echoing through the paddocks. He was speaking angrily about a man whom you didn’t know, discussing matters that didn’t concern you. You peeked up over the edge of the stable as he approached. 

It had been audacious to speak to him at all, considering, but something in your gut moved your limbs without thinking. You took two large steps backwards, moving your body into the opening of the stable. 

“Bonjour, monsieur.” (Good morning, sir.) 

He stopped walking, hands in his pockets. He seemed to consider that he’d just been spoken to, but finally asked what your name was. You told him, albeit somewhat shyly, unsure of whether or not this would result in you losing your job. 

There was no reply, however before continuing on down the long pathway, his heavy, lascivious gaze lingered on your body for far too long to be considered accidental. You had looked down at your own image, wondering what it was that he saw. The tightness of your uniform, perhaps. To a man’s gaze, the way your breasts filled your blouse, the way your trousers hugged your soft thighs and rounded out over the curve of your rear could be cause for a persistent gaze.  

The visits to the paddocks became more frequent after that. 

Some days, he was very cordial, responding curtly, but acknowledging you all the same. He went to you directly to retrieve the horses, fulfilling you with a false sense of importance and power. Other days, he ignored you altogether, dismissing your existence as easily as hay on the ground. So, why had you been developing a lust for the man? With so few interactions and none of them tempting in nature, it was almost embarrassing. 

Today is not one of the days where he ignores you.  

“Rien,” he growls from behind you. (Nothing.) You hadn’t even heard him come in, nor had you heard his approaching footsteps. You turn abruptly to face him and like usual, are staggered by the way he looks. He’s dressed immaculately, this time, wearing a light grey suit. 

“Rien?” you ask, confused. The brush drifts away from Eclair’s neck as your hand falls to your side. “Monsieur?” (Sir?)

“That’s what you are. You are nothing. As much as they are nothing to me, you are nothing.” He gestured dismissively, you assumed, to the other stablehands.  

Your brows knit together, visibly offended. “I…” 

You blink, stopping yourself from continuing any further. Though the Marquis spoke perfect English, you’d been told that he preferred his employees to speak in French when addressing him. Something to do with respect. 

He continues. “And yet…” 

Feeling the need to swallow, you wet your throat and find your words. “J-je ne suis pas sûr de comprendre, monsieur… Je…” (I’m not sure I understand, sir.) 

You swallow again, and look up into his piercing green eyes. “Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire?”  (What do you mean?)

He grabs your chin hard between his thumb and forefinger, pulling it up towards him. The harshness of the action startles you and the brush goes clattering to the cement floor, echoing throughout the paddocks. The closeness, though laced with hostility, has you throbbing between your legs. 

“You don’t understand what I mean?” His French accent is heavy, dripping like cream from his tongue. 

You shake your head, wincing as his fingers dig deeper into your jawline. “Non, j-je suis désolée.” (No, I-I’m sorry.)

“I know it’s difficult for you to express yourself in my native tongue, ma petite.” (My little one.)  You furrow your brows; he was so insulting without even trying. So insulting, in fact, that you can’t even focus on the charming little nickname he threw in. Wanting to prove him wrong, you clench your jaw as you take a step back, weakly attempting to pull yourself from his grasp. Your father had taught you French from the time you were a baby, you spoke it very well, and you ��� 

“Look at you,” he starts, his eyes sweeping over every feature on your face. “Tending to my horses every day. Cleaning their shit from the ground on which they walk. Pauvre petite chose…” (Poor little thing) 

As he speaks, you’re at a loss for words, unsure of how to proceed, how to answer him. Your ego is bruised and your jaw is sure to follow; the harder you try to wrench your face from his grip, the harder that grip presses into you, digging into the bone beneath the flesh. He bends down, putting his mouth dangerously close to your face, close enough to feel the heat that radiates between you two.

“J’en ne pas stupide.” (I’m not stupid.) He snips, looking down at you with unbridled hostility. 

He repeats the words against the shell of your ear, which sends a vicious shiver down your spine. Your cunt twinges with heat again, and the shuddering doesn’t stop – as though you’ve been out in the cold, freezing from a winter’s chill, your body quivers deep within your core.

“Je sais...” (I know) You acknowledge feebly. A blush crawls up the column of your neck. 

“I see the way in which you look at me. It is not a secret, you know?” 

He takes a single step forward, closing in the distance between your bodies. With no indication, no warning, his free hand cups your cunt outside of your pants, fingers stretching down between your legs. You inhale to gasp, to ask him what he’s doing, but the hand that holds your jaw slips fluidly over your mouth, silencing it. You gaze up into his eyes, searching them for an explanation, but he’s too busy to look at you, to give you any sort of comfort. Instead, he’s locked on the mound between your thighs, watching as his own fingers explore over the fabric, already feeling the damp heat that penetrates the fabric.

At this taste of what’s beneath, Vincent’s long, lithe fingers then make quick work of your trousers, opening the front of them and deftly slipping inside. You freeze, knowing that your body is about to betray you. Violently. Cruelly. His digits dig past the warmth of your folds, slipping past your quickly swelling clit, delving deeper. The brief contact is enough to send you toppling into his arms, but somehow, you stay upright and instead, tighten your fists into fleshy wads. The pads of his middle and ring finger smear at your entrance, searching for the answer to a question he didn’t ask. He taps your leaking slit a few times with a lazy curiosity. Immediately, you can feel your slick stringing from your cunt, spreading easily over your folds.

“You’re wet,” he hisses. “Whore.” 

Somehow, you feel the word before you hear it. It lands like a crushing slap to the face, and your cunt responds by clenching hard, leaking more out into Vincent’s waiting fingers. They twitch against you, pressing to your entrance and slipping inside just enough to make your knees buckle. 

He walks you back against the wood, sandwiching you between Eclair and the door. You strain against his grip again, flitting your gaze towards the horse whose ears twitch but other than that small movement, doesn’t seem bothered by the altercation happening next to him. Almost embarrassed, you whimper softly and look back to the Marquis; his gaze is on you now, watching every miniscule flicker of emotion. Your brows knit together as you shake your head in disbelief, unsure of what is happening. 

“Hm?” He prods your entrance with his middle finger, inserting it to the first joint. Your mind buzzes, blanking on words – in any language. It slips in further with no resistance and your lids flutter helplessly, as the sensations take control of your body. Searching, scrambling for stability, you flatten your palms against the cool, smooth wood of the stable. A bridle hangs down next to your pinky finger, and you have half a mind to wrap it tightly around your hand.

Crooking his finger slightly, he pumps it slowly in and out of your wet cunt. “You like that, no?”

His slow ministrations have you reeling, shivering in front of him. Silently, you wonder what would happen if you said yes. You open your eyes to his, and swallow. Up until now, you stood on your tiptoes, trying to escape his lewd actions, but now, you let your weight down, pushing his finger in all the way to the knuckle. His finger curls, hitting a deeper spot within you that has your toes curling within your boots. Your eyes roll back in your head at this, feeling overwhelmed. Weakly and awkwardly, you stumble over your next words, mumbling them clumsily into his fingers. “… qu’est-ce que tu fais…?” (What are you doing?)

He chuckles through his nose – at what, you don’t know – but as quickly as his hand has slipped in, it disappears, leaving you to pitch forward slightly into his long torso. He examines his finger briefly, which glistens with your arousal. With no regard for your own pleasure, he shoulders you off, and retracts his other hand from your mouth, allowing your breath to tumble out. Wordlessly, he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a white handkerchief, hastily wiping his fingers on it before tucking it back into the confines of his slacks. 

You collapse against the wood once more, your chest heaving with laboured, confused exhalations. This time, Eclair shifts away from you slightly, and huffs out a breath. The Marquis watches you, the hints of a smirk upon his shapely, seductive lips. Though you were still fully dressed, you felt unnervingly exposed. Humiliated, even. You reach forward to button yourself back up, doing your best not to fumble with the clasps.

“Follow me.”

Before you can blink, he’s already left the stable. You hurriedly exit, and grip the handle of the door, sliding it shut before securing the latch. The Marquis is already briskly walking away, his long strides carrying him farther and farther away from you, fully confident that you’re following him. As quietly as possible, you trot up behind him, not wanting to irritate him by being slow. The warm smell of wood shavings fills your nostrils as you run, but the second you’re behind him, you’re assaulted with the rich, expensive scent of his cologne. You inhale it deeper, wanting it to stain your lungs. 

As you follow him through the grounds, you take in your surroundings, head swinging to and fro to gobble up the visuals of unknown territory. You only ever got to see the stables and the fields behind it, which was necessary for riding and walking the horses. Naturally, your curiosity is peaked when he leads you both inside the towering, luxurious palace he calls home. Down opulent hall after opulent hall, with attendants opening each and every door that he comes to, you finally make it to your destination. 

The room is massive, and seems to glitter with all the gold details. You’ve never been to Versailles, but you assume the grandeur is similar. It’s sparse in furniture, save for a red velvet couch near the entrance. At the end of the room, sits a large table, adorned with every cake and pastry you could dream of; tiny crystal dishes of raspberries and strawberries, plates of cakes and cookies. They’re all picturesque, and the air is cloying, heavy with the scent of sugars and fragrant fruits. 

He beckons you with two fingers – a specific choice. A violent chill runs down your spine, feeling like there’s ice water cascading down the length of it. Once you’re standing next to him, looking at the dishes in front of you, you feel the weight of his aura, his existence. A few moments ago, you were merely a stablehand. Now, you were something else – you knew not what yet – standing inside the palace, a place where very few had the privilege of being. The tension between you two weighs heavy on your shoulders. 

Abruptly, the Marquis reaches over to pinch your mouth open, squeezing hard until your jaws pop apart. You wince, but succumb to his touch, albeit a little too easily. While watching intently, he brings a cream puff to your mouth, setting it carefully on your tongue. Instincts kick in, and you close your mouth, chewing carefully as cream oozes out from between the layers of fine puff pastry, and you swallow it down. 

He clocks your satisfied reaction, and smirks. “Delicious, isn’t it?” 

You nod apprehensively. It is delicious, of course, though your thoughts are tangled in the undisclosed eroticism of the moment, and the sickeningly unobvious reason why he’s brought you here. He picks up a macaron and carefully takes a bite, holding his other hand underneath his mouth to catch any crumbs, though none fall. 

“Comment dit-on… gourmand de sucreries?” (How do you say… greedy for sweets?)

“Sweet tooth,” you breathe, suspecting he already knew the answer. “You have a sweet tooth.”

“Mmm. I do.” The sound is syrupy within his throat. 

Surely, he hasn’t brought you here to enjoy some pastries. You swallow again, and muster up the courage to ask him: “Que voulez-vous de moi?” (What do you want from me?)

You brace for the oncoming response, half expecting him to say rien again. Instead, he finishes the macaron, and turns to you again, leaning forward. He reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair from your cheek, combing it gently behind your ear, and hums, his fingers lingering on the softness of your jaw. His voice is hushed as he tilts his head down to look at you.

“Tout. Je veux tout.” (Everything. I want everything.) 

With your faces inches apart, the Marquis de Gramont captures your mouth in a searing kiss, one that oozes dominance, staking his claim in your core. His tongue forces its way into your mouth, prodding past your lips and teeth until it finds your own wet muscle. Instinctively, you kiss him back, but your frazzled nerves inhibit any true passion. Your lust is clouded by uncertainness, tainting the otherwise intoxicating experience at hand. His hand flies to the nape of your neck where he pulls you closer, deeper. You taste his essence and raspberry-flavored remnants of the macaron, and you swallow into the kiss, your lids fluttering helplessly. But no…

You jerk your head back away from him. Your tongue sweeps out over your bottom lip, cleaning up the mutual saliva that has spread across it. 

“J'en suis pas une pute.” (I’m not a whore.) 

With his hand still on your neck, he laughs, the sound vibrating in his throat. “You will be.” 

And again, his mouth is on yours, hungrily claiming it as though he deserved it. Which, in his mind, you knew, he did. He deserved everything he wanted, and perhaps, that was the essence of why you were here – he wanted you, so he’d have you. 

He continues to kiss you in such a way that leaves you gasping for air – literally – and every time you do, his mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, your ear. Refusing to remove his lips from your body, he’s ravenous, devouring you like he would the sweets on the table. 

“Monsieur,” you plead, babbling senselessly. “Monsieur,… why?” 

“Because,” he hums into the crook of your neck. “Ahh, you weren’t listening, were you?” He clicks his tongue in disappointment before continuing. “As I said before, I see the way in which you look at me, watch me, desire me.” He presses a long, tender kiss just below your ear, and his hand ghosts up over your stomach, coming to rest on the fullness of your breast. “And because, I want it.”  

He’s unbuttoning your blouse before you can stop him. Not that you’d want to, anyway; you’d been dreaming about this for weeks. As he works to expose your chest to him, carefully slipping each  button from its slit, he murmurs into your collarbone, the feeling sending another convulsive shiver down your back.

“Tell me… Do you value your position?”

You nod hurriedly, hoping to convince him. A single, long finger ghosts your shoulder, trailing down your arm. “Then you agree to be my little slut, hm? For me to use whenever I desire, oui?” (Yes?)

While the realization hits you like a ton of bricks, you gulp down your words. There’s no sense in protesting to preserve your feeble morals; not when you want him the way you do, and not with your job at stake. He reaches around your back, undoing the clasp of the bra. Your tits fall free then, and his large comes to cup one of them, kneading the supple, pliant flesh while your nipple grazes the smooth skin of his palm. You whimper, your hand jerking up to grip his bicep. The stimulation entices your arousal further, warmth pooling between your legs again. He worsens your condition by rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pulling a pathetic sounding mewl from your lips. You roll your eyes to the ceiling, silently cursing him. 

His hands move away from your breast, up to your face, where roughly, he prods your mouth with his fingers, examining your teeth and tongue. Much like he would a horse, you realize. The sensation is terrifying, but erotic and you grip his arm harder. Wordlessly, he reaches behind him to the table filled with decadence, and with two fingers again, scoops up a healthy dollop of cream frosting from atop a cake. 

“Suck them,” he growls.

It’s a command, not a suggestion, and you obey it, drawing them into your mouth tentatively. Your lips – bruised and swollen from his assaulting kisses – tighten, closing around his digits, all while maintaining eye contact with him. As though you were starved for it, you suck gently, while your tongue begins to swipe back and forth, removing all traces of the cream. You weren’t an idiot – this was a test. A test which you pass with flying colours apparently, because the Marquis actually smiles as he withdraws his fingers from the warm confines of your mouth. 

Heat roils in your core as he disconnects from you, and you can do nothing but watch as he pushes the delicate dishes to the left, haphazardly clearing a space on the table. Your eyes sweep back and forth, watching as the cakes and pastries crowd each other. He doesn’t seem to care, single-mindedly only thinking of what he’s about to do to you. He turns back to you, his green eyes burning with arousal. Again, the Marquis unbuttons your pants, this time, aggressively pulling down the zip. He gestures to the table with a nod of his head. He doesn’t have to tell you what to do – you know what he wants. 

In silence, you take your place in front of the table, and hinge your body at the waist to bend over the ornate surface. Cruelly, he yanks your pants over the plush curve of your ass, exposing you to him. There is another rustle of fabric behind you as the Marquis frees his own aching arousal from his slacks. You hear him hiss through his teeth; you presume as he takes his dick into his hand. Your body jolts forward as you feel the pads of his fingers prod tease your leaking slit, smearing your arousal through your folds. 

His hand stretches over your ass, taking a fist full of it before drifting down. He reaches your cunt, admiring her from behind. With a hitched breath, he pulls apart your folds with the pad of his thumb, revealing your aching, wet center. 

“C’est parfait… mm.” (It’s perfect…)

Praise? From him? You swallow the lump in your throat.  

He shuffles behind you, bringing his body closer. That’s when you feel it; the searing hot head of his cock pushing insistently against your clenching slit. You whine and press your thighs tightly together, a desperate attempt to alleviate the building pressure. Futile, because the moment he notices this, he kicks your legs apart with the toe of his polished shoe. 

“Dis-moi que tu veux que je te baise.” (Tell me you want me to fuck you.) 

“Please…. Please.” 

A hand comes down upon your ass cheek, the sound of it echoing throughout the room like a gunshot. The pain sears through your nervous system as the skin swells up, blooming like a flower with the imprint of his hand. “You can do better than that!” 

You try again, this time in French. You knew he was condescending about you speaking French, but there was a deep rooted need to prove that you could. “B-baise-moi… baise-moi, s’il te plait, monsieur.” (Fuck me, fuck me please monsieur.)

He chuckles, and you just know he’s shaking his head, perhaps calling you The American in his mind. He presses the heavy tip deeper into your folds, smearing it down over your swelling clit and combining both your fluids. Your hips jerk instinctively, and your brain stutters as you try to speak. The arousal that leaked from your core had become too much. Much to your dismay, it was too difficult to think in another language and you whined desperately. He lifts his hand high and hardly pauses before he brings it down for another series of sharp smacks to your ass. You make a fist around nothing, wincing as the skin starts to flush an erotic, rosy hue. With each one, your cunt aches, confused by the melange of pain and pleasure that coursed through your body.

“Count them for me.”

You do. Your weak and tiny voice counts the resounding strikes, feeling the heat spread across your skin like fire. “One… t-two… three… four… five - ah! Six!”

He interrupts you suddenly to ask: “You know my name, non?” 

The assumption spoke volumes. You nod against the table, relieved that the assault on your ass had stopped. 

“Use it.” 

Almost uncertain, you murmur his name. “V-Vincent… please fuck me, I want your cock so bad. I have since… since I started working for you. Please.” 

A guttural sound vibrated his throat. It made sense; everyone called him Marquis. Marquis de Gramont. Monsieur. But no one called him by his birth name, and that, had become erotic to him, hearing it tumble off your lips in a desperate, wanton tone. 

He was rotten, cruel and terrible, and in any other situation, your last words would’ve been a lie. But here, they weren’t and you knew it. Despite all your trepidation, you knew they rang true. His cockhead lines up to your entrance, prodding it hungrily, and he leans his hips into yours. With a quirk jerk, he forces himself inside, breaching your aching heat. He bottoms out, sinking in until the flesh of his torso is pressed against your ass. The feeling is all consuming, immediately, filling you to the brim. 

Your mouth opens in a silent scream, unable to vocalize the staggering sensations that rip through your body as he splits you open. He finds a bullying pace quickly, fucking you hard against the table. Your hips bump into the ornately trimmed edge, no doubt bruising them. After a few deep thrusts, he pauses, withdrawing his cock to the tip, only to slam it all the way back in with a deep, strained groan. 

“Fuck,” you whine, your cheek smashed against the table. “Fuck, please.” 

Vincent pays you no mind, your plea serving only as fuel to continue his assault on your sopping cunt. His hands grip your hips tight, pulling them back towards him with each thrust. The room is filled with the lewd melody of skin slapping against skin, fine china clattering against each other, and the mixture of his grunts, moans and your desperate, pathetic whines. You can’t help them, try as you might, because the vicious way in which he fucks into you rocks your whole body.  

“Dis-moi,” he grunts, his accent heavy with arousal. “...dis-moi comment ma bite se sent bien en toi.” (Tell me how good my cock feels inside you.) 

You understand his words, but you’ll be damned if you can formulate so much as a yes in French at this point. Your gaze grows hazy, lids heavy as his dick pounds into you. “It feels… it’s so fucking good, Vincent! Fuck! Harder. Harder!”

His hand comes crashing down on your ass again with a thwack! You cry out, hot tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. 

“Don’t…” He breathes, struggling with his own words. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do.” 

Spoiled, you think. Spoiled brat. But, regardless of him not wanting to be told what to do, his hunger for your trumps his indignancy, because his hips buck into you with a newfound power, slamming his body against yours with abandon. The head of his cock bumps into your cervix over and over again, hammering it. You feel the coil in your stomach wind tighter around itself, a telltale pressure building deep within. Your walls clench around him warningly. 

As if he realizes that he’s just done exactly what you told him to – or perhaps he feels your cunt’s desperate tugging –  the Marquis pulls his cock from your wet slit with a shlick and roughly grips you at the shoulder, spinning you around. With no effort, he hoists you up into his arm, his cock bobbing below you. Your ass bumps against the table as he sits you down, dragging you to the edge of the table. He looks down at your cunt, already swollen and red, and brings his fingers to it, slipping them inside. He then brings them to his mouth, sucking your combined arousals from his fingers. You watch, enrapt. 

“Remember what you said to me earlier, about not being a whore?” 

You nodded, panting. 

“Do you still feel that way?” 

You hesitate, but ultimately, shake your head. You’re a slut for him, a slut for the way he fucks you, uses you. The concept alone is enough to make you come, but you don’t, eagerly waiting for his cock again. He exhales through his nose, smirking. “I didn’t think so.” 

With his hands bearing down on your hips, he sheaths himself inside of you again, burying himself. The new angle brings a strangled cry from your lips, echoing in the vastness of the room. It doesn’t take long for you to come back to the high of your orgasm, having been edged before. 

“Regarde-moi.” (Look at me.) 

You do. Your half-lidded gaze connects with his intense one, watching him. You reach up, allowing one hand to grip his shoulder, digging your nails into the fibers of his fine suit jacket, while the other lays atop the nape of his neck, feeling the damp, warm skin there. His fingers blindly find your thigh, slipping underneath it to pull it up to your chest, pulling your ankle atop one of his shoulders.

“Uhh fuck–!” he groans, shivering at the new depth he reaches. “Fuck!” 

All at once, his hips start bucking into you with a frenzied rage. You feel his muscles tighten against your thigh just before his cock jerks inside you, twitching as the first wave of his orgasm hits him. White, hot ropes of cum glaze your insides, coating you in pearlescence. The feeling draws you over the edge, and your cunt flutters around his dick, coating it in your own searing arousal. 

For a moment, he stays there, resting his sweaty forehead against your own. Your leg falls heavily back against the table, rattling the dishes next to you. The sound rouses him out of his post-coital stupor, and with a deep sigh, he slowly withdraws his softening cock from you, pulling a gush of his release out with it. You, completely fucked out, could do nothing but sit there, arms quivering as you hold yourself upright.

 He brought his fingers to your entrance, swiping up some of the excess cum dripping out of you, pushing it back inside your spasming cunt. "Hold this inside, ma petite. As a reminder.”

You shudder, feeling his finger enter your swollen cunt once more. You look down, watching as he makes sure not a drop is wasted. 

“Rien, huh?” you ask, with a biting tone.

“Oui, rien.” (Yes, nothing.)

[photo1030]

Pls do a fic or smthing where readers old guy friend finds her and they reconnect and they’re both crying and Arthur is like who is this and reader is like he’s my closest friend from home I haven’t seen him in ages and Arthur is all jealous kinda

Hi, Kids!

So sorry for the wait. Life has been busy, but I've been plugging away on this one. Thank you so much for this "ask"! This was actually an idea that I had for my regular "Arthur x reader" fic, so I was happy to oblige. I wrote this to coincide with my reg fic and I decided to go more angsty than smutty for this one, so I hope that is OK for the Anon who asked.

**Special thanks to @readingcoco for beta-reading for me. Your help was priceless.

LEATHER AND LACE - SAY HELLO TO AN OLD FRIEND

Summary: Arthur is none too pleased when you run into an old friend from your previous life. 

*This is not my image. This belongs to Rafa on Pintrest. Beautiful work there.

Masterlist

Tagging: @daisybvck

The banging of an anvil echoes heavily in your ears, the deafening ringing thumping in your brain. You and Arthur have wandered into the busy town of Cripple Creek to see the local farrier. You have spent the last day hunting and while coming down through the valley pass, your horse, Blue, had thrown a shoe. Never one to neglect your horse, you insisted Arthur take you into the closest town to get him some attention immediately. 

Now, Arthur is a firm believer in taking proper care of one’s horse, as a man’s horse means his survival. But the way you fuss over this spoiled animal as if he were your child causes Arthur to just chuckle and shake his head at you. 

Coming out of the farrier’s building, you shield the sun from your eyes as you look around at the townspeople. The area seems pleasant enough. It is a depot location for one of the railroad lines, so there is a lot of traffic. People are coming and going, always in a hurry to go somewhere or nowhere. But always in a hurry to get there all the same. 

You passed several pungent livestock farms on the way here, but now you can inhale deeply, enjoying the fresh air being pulled into your lungs. A slight breeze kicks up, lifting the soft tendrils of hair that frame your face to sway gently in its wake.

Arthur looks over as he lights his cigarette, amused at how your eyes roll closed and your whole body relaxes in a rare moment of peace and quiet. He really should get you out of that camp more often. Maybe he’ll hold off a bit on returning home, and the two of you can spend some more time alone together.

You can feel the bulk of him leaning in closer to you as his gloved hand runs down your spine to land on the small of your back. “Well, what do ya think? Should we get a room for the night or just rut about in the woods like we usually do?” 

Your lips pull into a smile at his suggestion, and when you open your eyes, you are met with Arthur’s twinkling suggestively at you. Your face immediately brightens as you turn your body into him, hands finding their way to his broad chest. Your fingertips play with the upturned collar of his faded black button-down shirt. Giggling with excitement at the idea, you push up onto your tiptoes, your nose flirtatiously inches from his. Arthur’s hands settle comfortably at your hips, his arms enfolding you.

“Y/N? Y/F&LN, is that you?”

 A vaguely familiar voice distracts you from answering Arthur’s question, but you can’t quite place it. Turning your head in confusion, you search for the source, and suddenly, your eyes widen with recognition. 

“Robert?” Your gaze lands on a tall, slender man making his way through the crowd towards you. He is well-dressed in a blue and gold brocade vest and has auburn hair neatly combed back. He’s sporting more facial hair than you remember, giving him a distinguished look. He’s a bit older now, but you’d recognize that wide, toothy smile anywhere. An unexpected shriek of excitement escapes your lips as your hands slip away from Arthur. “Robert!!”

Arthur stands there dumbfounded as he watches excitement overtake your whole body as you run into the waiting arms of this mystery man. Who in the hell is this person? And why did you just abandon Arthur to embrace him like that? You and this strange man hug each other tightly, laughing and smiling as if God himself had gifted you each other.

“I thought you were dead, Y/N!” the man exclaims, holding you at arm’s length so he can take a good look at you. 

“I thought you went to Europe! I thought I’d never see you again!” you laugh incredulously. Shaking your head in wonder, you throw your arms around the man’s neck again.

Arthur stands quietly, eyebrows knitted together, lips pulled into a thin line. He doesn’t like this one bit. The only person he’s ever seen you this excited over is him. Arthur’s fingers tap impatiently along his belt where his hands sit idle, as he waits for you to finish this reunion. Eventually, he clears his throat to try to turn your attention back to him.

Finally remembering yourself, you turn towards Arthur. “Arthur, this is Robert, my best friend.” Arthur’s eye catches how your arm eagerly loops around the man’s elbow. “We knew each other as kids. We grew up together back east!” You continue to gush as you present your old friend to your current lover. “Robert, this is Arthur.” You motion to the mountain of a man standing to your right. 

Robert’s face lights up as he boldly strides closer, extending his hand out to shake Arthur’s. “So nice to meet you, Arthur!” His voice chirps with bravado and swagger, instantly making Arthur’s skin crawl. When Arthur doesn’t reply with the same enthusiasm, Robert turns back to you, eyebrows raised with curiosity. “So, is this your…husband?”

A slight giggle comes from your lips at the suggestion. “No, we’re not married. But he is mine.” You smile proudly at Arthur, your hand reaching over and squeezing his. Arthur smiles down at you as his body drifts slightly closer to yours. His strong arm snakes around your waist until you rest protectively against him. When he sees you beaming at him, it sets him at ease a bit with this intruder and he tries to relax a little. 

“Robert, is it? Well, Robert, looks like you and Y/N go way back, huh?” Arthur asks, trying not to come off as annoyed as he feels right now. 

“Oh boy, do we. We used to get in all kinds of trouble together.” Robert waves his hand in emphasis, then reaches out to tap your arm. “Y/N, remember when we used to sneak out and stay up ‘til 3:00 in the morning?”

You cover your mouth in embarrassment. “God, if my father ever found out what we were up to, he’d have taken a belt to me for sure!” you roll your eyes.

Robert’s dark eyes fall upon you with a sweet and nostalgic look, one held with affection of a time long past. “Used to be you and me, spitting off the edge of the world, right?” He leans over to wrap his arm around your shoulders, pulling you away from Arthur and into his side.

You smile affectionately back at your friend, nodding in agreement. “That’s right. You and me.” 

‘You and me’ - The phrase sticks in Arthur’s brain, a phrase you should only be using in reference to him… not some other random fella. His lip curls into a slight sneer of contempt, however, you are too caught up in the camaraderie with your friend to notice. 

“We need to catch up! Come on, let’s get a drink and a bite to eat. I want to know everything that’s been going on with you since we last saw each other,” insists Robert, tugging on the sleeve of your white cotton tunic. 

“Oh, yes!” You turn towards Arthur. “Can we, Arthur? We have time, don’t we?”

Right now, Arthur wants nothing more than to get you away from this man, this town and everyone else in the world. But he can’t say no to that wishful look on your face. He doesn’t have the heart to crush your hope. That has always been Arthur’s weakness:  he can never say no to you. 

“Fine, I guess we got some time to spare,” Arthur reluctantly agrees, trying to hide the disdain that threatens to break through his patient facade. You clasp your hands together, giving a little hop of excitement.

The three of you turn to head down the side of the street, with you and Robert chit-chatting incessantly the whole time. As you stroll along, Robert explains how he has become a lawyer and is traveling to California to take care of some estate affairs for a prominent family. He is just stopping for a layover in Cripple Creek to catch a connecting train.

Instead of going to a saloon, you reach a little restaurant along the main strip in town and head inside. Robert orders a bottle of the best liquor the bar has to offer, and you all sit around a table as he proceeds to tell you of all the gossip from back home. 

Robert is so animated and full of life and fun, not caring at all about the judgmental looks of others as he loudly tells you anecdote after anecdote. But he’s always been like this. For as long as you’ve known him Robert doesn’t care what anyone thinks and therefore is free to do as he pleases. This is something that you have always loved about him and why you were such good friends when you were younger. He was a breath of fresh air in a stuffy upper-class world. And to be honest, you always had a bit of a crush on him, too.

“So, David and Clare got married, you know,” he smirks. Of course, Robert is referring to your ex-fiance who you were betrothed to, who, as it turned out, was sleeping with your friend the whole time. 

“I figured as much,” you reply dismissively.

“Huge obnoxious wedding, of course.” Robert waves his hand with a flourish.

You huff out an unimpressed chuckle. “I figured as much,” you repeat again.

“Wasn’t even six months, and the rumors were flying about his infidelity.” Robert laughs at the absurdity of it. You roll your eyes and take a large swig from your glass. “You dodged a bullet there, my friend.” Robert gives you a wink. 

Arthur has to stifle a snicker at the irony of the man’s choice of language.

“Probably should’ve just married you myself,” smiles Robert. The statement makes you blush a bit under Robert’s affectionate gaze. But it is a statement that sets Arthur on edge. 

Arthur patiently pretends to listen as you and Robert continue to laugh and joke about old friends and the social scene you left behind, the pair of you growing more and more chummy, until eventually, you find yourself resting a hand on Robert's forearm as you speak. Arthur clenches his fist tightly under the table, his eyes staring at your fingers and watching as they absentmindedly dance along Robert’s arm. It is not intended to be a flirtatious move, as it is a mannerism that you often do when you are excited about what you are talking about. But it is an action that Arthur resents all the same right now. 

You try your best to involve Arthur in the conversation but to be frank, you are discussing people and places that he has no frame of reference for. The only thing that does pique his interest is the way Robert keeps referring to you. That certainly has Arthur's attention. But he has to be careful. He can see how happy you are and doesn't want his temper to burst your little bubble. However, if he had his way, he would be grabbing you by the wrist and dragging you to the closest hotel to make you forget your own name, let alone another man's.

Arthur hates that you have this “other language” and bond with someone who is not only outside the gang, but outside his class altogether. He’d forgotten where you came from and what you’d given up to be with the Van Der Linde gang and him along with it. And this conversation with this ghost of your past only confirms it. Arthur tries not to glare at Robert as he takes in the man’s fine clothing and clean hands that have probably never seen a day of labor in his life. 

The whole thing is a harsh reminder that Arthur may not only be holding you back in life but actually pushing you down. 

“So,” Robert finally turns his attention away from you, ”What do you do for a living, Art?” Robert asks innocently.

The very sound of Robert’s voice makes Arthur bristle. “The name…is Arthur,” he grits out. “And it’s none of your damn business what I do.” At this point, Arthur wants nothing more than to plant his massive fist in this pompous fool’s face.

You instantly pick up on Arthur’s annoyance. You can see his steel blue eyes set hard as his fist clenches around the glass in his hand. Arthur’s head tilts slightly to the side as he watches Robert, and you know from experience that he is measuring the man up. Robert is only being nice, ever the extravert, but he has no idea what sort of man is sitting across from him. 

“Easy now, Arthur,” you chuckle nervously as you pat his burly forearm. “Robert is only asking out of curiosity.” Arthur shoots you a look that you can’t quite place. “Arthur does a little bit of everything,” you quickly answer Robert to avoid further awkwardness. “He’s done bounty work, loan collecting, things like that.”

“Interesting,” muses Robert. 

“Well, I’d rather be an honest sinner than a lying hypocrite,” asserts Arthur as he levels his gaze across the table at Robert.

“I assume you work with horses quite a bit, too, then?” Robert pushes as his eyes roam up and down over Arthur.

“I do.”

“Figured as much. You seem pretty ‘rough and rugged’ like the cowboys we read about back in the city.” Arthur’s eyebrows knit as his mouth turns into a slight frown. “Oh, I don’t mean anything by it, friend! You look fantastic!” Robert insists. “In fact, I couldn’t be happier for Y/N. Looks like she’s got herself a real man. Those sniveling, uppity simpletons back home were never her type.”

“And I assume you are?” Arthur asks. This causes you to look at him questioningly. 

“Me? Oh, no. We were never like that.” Robert waves the comment off, not reading the underlying meaning of Arthur’s question.

“He’s right. Being married to Robert would be like being married to a puppy,” you joke, trying to lighten the ominous mood that Robert is thankfully oblivious to.

“True. But, you have to admit, we would have made quite the pair, wouldn’t we?” Robert leans over and nudges you in the side with that wide smile of his again. 

Arthur roughly grabs his glass of whiskey and throws it back, the bitter liquor hitting his throat, before he slams the glass down onto the table. 

“What are you gettin’ at, there, Robert? Hmm? You think Y/N would be better off with you than me? Is that it?” The icy stare that Arthur throws at Robert is cold enough to frost the windows of the room. His chiseled jaw sets tightly, his body tense as if about to explode. Your stomach drops as you realize that Robert has indeed crossed a line with Arthur, whether he has intended to or not. And you find yourself at an impasse:  do you stand by your man, or do you defend your oldest and dearest friend?

Finally, seeing that Arthur is not amused by his antics, Robert takes the hint and clears his throat nervously. “Well, it has been so wonderful to catch up with you, Y/N!” He stands up from the table and adjusts his vest, running his hand over his hair to make sure everything is still in its place. You and Arthur stand as well in anticipation of the farewell. You are reluctant to say goodbye to your friend, and Arthur is anxious to leave. 

The three of you silently file out of the little restaurant together and onto the busy sidewalk.

“I truly hope we can do this again sometime soon, Y/N. Maybe if I swing through these parts again, I’ll reach out.” Robert says hopefully.

“I’d like that, Robert. Please do.” You affectionately place your hand on his arm. “I’ve missed you quite a bit since I’ve been out here.” You give each other a tight hug, one that lasts a bit longer than Arthur’s liking. But then again, Arthur doesn’t like anyone touching you for any reason. 

“Arthur, it was a pleasure to meet you.” Robert smiles and sticks his arm out to shake Arthur’s hand again, which he reluctantly does. Arthur’s large hand dwarfs Robert’s as it clamps down extra hard. “Take good care of our girl, yes?” 

“Sure,” Arthur deadpans. “Our girl.”

Robert gives you both an awkward smile and turns to head back down the street towards the train depot. Your eyes follow him as your chest feels heavy at having to say goodbye to a part of your past. 

When you turn back to Arthur to thank him for his patience, you are met with his hard face. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he snaps. 

Sighing in exasperation, you cross your arms over your chest. “Don’t give me that.” You knew this argument was coming. 

“Just that you seem awfully close with that Robert fella.” The contempt in Arthur’s voice is not lost on you.

“Well, yeah, he’s my best friend.” 

Arthur’s jaw clenches just a bit more at your answer. “Uh-huh.”

Your head tilts slightly to the side, eyes narrowing as you study him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Like I said, you two seem awfully close.” His voice drops low and slow, almost spitting out the words like a spoiled piece of meat.

“That’s because we are. He was the only true friend I had, Arthur.” You shuffle your weight from hip to hip, becoming increasingly uncomfortable under Arthur’s scrutiny. You suddenly feel like one of his marks.

“Uh-huh.” Arthur’s simple responses quickly escalates your annoyance as you watch him pull a cigarette out of his pocket, striking the match on the nearby building with enough force that the wooden stick almost snaps between his fingertips. 

“Oh my God, are you jealous?” you ask, disturbed at the turn in the conversation. 

“Nope.” Dipping his head down, his eyes are hidden by his dusty, worn hat as his fingers bring the cigarette back up to his lips. 

“No?”

“Alright, maybe I am,” he suddenly spins on you, face turning crimson. “Maybe I don’t like how excited you get to see another man. Maybe I don’t like you all laughing and smiling at someone else.” 

Your heart begins to pound in your ears, taken aback by his surge of anger. “Arthur-”

“Don’t!” he barks at you. “Just…don’t! I can’t compete with that, and you know it!” He points his finger accusingly at you. 

“Arthur, I'm not asking you to compete with anyone! In fact, there’s a reason why I left all that behind.” You step towards him, arms raised to embrace him, but he blocks your hands with his own.

“Save it!” And he storms off, leaving you standing there on the sidewalk. Butterflies swirl in your stomach, leaving you queasy. A storm of guilt, frustration, and yes even anger, rages inside your chest. You wrap your arms around yourself as you try to make sense of what just happened.

“Damn it, Arthur,” you mutter. 

—---------------------------------------------------

Rather than chase after him, you decide to leave Arthur be and give him time to cool off. There’s no talking to him when he gets like this, as it usually escalates into a fight if you push it. You feel awful for making him feel bad, as you are well aware of how self-conscious he is. But then again, what about your feelings? You have every right to visit with an old friend and a dear one at that. Yes, you know how it looks. You and Robert always did have a special bond that bordered on the flirtatious side. But you love Arthur. And he knows that. You love him with a depth that could swallow the stars. And you are getting tired of having to constantly prove that to him.

After an hour of wandering the local shops to stall for time, you decide to find Arthur, knowing exactly where you’ll find him. Your boot heels click along the worn floorboard of the porch outside of the saloon. You can hear the chatter and piano music coming from inside. You look through the window, eyes searching for your target. Between the small sea of dusty hats and hulking shoulders, you catch sight of that familiar form that you seek. 

Walking into the building, your hands roll over each other, fingers intertwining, as you take a shaky breath when you approach Arthur at the bar. You glide onto the stool beside him, fidgeting slightly to get comfortable. He sits quietly, still brooding with a menacing vibe radiating off of him. You motion to the bartender, who walks over when he catches your eye. “What’ll it be, Miss?”

“A beer, please.” 

“Comin’ right up”. It only takes a minute for him to grab a bottle and set it next to the coin you’ve already placed for him. His thick, ready fingers pick it up off the bar top with a pleasant nod of approval as he sets about his previous task. 

You spin the bottle between your fingertips, looking at Arthur from the corner of your eye. “So, are we going to talk about this?”

He continues to sulk quietly, lifting a shot of whiskey to his lips and downing it in one. His jaw clenches at the sting of the cheap liquor, but he promptly pours another shot into the diminutive glass, the bottle half empty at this point.

“Alright, fine.” You take a swig of your beer.

“Where’s your ‘friend’?” Arthur grunts without even looking at you. 

“Robert is about to get on a train.”

“Mmhmm”.

“Arthur-”

“Alright, look, I’m sorry,” he interupts, slicing his hand through the air as if to end the argument right here. “Please don’t make a big deal outta this.”

“What were you worried about? That I’d run off with Robert?”

“Wouldn’t you?” he blurts out bitterly.

“You can’t be serious?” Your face twists up in shock. He only answers you with a snort of derision. “Arthur, I was excited to see an old friend. That’s all,” you stress emphatically. “You have to remember, I am surrounded by your people, your family, all of the time. This is the first time I’ve seen someone from my previous life.” Your tone unwittingly begins to take on one of annoyance as you try to plead your case. But it is an argument that is falling on deaf and angry ears.

“I’m sorry, I thought the gang was ‘your people’, too,” he bites back. Arthur can be a reasonable man until he is provoked, and then reason doesn’t factor in at all. 

“Well, they are,” you backpedal sheepishly at his harshness. Your gaze falters to land on the bottle in your hands before attempting to meet Arthur’s again. “But you know what I mean. You can’t be angry because I was happy to see someone from my life that, heaven forbid, didn’t involve the Van der Linde gang.” 

Artur just pouts in silence. You are getting really irritated at this point, but trying to remain calm and not cause a scene.

“So you’d just let me run away with Robert rather than talk to me and ask me to stay with you? Is that it?” you huff.

“Couldn't help but notice how excited you were to hear about everything back home. Almost like you miss it. Pretty damn clear after your little visit today that you don’t even belong here. Maybe you should.” And another shot gets poured into the glass.

Damn it, and there it is. The thing that always seems to be present in your relationship:  the idea that you still don’t belong, even after all this time and everything that you’ve done. Arthur still doesn’t see you as “one of them”. And it is a sting that doesn’t sit well with you at all. 

Your eyes begin to well up as you try to fight the lump forming in your throat. ”I can’t believe you just said that to me.” Your lips tremble slightly with emotion, a mix of betrayal and anger swirling and bubbling up inside you like one of Pearson’s stews.

The very insinuation is hurtful to you. You have turned your life upside down for the gang and for him. And yet, it seems it will never be enough. It’s as if you are being punished for having a decent life before you were thrust into this new one. You didn’t fit into society back east, and it seems you still don’t fit here either. 

“Stop with the theatrics. I ain’t in a mood for it.” Arthur slings back another shot of whiskey. 

“You really are an ass sometimes, Arthur,” you stammer in disappointment.

He immediately slams his shot glass down on the bar, shattering it. The action startles you, your eyes shooting wide open. Arthur finally turns to face you now, his eyes burning into you so intensely that it causes you to cringe. You know damn well that you’re not perfect. But, it always made you feel special that Arthur seemed to think so. But the look he’s giving you right now is plain enough for you to know that he no longer believes it. 

And the wounded expression on your face enrages Arthur even more. The sight of you cowering like a lamb to slaughter because of his anger is too much. He’s furious at the everything right now:  you, Robert, this town, and more importantly, himself. He grabs the whiskey bottle on the counter and whips it at the wall, sending shards of glass flying into the thick smokey air to rain down onto the immediate vicinity. 

With your breath shaking, you slowly stand and back away from him. For the first time ever…you are afraid of him.

The tumultuous noise alerts the bartender, who promptly yells at Arthur. “Hey, watch it! You gotta problem, you take it outside! Don’t be causing a ruckus around here!” He shoves his thick, meaty finger towards the doors. 

“Mind your own goddamn business ‘fore I give you a problem!” Arthur shouts back, now standing as well, leveling his gaze at the bartender. 

With Arthur distracted by the barkeep, you turn and push your way through the now-curious crowd and make a dash for the door. 

Your feet clumsily carry you down the steps as you sprint into the street, eyes watering and hands trembling from anger. 

“Hey! Hey! (Y/N)!” It doesn’t take long before you hear Arthur’s gravelly voice hollering down the street for you. 

“Leave me alone, Arthur!” you shout over your shoulder, not even bothering to turn around. Tears of anger are dangerously close to flowing as you walk even faster, your arms pumping back and forth to propel you further down the road. But Arthur is quick to catch up to you with his long strides.

“Where you goin’?” You can hear him quickly stalking up behind you, his spurs jingling heavily in the dirt of the street. 

“Doesn’t matter, right? I don’t belong here, remember?” You throw his words back into his face with such a biting tone. “Maybe I’ll see if there’s a seat next to Robert on the damn train!”

“Like hell you will!” Arthur yanks on your arm, his grip painful like a vice, spinning you around. 

But before you can even think clearly, your hand flies as if of its own accord, and you hear the sharp smack land across his cheek, cracking in the air before you feel the sting against your delicate hand. Arthur’s head snaps to the side from the strike, his eyes twisted shut from the impact.

Gasping, your eyes shoot open in shock as your hands immediately cover your mouth. You stand there, silent and trembling. Your chest heaves with broken breathing and choked sobs as you take a few steps back from him. You hate him so much right now. Not because of what he’s said, although that is bad enough, but because he has pushed you to this point. You never, ever want to hurt him. Arthur is dearer to you than life itself. You had never imagined raising a hand or weapon to the man you so desperately love, and yet, he has pushed you, backed you into a corner, to do so. 

“Oh…I’m sorry,” you utter, the sound barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry, Arthur.” Your eyes are glossy with unshed tears as your unwavering gaze never leaves his face, waiting with bated breath for his reaction. As you blink rapidly, a tear finally escapes your lower lash to cascade and roll over your hot cheek. 

Arthur freezes before his gaze slowly turns back to you. But what he sees shocks him. The very sight of you in your heightened state almost breaks his heart in two. Shame coats his insides as he realizes his jealousy has gotten the best of him. And the pain and fear in your eyes is worse than any bullet to the gut, rocking him to his very core. 

Arthur’s expression journeys from one of rage to shock to one of absolute remorse. He says nothing, which begins to terrify you even more. Arthur is known for his temper, even taking his frustrations out on you when needed. You pride yourself on the notion that Arthur may be difficult to handle but never for you. You have always been able to read him, to know his mind better than himself, which is why he relies on you so greatly. You set his world to right when it goes off-kilter. But now, you feel a great divide between you. You stare at him with no idea of what will happen next. 

Arthur’s strong arms extend out towards you as a silent apology. But instead of falling into them, you shrink back from him. He halts immediately, turning his palms up in surrender. But slowly, he steps a bit closer to you. Arthur reaches out again, wrapping his hands carefully around your biceps. He can feel you tremble slightly under his fingertips. 

Regret sits heavily upon his brow. You can see the self-reproach embedded into his eyes as he stares into yours, searching for forgiveness that he prays you’ll grant him.

Your eyes leave his face, a silent understanding settling between you as you focus on the buttons of his shirt, watching as his chest rises and falls with his calming breath. 

With a deep sigh, he silently escorts you into the privacy of the immediate alley, gently pushing you back against the siding of the post office. 

“You’re mine.” Arthur does not say this out of anger or possession. Nor has he faltered into a blubbering mess. He simply utters the statement as pure fact, no question.  

“Am I?” you stammer. Your eyes lift to search his, looking for any doubt that may still linger. 

“You sure as shit are.” Arthur’s voice is low but carries the loving undertone you always take refuge in as the slightest hint of a grin pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“Really? Ten minutes ago, you were ready to let me walk out that door. Told me that I shouldn’t be here.”

Arthur pulls his lips inward at the dismay in your quaking voice. “I shouldn’t ‘ve said that. That was me being a goddamn idiot. But, it is true, ya know. You don’t belong in that gang, Y/N. I keep tellin' ya you’re too good for it. You deserve the finer things in life, things like Robert can give ya.” 

Your shoulders fall with a painful sigh as your eyes gently drift shut again. You are so tired of having this same conversation over and over again.

“But,” he continues, “I do want you there. I want you with me. I need you, Y/N. We need you. It’s selfish, I know.” His chin bobs slightly in acknowledgement. “God forgive me, but we do.”

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted, Arthur. I want to belong somewhere. And to someone.” You look at Arthur with an almost desperate expression on your face. Your whole life, you’ve been floating like a leaf in the wind, bobbing about with no particular place to land. You thought you had finally found your place, your home, with the Van Der Linde gang, no matter how unlikely it seemed. And when Arthur threw it back in your face, it was like being pushed off a cliff to free-fall backwards with no one to catch you. 

He lifts his rough hand to cup your face, his thumb ghosting over your cheek. “I won’t ever let you go, Y/N. Not ever. Not even if someone else comes along.” Your eyes begin to flutter again as the feeling of his skin on yours reassures you. You wrap your own hands around his wrist, holding his hand in place as you lean your face into his warm palm.

“Arthur, I promise you, you have nothing to worry about. The way you make me feel when I look at you is why I could never look at another.” Your eyes sparkle brightly in earnest, the last of your tears rimmed along your lashes. 

He only hesitates a moment before he pulls you close to him. He secures you safely against him where you belong, your chest pressed up against his as powerful arms coil around you to lock you in. Arthur lowers his face to nudge your nose with his before planting his lips to kiss you slow and deep, taking your breath away.

When his lips separate from yours, Arthur briefly rests his forehead on yours before pulling back to look into your face once more. His eyes are intense and reflect a deeper shade of blue than you’ve ever seen. A wolfish grin begins to emerge under that peppered beard stubble as his finger tucks a rogue strand of hair behind your ear.

“Like I said, Y/N, you…are…mine.”

[prythianpages]

Ohhhh would you ever write more about the witch reader x az. I loved it! I want to see feyres reaction :)

I might! I think I'd be open to making it like a series/au bc witch reader x Az makes me so soft 🥰 and I'm currently obsessed with the song that inspired it bc the song is so beautiful and whimsical and makes me wish I could experience a love like that

if you haven't read the original imagine, you can find it here.

here is a small drabble of feyre's reaction 😊 :

When you and Azriel return to the river house, Feyre is in the sitting room. She's lightly bouncing an agitated Nyx, who teethes at a cool wash cloth. "I know, baby," she coos at the infant.

Her blue-gray eyes are on you as soon as you enter and they light up when she notices Azriel's hands are ungloved and one of them is holding on to yours, fingers intertwined with another.

"How was the trip?" She asks, her lips curling up into a knowing smile.

"It was fine."

"She almost cursed Eris."

You're turning to Azriel with a playful glare and his wings twitch in response, his usual stoic demeanor now much lighter and Feyre knows it's all because of you. "It could've been a nice little hex that'd make his eyebrows fall off, you know. Just something to get him off his high horse."

Feyre laughs at the image that comes to mind. "I hope Eris didn't give you much trouble?"

"He shot an arrow through Azriel's hand."

"No."

You and Azriel exchange another look, missing the way Feyre's eyes grew distant for a brief moment.

**

They're holding hands! Feyre nearly screams into Rhysand's mind and he can feel all her excitement and joy through the bond.

He's sitting outside by one of the tables in their garden with Cassian and Mor on either side of him. If it were up to him, he'd be inside by his wife. But it was her who had kicked him outside, not wanting to overwhelm Azriel and you. "Out you busybodies!" She had exclaimed as she ushered them all out of the house.

"Hey, Cas," he grins. "You owe me twenty coins."

Cassian nearly spits out his lemonade. "What?" He sputters with wide eyes. Mor leans forward in her seat.

Rhysand then shows them the image Feyre had send him. It's of you and Azriel bickering and fussing over one another like an old married couple.

"Let's just call it even." Cassian insists, setting his cup down. "I am the one who got rid of all the dandelion root from her apothecary shop."

"Hey! Don't take all the credit. I am the one who kept her distracted!" Mor cuts in, dramatically throwing her hands in the air. "And also the one who kept Azriel from suspecting anything when Feyre had asked for an escort. Do you know how hard it is to sneak things around those two?"

"Thank you, Mor. Your hard work is much appreciated here," Rhysand says, his grin growing wider as he rises from his seat, knowing it'd only irritate Cassian further.

He catches the glare Cassian sends his way. "20 coins," Rhysand reminds him, holding his hand out expectantly.

"In a way," Cassian begins, not wanting to accept his loss. "I helped you win the bet!"

"That's not my problem." Rhysand replies with a smug shrug.

Cassian grumbles and digs into his pocket. He throws all twenty coins at Rhysand's face, who easily intercepts them with a wave of his hand. They fall gracefully into the palm of his hand instead.

Mor laughs as she also rises from her seat. Twenty coins is nothing to them. It's barely enough to buy a cheap bottle of wine.

Cassian follows shortly after, the three of them scurrying inside and wanting to catch a glimpse of you and Azriel holding hands in person. Although, they find you nestled on the couch with baby Nyx in your lap. You rub the elixir you had made earlier over Nyx's gums, smiling when you feel the babe relax in your arms, as you tell Feyre all about your venture earlier.

Azriel is seated on the armest of the couch right next to you, cutting into your story when he deems necessary. Everyone takes note of the way his hand is resting on the small of your back and one of his wings instinctively curls around your smaller form. They also take note of the lingering scent of your bond in the air, stronger now that you both have acknowledged the bond. Cedar and lavender.

**

a/n: I considered the whole Nyx being in pain to be a lie, a glamor made by Feyre to trick reader into having to go scavenge for dandelion root but decided it was better to just have Cassian and Mor be sneaky instead :)

[horseimagebarn]

archive ask submit faq

hello and welcome to horseimagebarn this is where i write descriptions of horse pictures for my audience in order to explore the questions why how and okay as well as ponder the true nature of the equine i shall now explain the ins and outs of this blog to you for ease of navigation and understanding for this shall be my pinned post for all to enjoy number one you may submit horse images to me that you want me to write a description for and i shall try to oblige you however i receive many many many submissions and cannot always conjure up a description that is both helpful and heartful so i cannot guarantee a fulfillment of your request though i assure you every single submission is looked at and smiled at by myself no matter what number two if you say something funny or cool or interesting every friday i do a weekly interaction recap where i respond to everything i find fun to respond to that week in one place or if its in an ask or reblog i may reblog or respond to that separately we will see number three my horses are categorized using a tagging system if you wish to navigate them here or in my archive here are all of the tags i use and links to view them neighhhh - typical horse posts this is for when you just want to see the horses without seeing my asks or reblogs

joy - for the happy

whimsy - for the positive oddities and love of life

cursed - this is cursed

lament - for sadness

anger - self explanatory

sloth - laziness and comfort

love - horses that are in love

friendship - horse or horses and some other being or beings displaying friendship

indulgence - indulging in food water alcohol drugs etc

intelligence - doing tasks that hint at an above average intelligence

small - small or miniature horses

baby - baby horses

decadence - fanciness and elaborateness

evil - evilness and cruelty

unusual - this is unusual

vehemence - upset or disgust

styling - for all the well dressed horses

dog - there is a dog in the image

cat - there is a cat in the image

animals - all other animals

cute - i think this horse is cute

aquatics - the horse is in the water

uncomfortable - the horse is uncomfortable or i am uncomfortable

regular - a pretty regular and or uncontroversial image of a horse

interesting - just interesting to me

beautiful - a truly gorgeous image

weather - horse interacting with the aspect of weather

singular horse - one horse

multiple horses - multiple horses

indoors - indoor horse

outdoors - outdoor horse

horseimagebarn talking - i am speaking in a post that is not the typical horse post like asks or reblogs and such so if you are just here for the horses and not my other strange ramblings i suggest muting this tag

horseimagebarn announcements - announcements regarding horseimagebarn

horseimagebarn weekly recap - aforementioned weekly interaction recaps trinket - one specific miniature horse that is an etsy model of beautiful miniature horse clothes in my local area that i have a parasocial relationship with enjoy my blog and remember to love horses every day or at least most days

[katerinaaqu]

Did Odysseus have horses or not? (An Iliad and Odyssey Analysis)

This little thing came from a post made by @wolfythewitch and my response in regards to some Cephallenian horses that can still be found to Kephallonia to this day: see here So here is a more extensive analysis on the question of horses and Ithaca or the kingdom of the Cephallenians in general

So as we know from antiquity, horses are known to be a sign of nobility, proof of status and of course a valuable animal for work such as farming or war. Horses play a very important role in the homeric poems with of course the most infamous example of all the Trojan Horse that was the symbol of Troy and became its destruction. Many heroes have had the pseudonym "tamer of horses" including Diomedes and Hector.

It seems also that horses are linked most to some of the richest and most powerful kingdoms are shown to have beautiful or good horses. For example except for Troy that as also linked to god Poseidon and thus to the sumbol of Horse, we also see Argos be famous for the horses (and king Diomedes earning his name from it) or even Sparta (Menelaus providing horses to Telemachus which are praised) and Pylos when Nestor also provides Telemachus and Peisistratus with horses.

But what about Ithaca?

As mentioned above and as others mentioned before me, it seems that Ithaca, the tiny rugged place Odysseus speaks about does not seem to have terrains that are capable of hosting horses like wide plains or wide and smooth roads where horses can trot freely or graze. The existence of animals for work as well seems to be touched in post-homeric sources such as Hyginus Fabulae where we see the infamous story of Odysseus pretending madness. He ties to his plow a donkey and a cow instead. Both of the animals are more frequent for plowing fields or carrying loads especially donkeys and mules that are still famous in Greece and greek islands and they are known for being capable of marching across the wild terrains and uphill paths.

Ironically, or not so much, Ithaca seems to have a lack of horses according to Telemachus himself for when Menelaus offers him parting gifts, including horses, Telemachus replies to him thus:

However the horses I shall not take with me to Ithaca but I shall leave them to you, with your permission (lit: to your glory): for you are a king of wide fields, rich in clove and galingale and plenty of wheat that is dicocum and white. However in Ithaca there are neither wide roads nor grassy meadows; place that is fit for goats to walk and graze on rather than horses. For no island that leans in the salt (here: sea) is fit for riding and grazing horses: Ithaca least of all.

(Translation by me)

So here Telemachus seems to imply that not only most of silands have unfriendly terrain for horses but also that Ithaca is "least of all". Now there are a couple of things here that are toned out:

Ithaca is described as a ragged place by Odysseus as well when he speaks on his homeland to the Phaeaces and even nowadays it is indeed true that Ithaca has more mountain plains than wide fields given how small the island is as well and in general Greece is over 80% mountains anyways.

Homer makes Telemachus speak on how Ithaca is the "least of all" suitable for horses. Probably that is a small hyperbole. For starters maybe one could speak on "least of all" in the islands of the Ionian sea instead, which Telemachus probably is familiar with because islands in the Aegean sea are much dryer and uphill than the islands on the Ionian sea so it is probably a hyperbole used by Homer to show how unsuitable Ithaca is for riding horses or comparing them to islands of the Ionian sea instead (because see for example an image of Folegandros which has even less greenery for horses to feed on:

However the image that Ithaca is probably boarderline hostile for horses and riding is also linked to the fact on how Ithaca is often perceived as a land rich in certain products such as olives or fruit trees (due to the mild climate) but a generally poorer island and kingdom compared to others like Mycenae, Argos or Sparta. When Telemachus visits Sparta is is mesmerized by her beauty and richness.

Even if we do have examples in Ithaca that show that Ithaca is not a weak or penniless kingdom (Penelope sits on a chair with ivory which is an exotic material very hard to find or Odysseus leaves for war wearing a crimson woolen mantle that is decorated with a golden brooch. Both gold and the color crimson were extremely valuable. For example crimson pigmentation is found only at the shells that come from the east so it would require good economy to obtain) Ithaca is by general idea a poorer and less powerful kingdom than the rest (Odysseus is one of the kings that brings the least amount of ships with him at the number of 12 and around 603 men in total including himself)

The absense of horses or the hint that Ithaca does not breed horses at all, according to some readings of the passage, is also linked to the lack of powerful status for the kingdom. The kingdom itself is not one of the great powerful kingdoms of Greece like his peers from Mycenae or Argos and the fact that a status symbol like Horses is absent is rather interesting way to show that. In fact Ithaca seems to gain fame by its people rather than its political power.

(See how Odysseus calls the island κουροτρόφο aka "nurturer of men". Odysseus implies that the importance of his kingdom is not to the status symbols but to its people and their braveness)

But can we really talk on complete absence of horses in Odysseus's life?

Cephallonia's Semi-wild Horses:

As I mentioned to the post I reblogged under @wolfythewitch post we do seem to have a breed of horses to the area. The horses are being left to roam about according to an ancient custom because Cephallonia has no much space to keep them so the farmers do tame them but leave them roam free to the plains and now they are part of the national park of Aenus mountain:

These horses have been adapted to ride perfectly well to the rough rocky terrains of the mountain. Now of course the breed was probably imported from the mainland (most likely from Pindos mountains). Cephallonia has also been suggested as the location of the homeric Ithaca (and the giver of name of his kingdom) due to the fact that it deprives from homeric description that Cephallonia was "the most far western island" or, as I would probably be willing to believe, that maybe the land of modern Ithaca and Cephallonia were connected by land at that time (take that hypothesis with a grain of salt but I think it is highly possible) other locations suggested were even Lefkas for they discovered Mycenaean remains there

It is of course unclear when these horses enter the terrain. Itis possible that the horses arrive way after the bronze age that Odysseus ellegedly lived or even after Homer's time even, if Homer doesn't mention them or mentions that horses are not possible to grow in Ithaca.

It could also be, though, that homer completely dispatches horses from Ithaca to that degree again to point out the difference of status between Ithaca and Sparta. And, another totally wild guess, is also interesting how the animal symbol of Poseidon is absent from the island of Ithaca to the poem that speaks about the hubris of Odysseus against Poseidon and the god's wrath against him! Food for thought! XD

No horses in Ithaca doesn't necessarily mean Cephallinians had no horses at all:

Another thing that people often forget is that Odysseus was not king of Ithaca only. The kingdom of Cephallenians was a kingdom that spread over several islands AND part of the mainland where modern day Aitoloakarnania is:

The kingdom is not limited to the island of Ithaca only. Acarnania is also a wide area. Horses can possibly be bred there and also be providing the islands if needed. It is interesting because Odysseus is not only in posession of a chariot in the Iliad but he also seems perfectly capable of riding horses. In the Iliad for example both he and Diomedes steal the Thracian Horses in rhapsody 10:

So she spoke and he (Diomedes) recognized the goddess's voice and swiftly jumped on the horses: Odysseus smote them with his bow and they trotted towards the fast ships of the Achaeans

(Translation by me)

Interestingly Homer uses the 3rd singular of the verb: ἐπεβήσετο (he rode) but then proceeds using the 3rd plural ἐπέτοντο (they flew/rode away). So what could it be? Could it be perhaps that Odysseus jumped on the horse behind Diomedes and smote it with his bow to start trotting away? In that case we could speak indeed on the fact that clearly Diomedes was a better rider than Odysseus given that he is more familiar with horses. However if both of them ride away that means that Odysseus is not completely oblivious of horses he just doesn't seem to be so capable with them indeed. In fact the first is rather confirmed at the passage that follows soon after:

Then Odysseus beloved to Zeus restrained the quick horses, while the son of Tydeus jumped on the ground, placing the bloody spoils to the hands of Odysseus and once more he rode the horses; hitting them with a whip and nothing stopped them from flying to the hollow ships, as they so much wished to be.

(Translation by me)

So in this scene Diomedes seems to be the protagonist, being more knowledgable on horses (he is the one who rides first and trots) while Odysseus plays a more auxiliary role (steeds and holds the horses or holds the spoils in hand) but he doesnt seem completely oblivious to the exietence or treatment of horses. He both knows how to restrain and steer them but he is also in posession of a chariot with which he fights in the Iliad and covers the retreat of Diomedes and later that same chariot comes to pick him up from the battle (see rhapsody 11).

Conclusions:

So Homer seems to be sticking to the notion that horses are not widedly used in Ithaca or the rest of the kingdom due to its rough terrain. Not only does Telemachus speak of it but we also see the image in Iliad where Odysseus is clearly not as capable rider as Diomedes given how while they trot away. Of course needs to be noted how the horses are often depicted unbriddled and without a saddle in the artwork so it is also interesting to think that Odysseus wouldn't be able to ride without equipment while Diomedes who is more familiar with horses he has no problem.

Odysseus seems to stick more to chariots than horse riding which also indicates that he is not familiar with horse riding to that extent or that he is not particularly confident in it, however he seems capable of doing it.

The existence of the horse breed in Cephallonia as well as the fact that the kingdom also involves the mainland could indicate that horses were not unknown to the Cephallenians just not widedly used. Odysseus speaks many times on horses and their beauty and strength so he is familiar with them and he can judge (bet he also learnt a bunch from his fellow kings like Diomedes and the idea of Diomedes showing Odysseus even more stuff about horses sounds a cute image doesn't it!?) but from the incidents such as the one from the Iliad, suggest that he is not confident rider.

His knowledge seems less extensive compared to his knowledge on other stuff such as sheep and goats (he praises the flock of Polyphemus for example, elemet that I also used to my retelling/one-shot fic "Escape from Cyclops Island: Hubris") or stars and navigation so indeed even if he does have knowledge on riding or chariots he is not very confident in it.

So I tend to be somewhere in the middle; I don't believe that the Cephallinians had no horses at all or that they had no idea on horses (Telemachus himself has some knowledge after all since he mentions immediately to Menelaus that his gift would be unsuitable for his land) it is just that if they can host horses it is just some very sturdy and adaptable ones like the ones used at mountain passages and even those were not widedly used. They would probably have more mules or donkeys for transportation like it happens to mountain terrains and use more cattle as farming animals. The use of horses must have been very scarce to the point of providing them general knowledge but not as widedly used as in other places

But what do you guys think? Let me know!

[sashi-ya]

東京 NIGHTS mini event

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑳𝑰𝑽𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑰𝑴𝑨𝑮𝑬ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 𓂃 ࣪˖ toji fushiguro x f! reader

⤹˚ synopsis. a miserable Toji founds the living image of his death wife in you, a sex worker at Kabukicho.

requested by: Anonymous ➡ omg i've been waiting for you to write for jjk!!! please Sashi, can you write an nsfw toji x f! reader with the prompt The red lights of Kabukichō. tw: MNDI. dark! content. reader is a sex worker from the kabukicho red district. toji has no respect for you. oral, rough, spanking, slapping, unprotected sex, cream pie implied, you look like Megumi's mom. first time I write for Toji pls be soft on me. wc: 2k masterlist

A lucky round, for the very first time at Pachinko. Fushiguro Toji feels pleased; he lies on the backrest of his seat, right in front of an old machine and next to many other people desperately trying to win something. The more desperate they get, the more they lose.

Poker, Mahjong, horse races. money, lose the money. lose your life, lose the time until it is over.

“It looks like you have a lot of luck tonight, mister” a woman whose face he simply ignores, paws his wide frame.

“Get off, bitch” he mutters, scaring her away with his sharp -but really tired- eyes.

The lady walks away, spitting expletives that Toji couldn’t hear -nor cared to do so-. However, consequences were about to hit him.

Two guys, or maybe gorillas, appeared right behind his seat. “Sir, I must ask you to leave” one of them says, trying to snatch him from behind, passing one of the arms around his neck.

Unfortunately for them, as well as for Toji, the strength and speed of his Zen’in body  allows him to not only avoid the attack but also smash the head of the aforementioned gorilla against the Pachinko machine.

“Fuck you” he grunts, knowing too damn well the aggression didn’t come because of him disrespecting a lady but rather because his “luck” wasn’t welcomed into their business.

Honestly, given the right moment, Toji would have killed them both in no time… but tonight was different; some years -he doesn’t even remember how many- have passed and today marked the anniversary of his wife passing.

Toji stole a bun from the guy that was sitting by his side and walked away from the Pachinko parlor before the astonished looks of the people there. Nobody dared to follow him, they knew death would find them if they dared to mess a single second more with that man.

His steel blue eyes shine red as the lights of Kabukichō receive him in their sensual embrace. The attractive concupiscence of beautiful women dancing on windows catches his attention, but no woman is enough to make him feel any type of pleasure.

He is well aware of the many scams there, but he is sure nobody could scam him more than he could scam them.

Many women and men come closer, wearing revealing suggesting outfits; they touch him, they call him inside their “shops”. Yet, Toji still walks unaware, as if possessed. Some even offer him their services for free, his handsomeness is undeniable; his strong physique, delicious and tempting.

“Sir, sir!” you call him, tapping insistently on his wide shoulder. “SIR!” you repeat, as he seems not to hear anything around.

Toji turns around, all of a sudden, grabbing your hand to stop poking him. “What the fuck do you want, I don’t wanna fuck you… you…” he angrily barks, stopping immediately after watching your face.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t trying to… your… your wallet just fell from your pants” you tell him, scared and feeling the tight grip intensify around your wrist.

His eyes burn holes into yours, his expression turns troubled, darker. He is not blinking, and perhaps even not breathing.

“Do you work here?” he asks. “It’s my first night… I was promoting that- bar” you point out to the entrance of a quite ratchet facility of red and pink lights and semi naked woman pictures on their walls.  “I… your wallet” you murmur, showing him the black ragged leathery pouch that feels light and empty.

He lets your arm go and takes the wallet with absolutely no interest. His eyes, however, never let go of your face… you must be an interest to him?

“You… what’s your surname?” he asks, as if he was waiting to hear something revealing.

You frown; why would a complete stranger ask for your surname? Men in here only want one thing, and to them what’s your name is totally irrelevant for that purpose.

“It’s (Surname)” you tell him, either way. You had nothing to lose, after all.

He seems relieved but also a little disappointed. Truth is, that you look incredibly similar to his late wife… “Come here, I want you” he simply states, pulling from your hand to the inside of your work place.

You follow him with no time to say no… you wouldn’t say no anyway.

There is not much your boss can do either; he is in fact pleased to know that right after he hired you, you have already given him a client.

You open the door to the “rooms”. Precarious looking places that no man cares about as they only care the true purpose of his visit.

Once inside one of them, you close the door, and the red lights bathe both of your bodies as if it was a blood bath.

“Sir, which service would yo-“ you ask, but you are immediately silenced by his hand on your mouth. He pushes you to a round bed, making your back hit violently the mattress. You blink twice before he could pounce into you.

Toji is big enough to smash you with his body, and you honestly would love to die underneath his prominent chest tonight.

“I don’t care about the services you give, spread those legs” he orders, slapping the inner side of your knees.

You let your legs open wide, falling to each side. The short skirt you were wearing invites him to taste you; the buffed man with a scar on his lip sees everything you have to offer.

He smirks, so dark. And then, takes his black shirt off. His body is by far better than what you thought that tight shirt had already revealed to you. Each muscle perfectly showing like it’s been sculpted on his skin. The wide shoulders and prominent collarbones and pecs… he is the total embodiment of carnal desire.

Toji’s brute hands rip your almost transparent thong now; the elastic band snapping on your hipbone makes you squirm owning yourself to get his hand around your neck. “Stay still, bitch. You will have enough time to squirm around once I fuck you”

Your insides tremble, your core tenses. Such a disrespect makes you hornier instead of mad.

“Y-yes…” you stutter, finishing your words with a loud moan as his fingers penetrate you. Your back arches, and the more it does, the more he squeezes your neck.  

With lack of air and probably blue lips, your eyes turn white from pleasure. Your legs tend to close but you can’t as Toji prevents them to shutting.

“Hold on there, don’t close them. I need to prep you, you are too tight to me” he spits, reaching deeper with curled beckoning fingers hitting your top wall. You clench to the sheets, coffing and trying to grasp for some air… this man will kill you, and you will be smiling at him.

He takes his fingers out of you, giving you some seconds to rest. You watch your own arousal dripping down his hand and forearm. Toji sticks his tongue out in a disgusting, yet absolutely sexy way, and licks your salty products right from there.

“Not as good as my wife, but still good” he murmurs, leaving you startled… he has a wife?

Well, not exactly.

He turns you around from your right ankle, this man’s strength surpasses any limits. Your face hit the mattress, leaving you a little bit dizzy from the fall. Immediately after you could react, you feel two big hands lifting your ass from under your lower belly.

Knees carved on the bed, and also head as one of his heavy hands pass from your waist to your nape.

You sense two fingers spreading your folds, and the wet tongue of him licking from your clit to your ass. He has absolutely no decorum to do it, he does it so disgustingly lustful. Toji’s nose buries in your perineum as he sometimes focuses on your throbbing clit, sucking hard until your inner thighs begin to spasm and tremble.

Some spanks are added, that leave your cheeks burning. He goes even down, hitting the back of your thighs, a place that hurts but makes it even better. You are sure by now you must have created a pool of your fluids underneath you, and if not… well, you are most likely about to.

“Ehj… so wet…” he pants once he stops eating you out.

With difficulty you see him through the mirrored walls cleaning his mouth with the back of his forearm. Slanted eyes peek through black strands of hair, they meet yours and It’s both scary and hot.

Toji smirks, so devilishly and turns you once again around from your leg. You are like a mere doll to him.

He buries his fingers in your cheeks, making your lips pout and your eyes widen. You are still panting, so your breathing sounds loudly in between your fingers and a drop of saliva pools right in the middle of your lower lip.

That man has the look of a murderer, of a devil. With just one hand he gets rid of his grey pants along with his underwear. Your eyes confirm why he mentioned the need of you getting “prepped” as he exhibits his hard sex.

Purplish tip, veiny. It is not gigantic, but still constitutes a challenge for anyone to be able to take it. He is not going slow, nor carefully… and you know that for sure.

“I’m going raw, hope you are ready to become a single mother” he lets you know, as if you didn’t know already. You limit yourself to nod. You are honestly more worried for the integrity of your insides than that.

Toji kneels on the bed, sitting on top of his heels. He grabs you by your hips, pulling you over his lap to get your sex closer to his. A sex that with the simple touch of his warm precum covered tip makes your already overstimulated you to shiver.

His fist, also veiny, clench around his shaft. Toji pumps up and down two or three times and then plays with your wetting mess and his, giving you little slaps with his tip.

Strings of transparent lubrication mix; your neediness is that big you squeeze one of your breasts… it seems eternal, the wait, the desire…

The penetration. “Ngh…”

You arch your back while Toji penetrates you deeper and mercilessly, there is no escape as he has you trapped by the sides of your hips. Your toes curl, feeling the stretching of your cunt, and swearing his tip has probably reached a place nobody has ever reached inside you.

He begins fucking you, without moving a single muscle but his muscular arms. He is using you as a fleshlight, and his eyes are fixed in your beautiful pleasure façade.

“Keep moaning that way, you are almost identical” he grunts, moving you in and out faster and harder.

You aren’t very sure to who you are almost identical, but your brain has become nothing but a mere dumb slave of that lustful sexual torture.

He lifts from his heels, along with you. Your face and barely any of your nape remain on the mattress. To him moving your body, he adds his own hip thrusts. The sound of your skin slapping is almost as loud as your whining.

His forearm is the only thing holding you up by the small of your back, while his free hand now rips your little shirt open. Your breasts bounce in pure freedom, calling him to bite them so brutally. And so, he bends over to reach for your hard nipples.

Toji’s eyes never leave your façade, he seems possessed as he enjoys and also suffers.

“Fuck you bitch, how come you are that similar to her… you do the same fucking face” he spits, slapping your face and then burying his index and middle finger inside your mouth.

You choke but suck desperately. Your moans get muffled by his salty fingers; your sex has already undergone the stage of climax more than twice.

He can go for hours, pumping deep in you, biting your breasts, slapping you… and he does, until your conscious begins to fade, and he wishes to fill you up.

“Hold my cum inside, maybe I can give the fucking clan another kid” “Sir…? Which clan?”

I only touched her; I only fucked her because she looked just like you… I miss you, I miss you, I miss you so much...

[translunaryanimus]

More Official reference for the Chenest. They have hands now!! Written transcription + extra information under the cut cause this is a lot to put in alt text.

Chenest, aka Land Seals, Gecko Horses, or Deer Fish, are horse sized oviparous hypocarnivores that sustain themselves primarily on swamp vegetation and mouth-sized creatures.

They have a quartered septum with two channels being for air and two for smell specifically. The nostrils and scent glands can be closed independently of one another, allowing the Chenesht to smell without breathing and breathe without smelling. Additionally, their six barbels serve as electrical and touch sensory organs that make up for the relatively poor eyesight.

Their eyes are fairly nearsighted but have a wide field of view and focus primarily on detecting movement in their surroundings rather than clear images. While swimming, diving, or foraging underwater, a thin nictitating membrane covers their eyes to keep them protected from harmful irritants.

Chenesht ears, similar to their nasal cavities, can Seal while underwater to prevent irritation or water from getting stuck.

Chenest hands have four fingers both front and back with retractable claws, the center two being less curved than the outer two. The bottoms of their hands have two main Gecko like pads, a secondary pad, and a pad per finger, with their feet only having one main pad. These pads allow them to adhere to their slippery swamp environment without tripping and eating shit on the ground. In addition to claws, the 'Cob' sex of Chenesht posess Spurs on their ankles used for fighting.

Their small tails generally serve no purpose aside from keeping small fly-esque creatures away from their rears, preventing crop infection, as well as being a small fat reserve. It's theorized that Chenesht ancestors once had much larger tails that shrunk over time in favor of a more terrestrial lifestyle.

Chenesht teeth are covered in a thick layer of keratin called Rhamphotheca which regularly grows and sheds to protect the inner teeth from from the harsh, acidic flesh of the meat their diet used to be primarily made of, as well as the irritating plant matter they regularly consume. Their dual uvulas allow them to produce thick, gummy saliva that keeps the cnidarian-typical barbs of the helium jellies (a common predator), nettle like thorn structures in most edible plants, and other soft tissue irritants from hurting their mouths as they chew. The Rhampotheca is black in color and leads to the appearance of ink stained or charcoal black teeth.

The blue blood of the Chenesht is due to Hemocyanins being the primary color receptor in their blood rather than Hemoglobins and is bolstered by a copper-rich diet.

The "hump" on their back is the attachment point for immensely powerful forelimb muscles. A Chenesht's arms are one of the strongest limbs on their body, second only to their powerful legs.

Chenesht are a bisex species, the two sexes being Reeve and Cob. Reeves are larger and duller, and Cobs are smaller and brighter. Cobs also possess a unique inflatable throat pouch used for amplifying calls and mating display. In their current culture, the pouch is often tattooed or otherwise decorated to enhance beauty and also because it's fun. Additionally, Cobs sometimes have patches on their body that flush with blood to take on a bright blue color. While mostly for display purposes, these patches will also flush if the Cob is exhausted or excited.

No I am not getting into Chenesht reproduction here. They work like seahorses. Sort of. That's all you'll get.

[midnight1nk]

So, this week's episode...

[Spoilers below cut]

Past Ink: Guys, it's fine. This isn't a serious episode, it would be too soon for another arc. It's just gonna be another silly Saturday.

Current Ink: ....

(the following is my live reaction:)

[*unholy screaming*] FOUR NOOOOOOOOOOOO

WOW WHAT A GREAT START TO THIS EPISODE, SCRATCH EVERYTHING THAT I SAID ABOUT THIS BEING A "NORMAL" EPISODE

NOPE I NEED TO PAUSE, I NEED TO TAKE A WALK BC I'M NOT GONNA GET OVER IT, DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS COULD LEAD

they're not gonna do it in this episode BUT the fact that goop!4 is being acknowledged in every way possible, we might just have a sequel in our hands

NO NO NO CUT THE INTRO, I HAVEN'T EVEN FINISHED THE EPISODE YET AND YOU WANT ME TO MAKE A THEORY ON IT ALREADY? HOLD YOUR FUCKIN HORSES, I'LL GET THERE GEEZ

anyway, we have to press play...

I'm pretty sure someone already has done a pirate au (no I'm not over what I just watched) and anyway, artists: here's pirate SMG4

Four, you should've read the file name before downloading it [*shakes head*]

Wait, is this going to be a parody of computer buddies? That's actually pretty fun..... OH NO NO NO

Ah, so we are doing computer buddies

Actually, yeah, can we have Mario as president please

love how it says "no one even compares to mario. especially smg4 who sucks booty cheeks [or ass] and mario doesn't"

Observe as the SMG4 fandom gets terrified of the word "perfect" [*screams*]

MARIO MARIO NO NO NO HE DIDN'T SAVE

I felt that in my core omg

as a graphic designer, this hurts

apparently, there's a whole new dimension in our computers, Only in the SMG4 Universe [*cheesy thumbs up*]

We really are getting all the computer buddies, huh? I wonder if KinitoPET will appear

[*silver the hedgehog voice*] It's no use!

BRITISH SMG3

wow what a funny bit... WAIT HOLD UP WAIT A MINUTE, LOOK AT THE MEDIA BOX

the eyes....

w̷̹̓e̷̼̽ ̸̯́n̴̩͆e̵̝̓v̴̼͑ë̵̤r̴͓͛ ̷̭͝l̵̦̎e̴̞͗f̵͉̐ṯ̴͗

and the left eye too... oh god, the EYE OF RA— [*gets shot*]

honestly, Four, you improved your aim ever since Western Spaghetti (ik you also did for PV but that's not the point)

I knew they were gonna bring in buff Luigi again

I'M SCREAMING

THERE IS NO WAY THE TEAM JUST DROPPED THAT ON US, THIS CAN'T BE REAL

ok first off, the fact that Four has a folder labeled "Super SECRET Spicy Memes" is giving "totally homework" folder energy (and I don't want to even think more about that)

hey, Four did say that Three brings some spice into his life (yeah, "rosemary to my bread" and all that jazz)

SECOND, the fact he has an image of SMG3 with him saying "whats the matter smg4 kun?"

THEN the "I know what you are" audio clip...

Four, buddy, you're down bad aren't you?

like "woah smg4's bisexual, I didn't know that", the closet is out of GLASS so we been knew but I DID NOT expect this

having Three be a tsundere is one thing, but FOUR....

🫵🏳️‍🌈⁉️

"they're dating behind the scenes" at this point, yeah

we have to keep going... [*secretly puts this clip on the fridge*]

I hate this so much /silly

[*chaos ensues*] [*sips my coffee*] just another tuesday saturday

GOTTA GO FAST GOTTA GO FAST— [*gets tazed*] i can never catch a break c'mon man

oh hey Swag!

four dollars is four dollars, you got yourself a deal

ok, I'm gonna need everyone to see Four's cute little hops here:

look at him go, my silly little goober :) oh, now you have? then let's keep going

holy shit, this fight scene is so well animated!!! LET'S GOOOO

never thought I'd see the day of seeing biblically accurate bonzi in an SMG4 episode and yet here we are.

SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP

THIS IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING I'VE SEEN IN MY LIFE, I'M ASCENDING

"...but they hugged before" NO YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND

A normal hug, where two people cross each other and are unable to see the other's face since it's over their shoulder, is just as it is: a normal hug. It can be seen as platonic and/or romantic.

THIS is a lot more intimate. 3 and 4's heads touch while they hold each other by the hand. This type of hug is reserved more for romantic partners when the situation leads them to a devasting end, where they face each other to look at and remember what their partner looked like, one last time before they die.

In this case, it makes sense as the computer is collapsing within itself.

"It's not actually them tho." Yes, they're digital copies of 3 and 4 but that's the thing: they're COPIES, acting on what 3 and 4 would actually do

SMG34 shippers, we are eating GOOD today yum yum

but then, that begs the question: would there be a moment where 3 and 4 would reveal their feelings for each other at the worst possible time?

(you guys are not going to be ready for my next episode concepts) What, who said that?

uh anyway them 💙💜 gotta put it on the fridge

I feel for you, Four, but I have a horrible feeling about this

...

Foreshadowing is a literary device—

no seriously, I feel like this could be part of a future arc where a past villain would ruin everything Four has and would offer up a deal when Four would be the most desperate. There's always a catch. Hmm, why does that seem familiar...?

Your life's work or your friends, it's your call, SMG4

:)

HELL YEAH FOUR, THROW IT AWAY (omg just like how he chose Three over the USB, I'm crying dude)

also congrats to Ourstor08954957 for the lovely art in the end credits 🎉 such cute doodles ❤️

.・-: ✧ :--: ✧ :-・.

Oh boy, what an episode. I feel like I'm in another plane of existence right now. Everything was absolutely incredible, great job Team!!

Everyone, say THANK YOU to whoever put the SMG34 crumbs in there, we shall treasure it for the rest of our lives. I'm gonna put those moments on my fridge. OH I would love to see the artists draw the SMG34 hug or pirate Four!

Love the fighting scene right by the end and the little details they have added in there. I guess it's "Torture Ink with the Idea that Goop!4 May Happen" day but hey, I'm so normal about it (no I'm not). I've been a bit stressed since finals are coming up so I'm thankful for anything this episode for me.

(If anyone is curious, the WOTFI website is still up and yes, I am logging its status just in case.)

I'm sure everyone is going crazy over this...

"They gay fr :3" [BenJoJoGV, Twitter]

🧍

BEN YOU CAN'T JUST SAY THESE THINGS—

[pigfacedbitch]

HIIII I'm a big fan of your work and I really love it your writing is amazing , this may be a weird request and if your uncomfortable you don't have to do it , it's fine I completely understand, so it's like merlin and Arthur and the reader and they are all soulmates and it's there first time meeting each other . Thank you in advance

Modern! Reader Gets Transported to Albion

idea : modern world! reader gets transported to Albion and meets Arthur and Merlin. unbeknownst to you and the prince of Camelot, the three of you are soulmates.

type : imagines

word count : 0.7k

pairing/s involved : Arthur x Reader, Merlin x Reader

warning/s : almost drowning, panicking

here is my masterlist!

Note : MY FIRST REQUEST! Whoever you are, thank you for reading my works and I might've changed a little bit in your request. Also, I apologize that it took so long, school has been keeping me busy. I hope you like it! 😊

You've always been a fan of BBC Merlin so when you had the chance to take a trip to Europe, you did.

You went to all the locations where they filmed the series like Château de Pierrefonds and Chislehurst Caves. The last destination is where the Lake of Avalon is; Forest of Dean.

Luckily you are alone, giving you the chance to fully enjoy the beautiful sceneries and serene atmosphere.

It made you feel a deeper sense of nostalgia and melancholy— how the precious characters you loved dearly died and were 'buried' there.

With one last selfie, you were about to walk back to you car when you hear it. A faint voice, filled with sorrow and longing.

"(Y/N)... Save us."

It's coming from the lake.

Something glimmers on it's shore, a sapphire drop necklace with golden chain. When you attempt to pick it up, the world begins to spin.

Suddenly, you were underwater.

Panic builds in your chest not because you can't swim, but an unseen force seems to harshly pull you down no matter how hard you try to stay afloat.

"Help me! Please, someone—"

Air runs out from your lungs when a pair of bulky arms grabs your body and begins to swim you to safety.

"Don't worry, I got you."

I heard that voice before.

The stranger easily carries you to ground, draping a large cloak on your shivering body. Rubbing your eyes for better sight, you look up...

Bradley James?

"Are you alright?"

No. You're certain that Bradley doesn't look that young anymore, keeping up with his latest activities online.

"I told you to be careful, Arthur!"

Turning your head, you see Colin Morgan run towards the two of you with a worried expression on his face.

He looks younger too.

"Ah, Merlin. Fetch the horses, she might need medical attention. May I ask for you name, my lady?"

Arthur? Merlin? Wait... Oh my God.

Realization hits you hard when both men stare at you expectantly, waiting for your answer.

The way they speak, their clothes, their appearances... it's exactly the same in the show you binge-watch every Christmas season.

Am I in the show? That's not possible...right?

"W-Where are we?"

"Camelot."

Shit.

You expect someone to go 'You just got punked!'; that would've been better than two men (who you have a huge crush on) staring at you, confused.

You waited for a moment but nothing happens.

This is real. I'm actually in Albion.

Fear and anxiety creeps into your system, as many questions form in your head. Did I die? What's going on? What season is this? How can I ever get back?

Due to the overwhelming emotions, your breath shortens and keeled over.

Bradley, or Arthur (You have no idea anymore), quickly catches you and gently carries you to his horse.

"We must make haste!" was the last thing you heard before you blacked out.

Merlin, on the hand, knew this would happen. In fact, he dreams of you.

He sees you in vague images, like old memories— happily kissing his cheek, witnessing him use magic, encouraging him to do another trick, etc.

He already etched in his mind your pretty face, your melodious voice, your playful grin— everything about you.

Then Arthur shares the same experience, dreaming about a woman who's description mirrors yours.

Kilgharrah told him that the woman of their dreams will arrive soon from faraway land and will play significant role in the prophecy.

However, the dragon didn't specify how. He only said—

"(Y/N) is your soulmate, Emrys. She sees you and Arthur in a light no one else ever will."

Soulmates are uncommon, even for druids. Only a few were blessed, to have something so wholesome and pure.

So when he heard your cry for help, he is ecstatic. You have finally arrived. His soulmate... and Arthur's.

He wryly smiles at this. Funny how he shares, not only his destiny with the prat, but also you.

The trip to the castle was faster than they anticipated. Arthur told him to call Gaius and meet them in his bedroom.

It caught the attention of everyone. The prince carrying an unconscious woman in his private chambers will surely stir gossip.

But Arthur didn't care, and Merlin didn't know if he should be proud or worried.

The court physician said you are healthy, they only have to wait for you to wake up. He left to attend other matters; leaving the three of you alone.

"This is her." The prince laughs in disbelief, incognizant of what Merlin knows. "The girl in my dreams, I can't believe it!"

Merlin tries to hide his smirk, Arthur can be so adorable when he's clueless.

"Nor can I, sire."