#round toe ankle boots

[qwimchii]

𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 (pt. 1) — 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘺

playlist pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3 pt. 4 pt. 5 pt. 6 pt. 7 pt. 8 (10/24)

𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘹 𝘧!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺 — 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵'𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘢𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘸𝘤 — 17.7𝘬 (crying TT)

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦 — 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵

𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴/𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 — 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘩𝘰𝘭, 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 & 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢, 𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘥𝘰𝘮!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘷𝘪𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘯!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵!𝘢𝘶, 141𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘨!𝘢𝘶, 𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 (10𝘺𝘳𝘴), 𝘤𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘴, 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘥𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯

note: the year is circa 1908 and 10 years after the spanish-american war (1898). reader has long hair bc i felt like that was historically accurate... hope that's ok <3

header gunslinger ghost render by @ave661

you had heard the whispers on the horizon.

the whole town buzzed with a sort of energy—a swirling mass of dusty brown and gurgling in your stomach.

anxiety. you saw it on passerby faces through Daddy’s saloon, the bouncing knee of your mama under the table while you said grace at dinner. she never bounced her knee. it was a strict habit she trained you out of from a young age. claimed that it wasn’t proper for a young, unmarried lady like yourself.

that morning, when you stood over the wash bin in front of the dusty mirror, you wiped at your face with an old washcloth and smoothed the lines of your face like your mama taught you.

Ghost was coming to town.

no matter how you brushed your hair, the dust climbing through the desert coated it in a thin, particulate grime. Mama tightened your corset as you shoved your toes into leather heeled boots.

“remember yourself, girl,” she spoke lowly. “remember your manners. behave for once and don’t embarrass your daddy.”

you only rolled your eyes at her hissed warnings. you had met with Daddy’s business partners over several dinners where you put on your best show to pour them a glass of Daddy’s fancy bourbon all the way from kentucky.

these were the rules: you don’t speak to them unless spoken to, and you let them touch you however they please.

you shuddered, stomach curling at the thought of the last dinner. Mr. Turner’s wrinkled hand had slid up your thigh and you twisted away in reflex, accidentally knocking a bottle of bourbon onto the floor that shattered and soaked the hem of his wife’s fancy dress.

she had screamed at you and your daddy’s face had gone red, sending you a look of warning. Mama barely spared you a glance as she pulled you down to the floor to clean it up, pinching the skin of your arm in frustration.

you couldn’t tell if it felt worse to have Mr. Turner’s hand squeezing at your thigh or to be at your knees in front of him.

the strings of your corset pulled tight and you bit back a gasp as Mama tied it deftly with the practiced curl of her rough hands. you put on your best blouse and tucked it into a navy skirt that flowed into a blue, watery circle round your ankles. looking into the mirror, you thought your mama looked so much more poised and ready than you.

with a shaky exhale, you turned to her and she slapped at your face. you winced at the sting it left on your cheek.

“you’ll be fine.”

you felt far from it, trailing after her as the orange sun bled through the grimey windows, a blanket of dust settling on them in the windy evening. you had scrubbed them only yesterday.

settling yourself behind the expanse of Daddy’s bar, you smoothed over the dark wood. the saloon was eerily empty and quiet, a silent omen of Ghost’s arrival approaching. he had sent word only a few days ago. he had urgent business with Daddy and he was coming. now.

as you shuffled through Daddy’s whiskey collection, rearranging and wiping bottles down, you remembered the legends that alcoholics brought in every other week. another story on Ghost—the masked iron harbinger of death and justice. he wasn’t a sheriff, a good and honorable christian, or a vigilante. he was a bounty hunter, a cold-hearted gunslinger with a nasty sore spot for bourbon, money, and women. someone who disappeared without a trace, shooting out runaway criminals, bringing back carcasses for an extra dime.

he wasn’t even human.

a ghost. or so you heard.

you combed through the alcoholic contents, anxiously placing them and replacing them. your mama would be calling you to dinner any second and lead you to the table, Daddy at the head and Ghost at the other, right next to your spot where his hand would be on your thigh, eyes burning into the curve of your cheek. 

swallowing, you leaned against the bar top. you wanted to run away. you didn’t know how much longer you could go—how many more business partners Daddy would work with to expand his saloon chain. how much longer until he would be selling his daughter’s honor for a bigger investment…

the familiar click and chime of the saloon doors swinging open came from behind. you crossed your arms and didn’t turn to see who it was. you knew Mama would’ve had your head for being so rude.

“saloon’s closed,” you called out, “Daddy’s got business with—”

“Ghost.”

you stiffened and uncrossed your arms to peer over your shoulder.

there, at the entrance of the saloon, stood a broad and tall figure, hips thick and laden with a gun holster. he hooked his fingers on his belt, embroidered silver buckle glimmering in the red hours of the evenings. his backlit silhouette stark against the sunset made it hard to make out anything else, but you were sure when you saw the shine of his red mask and the wide berth of his black Stetson, a silver skull and crossbones clasped to its brim.

Daddy’s got business with Ghost.

you were frozen. the casual way his thick gloved hand settled on his revolver sent tremors through you.

“you’re supposed to be at dinner with Daddy,” you said, throat tight, and he trudged forward, boots heavy on the wood floorboards. he walked with a heady weight, and as he neared, you could make out the darkness of his eyes piercing through his skull mask.

“wanted bourbon.”

you stared at him for a long moment. he sat at a barstool, all his weight and broadness settled over the bartop. whatever trance you were in broke when he tipped his head at you in question—or impatience, you couldn’t discern. probably the latter.

you fumbled for a kentucky bourbon. you had done this a million times over at the saloon, but the crackle of the air and his gaze following your every move had your hands wobbling. the shaky clink of the bourbon bottle against the glass grappled with the silence of the room. suddenly, you felt hyper aware of the looseness of your blouse when you bent to pour his bourbon. you didn’t dare look up into his gaze.

“you scared of me?” his accent was foreign and grating and sent shivers down your spine. you should’ve been hollering for your mama at this point, but you felt rooted to the spot. 

shakily, you exhaled. “no.”

when you pulled back, you watched in amazement as he pulled up the bottom of his black mask, revealing a canvas of pale skin, dark stubble, and a strong jawline that pulled into a tight frown on his lips. a litter of scars shone silver in the light when he tipped back to drain the glass of bourbon.

when he placed the empty glass back on the table, he reached into the inner pocket of his black trench coat and pulled out a cigarette. you flinched when his heavy gaze ran over you.

“light me up, lovely?”

you nodded dumbly, reaching for the lighter under the countertop and held it out to him. he looked up at you, unmoving, and you blinked in confusion before his gloved hand gripped your wrist with a tightness.

he moved your hand with his own, thumbing over the sparkwheel till the flame jumped to life and leaned his mouth forward to tip his cigarette into the flame.

your whole body felt light and fiery—like you were floating a bit off the ground, shoulders drawn with a tightness. a sharp exhale left you when he finally released you, the skin of your wrist tingling in the memory of his leather grip.

smoke clouded your eyes in a haze and you blinked rapidly, quickly wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. he huffed, corners of his lips twitching, a dark gleam in his eye. his rested his hand against the countertop, smoke trailing up in the room and you watched his lips part like he was about to say something—

Mama strode into the room, freezing at the entrance of the back door behind the counter. you had never seen her so tense, her eyes moving from you, to the hulking man smoking a cigarette.

“welcome, sir,” she greeted and he only nodded, pulling his mask back down as he snuffed out his cigarette in an ashtray.

it was like you remembered yourself in that moment, that the man across from you was Ghost, the bounty hunter, the murderer, and the devil. you shuffled away into her side when Ghost stood. her arm was tight when it circled your waist, and you mustered all your strength not to shake. Mama’s gaze was on him but Ghost was only staring at you.

you stared at the floor instead.

“this way, sir,” she said, gate polite and posture poised as she led you and Ghost to the dining room through the back of the saloon’s supply and storage to the other side of the building where he was supposed to enter.

his footsteps were heavy behind you and the hair on your neck prickled. you scurried forward but it was like you could feel his warm breath down your back.

when you found Daddy, it was almost a crushing relief to see the sweeping calm on his half-lidded face at the dinner table. he was so charming, you were sure he could use his business skills to weasel out of this. like he had a million times before.

Mama’s steaming food was laid out over the table—buttered chicken, thick mashed potatoes, greasy green beans with bacon bits. you tried to move to sit on the opposite side of the table, far away from Ghost, but your daddy’s eyes pinned you with a warning and you grimaced, sitting carefully next to him. Ghost’s gaze burned your face.

“Ghost,” Daddy greeted, “pleasure to see you again.”

he only grunted, mask pulled tight over his features. you couldn’t see anything but the dark swirl of his eyes. he didn’t even take off his hat at the table.

you glanced at your mother’s face by Daddy but her eyes were intent, focused on Ghost. she didn’t seem to care at all. you shifted in your seat. you knew Ghost was a very special guest, but not even special guests were above Mama’s rules.

“what brings you to our small town?”

Mama nudged you under the table with her foot, and you kept yourself from rolling your eyes, standing to serve Ghost food. you carefully dished it on his plate neatly, just like Mama taught you, but he didn’t even spare the food a glance.

“i was at your saloon in jackson county.” you froze briefly. jackson county is a long way from the west. he must’ve traveled day and night to reach your small town embedded in tumbleweeds and dust.

his head tipped thoughtfully so you couldn’t see his eyes anymore under the width of his hat. “it’s a nice place. good kentucky bourbon.”

Daddy smiled but his eyes narrowed. you were about to dump a spoonful of mashed potatoes on Ghost’s plate but he gripped your wrist lightly.

“i’m alright,” he said low, and your spine prickled. there was a warning in it, so you sat back in your seat, leaning to the furthest edge away from him. you dreaded the moment his gloved palm would glide up your thigh.

“why are you here, Ghost?” Daddy asked again, his hand reaching down below the table. you imagined it resting on the holster, revolver lodged against his hip. 

Ghost leaned forward.

“first, you tell me why I saw Turner’s boys loitering around jackson county.”

Daddy went pale in a way you’ve never seen before and Mama shifted uncomfortably. her knee was bouncing again.

“nearly got my head shot off. had to comb my way through texas to lose ‘em.” Ghost’s eyes narrowed in the dimness of the dining room.

“you know how i feel about the Turner boys, Henry.”

you shivered at his low tone. what the hell was going on?

there was a calculated thickness in Daddy’s voice. it blanketed all the desperation in his clenched jaw. “i needed investors, Ghost. Turner was the highest bidder.”

“do you need a reminder of who built your business from scratch in the first place?”

your brows raised. Daddy did business with Ghost?

“no i remember. i also remember how you high-tailed it out of here when the Turner boys showed up five years ago.”

you jumped in your seat when Daddy stood and placed his revolver on the dinner table. Mama gasped and murmured something like disapproval that Daddy ignored. it gleamed in the low light and your jaw clamped.

“i’m not afraid of you, Ghost. Turner’s protecting me now.”

Ghost’s silence was deadly, his hulking form too relaxed, but you could see his hand twitch where it lay on his holster. was this going to lead to a shootout?

you tried to convey your silent question in the way that you peered into the curve of his mask but his eyes were dead set on Daddy.

“Turner is protecting you now?”

“yes.” 

Ghost stared up at your daddy for a long time before his gaze traveled to you. you reached deep inside you to muster the courage and stare unflinchingly back.

“i want my money back, Henry.” it was a low deadly whisper, his eyes never leaving you. Daddy balked.

“you know i can’t do that.”

“but you can. and i want my money back or i can take something much more precious.”

his gloved hand came up to stroke at your cheek and you bit back a hiss, biting down on your lower lip. Mama stood now, clutching at Daddy’s arm.

“you won’t, you devil!” she cried and Ghost gripped firmly at your jaw, razor eyes digging into you. a tight hand around his wrist, you tried to pry him off but he was too strong. he wouldn’t budge. a traitorous tear spilled from the corner of your eye. Ghost brushed it away with his thumb.

“you have no honor,” your Daddy whispered and Ghost went lax. you pushed his hand away and pressed yourself to the back of your chair in a ball.

a new boiling anger built in you. you were being used again as another part in Daddy’s business transactions.

“you sell your daughter to investors for a buck. do you really want to talk about honor?” he chewed out the words and you shuddered, holding your breath to keep down the sobs that threatened to push up into your lungs.

“i protected you. this was my territory. i had men in your town and i made sure no bandits came near your saloons and i made sure none left alive. then, you went to work with Turner instead.” Ghost stood at the table, revolver in hand. he cocked the gun and Mama shrieked.

“this is a fair trade. give me my investment back or i’ll take her instead.” the barrel of his revolver slowly swung from Daddy to you. in his black suit in bloody mask, Ghost truly did look like the devil. you wanted to shake, to cry and scream and sob, but only a venomous anger spread through you.

what did Ghost know about fairness? 

“if i go it’s on my terms,” you hissed under your breath and Ghost’s eyes swiveled to you. Mama began to shout in protest but he pointed the revolver dead above her browline and your Daddy hissed, picking up his own revolver and cocking it.

“what’re your terms, lovely?” he asked in a low tone.

“you leave my Mama and Daddy alone.” with a harsh swallow, you wiped at the tears on your cheeks. “i can ride a horse. i can shoot well ‘cause Daddy taught me. i know how to pour a glass and tend a bar. i can read and write. i know good manners and i can talk smart when i need it.

Ghost’s eyes were half-lidded as he looked down on you, sitting as straight as you possibly could at the dinner table. your Daddy’s revolver was trained on Ghost now.

“i won’t get in the way. take me instead of the money.”

Ghost blinked. “what’re my terms?”

you hesitated, voice cracked wide open. “you…you’ll own me.”

his eyes narrowed. “body and soul?”

you nodded slowly, feeling your anger deflate as your mama began to sob. 

“body and soul.” you screwed your eyes shut, head dipping forward. the devil.

“Henry?”

your Daddy looked weakly at Ghost, his shoulders falling. he looked meek and small and not even half the smart man you thought he was. his revolver clattered to the dinner table in defeat and you didn’t spare him a glance when you stood from the dinner table to trudge up the stairs and pack your things, the food sprawled across the dinner table cold and forgotten.

you didn’t have time to think about what you needed or what to say goodbye to. the stuffed bear your daddy got you for your tenth birthday lay discarded among your bedsheets. old letters from the girls in town were strewn off your desk as you dug for stationary. you stopped midway when you realized there was no way Ghost would let you write your parents on the move through the west.

was this your new life? confined to bounty hunting and running from foes? living as a ghost?

you shivered, shoving blouses and skirts and a canteen on your nightstand into a knapsack. you pulled out the drawer of your dresser and dug under more clothes to find a revolver and pack of ammo. Mama would beat you if she ever knew it was there and that’s why you always kept it hidden.

you loaded up the cylinder, pushing the bullets into each chamber and ramming the cylinder back in place.

“gearing up to kill me?”

you froze and looked over your shoulder to find Ghost crowding your doorway. for someone of his stature, he moved too quietly. usually, you would be embarrassed at the mess dispersed across the floor, your undergarments at a pile by his dusty boots.

but you just narrowed your eyes, ignoring him as you carded through your room, collecting random essentials. matches, money, your sharpest letter opener, and in a last second grab, your journal.

he watched all your movements with an eerie silence.

“i’m not planning on keeping you forever.” he stepped forward till he was just a short arm length from your back. his voice was cold.

“your daddy’ll try and kill me first, then he’ll cough up the money eventually. it’s a temporary trade off.”

“i’m not one of your business transactions,” you snapped, and he blinked at you.

“‘course not.”

his words weren’t convincing. you tried to squeeze past him but his outstretched arm blocked your path. you almost snapped at him again but shrunk back when his steady eyes pinned you down. he crowded you back until you blindly hit the dresser. 

your neck craned up. he was so much bigger than you.

the swell of his chest with each breath almost brushed against you, and you squirmed under his intense gaze.

“you offered yourself up to me,” he said, calculated. “why?”

you swallowed down the anxious gurgling in your stomach. “you wouldn’t believe me.”

“tell me anyway.”

“i hate it here.”

he cocked his head at you. “the rich girl wants to become a bounty hunter?”

you frowned, raising the revolver and digging it into his stomach. “don’t think that i could?”

he gave you a long look before tipping his hat and stepping back. “didn’t say that, lovely.”

you whispered it under your breath. “devil.”

the grip on his holster tightened. “maybe. but i know how to be a gentleman.”

he picked up the knapsack on your bed, despite your grumble of protest, and slung it over his shoulder. 

“don’t worry. i’ll take real good care of you, princess.”

you could only imagine a smug smirk hidden by the shroud of his mask as he walked out your bedroom.

it was surreal watching the tears stream down Mama’s face as she cupped your face in her hands. facing them now, you searched your daddy’s eyes for an ounce of anger or fight. 

just give him the money, you wanted to scream at your daddy, but he stared straight through you and the hands that clutched at your face.

Ghost watched from a distance, arms curled over his chest, leaning against a fence post that his black stallion was tied to, leisurely grazing at the dry tufts of grass. your horse, Sugar, stamped in the dirt nearby, kicking up dust. Ghost’s dark gaze pierced you even at a distance.

Daddy could never out gun Ghost even if he tried.

you startled when Mama pulled you into a tight hug. she hissed low and angry, “you wait till he falls asleep and you kill him, you hear me?” she pinched at the skin of your arm. “you put three bullets in that devil’s heart and you run back to us.” 

she brushed hair away from your face, sweeping away the dust on the crown of your head. “okay?”

you nodded, swallowing, throat bone dry.

“you’ll be fine.”

those were her final words when your daddy led you to your horse and let you clamber up into your saddle. Ghost looked at you expectantly from over his shoulder as your daddy patted your knee.

“i’m sorry, sweetheart.” 

no you’re not.

you looked into his charming face, a twisted look on his lips. his eyes were tired.

“goodbye, Daddy.”

you took one look over the small town and the dust that blew through it. Ghost turned his horse into the dying light of the day and you dug the heel of your boot into the flank of your mare, tightening the reins, and took off after Ghost. soon, your mama and daddy become a dot in the horizon, and you almost suppressed a smile.

you weren’t sure how long you rode. it felt like hours, dust kicking up in a big cloud after the pair of you into the dark night. you only stopped every hour or so to let the horses rest up, drink, feed and you were off again. you should’ve been tired but you were so high with exhilaration, lungs burning with exertion from the long ride, that you almost didn’t catch Ghost’s call to rest drifting over the wind rushing in your ears.

your chest was put through the wringer, panting as you slid off your horse. 

“good girl, Sugar.” you slapped at her dapple gray shoulder. she snorted, tossing her mane anxiously.

as you traveled further into…wherever you were, the cacti and low brush built up into bushes and weedy looking trees. into a forest.

Ghost lit the lantern strung up on his saddle bags and gave you a sharp, wordless look before leading his horse by the reins further into the woods. you followed him, head on a swivel at the unfamiliar surroundings.

you were used to the big, brown, orange flat canvas of your small town. the green grass underfoot was unusual and the trees cast long, distorting shadows. you startled, stopping short when you heard an foreign call from the woods. Sugar huffed nervously, big nostrils twitching as she stamped her hoof.

“it’s a coyote,” Ghost grumbled, not stopping for your shenanigans. you scurried after him, hyper aware of the encompassing darkness around you and what may be lurking beyond it.

soon, a big structure obstructing the woods came into view and Ghost lifted his lantern to reveal a small wooden cabin. by the side, he tied up his black stallion on a fence post next to a hay feeder and water bin. when he stared at you, unmoving, you quickly followed suit and fumbled to unsaddle Sugar, carrying your knapsack inside and following after his heavy footsteps.

you’re like a lost puppy, a voice grumbled in annoyance. he’s always ten steps in front of you.

you shook away the thought and stepped into the cabin, watching Ghost as he lit the oil lamps littered around the room. there was a miniscule kitchen pressed in the corner, a desk by your side, and a bed on the other. the bed was small. very small.

you cleared your throat. “where are we?”

Ghost didn’t pause to acknowledge you, shucking his trench coat and rolling up the sleeves of his black suit, exposing the skin of his forearms. for a long moment, as he rummaged through a bag, you thought he would ignore you. but your silent stare was relentless.

“border of southern california.”

your brows rose. you weren’t sure how far that was from home, or how you could possibly find your way back. 

“and this cabin…?”

he paused to give you a brief look. “you ask a lot of questions.” his voice was pinched with annoyance.

“you don’t talk enough,” you shot back, tensing up. if you were going to be dragged around by this man for months, you thought you at least deserved to know where you were. or what the hell was going on.

he grumbled under his breath. “s’my safe house. we’re stayin’ for the night.”

the night. you nodded, feeling meek, remembering what Mama said. smoothing a hand over your chest, you shifted between feet in the doorway.

you can do this.

Ghost had his back turned to you, pouring his canteen of water into a pot and pouring a bag of something else in it that came out in a pebbled rush. for the devil himself, at least he knew how to cook.

“you gonna sit?”

feeling embarrassed, you moved to sit on the bed, the old mattress sagging under your weight. you kept smooth a hand over your blouse, carding a hand through your hair, till you got tired of it and wove them into messy braids and undid them again.

Ghost huffed, moving from the kitchen to the desk, putting his hat down. you stared.

“relax. no need to be so worked up.”

you nodded. “right.”

his eyes bore holes into you, and you took that as your que, swallowing as you began to unbutton the clasp at the top of your blouse. you paused when Ghost’s breath tapered, turning sharply away.

his accent thickened. “what are you doing?”

“i-i thought—”

“you thought wrong.” his words were cutting.

maybe you should’ve felt relief but you only squirmed in confusion. “body and soul?” you mumbled weakly, and he slowly turned back to you.

you fumbled with your hands awkwardly.

“i don’t bed rich, prissy girls,” he grinded out and you almost balked in defense, but you thought better of it from the way his grip tightened on his holster.

but you couldn’t hold your tongue long enough—

“who do you bed then? whores?” your brow arched against your will as you tilted your head. his eyes narrowed beneath the mask.

“careful, princess.” he grabbed something from a cabinet in the kitchen. “i’m the one who’s keeping you alive.”

a gloved hand held out a plate of some dried fruit and biscuits. a piece of jerky as well. you held your stomach.

you hadn’t touched a morsel of your mama’s food over that tense dinner, which seemed like years ago, and you were too nervous for Ghost’s arrival to eat lunch either. swallowing, you reached a hand out and Ghost pulled the plate back from your grasp.

you almost hissed at him.

“i thought you said you knew manners?” 

biting your lip, you sat up straighter and politely crossed an ankle over the other, smoothing your hands over your lap. 

“may i please have some food, sir?”

his voice sounded uncharacteristically smug. “you’re a good listener.”

you snatched the plate from him, his words thrumming low in your stomach. kicking off your boots and neatly lining them up by the nightstand, you politely curled your legs to the side and smoothed down your skirt to eat. Mama never let you eat on the bed, but you had snuck up meals some late nights. you almost felt giddy—as if you were breaking the rules when you were eight years old again.

Ghost watched you eat in silence before getting his own plate. the same thrill from that evening soared in your stomach when he tugged up his black mask to reveal his strong jawline and pinkish mouth. you noticed a silvery scar on his upper lip.

“did your father make you do that stuff?” you paused mid-bite of your biscuit, slowly chewing.

you swallowed. “what stuff?”

the twist of his lips seemed like exasperation. “going to bed with strangers.”

you flinched, and it was like an icy cold reminder that Ghost was a stranger—just as much as your daddy’s business partners.

“no.”

Ghost cocked his head. “that so?”

you nodded. “Daddy just had touchy customers.”

you quickly rephrased, putting down the plate on your lap. “but i can if you need me to. for your customers, you know.”

you knew you would need to be of use to Ghost in the coming months, if tonight didn’t go according to plan. the thought spurred on your heart, a looming dread clambering up your spine.

Ghost mouth twisted. “i don’t need you in that way.”

you blinked, frowning. “how do you need me then?”

“just….” he was frowning deeply now. “just do what you’re doing now.”

“what’s that?”

“bein’ polite.” he shrugged, putting down his empty plate. you felt disappointed when he tugged back down the mask. “bein’ a good girl.”

the funny thing is, being polite and a good girl was probably one of the things you were worst at in Mama’s eyes, but looking at Ghost, and the way he brandished his gun over the dinner table like a toy… your manners weren’t too bad at all.

you wondered when was the last time he stepped in a church.

finishing the last bits of dinner, Ghost excused himself to disappear into the woods, and you took the moment of privacy to quickly change into a nightgown, conscious of the way it exposed your collarbones and chest. 

you also took the moment to plan out the night, searching into your knapsack to find the familiar handle of your revolver. you tested the weight of it in your hand, before putting it back into the sack. if Ghost was a gentleman, as he attested, he would let you sleep on the bed. that means he would, most likely, sleep on the floor. and if he didn’t… you would just have to convince him that he needed to.

you closed your eyes to imagine leaning over your bed at night, the slow swell of his chest as you aimed the revolver right at his heart and pulled the trigger. three times.

you shivered violently, a chill passing over you.

“cold?”

you stiffened when Ghost stepped back into the cabin, pulling the door shut behind him. you nodded, but the movement felt restrained, fists balled as you crossed them over your chest.

“mhmm.”

he jerked his head to the bed.

“take the bed. i’ll be sleepin’ outside.”

you balked, fist clenching and unclenching.

“but…what about Mr. Turner’s men?”

he turned still, hand twitching at his holster.

“they won’t find us for days. don’t worry about them.”

“but…” Ghost moved to grab his saddlebag. 

“i’m scared,” you whispered, and he paused, peering at you through the mask. you gave him a meek look. it’s wasn’t a complete lie. you’ve been half-scared since he walked into Daddy’s saloon unannounced.

he sighed, long and hard. “alright, princess.” he pulled out a balled up blanket from his saddlebag and laid it on the floor, and you went lax with relief, lifting the covers of the bed to slide into them.

you stiffened again when you realized the sheets smelled of him—sweet bourbon, cigarettes, and an earthy musk like mud and woods. cheek nestled into the pillow, you watched him unbutton his vest, pull off his holster, and undo his bolo tie, placing them on the desk neatly.

you half-expected him to take off his mask, too, but he made no move towards it as turned off the oil lamps in the room. a bit disappointed, you turned to the wall once the room was shrouded with darkness.

quiet shuffling ensued, until there was a complete silence and his even breaths in the dark. it would’ve been easy to let sleep overtake you if the spike of your heavy heart wasn’t thrumming in your throat and a biting fear wasn’t corded in the back of your brain.

it took a conscious reminder to remember the large lump of man on the floor was a murderer. a cold-blooded one, too. he was a rich bounty hunter and hunting was his sport. he was a killer. he wasn’t here to feed you or take care of you. he was as sinful as they came.

you slowly shifted in the bed, reaching down into the knapsack on the floor by the bed. you groped until you felt a familiar cold, embroidered handle. 

you wait till he falls asleep and you kill him, you hear me?

your mama’s voice rang in your ears as you sat up on the edge of the bed. Ghost was flat on the ground, a blanket drawn up to his waist, arms crossed over his chest. your breath hitched in the dark. 

you put three bullets in that devil’s heart and you run back to us.

you stopped short at that, poisonous questions blooming in your head. it was dangerous, hesitating in the dark like this, looming over one of the most dangerous men in the west who had just, essentially, stolen you, with a loaded gun in your hand.

but your head was running away from you—how would you get home from here? did you have the supplies needed? you didn’t have the tracking skills Ghost evidently showed on your ride to the cabin, nor expertise in medical emergencies. did you even want to go home?

you stared at the side of Ghost’s mask, its red a cool blue gleam in the dark.

you could live the life of a gunslinger like Ghost—a merciless bounty hunter who murdered for money. you could imagine it, even now. shootouts with outlaws and playing friends with sheriffs to get big payouts. but… it would be under the pretense of being Ghost’s property.

you shuddered at the thought. as long as you were by Ghost’s side, you would be his captive. a precious pawn in a trade off—a hostage to use against your daddy and Turner. just another business transaction and you to take advantage of.

a small click in the dark seized you from your thoughts. Ghost’s black eyes peered up at you. cursing in surprise, your clammy hands dropped the revolver, and it clattered to the floor. you fumbled around for it and hugged it to your stomach, heart beating out of your throat.

he rested the revolver in his hand leisurely against his chest. too leisurely.

a bead of sweat slid down your temple when you realized he just cocked his gun. you didn’t remember him taking it out of his holster when he placed it on the desk. 

always ten steps ahead of you.

“gearing up to kill me?”

your mouth opened and closed, failing to shape out words. his gaze narrowed.

“m’scared remember?” was all you could choke out, a shiver gripping you intensely. you tried to play it off with a careless shrug, but you knew he couldn’t possibly fall for that.

your skin felt cold but his stare was hot.

“scared of what? the dark? the coyotes outside, Tuner’s boys?” his voice was dangerously soft. “...or me?”

you almost whimpered. “i’m not scared of you.”

the fabric of his mask stretched and the crumple at his eyes let you know he was smiling. it was more threatening than anything.

“let’s say you’re not scared of me…” he rested his revolver on the floor and he shifted onto his side to face you fully. “...and let’s say you didn’t just try to kill me.”

you grimaced under his piercing stare. “put down the gun, lovely.”

you complied and he practically purred. “you still scared?”

shaking your head slowly, your knee betrayed you and began to bounce.

“let’s say you’re not scared of me, and you didn’t try to kill me, but you’re scared of the dark and the coyotes…” you balked when he opened the covers of his makeshift bed to you. “come here.”

you stayed rooted to the spot, knee freezing mid-bounce. his arms were open, mask twinkling in the moonlight, but you knew in his unflinching gaze that he was being very serious.

“come here,” he commanded, and you stood stiffly, shuffling forward to crawl into the blankets. his strong arm hooked around your waist and you muffled a squeak when he pulled you down. 

you were pulled into his broad chest, warm and strong at your back and you almost melted if it weren’t for the fact that the man behind you was a cold-blooded murderer and the devil reincarnated.

his gloved hands crept beneath your shoulders around to your throat and pressed to the flying pulse of your neck. he hummed low in your ear, mask brushing the shell of it. the smell of smoke, woody musk, and bourbon filled your nose.

“sure you’re not scared, lovely?”

your jaw clenched. “yes.”

“really?”

his hand crept down from your throat to your collarbone and a loud gasp escaped you when he firmly pressed a palm to the flesh just above your breast. you knew he felt your heart’s fast thrum through the cotton of your nightgown.

“why’s your heart beatin’ so fast then?”

when the silence permitted, he offered you, “nervous?” his voice dropped an octave, low and throaty. “ever lie like this with a man before?”

you were as stiff as a board, a foreign warmth brewing in you that made your skin prickle and crawl, spluttering unintelligible sounds, when suddenly, he released you and you scrambled out of the sheets back onto the bed, pressing yourself to the wall.

he huffed a series of breaths that sounded like quiet laughter. you were just about to kill him. what was so funny about that?

like he heard your thoughts, he turned onto his back and crossed his arms again.

“would be concerned if you didn’t at least try to kill me.” Ghost closed his eyes. “you gonna try and run if i sleep?”

you stared at the side of his face. “no.”

he nodded. “good. there’s a lot more dangerous things in the desert than coyotes, princess.”

like you, you thought weakly, burrowing yourself back into the covers, face heating up when the smell of him against the pillow filled your head again.

your plans had just gone more than horribly wrong. with a heartfelt apology to your mama ringing heavy in your mind, twisting in the sheets, you tried to let sleep take you.

you barely slept that night. tossing and turning in the sheets, you listened for the sinister calls of wildlife just beyond the cabin, and the slow breaths from the floor. though a primal sense inside you let you know that Ghost probably wasn’t sleeping.

but you don’t remember when the sun came up, its first burning embers casting a thin glow in the room. you must’ve fallen asleep at some point because Ghost is gone in the morning, room eerily quiet and empty.

you take the moment to redress in your corset, loose white button up, a buckskin split skirt with fringe, pulling on your boots as you shove everything back into your knapsack. groping around for a familiar embroidered handle, you pause when you realize your revolver has gone amiss.

you sling the knapsack over your shoulder and find Ghost perched down by a fire outside, stoking at its flames. he’s back in his expensive full attire, black suit fresh in the morning light. he only spares you a glance over his shoulder before continuing to stir something in a pot hung up over the fire. 

you dropped your knapsack to the ground.

“where’s my revolver?”

he scooped up a spoonful of the stuff into two bowls and grabs something from his bag. he waves your revolver in the air with one hand wordlessly.

“revolver privileges revoked.”

“why?” you knew why, but you wanted to hear it nonetheless.

standing to his full height, he turned and gave you a look under the mask that you could only imagine as disapproval. he didn’t give you an answer.

“eat,” he commanded, handing a bowl to you.

you looked into the bowl to find a watery soup of beans and a dry biscuit half soaked in the liquid. not your finest meal but you were grateful for it. 

you eyed Ghost’s broad stature sitting on a log by the fire. he must’ve soaked the beans last night in that pot of water. if you, after last night’s events, weren’t going to try and kill him, or run away, you could at least play nice. for your revolver mostly.

you politely sat next to him on the log, curling your legs to the side and hooking one ankle over the other. taking small bites, you ate with the best manners you could muster without a table in front of you.

you felt Ghost’s gaze burning a question into your cheek, but you ignored it, feigning innocence.

you cleared your throat, nodding. “thank you for the food.”

he scoffed. “it’ll take a lot more to get your revolver back than that.”

you glared at him as he stood to resaddle his horse and tie his saddlebag down. finishing your food in a couple more quick bites, you moved to do the same, but stopped short when Ghost untied the reins of Sugar to bind her to his stallion.

“what’re you doing?” 

Ghost gave you a meaningful look but said nothing, heaving himself up onto the stallion. huffing with frustration, you grabbed the bridle of his horse who whinied in surprise.

“what are you doing with my horse?”

Ghost cocked his head at you. “you’re stayin’ here, princess.”

what?

“what?” 

“food’s in the pantry. take what you want. don’t wander more than a quarter of a mile from the cabin, you’ll get lost. i’ll be back before sunset.”

he began to turn his stallion away from you, but you held fast on the bridle, jerking its head back towards you. the horse huffed and stomped in retaliation.

“where are you going?”

Ghost just stared at you. “into town.”

you took a sharp breath, racking in your head. “i’ll run away.”

his tone was cold. “on foot? you’re not that stupid.”

“i will. i don’t care. you’ll never get your money if i’m dead of starvation… or…” you shuddered, “coyotes.”

he took you in for a long moment. “these were your terms, lovely.”

you ignored him. “i’m useful. i am. i’m useful for…” you trailed off. “business.”

“i know what you’re useful for.” his eyes narrowed. “you’re most useful right here, in this camp, far away from my business.”

that blow landed right in your gut. “i’ll build a big fire,” you whispered, “and it’ll alert Turner’s men. they’ll find me and bring me back to my daddy.”

he turned away. “do you really want them to find you? when they’ll do lord knows what to a young lady like you?”

every bit of the fight burning in you deflated, snuffed by his sharp words and harrowing logic. you felt small and defeated as you watched Ghost spur his horse on, Sugar trailing after them. a miserable feeling bloomed in your stomach.

is this what your daddy felt like last night at the dinner table?

“i’ll be back before sunset,” he called over his shoulder and took off into the early morning light in a cloud of dust.

time alone went slower than you could possibly imagine. you don’t remember the last time you were alone like this—your mama always hovering over your shoulder, or the girls in town spurring you to embroider and scrapbook with them, or maybe go shopping, even when you’d rather tend to the saloon and make an extra buck when you sang an a pretty song for the alcoholics.

your hands ached to do something, so you laid back in the afternoon sun and whittled at a branch with your letter opener. 

once you got tired of that, you began writing aimless entries in your journal with Ghost’s quill and ink on the desk, then, addressing your daddy and mama in a futile letter, vented that Ghost had run off into town for business. what business, you itched to know. 

later, you stretched back on the bed in your full attire and boots, which Mama would sorely disapprove of, and blinked away the sun that streamed through the greasy window panes. lids drooping, you found yourself falling into a deep slumber.

you awoke with a start, sweat pooling under your back, blouse sticking to your skin. the sun was settling lazily into the horizon, far into the hours after noon. it was darker than before, a blue tinge across the sky like it was on the verge of storming.

with a lazy sweep of your vision across the cabin, everything untouched, you knew Ghost was still out doing business. of which you, apparently, had no use.

you stretched out over your head and froze when you heard something—a clicking rustle outside the cabin. you strained your hearing, going completely still.

then, you heard distant voices chattering.

dropping to the floor with a silent thud, you peered out the front of the window by the edge of the bed. four men stood by their horses, poking at the pot of beans outside with his boot. you silently cursed when one overturned the watery beans over the dying embers.

a man looked up at the cabin and you immediately ducked, panicking when you heard quick, heavy footsteps nail up the steps to the cabin. you scrambled backwards under the bed and pressed yourself into a ball into the furthest corner of the cabin.

one man stepped inside carefully, and you watched his feet slowly pan across the room in a circle. the warmth drained from your face when you heard the cock of a safety.

who were these people? you racked your brain for answers. Ghost said Turner’s men wouldn’t find you for days. maybe weary travelers looking for a place to stay for the night? good samaritans who could help you escape Ghost?

and never return to your family, a voice in your head added quietly. you silenced it.

he stood by the desk and listened to him rummage over it. you winced—all your letters and writings were still strewn across the desk.

“Charles!” he called. then, abruptly, he neared the bed and reached down for your knapsack on the floor. you clasped a hand to your mouth. he pulled away, your knapsack going with him.

“she was here.”

your blood ran cold. Turner’s men had arrived earlier than Ghost expected.

a second man, Charles, you presumed, stepped into the cabin. more rummaging—probably the first man holding up the letters and your belongings for Charles to see. 

“they went to town. says so in the letters.” 

Charles huffed and turned on his heel back out the cabin.

“let’s move quick. Turner said the first man to lay hands on the girl gets dibs.” 

an icy drip went down your back.

low, raucous laughter and hoots ensued, and you heard more shuffling and the snorts of horses and the stamping of hooves that slowly faded into silence again. only the leaves rustling in the wind and pitched bird calls filled the cabin.

your heart was still beating out of your chest. 

Turner said the first man to lay hands on the girl gets dibs.

that shook you to your core. you wanted to run after them, to beg them to bring you back to your parents without harm, maybe bribing them with an extra sum your daddy could give them, but you knew it was futile.

you weren’t ever going back home, and you sure as hell weren’t letting Turner’s men lay their hands on you.

heaving yourself out from under the bed, you looked up at the darkening sky. a gray film was growing over it, blanketing the sun from view. a boom of thunder roiled in the distance.

you needed to move fast, somehow, to warn Ghost about Turner’s men coming for him in town. you cursed yourself for writing those letters in the first place—now, Ghost could be in danger because of you.

not that you cared much. but that devil was the closest thing to protection right now against your parents and Turner. except maybe yourself.

you picked up the knapsack that was thrown haphazardly on the floor and pulled out all your extra clothing and baggage. with only a canteen of water, and the leftover food from the pantry, the letter opener, and a box of matches, you trailed after the hoofprints left by Turner’s men, hurrying as the storm approached quickly overhead. 

you were dripping with sweat by the time you reached the edge of town. buckling over to clasp at your knees, you held your chest as you leaned against a tree.

you did it. you tracked those men through low brush and the deep, muddy hoofprints they left behind, some bushes snagged by charging through the forest at an alarming rate.

you did it. you only hoped that Turner’s men hadn’t found Ghost before you did.

the sky was still a murky gray—you had no idea what time it was, no idea if the sun had begun setting yet. you paled at the thought of Ghost riding back to find the cabin empty, your belongings strewn across the place, cabinets empty of supplies. you felt more sick at the thought of finding the devil in a dim alleyway, three bullets in his heart.

pushing forward, you entered the busy throng of the town, its twinkling lights and loud raucous contenting with the brewing storm overhead. men had holsters strung with guns, ammo slung over their torsos like a fancy sash.

some tipped their stetson to you as you walked the cobble streets, wiping the sweat and humidity from your brow. you ignored them to the best of your ability, shuffling along faster when a group of drunks meandered close to you.

sweetheart, they called, and you, in a dizzying panic, pushed into the nearest building, its doors swinging open to a rowdy, rowdy crowd of even more drunks. some smiled at your entrance, but most were too enthralled in their card games, betting, and bourbon to care. 

you took the moment to search the snaking crowd for a familiar red mask, but you found nothing. this didn’t feel much like Ghost’s scene anyway.

shoulders sinking, you were about to step back out onto the crowded streets, where a light drizzle was pooling, when a redhead with braids rushed passed you in a tizzy. 

she almost dumped a tray full of bourbons onto you. squeaking, she steadied herself against you, and apologized in a thick drawl.

“sorry, sweetheart! didn’t see you there—” she paused, narrowing her eyes at you. immediately, you reeled back.

you really wished you had a revolver slung in your holster in that moment, because you didn’t think to realize that anybody could be one of Turner’s men.

“you…” she cocked her head and you stiffened. “you’re the new hire, aren't ‘cha!”

you blinked in shock, voice cracking. “what?”

“glad you showed up early.” she gave you an approving nod and nudged you with her shoulder. “extra trays of bourbon are in the back. you wouldn’t mind passing them out would you?”

“i-” she was gone in a flash, disappearing into the messy crowd.

you should’ve left at that moment, taking the opportunity to disappear yourself, but instead, you thought this an opportunity to get close and personal with each customer. perhaps Ghost took off his mask for business—you knew you could recognize him by his expensive black suit and the stature he carried. the low timber of his voice, and the dark swirl in his eyes.

shivering, a drift came through and you rubbed at your bare neck. you quickly moved to man the bar. an easiness settled over you at the familiarity of it, grabbing bottles of bourbon and whiskey, pouring them neatly into bar glasses on black trays. you teetered from person to person, tray balanced in your palm as you peered into the face of each man, and even woman, hunkered down at a table to get a glimpse of their profile. 

tray after empty tray, you couldn’t find the man you were looking for, no matter how many more entered. soon enough, you bumped into the redhead with braids again and she gave you a cocksure smile.

“sure you’re a new hire?” she laughed loud, cheeks red, slapping at your back. “why don’t you go help across the way at our quieter location? you know where business—” she winked, “—gets done.”

you just nodded aimlessly, too overwhelmed to question it, and she beamed. “don’t worry. it’s more beginner friendly.”

you exited the saloon with the point of her hand to a quainter location on the other side of the street. a thick rain was coming down now. rushing into the parallel saloon, it was half as loud as the other, which your ears thanked, and a thick smoke hazed the room. groups of men donned in fancy suits sat at tables strewn across the room, discussing in low voices with fat cigars between their lips.

your eyes swiveled around the room, craning your neck to peer into the furthest corner of the saloon, but still, no red mask. deflating, you jolted when a barmaid gripped at your shoulder.

“new hire?” she looked disgruntled, eyes narrowing in judgment. you took note of her attire, eerily similar to your own, with a fine cotton blouse and buckskin skirt. now, you understood who the redhead may have confused you for: a fancy barmaid for the gentleman’s club across the way.

she appeared frustrated at your lackluster response. “can you sing?”

you balked at that but said yes nonetheless. your mother had taught you, much to your chagrin. 

she nodded. “good. men were asking for a performance. i know it’s your first night, but could you give them a bone to chew on?”

“i guess so,” you spluttered, and she barely batted an eye, already pushing you to the raised platform by the bar. a man already sat with a guitar, peering at you expectantly when you stepped onto the platform. 

turning to face the audience, you felt the blood drain from your cheeks. you hadn’t sung in front of an audience this big since your school’s talent show. clearing your throat, you flashed the crowd your prettiest smile, and clasped your hands in front of you politely. the establishment quieted, save for a few low whistles, and you began to sing along for a softer rendition of the fast-paced song to the slow strum of the guitarist.

my love is a rider, wild bronchos he breaks,

though he’s promised to quit it, just for my sake.

he ties up one foot, the saddle puts on,

with a swing and a jump he is mounted and gone.

it was the only song you could remember in the moment—one the girls and you would sing wildly in the evenings after church over loud laughter and iced tea. 

my love has a gun, and that gun he can use,

but he’s quit his gun fighting as well as his booze;

and he’s sold him his saddle, his spurs, and his rope,

and there’s no more cow punching, and that’s what I hope.

your eyes searched the crowd and you held back a gasp when you met eyes with a familiar red mask. he stood near the back of the club, bracing his forearm against a wooden beam. swallowing hard, you continued.

my love has a gun that has gone to the bad,

which makes poor old Jimmy feel pretty damn sad;

for the gun it shoots high and the gun it shoots low,

and it wobbles about like a bucking broncho.

his eyes pierced you, and you couldn’t suppress the slithering shiver that crawled down your spine. you wished he was closer—right at the edge of the platform so you could look down into his brown eyes, and maybe, try to discern what he was thinking under that blood red mask.

now all you young maidens, where’er you reside,

beware of the cowboy who swings the raw-hide;

he’ll court you and pet you and leave you and go

in the spring up the trail on his bucking broncho.

the room clapped and hollered when you finished, and you couldn’t suppress the smile that stretched your cheeks as you curtsied clumsily, gaze on Ghost. he tipped his hat to you, and a loud laugh clambered into your throat. it morphed into a blood curdling scream when a revolver fired and Ghost crumpled to the floor.

the club scrambled in a panic with loud wails, the assailant disappearing into the throng as you clawed your way to the man. he was clutching at his stomach, half-fallen against the wooden beam.

“Ghost!” 

a strangled noise strained against your throat. falling to your knees beside him, you pulled away his hand from his stomach, and you paled at the sight of the dark red coating his glove, sleeve, suit. it pooled underneath him.

quickly, you grabbed his bloodied arm and pulled it around your shoulder. there was no way you could heft his weight but you were going to try anyway.

“c’mon,” you coaxed impatiently, as he scrambled up the side of the wooden pole, trying to support his weight. a string of curses left his lips.

“you’ve got a pretty voice,” he rasped, and you almost wanted to drop his weight entirely.

“not important,” you groaned, taking slow steps out the saloon with his body strung over yours. with every step, you grimaced with effort, huffing heavily.

there was an even greater panic in the streets than in the club—a heavy, pouring onslaught coming down like a beating drum. across the way, the other saloon was being ripped apart by several men, upturning tables and firing their guns at the ceiling to clear out the place. Turner’s men.

you pulled Ghost in the opposite direction, appreciative of his black attire in the dark night, the debilitating rain, and the ensuing chaos. you tipped his hat further over that tell-tale mask. he grumbled something by your ear.

“what?” you shouted over the mix of shouts and rush of rain, stumbling when a man hurrying past clipped your shoulder.

his voice lifted. “don’t need your help.”

you rolled your eyes, head on a swivel. lodged between two buildings was an alleyway. a throng of Turner’s men overturned more establishments ahead. you made a beeline for the cramped space.

 “you’ll die.”

he huffed when you pressed him against the wall, clutching at the blood seeping from his stomach.

“no i won’t.”

you shot him a glare.

“ghosts can’t die,” he said, sounding high and delirious. he slid further down the wall, a pitched laugh escaping him.

now you knew he was really at his last wits. you racked your brain for answers. you didn’t know medical knowledge, you didn’t see an infirmary on the way here, and even if you did, you wouldn’t put it past them to turn you over to Turner’s men in an instant.

you almost screamed in frustration, tearing off the sleeve of your blouse to wrap around his middle. your hands fumbled clumsily, and Ghost must’ve at least come back to half his senses because he pushed your hands away and expertly knotted the thing despite his thick gloves. his head slumped forward into your shoulder, as if the action was so taxing, breath growing shallow against your exposed collarbone.

you slapped at the side of his face.

“do you know anyone who can get help?” you probed, unable to conceal the desperation in your voice, “anyone at all?”

he sounded smug. “people can’t help ghosts.”

you groaned, pushing his head back against the wall. he peered at you lazily, eyes half-lidded.

“if you don’t tell me something, i will rip that mask clean off your face.” that must’ve stirred something in him because his eyes flashed.

“i did not track Turner’s men for miles to find you just for you to die.” you pressed on. “they found the cabin and these stupid journal entries where i wrote that you were in the town. they didn’t know i was there and went after you. i had to warn you so i tracked them and—” he hissed when you pressed your fingers into his wound to make sure he was still conscious. “—this happened.

he huffed. “stupid girl.”

you could only nod pitifully, before squeaking in surprise when Ghost used your shoulders and the wall as leverage to lift himself.

“take me down this alleyway, then turn left.”

you immediately obeyed and half-dragged him in the direction of his rasped instructions, ending up in front of the back door of a leather crafts store. the streets were slowly emptying by the minute and every second outside in the line of gunfire felt a gaping vulnerability on your back, so you didn’t question his command to open the back door unannounced.

you also weren’t surprised to see the long snout of a rifle stuck in your face the second the door swung open. a woman in a checkered blouse and loose breeches squared her shoulders and jabbed the gun forward so it almost hit your chin where rain coalesced in a steam, falling to your boots.

“who in the devil are you?” she spat, low and deadly. she carefully eyed the man slumping against you.

a strangled warble left Ghost’s mouth, and he lifted a hand to toss off his hat. the mask must’ve been a point of recognition for her because she gasped and lurched forward, hefting up the other side of his body.

“what the hell are you doin’ here, Ghost?” she demanded, helping you carry him behind the counter of the store into the back room. she pushed off all the strewn materials at the table in the center of the room with one strong sweep, and you laid back Ghost on the surface, his eyes closed.

muffling a cry, you pressed your fingers to the pulse point in his neck. to your relief, it was throbbing, albeit weakly.

“business,” was all he mumbled in response and the woman shooed you from his side with an impatient wave of her hand.

you stepped back to the edge of the room, feeling your senses clouded with panic. you looked down to the blood covering your hands. out the window, there was more shouting, gunshots, and a building far down the street went up in flames. your breath hitched till suddenly you couldn’t breathe anymore. clawing at your throat, you slid down the wall, fighting the strain in your chest that seemed to close your airway.

you watched the woman cut through his vest and make quick work on the bullet wound, pliers in hand.

“you.”

she might’ve been shouting at you but it barely registered in your mind.

“get your useless behind off the ground and help me for god’s sake!” 

you just stared at her and she groaned in frustration. “some girl you have here, Ghost,” she grumbled and the weak grunt that left him brought you back to life.

you stood, steeling yourself, wiping the blood against your front. you felt calm. dangerously calm as you neared Ghost’s side. his eyes were screwed shut and you resisted gagging at the sight of her pliers fishing through his gaping wound for a bullet.

“what do you need?” your voice was weak and quiet. it didn’t even sound like your own. she shot you an impatient look.

“water. from the tap over there. and a needle and thread in that cabinet.”

you moved like you were floating off the ground, light and airy. like you weren’t really there, but you found your hands filling a bowl with water at the kitchen sink and grabbing a case of needles and a spool of black thread from a cabinet overhead.

by her side again, she unclasped the red mask from Ghost’s face and you stared unflinchingly with a hitch of breath. before pulling it from his face, she cocked her head at you.

“look away,” she snarled and you just nodded, stepping back from the table till you couldn’t see Ghost’s profile anymore. couldn’t even see the slow swell of his chest to let you know he was still alive.

you had to escape the room. you walked back out into the main storeroom and grated your hands through your hair, pacing. you picked up the rifle left on the glass casing over a showcase of different leather crafts, cocking it, just in case Turner’s men came barreling through the door.

when you put back down the rifle, you gasped at the sticky, bloody imprint it left on the handle. looking into a mirror by the entrance of the store, you shuddered at your image.

blood crusted your arms, like you had dipped your arms into a vat of it, and red fingerprints littered your throat and tinged your frayed hair. the front of your half-torn blouse was smeared in it too.

your hands shook uncontrollably, so you picked up the rifle’s heaviness again to still you, and sat, leaning against the glass showcase, muzzle aimed at the front door. you sat there for a long time, breath shallow and grating, till the shouts and gunshots outside subsided, and the billiard parlor down the street crumbled under the weight of flames.

you awoke for a second time with a start, the woman’s hand shaking your shoulder lightly. you rolled your shoulders, neck impossibly stiff from your weird sleeping position on the floor. it was no longer dark outside, the lightest tones of pink and blood-soaked orange rising with dawn.

had you really only been napping in Ghost’s cabin half a day prior?

the woman sat beside you, pushing a warm mug into your hand. she didn’t pull her rifle from you, which you were endlessly grateful for, because you just hugged it closer to your chest, its cold metal and cured wood easing your nerves.

“tea.” she nodded to the steaming cup.

“is Ghost okay?” your voice cracked from disuse and she gave you a weak look.

“for now.”

you just nodded, taking a sip of the stuff and wincing when it burned your tongue. chamomile. Mama used to make it too.

the woman cleared her throat, drawing up her blonde hair into a messy bun. “sorry about the shouting. i’m not used to foreign company.”

you shrugged, itching at the dried blood on your neck as you took another sip of tea. 

“i’m Kate.” she held out a hand to you. “Kate Laswell.”

you shook her hand slowly, grateful she didn’t cringe away from the blood staining your own. you gave her your name in return and her brow raised.

“Ghost’s girl, huh?”

you felt too tired to be confused. “i guess so.”

“well i just know the boys would love to meet ‘ya.”

you allowed yourself a sliver of confusion. “the boys?”

“‘course,” she said with a smile, “one-four-one.”

you almost dropped the mug in your hand. “one-four-one?” you repeated weakly and she gave you a cheery nod.

you’d heard of them before. you heard too much about them before. she rubbed your shoulder comfortingly.

“they should be here any minute now.”

great. you were soaked with blood, clothes and hair tattered with sweat. as if she read your thoughts, Kate stood and outstretched a hand to you, pointing to the back room.

“i’ve got a tub filled in the back for you. and some extra clothes.”

you took her outstretched hand gratefully, allowing her to pull you up and lead you through the storage space where Ghost lay stretched out, half-naked, and maskless. you noticed her rush to flank your side and obscure the view of his bare, sleeping face from you. deciding not to fight it, the gentle hand on your back led you down a narrow hallway to an even narrower bathroom with a tub about as big as a barrel.

you didn’t mind it after the events of the night, Kate politely closing the door behind you, as you stripped yourself bare and scrubbed the blood away in the tub. slowly, you settled in its lukewarm water in a ball and rocked there, choking back sobs in the privacy of the tight room.

once all your tears were wrung dry, you emerged from the tub, drying yourself and your hair before redressing in your corset, drawers, chemise, and a linen bell sleeve blouse Kate lent you. tucking them into your unruined item—the fringed buckskin split skirt—you pulled your boots on and smoothed the lines of your face in the mirror. like your mama taught you.

when you opened the door of the bathroom, low murmurs and new voices floated down the narrow hall. 

“she isn’t supposed to be here, cap’.”

a low husky voice grunted back, “i know that.”

a third man with an even stranger accent than the first two chimed in loudly, “she risked ‘er life for Ghost! Simon said she tracked ‘em for two and a half miles just to warn him about the Turner boys.”

you assumed it was Kate shushing him.

the low, husky voice returned. “it’s not up to us, Soap. she’s Ghost’s now.”

you crept slowly up the hallway, searching for Ghost’s body stretched out on the table, but he wasn’t there. in his place were three men, leaning against the table, deep in conversation with Kate.

you stopped short in the entrance till one of the men, a stout one, thickly corded with muscle, and an unusual looking hairstyle—like the ones you saw in the school books about iroquois from the east—beamed at you.

he shushed a bronze-skinned man at his shoulder, who turned his gaze to you. the third bearded man with thick chops and broad shoulders fell silent, as did Kate, and suddenly, the whole room’s attention was trained on you.

you slowly walked into the room, discomforted by the thick silence. you resisted fumbling at your skirt nervously. the man with a mohawk let out a low whistle and the bearded man swatted at his face while the youngest man stepped forward to politely offer his hand, taking off his hat to press to his chest. 

his face was pinched with a stoic look. “i’m Kyle Garrick. pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

your lips parted in surprise when he touched his lips to the back of your extended hand, and you politely curtsied in response, a blush touching your cheeks. 

the man with a mohawk stepped in behind him to give you a smug look.

“i’m Soap,” was all he offered. he clapped Kyle on the shoulder. “and this is Gaz. no one calls him Kyle.”

Kyle rolled his eyes in retaliation and released your hand, looking apologetic. you couldn’t help but softly smile as they began to quarrel and the bearded man reached out his hand this time to shake it firmly.

“John Price,” he said with a nod, voice husky. he jerked his head in Soap’s direction. “that’s Johnny Mactavish.” 

you murmured a quiet thank you as Kate comfortingly patted your back. 

“so this is one-four-one?” you mumbled aloud with raised brows. Soap and Gaz stopped mid-quarrel to peer at you. John shrugged.

“more or less.”

manners be damned, you fidgeted with your skirt. one-four-one was a legendary gunslinger group—on the run from the scarce law of the west, gambling, bounty hunting, and dueling for riches. you had no idea Ghost had friendly ties with them.

“where’s Ghost?”

John smirked at you, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “out.”

nodding, you felt an anxiety roll through you. out could mean anything with Ghost, you learned in your short time with him.

where are you, Ghost? a meek voice in you called out. smoothing a hand over your chest, you steadied yourself as Kate offered you a small plate of breakfast. a piece of cornbread on the side of a bowl of chili that you kept down easily, despite the nervous gurgling of your stomach.

“Turner’s men,” you began softly to Kate, putting down the empty plate, but you still drew in the attention of the other three men, “they’re gone?”

she nodded sullenly, and Soap added, “not without a fight. upturned half the town with them…” his eyes went dark, voice tinged with something violent. “...and left a couple dozen dead bodies.”

John knuckled his shoulder gently. “we’ll get ‘em back, Soap.” he said it like it should be comforting, but there was a deadliness in it that made you shudder.

Soap winked at you. “aye. we’ll kill all those Turner boys if we have to. we already took down half of ‘em yesterday.”

undoubtedly, you knew it was a promise. Kate said quietly, “neighbors said they gunned down a couple of ‘em before they fled town.”

your brows rose. “there were others fighting?”

Kyle shrugged. “it’s the west, ma’am. people’re itchin’ to break the law.”

you thought back to the assailant last night—how he high-tailed it after popping a shot.

“so the man who shot Ghost last night?”

Kyle shrugged again. “probably a drunk lookin’ for trouble. happens all the time in these parts.”

you tried to hide the look of horror curling into your face, something akin to disgust, but Soap, ever-observant, took amusement in it immediately.

“that scare ye, princess?” he leaned against the table, closer to your face, and your frown deepened.

“don’t call me that.” it sounded wrong coming from him.

John grabbed the scruff of his neck and Soap twisted, complaining loudly in his hold. “knock it off, would you? poor girl’s had a rough night.”

you gave John a grateful look. still, you were relieved to know Ghost was only shot by a drunk rather than found and almost killed by one of Turner’s boys. you assumed you got real lucky last night. or maybe unlucky since the drunk’s poor shot happened to pick out Ghost of all people at the club.

“what was Ghost doing in the town last night?” you piqued, and Soap went quiet. the whole room did. sheepish, you watched their gazes slide across the room, avoiding your own.

Soap shot out, “do we tell her?”

Kate hissed in response, scolding him with a tight grip on his ear, and Kyle smacked at the back of his head. you assumed Soap just let a vital piece of information slip from the way John’s mouth twisted.

“tell me what?” you pressed and Kate shooed you out the room, taking your arm in hers.

“help me out with somethin’ else, girlie, and i’ll answer half the questions you ask.”

half the questions, you ruminated with a bitter taste in your mouth. she led you out the door of the leather crafts shop before a word of protest could leave your mouth, and into the bright mid-morning light. shops littered down the street had owners stationed out in front, sweeping up debris, shattered glass, and shoving trash into sacks. Kate tipped her stetson to each one as you passed, and they would nod back in a way that forebode something ominous.

“these are the neighbors,” Kate explained in a low, smart tone. “and this is our town.”

you remembered what Ghost said to your daddy over dinner two nights ago. 

i protected you. this was my territory. i had men in your town and i made sure no bandits came near your saloons and i made sure none left alive. then, you went to work with Turner instead.

“and you protect them for a price?” you asked. 

she smiled lightly. “a small one.”

your daddy must’ve had an unlucky price to pay if his daughter was the bargaining chip.

“is this the only town you protect?” 

Kate laughed at that, patting your hand on her arm gently. “heavens, no. Ghost’s got all kinds of investments from the west to east. he isn’t home much lately because of it.”

your brows raised. “that’s a lot of land to cover.”

“we’ve got a lot of friends from down south to help.”

you cocked your head at her as you turned the corner, making your way past the saloon from last night. the redhead with braids was mopping up the floor of the torn-up saloon, and when you caught her eye, her gaze sliding from you to the woman beside you, she paled.

“friends?”

Kate winked at you. “mexicans. a blessing from the spanish-american war.” when you just blinked at her, she elaborated.

“the boys enlisted in the british regiment to fight the spanish alongside patriots and texan mexicans. i played dress-up as a man to fight in the war.”

your brows raised and she gave you a sly look. “even had a female companion to play the part.”

she continued on. “when the war ended, one-four-one just never left—made friends with lots of boys down in texas. now, they do all sorts of work with us.”

“who?”

“los vaqueros.” the cowboys. you had heard of them too.

you should’ve been scared, connecting the dots, the blood-ties and relationships fused on the battlefield that didn’t break even ten years after the war. these people were dangerous. but in a way, you contemplated, your daddy was too. working with one-four-one, protected by los vaqueros, and bargaining with an enemy, Turner. 

and you didn’t even know it.

you wondered if your mama did. thinking of the hardness in her face, and the back-breaking rigidness of her lifestyle, you assumed she carried that weight too.

Kate peered at the edge of your face, catching your eye. “you gonna run away yet?”

you gave her a long look, answering her as truthfully as you could. “no.”

she nodded. “good. because if you do, we may just have to kill you.”

eerily, you were reminded of Ghost two nights ago in the cabin, his arms crossed over his chest and half-asleep despite your attempt to kill him.

good. there’s a lot more dangerous things in the desert than coyotes, princess.

“you sound like Ghost,” you remarked with a grimace, and the long laugh that left Kate was airy and full of menace.

apparently helping out Kate meant running errands, restocking on preserves, fresh foods, and medical supplies. she kindly let you pick out your own stetson hat—a gus style, with three sloping dimples, cream-colored, and a leather brown cord tied round the base in a fashionable bow. your mama would’ve had your head for wearing something so manly, but turning it in your hands, the smooth velvet soft against your palms, your heart swelled at the thought of it being your own.

you would’ve paid for it if you didn’t carelessly lose your knapsack in the chaos last night, tending saloons and singing for drunkards. sighing at the cash register, you deeply lamented its loss and tugged the snug hat onto your head.

one-four-one wasn’t there when you returned to the leather crafts shop. Kate had given you a soft smile, saying they were out on business again. you had a sneaking suspicion that business meant shoot outs over encroached territory and fixing worsening investments.

as you prepared for dinner, it was uncanny to think that you were laying food out over the table where Ghost almost bled out the night before.

sure enough, just before the red crinkles of sunset, one-four-one meandered into the room for dinner, hats left by the hook at the door. you waited expectantly for a tall, broad, black suit and red mask to enter the room, but only deflated with disappointment. Soap shot you a knowing look that you pointedly ignored as the table joined hands to murmur a quick grace before digging in.

you could barely touch the food on your plate. any method you used to get under the boy’s skin about what business meant was quickly parried in clever ways that frustrated you more than your conversations with Kate. it was especially frustrating because you were beginning to think that business may circle around topics about you. 

you couldn’t weasel any more information out of them except that John, Gaz, and Soap had rode north to a nearby town they had business in. 

you were beginning to hate that word, you thought decidedly, trudging down the narrow hall to a spare bedroom Kate provided to you for the night. one-four-one would descend into the cool basement space with the preserves to their own quarters. you wanted to follow them, to peek down and see what was in there, but Kate was hot on your trail, and you knew they were probably hiding something else about business down there. especially since Kate would be sleeping down there as well.

that left you on the upper floor—which you contemplated with a frown because running away now would be easier than ever. except for the fact that you didn’t have a horse, gun, money, your knapsack, or anything at all in fact. unless you could scrounge around the kitchen a bit.

creeping from your designated room down the hall, you bit back any morsel of regret bleeding into your mouth as you entered the back room. one-four-one had shown you kindness, but technically, they had also kidnapped you and were forcing you to stay in their home. albeit, on your terms, according to Ghost. but you didn’t value the word of a kidnapper very much. even if, in the moment of your capture, you had wanted to leave home and never return again.

 oh—and you were being used as a hostage in a business transaction.

that thought spurred you forward blindly, and you rummaged around the kitchen as quietly as you possibly could, pocketing matches, a box of ammo, and a small bunch of rope beneath the kitchen sink. sliding the knife drawer open, you inspected each one carefully, watching the blade glint in the moonlight, before picking up a small one you hoped would go missing without notice.

“stealing my things again?”

you jumped out of your skin with a shriek, and mindlessly turned to the source of sound, brandishing your knife at the intruding form shrouded in shadow. he caught your wrist easily, stepping forward to press you back against the kitchen counter and your heart dropped to your stomach.

dark eyes and a red mask. his hat was off and the black fabric beneath his mask was pulled up enough so you could see his jaw, the soft pink of his mouth and the silvery scar on his upper lip.

“Ghost?” you whispered out, dropping the knife. it clattered to the floor and he tilted his head almost curiously.

for a long moment you just stared in silence, his knee firm between your thighs and broad stature lingering over you, gloved hand tight on your wrist. you searched his eyes, reaching up a hand to brush at his jaw, but he immediately stepped out of your proximity.

“brought you something.” he nodded outside and you looked out the kitchen window to see your dappled gray mare, Sugar, tied to the fence post at the front of the leather crafts store by his black stallion. breath hitching, you pressed your hand to the glass.

“thank you,” you whispered, looking back at him. wordlessly, he turned from you to peel off his black trench coat. 

when you noticed him wince, you immediately moved forward to help him out of his coat, laying it out over the table. mumbling a word of gratitude, he sat gingerly in a seat and leaned down to undo his boots. watching him struggle from the tenderness of his wound, you sighed, pushing his hands away to neatly kneel in front of him and smooth over your skirt. then, you carefully helped him pull them off.

“don’t need your help,” he grumbled from above, and you suppressed a smirk. you almost missed his grumpy remarks.

“that so?”

putting down his second boot by his feet, you looked up at him, heart jumping to your throat from the half-lidded look behind his mask. the gloved hand that rested on his thigh by your cheek twitched. you remembered its appearance yesterday—soaked in blood. his blood.

closing your eyes, you nuzzled your cheek into the hand, his palm cupping your face gently before moving down to stroke at your braid. he let out a low throaty sound when you looked up at him from where you kneeled, cheek pressed against his thigh, the fine worsted wool of his dress pants velvet on your skin.

“do you know what you do to a man?” he asked, voice soft. you only hummed back in sing-song question, eyes half-lidded, content where you leaned against the strength of his thigh.

“i searched half the plain for your horse. she got lost in the fray when i got shot.” his hand moved from your braid to your throat, stroking in time with the lulling pulse of your heart, leather cool on your hot skin.

“found her back at the cabin, sniffing around for you. the place was totally upturned, and all the food in my cabinets was gone.” he snickered lightly. “you thief.”

you smiled at that, gripping his wrist weakly.

“i like it when you talk,” you admitted, mesmerized by the slow way his soft lips shaped deep, grating words in that thick foreign accent.

you watched the bob of his bare throat swallow with a hunger pooling in your stomach.

“you should be afraid of me,” he whispered, gently pressing his thumb to your lower lip, “you were afraid of me.”

you couldn’t remember a time when you were afraid of Ghost—only a nervous anticipation crawling across your skin at his proximity. maybe you were never afraid in the first place. maybe you told yourself that you were afraid of him, out of your own unease, when the fear was something that you actually craved.

“i am afraid,” you said. his grip on your chin tightened. “but not of you.”

“who then?” he demanded, voice silky.

“Turner. his men.” an invulnerable shiver went through you. “they said the first man to lay hands on me gets dibs.”

you felt his thigh stiffen beneath you. “i won't let them touch you.”

you swallowed thickly, peering up at him. a dark, sinister voice inside you purred out. 

i want you to touch me.

he cocked his head at you, asking a silent question.

i want only you to touch me.

he voiced it. “what do you want?” his hand moved to stroke at your cheek, your brow, your hair.

you never had the luxury of pondering the question. your path was always laid out before you by your mama and daddy. there was no choice. only lingering, bitter feelings of resentment as you fought yourself to believe that tending Daddy’s saloon and entertaining businessmen was the life you wanted.

“i dont know.”

“tell me.”

your face heated with shame. “i want you.”

Ghost went very still. you couldn’t even hear his breaths in the darkness. “you’re sure?”

you nodded against his thigh. “mhmm. want you.”

“i’m the devil,” he murmured, sounding sullen, but you just shook your head.

“you’re Simon,” you corrected, and he flinched beneath you.

letting out a low curse, you didn’t even fight it when he scooped you up in his arms, and pressed you back against the kitchen counters, mask pressed to your hair, warm body against yours. your hand trailed up to press gently at the bullet wound buried beneath his black vest and button up. his hissed at the pressure but didn’t stop you as you moved to unbutton his vest.

“i want to see,” you explained softly, unfastening the thing completely. he tossed the vest onto the table, his holster following it, as you began unbuttoning his dress shirt, splaying out a hand over his warm chest. 

he was littered with scars—big and small, and you desperately tried to memorize the placement of each one as you revealed more of his pale skin, inch by inch, till his shirt hung loose at his waist. your eyes swept over the naked expanse of his toned torso and the white bandage soaked through with blood that clutched at the right side of his stomach.

slowly, you unwrapped it till the old dressings fell from his skin and a long line of puckered pink skin punctured through with a dark thread was revealed. you steadied your breath, brushing a hand over it. Ghost shifted overhead, leaning his weight onto the counter behind you.

“does it hurt?”

you couldn’t see his face, but his voice was wrung through in your ear. “no.”

the corner of your mouth twitched. “didn’t take you for a liar, Ghost.”

he just grunted in response. you smoothed your hands over the warmth of his torso.

“let me take care of you?” you offered, and his breath went shallow. you didn’t even know how to take care of someone. you had no idea what you were doing. but you offered anyway.

you could feel him smile into your hair, nose pressed to your ear. “always so polite, princess.”

you felt him tug your hair loose of its braid, and you took in a sharp breath as it fell in waves around your shoulders. he pulled off his gloves quickly, taking a handful of it, pressing the softness of your hair to his cheek. you shuddered.

“you won’t do a thing tonight, lovely,” he commanded lowly, and you nodded, hands clutching at his chest as he circled his strong arms around you. forehead pressed to yours, you looked up through his mask to find his rich brown eyes on you. his warm breath hit your lips.

he tilted his head in a gesture down the hall. “want you on that bed now.”

you complied immediately, taking him in your hand, going down the hall with one of his hands burning straight through the fabric at where he tightly gripped at your hip. crowding you into the room, and the door sealed tight behind you, he turned you by your hips, and gently pulled back your hair to expose your neck to him. you gasped when the soft wetness of his mouth kissed over it gently, his arm curling around you to pull you flush together.

a steady heat pooled in your stomach, and you squirmed in his hold.

“Ghost…” you begged, not even knowing what you were begging for. he hummed against your skin, undoing the clasp of your holster, then your skirt. you felt embarrassed by your clunky attire, kicking off your boots, hiding your face into his bare chest as he slid the article off your legs.

“don’t hide,” he warned in a light tone, expertly taking apart the back of your blouse to leave you only in your undergarments. the look behind his mask was dark and domineering, leaving you shaking in his hold. he smoothed a bare hand over your shoulder and arm, lifting the inside of your wrist to press a kiss there, before he was kissing up your arm in a hot trail. 

when he reached your jaw, a foreign and breathy noise left your throat. his eyes snapped back up to yours, pausing his ministrations as you blushed deeply. you didn’t know what those sounds meant—only that they left you feeling utterly sinful for being so exposed to an older man, unmarried, and so innocent.

you swallowed when Ghost’s hands went to the back of your corset, undoing its clasps blindly as he pressed more kisses to your neck, your cheek, and the corner of your lips. you squeaked, screwing your eyes shut and found yourself disappointed when he paused again.

panting, your brows pinched in confusion. Ghost was leaning a bit back now, looking down at you with an imperceptible expression.

“what? why’d you stop?” you whispered, scared to break the moment, but he unabashedly cut through the quiet of the room. “How much do you know about going to bed with someone?” 

you squeaked again, stupidly looking around the room as if your mama may have been hiding in the wardrobe. the look on Ghost’s face twisted into pure amusement, much to your chagrin, and you cursed yourself for the complete absence of confidence in you—like it had all run dry with your cheek pressed to his thigh under the dinner table.

“i know…” you fumbled for a word, “...a lot. so much.” 

Ghost huffed, taking one of your hands pressed to your chest and sliding it down, past his belt, to the front of his pants. you yelped when he closed your hand around something hard, something throbbing.

“you know what this is then?”

you nodded dumbly.

“really?” you had no idea.

you nodded again, and he laughed lowly, cupping a hand around the back of your neck to kiss your cheek softly, his cool mask brushing your skin.

he unclasped the top of your corset, and you jolted when pulled it slowly from your torso. the cold air of the room bit at your skin and you wrapped your arms over your chest. grumbling in disapproval, he let the thing clatter to the floor and untangled your arms from your chest, pushing you back onto the bed.

“don’t worry, lovely,” he slew sloppy, wet kisses over your breast and stomach, lightly nipping at the chub there, and a loud sound flew from your mouth from the ministration, your back arching in response. “i can teach you everything.”

a large palm slid over your stomach, keeping you pinned there with a dark look, black eyes pitched in a silver from the moonlight. “would you like that, lovely?”

you nodded wildly, clutching at his hand splayed over your tummy. 

“please, Simon,” you called softly, and a guttural sound left the back of his throat as he hooked a thumb beneath the waist of your lacey drawers and pulled them down, letting them pool around your knees for a moment as he leaned down over you to placing a comforting kiss to your shoulder.

then, you were bare, splayed out in the moonlight beneath his muscled stature. you squirmed in his hold, pressing your thighs together around his arm, but he pried them apart easily, baring your most sensitive parts to him. your whole body flushed when his eyes honed in on the throbbing between your legs, humming deeply. you yelped as he greedily tugged you to the edge of the bed, gingerly settling on his knees on the floor in front of you.

“your wound—” you cried out in surprise, but you were cut short when he buried his nose between your legs and breathed in deeply.

“Simon,” you called, voice breathy and panting, like you’d just run a far distance, and your hips jolting up against your will. there was a strange deep coiling in your stomach—a growing ache you felt like you needed to relieve with a crazy thirst.

he wrapped two strong arms round your thighs to pin your squirming hips down, nosing around the soft folds and plushness of your inner thighs. 

“patience,” he said, voice soft, and you keened, unsure what to do with your hands clenching and fumbling around the sheets. catching your wrists, he pinned them down to the bed along with your thighs. 

you felt the strange primal need to beg—to plead for his forgiveness, your whole body alight from the way he held your body in a bind, baring yourself to him.

“please,” you whimpered, unsatisfied with the way he continued to kiss and bite at your thighs, licking over them and periodically sucking the skin into his mouth. you canted your hips up, moaning when you found a delicious bout of friction against his turned jaw.

with a grunt of disapproval, he pinned you roughly back down to the bed.

“greedy are we, pretty thing?”

biting your lip, you didn’t feel an ounce of shame as you nodded. you needed that friction again. you didn’t know why, but you felt like you needed to grind against something desperately, just to relieve that sore aching inside you.

humming, Ghost lowered his mouth between your legs, eyes on yours as he gently blew cold air over the throbbing heat of you. you whined at that, hips trying to buck up, but he was just too strong.

“hurts,” you admitted in a whimper, and his eyes darkened.

“what hurts?”

you squirmed, whimpering helplessly, face flushing. “there.”

“where?” he asked, his lips twisted in a smug way.

you threw your head back, chest pushing up into the air with a frustrated whine.

“here?” he offered, his tongue coming out to lap over the throbbing thing between your legs. at that you gasped with a jolt, chasing his tongue. “this pretty little cunt aching?”

“yes,” you gasped, his tongue coming down to caress your core again and again, till it was lapping at it, almost playing with it.

the feeling was intense, nothing like you’d ever felt before. it bloomed like a fire in your throat, quenching the intense ache in your stomach, but every time he pulled away, the ache only grew stronger and stronger, like you needed to chase the pleasure with even more pleasure.

it was torture. you didn’t know whether to push him away or pull him closer.

the sight of him between your legs was so sinful, so wrong for a man to be lapping at you in such a forbidden place. but that intense feeling hung over everything in a foggy haze, blanketing any sense of foreboding shame that rang in the back of your brain.

there was only Ghost now—pinning your wrists and thighs to the bed, tongue rubbing strong circles into your fleshy pink skin.

when he pulled back, you almost cried out in frustration but he pinned you with a dark look of warning, releasing your wrists to bring a thumb to your cunt. he rubbed at in fast circles and a breathy moan escaped you, arching against the sheets.

he cooed. “so sensitive. you never touch yourself before, pretty thing?”

you choked out a reply. “no—it’s,” you gasped when his tongue came down to lap at your entrance, drawing teasing patterns over it, hooking inside then drawing out.

“sinful.” you finished with a drawl and he pushed his tongue inside, fucking you out of your wits with the wet muscle.

he hummed inside you, the tremors traveling all the way up to the place where he was rubbing with his thumb. you clutched at his hand, willing it to move faster, and he complied immediately. your body lost a fiber of control with every passing second. 

“you look like you’re enjoying it, though,” he spoke against you with a smug look. you barely heard him, a foreign sensation building in you so fast, the words of warning died in your throat.

“you like getting fucked out with my tongue? my thumb on your clit?”

“you like being my good little whore, pretty thing?”

“say my name, princess.”

his low, gruff words went straight to the blooming heat in your stomach, traveling straight to your cunt, and exploding out to your swollen clit as you chanted his name.

Simon, Simon, Simon.

every throbbing wave gripped you with an intensity, clenching around his tongue in delicious rolls of pleasure that had you squirming in the sheets, unable to keep still as he pulled you through a slew of ecstasy. 

Simon.

colors exploded behind your eyelids, jaw slack, you slowly laxed into the bed, melting as the sweet noises in your throat eventually subsided.

there was a lulling stillness in the room as your senses slowly came back to you, and you realized Ghost was speaking in a throaty, cracked murmur to you, voice raw and overused. 

“good girl,” he praised, and you looked up at him, leaning into his palm as he affectionately rubbed at your cheek, clambering over you to press a kiss to your ear, the tip of your nose.

his warm breath against your lips had you jolting to life, slapping a hand over his mouth with a gasp. he jolted against you and you scrambled up straighter, seized by what you had just done.

you, naked and bare on the bed, and he, shirt unbuttoned and jaw splashed with your slick. a question burned in the dark eyes behind his mask but you just made haste to cover your body with the sheets, scurrying out of his hold. 

he called your name out, voice dark and pinched. he reached for you, but you held up a hand.

“don’t,” you warned, gripped with such a burning shame that tears filled your eyes. you quickly wiped at them relentlessly, but more reappeared in their stead, and you drew the covers around your shoulders, unable to contain the shaking that wracked your body.

burying your face in your hands, thoughts convulsed wildly in your head. what have you done? what would your mama think? your daddy?

you whimpered. what would the lord think?

you shook so hard you barely noticed the black button up sleeve that Ghost wrapped around your shoulders, taking the sleeves to loosely tie them around your neck. he settled a fair distance from you, eyes full and glinting.

“alright, pretty girl?” he asked gingerly when your sobbing subsided.

you sniffled, voice strained and throaty. “no.”

you gave him a miserable look. “we’re not married.”

he tilted his head, mouth opening and closing. his hand clenched at the sheets then relaxed again.

“i don’t wanna be a whore,” you cried, feeling dumb as you wiped at the tears coming down your cheeks in an onslaught.

Ghost’s eyes narrowed. “is this because i called you a—”

“no!” you shouted immediately, then lowered your voice with a quick apology.

he slid to your side, flush against you and warm through the sheets. he pressed his mask to your hair.

“no one’ll think you’re a whore,” he mumbled, playing with your hair in his fingers, “you’re mine already.”

there was a deadpanned simplicity in his voice that made it easy to believe.

he took your tear-stained face in his hands. “besides, you’re too polite, princess. even in all that cowboy get-up.”

staring into his masked face, you nodded, chewing what he was feeding you slowly. he angled your face gently. when his lips made a slow descent to yours, you squeaked with a jolt and tried to scurry out of his hold, but he held fast, grunting with effort.

“what now?” he asked, exasperation flitting through his eyes, clenching at his jaw.

“i don’t kiss before a date—s’not proper!” you shot back with twice as much ire, and his eyes went wide before a huff of laughter escaped him.

“that so?”

you rolled your eyes. “yes.”

he hummed low, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “so proper, princess.”

you suppressed a laugh, trying to conceal your giggle with a frustrated huff, but Ghost didn’t fall for it as he drew you into arms, easily man-handling you into his desired position beneath the sheets before he slid into them behind you, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder.

you were pulled into a soft wall of warmth and bowing strength, curling around you in a sleepy hold. you couldn’t fight it even if you tried. he shifted against you, and you gasped when you felt something hard digging into the fleshy curve of your backside.

shooting a curious look over your shoulder, Ghost only offered you a lazy blink.

“don’t you worry your pretty little head about it,” he mumbled, drawing you in closer.

“but—”

“i don’t talk about those kinds of things before a date,” he said under his breath, and you could only laugh, relishing the way his lips curled into a smile against your hair.

an easy silence filtered into the room and you reached back behind you to grip at his shoulder, his neck, his skin. you took a deep breath. he was real. he was alive.

he slid his arms around your sides as a bind over your stomach, and you clutched weakly at the muscle of his arms smothering you.

“i thought you were going to die,” you ruminated softly, feeling a natural force pulling down on your eyelids.

“ghosts don’t die,” he reminded you, his lips against your neck. 

“devils don’t either,” you said, and he grunted in disapproval.

“you think i’m the devil, lovely?” his fingers stroked at your cheek. you leaned into his touch thoughtfully.

“maybe,” you answered in a truthful nod. “i don’t mind it though. i can make you good.”

his laugh was mirthless. “doubt you can, princess.”

you swallowed hard and closed your eyes. “you won’t ransom me back to my daddy, will you?”

you took his silence as a warning, an uneasy toil rolling through you. shifting in his arms, you turned to face him, the fabric of his mask pulled back down over his jaw, heavy gaze bearing down on you, half-lidded and sleepy. he just pulled you flush against his chest so you couldn’t see his masked face anymore, only the sounds of his deep, steady breaths in your ear that dragged you into a restless sleep.

p.s.: to any history buffs out there, i know that technically there was no actual british regiment in the spanish-american war but let's pretend that there was for the sake of plot holessss

...also imagining Gaz talk in a thick southern drawl was so funny to me he's so adorable

anyways hoped you enjoyed this long, self-indulgent chapter! more coming soon :]

[thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch]

a/n: 2.3k - boothill finds you digging around in junk and then offers you a gift he hopes you won't refuse... [plsdontflopplsdontflopplsdont-]

the heavy metal clinking of boothill's foot steps clank their way to your shop's door. an all too familiar door he'd always find himself going up to whenever he was in need of repair- big or small. the swiveling security camera you keep at your entrance blinks with red-lit life and moves to start following his movements as soon as he enters it's field of vision.

who knows if you're ever actually paying attention to the camera feed or not though. you can be careless like that. sometimes you're just out- couldn't be bothered or could care less about the remote feed linked directly to your phone. other times, you're so focused on some project you neglect it entirely.

based on the sign hanging on your shop's door he was familiar with- it seemed that this time in particular you were out.

boothill didn't need to know how to write- much less read well- to take a wild gander as to where you had wondered off to. putting his spring loaded and metal jointed hands on his slim waist, his chin dips with an amused chuckle and shake of his head. the cowboy lifts the toe of his mechanical boot and twists his body fully 'round; his spurs scrapping across the ground during his lazy about-face. with one foot in front of the other and thumbs hooked through the hollow crops of his trousers, the galaxy ranger makes his way towards the junk yard.

it would never occur to the standard person to spend their free time digging around a scrap yard filled with junk thrown out for a reason- but you were anything but standard. if you weren't tinkering around in your shop or finishing up a repair or commission, you were scrounging around the grounds for material or 'hidden treasure'... which was key for just slightly more valuable junk.

a typical haul for you would be a few pieces of scrap metal you could use for wielding, the rare unstripped screw or loose gaggle of bolts, and all sorts of wire. if it saved you a few credits by finding material instead of buying them, you weren't one to argue with free trash.

passing under the wire-metal gate leading into the fenced-off territory, his thumbs still tucked into his pant legs, his ears stay sharp. listening for any sound of you digging around in some heap while his head swivels back and forth to try and catch a glimpse of you.

"ey, sugar, you around!" boothill shouts, one of his hands detaching from his hips to cup around his mouth. he wanders further in, gets more ground, before calling out the same sentence a second time. shaking his head in bewilderment on how far in you had gone digging, he goes even further still and tries calling out a third time.

"here!" you finally answer back. your voice echoes around him, bouncing off the scrap metal and spooking the rats and other critters that call the junk yard home. his head turns in the direction of your voice, the way his body leans towards it before his feet start carrying him that way never took notice in his own mind.

eventually, he makes it to you. squat down to the ground, under the rusty remains of some poor saps long eroded escape pod from whatever solar system they crashed in from. he crosses his arms, then his ankles, leaning his metal shoulder on the ruined dome you were digging under.

the ranger had no idea how long you had been out here, but judging by the half full bag you kept on your shoulder and the grease sticking to your neck and exposed skin he could guess it's been a bit. he chuckles when you dig out a rusted, broken pipe of... something, before tossing it over your shoulder with a disappointed click of your tongue and looking up at him. your cheeks had some gunk on it too, probably from you wiping the back of your gloves on it.

"fancy diggin' around in junk?"

"it's not all junk."

"the fudge it aint," he scoffs. to him, it absolutely was all junk. "this aint called the dang junk yard for nothin, sugar."

"it's a scrap yard."

"stubborn-bottom." you move to stand up, clapping your gloved hands together before taking them off so you could use your hands more freely. "good to see ya took my advice and startin' wearing some forkin' gloves around here." he eyes around at all the rust and sharp metal. "gonna get tetanus or somethin', and we can't have that."

"im liable to get tetanus from you before anything else," you joke so straight-faced it didn't feel like a joke. his crossed arms drop along with his jaw and his stance straightens as he uncrosses his ankles.

"ey', i aint as forkin' filthy as you pretend i am, and you know it." you shrug with a half smirk that was so dismissive he was tempted to keep arguing. you push the goggles you were wearing over your eyes to avoid getting anything in them and possible irritation onto your forehead. seeing the contrast between your sweaty, grease and dirt marked skin and the clean skin that was protected under the goggles had him scoff. "yer filthier than i am, by the look of things."

you roll your eyes and move to climb out of the rusty treasure trove of junk you had deemed no longer having anything of value. reaching out, boothill offers you his hand. you take it easily as he starts pulling you up and out to stand in front of him. your hand drops from his when you stand safely in his bubble, and he isn't sure if you know how close you are or not.

your nose is always so focused in tinkering around or messing with work that you can't always... read the room so to speak. its endearing, until it gets frustrating anyway.

"so, what're you here for this time? need something fixed again- i swear if you already burned through that new servo i replaced a month ago, im going to take off your arm and you won't get it back for a week."

"well, that's awful sweet of you." you knew by his dry tone and sneered lips that exposed his sharp teeth that the word sweet was definitely supposed to be a different five-letter word starting with 's'. one that his broken beacon (which you refuse to fix out of entertainment) wouldn't allow him to say.

"seems like an appropriate consequence to me, considering i don't charge you for repairs."

"i ain't here for not goose-dud repair," he hisses. "i had planned on givin' ya somethin', but based on your sweet attitude i aint so sure about it now."

"you brought me something?" he nods. "from a different solar planet?" he could see the curiosity start to ignite in your eyes. he nods again. you stuff your gloves into a pouch in your pants that he swears you've sewed another pocket into, before you're marching away from him and towards the entrance he had marched from at the beginning of this search. "well come on, let's get a moving!" you shout over your shoulder.

his synthetic voice chuckles at your back. eagerly waltzing after you.

boothill soon finds himself sitting with his knees apart and comfortably lounging with his arms on the back of your worn-down, two-cushioned couch the moment you two got back to the shop. he had taken himself to your quote- reception room, as he waited for you to unload your finds from the junkyard (meaning you just took your bag, flipped it upside and let its content spill out unceremoniously onto your worktable before you would eventually sort through it at a later time).

the tapping of his metal toes against your floor echoed dully against the rug under the sofa as you soon made your way to stand in front of him, hands on your hips and an expectant look in your eyes. flicking the brim of his hat cheekily to get a better look up at you, he lifted his chin.

"my attention is yours," you dramatically sigh, hands flaring to your sides before bouncing back against your legs.

"im flattered, sugar," he jests back. still, he shifts. the small pouch he had strung to his belt that was home to his array of extra fire rounds was soon detached from him. the string of which was used to tie it to him previously, hangs lazily from his metal fingertips. with a raised, semi-skeptical brow, you carefully take it off his hands.

"if this is some sort of prank," you warn. his hands raise in the air with his elbows still resting comfortably on the back of the cushions he was leaning against, gesturing that he meant no harm.

slowly- cautiously- you pull open the bag and remove two different items that had been nestled safely inside.

tossing the now empty bag onto the couch next to boothill's leg, you took each item into one hand and looked between them. one was a small crystal that was no larger than the center of your palm. shining a swirling color of green and blue, you could only imagine that it would look even prettier properly polished and with a light shining behind it. in the other was a small box, one that could be opened with a rusty lid. giving it a small rattle revealed something to be inside. doing so revealed a small robot that had been covered in rust, missing a robotic arm and wires spilling out from under the cracked and broken screen that would most definitely have acted as it's face.

"what's all this?" you ask softly. boothill stands from his lackadaisical lounging on your sofa to come and waltz up to your side. he pointed at the robot sitting sadly in the container he had brought him in first.

"i found this lil fella and thought you'd have a gas fixin' him right up. as for that," he points to the crystal of dual-swirling shades next, "accordin' to my scanners, that there's a pretty dadgum power source." boothill takes the small crystal from your palm and hovers it just above the robot. "it suits him, don't it?" he chuckles.

in truth, the slightly dingy looking crystal shard was too magnificent compared to the busted and rusted robot. but, with a bit of work, repair and love, perhaps the color of the crystal really would look nice against polished sheet metal.

"i figure givin' you somethin' else to tinker with would be more... enriching than just your usual forkin' machines." and it could keep you company, but he didn't say that out loud.

when you would get it working like he knew you could, maybe you'd stop and think about him while he was away chasing his reality out as a galaxy ranger. if you could just spare a single thought towards him every day because of a small robot and shiny rock? he'd be tickled pink.

"he's cute," you whisper gently and boothill wonders if you know you said it out loud at all. he chuckles, bringing his hand up to cup the designed dents atop his cowboy hat. taking it off his head, he gently drops it onto yours, gaining your attention back from the gifts he had given you.

the way you lift your eyes to look at him- filled with something akin to excitement and fondness- and gently cradle the small rusty robot with his hat now shadowing your face, he could almost hear the wires in his chest running on turbo. he'd had to cool down asap before he overheated or crashed.

taking a step back- for his own sake- he leaves his hat on your head before patting your back.

"get to it," he softly tells you. you mutely nod, an excited smile breaking out over your lips as you trot towards a different room. it was a small private work space you retreated to for personal projects. boothill was one that was usually allowed inside since this room was where he would get his tune ups most times.

with boothill following your back, he watches you trot to your work bench. you gently set the robot's box down and remove it from inside. the crystal you submerged in a bowl that you soon fill with polish to let it soak. it took all of ten minutes before you're surrounded by tools and wires and equipment made for digital repairs. all the while boothill remade his comfort in a worn-down rocker you kept in the corner, content on staying put until he was forced to leave. whether it by your or by his next bounty.

he couldn't very well leave you with his hat either, even if it looked better on you than him.

the next time boothill comes into your shop after that gift drop off, it wasn't a visit but a proper repair. running out of cooling agent for his internal hardware was just waiting for a disaster to happen. his synthetic-coded laugh burst into the room jollily as when he sat down on the stool he always planted his ass in for repairs, a small, shiny robot- with the cutest digital expressions and a small blue-green swirling crystal placed in the center of its chest- was waddling across your work bench. a vile of blue cooling agent the near size of his small metal body grasped tightly in its robotic arms.

it chirped happily with a digital reverb when you thank it for bringing the coolant over.

boothill was indeed tickled as pink could get seeing you already attached to the lil fella. he wondered what you named it.

a/n: smol robot go beep-boop (i love the idea of mechanic!reader just having a cute lil guy to follow them around like a puppy :(( [big thanks to @/birinboom and my partner for letting me pick their brain on what gifts boothill ended up giving to the reader bc i had no idea lol smooches <3]

[macfrog]

psyche and cupid | one shot

happy valentine's, beautiful people. i love you with all of my heart. xx shoutout to @familyvideostevie for putting joel's slutty little thigh holster into my head and, well. yeah. pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!reader summary: valentine's day with joel doesn't go to plan. warnings: part two never happened!!!!! abby who!!!, established relationship, cursing, half joel pov, unspecified age gap, hints to reader having a sliver of ptsd, jesse is alive and well because he is my prince and i said so, reader has dark pubic hair, masturbation, somnophilia (not discussed in this fic but she is a-ok with it) and therefore dubcon, sprinkle of praise kink, oral (f!receiving), someone comes in his underwear, these two goofballs are big in love word count: 5.5k

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It’s not in his nightstand.

Not hung over the newel post, either.

He said he left it on the kitchen counter yesterday, right after he got home; said he woke up this morning and it was gone. And then he muttered something of an accusation that someone had tidied it away and forgotten where, and that started a whole new argument.

You know what, Joel? You’re following his tall figure as it sways down the hallway, his strides longer and considerably smoother than your flurrying shadow in his wake. Maybe if you weren’t going out today, we wouldn’t be having this problem.

His chin tilts upward, salt and pepper scruff angled to the ceiling with a ha slung from his throat. Yeah, he tosses a glance over his shoulder, we’d just be havin’ it tomorrow, instead.

You scoff in response, stepping where his boots lift off from, following the heavy thud thud thud like a cat at his heels until he’s rounding the corner towards your bedroom.

You pass over the messy trail of your jeans and Joel’s pajama bottoms, your underwear and his leading in a trail to the unmade bed – sheets like a rippled wave painted golden by the dawn.

The two of you split off – Joel lifts the cotton and watches it float back down over the flat of your mattress. Nothing.

You take the closet – the squeal of metal on metal harsh in your sleepy ears as you shove the hanging clothes aside, swiping around at the floor. Also, unsurprisingly, nothing.

Deflated, you straighten, stars peppering your vision and a tatty sleepshirt pinched in your fingers. Led Zeppelin – some band Joel was into before everything went to shit. You’ve listened to him out on the porch before, plucking strings in time with the record wobbling on the turntable inside.

The collar torn, sleeves pecked with holes, print lost to the years and the dryer – but each time you drape it over your shoulders, he smiles and hums some song from a world you’ll never know.

It’s sweet, when you’re in the mood to be wooed.

Which, incidentally, is not right fucking now.

His eyes flit down to the peeling, grayscale image – and that same smile attempts to bloom on his lips. That’s cute, but it ain’t my holster, pretty bird.

His smirk dampens quickly when he looks back up, snuffed by your stony expression.

You whip the tee down to the foot of the bed. You are a piece of fuckin’ work sometimes, do you know that? you growl, storming by him for the en suite.

Joel’s rough hand slips around your wrist, tugging gently but letting you drag him through to the bathroom.

Just go, Joel, you groan, the chill of the room prickling goosebumps on your naked legs. Give  me some peace and quiet. ‘s not like I’m gonna be seein’ much of you today, anyways.

Is that what this is about? His voice echoes in the morning blue, round in your ears as you hang your head over the sink. Pickin’ a fight ‘cause you’re pissed I’m goin’ out?

I didn’t start the fight, you protest. You’re the one who lost his holster.

Didn’t lose it… he mumbles, lips closing around the sentence when he catches your glare in the mirror. He crosses one ankle over the other, toe of his dusty boot on the cracked tile, and sighs. What do you want me to do, baby? I gotta do my job.

On Valentine’s Day? When I worked extra to get it off, and you can’t even get your brother to swap one shift?

Joel’s expression seems to stiffen, tense with a realization that you know, and now he knows, too – he should’ve had days ago. A weighty breath falls from his nostrils, admitting some kind of defeat, and then he’s wandering carefully over to you, two hands curved over your shoulders.

He lowers his forehead onto the nape of your neck, a slow breath which flutters the loose collar of the flannel you’re wearing and sweeps down your spine. I’m sorry, pretty bird. I didn’t know it meant that much to ya.

It doesn’t, you admit, adding, usually. I just thought we could have a day to ourselves, for once.

He’s nodding, sweep of his fringe tickling the slope of your skin. It’d be a lot more romantic than spendin’ it with Jesse, that’s for sure.

Your bodies fall together with a shared laugh, a bright and charming thing in the dull bathroom light. Joel kisses the soft cushion of your shoulder and hooks his chin over, beard grazing your skin.

I’ll be back before you know it. ‘n then we can do whatever the hell you got planned for us, hm?

He’s steady behind you when you lean back, turning to place a damp kiss to the hinge of his jaw. A reply, a plea – a promise.

In the echoing dripdripdrip from the faucet, Joel pulls apart from you, two fingers pinching the hem of your shirt to pull you back into the bedroom.

You wanna walk me to the gate? he asks, pulling the zipper on his jacket.

What about your holster?

He smiles. I’m sure I’ll survive without it. C’mon. Put some pants on.

February is bitter even by Jackson’s standards – a bite of ice in the air which numbs the tip of your nose and stings the helix of your ears. The chill slips a long, sharp finger down the collar of your – Joel’s jacket, and you wrap the baggy canvas tighter around yourself.

Told you to wear som’ thicker. Joel sighs, grip light around the strap of his shotgun. His elbow nudges into yours, a wide arm wraps around your shoulder and draws you flush against his side. Head on back if you’re cold, he says, rubbing until the friction warms your upper arm.

I’m fine, you lie, eyeing the line of horses up ahead. The eager crunch of their hooves in the frozen ground, the pinkish light on their backs from the sky flooded crimson overhead – a warning from the horizon, you think.

It seems to agitate the animals as much as it does you, their heavy heads tossing nervously, ears flicking and inky eyes blinking.

Jesse meets you by the paddock, slipping Joel the reins of his horse with a curt nod, before hoisting himself atop his own.

It bleats from your lips before you can hold it back. Be careful.

Your frozen fingers claw around the zipper of his coat, tugging it upwards until it brushes against his bottom lip. The weather gets bad, you turn back. Okay?

He’s nodding, paying half his attention to your words, the other half to the little crease between your brows. Sure could use my holster against the cold, baby, he mutters, smirk lifting his cheeks and folding similar creases at the corners of his eyes.

Your eyes narrow, palms landing flat against his strong chest. Home soon?

He hums a little laugh, lips ghosting across your temple as he shifts by. Home soon, he mutters, breath steaming against your cold skin, and he leads the mare off towards the gate.

There’s a lot about Joel you admire.

Each part of him like a pebble stolen on a hike; some more jagged, a little more weathered than others, some well-rounded and smooth to the touch. Each one turned and turned and turned between your fingers until you’re fluent in every pore and vein, then dropped into your pocket alongside the others you’ve collected.

Clacking against one another until you arrive home, coat heavier with the happy burden of how much you love him. The same weight you feel behind your ribcage when you think too much about it.

He takes good care of you – has done since you first happened across one another. As if hanging his hunting jacket over your frail body was a wing over your shoulders; as if, from then on, you would never make a single move again without your grizzly bear of a man making it first.

Quiet about it, sure. Subtle. Opens the crook of his elbow for you to hook your wrist around as you wander through town together, and waits until you’re under the cover of nightfall or behind the close of your front door to do much else.

Asks with little more than a fleeting glance if you’re okay; a squeeze of your knee under the table in the dining hall. A conversation shared between closed lips and the meeting of his honey-flecked gaze, and yours. A language which lives and dies with the pair of you.

He’s guarded – and for all that he’s been through, you figure you can allow him that. Allow him his private peace. For all that he says without saying, all he does without making some big song and dance of it – there hasn’t been a second since you arrived here on the back of his horse, that you haven’t known he loves you.

It’s in him like it’s in you. A fever which broke at the first touch of his hand and yours, the first meeting of his warmth and your chill. Two opposites – cooling the painful sear in his heart, warming the barren frost in yours. Something sewn deep into your flesh, carved right through to the hollow of your bones.

And Jesus, if it doesn’t drive you fucking insane.

The front yard needs tidied up after winter, you notice, as you scuff your way up the path towards the porch. Once the last of the snow dries up, you two can get to repairing the damage done by the blizzards and the gales: fitting new shutters, planting new bulbs.

A cycle you’re still getting used to: the upkeep of a place called home. The strange feeling of having someone you call the same thing.

Your extra shifts at the stables and Joel’s long mornings out on the trails mean your home has gone neglected for a few days. Dishes and cutlery left in the sink, a pile of laundry slowly sprouting to new heights like a wild plant each time you cast a wary glance at it.

It’s not like you’ve much else to do, given Joel won’t be home for at least another couple hours. So you shuck off your jeans, letting the tail of his shirt dangle from your behind, and pick your way around each room – wiping counters and dusting corners, humming along to the crooning old records as they spin in the background.

Playing house at the end of the world. Pretending to listen for the tired exhale of a yellow school bus, mimicking the electrified babble of radio presenters between each track.

The bedroom is arguably the worst offender. Bedsheets used a few days too long, clothes strung across the floor – the relics of a late one at the Tipsy Bison. It’s no wonder you’re so fucking tired.

Echoes of stumbling footsteps and hushed, drunken giggles loop your ears, the groaning bedsprings and blunt thud of the headboard. You pluck the underwear and socks one by one, your body wincing around a satisfied ache still lingering, and shuffle over to the laundry hamper, lifting the lid to –

The dopey smile on your lips dissolves instantly. You gotta be fucking…

The buckle glints in the light, silver blinking up at you from its bed of dirty laundry. The tan strap coiled and neatly slung through its fastener; the pouch empty. Awkward and ashamed, lying there in front of you. Apologetic, almost.

Your eyes roll closed; a short, hot breath seeping past your lips. A silent promise embedding beneath your tongue to take him by the sleeve as soon as he crosses the threshold, force him to lift the lid himself. An I told you so already brewing in the pit of your stomach.

The holster’s actually pretty heavy when you lift it up in the light. Leather a little worn, stitching frayed where it should clip around his belt.

It’s the size and width of him: a thick, toned thigh slotted inside the loop of leather, fixed by fingers long void of feeling when he’s been riding to the outpost, chasing infected, plunging his knife deep into their necks.

Patrol was never your thing. Joel took you out just once – but there are cracks in your past which threaten to split you in two, it seems, the longer you spend outside the settlement walls. Phantoms which follow close behind in the form of snapping twigs, of the wind rustling in the trees overhead. Shadows living in your periphery with curled sneers and spits of filth.

You lasted twenty minutes, that first and only day, before Joel had your horses tied together and your body shelled in his own, taking you straight back home.

But the thought of this around his thigh, the thought of him adjusting it to the waistband of his jeans; his hand floating down to settle gently atop it when he’s listening for danger approaching, two fingers slipping into the trigger guard.

It…stirs something.

You pad over to the bathroom, hopping as you step into the strap. He wears it on his right leg, right? You pull it past your ankle, ball of your foot slamming clumsily back down on the tile.

Adjusting it to fit your thigh, you bunch the hem of his shirt in one fist and stare back at your reflection. Her nervous stance, hips swaying left to right as she peruses the figure opposite.

Who is she, this mirage – naked thigh decorated with her man’s leather, fingernails tracing the messy stitching and imagining the weight of his gun, keen in the pouch?

A strange aura of possession about it, like a part of him locked firm around a part of you, from however many miles away. You swear you can feel the ghost of his warmth on the inside of the strap, wrapped around your sensitive skin.

Yeah.

Stirs something, alright.

Joel’s been gone little over an hour. He’s probably at the outpost by now, logging All clear and pretending to let Jesse take the lead. Wide shoulders swaying as he wanders from room to room, a careful scope of the valley from each window, tongue tracing the bottom of his teeth.

Ridges of his knuckles white around the grip of his shotgun, squinting down the barrel. Lines drawn between his brows and at the corners of his eyes like scores on parchment, focus and concentration tight on his face.

You sink back into the cradle of your bed, that divot where his body and yours meet each night. Each part of you intertwining with a part of him: the place where you become one. His smell and your touch, your giggle and his teeth.

A sudden, powerful thing which hammers through your veins and jumps your body for a few seconds – you pull the first orgasm from between your legs within a matter of minutes. The sight of his shirt disturbed over your stomach, the feeling of blood squeezing past taut leather enough to throw you under by itself, never mind the fast snap of your fingers deep inside your body.

Another – slower, lazier, still vibrating from the first – then almost a third, but the crinkle of sheets at your ears, the pillow-soft landscape beneath your heavy body, begins to sweep you off somewhere.

And in as little time as it took to entice you into the water in the first place, you slip beneath the waves.

The house is quiet when he finally makes it home.

Jesus, Joel thinks, what a shift.

Not one infected the entire run, he can’t quite believe – but Jesse caught his palm on some warped sheet of chain link fence, then almost passed out when he looked down and saw the scarlet seeping from his shredded skin.

The pair sat for half an hour, unsheltered in the unforgiving wind, waiting for the kid’s head to stop spinning and the cold to rob the feeling from his hand.

All Joel wanted was to get home to you. You, and your hips swaying as you stand by the stove, and his hands kneading into the velvet plush of your waist, and the smell of burnt sausages and spatter of angry oil from the pan.

He’s so late. He said he’d be as quick as he could, said you’d barely know he was gone, and he’s so fucking late.

But he’s here now, at least.

He’s home.

As he kicks off his boots, snow sprinkling from the soles onto the doormat, he notices the absence of your arms around his waist. The missing weight at the back of him, no ear flat against his spine and hands interlocked above his belt. No relieved, I missed you, no nuzzle of your head under his arm.

The house is still and dim. The turntable spins in the corner, a dead crackle playing nothing for no one. Joel sniffs, eyeing the room and its new, orderly form: the books slotted neatly on their shelves, the rings of coffee wiped clean from the table.

Lifting the needle from the record, Joel calls out, Baby?

Maybe you’re in town somewhere. Maybe you’ve gone to spend the morning with the horses. But then, you would’ve been watching for his arrival. Would’ve skipped out from the stables and swung around his body, a gleeful smile and an outstretched hand. Take me home, cowboy.

And you wouldn’t have left the lights still burning, the player still turning. Your coat is still on its hook, smaller and brighter and where it belongs on the right of Joel’s. The cushions on the couch are fluffed and smooth, perched contentedly in place; the curtains draped in their tie backs.

You’re home. You’ve been home all morning.

So where the fuck are you?

Joel crosses over to the bottom of the stairs, blinking up at the painted cowboys and horses staring down from the landing. Calls your name, a faint singsong as he slowly ascends the stairs. You up there?

Down the wintery dull hallway to the bedroom door, figuring he knows the answer. And he’s right, isn’t he, when he nudges the door open and peers inside, spots the tiny lump of you in your double bed. Sunk deep into the mattress – covers you’d come in here to change, swallowing you whole.

A crooked, exhausted smile pulls across his lips; his thumb hooks around a belt loop, knee cocking.

You’re so…perfect. So heavenly, so still like this – stretched out on your front, breathing in the scent of his pillow and breathing out little puffs of air.

Joel leans over you, a heavy hand pushing into the mattress above your shoulder, and runs a featherlight knuckle over your cheek.

Pretty bird? he whispers, lighter than the long breaths from your sleep-swollen lips.

You don’t stir. No movement, save for the rise and fall of your shoulders wrapped up in his flannel.

Joel feels a pang of guilt, numbed only by the chill still through his body: he woke you this morning, before even the sun had lifted her head. Had you hunting all over the house with him, for some dumb holster that he wound up not even n–

His eyes trail down the shape of your body, draped in the sheets like white marble carved into the round shape of something beautiful, hands following the curve of your thigh. His wrist freezes when it meets the odd bulge of something, an awkward bump beneath the cotton.

He peels the sheet back, lifting it from your shoulders, your waist, your hips – until your angled thigh lies on full display for his feasting eyes.

His fucking holster…wrapped tight around your fucking thigh.

A disbelieving laugh at first – a She told me so, before he notices the indents in your skin, the stretched leather snug around your leg, riding higher than it should at the doing of your slumber.

Christ, baby, he breathes, stare glued to the folds of plaid hooked around the belt loop. Following the tatty hem down past your hip, along the underside of your ass – riding up some, right where your legs part.

And between them, all sheer and thin, twisted around itself and slipping between: your underwear. The threading of pubic hair peeking over the frilled hem of it; the sight filling Joel’s mouth with saliva.

A heavy heat forms in his jeans, an irritable weight which aches when he moves; which hardens when he pictures the image of you in his bed, his shirt, his holster wrapped around your thigh – playing with yourself while he’s been gone.

Fuck. Fuckin’…shit.

He lowers, running lips he knows are freezing cold along the burning surface of your skin, tongue slipping past his teeth to drag a wet trail along your thigh.

Your leg shifts under his touch, the startle of his chilled fingertips behind your knee, nuzzling of his nose where the holster sits smugly on your thigh. Smelling like leather and salt, the sticky sheen of sweat still glowing on your skin.

Joel takes your waist in two hands – he can’t fucking help himself, can he? – and turns you, patiently, watching as you roll onto your back so he can drag you further down the bed. Tongue flicking at the corners of his lips, thirsty for something he only wants you to feed him.

Slow, slowly. Every effort put into not waking you, to keeping you in this peachy haze between asleep and awake; your movements long and staggered, held firm against the mattress by the weight of your doze.

With a sigh, your jaw turns to one side. Joel pulls you in, kneeling at the edge of the bed with your socked feet resting on his shoulders. His shirt gathers around your waist; your hips and the thin twine of your underwear spotlighted by stripes of weakened sunlight spilling in through the blinds.

Oh, pretty bird, he groans, slipping his open palms under your ass, rough and squeezing the pillows of flesh in his hands. This all for me?

A moan wrapped in a hefty breath twists from your lips. Your knees fall limp; legs open almost eagerly, like your body inviting him in. And he accepts, takes it with eyes blown black and hungry lips parted – leans in and nestles his nose against the thrumming heartbeat pounding through your clit.

Such a good girl, he whispers, closing his lips in a kiss over your clothed mound, and your hips jolt.

You’re so fucking warm. So wet; sticky and so ready for him. He kisses your folds, suckling gently and letting his tongue dart along the inseam of your lips in flicking movements – collecting the taste of salt and feeling his cock throb against rough denim.

Off? he asks – you and the room and himself – fingers hooking around the underwear rolled on your hips.

When your back arches, body feeling the loss of his tender kiss, rolling like a wave seeking to crash against the steady rock form of his – he smirks to himself.

Joel nods. Off.

He takes his time peeling them from your body, watching as more and more of his paradise is revealed. The waves of your folds, the sheer glisten of arousal along them; the dark hair peppering either side as damp and slick as the skin beneath it.

Your panties drop from a hooked finger without a sound and he turns back, hovering over your waiting cunt with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Out front, voices call back and forth to one another – some neighborly greeting and affable conversation – but Joel doesn’t hear. Deafened to anything but the sound of your sighs and his own blood hammering through his ears.

It’s a little rushed, a tad rough, the way he presses his lips back to yours. The way his beard grazes against your most sensitive spot, and the gasp he swears he hears lift from your tongue.

But fuck, he’s missed this, the way he always does – without knowing, without actively thinking about it, without knowing it was even at home waiting for him. If his mind weren’t on an entirely different planet right now, he’d curse that goddamn chain link for holding him up, for keeping him away longer than thirty seconds from the sweet little angel resting in his bed, and the sweet little pussy between her legs.

He parts your thighs wider, tongue dipping lower and deeper as he laps at your core, almost fucking panting against it.

You squirm lazily beneath him, shoulders tensing and untensing, a half-limp wrist lifting to pet his hair and an attempt at his name between your lips. Joel, you whimper, thick with sleep and something more dangerous.

I know, baby, he’s telling you, I know, and his tongue slips inside again. His hips grind into the mattress, cock an agonizing stiff against the sturdy edge. He can feel the wet in his boxers, the precome sticking to the inside of the cotton.

Fuck, he wants to be inside you so badly, so desperately.

Another gasp sputters across your lips, cut short in your throat when his teeth bump against your clit.

Too hungry, too brash, he thinks. You’re too soft, too open for him to let it go to waste. Not like this.

He pulls back, a filthy thread of arousal and saliva between his open lips and yours, and places a sodden kiss to the inside of your thigh.

But you whine, you poor little thing – your head twisting to the other side, a second hand now blindly surfing across his shoulder, past the brush of his beard and sifting through his still-chilly hair. The loss of attention to your pussy aching between your legs; your hips lifting weakly to meet the scratch of his chin again.

And that same sound – that same Jo-oel – a sound like song, like saccharine dripping over his shoulders.

So, he lifts a hand – two middle fingers coming together to push open your cunt, instantly sliding in knuckle-deep. Sucked in by the wet mess left behind by his lips, stretching you out with slow, round movements.

You’re slowly stirring, blossoming from your sleep and turning slowly back into this world. The cold edges seeping in, the warm flush of pleasure sharpening at their meeting. He’d do anything, he thinks, to keep you here; keep you teetering on the edge, tangled up between your world and his.

J– oh, fu-uck, you whine, and he can tell you’re still blinkered by sleep. But you grind on him again – a long, languid movement which seems to spatter out at its end when the coarse hair of his beard catches against your clit.

The breath stops in your throat, punching out in a shuddered moan. Joel could come just from the sound of it.

You gonna give me one, baby girl? he pleads, forearms clamping down on the underside of your thighs. Desperate – desperate to feel you, hear you, taste you as you come undone. Just one.

You’re writhing around beneath him, as needy as he is. A winding which matches his, coiling at the bottom of your stomach; a feeling which pulls at the corners of your lips and shocks them into a smutty, half-conscious smile. Your eyes roll back, fluttering open and then snapping shut when the light floods in.

There, you say, clearest so far, movements the strongest he’s felt. Your fingers root in his hair, rough over his scalp. Keep – keep doin’ that.

Joel smiles against your mound; a cocky thing, emboldened by the sound of that little Texan twang, the curl of an accent which doesn’t belong to you. Rather, a result of your years spent with him, watching the way his mouth shapes the words, learning the low swing and swirling melody of his tongue.

As if he’s as alive within you as he is within himself; every little thing Joel knows is him, injected into your bloodstream – his dry wit, his blunt honesty, his thick fingers and his insatiable tongue.

He slips in a third, flicking them perfectly inside of you. Beckoning your release; tongue sitting in wait, a resting point for you to grind your clit against.

And he wants it as much as you do: wants to feel the clamping of your body around him, wants to taste the flood of your orgasm as it shocks through every bone in your body.

Wants to pull three soaked, pruned fingers from your pussy and slip them over your tongue, letting you clasp your fingers around his wrist; watching the half-dozing flutter of your eyelashes as you suckle on them and make those pretty little sounds for him.

Your hand knots tighter in his hair, pelvis circling steady against his suckling lips. He can smell it on you: smell the need seeping from your pores. The sleep spilling from the corners of your mouth, the happy whimpers and quiet cries for more, more, Joel, more.

And – Shit, he breathes against you, feeling a sudden rush of electricity he knows all too well between his hips. Not now, not now not before he’s been inside – Shit, baby, gotta let me go.

You whine in refusal – a petulant sound, all stubborn and greedy. ‘m so close, I –

Pretty bird, he groans, lifting his jaw. He places a messy kiss to the crease between your core and your thigh, wrist stammering with his sudden movements. You gotta – you gotta let go, you’re gonna make me come –

You’re echoing him, mumbling the words gonna, gonna come – fuck, Joel, ‘m gonna –

Shit.

Not – Fuck – not right n– Christ, baby girl, you’re gonna – you’re –

Your walls spasm, clamping and relaxing, squeezing around his huge fingers. But it’s not that – it’s not the gush of warm fluid which seeps from between your legs, coating his knuckles and dripping into his palm.

It’s not the arch of your back, the way your breasts lift to the ceiling and his shirt slips below one nipple. Not the way your head rolls back against the mattress, a broken moan tearing in shards from your throat.

No.

It’s the way your hands leave his hair in an instant, and grip around the leather on your thigh. Skin stretching thin over your knuckles, thumbs between the strap and your sticky skin; hips still riding out your high as you ground yourself, holding onto his holster.

And it makes Joel come. Hard.

Harder than he knew possible, grinding against a mattress and the inside of his fucking jeans.

He falls forward, breathing a guttural moan into the soft swell of your stomach below your navel, fingers hooking into the baggy shirt around your arms.

Shitshitshit, he pants, feeling the warm ejaculate spurt from his cock and all over the inside of his boxers. Oh, fuck, baby. Fuck me.

His hips shudder a few more times, pressing hard into the edge of the mattress before he’s coming down, slowing to a stop – still a leaden weight on your stomach. His cock almost painful, overstimulated and oversensitive.

But then – something gently tittering. A bird singing, cooing above his head. The ground beneath his temple shakes, tremors with laughter. The dust twinkles in the sunlight, now brighter, golden, streaming through the window.

You’re awake.

Joel drags his gaze upwards, bleary and glazed with sex, and catches your eye.

Feel good? you ask, sifting hair away from his damp forehead. When was the last time that happened? Fourteen?

I don’t wanna talk about it, he mumbles into your belly.

Your chest jumps, a laugh which echoes into Joel’s ear. Tastes that good, huh?

It takes a mighty effort for him to push up on his palms, slowly crawling up the length of your body until his elbows plant firm into the mattress either side of your head. He groans as he lowers his lips, parting them to let you slip your tongue inside.

The kiss is slow, tender. Your bodies melding together, teeth clacking and jaws moving in sync. A sharp taste, sweet with a singe of bitterness to it. Perfect, you think, smirking against Joel’s cool lips.

He pulls away, lips tickling the tip of your nose deliberately.

With a giggle, you push on his chest. You should shower. You smell like patrol.

Joel cocks an eyebrow. You comin’ in with me?

Nope. I got even more laundry to do now, old man.

He entertains the quip with a subtle smile, a thing which softens the creases on his face and lights a twinkle in his eyes. Quietly, genuinely, in a way which makes your heart ache a little, he whispers, Sorry I was workin’, pretty bird.

You shrug. ‘s okay. You made up for it. And – I found your holster. You lift your knee, letting the buckle shine in the sunlight.

You did that, Joel agrees, nodding and glancing down at the thing. He hooks a finger around the strap, giving it a little shake. Maybe I oughta lose it more often.

Hm, you shrug, or I can just keep it safe for ya. Looks good, don’t it?

He feigns a disappointed smile, a resigned sigh before he looks back up.

Better ‘n when I wear it, he admits, and his lips crash down to yours again.

[sashiavi]

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this has been rotting in my documents since October </3 abandoned kinktober prompt I just couldn't get out of my head :((

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♡𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗♡ Wriothesley x Reader - wrio finds you stuck in a wall

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: | ¹⁸⁺ | ˢᵐᵘᵗ | ᵃᶠᵃᵇ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ | ᴾʳᶦˢᵒⁿᵉʳᵎ ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ | ᵖᵘⁿᶦˢʰᵐᵉⁿᵗ | ˢᵗᵘᶜᵏ ᶦⁿ ᵃ ʷᵃˡˡ | ᵖᵒʷᵉʳ ᵈʸⁿᵃᵐᶦᶜˢ | ᵈᵒᵐ/ˢᵘᵇ | ⁿᵃˢᵗʸ ⁿᵃˢᵗʸ ʷʳᶦᵒ ˢᵐᵘᵗ | ʷᵒʳᵈ ᶜᵒᵘⁿᵗ ³.⁵ᵏ

→ᴰᵃʳᵏ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗ ᵂᵃʳⁿᶦⁿᵍ←

ᵀʰᶦˢ ᴾᶦᵉᶜᵉ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵃᶦⁿˢ ᵀʰᵉᵐᵉˢ ᴼᶠ ⁻ ᴰᵘᵇᶜᵒⁿ|ᴰᵘᵐᵇᶦᶠᶦᶜᵃᵗᶦᵒⁿ|ˢᵗᵘᶜᵏᵃᵍᵉ| ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ᴰᶦˢᶜʳᵉᵗᶦᵒⁿ ᴵˢ ᴬᵈᵛᶦˢᵉᵈ

•· ֪٘ ︶ ͝ ٘⏝𖹭⏝ ͝ ٘︶٘ ֪·····.•🍑•.····· ֪٘ ︶ ͝ ٘⏝𖹭⏝ ͝ ٘︶٘ ֪·•

Well, well. What an amusing predicament. Wriothesley certainly didn't expect his morning to turn out so… Interestingly. 

The Duke makes his rounds through the Fortress of Metropide twice a day. Once in the morning and again during the young hours of the night, right when the sun sets. Not that its rays could be seen so far down under the surface of the sea, but the sentiment was there. Wriothesely would often be seen passing through the establishment's pleasantries, always making a stop by the inmate sleeping quarters, he ought to have an idea of exactly whom he had in his Fortress.. Right?

He ventures further than the guards are assigned, boots clicking coolly against the metallic flooring, echoing through the high domed ceilings of the holding pods. The Duke makes an effort into personally peeking a look into each isolated cell, sometimes striking up a small conversation with an inmate or two. The man knew all-too-well just how lonesome time in prison was, he could at least acknowledge their existences. 

Speaking of, his mind wanders as he approaches a specific cell, isolated and cold - Away from the rest, segregated by the Fortress’ rule of separating cases, depending on their verdict - Wriothesley flitters back to a conversation he held the night before -

- “Now, what's a girl like you doing here in my Fortress?” Wriothesley leans himself upon the bars of your cell. The area was quiet, isolated with little inhabitants, even more so during the day time, while inmates congregated within the public area of the fortress. You jump slightly, whipping around to face him. 

“Oh, you know.. Stuff..” You reply, looking a little shameless towards him. He had an inkling that you were up to no good. But he’d bite.

“How’s the Fortress treating you? Despite the whole prison aspect,” He chuckles to himself, earning your own laugh, dancing in his ears.

“It’s.. a little boring in here,” He watches your eyes wander around the cell.

“Well- At least you have that poster there, plenty of fun to stare at, I’m sure.” Wriothesley lets his eyes crinkle. The poster was large, stuck to the wall haphazardly, crooked and torn on one corner. “That thing could cover up anything,” He side comments. He watches your interest pique, head tilting in what he could only describe as thought - A stupid one he thinks. 

“I wouldn't try it, you just might escape. I can't have that happen, now can I?” He winks, finally continuing his evening round throughout the section of the fortress.

All of that circles back to the now, as Wriothesley approaches your cell on his morning patrol. Something stirs in his chest, a tickling inkling. He nearly half expects you to have followed his gracious ‘advice’ - If you could even call it that. 

Lo and behold, the Duke spots a special individual poking out from the cracked cell wall. Your lower half nearly dangles from the partition, practically on tippy toes, ankles surely close to giving out from the awkward position. The poster from the night before lays perfectly on the floor next to your frame, comically outlining just how bad you had messed up. He nearly chuckles at the sudden jolt of your body as he unlocks the cell door, craning it open with an obnoxious creak.

“Well.. Aren’t you something?” His heavy boots resonate through the near barren cell, echoing as he makes his way towards your predicament.

You helplessly squirm, whining out of your throat as you fruitlessly struggle in your impromptu confines. Wriothesley stares down at you in utter bemusement, his face cracking with an audacious downturned smile; not that you could see his face through the thick prison wall. Poor You. All lodged and stuck.

"Y-Your Grace! It's not what it looks like-" Your voice manages through the wall, a little muffled to the ear. However, Wriothesley was sure you hadn’t even broken into the adjacent room.

"It's exactly what it looks like. Who knew you'd actually try it." He almost laughs. It wasn’t like you were going to go anywhere - Last he checked, the Fontainian Ocean was right outside their door.

“Seemed like a decent idea..” Wriothesley has to strain to hear your mumble.

“We’re far under the water dear.. Or did you forget in your haste?” This time, he makes no effort to stifle his laugh, chuckling out loud when your form visibly slumps - Whether out of embarrassment or defeat - He was thoroughly amused.

“Hmm.. Now, what do we do with you?” Wriothesley teases. He cranes his body, bending his back with purpose, inspecting the damage you had added to the already faulty wall. How you had managed to wiggle your way in this far, he hadn't a clue. Your body noticeably tenses, you make an attempt to find a proper footing, easily failing from the height of the hole.

“P-Please Your Grace- I’ll do anything, really! Anything you want just- please don’t add time for this..”

“You’ll do.. Anything…?” Call him confused, what were you on about?

“Yes, anything- ch-chores? Solitary? I’ll be good I swear, really- Or you could..” You trail off, leaving the Duke to sit with his whirring brain for a moment. “You.. Can take me… Use me how you want- Please~ Y-You’re stressed right? U-Use me.. Do whatever you wanna-” You sounded nearly delirious. Your pretty ass shakes, brushing up against the front of his pants, a feeble attempt to press back into him.

Were you trying to bargain with him? Wriothesley was more than ready to pull you out, maybe give a little slap on the wrist and send you on your merry way. But now? The Duke couldn't help but indulge in the feeling of his pants tightening around his groin. The idea of taking your pretty self, stuck helplessly in the wall. He couldn't refuse your offer, right? Not when you sounded so eager. Not when you begged for him, for his body, for his thick aching cock, threatening to burst the seam of his trousers. 

Before he can properly stop himself - Not that he was really going to - Wriothesley finds his hands on the soft swell of your ass, squeezing the flesh in his palms. You jolt under his touch, footing slipping slightly against the floor that barely brushed against your toes. Wriothesley breathes hard from his nose, hooking his fingers into the cut of your waistband, pulling the fabric over your form. He hears a whimper from beyond the wall.

“Y-Your Grace…The wall..” Your voice wobbles, body tensing against the brush of his hands.

“What? Having second thoughts?” He can’t help but tease you, squishing his fingers into the soft meat of your ass, digging his hands into your half-on pants. You did say anything. You gasp out, voice cracking with muffled little pleas. ‘Never’ you say ‘Want it bad - so bad’.

Your pants come off quickly, thrown to the floor in a crumple. Wriothesley’s hands are on you again, spreading the fat of your ass apart, marvelling at the pretty swell of your pussy hugged against your panties. He watches your plush thighs squish together, rubbing and squirming in his hold, he couldn't tell if you were wiggling away or keening into him. Not that you could go anywhere. The thought irks a chuckle out of Wriothesley. His fingers wander again, caressing over the soft skin of your ass, digging them in and jiggling cheekily. His thumbs slide over and hook into the elastic of your panties, hugging around the thick of your legs. He meanly tugs at the snappy material, pulling it up and taught, forcing the fabric to cling achingly against your cunt. His tongue instinctively pokes from behind his lips, itching to lap at the pretty wet spot that had formed over the fabric. 

Wriothesley swallows thickly, eyes locked on your pretty cunt, head swimming with the short, hiccuped whines that cut through the wall. You babble and cry, repeating his title over and over - Your Grace, Your Grace - begging him to just touch. To do anything - Anything. 

Your pretty voice gets to him and he finds himself nearly ripping your drenched panties off of you. He pulls them down, leaving them dangling off of your legs, showing off your wet cunt just for him. Gods, he wasn't disappointed. Your pretty pussy peeks from behind the swell of your thighs, already dripping wet, all over yourself. He swears he twitches, breath hissing through his teeth, cold on your core. The sweet jump you make - as best as you could - sends him reeling. 

Wriothesley’s thick fingers tentatively poke at your dripping pussy, catching your sweet, dribbly slick on his fingertips. He awes at how it webs between his fingers, how you’d managed to work yourself up with your own babbling. Perhaps the wall aided a little - Showing off your bottom half, on full display just for him to enjoy, your own vision obscured. You wouldn't see anything coming. The thought runs straight to his cock, making itself well known again against the fly of his trousers. 

Wriothesley licks against his lips, enamoured at the pretty string of your slick on his fingers, sticking between his digits like a lattice. He needs more. He wastes no time, easily slipping in two of his fingers, knuckle deep right into the doughy swell of your hole. Gods, you felt so soft. Silky to his touch, pussy pretty and plushy and warm. The squeal that muffles through the wall forces him to sink his teeth into his own bottom lip. Toying with you came to him naturally. Ever so easy with you all snug and stuck, silly enough to try and swindle him and escape your commitment to the Fortress. 

“W-Wriothesley… your g-grace..” He ignores you, fingers digging into the sweet, supple curve of your cunt. He curls them downward, earning the prettiest, muffled cries through the wall. He releases a breath he didn't even know he was holding. Wriothesley thrusts his fingers hard. Pressing meanly into the achy swollen bump in your core, getting a kick out of the lewd suckling squelch of your pussy on his fingers. Your poor legs practically give out, ankles going limp, your body holding itself up thanks to the wall hugging your body. Your voice crackles through the cement, whiney and keening, babbling dumb nonsensical begs and pleads to him. Your slick pools against his knuckles, threatening to overturn the snug fit of his rings on his fingers. He can't help but stare, locked in, mind reeling with the way your cunt wrapped around his digits. He couldn't help but wonder just what that pretty little thing would look like, all red and puffy, hugging on his thick cock.

He shamelessly lets out his own groan. Finally managing to remove his fingers, watching in awe as your slick drips off of them, connecting him to you with a thin, dribbly line. 

Just a taste…

The thought zaps through his brain, tongue shamelessly poking its way past his teeth, running over his lips with a quick tilt of his head.

Wriothesley wastes no time. Wrapping his lips against your slick cunt, eyes rolling hard into the back of his skull. Fuck. Your taste on his tongue, sweet and tangy, oh so decadently coating his throat. Archons, he laps and suckles, nearly sinking his teeth into the heat of your core, into the puffy swell of your pussy lips. You keen back into him, whining never-ending, absolutely ceaseless, voice managing to pierce through the heavy material of the wall you’d stuck yourself in. That thought charges through his mind again. Poor little you, all stuck and lodged in the wall all for him to play with. The man was sure he would cream in his own pants if he kept up. He barely registers his knees beginning to ache under the heavy pressure of his own body meeting the floor. Since when had he managed to sink down? Finding his hands back on your plushy ass cheeks? Chin dribbling slobber and slick, sticking wetly to the scratchy stubble shadowing over his face? He couldn't take it anymore. 

Wriothesley stands with a start, ignoring the stiff crack of his knees in favour of unbuckling his godforsaken pants. His hands are clumsy, large palms pawing at the metal of his trousers, his belt suddenly too intricate for his rough, fervent body to figure out - Not with how his mind reels, with the sight of you stuck in the wall, pretty pussy drooling, on display all for him. He barely shoves his pants to his thighs, the material wrapping around his legs in a mess. His cock weeps as it's free, slapping up into his stomach, heavy balls hanging over the waist of his trousers. He leaks beads of sticky pre, messing up the surface of his dress shirt. Wriothesley groans out loud, hand coming up to wrap around the base of his cock, squeezing it up and down to ease the hot tension pulsing through his thick cock vein. 

He was sure you heard the cold clink of his belt, the only inkling of what was to come for you. He can't help but jerk his length off to the sight of you, shamelessly stalling just to mess with your head. No matter how much you squirm and beg, crying out as best as you could, stupidly asking for a reply to gather any kind of indication of what he was about to do to you. He stays silent.

Wriothesley meanly slaps his cock over the sticky, wet folds of your achy cunt, he chuckles when you jump again, going absolutely crazy for your every little reaction. Your pussy sounded so pretty on his tip, all wet and sticky as he slapped and rubbed against it. His fat tip slides over your warm, slick folds, craning his hips forward, catching against your sopping hole, earning him the softest gasps from within the wall. Your little jumps all but spur him all the more on.

“M’ not even in yet.. Pussy’s already tryin’ to suck me in,” Wriothesley pokes his tip against your hole, catching it against the warm, supple squeeze of your cunt. He growls through his teeth, head quickly draining of any cohesive decision making. Your babbling continues through the wall, your hips crane up into his own, wiggling and catching back on the thick head of his dick. Gods, that does it. You were insatiable, all stuck waiting for him to come along and ravage your pretty cunt with his cock. 

It all urges him to dive in, give your poor cunt no warning for his thick, dribbling cock.

And so he does.

“Fuuuckk” Wriothesley can’t help but groan, finally feeling the sweet swell of your cunt enveloped the fat length of his cock. He has to bite into his thumb, just to slow himself down, let himself relish in the sweet squeeze of your cunt on his cock. Gods the way you wrapped around him, silky soft walls hugging on his length. He can't help but awe at the way your achy pussy squeezed on him, all puffy and sore from neglect. His hands find your hips, one of the only parts free from the wall.

“Your Grace~.. So big- so biiig… Filling me up- please please… please” Your silly voice cracks through the wall. Wriothesley digs his fingers into the flesh of your hips, purposely lifting your poor legs off of the floor, leveraging your body just for him to use. You squirm in his hold, easily forcing him to grip you tighter.

“Fuck, stay still. Gonna make me go crazy..” Wriothesley finds himself mindlessly rocking his thick cock into your silky cunny, humping his hips against your ass like some kind of dog in rut. Archons, he could get used to this. His own personal little wall slut, always there for him to use and abuse. His eyes roll at the idea, his snapping hard, earning a loud hiccuped cry from within the thick wall. The hot squelch that follows has him nearly drooling, mouth dropped open in a soft frown, eyes locked on to his heavy cock sliding in and out of your dumb cunt. He fucks his hips hard again, cock head smacking into the deepest parts of your pussy.

Wriothesley doesn't remember speeding up. But he sure as hell won't be slowing down - not anytime soon. Your gushy pussy squelches on his cock, dribbling down your thighs, messing all over your poor aching legs. Wriothesley’s fingers keep a hold of your hips, rocking them slightly to meet his brutal pace. He doesn't have to crane his ears to hear your pretty moans, effortlessly reaping through the solid wall, barely muffled by the sheer loudness of your voice. 

Fuck, he didn’t care about the noise. Let everyone hear them. What were they going to do about it? What were you going to do about it? About getting all stuck in this wall, going against the Fortress’ protocol? Seducing the Duke of the Meropide, forcing him to fuck your dumb brains out to teach you a lesson? A growl resonates from his throat, hips snapping hard, clapping into the sweet swell of your ass cheeks as he fucks up your cunt. 

Wriothesley’s eyes wander, locking down on the sweet jiggle of your ass and the puffy red throb of your cunt on his cock. A heavy breath makes its way through his nose, eyes hyper focused on the pretty, creamy ring around his length as he fucks his hips against you, slowly leaking its way on to his pants. An ache builds in his pelvis, thick vein pulsing on the underside of his cock. Your moans don't stop, legs continuously squirming in his grasp, body stuck in the juncture of your silly wall. He thinks you beg, maybe you scream, crying out for him to keep going, to fill you up to cum hard and deep and mess up your insides. 

Wriothesley drops your legs, forcing you to dangle, his hands press into the wall above, grinding his hips upwards, stabbing your pussy impossibly deeper with his length. Sweat beads off of his nose, his calves cramp and ache with every thrust he makes, but Gods, he wasn't going to stop. He finds himself moaning out loud, complementing the pretty noises that creak through the wall. Your pussy hugs on his length, squeezing nice and tight, wrapping around his fat tip every time he slams it back into you. 

His teeth grit hard. Eyes still locked on to the messy slide of his length, in and out, in and out. He was coming close. So fucking close.

Wriothesley’s brow scrunches, relishing in the aching squeeze of your messy pussy on his cock. He couldn't take it anymore. The creamy ring he’d fucked out of you, the pretty ripple of your ass on his hips, how juicy and gushy your cunt was on his length. Gods, it was all so much. His hips snap, pace faltering, clapping his hips in heated staccatos, dragging his length out and slamming right back in with a hard smack. You cry with every thrust, silky cunt squeezing on his tip, babbling his name over and over and over. 

He finally spills with a deep, hard fuck. His thick tip spurts hot rivulets of cum into your silky pussy. He messes your insides with white, fucking himself through his orgasm, humping up on your cunt, mounting your pussy with his cock. His throat growls with every fuck, sweat beads off of the tip of his nose, he watches his hot spurts leak steadily out of your hole, leaking around the base of his length. He can’t help but nestle right into your cunt, relishing in the sweet squeeze of your milky walls on him, he cranes his hips every so often, teasing his aching tip with your soft insides.

You kick and whine as eventually, he pulls out, dribbling his hot white cum down your thighs. 

“No~ need more! More more!” Your muffled voice cries, pitifully wiggling within the hug of the wall, attempting to squirm your way out.

Wriothesley chuckles hotly, eying off the sweet gush of cum that drools out of your puffy pussy. His mouth waters, salivating like a dog. Surely he could take you out of the wall a little later? You’d understand. You’d been a great little wall slut for him so far, so why not indulge for as long as he wanted? Maybe he'd let you cum, spray and mess all over yourself - He could even let you out as a reward.

His finger comes up to caress over your spent hole, scooping up the leaking slick that coated your poor pussy. The cry he earns makes his half-hard cock stiffen, bobbing to life with a flex.

Archons, weren’t you something?

hnnnnnng gg g wrio wooof wOof - my longest fics are always wrio </3

Idk what possessed me to create this- I hope you enjoyed ;3

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Thank You For Reading! Comments Are Always, Always Appreciated! Ilysm <333

♡ᵀᵃᵍˡᶦˢᵗ♡

@madsw9 @pvbbyb0y @heath-sama @shiningpaint-marbleheart @the-massive-simp @tericula @a-random-weeb @mechalily @mydarlingdahlia @finnie9479

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Do Not Translate Or Repost - Property Of SashiAvi ♡

[wileys-russo]

washing machine malfunction II m.earps x reader

based on this request here washing machine malfunction II m.earps

"taking footage to scout with are you?" your best friend teased as you filmed a clip of the game, smacking her knee and sending her a playful glare. "no! proving to mary i sat through the entire game." you quipped back, sending the video to your girlfriend and pocketing your phone.

"oh sorry are we not up to your standards? do you only watch games at old trafford or wembley now?" your best friend cooed pinching your cheek sharply. "yes actually, or at least where they have actual toilet blocks and not portaloos." your face scrunched up with disgust.

"hey if you'd like to donate some money toward that we'd be very grateful, not every womens team gets funding you know." your best friend huffed as you frowned and squeezed her knee.

"i'm only teasing. you know i'm happy to be here, just wish i was watching you yell at people on the pitch and not at me for once!" you sighed as the girl scoffed and smacked you, she was normally the captain but was out in a boot having sprained her ankle last week.

"so where are you coming on the table?" you clarified, eyes set back on the match unfolding in front of you. "third, but its only the fourth round of the season. lots can change!" the brunette admitted as the two of you fell into a comfortable silence.

"okay no offence to you and your entire team but your keeper kept you all alive this game, it should be 5-0." you whistled as the second half started to wind down.

"of course you favour the keeper, what a shock!" your best friend drawled sarcastically with a roll of her eyes as the whistle blew for full time and a 0-0 draw.

"hey just because my girlfriend is a golden glove holding, bbc sports personality of the year winning, world cup finalist and champion of europe with a tram named after her doesn't mean im bias to keepers!" you grinned holding your hands up as your best friend rolled your eyes.

"oh but you don't brag about her right." the girl mocked with a pout as your grin grew. "only to those who have no choice but to listen, i'd like to see you try and run away from me." you gently nudged your toe against her moon boot as she shoved you.

"you know you could always play with us next season! reallyyy make the girlfriend proud, i can see mary being a very loyal wag." the girl teased as you laughed sarcastically. "you couldn't afford my salary." you shrugged with a click of your tongue.

"more like we couldn't afford your two left feet and lack of hand eye coordination." the girl snickered gesturing for you to help her up. "yeah that too." you had no choice but to agree with a grimace, tugging her up and carefully helping her down toward the barrier.

you stood by as she gave a speech, commending the girls on their efforts as your phone buzzed and you looked down with a smile seeing it was a few messages from your girlfriend.

"god you're so in love its disgusting, get a grip!" you glanced back up and pocketed your phone, playfully punching your best friend in the arm as you waited for her to finish speaking with some of her team, having driven her to the game.

"you can tell us all about what we did wrong at training! stop making your poor mate wait around for you to run your mouth." the keeper from the game warned with a grin as she joined the small huddle you were in.

"you were perfect as per usual, only feedback is maybe score from the box next time? make the game a little spicy!" your best friend teased the taller girl who rolled her eyes. "no seriously you played great! that dive in injury time was textbook and that penalty save? world cup stuff." you complimented with a wide smile.

"and she'd know, her girlfriends played in one so thats high praise." your best friend interjected shoving your head playfully. "wait seriously? talk about a dream!" the girl exhaled with a whistle and a grin.

"well then since you clearly have a good eye for talent-" the girl paused to tug off her jersey, handing it to you with a grin before hugging the girls goodbye and heading off. "we best be off to, i'll see you all monday. i'll bring my whistle!" your best friend teased as the girls groaned, you waving goodbye as the two of you headed off to your car.

"i'd be leaving that in the car if you know whats good for you." your best friend nodded to the jersey on your back seat as you pulled a face and started up the car. "what! why?" you laughed as you drove off.

"umm because your girlfriend is a world class keeper and you just took a keepers jersey from someone else." your best friend hinted. "mary won't care! she's all for more girls wanting to be keepers and she loves the womens game." you rolled your eyes as your best friend only hummed, swiftly changing topics.

~

"maz? baby i'm home!" you called out as you let yourself in, unwrapping your scarf and hanging it up on the hook. "two seconds love!" you heard your girlfriend call out from the laundry as you took off your shoes.

"hello beautiful!" the brunette appeared with a grin, placing down a basket of clean laundry on the sofa and opening her arms as you melted into them. "you smell nice." you mumbled into her shoulder making the taller girl laugh.

"ah yes the wonders of soap and shampoo!" the keeper teased, kissing you hello before pulling away. "and she's doing laundry? house wife in the making over here!" you teased, smacking her playfully on the bum with a wink.

"oi! watch it cheeky." mary warned with a point, sitting down on the sofa as you leant over the back of it to peck her lips several times. "whats that babe?" mary noticed the jersey tucked into the back of your pants as you walked into the kitchen.

"oh! well the keeper of saf's team is like insane for the league level they play. i'm serious it could have been like twenty to nothing if she wasn't on her game. we were talking after the game and she gave me her jersey!" you shrugged, dropping the item onto the counter as you rummaged through the fridge, missing the look which crossed your girlfriends face.

"oh? thats nice." mary replied bluntly as you glanced at her with a small frown. "yeah it was." you shrugged it off, grabbing it and tossing it into the dirty basket of laundry.

"how was your afternoon?" you changed topics, grabbing out the stuff to make you and mary a cup of tea. "yeah fine, went shopping with tooney and had to make a last minute excuse to leave because she takes forever! so on the rare chance she asks, you're deathly ill and needed me back home." mary groaned dramatically, head thumping back against the sofa.

"like worse than you and thats saying something!" mary tutted as you made a noise of offence. "hey! if i have to sit in a sports store for two hours while you try on every fucking pair of gloves known to man and then buy none of them, you can carry my bags and sit on a comfy little waiting chair while i try a few outfits." you warned seriously as your girlfriend held her hands up in surrender.

"especially when some of those 'outfits' i spend hours trying on are for you." you hinted, handing her the mug of tea as a smug smile settled on the keepers lips.

"mm yeah we haven't been that sort of shopping for awhile, you free tomorrow baby?" mary grinned wolfishly as you flipped her off and settled into the section of the sofa that wasn't covered in laundry and flicking on the tv.

~

"change, put this on please babe." mary tugged on the bottom of your shirt, dropping a new item of clothing onto your head. "urgh mary!" you huffed, pulling it off and sending her a glare as she grinned at you with a mouthful of toothpaste.

"why do i need to change?" you noticed what she'd given you and asked with a knowing smile. "i don't like that shirt." mary shrugged pointing to your current top with her foot as she sat up on the counter brushing her teeth.

"its your shirt!" you laughed with a shake of your head. "then i want it back, so change." mary ordered, leaning over the sink and spitting. "what if i don't want to wear this?" you egged her on, holding up the jersey inbetween your fingers like it disgusted you.

"then go pick another one, theres about twenty or so in there you can choose from." mary shrugged nodding to her side of the closet where the jerseys she'd chosen to keep over the years hung proudly, rinsing out her mouth and stepping out of the bathroom.

"mmm i actually think i might go put on that jersey from today, saf's team just played so well." you stripped off your top and took a few steps back, watching your girlfriends eyes drop immediately to your chest.

"you know on second thoughts love i actually don't think you need to wear anything at all." you laughed as mary tackled you to the bed, attacking your face with kisses as you squealed and pushed her off. "you hate that i took that girls jersey today don't you?" you moved to sit on top of her with a grin.

"no!" mary rolled her eyes, reaching out for you as you grabbed her hands and pressed them into the mattress. "yes you are, admit it. you hate it, the thought of me wearing someone elses kit!" you teased with a smirk, pressing down her hands harder.

"okay well can you blame me? you're my girlfriend and you wear my jersey. nobody elses!" mary huffed with a frown as you smiled and leant down to kiss away her pout. "you're such a baby, its adorable." you mumbled against her lips.

"i am not! god you're such a wind up." mary pulled her hands free and flipped the two of you, hovering over you now as she ducked her head and started to gently kiss at your neck.

"and tomorrow the washing machine is going to malfunction and that girls jersey will sadly be gone."

[rivetingrosie4]

Sweet Love (Morgan & Family: A Fluff Dump, Pt. 3)

credit to @foundynnel i believe for the edit above

𑁦𐂂𑁦

RDR2 | Arthur Morgan x Female Reader | Rating: General | tumblr masterlist | Ao3 | Part 1 | Part 2

Summary: Part of a modern au (and post gang) fluff dump work. Arthur & reader visit the doctor’s office to see their baby for the first time. Some thoughtless rudeness threatens to derail their happy day. a/n: It’s just imaginary. It’s not real.

Tags: fluff without plot, fluff & angst, romantic fluff, hurt/comfort, protective Arthur, parenthood, mentions of sex, romantic teasing

Word count: 4,250

The paper underneath you rustles as you swing and bounce both feet at the edge of the exam bed by your ankles; but you can’t help it. Never in your wildest dreams did you actually think you’d ever get here.

Yet here you are, with Arthur by your side, filled past the brim with the most effervescent sparkles of nerves and anticipation. To actually see your baby. Your baby. Yours and Arthur’s. No one else’s. The product of your deep and steadfast love. After so very many, many years of so deeply pining, watching almost everyone around you know the precious gifts of their own children and parenthood, it’s finally your turn. Finally. It’s almost too much to hope for and be grateful for, all at once. You never thought you’d ever get here.

Where you lie waiting in the sterile obstetrics room, you glance to look at Arthur. He’s clad in a blue and green plaid lumberjack’s soft flannel. And he’s filled with just as high a mound of bubbly nerves as you—some of the same, but some of a different kind. Anxiety and excitement, longing and terror, all stirred to the beautiful hue of Arthur Morgan’s heart, the only one you know so well. You can tell by the way he labors to silently breathe in, holds it a beat, and purses his lips to produce protruding cheeks as he silently releases, so you might not hear it. By the way he shoves his fingers back through his honey-chestnut locks. By the way he taps the sole of his black leather boot—the pair with the classic western flourish above the toe that you love so much—against the floor’s shining white tile.

You bite your lip against a growing grin and reach to slip your fingers into the natural pocket created by the web of his relaxed hand.

At the contact, he glances to you, and his face immediately relaxes into a knowing smile, eased by familiarity, love, and the renewed comfort you gift to him. His large hand clasps around yours, and his thumb brushes your skin. You join him in a growing smile as you hold onto him right back.

Suddenly there's a knock on the exam room door, and as it opens, all at once the resting butterflies in your belly are spurred to fluttery life again.

You look to the door and sit upright, taking a shallow breath and gently holding it as the doctor walks in. He’s a somewhat older gentleman with graying brown hair.

“Here we are. Good m—” He tilts his wrist and glances at his silver watch. “Well I guess it’s not morning anymore. Sorry to keep you folks waiting.” He sits on a round stool with a black cushion, and its wheels sound out across the tile as he rolls it closer. “I’m Doctor Kellerman. Good to meet you.” He takes your hand by only the fingers and shakes it, then shakes Arthur’s. In the next moment, he’s glancing down to the paperwork on his clipboard. “How we feeling today?”

It takes you a split moment to put into practice the knowledge that you’re the reason everyone in the room is here.

“Oh! I’m feeling fine,” you smile at his downcast face, since he hasn’t looked up from your chart. Your hand instinctively slides forward to rest on your belly, though it doesn’t look much bigger than usual, with the flab you store there. “Fit as I’ve ever been,” you airily chuckle. Looking to Arthur at your side, you smirk. “We’ve been staying as active as we ever were, or maybe even more so.”

“Yeah, it’s been more,” Arthur quietly mumbles with a chuckle in confirmation.

“Getting outside, and eating all the leafy greens, and…takin’ naps when I need to,” you chuckle as if you’ve made a fine joke. “I even got him to do stretches with me every morning!”

The doctor glances up with a genuine smile. “That’s great to hear.” Just as soon, his eyes return to your chart. “I see your last period was…”

“January thirty-first,” you finish for him.

“Ahhh… Valentine’s baby, eh?”

You fight not to warm as you steal a glance at Arthur with a pinched smile. “Guess so.”

“You’ve been trying many years?”

“Just about a year and a half.”

“Thirteen weeks…” he says as he flips a page back and forth, then looks up at you. “You’re in a little later than we usually like.”

As he glances back down, you clarify, “Yes, this was the very soonest they could get us in for our first appointment.”

“I see…” he mumbles.

“But we cleared our schedules for whatever they could give us, the very soonest,” you add, looking to Arthur for a nod, then back to the doctor. “We’re takin’ this baby very seriously. Doin’ everything we can to keep ‘em healthy and happy.”

“That’s great,” he responds with a smile as he finally claps the chart closed and returns it to the counter. “Seems like you’ve got the right mentality,” he says as he turns to wash his hands at the sink. “Keeping yourself as healthy as you can be is a great place to start.”

“Oh yes,” you smile. “I’ve been reading up on everything I can, researching, even watching YouTube videos.” You suddenly gasp a little in excitement. “I saw this one lady on there, she’s always been an avid hiker—and, well, we love to hike too,” you glance to Arthur, whose smirk gradually grows to a grin in conjunction with your eager babbling, though it’s unknown to you after you’ve returned your gaze to the doctor. “And she captures these beautiful videos of her hikes. And now she’s seven months pregnant and still hiking! I could hardly believe it. Of course, she doesn’t manage the big, tasking hikes. And she never ever goes alone!” you assure the doctor. “But because she’s been taking it slow and steady, she’s still hiking! At seven months!”

You grin as you finish your story, though the doctor’s back is still turned to you. “I just think it’s so wonderful. I’d love to be able to do that. Do you think I’ll be able to do that, doctor? Take gentle hikes at seven months?”

“Uh… Maybe ten years ago. But with a geriatric first-time pregnancy?” He tips his head as he switches on the ultrasound machine. “Probably not.”

Just like that, you feel as icy as the vast and empty planes of snow you had experienced with the gang in Colter, some years ago now. The high, craggy ridgelines you’d squinted at from above your wool-lined collar, their peaks untouched by anything but the flakes that fell and gathered in the tors and the winds that yowled and whistled.

Your smile from moments ago softly falters, and your brows slowly pinch up tight. But you fight hard to keep your staggered smile as the tears rush to your eyes.

What was there you could have ever done? How had it ever been a circumstance you’d had any power over, whatsoever? How had it ever been a gift you could manufacture from nothing? If it had been, you would have seized it years ago. How many years had you ached, your hope dwindling as your age grew? And did all those years now mean nothing? How often, how continuously, how deeply had you longed for love of your very own with a partner and children of your own; had longed for just one chance to jump at? Just one single chance? But hadn’t life kept it all far away from you, so far, for so very long?

It was life, nothing but life—this thing that has always simultaneously coursed through you and encased you in its cruel, clamp-like vise. Like a vital coffin.

As Arthur watches you, he recognizes the graciousness and understanding of your trying to maintain a smile through your depth of feeling and hurt, not wanting to be as fragile as you think yourself to be. He knows you to be strong.

It’s why he has to reel back his fury for a few moments, containing it to the single, elongated exhale from his nostrils as he leans toward you across the armrest of your exam bed and gently takes your hands.

Reaching for a box of gloves on the wall, the doctor asks, “You don’t have any allergies to latex or any cosmetic ingredients that you know of, do you?”

You quietly splutter and gulp as you shake your head and muster a calm, normally-toned, “No.”

Another knock on the door.

“Come on in,” the doctor says.

The nurse who brought you back to the room enters.

“They’re wanting to know if or when they need to set her up with an appointment for a future ultrasound,” she says directly to the doctor.

“Oh sure,” the doctor says, beginning to flip a big calendar on his desk as he waves the nurse closer. He murmurs to her in very quiet tones: “It’s advanced maternal age with high risk, elderly primigravida, so we’re gonna wanna do another in about three months.”

You have no recourse but to silently, slowly breathe through an open mouth and swallow repeatedly past the lump in your throat, as your smile finally disappears in full. But Arthur couldn’t be more spellbound or enchanted as he watches the tears remain clung to your eyes, not one trickling down your beautiful cheeks.

“Possibly one additional,” the doctor continues his discussion with the nurse, completely oblivious to the inner struggle to prevail that he’s spurred in you, that no one but Arthur knows you’re conquering. “But we’ll wait to see how the next ultrasound goes, and if both are healthy, she won’t need another.” He points to a square on the calendar. “Barring other appointments, why don’t we do this day?”

The nurse nods and retreats through the door, closing it behind her.

“We’ll have to do abdominal, rather than vaginal, since you’re further along than usual for the first ultrasound,” the doctor says. “All right,” he sighs as he turns to you with a grin. “Ready to get started?”

He’s greeted with your puffy, red eyes that look everywhere else and Arthur’s white-hot, enraged glare, trained dead-center on his forehead. And his smile slides off his face.

The legs of Arthur’s chair squeak against the tile as he abruptly stands. He can’t even be bothered to attempt a kindly mask to hide his fury.

“Doc,” he begins, managing an easy and lighthearted tone for the address that somehow seems more menacing when combined with his fatal expression as he turns him and walks him toward the door. “Why don’t you and I have a little chat.” The terse word is tart and clipped on his tongue. “Out in the hall.”

You watch Arthur’s tall, broad form disappear when he pulls the door closed behind him.

You sit alone in the exam room, waiting.

A few unintelligible words, low and quiet—Arthur’s voice, muffled.

Then the wall is hit hard with something and rattles. Before it can finish shaking, there’s a new acerbic sharpness in Arthur’s raised, growly tone.

You must’ve gasped and jumped a little, and your damp eyelashes still blink with the sudden shock. You might’ve even made out the sound of a panicked, huffed grunt in the midst of whatever happened on the other side of the wall.

After a moment, the image comes to you, very vividly: Arthur suddenly taking the doctor by the collar of his white coat and ramming him up against the wall with a few deadly words, a stern snarl to his lip, and a feral look in his eye.

A prickly, chilled mingling of emotions washes over you—amazement, disbelief, even a bit of near-horrified abashment, and worry that Arthur will receive unfavorable legal repercussions. But there are a few emotions that stand above the others, though you’d initially struggled to decipher their shape and quality. The wondrous stirrings of the deepest love. The warm and enveloping sensations of being protected and cared for. Even desire.

The tiniest twitch of a smile flicks onto one corner of your mouth.

There are several minutes more of quiet—during which your thoughts start to return to the horrendous notion that Arthur could be apprehended for assaulting the doctor—before the door finally reopens and Arthur reappears.

His caustic expression from minutes ago is wiped away. His smile is easy. Relaxed, even. Void of a hint of tenseness or concern.

“Hey, babe,” he says. “Sorry we took a while.”

At the sight of him, and knowing at least part of what he’s done, your mouth quirks and tightens into the kind of little smile you know you shouldn’t be wearing.

As he walks towards you, a slight lean to the side gives you the vantage point to see none other than a completely different, female doctor towing behind him.

Her grin is bright, buoyant, and—somehow, given the circumstances—even completely authentic and natural. Uncoerced.

As Arthur settles in close beside you again, you mumble very quietly from the side of your mouth, “I sincerely hope there won’t be any arrests today…?”

“Nothin’ to worry about, just take it easy and look at the screen,” he mumbles between his teeth in a light, wry tone.

You stifle a chortle behind your nose, imagining what possible kinds of threats Arthur could’ve employed, how dreadfully terrified to his core the doctor must’ve been to not only allow a switch of caregivers, but to willingly and practically forget the whole incident.

“Good afternoon, I’m Doctor Mahajan,” she says warmly, extending a hand. Her handshake is full and comforting in its grasp. “I’ll be conducting your ultrasound today. And before we get started, I want to let you know that, should you remain healthy and well into your third trimester, and should you feel up to it, there’s no reason you couldn’t enjoy healthy activities such as gentle outdoor hikes.”

Like a kid who’s just opened up a new toy, your grin widens as you look at Arthur. His knowing grin is better than a snuggly blanket as he gazes at you and nods once with a wink.

“Always accompanied, of course,” the doctor smiles with a gesture towards Arthur. When she looks back to you, your gaze is pulled to hers in an effort to give polite attention. “You’ve got a good one here, Mrs. Morgan.”

You immediately turn back to Arthur with a warm, enamored, affectionate smile.

Noting the enraptured, desirous way you both gaze at each other right there in the middle of the exam room, the doctor is reminded of something.

“Oh, and um,” she begins, bringing a finger to her lips as if in thought, “another healthy activity during pregnancy is lovemaking.”

You immediately turn to look at her with an inward breath, your smile momentarily wiped away. As an airy laugh comes to you, the others are given reign to chuckle. Chancing a glance at Arthur, you try to hide the smile appearing on your mouth by curling your lips inward and pinching down on them tightly with your teeth.

Arthur is leaned back casually in his chair, his forearm resting over his thigh. When you catch sight of the look on his face—a subtle mixture of gratification and mischievousness all veiled by an attempt at nonchalance—a thought crosses your mind. But it’s too silly to be real.

Then when he meets your eye and fails to prevent the rising smirk at the corner of his lips, you outright gasp.

“You didn’t tell her to say that.”

When he wheezes, you swat him, and he sits up with a snicker.

The doctor chuckles pleasantly. “He may’ve asked me to remind you, but it doesn’t change the truth of it.” While you’re busy continuing to playfully swat him and listening to his snickering that you adore, the doctor continues, “It increases blood flow, stimulates activity inside the womb, lowers blood pressure…” she rattles off, “and keeps you two close, which’ll be very important during such a big life change.”

“There now. Did you hear the good doctor?” Arthur says, trying to force the mirth on his face to smooth. “I’ve got a bonafide prescription to sex you up.”

Though you can’t help but giggle, you keep it murmured low and quiet, like simmering, scratch-made strawberry jam in the base of your throat. “Shh-shh,” you try to quietly scold him.

“I’ve reviewed your chart, so let’s get started, shall we?”

“Oh yes, please!” you return your attention to the doctor.

After gloving up, Doctor Mahajan flips on the ultrasound computer to your right. She asks you to lift your blouse and unbutton your jeans, and she squirts a chilly gel to your belly. You watch as she gently presses the transducer into the gel on your belly, turning and rolling it over your skin.

Your and Arthur’s gazes are transfixed to the screen as fuzzy, meaningless blotches of black and white suddenly play across it. You both simultaneously scramble to reach for each other’s hands, clasping tightly to each other as Arthur takes a full breath and slowly releases it.

The moment you have been waiting for your whole life. Now somehow finally, suddenly here.

The smudgy noise on the screen clears, and there’s your baby. Curled and caressed inside you. Precious and brilliant and beautiful.

Your breath is whisked away. Speechless and taken completely by incredulousness, you turn to look at Arthur with drawn brows. He tries to chuckle to play off his awe, but his breath is caught too.

“There we are,” the doctor quietly says. “Baby Morgan.”

Your gaze is arrested by your baby on the screen. The swooping slope of the curve of their head, ending in a little button for a nose. Arms and legs and feet.

“This fluttery bit here,” the doctor gestures to a point flapping swiftly in the midst of their chest, visually different from everything else. “Baby’s heart.”

Your bottom lip drapes wistfully open, and your eyes are glued as you take in every moment.

“Oh, see, they’re turning on their side, turning back,” the doctor smiles as baby’s limbs disappear for a moment and reappear. “It’s a little too early to tell the baby’s sex, but we should be able to see at your next appointment.”

She takes multiple measurements from head to rump on the screen, to verify your baby’s age and due date.

When the baby appears to give a few little kicks, the three of you quietly chuckle.

“Baby’s brain and sensory input are developing, so this is just a way for them to become more aware of their own body and their environment,” she explains. “It’s a little early now, but you’ll be feeling that before you know it.”

Reaching for a button on the keypad, she says with a reassuring nod, “I’m going to give you about ten seconds of audible heart rate, just to limit the amount of waves baby’s exposed to this early.”

When you both nod, she presses the button. A loud, quick wub-wub fills the room.

You take a breath and whisper, “Oh my God,” looking to Arthur with a faint smile.

Arthur is mystified. A single breathy laugh escapes him, but his expression is totally awestruck.

“Baby’s heart is very robust and healthy,” the doctor smiles.

And yet, Arthur’s is weak. Trembling with trepidation like stalks of overgrown sweet grass swept by ferociously rolling fetches. They have their anchor of earth to cling to. What does he have?

He gazes at the screen, into his baby’s current world of warm womb and peaceful, pocketed embrace. He watches his baby wiggle and kick, each movement so vibrantly charged. He lets his gaze trace his baby’s perfectly precious outline, the slope of their forehead and nose, the flutter of their strong heart. And he is a goner.

It doesn’t matter that he’s petrified his baby could be torn from him again. It doesn’t matter that he’s nervous he’ll screw everything up. He’ll go to the ends of the earth to make sure neither happens. He’ll do whatever needs to be done. He’s ready to dive headfirst into the risk of pain and heartache. Because in an instant, he’s been filled—overwhelmed and overtaken—with enrapturing love. Too big to grasp, too deep and beautiful and mysterious to have edges. A love that calls to attention and demands eager and ardent self-sacrifice. A love that somehow carries with it equal measures of unbridled, airy giddiness and heavy weight. A love that somehow nails to the beams of a parent’s life both an assured unworthiness and a boundless, indescribable gratefulness.

Because he is already so desperately, limitlessly in love with his child. Your child. Together.

You turn to the screen again and watch your baby move and bow and kick.

Your baby. Yours and Arthur’s. You’re not watching a video of someone else’s baby. You’re not dreaming and imagining. This is your baby. Your. Baby.

In these few instants that seem like hours, the face of your whole world and life and being have eclipsed and shifted. You’re completely overwhelmed. With love and joy—not at all more than what you have for Arthur, but different. It fills and quickens and overtakes you. So much that it almost hurts. So deep and resounding that it propels a new purpose and a new drive within you. So sweet and so precious that if you’d been standing, it undoubtedly would’ve brought you all the way to your knees.

“Baby.” You breathe it as you reach out and touch the flat surface of the screen, swiping your fingertips over the outlines and substance of your child’s precious form.

The culmination of your life’s dearest, deepest hopes and dreams and desperate longings. The manifestation of your and Arthur’s love. There, on the screen. But not on the screen.

“Oh-” You chuckle at yourself and sniffle as you bring your hand to your belly, above where the transducer meets your skin. For the screen only shows you what you can’t see inside.

Inside you.

Of all people, you. Finally you. Finally, your very own baby.

Arthur can almost read your thoughts as he watches your eyes redden and your face crumple like newspaper, sift like sand. And now, there are your tears. Overflowing and pouring down your cheeks in flooded streams. Not one allowed for the asinine doctor; whole oceans given for your child.

God, how he loves you. Didn’t think he could possibly love you any more, and yet, here it is. You are his anchor. He doesn’t need any other. And he is yours.

Wordless, you gasp and sputter and hiccup as the tears flow down both sides of your face in rivulets, dripping one after the other from your jaw.

Arthur thumbs the back of your hand, not offering you a tissue or requiring you to stop or hide your tears. He understands.

It’s another few minutes of enjoying your baby’s tumbling movements on the screen, before your tears finally slow and dry.

When you approach the jeep in the parking lot, you’re still awed and glowing with it, and almost wracked to fatigue by its powerfully engulfing wave—this love.

As you slip your hand into the jeep’s door handle, your thoughts turn to the man you love just as much, if not more. You couldn’t have thought it possible, but somehow your heart has expanded to accommodate all this added and immeasurable love.

Arthur bought the hunter green jeep as soon as he’d found out you were pregnant. ‘More of a family car,’ he’d said. Of course, that was nine weeks ago, and the jeep has already seen plenty of proper use—the splashes of dark mud above its tires from rugged, off-road terrain a clear sign of that.

You both climb up into your seats and fall into a natural rhythm of quiet breath after the jingle of the keys when Arthur leaves them in the ignition.

He looks over at you and watches your stunning face as you gaze forward, contentedly and placidly lost in your thoughts. To him, you’re made even more pricelessly, sweetly beautiful by the person you are.

“‘M proud of you,” he quietly muses.

You look back at him and start to smile. Out of all the things he could say first, that’s what he’s chosen.

“That was our baby,” he says, the low gravel in his voice now silken. “Just…”

“Amazing,” you say together.

You nod with a misty smile and gaze down at your belly before gazing forward through the windshield again.

He reaches for your hand and brings it to his mouth. “I’m gonna take you home and make sweet,” he presses a kiss to the segments of your fingers, “sweet,” another kiss to your fingers, “sweet love to you.” With that, he kisses the back of your hand. “Mama.”

You simply turn to look at him with a growing, winsome smile. His eyes flit up to yours in the midst of a kiss. It’s the very first time in your life anyone has ever called you that.

“All day and all night. And you best just get used to it.” He gently returns your hand to the seat and starts the car.

Your smile brightens to radiant.

“Sorry, darlin’,” he says with the glint of a wink. “Doctor’s orders.”

[kisavatore]

Goth/Alt cc finds part 4-Shoes

Shoes

Heels Boots | Mid Boots | Ranger Boots | Samara Shoes | Tanya Boots Round Toe Embellished Rivets Platforms | Dr.martens Jadon Platform Boots Platform Boots | Platform Docs | Platform Ankle Boots | Leather Platform Oxford Obsidian Collection | Rose Battefield | Alecta Boots | Charm Duo Pack Dusk Diva Boots | Temptress Shoes | Valeria Shoes | Leather High Boots Halloween Boots | Shoes pack 39 | Shoes pack 47 | Shoes pack 63 Pitch black shoes | Echo Boots | Fate Boots | Fear Boots | High Boots Moon Boots | Kohaku Boots | Resentment Shoes | Remedy Shoes Marci Boots | Drella Heels | Rini Boots | Studded Platform Heels Staple Leather Sandals | Tech Boots | Dani Boots | Loafers Platform Shoes | Leather Boots | Heartbreaker Loafers | Mei Buckle Boots Ankle Boots | Spiky Boots | No Mercy Boots | Rush Hour Platform Boots Shatter Boots | Thunderous Boots | Vlad Boots | Platform Shoes

PT.1 | PT2. | PT.3 | PT.4 | PT.5

[nametakensff]

Cat For Grabs (D/isco E/lysium) (M)

Okay, here is 4.3k of cat allergy K/im K/itsuragi because why the fuck not 🐈‍⬛️💞

J/ean and K/im arrive on scene at a murder, where the victim's pet cat takes a particular liking to K/im. Allergic misery ensues

(Set in the kind of AU I've cobbled together where H/arry and K/im are an item, maybe like 8 months post M/artinaise. They hook up with J/ean regularly)

~~~~~

Content:

M/M/M mentioned and ongoing but mostly in the bg, cat allergy sneezes, spray, handkerchiefs, rapid sneezes, stifles, nose blows, mentions of anal sex, mentions of hay fever sneezes, mentions of blowjobs, H/arry has a sneezing fetish (but he isn't here), J/ean and K/im flirt a lot

CW: Graphic descriptions of a dead body at a crime scene, K/im performs a brief autopsy, mentions of gun violence, they are cops so you know. Just doing cop things

NSFW - Minors DNI!

Jean was the first to arrive on the scene, alone. Absolutely not ideal – he was at real risk of danger if the shooter – or multiple shooters – were still on the property. The precinct was in absolute maelstrom - an unprecedented amount of crime this week, even for Jamrock. Jean had driven here by himself once he realised Harry was entirely incapacitated. He’d fixed him a look of annoyance until the older man had returned it with a look of his own that said ‘please don’t be mad at me, I’m drowning.’

Jean had sent out a general radio request for backup to any nearby officers for this apparent shooting, which had taken place in a fairly quiet and respectable part of town. He’d been grateful to hear Kim’s confirmation that he would be there within minutes, as well as some other patrol officers affirming the same. Jean should have waited outside, perhaps, but he had a gut feeling as he pulled up to the small, bungalow-style apartment that it was empty. A quick search with his gun held steadily in front of him confirmed that he was entirely alone.

Unless you counted the gory remains of the sole resident splayed out on the kitchen floor.

“Well.” He said to the corpse, nudging its ankle with the toe of his boot. “You’re certainly very dead.”

The metallic scent of blood in the air was overwhelming. An even more overwhelming and unpleasant scent of sewage indicated that the bullets littering the torso of the corpse had also passed through the colon multiple times. Jean wrinkled his nose and covered it with his hand. He almost wished his hay fever was still hindering his ability to smell.

But god, this was a bloody, violent murder. The surrounding cabinets were littered with bullet holes that appeared to have been sprayed in wide arcs across the room indiscriminately. It had to be the work of an automatic weapon. Jean spared another glance at the corpse, then made his way back into the living room. Poor guy didn’t stand a chance.

He thought it better to wait for Kim to perform a conclusive field autopsy. He didn’t want to leave himself distracted and vulnerable to any potential attacks by performing one alone now. And, if Jean was being honest with himself, Kim had a stronger stomach for corpses - perhaps thanks to his time and experience in Processing - and a markedly weaker sense of smell. He glanced at his watch. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.

He peered round the room. It always felt intrusive entering people’s apartments like this if he had spare time to overthink. This particular home was exceptionally drab; hardly any items or photographs to indicate personality or interests. Just ugly greys and browns and lumpy furniture. There were a few books stacked on a coffee table, but their covers looked just as banal as everything else.

A sudden shuffling sound to his left made Jean jump and reach for his gun. He looked round frantically, cursing himself and half expecting to see some crazed gunman crouched behind one of the armchairs, ready to mow him down like the man in the kitchen. Thank the lord, he did not. What he did see, however, was a visibly well-fed cat with thick black fur emerging from underneath a nearby bookshelf. Heart beating wildly in his chest, he let out a long sigh of relief and regarded the doddering approach of the supremely rotund animal. Come to think of it, he had noticed a litter-box in the bathroom.

The cat slumped at his feet, looking incredibly at ease and not at all as if its owner’s bullet-riddled corpse was resting in a pool of his own red-black blood just one room over. It mewed at him, butting his boot with its head before rolling onto its side. Jean couldn’t resist kneeling down and getting closer. He scratched gently behind an ear and smiled as the tip of a little white fang stuck out of the cat’s closed mouth, giving it an endearingly goofy appearance. A small blue collar was secured round its neck (no bell, just his luck) with a metal nametag hanging from a loop of metal. He lifted the tag up with his thumb and forefinger to examine it.

“’Beau’.” He read the name out loud. “Well, you are a handsome boy, aren’t you?” He cooed down at it, stroking it from head to tail once it was clear he wouldn’t be leaving the encounter in receipt of a mauling.

Around thirty seconds later, he could hear the familiar rumble of an approaching Coupris motor car. He kept his hand on his gun just in case, allowing his arm to drop to his side when Kim made his way through the living room door, gun outstretched before him. His orange bomber jacket was a sight for sore eyes against the surrounding bleak topography. Once Kim spotted Jean on the floor looking back up at him, he lowered his own gun in relief.

“My apologies, Detective Vicquemare – I came as fast as I could, there was some congestion nearby.” He peered at the cat for a moment, then back at Jean’s face. “The premises is secure, correct?”

“Would I be on my knees playing with a cat if it wasn’t?” Jean muttered, scratching under the cat’s little chin and smiling in adoration as it closed its eyes in pleasure. “We have a single body, in the kitchen.”

Kim nodded, holstering his weapon and scanning the living room with a perfunctory glance. The cat shifted under Jean’s broad palm, turning to face the source of this most recent disturbance. The second the lethargic feline lay eyes on Kim, it jumped to its feet and strode away from Jean and towards the Lieutenant, tail raised high. Kim froze in his tracks and glanced down in what looked to Jean like mild dismay as it drew closer. The cat began without a moment’s hesitation to wind itself lovingly between Kim’s ankles, nuzzling into his legs and pressing every inch of itself against him. It meowed loudly between little rumbles and purrs.

Jean couldn’t deny that it was both an endearing and amusing sight. The cat had certainly been friendly enough to accept his pets, but for whatever reason, it appeared to be especially enamoured with Kim. He didn’t think the feeling was reciprocated; Kim lifted an ankle, tsking as the cat, instead of moving away as intended, reached up with its front paws until Kim put the foot back down. It then resumed its figure 8 of adoration whilst Kim looked down in a gentle kind of exasperation.

“He really likes you.” Jean smiled at Kim, getting to his feet and brushing cat hair from the knees of his uniform.

“I can see that.” Kim did smile softly then, regarding the happy little creature, but made no move to reach down and stroke it. If Jean had been on the receiving end of that magnitude of love from a cat, he would have scooped it up into his arms in seconds.

“Not a fan of cats?”                     

Kim looked up at him for a moment, then back down at the cat, frowning slightly as it increased the intensity of both its purring and nudging.

“It’s not that. I like them well enough. It’s j-just…!”

His breath wavered, and Jean watched as he brought a gloved fist up to his face. He recognised the desperation of the pre-sneeze expression on the Lieutenant, and patiently waited for him to finish. Under normal circumstances and with anybody else, he probably would have looked away for the sake of the other person’s dignity - but he’d seen Kim sneeze more than enough times in extremely abnormal circumstances to bother with any pretence.

He didn’t share Harry’s interest in sneezing in quite the same way, but there was an element of enjoyment in watching Kim fall apart. No matter how he sliced it, he couldn’t deny the analogous nature of sneezing and orgasming; Harry had long since hammered that into him. And so, he watched with a certain degree of appreciation as Kim’s eyebrows drew up and his jaw fell open in surrender, before his entire expression cinched tight, the tickle cresting.

“Hh! Hh’gxkt! Ng’xt! Hh’Ddtch!! NGxt’tsziew!”

They were quiet, polite and almost perfectly restrained – much like the Lieutenant himself. Both he and Kim were prone to multiple sneezes, but it seemed to take a lot more out of the older man to strangle them into submission. Jean had always sneezed in small, ticklish fits that rarely resolved the irritation without multiple repetitions. Every now and then he was prone to a more productive and vigorous sneeze, especially following prolonged attacks that forced him to take in a final, desperate gasp of oxygen to round off the fit. It didn’t make too much of a difference to him physically whether he stifled them into silent little shivers or not. It honestly depended on company whether he would bother.

He wasn’t sure why Kim bothered holding back when it was just the two of them. He’d save himself a lot of congestion and sniffling down the line if he let those sneezes out now - Jean could honestly say he knew that from numerous past observations. But he wouldn’t mention it - it was best to leave Kim alone and let him do what he wanted. He was a bit of a control freak – not that Jean could really fault him for that, being a stubborn ass himself – so there was no point in nagging him. He himself hated when others commented on his frequent and persistent sneezing, especially when his allergies were killing him. Most of the Major Crimes unit now knew to leave him well alone, particularly on his most miserable – and therefore volatile – hay fever days.

With the exception of Harry, of course. In a completely inconvenient and Pavlovian fashion, he had almost come to associate his hay fever with sexual gratification. Both he and Harry knew his initial rejections of Harry’s advances were merely for show, and a matter of pride. Every time his superior officer would sidle up to him and suggest they find some privacy, he would eventually break and let the older man fuck him, or suck his cock. He may as well get an orgasm out of the endless torture that plagued him throughout late spring and summer. It wasn’t even that bad, being fucked and sneezing your head off at the same time. Aggravatingly, if he were to be honest, it was actually rather fun. He supposed he was more or less an expert at this point.

Kim was more recently initiated into the whole fucking and sneezing thing. For what it was worth, he seemed like a perfectly kinky motherfucker who enjoyed watching Harry squirm. And there was almost no better way to do that than to tease him with this fetish, which Kim took to like a duck in water. Jean had to admit whenever the three of them fucked around and Harry inevitably begged to be indulged, it was reassuring – and very fun – to know that they had the numbers against him. Brothers in arms. God, what a life.

Kim lowered his fist with a shaky exhale, looking worn out by the onslaught for just a moment before his regular placid countenance was restored. His nostrils flared briefly with an audibly damp sniffle.

“À tes souhaits.” Jean offered.

“Merci.”

Kim looked up at him and flashed him a sheepish sort of ‘haha. Look at us. Sneezing in the wild’ conspiratorial glance. Jean smirked at him.

“As I was saying. I don’t dislike cats. I just dislike that they tend to make me sneeze.”

Jean nodded and looked round at the flat. Cat hair covered most surfaces, if only sparsely. A beam of sunlight coming through one of the narrow windows illuminated a few stray hairs dancing round on the currents of air. He winced a little in sympathy. The sight even made his own nose tickle a little; he subconsciously reached up to rub the side of it with a crooked finger.

“You’re shit out of luck, then. It’s cat hair heaven in here.”

Kim sighed wearily, accepting his fate. As if picking up at last on Kim’s less-than-satisfied state of being, the cat paused in its motions to drape itself over the toes of Kim’s boots and glance up at him with a sweet ‘Mroww’, which Jean could swear lilted up in pitch as if to question the Lieutenant. Kim looked down at the cat with soft eyes.

“It’s not your fault, little one. Don’t worry.”

He hesitated for a moment before reaching down and gingerly stroking the top of the cat’s head with a gloved hand. It was an awkward and brief motion; he pulled back before the cat could nuzzle its docile head into his palm. Both Jean and Kim watched as even the minor scritches unearthed a tiny cloud of soft black fur. Kim jerked upright almost violently, and Jean had to stifle a laugh.

“I’ll be paying for that in a while,” Kim sighed again, rolling a pair of black nitrile gloves over his leather ones with a pleasing snap. He gently shifted the cat off the toes of his boots one foot at a time; it went easily, seemingly exhausted by its own outpouring of affection and allowing itself to sink into the carpet like a puddle of fur. It really was a lazy motherfucker. Jean was quite in love with it.

“Excusez-moi.” Kim muttered as he stepped over the liquid pile of cat, purring happily in its heap.

He looked up at Jean as he made his way over, doing a small double-take as he noticed the way Jean was beaming at him.

“What?” His lips quirked up ever so subtly, thankfully taking the taller officer’s grin in good humour.

“Nothing. You’re just cute with animals. Awkward.”

Kim just smiled at him, warmly.  

“I should really get to work.” He said, moving past Jean into the kitchen. “In here, you said?”

“Yep.” Jean followed behind him. He could see that the numerous rotations the cat had made around Kim’s legs had deposited a great deal of soft black fur sticking to the camo. He would help Kim get rid of it all before he got back into his MC. He watched as Kim knelt next to the body, careful to avoid the coagulating puddle of blood that spread outwards on the cheap linoleum floor.

“Have you had a chance to examine the victim?” Kim ran his hand over the chest of the body – it was practically shredded through with bullet wounds. He performed a brief ‘Stations of the Breath’ ritual before resuming his inspection.

“Not extensively, but enough to see all of this.” Jean gestured to the wounds and the endless shards of glass spanning the ground. “Looks like he was shot through the window with an automatic rifle. He fell onto the glass, and some of it is implanted following the initial explosion of the window shattering. Most of, but not all of the blood is from the bullet wounds.”

Kim nodded, inspecting the body more thoroughly. Jean continued.

“He looks to have died around the time that gunshots were reported forty-five minutes ago. Definitely not long enough for his cat to start eating his face.”

Kim wrinkled his nose at that, uttering a small sound of disgust.

“Gross.”

“Not as gross as this mess.”

Kim nodded his head in grim recognition. He dictated notes to Jean as he conducted the examination but couldn’t find anything counter to Jean’s initial conclusions. The cause of death and injuries to the body were easily explained. The reason for this extremely violent murder – not so much. Kim extracted a wallet and driver’s license from the victim’s jeans – not a name or face either of them were familiar with from any ongoing gang related investigations.

“This was overkill.” Kim murmured, righting himself and removing the nitrile gloves. “Far too extreme for a run-of-the-mill civilian.”

“I agree.” Jean nodded. “Since the shots are from outside, and I can see no sign of disturbance inside the apartment, it doesn’t look like a break-in or burglary. I – oh.”

He paused, noticing the slight sneer Kim was wearing as he fought off another allergic tickle, nostrils flared wide. He was wildly unsuccessful, whipping round and into the raised collar of his bomber jacket seconds later with a violent series of sneezes.

“HdDDZT’Tzshieww!! Hgkt’tsh!! ‘TTSCH’uu!!”

The first one burst out of him in angry, dizzying rush of spray through teeth clenched just a moment too late to provide any effective suppression.  The next two he managed to bite down on, barely, shoulders jumping under the pressure. Jean reached out to grab him firmly by the bicep as he shook, threatening to unbalance himself and, heaven forbid, topple down onto or next to the corpse. Though not remarkably loud, the sneezes were forceful and audibly desperate. The smaller man sighed once he was done, and Jean released his arm.

“Bless you!” He offered, a little impressed by the display. He imagined Harry would have jizzed on the spot.

“Ughh, Merci. Désolé.” Kim replied, sniffling and blinking one itching eye shut. A single tear of irritation started a slow descent down his cheek. Jean reached under the frame of Kim’s glasses and swiped it away with his thumb on a whim, before realising he had been petting Beau with that same hand. He felt relieved when Kim didn’t fight him on it, perhaps not even realising his mistake.

“Carry on, detective.”

Jean continued to explain his theory surrounding the murder whilst Kim pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief and tended first to his bleary eyes, then to his twitching, irritated nostrils. The skin on their rims was left slightly pinkened after some uncharacteristically rough manhandling. He must be more allergic than he let on, Jean thought, and began leading the pair of them out of the apartment.

He jumped when in the living room Kim jerked forward with another desperate fit, halting their progression and eliciting a sudden, loud meow from Beau. Said cat watched on with expressionless green eyes from his position stretched out on the sun-warmed carpet as Kim shuddered, sneezing into the hastily raised cover of his elbow.

“Hh’GXTSsshhh!! ‘GXT’Tchieww!! HDd’TZSchh!! ‘TSCH’oo! Ahh, mon dieu.”

These sneezes were particularly viscious, wrenching themselves out of Kim and leaving him bleary-eyed and shaky in the aftermath.

“God, Kim. Bless you.” Jean offered, his hand rubbing absently at the small of the Lieutenant’s back.

“Thang’k you. Let’s go.” Kim said, snuffling into his handkerchief and walking out through the front door without a second to spare. Jean cast a glance at the cat, mewling again as its beloved Lieutenant marched away, and followed him out of the door without a word.

“Hmm. No known or suspected connections to any street gangs or drug cartels. He may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Seen something he shouldn’t have.” Kim offered as they leant against the wall of the building. He blew his nose softly. It didn’t sound at all productive as his sinuses started to swell. “Somebody meant to silence him.”

“Maybe.” Jean took a drag on his cigarette. “But the MO is unlike any of the regular gangs in this area. I mean, a machine gun?? For one unarmed guy, at home? It’s too messy, outlandish and loud – in other words, way too risky.”

Kim nodded and paused for a moment. Jean wondered if he was going to sneeze again, but he spoke up after a beat.

“There…was another murder, a few months ago – on the other side of Jamrock, with fatal injuries confirmed to have been sustained via an automatic rifle. I’ll have to check, but the circumstances are shockingly similar. That victim also had no apparent connections to any gangs, or a previous criminal record.”

Jean made a small noise of recognition. He remembered, now – the case was still ongoing. It had intrigued both Harry and himself, but had been brushed aside as several more inflammatory and pressing cases had arisen. They’d passed it off onto some junior officers that had recently joined the Major Crimes unit, enticed by Harry’s newfound sobriety and the assurance of Kim’s fastidiousness. He would be taking that case right on back.

“That was also a murder in a residential area – some kids say they saw somebody hop a fence but couldn’t give us any more details.”

Kim looked up at him, nodding. He scrawled a couple of notes in his notebook before slipping it back into his pocket.

“We should look into that. It’s not much to go from and the cases appear unrelated, bar these few details but – we can’t afford to write it off. They’re both too irregular.”

Jean put out his cigarette on the wall next to him, ignoring Kim’s look of disapproval.

“Right. I’ll call in to the station and update them.” He looked at his watch in annoyance. “There were supposed to be more officers on the scene twenty minutes ago. Where the fuck are they?”

“Before I left the station earlier it seemed frantic – I think it’s just a particularly bad day.”

Jean grumbled but conceded. The entire reason he had arrived alone and Kim had joined him en route from another crime scene was because Harry was buried with the recent influx of crime on top of the years of unprocessed paperwork. He knew that. To Harry’s credit, he had cut down the latter a significant amount, despite the slow and confusing process of dealing with his memory returning in sporadic and often extremely stressful bursts. Jean was secretly very proud of him, if he even had any right to be.

“We need to get in contact with the victim’s relatives, if any – can you do that?” Kim asked, sounding a little shaky as he finished. Jean turned to watch him shudder into a fairly rapid-fire quadruple of sneezes.

“hh’dztch-T’zschh-Tschht! Huh-!! AESSCH’uu-!! Merde!”

He had sneezed entirely uncovered and straight out in front of him. Jean pretended not to notice the resultant light aerosol that hung in the air for a fleeting moment, glittering in the late morning sunlight. Kim clapped a hand to his face immediately afterwards as if suddenly remembering he was on public display, sighing into the leather of his glove.

“Bien sûr.” Jean answered. “And bless you, again. You’re starting to sound like I did over summer.”

Kim replaced his hand with his handkerchief, scrubbing at his pink nostrils through the soft cotton. He pushed his jostled glasses back up his nose when he was done.

“Thank you. Fucking cat hair.”

Jean smiled and lit another cigarette. It was always delightful to hear the Lieutenant drop an F bomb. He and Harry were clearly rubbing off on him.

“I’ll sort out the family – and once the other chuckle-fucks arrive, we can start questioning witnesses and get the body taken to the morgue.” Jean offered.

“Good. I need to head back to the station and submit some reports – I can relay what we’ve discussed here to Harry.”

“Great.” Jean exhaled heavily, thankful for the soothing rush of nicotine. He’d seen enough dead bodies this week to last anybody a lifetime – Kim probably twice as much. But c’est la vie. There was always another body.

“Can you wait until the cavalry arrives?” Jean asked him. “I know things are fucking batshit insane right now and you’re needed elsewhere but I’d rather not be the only officer here.” He looked pointedly at the surrounding houses and the curious faces lingering in the windows. More pressing than warding off curious bystanders, however, was the very real risk of the murderer returning to the scene and spraying him dead with bullets.

“Of course.” Kim patted his arm. “You should never have been here alone – I’m sorry I didn’t get here faster.”

“Thanks.”

They spent a couple of minutes in companionable silence, interrupted only by another small fit of sneezes from Kim and an emphatic blessing from Jean whilst they listened out for the sound of approaching sirens. Kim sniffled a couple of times while Jean was working on his third cigarette, audibly stuffed up. Jean said nothing. Harry would be fretting over Kim more than enough once he got back to the station, anyway.

“Hopefully the victim has family that can take on the cat.” Kim broke the silence.

Jean beamed at him.

“His collar said his name was ‘Beau’. You sure you don’t want to adopt him?” He smirked around his cigarette.

“Funny.” Kim deadpanned. He was struggling to pronounce his ‘n’s around the congestion.

“Maybe I’ll take him.” Jean teased. “He’s a cutie. And then he can visit you.”

“That would mark both the end of our friendship and my capacity to engage with you on any level beyond professional.”

Jean laughed.

“You’re no fun.”

“That’s not entirely true.” Kim smiled at him, voice low and flirtatious. “Don’t you dare let Harry know that a cat is up for grabs. Contrary to what I let him get away with, I do like being able to breathe through my nose.”

“Something I’ve discovered,” Jean took a drag on his cigarette before continuing. “Is that orgasms are actually pretty effective as a decongestant.” His eyes glittered as he looked over at Kim.

“Good to know.” Kim returned that look with an equally mischievous glance from behind the thick lenses of his glasses. “But I think I’ll leave Beau out of this arrangement. Three is already a crowd.”

Jean choked on his latest puff of smoke, laughing and coughing in turn. Kim looked incredibly pleased with himself.

“Compose yourself, officer. This is a crime scene.”

Jean wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of one eye.

“Yes sir.”

[powderblueblood]

a cat is only itself

eddie helps lacy process the death of a friend he didn't know she had. a/n: this ficlet is completely self-indulgent and an effort in processing grief. last night, i lost my young cat in a cruel and tragic accident. she would have turned 3 this week. i wanted to write something that would help me process all that happened that night and anchor my love for her. i do not know what to do with all the love i have for her, so i put some of it in here. this is for fran. i love you forever. cw: dead dove, extreme TW for pet death, animal suffering, description of animals in pain, strong language and implied driving under intoxication i guess, classic edlacy banter, angst, yearning. this takes place in that nebulous just friends part of the hellfire & ice timeline. but who knows. this is kind of flung out of time and space. no one is under any obligation to read this as i know the subject matter is heavy. it was heavy to write it. thank you if you do though. wc: 5.7k part of the hellfire & ice universe

The day she came began as unremarkably as the day she went. 

Lacy’s boots were biting her–as in, chomping at her toes, due to them being both a touch too tight (doesn’t matter, too gorgeous to leave them behind in the thrift store) and her tights being a touch too thin. An unseasonal frost was creeping in and she’d elected to walk home and not get a backache in the library chairs while she waited for Eddie and Ronnie to finish up with another bottomless Hellfire session.

Rounding her part of the trailer park, she spied movement up by the raggedy chainlink fence. It seemed as if the equally raggedy Mayfield mutt was being bothered by something. A flash of iridescent eyes in her direction and Lacy saw that it was a little black kitten, no bigger than a cantaloupe, swiping at the dog’s nose. Her little eyes locked on Lacy’s little eyes, Lacy huffing out a steamy puff of laughter. That thing was so small, yet it was putting more anxiety on that Mayfield dog than SAT prep put on Nancy Wheeler. 

A flash–the cat darted straight to her, circling and dodging around her ankles. Lacy tried to pick her head up, ignore the little bother, but, y’know. Kittens. There’s no saying no to them, especially if they’re uncharacteristically insistent. 

Cats usually have a decent sense of boundaries, which is why Lacy was shocked that this little thing dashed into her trailer ahead of her. Tail up, making a beeline straight to her bedroom. 

She hopped upon Lacy’s dinky excuse for a double bed, making a seat for herself on a cozy tartan scarf Lacy had earlier discarded when dressing for school.   

“Hey… hey. You can’t be in here!” Lacy tried her best to shoo the cat out her open window, but there’s no moving her at all. 

They spent the rest of the night just staring warily at one another, a Marianne Faithfull record spinning lowly in the background. 

The next day, Lacy found flea shampoo in Melvald’s and washed the kitten in the bathroom sink in the dead of night. The little thing squirmed, a living sudball, biting but not harsh enough to break skin. 

“Cat, don’t be a difficult child!” Lacy hissed to her, rinsing out the bubbles so her fur was clean and flea-free, “We’ll wake up Gloriana de Vil, and then she’ll have you for a coin purse. You wouldn’t like that, huh? No?" Her voice slid into babyfied territory, her usual reserve no match for this tiny creature. "No, my little thing?”

The cat, gleefully ruffled through a towel, woke up fresh and shiny the next morning in the crook behind Lacy’s knees.

And that same day, Lacy passed the junk shop on the way to the Bookstore. In the window, she spotted a little leather band with a diamante heart. Just about big enough for a collar.

Every night, the cat scratched on Lacy’s window, seemingly knowing when Gloriana’s Valium would hit and she’d be safe to snuggle in beside her new companion. In the morning, she would sit on Lacy’s dressing table to watch her get ready for school, or for work, or once, a matinee engagement at the Hawk with one Eddie Munson. They were showing Excalibur, and Eddie fucking begged. 

Lacy had picked out these dangly earrings that the cat was fascinated by, jumping on her shoulder to bite at the swinging creatures. Lacy had been so preoccupied with humoring the cat that she hadn’t even noticed Eddie watching them through her open bedroom window– but the cat did. She scarpered out upon seeing him, diving into the hollow space under the Doevski trailer’s tiny porch. 

She watched Eddie with shining green eyes, all that could be seen under the clapboard. 

“Who’s the familiar?” Eddie asked, propping the van door open for Lacy. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” came the coy reply. “Come on, we’ll miss the previews.” 

It’s not that Lacy kept the cat a secret on purpose. It’s just that… she loved what they shared. Just the two of them. She'd had so much dirty laundry aired, it was good to have something just her own.

—

The day she went begins as unremarkable as the day she came.

It’s a Saturday evening, a thick, hot greyness hanging over the sky. Lacy’s languishing in her bedroom on a rare day of doing next to nothing, because it’s too humid to even attempt. She has her window open, half expecting company but half not. Her fountain pen trails idly on the paper stock of her journal. Nothing much worth writing down when the air feels this sluggish. 

Bang, bang, bang!

Someone’s door is getting a hammering. 

Bang, bang!

Must be the Munson’s. 

Little close, though. 

She heaves herself off the carpet to go check it out, opening the door to a breathless young redhead. Max Mayfield, Hargrove’s stepsister. 

“Can I–”

“That– that little black cat, with the collar? The heart collar? She’s yours, right?”

Oh, here we go. Lacy crosses her arms, bracing for the whole, your bitch cat scratched my dog bit. “Why?”

“She just… someone hit her with a car. Up the lot.” Max breathes hard through her nose. She’d run here. That strikes lacy, the pink bloom under her freckled cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Lacy’s neck suddenly feels very stiff. “Wh–what do you mean?”

“Come on. Come with me. Will you just come with me?”

Max’s sweaty hand links with Lacy’s paper dry palm and she drags her up the lot. This is the way I go to Ronnie’s place, Lacy idly thinks as her legs struggle to keep up with Max’s. Standing around with the bound arms of grown-ups raptured by impotence are Max Mayfield’s mother, that lady Nita who does Ronnie’s hair and Carl, the grizzled trailer park manager. 

In the middle of the loose gravel and sprouting grass is the little black cat. She is on the ground, and she is gasping. Wheezing. Skinned at the side of her tiny face, teeth missing. The diamante heart she wears glitters against the loose gravel. The blood glitters against the diamante. 

“Oh. Oh. Cat.” Lacy’s voice sounds as if it’s folded up in her throat. It feels that way. She doesn’t know what to do with her limbs. She doesn’t know where to step. 

“Honey, I’m so sorry,” the Mayfield mom says.

“Some asshole just came roaring out of here, didn’t even… didn’t even stop,” Carl nods gravely.  

“Nita’s cousin is a veterinary nurse. She’s on the way,” Max tells Lacy, level-headed and soberly. She is still holding her hand. Lacy notices the rough grey dog sitting close by. She stares at him, hazy-eyed, and he whines. His head drops to his two front paws and Lacy feels lightheaded.

“He tried to help,” Max says.

She feels her knees bend but does not register her brain telling her body to get on the ground. Cat is wheezing, wheezing, a high whine in her little cat throat that nearly makes Lacy echo it. She shouldn’t be out here. Who hit her? She shouldn’t be out here, she’s probably cold. She’s probably uncomfortable. 

“Can I please take her home, please?” Lacy asks in about as level a voice as she can muster, which is not very.

“It’s best not to move her, hon. She’s very hurt.” Nita, in her bright shell suit, kneels beside her on the ground. A little speck of blood gets on the fluorescent lilac of her pant leg and Lacy’s breath shortens.

“She is… she’s very hurt,” she whispers, half-reaching for the little feline, half-recoiling, “Oh, Jesus. You’re very hurt. You’re very hurt, Cat. Poor Cat.”

Nita hugs her, which she doesn’t know how to respond to, except to stiffly thank her and vaguely gesture to her stained knee. 

Nita’s cousin arrives in a shiny blue Sedan, and they help her safely move Cat back to Lacy’s trailer. She is nestled in a towel with a faded print of Minnie Mouse on it, and they put her up on the Formica table where Lacy and her mother never meet for a meal. A quick flash of fear that her blood might stain the tabletop is soon killed by the sound that poor Cat makes. 

On the left side of her face, her beautiful green eye is reddened. 

A hard tangy smell wedges itself deep in Lacy’s nose and she doesn’t blink for a long, long time. 

Nita’s cousin, the veterinary nurse, a woman with a terrifically soothing voice who she thinks is called Stacie, checks the cat’s vitals. It’s very quickly assessed– too much damage. Spinal. Abdominal. That’s where all that blood is coming from. Paw crushed. She’s still making that terrible wheezing noise. 

Rage against the dying of the light comes to mind and Lacy wants to hit herself. Not this. Not sentiment. Not now.

Cat hangs on til the bitter end.

“How old is she?” Max asks, her voice either very quiet or very far away. Lacy cannot tell.

“I don’t– I don’t know. I don’t know.” Lacy looks to the lovely, warm-voiced woman who could be called Stacie. “How old is she?”

“She's very little. Can’t even say she’s reached her first birthday, hon.”

Lacy feels sick, and sicker, and sicker. Tunnel vision shows her nothing but the cat, once with the highest trilling meow, sputtering. 

Cat reaches her paw out to Lacy a final time, and she lets go.

Lacy tearfully exhales a noise she’s never heard herself make before, and asks everyone to please, please wait. Please. 

They wrap Cat in the tartan scarf. 

Max hovers near Lacy, her arms bound tight around her chest, as if shielding herself from the sadness seeping from the walls. 

“Do you want me t–”

“Did you see who hit her?” Lacy asks Max. A clear and loaded question; she’s asking if it was Billy. Billy and that fucking weapon of mass compensation he calls a car.

For a split second, Max looks angry at the flash accusation, even though she knows the kind of putrid her stepbrother is. But she tamps it down; she’s a better woman than Lacy is, for a middle schooler. 

“I didn’t recognize the car. Just… some fucking asshole,” Max swallows. “If I see him again, I’m putting sugar in his gas tank.”

Lacy just nods and makes some vague-mouthed attempt at a thanks for everything, Max, Stacie, Nita. Nita is hesitant to leave her alone, as is Max, but Stacie ushers them out. Leaves her number, just in case Lacy should need anything. 

Lacy spends what feels like an eternity staring at the yellowed plastic of the phone nailed to the kitchen wall. She realizes she’s got no contact for the one person she wants to call. Her hand hovers over the scarf-wrapped cat like she’s trying to cast some kind of impotent spell, and she reaches for the open smokes on the table behind her. Lacy spends what feels like eternity under the awning-covered picnic table, chain smoking and sniffing sulfur from clouds that refuse to break. 

—

The van’s lights finally flood the ground at her feet. Eddie emerges, slinging himself out of the van in that loose-limbed metal marionette way that he has. His Hellfire shirt cuts a stinging image in the dark. 

He spots her immediately, in that way that makes her sometimes think he enters spaces accidentally looking for her. 

Sometimes she does the same.

“Well, what have we got here? A little dark night of the soul with the Marlboro Ma–... Lace?”

Some sliver of moonlight cuts through the tear streaks in her makeup and stops him up short.

“Eddie,” Lacy croaks. Her throat is ashen, her eyes are ashen, her head is pounding. 

“Hey, hey…” His voice tunes right down into an immediate soothe, arms hovering around her like they aren’t quite sure how to ring around her yet. “Oh, hey, hey, what the shit? What’s the matter?”

Her throat thickens. “Oh, this is stupid.”

That makes him put a firm grasp around her shoulders. He smells like excitable sweat and Mountain Dew– the Hellfire Club special. “What’s happened, sweetheart?”

A rough sound comes out of her nose. “You know that… you know that stupid cat that’s been coming around my trailer–”

“The cat you’ve been pretending not to have?” She should abhor how perceptive he is.

“Y… yes. She, w– well, someone hit her. With a car. It’s s– she didn’t make it–’

“Oh, holy shit.” Eddie wraps her up in his arms, her head pressing hard into the joint of his shoulder. Lacy’s eyes screw up harder, as if she could push them to the back of her skull. 

“They just hit her, Eddie, and they kept going–”

“Holy shit.”

“And I didn’t– and, but, Max Mayfield, she came to get me and– it was just, I didn’t hear the door in time–”

“Come on. No, no. Come on, baby, inside. Up, up, atta girl.” Eddie about props her up, steering her right into his trailer. Lacy’s preset Wayne alarm goes off–is he here, doesn’t he hate me, I don’t want to die tonight too–but Eddie’s quick on the buzzer. 

“Night shift, sweetheart. You’re safe. Siddown.”

“It’s so stupid.” She drops in slow motion onto the Munson’s sagging couch. It aches to move.

Eddie sinks in right beside her, leaving no room for a draught between them. He’s running warm, no doubt hopped up on caffeine and campaign mischief. 

“Hey. Not stupid. Not stupid.” His voice is featherlight. He tucks the tiniest lock of hair behind her ear. 

“I loved that little thing.”

“I know you did. Well–I didn’t have the privilege of knowing you did, really, but you… obviously did, Lace. Shit.”

“Fucking little bitch,” Lacy says, voice a roux of incredulity and betrayal. “I loved her.”

Eddie snorts and pulls her right close. She crumples up and sobs good, like the sounds she makes can’t quite fill the cavern this has created in her. Lacy sobs until her head can’t take it anymore, a wet spot and a streak of mascara left on Eddie’s Hellfire shirt. 

But Eddie is sweet and patient, and strokes her hair and doesn’t comment on how ugly she probably sounds. Not at all. 

After a little bit, he asks, “Lace. Where’d you find her?”

“Uh. She must be– must’ve been just a stray, you know, from around. I found her giving shit to the Mayfields’ dog.”

“Huh?” Eddie’s brow leaps.

“Yeah,” Lacy breathes, lowly and mirthfully.

“But how did you two…”

“I don’t know. She just locked eyes on me and ran right around my ankles. Right into the trailer before I could stop her and headed straight to my room. I flipped, of course, because of Gloriana but then she hopped up on my bed and did that kneading thing they do? With their nails?”

“The–” Eddie imitates it on her shoulder, his thicker fingers with his blunt nails no match for Cat’s talons. Lacy’s inclined to tell him to keep doing it, though.

“Yeah. Sniffing around. And I just watched her in the doorway. I didn't know what to do, so I tried to shoo her. But she didn’t give a shit. She just curled up in my– my tartan scarf and fell asleep. Like it was her place all along.”

The corners of his mouth press downward, an expression that makes her heart lurch. 

“She didn’t wanna leave, huh? She wanted to stay with you.”

“She did. She did. Shit.”

—

“Times of strife call for special privileges.”

“Oh, Christ, the fine china.” 

The Garfield mug filled with two thumbs of Bev’s finest fell-off-the-truck well whiskey and three cigarettes later, a slack-limbed Lacy rubs her face against Eddie’s shoulder. 

Any other day, any other planet, that’d be cause for some considerable pants action but… it’s difficult. To see her like this. All shocked and scraped out. 

“You want to hear a stupid conclusion I came to the other day?” Lacy says steewpid with empty-stomach drinking vitriol. “Just the other day.”

“You know I love stupid,” Eddie polishes off the last of his drink from his I Heart Nabraska (real spelling error) mug and pours them both another. “Hit me. Just not in the groin.”

“I didn’t understand what unconditional love meant before this goddamn cat.”

It checks out, Eddie thinks. Her parents and their affection with strings attached. Her old friends, worshiping a facade. No one really saw Lace at her worst and loved her anyway. At least, not until– 

“No shit?” He blames his roughed up voice on the liquor. 

“Mm. I expected nothing of her. Every time she left I thought, well, that’ll be it. I expected nothing. And I loved her all the same. Unconditional. No strings, no compromise.”

“No pretending.”

“No bullshit. Ride or die.”

“‘til the bloody end,” he raises his mug to cheers her, and Lacy winces. Eddie’s face crumples, apologetic. “Yeowch. Okay. I’m sorry.’

“No, it’s– I'm just pissed her little face got messed up so bad,” she sniffs. He gazes down at her and wants to poke the pudge of cheek that’s wedged against his shoulder. “I was gonna taxidermy her one day.”

“Really?” Eddie's voice comes out a little pitchy.

Lacy hops immediately on the defensive. “Yeah.” 

There’s a lot of bizarro stuff Eddie can get down with, but the whole uncanny valley of the animals thing always weirded him out. “You were gonna stuff the cat? Give it, like marble eyes and shit?”

Lacy, on the other hand, sits up straight.

“Abso-fucking-lutely. We were going to grow old together, and either I was going to taxidermy her or she was going to eat my body when I died.”

The glassy eyes and indignation are additions to a long list of things that make Eddie feel a gold rush of serious affection for this girl. “Oh, honeybear, you are so creepy.”

“Well, everyone says that about cats!” Lacy yelps, wedging another cigarette between her lips. She rubs at her eyes too, the red rims looking stingy and painful now. “That if they’re left alone with a corpse, it’s like an all-you-can-eat, seconds at the breakfast bar type of deal. And everyone gets so goddamn squeamish about it too, I mean, come on, I'd rather she eat me than starve.”

“Warped. Digressive,” Eddie says, his mouth curling up.

“Spare me your five-cent words, I'm pragmatic.”

“You’d let your cat treat you like a church cookout and you’re calling that pragmatism?”

“Of course I would. She's my girl.” She flinches, head shaking. “Was.”

“Is,” Eddie insists. “You know, whole cat-eating-your-face thing… That’s basically a sacrifice to Bastet. Totally transcends mortality.”

She sinks back into the couch and instinctive motion has him throwing his arm up so she can tuck underneath it. 

“Know what I called her?”

“This’ll be good.”

“Cat.”

“This’ll be bad.”

“Breakfast at Tiffany’s, you fucking neophyte. ‘If I could find a real life place that made me feel like Tiffany’s, I’d buy some furniture and give the cat a name’. Holly Golightly in that bare apartment.”

“I spy a parallel being drawn here, sweetheart.”

“Well, good fucking eye. No… um, I think I finally got what she meant when I moved into…” She gestures, hard, with her cigarette toward the door. Toward her own trailer across the way from the Munson’s abode. 

“Mm.” Eddie shifts in his seat. It kind of bugs him sometimes, the idea that she might still look down her nose at the trailer park despite having adapted to it pretty fucking fluidly. Comes with being a chameleon, he guesses, but he wonders if there’s not part of her that’s still wrinkling her nose. “Not exactly the picture of refinement, yeah, yeah.”

“I don’t know,” she mumbles. She’s as close to undone as he’s ever seen her, her mascara caked and flaking under her eyes and her hair all a rumpled mess. Only time he’s ever seen her as close to the edge before this was the last night she’d stormed this trailer. “I don’t know if I've really found my Tiffany's. Maybe this is it.’

“Double-wide with a busted water heater? Should we also check for a gas leak, Doevski? You’re mental.”

“You’re being obtuse,” she says, suddenly pointed like a dart. A flash of his regular serving of Lace. “The Tiffany’s in question isn’t honest-to-god Tiffany’s–she says it's the quiet, the proud look about it. That’s what calms her down when she’s got the mean reds. And I…”

Eddie can feel that he’s wearing that infuriatingly bemused expression he tends to slide on when Lacy is mid-reveal of a profound thought. He can tell by the way she’s starting to glare at him. 

“Shut up. Listen. I– I think about it like this. It's 6AM. The sun’s just cracking the sky. It’s quiet, you can barely hear the birds. There’s a hundred identical units across this lot, each one of them housing different lives. Carl in the management shack. Nita in the home hair salon. Granny Ecker and Ron. Everyone interconnected. Everyone… everyone looking out for each other, a little.”

Right. She’d mentioned how Nita and Max and them had rallied around her and poor Cat.

Still, Eddie can’t help a bad thing. He flips his hand in a flourish, gesturing to himself.

“Presenting the great exception.” For all this inter-connectedness she spoke, of, wasn’t nobody looking out for little old–

“Shut up, Eddie. You know half this park has your back by writ of being related to Wayne, you’re just too much of a contrarian woe-is-me to see it. And you’re a pain in the ass on top of that.”

He stifles an argument she would win with a pinched lemon sour face. “Noted. Go on.”

“Anyway,” she exasperatedly huffs, passing him the remaining half of her cigarette, “I sit… on my porch and I have my coffee. And I have my little cat. And I know you’re across the way, probably asleep. It's quiet. And there’s pride in that quiet. In that quiet, I've felt more at peace than I have my whole stupid flimsy life. I can't explain why. I'm a cynic, we know this. But it might be fucking… Tiffany's.”

Eddie’s fingers drum against the crown of Lacy’s head as he considers this. Framing this as some kind of surprise utopia. This skidmark on the outer edge of town. Except, she’d said it in a fashion that made him want to set an alarm for six in the morning.

“Buy some furniture and give the cat a name. Shit.” 

“Shit.”

He finishes the last of the cigarette she’d passed to him and takes another sip of shitty, awful, rotgut whiskey.

“... we can find another cat, y’know,” he mutters tentatively, resting his chin on her head. “I’m kind of a–” Don’t you fucking say pussy magnet. Eddie. Don’t. “--a feline whisperer.”

But he’s got grounds, unfortunately. The feral cats around the lot take to following him around like he’s a bigger, hairier feral cat. This might have something to do with him carrying loose salami in his pockets as a younger man. That reputation never really goes away among the feral cat colonies. 

“Those mean and scary strays,” Lacy mumbles into his chest. 

“Not so mean and scary. Just used to having their boundaries up, is all. Can relate.”

“Can relate.”

“I could unscary one for you. There’s this one little dude, one eye, three and a half legs, I call him Snake Plissken and he–”

“Oh, Eddie,” she sighs; it makes his heart ka-chunk, “There is no other cat. There’s just Cat. She was perfect.”

“Well, she had hefty goddamn standards to meet if she made this much of an impression on you.” Eddie’s mouth twinges. “I’m real, real sorry, Lace.”

“I need to bury her.” The finality with which Lacy breathes it out makes them both sag further into the couch.

But Eddie doesn’t show a lick of hesitation.

“So let’s bury her. You got a spot?”

—

They pull up at Lover’s Lake. 

Cat lies in Lacy’s lap, slowly stiffening and losing warmth. Lacy’s fingers stay crooked in the little space under her chin that she would tilt up, up, up for her to tickle. It makes her queasy to think about it too much, and to think about it too little makes her cry. She straddles the line between sick and sad and Eddie plays the radio real low in the truck. Some sad sack station. ‘Don’t Forget Me’, Harry Nilsson. Pathetic fallacy eeks out of the speakers, not used to playing anything this low and slow.  

Lacy directs Eddie into the underbrush as they edge off Holland.

“Right over here.”

“This is a nice spot. Not too public.”

“The water. She’d like to see it.”

“The water… for your cat.”

“You know they can swim? Cats can swim. Everybody thinks they hate water, but they can swim.”

She notices that he doesn’t quite swallow that scoff in time and mutters, “Yeah, and they probably hate every second of swimming.”

“But they can do it.” She's driving a point home. It’s about subverting expectations. Stupid.

“Yeah! Yeah, they can swim,” Eddie says, half-way humoring her as he helps her out of the van with Cat, “and if you ask them, they hate every second of it."

“Stop being pedantic.”

“Stop trying to have something to say about everything!” 

They both blink at the slight blow of Eddie’s exasperation. Everything feels a little weird and wired and raw right now. He pulls a shovel out of the back of the van, huffing through his nose.

“You’ll rue the day I don’t have something to say about everything,” Lacy winds up, indignant and stepping to him with that poor little thing cradled against her. Her eyes narrow and his index finger floats in her face. She can’t quite place where this is bubbling from, and nor can he.

“You’re staying overnight with me, okay?!” Eddie snaps. He means business. He’s got the finger out. 

“Huh?” It comes out her mouth a garbled little protest.

“You’re not going home alone. There. Not tonight.” All he’s missing is a patented and that’s final! Flashes of a night spent curled against him attack Lacy’s frontal lobe. 

Yes, is her immediate reaction. She wants that. That warmth he’s thrusting toward her, that security. That comfort. But, one problem. 

“Wayne.”

“Wayne’s not back ‘til morning and also, who gives a good goddamn shit?” Eddie froths. “I don’t. My room, my mildew, my rules. Okay?”

She feels shaky in this, his insistence to tug the safety blanket around her. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

His shoulders sag. He nudges his sneaker against the hilt of the shovel. It’s very quiet out here, save for the crickets and the sounds of their heartbeats in their ears. 

“Look at us,” Eddie smirks, his mouth twisting for facetiousness, “Fuckin’... Shitkicker Gothic out here. Let’s get this cat burial on the road.”

Lacy nods with a heavy head and starts into the underbrush. Eddie matches her step for step. They end up in a secluded spot deeper into the wooded area. Nature’s bay window looks out onto glittering Lover’s Lake. And if you look right up, the trees open up to a tiny patch of sky. Smattering of stars. Just enough for Cat. 

“I don’t mean to be disgusting, Lace, but I really hope you’re not burying Cat at a hotspot for fingerbanging.”

Ambiance shattered. Almost. Lacy glares at him.

“No. People begin to exhibit signs of wigging-outery the closer they get to that weird house on the bank, so they never get past second base here. This is… a perfect boundary for her.”

“Ah,” Eddie nods, his chin resting on the shovel handle. “One paw in the world of lakeside makeouts and the other in the land of the working class criminal.” At Lacy’s puzzled head shake, he gestures to that dilapidated looking house across the way. “S’uh, Reefer Rick’s place. Really clean marker of the social divide you got here.”

“A fault line,” Lacy says. Yeah. That feels good.

“With a lovely view.” Eddie jerks his head toward the flat rocks at the water’s edge and sinks the shovel into the soft soil. “Go sit with her.”

Lacy does. Cat wrapped in her stiffness, her head hidden in the tartan shroud. Lacy’s heart aches, that she’ll never get to run her pinkie finger down the perfect slant of her tiny nose again. Not without feeling blood matted against the fur. It’s not fair. None of it. It was so close to real, this thing they had. 

What's wrong with her that the bottom keeps falling out of good things like this? 

“Is this your first?” Eddie gently calls over the soft shoveling of soil.

“Cat?”

“Death.”

Lacy doesn’t have to think on it. Any relatives other than her mom’s estranged sister were dead before she was cognizant of what it all meant. Her father didn't have any family to speak of. Not even a foster sibling or two he was still in contact with.

“Yes.” A beat. “Is this your first?”

“Death?” Eddie grimly parrots.

“Grave.”

“Why, yes.”

“Hopefully your last." She's arch.

“Ah, with your blessed presence in my life, Miss Doevski,” he says, “something tells me it won’t be.” 

She smiles into her shoulder, down at Cat, across the water.

“Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart.”

There is no being ready. There is no way to easily unplug from the faux-reality of holding something once soft now rigid, the netherealm of not knowing whether your beloved is coming or going. Up, down, left, right. sideways. Maybe Lacy ought to toss Cat in the water and see if she’ll swim. 

She joins Eddie at the neat little grave he’s dug and is hesitant. 

Throat closing. Head pounding. Stomach tightening.

Shit. Fuck. 

Nerves or bile or both rise and she can feel every nerve ending in her hands. 

A clear of a throat that isn’t hers.

“May I?” Eddie’s holding his hands out. He takes Cat. Lacy watches his ringed fingers gently taper through the tuft of her furry side. Glistening blue-black in the moonlight. He might’ve mouthed the words, ‘Aw, soft,’ but she can’t be sure. 

“Well, Cat,” and she can tell a classic Munson missive is about to kick off. Lacy knits her fingers together as if in prayer and looks down at her feet. Tries not to look at Eddie, with his insistent arms and undefeatable presence, cradling Cat. “It sucks that I never got to know you, but I understand you had some kind of third-wave, kill-all-men feminism thing going on which, practically I'm shit-scared of and conceptually I guess I respect.” He clears his throat again. “But I know that you were… loved, even if your presence wasn’t a whole to-do. I mean, damn.”

Eddie bends his head nearer Cat’s, affecting a stage whisper that makes Lacy roll her eyes. Affection. Affection. Affection.

“You lucked out, Cat. You picked a really good one here. I know it. She likes to play the shit that matters, the nice shit she does, close to the vest instead of showing off about it, but… ‘Deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised’. Aragorn. By the way.”

“Nerd.”

“Please shut up, I am not finished, you are being rude,” Eddie pokes in this clipped tone Lacy knows is supposed to be an impression of her. He drops it as soon as picks it up, everything about him softening.  “She was lucky to have you, but you were luckier having had her.”

Oh. The breath shakes in her lungs. Oh. 

A moment or two passes before Lacy realizes she’s been frozen. It’s time.

“You wanna–” Eddie softly suggests, “Or should I–”

“Oh, wait!” Her collar. Lacy’s nails unpick the leather strap, sliding it away from Cat’s throat. Eddie catches the shimmer of the diamante heart and shakes his head. 

“Farewell, the fanciest cat Forest Hills has ever seen.”

With gentle and careful hands, Eddie lowers Cat into the dirt. Lacy might choke if she tries to speak, but then he catches her trembling, nerve-raw hand in hers. 

“'I don’t like love as a command. As a search,'” it slips out of Lacy in a murmur, “'It must come to you, like a hungry cat at the door.'”

Eddie’s brow furrows, waiting for her to cite…

“Bukowski. By the way.”

“Nerd.” 

Lacy sprinkles the first fistful of dirt over Cat’s prone, resting body. It really seems like that, in the dark bed of soil. Cool, restful. And in the heavy swathe of this night too. 

Eddie only lets her hand go to cover the rest of the grave. 

Once he’s done, he twists the shovel in the dirt. “You wanna mark it or anything? So you can come back?”

“I don’t know,” Lacy says. Is there a way to address the gap she feels between her and the resting place? Probably not yet. “Don’t know that it’ll really do anything for me.’

“You’ll know where to find her, though. If you need.”

“Oh, yeah. you don’t forget a spot like this.”

Eddie slings his arm over her hunched and shivering shoulders, shaking against a chill that doesn’t exist. He leans into the crown of her head–not quite a kiss, but an utterance. 

“Gracefully done, Lace. She’d be proud.”

God, she hopes so. 

Silly little cat. 

They follow their track back to Eddie's van, arm in arm, the two-person funeral match plus one shovel. From up the embankment, a light flickers on. Some heavily obscured figure seems to wobble in silhouette, like it’s waving. 

Eddie slides off a two-finger salute to the spectre. 

“Friend of yours?” Lacy squints.

“That’s Rick. If you’re lucky, I’ll never have to introduce the two of you.”

Eddie helps Lacy into the passenger seat. She sits there, arms feeling weighted and empty. 

“Eddie.” His name crackles in her mouth.

“No, no. Don’t mention i–”

“You were the only person I wanted to see. After it happened. You were the only one. I couldn’t call you at Hellfire or anything. I wouldn’t have wanted you to leave, but you… I just wanted to see you.” 

Something about that statement makes her feel incredibly lonesome. 

Until he takes her hand. Swallows hard and kisses it gentle. 

“That is… an honor I don’t rightly deserve, Lace.”

“Bullshit.”

“Let’s not make, like, a whole thing of it.” Eddie inches out this pained smile that Lacy needs desperately to wipe off his face, somehow. To replace it with something that doesn’t look like it’s pinching him. He has to know. “I’m glad I could be here. For you. For Cat.”

“Me too, Eddie.”

[cainache]

hey there, stargirl / eddie munson

New York is cold this time of year. December here is fucking crazy, and half the time Eddie still isn’t use to it. Even if he has lived here for the last six years of his life.

He’s twenty six, the cold shouldn’t bother him.

But his nose is pink and his cheeks sting and his bangs feel a mess. He’s got bags of groceries on each of his arms as he climbs the three flights of stairs. He lives above a bakery, there’s no damn elevator. Just stairs.

His teeth maybe clatter as he fishes for his key from the pocket of his thick jacket. He barely gets the door open before a bag slips out of his hold, a fresh baked loaf of bread thumps to the floor. He huffs. Kicks the door shut with the heel of his shoe with a little too much aggression and slides bags onto the counter from his arms. He then grabs at the runaway bread.

He doesn’t see you during all of this. You’re usually greeting him as you exit the hall. But you’re not there.

Eddie locks the door before his eyes glaze around the apartment. Your stuff is everywhere. Little things that have gathered over the few months you’ve been living with him. Hair ties. The ribbons you lace in your hair sometimes. Earrings. Makeup brushes. A lot of lip glosses. Silver bangles. It’s like his apartment has collected little things of you. He won’t ever say this out loud because he looks annoyed all the time, but he loves your scattered shit everywhere.

He doesn’t call out for you as he steps more into the home. He finds you rather quickly. You’re a small girl and your sitting on the floor like your five. You’re hidden before the couch, slumped over the coffee table. Your hands move quickly and your bottom lip is held captive by your teeth.

“Hi, Eds.” He flinches at your voice, surprised you’ve even noticed him without a glance. He’s not as quiet as he thinks.

His hand drags over the couch as he rounds it, peering down at you and your movements. He can’t quite see what you’re doing, like you’re keeping it hidden with hunched shoulders and a cramped up back. “What we doin’, star?”

He sees the sides of your cheeks lift. You’re smiling. At his nickname that he’s been saying since he’s met you two years ago. He’s your boyfriend, but not your boyfriend who calls you his stargirl. You don’t mind the no label. You’re happy and Eddie likes holding your hand. He doesn’t hold people’s hands.

“Did you drop something?” You say sweetly, completely ignoring his last question.

He hums and slouches into the couch behind you, his knee gently grazes your back and the tip of his boot slips past your bottom. “Runaway Bread. What are you doing?” You finally take notice of his question, but your hands don’t stop moving. He can hear pencils on paper and markers with felt tips drag color. “New designs for my class.. I think they might be okay.”

They’re probably more than okay, he thinks.

And finally, your hands stop. He notices the dark shading of led on both sides of your hands and fingertips. You have marker splotches along your skin too. He smiles. “You let me see ‘em?”

You finally look over at him, smiling soft. “I suppose I can.” Your nose wrinkles as he scoffs a laugh. You look so warm. He still seems cold.

You gently pass him the sketch papers, and with his free hand he takes yours and helps you climb onto the couch. You settle in next to him, your sock covered toes slip under his jean clad thigh. He smiles at the feel of your wiggling toes. He squeezes your closest ankle before he looks through the couple of designs. You love fashion school. Eddie loves that you love fashion school.

You notice his red bitten face as you try and rub off led from your skin, its smudges a bit more. “You cold?” You mumble, chin now resting on his shoulder. He shrugs a bit, your face moves up with the movement. “Stop talking, I’m trying to focus on the masterpieces in front of me.”

You roll your eyes fondly and slip off the couch. You wash your hands at the kitchen sink before grabbing a soft blanket from the basket by the end of the couch. You come back to him and he has a hand opened for you, his eyes still on the sketches. One in particular, one that’s based off his own style. “This one is my favorite,” he mumbles.

You smile, “sit up, please.” He does what he’s told without realizing what you’re doing. He’s looking at the details. Your work is fucking amazing.

You drape the blanket over his shoulders and gently tuck it into his front. His eyes gaze to yours at the sudden warmth. “Star.”

You beam. “Eddie.” You sit down next to him again, two fingers dragging over his pink nose and rosy cheek. “You’re cold, handsome.”

Eddie rolls his eyes with a smile and gently places your papers back on the coffee table, that you’ve turned into a mess.

“C’mere,” he mumbles. You gasp as his hands snatch you up, slumping into his lap. Now the blanket covers you both.

“You warm now?” You hum, forehead resting on his own.

He scoffs, a soft peck to the corner of your mouth. “Obviously. But I was never cold to begin with.” You stare at him, amused. He pushes out his chin a little with a glint in his eye, teasing. You roll your eyes, “right.” You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth now, but it isn’t enough for him. He takes your lips against his, squeezing your sides till you pull away giggling.

“So, you dropped bread earlier? Poor bread.”

Eddie scoffs. “Star.”

[matchbet-allofthetime]

Speed running FNV hcs for the fancy boys (aka Benny, Swank, and The King.)

Me babbling about suits and shit under the cut:

Benny wears zoot suits partially because he likes that they're big and classy, but also because I hc his family came from Mexico a long time ago and somewhere along the way he learned about the baggy, rounded-off suits. Likes the way the pants bunch over his shoes (prefers winklepickers and derby shoes) and he likes when said pants have an ankle cuff. Likes ascots/bigger, poofier ties, but doesn't always wear them. Gold jewelry all the way, just because he likes the colour against his skin. Two long gold chains hang down from his right side- gets tangled with his watch sometimes if it's same side. Golden watch on his left hand. Also left-handed, but wears his watch on the "wrong" hand bc it's comfier. 50s styles.

Swank grew up with the Ben-man, but he prefers western bowties + your average bowties with nice suspenders and a bartender's vest under his suit jacket. (Will only wear a goddamn jacket if he absolutely has to.) Not entirely out of the habit of slipping on heavier boots, so when he has to wear dress shoes so often, he toes them off behind the counter. They're normally oxfords or chukka boots- black, or occasionally oxblood red if he can find them. Likes a decent-sized heel. Also thinks sleeve garters are sexy. Silver jewelry- mostly insignia rings. Right-handed, wears a silver-faced watch with a brown leather strap. Flat-front pants, fitted to show his ass. Higher-waisted pants- this man has a slutty waist and intends to let his vests and trousers show it. Secretly likes bellbottom suit pants. An odd mix of 40s and 60s-70s styles

The King prefers fitted suits with a half break ankle on his trousers! Pleated front to his pants is a must. Likes slimmer ties with gothic, wallpaper-like designs. Give him a double-breasted tux vest with a shawl collar and he'll be the happiest man alive. Shoes- wingtips for the win, baby! Prefers classic black and white, but if you've got a brown and cream, he'll be equally content. Find him a wool overcoat and he'll be overjoyed. Has a few silver chain necklaces and a single silver bracelet he wears on his right hand with his silver watch. Left-handed! Lower-waisted pants. ~30s-40s styles

[femmedaraya]

I wanted to start a series explaining some of the different work I did on my Talald cosplay, how it won Journeyman at ACen, and how you can use some of these techniques for your own competitive work! In this post we're breaking down how I built my boot covers. This is less of a tutorial and more of a build log with tips.

I found these ankle boots at a thrift store. They had a couple decorative straps which were easy to cut off with a craft knife. The heel's a comfortable height and an unobtrusive color, two things that provide great versatility for a wide range of boot covers in the future!

Try to keep in mind the shape of the toe when shopping for cosplay shoes. A round or pointy toe would look out of place with the curly tips l'd be adding to the top, so I made sure to pick a shoe with an almond toe.

Taping the boot! There are plenty of guides on how to do this; I got a friend's help which made it a lot easier. Personally I like doing my plastic wrap and tape a couple inches higher than I want the boot cover to go, just in case.

Fabric! Not much to this one. I made a separate pattern for the scallops at the top so they were all the exact same size and shape. These covers were made of the same neoprene as the dress, which is a pretty stretchy fabric, so that extra bit of wiggle room made it easier to translate my taped-up boot into a flat pattern.

I'm a stickler for making sure my seams lie flat. You can't iron neoprene, but since it's a double layered fabric, you can hand sew through just one layer on the inside. If you're doing something like this for a contest, MAKE SURE TO SHOW THE JUDGES! They're going to appreciate all the tiny things you do to make everything "just so."

Using a durable fabric for the bottom of your boot covers adds a lot to their longevity. This is the same cotton canvas I use to structure my corsets. I added these hot glue squiggles to give them some grip for my goofy little antics—might try using silicone caulk next time? By the way, that’s not a raw edge at the bottom of the canvas but a selvedge. Using the selvedge there makes my job just a little easier since I don’t have to hem that section.

Thanks for reading to the end! Next time I'll be talking about snaps and closures.

[bonezone44]

Feelin’ Faint

Joel Miller x afab!Reader

Word Count: 1333

Summary: It startles you when you see Joel’s feet for the first time. You give him a foot massage. D/s relationship implied. (Dom!Joel, sub!reader)

Tags: afab!reader. Boots. Feet. brief fantasy re: D/s, bondage, degradation. (no actual smut in this one)

Author’s Note: Yesterday in the group chat, I said that a group of foot photos “upset” me. Then I figured out why. God bless.

Story Masterlist - Main Masterlist

—------------------

It’s because you’re not used to it.

That’s all. 

You’re not used to seeing Joel’s feet.

Never even seen the contour of them in a pair of socks.

You’re not used to seeing men’s feet in general when you think about it. They were usually covered up by big round-toe work boots as they shuffled through the bar or trampled the dirt paths around Jackson or, in this particular case, stomped up and down the stairs. Some of the men wore cowboy boots made of fine, soft leather with pointed toes and chunky heels. Over time the material would curve to the shape of their arches and cup around their heels and the edge of their big toe.

‘Boots’ you could understand. 

‘Boots’ were a symbol of power.

And you could also appreciate the fine craftsmanship of a Doc Marten or a sturdy steel-toe or goddamn, some of those cowboy boots had such delicate embroidery along the shaft and down the vamp and around the toe.

You’re just not used to seeing Joel’s feet so when you finally do see them–stepping down his staircase, fresh from the shower, exposed beneath the hem of his jeans–you feel tightness in your chest and heat in your cheeks. It feels like a violation to look at them.

He sits on the couch after grabbing a glass of whiskey and props them up on the ottoman. He sighs and throws his head back on the cushion.

And.

Well.

When you think about…

They are just feet.

And if he is going to be so casual about them…

Then there’s really no harm in looking, right?

You peek from where you sit on your side of the couch, over the pages of your book.

They’re… nice. Nicer up close. Though watching the way they planted on each stair, gripping downward and pushing up–that was nice, too.

Balanced.

Strong.

Their form makes sense with the rest of his body. His toes are long and articulated. And you love that his big toe is much shorter than the one next to it. There’s a nice separation, shaped like a teardrop, between his big toe and the rest of the toes. 

You watch him rotate his right ankle along its axis and scrunch his toes to make the joints pop. 

And really, it’s because you’re a curious creature.

And it’s because you want to appreciate all of him.

There is nothing untoward about it.

The heat between your legs is just because it’s him. It’s Joel.

You make an offer.

“A foot massage?” He looks up at you, surprised, an upward curl in his lips. “Really?”

“You’ve been workin’ hard all day.” You shrug casually. “And maybe it’ll make your knees feel better.” You shrug again. "Gotta start with a good foundation 'n all."

“Well, alright.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “If you’re offerin’.” He turns as if expecting you to stay seated on the couch to do it–but you knew you would prefer a more descended view.

You push the ottoman aside and sit on the rug with your legs crossed. You grab his right foot and bring it into your lap. His left foot is flat on the floor and you can’t help but notice it in the edge of your vision. 

Now that you have your hands on it, you admire the feel of it–the strength you know is there moving him along every day. 

Your face is on fire and your hands are nervous and there’s fire somewhere in your abdomen, too, and you’re really not sure as to why, though.

You press into the ball of his foot with your thumbs, massaging the thick meaty pad through the surface of his callous. You glide your fingers between the bones you feel on his forefoot, using pressure to individuate the extension of his toes. 

Joel moans. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a foot massage before,” he says. He stares at the ceiling–you see his Adam's apple bob as he melts into his seat. 

Pride and pleasure float your chest and chin upward. Wetness between your legs pushes your pelvis down.

You press your thumbs along his arch, like deep little footsteps. You feel a knot in his muscle, about the size of a pea, and you grind into it with the hardest part of your finger. 

He groans and winces. "What the hell is that?"

You laugh. "I don't know. It's your foot. Not mine."

He grunts and adjusts in his seat. "Shit, darlin. I'm 'bout to hand 'em over to you to take care of if this is how you treat 'em."

Your face burns. The praise is overwhelming you. That’s probably why you’re so turned on–your whole body warm and buzzing. You continue to grind the knot until your thumb aches. You slot your fingers between each toe and rotate his foot around while keeping his heel in place. 

"How's that?" you ask.

He looks down at you with a smirk. "I don't know what you're doin but I am enjoyin every second of it."

You love loving on Joel. You love appreciating every little piece of him that holds you and grounds you and keeps you coming, again and again. You love this new part of his body that you get to nurture and soothe and relieve. 

You massage circles into his heel and along the outer edge of his midfoot–opposite his arch. He releases a long, heavy sigh. Your hands glide up and down his ankle.

“Next one, please,” you say.

He chuckles and sighs again–much lighter this time. “Alright.” His eyes and smile offer so much affection, it’s like he’s petting the very depth of your soul. 

His right foot retreats and he swings his left foot over to you.

You feel that pressure again in your chest and heat prickles your cheeks.

It was one thing to grab his foot and bring it to your lap–it’s another when he does the action himself.

You feel yourself getting wetter and growing warmer. You try to focus on massaging this foot the same as you did the other. But your thoughts start to wander and you clench your jaw.

You wonder what it would feel like–this foot—if it was stamped into your chest, pressing you deep into the floor beneath you. You wonder what it would feel like if he forced his toes into your mouth, flexing and splaying them, while your arms were tied behind your back. You wonder what it would feel like if he denied you his cock and used his toes to play with your clit and tried to see how many he could fit inside of you. 

“You doin okay?”

You look up with wide eyes and tight lips. Your skin crawls with embarrassment. “yeah,” you say with a quick breath.

He pulls his foot away from you and you stare at the floor. You hear the whiskey glass thud onto the side table. On the edge of your vision, you see him lean forward with his elbows on his knees.

“What are you thinkin about?” He tilts his head, studying you with a smirk on his face.

You shrug and glance to the side. “Nothin.”

“Look at me.”

You comply, but only with your eyes.

“Are you thinkin about my feet?” He asks with amusement.

“No,” you answer quickly and because you can’t fucking help yourself, you start staring at them–his feet.

He throws his head back laughing. He sits back upright and leans back into the couch cushions. With his legs spread wide, he rubs his thighs back and forth. “Oh yeah.” He nods. “That’s definitely somethin we can do.” He palms himself and looks over to his right. “Can’t right now–” He wears a shit-eating grin. “---but I think we got enough time for you to tell me what was going on in that–” He points. “--pretty lil head a’ yours.” 

Your heart is beating so fast you can barely hear yourself speak. “What?”

—

God bless you if you read this far ! 🙏🤠🥾

[olympic-paris]

Considering how prized modern Italian leather goods are today, it is perhaps not too surprising that there was a good deal of variety of types of ancient Roman sandals and shoes. The shoe-maker (sutor) was a valued craftsman in the days of Roman Empire and Romans contributed entire-foot-encasing shoe to the Mediterranean world.

Archaeological studies indicate that Romans brought shoe-making technology of vegetal tanning to Northwestern Europe. Tanning can be accomplished by the treatment of animal skins with oils or fats or by smoking, but none of those methods result in permanent and water-resistant leather. True tanning uses vegetable extracts to create a chemically stable product, which is resistant to bacterial decay, and has resulted in the preservation of many examples of ancient shoes from damp environments such as riverside encampments and backfilled wells.

The spread of vegetable tanning technology was almost certainly an outgrowth of the imperial Roman army and its supply requirements. Most of the earliest preserved shoes have been found in early Roman military establishments in Europe and Egypt. Earliest preserved Roman footwear found so far was made in 4th Century BC, although it is still unknown where the technology originated.

In addition, Romans innovated a variety of distinctive shoe styles, the most obvious of which are hobnailed shoes and sandals. Even the single-piece shoes developed by Romans are significantly different from the pre-Roman native footwear. The Romans are also responsible for the innovation of owning multiple pairs of shoes for different occasions. The crew of a grain ship sunk in Rhine River about 210 CE each owned one closed pair and one pair of sandals.

The Latin word for generic sandals is sandalia or soleae; for shoes and shoe-boots the word was calcei, related to the word for heel (calx). Sebesta and Bonfante (2001) report that these types of shoes were specifically worn with the toga and so were forbidden to enslaved people. In addition, there were slippers (socci) and theatrical footwear, like the cothurnus.

The generic calceus was made of soft leather, completely covered the foot and was fastened in front with thongs. Some early shoes had pointed upward curving toes (calcei repandi), and were both laced and strapped into place. Later shoes had rounded toes.

The wet weather called for a boot called the pero, which was made of rawhide. Calcamen was the name of a shoe that reached mid-calf.

The black leather senator's shoe or calceus senatorius had four straps (corrigiae). A senator's shoes were decorated with a crescent shape on the top. Except for color and price, the senator's shoe was similar to the patrician's costlier red high-soled calceus mulleus fastened with hooks and straps around the ankle.

Caligae muliebres were unstudded boots for women. Another diminutive was the calceoli, which was a little shoe or half boot for women.

According to some artistic representations, Roman soldiers wore embromides, impressive dress boots with a feline head that came nearly to the knees. They have never been found archaeologically, so it is possible that these were an artistic convention and never made for production. Regular soldiers had shoes called campagi militares and the well-ventilated marching boot, caliga (with the diminutive caligula used as a nickname for the 3rd Roman emperor). Caliga had extra thick soles and were studded with hobnails.

📸 Models of Ancient Roman Sandals, engraving by Joachim Von Sandrart, 1675-79.

[eggcompany]

So Smart, Those Boys Part 2

“Hi John~” Sherlock said as he plopped down in his seat next to John. He’d made up his mind on what he was going to do, hand down his trousers last night he’d plotted a plan. He would ‘ get in’ John’s pants before the academic year ended. 

 John, who was talking to some boys in varsity jackets, jumped and looked back. He was surprised as he didn’t hear the other boy walk up to him. One of the boys made a face at Sherlock but the genius just smirked and looked at John with a soft smile. 

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I wore my boots today and they’re so quiet on the tile.” Sherlock said and ran the toe of one of his black desert boots over the laces of John’s own brown work boot. 

John blushed and cleared his throat before looking back at his friends. 

“It’s… fine, Sherlock. I was just talking to my friends Greg, and Phillip. Greg this is-“ John said and looked between his friends. The other boy, Anderson, cut him off with a disgusted voice. 

“Freak.” Anderson said and made a stink face. He was staring at Sherlock’s white shirt neck, where the last two buttons weren’t done up. Sherlock had on a dark red v-neck underneath, matching the ankle length heavy wool skirt that he’d chosen to wear. 

“Anderson.” Sherlock answered back shortly. He reached to touch John’s upper arm. He swirled his finger around the nice pattern of John’s sweater. He ran his finger on the bumps and dips of the pattern and admired the soft color. 

“We know each other, John.” Sherlock said and looked at John, a sweet look on his face, a sweet little smile. Like he hadn’t just been called a freak. John looked confused for a moment. Anderson had sounded so… mean but Sherlock looks so… oh so kissable. John thought and looked from where Sherlock’s wrist was exposed under his button up sleeve to his face where it rested against his fist. 

‘ What a kissable face ’ though Sherlock as he took in John’s features. The slight blush, the chapped lips, pink nose, soft eyes. Eye fucking, is what people call this. Sherlock thought as he and John looked over each other. Unfortunately someone had to completely ruin the moment. 

“John, why did you let him sit next to you? You know he’s a freak. Psychopath, serial killer, gets-off-on-death kind of freak. You know he’s one of the tweakers. Arrested for it last ye-“ Anderson rambled and accused as Sherlock traced his finger up from John’s arm to twirl and play with the short blonde hair. Ignoring Anderson usually worked to make him shut up, so he kept admiring and taking in John’s features. He found that John had quite cute ears. Round and small. 

John was short circuiting as he felt Sherlock’s slender fingers gently touched his head and ear. John cut the other boy off, he hadn’t understood a thing he’d said since Sherlock had started playing with his hair. 

“Uh huh cool anyway, bye Anderson. See you at pep club later.” John said and looked dazed at another table in the room. Completely zonked out by the slow rhythmic touches. Twirl of hair, tracing down the back of his ear, gentle feel of his earlobe, back up the shell of his ear, repeat. 

“Bye, John. I’ll see you later. See you later too, Sherlock.” Greg said and patted John’s shoulder, pulling him out of his daze. Sherlock nodded but didn’t stop or look up. John smiled and nodded. 

“Yeah, see you later.” John said and turned back to Sherlock to ask Why are you caressing my ear? But the brunette spoke first. 

“You have such nice hair. It’s so pretty and soft. Your ears are cute too, like the rest of your face.” Sherlock said and smiled as he continued to play with John’s hair and ear. 

John smiled, cheeks pinking up with a cute blush as got his note taking supplies out. Sherlock noted that he got out the same green sparkly mechanical pencil. He looked down at the blank paper and took a deep breath. 

“Thank you. I think your hair is also nice. It’s pretty too, so curly and shiny.” John said quickly and turned to the other boy. He stared at Sherlock’s face for a second before reaching out and pulling the end of one Sherlock's curls and watched it spring back.

 John looked almost scared of Sherlock’s response as he kept his eyes on the curl that he’d just pulled. 

Sherlock looked shocked for a moment. No one just… touched him. No one… Did John just sproing my hair? Sherlock let the realization hit him and soon a smile creeped up to the surface. A blush powdered his cheeks and he looked down giggling. 

 John giggled and bit and relaxed, letting out a breath that he didn’t even realize he was holding in. 

“Thank you! You’re so sweet John. What’re your other classes for today?” Sherlock said and looked at the clock. There were only a few more minutes left till lecture started.

 He really wanted to spend some more time with John. Being around him made something lighten and lift from his chest. Like layers getting peeled away, a knot getting loosened. 

“Um today I’ve got this then four solid hours and then I’m done for today. I only take morning classes. I work at the convenience store on West Elm at five. I’ve got like two hours free.” John said and got ready to take notes, straightening his notebook and clicking the lead to his pencil. Sherlock hummed and pulled out a large book. 

“Well I live on Baker Street. I have full classes until four and then I go down to the police station for about an hour and then I just go home. Maybe I can come bother you at work. Stare at you creepily or something.” Sherlock said after he flicked his eyes away to look at his book. He tried to fake calm and aloofness but the smile still peaked through. 

John blushed as his heart started to thump against his chest. 

“Oh... well um if you want to. I take my break at about six thirty. That is if you wanna hang out or something...” John said and flicked his eyes around. 

Sherlock stared down at his book cover. John wanted to hang out. John wanted to hang out outside of class. Sherlock felt like he couldn’t breathe. His heart hammered against his chest and he couldn’t control the smile that washed across his face. 

“I could maybe bring you something to eat? There’s a sandwich place next door to my flat so maybe I could bring you something? Or from any of the places by Scotland Yard… If you want.” Sherlock said, keeping his eyes down on the book. His face was burning red and he felt John look over at him. 

“That… would be nice. I usually just have a few biscuits and sit by the bins out back. We’re not really allowed to sit out front but maybe we could-” John said shyly and rubbed at the back of his neck. He looked over at the pale boy when he interrupted. 

“By the bins is fine! I’d rather not be around people… I don’t even leave my flat much…” Sherlock explained. He almost felt embarrassed. He never felt embarrassed. But John smiled at him and nodded. He whispered as the professor walked in and wrote on the white board. 

“I’ll see you then. I’ll hold you to that sandwich Mister… Wait, what's your last name?” John said and leaned over so he could talk even quieter. 

Sherlock felt his heart thump against his ribcage. He could feel the heat radiating from John’s shoulder. 

“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, Dear Watson.” Sherlock said and smiled. Yes maybe during his midnight hand-down- trouser escapade he’d researched the boy. 

John smiled and started writing and Sherlock opened his book on Carl Eugene Watts. 

Though he couldn’t concentrate. He kept thinking about John. The way he stuck his tongue just slightly through his thin lips when he concentrated, the way he scrunched his eyebrows together when an odd or long word came up in lecture that he couldn’t spell right but didn’t have time to erase, the way some of his hair sagged down onto his forehead but he didn’t both to move it. 

Maybe he’d push my hair out of my face, hold my jaw, touch his lips to mine… share his warmth with me in bed… 

“Sherlock, are you sleeping? Your eyes are open. Oh good, come on lecture’s over.” John said to the catatonic brunette. Sherlock blushed and looked up to where John was standing next to him, satchel laying on his shoulder. Sherlock coughed and looked around. The professor was sitting at his desk and no one else was still in the room. Sherlock quickly grabbed his backpack and slipped it on his shoulders and grabbed his book hurrying to the door, behind John. 

“Um… See you later Sherlock. Six thirty?” John said and stood in the hall leading to his medical studies classes as Sherlock stood in the opposite facing hallway leading to the next building over. Sherlock looked down at his boots and then looked up at John.

“Make sure to wear a jacket, it's supposed to get cold…” Sherlock said and smiled and waved awkwardly and walked toward the door. He heard a slight bounce or skip to John’s walk. 

It’s a date. I’m going on a date. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuc-

<-Last Chapter Next Chapter ->

[musingmycelium]

its oc kiss week!!! @antivan-beau 😘

In the time between the midday meal and contemplation the Keep is nearly quiet. Far fewer footsteps, the stones remain untrod, the sun shines cleanly on the turret stairs. Clandestine one might even say. Though even with the full bearing of the sun on her face Attie still finds a sliver of a chill slipping down her spine. 

Then again, those little stinging nerves in the tips of her fingers and the pit of her stomach may have nothing at all to do with the crisp autumn air nipping through the arrow notches. 

She walks up. One slippered foot at a time taking breath after breath, each corner could be the one. The stairs are quiet, now, in the hush when everyone else is in the dining hall, lively and loud and so very far away. Quiet except for the subtle thuds reverberating in the stones where Attie drags her fingers along the wall. Plate metal, she’s told, rings against the floor. She’s never cared about the way those footsteps fade before.

Another step, an echo in the wall. Only a handful more steps before the next floor, the open entryway peeking, sneaking glances just as Attie keeps sneaking upward. Anticipation, yes that’s the word for the way her toes feel numb and her heart climbs into her throat. Noure would be proud. 

Perhaps Bea will be too.

Attie takes one step up and a boot swaddled foot enters her upturned line of sight. Another breath, deeper. The scent of leather polish faintly follows the ankle, follows the calf. 

Around the corner. Sunlight catches in her hair as she descends the turret stairs, shining off her armor. Beatrice rounds the corner and Attie stops breathing entirely. 

But she doesn’t stop walking.

Clandestine, quiet, hidden in the stairs in the sunlight in autumn. 

Fleeting moments all they have. Too many things at stake, too many others where they should be alone. Responsibilities, obligations. There is room only for the flight path of sunlight in Bea’s hair, in the open mouth of Attie’s reflection on her breastplate. There is room only for passing on the stairs. 

Stepping past. Attie shifts to the side in the same movement as Bea makes room for her to continue. The last deep breath, to hold her metallic scent in her chest. It will last. It will last.

There is room only for the brush of Attie’s arm against Bea’s.

Oh it will last. 

One more step is all they have left. The Keep will come back to life, the stairs will empty.

Beatrice catches Attie’s arm just as she’s nearly past her. Her last breath is knocked from her lungs, the numbness the tingling the soaring in her stomach. On her arm, Bea’s breath ghosts her own refusal, her rebuttal, time is never enough and nothing good can last.

Her eyes are closed where she holds Attie’s arm to her chest and it’s too much. Too much of everything they can never have. Attie turns her head, towards the sun towards the stone, away from where Bea presses a tender kiss to Attie’s forearm. 

Sunlight. Sunlight, sunlight, the autumn sunlight hits Bea’s hair and the fire Attie sees there has caught in Attie’s chest. How can it last, how can it last long enough. Her lips against the fabric covering her skin. How long can it last?

An uneven hitch in Attie’s breathing. An almost sob hidden by the crook of her elbow. Bea releases her arm with nothing more than a lingering touch and the reverberations of her footsteps down the stairs fades from the stone walls where Attie cannot help but let her fingers linger.