#would they have to cut out even MORE of my intestine?

[tinyspringtrap]

ough im getting symptoms and problems again why me man why can't I just live my life

[lipglossanon]

Day 17

Kink: Dacryphilia

Pairing: Cthulhu!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, dacryphilia, monster!Leon, tentacles, tentacle sex, unprotected sex, overstimulation, indifferent Leon, more horror than smut in this one chat, cut it short for time lol

Not proofread

The desert is cold at night. You knew it would be—not unsurprised by the drop in temperature. However, this coldness settling over you like a second skin feels unnatural. You run your fingers across the amulet a fortune teller gave you earlier. 

“Your third eye will open yet, young Miss.”

You didn’t really think much of it, but after repeating the ritual from the book you picked up in her shop, you’re starting to worry a little about what she meant. 

The small fire you built douses itself until complete darkness fills your vision; eyes adjusting, you can still see the blanket of stars dusting the sky—but as you keep your gaze trained on them, they slowly wink out. 

One…

By…

One…

You shiver, pulling your thin jacket tighter around you, chills racing along your body and not from just the cold. A dark void rolls across the sky, your eyes stinging with the strain as you open them as wide as possible. No light to be found anywhere and in its place fear—so deeply rooted in your hindbrain that you subconsciously start to cry. 

A deep droning sound, like that of a bell underwater, resonates across the desert. Your body is screaming at you to run and never look back, but the fear keeps you frozen in place. Legs tucking up closer until you’re a tight ball of nerves seated next to your dead firewood.

Something touches your shoulder and your eyes roll to the side like a spooked horse.

Empty inky darkness. 

You blink and everything is as it was before. The fire crackles and pops as a piece of wood splits from the heat. The stars twinkle and shine like they always have, millions of miles away in the cold vastness of space. Your body, however, stays locked into place. Breath hitching in your chest like you’re about to hyperventilate, you squeeze your eyes shut and just listen to the stillness and the flame. 

The amulet’s clutched so hard in your fist, its split open your palm like ripe fruit. Blood drips from your skin to stain the sand below. 

“That little trinket won’t do much, I’m afraid.”

A voice slithers from the dark, from the void, from your eyes—

Blinking, you see a strange man sitting across from you—the fire a flimsy barrier against his cold, fathomless gaze. Your throat locks up, voice trapped as your heart races. Who even is he? What is he? How is he here? Did the old woman know this would happen? How—

“Your kind cannot pronounce my true name,” he grins and horror descends upon your mind, making your vision blur. 

“You called for me, yes? And I answered,” he shifts and you can see something wriggling behind him in the dark.

You feel violently ill, stomach coiling like snakes trapped in your intestines. “What sh-sh-should I c-call you?”

A pressure against your cranium and you cry out weakly. He chuckles yet his mouth doesn’t move. 

“Leon,” it spills from his lips like a dying man’s last breath. 

Your thoughts unspool, a strange calmness settling over you, letting you relax. Humming dreamily, you smile at this… man.

“There we go, little one,” he grins wider, too wide, but it doesn’t can’t bother you.

A strange tentacle, at least that’s as close as your mind can come to understanding it, slinks across the cool sand to gently wrap around your bare ankle. The cold slippery feeling sends chill bumps racing across your skin. 

“You are quite sweet, not my usual consort,” his voice rumbles, pleased.

The tentacle slips across your leg and up across your shorts to wrap around your hips. “Why did you summon me?”

Your mind tries to rebel against the lethargy of your thoughts, but it’s exhausting. 

“I wanted to see if it could be done,” you murmur. “I needed to know if there is more outside of this.”

You gesture around at the open desert and his eyes flicker a multitude of colors before settling back on blue. His attention is focused all on you and it makes you break out in a cold sweat. 

“Curiosity has always been a detriment to your kind,” he flexes the tentacle around your waist. “Is knowledge all you seek? No revenge on your enemies? Granting of wishes?”

Faces and names flicker through your mind’s eye along with hazy wisps of forgotten dreams. He hums in pleasure, but you quickly shake your head. 

“No, I’m doing this for myself,” you affirm, voice wavering when he tilts his head. 

“There is a price, little one. An exchange has been made and I intend to collect it from you,” he stands, and walks over to you—at least it seems like he walks; his body is rotoscope movements against the desert background. 

Muscles wound tight, you can’t find room for anymore fear from this creature man. He settles down next to you, seeming to eat up more space than he actually occupies. 

His hand hovers over your temple, fingertips barely touching your skin—

You’re weightless—sightless. Floating in the ether of darkness that makes up his mind. He’s everywhere and nowhere. It feels like a million hands touching your body before it morphs into that smooth tentacle you recall from earlier. 

Crying out, your mouth is filled with one as another notches itself at your cunt, pressing into your hole and fucking you with shallow, rough thrusts. The pleasure thrums behind your eyes, fireworks going off in your brain to the point you weep with the ecstasy. 

You’re suspended in this world he’s created; taking everything he’s giving you. 

It’s too much and not enough; it’s infinite yet only happening to you at this exact moment in time. You’ve orgasmed so much, your thighs are saturated with slick. His tentacles continually fuck you, one pulling completely free before another is filling your clenching walls to the brim. 

You’re openly weeping, wishing for an end to this sea of ravishment. Muscles shake and twitch as another orgasm is wrung from your overwrought body. His laughter fills your head, as cold as it is mocking. He speaks to you in tongues, a myriad of languages that your mind can’t comprehend. 

Although you’re unable to speak, you beg him for an end, an out, anything but the paralyzing sensation overtaking you from your repeated orgasms. Your vision clears and you catch sight of too many eyes..

Then suddenly—

You jump, nearly falling off the log and onto the sandy floor. 

The fire crackles and pops, wood burning brightly against the dark backdrop of the desert. The starry sky yields no answers as your mind runs a mile a minute, holding the amulet in a loose fist at your side. 

You’re alone now…

and yet that brings no comfort.

[mrsshabana]

♡ 𝑮𝒚𝒖𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒐 𝒙 𝑩𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒖𝒍!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒔 ♡

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ 𝟓𝟎𝟎 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

CW: NSFW, 18+ MDNI, female reader, blood, gore, manipulation, smut, creampie, violence

AN: Thank you all so much for 500 followers!! I can't believe that this happened so quickly, it was only a month ago that I made my 300 follower special! I want to thank everyone who took the time to support me this far. And I'd also like to welcome everyone that is new here! There will be lots more Gyutaro content to come ~ ♡

Gyutaro doesn’t understand his romantic feelings towards you. He expresses them in ways that are difficult for you to decipher. So he just acts on impulse. Usually having no filter or boundaries.

Treats you like a toy. Similar to how a vindictive child would treat a small puppy.

He’ll make you cry just so he can be the one to comfort you in the end.

As a demon, he thinks he’s superior to you in every way. The only thing you have going for you is your pretty face and beautiful body.

He’ll coo and hold you close, complimenting your beauty only to claw at you flesh. Leaving wounds and bruises on your most beautiful features. He wants to destroy your beauty out of envy, but yet it’s what attracts him to you.

Before him, your life was meaningless. So now that he’s here, you don’t exist outside of him. Without him you are nothing. Which is why he keeps you stored in his sister’s obi whenever he’s away. Sometimes leaving you for days before he wants to play with you again.

Gyutaro grew a soft spot for you because of your juxtaposition. You don’t show disgust towards things that most people consider revolting, like reptiles or people that look different from you, but yet you are the most beautiful human he’s ever seen.

Every time Gyutaro thinks of your beauty, he claws deep red wounds into his flesh, fantasizing about gutting you alive, slitting your throat while digging his hands through your intestines. But the way that you look at him prevents him from doing so. You look at him with fear in your eyes, but without a hint of disgust. After 100 years of hunting humans, Gyutaro knows the difference.

It infuriates him that he can’t bring himself to hate you for your beauty. This frustration is always taken out on you. In the form of cuts and bruises.

But after being held captive for so long, you’ve learned how to behave around him. And things do get better. 

Gyutaro is incredibly intelligent, he just doesn’t understand emotions. Especially ones that he never even got to experience as a human, let alone a demon.

He can read you like a book. Always aware of when you are plotting an escape attempt or when you are lying to him. You learn quickly that there’s no point in trying to fool him.

The thing is, eventually you have grown a soft spot for the demon. The few moments that he is vulnerable with you, have shown you a beauty that you thought impossible for a creature such as himself.

After an argument with his sister, he’ll show you a side of him that you’ve never seen before. The sadness and deep anguish that he holds within himself. No one deserves to have such pains. Even a man-eating demon like Gyutaro.

You want to comfort him and heal his wounds.

As a demon, Gyutaro doesn’t have much sexual desire. He feels no biological urge to reproduce. The only urge within him is to destroy and devour.

But when you’re around, that all changes. Something within him yearns for your touch, your love.

He’s seen humans have sex before, and even though he doesn’t quite understand it, he wants to try. It’s not uncommon for Gyutaro to witness humans having sex in the district. But now, everytime he sees such things, he imagines what it’d be like to do it with you. The tent forming in his pants isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before, but there’s an urgency behind it now. Whereas before he’d be able to ignore it. But now it seems to control his every thought. Blood and carnage replaced by thoughts of your fragile body lying beneath his.

Gyutaro isn’t embarrassed about his desire to have sex with you. He will be completely open and up front with you about it, because he’s been surrounded by sex his entire life. So to him it’s just a normal thing that humans do. He doesn’t understand the social norms/stigmas surrounding sex.

During your first time having sex, it will be the first time that he’s careful with you. 

Once he is accustomed to having sex with you, he will start being more rough. Pulling your hair, biting your neck, and thrusting his hips into you so hard that you bruise.

He’s touch starved, so it makes sense that he gets overwhelmed by the pleasure of having sex with you. He loses himself in you. Fucking you like his life depends on it, moaning and groaning with every thrust.

Even after he fills you up with his cum, he won’t stop. 

He keeps going until he can see that you are exhausted. He may be selfish but he still cares about you. He doesn’t want to push you too far past your limit and risk breaking you.

Surprisingly he’s big on aftercare. Most of the time he’ll fuck you til your legs stop working, so he takes initiative in cleaning you up and tucking you into bed. He loves cuddling you and feeling you tremble in his arms from having orgasmed so many times.

Your sexual experiences with Gyutaro changes your relationship drastically. His feelings for you start to come through in less toxic ways as he begins to understand his feelings. But when he gets annoyed by them or they become too strong, he thinks that having sex will make it go away. When in reality they just make these potent emotions even stronger.

Showing affection towards him will usually calm him down. Once you are able to love him and he can accept your love, things get much easier for the both of you.

It will take lots of time, and the likelihood of surviving that long is slim. But if you do, it’ll be well worth it.

[systlin]

People that are absolutely convinced anyone can be vegan/vegetarian baffle me. I eat meat fairly regularly and I am already courting a B12 deficiency (for anyone who doesn't know the easiest source of B12 that the human body likes to absorb is red meat, you can get it from other sources primarily leafy greens I believe but your not getting as much because it's not as easy for your body to absorb) my levels aren't low enough to be considered clinically deficient but it's a near thing so my doctor has told me to take 2 B12 vitamins every day. I'm hoping this fixes my levels because if it doesn't that's a sign of a much more serious problem where my digestive system is biologically struggling to absorb B12

Gods, I feel you

When I got my Chron's diagnosis, the gastroenterologist and I talked about diet. High fiber is my enemy. I'm mostly OK now thanks to maintenance medication, but even now I can't have more than a single handful of nuts or popcorn without Suffering after. Raw vegetables are iffy; I can eat a couple of radishes or carrot sticks, but celery sets it off and raw broccoli or cauliflower is misery. I can have ONE small bowl of salad a day, which sucks because I LOVE salad. I have to be careful to limit servings of raw fruit, which also sucks because I adore cherries and pears and peaches.

Cooked vegetables are mostly fine, though I still have to keep the broccoli and brussels sprouts servings small. Cooked fruit is fine too. Beans are iffy. I can have some, but not a lot, which sucks because I love beans. Tofu is OK, but during my flare it gave me worse gas.

During a flare, my safe foods were cheese, meat, eggs, milk, fruit juice, vegetable juice, white bread, and cream of wheat. It was a fucking nightmare to try and get all the nutrients into me that I need. You will note that most of these are in fact animal products. I was under literal medical orders to keep the hell away from non-juiced fruits and vegetables.

Of course, a bunch of people came out of the woodwork to tell me that I could heal myself by cutting out all dairy and wheat and going vegan/raw vegan. People still do this regularly. I've deleted ten out of my inbox since yesterday.

If I tried to go vegan, it would be very, very rough on my traitor-ass large intestine and would probably send me into a flare. If I tried to go RAW vegan, it would probably mean surgery and might kill me.

[oliverr-gardenn]

canon/default Durge headcanons because im bored out of my mind (and im definitely not projecting onto him):

- He definitely has some sort of an anxiety disorder.

I mean his father is literally the GOD of murder and you're telling me he WOULDN'T be on fight or flight mode 24/7???

- Migraines. He sometimes would have to go find a dark and quiet place to rest in the forest when he got migraines because the camp was just too noisy. However I do think his headaches got more bearable when he was cured of his urges.

- Yeah he's got high charisma, but that doesn't mean he doesn't avoid social interactions like the plague. He knows how to get people to do what he wants (thanks to him being a former cult leader lol) but he would much rather not have to talk to people, especially strangers. Some jokes go completely over his head and he didn't even understand when some of his companions were hitting on him.

- He has a sweet tooth. I dont have any way to explain this one other than the fact that i just think he would really enjoy a good cheesecake.

- Since he's a white dragonborn he probably really enjoys sunbathing. He loves hugging his warmblooded friends both because of the intimacy and how good warmth feels on his cold scales.

- He's a sucker for terrible jokes. This man is NOT funny at all. Back when he was Bhaal's chosen he'd say these really edgy and corny things as a way to "intimidate" people and if he wasn't already scary looking, no one would take him seriously.

Gortash certainly didn't find his empty threats intimidating at all. "Oh you're going to cut me open, spill out my insides and make me watch as you make spaghetti out of my intestines? Very cute"

- Resting grumpy face. He can never really express his emotions. He would be having the time of his life and all you'd ever see is a straight face. He sometimes has to remind himself to do facial expressions. He's also quite embarrassed about his goofy smile.

His lack of expressions lead to a lot of problems with his companions back in the day.

- Insomnia. He literally can't fall asleep on his own and needs to be put to sleep via magic. He also suffers from nightmares and often wakes up multiple times at night. His past haunts him even after escaping from Bhaal's grip.

[followthebluebell]

what were q's issues? i tried to search your blog but tumblr is tumblr

Oh, that's because I never really went public with the extent of his problems. I didn't want to deal with the potential 'just euth him' comments, especially since I genuinely don't think a compassionate euthanasia would have been wrong.

Anyway, his butthole didn't work.

That's the short version.

I'm gonna put a more full history under the cut because it's really gross. Like fair warning. There's a lot of discussion of this cat's butthole, poop, and health issues. If you just want to keep imagining him as a cute little fluffball, maybe go look at his pictures instead.

Specifically, his anal sphincter didn't seem to function. His anus was just open and loose. Whatever was wrong with him ALSO seemed to affect his scrotum. Cats tend to hold their testicles pretty high and tight but his were super loose. I'm genuinely not sure if there's an actual connection there, but it was weird enough that it made its way into my notes about him.

He also had loose stools so he was just kinda constantly dribbling all over himself, whoever was holding him, his bedding, the floor--- you get the idea. He required frequent baths: he'd get a bath at the start of my shift and at the end, at the very least. Most nights had an evening bath as well. That way, he could at least stay somewhat free of excrement. This was terrible for his skin, of course; that's an excessive number of baths. It was just one of those damned if you do, damned if you don't situations. Considering the alternative was letting him sit in his own waste, we decided that baths were better.

He also wasn't gaining any weight. He wasn't taking in ANY nutrition from his food at all. Whatever went into him seemed to come right back out within a few hours. He was being tube fed for two weeks; he didn't seem capable of eating without grinding his teeth terribly. I genuinely wasn't sure how much sensation he even HAD in his anus until I caught him on camera squatting in a box.

That gave me hope more than anything else did. It at least told me he had nerve endings back there. It was just the sphincter or maybe the last inch or so of his intestine that seemed defective. Since he was such a sweet kitten otherwise, we decided to give him a chance to grow. The plan was to get him to UC Davis or a similar teaching hospital in the hope that they could extend his good intestine and sort of construct an artificial sphincter.

And then he just got over it. I picked him up to give him his morning bath and his butthole was just SLIGHTLY puckered. Over the next few days, I took a series of the grossest pictures in my fucking life and confirmed that his sphincter was sphincting. He started eating voraciously on his own. He started growing. He also stopped tooth grinding-- again, I don't know if this is significant, but it's another thing that made it into my notes.

I have no idea what happened, but I'm glad he's healthy. He just needed time to grow into his butthole or something.

[punktactical]

GUTS , trafalgar law

★

summary ; never trust a handsome stranger, even if he lies about having a medical license. (reader goes home with law and bites off more than she can chew.)

warnings ; 18+ content , dark content , dub-con , gore , organ pleasure , drugging , slight somnophilia , cumming in organs , manipulative behavior , naive reader.

a/n ; third post ! again , taken from my one-shot collection on quotev.

★

★

she laid flat against the cold, metal table, shivering. she met a handsome pirate today and he invited her over. how could she refuse? he was so charming. he was also a surgeon, leading her into his experi - ... work room. she was hesitant at first, but warmed up to him quickly. she was confused when he asked her to lay down but didn't question his motives. it got weirder when he asked her to remove her clothes. if he was a surgeon, it couldn't possibly be weird.

she truly was a stupid girl.

"mr. law? why do i have to take my clothes off?"

he simply stared at her, fixing up a small needle of unknown liquid. his eyes were solemn and brooding, dark circles underneath them. she began to grow nervous, shifting uncomfortably. she was naked, goosebumps forming on her sensitive skin. he stepped towards her, leaning over. his gloved hand pressed on her neck, making her suck a breath in. the needle began to close in. she brought up a hand, stopping it. "wait, why do you..." even with her protest, he still sunk the needle into her skin. the injection took immediate effect, leaving her breathless. her eyelids grew heavy, forcing her to close them. she was lulled to sleep by the sound of his silky voice hushing her.

she woke up in a cold sweat, body sore. she couldn't move, just stare. she felt paralyzed. a sudden pleasure struck through her cunt, a moan slipping past her mouth. she balled up her fists, nails digging into her palms. the wash of pleasure was too much to bare, it was unexpected. something kept entering and leaving her, her juices running down her thighs. "are you enjoying this, [f/n]?"

there was the voice she adored so much.

her body shook with pleasure, she could feel her climax coming. why so quickly? how? she couldn't respond, choking on her words. "it's okay, cum on me." the words barely registered for her before she was releasing the knot in her stomach. her body spasms as she climaxes.

"well would you look at that..."

his gloved hand grabbed her by her hair, forcing her to look at the scene in front of her. her stomach was ripped open, organs and intestines strung around like christmas lights. the image was nauseating. she gagged, swallowing the vomit that threatened to shoot out. "and you can still see my cock." he spoke with excitement, bucking his hips into her. his dick moved through the organs, the intestines rubbing against his sensitive tip. her eyes were half lidded, drool dripping from the corner of her mouth.

she wish she could feel the excruciating pain of the open stomach, maybe she wouldn't feel so guilty about enjoying the pleasure of it.

his gloved hand grabbed an intestine, stroking it. she moaned, throwing her head back. "you know, i thought of killing you. and just selling your organs." he thrusts inside of her, picking up his pace. "but when i saw you sleeping, it made me decide not to." he grabbed her throat, tightly gripping it. "i'm happy i changed my mind." she whines, teeth grit, tears streaming down her face. she can feel another climax coming, this time not so pleasurable.

"you trusted me so easily. it was quite adorable how easy you were." those words cut deep, deeper than his dick was right now. her organs fit perfectly around his cock, rubbing it the right way. he groans, his thrusts growing sloppy, hinting that he was close. "cum, cum with me." she gags, body paralyzed as she reaches her high. he pumps himself deep, groaning as he releases his seed inside of her. he pulls out with a huff.

"you can see my semen mixing with your intestines."

after everything, he'd stitch her back up, kissing her stomach affectionately as it heals.

god, how many times has she vomited now?

★

[osheamobile]

We said goodbye to Ru yesterday. Putting this behind a cut.

We got our cats not long after we got married, meaning there was very little time we were a household without the two of them running around. Ru and Jenny were a matched pair, the fosters refused to split them up, and we obliged.

One of the things that drew our attention was his name. The fosters had named him RuPaul, because he was a male calico, and while I'd heard it was tradition to rename your pets once you've adopted them, it was too perfect of a name to change.

He was extremely affectionate and would wake us up in the mornings at first with headbutts and purrs, and while over time he would gravitate towards my wife more (while Jenny would attach herself more to me), and stopped letting me pick him up in favor of only her, he always asked me to brush him and he knew I was the one feeding him so he knew exactly who to divebomb and bother when he got hungry.

He was the most food oriented cat I'd ever met, which was juxtaposed by his sister who very much was not, and he was the least picky cat I'd ever heard of - he'd eat anything and everything, he wouldn't care about medication mixed in his food even if the pharmacy accidentally made it cherry flavored instead of salmon like the vet requested. He was always up for treats and always made it everyone else's problem.

Because he was so food motivated, that was usually our first sign when something was wrong. He never refused food, even last year when his weight suddenly dropped like a stone and we found out the reason the vet kept reporting elevated white blood cell counts even when all the tests kept coming back inconclusive. It ended up being cancer, leukemia with complications that made his intestines have trouble absorbing nutrients. Because my office offers extremely good pet insurance (and I'm going to ring this bell forever, if you have the opportunity, take advantage, it is worth its weight in gold), we were in a position to give him the absolute best treatment available. Originally chemo pills that we were supposed to give him ourselves, then visits to the oncologist about 45 minutes away - he had a full round of chemo last year which was rough on everybody, including him, but it sent the cancer into remission.

It was not without side effects, though. Because of so much manhandling by doctors and the inundation with medication, he stopped being the darling of the vet's office and started requiring sedation. He grew spiteful of checkups and distrustful of any food that smelled wrong. He still ate voraciously, but grew pickier and learned ways to eat around pills and refused to eat any portions of food that had powders or liquids mixed in.

I don't blame him for any of it - I'd feel the same way in his position.

It was after a dental visit earlier this summer that it started. He'd had the rest of his canines pulled due to a condition that the dentist reassured me happened far too commonly in cats, and while his mouth healed beautifully he would only eat small portions of his food at a time. We didn't think too much of it because he would always go back to finish later.

Until he stopped doing going back to finish. Until he stopped eating any of his food at all.

It was several trips to the emergency vet last week that finally resulted in a test that told us the cancer had come back, harder. It was something that would not be treatable and that we should move into quality of life mode - something that might have given us a few more months or even another year, had he been eating. But he wasn't eating. We swapped foods constantly, begged, pleaded, mixed with water and canned tuna and everything else that had worked in the past, but he'd only eat a mouthful at a time and then stare at us, confused.

I had never had a pet before these two - we had a cat when I was very little but my parents gave her away after my brother was born, so I'd never been through this part of pet ownership. My wife had, many times, so I took my cues from her and followed her lead.

We scheduled an appointment with our normal vet. Requested his favorite vet tech, who at this point was assistant manager and usually not involved with day to day, but she agreed without hesitation because they love him so much there.

Yesterday we made him as comfortable as we could. It's harder to do a Best Day Ever for cats, at least in the same way you can for dogs, but we did what we could. We opened fresh cans of tuna and let him nibble as much as he wanted. We let him walk around outside, which he always wanted to do but we never allowed because he refused leash training and we don't have an enclosed yard. We cuddled him and told him how much we loved him, and this continued up through when it was time to take the last car ride to the vet, where we continued to hold him until he was gone.

It was the worst thing I'd ever done. I'm still trying to tell myself it was the right thing to do. I'm not okay and I won't be for a very long time, I don't think.

RuPaul was fifteen years old. We had him for twelve of those years. He was a terror and a bastard and the sweetest boy you'd ever meet. A very small number of people reading this have had the pleasure to know him in person, and a lot more have known him through our stories and pictures shared over the years.

He was so very loved, and we did our best to make sure he knew this all the way through the end.

[jrob64]

A Love/Hate Relationship - a CS modern AU one-shot

I wrote this story because I was in need of fluff, humor and hurt/comfort after the painful experience of losing two dogs in less than a year. Zeke, who was in my story Sowing Seeds of Trust, died of cancer last June. Two months later, we adopted Winston, who was the main character in Pet for Rent. Somehow, he swallowed part of a brush (while he wasn't at home) which perforated his intestines and caused internal bleeding. He died May 23. Writing my favorite trope for my favorite couple is therapeutic for me as I deal with my heartbreak.

Many thanks to @kmomof4 and @hookedmom.

Summary: Killian Jones' neighbor, Emma Swan, has hated him since the first day they met. When she finds out he came down with the flu and attempts to nurse him back to health, he's more than a little confused.

Rating: T

Words: 2582

Also posted to ffn and Ao3

Story is under the cut

*********

Killian Jones buried his face in a pillow and pulled it up over his head in an attempt to stop the incessant pounding. After several painful moments, he realized the noise wasn’t in his head, but was coming from the front door of his apartment.

Groaning, he tossed back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting with his head in his hands for a short while. When he finally got to his feet, he swayed dizzily and stumbled into the door frame, leaning against it to try to regain his balance.

He eventually made his way across the living room, unlocked the deadbolt and threw the door open. “What?” he demanded loudly, regretting it immediately when a sharp pain shot behind his eyes. He squeezed them shut before even registering who was on the other side of the door.

“Jones, how many times do I have to tell you to…Wow! You look like hell.”

Killian cracked his eyes open enough to see his neighbor from across the hall, Emma Swan. Infuriating to the highest degree and just as beautiful, she was the last person he wanted to see while he was in his current state. The two of them had a love/hate relationship…minus the love.

They had gotten off on the wrong foot when he moved in a little over a year ago. Unaware that she was a police officer who worked the night shift, he woke her up shouting orders at the movers. Emma Swan was not a morning person, especially after working an eight hour shift on the streets of Boston, and she informed him of it in no uncertain terms.

After that day, every interaction between them was filled with tension and snarkiness. Killian wished they could go back to when they met and start over again, because he knew she was basing her hatred of him on that first impression. In all honesty, he was quite intrigued by the fierce blonde and would like to know if there was a sweet or funny side of her she kept hidden very deep inside. Very, very deep.

Now she was here, standing at his door, scrutinizing him like a bug squashed on the bottom of her shoe. “Hangover?” she smirked.

He sighed. “I have the flu, Swan. It’s been going around at the office and I wasn’t lucky enough to avoid it. Now, if you’re done yelling at me, is there something I can help you with? If not, I’d really like to go back to bed.”

She took a step forward and unexpectedly pressed her palm to his forehead, then both hands to his unshaven cheeks. “You’ve got a fever.”

“Usually accompanies the flu. Now if you’ll…”

“Do you have medicine?”

“No, I…”

“Have you eaten? Are you drinking plenty of fluids?”

“I haven’t…”

“How long have you had it? Have you seen a doctor?”

Killian rested his pounding head against the door. “Must you use your interrogation techniques on me? I haven’t committed a crime, you know.”

“I’m trying to help,” she said, clearly offended.

“I could use less help and more sleep,” he grumbled.

“Yes, good,” she said, pushing past him into his apartment. “Go back to bed and I’ll get you something to drink. Do you want water, juice or…”

“More questions, Swan? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“All you have to drink is water, Dr. Pepper Zero and beer?” she asked, peering into his refrigerator. Closing it, she straightened up and began opening cupboards. “Do you have tea bags? British people like to drink tea, don’t they?”

He knew it would hurt his head to roll his eyes, so he simply threw up his hands and trudged off to his bedroom. Behind him, he could hear Emma celebrating the fact that she’d located the tea bags.

He had just gotten back to sleep, when he was shaken awake. “What now?” he growled, flopping onto his back.

“I made some tea and found Advil in your medicine cabinet. You need to drink something and get these pills in you.”

He raised his head and blinked up at her blearily. “You went through my medicine cabinet?”

“Yeah. Did you know condoms have an expiration date? The ones you have in there expired almost two years ago. Better not use them, because they’re likely to break.”

“Ugh,” he groaned, letting his head drop back down on his pillow. “Please just let me die.”

“You aren’t gonna die from the flu, Jones.”

“I meant from embarrassment,” he muttered under his breath.

“Sit up,” she commanded, sliding her arm under his pillow and pushing until he did as he was told.

First, she handed him a bottle of water. After glaring at her for several seconds, he finally took it, then swiped the two pills she held in her other palm. He popped them into his mouth and downed them with the water.

“Happy now?” he asked.

“Deliriously,” she quipped. “Now drink your tea.”

He accepted the mug she offered him and held it to his lips. Cautiously taking a sip, he grimaced and spit it back into the cup. “Did you heat the water at all? It’s barely warm! And how bloody much sugar did you put in it?”

“Well, I didn’t want you to burn your mouth,” she explained haughtily. “And I put in the same amount of sugar as I put in my coffee. Four spoonfuls.”

“Four?” he questioned. “Are you trying to kill me, or just give me diabetes?”

“You’re not a very good patient, Jones. You could at least be grateful that I’m helping you.”

“If you recall, I didn’t ask for your help.”

She ignored him, fluffing his pillow and pushing at his chest to get him to lay back down. “I found a can of chicken noodle soup in your cupboard. I’m going to heat it up.”

“Don’t add any sugar to it,” he groused, as she walked out of the bedroom, taking the tepid cup of tea with her.

“I heard that,” she threw over her shoulder.

“Of course she heard that, but didn’t hear when I told her to leave me alone,” he mumbled into his pillow. He tossed and turned, knowing that if he went to sleep, the maddening woman would just wake him up again.

Sure enough, she was back at his bedside within ten minutes, carefully carrying a plate containing a steaming bowl of soup and a small stack of saltine crackers. He sat up before she could order him to, and took the plate from her.

“You didn’t add anything to this, did you?” he asked.

“Nope, I just heated it up,” she assured him.

He dipped the spoon into the soup, blew on it and put it in his mouth, then promptly choked and sputtered. “Bloody hell, Swan! Didn’t you add any water to this?”

“Why would I add water?” she asked, a confused frown forming on her face.

“Because Campbell’s soup is condensed. It’s too salty this way. Adding extra water dilutes it enough that it tastes like soup is supposed to taste, rather than tasting like…like the ocean. Haven’t you ever made soup from a can before?”

“Sure,” she said, crossing her arms across her chest petulantly. “I make Progresso soup all the time, but I never add water to it.”

“Progresso soup isn’t condensed. This is.” He took the stack of crackers, then thrust the plate back towards her. “I’ll just eat these, thanks very much. Now that you’ve tended to me, you can leave me in peace.”

“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?” she asked.

Was that concern he saw on her face? Surely not. Emma Swan would never be concerned about him. It would be more realistic if she were to try to poison him. Perhaps he should have been more careful eating and drinking what she gave him.

Shaking his head slightly to try to clear those thoughts, he said gruffly, “Yes, I’m sure. It’s not like you really helped anyway.”

This time, he thought he saw a flash of hurt cross her face, before she turned and left the room. Soon he heard the front door close.

He couldn’t have really seen Emma Swan look concerned and hurt, could he? Great. Now he was going to have to add hallucinations to his list of symptoms.

He ate the crackers, then lay down and turned onto his side, tugging the blanket up around his shoulders. He was achy and feverish, but it was the guilt over how he treated his apparently well-meaning neighbor that kept him from falling asleep.

*********

Three days later, after his fever had been broken for twenty-four hours, Killian went back to work. Upon returning home at the end of the day and getting his keys out to unlock his apartment, the door across the hall opened and Emma stepped out.

“Oh, hey Jones. Looks like you recovered, no thanks to me.”

Killian rubbed his finger behind his ear. “I owe you an apology, Swan. I was rude and should have never said what I did.”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s no big deal. I guess I’ll never be a Florence Nightingale.” Turning on her heel, she muttered, “See ya around.”

“Swan…Emma, wait,” he called out, hurrying after her.

She turned around. “What?” she huffed.

“I, uh, I truly am sorry. It was very kind of you to try to help me, but…”

“But what?”

“But why did you do that? I mean, given the fact you hate me…”

“I don’t hate you,” she interrupted.

“Really? You could have fooled me.”

Emma stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and looked down at the floor for several long moments. When she finally looked up, he was shocked to see the vulnerability on her face.

“Look… I’m not good with…people,” she said softly. “And I’m also not good at admitting when I’m wrong.”

She paused and he waited patiently, wondering where she was going with this.

“None of the people I know would be concerned enough to check on me if I called in sick to work. You’ve lived here long enough for me to realize that…that you don’t seem to have anyone like that, either. I never see anyone coming or going on a regular basis - besides the pizza delivery guy, but I don’t think he counts.”

Killian chuckled dryly. “You’re very observant, Swan.” He paused for a moment, debating whether he should open up to her as she was to him. “And you’re also correct,” he added finally. “I moved here from England when I was transferred for my job, and I don’t have any close friends yet.”

She nodded. “I figured it was something like that. The day you moved in, I was…well, to put it bluntly, I was a bitch. And, as I said, I’m not good at apologizing, so I just let things go on being…uncomfortable. When I saw that you were sick the other day, I thought it was my chance to make things better between us, but I screwed that up, too. I just…I guess I wanted to let you know that you didn’t have to be alone while you were suffering - that there was someone who cared. I…I’m sorry I made things worse.”

“You didn’t make things worse,” he assured her. “I appreciate the effort. Actually, if you think about it, it was really quite comical.”

She scoffed. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“And they do say laughter is the best medicine, so your failed attempts at helping are probably what cured me so quickly.”

Seeing the grin on his face, the corners of her own mouth turned up a bit. “You’re an idiot, Jones.”

He took a step closer. “How about if we start over, Emma? It would be nice to have a friend living across the hall.”

She eyed him, chewing her lip in contemplation. Then she held her hand out to him. “Hi, I’m Emma Swan. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

He reached forward to give her hand a firm shake. “Killian Jones. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Swan.”

She smiled and he was amazed at how it transformed her already lovely face. They stood awkwardly for several moments, until Killian said, “Well, I should let you go. Were you on your way to work?”

“Oh, uh, no. I was just going to get something to eat.”

He rubbed his hand along his jaw, dropping his eyes as he asked, “Would you, um…would you like some company?” Looking back up, he saw her eyes widen and hurried to add, “Just as a friend. As you well know, I don’t have much to eat in my apartment.”

She snorted out a laugh. “You still have more than I do at my place.” Turning away from him once again, she said, “If you’re sure, you’re welcome to join me. I was just gonna go to the diner around the corner. Tonight’s special is grilled cheese and onion rings.”

“Ah, greasy diner food,” he said, beginning to follow her. “You do know if you keep eating that stuff, your arteries are going to be filled with sludge.”

She chose to ignore him as she started down the stairs. “They have the best hot chocolate, too.”

“How much sugar do you add to it?” he grinned.

She glared at him over her shoulder. “No sugar, just cinnamon.”

“Cinnamon in hot chocolate? Sounds…interesting.”

She stopped on the landing and turned to look at him. “If you’re gonna make fun of my preferences for food and drink, you’re uninvited.”

Holding his hands up in mock surrender, he said, “I meant no offense, Swan. Perhaps I’ll even give your…unique concoction a try.”

That meal led to another, and many more. Soon they added regular coffee dates. Gradually, at Killian’s urging, Emma tried and eventually acquired a taste for black coffee, no sugar. Even more gradually, at Emma’s urging, Killian acquired a taste for greasy diner food.

Six weeks after Emma’s attempt to nurse Killian back to health, they went on their first official date. Killian was very happy to discover that Emma Swan did indeed have both a sweet and funny side. They realized they had many things in common, as they talked during their dinner at one of Boston’s most renowned restaurants, then walked along the waterfront.

At the conclusion of the date, they shared a kiss outside her apartment door, which opened both of their eyes to the fact that there was a significant spark of attraction between them. As they continued to date, the spark ignited into a blazing flame. (They made sure to replace the expired condoms in Killian’s medicine cabinet, once it was obvious they were going to put them to use.)

They became each other’s ‘person’ - someone to laugh with, cry with, share everything with, and nurse back to health when the need arose. By the following winter, when the flu made its way through Killian’s office once again, he had his own live-in nurse, whose skills were much improved from the previous year.

By that time, they still had a love/hate relationship…but now, it was minus the hate.

*********

A couple of fun notes:

-Colin was drinking a Dr. Pepper Zero during the Meet & Greet I went to at GalaxyCon in Columbus last year.

-At another con several years ago, Jen admitted she never drank black coffee until Colin got her hooked on it. (No pun intended!)

*********

Thank you for reading.

Tagging:

@qualitycoffeethings @grimmswan @cs-rylie @wyntereyez @kmomof4 @hookedmom @ultraluckycatnd @paradiselady19 @xarandomdreamx @motherkatereloyshipper @lfh1226-linda

@pawshapedheart @vampcoffeegyrl23 @tiganasummertree @bluewildcatfanatic @eleveneitherway @elfiola @kday426

@julieenchanted-swans @gingerchangeling @andiirivera @djlbg @jonesfandomfanatic @snowbellewells @anmylica @booksteaandtoomuchtv @cocohook38 @ilovemesomekillianjones

@zaharadessert @lyssapup27 @undercaffinatednightmare @winterbaby89 @jennjenn615 @xsajx @jackieorioncat @teamhook @soniccat @jarienn972 @softkilly @kymbersmith-90 @apiratewhopines

@hollyethecurious @laianely @resident-of-storybrooke @exhaustedpirate @caught-in-the-filter @stahlop @veryverynotgoodwrites @darkshadow7 @fleurdepetite @whimsicallyenchantedrose @earanemith @superchocovian @idristardis @captainswan-kellie @beckettj

[leilabeaux]

Title TBD

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Summary: Ivar returns from his travels but all is not well. (IM RUSTY AT THIS FANFIC SUMMARY THING!)

AN: Heyyy! How’s everyone doing? It’s been a wild 4 years since I posted. But here I am, down a mom and a husband in the same damn year.

I was going through my emails and found a pretty much completed part of my Stolen Queen series if anyone is interested or even still into Vikings 😅

——

Warm blood dripped down to your elbow as you reached up to wipe the sweat off your brow. Your hand returned to the cut open stomach, making small, swift cuts against the membranes as your other hand was busy pulling out the entrails. The deer was your first successful hunt, a proud victory for you after much instruction from Arn. You jumped for joy when your arrow landed in its neck but he only grunted out that you needed to work on your aim before shooting a proper headshot.

Blood splattered onto your face when you plopped the organs into the bowl next to you. You looked up from the carcass after hearing a snort from the man in front of you.

“Care to share what’s so funny, Hallfred?,” you questioned the skinny blond-haired man as you went back to pulling out the rest of the innards.

“I just didn’t think that Christian princesses were known to get their hands dirty.” He smirked as he took the intestines from your bowl to rinse off the blood.

You rolled your eyes, not even bothering to correct him. There was no point. You knew that your royal title made no difference in these lands.

“She’s a queen, not a princess. And if some of our dead Viking brothers and shieldmaidens could talk, they’d tell you just how dirty her hands got in battle,” Arn uttered as he sharpened the stick in his hand into a proper arrow. You were surprised to hear him chime in at all. The large elder man kept to himself mostly unless it was to criticize you or his partner.

“My apologies, Queen Y/N,” Hallfred teased, giving a small mocking bow to you. If you had any guilt remaining for taking his knife, it was definitely gone now.

Your head shot up when you heard the sounds of horns blowing out in the distance. Feeling your heart begin to race, you couldn’t help the smile that was threatening to creep onto your face. It had been months since you last saw Ivar. While you appreciated the company of the two men next to you during the day, your nights have grown to be cold and lonely.

As the horns became more rushed and constant, you sensed that something was wrong. The two guards exchanged a look before Hallfred stood up and began walking off toward town.

“Arn, what’s going on? What do the horns mean?” You were now on your feet, standing in front of him with your arms across your chest, worry painted all over your face.

“It means the boats have returned,” he said so matter-of-factly. (He came over and squatted down next to you.) “Start skinning, we need to hurry up and cut up the meat.”

Knowing he wouldn’t say anything else even if you begged him, you did as you were told.

——

The sun had long been set and still you had no word of what had happened. Hallfred had since returned. His usual mischievous face was replaced with something more serious and yet he remained quiet, not offering any news to you.

So you tried to busy yourself around the cabin. Blankets and linens had been folded then refolded. Your stolen knife was now sharp enough to split a hair in half. And after a good polish, you could see your reflection in all the gold trinkets Ivar had given you.

You toyed with your necklace as you looked out the window to check the tree line for the umpteenth time. He should have been here by now. You tried to reason with yourself again. He was King and if he had a successful raid, then it would be right for him to spend the night celebrating with his people...even with his wife.

A set of footsteps approached the cabin, breaking you away from your thoughts. You must have been so lost in your mind that you didn’t even notice anyone walking by. Grabbing your knife, you tucked yourself behind a pillar, worried that you might have an uninvited guest on your hands.

You could hear the hushed tones of Arn and Hallfred but couldn’t make out what was being said. They sounded cordial enough that maybe this stranger wasn’t deemed a threat. When a quiet but familiar voice started to speak, you stepped out of your hiding place and out of the cabin to greet this guest.

The last time you had seen Hvitserk was when you first arrived in Kattegat right before a bag was placed over your head and you were forcibly marched over to the very spot you were now standing in. By the look on his bruised and injured face, you knew the raid didn’t go as planned. You tried to hold yourself together, knowing that if he was here instead of his brother, then there was nothing good he had to tell you.

“Where is Ivar, Hvitserk?” your voice quivered as you felt the water welling up in your eyes. You turned your gaze from him to Arn when he hesitated to give you a proper answer.

The older man wrapped his oversized cloak around you and calmly instructed you to go with Hallfred and Hvitserk. As if sensing your anxiety, Arn pulled the hood over your head and then leaned down to reassure you, “You will be okay.”

——

You focused on the dimly lit path in front of you as Hvitserk—or was it Hallfred?— ushered you to your destination. With the cloaked hood obstructing your view of the structures surrounding you, you found it odd how you have never truly been in Kattegat even after living on the outskirts for almost two years. You briefly wondered if you would ever get to explore the town Ivar was proud to call home.

You felt a push from the hand across your back as it led you into the building. If it wasn’t the fragrance of healing poultices and salves in the room, then it was definitely the overbearing stench of blood and death that let you know you were in the healer’s hut. You started to hear Ivar’s strained groans as you made your way further into the room.

While walking toward the direction of the sound, you were about to take down your hood when the screech of a chair being pushed back stopped you. Careful footsteps slowly approached you before a soft feminine voice cut through the room, “Is this her?”

“Freydis…,” Hvitserk started but was cut off by a scoff.

“I was told that he kept saying he needed his queen ever since he arrived but when I came to him, he told me to leave him alone. I’m not stupid, Hvitserk. I know that lately when he’s home, he prefers to warm another bed than our own at night.”

You felt the air shift as she walked past you and out of the hut. Ivar had never offered a lot of details about Freydis other than that she was a former thrall he had freed. You assumed her to be beautiful if she was able to have garnered his attention at one point and become Queen of Kattegat. Pulling your hood back, you looked toward the door to get a glimpse of the woman but she was already gone.

You turned your head back when you heard Ivar groan out once again. Sitting in the vacant seat next to his bedside, you brought your hand up in an attempt to stifle your cry when you looked down at his bandaged midsection.

“It was an ambush and one of the Saxons got him in the side with their sword,” Hvitserk started unprompted before continuing with a shaky voice. “He lost so much blood and I tried to tell him to stay at the settlement to heal but...but he wouldn’t listen, he just kept saying that he wanted to come home. It was like he knew something I didn’t. And then he went to sleep and wouldn’t wake up. I thought that you should see him before—”

You stopped him immediately, not wanting to hear the end of that sentence. “You mustn’t go there, Hvitserk. His body is forcing him to rest so he can heal. He’s still here with us and that’s what we should focus on.” You looked up at him, noting the dark circles under his eyes. He must have exhausted himself with worry for his brother. “Maybe you should get some sleep yourself. I’ll stay with him.”

He seemed to hesitate over the idea of leaving you alone with Ivar before taking his leave. “I have slept alone with him unguarded. If I wanted to kill him, I would have done it by now.”

An overwhelming guilt washed over you as you stared at the large dark spot soaking through the cloth. There was a point in time when you had prayed to see him on his deathbed, even better if it had been at your hands. But now you found yourself silently praying to your god and all of his that he would make it through this.

You took his hand into your own and leaned close to his ear, “I’m still here, Ivar. I waited for you so don’t you dare leave me now.”

—-

After glaring at Hallfred when he came back inside for the fourth time and insisted that you come back to the cabin, you continued to clean Ivar’s arm with a wet cloth. You had already washed away days worth of sweat, dirt, and blood from the rest of his body, making sure no one was in the room when you got around to his legs. You knew how sensitive he was to being in that state of undress around most people.

“I already told you, I’m staying here until he wakes up and can tell me to go back himself. Besides, I was just telling him about how you wet your pants when Arn threw his axe at you.” You smirked at the guard. You had spent most of time recounting everything you’ve been up to since Ivar was gone.

“He was aiming for between my legs! He could have nicked my balls off!,” he pouted before stomping back out of the hut.

You laughed as you dropped the cloth into a bowl of water and then wrung it out.

“I bet he screamed like a little girl too.” You nearly smacked the bowl off the table, startled from the sound of Ivar finally speaking. The small smile he had went all the way up to his blue eyes that were busy taking you in. “Well? What else happened?”

You rushed in to wrap your arms around his neck, taking care to not put any pressure on his wound. As you felt his arms wrap around your waist, you had let go all the tears you were holding in. “You had me so scared, Ivar. I have half the mind to slap you for traveling with such a serious injury.”

“I had to make sure that you were still here waiting for me,” he chuckled into your neck.

You pulled away from him, frowning, “Don’t joke, you could have died. You really want to make sure I don’t leave you then shackle me to Arn or take me with you. But you will not do this to me again,” you demanded even though you knew you had no authority over him.

Taken aback, he palmed your face to wipe the fallen tears off your cheek, “You were truly worried for me. I’m sorry, I won’t scare you like that again, my queen,” he pulled you in and pressed a kiss against your lips, his hand falling down to stroke your neck. “I must confess that I...that I—“

You waited for him to finish his sentence, momentarily concerned that he was suffering from memory loss. “You must confess that you…?”

“That I had left your book with Hvitserk.” He finally finished.

You had a feeling that that wasn’t what he was really going to say but you chose not to bring it up. You rolled your eyes, “I don’t care about any presents. I care more that you’re awake and talking to me now.”

“Still, I think you would like it. It had pictures of dragons. Maybe it’s a story of my grandfather and how he slew Fafnir.” He held your hand in his, “I would like it if you read it to me. I have missed your voice.”

“Whatever you wish, Ivar.”

[broodcore]

had a deliriously horny insomnia moment last night, so you know what that means! thats right, another birth scene hastily written from my phone :) [cryptic preg; pseudopenis/cockbirth] (this is blanca btw)

Blanca hadn't observed anything out of the ordinary up until extremely recently; then again, as a beast-born, their body was in flux. Who's to say this wasn't a part of their gradual transformation?

But even during the long, arduous process of taking on a human shape didn't feel this miserable. Cramps banded around their midsection, their stomach remaining inconspicuously slim until the muscles would periodically harden and bow outward marginally, as if their very guts were trying to escape. Blanca chalked it up to bad meat, and tried to power through it. It was on them that they risked hunting a goblin earlier, and clearly they were paying the price of intestinal distress.

As the day went on, more symptoms of their illness made themselves apparent. The cramps radiated straight down from their lower belly to their pelvis and thighs, and stuck in between that tight, heady sensation was their shaft. Their pseudophallus was already a mysterious thing, for a Renari that knew little about their own kind. Blanca was already familiar with it getting erect, but it didn't usually swell like it did now; thick and flushed purple in contrast to their bluish-grey skin. It throbbed painfully like the rest of their lower half, though its particular sensitivity mixed the odd jolt of pleasure through the pangs. It had been weeping fluid they associated with arousal all day, like they were in heat. The ordeal of being in heat seemed almost pleasant in comparison to this.

Blanca patrolled their territory and stubbornly ignored what their body was telling them all day. They were a predator, after all; they couldn't be caught vulnerable from illness, lest a rival Renari or a foxcatcher would find them. Walking the slums of their hunting grounds jostled their upset stomach, but whatever that wasn't agreeing with them in their gut was thankfully moving downward.

Their stomach flipped as an aching pressure bloomed in their pelvis, running jolts of pain down their shaft. A familiar urge to piss came into them before they could react, and a much less familiar pop and release made them freeze in place, and curse. Warmth flowed from their phallus to soak the front of their pants. It didn't smell like they wet themself, though; it didn't quite smell like they were in heat, either. Blanca's growing confusion and alarm was cut short by the pain of something barreling into their cunt.

The sensation of something moving through them as their muscles contracted against their will made Blanca nearly cry out in the lonely alleyway. They clapped a hand over their mouth and bowed over, thighs spreading against the pressure between them. Their other hand instinctively grabbed their tender shaft. Hesitant fingers felt around the base, and the underside where it met their perineum. A hard bulge tented the flesh, where it would have been soft and yielding before.

Though Blanca hadn't exactly taken health classes for their beast-born anatomy, they witnessed conventional canines whelping in the past. They could put two and two together, though the notion that they were pregnant wasn't as much of a pressing matter as the immediate instinct to hide and protect themself from fellow predators. Enduring the jabbing pain, and the distinct feeling of something transitioning from their internal birth canal to their external passage, they sought shelter. The bulge between their legs only grew as they staggered towards a dark and concealed corner. Their hand was on it the entire time, as if hoping to hold it in place lest it slip right out of their cock.

Hiding behind some forgotten stacks of crates, Blanca could shakily lower themself onto the ground. Their shaft ached, the head of the surprise pup now firmly engaged in the base of it. The Renari freed the swollen, dripping organ from their pants to let it hang heavily between their legs. As their internal muscles pushed the pup down and out of their birth canal, the erectile tissues of the pseudophallus tightened inward as well; subtly contracting and trying to recede back into their body, pulling tightly over the mass of a tiny canine head. With the end of each contraction both efforts ceased, and during those few seconds of reprieve Blanca winced at the stretch and weight of the pup settling in their cock.

Pointing the shaft downward, they tried to use gravity to their advantage. In their hand, the uneven shape of the pup could be felt inside, stretching them beyond what they thought their cock could be capable of. Awkwardly, they gently stroked themself in an attempt to pass it through the organ as quickly as possible.

 As the rest of it fully left their body and filled their shaft to its limit, progress ground to an agonizing halt. They feared they would burst, especially when the muzzle began to crown and the entire organ squeezed around it painfully. The heavy, overfilled cock throbbed and jerked in Blanca’s hand with no effort on their own; left to just sweat through the pain and try not to make any noise.

Eventually, the head burst from the opening with a gush, thankfully without ripping them open in the process. Though it certainly felt like it. Blanca was relieved to find minimal blood on their fingers as they tentatively felt around the area. Carefully, they tugged around the rim of their tortured slit around the shoulders. They silently thanked whatever asshole of a god that made them that their kind were born as small, vulpine whelps, even when their parent had long since transformed. They certainly weren't pulling a human baby out of their dick anytime soon.

It was a less awful ordeal - but still an uncomfortable experience - to manually free the single pup from their shaft with a splatter of blood-tinged fluids. It was only the one, as they quickly felt around their stomach and between their legs to their relief. As small as the squirming, wet thing was in their hand, it was no wonder that they barely noticed its presence for months.

[concretevampire]

Early Morning Breeze

arthur morgan x f!reader ꔫ 9.7k ꔫ emotionally fueled smut, icky gooey lovey-dovey stuff for thou // based off of the Dolly Parton song // religious themes

A/N: this is my first rdr2 fic & my first post on tumblr & english is not my first language so critique is highly encouraged

You sniffle, forearm coming up to wipe away stinging tears clinging to lashes. 

A rough exhale escapes your lips, and you can feel the sweeping glance Abigail sends you. Sniffling again, you press the heel of your palm to an eye, the other shut just as tight. 

“Guess a couple’a vegetables is all it takes to get you cryin’,” she jokes, cleaver slicing off the head of a trout; her apron stanches the briny blood, scales scattered across her forearms like small slivers of moonlight. 

“Onions,” is all you can muster as you finally allow yourself to turn away from the cutting board. You turn your face upward, cracking reddened eyes open to peer at the sky. 

Big clouds– white, ozonated mountains beyond imaginable reach– float by lazily. 

Another sniffle escapes you, but the dam of your eyes has been rebuilt, and the tears secede. Your sinuses still burn though, sending a horrible ache to the back of your throat. 

Swallowing, you return to chopping onions. 

Other than Abigail’s humming and the incessant clucking of hens in the distance (Grimshaw and chickens alike), the camp is quiet. 

Shady Belle is certainly an improvement to dirt-ridden tent floors and crickets in your pillow, but it’s rather gloomy at times. You’re sure that it’s simply the haze of Bayou Nwa and the spectral creeping of ivy along chipping, gray paint. But it would be foolish, and most of all, naive, to ignore the simmering discomfort lingering under everyone’s skin. 

Kieran’s death. Jack’s kidnapping. Dutch’s… nerves, if you were to give it a name. 

Arthur feels it, and so do Abigail and Hosea, but all four of you are unwilling to mention his waning psyche for fear that it’ll only darken the already half-lit moon of his mind. It isn’t worth it. 

And frankly, Arthur’s loyalty to Dutch is suicidal. 

He will hem and haw, but in the end, orders are followed with abandon. Loyal to a fault, you tell him. It’s all I know, he says back, gently smiling as if an inside joke has been said. This ol’ dog can’t learn new tricks, and he’ll chuckle wryly at the quip, head shaking like the sins of the world have been settled and folded into the intestines of his mind. 

You can only let him wallow for so long when he gets like that. 

Though you’ve learned (after too many years as friends and a few more years as something quaintly more) how to put an end to it: a routine. Artfully mastered, a precariously balanced act that includes a succinct scold paired with a slap to his shoulder before pressing a soothing kiss to his cheek as he grovels over his journal like an overgrown child. 

But another layer to the quiet and unease around camp is unarguably Micah's presence. Filthy, bastard leech of a man. Suckling away at Dutch’s good faith. 

The fifth horseman of the apocalypse: treachery.

The way he saunters about is simply nauseating— skinny fingers pricking and prying into people’s souls. And he’s always been particularly taken with you. Disappointingly. 

Micah finds sheer amusement in laying out your arteries on cork board, needles stabbing; displaying your heart like a prize butterfly, blood glittering like topaz stained glass. 

It was simply infatuation at first, back all those months ago. 

A game he had played with many women before and one you brushed aside easily. And then he discovered that you and Arthur were something— and Micah became a true savage, fueled by both contempt and his peculiar fascination with having taken women. 

Even now as he makes his rounds with the gang, purposefully adding to the gloom, his eyes linger on your figure. 

Micah veers closer, and you take a step towards Abigail. Her shoulders straighten, so do yours– a useless attempt to create some sort of fortress. He’s approaching in your peripheral and Abigail slams her cleaver down onto another trout, a singular clawed scale landing on your blouse. 

You’ve moved from onions onto potatoes, your knife cutting away skin in precise shallow strokes.

When he’s close, Micah says your name– a horrible rasp of letters strung together by cigar smoke and glowing ash– the depths of hell holed up in his esophagus. You ignore him. And in turn he grins wildly, as if presented with riches beyond King Midas’ imagination. Your jaw clenches, eyes set on the knife and the naked, golden flesh in your palm. 

“How’s Morgan’s broodmare?” 

Abigail side eyes him. Your next slice is thicker than the last, heavy handed, taking off more flesh than you’d like. A waste. 

“Or has he moved on after all these years? Got tired of the same fuck.” 

You set the nude potato aside, picking up a new one. You imagine it’s Micah’s prick: dirt ridden and calloused. You begin to skin it too, taking extra care to needle out any dark spots. 

“Been awhile since he’s been back in camp too. Makes you wonder.” 

“Oh piss off, Micah,” Abigail hisses, her cleaver resting threateningly against the dark wood of the table. A sharp, glaring warning. 

His smile widens. 

He shifts his stance, shoulders slackening as his thumbs hook on the flap of his pockets. “Hit too close to home? Remind you too much of Johnny and how he ran off?” 

“Micah,” you finally interrupt, picking up a new potato. “Shut up.” 

“So that’s how I get you to talk.” 

You stay silent, returning your attention to vegetables and other honeyed daydreams of skinning the Devil alive. 

“Ignoring me again.” His eyes linger, thinking of horrifically creative ways to dissect and tear you apart as you stand. “Wouldn’t you be worried though? He’s been gone for a week.” The statement is mocking and cruel. 

He wouldn’t know what concern was if it ate his face off, ravaged his eyeballs and devoured his tongue. 

Abigail glowers, this time pointing the cleaver at Micah. “Yer just jealous.” 

Micah sneers, the cylinder in his revolver shaking off a warning like a rattlesnake curling up to bite. “Jealous of what Miss Roberts?” 

“Jealous she ain’t with you.” 

Micah opens his mouth to retort something evil and violent, obvious in the way his pupils have contracted, gray eyes gone silver with wrath. You stab the knife into the cutting board, punctuating the air. 

Both of them have stilled, turning towards you. 

“Quit it.” You snarl. Abigail gives an apologetic look, but not before sending Micah another scowl. She’s back to chopping off fish heads. 

And Micah, damn him, always needing the last word spits out a, “Bet he got himself killed,” before he rushes away, seething and gnashing his teeth. 

It’s quiet again. 

You get through six more potatoes before speaking. “You didn’t have to do that.” It’s a gentle chide towards Abigail, one that makes her huff.

“I just hate how he talks to us. ‘Specially you. And I hate how you don’t do anything.” Her hands wring together harshly, not having any more trouts to dismember. 

“It’s best to ignore him. He gets off on it, the sick freak.” You keep your gaze fixed on your work. 

Abigail relents, fingers stilling momentarily. 

Her gaze rises, eyes trained on Jack’s small silhouette at the far edge of camp, playing in the weeds and brambles. He seems completely ignorant to such plights. What bliss. 

Abigail’s raised him well. 

“Ain’t ya worried though?” She says suddenly, spinning to look at you. You pause your ministrations, glancing into her perturbed blue eyes. “I mean,, well, Micah had a point, I guess.” She’s annoyed at the admittance, even if it is her own. “Arthur’s been gone for a while. It ain’t like him.” 

You sigh. “It is like him,” your teeth chew at the flesh of your cheek, “but you’re right. He wouldn’t leave for a week without saying something.” 

Abigail nods but her fingers have knotted and tangled once again. “Hunting trip?” 

“Yeah, but with how long he’s been gone you’d think he’s trying to take down an entire herd of angry caribou in heat.” 

She snorts. “He would try. Strong enough for it.” 

“Bullheaded, that’s what he is.” And you scowl, starting to dice the potatoes far too quickly; bound to cut yourself. Abigail sends you a sympathetic, knowing smile. 

“So you are worried.” 

“Whatd’ya mean?” 

“I mean you ain’t as calm and cool as yer pretendin’ to be.” 

You continue chopping away, somehow not having cut yourself. Years of practice you suppose. 

“Course I’m not. I’m always worried when it comes to him.” 

Abigail snorts. “Well, ya never act like it.” 

“Because if I act like it,” and you finish dicing off the last potato, ‘then that means something bad would actually be happening’, “then who would you have to talk to when you’re worrying?” And you give a knowing smirk.

She laughs, shaking her head, hands coming to a rest. You feel your own face brighten to a smile. 

That’s the way it is with her; with all the girls. Quilted conversations complaining about men and life and backaches all riddled with coy smiles. 

The breeze picks up then, and Jack comes tumbling along it, hands rusted with the red Lemoyne dirt and beaming at his mother like a little sun; too bright; seen without looking. 

His eyes barely peek over the table, but he’s determined, placing a bundle of messy daisies next to dismembered fish, yet to be fileted. 

“For you Mama,” he adds with his gift, hands clutching the edge of the table to watch her. And Abigail smiles tenderly, picking the flowers up. They drip, raw with dew and fish blood. She tries, ever so delicately, to wipe away the crimson stain on their petals. 

“Thank you kindly, Jack,” she says. And he gives a toothy grin and runs off— on the breeze once again. Abigail ponders the daisies for a moment before offering you one with a teasing smile. “M,lady,” she jests, giving a sloppy curtsy. A true country princess. You snort, but fawn delighted shock, pricking the flower from her nimble fingers. 

“Oh how romantic,” you add, putting a hand to your chest. Pocketing the daisy, Abigail does the same with hers, now fully smiling. 

And with a few giggled words you separate; the chores around camp  looming as Grimshaw’s eyes sharpen into blades, her tongue preparing to tear you both apart. 

You help Tilly with the laundry. 

Karen and you care for spare guns. 

Under the shade, you patch up holes in socks and shirts and handkerchiefs all while Mary-Beth tells you about her new book— a romance, of course— about an outlaw and upper class woman finding love. 

It makes you snort.

Amusement brewing in agitated, annoyed swirls in your chest as you’re reminded of Mary.  

You’re too smart to be reading those kinds of things, you tell her, needle pricking your finger as you push it into the cotton of Dutch’s union suit. She shrugs; tells you she likes it. 

You don’t blame her. You used to too. 

And the sun has begun to set, casting long shadows on long faces after a long day. And people begin returning. 

Javier and Bill from a home robbery. 

Lenny with a wagon of purchases from Saint Denis. 

John and Sadie each with a few rabbits in hand. 

But no Arthur. 

It’s a bit disheartening.  Like a sunshower with no rainbow. What’s the point of the rain then? 

You’ve grown anxious, your hands fussing the linen of your apron though there’s nothing to wipe away. And you don’t have the stomach to eat or the heart to make conversation— so as the gang begins settling in for the night you grab a basket, your revolver, and leave. 

Charle’s, keeping watch, eyes you like a ladybug in winter, but keeps quiet. 

You thank him with a glance. 

And you’re not stupid. You know it’s dangerous in Bayou Nwa— whether it be under God’s sun or the Devil’s moon— crawling with bipedal predators and freaks of nature beyond comprehensible understanding. Arthur has warned you. Don’t you go out, firm words with even firmer hands on your shoulders. Not without me.

But you go.

You need to, if only to catch your breath; to steel yourself away from prying eyes if he doesn’t show up for yet another week. 

And in the tall, marsh grass and bundles of cattails you’ve found something quiet and private; a place where you can crouch and pick away at plants with a frown you don’t have to hide. 

And your fingers are shaky and uncalculated as you rip apart the oleander and sage, like a newborn colt, teetering across grass. You shove the foliage into your basket as if it took Arthur away personally. As if they’ve laced their way into his veins, choking and drying him out. 

You’re upset, but you won’t cry, obviously. There’s no reason to, it’s hysterical and ridiculous, but you’re frustrated.

Because even if Arthur is painfully terrible at communicating, he at least has always told you how long he’d be gone for. 

It’s a luxury you’ve gotten used to. And out of all the silks, jewels, and luxurious baths the world offers, it is your favorite.

The promise of his return. 

“Yer mutterin’.” 

The voice would’ve made you jump if it weren’t for the far too familiar rumble of it. Too often has it soothed you and brought you to climax for it to scare anymore. 

You look at Arthur over your shoulder, glaring. “I do not mutter.” 

“Sure ya do,” he says, stepping over a log to reach you. 

His horse stands in the distance behind him, grazing and chuffing indignantly at the occasional alligator. Flighty things, horses are. Arthur’s is braver than most. 

You turn back around before said man reaches you, hands resuming to the ripping and the pulling and the tearing. 

“I told ya not to come out here without me,” he’s standing right behind you now. 

“I know,” you grunt. And it’s quiet— heavy under the screeching of crickets and cicadas— until Arthur sidles his shins up to your skirts and places his hands on your shoulders, leaning. 

“Yer mad.” 

“I am not mad.” 

“Sure ya are.” 

“I am not,” and you look up, seeing him gaze out into the bayou with a gentle smile. “I’m annoyed,” you correct. 

“Did Reverend chat ya up again?” And he chuckles, stepping aside to finally crouch beside you. 

His knee brushes against yours, a touch starved way of saying hello.  Under the golden sky, his blue eyes have filtered into grays and greens, seafoam and jade alike. 

He looks tired but that pleasant smile is still there; too happy with your presence to be bothered by such ridiculous notions as the human need for sleep. And as much as you’d love to sooth the eyebags away, you continue frowning. 

“You may be surprised to learn that Reverend was astonishingly quiet. For a week.” You add the last part roughly, hoping Arthur gets the message. 

For a second, you think he doesn’t. 

But then his hand raises, the pad of his thumb passing over the furrow of your brow. Achingly attempting to pacify you. To tell you he’s sorry. 

“What’d I do this time?” And his voice rumbles over the question, soft and sweet, a tone he takes only with you. You sigh, turning back to the plants. 

His hand retracts as you pick away at the leaves, but his eyes are heavy on your face, as if he trying to kiss you with just his gaze. 

You’re sure he wishes. 

“I just don’t like when you leave like that without telling me, or anybody really,” you say. And with Arthur, you always keep things succinct and out in the open because lord knows he won’t read between the lines. 

He’s not like you, where you can tell he’s in a bad mood just by the way he drinks his coffee in the morning. 

And Arthur takes a deep inhale, and then an exhale. “Yeah, I know.” 

You look up, raising a brow. 

“Sorry,” he coughs and you know it’s the most you’ll get out of him. It’s always that way with Arthur. Hands-on approach. Not much in the way with words. 

The only way he failed Hosea. 

“Abigail was worried too,” you add absentmindedly, finally letting yourself dawdle a bit now that he’s by your side again. 

Arthur scoffs. “She’s always worryin’ about somethin’. Jack, John, you, me.” 

You can’t argue with that, but you can’t blame Abigail either because you worry too. You just hide it better. 

And you look up, less angry this time. 

He left with a stubble and has returned with a beard. And though you’re sure his hair hasn’t grown much in a week, you notice the way the sandy blond locks brush against his shoulders— like golden willow on blue hills. 

Finally, you acquiesce. 

Your own hand raises, reaching out. And before you can even touch him, his fingers brush against the skin of your forearm. Ferns to sunshine.

You meet his cheek, wiping away at a smudge of dirt before tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear and hat. 

“Your hair’s gotten long.” 

Arthur looks amused, leaning into your palm not unlike the way a puppy does. 

“Want me to cut it?” 

You shrug. “That’s up to you. But at least take care of this.” And now both hands are on his cheeks, rubbing childishly over his beard. You beam at the way his nose crinkles. 

“Wha’ I thought you liked my beard?” 

“Not when it’s this long. You’d give me a rash every time you kiss me.” 

Arthur smiles, dropping his head to laugh quietly. 

And you stand, hand reaching to pick up your basket, but Arthur already has it in his grip, rising too. 

“Oleander. Sage.” He notes expertly. You hum. “Tryin’ to poison someone?” He asks. 

“You,” is your easy reply as you step away from him and to his horse. He follows in a pavlovian fashion, well trained. 

“That mad about me leavin’ huh?” Long strides quickly bring him to you, arm brushing against shoulder. 

“I wasn’t mad. I was annoyed,” you correct once again.

Arthur makes an entertained sound as he grabs for his horse’s reins. You finally notice all the carcasses strapped to the poor creature. A doe, a fine pelt, geese and rabbits hooked here and there. “Ya missed me?” He teases.

And before you can snort and tell him off, he leans down to kiss you. His hand cups the back of your neck gingerly; giving you all the ability to pull away if you’d like. 

But you don’t. You never would. 

Instead, your eyes slip closed as Arthur presses further. His lips are uncomfortably chapped, dried from the days on the road but so incessant in their need to feel you that you wouldn’t dare tell him to stop. 

Instead your hand rises to hold his wrist loosely, a move that’s always made him melt for one reason another. 

Then just as quickly, he pulls away, brushing his nose against yours. 

“I missed ya.” And he breathes in as you breathe out. 

“Me too,” You admit, though it’s not a secret. He knows. His favorite little luxury it is; the promise you’ll be there, awaiting his return. 

Hasn’t gone a day without it since meeting you. 

Admittedly, 1891 was a bad year to meet Arthur. Grieving, and angry; Eliza and Isaac freshly dead. 

But you were there, picked up by Dutch, almost like a feral animal. Rabid enough to shut down Arthur’s (correction: everyone’s) bullshit immediately, yet organically compassionate to soothe him through bad nights. Even when you barely knew each other. 

That was you. 

Strained it all was at first. Funny, what time can do to two people. 

Unraveling knots and kinks to smoothly twist two lives together. 

And you watch as Arthur starts walking, not bothering to clamber onto his mount— even if the exhaustion in his step is obvious, like meatpie in a patisserie. 

“You’re not gonna ride?” 

He pauses and shakes his head, turning to look back at you. 

“Personally? ‘M tryna get as much time alone before we have to be surrounded by fools and degenerates.” 

You snort, strolling over to his side. “So what kept you away for a week?” 

The back of his hand brushes against yours as you both begin walking. 

“Heard about a wolf in Cotorra Springs. Wanted to check it out and well,” he eyes the pelt. “ Didn’t think it’d take me that long to hunt her down, but she was sneaky.” 

He shrugs. “The rest of this I got on the way home, knowing how Pearson’ll be if I don’t come back with somethin’.” 

You nod knowing how the man can get. Feisty about food, placid about most everything else. Sometimes he reminds you of a bear going into hibernation, and you doodle it on scraps of paper— messy, untrained caricatures of the gang. 

They make Arthur laugh. 

“Me and Abigail joked about you hunting caribou in heat. Not to give you ideas.” 

Arthur flicks a brow. “I wouldn’t do that.” 

“You would if there was money in it.” 

“Is there?” 

“I’ll say no for my own sake.” 

Arthur laughs at that, and you grin, his joy infectious. A bad disease you’re willing to catch. 

“So what have you been up to then, if not grumblin’ and mumblin’?” Arthur asks, eyes sweeping your frame. 

“Cooking. Cleaning. Sewing.” You shrug. Arthur frowns a smidge. 

“You gotta get out more.” 

“I wanted to go out to Saint Denis but I got caught up with Grimshaw, I guess.” 

All he can do is press against you a bit closer. “I’ll go with you soon then.” 

An incredulous look is sent. “No you’re not.” 

And Arthur looks so genuinely offended you have to laugh. 

“What do you mean I’m not?” 

“You hate Saint Denis.” 

“I know but-“ 

You lean your cheek into his bicep. “Thank you, but you don’t have to torture yourself for me.” 

He pouts. “It ain’t torture.” 

“Mhm, sure.” 

Voices in the distance become louder, the echo of Molly’s gramophone and Uncle’s drunken singing coming to a crescendo— smashing and breaking the isolation in a gradual blunder. 

And you pull away, taking the basket from Arthur’s hand as you do. 

Charles greets as you approach, and you hand him the spoils of your anger-fueled gather with another silent thank you. He nods politely, in his own grateful way. 

And as Arthur hitches his horse— cooing with all the affection in the world— you leave him, going up into your shared room. 

You know he has to take care of a few things before you can really have him for yourself: 

Talk to Dutch. 

Contribute money and check the ledger.

Load the hunt’s catches into the kitchen. 

Help with any last minute chores. 

Say ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’ to Hosea, Jack and John; Abigail and Tilly; Sean if he’s in a good mood too. 

So you sit. Passively reading and waiting as you lean against the bed’s headboard. 

And half an hour later, Arthur pulls open the door and then shuts it tight. Like maybe if he held it closed for long enough, the walls would thicken then burst fantastically into a hot air balloon; sending you beyond reach of civilization. 

Under the yellowed light of the lantern, he seems entirely exhausted; the slope of his shoulders dooming, his usually straight back hunched. 

Ain’t no rest for the wicked, Arthur jokes at times. 

He sits down on the bed. For awhile he’s like that; just sitting and staring at the white canvas of the wall. And his eyes are flicking back and forth, like he’s sketching whatever he’s seen in the past week on the molding wallpaper. 

It’s strange when he gets like this. 

It’s not that he’s sad or upset, just caught up in his head. 

“You should get undressed,” you command gently, sliding off the bed as you undo the buttons of your blouse. 

Arthur watches. You pause. And then you deadpan. 

“Are you serious?”  But he says nothing, and neither do you, not as you come to stand between his knees. 

You take his hat off, shoving the worn leather jacket down his arms, and he rests his head against your collar bone, pressing impossibly close into the revealed skin there. 

Like maybe, just maybe, this time your atoms will combine and he won’t have to leave your side ever again. 

When you begin unbuttoning his shirt, his hands finesse to undo the clasps of your skirt and you have to momentarily brush him aside, slapping his hands like a toddler gone for the cookie jar. 

“Hey,” he protests, blue eyes pleading. But the way they blink slowly and idly tells you everything. 

“No. Sleep. We can do that tomorrow.” 

Arthur groans but listens; hands dropping, head knocking against your chest. “A week,” he grumbles. 

“And whose fault is that?” 

He’s quiet as you work, up until he catches a look at the thin silver chain around your neck. His finger notches on the ring that’s hooked to it. 

“I wish you would wear it,” he mumbles languidly. 

“I can say the same thing,” and you glance at the gold band he keeps tucked away on the rope of his hat. “Maybe if things get better.” 

“When,” he amends. “When they get better.” 

“Sure.” 

He glares, the lines of his face darkening. “Don’t be like that.“ 

“Arthur.” And you cup his face, kissing him quickly and quietly. “It’s late.” 

He stares up at you, an odd mix between enamored and frustrated. 

A huff then escapes his lips, and he unbuckles his belt as you finish with the last button of his shirt. Your hands toys with the hem momentarily as if gripping to the tendrils of his soul. 

But you let go, and turn away. 

Getting rid of your own clothes is quick work, but Arthur makes even quicker work of kicking his pants and boots away, collapsing onto the furs and blankets of the bed. And as insistent as he was, he’s out quicker than nightshade, his arousal forgotten. 

You’re sure he’ll remember it in his dreams. It’s happened before. 

And you dim the lantern, laying yourself next to him in your chemise. Even though his back is facing you, a half-hesitant hand runs through his hair. 

He’ll need a wash tomorrow. 

You’ll force him into it, chase him around with a bucket if you have to. But for now, you let him rest; let sleep capture him like a firefly cupped between two soft palms. Pleased, your cheek presses against his bare shoulder blade. 

Obviously, you wake before him. 

Already dressed before he can even become lucid enough to call for you, hand reaching out to grab your missing form. You bend down, press a hand to his forehead, and whisper for him to forget you in favor of his dreams. 

His soft snores ensue. You drift away. 

And today, like yesterday, is quiet. But it’s less gloomy, more of a peace that’s settled because, praise be, Micah is out for the morning. It is both surprising and delightful, and nobody takes it for granted. 

And you drift around the manor and camp, helping with the odd chore, saying hello, sipping at coffee. 

At some point you walk off, where the ground is more solid and less swamp to have a quick word with God in the early morning breeze. 

He doesn’t reply though you knew he wouldn’t. Still, you hope he heard. 

At your return, Grimshaw unloads a torrent of harsh words, quickly placing you on dishes duty. You accept it. 

Mean spirited, but kind hearted, that one. Always has been. You don’t have the will to complain though— not since Arthur’s come back. 

He pacifies you, Hosea has teased, a coy smile hidden by the brim of his hat. At first it was embarrassing, but soon you came to realize denying it is like looking for oranges in an apple orchard. Psychotic and pointless.

Abigail has said the same thing, John nodding along enthusiastically. 

It’s annoying and the truth, and you have no energy to argue. 

Arthur is still asleep by the time you’ve scrubbed both the cast iron and your skin raw. Unsurprisingly. You’ve seen him passed out for nineteen hours once. 

You wish you had that ability, especially with how hot and sticky the Lemoyne air is; boiled molasses in your lungs. You would sleep the entire afternoon just to avoid it all. 

But in the slowness of the day, and your boredom, you approach Dutch, reading as always. 

“Anything interesting?” You ask, readjusting the basket of laundry at your hip. It’s a conversation you have often— ever since you’ve joined the gang your time to read has dwindled— being much more preoccupied with needles and guns and terrible men instead.

He hums, flipping a page. “A collection of essays done by Ralph Waldo Emerson. I presume you know him?” 

You nod, stepping closer. “He wrote before the war. A Transcendentalist, wasn’t he?” 

“Yes,” and Dutch smiles. He’s always told you that you’re too smart for your own good. Smarter than he deserves— than the gang deserves. But you never indulge in his compliments (at least not too much).

And you’ve never really been sure if they’re true.

He’s kind, though that may not be the word. Merciful. Insightful. And perhaps that has fueled the compassionate part in him. 

But as of late it’s all been brought into question you suppose. His sanity. Whether or not he’s still the same old, reliable Dutch that he always has been. 

But you brush it aside for now, letting yourself pretend it’s all normal and everything is okay. A happy family. 

“Which essay are you reading?” And you lean against the doorframe, fixing your apron. 

“Man the Reformer. Do you know it?” 

“Only parts. I think. Care to read me some?” You tilt your head, tucking one ankle behind the other. 

Refined with him, always, even with his penchant for savagery. 

“For you, my dear? Anytime,” and his eyes scan the pages, flipping through to find a piece he likes. “Ah,” he says after a moment, knuckle tapping the paragraph. He clears his throat, then starts. 

“Hence it happens that the whole interest of history lies in the fortunes of the poor. Knowledge, Virtue, Power are the victories of man over his necessities, his march to the dominion of the world. Every man ought to have this opportunity to conquer the world for himself. Only such persons interest us, Spartans, Romans, Saracens, English, Americans, who have stood in the jaws of need, and have by their own wit and might extricated themselves, and made man victorious.” 

He turns away from the page, his face lilting towards yours. “Isn’t that lovely?” he asks you. “Just gorgeous, isn’t it?” 

And Dutch, like most men, has a strange idea of what gorgeous is. Finding it in bloodied knuckles and revenge. In essays about man and power. 

In hatred. In violence. 

You’re unsure why you suddenly remember this— but when you were young, still attending school, you had read that Moses was not allowed to enter the Promised Land. 

It had confused you. Hurt you even. 

And when you had asked one of the nuns: Why? What was the reason? Why couldn’t he? What was the point if his fate was to die? 

And you remember that nun, with reverent eyes and sad smile, told you: 

“For freedom to be reached, the memory of subjugation has to die.” 

And that is why Aaron, and Miriam had died as well. Zipporah too. 

You stare at Dutch. 

“Do you see yourself as Moses?” You ask. It’s a blurted question, not entirely thought through, and you’re embarrassed the moment the words leave your mouth. 

Dutch stares back, his own dark eyes swirling with momentary surprise before he laughs, hitting his knee. Shoulders slacking, your own breathy chuckles escape as you watch. 

“You’ve heard The Good Word?” he questions, almost shocked. 

“Read it.” 

“My, aren’t you full of surprises?” 

“Are you calling me a sinner, Dutch Van Der Linde?” 

He tilts his head, raising a brow. “Aren’t you?” It’s said as if it were common sense. 

“Maybe I’m not a saint, but I don’t think I’m a sinner.” 

Dutch hums, bouncing his knee. “You pray?” 

“When I’m dying,” you tell him, half joking. 

“And how often is that?” 

“More than I’d like.” 

Dutch doesn’t laugh, but a warm, hearty chuckle rumbles in his chest and he picks his book back up. 

“Isn’t that the truth.” 

Looking away, your eyes flick about the greenery outside his window. The chickens cluck incessantly, bouncing about like cotton ball clouds on grassy mountains. 

You can make out the outline of Jack, bounding around a tree with a stick in hand, occasionally swiping the trunk. Abigail keeps a watchful eye. 

And it’s all very domestic. 

A little green rectangle of quiet love, framed by rotting wood and sin. It seems so far away, you can’t tell if it’s real. But you know for a fact it is, and it makes the deep, longing pain in your chest all the worse. It’s a dream really, one you think of often and one you and Arthur have only discussed either after sex or in the early morning— when everyone is still asleep and when things are a little imaginary. 

When dreams rule the plain of existence. 

Suddenly Hosea passes by the room. His gaze stabs through you, a knowing familiar look he’s sent over the past few months. 

Like you’ve discovered a dirty secret. 

And it seems you’ve both come to a conclusion you’re both equally unsure of. Same with Abigail. Same with Arthur, even if he denies it. 

“I should get back to work,” you mumble, pushing yourself off the doorframe.

“Atta girl,” Dutch simpers, but you’ve already walked off, head full of fears and doubts and thoughts you know you’re not supposed to have. 

Hanging laundry is one of the easier chores, one that eases the nerves. Gentle afternoon breeze, as humid as it is, drifts by, wafting the smell of soap and swamp water. Earthy and clean, rolled into a lavender clay. 

Jack hovers around your skirts as you work, and you easily indulge him in poems, songs, and stories, all with a gentle smile. 

He glances at the manor. “Uncle Arthur sure does sleep a lot.” 

“He does, doesn’t he?” 

“Where did Uncle Arthur go?” 

Clipping a bedsheet to the line, your eyes gleam, turning to Jack. “He went beyond civilization” and you crouch down, making claws with your hands, a playful grin at your lips, “hunting wolves.” 

Jack beams, grabbing at your hands, easing the claws. “I wanna hunt wolves!” 

You laugh a little, pulling away and reaching for a pair of drawers in the basket. 

“You’re still too small— they’d eat you up.” 

Jack frowns. “No they wouldn’t.” 

And you hide an amused grin with the back of your hand, thinking of John. After a moment, you nod. “You’re right. They wouldn’t eat you, you’re too skinny.” 

“Hey!” And Jack pouts, tugging at your skirts. You finally laugh, dropping a hand to pat his head, fingers sifting through soft brown locks. 

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t let them eat you. None of us would.” 

Jack seems appeased. “Do you think Uncle Arthur will take me next time?” 

And not wanting to break his little heart, you say, “I think that’s something you have to ask him.” 

And Jack seems to be somewhat miffed by the answer, reserving himself to sit by the laundry basket as he watches beetles and ants march along the dirt. 

Little brown capped soldiers. 

“Have you ever hunted wolves, Auntie?” 

You hang up the drawers, humming. “No. But one time Uncle Hosea took me hunting for a bear.” 

“A bear!?” And Jack crawls a bit closer. “I don’t remember that?” 

“It was before you were born.” You add gently. 

“Ohhh. Was it scary?” 

“Well only at first. It tried to eat me, but Uncle Hosea wouldn’t let that happen.” Embarrassment bubbles at the memory. The way Arthur had laughed when you sulked, telling him and Hosea you would never hunt again.

Jack smiles. “Do you think Uncle Hosea will take me bear hunting?” 

A downturned smile marrs your features. “I hope not.” 

Jack complains at that, and you gently assert that bears are much worse than wolves, and they wouldn’t care how skinny he is. 

And the moment is sweet and funny and utterly ruined when a horrible, rasping voice says, 

“There she is.” 

Micah’s back. 

Setting your shoulders, you gently tell Jack to find his Ma. Tell her those stories I told you, murmured by his ear. And he scurries away, an excited smile on his face. Your full attention is then granted to the laundry basket and the sodden clothes inside. 

Micah stands on the other side of the clothesline, watching you between the flaps of bedsheets and button ups. A fabric jail cell keeps you separated. 

“Heard our workhorse is back, hm? Where is he?” 

A sock is hung up, next a union suit. 

“Oh, so you won’t even talk about your darlin’ Mr. Morgan with me?” 

You’re running short on clothespins. 

“You gettin’ tired of him?” 

There’s still enough for now. 

“Mr. Morgan, running off for days on end, only comes back to fuck his little mare good and then runs off again. Ain’t that just sad?” 

You could use a new skirt maybe. You’ll head into Saint Denis tomorrow. For now though, another sock is hung. 

“I could take care of ya, while he’s gone. He’ll never have to know.” 

Two blouses are clipped on the clothesline and you’re officially out of pins. 

“So, what d’ya think? Offer stands.” 

You step away from the hanging laundry, your eyes meeting Micah’s. It startles him but turns him on just as quickly. 

And then you walk away, to the manor in search of more pins. Micah doesn’t follow, though you feel his eyes burning holes into you, gaping pits of Tartarus on your skin.

You’re surprised to see Arthur leaning against the windowsill, cup of coffee in one hand, the other scratching away at his journal in long precise strokes; a wolf. And he’s trimmed his beard and hair, his skin clean. 

Washed away of filth and stress. 

An easy smile comes to him when he turns to see you— he downs the rest of his coffee, closes his journal, and steps over. 

“Good afternoon,” you say. 

“Afternoon,” and Arthur glances around for peeping eyes before kissing you chastely. “Thought we could go to Saint Denis today like ya wanted,” he offers. 

You shake your head. “I can’t today; maybe tomorrow?” 

He pulls away, looking bemused. “Always ‘tomorrow’ with you, woman.” 

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s too late to go to Saint Denis anyway.” 

“We could rent a room.” 

“I am not spending money on a bed I have here,” you chide. 

He raises his head to look at the ceiling, hat tipping back slightly back as he does. A stiffness overcomes him, like a thousand rocks have settled into his stomach. “You always gotta make things difficult.” 

“Shut up,” and you pat his chest, stepping around him to continue your search, “I’ll see you tonight.” 

That seems to help him digest the rocks but he still grabs at your wrist, stopping you. And there’s a deep longing in Arthur’s eyes; lust and sorrow mixing to create something entirely desperate. 

“I love ya,” he mumbles quietly. 

And it’s not something you say often, never really finding the need to. You know. He knows. You’re on the same page. 

But sometimes, you’ll indulge each other with those three little words. 

And Arthur lightens when you smile and nod and tell him you love him too. It’s like he’s seen the ocean for the first time, eyes sparkling in wonderful adoration. So he lets you go, assured he has you no matter what. 

Expectantly, you barely see eachother for the rest of the day, each preoccupied with your own tasks. Small glances are thrown, like pebbles against windows, but nothing more. 

Not until night falls. 

You’re sitting around the fire with Abigail, snorting over a not so appropriate story Karen is telling when you see him in the distance, past the embers, crawling back into the manor. Admittedly, it is late but not late enough for Arthur to call it a night. 

Usually, he’d stay with the group– drink a bottle of beer and sing a tone deaf melody with Tilly and Javier. But not tonight. Tonight he’s waiting you out. 

And so when Karen finishes her story, you give one last laugh and leave. 

Arthur is sitting on the bed when you come in, writing something slowly; the clear mark of verbal constipation.

And the lantern is lit low, warm and golden like a dying star. He only looks up from the page when you close the door, his hand pausing. There’s a droll moment where you stare at him and he stares at you– the little lift of amusement curling your lips can’t be helped. 

In a brisk moment, you’re standing between his knees; but this time it’s him who undresses you. And you let him take his time with the clasps and buttons, resting your palms on his shoulders.

“Jack asked me if I’d take him wolf huntin’,” Arthur mumbles, standing to kiss at the junction of your neck and jaw. In nothing but your chemise, it’s easy to feel the hard line of him press against your hip. “Did’ya put him up to that?” 

You laugh, hands rising to undo his own shirt. “Maybe.” 

A rough palm presses between your shoulder blades, the other cupping your cheek as he nudges you to tilt your head with his nose. 

“Yer evil,” Arthur mutters into your skin, “making me be the one to say no to him.” 

“Was he angry?” 

“Nah,” Arthur sighs, knocking his hips with yours, “just said I’m no fun.” 

And you slip his shirt off, revealing broad shoulders and firm muscle, laced and sewed with scratches and scars. 

You run your hand down a particularly marred one at his ribs. Knife fight. 

“Did he hurt your feelings?” You tease. The hand at your cheek drops, bundling the hem of your chemise up your thighs. And before you can poke his ego again, the hand dips, grazing against your bundle of nerves. 

You sigh, leaning into him as he lazily dips a finger in and out, in and out. 

“John looked like he was ‘bout to have a panic attack,” Arthur rasps right in your ear. “If I had said anythin’ other than no I think he woulda killed me.” 

“Can’t have that,” you hum, and Arthur snorts. 

“Ya need me around to fuck ya, is that it?” 

Scoffing, you pull away. “You’re ridiculous.” Your chemise falls back over your thighs, covering the slick Arthur built up. And he gives a soothing smile, hands lifting yours to twine fingers together. 

“Did I hurt yer feelin’s?” And though you’re frowning, you let Arthur guide you to the bed— let him push you down onto the mattress. At your silence he runs his lips across your face; kissing at your brow, your nose, cheeks and chin. “I didn’t mean any harm by it.” 

Lifting himself on his forearms, he watches you. You’ve softened exponentially, pliant and willing under him. 

Only him. 

And the look on your face is so fond— too loving and so soft, that he feels as if you must be a figment of his imagination. A sick twisted trick his mind is playing to feel something. 

But you’re here, breathing against him, and looking like a drop of sunshine under the lantern’s light. 

He’s struck gold. 

Bending down, Arthur kisses you and in turn you breathe him in, arms coming up to wrap around his neck. You roll your hips, and a groan verberates in his chest— the sound makes your bones rumble— the first sign of an avalanche. 

He lifts the chemise once more and a knee comes up to sit between your exposed thighs. Arthur dips his hand again, this time spreading you open on two fingers. 

The both of you have gotten very good at being quiet after so many years of barely any privacy; a tarp or tent at most; but in Shady Belle, bless the heavens above, you allow yourself little, quiet whimpers. 

The gift of walls. 

And Arthur feels himself pulse as he edges you on, fingers increasing in speed. His thumb brushes against that bundle of nerves again and you choke back a moan, hands gripping onto the sheets. 

“Arthur,” you pant, eyes shining with adoration. And he pauses. You stir something in him, some sort of odd childlike devotion he hasn’t felt since he was in his early twenties. 

Not since Mary. 

And he remembers when you had first gotten together, back in ‘94, you had told him you wouldn’t ask him to stop loving Mary. I could never, ever do that to you. It’d be cruel and unfair of me, you had whispered. 

And you knew he never would stop because that’s how first loves are. Permanent. 

But maybe now, maybe in this moment— just like every other moment with you— he has stopped loving Mary. Perhaps not entirely, but he wouldn’t chase after her like he used to. 

Not when he has you. Not when you beg his name. 

And Arthur rises, lifting you up with him as he sits up against the headboard, huddling you into his lap. His skin is warm, as it usually is, and you can’t discern whether that’s just him or if the Lemoyne heat has to do with it too. 

It’s overwhelming and you’ve barely gotten started. 

Making a pathetic little noise in the back of your throat, you see the way it lights his eyes on fire, as if you hold the keys to enter the Gates of Hell. And it’s almost too easy for him to pull off your chemise, leaning forward to press his lips against yours. 

He’s scarily and surprisingly gentle. Always has been. But tonight there’s an underlying torture in the way he bites at your bottom lip, then soothes it, admonishing his own efforts. 

And Arthur, this sweet, sad man who has killed, murdered, and torn apart men from sanity has resorted to fluttering his fingers against your hips; as if you were a prized butterfly, ready to fly off at any second. 

For one reason or another, it makes your heart ache. 

Your own hands cup his stubbled jaw as you lean down, opening your mouth and letting his teeth gently collide with yours clumsily. 

There’s another rumble in his chest when you kiss the corner his mouth, an apology for your gauche actions. And you can’t tell if it’s a breath or a moan, but you assume that it’s something good. 

A quiet plea for you to continue. Don’t stop. 

Because if you do Arthur’s sure he’ll sob in a pitiful, defeated way that would leave him rutting into the mattress. 

To his relief, your thighs press against his hips all the more, and your chest meets his. One of his own hands slides up your side, and he moans into your mouth at the feeling of your skin against his palm.

Silk against stone. Soft where he is rough– ruined by bullets, knives and meaningless labor. And he decides then, he’ll preserve this. Preserve your warm humanity, if it’s the last thing he does. 

And he is a fool, but he isn’t insolent. He knows you’ve seen and experienced things that would have him reeling with nausea. 

You’re a woman, of course you have. 

But if he can help it, he will keep you like this. Coy and kind. Too good for him and too good for what the world has to offer. 

Arthur realizes he’d gotten engrossed in his worship when you pull away to look down at him, giving a shaky exhale. Running your fingers through his scalp, you let your hand settle at the back of his neck, peering at his face as if he were a saint. 

Arthur can only stare back. Fervently and biblically.

He follows every unspoken order you give him with a ferocity bordering desperation that only stems from his complete adoration. And you’ll never know how or where it started and you won’t ask, in fear of an answer that that any other man could give you. But this outlaw, brute, grunt; this man of all men has become an angel under your gaze and touch. 

It’s intoxicating.  

For awhile this continues. The kissing– the petting and exploration. Whispered ‘I missed you’s’ brushed across your lips, neck, breasts. At some point, Arthur wraps his mouth around one of your nipples, and you stifle a whimper against his temple. 

A hand pushes into the curve of your back, imploring and needy, making you keen. The other, brushes against your core unexpectedly and you almost yelp from the sudden contact. But he dips his fingers into you gingerly, restarting the ministrations from earlier. 

You all but melt. 

You’re panting into his neck, gripping onto him as he plays with you. It’s shameful how a week apart has ruined you so terribly. 

You’re oversensitive and overstimulated. 

When your breathing becomes more desperate (which happens quicker than you’d like) Arthur pulls away again. And he likes this game; the build up before breaking you. An annoyed sigh puffs out from your lips, and you find yourself grinding into his lap for some form of relief.

His trousers have become a hindrance. 

Arthur’s leaning into your chest, eyes half-open and cheek pressed against the space between your breasts. His mouth is hot and open, panting as you grind further into him.

And though you can feel him twitching against you, it isn’t enough. He’ll need more than the dull pressure of your core. But for now, he lets your hips roll, watching brightly as your slick coats the seam of his pants. 

“No more,” he suddenly rasps, the first words said in a long time. “Please, no more teasing.” 

You ponder him for a moment, then nod.

The trousers are off in an instant. 

And his skin against yours is a relieving sin. Hands on your hips, he rubs you against him— and all you can do is sit it out and watch with bated breath. Arthur, at the feeling, lets out a stilted, raspy whimper. 

Before he can do more, you lower a hand, pumping him up and down, up and down; a choked sound catches in the back of his throat when you do. 

He’s bigger than average, but not impressively so. The real volume of his size comes from his width, noting that your thumb and middle finger don’t and have never connected when you jerk him off. 

And you do this for some time, listening to his gasps and mumbled moans, only stopping when he begins pulsing in your palm. 

Arthur whines when you pull away, eyes gleaming almost angrily, and you have to smile at the hypocrisy of his behavior. He bites back a curse at the way you look at him, too entranced to be upset. 

Then, pushing him flat onto the mattress and straddling his waist, you kiss him. His hands land on your back once more, begging to press you closer, further. 

Wanting nothing more than to simply have you against him. 

And finally, you slide onto his length. 

It’s jarring at first, uncomfortable in the way it splits you open. And you feel his every millimeter and every movement. It takes a minute for your body to adjust, to realize it’s him. Arthur lets you wait it out, lets you take your time as you finally sink down completely. 

He thrusts, once, shallow and uncertain, brows furrowed in concentration. And your eyes close shut with a gasp, squeezing your legs even tighter around his waist. 

Then, you lift your hips off him and sit back down. And then you do it again. And again. And again. 

The pace you’ve set is slow, but it allows you to further assimilate to the stretch. Furthermore, the friction is accumulative. You quickly find that Arthur’s hands have lifted to clasp around your own shaking ones in an act to sooth you. 

To quell whatever ache has settled in your abdomen (for the time being). 

And his eyes are shining with an indiscernible emotion as he watches you; something that makes you want to cry out of sheer wonder. 

You’re so sure it’s love. It has to be. You refuse for anything else. 

You refuse to be a broodmare or quick fuck. 

And something must flip inside of Arthur because suddenly, he flips you two over, and moreover, he turns you over onto your stomach. 

“Arthur,” you mutter, as you lift yourself up on your forearms. And he bends down pressing a kiss to the vertebrae in your neck as if they were jewels on a crown. 

His hands return to your hips and bring you towards him. 

“I know,” he replies. It only takes a second for him to slip into you again, letting a deep, pleasant groan out. 

In this position he’s quicker, rougher. Less careful. 

Arthur utters the occasional incoherent word and you can only pant in reply. After a while of this— of his hips slamming against yours— your shaking arms collapse under you, and your cheek presses into the mattress. 

Arthur doesn’t stop though, nor does he slow, and the whole thing overloads your nerves. 

Yet somehow, his touch is still loving— even as he takes you so harshly. It’s an odd dichotomy. You’re not quite sure he knows his own strength in this moment. Maybe he never does. 

And you can’t help but be utterly grateful that this is the only way Arthur uses his strength on you. To fuck you into a mattress. 

And the only noises you can make are broken little gasps for air, an entire lifetime’s worth of vocabulary forgotten. He’s moving in and out of you at a far quicker pace than you had initially anticipated; and you feel yourself begin to shake, quivering for help beneath him. 

“Please,” you beg. 

“Please, what?” 

Your face flushes, hot and embarrassed even if you’ve done this hundreds of times before. “Arthur,” you whine, and he gets the message, quickening his pace as more broken, unintelligible syllables bumble out of your lips.

He brings one hand away from your hip to cup under your chin, lifting your face slightly so he can press his cheek against yours. 

A loving act that tells you this is more than lust and cum. 

Your hands claw into the mattress and his other hand leaves your hip to land on top of your own— fingers moving to curl into the spaces between yours. You’re crying now, sobbing quietly for some form of release at the absolutely brutal pace he’s set. 

And you feel yourself coming close to climax, warmth pooling and subsequently dripping from your abdomen. 

Arthur’s close too. You can tell by the way he twitches inside of you and by the way his groans have become hoarse and breathy. 

He then removes the hand from your jaw and you sink back into the mattress, his fingers reaching for that bundle of nerves and rubbing it. You leave an open-mouthed whimper into the bedsheet, your breath and spit creating a hot and sticky spot. 

Delicately, he pushes your body over the edge.

The orgasm rushes over you like a snap— quicker than lighting but drawn out like thunder. It singes and quakes as you quiver around him, moaning dumbly and begging for some form of sanity. Your back, arching, pushes him further into you, ignorant of your own overstimulation. 

Arthur’s grip is tight on your hips as he watches, having to stop himself from spilling into you right then and there. He would. 

He would if things were better. He would if he were stupid and ignorant. 

But he holds himself back, teeth gnawing at his lip. Eventually you calm, the bedsheet loosening in your grip, leaving linen hills in your wake. And as soon as you take a quiet, deep breath, he continues to thrust just as quickly. 

It’s now his turn to gasp and whimper, and you’ve never heard him so desperate— properly crying as he presses his face into your neck. 

Your own tears bead at your eyelashes as you let him use you, abandoning any and all self respect for yourself. 

But it doesn’t last long, as he’s quick to follow you over the edge. His hips begin to stutter and you know it’s over. 

Arthur pulls out, and you feel him throbbing against you as he cums into his hand. He’s practically collapsed on top of you as well, his body gone boneless and weak from the aftershock. 

He’s still for some time, catching his breath and his mental faculties. 

And you’re not sure how much time has passed until his lips press against your neck and shoulders gently; but you sigh quietly at the feeling, pleased and sated. 

He reaches under your body, cupping your waist so he can roll the two of you over to lay on your sides. And Arthur curls himself around you protectively, like he could obstruct everything evil with the slope of his shoulders. 

It’s quiet and peaceful, as the aftermath of sex usually is. 

And each time he kisses your skin indolently, you press back into him— a silent message that you want to kiss back. He seems to understand.

After a while, he mumbles your name. 

You don’t expect it, his usual preference for silence being the norm. But either way, you hum in reply, entirely lost in comfort and bliss. 

“I’ll kill Micah.” It’s said so simply, like an everyday part of his itinerary. Cleaning, hunting, murder. Well, maybe it is then.

You don’t open your eyes though. This is not a new conversation, nor is it one you like. 

“You heard him today I’m guessing.”

“When you were doin’ the laundry.” 

You want to frown. “It’s fine.” Is all you can say. 

“No it ain’t.” 

You pull away from him a little. “I don’t wanna talk about him. Ever. He doesn’t matter.” 

Arthur’s quiet again. But then he nods and closes the space you created. 

“Okay.” 

[scotianostra]

August 23rd 1305 saw the Judicial murder of the Scottish patriot Sir William Wallace on King Edwards orders after a sham trial for treason, at The Elms, Smithfield, London.

Wallace is said to have accepted his execution without resistance and a brave heart. He even made a final confession to a priest and read from the book of Psalms before his punishment. His naked body was wrapped in an ox hide to prevent him being ripped apart, thereby shortening the torture, he was dragged by horses four miles through London to Smithfield.London. Bystanders pelted him with garbage and excrement and even hit him with sticks and whips.

The method of William Wallace’s “execution” was not unusual for the era, it was the norm for treasonous acts, the point is, Wallace was never an English subject, Edward was not his King so as he is said to have uttered at his trial in reply to the charge….

“I could not be a traitor to Edward, for I was never his subject.”

He was hung briefly but not killed, the executioner may have sliced off Wallace’s manhood and disemboweled him while forcing him to watch. His intestines were likely burned before his eyes. Miraculously, Wallace may still have been alive. As is the English execution custom, his heart would have been gouged out from his chest. If the executioner was skilled enough, it would have still been beating upon removal, and he would have yelled, “Behold the heart of a traitor!” Then, Wallace would have been beheaded post-mortem. His head was then displayed on a spike on the London bridge. The rest of Wallace’s body was chopped into four pieces, a torture practice known as “being quartered,” his limbs were sent to Newcastle, Berwick, Perth and Stirling as a warning to dissenters.

Three of these locations seem undisputed. But the fourth part is sometimes disputed, Stirling is my own assumption, the place of his greatest victory, Edward would have seen it as symbolic, but Aberdeen has been suggested, the Wikipedia entry for St Machar’s Cathedral says “After the execution of William Wallace in 1305, his body was cut up and sent to different corners of the country to warn other dissenters.

His left quarter ended up in Aberdeen and is buried in the walls of the cathedral.” But the wiki entry for Wallace says different as stated it mentions Stirling.

The Society of William Wallace tells us this…..

“Following Wallace’s execution and dismemberment, one quarter of his mutilated body was displayed on the repaired and rebuilt Stirling Bridge. No doubt this was thought by the English overlords to be a fitting place to show off their grim trophy. And this is where the legend starts……Wallace had links through his uncle to the monks at Cambuskenneth. At that time, the church was far more militant than nowadays, and many church leaders (and no doubt their subordinates) were fiercely loyal to Scotland and the cause of freedom. The legend states that a group of these monks issued from the Abbey one dark night and retrieved the remains of Wallace’s body, with the intention of giving it a Christian burial inside the grounds of the Abbey itself, and this they did, telling no-one outside the Abbey of their actions, which would have brought fatal recriminations upon the Abbey. Longshanks was known to be no respecter of the Church. ”

William Wallace died a brutal death. His name and fame did not. He lives on not only in Scotland and England but all over the world.

On the 700th anniversary of his execution at Smithfield ,David R. Ross, Convenor of The Society of William Wallace, walked from Robroyston to Londond and at St Bartholomew the Great Church st Smithfield, close to the place he was murdered, a funeral service was held for Sir William.

His memorial close by includes the words:

"I tell you the truth, son, freedom is the best condition, never live like a slave."

"Victory or Death."

[lifeonthemurdersim]

"Who kisses the other awake in the morning?"

"Neither. You wake up and he's staring at you."

Oh my god... Could you profundize this? I can't stop reading this, it's so... I am enthrilled. So, so enthrilled.

Thank you so much for this ask! To clarify for those reading, I gave the above answer when answering ship questions for Lawrence x Violet/Reader.

I started explaining further but then I recalled this was actually one of my unused ideas for my GoreKinktober series so I decided to revisit it as a short piece! I hope this gives the elaboration you were looking for! 😊

My Ecosystem Fandom/Universe: Boyfriend To Death Characters/Pairing: Lawrence Oleander x Reader (his POV) AO3 Link(full tags, warnings etc here) Word count: 1,203 words Synopsis: You're used to waking up to Lawrence watching you by now. What you're not so aware of, is why. Author's Note: This prompt is for the 24th but I'm posting on the 1st of November. More about Gorekinktober on my pinned post! Kinktober prompt(s) used: Somnophilia Goretober prompt used: N/A

Lawrence still isn't used to being this close to a living, breathing human for such a prolonged amount of time. It's a heady mix of overwhelming, being that there's just so much of you to take in, and so, so fascinating. A whole little ecosystem, in his bed, in his arms, that he wakes up to every evening.

He can see the vast expanse of beautiful skin cocooning you, enshrouding all those intriguing little organs; all buzzing away carrying out their functions as they're supposed to. Whatever encounter you once had with the river, it was obviously brief enough to leave you wonderfully untouched. You're not rotting like him, you're fresh, you're perfect.

Imagine if all that's inside of there was visible on the outside. It might not last for very long, but for that brief moment, where everything was still ticking but the whole of you was inside out, it would be glorious. He knew you better than anyone else he had ever encountered, so you wouldn't be another art piece discarded in a random stack nor hung clinically in an empty hall. He had passion for you, he loved you, if Lawrence made you art, you would be his masterpiece.

Although he supposed some part of him would like to see the inner workings of your mind, he'd have a little more time to see you functioning if he left your brain untouched. Actually, he thinks he would leave your face intact, too. He likes it exactly as it is, the shape, the features, especially soft when you're sleeping. Even a master artist couldn't improve upon it. Yes, he'd likely leave your entire head be, it's simply too pretty.

The rest though, he'd deconstruct with searing crimson lines, the first hint of the internal you emerging to the external. It would leave him in need of more. You'd need to be opened up all the way so you could be appreciated in every sense. He would slice deeper into your limbs, folding the muscle and sinew open neatly so see more of you, a larger surface area, but also the things that hadn't been seen before.

Then his focus would be your torso, he'd have to cut slowly so each organ was revealed bit by bit, he needed to savour every inch of you, every second of unwrapping you. The excessive length of your intestines would snake around your waist, forming elegant arcs swinging back and forth behind you like wings of an angel.

The liver has a nice texture when you cut into it, soft but with a little pushback. He could carve out slivers and hold them; they'd be like little brown slugs but ones that could never hurt his plants. He could rest them on your slumped shoulders like art. He could carve a firm L into it, a jagged O. His art needs a signature somewhere. The liver almost re-forms around the letters though. Maybe he would have to carve his initials into a few places on you, just to be sure.

The veins and arteries, though, he'd keep attached to your heart, only cutting where he had to. He'd arrange them like spokes, like a sunburst coming out from your chest, measuring the intervals carefully. If he presses a thumb to your wrist, he can feel them, throbbing gently with every beat of your heart. He brushes his hand up your arm slowly, gently, grazing your shoulder.

You shift slightly. Lawrence freezes up. But you don't stir, so he presses a hand to your chest. There it is. Pulsing under your shell. Imagine if those ribs could be cracked open, releasing the softly trilling little bird from its cage. How much firmer and louder would that beat be without those confines alone?

Better still, what if he could reach out and wrap his hand around it, really feel it? Would it be the slow steady beat it sits at while you dream away, or would the actions taken to lead him there render it to a dizzying pace? Would it become too much, too overwhelming? Would he have to squeeze it hard to get it to stop?

Or...

Would it already have fallen silent before he even got that far?

Never to be heard again.

Not just your heartbeat, either. Your soft assurances when he was spiralling. The pitter-patter of your footsteps as you tended to his plants. Your soft moans and whimpers when he was pleasuring you. The charming little rhythm of your laugh. Your loving words. Your voice in general.

Yes, at times just having another person around him was a lot for Lawrence. But having to live without this one specific person he'd become so attached to would be downright unbearable.

The silence would be overwhelming.

You were the only one who'd seen the river, the only one who really understood. This world wasn't real, but he was forced to exist in it until he allowed his body to decay entirely. But having you around made it bearable. More than bearable.

Good.

He absolutely wanted to do it. He wanted you to be his work of art, his best work. But there was too much to risk, so he couldn't. He wouldn't. But sometimes, he really really wants to. He leans a little closer to you, hoping that will stave off the urge, only for your eyes to blink open. You both jump a little. The thumping of your heart under his hand quickens.

"L-Lawrence!" you stutter out, then exhale to try to calm, he feels it in your chest. "I... never get used to you doing that..."

"Oh..." he replies. "...sorry?" He's not sure if he is sorry, but it feels like maybe he's worried you, so he's supposed to say it.

"It's... OK I guess..." you tell him, softening into the hand at your chest a little. You raise both brows at him. "Did watching me sleep... turn you on?" you ask, looking him up and down.

Lawrence looks at you with confusion at first, but then he allows himself to step out of his detached thoughts and actually feel his body. His cheeks are warm; blushing most likely, all his skin is heated and prickling. His heart is racing faster just like yours, but it's not just from you making each other jump, his breathing is deeper than usual. Probably the most evident part to you, there's a very evident bulge in his sweatpants. While he was busy disassociating into fantasies of tearing you open, his body was flooding with arousal.

"Yeah..." he admits a little breathily. "I... guess it did." A slight smile graces your lips. You come closer, the kind that verges on overwhelming, but right now he wants it, your proximity, your touch. You roll him softly onto his back, straddling him.

"It's a good job I woke up then, isn't it?" you ask suggestively as you push his hair back, smiling down at him.

Lawrence thinks of his imagined you, lying bleeding and wide open and lifeless in his mind. Then he looks at the real you, flushed and adoring and very much alive on top of him.

"Yes." he agrees, smiling back. "It really is..."

[mixtape-racha]

it's a scream, baby | hyunlix

chapter fourteen: you look like you've seen a ghost

words: 961 // warnings: car crash, graphic depictions of dead bodies, description of internal body parts, use of a gun, knives

OFFICIAL GHOSTFACE KILL COUNT: 011

with her heart thumping in her chest, (y/n) trudged down the road, feeling more and more sick as changbin’s house came closer into view. it was torture, bringing herself back to the place she had only just escaped, but she would do anything to save hyunjin. even if she had to sacrifice herself. even if she had to take someone else’s life. she’d do it all to not lose him too.

there was a small turn-off into the outskirts of the woods as she approached changbin’s house - it was on his parents’ land, and it meant she wouldn’t have to walk down the main road. the walk felt longer on the main road, anyway, seemingly endless, whereas at least in the wooded area she’d be able to watch nature as she forced herself to keep walking.

she knew if she followed the line of bushes next to the main road, within maybe 5 minutes she’d be at the bottom of changbin’s ridiculously large front garden. as soon as she hit the lining of oak trees, she’d be able to see his front door and save hyunjin - hopefully. she prayed that it wasn’t just another sick game, and she wouldn’t arrive to see hyunjin’s dead body, telling her she was too late, or worse, that he would’ve died either way.

she was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn’t realize she had reached the line of oak trees, huffing out a breath of air as she looked around. almost as quickly as she moved, she froze, something catching her eye that made her stomach turn. even from the back, she could tell it was jisung - her best friend in the entire world. she was so caught up in the hope that he got away, the fact that he might be dead hadn’t even crossed her mind. 

the branches of the tree were so high that his feet were at her eye-level, those stupid platform converse that he always wore. as she approached and saw the front of his body come into view, she felt sicker than she ever had in her life. he had been completely gutted, all of his insides hanging out on display. there was dried blood all over his figure, and his skin had a horrible blue tint to it.

he’d been hung from the tree by his own intestines, and (y/n) could only pray he was dead already before he was lifted up to that height.

a new-found rage had been sparked in her soul, and she gripped the gun in her hand tighter as she trudged up to the house. she was going to kill the killer herself, getting vengeance for all her friend’s she’d lost along the way. for the innocent people who died, for yeji who had suffered so much. this was going to end now.

she had no care of hiding herself as she kicked the front door open, face hard like stone and an inextinguishable anger roaring inside of her.

“come on out then you fucking coward. you’ve got me where you want me, might as well make it worth my time.”

gun cocked and grasped tightly in her hand, she was ready to shoot at any slight movement.

“(y/n)...” a quiet whimper of her name had her whipping her head around, catching sight of hyunjin tied to a chair in the center of the living room. his pretty face was covered in bruises, cuts littering his skin. he looked more than disheveled, and utterly exhausted. she rushed over to him, working fast to make her shaky hands untie the knots keeping him hostage.

“oh, hyunie…” she breathed, helping him get out of the chair and gently placing him onto the couch, lifting his injured legs to give him more comfort. “don’t worry. i’m going to end this, they’re not going to hurt you anymore, i swear.”

a grimace was plastered on the boy’s face, which hurt the deepest parts of your heart before he shook his head and lifted his arm up to point behind you.

“no, (y/n)...”

she heard the footsteps crossing the hall before she managed to turn around, her body instinctively stepping in front of hyunjin to protect him. gun raised and pure hatred in her eyes, she finally came properly face-to-face with the psychopath behind all of this.

“this is over, now. no more. if i have to kill you, i’ll do it.”

the figure chuckled, sending goosebumps all over (y/n)’s body as she tried to place where she knew it from.

“don’t be silly, (y/n), you wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

she gasped as all pain and tiredness had disappeared from hyunjin’s voice, the boy feeling a lot closer to her as she felt something press against her side. she looked down to see hyunjin looking up at her with a smirk on his face, a knife pressed against her side, ready to delve into her flesh at any given moment. her eyes searched his, utterly confused and betrayed, tears welling up in her eyes.

“hyun–”

“don’t be rude,” he seethed, a devilish smirk on his lips and he nodded his head back towards the figure and pressed the tip of the blade against her hip harder, nicking the flesh ever so slightly. “someone’s been waiting to talk to you.”

with her body shaking uncontrollably, she lifted her head to look the figure in its masked eyes. her head was swirling, making her feel dizzy as she tried to piece together what the fuck was going on. her heart shattered as the figure reached to remove its mask, shaking its head to sort out its hair and look her in the eyes to reveal…

felix.

oh, god, no.

“surprise, love.”

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[11queensupreme11]

Hi! So I don’t know if you’ve seen this trend on TikTok but basically it’s where in couples the girl or guy rank hugs that they would be okay with other guys or girls giving their partners from 1-10: 10 being the worst and 1 being the one they would be the most okay with.

When I saw this I couldn’t help but think what poseidon would rate the hugs guys would give to Percy with 1 being least likely to be killed and 10 being most likely to be killed if she did this trend with him.

Poseidon:

1: self hug (this is fine since she’s hugging herself although he would prefer himself doing all the hugging

2: Polite hug (he’s not happy about it, cause why are u touching my daughter) (he’ll kill them quickly to just be done with it)

3: the classic hug (okay now he’s getting annoyed cause don’t touch his daughter-wife) ( he would give a slight maiming before ending them quickly since it wasn’t intimate in nature)

4: one armed hug (ur crossing into dangerous territory now buddy) (more maiming than the last but still a quick death since it’s not as intimate as it could be and is more of a friendly hug)

5: the patting hug (at this point he’s cutting off limbs starting with the hand ur patting her with) (no more quick deaths w some minor maiming he’s prolonging that shit so hug her at ur own peril)

6: back hug (NO!) (RUN!) (No more maimings just straight limb cuttings (like that true crime audio “her legs were cut off, her arms were cut off, she was a human torso” but like with YOU buddy. (Cause why is ur 🍆 touching her butt)

7:slow dance hug (honestly w this one Poseidon spent a whole day torturing u) (ur missing fingers and nails and eyes and ears—the whole shebang) (and for some reason the only person I can see percy slow dance hugging would be Anthonius so R.I.P Anthonius 🥺 u will be missed)

8: the catcher hug (you prayed for days, weeks even to be free from the tyrant of the sea, to no avail) (Poseidon had literally flayed u alike while making u watch as he fed ur skin and intestines to his mermaids) ( u were awake and aware the ENTIRE time and felt EVERYTHING)

9: the hug at the waist (it’s been centuries and he still hasn’t let u go or just die) (everyday is a new punishment from 🍇 by viscous sea monsters to pushing boulders up mountains Dedalus style to slow roasting u over an open fire day in and day out that you can’t even remember what day it is, what the sky looked like, why ur even still being punished, or what it felt like not to be in endless pain 😭😭)

10: the cuddle (he did everything he did to u in nine except now it been multiple millennia and this time he made percy watch every second of it) (he’s just a guy disciplining his daughter-wife leave him alone🥺)

this is also pretty much on point for most of the yanderes too tbh 😭😭

percy's not afraid to be affectionate with her friends regardless of gender. she will hug and cuddle you if she wants to (with ur consent of course!!! because consent is VERY IMPORTANT *side eyes the yans*). she'll hold her friends hands and vice versa, she is very open to skinship with her buddies!!!!!!!

........which is every yans' nightmare LMAO

these are ancient guys (yes even cu chulainn, he's the youngest, but he's still 1000+ years old i think) and back then girl/boy friendships were seen as sus 😭😭😭 so they're all gonna be pissed at the thought of her having friends of the opposite gender.

they're like "you shouldn't be friends with boys, you're a GIRL >:(" (some will be less harsh with it tho)

but if she was openly AFFECTIONATE TO THEM or if THEY were openly affectionate to her???? oh it's SO over for that guy 💀💀💀

like, this girl has slumber parties in other cabins or they have it in hers, and i also briefly mentioned in older chapters that she even invites some to hang out in her place 😭😭😭, imagine them finding out that she's hanging out with guys and even sleeping in the same room as them 😭😭😭

that's just bizarre to them cuz they're just that old (and also possessive)