#homestead exception | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tongue-like-a-razor · 1 year ago

Text

Hotter Than Texas | Part I

(unofficially: Brother's Worst Enemy)

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x F!Reader

Alrighty y'all, this is for everyone who has so patiently waited for me to make this a thing XD Not sure if I could squeeze a whole series out of this one but we shall see. Maybe at least a part 2. Enjoy!

Summary: Bradley Bradshaw is tasked with transporting a not-so-delicate package in the form of Jake Seresin's baby sister, who turns out to be Bradley's dream girl worst nightmare.

Aka it's a road trip, strap in.

CW: swearing, age gap (10 years)

The mission is simple. Collect Seresin Junior from the train station near the main gate of the base and deliver said cargo to the Seresin homestead in Eastern Texas on his way to Atlanta, Georgia for a long overdue visit with his grandparents. It isn’t rocket science. It sure as hell doesn’t hold a candle to the canyon run he pulled off just the other month. And yet, Bradley’s drumming his fingers anxiously on the hood of his Bronco as he leans into its frame, waiting on the trolley from downtown San Diego.

While Jake and Bradley have recently made peace after their longstanding cold war, Bradley isn’t exactly thrilled to meet another one of his kind. Besides, he isn’t one for small talk, and the prospect of spending the next two days with a complete stranger is downright daunting. He prefers music to conversation and he’s hoping that his road trip companion won’t be offended when he turns up the radio and forgets there’s anybody else in the car.

When Hangman had asked for the favor, he assured Bradley that he was his last choice – which wasn’t exactly a compliment, but Bradley appreciated the gesture, nonetheless. By the end of the term, there was nobody from their squadron left on base except Bradley, and he would be heading east anyway, might as well provide shuttle service while he’s at it.

As the trolley whistles into the station, Bradley pushes off his car and straightens his back, watching the tinted windows as they zip by, a blur at first and then gradually separating as the trolley comes to a stop.

Bradley leaves his car to walk around the fence, not quite sure how he’s going to be greeting a person he’s never before seen, but it’s not like he’s going to fashion a sign for the occasion. He sticks his hands into his pockets, the breeze picking up his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt like a parachute before it starts whipping around his torso in the wind tunnel on the platform.

He glances around at the commuters stepping off the trolley, trying to pick out the blondes that might resemble his colleague, when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns his head, just as you say, “Rooster, right?”

He blinks at you, slightly disoriented. You look nothing like Hangman, thank fuck, because Bradley can’t take his eyes off you and, as inappropriate as this reaction is, it would make it that much worse if you did. He gives you a sideways grin. “What gave me away?” he says.

“My brother told me to find the dorkiest guy at the station,” you respond, grinning at him.

Bradley chuckles. “So, you’re walking to Texas, then,” he says, stepping around you.

You laugh, struggling to redirect the wheels of your suitcase.

Bradley bends down to grab the handle. “I can take that,” he says, tucking away the retractable bar and lifting it off the ground by the strap.

“Thanks,” you say, cringing slightly as Bradley lifts the luggage as though you’re embarrassed by its weight.

But after the countless exercise drills over the years, Bradley hardly notices that it’s heavy. In fact, he could probably carry it over his head. He eyes you inconspicuously as you fall in step with him, wondering if perhaps that might impress you – not that he wants to impress you.

“Actually, he said I couldn’t miss you because you’d be a head taller than everyone else, and probably wearing a very bright shirt.”

Bradley looks over at you with a grin. “Hopefully I didn’t disappoint?”

You eye his shirt flapping in the breeze. “I found you, didn’t I?”

Bradley lifts your suitcase into the trunk of his car and walks around to open your door for you.

You give him a suspicious look. “Thanks,” you say.

Bradley nods at you, offering a hand to help you in. Once you’re seated, he shuts the door behind you and exhales unsteadily the kind of sigh that often accompanies a guilty conscience. There’s no way he could possibly get entangled in a mess of this magnitude. And a colossal mess it would become if he were to develop any sort of soft spot for his recent enemy’s baby sister. Bradley, being a sensible, mature adult, understands this unequivocally. But, when he rounds the car and climbs into the driver’s seat next to you, the notion that he’s not allowed under any circumstances to find you attractive flies right out his rolled down window.

This is because you’re already tuning the radio like you own the place and because you smell like a goddess. Bradley has no clue whether it’s your hair or your perfume or your goddamn essence that’s permeated his upholstery in under ten seconds, but whatever it is, he certainly wouldn’t mind smelling it on his sheets in the morning.

Fuck. He’s fucking fucked.

“This alright?” you ask casually, as if you didn’t just hijack a stranger’s radio.

He cringes at the stereo; he’ll have to work on your taste in music. “Got your seatbelt on?” he asks as he pulls out.

You turn around in your seat and pull on the seatbelt.

Bradley promptly hits the breaks and you lurch forward slightly, the seatbelt in your hand getting stuck on its way out. He looks over at you with an air of seriousness despite the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “The seatbelt should be the first thing you do when you enter a vehicle.” Not fiddle with the radio, he adds silently.

You raise your eyebrows at him in amusement. “Okay, dad.”

Bradley nearly shudders at your response. He’s probably a good ten years older than you, so, really, while dad might be stretching it, you’re not too far off. “Keep up that attitude and you’ll be listening to Metallica the whole way home.”

You smirk at him. “I like Metallica, so joke’s on you, bud.”

Bradley starts driving again. “If you like Metallica, then why are we listening to this trash?”

Your jaw drops and you reach for the volume dial to turn up the song. “How dare you?”

Bradley rolls his eyes. Something tells him he’s in for a wild ride.

…

About two hours later, Bradley pulls into a small gas station just past the border into Arizona.

“Want something to eat?” he asks, leaning across the console to pop his glove compartment and pull out his wallet. “Or drink?”

You purse your lips. “I could go for a coffee.”

“How do you like it?” he asks.

“With a pinch of salt.”

Bradley gapes at you. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

You snort. “I’m not joking. You should try it! Cuts the bitterness in half, my friend.”

Bradley cringes. “The bitterness is why I drink it.”

You shake your head and declare wisely, “You’ll see.”

“That you’re a nutcase?” Bradley mutters under his breath as he exits the car. He jogs over to the convenience store, determinedly blocking out the seductive quality of your persuasive tone. You could probably convince him to drink a pint of his own urine if you set your mind to it.

Bradley drums impatiently on the counter, waiting for the clerk to finish restocking one of the shelves with chips. While he’s waiting, he glances out to check on you as if you’re a child under his charge. You’ve stepped out of the Bronco to stretch your legs and Bradley doesn’t like the way the two guys in the convertible in behind are eyeing you.

Bradley cranes his neck to check on the clerk’s progress and lets out a stifled sigh. When he looks back outside, he sees that one of the men has approached you and, well, Bradley isn’t about to wait to see what happens next. He drops a bill on the counter and calls out, “Keep the change,” to the clerk before practically slamming his way through the doors with the coffees in his hands.

Why it bothers him that some random dude might want your number is not of consequence. What matters is that Bradley gets rid of this asswipe before you start enjoying his company.

He strides confidently past the man chatting you up and stops right in between you and him, handing you a coffee.

“Careful, it’s hot,” he cautions moodily, not entirely sure how to go about handling a situation in which, objectively speaking, he has no real authority.

You meet his gaze with a small smile. “You don’t say,” you respond with all the sultriness of a blazing, desert sun.

Bradley’s gaze remains unwaveringly on you as he unhooks a pair of Ray-Bans from the neck of his muscle shirt and slides them over his eyes. “Ready to go?” he asks in a level tone, hoping he can avoid what is bound to be an unpleasant interaction with the man still standing behind him.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” the man speaks up. “Didn’t realize you were with someone, honey.”

Bradley keeps his eyes on yours for several moments longer, trying his best not to show the irritation he feels at the way this rando just called you ‘honey’. Reluctantly, he turns to face him, wondering what in the world he could say that wouldn’t make him sound jealous as fuck.

But before Bradley could speak, you slide casually into his side, leaning on him like it’s the most natural thing. “That’s just fine,” you say to the man. “No harm, no foul.”

Bradley looks down at your head as it nestles into his shoulder and then lifts his arm to let you move in closer. Trying to play it cool, he skims the tips of his fingers across your lower back, which is warm and feels like the perfect place to rest his hand.

Convertible guy promptly departs, and Bradley is left standing in an embrace with the one person on the entire planet for whom he should never catch feelings, at a derelict gas station on the outskirts of arid Yuma, Arizona, and the heat is really starting to get to him. Slowly, you start to peel yourself away and Bradley, sensing your withdrawal, drops his hand and recoils from you like you’ve burnt him.

Did it feel nice pretending you were his girl? Sure did. Is he going to erase it from his memory and never let himself so much as shake your hand again? Absolutely.

Read Part 2

Tag List

I’ll be tagging the rest in the comments probably tomorrow!

@joaquinwhorres

@katiemcrae

@sehnsuchts-trunken

@toomuchfluffs

@wintercap89

@lonelywitchv2

@callsign-jupiter

@rosiahills22

@olliepig

@coffeeaddictedmay

@boringusername3

@ratedtvpg

@mak-32

@annedub

@jules-1999

@black--lightning

@j-velvet

@xoxabs88xox

@cyanide-cryptid

@callsignvenus

@artemissunn

@gcldtom

@atarmychick007

@callsign-sunshine

@shanimallina87

@birdy-bat-writes

@wkndwlff

@chaosmxlcolm

@iminlovewithenchilidadas

@daniibzz

@avis15

@valhallavalkyrie9

@ijustwantedplums

@hal3ynicol3

@avengersfan25

@hallecarey1

@nik2blog

@kpopgirlbtssvt

@lilianashomaresparza

@lovingperfectionsblog

@bblpbb

@Elenavampire21

@SometimesAnAlice

@risingtripletaurus

@adaydreamaway08

@mattyskies

@desert-fern

@catsandbooksandstuff

@Topguncultleader

@avengers-fixation

3K notes · View notes

heliads · 1 year ago

Note

requesting a tmr newt x gn!oblivious!reader, (they're still in the glade) where newt would be showing like tons of affection to reader(acts of service or others u prefer) but reader thinks newt is just being all friendly to them—maybe during a bonfire night he drunkenly confesses to them and they're like 'haha..wait what?' n end it w fluff:) idk like this is my first time requesting smt😞😞

masterlist

See, it really isn’t your fault that you didn’t notice Newt was in love with you

He’s nice to everybody, how could you be the exception?

Except, when Newt is nice to others, it’s usually asking them how they’re doing, or telling Gally or Alby to back off for a while

When Newt is nice to you– well, that’s a whole other situation

He brings a glass of water across the whole Glade because you mentioned you were thirsty once

Shiver by accident? His jacket is already around you

Minho jokes that Newt would become a Builder if you asked, and judging by the way the blond keeps asking if the Homestead is to your liking, he might not even be wrong about that

It takes dire circumstances for you to finally realize that Newt isn’t just being friendly because he wants to be your friend

Namely, plenty of alcohol and an extra special Bonfire Night

Forget the Greenie who brought on the bonfire in the first place, this isn’t about him

Newt knew this was his chance, although he didn’t expect to finally tell you his greatest secret by blurting out that he loved you four drinks in

At first, you thought he was joking– boy could hardly stand on two feet, let alone say something like that and mean it

But, as you looked in his eyes, you realized that this wasn’t just a figment of his sloshed brain

Newt was in love with you. Maybe always had been. Maybe always would be

And you? You loved him too

Newt woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and your hand in his

The headache was nothing, he had you, and that’s all Newt cared about

935 notes · View notes

harryspet · 1 year ago

Text

homestead | r.cameron [p.2]

[warnings]dark!rafe cameron x pregnant!reader, farmer!rafe, pogue!reader, implied jj x reader, kidnapping, NONCON, unprotected sex, little editing,READ AT YOUR OWN RISK 18+

word count: 3.4k

In which you confront Rafe's unsettling mix of tenderness and manipulation.

part one

Your search of the room for anything useful as a weapon was not fruitful. Most drawers were empty except for clothes. You found more pairs of pajamas and nightgowns, but searching the closet only yielded a few hung sundresses. The bathroom was simple, with a clawfoot tub and another window looking out onto green pastures. On the bathroom counter, you found a wicker basket full of what you assumed were newly bought essentials. Several containers of prenatal vitamins, body washes and creams for sensitive skin, panty liners, Epsom salts, and essential oils.

Rafe Cameron thought of all of this?

The window offered a view of the other side of the house and a large white barn and Rafe’s blue pickup truck caught your eye. You stepped into the tub to get a closer look out the window. Maybe you could see a road, a way out of here, or even a street sign that might tell you where you were. Just like the bedroom windows, they didn’t budge either.

The bedroom door swings open once more, and you sink into the empty tub, your head cradled in your hands as you desperately try to force your mind to function. For the sake of your baby, you need to think clearly. The overwhelming situation presses down on you, making it even harder to process what’s happening. You can sense his presence in the doorway, but you can't bring yourself to meet his gaze.

“I made scrambled eggs,” He said.

“They make me sick,” You said stoically, “Haven’t eaten them in months.”

“Good to know,” His tall, broad figure stood over you before you heard him kneel down beside the tub, “I also brought yogurt and fresh fruit. How does that sound?”

“All the windows are locked.”

“Uh, yeah,” he said as if it were normal, “I know you’re hungry. You need your strength. I don’t have to remind you why.”

You looked up to see his hand offering a white bowl filled with yogurt, fresh blueberries, and strawberries. He was right—you needed your strength. If not for the baby, then to gather the energy to escape. Perhaps you could think more clearly on a full stomach. You gazed at the food for a full minute, trying to rationalize why you should accept it, wrestling with the cognitive dissonance that churned within you.

You took it from his hands without a thank you and stirred your spoon about twenty times before finally bringing it to your mouth. It tasted heavenly, which you hated. “There’s the cutest farmer’s market a couple of miles from here. The blueberries are incredible but you gotta get there early on Sunday before they’re sold out.”

You met his eyes for a brief moment and realized they were sparkling with joy. You didn’t have to respond to him, he’d happily talk to himself as long as he felt like he was making some progress with you. You couldn’t let me feel that way for long, “You’ve outdone yourself, Rafe, really.”

“Just want you to be comfortable,” He shrugged, and you rolled your eyes, “It’s a lot right now, I know that.”

“A lot,” you scoffed, bitterness laced throughout your tone. “This is insane.”

Something flickered in his eyes, but he suppressed it, whatever it was, “You’re safe here. Your baby’s safe here. There’s plenty of room, plenty of food, and you’d never have to work a real jon. You haven’t even seen everything yet, but it’s beautiful. It’s a great place to raise a kid.”

“Rafe, you took the choice away from me.”

He shook his head, “So what? I saved you from suffering even further. Not even a little part of you regrets choosing JJ?”

You went quiet, feeling your temper rising. Instead of responding, you brought another spoonful to your mouth. He didn’t understand why this was so completely wrong, and presenting him with common sense didn’t seem to be working.

“I love you, Y/N,” He spoke as if to get your attention, but you didn’t meet his eyes this time, “Don’t start thinking anyone’s coming to save you, Y/N. And you won’t overpower me or make it far running. Not in your condition. You know that.”

You knew that, didn’t you? Clearly, JJ didn’t care enough about you to do better. And Pope had a bright future ahead of him. Maybe he’d realize he was better off without you. What were you to do now? Give in when you’ve just realized that Rafe is a monster?

“Finish your food, I’ll be back later,” When you looked again he had the plate in hand and was walking away, not without loudly shutting the door.

Your head tilted back against the cold porcelain. This would turn out to be a game of endurance. You had to outlast him and perhaps outthink him. He’d been planning to bring you here for weeks, but he couldn’t have planned for everything.

You finished your food and then spent the next few hours exploring the room in more detail, ensuring you hadn’t missed any detail. After all that time, the only new discovery that you make is under the bed. Still, in its packaging, you find a pregnancy pillow. You wouldn’t admit that you felt a small comfort at the sight of it. Sleeping had started to feel completely uncomfortable over the past few weeks, and you woke up painfully sore each morning.

It felt wrong when you knew it shouldn’t. In the meantime, you’d also take some of the prenatal vitamins. You could only afford one bottle of the generic brand, but Rafe provided several different types. Taking multiple kinds meant you weren’t missing any nutrients your baby might need. In just a matter of hours, you were starting to realize all that you didn’t have.

You unzipped the pillow from its packaging, letting yourself feel the soft material against your chest. Although the knock at the door wasn’t loud, it startled you. Rafe appeared now in work boots, jeans, and a flannel. He held the doorknob in his hand and looked you over as if he hadn’t just seen you or picked out the exact outfit he wanted to see you in. You noticed he was even taller in those boots.

“What do you think?” He gestured to the pillow.

“Looks expensive,” You said simply.

“It had the best reviews,” he added, “You’ll have to let me know how you like it tomorrow morning.”

You stared back at him, shifting on your feet. "Can I show you something?" he asked, the door still wide open. A chance to leave. Of course, you’d take it. Faking compliance, you carefully stepped towards him. As you crossed the threshold of your room, you allowed him to place a hand on the small of your back. "The room right next door," he said.

Your eyes were anywhere but that door. You were scoping out the entire hallway. There were two more doors across the hallway, perhaps one of them was Rafe’s, and you spotted the staircase. The walls were painted a muted beige and adorned with several rustic paintings. The scent of mahogany lingered in the air, likely one of Rafe’s attempts to make this place feel like a home rather than a prison. You couldn’t turn your head far as Rafe was urging you forward.

“I’ve been working on something,” When Rafe opened the door, you stepped inside a brand new nursery room, “Rose helped with the decorations, but I can change anything that you don’t like.”

The wallpaper was decorated with blue flowers and little woodland creatures. A wooden crib sat in the corner, a white canopy draping right next to a rocking chair. The window on the far side of the room also looked out onto green pastures. Shelves on the walls were already adorned with toys and baby books. It was surreal. Beautiful and horrifying. You clutched your chest as you slowly walked around the room.

“Rafe,” was all you could manage to say.

“I didn’t get a lot of clothes yet. I knew you’d want to pick those out,” His arms raised up, scratching his head as if he was nervous to see your reaction. Over the crib, you noticed the space-themed mobile you had picked out at the store gently hanging down. "It’s a good start, right?" he added, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

“It’s literally perfect,” You couldn’t lie at that moment, “Rafe, d-do you really think I would be that horrible of a mom on my own?”

“No,” He rushed out, his face falling, “What? No, I don’t think that.”

“I could never give my baby anything like this.”

He came closer, but you stepped back, “That’s not what I’ve been trying to say with all of this. I think you’d be a great mom. You’re gonna be a great mom.”

You needed to hear those words. Maybe Rafe was the wrong source but you needed that confirmation. In a moment of weakness, you let him closer. He wiped your tears as they began to fall, “It’s not about what you have, but I’m telling you that I won’t let you do it on your own,” He wrapped his arm around your waist and tear-eyed, and you let your head rest on his chest, “I’ll take care of every little worry. All you have to do is agree to be mine.”

“If you really care about me,” you said softly, letting him run his hands over your hair. “You’ll let me make my own choices.”

“Y/N–”

“I appreciate everything you’ve done. I really do,” You lied, “And I want this. I promise. I know JJ is no good for me or the baby. Could you just give me a little bit more time?”

“You’ll go back to him,” Rafe said. His grip on your waist tightened, and you pulled your head away from his chest, gazing up at him.

“It’s not your baby. You know that, right?” It was the wrong thing to say. His nostrils flared, and your heartbeat quickened. There was no reeling it back, so you pressed him further, “Even if we don’t end up together, I wouldn’t keep his baby from him. That’s wrong.”

“What he’s done to you is worse.”

“You’re right,” You said, trying to maintain the calm, “I know that now. And I understand that you care about me-”

“Do you understand? Really understand? Huh?”

“Rafe-” You pushed at his chest, and he grabbed your wrists tightly. Your eyes widened as you struggled against him, “Please don’t hurt me.”

Powerless, he held you there, “I’d love your baby like it was mine, I would. And soon after, we could have our own. That’s what I want, for us to be a family,” Each word was low, tight, and controlled as he glared down at you.

“Okay,” You agreed, scared more than anything, “I’m sorry.”

“I’ll show you,” He was completely cold now, “If you don’t believe me, I’ll show you. How you deserve to be treated. Everything I can give you. Then you’ll see, huh?”

He forced you down to the plush blue carpet with his body weight. You weren’t used to how your center of gravity had shifted, how your belly was also keeping you from being able to push back against him, “Please,” You said over and over again, your arms flailing until he pinned them above your head. You were out of breath already, and you had to slow your movementsand stop your struggling just to catch your breath. In this position, the baby is pressed against your further against your diaphragm, “Rafe, don’t.”

He just looked at you hungrily, grunting as he pulled down your bottoms and underwear.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” He reached between your legs, and you felt your body freeze, “Fucking gorgeous … I’m so lucky.”

You might’ve swooned in any other context. You were more swollen and much more sensitive, meaning you felt every caress that he made. You didn’t want to, but your head tilted back as he carefully rubbed your sensitive mound, “I’ll make you feel good … haven’t been touched in so long. Daddy’s gonna take care of you,” You told yourself that your body was just reacting, that it didn’t matter how good it felt because you didn’t ask for it. He kept your hands pinned only using one of his, as he used his other to undo his jeans. When he finally freed himself, able to palm his growing hardness through his briefs, he let go of your wrists. On your elbows, you tried to pull yourself away and you caught a glimpse of a smirk on his face. He liked this. Watching you struggle and attempt to crawl away.

You yelped when he grabbed your hips, pulling you back and lifting them up at the same. He was inside of you before you could fully comprehend it. You could handle it if he thrust hard into you if he destroyed you fast, but Rafe took his time with you. There was no rush or hurry in his movements. He went as deep as you would take him, and his long strokes left you crying out with each one.

You could handle it if it weren’t personal, but Rafe leaned over you and stared into your eyes with fierce determination. He talked you through every rush of pleasure, “I know, baby,” He’d coo when he knew it was too much, “Feels too good, don’t it?”

“I know you’re gonna cum for me,” He’d say when your eyes threatened to roll back into your head. “Cum all over me, baby,” He said when you finally couldn’t take it anymore.

When he spilled into you, your body froze again. He cursed, his hips rutting into you. You felt every drop of him, and he didn’t pull out until he’d fully emptied himself inside of you. He sits back on his knees, and you hear him pull up his zipper.

You flinched when you felt his hand on your thigh again.

“I’m sorry.”

What exactly he was apologizing for, you had no idea.

Rafe had gotten what he wanted because you didn’t speak out of turn once over the next two days. At some point, you expected the cavalry to arrive and come save you, but that hope shrank with each passing day. He invited you out of your room, and each time, you denied it. You easily recalled what happened the last time you left your room. You had all you could mentally handle within the room, and Rafe would bring you all three needed meals and snacks. You were quiet when he started the conversation, but you mustered up a few sentences for him when he grew frustrated at the lack of back and forth.

You should have been focused on escape, but all you could think about was never letting him do to you again what he had done on the nursery floor. Being pregnant already made you feel like you had no control over your body. Rafe amplified that feeling, making you feel even more vulnerable and easily manipulated given your current state.

You spent most of the day sleeping, punctuated by long baths or staring out the window. Rafe woke up early each morning to tend to chores, the animals, and the early summer harvest. The vast expanse of land meant you didn’t see all the animals during the day, but in the afternoons when he fed Wrangler and Sadie, many of the animals rushed to the fence, hoping for scraps.

“Got you some books,” Rafe said when he came to see you around dinner time. To your disappointment, he wasn’t carrying any dinner with him. He set the stack of books on the dresser before adding, “And I ordered pizza.”

“Thank you,” you said, resting your head back down on your pillow, hoping that meant he’d bring it to you later.

“Come watch a movie with me, I finally got the surround sound set up.”

“I’d like to eat up here, please?” You asked quietly, “I don’t feel good.”

“You haven’t felt good since you got here.” You let him sit in silence, “You’ll come eat downstairs tonight, Y/N.”

This was the first time you felt he was forcing you out of your room. You didn’t have the courage to upset him, so you lifted yourself out of the bed. He watched you intently, as if waiting for your compliance, aware of your recent streak of obedience. The way the look on his face softened was obvious, and you hated how relieved that made you feel.

This time, he led you down the staircase, his hand gently guiding the small of your back as you held onto the railings. As you descended, you caught a glimpse of the front door, sunlight streaming in from the setting sun, but Rafe guided you in the opposite direction.

You passed through a large dining area with a substantial dark wooden table near the front of the house, then continued into a cozy living room. A plush sectional couch faced a massive stone fireplace, underneath which neatly stacked firewood awaited use. Above, a large flatscreen TV was mounted on the wall, flanked by windows dressed in simple, cream-colored curtains. Adjacent to the windows, a bookcase filled mostly with DVDs caught your eye.

He took the time to show you the downstairs bathroom and laundry room before leading you to the kitchen, which was located toward the back of the house. It was straight out of a magazine, spacious and well-appointed, complete with a charming breakfast nook. Many of the touches seemed to reflect Rose's influence, and seeing the rest of the house gave you a clearer picture of just how well-off he was.

A box of pizza sat atop the kitchen island, and Rafe pulled out one of the stools for you to sit on.

“You take care of this place all by yourself?” You asked as Rafe helped you into the seat.

“I’ve had some help,” He shrugged, “But I won’t need much help anymore now that you’re here.”

“You’re expecting me to take care of the house?”

“Someday soon,” he spoke nonchalantly, opening the pizza box. He grabbed a slice straight from it and started eating so you assumed you could do the same. He added with a slightly full mouth, “Better than working at The Wreck.”

You took a bite of your pizza, not wanting to delve into that conversation further. You should’ve known he was expecting you to be a homemaker. Now that you were gonna be a Mom, you didn’t need to have any career aspirations.

You picked at your slice under his careful eye. This house exuded a warmth that almost drowned out the coldness you felt toward Rafe. You took the time to map out all the windows and doors and the downstairs layout. It kept your mind busy and, combined with the food, provided a helpful distraction.

“Are you feeling better now?” His voice cut through the silence.

“I’m fine.”

“You still like those cheesy rom-coms?”

A memory flashed in your mind. You saw Rafe sitting across from you on his bed. A huge party was going on downstairs in Tannyhill, but you and he were upstairs watching a movie. You wanted so badly to show him Enchanted. He didn’t act impressed at the time, but you could tell he liked it because he couldn’t keep his eyes off the screen.

“Yeah,” You answered cautiously, though the truth was that you hadn’t had time to enjoy a movie in long time.

“I happen to have a few Patrick Dempsey movies … if that interests you,” He smiled, trying to tease you.

“I really should get some rest . . .”

“A movie will help you relax. Just one? C’mon, we can watch Can’t Buy Me Love,” Realizing he wouldn’t let up, you gave in.

You sat on the couch as he moved to set up the movie. You should’ve known that he would sit right next to you, his arm wrapped around the pillows directly behind you, “Relax, enjoy the movie.” He said as the movie’s intro began, and you did your best to appear more like you were. When it wasn’t sufficient, Rafe pulled you closer until you could only lay against his shoulder to be comfortable. You tried to focus on one of your favorite movies and there were moments that night when you completely forgot your circumstance.

Yet, every additional touch brought you sharply back to reality—whether it was the gentle circles his thumb traced on your arm or the tender kisses he placed atop your head.

Please let me know what your thoughts and predictions are! Reblog with a comment to be added to my taglist!

#dark fic #rafe x reader #rafe obx #rafe cameron #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x black!reader #outer banks smut #black!reader #obx fic

1K notes · View notes

ceilidho · 6 months ago

Text

a movie that starts off as an idyllic cottage core fantasy (busy city girl quits her hectic life and moves to the countryside to start a homestead) only for her to slowly go mad as the temperature drops and the loneliness creeps in and the land goes quiet and still at night except she can almost swear there’s something else out there

#a tradwife fantasy opposite

261 notes · View notes

scoutofmymind · 5 months ago

Note

your anora au fic had my jaw hanging. at first i couldn’t picture it all from the prompt but once i started reading your writing……ma’am you truly are the luigi fic whisperer

Losing Dogs Pt. 2 — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: SFW, kissing, meeting-parents-for-the-first-time-anxiety, big emphasis on Luigi being Italian, familial secrets, reader is a sex worker, fluff, sorry for any inconsistencies I got too stoned writing this

Wc: 7,010 (woah)

Notes: Click here to read part one.

It’s not the condo in Manhattan that the dinner would be held — instead, the Mangione’s main homestead in Sagaponack, which after googling, you’d realized was the second wealthiest zip code in the United States.

Right behind Atherton, California, of which the Mangione’s own a vacation house.

You sit with Luigi in the back of the Flying Spur, driven by a man you’d met only a few times before, Paulo.

He drove for both Luigi and his sister whenever she was in the city, and since Luigi much preferred driving himself, Paulo had been sitting pretty on his salary with very little to do for the Mangione’s, except as of late.

"Your sister is making me loco," Paulo says, catching Luigi's reflection in the rearview mirror, though Luigi seems more focused on your tense posture beside him. "She wants to go here and there, bringing this boy and that in the car." He gestures at the interior with a sort of wounded pride, as if each scuff mark on the premium leather is a personal affront. "They all are dirty Brooklyn boys."

You massage your temples with two fingers, fighting back a wave of irritation.

The irony isn't lost on you — how Paulo, who fled Almeria with nothing but a threadbare suitcase and desperate dreams, now speaks with the practiced disdain of old money.

Twenty years of opening doors for the Mangiones has made him forget the taste of struggle.

"Nothing's wrong with Brooklyn," Luigi mumbles, making a dismissive gesture toward the front — a subtle but clear command for Paulo to hold his tongue. You can't help but think that without Mr. Mangione's intervention years ago, Paulo might well be hustling in those same Brooklyn streets he now sneers at.

The same ones you grew up in.

"Yeah, if you like murderers," Paulo snorts, his Spanish accent thickening with each syllable of his obnoxious laugh.

Usually, long drives soothe your nerves — the world outside becoming a peaceful blur through tinted windows.

But now you're trapped here for two hours, gnawing anxiously at your thumbnail while trying not to chip the pristine red French manicure that matches your dress perfectly.

"Paulo," Luigi's voice drops dangerously low, his dark eyes drilling into the back of the driver's head. "Do you ever think about going back to Almeria?"

"No," Paulo stammers, his knuckles blanching against the leather steering wheel. "America is my home now, Lui. I do not wish to ever go back to Spain — not for as long as I live."

Luigi reclines, arching one perfect brow as a cold smile plays at his lips. "Ah," he clicks his tongue, catching Paulo's nervous glance in the rearview mirror. His voice takes on that silky quality you've only heard whispered about — the tone that makes even hardened men remember their mortality. "Then perhaps we should ensure you remain grateful for that arrangement. Wouldn't want circumstances to change."

Paulo swallows hard, as he returns his full attention to the road. The remaining tension in the car feels like a coiled spring, and you notice his hands have begun to tremble slightly against the wheel.

"Mi dispiace, Luigi," he mutters, his accent thickening with anxiety as he slips into practiced Italian instead of his native Spanish. "I spoke out of turn. Your sister, she is a wonderful woman. The boys she dates — they are fine young men."

Luigi's smile doesn't warm, but he settles back into the plush leather seat, seemingly satisfied with Paulo's discomfort.

He isn’t a monster.

Paulo wasn’t an illegal immigrant, and Luigi wasn’t threatening deportation — rather, Paulo was a felon on borrowed time, one toe over the line of last warning.

It wasn’t often Luigi had to use this advantage, but when he did, he made sure not to drag it out for longer than need be. He wasn’t much a fighter as he was a silencer — arguing took up too much time, and Luigi had never initiated a fight he knew he couldn’t win.

So, that does it.

The privacy divider glides up with a soft hum — Paulo's preemptive gesture of self-preservation.

You've been lost in the blur of passing scenery, mind wandering through the early summer landscape, when Luigi's touch anchors you back to reality. His hand finds your thigh, warm through the fabric, and his chin comes to rest on your shoulder. "What are you thinking about?"

You turn your head slightly, meeting dark eyes that seem to catch every flicker of emotion crossing your face. "Nothing important," Luigi's fingers tighten fractionally on your thigh — a gentle reminder that he can always tell when you're deflecting.

The passing shadows from the trees dance across his features as he studies you, patient and unrelenting.

It's that same quiet intensity that made you first notice him across a crowded room at Sapphire.

The kind of presence that doesn't need to announce itself to get attention.

"Try again.”

You're not sure you want to dig into it before you face it — the scrutiny of his parents.

It hits you then, a realization that makes your stomach twist; you've crafted a world where adoration comes to you as naturally as breathing.

At Sapphire, your regulars wait in their shadowy booths like devoted disciples, wallets ready and eyes hungry for your attention — you know exactly how to move, what to say, how to make them feel.

Even at the bars, you've carved out your own kind of sovereignty. Whether it's hustling pool from cocky frat boys who underestimate you, or standing up for the pretty bartender when some drunk gets too aggressive.

You know how to command those spaces, how to make them yours.

But this? A sprawling mansion you’ve only seen on Google with its manicured hedges and courtyards decorated with fountains? This is different.

You can't dance your way through this dinner.

Can't rely on the carefully constructed persona that makes men weak in the knees and keeps you safe behind its glittering facade; here, in this world of pride and predjudice you'll have to be raw, real, like Luigi’s sister says you are — the girl beneath the eyeliner and confident winks into the crowd.

While Luigi has seen all sides of you — the dancer who owns the stage and the girl who snorts when she laughs too hard, his parents will be looking for cracks in your armor, for signs that you're not quite what they imagined for their son.

And the first time in years, you're not sure how to make someone love you.

Your mind wanders to another conversation with Julia last Thursday in the dressing room.

She snaps her gum, the sound echoing against the tall ceilings as you wage war once again with your liquid eyeliner. Your reflection grimaces back at you — fourth attempt at the wing and still not quite right.

"I saw him again at Paradiso," she says, tugging at her glittery, sheer periwinkle tights before adjusting her sparkly top with practiced precision. Your hand stills for a moment — yes, that Paradiso Casino — where old money goes to play and new money goes to be seen.

Where the minimum bet could cover your Brooklyn rent.

Your eyes meet hers in the mirror briefly before returning to your careful strokes.

"He's totally workin' for his Pops, babe," Julia continues, leaning closer to the mirror to check her contour. "I saw him for like twenty minutes just watchin’ tables." She pauses for a second. Applies more of her newly gifted Dior lipgloss. “Dean says they call people who just like to watch Railbirds.” She smacks her lips together, “I said I call them cucks.”

You tried then to picture it — Luigi in Paradiso's opulent interior, reducing hundred-thousand-dollar bets to patterns and probabilities, while wearing what was probably another one of those cashmere sweaters that hung down to his thighs — just an unassuming spectator.

"What am I walking into?" Your voice shakes in the middle, uncertain of yourself for the first time in a long time — you realize here and now that you've surrounded yourself with constant familiars, hardly pushing many of the boundaries of comfort zones until this very moment.

You'd figure once you begin dancing, bare from the bellybutton up, that there must be very little in this world that would frighten you — but that's devastatingly far from the truth.

Facing Luigi's parents over dinner suddenly seems more daunting than any stage you've ever graced.

Luigi presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, nipping at it gently. "Hmm," he hums, pretending to think. His voice is soft and soothing, gentle as it wraps around your throbbing heart. "You're walking into my childhood home, where my mom's probably stress-making her third batch of Maritozzi, and my dad's pretending to work while actually practicing what he thinks are casual conversation topics."

He trails his fingers down your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"You're walking into the place where I first learned to code, where I have embarrassing high school photos hanging in the hallway, and where, after tonight, they're going to love you almost as much as I do.” Luigi doesn’t stumble over his words, doesn’t stutter — he says what he says, and he means it.

Following his confession, there is no apology — no stuttering of clarification that he didn't mean to say love, no awkward cough to cover the weight of those words.

You even give him a minute to backtrack, but he doesn't, his fingers just continue their lazy dance across your skin, as if he hasn't just tilted your world on its axis.

You try to imagine the scene he's painted for you, but it's so far from the image you've already created — ballgowns, flashy diamonds, crystal champagne flutes, designer everything.

Your mind has conjured a palace where apparently there's just a home, transformed his mother into some intimidating socialite instead of a woman who stress-bakes desserts.

It almost feels royal in a way, this mental image you can't scrub away despite Luigi's depiction of it seeming so wonderfully, terrifyingly normal.

“Your mother doesn’t just have it catered?” You quirk a brow, surveying what looks like shock washing over him, or perhaps disgust at such an idea.

“Oh, wait till you try it. Can’t cater a Mangione Maritozzi.” He shook his head, holding your chin while he pressed a kiss to your cheek, your sudden turn toward him to catch his lips much needed on both ends, finding some sort of tension release in panting into each others mouths for a few minutes until Paulo slowly rolled down the partition separating the front seats from the back.

"Lui, your Papa wants to know—" Paulo nods as if he could be seen on the other line, stumbling through the conversation with the endearing awkwardness of someone trying to be both chauffeur and messenger. "Okay— si —I'll ask—uh—" He catches your eye in the rear-view mirror, his crow's feet deepening with genuine warmth, sunlight catching the silver at his temples. "Sweetheart, what kind of wine do you like? Signore Mangione said it's important there's a bottle for you tonight."

You eye Luigi, and then Paulo.

Oh.

You’re sweetheart.

You think of all the wines Luigi has shared with you — those expensive bottles from the club brought home on quiet nights, the careful pairings at Eleven Madison Park where he taught you to roll each sip across your tongue before you swallow; your mind particularly lingers on the Italian wines, as if some part of you had always known this knowledge would be currency one day.

Though, you never imagined it would be spent trying to impress parents rather than clients.

"I like a Gavi," you offer, aiming for casual while your heart drums an unsteady rhythm. The wine brings back one of Luigi's stories — him describing it as 'beach wine' while tracing patterns on your bare shoulder, telling you about sun-drenched afternoons in Sicily where his mother would polish off a bottle before their lazy walks back to whichever summer villa they were occupying that season. "Chianti, Nebbiolo, Brunello, I like all of it."

Paulo's lips curl into what can only be described as a knowing smirk, giving one deliberate nod before sealing the partition between you once again, the mechanical whir of the window leaving behind a weighted silence and the distinct feeling that you've just passed something you didn't know you were taking.

"Good job," Luigi says softly, trying and failing to contain his pride, as if you'd done more than simply answer a question the way you always do — with careful honesty.

You like what you like, but there's always room for something new.

"Good job?" The words echo back, puzzled.

You're not sure when wine preferences became an achievement worth celebrating.

Luigi's hand finds your thigh, giving it an affectionate pat followed by those gentle squeezes that usually comfort, but now feel like morse code tapping out a message you're just beginning to decode.

And then you remember.

Everything is a test.

•

Everything blurs into a soft-focus haze, your body operating on pure instinct — that same autopilot that kicked in during your first night at Sapphire.

Back then, the stage lights had felt like interrogation beams, the music a distant thunder, until your survival instincts took over and carried you through. Now, your senses are simultaneously dulled and heightened, catching fragments of reality like a camera taking random snapshots.

What pierces through the fog is the moment the door swings open; the air hits you with a wave of sweet almond and fresh bread, so rich and warm it feels almost tangible. Children's laughter echoes down the corridors, their small feet pattering against hardwood as they weave through the hallways like ribbons of joy.

The space unfolds before you — a carefully curated gallery of moments and memories. Family photographs share wall space with original paintings, scenes of rolling Italian countryside and explosive flower gardens.

And suddenly, you begin to realize that this is a wealth that whispers rather than shouts; the kind that's been around long enough to feel comfortable in its own skin.

You're eventually greeted by a woman in the kitchen who embodies casual elegance in a way that makes you realize where Luigi gets it from.

Her white sleeves are rolled to her elbows with the kind of precise messiness that takes years to perfect, the fabric expensive but lived-in, flowing just so. The pinstriped shorts, cuffed and high-waisted, cinched with a statement leather belt, speak of Milan runway shows adapted for a day of baking.

"Don't mind my clothes," she says, leaning in to brush your cheek with a kiss that smells of vanilla and Tom Ford. "I've fallen so behind, I've been fussing over Maritozzo for hours." There's a theatrical exhaustion in her voice, but her eyes dance with the satisfaction of someone in their element, a slight smile playing at lips that look just like her son's.

"And I continue to tell her that one-hundred is enough." A voice rolls through the room like summer thunder, thick with an Italian accent that hasn't softened despite what must be decades in America. The hand that extends toward you belongs to a man who fills the doorway with both his physical presence and his personality, and you accept his handshake, noting how it's firm but careful —another test, perhaps, but one you've had plenty of practice passing.

"Oh, it's so good to finally meet you Mr. And Mrs. Mangione, I - I'm—"

"Please call me Marco." He interrupts with a smile that seems gentle but doesn't quite reach his eyes — the kind of smile you've seen Luigi use with his professors. "That's Val." He gestures to his wife with a casual authority that suggests he's used to making introductions for her. Despite the warmth in the air and the Italian bakery-scented welcome, your guard remains firmly in place, each sense fine-tuned to the subtleties floating beneath the surface. "We've heard plenty about you."

A chorus of pleasantries swirl in your direction, 'it's lovely to meet you' tangling with 'so good to have you' — but before you can choose the right response, Luigi's fingers find yours, index and middle, tugging you deeper into the Mangione mansion where it all surprises you.

Not in its grandeur, which you'd expected, but in its soul.

It's not the cold showpiece you'd imagined, but something more nuanced — generations of memories wrapped in the warmth of early summertime Sunday dinners and children's laughter, comforts in tradition.

"This is—" Your voice trails off as you pause in one of the hallways, eyes drawn to the carefully curated artwork. Here, in this section of the house, there's no room for casual family snapshots or children's artwork. These walls are a carefully composed love letter to artistry itself, each piece positioned with deliberate precision. "The closest I've felt to being in Italy."

Luigi releases a soft snort-laugh through his nose, the sound both amused and knowing. "Well, those two can't stand being away from home." He gives a slight shrug, his fingers still loosely tangled with yours. "Everything they touch turns to the Roman Empire, or something." There's affection in his mock exasperation, the tone of someone who's grown up watching his parents transform every space they inhabit into a piece of the country they leave behind during the summers.

Luigi's style runs a different current.

Modern, eclectic, with just enough echoes of his heritage to show he knows where he comes from but isn't bound by it. The condo in Manhattan speaks of someone who studied the rules before choosing which ones to break.

Where his parents fill their walls with Renaissance masterpieces and classical scenes, Luigi's space (which, is owned by his parents, of course) breathes with contemporary Italian designers and abstract art.

No dramatic death of Caesar there, no Venus emerging from her shell, no tragic Dido — his rebellion is subtle but distinct.

The thought trails off as you follow him further down a hall that curves like a question mark, through what appears to be some unspoken threshold between the house's public face and its private memories.

He slows at a door, his hand hesitating on the handle for just a fraction of a second. "My old room," he says, pushing the door open with a mix of pride and something almost like embarrassment.

It's a time capsule of teenage Luigi, preserved with the kind of maternal devotion that makes you wonder if Val dusts in here weekly — trophies catching light on shelves, vintage Ferrari posters carefully framed rather than taped, and what looks suspiciously like a perfectly made bed that hasn't been slept in for quite awhile.

"God, she hasn't changed anything," Luigi mutters, running his fingers along the edge of his old desk — sleek, dark wood that seems too grown-up for the teenage bedroom around it. "Pretty sure these are the same physics notes from high school."

You drift toward his bookshelf, finding an unexpected mix of Eco and Calvino alongside car magazines and engineering textbooks. The room tells its own story —of a boy caught between tradition and ambition, between his parents' world and the one he wanted to build for himself.

"All those years of them pushing me to be a doctor," he says with a quiet laugh, coming up behind you. His breath warms your neck as he reaches past to pull something from the shelf — a small trophy, its golden shine dulled by time. "And here I was, taking apart every electronic device in the house just to see how it worked."

It seems to come in handy now, your mind wandering to Julia's words in the dressing room again, her voice carrying that particular tone she uses when she thinks she's stumbled onto something significant.

He's workin' for his Pops.

And here you are, standing in the carefully preserved shrine to his engineering curiosity, wondering if maybe his teenage rebellion and his father's expectations had found some unexpected middle ground.

Through the window, you can see the garden where dinner will be served later — string lights already hanging in anticipation of sunset, white tablecloths rippling in the breeze like sails. But for now, you're in this preserved pocket of Luigi's past, watching him navigate the space between who he was and who he's become.

"Were there any more tests I wasn't aware of?" You ask softly, sinking onto Luigi's old teenage bed, your fingers tracing absent patterns on the duvet. Every inch of this room holds echoes – first dreams, last goodbyes, all the moments that shaped him into who he is now.

"No," he laughs, but it's gentle, almost protective as he steps closer. His fingers thread through your hair with a tenderness that makes your chest tight. "You know how he operates now — he'll come out of the woodwork when we least expect it." There's something bittersweet in how well Luigi understands his father's choreography.

Though, that much would make sense.

Luigi has spent his entire life studying Marco Mangione like a cipher to be cracked — mapping his father's habits, his patterns, calculating the precise atmospheric conditions needed for a 'yes' versus a 'no.' He'd tested theories over the years, debunked some while others proved as reliable as sunrise.

Each interaction a data point, each response carefully cataloged and cross-referenced.

Luigi had learned to read code before he ever knew what it was, picking apart the binary beneath every casual gesture, every loaded silence.

Now he does it reflexively, automatically translating the language of human behavior — a skill born from necessity that's become as natural as breathing. Even now, you can see it in the way his eyes track every micro-expression, every shift in body language, processing information most people never notice is there.

"They're much nicer than I thought." You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, fingers circling his wrists, thumbs tracing the ridges of his knuckles. "They looked nothing how I imagined."

"How do they look?" His voice is soft, curious.

"Exactly how I should have imagined them." Your laugh is self-deprecating, but it fades when you catch the look in his eyes. There's something tender and almost nostalgic there — like he's standing in two realms at once, the successful young man he's become sharing a silent understanding with the dreaming boy who once pressed engineering diagrams to the walls.

His fingers tighten slightly in your hair, and you wonder if he's thinking about all the times he imagined bringing someone he loved into this room, someone who could see past the carefully curated family narrative to the truth of him.

“I love you.” You say, hushed and whispered, but he hears you crystal clear; you try to recall the last time you’d said those words to someone who wasn’t a friend or relative, but you draw a blank.

That might just explain the heaviness in your chest.

"I love you." The words slip out in a whisper, but they ring with the clarity of a bell. You try to remember the last time you said those words to someone who wasn't bound to you by blood or years of friendship. The memory refuses to surface, and maybe that's why your chest feels so full it might burst.

"I love you." Luigi echoes, and his smile – god, his smile. It's the look of a man who's found something he didn't even know he was searching for, contentment settling into the lines of his face like it's finally found its home.

You press your lips to his palms, trailing kisses down to the pulse point at his wrists, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin.

In his touch, you find an anchor, even as everything else feels like it's shifting beneath your feet. This mansion in its previously feared hallways couldn't be further from your cozy Brooklyn studio or the vibrant streets of the Bronx where you visiting your grandmother growing up. Those pieces of yourself — they're treasures you'll always carry.

But here, wrapped in the warmth of Luigi's hands, you realize something profound; this isn't just another world you're stepping into. This is the life that's been waiting for you all along, patient as a prayer, faithful as the tide.

It's the kind of fairy tale the other girls at the club whisper about between sets — finding their Prince Charming, their golden ticket, their happily ever after.

Like Julia and countless others who dance with stars in their eyes, hoping each night might grant their wish. But you — you had started dancing with both feet planted firmly in reality. Each shift was simple mathematics; rent, textbooks, tuition. Bills that needed paying, dreams that needed funding.

Love wasn't even a footnote in your business plan.

“Lui!” A girls voice rings from down the hall.

Luuuuuui!

The door bursts open with the force of an incoming tide.

"Hello!" Her accent sits lighter than her mother's, a ghost of Italy rather than its beating heart. You find yourself wondering when Luigi chose to plant his roots here in American soil — a detail that somehow slipped through the cracks of all your late-night conversations.

Her hair cascades past her ribcage in twin braids, artfully disheveled in that way that takes hours to perfect. Those distinctive Mangione eyebrows — perfectly sculpted arches — frame eyes that mirror her brother's. Identical marks dot her cheeks like constellations, an echo of Luigi's own that make you smile, a nod at nature's persistent genetics.

Then it hits you — that nagging sense of familiarity crystallizing into recognition.

You've traced these features before, fingertips skimming glossy magazine pages in the dressing room between sets. Amelia Mangione, the sister Luigi speaks of with such fondness, whose career soared while keeping her family name carefully hidden from the headlines.

“Oh, tesoro," she clasps your hands with the reverence of answered prayers, her rings cool against your skin. "I'm so glad I won't have to spend another summer drowning in testosterone." The relief in her voice is genuine — you can hear years of being the sole daughter amongst sons, of finding solace only in her mother's company and the fleeting visits of her fashion-world friends from Paris and Milan.

Unlike Luigi, who wove himself seamlessly into the American lifestyle, Amelia kept one foot firmly planted in European soil, treating America more like a vacation home than native ground.

Your smile mirrors hers. "Lui, I'm taking the boat out. I wanted to invite the two of—"

"They're letting you drive the boat again?" Luigi's eyebrow arches skyward, his gaze drifting to the tree line where you imagine water glinting beyond it.

"Well, yeah, obviously—" She rolls her eyes with practiced elegance, her hands tightening around yours like you're co-conspirators. "I already lugged the wine up there." The shimmer on her cheekbones makes sense now, summer's heat having painted her in its golden light. "Andiamo!"

You glance down at your carefully chosen dress – the one you'd agonized over this morning, imagining a formal dining room and judging eyes – then back to Luigi, uncertainty blooming. "I don't have—"

"You will borrow one from me." Giulia waves away your protest before it can fully form, already three steps ahead in that way that speaks of years orchestrating fashion shoots and runaways.

"But —dinner — I'll look awful."

"It's just dinner." Her playful scoff punctures your bubble of worry, and suddenly you're seeing everything through new eyes. All your expectations of stuffed shirts and starched napkins dissolve in the face of her casual radiance. It's just dinner.

Not an inquisition, but an invitation to simply be.

The transformation was quick and painless.

In Amelia's room, she helped you select a bikini from her collection, each piece chosen with a model's eye for detail. The white Prada coverup whispered against your thighs as you padded barefoot across the grounds, all pretense of formality abandoned in favor of simple summer freedom.

It reminds you of visiting your mother in California.

The garage housed three mud-splattered Jeeps of which you piled in among the Mangione siblings — Luigi, Amelia, and a teenaged Luca — as well as a golden retriever that seemed to materialize from thin air, claiming his usual spot with the entitled ease of a family member.

"This place is fucking beautiful," you breathed over some Charli XCX song you recognize from pop nights at the club, watching the world transform through the window.

Luigi caught your eye, a smile playing at his lips as Amelia navigated the gravel paths — paths that, as Luigi couldn't resist pointing out, he and Luca had laid one sweltering summer.

Well, mostly him, while Luca performed his specialty..

Supervisory work from the shade.

The landscape unfolded like a secret forest, all rolling hills, wildflowers, and dappled shadows. It was hard to believe this was still New York — but then again, the Hamptons had always existed in its own ethereal pocket of reality.

The Jeep comes to rest atop a gentle rise, and like a cork popping from champagne, everyone spills out.

Enzo — the golden retriever/ Fourth Mangione sibling — leads the exodus, a streak of gold against green as he bounds down the slope toward the waiting water.

The pontoon boat rocks lazily in the quarry lake, its surface shifting between sea glass and cobalt blue as bright white clouds drift overhead.

"Enzo!" Luca's voice carries across the water as he chases after the dog who's already making abstract art in the shoreline sand, transforming his golden coat into a masterpiece of wet fur and grit.

You stand transfixed, and Luigi reads the questions in your expression without needing to be asked for an explanation.

"They were digging for limestone and hit a spring," he explains, tying the drawstring on his swim shorts. You’ve already drooled over his thighs before piling into the Jeep. "If you can believe it, it'd cost more money to stop the water from filling up the quarry than they'd be making from the mined limestone, so they just said fuck it."

He’s info-dumping now, something you’d grown accustomed to, and you accept his offered hand as you step onto the boat. "I guess that's one way the universe can eat the rich," he muses, both of you watching sunlight fracture across the water's surface, turning the quarry into a sparking kaleidoscope of light.

Amelia claims her position at the helm with the easy confidence of someone who's spent countless summers in that very spot.

For better or for worse.

Her playlist fills the air as she calls out commands, “Everyone to the back!” the authority in her voice earned through experience rather than inheritance.

Still, the boat stubbornly clings to its sandy berth until Luigi drops into the shallows with practiced grace.

You watch as he pushes against the hull, sun-soaked muscles straining before vaulting back aboard in one fluid motion, “You’re welcome, captain!”

It's here, in this unguarded moment, that you see past the polished veneer of wealth and a computer science degree — you see him as simply a brother, a son, a young man shaped not just by privilege but by the genuine bonds of family love.

Water drips from his soft skin, and his laughter mingles with Amelia's music, and somehow this feels more valuable than all the limestone they never mined.

The Luigi you know moves through life like a metronome — the way he times his coffee to brew exactly as he finishes his morning shower, how he highlights textbooks in perfect diagonal strokes, the precise rhythm of his knife against the cutting board.

But here, those patterns dissolve into something wonderfully unpredictable. Something you’ve always feared suddenly being embraced.

"I've heard sooo much about you," Amelia whispers gently, her words nearly carried away by the gentle breeze.

You're both stretched out on the pontoon's cushioned stern, sharing the patch of shade, a secret hideaway from the blazing sun. Her tone carries no judgment or scrutiny — just the warm curiosity of someone finally meeting a character from stories they've grown to love.

You watch the brothers from where you lie, their athletic forms silhouetted against the sparkling water as they compete in increasingly elaborate flips off the boat's edge. "I'm hoping all good things," a laugh escapes you, but there’s an unspoken understanding in Amelia's presence — the careful way she's welcomed you into their world shows her trust in Luigi’s judgment.

"Never a bad word from that boy," Amelia responds, clicking her tongue with knowing affection. "You know him." And you do — you know how Luigi moves through life with a studied grace, how even his frustrations with difficult professors or unsettling clients at Sapphire remain carefully contained, expressed in subtle shifts of posture or the briefest tightening around his eyes rather than outright complaint.

"Has he always been that way?" You push your sunglasses up, surrendering your carefully styled curls to the inevitability of lake water and summer air, gathering them into a ponytail that's more practicality than style.

Amelia considers the question over the rim of her glass, the rosé painting sunset colors across her cheeks. "Yes. Papa hates it." Her lips curve into something too complex to be a grimace, the beauty mark above them emphasizing every nuance of the expression. "But found a way to work with what he was given."

The implications ripple outward — a father playing a long game of chess with his children as pieces.

Luca's youthful charm deployed like a pawn, Amelia's beauty advanced like a queen, Luigi's intellect positioned like a knight, each move calculated for maximum advantage. "Oh, with work?" Your voice emerges cautious and knowing, channeling Julia's ability to navigate delicate waters while gathering information.

"Mhm." Amelia clinks her wine glass against yours. "Lui is Papa's cash cow. Without him, his business would be somewhere in the bottom of this quarry." Her gesture sweeps toward the water where her brothers have hoisted themselves onto a dock floating out in the distance. "Luca is too young to make money for him like that just yet, and there's only so many of Papa's friends who will agree to business matters from the mouth of a twenty-two year old with a degree in fashion design." She gestures toward herself.

"Do you think he likes the work he does with your father?" The question catches in your throat, followed by a softer admission: "We don't talk much about it."

You watch realization cross Amelia's face like a cloud passing over the sun — the sudden awareness that she might have ventured into forbidden territory.

Still, she answers with a stark simplicity, "No," as she shields herself behind designer frames. "But Lui loves Papa, and has become too much of an asset to back out now." She reclines onto her back, empty wine glass balanced perfectly in manicured fingers, adding with quiet finality, “At least without any consequences."

•

The sun has left its mark in the pleasant heaviness of your limbs as you settle at the dinner table. Your arrival dress, that careful splash of red, feels like it belonged to a different day entirely.

Now you're draped in white cotton that catches the evening breeze, a piece of Amelia's artistry that she'd gifted with casual grace, claiming it found its true home in your wearing of it.

The moment you've been bracing for arrives with the setting sun, and you can feel the weight of possibilities — both wonderful and terrible — hovering over the set table.

If this is where your fairy tale shatters, at least you'll have the memory of Luigi's laughter echoing across the quarry, of Luca's backflips, of Amelia's conspiratorial wine-warmed confidences.

A perfect day to cushion whatever comes next.

"So," Luigi's mother begins, her attention settling on you with the precision of a gallery curator examining a new acquisition, "Luigi told me you're studying philosophy."

The conversation unfolds with an easy grace that belies your earlier anxiety. Under the table, Luigi's hand finds your thigh — an anchor point of warmth and reassurance. His thumb traces lazy circles against skin still holding the day's sunshine, while above the crisp white tablecloth, you weave your way through dinner conversation with an effortless charisma.

The harsh spotlight fades as conversations bloom around you like night flowers, a blessed reprieve.

Luca leans across the table, gesturing with his fork as he tells you about Italian high school trends, while Amelia's tales of Parisian fashion houses paint pictures of silk and scandal. Little cousins squabble over the last Maritozzi, their faces smeared with cream as they declare Zia Val the best baker in all the universe, while aunts and uncles trade stories of the Mangione siblings’ childhood, each memory polished smooth from repeated telling.

As sunset bleeds into dusk, fireflies begin their dance over the lawn.

The younger cousins and Luca — still bound by the unspoken hierarchy of family duties — clear plates from the long garden table with practiced efficiency.

Around you, the family disperses into familiar patterns; teenagers float on oversized loungers in the soft-lit pool once they’ve finished cleaning up, their phones glowing like stars; the older generation gravitates toward the stone fire pit where flames paint their faces in flickering gold; others drift between conversations, moving from plush patio seats to gently swaying porch swings with glasses of wine and limoncello.

"I'm gonna be right back." Luigi bends down, his cologne wrapping around you like an expensive promise as he interrupts your debate with Luca about Machiavelli's modern relevance in American universities. His hand brushes your shoulder — casual, proprietary — you catch something tense in the set of his jaw that doesn't match his easy smile.

You wave him off, drawn back into Luca's passionate defense of Italian philosophical traditions. It's only when you're thirty minutes deep into comparing Gramsci interpretations that you realize Luigi's "right back" has stretched into a conspicuous absence.

"Which door will take me to the closest bathroom?" You nudge Amelia, who's sprawled beside you on the oversized porch swing, both of your phones glowing with newly exchanged social media profiles. She's already added you to her close friends Instagram list and declared your birth charts "literally perfect" – Leo moon to your Scorpio rising, whatever that means.

The wine has made her affectionate; she giggles into your shoulder, her Cartier bracelet catching the garden lights.

"Oh — hm," she pauses, wine glass tilted thoughtfully against her lower lip. Her eyes scan the villa's facade until they land on a set of French doors, their elegant frame nearly hidden beneath cascading ivy that glows emerald in the garden lighting. Through the glass, you glimpse the lush interior of what appears to be a greenhouse. "That one. Go in and turn left. Just before Papa's study."

The last words seem to sober her slightly, though you can't tell if it's the mention of her father or just the wine catching up to her.

You fortify yourself with another generous sip of wine before crossing the starlit lawn.

The greenhouse welcomes you with a wall of perfumed air, and you pause despite your mission, admiring how Val has transformed this space into a jungle of orchids and climbing vines that seem to glow in the orchestrated lighting.

Through the leaves, crystal wind chimes catch the evening breeze, their soft music following you as you transition from the humid warmth into the estates air-conditioned interior, where maplewood floors and elaborate crown molding remind you exactly whose house you're in.

The wine has softened the edges of Amelia's directions. Left at the-or was it right after the — You pause, orienting yourself in the maze of hallways, when voices drift down the corridor.

Making an executive decision that human sounds are better than wandering lost all night, you follow them.

But three steps in, something in those voices. Their pitch, their intensity, turns your wine-warmed blood to ice.

You freeze mid-step, suddenly aware that you're hearing something you shouldn't.

Again.

The plush runner beneath your feet muffles any sound of your presence as the conversation from behind the study door grows clearer, more distinct.

"I can't keep doing this," Luigi's voice, stripped of its usual warm humor, carries a rare edge of desperation. "The risks are getting-“

"Non dire stronzate." Don’t talk nonsense. His father's reply cracks like a whip through the air. "The Paradiso matter needs handling. Their whale is getting too lucky, and you will take care of it. Tomorrow."

"He's not lucky — he's skilled. And I won't-“

"Do not dare to tell me no." The subtle shift in his father's tone makes you shiver despite the lingering warmth of the summer evening. Crystal clinks against crystal as ice cubes settle in what you imagine is his ever-present scotch. "Everything you are, everything you have. Who gave you all of it? Have you forgotten who paid for that degree you still haven’t finished?"

"I know." Luigi's voice sounds suddenly tired, hollowed out. "You never let me forget."

"The casino crumbles without these controls. You think Luca's art school in Florence, Amelia's little fashion dreams in Milan — you think any of this exists without sacrifice?" A pause, then softer, "La ragazza... She is lovely. Charming. But what does she bring to our name besides pretty smiles and trouble? Tell me, figlio mio, what does a sex working philosophy student offer the Mangiones except distraction?"

Another clink of ice, the creak of expensive leather, a sharp exhale.

"I'll watch the tables tomorrow." Luigi's submission comes quietly, defeat threading through each syllable. "But I beg you to remember that you cannot do this without me.” You hear him stand, and you can tell his jaw is clenched when he says, “And you will leave her the fuck out of it.”

#💌#thank you so much anon I love you!#lowkey kinda self indulgent on this one #queened out and made a playlist for it #I literally just wanted to write Luigi as a boy enjoying life but struggling due to familial pressures #and you are just stuck in the middle of it somehow #req #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic

131 notes · View notes

zooophagous · 8 months ago

Note

I do understand where you're coming from when it comes to incompetent people just wanting an excuse to kill wild animals and using their neglect of their own animals as their excuse HOWEVER it did kinda sound like you had smth against hobby farmers near the end there. What is your opinion on hobby farmers?

I actually aspire to own a hobby farm some day. There's nothing intrinsically wrong with having goats and chickens because you think they're cool and fun. They ARE cool and fun.

I just don't think your right to have cool and fun pets also gives you the right to kill wildlife around you with no season, no permit and no bag limit because it's threatening what is only your hobby.

If my hobby involved poisoning waterways or felling trees people would rightfully ask me what the fuck I think I'm doing. Especially if there were steps I could take so my hobby wouldn't do that, but I refused to implement those steps because I found them inconvenient.

I'm not even wholly against hunting or trapping in general. I am however of the opinion that wildlife and furbearers such as raccoons and coyotes should be treated like a valuable natural resource and not a pest to be wantonly wasted because it's easier to kill them than to manage your own property better.

If you have a real barn and try your best and an aggressive dog still gets in and mauls your stock and you're forced to shoot it, that's an unfortunate tragedy and the fault of that dogs owner.

However if you decide you want both an unleashed yard dog AND free range unfenced chickens, and your dog, that you are responsible for, is killing your chickens, that you are also responsible for, it's not fair of you to kill the dog when you could easily remedy the situation with a pen or a tie out.

It's the immediate jump to "kill it" as a solution to me. It's never "this isn't working, can I build a better shelter or fence? Can I get creative with what I already have? Is this a good environment for the animal I wanted as a pet?"

And they seem to believe that this approach is just fine because that's how working homesteads did it back in the day. Without realizing they aren't on a working subsistence farm in 1845. They're a yuppie who can order supplies on the internet and have a solution literally dropped off at their front door in a day.

It's sort of like Marie Antoinette play acting at being a shepardess for me. You can take off the costume and go back to normal house life at literally any time, you're doing this because you thought it would be fun, not because you have to; but you refuse to take it seriously enough to prevent death and chaos in any meaningful way.

I might shoot a wolf if I was a poor shepherd on a working farm and my sheep were my entire livelihood. I would not, however, have a cute little herd of pet sheep in a flimsy chicken wire fence with no barn and spend my weekends killing wolves for daring to get too close to them.

I consider it similar to shooting bears over bait barrels full of apples, except it's coyotes over a group of fat poorly bred tractor supply chickens.

198 notes · View notes

captain-huggy-bear · 7 days ago

Text

Cowpoke

Series/AU: Small Town AU Pairing: Rancher/Homesteader!Jack McBain x Fem!Reader Warnings: N/A Summary: Jack's not the biggest talker to people, but he sure is sweet to animals. Notes: I'm not an equestrian nor a rancher nor a farmer so sorry if any of this is wrong, I tried not to do anything that would be too specific. Thanks to the anon that requested something along these lines 🩵 Writing Masterlist

Jack has never really liked people. The exception historically being his beer league hockey team, his family who now live 2 states away, little kids and Mrs Butcher who brings cookies to the ranch from time to time. More recently you'd made your way onto his list of acceptable humans.

There's a reason Jack doesn't go into town often, a reason he doesn't really date much (not to mention how badly the last woman broke his heart), and a reason he avoids others. He hates small talk, hates making polite conversation to most people. You? You he doesn't mind so much, talking doesn't feel like a chore with you, you let him be quiet when he needs to be and you let him yap when he wants too. The perfect balance in your new, blossoming relations...and then there's the animals.

The chattiest he's ever been is with them. Like he's suddenly found all the words he's been saving up for the past 2 decades. You don't see that side of him, not often around the Ranch and when you are it's usually evening, the animals put away to bed already while Jack makes his dinner.

Today's an exception, you find yourself driving down the dirt track road, pulling up outside the farm house Jack had fixed up with Dylan, the blue painted shutters, the swing he'd built on the porch. Your reasoning? You missed him. You just wanted to see Jack, even if that meant doing chores around the farm on one of the hottest days of the year so far.

"Jack?" When you knock, you don't get an answer, pushing the door open and wandering the halls. It's empty. No Jack, no Dylan. Just a bunch of wild flowers on the kitchen counter in an old jam jar and the barn cat that had stopped being quite so much a barn cat and instead become a housecat, Tractor (named after the tractor in which he was first discovered).

You give the cat a quick rub down until he gets fed up, black mittens batting at you. Taking your queue you make your way back outside and start to wander until you hear that low rumble that is Jack's voice.

"I know, good girl...shhh, c'mon, it'll feel better once i'm done, okay?" His voice rumbles, soft, low, reassuring. More words in one sentence than you've ever heard him speak to someone that wasn't you or one of the guys.

It stops you for a moment, feet stilling, frowning because you're unsure who he could possibly be talking to like that...part of you, the damaged part, the part that's had too many men break your heart jumps to the thought that maybe there's another woman at the ranch. Still, even with that thought, you force your feet forward until you round the barn, finally seeing Jack.

He's absolutely gorgeous in the hot sun, shirt off, broad shoulders bare and sun kissed, work jeans tight across his thighs, boots on as he takes his old horse, Sunny's, hoof between his legs, hoof nippers in hand as he tries to trim them while Sunny tries to shrug him off. The old mare tied to the hitching post to keep her from moving away as she shifts uneasy.

Sunny kicks a back leg out behind her even though Jack isn't anywhere near it to get hit. You lean against a fence post to watch as he balances the nippers on his lap, free hand coming up to stroke along her neck in soothing passes. He pats her neck before reaching for the nippers again.

"Don't be like that, darlin', shhh, just let me trim this hoof for you, you old nag." He's admonishing but still soft as he tells her off for trying to get rid of him, it makes a smile start to form on your face, head tilting as you watch him with soft eyes. Each word makes you melt a little as if he's talking to you and not an ornery old mare. He's still got that stupid moustache across his lips, but the rest of his beard is starting to grow in a little now.

Sunny tries to toss her head at him, nickering as if to tell him to piss off and he just laughs at her low in his throat. The sort of laugh that rumbles out from deep in his chest.

"Yeah, yeah, I don't like trimming my nails either but the old lady doesn't want me scratchin' her so I do it. Sometimes you gotta do things you don't want to, girl." You're not sure if being called an old lady in your 20s is a compliment, but from Jack? From Jack it sounds almost like a proposal, the sort of name that warms you inside like a warm bowl of soup on a winter's day. That he's thinking of you even when there's no reason to.

You watch as he works his way around each of Sunny's hooves, trimming them even as she shifts, even when she tries to kick. Not once does Jack lose his temper, he just speaks low and soft. Soothing her with his words and calling her every sweet name he can think of as if that will make her less irritated with him.

"All done, old thing," He pats her on the rump, tossing the nippers off to the side and reaching in his pocket for her favourite treat, a peppermint. The hard feelings are quickly forgotten as she eats the peppermint, Jack untying her from the post only to have Sunny shove her big head at him searching for more treats.

"Alrigh', alright', you can have one more. But, only one, darlin', can't be giving you too many now." Still you watch as he gives her more than one, 3 more eaten in quick succession before he ushers her off into the pasture with the other horses.

It's like you've seen a whole other Jack. The Jack that talks soft, not just to you, but to animals. The Jack that's patient for the select few. The Jack that for his big size knows how to be gentle. The ache it leaves in your chest is made even worse as his big fluffy cream livestock dog comes barrelling towards him, Dozer, all but tackling Jack.

Jack falls back onto his backside, big dog sat in his lap like he's not 80lbs of muscle and fluff. Nose nuzzling into Jack's cheek with the enthusiasm only a excited dog can provide.

"Shit, Dozer, easy now...Jesus, you're going to take me out and then who'd feed ya?" The overgrown puppy just licks at Jack's face as he tries to push him away, leaning back with a booming laugh as he avoids a kiss to the lips from a dog that recently killed a coyote only 4 nights ago.

"Yeah, yeah, love you too. Go do your job, you soppy thing." Jack shoves Dozer off gently, the big fluff ball, looking over at you and barking once in greeting before running off to patrol his patch. Dozer finally gives you away, Jack looking up and over at you from his place on the ground, face falling into a look of sheepishness like he didn't expect to be caught giving his horse too many treats and letting his livestock guardian dog knock him to the ground.

He's quick to jump to his feet, hands brushing dirt off of his ass and smoothing down his thighs. "Hey, baby..."

"Hey, Jack," You swing yourself up and over the paddock fence, a little slower than Jack would have done, worried about falling flat on your face. Not that you need worry about that when Jack's already there, hands on your hips to support you and make sure you don't slip or fall.

"I didn't realise you were comin' over..."

"I missed you, big guy." You say it because it's true, but also because you don't want to make him more self conscious, not wanting to bring up his chattiness towards the animals. Not wanting him to ever stop it.

Jack flushes bright red from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears, eyes softening, mouth slipping into a smile like he's already forgotten that you caught him with Dozer in his lap.

"Missed you too, sweetheart," The kiss he gives you is so sweet that you melt into it, fingers slipping to his bare shoulders, warm from the sun, your own shoulders relaxing at the taste of him against you.

And like that it's so easy. So easy to not give in to the temptation to tease him. So easy to let sleeping dogs lie, so easy to know that you're with a man that talks to horses like they're sweet old ladies when they try to kick him, that lets his livestock guardian dog be a dog and not a worker even if for a moment.

So, yeah, maybe you could tease him, but a man like Jack? A man that says so few words already? He doesn't need that. He needs to know you accept him as he is without reservation. So instead you just lean into that kiss and hope he can feel every ounce of yearning for him that you hold in your chest, every hope that he never changes, that he doesn't become one of your what ifs.

#small town au #jack mcbain x reader #jack mcbain/reader #nhl imagine #nhl x reader

84 notes · View notes

alovelyfrenchworld · 3 months ago

Text

Your Neighborly Orc Part 4

Tomorrow arrived too soon.

You had spent the entire day stressing and preparing for your dinner with Gûruk.

It's not romantic, you kept telling yourself, but did you really believe that?

In the morning when you awoke, you did everything you could to prep yourself. Ever since settling your quaint homestead, you haven't had guests. You had more or less moved far away to be isolated from the cacophany which came with mass amounts of people. However, this wasn't a mass amount of people coming over. This was one person, Gûruk.

For some reason that made it feel all the more different.

You chopped various vegetables you had - some carrots, onions, and potatoes - to add to your, hopefully filling, stew for an orc. If you had the time, you would have gone into town and seen if the little library by the town square had any information on orcs. What does Gûruk eat normally? You've seen him hunting, so you know he must eat meat. Sadly, you didn't have that much, but you added what rabbit meat you could spare, hoping the taste of the tender meat would come through to his inhuman tastebuds.

Four hours you had let the stew simmer. Every so often, you'd taste it nervously. Were the vegetables soft enough? Was the meat cooked all the way through? Was there enough bone broth? Was there too much seasoning? Not enough?

Amidst your cuisine worries, you also had to figure out what to wear. Clothing was not in abundance but did the blue dress look odd? Was the green too on the nose? You eventually settled for a deep teal colored dress with a simple brown leather belt about your waste. You wore simple wooden beaded earrings with your hair pulled hack with a hair pick. It wasn't perfect or graceful, but you felt nice enough. With a berry paste, you gave yourself a little rouge and lip tint to accentuate your features (not that those would matter…right?).

Before you knew it, the sun was beginning to set. The golden light of the approaching night was almost like an alarm as almost immediately, there was a rapping at your door.

Shaken from your worried state, you rushed to the door. On the other side was the big, burly Gûruk. Wearing a fur wrap around his shoulders, polished silver septum ring, and fresh clothing. Too fresh. As if they'd hardly been worn. He was a pleasant sight.

"Hi," you said nervously. "You're here."

"Good evening, Y/N," he responded, gruffly. "I said I would be. Why wouldn't I show?"

At first you thought he was picking, but his expression showed he watch genuinely asking.

"Oh!," you blushed, feeling a little odd for possibly implying he wouldn't come. "No, no, it's not that I didn't think you'd arrive. Only...I am happy you are here."

He returned your smile. It looked odd in contrast to his rough features. A scarred, green face, with a dashing smile. How contradictory.

You invited him in, but he would only enter your home after you.

"It is your space, only when you inhabit it will I feel comfortable being in it." he had said.

Apparently, it is an orcish tradition. Whenever one is invited to a space, you give the host room to move about show them that you are not a threat, but are there for company. You leave your weaponry at the door and then enter behind the host.

Gûruk did not have much on him, except for his recognizable bow and an insanely massize axe that was almost the heighth of your front door.

"I would not have thought orcs had so many traditions when it comes to house visits," you said in a surprised tone. Gûruk was very diligent with place everything by the front door inside.

"Not many people would," he straightened up to his full heighth. Your cottage was quaint at best and having an orc of around 7 feet standing in your living quarters made you hyper aware of how small the space was. "So, what's for supper?"

You led him to the small dining table, now wondering if your chair was too small for him to sit in, and then passed him a bowl of your stew.

Gûruk's large frame looked a bit silly as the chair was so small, but he made no comment. He simply accepted the bowl of stew. Once you had sit down across from him and got ready to eat is when he took his first bite of your home cooking. He let out a low grunt, almost in contemplation.

Shit, is it not good? I think it tastes okay...is my tongue wrong? Am I ill? Did I posion myself and now cannot taste properly? You asked yourself.

"Y/N," Gûruk said. Shit, shit, shit. "You may have to come to the orc encampment and cook now. I cannot taste something this good and go back to my people's cooking."

Flattered, you giggled. A hot blush quickly covered your cheeks. No doubt, did Gûruk notice. At least, if he had, he made no mention.

"Truly?" You asked.

"Honest. I would never lie about food. This is wonderful."

"Thank you, Gûruk. If I am being honest, I spent the whole day stressing about it. I was worried it would not be up to your standards."

Gûruk was visibly taken aback by this.

"When your people live as mine do, there is more focus on survival and less on culinary mastery. Some of my men would love to try this."

Your eyes widened at the mention of it. It sounded so taboo, although feeding local armies are not uncommon...at least, for humans anyway. Orcs are another matter entirely. Sensing your momentary discomfort, Gûruk immediately apologized.

"I did not mean to frighten you! Only that I would feel to selfish to keep this kind of delicacy to myself. I think hearty food is meant to be shared." His own nerves got the better of him, then. Gûruk had cleared the bowl you had offered and in his own nervousness, he twirled the spoon between his fingers. He focused on that repetitive motion for a few silent breaths.

Finally, you were brave enough to speak up.

"I made plenty. Truthfully, I don't know how much orcs eat and I was worried you would be hungry." You got up and showed him the giant pot of stew, not even half empty from what you had served.

Gûruk put his hands on yours, making you lower the pot slightly.

"It is a great kindness, Y/N, but I would not take so much food from you. You need to eat as well." His eyes softened at his last words.

"I eat," you said matter-of-factly. "This is just too much for me to eat before it is spoiled. You set the pot down and showed him your array of jarred foods and edible plants you gathered and shared plans for a bread starter in the upcoming days.

"It still isn't enough." Gûruk chuckled.

"How is it not?" You said, gesturing to everything you just presented.

"You need meat, warm foods, what about those?" He teased. "Or have you been resting because of that nasty fall?"

You playfully smacked his large, rather muscular, arm.

"Not funny! That really hurt..." you teased back, feigning sadness.

His demeanor changed in a flash, concern washing over him.

"Are you bruised at all?"

"Only a little, a hot bath eases the pain some."

"That's good," he smiled. "It would probably be best for you to rest indoors for a few days more."

Hands on your hips, you questioned him.

"Are you telling me what to do?" An eyebrow raised at himw as enough to make him squirm for a second. He stood up to his fool height in order to defend himself.

"No, I only mean to advise," he smirked. "Hunting in these conditions can be treacherous."

"Oh, I understand," you giggled. "Treacherous? How ever will a maiden like me survive the harsh winter?" You pretended to faint, nearly tripping over your cat who was sneaking to the table to steal some food.

The sound of his 'meow' was enough to make you jump, falling into Gûruk at the shock. He caught by the waist, almost instinctually. The sudden closeness made your heart race. Looking up at him meant leaning your head back as far as it went. You apologized profusely to which he said there was no need.

"See? You've proven my point." He laughed.

"You're rigjt," you laughed in return. "Maybe inside is my safest option. However, I still need to hunt. My meat supply is running very low and I need to savour those last bits for my little baby over there."

You pointed to your mischevious cat that was now staring back at the two of you as if he didn't just cause an almost-accident. No thoughts in his mind, just staring into the abyss.

Gûruk realized he had not yet released you and slowly let you go as he spoke.

"If I may return tomorrow morning, I can bring you some more meat. There is an overabundance at camp. It would be a waste for it to rot."

Not stepping back from where he had let you go, you stood in place, firmly.

"I wouldn't want to put more work on you." You replied, apologetically.

"Nonsense," he brushed off the thought. "I do not like food waste. Besides, we cannot let your poor kitty starve."

"Not at all." You grinned.

***

You and Gûruk spent the next couple of hours talking about the weather and asking about each other. He stoked the fire as it was dwindling because, as he put it, "the cat will freeze in these conditions".

You told him about moving out here and how you had found your cat abandoned and starving. He told you about how the orcs have had to relocate and are trying to keep the peace with the humans. He explained how he is hoping that their settlement will be far more permanent than it has been in past years. You agreed, saying you'd hope permanence meant seeing him more.

"I would like that very much." Gûruk's face was very close to yours. You two ended up on your setee across from your armchair, sitting closely to one another by the fire. Your cat took advantage of the empty chair, purring in his sleep as the fire crackled like a lullaby. The closeness to Gûruk allowed you to see his features more carefully in comparison to yours. Everything about him was larger than the average man. His tusks were intimidating in daylight, but by this firelight, they were adorned with a yellow glow that almost made them feel magical.

Unintentionally on both your parts, your conversation slowly faded out as you both leaned into one another. Far more carefully than you would have imagined was possible for such a burly orc, one of Gûruk's hands held your chin up towards him as gave you lightest kiss you'd ever received. Gûruk pulled back and hovered his hand by your face, the loss of contact saddening you.

"I hope that was alright." he muttered, soundign frightened by what your response could be.

"It was more than alright," This time, you initiated a kiss, but with a little more pressure. Nothing agrressive, just more contact. Five more seconds of bliss. "I hope that was alright."

Gûruk blushed, visibly. The pink spreading across his green skin made his cheeks look ignited by an internal fire. "More than so."

"It is getting late." You stated with disappointment. Outside your window, you could see nothing in the pitch black, but could hear the faint sounds of the nocturnal fauna awakening.

"I have to get back. I am sure I have worried my people being gone so long." Gûruk got up in a hurry, grabbing his dear by the door.

You followed suit, anxiety washing over you.

"I am sorry if I have caused trouble, I did not mean to keep you." Your eyes slowly began to well with unwanted tears. You blinked them away quickly, trying not to let Gûruk know of your feelings in the moment.

He took your hand firmly and assured you.

"You have not kept me, I was here of my own free-will. I just have others in my care that need me."

You led him out the door. Once you both were on the porch, he turned to you, making intense eye contact that worried you.

"Would another kiss before I go be overstepping?" He asked.

Rather than replying, you placed a hand on his chest and stood on your tip toes. He understood your meaning and leaned down to meet your lips. A quick peck was all he needed for a smile to return to his face. Lifting a hand of yours to kiss it, he bade you farewell.

"Tomorrow, Y/N, do not forget." he said.

"I won't" you promised.

"Goodnight." He said as he backed away and turned towards his home.

"Goodnight." You replied, the cold winter wind carrying your words to his attentive ears, unbeknownst to you.

TAGLIST:

@silverclawz @beaniebaneenie @jar0fhoney @yourlittlehoe @lem-hhn @apuddleonthelivingroomfloor @graveblanketgreen @blushycadaver @adriennepoison @sunndust

#monster boyfriend #monster fucker #monster x human #monster x reader #orc #orc boyfriend #orc romance #orc x reader #monster #gûruk the orc

118 notes · View notes