#you can always mute them!! i tag thoroughly!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cdroloisms · 4 years ago

Note

do you have any,,,post prison mute dream stuff??? or like, severely quiet, silent and obedient dream shtuff?? and the consequences thereof??? bc im reading your drabbles and i am in literal awe

aww, thank you so much !! yeah selectively mute dream post prison is absolutely a hc i love and write smtimes - it’s already been suggested in canon, and it’s super fun to play w/ in post-canon works. here’s some fluffy syndicate!dream bc gosh knows we need it after the angst that we’ve been getting

tw: implied torture, panic attacks, trauma - all v short mentions. this one’s definitely on the lighter side! :D

“I didn’t know you knew sign.”

Dream startles, arms flying to cover his face, and the crow he had been signing at squawks angrily when it turns towards Phil. He ignores its chatter, smoothing his own flinch behind a smile, lowering his wings, bringing his hands, palms up, in front of him at his waist - this song and dance has become all too familiar in the weeks that Dream’s resided with the Syndicate, and Phil is nothing if not patient.

Slowly, the boy uncurls from where he’d huddled into himself, arms clasped firmly around his ribs like someone will try and take them from him if he doesn’t hold on tight enough (and maybe, Phil thinks, imagining the messy lattice of scars underneath Dream’s loose-fitting hoodie that he has only seen a few times since they brought him over, someone has - but those are thoughts that are better left untouched for as long as he can manage it.) Dream’s eyes raise, flick over his face, his breathing quieting down from the discordant rattle it had been, and tentatively, ever slowly, he raises his good hand in a loose fist, letting it bob up and down. Yes.

Phil settles into the armchair across from him, raising his own hands. His fingers feel clumsy, but the memories come back with more ease than he would’ve expected - I know a little. Dream’s eyes don’t quite brighten, but his shoulders fall down from where they’d been hunched up to his ears, the hand he keeps tucked to his chest trembling slightly less, and it’s as much as a win as he’s ever going to get.

The silence stretches, familiar in its awkwardness, and Phil stifles a grimace as he forces long-forgotten memories to the surface. Dream’s hands, from what little he had seen from the doorway, had practically flown as he spoke to the crow still sitting by his right side - obviously practiced even with the still-healing injuries tracing over both arms. How did you learn?

We- He hesitates, left hand trembling violently, before pushing on, we all learned with- he signs a C, then lifts his hands to his head in a sign that Phil vaguely remembers as being the one for deer. Dream must see the questions written in his expression, because his cheeks flush as he backtracks. C-A-L-L-A-H-A-N, he finger spells, and Phil nods. That makes sense.

Some of the crows in the house must have noticed Phil’s arrival, because they storm into the room from the doorway, awkwardly hopping across the door with their wings waving by their sides as they eagerly voice their displeasure at the lack of attention. He’s not in the mood to pick out the words between their angry caws, so he simply watches as they scatter all over the room. Something almost like a smile tugs at Dream’s face as he watches them enter - the kid has grown inexplicably fond of both his flock and all of the assorted animals that Techno drags back into the house whenever he goes out, and Phil has long since resigned himself to being outnumbered one hundred to one by a literal army of mobs wherever he goes. Some of the crows had been pretty wary of Dream at the beginning, but after a few weeks more or less the entire flock has become viciously protective of the kid, sufficiently won over by gifts of head scratches and berries and various shiny things. Sure enough, the birds form a dark, squawking circle at Dream’s feet, a few flying up to tug impatiently at his clothes, and despite the (very obvious) favoritism, Phil smiles; the flock is good for Dream, as annoying as they can be.

DADZA, one calls, its lone cry soon echoed by the entire group of fluttering feathers gathered on the floor, DADZA AND DREAM DADZA DADZA. Phil laughs, a familiar warmth and exasperation filling his lungs, and he turns his attention back to Dream.

You up to some more? He tries; it’s a chance, for sure, and he brushes away the creeping anxiety crawling up his neck; he doesn’t want to make Dream panic, hopes that he’s doing the right thing. I could always use the practice.

Quiet, once again, only broken by the murmurs of his birds eagerly awaiting Dream’s answer as the boy rocks side to side in deliberation, and Phil is halfway through working out a frantic you don’t have to if you don’t want to when Dream raises his own hands.

Sure, he signs, a forced smile on his face but eyes still clear and bright, why not?

Somehow, they end up in a bastardized version of twenty questions, surrounded by birds that do not hesitate at any chance to voice their own opinions. They work through favorite colors (green), favorite flowers (roses for Dream, peonies for Phil), favorite mob (Phil answers this with a pointed definitely-not-crows, staring at the flock who have been shouting over themselves naming different colors for about five minutes, which immediately makes them devolve into screaming caws and divebombs at the edges of Phil’s cape that leave him thoroughly occupied for the next ten minutes), and at some point Phil falls further into the cushions of his chair and Dream’s legs lay against the sofa instead of being drawn up to his chest and it’s almost normal.

By the time Techno finds them, they’ve forgone structure all together, Dream watching intently as Phil signs out an embellished tale of one of the Antarctic Empire’s exploits with a crow held gently in his hands. Techno’s voice behind him startles him bad enough to send his wings snapping outwards, feathers standing on end, but Dream doesn’t react much beyond a twitch of his lips - he must’ve seen the piglin hybrid and tag-teamed to prank him, Phil realizes with a half-hearted grumble. Techno’s eyes sparkle mischievously, definitely planned, then.

“Hi Phil, Dream,” Techno shrugs off his cloak and drapes it over the back of Phil’s chair, “Looks like you’ve been busy. Can’t say I’m not feelin’ a bit left out, though; Phil, you never told me you knew sign language.”

“You never asked, mate,” he quips, even as Dream signs animatedly from the corner of his eye. T-E-C-H-N-O-L-O-S-T.

Techno narrows his eyes. “I get the feelin’ that you’re messin’ with me, nerd.” Dream blinks faux innocently, smiling wider, and Phil picks up on the bit. Oh, this is fun.

He can’t understand us, he assures Dream, feeling a wicked smirk of his own growing on his face. So what do you think for dinner?

“Phil- the betrayal!” Techno splutters, voice going high and pitchy, and that reaction alone would’ve made the prank more than worth it - but Dream’s shoulders shake, eyes glittering as his fingers fly almost too fast for Phil to catch, and oh, that’s laughter, tiny, breathless giggles falling from his lips, and Techno must catch it even as he begins to berate the voices in his head, “This is not a bruh moment, Chat, don’t you start-”

Stew? Dream signs, still snickering, and he looks happy, more than Phil has ever seen him, the sight of him smiling and bright-eyed with amusement almost enough to cover for the gaunt quality of his face, the pale scars left all over his skin.

Of course, mate, Phil signs back, throwing in a do you think T-E-C-H-N-O ended up lost in those same woods again for good measure, rewarded when it sends Dream into another round of giggles. Techno grumbles without any real heat behind it, plopping himself down in the remaining chair.

“Ok, nah, no more of this exclusive club; you guys are teachin’ me this tonight before Chat loses it - yes that was an insult, don’t you start it with the E’s,” and Phil laughs, hard, the flock cawing and beginning to spam E on their own, for some reason, and Dream signing through the alphabet with the biggest grin on his face, and-

“Oh, Prime, this is going to so scuffed,” Phil says, breathless, his warning unheeded as Techno finishes his rant at Chat to focus on Dream.

And it is scuffed - it is so fucking scuffed, between Phil’s lackluster memory and Techno’s frequent interrupting to quiet down an extremely rowdy Chat and the incessant calls of the flock further egging them on, but it’s warm and Dream doesn’t stop smiling and Techno looks more relaxed than he has in weeks and the helpless, singing urge of protect protect protect that has lived in Phil’s head ever since Techno had carried Dream, beaten and bloodied and broken, through their front door finally, finally, begins to quiet down.

He tunes back into the impromptu lesson - they’ve finished the alphabet, seemingly having moved onto common words and objects, and Dream- hesitates, raises his hand, all five fingers drawn together, to the corner of his mouth and then pulls it back. Home, he signs, moving to fingerspelling, H-O-M-E. Home.

For a moment, they’re all quiet, Dream’s hand still raised by his face, even the crows falling silent as they all stare at each other. Phil watches, breath caught in his throat, as the planes of Techno’s face soften, the teasing edge of his voice, for once, leaving. “Yeah, nerd. You’re home.”

Home, Dream signs again, then again, looking up, eyes bright, hopeful. Phil thinks, proudly, that it looks like a new beginning. I’m home.

#tw torture #tw trauma #tw panic attack #syndicate!dream #my beloved #queue <3 #q stream aftermath #long post #my writing :D #my asks !!

432 notes · View notes

fanfic-corner · 4 years ago

Text

Destiel

It’s my birthday tomorrow, and to celebrate, I’ve compiled a list of my favourite fics! I’ve read a lot of Destiel fics over the past year, but these are the ones that have stuck with me the most. I’ve not put as much detail in as I usually do because otherwise we would be here forever, but I am begging you to read these fics. They’re all amazing.

Kiss You When It’s Dangerous by zoemathemata (@zoemathemata) on AO3. (57,593 words).

It’s adorable. The plot is fabulous. It’s my all time favourite fic. Please, I am begging you, just read it.

Stand By Me by whelvenwings (@whelvenwings) on AO3. (31,252 words).

The first Destiel fic I ever read, and it’s managed to stay with me this whole time.

Angel’s Wild by LimonadeGaby and riseoftefallenone on AO3. (389,271 words).

The pining is unbearable but it’s all worth it in the end. The ultimate slow burn.

The Tea is Decaf by mnwood (@tomhardysteeth) on AO3. (3,673 words).

Cas is adorable. Eileen is adorable. Everyone is adorable.

a turn of the earth by microcomets on AO3. (95,274 words).

Of course I’ll rec the ultimate John Winchester bashing fic. The plot is so amazing and it is written excellently.

the inexhaustible silence of houses by Askance on AO3. (31,820 words).

This was beautifully written, made me cry, and the ending haunts me to this day.

Forget-Me-Not Blues by noangelsinthegarrison (@aaziraphales) on AO3. (68,689 words).

Jesus Christ, I have not read another fic where these two are such blatant idiots. That being said... I love it. Everything about it is amazing.

the cost of a thing by quiettewandering (@wanderingcas) on AO3. (74,198 words).

So cute! All the angst! My all time favourite trope and absolutely the best take on it!

In All Your Borrowed Finery by vanishingact (@vanishingactblog) on AO3. (67,950 words).

Okay this is adorable and you can’t convince me otherwise. Every time I read a fic with Gabriel in, I miss him just a bit more.

Down Like Water by museaway (@museaway) on AO3. (14,512 words).

I reread this occasionally just to feel something. I literally had to check if I misread the tags like 3 times and I cry every. single. time.

Partnered by K_K_TiBal (@thebloggerbloggerfun) on AO3. (28,112 words).

This is so fucking cute. The artwork is gorgeous. And, now I ship Jody and Donna. All round win.

Black Swans by omphalos and Wolfling on AO3. (66,455 words).

Okay so maybe this is more Sabriel than Destiel, but it was written amazingly and the plot was phenomenal!

this is a good thing, dean (prayer is a sign of faith) by cascountsdeansfreckles on AO3. (529 words).

The one time Cas can’t hear his prayers... I had to include a 15x18 fic in here somewhere, and this one set me off.

Purgatory, director’s cut by runsinthefamily on AO3. (23,722 words).

This was beautiful. It felt hypnotic, almost like poetry, and I absolutely cried at the end.

The House on the Ocean Road by coffeeandcas (@coffeeandcas) on AO3. (111,351 words).

This was gorgeous! Dean and Cas as parents was adorable, and Jimmy was such a fucking icon I don’t even know where to start. Also, not the weirdest past Cas ship I’ve ever seen (but it’s up there).

Broadway Musical by Griftings on AO3. (12,453 words).

The King and Queen of the crack fics. I adore the ‘did you fuck the Michael sword’ vibes and the formatting just makes everything so much funnier.

How Many Slams In An Old Screen Door [podfic] by Tenoko1 (@tenoko1) on AO3. (1hr 50mins).

Before we were shoved back into lockdown, I used to listen to podfics on the way to/from school, and this has to be my all time favourite so far. The asexual representation was fantastic, the plot was hilarious, and (as always) it was read beautifully.

When Charlie Met Cas by riseofthefallenone on AO3. (24,666 words).

This has to be thee funniest fic ever written. I don’t make the rules.

Boneless Wings by PallasPerilous (@pallasperilous) on AO3. (4,333 words).

The art is gorgeous (I’d literally just finished watching Pan’s Labyrinth which was terrifying) and it was such a brilliant parody of all the other wing fics out there (not that I don’t love them too!)

Grace by july_19th_club (@july-19th-club) on AO3. (5,164 words).

This was gorgeous and now I really want to see it filmed! It is so much better than the ending we got. I would say the author should work for them, but... frankly, they deserve better.

It Started With a Fanfic Competition by Tenoko1 (@tenoko1) on AO3. (124,487 words).

This was written beautifully. It was so wholesome, not afraid to call the characters out on their usual bullshit, and has genuinely more character development than the entire 15 year long show.

Serendipity by whelvenwings (@whelvenwings) on AO3. (23,891 words).

I absolutely adored every character in this (and thoroughly enjoyed guessing who was going to show up next!) and the plot was fabulous!

The Mute!Cas ‘verse by Princess_Aleera on AO3. (148,656 words).

Oh man. I wasn’t sure at first, but this is now maybe my favourite universe out there. The fluff was unbelievably fluffy, the angst was quality pain, and that’s without mentioning the fact the end had me ugly sobbing. On Christmas Eve.

When Dinosaurs Ruled The Earth by Mishafied on AO3. (68,926 words).

Oh my lord, what about this isn’t amazing? The casting was fabulous, the amount of research was obvious and really paid off, and I mean... Jurassic Park AU! It made me desperate to rewatch the films, too.

The Passion of the Christ (and his angelic ex-boyfriend) by Bzzee (@clarafordahwin) on AO3. (4,972 words).

I am going straight to Hell, and it is because of this fic right here. That being said, this is top quality crack and I’ve sent it to everyone I know just for the trip (two of them had never watched SPN. One asked me if Jesus was actually in it).

You Can Keep Holding On by NorthernSparrow on AO3. (352,388 words).

I won’t spoil it, but one of the best plot twists of all time! The exploration of Dean & Cas’ relationship, the detail put into the lore, the foreshadowing... amazing.

Apres by imogenbynight (@imogenbynight) on AO3. (24,045 words).

This was so adorable - Cas and Dean deserved a holiday in France!

I hope you enjoyed them! I’ve really been struck - especially over quarantine - with appreciation for all the writers out there who are giving us this professional quality content for free. I genuinely don’t know what I’d do without you, which is why I’ve done my best to hunt you down and tag you so you can take my love! There are a hundred other fics that I could have included on here as well, or ones that I’ve read since making this list. Thank you all so much for giving us these wonderful stories!

#fic rec #favourite fics #destiel #supernatural #sabriel #spn #fave

272 notes · View notes

seokjinsdisciple · 4 years ago

Text

It’s a Deal - eight

supernatural! johnny x reader x jaehyun, mate!au

Word Count: 2.3k

not a great update but oh well

tags: @thatonekpopsweater, @queen-of-himbos , @yourchasingsunsetslove, @a-brooding-bird, @sokkigarden, @tardis-world, @etherealbyeol, @mylovelyjisungie

i made a plalist! listen if you want!! spotify | apple music

send me a dm or an ask to be on the taglist

warnings: language, supernatural stuff, arguing, death, lowkey panic, crying, i think thats it

series masterlist

You were wrapped in the comfiest fuzzy blanket you owned, legs draped over Johnny’s lap and head resting on Jaehyun’s chest.

“Why do you get the whole couch?” Jaehyun whined, the rumbling of his chest wiggling your head.

“Because it’s my house, and I bought it,” you said back, never taking your eyes from the tv.

“We’d have a lot more space if we were at the palace,” he snarked back, letting out a huff of air as Johnny smacked him on the back of the head, “What? You know it's true!”

“You can go back to the palace whenever you want,” you added, grinning at his pinch to your side.

“You’re trying to get rid of me!” He pouted, returning the slap to the back of the head he’d gotten to Johnny after he let out a chuckle.

The three of you fell back into silence, Jaehyun’s fingers carding through your hair as you watched the show playing on the tv. You could feel yourself drifting off to sleep, the warmth from your blanket and the two boys surrounding you making it almost impossible to keep your eyes open. You managed to tear your eyes open as Jaehyun stiffened beneath you, looking questioningly between him and Johnny, who had stood up.

“What’s going on?” you grumbled, sitting up as Jaehyun practically pushed you from his lap. You watched the two brother’s closely, heart rate increasing as you noticed the sullen look on Johnny’s face. Jaehyun looked even paler than normal, his eyes locked onto Johnny’s in a panic that you had never seen before.

“Doyoung just killed our father,” Johnny spoke lowly, eyes never leaving Jaehyun’s.

You glanced uneasily at Jaehyun, “So he’s...he’s the king now?”

“We need to go back, Jae,” Johnny spoke, “It’s not safe for you here.”

Jaehyun just nodded slowly, the panic on his face only increasing as they pulled on their coats.

“You’re coming with us,” Johnny added, tossing your coat to where you sat stunned on the couch.

“But my finals are tomorrow!” you protested weakly, not saying another word as Johnny shot you a look. You shrugged your coat on, not saying anything as Jaehyun grabbed your hand and intertwined your fingers.

The palace was much different from the last time you had been here. The flowers in the front withered and lifeless. The colors in all of the halls were muted, as if the King dying had killed the palace too.

“It is kinda like that,” Johnny glanced at you, “It’ll stay this way until Jae’s coronation.”

“Why?” you asked, wincing slightly as Jaehyun squeezed your hand tightly, his eyes glazed over and focused straight in front of him.

“The king’s power is directly tied to the palace and the land, so when a king passes away the land kinda dies with it. At least until another king is crowned and it has power to feed from again.”

You nodded, falling silent as the doors to the ballroom swung open. You were met with some of the familiar faces that had watched you so closely from the small thrones around the king the night you had been announced as Jaehyun’s future wife. There were some faces you hadn’t seen before, but from the sullen looks on their faces you figured they were either family or very close advisors.

You let go of Jaehyun’s hand, falling behind him as all eyes on the room flickered to the three of you.

“Where the hell were you?” a dark haired boy said, jaw clenching as he glanced from Jaehyun to Johnny, scoffing as his gaze fell onto your form, “Of course.”

“Mark,” Johnny tensed, “Enough.”

“You literally have one job Johnny!” The boy, Mark, raised his voice, “Protect the family, and instead you’re off with your-”

“Quiet,” Jaehyun’s voice sounded from beside you, his authoritative tone enough to have everyone in the room’s attention, “I understand you’re upset. We all are. But rather than fighting with, and blaming each other, we need to band together and fucking kill that bastard.”

“Whatever you say, your majesty,” Mark spoke, sarcasm dripping from his words as he bowed lowly towards Jaehyun. Not giving Jaehyun a chance to say anything as he walked past him, knocking his shoulder into Jaehyun’s as he walked out of the door.

“Give him some time, dear,” a middle aged woman spoke up, soft smile doing nothing to hide her reddened eyes, “You know how close he was with your father.”

Jaehyun just gave a curt nod, walking over to where the rest of the group stood.

“Let’s get to work then,” he spoke, sweeping his hand in front of him, a table of roots appearing immediately in front of the family, “Johnny, fill me in on the position of our men, and the last known location of Doyoung’s men.”

Johnny stepped up to the table, flicking his wrist as a map unfolded on the table. Before he began talking he glanced towards you.

“Jeno, Jaemin,” He called, “Why don’t you give YN here a tour of the palace?”

The two familiar boys just shot each other a glance before walking over to you and practically dragging you from the room. They closed the door quickly shooting weary smiles to each other before the barely taller one slung his arm around your shoulder.

“I’m Jaemin,” he grinned, “and that’s Jeno.”

“Hi,” you spoke, returning their smiles.

“We swear the palace is usually way more fun than right now,” Jeno added, grabbing one of your hands and urging you to start walking.

“I mean seriously,” Jaemin rolled his eyes, “One assassination and you’d think the world was ending!”

You glanced at him, thoroughly confused at how he could speak so casually about the death of his father.

“Mm,” Jaemin laughed, “Jae was right, it’s way too easy to get into your brain.”

“Not our father,” Jeno grinned, “Our mother’s the Queen, but that man was as far from a father to us as he could’ve been.”

“I resent the fact that you’re ‘getting into my brain’ or however you put it,” you mumbled, holding back from asking if the King was just a shitty father or if the Queen had an affair.

“Just a shit father really,” Jeno added, giving you a sheepish smile as you shot a glare at him.

“If you really don’t like others listening to your thoughts you could ask Mark to help,” Jaemin spoke up.

“I don’t think he likes me very much,” you said, almost bumping into the door where the boys had halted.

“Mark was our dad’s favorite, so he’s taking this pretty hard,” Jeno said.

“He’ll get over it though,” Jaemin added, dramatically swinging the door in front of you open.

You felt your jaw drop, the enormous room that you were peeking into was filled floor to ceiling with books. You couldn’t help but step into the library, looking at every part of the room.

“Johnny said you’d like the library,” Jeno smiled proudly, standing beside you and glancing around the room too.

“This is incredible,” you breathed, walking over to the nearest bookshelf and running your hand over the spines.

“Ok, yes it has books. Whoop dee doo,” Jaemin groaned from behind you, “There’s a million cooler rooms in this palace. Can we please move on now?”

“You can explore this room more tomorrow,” Jeno added, laughing as Jaemin desperately tugged on Jeno’s wrist.

“So tell us more about how you and Johnny met,” Jaemin prodded, his arm returning to your shoulders as you walked together down the halls. You were quickly learning that Jaemin was more mischievous of the two brothers, Jeno being much quieter and calmer than him.

“Uh, well we had a class together our first year,” you said, “and we had the same major so we were kinda always together.”

“I didn’t realize he seriously went to human school,” Jeno said, a thoughtful look passing his face as you just nodded.

“Have you fucked him yet?” Jaemin asked, wiggling his eyebrows as you choked on air.

You stuttered as memories from freshman year flashed in your mind. Johnny’s back muscles rippling against your skin, his abs glistening with sweat.

“Oh my god he has bedded you!” Jeno practically yelled, slightly disgusted look completely opposite of Jaemin’s knowing smirk.

“Was he good?”

“Jaems I am not answering that!” You said, shrugging his arm from your shoulder and lightly smacking him.

“It’s ok, doll,” Jaemin said, rubbing the spot you had smacked with his free hand, “We both know what you are thinking.”

You just groaned, hitting Jaemin first and then deciding to hit Jeno too. That’s for reading my mind you assholes.

“It’s not our fault,” Jeno pouted, “You’re practically screaming them at us.”

“Just get on with the tour,” you sighed, trying your best to keep your mind empty as they returned to their mission. They led you to the kitchen, through four dining rooms, around the art gallery and into the game room. Constantly making fun of your looks of awe. They hurried you through the jewel room, pointed out the gym and swimming pools. They even led you to the liquor room, Jaemin pressing a finger to his lips as he grabbed a bottle of wine.

Jaemin pointed out far too many bedrooms for you to remember, laughing as you tried to figure out who the hell half of the people he was even naming were. He pointed out both Jaehyun’s and Johnny’s room, giving you a knowing look as you tried to commit both of the locations to memory.

It was with a smile that you found yourself stumbling down a familiar hallway, Jeno pointing out his room, and then your own room.

“And at the very end of the hallway is my room,” Jaemin winked, “So if you ever need someone to keep your bed warm, you know where to find me.”

“I really hope you’re kidding, brother,” Johnny’s voice rang out from behind the three of you.

“You know I always am,” Jaemin smiled easily, giving you a short wave before walking the rest of the way down the hallway and into his bedroom.

Jeno looked awkwardly between where you and Johnny stood before muttering out a quick goodnight and walking to his room.

“I hope they didn’t bother you too much,” Johnny said, walking closer to you and taking you by the hand, “The twins can be a lot to handle.”

“They were mostly nice,” you smiled at him, laughing as you heard Jaemin swear at you from down the hallway. Johnny smiled back at you, but you could tell he was exhausted.

“Am I that easy to read?” he asked, pulling you into your room.

“Mhmm,” you nodded, letting him pull you onto one of the couches in your room, “You wanna talk about it?”

Johnny just slid his hands across his face, in some attempt to relieve some of the tension in his body.

“I just feel like this is my fault,” he started, playing with your fingers as he talked, “I should’ve been here to prevent the attack.”

“It’s not your fault,” you whispered, “If anything, I feel like it’s mine. I’m just some helpless human girl that has no business being involved in any of this. You were just trying to make sure I was ok.”

“Yeah but that was for completely selfish reasons,” he groaned, “and to be honest I’m feeling kinda guilty because I think I’d still make the same decision.”

“Can I ask why?” you spoke quietly, meeting his eyes, “Why are you so set on protecting me?”

“I can’t tell you that yet,” he said simply, looking away from you. The two of you sat in silence for a few moments after that, the air heavy around you as you thought.

“When can I go back?”

Johnny looked over to you, and you could tell by the look in his eyes that you weren’t going back anytime soon.

“It’s just safer for you to be here,” Johnny said, looking down at the hand that was intertwined with yours, “and now that Jaehyun has...transitions to make it’s important you’re around as many people who can protect you as you can.”

The two of you jumped slightly as a loud knock rang out on your door.

“It’s Jaehyun,” Johnny said, pressing a kiss to your temple, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You watched as his form disappeared with a snap, the space where he had been sitting next to you, now empty. You got up as another knock sounded at the door.

As soon as you threw the door up Jaehyun was hugging you, his shoulders shaking as he whimpered. You immediately hugged him back, pulling him into your room and out of the hallway.

He was almost choking on his sobs, and you patiently held him until he calmed down.

“M sorry,” he hiccuped, “It’s just, you’re the only one I can show my weaknesses too.”

“Don’t apologize,” you said, rubbing his back as he still clung to you.

“I don’t even want to be King,” he whispered, “I never have. I used to think that it would be a long time before it would happen, and I- I just thought I had more time. I’m not going to be any good at it.”

“Jaehyun you’ll be a fine king.”

“I’m not ready,” he whispered, “Everyone thinks I’m this perfect prince, ready for anything but they have no idea.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, his breathing regulating. He sniffled as he pulled away from you. His shy smile, teary eyes and flushed cheeks enough to have your heart racing.

“Do you mind if I sleep here tonight?” he asked, “I just don’t think I can bear sleeping alone tonight.”

“Of course,” you smiled back, wiping the tears from his eyes before you both began getting ready for bed.

137 notes · View notes

moonflowerlesbians · 4 years ago

Note

41 and 45 please. Just can't get enough of your stories

first of all you're so sweet 🥺 second, I did these and I batched in another one for a longer story and the obligatory soft nightmare fic, so I hope that's okay :)

18. "I'm embarrassed." "Don't be." 41. "Is that my shirt?" "Is...is that okay?" 45. "Don't say anything. Just...just lay here with me."

cw for mentions of child abuse

~~~

The motel bed is empty when Dani drifts awake, feeling in the dark for the warm mass that indicates Jamie is sound asleep beside her. Instead, empty air and rumpled sheets greet her, and she frowns. Still lingering in that semi-sweet state of half-consciousness, somewhere between dream and reality, she registers the shadow of the bathroom light through the crack in the door, which stands slightly agape.

Ah.

She rolls over, tugging the duvet over her exposed arms and sparing a quick glance at the clock on the nightstand 3:27 a.m., it reads. Dani yawns and readjusts the pillow supporting her neck. The doctor had said it would help with the stiffness in her shoulders and upper back in the morning, said she had a tendency to sleep curled up like she was protecting herself. Unsurprising, she had thought at the time.

Long minutes pass, faint moonlight trickling through sheer curtains to adorn the carpeted floors with tigerstripes of silver and blue. Dani rolls over again, flipping onto her stomach, her arm coming to rest alongside her head. Jamie’s pillow remains vacant. Dani sighs.

The floor is bracing beneath her bare feet, and she recoils, suddenly regretting the decision to leave the relative warmth of the blankets. Steeling herself, she pads across the room. Dim light filters under the bathroom door, and she can make out muted noises from within.

“Hey,” Dani says quietly, giving the wood three light raps with her knuckles. “You okay?” The noises stop.

“’M fine,” Jamie’s voice comes muffled through the door. “Y’can go back to bed.”

Another night, maybe, Dani would have listened. Another time, perhaps, if she had not spent weeks, months, learning the intricacies and peculiarities of Jamie’s vocal pattern, Dani would have returned to the comfort of their queen bed and fallen back into a pleasant sleep. At another time, maybe, Dani would have ignored the hoarseness of Jamie’s voice, the sandpaper-rough scratch of the syllables against her throat, the subtle distress cloaked in a layer of false nonchalance.

Dani rests her forehead against the cool wood, the metal of the doorknob in one hand. “Can I come in?”

Silence, for a moment, then shuffling. The click of an unlatched lock. “Yeah.”

She inches the door open. Jamie sits on the floor of the bathtub, knees drawn up to her chest. Strands of brown hair are sweat-matted to her forehead, others sticking up haphazardly, streaked through with shaky finger lines. Grey eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, with a tired stare that wrenches at Dani’s heart.

“You got room in there for one more?” Dani says gently, crossing to crouch on the tile floor.

Jamie breathes shakily. “Sure.” She slides to make room for Dani, who sits cross-legged, her knees bent at a slightly awkward angle due to the nature of the tub. From this new perspective, she can see the piece of fabric balled tight between Jamie’s thighs and her chest.

“Is that my shirt?”

Jamie swallows, a flash of alarm flickering across her features, and her voice is small, so small and so, so frail. “Is... is that okay?”

Dani’s brow furrows. “No, um, yes, yeah, that’s... that’s okay.”

Jamie mumbles something that Dani doesn’t quite catch.

“Sorry?”

“Was in the dirty pile, so I thought... Doesn’t matter. Should’ve asked.” She can’t quite meet Dani’s gaze, and she’s gripping the lilac sweater so hard her knuckles have gone white.

“No, it’s okay. It’s fine,” Dani says, trying her very best to sound reassuring and not as though she’s talking to a cornered animal.

Jamie has not been forthcoming when it comes to information about herself, not since the night before... well. It has been nearly four months since leaving Bly, and Dani feels a bit like an archaeologist, uncovering fragments of a broken past little by little. Some days, she finds nothing, not even an arrowhead, something to point her in the right direction. Other days, it is as if she discovers a bit of parchment thought lost to civilization, a scrap of knowledge to help translate the whole. A perfectly preserved piece of Jamie in the form of a passport, a solitary photograph from a time Jamie no longer speaks of, the dogeared pages of a beat-up paperback.

“Do you think,” Dani begins, cautious, slow, “you could tell me...why?” There is an out she leaves. A minute shake of Jamie’s head, and she would back away, drop the subject at her feet for another day.

Jamie peers at her through clumped lashes. “Which bit?” She asks with a sardonic sort of chuckle, swiping at her nose. “The bit about your jumper or the bit about being a blubbering mess at three in the goddamn mornin’.”

“Both, if you’re up for it.”

Jamie studies her, blinking in the hazy light as though searching for something, like she expects Dani to laugh as if she’s the butt of a sorry joke.

“Yeah,” she says at last, “yeah, okay.” She takes a shuddering breath. “Told you ‘bout bein’ in the system, foster and prison, yeah?”

Dani watches her intently, hands in her lap, an expression of concern firmly situated on her face. She nods, though she knows only the bare minimum. They skirt precariously around the topic when it comes up.

The extent of her knowledge comes from studying Jamie’s reactions to her environment. The way she shirks from loud noises. The clatter of plates breaking in a restaurant, an engine backfiring in an alley. The way she scans every room before she enters, eyes lingering on corners and curtains, and checks the backseat of their rental car. The way she hoards buttons and pop tabs and coins at the bottom of her suitcase, and the way she methodically counts her things before they leave any motel and recounts them when they arrive at their destination.

Habits formed out of necessity in a life of cruelty, a life in which letting her guard down could mean the difference between life and death. A life she no longer lives, but a life that stays with her all the same.

“Had a dream,” Jamie says carefully, her voice almost too loud in the stillness of the morning, “Hardly remember the details now, but... Think I was in my third home. Fourth, maybe. The dad was a drunk. You could always smell it on his breath. Heavy footsteps you could hear coming.” She glances at Dani. “I couldn’t hear him this time. I think he threw a bottle at me, not sure, though. I couldn’t move, couldn’t yell, couldn’t fight back.” Her chest heaves, and Dani reaches out, then thinks better of it. She retracts her hand, leaving it palm-up on her knee for Jamie to take if she chooses.

“Hate being trapped,” she whispers, eyes darting around the bathroom, “Spent too long in places I couldn’t get out of.” She tentatively takes Dani’s hand, still avoiding eye contact. “I woke up ‘n still couldn’t breathe. Didn’t want to wake you up, so I came here.” She fiddles with the tag on Dani’s sweater, murmuring, “It’s not the same, but it was close enough. Smells enough like you that I could pretend.” At last, she looks up, waterline shining with unshed tears. “Bloody embarrassing.”

“Oh, baby...” Dani croons softly, squeezing her outstretched hand. “Can I... Is it okay if I hold you?”

Jamie sniffles, but nods her assent with a heavy sigh. Dani shifts so that she’s reclining against the slope of the tub, with Jamie comfortably settled between her legs, curled on her side, with her head on Dani’s chest. The sweater is pressed between them, the material grasped tightly in Jamie’s fist.

Dani weaves her fingers through the hair at the nape of Jamie’s neck, lightly scratching her scalp with blunt nails. Jamie shivers at the contact.

“’M embarrassed,” Jamie mumbles into the bunched fabric of Dani’s pajama top.

“Don’t be,” Dani says simply, her head resting on the white shower tile. She cannot tell if the flush rising to Jamie’s cheeks is because of the sweater or waking up in the middle of the night or both, and frankly, Dani decides, it does not matter.

It’s unusual, seeing Jamie like this. Vulnerable. Raw. Dani can count the number of times she’s seen Jamie cry on two fingers.

Once, in the aftermath of the lake, they had held each other close in the lamplight of Dani’s bedroom at Bly and wept for all that had happened and all they had lost, great heaving sobs that tore through walls and rafters and flesh and bone.

The second time, just now, with Jamie trembling in her arms.

She takes such measures to remain steadfast, resolute in her dependability, all hard angles and rigidity. A suave exterior carefully constructed to deter those who would attempt to breach her defenses. Cannons on the parapet he keeps loaded with snark and bite and sturdy shoes, ready to flee at the first sign of danger.

She had opened up to Dani, though, a privilege Dani does not vilipend. Took the risk and raised the portcullis to allow Dani to pass through to the inner walls, closer to the center, but not quite there. There was more to discover, Dani knew then and knows now, but patience is vital. Stability. The reassurance that she means no harm.

“Can...Why’d you think you needed my permission?” Dani clarifies, “For my sweater.” Jamie stirs against her, the weight warm and familiar.

“Don’t take things without asking,” Jamie recites despondently, and the weight of the statement catches Dani off-guard. The resignation in her tone, the rhythm of the words are indicative of a phrase spoken over and over again, well-worn and thoroughly beaten into the track of her mind.

(Perhaps, Dani fears in some dark corner of herself, it was not only Jamie’s mind. She thinks of trainers with holes in the sole, bits of cheese swiped from the refrigerator and promptly hidden, and wonders about a little girl left with no one but herself and callous adults who neglect and belittle.)

Dani finds herself shaking her head.

“It’s okay,” she says into the crown of Jamie’s head, her breath rustling wayward strands. “I mean, I’d appreciate a heads up if you want to borrow something of mine just so I don’t think something’s gone missing, but for this?” She pauses, choking on an inconvenient swell of emotion. “God, please, take it. Or wake me up or something, but... you’re not alone.”

Jamie is still, her breath coming in slow, measured puffs against Dani’s chest.

Dani tries, “Most of my stuff isn’t really your style, anyway. Not that I think you couldn’t rock a pink turtleneck.” She considers. “Actually, I’d kind of like to see that.”

The mental picture earns her a wet laugh from Jamie, and that is enough for now, Dani thinks.

“But, you know, if this happens again -- you wake up in the middle of the night -- please, wake me up, too, okay?”

“Still getting used to you, ‘s’all.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

They lay there in the bottom of the questionable motel bathtub until the quiver of Jamie’s shoulders recedes into a steady enough rhythm, in time with the rise and fall of Dani’s chest.

“Come on,” Dani nudges, “think you want to get back in bed?”

“Shit,” Jamie jolts upwards, taking them both by surprise, “God, sorry. Sorry. I’ve kept you up long enough.”

“No, no,” Dani assures, running a hand along Jamie’s upper arm, “I just thought the mattress might be more comfortable for you than I am.”

“Unlikely,” Jamie scrutinizes. She rubs her eyes once more and climbs out of the tub, offering a hand for Dani to lift herself up, which proves more difficult than anticipated on account of Dani’s leg having fallen asleep. She wraps an arm around Jamie’s waist, separating for an instant to nestle beneath cool sheets, then finding each other again.

“Sorry,” Jamie says to the darkness, the hum of the radiator providing the rattling soundtrack to her unnecessary apology.

“Shh,” Dani soothes, her nails spelling out words from covert languages on the skin of Jamie’s back, “Don’t say anything. Just… just lay here with me. We’ll talk in the morning.” Jamie’s grip tightens on her shirt. “Try to get some rest, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

She brushes the ghost of a kiss along Jamie’s hairline, smoothing down the wisps that tickle her nose.

4:14 a.m., the clock reads.

Dani does not close her eyes until she feels Jamie’s muscles slacken, the tension leaching away into cotton and dream. Then, and only then, does she allow sleep to claim her.

54 notes · View notes

whumpinggrounds · 4 years ago

Text

Trouble

uh oh :/

tagging @killtheprotagonist and @shapeshiftersandfire

CW: pet whump, lady whump, choking, hitting, dehumanization, aftermath of conditioning,

Miss Mara comes into the apartment with her eyes too bright, and Isabella knows something is wrong. She knows it in her body before her mind even processes what the problem could be - suddenly every muscle is tense, her skin is prickling with adrenaline overload. Miss Mara smells like alcohol, like sweat from the bar, but she’s not drunk. She’s too contained for that, too much in control. Her movements are still sharp and precise but they’re fast enough to mean she’s angry. Isabella’s heart sinks straight through to her toes. The dread in her chest yawns like an abyss, bottomless and sucking. “Isabella,” Miss Mara calls as she slips off her shoes, though she knows that as always, Isabella is waiting right there by the door. “We need to talk. Couch.”

The words fill Isabella with a fear so cold and deep that for a moment she can’t move. The moment passes, though, and she stands, ignoring the static feeling in her legs from kneeling too long. Trying not to show her apprehension on her face, Isabella crosses toward her owner, but Miss Mara shakes her head and points toward the couch. Isabella kneels before it, muscles burning as they’re forced back into the position she’s already held too long. It hurts, but maybe Miss Mara wants to sit on the couch while Isabella kneels on the floor.

No. Miss Mara stays standing, and Isabella has to tip her head up, up, up to keep her eyes on her owner. She doesn’t look Miss Mara in the eye - keeps her gaze soft, unfocused - but Isabella can still see the harsh hard line of Miss Mara’s mouth, the darkness in her eyes. The quiet between them stretches on, and Isabella badly wants to squirm. Her legs sting with blood that’s been forced through her veins and now pressed out again by the weight of her kneeling. Her owner’s gaze is angry. Isabella knows something is coming, and it makes her chest tight, so that she wants to gasp for breath, plead before she knows what she’s pleading for, anything to end the tension here. She’s too well-trained for that, so instead she just waits, statue-still and stone patient.

“I need you to be honest with me about Jamie,” Miss Mara begins, and Isabella’s heart sinks like a stone in her chest. She wonders if she should fake surprise, if she can fool her clever owner. Then she wonders why she’s so bad when Miss Mara’s so good to her, why she wants to lie to skip the punishment, why she even needs to lie at all. Oblivious, her owner keeps talking above her. “She won’t stop fucking texting me and I just need to know, okay? What is it with her? Is she…?”

That mistrustful, calculating look that Miss Mara gives her makes Isabella’s skin crawl, though she keeps the misery off her face. She knows what Miss Mara is asking, and it makes her feel small, disgusting, humiliated. Isabella hates when Miss Mara looks at her like that, like she might be dirty. Besides, it’s not like that, with Jamie. Isabella knows it’s not. So why, when Miss Mara asks her, does she always feel ashamed?

Her owner is looking at her for an answer, and so Isabella clears her throat. “Jamie is a pet-sitter.” She chooses her words carefully. “I…I do not perform any Romantic duties with her.”

She thinks that’s right – she thinks so, but then Miss Mara tips her head, eyes glittering, and Isabella knows she’s stepped wrong in a minefield. “Is that what it is, to you? Romantic duties? Is that what you do for me?”

“N-no,” Isabella stumbles, sensing the weakness in her own voice, the uncertainty that’s going to condemn her. She’s not supposed to be uncertain, Miss Mara’s never uncertain; there’s a right answer here that Isabella doesn’t know. The anxiety makes Isabella’s fingers twitch, the knowledge that she’s doing it wrong, she’s making it worse. When she licks her lips and tries to answer, her voice comes out small. “No…or, yes? Those are Romantic duties, but they aren’t…I’m happy to, to…perform with you, for you, I…” she’s slipping, faltering, failing. “You’re my owner, Miss Mara.” Her words are bare and desperately sincere, and Miss Mara’s eyes are cold, cold, cold on hers. Isabella gives up and lays the words out bald and shaking, desperate for anything that might save her, that might fix this. “You’re my owner, Miss Mara. I love you.”

“Can you love someone, do you think?”

It’s a fair question, so Isabella doesn’t know why it makes her want to flinch. Miss Mara’s voice is cold, cold, icily curious, and the question itself…well, Miss Mara has been past treating her like a person for a long time. That’s good. That’s correct. Isabella herself said that’s what she wanted, and questions like this come with the territory. It doesn’t matter that it winds her, makes tears prickle in the corners of her eyes.

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly. “But I love you.”

It’s true, or as true as it can be. If love is devotion, if love is attention, if love is needing someone’s approval to even feel like they can live, then Isabella can and does love Miss Mara – desperately, with everything in her. If love is something more than that, then maybe they dragged the ability out of her and killed it on the floor of a white-walled room. Either way, Isabella finds herself hanging in the silence before Miss Mara’s next words, wanting nothing more than to be released, absolved, found worthy.

“Do you love Jamie?”

Oh. Isabella’s cheeks go pink without her permission and she can’t regret it, even when she sees Miss Mara’s eyes go flat and angry. There’s a feeling in her stomach – a weird, tentative, hopeful feeling, something that makes her feel squirmy and soft. “No,” she says, far too late, and it’s the truth, but it’s not the whole truth. There’s something there. Something old and stretching and new, that has the potential to grow.

And Isabella’s spoken far too late, with far too little conviction. Lips tightening into a hard, unhappy line, Miss Mara slaps her pet, right across the mouth, hard enough to whip Isabella’s head around. She’s had far worse pain than this but tears still spring to her eyes as she turns her head back and gazes mutely up at her owner, her owner who she loves, her owner who she’s thoroughly betrayed. The promised bad thing, the bad thing that was coming, it’s here, in Miss Mara’s tense towering body and flinty angry eyes. The fear in Isabella is high and gasping. She grits her teeth and keeps looking up at Miss Mara’s shadowed, furious eyes.

“She doesn’t love you.” Miss Mara pronounces it clearly, carefully, not shouting, but loud enough to hurt. Isabella swallows hard and tries to duck her head, but Miss Mara tips her chin insistently up. “She might still love Jude” – Isabella flinches, hard – “but she doesn’t love you. And she’s not going to, okay?” Now there are tears running down Isabella’s face, and she doesn’t know if it’s the words or the fear or the stinging pain across her face, but the sight of it pulls Miss Mara’s face into a frown. She slaps Isabella again, harder. The feel of it jars her teeth in her mouth, sparks hot pain across the skin of her cheeks. “Don’t fucking cry about it. You hear me? Don’t fucking cry! She doesn’t matter! Why does she matter so much to you?”

Isabella’s hand has flown to her mouth, a reflex she couldn’t suppress in time, guarding the spot that Miss Mara keeps hitting. Carefully, Isabella tucks it back down by her side and answers. “It doesn’t,” she says, and they both know she’s lying. “She doesn’t matter, you’re the only one who matters.” She’s trying to convince both of them, and it’s not working.

“Then why’d you fucking leave me?” The blow lands hard on the side of Isabella’s face, knocking her head to the side, clearing her brain of every thought except calm her owner down. “Why’d you fucking leave? Why?”

“I’m sorry,” Isabella manages, flinching hard as another blow lands in her ribs. It’s a kick this time, delivered so sharp and hard that it knocks Isabella’s breath away. Thank god for that, because the pain blooms so big Isabella wants to wail - she can’t wail, she’s a good girl, but the breath escapes her in a huge and heavy gasp.

Miss Mara keeps hitting her. Miss Mara keeps kicking her. Isabella keeps her arms down by her sides like a good pet, good pet, good girl. Her arms shake with the desire to protect herself but Isabella doesn’t. She wants to be good for Miss Mara – she believes, like an idiot, that she can still be good for Miss Mara. “I’m s-s-sorry.” She wants to defend herself, wants to protect herself from the blows, but she’s good, she’s good, and in her head there’s still her training, screaming at her that if she just keeps being good it’ll help.

It doesn’t help. It doesn’t help because Miss Mara keeps asking questions that Isabella can’t answer. “Why’d you leave?” she demands, throat thickening, and as her voice climbs to a shout, the tears pour faster and faster down Isabella’s cheeks. She hates being yelled at, hates it, she’s scared, and Miss Mara keeps hitting her – sharp hard blows to her cheekbones and her jawbones and across her upper body. “Why’d you leave?!” Miss Mara screams it, and Isabella wails her answer over and over again, not knowing any better, not knowing any different, simply not knowing.

“I don’t know! I don’t know! Miss Mara, Miss Mara, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t leave you, it wasn’t me, I don’t know-”

Miss Mara must be tired of hearing Isabella’s voice, because she leans down over Isabella, kneels down over Isabella, hair messy and wild around her head, and she puts her hands around Isabella’s throat and squeezes tight enough to cut off all of Isabella’s air. There’s no more begging now, only choking, gasping, desperate unhinged fighting, the kind that has long been trained out of Isabella and is only brought to the surface by the unconscious need to breathe. She claws at Miss Mara’s hands but her owner can’t be moved; she kicks her legs out but can’t seem to make contact. Miss Mara’s face is the last thing she sees before her vision clouds to black.

Isabella wakes up alone on the floor, sucking air raggedly through a bruised throat. It hurts to breathe, and even when she focuses on hauling in air, her lungs feel half-empty, ineffective. For a few long minutes, she just lies there, trying to breathe as her memories come back to her. She’s still draped awkwardly across the floor, limbs in disarray, so Miss Mara must’ve left her where she lay. Speaking of Miss Mara – Isabella pushes herself up with no small effort, glances around frantically, but the room is empty. Dark. Her owner must be sleeping off her anger in bed. Good. That’s good.

Alone on the couch, Isabella’s hands creep up to frame her neck, to stroke the lurid purple bruises she envisions darkening her skin. She imagines she’s covered in bruises, buried in them, after all the blows Miss Mara rained on her face, on her neck, on the softness of her belly. Isabella almost wants it to be true, wants there to be evidence of her owner’s hysterical anger, of the fact that she’s been punished for her disobedience. She’s repented. She’s sorry. She’s sorry.

In the room, all alone, tears spring to Isabella’s eyes. She’s so, so sorry. The bruises will show that, won’t they? She’ll be happy to wear them, grateful to, if only it makes Miss Mara feel better.

And yet the blows weren’t that hard, and Isabella’s weak, weak, weak. Maybe there are no bruises at all. There’s no way to be sure until she gets a mirror and some light on her skin, but to go into the bathroom, to turn on the light…it wouldn’t just be disobedient, it would risk waking Miss Mara, further provoking her wrath. Isabella settles back on the couch, fingers stroking over her own skin in a feeble attempt to soothe her racing heart.

Her eyes are distant, thoughts detached, fingers running repetitively over the forming bruises, even though it’s not making anything better. She wants to sleep, but she doesn’t have permission, so she just sits up on the couch and thinks about the way that each breath rasps in and out of her damaged throat. Her mind drifts from her owner, from her guilt, and her thoughts grow stranger, colder.

It’s hard, choking a person – Isabella knows that personally, from fuzzy distant memories of times she tried to fight off the guards in the facility. She knows it takes more strength and more effort than she ever thought, and Miss Mara had gotten it right, leaning in and using the weight of her whole body to press down with both hands. Her breathing picks up, despite the pain, and her thoughts stutter, as Isabella follows that thread to its logical conclusion. Miss Mara must’ve – Miss Mara must’ve – Miss Mara must’ve done this to someone before.

#whump #whump writing #box babe #bbu #lady whump #pet whump #aftermath of conditioning #choking #aftermath of choking #hitting #lost cause jude

26 notes · View notes

nikosheba · 4 years ago

Text

Beneath the Blanketing White

My fic for @officialtolkiensecretsanta @tss2020 is officially up...and it was written for @lottiefairchildbranwell !!! I hope you like!! Title: Beneath the Blanketing White Fandom: The Silmarillion Pairing: Fingon/Maedhros Characters: Fingon, Maedhros, Ereinion Gil-Galad Summary: Even in Himring the Ever-Cold, there is softness and warmth, with the fires built up high against the falling snow. Tags: Snowed In, Morning Sex, Snowball Fight, Just Dads Being Dads Rating: Explicit

Read it on AO3

or read the rest below!

“Himring,” Fingon stated, as if he were making a pronouncement, “is too cold.”

Maedhros grunted, still mostly asleep. Then, as Fingon pulled back the heavy furs and coverlets, sliding his chilled body directly up against Maedhros’s back, he made another noise, jolting out of sleep. “Finno,” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. “I have to be up for muster at dawn.”

Unrepentant, Fingon wrapped his ice-cold hands around Maedhros’s waist, holding more tightly when he thrashed in protest, apparently unworried that a stray elbow might catch him in the nose. “No,” he said, and hooked his chin over Maedhros’s shoulder.

“No?”

“No.”

Maedhros felt his lips twitch. “Is that an order from the High Prince?” he asked, and shifted his hips back, making contact with Fingon’s, hearing him suck in a breath in response.

“Er...it wasn’t supposed to be,” Fingon admitted, stuffing his face into the back of Maedhros’s shoulder, sliding down to make more proper contact. His hands shifted up, still chilly, and brushed over his nipples, making him shiver. “But it can be, if that’s something you’d like.”

Maedhros closed his hand over one of Fingon’s wandering ones, letting out a little breathy noise. “Stop it,” he murmured, in a different tone than before, that implied a good deal less stopping. “Muster. Dawn. Even if the High Prince has something else on his mind.”

Fingon’s chuckle in his ear warmed him faster than the fire crackling in the hearth. It was crackling, Maedhros noticed, rather than being smoored for the night, covered carefully in ash and moss to keep the embers alive without having to be fed constantly. Fingon must have stoked it and tossed on another log when he got up to relieve himself. “I think the Lord of Himring has something else on his mind, too,” Fingon breathed, and slid his cold hands down, playing over the taut skin of his abdomen, splaying out over the fronts of his thighs. Maedhros felt him rousing, already half-hard through their nightshirts, slowly rubbing against him from behind.

“...Of course I do.” Maedhros turned, and caught Fingon’s mouth in his own, nibbling on his lower lip for a slow, indulgent kiss. “You’re in my bed, after all. But that doesn’t absolve me of my duties.”

“Mm,” Fingon said, as if this were no problem at all. His hands crept to the hem of Maedhros’s shirt, pushing it up and out of the way, and for all his nominative protestations, Maedhros made little move to tug it back down. Fingon’s legs were warming fast, threaded through his, though he did catch Fingon’s hand with his own as it tried to slide up.

“They’re still cold. If you want me hard, warm them first.”

He thought he could feel the sparkle of mischief in Fingon’s eyes. “Wait,” he warned, “I didn’t mean--“

The noise he let out was a quite dignified one, of course. He was the Lord of Himring. He did not squeak. Even when Fingon’s cold hands were suddenly thrust between his thighs, he did not squeak. “Finno, I told you--“

“It snowed.”

Maedhros stilled, his pulse beating swiftly under his skin. “Snow?”

“Mm. A lot. As high as the tallest foundation stones, I saw it when I went to piss off the wall. I know you were going to ride out to survey, but you can’t, not in this.”

That would be higher than Maedhros’s head. It had begun the night before, but none of the seers had predicted a blizzard of that size. The hostlers would need to re-provision, the fires would need to be built up in the Great Halls, the outbuildings would need to be provided for--

“Not yet,” Fingon murmured again, and slid his hands up, the warming skin there touching his thighs, making him shiver even under the heavy quilts. “Your soldiers know what to do, don’t they? Surely you don’t suffer incompetence in your subordinates.”

His soldiers did know what to do, Maedhros had to admit, and finally started to relax back against Fingon, his eyes lidding.

There was a soft, otherworldly muffling of the sounds outside. The windows were tightly shut, hides nailed across them to block out the brutal wind that often carved around corners of his fortress, but all was silent now. The usual calls of birds and beasts were absent, the early morning shuffling around the inner sanctum of servitors fetching wood and baking bread all curiously muted.

Snow blanketed Himring, and perhaps underneath it, he could steal a gentle morning’s bliss.

With a sigh, he reached back, threading his fingers into Fingon’s hair, feeling them slide into and through his braids, close to his scalp. “You have a way to spend the morning in mind, my Prince?”

“I do. Don’t worry. You’ll like it.”

“Oh, will I?”

Fingon finally retrieved his hands from where they were buried between Maedhros’s thighs, and for all the easy laziness of his movements, there was nothing hesitant in the way he curled one around Maedhros’s cock, and let the other slide back to tease his hole.

His breath hitched, feeling the first press, then slide of a finger inside him, his fingers tightening in Fingon’s braids. “Ah...”

“Mm, good,” Fingon murmured, still sounding at least half-asleep, as if the way his clever fingers stroked and twisted was second nature to him. “I knew I enjoyed you thoroughly last night, but it’s one thing to know, and another thing to feel. Are you sore, arimelda?”

“Ah...a little. Just a little.” The twinge was nothing, compared to the aches and pains he always felt, but Fingon liked to hear about it, and Maedhros did love to indulge him.

“Then it really has been too long between my visits.” Fingon pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. “Hand me the oil, husband mine.”

Maedhros drew in a slow breath, and extricated his hand from Fingon’s hair, only to pluck the flask of sweet oil from the bedside that they’d long ago stopped pretending was for anything else. “It’s always too long between your visits.”

“Of course,” Fingon said, and carefully removed his hands, unscrewing the flask, tipping out a generous portion, and flicking the lid back on. “But, worry not. When the Shadow is vanquished, there will be no visits, for we will abide together, so you can begin to get very sick of me.”

“I don’t--“ Maedhros broke off, as two slick fingers worked into him, and his voice came out breathy, needing, his spine arching as he worked himself hungrily down onto that touch, so intimate and satisfying, stoking his own fires. The slickness of the oil eased the slight soreness clinging to him, and he gripped the sheets for some purchase. “Nn, Finno...it will be long indeed before I get sick of you touching me like this.”

“Then perhaps it will be me who tires of it,” Fingon suggested, a smile curling his lips. “But only because I lack patience, arimelda, and cannot hear you making such sounds without wanting to bury myself inside you.”

“Good.” Maedhros arched back, unrepentant in his desire now that Fingon was playing him like his harp. “Enough, more than enough. I need you now.”

“You’re very demanding for someone who was pushing me away not three minutes hence,” Fingon informed him, and nibbled affectionately on his neck, making him suck in a slow, shivering breath. He eased his fingers out, and almost casually, as if it were merely the natural progression of such a thing, shifted to press his hard length up and in. He let out a little sigh, nuzzling his face against Maedhros’s shoulder, as if this were no more than the act of a fish returning to the water, of a soldier sheathing a sword.

Maedhros groaned, pulling the blankets tight around them, his toes curling with each languid press into his already burning body. There was something about being taken again when he was still humming from the last time that made him feel delicious. He rocked back, biting his lip as he did, feeling Fingon’s arms come warm and strong around him. “Feels good,” he murmured, and heard his own voice come out low and rough, still full of sleep and the lack of pressures of the day. “Finno, feels so good, you feel so good in me.”

“That’s,” Fingon breathed into his ear, his hips rocking in an easy, unhurried rhythm, “because I’m meant to be in you, arimelda. Don’t you think?”

Maedhros nodded, and surrendered to the slow stretch, the slick sense of being filled again and again that made his mouth part, made him pant. They knew each other in every sense by now, and Fingon well knew how to bring him to completion quickly, if he wanted. But it was snowing, and it was early, and the two of them were warm in the middle of Himring the Ever-Cold, enjoying each others’ bodies with unrepentant leisure.

Without the wind, there was little way to measure the passage of time. Fingon spoke low and sweet in his ear from time to time--beautiful, my bright flame, give all Arda for one moment by your side, move like that again, make that sound again, mine, mine, mine--but for what felt like hours, simply moved within him. Maedhros found himself shuddering despite the warmth, little beads of sweat forming at his hairline as Fingon moved his hands, caressing him from shoulders to thighs, never lingering too long on anything that would bring him close to climax.

Finally, Maedhros opened his mouth to plead, to beg for more, to beg Fingon to set them both free, but before he could say anything, Fingon’s hands gripped his hips, and his angle shifted.

Slow pleasure melted into sudden heat, as the rhythm changed. Then there was a hand at his cock, another toying with his nipples, and Fingon’s cock deliberately striking him so perfectly inside that he let out a far louder cry than he’d intended, arousal surging through him. “I can’t,” he gasped, and heard Fingon grunt behind him.

“Nor I,” his husband admitted breathlessly. “Tell me, please--“

Maedhros nodded, hair falling into his face as he shoved his hips back, the gentle somnolence of the mood bled into something carnal and urgent. Fingon loved it when he spoke at the end, and just as Fingon knew all the secrets of his body, he knew all the secrets of Fingon’s mind. “Spill in me, Finno, please, you know I love it when you fill me, I won’t be able to think of anything else all day but how well you enjoyed me--“

Fingon’s fingers tightened, his body stiffened, and he surged forward, suddenly maddened, with a flurry of urgent thrusts that left Maedhros clinging to the blankets for some purchase. Finally, with a low, eager moan, he felt Fingon pulse hot inside of him, the feeling so precisely what he hungered for that it pushed him over the edge, spilling into Fingon’s hand on his cock.

Snow fell. Maedhros drowsily felt that he could sense it, piling around Himring, closing them in, building an ephemeral shield of soft frozen water to insulate them from the rest of the world, from time, even from Oaths. The world froze, but it was warm under the coverlets, with Fingon’s arms around him.

“Fuck,” Fingon said abruptly, and rolled away, so suddenly Maedhros let out a startled little sound. But it was hardly the first time, and he took the hint. Fingon’s ears were more sensitive than his own, giving them a few extra important seconds of warning, as they fumbled for breeches and tugged down nightshirts, hastily cleaning themselves up before light footsteps approached swiftly, and small hands pounded on the door.

“Ada!” came the high-pitched voice. “It snowed.”

“Yeah?” Fingon called, hastily doing up his flies. “Give me a second, I’m still in bed!”

“But we’re going to have a battle! I need your help!”

“Uh huh!”

“We’re picking teams! I want Lord Maedhros!”

Maedhros blinked, both at the words and at the indignant look on Fingon’s face. “Why?” he called, tossing the rag he used to clean up into the basin, and shrugging into his robes. “If it’s a snowball fight, I’m hardly the best choice.”

“Why don’t you want me?” Fingon demanded, and as soon as he checked that they were both somewhat decent, flung open the bolt on the door.

Ereinion came tumbling in, apparently having been leaning his full weight on the door in an attempt to force the bolt, and rolled quickly to his feet, hair flying about his face. He beamed, and ran over to Maedhros, grabbing his sleeve and tugging. “It’s a tactical battle, Ada. You have to lead the opposing forces.”

“I can’t make snowballs,” Maedhros reminded the child, who stood no higher than his waist. “Or if I can, they’re quite small.”

“We have plenty of people to make the snowballs,” Ereinion insisted. “You’re the best Captain, though! I mean, I’m going to be the Captain, and you have to follow my orders, but you can tell me what to do!”

Maedhros gave Fingon a helpless look, and submitted to being led. “I...very well, Captain. My strength is yours.”

“Hey!” Fingon protested, hopping into his boots as he ran out after them. “I used to beat the King of Gondolin at every snowball fight, you know! And he would build massive forts out of the stuff.”

“All right,” Ereinion told him, unconcerned. “But we agreed, only one adult per team. And I want to win.”

Even Himring the Ever-Cold had bright days of sunshine, glinting off of the snow more brightly than any twinkling jewels. Even in the cold of the snow, there was victory to be had, with Ereinion proudly proclaiming himself the Tallest Captain, riding upon his shoulders to destroy the forts of the opposing teams, human and elven children shrieking and laughing together.

Even overlooking Lothlann and the dread peaks beyond, there was softness. Maedhros made sure of it, and then tossed Ereinion into one of the largest snowdrifts, hearing him shriek with delight. Fingon’s eyes met his, and warmth flared within him, fiercer than any snowstorm.

“Himring is still too cold,” Fingon informed him, and stuffed a snowball down the collar of his shirt.

#officialtolkiensecretsanta #tss2020 #russingon #silmarillion #fanfiction #my writing

30 notes · View notes

mxvladdy · 4 years ago

Text

Mammon- Untouched (GN MC)

*trips over my own thirsty ass self* But for real it’s just smut. Kinda on the soft end of the spectrum for me. IDK what to tag this as but it’s got nipple clamps and subby bois so...there’s that.

Sorry if it’s not great! As much as I love my job, I’m also renovating my place so I am hella drained 90% of the time and words are hard. Hopefully once my place is done I’ll be less stressed and pop out the goods more frequently.

Ok-enough of my rambles. Have some writers block smut. I got more on the chopping block waiting to be edited later.

“Sh-Shit.” Mammon squirms under your stern gaze. His jewel-toned eyes dart wildly from your impassive expression to the clamps slowly turning his nipples a beautiful shade of red. He blushes in embarrassment, cheeks heating to match the redness of his chest. It travels down the broad plains of his lithe body before disappearing beneath his jeans. The red blends and swirls with the purples and blues you nipped across him earlier that night. Your bites follow the flow of his chalk-white markings, the contrast between the two play beautifully off his tan skin. “Oi!” He squawks noticing the phone held in your free hand.

“Ah-ah. Be a good boy and sit pretty for me.” You smile sweetly. “ I want to memorialize how good you look.” Mammon curses under his breath trying his best to settle back on his heels. He knew if he got too squirmy you would stop immediately. You only had his best interest in mind and you could read him sometimes better then he could himself. If you got even a hint of him having an off day you would stop. That was one of the things he loved about you. Whenever it was “playtime” there were strict rules; on both sides. Mammon needed consistency, a firm hand, but gentle hand and praise. And all you needed was obedience. It was a good system for both of you. But, he really really wanted this tonight.

Allowing him time to compose himself again you flick through your phone. Glancing over your phone you enjoy watching him move back into his resting position with short jilted movements. The weights on his chest swinging with each tiny movement. His sharp fangs scrap along his lower lip. Muting his little huffs as the clamps shift.

Back in position, Mammon arches his chest up towards you. His dexterous hands white-knuckled on his ankles. He widens his knees, the pose drawing your eye to his growing bulge. You take your pictures humming and tugging at the thin chains attached to his chest. The light pressure is enough to make him tremble. His brain scrambling at your little coos of praise and the flashes of your phone’s camera. He sits and waits for you like a good boy. He hopes that you share a few with him.

You finish up with a quick kiss to his temple, saving the best ones to your password-protected file. Some pictures were just of him. Some were close up of the cruel little claps. The camera flash picking up the pretty little gems adorning the sides of them. Others were of his glassy eye gaze. Even through the lens of the camera, you could feel his love and trust. But, by far your favorites were of the growing damp spot on his designer jeans. “Chin up!” You bark. Savoring your demon’s little whines and whimpers, you press the ball of your foot to his twitching crotch. Mammon meets your warm gaze. Gently you brush back the hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. “Good boy.” He smiles. “You are doing so well for me today! Tell me; have you followed my rules this week?” He grunts and nods, your words swimming in his head. “Use your words.” You cut off his incoherent whining with a quick tug on the chains.

“Fuck~” The sharp burn of the textured steel clamps edging him further to the precipice. His hips move involuntarily against your foot. The thick fabric was wet and chafing his stiffened cock. It felt damn good. You allow him to rut for a moment longer. The slow grind his covered cock against your leg making you heat up as well. “I-yea-yea I was good. I swear.” He pleads voice wobbling, dangerously close to tears.

“Shhh-” Taking the back of his head gently you pull him to rest it against your thigh. You already knew that. Lucifer had been blowing your phone up all week asking what you did to his brother. Not one thing missing, and his grades have improved- not by much, but better than they have been in years. You smirk into Mammon’s soft white hair soaking in his breathy pleas. With the right incentive, anything is possible. “I know, and I’m so proud of you keeping your word. But what else is to be expected from the Great Mammon. I think you deserve this, yes?” He nods into your lap with a happy sob. His plush lips kiss at every inch of your thigh he can reach in thanks. “How would you like this to go sweet boy?” You ask and pull him up once more to look at you. He thinks about it for a moment. There was so much he wanted, all of them so good it made him light-headed just thinking of it. He wanted you over him, being as greedy as you desired with his body, almost as much as he wanted to be over you. Staking his claim so thoroughly his brothers would never look on what was his again.

Perhaps next time you’d indulge him. Desperation winning out he steals the finger closest to his mouth and sucks on them, eliciting a satisfying sigh from your lips. “Anything you like-just, please. Let me come.” He moans around your digit. Slipping another finger into his mouth you play with his tongue. Your middle and ring finger press down on the warm little ball of silver sitting neatly in his mouth. It had been a beautiful little surprise he got for you last time you had visited the human whelm.

You raise a brow “Anything?”He drools around you messily, savoring the taste of your skin. Taking your hand away, he tries to chase it with a kiss. “Think you can come just like this?” You ask. “ Make a mess of yourself in your jeans? From nothing but my fingers and the clamps?” Mammon looks down at your foot still pressed firmly against his erection. “Oh? This” You press down harder before pulling back. “No, perhaps next time.” You tuck your foot neatly away from his line of sight forcing him to focus back on his own chest. The demon huffs, breaking characters to flash you one of his signatures pouts.

“You’re worse than Lucifer.”

“Eww.” You laugh. “No talk of your brothers in here! This is our time.” You lean down to bump your forehead against his, stealing a quick kiss. His eyes soften and he returns the kiss with another. This one is slow, sweet, and much too innocent for this scene. With that in mind, you pull away and offer your spit covered fingers once more to him. “It’s this or nothing tonight Mammon.” You harden your tone, pulling you both back into the scene.

He takes your two fingers back reverently. His eagerness makes you flush. The noises he makes around your fingers could probably make Asmo blush. But, Mammon was always a messy lover, in the best possible ways of course. You groan, loving the little moans and coughs he makes as he takes the fingers deeper. His talented tongue dancing across the smooth pads. Your demon keeps eye contact with you while he nips and licks at your digits, taking special care not to cut you with his razor-like incisors. Goosebumps bloom down your body with each pass of his teeth. The smooth sides of them grazing you with each pass. He beams up at you, looking for praise, already deep into his subspace.

“Look at you, what a lovely picture.” You run a gentle hand through his silky hair. He leans into your touch, eyes half-lidded. You massage his scalp digging your blunt nails into him. “Are you enjoying yourself? I must say I am. You always know how to make me feel good. I love that you are the only man that can do that for me.” Mammon whimpers around you, bucking his hips in longing. You pull back not wishing for it to be over so soon.

“Damn it!” He pants, so close to breaking character again. His ankles scream under the pressure of his nails. The bite of them grounding him against the heady feelings you pull from him. The delicious mix of pain and pleasure was only heightened by your sweet voice. His cock twitching with each little pull of the chain or murmur in his pinking ears. The bite of metal from his zipper against his leaking head the perfect cherry onto. He was so close.

Your demon rambles, words slurring together with each passing stroke of your hand. He swears he’ll feel this for days. The brush of his school shirt against his sore chest. It’ll keep him hard and on edge for days. How was he going to keep his hands off himself or you during council meetings? How was he going to keep still knowing you’ll be watching him in classes? Preoccupied as he was in his fantasies he didn’t notice you reach down to loosen the clamps ever so slightly. You eye him like a hawk, following the pull and twitch of muscles under his skin.

The closer he got the louder he was; edging always brought out the best in him. His last sentences turning into a garbled mess of tears and pleas to come. All he needed was one final push. He tells you so.

“Color?” Mammon’s eyes open questioningly blinking back a few stray tears.

“G-Green. I want you.” He wasn’t sure what you were going to do but he trusted you implicitly. Beaming at his declaration, you push his chin up for the final time. Determined to see his face when he finally came. Waiting until his eyes cleared slightly, you finish your little scene with a flourish. Before he could register your sharp movement you tug at the loosened clamps, pulling them off with a sharp jerk.

Mammon’s howl of ecstasy reverted around the large expanse of his bedroom. The sudden feel of blood rushing back to his tender chest and warm pricking around it sending him over. The pins and needles sensation blooming over his body as he came was damn near addicting. He falls boneless into your awaiting lap. His howls turning into soft whimpers and whispered swears as he rides the wave of his release. You let him stay there for as long as he needed. After a few minutes, he stirs, brain rebooting slowly. Strong arms wrap around your waist as he comes to. His body weight anchoring you down to your chair. Mammon can’t help but smile into your soft thighs, feeling your fingers trace across the markings on his sweat-soaked back. “You good baby?”

“Can’t feel my legs.” He chuckles. “Give me a second then I’ll get off of ya.”

“Mmmm. Take your time, we have all night after all. Although, I doubt those pants are comfortable right now.” Mammon hums in agreement casting a quick look down at his soiled jeans.

“Ya just saying that to see me naked.” You laugh but don’t disagree with him. He pulls away to peak up at you through his damp hair, flashing you a mischievous grin. “Course, I sure wanna see you naked too.” His fangs tear teasingly into the seam of your pants. His warm breath dampening your newly exposed skin.

You shift, spreading your legs to draw him closer to your core. Your message was explicitly clear. If that’s what you want then you better work for it.

#obey me mammon #obey me #lemon #obey me smut #I would say i'm sorry #but i'd be lying #mammon x mc #mammon is a gud a boi

87 notes · View notes

sinsbymanka · 4 years ago

Photo

One more for @pookydraws! This is actually a gift from @tessa1972 who donated to RAINN and then donated the commission to Pooky! I love you both and thank you for being so supportive of each other and all of us! This smutty drabble features Pooky’s Sarita Amell and King Alistair Theirin!

Do you want your own fluffy and/or smutty drabble? I’m still accepting donations through Ko-fi for RAINN! I met my goal BUT you can still donate there and hit me up anywhere to let me know what you’d like! You can also donate and receive your drabble anonymously. I will not post your name or tag you in the post.

Title: The King’s Reward Pairing: Female Warden/Alistair Theirin, Female Amell/Alistair Theirin Rating: E Content Warnings: Post Dragon Age Origins, Explicit Sexual Content, Oral Sex Read on AO3

Alistair knew there were less pleasant places that Denerim in the summer. Abandoned crypts. Swamps. The Korcari Wilds. Anywhere that served Orlesian cuisine exclusively. Orlais in general.

Yes. There were certainly worse places to be than the sweltering heat of Ferelden’s capital city. But it was certainly hard to remember that when he’d taken off everything except his own skin and still felt like he’d stepped into mage fire.

He reclined on the chaise, rubbing the back of his palm across his nose, and frowned down at the near illegible tiny print blurring before his eyes. Andraste, he’d been at it for hours. He had to be nearly done.

Alistair cast a despairing glance at the stack of papers on the floor, the rest of his newest Antivan trade treaty. Then he pinched his nose, hard, and sunk further into the plush material.

It was Sarita’s favorite chair. He’d hoped sitting on it would help him channel some of her focus, but so far he’d been disappointed. He just… wasn’t as good as the minutiae as she was. Frankly, the fact Ferelden didn’t fall into chaos as soon as she rode out of the capital city was a miracle sent from the Maker himself.

But she had a duty. They both did. She fought the blight, for both of them, because he’d had to forsake his oaths for a crown. His sword languished in a training yard, his crown fit ill upon his head, and Sarita…

Sarita was his mistress instead of a queen like she should have been.

It had been the right thing for Ferelden. The only thing to do, really. That didn’t mean it didn’t sting. Though things were changing. The situation in Kirkwall was becoming tenuous, proving the Circles didn’t work. Once that keg exploded, and it was about due to at any moment, it would be a matter of time until the established systems fell down around his ears.

He’d be ready. They’d defeated the blight, after all, and once the old rules were gone…

Well. It was a pleasant daydream. Much more pleasant than Antivan trade treaties, in fact. He tossed the paper to the side and laid his head back, luxuriating in the faint breeze that stirred the curtains. He closed his eyes and conjured Sarita’s azure eyes, the blonde hair tucked behind the curve of her ear.

She’d be back soon. He couldn’t wait.

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

Alistair didn’t know how long he slept, but the soft sound of movement drew him from heavy, blissfully dreamless, sleep. Even after years, his gut reaction was to freeze and hone in on the small noises, searching for danger while keeping his eyes closed. He heard the rustle of silk. The splash of water.

Then he felt thin, staff calloused fingers tracing over the hard planes of his muscles.

“Sleeping on the job, your highness?”

He chuckled, stretching his arms above his head before opening his eyes. Above him, Sarita returned his crooked grin with one of her own, walking her elegant fingers down his chest.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes.” He rumbled.

“Not as much as you were.” Sarita’s expression shifted into a wicked smirk, searing hot gaze dropping down his body.

That was the moment Alistair remembered he was snoozing away in all his Maker-given glory.

“You’re lucky I wasn’t a servant.” Sarita added, eyes twinkling.

“Maker’s breath. I’m lucky you weren’t Oghren.”

“Oh, he was with me. I’d say you struck him blind, but I’m not sure he noticed.”

Alistair laughed. “Sounds like Oghren.”

Sarita hummed a muted agreement, her eyes trailing down his revealed skin. Cheekily, Alistair snatched her fingers from his chest and brought them to his lips, kissing the tips while he held her gaze.

“And have I struck you blind like the Revered Mother always said would happen?”

“Not yet.” Sarita purred, leaning over him on the chaise. “Have you missed me?”

“Endlessly.”

Joy sparked to life in her eyes. She brought her lips closer to his, leaning in to whisper against them. “And is this our treaty with Antiva?”

“It is.” He replied, pious as possible. It was made difficult because his sleep addled mind had finally caught up to look beyond Sarita’s stunning eyes and the golden fall of her hair.

His lover wore a simple silk robe, the pale material almost sheer in the late afternoon sunlight. She smelled of lavender, clearly already washed up after her arrival. The loose tie of the robe let it fall just right so Alistair could trace the swell of her breasts.

“It’s all done?”

“Just needs a final stamp. Got to read through it and make sure they didn’t put me dancing naked in the town square as one of their…”

Alistair lost his train of thought watching Sarita capture her plump lip between her teeth, peering at him through her long lashes. His breath caught in his chest as her finger drifted lower, scratching at his abdomen with blunt nails. His cock twitched with interest, beginning to swell between his thighs.

“Maker’s breath. You’re beautiful. I’m still a lucky man.”

“Working hard and compliments?” Sarita questioned. “It sounds like someone has earned a reward.”

“I have behaved myself. Ask anyone- oh Maker.”

Sarita’s quick fingers pulled the knot in her robe and it fell from her shoulders like Andraste herself was unveiling her most glorious masterpiece to the world. Alistair pushed himself up, eager eyes darting over her exposed flesh. The curve of her waist, the fullness of her hips, and those breasts.

Andraste herself didn’t have a nicer pair of breasts. Alistair knew. He’d been shoved in front of many statues of the blighted woman.

...not that he’d been looking at Andraste’s breasts.

Before he could fall further down that train of thought, Sarita settled herself on the opposite end of the chaise. One firm, strong hand pushed him back into a reclining position, her smile absolutely wicked. The kind of smile that always heralded the best activities.

“I know just the thing to show my appreciation.” Sarita purred, running her hand back down his body. His cock, fully erect, bobbed as she trailed her teasing touch up over his stiff length. He watched her smile grow predatory.

“Just enjoy, love. Allow me.” She whispered.

Truly the only thing he could think to say was a prayer of gratitude for the lovely creature in front of him. Sarita stole the words out of his mouth by dropping her pink lips to the tip of his manhood, pressing a perfectly filthy kiss to the tip.

Alistair swallowed, hard, and brought his hand up to cup the soft skin of her cheek. She leaned into his palm while her quick tongue darted past those tempting lips to lick a stripe down his length.

Alistair grit his teeth together, blowing his breath through his nose. It’d been too long, she’d been gone too long, and he wasn’t going to last. “Sarita…”

“I know.” Her own voice was husky with desire, blue eyes molten with it. “Thank Andraste for Warden stamina, right?”

“It’s a perk.” Alistair breathed. One of the few, but he’d take it. And her. He was certainly going to take her thoroughly before the evening was over.

She smirked, wrapping her long fingers around the base of his cock and opening her mouth.

Warm. Wet. One of Alistair’s hands threaded gently through Sarita’s hair, the other roughly grabbed onto the delicate upholstery of her chaise. His back arched, although force of will kept his hips steady while Sarita swallowed his length in her hot, willing mouth. Years of habit meant she took him easily almost to the hilt, the hand wrapped around his base stroking what she couldn’t take comfortably.

Those sharp eyes looked up at him again and Sarita squirmed between his legs. He could smell her own desire, heady in the air, as she bobbed back up his length. His cock slipped from between her lips and she placed another kiss on it’s tip before diving back down.

Someday, she was going to kill him and Alistair wouldn’t even complain. His moan of approval rang out in the silent room while his fingers stroked through her soft hair. She felt… Maker, she felt fantastic.

Then her tongue swirled around him and he hissed, knuckles gripping the chair going white. “Sarita.”

She made a noise of approval that vibrated around his length and he moaned again. That only emboldened her to devour him with relish. Her teasing tongue danced over his throbbing shaft, she hollowed her cheeks to suck him deeper into her mouth.

Alistair’s hand trembled. Fire ignited in his spine, traveling down to his groin. He clenched his jaw, trying to stave it off, until Sarita’s eyes found his again.

He was lost the second he saw the matching heat in her gaze. With a groan of defeat, Alistair surrendered to the pleasure she coaxed from him. His head fell back, something buzzing in his ears as his cock swelled further before everything went white.

Searing white. Hotter than anything he’d ever touched.

He came back to himself in pieces, panting and slick with sweat, Sarita’s fingers swirling patterns over his thighs. He huffed a small, choked laugh that was matched by her giggle.

“Missed you.” She admitted softly, resting her head on his thigh.

“Only cause you love me.” He murmured.

“I do. Very much.”

His heart melted in his chest and he looked back down into her angelic face. “Good. Cause I’m quite mad for you.”

#manka's friend fiction #charity fundraiser #dragon age #dragonage #dragon age origins #alistair theirin #female amell #alistair x warden #alistair x amell #pookydraws

54 notes · View notes

d4rk3stn1ght · 4 years ago

Text

Haunted Playmate

Happy Holidays @houser-of-stories ! I was also your gift giver for @sanderssidesgiftxchange and I hope you enjoy your gift

Ships: Platonic Prinxiety, mentioned Analogical and Royality

Warnings: Past character death, cursing, mentioned murder, not meant to be unsympathetic Remus but it kind of comes off that way, if there’s anything else needed to be tagged please tell me

There was a creak on the floor that hadn’t been there before. Was someone invading his home? Well, what was his home. He looked over the banister of the stairs to see a man unpacking his things in the house.“

“Well hello there.” Roman smiled and gently greeted the stranger. Logically, he knew that the man couldn’t hear him, but it was still polite. He had manners! He was a gentleman, thank you very much! Roman watched him from a bit afar. This man tended to talk to himself. Virgil? Was that his name? He mumbled it under his breath fairly often. Virgil flopped onto the couch with his phone, probably to order pizza. He would too if he were the one moving into be moving instead. He missed being able to eat and do things. Well, he could push things over but he couldn’t leave the house. Roman sighed softly before looking through the house to see what his new housemate had done with it. So far, he hadn’t gone up to the attic. If Roman had his way, he wouldn’t be able to.

Roman hums a gentle song as he peered into Virgil’s room. Oh! He had a Nightmare Before Christmas poster! Too bad Roman couldn’t borrow it or give him his own posters. His were taken as evidence or removed. It sucked but he understood why. He couldn’t exactly stop them anyway, not that he didn’t try. He shook his head at the memories the thought brought. He didn’t need to accidentally cause an inside storm again. It accidentally hurt a small child and he felt so bad for it even though he couldn’t help it. The room itself wasn’t that bad. Yeah, it was a bit dark and dreary, but there was some normalcy from his time. A string of lights to illuminate the room during the night (purple rather than a soft yellow), a corkboard for pictures or necklaces... The desk was cluttered with art supplies. Was he an artist? Did he have any sketches out? A glance over the desk confirmed that that’d be a no. Of course. Why would an emo have anything out in view that could hint at their past? They wouldn’t unless they trusted you. He knew that a bit too well. But ohoho, what’s this? There was a picture carefully placed on the desk with a number with hearts around it. Now that was interesting. Stormy knight had a crush? On this... Logan Omair? The teach? Too bad he couldn’t call that guy at the moment or he so would. He noticed a cup of pens a little too close to the edge and grinned. New game time. How long can he knock things over before the new guy noticed or left? He knocked over the pen cup and laughed at the sound of his new guest jumping up to look.

Roman left the room quickly and headed to the kitchen instead before Virgil could get there. He chuckles at him cursing at the mess but quickly pouts at there being nothing close enough for him to easily knock anything over. Well, he could always knock over the chairs. He froze though at the doorbell. That was really quick or he was losing time again. That tended to happen more recently but it doesn’t bother him as much anymore.

Virgil ran down the stairs and looked out the window before opening the door with an apology. Was he paranoid? Was he running from something? Was he a criminal?! He’d rather side with the law! Maybe he was just anxious. Who knew? Definitely not Roman. He probably never would. The dark and paranormal walked into the kitchen without looking in Roman’s direction. He grabbed two cups, one he set on the counter while he held the other to get ice and soda. Why did he need another cup? Virgil left the cup on the counter while taking his soda one to the couch. When he got comfortable he immediately swiped the cup off the counter before bolting again.

Virgil smirked at catching a glimpse of Roman’s retreating form, “Gotcha.” He was so glad he didn’t take out his glass cups. A after setting the pizza and the cup of soda down a safe distance from the edge, he got up to pick up the discarded cup and set it down on the edge of the end side table. “Try that one you overgrown cat.” He snarks but unpauses the show to finish it as he ate.

The ghost thought he was slick, didn’t he? Virgil knew about the haunted house rumors and was ready for anything. Well, as much as Supernatural taught and the limited research he had. While he hadn’t been there long, Virgil had already attempted salting the doorways and windows. He’d noticed a few things, too. The ghost could both float above and walk straight through it, so salt was a bust.The ghost seemed to only do anything when he wasn’t looking or not even in the room. He doesn’t know anything about him aside from him acting like a cat. It was kind of amusing but the pens were annoying. Empty Solo cup? No problem. A full cup and he’s just being a pain in the ass. Virgil took a deep breath before getting up and put the pizza box in the trash. He froze at the clatter of the cup but sighed in relief when there wasn’t a splash accompanied. Virgil mocked him slightly when he laughed. He was just thankful the ghost wasn’t hostile and was just being a bit playful. He settled into the couch again and sipped at his drink while spacing out in thought.

Meanwhile, Roman was snickering in what used to be his room. This was great! He was playing along. It was kinda disappointing that he wouldn’t put anything full against the edge anymore, but he understood anyway. Roman would feel the same way if roles were reversed, at least. He gently ran his hand across the wall. He knew feeling the paint was impossible, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to try. Roman missed his tangibility, but… nothing could undo what he did. Roman closed his eyes to get his bubbling anger under control. It’s not that Roman hated him, but he was still angry and understandably so. As justified as his anger was, the man downstairs didn’t deserve the backlash it would produce. When he had calmed some, he headed to the stairway to see the poor kid was passed out on the couch with his show running. It was kinda interesting but he couldn’t risk it yet. Maybe the next day but not right now. He nodded in the sleeping form’s direction before heading up to the attic. When he got up there he headed to check on his object. He knew where his body was, but that wasn’t what he was tied to. Instead, he was tied to his class ring from his senior class. He tended to wear it everywhere and it held most of his best memories. That’s why he never let anyone up in the attic. If they were to find it and destroy it, well... that would be it. He would be toast and no one would be able to know the truth. No one had tried to talk to him before but hopefully, Virgil would be the first if he so chose or if he could even hear and/or see him.

A few days later the game was still on. Random cups would fall and Virgil had yet to see anything more than a glimpse of the ghost and the sounds of laughter, followed quickly by a cup hitting the floor. That said, the ghost was getting a bit bolder. He would linger especially when Supernatural was on. Virgil could feel the drop in temperature but if he tried to look, the ghost wouldn’t be there. Virgil had done more research on the property and found a few different murders but he didn’t know which one this ghost was from. Tired of the cat and mouse, Virgil hatched a plan. He needed a job for money and, since this was his second rewatch of Supernatural, he could miss a few episodes of the show and be fine. , Virgil decided that was going to announce he was leaving and leave the show on for the ghost to watch. Then, hopefully, he’d come back from applications and finally see the ghost.

Virgil set his trap the next day, leaving and returning a few hours later. When he got back, he made sure to be quiet as he crept in. His eyes widened. Sitting cross-legged in front of the screen was none other than his ghostly roommate. Dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, he looked a bit younger than Virgil. Unable to see much else from behind, Virgil slowly crept towards the ghost’s side to see any other features so he could compare them to the other murders on the property. Unfortunately, the episode started the credits and the ghost turned, making a shout of surprise and scrambling back,

The ghost almost looked panicked, “Um, hey! You’re back!”

Now that he was facing Virgil, he could see everything. The gold crown on the breast pocket, the line on his throat from where it had been slit, dull green eyes and tanned skin muted by death.

“You’re Roman!” Virgil exclaimed

“You can see me?!”

“Yes?!”

“That’s awesome!”

“No! Not awesome! I knew you!”

“You did?”

“Yes! Roman Kingston and Remus Kingston!”

“Highschool?”

“Yes. You kept making doll eyes at Patton Amato!”

“I did not! But, uh, uh how is he?”

“Frankly, weI haven’t talked much.”

“Who have you talked to?”

“Logan Omair, Remus, Janus,Remy... But I’ve only Remy and Logan recently.”

“Cool…” Roman slowly unfreezes and shifts to a more casual posture. “So, I saw your little love letter.”

“What?!” Virgil, who had been doing the same, tenses right back up.

“The number? You-!”

“No! Why you?!”

“No idea. You should ask Remus,” he spat bitterly.

“Right… The article said…” Virgil trailed off, rubbing his neck.

“Yeah.” Discomfort is plain as day on Roman’s face. “Let’s not… Anyway, why’d you move here out of anywhere.”

Virgil is glad to change the subject, “You know, settling down and-”

“It’s because Logan lives here, isn’t it.”

“Shut!” Virgil snaps as his face tints pink.

“So it is Logan! Hah!”

“I will kill you again, you ass!” Virgil lunges towards Roman.

“You caaaaan’t,” Roman sing- songs and laughs as he dodges Virgil’s fist

“Get back here!” Virgil chases Roman through the room, thoroughly annoyed by the fact Roman has more mobility.

“Nope! When’s your date?”

“Shut! Up!” He catches up and swings again, hitting nothing.

Roman just laughs at him, “Come oooon!”

“We aren’t dating!” Virgil flops down onto the couch in defeat.

“Not yet!” Roman teases.

“Not anytime soon!”

“Who says?”

“Both of us.”

“Why? You both liked each other in high school.” Roman also calms down a bit, sitting on the other end of the couch.

“Yeah, it’s been a little while.”

“Oh right.”

“Yeah. We said someday but for now, we’re just talking as friends and meeting up with anyone still in town.”

“Like?”

“Patton, Emile, Remus, each other.Remy will pop in someday soon.”

“What about Janus?”

Virgil shrugs, “I haven’t heard from him.”

“Ah.” Roman pauses a moment before speaking again. “When will you talk to Remus?”

“I’m going Wednesday.”

“Can you… can you ask him why for me?”

Virgil looks to Roman out of the corner of his eyes, “I can’t promise he’ll answer.”

Roman nods “...Right.”

“Yeah...” Virgil rubs the back of his neck, sensing Roman’s discomfort.

“Sooo... how’d job hunt go?”

“I’ve applied. They’ll call me to set up interviews.”

“Nice. By the way, what’s up with the emo aesthetic?”

“I told everyone it wasn’t a phase,” he jokes slightly.

“We didn’t think you were serious.”

“Dead serious,” Virgil grinned.

“You did not.”

He just burst out laughing.

“I can’t believe you did this to me! Me of all people! How dare you, sir!”

Virgil put an arm around his stomach as he kept laughing.

“You can’t be serious! No! Don’t answer that you dark fiend! I trusted you!”

He only seemed to laugh harder at his dramatics. Roman only pouted as Virgil slowly calmed down.

“You’re an ass.”

“You still love me platonically anyway,” Virgil teases.

“Sadly.”

He chuckles breathlessly,shakinghis head.

“Hey, did they ever find out why that band split up?”

“The one you listened to religiously in high school? No.”

“Damn. I enjoyed their music.”

Virgil shrugs, “I can play some for you.”

“You look like you know something.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“You tease! I can’t tell anyone!”

“I know,” *Virgil grins, “But this is more fun.”

“Asshole.”

“Nice to talk to you, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“Ahhh, there he is.”

“What?”

“The prick of a prince.”

“Hey!”

“Hello.”

“Why must you be so rude to me?” Roman swoons back, the back of his hand against his forehead.

“No one else can.”

“Rude!”

“I’m not that rude.” Virgil rolls his eyes.

“Yes, you are!”

“Nope.”

“Yes.”

“Not arguing.”

“You’re boring.”

“To you.”

“Exactly.”

“Ah, there’s the brat.”

“So good to be back,” Roman said sarcastically but it soon just turned into them giggling.

“By the way...”

“Hm?”

“Don’t tip over anything full ever again.”

“No promises.”

Virgil looks pointedly at Roman, “Roman.”

With a mischevious grin, Roman turned and ran, phasing away through a wall.

“Roman get back here!” Virgil scrambled to chase after him.

This seemed like a great beginning to a new chapter of both of their lives. And what a wondrous start it was.

#platonic prinxiety #analogical #royality #roman sanders #virgil sanders #character death #d4rkwr1t3s #might make this into an ask blog #idk #we'll see #sorry its late btw

19 notes · View notes

surveys-at-your-service · 3 years ago

Text

Survey #461

“this city looks so pretty, do you wanna burn it with me?”

Have you ever wanted a Nikon camera? Or do you have one already? My camera before the one I have now was a Nikon D3200. I use a Canon now. Who was the last person (if anyone) you said Happy Birthday to? A friend. Do you have Photoshop? If so, how often a day do you use it? I have it, but I barely use it nowadays. I use it to edit photos for character profiles or profile pictures, add a watermark for my actual photography, and I used to make Mark-oriented gifs like crazy. They mostly did really well, so... I might wanna get back into that and get That Sweet Validation. Do you watch any shows that you know your parents wouldn’t approve of? No. Have any of your exes gotten married or had kids since your breakup? None, I think. Do either of your parents have a mental illness? My mom has depression. Can you tolerate children for a long period of time? NO. Have you ever lived with someone you felt thoroughly uncomfortable around? No. Are you into dubstep? Yeah, I tend to enjoy it. Zelda or The Sims games? Can I pick neither? lol I don't feel very much at all for The Sims, and Zelda games have always looked... boring to me? Like I've watched most of the Game Grumps' playthroughs of all the games, and they make it hilarious of course, but the games themselves? Nah. Are you terrible at assigning bands their proper genre? YES YES YES YES YES YES. Even in my preferred category, that being metal, FUCK if I know the sub-genre. Have you ever made out in a closet? No, that shit sounds claustrophobic as hell. Have you ever been to a laser tag place? Yeah, on a triple-date once! It was SO fun. How do you wanna celebrate your next birthday? Have a couple friends over, pig out at The Cheesecake Factory. o3o Do you tease your parents about them being old? No, especially not Mom. She's self-conscious about getting older. Are you in love with someone? "In love" is a bit too far, buddy. But I love someone. Have you ever ridden a unicycle? No. Have you ever wanted a pet bunny? I was VERY serious about getting a lop-eared bunny for quite a while, but we just couldn't afford to adopt one (even off Craigslist) and get a cage for it, toys, etc. Are the bottom of your feet clean? I HATE seeing the bottom of my feet. Not because they're dirty, but because it's Callus City. I ain't even fuckin jokin'. Do you like really salty food? Yeah. :x When’s the last time you bled a lot? Well, I just recently finished my cycle after not menstruating for three or four MONTHS, so you can figure that one out. Have you ever watched a needle go into your own skin? Yeah. I like to know exactly when it's coming. Have you ever seen someone get a piercing/tattoo? Yes to both. When you’re done eating finger foods, do you usually lick your fingers? Usually kasdjlf;kalsdjf shut up ok I like food. What’s the most racist thing you have ever said? As a little kid, when my really good friend (a neighborhood kid, even) asked if he thought we'd be a good couple, I told him no because "blacks and whites don't date" or something like that. It was an idea I'd never been exposed to before; the idea was so foreign to little kid me. I had no idea I was being racist. It ended in a small fight and we didn't talk for a few days 'til he came to my house telling Mom that he had to "be a man" and fix this and if that ain't the cUTEST SHIT RIGHT THERE. We were friends again after that. He's still on my Facebook, and he actually semi-recently got married! :') Do you know someone that is mute, deaf or blind? No. Have you ever spent more than two weeks in a wheelchair? No. Does weed smell good? Or no? Ugh, no. Where do you see your closest friend in ten years? Successful and happy she kept pushing. Mama to so many reptiles that are blessed with the best lives possible in human care. Got at least one amazing book out there. If she's reading this, you've fucking got this. <3 Would you like to have twins? Mother of fucking god, no. Even if I WANTED kids, do fucking not give me twins. Who was the last person you got into an argument with? My mom. Want to have kids before you’re 30? Once again, I don't want kids, but IF I did, that'd be preferable before the risk of birth defects and other issues climb with age. Does anybody have a tattoo with your name on it? My older sister has my initial. Do you think somebody’s in love with you? No. Do you think you and your best friend will be friends in ten years? Yes, I genuinely do. Who were the last people to hang out at your house? Miss Tobey, our friend and landlord. Does anyone like you? Welp... I hope he still does. Guess we'll figure that out soon. What person on your Facebook do you talk to the most? VIA Facebook? Probably my friend Lyndsey. She likes to comment on stuff I share. Do you want to fall in love? I do, but I'm also utterly horrified to and risk being hurt again. Are you interested in more than one person at the moment? No. Once I realized I was so deeply into Girt, all other romantic feelings kinda just... poofed. How was your last break up? Civil and done with both of our best interests in mind. What is the hardest thing you’ve ever had to say? Probably the first time I admitted I needed to go to the hospital for suicidal thoughts. I was so, so scared of what it was going to be like. What is the hardest thing you NEEDED to hear? That if Jason wasn't happy with me, he had every right to move on. She was right. Do you treat yourself well? No... but I'm trying to change that. What was the last song you sang out loud to? This "Set Fire to the Rain" cover. Do you take good pictures? I think I do? Have you ever done any internship? No. What’s a topic you’ve drastically changed your opinion on? Holy shit, so much, especially when it comes to morality and political stances. I am now a massive supporter and member of the LGBTQ+ community, I'm pro-trans rights, pro-choice... I've done like a dozen 180s in a lot of topics. Do you know anyone who has a PhD? I mean, some doctors, but no one in my truly personal life. Do you know anyone who works as a lawyer? Yes: my cousin. Have you ever experienced sleep paralysis? LAKSDJFKLA;JWD NEVER AND I PRAY TO THE HOLY LORD THAT I NEVER DO. Does the thought of having wrinkles when you’re older upset you? Not massively? Like literally everyone gets them and is natural and inevitable. Do you know anyone who’s struggling with addiction? I know one alcoholic, and one that's probably borderline. I also have two friends who are extremely addicted to weed. Look me in the eyes and say it's not an addictive substance and I wouldn't believe you one bit. Is there a video or computer game that you can get lost in for hours? Eh, sometimes World of Warcraft. Some days I'm really into it, and others I barely touch it. What’s your favorite Disney Channel movie? I have no clue. I don't even remember movies that were made *for* Disney exclusively. Do you ever have to do yard work? No. We have a friend from the dance studio mow the lawn. Do you have any live versions of songs in your music software? My iPod has a whole live album of Ozzy. Did you or do you listen to Britney Spears songs? Both did and do. Britney is a boss bitch. Does your favorite band have a male or female lead singer? Male. Have you seen the movie Moulin Rouge? No, but I've seen some of that P!nk music video of the song and it brings out the Gay in me. Do you have a key to anything besides your house? No. Could you ever complete a 500-piece puzzle? I've done that before. I miss doing puzzles... Have you ever been to any sort of convention? I went to a reptile expo with Sara!! I REALLY want to go to another when my legs are stronger and can handle standing and walking so much. Is your mom or dad the older parent? Mom. Have you ever tried to walk on a moving vehicle and fallen over? No????? What is your favourite kind of bread? Is there any of that in your house? Pumpernickel. No. Are/were you in the school band, and if so, what instrument did you play? I played the flute all through middle school and I wanna say half of HS. Have you ever ordered an unusual drink at a bar? Never even been to one. Have you ever been pulled aside by security at the airport? I think once for some reason I don't recall? What is your favourite seasonal candy? (only available at certain times) Gingerbread men, probs. Or chocolate bunnies!!! :') How do you feel right now? My stomach is KILLING me. I'm super excited though that Girt is coming over tomorrow. Have you ever had surgery that kept you in the hospital for over a day? No. What would you like your generation to change? How we treat nature. Is there anyone that you truly could not live without? No. I learned that is a very unhealthy mentality to have. Do you like carrots more if they’re raw, or cooked? I just hate carrots. What restaurant did you last go out to dinner at with friends? With friends? I couldn't even guess. Does your refrigerator have an ice maker or do you use ice cube trays? It has an ice maker. Do you have a favorite sibling, if any? No; I love them all. Do you have a favorite brand of clothing? I STAN CLOAK. How’s the love life? Something new might start tomorrow. I think it will. Do you watch the news? No; that shit is depressing. Who do you admire most? Mark. Do you have a favorite album? Black Rain by Ozzy Osbourne takes the cake and always will.

#survey #surveys #random questions #lyrics: ''city'' by hollywood undead

3 notes · View notes

concussed-to-pieces · 4 years ago

Text

Whether It Works Out Or Not Part Three

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Pairing: Arthur Morgan/Named OFC

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Welcome kids, welcome to the conclusion! I hope you've liked this little foray into the Wild West. Enjoy!

[Spoiler warning for the first three chapters of the game!]

Tag List: @huliabitch @cookiethewriter @pedrosbigdorkenergy @thirstworldproblemss @anonymouscosmos @culturalrebel @karmezii @teaofpeach @crookedmoonsaultpunk @wrestlingfae @zombiexbody @nelba @gabrielle1776 @toxiicpop @mstgsmy @misty-possum

Part One: Strangers

Part Two: Friends

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains unprotected sex, historical inaccuracies and allusions to previous abuse. Stay safe!]

If he had so glibly dubbed Linton perishing of pneumonia as bad business, he dreaded to come up with a term for whatever Irene had gone through. Christ, spousal discipline. A victim of the so-called 'gentlemen' that brought their wives to heel with the rod, coverture at its goddamn finest. It had always made Arthur's chest tight, made him see red, had him raring to give them a taste of their own medicine despite Dutch's constant preaching about an eye for an eye only makes the world blind.

Womenfolk, for all Arthur's troubles with one in particular, deserved to be seen and heard as much as anyone else. Shit, from a biblical standpoint they were supposed to be cherished, protected, defended if they needed it. Arthur was not a pious man by any stretch; the blood on his hands had him thoroughly convinced of his prime spot in Hell come Judgement Day. But if he needed to resort to thumping the good book to get his point across, he damn well would. Fine gentlemen may not fear overmuch the wrath of one Arthur Morgan, yet they certainly feared for the salvation of their wretched, mealy little souls.

Irene's brown eyes were dark and surprisingly dry as she watched him watch her, the tales she told painting the late Mr. Carson as no man, but a fiend in man's clothing.

Arthur felt a lump form in his throat when she spoke of selling off her damn hair just so she could get free of that bastard. It was clear that after what she had suffered, nearly dying on the side of a mountain was a veritable paradise. She'd had to learn everything the hard way, taking all that she had read about and painstakingly putting it into practice. That she was still alive was a goddamn miracle. A miracle that Arthur didn't feel like testing the charity of. Providence had kept her safe thus far, but just how damn long did she expect that to hold?

What if someone else had found her in that trap? What if he hadn't been hunting that bear? Hell, what if one of those boys from Lemoyne had come across her bathing today? Arthur gritted his teeth. Granted, she wasn't defenseless, not by a long shot, but lone wolves didn't tend to last out in the wilds. It had been sheer coincidence that nothing far worse had happened.

"Come back to camp with me." He interrupted her to offer, his voice rough. "I...me an' the gang, we can keep you safe there. You ain't gotta' live like this anymore, that feller's dead. He can't come to drag you back to that...misery."

She shook her head, her smile sad. "I've been on my own for too long, Arthur. I'm used to it."

"Please." He begged. "I don't...if...look, I...I don't want you to…" he trailed off, frustrated by his inability to articulate the confusing emotions roiling in his chest. "Hell, I dunno'." He muttered, shoving the toe of his boot into the dirt. "Scared for you, I guess."

"I've made it this far, haven't I?"

"What if it wasn't me?" He retorted. "What if every time, it was-"

"It was you, though." Irene interjected softly. "I won't deny that our paths crossing again and again seems like fate, or divine intervention."

Arthur huffed out a breath. "I s'pose, but-"

"You needed someone to listen, and I needed someone to show me kindness."

"Well sure, but-"

"If you had bedded me in Valentine, would that have satisfied your curiosity?" Irene inquired primly. "Nipped your fascination in the bud?"

"Shit, no." Arthur finally managed to get a word in edgewise, shaking his head. "I...you seemed real sweet. Pretty. Sad, in a secret way. I wanted...but then you said all those things and I...I ain't never met a woman that seemed to see me like how you did, Miss Irene. Most folks just see what they can get outta' me."

"I always saw you, Arthur. From the first time we met on the side of that mountain." Irene told him, her voice gone soft once more. "I saw your smile, and your beautiful eyes, and the way you were willing to help. It made me want to help you too."

"M-My--? Shucks, ma'am, I ain't...I mean my eyes is...uh." Arthur yanked at the collar of his shirt. Despite it being unbuttoned, he suddenly felt as though it was too tight. "Well, you're one to talk about beautiful eyes!" He blustered, feeling his gut twist when she looked surprised of all things. "What, ain't anyone ever said somethin' nice to you before? You got nice eyes! And a good heart! Smart words, too, you're intelligent! Shit--I mean, shoot, sorry, ain't tryin' to swear in front of you." He rushed to apologize, worrying at the brim of his hat. "I'm just off-balance is all, ma'am, forgive me."

She waved off his apology, laughing. "Don't be so uptight, Arthur! It's still me."

"But it ain't, that's the thing. I…" he paused yet again, fumbling in his satchel for his journal. "I-I haven't stopped thinkin' of you, Miss Irene. What I'd say if I ever ran into you again." Opening the book to the first sketch of her, he turned it around so she could see. "I never came up with anythin', though. Aside from 'thank you'."

Instead of staying where she was, she approached and sat down alongside him. Those fingers, just as reverential as the first time 'Frank' had seen his sketches, ran down the lines of her face on the page.

They weren't perfect. His memory of her had been blurry with drink and many of his sketches had been scribbled out or erased into gray smudges in frustration. "They're beautiful." She whispered.

"No, you're beautiful." Arthur murmured before he could think better of it. "Nothin' that I could make would ever do you justice, Miss Irene."

She was flushed already from the fire, her hair slowly drying into a wild mess of sun-streaked curls that he longed to run his fingers through. "I wouldn't say that." She tried to deflect his words, smiling shyly down at her hands.

She had been married. Her acting like what he was doing was something new had Arthur damn near distressed. He cupped her chin with his hand, keeping his touch as light as he could bear while he tipped her face up to look at him. "I would."

"You would?" Her tongue darted out to soothe her dry lips, stirring a half-forgotten memory in his mind of her making some sound into his mouth as he kissed her.

"I sure would." He drawled, tilting his head and lowering his mouth to hers. The little whimper that came out of her settled in his abdomen. Was this a bad idea? Probably. "Take the shirt off."

"You told me to put it on!"

"And now, I'm askin' you to take it off." Arthur growled, pressing his mouth against the shell of her ear and breathing, "please."

Irene shivered all over, clinging to his hands like she was trying to keep her composure. Lord knew Arthur's own composure had never been particularly ironclad. She finally released him, her fingers trembling when she reached for the hem of the shirt.

"Easy girl, only if you want to." Arthur pressed a kiss to her cheek, "only if you're willin'. I ain't so brash to believe that you bein' alright with this one time before means that you'd be okay with it now."

"You…" Irene hesitated. "I've never been allowed to say no, Arthur."

Oh, Jesus, that hurt. "Well now you can. Any time. Right now, in the middle, whenever." He forced the words out past his muted, secondhand horror. "I'll stop. I'm not...this ain't about somebody gettin' hurt, okay? This is...I'm tryin' to make you feel good. That's all I want."

Irene squinted up at him, her disbelief evident. "So...it can be good? That's not just something they put in the books so women don't decide to never get bedded?"

Oh Jesus. "Oh, Jesus." Arthur scrubbed helplessly over his stubble with one hand, trying to formulate a response that wouldn't come off as terrifying or lecherous. "So, you...b-but you was married." He floundered.

"Yes?"

"He ain't...I mean you never-?"

"I have never been kissed like you kissed me before, if that answers your question."

"Well, yes and no. I-I reckon yes." Arthur stammered. "Alright, let me...I'll pitch my tent and we'll have a lie down and I'll...I-I guess I'll do my damnedest."

Jesus, he needed a minute. Just a momentary reprieve while he fumbled to unlash the canvas from Chase's back. Christ, his mind was going like Hell's wheels. She had never known pleasure from lying with a man. Never. To the point where she thought it was fabricated. One more nail in that devil's coffin, he supposed. Lord, Arthur prayed he was up for this.

She wanted to help him set up the tent and Arthur had to laugh, his nerves easing a bit at the petulant way she demanded to hold the guylines taut for him. "It's ungentlemanly for me to expect you to help out with stuff like this," he tried to explain.

"If you start pulling some nonsense about how I'm a delicate flower, you will regret it." Irene informed him firmly. "I haven't gotten this far to be treated like glass, Mister Arthur."

"Well, you certainly wasn't protestin' that treatment in Valentine." He chuckled, watching her face go bright red.

"I-I was caught off-guard, that's all! Fell back into old habits!"

"Oh shoah." He shrugged, still grinning. Thunder rumbled in the distance and he quickly opened up the tent flap with a broad, sweeping bow. "After you, ma'am."

She smiled at him and Arthur was hard-pressed to think of a prettier sight than that, the woman sidling past him to enter the tent after she had gathered up her still-damp things.

Arthur Morgan did not consider himself a good man. He did not consider himself a particularly smart man either. But every once in a while even his life could pan out with gratifying and interesting results. Such as an attractive woman who had been masquerading as an attractive man ending up in his tent, waiting on him to show her the...primitive ecstasies of the flesh.

He took his time before joining her however, choosing instead to smoke a cigarette and scan the perimeter of the grove, an idle hand on his revolver.

He definitely wasn't stalling. Definitely wasn't trying to compose himself before he got out of pocket with her. But Jesus, what he would love to do if she was willing!

The sunlight began to wane as the clouds rolled in and Arthur stubbed out his cigarette, carefully saving the remainder for later. No telling when he'd get his hands on a fresh pack, and the last chew he'd indulged in had been so strong it nearly burned a hole in his lower lip. Better to stick to the sticks.

He entered the tent to find Irene sitting cross-legged on her bedroll, still in his shirt (and Lord, that was a whole other article that he needed to address about himself), and she looked up at him expectantly as he ducked his head so he didn't bump the side of the tent. "Was just makin' sure everythin' is safe, Miss Irene." He explained, tying the tent flaps together. Arthur then began the process of unbuckling his holster belt, carefully hanging it from the support by the door. He had only stayed alive this long because Hosea had taught him to always have a revolver within reach. "You nervous?" He asked conversationally while he dropped his hat by the door.

"Perhaps a bit." Irene replied, her truthful words giving him pause. "I am optimistic, however."

"I ain't gonna' hurt you, but you need to be honest with me, okay? Won't hurt my feelin's none if you tell me you don't like somethin'." Arthur assured her, "I can adapt."

"Thank you, Arthur."

Oh Jesus, there it was again. Like a hot brick in his stomach, an intoxicating combination of wariness and arousal. He knelt beside her, tangling his fingers greedily through her short, thick curls. He could feel her trembling slightly, which was...sobering. "Ain't gonna' hurt you." He soothed, making a shushing noise. "Ain't gonna' hurt you. You're okay."

Wide brown eyes stared up at him and Irene nodded slowly.

"You trust me, Miss Irene?" Arthur asked quietly.

Another nod.

"Good." Arthur cupped her face and crushed their mouths together without further ceremony. She gasped into his mouth, her hands finding purchase on his chest where she proceeded to cling to him. He only vaguely remembered how she had reacted to his kiss before, her body threatening to collapse against his own in that cramped little garret that the Saints Hotel considered a rentable room.

"Arthur," she breathed shakily, kissing him at an almost fevered speed. "Is this really how it's supposed to be?"

"Is it good?"

"Oh yes, so good, I-"

"That's the important part sorted, then. Rest'll take care of itself." Arthur nibbled on her lower lip, his teeth gentle in case she needed to pull away. If anything though, she pressed closer. He was pleasantly surprised when she timidly slipped him her tongue, illustrating his enthusiastic approval by welcoming it with his own. "Can I touch you?" He gasped against her lips, his forehead resting on her own. They were fully in each other's space now, but he knew that could change in an instant.

"Please, please." Irene begged, clutching his hands.

"Can I take off the shirt? Can I see you?" was his next question, loaded as it was.

"I…" Irene paused. "I don't know if...you'd want to, honestly."

"Oh believe me, I want." Arthur insisted. "If you want, I want."

"Just like that?"

"Don't need to be any more complicated than that, ma'am." Arthur kept his hands still. "Just a little heavy pettin' even, if that's all you're lookin' for. But I can make you feel real good."

"Heavy petting?" Her brow furrowed. "I'm...unfamiliar, Mister Arthur."

"Yeah, y'know, heavy pettin'. You kinda' just...I mean you uh. Touch. A lot. Usually." He struggled to explain, again finding himself walking the line of trying not to scare her while still giving her the information she sought. "Demonstration? I ain't so good at this." He finally suggested ruefully.

Irene nodded and Arthur drew his index fingers over her collarbone, framing it briefly before he slipped further down. Slowly, so as not to frighten her, he cupped her breasts through the undershirt, letting their weight rest in his palms.

He had to clear his throat before he spoke next. "Okay?" Irene nodded, her expression almost laughably serious. "I'm gonna' move my thumbs now. Just gentle, no pinchin'." Arthur informed her. "You let me know if that's okay."

"Mmhm." She inhaled sharply the second he grazed over her nipples, a little hiccup leaving her. Arthur had never encountered that particular reaction and he lingered in the same spot, swiping his thumbs back and forth across the soft mounds of her breasts. He felt her body begin to react, her nipples waking underneath his touch.

"Okay?" He rasped, his throat dry all of a sudden. Irene looked...drowsy, almost, the woman biting her lower lip and just watching his hands move.

"Feels good." She whispered. "I...I think I like it?"

"You ain't sure yet? Want me to stop?"

Arthur barely got the question out before she said, "no!", flushing immediately afterwards. "I-I mean no, please...please keep going?" She requested, not meeting his eyes.

He chuckled, "okay then. Just relax. I've got you, Miss Irene." Her hands fumbled for purchase on his suspenders and Arthur was delighted when she shoved them off over his shoulders, the woman whimpering as he removed his hands from her briefly to slip out of the loops. "Shh, I'm right here." Arthur murmured, returning to his previous ministrations.

"I don't know what to do." Irene breathed, resting her forehead on his shoulder. "What do I do, Arthur? Can't j-just--" her voice hitched, fingers digging into his upper arms as he continued to gently stroke her. "Sit here, not doing anything."

"Lemme' take care of you for a l'il bit, okay?" The older man offered softly. At his insistence, she laid back, propping herself up on her elbows and then gifting him a tender little cry when he dipped his head to mouth and tease at one of her nipples through the shirt's thin fabric.

Rain began to patter on the tent's canvas roofing, dulling the sounds of the surrounding woodlands. It was like a curtain being drawn, shielding Arthur from the outside and narrowing his world down to nothing but the woman currently arching her entire body up in search of his mouth. Irene reached for him blindly, her hands so delicate in his own when he laced their fingers together and pressed his lips back to her breast through the shirt's material.

She writhed beneath him, little noises of desperation issuing from her without much preamble. It was as if she was starved for touch. In a way, Arthur supposed dimly, they both were. Her guarding her secret, trying her hardest to be cautious and he keeping his own secrets, trying to work around the blatant duality of his existence.

We're thieves in a world that don't want us no more.

But here, here, in this sheltered glade, the two of them might find a moment of reprieve. A haven.

Irene grasped at the hem of the shirt, going to tug it over her head and immediately getting stuck because she hadn't unbuttoned it first. The woman thrashed, nearly elbowing Arthur in the face, and he couldn't help the way his laughter exploded out of him. "Whoa there! Easy, hold on." He said, lending her a hand to unbutton the shirt from the inside so she could get it over her head safely.

She was breathless from giggling by the time they managed to free her from the shirt's clutches, and Arthur had to kiss her again. Tentatively her hands traveled up the back of his neck and found their way to his shaggy hair. She tugged, making him rumble into her mouth. "You wanted to see me?" Irene asked shyly, and Arthur realized she was trying to display some sort of willingness.

"If it's alright, ma'am, I would." He murmured, keeping his eyes on hers. She nodded and Arthur gave her a gentle peck on the lips before drawing back, settling onto his knees so he could really take in the sight.

Outside he had done his best not to ogle. Which had been incredibly difficult. But Arthur Morgan wasn't some skin-hungry yearling, and he could usually determine when to avert his eyes.

In the twilight of the tent she was a damn vision. He reached out and cupped the back of her calf, palming the curve of the muscle that lurked beneath the skin when he moved her leg to open her up just a bit. She was strong, forged of stubborn steel. His eyes traveled up, lingering on the thatch of dark curls at the apex of her thighs. Further up to her breasts, pebbled with gooseflesh and no doubt still feeling the echoes of his mouth. Her collarbone had been so delicate under his hands, like some fanciful artisan’s filigree. That throat, Lord, to tarry there and cover her skin with reminders of him would be heaven-! His eyes shifted to her freckled shoulders, the area littered with old scars. Arthur had the sneaking suspicion that her back would have borne the brunt of what she had gone through.

He wished he could stop time itself and sketch her just like this.

"You're beautiful." He mumbled, only half-aware that he was even speaking. Irene squirmed, covering her face, but Arthur gently caught one of her hands and tugged it away. "Irene, you're beautiful." He repeated, a little louder.

"You...you don't mean that, Arthur." She replied weakly.

"Oh yes I do, ma'am." He insisted, her pulse thundering against his lips when he kissed the inside of her wrist. "Can I…may I?"

Irene nodded rapidly, her head falling back when Arthur spread her legs. He abruptly felt like a starving man at a banquet table. Her cunt was flushed pink, honest, glistening with the slick of her arousal. Her thighs trembled against his forearms.

Jesus.

Arthur rubbed a palm across his face, trying to judge whether his stubble might be a bit too aggressive for the obviously sensitive area. "Hey, I…I'm gonna' try somethin', okay? You let me know if…" he trailed off when he looked up and saw her with her arm over her eyes, hiding from him again. Her cheeks were ruddy, whether from embarrassment or excitement he was uncertain. "Irene? Look at me." He implored, reaching out to tip her chin down. "You're okay, it's okay."

She hesitantly put her arm down, biting her lip. "Nervous," was all she said.

"You want me to stop?" Arthur asked, hating the way she still looked surprised. "I will stop."

"No, I just...I'm not used to it being so…" Irene paused, clearly searching for the correct word. "Gentle."

Arthur groaned, "you're killin' me woman. Tell me if you ain't likin' what I'm doin'." He sank down between her legs, urging her up a little on the bedroll so he could lay on his belly. Jesus, he was lost. She was shaking under his touch, quivering just from his kisses on her inner thighs. Arthur continued to make soft noises in his throat, trying to keep her calm as he worked his way higher.

"A-Arthur?" Her voice broke, questioning. "Arthur, that's my-"

"Sure is." Arthur replied, already drunk on the clean, delicious scent of her. "I'm gonna' just...have a little taste."

He was slow, careful, like he was out stalking prey in the grasslands. Soft kisses that made their way relentlessly inward to his prize until finally, he parted her lower lips with his thumbs and lapped at the nectar that seeped forth. Irene flinched, obviously startled by his mouth on her, and her hands flew to his hair. Arthur waited for a beat, and then cautiously continued tonguing at her. "This--this cannot be proper, Mister Mor-gan--" Irene tried to reason, her voice gone reedy. "What if-"

"You just washed yourself, ma'am." Arthur drawled from between her thighs, rubbing his stubbled cheek against the inside of her leg teasingly. "Ain't nothin' else that concerns me if you're likin' it."

"I...oh, Lord, I can't think." Was her shaky response. "Wh-What are you doing to me, Arthur?"

"Showin' you how the worst outlaw this side of Saint Denis pleases a woman." He growled, the words hanging heated and sharp as a knife in the air between them before he resumed the sweet toil of eating her out.

She whined high, her fingers kneading at his scalp making his eyes roll shut in satisfaction. "Ar-thur, I--oh, Jesus, Arthur!" Irene sobbed when he lashed her clit with his tongue, rolling over it again and again.

"That good, hmm?" Arthur asked rhetorically, smiling against her when all he got was a moan in reply. She was so damn hot on his tongue, her core soaked with desire just from his heavy petting. That she had never experienced pleasure with a man was asinine, and Arthur privately vowed to give her everything that he could. Fastening his lips down over her clit, he swept his tongue back and forth in a tick-tocking motion that made her nails dig into his scalp.

That's not just something they put in the books so women don't decide to never get bedded?

"Gotta' admit," Arthur said, pulling away for a moment. "I'm a little curious about those books you been readin' if women are gettin' bedded in 'em." He continued with a teasing grin, full-blown laughing when Irene covered her face and shook her head, groaning. "What, no recommendations for me, Miss Irene? I enjoy a good piece of literature as much as the next feller!"

"You are cruelty incarnate, Arthur Morgan." She huffed.

Arthur relented, delving back into her with his fingers and tongue as an apology. He assumed from the half-stifled whimpers of don't stop that he was forgiven his transgressions. "You taste so damn good." He muttered, rumbling in approval when her hips rocked upwards and filled his greedy mouth with her cunt. "So damn good, wanna' get every last drop of this treat."

"A-Arthur--" she panted, "I feel...oh God, I…"

Her cunt pulsed under his touch and Arthur stroked his thumb gently over her slit as she came apart for him, every contraction making her slick folds twitch. "There we go," he soothed while she bucked and trembled. "There we go. Nice and easy, Miss Irene." He felt an odd sense of triumph, like when he managed to pick a troublesome stone out of the divot of Chase's frog. Androcles didn't have quite the same ring as Arthur, however.

Irene's chest was rising and falling rapidly, the woman still gasping for air. Arthur was unprepared for when she seized the front of his shirt and pressed her mouth to his own, whimpering even as she licked at his tongue. Arthur exhaled hard, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her back. Probably more roughly than he should have.

"You okay?" He panted, his nose brushing her own when he reluctantly pulled back an inch or so.

"Yes, God yes." She sighed, embracing him and giving him a dazed, oddly grateful smile. "Are you...I-I mean, would you like to…" Irene tried to ask, that sweet blush making its way down to her shoulders.

Arthur cupped her breast again, rolling over the tight little peak with his thumb. "'Would I like to'...what?" He questioned playfully. "Use those pretty words of yours, Irene."

"I'm scared." She told him honestly, her breath hitching at his touches. "I...it's unbecoming to be so wanton-"

"Honest, Irene. The word you're lookin' for is honest. Ain't nothin' wrong with knowin' what you want." Arthur hurried to interject. "The only sin is helpin' yourself to what ain't freely given."

"Arthur…" she trailed off, staring at him like she had never seen him before.

He cleared his throat after a minute. "Yeah?"

"I...thank you, Arthur. I wouldn't have--thank you for saying that." Irene laughed, "suppose now you're the one saying what I need to hear."

"I s'pose so." Arthur agreed, grimacing when a flash of lightning lit up the tent. Thunder rolled after a time, the storm still a ways away. His hands moved to the buttons on his shirt, easing them open one by one. Irene had herself propped up on her elbows again, and Arthur wouldn't say her expression didn't do wonders for his ego. "You'll catch flies if you don't close your mouth, Miss Irene."

She snapped her mouth shut, turning her head away with a nervous giggle. "Sorry! I-I apologize, I know staring is rude."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Irene." Arthur said softly, his hands falling into his lap after he shrugged free of his shirt. He saw her eyes dart over towards him, the woman clearly trying to be more surreptitious about her peeping. "Ma'am, you are buckass on my bedroll. You're more than welcome to look." He drawled, his words laced with a confidence he didn't exactly feel. He knew what he looked like.

Irene covered her eyes, and then peeked through her fingers at him. "Are...are you certain?" Instead of replying verbally, Arthur just began unbuttoning his placket. "Arthur, I...oh." She mumbled as he shoved his pants off of his hips and down his legs, freeing up his cock. "Oh, Lord." Her hand actually moved like she wanted to touch him, but she flinched back.

Arthur groaned low in his throat, pleasantly warmed by her reaction. It had been far too long since he had indulged himself, and even longer since he'd had such lovely company while doing so. "You can touch me, y'know." He offered, and her hand crept forward again.

"It...I won't hurt you?" Irene asked worriedly, her fingers hovering in midair just above his turgid cock. The damn thing was already slick with pre-spend, droplets continuing to leak forth as though his whole body was just waiting for her to be brave.

"Touch gentle-like." Arthur instructed, gritting his teeth when she circled the head of his dick with the pad of her index finger. "Jesus Mary n' Joseph-" he cursed under his breath, the sensation of her fondling him like the lightning outside had leaped into his blood. Then, "your husband didn't let you touch him?"

"I was told to be still and quiet for him." Irene replied absently, her attention blatantly elsewhere as she drew her finger up and down the side of his cock. "He didn't last long. I assume he feared if I touched him, his fuse might shorten even further."

Arthur tried to stifle his snort of laughter to no avail, waving off the inquisitive look she gave him. "Sorry, sorry. I'm just...I ain't really surprised, is all." He quipped, feeling more than a bit smug. He choked on his next breath when she wrapped her fingers around his cock, the woman seeming to gauge the weight of him in her palm.

"It's not nearly so terrifying when I can see it." Irene remarked bluntly, trailing her thumb over the sensitive head.

Arthur grunted, catching her wrist. "Easy now, Irene. I'll freely admit eatin' you out mighta' shortened my own fuse, don't take it personal." He pressed another kiss to the inside of her wrist, nipping at the tender skin there and hearing her gasp softly. "I'd like to bed you very, very much, Miss Irene." He breathed. "Show you how it ought to be."

"I…" Irene hesitated, the pattering of the rain and the encroaching thunder the only sound in the tent for a moment. "It won't hurt?"

"I hope not. But if it does, you tell me an' I'll stop." Arthur murmured, framing her face with his large hands so she couldn't hide from him. "I swear it, Irene. I ain't gonna' hurt you if I can help it." He promised fervently. "Not that kinda' man, okay?"

"I know you're not." Strong words. Brave, considering her history, her lack of knowledge about his past and her current vulnerable state. "Oh, but…" she paused, then carried on stiffly, "Arthur, if I get pregnant-"

"T-There's...ways to prevent that." He should have...it wasn't impossible to get ahold of condoms, in spite of the advertising restrictions. He felt like an idiot. "I don't have...I mean, I'll be careful." Lord, since when did he talk about this so openly? Lightning flashed like punctuation on his sentence. Irene looked pensive, her eyes wide in the dim light, but Arthur would have sworn he saw relief there.

"I know there are more ways than one. My father was a doctor," was her even reply. "Please do what you can. I'm sorry I'm not more prepared."

"Irene…" Arthur was at a loss, cradling her head to his chest. "You trust me?" He asked for the second time that day, his voice a hard rasp.

"Yes."

No hesitation. Arthur closed his eyes, warring with himself. Nothing that he knew about was foolproof. But nothing that her father could have known about was foolproof either, aside from abstaining altogether. Things could fail.

They would be careful, he assured himself. "Okay." He croaked out, trying for a smile. "Lay down with me."

Irene obliged without question, seeming a bit confused when he had her straddle his hips. Arthur pulled her to his chest for a slow, sloppy kiss, feeling his cock slide against her wet little cunt when he rolled his hips upwards. Irene gasped out his name, her hands clutching helplessly at the bedroll beneath them. "A-Arthur!"

"Yes, Irene?" The man drawled against the shell of her ear, smirking into her skin as she whined.

"Th-This is--"

"Different, I know. Maybe considered unseemly. But I want you as close as I can get you, Irene. And…" Arthur paused, burying his face in the curve of her throat. "Want you to be able to get away from me if you need to, okay?" He explained softly. "Ain't gonna' hurt my feelin's, I promise."

Her exhale was a sharp little thing, as though she had just been pricked by a thorn. "You won't make me stay?"

"Not if you don't want to, no." Arthur answered firmly, taking no offense to her query. "You say stop, I stop." As much as he hated to admit it, this wasn't exactly his first rodeo with someone like Irene. People like him tended to be...heavy-handed, so a little caution and consideration went miles.

She kissed him hard then, making Arthur groan into her mouth when she wrapped her fingers around his cock and stroked him between their bodies. He knew he must have throbbed in her grip, because she tightened her hold momentarily in response. "I'm...going to put this inside me now." Irene announced, a little awkwardly.

Arthur chuckled, the noise quickly dissolving into a gasp as she shifted her weight and the head of his cock pushed past her slick folds, Christ she was hot-

The man tangled his fists into the bedroll so he didn't grab onto her and rut upwards like he instinctively wanted to do, his breath coming in harsh, raspy pants as she slowly worked herself down on his cock. "Mary mother of-" Her little sighs and moans had Arthur gritting his teeth to the point that his jaw ached. "You alright?" He managed to ask, daring to raise his hands to rest on her thighs.

"Yes." Irene breathed, the smile on her face a moment later looking like sheer bliss. Arthur was a goner.

"You sure?" He had to verify, his hands traveling upwards to cup her face. "Feels good for me no matter what, you know that. Need it to be good for you, too."

Her eyes opened and she looked down at him, stealing the breath out of his chest as she threaded her fingers into his hair. "It's already good. Now make it better."

…

"So what will you do now?" Arthur asked sleepily, nuzzling his nose into her tousled curls. The rain pattering on the canvas of the tent was lulling him into a doze. The air had cooled considerably in the wake of the storm. thank the Lord for small favors.

Irene's sigh gusted across his collarbone. "Not certain. I never dreamed to think about what would happen if I was truly free. Ever since I found out about him being dead, I've...I'm not sure how to explain it. There is relief, of course, but also a type of dread. I have grown used to this nomadic lifestyle. I have grown used to not being tied down by civilization."

"You sure 'bout that?" Arthur chuckled, "you still talk like you're sittin' in a parlor enjoyin' tea with the high society."

"Oh, you and I both know that you catch more flies with honey, Mister Arthur." He felt her smile against his chest, "I...there was a sort of interlude to this life that I found enjoyable when I believed I was still hiding. A simplicity. I knew I could not settle anywhere with other folk, not for very long anyway, as it would make it more and more difficult to hide who I was. So I did not want to settle anywhere." She hummed, stretching languidly against his side.

Arthur rumbled, his hands wandering over her deliciously-naked body. "You still feel that way, Irene?"

"I don't want to go back." She murmured. "There's nothing there for me anymore. Yet I don't think I truly belong anywhere just yet."

"How about with me?" Arthur offered quietly, tilting her chin up so he could cover her throat with kisses. He rolled onto his side and pulled her back to his chest, continuing to nudge his nose against the side of her jaw until she giggled that he was tickling her. "You could come join the gang." Bold words, he realized a little too late. "I'm sure the other gals would love you, and Dutch-"

Irene shook her head and Arthur fell silent, burying his face in her curls to inhale her scent with a sort of forlorn resignation. "It's very kind of you to offer, Mister Arthur, but I'm afraid foisting myself upon an already established group would be a recipe for disaster. In a way, I am still uncertain of my identity. Despite my age, I have never really...been myself. I have always been something else, had some role strapped to my back. Now that I've truly shed it, I'll need time to settle into being who I ought to be." She threw him a smile over her shoulder. "Whether Frank, Irene, or some amalgamation of the two, I am uncertain. But I do know this: I am glad to have met you, Arthur Morgan. For you helped me banish the burden of fear that bowed my shoulders so readily. I thank you from the bottom of my heart."

Arthur was silent for a time, mulling everything over. "Suppose I'd better make the most of this then, huh?" He asked finally, gesturing upwards at the roof of the tent. "Don't sound like that rain is plannin' on stoppin' anytime soon." His cock twitched against her rear, and he grunted when she shifted her weight.

"Like this?" Irene asked curiously, raising her leg and hooking it over the back of his thigh so his freshly-awakened cock could rub across her folds.

Arthur huffed out a breath, seizing her hip with one hand to keep her still. "You're playin' a dangerous game, woman." His voice grated a bit.

"You don't scare me, Arthur Morgan." She replied playfully.

Because you don't know who I am. If you did...maybe I would.

Arthur closed his eyes to ward off that dark thought, and in his moment of distraction her hand wrapped around his cock and she canted her hips back, guiding him inside her once again.

It was like finally coming home, a soothing balm for the spirit that had been forced to wander for so long. Arthur sheathed himself as deep as he dared, her breathy cries of his name more than enough praise to keep him warm in the no-doubt solitary months to come.

"Irene, Irene, you're beautiful." He clumsily complimented her, his lips pressed to her ear so she could hear whatever fool thing came out of his mouth. "God dammit, you are so beautiful. Perfect." His hands found her breasts, cupping and caressing them until she was writhing, bucking back against him in a manner that was downright wanton.

He loved it. The feeling of her around him, beside him, underneath his hands…

Arthur Morgan did not consider himself a good man. He did not consider himself a particularly smart man either. But right now, right now, he considered himself to be a remarkably lucky man.

"I'm close-" he choked, growling when Irene clenched down on him and keened to announce her own climax. Arthur nearly spent himself inside her, only just managing to pull out and spill his seed on her thigh instead. He snarled as he came, the sensation of his hand downright disappointing after being so deep in her. "Christ alive, Irene." He panted startled when she gently palmed his still hard cock and carefully urged it back inside her. "Easy, woman--"

"I just like the feeling, that's all." Irene assured him, shivering and arching her back against his chest as she moved into a downright luxurious stretch.

Arthur groaned, wrapping his arms around her to keep them pressed together. His hands rested at the apex of her thighs, and he stroked absently over the skin he found there. "I'd love to have stayed inside you, but I know neither of us are keen on bringin' a new young'un into the world." He tried to smile, tried to make it a joke.

"Maybe someday."

Irene's nonchalant, sleepy words hit Arthur like a punch to the gut. What was this woman doing to him? Arthur loathed himself for the way his heart hitched, ached at the idea of having a child. For the longest time in his younger years he had deluded himself into thinking that he might have something like that with Mary, dreaming about domesticity of all things. Going out and teaching little Jack how to fish had been torture, because all he could think about was John leaving the boy behind and Jesus Christ, how could a person ever do something like that?

"I think I'm gettin' a little too old." He admitted quietly. "Think the ship's sailed on that one. Plus, I mean, with the stuff I'm involved in…" he trailed off, tightening his hold ever so slightly. Irene yawned, snuggling down into his arms. He kissed her cheek. "Ah, don't mind me, Irene. I'll wake you up if anythin' happens."

She drifted off so quickly, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts. He eventually pulled away from her, a hand on her back to keep her still, and he felt a ridge beneath his fingertips. Squinting in the dim light of the tent, he realized it was a scar. And it wasn't alone, her back was fairly riddled with them.

His stomach dropped in dismay. Arthur was not free of his own scars, of course. The ones on his chin were freely visible, and the rest of his body bore a fair amount of mileage to that end. He hadn't had an easy time of it. No one in the Van Der Linde gang had.

He untied the tent flap and propped it open after shuffling back into his pants, lighting the remains of his cigarette. The older man stared out at the rain for a good long while, his mind thousands of miles away as the cigarette slowly burned to ash between his lips. Tomorrow morning, perhaps the morning after that if he was fortunate enough to steal a bit more time, they would part ways once more, cast themselves adrift to the tides of fate.

He might never see her again.

After the weeks he had spent, wondering whether the phantom woman in the Valentine hotel had been nothing but a figment of his imagination...and now, knowing that she was real, flesh and blood...

Arthur lit another cigarette and reached for his satchel, tugging free his journal and then settling in to sketch her sleeping form. Here and now, in this secret clearing, he would eke out some semblance of peace. The graphite stub swept across the page, capturing forever the curve of her cheek, the glorious mess of that chestnut-brown hair, the wrinkles of the blanket that he had draped over her in case the breeze grew too ambitious.

Turns out the man I THOUGHT was Frank was actually -IRENE-. The world does so love to afflict me with its twists and turns...

Bonus: A Brief Diversion

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x original female character #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 fandom #rdr2 spoilers #rdr2 community #hurt/comfort #and now the good stuff #welcome to my indulgence #I am a simple man #high honor arthur

46 notes · View notes