#single cot bed size

[ccwpidsblog]

White Dress, Black Cat 𖣁 | ONYAKOPON

Summary: They said she was a witch.

She said they were all damned. Onyakopon didn’t believe in hauntings until he heard his own voice tremble at the pulpit. Now every hymn echoes wrong, and she’s waiting for him by the well, knitting as if the world ain’t falling apart. He just wanted to serve God. Now they’re standing hand in hand, watching the damned burn.

Themes: Heavy Religious trauma/themes, family dysfunction, mentions of suicide, miscarriage, mental health struggles, tall blk female reader, plus-sized reader, preacherson!ony, implied supernatural violence, psychological horror, shy!ony, dark themes and atmosphere, small town prejudice, abandonment, slow burn, smut: virginity loss (mc and ony), soft sex/lovemaking, praise kinks, soft dom!ony

Part one | Part two | Part three

Word count: 10.2k

Authors Note: Well obviously I've been really into religious themes and southern gothic themes for some reason and with my religious background it's only fair I vent through my writing lol. This was meant to be a one-shot but yk how I get lol. Very different from the usual Ony fics hope you all enjoy and I don't disappoint 🥺💔

also wanted to thank @thecoochiefairy and @2neaky for unknowingly inspiring me!! I love black love and im happy to see it on tumblr again 🩷 please don't be shy send me an ask and support me on AO3

The night pressed in thick as syrup, and Onyakopon couldn't move.

He lay flat on his back on a threadbare cot in the shotgun house behind the old

sugarcane fields, sweat slicking his brow, heart hammering against ribs that had forgotten how to breathe. The air was too still. No crickets. No frogs. Not even the wind dared stir. Just that weight, heavier than a man, darker than sin, pinning him to the mattress with invisible hands.

Something's whispering in his ear.

He couldn’t understand the words, not exactly. But the voice, it was his father’s. And then not.

His body twitched. Eyes wide, still unable to blink. In the corner of the room, where the shadow refused to dissolve, something crouched. Watching. Waiting. Its eyes were coals, slow-burning.

“Get up,�� he told himself. But his jaw wouldn’t work. His tongue felt thick. Roots of a tree growing wild inside his throat.

The thing in the corner inched forward. Crawling on elbows. Grinning too wide.

And then—

A scream tore from his chest. The kind that didn’t sound human.

He sat bolt upright, breath ragged, vision swimming. The shadow was gone. But the smell lingered like hot iron and smoke. Like burnt offerings. Outside, there was a loud crack of thunder as the sky began to pour. The world had moved on. But Onyakopon didn’t.

Not yet.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and stared down at the callouses in his palms.

The tremble in them betrayed him. That was the third one this week. And in every single one, there was always a shadow. Eyes like smoldering coals. A voice that wore his father’s face like a mask. No matter how many scriptures he recited before bed. No matter how often he sang himself hoarse in praise. It kept coming back. Stronger and stronger. And every time he woke, he felt like something had been peeled off of him in the night. Something soft. Something sacred.

He refused to speak on it. Refused to write it down. Didn’t dare let it live outside his own chest.

Not yet.

Not running. Not crying. Just sitting there heavy on his heart. Another crack of thunder rumbled the sky as heavy rain pelted on his family homes roof. He rose from his bed pulling his rosary off his night stand bringing it to his lips as he said a silent prayer.

Lord… have mercy on me. I been seein’ things. Eyes in the corner, whispers in the dark, faces that don’t belong to no man. I don’t know if it’s You, or the Devil, or somethin’ in between. But I’m scared. I’m tired. I’m tryin’.

Send me peace. Send me clarity. Send me somethin’ steady, somethin’ real. A light, Lord. Just a light to carry me through. Even if I don’t understand it yet.

As he said his Amens and laid back in his bed, Onyakopon had felt for the first time think that He wasn't listening.

By Sunday morning, the dreams still hadn’t left him. They clung to his shoulders like wet cotton.

But church folk didn’t care about dreams, especially not from a man like him. broad-shouldered and Bible-raised man, with a voice like honey on fire. The kind of voice that made pews sway and Deaconess Grant shout with both hands in the air.

Onyakopon stood at the front of the little white church he'd grown up in fingers wrapped around the wooden pulpit like every Sunday, his deep waves still damp from a basin rinse. Sunlight filtered in through stained glass panes, splashing color over the choir robes and sweating faces. The fans were flapping, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus but the heat was still wrapping necks like a noose.

“There's a leak in this old building... and my soul...” His voice filled the rafters, warm and booming.

Eyes closed. He let the song carry him. He tried to lose himself in it. But then

He saw it.

It wasn’t a flash. Not a trick of the light. It was there, really there, on the third pew from the front, sitting where Sister McGee always sat, legs crossed and grinning wide like it was proud to be seen. A thing with a stretched-out face and black gums, skin that shimmered like chicken grease thrown in water. Its eyes were hollow, but it always found him.

Mocking.

Ony’s throat caught on the next word.

“...This old building—keeps o' sinkin' and my... soul”

His voice had cracked like he was sixteen again singing for the congregation for the first time, he winced. Blinked. Shook his head.

Someone from the amen corner called out, calm and easy: “Take your time, brother.”

The thing was gone.

Just a trick of the heat, he told himself. Just his mind. The back doors of the church creaked open. Slow. Dust in the light. And there she was. Tall for a woman and wide-hipped, dark-skinned kissed by Gods given sun, like the earth after heavy rain, wearing a faded rose dress with puffed sleeves and lace at the hem. Her black cat trotted beside her like it belonged there. She held a woven basket over one arm and wore a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with dried lavender.

Every voice in the room caught in their throats.

Folks didn’t speak her name. Didn’t meet her eye. The bastard daughter of sin and prophecy. The daughter of a witch. But she just walked, quietly, deliberately, like the whole town wasn't against her and took her seat on the far back pew. Sitting there there like she always had a right to.

And while the choir tried to pick up the next verse, she began to knit. Small, neat stitches. Humming the melody under her breath in a voice soft as velvet.

Onyakopon stared too long.

He wasn't the only one.

Service ended with a shaky benediction and more side-eyes than hallelujahs.

Folks filed out quickly, muttering about the heat, about the hymnbook pages sticking together, about anything but the girl and her cat in the back pew. Onyakopon pretended to help fold chairs in the fellowship hall just long enough for everyone to disappear down the gravel road.

He stepped out the side door into the sunlight, breathing like he’d been underwater. But even outside, the church still felt-strange. Like it held its breath after she walked in.

She was still in the last pew. Alone now. Knitting the same deep thread with slow, sure hands. Her cat sat curled beside her like a guardian made of fur shadows. The rest of the sanctuary had emptied out like they feared catching something just by breathing her air.

Onyakopon stood at the door a moment, one boot scuffing the floor.

She didn’t look up. Just said, soft and almost teasing , delicate voice bouncing off the empty decaying walls.

“You feel it too.”

His spine stiffened as he straightens himself up, removing his cap from his head, deep

frown lines growing between his eyebrows.

"Ma'am?"

She tugged the thread once, looped it, pulled it through. Her fingers never paused.

“What don’t belong in the Lord’s house.”

His lips parted, but he said nothing.

Then she looked up. Wide, round, doll-like eyes — so dark they shimmered. She looked at him like a mirror. Like she saw every dream he tried to forget, every shadow that clung to the edges of his soul.

Onyakopon’s stomach twisted. A chill moved up his spine slow as molasses. He hadn’t told nobody about the thing that visited him in sleep or what he'd seen — not his mother, his father or brother. This was something just between him and God. He felt his fists clench, not in threat but in defense. That kind of knowing… it wasn’t natural.

He took a step in, boots creaking on the old wood. “You been watchin’ me?” he asked, voice low and rough like split wet oak.

“No,” she said, still sweet, still calm. “You came lookin’ for me. Even if you ain’t know it yet.

He frowned deeper, throat dry. “You don't know what you're talkin' about ma'am..”

“Mm.” She glanced down. “And yet, here you are, tryin' to defend yourself to a stranger who don't know what she talkin' bout."

The black cat stretched from its place at her feet and wound around his leg, tail brushing his calf like a whisper. Onyakopon looked down, startled, as it rubbed against his dress shoes, purring deep like a hymn. He tensed, stepping forward, and his shadow stretched over her like a giant. Despite their size difference, he felt a sudden weight in the air. Her presence loomed, even sitting, somehow bigger than him. Ony was always the biggest man in any room — 6’7, broad and built like a pillar. But this woman, in a worn rose dress and knitted calm, made him feel small.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

He swallowed.

“Who are you?” he asked, voice softer now, but no less honest.

She smiled just slightly. “You already know.”

“I don’t.” She hummed again, “Your dreams are becoming louder brother,” she murmured, threading her yarn again. “Woke the sky last night, Woke the dirt.”

He blinked, unsettled. He didn’t want know how to fight it. Didn’t know how to turn off the uncomfortable truth in her voice. Her fingers moved again. The yarn wound tighter. She added, without looking

It’s this town. Folks plant their evil here, water it, pray over it like it’s corn and wheat. And it grows.”

Ony’s jaw tensed. The cat flicked its tail once like punctuation. She tied off the thread, tucked the yarn into her basket like she was sealing something sacred or dangerous.

“When you start to see the truth,” she said, standing now, her basket in hand, “you’ll know where to find me.”

She lingered in the doorway, eyes on him like she already knew what he’d choose.

“May the Lord keep you, Onyakopon. Even when the ones close to you can’t.”

Then she vanished into the rain.

The church doors creaked as he stepped out, the rain had stopped sunlight dull and sour under a heavy sky. No birds singing. Just the wind dragging itself down the road like a dying hymn.

The woods swallowed her up quick, the church just a shadow behind her. Leaves brushed her shoulders, pine needles crunching beneath her bare feet. She didn’t look back once. Mama trotted at her side, tail high, silent as breath.

“He don’t even know what he is yet,” she whispered, mostly to herself, but also to the cat.

Mama meowed low, like a scoff.

“I know, I know. You don’t like him. Sayin’ I oughta let him stay lost.”

She paused by a fallen log, placing her basket on it carefully. Sat down, drawing her shawl tighter across her shoulders.

“But he’s dreamin’ the way I used to. That means somethin’. Ain’t many left who can see past the veil.”

Mama leapt up beside her, staring off into the trees like she was waiting for somethin, or someone.

The girl smiled faintly. “You always was overprotective.”

Mama blinked slow.

“I ain’t lettin’ him close, not yet. Just watchin’.”

She turned her eyes to the sky, where clouds pressed low and the wind smelled like storm.

“When he’s ready to see the truth,” she murmured, “he’ll know where to find me.”

Mama curled against her side, purring soft and wary.

And the forest, for now, held its breath.

Monday morning came like it always did — quiet, slow, and too bright.

The sky was washed pale like a bedsheet left too long in the sun, and the town lay still beneath it. No rain left, just the memory of it in puddles and soft mud tracks. Ony didn't dream at all last night, just darkness and cold.

Onyakopon stood by the porch steps, box of his mama’s peach pies tucked under one arm, the other gripping a thermos of chicory coffee. Caleb his older brother was already loading up the truck, hands moving fast and efficient, like always.

“Quit draggin’ your feet,” Caleb muttered. “These folks ain’t gonna wait forever.”

Ony grunted, climbing in beside him.

They rode through the back roads in silence for a while, gravel popping under the tires, air sticky with heat. Every house they passed had a porch, and every porch had eyes. Folks rocking slowly in creaking chairs, faces turned their way but not smiling. At the first stop, Miss Irene met them on her porch with a crooked grin and two dollars folded tight in her hand.

“Your mama’s a blessin’, she know that?” she said, voice thin as brittle paper. “Tell her I’m prayin’ for her.”

She didn’t look at Ony when she said it.

By the third house, he noticed it, the way people didn’t laugh the same. Didn’t talk the same. Brother Johnny Al who always joked with him just nodded and shut the screen door with a quick and nasty slam. He saw the elderly man peeking from the blinds as they drove away, he should have worn his glasses today because he swore his eyes flash completely dark.

Another one of their regulars wouldn't meet his eyes during prayer, just muttered “Amen” too fast and wiped sweat off his brow that wasn’t there.

The last stop was by the church, where Sister Myra handed Caleb her tithe and asked them to “keep an extra prayer for the sinful.” She smiled at his brother when she said it, but Ony felt it cut anyway when it dropped as she looked at him duly

By noon, Ony’s chest felt tight. Not like fear like being studied. Like his skin was a page someone was reading line by line. He wondered if this is his Jesus felt when they read his commandments though Caleb didn’t notice, or pretended not to. He was good at that.

Caleb was humming to himself on the drive back, fingers tapping the wheel in rhythm, until Ony finally spoke.

“Something’s off,” Ony said, quiet.

Caleb didn’t look at him when he responded, just snorted dismissively. “It’s Monday. That’s what’s off.”

“I’m serious.” Ony’s voice was low, almost unsure. “Like somethin’ shifted. Like the world ain’t sittin’ right on its bones no more.”

“Somethin’ off,” he said again, quieter now, letting the words hang in the cab.

His long legs stretched out in the passenger seat, feet braced like he was expecting a turn that never came.

Caleb finally glanced at him, just a flick of the eye, jaw tight. Then laughed, short and sharp.

“Boy, you feel off ‘cause you always by yourself, hidin’ in your own head like some daydreamin’ woman. You need to study more. With me and With Pa. Need to find you a wife. Get you right.”

“...A wife?”

The word stuck in Ony’s throat, and just like that she was there. Not in body but in that sudden, dangerous way dreams slide into daylight. She wasn’t doing anything grand just sitting on a porch, elbows on her knees, eyes half-lidded like she knew every secret he ever kept. Humming low. Thread slipping through her fingers like it had a mind of its own. Like he did.

Ony blinked slow, like the words took a second to land again he repeated "A wife.."

Caleb went on, voice firmer now. “You feel off ‘cause you always stuck in your damn head, day dreamin’. Walkin’ around like you waitin’ on signs and visions instead of doin’ what men do.”

Ony turned to him, slow. “And what’s that?”

“Work. Worship. Wife. Provide. That’s the order. That’s how Pa did it. That’s how I do it. You think I didn’t feel strange too before I married Leah? Thought the whole world was wrong. Now look, she carryin’ my child, and I sleep just fine.”

Ony shook his head, jaw tightening. “So you think I’m crazy ‘cause I ain’t found nobody to lay up under yet?”

“I think you lonely,” Caleb snapped. “And lonely men start believin’ in all kinds of foolishness.”

They pulled into the driveway and sat in silence, the weight of everything pressing down like the summer heat.

Caleb finally broke it, voice low and hard. “I think somethin’ needs to fix you. You been strange for weeks. Folks see it. You don’t even try no more—don’t talk, don’t help with the sermons, barely speak to Ma. And now you sittin’ here talkin’ like the sky’s fallin’.”

Ony turned his head to the window, jaw tight. “You don’t see what I see.”

“No, I don’t. And that’s the damn problem. You always talkin’ in riddles. Bein’ quiet ain’t the same as bein’ deep.” Caleb’s voice was sharp. “You need to come back to earth, Ony. You ain’t no damn prophet. You just lost.”

Ony’s voice was cold, clipped. “Maybe you’re the lost one if you think a woman and a baby in this rotting town gonna fix anything.”

Caleb’s eyes narrowed. “So you disrespectin’ the Bible teachings, boy?”

Ony didn’t look at him. Just said quietly,

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return.”

Caleb turned to face him, brow furrowed. Ony finally met his brother’s eyes. “That don’t sound like disrespect,” Ony said, voice flat. “That sound like a man knows this world don’t owe him nothin’. Not comfort. Not clarity. Not no wife or baby to fix what’s broke inside.”

Ony opened the door and stepped out, boots hitting the dirt like punctuation. The screen door creaked faintly in the distance, wind brushing against the trees. Caleb stayed in the truck for a second longer, jaw flexing, breath shallow. Then he shoved the door open.

“You always pullin’ them verses like a blade,” Caleb snapped, rounding the truck

“Think that makes you more holy? Makes you a better God-fearing man than me?”

Ony didn’t answer, just walked slow toward the porch, hands in his pockets like nothing touched him. Caleb caught up fast, grabbing his arm. " I’m talkin’ to you.”

Ony yanked back. “And I heard you. You mad ‘cause I know what I’m talkin’ about, and it don’t line up with your little box of how a man supposed to be.”

Caleb shoved him then, not hard, but hard enough.

“You think knowin’ scripture make you better than me? You think starin’ off into space and spittin’ riddles make you more of a man?”

Ony pushed him back, this time with force.

“I think pretendin’ like a wife and a baby make the rot go away is a lie. I think that makes you the fool.”

They were close now, breath hot, shoulders squared. From the porch came a soft creak the screen door opening slow.

Their mother stepped down from the porch, robe tied tight at the waist, her expression unreadable — but her eyes sharp as ever. Leah hovered behind her, one hand on her stomach, eyes wide.

“That’s enough out here,” she said again, sterner now. “I don’t care who’s feelin’ what you don’t raise your voices like that on this land.”

Caleb’s chest was still heaving, fists balled at his sides, but he dropped his eyes. Ony, jaw locked, He looked at her, really looked at her and something in him softened.

“I’ll be back ‘fore supper,” he said quietly.

Then he leaned in, pressed a quick, reverent kiss to her forehead.

“Love you, Mama.”

She nodded, the way only a mother could like she saw through him but loved him anyway.

As Ony stepped off the porch, he brushed past Caleb, shoulder knocking into his brother’s like punctuation. Deliberate. Firm.

Caleb turned after him, lips parted like he had more to say, but whatever it was, he swallowed it.

Leah reached for his hand from the porch.

“Let him go,” she said gently.

“He don’t need to wander,” Caleb muttered. Their mother didn’t look at him when she answered.

“Maybe he do.”

Onyakopon walked with no aim, boots kicking up dust as the cicadas screamed louder than the thoughts in his head. The town stretched out around him, crooked and quiet all heatwaves and peeling paint and eyes he couldn’t see but felt. His hands were in his pockets, his jaw still clenched.

He didn’t know where he was going, Nowhere, really but it felt like somewhere

Like something was pulling.

The sun hung thick and low, dripping gold between the trees, and for a second everything felt too still like the world had paused to hear his steps. Then he saw it.

A black cat, perched on a crumbling stone fence just ahead. Its fur looked wet, almost shining. It didn’t move when he approached.

Just stared, eyes like glass marbles catching the light. He slowed and the cat didn’t blink, didn't flinch. Just waited.

Ony felt a chill crawl up his neck despite the heat.

“You lost?” he murmured, barely louder than the wind. The cat tilted its head, eyes squinting like his question offended it, then turned. Leaping down, slipping into the brush like it had somewhere to be and maybe, just maybe, he was supposed to follow. So, he'd stand there for a while listening, waiting - for what exactly? He wasn't so sure himself.

Staring at the place where the cat had vanished. His breath slowed, the tension in his shoulders settling into something heavier. He didn’t move, just listened to the buzz of the heat, the rustle of leaves.

Thinking about turning around. About going home. Sitting down with his family at dinner telling them he was ready to look for a wife, asking his father to mentor him. Mold him to be just like him and Caleb. About pretending he hadn’t felt something shift deep in his gut the second he saw that cat.

Maybe Caleb was right.

Maybe he was strange.

Maybe he was just lonely.

A sharp, irritated meow snapped him from the thought. There it was again — the black cat, now sitting neatly a few paces behind him, tail curled tight, ears pointing upward, eyes narrowed like it was waiting on a child dragging their feet. It meowed again, louder this time, then stood and turned. Walked ahead slowly, stopping every few feet like it was checking to see if he’d catch on. Ony swallowed. Then, without a word, he followed.

The cat cut through a thicket like it had somewhere to be, glancing back only once before Ony followed. Trees arched above him like ribs, the woods swallowing sound until all he heard was his breath and the soft thud of his boots on earth. It didn’t feel like he was walking anymore. More like being led. They came to a clearing a patch of light cracked open like an eye between the trees, and there she was. She sat on an old quilt, colors faded like memory, her back to him. Her clothes clung loose and thin in the heat nothing like what women wore outside the house. Nothing a preacher’s son had any business looking at. But he did.

She was knitting again. Hands moving fast, like she was trying to exorcise something with every twist of thread. Her dark coils slipped loose, brushing her cheeks as she muttered to herself, angry and fast. The cat trotted over to her and curled up like it had been expected.

Without looking up, she said, “Thought you didn’t like him, Mama.”

Ony took a careful step forward, brow furrowed. “Your mutt don’t like me?”

The girl turned sharp, like she’d been waiting on that line. Her hands froze mid-stitch, and her head snapped over one shoulder. That chubby, soft face from church? It scrunched up like a storm cloud now, eyes suddenly sharp cutting.

“Only mutt here is you.”

Even the cat hissed, low and warning, tail flicking once like a whip before settling back down beside her with a satisfied grunt.

Ony stiffened.

She wasn’t sweet like she was in the Lord’s house. Not quiet and warm like the girl humming behind the pews. Her energy was strange now. Bristled. Her lips were dry, chapped pink from too much sun, and her voice carried something jagged underneath it.

“You always follow stray things?” she asked, threading again quick and harsh like the yarn had done her wrong.

He didn’t answer at first.

Didn’t know how.

Didn’t know why his feet brought him here at all. “You was knittin’ in church,” he said finally, more to himself than her.

“I was.”

“You knittin’ now.”

“Got hands, don’t I?”

He squinted at her, frustrated and fascinated all at once. “You always talk like this?” She shrugged, didn’t look up. “Only when men ask me stupid things.”

Ony winced, rubbing the back of his neck. His boot scuffed at the dirt, slow and awkward. He didn’t have much practice with women, his world was made up of his mother, elder ladies at church, and Leah when she needed something fetched from the pantry.

“Apologies, ma’am,” he mumbled, voice low and careful.

The girl paused. Her fingers stilled against the needles, eyes flicking up to study him for the first time without all that steel in them.

“No need to apologize,” she said, gentler now. “The day hasn’t been the kindest to me.”

She yanked at her project something half-made and angry with color, thread coiled tight like it was holding its breath. “I shouldn’t take it out on you. If anything, I should be used to it by now.” She huffed, more to the yarn than to him, jaw clenching like there was more she wanted to say but didn’t trust the space between them enough yet.

Ony shifted his weight, thumb hooking in his belt loop. His voice came quiet, almost a whisper. “Day ain’t been kind to me neither.”

That made her pause again. Just long enough for the cat to flick its tail against her hip, like it was waiting too.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke next, just patted the empty space beside her blanket, fingers brushing away twigs and grass. “Well… you can sit if you want. You look like you been walking without knowin’ where to land.”

Ony hesitated. His eyes flicked down, he hadn’t really looked before, not properly. But now the way the fabric clung to her arms, the soft rise of her chest as she breathed, the bare skin of her calves peeking beneath the hem, it struck him all at once.

It wasn’t scandalous in the way church folks used the word. But it was… intimate. Delicate. Dressed like that, back home, she’d be in her own bedroom or padding barefoot through the kitchen fetching tea for her mother. Not out here in the woods with a stranger.

His throat worked as he swallowed. “You sure?”

She gave a half-smile without looking at him. “I wouldn’t’ve asked if I wasn’t.”

He rubbed the back of his neck again, cheeks burning as he eased himself down beside her careful to leave a respectful distance, hands resting flat against his thighs like he was trying not to touch anything at all. The cat stretched between them like it was measuring the space.

They sat in silence.

Not the kind that crawled under your skin like Sunday tension or lingered like unsaid prayers, but something softer. Still. Ony sat with his hands folded, shoulders loose for once. The weight he always carried in his spine, the pressure to square his chest, to be something righteous and loud — eased without permission.

The girl kept knitting. Her fingers moved fast, urgent almost, like she was working through a thought with each loop and pull. The cat yawned, curling into a perfect comma between them.

Then, without looking at him, she said it low:

“Your head’s loud again. Makin’ the wind brush by a lil too fast. Gettin chilly. ”

Ony blinked, brows pulling together.

“Just breathe,” she added.

He did. And it wasn’t a deep breath or a proud one, but something real. It slid out of him slow, quiet. A breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

The wind slowed. The trees settled.

So did he.

The silence between them didn’t ache like it did at home. It stretched warm, quiet—not something to fix, just something to feel. Ony let his eyes drift to her hands, how fast they moved, like they had somewhere to be.

“You always knit this fast?” he asked, voice low.

She gave a soft shrug, not looking up. “Only when I’m tryin’ not to cuss or cry. It helps. Pullin’ somethin’ ugly outta me and making it useful.”

Ony nodded slowly, watching the rhythm of her fingers. The thread danced between her knuckles like it knew a secret language.

“You… think you could show me how?”

That made her pause. She looked at him for a beat, then down at her lap, like she was weighing it. Finally, she held up a half-finished square of fabric — dark, tight with frustration.

“You sure?” she asked. “Most men too proud to sit still with something this soft.”

“I’m not most men,” Ony murmured, not meeting her eyes.

She smiled, not wide but real, and shifted a little to the side. " I’ll show you.”

He shifted closer, slow like the earth might split if he moved too fast. She handed him the needles, warm from her fingers, and the yarn, coarse but strangely comforting.

“Keep your hands steady,” she said, voice softer now. “Let it pass through like water. Don’t grab it so tight.”

Ony tried, fumbling at first. She reached over, guiding his fingers without making a big deal out of it. Her hands were smaller than his, but surer—she shaped him like she did the thread, gentle but firm. “You’re teachin’ me to do women’s work,” he muttered, half teasing.

She snorted. “I’m teachin’ you to keep your mind from rot. Don’t matter what shape the work come in.”

That made him smile without thinking.

“You always talk like that?” he asked. he asked, glancing at her from beneath his lashes. “Like you halfway know what God whisperin’ before He even say it?” She didn’t answer right away. Just tilted her head, lips twitching like she was deciding how much to give away.

“You asked me that before,” she said finally.

He blinked. “Did I?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Well…” He scratched the back of his neck. “You talk like my granny, but you don’t look eighty-six.”

That made her laugh—real and full, spilling out of her like light. She leaned back a little, grinning at him. “Your granny must’ve been sharp.”

“She was,” Ony said, quiet now, surprised at the warmth threading through his chest. He let the silence sit between them again, but it didn’t feel empty — it felt close. And when their eyes met for just a second too long, something shifted.

Not loud. Not sudden. Just… true.

Then nip.

“Agh—damn!” Ony yelped, jerking slightly as Mama, the cat, sunk her teeth gently into his thigh like she’d had enough of the moment.

The girl rolled her eyes. “Mama don’t like when people get too comfortable.”

“She got good timing,” Ony muttered, rubbing his leg and glaring at the cat, who looked smug and settled right back down beside her. “Guess she figured you needed some grounding.”

They both laughed, the weightlifting again, but not gone. Just resting for now. Ony glanced down at the cat, still lounging like she owned the blanket and the girl both. He reached out a slow hand—Mama narrowed her eyes but didn’t move.

“How long you had her?” he asked, voice lower now, thoughtful.

The girl’s fingers slowed around the yarn. “Seven years,” she said, quiet.

He looked up. “That long?”

“She showed up a few hours after my mama passed.” Her voice was steady, but there was something buried in it—like a scar covered by a silk scarf. “Just… appeared on the porch. Sat right at the door like she was waitin’. Like she knew.”

Ony said nothing, only watched her face.

“I like to think she is my mama. In some way,” she went on, threading the needle through the yarn faster now. “Mama always said she’d come back as a black cat. Said it’d suit her. Misunderstood. Proud. Particular. Protective.”

Her lips curved faintly. “And she was all three.” Mama let out a slow purr, as if in agreement.

“I believe that,” Ony murmured.

She looked over at him, brows lifted slightly.

“Why?”

He shrugged, then shook his head. “I don’t know. Just feels true. Like the way certain songs make you cry even if you don’t understand the words.”

She smiled at that, soft, almost grateful.

“You always talk like that?” she teased.

He grinned. “Guess we even now.”

Their laughter faded into the breeze, the knitting needles tapping steady again. Somewhere in all of it, Ony realized — he hadn’t thought about the tightness in his chest for minutes now. Minutes that felt like something more than time.

The wind shifted, sharp and sudden, cutting through the thick afternoon air like a knife dipped in river water. It brushed against Ony’s arms and made the fine hairs on his skin rise. But it wasn’t the cold that made him stiffen.

It was the girl.

She froze. Fingers gone still, the thread limp in her lap. Her body locked up like a porch swing caught mid-sway. Even Mama, curled smug and sleepy just moments ago, lifted her head, ears flicking forward, eyes narrowed at something just beyond the trees.

“You alright?” Ony asked, leaning a little closer, voice hushed like he didn’t want to disturb whatever had just walked through them. She didn’t answer right away. Just blinked like she was trying to remember how. Then nodded slowly, though it didn’t quite reach her shoulders.

“Sometimes the wind don’t come to cool,” she murmured, barely audible. “Sometimes it’s just passin’ through, carryin’ somethin’ behind it.” Ony glanced around, suddenly more aware of how quiet it had gotten. No birds. No rustle of leaves. Just wind and the low hum of something beneath it.

“What’s it carryin’?”

She shook her head. “Don’t know yet. But Mama felt it too.”

The cat was on her feet now, tail low, pressed against the girl's side like she might need to bolt — or block. “You should get home soon,” the girl said gently, but her eyes didn’t meet his. They were somewhere else. “Sun’s not as strong as it looks.”

Ony didn’t move.

“I’ll walk you,” he offered, his voice surer than he felt.

But she just gave a tiny smile, one that didn’t match the new edge in the air. “I’ve walked through worse.”

They stood at the edge of the clearing now, where the trees swallowed the sun in long shadows. Ony hadn’t realized how far they’d wandered — or maybe how far she’d led him. The cat weaved between their ankles, brushing its side against Ony’s boot one last time before settling back by her feet.

He took a step back, not wanting to go, but knowing the air had changed again. “You gon’ tell me your name?”

She paused, gathering up her needles and thread. The question hung in the air like smoke before she finally spoke, voice light but low, like a secret.

“You already know it.”

“I don’t.”

She looked up, lips curving into something half-playful, half-knowing. “Well, that’s what makes it fun.”

He gave her a look, amused and a little flustered. “Alright then… I’m Onyakopon.”

“I know,” she said softly, the smile not leaving her face. He blinked, surprised, then chuckled. “’Course you do.”

Their hands met then — a shake at first, but it lingered. Her hand was soft but firm, warmer than the wind that had just passed.

They didn’t speak as they held it. Just let it stretch, like maybe neither of them was quite ready to leave. Then her fingers curled, just slightly. “Be mindful,” she said, voice almost too quiet for the air. “Of what you carry. Of whom you follow. Everything that feels wrong right now. It's not all in your head.”

Ony’s brows drew together. He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but she was already turning away, Mama trotting ahead like she knew the way. He stood there watching, rooted in place, as the girl moved between the trees, slipping into them like smoke. Her nightgown caught the last bit of light, white and fluttering like wings.

Then she was gone.

Like something holy. Or something beautifully haunting.

By the time Ony reached the porch, the sun was kissing the edge of the horizon, everything soaked in that strange amber glow that made shadows long and soft. His boots thudded against the wooden steps, and the familiar creak under the third board welcomed him home like it always did. Inside, the house was warm and humming with domestic rhythm. Dishes clinked softly, the smell of stewed okra and baked bread thick in the air. His mother stood at the head of the table, her sleeves rolled to the elbow, humming a hymn under her breath as she laid out silverware. Leah was beside her, placing the cornbread down with careful hands over a dishcloth.

They both looked up when he stepped in.

His mother’s eyes lingered. “Told you I’d be back before supper,” Ony said, brushing a hand over his neck, suddenly conscious of how the wind still clung to his shirt, like he’d brought the outside in with him.

"Mm make sure you wash them hands before sittin' at my table." She didn’t say more and went back to setting forks.

Leah’s eyes flickered between the two brothers as Caleb appeared from the back hall, wiping his hands on a dish towel. Ony tensed instinctively, but Caleb didn’t say anything just stared at him for a second too long. The air in the room wasn’t hostile. But it wasn’t settled either. Ony felt it swirl around him, curious and careful, like everyone was waiting for something to crack.

He moved toward the sink to wash his hands, nodding toward his mother as he passed. “Smells good in here, Ma.”

She nodded again, this time more gently, then glanced toward Caleb like she was measuring something unsaid between them.

No one asked where he’d gone.

And he didn’t offer it.

But as he dried his hands and found his usual seat, he thought of her—bare feet in the grass, humming low, thread dancing between her fingers like it had a mind of its own.

The clink of forks against ceramic was the loudest sound at the table. Ma had made stew, rich and spiced, but it tasted like sawdust in Onyakopon’s mouth.

“Had a little heat between you two earlier,” Pa said without looking up, spoon cutting through his bowl. “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity.”

Ony didn’t look at Caleb, though he felt the verse land like a stone between them. Psalm 1:33, yeah — but it had the weight of Cain and Abel behind it, and they all knew it.

Caleb just scoffed under his breath.

“Yesterday’s service ended early,” Caleb said casually, like a man mentioning the weather. “Soon as that girl came 'long Whole congregation cleared out like they caught the plague.

Ma sneered without missing a beat. “Never met such an unlady-like woman. Wandering about with a devil’s pet, whisperin’ to trees like they whisper back. But Lord knows she can stitch. Shame every thread feel like a curse.”

Ony’s grip tightened around his spoon. He stared down into his stew, letting the broth steam up his face like fog. He didn’t say anything — not about her hands, not about her voice, not about the way she said his name like she’d always known it.

Ony felt a strange ache twist inside him at her words, a pull toward the woman Ma so openly despised. He kept his jaw tight, the silence settling even heavier around the table.

Leah shifted uneasily, but no one else spoke. The candle flickered low, and the weight of unspoken things hung thick between them.

“Boy,” Pa said suddenly, voice firm. “You best get out your head. A man’s got no business sittin’ at his father’s table starin’ off into the dark.”

Ony blinked slowly, but didn’t answer.

“You think you grown? Then act like it. Ain’t no room in this house for cloudy minds and foolish obsessions. You wanna be a man, be one. Handle your kin. Get your head on straight. Get your spirit right.”

Still, Ony didn’t speak — not to him. His eyes stayed low, locked on the chipped edge of his plate. Then, like something creeping up from his chest without permission, his voice slid out low, almost like it didn’t belong to him

“What makes her a bad person for lovin’ trees a lil bit?”

The room froze.

Ma’s hand stilled halfway to her cup. Leah’s fork clinked quietly against her plate. Caleb leaned back slow in his chair, face unreadable. Pa narrowed his eyes. “What you just say?”

“I just mean…” Ony muttered, spearing a piece of fried okra with his fork, “she’s a woman with a pet cat? That knits.” He shrugged like it was nothing, then stuffed the food in his mouth, chewing slow, like he hadn’t just cracked the air in two.

Ma’s eyes narrowed. “That thing ain’t no pet. Strays like that don’t belong in the house of the Lord — or round decent folk like the ones in our community.”

Caleb scoffed under his breath, reaching for his cup. “Ain’t about the cat. It’s the way she carries herself. Like she knowin’ things she ain’t supposed to.”

“That woman ain’t right, Ony,” Pa said, voice low and warning. “Mark my words. Ain’t no good ever come from women who walk like they float and talk like they pray to the moon.”

Ony didn’t respond. Just kept chewing, like maybe the weight of the room couldn’t touch him if he didn’t let it. But his ears were hot, and his throat ached in a way that food couldn’t soothe.

Leah, quiet all this time, finally spoke, voice soft as usual. “She knitted my apron. The one with the sunflowers. It’s… pretty.”

Ma turned sharply. “And you best not wear it again. We don’t know what spirits she stitched into that thread.”

Ony’s silverware scraped the plate a little too loud when he's told up.

“I’ll go wash up,” he mumbled, though his plate wasn’t empty. “Y’all keep on eatin’. Thank you for the dinner mama"

He didn’t wait for permission. Just turned and walked toward the back, the screen door creaking open as he stepped onto the porch, letting the night air slap him clean.

Behind him, the candle flickered.

The back porch creaked under his weight, old wood sighing like it remembered too much. No one came out here anymore — not since Granny passed. Her wicker chair still sat in the corner, covered in a thin film of dust and memories. Ony didn’t sit there. He chose the steps instead, letting the night press in close, heavy and still.

Crickets sang. The wind tugged gently at the trees, and for the first time all day, nobody asked him to be anything. He let his shoulders drop. Let his jaw unclench.

Then came the sound — soft, slow, deliberate.

The screen door moaned open behind him.

He didn’t turn, not at first, until he heard the light step on the porch — and then a bottle clink. He glanced over his shoulder.

Leah stood there, caught like a deer in her round belly stretching the front of her dress. In one hand, a dusty wine bottle; in the other, just shame.

“It won’t hurt the baby,” she said quickly, blinking like she might cry or laugh or both.

Ony raised his eyebrows and looked back out at the dark yard. “I get why you need it,” he said flatly. “Dealin’ with this family’ll make you wanna drink holy water straight from the font.”

That earned him a quiet laugh — small and bitter.

Leah walked over and sat beside him with a sigh, the bottle tucked between her knees. “I ain’t drinkin’ for real. Just wanted to hold it. Make it feel like I had a choice, even if I don’t.”

Ony hummed, a low sound in his throat.

“You and me both.”

They sat in silence for a beat, the air between them not tense, just… lived in.

“You ever think ‘bout just leavin’?” she asked, voice soft, eyes fixed on the dark stretch of trees.

“All the time.”

She nodded like she expected that. “Caleb says I should be grateful. That I’m safe here. That the Lord provided. But safe don’t feel like freedom, does it?”

Ony didn’t answer.

Not out loud and the silence stretched on the kind that didn’t beg to be filled. Just two people watching the dark, pretending the quiet didn’t know all their secrets.

Leah leaned back on her hands, her fingers curling around the edge of the step. “That girl from service yesterday…” she started, voice light but lined with something sharper, “she the reason you were gone all afternoon?”

Ony didn’t look at her. Just let the question hang there in the air between them, weightless and heavy all at once.

Leah smiled to herself, not unkind. “She’s... different. Not like folks around here.”

“She’s just a girl,” Ony said finally, though it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to him.

“A girl with a black cat and a stare like she’s already seen how the world ends,” Leah murmured, like she was thinking more than speaking. “She got the whole town feelin’ itchy and lookin’ for salt.”

Ony gave a faint snort. “You 'fraid of her too?”

“No,” Leah said simply. “But I think you are.”

That made him look at her. Really look.

She met his eyes, steady, too old for her years. “Not ‘cause she’s strange. But ‘cause she see somethin’ in you been tryin’ to bury.”

Ony didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. His throat felt tight.

“She’s not evil. You’re right bout that part. Just a girl with a heavy hurt, a cat, and a different sense of faith. This town… it’s so close-minded, full of fear. The moment someone different comes along, folks scream ‘Satan’ or worse.”

“We used to be friends,” she said after a pause, like weighing whether to share too much. “Before her pa got caught up in some things. Before he disappeared. She was always so strange. Picking up bugs, talking to the ground, like she’d been here a thousand years instead of thirteen.”

She laughed, a soft, distant sound. “I used to joke she was a grandma reincarnated.”

Ony huffed out a soft laugh but then her smile faded, shadowed by memories. “When her daddy vanished, she was… calm. Like the universe does things for a reason. Said everything done in the dark will come to light.”

Her eyes darkened further. “Her mother got real sick after that. Took her own life.” She flicked squeeze the dusty wine bottle, then leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “Your daddy… I think he’s got

something to do with it all.”

Ony’s heart tightened. "How so?"

“She told me once, before her dad disappeared, he was there. And minutes after he left, her mother… she was found splattered all over her bed.” She made a finger-gun motion, sharp and cutting through the heavy air.

Silence fell again, heavy and still.

Then Leah sniffled — barely — and blinked fast. Her voice wavered, thinner now. “You know… she’s the one who told me I was pregnant before I even knew? I really hope this conversation stays between us.”

She paused, swallowing thickly. “Couple months back, when I was real sick and you and Caleb were out runnin’ errands… she came by. Her and that damn cat. I hadn’t seen her since we were fifteen. Daddy forbid me from ever seein’ her again. Said she was a witch. Imagine my shock when she showed up at my doorstep eleven years later — all grown, and God help me, even more beautiful than when we were kids.”

She let out a shaky breath and laughed weakly, rubbing her stomach.

“She put her hands on my belly like she already knew me. Told me I’d be the most wonderful mother. Like she saw it, clear as day.” Her voice cracked. “Knitted me a little hat… and an apron to fit my belly. Softest thing I ever touched. But then she said somethin’ strange. Told me this wasn’t the place to raise a child. Said I should leave.”

Leah’s eyes lifted to his, wet but steady now.

Leah stayed quiet for a moment, her shoulders hunched and small despite the swell of her belly. The bottle hung loosely in her grip, the wine sloshing quietly like it too was listening.

Then, almost like an afterthought—but heavier than anything she’d said before—she murmured, “Something’s eatin’ your Ma, your Pa… even Caleb. They ain’t the same no more, Ony. I can feel it in my bones.”

She stood carefully, steadying herself with the porch railing. Her eyes met his one last time.

“You take care of yourself, Onyakopon. Don’t let ‘em make you blind to what’s right in front of you.”

She handed him the wine bottle, fingers lingering for a moment on his, then let go. Her silhouette disappeared into the dark hallway behind her, door creaking shut behind her like a breath held too long.

The next morning, Ony woke to a scream that didn’t belong to him for once.

It came from the guest room.

Leah had miscarried.

The house felt like it was holding its breath, heavy and suffocating. Caleb paced the worn floorboards, muttering under his breath, his footsteps sharp and uneven. Leah sat still in the corner, her eyes hollow, the light that had shone there just the night before completely gone.

Onyakopon watched them both, the weight of silence pressing down on him. His Ma and Pa were nowhere to be found — the house was emptier than usual, shadows gathering in every corner like unwelcome guests.

Caleb’s voice cracked as he whispered to no one in particular, “This ain’t right… none of it.”

Leah’s fingers trembled in her lap, her breath shallow, as if the air itself had turned to stone.

Onyakopon stepped closer to Leah, voice low but steady.

“I’m sorry, Leah. For everything.”

She gave a weak nod, eyes shimmering with tears but empty of hope. "You got time Ony. Leave before it touches you too"

Caleb’s pacing stopped abruptly, his shoulders stiffening like a coil about to snap. He glared at Ony, voice rough and sudden.

The house felt like it was holding its breath, thick with tension that clung to the walls like humidity before a storm. Caleb paced the floor in crooked lines, muttering beneath his breath, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Leah sat on the edge of the couch like her soul had drained out in her sleep, her eyes puffy and distant. She hadn’t spoken more than a whisper since the scream.

Onyakopon stood in the doorway, watching. His parents were nowhere in sight. The house was too still. Wrong.

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ to start a fire,” Ony said gently, “but you need to sit, Caleb. You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor.”

Caleb’s steps stopped abruptly. He turned slow, like a puppet pulled too tight on its strings.

“Oh, now you care?” he said, voice dry and full of heat. “Now you got concern?”

Ony blinked. “I’ve always cared.”

“No, you don’t. You stand around lookin’ like you see through everybody, like none of this is real to you. Like we’re fools for tryin’ to build a damn life here.”

Ony’s jaw tightened. “That ain’t fair.”

“Oh, but it’s true,” Caleb spat. “You think I forgot what you said a while back? ‘A wife and baby won’t fix nothin’? You said that. You looked me dead in the eye and said that. Like all this… like Leah—”

His voice cracked. “—like the baby didn’t matter.”

Ony’s voice was low. “I never said they didn’t matter. I said it won’t fix what’s wrong with this place. This town. You know that better than anyone, Caleb.”

“No. What I know is, you mocked me. You sat at that table with your silence and your damn half-smiles and judged me. You think you’re better than me.”

“I don’t—”

Caleb stepped forward, eyes wide, glassy, something off inside them now. “You don’t? Say it with your tongue then. Look me in the face and tell me I’m not a fool for wantin’ more.”

Leah stirred, voice soft. “Caleb—”

“Don’t,” Caleb snapped without looking at her.

Ony held his ground. “You ain’t a fool, Caleb. But you’re acting like one now. You’re hurt, and I get it. But don’t come at me like I put that pain in you.”

“You put the doubt in me!” Caleb roared.

“You were the voice in the back of my head every damn day since she told me she was pregnant. And now look! Gone. Just like everything else in this cursed house.”

There was a beat — the kind of silence that comes before something breaks.

Then Caleb lunged.

The scuffle was quick but violent — desperation making up for lack of form. Ony tried to hold him off, but Caleb fought like he wanted to draw blood, like if he hurt someone else maybe the ache inside him would let up.

Leah shouted, trying to reach them, tears running down her face. “Stop it! Stop!”

Ony finally shoved Caleb back, hard enough to knock him into the wall. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Caleb’s chest heaved. His eyes were wrong not just angry, but dark, as if something else had stepped into him. Something watching through his face.

“You mocked me,” he said again, quieter now. “You cursed me with your mouth. You always did.”

Ony stepped back, heart pounding. “I ain’t cursed you. This place did.”

Leah stood between them, shaking, one hand stretched out like she was trying to keep them both from falling off a cliff.

“Please, Ony,” she whispered. “Just go."

He didn’t want to. He wanted to fix it — to fix him. But he saw the look in her eyes. That pleading. That fear.

So he turned and walked out the front door.

And behind him, the house groaned.

The air outside slapped his skin like cold judgment. Onyakopon didn’t know when his feet hit the porch or when the front gate swung open — he only remembered the crunch of gravel under his boots and the warm sting of blood trailing down from his eyebrow. His lip was split, throbbing with each breath. The fight with Caleb replayed in flashes behind his eyes, quick and jagged like broken glass.

He kept running.

Not because he was afraid of Caleb, but because he was afraid of what he saw in Caleb.

The sky above had gone dull and gray, not quite evening but no longer day. Birds had gone quiet. The cicadas, too. All that remained was the pounding in his ears and the sharp inhale-exhale of lungs trying to keep up.

He didn’t even realize where he was until his knees buckled beneath him, and he hit the soft grass with a grunt. Hands splayed wide, he pressed his back to the earth, letting the air wrap around him. He was in the clearing.

The tall reeds swayed around him like ghosts with no mouths, whispering only through movement. And the sky above looked... too wide. Too still.

He lay there, panting. Sweat mixed with blood. His chest rose and fell like he’d outrun death itself.

And maybe he had.

Or maybe he’d run straight into it.

His chest rose and fell like a storm settling into silence. The sky above blurred, hazy from tears he didn’t know he’d let fall. Grass pressed cool and damp against the back of his neck. His lip stung, and his brow pulsed where Caleb’s fist had landed. Blood still crusted warm at the corner of his mouth.

He closed his eyes. Just for a second.

When he opened them—

She was there.

Standing over him like a painting left out in the rain. Skirt brushing the wild grass, curls coiled like shadows catching sunlight, eyes so ancient and wide they swallowed the sky behind her. Her face was soft, full of moonlight and mourning. The kind of beautiful that didn’t beg to be noticed — it just was, like wind or thunder. There was dirt on her hem, leaves tangled in her sleeves like she’d risen straight from the woods, or maybe the earth itself. Her cat, that little ghost pressed against her ankles, then padded forward, tail flicking, and nipped at Ony’s fingers with a quiet warning.

He flinched and blinked like he might still be dreaming.

“You,” he whispered.

“I always come when the house sends you away,” she said simply.

She knelt beside him, hand grazing the grass just beside his temple, never touching just near enough to feel the air between them hum.

“You’re hurt again, physically this time”

“Didn’t come here on purpose.”

“I know,” she said. “But your blood always finds its way back to me.”

The cat settled between them, purring low, eyes unblinking like it knew all the secrets neither of them could say. Onyakopon studied her — the way her presence dulled the pain just by existing, the way her eyes never flickered with fear. He wanted to say something. Apologize for the world. Ask how she knew so much. Ask how she still smiled like hope hadn’t died with the rest of this town’s soul.

Instead, he asked, “You always show up like this?”

She shrugged, curls bouncing lightly.

“Maybe I’m your guardian angel,” she said, and for a second, he thought she might mean it.

Then, her voice dropped to something softer, sadder.

“Or maybe I just know what it’s like to get pushed out by people who pretend they love you.”

She stood again without a word, brushing dirt from her skirt like it was nothing new, like she’d done this a hundred times before. The cat circled his shoulder once, then darted ahead into the trees.

“You comin’?” she asked over her shoulder, already turning.

Onyakopon hesitated. He should’ve gone back home. Should’ve checked on Leah. Should’ve tried, one more time, to reach the brother that looked at him like a stranger now.

But instead, he pushed himself off the ground, every bruise and scrape a sharp reminder of what waiting there would cost.

He followed her.

They moved through the woods like ghosts her steps barely stirring the leaves, him limping just behind. The path wasn’t marked, but she never second-guessed her turns. Like the forest knew her. Or she knew it.

A weather-worn cottage appeared just beyond a thick grove of oaks, roof sagging under moss and time. Wind chimes made of bones and rusted spoons tinkled faintly from the porch. A line of herbs dried beneath the windows, and a narrow chimney puffed with gentle smoke.

“Don’t mind the mess,” she murmured, holding the door open.

Inside, it smelled of lavender, ash, and something green not rot, not decay, but age. Lived-in. Safe.

He stepped in, and the warmth hit him like a balm. The fire crackled. The cat disappeared somewhere deeper in the house. She gestured toward an old kitchen chair.

“Sit.”

He obeyed.

She moved through the space like she belonged in every shadow of it. Wet a cloth, brought over an old metal tin, crouched before him like he was something precious.

She wiped his lip first, gentle, patient. Then his brow.

“You bruise easy,” she said, voice nearly teasing.

“You always nurse people back to life in the woods?”

“Just you.”

He didn’t ask why. He just watched her, close now the fine lines in her expression, the way she focused like this mattered, like he mattered. Her touch was warm, but her eyes. . . her eyes were still carrying something ancient.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

She didn’t respond right away. Just dabbed at the last of the blood, then looked up at him, expression unreadable.

“Next time,” she said softly, “don’t wait ‘til the world breaks your face to come find me again. Too handsome for all these and bruises."

Her fingers lingered on his chin, gentle, almost tender. He caught the faint scent of lavender and honey on her skin and felt heat rise in his cheeks. His eyes flickered down to his lap, suddenly shy under her steady gaze.

For a long moment, they just stayed like that close enough to feel the warmth of each other’s breath, the unspoken words hanging in the air. The cat nipped playfully at his fingers, breaking the spell, but even then, her smile held a softness that made his heart tighten.

"You hungry?"

He smiled softly meeting her eyes again, " I could eat."

She chuckled, the sound light and unexpected in the heavy silence. “Good. I don’t do fancy, but I can fix you something real.”

She stood and moved toward the small kitchen, the cat padding behind her like a loyal shadow. Ony followed slowly, still feeling the strange comfort of her presence like the world had shifted just enough to let a little light in.

[dameronspector]

“Sleepy time for papa and grogu”

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader, Grogu x Parent!Reader, Grogu x Parent!Din Djarin

Summary: You help your favourite boys get adjusted in your new house.

Warnings: Mentions of nightmares/insomnia, mentions of the razor crest blowing up, Established relationship, it’s all nice and sweet fluff with our favourite boys. Also din is helmetless ok cus we deserve more helmetless din content.

Author’s Note: my boys….i assume they must’ve had a hard time getting comfortable in their nevarro cabin at first since they’re used to cramping in a single cot together 🙁 just a self indulgent fic to help my little baby din and little grogu feel comfy and safe in their new house.

You opened your bleary and half asleep eyes to check the display of the clock on your bedside table. 3:15 am, it said. At first, you felt annoyed at the fact that something had woken you up after trying so hard to fall asleep. You see, this was your first time sleeping in this house. And it has been a huge adjustment. But then your sleep addled mind registered that it wasn’t something, but rather someone’s restless movements that woke you up.

You tiredly shuffled until you were on your right side and saw your partner’s muscular and broad back next to you. He was the one who was constantly moving around in bed and that is what woke you up. You’ve never seen Din so restless before, usually out cold the moment he closes his eyes. You opened your bleary eyes fully to see him moving once more before he came face to face with you, let out a big sigh and finally opened his eyes. You swore his brown eyes shone even in the moonlight that came in from your bedroom window. “Oh. I’m so sorry for waking you up, cyare”, he said sheepishly in his soft voice and brought his right arm out of the blanket to cup your cheek.

You sleepily shuffled closer to him and put your hand on top of the one on your cheek. “It’s okay, honey. You’re moving so much…can’t sleep? Somethin’ on your mind?”, you said. He smiled at your concern for him even though he woke you up from your well deserved sleep and rubbed his thumb across your cheek. “Well..I’m not used to such a big space…this bed is too soft…the room is too big…. the silence is so loud that my ears are ringing and…yeah”, he said quietly.

You opened your eyes at this and jutted your bottom lip out at him, removing your hand on top of his to put it on his cheek instead. “Din…im so sorry, cyare. I should’ve checked on you before dozing off. I know all this is new for you”, you said softly while caressing his stubbled cheek. He turned his head to kiss your palm and put his arm around your waist to bring you closer. He leaned his head further in your hand and looked at you with a fond expression. “Don’t apologise, mesh’la…im glad you could get some sleep, atleast. It’s just new to me. And I…,” he trailed off, letting out a big sigh and closing his eyes, as if to avoid being judged by you.

You furrowed your eyebrows at this. “What’s wrong? You know you can tell me anything, right?”, you say gently. He opened his eyes and put his hand back on your cheek. “I know…it’s just..” he took a deep breath in. “I miss the razor crest. I know it was far from a home but…she was my home. She gave me protection during the worst times. And in one way or another, she’s the reason why I have you and the kid with me. I don’t care if there wasn’t enough space. I miss her and I miss our small, hard cot where the three of us would sleep cramped in together. This cabin is really lovely, don’t get me wrong. But it’s so big and now we’re all so far away from each other”, he finished, sounding meek and shy by the end of it. He tangled his hand in your hair to distract him from the blush that was appearing on his cheeks.

Maker, your heart grew three sizes after listening to his confession. You know he struggles with expressing himself but he’s gotten better at it ever since he met you and it’s just getting better ever since he reunited with grogu. Seeing your big, bad mandalorian be vulnerable with you was an honour. “Din Djarin, you are such a softie, did you know that?”, you joked softly while messing his soft hair. He smiled shyly, dimple on show and all. You pushed his hair away from his forehead. “It’s completely okay to miss The Crest, Din. She was a junk, but she was Our junk and she was comfortable, yeah? I can’t tell you how devastated I was when I saw her blow up. I miss her too. She gave the three of us a safe space to be together as a family”, you say affectionately while rubbing your thumb across his hairline. The razor crest will always have a special moment in your hearts. Just as Din was about to speak, you heard a coo from the doorway.

Both of you instantly snapped your heads to see what happened for the kid to leave his crib and join you, only to see that his little body was standing in the doorway with his tiny hands holding his frog plushie, dragging it on the ground because it was bigger than him. He was rubbing one of his eyes with his tiny clawed hand and he cooed once again, as if asking you to pick him up.

Before you even had a chance to move, Din gently removed himself from your embrace and made his way to the kid. “What’s wrong, buddy? Did you have a bad dream?”, he said while picking his son up and caressing his back with his hand. “Bu….”, Grogu cooed once again. The moment he saw you, he made grabby hands at you and demanded to be held. Din smiled. He brought him over to the bed and handed Grogu over to you.

“Hi baby, what’s wrong?”, you asked softly while taking Grogu in your arms. You placed him on your stomach and he hugged his frog stuffy closer to him and looked at you and Din with his bright eyes. “Bu….Ma?”, he cooed while pointing at you and Din. “Yeah kid, we’re right here. What’s wrong?”, Din said while rubbing his tiny hand with his thumb. Grogu climbed down from your stomach and laid down in between you and Din, frog stuffy still clutched in his hands. You and Din looked at each other and smiled. You put your hand on grogu’s little stomach and rubbed it softly. You and Din wanted Grogu to have a space of his own after spending much of his tiny life in confinement and on the run. You had designed his room in beautiful colours and a nice big crib where he could crawl around and put all of his stuffies in. He also had his own wardrobe and a chest of drawers filled with toys. But it looks like even he was missing The Crest with his whole tiny heart.

“You don’t want to go back to your bed, adi’ka? Your plushies are waiting for you.” Din said while rubbing Grogu’s big ears. Grogu looked at Din and let out a soft cry of protest and held your fingers tightly. Din furrowed his eyebrows and looked at you for help. You understood what was happening and let out a quiet giggle. “Looks like someone misses sleeping together with his buirs, isn’t that right, Grogu?”. Grogu let out a huff and blinked up at Din as if he was saying “that’s right, dad.”

Din let out a tiny gasp in realisation and smiled fondly. “Oh I’m so sorry, buddy. You can sleep in here with us”, he said while rubbing Grogu’s tiny head. You observed your boys with a loving look. “How about I help both of you fall asleep, hm?”, you asked while running your hand through Din’s messy curls. Both Grogu and Din turned to look at you. Grogu cooed while smiling and Din flashed his dimpled smile at you. You took that as a yes and laid down. You pick up Grogu and gently set him back on your stomach and settle his stuffie next to him. “Comfortable? You got your friend with you as well”, you ask while running your hand across his tiny back. Grogu let’s out a sigh just like Din does and cuddles closer to you. You and Din let out happy giggles and you finally turn to look at Din. “Lay down, cyare. Come on, it’s sleepy time for papa and grogu”, you say while opening your arms.

Din simply shook his head with a fond smile on his face and hovered over you before cupping your cheek and pressing a lingering kiss on your forehead. You closed your eyes and smiled. He pulled back to look at you with so much love in his eyes before kissing you gently. You kissed him back, nudging your nose against his gorgeous, aquiline nose. He pulled back to stare at you, as if memorising your face and rubbed his thumb across your cheek. “I love you, mesh’la. You’re everything to us”, he says while looking deeply into your eyes. You blushed at this and let out a soft sigh. “Din…you and grogu are literally my heart and my soul. I love you both, so much. I-” you felt a tug at your shirt and looked down at Grogu staring at you two like you disturbed his sleep. He cooed and pulled at Din’s shirt, as if asking him to lay down quickly.

You and Din laughed and Din immediately laid down. He put his arm around Grogu and across your stomach and put his head on your chest. You pushed your right hand through his curls and massaged his scalp which made Din let out a deep sigh and cuddle closer to you. Your left hand was rubbing Grogu’s head softly. “Okay boys, you can relax now. I’m right here. We’re all together now, okay?”, you asked and left a kiss on top of Din’s head. You waited for any movement from them and soon heard both of them snoring softly. You smiled to yourself and buried your face in Din’s curls, falling asleep quickly.

Soon, you realised that home was wherever the three of you were together and that this house would become a Home as well.

[codewren]

CAMP TOSKA - ONE

Doug lied.

There is no air conditioning.

There is, in fact, no king sized bed.

All that’s here is an irritating, know it all psychologist (who Robby pissed off not even five minutes into meeting) and two full sized cots – one on each side of the twelve by twenty cabin. A grand, stone fireplace stands tall against the back wall, the only thing separating the two. Not like they’ll need it, Robby thinks, watching as you slam the cabin door closed. The screen door slowly follows, chasing its predecessor with a pitiful groan.

Same, Robby thinks.

He falls back on his mattress, head barely missing the wall and felt dangling comically off the end. Two weeks, he sighs heavy through his nose. Two weeks.

- Robby needed a break. He’d roll himself into his own grave – pick the plot and single handily shovel it hollow — before he admitted that to anyone, let alone himself. He doesn’t truly remember how it came up in conversation. A friend from his residency was back in town on his way to California. Inoki was a brand new, three Michelin star Japanese restaurant with an open bar that Robby had heard too many good things about. He even had a gift card given to him by the chef after Robby oversaw his emergency gallbladder surgery a few months back. Two bottles of sake and a whiskey sour later, and Robby was seriously considering Doug’s proposition.

“I mean, think about it,” Doug said with a too white, too charming smile. “A two weeks vacation – paid – in the woods, at the lake.. and all you gotta do is, what? Patch up a couple of scraped knees? Maybe teach some teenager to properly use his epipen after a bee sting?”

Robby raised his eyebrows, nodding along in half amusement, swallowing the remnants of his drink.

“Careful now. Just say a king bed and mention some air conditioning and I might just say yes.” Doug stayed all toothy, glimmering more like a real estate agent than an MD.

“I can make that happen, Robinavitch.”

It didn’t take anyone on Robbys end any convincing. Dana thought it was the best idea since sliced bread, a hard slap to the shoulder and a wide smile. “Where’s Robby and what did you do with him?” Jack just got it. No questions asked, just a full, lengthy TedTalk of all the cool camping gear he could lend him. And Gloria? Well, she was just excited to code in ED vacation time for once – muttering something about not having to pay chief attending rates while he was gone.

His residents may have thought a meteor was falling when they heard the news, but they’d get over it. Robby was sure his day time replacement would allow their blood pressure to return to normal, human levels for once – do them some good for the old mean and stern Robinavitch to go MIA for a while.

A day after his night out with Doug, the camp consent forms were signed and his time off request approved. Robby dropped his backpack at the door, kicking it closed as he works himself out his jacket. Shoes were next, toed off at the heel. A bad habit, but Robby was a man made of many.

His ritual continued in the kitchen, arms raised to pull his scrub top off by the scruff. A cold beer in hand and dinner forgotten, Robby sunk into the couch, using the hard edge behind the cushions to stretch his neck. The comforting sound of loneliness embraced him once again, creeping down his neck to return home in the pit of his belly. It smothered the day time flames of anxiety, allowing Robby to feel… content. No pagers, no code alarms. He gripped the TV remote in his free hand, mindlessly flipping through channels as he polished off his drink. A vacation.

For once, he allowed himself to welcome home another rare commodity – excitement.

- The drive up to the lake was only three and a half hours. It gave Robby peace of mind to know if there was truly an emergency, it wouldn’t take long for him to get back. It was far enough away, however, that he felt comfortable setting up an automatic response for his email.

Out of town, please forward all emergencies to MD Abbot, ext. 205 in the ED.

Thanks,

Dr. Michael Robinavitch.

With a rental truck, a backpack of personal items, and one of Jack’s doomsday prepper bags (that could allow Robby to perform open heart surgery – twice), Robby hit the road, his only traveling companions a cup full of coffee, channel 94.5 Pittsburgh Classic Hits, and a heavy chest that seemed to lighten just an inch with every passing mile marker. By the time he pulled under the ‘Welcome, Campers!’ Sign and found parking, Robby was ready to dig his toes in the sand by the lake, aviators perched upon a sun kissed nose, at least ten chapters deep in a book.

Thanks to the classic tree trunk and wooden arrow signs, it was not too hard to find the medical pavilion. It was a short walk away from the main path, tucked inside its own circle of trees. There were two buildings connected by a breezeway of twisted tree branches, a dirt and gravel path leading the the stairs. The buildings themselves were painted a dull red, a big contrast from the deep wood the rest of the cabins were crafted from. Time chipped away at the old siding, stairs creaking under his weight as Robby climbed them. The front, double doors were propped open and the lights on, giving Robby to green light to get a little more nosy.

The actual medical cabin itself was impressive, five infirmary beds separated by curtains, shelves lining the walls with cabinets stocked full of alcohol wipes, bandaids, gauze, fiberglass cast tape, sutures, pre-packaged sterile gloves and wound care kits. Robby let out a low whistle. He hoped we wouldn’t need most of these supplies, but between them and Jack’s backpack, he felt pretty confident about the next two weeks.

“Am I okay to assume you’re the primary physician or should I be worried that a stay-away camp’s medical tent is being robbed?”

Robby turned to find you, chuckling before closing the doors of the cabinet he was elbow deep in.

“Well, you know what they say about assuming.” He approaches with wide steps, reaching out his hand. “Dr Robinavitch, but I go by Dr. Robby – ‘s easier.”

“Ah,” you nodded, shaking his hand with impressive professionalism. “You’re Doug’s friend? He told me a lot about you.”

“Oh, really now?” He tilted his head to the side, letting out a sheepish laugh. “I’m so sorry.. Doug didn’t..”

“Tell you about me?” You laughed, introducing yourself. “I’m the primary psychologist on staff. And It’s okay, I didn’t assume he’d mention anyone in his pitch to finally get a doc up here.” You smiled wide before adding, “You know what they say about assuming.”

Robby smiled wide in return. Well, Doug, thank you for the vacation gift.

“This place is pretty decent, and so was his pitch.” He raised an eyebrow, dropping your hand. “Finally get a doc up here.. what do you mean by that?”

“Well, this camp leaves little to be desired.. it’s not really a vacation, you know?”

His eyes fell and your stomach followed, nails digging into your palms at the latent tension.

“Please tell me Doug told you everything.”

“I’m.. starting to get the feeling he didn’t.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, bouncing back on his heels, chin pointed to the ceiling like he was saying a short prayer. “Don’t tell me like this camp is full of unvaccinated children and I’m going to be knee deep in spinal fluid to test for meningitis?”

You choked back a laugh, waving a hand in front of you to clear the air.

“God, no – all participants are required to be vaccinated before they get here.”

“A camp full of prisoners funded by the government to dig holes in search for buried treasure?”

That forced the laugh out of you.

“It’s a pretty sadistic job, but not like that, no.” You took a breath, watching his huge palm cup his own face, sparkling brown eyes taking pity on you as if you were about to break the news that you actually stole him away to the woods to work on a new strand of infectious disease. “It’s a grief camp for adolescents.”

“Yeah,” he hummed, eyes flicking to everywhere but yours as he surveyed the room, bringing his hand down over his beard before dropping it to his side with a heavy exhale. “That’s a pretty sadistic vacation.”

“I’m sorry..”

“Don’t be,” he shook his head, crossing his arms across his broad chest. “I’m already here so there’s no point in backing out. Just gives me time to cook up some revenge for Doug.”

“Here,” you perked up, changing the subject, leaning down to grab his bags. “Let’s get you settled in. Through here is the door to our cabin.” You nodded towards a door against the side wall, a door that Robby assumed you had entered from.

“Our?” He grimaced, slinging the remaining backpack over one shoulder.

“Well, I hope you don’t mind sharing.”

There wasn’t much of the residence cabin to give him a tour of, but you worked with what you had. Placing his backpack on the side of his cot, you gave an abashed smile, stepping back to give him as much space as possible in the tiny cabin.

“Hope you don’t snore.”

Robbys lips remained twisted, nodding as he looked around, like he has been expecting such quarters.

“It’s no king sized bed with air conditioning but it’ll do.”

You laughed, brushing off his comment as a joke, but his eyes remained on yours with a tight jaw.

“He did not - you’re kidding!” You gasped. “That’s just mean.. we haven’t had air conditioning up here since… well, I can’t remember.” You plopped on your cot, watching as Robby got comfortable unpacking. “Now I’ll have to think of something to do to get Doug back for that.”

You grabbed your own bag, pretending to unpack slowly, matching Robby’s pace as you stole a glance or two.

Robby was… taut. His shoulders constantly at his ears, eyes downcast and downtrodden as if there were a permanent hole he could fall in at any moment. His muscles were tense, every movement painfully precise, thumbing though books to set out on his bedside. The creases between his brows seemed to remain there, following the bridge of his nose and out under his eyes, joining the purple tinted skin of his bags. He looked exhausted. Poor guy, you thought. He really did think this was going to be a vacation. On the other hand…

There were worse men you could have been stuck in a cabin for two weeks with. He was inappropriately handsome. His eyes were a collected handful of colors, golden brown with sparks of green whenever the sun would hit right through the cabin window. His beard was neatly trimmed against his face, shadowing pink, pouty lips that looked incredibly satisfying to bite into. And he was tall – god, he was tall and broad and strong.

“You know.. while you’re here, you could join in on some of my classes. Tell the kids a thing or two about the grief you handle everyday.”

With Robby’s back to you, you couldn’t see he stopped moving. So you continued.

“Doug told me you were right in the belly of the pandemic. I can’t imagine how much loss you saw. And to lose someone yourself—“

“I’m sorry.. are you.. trying to psychoanalyze me?”

“Oh god, no!” You panicked, eyes wide as you rambled on. “I just — wanted you to feel welcome, you know? Like, you could come with us swimming, for sure, but you give much more ‘read a book in a lounger’ guy, so ya know.. thought that maybe.. you could benefit from some grief work.”

“Benefit?” He laughed, a single, forced exhale. “What, Doug talk you into this, too?”

“Doug? No! You’re a trauma room doctor so I figured you might want to —“

“You figured wrong.” His eyes glared into yours, gaze heated. His voice was strong and clipped, daring you to continue debating. “Keep your grief classes to yourself. Just..” He flexed his fists by his side, jaw twitching in tandem. “I’m here to provide medical care. That’s all.”

So much for being handsome. You grit your teeth, taking a stabilizing breath before swinging yourself off the cot, slipping on your shoes and snatching your coat off the hook. Grabbing tight to the door handle, you refused to entertain him with a look back before storming out, slamming it behind you. Might as well head to the main offices to get a head start on paperwork.

Robby falls back on his mattress, head barely missing the wall and felt dangling comically off the end. Two weeks, he sighs heavy through his nose. Two weeks.

[nebulablakemurphy]

Would you be able to write about the first few days with August? We saw a bit of Everest and Daisy as babies but none of Arista or August x

Happy Birthday, Haymitch

Combining with this request. Pure fluff. Haymitch’s youngest son is born on his birthday.

“He’s not going anywhere, Haymitch.” Y/N shoots her husband a tired smile. It’s the middle of the night; newly July Fourth. Her husband’s birthday and their youngest son’s.

“I know,” he chuckles. “Thought I’d take first shift, wanted you to get some sleep.”

“He’s a great sleeper.” Y/N says, “you should sleep too though. Madge and the kids will be here bright and early.”

“He doesn’t have a name yet, they’re all gonna ask.”

“Would you want…I know we kind of steered away from family names, but Daisy May-” May for Maysilee. May for Willamae, Haymitch’s mother.

“May is a month.” Haymitch reasons, “we could do a month.”

Y/N lifts a shoulder. “He’s your birthday twin,” the little boy arrived shortly after one in the morning. “July?”

“July Abernathy.” He tries it on for size.

The infant wails in protest, from his cot.

“Oh,” Haymitch springs to his feet, abandoning the recliner. “He doesn’t like that.” He lifts the child to his chest. “Shhh. It doesn’t have to be July.”

The infant blinks at him, soothed by the sound of his voice.

“You could be…August.” Haymitch suggests, easing the child into Y/N’s arms.

“What do you think?” Y/N grins down at the baby, lowering the neckline of her gown to nurse him. “Are you August?”

The child doesn’t answer, drinking until he’s had his fill and falling asleep once more.

“We’ll take that as a yes.” Haymitch decides, moving his son back into his bassinet.

“He’ll be out for a while now.” Y/N reminds Haymitch. “You should sleep.”

Haymitch nods, sinking back into his chair.

“You don’t look comfortable.”

“Neither do you.”

“Come lay with me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” The good drugs help, but she did just pop out his baby and he knows she’s still hurting.

“You won’t,” Y/N assures him. “Please?”

Haymitch waits until she’s situated before carefully crawling into the hospital bed to join her. “Are you ok?” He asks, a moment later. But the only response is Y/N’s snoring.

————————————————————————

Y/N wakes to the hushed whispers of Haymitch and their oldest children.

“Daddy, it’s a brother?”

“Yes, baby.”

“What’s his name?”

“August.”

“Can I hold him?”

“Yes, just keep it down so mommy can sleep.”

“I’m up,” Y/N yawns.

Daisy, who has been quiet up until now, begins whimpering in Madge’s arms. “Mama.”

“Come,” Y/N moves into a sitting position; holding out her arms.

Daisy clings to her, at just shy of two, she is still not a fan of being separated from her parents.

“Are you ok, Mom?” Everest asks, watching Haymitch situate August in Arista’s arms; carefully seated on the hospital’s recliner.

“I am,” Y/N assures her son. “We’ll be on the train home before you know it. Where’s Aunt Madge?”

“Her is cake.” Daisy babbles.

“She is cake?” Y/N laughs, stroking the child’s blonde locks. The same as her sister’s.

“She’s getting a cake,” Everest whispers, “don’t tell Dad. It’s a surprise.”

“Oh,” Y/N looks to Haymitch. They’ve never done much for his birthday, when they have, it’s been for the children’s sake.

Madge emerges through the hospital door, with a blue cake in hand. ‘Happy Birthday’ is piped in yellow icing over the top, complete with a single lit candle.

A second figure creeps into view. “Vanity!”

They haven’t seen Y/N’s former stylist since before the rebellion.

“I heard you were here.” Vanity explains, “it’s all being kept quiet, of course. But Effie never did know how to contain her excitement.”

“Is Effie here? Tell her to come in.” Haymitch insists.

“She’s down the hall with the gifts! Give her just a moment.”

“Gifts?”

“We can’t celebrate your birthdays without gifts, now can we?” Effie says, handing two large bags off to Haymitch. “One for you, and one for baby boy.”

“His name’s August.”

“August.” Madge smiles down at the baby in Arista’s arms. “Happy birthday to you.”

“Happy birthday to you.”

“Happy birthday dear Haymitch and August. Happy birthday to you.”

Y/N claps, with Daisy in her lap.

Everest leaning against the side of her hospital bed with the biggest smile on his face.

Arista frees her youngest brother’s hands from the swaddle, to gently press them together, in a tiny round of applause. “Yay, Daddy and August.”

August opens his mouth in a wide yawn, clearly unimpressed.

“Make a wish, Haymitch.” Y/N turns to her husband.

He closes his eyes, blowing out the candle. Haymitch has everything he’s ever wished for.

[samsblades]

✶ fucking freezing — carl morck

cw : gn!reader, detective!reader, hurt/comfort, awkward fluff, nightmare, panic attack, arguing, swearing, one bed trope, reader implied to be scottish through dialect but absolutely no physical descriptions, poorly edited, 3.5K words.

"oh, fuck me," carl groans. this phrase leaves his mouth so frequently that you don't even blink at it—you just throw a glance back towards the car to double check that he hasn't parked too horribly. maybe he's swearing because the wallpaper is horrendous or something of that sort.

"think i'd rather die," you grumble, the response more reflex than anything else. your gaze snags on the coastline for a moment too long and you fail to notice that carl has stopped dead in his tracks until you walk right into him. "the fuck?" you complain, your head whipping back around as he grunts in annoyance. you back up so fast that you nearly trip down the back porch stairs.

"watch where you're fucking walking," he growls, somehow sounding even more annoyed than usual. it's an impressive feat, honestly.

"you watch it," you frown, "why the fuck did you stop? go on, then." his jaw tightens, but he doesn't move. you raise your brows and motion towards the inn room that you can't even see with his tall frame blocking the doorway.

"are you sure this is the only place to stay here?" he asks through gritted teeth, "is your— is your fucking phone working?"

"jesus christ, what the hell are you on about? yeah, i'm sure! go!" you roll your eyes, then mutter, "fuckin' hell," before decidedly pushing past him and into the room. that's when you are stopped in your own pitiful tracks. "you're joking," you deadpan, "you've got to be kidding me. absolutely the fuck not. there's not even a fucking sofa."

you whip around to face him and find that you're once again much closer than expected. he leans against the doorway with a look that says i-fucking-told-you-so and it makes you want to have a go at him. and at the discovery of only one bed in the only room in the only inn throughout all of tiny little mhòr, you are too livid to back away from him to argue at a proper distance.

"i already wanted to fucking vomit at the thought of sharing a room with you, but this is ridiculous. you didnae even think to check?" you accuse. he booked the room while you spoke to the second inn keeper, checking their logs for any possible missed paper trail that could point back to merritt. you found nothing, of course, except the fact that the inn only keeps one room now. you blanched at the poor old man, but he just waved it off with no mention of a single king sized bed.

"well you found the fucking place! and you think i want to share a room with you? fuck's sake, i argued with her for nearly five minutes straight!" as always, he meets your fire with his own.

"there was no other place to find!" you counter, "this is the only place on mhòr and the ferry does nae cross again til the morning."

"so it doesn't even fucking matter whether i checked about the bed because there's fucking nowhere else to sleep!" he shouts.

you grit your teeth and decide to be the bigger man. "i'm going to ask if they have a spare cot." you push past him again, making sure to dig into his arm with your shoulder as you pass. you're too fast to let him get another word in.

your begging with the inn keeper that carl spoke with does not go well. there's no spare cots, certainly nowhere else to sleep, and the inn's only spare comforter that you would gladly lay on the floor and sleep atop of is soaking wet in the wash. she apologizes sweetly enough, but you're frustrated and fuming as you stalk back to the room.

"nothing?" he asks shortly when you return empty handed.

"no," you say through gritted teeth. you shut the door much harder than you intend to. or maybe not. he stands by the window, unmoving, both of your overnight bags still sitting by the door. "i need a fuckin' shower," you grunt, sweeping up your bag and crossing the room to the bath.

"no, hey! hold on, we need to fucking sort this," he argues, pushing up from where he leans against the wall.

"there is no sorting this," you groan, turning back to face him in time with the roll of your eyes. "i'll sleep in the car, for fuck's sake, just let me have a shower."

he raises his brows. "you are not sleeping in the car, are you fucking stupid? christ, who let you be a copper?"

"it's not like you fucking care whether i sleep in the car or not," you sigh, throwing up your unoccupied hand, "there's no way in hell that i'm sharing a bed with you."

"you're right. i don't give a shit where you sleep," he shrugs, talking as if this is a casual conversation, "but i do fucking care to have another dead cop on my hands and there's no way i'm letting you do something as stupid as sleeping in a car in the place someone was kidnapped and murdered. or maybe you forgot our investigation, with a mind like yours?"

his comment about another dead cop on his hand gives you pause for just a moment. then he insults you again and you're back to gritting your teeth and holding back from saying something that you really shouldn't. instead, you take a deep breath and let yourself think for another moment.

"anderson wasn't your fault," you say quietly before quickly skipping over the subject, "let me take the comforter, i'll sleep on the floor. you use the spare blanket." you despise receding the bed to him, but you know he'd never give it up to you and you'd rather have a hot shower and a touch of sleep over more pointless arguing.

but of course, since carl just loves arguing, this solution isn't enough for him. "it's fucking freezing in here," he shakes his head.

"fuck's sake!" you have to close your eyes for a moment to stay relatively put together, "i just offered you the whole bed and it's still not enough for you! would you like me to freeze on the hard wood floor then? disnae count as your fault if i freeze to death, is that it?"

"no!" he shouts, the jump in volume abrupt enough that it almost startles you, "just—" he stops for a deep breath that probably doesn't do much for his anger, "just… let's not. it's, uh— fuck, it's a large bed." he motions vaguely and defeatedly towards the bed, pretending like he's not avoiding looking you in the eye.

you blink twice before you can say anything. when you open your mouth you intend to gawp and and scoff and absolutely refuse what he implies. or at least tease him for being the first one to suggest it.

"right…" you mutter, a noncommittal shrug on your shoulders, "it's— it's a pretty big bed." your eyes flick around the room in their own attempt of steering clear of his gaze. "i'm going to shower."

"yep," he says, suddenly awkward as he half turns to the door before realizing there's no reason for him to head in that direction at all. so he just stands there and you hum in some vague acknowledgement of who knows what before turning on your heel and making your way to the bathroom with the single-minded focus of avoiding carl. and taking a shower, of course.

── ✶

for a number of reasons, you try very hard not to think about carl while he showers. there's professionalism, of course, the mortifying fact that you'll be sharing a bed with him, and the self-loathing which stems from the utter horror that you'd want to think about him.

in an effort to distract yourself, you sit on the edge of the bed with your favorite notepad, the edges gone soft from being shoved into bags without care. you recount your conversation with the constable through pen and paper, seeing if it might jog any new ideas or theories. but you're too distracted from your supposed distraction to think of anything new, and then he's out of the bathroom, messily drying his damp hair with a dusty blue hand towel that nearly matches the shade of his crew neck sweatshirt.

you rip your gaze away before he can make eye contact. he doesn't say anything as he turns off the light in the corner, then the lamp on his bedside. your own lamp remains on, revealing the way he hesitates before sitting on his side of the bed. it doesn't seem worth it to bother with your notepad anymore, so you discard it and the pen on the night stand and switch off the light so that it's harder for the both of you to be perceived.

neither of you move at all for a long moment, then you break the silence with the rustling of sheets and blankets as you lay down, back adamantly facing his side of the bed. he clears his throat as he follows suit and it is unimaginably strange to feel the comforter and the bed shift with his movements.

then you're both settled and the room is so quiet that it is truly unnerving. the radiator doesn't rattle—it must be broken, hence the frigid temperature—and the night beyond your room stretches out in silence. it is not a soft kind of quiet, but one instead filled with awkward tension, unstable footing, and raging reluctance.

carl's voice is rough even when slightly hushed. "if you hoard the blankets or kick me in your sleep i will fucking kill you."

"likewise," you reply in as cutting a voice you can muster, very unused to the way he sounds from across a shared bed. he sounds different like this, even if he still talks with gruff, biting remarks. "so shut the fuck up and let me sleep," you tack on because you're unsure if you can listening to his voice without thinking something startling about him. like that he has a nice voice or broad shoulders or just that he isn't all that bad.

"you shut the fuck up," he grumbles, and you fight the urge to swing your arm over and whack him in the face. you'd love to give him a nosebleed, but you just sigh and close your eyes.

it takes ages to fall asleep. you're too on edge because of his nearness to properly relax, so in the end, it's just exhaustion that takes you. but the whole while that you lay awake, you are painfully convinced that he is too, his breathing never changing or slowing while his body stays impressively still. you resist fully tossing and turning, but you shift uncomfortably until you fall into a restless sleep. at least he doesn't tell you to shut up when you make noise, though you're sure he wants to.

he hears you squirming in bed even after he takes note of your soft, slowed breathing. it's frankly annoying, and he lays there with a curled lip and blue eyes staring up at the dark, blank ceiling. carl takes even longer to fall asleep, uncomfortable with your presence, the way it makes him feel, and the prospect of nightmares. but sleep does claim him, maybe only thanks to that certain sort of tiredness that follows travel.

── ✶

it's not as if you should've expected anything better than a rude awakening for one reason or another, but the frigid cold at three in the morning is worse than you expected. you wake with your whole body exposed by a sudden movement that rips the blanket from you and puts your sleepy mind into a particularly confused state. it's much colder than it was when you fell asleep; if the radiator wasn't broken before, it is now. you groan and blindly reach behind you, your fingertips grazing over something much more solid than the blanket you're searching for.

this brings you pause, which stops your sluggish squirming and the accompanying rustle of cotton sheets. however, you are not greeted with the same silence you fell asleep to, but quick wheezing breaths. you scramble to turn and sit up at the same time, your mind jumping to worst case scenarios. a medical emergency would be horrible in such a secluded town.

"carl?" you rasp out. eyes not yet adjusted to the dark, you can only make out the vague mass of his figure lurching towards the edge of the bed. you cross the bed almost as clumsily as he does, reaching out in fear that he'll tumble to the floor. "carl? what's wrong?" he only manages to gasp in response as your hands meet the broad expanse of his back. you barely make it to his side before he tries to stand, fingers gripping his shoulders to keep him sitting.

"hold on," you murmur, voice gone soft as you realize what's happening. he shakes under your firm, but unexpectedly kind touch. "just stay sitting, carl. you're alright. you can try putting your head between your knees, if it helps you breathe. all you have to do is breathe."

he doesn't move to tuck his head, but when one of your hands drifts down his arm, almost absentminded in your efforts to comfort him, he grasps your fingers. carl doesn't notice that he now has your hand clasped in his, still stuck in a state of mild panic thanks to a vivid nightmare, but he settles just a bit with the sound of your steady voice. he's has heard this tone of voice from you before, but not often and never directed at him.

apparently, within his panic, he still has the ability to think that it's sort of nice. that thought effectively cuts through the flashes of violent memories purely due to its shock factor—why the hell would carl find that gentle, caring murmur of yours nice? lovely, even, and certainly comforting. suddenly, he finds himself wanting you to never stop talking. usually, he's wishing for you to shut that goddamn mouth of yours.

you can feel it when his thoughts cross over from nightmares to something much more pleasant. of course, you have no idea that he's using your voice like a lifeline and liking it, but you can hear the rasp leave his quick breaths and feel the tension between his shoulder blades begin to ease under your hand.

"that's it," you say, hoping he doesn't find it condescending. however much you dislike him, you think he deserves kindness in moments like this. you can go back to being an arsehole to him tomorrow morning, as he will. and maybe he's not the absolute worst all of the time. just usually.

"just keep breathing. this is normal. people have panic attacks all of the time," you say, sincere in your hope that he won't be embarrassed and therefore extra prickly about it once he's fully able to calm down.

"i'm fine," he huffs out. there's still an attempt at a biting edge to the words, but he mostly just sounds tired.

"i know," you nod, for once making no effort to match his fighting words. your hand smooths up and down his back, and now that you're sure he'll be alright, you're once again struck with how cold it is. you're used to this sort of weather, but its a touch warmer in edinburgh and carl didn't exactly warn you that you'd be spending the night in mhòr until you got in to work this morning. but he knows you keep a change of clothes at the station, because, for some reason, he tends to remember little things about you.

however lucky you are that you were able to bring along a sleep-able shirt and pair of pants, you were not lucky enough to have a sweatshirt on hand as well and you are not inclined to wearing your work blazer to bed.

you bear the cold as you wait for carl's breathing to truly even out, until all you hear are soft puffs leaving his nose every few moments. your hands don't leave him and you think he still hasn't realized that he has your hand trapped in his.

the hand on his back slips away as you tuck it against your stomach, fingers almost painfully cold. his body heat is plentiful, that much you can feel quite nicely sitting so close to him, but you've started to shiver and your hand was too exposed while sitting over his spine.

he clears his throat, then gives a soft grunt, signaling that he's done letting you sit with him like this. it's regretful, only given that your right side, tucked up against him, is much warmer than your left. but you acquiesce without any complaint. unthinking, you give his hand a squeeze before you begin to slip your fingers from him.

you're right that he never even noticed the way he's clutching you; when it's wordlessly brought to his attention, he startles a bit, pulling sharply away from you with an awkward cough.

"alright," you say, standing just as abruptly and walking without purpose to your bag. it's even colder once you fully leave the bed. you give a futile search of the clothes you wore into work today, cursing the fact that nothing you have would be comfortable or practical in any way. you glance over at the dark blue sweatshirt that carl wore under his jacket, then quickly return your gaze to your bag, shutting it and hoping carl isn't watching you.

you walk back to the bed where carl still sits, grumbling as you go, "it's fuckin' freezing. might not even have to kick me outta the bed at this point."

he doesn't really respond, just gives another one of his noncommittal grunts. when you sit, back on your side of the bed, he stands. you huff quietly, then curl back up under the blanket. facing the wall, miserably cold and tired, you listen as carl walks to the bathroom and fills himself a glass of water. you feel a bit bad; it would've been nice for you to get one for him yourself, but you've can't really bring yourself to care too much now that he's gone and done it. it's not like he needs to be coddled. you stop paying attention to the sounds he makes walking around the room, letting your thoughts drift. you're sleepy, but unfortunately too cold to fall asleep that fast.

or maybe that's for the best because being jolted from distracted thought is marginally better than having your sleep interrupted. a surprised complaint is muffled between your pillow and the unexpected mass of fabric that's tossed from across the tiny room and right over your head. sitting up with a sluggish groan, you snatch at the thick cotton and tug it off your face. you open your mouth, ready to pick a fight with carl for throwing something at you, having no remaining regards to the panic attack he just had, until you actually process what you're holding in your lap.

carl stands next to his neatly stacked pile of the clothes he wore before bed, hands shoved into his pockets as if he can separate himself from the action of flinging his sweatshirt at you. your fingers curl into the soft, navy blue fabric as you realize he's offering it to you to borrow for the rest of the night. the sweatshirt's fabric is still cooled by the air of the room after being separated from carl's body heat, but you feel your face grow a bit warm with its presence.

"wear that," he says, voice purposefully disinterested, "it is unreasonably cold and if you steal the blankets in your sleep i'll kick you out the bed."

"how kind," you mutter, failing to hold back your sarcasm despite the fact that you actually are grateful for the gesture. you're already tugging it on, desperate for a bit more warmth. as you settle the hood over your head, you amend your tone for something a bit more sincere and soft. "thank you, carl."

he doesn't seem to know how to respond to that, so he just makes a low sound of acknowledgement. you take it as a nice thing that he doesn't saying anything scathing.

a soft and needless hum leaves your lips, the air of the room growing awkward and unsure. carl still stands on the opposite end of the room and you sit unmoving in the bed, all for no reason. it's quiet again, but the quiet isn't so harsh anymore. it's just a bit hesitant and unsure, like something has shifted and neither of you know what to make of it.

he shrinks back to the bed only once you've looked away from him and lay back down. when the rustling of sheets stops, you whisper, "good night, carl."

his voice is quite possibly almost affectionate when he grumbles back, "good night."

[ronearoundblindly]

A celebration prompt!! 🥳

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Curtis Everett + there’s only one bed AU 👀 Emphasis on the AU because Snowpiercer is depressing AF 🤣❤️

womp womp, this got 🌶️🌶️🌶️ but perhaps in a tamer way than you think?? whatever happened, i want it. let's leave it at that.

regional political candidate!curtis x staffer!reader

Warnings for smut (act surprised, I dare you), dry-humping, woah-nessie sexual tension, realistic concerns about stains lol, and my knowing the poli-ladder only from watching West Wing, sorry. MINORS DNI. Youngins, you can find plenty to read on my Light Masterlist, but not this! WC 1608

It's a simple mistake.

When Pete called to book for your group of four people (because Mr. Everett is running a very small campaign to keep it very personal for this rural tour), the older woman who owns the tiny B&B heard "a family of four" and held only two rooms. The old, converted mansion doesn't have connecting suites or a basement full of cots to request. There's naught but a high-backed chair in the corner other than the single queen-sized bed against the other wall, and considering you heard Tommy exclaim, "two twins, you gotta be kidding me," no better options exist.

There's three grown men and you. That's it. So either two six-footers struggle--you know what? This isn't your fault, it's just one night, and the hour is too late already.

You don't care anymore.

If Mr. Everett says nothing, you won't say anything. Better to suck it up now instead of ruin the rotation of who bunks with whom. Your boss and candidate is professional enough under all sorts of pressure. It will be fine.

He lets you use the bathroom first, and you immediately get into your comfy (but ample coverage) pajamas, hydrate, wash, moisturize, and brush quickly. No need to make a whole show of being the only woman. Believe it, they know.

"All yours," you announce, reorganizing your bag to have tomorrow's necessities up top.

He simply grunts while flipping through the factory info for the morning meet-and-greet.

As casually as you can, you setup on the farther side of the bed so as not to block him from his suitcase and review the schedule on your phone, resetting your alarm for the right time based on driving distance to the first stop. You get lost in the whole process for a while then look up to see Mr. Everett throwing a blanket over himself in the chair as if he's going to sleep right there, sitting up.

"Sir, you can't do that."

"Why not? I'm tired and I'm here and it's cushioned," he grumbles, purposefully being inarticulate because you've mentioned more than once that he mumbles when answering 'stupid questions.' "We've had a long enough day, you should call me 'Curtis' or I'll make you ride in the backseat."

"Curtis, then," you respond, "if you sleep in that chair, you will look more like shit than you already do. I will put concealer on you. Do not test me."

He gives you the stink eye, contemplating his options, and eventually tosses the blanket off to slide onto the mattress beside you.

It creaks fiercely. You and Curtis make faces at the sounds but don't say anything more about it. He tucks an arm under his head, stretching out with his feet completely off the bed, and after another minute or so, you click off the bedside lamp and turn over to fall fast asleep, the bunched up quilt in between you as a barrier, and the slightly wonky fan above you sounding like a distant warp engine.

You don't know what actually woke you. You didn't startle from a dream, didn't have a feeling of fallen, or feel any movement around you. You're not too hot or too cold. You're just right and...weighted down...but not?

You yawn and blink to focus, stiffening when you realize the weight is Curtis's arm across your waist and your own leg is tossed over his hip. Your boss's head is pressed into your chest, the buzzed hairs prickling through the fabric of your pajama top.

The quilt you probably each thought the other was is wadded near your feet, precariously ready to fall off the bed entirely.

He must not have been in this position for long because the arm he's laying on (your arm) isn't numb yet. Your other arm is draped over his on you, hand hanging off the edge of his tricep.

It's very...comfortable.

You've never really seen Curtis's arms. He always wears button-downs and at least 3/4 sleeve shirts, but tonight, his t-shirt is loose and stretched out, rolled up by tossing, turning, and gravity. He's not tan--he's never tan--but it's so dark in the room that his pale skin only slightly differs from the charcoal of the clothes and near-black of his hair. You can see enough though.

Even with his body relaxed, the muscles of his arm are thick, prominent, pushing veins to the surface like a road map to victory for you to study--

Nope. NO! Bad brain!

You need to find a way to untangle yourself from your boss without embarrassing yourself, or him, or your inner horny gremlin now enjoying the slight, involuntary clench of his fingers in the small of your back. The sudden tickle of that makes you jerk forward, grabbing the arm already in your hand for stability.

Shit.

So much for subtlety.

Curtis rouses, inhaling deeply where his nose is practically lodged between your breasts, and begins to straighten out, lifting his head slowly. The move is not enough to knock your leg off of him. In fact, his shuffling places his top knee directly in the middle of your thighs.

The gravelly way he says your name, sleepy, hopeful, questioning, calling...it's so sexy, it stops you in your tracks.

His lashes flutter against your chin as his beard drags over your arm, and Curtis looks up at you.

The dark obscures any nuance you could discern from his expression, leaving your breath to catch like a caged animal desperate to be free. Your heart hums in anticipation while you wait for an apology, or a scolding, or disgust, anything but what you want, what he actually does next.

His hips roll forward, elongating his spine so his lips can reach yours. The kiss is tender and heated.

Stunned, your reactions--though excited--seem jumpy in comparison to the assured and casual way Curtis devours you, so slowly, so confident, but you're never held down or shut up. Each time he closes what few gaps remain between you, there's a pause, a chance for you to voice some concern, to halt him.

Curtis doesn't trap you; he cradles you.

Without words, you know he's wanted this, but you don't know for how long. The most you know of his personal life is women don't come and go like a revolving door. He's not a fuck-and-fuck-off type, but in your wildest--most suppressed--dreams, you never imagined he'd be so intense and devoted from the first kiss.

You're both still clothed, for christ's sake.

Unrushed, the hand at your back goes from teasing the strip of skin exposed above your waistband to tugging you up his leg. Higher and higher you rock, bit by bit so that the creaky springs don't give away what's happening in the dark.

He feels so wonderful, and he's sure to make you feel him everywhere, the only words he offers whispered against your swollen lips warn that you're moaning, gasping too loudly.

"Be good."

You run your hands over the soft bristle of his hair and nod, ghosting a 'yes, sir' before grinding into the bulge he's perfectly positioned, hips maneuvered to seat perfectly between yours, both arms encircling you perfectly.

So fucking perfect in that intense, quiet, dark way.

The rippling buzz of the ceiling fan drowns out the pleased rumble from Curtis's chest, but the vibrations seep from his skin to yours.

You're climbing high, wet enough for your bottoms to stick in place while the bulbous head of his cock grows distinct through damp fabric.

He holds you, grips your ass to keep you exactly where you need to be, muttering "come on, come on" in a demanding, wrecked tone more devastating than any fantasy you've ever had. He peppers your neck and jaw with kisses because the quick little movements keep your lips from aligning. Concentrating on staying silent delays the inevitable, but not for long.

Though you want that praise, those phrases that could wash you slowly back down to Earth, you still relish his touch, those broad shoulders you hang onto, those large hands bracing you during impact. He's everywhere.

Curtis steadily relaxes as your own breathing settles.

A lone groan precedes his "I--I'll be right back," and just like that you're left alone in the bed, straining to hear after the bathroom door shuts.

Worry sets in.

Have you crossed a line? Well, more of a line or one you didn't know about?

You roll over to your other side, watching the shadowy leaves and swaying branches through the window, bathed in dim moonlight, until there's a flush and a literal washing sound behind you. Your whole body dips when he climbs back in.

Curtis has brought the quilt back up, lays it over you both, and curls around you.

The renewed warmth makes you keen, a whimper of peaceful pleasure escaping you, louder than all the rest that was said and done.

He props himself up, leaning to press a gentle kiss to your cheek.

"I will do--" his beard grazes the shell of your ear "--anything you ask of me. Always have," he breathes, "always will."

Curtis tucks in behind you again, weighty arm lacing beneath yours, deflating the worry filling your chest.

"But let's go to sleep now," he grumbles, "and make sure tomorrow there's a king...that doesn't shriek like a banshee."

"Condoms, too," you add before your eyes shut and your brain realizes.

That pleased rumble still gets drowned out by the fan, but you feel it anyway.

Because he's everywhere, and you're his everything.

[Main Masterlist; Sleepover Masterlist]

A/N: I'm fine. I can live without him. I'm fine. ::dies::

@supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry @rogersbarber @blogbog710 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thiquefunlover63

[tea-potato-gt]

A Borrower at the End of the World Part 1

Summary: A Borrower (Briar, late 40’s) taking care of two Bean children (Jace 14 and Layla 8) in a post apocalyptic world.

Funny synopsis: Stressed out Borrower father tries to keep his two dumb Bean kids (with no survival skills) alive when monster(s) finds them.

Word count: 3,300ish

Inspo and references at the bottom!

Next chapter here / All chapters here

The abandoned grocery store they had been living in had become compromised.

Somehow, one of the creatures had slunked its way through one of the secret entrances and was now crawled up and down the aisles. Searching.

Jace was the first one to spot it. He saw its movement in the anti-theft mirrors. Even with the reflection’s warped shape, he recognized the monster immediately. Its grotesque features, tiny eyes, gnarly teeth and terrible smell were hard to miss. But worst of all was the low moans it made as it searched for victims to feast upon. 

Jace’s blood felt like ice in his veins. He forgot how to breathe as he slowly backed towards the office they converted into a bedroom. He gripped the handle with a sweaty palm, praying the door wouldn’t creak as he slowly opened it. 

Quickly as he dared, Jace stepped inside and locked the door behind him. 

The boy rushed to the makeshift cot he shared with his little sister, where Layla currently slept. He silently placed one hand on her shoulder and one over her mouth. Layla awoke with a start. Her eyes wide and she was about to cry out, but Jace anticipated this. Her scream died in her throat with his hand over her mouth. 

Once Jace was certain she wouldn’t make noise, he released the hold on her mouth and placed a finger on his lips to indicate for her to be quiet. 

“Go find Briar,” Jace said in a hushed whisper. “One of them is here.”

If Layla wasn’t awake before, she was fully alert now. She jumped up quickly and grabbed her shoes and her stuffed Teddy bear, Mr. Ursa. 

Layla crawled towards Briar’s room, if you could call it that. It was really just a 12 by 12 inch hole cut into the wall that had small (Borrower sized) tunnels to various parts of the store. Briar’s room was covered by a blanket that could be easily removed, but the borrower always insisted on sleeping in the walls where ever the three of them stayed. He hated to sleep around Beans, even if they were the two kids he had been living with for years. He said it was too vulnerable. 

Layla stuck her head in the hole in the wall, her chin setting atop his makeshift bedding and bumping some of his other furniture in the process. She knocked on the wall as quickly and quietly as she dared. She attempted to whistle first, but her lips were quivering too much to make the sound. So she called out in a desperate whisper through the small dark corridor. “Briar? Briar please!”

Eventually, Lalya could see a tiny Bouncing light coming down the small tunnel towards her. She even began to hear small footsteps as a five inch man ran towards her. As he entered the room, she pulled her head out of the hole to give the Borrower some room. “What is it, Child? What’s wrong?” Briar panted, catching his breath. He turned off the lantern he fashioned from an old battery and a single Christmas light. 

Tears streamed down the young Bean’s face, but she didn’t make a sound. This wasn’t anything like when she screamed for Briar to scare off a spider or the times she fought with her brother and she yelled for Briar to settle an argument. She was shaking like a leaf and silently crying. Something was terribly wrong. 

In the meantime, Jace grabbed the borrowing bag Briar had him put together full of their essentials. The teen snuck toward their emergency exit to the back alley. Briar always insisted every place they stayed had to have multiple outs. Jace slightly opened the door, checking his surroundings. 

There was another creature blindly digging through their trash, probably trying to eat a rat. And a second beside the first crawling on all fours, sniffing the air, getting closer to the door. Jace quietly closed the door and muttered curses under his breath. 

These things usually traveled in packs of 5 to 10. Some part of him hoped the creature in the store was alone, but he should have known better. There were probably more surrounding the building, trying to get in. These things were about the size of wolves and had a voracious appetite to boot.

Then the sound of shattering glass and broken wood echoed through the store. Layla covered her mouth to keep from screaming. Disturbed beyond words, Briar walked to her and gently stroked the young one’s arm. The closest part of her body he could reach. Briar hoped that the boy was just making a ruckus in the store, but Jace raced round the corner from the opposite direction of the clatter.

That cemented it. The fear, the noises, the silent tears of the child. The three of them had company, and most likely not the friendly kind. Their hideout had been compromised and they needed to leave immediately. 

Jace rushed over, “Boss, There’s two of the monsters in the alley, blocking the back door. We can’t get out that way.” From the hole in the wall, Briar was about knee height on the boy, but it was still daunting to look straight up at a Bean. Jace knelt down to the level of his sister and the borrower. 

“What about the front door?” Layla finally spoke in a frantic whisper.

“That door is sealed shut and still barricaded.” Jace ran his hand down his face, he was stressed and seeing his sister’s fear didn’t help. “It must have come in through the side entrance and another might get in the same way. We can’t get out that way either.”

“The only way out is through the roof.” Briar said stone faced. 

A daunting task. The only way to get onto the roof was to take the ladder behind the register in the Store. They would have to leave the back office, get past the creature, to the register, up the ladder, open the hatch, crawl outside and run like hell to the next rooftop. 

It’s not that simple when you have a 40 year old man the size of a hand, an 8 year old girl who can’t run far or fast and a teenager who doesn’t yet have the strength nor will to fight. But the three didn’t have a choice. They either leave now or risk having their flesh ripped from their bones and devoured. 

“We have to go now.” Briar commanded the children. 

Jace stood up and gathered a few things from the bedside table and shoved them in his backpack, including the only exhisting picture of Jace and Layla’s bean family. He quickly looked around the room to make sure he wouldn’t forget anything else important.

Meanwhile, Layla set both her hands before the Borrower, as they had done so many times before. Briar stepped on without hesitation, but he quickly felt the vibrations from her shaking. She couldn’t keep her hand steady, Briar fell to his knees almost immediately. He grunted in frustration. 

“I’m sorry,” Layla said as tears fell onto her hands and almost drenched the older borrower. 

“It’s alright, child.” Briar tried to calm her down. He did not like the idea of being in the hands of an unstable Bean. It took him months of building up trust before he ever let Layla hold him for the first time.

“Give him here.” Jace stoically held out his hand in front of his sister. 

Normally, Briar didn’t like to be passed between the giant siblings, but given their dire situation, he leapt onto the boy’s palm. Jace quickly placed the borrower onto his shoulder. Briar in turn held onto the maroon scarf wrapped around Jace’s neck. Layla quickly grabbed her brother’s unoccupied hand and clutched her stuffed bear close as they made their way towards the door that led into the store. 

Jace unlocked and opened the door, he and Briar silently looked out into the large room on the other side.

They could hear the creature somewhere in the store blindly rifling through the shards of glass and eating anything it could find that was remotely like food. These creatures had a ravenous appetite, always hungry, and never satisfied. They relied on their hearing and especially their sense of smell to find their prey. The issue was the creature was somewhere between them and the ladder to the roof. 

Carefully, Jace stepped out of the room. So far his presence undetected. He pulled his sister close behind him as they began to make their way down the aisles that could lead them in the direction of their exit. 

They weaved through aisle after aisle, then Jace suddenly stopped. He held his breath as he pulled his sister closer, Briar braced himself on the teen’s shoulder.

There, before them was the creature gorging itself on rotten food from the shattered jars. 

Briar silently pointed in a new direction for the trio to take. Jace nodded and started walking, pulling his sister along.  

Poor little Layla had yet to be given the gift of coordination that is granted as one ages. She was too occupied watching the monster that she walked right into her brother and tripped on his feet. She fell to the ground and let out a yelp of pain. The three froze. Layla covered her mouth. Jace watched the creature with wide eyes. Briar prepared himself for a fight. 

The monster perked up. Listening. It sniffed the air.  

It blindly charged at the place Layla previously laid on the ground, it crashed head first into a shelf, knocking it over, shattering more wood and glass. 

Meanwhile, Jace ran to the next aisle over with Layla in his arms. She was getting too heavy to carry, but her big brother was desperate to get them all away. 

The sudden increase in weight on Jace’s other side led to a very uneven and bumpy ride for the poor borrower, who gripped Jace’s scarf for dear life as the boy ran around the corner. 

It was a dead end. Briar muttered curses under his breath. Layla whimpered. And Jace looked around for another way out. 

The creature growled. It was so close. Briar could feel the air move with its ragged, rancid breath. Jace quickly carried Layla into the far corner of the aisle and put her closer to the wall. Determined to keep his little sister safe till the last moment. 

The monster got closer and closer as it sniffed them out. 

Briar sat between the two kids on Jace’s shoulder. Jace stopped breathing, but the borrower felt the thunder of the young boy’s heart through his neck. He watched Layla shake, tears dripping from her eyes, she was beyond terrified. 

This was too much. Briar never wanted to see the kids like this. The fear. The terror. He became determined to get them out, no matter how small he was compared to the Beans he traveled with, he would get them out. 

Briar knew what he had to do to give these kids a chance. He looked down at young Layla as she clung to her brother’s arm, her eyes closed, willing for this to be over. She had just turned eight a month ago. Briar wanted nothing more than to see her beautiful smile that could light up a room and make the world not seem so bad one last time.

Then looked at the boy, from where the borrower stood, he could only see the underside of Jace’s face with a jaw line that had become more defined over the years they spent together.

What a fine young man he will become, Briar thought with a smile.

Briar stepped off Jace’s shoulder to the shelf that was behind him. He climbed down on the other side and ran to the creature as it was about to turn the corner towards the children. 

“Hey! Ugly!” Briar yelled at the monster as he ran behind it. “Over here!”

It wasn’t until Jace heard the voice of Briar in the distance that he realized the Borrower wasn’t on his shoulder anymore. Both kids locked eyes in panic.

The creature turned towards the sound and swiftly followed the small voice, but ran head first into a shelf as Briar easily slipped between two old cereal boxes. 

Being small has its advantages, Briar thought triumphantly. 

The loud cracking and snapping of wood indicated the shelf that he ran through began to fall due to the impact of the massive creature. 

Being small also has its disadvantages, Briar thought bitterly as he had to dodge falling wood, boxes and jars. A jar of exspired pickles shattered right in front of Briar and juice came out in a wave knocking the five inch tall man over. He sputtered and spat up old vinegar and almost tripped on a loose pickle as he attempted to stand up. 

The creature finally got its head unstuck from the shelf and sniffed out the old borrower. It was about to find him when a shrill cry rang out across the store. 

It definitely wasn’t the monster, because it seemed just as surprised by the sound as the borrower was. 

Briar whipped around and to his horror saw Layla standing near the aisle, hands over her mouth to stifle another cry from coming out. Jace stood nearby her like a deer in the headlights, eyes wild and frantic trying to think of what to do next. 

Those brats are still here?! They didn’t take the opportunity to get to the ladder and escape while I was keeping the monster distracted?! Briar was livid. If they weren’t in a life or death situation, he would have given both giant kids an earful for having the survival instincts of a brain-dead lemming.

The monster was the first to recover from its surprise, it blindly charged at the source of the scream. Jace was next to react, he grabbed his sister by the arm and pulled her away just in time before the creature bit a chunk out of her. 

“No! You left Briar behind!” Layla cried as her brother dragged her towards the ladder. “We need to go back!” She fought against Jace and he struggled to get a good grip around his squirming sister. 

Briar chased after the creature who was chasing the two Beans, he ran through the small shelf spaces instead of trying to go around the aisles. 

The children made it around the counter that the ladder resided behind, they were so close, till Jace saw the creature had caught up with them too. It was snarling, readying to pounce at the kids. Jace wielded a knife, but he knew that wouldn’t do much against the razor sharp teeth on this monster. 

Briar finally caught up with the giants. To his horror, the children were cornered. 

Without regard for his own safety, Briar whipped out his needle and stabbed the creature in the tail. It actually broke through the skin. The creature screeched a horrible sound of pain. 

“Go now!” Briar shouted over the roar of the creature. 

“But–” Layla began to protest. 

“DO AS I SAY!” Briar hollered as he pushed with all his might on the pin, “CLIMB! GET OUT!” With one last ounce of pure adrenaline and strength, Briar pushed the pin in further so that it stabbed out the other side of the monster’s tail. 

The creature began to swerve and swing its tail. Briar tried to hold on as long as possible, but its movements were erratic and desperate for the pain to stop. Briar was flung into another shelf with a loud cry as his head made impact with a metal can of food. 

Once again, the monster blindly charged towards the borrower’s scream, and crashed into the shelf. It shook violently as the structure lost integrity and tumbled down. 

As Briar fell, the last he saw of his children was Jace’s shoes as he trailed behind his sister up the ladder. Finally, he thought with a smile, I did something right for them in the end. 

This would not be his end. No. Fate was always cruel to borrowers. Now was no different. 

Instead of hitting the floor, Briar tumbled head over ass down the body of the creature. Slowing his fall. By the time he landed on the ground, he was completely disoriented and dizzy and he probably had a mild concussion as his vision became splotchy. 

Briar looked up, his head clearing enough to register the creature standing over him. He was trapped. It sniffed him. Some part of Briar hoped he would be too small to entice such a large creature to be eaten. But of course, a Borrower could never be so lucky. 

The creature pulled back its lips to reveal several rows of crooked, razor sharp teeth. All serrated. One bite, and he’d be dead. 

It was like staring down the barrel of a gun. Briar knew this would be the end. He would take it like a proper Borrower. He lived a good life. No qualms. No hesitation. No complaints. At least, that’s how he wanted to go out. 

But his last thoughts remained on the two Bean kids he had been living with for three years. Would they be alright after he was gone? Surely they would, he had taught them the ways of the borrower. That is everything one needs to know how to survive in a world turned against them.

They will be fine.

Right?

***

Briar never intended to take care of children several dozen times his size. He never had kids or a family of his own. He never had the intention to settle down or to raise children. He never liked kids, especially Bean children, and after living with two of them he can confirm, he still doesn’t like kids.

But life is funny sometimes. 

***

Three years earlier...

Briar was originally planning to steal food from them. (Or if you asked him, 'borrow’ food, with the caveat that he would not return the food that he took.) He came across the pair of kids in an abandoned house.

At first, he thought he hit the jackpot of Beans to borrow from. Bean children were messy, they wouldn't notice if small things went missing. But within the first two hours he spent observing them, he realized those kids were slowly starving to death. 

Against his better judgment, Briar found a large (to him) can of what he believed to be a soup of some kind or at least that’s what he hoped. The picture was faded and he never really bothered to learn the written language of the Beans. 

He began to roll it to the house where the two children slept. And pushed it through one of the larger holes in the wall it could fit through. Briar questioned his own sanity, pushing this heavy thing into a place where giants slept.

“I must be insane,” Briar muttered.

This can is too big to open anyway, so why waste food? Briar’s mind said back. 

As he got closer, he could see the kids sleeping on an old, moldy mattress in the corner of the room. They clung to each other for warmth as the chill took over when the sun set. 

Rattling of the tin can startled the young girl awake. “What was that?” She whispered into the darkness. 

The boy beside her woke and was immediately irritated. The only thing that stopped the cold and the pain in his stomach was sleep, an activity his annoying five year old sister had just taken from him. 

Then the boy heard it too. He sat up and the pair watched in astonishment as a can rolled out from the darkness. They looked at eachother. The boy was the first to move. He grabbed the can, eyes wide. 

“Food? It’s food!” The boy cried out. His sister grasped for the can excitedly. 

The boy made quick work of the lid with a can opener and a spoon. They shared the contents within, the boy split the food equally into two bowls and let his sister pick which to eat from. 

Briar watched the pair from the shadows. Seeing the joy in their eyes was enough for him to feel good about risking his neck to bring them food. He did a good deed, saved a life, and now he could continue with his own lonely existence. 

Before he knew it, Briar was going out of his way to find cans of food every night. In the darkness he would roll it towards the kids while he stayed hiding in the shadows.

In the darkness he was safe. Even though they were children, they were still huge compared to him, and therefore dangerous.

He couldn’t be seen or touched or discovered by these children, no matter what.

***

I hope you enjoyed! This is just the first part, several more are on their way!

Next chapter / All chapters here

***

Got this idea from this post:

@kxttsstuff @only-surviving-drfan

https://www.tumblr.com/only-surviving-drfan/748292298600841216/i-love-the-idea-of-a-middle-aged-borrower-who-had

“I actually rlly like this concept. Imagine moving this to a post-apocalyptique setting where the human parents aren't there and the middle-aged borrower is far more knowledgeable in survival stuff and teaches the kid the "borrower way" of doing stuff”

[ernestmenvillemd]

I want to know about the road trip fic

i’m SO GLAD U ASKED…..let me paint a picture for you

this fic takes place during my Ernest Sticks Around AU (for those who haven’t read my hit fanfiction be careful if you push her, she’ll go overboard , it’s an AU where Mad and Hel find Ernest on the ground™️ pretty much immediately post-“Alive Forever” and proceed to take him to the ER, he remains in their orbit for a couple more years while he’s recovering + teaches the ladies how to properly repair each other)

anyways. mad gets a total star vehicle broadway show and has another stint in nyc. gets her first tony nom, show is extended a few times, she’s there longer than expected, so she accumulates a bunch of crap that she wants to keep but doesn’t want to pay to ship cross country (their lives are never ending but the money ain’t‼️)

so mad gets hel and ernest to take a cross country road trip with a uhaul trailer full of all of her fuckin things. various highlights:

-mad and hel do not drive one single mile. ernest menville is THE designated driver (not because he wants to be, mind you)

-ernest makes a mixtape cd with songs he thinks they’d all like for the road trip. madeline immediately asks to see it and throws it out the window

-their northern route is interrupted by a snowstorm so they have to go down to the fuckin texas/new mexico/arizona route. this at LEAST means they get to experience buc-ees

-one bed trope—they get to a hotel for the night and the only room left has just one king sized bed. except in THIS case ernest is like “oh….so there’s only…..one bed…. 😏 ” and madeline’s like “we’ll make do! ernest can sleep on one of those little child cots!” (he does. he is about 2 feet too tall for it and his legs hang off)

-a last-minute detour to Las Vegas that involves mad wrenching the steering wheel out of ernest's grasp to veer them onto the exit that would lead to vegas. "you'll KILL US ALL" "speak for yourself, WE'RE already DEAD, ERNEST"

[bunnysbrainrot]

No Vacancy - Day One

Relationship: Sam Winchester x fem!Reader

Content: fluff, nothing spicier yet

Summary: Separated from Dean and Castiel, you and Sam are on your own. Now paired up, you spend a few days in a motel. The only problem? The last room available only has one bed.

A/N: shout-out to all the Sam lovers, this one’s for y’all (me included tbh) **forehead kiss**

————

“Well,” Sam said, his hands gripping the steering wheel, “I think this is literally the only motel in town.”

And he was right. The two of you had scoured the area for over an hour, driving block after block for any other place to stay. This lone motel was far from where you needed to be for the case, but beggars can’t be choosers.

“That’s what you get in a small town, I guess,” you reply, grabbing your backpack from the floor of the car. Of course, Dean couldn’t fathom letting the two of you borrow Baby, so you had to get another ride. Thankfully, Sam had his own car in the garage of the bunker, a newer one with polished leather seats yet less flashy than the Impala.

Sam parked the car and cut off the engine, letting out a sigh.

You looked at him, tilting your head in concern, “At least we can rest, now. We can shower up and turn in for the night.”

Sam nodded in relieved agreement - the past few days had worn you both thin, exhausted and in need of proper sleep. The two of you stepped out of the car, grabbed your duffles from the back seat, and walked to the lobby of the motel to rent your room.

The clerk at the desk was not a talker, the silence in the room feeling uncomfortably thick. Sam nodded to the man with a terse smile and guided you back outside.

“That guy definitely wants to go home,” joked Sam. At last, you reached room 115, your final spot for the day. You stretched your aching neck as Sam unlocked the door and stepped inside.

“Crap.”

“What is it?”

“I think we were given the wrong room,” Sam continued, stepping out of the room to let you peer inside. A single king sized bed sat against the wall, with no other place to sleep. You turned to Sam, who had already made his way back to the main office. You waited for him for a few moments, seeing him return with a remorseful look.

“What’s up?”

“That’s the only room left,” Sam explained, “you wanna stay here anyway? They didn’t have a cot, but we can figure something out.” He scratched the back of his neck nervously.

You waved dismissively, giving Sam an embarrassed smile, “Don’t worry, we’re both adults here. Sharing a room doesn’t bother me.”

Sam looked at you for a moment, contemplating the next step. He shrugged and opened the door to 115 again, leading you inside.

The room was small and sparsely furnished - just the bed, an armchair, and the TV sat on a minuscule set of drawers. You placed your bag down next to the lonesome armchair, and sat down to remove your shoes.

In front of you, Sam paced at the foot of the bed.

“They, uh… didn’t have a cot, so I’m not sure how you’d want to go about this.”

You kicked your boots to the side and glanced up at him.

“Scared of sharing a bed, Sam?”

If you were being honest, you were petrified of the idea. Ever since joining this self-proclaimed ‘Team Free Will’, Sam had been the one you’d gotten closest to. Before they took you in, you had been more reserved and quiet. A more nerdy type of person; Sam was the perfect guy to buddy up with. You both had a passion for research, to Dean’s dismay.

“So we finally have a chick on the team, and we get another nerd?” He had teased.

Despite Dean giving you shit for it, you had never felt more welcome into a group. There was a sense of purpose, a motivation to save people from monsters. With your help, the world would be a safer place for those unaware of what lurks in the shadows.

Bringing you back to reality, Sam cleared his throat.

“I’m not, I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

You retorted, “And why would I be uncomfortable with you?”

He quipped, “I mean, how often have we been forced to share a bed?”

He had a point, and your brave façade of nonchalance wouldn’t last much longer. Sure, if you both kept to a side of the bed, fully clothed, it would leave the fewest issues. But the butterflies in your stomach told you that this may not be something you could handle easily.

Your mind raced back to a memory of a case three months back, out in Tennessee. It was another shapeshifter, and it was hard for Sam and Dean to gather intel about much of anything. It was Dean’s foolish idea to send you and Sam to question the local townsfolk, masked as a tourist couple to keep your anonymity to a maximum. That time spent with Sam opened your eyes to what you had been missing for a shamefully long time. Love, or at least what felt like it.

Although it had been an act, the sweet gestures Sam had to uphold for the charade won your heart. He opened each door for you, kissed your cheeks, held your hand, the whole nine. Everything he had done drove you wild. Except, the one thing he never did was press his lips to yours. It seemed like a sick game of Dean’s pairing you up like that. You made sure to give him shit for it, telling him how embarrassing it was to have two friends act like a couple. What Dean didn’t know was the secret gratefulness you had for his plan.

At one point Dean did suggest you liked Sam, to which you denied, fumbling over your words like an idiot. He had shrugged it off, but now you wondered if that interaction inspired him to cut you off from him and Castiel. You silently cursed that damn Winchester for it.

“Never, but it’s just for a couple nights, right? We’ll share ghost stories and braid each other’s hair. It’ll be fun,” you joked, having walked over to Sam and patting his arm.

You went to the bed and furiously fluffed each pillow - the ones in motels were notoriously limp. Next you shook out the blanket. You hated the way it stayed cold when it’d been pulled taught to the mattress all day. Of all fun facts about you, Sam found that the most endearing. He hadn’t told you before, but he’d always been keen on your quirks. Simply put, he loved that he wasn’t the ‘weird one’ anymore.

Getting comfortable on the bed, Sam flopped down, still fully dressed in those tough denim jeans and signature red flannel. Your eyes grazed over him as he closed his eyes from exhaustion. Your pajamas were in your duffel, so you fumbled for them before heading to the bathroom to change. The sound of the TV muffled against the door - it seemed to be one of those dramatic crime shows you and the brothers scoffed at.

Pajamas was a loose term for the oversized t-shirt and mid-thigh sleepshorts you wore to bed. If you were alone maybe you’d have worn far less. Sam had removed his shoes, at the very least. You dimmed the lamp in the corner of the room and settled onto the bed. Then that was it, the exhaustion of today had finally gotten to you. It took everything in you to not let your mind drift off to sleep.

“We gotta go into town tomorrow?” You asked Sam.

“Yeah,” his voice honeyed with a groggy softness, “we should talk to the families of the victims. Figure out if these really were ‘accidents’.”

“FBI? Police? Ooh, maybe church officials?”

Sam let out a breathy laugh at your joke, the husk of his voice reverberating through you. God, it could be absolute torture to be around him at times. When the stress of hunting melted away, and you two could be your real selves.

“Just FBI, Cas is on standby as our ‘supervisor’.”

You looked to him fully, “Cas is our supervisor? And Dean actually trusts he can do that? Cas doesn’t know the first thing about the FBI.”

“Eh, Dean thought it could be good for the ‘people skills’,” Sam replied, finally opening his eyes at turning his head to you. Suddenly the two feet between you felt like mere inches. Your breath caught in your throat; you couldn’t reply even if you tried, so you opted for a small smile. Sam countered it with one of his own - the flashy grin that melted your heart more each time.

“We’re gonna have to get up so early. I’m not too excited for that.”

Sam’s face softened, his voice lowering, “We should get some sleep, then. You good with that side of the bed?”

You nodded, rising out of bed to switch the lamp off. The light from the TV drew Sam’s sights to you, loosely shrouded by your shirt and shorts. His eyes raked over your bare legs, wandering up your thighs until your shorts stalled his imagination. Sam followed suit and stood, but walked to the bathroom with a handful of clothes plucked from his bag.

A moment later he returned to see you under the covers, hunched over from the cold. Whatever those shitty detectives said on the TV drowned out as you noticed Sam. Just then you realized you had never seen him wear anything but a suit or his regular garb. Even in boxer shorts and a black t-shirt, he managed to catch your eye.

He caught your eye contact and smiled once more, that familiar ache in your chest growing stronger. You reached over and lifted the covers for him, letting him settle on his side of the bed.

“Do you sleep with the TV on?” You asked softly.

“No, do you?”

You gave him a small laugh, closing your eyes, “Nope. Keeps me up too late.”

Sam smiled. A part of him was relieved that he could get some proper rest with you here. Dean had the habit of leaving the TV on, depriving him of countless hours of sleep.

Even though they were rare, Sam appreciated these moments alone with you. It was easy to be with you. It was easy to laugh, to open up, to ramble on about whatever lore he had obsessed over. He loved the way your eyebrows tugged together when you didn’t understand something, and the way you tried piecing words together before asking your questions.

The A.C. unit cranked on beside the bed, pumping freezing cold air on your back. You shivered, curling into yourself to keep the warmth in.

Sam’s eyebrows raised slightly, “Hey, are you cold? I can turn the A.C. off.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I’ll warm up in a minute,” you insisted. Sam sighed, knowing you wouldn’t say yes, and turned the unit off.

He quickly settled back into bed, letting out a shuddering exhale. You waited until he shifted under the covers to speak.

“You cold, too?”

“Maybe just a little bit.”

In the faint light of the TV you could make out his smile. A part of your mind drifted off to a place where that smile met you every day, lounging around in bed. Sam’s hands would run across your skin and tangle into your hair, pulling your mouth to his before making you breakfast.

The room dimmed as the television went silent. You and Sam shifted under the covers for a moment before getting fully comfortable, the silence of the room felt like a bated breath.

Sam broke it first, “These blankets don’t really do their job, do they?”

You replied to him, “Not a damn bit. It’s freezing in here.”

“You can, uh… move closer if you need to,” his voice wavered. The silhouette of his form moved to face you, dimly lit by the light from street lamps in the parking lot. You could make out his sharp cheekbones and the chestnut brown hair draped around his neck.

When another shiver won your body over you took the offer, moving closer to Sam until your arms touched. Now inches from one another like you’d wished, your mind went blank.

It took everything you had to remind yourself what this was, well, wasn’t. This wouldn’t be the lust-driven breakthrough you had hoped for. Nor would it be the time for Sam Winchester to take you the way you ached for. An awkward, strictly business sleeping situation.

You let your mind wander off, the waves of exhaustion turning into the gentle lull of sleep. You could’ve sworn you felt Sam’s arm wrap around your waist, keeping you warm.

————

By the time you woke up, Sam was still fast asleep. You had never seen him like this up close, with his eyes fluttered shut and breathing slowed. The image painted itself into your memory.

You were right, though, Sam had laid his arm over you. And now both had enveloped you close to his chest, rising and falling steadily against your ear. It took twenty more minutes for Sam to wake up.

He stirred until he noticed you flush against him, and he stilled completely. You wiggled in his grip to look up at him.

With a groggy smile you greeted him, “G’morning.”

“Hey,” he said, voice still thick with sleep, “sleep okay?”

You gave him a simple nod, regaining your composure. You scooted yourself away to give him the space that should’ve been there all night. Even though a part of you crumbled as you did, you padded out of bed to the bathroom.

“At least we know to turn off the A.C. tonight. Maybe a room with two beds will open up while we’re out, and we can switch.”

Sam opened his mouth to speak before you closed the bathroom door. What he was going to say escaped him.

He just hoped no other rooms opened up before the evening.

Thank you for your support, everyone! Day two will be here soon

- Bunny

[twola]

Lonesome Dove

If you want any one thing too badly, it's likely to turn out to be a disappointment.

Smut/MDNI ➵ Gift ficlet, Redbird universe ➵ AO3 Link

For my dearest @redwritr, whose words weave the tapestries hung in the hallways of my heart.

The room felt big; empty. It was almost cold, even with the fetid humidity of south Lemoyne. Everything was damp, a sheen of moisture that never left in the bayou. 

She came to him again tonight, a flash of red hair and the hint of that pretty little smile and the sway of her hips in those damn trousers - alluring and sensual even when she didn’t mean to be. The weight of a Springfield strapped ‘cross her back, the leather band parting her breasts in her shirt.

For the umpteenth time in months, Arthur wakes alone in his bed, in his cot, in his bedroll. Collarbone damp with the sheen of sweat and his cock annoyingly hard.

He’s thought about it, of course. Undoing the buttons of his union suit and coaxing his half-hearted erection alive, fucking into his hand thinking of her. But he’s done that before. Thought of a woman no longer his while he thrusts into his hand, the sorry bastard that he is. One would think he would have learned his lesson. 

Mary Linton’s dark eyes. Nell Riordan’s pink lips.

And Arthur Morgan, alone. As always. Probably deservedly so. A mean, terrible old bastard like him was never deserving of a woman - much less one that struck him down like a flash of lightning in the night.

Staring at the water-stained ceiling of the room, his cock throbs, half-hard, against his thigh, brushing against the worn cotton of his union suit. Sweat pools across his clavicles. Even in just his union suit, it’s too damn hot.

Why’re you even wearing that?

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to banish the lilt of her voice in his head. The teasing nature, the sly tone. But he heeds the unasked favor, in the dim light of the oil lamp in the corner of the room, he slowly works the union suit from his body. Down his arms, biceps sore from chopping wood earlier. Down his chest, his abdomen, his pelvis. 

As he pushes the cotton over his member, he stifles a groan working its way out of his chest. Once released, his cock smacks against his stomach, hard to the edge of painful.

She’d give him a sly look if she were here. She’d wrap her fingers around him and slowly stroke. As he grasps himself, he fully gives in to the fantasy, letting go of his battered pride for the night. It's all wrong, of course, his hands too big, and the calluses on his fingers are in the wrong spots. The one on her thumb - he remembers that, clear as day, as she would stroke and fondle him.

What a goddamn miserable fool he was. Letting out a long breath, Arthur’s fingers tighten around his shaft as he begins to pump himself, the head of his cock appearing from his foreskin. He grits his teeth, closing his eyes and imagining her - that flash of red hair, the allure of her skin, spread out next to him on this little bed.

She’d be ready for him, with a single swipe of his finger up her slit - she always is.

The outlaw stifles another groan as he lays his forearm across his eyes to block out any kind of light. Any kind of reminder of the truth - that he was alone in this bed, jerking himself off to a woman gone - one he loves, one he hates. One he left on a mountainside after he broke his damn heart.

One who still has his damn heart.

She’d fight back when he pushed her to the mattress, the spark of contest in her eye. Wouldn’t go down without a fight. He’d have to use just a bit more of the force he so oft wields outside. He’d hold her down, with a smirk.

He’s unabashedly jerking himself now, sitting up from his laying position to chase some sort of vision - some hazy dream just out of reach. 

But oh, she’d eventually give in.

Arthur leans up on his knees, gritting his teeth as his hips thrust forward, his cock swallowed by his fist pumping it faster and faster.

She’d be underneath him, making some wisecrack about the size of the bed but still opening those pretty legs for him.

It’s everything he has not to groan aloud, one hand right around his cock, pumping at a dizzying pace, the other gently squeezing his swollen balls, full and ready to spend.

Her breasts, heaving with every thrust he gives her. Her bottom lip is bitten red, trying to keep herself quiet as Dutch is just down the hall. Her legs over his shoulders and her eyes glazed over as he pounds her hips into the rickety bed.

The smacking sound of his wet palm on his shaft is unmistakable should someone walk by,  but he’s beyond the point of caring. He’s in another world entirely.

Fuck, the sight of his hard shaft disappearing into her cunt, wet and well-glossed with her slick after each stroke. The sight of the dark curls at the base of his cock intermingled with the pretty little auburn thatch of hair over her cunt. The clench of her body on his when she comes, a rapture as if she was a goddamn angel.

The feeling in the pit of his gut shifts, the burning bursting into flame, and he knows he’s approaching that point of no return.

He grunts under his breath-

She convulses around him-

His hips jut forward-

Her pretty little cry beneath him-

He’s so goddamn hard-

Arthur - she gasps - Come in me-

His eyes screw shut and his eyebrows furrow.

And he comes-

And he comes.

He spends all over his palm, emptying hot as his release seeps between his fingers. He lets a long breath out of his nose as he slowly sits back down from his knees, the sickening, roiling feeling in his gut returns with a vengeance.

Her whisper in the night - Do that to me again.

As he wipes his spend-covered hand on an old bandana and throws it to the floor in a flash of indignation, Arthur hates himself.

In the end, nothing’s changed.

He’s just a lonesome miserable bastard, fucking into his hand, dreaming of a woman no longer his.

[pandafishao3]

Hiya! It's me, Slash! I'm obsessed with the prompt you made that I sent you with Alpha Steve mating Omega Bucky to protect him and I wanna ask/prompt, does Steve finish his claim? 👀 Would love to see more of this prompt if you have some to spare ♥️

Of course! For you, anything :)

Here's the original prompt: link

And here's the continuation!

What confused Bucky the most was the Steve didn't finish his claim that first night.

Or the next night

Or the next night either.

He did make Bucky sleep in the same bed as him, but that wasn't strange. Bucky was his omega, and his new, possessive alpha would of course want him close. That strong arm of his didn't even leave Bucky's waist when they went into the communal rooms downstairs in the Avengers' Tower.

Not that they did that a lot. It made Bucky nervous. Being around those strange people...especially the ones that were always staring at him like he might start to throw knives at any second...it made the omega tremble.

And, to be completely honest, Bucky was just happy that he didn't have to sleep on the floor any longer. The bed they shared was big, warm and soft, better than anything Bucky could remember. Not even the very fleeting memories he had of a rickety cot in an apartment where some old, omega version of Steve flickered through in his memories like a shadow could compare to this king sized thing.

With a bed like that, Bucky could endure being held throughout the night by the alpha that had stolen him.

Because that was what Steve had done. He'd found him, bitten him and claimed him, and then Bucky had had no choice but to follow him away from Hydra. His home. It was his home, right?

Bucky had started to doubt that when he realized that everytime he thought of Hydra, he felt afraid that they would find him, and every time he thought of Steve, he thought of....well, that bed.

The first few nights, Bucky had been on high alert. Every muscle had been taut as a bowstring, and while Steve had snored content into his neck, the omega had noticed every single shift under the sheets. The alpha had grown hard three times during the night, and his dick had pushed up firmly against Bucky's ass, but he'd never tried to fuck him. A few times, Steve rutted slowly in his sleep, softly moaning as he got some friction against Bucky's borrowed boxers.

Those times, the omega had to bite his lip not to whimper. It had been fear at first - Bucky thought that surely this is the time when Steve would growl, pull down his underwear and shove his cock inside without waiting for Bucky to get wet.

But after a few nights, it had become something else. Those slow, firm, sleepy grindings into his ass had made his body...respond. Grow softer, needier...slicker.

After a week, Bucky was starting to grow impatient.

He also knew that as an omega - as a bitch - he had no right to be impatient. Why would his alpha want him anyway? He was a monster of an omega, an overgrown, muscled joke of a mate.

So, Bucky had started growing ansty. Even if he hadn't chosen this alpha, it still made him worried when it seemed that his alpha didn't want him.

Would Steve send him back to Hydra? Would he want this to be sexless relationship?

Did Bucky want it to be a relationship with sex?

The way his stomach grew tight and his hole grew slick whenever Steve grunted into his neck in his sleep and used him as something to rut against, Bucky figured he might actually want that. His body hadn't gotten what it needed in...a lifetime. He was overdue.

At least that's what he told himself when he finally lost it one night as Steve was giving him a bath.

It was one of those things his alpha insisted on doing for him. It was always gentle and slow, with lots of bubbles and a soapy, soft washcloth rubbing over Bucky's skin. It wasn't as if his tiny omega cock could harden into any kind of proper erection, but it still grew swollen and sensitive.

Very sensitive.

When Steve rubbed the washcloth over Bucky's tingling cock - very swift and matter-of-factly - the omega's hand shot out on instinct and curled around his wrist as he was moving to retract it.

"Buck?"

The question was kind; curious. Steve, who was sitting by the edge of the bathtub and could've easily traded his gentle touch to something rough and possessive whenever he wanted to, looked down at the hand and then back up at him with the hint of an amused smile.

Bucky blushed. A whimper escaped his throat, courtesy of his omega nature.

"I..." he started but trailed off. Words were always hard, and especially when he was embarassed.

But Bucky still couldn't let go of Steve's hand. His sex was throbbing and he needed to be touched, needed it so bad. There was no way he could find the words to ask, so he just let his body find the right little helpless noises to express it to the alpha.

After having repressed his natural sounds and behaviours for so long with Hydra, Bucky had no idea how many ways his body could non-verbally communicate on a level that an alpha just naturally understand. The fact that Steve had allowed him the space to actually act as an omega had caused those instincts to slowly return.

"Yeah? You like that?" Steve teased him softly, keeping his voice calm and low.

The washcloth slipped from his hand and sank to the bottom of the warm bathwater. Steve's hand was now cupping his little cock, making Bucky whimper even more needily with big eyes fixed on the alpha. The sensitive little thing felt hot, almost burning in Steve's grip.

Those white teeth showed when Steve smiled.

"Hmm? How about that, love?" he husked, softly squeezing over Bucky's genitals and making his breath hitch. Steve's blue eyes darkened just a bit. "Is that better? Right there?" Those long fingers slowly wandered over Bucky's swollen taint and found the slippery rim of his hole.

Bucky could've cried when two of them slipped inside.

*********************************************************************

Well I've tried to finish this two nights in a row now but I just can't find the time. SO I've decided to either post a part 2 of this as soon as I can write it or just compile it all into a oneshot for Ao3. I'll finish this though @slashtakemylife, you have the undying word of a writer with one working hand and too many deadlines :)

[mixreality]

"Good girl"

My inner psychopath can't handle it anymore, so... there it is. English is not my native language! So sorry for mistakes!

Asa Emory with Fem!Reader who becomes his little puppy.

A bit of NSFW in the end

You love animals so much! In your spare time, you work part-time as a dog walker. It was a sunny summer day when HE saw you walking in the park surrounded by several four-legged barking creatures, jumping around, asking to throw them a toy.

Your big eyes, your smile, and your pale (or dark), clear skin glowing in the sun. Perfect. A perfect one to his collection. He's been watching you for quite too long… It's time for the little dog to learn her place…

Asa would be mad at himself it if there was even a single mark on your beautiful body from his instruments or other stuff. So, instead of intravenous anesthesia, he has to make do with a chloroform rag that was securely fixed on your face while you slept in your room. I hope you had a good night's sleep on the way to your new "home".

A nasty white, cold light stabs you sharply in the eyes. Surprisingly, you're not sitting like Gollum in a cramped box, but lying on a creaky bed. The room looks like a mental ward… or a prison.

You want to look around and try to open the door, but something is in your way. Something cold and heavy around your neck. "A collar?! What am I, a dog?!". Right when you thought about it, the door opened with a terrible creak and a masked man entered the room. Your face read animal fear, tears began to flow from your eyes, your voice trembled and begged for mercy.

Asa slowly came closer and closer, viewing you with a kind of… pity? Salty tears leave ugly red marks on your soft skin. So bad. They need to be wiped away. He runs his palm over your cheeks, stroking your face, so caring. At this moment, you feel weirdly…

You cannot remember, how you found yourself walking down an endless halls on all fours, with a chain around your neck like a leash. How long have you been walking like that? Judging by the chafing kneepads, it's been three months for sure, maybe more. Your Stockholm syndrome is kicking in.

And, after some more time, the abandoned building is replaced by a warm house. HIS house. You're used to being treated like a dog, no, you LIKE being treated like dog. You still walk around on all fours, with a leather collar and a gag in your mouth. Good girls should be quiet.

You now have your own little comfy place with a huge cot and a cage (in case you misbehave), somewhere in the furthest room that hardly anyone goes into. When Asa is in the mood, he lets you sit at his legs while he works, or lie on him on the couch. Amazingly, his ruthlessness disappears when you're around (this doesn't negate the fact of the situation you're in).

Clothes? Why do you need clothes? A big black t-shirt and black panties and an anal plug with a tail will suffice. He likes to see your legs and the way you wiggle your ass when you walk, the way your back sags. Asa can give you a sweater if he sees you freezing (sorry, but he doesn't want to have to deal with your fever and snot😢).

"What? Don't you get enough attention? Making puppy eyes because you want more?" with those words, Asa watched you rub against his leg and whimper. "God, what am I doing?" you say to yourself, but you can't stop. Continuing to stroke your head, he unzipped his pants and pulled out his, already aroused cock. It's medium-sized, slightly thickened in the middle, with veins at the base, looking well-groomed (who'd doubt it).

"Lick it. Like a dog. And no hands." It's exciting, but you asked for it. You start at the tip, with the tip of your tongue, in intermittent motions, as if lapping up water. The longer this went on, the more confident you became just licking his cock from base to end. All the way up and down. Running your tongue along every vein. Congratulations, you really have a jaw of steel!

You've lost track of time from the pleasure. Asa's breath hitches slightly, you realize he's about to cum. Yes, your mouth and face are now covered with his seed.

"Oh, look at you, and don't say it's not enough for you. Otherwise, I'll have to punish you, very roughly." Yes. Yes, you're not enough and you want him to take you. Hard. Right now. Bad girl.

[uselessbard1031]

Snowflakes & Sunshine -- Sevika X Chem Baron! Reader (C1 Preview -- AO3 link at end)

You can hear your captive before you can see her. Three of your largest men drag her into your hideout, yet still she is grunting and growling as she tries to fight them off. All the theatrics. Sevika really did live up to her reputation, now didn't she?

You tuck the book you were reading away into the built-in wood shelves of your basement hovel just in time for the twins (Ratchet and Clank) to shove her forward and remove the blindfold from her grey eyes. Your captive stops fighting, instead glaring at every shadow and corner, daring it to attack. As she takes in the room, you pour yourself a cup of tea from the kettle on your single burner stove. It sits between your cot of a bed and the entrance to your bathroom. After that, it's your desk and the bookshelf along with an old five time hand-me-down loveseat in desperate need of a reupholster. The buttons on the tufts don't match and two have popped straight off. But it was here when you got here and was comfortable enough for a seat.

“What is this dump?” Sevika scoffs. Some of the hair from her half-back ponytail falls in front of her eyes. She blows it back the way a bull does before it charges. 

“My office,” you respond simply, leaning against the front of your old wooden desk. “It's where you'll be staying until your boss pays up. You're free to explore the other rooms too, once you cool off a little.”

“No locks?” She half scoffs half laughs. “No chains?”

“Unless you try to leave or attack me, I don't find them necessary.”

With a disbelieving -- no, challenging -- grin the woman turns for the door instantly.

“Do you want locks and chains?” You sip your tea. “Kinky.”

“You can't stop me,” she says it like a fact. Which it is. She's easily twice your size. A fight is unlikely to go in your favour. Good thing you don't plan to fight.

“No,” you agree. “But Brutus can. Brutus?” The burly man comes in from the hallway to block the door. To block her path. If he were to enter your room, he'd have to duck. And bend his knees. And maybe squeeze his shoulders together too. Good thing he's not entering yet. “If she tries to leave, chain her up. I think she likes it.”

Sevika turns. She can't face him. But she can more than face you. 

“You don't know who you're messing with here,” she warns. How cliche. “Silco has a lot on his plate right now. The last thing he needs is to be wasting time with some nobodies so cowardly they had to jump me to get me here.”

Silco needs her. Hopefully more than he needs is attention to be elsewhere. He won't fight you. No. Like she said, you're nobodies. Fringe at best in the chem baron game. So he won't waste the men or the time. He wants Sevika back? He'll just pay you off. Deal with you later. If he feels like he can crush your forces without trying, then he'll leave you in the palm of his hand for now -- if only not to strain his wrist with the fist he'd need to make to end you. Besides, he's focused on Jinx. You had it on good authority that the girl's favourite holiday was the one coming up. Even better authority said that your gift to her was about to arrive. 

You crack a smirk. “You’re just a ray of optimism, Sunshine.” 

She growls at the nickname. You laugh, pushing yourself off of the desk.

“Get cozy,” you say, patting her cheek. She jerks her head away, a threat in the way she bares her teeth. “I think there's going to be snow for Christmas.”

There is indeed snow for Christmas. Of course there is. And it's all thanks to you. 

You see, Zaun hasn't seen snow for the last decade and a half due to this obnoxious Piltovian factory built right above the promenade level. It's wide and flat and pumps all of its smog and runoff down to your city. Between it and the bridge, about three quarters of Zaun has had only the rain of pollutants in all this time. Someone had to blow it up. With the workers on a union strike far away and safe from the crossfire? That someone became you.

The explosion is enough to rattle down the valley walls of the city and wake every alleycat and drunkard left out on the streets. Snow falls at first in a big white sheet that covers everything from the ground to the rooftops. Then it doesn't stop; a flurry of soft white dots like horizontal stars in the window. Outside the main door of your hideout (a bookstore and cafe offering both free books and coffee on most days when your heart strings are pulled by someone hopeful but broke), it's like a small white step has appeared; one stair up closer to the opulence of those who live above. A few people leave their homes. At first, they're curious, then, rather swiftly, curiosity turns to wonder and awe and snowball fights and snow angels. For once, it'll be a white Chsirmas in Zaun. 

You notice Sevika looking out the window and have to chuckle. Though her tough girl mask attempts to cover it, there's this sparkle like a snowflake in her steel eyes. That childlike magic of a snow day beckons her the same as everyone else only, she fights it off with a stick.

“Brutus!” You call over your shoulder. The giant appears between two tall oak bookshelves. “Get the cocoa barrels from the basement. Make sure everyone's got a scarf and mittens. I'm taking our new pet outside.”

...Continued on Ao3

[covetyou]

is there any Santa/Cupid Joel lore you'd be willing to share?

it's a totally normal question i'm not unhealthily obsessed with him or anything

lore you say? I have baubles and stupid cupid lore. more in egg hunt at the end of March too.

word count: 722 warnings: sex toys, brotherly shenanigans, these two things are related but very much not in an incest way don't worry. summary: What started as a simple joke from the youngest Miller brother quickly turned into a... beloved brotherly tradition.

The first time he'd gotten one of those gifts it had been his birthday. He never got anything, from anyone, so when he opened his front door to see a present lying there with his name on it, he'd been wary. When he saw it was from Tommy, he was even more apprehensive. So, he did the only logical thing and left it in the garage until he could open it in a disposable coverall later that night, just in case.

Of course, he looked like a total dick stood in his garage in a coverall at midnight holding anal beads of all fucking things, staring at a chicken scratch of a note from his dearest fuckin' baby brother:

if you won't bring someone into your bedroom, maybe you gotta bring something. hbd brother.

Tommy may have been right, but Joel didn't think anal beads were that thing he was looking for. By the next afternoon, the beads were carefully hung from Tommy's rearview mirror.

And so began the long, tiring, tradition of gift giving and gift returning between the Miller brothers.

On Thanksgiving, Joel slipped Tommy a baggy of finger cots, giving him a heavy slap on the back and telling him he found his size. The next week, the tiny white condoms were neatly pulled over the ends of every single one of Joel's tools.

That Christmas Joel was the not-so-happy recipient of an edible chocolate Clone-a-Willy kit. He was almost tempted to try it out - to cast his cock in the tube just so he could take it out and look at it properly from every angle. He cast his middle finger instead, handing it to a gleeful Tommy on New Years Eve.

For Valentine's day, Joel damn near gave Tommy a heart attack, and ruined the end of what was, until that point, a very good date. He knew he should've kept it to the couch, but damn if his date didn't deserve the full Tommy Miller Experience. Apparently, that also included seeing the blow up sex doll tucked neatly into his bed. He never did hear back from her after that night.

Of course, what Joel didn't know is Tommy had stashed a pink heart shaped butt plug on his dresser, only noticing the thing weeks later when Sarah pointed it out before Joel could sweep it into a drawer and tell her to get going or she'd be late for school. Tommy groveled until Joel didn't quite want to kill him any more, and the butt plug lay forgotten in the bottom of his sock drawer.

Tommy's birthday brought him some vibrating nipple clamps - clamps that Joel never saw or heard about again, save for a thank you and a thumbs up from his brother one day on a job.

For his birthday that year, a full 365 days since this whole thing started, Joel received maybe the most baffling gift of all. A dildo for his balls. Apparently. Now, Joel wasn't a church going man - hadn't been since their parents had given up with it all when they were kids - but he couldn't help but think that maybe his brother needed Jesus.

This one, he was almost tempted to keep. Not that he had anyone to use it with, and it most definitely was not a solo use gift. He opened it, tried to figure it out, even watched the instructional video, before settling on sticking it on top of Tommy's Christmas tree at the end of the year.

But, when he pulled up outside Tommy's place on Christmas Eve it looked, and sounded, like he had company. Not one to cockblock his brother again (at least one of them was gettin' laid) Joel headed back home, toy hidden away in his Santa sack. It was still the right side of midnight when he drove down his street, noticing once again that house with the sparkling Christmas tree, totally bare of any decorations. One look to the back of his truck, ornaments from a house clearance still stashed in a box that he had yet to find a home for, and he made up his mind. Parking up and walking down the street, draped in red velvet with a bag filled with jangling plastic ornaments, he stepped up to your door...

[suntamer]

PROMPT : Carta. DRAGON AGE: INQUISITION ERA. Words: 1006. Characters: Suri & Velrand Cadash.

“The Knight-Captain here from Hasmal seems… squirrely.”

Velrand did not so much as glance up from the leather-bound journal in front of him. He scribbled something down, then scratched out another something higher on the page, his heavy brow knitting. “Hasmal is out. The Garvish family has dealings with the Marchers from up north.”

They’d been given their own quarters, if only just. There was a bed, a cot the size of a footrest, a vanity that was more than half-mirror, and a bucket to piss in. Behind a simple wooden divider was the other half of the broom closet they’d been shoved into, which was unoccupied as of yet. If they hadn’t flashed one of the Orlesian templars some of their product, they might have been truly roughing it.

There was no desk, so Velrand used his thigh for a writing surface. And below him, sitting on the cot with her short legs folded, was his sister.

“So everything along the Minater is out?”

“Yes.”

Suri let slip an annoyed snort. “By the fucking Garvishes?” She knew enough about Lutag Garvish to fill their piss bucket, and it was all bad. Or dull, rather. “How’d they land an agreement like that? From Hasmal to Wycome?”

The scratching of Velrand’s quill slowed, then stopped. He looked up at her, his dark eyes bleary and his concentration well and truly shattered. “What?”

“Lutag Garvish is dumb as a sack of nugshit,” Suri said, rather than repeating herself. “Fresh nugshit.”

Velrand’s massive chest heaved in a sigh.

“Yes, and?”

“How’d he get Hasmal and Tantervale and Starkhaven and Wycome buying his lyrium?”

Suri watched as the sharpened end of her brother’s quill tapped anxiously at the edge of his journal. The tap tap tap made her eye twitch. “Starkhaven’s Circle isn’t an option for any of us. Burned out about a decade ago, and the mages were sent to Kirkwall.” With his free hand, Velrand scrubbed a hand through his thick, brown beard with such ferocity that the three, gold-clasped braids under his chin bounced in response. “And he doesn’t have Wycome.”

“Then we should –”

“The Kadrat family has Wycome.”

That stopped her short, and she sighed the heaviest of sighs, her shoulders deflating into a weary slump. The Kadrat family didn’t just deal in lyrium. They dealt in everything – lyrium, weapons, textiles, wine. One of their lot ran a dye business in Orzammar that was swimming in gold and had been for longer than even her mother had been alive.

“So, what’ve we got left?”

Velrand began writing again. “Mother wants Cumberland.”

“You’re shitting me.”

That brought a half-smile to Velrand’s serious mouth. “Not shitting,” he grunted. “She pulled me aside before I left. She wants Cumberland, and she wants Sezda out.”

Suddenly, the fog she’d been carrying since the incident in the Deep Roads cleared. Suddenly, there was brilliant sunshine and a song playing on the wind and the weight of gold in every single one of her pockets. That was how you measured a mother’s love, wasn’t it? It couldn’t be anything else, not with theirs.

If opportunity was a woman, she’d have her tongue down her throat.

“I can do that for you.” The words sprinted from between Suri’s eager little lips. Before her brother could interrupt her, she lifted a hand with an, “Ah!” that stole his voice out of his throat and replaced it with an annoyed growl. “I know I’m shit in a large-scale fight, but you know I’m good for something that’s one-on-one. I’ve beaten you. Let me put a knife in the bitch.”

Velrand gave his heavy head a shake. “I know what this is.”

Suri stood up from the cot and planted her feet in front of him. The wound on her jaw was healing, if only just, but her smile was as uneven as his own. Just for different reasons.

“Don’t say I’m just doing this to get back into mother’s good graces,” she demanded, the edges of her raspy voice sharpened in her own brand of frustration with her brother. “It… might be that a little, but that’s not all. I’ve always wanted to do good by you, too, you know? And you’ll be taking up the business soon. Let me get you Cumberland.”

At first, the rigid line of Velrand’s broad shoulders made her think he was going to snap his quill in half and make her eat the damn thing. But then, they relaxed, and he looked up at her, and his half-smile turned into a full one. There was an undercurrent of surprise that she didn’t appreciate, but what could she expect, after all she’d done recently? Who could believe in her, except for herself? Except for – maybe – her brother?

“I’ll look around the place tonight,” Suri continued. “I’ll check things out and get my bearings, and tomorrow afternoon, I’ll put Sezda Varmi in the Stone.”

That night, as Suri was doing as she said she’d do, she happened upon something else entirely. She did not find an old dwarven woman with a crisp white braid and twin bruisers for sons. She did not find a letter or a trap or an empty bed, indicating that Sezda Varmi was long gone or had grown wise to her plan. She did not find another trio of dwarven merchants, counting their gold against the bottles of glowing blue lyrium that remained.

What she found was an old woman in fine Chantry garb and a god, floating above the ground, with lyrium that shone red rather blue rising from the pallor of his skin. What she found was a dropped orb, rolling towards her feet. What she found was another path in her story, another twist, another loss, as she lifted the orb into her hands and the world split open.

She would only see Velrand once more – a smoking corpse in a field of bodies, stuck in motion, stuck in agony that would chase him forever.

It was her fault.

It was all her fault.

[justforbooks]

Declutter, add a flat sheet and turn down the heat: hoteliers reveal how to get the best night’s sleep … at home 💤💤

Hospitality experts, sleep consultants and interior designers share their tips for creating dream conditions in your bedroom

Have you ever slept better in a hotel than at home, but are not sure why? Perhaps it’s the sheer fact of not being at home, surrounded by to-do lists – but according to these sleep, design and health experts, there’s a science behind a good night’s sleep.

From the size of your bed to the cotton of your sheets, to the clutter in your bedroom to the lighting in your bathroom, they share their tips and best buys for a great sleep, wherever you are.

✔ Find the temperature sweet spot

The Hilton hotel chain has enlisted Dr Rebecca Robbins, assistant professor of medicine at Harvard medical school and associate scientist at Brigham and Women’s hospital, to help improve the sleep of its guests. An overheated room can interrupt deep sleep cycles as the body wakes to regulate temperature, so Robbins advises a strict temperature range of 18C to 20C at turndown: “We call this the ‘thermal neutral zone’ within which a person is not likely to sweat if they are too hot or shiver if they are too cold.”

✔ Make space for sleep

One reason hotel beds are so comfy is their generous size, says Sarah Smith, CEO of Soak & Sleep, which supplies bedding and linen to boutique hotels as well as consumers. She cites research by the National Bed Federation, which found two adults sharing a double bed (135 x 190cm) have the same sleeping space in relative terms as a single baby in a cot. “A superking (180 x 200cm) is essentially the size of two singles – that is the space two individuals should really be sleeping in.”

Smith adds that a lot of hotels use zip and link mattresses (two single mattresses joined together, which can be separated to make twin beds) for practical reasons, but they also make the bed more comfortable because “each side has its own separate spring unit, so when you roll over you don’t disturb the person next to you”.

✔ Dim the lights

At Premier Inn, corridors leading to rooms are lit with soft pools of light as “research suggests people behave more calmly than if it is brightly lit, and make less noise”, says the hotel chain’s head of product, Sarah Simpson. At the sleep-focused Zedwell hotel in Piccadilly Circus, guests enter the lobby from the street through a dark “transitional corridor”, designed to relax you after a day in the city. “We call it quiet design,” says the company’s head of hotels, Halima Aziz. “The idea is to encourage people to be calm by creating this hushed environment.”

✔ A spring-based mattress is best – and don’t forget the topper

For spinal alignment, temperature regulation and overall comfort, the best option is a spring-based mattress, says Simpson. Robbins agrees because, unlike a foam structure, “the metal coils provide tremendous support while allowing for airflow”.

All good hotels also use mattress toppers, Simpson says. “The right one won’t disguise the mattress, but will add an extra layer of comfort.” Premier Inn uses toppers with a gel-infused layer designed to cocoon the body while “wicking away moisture” to keep you cool, says Simpson, while beds at the five-star Six Senses hotels have extra-thick organic toppers handmade in Devon using cashmere and wool, both of which have natural temperature-regulating properties.

✔ Layer up your windows

Hotels use curtains to block light, muffle sound and make the room feel like a refuge from the outside world, says interior designer Ali Childs, who designed rooms at the chic Devon B&B Glebe House. To replicate this at home, introduce as many layers of window dressing as you can afford, ideally “a sheer curtain for privacy, a roman blind to block light and a pair of full-length curtains over the top”, says Childs.

Tom Thorogood, the co-head of interiors at hospitality design specialists Studio Moren, says that on all hotel projects (most recently Hyde London City) he specifies curtain tracks either recessed directly into the ceiling (so the top of the curtains sit flush with it) or hidden behind a pelmet, which is then Velcroed to the walls to prevent light leakage. Another detail is ensuring curtains overlap when they are drawn – installing a curtain track with an overlap arm will achieve this at home.

✔ If you can afford it, buy Egyptian cotton

“The fibres are naturally longer so can be spun into a finer yarn, creating a softer piece of linen,” says Smith. For hotel-style bedding that balances durability with softness, she recommends 400-thread-count sheets with a sateen finish. “A sateen weave (as opposed to a percale) has a lot more yarn sitting on the face of the linen so it feels really soft; there is a lustre to it.” Ironing your sheets makes a difference, too. “Much of that ‘aaah’ feeling when you slip into a hotel bed is down to the pressed linen,” she adds.

✔ Add a flat sheet

Another hotel trick is to layer an additional sheet underneath the duvet, which is folded over the top and tucked in under the mattress to create a “pocket” for you to slip into. Smith says the impact of this is partly psychological: “It makes the bed look opulent. Before you’ve even got in, you feel it’s going to be a nice experience.”

✔ Match the pillow to your sleeping position

Pillow menus exist because there is no one-size-fits‑all pillow, says Robbins. Stomach sleepers (lying face down) will need very little support. “We recommend they sleep with hardly anything,” she says. Back sleepers need a pillow that supports their neck without lifting their head too high, while side sleepers should opt for a generous pillow that elevates the head so it aligns with the spinal column.

✔ Streamline the middle-of-the-night loo trip

Amanda Al-Masri, VP of Wellness at Hilton, says the addition of low-level motion-sensor lighting in rooms means guests don’t have to switch on the main bathroom light at night. Try motion-activated under-bed lights for something similar.

And Childs likes to add a generous rug around the bed so guests’ feet touch something soft when they get in and out.

✔ Get a large fabric headboard

For the signature “heavenly bed” at the Westin London City, Studio Moren designed overscaled fabric headboards to help muffle sound and make guests feel cocooned, says the design firm’s associate Ed Murray. “We would always suggest a fabric headboard in a hotel room, even on top of timber panelling, and a rug or fitted carpet, as they help control reverberation.”

The same design trick is used in luxury air travel to help guests nod off, says PriestmanGoode director Daniel MacInnes, who worked on first-class suites for Lufthansa and Qatar Airways. “Fabric padding in the area around the seat means you’ve got this soft wrap around you that stops you feeling like you’re in a plastic tub when you recline.” In Lufthansa’s first-class cabin, the “whole suite is wrapped in material so there are very few hard surfaces, and curtains in the entry muffle sound from outside”.

✔ Try bamboo pyjamas

Six Senses hotels have a sleep wellness programme that offers guests pyjamas made from bamboo, which helps keep the body cool at night. “The material is naturally breathable, hypoallergenic, and maintains a temperature three degrees cooler than cotton, making it ideal for sensitive skin and comfortable sleep,” says the hotel group’s wellness pioneer, Anna Bjurstam. Try Nightire for organic bamboo sleepwear.

✔ Avoid bare lightbulbs

“I don’t ever like to see a bare bulb in a hotel room,” says Childs, who advises that task lighting (such as spotlights) should be kept to the bathroom or dressing areas, with lamplight around the bed. She also avoids hard glass or metal pendants in the sleeping area, which can interrupt the feeling of softness. The latest Premier Inn room design has removed ceiling spotlights altogether in favour of LED uplights around the headboard, which bathe the ceiling in a warm glow. These “wash lights” are also used by airlines in business and first-class sections to give footwells and aisles a calm, ambient light that doesn’t disturb rest. “The effect is far more intimate and subdued than direct lighting,” says MacInnes.

Some LED lightbulbs produce a lot of blue daylight spectrum light, which can interrupt bedtime by suppressing the release of the sleep hormone melatonin. For this reason, Larry Traxler, senior VP of design at Hilton, recommends “choosing warmer red or yellow bulbs at the bedside at 2400 Kelvin colour temperature, which is closer to candlelight”.

✔ Bathe (or shower) before bed

Hotel rooms with standalone tubs that encourage you to have a pre-bedtime soak can also help you drop off faster, says Robbins. “There is a decline in core body temperature at sleep onset, so a warm bath or shower before entering the cooler bedroom environment can accelerate this.”

✔ Lull yourself to sleep with sound

Chenot Palace Weggis in Switzerland has a sleep cycles programme where guests check into “sleep rooms” with walls coated in noise-absorbing fibreglass, and a sequence of sounds is played at a frequency of 5Hz. These “binaural beats” (sound in the 5-8Hz range) promote relaxation and calmness, helping the brain transition into deeper sleep, says the Chenot group’s chief operating and science officer, Dr George Gaitanos. The myNoise app has a range of customisable binaural beats that support sleep.

✔ Get a pre-bed hit of bergamot

Most hotels avoid a standard in-room fragrance as it can be divisive, says Al-Masri, but common areas are often scented to promote relaxation. The Zedwell hotel lobby smells of lavender, bergamot and ylang-ylang, as studies show all three support a good night’s sleep. Rather than filling your bedroom with fragrance, Robbins recommends massaging a small amount of sleep-focused aromatherapy oil into your temples before bed.

✔ Reduce visual clutter

“Just 10 years ago, you’d walk into a hotel room and there would be paper and stuff everywhere,” says Al-Masri. “We try to minimise that now.” With research showing a cluttered bedroom has an impact on sleep quality, zoning the dressing and sleeping areas like a hotel room can create a more restful environment. At the Zedwell hotel the rooms designed by Neri&Hu follow a simple Japanese aesthetic, with beds positioned in bare, oak-lined “cocoons” so there is nothing in your eyeline when you nod off. “We’ve tried to strip back anything that could distract you from sleep. Controversially, that includes getting rid of TVs,” says Aziz.

No doubt, everything you do, you'll do better with a good night's sleep. Do not forget that sleep is the best meditation ❗💤😴

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