cherryheairt

[cherryheairt]

The version of you I’ll never know.

Pairing: Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

Status: One-shot

Word Count: ~7,2k

Genres: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Jealousy, Past Relationships, Insecurities, Female reader.

Summary: You knew Clark had a past. Everyone does. But sometimes, in the quiet of your shared bed, the ghost of a woman you’ve never met lingers in your thoughts, Lois. You’re not jealous of her now. You’re jealous of the version of Clark she got to love before you. The one unscarred by loss. As your quiet insecurities rise to the surface, Clark holds you through your fears… while quietly wrestling with his own.

A/N: This was inspired by a post I read on an app called Medium, Called “did you like her in the morning?”.

You didn’t expect to feel this way. Not really. You knew he had a past, everyone does. You’d told yourself you were okay with it. Grown up enough to understand that love leaves a trail behind it, a history of people who once meant everything. But the lie caught up to you in quiet moments like this when the night was still, when he was asleep beside you, arm heavy across your waist like he always did, as if anchoring himself to the present without realizing the past still curled itself into the corners of your mind.

You weren’t jealous of her, exactly. Not the person. Not Lois Lane. She wasn’t around anymore. She wasn’t even a threat. What haunted you wasn’t her smile or her name or the lingering stories that slipped out of Clark’s mouth every so often, as if she were still threaded into the seams of his life. What haunted you was the version of him she got to know. The man before the weight of the world changed his spine, before the heartbreak softened his voice. The man who still believed love was permanent and not just something you hold onto until the next disaster.

He was different with you, and you didn’t know if that was a good thing. Sometimes he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you stayed. Like he was waiting for the fall. Sometimes he hesitated before saying I love you, not because he didn’t mean it but because he meant it too much. There were cracks in him now. Hairline fractures that no one warned you about. And while you’d never trade him for anyone else, a small part of you, the soft, insecure, human part ached to know what he was like before the storm.

You didn’t ask questions when he mentioned her. You smiled. Nodded. Tried to look unbothered when her name came up in stories that always sounded like a life that happened before you. You told yourself it didn’t matter. You were the one here now. You were the one he kissed goodnight. The one he whispered things to in the dark. But sometimes, when he laughed just a little too quietly or zoned out while stirring sugar into your coffee, you wondered if he was remembering her. If she made him coffee like you do. If he ever pressed his lips to her forehead before she left for work. If he ever looked at her like she was the only thing grounding him to this planet.

You hated yourself for wondering. You hated yourself for caring. But you did. And it hurt. Quietly. Consistently. Like a low-grade fever that never quite broke.

You didn’t mean to bring it up. You weren’t even sure what you were trying to say when the words slipped out that night, while he was brushing his teeth and you were pretending to be fine. You were both standing in the bathroom, soft yellow light overhead, everything warm and domestic and ordinary, and yet your chest felt like it was caving in.

“Do you ever miss her?” you asked.

He stopped mid-brush. Spit. Washed his mouth out before turning slowly toward you. “Who?”

“Lois” You said, eyes fixed on the tiled floor.

He was quiet for a moment, and that silence twisted in your ribs like a knife. You felt ridiculous. Pathetic. Too emotional for your own good. But you didn’t take it back.

“Sometimes,” he said honestly. “But not the way you think.”

That should’ve been enough. But it wasn’t. Not when your chest was already splitting open.

You swallowed hard. “I think I’m jealous of the version of you she got. The version before the pain. Before the guards. Before the world made you tired.”

Clark’s expression didn’t change, but you saw it in his eyes, the way his shoulders shifted, the way he took a slow breath through his nose.

“I know I have you now,” you continued, trying to make your voice sound normal, but it cracked around the edges. “I know that. You tell me you love me and you show me every day, and I believe you. I really do. But sometimes… I still think of her. I wonder if she ever got the version of you I try so hard to reach.”

You didn’t mean to say so much. You hadn’t rehearsed this. But now that it was out, you couldn’t stop. “She’s not here anymore, I know that. But I’m not jealous of her now. I’m jealous of the version of you that loved her before me. The you I’ll never get to meet.”

He stepped toward you slowly, eyes never leaving yours. You couldn’t read him. He was so good at gentleness, so careful with your heart that sometimes you forgot he carried wounds of his own. His hands came up to hold your arms, thumbs brushing lightly against your skin.

“She didn’t get the best of me,” he said, softly but firmly.

You blinked, caught off guard.

“She got the beginning,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “The naive, hopeful part of me. The part that thought love was simple. But you…” He exhaled slowly. “You have the version of me that’s real. The one who’s been broken, who’s been afraid, who’s learned how much it hurts to lose someone you love and still chooses to love anyway.”

Your throat tightened.

“I won’t pretend the past didn’t happen. It did. And yeah, sometimes I remember things. That’s just… how memory works. But I don’t compare you. I don’t weigh what I had with her against what I have with you. Because what I have with you—” he reached up, brushing your hair back behind your ear, “—is deeper. It’s messier. It’s more fragile and more terrifying. But it’s real. And it’s mine. You’re mine.”

Your eyes burned. You didn’t even realize you were crying until he caught the tear with his thumb.

“I know it’s not easy, loving someone who’s loved before,” he said. “But I’m not holding on to her. I’m not looking back. I’m here. With you. Entirely.”

And for the first time, you believed him without hesitation.

You let him pull you in. Let him hold you the way he always does, like you’re the thing keeping him grounded. Like you’re not just the present, but the future. Like you’re the choice he makes over and over again.

You buried your face in his shirt and let the ache in your chest slowly quiet. It didn’t vanish completely. Maybe it never would. But it softened. Because he meant every word. Because he was here, with you, and not just physically. Not just in the way his hand traced patterns on your back or the way he whispered “I’ve got you” against your temple.

He was yours. Not perfect. Not unscarred. But yours.

And in the quiet of that moment, wrapped up in his warmth, forehead pressed to his collarbone, you finally let go of the past. Not completely. But just enough.

Because he wasn’t with her anymore. He was with you.

And that mattered more than anything.

He didn’t say it last night. He couldn’t. You’d already said too much, already laid your heart out in trembling pieces, and the last thing he wanted was to add weight to your already-heavy chest. But he hadn’t stopped thinking about it. About what you said. About the version of him you’d never know. The one before the loss, before the grief, before the city leaned on his back like a god it didn’t quite believe in. The one who loved without hesitation. Without fear.

But what you didn’t know, what he didn’t say was that he thought the same thing about you.

There were versions of you he’d never get to meet. He didn’t know what you were like at nineteen, or who made you cry for the first time, or who first taught you to be afraid of your own softness. He didn’t know who you used to text late at night, whose hoodie you might’ve worn once, or who first told you they loved you and meant it a little too late. He didn’t ask. Not because he didn’t want to know, but because some part of him was afraid of what he’d hear. He didn’t want to picture you in someone else’s passenger seat. He didn’t want to wonder if there was someone who held your face the way he does now.

It was stupid. He knew that. He was a grown man. Superman, even, on paper. But jealousy doesn’t care about titles. It doesn’t care about what you’re supposed to feel. It just slips in when the room is quiet and the lights are off and the person you love most is curled beside you, saying someone else’s name like it still lives in the walls of your home.

He held you tighter last night, not just for your sake, but for his own. Because while you were confessing your ache for the version of him you’d never meet, he was grieving the past you he’d never get to hold.

He wondered if you ever told someone else your secrets the way you told them to him now. If you ever fell asleep on someone else’s shoulder. If anyone else knew the way your voice sounded when you were trying not to cry.

Maybe that was the worst part, not knowing, and not wanting to ask.

Because the truth was, Clark didn’t want to hear about the person who held your hand before he did. He didn’t want to know if someone ever saw the best version of you first. The unscarred one. The one who loved without hesitation. The one who didn’t yet know what it meant to be hurt.

He knew how to carry the world. He’d done it a thousand times. But the idea of someone else being the first to make you laugh that way. God, that was the one thing that made his chest tighten.

He couldn’t tell you all that. Not yet. You were still hurting. Still fragile from last night. And he didn’t want to add to your weight. So instead, he held it close. Quietly. Carefully. The same way he held you.

When he wakes, the first thing he notices is the softness of you pressed against him.

You’d turned in your sleep, arms wrapped around his torso like you’d been afraid he might vanish. Your cheek rests against his chest, your breath slow and warm, and your fingers are curled into the fabric of his shirt like you’d needed something to hold onto.

He stays still for a long time. Watching. Memorizing.

The city is still quiet outside. Early morning sun filters through the curtains in soft streaks of gold. You shift a little in your sleep and exhale softly. Your eyelashes flutter. Your brow smooths. You look peaceful now, nothing like the version of you from last night, eyes full of too many thoughts, voice trembling with questions you were scared to ask.

He lifts one hand, careful not to wake you, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Lets his fingers rest there. Light. Barely-there.

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

It’s not just comfort. It’s apology. It’s I’m here. It’s You have me. All of me. Even the parts that ache quietly in the dark.

You stir a little at the touch, and your hand tightens in his shirt.

“Mm… Clark?” your voice is groggy, small.

“I’m here baby,” he whispers. His lips graze your temple. “Just me.”

You sigh. Sink back into him. He can feel it, the way your whole body relaxes like you believe it now.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Just holds you. His hand rubs gentle circles on your back through the oversized shirt you’d stolen from his drawer last night. Your skin is warm beneath the fabric. Familiar. Real.

The past is still there. The ghosts haven’t vanished. But for the first time, he feels like they’re quiet enough to live with.

You shift again and glance up at him through sleep-heavy eyes. “Did I say too much last night?” you murmur.

“No,” he answers, immediately. “You said what needed to be said.”

You swallow, nod slightly. But your eyes still search his face, like you’re afraid there’s something he hasn’t told you. Something he’s hiding beneath the quiet.

He hesitates. Then lifts his hand to your face, thumb brushing your cheek gently.

“Can I tell you something too?”

You nod.

He hesitates. Breathes. Then says it:

“I think about it, too. The version of you I’ll never know.”

Your eyes flicker.

“I don’t talk about it, because… well, I don’t want to make you feel like I doubt what we have. Because I don’t. I never have. But sometimes… I wonder who got to see you before all the cracks.”

He watches your expression soften. You blink slowly, like you hadn’t expected that.

“I wonder if someone else got to hear your laugh first. If someone else ever made you morning coffee. If they knew the way you curl into yourself when you’re upset, or how your voice gets really quiet when you’re trying not to cry.”

You bite your lip, eyes welling slightly.

“I wonder if they got to hold the version of you that didn’t flinch when love showed up,” he says, softer now. “Because I can feel it, sometimes. That fear. And I get it. But I wish I could’ve gotten to you first, so maybe you wouldn’t be afraid now.”

You’re silent for a long time.

Then you shift, move forward slowly, and press your forehead to his. Your fingers thread into his hair.

“I wish I met you first too,” you whisper. “But maybe if we did… we wouldn’t have loved like this.”

He closes his eyes. Breathes you in.

“Maybe not,” he murmurs. “But I’d still choose you. Every time.”

Your lips meet his, slow and aching. It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’s just you, and him, and all the versions of yourselves you never got to be, finding each other anyway.

And when you pull back, eyes glassy, he wipes the tear from your cheek and smiles like it doesn’t scare him anymore. Like he knows you’re still here. And he is too.

Later that morning, it’s quiet in the kitchen. The kind of quiet that feels warm. Like the sun has finally landed somewhere soft.

You’re wearing his shirt, sleeves too long, hair still messy from sleep. You’re standing barefoot at the counter, pouring two cups of coffee. He watches you from the doorway, one shoulder leaned against the frame, arms crossed as he tries not to smile too obviously.

You catch him staring.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugs. “You just… look very domestic.”

You snort. “That’s code for ‘a mess,’ isn’t it?”

“No,” he says, walking toward you. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind and rests his chin on your shoulder. “It’s code for ‘this is my favorite version of you.’”

You flush, smile despite yourself, and hand him his cup. He presses a kiss to your shoulder in thanks.

It’s easy, this part. Light. The air isn’t heavy anymore. There are still cracks in both of you, sure. But maybe that’s why it works.

Because you don’t love in spite of them.

You love each other through them.

And that’s enough.

[cherryheairt]

for anyone just discovering this fic there is a part two 😆

https://www.tumblr.com/cherryheairt/765837923800285184/hidden-truths-pt2?source=share

Hidden Truths

Cregan x Wife!reader

pt. 1

named reader (aye-leese) no description, from house Glover.

summary - Cregan comes home from war with a scandalous surprise, much to the horror of his wife. Though, it is not all that she expected when she heard of her husband's infidelity.

Inspired by Ned and Catelyn Stark (obviously lol)

It had been four moons since Cregan Stark returned from King's Landing, ending the war and placing Aegon iii on the Iron Throne. Four moons since he presented his bastard for all to see, declaring to his wife that they would raise the boy as a legitimized Stark.

Aelys Glover, now Stark, had never thought her husband would betray her in such a brutal way. To bed another woman down in the South, in a time of war, to father a bastard. To give the bastard his Stark name.

She hadn't even had her first babe yet, due to the young couple deciding to spend their first few years of marriage having each other all to themselves. Had it all been a lie from Cregan? A masterful deceit to make his mistress' son his heir? Perhaps he had regretted their marriage and chosen to disregard any of her future children, thinking her genetics undesirable. Whatever dull excuse he had, it would never be enough to balm her heart.

People whispered about which mother's son might be Cregan's heir apparent.

It was not yet decided, and would not be until years ahead when Aelys showed if she could bear him more sons or not. Until she did, Brandon Stark would be Cregan's unofficially heir as his eldest son.

Aelys had refused to share a bed with Cregan since the night he returned. She would not perform her marital duties anymore, not until she was either dead or he forced her, which she knew he at least had the honor to not. Aelys would give him no children of her own, spitefully intending to leave the Stark line to a bastard who would forever be known to the world as such.

She would make it clear that her husband's stupidity would end the Stark's honorable history streak. The babe would be legit, yes, but never trueborn. It was said that bastards were born nasty and cruel, and Aelys had not believed such rumors until she met the babe herself. Her spite grew in spite of her previous kind and understanding nature, driven to hate the babe without knowing him.

Even with the same House name as his father, the boy was nothing like him. He seemed to carry his mother's traits, instead, whoever she was. Dark black hair and even darker eyes to match, though the Northern pale skin Cregan carried had stayed through the genetic battle.

At least Cregan did not bring her home, too. If he had, Aelys would have thrown herself from The Wall in shame and disgrace. She would not be the other woman in her own marriage.

His words when he returned burned at her heart, even now the dust had not settled nor had the fire quelled.

"It was a one-time tryst, I swear this to you. A night of vulnerability, when it got rough in King's Landing." He said, voice strained and undereyes dark with the heavy weight of guilt and responsibility. She'd never felt such an intense urge to hit a man before.

His bastard sister, Sara Snow, a woman whom Aelys had grown to see as her own sister and close confidante, returned from King's Landing a month after her brother.

She looked even worse than her elder brother, who still could barely hold Aelys' eyes when she wordlessly passed him in the halls. She looked gaunt and exhausted, though she claimed that the journey back was tiring. Sighing, Aelys could only welcome her back into the Great Keep to catch up over all that she had missed. Apparently, Sara had stayed in the Riverlands for most of the moons Cregan had hosted in the Crownlands. She was housed by the Blackwoods, becoming fast friends with Alysanne Blackwood and Davos Blackwood, the fierce aunt and nephew who fought together against the Greens.

No useful information about the whore that Cregan had bedded that night, Aelys bitterly thought for a moment. Then, a wave of guilt and regret hit her. It was not Sara's fault for her brother's mistakes. She was truly glad to have the conpany back, seeing as Winterfell had felt cold and emptier now that Cregan was back than it ever had before. She had been avoiding his for these four moons, leaving only a few rooms accessible for her privacy and peace of mind.

She never entered the nursery room's entire hallway. Even when needing something past it, she chose to go the longest possible route to avoid it. She didn't wish to think about the boy more than she already did. She saw him during dinners, being presented to Cregan by his wet nurse before being put down to sleep for the night. Those mere glimpses were plenty to feed her anxious mind.

Today, the adjacent hall towards the Keep's hotsprings was closed. "A few cobblestone in the wall have cracked, m'Lady. You mustn't enter for one might accidentally fall on you." A young servant boy had informed her, thoroughly apologetic as she sighed and headed him. The nursery's hall was the only one that also held the door outside, lest she chose to go all the way around the outside of the keep in this blizzard.

The thought was tempting but childish. Steeling her courage up, Aelys had fixed herself to stride past the door. She could not help the subconscious glance inside, seeing the glimpse of curly black hair laying alone in his crib, but wide awake and almost flailing around in a fuss.

Looking around, Aelys was surprised to see not one attendant or wet nurse. From her experience with babes, they were rarely left alone unless they were sleeping. Even then, some mothers and nurses liked to hover to ensure its safety while unconscious. Aelys stepped into the dim room, finding that Brandon's attention immediately focused on her. He whined out, reaching out grabbing hands toward her. Grimacing, she reached into the crib to lift him up, holding him at a safe distance from her face.

Up close, she could reluctantly admit that the babe was cute. He was well-doted on in the Keep by all the maids and even visiting Lords. Though his parentage was questionable and whispered about, none actually had the courage to ask why the boy had been legitimized so quickly. Aelys guessed it had been the circumstances. Aegon, the new King, was young and suseptible to influence, so legitimizing a bastard like Brandon was done without question.

"What are you fussing on about, you spoiled thing?" She asked, though her tone was soft and gentle. Brandon smiled a gummy smile, face lifting as he reached out again for her. This time, she allowed him to rest on her shoulder as she supported him, gently rocking back and forth as she stood. The faster he was asleep, the faster she could leave without feeling like a monster.

She already had that feeling nagging at her mind too much. Hating a babe took a lot of energy. She knew it was wrongfully placed, but Brandon's very nature and sire had wronged her more. The physical reminder that his father had not loved her.

Soft snores filled the room as she hummed lowly, the vibrations and comforting sound putting the fussy tot to sleep quicker than she had anticipated. Gently placing him back in the cot, she hands gripped the wooden edges harshly, a sharp contrast to her previous touch. Was she betraying herself for not demanding that the babe be taken away? Warded with another great House until she finally had a son? No. Cregan would never allow it, even as Lady of the House she held no true power over the Warden.

Turning, Aelys was met with her husband in the doorway. Silent as a stalking wolf, he leaned against the doorway and looked upon his son and wife with pools of affection. There was a slight gloss to them as she looked closer that she opted to ignore. "Cregan." She greeted curtly, moving to slide past him and speak no more of her presence in the nursery.

"He has a way of melting one's heart, does he not?" He asked, tilting his chin to look down at her. A branch, left out and hanging by Cregan's strong arms. Too bad that she did not need it.

"He disgusts me." She said instead, shouldering past him and continuing back to her rooms. She changed her mind in the few minutes that she spent with the bastard Stark boy. She could stay here no longer, could not bear for her own husband to bring this embodied lie to live in the very home that she did. Wouldn't raise any children to be in their older brother's shadow.

Ignoring the hushed plea from Cregan, Aelys went straight to the Maester's tower. Maester Parek had been a helpful and understanding ear for Aelys to rant to when dealing with arisen problems, whether with her moon blood, achy bones from the cold, or questioning if any ravens had come from mysterious women. None had, as far as she had been told. That is, if Parek had been entirely truthful to his Lady.

Hurriedly knocking on the man's door, it was soon opened after a grunt of physical labor had been heard from the other side. The Maester had always complained about his bad knees and how they were made worse in the winters.

"Lady Stark?" He asked, shocked to see her at midday. It was a rarity, as she usually made her visits in the morning after she broke her fast.

"Maester." She greeted, shifting on her feet. "I need to send a letter, urgently."

"May I ask to whom?" He inquired, earning a solemn nod from the young Lady.

"I'm sorry, Parek. It is private."

"Of course, my Lady. The room is yours." He bowed and left the chambers to occupy himself while she busied herself as well. She immediately made for the small attached room in the tower, made into a raven nest hundreds of years ago. A few perched black birds squaked or raised her heads at the unfamiliar sight curiously, but they were well-trained and did not spook.

Bending over the crickity desk, she quickly drafted a messily-writen yet vague letter.

Father,

Some troubles have come up in Winterfell, and Cregan Stark has advised me to return to House Glover's protection while he deals with matters here. I will be returning swiftly, though the snow will hinder the horse a few days.

See you soon,

your dearest Aelys.

As soon as she finished, she hastily melted the powder blue wax and sealed the direwolf sigil onto the rolled paper. Tying the scroll to a raven's foot, Aelys sent it off. The bird would reach House Glover's Maester quickly, and in the meantime she would ready herself for departure.

As she was shoving clothes and pelts into various bags, the very ones that carried her belongings to Winterfell over two years ago, Aelys could not stop the hot, angry tears that fell to her cheeks. Wiping away at her face with scruffy sleeve fur, gifted to her by Cregan himself, Aelys felt the frustration and loneliness sting at her soul. The loneliness was a choice on her part, most would say. That she was dramatic and most Lords sired bastards. She should be grateful he did not bring the mother back, too, and house her in his home next to his Lady Wife. All whispers she heard from her ladies-in-waiting, whom she immediately dismissed from service upon hearing such impudent things.

She would not be subjected to the humiliation. She wanted love, and she once had it. Oh, she had it. Cregan treated her like a goddess walking amongst humans for the moons they spent together before his leave to King's Landing. If she could not have Cregan's loyalty or love, she would at least find a man who she did not have high expectations for. An older Lord, perhaps, one who just wanted a young and pretty woman to give him final heirs during his last years of life. Aelys would know her role, then, and would live contently knowing she did not love foolishly while expecting faithfulness in return.

First, this marriage had to be annuled. In Lord Glover's home, she could easily ask for such a thing. The marriage had been commsumated, but there were no witnesses and no babes to confirm this to outsiders. Aelys would simply have to claim that she and Lord Stark never once bedded before he left to find another woman, and then she'd be an unmarried Lady once more. A Glover, not a Stark.

She realized she'd been quite fastidious in her packing. Unlike her carriage ride to Winterfell, her luggage could not be carried easily on one horse. She picked only one of her bags, with the thickest dresses and warmest pelts she had, rushing out of the room while clipping a cloak over her shoulders. Dark blue in color, Aelys almost cursed at the thought that almost all of her wardrobe and fine things had been gifts from Cregan. Her pelts, gloves, and even the horse that she would take home.

Cobalt, she had named the steed, noticing how his pure black coat almost gleamed blue in certain lights. Cregan had a wide and cherishing smile on his face as he walked the young stallion out of the stables a few days after their wedding. They often took walks on trails in the Wolfswood together on horseback, just their muffled conversations filling the still air. She remembered every moment with her husband fondly before he tarnished everything. Now, she knew all of it to be a facade, just like any other Lord in Westeros might have done. At least other men had the decency to be nasty plain to your face, unlike the Stark.

Aelys sneaked into the armory to pick up a few extra things, knowing no one would occupy the room when the whether was so unfortunate.

Striding towards the stables with squinted eyes, Aelys shivered at the temperature change. Luckily, the journey would be quick, with only a few days to walk on horseback. Cobalt was a resilient horse built for such harsh weather, and she was a Northern woman through and through.

She attached the bag and waterskin to Cobalt's saddle after she tacked him up. His long and unruly made quivered in the breeze as the light blizzard raged on as it had been for two days now. It did not deter her. She attached her bow and quiver to the other side to keep weight even, knowing she'd have to hunt for herself during the journey.

Steadying herself on the saddle, Aelys glanced once more at Winterfell's Great Keep, where Cregan was surely in his study or councilroom. She squeezed Colbalt's side lightly to urge the percheron onwards, giving herself no room for second guessing her choices.

At the wall's gate, the two snow-covered men regarded her with weary looks. "My Lady, there is a blizzard—" Ron Frasel told her, ginger brow upturned in question.

"I have eyes, Ron. I will return soon, I have buisness in Winter Town." She said tiredly, not wanting to be interrupted by the men at such an important time. It would not be long before a maid reported her missing.

Ernest, the guard's most frequent partner, inquired gently. "Will you require any assistance, Lady Stark? I'm sure Lord Stark would feel more at ease knowing you are escorted."

"He is fine with me going on my own, it is a short ride." She said curtly, anxious for Cregan to find out about her plan.

Ernest nodded and gestured for the iron gate to be lifted. "Safe travels, my Lady." Before bowing his head politely.

As Aelys walked through the opened gate, she urged Cobalt to a faster trot to create quick distance between her and Winterfell before she set up camp.

Ron shared an uneasy look with Ernest as the woman passed. "Lord Stark has never allowed her out without a guard before." He whispered.

His friend nodded, eyes glancing between her fading figure in the snow and the Keep. "Perhaps we should go see Lord Stark himself, just to be safe."

Ron shivered. "If he finds out we let his wife go into the blizzard without him knowin', who knows what'd happen to us."

"Quickly, then." They were both skidding off towards the Keep with no time to waste.

[cherryheairt]

Superman isn't woke. You're just so evil that you see a man doing acts of kindness and you think it's a targeted political agenda

[cherryheairt]

mermaid troupe ftw

you’re a mermaid in distress and he’s here to… save you? | featuring: phainon, anaxa, and mydei x mermaid!reader | fluff, alternative universe, bullet-form narration, pirate!mydei, knight!phainon, scholar!anaxa, i mean he somewhat already is, mentions of blood and wounds, fem!pronouns are used for the reader, not proofread | wc: 4.7k

note — today i had a beautiful dream of pirate mydei thus this was born, and gosh it got long my head hurts… (500 words each character, i said, it will be short, i said)

PHAINON; FREEDOM TASTES LIKE BLOOD ON YOUR LIPS

The first time he sees you, you are listless—a ghost of salt and scales drifting in a gilded cage. Your fingers press against the glass, searching for a current that isn’t there. The expression on your face is etched into his mind, haunting him like a madman on his trail. You were clearly uncomfortable, restless, unable to adapt in the new environment you were forced to be in—who would? Your glass tank was nowhere similar to your home. The water reeks of chemicals, not brine; the fake corals are a mockery of the reefs you once knew.

In this place, you were completely vulnerable and exposed to everyone. There was no place for you to hide. The decorations were not big enough to cover you up and the transparent walls allowed anyone to watch your every move—perhaps that was the intention. After all, you were captured and sold to a wealthy nobleman who was fascinated by your species and their ‘exotic beauty’.

The second time was when he was with the master, standing in front of your ‘home’, gawking at you with a grin on his face—all teeth and greed. You were still the same except much worse, lingering on the same spot he had seen you. “Pretty, isn’t she?” The master says, a sparkle in his gaze as he admires your every inch before he turns to look at the swordsman by his side. “You find her amazing, don’t you?” It seems he had mistaken Phainon’s tension for awe, and he hates it; there’s a bitter taste on his tongue and a tight feeling in his chest, especially more so when the brutish man mentions how he can’t have you.

As if you were some prized possession or doll for ownership. The thought alone angers him, his grip on the hilt of his sword never loosening.

A gem is tossed inside your tank, landing on top of your head, as the master speaks of how your species is particularly fond of such things: “Doesn’t that one make you happy?” The man croons, “So rid that ugly expression on your face. The guests wouldn’t wish to see such a depressing display.” How considerate, truly. 

Phainon doesn’t even ease from where he stands, from where he watches, and it frustrates him further that he’s bound to a position where there’s nothing he can do. He hates that he feels useless, that the chains of his responsibility and status tugs tightly on his neck, rendering him unable to reach you.

But surely there should be something, right?

Later that night, unburdened by his duty, he returned to where you were. This is the third time he sees you, and yet, you remain the same. The faint moonlight dimly alights your room, the silver casting its glow right at your display case. To think that they even thought of your display and where the light will hit. You’ll see him, lingering by the doorway, seemingly hesitant but when he catches your gaze, he steels his resolve and steps forward.

Phainon’s greeting to you is returned with a curious tilt of your head—this time, something different from your usual pensiveness flickers in your expression at the sight of a cautious man who bears the wave in his eyes. At least you don’t look too wary or scared in front of him (he’d hate himself if you feared him too). He takes this as a good sign to continue… with whatever his plan is. It’s practically non-existent, he just wanted to come here and see you. At this point, he’s no less different to his master; he can’t help the sigh that escapes him.

You swim toward him—only a bit—and there’s something tentative in the way your fingers press against the glass, like you're waiting to see if he’ll hurt you too. For a few moments, the two of you have this staring contest held in pure silence, until the words come out of his mouth before it gets lost in the crevices of his mind: “Are you lonely?” And you blink; the only answer you could ever give him was a tilt of your head downwards and the faintest nod as if telling the truth was a sin itself, as if admitting to yourself and to someone that you’re lonely was a blasphemy.

And maybe that’s what does it. The softness in your response, the way you fold yourself smaller like you’re trying to disappear, like you’re tired of being seen and never known (and it’s cruel how the nobles, how these terrible humans, had never tried to know your name or see past your scales). It twists something deep in him like a scar being carved open, left bleeding on the edges.

From then on, Phainon returns—always at odd hours, always in secret. He comes with stories: half-truth about the stars, lies dressed up as tales about heroic escapades and adventures, and anecdotes about his beautiful, exceptional horse, who he claims is more honorable than most men. Other times, he just sits. Talks. Mostly about things that don’t matter like how he’s a bad swimmer, how he grew up close to the wheatfields of his hometown, and how he came to be in this state, wielding a sword to protect the very master you detest, who he also detests. There are also poorly-made jokes and horrible-executed magic tricks, but it makes you laugh anyway, bubbles spiraling up around your face, and oh, how lovely it is that he wants to make you do it again.

He brings things: little, inconsequential things he pockets from the outside world—dried seaweed snuck into your tank that he had bribed one of the servants to drop inside after seeing how poor your diet is, a smooth stone that feels like it remembers the tide, a ribbon the same color of his eyes to tie and style your hair with when you are bored. But sometimes, he comes with silence, with a solemn look on his expression, and with blood on his mouth. And in those moments, he will always ask the strangest questions but never seek for answers, only giving you the smallest of smiles.

You never ask him to stay longer, but he always does.

However, it all falls apart on the night of a gathering. Nobles had arrived in finery too expensive for their personalities—loud laughter and strong perfume that reeks in the halls. Their eyes drag over your form like it’s something they own; they found amusement in the scared expression on your face and how you got startled when one of them knocked too hard against the glass. Stationed by the door, lips pressed tight, Phainon’s hand shakes against the hilt of his sword.

The master gestures at you like you’re part of the decor: “She’s a lovely thing, making the whole room feel alive when she’s simply just swimming. Such a shame that’s all she can do.” Like a bowstring taut too far and tight, something inside of him snaps.

When the night has fallen deep and the halls are empty with the absence of people and their mockery, you hear footsteps, heavy, against the eerie quiet. Phainon appears but you can sense that there is something wrong—his boots and clothes are stained with crimson, rust-brown in streaks, and his sword, unsheathed, drips with something of the same color. His eyes, usually calm like an undisturbed lake, are stormed over. The room was still dim, moonlight draped over his surroundings like silk, casting shadows on his already dreary face.

“I couldn’t find the key,” he says, voice trembling. “So, I’m making one.” He tells you to stay back as he raises his sword and with a swing, the glass cracks once. Twice. And finally, on the third strike, it shatters completely. Water comes rushing out in a torrent, spilling like a scream, the sea reborn inside a noble manor. You’re unsure whether this is salvation or something worse, but the man kneels in front of you, wraps you in his cloak, and touches your cheek like you’re made of something holy. “Please hold on to me,” his voice is nothing but gentle and tender, 

Your prison fades behind him as he runs through the darkness of the night like something possessed, arms heavy with you, but he never stops. Even if the torchlights appear and blink like the stars above you, even if the shouting grows louder in each second. And when the cliff looms ahead, he doesn’t hesitate to jump, murmuring an apology close to your ear that tangles in the wind’s roar.

(It was as if he had planned this from the very start, the route carved and drawn deep in the corners of his mind, waiting for the right moment.)

The sea swallows you whole and Phainon nearly drowns. You had to drag him to the shore, the knight—once bore glory and status, reduced to a man in drenched clothing and tarnished honor—gasped and coughs, half-conscious, bleeding from his knuckles and some parts of his skin. But he grins at you as if he had finally lost everything—except the one thing that he truly cares for. “Told you,” he rasps in broken breaths, “Protector. Occasional entertainer and magician. Bad swimmer.”

You laugh, the same one you’ve shown him, except it’s clearer and livelier compared to when you were inside your glass cage, and he feels like a little boy seeing the sun after a long time. And perhaps, it was the rising dawn on the horizon and the tide’s sweet hum, but you kiss him—like freedom on your tongue, a wind that gently caresses you, and the sea on your lips. It’s soft like a prayer; an affection that the skies would never understand.

And when you part: “Thank you,” you whisper in the language only the deep remembers and though he may not understand, he knows, and he smiles, patting your head. However, you must go now, even if it pains you to leave and forget the warmth of his skin because it is not safe here and it will never be.

This was fine, it was fine.

You’ve made a promise that you’ll come back to him, after all.

ANAXAGORAS, ALL ABOUT MERFOLK 101

Anaxa—or Anaxagoras—is a man of passion and knowledge, that is definite. 

He stumbles upon you by chance, or perhaps by fate despite never believing in it, injured and unconscious by a cove he frequents during his night walks. Moonlight had fractured its surface, silvered shards dancing over your scales—each one a fleeting star in the dark. He wades in, dragging you a little deeper (you were heavy that’s for sure), so that no one else will spot you. 

His fingers, ink-stained and calloused, hover above the gash in your tail, hesitant as if touching a relic. Armed with some information on basic medicine and of your species (sourced from rather not-so credible books and papers), he manages to tend to your wounds enough that it looks… somewhat acceptable-looking in a way that it will really help you heal. Though his bandaging is precise, it is inelegant—too tight here, too loose there—and he simply settles with that despite his frown suggesting otherwise. He was not a healer nor a medical student.

Not long after, you rouse from your sleep. Your vision swims as the searing pain overwhelms you. You first see a ceiling of jagged rock, the scent of salt and crushed herbs thick in the air. Then, a shadow moves from right beside you—a man, human, and you immediately panic though useless when the stranger spoke: "Do not thrash." The command is sharp, but the voice is wrong: guttural, clumsy in all its parts. "You are... safe. Ish."

Mer-tongue, but a butchered version of it as if he was chewing rocks. You’re not sure whether to be insulted with how poorly they are spoken or amazed because it’s a human speaking it.

You blink up at him—tall, seemingly gaunt like he could be blown away with a wind’s kiss (an exaggeration, but he really does look like it), and one eye hidden behind an intricately-designed patch. The other glints like a blade in the moonlight. He kneels before you, a hand held out not to touch but to display as he introduced himself: "Anaxagoras," he says, tapping his chest. Then, slower: "Ahn-ax-ah-gor-as." Like you’re the one struggling with language. You say it, syllables much clearer, flowing smoothly than his. He does not take this as an offense, but rather, he’s amused that he’s able to converse with you.

He tells you of how he simply stumbled upon you and treated your wounds, and it seems to have worked seeing that you’re not dead. “You will not die. Probably.” You wheeze—a weak laugh or a protest, even you’re not sure. Although he mistakes it for something else, a mermaid’s dying breath or whatever that made him command you: “Breathe.” It’s sharp but concern clings to it. "I do not want your corpse." Then, switching to his native tongue when Mer-words fail: "You are valuable. Alive."

You flinch and he does not notice the fear that strikes your face. His eyes narrow and he sighs, softening his words this time: “You have something that I want.” Of course. Humans always want something. Typical; you had to hold yourself back from rolling your eyes, but you did raise your eyebrow at him. “What could I possibly—” 

“Information.” He cuts you off, taking out the journal he had kept hidden underneath his clothes. "Your people’s creation myths, the moment your kind first understood mortality, your understanding of time. Anything—” His voice falters and grits his teeth, as if forcing out the next words: “—to disprove the idiotic texts claiming mermaids simply weave moonlight into their songs.” 

He was no linguist nor doctor, but he sure was a scholar in a mad pursuit of answers to his questions, and to disprove the narrative and lies falsely weaved into your species. You tilt your head at him, "Do humans think we’re just fish with pretty voices?" He does not entertain your question, waiting for your answer to his somewhat one-sided proposal, and you sigh. “Fine. But you bring me land-food tomorrow. The red fruit with seeds.”

And that’s where it begins—fate playing its cruel game of tangling the souls of yours and his.

You’ve established the cove as your meeting spot. It’s become some sort of your ritual—every day before the sun sets you resurface from the waters only to see him already waiting for you, idly sitting or writing down something in the same journal he uses to record everything with. You’ve joked of stealing it and dumping it into the waters once, but the look you got from him immediately shot the idea down and sealed your mouth shut.

Day one. He brought you the promised pomegranate but you ended up making a mess out of it. In your own defense, the skin of it was hard and tough, nothing like you expected. On that same day, you taught him the word for ‘sweet’. Day seven. He brings you some oranges in exchange for your beliefs, if any exists. You tell him of the moon, and scorn him for bringing you such a sour fruit. He had to bring you mangoes the next day to appease you. Day twenty-one. He brought you books, one that brings stories and illustrations. Fascinated, you sing him a song that praises the sun. And the days go on and on, until it turns into weeks, until it turns into months, and eventually a year.

Although there are some days where he ‘forgets’ his journal and spends it watching you draw on sand, listening to your voice. At those times, his inquiries are more often directed to you rather than about you.

Over the thread of time, you cannot really deny that the two of you had gotten close; from what were awkward, somewhat one-sided conversations of just him giving you something and immediately asking for knowledge in return, to this—softness laced into your banter, lingering too close to one another, the tide whispering against the rocks as if keeping your secrets, his fingers no longer hesitating before brushing against your wrist, your laughter no longer guarded but bright and unburdened, the space between your world and his shrinking with every shared moment.

“Say it, scholar.” You grin, sharp. “Or do you not know the word for ‘please’?” He clicks his tongue at you, the sound as dry as parchment. "I know many words for 'please' in dead languages. Your dialect's inflection is confusing and inconsistent."

You laugh, the sound bubbling up like seawater over stones. "Truly arrogant. For someone who still says 'hello' like he's choking on a shell, you ask such big questions, don’t you?” and you don’t fail to notice how Anaxa's jaw clenches. "This is a fair exchange. I've brought you"—he gestures to the collection on the rocks—"texts of all kinds, fruits that don't grow beneath the waves, and the coordinates of three freshwater springs that you have insisted on knowing.”

"But you’re lonely.” You say and the realization comes suddenly, but feels obvious now. "All these questions... you just want someone to talk to." I mean, what kind of man would spend nearly half of their day trying to trade knowledge, bargain about trivial things, and yaps about whatever he could think about as if you were some kind of diary, and think it’s nothing but a desire for company?

While he is studying you, learning new things about you, you, too, are doing the same.

For a moment, the only sound is the tide pulling at the shore before he scoffs at the idea you have brought to him. “Ridiculous. You must know that a claim such as yours should—” But before he even gets through halfway of his sentence, you interrupt him (and you know he hates it when he gets interrupted, but you still do anyway). “Then, do you like me?”

“That is irrelevant.” He quickly answers and you laugh: “So, you don’t deny it?”

“You’re delusional,” he says in your language, but the red that faintly dusts his ears tells otherwise. “You’ve butchered it again, geez.” And though he frowns, there's something almost pleasing in the way he scrawls your correction in the margins. Anaxa finds it that you’re the type to command rather than ask, just like right now: “Stay until the sun sets.”

He had told himself many times that it’s just curiosity—the way his pulse stutters when you mimic his laughter and teases the way he pronounces his words that it bleeds into another meaning. Not fondness. Never fondness. But he stayed even when the sun had bled red and sunk into the horizon, even when you had tugged him into the waves, even when you had dragged him deep into the depths, his lips sealed with yours.

And so the bargain continues—not as scholar and subject, but as something far simpler than the gods could ever comprehend. It endures like the silence during dawn and in how your laughter now lingers in the hollows of his ribs like a second heart. 

Two souls trading whispers where the sea meets the shore, while the tides keep count of all they cannot name—the weight of his gaze when he thinks you're not looking, the way your fingers brush against one another, the unspoken promise that tomorrow, and every tomorrow after, he'll still be waiting when you surface.

MYDEIMOS; LINGER IN THE SILENCE OF FOREVER AND NOTHINGS

In the pursuit of gold, or dinner, he found a mermaid.

You were caught by mistake, getting trapped in the nets was thrown into the waters after spotting a shadowy mass beneath the waves. You thrashed in it, tangled in the ropes like a stray minnow amid the day’s pitiful haul of flounder. Above you, the crew of pirates gawked, their faces slack with disbelief. 

What was thought to be something valuable—maybe a kraken (delusional), a shipwreck’s spoils (optimistic), or at least a tuna large enough to feed more than a dozen hungry pirates (desperate)—turned out to be something completely and utterly different.

One man pokes your tail with a rusty hook, yelping when you snap your teeth at him. A scrawny deckhand with a missing front tooth whistles: “We got a big catch today, boss!” He says, poking your tailfin with the toe of his boot. “Fetch a pretty price in port, eh?”

You’re trapped. You’ve got nowhere to run (literally). In their eyes, you’re practically a diamond waiting to be mined, a jewel in grubby hands.

You shouldn’t have gotten close to the water’s surface, you shouldn’t have been too curious, you should have stayed away, you begin berating yourself at the realization that you will most likely end up as a trophy or worse, soup.

“You’re scaring her.” A voice,gravel wrapped in velvet, came from behind them. The crew parted like tidewater before the moon, revealing who possibly is their captain: Mydei—you learned his name from one of the humans’ whispers—, a storm given a human shape. His presence is a brooding shadow, appearing before you clad in a mix of red, dark maroon, and gold, and his chest covered in crimson tattoos. He crouches, eye level with your trembling form.

For a moment, you expected a knife at your throat. You’ve braced for it even. But instead, he sliced the net open with a flick of his dagger. “Idiots,” he muttered under his breath as he worked on peeling the rope from your scaled hips, as he untangled you out of this mess. You’re confused, but still scared, and the group surrounding you appears to be dumbfounded. “Since when does the captain play nursemaid?” The comment does not fly past your ears and neither does for Mydei, but he ignores the gossiping lot.

This is when you see how the net’s ropes had bitten into your skin, leaving angry red lines. His touch was clinical, careful, but his thumb brushed your wrist where the fibers had bitten deepest, and you hiss. 

He’ll utter an apology and the word sounds foreign in his mouth. “You’re wounded.” And that was true. Blood had streaked your scales and your tail seemed to be limp, muscles protesting at even the thought of movement. When he has asked you if you can understand what he’s saying,  you nod your head and he exhales through his nose, relieved, then jerks his chin toward the horizon.

“Good. This stretch of sea is crawling with hunters. Pirates. Idiots who’d sell your teeth for a mere drink and with your state right now, you’re an easy catch for them.” His voice is low, matter-of-fact, but the truth of it coils cold in your stomach. Your kin had warned you of humans, of their dangers and how they had brought ruin to your fellowmen. “You’ll stay aboard. Until you’re not useless anymore.”

But no one had ever mentioned the ones who wear cruelty as if it were armor, only to reveal gentle hands beneath—they never spoke of storms with quiet eyes, of tempests that shelter and protect rather than bring destruction.

He lifted you—careful, slowly—into his arms, water dripping down his boots, blood staining the fabric of his clothes. The crew’s protests die mid-breath when Mydei levels them with a simple look. You were then hauled to a hastily emptied storage room, lining up a tub that was dumped with buckets of water inside. It’s cramped. Claustrophobic. A far cry from the endless blue you call home, but you bite your tongue. When the alternative is bleeding out on a pirate’s deck, you’ll take the tub.

Against your very expectations, however, the days that you have spent on this ship were not the least uncomfortable, if you put aside your cramped space. The crew members who had scared you at first were actually a bunch of nice people who often perform tricks to entertain you and make you laugh. Although you had bitten one of them when they called you ‘the captain’s pet’.

They bother you nearly every day, either barging into the room to chatter and ramble while they sit on the floor, whether drunk or not, or carrying your tub with you still in it to somewhere else in case you’re sick of seeing the empty wooden walls—so you won’t forget the sun.

They carve chess pieces of terrible forms that it’s hard to discern the rook from a pawn so you can play (you cheat; Mydei catches you and flicks your forehead). One brings a stolen mirror, fragile-looking and probably would shatter in pieces with a small drop if you’re not careful enough, to “fix your boredom, milady”—until Mydei confiscates it: “She’ll hurt herself with the damn thing”. Albeit he’ll return it to you soon after when he sees the pleading look on your face. And that’s not all as the youngest cabin boy sneaks in at dawn to whisper gossip, but flees when Mydei’s shadow darkens the doorway. “Out, it’s too early in the morning to bother her.”

It’s not hard to fall into their routine, especially that they seem to have adopted you like a stray cat. 

Your moments with Mydei and him alone were never meaningless, too. And over the course of time you have spent with him as he always has, and I mean always, visit you every night, you’ve learned three things: 1.) He enjoys pomegranate juice, 2.) He knows how to braid and style hair, 3.) He’s a gentle person.

Words between you and him were scarce. Though you can understand his language, you couldn’t speak it; he couldn’t decipher your words either. But the silence between you wasn’t empty—it was full, like measuring one’s words and gestures before they’re lost to the harsh waves. When he braided your hair, his hands would often linger. When you hummed old lullabies, his shoulders relaxed. The both of you were at peace just being near each other.

But the day will fall and the night will come, and this too, must come to an end—you must return to the waters. “Go home,” Mydei had said while he watched you move your already-healed tail up and down, though struggling a little in the tight space. As an act of rebellion, you decided to sink deep into the tub, but: “You know you can’t drown, right?”

Well, he earned a glare from you when you resurfaced. “This is not your home, fishy.” You know that. You’re not stupid, especially when the evidence is in front of you, covered in scales and glistening in iridescent hues. He can sense your hesitance, sighing: “You surely are more trouble than you’re worth.”

Eventually, after much water-splashing and stubbornness, you’re now being lowered overboard with a jolly boat. The crew lingers on deck, their usual raucous chatter muted—even the deckhand you bit sniffles into his sleeve. Salt spray stings your eyes, or maybe it’s something else. The ocean stretches before you, vast and familiar, but your tail feels leaden.

Mydei sits across you and helps you return into the gentle waves that yearn for your caress. The ocean embraces you like a long-lost limb, but for some reason, regret and something heavier weighs in your chest. But Mydei, ever so attentive, sees the grimness of your expression: “This is not goodbye.” He flicks water at you—something that you often do to him. “Those idiots will miss you.” He jerks his chin toward the ship, where the crew waves exaggeratedly. “So don’t be a stranger.”

He will, too, but you don’t need to know that. And with one last look, you leave and disappear into the darkness. Mydei lingers a little longer on his spot, watching, waiting, and seemingly wanting to see you once more, but he doesn’t, and so, he finally turns away, resigned to the very fate he is forced to take from the stars.

Weeks later, with a whimsical quest for treasure and drunken bet of finding one on a rumored place, the ship will find a chest of gold, gems, and everything that screams of value precisely where there should be nothing. Along with cheers  was a chorus of “See, I told you so!” and “I was right!”, but Mydei knows only one person capable of this—you, now seen perched on a rock, grinning. A ruby, the size of his fist, is thrown at him to which he catches, a smile flickering on his lips. “Show-off.”

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[cherryheairt]

a feel like the new generation of fanfic readers NEED to understand that clicking on a fic (interaction) does nothing. ao3 has no algorithm. your private discord discussions of fic do not reach the authors. if you do not actively engage with writers they will stop posting. this isn’t social media this is community.

[cherryheairt]

[cherryheairt]

How to use Em Dash (—) and Semi Colon ( ; )

Since the ai accusations are still being thrown around, here's how i personally like to use these GASP ai telltales. 🦄✨

Em Dashes (—)

To emphasize a shift / action / thought.

They're accusing us—actually accusing us—of using AI.

To add drama.

They dismissed our skills as AI—didn't even think twice, the dimwits—and believed they were onto something.

To insert a sudden thought. Surely they wouldn't do that to us—would they?

To interrupt someone's speech. "Hey, please don't say that. I honed my craft through years of blood and tears—" "Shut up, prompter."

To interrupt someone's thoughts / insert a sudden event.

We're going to get those kudos. We're going to get those reblogs—

A chronically online Steve commented, “it sounds like ai, idk.”

Semi Colons ( ; )

To join two closely related independent sentences / connect ideas.

Not only ChatGPT is capable of correct punctuation; who do you think it learned from in the first place?

Ultimate pro tip: use them whenever the fuck you want. You don't owe anyone your creative process. 🌈

[cherryheairt]

heian era sukuna my beloved

synopsis. when you tell ryomen sukuna that you'd like to head to the market with him, he's unsure why you won't just allow a servant to accompany you instead.

tags/notes. heian era sukuna <3 he has my heart (he would probably rip it out) + reblogs are much appreciated mwah

when you reach over to brush a piece of lint off sukuna’s robe, he grunts and rolls his shoulder. “please, ryo,” you whine, shuffling forward on your knees to sit closer to him. he’s sat on a mat, his legs crossed and an incense stick in his hand as he brings it closer to his nose to contemplate whether or not he should maintain its light or snap it in half and toss it in a pond.

“i have no time for such peasantry activities,” he says flatly, deciding on placing the stick on its respective holder and watching it with tired eyes. “as my woman, you cannot be seen prancing around that tasteless collection of stalls deemed a market either.”

you groan exaggeratedly and lay your head on his shoulder, huffing frustratedly. “don’t be such a hermit.” you play with his fingers absentmindedly and look up at him, observing his expression, every twitch of his face. he doesn’t look angry, maybe annoyed - frustrated. unbothered, perhaps, if it weren’t for the relent blooming in his chest.

one of his arms reach down to scratch at his stomach, another lifts his teacup to his lips. the third reaches up to flick your forehead lightly - enough to make you frown but not hurt you. his fourth arm remains in his lap. “i shall allow you to send a servant to town to retrieve what you need. no more. this grant itself is more than you deserve for your insolent pestering.”

he says it in his usual tone - for sukuna has long forgotten how to speak in anything but sharp syllables and with unwavering authority - but his brow is not furrowed as it always is when he addresses visitors or his servants. that is the only indication of his… toleration.

sighing loudly, you push yourself up on your feet and trudge towards the wooden sliding door. “you did not accompany me to the gardens the previous week, nor did you hold me to sleep as you usually do last night. now you will not even look my way when i ask for the simple pleasure of being on your arm as we explore the town,” you say, moreso mumble. though your voice is loud enough for him to hear, he feels a rather unwelcome emotion spark in his chest at your precise recollection of his affectual negligence.

your back is towards him but you can still sense the scowl forming on his face. you turn around to face him just as he places his teacup back down on the porcelain coaster (the one he had your name imprinted on with the finest calligraphy his money and power could buy.) he motions you towards him with a wave of his hand and you tense slightly, not afraid of harm but of rejection. so, you walk back and stand before him, your hands clasped together in front of you.

when he does not talk immediately, you open your mouth to speak. “do you dread time spent with me, sukuna?”

his gaze hardens when you call him that. it feels as though you are ashamed of him. “do labels matter not to you, woman?”

lip pursing, you retort quickly, “labels may be erased. as of late, you…” you hesitate, wondering what tone you should take with him. you decide to remain steadfast in your confrontation and square your shoulders. “you have not shown me that my label is anything but disposable.”

he stares at you for a long moment, four crimson eyes burning into your soul as if to inspect the emotions searing through you as you lock eyes. then, he stands and steps forward so that your clothed chest is brushing against his naked one. you resist the urge to flinch when he reaches up to caress your face with that same expression of his.

“i do not place labels on that which i consider disposable,” he tells you like he is stating something you’ve known for eons. when you try to lower your gaze and huff in almost tearful frustration, he tightens his grip on your chin and lifts your gaze back to his. “that is not an unfamiliar idea to you.”

it’s not a question, but you nod anyway.

he releases your chin then and pulls his robe back up his arms and shoulders again, tying the silk sash at his waist. “i shall have your lady in waiting prepare a bath for you before we venture into that flea-ridden town.” you’re surprised by his sudden agreement, but don’t question it. you smile softly instead, and that makes him pet your head.

when the two of you are at the market is when you have to stifle a laugh at the unimpressed scowl on sukuna’s face at the sight of the humble stalls and sounds of advertising vendors. though, when you point to a pearl necklace and fawn over the delicate beading of it, sukuna’s eyes burn into your face freakishly like he’s fascinated by your beauty.

within the next thirty seconds, the necklace is yours. the vendor places it in a small cushioned box for you and bows deeply as he voices his endless gratitude to the looming nobleman that you have wrapped around your finger.

“thank you, ryomen,” you say with a smile, gazing up at him like he bought a star in your name (which… he’s considering, unbeknownst to you.) he turns his head to look at you, but it’s only a glance. he looks ahead again, eyes locked on the bustling crows before him. “you need not thank me,” he huffs out, even though he is painfully aware of the fact that you saying his name again has erased some of his discomfort.

[cherryheairt]

he's just a chill guy

obviously it's intentional but I do love how much cregan stark is the most stereotypical stark north man to ever exist. walks up to kings landing with an army of thousands goes you people are all traitors and that means you've got to die. no sorry I don't care about how much war youve ended rules are rules. gets ready to behead 40 guys personally with his sword and then instead they All go to the nights watch cos one asked nicely and he was like yeah that's allowed. convinced an 11 year old to name him hand of the king Just so he could do this and then immediately fucked off. has a wife who's bisexual and cooler than him

[cherryheairt]

big thanks to anon on here and kind commenter on WP for inspiring me to pick Dragon Dreamer back up for the first time in 6 months🤞

[cherryheairt]

⋆˚✿˖° Lotus Eater

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

synopsis: after a series of unfortunate events, eddie is your only way to school. months of riding in the car with him turns into an unlikely friendship between him, the town freak, and you, the overachieving loser.

warnings: slow burn, 18+ mdni, dark themes, mentions of abuse, abusive parents, mental illnesses (anxiety, ocd, etc.), unsafe living conditions, food aversions, bullying, drug use, mentions of shitty previous relationships, physical violence, eventual smut (will be tagged accordingly on actual chapter)

⋆˚✿˖° Chapter Index ⋆˚✿˖° Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 (coming soon!) Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

if you want to be included in the taglist, please comment here. thank you! <3

[cherryheairt]

Silver Dagger

Boothill x fem!reader fic

wc: 8.3k

cw:: angst, death, set before his planet was destroyed, completely self-indulgent, takes a lot of his backstory and builds upon my idea of it (written during 3.2 update), he fell first and harder troupe, i hc him as native american and mexican so his human looks reflect that, reader called ‘little lady’ but just as a cute nickname and not a desc of height+weight<3

Inspired by Monica Barbaro's cover of Silver Dagger listen for best exp <3

“Don't sing love songs, you'll wake my mother”

Your first encounter with the man you called Boothill was certainly a memorable one, though you both had entirely different perspectives on how the interaction went.

You'd heard of the cowboy around your little town in the middle of nowhere. Heard of him being a generous term, of course. Your mother spent every waking chance she got cursing his name. His real name, that only the townsfolk and contractors were privy to. Though she was sick and bedridden most of the time, her waking hours were spent looking out of her bedroom windows, muttering under her breath incessantly about how the young folk were stirring up too much trouble for your little town to handle.

As a woman of tradition and religion, she didn't trust him. If you were anything superstitious, you wouldn't either. After all, his given name did mean ‘Loaded Gun’. Trouble waiting to happen. If he didn't seek it out, it would hunt him down instead.

She might be right, sure, but you didn't pay Boothill and his little gang any mind. They never bothered citizens, and in fact, made a point to defend them like some kind of make-shift army. Boothill was the oldest of his brothers and sisters, those who grew up in the little orphanage and all raised by Nick and Graey. Those two, though getting on in age, were kind and always making a point to help the community. Your mother disapproved of them raising Boothill, the mysterious orphan with no origin beside a name, but never doubted their aptitude for raising the other less fortunate children of Hillshire.

You didn't personally know the righteous cowboy, but heard of his tales of heroics at the saloon most rowdy nights. How he and his siblings managed to ward off thieves, gangs, and monsters on the outskirts of Hillshire.

He always came back, though, to the little town no one knew or cared about. Most people your age had long since left to find bigger opportunities out on other planets in the vast galaxies, while you planned on planting your own roots right where you were. So did Boothill, apparently, though you couldn't understand why someone who could get rich beyond belief doing real bounty work across the universe would want to stay.

You were bound to meet him one day. Whether that was today or ten years from now, you would get to see the man up close.

You just didn't expect him to be such an eccentric. Men with a reputation like his were hellbent on being stoic and rough-around-the-edges.

It was supposed to be a simple task. Go to the pharmacy and grab some medication for your mother. Easy. You were the only customer in the store, alongside the owner of the establishment that you'd become familiar with over the past few months.

“Thanks, Jameson.” You smiled lightly, pulling out your wallet to pay.

He waves you off quickly. The meds were fairly hard to come across so far from the cities, but he always managed to get them shipped on time. “How's your ma doin’?”

You shrugged, “as well as she can. As she usually is. Sometimes coherent, other times mumbling ‘bout things I can't understand.”

His sympathy was clear in his water-blue eyes. “Things'll get better, hun.”

After paying, you headed to the entrance to start on your walk back home, only to be startled by the opening clash of the single door. A man stood in its doorway, holding a long hunting rifle and a no-nonsense look in his eyes. You froze immediately, not letting your gaze leave the intruder as he slowly closed the door behind him and pointed between you and Jameson.

“This doesn't have to become a problem. All you got, on tha’ floor, if you knew what's best for ya.” The gunman barked, nudging his gun to gesture you to move closer to the counter where Jameson was standing eerily still.

Not having much of an option, you tossed your wallet at his feet. There goes your month's income. You'd just have to pick up extra shifts at the diner and pray you could pay the bills and next month's medication fee.

Jameson did the same, though a lot less shaky than you. He was almost languid in his actions, not a furrow in his brow nor a drop of sweat on his face from the tension. It was his business at stake, why wasn't he panicking?

“The bag, too.” He barked as he snatched both wallets from the floor.

You glanced at the paper bag in your hands, clutching it ever tighter to your side.

“I need this. You can have the money.” You shook your head, heart pounding in your chest as you did.

He raised his brow, surprised at your sudden defiance. The man took two slow steps toward you, the rifle practically shoved between your eyes as he grit his teeth at you. “No?” His breath was hot on your face. “The bag. Or I shoot a hole in that pretty face ‘a yours.”

“I believe the little lady already said ‘no’.” A new voice chimed from behind the gunman's. Glancing behind him, you were surprised to see the town’s cowboy casually holding a silver revolver to the back of his head.

“You try anything, and I'll shoot her.” The gunman grunted out, though the look in his eyes betrayed his uncertainty.

“I'd like to take that wager.” The cowboy smirked, taking a slow step forward and digging the head of the gun into the man's hair. “Let's see who walks outta here alive. Whole lotta trouble for some petty cash.”

Wager?

This bastard was playing with your life like it was a game!

It was more pregnant silence before the gun in your robber's hands began to tremble and his forehead brimmed with sweat. You flinched as the rifle touched your forehead just a smidge, squinting behind him to look at the man over his shoulder. He looked impatient and inconvenienced more than worried for your or his own safety. As if it were just another Tuesday evening for him.

Which, to be fair, it likely was. This kind of situation was boring in comparison to chases on horseback and shootouts in a canyon. You hoped his indifference didn't make him cocky—your life was still on the line. No man holding a rifle could ever be predictable.

“Come on, buddy.” Your ‘savior’ rolled his eyes. “We ain't got all day. Stallin’ won't help much.”

The gunman pursed his lip so hard they went stark white and nearly disappeared. When he talked, spit came from behind those lips and landed right in front of your shoes. “I have some demands.”

Boothill raised a black brow. “You think you got a choice here?”

“I want to leave without a fight. If I drop the money, you let me go, and no one gets hurt.” He continued like a gun wasn't at the back of his head and ready to off him right there and then.

A low, amused chuckle left Boothill's throat. He lowered the revolver and tucked it into his holster.

What was he doing?

“Go right ahead.”

To your utter shock, the gunman took the generous offer and started to slowly creep back while keeping his gun pointed right at you. All the way past Boothill and toward the pharmacy door. At the doorway, his shaky hands fumble with his bag and he throws it on the floor, swallowing his nerves before meeting Boothill's casual look and taking another slow step outside of the building.

He's letting him get away.

Boothill's hands moved faster than you could comprehend as he drew his revolver back from his thigh and shot the rifle’s barrel. It blew completely off, and the man holding it flinched back so hard that he felt straight on his ass, believing he'd been shot directly.

You could only stare in awe as Boothill took his time approaching the man and crouched down in front of him, tipping his hat up to properly show his face. The mans' chest heaved up and down as he tried to calm himself and realize that he was still alive. “Now, you gon’ turn yourself into the sheriff's office or do I need to escort you there myself?”

“I—I'm going!” He struggled to get to his feet, coughing slightly before he ran off to the sheriff's department to apparently turn himself in. From what you heard, the cowboy and the sheriff were on somewhat good terms and the sheriff didn't mind Boothill's chaotic antics so long as he controlled the violence and kept the shooting to a minimum. Outside of Hillshire, however, was Boothill's free game where he did as he pleased.

Said man brushed off his chaps like nothing happened at all. “You alright, Jameson?” Courteously, he tossed Jameson's wallet back over to him and earned a grateful wave in response.

“All thanks to you, cowboy. Nothing but a troubled young man lookin’ to make a quick buck.”

He took yours more carefully, handing it out to you directly. Now that you weren't being held at gunpoint and could take the cowboy in clearly, he almost made you nervous with his intense eyes. Dark brown as they were, you could see flecks of green reflect in the sunlight coming through the windows. His skin was tan and sun-kissed freckles marred his cheeks and any exposed skin on his hands and neck you saw from all his years of being out in under the hot sun. His hair was long, abnormally so for Hillshire's type of men, and a pin-straight black that shone in the light like onyx.

Pretty, you dare admit. But saying that to a cowboy's face would certainly win you no favors.

“And the lady?” He asked, tipping his hat to acknowledge you for the first time. “He didn't hurt ya or nothin’, right?”

“I'm fine,” you managed to choke out. “Just a bit shaken, I suppose.”

His eyes narrowed and he grit his teeth. “That's just no way to treat a lady. Robbin’ is one thing, but to keep that ugly gun shoved in your face is crossing a line.”

You couldn't help the barely concealed laugh that left your mouth at his disapproval at a man's way of robbing an establishment. “I'm okay, really. I'm grateful for your help, sir. Don't know what I'd do with myself if he ended up taking this medication.”

He seemed to loosen up at your reassurance. “No need to call me that.” He introduced himself formally, taking your hand in his and placing a polite kiss to your knuckles. Quite a dramatic display, but you supposed that was just part of his quirks. “Happy to help any pretty lass in distress.”

Bashful, you shifted on your feet and couldn't find the will to meet his eyes.

He continued fluidly, though, not allowing a moment of silence between the two of you. “I can't say I've seen you ‘round here before.”

“Been here longer than you have, cowboy.” You smiled as his eyes widened. You introduced yourself by only your first name, knowing that your last held no meaning to anyone in this town or any other beyond it.

“Is that so? And I've missed out on such a pleasure this whole time.” Your name was like honey dripping from his words as he purred it out, testing it on his tongue.

“I don't really get out on the town much.” You explained. “My ma is sick, so I really just go between work and Jameson's before staying home and taking care of her the rest of my time.”

He listened intently, nodding along sympathetically. After all, Graey and Nick themselves were getting on in age and couldn't quite do everything without the assistance of their many ‘adopted’ children.

“Quite a shame, indeed. May I have the privilege of treating the busy lady to a drink?”

You almost agreed, almost took his calloused hand and strutted right into the saloon to enjoy a nice night out with the gentlemanly cowboy without a care in the world.

You almost agreed, if not for the heavy weight of responsibility on your shoulders.

“I wish I could, truly…” You trailed, clutching the bag of pills at your side.

Boothill only smiled that knowing cheshire grin of his, and held his arm out nonetheless. “I get it. At least allow me to walk you home, then.”

“I'd be grateful.” You took his arm, and it felt natural to mold together with him.

So, you both said your farewells to a not-so-discreet eavesdropping Jameson, and started on your walk home.

“How'd you know that man would shoot both of us the moment you put your gun away?” You inquired, curious of his train of thought.

He perked up, “Scared ya, did I?” With a boisterous laugh.

Squinting up at him, you kissed your teeth. “It's hard not to worry when a gun is pointed at my face.”

“Right, sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I've dealt with lots'a guys like him before. Most of ‘em just want quick and easy in-and-out cash grab, not a full-on shoot out. They rarely ever hurt anyone, and when they do it's usually an accident. When a gun is pointed at ‘em, they got no backbone anymore and flee at first chance. I knew he'd take running over shooting you and getting shot himself in turn.”

You hummed along with his explanation. “That does make sense, I suppose.”

“Tried and tested.” He nodded proudly.

“But don't think I'm happy about you calling my life a ‘wager’.” You deadpanned soon after, and it was his turn to look away and pretend to adjust his hat.

“I didn't mean to scare you, honest.” He said, brows knitting together sincerely. Then, he stopped and faced you entirely, unhooking your arms. Bemused, you stopped to look at him. “Cross my heart and hope to die.” As he says it, he crosses his index over his heart and closes his eyes as if making a wish to the biggest star in the night's sky.

You laughed at his bout of sincere yet childish apology. “Don't be so dramatic. I'm sure it won't happen again.” Turning back to the path, you kept walking on.

He strided right next to you, matching your pace and taking your arm right back into the crook of his elbow. A strange habit, you noted, but quite a cute one. “Don't jinx yourself.”

Rolling your eyes, you shrugged his words off. “I don't believe in curses and jinxes, just coincidences.”

Boothill seemed to give that some thought, right as you approached your doorstep. “Well, if it be a happy coincidence I'd sure like to meet you again.”

Well. . .just a few times wouldn't hurt, right? It's not like your mother needed twenty-four/seven supervision, and she slept frequently, leaving you bored out of your mind and picking up small hobbies like sewing and cooking. Hell, you'd cleaned that small house top-to-bottom countless times in a mere few months.

“I'd like that, too.” You agreed softly, watching his face light up. “I've got Mondays and Tuesdays off from work?”

“Got it.” He chirped out. You could see the cogs in his head spinning at a mile a minute, thoughts perfectly concealed from even your observant eyes. “It's a date. I'll see you around then, sweetheart.” With a dip of his hat, the cowboy was set off on the road again.

“A date…?” You muttered to yourself. He really liked you enough for a real date, then.

“Wait!” You called after him, to no avail. “When are you coming by?” The shout was lost to the bushes surrounding your house. Soon, he was completely out of sight and you were left wondering when you'd see the black-haired cowboy next.

“She's sleeping here, right by my side

and in her right hand, a silver dagger”

Your mother made sure to give you a mouthful as you fluttered about the kitchen to prepare her meds with her dinner. Though, everything she said seemed to go in one ear and right out of the other.

It was Sunday evening, and she had yet to stop talking about the ‘delinquent’ cowboy who walked you home. No matter how much you insisted on his bravery and heroism, she managed to double down with each point you made. At some point in the weekend, you'd simply started humming along to her antics.

“You can't be with a man like that.” She started this evening, grumbling in her chair as she watched the window, as always. “All they do is lie, cheat, ‘n steal. Ain't no man like that will be leaving my daughter crying.”

“It was just one walk, ma.” You said, stirring the beans and ground beef. “Not like I'm marrying him on the spot.”

She huffed, throwing frail hands up in the air. “You say that now,”

She meant well in her frustrations. After all, your father was just the type of man she thought Boothill was. A flashy cowboy who came riding into town, saving a few damsels along the way, and leaving before they could say their “I do's” right at the altar. Your mother wasn't so lucky to escape the charm of a peacocking man, and her parents didn't take it so kindly when she confessed her pregnancy. That was how you'd ended up in Hillshire, anyway, just a mere babe with a mother left all alone to raise you.

Still, she persevered despite being a young woman alone in a strange and small town, swearing off men from her life. By extension, swearing them off from yours. You'd done well to abide, though unintentionally as it was, and simply never met any interesting men.

Until Boothill, of course.

But he wasn't like your father, nor anyone else. He was a stationary cowboy, loyal to the small town that took him in.

“Supper's ready.” You chimed, clearing the tense mood and plating the chili for the two of you. Alongside her bowl, you set down her daily pill and a glass of lemonade.

Today, she took the pill without a sigh and simply dug into her food. Sometimes, the fight she would give you about taking the chalky tablets would almost make you happy, seeing her become lively for just a few minutes at a time, though it was purely in protest. Most days she seemed vacant, a shell of her former outspoken self. The ashy color her skin had grown into chilled you to your core, the cold skin of her once warm hands made you choke back tears, and the tremble of her once strong body when she moved around made you wince. Her physician told you her state would only decline from the moment she was diagnosed, only stagnated by the pills, which relieved pain and disease progression.

It wasn't long before she went to bed with a full stomach and a quiet mind. You took the little victories in stride.

Their only downside was making her drowsy almost immediately. She would sleep twelve hours most nights, only getting up on your gentle command for baths and food. Muscle atrophy and bed sores were your current biggest fears with her being bed bound so often, so small and painfully slow walks and stretches in the front yard often were good medicine by themselves. A healthy dose of sun never hurt anybody, you supposed.

As you cleaned up for the night, a knock on your door broke through the absentminded hums.

And who else would knock on your door on a Sunday evening besides the hero-of-the-week himself.

Him standing on your front porch wasn't what surprised you, the small bouquet of wildflowers in his hand did.

He was wearing a set of fresh, clean clothes that seemed to be well-loved but still brushed free of the lingering dust that he carried with him the day they had met. A denim, sherpa-lined jacket with a white tee under it and a pair of dark blue jeans. Of course, he couldn't part with his tall, black cowboy boots that he seems emotionally attached to. You wondered if he wore them to appear taller, though he was towering already as it was. His hat matched his boots well, silver lining both in intricate designs. He put a lot of effort in, clearly, and the thoughtful act made your heart squeeze.

“Well, don't you look pretty.” You grinned, taking the colorful bouquet into your hands and giving the individual flowers a delicate touch. You'd never gotten flowers before—much less hand-picked ones. “You pick these yourself?” The lavender was especially pretty, standing out against the warm tones of daffodils, sunflowers, and asters.

“Got two hands for a reason,” he took his hat off and placed it against his chest, the remnants of the setting sun hitting his speckled brown eyes just right. “To catch trouble-makers and to treat a woman right.”

“They're lovely.” You thanked him, admiring the clumsy twine bow one last time before placing them on the table centerpiece vase. He lingers in the doorway as you do, glancing around subtly but never inviting himself in.

“Was hoping you'd allow me to treat you to that drink.”

“I'd sure like that.” You glanced at your clothes, which were far more casual than even his simple attire. “Give me a moment, make yourself at home while I put on something presentable.”

“Take all the time you need, sweetheart.” He settles into your seat at the table, crossing his ankles and humming a tune you couldn't quite place.

You didn't have many ‘going out’ options, but you settled for something that could go with Boothill's clean yet casual look. A nice blouse and some old straight-legged denim jeans you had tucked away at the bottom of your wardrobe.

By the time you whipped your hair into a suitable style, you grew anxious that you'd made him wait too long for your vain pampering.

Though, all those thoughts were thrown out of the door when you watched Boothill's expression light up when you walked out.

“Why, I think I found myself the sweetest berry in the patch.” Politely, he dipped his hat to you and offered an arm out. “You ready for some dancin’?”

Looping arms, you trailed after him out the door. With one last look behind you, you softly clicked the door closed. One night of fun wouldn't hurt anyone, you deserved it. “Just don't get upset if I step on your toes.”

He laughed heartily, shaking his head. “I've been kicked ‘n stepped on by my horse more times than I care to count. I wouldn't even feel it.”

“We'll see.” You chided, taking in the fresh air and the setting sun. The walk to the saloon wasn't far—nothing was really far apart in Hillshire—and you noticed some other couples also on their way to the bar. “I dunno if those heels make good dancin’ shoes.”

“Heels?” Boothill asked, genuinely confused. He lifted a boot up briefly, almost tripping over his own foot as he did before righting himself.

“Aren't they?” You questioned lightly. “Boots higher than the hills surrounding the town.”

It was his turn to scoff. Though there was no malice behind it, he seemed thoroughly offended. You laughed as he sputtered to defend his precious heels. “These are made to hook onto my stirrups.”

Even though you liked teasing him about the frilly boots, you quite liked the little ‘ring’ the spurs produced every step he took.

“Whatever you say, Boothill.” You raised your arms defensively, amused at his scrunched up face.

“Boothill?” He exaggerated. At your smile, he hid his face momentarily, dragging a tanned hand down it. “Guess I've been called much worse than that.”

“You ain't ever ride a horse?” He continued, seeming baffled at the very idea.

“No?” You shrugged. “Everything's walking distance.”

“You're missin’ out.” He sighed dramatically. “I'll have to take you out one day and introduce you to Missy.”

“Is that your horse?”

You approached the saloon fairly quickly. He opened the door for you, stepping aside to let you in first. Immediately you were hit with the scent of alcohol and the sounds of music and laughter. Though it was only a Sunday evening, it seemed like everyone in town was here enjoying the atmosphere.

“Sure is. She's gotten me outta some tough shit all throughout Taconia.” The country was vast, and Hillshire was a mere forgotten speck on the map. How much world was out there that you would never experience?

“How many cities have you been to?” You wondered as he started ordering drinks. You quietly murmured your order to the bartend, Leonard, and he grinned upon noticing your arrival. It'd been months since you'd visited and sat for a drink. You saw most folks down at the diner, anyway, so he was always a familiar face. Surprisingly, Boothill had never made an appearance there. He must've preferred the lively saloons to slow diners. You briefly wondered how many gals he had asked to buy drinks, and if you were simply another weekend mistress.

Even if you were, his charm and sweetness certainly earned no complaint from you.

You sipped on a prickly pear frozen margarita while he swirled his whiskey in its glass. “Not as many as you'd think. Well, Taconia's not nearly as big as the map makes it out to be, and I'm not much of a sailor. There's a few big cities between here and the Dival Sea, but nothing beats good ol’ Hillshire.”

“You can't really favor this instead of places like Miron and Silowa?” You insisted. “I've heard millions of things about the melting pots. Everyone who can leave here does—and they always write home about ‘making it big’.”

He ‘tsks’ and waves his hand. “Sure. Some people like the fame and fortune. I like the bustle, too. There's a shitload a’ bounties to be found in the backalleys of those places. Nothing beats home, though. The home cooked meals that Nick makes, Graey's scoldings being heard well across the fields, the orphanage's walls being filled with crayon drawings and memories.” He reminisced, sighing and shaking his head. “Hillshire makes it all worth coming back to.”

“Never thought of it like that.” You said. “Figured a big-shot like you would feel trapped here.”

“Cowboys can't be trapped.” He winked. “We're free spirits.”

You laughed, watching the people on the dancefloor. “Maybe I should look into that.”

“Y'know.” Boothill started, taking a swing of his whiskey. “It's rare to see someone not give in to a man holding a gun.”

“Really?” You mused. “I guess I wasn't really tryin’ to be brave. Just that I knew that medicine being taken was as good as a death sentence. Shit, I was scared out of my right mind the whole time.”

“Either way, I applaud the courage.” He mock-bowed in his seat, earning a small giggle from you. This pleased him, pearly teeth peaking out from behind his lips again in a charming grin. “That's what drew me to you, at first.”

“What? Me nearly pissin’ my pants in a pharmacy?” You scoffed playfully.

“Exactly.” He said, more earnestly than you thought. “Anybody who stands their ground is doin’ something right in my books.”

“And the second thing that drew you to me?” You egged on boldly.

“Helps a lot that you're pretty as a peach.” He cheekily smiled, dimples alighting his cheeks.

“Happy that I could be pleasant eye-candy.” You played along, polishing off your sweet drink. He was quick to match your pace, wiping off stray droplets from the corner of his lips. He stuck out a hand, urging you up from the barstool.

“And will the little lady spare the cowboy a dance?”

“I think she might,” you took his hand, allowing him to lead you amongst the crowd.

That night, you and Boothill danced for hours without missing a beat. You both laughed and chatted like old pals catching up, and by the end of the night when he was walking you home, you almost cursed yourself for expecting him to want a lil’ something extra as most men in Hillshire did.

You were surprised and glad to see that he only placed a delicate kiss on the apple of your cheek before bidding you ‘goodnight’ and promising to see you again. He never promised exact days and times, and it was then that you learned his reason behind that. Boothill was never quite sure ‘when’ he'd be able to see you, but was always certain that he would. Boothill never broke his promises, not a single time for as long as you lived.

“She says that I can't be your bride

‘all men are false’, says my mother”

Thirteen months after you met Hillshire's cowboy, Boothill proposed to you. It wasn't a hasty decision made on a lustful whim nor a peacocking ‘down-on-one-knee’ gesture in a crowded restaurant. No, it was perfect.

Boothill took you to the crest of one of Hillshire's many mesas. You trailed up there often, riding doubled up on top of Missy's sturdy back where she proved to always be as sturdy as a donkey.

He sat you down as the sun was setting, taking a bottle of your favorite prickly pear wine and popping it open, pouring your glass first as he always did. He drank from his own glass of red, hiding his scrunched up face the best he could to appease you. Boothill never enjoyed wine, but caught on that you secretly hated the scent of beer and the taste of whiskey on his lips. The moment he noticed, he stopped drinking such drinks altogether and insisted that he grew out of the flavor. It warmed your heart and amused you all the same.

You dined on pasta (Boothill made it himself, with Nick's recipe) and talked and laughed all evening long. When the stars were far above you and you were laying on his chest, he whispered his question in your ear.

The ring on your finger brought gossip through the little town. People finally had something to talk about besides the Miltons’ affair that occurred two years ago, and moved on to the fresh and more intriguing chatter. You only bit back smiles at assumptions of a shotgun wedding and choked back bursts of laughter when you overheard two old maids guess that you were a planted golddigger that would force the town's heroic cowboy to skip town and never come back from the city. No one's option truly mattered when you were in love, and you knew Boothill felt the same. Nick and Graey, as well as Boothill's many siblings, were immediately ecstatic to hear the news and held a big family dinner to celebrate their son's engagement.

Your mother was the complete opposite. Even as you eased her into knowing Boothill and his good deeds, showing her how he truly cared for you and cherished you every day, she was vehement in her opinion. You would never marry Boothill against her wishes, and if you did, you were truly dead to her.

Months flew by as you postponed your wedding date time and time again. So long, in fact, that you gave up and decided to marry Boothill without her blessing. It pained you to not have your only family attend, but the church was full nonetheless. The entire town showed up for your wedding and the day was the happiest of your life.

The silver ring you commissioned for your husband lies on his chest at all times, looped through a chain and never taken off. It held a sliver of red on the inside of it, a small line that matched the one on your ring.

Your mother gave you the cold shoulder, as expected. You took care of her every day, still, sat with her while she ate her meals and swallowed the pills woefully. She never spoke, never warbled or complained any more. Just angrily chewed and stared outside the windows.

You still worked at the diner, something you insisted upon even when Boothill offered to take care of you completely. You liked getting out of the house and the social life serving offered, no matter how meager the pay was.

Not a day went by without someone stopping by the diner to keep you company. Whether it was Boothill himself or his family. Nick, Graey, and all of his siblings young and old would stay for hours simply chatting it up with you. Mikey and Ash would call you ‘big sis’ while Donser and Colin looked after you like you were their little sister. Your mother may have turned you away when you disobeyed her, but you found family in Boothill's.

Boothill's house was where you spent most evenings, now. Your house, too, technically, although you could never spend a full night away from your childhood home in fear of coming home in the morning to a cold body. Boothill was always understanding, and even checked up on her subtly during your longer shifts whenever he could. Sometimes it felt like a long-distance relationship with how Boothill traveled for bounties and you sleeping in separate houses, but you knew it would all pay off one day. Your love wasn't fickle, nor was it conditional.

“Leave you alone, to pine and sigh”

Boothill brought home a little baby girl with hair as orange as the rising sun. The vision of the little swaddled up bundle should have been more surprising than it was, but he truly was Nick and Graey's son and he took after them well. It was only a matter of time before he took in orphans of his own. Your own, too, now. Orphan no more, the little girl would be raised under your roof as your and Boothill's baby.

He said she was a bounty's daughter, and that the father was a criminal of the highest caliber. He would've been happy to turn a blind eye had the man been a petty thief, but his ring ran through the streets of Silowa and took far too many lives to be allowed to live on.

As you held her in her arms, you knew her freckled little cheeks would be the death of you. The orange tree that you'd been picking from behind you was long forgotten in favor of the baby.

As a small apology for the suddenness of his decision, Boothill proposed for you to name her. It was a simple decision, really, and an entirely fitting one. The basket of fresh oranges on the ground was a perfect match to the soft wisps of curls atop her little head. “Clementine.” You murmured against the breeze, and she smiled a gummy grin.

Clementine deserved far more than her father's fate. You and your husband were determined to give a good, safe life to her.

It'd been a few months since your mother passed away, bless her soul. It was a rough transition from being at her bedside every day to having no one to tend to. Boothill filled the void in your heart the best he could, holding you throughout your grieving hours and staying by your side every day. His first bounty after her death was the one that brought your daughter into your life. Little Clem felt like a sign from your mother, whether it be reincarnation or a gift from above to show her love. She never did give her blessing to marry him, and that broke your heart far more than she ever knew. In some way, you knew this was her apology and perhaps even blessing. Your family of two became three, and soon you became the most content you'd ever been.

“He's got a chain, five miles long

and on every link, a heart does dangle”

Every bounty that Boothill took, you always made a point to see him off. You were sure of his skill and timeliness, but the routine comforted you. In the early hours of the morning before the sun could even peak through the sheer curtains of the living room, you swayed back and forth to a silent tune. Boothill's arms wrapped around your waist and yours around his neck, soft whispers shared that were lost to the world.

When time came that he had to leave, you didn't forget to grab the new scarf-shawl from the closet. You carefully pulled the ring of fabric around his head and down to his neck, nodding in satisfaction at the look of it. The blaze of red contrasted his black and Graey attire, standing out in a way that perfectly suited his flashy personality.

“Keep the dust from getting in your nose and mouth. Wanna keep those lungs nice and clean as long as we can.”

Boothill grinned and saluted you, leaning down to meet your lips in a heated kiss. “Whatever the boss demands.” He agreed playfully.

Tiny stomps interrupted the kiss, and your attention was drawn to the fiery curls escaping from their bedroom. “Daddy didn't say bye!” With fury-filled, clenched chubby fists, Clementine crossed her arms and sniffled.

Although Clem wasn't Boothill's by blood, no one would really guess. She picked up on all of his mannerisms quickly. Even rode a horse before she could walk, Boothill-accompanied of course. She was the happiest little toddler you'd ever seen, and the light she brought into your lives was immeasurable. She hated to see her father go on his work trips, sometimes even more than you did, but took it in stride and held her tears in as all brave girls did.

“Aw, I'm sorry, babygirl.” He crouched down on one knee to scoop her up in a comforting hug. With her head dug into the plush scarf, she tried (and failed) to hide her sniffles of sadness. “I didn't wanna wake you up, you looked like you were havin’ a peaceful dream.”

“I was.” She grunted indignantly.

“Next time, I'll wake you up.” He promised. “And when I get home, we'll take a ride down to your grandparents’ house to pay ‘em a visit. How bout that?”

“Fine,” she wiped her face off, which was reddened and puffy from tears. “Will Domino be there, too?” She asked, hope shining in her eyes. The little farmdog that Nick and Graey had caught her attention more than anything else these days. Boothill had brought up surprising her with a pup of her own, and you had been asking around town for any prospects.

He chuckled. “Of course. He'll be happy to see you.”

Clem grinned, clapping her hands and hugging him again. “Thank you, daddy!”

“Anything for my Clementine.” He stood with her in his arms, handing her off to you with a final kiss on her forehead. “Daddy's gotta go to work now, can you promise me you'll take care of mama?”

“I promise!” She nodded firmly, puffing her chest up like a knight. You gently pulled Boothill into a hug, careful not to squish your daughter between the both of you as he caressed you head and whispered into your ear.

“It's a simple one, shouldn't take more than a week.” He said lowly. “I asked Donser and Colin to keep an eye on the two a’ you.”

“You don't need to bother your brothers.” You rolled your eyes. “We'll be just fine here at home.”

“I know,” he pulled back slightly, pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth in a longing kiss. “Just gotta make sure my girls are safe.”

“Always.” You reassured him. In the doorway, he pulled on his hat and turned to dramatically wave the two of you goodbye at the end of the fenced-in lawn.

“Love you!” Clementine yawned and waved.

“I love you, Boots.” You called after, blowing a juvenile kiss to him.

“I love you both.” Boothill caught the kiss that you sent him and pulled it to his heart. “I'll be back before you can even miss me.”

While you cradled Clem in your arms and rocked her slowly back to sleep, you watched Boothill ride off as the sun rose over the horizon.

You missed him already.

The bounty was a bust. A first in his career, in fact. He'd never failed to catch a slippery criminal in all his years in bounty hunting. Unfortunately, his contractors were the ones who called it off before he could finish his mission. They were awfully hush-hush about their reasoning, but they paid Boothill for his time and that was that. He didn't question it any more.

Whispers of the IPC were ringing around gave him an eerie feeling. In all the towns he passed, people had begun to fear the soldiers from that off-planet organization that were lingering around in large numbers. He didn't heed much thought to it, but quickened his journey nonetheless.

It'd been three long weeks, and Boothill was more than ready to go back home to his wife and daughter. To see their smiling faces and hear their contagious laughs was the sole reason behind his hard work. He missed them dearly, and clutched the scarf you had given him close every night.

It was the cannons that caught his attention first. Cannon fire rained from the night sky like shooting stars. The hills and mesas surrounding Hillshire did a damn good job of keeping the small town hidden, and that was Boothill's biggest curve at that moment. He could make out the haze blocking the stars above the town, and knew it could only be buildings and greenery caught on fire. In what volume, he couldn't tell.

“Go, Missy! Take us home!” He yelled out, steering her the fastest way he knew.

Missy was no race-horse anymore, if she ever was, but the urgency in her companion's voice lit a fire under her hooves and she galloped as fast as she could back home.

He raced through razed houses and IPC soldiers to get home. He passed Jameson's pharmacy, the saloon, the diner, your old house. Everything was lit up in a grand display. Screams were filling the air and gunshots silenced them quickly.

Even though Boothill never strayed from his path home, he let his gaze stray to the orphanage. There were no babies or young children there anymore, no one who couldn't run if they had to. Nick and Graey would have assistance from Colin and Donser if needed—if they couldn't get out in time.

Did they escape? Did they meet you on the edge of the property and get away? Were you long gone and safe, waiting for him to find you? He prayed that it was so.

Why were they here? The ‘IPC’ who came after planets who had debts or resources that could prove useful to them. There were thousands of habitable planets out there, perhaps even millions. His planet was nothing worth overtaking. It was a small, primitive desert compared to planets he heard tales of from travelers.

Their guns were useless compared to the IPC's blasters. Their horses were slow and ran out of stamina quickly compared to their spaceships and cars. What did they want, what debt were they after?

He rounded over the last hill like he was on fire himself.

The house was in a blaze. The animals had long scurried off into the surrounding brush and fled North. The grass was black and burnt while parts of the house were already collapsing in on itself.

You had to of left already.

He jumped from Missy's saddle and sprinted into the house. The door was closed. It burned his hand to simply touch the knob, let alone kick it open when he found it jammed.

It was locked. You were still inside. Clementine was still inside.

He screamed your name like a lifelife. Shouted and hollered over the distant cannons and gunshots. “Where are you?!” He pleaded, bursting open every door. The house was hotter than an oven, blasts of heat cooking him in every direction. He choked on the smoke, ducking down when a beam fell and covering his face with the scarlet scarf.

“Baby?!” He shouted again, voice cracking.

The nursery was the only room left.

If his heart wasn't already in his stomach, it certainly was now.

He used his jacket to touch the metal doorknob, grunting out in frustration when the door still didn't budge. The fire didn't stop for anything, he was running out of time. He kicked and kicked at the door, eventually getting his foot through the wood and breaking it apart until he could fit through it. There lied the culprit of the jammed door—a support beam that had fallen right in front of it.

But beyond that, was you. The smoke was so thick and hazy that he struggled to see clearly. The far wall was already lit up and blocking the window. On the center of the floor, right beside the cradle, was you lying motionless.

He wasted no time to hop the beam and rush to your side. He lifted your face up into his own, muttering useless prayers and begging for you to wake up. He desperately wiped the black ash from your cheeks and forehead, vainly attempting to soothe you awake. Your hands were red and blistered from burns, likely from the window or knob, and your nails were practically torn from their beds.

“Come on, sweetheart. You gotta get up,” he croaked, lifting you from the floor and stopping when you were half-way scooped into his arms.

Under you, curled by your chest, was Clem.

She looked peaceful, like she was merely in a deep sleep.

Boothill's world fell around him. Suddenly the fire meant nothing. The inhalation of smoke didn't make him hack and cough or pass out. The heat didn't chase him outside to catch the cool breeze. He was entirely numb. His eyes stayed glued to the bodies at his knees, and for a moment the world was silent.

His family was dead. His beautiful, soulful wife and gentle, happy daughter.

Gone to the world without a single chance of saving.

He didn't want to live in a world without them.

The fire nipped at his heels and singed the tips of his hair, but he was unmoved. He hunched over, curling around the two just as you curled around your baby to protect her from the flames. He couldn't bear to live a purposeless life without an ounce of light in it.

He didn't pull himself out of that house. He didn't move when another beam fell across him back and pinned him to the floor on top of your limp body. He didn't even feel the burns raging across his arms and legs.

But someone pulled him out.

Someone took that choice away from him.

The IPC saved his life but took his soul.

The day he learned the name Oswaldo Schneider was the day he swore on your name to kill the bastard who destroyed his planet.

For now, he would live. He would liive until he puts a bullet between the man's eyes.

“You're awake.” A monotone voice woke him from the sweet caress of slumber. It was rough and cold, nothing at all compared to your soft and warm one that he was blessed enough to wake up to for so long.

A distant dream.

If he could meet you in it again, he would in a heartbeat.

He will.

Once he destroys the foundation that killed his family.

Once he slaughtered the man who killed you.

Then, and only then, could he bear to show his pathetic face to you in the afterlife.

“The procedures are complete. All in one, as you requested.”

A mirror was held in front of him.

His body had changed. It was metal all over, besides the swell of his cheeks and small stretch of his neck. His eyes were different too, lifeless. Once pitch-black hair was now mostly white. Nothing was his, not even his heart. Nothing that you touched was left except for his hair and face. The eyes that looked at you with love and reverence. The hands that held his daughter close to his chest as she listened to his steady heartbeat.

A faint whirr replaced it. He wasn't human anymore, not a man.

“Every feature can be learned with time. It will take some adjusting, but I'm sure you'll get the hang of it fast.” A clipboard was shoved in front of his face.

“Sign here, please.” The doctor continued. Awfully official for such a dubious procedure, but who was he to tell some intergalactic space doctor-mechanic how to do her job.

He didn't read it, didn't even skim. At the bottom was the dotted line.

First and last signature.

He took the black pen from the doctor's chilled hands, and signed without missing a beat.

Boothill.

“For I've been warned, and I've decided

to sleep alone all my life.”

Has anyone else ever tried prickly pear and its many flavored foods/drinks? It's one of Arizona's famous native flavors and quite an interesting taste. Hillshire is inspired by Johnny Cash's famous song ‘Boothill’ (lol) and Tombstone itself. Such a beautiful little town with a rich history. The name Boothill is canonically from cowboys and gunslingers in the 1800s being called ‘Boothills’ and the grave of Boothills in Tombstone, but I liked this idea a little better for sentiment. I'm actually quite proud of this story and hope it doesn't completely flop lmaoo

[cherryheairt]

Could you do a part 2 to your "last time I see you" or nahh. Just asking

working on it these past few days!! hopefully will get it out soon but we'll see. Please comment on the post if you haven't already so I can be sure to tag you when its out 🩷

[cherryheairt]

🙏🙏

[ Lord Cregan Stark ]

experimental design, i like how it turned out. Come home Cregan, your 11 kids miss you.

[cherryheairt]

The tongue piercing of unimaginable joy |

Sukuna x Fem! Reader

Inspired by the delicious fan art above by @/hunnismokah!!!

MDNI

Content: piercer! Reader, sukuna is a freak, inappropriate use of a stomach mouth, needles, making out with sukuna’s stomach, face sitting (kind of?), oral f. receiving, p i v, doggy style, creampie

A/N: finally got it done after like three weeks. this is absolutely freaked right out to the max. Enjoy🫶🏻

As a piercer, you’ve seen a lot of freaky shit. Some scary shit, honestly.

Rejected and angry piercings of all kinds, insane requests for you to poke holes in body parts that shouldn’t be named. You’ve seen people faint and vomit. You’ve seen blood, pus, and other bodily fluids.

You’ve quite literally seen it all.

Or- well, you thought you had.

Your whole world tilted on its axis on what started as a relatively normal day.

The sun was shining through the shop windows, and some soothing music played through a small speaker on your station desk. Nobody had passed out yet, and you had an appointment for a midline tongue piercing later, something you’d done a hundred times.

Easy.

Then, he showed up. Tattoos all over his body- wide, dark bands that marked his thick muscles, and a general air about him that said “don’t fuck with me if you want to keep all of your teeth”. Your immediate thought was that a tongue piercing would look good on him.

Too good, maybe.

Now imagine your surprise, when he caught you staring at his tongue while he spoke, said “not that tongue, stupid.” and lifted his shirt to reveal a second mouth with- you guessed it, a second tongue. It flopped out comically and waved at you through sharp canines as if to say “down here, dummy!”

So, yes, the day started off normally. But it ended with you crouching in front of a very toned abdomen, gripping a flexing, wide tongue with P-clamps, trying desperately to avoid eye contact with its owner.

The situation was bizarre enough, but the added stress of the simple fact that he was objectively an extremely hot man creeped up your spine like wildfire, leaving your cheeks hot. You were made aware, too aware of the strong thighs clad only in adidas shorts while fit snugly between them, watching the muscle flex while he shifted his legs wider around you. And you were definitely made aware of the bulging abs you kept accidentally making eye contact with, slopes of muscle that had you unconsciously clenching your thighs together.

You just wanted to get this weird- and strangely, inappropriately arousing ass situation over with. It was the last appointment of the day, and all the other piercers were already cleaning and packing up, heading out the front door to leave you with this strange, sexy monster you couldn’t figure out if you were scared of or insanely attracted to.

Probably both.

You grabbed the sterilized 14 gauge needle, told him to take in a deep breath (he ignored you in favour of staring intently at your face like he was trying to explode you with his mind) and slid it through the anomaly of a tongue.

He hadn’t even flinched- not a breath, not a blink. Just stared at you in that searching way, like he was peeling back layers of you and making himself cozy under your skin- like he belonged there.

“I was told they were pleasurable.” He grunted down at you in a voice that did strange things to your thoughts while you slipped the silver jewelry inside.

You squinted up at him, unconsciously eyeing the beautiful way his features were put together, confused at his words.

“Tongue piercings.” He clarified, almost exasperated like you should have figured it out already, like you instantly should have caught the direction the conversation was going in.

You paused while screwing the threaded end on, eyes flickering back upwards to meet red ones. “Pleasurable?” The questioned slipped out while you tried to ignore the drool dripping down your gloved hand.

Tried.

Was he some kind of masochist? getting off from the pain of a needle going through his tongue? He didn’t really look like the type. Honestly, he sort of looked like the opposite of a masochist-

“For the receiver.” He bluntly cut off your unprofessional train of thought, but unfortunately led you down an even darker alleyway of sinful visualizations.

Oh.

For the receiver.

You stared at him after you’d finished inserting the jewelry, your gloved hands lying limply at your sides. You didn’t instantly move to get up, and he grinned down at you like the sight of his teeth alone could swallow you whole.

You cleared your throat, maybe trying to break whatever spell was being cast between you, before finally moving back from the overwhelming heat of his body to fiddle with the tools at your station.

“Oh, uh, yeah. Guess I’ve heard that.” But he stayed seated, eyeing you like you were a snack he wanted to feed to his stomach mouth for easy digestion.

“So you’ve tried it.” It wasn’t a question, more of an angry statement while he stared at you like there was a magnetic pull from his eyes to your body.

What was this guys fucking deal?

You raised a brow, flicking your tongue over the roof of your mouth to confirm you didn’t have a polished piece of metal there. “Uh, I don’t have a-“

“I was talking about being on the receiving end, dumbass.” The parchment crinkled under him when he stood from the bench, stalking forward to crowd you against your desk.

Your brain stalled.

He was asking if you’ve ever been eaten out with a tongue piercing.

Right…

“I- uh…” you stared dumbly up at him, suddenly all too aware of the dwindling inches between you- all too aware of his red eyes that set every inch of you on fire, that were flickering up and down like he was sizing you up.

For some reason, you were afraid to tell the truth. Afraid of what this failed science experiment turned extremely hot man was going to take from it- take from you.

But his prying gaze was too much, and it forced out a tiny “no” from your clenched teeth.

He seemed to like that answer, judging by his wolfish grin and the way he dragged a big hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, trailing his fingers down your neck, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Good.” He hummed. “I’ll let you be the first to try it out then.”

Any normal, respectable piercer would have scoffed and shoved him out the door. You, however, were clearly not one, because instead of saying no, you whispered out “you need to let the piercing heal for five weeks first.” hurriedly like it would shield you from him and the things his presence was doing to your body.

And, of course, Sukuna just smirked like he’d won a million dollars. “See you in five weeks, then.”

And then he was gone, the shop bell jingling with his exit. You had stood there, a strange intoxicating concoction of fear and arousal swirling in your lower stomach while your heart pounded away in your chest like you’d just narrowly escaped a bear attack.

You hadn’t expected to ever see him again.

Now, imagine your surprise when exactly five weeks after your appointment you spot a large, tattooed, unmistakable form standing at the bar while you’re out for some drinks with a couple of piercer friends.

“Oh my god, is that him??? Mr. stomach mouth? Wow, he really is hot. Like, smoking. Like, I’d let him ruin my life hot.”

While your friend Mia was a great piercer, unfortunately she was really bad at keeping her mouth shut. And, unfortunately, she was already several drinks in. Enough to squash her volume control into nothing.

Sukuna’s head whips around to your table like a shark that just smelled blood in the water.

You barely contain a gasp when his heated eyes land on you, drinking you up like you’d just been served over the bar counter for him.

“Oh my god, he’s totally coming over here! Dude, he looks like he’s going to-“

“- shutupshutupshutup- oh, uh- hey! Long time no see.” Your smile wobbles when your eyes drag up his large frame, noting the way his shirt hugs the abs that you were already eerily familiar with.

Jesus, did he somehow get bigger from last time?

Sukuna peers down his nose at you like you’re gum he’s trying to peel off the table. “I need you to check if my piercing is healed.”

Wow, okay. Has he ever heard of the word hello?Are pleasantries a foreign concept to him, just like getting a shirt that isn’t two sizes too small seems to be?

Your friends cast bewildered glances at you, like you have any explanation for why this freakshow of a man was so damn strange. “I’ll- uh… need to wash my hands first.”

He just grunts and follows you like a dog when you head to the washroom, into the single stall and locking the door behind you two.

You- admittedly stupidly- don’t protest because, well, it would probably be better to do it in private without people gazing at you like you’re inspecting a gaping hole in his stomach.

That might raise some unwanted questions.

You wash your hands intricately, making sure to get every crevice a germ could possibly be hiding in, for health and safety reasons. Sukuna glares a hole in your back, tapping his foot impatiently like he’s never heard of health and safety in his goddamn life.

“Jesus, are you scrubbing in for surgery? Hurry the fuck up.”

You sigh and turn the tap off with your elbow, drying your hands on a paper towel before approaching him, cautiously. “You don’t want it to get infected, right?” He grumbles, peeling his shirt up to give you access to the bizarre piece of him you unfortunately hadn’t hallucinated.

Like it had a mind of its own, it grins at you sharply before opening wide. Sharp, white canines split to frame his pink tongue, nesting the metal ball you’d placed there weeks ago.

You notice then, acutely, that it does not drop its tongue out for you.

With a jostling shiver, you come to the dazzling conclusion that you really, really don’t want to stick your fingers in there.

Sharply, accusingly, you glare up at him. “Are you going to bite my fingers off?”

he just rolls his red eyes like he doesn’t look like the type. “If I wanted to bite your fingers off, I would have done it already.”

Alright… that doesn’t really help you feel any better, but whatever.

With a deep breath, you power on, hesitantly sticking your thumb and pointer in between too-large canines that you’re trying not to look at.

He sighs when you grab the muscle gently, and you can’t tell if it’s a happy sound or not. But you slowly drag the slick muscle out anyways- eager to free yourself from his wide jaws that look like they have the same psi as a pit bull.

Looking for any signs of irritation, you eye the smooth ball of metal in the centre of his large tongue, watching as saliva pools in the centre. There’s no redness, pus, or blood.

The tongue wiggles in your hold, as if trying to pull you in closer. You shudder.

“Well, doc? What do you think?” You ignore the jab at your earlier hand washing with an eye roll, taking one last lingering look at the metal.

“Looks healed to me.”

Just as you’re about to pull away, a big hand lands on the back of your head, keeping you in place right in front of his stomach mouth.

Your back is hunched uncomfortably like this, and as much as you don’t want to kneel on the grimy bathroom floor, your knees are forced to hit the tile with a thud anyways. Your hands fly out to his thighs to stabilize yourself, accidentally squeezing at the hard muscle there.

“Prove it.”

You squint up at him through the flickering bathroom light, wondering if maybe he’s lost his goddamn mind. (Though you’re starting to suspect he never had it in the first place. Guy with the stomach mouth? Huh, who would have thought).

“What? how?” The fabric of your pants shuffle in the silence from the way you rub your thighs together, because this scene was starting to do some very, very naughty things to your brain. Who can blame you, when he glares down at you like that, when his hand shuffles in your hair and his nails scrape against your scalp.

“Prove it’s healed, with your tongue.” He grunts out, and you almost think your knees are going to give out underneath you.

Prove it’s healed. With your tongue.

Makeout with his stomach.

He doesn’t really give you time to process or make any sort of decision, because he drags your head forward- gently, and shoves you into his second mouth.

It’s… odd. Not in an entirely unpleasant way, but it’s definitely different. Especially when a too-big tongue slides into your mouth, nearly filling it, licking along your gums and sliding between your teeth like it owned the damn place.

When you feel the telltale hot metal ball running over your own tongue though, sliding pointedly along the nerves there, your head spins and your thighs shake. You lost in it, running your tongue over the crevice of the piercing and moaning when his tongue pushes in further. Almost forgetting what you’re even there for, until he drags you away from his mouth.

The world spins, the mouth-watering abs in front of you coming into focus until he uses his grip on your hair to tilt your head back to look him in his eyes.

“so?” You might be imagining it, but his voice sounds deeper, rougher than before.

all you can reply is a breathless “huh?”

“Is. it. healed.” He somehow always manages to make questions sound like threats, and it makes your eyes widen, thighs grip each other tighter.

“I- uh- yeah. It’s healed.” His eyes darken then, into something sharp and promising, and he reaches down to grab you under the elbows like a stray cat, setting you down on two unsteady feet.

“Great. Let’s not waste any more time then.” He ushers you out of the stall bathroom like his stomach hadn’t just kissed you stupid, like you had any idea at all of where you were headed.

“Uh- okay.”

He certainly wastes no time getting out of the bar, barely giving you a chance to wave goodbye to your smirking friends before dragging you out into the cool street, over to the parking lot where he ushers you in to the passenger side of what you assume (hope) is his car.

Despite every self defence and women’s safety book you’ve ever read, your guardian angel cringes when you let him shut the door, buckling yourself in while you watch him get in the drivers side.

“So, where are we going, exactly?”

Sukuna seems to be getting tired of how slow you are on the uptake, an angry tick forming in his brow. “Back to mine, obviously.” He grumbles.

“Why the fuck would that be obvious?”

“I already told you, that you’re going to be the first to try out my piercing. Now shut up and sit tight.”

Normally, you would squawk back after someone told you to shut up- especially a man. but you’re too busy hanging onto the first part of his sentence to really fight back all that much.

With a jolt to your stomach, your mind reels back to that conversation you had all those weeks ago, when sukuna promised to eat you out with his brand new tongue piercing once it was healed.

And now, it’s healed.

Before you know it, he’s pulling up to an unfamiliar apartment building in a well-off neighbourhood, practically dragging you out of the car while you barely manage to get your seatbelt off.

During the elevator ride up to his apartment, he makes sure to get you familiar with his face mouth, too. Kissing you silly against the ugly wallpaper and groping at anything he can reach until you mewl into his mouth.

You know now that both mouths are greedy, both tongues slide against your own like they’ve got something to prove, like they’re telling you what else they can do.

When the elevator dings, you squeal as your view tilts and he lifts you into his shoulder like a wriggling sack of potatoes, fisting the back of his shirt in panic. He has one hand gripping the back of your thigh while he makes his way to his apartment, dangerously close to where you know you’re dripping wet for him, and you squeeze your eyes shut as blood rushes to your head, heating your cheeks red-hot.

You half expect him to bang your head on his doorway in his haste, but you’re pleasantly surprised when he carefully steps through, probably deciding to leave all the brain damage for when he’s fucking you stupid.

you certainly won’t complain about that.

You do squawk in protest when he drops you from his shoulder onto his mattress, though. But quickly forget about it when he climbs over you, placing two possessive hands on either side of your head.

“Been waiting to do this forever.” And like he has absolutely no patience left in his system, he tears off your shirt like it just flipped him off, giving the same rough treatment to your pants, taking your underwear along with them while he’s at it.

“It was just five- ah! w-weeks.” His sheets are soft under your head when it tilts back in pleasure, a moan ripping from your throat while he sucks a dark bruise into the curve of your neck.

“Felt like five fucking months.”

For a guy who seemed oh so impatient to get you here, he spends an awfully long amount of time marking your throat, dragging his teeth down to suck a nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive skin.

You squirm under him, back arching up into his greedy mouth, unconsciously grinding down against his thigh in between your legs, moaning at the friction while he smirks into your chest.

“Desperate little thing, aren’t you?” He pulls back from you to tare his shirt off, staring at the ruined look on your face, eyeing the way your hips squirm in search of any friction he’ll allow.

You huff, ready to argue that he was the one who dragged you from the bar and was definitely the only desperate one here. but like he sensed you were about to disagree, his grip on your waist turns to steel and he flips the two of you around, setting you down on his lower stomach.

Right in front of his … friend, who was grinning at you like it knew what was coming.

Sukuna grinds his hips upwards, jostling you forward and making you catch yourself on his chest, hands instantly gripping the thick muscle there greedily.

“C’mon, brat, sit-“ he uses his grip on your waist to drag you forward those few extra inches, right over top of his second mouth, instantly pressing you down, hard.

The first broad, wet swipe has you keening, your hips instinctively jerking back at the overwhelming pleasure but sukuna holds you steady.

It’s odd- he has full view of your face like this, he can stare at the way your eyes squeeze shut, the way your mouth drops open in a moan while his other mouth does all the work. He doesn’t have to split his attention, and it makes you feel all the more exposed. He can watch every single reaction- can calculate exactly how good he’s making you feel.

Does this count as face sitting or ab riding? Can it be both? How many unspoken rules are you breaking here, exactly?

All thoughts are jolted from your head when you feel it- that little ball of metal. An addition to his tongue that honestly should be illegal with the way it allows him to pinpoint your clit, circling around while your arms give out underneath you, crushing you against Sukuna’s broad chest while you moan into his neck.

“Mmh, does that feel good?” His breath is hot against your ear, his teasing tone shooting straight down your spine and into your pussy.

All you can do is moan in response, hips twitching forward and back- unsure of whether to run away or towards the blinding pleasure, but his iron grip gives no leeway.

You can feel the moment he doubles down, the curl of his tongue against you turning mean, all malicious intent behind every swirl. And you swiftly realize that you severely underestimated the control he has over his second tongue, because the way he flicks the piercing against you feels damn near weaponized- like he’s thought about it a thousand times before.

You can feel the promise of your orgasm creeping up the base of your spine, hips starting to grind down into his wet muscle, feeling the hot metal roll against you. But it’s only when he grips a hand into your hair and tilts your head back to watch your face intently that it roars through you like a punch to the gut, choking out all the air in your lungs while your jaw drops open and hips lock up against him.

His tongue pushes you through your orgasm, right until the last aftershocks.

But then, it doesn’t stop. Even while you twitch in overstimulation, your eyes widening in panic.

“W-wait! I can’t-“ he just grips your twitching hips harder against him, dragging his tongue down to your entrance to push inside while you groan at the stretch.

“Can’t what, brat?” You’re trying to listen to his words, but the curl of his tongue inside you has your eyes rolling into the back of your head. “You made me wait five whole weeks and you’re only going to give me one? Fuck, no.”

And just like that, he’s fucking you with his studded tongue until you’re moaning brokenly, gripping a hand into his pink hair while he groans at the feeling of you clenching down on him.

Impossibly, the second orgasm is even sharper, more intense than the first. It sears through you like wildfire until you lay boneless on top of him, and only then does he stop.

- only to flip you back over underneath him, grinning at the whine that falls from your lips when he frees his throbbing dick to rub it against your clit, circling down to tease your entrance.

“Think you’re ready for me, sweetheart?” He doesn’t even give you a chance to say yes before he’s pushing in that first inch, stretching you out until your head presses back and your jaw drops open, unable to make a sound at the overwhelming stretch.

He groans- something deep and guttural as his hips twitch forward like they want to slam home all in one. He hesitates though, just barely. Probably conscious of the fact that his dick is a monster and would split you open in one go. So he slowly grinds into you instead, giving you time to adjust, time to feel every vein rub against your walls. Spreading you in slow thrusts until he’s bumping against your cervix.

You pant into the air between you, meeting his heated gaze with your own, watching the way his eyes flick from where the two of you are connected and back up to your face.

The restraint on his features is clear, along with the iron grip on your waist- and watching him struggle to keep his hips from moving sends flares of heat through you.

You don’t really mean to- it’s more of an experiment, really, when you squeeze down around him, hard. But the breath is knocked out of you when he groans deeply and drags his hips back, slamming them forward again.

He glares down at you, gripping the back of your thighs and bending forward until you’re squashed against the mattress like a bug.

“You want to play dirty, brat?”

And then he’s fucking you for real. Long, hard snaps of his strong hips that have your eyes rolling back into your head. Your moans getting caught in his mouth when he leans down and connects it to yours.

His hips are just as mean as his tongue, like they were made precisely to ruin you, genetically engineered to make you see stars, especially when he thrusts up and-

“Fuck!” All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut when he rams into your sweet spot, sending jolts of lightning through your nerves.

You can already feel it- the telltale heat creeping up your spine, just from a few snaps of his hips.

“Yeah? Right there-?“ he emphasizes the word with a precise thrust in the exact same spot like it’s a bullseye he’s aiming at, leaving your jaw hanging open with moans that you couldn’t stop if you tried. And then he does it again, and again, and again until you’re locking up underneath him, moaning his name with your orgasm.

You spasm, thighs twitching under his hands and eyes rolling back into your head at the absolute bliss that washes over you. Every sharp pound into the back of your pussy pushing you further and further.

Sukuna moans while you clench, his grip turning harder against you.

“Shit, you’re fucking- tight-” It’s almost a struggle for him to keep fucking you through it while you squeeze around him, sucking the thoughts right out of his brain. He almost cums right there- but the sheer need to feel you reach another high keeps his hips still, waiting for you to stop spasming around him like you were trying to cut off his blood flow.

You’re spent, panting up into the air, barely conscious as he pulls out and flips you onto your stomach underneath him, tilting your hips up and rubbing through your folds until you whine.

He lines himself back up, both of you groaning while he slides in.

Everything is tighter at this angle- when he bottoms out, he hits up against something devastating inside you, something that makes tears gather at your lower lash line.

Then he pulls out, and slams back in, and you’re officially fucked right out. Your arms collapse underneath you, muffling your squealed moans against his sheets, until he plants a big hand in your hair and drags you up so his breath hits the back of your neck.

“Tell me how good I’m fucking you.” He thrusts harder, faster- making you choke up, your eyes rolling back at the searing heat- fat tears rolling down your cheeks.

You don’t reply, too brainless to even process a response.

“Tell-“ one thrust. “-me.” Then another, meaner thrust, until you’re babbling-

“Yes! S-so- ah! So good! Fucking me sooo good-“ your words are choked off when he doubles down, reaching a hand around to circle your clit while he angles his hips upwards and fucks you until you cum around him, hard.

Probably the hardest you ever have.

“Fuuuuuck yes, give it to me. Keep fucking squeezing-“ the feeling of your walls around him pushes him into his own high. Thick spurts of cum hit the very back of your pussy while he groans brokenly, his chest collapsing onto you and effectively squashing you to the mattress while you both twitch.

Panting in the aftermath, you can feel him smirk against your shoulder blade, and a rush of adrenaline and fear surge through you.

“Now it’s your turn.” His words are husky, panted against you.

Huh? What could he possibly want from you now, after he fucked you completely brainless into his mattress? You couldn’t stand up right now if your fucking life depended on it.

“It’s your turn to get a tongue piercing.” His smirk turns evil against your skin. You can feel his teeth. “It’s only fair. don’t you think, brat?”

[cherryheairt]

what happened to whimsy and joy

Something something vampires have no reflection so he can't even try to see his brother's face anymore when he looks into the mirror

[cherryheairt]

you know what they say abt noses...

if anyone needs me, i'll be staring at the goosebumps on his neck in the second picture for the next couple of hours