#stony if you squint

[imavikingo]

I have this silly idea… lets imagine Loki (Gamora and Nebula too) can be free from Thanos and infinity war doesn’t happen at all.

Thanos influence wilted and died at some point and the universe is free of that ugly wrinkled wet paper tissue of a titan.

Loki’s punishment after the avengers wasn’t staying in a cell at Asgard, instead he was forced to do a sort of “community service” in Midgard.

Meaning: helping the Avengers and however of the team needed his assistance on missions.

He could do magic but restricted, of course. He couldn’t do malicious or destructive magic (nor illusions) at all.

Except at enemies and in that context it was also more controlled.

That didn’t stop him from annoying the team sometimes.

Doing mischief is in his name, a little bit of jokes and games is expected, right? On his own words he does it to “spice things up”

One of those things was making Steve stop talking for a while. Making him partially mute. In a harmless way of course.

(It sounds worse than it actually is)

Loki’s reasoning is that Steve talks and expresses more of what others expect of him than talking his mind. He got used to going through the motions, and being by himself, only caring when other people are in danger/at risk. Once they got to Bucky it was making sure Bucky was okay and comfortable.

He wants Steve to unwind for once in his life. And of course making him a little bit embarrassed. Its fun watching him blush and splutter after all.

For missions and work he can talk perfectly fine. In dire circumstances too. But on a normal Thursday?

Without the weight of the world on their shoulders? That’s fair game to him.

This little trick works this way:

Only some of Steve’s thoughts can be voiced out loud, but they’re completely out of context (of his train of thought) or uttered in the most inconvenient of times as they come (if Steve is screaming inside it will be voiced that way out loud).

Only him (Loki) and Steve can hear all of what the captain is trying to say and communicate that way if Loki is feeling like it. (Loki is not going to invade Steve’s mind more than that, even if its really tempting)

And Loki is so entertained by all of it (the mind of the captain, the endless confusion of the team, the jealousy that some of them feel, the discussions that seem unilateral but are really funny to him and make him laugh out loud) that he started to bring a bag of popcorn and soda everywhere.

Tony: Ok, So… how are you doing cap? Still can’t get a complete sentence yet?

Steve: Im so tired of this, and yes Tony I still can’t talk normally.

Loki: ohhh? My my Captain… Are you still trying to find a way out of it? You can’t. You’ll need to get used to it.

Steve: Fuck you Loki

Tony: LANGUAGE!

Steve: not you Tony. Loki!

Bucky: shut up Tony!!

Steve: i want to talk Loki! Let me talk, this is ridiculous.

Tony: no robocop, YOU shut up!

Loki: No. this is too entertaining, you think i want to end one of the only things that gives me joy? You’re out of luck Steven.

Steve: ughhh, fuck me… I hate you so much sometimes Loki

Bucky and Tony: WHAT?!

[n3felibata]

Crying because in Civil War, when Tony tells Steve about the break up with Pepper, he says "I'm so sorry, Tony, I didn't know."

Despite everything going on, he still feels empathy for Tony. I don't think he hates him. There were definitely times where he was mad at him, but I don't think they were really full blown enemies

[aurumacadicus]

Really dropped the ball on all the opportunities this makes:

Tony wasn’t one of those vampires that made your hair stand on end when you entered a room. He didn’t put you ill at ease or make you shiver with anxiety. He didn’t take long glances at throats and wrists and thighs and lick his lips in a way that made blood thrum louder in your veins. Fruit bats, after all, were seen as the tamer, calmer cousins of their blood-sucking, carnivorous family.

So it came as a shock when, one morning at team breakfast, Tony opened the fridge, paused, and then it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. “Where’s my fucking juice,” he asked, voice void of emotion.

No one said anything for a moment, too stunned to speak. Finally, though, it was Natasha who said, “Ah, the apricot? I used the last of it over some ice cream. I thought there was plenty of mango left.”

“I used the mango for a smoothie,” Bruce admitted, voice small. “But there was orange juice in the back?”

“Oh my fucking god,” Steve sighed, putting his head in his hands, because he always drank a big glass of orange juice with breakfast, and he’d carelessly thought ‘Tony still has mango and apricot’ as he emptied the last of the orange juice into his cup.

Tony turned, eyes glowing red, muscle in his jaw ticking as he obviously swallowed back his anger. He was good at cataloging insecurities to throw them back in people’s faces, after all, and this was the first time all of his food was gone, so it really didn’t warrant a huge blowup. But he’d been looking forward to breakfast after a full night in the lab and not one, not two, but all three of his choices were gone.

“Tony,” Thor offered solemnly, pushing the fruit bowl toward him. “Would whole fruit be okay until we can buy you more juice today?”

“It’ll do,” Tony allowed, figuring they were too afraid to tease him for his smaller fangs and his apathy for juice dripping down his face and into his clothes.

Clint came in before he could reach for anything, squinting at the back of a bottle. “Hey, I noticed all of Tony’s juice was gone and I added it to the list for when Steve goes shopping today, anyway I remembered I had a Naked in the freezer I was saving, but it’s got carrot in it and I don’t know if he’s okay with vegetables??”

Tony grabbed Clint by the shoulders, swung him around into a dip, and kissed him directly on the mouth. Then he plucked the juice from his lax fingers, dropped him, and skulked out of the room, muttering under his breath about the health benefits of carrots to vampires.

Clint laid where he’d been dropped for several minutes before he sat up, smacking his lips. “You know it never occurred to me that he might taste good to kiss and yet somehow I’m shocked he tastes like fruit.”

“Why don’t you explain it to Steve in very small words,” Natasha replied, and then ducked when Steve lunged at her, shouting for her to leave him alone about his crush on Tony when he’d literally just been fearing for his life over some fucking orange juice.

[rafeysbangs]

ྀིྀི⋆˚࿔↷frat!rafe stumbles into a room you're hiding in and suddenly, he's not as untouchable as you thought...

warnings ; not proofread ! angstttt, fluff if you squint, mentions/allusions to rafe being super high, sensitive!reader but not really, drinking, mentions of ward....eugh.

notes ; all this talk of angst fics made me just whip this up... enjoy! um if you can that is ... poor rafe

the pulsating bass from the speakers below reverberated through the walls, embodying the cacophony and disarray of the party. you had attended with the faint hope of explaining the acute sting of isolation, yet the atmosphere only worsened your sense of alienation. somewhere between observing your so-called friends laughing without you and the burn of vodka that failed to dull the ache, you slipped away, seeking refuge in a random upstairs room.

tears clouded your vision as you stared at your phone. the group chat buzzed with plans that excluded you. the exclusion was blatant, friends tagging one another in shared jokes, the humour opaque to you. the ache in your chest defied articulation, a weight that no amount of deep breaths could alleviate. you perched on the edge of an unfamiliar bed, trembling and endeavouring to stifle the sound of your sobs.

the door creaked open, the sound startlingly loud in the muffled cocoon you’d made for yourself.

“yo, what the f—” the voice was thick with inebriation, but the tone carried an undercurrent of irritation. you looked up sharply to find rafe cameron leaning in the doorway. his figure was the epitome of disheveled elegance, a boy who wore chaos like it was tailored for him. his eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, and his shirt hung askew, a caricature of the golden boy image he wielded like a weapon.

“what are you doing in here?” your voice came out uneven, cracked like a porcelain vase hastily glued together. you hated the way it betrayed you.

he stepped fully into the room, shutting the door behind him with an air of finality. “nah, what're you doin' in here? crying? at a party?” the question hung in the air, the mockery in his tone as unsteady as his balance.

“just go away,” you managed, swiping angrily at your cheeks. it wasn’t a plea, it was a defence.

he didn’t leave. instead, he collapsed onto the bed beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. for a long moment, he said nothing. the silence was louder than the bass below, filled with the heavy presence of unspoken thoughts. you wanted him to leave, but you couldn’t bring yourself to ask again. his presence was intrusive, but his silence was almost comforting, as though your misery had drawn out its mirror in him.

“it’s stupid,” you muttered, breaking the unbearable quiet. “you wouldn’t get it.”

his gaze flicked toward you, but he didn’t speak. his stillness was unnerving, like he was afraid that moving too suddenly would shatter whatever fragile tether kept him grounded.

“it’s just… it’s like no one even sees me. like i’m some kind of shadow in their perfect little worlds.” the words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered. you hated how small they sounded, how small you felt. “i’m there, but i’m not there. and it’s stupid, i know it’s stupid, but it still—it still hurts.”

his hand fidgeted in his lap, the faintest movement breaking his otherwise rigid posture. still, he didn’t speak. your frustration mounted, burning hotter than the tears.

“are you even listening?” you snapped, your voice cracking under the weight of your anger and humiliation. “or are you just sitting here so you can feel better about yourself?”

his head lifted at that, and for the first time, you saw something like pain flash across his features. it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the stony mask he wore so well.

“i’m not judging you,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

“then what are you doing?” you demanded. the words were a challenge, but they came out almost desperate.

he exhaled sharply, his hand dragging through his already tousled hair. “tryina figure out how to say something that won’t make this worse.”

“like what?” your skepticism was a shield, thin and fragile, but all you had.

he didn’t answer right away. when he finally spoke, his voice was low, barely audible over the muffled music from below. “it’s not perfect, y'know. my life. not even close.”

you blinked, caught off guard. “what?”

he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together like he was holding himself in place. “you think i don’t get it. feeling like you’re not enough, like no matter what you do, you’re always falling short. but i do. trust me, i do.”

disbelief heavy in your tone. “you have everything. money, friends, girls throwing themselves at you. what could you possibly know about feeling like this?”

he let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and hollow. “none of that means shit. ward says i'm a disappointment, a- a failure..” his voice broke on the last word, and he swallowed hard, the movement sharp and jagged.

your heart twisted painfully at the rawness in his words. “rafe…” you began, but he cut you off with a sharp shake of his head.

“don’t,” he murmured, his voice fraying at the edges. “just don’t. i’m not saying this so you’ll feel sorry for me. i’m saying it because… because i get it. feeling like you’re drowning and no one even notices.”

the silence that followed was suffocating, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. you wanted to reach out, to say something that would pull him back from whatever precipice he was teetering on, but the words wouldn’t come.

“you’re not invisible,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “and you’re not pathetic.”

the tears you’d been holding back spilled over, hot and unrelenting. “neither are you,” you said through the sobs, your voice trembling but sure.

he turned to look at you then, his eyes glassy and red-rimmed. for a moment, it felt like the world had stopped, the two of you suspended in this fragile, shared understanding.

“you shouldn’t drive,” you said after a long pause, your voice hoarse but steady. “let me take you home.”

he hesitated, his expression torn, before nodding. “yeah. okay.”

as you stood, he reached for your hand, his grip warm and grounding. neither of you spoke as you made your way to his car, the night air sharp and biting against your skin. the silence between you was no longer heavy, it was something else, something that felt almost like solace.

taglist ;  @rafegetinmybed @sqfewrd @dreamyy-cloud @vampteeth @wtfisastiles @flvredcas @plaidcowboy @sematarygirls @slut4you @kravitzwhore @daryldixon83 @lexavanhuelee @dorcas4meadowes @foolishangelic ( feel free to ask to be added! idm! )

[kkai-zen]

ᯓ★ oh damn, i feel like a HOTSHOT

──── featuring ITOSHI RIN.

summary: what happens when your famous pro-soccer player boyfriend ITOSHI RIN finds your Tumblr fan account for him?

contents: 18+ nsfw! MDNI. fem!reader, sub!reader, dom!rin, p in v, porn w plot, established relationship, reader nicknames (pretty, pretty girl, pretty thing, good girl), praise, crying, fingering, dirty talk, unprotected sex, creampie, overstimulation

a/n: part of my new series featuring the bllk boys! the series can be found here!

wc: 1.7k

✰ .ᐟ your pro-athlete boyfriend ITOSHI RIN . . .

finds your Tumblr fan account, "itoshi-rins-world," when you accidentally leave Tumblr open on your computer while using the bathroom.

your blog is filled with itoshi rin thirsts!, bf!rin headcannons!, and, of course, itoshi rin smut.

he sees that you’re following a handful of tags with his name, including (but not limited to): #rin itoshi, #rin itoshi x you, #rin itoshi smut

gets flustered reading the downright pornographic posts you’ve written, liked, and reblogged, but also gets cocky.

tries his best not to let it show.

thinks it’s cute how you post about all of his games, stats, and interviews.

moved by the amount of support you've given him since before the you two even started dating.

more motivated than ever and falls in love with you even more.

Strolling back into your bedroom with a stretch, you raise an eyebrow when you see your boyfriend RIN hunched over your desk, scrolling avidly through something on your laptop. A smile curls at your lips seeing him so invested in…you squint at the screen. A Tumblr blog?

“Rin, what are you- ”

Your heart stops in your chest. There’s no way he’s-

“Reading through your Tumblr account.”

He turns to face you with a cool, stony expression, and you’re frozen in the doorway of your room, brain completely shut down. 

“You post a lot on-” Rin starts, but before he can finish, you’re sprinting to your computer, slamming it shut, and collapsing to your knees.

“Oh my god, I- I’m so sorry,” you splutter, a bright red blush erupting over your cheeks as you bury your face in your hands. “I made that account so long ago and I was just a huge fan and y’know, over the years I just- kept up with it, and I- ” you’re rambling on and on, panicking when you look up only to be met with Rin’s stoic expression.

Does he think I’m some crazy fangirl now?! Panicking, a million thoughts rush through your head as you squeeze your eyes shut, missing the faint blush that begins to creep up Rin’s neck. “I’ll delete everything, don’t worry,” you blurt, hesitantly meeting his teal gaze again as you reach for your laptop—but this time, you’re surprised to find an expression of confusion and disbelief painted on his face. 

“Why on Earth would you delete it?”

He stares at you in bewilderment. Huh? You scratch your head. “Well, I mean, I figured it made you uncomfortable…” you mumble, eyes flitting to the floor. Heart thumping against your chest, you wait a few quiet moments for Rin’s reply. 

“Hey, look at me,” Rin eventually murmurs. Face still flushed, you don’t even find the guts to try looking up at him. “Rin, I- ”

“I said, look at me.” 

He grabs your chin and pulls upwards, forcing you to look at him, and oh—

Rin doesn’t think he’s ever seen a sight so tantalizing in his entire life: face flushed crimson, soft lips trembling just the slightest bit, and big, shiny, eyes looking up at him, it’s almost as if you’re begging him to ruin you.

On top of that, the swell of emotions he experienced reading through your blog—filled with hundreds and hundreds of posts about him, following his whole pro-soccer journey—has his heart throbbing and thoughts completely jumbled. He swallows a lump in his throat as he feels his pants tighten. 

Fuck.

“Stand up.” Rin orders, and you stumble to your feet. “Huh? W-wait, Rin, I- mmpf!”

You gasp as his lips suddenly crash into yours, kissing you breathless as his arms wrap around your waist in a vice grip. Sitting you on top of the desk, his slender hands had already slipped your pants off by the time he pulled away from your lips with a gasp. You notice his face is flushed pink with an uncharacteristically urgent look in his eyes.

“Fuck- need you,” Rin groaned, slipping a hand into your pants, elegant fingers dipping down into your panties and finding your already-wet hole. 

“Mm- Rin- ah!” you squeal as he shoves two long digits into your dripping cunt. Biting your lip, you try to stifle your moans when Rin curls his fingers to perfectly catch each of your sensitive spots. 

“Don’t hold back your moans, pretty girl,” Rin breathes into the shell of your ear as he thrusts his fingers into your soft cunt, sending shivers through your body that only amplify the sudden sensation of his thumb rubbing circles on your throbbing clit. Pulling a lewd moan from your throat, you grind your hips desperately against his hand, your cunt pulsing and aching for more friction as you pull him into another bruising kiss. 

“Fuck- can’t believe a pretty girl like you has been a fan of mine for so long,” he pants, chest heaving as you pull away from his mouth, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your neck. “Always knew y’had good taste,” he grunts, nipping at your collarbone. 

The wet sound of Rin’s fingers in your sloppy cunt is so obscene and has you whimpering in need, bucking your hips against him in a frenzy. “A-ah! R-Rin, keep- going- mmm- !” You whine, throwing your head back as he scissors his fingers deliciously inside of you, the sensation tightening the burning coil in your core. “C’mon, pretty thing,” Rin growls. “I know you’re close…go on and cum for me.” 

“O-ooh, ffuuuck!~” Crying out in ecstasy, your vision grows hazy as Rin’s husky voice tips you over the edge. You can feel yourself clenching around his fingers, nails digging red crescents into the taut muscles of his back. “Fuck, pretty, you’re clamping down on me so nicely,” Rin whispers, a smirk gracing his features.

Gasping for breath, you see Rin drag his tongue effortlessly across his fingers —the fingers that were just inside you— and you feel arousal pooling in your core again.

“R-Rin,” you stutter, but you barely have time to catch your breath before he rips your top off, pulling your bra down to expose your breasts, where your nipples are perked up and begging for attention. Still smirking, he dips his head down and lets his tongue glide over the curves of your chest, teasing your nipples before latching his mouth onto one and rolling the other between his nimble fingers. “A-aah, no- Rin, I’m still- s-sensitive!” You squeak, nails scraping against the wood of your desk, drool slipping out of the corner of your open, panting mouth. “Sensitive?” He arches an eyebrow. “I didn’t even touch you here earlier. Besides, isn’t this what you want?” Rin huffs out a chuckle between licks, his mind rushing back to absolute filth you’ve written about him. 

And of course, he’s right; you’ve fantasized about him railing you senseless for so long that this barely feels real. “Rin-nie! Just- ah! Just f-fuck me already!” You whine, back arching as he tweaks your other nipple between his skillful fingers. His eyes narrow, and all of a sudden you find yourself bent over the desk, legs spread and sopping wet hole in his full view. 

“Since when did you give orders around here?” He snaps, and you yelp when you feel the sting of his palm meet the soft flesh of your ass. “Just shut up and be a good girl f’me,” Rin hisses, grabbing handfuls of your ass and squeezing harshly. You let out a wanton moan, shifting your hips from side to side in desperation. 

When you hear Rin’s pants slip onto the floor behind you, you can’t help but steal a glance, twisting your head back to see him lining his rock-hard cock up with your soaking entrance. 

Cunt quivering with arousal, you swallow in anticipation just looking at his dick, standing tall and thick against his toned abs, pearly beads of precum decorating his angry red tip. He bends over you, his broad muscular chest flush against your back, and purrs into your ear, “You ready, pretty girl?” 

You nod helplessly, grinding back against him in desire. “M’ready, Rinnie,” you whisper, breath hitching.

And fuck, the moment Rin starts pushing his tip into you, you see stars dance in the corners of your vision. The stretch of his fat cock was suffocating, and your jaw drops open with soundless whines as he tries to slowly ease his throbbing length into your velvet walls, inch by inch.

But your sloppy, creamy cunt feels too good, Rin decides. “Fuck, can’t take this anymore,” he grunts, and with one brutal thrust, buries himself balls deep into your drooling heat. You squeal, shuddering with pleasure as your weeping cunt adjusts to his cock, twitching violently inside your snug, soft walls. “Ri-innie, ooh, fu-fuck, you feel- s-so, so goo-od!” you moan, tears pricking at your eyes as Rin’s cock starts to thrust in and out of you at an unforgiving pace, kissing your cervix with each snap of his hips.

“Tight lil’ pussy so- fuckin’- warm and wet f’me,” Rin snarls, speeding up his thrusts. You whine, pushing your hips into him as his cock rearranges your insides, arousal dripping down your thighs in sinful pearls. “Love gettin’ fucked stupid on my cock, huh? Nasty fuckin’ girl.” and you whine in response; hearing the stoic, ice-cold Itoshi Rin spew such filth from his mouth was nothing less than intoxicating. 

His heavy balls smack against your clit with each lewd thrust, moans spilling from your lips as the tense knot in your core tightens unbearably. “Riii-innie, I- I’m about to- ah, fuuuuuck!!” You sob, writhing under him, vision going white as your orgasm slams into you, knocking you breathless as your slick squirts over Rin’s cock.

“G-good girl, cumming for me so well-” Rin groans, hips still pounding against the fat of your ass in a punishing rhythm, ripping screams from your throat as his balls slap your overstimulated clit again and again.

And finally, after what feels like a lifetime of fucking you dumb on his dick, you hear Rin pant out a “Fuck!”, throwing his head back as his thick, warm seed paints your throbbing cunt white. Your overstimulated body trembles with pleasure, tears sliding down your face as your pussy flutters around his twitching cock, still spurting ropes of hot cum into you.

His hips stutter to a halt as you gasp for air, and you can feel his heavy breathing on the back of your neck as his cum overflows and spills out from your abused hole. You both bathe in the afterglow of the moment, sweat and slick and cum cooling on your burning skin, before your legs promptly give up on you. You would’ve fallen straight to the ground if Rin hadn’t caught you by the waist, his strong, warm arms wrapping around you and lifting you effortlessly into a princess carry. 

“Mm…Rinnie���” you murmur, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

“Hm?”

“You really enjoyed reading my blog, huh?”

“…maybe.”

[coffeedragonart]

🧭

As she looked at the map and back at the forest, Callidora groaned. The path was supposed to branch somewhere around here, but it didn’t.

‘I am NOT lost.’ She muttered, re-tracing the path on the map. The cat didn’t believe her, chirping as it rubbed against her boots.

She looked around. There wasn’t supposed to be a bridge there. The path must have looped back on itself somewhere. The map must be outdated. Maybe some more light would help, there was slightly less overhead foliage near the bridge. While she angled the map this way and that to make the most of the dappled forest light, the birdsong had faded. From the corner of her eye, something moving in the trees was making the light move and bounce.

Callidora didn’t have time for this. She growled into the gloom. ‘If you’re going to lurk, you may as well come down here and help!’

She tried not to flinch as the dragon slid into view, positioning itself on the bridge. It was at least polite enough not to emerge right in her face, or go right for the pounce, but she had felt a little braver before she noticed the cat had hung back several steps, watching butterflies.

‘Are you lost, witchling?’ Its eyes flashed as it leaned closer, claws digging into the old wooden posts. Callidora took half a step back, then pulled herself together.

‘I’m trying to get to Stony Creek’, she said, holding up the map. ‘I was directed to follow the path here, cross here and take the turn by the tree, but I’ve been turned around,’ jabbing at each mark on the map for emphasis.

The dragon squinted at the tiny map, sharp gaze following the witch’s finger.

‘See, you’ve gone a little bit wrong right there. You should have taken the path by the TWISTY tree, not the BENT tree.’ The dragon said, carefully pointing at two places on the map with a clawtip. ‘If you cross this bridge, it does loop back to the main path and you can start over. It’ll take you less time than going back the way to you came, and you should get there before nightfall. But,’ The dragon settled back on its haunches, blocking the path. It showed too many teeth as it grinned down at her.

‘You’ll have to pay the bridge toll.’

————

Aiming for a bit of a storybook feel.

Had fun with this one, even in the sketch phase I knew I wanted to paint that splotchy lighting coming through the trees, and it was nice getting into the fiddly bits of the lines. Tried something different starting with the greyscale, initially tried painting normally but I was getting stuck between finding colours I liked and getting the ‘non-standard’ lighting to look how I wanted.

Ended up using a bunch of overlay layers,but only after trying to learn how to use gradient maps in procreate made me want to pull my hair out. This one had an extended ugly phase while I figured it out.

WIP snaps under the cut.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

Hi!! For the blurbs, can you do anything joel x f!reader where he gets insecure that he might leave him because he is too old for her (say 20s/50s) and go for someone younger. Can be sfw or nsfw, whatever you decide, but I was hoping you could make it more fluffy rather than angsty

a/n: urgh, i love an old man. one of my flaws, unfortunately. we can't all be perfect

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist

“Oh, would you stop laughing,” Joel grumbled as his head sloped to his broad shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you coughed as you tried to control your giggle, “but seriously? Are you actually scared that I’d leave you because of our age difference?”

Squinting back at you with his stony expression staying in place, he remained on his side of the couch as he offered you a shrug.

“You’ve always been older than me, that fact has never and will never change,” you continued, “but why would you think that would make me want you less? Do you really think that it was just your charming personality that dazzled me into falling for you?”

With your grin still wide, you closed the distance between you two before your arms snaked around him and you hugged his frame as his own limbs stayed in place.

“I love you, Joel,” you rested your chin on his shoulder and twisted his head for his gaze to meet yours, “and if I'm ever gonna leave you then it sure as hell isn’t gonna be for one of the things about you I adore the most, you silly old man,” another chuckle slipped out of your lungs before your lips pressed against his own to seal the promise.

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[soleilapproves]

Lucid Submission - chapter 1

Synopsis: Sukuna Ryomen is reborn as a human being as punishment for ruining the balance of good and evil in the divine realm. To lift his curse and return to his original form, the former demon king must complete the condition bestowed upon him by the deities. Except it can only be done by having a child with the street thief who stole his coin pouch.

fanfic masterlist

prologue < > chapter 2

There wasn’t a day where Sukuna didn’t miss his old form. His extra set of eyes helped him see dust particles in the tiniest of corners, his multiple hands helped him fight the strongest of spirits, and his inhumane demonic strength had everyone fearing him: every human, divine being, and spirit. 

Mothers in the mortal realm often told their children to sleep early if they didn’t want to be taken away by the King of all demons–Sukuna Ryomen. His fearful reputation takes its stake even in the smallest of villages. People often left offerings at his statue in a misty valley to please his immortal soul and protect themselves from the demons he ruled over. His stark tattoos signify his position in the Divine Realm, the controller of chaos and death. 

Alas, but that was no more. It had been hundreds of years since people had uttered his name. Apparently, receiving Divine Punishment and being reborn as a human being meant being wiped from the minds of all humans. His statue simply collected dust. Wearing away till his stony face weathered into a smooth curve. No remnants of his terrifying mug. Only an outline of what once was the demon’s face.

Sukuna stared down at the pool of water reflecting his human form–two swelling muscular arms, a single pair of eyes, no mask to hide half his face, and his cursed tattoos. His figure was worse in the past. All bones and no muscle to cushion them. Not enough blood to bring color to his face. He had to train rigorously to be as strong as he is now. 

Most humans would assume the man was the closest thing to a humanoid behemoth. But what he looks like now isn’t even a fraction of his former figure–humongous, horrifying, and unnerving. A true demon king. 

“Master, I have your coin pouch ready, and the bodyguards have been stationed outside the estate. We will take our leave as soon as you are dressed.” Sukuna hadn’t realized when Uraume, his servant, entered his private onsen. A disadvantage of having human ears was that you weren’t sensitive to the smallest of vibrations made against the ground. Sukuna clicked his teeth from snarling. 

“I have your robes placed in the dressing room.” Uraume shuffled back outside. Sukuna knew it was time to go when he began to shiver–another thing he never had to worry about in the Divine Realm. He had never felt more pathetic when he had to succumb to stupid human sensations, such as his nipples hardening when he was cold, eyes squinting when too much light passed through his corneas, or when his muscles ached after training too hard. It was humiliating, and it was all a part of his punishment. 

The worst part of it all was when he’d feel overstimulated, which was quite often. Too many sounds, textures, and sights. He'd try to steer clear of markets, brothels, festivals, and restaurants, but Uraume would push him to go to those places to find the other half of that cursed pearl—his only hope for redemption. Today was yet another day where he’d have to go to the local market to buy gifts for the many women he would meet at a brothel that just opened in the next town over. The most beautiful women had been collected all over the nation to please the abhorrent sexual needs of men. Hopefully, one of them would have the other half of his pearl.

The market was surprisingly pleasant to walk through despite the chill of the winter air. Uraume and Sukuna’s bodyguards followed close behind him as he looked at all the jewelry stalls. Ornamental hand fans with pink sakura were all the rage, even during the barren season. 

“Here, sir, I’m sure a very special woman in your life will want this,” the old lady across the table said to him with a bright smile, a single front tooth missing. The crow's feet beside her eyes and the multiple scars on her fingers told him she had been doing this for years. He’d met her when she was only a child, stitching together pieces of cloth and paper in the back of her father’s woodworking shop. A constant and dull life. If he wanted, he could make her as rich as a moneylender. His prosperous yet boring life as a human itched him to do good for her. 

But he bit his lip, hands tightening around his money pouch. He had a lot of questions, but the one that stood out to him the most after being reborn was if humans were innately driven to do good and if that habit would follow him once he’d returned to the Divine Realm. He often found himself trying to reason between his demonic and human sides. 

All he could do, for now, was pay a little more than she had told him to. She could probably buy fish and make warm soup for herself on this winter day. He pulled out the red pouch from a small pocket in his robes. But as soon as his eyes landed on his palm to fish out the coins, the pouch had long disappeared, leaving only a wisp of wind behind. 

“There, follow her!” A brawny bodyguard yelled from behind Sukuna. The band of three men ran towards the thief. Sukuna was often stolen from in bigger cities but not in the town he had been living in for the past three hundred years. He usually stood back and waited for his men to bring back the thief so he could humiliate them in public, but something in him was telling him to follow the thief. 

A ‘gut feeling’ as the humans called it. Sukuna turned to return the fan to the shopkeeper, but she pushed it back to him. “I know you will pay me later. Go and get your money pouch. I’m here every day at the same time.” He ignored her ominous smile and swiftly ran after the group, fan folded in hand—a stark contrast of pink against his black robes. 

The thief was relatively fast on her feet, jumping over a cart full of clay pots and rolling down the hill towards the forest on the outskirts of the town. Sukuna’s bodyguards followed suit, albeit in a tumbling mess, but enough to get ahold of her in the forest. They pulled the coin pouch out of her grasp and kicked her legs, prompting her to get down on the snow on her knees. One guard grabbed her left arm while another grabbed the right one. The third man had a sword held by her neck. 

Sukuna coolly arrived at the scene, his hat now covering his face to prevent the daytime brightness of the snow from blinding him. The thief was a mess. She wore dirty clothing that looked so brown that it was impossible to tell that it used to be red if it wasn’t for small, clean patches by her collar and sleeves (she probably drank from a stream nearby). Her face was decorated with several minor cuts because she was rolling down the hill, and her hair was a matted mess, with twigs and dirt sticking out. 

“You dare steal from me?” Sukuna’s voice boomed through the forest as he walked closer to the thief on the ground. The snow cushioned everything so only Sukuna’s voice could be heard, suffocating her with his presence. 

“Rich folk can always pull that money out of their asses. A few lost coins will not harm you,” she spat as she looked away from the man she stole from. His eyes were trained on her as he finally stood before her. 

“Stolen, not lost. I should rip your tongue out for being so crass with me.” With quiet anger evident in his voice, he dragged the fan from her temple to her chin. The path was painfully short, for her face was so small because of malnourishment. He could see her shiver, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the cold or his indirect touch. Considering how thin her clothes looked, it was probably the former. 

He pulled her chin to face him and tilted her head upwards with the fan. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you, street vermin.” Her eyes were closed. “Slice my tongue. I do not wish to speak to you because I have nothing to lose by being rude to yet another rich man,” Sukuna was, of course, never planning on ripping the woman’s tongue out, but she was slowly persuading him to do so. 

“Look at me in the eye as you make your request, you wench.” His red eyes bore into her lidded ones. “He said to open ‘em up!” The guard holding the sword snarled. She gulped before looking up at the former demon, beautiful orbs glaring at him. “You happy now?” 

But Sukuna couldn’t say anything. The man was cotton-mouthed. Staring back at him was a greenish-blue hue twinkling over her actual eye color. It looked like magic. Surely, no human was unique enough to have mesmerizing eyes enough to put the most beautiful of angels and spirits to shame. He had bedded many women in the centuries he’d been alive, but none of them had eyes as alluring as hers. “Megumi, look into her eyes–what color are they?” 

The guard holding her right arm looked down into her eyes and replied with her normal eye color, completely missing the apparent turquoise hue visible to Sukuna.

“I have found her,” he whispered to himself. “Three hundred years and she’s finally in front of me,” he yelled as he took his hat off and threw it on the ground. He rubbed his hands on his face and looked back at her again, and sure enough, the hues in her eyes were still there. “I should’ve known that you were a lunatic when you pulled out a whole pouch instead of a few coins in a busy street,” the confused woman mumbled as she watched Sukuna laugh to himself. 

“I am not letting you go. Oh no, you will come to my estate,” He laughed to himself like a madman. “Three hundred years, and now I am finally going to be free.”

“Look, you can have your pouch back. I’ll even give you all the money I have on me right now. Just don’t take me home with you,” the woman begged, but the guards only held on to her tighter.

“Not a chance. Now, come on, we have a wedding to attend.”

Confused, the woman raised her brow. “Whose?”

“Ours.”

[dhampling]

warming 18+ fem!reader, 1.2k

Some half-lidded doze before dawn breaks and you must only be sentient because you await him subconsciously, as prey awaits a looming predator on the hill. - early morning feeding and cockwarming because i said so. inspired by this anon!!! wc: 1.2k cw: 18+, cockwarming, fondling, breeding if you squint so hard, fingering, afab reader, if there are errors no there aren't

You sincerely know you don’t hear him before he approaches, and yet the dip in the bed doesn’t startle you. Some half-lidded doze before dawn breaks and you must only be sentient because you await him subconsciously, as prey awaits a looming predator on the hill.

He has to know. 

Your heart has to have given you away, no matter how unaware you are of the thrum nor how you try to temper it. It’s a gentle awakening as the birds begin their early song from rag-woven nests on their roofs outside the window, despite the world still being a few dark hours away from the burgeoning break of a new sun. 

You quietly wriggle back, closer to the backboard of your tavern bed; and lift the covers by the far corner for your cool-chested lover to slide in under at your side with his usual thieves’ ease. 

Astarion settles swiftly. Captures you in a few silent smiley.

A few moments of a still embrace before he takes the quilt and lifts it over the both of your heads, only to hold your face in one deep sleepy kiss whilst he melds himself to your sleep-warmed figure. His head rests on your inner arm, your other wrapped around his ribcage, while his own both capture your torso in a reverent grasp.

He’s tried to warm himself, you can tell. 

He’s been under his own quilt. Your heart warms at it, so he can try and ensure his stony embrace isn’t quite so shocking to your system - but there’s little he can do to give himself heat that doesn’t involve you, and it’s something he knows as well as you.

You bow to kiss his curls and he shuffles in closer with a yawning sigh.

“Hungry?” 

“Famished, my love.”

Rumble tones. You offer your inner arm from under his head and he smiles dopily against the soft skin, planting languid kisses along the flesh as he sounds out the basilic vein and rouses it to stirring.

You wish you could see him in the early din. Watch as he worships your simple flesh. He’s divine, face of the gods; beautiful and sincere at your heel. 

When he has a secure lock on the vein and dips with little warning into a razor bite, it’s not as jarring as it otherwise can be. As when you offer him your neck after a long day of adventuring. It’s almost balmy to succumb to him like this, to know you have a few hours to rest after providing for him to feed with your beloved newly-warmed like a lamb in your arms.

The pain is still searing, of course; a wincing burn enough to cause strong discomfort. He reaches up under your half-gone sleepshirt and palms gently at your breast whilst he feeds in a familiar calming motion. The skin there is soft and heavy, pleasurable to the both of you when he grabs gently and holds you; thumb seeking a nipple to rub at, to pebble at his touch. 

You can hear his suckling above anything the world has to offer, the deep numb in the blood rushing to your head. The precision of his latch. The slightest wiggle of incisors in your butter-soft flesh; the swallowing of spit and the thick metal of your blood, the quiet whimper growling of his groans against skin. 

There are a few pained moments offset by his touches to your breast, where the intensity of his bite gives way to the delirious haze of bloodloss and you’re ecstatic in the hot thrum of your heartbeat. 

To give him his morning blessing. To allow his stomach the freedom of hunger for few precious hours. 

When he mounts your thigh you know he’s nearing the end of his feed, cock hard under his sleeping linens which loosen with each sleepy rut of his hips on you. By the time he’s finished his length is wholly worked free and beginning to leak his own nectar against your own sleepclothes. 

His arousal instinctively gives way to your own. You feel yourself growing pliable under his kisses whilst his fangs leave your flesh.

“You feel good, sweet one?” You murmur into his hair, and he nods slowly in response whilst slowly humping your thigh; erratic movements as he instinctively searches for the warmth of your cunt. 

“Thank you, perfect thing. Turn for me?”

He palms at the soft flesh of your ass under your sleepclothes as you give way to him. 

The moment you turn to face the wall he has you locked in his arms, one hand groping still at your breasts whilst the other works its way to your trousers and aids you in wriggling free of them by holding them open.

When his now-warm hand reaches round your front to finger lazily at the apex of your slit, the low groan of laughter in him gives way to small trembles. You can feel the nectar he coaxes free with ease, wet in wait of him.

“Warm me while we rest?” 

His voice is little more than a lusty whisper in your ear as he fiddles with the pebbling bud at your breast, hand at your honeyed cunt held still as you gently hump it in search of friction.

“Gods yes. Please.”

Your left leg gives way to him easily as he takes his newly-wet hand and lifts your inner thigh, lifting his burning cock from where it drips down onto the bedlinens and nestling it in the gap just where your sex ends.

He humps at your slit for a few moments in a fevered search of relief, the bulbous head of his cock delicious in the slick friction it offers. You want nothing more than for him to sink deep inside you and to keep him there forever with your violent spasms. 

When he does give you your deepest desire, you feel yourself melting. Fingers losing their tension as you curl into yourself, his tip breaching your hole in the most sinful of delights; dipping in a few shallow thrusts as he hitches your leg at his hip before sinking in one deep push to the hilt.

He’s big. Angry in sheer lust. His cock settles deep and he lets a delirious groan before you tap his arm in silent laughter. A room full of sleeping bodies and you’re indulging like this, as you have been for the past tenday. It feels beyond sinful. He bites at your shoulder with a huge smile and a deep breath.

You could die happy, you reckon. Him inside you, shuffling to ensure the comfort of your limbs without being held by him. He’ll remain hard for a good while yet with no friction and the reassuring weight of him inside you is fast becoming your favourite feeling in the realms. 

“I love you.”

It’s a quiet announcement to your shoulder, and the satisfied groan that follows is anything but. 

“I love you, too. More than you know.”

His lips leave your neck as you angle your head in search of a kiss, and he’ll be damned if he leaves you hanging. 

When he pulses inside you as your lips meet, tip filling your womb with prespill at the deepest part of your core; you can’t recall ever being happier.

“Sleep now, sweet thing. I’ve got you.”

And wrapped in his arms, buried inside you; you believe him.

Gods, you believe him.

[annwrites]

⸻ one in the same. part four. ⸻

· pairing: otto hightower x bastardtargfem!reader · type: part of a series · summary: you & otto have a brief interaction after breaking your fast, which sends you retreating to your chambers & once again further inside yourself. he comes to you that evening when you fail to do so with him, so as to try & get you to eat. instead, the two of you have an argument & an ugly truth is shared. · word count: 2,243

You lean over his shoulder, squinting at the bit of parchment in his hand.

His rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. "Do you mind?"

You rest a forearm atop his shoulder, leaning in even closer. "Not particularly."

"Well, I do," he states, turning his head infinitesimally to the left, toward you, his hair brushing against the top of your arm.

"You're the one who insists on sharing all our meals together. It's been over a sennight, so you should be accustomed to my irritating presence by now."

"I had expected you to act with a modicum of respect toward me when we are in one another's company. You don't behave in such a manner anywhere else but when we are alone. If you do not—"

You point to a word you can't quite make out, interrupting him. "What's that?"

He bites back a groan of irritation. "I am beginning to regret this arrangement."

You glare at the back of his head. "I'm perfectly content to leave."

He nods to the chair across from him, on the opposite side of the desk. "Sit."

"You never answered."

He feels his patience growing shorter by the second. "Craghas. It is a name for one of the admirals of the Triarchy. Now, would you please—"

You swiftly walk around, seating yourself, crossing your legs and folding your hands overtop your knee while looking at him with a faux smile.

He shakes his head, setting the scroll aside, then grabbing a fresh sheet of parchment and a quill.

You watch silently as he begins to write. "Your room is a disaster."

He shakes his head slowly. "As you have informed me time and again."

You glance to his made bed. "Did you not sleep last night?"

He doesn't respond.

You frown.

You would never admit as much to him, but it saddens you to think of him staying up all night worrying, working, stressing about this important matter, or that one. You cannot explain why, however.

Mayhaps it is because, for over the last week, you've begun to see past the stony exterior he showcases to the rest of the Keep—the Seven Kingdoms as a whole—and have thus learned more of his true nature.

He cares. Deeply. About a great many things. He just...does not know how best to show it. He certainly does not talk about it: that which troubles him.

Men.

As if you are much different...

"If...you want to talk—"

He dips his quill. "I do not." Then, "You are distracting me."

You quickly crumple a sheet of parchment into a ball and toss it at his face.

He sets his materials down then, glaring at you. "You will either behave yourself, or I will instruct you how."

"I doubt it."

"Young Lady—" He begins, tone quite stern, a hand being rested flat upon the surface before him.

"Gods-forbid I show any amount of concern for you in return," you say, studying your hands in your lap.

He stills, merely staring at you across the way, before leaning back, resting his arms on either side of himself. "You needn't."

You roll your eyes.

He returns to his work, leaning forward. "We have broken our fast. You are free to leave, Y/N."

You glance up to him, suddenly feeling hurt.

You stand silently then, walking to the door of his room and he watches you go.

As you walk quietly back to your chambers, its with tears stinging your eyes, which only causes you to feel frustrated with yourself.

The truth is, that you are trying. Trying to forgive. Trying to...connect. Even if it is only through shared playful banter.

The harder truth is, is that you do not know how to be like the rest of the court. Like Rhaenyra, your father, Otto, Princess Rhaenys, Lady Alicent, and all the rest.

You have always felt as if you are on the outside looking in, merely pretending as if you belong. To think he mayhaps enjoyed you in his company even slightly... Stupid girl.

You had told yourself from that first night that his concern was not about you at all. Had told yourself he did not truly care. But, for the last sennight, you had allowed yourself to begin believing otherwise.

It's just that you are so...lonely. You've been desperate for so long to have someone to spend your time with, but you fear none will have you, so you instead sequester yourself away in your chambers, the library, down among the shoreline where he had found you that day.

And none seem to care that that is how you opt to spend your time. Then again, why should they, when their own is so much more valuable. When they are in general.

What're you in comparison? A bastard, base-born girl. The daughter of a dead prostitute.

Your chin wobbles.

You miss them both so much. Your birth mother, as well as Aemma.

You've never felt so adrift.

You do not rise for lunch. Instead, you sleep.

Nor do you get up for supper—sending your handmaid away when she attempts to rouse you—preferring the peace of slumber instead of the niceties of dining with a monster of a man who cares for naught else but himself.

A deep voice bellows through the darkness.

"Get up."

You pull the blankets tighter, squeezing your eyes shut.

There is a frustrated sigh. "Indolence is most unbecoming for a lady of your station."

"Get out," you whisper, refusing to so much as open your eyes.

"You have not eaten since this morn. So, you will either rise or—"

You begin to slowly sit up then, your hair in tangles, only dressed in your shift as you stare up at him from under your lashes with a loathsome glare.

"I'm not hungry. I want to sleep."

Just then, servants enter the room, placing cloches upon your dining table, as well as glasses, and a decanter of wine, before leaving just as quickly as they had come.

You look back to Otto, watching as he walks over to a cushioned seat which has a shawl draped across the back and he retrieves it.

He returns, wrapping it around your shoulders. "You may rest once you have supped. Come."

He offers you his hand and you glance to it momentarily before finally standing, padding across the room and seating yourself at the dining table, merely staring at the dishes set before you, wholly uninterested in even discovering what is beneath each lid.

Otto seats himself near you, lifting each of them, inviting scents wafting into the air, but you do not move.

"Eat," he commands gently.

"I don't want to." You are quickly tiring of being ordered about by him.

He grinds his jaw. "This pouting is quickly growing tiresome. Perhaps—"

You pick up a glass, standing then, and chuck it against a wall, watching as it shatters before you look back at Otto, who displays no reaction to your violent outburst.

He sighs wearily.

And then your chin wobbles.

"Now they'll have to pick it up," you say, shaking your head. You drop your shawl to the floor, walking over to the mess you've created and Otto stands then.

"My Lady, leave it for the servants."

You bend down.

"Y/N, you will cut your—"

"Ow," you mutter, dropping a shard of glass, blood now dripping from your hand.

He quickly comes over to you, kneeling with a groan.

You go to reach for it again, until his large hand firmly takes your own within it. "Stop this at once."

You look to him with tears shimmering in your eyes. "I caused this. I should be the one responsible for cleaning it."

He nods toward the table. "Sit. I will take care of it, then see to your wound."

You consider him for only a moment, then do as you're told.

Once the mess has been tended to, Otto pours water into a basin across the room, then carries it, along with a hand-towel, back to the table.

He takes your hand within his own, gingerly wiping blood from what turns out to be no more than a small cut on your palm.

Your eyes sting with tears. "I want you to leave."

It does not phase him. "I shall have a servant retrieve clean cloth for—"

You wrench your hand away from his. "Go!"

He sits straight then. "Once you have finished your supper." A pause. "That is our agreement."

You ball your hand into a fist, fresh blood seeping forth. "Yes, I am aware. Once we have finished dining, we can then be rid of one another. You have made that plain."

A muscle in his jaw feathers, his eyes slowly closing for only a brief moment before he looks at you again. He had hurt your feelings.

He is surprised in this. Had been even more-so that you had remained in his room—his company—well after the two of you had finished eating. It was beginning to become a habit of yours; staying at his side, even when not dining.

He'd thought, at first, that, perhaps, it had been your way of trying to get out of this arrangement. Thinking if you managed to vex him day after day, he would eventually give in and give up.

Instead, he now realizes you had done it simply to spend time with him.

It is not as if you have many others to do so with.

None at all, really.

One in the same, indeed.

He reaches forward, gently taking your hand again in his. "Forgive me, Y/N. It was not my intentions to—"

You interrupt him yet again. "I know very-well of your intentions, Ser," you say with vehemence. "I know you would rather see me dead. But, as I am the King's daughter, I must, instead, be kept alive in my cage, ready to be auctioned off to the highest bidder when I finally come to be of use. That is my value to you. To him. To—"

He flinches at the accusation—to wish for your death—a grievous implication to make. "You have misjudged me, Y/N."

"Have I?" You say, laughing without humor. "I think I see you for exactly who you are. A man must be capable of a certain degree of...of... Manipulation and...having a silver tongue to retain such a position of authority over all the Realm. I know you once tried diligently to council him against it: having me legitimized. I am shocked you did not try to persuade him to not have me claimed at all. I know you would prefer my having never been born."

You think him a monster. He supposes, though, that is the very thing he has always been to you all your life.

From the outside, at the very least.

What if he finally told you, then? Measure after measure he has taken to ensure your safety. He then thinks of further courses of action he has performed over the years to assure your solitude as well.

He had caused this: your current state of melancholy. He has himself alone to blame for it.

"I hate you," you state, trying to pull away, but his grip remains firm.

"Y/N, that is quite enough. Let me make a few things clear to you. I have never desired to see you cold and lifeless. That is the very reason I am here now. It has nothing to do with the prospect of handing you off to a lord, so he may take you to wife and be pleased with what he is given. I do it for you. You, who has—"

"You care naught for anyone but yourself."

He raises a brow, temper nearly at its limit. "Is that what you think?"

You raise your chin in defiance. "That is what I know."

He squeezes your hand painfully. "You think you know so much, do you? Tell me then, what was the reason for the change of guard outside your door so many moons ago?"

You clench your jaw for a moment. "Another spy set in place by yourself, I'm sure."

He leans in closer. "Guess. Again."

You stare at him, brows slightly furrowing.

"I had him executed. Ser Alen. He was overheard making crude comments about the same young woman he had been sworn to protect. Mercy was not even a consideration of mine when I had his tongue cut out before then taking his head."

Your eyes grow wide. What...what had he done? He'd had him murdered, simply for a few offensive words? You are surprised he had not used the opportunity to his advantage—instead paying the young man handsomely to make vile accusations against you, or even offering you to him for a wife, since he had been so clearly interested.

You open your mouth. "I—" You shut it.

He speaks again, eyes dark. "There is no measure I will not take to ensure your well-being. My Lady."

He leans back, releasing you. "Though, I suppose I was the one who needed chastened for abhorrent behavior toward yourself for all these years. Perhaps..." He looks away then, staring into the fire.

You remain silent. Heart pounding, feeling faintly nauseous. You'd never known him at all.

He sighs. "Perhaps I saw you as mine alone to torment."

[agathasfamiliar]

you better make me better (pt. 2)

agatha harkness x fem!reader

When your coven is unable to summon the door to The Witches' Road, they blame you, but Agatha comes to your defense and in doing so reveals her power to you.

other parts: 1 2 3

word count: ~2200

warnings: brief mention of scratching, non-detailed description of death, readers life is threatened, verbal abuse to reader, kinda prey/predator at the end if you squint

author's note: i get so lost in the exposition and i'm also nervous to get to the smut bc i've never written it before, but the next part will definitely have smut. let me know what you think???

The woman’s presence draws the attention of all of your fellow coven members. Their focus collectively snaps to her like moths to a flame, hanging on every word as she starts walking the group through the steps of summoning “the road”. You feel a pit form in your stomach at this. Jealousy, you realize. Her eyes dance over the other witches' faces and you can feel your own growing hot with envy. 

But then, her eyes land to you and that icy blue from earlier, rather than stoking the flame it had created before, brings a cool calmness to your mind. You’re surprised there’s not steam erupting off of you with how quickly your rising temper is quelled. How did she do that?

You get that odd feeling again like she’s reading your mind. The glint in her eye feels as though she’s trying to let you in on some secret you can’t quite understand. Before you can reason out what it might be, your coven leader seems to have noticed this exchange.

“Miss Harkness, I apologize greatly for my sister’s tardiness. You did say we should gather as much power as possible. Though I wager she will not contribute much of anything.” Your leader laughs, but the overly eager attempt at impressing the woman leaves you pitying your fellow witch more than feeling much of a sting at her words. They are words you’ve heard all too often anyway and they don’t hold the same weight that they once did.

The rest of the coven erupts into cackles and agreements at your own expense.

“You did say the road was dangerous, suppose we will need cannon fodder!” Another shouts, earning a renewed round of laughter from the group.

Your eyes stay glued to the ground, while these “jokes” no longer pierce your heart in the same way after this many years, them being made in front of this beautiful and powerful witch feels like poison in your veins.

It isn’t until you hear the swishing of grass made by someone approaching you from across the circle that you realize you hadn’t heard that canorous laugh, which you'd experienced for the first time minutes ago, rise once amongst the group. Your eyes slowly flicker up to meet your pursuer, but before you are able to raise your chin you feel sharp nails fly up to meet it. The sting you're quickly growing accustomed to still toes the delicious line of teasing and real pain.

The woman, Miss Harkness, as you heard her called, lifts your face to meet her curious gaze. Her expression is stony, not so much as a curl at the corner of her lips alludes to her finding an ounce of humor in your coven’s display. You wonder for a moment if your newly revealed weakness has angered her, perhaps you’ve ruined her entire plan and now the summoning won’t work.

“Well,” She begins, the rest of the group quieting again to hang on her words, clearly expecting her to properly dress you down for your inadequacy. 

“A coven must share blessings and burdens alike.” She continues, her voice slightly watery and far away in a way that takes you off guard. You find yourself wanting to hide, to wrap your arms around her and bury your face in the space between her neck and shoulder. The rest of the group doesn’t seem to notice the change in tone, though. 

“Plus, power comes and goes. Knowledge is forever. And you seem quite knowledgeable, Y/N.” 

She all but whispers, drawing her nails across your skin and away from your face in a way that you’re sure has left an angry red mark. You don’t even flinch, unable to bring yourself to care about anything but the promise that you might gaze upon the mark later in a mirror. Some crucial evidence of this encounter. 

She turns from you again, returning to her place in the circle, but not before giving you another meaningful glance. She’s speaking to you in a language you long to understand and you know many sleepless nights spent replaying these charged looks are ahead of you, trying to decipher her messages.

The group seems disappointed at the lack of humiliation. You hear your name a few times as they murmur to one another, but you can only focus on the woman in front of you.

She pulls an ornate silver dinner bell from a pouch at her side and casts one more grin over the group. You don’t know if it’s the presence of the dinner bell itself that evokes it, but you can’t help but think as she gives each person one last glance, she looks hungry. 

Just as this thought reaches you, her eyes meet yours and her tongue comes out to wet her lips as she strikes the bell once. The starting note sounds for the ballad required to summon the door to the road. 

Your voice falters over the first few notes. It’s a song you’ve heard a few times before as you’ve passed through various pubs. You also recall finding some lyrics scrawled in the margins of a tome on summoning rituals that you’d picked up secondhand, but the actual melody eludes you. 

It doesn’t help either that Miss Harkness’ voice is enchantingly distracting. If you thought her laugh and speaking voice were melodic, her singing voice is tenfold. You’d like to just close your eyes and let the chilling sounds wash over you, but you attempt to hold your own. You want to do good for her, you think to yourself unexpectedly.

As you reach the second verse you realize this is the part that’d been written in your book, though it’s not until a few lines in that it becomes clear the lyrics you’ve read are different than this version of the ballad. 

“Hold your hand in mine.” You sing half-heartedly before quieting down at the realization.

“I hold Death’s hand in mine.” The rest sing. You feel the scolding glares of a few of your fellow coven members but they continue on, turning their noses up at you. As you meet Miss Harkness’ eyes though, she looks curious and almost fond at the blunder, but quickly recovers to her playful and performative expression.

The ballad continues on, by the end you’re practically mouthing along rather than singing and after the final note dies a rather anticlimactic silence falls over the group. The only sound that remains is the subtle breeze through the trees and raindrops still gently falling against brush. 

 There’s an awkward pause as you all hold your breath in anticipation before it is promptly broken by Miss Harkness. 

“Where’s the door?!” She exclaims, turning back and forth exaggeratedly, clearly looking for something. Her face is screwed up into an accusatory expression.

You quickly join the rest of the group in looking around, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary as far as you can tell. The forest is just as it was.

“I thought you were witches. Turns out you’re just a bunch of sad, useless, pathetic-” She starts, venom dripping from every word.

“No please, Miss Harkness! There must be a misunderstanding.” Your coven leader interrupts in a way that clearly surprises the other woman. She apathetically shrugs her outstretched arms, indicating for your leader to continue explaining.

“As I warned you, Y/N here is powerless! She likely ruined the ritual!” Your coven leader announces, turning on her heels to you with a dangerous look in her eyes.

Another member pipes up, “I heard her sing the wrong incantation!”, 

“Yeah!” another agrees. 

“You probably did it on purpose because you’re jealous of our power.” Your leader says, hand sparking threateningly at her side with magic.

“No! No, I- I didn’t do anything.” You yell, taking a step back and raising your hands defensively, though you know it will do little against your coven’s magic. 

They have always been cruel in their words but you never imagined your coven’s distaste for you would lead to actual violence. You see others start to light up their hands in preparation as well, threats and accusations continuing to be hurled at you from all sides. 

You look up and across the circle desperately, fearing you’ll see Miss Harkness among them also preparing for a fight. 

Instead, you see an expression that almost looks like panic cross her face. Like she’s lost control momentarily. You catch her in a moment of calculation before that sly smile returns and she calls for the group's attention again. 

“Wait, wait, wait.” She calls as if she’s settling a petty playground squabble. 

You exhale gratefully as the group turns from you to address Miss Harkness.

“Blessings and burdens, remember? If you were a true coven, you would have the collective power to support your sister witch, but you’re nothing!” She yells, her blue eyes now taking on a crazed look that veers too far on the side of excitement for someone seemingly so upset. 

“And you…” She zeroes in on your leader smolderingly.

“You have no business leading a coven. You’d be better off selling half-baked tonics to the infirmed!” She giggles to herself then, the condescension thick in her voice, clearly delighting in whatever reaction she’s getting that you can’t see from your perspective at the back of the group. It tugs at you in a way you don’t quite recognize. 

“Who do you think you are?!” Your coven leader wails, as if the slight to her station is instead a dagger to the belly. You see the magic crackle once again to her fingertips, this time directed at the “Harkness” woman. 

You feel a jolt of panic again, glad to no longer be on the receiving end of the group's aggression but your heart clenches at the idea of them attacking her.

You open your mouth to protest, but you’re given pause as you glance back up at the woman’s face. She shows no sign of worry or even an intent to defend herself. The magic that now surges in the hands of your fellow witches reflects in her eyes and she looks like a kid in a candy store. The hungered expression you observed previously has returned and redoubled and it’s just enough to cause you to hesitate in your interference.

“Attack her!” Another member of the coven yells and at that you hear the thunderous sounds of spells being launched towards the woman. 

You can’t help but let out a gasp and hold out a useless hand as you watch the multicolored lances of magic siphon into the woman’s body. You know it’s more than enough to kill her and you cry out weakly as the grief strikes through your heart. You close your eyes, unable to watch what will happen next.

But it’s then that you hear the choked sounds around you, desperate gasps for air and struggling panicked shrieks. 

You open your eyes again to near blinding purple light.

Each arc of magic you’d watched reach out for her body now glows a bright violet hue and over the chaos of screams and blasts you hear that cackle. 

It had merely sent shivers down your spine as you stood alone pressed against the woman earlier in the treeline, and now it was as if an entire trough of freezing water is being poured over you. 

You force yourself to stay rooted to the spot as she stares you down, laughter pouring out as more and more magic pours into her body. You’ve read about something like this before. 

The word succubus flashes through your mind and brings warmth to your cheeks once again. 

 The cacophony of noises start to die down as, one by one, your coven members drop like flies around you. The last threads of purple leave their bodies with a death rattle, but her eyes never leave yours. And yours, hers. Not even giving the other witches the dignity of an observed final moment.

The last body falls and the space goes quiet again, only the satisfied sigh of a satiated witch hangs in the air. She stretches her neck and rolls her shoulders in a catlike motion, eyes still on you. 

Much like a cat, you can’t tell if she’s getting ready to settle in for a nap or pounce at your throat.

You reach a hand down to attempt to steady your trembling legs, every thought in your head screaming at you to stay still. You’re unsure if you’d even be able to move if you wanted to, though.

You feel like the rabbits you sometimes see dashing through the meadows near your home, their pulses visible even beneath their thick fur, seemingly constantly being stalked by some form of apex predator. You suppose that makes her the wolf.

Your gut tells you that if you stay here something very bad is going to happen, but something even stronger tells you that you want to find out what it is. Something that flutters and turns in your mind and your stomach and your heart. That feeling like you need to run turns from away to towards.

[lovebugism]

“we don’t like each other, but we’re at a mutual friend’s Christmas party and we keep getting caught under the mistletoe together”

eddie and r at steve’s christmas party!

ty for requestling lovie! pls enjoy xoxo — you and eddie, arch enemies since you met, share a kiss under the mistletoe thanks to your meddling friends (enemies to lovers, fluff, 2.2k)

blurbcember ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

Steve’s hand is warm on the small of your back as he leads you the long way to the kitchen. His too big house is glowing with life — with warm-colored Christmas lights and the laughter of your closest friends. It all makes your skin sparkle. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol.

You’re draining your cup of its contents, head tipped back to catch every drop of Steve’s dad’s expensive liquor. You let the boy lead you blindly for a refill until you notice that you’re further from the kitchen now than you were sitting with him on the couch.

“Where are we going?” you wonder with a hearty chuckle.

“To get you another drink!” he insists, playing innocent.

“Then why are we circling your living room?” 

He guides you around the French doors of the entrance and past the wooden staircase — where Max and Lucas dangle mistletoe from a string on the upper story. They bicker back and forth about exactly where to place it and forget to be discreet about any of it.

You’re about to walk past it and towards the kitchen, but Steve stops short before you can. Eddie exits the hallway just in front of you, seemingly led by none other than Dustin Henderson in an obviously concocted plan. 

This marks the second Christmas of your friends trying to get you and the freak to kiss.

It’ll also be the second Christmas that they fail.

“I can see you, you know?” you shout to the arguing teenagers.

The banter quietens all at once. 

Lucas shoots an awkward smile down at you, dressed in an itchy sweater and collared shirt that his mom obviously dressed him in. Max is much less apologetic. Her auburn braids sway on either side of her face as she leans over the railing, clutching at the lit-up garland with a bandaged hand.

“Can you just kiss and get it over with?” she pleads with all her practiced teenage desperation. “Lucas almost chopped my hand off cutting the fishing wire, and I need to know it was worth something.”

“Yeah, in your dreams, Mayfield,” Eddie scoffs, walking past you without a single glance your way. You wouldn’t know, though, because you weren’t looking at him either. You bypass the mistletoe and head the opposite way toward the kitchen. “Not a chance,” you murmur under your breath.

“I said I was sorry!” you hear Lucas exclaim as you go.

Max squints her stony blue eyes at him. “Yeah, ‘cause sorry’s gonna fix my hand, right?”

You pour your own drink while Steve lectures the kids about being distracted. He’s back a couple minutes later, wearing a dumb Christmas sweater and an even dumber grin. “Watcha doing?” he lilts slowly as he walks to stand at your side.

You lick beer from the side of your thumb after spilling a drop or more. “Separating myself from the plotting,” you answer, vague and somewhat ominous.

He furrows his brows and scoffs out a laugh. “What are you talking about?”

“Everyone’s trying to get me and Munson to kiss. It’s disgusting.”

“It’s just a joke,” he assures with a shrug, even though you both know it’s more than that. 

He could’ve used that excuse the year before — when he and Dustin were practically tripping over themselves to get you and Eddie in the same room and under the same mistletoe. Now it’s a competition. Now it’s real. 

They’re trying to prove to themselves that they can get you and Eddie to kiss more than they’re trying to prove that they’d been right about the two of you all along.

“Is that why you hid a mistletoe by the records?” you squint and raise your cup for another sip. 

You and Eddie have a history of fighting over what music gets played at parties. You’re notorious for it, actually. Even tonight, you argued about whether to play Christmas music or the regular stuff. That was before you noticed the ribboned plant hiding in the cabinet of records, of course. Then you walked away entirely.

That’s why you’re listening to Dio now instead of Nat King Cole.

“Robin did that, actually,” Steve tells you as he crosses his arms over his chest. “And it would’ve been genius if she actually hid the damn thing. It’s like I’m the only one taking this seriously!”

“Both of you are idiots. And creeps.”

“Do you wanna go smoke, or do you wanna keep calling me names?”

“Hm…” you hum and pretend to ponder his question. You purse your lips to the side and flit your eyes to the ceiling. “How about we go smoke and I keep calling you names.

He thinks for a second. Then nods. “Deal.”

Steve’s deck is as ornately decorated as the rest of his house. It glows yellow from the wreaths on the windows and the garland on the railing. The golden color is the only warm thing about being outside. The bitter breeze bites through the material of your sweater, pricking at your skin no matter how tightly you fold your arms around yourself.

You and Steve huddle together like penguins for warmth. He pulls out a little tin box from the back pocket of his jeans — there’s one joint left inside it. He passes it off to you, then pats at his sides with a frown between his brows. 

“Shit…” he huffs.

“What?” you ask, teeth chattering.

“I forget the damn lighter.”

You scoff. “Genius.”

He rushes back inside. The glass door slides open, basking you in a momentary warmth, before sliding shut again. 

You’re not alone for very long, though. He’s back far quicker than you expect. You hear the schlick of the opened door and feel the woosh of golden heat. When you look over your shoulder with a half-hearted complaint on the tip of your tongue, you realize that Steve isn’t back.

It’s Eddie fucking Munson.

“Oh, you gotta be shitting me,” you mumble under your breath.

His brows pinch together, dark eyes twinkling with confusion when he looks at you. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“Wait— Don’t shut the door!”

“What are you talking about?” he laughs and shuts it anyway.

“No, don’t—” 

It’s too late. You rush to the glass and hear a faint click on the other side. You wrap your fingers around the cool handle and pull. It doesn’t budge. 

“Those assholes locked us out here,” you grouse — partly for Eddie, but mostly for the assholes in question locked inside.

Steve peeks through the blinds. You can only see his eyes, honeyed and sparkling with mischief. “Who’s the idiot now?” he teases. The big dumb grin is audible in his voice. You blink, and he’s gone again.

“He lured us… With weed…” Eddie murmurs. You can’t tell if he’s talking to you or himself. He nods with a small shrug. “That’s kinda genius, actually.”

“Except we can’t smoke it. ‘Cause we don’t have a lighter.”

Eddie’s face screws up in offense, chin jerking back like he’s flinching. He pulls a pale hand from the pocket of his leather jacket. The metal Zippo glimmers beneath the Christmas lights. “It’s like you don’t know me at all, sweetheart,” the wild-haired boy teases.

“I don’t,” you concur and snatch the lighter from his ringed fingers. “And I’d love to keep it that way.”

“You’re a real ray of sunshine, you know that?” he jokes, squinting at you with eyes made of chocolate and smiling with lips rosier than flower petals.

“Thanks for noticing,” you mumble through the joint. You hold your hand over the flame while you light it, taking a deep puff before passing it off to the boy beside you.

“At least we have a break from those psychos, right?” he jokes as he takes it from you.

Your laugh comes out in a white cloud. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure we’re, like, the only normal people here.”

“Yeah…”

“Don’t let that go to your head, though. You’re still a freak.”

“And you’re still a bitch,” he lilts with a grin, then passes the joint back to you — a makeshift peace offering.

“Don’t be mean to me—” you squint and snatch the blunt from his hand. The tone you use is a foreign one, coated with a hurt he can’t tell is real or in his head. His eyes go wide, anyway. An apology bubbles in his throat, but you beat him to the punch. “—It turns me on.”

“Oh,” he murmurs under his breath, heart thudding hard against his ribcage. “…Oh.”

Your lips curl into a smirk around the edge of the joint. The ash burns orange when you take a deep inhale and turns dark again when you pass it back.

His ringed fingers brush yours, and Eddie gets shy in a way he never really has before. Not with you, anyway. Your touch has him buzzing, gets him all awkward like a giddy teenage boy who’s never been around a girl before. 

He forces a laugh through a sparkling chest. “Now I don’t know if I should stop or keep going.”

A giggle sputters from your lips before you can stop it. You hadn’t meant for it to come out, of course — you were actually trying really hard to swallow it down. But it’s spilling from your smiling mouth like rays of golden sunshine in a navy blue winter, anyway.

Eddie couldn’t hide his amusement if he tried. The blunt burns, unhit, between his fingers, because he’s too busy looking at you.

“I don’t think I’ve ever made you laugh before,” he says, chuckling to himself while pride swells behind his ribcage. “Hell, I don’t think I’ve even made you smile before.”

“Don’t get used to it— I’m just tipsy.”

You reach over to snatch the burning stick from his hand, and he suddenly understands what you meant before — the whole don’t be mean to be, it turns me on thing that he’ll probably be thinking about for the next week or so. 

‘Cause you’re always rough with him. Rough and a little bit bitter. It bordered on hate, unrooted and visceral. Erotic. Maybe he liked teasing you so much because he liked it when you told him off. Maybe that’s why he can’t seem to leave you alone even now.

“I like you like this, though,” Eddie confesses, voice as soft as his melted-chocolate gaze. His eyes get all squishy around the edges when he looks at you now. It makes you cower because you’re not used to that — to liking it. 

He shrugs and sticks his fidgeting hands into his jacket pockets, trying hopelessly to play it cool. “Maybe we should, like, go get drinks together or something? So, you know, you can be nice to me and— halfway tolerate me or whatever.”

You get quiet, and he isn’t totally sure what to make of it. 

His flitting eyes (going halfway blind from staring at Steve’s Christmas lights instead of you) find your gaze again. You’re wearing a smirk he’s never seen on you before, barely there but still obvious. No one’s ever looked at him the way you are now — like the world could fall apart, but you’d never know it because he’s somehow more distracting.

You catch his button-eyed gaze and hold it until it hurts.

“In your dreams, Munson,” you singsong sweetly to him, lips like wine. It’s his words from earlier (ones he’s starting to regret right about now), but you say them with a wider and more sincere smile.

It feels almost like a promise.

A whistle sounds in the distance, coming from above you.

You and Eddie share confused glances before taking a single step forward. Max and Lucas are leaning over the balcony a story above you — with that damn mistletoe hanging from fishing wire. That means Dustin and Steve aren’t too far, either. Which means Robin’s probably up there, too. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Eddie squints up at them, chin tilted to reveal the pale expanse of his neck. You don’t know why you can’t stop looking at him. Maybe it’s the weed and the one beer you had, but you never thought a neck could be pretty until now.

“We’ve been here for a while, actually,” Max sasses in return.

Lucas concurs with a shoulder pressed intently against hers. “Yeah. My arm’s starting to get a little tired over here.”

You and Eddie huff and roll your eyes at the same time, so strangely synchronized. You’d both be similarly annoyed if your minds weren’t racing. ‘Cause it’s a tradition now — for all your friends to get you to kiss with storebought mistletoe — and it’s always tradition for them to fail.

It’s a record you and Eddie would like to break now, almost painfully so, but neither of you will humor the other by saying that out loud.

The boy beside you merely shrugs. His cheeks flush pink with an embarrassment he’d sooner blame on the cold. You can see it in his eyes, though — in the twinkle in the deep chocolate of them. His gaze is weirdly expressive in that way. He couldn’t hide anything from you if he tried.

“Should we…?” he trails off. 

He won’t let you know that he wants to — kiss you, that is — but he’s not gonna do anything you don’t want to do, either. He’s not a total asshole, just a stupid boy falling head over heels for a girl he thought he hated five minutes ago.

“Let’s just get it over with,” you huff in annoyance.

You say it begrudgingly — like tasting him with your suddenly longing lips is some kinda chore.

You kiss the breath from his lungs a second later.

[dariaslookalike]

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Pt 10: Should you suck him or rub him?

Summary:

It seems, oddly enough, that Gregory House lives to annoy you. He takes 'arseholish boss' to the next level. Wake up in the morning, ready to have breakfast, and drive to the hospital where you both work? Nope, you're getting a text that says you're late to his impromptu 4:30 AM meeting where he's had the 'breakthrough of the century' on the team's latest case. Get your hair cut and walk into work, for once feeling confident? Nope, he's saying that he would have done a better job blinded, hands tied and going through Vicodin withdrawals. Finally, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, prove him wrong and attempt to wipe the cockiness off his face? Nope, you're simply slow because you didn't get to your diagnosis quicker and weak-willed because you didn't fight him for it in the beginning. Everything House does infuriates you, and it seems everything you do infuriates him. No wonder you end up pinned to the wall of your apartment and groping him like your life depends on. And knowing House, it very may well.

Warnings: Adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter: Pt 11

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

You jolt awake in the night; a chilly breeze through the window or an odd nightmare that was already fading from your memory. Whatever it was, you thrash against the blanket and suck in sharp breaths of air. You blearily gaze around the room when a shiver creeps up your spine and you find him sitting in the corner armchair.

“You’re a creep.” You croak out.

House raises his glass of bourbon in admission. You can only see the vague silhouette of him lit up by the light drifting in from the street; the glint of his glass, the dark shadows of his brow and cheekbones. You stay like that for a few minutes, gazing at each other. Your eyes gradually adjust to the darkness, and while he sips, you drink in the sight of him. The new stubble lining his face, the whites of his eyes, the curl of his lip. 

You break the silence with a quiet question. “How was work?”

You realise it’s dumb as soon as you say it. So much had happened from work to here, where you lay, naked in his bed. You roll yourself over to your side, fully facing him.

House stares at you, and nothing is revealed on the stony plane of his face. “Cameron asked about you.”

You blink. Not like House to avoid the question, but you play into him. “What’d you say?”

His jaw clenches. “I didn’t know what to say.”

You hear his glass clink against the bedside table, and he groans. He shifts in his chair, and you can make out his hands being dragged down his face. His voice is muffled behind his palms, and you squint. “Huh?”

House just groans again, and you’re blinded when he reaches over swiftly and flicks on the lamp. You stop yourself from hissing, and just fling the blankets over your head. Only when you stop seeing white on the dark of your eyelids do you gradually lower it again. 

House is staring at you, and while your eyes still sting from the brightness, you appreciate being able to see him. He grinds his teeth. “I said, do you know how annoying that is?”

You blink, stopping yourself from trying to memorise the detail of his neck, and draw your eyes back to his. “What, Cameron asking you a question? Scandalous, I know.”

House scoffs in disbelief, but it doesn’t hold the same bite it used to. It’s softer somehow, here in the pillowy, blanketed expanse of his bedroom. “Even now- Even now, when you’re running on a few hours of sleep and you’re not even fully awake yet, you’re a smart arse.” You clench your jaw as he throws his hands up softly, defeated. “No, no, not Cameron asking. It was not knowing what to say.”

You don’t say anything, and his eyes flick to yours.  “I know a lot of things; more than every patient in the clinic combined, more than the snot nosed kids and helicopter parents. But I didn’t know what to say to Cameron.” He leans back in the chair, and scoffs at the ceiling. “I could’ve said your pimp raised your hours or that you were being treated next door by Wilson, and she could go shave her head with you, if she likes. And instead I stood there, and couldn’t think of anything.”

You don’t know how to reply, and he clenches his jaw, blinking away something in his eye, before he takes another sip of his drink. 

“House.” Your voice is soft but it still sounds too loud in the sudden silence that envelops you both. 

You don’t know how to say it, how to ask. You can feel the words lodging in your throat, trying to bubble out and instead being barricaded inside. So, you shift yourself back towards the edge of the mattress, and raise the blanket up with one arm as an invitation. You see his adam's apple bob and his eyes flick to yours. It’s one thing to fall asleep in the same bed after exhausting sex. It’s another to consciously make the decision to lay with each other- somehow, it felt more vulnerable, more raw, more intimate than what you two had done earlier.

It’s just sex. House’s words from earlier ring out and you can almost see them fluttering through his head right now. 

Fine. It’s just sex. You start to lower your arm, rescinding your invitation. But House moves, staring into your eyes all the while, raising himself to his feet and you smile at him. Not a toothy, cocky smile, but a soft one that has your dimple showing.

House groans, his hand whipping to his leg. “Argh!” He’s unsteady on his feet and falls back with a ‘hrumph’ into his chair. 

You don’t realise how hard you’re gripping the sheet until you sit yourself up and drag half the bedding with you. “Are you okay?”

House scoffs. “If you call missing muscle and cripple inducing pain okay, then yes, I’m okay.”

You roll your eyes, relaxing slightly. House sees your reaction, and sighs. “It’s just- it’s just a bad pain day. Trying to fuck the shit out of gorgeous women puts a bit of a strain on me.”

You gulp, slightly. “I’ll have to tell that woman off when I meet her.”

House’s breath is sharp and hissing through his nose, but he still manages to scoff. “Don’t do that.”

You can feel your pulse jumping in your neck. “Do what?”

“Don’t sit there and act like some insecure teenage girl who didn’t get asked to prom- you’re gorgeous, and if you pretend you’re not, it makes you look like a gorgeous idiot.”

You laugh, but still feel your cheeks flushing. “House, one time I walked into work, you asked me if a dog chewed me up and spit me back out.” You raise your hands in defence. “I’m not trying to fish for your compliments- I know I’m not the girl in magazines and I’m not like Cameron or Cuddy. I learnt that a long time ago and I’ve learnt to live with it.”

House looks repulsed. “You actually are an idiot then.” You roll your eyes, and he shakes his head in disbelief, still hissing in pain. “Yes, you’re not anorexic or bulimic or some giraffe looking model. And I can’t get enough of you. If you think that I’m not going to compliment you, and tell you truthfully that you’re beautiful, because you weigh more than some pubescent teenage girl beauty standard bullshit, you’re an idiot.” 

He’s staring at you from beneath his brow, “Get me a bottle of vicodin from the cupboard, and I’ll show you what I really think about you.” You can practically see the dirty images across his mind. You, pinned beneath him, getting praised and worshipped and adored by House’s depraved self. 

Your cheeks are definitely aflame now but you manage to force out a soft laugh. “I don’t know how you managed to say all that when you’re in that much pain.”

As if remembering his pain, House groans loudly, deep from the back of his throat, as his hand rubs over his leg. You try not to focus on the way that sounds make you throb, and you swing your feet over the side of the bed. You see House’s eyes cling to you, to the skin hidden by the bed sheets covering you. You smirk, and simply grab a discarded shirt from the floor, slipping your arms into it. The bedsheets drop, and you hear House inhale sharply at the sight of your bare chest, but then you poke your head through successfully and cover yourself again with the t-shirt.

House’s t-shirt. It’s got some sort of graphic across the front and you vaguely recall it from House’s so called ‘fashion week’ that occurred after Cuddy demanded he wear a doctor’s coat. You slide to your knees in the space between House and the bed, and he shifts his hips slightly towards you. 

“Round two?” He asks, smirking down at you.

You laugh, and reach towards the bedside table. “How can you be that horny in that much pain?”

House’s blue eyes track your movements. “It’s one of my many talents.”

You grab the small tube and close the drawer, turning back to House. His eyes flick down to the Deep Heat tube, and trail down you, snagging on your bare thighs. His breath is uneven as he speaks. “How’d you know that I kept that there?”

You look up to him from beneath your lashes. “I’ll be honest- I’ve gone through your entire apartment by this point. I know where you keep your birth certificate, let alone some cream.”

He huffs. “‘Should have expected you to be a detective too.”

“As if you didn’t do the same thing at my place.”

House stares down at you for a moment before he speaks. “You’ve got me there. You found my birth certificate and I found your collection of raunchy pornography, so I guess we’re even.”

You unscrew the lid and squeeze some cream onto your hands. It warms near instantly. “Ha ha. I don’t keep porn, only a box of sex toys.”

Your eyes flick back up at his silence to see House’s hooded gaze as he stares at the apex of your thighs, seemingly entranced, and you shake your head. “Take your pants off, House.”

He blinks, shuddering in a breath. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

He shimmies himself out of his pyjamas- some flannel pants that you might have called him an old man for another night. But tonight, when he shakes and his leg spasms as he finally strips his pants, you resist. 

You don’t comment on his laboured breathing when he leans back against the chair, and you simply scooch closer until you’re enclosed by his knees. His hand reaches forward, threading into your tousled hair and pulling it, gently enough to drag your eyes up to his.

House stares down his nose at you, and you remain like that for a moment, staring at each other. You could stare at him forever, you think. Study the lines of his face and the blues of his eyes for your whole life, the same way a cartographer memorises the planes and the dips of a landscape or a crazed artist obsesses over the cool blue of the ocean. Memorise the notch in his brow or the lines under his eyes or the sharp slope of his cheekbone.

A smile tugs at his lips. “You are gorgeous.”

Your brow crinkles. “Now you’re only saying that because I’m on my knees.”

His hand tightens at the roots of your hair, and his grip is more sharp. “You’ll believe me. Eventually. It’ll take me fucking that insecurity out of you and maybe getting Wilson to join, but it’ll work.”

You laugh, cheeks aflame. “‘You sure you could handle that? Last I checked you hated the idea of me taking on Chase by myself, let alone your buddy.”

His jaw ticks, and you can’t tell if his sharp inhale is his pain or the mention of Chase. “That’s because Chase is a snot-nosed ‘yes-man’.”

You roll your eyes half-heartedly. “Stop with the squabbling and let me work.”

His hand loosens at your head, and you lean forward, gingerly smoothing the cream down his bare leg. House flinches at the touch, and you hear him grunt when your fingers trail over the silvery mass gouged out of his thigh. You work gently, and even softer when the grip on your hair tightens, stinging your scalp, and his breath racks through his chest, leaving him heaving. You massage the heated cream into his skin, working in circles and with both hands, pushing into the surrounding muscle and working it into the silvery scar. When it’s absorbed, and his thigh is warm to the touch, you continue working him with your hands, pushing down on the muscle and easing back in a soft massage. 

House swallows above you. “I think this is better than the blowjob.”

You smile up at him, mockingly. “Really?”

His head falls back against the chair, and he groans. You clench your legs at the way the sound makes your core tighten, and focus on ensuring your hands continue to work. “Actually, we should do both to test it.”

You laugh at his hopeless attempt, and his head tilts back down as he looks at you. “How’d you learn this? I’ve had masseuses do much worse.”

You narrow your eyes in a faux-glare, applying more pressure to his thigh. “I thought you knew everything about me.”

His hands abandon your hair, and he runs them through his own hair, his adams apple bobbing as he does so. “There’s always things to learn. I didn’t know what you were like in bed, and now I know you’re a slutty little thing that loves to-”

“I got a certificate in massage therapy,” You cut him off. “While I was studying. It was easy enough and I thought it would come in useful if I ended up flunking out of being a doctor.”

“You? Flunking out? In your dreams- or nightmares, I suppose.”

You shrug softly. “It’s always good to have a back-up plan.”

He chuckles. “By that logic, what was your backup plan for your backup plan?”

“Get a sugar daddy.”

House’s eyes drop to yours immediately, searching for facetiousness. You simply smirk up towards him and lean forward, pressing a kiss to his thigh. Your staple, you suppose. You couldn’t argue against it. Kissing House’s thigh and getting that pupil-blown reaction was worth it. “Did that help at all?”

He blinks. “You can kiss it again and I’ll tell you. Or I have something else you can kiss.”

You ease your massage, now only working softly and lightly. “I meant the massage.”

His blue eyes are soft when he gazes down at you, staring at you appreciatively.. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Do you want me to get you some vicodin too?”

He sighs fully. “I could kiss you, you addict-enabling goddess.”

You roll your eyes, easing yourself to your feet. House leans forward as if shocked by the separation of your hands from his thigh, and you stand between his legs, letting your hands rest on his cheeks. They must reek of the cream, but he makes no move to resist you as you rub your thumbs against his stubble and trace the edges of his face. His shirt falls past the apex of your thighs, but his hands reach forward, slinking under the material and grasping your arse. You gasp, and move closer to him, his face coming closer to your breasts.

He squeezes your cheeks, fingers digging into the supple flesh. He gazes up at you, drinking in your reaction and hiss when his hand slaps against your arse, leaving a stinging sensation and a light, blotchy mark. He does it again, and you nudge into him, gasping lightly. You squeeze your legs together. “That wasn’t a kiss.”

He smirks. “My mistake. I’ll remedy it.”

His hands shift to your hips, gripping them and tugging you down slightly. When you’re lower, one hand reaches up, wrapping around your neck and pulling you towards him. It’s a bit awkward at that angle, but you bring yourself closer, lower, until you’re level with him. He leans forward, placing his lips against yours, and your hands move from his face to run through his hair as he deepens the kiss. He licks against your teeth and you give into him, letting him explore your mouth as his hand threads into your hair, pinning you in place. He’s warm and he’s demanding and he’s House, and you feel your core tighten.

When you pull apart, you rest your forehead against his, sucking in air. “I’ll go get your pills.”

“Forget about ‘em.” He says, trying to drag you back to his lips. You laugh, and pull back, and he lets you step back, away from him.

When you return, and pass him two pills, to which he glares at you mockingly for not bringing him the whole container, you retreat back to bed. You feel his eyes on your bare legs, and especially on the rosy print on your arse. You tug the blankets up and gaze at House as he throws back the pills and groans. He thumbs his glass, finishing the dregs of his drink, and then he lifts his head and stares at you with his cool eyes. 

You’re back to where you started. This time, you find the words.

“Come here, House.”

He furrows his brow. “And if I don’t? You’ll… what? Tie me up and make me?”

You roll your eyes in mirth. “Turn the lamp off and come to bed. Please.”

His cool gaze remains on you, and it’s almost calculating- weighing the pros and cons, the possibilities and the certainties of what your request entails. But maybe it’s the light yawn you let out, or the bleary blink of your eyes, or the not so subtle inhale of his shirt. Whatever it is, House’s gaze softens, and he reaches over, flicking off the lamp.

You can’t see anything as your eyes adjust to the sudden darkness, but you can hear him. He still winces when he raises himself to his feet, but the sound is soft and nowhere near his prior pained yelp. He hobbles the slight distance to the bed and there’s the sound of shuffling and twisting sheets and blankets as he gets into the bed.

And then he’s beside you. Here. 

You listen to each others breathing, neither one of you saying a word. Your eyes adjust, and you see the shape of him, darkened and identified by the sharp cut of his cheeks and the whites of his eyes. He’s staring at you too, and you wonder how much he can make out in the dark. Does he see the faded scars on your face or the tilt of your lips? Or does he see further, into you, and see all the thoughts and desires and twisted wants filling your head as you stare at him?

House is the first to break the silence, and does so by scooching closer. “Get over here.”

You chuckle quietly at his demand, but obey, shuffling closer until your arm brushes his. “I never took you as a cuddler.”

Somehow, even in the dark you can tell he’s rolling his eyes. But he doesn’t resist your observation, and rather he slips his hand under you, clinging to your back and drawing you even closer. You swing your arm out, to make sure you don’t suffocate in his shoulder, but more importantly to wrap around him too. There’s more shuffling and twisting from the both of you, but eventually, you find a comfortable position. You’re tucked into his side and his other hand rests on your thigh, drawing you leg across his hip. You ask him if that’s alright, if it hurts his leg, if he’s fine, and he scoffs lightly. “My leg won’t ever stop me from having you this close.” As if to emphasise your position, he rolls his hips forward, dragging himself against your bare core. But even House, it seems, is tired, because he relaxes and takes it no further.

 Both of your hands are wrapped around his waist, and you nuzzle your face into him, inhaling him and the smell of whiskey, detergent, and House. He laughs down at you, softly. “And you said I was the cuddler.”

“‘Shuddup.” You say, but the word is muffled in the fabric of his shirt. You twist your head, and kiss his bicep where his sleeve has risen up. He swallows, and you get the sense the rise and fall of his rib cage stutters.

You drift off like that, clinging to House. His breathing deepens, and as you fall asleep, you feel him shift slightly, before he kisses your head.

[sunlightmurdock]

Like This Forever | 0.1 | J. Seresin

masterlist | next chapter

You’re thinking of the past, right as the future is about to change forever.

Warnings: accidental pregnancy, childhood friends to lovers, country singer!Jake, smut, pining, blissful ignorance, other warnings to follow. wc: 3k (18+ minors do not interact)

A U G U S T 1 9 7 4 / F E B R U A R Y 1 9 9 1

Driftwood — small town southwestern Texas, situated in Lockheart County. Springs, stony hills, and steep canyons. It’s good land, occupying a tiny patch of earth in the middle of the Edwards Plateu. That’s what they all say: good land, good soil. Large acreages of wheat for miles around, grown annually for harvest and winter through spring livestock grazing. The remaining two-thirds of the region is rangeland devoted to cattle ranching. Ranches in this region often seem older than the landscape itself. Lockheart County’s livestock industry is nationally appreciated, it was, even back then. Ranches here are huge, they’ve been there for generations. The town of Driftwood, itself, sits in a valley. It holds on to the people who settle there just like it holds onto the weight of that thick, summer heat all through the day. So hot that even the trees bend and furl like they’re seeking shade too.

Back then, Driftwood was even smaller than it is now. Post Office, Church, two schools, a fleet of locally owned stores on Main Street and a few other buildings for the fathers who weren’t ranchers or ranch hands to work.

On that day in early August, most of Driftwood’s thousand person population were nestled amongst the pews of St. Augustine’s Church, just outside of town. It’s a mile and a half from Main Street, and a mile and a half from the furthest fence on the Seresin Ranch. Their house is a sprawling thing that Bill’s grandfather had built — they haven’t got that kind of money now, and they didn’t on that morning in August. They’ve got three boys, who were squirming around the front pew, melting into the aged wood below them in their smart white button ups. They’ve got another boy too, standing behind Pastor James, holding a processional candle.

Jake’s their youngest. He was nine back then. Small for his age, especially when you stood him next to his brothers and their broad shoulders and long legs. His hair was beyond blond, lightened from the sun. His cheeks dusted with brown freckles and his eyes always narrowed into a type of John Wayne kind of squint. Jake loved John Wayne back then. He loved the cowboys on his bed sheets, and the fact he could see the cattle from his bedroom window. All he wanted back then was a pistol on his hip and a one-way ticket to El Dorado.

Mary-Lynn Seresin grew up in Driftwood, just like her husband had. She had known Bill since she was a little girl, and she had always known that she would marry him one day. Her nails were polished pink that day, sitting pretty atop the procession card as she fans herself with it. Two pews behind, you could still see a droplet of sweat bead from her neat blonde hairline and trail into the collar of her blue polka-dotted Sunday dress.

On that particular Sunday, the fans had packed up and stopped working. So, all six hundred of you who could make it out to St. Augustine’s we’re trapped in there — not just with Pastor James’ storytelling, but with the thick heat pressing down on the entire valley feeling like it had all been shut in this one room with the rest of you.

At the front, Jake Seresin’s cheeks were red, his hair was beading with sweat and his scarecrow, twig-like arms were trembling around the cross. He struggled with its weight and you had watched his green eyes flash out towards the crowd, briefly landing on his mother. Mary-Lynn gave him a proud nod. Bill was staring at the stagnant ceiling fans above their heads. You, were staring right at Jake.

Eight years old yourself, just eight weeks younger than Jake is, you have known that little grass-stain your entire life. In fact, Mary-Lynn and your mother found out that they were expecting just days apart. They had been in the same high school grade as girls, had married men who were good friends, and back then your mother had worked in the town’s hair salon five days a week. They grew very close through their pregnancies. Your mother was the first one to send flowers when Mary-Lynn went into labour a month and a half early.

Jake’s John-Wayne-Squint deepened through the heavy air, watching you like you were both about to draw pistols and settle this like men — right in the middle of Pastor James’ final verse. Your pigtails and your white Sunday dress weren’t fooling him. His robes and the heavy cross in his hand weren’t fooling you. Clearly following his brother’s gaze, Daniel Seresin turns and peers at you over his shoulder. He’s the closest in age to Jake, but he’s still five years older. Thirteen then and too grown up for childish squabbles like those, he just turned back to the front and shook his head.

The first three of the Seresin boys were all born within three consecutive years. Matthew, Noah and Daniel. They’re each tall like their mother, blonde like her too, and have inherited their father’s linebacker shoulders. Noah was fourteen and about to be a freshman in high school. After he fixed the chain on your bike at the beginning of summer, you were full-blown head-over-heels in love with him back then. You thought you were anyway.

Jake, however, had been in your class since Kindergarten and you had been forced to share your toys with him for even longer than that.

His arms trembled before you and your mouth had twitched. Neither one of you was listening to the service. It was almost over. Just a few more minutes until Pastor James wrapped up and the people of Driftwood and poured out of this sauna and out into the dry, morning sun.

Quickly, you shot a look at your mother sitting at your side. She was listening intently, staring right ahead with her neatly steamed clothes and her hair-sprayed hair. You’ll always remember the heavy smell of her rose-scented perfume. Every time you inhale it, you’re sitting at the foot of her bed, watching her fix her face in her vanity. Then, you looked to your father on the other side of you. Exactly the same. Pleased, you turn your attention back to the youngest Seresin boy.

Scrunching your nose, you had sat forwards just slightly and stuck your tongue out at him. Quite the diss back then. Jake’s green eyes had widened, sweat beading down his back under his white shirt and his service robes.

Driftwood is a safe place. It’s a fantastic town to raise children. The schools aren’t overcrowded and cars don’t speed through the centre of town. Country roads are a different story. But no one bats an eyelid, especially not back then, when their children are out of sight.

Mary-Lynn was busily detailing the events of her dinner party that coming Saturday to a group of women that are invited. She’s quite the hostess still. Your mother stood amongst them. Neither one of them were concerned about where their children were in the slightest. Until, that is, the sounds of muffled screaming filled their ears. The mothers of Driftwood rush to the commotion in their kitten heels and pretty dresses. Your mother was the first around the corner. She would recognise the sound of her baby’s screaming anywhere. But you weren’t the one in trouble. As usual, you had been causing it.

Your white dress grass-stained and muddy, dirt under your fingernails and covering your formerly white, frilled socks. You were kneeling. You haven’t yet noticed the crowd of women rushing in your direction. You’ve got Mary-Lynn Seresin’s youngest son pressed into the dirt, kneeling on his back and twisting his arm uncomfortably behind him.

“Say Uncle!” You demanded.

“You’re so dead! Get off!” Jake struggled under you, screaming with all the force that his growing lungs would allow. His voice must have been audible across the entire valley with how he was hollering. Freckled cheek pressed into the dirt, his white shirt was destroyed and he was in the middle of ruining his shoes with how he was scrambling for purchase in the dried dirt.

Quickly, your mother had grabbed you under your arms and hauled you off of the boy, spinning you to face her.

“What do you think you’re doing young lady?”

“He started it! — He said my dress was ugly!”

“It is ugly, you look like a girl!” Jake huffed from behind you as he had stumbled onto his feet and taken a look down at his church clothes. Slowly, he had lifted his gaze to look at his mother. Sullen and worried looking, he began to pout. It wasn’t working. Mary-Lynn had raised three boys by then, she knew when they were trying to play innocent.

The thing about growing up so close together, is that approaching double digits was a confusing time. It was around that age that your mother began to put her foot down when it came to all of those tom-boy activities. Girls might roughhouse and come home with holes in their jeans and mud on their faces, but young ladies didn’t. The dress was her idea.

Jake’s comment had been passing, just a whisper as his family had headed into church ahead of yours, but he was right — you did look like a girl. Back then, that wasn’t a compliment coming from him. So, you had cornered him outside and pummeled him into the dirt. Fair is fair.

“Mary-Lynn, I am so sorry about her — send me the dry-cleaning bill. I’m sorry, we should go.” Your mother had sighed in a hurry, frowning down at your ruined clothes, then looking towards Jake’s. You’ll always remember the smile on Mary-Lynn’s face after. Not pity, because she knew you were in a lot of trouble for this. Just fondness. She had gently patted your mother’s forearm and shaken her head.

“Let’s finish our chat. They’re already filthy. Let them play.”

Looking up at her, you hadn’t understood why she was siding with you back then. You had just almost broken her son’s arm for sport. As you grew, Mary-Lynn Seresin was always on your side. In her kitten heels and dresses, she remembered being a dirt-covered little girl once too. No one was telling her son that it was time yet, to be a man. There’s no harm in letting you be young a little longer.

Your mother had looked uncertain, but people in Driftwood always looked to Mary-Lynn for advice. She had somehow managed to keep four boys in line perfectly, her parenting expertise was studied by those around her. Finally, she had given you a brief nod.

You remember spinning on the delicate almost-heel of your church shoes, rounding on Jake, ready to brawl. You have no clue where the stick came from, but he was armed when you had turned around — but Jake always fought fair. He tossed you a stick of your own and took aim. Green eyes narrowed, he was trying to look down his freckled nose at you, but you were taller then.

“She’s gonna marry that boy someday.” Mary-Lynn Seresin had huffed with a wistful smile, watching the mud-caked children tear off through the field once again. This time, with sticks in hands and violent intent plastered across their dirty faces.

You’re not eight anymore. Jake’s not nine. This time of the year, you both happen to be twenty-six. You aren’t trying to kill him with a stick anymore either. You’re sitting at your favourite bar in Driftwood — there are four now — watching your best friend up on stage. He’s always confident. He has been since he hit that growth spurt when he was twelve. Since then, Jake has been unstoppable. But on stage is when he really shines.

The Dark Star feels like an old bar. It’s packed every Friday night. It smells like malt and smoke and Jake’s been playing here every Saturday since he was seventeen. This is the last time that it will ever be like this, and you don’t even know it yet. Jake’s in the middle of an original. People around here know him, they know his music. They might not get all the words right, but he always gets people singing.

Jake isn’t small for his age now. He grew into his nose, and he inherited those big shoulders, his skin’s tanned from his days out at the ranch. He’s strong and funny and kind. Sometimes it catches you off guard, when you turn your head and find a man in place of the little boy you once knew.

You’re in a booth, talking numbers. It turns out that you had inherited your mother’s knack for business strategy, and Jake’s way with words had rubbed off on you long ago.

You don’t look like the little girl Jake had once known either. If he was concerned about you looking like a girl before, then you can only imagine how dismayed he must be when he looks at you now. Breasts and everything.

“It’s more than potential, Stu — you saw how crazy people were for him when he was opening for The Ashford Band.” You tell him, fingers curled around a brown glass bottle. This is already settled, the deal is already done. You knew from the second that he walked in that you had Stu Adler suckered.

This is a deal that you’ve been mulling over for a couple of months now. Getting Jake on his first headline tour. His debut album came out last week and it’s doing well, but the record label is tiny and the publicity deal is even smaller. Jake’s making pennies compared to other people in his genre, but you’re about to change all of that.

“Six months is a long time on the road. It’s a different lifestyle,” Stu’s dishwater grey eyes flicker briefly up from the plunging neckline of your top to meet your gaze. He’s an older man, with a once successful career in Los Angeles. Now, he spends his time scrounging small towns for talent. He’s just a stepping stone in your plans for Jake. “You’re sure he can handle it?”

Stretching your legs out, you scoff incredulously at the accusation as Jake’s last song dwindles behind you. The beer bottle is cool against your lips. Stu swallows, watching your lips purse around the rim to drink. You know he’d die for the chance to get his wrinkly, old dick in your mouth — it’s why Jake’s about to get the best deal of his life.

“Jake? — Of course.”

“Can you?” Stu asks. The light on you for once makes you cringe. Even so, your poker face doesn’t falter. Calmly staring across the table at him, a small smile on your face. “Y’know, he’s going to need a manager that I can rely on. I.e. — one that he won’t dump, sweetheart.”

This only makes your smile grow. “Jake is like a brother to me. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

It’s that lie that secures the deal. Six months, a hundred and sixty dates across the US. Mostly small venues, but it’s his first headline tour — and it’s all because of you. Because of that one little white lie. Letting Stu think that he’s got a chance with you. Letting him think that you’ve never fucked Jake.

You have. Twice, already by this point. Once, after senior prom. Your date was an asshole and his was cruel. You’d parked his truck out in the west pasture of the Seresin ranch and got a little too drunk under the stars, and wound up with your legs hiked up over his shoulders. The second time was Thanksgiving two years ago. Your family joined his. All of his brothers have fiancés or wives now. Sharing Jake’s bed in his childhood home that night, neither one of you was drunk. You were just lonely, and maybe bored.

Tonight, there are a couple of different factors at play. Sure, by the time that you and Jake collapse down onto that red, velvet couch in the Dark Star’s ‘dressing room’, you’ve had plenty to drink. You’re not quite as lonely as you were that thanksgiving, though.

You turn your head and he’s grinning at the ceiling, chest heaving from the energetic final song. His arms stretch along the backs of the couch, his eyes closed for a moment. You watch him silently.

“You’re incredible.” Jake’s half-cut on an unhealthy mix of tequila and vodka, but smiling, eyes still shut, chin still pointed towards the sky. He gives his head a small shake. “A hundred and sixty dates.”

A smile plasters itself across your lips. As drunk as you are, it’s nice to be complimented for your hard work. “Yeah, we’ll see if you still think I’m so incredible when you’re living off of burgers and beer and still have eighty shows to go.”

The smell of cigarettes lives within the fibre of this room. Part of the furniture, nestled amongst the cracks in the red painted walls. There’s the couch that you’re sitting on, and an illuminated vanity against the far wall, and then a coat stand. It’s not much of a dressing room, but it’s fine.

You just wish it would stop spinning.

“I mean it.” His fingers rest atop your denim clad thigh, patting platonically. You hear him sigh from beside you. He squeezes at the supple skin under his hand. “Thank you.”

“Jake… since when do you have manners?” You ask him. Both of you are sitting with your eyes shut on this old, probably dirty, velvet couch. It’s five in the morning. The two of you might have gone a little overboard with celebrating. Wayne Mayhew, the owner of the Dark Star might have threatened to kick you both out of his bar if you didn’t finally get off of his damn stage ten minutes ago.

But there’s a high buzzing between the two of you that feels electric. Wordlessly, you know Jake feels it too. That this is the last night. Here, in this shitty hometown bar. Everything is about to change. After this tour, nothing will ever be the same again — for either of you.

Jake’s thumb trails back and forth in just one small pattern, reminding you that it’s there on your thigh.

It’s been on your mind all day, for no reason at all. That Sunday in August in 1974. Your ruined church dress and the fat bruise on Jake’s cheek the next day when you had seen him at the market. The start of it all.

Those late night drives and all the evenings you studied together. Jake’s football games and his band practices — back when he had thought he wanted to be in a band. Him drying your tears and making you laugh. Growing up together, talking for hours and hours about all of the possibilities. This was everything Jake had ever wanted, and he’s thanking you.

Your eyelids weigh double what they normally do — heavy as you blink open your eyes and turn your head. This time, he’s looking across at you. The tips of his fingers brush the inseam of your blue, low-rise jeans. His face is calm, he isn’t saying anything and he’s far from doing anything either.

Scrunching your nose, you poke your tongue out at him. Across the couch, Jake lifts his brows. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s got stubble now. Stubble, and chest hair and an Adam’s apple. But that look, that glint in his eye that’s just daring you to try him has always been the same.

Jake’s fingers twitch, pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. Dim lighting, fifteen year old red paint on each of the four walls, and that perpetual cigarette smell — it’s hardly a romantic fantasy. And this is far from a good idea.

But it’s Jake. Confident, loud Jake who gets shy when he’s around someone he really likes. Funny, smart-mouthed Jake who under it all is a great listener. Goofy, habitual Jake who has the nighttime routines of a fifty year old housewife.

Strong-willed, handsome, Jake, your best friend — who’s looking at you like you’re his next meal.

…

@fia-thefirst @daggerspare-standingby @dempy @v0id-chaos @moonlight-addisyn @grxcisxhy-wp @shakespeareanwannabe @coconut152 @330bpm-whiplash @takemetooneverlanddd @princess76179 @loveofvernonslife @averyhotchner @trickphotography2 @sushiwriterhere @the-romanian-is-bae @atarmychick007 @talktomegooseman @xoxabs88xox @thedroneranger @roostersforevergirl @buckysdollforlife @abaker74 @blackwidownat2814 @kmc1989 @whatislovevavy @lonelywriter10 @s-u-t @topguncortez @callsign-joyride @rosedurin @86laura11 @theenorthstar @mygyn @growup-thatbeautiful @percysaidnever @katiedid-3 @its-the-pilot

[sombrashe]

hii!

can you pretty please write something for Norm MacLean x reader?

ty, and i love your blog!

content fluff, just so much fluff and a little angst if you squint, childhood friends to lovers, reader is a breeder and its their wedding day, gn!reader, chubby!reader

note(s) hiiiiii :3 im so happy you like my blog!! i hope you enjoy this little but of fluff | i didnt know how to end it so it might seem a little abrupt

"Norm?"

Your voice bounces off the concrete walls and back into your ears. Your heels click with every step, your shoes are nice and shiny for the occasion. He wasn't home, at Chet's, or in the fusion room. A long shared hiding spot. You frown as you turn down yet another hallway. A sea of copy-pasted doors muddle together in your eyes as you huff. Maintaining your peppy smile you grip the bouquet tighter. When you noticed Lucy, but no Norm to accompany her you had to pause everything. A much disagreed decision which led to Overseer MacLain chastising you for your decision. It wasn't a good idea to make Vault 31 wait but you couldn't care less.

"Norman."

Your voice grows in pitch as you backtrack out of the hallway and into an identical one. One furthest from your wedding and who do you find sitting with his back to you? Cleaning the connection line of the vault floor.

"Oh! Norm, there you are."

He doesn't turn back and simply gives you a quick hand raise and a simple, "Busy. Be done soon."

You give a soft giggle and crouch down behind him.

"Norman MacLean. It's rude to ignore the person being married. Especially on their wedding day."

He finally turns at that. Almost as if he just realized who was talking to him. Your smile is unrelenting a stark contrast to the stony expression he gives you in return.

"Well, are you coming?"

You stand and extend your hand only to frown when he simply glances at your palm.

"What's wrong?"

You start to worry as he takes his time replying. You never felt this before, the feeling of your stomach becoming a giant knot. Like all your intestines became worms and got themselves tangled in each other. You did not like this feeling.

"You're making my stomach hurt, Norm. What's going on? You said you would be there when I met my partner."

"I got assigned cleaning duty."

You scoff and roll your eyes, a smile gracing your lips again as if you solved one of the riddles in the vault newspaper.

"It's my wedding day. I'm sure Hank would understand. You're my best friend after all, he would want you to be there with me."

Hands on your hips you can't help but notice as your cheeks start to sting with all this frowning and smiling.

"Best friend. Yeah, okay."

He repeated you again.

"Norman, what's going on? Are you sick?"

Bending over at the waist you place the cool back of your hand to his warm forehead and chew on your bottom lip. He feels fine. So why is he acting like this?

"I'm fine. It's nothing."

He swats your hand away. Using his hands he pushes himself to stand.

"Let's just go."

"No. Not until you tell me what's going on. Why you're acting like this. You've never repeated me twice. You only do that when you're upset. Three times and I would have to call security."

You try to give him a smile and laugh, but he just pushes past you. Hurrying you catch up to him as he goes to turn the corner out of the hallway. Reaching out you're able to grab ahold of his suit before he makes it.

"I don't want you to get married."

His words are rushed and he refuses to look at you. You give a small laugh hoping he was joking. You didn't go through all this... all this moving on just for him to confuse you.

"Norm, you said you were excited when I told you I was chosen."

"I lied."

I lied echoes throughout the corridor. Your grip tightens on his suit as you soak in his words.

"You told me-."

"I lied. About everything. It wasn't just practicing for me. None of it was practice. You need this, I know. Now you know so you can move on. What are you hoping they look like?"

He gives you a false smile and it looks out of place especially with you mimicking his stony expression from before. Dropping your hand you furrow your eyebrows and slam the palm of your hand into his chest.

"You... jerk! All this time I thought you wanted to be just friends. Thought you regretted everything. Fudge, Norm. Why didn't you tell me? I would have never gone to the council and convinced them to let me get married."

He gives you a genuine smile and you want to hit him again. Maybe yell at him some more until he's cupping your cheeks. His eyes are intense as they stare into yours.

"I know how important fulfilling your job is, I would never ruin that for you. I thought it would be easier if I didn't show up."

"That's stupid. You're more important to me than any job. I would be just as fulfilled and happy scrubbing floors."

His eyes search yours. His fingertips press into the soft flesh of your cheeks. You can tell he wants to lean in closer. Do as you always did ever since you were children. You don't give him the chance to back away. Not again. Leaning forward you rest your forehead against his, nose smushes against each other making it difficult to breathe. As if you could breathe clearly given the circumstances.

He takes the initiative this time and closes the minuscule gap between your lips. Years as the Overseers son gave him access to anything he ever wanted and you can tell he uses it to take care of himself.

"Strawberry?"

"They figured out how to make this stick that makes your lips soft and they gave me one to try."

You giggle and kiss his soft sweet lips again and again. Breaking away to smack your lips covered in the foreign flavor. After a good thirty minutes, you hear your name being called from a dot down the hallway.

"Lucy." You whisper as your heart starts to rise and you fear you might throw it up.

Taking your hand he squeezes it tightly before letting it fall beside the fabric of your wedding gear.

"I don't want to get married anymore, Norm. What do I do?"

"We explain to Lucy and see what she has to say. She's the older sister for a reason."

[springsylph]

WITCHING HOUR, CH. 1/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: most people in the area had issues with coyotes. yours wore a cowboy hat, but you let him in anyways. tags: marked 18+ for smut in later chapters, reader has a backstory kinda (but also not kinda), referred to as lady/ma’am/etc, arthur doesn’t know how chickens work, i really don’t know my farm lore

word count: 5.5k

a/n: setting this pre-chapter 2 ish and post chapter 1, except it’s winter for realsies, Because I Can. and please no questions about chicken logistics or I Will Cry.

you can find a link to the playlist here!

read on ao3 here | masterlist

The fictitious “stranger,” by all accounts, was possessed. 

Possessed by an air so overwhelming, so sure, that it incited perversity in even the most upright.

He was an outlaw, by the cut of the whispers. The story went that he’d rolled in like a heavy fog, altogether quiet and unassuming, though still carrying the foreboding quality that preceded the raising of hackles. Mothers kept watchful eyes over their daughters, and more notably, the fathers brandished their guns. 

And yet—that maddening yet—the mothers seemed to care little for their own warnings, and even the fathers were envious of a man dripping with exploits they didn’t have the luxury of entertaining.

Luxuries and lack thereof aside, the fickleness of those who spoke of him had not gone entirely unnoticed; it lent no plausibility, no substance to the dream-like tales they’d crafted in their drunken stupors. The most substance you’d seen had been spewed into the shadowy corners of Valentine, pissed into not-quite pristine patches of snow, foul stench leaking out onto already foul streets before it followed you back to the farm.

It stunk. 

It stunk, and it loitered, and it’d been stealing from you.

Which is exactly why—when he shows up on your rickety porch just as winter has begun to bleed out into spring—you take up the mantle of digging your loaded barrel right into his sternum. 

—

The front door tremors behind you.

The stranger shifts on his feet. 

You shift with him, and gloved hands inch toward the stars in surrender not long after. 

Amorphous mass comes to your mind first, rather than man. You can only discern the more essential points of his appearance: the gloves, the satchel, the rifle slung over his back. Knives are stashed somewhere you can’t see—if he’s worth his salt—but everything else blends into the dark line of trees behind him. You swallow a rather painful yawn.

His hat, evidently beaten to hell and back several times over, sits low enough on his forehead to cast shadows over his features—though not low enough to completely obscure the faint outline of a face from your view. The rest of him only falls into place once you crane your head to find his eyes. 

As is customary in situations concerning your immediate safety, your throat constricts, and the second yawn you feel crawling up your throat nearly succeeds in asphyxiating you. 

Petty crimes would have granted him a slighter frame, but no petty crime you can think of could have afforded him the sturdy chest, the buckling of the air around him, the crooked line of his nose, clearly less cared for than his battered clothing. He’s still a little blurred—largely from a lack of sleep on your end, and the protection of his hat on his. Even so, the hard set of his gaze offers nothing other than the tale of cruelty lived and the promise of cruelty to come. 

There was no doubt. This had to be him.

(You might think him handsome, if not for the fact that it’s a quarter past three in the morning.)

The first breach in his stony composure that you catch is paper thin. Fleeting. And he’s quick to recover; any indication of surprise is sequestered with a blink. The second is an awkward shifting of his stubble-shrouded jaw, and you note with a squint that his bandana still hangs feebly off the jut of his chin. 

He admits defeat after a few clumsy seconds. Cracks a wicked smile, bright as the moon peeking out from behind the crown of his hat. But it falls away quickly. Somewhere in the distance a tree branch creaks, tiny shards of ice scattering to the ground and tinkling like bells.

He was calm. Entirely too calm, considering where he stood. His hands haven’t budged, and nothing in his stance hints at an intent to attack. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks more annoyed by your presence than you are by his. 

You try not to think about his eyes. There’s something else in there, too. Apart from the agitation that radiates from them, that is. It lurks deep beneath the blue and wades through the slight dilation of his pupils; it urges him closer—or, is it you?—like the distance between the two of you isn’t sustained by the twitchy arms of a jittery woman holding a rifle.

But there’s an abrupt wind that fiddles with the cotton threads of your chemise, and you’re suddenly struck with the realization that no, your hunting rifle isn’t loaded, and in your haste to confront him you’d forgotten your boots and shawl. 

The nighttime chill, ever the tyrant, lodges itself where the wooden boards scratch eagerly at your bare feet. You were cold, so cold that it ached, and you were tired. But it’d do you no good to show your hand this early. So like the hiss of a rattlesnake, you keep your voice low, and you keep it lethal. 

The stranger is named by the venom falling from your tongue.

“You’ve got ten seconds to convince me not to unload this lead into your chest, Morgan.” You track the added prod of the gun to ground yourself, eyelids still heavy with sleep.

It doesn’t do much, as far as threats go. Morgan’s ever steady breathing still accents the now stagnant winter wind, a stark contrast to the throb of your heart striking your ribs. But a small scar, carved into the flesh of his right cheek, has made an almost imperceptible shift. The rest of his features take far more liberties with their movement—

—and he’s scowling.

Your heart strikes louder.

God, the shit you would shovel to be able to read minds. Animals have always been more your speed; people were a hassle—far too unpredictable, and they tended to reap fewer rewards. 

In your mind's eye, Arthur lies silently amongst the fallen snow, red unfurling behind him like wings. You’d hate to have to kill him, you really would. But there was nothing more dangerous than indecisiveness: it killed, and often relentlessly.

Only, you’ve been staring too long. It’s long enough to rouse Morgan from whatever state he’d been in before you’d spoken. He’s smart enough to keep his palms facing you, and he dips his head with the same mildness that one might use to soothe a startled mare. The scowl is tamped down, smile returning to him like water running through a scraggly creek. 

“Evenin’, Miss.” He drawls.

And it works. You hate that it works. There’s a dull heat that seizes your lungs at the low timbre of his voice, something akin to fire. 

No. No, nothing like it. It was more like the cheap whiskey you’d downed that first night working as a farmhand, all those months ago. It’d numbed your tongue, tumbled down your throat like sun-warmed stone, and simmered in your stomach. You hadn’t dared take another swig after that. Too dangerous. But it’s easy enough, passing your shudder off as a trick of the cold and cocking your head incredulously. 

“Showing up uninvited, and you can’t do me the courtesy of knowing my name?” One push of the rifle sends him back with surprising ease—away from the cabin, and away from that damned moonlight. “Ma’am will do you just fine,” you spit.

His smile fractures. Not enough to truly frighten, but enough to make your fingers clench. “You talk to all your guests like that, Ma’am?” 

You steel yourself. “Only the sneaks.”

At this, Morgan stills. Shuts his eyes. 

Did he really think you wouldn’t notice?

The farm had more issues with coyotes than crooks; that’s what you’d been hired to take care of, more or less. Your employers—the Campbells—were getting on in their years, and were in desperate need of someone to help keep watch during the nights. So imagine the surprise when you’d found not a coyote, but a wanted man sliding through the shadows. 

It’d angered you, that first time he’d gotten away. You’d only recognized him long after he’d left. But after that night, you’d made a show of firing off rounds into the nearby woods and roaming the perimeter of the grounds under the guise of a late-night hunt. 

From what you knew, he hadn’t come back to steal, but you knew you’d seen him lingering. Felt him watching. Waiting for something—but you’d made sure that every pop of your rifle drove him further and further from whatever it was that he’d been aiming for. And now Arthur Morgan is here.

He furrows his eyebrows, purses his lips, and they disappear for a moment when he goes to wet them before he speaks again, a little less amused. “Now you know I mean no offense—”

“No offense? Well, I’d kill to see what you and your ilk consider offensive.” 

The wind slams the front door shut. 

“My ilk?”

You wonder if it’d been your goal all along, trying to rile him up like this. Accusations slide out of your mouth and into the night air far too easily for it not to be. But the thought of anything other than catching him red-handed occupying your head unnerves you, sending you another two steps forward and into the powdery snow.

“Jesus, woman! Alright, alright.” Morgan’s eyes finally leave you, darting between where your feet dig into the cold ground and the muzzle of the gun pressed to his chest. He slumps his shoulders and looks up to the sky, still an ugly grey-black from the thin dusting of snow the night before. 

“Look,” he starts, hands fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, “I don’t mean no harm. I swear it. I’m—just give me a minute to explain, will you? One minute, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

There’s a please somewhere in there, left unsaid yet still ever so loud. You think it might have left him in the puff of breath that still hangs above your heads; hot and heavy in his mouth, but turned to nothing but vapors once it misses its chance to solidify.

You eye him warily. This could be over and done with in a matter of seconds, and you might be able to knock that godawful mustache clean off of Sheriff Malloy’s face. You kill him—or turn him in so long as he didn’t bleed out, whichever came first—and get whatever bounty was nailed to his head. Use the money to get out. Get your freedom. Stop biding your time, and get revenge. 

And yet.

And yet.

“…You lying to me, Morgan?”

His shoulders straighten out, suddenly very tense. “‘Course not. You think me the lyin’ sort?”

Your voice flattens. “I figured that much was obvious.”

“Ouch, lady. Not willing to pull your punches for little old me?”

“You’d rather the lady use the gun?”

“Neither, thank you. And, speaking of which–” His chest deflates a bit, putting space between the two of you without having to step back. “—quit swingin’ that thing around. You’ll take someone’s eye out.”

Exhaustion mounting, you lower your rifle slowly. You keep your eyes trained on a pebble that’s escaped the snowfall relatively unscathed, not trusting yourself to look anywhere else. Conceding with a sniff, you toss your head toward the front door. It’s quiet, now. 

“Get in, before I change my mind—and no funny business, neither. Guns, knives, whatever else you’re hiding, drop ‘em. Right here.”

Too groggy to note the stalling of movement, you wait for the clinking of metal to stop. His boots retreat from your peripheral far more reluctantly than you expect. There’s a telltale groaning of wood, and you turn to find Morgan gazing down at you with an outstretched hand from where he’s hopped onto the porch. He murmurs with a reverence that you’re sure is misplaced, so quiet that you have to watch his lips to catch even a smidgen of what he says. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

This was a game to him. You knew games. And so when you go to place your hand in his it’s to eye him down, back him into whatever corner would hold him and keep him there till you knew why he’d spent the last month haunting your lodgings like a ghost.

Calloused fingers wrap around your hand like a vice, and when he’s guiding you and your icy feet up the stairs it strikes you that maybe—just maybe—your assessment of your situation had been far too impetuous. Arthur’s touch is surprisingly clinical, but even through the leather of his gloves, it was warm. Too warm. 

Ghosts weren’t warm. Or, at least you didn’t think they were. And Morgan, looking like the very paragon of the West, all bright eyes and honeyed words, had given you a glimpse of something far too beguiling not to investigate. It’s when he presses the back of his free hand to your wind-bitten cheeks that you wonder what your father might think.

“Chilled, right to the bone.” It isn’t so much a mutter as it is a rumble, reverberating somewhere deep in his throat and traveling up to where the two of you have made contact. You’re avoiding his eyes again, but you’re close enough now to be able to see his muscles working his neck. 

His smell overtakes you much like the cold has. The freshness of the pine needles still stuck to his coat makes up most of what you’re able to distinguish. A little bit of horse, too—he’d ridden here. Where exactly he’d hitched his horse was a mystery. But with the proximity of his sleeve to your nose, you can make out the faintest hints of a potent musk. It’s everywhere: in your nose, your mouth, under your skin. Every inhale turns your muscles into piteous liquid. There’s no hiding your shudder, this time.

Morgan suddenly yanks his hand back as if scorched, and schools whatever expression he’d been wearing prior into one of indifference. He hums. Frowns. 

“Let’s…uh, get you inside.”

You offer a tight nod and turn away, but Morgan is quick to the draw; he whispers a quick “pardon me,” and goes to retrieve the weapons he’d dropped in your stead. 

Oh. You’d forgotten. It seems he’d forgotten too, brushing the mixture of dirt and snow away and mumbling something about keeping his guns warm. You’re left standing dazed on the porch, skin still blistering from where his fingers had met your skin.

Morgan has the decency to look at least a little troubled when he returns. He places what he’s collected into your arms before opening the front door, and gestures for you to enter. You offer one last look to the moon before following him inside.

__

Your judgment on Morgan—Arthur, now—was still up for debate. But your punishment for rushing to catch him had been doled out almost immediately. 

For your feet, a numbness that the fireplace had been bullied into chipping away at. Your hands are still tight from the cold, and they sit tucked underneath your thighs with the added protection of a few blankets that’d been placed over your shoulders. Your eyes flick over from the fire to Arthur, and your chest tightens. 

He’s found his seat across from you: coat and satchel on the back of a chair he’s pulled from the dining table, big hands tapping away absentmindedly at his knees. With the coat set aside, there’s nothing to hide the first few buttons of his shirt that hang open, pitch black and rolled up to his forearms to account for the warmth of the fireplace. His hat remains, hair still tucked away and settled at the nape of his neck.

You’d both been sitting in silence for the last half hour, despite Arthur’s insistence on “one minute,” letting the cold of the outdoors thaw out before saying anything that might get the rifle pulled again. You did gain a bit of satisfaction at the slight tinge of red in Arthur’s ears; it seemed the cold had gotten to him, too.

You watch as his eyes wander over the furnishings of your cabin. Thankfully, the door to your bedroom is only slightly ajar, and the knot in your chest lessens. It wasn’t often (or ever) that you had visitors over, which meant that most of your things were tucked haphazardly into corners or set on kitchen counters.

The Campbells—generous as they already were—had insisted you take up residence in a cabin on their property that once belonged to a daughter of theirs. She’d long since moved out, but the light in their eyes at the thought of it being occupied again was undeniable. It wasn’t much, but it was yours. And Arthur was seeing all of it.  

“Don’t get too comfy.” You frown. “…Arthur.” He beams, and suddenly there’s something incredibly interesting lingering right by your foot. 

His name still feels foreign when it leaves you. At first, you’d taken it as a show of good faith; he’d sworn to keep his mud-caked boots off of your rug in exchange for keeping his feet from becoming bullet-ridden by the time the sun came up. Arthur, feeling like he’d gotten the shitty end of the stick, had joked that you may as well call him by his first name. The last person with the guts to threaten him with a shotgun had, so what was one more?

It was a weak threat, if one at all. You knew, and he knew, that you were just about the only person this side of the Grizzlies who was vaguely aware of who he was. You’d seen it in his face when you’d called him by name. It’d be an insult to call it fear; an expectation of an inconvenience would be more accurate.

Luckily for him, you didn’t care. Not right now, at least. Imposing as he was, you refused to be cowed into going along with whatever it was that he'd planned. 

Your heel messes with the leg of your chair. “Don’t you go forgetting why I brought you here in the first place.”

“Not quite sure if I’d use that wording—“

“Can it, Morgan.”

His jaw clicks shut this time, but he’s still got that goofy grin smeared onto his face when you chance a peek at him. You’ll let it slide, for now. You’ve stalled long enough.

“So. My eggs. You gonna tell me, or do I need to start pulling teeth?”

“No need,” Arthur assures, “shouldn’t be stickin’ your pretty little fingers in just anybody’s mouth, Ma’am.”

An outlaw and a flirt, to boot. Wonderful. You’re wondering how long it might take to chuck the nearest inanimate object at him when he pipes up again.

“You piss in somebody’s cigarette box, lady?”

“Did I piss—Morgan, quit it!”

This seems to reign him in a bit, and his smile dips.

“I’ll be frank, since you asked so kindly.” Arthur leans back in his chair, flexes his palms. “You had people tailin’ you.” 

You quirk a brow. Ah, that’s right. He didn’t know, couldn’t have. But just as you attempt to explain, Arthur holds out a hand to stop you and shakes his head.

“Killers.”

The hand fussing with the material of your blanket falters.

“...I beg your pardon?”

“Hired guns, Ma’am. Out for you. You’re real…fortunate, I’d been passing by when I was.” A rueful look clouds his face. “Not much to hire once I was through with ‘em, though.”

The quiet that follows isn’t entirely unfamiliar. He’s an outlaw, you muse. Things like this are to be expected. But it doesn’t occur to you to ask who they were, what they looked like, what they wanted. Because Arthur didn’t know, didn’t need to know, and you aren’t sure if you want him here when you wrap your mind around the sobering fact that your long-held suspicions now bear fruit. So, you settle for the obvious.

“You kill ‘em?”

His jaw twitches. “Nothin’ gets past you, Ma’am.”

“...‘Suppose I should be thanking you, then.”

“Got my thanks when I checked their pockets.”

“But—”

Arthur gives a grunt of protest. 

Jackass.

Though your concerns about theft were long gone, it doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about this any more than you do, so you do your best to set the conversation back on track.

“Well, uh…the eggs, then?”

The tension in his jaw lessens. Arthur unfurls a long leg, digs the heel of his boot out in front of him, and rocks his foot back and forth.

“You know these winters. I can tell you do—despite all the…” he trails off, nods the brim of his hat toward your newly cultivated relationship with the fireplace, and you flush. “So, I uh, started out sneaking a few off, along with some other things for my people back at camp. Snagged some extra rations. Kept an eye on you. Two birds, one stone.” 

“So it wasn’t just the eggs you’d been stealing, then?”

“It’d behoove me to tell the truth and shame the devil, Ma’am. Not that he and I are unacquainted.”

So that was a yes. 

The part about “keeping an eye” on you is tacked on rather reluctantly, but at the mention of camp, your brows raise. It was true, then. The tales you’d heard during your trips to Valentine, the new faces you’d noticed in corners and back alleys, they were all real.

There was a time when you thought you might be able to find your place sleeping under the stars, free to do as you wished and go where you pleased, so long as the law kept their greasy mitts to themselves. But circumstances had seen to it that your dream went unfulfilled. 

You muster up what you hope is a sympathetic smile, and Arthur takes it stiffly.

Even so, something else with his phrasing catches your attention.

“Hold on now, you said ‘started.’ There something else you’re not telling me?”

A hand, previously settled on his knee, finds its way to the back of his neck and rubs. 

“Uh, y’see,” he starts, looking damn near ready to wring his own neck, and you have to laugh, because what on God’s green earth could have Arthur Morgan this bothered? But instead of finishing his sentence, he turns his gaze toward the small sliver of moonlight coming in through the curtains and poses a question:

“You know anything about chickens?”

You blink.

“Arthur Morgan,” your eyes shut, and your mouth hangs open. “I work on a farm.“

“That you do.”

“And you’re asking me if I know about chickens?”

“That I am.”

He’s looking mighty sheepish; his hands return to their places on his knees and begin to tap again, with the added scrunch of a nose. You stifle a snort and oblige him.

“Yes, I’m well versed in chickens. Now tell me what the hell is up.”

And tell he did. Turns out, one of the eggs he’d snatched had somehow been fertilized, and hatched. Arthur, of all people, had been far too mortified to go and ask one of his own for help, so he’d spent the last two months slinking around to find out if his luck might earn him another to keep the one he already had some company. 

He’d named it and everything, so eating it (Marlene, he corrects gruffly) was completely off the table. By the time he’s finished his story, you’ve spent an exorbitant amount of energy fighting off several fits of laughter, and you’re fighting off your ninth when Arthur interrupts.

He leans forward, as if to confirm something, then settles himself back into his chair once he finds what he’s looking for. “You ain’t from around here, are you.” It’s a statement when it leaves Arthur’s mouth, not a question.

Observant. Observant, and deflective.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you pocket the uneasy feeling in your chest for later.

“Long story,” you offer. And a difficult one, at that. It wasn’t one you liked to revisit.

Arthur replies almost instantly. “Shoot.” For a moment his face pinches, like he’s dropped his last cent down a splinter-ridden nook he can’t reach. He deliberates, for a bit. But the money is long gone now. “Got a full audience right here,” he continues, a tad slower. “I’ve got…time. Why the hell not?”

There’s no smile, but there’s a genuine curiosity that creeps into his voice. It wafts over the crackling of the fire, blows fresh wind underneath wings long forgotten. 

This wasn’t good. Not one bit.

You cast a skeptical glance toward the bottle of whiskey on the table. It’d been set out on instinct when you’d let him in, a habit formed from a time long gone. Would Arthur want some, maybe? He seemed like the type. And you weren’t too pissed about the eggs now, anyways. So you wrap a blanket around yourself, stand, and turn to the cupboards to find a glass. But something stops you from making it over, and you instead choose to wrap a hand around the bottle and offer it to him.

If Arthur is as confused as you are, he doesn’t show it. He mutters a word of thanks as he takes the proffered bottle. But you don’t miss the way his eyes rake over your bare legs like hot coals. Or the slight twitch of his fingers—now free of their gloves—at the light brushing of your hand over his as you pass the bottle to him. 

You follow the bobbing of his throat for what feels like a lifetime as he takes down gulp after gulp. Amber liquid slips from the corner of his mouth; it catches the firelight on its trek down, and steals your air along with it when Arthur moves to wipe it away with the back of his hand.

It startles you, how quickly you’ve become accustomed to cataloging his movements. You’ve met him before, you’re almost certain of it now. If not in the fields here, then maybe somewhere in Valentine, or the woods. But somewhere. He felt too familiar to be new, too invigorating. A part of you wants to pinch yourself for giving in so easily. Maybe…maybe the folks in town had been right? Maybe Arthur Morgan was possessed? It was either that, or you were an idiot. You sincerely hoped it was the former.

The sound of the glass bottle hitting the table is what snaps you out of your trance. Blinking rapidly, you chance a peek at his eyes again, only to find them peeking right back. You do your best not to turn away. That thing you’d seen lurking out on the front porch is still there, submerged in the depths of his pupils. Still waiting.

You pull the top off of the bottle, take a quick swig, and return to your chair with an inhale and newfound resolve in tow.

Blabbering seems to come unfortunately easy with Arthur. He sits, silent and attentive throughout the entire retelling—save for the occasional grunt of approval, disapproval, whichever was appropriate. You tell him of your mother, young and hungry, and how she’d made herself available to the highest bidder—your father. Some wealthy businessman from God knows where. Twenty years your mother’s senior, it’d been no secret what exactly he’d gotten out of their short-lived union: a wild young thing to look after his progeny and keep his bed warm.

He was nice enough, for a time. Or at least nice enough for your mother to be able to tolerate. But something had sent her fleeing from that big, big house. She’d kept you in her arms and her heart till you’d found somewhat of a safe haven in the Grizzly Mountains.

“Safe” had been a bit of a stretch, though. Anyone with half a brain knew exactly what the Grizzlies were like. Arthur agreed. But your mother had been raised there, just as you would be, if only for a little while. You’re only able to remember a short split of time—just before your mother passed, and before your father had come to take you away from her. 

By then your mother had already taught you most of what you’d needed to survive: reading, writing, hunting, flattery, the works. The only thing she’d left out was how to survive without her. 

Your father had come to find you only a few days after, bearing news of his intentions to turn you into a “proper lady.” He made no mention of your mother or where she’d been buried. 

Polite society hadn’t taken too kindly to a daughter hailing from unsavory origins, and it was safe to say that you hadn’t taken too kindly to polite society either. So, you’d spent the last decade or so making your father’s life a living hell and warding off any potential suitors.

But it became clear stunt after outrageous stunt that he had no intention of cutting ties. Rather than cutting you off, he’d settled for the next best thing: manual labor. Your father was old friends (though “friends” was a bit dubious) with the Campbells, and deemed it an appropriate enough punishment for your wrongdoings. He’d relied on your aptitude for hunting to pawn you off on them, and with the help of some expertly feigned resistance, you’d gotten him to plant you exactly where you’d wanted to be. 

Away, and alone.

“Threw a wrench in my plans, but…life here has been peaceful, I reckon.” You pick at the beds of your fingernails, head bowed. 

Peaceful. 

Peaceful and quiet, save for the occasional moo. 

Though, now that you thought about it, you’d have to tally it up to several wrenches if you counted the hitmen. But you could open that barrel of horse shit later.

The creaking of wood alerts you to a shift in Arthur’s positioning, and his voice barrels down at you from the ceiling; he must be looking up. 

“You don’t seem all too ‘at peace,’ if you ask me.”

“I ain’t ask you.”

“Tuh.”

The two of you fall into yet another bubble of silence. It’s comfortable enough, though still laced with the slightest bit of awkwardness. 

You couldn’t get a read on Arthur. Just about every decision he’d made tonight—or told you he’d made—had been a contradiction. It didn’t make a lick of sense. But now that you’ve had more time to ruminate, it didn’t seem like it made much sense to him, either. His body language divulges as much. 

The quiet agitates you, now. Itches. You need to know more. Understand more. But you can’t do that without retracting your fangs and reigning in your apprehension. Finger beds picked raw, you test the waters.

“Not at peace, hm?” You mutter. “…How you figure?”

You hear him shrug. “Dunno.”

Silence.

You wait for him to continue, but it’s not until you look up at him that you realize he’s been waiting for you to look back. Arthur’s voice cuts through the silence once you can meet his eyes without squirming.

“Met enough people to know who’s livin’, and who ain’t.” He crosses an ankle over his knee, and gives an exhale when he puts his hands behind his head. “I’m in no place to be dealing out life advice, but you seem awfully dead, Miss.” 

“Ma’am,” you correct. 

Arthur makes a face, and you bark out a laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. Some stranger he was, telling you off like this.

Your eyes crinkle, smile working its way from the inside out. “Takes one to know one, I assume?”

He blinks at you. “Yeah. Yeah, somethin’ like that, I suppose.”

More silence. 

“Do you think—”

“I ought to be heading out, now.” The dream is cut short. Arthur is standing suddenly, intercepting before you have the chance to say something incredibly, incredibly stupid. He tugs on his coat, fingers closing the buttons with frightening efficiency before he gathers up his gun and whatever else he’s brought with him and heads for the door.  

You're scrambling up out of your chair before your brain has a chance to process.“Arthur,” you say, half to him and half to the floor, “Arthur, wait a damn minute!” 

The spurs on his boots cease in their clinking. He’s got one hand wrapped around the doorknob, squeaky and now half-turned.

“…Got business to take care of.”

“At three in the morning?”

He glances at the small pocket watch you’d left open on the table. “Half past four, actually.”

“Didn’t realize you could tell time.”

He hums.

And Arthur stares at you for a moment, unabashedly. It’s unreadable at first. But then scars are shifting, and he’s leveling you with a look so bitter that it nearly has you reaching for your rifle again.

“Goodbye, Ma’am.” Arthur waves a noncommittal hand at your feet as he turns the knob. “And…go and see about those feet of yours, will you?”

He sweeps out the door.

He’s left it open.

It’s only after the faint sound of hoofbeats is nothing more than a whisper that you realize he isn’t in the cabin anymore. But somewhere between the shutting of the door and the hanging of your rifle, the faint impression of his parting words is pressed into your palm.

You look down, a bright sting and the sight of red specks on the floorboards making themselves known rather insistently. 

“Oh.”

—

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