#if its too cold YOU can open a fuckin window

[0bsc3ne]

bitches be like "why are you never home :[ i went three days without seeing you :[" and then keep the house at fucking 77. like sorry i don't like spending my free time in a fucking sauna constantly

[the-californicationist]

i did send the same thing to another writer i enjoy bc i love different takes on things, but my little dumpster brain has had one thought in the last 24 hours - imagine confiding in your captain that you'd like to have a baby bc biological clock or whatever, and being in the field really puts a damper on your sex life, so that makes it difficult. but the 141 will do anything for one of their own, so if that means they're running trains and taking turns on you DAILY until it takes (and probably even after 👀), then so be it.

lol... you lit a fuckin' fire with this ask, my friend. hot!!

"The Window" (141/Reader)

You awoke to the soft tinkling noise of his belt and zipper, rattling at the edge of your bed. Your captain, John Price, was answering his call of duty, and within moments, you knew he would slip his fat, flaccid cock between your legs and allow your warmth to make him harden within you. He preferred it this way. First, he would rub you with it, heavy and smooth, smearing your wetness all over his skin. Then, with a singular talent, he would somehow stuff his soft, lolling head into your hole, feeding himself into you gently, letting your body take him in on its own as your pussy pulsed for him, and he would rub your clit absent-mindedly, comforting himself with your swollen lips, sighing raggedly as you covered him up. Once he was hard - and fuck, he was impossibly hard - he would fuck you through your blinding pleasure, his girth giving you burst after burst of hot, searing bliss.  

He wasn’t your boyfriend - none of them were - but the members of your task force, the 141, had all agreed to be the father of your child. It had started when Captain Price first saw your appointment on the team calendar. You’d meant to post it privately, but you had failed to do so. He came to you right away, his face full of worry,

“Wha’s goin’ on, Spar? Goin’ to the main base hospital… Wha’s all this about?”

So, you’d told him, a little bashfully, that you were trying to get pregnant. You’d be turning 28 this fall, and you wanted to be a mom, sooner rather than later. Every few weeks, you were shipped off to some too-cold or too-hot locale, getting shot at and flash-banged. There wasn’t really time to find a date, much less convince them that you would make a good mother. The last time you tried to use Tinder, one guy had called you ‘Rambo’ and blocked you, so it wasn’t going well. 

“I’ll go with you, little bird. Sounds important.”

“You don’t need to do that, Captain. I’m sure I can take out a loan for it…” You thought out loud, remembering the pamphlet and all of its cost breakdowns for IVF treatments.

“A loan? Last time I checked, love, it was free,” he chuckled. 

“Free when you have someone who’d be willing to give it to you, sir,” you challenged him with your confidence, trying not to be ashamed, even of your ‘Rambo’ nickname. 

“Sparrow,” he raised his voice and nearly shouted your callsign incredulously in the small mess hall where he’d found you, “There’s no bloody way you don’t have someone willing.” 

“Wha’s goin’ on, Cap?” Gaz poked his head in behind the door. 

“Nothing,” you tried to stop the literal landslide of embarrassment that was happening to you.

“She wants to have a baby,” Price told him, smiling a bit as your cheeks turned pink.

“A baby?” Gaz commented with no small amount of surprise.

“Who wants a baby?” Simon yelled out from the hallway before opening the door wider and scooting around Gaz to join into the conversation. 

“A bairn!?” Soap barged in, slamming the door all the way open and forcing Gaz to tumble into the kitchen. 

So, the whole team knew in a matter of moments, but Price kept his word. He drove you to the hospital for your appointment and asked more questions to the doctor than you did. Unfortunately, he heard all of the strictest rules and took them to heart. No cigarettes, no caffeine, plenty of rest and… plenty of exposure to male ejaculate. 

There had been a meeting, of which you were not a part, between Price and the other men in your task force, and they had come to a conclusion: they would put a baby in you. It was their singular mission. A bit of back and forth had occurred when you found out their plan.

“Is there… we dinnae want to pressure you, lass, but,” Soap looked around at Ghost, Gaz, and Price before settling back on you, “Are there any of us you wouldnae like to be the father? We willnae take offense.”

“No! I’d be happy to have any of you… I mean… But, I don’t want you to feel like you need to do this if you don’t want to,” you could feel the heat of your shame rising in your cheeks, and you knew you were as red as a lobster. You heard a bit of laughter at your comment and feared the worst. But then, Gaz explained,

“I’m afraid all of us very much want to, Sparrow.”

He had even palmed his growing cock for emphasis. 

But, it had to be fair, you decided. There should be a schedule; no favorites. And for the first month, there was. Soap was your Monday, Ghost was Tuesday, Gaz was Thursday, and Price was Friday. But then Price had a meeting and so Soap was Friday, and Price was Saturday. That meant Ghost was Monday. You were in training on Tuesday, so Gaz was Wednesday, but Soap couldn’t do Thursday or Friday because he had to go in for his annual review. So, he joined Gaz on Wednesday, stepping in right after him as if you were a pretty little mailbox and the boys had come to drop off their packages. 

When the weekly schedule fell apart, you hung a big calendar in your quarters, and they’d pencil themselves in. That was fine until you had been shipped out to Aqtabi. You’d tried to keep it up while you were in the field, remembering what day was which, but the truth was that sometimes you had no idea if it was morning or night. Was that the sun or a flare? 

And sometimes it didn’t matter. Something would happen on a mission, and Price would crawl beneath your scratchy woolen sheet, searching for the comfort of your arms, not saying a word, not even asking you if it was alright, but just taking you there in the cold night of the desert, filling you up and keeping his cock sheathed in you, safe and sound. 

And sometimes you needed them, too. Waiting on exfil, huddled together in the pouring rain beneath a sad tarp, you’d crawled into Gaz’s lap, looping your arms around his neck and letting him hold you in a cradle, using his big chest as your pillow. You’d dozed, exhausted, and he’d rubbed himself against you through your clothes, coaxing you to pull down your pants so he could empty himself into your womb, quick and filthy. You remembered how it felt when his come had soaked through your panties as you sat next to him in the helicopter, letting him hold your hand. 

You felt a little guilty that you weren’t exactly hoping for a child during those first few months. You were enjoying their affections, no matter how platonic they may have felt. 

It didn’t stay that way, though. Soap was the worst offender. When he fucked you, he wanted to spend most of his time eating you out, sucking on your clit with his mouth like a hungry dog, soaking himself in your scent and your flavor before finally mounting you, crawling over your body like the hound that he was, dipping his cock into you and beating your core like a drum. He’d stare into your eyes when he could manage it, and he’d slipped up one day and told you he loved you. That you were his girl, his wee bonnie lass, and that he’d raise the bairn with you, even if it was Black like Gaz, tall like Ghost, or had Price’s big nose. It’d be his and yours. He’d be the daddy you wanted him to be, he promised. 

Then, you’d had to deal with Gaz. He’d made dinner reservations at a restaurant near base while he had your legs held up to your chest, helping you wait the twenty suggested minutes for his “lads” to “soak in”. Told you he was just hungry, but he had also happened to buy you a nice dress, and he’d driven you in his sporty little Beamer, bright red and clean as a whistle. He’d fucked you after dinner, sneaking in a double feature, which was expressly against the rules. Told you he couldn’t help himself, and he said he’d been thinking about you all weekend, cock in hand. 

Ghost was like his namesake, haunting you all over the place. He found you in the locker room, and decided to fuck you standing up, sweaty from your sparring match. He’d washed you off in the shower, and he’d taken you in there, too, after coaxing you to make him hard again by sucking him off. Ghost would slink by you in the reference room, stalking you through the bookshelves, and dragging you to the storage closet to fuck you on all fours on the floor, maps and looseleaf pamphlets about Russian spy camps under your rosy red knees. He got vocal that night, cramped with his huge body in that tiny closet, telling you what a good girl you were for him, how you fit his fuckin’ cock so perfect, how he’d never want anyone else, how it felt so good to fill your body up with his load. 

Then, there was your captain. At first, you weren’t sure he was truly a willing participant. He seemed to avoid you unless he was on the schedule. He didn’t cut in line, and if you were on the couch or in the kitchen with one of the boys, he’d leave you be, smiling at you a bit before grabbing his tea and escaping back to his office. But, then you realized the truth: John Price wanted to put a baby inside of you more than anyone else, and he would go to the ends of the earth to make sure it happened. 

“Hey, little bird,” John’s finger pet the side of your cheek as you woke, feeling him pull down your pink silk panties so he could start to warm you up, “I’m your Sunday.”

“Mm,” you rubbed the sleep out of your eye and opened up your legs for him, giving him full access to your body on instinct at this point, “John, we gave up on the schedule. You can come whenever you want. Or, you can stop.”

“Can’t stop,” he kissed your mouth as he leaned over you, and you tasted peppermint and tobacco mixing together with something heady and lustful, “We’re in the window.”

Ah. The Window. All of the boys talked about The Window and when it was coming up next. They’d all downloaded trackers on their phones, watching you like birds of prey for when you ordered a box of tampons, checking with you to see when you were off the rag. And then, you’d be “in the window” of ovulation. Their best chance at succeeding at this mission. 

They would fuck you at any time of the month, and Soap and Price would even fuck you through your period, having read in some magazine that there was a small chance of success. But, being in The Window was like covering yourself in honey in the middle of a cave in spring and waking up all the bears inside it. Fertile ground, ripe for the taking. 

“Mm, fuck,” you keened. John had two fingers in you now, pressing on your soft spots and stretching your hole. You wrapped a hand around his neck and pulled him in for another kiss, which he moaned into. 

“Feel good, Spar? You want to make me hard, pretty bird?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, looking up at him with desperate eyes, “Yeah, I do. Please, John…”

 He slipped himself in, half-hard already, and you felt the body of it slide into your core. It was soft, and you liked to squeeze it with your muscles, feeling him writhe inside of you when you did, reveling in his pleasure. He sat back on his heels to let you play with him fully, watching you grind your hips on him as he massaged your clit to its full, swollen height. He was in no rush, and he spoke to you casually. 

“Has Kyle been in this weekend?”

“No, it was Soap,” you tried to remember, “And then Ghost, and then Soap again.”

Price chuckled warmly,

“That boy wants a baby so badly.”

You smiled with him, agreeing, 

“He does. He interrupted Gaz on Thursday and asked him when he’d be done!” 

Price laughed with you then, his eyes gleaming and crinkling at the edges,

“Oh, Christ. He’d be a good one. They’d all be good.”

You watched his mood shift. There was something solemn about it, and you wanted to chase it away. You rubbed your hand along his furry belly, locking your ankles around his hips and shamelessly rocking your hips to fit more of him into you. You confessed, 

“You’d be good.”

His eyes found yours again and he stilled, wondering out loud,

“D’you think so, Sparrow?”

“I know so.”

“Can I tell you a secret, little bird?” He whispered, lowering himself into position and stuffing his hard length even deeper inside of you, making you worry just a bit if he could hurt you with that thing. 

You nodded, kissing his huge Adam’s apple in his throat and nuzzling through his beard. He told you the whole truth as he pounded himself into you without mercy, 

“Sometimes, I wish he would be mine. I wish…” He almost stopped, but he kept going, like a raft in the stream, too caught in the current to go back to the shore, “I wish you could be mine, and then I could rub lotion on your belly when you got big. And I could cook for you when you got tired, and I could read to you, even when he was still inside of you, and I know he could hear my voice. I wish, sometimes, that when it happens, that I’d be the first to know. That you’d tell me first, because you knew it was mine, because you’d want him to be mine.”

You were stunned, and you were coming, and the two were very separate events. As your pussy pulsed and tried to milk him of his come, making you dizzy and almost sick with pleasure, you were shocked by his admission. You grabbed his face and made him look you in your eyes,

“John…” You panted, coming down from your first high of many with Price, “I had no idea you felt that way.”

“I didn’t either,” he smiled, but the corners didn’t reach his eyes. 

When he fucked you this morning, you had no idea how good it could feel, but he showed you. He rutted into you, desperately, like some sort of beast, unable to stop himself. It was as if he would fuck himself bloody in you if he had to, and you wanted to take him as best you could. You felt him finally start to come, and he plugged you up with his thickness, shoving himself as deep as he would go, sealing you off and keeping you warm and elevated. 

He kept his cock in you, gasping for breath and petting the hair out of your face. He kissed you, cheeks and chin and neck, all the way down to your breasts where he suckled from your nipples, almost dreamlike in the way he was touching you, fully covered in you the entire time. 

“Sleep, birdie,” he nuzzled your neck and continued to lave his tongue over your breasts, “I’ll wake you when I’m hard again.”

Part 2

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

CAT-EYES

PAIRING: Runaway Groom!John 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Thief!Reader

SYNOPSIS: What begins as a normal day of stalking the back road for wealthy carriages, turns into a walking nightmare spanning three days. Who is this finely-dressed man stumbling about your woods?

WORDCOUNT: 13.3k

WARNINGS: Blood, injury, light gore, pining, intense banter, sarcasm, insults, kind of enemies-to-lovers but eh, angst, protective!John, light hurt/comfort, bittersweet?, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You were sitting in the branches again.

Lightly swinging your legs from over the sides, the rough bark at your spine shifted as you let out a tiny sigh into the chilled air. In your ears, you’re hearing the bugs fly past, and the large hart about fifteen feet away pushing through the undergrowth—built body just barely there as the puff of his hot breath wafts upwards. 

Twirling the arrow between your fingers, your bow sitting carefully in your lap, you close your eyes and listen. 

The years had come and gone and yet you remained here in this small corner of nowhere—resting in this old gnarled oak tree with its branches and leaves giving protection from the elements when nothing else would. Sure, you had a small home to call your own in these very woods, but your windows didn’t give a view of the back road to the East. Barely anyone took it now, and you think you’re partially to blame for it, but, well, perhaps those pesky nobles shouldn’t have been too prone to flashing their coin.

So it was their fault, and on your failing honor, the money always went to a good cause anyway. Who wouldn’t want a poor woman to eat?

But, no. There are rules that every thief follows, no matter how unsavory. You never killed anyone; you never harmed them, either. Just the money—a brandished dagger or an arrow to the side of a carriage wouldn’t hurt anything besides pride, and many of those you stole from had enough to last them multiple lifetimes. 

“Greedy fellows,” you sigh under your breath before you stretch like a cat, arching your spine and spreading your arms high above your head. The few rays of sun you get through the leaves dance across your face, but still, the thick layer of cold air is present all around. 

Shuffling a bit in your shoulder-wrapping, you yawn and fall back once more—licking your lips and thinking of warm stew and fresh bread from the inn down in the town. Shivering, your fingers move to play with your bow, tapping along the bend of wood as the trees are brushed by a soft breeze. The hart below huffs louder still—hooves crushing across the fallen twigs, and you think it’s a bit strange the thing is still here despite your scent clearly in the air, but your eyes are more focused on the road than an animal. 

Until it speaks.

“Hells fuckin’ bells, this damn get-up is going to be the death of me,” the words are barked out quickly—laced with heated anger as a branch is slapped by heavy hands.

Startling, your head snaps below you rapidly; heart jerking inside of your chest so suddenly that you nearly send yourself off the side of your perch. Scrambling for your bow to make sure it doesn’t clatter to the dirt of the Earth, you force down a loud gasp at what you see. 

“Bastard things,” meets your ears as you stare open-eyed at a bulky man as he stumbles out into the small clearing below your tree, looking behind him as he pants. Your jaw goes slack at the extravagant apparel clothing this sudden stranger—a red, black, and blue tartan thrown over his shoulder, pinned with the silver image of a great boar head, and the kilt has more than one bramble stuck into it as it swishes with his turn. 

He has a sporran as well, made of dark furs with three tassels hanging, the metal also silver, as your experienced eyes can tell as they narrow in confusion. 

“What in the hell…” You breathe quietly, leaning just a bit more over the edge of your branch slowly. 

There were black belts and buckles, rich shoes of leather, and your gaze slowly drags to the hanging body of a sword strapped to his waist, swinging as the man rests his feet and looks down at himself with a deep annoyance. There wasn’t an inch of him not coated in dirt, mud, or sweat—all that deer-ish panting and huffing escaping his mouth in condensed clouds. 

“Fuckin’,” he stops himself from continuing the curse, holding up his hands as he glares down at his form. “Jesus, this’ll never come out at this rate.” 

This comment made your lips twitch, eyebrow-raising as your sharp vision filtered from one detail to the next—learning the brown shade of his cut hair and the strange way it’s kept long down the center, and short along the sides. He had a strong build to him, and the boar broach, while it may be something to distinguish a family line as he seemed wealthy, perfectly reflected the individual. 

He was a being of muscle and stubborn willpower. All tusk and bristled fur.

Your eyes linger a bit longer on the silver of that broach—the thing that glints in the light alluringly. You hum under your breath, tilting your head softly. Yet, your impression was made, and your wits are about you as sharply as they always had been.

This was a formal outfit, for a formal occasion. So, why was this important man trampling through the woods where you were set to ambush the next unassuming noble on the road? Why was he looking over his shoulder so tense-like? Your curiosity had piqued the second you’d figured out the rabid crunching from the bushes wasn’t a deer but instead, a wealthy-looking man who wasn’t, you admitted, too hard on the eyes. 

Blinking, you smile, fingers twitching over your bow as the stranger brushes his vest rapidly, growling down at the large mud stains. 

“Lost, then?” Your voice makes him startle, skull whipping forward to the tree trunk until you whistle and lean forward; moving your bow to push away the cover of leaves. “Up here, now,” blue eyes immediately lock with yours and you hum, chuckling, at the moment of shock that shines through. “Poor bastard, look at you and all that mud. You’ve been through hell, mate, eh? By the state of you, I’d say you fought a bear and found yourself at the end of an unfortunate outcome.”

Your words are smooth—nearly sly just as they always are. There’s intent leaking out of every one of them until all that remains is a layered purpose, like that of a butcher peeling away flesh from a hide. You have to process that skin: lay it to a rack to let it dry before it can be stretched to the desired firmness, and, finally, softened.

You took as much pleasure in the mental hunt as you did the payoff. Where there’s money to be earned, there’s also knowledge—you were a thief of all. 

The man watches you with wide eyes, those blues glinting as they blink, glancing around rapidly to check for any others like you that may be hiding. He steps back, a hand brushing his sword, and you think to yourself slowly, he’s smart. 

You breathe down chilled air. Before he responds he checks to make sure it’s not an ambush—the man understands he’s out of his element here. He’s on edge. 

The both of you stare at one another, before your face shifts, brow-raising up on your forehead. 

“What, did I startle you?” Legs looping to hang off the same side, your body feels lighter than a feather as you send yourself over the edge, knees taking the brunt of the force as your head catches up to your stomach—grunting as you hold your bow heavily in one hand. The jostle moves the limbs of your arrows, kept in a quiver at the small of your back. 

Standing fully, you huff and set an easy smile to your lips, all teeth.

“My apologies, Lord.” Your free hand finds your heart, and you bend your spine forward. “I couldn’t help but see you down here below my tree.”

“Best to stay where you are,” the stranger grunts, only giving you enough of a glance to deem you unthreatening, apparently. Your form straightened. He watches you warily on the next go-around, attention always drifting to every snap of a twig off into the trees or the breeze shifting the leaves. “No need to apologize,” is the hurried reply, caught on a rough accent and a hissed gravel huff. “I’ll be on my way once I get my bearings. I don’t have time for conversation—and you should find your way home before long.” Eyes dart. “It isn’t good to be out today...or tonight, I’d say.”

If possible, your intrigue gains strength like a saint in Heaven. 

The man’s square face raves in a clench of his jaw, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Are you sure you’re not lost, Lord?” You continue, undeterred, and shift your bow to sling it over your shoulder. “I live in these woods, I’d have no trouble directing you to the road. It isn’t far.”

“It’s John,” he grunts, glancing over, out of sorts. He was tired—his limbs were shaking with exertion even if he didn’t realize it yet. You think that perhaps if he were more focused, he’d ask why a woman had just landed in front of him from the branch of an Oak; dressed in trousers and a tunic, with just a woolen wrap to keep out the chill. Dirt over her face and a cunning edge to her words. Or, maybe he did know, you wondered, and simply didn’t care at the moment. 

“Just call me Johnny. And,” he shakes his head firmly. “No. Go home to your husband, Bonnie, this doesn’t involve you.” He blinks, staring with a line across his forehead, stubble pulling along his cheeks. “I know this place—there’s a road just to the…” he turns his head to the direction of your trail, blinking at the coverage of thick foliage. “Fuck,” the dark-haired stranger growls, blues sparking up in a feral display of desperate weight. 

You can only see the winding bends if you have a vantage point—that was why you chose your tree in the first place. Your smile grows.

“It’s that way, Lord,” you breathe, pointing in the opposite direction of the road, back to the small path of brambles and bushes that leads closer to your home instead. “We pass my property on the way, I can offer you some drink for your troubles.” A chuckle wafts the air. “You look like you need it.”

There’s a large moment of hesitation, in which you begin to wonder if this prize might be too big to catch, but, then, as there’s a flash of something over John’s face, he grits his teeth and sighs. 

“Aye, fine,” he nods, looking to the side as he lowers his tense shoulders and clears his throat. You’re offered a sincere expression that borders on strained guilt. “Thank you, Dearie. I…” John pauses, frowning. “I hope I didn’t scare you too much when I burst through the trees like that—I’m in a bit of a rush if you can’t tell. I need to make for the shore.”

“My,” you huff, shifting your body and motioning him to follow—he does, setting his feet carefully ahead of him with experienced movements; keeping a respectable distance away. Johnny wasn’t new to the woods, then. He knew where to place his feet, at the very least. “The shore? That sounds exciting.” You conclude, hiding your creased brows as you stare forward. “Making for the South? I’ve heard handfuls are leaving for the weather.”

Looking over your shoulder, you make sure he keeps on your trail as you push through the bushes. “More agreeable, they say. Less rain.”

John chuckles, though he’s still visibly aware of everything around him. He spares you a look, a small smirk taking over his slightly chapped lips. “Keep talkin’ like that, and I just might.”

You’re surprised by the genuine laugh that fights in the back of your throat. Humming under your breath, you shrug it off as simply as a dog does a fly. It was painfully obvious neither of you trusted the other. 

John’s eyes were stuck on the back of your head, and yours were eager to slide back to his form on the off-chance you had to use the dagger strapped to the meat of your thigh, carefully hidden under your trousers and accessible via a cut in your pocket. He was all muscle, and already you know that any attack coming to you would be unwise to try and retaliate—slash and retreat was a much better escape plan. 

You could outrun him.

“So,” your words bleed curiosity, eyes imploring as you glance over your shoulder. “Why are you out in the woods, Johnny? In such a nice outfit as well. Is there something going on around here?” 

The dark-haired man tilts his head your way, sighing long. “A wedding, actually. Horrible thing, if I have to comment on it.” 

Your lips twitch. 

“Oh, aye. I’d heard about it in town not two days ago—something about a marriage of advantage? Who was the unlucky pair, then?”

John clenched his jaw, hand coming up to push at the smear of dried blood on his cheek, which you’d just noticed wasn’t dirt and instead the result of a branch slap. Pale cheeks were wind-bitten. Lungs heavy. You narrow your gaze before stopping the surge of questions in your mouth. 

“Some poor bastard, that’s who,” he responds slowly, mostly under his breath, before blinking. “How much further is the road, Dearie? No offense,” he grunts, staring seriously at you “but I'd rather not be here for much longer.”

The boar broach winks at you.

“Not far,” you smile coyly. “Forgive me, Lord John—”

“Just Johnny—”

 “—But I do hope you’re not a fugitive.” 

Blue eyes widen, sure feet faltering. 

“.... Negative, Bonnie, no, I’m not running from the law. You don’t have to worry about any of that with me,” he breathes, and not once does he look away from you. You have to commend the man, he seemed an honest fellow, and those, you knew, were very rare indeed in your time. “I just need to get out of these woods. You’ll never hear from me again after I’m gone.” He takes a breath, looking past you. “You have my word.”

“Is it worth believing?” You push, smirking. “There’s few dressed like you that I can say it is.”

John licks his lips as you both pass a fallen tree, standing more side by side than previously now that the density of bushes had dispersed. He huffs, sending you a side-eye before he seems to study your face, brows pulling jokingly. 

“I don’t think my answer would make much of a difference, would it?”

You pause, enjoying this man’s company more by the second. “No, it wouldn’t.” The both of you stare, before you grin and pull your sharp gaze away, chuckling. “Follow me,” you motion a hand. “Before you fall into a mud pit and completely ruin what little is left of your outfit that’s sellable—” You fumble, faking a cough as you clear your throat and finish off with tension now in your spine, “Salvageable.”

“If I’m bein’ honest, Bonnie,” Johnny grumbles, either not noticing the mistake or simply not registering it. “I wouldn’t fuckin’ care if it got covered in horse shit.” 

—

You open the door to your home, shifting out of your bow and setting it against the wall with your quiver following to rest beside it as two siblings should.

“You’re lucky,” you hum, “I just went to the well this morning—freshwater is in the basin, cups on the table.”

John’s eyes give a firm once-over, fingers fidgeting above his sword’s hilt. He nods once, moving into the doorway, and immediately goes to where you describe and grabs onto a carved cup, tilting it in his hands. 

“Thank you,” he mutters sincerely, hand dipping into the collection of water. “Eh,” John puffs a laugh, “I’d imagine I would still be stumbling along if it wasn’t for you, little Lady. These woods are larger than I remember them.” 

“You come from around here?” You ask, brushing down your wool wrapping as you pull at the burs in the fiber. “Don’t recall your face in the town, though I’m not there often.”

“Hm,” he takes down the water, and you watch his Adam’s Apple bob as droplets slip from his lips to drop off his chin. Once he had drunk the entire cup, he removed it and wiped at his mouth with his forearm, blue eyes peeking above it. “I…wasn’t in town usually. Not really my place—the forests outside of my property took most of my attention.” He confesses, head tilting as the strange cut of his hair flops along with his skull. “Those, I could run blind.”

“I’m sure,” you puff a laugh.

While the air was somewhat calm, there was still an underlying hesitancy: Johnny didn’t know who you were, and you didn’t know what he was running from. Both were important questions that needed to be answered. Yet, John seemed the casual type.

“Doubt me?” His eyes narrow, a smile brewing. 

“I never said that,” you walk past him, also grabbing a cup before dipping it into the basin. Your finger points. “But it would be interesting to test.” 

“Unfortunately,” John breathes, setting down his cup, “I’m occupied at the moment.”

“A groom would be,” you tilt your head, casually sipping at your drink. “Your wife must be fucking fuming right now.”

The room flips on itself, and the man is instantly frozen. 

Johnny stares, shocked, and you see his feet instinctually ready a stance to either blot to the door, or to take up his sword. His expression is layered with secrecy.

“...What was that?”

“I said your wife must be fucking fuming,” you say louder, slipping your hand into your pocket and shrugging to make it seem meaningless—your dagger’s hilt is smooth under your flesh. “Or did you not finish the ceremony? Betrothed, then, Johnny Boy?” Your eyes glint. “Hell, the event must have been absolutely laced with wealth. Did you have wine imported? New fabrics for your wedding clothes? I’d almost be disappointed if you didn’t.”

“That’s none of your business, Dearie,” he levels, glare heavy and firm while his face is stoic. You can clearly see his body wound up like a wild dog. “I think we’re done here.”

He backs up quickly, legs taking him to the exit until you’re suddenly right behind him, and the man feels the sharp press of a blade into the back of his spine.

Your lips are at his ear, and you chuckle. “Sorry, but we’re not done until anything valuable is in my hands and not on your body.” 

“If you wanted me naked,” he growls, glaring from over his shoulder, as his form is rod-straight. “You could have just asked, Little Thief.”

“I’d call it heavy persuasion,” you chuff. “Sounds better, don’t you think.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Johnny barks, teeth gnashing. “Put the knife down before this gets ugly.”

“I’m not entirely sure I want to,” your answer meets the air. “There’s enough silver and fine fabric on you to feed me for an entire winter, even when the deer move to better grounds.” 

John grits his molars, his neck bent as his fingers twitch at his sides, slipping along to his sword slowly. 

“Money? That’s why you’ve got a bloody blade on me? Christ, my day just keeps getting better and better.” You glare, anger moving behind your eyes. 

“Some people have to work for what they want, you—” Your hand is slapped to the side as John spins, and your dagger is sent along the floor in a loud clatter; a hand finding your upper arm as you gasp, and, suddenly, there’s the chilled edge of a blade at your throat. 

Wide-eyed, you gape at John as the man smirks at you, yet his orbs are infected with annoyance. 

“When you draw a knife on someone, you best know how to use it.” The edge is slightly pressed deeper and your body refuses to move. “You put it at the neck, Cat-Eyes.” John frowns, glaring. “Knew there was something about you—down to the bow and arrows.”

“What,” you growl out, a low embarrassment stemming in your gut as John’s puffs of breath move along your face. Your face burns, and your fingers jerk with anger. “A woman can’t have hobbies?”

“Not when I find ‘em up trees waiting to ambush any bastard that comes by wearing silver.”

“Mate,” you sneer, eyes glimmering. “At this point, you can keep your damn silver. It’s more of a reward to watch you stumble like a fool through the woods five feet from the road.” Johnny’s face tightens, yet there’s little time to fight like children anymore when the sound of breaking branches is echoing off the windows of the house.

Both of your necks whip to the door, yours a great deal more carefully as you’re slightly nicked by the sword's edge, but the drip of blood is voided. High voices carry over the air.

“Find him!”

“His tracks lead through here—get the hounds on it!”

“Here!”

Your brow raises, smirk getting larger as you chuckle under your breath. “Better get on your way quickly, then.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Johnny snarls, all at once ripping his sword from your neck yet keeping his ruthless grip on your upper arm. He looks nervous now—his eyes jumping from one place to another, thinking. “Where’s the damn road, you minx.”

You shrug, eyes sharp. “What road, Lord?”

The strong man rages, eyes burning with a thousand suns as the sword is taken from your neck and re-sheathed in one motion—a second hand staples itself to your waist, gripping tightly. You blink, saliva swallowed down thickly at the dig of heavy fingers into flesh as your heart stutters.

“You’re going to tell me,” John levels, shifting the both of you back as the sounds of fast footsteps are echoed by the bay of dogs. “As much as I would enjoy being away from you in any capacity at all,” you smile humorously to him through his dead-tone monologue, “I need a guide out of these woods and across the land. If you won’t help willingly, I’ll just have to make do.”

You blink, confused. 

“Make do?” Your body is taken up, and you shout as you’re ruthlessly flung over the man’s shoulder with a hiked toss. 

Johnny’s smirk is lost to you, but his chuckle is not as he dashes to the door and slams it open, taking a quick left and looping the house—diving into the foliage as if a fish to water. “Unhand me, you brute!” You scream, clawing and hitting at the man’s back—kicking even, as your knee speedily finds his ribcage. “Ow!” John laughs, his grin highly amused as he turns back to look at you. The shouts from the trees get larger, but that doesn’t help you much as you’re both soon going deeper and deeper into the woods. “Jesus, you have a pair of legs, don’t you?”

“If I were marrying you,” you bark down at him, struggling with all of your might as your home disappears from view. “I’d be running instead of the other way around!” 

“Well,” Johnny calls, his sword bouncing off of his hip. “It’s a good thing you’re not, then, isn’t it, you bonnie little thief? Your husband would be dead and all of his coin in your dirty pockets!”

“Stop calling me a thief!” You send a closed-fisted slap to the top of his head, and he grunts, balking to the side. “Learn how to handle a fucking lady!”

“Lady?” He breathes heavily, shoving into another bush as leaves get tangled in his hair—twigs stuck in yours as you scowl rabidly. “If you’re a lady, Bonnie, then I’ve got a beast waiting for me back at my ceremony.”

—

He stopped when the light of the sun was low, and your constant attack of his spine left an array of large, fist-shaped bruises on his skin.

“Easy,” John grunts, dropping you with a huff to a down-turned stump. 

It isn’t long before you shoot back up, hands clawing for his throat. “Hells Bells!” The man ducks, boyish glint in his eyes as he darts to the side, stepping out of the way as you stumble on tingly legs.

“I’m going to skin you alive,” you yell. “Piece of utter dog shite!”

“Now that’s a bit strong,” John breathes, panting from his mad run for his single life. “Don’t you think?”

You take one step forward, and he takes two back—stuck in a game of cat and mouse. Your eyes are like tiny fires, illuminated with only anger and hatred. 

“Give me one reason why I should even attempt to help you,” your screams rise above the trees, hands splayed as John puts his hands to his knees, taking down breaths as sweat dribbles down his neck into his vest. “You-you,” your tongue fumbles, “kidnapper!”

“Technically, it would be an abduction, Dearie.” You slap him across the face and see the man’s cheeks go red from the blow. Shoving your nose nearly right into his, you sneer. 

“Correct me again, and it’ll be your balls I hit next.”

He swallows, blinking, before he smirks and pairs it with a chuckle as his eyes spark. “Yes, Ma’am.”

You growl as he holds up his hands, moving one to rub at the back of his neck and itch at the shaved portion of his scalp. That damned smirk—you despised it.

“Get me to the closest port,” John settles, getting to business as his expression mellows out. “And I’ll make it worth your while, I give you my word.” 

“What?” You laugh, shaking your head in exasperation the longer the silence falls; realizing how serious the man is. “Oh God in Heaven, this has to be a joke.”

“Anything you ask for, you can have from me when this is over,” he sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting his mud-caked shoes. “I don’t need more than the fee to secure a spot on a good ship sailing away from here, and whatever is left I’ll give to you if you want it. You win in this situation, and I’m not trying to hide it from you.”

Your sharp eyes hone in, unwavering in its heat.

“Christ,” Johnny breathes, “I’d even give you my damn socks if that’s what it takes—I need to get out of here. Quickly.” 

You stare, sneering. “Is your betrothed a damn witch or what?”

Blue eyes blink, and his words are firm as they meet air. “Are you taking up my offer or not, Cat-Eyes?”

“Of course, I’m taking the offer!” You bark ruthlessly, rolling your eyes as you kick at the dirt. Rocks and grass fly as darkness settles heavier. “I’m not a fool.”

“Well,” he sighs in relief, looking to the shadows along the ground. “I can’t say you’re that, either, but you are certainly something.” 

You narrow your eyes at Johnny but don’t waste your time any longer as you turn and study what you can see. 

You had grown up here—in this land. The woods knew you just as much as you knew them. Already you could pinpoint a general map of this section based on the large cracked boulder to your right, and the tiny cluster of trees across the way. You knew the way to town, and from there, the port. 

“It’s a three-day walk,” you grumble, side-eyeing the man as he moves to lean against a trunk. He wouldn’t be moving through the night—you didn’t complain on that front either. “You grab at me like that again, and I’ll—”

“Let me guess,” Johnny raises a brow. “You’ll hit me in the balls.”

Your thin lips tell him all he needs to know. 

Shuffling past him, you frown and pull your wrapping closer, shuffling your chin into it. No fires for warmth, you know—not with people on your trail.

“I want an explanation,” you turn and dig into him, walking closer as John looks to the side. “If I’m sticking my neck out, I want answers as well as coin.” Poking him in his chest, you force your neck to find his gaze. “Why are you running?” 

Johnny sighs, licking his lips as he nods with a low, “Fine.”

You tilt your head, and John moves back to sit against the stump, moving out his hands in an honest display. 

“I was told I needed to marry and produce heirs if my house was going to survive, aye?” He states, and you know the story well. “My parents are gone, and my sisters are all married, but my estate is barren of anyone besides myself and the staff. To keep the peace, I gave my word that I would join into a union to secure my assets for my bloodline.”

It was all so formal, the talk of a wife and children—you never understood it. Why couldn’t people simply marry who they love and leave it at that? All this bloodline and assets. Don’t they ever get sick of it?

“What’s your last name, then,” you ask. “McDuff? Mackenzie?”

“MacTavish,” John shakes his head, rubbing his hand up and down the back of his neck. Blue eyes stay with yours. “John MacTavish, I have lands to the North.”

Your brows tighten, arms going to cross themselves. “You’re running from your home because of a union you can freely exit?”

“It isn’t free,” he grumbles, shaking his head firmly and setting his jaw. “My father’s wishes for his children were written down and sealed. I was to marry a daughter of Arthur Campbell when I came of age.” John chuckles face going a bit pink. “As you can see, I’m a good few years past that.” 

You tilt your head, and while Johnny was certainly passed the normal age of a male in his position to be wed, it struck you as odd as to why he didn’t want to be in the first place. In marriage during these times, a man has little to lose when joined. Almost nothing else changes for them except another title is added to their long line of others already living under him.  

John continues, and you stay your snake-like tongue for now. “Wasn’t until I learned that by now, Mr. Campbell’s second born daughter, who was the only one near my age, had passed nearly an entire year ago—leaving only the oldest behind.”

“And?” You hum, intrigued to see where this goes. Johnny itches at his chin, scratching the stubble that lives there along with the dirt and grime. “What, I’d imagine the head of the Campbell family wanted to uphold the arrangement?”

“Aye, they did,” John grunts, nodding. “Fiona Campbell was the woman I was set to marry today.” He pauses, sighing heavily before looking to the side. Darkness had set, and there was little light by way to see the expression of guilt growing on his face. “I’m not lyin’ when I say I didn’t want to make such a mess of it, but there’s only so much a man can do when he learns his bride is not only twice his age,” John breathes, grunting, “but also just…” He stops himself, sighing. 

You frown, gut swirling. 

“She was blank, do you understand?” Johnny asks, motioning a hand in a display of unknowing explanation. “All she seemed to care about was children and wealth. A slate waiting to be filled with someone else’s thoughts and ideas. I didn’t want to be the one to fill it—I’ll not be some husband that runs a wife around like a dog. That isn’t right to me; it wasn’t how I was raised.”

Your mind twists on itself with an indefinable feeling—skin tight to your bones as if taken and tied by ropes. Your heart pumps blood a little harder, but just because this man seems less of a bastard doesn’t mean you like him. He’d dragged you into this hunting party of his grand problem, and the sooner you got your payment, the better and easier it would be to disappear.

“How noble,” you huff, rolling your eyes. Yet, your voice is hiding an under-the-breath shock. “So you bolted into the woods?”

Johnny rubs at his nose bridge, growling in annoyance. “Yes—it was the best cover I had. Been going through the trails since sunrise.” He slaps his hands to his knees and stands back up with a grunt and an ache in his thighs. His sarcastic voice peels the shadows. “Are we satisfied, now, Bonnie?”

“I won’t be until you’re out of my sight,” you level, moving forward. “So are you going to bed so I can drag you to the port or not?”

John’s body is heard shifting as you slip down the trunk of a tree, backside hitting grass as you settle in for a restless sleep—pulling your wrap tighter over your shoulders. Here you were: weaponless and in the company of a runaway groom still in all of his finery. 

You wanted that damn boar broach. 

“Sleep’ll be smart, we need to be up early,” John says seriously, his shoes shifting the leaves. Letting the chill seep in, you burrow into your fabrics and glare ahead. Johnny’s sly voice is so reminiscent of yours, that you have to wonder if the two of you were cut of the same cloth. “I won’t be opposed to a cuddle if you get chilly, Little Lady—”

“I should have stabbed you when I had the chance.”

Johnny’s low chuckles waft over the air, and then the silence settles fully. 

Yet, you’re up far later than you anticipated…and you find this honest man’s confession to be bouncing inside of your skull like an enraged bird.

—

“Christ, did I do that?” A finger is pressed under your chin, tilting your head up as you strangle a gasp at the sudden motion. 

Johnny looks at the tiny cut along your neck from the edge of his sword—the barely-there irritation of the skin that you’d been itching at as you walked forward through the trees. 

He frowns, glancing into your eyes as your body stills at the feeling of warm flesh. 

It was the first day of walking, and the silence between the two of you had stayed. Not only were you annoyed at the situation, but also John’s story—you’d been mulling it over since last night. 

But below that anger, you might have even felt a little wrong. 

“Who else?” You sigh sarcastically to the man, trying to hide the rising flood of heated shock. Thick digits drag along your esophagus slowly in study, and John’s face creases the longer he looks. He’s hunched near you, too—and you can smell the low scent of leather and earth. 

Johnny pulls back with a huff and slips a hand into his sporran. Your eyes watch with blatant distrust until a relatively clean rag is taken out by a steady hand.

He motions with it. “Come ‘ere. Let me get the dirt out of it before it gets infected, eh?”

You sigh lowly but decide it’s a good idea at the very least before nodding—John’s fingers return as the light from above leaks through the branches. The morning was cold, but not unreasonable; the woods gave shelter from the otherwise abusive wind of the open country.

“Look at that,” you breathe, “The first nice thing you’ve done for me.”

“Ah,” John lightly glares. “Not quite right—I carried you away instead of making you run with me.”

Your eyes roll, and Johnny’s chuckle echoes off the surroundings.  

“Such a gentleman,” you grumble, feeling the rag press into your throat and the soft scrape of it across your scratch. 

“So,” the man hums, blue eyes stuck to your flesh as he takes care of it far more nicely than you’d imagined someone to be. “Seeing as I’ve shared my sob story, Cat-Eyes, I think I’d like to ask after yours.” His voice is full of amusement. “As we’ll be keeping one another company.”

“It’s less as in-depth than yours,” your fingers twitch as Johnny moves back after the cleaning is done—returning the rag to his sporran as he blinks. 

“I don’t believe that,” he raises a brow, as you ignore the remembrance of his touch and continue, paving the trail as the dark-haired man follows a close distance behind. “Can’t say there’s many times I’ve seen an unwed woman wielding a bow and thieving someone out of their money. I’ve seen a lot of things, Bonnie,” he laughs, “but never that. Scared the hell out of me when you dropped down.”

“You can add me to the top of the list, I suppose,” you puff a teasing breath. After an expecting pause in the conversation, you grow bored of the nothingness. 

“I’ve lived out here my entire life—I do what I have to. That’s all there is to it.”

John’s face gradually pulls into itself, only looking away from you to glance at the path to make sure he won’t fall. 

“No family?”

“None,” you tilt your head, shimmying under a low branch and pushing leaves off your shoulders. They sway to the ground softly as you brush an arm over your forehead, sensing Johnny’s attention. 

The man grunts. “M’sorry.”

Your feet stumble for a moment, pace faltering, until you cover it up easily. You turn to stare, narrowing your eyelids as open blues watch silently. John’s shoulder brushes yours.

“It’s life,” you blankly answer. “Least I wasn’t married off. Where you had to worry about a blank slate, I had to worry about becoming a broodmare for a man who most likely would never love me.”

Johnny licks his lips, eyes darting to the ground. “Can’t imagine you like that,” he mutters, but it isn’t some joke—he’s truthful. 

“Perfect,” is what his ears twitch to. “Because I’d sooner act like you and bolt from my wedding as well.”  

“Would that make me the thief in your story, then?” Johnny asks, chuffing as he smiles towards you, reaching a hand above him to push another branch out of the way—separating it from your form as you bend under. “I’m tellin’ you, I wouldn’t be very good at it. All that dropping down from trees would have my knees screamin’. Not that they don’t already.”

Your laugh pierces his chest, and the man sends a kind if not a bit startled, show of interest to you. It sounded like a bowstring slapping a wrist—harsh and telling all at once: something to be known and understood even if heard only once. 

John blinks at you, and his heart patters along in his chest.

“I think it would be more fun to think about you with a dagger,” you narrow your gaze at him, smiling. “A small thing like that would disappear in your hands, Johnny Boy.” 

“Disappear?” He tilts his head, raising his hands to hover in front of him. “Ah, they’re not that big, are they?” 

You shift, and, nearly without thinking, you slip your hand to sit above his. Johnny makes a noise in the back of his throat, eyes going wide as you reference the size of his grip under yours, but allows you to regardless. A blue gaze slides to your face, openly imploring, before they dart back down to your shared hands as the roughness of his callouses scraped against your flesh. 

“Care to compare?” You smirk, lifting a brow.

Johnny’s lips parted quickly, blinking a few times as he tried to find the words to accompany his running mind. He clears his throat, but the small sheen of red pigment on his cheeks is undeniable. 

Laughing, you detach the connection and pull ahead, leaving the man behind as he stutters with a fast pulse.

“You’re the strangest woman I’ve ever met,” is what he decides minutes later, a large grin on his face—he was enjoying this, for whatever twisted and flawed reason, he was. John’s adrenaline was pumping, his heart was pounding, and his feet were passing over the earth, yet, even better, his brain was sparking at a mile a minute for the woman who walked only three feet ahead of him. He watches you take these trails like an expert, not having to look down at your feet as stone and wood are passed as if you were water above them, whispering and nearly silent.

“At least I’m not boring.” Your eyes meet him, and in them, they create some horribly beautiful amalgamation of twin flames—two sparking fires that feed from the same ember. “You would never catch me becoming a housewife, Johnny Boy.” Your gazes never break. “There are far too many things to steal in this country, and so very few men who can keep up.” 

John’s chest moves in the beat of his pulse—his attention wholly transfixed upon the sight of this wild-born woman whom he’d only met yesterday. There were leaves in your wrap, and brown-black mud coated up to your ankles, even sweat sitting at your temple, yet you moved with grace befitting a Lady: never seeming to tire of jokes or firm surety. Yet…you weren’t cruel—you weren’t without purpose. 

Any accomplished thief would have just stabbed him and taken what they needed in your house. You offered John water, however, you chose to give him a chance to comply. It was such a small thing in the grand scheme, but Johnny was always one to analyze how one feather on a bird can affect the flight pattern, so to speak. One action that speaks volumes. 

You liked creating games, and, lucky for him, John loved to solve them. 

And that glint in your sharp-slitted eyes was becoming more and more enjoyable every second, he found. 

Pushing back the strands of his wayward hair, John keeps up with you for every step, not unfamiliar with how to traverse unsteady terrain. He wasn’t lying in what he told you—he had spent most of his life in the forest beside his home: hunting, fishing, riding. There wasn’t an activity he didn’t enjoy when he was outside, though his mother was always heavy on him about the mess he brought back. 

Blue eyes drop back down to your dirt-laced pants, and the man can’t help but give his best, lip-pulling smile. 

Hell, if he didn’t know any better, he would say that you were something that made so little, and at the same time so much, sense to him. 

“Well, maybe they just aren’t accustomed to hiking, Little Cat-Eyed Thief.”

There was something special in the glances you two would throw one another.

—

Your hands dip into the clear water, fingers open to feel the current drag through them gently. 

“If you want a sip,” you say, cupping the liquid and bringing it up to your lips, “it’s safe. This river flows down from the hills—not perfect, but there’s only a small chance it’ll make you sick.” 

John comes up and hums as he sits down beside you, folding his legs under him and leaning forward to submerge his arms up to his elbows in water. He sighs, and you hear the river gurgling as the man begins to rub up his flesh, getting rid of all the grime. 

“Good to know.” Blue eyes spare you a look as he continues. “What’s this one called?”

“Woodney river,” you answer. “Old Man Jack Woodney ran a water wheel on this river a long walk West. If this place had a name before that, it won’t tell.” 

Johnny washes his face, scrubbing at his stubble as the scratch of it plays in the side of your ear. You watch along the opposite shore, eyes going from trees to birds—even to the shadows of fish that quickly swim past. Sighing, you have to admit the beauty of this adventure. There were few times you could say you’d gone this far into the woods with no wealth to trade in with the townspeople. 

You side-eye John and study him just as heavily as you do a wild animal.

He wasn’t unattractive, you admitted. Strong—sturdy. Johnny was capable in a way that most Lords wouldn’t be, some, you guessed, would already be complaining about the uncomfortableness of their clothes or the flesh of their blistered feet. But John was bright-eyed; more than once you’d seen him actively watching the stretch of the trees for any sign of his pursuers. He never complained. Not once.

“You’re not as insufferable as I thought you’d be,” you say. Frowning, your hands push back into the water and cup some of the chilled liquid. You let it drip before you extend your hand to your neck and feel your eyes droop in relaxation. 

Johnny laughs, staring at you for a minute as he slowly raises a brow. His face shows amusement.

“Am I supposed to be insulted or not?” 

“I leave that for you to decide.”

John cracks his knuckles and shakes his head as he stands. “C’mon,” he drags, but the smile in his voice is clear. A hand is set in front of yours. “Sooner I get out the port, the sooner I’m out of your hair.”

Your face softens slightly. 

“Am I ever going to get an apology for being tossed like a sack of potatoes?” Skin meets skin as you slip your hand into his, and the man pulls you to your feet as you smile. Calluses brush yours, and yet again, you find you enjoy this game—perhaps more than any other you’d played before.

And you don’t understand why.

Johnny’s fingers are firm over yours, curling as water drips to the ground below in reflective droplets, and you think back to the first time you’d met him—panting breath and rapid eyes. Your eyes glance to that boar broach, and find it attached to a man that is suddenly more of a mystery than a closed book. 

“Easy,” John mutters, steadying you by your shoulders as you remember where you are. The dark-haired man squeezes your flesh and looks into you.

Blue eyes glint, and that smirk, you find, is always followed by a tiny tint of his head. “And what’s that look for, Cat-Eyes?”

“You called me strange.” 

John’s brows furrow. “Aye. I did.” He looks you up and down slowly. “You are.”

You do the same to him, not wasting more than a moment. “And I find it funny that you haven’t said the same thing about yourself. You’re far more strange than I’ll ever be.” 

“Guilty,” Johnny smiles, nodding slightly. His hands are still on you, and he doesn’t seem to even notice. “I don’t think a normal one would fuck off from his own wedding, would he?”

“Or kidnap a woman as a guide,” you state, pulling out of his warm hold even as your stomach flips as you brush past

“Again,” John’s hand motions through the air. “Abduct.” 

“You’re just saying that because it sounds slightly better,” you grimace over your shoulder. “Like comparing a dog to a wolf.”

Johnny is hot on your heels, and when the river-eroded stepping stones to the other side of the water are the clear path to take, he’s already on the first and holding out his arm for you as a true gentleman would. You glance at him and hop to the first stone, liquid sloshing at your shoes. 

Your smirk is stuck with his like two pieces of a quilt, and neither of you realizes it.

“You put a knife to my back first, Dearie.” John puffs and his face is right next to your ear as you both cross the stones—you lean into him and elbow his side before your arm slips into his. The man grunts, blinking as he chuckles above the slosh of water. 

“So? Maybe I only point knives at the men I like.” 

“Then I’d say you have every right to put one right at my throat.”

Feet move carefully over rocks and the spray of the water that coats them—a dance of wit in their own right. It was like animals circling one another, all sharp eyes and pulled lips trying to find weaknesses. Deadly flirting and addictive banter. 

Where annoyance was such a common emotion, now there was a near expectation of jabs; of tantalizing quips for the glimpse of another's mind.

Neither of you could understand the other, which was exactly why you both reveled in the brush of warm flesh. 

“Careful,” your feet meet the hard ground once more on the other side, and John only lets go when he knows that you don’t need him to steady you. “You’re engaged, Johnny Boy.”

Your tease slips in one ear and out the other, and the man watches you turn and begin walking again with sly eyes. John’s wide gaze stays stuck there for a moment—mouth eager to continue any conversation given. Watching you walk, his heart beats speedily. 

“I think my, ah, reputation has all but ruined my chances on that front—”

There’s something unique about the sound of an arrow sinking into flesh that can’t really be forgotten. John had heard it many times—even been behind the bow that shot it; the slap of the string across his forearm, the set of his shoulder blades widening until the arrow disappeared. 

But there’s something worse knowing that the sudden expulsion of air from lungs, in fact, belongs to you and not some wild animal. 

You’re hit in a fraction of a second, down on the ground in less than that—your mind not even understanding above the immediate pressure and the slam of earth. You gasp loudly, and then the pain hits. 

Hand snapping to your left bicep, your eyes slash down to stare as grass and mud fly into the air, rabid sounds escaping the back of your throat at the image that strikes you. An arrow was stuck deep into your skin—sticking out as blacked feathers flutter at the end of the shaft. The adrenaline hits rapidly, but the expression of horror still remains.

“Cat-Eyes!” Johnny yells, rushing forward, and unsheathing his sword, the sound of metal on metal harsh, but not as harsh as the sound of blood in the man’s ears. 

You see the swelling of crimson, and, from under your fingers, the red of blood slips as your breathing gets hoarse. Biting into your lip, the quick sound of an under-the-breath groan of agony ripples.

But you’re not stupid.

Scrambling to your feet with the arrow still poking out of you, Johnny gets to you and pushes you behind him just as your shaking legs straighten—-your eyes slashing the woods in panic. Pain can wait.

The runaway groom spares you quick glances, pushing you further behind as his raging gaze darts this way and that. He yells into the trees, anger and order infecting his voice, “Show yourself!” 

Just as suddenly, there’s a relieved call and a moving shadow. You clench your eyes tight and grit your teeth as a wave of pain rockets through you.

“Fuck,” you grind out, lost under the louder voice. Blood drips to the ground.

“My Lord!” Men burst through the leaves, bows, and swords aloft. “Quickly—to us!”

Johnny’s face is stiff; there isn’t an ounce of care, but the flash of recognition is swift, and in his chest, his heart, once beating so quickly, drops to his stomach. 

Knights. His knights. Christ, the two of you hadn’t been fast enough. 

“Stand down!” John spits, and cares little now for the thought of robbery or assault on his person—these men wouldn’t hurt him, but they were tasked to bring him back. “Fucking bawbags, the lot of you.”

His sword is sheathed by twitching fingers, and no sooner were those digits around you instead.

You pant hoarsely, face tight as your vibrating body tells you to run—eyes locked onto Johnny’s, the man in front of you ushers you over to the trunk of a tree hurriedly, uttering, “Just breathe now, Dearie—listen to me. It’s alright, aye?” 

“What is this?” You raggedly push out, flinching as your spine meeting the bark jostles your arm painfully. 

Your teeth grit, tears collecting in the corner of your vision.

“Knights,” John mutters as if his words are chased by wolves. “They’re after me—probably thought you were either holding me hostage or trying to lead me into an ambush.” The colorful fabric of his pinned tartan is dragged off from over his shoulder and shoved into your weeping flesh, and you lightly moan in agony, head falling back to the tree. 

Tears slip from over your cheeks.

“Easy.” John’s concern is palpable. Worried eyes dart from your face to your wound. “Jesus,” he utters under his breath, anger flashing. 

“Who is this?” One of the knights asks, taking a step forward as Johnny holds the fabric to your wound and speaks to you lowly, utterly ignoring the people behind him. 

“I need to break the shaft off, okay?” Blue eyes try to keep even, and John’s other hand captures your cheek. He levels your face right in front of his, breathing lowly. The man clears his throat as your tight gaze flutters, tightening his grip. “Hey,” Johnny breathes. You grunt, voice a low grind. 

“Just make it quick.”

John’s lips thin. “Yes, Ma’am.”

His large hand swiftly moves to the arrow, gripping around it just where flesh meets wood, you hiss loudly, spitting and raging as your vision partially blackens. Pain sparks up and down your spine, racing like a cat after a mouse.

“Lord,” one knight tries again, coming closer and reaching out for Johnny’s shoulder. “We need to get you back to Castle Campbell—we’ve been hoping to find you unharmed for your future wife’s comfort. Everyone is in a panic!”

“I’ll count down to three,” Johnny whispers to you, breathing heavily as he swallows and steady himself, hand lightly clammy. He wished he had his hunting gloves with him, but this was the best he could do. “Eh,” the man grunts, eyes steady, “You listening, Bonnie?”

“I don’t care what you count to,” you nearly bark, orbs flashing. “Just break the damn thing off—!”

The wood snaps with a defining splinter, and your scream afterward has the man having to hold you up with his arms around your waist, muttering into your ear with his lips against the shell. 

“It’s alright, you’re alright,” John hears the clatter of the shaft to the grass just as the knight’s hand is heavily placed on his shoulder. “Breathe. M’right ‘ere.”

You sag into Johnny taking in the scent of sweat, blood, and dirt—the musk that stays even as your ears start ringing and the voices start getting louder. 

“Best get your hands off o’ me before I break ‘em, Mate” Johnny grunts from deep in his chest, shifting your body to the side and effectively ripping his flesh out of the knight’s hold. 

All the others shift nervously—hands on their swords and looking back and forth between the strange scene.

Who were you? A mistress? A bandit luring their Lord away? Why was he with you out here; going in the opposite direction of where the ceremony was supposed to take place? They’d been given orders, and a knight is no good unless he can follow them. 

John MacTavish was needed, and their duty was to see it through.

Johnny’s tartan had fallen to the ground behind the two of you, getting kicked by feet as they shuffle and as your blood slips off of your limp fingers. Mind failing, your pain-addled form shakes even as the knowledge of imminent danger is present. 

You needed to figure out a way to get out of here. 

Pushing your head up from Johnny’s shoulder, your eyes flutter but manage to analyze what little you can see clearly—adrenaline can take care of most of your agony, only leaving a dull ache as your heart continues to rage. 

A group of four knights have their hands on their swords, and all of their eyes are on John. 

Run, a deep part of you urges. Your legs are still good. Take off—none of them know the terrain like you do. You’ll be free. 

You pant, your nostrils flaring with every breath as your sweat trickles off your jawline. Johnny’s grip on you tightens, head shifting back and forth, unknowing where to anchor itself, not understanding which is more important—your state, or your safety. 

Free, free, free. 

Your mind flashes to an empty house: silent woods. How you would go months without seeing another human face, but that was your own choice. 

Wasn’t it? 

Your eyes slip to Johnny.

“We’ve been tasked with bringing you back, My Lord,” the first knight says, looking heavily upon the runaway. “We have our orders. Please understand.”

“And I’m telling you your orders are utter shite,” John spits. “So back the fuck up and drag yourself out of this place. Now.” He glares, teeth snapping. “Those are my orders.” 

Your arm is numb, and your chest expands as it sits on John’s own. And you think.

You knew you were a selfish person. 

There was no debate about it—even when you’d stolen enough coin to feed you for weeks, there was still a part of you that longed for some chase; some challenge to your senses. You liked stealing. You liked the looks on people's faces when they realized they were being swindled for every valuable item they had in their possession. But there was something you liked even more than all of that—a challenge. 

Johnny, to you, was that challenge. He was the largest challenge you’d ever faced. A Lord who was running from a bride, a man who held his beliefs higher than praise or standing…a blue-eyed stranger who matches your poking jabs word for word.

“Damn,” your growl, and John takes it as an exclamation of pain. 

He grits his teeth and studies you, opening his mouth as his concern grows at the smell of blood. 

“We need to tie it off,” he utters. “Bastards made me drop the tartan—I’m sorry, Dearie.”

Your lips are near his ear.

“When I say ‘go,’ run to the left.”

Johnny halts, attention snapping down. His fingers flinch around you, face open until the mask of sudden knowledge flies over it like a curtain. But it’s gone just as quickly—hidden by intelligent eyes that glint. 

He doesn’t question you, and, in the crux of your shoulder, you get a near-infinitesimal nod from Johnny’s head. 

The guards grow suspicious, all mulling closer by the second the longer you two remain so close—on opposite ends, you feel your heart mirroring John’s in a rapid and ravaging pulse: Thump-thump, thump-pump, thump-pump-thump.

Your attention is split three ways.

One: the rising numbness of your limbs and the heat of your brain. Two: the spread of Johnny’s panting breath across your sweat-slick skin and his hands tightening. Three: knights and the clatter of their armor. How they slide their hands across their weapons like intimate partners—the tension building in a hemp bowstring and the sound of arrows hitting off one another; one taken and played with between fingers so similarly to how you would act. 

Your tear-stained eyes glare at the knight who’d shot you, your expression building into an act of hatred. 

They take a step forward. 

“Cat-Eyes—” Johnny begins to warn slowly. 

“Go.” Your words are no shout. They don’t echo off the trees, which all hold their breeze in expectation, they don’t ring in ears except the ones of the man holding you. But they’re like the personification of a sword strike—like the release of an arrow and the impending thump of it hitting home. 

The knights dash forward with calls for their Lord to stand down, but John’s already flinched away with a heavy grunt. 

You do the same, your plan already formed—you would run the opposite way as Johnny, only slipping off when the cover of bushes had enshrouded the both of you to create two sets of tracks. With any luck, the guards would break off into two groups and pursue the both of you, and you could easily lose yours. 

From there, circle back and find John: get your bearings before—

Arms never detach from your waist, and you’re once more tossed into a strong grip.

Eyes bugging, your focus breaks as gravity leaves and your head goes light. Johnny dashes away, and, just as the last time, you’re in his boar-like hold. 

“You idiot!” You bark, the only difference to your predicament now is that you’re held in a bridal grip and not slung over his sweaty shoulder. There was only a small sliver of relief before the annoyance overtook you. 

Johnny’s body crashes through the leaves, the shouts of the knights following as he gruffly raises his voice to the wind. The trees shake with amusement. 

“Thinking you could hand over some directions, Dearie?!”

“Thinking you could put me down?!” You shout back, your arm sparking with pain as your opposite wraps the man’s neck firmly. “Damn.” Your lips twist in response. “My legs work just fine, you know—I wasn’t shot in the arse!”

“Acting like you were,” John grumbles, a branch slapping his cheek before you can. Despite it all, he chuckles wholeheartedly at his own joke.

An arrow whizzes through the air, and you yelp, ducking behind his body even more as your skull fits under his jaw. Your eyes snap to the visible terrain as Johnny’s legs push from one side to the other, running in a zig-zag pattern to avoid any more injuries. 

“There,” your brows rise, fighting past the pain to find the familiar slash of a gnarled willow tree that whizzes by in brown and dark green. 

Your head rises to see more of the woods, only to be pushed back down by an all-expansive hand as John utters a fast-breathed and firm, “Not the best idea.” 

He shoves through brambles, and the sounds of rampaging knights are gaining. The second John sloshes through a low pool with a loud curse, you know instantly where you two are. 

“Take a left near the overhang with vines coming down!” 

“That one?”

“Yes!”

And so this game continued long after the knights had been lost to the woods, stumbling about without any sense of where they were, and the two of you came to a panting halt an hour later. Deep night was setting in on the second day, and, as your shaky feet hit the ground, John kept a heavy eye on you. 

“Steady,” he mutters, sweat pouring off his face; saturating his clothes. He worriedly stares, looking you up and down.

Your vision swirls, the glade around you the exact place you both needed to be. There were hills here—surrounded by thick trenches carved by rivers long dried. The stars were out, and the moon was shining down; one thin trickle of a river was feet away, the sound of water on rocks addictive to your pounding ears.

All of it was null to the way your gut flipped at the humming agony of your arm. 

Your hand snaps to the puncture and the flood of blood is enough to leave your fingers dripping with crimson glinting in moonlight. 

There’s a heavy ripping sound, and then you find yourself sitting down in the grass as Johnny shoves the torn fabric of his suit into the small river. You hear the splashing as you glance down at your arm before rapidly looking away, biting at your lip as your spine hunches. 

“Christ almighty,” you growl, glaring to the side as your fingers quiver. Tears well.

“The arrowhead is keeping pressure,” John hurries to speak, trying to distract you just as his own exhaustion is bare to see. The rung-out fabric is looped around your arm, tying off until you have to strangle down a scream at the tightness on your flesh. “We have to keep it there until there’s enough sterile material to fix it up.” 

“Your knights are pieces of work,” you hiss, more from the wound than anything.

John gives a little look, blue eyes darting up until falling. 

“Aye, they are.” His strong jaw clenches. “This shouldn’t have happened, Dearie.”

You stare as he finishes up, and you feel his fingertips slipping along your arm. Your eyelids droop, closing as your nostrils suck in shaky air. You take a moment to take in the silence that follows, John’s eyes not straying as your face is illuminated. 

He watches the streaks of dirt along your skin, and, in a soft attempt to fix this, he stands and moves to the river once more—cleaning his hands. Johnny takes the rag out of his sporran and wets it, coming back to your body as the grass waves back and forth. 

 “Let me…” the man says slowly, and your eyes open back up as the chilled item is pushed to your cheek. 

Wide orbs staring forward, you swallow as John concentrates on cleaning your skin carefully. 

“Infection is my immediate concern,” the man says with a sigh, yet continues as your tongue stays tied; face growing more heated by the second. “But you mentioned it takes three days to the town, aye? That’s not unmanageable with two already under our feet.” 

Blood, dirt, and sweat slip away with every drag of the fabric, and, stuck into his suit, that boar broach still sits—crooked now, but still there.

Your attention is momentarily taken by it, and your fingers twitch before you notice how very close John’s face is to yours. 

The man focuses, relaying a plan as you’re stuck mute; your arm holding its own heartbeat as the grass shifts.

“I’ll use what I have to get you into a doctor. Make sure there’ll be no problems before I get going.” John blinks, tilting his head. “‘Course, that’ll decrease the amount you’ll get in turn.”

“Fortunately for you,” you breathe, voice strained, and blue eyes stick to yours. John pauses, brows slightly pulling up on his face. “I value my own life too much to complain about a man paying for my care.” 

John’s rag stays where he placed it, right on the swell of your cheek as, this close to one another, you can see the scar on his chin—one that curves to the muscle and bone. 

He was handsome, make no mistake about it. You knew it; you understood it. A lord with morals and the smarts to go along with the strength—now that was utterly unheard of. You liked that, truthfully. Someone who could think, and plan. 

And, of course, follow directions. 

“You’ll be fine,” John mutters, glancing to the side, yet his head doesn’t move back. He clears his throat with a sigh. 

You roll your eyes, moving out and grabbing his hand with the rag. Johnny’s expression startles, arm tensing as you steal the dripping fabric from him. Water runs down your neck.

“I know I am.” You huff, smiling. 

You push the rag onto his own face, and begin your cat-like approval of his character, washing away the grime just as he had your own. A blue gaze stays firmly on your flesh, the man’s shoulders loosening until he’s sitting just in front of you. Verident grass whispers in a language like a soft breeze, and you study Johnny’s skin until everything becomes a mosaic of scars and blemishes—stories woven into sinews holding as much history as the tines on an elk or the chipped tusks of a boar. 

Two days and he’d become even more of a mystery than he had been before. Or maybe he always had been, and now your previous contentment had grown into an addictive curiosity. 

He’d called you Cat-Eyes. 

You couldn’t love a title more—not even if Lady were on the table.

“I settle my scores,” you grunt, tilting your head as you push back mud from his forehead, leaning in. “You wash my face, I wash yours.”

“Literally, then?” A sarcastic eyebrow makes you huff. 

“Is that not what I’m doing, Johnny Boy?” 

“Seems so, Cat-Eyes.”

Your matching glares hold no venom. 

Smirking, you lean back after the last swipe at his forehead, pushing Johnny’s skull back as he chuckles, moon-lit visage something you would see scrawled on the parchment of an old story-teller's sketches. A man not made for this age.

Your face softens slowly, and it is a strange thing sitting atop the sharpness of your eyes. 

John’s chuckles fade, and his breath catches in his throat. 

“You’re an odd fellow, John MacTavish,” you say, here, with blood from an arrow wound drying to crack along your skin. 

Your head tilts, eyes narrowing. 

John’s lips slowly pull upwards, and the water on both of your faces drips to the listening earth. This place is alive with possibilities, and all of them stem from the growing draw of twisted human souls.

A just Lord and a cunning thief.

A sharp-eyed cat and a strong-bodied boar. 

A future and a past—riddled with arrow marks; long sword slashes.

“Well…then I’m thinking we make quite the pair, Bonnie.”

—

The third day was spent on the latter half of the journey. Re-correcting the course and giving the best directions you could with the numb ache of your arm spreading up your shoulder. 

But the town came easily as the midday sun rose to crest your heads. 

“Want to lean on me?” Johnny asks, standing close by, but you’re already shaking your head. 

“Feels better to keep myself focused,” you mutter, grimacing. You look at the entrance to the town, and as you both walk it, the stares are immediate—shocked residents looking at the haggard appearance of two individuals. 

“Alright,” John sighs, side-eyeing you. “Just let me know if you’re goin’ to keel over, yeah?” 

“Duly noted,” you tilt your head his way. Your lips smirk like a smug child. “You’ll catch me, won’t you?”

Johnny chuckles, shrugging his wide shoulders as his tattered finery is chock-full of brambles and leaves. 

“Can’t say no to that.”

The Lord kept his promise—the doctor took the arrowhead, cleaned, cauterized the wound, and sutured you back up. For payment, as you lightly touch the bandaged section of your arm, you find your eyes freezing as a silver glinting reflects off the light through the window. 

Johnny hands over his boar broach to the doctor. 

Widely staring at the prize being pawned off for your health, your heart stutters in heavy greed.

No, you rapidly think. No, that was the one thing that I—

Your eyes inexplicably snap to Johnny. 

The immediate thought is that he looks angry, but, the next and more accurate one, is that he looks sad.

John’s blues continue to follow the broach as it disappears into the doctor's pocket, and you see the weight fall back to his chest and arms—sitting heavy like a stone. The man’s feet shift along the ground for a moment, and he looks like he’s about to say something before he grits his teeth and shakes his head to himself. John grunts, fixing his nose.

You blink, and then your heart twists in on itself for no reason at all. 

Or maybe there was a reason. 

“C’mon, Cat-Eyes,” Johnny sighs heavily, tilting his head as his arms cross. “Time to see me off, then.” 

He walks out the door, and your eyes follow like a loyal dog. 

Standing there for a moment, your lips contort your face into a deep frown, sharp eyes gaining a sheen of light anxiety. Yet, there was no mistaking it—it had been said a million times—if there was one thing you could do, it was play a game.

Maybe you weren’t so bad after all.

“Oh my,” you mutter, putting a hand to your head and stumbling. 

The doctor starts forward quickly, grasping at your un-injured arm. “Careful now, Woman. Don’t rip my sutures.” 

He tells you, getting you fully up as you chuckle, placing your hands above his thigh, fingers twitching on the fabric. 

“Apologies, apologies,” you mutter, retracting your hand and cupping it against your abdomen with a meek smile. “Just a little lightheaded. Thank you, Doctor.”

“Best be off, now,” the man grumbles, and you’re out the door swiftly. 

Your shoes meet the cobble as you shift your hands into your pockets, shifting your body to look along after the large form that leans against the home waiting for you. 

“Ready?” Johnny asks, though his attention is firmly planted on the ground five feet away, lost in thought.

“Aye,” you sigh, nodding your head to the East. “Port’s that way—let’s get this nightmare over with.”

“Hm,” Johnny agrees, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Quite the adventure for a runaway.”

“You can’t have thought it would be easy?” Your brows furrow. “You’re heir to the MacTavish lands.”

“I never said I thought it would be easy,” John moves at your side, a great hulk of honesty. He hands over his attention at last as you fiddle with the smooth item in your pocket. He huffs. “Just that it was an…experience, to say the least. One I’m not sure I’d want to go through again.” 

“You’ll miss me,” you say confidently, meeting eyes with a smirk and a cocky shift to your form despite the lessening pain. 

Johnny watches. He smiles, eyes crinkling. “Aye. I will.” You pause, expression stilling. The man hums, and you swear there’s something special in the way you can describe his look as delicate. 

“You were the one part that I don’t regret,” he says lastly to you as if the words aren’t spears laced with poison. 

Your breath gets caught in a way it never has, and John seems not to notice as he pulls ahead, muttering about him seeing the docks. The smell of salt water slaps your nostrils.

The legs under you slow until they’re stopped, and you look after the man as he begins speaking to workers along the port, asking for a spot on the large ships that sit in the water, rocking with the winds.

Your eyes trail, seeing the way he talks with such confidence—openly offering physical labor as his payment for even the dark quarters with the other laborers. 

After what seems like hours of watching, you see him shake another man’s hand, and, just like that, passage is earned. He jogs back over, smiling. 

You open your mouth to say something, but find the words null and void. You don’t know what to express. For once in your life, everything seems to be moving horrifically fast.

“Well,” John’s expression slowly sombers. “I suppose this is it then. I said you could ask for anything, and, I suppose,” he shifts the sword on his belt off after a moment, looking down at it. He holds the item, testing its weight. “I suppose this is all I have left.” Blue eyes slowly meet yours. “If you’ll take it.”

Always a thief, never a saint.

“I suppose it’ll have to do, Johnny Boy,” you sigh, the pain in your heart outweighing the one on your arm. “Hand it over.”

The sword is transferred and slipped to your waist. Many a man on the docks gives you strange looks, and, you find you welcome it—none could compare to the admiration in Johnny’s. 

You lick your lips. 

“Do one thing for me, hm?”

“Anything,” John mutters, not blinking. 

You move forward, and place a firm kiss to his lips.

The man freezes, fingers twitching at his sides, before he sags and bends into you—his great hand capturing your cheek until all that remains in the sear of his heat and the scent of the earth. 

You softly pull away, though not far enough as to where you can’t feel his breath on yours. Gazing into his eyes, you smile the widest you can remember.

“Don’t go running away from another wedding anytime soon. I can only save so many Lords until my reputation gets slandered.”

“You’re ruthless,” John growls, smirking as his eyes glint, looking you up and down. “Little Thief.” 

He leans in for another kiss, but your hands only shift above his sporran before you dart back, chuckling. 

“Always,” your hands brush his sword on your hip as you walk backward, grinning behind the strange pressure in your heart. If someone asked, you wouldn’t even know how to describe it.

John takes a step after you, face open and raw—an emotion you feel like mirroring if not for your excellent control. 

Not yet.

“I’ll take care of this,” you call, patting the weapon. 

“Good,” Johnny calls, taking one more step forward before stopping himself. One of the shipmates calls from the dock, and his eyes snap there with a jaw tense. He looks back at you and blinks, brows pulling in. In the heat of the moment, he exclaimed, “I’ll be back for it one day, Cat-Eyes!” 

“Lovely!” You yell, back turning. “I’ll be waiting for you then. I do hope you’ll be able to get through the woods, and, please, don’t keep a woman waiting! You’re much too handsome for any of that.” 

And then you’re gone. 

Johnny stares at where you were, his smile large and his face heated, and after a louder call from the dock, he’s forced to turn and jog to the ship, hurrying up the board until he can stand on the swaying deck with his two feet. 

He looks around, chuckling to himself, and still, his eyes shift back to land without fail; hoping for a glimpse—a small shadow. 

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, the man reaches into his sporran for his rag, intent to clean and set it to dry when he’s able to get the chance to settle in. It’s one of the last items to his name no matter how pathetic. 

Yet, his hands touch something far more precious. 

Johnny’s body goes as straight as a tree when his fingers caress smooth metal, and, slowly, his grip pulls out the silver of his broach. 

It glints in his palm as he sets it there, and his breath is stolen in one great bound of shock and confusion.

“What in the…” He already knows. 

Johnny’s feet take him to the railing gently, and his body stands there—torn wedding clothes and all looking over a town that begins to move as the ship sets sail. He holds the broach carefully, not intending to let it go for an age. He just needs to lay low for a while. He needs time.

John smiles. 

“I won’t keep you waiting,” he mutters to the moving homes, and he swears he sees the glint of a sword from between the buildings, and two sharp eyes digging into him. 

You’re there, of course. Hidden as always. 

You want your trees back, and you think that a day of sitting in your Oak is a good idea. 

There’s dirt on your face again—your lips are chapped and your face is bitten by the wind; scars and blemishes that time won't heal but make all the more visible as the ages pass by on bird’s wings and cat purrs. Yet here is an action held immemorial. 

A gift given freely by a thief is one to be treasured like pure gold, and the man on the ship knows that more intimately than any other as he clips the broach to himself with a hum.

You both watch the other from opposite, distant points until there’s no sun in the sky left to see with. Just a faint hope lights the way: the hope that your eyes will grace each other's visage, at the very least, just one more time in your life. 

There was never a story so willing to be experienced than that of a runaway groom and his cat-eyed Thief. 

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[yellowharrington]

jaded -- chapter 1, carmy berzatto x reader

pairing + fandom: carmen "carmy" berzatto x fem!reader (she/her pronouns used), the bear fx

warnings: sexual content, mention of unprotected piv sex, swearing, workplace relationship. minors dni with this story please.

word count: 1.4k+

a/n: guess who's back... back again... natty's back... tell a friend.... hey besties lol ik its been a year but i've been obsessed with the bear so i decided to write this. it will be a multichaptered fic and i will update it as soon as i've finished writing the chapters lmao. inspired by the song "jaded" by miley cyrus. pls pls pls enjoy

summary: fresh off of his breakup with claire, carmy needs a rebound. he just doesn't expect it to be his pastry chef.

masterlist | chapter 2

It starts with a ride home after service.

The sun had fallen down over the horizon, painting Chicago black with night. It’s chilly, middle of February, and you and Carmy are the only ones left at the restaurant. You’re both at the lockers, grabbing the last of your things and turning off the last few lights, leaving it behind you as you step out into the darkness of the street. Only amber lights are above you, illuminating Carmy’s face, along with the glow of his lighter around his cigarette. “How are you getting home?” He asks, looking down the alleyway. “Just the train,” you reply, gesturing towards the station a few blocks down the road. “Let me drive you,” he smushes the cigarette underneath the toe of his shoe, looking up at you, rather softly. “Oh, it’s not far,” you try to step the other way, before he grabs your shoulder lightly. “It’s cold, and fuckin’ dark, and there’s murderers. Just let me drive you home.” He was nothing if not protective. 

It really had been a short drive, slow tunes coming from his old car’s radio, drowned out by the sounds of the city around you. It was generally silent, Carmy’s hand on the gear shift. “It’s just up here,” you gesture to the building up the street. “Just take a right.” He does, obeying your action, pulling up in front of a 3-floored walk-up. “Thanks,” you grab your backpack by your feet, opening the door and giving him a small look before stepping out. “Hey, listen,” you start. His eyes are dark, sunken, tired. He’s wearing his usual wool jacket around a cozy navy blue sweater. “I was working on something before work this morning. A… a dish. Can I show you really quick? And you can tell me what you think?” He looked at the time on his phone, and then up at you. Baby blue eyes, peering from under thick lashes. “Sure, chef,” he says quietly as he puts his car in park and unbuckles the seatbelt. 

When you walk him up to your apartment, he’s endeared. You let him in, and your place smells of vanilla candles and laundry, from the load you’d done before work earlier that day. “Sorry about the mess,” you gestured to small pile of plates and spoons in the sink, and the aforementioned unfolded laundry on the couch. “You’d lose your mind if you saw my place if you think this is mess,” he laughed, pushing a hand through his soft golden hair. Your own coat comes off as you make your way into the kitchen, and he has to stop himself from staring. Your tight jeans fit your body perfectly, white t-shirt coming up over your hips only enough for him to see a dark tattoo on the back of your hip. You poured him a cup of cold water and put it in front of him, before firing up the burner on your stove and putting a stainless steel pan on the orange-blue flame. “Make yourself at home.”

He wandered around your apartment a bit, peering into your bedroom. Soft white bed, soft sheets, big fluffed pillows. An open window, letting a chilly breeze in, curtains slightly swaying with the night air. It reminds him of her, her soft sheets, big eyes, the nights he slept next to Claire and kissed her supple cheeks and pink lips. She was like this too; eager, clean, happy, simple. Easy to be with, and easy to like. You’d given off a similar energy the same day you walked into the restaurant on your first day, and you had reminded him of her. Kind eyes, warm presence, but with a different demeanour that chefs almost always had. A jaggedness, he thought. 

The sound of the plates being put on your small kitchen table snapped him out of his daydreams, as you held out a fork for him. “It’s a, uh, mango custard, bit of toasted cardamom and coconut cream in there, and, um, a coconut macaroon with a homemade chutney.” He raises his eyebrows at the dish before him, plated beautifully, and takes a small bite of each component. You seem to wait for hours as he takes his time, feeling every ingredient on his tongue before setting down his fork on the small white plate. “It’s tremendous, chef,” he says quietly, wiping the corner of his mouth. “Almost perfect. Could use maybe an acid, it’s a little sweet, but, wow,” he looks up at you to see your wide eyes, excited at his answer. This was, essentially, the highest praise from Carmy you could get. “Thank you,” you say quietly, watching as he takes another forkful of the dessert. 

“What’s the tattoo on your hip?” he asks, pointing at the right side of your body, where your shirt had ridden up before. He hadn’t stopped thinking about it since he caught a glimpse. “Oh, um,” your cheeks turned a soft shade of red, standing up to lift up your shirt and show him. “It’s, uh, a snake. It goes down my leg too,” you pull down the waistband of your jeans just enough to show him a bit more of the ink, further exposing the thin strap of the black thong you had on. “Got it a long time ago, in school. Just wanted to feel cool I guess.” He stands up, slowly, coming to lightly pin you against the counter. It’s safe, it’s easy, and suddenly it feels so fucking right to have him here under the dim kitchen light. “Can I see the rest of it?”

All bets are off, then. Your jeans are pooled around your ankles in a second as he’s feverishly kissing your lips, hands everywhere, his calloused palms against your soft ass. His sweater is off, along with his signature white tee, showing off the glistening gold chain against his bare chest. You’ve managed to push his jeans down just enough to slide a hand into his waist band, eliciting a soft, breathy moan from him into your mouth.

When you stumble back into your bedroom, it’s all a blur. It’s hot skin against hot skin, his lips leaving a trail of kisses along your neck as his hands work their way in between your wet folds. They’re so gentle, yet he knows what he’s doing, so the slow circles on your clit as he lets himself rut against you are making you unbelievably wet for him. “I want you so fucking badly,” he pants into your ear, letting a finger easily plunge into you as you open your legs wider for him. “Is this a good idea, Carmy?” you let your fingers thread through his hair, allowing him to look up at you. His usual baby blues were dark again, lustful and wanton. “No,” he says matter-of-factly, but the smirk on his lips is so unbelievable, a cruel man above you. “Should we do it anyways?” You ask, your own smile playing on the corners of your mouth, allowing your hips to rut against his fingers, fucking yourself to feel more of him. He takes a large hand to your breast, letting it slide up, thumb slipping onto your lower lip and into your mouth. “Yeah… yeah, of course we fucking should.”

It’s so easy with him, which is what makes it so hard. He knows right where to kiss, where to touch, where to love on your body. He knows to take his hands to your sides, pushing you into the mattress as he laps at your clit and kisses your inner thighs, looking up and watching you take your own tits in your hands, squeezing them together, looking down at him with such need. He knows to slide up between your legs, and to cradle your neck in his hand, his thick cock plunging into you and making you weak, making his thumb wet with his own spit and bringing you to your orgasm, spasming around him, moaning his name into his mouth like a prayer. It doesn’t take much longer after that for him to spill inside of you, warm and deep, lips locked around his as you helped him ride his orgasm out. And it feels right, and real, when he lays next to you and kisses your chest and arms before falling into a deep sleep, your soft comforter over his chest. It all feels so fucking right, that first time.

But the next morning, all you have is an empty bed. And it doesn’t feel right anymore.

[thatone-brightstar]

The Bear & The Fox (Carmy Berzatto x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 4: Bring a fox to a bear fight

Words: 8.7k (wft?!?)

Summary: Tensions with Carmy finally snap.

a/n: In honor of a new poster and release date for season 2, here's chapter 4! Hope you enjoy! xx P.S. There will be some spanish in this but if you're a 'no sabo kid' you can shamelessly use google translate❤️

WARNING: Smut ahead, masturbation, p in v unprotected sex (birth control is mentioned), minors DNI but you'll do what you want so don't say I didn't warn you

You felt it before even opening your eyes. The growing migraine had settled camp between your brows while you slept and his companion, an uneasy stomach, had you crawling out of bed and into the nearest bathroom to dispose of the undigested contents of last night. You ungracefully swatted your hair out of the way with half your head inside the bowl when a shadow stood by the door you had forgotten to close in the rush of the moment.

“Ay, mira que bonito!” You heard your mother’s taunting voice above you. “You had fun last night, mija?” She said in a fake sweetness, one hand rubbing over your heaving back as your stomach spewed itself into the porcelain.

The torture stopped long enough for you to look up at her through narrow slits, then feeling the acid crawl its way back up again.

“Isn’t this punishment enough?” You managed to say through a sore throat, spitting the last bit of red saliva inside and flushing. ‘Fuckin’ daiquiris’ 

You stood on wobbly knees from the cold tiled floor and rested your face against the wall by the door, your mother staring amused.

“No, those are just consequences, mi amor.” She smirked, reaching to caress your cheek, but stopped midway in distaste when she saw little remains of spit across it. “Maybe when you're clean.” 

A soft sneer curled on your lips and you made a kiss motion at her.

“C’mon mami, gimme a kiss” You teased, leaning forward.

She took a step back as you took one towards her, reaching to pull at her hands. Her head shook in laughter as she stepped deeper in your room and tossed the towel hanging on the wall directly to your head. It fell with a ‘thunk’ to the ground and your vision blurred slightly while leaning down to pick it up.

“Take a shower, you smell like shit.”  Your mother said on her way out the door. “And grandpa made breakfast!” She yelled from the hallway and the volume had your head pounding with heavy fists at your temples.

With sluggish movements, trying to not upset your already ruined digestion, you moved to your closet for a fresh set of clothes, then to your bed to wake up Syd. You found the space empty and wondered how she had gotten up without waking you, considering you were a light sleeper, but too much thinking made your head hurt so you left it to a mystery.

The bright rays of sunshine filtering through the open bathroom window usually appealed as lovely to your houseplant soul, however as you undressed to shower with a permanent scowl, the soft light burnt a hole through your tired retinas. You dragged yourself inside and as soon as the warm water hit your skin, you sighed in relief. There was nothing a warm shower couldn’t cure. 

As you mechanically went through your routine, you assessed the events of the night before and the crater in your chest hollowed all over again. A few salty tears that mixed with the rosemary and lavender shampoo ran down the drain. Despite coming to terms with yourself that you’d solve everything that same day, the small voice in the back of your head nagged that ‘he probably didn’t even wanna see you, anyway’. You took a few calming breaths under the stream and pictured the perfect scenario to counter rest the dark thoughts swarming your unprotected psyche.

 You’d show up to work as always, hopefully less hungover than you were feeling, and ask him to talk in his office. You’d tell him you were an asshole for hurting him and that you wanted nothing more than exactly what he was offering. You’d bicker back and forth for a while, but ultimately it would end precisely how it should have the night before, in a sweet sweet overdue kiss. You’d maybe even get to fulfill one of the many fantasies that flooded your head when he caressed your face in the small barely lit room.

Your breath hitched at the sudden change in direction your mind was taking you in. Behind closed lids, your consciousness had painted a promising picture of blown irises and tangled locks moving in a rhythmic tempo against you. His pearly skin was tainted carmine from the effort it took to contain himself as he slammed repeatedly into you; trained fingers digging into the sensitive skin of your upper thighs while he held you in place over the disheveled desk. Only the sound of shaky breaths and whispered praises filled the room while he confessed just how good you felt panting underneath him.

The vision in your head felt so real to your body, that your pulse had started racing and it had your cunt squeezing around nothing in frustration. A delicate hand slid down past your navel and a sigh of relief left your shaky lips at the sudden contact of your cold finger tips. You used the clear image in your head to aid the pulsing in between your folds, massaging at an equal pace to your vision. You pictured the veins in his arms, tensed with force, one hand holding you down while the other wrapped around your fragile throat and pulled you into a heated kiss. You felt the vibration from his groan travel down your trachea and straight into the speed of your fingers. Your knees quivered at the thought of his messy kisses down your neck, followed by shaky breaths of barely contained moans, your hands clawing at the skin of his back trying to press his chest closer to yours. All it took was the image of Carmy pulling your legs around his waist with force and  burying his face in your neck, pounding ruthlessly against your skin before a strangled sigh left his mouth as he came, painting your insides white. 

The force of a relieving orgasm knocked the strength off your knees and you used your other hand to lean on the chill tile, the stark contrast in temperature running chills along your sensitive skin.  You took a couple calming breaths until your thighs recovered their strength and the once persistent headache had finally subsided. You finished showering with newfound energy.

Dressed and feeling  surprisingly less shitty than expected, you walked  out into the kitchen drying your hair and enticed by the smell of sausages. You rounded the island where your grandpa stood wearing a ‘kiss the chef’ apron and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. He handed you a plate of food with a smile and you thanked him then served yourself from the half empty coffee pot. Syd and your mom were having a lively conversation about where she had learned her great spanish as you silently finished your eggs and sausage, not wanting to add to the already noisy ambiance in the small area. Soft guitar strings played from somewhere in the living room, merging with the soft chirping of birds outside the tall windows that illuminated the room in a golden hue. 

As you took a sip of your coffee leaning on the bar, your mother asked Syd if you had already invited the guys from work to your grandpa's 76th birthday next week. Your eyes grew wide in realization, only then did you remember that she had asked you to do it at least two weeks ago and you had not thought about it since. When she said no, your mother turned to you with a glare hidden behind a smile. You swallowed the bitter liquid and lowered your cup.

“I.. was getting around to it.” You confessed turning slowly and taking your empty plate to the sink behind you.

“What did I tell you, eh?” She began scolding you, “I told you ‘do it today before you forget’ and see? You forgot!”

You finished washing your dirty plate with your back to her and rolled your eyes. 

“I’ll tell them today, I promise!” You told her, drying your hands on the gingerbread man dishcloth that had been out since last Christmas. 

She gave you a long ‘Mhmm’ with crossed arms, eyed you with a scowl then rolled her eyes. “You better! I already told your tia Angie to add an extra ten people for the food, I don’t want anything to go to waste, okay?!” She continued as you rounded up your work bag from the couch and signaled for Sydney to hurry up.

She swallowed the last of her breakfast, slid from the stool and walked to the sink where she was about to wash her plate, but your grandfather took it from her hands and shook his head ‘Guest’ he said and pointed to her. She smiled with a ‘Gracias’ then ran to your room to get her things.

“Yes, I know. I’ll do it today.” You finished, walking over to both of them and giving them a goodbye kiss on the cheek.

Your mother grunted slightly but turned her cheek towards you.

“Oh! And invite that Carmy boy,” She said and your stomach churned. “He seems nice, no?” She whispered and scrunched up her nose at you.

“Syd let’s go!” You yelled ignoring her and walked into the hallway where your jacket hung.

“Thank you for breakfast, bye!” She called out to your family and followed you out the door. “Your mom told me that was your setup in the living room?” 

You looked at her confused then remembered the half finished painting surrounded by empty paint tubes and drying brushes. The events from the day before made it seem like it had spent an eternity sitting to dry.

“Yeah, I like painting. Helps with my anxiety” You shrugged.

Sydney answered with a simple nod as you kept walking down the stairs. She reached up to massage her chin at the memory of tripping over the same steps a couple hours ago and a wave of laughter invaded you both as you made the rest of the way down.

You reached The Beef with a building worry. The plan to solve things with Carmy wasn’t as much a plan as it was an idea, and a vague one at that. You figured you had the whole train ride to come up with something, but it was mostly spent controlling your breath and trying not to puke all over the already sticky floors. So as Syd and you walked through the back entrance, unprepared and slightly nauseous, a stabbing sensation pierced your chest at the sight of an unruly head lifting up to meet your eyes.

The knot in your throat obstructed any possible passage of air and you stayed locked in place, grounded by the weight of his gaze.

“I think I’m gonna be sick again.” You whispered to Syd when you were no longer being observed by heavy pools of aquamarine.

He brought his attention back to mixing the dry ingredients for the rub on the beef, but you could tell his back had grown slightly more tense than usual. You passed beside him to the check in clock, muttering a ‘Mornin’ that he answered with a ‘G’Mornin’ chefs’, plural. Sydney shot a sympathetic look at you before moving to her area, lacking motivation. You debated whether to rip the band aid off now or wait until the end of the day, but knowing your impatient nature you knew the shift would be worse if you did nothing now.

“Uhm, Carmy?” Your voice sounded unsure, his fingers twitched slightly at the sound of it.

“Yes, chef.” He answered, mixing all the ingredients thoroughly in a bowl.

“Do you think we can talk?” You cracked your knuckles at your sides, waiting impatiently for his answer.

He looked at you for a millisecond, without bothering to raise his head completely, then moved to the hallway that led to the walk in.

“There’s nothin’ to talk about chef, we're good.” ‘Okay, so not even on a first name basis’ you thought.

You followed close behind and carelessly threw your things into the office floor, then catched the heavy metal door before it slammed shut behind him.

“Yeah you said that, but I feel like we’re not.” The force of the door shutting behind you pushed you fully inside and you were thankful for the cold climate drying your sweaty hands.

He had his back towards you as he rummaged through the stock long enough for it to be obvious that he was trying to avoid you. You fiddled with your fingers in anticipation, waiting for a word or a look, anything that signaled the start of a conversation.

“We are.” He answered, shooting you a brief over the shoulder glance then back to the rack.

You took in a deep breath and began. “Look, I’m sorry for what I said last nig-” He interrupted with a stern call of your name, hands leaning heavily against the shelf.

“-Chef, please,” He corrected, as if the simple syllables of your name physically hurt him to pronounce. His voice was low but authoritative. “If I say we’re good, then we’re good. Alright?” 

“Yes.” You muttered, doing your best to swallow your heart back south into your chest.

“Yes, what?” He paused halfway in a turn, pulling a metal escoffier with the day's beef.

“Yes, chef.” You said through gritted teeth, irritated eyes locked into his.

His stare lingered on you for a moment longer, the tendon on the side on his neck tensed, then he lifted the heavy container and walked right past you, out the small room. You stayed a few moments longer inside, letting the chill air from the vents hit your overheated face and regulate your breath. With a final inhale, you pushed your way out to face the long day with an upset stomach and a beaten up chest.

**********

“I already fuckin’ told you how, Richard,” You spat angerly at him, the migraine in your head growing by the minute. “It’s not rocket science!”

It was the third time that day that he asked you for help because the tablet would go all crazy on him, that was two more than any regular day and you would be happy to explain how his grease covered fingers were the fucking problem, if it weren't for the massive headache that had you on a chokehold since the moment Tina opened the front door.

“Alright, geez! No need to throw in the government names!” He yelled back, throwing his arms up in desperation.

You sighed and dropped the empty dishes you were carrying on the lower counter beside him, then took one of the clean napkins and placed it in his hand. You moved his limp arm like you would a little kid and wiped the screen in demonstration.

“Okay, okay I get it, get off!” He said before swatting your hand away and continuing the task himself.

He kept mumbling under his breath how you were ‘insufferable when you’re hungover ’ and how ‘Carmy should’ve done a better job last night’ as you rounded up the dishes again and walked into the kitchen, not before painfully jamming your elbow into his side.

The hangover wasn’t the only problem, you had spent most of the morning throwing up and were sure you had gotten rid of most of the alcohol in your system. Having Carmy ignore you most of the day was the bigger issue. He had managed to avoid you all through morning prep and even hid in his office during family. You had maybe seen him two or three times during lunch service, but not once did he look up at you. Between having him act as if you weren’t even there and the constant guilt for how the conversation had gone, you were still trying to debate whether you wanted to try and talk things again. If there was anything left to solve.

You kept yourself busy during the break, setting the new tablecloths around the dining room, making sure they fell correctly and tried to ignore the pooling memories of his soft touches with every fabric you pulled out. Once they were set up to your liking, you took the empty cloth bag and walked back inside to save it with your remaining stuff. When you turned the corner towards the office, your sneakers squeaked at your sudden stop and your brow furrowed at the closed door. It was normally always open and you were sure you had left it that way twenty minutes ago when you had gone in to retrieve your things. You shrugged and kept walking to it, assuming it could have been a draft.

The last thing you expected to find inside was a tall blonde standing in the middle of the room beside Carmy. They both turned startled at the sudden intrusion while you stopped abruptly half way in. Your eyes danced between them for less than a second, a growing warmth of embarrassment holding your cheeks hostage. Carmy averted his gaze as the women scanned you expectantly.

“Uh… so-sorry.” You managed to blurt out, throw the fabric by the floor with the rest of your things and quickly shut the door behind you.

A dense huff left your chest when the door finally clicked shut. You moved back as if it were to combust instantaneously and still somewhat disoriented, traveled to the back for a breath of fresh air.

The soft crunch of gravel under your shoes grew therapeutic after the long day, as the smoke from a nearby cigarette floated to your nose and seemed appealing in the moment. Richie sat on one of the stacked up crates digging on the little stones by his feet, cig in between his fingers as he typed energetically on his phone. He looked up long enough to see you walk towards him with an extended hand to bum out a drag. He did so doubtful because he had never seen you smoke before, but didn’t care enough to ask and offered it anyway.

The numbing sensation spread to your head after the second drag, the voices in the back asking why you had quit in the first place. You handed the shorter tube back to Richie and leaned against the brick wall, still faintly warm from the early spring sun. You played with your bottom lip in concentration, racking your brain for ways you could ask him about the woman you saw Carmy with, without sounding too intrusive. ‘Fuck it, he already thought you were fucking, might as well ask.’ you thought.

You cleared your throat with a small cough and he turned to you with raised brows.

“Hey Richie,” You began, picking at the loose skin around your nails. “D-do you know who that blonde woman is? The one in the office?”

“Blonde woman.. Who, Sugar?” He asked leaning back to get a better look at you, smoke between his curled lips.

You shrugged trying to seem as nonchalant as it was possible, with your anxious brain throwing thousands of scenarios per second.

He took another drag, blew the smoke then spoke. “Oh, that’s uhm… that’s Carmy’s wife.” Richie spoke flatly, scratching above his bottom lip to hide an upcoming smirk.

Are you fucking kidding me?! 

The blood underneath your skin began to boil, you felt hot and cold at the same time and your vision blurred with the threat of unsuspecting tears. Your breaths began to grow shorter but heavier as the acid in your stomach tried to claw its way up for the fifth time. You swallowed hard and snatched the cig from his offering hand, inhaling as much of the toxic fumes as it took to settle your boiling anger back into a simmer.

“Oh. She’s pretty.” Was all you were able to say, though it didn’t reflect the indescribable rage you were feeling.

At who, you weren’t sure. Yourself firstly, for being so foolishly naive to assume that he was different from any other tattooed, apron wearing son of a bitch you had met before. For thinking that he was actually interested in you as a human being and didn’t see you as another gold medal to receive as price for fucking the new girl. You were obviously extremely pissed at Carmen because what the actual fuck?! Who fucking does that?! Of course you knew of one fucking person, but did Carmen really think you were never going to find out? Why had Sydney not told you or did she not know either?

A million questions raced through your mind as you took another long inhale of smoke, eyes fixated on the rocky ground. You were so lost in the whirlpool of rage, you didn’t notice how Richie had pulled another cigarette for himself, leaving you the half finished one.

“Guess you didn’t know then, huh?” He asked, flicking the lighter on and burning the herby tip.

You shook your head slowly, thumbnail in between your teeth, the floating smoke from the ember tip between your fingers reached your eyes and made them water. ‘Yeah, that's what it is’, you thought. You sniffed heavily and regained composure because Richie was the last person who you’d let see you have a breakdown.

The dense metal door opened with a creek and the person you dreaded to see the most stepped out into the empty space. He walked towards you and Richie with his own unlit cig between his lips, brow creased when he eyed yours.

“Didn’t you quit?” He asked, nodding his head towards the short tube between your lips. 

Pushing yourself off the brick with a last inhale of smoke, you flicked the end into the nearby garbage and walked past him without a single glance in his direction. You didn’t trust your voice or anything that would come out of it if you decided to answer, so you pushed your way inside and let the broth of your heated emotions simmer in your chest for what was left of the day.

You did what you do best when pissed, suppress everything in a little dark corner in your head and focus on the task at hand, the task now being getting through the dinner rush alive. It seemed like people knew you had a shitty day and could use the distraction because they had not stopped coming in since the doors were reopened at five. Between orders and clearing tables, you had only looked at your watch twice all afternoon, the last being twenty minutes ago when it read 8:30pm. 

Carrying the last of the empty dishes into the back, you spotted Angel leaning lazily against the rack holding the clean kitchenware. You placed the plates lightly on the empty space beside the sink and he groaned in response to seeing them.

“I take it ‘adventure’ was fun, then?” You said teasingly then patted him on the back. “Those are my last ones!” You let him know, walking back out to finish cleaning your station.

A few customers lingered around, only two or three sat on the counter while they waited for their to-go orders, but other than that the dining room had grown empty. It was only then that you felt the weight of the day's events fall hefty on your overworked back. You placed your cool fingertips over your tired eyelids, taking a few long breaths as the dam you had kept all your anger behind began to crack. All you could see were flashes of swaying blues and golden brows as the choir in your brain listed all the reasons you were an idiot for putting your trust in someone again.

‘Please don’t ever think for a second that I would do anything to hurt you.’ The once sweet words now ran like bitter sap down your throat, the stickiness gluing it shut and leaving everything inside to brew until it reached a break point. You didn’t know if you were angrier at him or yourself. You tried to search your memories for any indication or mention of a partner, a ring or maybe even a tan line across his finger, but they all hit a dead end.

Frustration and sadness were a dangerous cocktail mixing at the back of your eyes and picking at your tear ducts, you rubbed hard until you saw stars to try to get the sensation out, but it only seemed to make it worse.

‘No, you are not gonna break now’ you reminded yourself, pulling the tears back into your eyes with a loud sniff. ‘You’re going to finish your shift, tell Carmy where he can stick his stupid fuckin’ spoon and never come back again’. 

You had made that clear in your head while running orders. Every time you picked a new one from the expo and saw his inked hand push it towards you, the annoyance grew uncomfortable in your chest and you had to bite your tongue to the point of injury. You couldn’t stay like this, not when only a couple hours ago you were ready to break your most personal foundation for him, not when some fucked up part of your brain had made you believe that you could even get to love him, and he you.

It seemed of little value now, to think of this place as your safe haven when now you were afraid to catch him around every corner. Afraid of whether you’d want to slap him or kiss him because that’s how confusing your head was starting to feel. An almost inaudible voice in the back had planted the doubt that ‘Maybe this was Richie’s way of getting back at you for being a bitch all day and none of it is true’ but even if it was right, that didn’t take away the fact that things were never going to go back to how they used to. 

If it weren’t true and you stayed, that still left the guilt of rejecting him looming above you both, persistent, dark and never ending. And if it were and you still stayed, knowing that he had consciously tried something with you while having someone waiting for him at home would rip you from the inside out. The last time that happened, you almost didn’t make it out… and nothing promised that this time would be any different.

With the new found heaviness of old wounds, you cleared your throat from the asphyxiating knot  and continued to clean the mess left on the table, for what felt like the last time. You thoroughly scanned the room for remaining garbage, then took the last bags out to the back dumpster. One last swipe of the counters and there was nothing more left to do. You wanted to keep looking for things to do, things to clean or rearrange. Anything to delay the inevitable. But as you turned off the light inside the closed space, you knew you had to do it.

The kitchen was empty as you made your way slowly through the hallway, everyone had gone home at least twenty minutes before. Syd had even asked if you wanted company, but you denied it politely, knowing it was something you had to do alone; besides you didn’t know how rude you were gonna get and were in no need of an audience. 

A growing anxiety took a hold of your chest as you reached the small office door and you spotted Carmy sitting with his back towards the entrance. Your step faltered when your legs grew weak at the thought of confrontation and as if he could feel your presence, the chair turned in your direction. He swallowed at the sight of you, brows raised in surprise, weighing heavy on your heart. You forced yourself inside and leaned down by the foot of the door that had become a foster home for your bag during the last month and a half.

He cleared his throat with a cough and you looked up at him expectantly.

“You headin’ home?” He asked, playing with the pen in his hand.

Swallowing the knot back down, you nodded and stood straight. “Yeah.. and I won’t be back.” His expression changed to one of worry. “So… thank you and fuck you.” 

With the strap held like a lifeline, you turned in place and tried to make your way out of the small space before he had a chance to react.

“Wait, wait, wait-” He said loudly following behind you.

He quickly rounded the station through the other side and reached the hallway that led to the steward area and the backdoor before you, extending a strong arm against the rack and locking you in. You stopped abruptly, almost knocking face first into his bicep, then took two steps back for space.

“Can you please, tell me what the fuck is going on?” 

This is exactly what you wanted to avoid, almost as much as you were avoiding his intense stare. He took a step forwards, lightly leaning down to your eye level and that made you glare at him instantly, because was he fucking squaring up at you? You stood your ground and raised your brows in defiance. You could see the muscles in his jaw tense up, eyes swirling with a hurricane.

“I don’t want to work here anymore… with you.” You answered with difficulty. Your voice was betraying your stand.

“Why?” He asked with a blank stare.

“Because I don’t think it’s ethical.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like you.”

“Why?”

“Because I think you’re a son of a bitch.” This began to frustrate you.

“Why?”

“Because how fuckin’ dare you hit on me when you’re fuckin’ married!” You finally exploded.

“Is that all this is about?!” He finally answered clearly.

“What do you mean ‘Is that all’!  That “all” is a big fuckin’ deal!”

“Who told you that shit, anyway?!” Carmy asked frustrated, the tint on his skin rising up his neck.

“I saw her in your office, what? You thought I was never gonna find out?!”

“Who, Sugar?!”

“Yes, Sugar!” You shouted exasperated, had he always been this irritating? 

He breathed out a humorless laugh, one hand rubbing his mouth, the other on his hip as he stared down at you.

“Sugar… is my fuckin’ sister. Wh-who told you that married shit?!” He asked, waving his hand angrily in the air.

“Doesn’t matter, the fuck was I supposed to know that?!” You shouted back, too deep in now to swallow down the contents of your mistake, scattered all over the floor.

“I don’t know, maybe you could have asked me!”

“Oh, like you would tell me shit.” You responded, rolling your eyes at him and crossing your arms over your chest. It was a lost fight but you were too stubborn to admit you were wrong now.

“Seriously? That’s fuckin’ rich coming from you. You wanted me to believe I scared you into leaving!” He takes another step towards you and this one has you sliding a couple inches back.

“I said I was sorry, okay?” The heavy pounding vibrated inside your ears as adrenaline mixed blood traveled faster into your head. 

“Yeah well, you say that a lot lately.” He answered sarcastically, the pain hidden behind thin humor had your arms lose their grip and fall flaccid beside you.

“Look, that’s not the point,okay? The point is I can’t stay here.” You reply defeated, a pang of guilt hitting your stomach.

“Why?! Cause of some made up wife that turned out to be my sister?!” 

You turned to the metal table behind you and dropped your bag on top with a loud clang of what you assumed were your keys inside. Sweaty palms rested on top of the cool surface and you let your head hang low while you tried to calm your anger down. Maybe you did go a bit too far by not asking him first, but in your defense, being hot headed was part of your nature.

“No Carmy- because I can’t stand seeing you every second of every day and not being able t-to touch  you or-or kiss or do anything about all these stupid feelings inside! ” You finally confessed when you could no longer see his intense stare. The words stumbled out like the alcohol contents of that morning, heavy, fast and unstoppable.

Your heavy breaths and the running motor of the walk in are the only sounds audible in the reduced space. But if you could take a peek in either of your heads, you’d be surprised at the amount of swarming voices trying to decipher a million thoughts per second. Your eyes were fixated on the carefully organized spices resting on the second level of the table.

“So that’s your plan, then? Leavin’ cause you like me too much, but you can’t do anything while you’re here.” He whispered and you heard the light squeak of his kitchen shoes as he moved closer to you.

As the cloud of anger slowly dissipated, giving pathway to clear thoughts, the undertones of his words appeared unobstructed in front of you. You blinked continuously as you played out the idea in your head.

“Yeah… I-I guess.” You mumbled.

A soft breath escaped your lips when you felt a warm touch contrast to the chill surface. You looked down to your left hand, a bigger one placed carefully on top, skilled fingers inching close to the free space between yours, a tickling feeling erupting at the touch. Your fingers rounded softly around his and that was the sign of reassurance he needed to step closer to you, chest pressing fully to the length of your back and caging you to the table.

He held your palm like delicate glass under his rough hand, both of your eyes trained on the curved limbs, afraid the eye contact would strip your souls too bare. Carmy whispered your name like a prayer, voice soft enough only for you to hear in the empty space, a wisp of sultry air hit the base of your neck and erupting chills around the sensitive skin.

“You are amazingly smart, really fuckin’ funny and it would be a lie if I said I wouldn’t miss you… but if having you with me means not seeing you here every day, then I will gladly fire you myself.”

A breathy laugh left your lips, soon replaced by a sharp intake when you felt his fingertips brush gently at the base of your neck, moving your hair out of the way then leaning down to place a tender kiss to the skin. Your vision blurred at the edges from the simple touch and the hand holding his, locked tight around tattooed fingers. He kept planting small kisses to your rising skin, stealing small gasps from your chest, finding it adorable and amusing all at once. You felt a shy smile against your neck as his right digits skimmed over the soft velvet of your other arm.

It was ridiculous how his effortless touch had you almost losing grasp of your self control so easily. You tried to regain your composure, or at least concentrate on what would leave your mouth next, other than shameful gasps. Your mouth fell dry when his right hand curled at your waist and when he pressed himself closer to you, your lips parted open like a fish praying for a drop of water outside the ocean.

“Want me to stop?” He whispered in between pecks. He knew your answer from the way your body was reacting to him, but the never ending voice in the back of his head made him doubtful.

You shook your head no, not trusting the words in your mouth, swallowing dryly,  and took the chance to turn around as best you could in the limited space. With heaving breaths and a thumping heart you finally looked up into the cloudless sky trapped in his eyes. Your brows furrowed at the marvelous change they reflected from the tired man you had grown to care for.

Now with a clear head, a different answer manifested in your mind as the one you had given the night before. If it meant you had to lose one thing to gain another even better, then so be it. You weren’t breaking any self imposed rule, only finding a loophole around it. There was no doubt in your mind that you wanted this. No angry voices in your head alarming you of what a terrible idea this was. It was only you, him and the prospect of a future together, however long it may be.

You stood on your toes and at last, closed the little distance left between your lips, He kissed back almost immediately, like he had been waiting for this exact moment, soft hungry lips dancing gracefully against each other. His hands moved to wrap around your waist again, pulling you closer as yours curled hard around the flimsy material of the white shirt on his torso. You bit lightly on his bottom lip and a small groan vibrated from his throat into yours and directly in between your thighs.

Without an inch of hesitation, he parted from your kiss and strong arms lifted you up to sit on the chill metal. Your legs opened for him to step in between and your cheeks would have gone crimson at the way they parted instantly if he would have given you a chance, but immediately after moving into the welcoming space, his hand circled the back of your neck and crashed your lips to his again with new found passion. The view was parallel to your imagination and a soft moan escaped your lips at the sweet memory, one he swallowed gladly. His other hand massaged your upper thigh, thumb brushing tenderly over the inside of your jeans, very close to the pulsing center where you needed him most. 

You held on to his shoulder in support and threaded your fingers through his hair, just like you had imagined many times before. His hand squeezed your thigh deliciously at a pull to his roots and the vibration that escaped his throat allowed you to deepen the kiss, slipping your tongue to caress his own. Your lungs burned from the lack of air but you would rather die by asphyxiation than lose the rhythm you had carefully cultivated with him.

The hand on your thigh traveled back slowly, both meeting at the base of your spine. Still in your cloudy haze, you expected him to continue his exploration down, but his fingers stayed spread out at the bottom of your back, unable to move. With hands still knotted in golden strands, you circled your legs around what you could reach of his hips and pulled him closer than before. An involuntary snap of his pelvis against your core ripped a surprised whimper from your mouth and the sound seemed to be enough of a push for his hands to reach down to your ass, pulling you to the edge of the metal and kneading the tender flesh.

You could feel the straining bulge against his jeans as he continued to grind persistently, a strong grasp on your body. Short gasps escaped your lips at the friction, just enough to get you riled up but not to reach the high you were chasing. Peeling your lips from his to take a heavy breath, you pecked down his jaw and up to his ear where you rolled his lobe between your teeth. He shivered under your touch, a shaky laugh leaving his lips as his head fell on your shoulder and his movements faltered.

“Carmy… ” You pleaded into his ear.

It didn’t matter if you sounded pitiful, the only thing you needed at the moment was for him to take you hard on that table. You let go from his hair and dropped your hands to the buttons of his black jeans while you worked his ear between licks and tiny bites. His hands mirrored yours, fluidly popping the buttons open and sliding the thick material down your legs. Your sneakers fell to the ground with an empty noise when you kicked them off as he discarded your jeans somewhere on the kitchen floor, then pushed your hand down the loose waistband of his jeans and boxers to his welcoming hard cock.

His breath got caught in his throat from the sudden touch of your ever-cold hands, a heavy moan leaving his lips and tickling the inside of your neck. You stroked the surprising length with slow movements. You didn’t expect him to be so… gifted, at least he didn’t carry himself like it. It was a nice shock, one that had you grinding against nothing on the cool metal.

He must have sensed your desperation as a struggling whine left your mouth, because he placed a trail of soft kisses back up to your face. One of his hands rubbed your cheek tenderly, softly shushing you while his thumb brushed over your bottom lip.

“Shh, it’s okay” Carmy muttered with a low raspy voice. “I got you… I got you.” He placed soft kisses over your whimpering lips. The change in his tone from what you were used to made the movements of your hand waver inside his jeans and you squeezed lightly around his cock.

With no warning, skilled fingers rubbed at your folds through the fabric of your damp underwear, forcing a guttural moan to escape the deepest part of your being. He repeated the circular motion whilst peppering around your heaving lips with wet kisses. Using your thighs for support, you grind your hips to his palm, looking for release and speeding up your movements carefully on your other hand.  He answered your actions by pushing your underwear to the side and massaging the tender area at a torturous pace.

A shock wave traveled up your spine at the contact, your hips chasing after his touch. He teased your entrance with his middle finger, rubbing around it but not quite going all the way.

“Fuck… Carmy, please” You managed to say between gasps, pushing your hips towards him to stimulate the friction.

“Please what?” He asked through gritted teeth, screwed brows betraying the blankness in his voice.

 You tried following his movements, but the hand on your cheek quickly snapped down to your soft thighs, pressing you down with strength onto the counter top, a small smack rippling through your skin and vibrating tight down to your core.

“C’om on, chef… use your words for me.” He whispered near your ear and the simple sentence had your cunt gripping around nothing. “D'you want me to fuck you?” He asked, middle finger dipping halfway into you with a torturing pace. “To fill you up here, in the middle of my kitchen?”

Oh. Oh.

This was new. As well as the bubble of excitement growing in the valley between your legs. You had never been a fan of dirty talk, but the way your body was reacting to his words made you believe that no one had done it correctly until now. Gone was the stuttering man who couldn’t hold eye contact with you at the start, now replaced by some smooth motherfucker who could make you come with just his words.

“Yes… please” Short gasps followed your words. 

“Yes what?” He pulled his mouth from your neck and stared down at you through hooded eyelids.

You could feel his pulse vibrate through his heavy dick in your hand as short breaths left your kiss swollen lips. The words fell thick in your throat, trapped between a whine and a gasp. Your thoughts streamed rapidly in your head and you knew that no future scenario would ever live up to this moment. You knew it wasn’t just about the sex he was asking approval for, it was about the whole conversation. The fight, the confession, the plated tray with his heart atop it that you had left untouched the night before. He needed the reassurance that this was not a goodbye or a one and done.

“Yes chef” You whispered with no doubts. 

You pulled your hand from inside his jeans, then used your legs to pull them further down and finally free his erection from its confined space. And without taking your eyes off his, you reached up to your mouth, stuck out your tongue and swiped a thick coat of saliva to your digits. His lips parted in a daze, dark eyes flickering to your lips then back to your glossy stare.

The moment your hand made contact with his pulsing girth, he knew he was done for.

He pulled your hips to the edge, then carelessly removed your underwear and his shirt. Your eyes caught on dark designs decorating his hard abdomen and rib cage, and your mouth watered at the idea of tracing your tongue on each individual line, but the velvet tip of his cock sliding between your opening knocked all the thoughts inside your head.

“Shit..”He said under a shaky breath “D-do you have one?”

His forehead pressed to yours, both sets of eyes fixed on the view below them.

“No but, uhm.. I got an IUD. I-I’m all set.” 

“Yeah, no..uhm, I mean cool, t-that’s great.” He responded with a nervous laugh.

“Yeah..” You answered amused.

You held his cock in your lubricated hand as his tip found your entrance, then slowly disappeared past your folds. A shared groan vibrated in the closeness of your chest when a delicious ache tingled along your cunt at the sudden stretch. Carmy dropped his head to place a kiss against your clothed shoulder and circled his hands under your thighs for a better grip. He stayed immobile for a couple long seconds, basking in the tight hold your pussy had around him, so much better than what he had ever imagined.

You shuttered beside his ear when he unsteadily pulled back almost to the tip and a small smile curled on his lips. Carmy took a calming breath to ease his racing heart, and without warning slammed his hips deep into your own, thick fingers kneading at the underskin of your thighs. The force of his pace pulled the last puffs of air from your lungs, leaving you a panting mess underneath his touch. One of your hands gripped the slick surface behind you for support while the other clawed against Carmy’s back, pressing him impossibly closer to you.

A thread of ‘Fuckfuckfuck’ and ‘Oh god’ spilled from your mouth with each strong thrust assaulting your body. Your senses were overwhelmed by his actions, every individual pound against you was followed by the obscene sound of slapping skin and blurred vision. His hips snapped repeatedly into you, pushing everything out of the way and filling you up with only him. You could feel him so deep in you that the taste of his cock lingered on your tongue.

The force of his movements rattled the legs of the table and a few spice containers fell around you, but that didn’t seem important enough for him to stop his brutal force.

A long fuck shaped groan left his throat, the dirty noise making your grip on his dick tighten.

“Fuck C-Carmy” You breathed out with wavering strength.

He separated from your neck long enough to admire how beautiful you looked under him. Baby hairs stuck to your sweaty forehead and rubies decorated your freckled cheeks. Your eyes were blown wide and brows knit together as you took in every of his firm thrusts. He could see the soft bounce of your breasts under your thin shit and he could only dream of what he would do with them when you had more time.

“W-what” You asked him when you caught him staring longingly at you.

His movements slowed down but didn’t stop fully, only enough to take in the full view of your glowing skin and panting chest.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect.” He sighed and a breathy laugh vibrated softly against your joined bodies.

 He pulled you into a soft kiss, savoring the taste of the heated moment and categorizing it under one of the best things he had placed upon his tongue. A sharp gasp ripped from your chest when he snapped his pelvis deep into you, hitting a specific spot that left you a mumbling mess under his tips. He did it again, just to see you fall apart at his touch, head falling back and gasping for air. 

Carmy found the whole experience extra corporeal and as if something had gained total control of his body, his hands carried your thighs higher up and pressed them to your chest, each socked foot resting on his broad shoulders. You took your nails from his back and rested both pals behind you, keeping you upright. Then he angled himself to where he felt a soft stop inside you and began to snap his hips against it.

The sensation was so strong you could barely mutter his name. You felt him everywhere, so deep you could feel him up your throat, in your bloodstream and every individual cell in your body. Your skin burned to the touch and nothing other than him pounding ruthlessly against you made sense in your mind. He was fucking you stupid, pulse beating in your navel and eyes covered in blinding stars.

You tried to let him know, warn him even, but nothing other than his name fell like prayer beads from your heaving lips. You squeezed your cunt around him and a small falter in his actions gave you some room to breathe.

“Fuck I-I can’t, Car-Carmy I'm gonn-” You struggled, waiting for the air to reach your lungs, but it was all tainted by the smell of sex and him.

“Let go, baby, let go” He cooed between moans.

And it was all you needed to hear to finally lose yourself completely to his touch. The smacking noise grew louder as he gripped your thighs with one arm around them, then the other traveled between you, placing his thumb above your swollen clit and pushing down in insistent circles. 

The pressure in the base of your belly ultimately broke with a snap and an uncontained moan painted the walls of the empty kitchen in a lilac hue. Your vision blurred as tears of bliss gathered under your eyelids and your body floated into nothingness. Your walls pulsed around his dick with two more thrusts and that was enough for him to follow you down the rabbit hole of your joined orgasm. A choked growl vibrated in his chest and streaks of red crawled their way up his neck and buried at his cheeks with his release.

His grip on your legs loosened when he used his hands to steady his weight against the table, and let them fall carefully around his waist as he catched his breath. With his head hanging low, he pecked small kisses to your exposed skin. Your head hanging back with eyes shut, trying to enjoy the last ripples of pleasure turning into shallow waves. One of your hands caressed up his sweaty skin and buried into the tangled mess of his hair lovingly.

A soft pleased smile covered his features, closed eyelashes feathering lightly against yours. His large palm rested beside your still trembling thigh, soft thumb rubbing calming circles and a small chuckle left his lips.

“It was fuckin’ Richie, wasn’t it?” He asked, breaking the pleasant blissful silence you had sat in for however long it took to settle your raging heartbeats.

You nodded in response with your own small laugh and heard him mumble a ‘Fuckin’ Richie’, raising his head and looking lovingly into your glossed over eyes.

“It’s okay, I’ll just tell everyone he’s the reason I quit so they hate him for a little while.” You whispered and a beautiful sound left his lips.

It was a soft relaxed sighed laugh, the kind you don’t have to force and that vibrates directly from your chest out, brightening the space around you. Your chest tightened at the melodious sound and your brows scrunched up in awe when he finally opened his eyes again. The ever present line of worry above his brows was gone, leaving behind only the tint of rich aquamarine and sapphire blues.

Chapter 5.

Taglist: @pearlstiare @teteminne and that’s it lmao

[passivenovember]

The problem is, Steve doesn't ask Billy to be his boyfriend.

He tiptoes around it.

He calls Billy at midnight and begs him to come over because it's important, but Neil took the Camaro and Billy's stranded on Cherry Shit Street, so he slams the receiver down and goes to bed.

But the thing about a Harrington is they can't rub two braincells together, so he comes to get Billy, anyway.

And that's the problem. He climbs through Billy's window and bangs his head on the windscreen and once they're sure Neil's still snoring himself to death, Steve begs Billy to go out into the cold so they can watch Terminator on Steve's plasma screen. All big brown eyes and, I'll be good, I promise.

But it's midnight.

Billy goes, anyway.

And they've been doing this long enough that Billy shouldn't be surprised when they only make it ten minutes into When Harry Met Sally, fuckin' liar, and Steve's got his hand in Billy's pants.

They barely make it upstairs.

The problem is, Steve scrunches his nose when he comes inside of Billy, and they've been doing this long enough that Billy shouldn't get hot in the face over something like forgetting the condom.

But it turns out that fucking Steve is like that movie where the guy has to live the same day over and over again, only it's perfect. And Billy doesn't mind.

The problem is, he'd have to be dragged, kicking and screaming, away from this.

Steve makes a high, pretty noise in the back of his throat like always, and collapses on top of Billy like always, and says, panting so hard that he sucks a mouthful of Billy's neck, "You're amazing."

Which is different. Earnest. It stops Billy in his tracks to that warm, familiar afterglow.

"What?" Billy demands, suddenly terrified, but.

Steve's eyes sparkle, "I'm serious, Bill. You're. You're so perfect--"

"Get off of me," Billy says. Has to do something about this. Ruin the moment before it destroys his snow globe daydream.

Steve looks wounded. "Sorry," He says.

There's a lump in Billy's throat, like he caught Steve's whiny little noise, somehow, and he's trying to grow something from its wonder. Billy shoves gently at Steve's shoulders, "I have to piss," he says, so he doesn't break any hearts, and Steve pulls out.

Hissing while he does it. Smiling all dopey and soft when Billy gets out of bed and pulls a t-shirt on. He didn't check who's it was, so.

It's Steve's. It smells like him.

Steve lays back in bed with his fingers tucked under his sex-ruined brown mop and tracks the way the hem of his t-shirt flaps softly just below Billy's sack.

"Stop starting at me," Billy says.

"I'm not."

"Why are you smiling like that?"

"Nothing else in the room to look at," Steve shrugs. He reaches into the night stand and pulls away with a pack of cigarettes. His Nona's ashtray, cut from clay the shape of an apple core, just like always. "Thought you had to wiz?"

Billy goes to the bathroom.

He doesn't have to pee so he cleans himself up, instead, splashing water through his curls and using Steve's toothbrush to scrub the taste of cock from his back molars. Billy thinks that if they can forget the condom he can use the toothbrush. Eye for an eye, sorta thing.

When he gets back to Steve's room, Steve's asleep.

Which isn't normal, either.

It pisses Billy off because Steve didn't ask Billy to stay over even though Steve's the one who picked him up from his dad's house in the middle of the night.

Steve never asks. That's his problem.

So Billy snatches the book he started reading the last time he was stranded here from Steve's nightstand and tries not to jostle the mattress too much when he slips under the covers.

Steve's cute when he sleeps.

In the few times Billy's seen it, that never changes. Steve snores softly, barely ruffling the air around him, and he clings like a vine.

Billy tries not to smile and fails when Steve curls around him, his pretty brown eyes fluttering at the sound of Billy opening the book.

"You're reading?"

"That a problem? You're ready for round two?"

"No, I just--"

"If you don't want to fuck I'll just leave." Billy tosses the book onto the nightstand, smirking when warm, soft hands curl around his belly to keep him in place.

"I drove you, asshole."

"Then you'd better get your ass out of bed and get dressed. It's forty-degrees out and I'm not walking from your pink fucking palace all the way home to the shit shack."

Steve blinks at him, wide and owlish. "Are you referring to my cock at the pink palace?"

"Your house, dipshit," Billy laughs, loud and sudden, from the pit of his belly. It feels good. Steve's fingers poke and prod and him, and that feels better.

Big brown eyes search him. "Stay with me."

Billy shouldn't. "No," He says, just to be difficult.

"Why not?"

"I have to be up early tomorrow."

"Move in with me," Steve says, tugging and pulling until Billy falls onto the mattress next to him. "Stay here forever, you can sleep in and I'll make you breakfast if you promise to be nice."

His fingers trace the curve of Billy's jaw. Billy wants to bite him, so he does, sucking on Steve's wrist to see if the skin will fall away.

"Ow," Steve snaps, watching him, "You're so mean to me."

Billy spits his palm out. "You love it."

"I love you," Steve says. Easy like summer days.

Billy's stomach flattens itself, pushing down into his spine until it feels like he's being pulled through the mattress, and the floor, down into the darkness of the Earth. "Is that what was so important? You had to drag me out of my bed just to tell me--"

"Your bed sucks. You sleep so much better here."

"I've never slept here, before."

"You are. Tonight. Every night after that, too," Steve wets his lips, eyes sparkling. "Say something, Billy."

Billy sits, breathing until the heavy feeling in his stomach evens out. "You never ask me what I want," Billy tells the wall. "You never do, you always just tell me what's going to happen. Why do you do that?"

"Because if I give you a chance, you might say no."

Billy looks back, his heart ramming into his ribs at the soft, sweet look on Steve's face.

It's ridiculous, what those eyes do to him. That mouth. Billy wants to kiss him. It's a sharp, familiar feeling that's brand new every time. So intense.

"You piss me off," Billy says.

"I love you," Steve's still propped on one arm, easy as pie, staring at him. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to hurt you--"

"So, what?" Billy snaps, suddenly furious. "You love me--"

"--and you love me--"

"Harrington," Billy smiles in spite of himself and it hurts. Like the way healing bones do. He scrubs a hand across his face and tucks back onto the mattress, frowning when Steve doesn't settle with him.

They stare at each other.

They think about how long they've been doing this, and all the ways they fit together perfectly and all the ways they almost do.

Finally, Billy sighs. "So I love you and you love me, and what? We're together, now?"

"We already were."

"Could've fooled me."

"You're my boyfriend," Steve says, soft and full of wonder. He kisses the corner of Billy's mouth, "You don't get to say no. I love you."

"Fine," Billy says, red-faced. "Can we go to bed, now? Dick."

"Yeah, let's go to bed." Steve says.

And.

This whole problem. It's not so bad.

[violettduchess]

A/N: @dear-mrs-otome your request has taken me on quite the journey. I hope I've managed to do your Prince right and that you have as much fun reading this as I had writing it. 💜

Technically, this is part of my Broken Heartstrings series under the prompt: Only One Bed which I have been dying to write and was really excited to do with Silvio, demanding as he is.

Silvio x f! reader

Word Count: 5093

Of all the people to share a carriage ride back to the palace with, Silvio Ricci is the last one you would have chosen. You glance at him, sitting there across from you in the darkened carriage as it sways over the uneven country roads. His face is currently set to a sharp scowl, his impossibly blue eyes staring out the glass window. Not that he can see much. The world outside is black, streaked with shots of gray as the rain continues to fall, pelting the carriage’s roof and windows with a loud rat-a-tat-tat sound. 

Only his occasional annoyed sighs interrupt the steady drumming of the rain. You pull your thin, black silk shawl tighter around your bare shoulders, turning to stare out your own darkened window. You’ll be grateful when you reach the palace and can change out of your tightly corseted ball gown. As enchanting as it is with its ivory-colored satin and black lace trimming, you are looking forward to being able to breathe again. And bend properly. 

“Only Rhodolite would have a ball way out in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere.”

Your jaw clenches and the rolling sound of thunder echoes the irritation you feel at his snide tone.

“The Count holds this ball once a year at his country estate which is one of the most elegant–”

The Prince of Benitoite scoffs loudly. “Elegant my ass.” 

You are really beginning to question Sariel’s decree that you ride back to the palace with this pompous royal. You’re more likely to lodge your heeled shoe in his temple than make pleasant small talk. 

“Prince Silvio, do you have to be so-” You’re interrupted by another boom of thunder, this one loud enough to rattle the carriage. You hear the frightened whine of the horse over the continued sound of heavy rain. Some part of you is not surprised when it rolls to a stop. A moment later there is a rapping at the window and you lean over, opening the carriage door. A rush of wet, cold air invades the dry interior.

“The hell we stopped for?” Silvio yells above the din of the downpour.

The driver, battling the gusting wind to keep his hat on his head and the rain out of his eyes, has to yell back in order to be heard. “‘Storm has gotten too bad, your highness! We can’t keep traveling in this weather!” He glances over his shoulder, blinking against the water pelting his face.. “We passed an inn just a short ways back! We should head there for shelter!”

You expect him to argue and for a half a moment, his lips part and it looks like he might. But then the sky explodes into a sheet of white as lightning bares its teeth. Silvio’s gaze shifts from the sky back to the driver and you’re given a glimpse of a man who understands and respects the power of a storm. He nods once in affirmation.

The driver looks relieved that he won’t have to argue with the haughty prince and closes the carriage door. A moment later you feel it turn, heading back in the direction it came. You wonder whether or not you should comment on the prince’s amenability when he snorts in disgust, moving his expensive leather boots away from a puddle of water that the rain had blown onto the carriage floor.

Nope, still an ass, you think with a sigh and ride the rest of the way to the inn in silence, with only the turbulent sound of the storm echoing through the carriage.

“Whaddaya mean there’s only one room left?” Silvio’s jewelry and the many gold adornments on his ocean-blue jacket gleam in the light of the hearth fire inside the common room of the inn. “You’re talking to a Prince of Benitoite! I could buy this whole place out from under ya in a day.”

The beleaguered innkeeper crosses his burly arms, glaring at the prince from under bushy white eyebrows. 

“As I said already, Your Highness, I got one room left. You can take it or leave it.” He turns to the driver who has returned from securing the horse, safe and sound in the barn. “It’s not much, sir, but you can have a spot in front of the hearth. It’ll warm you up, dry you off.”

Silvio’s booted foot hits the wooden planks of the inn’s floor. “And your room? What if I demand to commandeer your bed?”

The innkeeper grins through his full, white beard. “You’d certainly give my wife the thrill of her life, Your Highness.”

You would laugh at the startled look on Silvio’s face but you have another pressing problem. “So I have a choice between the floor and….sharing a room with him?”

Genuinely sorry, the innkeeper nods, his gaze darting to the prince. “I apologize, my lady. Truly.”

You turn to face Silvio and his scowl. With a jangle, he snatches the room key from the counter where the innkeeper left it and marches off toward the narrow, winding staircase that leads to the second story of the inn.

You follow with one last glance at the common room.

Maybe the floor wouldn’t be that bad.

The room is at the very end of the hallway, nestled under the slanted inn roof. You notice several things right away when you step inside: There is one round glass window through which you can watch the way the rain is being flung through the night by a restless, howling wind. A small oil lamp is lit, resting on the nightstand of the lone bed. It is larger than you expected, taking up close to half of the small room. A tiny, worn table and single chair are tucked into a narrow corner. And there is absolutely nothing else in the room except a Prince of Benitoite, whose pale head almost brushes the rafters, standing in the middle with his arms crossed, glowering in disdain.

“What a dump.”

Irritation trumps politeness and you hear yourself snap at him. “You’re welcome to take your royal ass back down to the common room and sleep with the driver. Or perhaps the barn with the horses is more to your liking.”

He turns sharply, his clothing and jewelry jingling softly under the sounds of the storm. His gaze, the blue of a midsummer sky, lingers and you wonder if he’s going to snap at you for speaking to him that way. Or comment on your language. Instead he surprises you by doing neither. His lips curve into a grin and you are utterly unprepared for the way a smile changes his face. What was begrudgingly handsome transforms into blindingly beautiful. Butterflies are born, fluttering their wings in your stomach, sending up a breeze that comes out as a huff of air as you march over to the side of the bed closest to the window and sit, leaning down to undo the straps of your shoes.

He watches you, crossing his arms. “Whatcha doin’?”

You keep your back to him as you pull off one shoe and begin undoing the other. “Getting ready for bed.”

He glances at the bed with its single, quilted blanket and two pillows. Then he begins unbuttoning his dress jacket. “Fine. You can have the blanket. Maybe it’ll make the chair or floor more comfortable.”

Standing, you turn around to face him. He’s carefully removed his jacket and has folded it so all its golden ornaments are wrapped inside of it. 

“What do you mean ‘the chair or floor’? The bed is big enough for us both. I refuse to–What on earth are you doing?” You watch, brows raised as he begins tucking his jacket underneath his pillow.

“My clothes are worth more than everything in this room. Hell, one of my rings probably more than this whole fucking inn.” He steps back, satisfied that you can’t see the jacket anymore and then faces his next bothersome obstacle, the one shaking her head with her hands on her hips. Hips, he notices, that are temptingly accented by the flair of her ballgown. His gaze follows the stiff waistline up the strapless bodice where he can’t help but notice other things the gown accents. How had he not noticed your–

Your voice snaps him out of it.

“Prince or not, that’s ridiculous.” 

Aaaaaand you’re yappin’ again. He ignores your comment, kicking off his expensive leather boots in a move so casually effortless it stirs those annoying butterflies again and then with a sigh, lays down on the bed. He’s left all of his jewelry on, his golden rings and earrings and necklaces which strikes you as very uncomfortable but he seems right at home, stretching out his long limbs in a way that seems to swallow all that space the bed seemed to have at first glance.

Best to get ready and go to sleep immediately. 

With that thought, you realize something-and the raucous storm outside has nothing on the roar of panic flooding your body.

Your ivory and black ball gown is beautiful. And you were laced into this beautiful ivory and black ball gown by a trusted female servant. Laced into it wearing nothing but a pair of soft silken drawers which stop mid-thigh. 

You consider trying to sleep in the gown. No. You wouldn’t be able to move. It’s too tight at the waist and chest and too voluminous in the skirt. 

Which means…..you turn slowly to see Silvio has rolled over, his back to you. Great. He’s gone to sleep already.

You clear your throat. 

No response. 

You do it again louder. 

He doesn’t move.

“Silvio!”

His name does it. “The fuck you want, lady?!” He’s rolled halfway around, glaring at you over his shoulder.

“I….” This hurts to admit and you wish you were in the room with anyone else. “I can’t undo my gown.”

“So sleep in it,” he says, each word drawn out slowly like he’s talking to a small child. He mutters something in the language of Benitoite you can just tell is rude and insulting.

You grit your teeth. He starts to roll back over.

“I can’t. It’s too tight to sleep in and the skirt is big.”

Outside the thunder rolls, low and foreboding. Silence swallows the room and you know your cheeks are warm. Maybe he won’t notice in the dim light.

He jangles as he pushes himself up now, hair pale as moonlight falling across his forehead and cheek as he tilts his head. And then slowly, oh so slowly, he grins in a way that corkscrews a blaze of heat right through you.

“So lemme make sure I got this. You’re askin’ me to undress you?”

You steel yourself. “And to give me your shirt.”

That wipes the grin right off his face. “Whaddaya mean ‘give you my shirt’? Do you know-”

“I’m sure it’s more expensive than all the buildings in Rhodolite but I am going to sleep in that bed and I am not going to do it in just my undergarment!”

Your tone is firm, much more confident than you actually feel. Again the thunder outside is the only sound as he stares, those cobalt blue eyes fixed on you with the intensity and depth of a storm-tossed ocean.

“Please.” It comes out small, a tiny crack in the wall of confidence you’ve been presenting him with. The word has slipped out, unbidden and the heat in your face feels unbearable. Have you lost your mind, asking him to do this? “N-Nevermind, I’ll-”

Your stammering drops off as he stands, his elegant fingers reaching under soft white ruffles to begin unbuttoning his shirt. He does not meet your gaze and you wonder if that darkness in his face is a blush to match your own. Then the white shirt is off and he’s standing before you, his upper body surprisingly sculpted and shockingly bare. His necklaces lay against his fair skin and there is something so intimate about the sight your breath catches.

“So the lady likes what she sees.” Dragging your gaze away from all the exposed skin and corded muscle, you see that grin has returned to those lips and you draw a quick breath, spinning around and presenting him with your back (which happens to conveniently hide a blush so fierce it must be glowing.)

“Just get on with it.” 

The wooden floorboards creak underfoot as he crosses to where you are standing. You’re not sure you’ve ever been this close to him before. You didn’t dance together at the ball and as far as you can remember the only time you’ve ever touched was when you first met and he offered you his hand, a sharp thrust in your direction that felt more like he was going to stab you with an invisible dagger than an introduction.

But now he is so close you can smell his cologne, something unexpectedly soft that vaguely reminds you of the sea on a dark, clear night. Your body is electric with an awareness that ripples across your skin with every inhale and exhale he makes. Outside, the rain is endless, the thunder unflagging. But their sounds are drowned out by the sudden pounding of your heart, by the beat of a thousand butterfly wings sending your blood rushing through your veins like the current of a wild river. He begins pulling on the satin bow of your gown, undoing the careful knot.

“The laces can be tricky,” you say just to say something, anything. Is that really your voice, so breathy and soft?

You realize your mistake instantly because he answers you and his voice is right by your ear, curling around the shell of it.

“I got more than enough experience with knots,” he murmurs.

“Because of all the people you’ve bedded,” you mutter. Why did you say that? And why does the thought of Silvio in bed with anyone make your fingers curl into your palms?

He’s released the knot and begins loosening the stays, tucking those nimble fingers underneath each crisscross and tugging, not roughly as you would have imagined but with precision, loosening each section deliberately, skillfully.

“Because I’m a sailor,” he says matter-of-factly, surprising you yet again. He tugs again and the bodice of your gown suddenly slips, sending you scrambling to keep the whole thing up. He leans closer still, his lips mere centimeters from your ear. “And because of all the people I’ve bedded.” He’s undone your gown but you’re being wrapped up again, this time in his silken, serpentine words..

Your heart leaps in your chest and you stumble away, holding up your dress with both arms, swallowing against the unexplainable tightness in your throat.

“Your shirt.” You hold the ivory satin to your chest with one arm and hold out your free hand, palm up. He practically strolls back to the bed (how he manages to do that in such a small space is a mystery), picks up his shirt and with a shameless grin, throws it at you.

You don’t reach for it with both hands as he may have hoped, instead catching it one-handed and there is a flash of something in his eyes. Disappointment? Admiration? Both?

“Turn around.” 

He lifts his hand, jeweled rings on nearly every finger and covers his eyes. 

“Silvio.” Consternation swells his name. It looks like he’s peeking.

“What? I ain’t lookin’!”

There is too much running wildly through your mind, too many blurry thoughts twisting in incomprehensible circles to worry about whether or not the man is going to sneak a look at you or not. You turn your back to him and let your gown drop to the floor with a whoosh.

He didn’t plan to look. But the rings on his fingers don’t allow him to hold them together completely and when your dress makes that sound, his eyes open of their own accord and through the narrow space between his fingers he catches a glimpse of your naked back. The curve of your hip and dip of your waist. The shapely line of your legs. 

The thunder rumbles a warning and he quickly closes his eyes again, alarmed at the sharp, hot pang of want slicing its way through his body. You? No. He doesn’t want–

One blue eye slowly opens, this time without any excuse. You’re wearing his shirt. It falls to the back of your knees and somehow looks better than any dress ever would. There is a tension slowly winding its way across his neck, his shoulders, a tightening in his gut at the sight. And then you turn, buttoning the final few buttons and his mouth goes dry at the fleeting glimpse of your décolleté. . 

What the fuck…..He forces his eyes closed again, his jaw clenched against the swift desire you unknowingly provoked.

You scramble towards the bed and dive under the blanket, pulling it up and over your chest.

“Okay,” you murmur. “You can look now.”

He mumbles something that sounds like “Finally”, his voice oddly hoarse, as he lays back down but on top of the covers. 

“You can get under the covers. You’ll get cold if–”

“I’m fine, lady,” he snaps, a dog snarling at the hand offering it a pet.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You have no shirt on and it’s not all that warm in here. You’ll get sick.”

“I don’t get sick,” he says haughtily and for a moment, your exasperation overrules the awkwardness. 

“Fine. Whatever you say.” You pointedly roll away from him, trying to ignore how soft his shirt is, how good it smells, how comforting it is against your skin as the world outside rages with wind and water.

“This bed sucks.” His voice is rough, irritated. You glance over your shoulder. He’s laying on his back, his hands behind his head, staring at the slanted wooden beams of the ceiling. Despite the bareness of his upper body, it’s his profile that captures your attention. The fall of his pale hair. The slant of his cheekbones. The straight, aristocratic nose. His perfectly sculpted lips. A sudden, wild thought bursts through the chaos of your mind: what would they feel like on your lips? On your skin?

Outside the thunder booms, a furious sound so powerful it shakes the window, like a giant quaking the earth with its powerful steps. A small cry of surprise and trepidation escapes you.

He turns his head. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

You roll onto your back, not wanting to face the window and the darkness outside. An uncontrollable shiver rolls through you and you tug the covers up, closer to your chin.

“Rhodolite doesn’t have storms like this often." Your heart is hammering because of the deafening clap of thunder, right? It has nothing to do with the preposterous thoughts spinning like coins through your head just before. 

“Benitoite does.” He returns his gaze to the dark wooden beams above. “Be grateful you’re not on the deck of a ship durin’ a storm like this.”

You glance at the window, illuminated by a burst of lightning and then turn, rolling completely away from it to face him. 

“What was it like?”

Silvio glances at you, then quickly back to the ceiling. “This little rain shower’s got nothin’ on a storm that crept up on us while we were out to sea, sailin’ back from Tanzanite…..”

He speaks and you listen, each word a small fairy light blinking into existence, leading you down a path, away from the storm outside the small guesthouse in the middle of the Rhodolite countryside, and into the eye of a hurricane. One that rocks the carrack Silvio is on, homeward bound from far-away Tanzanite. 

He paints the picture so well, his voice low, blending in with the unrelenting barrage of rain on the darkened window pane. You can see him in your mind’s eye, soaked through, swallowing salt water and his fear as he clings to wet, stinging ropes, his boots sliding across the slick deck. Men’s shouts fade into the roar of the wind. A body is plucked from the ship and tossed like a ragdoll through the howling wind, lost forever to the churning, briny depths. The ocean is enraged, a wild beast bucking and kicking blindly. The ship groans and tilts, battered by the winds, tossed by the wild waves. Silvio’s vision is blurred as he seeks out the helmsman, valiantly still at the massive wooden wheel and makes his way across the dangerously open deck. A wall of water slams into him and he knows if he doesn’t fight, he will be washed out to sea. Dogged determination fills him. Out here he isn’t a prince, fighting for his father’s approval, fighting to be seen as someone worthy. Out here in the elements he is a man, fighting for his very survival, all his gold and jewels and titles worn down to nothing by the wild storm, like mighty mountains that have been reduced to pebbles by the persistence of rain over centuries. He roars in the face of the wind and the rain, clawing his way up to the petrified helmsman. “Insieme!!” Together.. His ringed fingers wrap around the wooden handles, between those of the helmsman. Their gazes meet and as lightning blanches the sky, they both turn with all their might……

“The sea claimed four men that night. Ain’t small, the price of lovin’ her.” He trails off, the experience slowly fading back into the mist of his memory. His blue eyes, darker and softer than you’ve ever seen them, blink as he returns to the small room at the top of the inn and the woman lying next to him.

You’re still on your side, facing him, your gaze held completely at attention by his face, his voice. His story not only distracted you from the storm outside, but had pulled you in, had you inching closer, heart hammering in your chest as you hung on every word. 

But he’s run out of words, that barrier now gone, and there is nothing between you. Just your gaze locked with his, your chest rising and falling as you stare into those azure depths, wondering if the tempest outside will be what causes you to helplessly fall into all that blue, another voyager lost in the ocean of his eyes.

You may be balancing on attraction’s razor-thin edge, but he is no better off. All he can think about is the softness in your expression, the part of your lips, and how he wants nothing more than to capture them and steal the taste of your mouth for himself, hoard it along with the other treasures he already has of you from tonight. The line of your bare back, the light in your eyes, the whisper of your breathing. Just a few centimeters and he would touch you. A few more and he could-

A loud clap of thunder breaks the moment, snapping it in two. You jump, shaken from the hold his gaze had on you, a loud gasp escaping your throat. He jerks back, suddenly aware of just how close the two of you were. There is a faint flush across his cheekbones as he runs a hand through his soft, silvery hair.

“Stop bein’ such a baby. I just told ya how this is nothin’.”

That imperious tone feels like an affront after hearing him speak so softly before. You pull away as if stung and then gather yourself together so he won’t see the glimmer of hurt in your eyes.

“I’m not a baby. I was just startled and–” The way he’s tilting his head, a derisive smirk on his lips sends a flare of annoyance through you. “You know what? Just forget it.” Angrily you roll away from him, yanking the covers up over your shoulder. You don’t see the flash of disappointment in his eyes, the way his fingers reflexively uncurled when you turned away, his body knowing what it wants long before his mind. 

You don’t see how long his gaze lingers on you before he finally forces himself to look away.

Sleep does not find you. You lay there as the oil lamp sputters out and the room is filled with dark shadows that scatter briefly when bright bursts of lightning illuminate the sky, a sky that continues to rampage with gusts of wind and cries of thunder.

Every single inch of you is aware of how close he is. You feel when he shifts his body, the movement disturbing the bedding. You’re still wrapped in the softness of his shirt, surrounded by his scent. And now you can hear the even sounds of his breathing. 

Taking a chance, you glance over your shoulder.

He’s asleep on his side, still facing you, his pillow tucked between his arm and his head. You should turn away and continue your battle with wakefulness. You should stop staring at the locks of argent hair across his forehead. The curve of his arm. The graceful line of his torso.

Outside the thunder rolls. Your heart echoes its tremor.

You do eventually turn away from him but find yourself very slowly inching your way backwards, moving towards him until your body is touching his, the blanket still between you. Despite the coolness of the room, he has stayed on top of it. There is an almost palpable relief in the feeling of his form, the solidness of his body. The storm feels less angry, less destructive. Being this close to him feels right in a way you don’t want to explore, a nebulous thing on the horizon of your heart that you want to keep at bay. 

And then he shifts in his sleep, throwing his arm around you and pulls you even closer against him.

You’re grateful he’s asleep or else the sudden galloping of your heart would surely wake him. It takes several breaths to calm the storm of butterflies in your chest, kicked up by your heart’s sudden racing. They settle down, wings still opening and closing at the feel of his strong arm, the curve of his body around yours. But there is also something warm slowly washing over you. A cocoon, a safe haven where you can finally close your eyes, finally feel the storm’s energy not as an enemy but as a companion, accompanying you as you drift off to sleep at last.

Silvio feels the way your body relaxes, the tension seeping from your muscles as you fall asleep, soft and trusting in his embrace.

If you only knew he has been awake throughout.

He stays awake for a long time, loath to move even a centimeter, feeling the warmth of your body through the blanket and listening to the sound of the rain.

Epilogue:

“Get up, lady. I need my shirt back.”

That voice falls into the still waters of sleep, hooking itself into your consciousness and drags you slowly to the surface.

Sleepily you push yourself up, raising a hand against the bright beam of sunlight spilling into the room.

Pushing your tousled hair out of your face, you find the Prince of Benitoite standing beside the bed, his jacket flung over his bare shoulder, one hand on his hip as he stares down at you. “Let’s go. We’re gettin’ out of this dump. Driver’s already waitin’.” 

Irritation rears its little horned head and your eyes narrow.

“Good morning to you too.”

He ignores that and stretches out his hand. “My shirt.”

And we’re back to this. You sigh.

“Go wait outside the door.”

He regards you a moment and then turns on his boot heel and leaves the room. With a grimace you climb out of the warm bed, padding barefoot across the wooden floor until you’re by the entrance. As quickly as you can, you unbutton his white shirt and then stick your hand out the door with it dangling from two fingers.

He mutters something that you cut off with a slam, eyes closing for a moment as you catch your breath.

Did last night really happen? Was he….kind? And….warm? Did you really sleep in his arms?

A bang on the door jerks you out of your thoughts. “Move it or lose it!”

Oh for fuck’s sake. “Go already! I’ll be there!”

Somehow you are able to wrangle yourself back into your ball gown. Tying the back is tricky but you manage to get it closed enough to avoid any indecency. A quick re-pinning of your hair and buckling of your shoes and you're making your way down the wooden staircase. The innkeeper is at the counter, smiling through his fuzzy white beard in greeting.

“Morning, my lady,” he calls cheerfully. 

The door to the inn is open and you can see the driver loading a few things back onto the carriage. Silvio is already inside.

“Thank you again for your hospitality, sir. I’m afraid I don’t have any coin for our stay, but I’ll be sure to return as soon as possible to pay-”

The older man shakes his head, waving you to a stop with his hand. “Oh no, no need for that my lady. Your…er…roommate already took care of it.”

You’re unable to hold back the surprise in your voice as you glance at the carriage and then back to the innkeeper. “He did?”

His eyes gleam as he reaches into the pocket of his worn vest and again, shock squeezes a silent gasp from your lips. In his work-worn, calloused hand, he’s holding two of Silvio’s bejeweled rings. His words from last night flash through your mind.

—“My clothes are worth more than everything in this room. Hell one of my rings probably more than this whole fucking inn.” –

The innkeep is oblivious to your stunned expression. “These’ll pay for any damage the storm caused and then some. I told that young man, he's welcome here anytime.”

You finally find your voice. “I….I’m glad to hear that. Thank you again.”

He bids you farewell as you walk outside into the startlingly bright sunlight. The smell of petrichor fills the air, the ground still damp as you walk towards the carriage.

The hazy feeling of something born in the fury of the storm….

Something nameless.

Something undeniable.

Something Silvio has awoken.

….is rising on delicate butterfly wings, inching its way closer to the realm of your heart. 

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly

[tellmealovestory]

Kiss Me - Chapter 2

Summary: 4 times you and Eddie kissed and it meant nothing and the 1 time you kissed and it meant everything.

Warnings: Like 1 swear word and another bit of awkwardness between these two!! Masterlist

The closer the clock ticks to midnight the more intense the game of Dungeons and Dragons seems to get as they work to end their current campaign before the new year. 

Sitting in the basement of Mike’s house watching it all unfold isn’t your usual scene. It seems no matter how many times Eddie or Dustin have explained the rules and point of the game to you you still don’t understand it, but that hasn’t stopped them from trying.

Eddie begged you to come, convincing you that you couldn’t spend another night studying or hanging out by yourself.

“Bullshit!” Dustin shouts in exasperation after he rolls the dice. It doesn’t take an expert to realize it’s a bad roll and now the game hangs in jeopardy. 

Attempting to cover up your laugh by coughing Eddie catches your eye. Instead of shushing you like he normally would during intense moments of game play he has to fight his own growing laughter.

You know that if you both keep staring at each other like this one of you is going to break, most likely you and it’ll take too long to stop your laughing fit and get everybody back on track. So you do the more mature thing, nodding to the stairs and silently letting Eddie know you’re going to get some air. 

As much as you enjoy hanging out with the younger kids, sometimes their rambunctious personality and being surrounded by so many boys takes its toll on you and you occasionally have to slip out for a few minutes of alone time. 

Upstairs there’s another party going on, this time for the adults. You catch Karen being the perfect hostess, wandering around the living room refilling everyone’s drinks and offering them bite size snacks. Working your way through the crowd you slip out the front door and onto their driveway. 

It’s cold outside, cold enough to see your breath come out in puffs of smoke when you breathe and to make your lungs burn with each inhale and exhale. Snow flurries fall around you and there’s a stillness in the air that makes it feel like you’re the only person left on earth. 

You aren’t sure how long you stand in the Wheeler’s driveway, leaning your back against a maroon car before Eddie comes stumbling out the front door, eyes lighting up when he catches a glimpse of you.

“Christ, it's cold.” He shoves his hands deep in his pockets, cheeks turning a rosy red from the bite in the air. “What are you still doing out here?”

Snorting at his words you can’t help the sarcastic quip that slips from your lips. 

“Making s’mores. What’s it look like?” 

“You planning on making me one? ‘Cause I’m fuckin’ starving.”

Matching smiles curve your lips up and you appreciate how he never gets offended by your occasional sarcasm, instead choosing to join in on your own games of inside jokes and secret smiles that annoy everyone else in your friend circle.

Shuffling his feet in an attempt to keep warm you want to tell him he can go back inside to the warmth and your friends, that he doesn’t have to spend the last few minutes of the year out here freezing with you.

“Want me to take you home?” 

“No,” you say with a quick shake of your head. “I’m good, I just needed a few minutes of peace.” Guilt blooms in your chest like a flowering garden that he thinks he needs to ditch the party and game to hang out with you or leave early to take you home. 

“You’re having fun.” You gesture towards the house where light is spilling out from the windows and drunken laughter streams out from the open front door. “Besides you’re in the middle of a super important game,” you tease, glancing at him as he leans his back against the car mirroring your position.

“Games over for now. After that roll of Dustin’s there wasn’t much more they could do till next time.” Eddie lifts his shoulder in a shrug and you note the fondness in his voice when he talks about the younger boy and the club he started.

He shuffles his way a little closer so his shoulder is lightly pressing against yours. A few beats of comfortable silence pass and you both stare up at the sky watching the snow flurries fall faster.

Turning more serious he says softly, “I’d be having more fun if you were in there with me.”

He takes his hands out of his pockets, pinky finger brushing against yours before intertwining them like you’re children and he’s making you a pinky promise. He doesn’t miss the way you smile after that first touch or how you duck your head down to stare at the snow beginning to cover your shoes.

He’d do anything to see that smile on your face and he’s relieved that you seem to have forgotten about his earlier offer to take you home.

Another comfortable silence settles around you and you know you should head back soon before you both turn into popsicles or Dustin runs out to forcibly drag you back in. Instead of saying any of that though you savor just a few more minutes of alone time with him. 

Drawing a pattern in the snow with the toe of your shoe you sigh before murmuring a soft, “I guess we should go back in. Maybe we can steal some more of those snacks MIke’s mom made.” 

Nodding your head towards the front door the same way you did downstairs in the basement you only make it half a step forward before his hand wraps around your elbow stopping you in your tracks.

“It’s midnight,” he starts as if you could forget about the holiday. And when you stare at him dumbly you wonder if he expects you to say Happy New Year, but before you can begin to form those words he’s speaking again. “So we should kiss.” 

“What? Why?” you blurt, cringing at how you sound. 

It’s been a few months since you had thrown yourself at him and had your first kiss and neither of you had brought it up again since that night. You had assumed it was a one time thing so to hear him suggesting another one has you knitting your eyebrows together and wondering if this is some kind of joke.

“Cause it’s tradition or some shit like that.”

You bark out a laugh at his explanation, but he continues, “If you kiss someone at midnight it’s supposed to bring good luck and I can use all the luck I can get. ‘86 is gonna be my year, baby! I’m walking that stage with you at graduation, diploma held high, middle finger in the air.” He does a little dance at the end that makes you giggle.

Once your giggle fit ends your face softens and you turn more serious wanting to tell him that he doesn’t need luck to graduate. He’s going to. You know that with as much certainty as you know that the sky is blue and water is wet.

His fingers tighten around your elbow and he gently pulls you back to him. Nudging your foot with his like he wants to start a game of footsie he arches his brow, cocks his head to the side and drops his hold from your elbow. Placing his open palms in front of him in a silent invitation he leaves the choice up to you. Yes or no to another kiss he says silently.

You don’t have to think too hard about it. It’s just a kiss between friends on New Years Eve and hell, you’ve already kissed him once before, what’s another one? And it is tradition as he so eloquently put it even if it’s one you’ve never partaken in before.

“Hm… I guess we could,” you drawl in a teasing tone, “not like there’s anyone else in there I’d want to kiss. Alright, Munson, let’s do this.”

“Wow.” He rests a hand over his chest and adds, “you’re such a romantic, princess, all business with you, huh?” He gives you a playful smirk to let you know there’s no malice beneath his words, all teasing in good fun, but even without the smirk you know he would never say anything mean to you.

His voice lowers a few octaves when he says c’mere and your heart does somersaults inside your chest.

You step up to him half expecting this second kiss to be like the first one, hands to himself, but that’s not the case as he reaches out to cup your cheeks.

His fingers are colder than death’s themselves, never mind his metal rings and you hiss at the ice cold touch against your skin. Resisting the urge to step out of his embrace Eddie’s face falls and he swears beneath his breath before dropping his hands and you immediately miss the way they felt against you and the level of comfort his touch brought even if it was freezing.

“Uh sorry about that.” 

“No, it’s okay.”

“Guess I should have warmed them up beforehand…”

“It’s fine, really.”

You’re both talking over one another, neither hearing what the other is saying and when the miscommunication dawns you both let out a pair of matching laughs. 

“So you uh ready now? Promise I’ll keep my hands to myself this time,” he says with a small smirk. 

“You don’t have to keep your hands to yourself.” The words escape your chilled lips before you can stop them and it takes your mind a few seconds to comprehend that yup, you did indeed say those words out loud. 

Your mouth drops open and you try to walk it back before he teases you about it, but he doesn’t. His eyebrows raise and you can practically see the toll trying to behave himself is taking on him right now. 

“Good to know.” His smirk widens before he asks you again if you’re ready. You give a short nod of your head that he takes as confirmation.

Unlike the first kiss you’re both aware and ready for this one to happen. 

Even so when his lips touch yours you’re not prepared for how they’re going to be nearly as cold as his hands were. You gasp against him, but you don’t pull away, instead choosing to focus on how soft his lips are and how he tastes like Mountain Dew when you hesitantly kiss him back with no idea what you’re doing.

It’s a quick kiss, lasting only a few seconds longer than the first one, but you think you begin to understand why people enjoy doing this so much. It feels good, feels nice, even if it’s with someone you’re not romantically interested in.

He’s the first to break the kiss, forehead resting against yours and you smile softly despite yourself. Basking in a new kind of silence you keep your eyes shut for a few more seconds and Eddie does the same. 

But like earlier when he interrupted your silence Dustin comes barreling out the front door to interrupt this moment.

“Son of a bitch!” he shouts. “I knew you two were together! Wait till everybody else hears about this. Guys!”

Before either of you can speak or contradict Dustin you see a glimpse of his retreating back as he heads inside to the basement to start some rumors. 

“Yeah,” Eddie drawls, “sure you don’t want me to take you home? We can pick up some pizza, a few movies maybe.” There’s a lightness to his words and you appreciate his offer even more this time. You both already know that it’ll take some convincing to get them to believe that you’re not together, but knowing that Eddie will be by your side makes it all a little easier. 

You begin to walk back towards the house where it’s warm and the food is, but before you reach the steps you give him a bright smile and turn around to face him. “Happy New Year, Eddie, you’re right, ‘86 is going to be our year.”

Tags;

@gaysludge

[b4mpyre-k1zz3s]

For the sake of being in the Halloween spirit, and also inspiration from your name-

Vampire!Bam x gn reader where Bam and reader are already together, and reader thinks it’s funny to make Bam dress up as Dracula for a Halloween party. 🤭 I could literally come up with more Bampire scenarios lmaoo I just feel like younger skater boy vamp Bam would be so cute 😭

Bite Me!

Bam agrees to go along with Y/N’s costume idea- on one particular condition.

Bam Margera X Gn!Reader

(Fluff)

2.7k Words

Warnings: Suggestive content, alcohol, drug mention, biting, hickies,

An: Aaa happy early Halloween!! I’m not sure if you can tell from how I write this but I don’t go to too many Halloween parties XD I really liked writing for Bam early on in his Jackass career in this one, but yet again I like writing for Bam in general. I’ve never been super into the whole vampire romance type thing but I think writing this changed my mind! ;)

“Come on, Bam! One couple’s costume isn’t gonna kill you.” Rolling your eyes at the sound of your boyfriend groaning, you smeared on white face paint in the bathroom mirror, the sink below you crowded with containers of various products. “Its fuckin’ stupid! I mean,” He reluctantly peeled himself off of his spot on your bed, walking to the bathroom to squint over your shoulder at your reflection, “A ‘Bampire’? Really?”

You turned to him, your faces so close you swore you got makeup on him, “Yes. It was either that or Lamb Margera, and I didn’t feel like being Little Bo Peep. So there.” Not to mention, you thought he’d look adorable in the whole cape and puffy shirt getup. Planting a peck on his cheek, you went back to your makeup before you felt his hands snake around your waist as Bam leaned in towards you, mumbling against your neck, “Fine…but on one condition.” God, it was so easy to get to him. You nearly giggled as he continued, his teeth grazing your skin, “I get’t bite you tonight.” Oh, there was no way you could say no to that. “Alright…” You feigned annoyance, “Just not too hard?”

A Halloween party the two of you went to would be a good way for you to meet some of your boyfriend's new friends, you thought, gazing out the window as you drove along dim streets. As of one month prior he was a tv star, which you still hadn’t gotten over yet, but all you knew about what he did was the new and progressively grosser injuries he came home with. When you imagined his co-stars, you pictured a room full of cool extreme dudes that wear lots of baggy jeans and listen to edgy music.

So when you opened the door, you were kinda surprised. “Hey, sexy!” A man who could have been the real life Tarzan clad in the tightest patent leather playboy bunny costume, complete with satin bunny ears and black high heels, grinned at your boyfriend, leaning against the doorframe. Woah. You couldn’t deny, this guy pulled it off. Turning to lead you in, he shook his genuinely impressive ass a little, showing off the fluffy white tail he had on, “Bam has been telling us all about you!” Your boyfriend played it off like it was nothing but you nodded, trying not to make it obvious what you were staring at as you filtered through the crowd towards the kitchen. He chuckled this charming stoner laugh, leaning against a countertop cluttered with half empty liquor bottles, “I'm Chris, by the way.” You smiled when he shivered a little as his skin felt cold marble, giggling.

Talking over the loud music, you chatted with him and Bam for a while about the show and how well everything was going with the show- they might even be getting renewed another season in a few months! Oh, you were so excited to hear you leaned over and planted one on your boyfriend’s cheek. He rolled his eyes childishly, keeping up his tough guy exterior as you giggled. Suddenly, with your arms wrapped around his shoulders, something caught your attention from the corner of your eye- a rainbow blur followed by a fireball from the far side of the marble counter that lit up the dim, crowded room in a hot orange glow before, just as quickly, flickering out. You could hear Bam, and everyone else at the party, cheering for the guy in the multicolored clown costume as he landed with exaggerated bravado. One the applause died down, he made his way over to you and Bam, grabbing a couple beers from the fridge. Your boyfriend grinned, taking one from him, “That wath, like- theriously gnarly dude.” As much as he tried to downplay the lisp, you really found it kind of cute, but he’d kill you if you said that in front of his buddies. Bam threw his arm around you, “Thith ith Y/N. ” His huge pupils almost looked like a part of his clown makeup as he fist bumped you, speaking with a voice that sounded like he gargled tacks, “Hey, dude! Wanna beer?” Before you could answer, one was already in your hands, but it’s not like you would deny a beer from a clown. Bam chuckled as the clown left as soon as he arrived, “And that wath Theve…”

The party buzzed hotly around you, just so many people doing so many substances- a hotbed of sweaty activity. Not really listening to whatever you were saying to him at this point, Bam glanced over your shoulder, eyes widening as he gestured to someone just out of your line of sight to come over. A few moments later, you felt a broad shoulder brush against your arm and you turned. God, he looked straight out of one of those old westerns, especially with the way he tipped that black cowboy hat as he smirked, leaning down to you and drawling sweetly, “Howdy.” God, why does your boyfriend have so many hot friends? You chuckled as Bam took to introducing him, “Thith ith Johnny, n’heth probably the cooleth dude here bethideth mythelf.” Johnny chuckled, cracking a crooked smile, “Aww, you flatter me.” Thinking of something, he turned to look towards the living room, “Hey, me’n the fellas are settin’ up ‘Pin The Dick On The Jackass’ over there. Wanna join?”

That’s how you ended up holding a brass tack with a giant red construction paper penis dangling from your hand. You nervously stared at the bubble butt in front of you, not wanting to stick Chris and probably give him tetanus. “C’mon, c’mon- just do it!” He giggled, looking back at you with an unexpected level of giddiness. The people around you laughed and cheered as you squeezed your eyes shut, your hands shaky as you slowly moved them closer, until…

You felt Chris jump, his little bunny tail bobbing as he patted his chest, giggling, “Ooh!!” The room went wild at the sight of the paper dick swinging as he bounced on his toes as he chuckled, still managing to smile despite the tack in his ass, “Usually that feels pretty good, but that stung a little! Somebody get me a beer!” You couldn’t help yourself but to smile a little- these guys know how to have a good time.

“Really? A couple’s costume? Cute.” Ryan stood with his arms folded, leaning against one wall on the sidelines of the action. Bam rolled his eyes, “Oh yeah? N’whatre you thuppothed to be? Evel Kinevil?” Propping his helmet up on his hip, Ryan turned to him, grinning, “First off, I’m a motocross dude. Second of all,” He pointed to you in the center of the circle of people, “Y/N’s hand’s gettin’ pretty damn close to asses that aren’t yours. ‘You gonna do anything about that?” Ryan knew to play on Bam’s jealous streak concerning you, bored and wanting to see something happen.

Johnny gazed into the water of the big tin bucket, “Jesus…if you’re that bad with your mouth, I’d worry for Y/N…” Yanking his head up, water dripped down Bam’s forehead as he shot a glare at the cowboy, “Yeah, tho I’m gettin’ the damn apple!” It had been five minutes. Dunn chuckled, his teasing from earlier seeming to have done its job in making the party more interesting. You found it kind of cute to watch him frantically searching around for an apple, the fangs stuck to his teeth in no way helping him bite one. After what felt like forever, he whipped his head up, water spraying everywhere as he emerged victorious with the crisp apple wedged firmly in his teeth. “Alright dude!” Steve came up all smiles, patting him on the back with a gloved hand, leaning in, “By the way, I totally pissed in that water.”

“Are- are you theriouth?” Bam received a nod. Laughing, Steve got punched in the arm by your reasonably pissed off boyfriend (no pun intended), leading you to imagine this sort of thing was pretty routine for them. Gross. You could only wonder what other bodily fluids have been on him. As he stormed off to the bathroom, you felt a familiar hand grasp yours, leading you away from the hot crowd. Oh. Oh? Ducking down a dark hallway, you trailed behind Bam, not even thinking about how wet his hand was as the liquid dripped down your fingers.

Closing the door behind you, it was like you had just stepped into your own little world away from the chaos of the party. Music thumped through the walls softly, making your whole body vibrate as you leaned against the wall. You watched your boyfriend rinse his hair off in the sink under half burnt out vanity lights. Bam ran a hand through his soaked, dark curls, now half plastered to his forehead as he looked at you from the porcelain with those piercing blue eyes.

“Tho…” He stood up and took a step closer to you, his hands finding their place on your waist. Your noses nearly touched as he leaned in close to you, his breath warm on your skin as he raised an eyebrow, whispering against your ear with a fanged grin, “How ‘bout that bite now?” Heat rose from your toes all the way up to your cheeks as you blushed, flustered. He turned his head to the side, spitting the fangs out in the sink before dipping his head and closing in on your neck. You held your breath, but he seemed to hesitate for a second, watching your tense reaction with a smirk. He was playing with his food. Finally, after what felt like forever, you felt his teeth sink into your flesh.

You let out a whimper, not even noticing when the unlocked door to your side creaked open. Hell, you didn’t even pick up on it once the snickers started pouring in, too consumed by the purple, throbbing hickey Bam was presently biting into your neck. It took Chris leaning in, asking, “Hey, can I get one next?” To shake you out or your trance, whipping your head around at the crowd as they childishly giggled and gaged in mock disgust. Your face somehow turned redder than before, but Bam didn’t seem to be bothered in the slightest, chuckling, “How much’a that did you guys catch?” Johnny grinned, leaning against the door jamb, “Just enough.”

[ameagrice]

Young Years

chapter two | your name, again?

THE LAST OF US

tommy miller x fem reader

The smell of food gave you something to focus on in this new environment.

At your side, with his sleeves rolled up as he digs in, Freddie practically wolfs down a cheeseburger and fries. You’re worried he might make himself sick—or worse, he has an allergy you haven’t had the chance to know about before now. But he seems to like the food, judging on his speed as he eats, and you don’t have the heart to tell him to slow down.

Maria sits opposite you with another girl, younger than the both of you, maybe a teenager early in her years. She’s talking about all the things you and Freddie can do here, the school, the electricity powered by the dam you passed on your way up, but it’s turning into background noise the longer you sit and eat, and something inside you is desperately trying to claw its way to the surface, screaming for a bit of quiet and solitude.

Seven months of habits is hard to break.

Maria calls your name, and your eyes drift up from the table to her own. She smiles at you kindly, but there’s an edge to it that you can’t exactly place. Something’s off.

“How are you feeling?” Maria asks gently, tilting her head a little as she talks. The girl at her side, Mary, you think she’s called, nods along like she’s a part of whatever the hell this is. You wish she’d go away and leave you adults to talk. “Usually with new folks we come here first to talk and then sort out the housing and such. But you looked pretty stressed before—I thought it would be better to get yourself and Freddie somewhere quiet.”

You nodded slowly, picking at your fries. Not one of them is cold or burned. They’re a perfect golden color and crisped just right.

“I guess it’s just, like, weird. You know—we’ve all been trying to get by surrounded by FEDRA day in day out living off of shitty rations cards while this perfect little hideout looks like it hasn’t changed since 2003. Can’t help but feel a little fucking jealous of you all, if I’m honest.” You snapped. Irritation bloomed in you.

If Maria was offended with your choice of tone and words, she didn’t show it at all. She sighed, and sat up straighter in her chair. “You’re allowed to be angry. I can’t imagine how much worse it’s gotten out there—”

“Oh, lucky you,” you snap, shoving a fry in your mouth.

“But you’re safe here. Freddie is safe here. You’re allowed to take this time to—”

“Start over?” You finish her sentence. Now she looks like she’s holding back her words. Maria’s lips are pressed tightly together. “There’s no starting over any of this. All we can do is keep going. Right? Unless you’ve got a fuckin’ time machine hiding somewhere ‘round here, too?”

A silence came over the table. Around you all, people talked and laughed, oblivious to the mental distress taking over you.

“Mom, what’s a time machine?”

—

If dinner was stressful, bed time was even worse.

And not only for you.

Getting Freddie into the shower was easy enough. Getting his pyjamas sorted and hair combed was easy enough too. But the problems began there.

Eight p.m. The sheets were too soft. The mattress wasn’t right. He couldn’t feel the wind on his cheeks anymore. All these things he wasn’t accustomed to after growing up in a draughty apartment in the QZ, and the rough sleeping against sides of mountains and on dewy, ferny woodland ground, became uncomfortable. It was a painful reminder that nothing in your son’s life had been normal up to this point.

“Come on, Freddie,” you muttered, shifting him into your arms. “Mom’s tired, too.”

His head rested on your shoulder, soft breaths fanning the skin of your neck. Mom brain was in motion, willing to do anything to make your son feel better. He was used to nature at night, so you turned the lights off and used moonlight through the now-open window to guide your way. The cool breeze hit the both of you, and only you shivered—Freddie was wrapped up in the coat you’d worn since your arrival this morning.

Your nightly routine while travelling had been pretty consistent. You’d make sure Freddie ate and drank something before settling down for the night. You’d wrap him up tight and he’d scoot down into the sleeping back with you, both for comfort for you both and for protection. He’d be out like a light, unknowing of the majority of the dangers that could come for you at any time. The blissfulness of childhood ignorance.

Ten o’clock, hips aching from shifting side to side to settle him, you moved him to the bed which was surprisingly very comfortable—Freddie simply hadn’t had the life you had. To this five-year-old, the ground was a beautiful bed, and the actual bed wasn’t welcoming. You closed the window and the curtains, and left the room, door open to hear him if he called out.

And now came the hardest part.

Leaving Freddie be.

You could have slept and gotten in some good rest of your own, you maybe read a book or tried to see if the television worked.

You instead checked on Freddie every five minutes, unaccustomed to this sudden change in lifestyle. In the QZ, it had been the two of you for almost the whole of his life. When you decided to leave, you had become his No.1 constant day in, day out. So not only did the quietude of this new home shock you to the core, but allowing your son his own space to sleep and

By the time the sun was up and kids were walking the street to school—a very foreign thing to you after so long—you hadn’t slept one bit. And of course, Freddie was wide awake.

—

A week passed. The snow fell here and there, but gradually the cold air started to decrease. Weirdly enough, you quickly became accustomed to the ways of this weird little community.

More importantly, it’s people.

Maria turned up one morning to ‘see how you were’. You had a suspicion that she just wanted to know you hadn’t up and left or worse. Deciding the woman seemed nice enough so far, you invited her in. While Freddie played in his room, obsessed with the dinosaur toys left behind, Maria and yourself talked about your future in the community.

“It would really be good for the both of you to perhaps be involved in things going on,” Maria gently advised. She took a sip of the glass of water in her hands. “Freddie could talk to some other kids his age, and you could meet new people again. It won’t be easy, I know.”

You had to agree. You’d spent the past week cleaning, moving things around, and checking out the stores with Freddie attached to your hip. You’d finally gotten some semblance of ‘normality’ back after the past decade—hell, you had fresh groceries in the refrigerator in the kitchen, all complimentary for newcomers, apparently, clearly not having your own some sort of income yet. And in the midst of all the moving around and sorting things out, you began to crave adult talk, the company of likeminded others your age. You wanted terribly for Freddie to have friends of his own once more, to play and laugh like children should do.

“Well,” you started, raising your own glass to your mouth. “How do I even start? I don’t know where to start, Maria.”

As if the woman had expected the conversation to flow this way, she began expressing ideas almost instantly. “There’s a movie on most Sunday nights in the hall. They switch it up every week; kids ones to teens and adults and such. It gets a lot of attention, attracts a lot of people. It’s a good place to start. Try to remember that the majority of the people here have been in your place. Myself included. When you come to terms with that it all gets easier.”

—

“So where are you from originally?”

“Arizona.” Your eyes swept the crowd of kids in to the side of you all sitting on chairs in front of the big screen showing an old, old episode of Tom & Jerry on a projector.

“Right, right.”

You felt a little bad that this man was trying to get a conversation out of you, with little in return, more interested in your son sitting with a little girl about his age whom Maria had introduced him to. With a few tears, Freddie had eventually agreed to sit and watch the episode with her, and so far, seemed to be enjoying it. You spied the back of his curly blond head amidst the other kids.

Your first impression of the commune hall was that it was big. Tall, with worn and faded wooden flooring, string bulb lights strung across the ceiling and around the room for light. The bar yourself and this man were standing at was located at the back of the room, between people talking, adults making fun of silly things in the Tom & Jerry episode like children, or simply just drinking.

This man had been the first person to talk to you. The first person Maria introduced you to, and the first person you wanted nothing more than to shy away from.

“You’re kinda quiet,” he said. You shifted your gaze back to him.

“I just spent seven months on my own,. Sorry if it’s a little hard to make conversation.” You snapped, and took a sip of the liquid in your glass—hot chocolate. Now, that was one thing making the whole ordeal bearable. Living off of water and watered-down fruit juice in the zone for years made this hot chocolate, creamy and topped with marshmallows, your ideal heaven. Where the hell did they get this stuff from?

“Don’t get mad at me, girly. Just tryna talk.”

You whipped your head to him, frowning. “Did it not occur to you that maybe I don’t want to talk?”

The man laughed and whistled, grinning in a way that told you plainly he wasn’t going away. This tall, broad-shouldered man in the heavy grey jacket was taking your biting words for playing hard to get, and you hated it.

He turned so his back was to the bar, and your shot him a filthy look in the process. “So,” he spoke again, and you took no shame in visibly rolling your eyes. “That boy you came in with. He your son?”

Now, you really did flip. “It’s none of your fucking business, and I think you should fucking go.”

“I think you should watch your tongue, little lady.” He barked straight back. You raised your eyes to his. They were hard, bright blue, and sent a horrible jolt through your body. “Now, I understand—”

A hand clapped on his arm, and you shifted your hip off of the bar to leave. If this was one of his friends, you didn’t want to stick around for more.

“What’s goin’ on, Garrett?” He greeted, pushing between the two of you. You scoffed under your breath and stepped a good few paces away from him.

The way this man switched up made your insides freeze. Garrett slapped the other man on the back, laughing like he’d told a good fucking joke. “Not a lot, not a lot. I was just headin’ out.”

“Oh, right. Hey, it was good to see you, man.”

“You too, Tom. I’ll see you in the morning. You still gonna be working on the stables?”

“You bet,” the man at your side laughed, though it sounded a little forced.

Garrett picked up his glass, saying a quick goodbye to a couple of guys on his way out. You watched him go, making sure the door shut behind him.

“I’m really sorry about him,” the remaining man spoke. You watched Freddie, trying not to pay him any attention. “He’s…well, you just saw how he is. It’s probably not what you wanted to happen tonight.”

You simply hummed, hoping he’d take it as a sign to leave. You weren’t interested.

“Has Maria shown you around yet?” He poked. “Usually she takes newcomers on a tour of the place their first day.”

You took a breath. If he so much as offered to take you back to his place for a tour he’d be getting socked across the face with your mug before he could take another breath.

“No. She hasn’t. Haven’t been that interested in looking around until tonight.”

There was a sound of clothes ruffling, and then in the corner of your eye, you saw him lean his elbow on the bar. “The name’s Tommy. Miller.”

You turned, and looked at him. And your eyes wandered.

His dark hair, gently curled here and there but wavy overall, rested at the white fur-lined collar of his black jacket. His eyes were dark, maybe a very dark brown but you were unable to tell properly because of the lighting. The thing that slowed your heart wasn’t his good-looks, his tanned skin and dotting of freckles on his face. It wasn’t that he looked sweetly mischievous, and old enough to be mature with the facial hair on his upper lip. It was those eyes—those goddamn, calm-looking eyes.

You could tell a lot about a person from the eyes. And his said he wouldn’t be trouble.

So, you told him your name. And he smiled.

“It’s good to meet you,” Tommy said. He raised his glass to his lips. “Shame we had to meet under Garrett’s circumstances,” he side-eyed the door.

“Tell me about it,” you muttered. “I was ready to start throwing punches.”

“Well, now you’ve told him straight, I doubt he’ll try anything again.”

“What makes you so sure?” You pried. The full lights were beginning to turn back on slowly, and the kids starting to stand up. The episode had finished. Where was Freddie?…

Tommy laughed shortly, breathily. “Garret’s the type’a guy to try his luck the first time, and when his ego’s hurt, he won’t do it again.”

“Shocker. Usually those types of guys won’t take no for an answer.” You searched the crowd of children for your own, heart rate beginning to spike. Tommy was unaware of your internal panic. He kept talking.

“Trust me, he won’t be coming back to bother you. He also has a wife, so…”

In the back of your mind, something perked up and you shot Tommy a quick look, placing your cup down on the bar. “Seriously?” And seriously, where was Freddie?

He shook his head of dark hair, swigging the last drops in his glass. “Oh, yeah. And his wife knows he does it. We all got a suspicion that she won’t be with him much longer.”

“Good for her,” you mumbled absently. “I wouldn’t want to be with him either. Look, Tommy, it was nice to meet you but I got—”

“Mom! I just watched Jerry and Tom for the first time!”

You yelped and pressed your hand to your chest in shock. Tommy was looking down, and when you did, Freddie was standing in front of you with a face covered in chocolate.

“Pretty cool, huh?” You smiled, covering your worries. “Who gave you the chocolate, dude?”

“Maria!” He giggled. “She said it’s called milk chocolate, but chocolate’s hard and milk is like water. I don’t get it.”

You looked around the bar for a tissue, and found them by Tommy’s elbow. Realising what you were looking for, the man handed one over to you, and you smiled in thanks, kneeling down to wipe the sticky remnants of sweetness off of Freddie’s mouth and cheeks. He squirmed away as you licked the tissue and tried wiping again.

“Mom,” he whined.

You stood up again. Tommy was drinking another full glass of some dark liquid, probably alcoholic, and took it as your cue to leave.

“We’re gonna get going,” you said, wrapping your arms over Freddie’s front to hold him to you. “But it was nice meeting you, Tommy.”

You trekked home through the still-busy streets, other people doing the same after the movie night. A couple of drunk guys stumble and laugh boisterously, hanging off of one another ahead of you, and you clutch Freddie’s hand even tighter as he stumbles along tiredly.

Once home, you unlock the door and usher Freddie in first, flicking on the lights, still mildly surprised when they actually turn on. Freddie runs to his room to change into some pyjamas—one of the only two pairs he had that you brought from your old apartment. You set about making a fire in the living room and getting the place warmed up.

Freddie’s little footsteps patter in soon enough, just as you’re wiping coal dust off your hands and onto your jeans.

Behind you, he says, “Mom, who was that man?”

You already know who it is he’s referring to.

“That,” you stand with a sigh, back aching, “was Tommy.”

“Oh.” He climbs onto the sofa and curls up in the corner of it.

You set about getting things ready for bed. There’s no use in trying to get him to brush his teeth before he goes to sleep, you realise—he’s already halfway there. With the curtains closed, the door locked, and you’ve done a full sweep search of the house ensuring nobody and nothing’s inside who shouldn’t be, you head back into the living room.

There’s a kind of mom instinct, you know, that just helps you to know things. You know when your child is in danger. You know when they’re upset and not saying anything. And you know when they need you even when they don’t say it.

You lay down next to your son, who instantly curls into you, his breath tickling your chest. With your cheek on his head, rubbing your thumb back and forth across his shoulder, you close your eyes.

Tommy Miller’s name floats around your head.

Taglist (comment or message if you’d like to be added!)

@mimi-luvzyu

[deanmonlover]

I wish I was special

a/n: so I had to expand this idea that I had of corey and reader slow dancing to "creep" by radiohead. someone hold this boy 🥺🖤 hope you enjoy!

warnings: angst

It was just another Saturday night in Haddonfield, the radio playing softly in the background as you folded laundry waiting on your boyfriend to get off work. Corey had recently been given more cars to work on, leading him to stay later and later at work. You understood that he had to, Ronald had gotten him that job and he did so good that you were so proud of him. Truly proud of how far he had come. You knew everyday life of being him wasn't easy, the heavy weight of the world on his shoulders more than any sane person could take at times.

It was getting later in the evening around 9:00 at night when you heard a thump, thump, thump at the door. You finished folding a pair of Corey's coveralls and laid them to the side before getting up to check the door.

The notorious boogeyman was back on the prowl according to various local news outlets. It was all anyone talked about really around this place. Everyone was obsessed, consumed practically by the shape that lingered in the night. Corey hadn't texted you yet but he had probably just finished up and headed straight to your place without time to send you a text so nothing struck you as odd.

"Coming!" You announced, looking over at the open window to see Corey's motorcycle parked outside in its usual spot. It made you jot a little faster to open the door and when you did, you were met with the man you loved looking like he had just had the worst day of his life though you knew it wasn't this one but it sure came close.

"Can you hold me?" He managed to get out, stepping out of the cold into the light of the living room where it illuminated the bright red scratches and bruises now forming on his uppercheek and forehead.

His voice didn't even sound like his own, it sounded so defeated. You nodded, pulling him into your arms gently trying not to freak out over the minor injuries splayed across his forehead.

The music still playing softly in the background as you led him over to the couch to assess the damage both physically and mentally on the curly headed male's race.

♪ When you were here before

Couldn't look you in the eye ♪

"T-They uh they jumped me." He hung his head low, like a beaten dog. The usual smile he had on his face whenever he greeted had vanished. Immediately the culprits who did this popped into your head on cue. "Terry. It was Terry wasn't it?" You questioned, anger taking over your entire being at the thought of that band geek harassing the sweetest person known to man. "I'm going to beat the shit out of them if I see him out." If you could just get your hands around that bastard's neck.

♪ You're just like an angel

Your skin makes me cry

You float like a feather

In a beautiful world ♪

Corey simply nodded slowly, his entire body hurt but it was more so his entire being hurt. He was so tired of everything here except you. You were the only redeeming part about this shit town. You were the light at the end of the tunnel, he just wanted to burn it all down.

♪ I wish I was special

You're so fuckin' special  ♪

You sighed softly, trying to keep back your own tears. It hurt seeing your whole world hurt like this. It killed you inside to know they couldn't see what you saw in Corey. What you saw was someone so special, someone so beautiful, a person too good for this world. He never deserved any of this. They just used him as their punching bag. A scapegoat to abuse time and time again.

♪  But I'm a creep

I'm a weirdo

What the hell am I doin' here?

I don't belong here  ♪

Taking his hand in your own, you urged him to stand up and circled your arms around his waist beginning to slowly sway to the music. Corey felt his entire self just give as he buried his face into the crook of your neck taking in your scent. He took a deep breath as if he was trying to drown himself in you. To escape the outside world, to create a world where it was just the two of you. That would be his idea of a perfect world. A muffled sob broke through the otherwise silence as you held him tighter as if he would disappear if you let go. 

♪ `So fuckin' special

I wish I was special  ♪

"You're so special to me, you do belong here." You whispered, singing lightly in his ear as you placed a kiss to the top of his head. Burying your face in his curls with glistening tears of your own silently falling down your face. It was as though someone had requested this song specifically for this moment. You shared his hurt.

As the two of you slow danced, the song slowly faded out into the background. Corey halted your movements momentarily to hold your face with his good hand, the other bandaged from a previous accident that had happened the other day involving those idiotic teenagers.

"I love you, y/n. I mean I really do, you’re just a little cheesy." He murmured with a small smile breaking through, he tried for you. "Okay but talk about perfect timing." You nodded over to the little old school radio perched on the coffee table. "Remind me to request this song for our wedding." You jested, earning a chuckle of approval from him.

"Duly noted, my love." He held your face in his hands, pressing his lips against your own drinking you in. If you thought he was special that was all he needed to know.

[theweirdgoodbyes]

never asked me once about the wrong i did chapter 3

Merriell’s parents help Llewelyn buy a small house nearby and his poor wife spends the next decade pregnant and dragging her husband home from speakeasies and then newly reopened bars. The only Shelton boy who actually attended school, Willard goes off to some fancy college in Georgia thanks to scholarships and money he’s been sneaking from Daddy’s wallet for years. Mama makes him promise to visit but he never does, and settles down in Atlanta, sending the occasional letter home. Not long after, Victor and Francis get jobs working on the shrimp boats and only come home once a month lugging laundry for Mama to do. She never complains, just asks for a kiss on the cheek as payment. Merriell can’t stand the way they stink up the bedroom during the weekends they’re home, reeking of fish and gasoline, and keeps the window open to get the smell out no matter how cold it is outside. Robert joins the Navy, and Arthur gets locked up after he robs that same store Merriell steals candy from of all their money and a pack of smokes. By the time he’s fifteen, his brothers have scattered and Merriell is left alone. The once constant cacophony that came with the family of nine has mellowed into a soft hum, only spiking on the nights Daddy gets too drunk and finds a reason to slap Merriell around. 

Merriell misses his brothers more than he thought he would, so used to all seven of them shoved into one room from the time they were weaned. The first night he spends alone he barely sleeps, tossing and turning and imagining spooky things slipping out from the shadows of the once full room, the quiet reaching out to suffocate him. He finds himself longing for the comfort of Arthur next to him, the sound of Robert’s snoring, the rattling of the window late at night as the older boys snuck in and out. But times goes on, his brothers visit when they can, and Merriell finds himself eventually thankful for the space. He has enough room to stretch without kicking somebody, doesn’t have to step over scattered clothes on the floor on his way to the bathroom. Life without his brothers is lonely, but survivable. What almost kills him is when Mr. Leconte’s wife kicks him out during the summer of 1935.

It’s a hot night in June when Merriell’s world crumbles. He wakes up from an odd dream, something he immediately forgets but has left that uncomfortable feeling in his chest. He rolls to his side, eyes still half shut as he paws his bedside table for his watch. Holding it close to his face in the darkness he can see the small hand settled on the three. He kicks his sweaty blankets off and rolls over, planning on closing his eyes again when he hears a whisper.

“Merriell!” 

He sits up quickly with a gasp. 

“What the fuck,” he whispers to the dark. All those spooky things he had imagined months ago infiltrate his brain, monsters and demons threatening to sneak out and eat him up. Another whisper has him gripping his chest, fearful eyes trying to pinpoint their origin. 

“The window!” 

Merriell whips his head around to look towards the window he had cracked earlier to cool down his scalding room.

“Merriell!” The eyes staring in through the slit are identical to his own and the voice is now familiar. “Open the damn window!”

Merriell slips out of bed and sees Victor, lightly illuminated by the distant moon. Three other figures stand behind him and Merriell quickly recognizes Francis among them. He unlocks the window and pushes it up slowly, trying to avoid its tell-tale creaks. 

“What you doin’ here? You know what fuckin’ time it is?” Merriell hisses, moving out of the way as Victor climbs in. In what little light is offered, he looks like he’s actually showered and smells like cheap cologne and smoke instead of a boat. Francis follows, equally clean, and Merriell can now see that the two strangers about to climb in after them are girls. Those fuckers. 

“Sorry we ain’t bring you back one,” Victor whispers as he helps one girl through the window. She’s a pretty blonde thing with a skirt short enough to send Mama into prayer. Her heel gets caught on the sill and tips forward with a squeak of surprise. Victor and Merriell catch her before she hits the ground, “Girl, if you don’t hush up…”

“Mama’s gon’ kill you if she finds out,” Merrill warns, ignoring Victor’s comment. He helps Francis get the other girl though the window nevertheless, his loyalty to his brothers outweighing his fear of their mother. He really doesn’t want a girl brought back for him, and feels nothing but disgust imagining his hand slipping under some broad’s dress like Francis is doing to his girl the moment her feet hit the ground. “Then she gon’ kill you again because you didn’t tell her you were comin’ home.”

“I’m Gloria!” Victor’s blonde practically screams before Victor can reply, the smell of wine pouring from her lips. Victor quickly slaps a hand over her mouth and sits her on Merriell’s bed. She kicks her shoes off and flops back, making herself comfortable while she whispers hurried apologies. Merriell is about to tell her to beat it when Victor responds, settling on the bed next to her. 

“We just got the night. Figured we’d go down to LaRue’s and have some drinks. We met these lovely ladies and…” Victor gives him a smile thats half coy, half pity, “need a place to roost.”

“Take ‘em to the fuckin’ boat! Y’all got beds there,” Merriell whispers harshly. He watches the blonde begin to unbutton her blouse. He quickly looks away, convincing himself he’s being polite.

Francis pipes up from the other bed, lifting his head from the lips of the busty brunette he’s got sprawled under him, “Piss-stained cots is what we got. C’mon, Mer, be cool. Two hours.”

Like a petulant child, Merriell plants his bare feet on the ground and shoots nasty looks at his brothers. This isn’t the first time he’s been kicked out in favor of some airhead, and has learned over the years that looking for a bargain never hurts. 

“What’s in it for me?”

“I don’t beat you silly, boy, that’s what in it for you,” Francis says, sounding so much like Daddy its as if the words came out of their old man’s mouth, “Now get the fuck outta here.”

“This my room now, y’know.” Merriell mumbles, getting down on his knees to reach for a pair of shoes he has tucked under his bed.  He’s tired as all hell and wants nothing more than to reclaim his bed, but it’s not worth the fight, and God knows he doesn’t want stay for the show. He quickly slips the old shoes on and tries to tune out the sound of buckles being undone, avoiding looking back at the beds as he throws one leg out the window. He makes sure to grab his watch before the short drop to the ground and begins to walk towards the street.

“Mer!” The sharp whisper has him turning back to the window. He sees Victor hanging out of it, three cigarettes and a lighter in his extended hand. Merriell takes it, remembering why Victor has always been his favorite and feeling a bit better about his expulsion. 

“For the trouble,” Vic says with a wink before ducking back into the room and shutting the window.

Merriell meanders up their street, kicking rocks and savoring his gifted cigarettes. He lets his mind wander, thinking about everything and nothing while his feet drag down the dirt road. He’s used to being alone with his thoughts, never quite getting along with kids at school and often taking long walks like this to avoid Daddy’s beatings.  He checks his watch occasionally, counting the minutes until he can head back and crawl into bed. After an hour and a half he finally turns back in the direction of the house and allows himself to jog there. He was told two hours and two hours is all they’ll get. 

He gets home sooner than expected, his quick steps returning him home a bit before five. He plops himself down on the porch steps and decides to smoke his last cigarette before banging on his window to be let back in. He pictures his brothers curled up in the beds with their beaus, whispering sweet nothings to these girls they have no intention of ever seeing again. He closes his eyes and tries to picture himself next to that squeaky blonde or well-endowed brunette, his hands caressing their bodies, his hips flush to theirs. The thought is hard to conjure and he finds himself bored of it quickly. Female bodies warble and shift in his mind, resettling into focus with breasts replaced by a flat chest and Merriell’s imaginary hand reaches between strong legs to grip-

The sound of a door slamming startles him out of his fantasy. He searches for the sound, ready to throw his cigarette into the bushes if it’s Daddy coming to kick his ass. He’s thankful to see the door was not his own, seeing it is still shut tight behind him. Confusion replaces his relief when out of the corner of his eye he sees Mr. Leconte stomping down his own steps, a suitcase in each hand. Merriell watches him turn to yell something he can’t make out in the direction of his house, followed by a shrill and equally unintelligible reply. Mr. Leconte begins to storm down the street, moving past Merriell without his usual wink and wave. Merriell takes one last puff of his smoke before crushing it under his heel and getting up to follow his neighbor. 

It takes Merriell a minute to catch up with the older man’s fast stride and he has to catch his breath before asking, “Where you goin’, Mr. Leconte?” 

His voice a mix of anger and sadness, Mr Leconte replies, “Leaving, son. Missus is done with me.” 

Merriell almost trips over a rock he doesn’t see in his shock. He feels the blood rushing in his ears and his heart start to beat hard. Leaving? He has to have misheard. 

“Leaving? Leaving forever?”

“Yep. Leavin’ the house, the dog, leavin’ everythin’. That bitch can keep it all, ain’t worth shit anyway.” 

“But where you gon’ go?”

“Back to Shreveport, I reckon.” Merriell’s stomach drops to his knees and he feels like he could vomit right there onto his shoes. Shreveport is hours from their small town south of New Orleans. 

“That’s real far,” Merriell manages to say, feeling anxiety rise in his chest. He can’t take his eyes off Mr. Leconte, trying to memorize his face, his auburn locks, the determined set of his jaw. Petrified of the answer, he stills asks, “You gon’ come back?”

“Don’t reckon I will.”

Mr. Leconte stops for a moment and Merriell stops with him, feeling like he’s stepped back into a dream; a nightmare. The older man sets one suitcase down and reaches out to grip Merriell’s shoulder, dark eyes meeting green. Merriell barely registers that this is the first, the only, time Mr. Leconte has touched him and finds himself unable to revel in the pleasure of it. Not when he’s about to be gone, when this will be the last time they see each other. 

“Word of advice, Merriell,” Merriell’s heart betrays him by fluttering in his chest from Mr. Leconte saying his name, “don’t ever get married.”

How could I, Merriell doesn’t say, hardly dares to think, I only ever wanted to marry you.

With a smile and a wink, Mr. Leconte picks up his suitcase again and keeps walking. Merriell stays frozen in the middle of the road, unable to follow any further. He watches that head of red hair fade away as Mr. Leconte continues his walk to Shreveport, leaving his wife and his house and the bayou and Merriell behind him.

“I’ll miss you,” he says, so soft that it’s lost to the burgeoning dawn. If Mr. Leconte hears it, he doesn’t turn around. Merriell stays there and watches him until he’s gone from sight, unmoving until a car comes whizzing down the road. The driver lays on the horn and Merriell is finally freed from his self-imposed prison to jump out of the way. The driver yells out some insult in Creole as they fly by, something about dumbass kids. Usually Merriell would yell something back, accentuated by a couple of thrown rocks but he finds himself unable to do anything except turn around and run back to the house. He feels hot and shaky, unsure if he’s going to pass out or scream, and needs to be alone somewhere to process what has just happened. 

Merriell throws open the front door and hurries into the house, not caring about making noise, almost blind from the tears filling his eyes. He rushes past Mama standing in the kitchen. She must have just woken up, still in her nightgown and a cup of steaming tea in hand. She looks confused to see him, most likely wondering where he could be coming from at this hour. 

“Merriell?” 

He ignores her, moving as fast as he can without running until he’s in his bedroom. Blissfully, no one is there, only the smell of that cheap cologne left as evidence of his unwelcome guests. Victor and Francis must have snuck their girls out already and headed back to the docks. He scrambles to lock the door and presses his back to it, shaking hands reaching up to grip his hair. He ignores the sharp pain in his scalp as he clutches his curls tight.

“Don’t cry,” he says, a warning, a threat. “Don’t fuckin’ cry. Don’t fuckin cry. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry…”

He tries to steady his breathing and begins to search around the room for something to count, anything to keep him from exploding. He counts the wood panels on the wall, the cracks in the ceiling, the knobs on the dressers in rapid succession but it’s not enough. He even begins to count the wrinkles in the blankets on the beds his brothers have left unmade, but his vision continues to blur with tears begging to come out. Once he feels the first drop hit his cheek, it’s all over with. A sob rips from his chest, shaking his whole body with it. He tries to breathe in but can’t, only managing to choke on the next wail pouring out of him. He walks to his bed and doesn’t bother kicking his dirty shoes off before climbing in, caring about nothing else in the world except for the fact that Mr. Leconte was gone. He cries and cries like the little boy he once was, back when he could convince himself he only liked Mr. Leconte because he was kind; cries and cries and cries while the reality of his situation creeps up on him like a starving wolf stalking a lamb. I love him, the shameful thought alone wrenching another sob from his chest, and I’ll never see him again. He vows right then and there in his lonely room that he’ll never marry, never kiss anyone the way he wished Mr. Leconte had kissed him, never love again. Not if it hurts this much, not if he could just about curl up and die. He imagines Granmere digging his grave, praying for his sinful soul while those hands as old the heavens rifle through the dirt. Merriell holds his pillow tight and cries into it long after the sun has fully risen and set, long after Mama has given up knocking on the door, until sleep releases him from his heartbreak. 

1937

Francis and Victor come home for Christmas Eve, this time through the front door instead of Merriell’s bedroom window. Merriell barely hears them come in over the sound of Robert, home on leave, and Daddy arguing and Llewelyn’s screeching children. His wife’s pregnant again, like the four children they already have aren’t a handful and slowly driving them insane. Aside from the permanently sticky hands and never ending screaming, Merriell enjoys being an uncle and sits at the dinner table with little Ricky on his lap. The tot is gnawing on the turkey leg Merriell had just finished with, keeping a close eye on him so he doesn’t choke. He only looks up when Mama gasps and hurries from her spot at the table to greet her sons. 

“Ho, ho, ho!” Victor calls, wrapping Mama in a hug. They hadn’t told anyone they were coming, and Mama sings out thanks to the Lord and loving quips in Creole as she fusses over them. She released Victor to squeeze Francis, giving him a light slap on the cheek.

“Don’t y’all surprise me like that again! Oh, hug your mama.”

After shaking Daddy and Robert’s hands and kissing Llewelyn’s wife, Victor slides a pack of cigarettes towards Merriell with a sly wink. He quickly grabs it before little Ricky can shove it in his mouth and slides it into his shirt pocket, Victor once again claiming the title as his favorite brother. 

“Merry Christmas, petit frère.”

Before he can return the sentiment, Mama says, “Don’t be rude now, who this?”

Merriell was so distracted by the commotion and his gift that he hadn’t noticed a third person walk through the door behind his brothers. Francis tosses an arm over the stranger’s shoulder.

“Mama, this here is Tom.”

Merriell takes in Tom from his spot at table, plucking the turkey leg from little Ricky’s mouth since his attention is now elsewhere. Ricky cries out in protest until Merriell gives him a spoon to chew on instead, easily satisfied. This Tom is taller than Victor and Francis, which isn’t saying much since all Shelton boys are short. His hair is hidden under a hat, but when he takes it off to greet Mama there’s a shock of blonde atop his head. He’s got hooded brown eyes that take in their meager dining room, stopping when they reach Merriell. Merriell suddenly feels small, very small, under his gaze and turns his sights back to Ricky. He plops his elbow on the table and leans his cheek against his hand, hoping they aren’t turning as red as they feel. 

“Welcome, Tom, welcome,” Mama says, brushing her hands on her apron before placing one on Tom’s arm. It’s not often they have guests but Mama is always a gracious host. She leads Tom to the table to introduce him to everyone. “This here my oldest Llewelyn, his wife Margaret…” Mama goes through the lineup, stopping at Merriell, “and thats my youngest Merriell with little Ricky.”

“Hi, Merriell,” Tom says in a voice that is so far from Louisiana it takes them all by surprise, “it’s nice to meet you all.”

“Hope you don’t mind him staying, Mama,” Francis says around a mouthful of bread, having settled at the table next to Daddy with a plate full of food, “we wasn’t supposed to get tonight off and Tom ain’t got family ‘round here.”

“Where you from, Tom? Sit, please, c’mon now,” Mama ushers Tom into the chair across from Merriell, much to his chargin, “Lemme make you a plate, I know you boys don’t eat good on that boat.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” This Tom is way too uppity to be working a boat with his brothers, Merriell thinks, all smooth edges where they should be rough. “I’m from Maine. Bar Harbor.”

“How you end up down here, boy?” Daddy asks, half interested, half in the bag already.

“My father is a fisherman. I’ve been on boats my whole life but got sick of the cold water,” Tom answers as Mama returns with a heaping plate to set before him. To Merriell it sounds rehearsed. “Thank you, ma’am. Came down to Louisiana for a fresh start.”

Merriell takes his eyes off Ricky to steal another glance at Tom but quickly has to look away when he sees Tom already gazing back. His family continues to ask Tom questions about his family, what it’s like up north, if he’s ever had a white Christmas. Merriell tunes as much of it out as he can and focuses on his nephew until the end of dinner, having mindlessly picked on what remains of his carrots and potatoes until the table was cleared. Daddy, his brothers, and Tom retreat to the living room to see what’s playing on the radio and Mama and Margaret begin to work on dishes in the kitchen. Merriell decides he needs a smoke, needs to be as far away from Tom as possible, and places Ricky down to toddle off somewhere and get into things he’s not supposed to. Once he’s on the porch he takes a deep breath of the cool air and closes his eyes. He lets the sounds of frogs and crickets singing sooth him, counting their chirps for a moment. It’s only for tonight, he assures himself, just tonight. Come morning they will all say goodbye to Tom when him and his brothers return to the boat. And hopefully that’ll be the last he sees of this disturbingly intriguing man. Merriell lights up a cigarette as he steps off the porch, moving into the shadows to prevent Mama seeing or smelling him. She’d always hated the stuff and asks if he wanted an early grave; Merriell doesn’t know how to tell her that sometimes he does.

“Hey.”

Merriell looks up from his cigarette. Through the dim light coming from the porch he can see Tom making his way down the steps and over to where Merriell stands. He stops next to him, far enough where they’re not touching but close enough to make something in Merriell’s gut flutter. 

“Look too young to be a smoker,” Tom adds, tipping his head. A strand of his blonde hair drops down from where it’s slicked back to lay on his forehead. Merriell wants to reach out and put it back where it belongs, taking his time to savor the motion. Instead he snorts and pulls the cigarette from his lips, blowing smoke in the direction of this interloper. 

“Ain’t you got your own family?” He asks, not knowing why his tone is so snippy, “Ain’t you itchin’ to get home?

Tom shrugs, reaching out a hand. Merriell looks at it for a moment before he hands his cigarette over. Tom takes a long pull, scrunching up his face like he’s thinking hard. Merriell can’t help but think it’s a handsome face, not as rugged as it should be for his line of work. He’s clean shaven and his skin looks impossibly soft, no blemishes or scars to be seen. It’s another part of Tom that Merriell wants to reach out and touch, see how it feels under his fingers, under his tongue. Instead he puts his mouth to his hand, biting at his fingernails to distract himself while his cigarette is occupied. “You want your own?” He asks around his nail, pulling the carton from his pocket with his free hand; might as well be in the Christmas spirit and give to the needy. Tom plucks the cigarette from his lips and blows smoke right back at him with a shake of his head. 

“I’m fine with this one. And I don’t talk to them.”

“What you do?”

Tom gives him a look, a look Merriell thinks he’s supposed to understand. He feels his cheeks grow hot under a gaze that he dares say is wanton, a look he’s seen his brothers give their girls. Tom takes another drag before answering and Merriell spends too long watching the way his lips wrap around the butt. 

“They weren’t a fan of my proclivities.” 

“You booze too much?”

“Something like that. So, how old are you gonna be? Vic says you have a birthday coming up.”

“Twenty-one,” the lie slips out so easy he almost believes it himself. Tom does not and gives him a toothy grin.

“Don’t you know lying is a sin?” Tom asks with a raised brow, handing the cigarette back to him. Merriell snatches it, trying to ignore the shiver that goes up his spine when their fingers briefly brush. He ignores the comment as well and looks down at his shoes while he takes his next drag. Lying is the least sinful in his catalogue of misdeeds and dirty thoughts. What he’s thinking about doing to Tom has to be at the top, marked and underlined in red ink for God and the Devil to read.

“Your proclivities so bad your own mama don’t want you ‘round on Christmas?”

“My mother isn’t the issue,” Tom explains, reaching out again to pull the cigarette right from Merriell’s mouth. Deft fingers touch his lips and Merriell nearly gasps at the sensation, almost not believing it happened. “My father is.”

“Well, we all got daddy’s who don’t love us,” Merriell says with a shrug. Tom laughs and Merriell can’t help but smile at the sound.

“Yeah…especially us.”

Tom hands the cigarette back to Merriell, and their fingers hold it together for a moment. Merriell looks into Tom’s dark eyes and sees something in them that almost resembles hope. 

“Merry Christmas, Merriell,” He says in a soft voice, tender, before retreating back into the house. Merriell stays outside and smokes through half of his new carton, trying to stave off the excitement and shame he feels growing deep within him. 

That night, long after everyone has returned from midnight mass and gone to bed, Merriell slips out of his bedroom and with feet that feel like lead makes his way to where Tom sleeps on the couch. Tom wakes up when Merriell slips under the blanket but doesn’t say a word, just wraps a strong arm around his waist and pulls him close.

After, when Tom tries to kiss him, Merriell turns away, feeling lips catch his chin.

“Merry Christmas, Tom.” 

He leaves the makeshift bed and returns to his own, rubbing the spot on his chin where unwelcome lips had briefly touched until he falls asleep. When he wakes up, Tom is gone, leaving a note saying heading back to the docks. He thanks the Sheltons for their hospitality and wishes them a happy new year. Merriell spends the day absently watching his nieces and nephews play with their new toys, sitting on the couch where he has committed his greatest atrocity yet while his family talks and argues and talks and argues around him. Eventually his eyes settle on the cross hanging above their radio and stares at the body of Christ hanging from it with unblinking eyes. He imagines the cross flying off the wall, pointed edge ramming itself into his chest; he pictures blood spurting from the wound and soaking the couch beneath him, masking the remains of his sin from the world around him. 

[vamp-orwave]

Her Favourite Worst Nightmare

I - Toccata

It was a cold winter night for Adelaide, but having just come from London's mild summer, Judith had expected it to be much colder. There was almost no change at all in temperature, but the air was cleaner -- so clean she wondered how she'd ever breathed at all before she died. The rain had followed her to this city too, gently spattering across the tram window.

"So what do you reckon?" Frankie prodded, nudging Judith with his meaty elbow across the aisle where they both stood.

"Huh?" The Daeva turned blankly to her clanmate, taking a moment to process his question. The last night she was awake had been a very long night, and she had the feeling tonight was going to be another.

Rubbing her bleary eyes and focusing past the rain, she surveyed the urban scenery as it passed by. Lit only by false light under an overcast sky -- orange sodium, cold fluorescent, LED headlights, colourful neon, and their blurred reflections on the drizzle-slick asphalt -- Judith could make out the painted iron of colonial balconies, the elaborate stone of Victorian masonry, and the glass and steel of modern skyscrapers between the slow river of cars and pedestrians that wove their way in and out of the connecting streets and alleys. This city wore its age on its sleeve, and it was young, like she was.

She was grateful for that.

"At least there's a night life?" Judith attempted gloomily.

"Better than you could hope for on such short notice. Just wished more bands stopped here, ay. Y'know Zeppelin passed us over in '72? Fuckin' devastating." Frankie shook his head, then shot a cheeky wink at the older fellow seated nearby who'd turned to give him a queer look.

"But I was asking about your new digs," he added, a little quieter.

"Oh." Judith's mind flashed back to the peeling paint and stained carpet.

"They'll do fine," she replied, a little more honestly this time. It was private enough, and shelter from the sun, and she knew havening in another shithole would make her feel right at home in this pale, sleepy shadow of the broken empire she'd never see again.

"Right on. We'll get you some furniture so you're not sleeping on the floor."

The tram crawled to a stop at a sheltered island in between the lanes of King William Street. As the doors opened, and the kine surrounding them began to shuffle out into the night air, Judith leaned in close enough to whisper.

"Think I've got time for a hit?"

Moving to alight with the other passengers, Frankie looked her up and down with a grin, and beckoned her to follow suit before more evening riders could cram themselves into the carriage. He sat down on a steel bench and waited for the tramstop to empty and the doors to close.

"Probably not the best idea to be sky high when you meet the Prince," he laughed, as the transport slowly slithered off to resume its circular route.

"'Sides, you'll be here for hours trying to sniff out anyone willing to take junk from some rando cockney punk they've never laid eyes on. Anyone your type, anyway."

Frank's eyes lingered on her chest for the third time that night, Judith noticed. She always noticed when someone looked a little too long. Not that men ever tried to hide it.

"I dunno," she shrugged. "I can be pretty bloody persuasive."

With a sarcastic smile, Judith turned to appraise her surroundings. She tried her best to focus, to put the itching thirst for her next fix out of her mind. Her new best friend had brought her here, to the communal hunting grounds known as The Rack, because she had a more pressing thirst to quench.

"Hindley Street that way," he pointed ahead of him, "Pubs and clubs galore," then he thumbed over his shoulder. "Rundle Mall that way. Shops are all closed right now though."

"Closed!?" Judith gaped. "It's not even six yet!"

Frankie let out a brassy chuckle. "Welcome to South Australia!"

"How the fuck do you buy shit then?"

"Ghouls. Just about everyone's got one."

Judith rolled her eyes. Lovely. Another complication. Frankie waved dismissively.

"No worries, we can share until you've found one. Grant's got good taste, he'll get you started on a new collection."

Judith made a sour expression and resumed her focus, scanning the thin crowd of mortals on either side of the street for her next meal. It still stung that she'd had to abandon 35 years of records, not to mention her favourite Fender.

"You 'right then?" she offered.

"Yeah, had a snack on the way in. Back here when you're done, then we'll boogie."

With a nod, Judith hopped off the tramstop and strode purposefully off towards the outdoor Mall to the East, avoiding further conversation. She wasn't in the mood to play the social game, and no good targets had yet presented themselves for an ambush. Most women walked with their partner or in groups, or else they weren't particularly appetising.

Trudging out of the mild bustle of King William into what was at this hour an underused thoroughfare between more desirable destinations, she was about to settle on tailing a wrinkled old bat dragging a hand-cart when her ears picked up the sound of music.

The piercing, mournful song of wailing strings cut through the damp night air, drawing Judith in like a siren. For a few sweet moments, she forgot her gnawing hunger as she floated upon the melody, following it to its source.

Rounding the corner of one of Rundle's numerous side-passages, she at last laid eyes on the gorgeous, glossy curves of a violin in fervent motion. It was cradled by a short, skinny lad, bundled up in a duffel coat and thick red scarf, and he seemed lost in his passionate playing.

Judith stood, captivated. Leaning against the wall across the path from the young man, she watched the soft rain fall between them from her adjacent point of shelter, surrendering herself to join him on the higher plane of ecstasy shared only by a musician and their audience. It was some classical piece she was sure she'd heard before, but couldn't name. Hardly her scene, but masterful regardless.

When she came back to earth, Judith noticed the violinist was staring at her from behind his dancing bow. Momentarily startled, she thought to reach for her wallet for a tip until she remembered she was woefully short on this country's legal tender. Instead she patted her pockets and shrugged to her fellow artist with an apologetic smile, and had turned to move on when a passerby suddenly caught her eye.

A woman, tall and pale. Blonde. Fishnets. Fur coat. Judith felt her heart leap into her throat.

It couldn't be. Could it?

She forgot her prior reverie immediately, falling in behind the girl in a silent pursuit. Her ravenous eyes burned into the back of that pretty, golden head. What would Charlotte be doing on this side of the world? Had Frankie smuggled her out of hot water too, all those years ago? Don't be stupid, she told herself. Even if she were here, what are the chances you'd meet her again the very first night?

Judith quickened her pace. She couldn't sense a Beast within that beautiful figure, but she had to be sure. When her quarry turned off the main path, she seized the opportunity to close the distance.

"'Scuse me, love!" she called out.

The woman turned. It wasn't Charlotte.

Judith's heart sank a little. The blissful nights she'd spent with her Sire were so long ago now that they seemed like a dream, and throughout the lonely years since she'd woken, the details had been slowly slipping through her fingers like grains of sand. Would she even recognise Charlotte's perfect, painted smile if it were inches away?

"Can I help you?"

The mortal woman in front of her did not smile. Her posture stiffened at being approached in this low light, but she stood her ground. Judith gave her a friendly grin. Her small stature and deceptively cherubic face tended to set strangers at ease, despite the studs and leather jacket.

"Sorry to bother you love -- my phone's dead," Judith lied. "Any chance you can point me to a cafe that's still open?"

The pretense and friendly tone gave the poor girl an excuse to lower her guard a little.

"Oh." She glanced around to further gauge her immediate safety, wobbling a little on her red stilettos. "Sure, hang on."

Momentarily taking her eyes off of Judith, she dug a hand into her coat pocket to pull up google maps. Though cordial, she kept a vice grip on her gold-plated smartphone.

"Cheers love," Judith edged ever closer, eyeing her prey's white, swan-like neck.

When her search had loaded, she tilted her phone screen to show Judith the nearest red pins, wordlessly inviting her to lean in.

Too easy.

Lightning fast, Judith latched one hand tightly around the woman's wrist, slipped the other arm around the waist of her cocktail dress, and pulled her into The Kiss.

She felt her fangs slip into the warm, supple flesh like butter. Her prey quickly loosened in her grip, and uttered a delicious, sugary moan. Judith pushed Not-Charlotte up against the nearest wall; pressed a knee between her thighs. She let herself sink into a bittersweet nostalgia as thick, coppery blood -- with a welcome kick of vodka -- gushed red-hot into her waiting mouth and down her throat. Drinking her fill, she lost herself in the smell of her hair, the dance of her heart, the shape of her lithe body helpless beneath desperate hands.

It was only after Judith had licked the puncture marks closed and left her victim alone in a daze that she noticed the violin had stopped. Retracing her steps, she found that sure enough, the lad had packed it in and was nowhere to be seen.

Mustn't be a good night for it, she thought with a small pang of regret. For a moment, she considered chasing him down, thrusting twenty quid into his hand and letting him figure it out, but decided against it. With any luck, she'd be in town long enough to see him again.

Besides -- she had somewhere more important to be tonight, and she was probably already fashionably late.

[next]

[shmorp-mcdurgen]

My first time writing something like this, so sorry if it isn't too good, but I wanted to write Adams and Jonahs encounter with Mark, so I hope u like it!

You sure this is a good idea? I mean, i don't know man, but "porcelain man thing with half his face blown off" seems kinda fake to me"

Adam gave Jonah a sideways glance, then back at the windshield, hands on the wheel, " Maybe yeah, but there's always a chance it might be real. And besides, either way we're getting money, so it's a win win if you ask me"

Jonah looked outside the window at the rows of vacant houses and wondered what could've been so horrible as to drive all these people away. Probably alternate attacks he thought , and then prayed, even though he was never religious to not have the misfortune of meeting it. They had enough on their plate as it is.

Adam parked in the driveway of the house with the address given to them. It was clearly neglected, overgrown with weeds and pieces of random trash floating around in the wind. Jonah shivered. When did it get so cold? Adam was looking intently, no doubt documenting every little detail. His eyes caught a flash movement from one of the blacked out windows, and dread sank its claws into him. Something bad happend here. Something really, really, bad and they had to leave. Now.

Jonah grabbed Adams sleeve. I think we should leave. Somethings off with this place. I don't like it"

Adam stared at him incredously,"Are you serious? We just came here, and you're scared of some "bad vibes". God, you can be ridiculous sometimes.

Okay, so this was going to be hard

"Listen, I know you're trying to get closure or whatever by solving this shit, and I know I'm not the best person around, but this time, I'm 100 percent serious. Please." pleaded Jonah

Adam shook his head in exasperation and pushed the door which was unlocked,open.

"I'm going in. I don't give a fuck if you want to leave, but im not going" and then the house swallowed him.

Jonah stood for a second, snow starting to fall and decided to follow him in. There was still a chance. He could fix this. He had to.

The terror was even worse inside, but Adam seemed unbothered. "Lets go upstairs" and Jonah followed, a sense of foreboding increasing.

The door was open, showing a sparse bedroom with a bed, a desk and a huge blood stain on the wall.

"Damn, what happend he-"

"GET OUT" a voice screeched, a voice so horrible that Jonah clapped his hands on his ears, multilayered and full of fury and despair.

They whirled around to see an alternate, looking like a teenaged man, in a grey hoodie and sweatpants, and as they looked closer, the distinct cracks in his face became visible, weeping blood

Adam spoke boldly "Oh yeah? And why should I huh? Who are you tell what to do?" This seemed to enrage it further, and it caught ahold of Adam hoodie, raising him into the air, screaming"HOW DARE YOU"

and Jonah watched everything unfold in slow motion, the alternate hurling Adam through the window, the sickening crunch as he hit the stony pavement below.

And he ran

He left him behind

Tears were stinging his eyes, as he rushed downstairs, trying to reach the door, and feeling his heart drop when it closed with a bang.

He turned to find the alternates single eye, bloodshot and full of wrath, boring into him.

COWARD. TRAITOR"

And then the pain started and he began to scream too.

—————

Damn, man. Maybe for once you should listen to your friend, Adam before you get thrown out a fuckin window-

[jujulebee]

🫀❤️‍🔥?

rex totally has the vibes of like a cornered dog whos like, continuously being harrassed by Some Fuckin Guys™ who wont leave him alone, so now every time someone reaches out 2 him he like, snaps first and licks fourth. he seems like so tired but like, i get why he cant rest, its hard to rest when ur used to being beat, right? like even when u get sleep ur still tired and it only makes u more stressed. i totally get it. like, he makes me think of like a cold winters morning where u open the window and lean outside to feel the cold air so you can wake up a bit more, feel a bit more alive. he reminds me of uncurling after a panic attack where your body feels heavy and exhausted and your eyes and your head hurt and you have nothing left in your heads except this all consuming void, but you cant sleep. just close ur eyes for a bit. he reminds me of someone desperate to be noticed but not seen, dont make direct eye contact, dont get too close, but please be near, please dont leave even if i tell you to, kinda vibe. i worry abt him, and i wanna hang out, but i dont want to force him into a situation that freaks him out. i get it.

[drmshope]

Jingle Bells Swing (Jingle Bells Ring)

•••

"Dream did you even hear me?!" Tommy asks, still just as loud as before, "It's fuckin' Christmas!!" Dream blinks at him then realizes what he just said, eyes widening in surprise.

"Holy shit- it's Christmas."

(/dsmp rp)

(read on ao3)

•••

Dream blinks himself awake, confused for a moment about what woke him up before he realizes that Tommy is stood on his bed, a big smile on his face.

"What-"

"Wake up big man! It's Christmas!!!" He shouts jumping on the bed which makes Dream bounce slightly and he sighs, still not quite awake yet.

"Thats nice, Tommy." He says, only half registering whats going on as he slips out of bed, bare feet hitting the cold stone floor of their base and he hisses, wishing he had worn socks to bed.

"Dream did you even hear me?!" Tommy asks, still just as loud as before, "It's fuckin' Christmas!!" Dream blinks at him then realizes what he just said, eyes widening in surprise.

"Holy shit- it's Christmas."

"Yeah, that's what I've been saying big man, now lets go!! I want to unwrap the presents already!"

"Okay- okay, lead the way." His voice is still soft with sleep, so he sounds more calm than he actually is, but he is incredibly excited to see what Tommy got him, and if he likes what he got him.

Tommy jumps off his bed and all but runs into the living room, Dream following behind him at a much slower pace, and by the time he gets there Tommy's already sat down on the floor, a present in hand, which makes Dream chuckle.

"Well, go ahead, open it."

oooo

The rest of the morning is spent opening presents, and they both have a very good time.

By the end of it theres wrapping paper and boxes strewn everywhere, which Dream knows he's going to hate cleaning up later, but right now he's just too happy.

Tommy stands up suddenly, almost stepping on the cow plush Dream got him in his hurry to stand and he looks up at him with a raised eyebrow.

"We have to go outside now big man!"

"Why?"

"Because it's snowing!!" Dream blinks and then looks out the window and finds that Tommy is right and it is snowing.

"Why didn't you say anything!?" He shouts, just as loud as Tommy was moments ago, jumping up excitedly.

"I thought you knew!" Tommy calls after him as he runs to his bedroom, finding his coat, gloves, and snow boots in record time. "Slow down!" He says, grabbing his coat, gloves and boots as well and Dream slows his movements, halfway done with putting his coat on already.

"Sorry." He responds, waiting until Tommy has his coat on to finish putting his on. They both finish getting ready together and Dream just gets done with tying the shoelaces on his boots when Tommy grabs him by the arm and all but drags him out of the house, not that he's complaining.

°°°

"We have to make a snow man Big D!" Tommy says as soon as they get outside, door closing behind them with a click and Dream nods his agreement.

"Okay, I'll roll the bottom and you roll the middle, then I can do the head while you go find sticks for the arms and rocks for the face."

"What about the nose?"

"We'll go inside after and get a carrot and some accessories for it."

"Got it!" Tommy answers and immediately runs off to go roll the middle, Dream gets to work on the bottom while he does.

They finish their snow man in record time, though he's slightly tilted to the side, which Dream hates but its Christmas so he is trying to not be a perfectionist about how stupid he looks.

"He's perfect." Tommy says from besides him and he rolls his eyes.

"He's silly."

"He's perfectly silly!" Tommy exclaims like he just found the secret to infinite life and Dream snorts.

"Yeah, okay, he's perfectly silly." Dream stares at it for a little while longer, fighting the urge to try to fix it before something wet and cold hits him in the back of his head, sliding down his neck and he turns around slowly, face carefully blank as he does so, finding Tommy looking at him with a smirk on his face before he sees his face and he blanches, booking it immediately.

Dream races after him as fast as he can, the crunching of snow getting faster and louder as he picks up speed and he's pretty sure he can hear Tommy mumbling 'oh no' over and over again under his breath.

"Oh Tommy!" He calls, drawing out the y and he almost laughs when Tommy trips over his own feet, "Just stop running already, this isn't a fight you can win!" The entire situation gives him a weird sense of deja vu but he ignores it, having too much fun chasing Tommy to care about the fact that it feels like he's done this before.

Finally Tommy ducks behind a tree and Dream slips behind his own with ease, despite the fact that his lungs are burning and he feels like he can't breathe. He leans against the tree for a moment to catch his breath, chest heaving with exertion, before he leans down to gather some snow into a ball in his palm. He peaks out from behind the tree, dodging the snow ball that Tommy immediately throws at him, before he peaks out again waiting for Tommy to do the same.

He does eventually and Dream immediately throws his snow ball at him, missing him but just barley before he ducks behind the tree again, scooping more snow up.

"You're gonna have to try harder than that Dream!"

"Oh shut up, how about you focus on hitting me instead of shit talking!"

They continue to throw snow balls and miss each other for a few more hours before Dream nails Tommy in the face and he falls to the floor dramatically, wet snow on his nose and cheeks.

"You killed me, I'm dead."

"Tommy."

"I'm dead stop talking to me, do you usually talk to dead people Dream."

He rolls his eyes, "How do I make you undead so we can go inside and have hot chocolate." Tommy shoots up at that, snow falling from his hair and he looks at Dream with wide eyes.

"Hot chocolate!?!"

"Yes."

"I'm alive again, lets go!" He shouts, standing up and running off in the direction of the house and Dream snorts, following after him.

°°°

The hot chocolate is perfectly warm slipping down their throats and the mugs chase the chill from their hands as they stare out of the window at the snow covered ground. Hope has woken up by now, tiredly blinking at them from her place on the kitchen counter and Dream runs a hand through her fur, enjoying her purrs and chirp's of enjoyment.

"Today was nice." Tommy says, leaning against the counter and sipping his hot chocolate.

"It's still morning Tommy the days not over yet."

"Well yeah but we aren't gonna do anything are we?"

"True."

"Exactly big man! So days over."

"Pretty sure that's not how that works but okay sure."

"I say that's how it works so that's how that works." Dream rolls his eyes but doesn't argue.

"Alright Tommy, then yeah today was nice, thanks Tommy."

"You too big man, especially for that plushie."

"You're never letting that thing go now are you?"

"Nope." He responds, popping the p.

They lapse into comfortable silence after that, just drinking their hot chocolate and Dream thinks that today was in fact a pretty good day.