#this oughta be a good party

[yesihaveaobsession]

Date Me?

Alastor x female reader

Summary: The old timer aka Alastor attempts to ask the reader (you) out Infront of everyone at the hotel.

A/N- Enjoy Ya'll!! :) I would be scared to date him. BUT like he said it'll be interesting SOOO why not?!

You sat at the hotel’s bar, striking up a conversation with Husk, totally oblivious to the red eyes locked on you. Alastor. His eyes had been on you ever since you stepped into the hotel, and he’d been wanting to ask you out since then. However, he’d hidden himself in his room or the radio tower because he had no idea how to ask you out properly.

Being a charmer himself, you’d think he would know how, but he was still quite literally living in the past. It was hard for him to figure it out without asking for help or using wretched technology. He could ask Rosie or Charlie, but they would make such a big deal about it, and frankly, it would ruin his reputation.

So, he sat in his armchair in the lobby, taking a sip from his ‘oh deer’ mug and adjusting his position, fixing his newspaper to make it seem like he was reading it while catching glances of you laughing with Husk.

Alastor could not be apart of the party! So he put his newspaper on the side table next to his mug and made his way over to you. Butterflies filled his stomach; he was going to do it. Alastor fixed his suit and bow tie, cleared his throat, and leaned on the bartop next to you. The conversation ended as you smiled at him.

"Ah, my dear... a moment of your time, please!"

You gave him a small nod, tilting your head. "Sure, Alastor, what’s up?" You were just so sweet and understanding that he couldn’t fathom how you ended up in hell in the first place.

"I have been pondering the concept of... companionship, you see," he leaned in closer to you, still smiling and winked. "And I find myself in need of a consort, a partner in crime, if you will."

Charlie leaned in closer to Vaggie, blocking her mouth to not be rude, and whispered, "Is he really doing what I think he’s doing?" Vaggie's expression was laced with shock. Out of everyone to confess, Alastor was the last on her list. Charlie practically had hearts in her eyes as she watched the interaction. "Yep, this is happening."

Angel, who perked up from the couch, smirked and snorted. "This oughta be good."

Alastor felt like leaning on the bartop wasn’t him, so he straightened back up. "In my time, we had a more... refined approach to such matters. So, if you would be so kind as to indulge this old soul, I would be honored if you would consider becoming... my girlfriend."

You were more confused than anything. Alastor, the Radio Demon, asking you to be his girlfriend? You must be dreaming. You blinked and were surprised. "Your girlfriend?"

Alastor nodded vigorously, his smile never faltering. "Indeed! We could embark on all sorts of delightful mischief together! Picture it: you and I, ruling the airwaves, spreading chaos and charm throughout Hell!" Husk watched the scene unfold in front of him and muttered into his drink, "This is too rich."

Charlie was clinging to Vaggie but was finally pushed off. She then jumped up and down, clapping her hands. "Oh, Alastor, that’s actually kind of sweet, in your own twisted way!"

Angel Dust rose from the couch, let out a laugh, and slapped his knee. "Oh man, he really went for the whole package deal!"

You considered his offer; he had also treated you nicely when you first arrived. "Alright, Alastor, I'll give it a shot. But only if you promise to keep things interesting."

He bowed deeply, causing you to let out a giggle, and he locked eyes with you. "My dear, with me, 'interesting' is guaranteed." He then straightened up, and you smiled at him, taking his claw in your hand. "Well, Radio Demon, looks like you got yourself a girlfriend." You thought his attempt to ask you out was adorable, and when you agreed, you saw the way his eyes lit up; it warmed your heart.

He beamed, "Excellent! Let the chaos commence!"

[pupyuj]

[cw: dubcon, exhibitionism methinks?, fingering, degradation, humiliation]

well hello! i’ve been gone a while, yes but FEAR NOT you will never get rid of me (unfortunately) 😈😈 have a mean girl wony (completely different from “magic words” wony btw!) drabble for an appetizer tee hee 😋

campus princess wony who never fucking batted an eyelash towards her suitors, even the decent ones, but could never get over how you of all things never once looked at her the way everybody does?? every time you walked past her in the hallways without sparing her ass a glance, she was seething 😭😭 but she would never—and i mean never—go out of her way to make you notice her, nope! she was going to make you obsessed with her in the most organic-but-a-bit-flawed way possible! and her best friend’s small slumber party was the best opportunity to do all that 😈

being invited by mutual friends, you showed up in the most loser fit ever that wony almost wondered why the fuck she was so interested until she watched the way you scrunched your nose to raise your glasses—so fucking cute, wony was actually mad that you gave her butterflies 😭 but even in a small group, you still refused to acknowledge her! it was unbelievable; usually people would kill to be in your place, to be that close physically with her but noooo, apparently you were some hotter shit 😒😒

wony has had the luxury of watching you this entire night… you were so cool and laid-back, you got along with everyone pretty well (except wonyoung), but you were somewhat reserved… you intrigued wonyoung, but she had to save the pleasantries and introductions later bcs holy fuck she needed to hear that pretty voice of yours whimper and moan for her 😳😳 eventually she didn’t care that you were completely ignoring her bcs all she wanted at this point was to fuck you senseless,, that oughta get your attention…

wony following you into one of the bedrooms to get some extra pillows and blankets,, saying that she was there to help until she grabbed you and pressed your up against the door,,

“what the hell are you doing?!”

“do me a favor and shut up.”

her putting one of your wrists behind your waist and pinning the other to the door as she grinds against your ass, nose up in your hair and then leaving soft kisses down the side of your neck… “w-wonyoung, what the fuck?! let me go! a-ah.. don’t…” squirming and resisting as much as you could but ofc crumbling down the moment wony’s kisses get stronger, sloppier, hungrier… completely being at her mercy eventually, moaning at every kiss she leaves on her skin as she always thought you should be… “mhm, all wet..” she whispers in your ear while she felt up your pussy through your soaked panties :((

“a-aahn..! sto—wait, they’ll hear us…”

“good. i want them to.”

holding onto wony’s wrist while she rubbed your clit harshly,, biting down on your lip but it wasn’t enough with the added pleasure of wonyoung’s breath in your ear 😣 “should’ve known this is what it would take for you to look at me… i would’ve fucked you earlier, unnie.” 🫠 her letting out a moan when she slipped two fingers inside you?? relishing in the feeling of your warmth and how tight you were,, you weren’t a virgin by any means but it still caught you off guard… having to clamp your hand around your mouth to muffle your moans,, but wony was quick to swat your hand away,, “bad unnie.” she said through gritted teeth 😵‍💫😵‍💫

the very obvious dilemma you were having with yourself was enjoyable to witness for wonyoung.. how you actively tried to resist her by your breathy “no”s and “stop”s, but would grind back against her and moan so loudly whenever her fingers hit your sweet spots 🫣 but when she notices that you were stopping yourself from cumming.. oh she got mad 😵‍💫 “still keeping the act, huh? fine then.” and she just starts fucking you harder from behind 🫠🫠 she was relentless—pumping her fingers in and out of your cunt and snapping her wrist when she hits that spot just to drive you insane, slapping your ass until it was red, leaving scratch marks on your waist... it was all very effective bcs she had you screaming immediately 😳

her ripping your pajama top off without a single care in the world,, “don’t give me that look, unnie. i’ll buy you a new one.” she jokes but not really—she can buy you a whole mall and you wouldn’t even have to ask! 🫣🫣 wony taking note of the way the sweetest, sluttiest sounds escaping your lips once her hand reaches your chest… once again being so turned on that she moans herself,, “you’re so shameless now… you love this, don’t you? you want our friends to know what exactly is being done to you, unnie, hm?” wony pinching your nipple to force you to moan loudly :(( even giggling a bit bcs she just found this so fun??

really, really talks you through when you’re close and cumming 😵‍💫😵‍💫 all up in your ear while she does all the right things to your body… bite marks and hickeys on your shoulder bcs she couldn’t resist.. holds your hips still with her free hand while she fucked you in that same merciless pace, only a lot more harder bcs wony absolutely needed to see you all broken up for her 🫢

“come on, unnie… you’ll cum for me, won’t you?”

“yes, yes…! show them, let them hear you, unnie…”

“fuck, good girl…”

omgjdhchjs she nearly came with you with how horny she was watching you fall apart on her hand… the sight of your juices dripping down your legs and pooling at your feet made wony want to fuck you right there all over again but she had to suffice with licking your cum off her fingers for now 🤭 but wony barely letting you come back to your senses when she just leaves you in that room with nothing but a side glance bcs she’s just that bitchy??? leaving you to clean up your own mess, grab a spare shirt from your friend’s closet, and forcing yourself to show your face to everybody after all of that… dare wony say that your red eyes and flushed cheeks were more of a turn on that literally feeling your pussy clench around her fingers!!

but even if wonyoung treated you like filth.. she was still too pretty… so pretty that you don’t bother to do any resisting when she sneaks into your futon super late in the night, ready to make you see the stars all over again 🫣

[yanderenightmare]

Ryomen Sukuna

TW: NSFW, dubcon, possessiveness, toxic relationship

gn reader

Ex-boyfriend Sukuna, who always approaches you at the worst times at any party…

Always when you’re just too drunk to remember exactly why you shouldn’t even be talking to him because holy fuck – he looks so fucking hot with those tattoos and that greasy spiked hair – skin sweaty, shirt clinging to every fine-toned muscle hiding beneath it – looking at you with those auburn eyes, the heat of them zipping straight down to your loins, making you rub your thighs together for everyone to witness.

His skin smells of bonfires and tastes of salt and makes your mouth water for him – also that place between your legs, clenching hard at the promise. Clinging to him as he ushers you up to a bedroom – his grin at your neck, sucking hickeys into the soft skin found there as his hands grab the fat of your ass, shamelessly grinding you against his bulge.

When the two of you tumble through a door into a bedroom, he’ll shout at whomever there to get the fuck out, and if they know what’s good for them, they’ll obey – scrambling out with him throwing the door shut after them. And then he’s back on you. Picking you up to straddle him, then throwing you down on your back on the bed – his hand on your neck whilst the other wrestles his belt and fly open.

He doesn’t leave time for you to regret it, ignoring you when you cry out something like “condom” when he’s all but ripping your underwear off, sheathing himself inside you with zero prep. You should always be ready to take him anywhere at any time – and if you aren’t, then he’s not been fucking you enough – which is, in any case, your fault.

But staring down at you, watching you whine out a moan from the sting, your eyes all teary and seeking – he knows you love it like this – when he takes control and shows you just who your body belongs to.

You’ll always tangle your fingers into the short locks at his nape, hanging from his neck as he juts into you hard and aggressively – both his hands sinking into the fat of your under-thighs as he presses them down flat against the bed – bottoming out in your tightness with your legs bouncing on his shoulders.

Seeing that smug Gojo-fuck flirt with you has made him extra rowdy, and he pounds you like he’s an actual bloodhound who smelt a bitch’s heat. He’s only at the blue-eyed rich kid’s party to keep you from doing something stupid. You’re always trying to rile him up – dressing the way you are, talking the way you do, flirting with dipshits left and right in front of him – he oughta keep you on a fucking leash the way you keep trying to run away. 

Because, no matter how many times you might insist on otherwise, with the way you say his name in broken moans when he fucks you full of his cum, you can’t deny you belong to him.

[worldsaparted]

stolen glances - daniel larusso

IN THE MIDDLE of the school hallways, Y/N found herself staring out at Daniel Larusso who was always entwined in something, or with someone.

The only times she had ever really spoken to Daniel were the times she would drop off treats with Mr. Miyagi for his help fixing her car. Since those have ended, she hadn’t seen Daniel anywhere other than school.

So she took advantage of it, everyday that he ran down that hallway, or greeted his friends, she watched. Discreetly, of course. She enjoyed seeing if he’d wear his shades or not, if he had a new black eye, and what his hair would look like.

As for Daniel, he never really took much notice to it. Not until Ali Mills, his good friend, pointed it out to him. “You oughta ask that girl out the way she’s been looking at you.” She laughed, sharing looks with the rest of her friends as they saw her swiftly walk by, clinging on to her books and fixing her hair that fell perfectly onto her shoulders.

“Who, L/N?” Daniel inquired, looking up from his shirt that he fixed to Y/N. Ali and the rest of the group nodded eagerly and watched as Daniel shook his head.

“Nah, she’s got her own thing going on.” And he was right, other than school, of community service - she was completely to herself.

So for weeks, it went on. Y/N slowly gave up on this childlike crush she held on Larusso, and as the end of their senior year came, the thought of him was almost completely out of her mind. She minded her own, and on this particular Friday, she continued doing that.

She held her binder in hand as she pushed the doors to the outside swiftly, passing up many people who spoke to their friends. It was often that Johnny Lawrence would berate her in first period for being such a school-obsessed girl, but she didn’t care, and never did. She took her homework out at lunch, to a spot under a tree and worked on it.

Out here, it was a lot more quiet, and that was just how she liked it.

Her nose was stuck in her science book, and her hand had been carefully moving to perfect her one pager for that class until a soccer ball had hit her notebook, knocking her books and pencil out of her hand. “Are you serious?” She sighed, gathering her belongings and cleaning up before taking the soccer ball, and standing up to return it. She made her way over, and looking up, she noticed that Daniel Larusso was making his way over to meet her in the middle. And he did.

“Hey..” he paused a bit as his eyes met hers, and it was quiet for a bit before she handed over the soccer ball. “I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s fine.”

His eyes searched hers as he held the soccer ball, tossing it from one hand to another and now - he took notice to the pretty specks upon her face, he knew she was a striking girl, but now that he was so close, it seemed as if the fact that she’d never give him such a chance left his mind.

“Well..” Y/N gestured to the soccer ball, and watched as he tossed it aside and back to his friends, a small welcoming smile overcoming his lips.

Y/N’s brows furrowed and she noticed as Daniel stuffed his hands into his pocket instinctively. “There’s an end the school year party tonight, you get invited?” As the question left his mouth, he knew it was stupid of him to ask. Y/N shook her head, and as much as she wanted to walk away - there was no chance she would.

“Well…” Another staring contest.

Daniel blinked his eyes after a few seconds, and he continued his sentence. “Why don’t you come with me?”

“Excuse me?” Y/N held back a laugh of disbelief, and Daniel nodded, insistently.

“Yeah, how ‘bout it?” There was a small pause, Y/N glanced back to her homework, and eventually turned back to Daniel.

“Hm, alright.” She sheepishly agreed, and another smile creeped onto Daniel’s face, and he clapped in triumph.

“Alright? Alright!” His hand touched her shoulder as his friends called him back, yelling his name. “Hey, I’ll get you around 7, sound good to you?”

“It does.” Y/N nodded, and with that he ran off.

Later that night, the two adolescents had both remembered that Daniel never even took her address down so at 7:20, he still wasn’t there. The girl began removing her makeup, a slight frown on her face the whole time until there was various knocks at the door, aggressive knocks at that.

She answered it, and there Daniel was. Panting, and holding up a paper with her address on it. “Asked Miyagi.”

After the short drive, they made it to the party. Daniel immediately put his hand on Y/N’s back and led her to the back. There was no doubt that people took these things serious, some were shotgunning their drinks, or chugging it to see who could finish the fastest. There were people in the corner of the house making out, people going upstairs and Daniel awkwardly gulped at the sight of that.

The two were only inside for so long, it was loud, humid, and extremely obnoxious. They sat on the stairs and as the music blared into their ears, Y/N leaned over, yelling into Daniel’s ear.

“Think I’m gonna go inside.” She began to prop herself up.

“I’ll come withya!” He yelled back, taking her hand and the two snuck to the back, shutting the door behind them and finally finding some peace. They sat on the edge of the pool, Y/N was criss crossed, and Daniel’s feet were in the pool.

“Sorry about this. Not an ideal place to get to know you.”

It was quiet between the two, Daniel apologized and Y/N hummed in response, but that was all for a while. That was all until he hesitantly laughed, “You know what’s funny..”

“Hm?”

“My pals told me I should ask you out.”

“Excuse me?” Y/N furrowed her brows, looking over and Daniel’s eyes immediately widened.

“Woah! No! That’s not why I’m here.”

“I just - I couldn’t when they said to. Even though I definitely caught you staring a few times…” He glanced over at Y/N, watching as her cheeks burned, and she fixed her vision on the pool water. “I just didn’t believe you wanted anything to do with me.”

“Listen, Daniel - ”

“ - I was right to think so. Look at the stuff I’m bringing you to, and you probably just hate these.”

“You’re all about your future and I couldn’t even think of mine.” He scoffed, staring out at the pool.

“Will you be quiet?” Y/N spoke up, her voice raising a bit and she bit her lip, rolling her eyes a bit before speaking up. “I’ve been all about you since you got here, so whatever you’re thinking, just don’t.”

After that, silence overcame the two. Daniel’s expression of worry turned into a faint expression of excitement, and Y/N scolded herself quietly for confessing so easily.

“You what?” Daniel asked, pointing to his ear.

“You heard me, Larusso.”

“Not too well.” He sighed, and Y/N smiled a bit, watching him do the same as he looked up at her. His fairly sparkly brown eyes met hers, and suddenly, everything else around them ceased to exist. Daniel’s smile faded a bit, he nervously took her hand in his, and he leaned in. Slowly, he leaned in. His eyes searched hers constantly to make sure she was alright with this, and when their lips neared, he slightly stopped, and was greatly taken aback when Y/N had eagerly closed the gap. She pressed her parted lips against his closed ones, and leaned into the kiss.

Daniel took his hand to her knee, and the other to the back of her head to hold her there. Gently, he kissed her, and when they slowly pulled away, there were no words exchanged. None but timid laughs as they shared warm smiles.

[macfrog]

wish you were here | one shot

thank you lovely anon for this gorgeous request which felt like a huge mug of hot chocolate and a pair of socks fresh from the dryer to write. i hope you enjoy.

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: you and joel skip jackson’s annual holiday party in favor of some alone time. (not that kind you filthy animals it’s the HOLIDAYS)

warnings: fluff lmao, thirty-year age gap and u can stay mad, set around the holidays but no mention of christmas etc, nothing but love and two hints of sex. that's all. oh and no guitars were harmed in the making of this - joel canonically goes and gets the guitar after the fic ends. dw.

word count: 1.9k 

main masterlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🤎

Jackson is alive with a thrumming heartbeat. Pulsing through the air, bumping gently against the quick-lying snow and filling the otherwise silent night. A steady, rhythmic heartbeat.  

A heartbeat which sounds a lot like Blue Monday, but a heartbeat nonetheless.

The holiday party is in full swing down in the Tipsy Bison. Seven o’clock ‘til late! on flyers plastered all over the commune for the last month. Tommy had tried relentlessly to convince Joel this morning on patrol – It’ll be a good night; You oughta come along, show face at least. At the same time, Maria was on your back about it in the stables.

Y’all hardly come to anything fun, she’d argued.

We come to stuff.

When’s the last time you came to anythin’?

We were – we were at Mike’s birthday dinner.

What – five months ago?

We like alone time.

Alone time? You’re never apart from one another.

Alone time – together.

Neither attempt had been successful. Tommy and Maria had exchanged a disheartened glance as the two brothers passed their horses to you on their return. Joel clipped your cheek, took his gloves off and fixed them onto your frozen hands before making off for home, a proud grin on his face. You’d held your own as well as he had: you two had a clear evening ahead.

He had lit and nurtured a fire, had made himself a coffee and heaped half a damn bag of tiny marshmallows into a hot chocolate for you, but when he’d come through to take his place on the couch, you were already stood out front.

It’s bitter out – a soft breeze, but a thick chill on its wings. The sky a washed gray, heavy clouds overhead. He slips outside, setting the mugs down on the table, and slings a blanket over your shoulders. Kisses the curve of your neck, scruff of his beard tickling your skin.

‘s freezing, pretty bird.

Then keep me warm, you whisper, turning into his arms. He steps back, settling into his chair, flicking his fingers for you to fall down into his wide lap.

You curl up against his torso, your head hooked beneath his jaw. Wonder how drunk Tommy is by now. What is it – nine?

His wrist lifts, moonlight gleaming in the reflection of his broken watch face. Just gone ten. I bet he’s on his ass already.

You giggle into his shirt, breathing in the scent of the pine trees, the smoke from stoking the fire inside, the bite of hot coffee. The echo of voices swelling in merry song turns your attention down the street – two figures hooked onto one another, stumbling through the powdered snow. Some slurred rendition of September melting into All Night Long before the smaller of the two tugs their partner off into a darkened house.

Joel laughs to himself, the bristle of his beard catching on your hair as he shakes his head.

You ask him softly, Will you play me something?

His breath soars, a cloud hot and pale white, past your temple and up into the pastel sky. Gets swallowed somewhere overhead by the wash of warmth from the porch light. He turns his mug until the owl faces the street, the bottom gnawing against the wooden armrest of his chair.

I’m serious.

What do you wanna hear?

That one you’re always practicin’. The plucking one.

Another rumble between your shoulder blades. His chest jolts with a solid laugh. The pluckin’ one.

You know the one.

I know the one.

Will you play it, if I go get the guitar?

Baby, his lungs nudge on your back as they fill, it’s late. We’ll wake the neighbors.

Everyone’s at the dance. C’mon.

And he can’t argue with that. The entire street lies dark, vacant. Yours is the only house with soft-glowing eyes, the muted orange of the fire flickering behind closed blinds. Two figures, tangled in a chair on the dim front porch; a hunting jacket around his shoulders, and his body around yours.

You tug on the blanket, wrapping it around your elbows as you stand. Just once. Play me it once.

Joel’s looking up at you, setting his mug down on the table. Play you it as many times as you want, pretty bird. Just – quietly.

There’s a spring in your step that drags another chuckle from Joel’s lips: the kind that drips like honey down your throat and warms the pit of your stomach – a sweet, comforting thing, a sound you swear was made purposefully for you. Divine and deliberate.

Like – all of him. Like the shape of your name in his mouth, the curl of his tongue as the sound surfs over it. Like the curve of his hand and the way yours so neatly molds into it.

The way it did the day he found you, crouched in the gray backroom of some butchers deep in the city, and took you all the way back to Jackson. Let you cling to him on the back of his horse; your weak arms around his waist, anchored by the heavy jacket he’d thrown over your back. Your ear between his shoulder blades. And that was that.

Fifty-six. One brown-turned-silver hair away from thirty years your senior. He still remembers before. Talks about movies, talks about computers. Talks about Sarah, when the sun hits the wall at a certain angle and he reckons he could see her standing right there, the soft shadow of her hair dark against the golden wall. When you make a joke and he laughs a ghostly sort of laugh, like he’s hearing the echo of her voice make the same quip three decades ago. He always says she would’ve loved you; you like to think he’s right.

He found you: a lonely little broken heart, and he pulled you to your feet with a rough palm against your own. Hands calloused only from years spent carving wood and pressing the hard strings of his guitar into the fretboard, and nothing else. No violence and no bloodshed; no survival or threat. Music, and patience, and kindness.

And maybe you found him, too, in the same sort of way: roughened up, awkward and messy stitches holding him together. Maybe the two of you nursed one another back to life; each brush of your hands in the dining hall and each meaningful glance while out on patrol sewing those wounds up a little tighter, a little safer.

He sits forward when you hold the instrument out, sweeping a broad palm down the slope of the body. Pinches the pegs one by one, twisting them while his thumb taps on each string.

Come here, he says, beckoning you forward with a flick of his chin. He taps on the seam of his jeans, widens his legs for you to curl up between them at his feet – the way you always do.

Your elbows hook over his thigh, ear pressed against the inside of his knee. Staring up, blinking slowly, eyes glazed with the cold and with the light and with love.

He plucks gently, slow at first. Letting the strings snap with a twang, vibrating enough that you feel the small rattle in your jaw. Your eyes fall closed, head rocking with the light tap of his heel on the porch. When you peer at him through your lashes, he’s watching the skilled movements of his fingers intently; as if he’s as much a spectator as you are – his body doing all of the thinking and working for him.

 So, he sings, and your stomach melts to a puddle, so you think you can tell –

Your eyes close again, the low rumble of his voice crisp in your ears. Like thunder, like the promise of something great and mighty. Something moving, something rolling and changing the landscape of your body, your mind and your soul. The lines between living and dying begin to blur, the seam tearing between this plain and the next.

Did they get you to trade – your lips parting to whisper the words with him – your heroes for ghosts?

His thumbnail dragging down the strings, his strong fingers flitting between chords. Like he was made to sit here, in the dead of night, and carve a space in the world for himself and his voice and for you – lain in the safe scope of his body, protected by his breadth and brawn and lulled by his sweet song.

His breadth and brawn – the parts of him which have kept him standing here. His skeleton, his muscle. But the thing that keeps you warm at night, buried side by side under a threadbare woolen sheet together, the thing that you link your arms around as he leads you home from the nights you dare to visit the Tipsy Bison: are his heart, his flesh, the gray-singed hair which falls in a featherlight wave over his forehead. The hair you sweep from his eyes when he’s on top of you, his hips cradled in yours, that all-encompassing feeling of every part of him filling every part of you.

It all feels that way. The warmth of him, the feeling of being wrapped around him. Hooked around his body, bones intertwined. Absorbing one another, his words breathing life into yours, slowly growing louder and braver with each pluck and strum of music.

We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year.

Your makeups entangling, ribcages locking together, flesh meeting flesh and hair twisting until one day, Tommy will come looking for his brother and find the two of you here on your porch, your arms still draped over Joel’s thigh and his fingers still mid-song. Stuck, alone, together.

What have we found? Joel looks down to you as though asking the question – his eyebrows raised – and you reply, a dumb smile across your lips, The same old fears, and then, together –

Wish you were here.

He plays until his fingers must start to hurt, the way he clenches and loosens his fist. Setting the guitar against your chair, hands hooking under your arms to pull you back up to him.

That one your favorite? he asks, the cold tip of his nose circling yours.

You nod. Only when you sing it.

I like the way we sound together.

You smile, shrinking into his chest again, your fingers surfing back and forth on the worn shirt. I like the way we do a lot of things together.

His hands slip beneath the fabric of your shirt, massaging your waist. He dots a trail of light, damp kisses along your forehead, dipping to your temple, the angle of your cheek until your jaw lifts and his lips are against yours, his tongue parting to lick purposefully at yours.

I love you, pretty bird, he whispers, the words falling sweet and fair on your tongue.

You take a moment to let them seep into your skin. ‘s the first time you’ve ever said that, you tell him.

Joel smiles. He knows. But you knew it already, he counters.

You know, too. Mhm.

Alright, he groans, slipping his hands under your thighs and hoisting you up to his height, bedtime.

It’s only ten, you complain, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders as he carries you inside. It’s too early to sleep – Joel.

Didn’t say we were goin’ to sleep, he mumbles, kicking the door shut.

[coastershells]

Hi I saw your writing and its so good💗 I was hoping you could do a Dallas x fem!reader best friends to lovers smut please🙏🏼 thank you☺️💗

A M I D R E A M I N G . .

( or did you just kiss me? you don’t know it but you already miss me.)

IN WHICH — dallas and you decide to take your ‘ friendship ‘ to another level.

SONG — watermelon - john q. public

⚠️ : semi public sex , mostly fluff for the rest of the ride though.. || requested? / yes!! : no ( not proofread , fucked up a part and i can’t find it so oh well )

୨୧ — wc : 3.5k.

you hate parties sometimes for this exact reason.

or maybe you haven’t been to enough.

you had been over buck’s for god knows how long , dallas had invited you and even walked you here — but god knows where he’s in the house by now. you promise yourself you can’t even walk straight.

you’re bored , tired , and you sort of want to go home now. you just don’t want to walk alone. so there you go , on your mission to find dallas.

in a house of crowded drunk people.

you decide ; if you’re going to go home , you’ll go big AND go home. so with that , you slowly stumble your way over to the drinks table , and lightly try to pick one up , but a hand stops you before you can.

“ don’t you suppose that’s enough drinkin’ for you? golly , didn’t know broads could drink ‘emselfs crazy.“ someone says with a familiar voice , it rings in your head.

you slowly turn your head and see dallas , he lightly puts his hand over your hand so you put the cup back on the table , and you give a crooked smile. “ dallas.. ”

“ yeah yeah , call me dallas even though i said to call me dal or dally even. ” he licks his lips. “ listen , man. i’m bored out of my fuckin’ mind. ” dallas raises his eyebrows and looks around before locking eyes with you. “ seems like you’re just about down for the count. ” he chuckles to himself and you blow raspberries.

“ just a little out of it. ” you mumble and dallas can only but pray you didn’t hear the small ‘ more than a little ‘ that slipped out.

“ tired , though. can you walk me home? i’ll be spooked if i go alone. ”

dallas shakes his head. “ not just yet , got some more stuff to handle , how about you just busy yourself for a minute , alright? maybe you’ll decide on spending the night. ” he says before turning on his heel , the loud music making it hard to even hear his footsteps. but he turns around and shoots at you.

“ don’t you dare pick up another drink. ” he says , you nod lazily , completely forgetting your thought process.

what the hell are you supposed to do meanwhile?

you should’ve followed him , or maybe you shouldn’t have.

god , you’re so damn lost.

you should’ve picked that other “ friendly , but just the two of us ” date he gave to you , going to that nice cafe at the end of the street near the drive in — the one that was covered in ivy. holy fuck you would’ve been sober.

the amount you drank really began to kick in , and you felt your head spinning like crazy. going outside would probably help.

not because it would be cold enough to bring you back — not at all. it was humid outside and inside , there was no escaping the heat unless you were thrown into a deep freezer.

with that , you departed from the drink table and stumbled across the room to the front door , relying on it to keep you stable until you opened the door and let yourself sit on the balcony and gaze at the stars. not because you want to ; you’d pick sunsets over star gazing any day , especially that one time with dallas when you finally got him to settle for five minutes and listen.

you’d kill for another calm “ friend “ date with dallas like that again.

as you sit there and think , your drunk mind wanders. from how hot it is , to where dallas is , and to whether you should stay or not.

the door opening startled you slightly , but when you hear dallas’ voice break out , you turn around.

“ golly — i oughta put a tag on you that glows if you’re just gonna run out of here like that. why are you out here? “

“ it’s the same temperature as inside anyway. “

dallas shrugs before letting his jacket fall off onto the porch. “ mhm , i hear you. ”

he sniffs , like he’s cold , almost. but that can’t be possible. “ you’re staying, ” he says. at first you process it as a question , but there was no curiosity in that sentence. he was telling you. “ not letting you walk home so late. nor do i feel like walkin’. “ he complains and you frown.

“ everytime i’m over here i’m forced to stay here because you’re too lazy. you’re barley even drunk! ” you say , not as clear as you wanted it to be but dallas hums in understanding before biting back.

“ you can’t even walk straight. ”

“ i can walk though , just hold my hand. ” you extend your arm to him and he does nothing but smile. it’s crooked , and you can tell he’s drunk now. you were guessing at first but now you can really tell.

“ i bet everything i own you can’t walk in a straight line. with or without my help. ” he says , taking your hand and pulling you up. you crash into his chest and you yelp.

“ huh? “ you say , trailing off as he turns you and places you against the wall. he doesn’t repeat himself , nor tell you what he’s doing , but you catch it. even in your clouded mind , you gasp.

“ dal — no! not here! what the fuck? ” you whisper shout and he looks around.

“ nobody’s out here. ” he shrugs and reaches under your skirt , you twitch away.

“ people are inside. not here , dal. ” you say , holding his hand.

dallas seems to pause for a second before backing away from you , looking around to the side of the house , then smiling.

“ to the back , then? ”

you shake your head , you almost nodded. “ that’s still so open.. ” you say , it comes out slurred. “ why can’t we just do it in your room? ”

he makes his way towards you again , picking you up over his shoulder and then replying. “ no doubt people are already in there. ” he says , you didn’t have time to yelp or do anything against him picking you up before the smell of weed invaded your nose. the leather was nothing new , even without his jacket. cold leather. you wish he hadn’t left it. god. what else had he done tonight?

he only placed you down when you had gotten to the back of the house instead. how nice of him to do that. you luckily , caught your footing and used the wall for support.

dallas is already at your neck and your breath hitches , the hand that was under your skirt returns again , and it’s playing with the lace of your underwear.

he probably noticed you weren’t wearing anything under , but he doesn’t comment on it. either too focused on ruining your neck yet again or how he’s slowly yet surely pulling your panties down.

“ dal — “ you try to protest and push his head away , and it does work , but his other hand gets a grip on your thigh and lifts you up.

okay , now you’re really stuck.

“ shut it. “ dallas says a little harsher than you like. “ just stay still , alright , doll? let me do this. ” the last part comes out as a half question , and you nod. you don’t recall him ever calling you that before , and it’s so random , but you don’t have the energy to ask if he has ever asked you that before. you wouldn’t like to try.

with that , a small ‘ i hope you don’t like these ‘ slips out of his mouth as you hear your panties just about rip. you wince and look down.

“ dally! “ you cry out. you don’t use that nickname much. “ you could’ve just — taken them off of me! “ you whine , but this time he doesn’t respond. what are you supposed to wear under your skirt after this?

he makes quick way of unbuttoning his pants , you can barley keep your head straight so you’re basically forced to keep looking down. and oh boy , you realize why he was so willing to just do it on the front porch.

the humidity outside doesn’t quite help your situation , you feel hot already , you’re dizzy , and drunk. you’re so sure you would’ve already been on the floor if dallas wasn’t holding you up.

dallas presses you against the wall further , and at this rate you can do nothing but whine and wait. he lifts your skirt up just enough for him to be able to see and you not. your arms find rest on his shoulders , and when he finally pushes in to you , you let out a loud yelp that dallas doesn’t try to cover up.

maybe because nobody inside will be able to hear you , you can still feel the house vibrating from the music inside. and that’s more than likely the reason. otherwise , he would’ve shut you up with a hand over you mouth as soon as a sound louder than usual came out.

dallas himself seemed to be making a huge effort not to buck into you really hard , god you don’t want to know how bad that would hurt at his full length.

“ still , baby. ” he says into your shoulder , and you have a big feeling he’s going to bite it. you whine when you feel his cock just about rub up against you , you can feel him shaking despite it being hot and it’s getting hotter and hotter and —

and you aren’t just quite ready when he actually pushes into you , letting out a soft groan as you tightnen your grip on his shoulders. you question whether you should get him back by dragging your nails against his upper back , but you decide that can be done later.

dallas’ moves his hips uneven , almost. slowly out , a little more harsher in that pushes a yelp from the back of your throat.

“ y’ smell like alcohol and smoke , darling. don’t tell me i gotta actually keep a leash on ya to — fuck , to make sure you don’t drink yourself — mad.. “ dallas says against your shoulder , and you push his head away slightly as your voice breaks into a whine. it being hot outside , you being against the wall , sweating , and his hair rubbing against your bare skin isn’t a good combo at all.

“ mmh? ” dallas hums , beginning to match his pace up. “ you don’t have to be quiet. “ he reminded you , and you looked down to the ground. a moan was pushed out of your chest when he pushed into you a little harder than he should’ve.

“ what’s so good about the ground? i’m your friend. look at me. “ you want to say that he said it in a demanding tone , but it came out more of a plea. there was no way you could look at him — not right now , atleast.

dallas took your silence as a no , and he groaned , returning to that same harsh pace he was just using.

“ have it your way , then. ”

you grip his shoulders with your nails instead , forget his back , you can’t even reach that with how mushy your brain feels by now.

you’re already mourning your ability to walk in the morning.

“ dal — wait — fuck- ” you cry out. “ what if the music — what if it c — cuts? ” you ask through helpless whines , but dallas does nothing but silence you.

“ i doubt anyone will hear even then. ” dallas groans , probably not because of what you asked , but the fact that everytime he talks he goes off rhythm.

his fault.

a hand slides to your skirt and he mumbles a small ‘ sorry ‘ before you feel a tug on the opposite side of your hip.

he just ripped your skirt , didn’t he? what are you actually supposed to wear inside? is he insane?

“ dallas! ” you say , a whine that was mixed with both sadness and the way he only sped up after that.

“ i’ll buy you a new one , ” his breath hitches. “ so just shut up with the actual words , would ya darlin’? you aren’t sayin’ anything useful. ”

you can feel that same weird effect piling up in your stomach yet again , and you shut your eyes tight as it comes and goes.

you can’t tell if your irritated or about to pass out , your vision is blurry and you can barley make out the words dallas is saying to you now. you decide that you’re both irritated and you’re currently passing out. your grip softens on his shoulders , and you’re slightly sad you can’t see the damage done.

you’ll see it when you wake up.

when you wake up , dallas has kept his promise to not taking you home. the first thing you notice when you wake up is the deafening silence. none of the loudness from downstairs is there anymore , and you can’t exactly move. your legs feel numb and there’s also an arm wrapped around your waist , the other lays higher. right under your chest. you notice you have on rather baggy sweatpants. you don’t know what color , but the material is similar to yours. are they yours?

you go to feel down with a hand , the one under your chest slightly moves.

no , they can’t be. way too loose. your smell is last to come , the smell of weed is gone , but the leather still sticks. and it’s all over you.

dallas is holding you. and he’s asleep.

when you first met dallas , he was rude. well , not rude. but he had no sense of respect. any girl that even came in his sights he just had to hit on. you happened to be one of ponyboy’s friends. you usually tagged along with him and dallas was there occasionally. you think the first place you met him at was the lot. he had asked you if your hair color was your actual one , and if it was the same color that your —

— your eyebrows. you know he didn’t want to say that , but you guess he knows the real answer now.

dallas must’ve been fake sleeping , or maybe a coincidence , because his arm’s completely moved and he started to wake up. you could finally stretch properly.

“ you watchin me in my sleep? ” dallas nudges your shoulder and you ignore what he said. “ good morning , dallas. yes , i’m fine after last night dallas. ” that’s a lie , you can barley remember anything. and the headache is coming for you. he hums in of what you had said acknowledgment and gives off a laugh. it’s dry , and his voice is raspy with how he just woke up.

“ you were drunk out of your mind. had to wrap my jacket around you and tell buck you were knocked out around back. do what you will with that information. ” he turns to get up , and you lightly tug on his shirt. “ hey , what the hell? you’re just gonna leave me here? i can’t stand. ” you grumble and he smiles.

“ not leavin you. getting you a new shirt. you can wear one of mine until we make it to your house. you can rest there. ” it annoys you how dallas has already made plans for you when your hangover is getting to the best of you. “ can’t we just stay here and rest? ”

dallas shakes his head. “ i’d ask you to live here if i could. fortunately , no. i’ve got work , babydoll. ” he says as he opens a drawer and pulls out a cigarette. it amazes you how before he even thinks about brushing his teeth , he smokes. he walks back over to his nightstand and grabs a lighter , bringing it to the cigarette.

“ listen , i’ll get my job done fast. you’re gonna rest at home , i’ll ring you and you’ll doll yourself up. i wanna take you somewhere nice later on , alright? ” dallas says almost like he’s asking if you want to do that , but you know he’s telling you. and now your whole day has been planned out.

you can’t find it in you to make an excuse , so you decide to just nod. “ another friend date that’s only the two of us? ”

“ nope. ” he says quickly and takes a drag from his cigarette. “ a real date. which means ponyboy ain’t allowed for real this time. no kids. ” he says , and you’re sure he’s quoting steve. you scoff and he does nothing but take another drag from his cigarette.

“ come on , i’ll walk you home like i always do. ” he says. “ wouldn’t really count it as walking since i’ll be carrying you , but — ”

you cut him off with a groan.

he gets the memo.

“ alright , attitude. ” dallas mumbles. he throws a shirt your way.

B O N U S

( sort of..? )

just like dallas had said in the early morning , he carried walked you home and gave you a ‘ friendly ‘ kiss goodbye. hours felt slow , maybe because you kept looking at the time but you swear time has never been slower in your life. you only started to ponder on what to wear when dallas had called you and said to get really pretty.

you decided on something that wasn’t exactly flashy , a black skirt , a random worn out top , boots gifted to you by dallas , and a leather jacket that you had never gave back to him. you wouldn’t say you did exactly much to your face.. more on your hair than anything.

you were just about finishing up when you heard a car coming down the street and a honk outside. you didn’t have to look out the window to know it was dallas.

and so it was , him in all of his glory and nicely dressed , ( not really , but you won’t insult him. you’re too nice. ) he greets you with the same flirty line he always uses , paired with a random pet name that he probably came up with on the spot.

most of the drive is filled with silence , not awkward , but almost like one of you should say something specific.

dallas decides to be that person.

“ i like you a lot , y’know. ” he says and you hum. you’re so positive you know what he’s getting at , but you try to stay oblivious. you want him to say it directly.

“ like — jeez. ” you look over and he looks — nervous? almost? “ like how ponyboy likes sunsets , yeah? and how two bit likes beer. like that. ”

“ i don’t get it. what do you mean? ” you say , trying to hide the smile in your voice since he can’t look over. you just hope he’s not using the corner of his eye.

“ alright , fuck. i love you. that what you wanted to hear? ”

you try to egg him on. “ and? what else? ”

he raises an eyebrow , but sighs and actually thinks for a second. the car stops at a traffic light.

“ i don’t want to see other guys treat you how i treat you. ” he says , almost a whisper , before he perks up again and awkwardly sniffs before changing the topic. “ what are you gonna order? ”

“ whatever’s fine , i guess. or i’ll just decide when we get there. ” you shift uncomfortably in the seat.

dallas doesn’t argue with that , whether he understands or just doesn’t want to.

the only thing you can hear is the far away sounds of people talking. you decide it’s your turn to speak.

“ i love you too , dallas. like how ponyboy likes the sunsets or whatever. didn’t expect you to be so emotional , though. ” you giggle and he blows his breath.

“ shut it , will you? the silence is nice. ” he licks his lips and you relax into the seat.

“ it’s nicer when i’m around you. ”

this time , it’s dallas’ turn to nod in agreement.

and you remind yourself ; you never saw the scratches you had made on him.

you shrug to yourself.

the light turns green , and dallas pulls off.

“ yes , i’ll be your girlfriend dally. ”

you look over and see a small smile on his face.

you are so sure he needed to hear that just as much as you did.

i have no excuse for not posting. nor do i have the strength to after editing this. i’m going to sleep.

taglist : @mrsdillonx , @r0seb100d , @socgf , @staygoldmarty , @every1hatesmayaa

[howlett-n-morgan]

Take Me Home

4. John Fucking Marston

Arthur Morgan x Texas Red!Reader

A/n: GUYS I GRADUATED MY FROM MY COURSE! i give you this chapter as a token of my celebration... now I just have to make sure I don't have any models fall off the runway in my line up lmao

Summary: The newest arrival makes his way into camp, and inadvertently becomes the reason that chaos begins to spread. Luckily, his new uncle Arthur is there to carry the woes on his broad shoulders.

Warnings: mild swearing, canon typical violence, birth?? mentions of past death and Arthur remembering his deadbeat dad days. drinking, mild alcohol abuse?? also Hosea is a real one we love Hosea

WC: 4.5k

“Need I remind you of the price you’re gonna pay?”  “She’ll be safe with you. The boy, too. I ain’t leavin’ them in incapable hands.” “But you’re leaving them,” Arthur reasoned, trying his best to make any last effort to save what could have been, but he knew his found brother would not be changing his mind. His only thought at this point was to beg him to stay. If only because he was the one who asked. “Don’t do this. They need you, we need you.”

A week after the heist, Arthur’s shoulder was feeling better… but his head was hurting like hell. 

In fact, on this specific night, nearly everyone’s head was throbbing on account of the wails and cries of terrible pain coming from the edge of camp. 

Abigail had gone into labor around five hours ago, and the little baby had still not come into the world yet. As of right now, the men were huddled close to the fire, passing around a fresh bottle of whiskey in attempts to pass out so they could get some sleep. Meanwhile, the women were rushing to and fro about the camp, working their asses off to bring a new life to the gang. 

You figured it would help you bond with the boys more if you sat with them, moaning and groaning about the noise… but you’d much rather be helping, making sure nothing went wrong in the tumultuous process of birth. 

It wasn’t until close to one in the morning that a tiny baby boy was born, strong as ever, with lungs so powerful they could blow a lark out of a tree. His cries replaced Abigails, but after all that time, everyone was pleased to know the delivery was over, and both parties were healthy and sound. 

The men did eventually pass out, all except two. 

Arthur and John were up till the crack of dawn arguing, and it didn’t look good from an outside perspective. 

You were about to take back towards your tent when you came across them, hurriedly getting out of their line of sight so you could listen without suspicion. You knew you had no right to eavesdrop, but with everything you’ve heard from Abigail concerning John, you were bursting with curiosity in a way that turned your stomach. 

“I don’t see why I need to be convinced otherwise,” John ripped into his dearest friend, and even from behind a wall of tented fabric, you could imagine the look on his face. 

“You’re makin’ a mistake right now, and you ain’t gonna see it until it’s too late.”

“How would you know? S’not like you did any better,” the tone of his voice was bitter, almost. John caught himself, taking a step back and breathing more evenly after his fit of anger. “I didn’t mean that, Arthur… but you oughta know where my head’s at.”

Arthur was silent, and you wished more than anything you could see the look on his face to determine how Marston had gotten to him. Was he saddened or angry? Maybe even confused? You didn’t know, but you didn’t have long to dwell on it. 

“You listen here, boy,” Arthur’s voice sounded threatening, intimidating. It was perhaps the scariest you’ve heard him speak. “You ain’t got no idea what’s comin’ to you if you leave. There will be no place in hell you’ll be able to hide from the decision you’re about to make. It’ll follow you the rest of your days, and haunt you when you’re dead, you understand me?”

John didn’t speak, didn’t answer or even mumble an excuse, he just walked away. He walked towards Abigail’s tent, ducking his head under and closing the front panel. You stood there stunned, afraid to move… but then Arthur came up around the backside of the area and scared the shit out of you. 

“You hear all that?” He asked, a slanted look in his eyes and a distaste for you in his tone. It might be the remnants from his past conversation, but you hate the way it sounds. 

“Arthur,” you caught your breath from the fright he gave you just in time to mumble out an apology. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be listenin’, but Abigail’s been telling me things and I just…”

He managed to huff out one silent breath of a laugh, shaking his head. 

“Don’t be fretin’ on my account, I ain’t mad at you.” 

You sighed in relief, stepping closer to him now that you didn’t feel so burdened. 

“I don’t know him very well, but what I’ve seen… he doesn’t know his head from his ass. Is he really gonna leave?”

“I don’t know,” he started, crossing his arms and letting out a small yawn. He’s just as tired as you are. “I think I just bought a few days, maybe more, but who knows.”

“You think he can change his mind?” You relaxed your demeanor in front of him, but kept your head on a swivel just in case

He was so tired, you felt bad for keeping him awake, but you figured these thoughts were weighing heavy on him, and it might be good to get it off his chest. “He’s far too stubborn to do it on his own. We’d all have to raise hell for him to think badly of his own choices.”

You frowned, turning towards the tent of the new, young family… There were already so many problems in their unit. 

“Poor Abigail.” 

She’d be alone, and with a child to take care of. And meanwhile John would be scott free and having the time of his life.

“She’ll be alright, her and the boy. I’ll make sure of it,” he nodded towards where you were staring. “Around the time he started acting up, I told her I’d marry her, be the kid’s father if she wanted me to.”

Your head snapped around to him, and you processed his words. Abigail told you about part of his offer, because you’d given her the same one, sans one detail…

“You’re gonna marry her?” 

“Only if she wants me to, if John leaves.”

Good to know… but not really. It looks to you like John is pretty set in his ways, even if he ends up staying through the week, or even more. 

You nodded to him, but you hated the notion that he could already be promised to another person, even if you had absolutely no plans on pursuing him yourself. It was a small little envious monster that crawled in the pit of your stomach, and for a split second, you felt yourself resenting Abigail, who thus far, had become your closest friend after Arthur. 

“I actually offered the same,” you laughed, shaking your head and kicking your boot into the ground. “Not that it would last, but I just wanted her to know I was willing to help.”

“The whole gang chips in here and there, bein’ a family and whatnot… She’ll never go without help,” he assured, his posture becoming heavier with each minute passing. 

“Yeah,” you cleared your throat and stretched your arms out, faking a massive yawn that looked real enough to pass you off. “It’s probably time we all turn in, huh?” 

For some reason he seemed vaguely sad for the interaction to be over. 

“Just about… I’ll catch you later, then,” he waved you off, heading back to his wagon and you to your tent. Even though they were relatively close, the entry points were on opposite sides.

You fell back into your cot with a heavy exhale. It’s been a long night, and with a crying baby in the camp, it’s looking to be a long next few months. 

-

The next few days were wonderful, despite the ill attitudes of a few grumbly men, Arthur not included. 

Dutch has been going on and on since the birth of the baby that the newest member should be given a worthy name. You assume he suggested his own namesake a few times, but since he’s been nothing but playful about the whole thing, you know he isn’t too bitter when they do finally settle on a name. 

Abigail picked it out, and you understand why. 

John Marston Jr, or as the two have taken to calling him already, Jack. 

You were surprised to see that waking up in the late afternoon the day of the birth, John was being… really different. He was putting in effort to help Abigail, he was making sure the others knew of all the information as it came, and most importantly, he was being positive about the whole situation. You suppose Arthur did knock some sense into him, and it was evident in how he was carrying himself. 

You weren’t sure how long it would last, but you felt relieved. Not only for Abigail, but selfishly, for yourself. If John sticks around and pulls his weight, Arthur doesn’t need to be tied down to a family. Not that he would ever see it that way, but still. 

You didn’t know where you stood with Arthur. He was a dear friend, you knew you could say that by now. You think that maybe the playful banter between you holds more than just friendship, but you can’t be sure, and you’re too damn chicken to test the waters. And obviously, a plain and simple conversation is entirely out of the question, because of ridiculous reasons you don’t care to list off. 

Maybe you’ll never know, and you’ll always be playing the game of ‘will we, won’t we’, unable to come to a sound conclusion. You think you’d be well enough with that, even if you never settle down with anyone. 

It’s a terrible absolute, and you should have never decided on it, but you think that being open ended and in this endless cycle of banter with Arthur is better than being in a committed relationship with anyone else. It makes the one on one interactions with him that much sweeter, though. Like today, when it was both your turns to watch baby Jack. The others were working on something in the town, and Abigail and some of the women were napping, having taken care of him through the night.

“He might be hungry,” you suggested, laughing at Arthur’s attempt to sooth the wailing infant. 

“I get hungry too, y’never see me cryin’ about it,” he was joking, clearly. He shook his head and reached for the glass bottle Miss Grimshaw had prepared this morning. 

Jack fed on the bottle and stopped crying, and in the aftermath, you paused to watch the scene before you. A big, gruff outlaw, with his hair tousled and shirt out of place from tiny hands fisting at it, and relaxed in his arms, a tiny baby being bottle fed. It was such a contradictory picture, but one you couldn’t tear your eyes away from. 

“Cute,” you mumbled, nearly under your breath, but he heard you. 

“He’s somethin’,” he chuckled, a small smile on his face when mentioning the boy he held so close. Arthur was many things, but amongst them was gentle. He was a kind creature by nature, that had only been hardened by experience, and these soft moments let his internal goodness show. 

“I meant you,” you teased, and he rolled his eyes, shaking his head. He didn’t even know how to respond for a second. 

“I’m quite the opposite, but I’ll thank you for the thought.”

As tough as he was, and as rightfully boastful over his skill with a weapon or with his bare hands, he seemed to negate himself often. His intelligence, his artistic talent, his looks, even his presence during group gatherings. It saddened you, and you didn’t even know the root of his struggle.

“Why you always doin’ that?” 

“Doin’ what?” he asked, his head tilted to the side and a narrow look on his face. 

“Bein’ mean to yourself…” you answered, sitting down on the other end of the log he was relaxing against. 

What a treat it would be for Arthur to see himself through your eyes. He’d never think poorly of himself again. 

“M’not, just the truth.” 

And that was even sadder. Who on earth ever convinced this man that he wasn’t good enough? Whoever it was, you’d like them to be on the other side of your pistol’s barrel. 

You huffed out a sigh, leaning forward so he didn’t have to strain his neck to look back at you. 

“Y’know it’s too damn bad, I happen to think you’re a pretty decent person. I pity anyone who thinks otherwise,” you spoke firmly, laying it on thick so that maybe he can come to terms with believing you. 

“Is that so?” 

“Mhm, very much so…”

He looked back down at Jack, trying to distract himself from your complimentary onslaught. He didn’t much care for compliments, so he wasn’t even sure how to receive them, if he accepted them at all. He has a very strong belief system, and it’s constantly just a mantra of things like ‘I am a bad man, I do bad things, I am dangerous, I am getting old, I am ugly,’ and so on. He didn’t understand how much he had hurt himself by forming those beliefs in the first place. 

You sat with him in silence for a few minutes, just watching Jack finish the bottle and settle into Arthur’s arm for a nap. He slept a lot for someone that cries through the night. Hearing the soft cries in the night isn’t peaceful, but it’s better than the anxiety and feeling of dread his cries brought you the first day, when John was set on leaving. 

You keep replaying a moment from that morning in your head, when the sun was just over the ridge, and you were heading to your tent… 

“Arthur?” 

“Yeah?” He turned his head again.

“The day he was born… that argument between you and John,” you wanted to make sure you phrased this correctly, unsure if it was a sensitive topic. “He’d apologized for sayin’ something… Sayin’ that you didn’t do any better? What was he talkin’ about?” 

Arthur took a deep inhale and shifted around in his seat, the ground beneath him feeling like it could cave in just at your words. John had struck deep with what he’d said, but having to rehash it, and with you… it wasn’t a thing he’d ever do for fun, to put it nicely. 

“I mean, him talkin’ about leaving Abigail, and you givin’ her your offer… You’re already better than he is.”

“I wasn’t always,” he shook his head. “Holdin’ him like this, it makes me remember just how terrible I am.”

You sank down from the log and scooted closer to him. No one in camp was around to see, so you didn’t bother looking. His eyes got foggy without even going into detail, so you didn’t push… but he seemed to open up on his own. 

“I had a boy when I was John’s age. Same situation n’ all,” he shook his head, trying to keep his sights on the ground in front of him. The longer he held Jack, the worse this feeling got, but he knew it wouldn’t ever go away, not really. Not with a new and constant reminder of his past. “His momma and I, we didn’t get on too well, so I kept with the gang. Didn’t ever come around except when we passed through that town. Could count on two hands the times I saw my own son…”

You didn’t know what to make of this. He has a son? Does he keep contact with him? You’re unsure if you want to know all the details, because hearing it as is, sounds messy. 

“Where does he live?” 

You had no idea that you’d just asked the worst question in response… but how else were you supposed to know? This was the first you’d heard of Arthur’s son. 

“He uh… he died, about three years ago,” Arthur shook his head, swallowing back the lump in his throat, though his teary eyes persisted. “They both did... I came back one day, and found two crosses in the yard. I asked around, townsfolk said a group of robbers came through and raided several homes.”

“Arthur…” you grabbed his arm gently, trying to convey your sympathy, and your sadness. 

“I knew it had been my fault. If I had been there, my son would be alive, his mother, too.” 

A cloud had rolled over the sun, and shrouded in a temporary shade of darkened light, the mood felt heavier than even his words could convey. This man and his layers, being peeled away before you… it was both touching, and terrible. You had no idea a man was capable of feeling so deeply, of being so open about his past and regrets. You’d never seen a man cry before. 

“Issac and Eliza were their names,” he finally looked at you, tears escaping his eyes at a rapid pace. He let them fall, somehow knowing you wouldn’t judge him for it. “And they aren’t here because of me.” 

You gently raised a hand and wiped his cheeks with your thumb, leaving your hand there for as long as he would let you. 

“I’m so sorry, Arthur…” 

Nothing you could say or do would help to heal his wounds, but you wanted to try. Wanted to be there for him, whatever that meant. You and him got on well. You were friends, but there was competition between you, all a part of your banter. You supposed you’d feel inclined to let him win in any circumstance from now on, just because you couldn’t bear to make him upset. Seeing him this way broke your heart, but it also empowered you in some way. To be more empathetic, and kind, and to not let your anger get the better of you. You’ve proven to him in the past that you were a hot head, no pun intended. You would have to be mindful of letting yourself fly off the hinge to him in the future. 

“Even if John doesn’t leave… I swear I’m gonna do right by this boy,” he let out, his voice trembling but his words were of certainty. 

You felt a tear roll down your own cheek, and did nothing to stop it. This moment, whatever it was, you wanted to feel it. Wanted to keep it buried within the depths of your soul. 

You’ve been on the run for four years now, and in those four years, you’ve been on your own, making some sort of fantasy world for yourself where death was just the thing at the end of a duel, and you never had to pay the toll of those losses. 

You’d not been living in reality, and coming to this gang, meeting Arthur… it must have been preordained. It must have been fate. He himself, day by day, was restoring your humanity, and your ability to feel something that wasn’t just a farce.

“Thank you for telling me,” you whispered, but being so close, he heard you clearly. 

He let out a huff that you suppose was meant to be a soft laugh. “You don’t just hear me, Red… you listen to me. I guess I’ll keep on tellin’ you things.”

And soon both your attentions were pulled back to Jack as he stirred slightly. 

You took a turn holding him while Arthur went to grab some food, and you found you rather liked this particular baby. He was a sweet little thing, not so bratty like the tiny cousins you grew up around. You can only hope he’ll stay this sweet as he grows older. 

-

A month had passed, and John was getting more angsty. 

Arthur was honestly surprised he had lasted this long. It seemed impossible that he stuck around, especially when he had to be the one to take a turn with the baby during the night. 

Fights had broken out with various members of the camp, mostly over John and his unwillingness to help anymore. Dutch had chewed him up and spit him out, and after that, John had made up his mind, for certain this time. 

“You ain’t leavin’, just sit down,” Arthur pulled him back by the shoulder, trying to stop him from packing up and saddling his horse.

“What makes you think I would stay with a bunch of folk who hate me?”

“We don’t hate you, you’re bein’ ridiculous. Sit down, we’ll talk about it.” Arthur tried to reach out for him again, but John pulled himself back and out of the way, two steps from the hitching post. “Boy, you’re not goin’ anywhere-”

“I’m leaving!” John burst out, taking Arthur by surprise. This wasn’t just another hissy fit or tantrum where he would eventually let it stew over. He was really gonna do it. “The kid ain’t mine, I counted back. She’s just try’na tie me down, Arthur... I feel for her, but I ain’t stayin.”

“Need I remind you of the price you’re gonna pay?” 

“She’ll be safe with you. The boy, too. I ain’t leavin’ them in incapable hands.”

“But you’re leaving them,” Arthur reasoned, trying his best to make any last effort to save what could have been, but he knew his found brother would not be changing his mind. His only thought at this point was to beg him to stay. If only because he asked. “Don’t do this. They need you, we need you.”

“You don’t need me, Arthur. You’re the better one, always were…” 

“C’mon now, you know that ain’t true. S’just another excuse,” he waved his arms around, trying to emphasize just how stupid it sounded. Yes, it’s all Arthur’s fault that John is leaving. 

John doesn’t even answer Arthur, he just turns heel and readies his horse, all while the older of the two stands by and ridicules him for what he’s about to do. All John can do is tune him out, and pretend he doesn’t hear the distant crying at the other edge of camp, where Susan is trying to console a tired and emotionally devastated Abigail. Their son sleeps in Tilly’s arms, oblivious to anything happening around him, but what’s to come will put a damper on his previously bright future. 

By the time John is on his horse, loaded up and ready to head out, Arthur grabs hold of his leg, yanking it back from the stirrup. He looks to his eyes one more time, to see if there’s any guilt, any resolve, anything that might show he knows what he’s doing is wrong… but he only sees annoyance and pride. Two things John Marston usually wore on his face. 

“If you leave this camp, you best never come back again, ya hear?” 

And for the first time that night, Arthur saw just a shred of fear in the younger man’s eyes. 

“I hear,” he nodded, the fear turning into sadness in this last moment. “It just ain’t worth it no more.”

And with that, he turned his horse, and left the camp. 

Arthur went storming through the camp after the interaction, needing to find himself a drink. 

-

You were angry and rightfully so, stomping back into camp like a bear hunting its prey. Walking up to the campfire, there were only a few left awake. Pearson and Hosea sat, hunched over and with half full whiskey bottles in their hands. Probably from the stolen stash, the brand was decent.

“Anyone seen Arthur?” You asked them both, knowing that at least Hosea could tell you. 

“He passed out ages ago,” He nodded towards his covered wagon near the trees and rocks separating your space. “John left camp tonight.”

“I know, I caught him outside the saloon,” you sat down by them, reaching out for either bottle they were willing to hand over. “Gimme some of that, will ya?”

And of course, drinking was the solution at the end of the day. 

After a while, Pearson dragged himself to bed, leaving you and Hosea to sit and stew by the fire, milling about your tumultuous thoughts. You should have known he’d ask for details of your run in with John. 

“I was out scouting today… realized I needed to go to town for a pair of socks, mine got holes too big for sewin’,” you began, gaze trapped on the fire, the alcohol making it harder to focus on anything else at once. “Came outside and found him hitchin’ his horse.”

“You were the one who approached him, then?” 

“I thought about just wavin’, I thought I’d be seein’ him back here… but then I looked at his saddle. He was packed up for the trek of a million miles,” you sighed, taking another big swig of the pricey whiskey in your hand. You would finish the bottle in no time if you kept up like this, trying to quench your raging thirst for something strong and potent.

“What did you say to him?” 

“Nothing really, not at first. Just asked how the day had been, how Abigail was. I haven’t been here since this morning. I guess they started fighting real bad after I left. Dutch tore into him, too,” you spoke heavily, suddenly the swigs you were slamming back were making you a bit less understandable. Hosea though, was easily able to listen, because after years of Arthur’s drunk slurring, and having to make out sentences between, he was practically an expert. “All I said was that he shouldn’t leave, because he’ll regret it.”

“And I suppose that didn’t help.”

“Nah, he just told me where to shove it. I think he’s scared… not of the kid, and not of Abigail. I think he doesn’t wanna end up like his father. Arthur’s told me something about it, but in my opinion, he’s trying to get out before the resentment turns to abuse n’ all that.”

“I reckon you're right. We all told him time and again he’d be a good father, but he’s stubborn as they come, and when his mind’s made up… there’s no stopping that boy.” Hosea shook his head once more, his sadness reflecting in the light of the fire. 

“I guess Arthur’s gonna marry Abigail, now…” you knew you were just trailing into your thoughts, and that while getting more drunk, you shouldn’t be saying them out loud… but you couldn’t help it. Selfishly, on your ride back to camp, this is all you thought about. 

“He offered, it’s up to Abigail to accept,” he said gently, raising his brows in thought as well. He doesn’t see it as a good match, but he thinks it’s honorable that Arthur would do such a thing. 

“I hope she doesn’t,” you murmured quietly, but it seems he still heard you. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing, m’just gettin’ drunk.”

He chuckled under his breath, his side eye remaining on your features just a while longer before he stood up, patting you on the shoulder. 

“Don’t drink too much more. You’ll pass out before making the trip to your tent.”

And then he left you alone. With your thoughts and a bottle of whiskey in hand, who knows what more you could do in a situation like this. It was better to cut your losses and just turn in… so you did. 

Laying down on your cot, you expected sleep to take you. It should have, given how tired you were, but the single notion kept echoing in your head over and over…

Arthur Morgan isn’t mine, and he never was.

Tags: @photo1030 @sheepdogchick @snoopysshark @strvberrydoll @yyiikes @phantasyy @puffyhairedhipster @scorpio-echo

[sandwhitches]

𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗢, 𝗚𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗬𝗘! (𝗮𝘁𝘀𝘂𝗺𝘂 𝗺𝗶𝘆𝗮 𝘅 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝗺𝗮𝘂)

V. “the worst case scenario” ✧

warnings: “kys” jokes, suggestive jokes, mentions of alcohol/weed consumption, mentions of a nosebleed (not graphic), making out (hehehe), references to sex/hooking up (no smut)

wc for written portion: 1.6k (😳)

taglist status: open! (send an ask or comment)

<- prev. | m. list | next ->

There’s got to be something seriously wrong with you, or in the least, you must have terrible luck. Apparently, getting yourself into difficult and most certainly unwelcome predicaments with Atsumu Miya must be a strong suit of yours considering that tonight makes it the second time that’s happened. 

“I oughta be careful around ya, huh?” 

You’re sitting on the edge of his bed, watching in horror as he dabs away at a nosebleed, tongue grazing over his top teeth to keep the skin taut. 

“I’m so sorry, I really didn’t-” He interrupts you with a soft huff, shaking his head as he looks at you through the reflection of the mirror on his bathroom wall, “Don’t apologize, I know ya didn’t mean it.” 

How come you always manage to be wrong when assuming you’re going to have a good night? In your defense, it did start out fun, and you still have the staticy tipsy sensation to prove that. In your half-drunken rampage, you’d been giving a wild, partially dramatized retelling of something that didn’t matter anymore, and you were just lucky enough to jab your elbow square between Atsumu’s eyes in the midst of a wild flail of your arms. 

Don’t worry about it, he’d laughed, holding his nose, takes a lot more than that to do damage!

And part of you didn’t want to worry about it, part of you thought that your frantic flurry of apologies would be enough, but as soon as your friends turned their attention to something else for just a moment, your feet were already carrying you down the hallway. 

It took you two tries to find his bedroom, the first room was dark and cluttered, the second occupied by a couple that seemed to be all too busy in their attempts to suck each other’s faces off to really notice your brief, alarmed presence. Finally, you found luck knocking upon the third door to the left, hearing the halt of busy shuffling against the floor followed by a “Yeah?”

Now, you can’t really say you’re an innocent party in your second time being alone with Atsumu, but you also can’t bring yourself to question why this is exactly where you felt like you needed to be once more. The bleeding has yet to be stopped and you’ve lost count of how many times Atsumu has assured you that he’s “fine,” yet you still keep apologizing like it’s the only thing you can do. Maybe there’s some truth in that, what else did you come into his room for, if not to apologize? 

Your rise to your feet concern laced in your voice, “You’re bleeding all over yourself!” You exclaim upon seeing the red trail down his shirt, “God, if I gave you a concussion, I’m gonna-”

You’re interrupted once more, and for a split second you realize how Atsumu is surprisingly the mature one in this situation. That gives you a proper wave of chills. 

“Relax, it’s just a nosebleed. Alcohol thins yer blood, see? Looks worse than it is,” he mumbles reassuringly, for some reason still utterly patient with you, “Just get a shirt from my top drawer, the bleedings slowing.” 

So that’s what you do, and for yet another time (another time too many), Atsumu lifts his shirt off in front of you, blissfully unaware of how you’re trying not to notice the ripple of bulging muscles under his skin. Since when did you think he was hot? You’re racking your brain for a logical explanation behind all of this, a reason that explains how that fleeting thought that crossed your mind just now isn’t as sincere as it feels. 

“I deserve it, anyways,” Atsumu snickers, flipping off the switch in his bathroom as his eyes fall on you, your stance awkwardly stiffer than a few seconds ago, “Oh, shut up,” you scoff playfully, rolling your eyes, “you don’t mean that.”

A lazy laugh leaks from his stupid mouth, making your fingernails bite into your palm as you clench your fists tighter, “No, I’m serious,” he adds, moving past you to sit on the bed. Why isn’t he walking back out to the party? Why?

“I, um, been meanin’ to-...” Atsumu takes a big, sighing breath, expression tightening as his smile fades away to something else, something much more unsettling. 

“Just wanted to say sorry.” 

You take a quick breath of surprise, looking up from the floor for a cursory glance at his expression before directing your gaze back to your shoes. There’s nothing for you to say right now, is there? Atsumu seems to know it well enough, which is why it’s he who speaks again next. 

“I’m sorry I was such a little asshole to ya, ya never deserved that,” he swallows thickly, watching as your expression loosens up a bit and you meet eyes with him once more; they are bereft of something, their usual shine, he seems so much more different when he doesn’t have that cheeky grin or smug subtle squint in his eyes, had he always looked this…nice?

“That was years ago, Atsumu, you really don’t have to apologize for something that happened when we were kids,” you murmur, the whisper of a dry laugh under your breath in a failed attempt to lighten up the mood. The both of you let silence take over, only broken by a short sniff from Atsumu, who has since taken to playing with his fingers in thought. 

“Y’know…I never hated ya if that makes ya feel any better,” there’s not a hint of playfulness in his voice, so wildly different from the Atsumu you were beginning to know once again, the Atsumu who appears to have never taken anything seriously in his life. “Sure seemed like you did.” you find that the coyness of your usual banter has also left your tone, heart beginning to thrum heavy against its ribcage confines. 

“I didn’t,” Atsumu supplies, chuckling lightly. He stops fidgeting with his hands and sits up straighter, “It’s ‘cause I had a crush on ya…ya really couldn’t tell?” 

Your breath catches in your throat, shock bleeding into your muscles and pulling your head back up to look at him. A crush? This had to be a deliberately thought out joke of his, another opportunity for him to get one last laugh in, payback for nearly busting his nose, payback for whatever else he thinks you did to wrong him. You find yourself hoping, praying that you see that annoying grin return, for him to say that he was just kidding! In a sing-songy hum. But that never came. And with horror, you realize that he means what he says. 

“Are you joking?!” You scoff, chest hollowing out as the last breath of air you can manage squeezes from your lungs. Atsumu shakes his head, “Dead serious.” Finally what could be considered a smile returns to his face, a ghost of his normal grin, hauntingly different in a way you can’t quite place. 

A simple question returns to your mind, is there something seriously wrong with you? Because the next thought you have doesn’t have the chance to linger for consideration before it flies from your mouth.

“And now?” You raise your brows, feeling instant regret form a pit in your stomach. 

Something unrecognizable suddenly shifts in the air. Atsumu seems to not mind this at all, a coy twist returning to the corners of his lips, more comforting than you thought it was going to be, “Now?” He eyes you, leaning back slightly, pressing his palms on the bed behind him for support, “I think yer still pretty as ya ever were.” 

There’s no room for thought anymore, you’ve long given up on that, and you curse yourself for suddenly wanting all the answers when it came to Atsumu Miya. Just this once, you can give up the act, no one will ever know how greedy you were if the person across from you seems to be just as hungry. 

“Yeah?” You ask in a low whisper, stepping closer until your knees are touching his, your chin tilts down slightly, catching the flash of something unfamiliar dancing in Atsumu’s eyes. 

“Yeah, I think yer real pretty,” Atsumu whispers back, bringing a finger to hook into the belt loop of your jeans. 

Just a simple touch was all it took for you both to lose all sense between what was right and wrong. Long forgotten are your friends who are probably desperately searching for you right about now, no more are you thinking about the fact that this might be the last thing that should be happening between the two of you. 

All of it is swallowed up between the desperate meshing of lips, a messy search for the answer to every question you had for each other. Hands grip at napes of necks as lips slot against each other so perfectly like a key. You barely realize that you’re kissing until you hear the sounds of your own desperate pants for air in the short moments that you pull away from each other. You can feel your body begin to burst into wild licks of flames, dancing with the way Atsumu fits against you.

Your tongues silently swap secrets as they delve into the other’s open mouth, searching to taste the words left unsaid. And it’s in that fleeting moment of time that it all makes perfect sense.

As touches begin to drift to new places, the kiss deepens, and Atsumu flawlessly topples the house of cards you’ve been trying so hard to use as a wall between the two of you. Once your restraint is finally destroyed, there is no going back.

notes:

-> so much fortnite (in my opinion that’s the most realistic representation of university students, or maybe my friends all have an unhealthy obsession w fort)

-> suna def watches kodzuken streams and flipped out when he realized they had mutual friends

-> osamu miya and kenma would be the stoners of haikyuu if there ever was, let’s not kid ourselves here. osamu can eat two family style meals all by himself in one sitting when he’s stoned, kenma just falls asleep.

-> when y/n was looking for atsumu’s room the first one that she checked was pitch black and assumed to be empty (osamu miya was on the carpet in starfish position watching minecraft lets plays on his phone with a sleeve of saltines resting on his chest) (if ur like that’s really specific i have no idea why because that totally wasn’t something that i’ve ever done before in my life, no sir, not i!)

-> oh what’s that? atsumu’s a saved contact in reader’s phone now? interesting development

-> he’s still a dork he brought her bra in a ziploc bag like it was a biohazard or something

-> okay i’ll shut up this chapter was long as fuck thanks for making it to the end if ur reading this

a/n: i’m posting this at 3 am because i can. goodnight world. tomorrow i grind more on requests for my event :3

taglist: @reignsaway @lumiether @honeekyuu @luna-mothii @thiisisntlovely @ineednanami @atsumusc0ck @loveelylacey @han-jislay @brithedemonspawn (i think i got everyone, pls yell at me in my askbox if i forgot u! as stated in the beginning, taglist is still open!)

[desb3ar]

You’re Not Helping

Summary: Being funny at the wrong time.

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara and Co. x Spidervariant!Reader

A/N: PLATONIC READER!! You’re pretty much the life of the party <3. This is gonna be stupidly goofy because im in that mood LMFAO. This is veeeeeery low effort because it was a simple idea

——————

There had always been a dangerous flaw that seems to be unchecked. A problematic talent that will always leave your fellow colleagues in harms way with the commotion you’d cause with the insufferable antics you presented on the table. The thing that always happens during any mission, especially when things are quiet and dull. It was your way of keeping the energy and spirits high. What am I trying to say?

You are funny as FUCK.

You always had your way of making quips, like any other spider-being could, but something about your comedy always left people with hurting abs from the constant barrage of funny jokes you’d gunned them down with. It was a relentless attack, friendly fire if you will, because it always ended up with someone laughing too loud and compromising their position. As self-sabotaging as that may be, you wouldn’t do what you did if you couldn’t handle what came next.

Often times, you’ve received heavy critiques from the society’s leader, Miguel O’Hara, for putting people in danger because of your lack of professionalism. Jessica Drew would back him up, sometimes. However, she had never been happier when you joined, your jokes being a highlight of her day. You remembered when Jess and you were supposed to be doing a stakeout, scoping out for an anomaly. You had the villain’s file on hand and started to make the most ab shredding roasts that had Jess shed a tear.

“Lookin’ like a whole bottle of what the fuck.” You’d say.

Jess cuts you a lot of slack because of your high skill in the spider-arts. She takes great pleasure in being paired with you on missions because she always knew it was gonna be a successful and absolutely hilarious one.

You loved working with Jess too, because you yourself are a fan of her sense of humor. You hoped you’d be able to work with her more and more because of the amazing chemistry you two had.

Another person you love to hang out with was Peter B. You and him had busted each other’s guts before when you ate lunch together. Spoke about silly stories that had your food run cold from how engaged you two were. Which was absolutely crazy since Peter chows down given the chance.

Today is different. You were on a mission with Miguel. Before you both went to the dimension where the anomaly was located, he made it abundantly clear he didn’t want the jokes and quips today.

“This is a serious matter and I don’t want you to twist it around to be some joke.” He lectured.

You gave him a thumbs up and complied. However, like the snake you are, fingers had been crossed.

The two of you were in the middle of searching for the anomaly, staking out to be sure that nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Miguel had told Lyla to scan the area, in which she did. She wouldn’t come back till it was done, which was odd for her. It never takes her long to do scans with how technically advanced she is.

So now, you and Miguel are practically playing hide and seek to dig up anything about where the anomaly could be. This dimension was a strange one, it was filled with tunnels… Very echoey… Not good. You two were spilt up to cover more ground, but no luck.

“Damn.” You whined, arms crossed as you kicked a rock. “Where the fffu-. Bro oughta be a D1 camouflager. Where’s Lyla?”

“Dunno’. It doesn’t take Lyla this long to make a scan.” He grumbled with slight annoyance. “Gotta run another test…”

The two of you continued to look endlessly for the villain, but as expected, yet again, no luck. This was frustrating Miguel, everything he planned didn’t fall into line like it was supposed to and he hated that.

It was then that the two of you decided to regroup. Reunited, you took five and leaned against the wall.

“I’m getting the suspicion that the signal is messing with Lyla’s functions… How though…” Miguel muttered to himself trying to figure the dilemma out.

Then, in the silence, you blew a raspberry. The noise bounced off the walls.

This earned you a peeved look from Miguel.

“What?” You asked innocently, holding back a grin.

Miguel somehow managed to roll his eyes despite his mask being up, and turned away from you.

Your comedic side began to surface… This mission is just too stale.

“… Hey.” You spoke up, grabbing his attention with him slightly turning his head to you. “… Knock, knock.”

“Don’t.”

“C’mon… Knock knock…” You pressed. Miguel sighed.

“…. Who’s there.”

“To.”

“… To who.“

“No,” You snickered, “to whom.”

Miguel had the most disappointed head shake known to man when you were trying not to laugh. You gain composure, only by the slightest.

“Okay that was wack- Uh- Oo Oo- What do you-”

“No no- No more.” He said in a hushed yet loud tone.

“What do you call a spider with 10 eyes?” You asked blatantly.

“What-” He said annoyed.

“A spi-i-i-i-i-i-der.”

Okay, that was good.

Miguel sighed heavily… He sounds like he’s smiling, but you didn’t wanna believe it. “Alright alright.”

“One more one more.” You said quickly as you thought up another one. “What… Do you call two Mexicans that play basketball?”

Oh BROTHER.

“… WhAt…” Miguel had to look away.

“Juan on Juan.”

Miguel had to take a deeeeep breath with that one.

“… Okay.” There was a hint of laughter. “You done?”

“How does the moon cut his hair? Eclipse it!” You couldn’t help but laugh. Miguel snickered slightly…

“I… Stop stop we-“ He takes another deep breath, not wanting to laugh. “We need to focus and figure out-“

“Aye aye- I asked how much a roof cost… He said it was on the house-”

“(Y/N). Shut UP.” Miguel was trying to be serious but you were weakening his ability to keep composure, so he demanded with a slight laugh. “We can’t- We gotta mission and you’re-”

“Why was Mrs. Clause unsatisfied with Santa Clause? Because he only comes once a year.”

Miguel nearly lost it, he quietly shouted. “YOU’RE NOT HELPING.”

“ONE MORE… PROMISE….”

“Fine go go go.”

“How do you get a Mexican uncle’s attention?”

Miguel has a feeling he knows where this is going… “How?”

“Tapatio on the shoulder.”

Got him.

He nearly yelled before he covered his mouth. He gave you a playful punch on the arm and it caused the both of you to laugh together.

Hearing him laugh was something you’ve never thought you needed. He had the most goofy laugh you heard, he even snorted, which caused an echo in the tunnels.

“I can’t take you no where.” Miguel said as he was trying to calm down.

It was then Lyla FINALLY comes back with a scan. However, she was holding her oversized phone. She had recorded the whole exchange. You and Miguel looked at her with shocked faces.

“Saving that for memories.” Lyla said as she did just that.

“Lyla? Where have you been? What took you so long?” Miguel said with a clear smile on his face because he hasn’t winded down yet.

“It didn’t take me long to do the scan, I was just wanting to see if they could get you to crack.”

“… LYLA-“

“You got a cute snort too, like a lil piglet-“

“LY-“

“Also the guy is headed this way.” Lyla explained, pointing down the tunnel, causing the both of you to get yourselves together so you can take the anomaly down.

———————

an extension of the goofy head cannons? yes.

[captainpulisic]

your kiss, my cheek, I watched you leave - m. mount

feedback is appreciated, thank you.

word count: 2.1 k gif credits to owner

if anyone asked either of you about it, neither you nor mason would be able to explain how the fight had started. you’re not entirely sure what had made you two so upset with each other, you just knew this bitchy attitude had been happening all morning.

there you were, in the kitchen, pondering over how this fight had started. could it have been about the girl who had been too touchy with him at last night's party? maybe it was about the extra hours you had spent at work this past week, arriving home long after mason had gone to sleep? fuck, if we’re being honest, it was probably about who had finished the last pint of ice cream, maybe? 

as you look at the clock, you decide to put a pin on this reflection, seeing it’s nearly time to leave for tonight's game (just because you both want to murder each other right now doesn’t mean you won’t go, you were never one to miss a game, if you could help it.). you head up the stairs to your bedroom, the same stairs mason had stormed up a few minutes ago. what a child, you nearly laugh at the image of masons pout when you called him immature. instead of retorting with, also, calling you a name, he simply huffed and stomped up the stairs. seconds later, the sound of a door being shut rang throughout the whole house. 

as you enter your shared bedroom, you’re greeted with masons back. his tense movements and the manner in which he is throwing clothes into his duffel bag, let you know he’s still feeling raw about the fight. 

you still feel pretty raw, too. thus, you spare him no glance as you shove past him. yes, you still put on your number nineteen jersey (not wearing it would be a little too much, even you know where to draw the line. mason would see it as a stab to his heart). yet, as you remember how he rolled his eyes when you called him unreasonable, you feel irked again. you need some sort of retaliation. you make a show of putting a plain, grey hoodie over the jersey, refusing to meet his stare. that oughta show him, you think to yourself. he looks as if he wants to say something, yet resorts to another eye roll and an even louder scoff. 

both of your attitudes were so horrendous, they continued as you settled into the car. the whole ride to the bridge, not one word was uttered to each other. no, it was all huffy sighs and the low hum of the music playing. hell, even the way he was holding your hand was stiff, no gentle squeezes or lip brushes. (what? just because he’s furious at you doesn’t mean he’s not going to hold your hand. he's upset, not crazy.)

when you arrive at the bridge, you both linger by the entrance, unsure of what to do or how to depart. usually, on happy days with no fights, you both stay there as long as possible, as you pepper his face with kisses. one on his forehead, one on each cheek, one on the little red spot on the bridge of his nose. you repeat this ritual until you’re both giggling messes. lastly, it ends with one final, proper kiss on his lips before he has to leave for some pre game obligations. mason refers to this as his ‘good luck kisses’. he swears on every star and planet that these ‘good luck kisses’ are the reason they win. before, you’d brushed it off as mason just making silly excuses to get kisses. you’d always been one to indulge him because who were you to deny him kisses? but to mason, he wholeheartedly believed that your little ritual meant something, it was the one superstition he followed before every game.

“you can never not kiss me, or else you’ll have to tell everyone you’re the reason we lost”, he had explained to you. even though you had laughed, it quickly died off when you saw his dead serious expression. “y/n, there’s nothing funny about this. the whole clubs future depends on you and me getting it on.”

therefore, your little tradition was born. if there was a game, mason could be found being kissed to death by you. if ben or conor or anyone else happened to pass by during this, their teasing would be answered with masons, “do you want us to win or not?”

when chelsea would end up winning a match, he’d get so smug. he’d claim that your kisses really were lucky, crediting you for their win. no, you weren’t just his good luck charm, you were the entire teams. if they happened to lose, even with your good luck kiss, he simply blamed it on someone else's performance or the refs shit calls. 

“well that was unfortunate, but it wasn’t my fault,” he would whisper in your ear, as you greeted him after a hard loss. you’d just shake your head, assuring him he was spectacular on the field. a smile would form on his lips as he whispered into your ear, “next time, we have to have a proper makeout, just to make sure we win, yeah?”

yet, right now, the air between you two is frigid. there are no giggles and no playful touches as you cover him in kisses. no, you both stand there and look everywhere but at each other. mason doesn’t leave right away, unsure if he should. you had never been one to deny him his good luck kiss, surely today wouldn’t be the start. arguments come and go but this was your tradition. he knew that you knew what it meant to him. yet, as you showed no indication of leaning in to give him his kisses, he figured he’d take on the role today.

look. you didn’t mean to turn your head, causing his kiss to land on your cheek. you swear it! you had seen him lean down and (secretly) felt relieved that today would have some normalcy, with your good luck kisses. but all too soon, you remembered how mason had refused to listen to you in the heat of the argument. instead of trying to talk things out and think of a solution, he had told you to “grow up” and walked away. like a switch, your anger and bitterness had come back with a vengeance. and like a reflex, your head turned when his lips came crashing down. 

you’ll admit, it was a petty move. you don’t really regret it though, anger still bubbling from his childish behaviour. if he wanted to be childish, so could you. 

you don’t regret it, that is until you see the look on masons face. your rejection of his kiss feels like the ultimate betrayal to him. the hurt in his eyes and his dejected expression have you second guessing everything you’ve ever done. 

“oh,” masons voice is small, but not as small as he feels at the moment. his face has fallen and his heart feels stripped bare. his sad pout is more present than ever. when he speaks, it's a mere whisper, “okay then.”

you’re not doing any better, all the hard feelings you had moments ago were looking very dumb. the look on his face had you ready to fold and forgive him. you had to hold yourself back from reaching for his hand and pulling him into your arms, kissing him until you were pulled apart. you just… couldn't. 

maybe you were too stubborn, but so was he. plus, you still felt you were owed an apology. he was the one in the wrong, the culprit in this stupid argument. you had to remain strong, even if all you wanted was to kiss the sorrows from his face. 

with one final (heartbreaking) glance towards you, mason turns to head into the locker room. and with that, you half heartedly head to the designated seating area for family and friends. 

it’s just a silly tradition mason and I have. we only do it because it gives us a reason to unashamedly make out. it’s not like our kissing sessions affect if chelsea actually wins or not, you tell yourself as you find your seat. 

soon enough, you’re eating your words. you don’t know if you should cover your eyes or turn your head away from the crime scene unfolding in front of you. the way chelsea is being annihilated by the opposing team, you’re dumbstruck. mason is a whole different story, playing like (in the kindest way possible) shit. it’s a sea of cards and missed shots. the ball gets stolen from him more times than you could count and his frustration is evident. he’s throwing fits and cussing out no one in particular as he walks the field. 

by the time the final whistle is blown, you’re grateful the bloodbath is done with. you’re not sure how you feel about what just happened. the one time I didn’t kiss mason, they really did lose, you mull over this. it can’t really be connected, right?

-

nonetheless, as you make your way towards the locker room, you’ve had time to think things over. you’re much more calm than when you left mason two hours ago, and all you want to do is kiss him and end this stupid argument. you’ll even be the one to swallow your pride and apologise if you have to, you just need things to go back to normal. heck, you even took off the hoodie and are proudly showing off the nineteen on your back. maybe that’ll ease the blow a bit. you can’t stop thinking of the hurt look he gave you when you rejected his kiss, and you can already imagine the horrid mood he’ll be in after the end results of the match. he’s already had such a difficult time with all his contract drama, another team loss is the last thing he needed.

waiting outside the locker room, you offer sympathetic smiles as all the boys start to walk out. mason is one of the last ones to exit, looking down at the ground as he walks. when he looks up and sees you, your heart wants to shatter into a million pieces. his dejected expression and ever present pout actually hurt you. 

“you didn’t kiss me,” he whispers matter-of-factly, as he comes to a halt in front of you. he’s still refusing to meet your gaze. he mumbles towards his shoes, “you didn’t kiss me and they kicked our arses out there.”

“what?” you’re baffled, having thought his sour mood would be due solely to the team's loss, or even to his mid performance. you hadn’t thought the lack of kisses between you had gotten to him so badly.

he finally looks at you, and it's like a shot to the heart. his eyes are filled with sadness and frustration and so much hurt. he states it as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, “you didn’t give me my good luck kiss. you turned away, so I played like shit.”

oh my, your heart might burst. my sweet, precious boy, I don’t deserve you. this situation is so pathetically heartbreaking and you hate to see him so sad over something you did. it’s all too much, the way he genuinely believes your kisses could control the outcome of the game and his performance. 

“my baby,” you’re wrapping your arms around him in an instant. automatically, he reciprocates the action and nuzzles his face into you. you begin to rub his back, trying to ease his breathing and relax him a bit. after a few moments in this embrace, you nudge him from his hiding spot in the crook of your neck and hold his face with both hands. you leave a kiss on the tip of his nose, “i’m so, so sorry. it’ll never happen again.”

he simply nods and offers you a slight smile. in return, you place a soft kiss on his jaw and on at the lobe of his ear. you leave another kiss on his cheek and one on his forehead. soon enough, you’re both lost in a haze of kisses. when you hear him let out a soft laugh, your heart strings ease up. 

yes, this is how it should be. no arguments and rejected kisses. there should just be laughter and intertwined hands and soft kisses and happiness. 

trying to lighten his mood even more, you look around before you lean in towards his ear. you fake whisper, “please don’t tell the other boys I didn’t kiss you today. I don’t want them to start forcing us to kiss in front of them before every game, like some sort of kissing cult sacrifice show.”

he gasps and puts on a (not so) fake offended face, “why not?”

[birchbow]

the motherfucking big leagues

The empress’s blocks are always full up to the gills, and this time’s about the same like it ever motherfucking has been.  Only this time it’s not just full of glittery gold and pink bullshit, it’s got a whole crowd of trolls in fancy soft pile clothes with rolled-up sleeves and shiny pro smiles on. 

“Your Condescension!” says the one who looks the most in charge, and the whole squad pulls up behind him to bow.  “What a pleasure.  We hoped we would see you tonight.”

“Yeah, had some business come up,” Meenah says, and waves grand around at all of you, like it’s clear why you oughta be around and there’s no way a motherfucker could question or guess twice.  “Got some additions to the spa day.  My head clownfish needs to glubbing relax for the first time in his life, and I atoll’d him he could invite a couple of quadrant-corners along.”

Comes to mind you’re going purple, under your fresh new paint.  Comes to mind, when she made mention of a spa day you didn’t put your pan to think what that would mean, or that if anybody’s got the dough to hire up a team of body-easers in soft block-wear and put them to work all up in your business, it’s the motherfucking empress.  And Karkat’s right there.

Might just as well go to one of those sex parties you saw getting rowdy on the Sinner, sit across from your matesprit and watch him fuck someone and let somebody touch you about it.  Fuck.

“Uh,” says Karkat, and glances up at you, and then back down at the motherfuckers in the next room, red all up to the eartips and down to the neck.  Licks his lips, nervous little flash of dark tongue over white fangs.

“What?” says Meenah.

“What the fuck do you mean, what,” Karkat says, all motherfucking types and ways of incredulous, and waves a frond around at the rubbing oils and the soft sweet air and the motherfucking horn-polishing kit, fuck you twice up to the carnival and back.  Holy shit.  “Did I walk into some kind of highblood decadence-play porn set?!  Is this real?!  You actually do this?”

“Shore?” says the empress, like Karkat’s the crazy one.  

“You have a moirail,” says Karkat, all motherfucking scandal.

“Uh-huh,” says Meenah, impatient with him, flicking the pink off her fins about it.  “He can come too, nubsy, c’mon.  He’s school.  Don’t be a glubbin’ square.”

You look to Kurloz; Karkat does too.  He does look like he’s motherfucking cool, and not like he’s having to try hard to be, so that’s…good, you guess.  Only like.  What the fuck.

“Perks,” Kurloz says, like it’s all a motherfucker’s gotta say, and shrugs.  “That’s the motherfucking big leagues, wrigglers.  You get all the feel-good you can swallow, if you wanna send out for it.”

“Except His Hilarity’s no glubbin’ fun,” Meenah says, and throws a frond out ‘round his waist to pull him over.  The motherfuckers in their soft dress-ups can’t see her play grab-ass at him, but you sure the fuck can, and it’s just how you’d draw their eyes that keeps you from making a face about it.  “Never saw a motherglubber so funny be so coddamn boring.”

“Watch it,” Kurloz says, half-growling, and bumps her off his hip—and it’d look like she just kept her grip on him to spite him if you didn’t see how his feet stumbled a second.  “You know how hard I got it to get any kind of motherfucking hires up onto the Dark Carnival without getting a couple picked off for paint on the way up?”

“Charming,” Karkat says, snippy.  “Your Imperious Condescension, how well-vetted are these people?  Gamzee’s got—I mean, I don’t know if they can handle him.  And I’m not going to have all four of us hazed at the same time—”

“Of course, Threshecutioner Vantas,” says the head guy, real sweet and soothing.  “I can assure you, our sylladexes are checked and emptied before we’re admitted, and we all value our positions and our lives enough to be extremely discreet—but we would be honored to have you guard your moirail, while we work on him.” 

You swallow hard enough if you had real seadweller gills you’d be glubbing at him, and he smiles just as nice at you.

[reds-writings]

i love your blog more than i’ve loved anything on earth before.. can you maybe write something about 1995 rust and reader working a late night together and taking an awkward and romantically charged truck ride to the bar together?? oh im a fool for some good old yearning. hope you’re doing well i love what ya do

ahhh! thank you so much! i too love some good ol' yearning so i whipped some up quick! enjoy, darlin! (this takes place in the middle of the first of many and the start of something new and jj)

“We oughta call it a night.” Your voice rang out in the empty space of the precinct. It had to be bordering nine thirty and your body was begging for release from your hunched-over position, having been pouring over a surplus of articles for the past couple of hours. The slope of Rust’s shoulders jerked slightly as if forgetting where he was or that you had decided to hang back with him in the first place.

“Time is it?” He rumbled out, using the heel of his palm to rub at a tired eye. 

“9:37. You good to drop me off still?” You replied after a quick glance at your wrist. Your truck was still in the shop but you couldn’t complain much if it meant being around Rust a little extra. 

“Don’t worry about it. Sleep decides when it wants to find me. Even then it never really takes hold.” The casual admittance threaded with his perplexing way of describing what troubles him would never fail to bewilder you. 

“Well…if you ain’t sleepin’ anytime soon could you be persuaded to stop for a drink on the way back? My treat.” 

Rust had the humor to snort, a sharp and haughty sound, “If the company you keep makes a lady pay then they’re shit.” 

“The company I keep mostly nowadays consists of Marty and the feral cat taking up residence in my yard every now and then.” 

“Therein lies the problem.”

‘He likes to be spoiled. What can you do.” You shrugged playfully while beginning to gather your things. 

“The cat or Marty?” That finally made you shoot out a laugh and he squashed down the distant desire to preen at your amusement. 

Not fun outside of parties. Fuck you, Marty. 

“We’ll grab a drink or two.” He relinquished. You pumped a fist in the air in a small celebration of victory with a hushed hiss of a ‘yes!’ The day was long and you could use a beer paired with the continued company of the wiry enigma. 

As you mosied over to his truck and hopped in you batted your lashes in what dramatic fashion you could muster through your fatigue, “Free drinks and the voluntary companionship of Mr. Cohle? Gee, did I strike lucky-”

“I don't recall sayin' free.” He lit a cigarette with one hand and began to steer out of the lot with the other. It was concerning how such a mundane act could start to get you all hot and bothered. 

“With you stickin' your nose in my business about what friends I do and don’t have they became free, I believe there was the implication of mighty disdain towards makin’ a lady pay.” A dainty finger wagged in his direction.

“I wasn’t aware I was in the presence of a lady-” The swat of your quick hand at his arm served as an interruption to his bullshitting. He was funny. When he wanted to be. Maybe not hardly ever but sometimes the mood struck whenever the stars decided to align just right. You thought it foolish to think the odds were specifically in your favor during moments like these but seeing him even a little bit at ease couldn’t hold you back from running right into the arms of said foolishness itself. Marty would dub you delusional. He could also kiss your ass.

Plain and simple.

“Because of your outright boorishness, I will be demanding some top-shelf finery tonight.” You half-sassed while he blew smoke from his sloped nose at your theatrics. The way you could go from suppressed and professional to the feisty spitfire sitting beside him now would soon throw him on his ass sooner than preferred. His liability to stop it was growing weaker with each car ride despite everything in his mind screaming to bring it to a severe halt. He wanted you far away from him but wanted you in constant proximity a hairsbreadth more.

“Low shelf. Maybe.”

“Top or bust. Consider it initiation as my new form of company. Just how it goes, friend.” You jokingly admonished and it was considered final.

Friend. He detested the warmth that took siege over his being.

[luminouslywriting]

Hey how are you doing? Hope the recovery is going well! Do you have any headcanons about maybe one of the guys falling for a girl in the village near Thorpe Abbott and feeling torn about asking her to come to America with him after the war?

Nonny, I am doing so good!! I finally am clear of infection and feel so good! Now I just have to conquer my vision problems haha. Please let me know how you’re doing too :)

I have THOUGHTS on this particular topic! For your pleasure and enjoyment, more under the cut, cut for length, some light spice sprinkled in:

-Listen, I think Robert Rosenthal is EXACTLY the type of man who has the time, energy, and focus to accidentally land himself a girlfriend while on base at Thorpe Abbotts.

-All unintentional, of course.

-But considering how long he's there and how many missions he ends up completing, it's not that crazy.

-We'll set this right before the holidays at Thorpe Abbotts, at least the first go around. This is where he meets his S/O—she's a seamstress who fixes the men's uniforms and he has a few things he needs fixing.

-Naturally, the two of you get to talking and his charisma paired with respect and genuine humor lands himself in the clear in your book

-So he keeps coming back and the two of you end up going on Sunday afternoon walks

-It's around this time that he asks you to be his girlfriend and go steady with him

-So the dates begin; picnics here or there, a dance or two at a party that he convinces you to attend, family dinners at your home, conversations about music and movies and books, exchanging of gifts between the two of you, etc.

-Now he is the type of man to go into things intentionally and with a plan—so keep in mind that he's focusing as much on the future as he is on the present with you.

-Which also means that despite the moonlit rendezvous in his jeep or in many a bar in the village, he's also trying to be long-term. He doesn't do things in half measures.

-This is all where his dilemma begins. Because he can see a future with you so clearly and he wants you to be happy and he wants his life to have you in it for the rest of his life.

-But asking you to leave your home and come with him to america? That's a big step in a relationship and not an easy one to make. That's life-changing and he's fully aware of that.

-So he's not going to ask you until the war is over

-That being said, he's still finding ways to have fun and make the relationship new and exciting in some ways

-He buys you flowers and you buy him records, you sew his clothes and he buys you a new dress—he's very much trying to equate and balance out the things that you do for him

-Rosie appreciates you being a support system for him. He can't always be at the Flak House, but a good cuddle session, pillow talk, and glowing session of sex oughta do the trick for him when he's getting anxious or upset about things

-Shower sex?? Yes, most definitely

-Rain sex outside?? Also yes

-He's very romantic in all of his gestures and he waits a while before telling you that he loves you—and it's right before he goes down in Russia

-Naturally, you're his first stop and call and when he gets back, it's a tearful reunion and realization that neither of you can live without one another

-So as the war begins to wrap up, Rosie feels more and more guilt about asking you to come with him and be the future Mrs. Rosenthal.

-Funnily enough, it's Gale Cleven that convinces him otherwise—with his return to base and immediate clocking of your relationship and how in love Rosie is, he's encouraging him not to waste any time on things

-So Rosie plucks up the courage to approach you about the entire thing

-And he just simply asks—he knows that you'll want time to figure it out and you might need some space. He's not going to argue or come up with any reasons why you SHOULD go with him.

-But he does add that he wants to marry you, so there is that

-Naturally, you say yes and the relief in his heart has only been matched by when the war actually ended

-So naturally, you drive to a chapel and get hitched before you even leave for the states

-Actual brother of Rosie: You know, when you said you were going to Europe, I was thinking you could bring me back a Luger, not a sister-in-law, but this works too.

[of-teeth-and-tenderness]

Bound

M Werewolf x F Reader (NSFW)

Summary: A planned encounter with a supernatural captive tethers the two of you together in more ways than one.

Warnings: Kidnapping, drugging, body horror, complicated noncon for both parties, fuck or die scenario, painful sex (and not painful sex), forced breeding, multiple orgasms, knotting, blood, gore, minor character(s) death.

~~

The echoing tap of boots on stone brings you to the surface of consciousness. Chain mail jingles in time with the dizzying sway of your heavy body. Your ears seem as though they are stuffed with cotton, every sound muffled and distant. Painfully, you swallow, your parched throat crying for water.

Slowly, pure sound returns. Keys rattle. A heavy lock thunks. Rusting hinges squeal. The stink of rotting iron, mildew, and heady musk assaults your senses. Snuffling, frantic inhales bounce off a low ceiling.

“W-What are you doing?” a deep but tremulous voice inquires. The fear behind the words gives you the strength to crack your eyes open.

Darkness is all you can see at first. Momentary panic grips you—have you lost your sight—but rapid blinking brings a stone floor into focus.

Before you can even begin to orient yourself, you’re slung from the shoulder of the man who had carried you here like a sack of goods. Pain erupts in your shoulder and hip when you crash to the floor, a weak cry tearing from your chapped lips.

A strained groan sounds from across the room, followed by gasping breaths and frightened begging, “No, no you can’t do this, you can’t do this! Please, for god’s sake, please—

“Quiet, dog! Isn’t this what you wanted?” a second voice snaps, condescension dripping from every word. “All that moanin’ and blubberin’ I’ve had to endure. Finally gettin’ your way and now you turn your nose up at it? Oughta be thankin’ me.” Cruel laughter ricochets off the ceiling. You wince and curl in on yourself. Darkness pulls at the edges of your vision, unconsciousness yearning to claim you once more.

A heavy door slams. The lock clicks.

“No, no, no, no….” the first voice chants, a despairing whisper. Deep, shaking inhales, then, “M-Miss…darling…I—please look at me, there’s no time….”

Groggily, you groan and force your eyes open. Focus, you will yourself. You push to your elbows, eyes quickly scanning the small room—a prison cell—before they fall on a man shackled to the far wall.

A small, barred window set high up into the wall allows just enough weak starlight into the cell to make out his features. The soft glow falls on dark, shoulder length hair. It’s wild and disheveled; that combined with the dirt on his skin and the thick stubble peppering his jaw tells you he hasn’t seen a bath or a razor in some time. He’s gaunt, like he’s been starved, and a sheen of sweat covers his body and glistens in the low light. His skin…. It’s completely unmarred, not a blemish in sight save for the thick purple scar covering his right shoulder. It is in the shape of a semi-circle, but you can make out nothing else in the low light.

You realize suddenly the man is naked, save for a thin cloth covering his groin. Even in the darkness you spot the erection straining under fabric. You gulp, bewildered and embarrassed, and meet his gaze. He regards you with wide, startlingly golden eyes. They dart to the window and back to your face. His nostrils flare like he’s scenting the air.

The question of how and why you’re here in this cell with this poor prisoner burns in your mind, but you remain quiet. You have a feeling this man will be your answer.

“That’s a good girl. Tell me your name?” he asks. His voice is strained, like he’s forcing himself to stay calm, or to calm you. You bite your lip hesitantly, your gaze flicking to the locked iron door and back again.

Your own voice breaking when you speak, you tell him your name as you push up to sitting. The room spins and you clench your eyes shut as nausea churns in your belly.

The tea.

They’d taken you—two soldiers in armor, armor with no sigil. They’d abducted you on your way home from town. They waited for you on the path you take through the forest, like they had known your route.

It was planned.

They took you to a nameless fortress hidden on the mountain. The dingy stone walls had oozed despair. They held you prisoner for several days in a room similar to this cell, though you’d been given a bed and a table and food. One night, flanked by soldiers—different soldiers, how many were there—a wizened old man had visited your room.

The old man told you he was a doctor. He made you drink a cup of foul tasting tea….

It was drugged, you realize now. Why? Are you still in the fortress? Why are you here now with this shackled man? And why is he so scared?

He repeats your name with a nod. “I am Callum. Listen…. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry there isn’t more time to explain. You—

Callum suddenly grits his teeth and tenses, his back arching away from the wall. You watch his toes curl and rake through the straw covering the floor beneath him. He whimpers and slumps forward, the shackles catching against his arms and digging bleeding groves into his skin.

Alarmed, you push to your knees, intent on helping in some way, but his eyes fly open and he shouts, “Don’t! Don’t, please don’t come near me. Your scent, gods, your scent….” He trails off, shaking his head and flexing against his bonds.

Audibly, Callum swallows and lifts his head to fix you with his intense stare. “The full moon is rising. I can feel it. I’m—I’m about to transform into…into something you’ve only ever heard tell of in stories. Something….” He trails off and shakes his head. “They…” he glares toward the door, “They left you in here with me as-as an experiment. I told them! I told them what would happen but they don’t listen. He has to see it for himself”.

Heart hammering against your ribs, you watch him, trepidation and confusion only increasing with his words. “I-I don’t understand,” you stammer, trembling fingers clutching the front of your dress.

“You will.” he whispers, eyes raising to the window again. They gleam in the light, tears brimming in his lashes. They trickle down his cheeks when he blinks and looks back to you. “I might hurt you, but I won’t kill you. Not this time. You’re-you’re going to be used for something else. I can’t control it. I wish—oh—how I wish I could. I’m so sorry, I wish it wasn’t like this, I’m sorry—

Suddenly, Callum stiffens, his body going ramrod straight. Golden eyes fix on the window, unblinking. He’s frozen in place, a statue. He doesn’t even breathe.

An agonized scream erupts from his mouth. You jolt and scurry away, your back hitting the opposite wall. Callum bows forward, more cries and groans leaving his quaking form. Joints snap, bones crack, and your eyes widen in shock at the sickening crunch.

With one, brutal tug, Callum cleanly rips the shackles from the wall. A shriek leaves you as he falls to his knees, dust and twisted metal raining down around him. His back curves when he falls forward and looses another blood-curdling scream.

Flesh tears. Terror sticks a scream in your throat when you watch the skin of Callum’s back split along his spine. Instead of bloody tissue and bone beneath, black fur emerges. More snapping, more shredding. Limbs elongate. Fingers grow heinous claws. Legs contort. Screams turn to snarls, sounds so deep and guttural you feel them in your chest.

Feverish panic surges through your muscles and you scramble off the ground to race to the door. You bang your fist on metal, frantically pleading through the small window with the man standing guard on the other side. He merely chuckles and shakes his head.

“Get comfortable, Missy. You’ve got a long night ahead of you. He’s in his rut, that one.”

Rut…?

Long, bony fingers wrap around your ankle and yank your leg out from under you. You squeal in surprise, barely managing to catch your weight and stop your face from smashing into stone. Hastily, you whip around, your entire body seizing in abject horror at what you find.

Staring back at you through the darkness are two golden eyes that burn with unnatural fire, glowing in the gloom. Black fur covers a monstrous snout. Moonlight glints off long, dripping fangs. Pointed ears flick to and fro, listening to your frenzied breaths.

It is a wolf, mostly. The long arms and legs and the ten grasping fingers, however, are unnervingly human. And the sheer, hulking size of it…. No normal wolf is this big. You know of this creature, heard your father speak of it once with the other carpenters.

He spoke of entire flocks of sheep slaughtered on a full moon night, their shepherds eviscerated and torn limb from limb. Yet, nothing was consumed. The culprit had only craved the hunt, the carnage. You had nightmares for weeks after, the name this man turned monster ever present in your fears:

Werewolf.

From the creature’s maw comes a rumbling growl, one that spills icy fear into your blood. You thrash and claw at the ground, but the monster easily captures your other ankle and pulls you across the floor.

Hot, viscous drool patters across your bare thighs, your skirts having bunched up around your hips during the slide. The wolf looms over you, its nose twitching this way and that as it scents the air. Scents you.

Shakily, you whimper when the wet snout dips to your neck—the teeth are so close, one bite and you’re dead—and snuffles along your skin to your ear. Its breath reeks of carrion, of death. You can’t stop your trembling as it travels down your chest and your abdomen before nuzzling into the apex of your thighs.

You yelp and squirm, but fall still when the beast growls again, more insistently this time. Claws catch in the fabric of your undergarments and tear, the sound of ripping fabric merging with your startled screech.

You’re bared to it now and can feel its hot breath ghosting across your slit. Drool spills from its mouth to drip onto your mound. Clawed hands leave your ankles to grip your thighs so it can wrench your legs further apart.

Pink tongue lolling from its mouth, the monster dips down and drags the slippery muscle across your folds. You’re so shocked you arch and gasp, unexpected pleasure jolting through your belly. Any attempt to twist your hips away only digs the creature’s claws further into the flesh of your legs. You’re trapped, a prisoner to its ministrations.

The werewolf begins lapping away at your cunt, its golden eyes slipping closed as if in rapture. Every pass of its rough tongue has your toes curling and your nails scraping against stone. You clench your jaw, mortified by the sounds aching to escape.

Distantly, through all your racing thoughts, the memory Callum’s words float to the forefront of your mind: “You’re-you’re going to be used for something else….”

Something else…. Did he mean…?

Climax hits you like a runaway horse. The tight coil of want deep in your gut snaps and pleasure rolls through you in molten waves. A strangled cry spills from your lips, your thighs twitching in the wolf’s grip.

Panting, dazed, you stare in disbelief at the low ceiling and curse your traitorous body. Later, think later. Get out, get away.

You move to wriggle away, but claws seize you around the waist. The room tilts as you’re flipped onto your front. One paw between your shoulder blades keeps your chest pinned to the floor, while another on your hip raises you to your knees.

Heart slamming against your ribs, there is now no doubt about what comes next. Straining, you peer back over your shoulder and catch sight of the creature’s thick red cock, hard and free from its sheath. The size of it renews your struggle, desperation to escape overriding the pain of claws pricking your flesh. It’s pointless, you realize, as the tapered head, slick with desire, slides down your rear and prods at your entrance.

“C-Callum, please don’t,” you plead, praying to the gods above the man inside the monster will hear.

Pointless.

The beast’s length eases past your opening and burrows into tight, slippery muscles. The incredible stretch takes your breath away and leaves you wide eyed and slack-jawed. Uncontrollable shaking wracks your form and you whimper pathetically, filled to your limit.

“T-Too-too much,” comes your tremulous gasp. Your nails carve bleeding divots into your palms. Behind you, the wolf rumbles in satisfaction. The fur of its chest brushes against your back when it curls over you, bringing with it the scents of earth and musk.

You feel its powerful thighs tense for the first, hard thrust, but just one is not enough. There is no slow start, no paced rhythm until you’ve adjusted. The creature snaps his hips with fervor, battering you into the floor. Wet slapping fills the tiny cell, the sound only overshadowed by your screams.

The screams, however, are not ones of pain, at least not completely. There is discomfort in the stretch, in how deeply and thoroughly your cunt is pummeled. Yet, there is no denying the pleasure, the ecstasy that takes control of your voice to make its presence known. You can’t contain the mewls, the moans, the high pitched keening.

“Please, p-please, please,” you whine, no longer certain if you beg for it to stop, or for more. Your knees ache and your cheek burns where you’re repeatedly pressed into the floor, but you hardly notice over the hot, sticky rapture spreading through your core.

The next climax takes your breath away. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry as your cunt squeezes the girth within you, demanding payment. The wolf snarls, drool splattering onto your back to soak into your dress. Something hard and bulbous, thicker than its length pushes against your slit.

What—

With one vicious thrust, the beast’s knot pops into your spasming channel. Its cock tunnels deeper still, deeper than you could have imagined possible. You shriek and arch, eyes crossing, overwhelmed tears spilling down your cheeks. You cum again, your vision whiting out, euphoria roiling in your gut.

More warmth floods your insides, so copious it overflows and leaks down your trembling thighs. Through the pleasure-haze you realize it is pumping you full of its seed.

Breeding you.

The werewolf slumps a little, pushing you further into the floor and covering your back with warm fur. It pants in your ear, its heaving chest mirroring your own. The great snout nuzzles your cheek, wet tongue lapping at your tears and sweat. An experimental twitch of your hips tells you you’re firmly locked in place where you are joined.

Those heinous teeth so near your head frighten you. You pray Callum’s promise about not killing you holds true. Even if it doesn’t kill you, it could still bite and pass its curse onto you.

Long minutes pass where the both of you simply breathe in the other’s air. The wolf hovers over you, its massive body and long arms like a protective cage. Weariness takes hold of your shaking limbs and your eyes droop despite the setting and company.

Gradually, the swollen base of its cock begins to shrink. The creature pulls free, a deluge of spend pouring from your hole and splattering to the floor. Your knees give out and you collapse, a sticky mess.

You expect the monster to retreat, to curl up and sleep, but instead it startles you by grasping you around the middle and rolling you onto your back. Your eyes go wide, your stomach dropping when you see it is fully erect once again.

“W-wait, wait I—

Claws dig into your hips and lift. The wolf surges forward and spears you on its cock a second time. The cry you loose burns your throat.

The frenzied pace starts up again, white hot jolts of arousal arcing through your belly with every thrust. Jarring movement causes your dress to slip off a shoulder, your breasts spilling free. Eagerly, the beast dives forward and laves its tongue across a nipple. You choke on a moan, fingers unconsciously tangling in coarse fur.

It becomes increasingly apparent as you are stuffed full of seed, flipped on your side, and fucked into once again that this ordeal, this long night is far, far from over.

You won’t rest until the moon does.

**

Your cheek nestles against thick fur. Blearily, you blink and realize you had dipped out of wakefulness for a moment. You’re still, no longer rocking with the movement of pistoning hips. You think you might still be seated on the wolf’s girth, but it is difficult to tell, numb as you are.

The creature beneath you stirs, a long whine leaving its throat. In your peripheral, faint light shines through the window bars. The sun….

The cracking of bone heralds the change. Claws retract, limbs shorten. Fur falls away to be replaced by skin and human body hair. Low growls morph into pained groans.

You don’t have the strength to lift your head. Your cheek, buried in fur not a moment ago, now rests on a sturdy chest. Callum’s heart hammers in your ear and his haggard breaths jostle you. No longer held inside by the wolf’s knot, spend pours from your abused cunt to coat the both of you.

Quietly, he sobs. Trembling arms wrap around your limp body and his lips find your crown. Timidly, he croaks out your name. You don’t know what to say, too dazed and exhausted to even think. You remain silent.

Carefully cradling you to his chest, Callum moves the both of you off cold stone and onto straw bedding. He gingerly fixes your clothing, pulling it back in place and covering you as well as he can. You sigh heavily, too weary to care. Your only desire is sleep’s comforting embrace, nothing more.

Rest comes, however lightly. You doze, drifting in and out of that liminal space between waking and sleeping. Perhaps it is the way your hips ache that keeps you from slumbering deeply, or the way you can feel your heartbeat between your bruised thighs. The more time passes, the more your body begins to twinge.

Voices rouse you. Your eyes flutter and you listen, focusing on their words. Both are voices you recognize.

“…took the poor wench, if all that screamin’ was anythin’ to go by.”

“Is she still alive?” You frown. It’s the old man, the doctor….

“Dunno. Haven’t heard her in a while. Maybe not.”

“Did he knot her?” Your cheeks burn at the question.

“How the fuck would I know? Wasn’t in there taking notes, was I?” The lock thunks. Your eyes fly open only to meet molten gold.

A thrill of fear races up your spine. Callum’s human eyes are identical to those of the wolf. You suck in a breath and will your racing heart to calm. He’s still human.

Callum holds a finger up to his mouth, hushing you. Hastily, you shut your eyes and pretend to sleep. Hinges squeal.

“You don’t understand! If he claimed her as his mate, you have no idea the danger you’re in!” Boots on stone, louder voices, rattling of chainmail and keys. “His protective instinct will be ferocious—

“Quiet down, old man. Looks to me like he fucked himself into a stupor.”

Instantly, the heat of Callum’s body disappears from your side. There’s a grunt of surprise, a wet gurgle, then shocked silence. You risk a peek and your hands fly to your mouth to muffle your horrified gasp.

The guard who had spoken so crudely—the one who brought you here—clutches wildly at his neck. Scarlet gushes from a chunk of flesh that has been torn from his throat, flesh that now rests between Callum’s teeth. Little drops of gore, crimson rain, patter onto the stone around their feet, more violent red peppered across the front of Callum’s bare chest.

The soldier topples over, the noisy crash breaking the trance of the second guard. He rushes Callum only to receive a powerful kick to the chest. The man crashes into the far wall and collapses in motionless heap.

Callum then turns his attention to the old man cowering near the door. Pathetically, he cries out and moves to scamper from the room, but Callum is faster. He grips the doctor by the throat, fury burning in his golden eyes. The old man paws at Callum’s wrist, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

Callum squeezes. A gut-wrenching crack echoes around the room and the old man goes slack in his grip, eyes rolling back into his skull. Unceremoniously, the doctor is tossed to the side, a lifeless rag doll crumpling into a pile.

Callum spits the blood from his mouth and hurriedly kneels next to the first guard. He strips him of his breeches and boots and dresses himself. Reaching for the sword, he pauses and peers closely at the handle. He must not like what he sees because he leaves it to stand.

Then, he turns to face you, face bloodied and eyes alight with righteous fire. You’re momentarily frozen in half-formed panic. He won’t hurt you, will he?

But you couldn’t flee if you tried.

His expression softens and he races to your side. Gently, he grips you under the arms. “We must hurry. More will come soon. Can you walk?”

You steel yourself and push your fears aside. Escape must take precedence. “I-I can try.” Wrapping your arms around his neck, he hauls you to your feet. You stagger into his side, your knees buckling, the deep ache between your legs growing unbearable.

Callum wraps an arm around your waist and ushers you from the tiny cell. You stumble along as well as you can, every step reminding you of your list of hurts.

Before you lies a hallway. He lifts his head and sniffs the air. “This way,” he murmurs, steering you to the right. Together, you rush, stepping as lightly as you can, your padding footsteps and labored breaths like a cacophony in the quiet hall.

Over the rush of blood in your ears you hear voices up ahead. Your heart leaps into your throat. Frantically, you look up at Callum.

He wastes no time. As though you weigh nothing, he lifts you clean off your feet. Backtracking, he slips into a nearby stairwell and presses flush against the wall. Callum crushes you to his chest and the both of you hold your breath.

A pair of guards approach, boots stomping, chainmail jingling. They laugh about some shared joke, their chortling filling the hallway and echoing down the stairwell. Please pass by, please pass by….

You slowly release the air trapped in your lungs as the soldiers continue forward past the stairwell. Though, you won’t have long before they discover the grisly scene in the cell and sound the alarm. Callum must understand this too.

He darts back up the stairs, sets you on your feet, and continues onward, more urgency in his steps. You stumble along, fingers digging into this shoulder while your other hand clutches desperately at the arm around your waist.

Down a set of stairs, through another corridor you go. Ahead lies a heavy wooden door. Callum shoulders it open just as a bell begins clanging from the guard tower.

Daylight blinds you both. You nearly tumble down the short set of stairs in your rush to throw a hand up over your face. The arm on your waist steadies you.

Hurry, down the steps, hurry.

You grit your teeth, every step jolting sore limbs. Dull aching becomes sharp stabbing. Push it down, ignore it you tell yourself as you rush through the grass. Just head is tree cover.

Your knees buckle. You crumple, a strained cry leaving you as you crash to the ground, grass dirtying your palms and your dress. Morning dew still clings to the blades to soak your clothing.

“I can’t, just—

Callum doesn’t let you finish and instead scoops you up off the ground to carry you bridal style. How he can run right now, carrying you and exhausted from the previous night is beyond you. Still, he sprints into the trees, gracefully leaping over brush and fallen branches.

Soon, however, he begins to slow. Sweat beads along his brow and his chest heaves. There is such weariness etched in his features; in the light you can see the dark circles under his eyes, the sunken cheeks.

“Callum, stop,” you urge, your palm gently resting on his chest. He blinks and looks down at you as though he’d been in a trance. He staggers and falls to his knees, dead foliage crunching beneath. You clamber from his arms and help him lay on his side as he sucks in laborious breaths through his teeth.

Hastily glancing about, you find a moderately sized branch. Using your remaining strength, you haul it behind Callum, half concealing his shivering frame. It will have to do. You can manage no more.

Next to him, you collapse, your body riddled with pain and fatigue. Never have you experienced weariness down to your very bones.

You don’t think anything of it when you curl up against Callum’s chest. It seems the natural place to be. The arm that wraps around your body and pulls you close is meant to be there. Your vision blurs, merciful darkness encroaching.

Finally, sleep takes you.

[riddle-me-fear]

Hi Riddler! Big fan, love the riddles and the murders etc. I was wondering if you have any friends besides Crane, or does your big brain, ego, and obsessive compulsive swagger make friendship unnecessary? Or maybe just not viable ? Maybe you should ask Joker out for coffee, he seems like a reasonable guy.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Eheh, oh this oughta be intrestin'.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Quiet, you! This question is for ME! Anyway, contrary to popular opinion, I do have what I'd consider friends. But you are right about one thing, in the past I've indeed found it extremely redundant, and, as you've mentioned, unnecessary to have anything but employees, acquaintances at best. That was until...

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Penguin.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Yes... Until Oswald... But! That's in the past now, no reason to dwell on it. Nevertheless I've learned the value of friendship, as cheesy as it may sound. Friends are more useful than mere acquaintances, more reliable, and also far less likely to betray me. You know, dear anon, I find your first instinct to name the Joker as a potential friend quite amusing, and I don't know if you're stupid, ignorant, or downright trying to insult me. No, friendship with the Joker is more Selina's thing, even if I still cannot understand how or why she does it. Well, that aside, let's get back to the far more important subject - me, obviously.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Pff, obviously.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

I will choose to ignore that taunting comment this one time, Jonathan. For now. A pressing question must certainly be on your mind, dearest anon - Who are The Riddler's friends? Luckily for you, I am in a good mood to provide you with an answer. Firstly, Jonathan and I have a mutual friend very dear to us, Waylon Jones, otherwise known as Killer Croc. Comes as a surprise, doesn't it? Moving on, there would be fellow intellectuals I quite enjoy the company of, such as Calendar Man, Clock King and King Tut. Harley is also a friend of both myself and Jonathan, despite me continously making efforts to wipe her clown boyfriend off the face of the earth. I have Jon and Pamela to thank for that. Speaking of Poison Ivy, we're sort of on good terms with her, but I wouldn't consider her a friend.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Ya forgat someone.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Hm? Mmmh no, I'm fairly certain that's all of them.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Tetch.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

The Mad Hatter- Oh please! He may consider me his friend, for whatever ungodly reason, but the feeling certainly isn't mutual!

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Aw come on, Eddie, he ain't that bad. He likes you.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

He is an irritating, disgusting little lunatic, I truly do not understand how you can tolerate him. His "tea parties" which he forces you to participate in, if you want to keep your head, is the dullest, most understimulating waste of time- I swear I've lost a couple of my precious brain cells because of him. Ah, and also, did you listen to anything I've said before? The whole "less likely to betray me"-bit? We're both running out of hands to count the many times Jervis has bailed, ditched us, and sold us out.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Hm. Fair point.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

I'm glad we're seeing eye to eye on that matter. Haaaah, in any case, thank you for the questions, dear anon. I think I've quite excelled at answering them, if I say so myself. Now one last thing before I stop talking, as I can see Jon's patience waning from the corner of my eye. Since you're a fan of my riddles, why don't we end it on one, hmm? I'll even go easy on you.

Riddle me this!

I am alive, but do not breathe. I always move, but never truly leave. And if I die, you will die with me.

What am I?

[aconflagrationofmyown]

Good Husbandry

A Sarge and lil Mama fic

Summary: One day in the mess hall Elvis breaks his self imposed rule of not talkin ‘bout ensuring marital satisfaction and the key to makin a woman like taking her man

Warnings: crude and dated lanaguge regarding women, marriage, sex and female pleasure

Circa: 1959

There’s a lotta talk in the army about women. No surprise really, anywhere men congregate be it barracks, backstage, manholes, urinals, studios, they tend to talk about dames. But in the army there’s an extra air of entitlement to any sorta talk about them. Women at home and women on the streets, women in magazines or on tv, all the women in their lives and, initially at least, a whole lotta talk about Elvis’ woman.

His wife.

He reiterated her honored title pointedly to any fella who started talking as if she wasn’t a married before god wife and the revered mother to his children. Anyone who took her at her photographed face value as just another woman with beautiful tits and a trim waist, a gippable ass and a generous mouth and devilishly glinting eyes that just anyone was allowed to jerk and spatter over.

That was his wife.

It was a typical sort of hazing and like all the other forms thrown his way by his fellow soldiers he had surmounted it, along with the help of good ole gentlemanly Hodge, and now when the privates and corporals and sergeants milled around and talked about the only subject worth any breath, they didn’t include Elaine Presley in the discussion.

Most times.

Now that she’s over here Continental side, and now that he’s done his duty by her and filled her full again and she’s ripening right up like the goddamn fertile minx she is, it’s made matters both better and worse. Now there’s a hostess and a soul and a kind lady to put to the face of the pretty Mrs. Presley they’ve speculated about, and it causes the better sort of men some shame to drool and wank unashamedly over her as she pops in for the occasional visit to the base. Though now she is an indisputable fixture in the social life of these men “Elaine” in all her real life glory gets thrown about quite frequently, and while often it’s in the context of her house parties and her snacks and her friendship with their women, Elvis can tell by the rush of color and the heavy silence that often follows a mention of her that they ain’t thinkin things they oughta be thinkin about another man’s wife. He knows it, he knows it because if she weren’t already his he’d have unchristian designs on her until she was. It makes him grabby and possessive and irrational and more than a little proud as each week ticks by and shows her swelling more and more in the magnificent cause of growing a second batch of his twins. She looks so happy about it the guys just know, they just know she has a grand time making them. Something her husband is doing makes her whale-like proportions and aching feet a goddamn badge of honor.

So there’s a lotta talk. They talk about women and they talk about wives and they talk about his woman and his wife. They never say her name but they speak of the anomaly, they speak of the constant struggle men have between the sweet wife at home and the back alley whores. How the sedate and respectable wives ought to be the preferred choice but the joyous and hungry alley cats can’t ever manage to keep their claws out of ‘em…their minds if not their bodies.

That’s when they bring her up without ever saying her name, but as he fiddles with his footlocker at the end of a long day before he gets to shuck off and go home to her, he hears them saying “reckon the secret is to combine the two.”

And he knows even without the use of his eyes that they’re looking at the back of his head enviously. As if god made Elaine soley, out of all the women in the world, the only hungry wife.

It’s not just whores, they talk about. There’s the other types and likelihoods. They talk a whole lot about secretaries or waitresses they met on the side, the sweet-tight-blow-naughty-dirty-tits-ass-pussy-bar-backseat-desk-lunchhour kinds of women, who made noises and told them they were good lovers, who responded with all the arched back-tits up-snatch clenched-back scratch-eyes roll-throat hoarse-enthusiasm a man could dream of, the ones who would do the things their wives wouldn't. They sigh longingly about those women, they damn them for being so addictive. It never occurs to them that their wives could be that, too, if they’d just love them into it.

Elvis would sigh and slam his foot locker closed.

Elaine was not aware of the logistics of conjugal life when he wrestled her father and got ahold of her, she was unaware that a man shoved himself inside a woman on their wedding night. She had laughed and then frowned and then gulped in fear when she realized he wasn’t kidding. When she realized what he intended to do to her.

She had been like any other woman.

But he had managed to soothe, and love and stoke her fire till she was doing the ‘shoving in’ herself a mere two hours later. His jaw had ached for days after from unhinging itself in devouring her skittish pussy all that interim, but it had been worth her slick and gentle first ride. He’d never told her that riding his face or swallowing his seed or letting him take her hot and vicious from the back was something wives did not do, that it was naughty or the “other woman’s” job.

On the contrary, all Elaine ever knew was that it was exactly what wives did, what they were fashioned by God to do. And to enjoy. The men and women who saw the enjoyment written on her face and the joy stretching her belly thought her a scientific anomaly.

But Elvis bites his lip and doesn't comment when the men talk about women. If he speaks up he doesn’t think he’ll be able to shut up. That maybe he’ll say some shit he’d rather keep private, maybe go on too long orating the perfect fit of her and the way her face scrunches and glows when he does his job right.

Elvis rarely talks about women, and never about the waitresses and fans and secretaries and starlets he’s had. He gets asked often but he laughs it off, he remembers their particulars as about as fascinating as his hand. It did the job but wasn’t the one he can’t stop thinking about, even though he woke up next to her this morning. Women mean his wife, too, so he doesn’t talk about women.

That is until today. The subject is back up like a bad penny and the naughty girls and side women are being extolled and the wives are being complained of in usual fashion. He chews in silence and jiggles his leg under the table of the cafeteria mess as he listens:

-“Well, I'm in her, right, and she says it's too much and makes me stop. Too much! Can you fucking believe? Tammy never had a problem taking me, you know?

They talk a lot about taking - about taking her, taking me, taking it.

So much talk about “taking”. They’re always dreaming of the gals who take them, Elvis supposes those fellas who don’t talk much must be happily married like him, they just eat their collards in peace while everyone else talks about those rare female unicorns who were made to “take” men.

Made for it. He’d taken a raw virgin and made her into a howling baby making machine who wears satisfaction on her face like it’s Vaseline. She takes him easy as pie and she’s a wife. It doesn’t make her a whore that she can take him, it makes her his well loved wife.

“Whadda ya mean your wife *can’t* take ya?” he waves his fork around in annoyance and the man pauses halfway through his anecdote about how his old lady for some reason freezes up and winces when he rolls on top of her and puts it in without notice.

The whole mess hall goes deathly quiet and somehow Elvis knew this would be the reaction if he ever spoke up, somehow he just knew not to but he had to go and put his foot in it. Or his mouth, that is.

“She -she’s all tight and shit.” The guy swallows and looks at his fellows and there’s various faces around the table, ones who are sympathetic, those who look condescending and those who look confused. Elvis is the later. The guy shifts in his seat at the idea of The Pelvis finally taking the bait and joining in only for it to be on the subject of his lackluster marital bed. “And look,” he goes on chuckling nervously, “I’m a nice guy, I’m not one to force the issue. She’s just all clammed up, can’t get her excited, always says I go too fast, then too slow then changes her mind and -hell, why can’t she just be easy like them waitress girls?”

“Thought Debbie had been a waitress ‘fore y'all married.” Elvis mumbles around his next bite.

“What? Well yeah, yeah, but she was different then.”

“She was different then.” Elvis imitates mockingly.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Loverboy?”

“Just wonderin the last time ya kissed her without askin for more.” he shrugs.

“I-I don’t get it.” the guy looks for backup around the mess but everyone’s rather invested and hoping that Elvis will finally start spilling whatever black magic tricks he’s got up his sleeve that made a whole nation cream themselves over his voice alone. No one intervenes.

“If ya go out an’ crank the tank in the middle of winter, then curse it for takin a little while to idle before it runs smooth, er’yone here’s gonna think yer an impatient fool, right?”

“Uh, yeah. -What have tanks got to do with my wife, Presley?”

“They both got slow warmin’ motors, man.”

The guy looks torn between brawling and asking for more explanations. “She used to -didn’t used to be this way, man, we had some good times. Used to take her out back behind the diner and she liked it. Dunno why she’s all clammed up now.”

“Well I reckon that was nice and excitin for her back then.” Elvis says, “Bein’ adventurous and defyin her mama and lettin ya fool with her.”

“You’re saying she was thinking of her mother while we-“

“-no, no not that, -look Kipper, for women more than half the hots of it is in the mind, alright? It’s in the anticipation, it’s in the motivation, it’s in the intent ya have when you finally go to take her. The suspense of the thing. That behind the diner stuff -it’s old hat now, gotta keep her ‘cited in other ways now. Half of the thrill for them is in the mind. And it’s in knowin not every touch and kiss is gonna end up with a man jackhammerin inside.”

“Well, what would ya do if a Elai-“ Kipper snaps his mouth shut and judiciously rephrases his legitimate question, “What would you do if you had a wife who was all clammed up on ya?”

Elvis pushes the peas around on his plate and contemplates that, his mouth puckers childishly and Charlie Hodge thinks that maybe he didn’t hear, or is deciding to retreat from the conversation while he’s ahead. All the men are leaning in when Elvis flicks his eyes up and he has to clear his throat a little to work up his voice in nonchalance,

“Why Kipper, I’ve only had one and that one only for a couple a’years.” he chuckles self consciously and the men join in, he milks his mouth briefly in embarrassment.

“C’mon Elvis, just…hypothetically.” another man pipes up from father down.

“What would I do with a clammed up wife?” he repeats the question like he does in his interviews, “Well, for one I’d make certain it weren’t no extracurricular matter weighin on her mind, and if, havin judged it is a uh, uh matter of distaste for relations then, well then I’d start assuring her I value her, I’d compliment her, worship her and I’d try to take her out for nice little things when I could and I’d try not to fall asleep after dinner so we could chat and I’d only ever initiate one bit of contact for a lil while.”

“What’s that?” a couple dozen voices ask, entranced.

“I’d kiss her wrists.” he shrugs, “And if after awhile of that one day ya feel the pulse jumpin under your lips, then you’ll know you’re makin progress.”

The table nods solemnly in unison before suddenly Kipper has a heavy realization settle on him. “Wait, you’re saying don’t try anything besides that? Might as well go celibate for eternity than wait for her to pounce!”

“Hmm, well,” Elvis skewers a ham cube with his fork and proceeds to chew it obnoxiously, “if ya do what I’m sayin and ya do it with patience, she’ll come round. She’ll start wantin it. Women are like horses, they can sense impatience and since they wanna please they get all skittish and they…clamp up. Even the ones who are tryin to be pleasin, they’re tryin too hard and too focused on makin ya happy, ya gotta flip the tables. First night she makes a move, you better eat her kitty out like it’s your last meal and not so much as wet your tip.”

“You’re kiddin man, you eat your wife’s beaver?”

“Breakfast of champions.” he grins cockily until it dies on his lips as he sees a couple dozen pairs of eyes glaze over at the thought of Elaine’s perfect pussy. “Anyway,” he clears his throat pointedly, “you might shock yourself and like it. Better yet if you can shock her and make her like it. And don’t ask for no returns, that’ll come later. Power of suggestion is highly powerful.”

“How’da ya mean?”

“Look,” Elvis wipes his mouth on a napkin, “you might not think about wantin a donut but then you see I’m eating a donut, then suddenly you want a donut. Power of suggestion. Now it won’t be the same donut but it’s the same craving. Lick her kitty and she might start thinking to -ya know…suck your pole. Women are a lot less stingy than men, they see ya do a nice thing and they wanna repay, just gotta make ‘em feel safe for doin it, appreciated. That sorta thing.”

“A-and that will do it?”

“It’s a start, man.” Elvis shrugs, “Suck her button for a bit, Lordy, it ain’t complicated. Her nipples, too. Make out with her for a couple nights like yer teenagers again. Ha! Look at you cats actin like you’ve never got your face up in there before, ain’t no different than slurpin watermelon off the rind.”

-“Well, fuck man, sounds kinda hot when you put it that way.”

-“yeah, any other tips?”

“Get messy.” Elvis grins, leaning back and starting to enjoy the superiority he’s being in, “Get in there, don’t just smooch her down there, suck at her, swallow her, tongue her, ya know like-“ he closes his eyes and waggles his head while making a obscenely skilled motion with his tongue that makes it blur in a whizz of pink movement that the table can generally assume has come from much practice.

Someone down the line is getting patted on the back after inhaling some cola. When Elvis opens his eyes he looks a little lost, like he really went somewhere far away in his mind for that brief second. Kipper's spoon drops and hits his plate with a clatter.

“Look, you and you and especially you-“ he points at the fellas who a years worth of communal showering has given him more knowledge of than he strictly needs, “unless you take these precautions you’re gonna hurt some poor dame ‘makin’ those things fit.” the table laughs and things start to loosen up, “Gotta grease her up, get all the blood rushin down there so she can hold -uh, take- more, best way to do it is ta lick ‘er up to a couple of orgasms first. Check ‘er lips, her mouth that is, before ya go in, if all the blood’s gone south, her lips’ll be cool to the touch.”

“Sergeant Presley!” an orderly taps him on the shoulder, ears pink from embarrassment at overhearing more than he bargained for in delivering a message, Elvis tries to give him a stalwart grin of encouragement, “Phone call for you. Says it’s your wife, she says ‘come quick, the boy just said’ -um, um” he squints at the table cloth trying to recall what the very pretty and very excited Mrs Presley had breathily charged him with relaying over the crackling receiver, “uh.”

“My son’s first words and you can’t remember?” Elvis thunders, rising from his seat without leave.

“Elvis, sit!” Hodge hisses, plucking at his elbow.

“Don’t calm me down man, I gotta know!” he pleads, flopping down in a dejected lump anyway. “Kipper, be a pal an’ ask the Colonel if I can be excused from mess, tell him it’s of the utmost urgency and this idiot can’t be trusted to carry important information.”

“Give me private lessons.” The Colonel bargains from the head of the table and Elvis gives him a disbelieving stare. “O-on women. Ya know…wives.”

“You’re shittin’me.” Elvis growls.

“Casual like,” the Colonel assures him, “off the books -just tips and date ideas and such.”

“Hey I want in, man!” another voice chirps up.

“Yeah, ain’t fair hogging the tricks all to yourself!” a corporal from Missouri objects.

“If it’s got a show an’ tell about how to take a woman with Elaine as Exhibit A, then I wanna buy tickets.” Kipper is grinning, thinking he’s real funny.

Elvis is ready to commit himself. Sometimes he despairs of mankind, he really despairs. God, why can’t the fucker just remember what his son said?

“Bubbles!” The lingering orderly recalls suddenly and Elvis swivels fully around to face him in his excitement, “It was bubbles. The word was bubbles!”

“You hear that cats? I’ve got an ed-u-cat-ed firstborn! What’s your name, my boy?” Elvis rises from his seat beaming and embraces the orderly, protocol be damned, “Colonel you’re on, so long as you agree to buy this fine fella an officer’s commission.”

“Elvis that isn’t legal anymore…” he thinks he hears Colonel begin.

None of it really matters. His son knows how to say bubbles.