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javierpena-inatacvest · 3 months ago

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Chapter 5- Miles Between Us

Summary: Frankie's decision to join the Army was the catalyst in the collapse of your friendship. When he's forced to reconcile with his past, packed away in boxes in his childhood basement, he finds pieces of you in everything he's left behind.

Word Count: 5.0K

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader (reader has a name/nickname)

Warnings: Angst, lying, guilt, military deployment, FEELINGS, Frankie's mom not putting up with his shit

A/N: IT'S TIME TO PEEL BACK ANOTHER LAYER OF THE ONION, BABY!!! I hope you guys don't hate me that this is a slow burn- I know this is not how I normally write at all, but it's been really fun to build this story up bit by bit (if you hate it though, please tell me lmao 💀) I'm excited for this chapter and how it hints at next chapter (we're finally getting to some smut y'all, omg) Thank you as always for your kind words, it makes my day to hear what you have to say about these two 🥺💛

All The Things We Never Said Masterlist

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You, Age 17, Spring of 2006

“You’re late, Morales.”

“Can’t be late to something we don’t have a set time for, Anderson.”

It’s true, you and Frankie have never set an official schedule for your afterschool ritual, but it never seems to fail that at 3:45, only 10 minutes after you’ve gotten home from soccer practice, he’s at the foot of your bed with his forest green Jansport backpack, ready to complain about the homework he doesn’t want to finish and the tests he has no interest in studying for, just so he can keep you company while you stress yourself to death about the same assignments.

And for as much as he hated school work, Frankie was never late. Never. So to watch him mope into your bedroom an hour later than his usual arrival time, it almost would have been safer to assume he was dead than anything else.

“What took you so long? Get lost on the way here?” You joke, trying to keep it light while still prodding for an answer about his absence as you write down the answer to the math equation you’re trying to solve.

“No. Don’t worry about it.”

There’s been very few occasions you’ve seen Frankie so stoic. Even on his worst days, he’s at least still got a little tolerance left in him for your stupid banter. It’s enough to draw your attention completely away from your homework and onto him.

“What’s wrong? Why are you being so weird?”

You can tell then that something’s clearly not right, the way he’s angrily yanking loose papers and textbooks from his backpack and nearly slamming them onto the edge of your bed, making you gnaw anxiously at the end of your pencil you’d been using.

You’re too nosy for your own good to let up until you find what you’re looking for.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Well obviously something’s wrong.”

“What? I’m not allowed to be late, ever?”

“No? Frankie, I just asked where you were and you’re acting like I’m asking you if you just shot the fucking president or something. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing, MacKenzie!”

“If it’s nothing, then why are you so upset about it?”

“I’m not upset!”

“You clearly are? Frankie, what the hell are you-”

“I’m joining the Army, okay?!”

Out of all the things you could have expected to come out of Frankie’s mouth, that would have been at the bottom of your list. In fact, it’s so out of left field, you’re not even quite sure you believe him.

Your forehead hurts from how tightly your brows are knitted together in confusion, scowling at Frankie with a dumbfounded intensity that probably had you looking like you had just gotten an unsuspecting whiff of the world’s most sour lemon.

There’s no way he’s being serious. He can’t be.

“Ha ha, very funny, Francisco.” You mock, frown still splayed across your face, “Now will you please tell me what’s actually going on?”

His silence makes your heart drop into the pit of your stomach. You can feel the way your face falls, the muscles once tensed in adamant skepticism now sinking into a quiet panic. You can hear each breath as it flows in through your nose and out through your mouth, blood pounding louder and louder in your ears with each pulse of your veins.

“Frankie, if this is one of your stupid jokes, it’s not funny.”

“It’s not a joke.”

His eyes are still peeled to the floor, too afraid to bring himself to look at you. All he can do is stare at his pinky toe, poking out of the hole in his socks that he refuses to replace. You wait for what feels like hours, days, for him to say something, but his silence is deafening. And the sound of Frankie’s silence is the scariest thing you’ve heard in a very long time.

It’s so terrifying, the only thing you can do to cope is fill the quiet void with your rambling and pray that Frankie Morales is choosing to play the world’s worst joke on you.

“What- what do you mean? Frankie, I thought- When you and Santi talked about doing the same thing as Will- I thought you were fucking kidding? What about college? We already both got accepted to Florida State, what are you gonna do-”

“I didn’t get in.”

Please let him be kidding. Please, please, let this be a sick joke.

You can feel your confusion starting to bubble into anger, jaw clenching at the way Frankie’s too coward to even look in your general direction, gaze still glued to that stupid fucking hole in his worn down sock.

“Frankie, what the fuck? We both got accepted back in January? You’ve been lying to me this whole fucking time?”

“I didn’t wanna lie, okay?!”

He’s riddled with enough guilt to speak up, trying to keep himself from the brink of tears as he works up enough courage to finally look you in the face. You can hear how hard he gulps, like his heart is bobbing in his throat, trying to buy all the time he can to come up with a reason for his deception that won’t hurt you any more than he already has.

“I just- fuck,” he sighs, chewing at his bottom and bouncing his leg against the bed so intensely it’ll make him sore the next day, “I didn’t know what to do, Kenz. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

It’s hard to stay mad at him when you know he means it. It’d be easier if it weren’t for the way his brown eyes flooded with disappointment in himself, spilling out in tears onto his cheeks. For as frustrated as you are, you have enough sympathy to ease up on him enough to at least try to understand.

“Well, not lying to me about it for the last four months probably would have been a good start.” You huff, the air that puffs from your nostrils still tainted with the let down you’re trying so hard to not let override your conversation.

You can’t help but let yourself find a spot next to him on the edge of your bed, a peace offering that you hope is enough to signal to him you’re willing to listen to what he has to say.

“I- I didn’t think you were being serious when you and Santi were talking about it. I- I thought you- I thought the plan was to go to Florida State. Together. What happened, Frankie?”

It’s quiet for a few more moments. Frankie takes a few, slow deep breaths as he runs his hands through the curls twisting at the nape of his neck. The silence isn’t as bitter as before, but it stings enough to gnaw at the edges of your nails, the anxious habit you can’t seem to break, and certainly have no intention of giving up right now.

“Stop chewing at your nails, Kenz. You’re gonna be pissed at yourself later.” Frankie sighs, gently grabbing your wrist to pull your hand away from your mouth, trying to fulfill his duty of being the one to stop you from ripping your nail beds to shreds.

“You’re kinda making it hard not to.” You try your best to attempt a laugh. It’s the only way to keep yourself from crying. “So are you gonna tell me what’s going on or what?”

“Y-yeah.” Frankie re-adjusts himself on the edge of the bed, twisting the fabric of your comforter between his fingers, trying to ground himself in the reality of the truth he’s forced to tell you, “I- I didn’t get into Florida State. I told you I did because I didn’t know what I was gonna do. You were just so excited when you thought we both got in and I- I panicked and I lied. I didn’t even think I was gonna get in anyways. I didn’t think I was gonna get in anywhere. Even if I did, I don’t know if I even could have afforded it. It’s just me and my mom and neither of us-”

“It’s not too late. I can help you look for scholarships. To help you with tuition. I’m sure that there’s a bunch out there that you could apply for. I’ll even write your essays and stuff for you if you want me to-”

“I’m pretty sure you can’t do that, Kenz. Plus, you hate cheaters.”

Frankie tries to reciprocate the same half-assed laugh you gave him. He looks over at you, the small smile he’s forcing to keep between his lips quickly fading as he sees the way you’re pleading with him to realize that you would forge a thousand essays in his name if it meant he wasn’t going to leave you. He’d be a cheater you’d gladly forgive.

“It’s not even just the money. I just- I- I don’t even like school, Kenzie. I suck at it. If school is already hard now, how much harder is it gonna be when I get to college? To study for a job that I’m probably not even gonna want when I graduate? At least with the Army I can have a job and benefits and hopefully make enough money to help my mom so she’s not working at the hospital 6 days a week. MacKenzie, the only reason I applied to Florida State was because of you. I thought that maybe there would be some miracle I got in and I could figure out how to pay for it and I could magically get smarter and better at school so we could spend the next four years together. I wanted it to happen. I wanted it to happen so bad. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I lied to you. I just- fuck- I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

Neither of you are quite sure what to say next. That quiet comes back to fill the space between you, allowing enough room for the silent sobs you’re both trying your best to hold in, small sniffles still escaping from each of you. You’re not sure if your brain has fully processed what he’s had to say. The only thing you can understand is the swirling of sadness and confusion in your gut and the pounding ache in your chest.

You take a scooch closer to him, the outsides of your thighs barely brushing together as you tilt your head to rest against his shoulder. It’s heavy, the weight you can’t help but lean against him, but the arm he wraps behind your back and around your waist tells you that he’ll gladly take it. He’ll take it all, if he has to.

“Did you already sign a contract to go?” The whisper of your words is so soft, like you’re hoping he can’t hear you. If he can’t hear you, then he doesn’t have to tell you the answer you don’t want to hear.

“Yeah. Me and Santi did a few weeks ago.” His voice is almost quieter than yours, convinced he has the same idea as you.

His truth stings worse than the lie he’s been masquerading behind the past four months. You want to scream at him- To curse him with shouts and sobs, question how he could make this choice for himself and leave you in the dark until it’s too late for you to change his mind. You know it’s selfish, the way you want him to stay, the way you would have fought with every bone in your body to keep him from leaving. You know it’s the reason Frankie couldn’t tell you.

It’s the same reason why Frankie couldn’t bring himself to tell you that if he had given you that chance, he probably would have stayed.

“Do um- do you know when you have to leave?”

It hurts to hear the words come out of your mouth. It’s an admittance of defeat. Because once you ask that question, there’s nothing you can do or say that will make him stay. No fighting, no begging, no pleading. You have to accept he’s leaving.

“Not ‘til the end of the summer.”

“Where?”

The more you ask, the more it makes you want to keel over the edge of the bed and vomit, the reality of it all setting in at an alarming pace.

“Missouri for basic training. I don’t know where after.”

He doesn’t have to say where. You both know. Even if he doesn’t know the exact longitude and latitude of where the Army will deploy him, there’s nowhere else they’re sending him besides Iraq or Afghanistan or whatever godforsaken, war ridden country in the Middle East he’ll be forced to put his life on the line for.

And for how much the reality of Frankie leaving scares you, when you’re hit with the reality that Frankie may leave and never come back, you’re absolutely terrified.

“I don’t want you to go, Frankie.”

You can’t beg him to stay. There’s no amount of bargaining you can do with him or the powers that be to change what’s been done. All you can do is tell him your truth as you sob into his chest while he holds you. Maybe if you’re not enough to make him stay, you’re at least enough to make him want to come home.

You’re not sure how long he holds you while you cry. Maybe it’s minutes, maybe it’s hours. However long it is, all the moments you have left with Frankie feel that much more precious. You won’t let any of them slip through your fingers.

“You promise you’ll come home, right?”

“I promise, MacKenzie. I promise.”

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Francisco Morales, it’s that he’ll never break a promise. You just hope the universe is kind enough to let him keep this one, too.

“I promise that we’ll have a really fun summer together before I leave too, okay? Whatever you wanna do, Kenz, I’ll do it.”

“Anything?”

It’s enough to peek your head out from the crook of his neck, trying your best to wipe away your tears with your sleeve, like you hadn’t just stained the better part of Frankie’s sweatshirt with the same wetness.

“Anything.”

“Alright, well, I guess we’re gonna go to Dairy Queen and get an extra large blizzard every day until you’re too fat for the Army to want you anymore.”

The two of you giggle, a quiet symphony of soft snorts and sobs at the idea of rolling an ice cream filled Frankie off to boot camp. It makes him laugh even harder that he wouldn’t put it past you if you really did try. Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if you did.

“Whatever you want, MacKenzie. I’m all yours.”

Frankie, Present

Frankie’s convinced he might as well start training for a marathon at this point.

He’s not really sure how else to spend his time. It’s hard to keep himself occupied when all he can do at home is sit around and wait for your dad to die or stare out the window like a creep to watch your comings and goings.

At least if he’s running, he can’t think about you.

Well, he can’t think about you as much.

It’s been a day and a half since he decided to follow you on your run. He’s already pushed his luck enough that you didn’t damn near kill him for it, let alone that you even gave him a chance to talk to him.

He let you take the first shift on the morning yesterday, despite the fact he’d been awake well before the sun rose. The irony wasn’t lost on him at the way he watched you through his bedroom window the same way he did most Saturday and Sunday mornings for the first few years of your friendship. You’d be up at the same ungodly hour as him, except you’d be pacing up and down your driveway, stretching and lunging across its length as you clicked around on the iPod wrapped around your forearm, searching for whatever song would pump you up for your run.

It wasn’t until you had finally noticed Frankie peering out his bedroom window every weekend that you began to drag him along on your runs with you.

“If you’re awake too, you might as well come running with me, Morales. It’ll be fun!”

“Fine. I gotta warn you though, Kenz, I am actually pretty fast.”

“You barely run the mile in gym class.”

“Savin’ up all my energy for when I need it most, Anderson.”

There was once a time where you would have to beg Frankie to come with you on a run. Now, he’d give anything for you to tolerate his existence ten feet behind you.

But he’ll sacrifice another run alone through all too familiar roads of his childhood subdivision if it helps him kill time and keeps you from hating him anymore than you rightfully deserve to.

Yesterday, he went on two runs to pass the time. Hell, today, he’d consider adding a third run to his underwhelming schedule just to keep himself busy. Fortunately, (or unfortunately, he can’t tell yet) for him, Maria Morales has other plans.

And when Maria Morales has plans, it’s in Frankie’s best interest to drop anything else he had in mind for the day.

Even when it means he’s got a hot date with his basement and a mountain full of boxes in his basement.

“Okay, anything in this pile to the left is for you to go through.” His mom grunts, lifting up one last box to add to the heap labeled “Francisco’s things” in her perfectly curved cursive, “If you want to take it home, find an empty box to put it in, but not my new clear, plastic bins, entiendes (understand)? Those were expensive.”

“No clear plastic bins, got it.” Frankie chuckles, following the exaggerated step his mother takes over his scattered belongings.

“If you see something and you don’t want it now but you want me to keep it for later, you can put it over on the shelf by the stairs. If you think it’s basura (trash), leave it over here and let me look at it first before you throw it away.”

“Comprendido (got it).” Frankie nods, sizing up the stack his mom has set out for him, “Jesus ma, this is gonna take me all morning to go through.”

“If you were home more, there would be less things to go through now.”

“Yeah, well, you got me there.” Frankie grumbles under his breath, grimacing at the harsh reality of his mom’s words. He knows isn’t meant completely out of malice, but he can’t deny it’s certainly got some truth to it as well.

“Okay, well I need to go run some errands, and I want this pile sorted by the end of the day, so standing here and moping certainly isn’t going to help that. Get to work, mijo (son).”

His mom will never be one to throw a pity party for anyone, and most definitely won’t be throwing one for her son, based on his own, self-inflicted problem. Frankie helps her step over another makeshift pile scattered for sorting across the basement floor, giving him a quick pat on the back before disappearing upstairs, leaving him to quite literally unpack his past.

“Fuck. Okay.” He sighs to himself, gently kicking one of the edges of flimsy cardboard at the bottom of the tower, trying to formulate his best plan of attack to make his sorting as painless as possible.

He’s thankful that his brain has always worked in a way that allows him to analyze things so quickly, doing some quiet calculations in his head as to the most effective and efficient way to sort through god knows what may be hidden in the pile his mom has created for him.

He runs his hand through the still messy curls of his morning bed head before selecting what feels like the lightest boxes and moving them off to the side, opening up a cardboard container from the next layer.

Besides the trophies still in his room, every prize he’d ever won for every sport he’d ever played sits in the box below him. Frankie chuckles to himself, picking up some from the top to examine them, thumb gliding over the fake gold plating to read plaques like “Florida Junior Divisional Freestyle Swimming Finalist- 2005” or “Regional Championship Winners- Florida Firebirds 2007” glued to poorly sculpted plastic statues of swimmers. A few more medals and certificates had sunk to the bottom of the box, Frankie quickly grazing through its contents before rehoming it to the “trash” pile, unsure of when he would ever need proof he won several swimming competitions in high school.

The next few boxes were more of the same- His varsity jacket, old t-shirts he wouldn’t stand a chance fitting into, considering the gangly figure that stretched them more than a decade ago, some old books from high school he’d only kept because of how much you loved them and he promised you that one day, he’d read them, too.

It’s the shoe box that catches his eye next, sure that no matter how much his mom loved to hoard, whatever was in there most definitely was not a raggedy, holy pair of Converse from high school.

It’s not until he picks up the box that he knows exactly what’s inside. It’s one of the lightest things he’s picked up in the last hour, but when he knows the weight of its contents, his arms want to tremble.

It’s with a long deep breath that he brings the shoebox over to an open patch of floor, letting out a grunt and cursing his knees as he sits down cross legged with the box in front of him. He gently flips open the lid, hand running over his face and down the back of his neck when his suspicions are confirmed.

Open envelopes spill out over the edges of the worn cardboard, the box stuffed to the brim with every letter you’d ever written to him while he was away.

Even if he wanted to, he’s not sure he could ever physically bring himself to throw them out. Those letters have more miles on them than most people’s cars will ever reach in a lifetime, flimsy, stamped pieces of paper following him to every corner of the globe he’s traveled to.

Some letters he’s read so much, they’re worn on the edges where he’s held the paper, smudging the pen that’s reached the sides of the pages. Others, he’s only read once. He’s not sure he could ever bring himself to read them again. But regardless of their contents, he’d made a promise to you they’d stay with him.

“Better not get rid of those letters, Morales. Do you know how many hand cramps I’ve given myself trying to find the words to send halfway across the world to you? You better promise me you’ll keep ‘em.”

His commitment to the folded pieces of paper ring in his ears as his fingers drag across the tops of the open envelopes. He can’t help the way his index finger and thumb pinch the paper below his grasp, carefully tugging a random letter out of its shoebox storage.

It’s a gut wrenching gamble, the game he’s about to play, a roulette of making his heart ache from joy or pain depending on the one he chooses to pull. He’s already placed his bet as he pulls the lined piece of paper out of the envelope- He’s not getting the money he’s already placed on the table back, so he might as well pray he makes a return on his investment.

With one more deep breath, he unfolds the tri-fold creases, ready to watch his bet play out before him.

August 18th, 2006

Frankie,

I hope I sent this letter to the right place! I looked on the website and it said to send mail to new recruits (that’s you, Morales), to this address, so no one better be holding my letter to you hostage.

Anyways, how’s training so far? Did they make you shave your head yet? I hope not. I’m not sure why the Army insists on making you all look like Dr. Evil from Austin Powers. I’m sure you’ll still look cute even with short hair! I don’t think I can say the same for Santi, but you didn’t hear that from me… hehehe

I just moved into my dorm yesterday! My roommate seems pretty nice. Her name is Jessica and she’s from Georgia. She claims that she’s neat and she better be, or I may lose my mind. I’ll send you pictures of my dorm once it’s all set up! It’s kind of a mess right now, but I made sure to put the picture of us from prom up on my desk :)

I don’t start class until next Tuesday. Hopefully I’ll meet some new people in my dorm or on the soccer team so I’m not a total loser with no friends. LOL.

Have you met anyone new yet? I can’t wait to hear all about your new Army friends! I already started a countdown calendar until we can see each other again. Only 70 days until basic training is done and I can hear about everything in person!

I miss you a lot. I know that’s dumb to say because it’s only been a week, but still. I wish I would have kissed you again before you got on the plane to leave. I promise I will when I see you. Nothing says perfect place to kiss like South Missouri, romance capital of the USA (haha).

I know you’re gonna be busy, but write me back when you have time. The return address on the envelope is my dorm address, so use that, or risk Doug and Michelle reading your mail if you send it to my house!!! I can’t wait to hear from you. Miss you, weirdo.

From,

Kenz :) <3

His luck of the draw sends a wave of relief through him, smiling down at the curvy loops of your perfectly neat printing signed at the bottom of the page. It makes his heart skip a beat, the same kind of butterflies coming to life in his stomach as they did the first time he read it. He’s earned his money back and then some. He gets how casinos never go broke, because the high of good fortune is enough to have him reaching back into the box to put another gamble on the line.

October 13th, 2009

Frankie,

I always feel dumb sending multiple letters before I hear back from you, but you know me, I love to worry. I know you can’t tell me where you are right now (stupid military and their secrets for the safety of society lol) but I’ve been seeing stuff on the news and it makes me scared for you. I just hope wherever you are, you’re safe.

My dad’s cancer is back. He’s been in the hospital for almost two weeks now. They found a new mass on his liver, but they said hopefully they can target it with radiation before it starts to spread. Cassandra at the front desk asked how you were when I was at the hospital yesterday. I said that you were good. I think she’s only asking because if you’re not there, there’s no one to keep me from burning a hole in the waiting room carpet.

I wish you were here. I feel really lost right now. I just know if you were here, you’d find a way to make everything better. You always do.

Sorry this letter isn’t longer. I haven’t been sleeping that great and don’t have enough brainpower to write something decent. Just wanted to let you know what’s going on.

Counting down the days until you make good on your promise. I hope you come home soon, Frankie.

Kenzie

He curses himself for an unlucky draw, heart sinking at the tear stains smearing the blue ink of your trembling letters. An overwhelming wave of guilt washes over him, vivid memories of reading your notes in his bunk alone, wishing there was a way he could fly halfway around the world for a night just to hold you and tell you that everything was going to be okay.

It’s the addictive itch in the back of his brain that makes him decide to pull one more letter from the box, taking one last gamble to see if he can prove the nagging pit in his stomach to quit while he’s ahead, wrong.

February 4th, 2011

Hey,

If you don’t want to write anymore, that’s fine. I was trying to be friendly, but clearly you don’t really care. Just let me know and I’ll stop bombarding you with mail you obviously don’t want. Or I guess you not responding is letting me know. If you want to send anything back you can send it to my parents house. I’m moving into Liam’s house and it��s only 20 minutes away so I can just drive there and pick it up. No need to send you a new address you probably aren’t going to write to, anyways.

I guess I’ll see you when I see you.

MacKenzie

And that’s how Vegas will always stay in business.

Because now Frankie is forced to walk away, all his money stolen from him at the stupid risk he’s decided to take. The one letter he’d give anything not to read again is the one he had to pull.

Heat seethes in his chest- he can’t quite explain why. Because he lost at a rigged game he’d set up for himself? That he still hasn’t quite come to terms with the ugly truth of what he put the both of you through? That he wishes with everything in him, he could go back and change what he’s done?

Or maybe, it’s because now might be the last chance he has to fix what he’s broken, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to live with himself if he can’t.

He leaves the pile in the basement unfinished, shoes barely tied to his feet before he bursts out the door in a sprint.

He's not sure where he's going. He's not even sure how long he's run for. All he knows is the pounding of his feet against the pavement, trying to outrun the stupid decisions of his past.

He tells himself if he runs fast enough, he'll beat them.

If he goes far enough, they'll be forgotten.

If he outraces them, you'll be there waiting for him at the finish line.

@chaotic-iguana @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

@pedrobaby @fatima-marisa @beboldbebravethings @poodlebae @kittenlittle24

@3sriracha @jungchloee @perennialdoll247 @prettyinpunk85 @raspberrybesitos

@partyofone3413 @harriedandharassed @pedrohoe04 @theorganasolo

@endlessthxxghts @beware-my-thorns @missladym1981 @milly-louise

@jay-zzle @the-one-with-the-grey-color @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled

@pedropascallvr @millennial-teenybopper @vee-bees-blog @itsokbbygrl

@hopplessilse @mxtokko @its-nebuleuse @mandoisapunk @msmorningstaarr

@amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @picketniffler @burningnerdchild

@copperhalfcent @theoraekenslover @bloodyinspirationaldemon @vee-bees-blog

@samgirl4life @pigeonmama @survivingandenduring @jolapeno @ovaryacted

@amanitacowboy @mystickittytaco @anoverwhelmingdin @greenwitchfromthewoods

@witchofthedeepwoods @ericamarie093 @readingiskeepingmegoing @whimsiwitchy @whoaitspascal87

@vickie5446 @katw474 @ravenpoe67 @inthedarkestnight @brittmb115

@harryscherrysugar @wonderpillar @sunnytuliptime @pasc4lfuzz @yesjazzywazzylove-blog

@kungfucapslock @vannabanana1995 @beezusvreeland

@javierpena-inatacvestnotifs

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sethcertified · 10 months ago

Note

hello! how are you doing today?

can i request stu macher and billy loomis with a reader who’s love language is giving gifts? specifically they hand make gifts for every little occasion or just because they feel like it, but feel guilty if they get gifts themselves? thank you :)

「 LAME ! 」 . . . 📂

scream : billy loomis, stu macher

w.c : 733

⊹˚.⋆ synopsis . . . You give your first gift to Billy and Stu… except you’re a total nervous wreck about it.

⊹˚.⋆ starring . . . billy loomis, stu macher, & implied!male reader

What were you doing?

You asked yourself that a million times now as you made your way back to Billy’s house. It wasn’t any special occasion. It wasn’t even a holiday! Yet, there you were, outside Billy Loomis’s door, gift in hand.

God, you were lame.

You stifled a groan as you stared at the friendship bracelets you had made for Stu, Billy, and yourself. The teasing from them would be endless! Stu would probably love the gift, show it off to everyone. And.. threaten anybody who dared to make fun of you for making the bracelets, saying how much of a queer you are or something stupid.

But Billy..?

Would he even wear it? All your efforts into making the bracelets? Wasted..?

Before knocking on his door, you paused and looked down and just… stared. Rethinking your life choices; however, was interrupted by a certain loud mouthed boy swinging Billy’s front door open.

“Is that [Y/N], I see?!” Stu exclaimed teasingly. He slung his large arm around your tense shoulders, “I was just thinking about you.”

“Hi, Stu.” You said as you hid the bracelets clutched in your hand as quickly as possible. Stu was more perceptive than a lot of people took him for. And pushy. And nosy. Not a good combo when trying to hide something from him.

However, not quick enough for Stu not to notice. He was practically breathing down your neck trying to catch a glimpse of whatever was hidden in your clutches.

“What’s that?” He asked, eyeing you, trying to draw out your secrets with that look in his eyes. That puppy dog look.. Christ.

Desperate to hide the flustered expression covering your face, you played his question off, “What’s what?”

“Whatever is in your hands.” He said quickly.

Caught red handed. Ouch. Your flustered expression dropped into a frown. There was no backtracking now. Stu wasn’t who you were worried about anyways.

“It’s for you and Billy..” You admitted.

Stu was quick to wrap his long limbs around your torso in delight. His hold was tight. Too tight. However, it was impossible not to melt into his grip. He was albeit a big, sometimes scary, teddy bear. One of the cheap ones from the fair though, you thought with a snort. Not stuffed enough, so it’s all lanky and saggy.

“Okay, don’t make it weird when we get in there. Billy doesn’t know.” You practically beg before reluctantly heading inside. Billy was in his room, lounging on his bed, watching some stupid horror flick. His dark eyes eyed Stu and you as you guys walked in. Suspicion— for obvious reasons. You looked like a nervous wreck, and Stu was bouncing on the balls of his feet behind you. Something was up, and it didn’t take a genius to see that.

“Hey guys,” he said coolly. You waved at him in return before climbing on to his bed. The three of you sat in a small circle, and you never regretted your life choices more. It was far too late to turn back and run and pretend like you never got them the gift in the first place.

Preparing yourself for humiliation, you ripped the bandaid off. “Okay, even if you hate this, please save me the embarrassment, and don’t make this weird. Just pretend it never happened, got it?” The two nodded. Billy— in confusion. Stu— in excitement. You unclench your fist to reveal three bracelets. Matching, too.

“I- uh. Well- tada??” You said awkwardly before shoving the bracelets in their hands, eager to get rid of them.

As you thought, Stu was like a kid in a candy shop. His smile beamed at you, easing your discomfort. Billy observed the little bracelet before carefully sliding it onto his wrist. You watched in anticipation.

“It’s cute,” he remarked gently. His hand cupped yours as he slid your bracelet on your wrist.

“I’m glad you guys like them,” you said eagerly, “I’ve been wanting to get you guys things for ages, but I thought you guys would think I’m lame!”

“Already do,” Billy teased.

That same flustered expression came right back onto your face, but this time it didn’t feel so mortifying. Maybe being lame wasn’t so bad. Staring down at the matching bracelets on all three of your wrists, you couldn’t help but smile.

You really ought to make them more gifts in the future.

✎ notes . . . this kinda sucks so I’m sorry— still just trying to get back into the groove of writing, so pls give me a little bit of patience! but this was cute, so thank you for sending in the request <3

©️ sethcertified 2024

#☆ — sethcertified #billy loomis #scream #stu macher #scream 1996 #billy loomis x reader #stu macher x gn reader #stu macher x male reader #stu macher x reader #billy loomis x gn reader #billy loomis x male reader #☆ — scream #scream x gn reader #scream x reader #scream x male reader

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cannedbeefaroni · 1 year ago

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needy!reader distracting touch-starved edward while he’s working !!! kissing his neck, playing with his hair, etc etc. he’s so pathetic i wanna give him a big ol kiss

this is so me coded (gave it a gay little drawing)

Leaving the bathroom wrapped in a towel, you noticed Edward sitting at the desk in your room, on his laptop, seemingly preoccupied. He just got home, still in his work clothes at this late hour. He was hunched in his seat not even paying attention as you came into the room. You peeked over his shoulder at what he was doing, it seemingly being something boring and tedious for his job. You threw on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, still not sure if Edward even knew you were in the room. Slowly, you crept up behind him reaching forward until your trembling fingers grazed the back of his neck, making him instantly jump in his seat.

“Shit!” he exclaims, slapping your hands away instinctively.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you,” you leap backwards, holding your hands up.

“Your hands are cold,” he laughs, still facing his screen. You walk back up to him, wrapping yourself around his shoulders, resting your chin on his head.

“You’re just so warm,” you sigh, tilting your head so your cheek rests atop his head. He simply resumes his work, tolerating your affection as you watch him. Closing your eyes, you listen as his fingers tap the keyboard, enjoying the repetitive sound as your fingers run through his hair, searching for something to fidget with. Mindlessly twirling the strands, you couldn’t ignore how incredibly bored you were. “Aren’t you tired?”

“No. I’m not going to bed for a while,” he responds bluntly, and you roll your eyes.

“Oh, okay,” you stay firmly planted in place, determined not to leave him until he’d come to bed with you. Hands dropping around his shoulders, you toyed with the collar of his top. He always looked so handsome in his office attire. It was hard not to admire the way his tucked in white button up and dress pants fit his frame. Usually the moment he walked through the door he’d instantly change out of his work clothes, but the rare occasions he didn’t were a treat. You loved the feeling of his body heat through the fabric as you felt his shoulders and chest. Your thumb finds the top button of his shirt, flicking at it.

“What are you trying to do?” he asks, becoming tense, holding himself back from melting at your touch.

“Nothing, Eddie,” you coo as you bend down to kiss his cheek, feeling the heat of his face on your lips. You kiss him again, then again, then you lose track. It’s so easy to lose yourself in your adoration for him.

“I really shouldn’t- I need to-” he stutters, then stops in his tracks as your kisses lower to his neck, causing him to gasp, almost inaudibly.

“A minute won’t hurt,” you mumble, still nuzzled into his neck. Not having the willpower to stop, his head falls to the side as he groans, inviting you deeper into his skin. You nip at his neck, ripping a high pitched whine from his throat. Finally turning his head toward yours, your hands cup his cheeks, catching his lips with yours. For a minute, he sits still, letting you kiss him how you please, but then he kisses back, tightly holding the back of your head in place as he locks his lips with yours. Bringing yourself even closer, you bring a knee onto the chair, climbing onto his lap. Kissing the tip of his nose and cheeks, he pants and whimpers while you shift in your seat. His hands plant firmly on your hips, as if he’s worried you’ll leave. “Eddie, you’re so cute,” you whisper in his ear, causing him to shiver. He stutters as he tries to find words while kissing his jaw and neck.

“Oh god, I love you so much. So, so much,” he initiates a kiss on the lips, leaning into you.

“I love you too,” you whisper, pulling away from his lips before he gets the chance to kiss you again, growing possessive as his arms pull you in a tight embrace.

#danonation #danocel #edward nashton #paul dano riddler #dano riddler #the riddler #edward nashton x reader #riddler x reader #the riddler x reader

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cryptic-underground · 4 months ago

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Stanley Pines idea that has been rotating in my head lately. Might end up doing a drawing or a fic about, but I'm not sure. Anyway-

I think it's a common hc that Ford calls Stan Lee, like the same way Stan calls Ford Sixer/Six. And I always thought of "Lee" as being a Ford exclusive nickname, like only he gets that privilege. Shermie, after coming clean about faking his death and also just when he was super young, has tried to call him Lee, but it always makes him squirm. He won't get mad or anything, and he still will respond if he says it, but it's uncomfortable for both parties.

But with it being a Ford only zone and Ford himself using the name very sparingly, it's a quick way to make Stan vulnerable. Like all his defenses off-switch. Because Stanford only uses it on certain occasions: when he's panicking/having a nightmare or hurt, Stan's panicking/having a nightmare or hurt, or sometimes when they're getting too heated during an argument. It always works at softening his heart when his brother uses it.

It works to ground him when Stan is too overwhelmed. It will hush any kind of pestering or proning when Ford has just done something stupid that got himself hurt if he looks up at him with pained eyes, calling him Lee, his heart is breaking and whatever safety rant has evaporated. If he uses it during an argument, Stan mouth is shut, and his throat will dry, and he's trying to make himself as small as he feels. Ford tries not to use "Lee" during arguments because of that. Since it makes him choke up, fidgety, and is apologizing enough times to make a shirt print; shutting down whatever concerns Stan has to try and mend whatever mistake he just made. Even when he's presenting reasonable and honest concerns, it's out the windows when the nickname gets involved.

#ofc Ford still would use Lee casually #like in moments of complimenting Stan and when they're joking #but i like to think it also holds a lot more weight in specific moments #gravity falls #cryptic rambles #gravity falls headcanons #grunkle stan #grunkle ford #stanley pines #stanford pines #stan twins

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ivyyisbored22 · 4 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭— 𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐅𝐅

Note: Check Description and other chapters first to understand the story ^^♡

Chapter 13

WARNING!!!🔞 This Chapter contains SMUT: Oral (f.recieving), fingering, semi public(car sex), pet names, harsh language, jealous Christopher, dirty talk(somewhat I think).

Minors do not interract!!!

Aria

By the time New Year's hit, Chris and I had gone back to talking to each other but maintaining a distance instead of cold shoulders. He continued working late preparing for his upcoming launch during beginning of summer or late autumn, while I caught up with my sister and managed our online store website.

After that argument in his study, Chris kept me at arms length and so did I with him, which stung worse than walking into a thicket of thorns. But I was growing to get used to it. Even though I missed his touch.

I missed him.

But after that argument, I didn't let Chris near me nor did he try to approach me. I'd rather drink a glass of acid than go back to him, because despite his icy personality, I still craved him.

Fuck my life.

The sound of unknown guests mingling, clinking glasses and grand ballrooms became a familiar surrounding in my life after getting married to Chris, as he and I were invited to a New Year's party by his friend, John Lewis, CEO of one of the city's largest real estate agencies.

The opulent ballroom was adorned with twinkling lights, floral arrangements and crystal chandeliers, reflecting the extravagance of the occasion, a glittering affair in a palatial palace nestled in the hills.

Chris was engrossed in conversation with other guests, his demeanor calm and composed as he navigated through. He stood out in his custom tailored midnight blue suit, an enigmatic figure amidst the crowd.

I felt his eyes watching me from the other side of the grand ballroom, our gazes met briefly, and I saw a flicker of something familiar in his eyes before he turned away.

My gaze shifted back to Iris, John's wife, with whom I was conversing while Chris went to greet his other friends and acquaintances from the high society.

"It was lovely talking to you Aria," Iris said, her voice carrying warmth that mirrored her kind demeanor. "We'll get back soon."

"Sure, of course, we'll keep in touch." I replied with a genuine smile, grateful for Iris's friendly demeanor amidst the bustling New Year's party.

She leaned in gracefully, our cheeks brushed softly, "Of course lovely." Iris said before she departed to greet the other guests.

Just as she left, a smooth and rich voice softly called out my name, a voice so familiar I felt a tiny skip of a beat in my chest. I turned around to see Hyunjin, gracefully walking towards of me, his gorgeous long hair perfectly complementing his impeccable suit and killer smile. His presence was magnetic, drawing the attention of those around us.

The warm glow of the chandelier above us seemed to intensify his already striking features, casting soft shadows that accentuated the sharp lines of his jaw and the warmth in his dark eyes.

"Hello, Hyunjin," My voice got caught in my throat, it was was hard to find the right words as I took in his striking appearance and the effortless charm he exuded.

"Hello, Aria," he replied, his smile widening as he closed the distance between us. "It's been a while. You look stunning." He said as he eyed my elegant velvet, black dress, that gracefully hugged and accentuated my figure, topped with a white fur scarf.

"Thank you," I responded, feeling a flush rise to my cheeks. His compliment, though simple, held a warmth that made it hard to maintain my composure. "You look amazing too, as always."

He chuckled, adjusting his satin black tie, his laugh warm and soothing. "You flatter me. How have you been?"

I hesitated, the recent tensions with Chris flickering in my mind like a dark cloud threatening to overshadow this light moment. "I'm doing fine," I said, choosing my words carefully. "It's nice to see a friendly face."

"Definitely," His was locked with mine for a second longer.

Hyunjin's gaze softened, never removing his eyes from mine and he took a step closer, the world around us blurring away, the lively chatter of the New Year’s Gala becoming a distant hum. His presence was both comforting and dangerously distracting.

His fingers brushed away a piece of silver confetti that was stuck on my scarf, the touch so soft I almost didn't feel it. I swallowed hard, pushing an invisible strand of hair behind my ear.

He chuckled again, his laughter a gentle, soothing sound. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," he apologized, his voice low and sincere.

"No- no, you didn't. Please, don't worry." I said quickly, brushing away an awkward silence that threatened to form between us.

My heart beat a little faster in his presence. A part of me wondered what it might have been like if I didn’t already belong to someone else, someone who seemed to leave me drowning in uncertainty.

Hyunjin’s smile returned, warm and genuine, and for a fleeting second I thought if my heart didn’t long so deeply for a certain icy heir with an Australian accent, would I have fallen for Hyunjin? The thought lingered, bittersweet. There was no way no girl wouldn't fall for Hyunjin. He was flawless in every possible way.

As Hyunjin and I laughed together, the room seemed to disappear into a blur of soft lights and distant chatter. His voice, smooth like velvet, filled the air between us as we talked about Milan, his modeling career, and how fast he had risen in the industry. There was a lightness in our conversation that I hadn’t felt in a long time.

"It's impressive how you got crowned Prince of Versace in only a few months of your career," I said, genuinely admiring his achievements.

Hyunjin chuckled, a rich, melodious sound that was like tinkling crystal. "You praise me too much Aria. It's been a whirlwind, but I've enjoyed every moment of it. Milan was incredible."

I found myself drawn to Hyunjin as we continued our conversation but then a shift in the air, an almost imperceptible change, made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I didn’t have to turn around to know what—or rather, who—was causing it.

Chris.

His aura was palpable, like a storm brewing in the distance. I could sense his presence before I even saw him, his intense energy cutting through the light-hearted atmosphere between Hyunjin and me.

Chris appeared next to me, his jaw was tight as he met my eyes then turned to Hyunjin. His hand slipped possessively around my waist, his thumb grazing my dress.

"Hyunjin," Chris greeted, his tone polite but controlled. "Good to see you."

"Good to see you too, Christopher," Hyunjin raised his chin, keeping his voice neutral, his earlier warmth turned into a tone that matched with Chris's.

"I see that you're getting along well with my friends, sweetheart," Chris turned to me, his brown eyes darkening.

"I am," I answered smiling, trying my best not to sound awkward. Chris's grip around my waist tightened, I felt Hyunjin's lips curl into a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Thank you for keeping my wife company while I was greeting my acquaintances," His tone turned cold that sent a blaze of shiver straight down my spine.

"But I'm gonna have to take her with me now. I'll see you soon." Chris's dangerous smirk widened as he kept his eyes on Hyunjin, pulling me closer to him.

"Of course," Hyunjin nodded gently, fixing his tie. "Aria, it was wonderful catching up with you. See you around." He said smoothly, his smile remained fixed, though his eyes flashed with something unreadable.

I nodded smiling softly, somehow feeling bad for the way Chris reacted towards his own friend. I know they have been friends for a very long time, yet his possessiveness over me for talking with his friend left a bitter taste in my mouth.

As we walked away from Hyunjin, Chris's grip on my waist loosened, but the tension between us only seemed to grow thicker. I gently pushed myself off his arm, feeling a pang of irritation creeping under my skin.

"What was that for?" I tried my best to keep my voice low but sharp.

His eyebrow arched as he looked at me, his expression still remaining neutral. "Taking back what's mine."

"I'm not your property, Chris," I retorted, my voice sharper than intended. "Hyunjin is your friend. There's no need to act like that."

He stopped abruptly, turning to face me with a cold intensity in his eyes. "Friends don't look at each other's wives the way he looks at you."

I scoffed, folding my arms across my chest. "He was just being polite."

Chris stepped closer, his jaw clenched. "Polite? That isn't politeness sweetheart."

I turned away from him, not wanting to cause a scene in front of so many other guests at a party. His eyes still remained on me, he scoffed softly before he said, "I've got to get back to the office. Let's go home."

Translation: I'm pissed and I need a glass of whiskey.

His abrupt change of subject was unsettling, but I followed silently as he led the way out of the crowded room. Even if I wanted to stay, I don't have a word in it. I'm only here to fill a 'wife' duty. Not to enjoy.

As we walked towards the exit, Chris's silence was oppressive. I fucking hated that not only he was cold and neglecting but now is starting to control who I should talk to.

Our chauffeur Andrew unfortunately got food poisoning because of his Christmas dinner, so Chris drove us here in his Rolls Royce. When the valet attendant offered to bring him the car, Chris turned it down and took the keys from him, we both exited the palace, descending the red carpet stairs, walking to the parking lot.

"What were you talking with him that made you laugh so much?" Chris's voice came out sharp, cutting through the chilly silence.

I stared at him, his visible jealousy felt satisfying along with irritation.

"Just discussing world peace and how much we both adore you. Didn’t you hear? Hyunjin and I are starting a fan club in your honor."

Chris shot me a look that could freeze fire, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Don't be smart with me, Aria."

"I'm not and it's not anything you need to know anyway." I replied not even trying to hide my smirk.

If there was one thing I liked to do even if it scared me was pissing Chris off more. At first I tried not to get him mad, but when his face twisted into that furious scowl, I couldn't help but be mesmerized.

The way his jaw clenched, his eyes darkened, and a muscle ticked just above his lip, there was a raw, primal energy in his anger that sent a thrill through me.

Because no matter how arrogant and intimidating he can be, Chris's angry face was a different kind of sexy.

"You think this is funny?" His voice was low, a dangerous edge to it.

"I think you're overreacting." I shot back, unable to resist the urge to provoke him further. "Just because I was talking to someone other than you."

He shot me a sharp glance, his frustration almost reaching its peak. "It's not just anyone. It's Hyunjin."

I shrugged nonchalantly, enjoying the way his jealousy simmered beneath the surface. "He's YOUR friend, Chris. Relax." I jabbed my index on his chest. "Or do you think so little of him?"

His jaw tightened, and he took a deep breath, clearly struggling to maintain control. "It's not him I don't trust," he said finally, his voice taut. I turned to look at him, arching an eyebrow.

"Oh, so it's me then?"

He glared at me, his frustration evident. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Then what do you mean, Chris?" I challenged sarcastically, my voice cutting through the thick air between us.

We stopped a few feet from his Rolls Royce, he clicked on the keys, the lights flashing as the doors unlocked. The chill breeze of the night started feeling more colder, the silence between us heavy and charged with unresolved tension.

"What I fucking mean is that I don't like the way he looks at you. And I don't like the way you respond to him." His eyes were dark with a mixture of anger.

"And maybe I would relax if I didn't see him eyeing you like you were his next conquest." He shrugged, cracking his neck. Somehow that small action was so hot for no damn reason.

I scoffed, turning to face him directly. "Believe it or not, I can handle myself."

A knowing smug grin spread across his face, Chris slowly closed the distance between us, walking towards me as I instinctively walked backward until the cool metal of the Rolls Royce pressed into my back. At this moment I couldn't feel anything but my heart pounding so hard in my chest and his hot breath against my skin, his face mere inches from me.

"Handle this then." He growled, cursing under his breath and that was the last warning I got before his lips crashed down on mine.

Push him. Push him. Push hi—

My hands went up his chest to push him away but instead of doing so, they gripped the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer as I kissed him back with all the frustration and longing that had built up over the months we have been together.

Chris's mouth moved over mine, demanding access as he firmly gripped the back of my neck. His kiss was anything but gentle; it was a battle for control, for dominance, and I found myself fighting back just as fiercely.

Our arguments, cold shoulders, ignorance, everything melted away into nothing and now all I wanted now was more warmth, more of him.

I responded so eargerly, my hands tangling in his hair as we kissed fiercely. He tilted my head burying his tongue, swiping it over the seam of my lips, the air around us crackled with tension, a blend of anger, desire, heat and the undeniable chemistry that always drew us together no matter what other agreements or disagreements we had.

Chris's hands roamed possessively over my body, pulling me closer to him, needing to claim me right here in the parking lot of a CEO's palace, but I couldn' give a shit about where we were. My body was betraying me, leaning into his touch despite the anger still simmering inside me.

I couldn't find the strength in me to trust him with my heart, but without a doubt I trusted him with my body. It was only a few times, but he knew me.

Chris groaned, pushing a leg between my knees, nudging them apart. His hand went up the slit of my dress, inch by inch on my bare thigh, reaching up to the thin layer of fabric covering my heat. Wetness flooded between my legs, Chris broke the kiss looking at me with that same smug smirk as he twisted a finger around the lace band of my thong.

"I thought you said you can handle yourself sweetheart," He smirked as he continued twisting the band, a finger stroking my inner thigh.

"Fuck you." I snapped back. Lust consumed me whole, I couldn't think straight.

"Language." He teased me letting out a dark chuckle, rubbing the drenched fabric with his thumb. "But that's pretty much the idea."

Without an effort he slid my thong to the side, and before I could respond, a finger thrusted through my wet folds, causing me to inhale a sharp breath.

"Fuck. You're soaking."

I was. I was so turned on, my nipples were so hard and sensitive, they could cut glass. My thighs were slick with my juices, Chris inserted another finger, streching me, pumping slowly and driving me insane.

He curled them inside of me, my head fell back on the car as I moaned louder than I intended, shamelessly clenching on his fingers, but pleasure consumed my senses before embarrasment did.

My hands clutched onto his shoulders as he increased the pace, in and out, making the telltale tingles of an orgasm gather at the base of my stomach. But then he slowed it down.

He knew what he was doing. Knew exactly how to unravel me, thread by thread, until there was nothing left but raw, aching need. It was next level of torture as he was so close hitting the sensitive spot, going faster and when he saw it coming, he slowed the speed.

Motherfucker

"Please..." I begged, pleading him to let me come but the bastard laughed in response.

"I am pleasing you though sweetheart."

Curses coated the tip of my tongue as my head fell back again in frustration, I wanted to punch that face of his with every willpower I had in me.

"Chris please..." Was all I said, his thumb circled my clit, his fingers still moving slowly inside of me, I felt like I could cry out of frustration of him not letting me come.

"Is this what you want?" He pulled his fingers out and thrusted them back in, I clenched again without a thought. Chris's voice was a low growl, his face so close that I could feel his breath against my skin.

I was so consumed by the way his fingers were working inside of me, I couldn't say a word other than whimper, clutching onto his arms.

"You don't know what else you want other than my fingers fucking your soaking cunt, do you?"

Chris's voice was harsh, yet there was something else there too. A raw need that matched the wild energy surging between us. His fingers curled again, hitting that perfect spot, and a cry tore from my throat, louder this time, unfiltered and feral.

“You feel that?” Chris’s voice was low, a rough whisper against my ear. “That’s how much you want this, how much you want me.”

"Oh...fuck—ah!" I gasped out when his teeth sunk into the curve of my neck, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to send a jolt of pain-pleasure straight to my core.

Chris's fingers went in and out of my pussy faster and soon wetness dripped, hot ecstasy coating his fingers and down my thighs, I split apart in a sharp cry, my head falling back on the roof of the car.

Satisfaction spread across his face as he watched me, my chest heaving, trying to come back to my senses after a torturous orgasm.

“Open,” he commanded, and before I could think, my lips parted, and he pushed his fingers inside, letting me taste myself. I moaned around them, my tongue swirling around his fingers, savoring the salty, tangy flavor as he watched me with that same dark intensity.

“You’re mine,” Chris murmured, his voice low and full of a dangerous promise. "And I'm not ending the night without having you come all over my face."

Chris opened the door to the backseat and gently pushed me into the luxurios interior, the familiar scent of the leather engulfing me. He got inside the spacious interior, closing the door behind him, leaning towards me with his hand next to my head and crushed his mouth with mine again in another bruising kiss, biting the lower lip.

He began making his way down, sucking on the skin on my neck, leaving multiple hickeys and closed the strap of my dress with his teeth, tugging it down. The next second his teeth were around my crystal hard nipple, gently biting it and getting a loud moan out of my throat.

He groaned as arched against the leather seat, my hand gripped the armrest, needing something to hold onto. He continued sucking and rolling his tongue on one nipple and moved to the other and released with an audible pop. He blew cool air over my saliva-slicked nipple, and the sudden contrast sent electric jolts of pleasure racing through my veins, lighting up every nerve in my body.

Chris pulled the entire dress down along with my thongs, and removed his coat, throwing it to the other seat, leaving me completely naked and exposed with nothing but my heels in front of his lust filled eyes.

"Fuck baby... Look at you. All mine."

He was merciless, not letting me respond, he was on his knees between my legs, lifting one over his shoulder as his head dipped down. The moment his mouth connected with my aching core, I lost all sense of decorum, a loud, shameless moan ripping from my throat as my body jerked uncontrollably, pressing into his face.

Chris's hand held me in place, holding onto my thighs as he feasted, sucked, worshipped and ruthlessly tongue fucked me like a man who had be fasting for months. He lapped away my slick juices, thrusting his tongue inside of me, going from long languid licks to fast flicks.

"Christopher- fuck- Chris..." He groaned against me as I whimpered, my hand fisted his hair so hard and the arm rest, nails digging cresent grooves on his precious leather seat as he continued to eat me alive.

"Fucking hell Aria. I'll never get tired of how good you taste baby."

He grazed his teeth across my clit and then, without warning, he slid two fingers inside me again, at this point I couldn't see anything other than stars and tears fogged with pleasure and lust clouding my eyes.

His tongue continued its merciless assault on my swollen, throbbing nub, the pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain, every nerve ending alight with a wildfire of sensation that burned through me.

Moonlight shone through the windows and the distant lights of the palace were the only sources that gleamed in the confined car.

Every expert lick on me had me so weak, shots and sizzles of pleasure left a wildfire of sensations rush through my body.

I hated how easily I gave in to him, how he could bring me to this state with just a few well-placed touches. But as much as I wanted to resist, to fight the pull he had on me, I couldn’t deny the truth. Chris knew my body better than anyone else, knew exactly how to bring me to a position like this and make me crave more of it.

"Chris I...please, I- I'm going to..."

"Come for me babydoll," he commanded, and that was all it for my arousal drip down my thighs, onto the seat and flood his mouth.

The pressure bursted as I came down in a toe-curling climax that sent me to heaven and back. I cried out screaming his name, it was the only thing I could form on my lips.

Chris looked up at me, that fucking smirk never leaving his face, his eyes were dark and intense, the moonlight shining on his beautiful features. He wiped his mouth coated with my essence with the back of his hand, as he removed his face from my pussy, which again, an action that shouldn't be so hot like that.

The car was englufed with the scent of leather, sweat and sex, it was an intoxicating combination.

"You're a gorgeous fucking mess Aria. But you're my gorgeous mess," He leaned into my face, placing a soft kiss on the corner of my mouth.

"And only I can see you like this," He smirked kissing my neck, then my chest, my stomach and then came up to my face and kissed me possessively, letting me taste the lingering part of myself from his lips.

"You—" I pushed him off of me breaking the lock of his tongue against mine, "You don't even like me."

Chris's eyes darkened, and he grabbed my wrist, pulling me close once more. "You have no idea how wrong you are." He growled, his voice low, thick and rough.

I tried to pull away, but his grip tightened on my wrist and pinning it above my head, his eyes locking onto mine with an fire that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Chris-" He softly pinched my nipple. "Ah,"

"You drive me insane," He interrupted, his breath hot against my ear, his thumb playing with the sensitive bud. "You think I don't care, but I care too fucking much and I hate it."

His words sent jolts of something electric through me. Hurt. Hope. Ruin. Salvation.

"Then why do you act like you don't?" My voice came out hushed.

He released my wrist, his hand closed around my neck, his thumb brushing my skin with surprising tenderness. "Because it's easier than showing how much you affect me," he admitted, his voice raw.

"But make no mistake, Aria. You're all I think about. Every. Single. Day."

His lips descended on mine again, but this time, the kiss was filled with a desperate need that mirrored my own. The world outside the car ceased to exist, and all that mattered was the fiery connection between us.

Beneath Chris's cold exterior lay a man consumed by fierce possessiveness, that both frightened and thrilled me.

My mind was still trying to calm down from the high of my climax, but all I knew in this moment right here was that things weren't going to be the same anymore.

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

Taglist: @bowsnbang @bangchannie97lov @hwasmints @laurenalpha123 @mrs-hwangh @greyyeti @sociallyawkward18 @stephanieeeyang @piscesrising01 @jaquisos @de-uns-tempos-pra-ca

If you want to be added to the taglist, let me know <3 (If I missed someone please lmk)

Thank you for reading!

xx,Ivyy

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vincentbriggs · 11 months ago

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Hello! I'm trying to draw something for a friend. Both of our characters live in the late 1720s. They both have regular outfits, but I want to draw them wearing something fancy. My friend has described his character as having a very bad sense of fashion. I can't really picture what a bad outfit back then would look like. Do you?

Hello! Well I haven't got all that much of a feel for what might have been considered a bad outfit back then, but there is one image that immediately comes to mind of someone who's very definitely badly dressed, and it's this guy. From the 4th panel of Hogarth's Marriage A la Mode (1743-45).

His individual garments look fine to me, but they're horribly mismatched! (And a bit old fashioned for the mid 40's.) You'll note that the coat cuffs are made of a large brocade that contrasts with the main body of the coat, which was very popular in the first half of the century, but that style was meant to be worn with a matching waistcoat in the same brocade. Instead he's got a completely plain waistcoat that doesn't match at all.

And the breeches should match the main coat fabric, but his don't! The black and brown and beige clash awfully. He's also got a lot more rings and a much bigger & sparklier earring than I've seen on any other guy from the era, which I speculate might have been tack and/or un-masculine, but I have no sources so don't quote me on that. I just know that when 18th century guys are wearing rings in a portrait it's usually just one, and I've only ever seen simple little hoop earrings in a very few portraits. But again, emphasis on the "speculate" part of that sentence.

(And I've just noticed that the guy next to him has curling papers in his hair, which I think is probably also meant to make him look silly and not properly dressed. No idea what the opinion would have been about the folding fan dangling from the wrist of the next guy over, but it is intriguing. The very large beauty spot on his lip is probably meant to look bad though.)

That painting is a bit later than what you're asking about, but the style of matching cuffs & waistcoat was popular in the 20's too, so here are some examples of what it's supposed to look like. A lot of them are very elaborate brocades paired with a solid dark coloured velvet, but sometimes it's a contrasting plain fabric with a ton of metal embroidery.

(1725)

(1723)

And an extant c. 1730's example from the NMS collection.

You might also look at 1710's images, because being a decade behind the current fashions would certainly make you badly dressed for the era.

(c. 1715-20)

So, I guess just put them in clashing parts of 2 or 3 different matched suits? (I am assuming you're asking about suits, since this ask was sent to me and I do not know very many things about dresses. Mostly only what I absorb from other costumers who post about it, and barely anyone does early 18th century.)

Please note that this does not apply to the 1780's-90's, fashion plates from those decades are incredibly full of clashing and mismatched suits. (Though it would probably still be bad to wear those ones on a very formal occasion.)

#ask #18th century #1720's #fashion

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zialltops · 1 year ago

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honeysuckle’s & huckleberry’s

masterlist | ao3 | spotify playlist

There's no way he knew Joel was just ogling his daughter’s pussy in the glow of the fridge light not five minutes ago, right? Right?

“Uh, I just thought I’d give it a try.” Joel mumbles, fiddling with the lid on his cup that opens and closes the mouth piece. “You sure you’re alright, son? French vanilla is a little out of character for you.” It’s such a lighthearted comment but it makes Joel's heartbeat ring in his ears. “Fine—I’m fine, just wanted to try somethin—new. I should get to work, ya’ll have a nice morning.”

a/n: that center pic of joel is him in the glow of a fridge light.

vi: If She Wants A Cowboy

He’s going absolutely crazy. Out of his mind bat shit—nuts. Last night felt like a fever dream—maybe it was all along and he drempt it all up. Maybe he passed out in the snow and you dragged him in. But his mind cant make up the way you smiled at him, the look in your eyes when you peered up at him and said it—those three words that led joel straight to his eleventh hour. This is it, almost too late to catch with the cold tips of his calloused fingers. He reached and reached until his grasp finally brushed along the edges of your relics, along soft skin and forgiveness, scraps of understanding in the bitter, oppressive cold. God, the way you looked up at him like you might not stop him if he kissed you right there, the way your eyes searched his when you said—

You know why

But he doesn’t know in the early morning hours when he jolts awake to the ceiling fan against the popcorn texture and the quiet creak of the old house. He’s a little disoriented from his spot on his back at first, wondering if last night had happened or if he’d dreamt the whole thing up. Had he? Because he can’t wrap his mind around the sudden shift in every aspect of his relationship with you.

Why had you looked at him like that, touched his hand so softly he almost crumbled at your feet? He was ready to beg and plead for your hands on him forever. Why did you lay a blanket over him with that same soft look he’d only seen a few times before? Why did you lean down and press your soft, delicate lips to his wind bitten cheek, let them linger and warm him all over, thawing him out from the inside after years in this frigid body? Why did you climb the stairs slowly and glance over your shoulder to make sure he was still there on the couch?

His socked feet sticking out of the too small blanket with his weary eyes and pounding heart.

It’s been at least a half hour since he opened his eyes on this couch, but he can’t bring himself to get up yet. This is his last link to where you’d left him and he wishes you’d come down those stairs and tell him—why, and why should he know when he thought you hated his guts for so long.

You know why

Why you didn’t have sex with his brother. Or why you spent the day beside him in a saddle and got to know him instead of analyzing every little move he makes. Why you looked at him with hope in your eyes, or why you laid in Tommy’s bed and couldn’t bring yourself to do it. The more he thinks about the occasion, the more he realizes the answer is the same either way. No matter the instance, why will always have the same answer.

Because you want him, the way he wants you. Maybe not as desperately as him, but it’s in there, it must be. Or maybe thats just his muddled brain making up thing that aren’t there, seeing things that didn’t happen, making something out of nothing. Theres a layer of his desire blanketing every interaction he has with you. He sees vibrant, beautiful colors where it used to be dull and gray, his mind recognizes your kindness before your actual presence, sees the sparkle in your eyes and your depths of color before he reads what they are trying to tell him. All of that combined, maybe you didn’t mean to draw him in, maybe you were just nice to him and he took that as interest.

“Morning,” soft words pull Joel from his thoughts and his mindless tracking over the textured paint above him. He picks his head up from the pillow with a low groan, something about his neck tells him he’s going to pay for sleeping here. He’d do it all over again a million times to see you at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in a big tee-shirt and nothing else, a sleepy little smile with your hair a mess around your head like a halo. He’s so gone on you, so blatantly smitten that the whole world can probably see it. He’ll never recover from the way he wants you, it will live with him everywhere he goes, like a open wound that will never close. He can’t even remember who he was before he laid eyes on you.

“Mornin’, darlin’.” Your face cracks in a smile you can’t hide, cheeks redden in the dark hallway. Joel wishes you’d climb onto the couch with him, curl up along his side so he could plant a soft kiss atop your head and drink you in. “I was just getting some water, I thought you’d already be up.” He sits himself up slowly, until his feet hang over the edge of the couch and his back gets a much needed stretch.

“Gettin’ a late start today. That alright with you, boss?” A statement that would usually hold so much more distaste, suddenly takes on a new tone—teasing with a dash of heat on Joels part, his eyes chasing after your bare thighs as you walk into the kitchen. If his eyes were a little better, he’d probably be able to see the soft curve of your ass just under the hem of the shirt, so dangerously close to exposing you.

Are you wearing panties this time, too? Or, are you naked? You stop and look at him over your shoulder with a sleepy smirk. “I’ll let it slide this time, but don’t make it a habit.” He catches your eyes and they singe together from across the dark house, like two fireflies dancing across the somber shadows, readying themselves to outrun a brewing storm. “Yes ma’am,” his lips quirk up into a smirk.

“Coffee?” You offer in a different tone than you’d been maintaining, this one is quiet and soft, genuine to the point that Joel cant imagine turning you down. “Absolutely,” he gets up and doesn’t slip into his boots when he follows after you to the kitchen. Barefooted beside you, he gets the full wrath of your height difference, so much smaller than him, captivating in the softest possible ways, with your hair a mess and yours eyes glossy from the hood over the stove. He finds a spot leant against the door frame while you move around the kitchen quietly, filling the water reservoir, then the filter and ground coffee from a can. You set the old pot to brew and open the fridge, light scatting across the old hard wood floors in-front of Joel, encircling yours frame like a halo to his unadjusted eyes.

“Cream?” You ask without looking back, leaning down every so slightly to reach for the half and half on the top shelf, hand hovering on the carton while you take stalk of what else there is. The only thing Joel can pay attention to his his view, your shirt riding up to the middle of your ass, exposing soft creases where your cheeks meet your thighs. You look so damn smooth, softer than any fabric his calloused hands have laid upon. His eyes tick to the fridge and he spots a bottle of french vanilla stuffed into the back of the fridge on the bottom shelf—he’d never dare ruin his coffee like that, but to watch you bend a little further, he’ll risk his taste buds.

“French vanilla, please.”

His heart is absolutely pounding at the thought of you turning your head around catching him openly ogling, but the opportunity is too good to pass up. You lean lower and the shirt drags the rest of the way up, Joel leans back a little to adjust his view and—christ…

You aren’t wearing any panties.

You aren’t wearing any panties and Joel can see just the faintest vision of your lips, peeking out between yours thighs, your cheeks spread as you lean towards the back of the fridge—you have to know what he’s seeing right now, how easily he could step forward, place one hand on your back to keep in you in place while he pressed two fingers knuckles deep just to listen to the way you’d gasp his name. He’s not going to last long in this house, knowing what’s under that night shirt.

“This one?” You ask when your hand finds the lid and he hums without taking his eyes away from your bare ass. “Yeah, s’perfect.” He murmurs, adjusting himself in his slept in jeans so he can somewhat hide the way his blood rushes south and away from his brain.

Fucking hell, he can nearly see it all—a little further and he’ll get a glimpse of that tight little hole—wishes he could take a mental screenshot for when he inevitably wraps his hand around himself to the thought of you, bent over in front of him in nothing but a tee-shirt.

His day dream is interrupted when you straighten up and walk back to the counter. He doesn’t move from his spot on the doorframe, trying to keep his pounding heart and ragged breaths to a minimum. You make his coffee in a thermos with a lid, filled all the way to the top with dark liquid and sweet smelling creamer, even if he hates the idea of ruining his joe.

“Better get out there soon, Cowboy…I think the suns coming up.” You offer the mug to him and he steps away from the door to take it gingerly, his fingertips brushing along the backs of your knuckles when your relent to release your grip. “Your hands are freezing.” You reach up with the other and place it over the top of his hand. They looks so damn small wrapped around the cup with his like this. “Keep yourself warm out there, will you?”

Your hands drop away and he wants desperately to beg you to put them back, to touch him with such concern every day, or he’s afraid he might turn to dust. “It’s damn cold out there, how do you suggest I do that, little lady?” He moves forward a step without realizing it, closing in on you until your head tilts back to look up at him. “Well…in that case, think of something that warms you up.” His right arm takes on a weight when your delicate fingers incircle his forearm, smoothing out the hard muscles there. In your eyes, Joel finds something he’s never seen before—hope. It propels him into honest bravery, the burning heat of your hand on him driving him forward. “Only thing that keeps me warm is standin’ in front of me, darlin’.”

His eyes tick down to your mouth, pretty pink lips just begging to be kissed, to be bit and sucked and nipped. He could, he could right now and you’d probably let him, he’s pretty damn sure and he’s not certain of a lot when it comes to you. His sight flicks up to your eyes again and they are gleaming at him in the low yellow light. Your other hand finds the left side of his chest, sprawling your fingers out across his peck.

“In that case, make sure you wear your gloves so you can keep these hands soft,” you lean up on your tip toes, tilting your head to the side of his until you nearly tuck your face into his neck, warm breath drenching his collar bone. He can feel a ghost of your mouth against his ear, your bottom lip dragging across the shell and covering him in goosebumps. “And think of me, cowboy.” Your words are like hot, sticky syrup, catching every inch of his skin and coating him in sweet warmth. His eyes close and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding onto when your lips connect with the corner of his jaw briefly, before pulling away just far enough to plant a second just bellow his ear.

When you pull back from him, he has half a mind to press you against the counter top and finally know what you’d feel like on his lips. He has half a mind, but the other half registers a creaking coming across the floor boards. He has just enough time to step away from you quickly before the kitchen light comes on.

He should probably work on being more subtle, because he reels around like he’s been caught when he spots Hank in the doorway with tired eyes. “M-Mornin, Hank.” Joel gets out quickly, his ears barley picking up the stifled giggle you’re hiding under your hand. “Mornin’, what’s going on in here? Why’s it so dark, you two ever heard of a light?” He doesn’t sound accusing, but thats not what Joels ears tell his brain as he tries to make his way out of the kitchen. “N-Nothin, s’just gettin’ coffee, late start is all—“ he starts in but Hank puts a hand up to stop him. “Calm down son, just meant you should turn a light on. Can’t see a thing in here.” He chuckles, walking over to the pot to pour himself a cup. “Christ, who’s drinking this shit?” He picks up the bottle of french vanilla creamer and Joel’s cheeks go ghost white, trying his best not to wear it all on his face despite the utter fear in his wide eyes.

Theres no way he knew Joel was just ogling his daughter’s pussy in the glow of the fridge light not five minutes ago, right? Right?

“Uh, I just thought I’d give it a try.” Joel mumbles, fiddling with the lid on his cup that opens and closes the mouth piece. “You sure you’re alright, son? French vanilla is a little out of character for you.” It’s such a lighthearted comment but it makes Joels heart beat ring in his ears. “Fine—I’m fine, just wanted to try somethin—new. I should get to work, ya’ll have a nice morning.”

Hank gives him a absent wave and he makes it a point to not look at you because he knows what you’ll see written all over his face. He hightails it to the living-room and slips into his boots and jacket, slipping his hat onto his head once he’s fully dressed.

When he gets the front door open, thermos in hand, he hears his name from somewhere behind him. You’re standing at the bottom of the stairs, headed back up to your bedroom. “Yeah?” His voice cracks and he winces a little at his failed attempts at subtleties again. “I’ll see you at breakfast?”

Joel swallows and swears he was born to be tortured by you, angry or not, distant or stranding right in front of him, you put him through agony every day from the way he wants you.

“I’ll see you at breakfast, Honey.”

You grin and start up the stairs with one final glance over your shoulder. “Don’t forget to think of me, Cowboy,”

With a sultry wink, you’re gone and Joel is left panting, straining and confused.

How could he forget?

Joel definitely thinks of you when he runs to the cabin to change, only getting his jeans down his thighs before he’s working his hand over himself in a frenzy, plagued by the sight of you naked and soft, willing and encouraging. And when his gut tightens and his back arches off his creaky mattress—

He thinks of you.

After that, all hope of keeping him at a distance is out the window. The teasing had started out as just that—seeing how far you could push him before he told you to stop, to know the kinds of reactions you can cause him against his will. It becomes like a game, your outfit choices get a little tighter and you spend more time out on the ranch, in the stables when he’s working the horses, perched on the porch swing with a book when he’s got grease up to his elbows working on the old tractor.

You find that it’s hard to reach that point of pushing him too far and when you do, he gets this far away look in his eyes and stammers about something that requires his attention elsewhere. You play coy, even when you spot the thick outline of him through his blue jeans when scurries off to the nearest bathroom.

But you don’t make a move on him. Despite the shift in your relationship with him, he’s still so damn distant and vague, never letting you in on anything too personal that would lead you to believe he’d risk everything to be with you. What if it didn’t work? What if it fell through, would he still be able to walk around here with that kind of ache? You promised yourself that it would be his choice, he had to be the one to break that thinning ice. If he was willing to face the consequences, he would have to be the one to initiate the action.

Until then, you have other things to keep you busy—like the discrete package dropped off in the mailbox with your name on it. You track the package until the very day it arrives and your skin is nearly boiling off as the hours tick down until it’s in your hands.

You get the mail directly from the postal worker before it even hits the mailbox. With a quick thanks, you hurry back to the house and drop off your parents mail on the dining room table. Your mother was in town grocery shopping and Joel had dragged your dad out to the north pasture to look over a few young calfs who were suffering from some kind of upper respiratory illness.

The house was empty, aside from you and your heavy box and the slick slide of your thighs as you take the stairs two at a time to your bedroom. The second the door slams behind you, your already ripping open the box and pulling the toy from its discrete packaging.

Holy shit.

You sink onto the edge of your bed as you gaze at it in your small hands. You hadn’t given the color much thought when you’d purchased it, just clicked the right buttons that would get it to you as soon as possible. Sitting here in your quiet bedroom, the soft blue hues shine back at you like oceans of possibilities at your fingertips. You can’t imagine something of this size attached to a body, let alone Joel—it feels almost comical how large it looks.

When you’d caught a glimpse of Joel in the bathroom that day, it had been quick, momentarily providing a rough image of the sheer size, but sitting here in your palms it feels so much bigger. You turn it over a few times, fingers dragging along the false veins of the shaft, the thick, round head and the balls at the base, providing a sturdy bottom to rest on a flat surface if need be.

You’ve never owned anything quite like this, not even close. You’ve had a few vibrators, a few (much smaller) molds like this one, but never had you ventured out like this before. Setting it down on your lap, you realize just how unrealistic and fictional it looks, nearly taking up the entire length of your thighs. How will this ever fit inside of you?

How will Joel ever fit inside of you?

With your resolve diminishing, you dig through your bedside table for your toy cleaner and a bottle of lube you’d kept just incase. The whole process makes your thighs shake in anticipation, anxiously jittering through cleaning it and clearing off your bed, bringing up a music app on your TV to drown out any impending sounds you won’t be able to contain. Your heart starts to race when you get undressed, stripping yourself all the way down to nothing before securing the lock on your bedroom door.

Soft afternoon light coming through grey clouds makes the thick toy look cold and shadowy, looming against your stark white duvet.

It’s been nearly a year since you’ve had sex, so it’s tireless work even stretching yourself enough on your fingers to try just the tip. It feels like work, your shaking hands and disappointment in yourself, leading you into a string of bitter curses and irritation. It hurts and your thighs strain from holding yourself up and trying to lower yourself on it—no fucking way.

You flop back on your pillows with a loud, shameful groan. Why can’t you just—do this? Why can’t you just relax, let yourself enjoy this? It’s not supposed to be work, it’s supposed to make you feel good.

Realization hits you while staring up at the ceiling fan casting shadows on your walls. “Fuck,” you curse at yourself, draping an arm over your eyes while you try to catch up with your racing mind.

This is what Joel goes through every time he tries to have sex—fighting to make it fit, the frustration that must come with feeling like a novelty, fun but useless. He must feel every bit of humiliation you feel in this moment and then some, faced with women too scared to try, too impatient to work up to it, to cruel to give the same kind of effort Joel must have to give them just to get lucky a few times in his life.

So fucking cruel because you know—know Joel has to be a gracious lover. You see it in every thoughtful thing he does, the effort he puts into small things that equate to the effort he would put into you, worshiping your body with his reverent, greedy grasp. The same hands you’ve seen rope steer, tie up calves for branding. Hands you’ve seen holding reigns and synching saddles, the hands you’ve seen bring life into the world. The same hands you’ve seen wrapped around his cock in a dimly lit bathroom with mindless gasps, flexing biceps and a furrowed brow.

Oh—yeah, theres that hot rush across your skin, that tingle that starts in your thighs and travels up slowly, tickling your starved body. The things Joel would do to you, suddenly filling in the blank spaces behind your eyelids. It’s easy to slip into the fantasy of his big hands, ghosting ever so lightly along your bare thigh, a touch but not quite—like he’s there but he’s so far away, tickling the inside of your right thigh until chills work down your spine, flourishing into faint goosebumps down your legs.

The way he would talk to you, fuck, that would turn you into a murmuring mess for him, that deep rumbly accent of his. You could listen to him talk all damn day long, simple words suddenly transformed into the most eloquent, intoxicating sound that has ever graced your ears. He could probably talk you through an orgasm, blindfolded with minimal effort.

What would he say if he saw you right now?

Look at ya

If he saw you right now, laid out on your bed with a monumental task set before you.

So fuckin’ proud of you, sweet girl.

You feel brave with the phantom whispers of his praise in your ears, so you try a new angle, reminding yourself to breath slowly, relax and let yourself think of Joel.

Joel, who’s obviously ashamed of himself, who probably hasn’t been truly appreciated in years, if ever. Joel—you get past the wide head of the toy and it punches out a soft gasp that catches in your throat—sweet fucking Joel with his thoughtful eyes and graying curls. He’d probably want it like this too, you on your back with him above you, your legs spread wide to accommodate those solid hips instead of your own exploring hands.

I know, I know—you’re doin’ so good, darlin’, just a little bit more for me—thats it

It’s a little less intimidating when you don’t look at the toy in your hands, imagining flesh and pulsing want instead of cold blue silicone. It takes a lot of breaks, a lot of stilling and breathing deep while you force yourself to relax despite the absolutely agonizing stretch. When you get about half way, it hits you that this—this is what it’s going to feel like when he presses into you, the way he’ll burn when he splits you open.

Joel isn’t a boaster on any given day, but witnessing you arched off the mattress with a slacked jaw and quivering muscles, he might let that facade slip.

Shh, baby, I know. S’big, ain’t it? You gonna take it? You gonna be good for me, honey? You can do it, girl—let me ruin you for anyone else.

“Oh, god…” your chest heaves this time, the toy brushing against a spot inside of you no one has ever reached. Your stubbornness bleeds into your desire, determined to get your new favorite toy as deep as you can, your secret, concealable, personal Joel. You’re so damn close now, just a few more inches to go and you’re in the home stretch.

Shit, you’re so tight, think all of me s’gonna fit, baby?

Another inch down and your starting to work up a sweat, one hand holding the blue silicone by the base while the other hand works slow, steady circles through your folds. It helps you take the edge off, doing your best to forget about the way the toy inside of you burns you up, stretches you past what you thought your body was possible of.

Almost there baby, that’s it—thats my girl.

Feel ya squeezin’ me, darlin. You gonna cum? Just from this?

Come on, beautiful—cum for me.

It’s abruptly apparent just how obsessed you are with the eldest Miller when you can nearly picture him crystal clear above you, holding your thighs around his hips while he sinks in deeper, the determined set of his jaw and his wild eyes, consumed entirely by dark pupils that drink you in. He would be breathless right now, probably making soft sounds to the way your body tightens up completely when that final thread finally snaps.

He would be the soul witness to the way your body arches and shakes, the way it pulses around him, recoils then springs to life with a heavy gasp of his name on your parted lips.

That’s my girl, absolutely shakin’ for me, ain’t even fucked you yet.

The adrenaline high takes you soaring across your room, spinning out of control with light dancing behind your closed eyelids. When you come to, the vision slips and it’s no longer Joel you see above you, but your spinning ceiling fan and white popcorn texture.

Your toy is pressed in to the base, finally all of it, every inch of it’s cool blue silicone is wrapped in searing heat.

You’re one step closer to everything you’ve wanted for the last two years—Joel Miller.

The following morning, the breakfast table sits obliviously to the day before, the night before and the early hours of this morning—the ones where you laid out panting his name silently, shaking fingers grasping the blue silicone base.

Now, those same hands grasp a empty fork as you push food around absently. Your eyes are on the plate across from you, Joels big hands on his coffee mug when his sight catches yours. His eyes flick to your parents, then back to you with a knowing glint.

“S’that right, Honey?” You snap out of your daze and glance up at your mother. “Huh?” She offers a oblivious smile. “I was saying how many boys ‘round here are beggin’ at your feet to be their dates for the spring formal.” She smiles over at Joel. “You haven’t been the last two years, but the town puts on this big dance at town hall. Everyone comes dressed to the nines.” Joel tries to imagine you, dressed in a elegant gown, brainless fools groveling at your feet for a chance with a girl like you—he imagines himself, one of those worthless fools right beside them.

“Think it’s comin’ up soon, ain’t it?” Hank asks over a bite of pancake and you look over at your father. “Next week, it falls on my birthday this year. You guys are still okay with Mel coming down for a few days, right?”

Your parents agree easily and the conversation shifts to a new topic, but Joel’s eyes pierce into you through the entire meal.

Plotting, planning and imagination the same things that are running through your equally muddled mind.

Both oblivious to how absolutely fucked you’ll both be come next week.

#cowboy!joel #dbf!joel #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #the last of us #joel the last of us #pedro pascal #cowboy joel miller

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sleepyhead0720 · 2 years ago

Note

May I request a one-shot with Luffy or Ace where Reader is painting a big portrait of them looking really cool?

Sure! I hope you enjoy<3 (you didn’t specify a lot so I added a couple things! Hope you don’t mind<3)

Masterlist

Woah…that looks like ME!

The crew just returned from a rather peaceful island, it was very calm to take a break and relax and not have to worry about the navy being after your boyfriend

During the small break though, you discovered that you enjoyed drawing! And we’re quite good at it too!

More specifically you liked drawing living things, you had been practicing all month, even after you guys departed from that island

You were planning on painting a portrait of luffy! You didn’t know why you wanted to, there wasn’t any special occasion aside from you wanting to see a big smile on your boyfriends face once you show him the portrait

It was meant to be a surprise for him till the it was ready. But of course, things didn’t go as plannned

You huffed and placed the painting brush down

You were almost done with the portrait, you just needed a a little more shad and it would look better

Maybe the next island will have more painting supplies

You didn’t really have to worry on leaving the portrait unintended since luffy was busy bothering Sanji for food and once you arrive to the next island, he would immediately get off the ship in search for food or something

You started packing your stuff up and put a black blanket over the painting

Once you put all the stuff away, you headed to the front deck to see if any island was in view

“Usopp! Is there anything yet?”

“Yes! It’s still far away but I can still see it, it’ll take a couple hours before we reach it”

He gave you a thumbs up

You smiled and headed to the kitchen expecting luffy to be there trying to eat everything in sight

“Y/n-san! What brings you here? Are you hungry?”

You turned to Sanji was already getting ready to cook something for you

“Yea kind of, where’s Luffy? I thought he was here?”

You started to panic a little considering you haven’t seen him at all

Sanji tilted his head

“I thought he was with you? He did say he was going to look for you,”

You panicked

What if he snuck into the room?

“Uh I gotta go really quick!”

You speed walked outside and started heading towards your room

As you got closer, you heard sounds inside as if something was moving there

You really hoped is was some sorts of animal and not luffy

As you peeked you head you saw luffy fidgeting with one of your paint brushes

“Luffy!”

He jumped and turned towards you

“Why are you snooping through my stuff??”

You crossed your arms while glaring at him slightly

“This is your stuff?”

He said bringing up one of your big paint brushes up to his face eyeing it curiously, he then starting brushing his face with it

“Y/n how come it’s so dirty? Is your face THAT dirty?”

You sighed

“No Luffy, it’s not makeup! And even if it was you don’t use it like that,”

“Oh”

You grabbed it and started organizing your stuff

“Is this yours too?”

You were too busy organizing your stuff to notice Luffy approaching your portrait,

But when you did, it was too late

“WAIT NO LUFFY!”

“Woah…That looks like ME!”

He said yelling excitedly pointing at himself and back at the painting

You sighed

“That IS you lu,”

As you started to pick the blanket up, he smiled eyed the painting in awe

It was him standing on top of a rock admiring the sunset, behind him was his straw hat flowing gently behind his back.

“Woah! I look so cool!! Where’d you buy this y/n? It looks straight out of the museum thingy’s!”

He turned towards you, you smiled at his excitement

“I didn’t, I drew it myself, it’s still not done and I was planning on giving to you once it was done,”

“Wait… YOU DID THIS??”

You nodded to which he grinned wildly

“It looks so cool!! Could you do one where me and you are fighting? Or maybe e two of us eating!! Could you, could you???”

He basically lunged at you with excitement raiding off him

You chuckled at his childish behavior

“Sure lu, but it takes a lot of time and I’m not even done with that one,”

He looked confused at your words

“What do you mean? It looks perfect to me!”

The both of you turned towards the portrait for different reasons

Luff because he was trying to find any imperfections

You because you tried to see all the flaws in it

“Well first of all-“

You cut yourself off, even if you did explain you doubted he would understand at all so you just said,

“I want to add more details,”

He still liked confused but accepted your answer

“Well ok! But you ARE doing more right??”

You smiled at him

“Of course Lu,”

|———————————————————————|

#one piece #one piece x you #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #one piece oneshots #op luffy #monkey d luffy #luffy x reader #luffy x y/n #luffy x you

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norman-fucking-reedus · 1 year ago

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high late night thought but I have this crazy idea about the reader making Daryl a multifunctional wooden crossbow and its frying my brain

It happened as the two of you were making your way back to your campsite after a long day of splashing and hand catching fish in the lake, Daryl nudged your shoulder with his and pointed to a deer. “M’gon get it” He whispered, already aimming his crossbow.

You turned your head briefly, checking to see where Dog had wondered off too when you heard what sounded like elastic snapping, followed by Daryl’s very frantic cursing.

“What happened?!” When you whipped around, Daryl was already crouched around the bow as he made an attempt to fix it. You got next to him to try and see what was wrong. “It didn’t fire like it was supposed ta… Hold tha part” Your fingers pinched the piece he pointed at, watching as his hands slightly trembled as he tried to re string the bow to the actual trigger, you holding down the piece that clamps the trigger into place.

Snap.

Daryl held up the fully broken string, feeling his heart break along with it.

“Fuck, I’m sorry Daryl” You whispered as you placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He shook his head, once again trying to jam the string ends back into place but to no avail, only further damaging the weapon. He exhaled in frustration. “I’ve had this damned thing since I was a teenager, it was tha’ first thing Merle ever got fer me” Daryl mumbled, rolling the thick bowstring in his hands. His chest hurt and there was a small lump building in his throat.

You stared down at the crossbow, analyzing it’s shape before carefully picking it up to take a better look at the mechanics. “C’mon. We can figure something out handsome”

It took you a few months to figure something out.

Over that time period, Daryl was absolutely crushed.

He was visibly upset, snapping and yelling at anyone who talked to him, on one occasion at Judith, but he quickly apologized.

It was obvious to everyone that Daryl’s crossbow was of extreme sentimental value, and it would take time for him to heal. Carol had offered to teach him how to use a standard bow, only to be dismissed with an agitated “I used a goddamn bow ‘nd arrow before”

Daryl was frustrated with nobody but himself, frustrated that the countless times he’s had to fix the thing, he couldn’t do it one more time.

You spent the first half of the first month studying how all the strings worked and the mechanisms of the weapon in general. It wasn’t complicated, especially when you started to pick stuff apart. You spent the other half brainstorming and designing ideas for a more sturdier and functional crossbow, trying to stay calm as you watched Daryl intimidatingly stalk around the community. You felt bad knowing you both blamed yourselves, even though it was neither one of yours fault.

You got lucky in the second month, when you and Carol had gotten lost in the woods, and your only flashlight stopped working.

You just couldn’t keep it to yourself anymore, “I’m trying to make Daryl a new crossbow” You blurted out as the two of you stopped walking. Carol turned to you in the dark, striking a match as she did. “That’s nice, how’s it goin?” She smiled softly at your eye roll. “I just don’t know exactly to build it, let alone design” You scoffed, kicking a rock. You weren’t some kind of handyman, but it made busied your mind to have something to build or deconstruct. “Well, we’re in the forest. Why not get some wood?” Carol struck another match, your eyes flickering towards the sound, watching the stick ignite into flames. You nodded, smiling absently as you followed her.

When you got home, you dropped the logs and rummaged through the drawers, grabbing a box of matches and speed walking over to your drawing pad.

You pulled the crossbow out from where you kept it, placing it on the table and quickly walking back to snatch up the logs.

There was more than enough to make a decent amount of arrows, and to try creating a new piece to properly re-string the previously broken one, plopping down into a chair as you started to pick apart the weapon, creative thoughts beginning to flow.

You used your large knife to chop and carve the wood, occasionally nicking yourself or cutting just a little too much off. You took breaks inbetween to draw out ideas, standing up to get a better look before sitting back down, scribbling on the paper or dragging the sharp blade down a wooden piece.

By the third month, you were gluing and securing down new parts and pieces, following a vision in your head.

The crossbow has its original black structure, a small piece of wood right behind the formerly faulty trigger to help it fire once more. You had taken off the head in previous months, not sure what to do with it until recently, picking up the separate piece and turning it around in your hands. The idea of multi function flooded your head, staring down at the arched part and back at the structure as you already busied yourself with mending and bending metal.

You had to re-string and re-wire a few sections, standing up for a test run every so often as you worked vigorously. You were proud of yourself for being able to fix the trigger itself, however this was an even greater fix. You rose to your feet and slid the weapons end over your shoulder, aimming before firing. The string cracked forward as the arrow shot out, and you pulled it back into it’s wooden place, firing one more arrow.

You smiled softly to yourself for being able to fix it, and moved to once more pop the bows head off, only this time setting the structure down and holding it put in front of you, pulling the string back with your fingers and releasing, arrow flying to join the others. “Damn I outdo myself everyday” You pumped a fist in the air as you moved to yank the three arrows from out of the wall.

The head snapped easily back into place, along with the string. You added the dozen wooden sticks you had carved into various sized arrows into the crossbows original holder, staring down at weapon for any overlooked mistakes or potential last minute details. The matchbox briefly crossed your mind.

“Where’s Daryl?” You squinted your eyes and shielded them from the sun, glancing up at Aaron. “Said he was going out. Didn’t wanna push” The man shrugged and you nodded, thanking him for his help before going back to your house to put your gear on.

As you walked out the gates, newly modified crossbow slung around your shoulder, you couldn’t help but wink at your friends prying eyes.

Part of you wasn’t even sure where Daryl would be if not hunting out the woods, but then you realized he wouldn’t go anywhere but the woods.

Your feet led you back to your old campsite, where your heart soared as you spotted faint but very much footprints, following them with your knife drawn closely by your side. The prints were leading you to the lake, and at first you thought maybe you followed old prints, however held your breath when you finally spotted Daryl sitting on the edge of the water. You approached carefully, trying your best to keep the weapon concealed.

“Quit followin’ me” Daryl mumbled when you were standing behind him. You sat next to him, crossbow behind the two of you as you stared out into the water, then at Daryl. He simply looked at ground while digging a small hole with a rock, choosing to remain silent in your presence. It comforted him a little, and he spared a quick glance at you, head snapping upwards. “You- Did you-“ You placed the bow into his lap, fighting your smile as he carefully picked it up and analyzed it. “Why… How’d ya fix it?” He whispered, fingers caressing the wooden chunks and the bow head itself. “I’m sorry it took so long” You mumbled but Daryl shook his head. “Who cares? Ya still fixed it ‘nd then some!” His eyes sparkled as he was already positioning it onto his shoulder, aimming at a nearby tree and whooping at the sound of the string cracking and the arrow flying.

When he noticed the string out of it’s place however, he frowned. “It’s broke” You chuckled, taking the weapon from him and angling it so he could watch you. “It’s got lots of new feats. Bow and arrow good sir?” You popped off the head and handed it him, laughing at his stunned look. Daryl held the arch out in front of him and pulled the string back, sending an arrow next to the previous one. He whipped his head back around, eyes catching your fingers as they fiddled with a red stripe in the middle of the structure, right where the arrow goes. “I haven’t tested this myself” You whispered as you showed Daryl how to properly snap the head back on before rising to your feet.

“Ain’t a self-destruct is it?” Daryl stretched as he stood next to you, moving to yank the few strays out the tree. You shook your head, sliding one of your wooden arrows out the holder and bringing it to the stripe, quickly dragging it across and sliding it into position, flames licking the arrows head. Daryl whistled as it fired into a tree, fire still burning until it wasn’t. “Damn girl. I ain’t ever lettin’ ya get away” Daryl stepped into your space, one hand grabbing your waist and the other relieving you of the heavy weapon, slinging it over his shoulder. “Nice strap” He snorted, glancing down at the magneta shoulder strap replacing his black one. You softly kissed his lips, smiling as your hands rested against his chest. “How else will I identify you, huntermam?” His hands on your waist pulled you closer, thumbs rubbing circles into the skin. Daryl looked and felt much more like himself, an easy smile resting on his lips, his crossbow once again slung over his shoulder, and his woman warm under the touch of his hands.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

its 3 am and im fucking high as fuck guys live laugh love actually who’s down for a stoner reader fic thats sounds so fire

｡･:*:･ﾟ★｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★

#the walking dead #daryl dixon #norman fucking reedus #the walking dead daryl #daryl x reader #twd #daryl fanfiction #daryl dixion imagine #twd daryl #daryl x female reader #twd daryl dixon #daryl twd

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justsomerandomfanfic · 3 months ago

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Hi how are you? I love your writings❤️ Can I get a romantic matchup with LOTR, HOBBIT, Harry Potter, Marvel? I am 25. She/Her. I can match with a man or woman. I have short dark brown curly hair and hazel eyes. I have white skin, my height is around 1.65 and I'm curvy.

I'm generally introverted and cold-blooded. I'm stubborn. I'm generally pretty patient, but when I run out of patience I can get very grumpy. I'm a bit of a pessimist. I don't talk much outside unless necessary and prefer to observe. I am a good listener. To outsiders, I seem strict, distant and sometimes a little scary, but to those around me, I am very talkative, friendly, affectionate and fun. I'm also a good secret keeper, tell me anything and I'll take it to my grave. I am a faithful and loyal person. I'm a perfectionist. I always like to have everything orderly and under control, but sometimes it can be very challenging. I'm independent, I try not to get help for anything and I don't like to fit into certain stereotypes. I am always respectful and even interested in opposing views. I have a hard time voicing my opinions on anything, which can sometimes make me seem rude or disrespectful, but I really don't mean any harm. I'm a nerdy girl and I'm okay with that.✨️

I live in my own world. I love drawing, watching TV series and movies, and listening to music. I also love writing. I love learning new things about any subject. I love art, literature, philosophy, history and mythology. My favorite colors are black and green. I can listen to any genre of songs I like depending on my mood. But some of my Favorites are Diary of Dreams, The Gazette, The Neighbourhood, Chase Atlantic, One Republic, Marina and The Diamonds, Paris Paloma, Lana Del Rey, Billie Eilish, Hozier, Melanie Martinez, Mitski, AC/DC and Iron Maiden. My favorite TV series is Hannibal. I love thrillers, true crime, detective and mystery, fantasy and sci-fi. I think these are the things that come to my mind right now... thank you! I hope you have a good day❤️

Hi! I am so sorry that I got to this so late! I feel terrible! <3

But, I hope you like your matchups!

{Trying a different layout}

Romantic Matchup; LOTR, The Hobbit, Harry Potter, and Marvel

~~~

Lord Of The Rings;

Aragorn -

You met Aragorn at the very beginning, and despite being a lady, you were personally invited by Lord Elrond himself to join the meeting to see who would take the ring to Mordor.

You didn't really talk much, or at all, but you observed, being a good listener; though, as one by one spoke up, debating, your attention went straight to the mysterious, tall, dark, and handsome stranger whose voice you really liked - he was handsome, as said, and he was bringing up some good points.

Hands clasped together in your lap, you watched as people began to argue, and you were just a smidge annoyed.

Well, who knew you were going to become part of the Fellowship Of The Ring?

It was difficult at the beginning of the journey. Gimli and Boromir were pretty adamant that the journey was no place for a lady - far too dangerous, they said!

But Aragorn, you had learned his name, stood up for you, bringing up the fact that Lord Elrond himself asked you to join, that they should all trust his judgment.

Well, you showed them, on more than one occasion, that you were a wise and strong person.

Now, throughout the journey, you had slowly, slowly gotten used to the people around you. The Hobbits were easy to befriend, honestly.

But, at some point, you had grown comfortable in their presence, enough that you had grown to become more talkative and friendly.

Though, it was different with Aragorn. You didn't know if it was just you, but you thought that maybe there was something different in the way he spoke to you than he did with the others. Maybe it was just you...

Maybe...

Well, it turns out that Aragorn was quite taken with you, having caught his eyes the moment you joined the meeting in Rivendell; dressed beautifully, presence respectful, and eyes shimmering with a certain intelligence and strength that captured his interest almost instantly.

And his interest had only grown the more he got to meet you, get to know, and understand you; not only were you intelligent, respectful, strong, and understanding, but you were also loyal and independent - something Aragorn admired greatly.

As the journey continues, minus the orcs and whatever troubles you all run into, you and Aragorn's bond begins to grow the more you spend together.

From late nights of keeping watch sharing your favorite stories and books to recalling your favorite topics in history; there are even nights when you talk the night away about everything your heart desires, until you fall asleep, your head resting on his shoulder.

Aragorn didn't have the heart to wake you...

Despite you being an incredibly good fighter and defender, Aragorn always makes sure that you are alright after an attack from orcs or something. You do the same, your eyes at the end of a fight would search for each other, small faint smiles of relief on your faces.

In the end, Aragorn gives you the best room while you and the rest of the Fellowship stay in his kingdom after he is crowned king. Your room is one of the biggest, and close to his room, in case you need anything.

He makes sure that you have everything that you could possibly need. Someone to wait on you in case you need something, need help changing, a bath to be drawn, a snack, anything. And do not worry, you are not a burden. Aragorn would do anything for you.

Another thing; Aragorn gifts you lavish clothing, in green and black, that you are comfortable in. The sight of the new article always brings a smile to your face and a rush of blood to your cheeks. And, of course, he always compliments you when he sees you.

Whilst you stay, Aragorn often finds you in the library, reading, drawing, or just admiring the view outside - he often joins you, to talk, laugh, or just spend time in your amazing company.

Aragorn finally confesses his feelings and admiration for you after you.

"You have been my strength through every shadow and trial - my heart has long been yours, though I have been too much a fool to say it."

Well, let's just say, that you didn't end up leaving after that.

You and Aragorn work seamlessly together, both of you valuing independence and the quiet strength that comes with keeping order. Patience is a shared virtue, though he is perhaps more steadfast than yours.

Your friendly and affectionate nature balances his quiet reserve, while your stubborn loyalty earns his deepest respect.

Even in moments when your pessimism clouds your thoughts, he admires your unwavering commitment to those you care for, finding strength in the fire that drives you.

~~~

The Hobbit;

Thorin Oakenshield -

You had run into the Dwarves and one Hobbit when they were getting attacked by the spiders in Mirkwood.

You were heading to Mirkwood - Thorin thought that was suspicious - but instead of just letting them suffer through spiders, you helped them cut out of webs and stab spiders to death; you were truly skilled fighter, it was no wonder most of the Company wanted to keep you.

Though you were a bit hesitant and distant - you met up with them, fighting off orcs, jumping in an empty barrel, and holding onto Bilbo so he wouldn't drown.

As you were all racing down the raging river, you didn't know if you were having fun or not. More like worrying over the whole group and making sure after every small waterfall that you counted each Dwarf.

One, two, three, ah, okay, all accounted for, all alive...

Thorin, even though you helped him and his family/friends out of danger, he didn't really know what to think of you. His blue eyes would watch you, observing you, as you also observed your surrounding, whilst also listening to the Dwarves about their stories and adventures.

He didn't know what to think of you at the very moment, but he thanked you for your help, to himself.

But you had been able to bond with most of the other Dwarves, like Fili and Kili, which consisted of laughter, shared stories, and affectionate hugs.

And when Kili was in pain, though you worried and your mind thought only of the worst, you held his hand.

These actions made the King Under The Mountain reconsider you for a moment. Maybe there was something different about you.

That night, as you curled close to the fire that night before he and the rest of the Company - minus a few - left for Erebor, Thorin found a spare blanket and placed it upon your sleeping form.

And only after the defeat of Smaug, and after the war - and everyone surviving - did he finally realize that maybe the 'something different' about you was actually because you might've been his One; he just was too stubborn to truly see it.

This new realization hit him hard, and at first, the King was scared. He had wished that he had gotten to know you more, had spoken to you more.

Well, you were here now, partying with the rest - of men, dwarves, elves, and Hobbits alike. Maybe, this was his chance to push aside his stubbornness and brooding and speak to you.

He made his move, surprising you by asking you to join him for a drink, where he gave you a goblet of red wine. And for the next hour or so, you spoke among yourselves, on the sidelines of the raging party. *Disco music.*

There, you and Thorin spoke about the music, your favorite instruments, books your loved to read, and more. All the while, you didn't seem to notice the way Thorin's eyes softened as you rambled slightly.

At the end of the first night of many more nights of partying and celebrating the return of their home, Thorin finally spoke up.

"You have fought beside me with a courage that humbles even a king - I would wish it that you stay here in Erebor a while longer, so I may properly show my gratitude."

It is while you are staying longer in Erebor that he finally reveals to you that you are his One.

To keep a long story short, all while courting, you and Thorin would sit by the fire and read quietly together, take walks through Erebor's halls, write sweet letters to each other, and Thorin would braid a piece of your hair, clasping it with his homemade, one-of-a-kind bead.

You and Thorin share a bond forged in mutual respect and quiet understanding.

He admires your love for reading and thirst for knowledge, seeing it as a strength that complements his vision for Erebor.

Even your perfectionist tendencies, though sometimes a point of contention, earn his respect - he sees in you someone who strives for greatness, much like himself.

Your unwavering support has become a pillar he relies on.

~~~

Harry Potter;

Remus Lupin -

You and Remus first met at Hogwarts as students, though your friendship didn’t blossom immediately.

You were a quiet, observant presence, often keeping to yourself. He was aware of you from a distance, admiring your calm, controlled demeanor, which differed from his more lighthearted friends.

It was a nice different.

Although you were distant from new and strange people, your shared classes often brought you together.

You both preferred studying in quiet corners of the library, where Remus noticed how you worked meticulously, seeing how much you loved to learn not only from books but also from lessons.

Finally, after you had both gotten use to each other, you began studying together in the library.

You even started correcting his notes.

When Sirius and James found out about that, they teased him.

Over time, you became close enough for him to see the softer, affectionate side you reserved for those you trusted.

You’d often listen patiently as he confided in you, especially during stressful times.

Full moon times. It had taken him a year and a half to tell you he was a werewolf, and he was incredibly nervous that you would tell everyone or just not be his friend anymore.

He was scared that you would look at him in disgust.

He would miss your hugs as hellos in the mornings, he would miss the peaceful conversations regarding your interests.

He would miss the way your face would light up at the mention of your favorite muggle movies or show, or how you would ramble beautifully on and on about myths and philosophy. He wouldn't dare stop you.

He loved the sound of your voice.

He was a bit of a pessimist himself.

Surprisingly, and to his shock, he found great comfort in your reaction. When he finally gathered the courage to tell you his secret, his heart raced, waiting for the look of disgust he feared you’d give him.

But instead, you remained calm, simply listening, your eyes thoughtful yet soft. You placed a hand on his, a simple gesture that spoke volumes, steadying him as you always had in the quiet way that had drawn him to you from the start.

“You’re still Remus." You had told him. “The rest doesn’t change who you are.”

Years after graduation, you both found yourselves back at Hogwarts, now as professors.

Remus was pleasantly surprised to see you again, finding it easy to pick up where you two had left off.

Your no-nonsense attitude and perfectionism made you a strict professor, yet students respected you for your dedication and fairness. And also quite enjoyed that you would give them little treats and snacks after long quizzes or tests.

Remus often visited your office to chat after classes. You’d sometimes scold him for his relaxed teaching style, though he found it endearing.

Despite your -sometimes - grumpy demeanor, you cared deeply, which he always noticed in the way you’d subtly check on his health and workload.

Especially when the full moons were around the bend.

Remus would find chocolate on his desk in DADA.

And you'd find books on your favorite topics on yours.

After long days of teaching, you and Remus would often sit by the fire in his quarters or yours, sharing tea or hot chocolate. The two of you would talk about myths, Muggle literature, and your favorite Muggle music, losing track of time until the early hours of the morning.

It reminded you of how you and Remus would sit in the Common Room studying until the wee hours of the morning.

He loved the way you spoke passionately about the things that you were interested in, and he’d always encouraged you to keep talking, no matter how tired he was.

You’d both spend hours in the library or his office, quietly reading together. He’d occasionally glance up from his book to watch you, marveling at how beautiful you looked when lost in thought. When you found an interesting passage, you’d excitedly share it with him, and he’d always listen intently.

Adding onto the topic of full moons; on the nights leading up to the full moon, you’d make sure he had everything he needed. You’d sit with him if he was feeling anxious. After the full moon, you’d bring him breakfast and sit with him while he rested, healing, reading aloud from his favorite books, or telling him stories to help him relax.

On particularly difficult days, you’d end up falling asleep together on the couch in either of your quarters, surrounded by books and papers for grading. He’d wake up first, brushing a strand of hair from your face, marveling at how peaceful you looked.

Those quiet moments reminded him just how much he loved you and how lucky he felt to have you by his side.

You and Remus are great together because you balance each other out perfectly - his calm, steady nature complements your quiet strength, while your loyalty and understanding provide him with the comfort and support he needs.

Together, you share a deep, unspoken bond, rooted in mutual respect, affection, and a quiet love that grows stronger with each and every passing day.

~~~

Marvel;

Natasha Romanoff -

As Avengers, you and Natasha work seamlessly together. Ever since the beginning, when she wasn't on solo missions or with Clint, you were with her.

Your cold-blooded efficiency in battle complements her own calculated and lethal style.

You’re both perfectionists who thrive on order and control, often planning out every detail of a mission to ensure success. While you can be distant or strict with new recruits, Natasha sees through your tough exterior and knows that beneath it lies a fiercely loyal and caring partner.

You're not one to speak much during operations, preferring to observe and stay silent, but Natasha appreciates the way you always anticipate the next move.

You’re skilled in hand-to-hand combat, just as skilled with weapons.

You’re not just observant on the battlefield but a force to be reckoned with. You’ve honed your combat skills, and even Natasha, with all her experience, finds herself impressed.

She often asks to spar with you, in which it often ends in a tie or the both of you winning the same amount of times.

Away from the chaos of the battlefield, you might not be as expressive or outgoing as some of the other Avengers, in the beginning. It takes you a bit to open up, but when you do, you have become friends with all of them.

You are talkative, laughing along, having fun with them; along with being affectionate, joking punches to the arm, or hugs goodbye.

However, when not spending time with the team, a quiet night spent watching movies or reading is how you like to spend your nights. Unless you are dragged to one of Tony's parties.

Natasha being similar to you, needs time to really get to know you, see what makes you tic, before she can truly let herself be vulnerable around you. And you have proven to her that you were worthy enough, and trustful enough for her to break out of her own shell.

She finds herself finding you around the tower, joining you in the kitchen to grab a snack, or even joining in when you put on your favorite show; Hannibal.

This friendly bonding becomes more and more often, almost weekly you and Natasha find yourselves spending more time together, even time with just the two of you.

The more you spent together, the more the bond between the two of you began to bloom into something more, something beautiful.

"You know... I think I trust you more than anyone else." She would speak up randomly as you both sat against the headboard of your bed, watching your favorite movie.

"Even Stark?" You would ask.

"Yeah, even him." She would reply, her smile matching yours.

Before you knew it, everything would shift.

From small, gentle brushes of the fingers as either pass by or a rare, soft smile just for each other... It was obvious that there was something happening between you two.

On lazy days - not really, the both of you end up in the gym sparring most lazy days - but if you aren't in the gym; pushing for each other to be better, you and Nat would sit in quieter corners of the tower, away from the hustle of the others.

She'd sit beside you as you read, her hand resting on your leg or her head resting on your shoulder. She would sit and listen to you read, or when you weren't reading aloud, she would rest her eyes, maybe even nap; the soft sound of Paris Paloma and Lana del Rey in the background

As a couple, Natasha respects your boundaries and your need for space, but when she needs you, you’re always there— - strong and reliable. In return, she supports you, offering her own quiet form of affection.

You’re never truly alone.

You balance each other, and neither you nor Nat would have it any other way.

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humanpurposes · 2 years ago

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Just for a Moment, part i

Tom Bennett has a habit of climbing through her bedroom window whenever he's in trouble // Main Masterlist

Tom Bennett x OFC

Warnings: 18+, mentions of war and death, friends to lovers, angst, fluff, eventual smut

Words: 3800

A/n: Me? Starting another series to avoid updating ongoing fics? No wayyyy. This is going to be a 4 part mini series and their song is When the Sun Hits by Slowdive, just so you know. Also available to read on AO3.

Tom Bennett had always had a talent for getting under people’s skin.

Kitty knew it when they were kids, when they’d run around the streets of Longsight and the alleyways behind Slade Grove. He would rile anyone up, regardless if they were older or bigger than him. He didn’t even do it for a reason, he just liked to get a raise out of people.

He used to tease her too, for all sorts of stupid reasons, because she was a year younger than him, because her mother used to dress her in shirts and shorts that used to belong to her older brothers, because when they’d buy bags of Yorkshire mix from the shop, she would only eat the red ones. Every Sunday after Church, they’d sit in the park or on the front step of the Bennetts’ house, and Tom would pick out every sweet he knew she liked, and keep the rest for himself.

When Tom was eleven he moved to the big school, where Kitty’s brothers all went, Eddie, Art and Stevie. Eddie was a prefect. He used to come home with all sorts of stories of Tom Bennett, ‘from over the road’. Tom talked back to his teachers, disrupted assemblies, picked fights with other kids, every offence Kitty’s mind could imagine.

It only got worse when his mam died.

Thursday 12th July, 1928

Kitty had never been to a funeral before. She had a new dress and a black overcoat for the occasion. It was cold in the church graveyard, overcast and windy. Mam had held her hand so tightly she wondered if she’d ever get it back.

The Bennetts stood together, on the other side of the grave. Lois’ hair was braided into a messy plait that stuck out on one side, the ribbon at the end tied into a knot rather than a bow. She was trying to hold her father’s shoulder as he cried, but she couldn’t quite reach. Tom stood a little further away from his father. His hair was messy, his knees scabbed and bruised, his shirt skewed and the buttons done in the wrong places.

Kitty kept her eyes on him, all through the service, the burial and the wake back at number 27. Tom didn’t cry once.

That night, when she should have been asleep, she lay awake in her bed, listening to her brothers whispering and in the next room as they always did. Sometimes she felt sad to be left out of their antics, but tonight she was glad to be on her own, in her little box room at the front of the house.

Until she heard a tapping on the window.

She froze between her sheets. Was it too late for it to have been a bird?

And then it came again, tap, tap, tap.

With a determined little huff, she rose from the bed, smoothed her hands down the front of her nightgown and drew back the curtains.

“Tom?” she whispered.

He grinned when he saw her, perched on the windowsill behind the glass.

Kitty raised the window and before she could invite him in he was crawling through it.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

Tom shrugged and went to sit on the edge of her bed. He glanced around the room, at the little shelf of books, dolls and small wooden animals, the black overcoat hung on the back of the door and the drawings stuck to the wardrobe. He’d been in the Wheelans’ kitchen before, but he’d never been allowed upstairs.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, far too loudly for Kitty’s liking.

She pressed a firm finger against his lips. She held her breath, waiting for one of the lads to notice, but they kept on chatting– whatever it was teenage boys chatted about.

“Keep your voice down,” she said.

Tom smiled against her finger and made a cross over his heart.

She sat beside him, swaying her legs while she tried to think of something to say.

Tom reached for a book on her bedside table and flicked through the pages. When he was bored of that, he grabbed her teddy. He tossed it about in his hands and ran his hands over the ancient and matted fur. It had been Eddie’s, back in the day. Every single one of her brothers had owned it before her.

“I don’t like seeing my dad cry,” Tom said.

Kitty frowned. “Why not?”

“I just don’t like it. He’s always been a bit…”

Dad had often mentioned the case of Douglas Bennett. They had fought in the same regiment in 1914. When Micheal Wheelan came back from war, he returned as a self-proclaimed hero. His boys loved to hear his stories and take turns wearing his medals. Douglas Bennett had returned to Manchester a far more troubled kind of man.

“And with mum he–” but he stopped himself with an irritated grunt. “Can I stay here?”

“What?”

“Not forever, I just… can I sit here, just for a moment?”

Kitty took the teddy from him and placed her hand firmly in his. “That’s what we’re doing, isn’t it?”

From then on, Tom made quite a habit of appearing at the window and hiding in her room whenever he was in trouble.

Saturday 2nd September, 1939

Being up and out before the boys are awake is a strange feeling, it’s the only time the house is so quiet.

It’s just before dawn. The sky is a hazy shade of dark blue but an orange glow is starting to appear over the rooftops. Mr Gregory wants her in the shop early to help with a delivery.

Something draws her eyes from her black leather shoes on the pavement, up to the end of the street. A figure makes his way down Slade Grove. She recognises the sway of his shoulders and the end of a lit cigarette in his mouth.

“Alright, pretty Kitty?” Tom says when they’re in earshot of each other, taking the cigarette between his fingers. “What are you doing up so late?”

“It’s early,” she says. He’s in a jacket and slacks, and he has a dazed sort of look in his eyes. She can guess where he’s been but it doesn’t stop her from asking. “What have you been up to?”

“Don’t give me that look,” he says, taking another drag. He tilts his chin up and exhales the smoke above their heads through pouted lips. “Just been down the pub, nothing scandalous.”

A likely story. She’s seen the police knocking on their front door twice in four weeks.

“How’s your job in the shop going?” he asks.

It was supposed to be temporary, a little money to make ends meet after dad got laid off from the factory. Six months later and she’s still there.

“Grand,” she says.

“Can you do me mates rates on a packet of Marlboros?”

“Yeah, if you promise to actually buy them.”

He clutches his chest and his face lights up in an ironic expression. “Of course, what sort of man do you take me for?”

The sort who used to sell cigarettes in the schoolyard— God knows how he got his hands on them in the first place. At that age he could talk himself out of anything. That’s what makes Tom Bennett every parent’s worst nightmare, he’s a troublemaker with pretty blue eyes and an infectiously charming smile.

“I should get going,” she says, taking another step until Tom moves in front of her. Her eyes meet with the collar of his jacket and the hollow of his throat. She can smell the musk of the pub on him, the cigarette smoke and the faded scent of his aftershave.

She looks up to his face and his expression has changed, not quite smiling but amused, smug and somewhat severe.

“What?” she says impatiently.

“Nothing,” he says, unphased, “have a good shift.”

The morning drags on at a gruelling pace. Mr Gregory’s getting on a bit now so Kitty has to do a lot of the heavy lifting, piling boxes into the storage room round the back, going through the stock in the shop, filling the shelves, flattening the boxes and bringing them to the bins outside. It feels like hours of work, but when she looks at the clock it’s not even 9. Eight hours until closing. Mr and Mrs Gregory live above the shop, so at least she gets a steady supply of tea, toast and bits of carrot cake.

By the afternoon she feels her eyes start to close. The morning rush is over now and business will dwindle for the rest of the day. She tries to stay awake, fanning herself with her blouse and nibbling on little mouthfuls of cake.

The bell above the door rings. She straightens her spine and smooths down her apron, ready to put on her best customer service voice, only for Tom Bennett to swagger in through the door.

He’s changed his clothes and donned a blue jacket instead of the earthy green she had seen him in earlier.

“Did you get enough sleep?” Kitty asks at the heavy look under his eyes.

He grins it off. “Packet of Marlboros please, Miss Wheelan.”

She fetches them from the cabinet behind the counter and places the packet in front of him. His aftershave smells a little stronger now. “Anything else?”

He drums his fingers against the counter, looking around innocently at the array of chocolate bars and the jars of sweets behind her.

“I’ll have a bag of Yorkshire mix,” he says.

She takes the jar down from the shelf. She can hear him breathing steadily through his nose as she scoops the sweets into a paper bag. When she turns back around he’s watching her.

“Nine pence,” she says, swallowing down a nervous feeling in her throat.

Tom counts through some change from his pocket and drops the coins into her hands, a sixpence and a thruppence. His fingertips brush over her palms and his knuckles are scabbed over. She dreads to think why.

“Nice one,” he says once she puts the payment through the till. “What do you make of this stuff going on in Poland then?” he says, popping a pear drop into his mouth.

She’s only been reading the headlines of the papers when she stocks them in the shop every morning, or hearing snippets from dad’s radio.

“Since when did you start taking an interest in foreign affairs?” she asks.

He reaches into the bag and pulls out a raspberry. “Been reading the news, haven’t I?” he says, holding it out for her.

She hesitates for a moment before she takes it. She lets the sugar melt over her tongue. It tastes like summer afternoons after school and weekends in the park, tearing at the grass and watching the boys play football because they’d never let her join in.

“That’s where Harry is, isn’t it?” she says, “Lois must be worried.

Tom tuts and tucks the bag into his pocket. “Posh boys can talk their way out of anything,” he says. “Speaking of, I met Madge’s new man last night.”

“At the pub?”

“Yeah. Right ponce in’t he?”

She purses her lips in irritation. She hates it when he does this, poking fun at others until he feels better about himself. “He’s training to be a barrister.”

“Like I said.”

She shrugs. “I suppose there are worse jobs to have.”

“Is that what you’ll do then? Find some rich boy with a big house and stick up his arse?”

It’s not quite the future she has planned out for herself. Her friend Madge is a secretary in Manchester. There are all sorts of exams she had to pass, but it could be doable. Mam’s always tried to put her off it though. “Parents need their girls,” she says.

“I don't think I’m likely to find any of those in Longsight. Maybe I should ask Lois for advice?” she says, trying not to smile.

“Steady there, Kitty, I didn’t mean to get you all excited,” he says, leaning into the counter. His voice is lower all of a sudden, it sends an odd, jittery feeling though her chest and stomach.

He winks at her before he turns and leaves. The bell rings and the shop is quiet again.

Her feet feel heavy when she walks through the front door. Her bed calls her name but she’s unbearably thirsty. Saturdays are half days and the boys are already home from the factory. Mam’s started on dinner and the others are around the kitchen table.

Dad waves a blue leaflet at her. “One of Douglas Bennett’s pacifist… things,” he says.

“Do you really think there’ll be a war, dad?” Kitty says, shrugging off her coat.

“If there is, it won’t be long,” he says with a determined nod, “no one wants another war.”

Eddie and Art hum in agreement. The oldest of the four Wheelan siblings, they were born before dad went away to war. Their faces are older and more stern, like they can still remember a time when they didn’t have their father around. They still call Stevie and Kitty “the babies,” which she thinks must make them feel more important.

Stevie’s in good spirits though. “Ran into Lois and Connie on the bus, and Connie personally invited me to their gig tonight!” he says brightly.

“Come off it,” Art grumbles, “she was just being friendly.”

“Kitty!” Stevie sings, waltzing over to her. He takes her coat from her hands and twirls her around the kitchen, to mam’s despair. “Come to the Fiddler’s Bow with me tonight, please.”

“So you can ditch me for Connie once their set’s done?”

“There’ll be other people there,” Stevie says, turning her around to face their brothers, “or ask one of these grumpy bastards to join us.”

“Stephen Wheelan!” their mother chides.

Eddie and Art share a pointed look and shake their heads, already backing away towards the front room.

In the end she decides she’ll just have to brave it. After eating, she changes into a flowy, white blouse and an emerald green skirt, pinning her hair up so it won’t go everywhere as she moves. She hides a tube of lipstick inside her purse. Mam and dad would rather die than let her leave the house with makeup. She only owns a lipstick because Lois Bennett had given her one.

Stevie brushes up well, in a white shirt and freshly shined leather shoes, his hair slicked back with wax. They run into each other on the landing and race downstairs.

Mam gives them the usual instructions. Home by 11 o'clock and not a minute later. One drink each. No smoking. No noise when they get in.

Stevie’s already pulling a packet of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket when they’re halfway through the front door.

And Kitty’s breath hitches when, for the third time that day, she sees Tom Bennett. He’s hovering in the doorway, putting empty milk bottles out. When he notices them, he smiles. “Off somewhere nice?” he says.

“Fiddler’s Bow,” Stevie calls back, “to see Lois and Connie play.”

“She’s down there already,” Tom says, his eyes flickering to Kitty for only a moment, “left half an hour ago.”

He’s in a white t-shirt now, that’s just a little too tight against his torso.

“Why don’t you join us?” Kitty says without thinking it through. “Stevie’s going for Connie, I’ll need a partner once he ditches me.”

Tom looks down at the pavement. His lips are thin and his hands fidget by his side. “I’ve um… got something else on tonight, ‘m sorry.”

Her heart sinks. Any lighthearted hope she had about enjoying the evening dissolves right in front of her. Right, of course, because why would he actually want to spend more than a few moments with her?

“Movin’ on,” Stevie says, steering Kitty down the road with a brief farewell to Tom. “He’s no good, you know that?” he whispers in her ear. “Eddie says he nicks scrap metal from the yard, sells it to all sorts dodgy fuckers.”

“Yeah, I know,” she breathes. Her chest feels tight and suddenly she feels like she wants to cry.

Stevie has a good time at the gig. Lois and Connie are first in the lineup and once their set is over, Stevie makes a point of cheering the loudest. The four of them spend the rest of the night dancing.

When Stevie and Connie disappear outside for a smoke, Kitty drags Lois to the bar, to catch their breath and down glasses of tonic water. Lois drones on about her Harry issue, but having three older brothers who presume every word they say is profound and worthy of note, Kitty knows where to hum and nod without really listening.

They walk Connie home first before the three of them make their way to Slade Grove. The houses are quiet now, save for a few lights in the windows, creeping through drawn curtains. Two policemen are standing outside number 27.

“Have you seen your brother?” one of them calls to Lois when she reaches the door.

“No,” Lois says, “but if you see him before I do, will you tell him he’s in trouble?”

Kitty meets Stevie’s eyes and he raises his brows.

“Piss off,” she grumbles.

Mam and dad have gone to bed, but Eddie and Art are playing cards in the front room— or they should be. Eddie is standing by the window, peering through the curtains.

“Who are they after?” Eddie asks.

“Who do you think?” Kitty mutters, but she doesn’t stay to hear another rant about ‘troublesome Tom Bennett’, and slips her shoes off before she makes her way upstairs.

It can’t be said Tom doesn’t make an impression on the people he meets. Mam and dad still have a soft spot for him, though less so since he’s started getting into trouble with the police, and the lads seem to outright despise him.

She’d be lying if she said he didn’t find him irritating, to a certain degree. Maybe it’s because he’s cocky, maybe it’s because he used to be surprisingly sweet, or maybe it’s because nothing seems to phase him, but something about Tom Bennett makes her restless.

She wipes off her lipstick, takes out the pins in her hair and changes into her nightgown. Her eyes feel heavy, but tomorrow is Sunday, which means the shop will be closed and she can have a whole day of ‘freedom’, so long as that includes helping with the laundry and the dinner.

Dad’s snores are evident and the boys are still distracted downstairs, they’ve even put the radio on by the sound of it.

She’s about to turn off the light when she hears three taps on the window.

He knows it’s unlocked. The window slides up and Tom squeezes through it, slipping his boots off so he doesn’t make too much noise when he plants his feet on the floor. He goes straight to the bed, making himself comfortable over the throw with his hands under his head.

“Lois says the police have been round,” he says quietly.

She looks down at her hands, nervously playing with the fabric of her nightgown. “I saw.”

He turns his head to where she stands. The lamp hits his face like sunlight, catching the sharp features of his face, the point of his nose and the curve of his lips.

She nudges him closer to the wall, making some space for herself beside him. Her body rests against his. He smells like smoke and fresh air.

“What did you do this time?” she asks.

He doesn’t give her an answer. In a way she thinks she’d rather not know.

His arm falls around her and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Nights with him are often like this, quiet, just two people existing in the same space.

He turns on his side to face her. “Can I stay the night?”

“Tom,” she whispers, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Please, or I’ll have to sleep on a couch in the pub.”

“Are you mad? can you imagine what Eddie’ll do if he sees you walking out my bedroom in the morning?”

“Kitty,” he hums. He brings his hand to her face, gently stroking his thumb over her cheek. His eyes are wide and pleading. “Please.”

It’s in moments like this when she hates Tom the most, when her heart thrums in her chest and she wants nothing more than to lose herself in the feeling of his skin against hers. When their heads are so close together, all she sees are two blue eyes.

Each time she thinks she wants to close the distance between them, something stops her.

Neither of them ever dare to move closer than this.

She reaches to turn off the light and turns back to Tom. Her head falls into his chest and her arm settles around his waist. She falls asleep to the pulse of his heartbeat, the sound of his breath and the warmth of his body.

And by the time the sun shines in through the window, he’s gone.

Sunday 3rd September, 1939

She appears in the kitchen just after 11 o’clock. Her body feels heavy and her eyes are still tired. She shouldn’t have gone back to sleep after she woke up the first time.

Dad’s fiddling with the radio, Art’s pouring tea into six cups, and Eddie and mam are listening to Steive’s retelling of the previous night. He seems incredibly proud of himself, despite the fact the closest he came to kissing Connie was lighting her cigarette.

She helps Art with the tea. They all like it the same way. Strong, with one sugar and a little dash of milk.

It might almost be a perfect morning, if dad were listening to something more uplifting than the news.

“How about some music?” she says as she hands him his cup, but he doesn’t take it. His eyes are fixed on the radio, and his hands are shaking.

“Dad…”

Art appears over her shoulder and turns up the volume. “Quiet,” he says, and the others fall silent.

A voice speaks through the crackles in the transmission, “consequently, this country is at war with Germany.”

Kitty looks at the faces around her, Eddie and Art glaring furiously, Stevie’s wide eyes and his lips fallen like a child’s, mam and dad’s haunted sorrow.

The transmission ends and she wishes it didn’t, it would save her from the grave silence in the house.

She decides to make herself busy. She washes out an empty milk bottle and goes to leave it by the door.

When she opens the door the two policemen are back, only now they’re walking out of the Bennetts’ house.

Her heart sinks. They have Tom in handcuffs.

His eyes meet hers across the road. He doesn’t make a fuss, or try to protest. He hangs his head as they walk him down the street.

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince (comment to be added)

Series taglist: (comment to be added)

#my fics #tom bennett #tom bennett fanfiction #tom bennett fanfic #world on fire #wof #world on fire bbc #world on fire season 2 #world on fire fanfiction #tom bennett x ofc #tom bennett x female reader #tom bennett x y/n #tom bennet x reader #ewan mitchell #tom bennett smut

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grimogretricks · 6 months ago

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The Magnus Protocol 30- season finale

A gut punch of a season finale ! My thoughts on this, and how the relationships between the characters set this up, below.

Found myself exclaiming CELIA!!! out loud at this one! Genuinely, in retrospect, I think the dynamic between Sam, Celia and Alice was set up very well for the utter gut punch of this season finale ending.

At the start, Alice had the upper hand, she was the one in control, cracking jokes for every occasion, taking nothing seriously, very much by design. She overstepped boundaries at times with her jokes, and wasn’t all that respectful of Sam. At every turn she disapproved of him looking any deeper into things, and Alice’s constant insistence that they should NOT investigate anything was quite wearying. It was easy to sympathise with Sam wanting to investigate more and more, so we could get more information as to where the plot was going.

As it went on though, and Sam established his relationship with Celia and got an ally in the investigation, and finally it felt like, yes, here he was getting somewhere.

But we all know, from TMA, that the urge to investigate, the urge to actually go prying into mystery, is a double edged sword, made of many fears, ready to drag a person into a complex web of fear in which ‘knowing’ in itself can feed a dark power. The ‘somewhere’ that you can go, is not a good ‘somewhere’.

At the back of our minds then, whenever Alice says ‘don’t!’ we sympathise with Sam’s need to know, but at the back of our mind, know that Alice is right. Even if it’s also true, ignorance at this point couldn’t save them.

On the personal level as well, it’s easy to sympathise with Alice losing, as Sam gained, in his relationship with Celia, and hard not to cringe at Alice’s jealousy on the matter.

The way that alienation has been building between Sam and Alice, all that awkwardness around his relationship with Celia, all that Alice pushing too hard and too constantly for him to listen to her, for him to stop prying into things, stop investigating, for everyone’s safety, all that came together for that perfectly painful denouement.

Sam, no longer heeding Alice’s warnings, Alice, panicked and having to let everyone ELSE fall by the way side (and maybe die.. I don’t think things look good for Colin or Teddy, they both had incredibly ominous send offs), desperately trying to get through to him, but she’s already said it too many times to be anything but too late. He’s stopped listening, and he’s followed Celia, right to the centre of Hilltop road, right to where he believes, something terrible will happen. In some futile belief that somehow, to go there is to be able to stop it.

And in doing so, he draws ever closer to the horrible truth of things, that won’t reveal anything good, that will only consume him, that has only awful secrets. That will take him to that somewhere, that is nowhere good.

And ahhh, Celia’s voice, the way, as they got closer, the way she started to show how she knew the answers to the questions, the coldness in her voice, the distance, creeping in. The way she spoke of the balance she needed. The revelation, of all that she’d been getting close to him for. That he was the sacrifice, she’d make, to keep herself from having to go back. That final confrontation, between her and Sam, interrupted by her statement. Powerful and painful!

So, yes, in retrospect, painful as some of that interpersonal conflict has been between Alice, Sam and Celia, I do think that it did a great job of building up to the crescendo of this moment.

And then, in the wake of it all, there’s Celia, having the gall to play innocent and say Sam played the hero.

I wonder what shall happen, in the wake of all of this! I hope we stay in the OAIR world, and not back to the post-apocalypse for too long, but I am not sure, considering where Sam went.

Overall, I think The Magnus Protocol made a solid start to its season, and I’m definitely invested. I’m surprised how enmeshed in TMA it actually turned out to be, although at the same time, a lot of people seem to be trying to make it into something that’s more different from TMA than it has reason to be: The fears came here from the TMA universe, there’s no reason to believe that they are, in essence, different, even if they might manifest in slightly different ways. I believe that the difference of this world is that manifestation of the fears and efforts to keep them in balance are being more consciously pursued via alchemy and the endeavours of organisations like the OAIR on one side and the Magnus Institute on the other. But now we have inter-dimensional balance also to consider. And now the archivist from one world has gone through to the other, creating, presumably, a new imbalance.

#TMAGP spoilers #The Magnus Protocol #TMAGP30 #Sam and Celia #Sam and Alice #Alice dyer #spoilers #Celia Ripley #samama khalid #TMAGP

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gluechugger · 3 months ago

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Low Honor! Arthur Morgan and my OC Louise only meet when they’ve both left this mortal coil.

✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨

Based on the idea for this drawing (I wanted more) and my two favorite comics; Falling in Love on the Path to Hell and Love Everlasting. I like cowboys and romance and time loops a lot.

I ended up writing something for this. Maybe I’ll write more. We’ll see. CW for mention domestic violence, drug use and the implication of cheating. 917 words.

This time Louise and Arthur are really the worst versions of themselves. No redeeming qualities.

✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨

It was late night when he heard her footsteps in the woods. From her unsure step, he assumed she wasn’t a threat, but his palm rested on the firearm on his hip. He stayed quiet. He knew she could already see him. No use opening his mouth. No such thing as too careful.

“Excuse me?” She spoke first, not yet having stepped into the clearing. “Excuse me, mister,” she continued, Arthur shifted his direction from the fire to meet her. She stumbled into the clearing, holding up her skirt and examining the mud on her spats. “Do you think you could help me? I got separated from my husband.”

He furrowed his brow at her, judging her choice of attire and ignoring her question. “Why you wearin that?” She had on an evening gown. Her shoulders were exposed. He noticed damage on her dress, blood stained the front lace, turning the celadon of the garment into a sick brown. It appeared her throat had been slit. The hem of the garment was tattered and dirtied with mud. Arthur knew who she was even if he’d never met her in his waking life.

“I, uh…. I can’t remember.” She muttered, pushing her curly blonde bangs out of her eyes. The curl was wilting from the humidity. “Could I just take a seat for a while?” She sounded exhausted. Arthur could tell why that could be. She didn’t wait for an answer from him before she plopped down next to him. Too close for comfort.

“Well, damn. I guess it’s alright.” He grunted and scooted away from her. The two of them were sitting on the trunk of a downed tree. It made a decent bench by the campfire.

She looked back on him in surprise. “Do I stink?” She had a thick New England accent. Arthur wondered how long she’d been married.

“I may have known of your husband? Can’t say ‘less you tell me who he is.” He kept his voice low, like it was a threat.

She looked rightfully wary. It gave Arthur a jolt of excitement he knew wasn’t healthy. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” She urged, finally looking down to see the blood on her dress. “Oh heavens…”

“Looks like you got in a little scrape.” He joked, trying to keep the atmosphere calm for his own benefit.

“I can’t remember.” Her chest heaved. Arthur didn’t take his eyes off her breasts. He watched her cope with the implosion of her very existence. There had been no question in his case. Louise barely knew what happened to her. From the circles under her eyes, he could only presume her husband had been administering her laudanum, likely leading to her confusion in the events leading up to her death.

“You’re alright.” Arthur urged, as he started to become a little worried she might hyperventilate and pass out into the fire. “Deep breaths, girl.” He knew his voice wasn’t comforting and it made his guts twist when the opposite of the desired effect happened. She stood up and stumbled forward.

Arthur was quick behind her, grabbing her waist and pulling her back into his chest. “Hey.” He mumbled against her hair. “I know it’s scary. But Dutch ain’t here no more.” She spun around and wrapped her arms around him and buried her face into his chest.

“You smell like him.” She whispered. A conflict inside of Arthur started to build. This was something he’d never have considered in his waking life. It was true that Dutch wasn’t the best at keeping women. On occasion, Arthur had refused advances from the likes of Annabelle and Molly just to name a couple. He especially didn’t like being compared to Dutch. He resisted the inherent urge to push her away. She felt too nice in his arms.

Instead of shoving her against the tree trunk, Arthur let out a grunt of displeasure as his response.

She wept against him and he gently drew his fingers along her back. It took her a few moments before she was able to process what he’d said. “Wait, did you say you… you knew him?”

At this point, Arthur had relished in the warmth of another person a bit too long. He was forced to consider her words over the ringing in his ears. “Yes, baby—“ he was slurring his words. They felt like mud in his mouth. “I mean uh, yes ma’am.” He responded, catching himself. She didn’t seem to notice his slip up. Maybe she didn’t care. He felt dizzy.

She looked up at him and he made direct eye contact with her for the first time that night. Her eyes were light, even in the dark forest. They reminded him of uranium glass. “Is he gone?” She still wept, her eyes were wet and full of despair.

“He ain’t here.” Arthur confirmed, trying to keep his jaw tight. He knew it would sound vague, but he couldn’t bring himself to be the bearer of bad news. He had to let her figure it out on her own. The distress on her face didn’t falter. “What uh, what should I call you?” Maybe she was just an apparition. Maybe this really was hell. Either way, Arthur felt like he was taking psychic damage from her.

“Louise.” She answered. He hadn’t noticed her hands reaching up from his chest to his shoulders and wrapping around his neck. She was just as crazy as Dutch. No wonder they’d married.

((Omg I debated the choice of “baby” for so long but “darlin’” is way too sweet and comforting. This Arthur is a scumbag.))

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