#southern curls and pearls

[selectyourbaggoals]

[spikedfearn]

Upon the Scarlet Altar

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: On a night when the moon hangs low and your body bleeds for him, he worships you the only way he knows how: on his knees, mouth between your thighs, feasting like you’re the last taste of warmth in a world gone dark. But in his arms—cold as the grave—you find a different kind of fire. One that never dies.

wc: 4.1k

a/n: AHHH you guys—I’m seriously losing my mind right now. Mercy Made Flesh hit 1.7K notes in 72 hours and I’m just sitting here clutching my pearls and screaming into the void like !!! thank you SO much for all the love, thirst, and pure unhinged energy you’ve poured into my fic!! this fic is lovingly (and hornily) dedicated to @oc3anbxbyxoxo who requested remmick eating reader out while on her period!! and, as always, thanks to my number #1 pookie Nat @kayharrisons for beta reading!!

warnings: vampirism, bloodplay, oral sex (f!receiving), period sex, vampire x human, worship kink, possessive undead love interest, overstimulation, blood drinking, body worship, monsterfucking (soft), southern gothic setting, mild dubcon tones (power imbalance), religious/sacrilegious language, explicit sexual content, knife-edge tenderness, unholy devotion, mutual obsession, sex as ritual, canon-typical vampire violence (implied)

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! please enjoy!!

The moonlight spills across the cold stone floor like spilled cream, pale and thick, stretching all the way to the foot of Remmick’s bed. You don’t knock when you enter. You never have to.

He already knows.

He’s there, seated at the edge of the mattress like he’s been waiting all night—shirt half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his hair a soft tangle from too much pacing. There’s a gleam to his eye that hadn’t been there yesterday. Something feral. Something starved.

His nose twitches before his lips curl.

“You’re bleedin’,” he drawls, voice like bourbon left too long in the sun. “C’mere, sugar.”

You close the door behind you. You should be embarrassed. You’re not wearing anything underneath the long black slip you call a nightgown. Not tonight. The silk clings to your thighs, sticking just slightly with each step.

He’s watching. Always watching. Like he’ll die if he blinks.

By the time you reach him, he’s already reached for your hips, already dragging you between his legs. His hands are cold. They always are. But they warm quickly when they cup the back of your thighs and pull you forward until you’re straddling his lap.

“Could smell you from the hallway,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

“Then show me,” you whisper.

His eyes flick up. Crimson. Blazing.

Ravenous.

And then he lays you back.

The mattress dips under your weight, the room heavy with the scent of old wood, candle smoke, and something darker now—something copper-sweet. His breathing doesn’t hitch, doesn’t falter. But it deepens. Slows. Like he’s savoring every second before he lets the hunger off its leash.

Remmick’s palms press to the inside of your thighs, spreading you open like a prayer. His voice, low and reverent, ghosts over your skin.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, thumbing the edge of your nightgown up, baring the soft heat of your core. “Ain’t nothin’ in this world tastes as good as you do when you bleed.”

The shame you thought you might feel never comes. There’s only heat, only want, only the obscene pulse in your stomach as he lowers his mouth with something like worship painted across his face.

“Y’ain’t scared, are you?” he murmurs, his lips brushing the crease of your inner thigh. “’Cause I’m real hungry, darlin’. Real fuckin’ hungry.”

You shake your head, your voice a whisper. “No.”

His grin is all teeth.

“That’s my girl.”

And then his tongue slides over you—slow, deliberate, impossibly soft. He groans like he’s been starving, the sound deep in his throat, his arms locking around your hips to hold you still as he buries his face between your legs.

You cry out.

The first lick is hot and sinful, laced with something carnal and wrong, the wet glide of his tongue tasting the blood he craves, the slick that coats you. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t build slow. He devours—growling against your cunt like it’s the only meal he’s ever needed.

“Christ,” he moans against you, lips already wet with it, tongue circling your clit with obscene precision. “You’re sweeter’n sin like this.”

Your fingers fist in his hair. You’re trembling. The sheets are damp beneath you from your own sweat, from the way your body shudders every time he moans into you like he lives for this.

And maybe he does.

Because Remmick doesn’t stop.

Not when your legs shake. Not when your thighs try to close. Not even when you gasp his name like it’s a lifeline. He keeps going, mouth locked to your cunt, tongue sliding deeper as he feeds and worships all at once.

“Gon’ give you everythin’,” he mumbles, voice thick and slurred with lust, lips slick. “Gon’ make you cum so hard you forget your damn name.”

You already have.

Your back arches, spine bowing off the bed as the wave crests—hot, thick, electric. His name spills out of your mouth in pieces, broken syllables caught between breathless moans, and he drinks it in like it’s part of the offering.

Remmick doesn’t let up.

Even as your hips buck, even as your thighs tremble violently around his head, he holds you down, strong hands keeping you spread and helpless beneath him. His tongue flicks against your clit with punishing precision now, coaxing you past the edge and straight into ruin.

Your vision whites out.

Pleasure burns—too much, too good, a drag across nerve endings that should’ve long gone numb but haven’t, not under him. Not under the mouth of a man who’s been alive for centuries and still claims you as the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

He groans again, loud this time, the sound vibrating through your cunt like a sin. You don’t realize you’re crying until he pulls back slightly, lips flushed red and glossy with blood and slick. The sight should be terrifying.

It’s fucking gorgeous.

“Look at you,” he rasps, dragging his mouth up your body, a smear of crimson trailing from your inner thigh to your hip. “So damn pretty fallin’ apart like that.”

He licks his lips, slow. Lingering.

“Could stay between these thighs all night, baby. Might just do that.”

Your breath stutters when he leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. His voice is thick with lust, but there’s something else now—something dark. Territorial.

“Ain’t gon’ want nobody else’s blood, y’hear me?” he whispers, one hand cupping your throat, thumb brushing your pulse. “Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than you when you bleed for me.”

You whimper, your body still trembling beneath him.

And Remmick smiles.

Because you're not scared.

You're in love. In lust. In ruin.

The room is quiet now, save for the rasp of your breath and the low hum of Remmick’s satisfaction as he lays against you, one arm heavy across your waist, his nose nuzzled into your neck like he can’t bear to be even an inch away from your pulse.

You’re boneless, ruined—your legs still trembling slightly as the aftermath rolls through you in warm, dizzy waves.

But he’s calm. Too calm.

Like a beast that’s fed and now lies curled around its prey, not because it’s lost interest—but because it’s claimed you.

His fingers trace idle circles over your belly, smearing faint streaks of blood he hasn't bothered to wipe away. He hums low in his chest, then murmurs against your throat:

“Y’don’t know what you’ve done to me, do ya?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your mouth’s parted, your tongue dry, your body still fluttering in the places he touched and tasted.

He presses a kiss just beneath your jaw, then another, lower—his lips dragging slow.

“You come to me bleedin’ like that,” he drawls, voice syrupy and warm, “an’ expect me to behave?”

You feel his smirk as he speaks against your skin.

“Darlin’, you ain’t just mine. You’re marked. Body knows it. Blood knows it. Every time you ache, every time you get that little twitch in your thighs thinkin’ ‘bout me…that’s me callin’ to you.”

You swallow hard.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, those crimson eyes soft now, almost tender—but still burning. Still dangerous.

“I ever catch somebody else smellin’ you like this…” he shakes his head slowly, almost pitying. “They won’t get the chance to learn from their mistake.”

He says it like a promise.

And then softer, almost lovingly:

“Gon’ take real good care of you. Keep you right here where it’s safe. Keep that sweet little body fed, fucked, and mine.”

You blink up at him, dazed and flushed.

He brushes a knuckle down your cheek, then presses his lips to your temple like you’re something precious. Holy, even.

“Rest now, sugar,” he murmurs, voice velvet-dark. “We got all night.”

Steam curls like spirits from the clawfoot tub as the water runs, hot and fragrant with crushed rose petals and herbs from the garden out back. The scent is earthy, grounding—lavender, rosemary, and something darker beneath it. Something that smells like Remmick.

He’s at your side, one hand steady on the small of your back as he helps you into the water like you’re made of spun glass.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmurs, voice quiet now. Slower. “Let me fix that.”

The warmth envelopes you, and you sink into it with a sigh, limbs limp, head tipping back as your body adjusts. The blood between your thighs has already begun to dilute in the bathwater, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. If anything, his gaze softens.

Remmick kneels behind the tub and rolls his sleeves higher. He dips a cloth into the water and begins to wash you gently, reverently, careful around your thighs, your breasts, your throat.

Like he’s memorizing every inch of you again.

“Still can’t believe you walked into that church that night,” he says, the hint of a smile in his voice, low and fond. “All that fire in you, all that fury. Lord, you had no idea what you were walkin’ into.”

You remember.

You’d been eighteen. Hungry. Lost. Sleeping in the loft of the abandoned chapel on the edge of the forest because the shelter was full and the weather had turned. You hadn’t known the stories were true—not until you’d come face-to-face with the man who didn’t cast a shadow, who stood at the altar after midnight like he’d been waiting for you.

Remmick had looked at you the way God might’ve looked at Eve: not with shame, but with curiosity.

And then with hunger.

“I should’ve run,” you whisper.

He hums. “You did. I let you.”

You’d run through the woods, blood pumping so loud in your ears you could hear your own pulse. He hadn’t chased you—not right away. He’d let the fear bloom, let it take root, let you come back on your own.

You hadn’t been able to stay away.

Maybe it was the way he spoke. Or the way he looked at you. Or maybe it was the way the nights weren’t so cold when he was near.

“I didn’t want you to be afraid,” he says now, dipping the cloth to run it between your legs, slow and careful, like he’s cleaning a wound.

“I was,” you say. “But not of you.”

Remmick nods. He knows.

You’d been afraid of needing him.

And now look at you—body bare and pliant in his bath, flushed from orgasm and bleeding in his water, letting him touch you with those old, cold hands like they’ve got the right.

Because they do.

“You were too damn young,” he murmurs after a beat, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “But you looked me in the eye like you’d seen a thousand winters. Said you weren’t afraid of no man, no monster. Only the ones who pretend they ain’t.”

You smile faintly. “And you never pretended.”

His eyes darken.

“I told you what I was. What I needed. And you still chose to stay.”

You open your eyes, tilting your chin toward him.

“I still do.”

He leans in and kisses you then—not hungrily, not with possession, but reverence. Like you’re sacred. Like he’s praying with his mouth.

And in a way, he is.

Because Remmick never asked for salvation.

He found it anyway.

In you.

The water laps gently around you, soft and warm as skin, swirling faint pink around your hips. His kiss is slow—an ache, a promise, a tether. When he finally pulls back, your lips are damp, parted, breathless, and Remmick is just watching you.

Like he always does.

There’s something about the way he looks at you. Not just hunger. Not just obsession. It’s deeper than that—like he’s memorizing you, like the sight of you is the only thing anchoring him to this wretched earth. Like if he stopped looking, the centuries would catch up to him and pull him down to hell where he knows he belongs.

But not yet.

Not while you’re here. Not while your blood is still warm and your body still pliant and your soul still just out of reach.

He brushes the edge of the cloth over your collarbone next, then your shoulder, dragging it across your chest with trembling restraint. There’s a smear of blood on the side of your breast—his doing—and he wipes it away with the gentleness of a man afraid to break the thing he worships.

“You’re somethin’ holy to me,” he murmurs, low enough it sounds like it’s more for him than you. “Somethin’ sacred.”

You swallow, your throat tight, heart tripping over itself in your chest.

“No I’m not.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe not to the world. But to me? You’re a goddamn miracle.”

You can’t speak. Can’t move. All you can do is feel as he pours warm water over your shoulders, cupping the back of your head like he’s baptizing you in blood and roses.

“First time I saw you,” he says, “I thought I’d finally gone mad. Thought I was seein’ a ghost. You walked right through that broken door, moonlight at your back, lookin’ like vengeance and salvation in one breath.”

He sets the cloth aside.

“You didn’t flinch when you saw my teeth. Didn’t cry when I told you what I was. You just looked at me with those big, tired eyes and asked if I was gonna kill you.”

You remember that night. You remember the way your voice hadn’t shaken, even though your knees did. The way his eyes had gone wide—startled, not by your fear, but by your lack of it.

He laughs softly now. “And I told you, didn’t I? Told you I don’t kill what I’m fixin’ to keep.”

Your breath catches.

“Remmick…”

“I meant it,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead, to your temple, to the crown of your head. “Meant it then. Mean it now. You’re mine. And I ain’t ever lettin’ you go.”

Your fingers curl in the water. His arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest, the sound of his dead heart silent beneath your ear.

But it feels like it’s beating.

Only for you.

Only here.

The water’s gone tepid by the time he speaks again.

“Time to get you outta there, sugar,” he drawls, voice velvet-thick. “Before I end up joinin’ you.”

He stands, boots echoing soft on the old tiles, and leans over the tub to scoop you into his arms. It’s effortless—like you weigh nothing at all. Your wet skin presses to his chest, and the chill of him—cold, corpse-cold—sinks straight into your bones.

But you don’t flinch.

You never do.

Because even if he doesn’t have blood that pumps or a heart that beats, there’s warmth in him still. In the way his arms hold you like you’re breakable. In the way his mouth brushes your temple like a promise. In the way he carries you through this crumbling house like you’re something he’d go to war for.

You cling to him out of instinct, arms curling around his neck as your cheek rests against the hollow of his throat. It’s icy. Still. But it’s home.

“I got you,” he murmurs, “Always do.”

He steps out of the bathroom and into the dark hallway of the house you’ve come to know like a second skin—your house now, though no one but the ghosts know it. The floorboards creak beneath his slow steps, the wallpaper is peeling, the chandeliers are draped in cobwebs like mourning veils. The wind outside presses against the windows like a lonely thing begging to be let in.

But here, in his arms, even cold, you feel untouchable.

You bleed against his skin.

It’s not until you reach the bedroom—your shared bedroom, with the worn four-poster bed and the rotting wainscoting and the lace curtains yellowed with time—that he speaks on it.

You feel the pause in his chest before the low, filthy rasp leaves his lips.

“Leakin’ all over me, sweet thing,” he mutters with a smirk, voice dipped in reverence and filth. “Leavin’ a trail like you want the whole damn forest to follow your scent home.”

You suck in a breath. The heat in your belly curls tight again.

He sets you down on the edge of the bed, your thighs parting on instinct, your slick skin sticking to his shirt, to the old quilt beneath you. The blood between your legs is thicker now, heavy. He watches it, eyes dark as pitch.

“Lord have mercy,” he whispers, dragging the back of his hand up your inner thigh just enough to catch the wet. His fingers are cool—unnaturally so—but they don’t make you recoil. They make you burn.

“You’re drippin’ for me. Bleedin’ like you want me to taste you again.”

He leans in, teeth grazing your ear.

“You know what that does to a man like me? That warm, dark sweetness runnin’ down your thighs? Ain’t nothin’ on God’s green earth tastes more like heaven than that.”

You shiver.

Not from fear.

From need.

He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, then another to your shoulder.

“Don’t you worry, baby,” he murmurs, voice so low it sinks into your skin like wine. “I’ll get you cleaned up again. Real slow. Real good. Might just make you bleed a little more while I’m at it.”

You tremble under his touch.

And Remmick smiles.

Because he knows you’re already his.

He kneels.

Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. You can feel it—what’s coming. The weight of his stare between your legs, the way his cold hands slip beneath your thighs and spread them wider, wider, until you’re completely exposed to him in the dim, flickering candlelight.

His fingers drag slow along the inner swell of your thighs, smearing blood and slick across skin like paint. His mouth parts.

“Christ almighty,” he breathes, voice reverent, his accent rougher now, more ragged. “Look at this mess. Look what you do to me, girl.”

He kisses the inside of one thigh—cold lips on burning skin—then the other. He doesn’t go for your pussy yet. He lingers. Worships. Drags his tongue along the seam of your thigh where the blood’s heaviest, groaning low and obscene as he tastes it.

He licks it up like it’s the finest thing he’s ever touched.

“Could spend hours down here,” he rasps, voice already wrecked. “Feastin’ like you’re my last goddamn meal.”

You whimper, hips twitching, your legs threatening to close—but he doesn’t let you.

“Uh-uh,” he warns, using his strength with ease to keep you open. “Don’t hide from me now. Not when you’re bleedin’ for me like this.”

His mouth finally descends on your cunt.

And this time, he takes his time.

The first pass of his tongue is so slow, so deep, it makes your eyes roll back. He licks a long, deliberate stripe from your soaked entrance to your clit, tasting everything—blood, arousal, need—and moaning like it’s divine.

His tongue flicks against your clit, again and again, featherlight but maddening. Then he shifts—mouth flattening, sucking, lapping at you with wide strokes of his tongue like he’s trying to ruin you.

And god, he is.

You fist the sheets, back arching, mouth open in a silent cry as he moans against your cunt, the vibrations shooting straight through your core. Your blood coats his mouth, his chin, his lips—but he doesn’t care. He relishes it. His hands grip your thighs tighter as he buries himself deeper, tongue fucking into you like he’s trying to crawl up inside and live there.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans between strokes, pulling back just long enough to pant against your slit. “You taste like heaven and sin all at once. Never gonna get tired of this. Never gonna stop wantin’ it.”

He slides a cold finger inside you—then another. Your body clenches hard, the contrast of his freezing hand and warm tongue almost too much to bear. But he knows your body now. Knows exactly how to curl his fingers, how to suck your clit while his tongue and hand move in tandem.

You start to shake.

Your vision blurs.

You cry out, your orgasm building harder than the last, pressure curling, snapping, about to break—

And he doesn’t stop.

Not when you start to sob his name.

Not when your thighs tremble and spasm against his shoulders.

Not even when you cum, shattering hard enough to see white behind your eyelids, your body jerking beneath his mouth like you’re being ripped open.

He keeps going.

Sucks your clit through it. Licks up every drop of blood and slick. Fingers you slower now, more gently, like he’s helping you ride it out instead of trying to end it.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing your swollen cunt. “Gave it all to me, just like you’re meant to.”

You’re ruined.

Your chest is heaving, your limbs loose, soaked through and aching, and he’s still between your thighs, still worshiping, still tasting like he’ll never get enough.

And maybe he won’t.

Because you’re bleeding.

And he’s starving.

Your breath hitches—caught somewhere between a sob and a moan—as your legs twitch from the aftershocks, thighs sticky with blood and saliva. But Remmick’s still there.

Still devouring.

Still worshipping.

His tongue moves with aching tenderness now, lazy, slow—almost teasing if it weren’t so reverent. He licks through the mess he’s made, lips parting to mouth at your folds like he’s kissing your mouth, not your cunt. Like every inch of you is sacred.

And even as your hips jerk, trying to pull away—too much, too sensitive—he doesn’t let you go.

“No,” he murmurs, voice low, steady, commanding. “We’re not done yet, sweetheart.”

He pins your hips with those cold, strong hands, mouth descending again.

You cry out, thighs shaking violently, the sensitivity blooming into a new kind of agony—pleasure twisted at the edges, electric and sharp, making your toes curl and your spine bow. The room is spinning. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

But he’s soothing you as he ruins you.

“Shhh,” he breathes against you. “I got you. Just take it. Lemme taste every last drop you’re willin’ to give me.”

You feel your body trembling apart for him again, your stomach clenching, heat pooling low and impossibly fast.

Remmick’s voice is almost gentle now, slurred with arousal and reverence as his tongue drags across your clit.

“Don’t you go hidin’ from me, baby. You know I’ll chase you down.”

He kisses your cunt again, tongue flattening and lapping, nosing against your entrance where your blood is still fresh, still dripping slow. He moans deep in his throat like it’s a vintage he’s been saving for decades, like this moment—this mess between your thighs—is a gift he doesn’t deserve.

And god, the way he sounds when he speaks between strokes—

“Your blood’s hotter’n the devil’s breath tonight.”

Another lick.

“Tastes like lust. Like pain. Like home.”

Another.

“You were made for me, girl. Built to bleed for me.”

Your body coils tighter and tighter, the pleasure sharper now, no longer soft or slow—it’s demanding, relentless, fire at the base of your spine.

And he feels it.

He moans against you as you cum again—louder this time, messier, your entire body going rigid under him as you fall apart a second time, writhing as he holds you open and takes it all.

You’re crying now, softly, not from pain but from being so thoroughly undone.

From how deeply he sees you.

How completely he wants you.

When he finally pulls back, he’s soaked. Lips red, chin slick, eyes glowing like coals. He kisses your inner thigh, then your knee, then the scar on your ankle he once asked about and never brought up again.

You’re limp beneath him, panting, ruined.

And he looks so fucking proud.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, crawling up your body. “My perfect, filthy little thing.”

He settles beside you on the bed, pulling you into his arms, curling your spent body against his cold one—and somehow, you feel warmer for it.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your hairline, then your shoulder.

“Sleep now,” he breathes. “Ain’t no one ever gon’ touch you but me.”

And as your eyelids flutter closed, muscles aching, pulse slow and full, you realize this is what he’s given you—what no one else ever could.

Not warmth.

But safety.

Not love.

But devotion.

And in a house filled with ghosts, buried in a forest that forgot its name, you fall asleep knowing you’ll never be alone again.

Not as long as Remmick walks the earth.

Not as long as he’s hungry—and you’re his.

[theodoreangelos]

Caitlin M. Covington A Weekend in Blowing Rock – Southern Curls & Pearls Выходные в Блоуинг-Рок – Южные локоны и жемчужины https://southern-curls-and-pearls.tumblr.com/

[matchpointfaist]

take it like a taker, cause baby i’m a giver! 🌾

cowboy! art donaldson x reader

tw for smut and kindaaaa cheating?? reader has a kinda bf but not rly!

every year, the rodeo brought dozens of boys into town, all southern drawls and catcalls across the bar you worked at, drinkin’ cheap beer faster than they could ask for it. there was a big event this year, drawing in all kinds of attention from sports media and more competitors than usual. the headliner, the main event, was art donaldson. he was unrivaled in the circuit, strong and quick enough to stay on until the very end, the best wranglin’ skills on his side of the mississippi. and god, he was gorgeous. you could tell he knew it, too, the way he walked around with a toothpick between his teeth and a lazy grin on his lips. that kinda man didn’t have to catcall, no. they came to him.

you tried your best to ignore him the way you ignored all the others, but there was just something about him, the sparkle in his blue eyes or the depth of his accent, his voice deep and words curled. whatever it was, you knew you were screwed as soon he leaned against your bar, the sleeves of his pearl buttoned shirt rolled up his elbows. “hey there, miss,” he smiled, the toothpick tight between his teeth, “how are ya this evenin’?” “i’m doin’ just fine,” you smiled in return, “what’ll it be?” “whatever you recommended, darlin,” it was cocky of him, but you couldn’t ignore the way your cheeks flushed at the pet name, “and what if i have bad taste?” you teased. “aw, cmon now. pretty thing like you couldn’t have bad taste if you tried,”

you busied yourself behind the bar, poured him a tall glass of shiner and slid it over to him with a smile, “there ya go,” “see? knew i could trust you,” he grinned around the rim of the glass, “what’s your name, sugar?” you told him, something you never did, “and yours?” “art. art donaldson,” he nodded, “in town for the rodeo,” “oh, i’m sure,” you nodded in return, “i’ve seen you on the flyers. famous, ain’t ya?” “aw, i don’t know about that,” he laughed, hearty and warm, “just won a few, that’s all. enough about me, though. what’s a pretty girl like you doin’ workin at this place?” “my brother owns this place, thank you very much,” you replied, sipping your water, trying to look away from his lips around the glass, “work here on weekends when we have these events, know how yall like to drink ‘nd all,”

“that’s sweet of you,” he smiled, tongue swiping along his bottom lip, collecting the droplets of beer, “how old are you, hm? look awful young to be hangin’ around all these old men,” “i’m 21,” you rolled your eyes, still grinning, “and you?” “26,” he told you, eyes trialing down to the v of your shirt just slightly, “that ain’t too bad,” “too bad for what, exactly?” you asked, resting a hand on your hip. “not too much older than you, that’s all,” he shrugged, a coy smile on his lips, “unless you like older men, then maybe i got a disadvantage,” “i’ll have you know i’ve got a boyfriend,” you couldn’t help but revel in the irritation that flashed across his face, “so it doesn’t matter much anyway,”

“yeah? where’s your boyfriend then, pretty? he let you stay out this late workin’ while he’s at home?” he asked, resting his chin on his hand, smug smile on his lips. “he’s in the kitchen,” you gestured to the window leading to the kitchen that only really produced questionable greasy food, “not that it’s any of your business, cowboy,” “oh, come on,” he groaned, “don’t tell me you went and fell for some kinda line cook, darlin. you need a real man, somebody that’s gonna take care of you,” “yeah? somebody like you?” you cocked an eyebrow, grinning. he didn’t miss a beat, “yeah, somebody just like me. how serious is it, you and that guy?” “mm, not very,” you shrugged, glancing away. “yeah, i’m sure,” he laughed, quiet and intimate, like it was just for you, “what is it, honey? you just mess around with him when there’s no one else around, huh? yall meet here and you settled?” he was dead on- he wasn’t your boyfriend, not really. you didn’t even fuck him, just made out with him after work when you had a few too many shift drinks, let him feel you up until you had enough, then you let him drive you home with false promises of ‘maybe next time’. but art didn’t need to know that.

“well if you ever want a real man,” he slid a napkin you hadn’t even realized he’d written on across the bar, “room 201, i’ll be here all week. i’m competing tomorrow, if you wanna come watch,” “you’re cocky, aren’t ya?” you rolled your eyes but took the napkin anyway, folding it up and tucking it into the pocket of your denim skirt, “maybe i’ll see you tomorrow, then,” “i hope so, darlin. you can be my good luck charm. if i win, you gotta let me take you out,” he winked, placed a $50 next to the empty glass, and left you feeling slightly dumbfounded as you watched him walk away. yeah, you were screwed.

you went down to the rodeo grounds the next day, all dressed up in your favorite gingham dress and boots, sipping a lemonade as you watched the boys compete. when art’s name was announced, the stands wend wild, stomping and clapping and cheering his name. you’d seen this place loud, of course, half the people were usually day drinking just enough to let go of their inhibitions and scream like no tomorrow. but this was a whole new level, like he was some kind of rodeo god, like he was gracing everyone with his mere presence. you could’ve scoffed- tried to, really, but then you saw him.

he was entirely in his element, perched atop a horse like he belonged there, his thighs strong and taut in his jeans as he led his horse into the ring. his hands gripped the reins, catching your attention even from the stands, lighting a fire inside of you. he rode with precision and grace, even as the horse bucked, even when anyone else would have fallen. it looked like a second nature to him, easy as breathing, the sort of relaxation that can’t come from practice. he somehow managed to keep his hat on the entire time, as well as a cocky, barely there little smile. it had you shifting in your seat, thighs squeezed together with each movement of his hands or toned arms. when it was all said and done, they announced the winners, and he was first in all categories. he accepted the awards with practiced graciousness, but you could see right through it. he knew he deserved them, knew he’d win. the ‘oh, you shouldn’t have’ act was all a facade, but it just made you fall even deeper.

that night, when everyone was out drinking and celebrating and making complete fools of themselves, you couldn’t keep your mind off of him. your fingers found the napkin you’d kept in your purse, art’s handwriting etched onto it, and before you knew it you were knocking on the door of room 201, your mind racing. your heart stalled when the door creaked open- art stood before you with just a towel wrapped low on his waist, beads of water dripping from his hair. “well ain’t this a nice surprise,” he grinned, eyes raking over your frame, “sure wasn’t expectin’ you tonight, darlin,” you tried to force your eyes away from him- from the planes of his chest, still shining from his shower, from the toned muscles of his biceps and the veins laying just under the skin. “you told me to come by,” the words came out slightly shaky, “but if now’s a bad time, i can-“

“now’s not a bad time,” his hand circled around your wrist, gently, but just firm enough to pull you inside. you huffed, cheeks hot, “what’re you doing?” “no sense in lettin’ a pretty girl wait around outside, is there?” he grinned, “come on, let me make you a drink,” before you could protest, he’d led you to the creaky hotel bed, turning away to retrieve something from the small kitchenette. he returned with two beers, sweaty with condensation, passing one to you, “so did you watch earlier?” you nodded, taking a small sip, anything to soothe your growing nerves, “yeah, i did. you were pretty good,”

“pretty good?” he arched a brow, “that’s all? you wound me, honey,” he placed a hand on his chest, feigning injury. “you don’t need me to tell you how good you are,” you rolled your eyes but smiled anyway, “everybody else already did that,” “well maybe i wanna hear it from you,” “cocky, aren’t ya?” your eyes fell to the towel still tight around his hips, “why’d you ask me to come here, art?” “come on, sugar. you’re smarter than that,” his hand rested on your thigh, warm and broad against your skin, “you know exactly why i wanted you here,” your breath hitched, goosebumps fanning out along your skin, “you just assumed i’d sleep with you, then?”

“saw how you were lookin’ at me,” his hand crept higher, slow but insistent, “tell me i’m wrong and we’ll just go back to talkin’, but i know what it looks like when a girl wants me, darlin’,” you couldn’t even deny him, you were helpless to it all. “you’re so full of yourself,” you mumbled, but you let him slide his hand under your skirt, let him kiss you like it meant something more than just a hookup. his mouth was hot and greedy, his self assurance apparent in the way he slid his tongue into your mouth, the way his free hand came to tilt your head back. you gasped when he slid his fingers underneath the cotton of your panties, pressing just lightly over your clit. “knew it,” he mumbled against you, “soaked for me, sugar,” he pulled you up into his lap, twisted you so your back was against his chest, your legs spread open as his fingers worked at your core, his kisses falling to your shoulder.

“look at you, darlin’, just fallin’ apart on my fingers. you still think i’m full of myself, hm?” he murmured into your skin, slowly sipping a finger inside of you, “god, you’re so wet,” “art,” it came out in a broken whine, your back arching against him, the lewd sounds of his fingers against you filling the hotel room. “i know it,” he cooed, “you gonna come for me, pretty thing?” your eyes rolled back as you bucked your hips against his hand, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you got closer, “god, yes,” he worked you through it, drew it from you like it was his one true calling, murmuring praises into your neck as you came down.

you caught your breath, shifting in his arms to face him, your hands coming to untie the towel around his waist. as you kneeled on the carpeted floor in front of the bed, his breath hitched, his hand resting on your jaw, “don’t have to do that, darlin’,” he sounded almost pained, his voice thick, “god, just let me fuck you, please,” he pulled you up into his arms again before you could protest, the towel discarded on the floor, his cock hard against your thighs as you settled in his lap. “you gonna ride me, baby, hm? play cowgirl f’me?” before you could answer, he pulled you down onto his cock, the breath leaving your lungs as he stretched you out, your eyes rolling back at the feeling, “there you go, darlin’, see how long you can take it,”

he didn’t let you do much of the work, of course. he was a man of his word, seeing how long you could stay on, fucking up into you hard enough to have you trembling and gasping, a moaning mess above him. “god, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he panted, his hands surely leaving fingerprints on your ass as he held you tight, “you like that, sugar? hm?” “yes, art, god yes,” you nodded eagerly, jaw slack, “feels so fucking good,” “prettiest thing i ever saw,” his jaw was clenched with the effort of not filling you up right there and then, his hips bucking desperately, “ridin’ me so good,” his hands left your skin just long enough to grab his hat from the bedside table, resting it on your head, your brows furrowing when you felt it. “oh, god,” he exhaled, “look so fuckin’ pretty wearin’ my hat, angel. yknow what that means, don’t ya?” his thrusts had gotten even rougher, his legs shaking, “means you’re mine,”

“oh, art,” you let out a high pitched moan as he slapped your ass, your skin stinging with the impact, “god, so close,” “yeah, there ya go,” he encouraged, his breathing ragged, “atta girl,” you clenched around him as you came, your nails raking down his chest, grabbing at anything you could to stable yourself as he fucked you incoherent. “god, sweetest fuckin’ pussy,” he groaned, grabbing your hips and fucking you on his cock, your breath coming out in short squeaks, “gonna fill you up, y’want that? hm?” you nodded, too far gone to speak, squeezing him tighter at the thought. “yeah, knew you would,” you could practically hear the smirk on his lips, but it was quickly replaced by a broken, desperate moan. his thrusts grew sloppy and erratic, and soon he was coming undone, filling you up, hot and wet and making you even more needy. “oh, fuck,” he panted, catching his breath as he slowly settled you in his lap, his hands soothing over the skin he’d slapped, “so good, darlin’, good lord,”

he held you that way for a few minutes, still inside you, until he slowly slid you off of him, hissing softly at the loss of contact as he pulled you onto his chest, his arms circling around your back. “should clean up,” you mumbled into his chest, sticky with sweat. “yeah, in a minute,” he murmured into your hair, “just wanna hold you like this,” when you finally cleaned up, he was soft and attentive, the two of you grinning and blushing under the hotel shower head like you hadn’t just done something much more intimate. you spent the night, even though you told yourself you wouldn’t, let him tell you all his old rodeo stories until you fell asleep against his chest. you could get used to it, you told yourself. maybe too easily.

[raekensluver]

his darlin' girl

masterlist | main masterlist

description: a soft-hearted cowboy and his sweet girl share a tender morning of blueberry muffins, pink bows, and lingering touches that hint at something just a little sweeter waiting inside.

pairing: southern!cowboy!george clarke x fem!reader

contains: 18+, Minors DNI, smut, pet names (sugar, sweetheart, love, darlin'), cunnilingus, fingering, p in v

song rec: talking body by tove lo- "now if we're talking body, you got a perfect one so put it on me."

w.c: 5.0k

the morning sun spilled gold over the wide fields, brushing the wheat and wildflowers with soft light. dew still clung to the blades of grass as you stepped outside, cradling a pink gingham basket against your chest. inside were three perfectly wrapped blueberry muffins - his favorite - each tucked into a napkin printed with tiny pastel bows.

george was already out in the field, shirtless and sweat-slicked, working at a stubborn fence post. the early light caught on his tan skin, muscles flexing with each movement. his hands were rough, coated in dirt, and his jeans rode low on his hips, the worn fabric already streaked with dust.

he didn’t notice you at first. not until your little boots crunched along the gravel path.

“mornin’, darlin’,” he drawled, voice still thick with sleep and sun. as soon as his eyes landed on you, his usual scowl melted into something softer, warmer. “you bringin’ me treats again?”

you nodded, your pink bow bouncing gently in your curls. “i made your favorites. figured you could use somethin’ sweet.”

george chuckled and set the post down, wiping his hands against his jeans - but they were far too dirty to take anything delicate.

“my hands ain’t clean, love. can’t take ‘em like this.”

you stepped closer, a little shy but still determined, voice soft and warm. “well… then i guess i’ll just have to feed you.”

he stilled for half a second. then that slow, crooked smile tugged at his lips. “well ain’t you just the sweetest little thing. come on then.”

you pulled a muffin from the basket, broke off a bite-sized piece, and lifted it gently to his mouth. he leaned down, his lips brushing your fingers as he took the bite. a low groan rumbled in his chest as he chewed.

“mm,” he sighed, “perfect. almost as sweet as you.”

you giggled, ducking your head. “you’re just sayin’ that.”

“i ain’t never just say things, sweetheart,” he murmured, reaching up to wipe the edge of your mouth with his thumb. “when i say you’re sweet, i damn well mean it. now c’mere.”

he pulled you in against his side with one strong arm, pressing a kiss to your temple. you fit perfectly there, leaning into him like it was second nature. george could be mean as hell to just about everyone else, but with you, he was all gentle hands and soft drawls, wrapping around you like armor.

“pearl’s waitin’ for you,” he said after a moment, nodding toward the small white mare grazing lazily near the stable. “gave her a fresh brushin’ this mornin’. said she missed her girl.”

your face lit up, and george felt something warm bloom in his chest. you always got that glow when it came to pearl. the day he brought her home in that ribbon-covered trailer, you’d burst into tears and clung to him for five straight minutes, sobbing into his shoulder.

he still remembered the way you looked: tiny next to the horse, your favorite pink boots, pink sundress similar to the white one you were wearing now, and cheeks streaked with tears. he’d never forget it. one of the best damn days of his life.

“you spoil me,” you said softly, fingers slipping into his.

“damn right i do,” he murmured back. “you deserve it.”

you leaned against him, warm and content, the scent of wildflowers and fresh earth clinging to his skin. he hadn’t let go of you since that muffin, and you weren’t exactly complaining.

“got a little somethin’ on your cheek,” he murmured after a moment, brushing a calloused thumb across your skin. but he didn’t pull away. he let his hand linger, his fingers featherlight beneath your jaw.

you looked up at him, eyes wide, lips parting just slightly. his gaze dropped to your mouth and lingered.

“george?”

“yeah, sugar?”

your voice was barely more than a whisper. “you’re lookin’ at me funny.”

he smiled, slow and rough at the edges. “not funny, darlin’. just…you look real pretty right now. always do. but somethin’ about you standin’ here all pink and soft and mine? i’m feelin’ it extra hard.”

your cheeks flushed, bow bouncing a little as you shifted in place, unsure where to look.

he lifted your chin gently, tipping your face back toward his. “been thinkin’ ‘bout you all mornin'.”

george’s hand slid to the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the tender skin there. you swallowed, heart racing, as his other hand found its way around your waist. he pulled you closer, until your white dress was pressed against the warm wall of his chest.

his eyes searched yours for a moment, looking for any sign of hesitation. but all he saw was the same love that was mirrored in your own. so he kissed you.

his mouth was firm and demanding, the taste of blueberry and sugar still lingering on your lips. you melted into the kiss, your arms wrapping around his neck. his hand at your waist slid up to cradle the back of your head, keeping you right where he wanted you.

you could feel his heart hammering against yours, his breath hot and fast in your ear. he kissed you with the urgency of someone who knew every inch of you - and still couldn't get enough. It wasn’t new, but it was no less electric; like all those nights tangled together had only sharpened the ache. even now, the sound of his truck in the driveway could still make your chest tighten.

his thumb traced the line of your jaw, and you felt his other hand slip lower, caressing the curve of your hip. you gasped into the kiss, arching into him. his kiss grew deeper, more urgent, and you knew that you wanted this. more than you’d ever wanted anything.

so you kissed him back, your shyness forgotten in the heat of the moment. your hands found their way to his bare back, feeling the slickness of his sweat under your palms.

his skin was like warm velvet, and you couldn’t get enough of it. you slid your hands up to his shoulders, pushing him even closer, and he groaned low in his throat.

you broke the kiss for air, panting, looking up at him with wide, dark eyes. “georgie…”

“mmhm?” he leaned in closer, lips ghosting the corner of your mouth. “you wanna go inside, lovie? ‘cause i could really go for somethin’ sweeter than muffins right about now.”

and that was your cue to blush even harder.

you took a deep breath, feeling lightheaded and giddy. “yes, let’s go inside.”

he grinned, that crooked, heart-stopping smile that never failed to make your knees wobble. “yes, ma’am,” he murmured, scooping you up into his arms.

he carried you back to the house, your laughter filling the early morning air, the basket of muffins forgotten in the field.

once inside, he kicked the door shut with his foot and set you down in the kitchen, his hands still on your waist.

you looked around the room, a little dizzy with desire, and realized you had no idea what came next. but you had a feeling that george did.

he leaned in and kissed you again, his hands moving up to cradle your face. “don’t worry, honey. i got you,” he whispered against your mouth.

you nodded, trusting him completely. he took your hand and led you down the hall. as he opened the bedroom door, the cool, shadowy room beckoned, promising secrets and whispers and a love that was as wild and untamed as the fields outside.

your bed was a mess of rumpled sheets and quilts - a stark contrast to the pristine kitchen you’d just left behind. he sat you down on the edge of the mattress, his hands on your knees.

“gimme one sec, love,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. then he disappeared into the en-suite bathroom. you heard the soft splash of water, the creek of the old faucet, and the low sound of him humming as he washed his hands - gentle and deliberate.  

his gaze never left yours as he returned, pressing featherlight kisses along your neck, making you shiver. “you’re so pretty, baby,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

his calloused hands slid up your legs, sending sparks of pleasure through you. your own hands found their way to his shoulders, gripping the firm muscles tightly.

his kisses grew more insistent, moving up to your ear and then your jaw, before returning to your mouth. his tongue slipped past your lips, and you met him eagerly, the taste of him making your toes curl in your little pink boots.

but then, as if he hadn’t had enough of teasing you, he pulled back, dropping to his knees. his eyes never left yours as he gently grabbed your ankle, the leather of your boot creaking as he kissed down your leg. your breath caught in your throat, and your eyes went wide with surprise.

his calloused thumb rubbed a circle into your knee, his mouth leaving a trail of heat along your skin. it was a strange sensation, his roughness against your softness, but it made you feel alive.

his hand slid down to the side of your calf, gripping the leather of your boot. with surprising gentleness, he tugged it off, revealing your bare foot. his eyes darkened as he took it in his hand, and you couldn’t help but giggle at the way his rough thumbs massaged the arch, sending little bolts of pleasure up your leg.

his eyes never left yours as he brought your foot to his mouth, kissing the ball of your ankle. your giggle turned into a soft gasp. it was strange, but it felt…right. like you were made to be worshipped by him.

his hands were so gentle as he tugged at the other boot, pulling it off and placing it beside the first. your legs were bare now, your feet in his calloused hands. he massaged the arch of one foot, his thumb moving in slow circles, and you couldn’t help the little whimpers that escaped your mouth.

his eyes remained on yours, watching your every reaction, his own desire growing with every breath you took. his other hand slid up the inside of your thigh, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin.

you leaned back, supporting yourself with your elbows, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as his hand traveled higher. his touch was like a brand, leaving heat in its wake, and you felt your body respond, your legs falling open slightly, inviting him in.

his mouth followed the path of his hand, kissing along the inside of your thigh, the roughness of his stubble making you shiver. his touch grew bolder, his thumb brushing against your panties. you were wet, so wet, and the fabric was the only thing keeping him from feeling it.

his eyes darkened even more, and he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your skin. “can i?” he murmured, his voice thick with want.

you nodded, unable to find your voice. he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and slowly, torturously, pulled them down, revealing the dampness between your legs. his eyes never left yours as he kissed your inner thigh, and you felt a jolt of electricity shoot straight to your core.

his mouth was on you before you could even process it, his tongue sliding through your folds with a hunger that made your legs tremble. your nails dug into the soft cushions of the bed, and you threw your head back, a low moan escaping your lips.

his beard was rough against your thighs, a stark contrast to the tender way his tongue worked. he knew exactly how to make you squirm, how to make you beg. you felt his strong hands grip your hips, holding you in place as he devoured you, his mouth moving in rhythmic circles that had your vision swimming.

you reached up, your hands trembling, and buried your fingers in the soft, thick mess of his mullet. it was a strange sensation - the silky strands of his hair between your digits - but it grounded you as the pleasure grew more intense.

his strong hands held your hips down, keeping you right where he wanted you as his mouth worked its magic. your legs were shaking, and you felt like you could fly apart at any moment.

you moaned "georgie," his name a sweet, desperate plea on your lips. his eyes snapped up to meet yours, and the intensity in them made you feel like you were the only person in the world. he loved the way you said his name like that… like you needed him to survive.

his mouth moved faster, his tongue pressing harder against your clit. you could feel your orgasm building, like a storm cloud in the distance. your thighs tightened around his head, your hips rising to meet his mouth.

his grip on your hips grew firmer, holding you in place as you bucked against his face. he groaned into your pussy, the vibration sending you over the edge. your climax crashed over you, a wave of pure pleasure that had you crying out his name, your entire body shaking with the force of it.

his mouth was everywhere, his tongue stroking, his teeth nipping gently at your sensitive flesh. it was like he couldn’t get enough of you. your hands were tangled in his hair, holding him in place as he licked and kissed you through it.

you could feel his own need growing, pressing against his jeans, and you knew it was time. with a final, lingering kiss to your clit, he pulled away, a smug smirk playing on his lips as he looked up at you. your cheeks were flushed, your chest heaving, your body still quivering from the aftershocks of your climax.

george chuckled and stood up, pulling his shirt off in one swift movement. his abs were a landscape of muscle and sweat, the early morning light casting shadows across his chest. he looked like a god, towering over you, and your eyes couldn’t help but trace the lines of his body.

his belt buckle jingled as he unbuckled it, the leather sliding through the loops with a whisper of sound. you watched, transfixed, as he pushed his jeans and boxers down over his hips. his cock sprang free, thick and hard, and your eyes widened a little in surprise. you’d seen it before, of course, but never like this. never with the light streaming in from the windows, making every inch of him gleam like gold.

his hands paused for a moment, giving you a chance to look. to really look. and when you finally tore your eyes away from his chest and met his gaze, you found his eyes were on you, watching you with a fiery intensity that made your cheeks burn.

his eyes dropped to your chest, where your heart was hammering a staccato rhythm against the fabric of your white sundress. and then, before you could even think to stop him, his fingers were there too, deftly untying the bow at the back of your neck.

the dress fell away, revealing the soft, rounded globes of your breasts. you had no bra on. the coolness of the room made your nipples peak into hard little buds, and you watched with wide eyes as george’s gaze darkened further, his hand sliding up to cup one gently.

his thumb brushed over the sensitive skin, and you couldn’t help but whimper, arching into his touch. his other hand found its way to your other breast, his rough fingers teasing the nipple until you were squirming on the bed, your legs parting even further.

“you’re so beautiful, darlin’,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. “so fuckin’ perfect. don’t know what i ever did to deserve you, but i’m damn grateful for it every single day.”

his words were like a warm summer breeze, wrapping around you, filling you with a sense of belonging. your cheeks flushed even more, and you ducked your head, a shy smile playing at your lips. “you don’t have to say that, georgie.”

but he did. because it was true. you were beautiful, like a wildflower in a field of weeds, untouched and unblemished. and he was the rough-handed cowboy who’d stumbled upon you.

his thumbs brushed over your nipples again, eliciting a gasp from your parted lips. you felt a thrill run down your spine, your back arching involuntarily. his eyes followed the movement, his expression a mix of awe and hunger.

"i ain't just sayin' it," he said, his voice low and gruff. "i mean it. every word."

his thumbs continued their sweet torment, and you couldn’t help the little noises escaping your throat. his mouth curled up in that smug, sexy smile that you’d come to love.

“you like that, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that made your belly flutter.

you nodded, unable to form coherent words. the way he touched you, it was like he was worshipping every inch of your body.

his thumbs left your breasts and traced a path down your stomach, sending shivers across your skin. your dress was still around your waist, and his hands paused there, his fingers playing with the fabric.

his eyes searched yours, looking for the okay. your breath hitched, but you nodded, and he tugged the dress down, baring you completely. his gaze dropped to your pussy, still wet and swollen from his attentions.

he leaned over you, his breath hot against your skin as he kissed you again. your hands slid down to his hips, urging him closer, feeling the heat of his cock against your stomach.

his fingers found your pussy, still wet and trembling from your climax. he slid one thick, calloused digit inside you, and you moaned into his mouth, your body already begging for more.

his eyes never left yours as he pushed in a second finger, stretching you open. the sensation was exquisite - his ruggedness claiming your demurity - making you feel so alive. you could see the hunger in his gaze as he watched you react to his touch, his own need growing with every breath you took.

his thumb found your clit again, and he began to rub in slow, deliberate circles that had you writhing beneath him. your hands found his wrist, guiding the rhythm, showing him exactly how you liked it. he listened to your every cue, his eyes never leaving yours as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.

his fingers worked you, thick and rough, stretching and teasing until you were panting with need. you could feel the pressure building again, the sweet ache that came with knowing he was about to give you everything you’d ever wanted.

but then, just when you were so close you could taste it, he pulled his hand away, leaving you gasping and whimpering.

“patience, darlin’,” he whispered, his voice a warm caress against your skin. “i wanna make sure you’re ready for me.”

his fingers slid out of you with a wet sound, and you couldn’t help the whine of protest that slipped from your lips. but he was already reaching for something on the bedside table. a condom, shimmering in the early light. he ripped the package open with his teeth, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

you watched, your chest heaving, as he rolled it down his thick length. his eyes never left yours, that slow, teasing smile playing on his lips. “hold on, sugar,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that had your stomach flipping. “trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

he kissed you again, his hands sliding up to cradle your face. and then he was moving over you, his body pressing yours into the softness of the mattress. the weight of him was delicious, his chest a wall of heat and muscle that you couldn’t get enough of.

his cock was at your entrance, the tip nudging gently against your swollen folds. you could feel your body begging for him, your muscles clenching in anticipation.

his hand slid down your body, finding your thigh. "open up for me, darlin'," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. you obeyed, your legs falling open wider as he positioned himself between your trembling thighs.

his cock slid through your slickness, and you felt the tip of him at your entrance. your pink nails dug into his biceps, your eyes full of anticipation. his muscles bunched under your grip, and you could see the effort he was putting into holding back, into giving you the sweet agony of waiting.

his gaze never left yours as he pushed in, just the tip, just enough to make you gasp. you felt yourself clench around him, your body trying to draw him in deeper.

"easy, sweetheart'. easy," he murmured, his voice thick with restrained desire. he kissed you again, deep and slow, as he pushed in a little more. this time, you felt a sting of pain, and you whimpered into his mouth.

his eyes searched yours for a moment, looking for any sign of distress. but all he saw was need, so he pushed in deeper, inch by agonizing inch. you felt yourself stretch around him, your pussy clenching tight as he filled you completely.

his cock was branding, searing you from the inside out. you gasped into his mouth, the pain mixing with the pleasure in a heady cocktail that had your senses spinning. your nails dug into his skin, leaving little half-moons in his arms, but he didn’t seem to notice. or if he did, it only made him more determined to give you what you needed.

his eyes never left yours as he pushed in deeper, watching for any sign of discomfort. but all you felt was a strange, delicious fullness, like you were made to be filled by him, like you’d never truly been complete before this moment.

his hips rolled into yours, his cock sliding in and out of you with a rhythm that seemed as old as time itself. you could feel every ridge, every vein, every inch of him - like he was claiming you, making you his.

his mouth found your neck, kissing and sucking gently as he moved. "you like that, baby?" he murmured, his southern drawl thick and sweet in your ear.

you nodded, a soft moan escaping your lips as his teeth grazed your skin. you adored his accent, the way it rolled over your name like a warm embrace. "yes," you managed to breathe out.

his rhythm picked up, his strokes becoming more insistent. your hands slid from his arms to his back, feeling the sweat gather as he moved. the smell of him, the scent of leather and earth and pure, unbridled masculinity, was intoxicating.

your own hips began to match his rhythm, rising to meet each powerful thrust. his mouth found your breasts, his teeth grazing the sensitive tips, and you arched into the sensation, the pain and pleasure melding together in a symphony that had your toes curling.

his hand slid down to your clit, and he began to rub it in time with his thrusts, his eyes never leaving yours. your moans grew louder, your voice echoing through the room as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.

the tension was building, the pressure so intense you thought you might shatter. and then, just when you couldn’t take it anymore, he reached up and wiped away a stray tear that had escaped from your eye.

his kiss was gentle, a stark contrast to the fiery passion in his hips. it trailed down your cheek, a soft whisper of a touch that sent a shiver down your spine. “you okay, love?” he asked, his voice low and laced with concerned.

you nodded, tears still slipping from the corners of your eyes. "yes, it just feels so good," you murmured, your voice trembling.

his eyes searched your face, his expression a mix of concern and passion. he leaned in and kissed the tears away, his mouth tender against your skin. "you're so sweet, darlin'," he said, his voice a gentle rumble. "i wanna make sure you're okay."

you nodded, a soft smile playing on your lips. "i am," you whispered. "more than okay."

his eyes searched yours for a moment longer, and then he leaned in, his mouth capturing yours in a gentle, reassuring kiss. the tension in your body melted away, replaced by a warmth that spread from your core to your fingertips.

his hips began to move again, the rhythm slower, deeper. each stroke sent a wave of pleasure crashing through you, making your toes curl. you could feel yourself growing wetter, your pussy tightening around him as he filled you.

his eyes never left yours, watching as you started to lose yourself in the sensations. "yeah, baby, just like that," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble that seemed to vibrate through your very bones. "you're so tight, so wet."

you could feel it, too: the way your body was gripping him, holding him in a vice of pure, white-hot pleasure. and as he drove into you again, a little deeper, a little harder, a little faster, something inside you shattered.

a soft gasp escaped your lips, your eyes going wide with the intensity of it. your nails scored down his back, and your legs tightened around his waist. "georgie," you moaned, your voice thick with passion.

his eyes never left yours as he picked up the pace, his cock sliding in and out of you like a well-oiled piston. your breath hitched with every thrust, your body moving in perfect harmony with his. it was like nothing you’d ever felt before, like he was claiming every part of you, leaving no corner untouched.

suddenly, you felt it: the sweet release that had been building, coiling tighter and tighter inside of you. your eyes went wide with shock as your orgasm hit, your body arching off the bed. your nails dug into his back, your mouth open in a silent scream as the pleasure washed over you like a tidal wave.

george felt your pussy spasm around him, tightening like a vice as you came. it was all the encouragement he needed. with a few more deep, powerful thrusts, he let go of his own control, his cock pulsing inside of you as he reached his climax.

his eyes squeezed shut, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming out in hot, ragged pants. you could feel his heart hammering against your chest, his muscles tensing and releasing.

after a moment, his eyes opened again, and he pulled back to look at you, his gaze softening. “fuck, darlin’, that was amazin’,” he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction. “you’re so perfect. so sweet and tight, just like a peach ripe for the pickin’.”

his words were like a warm caress, filling you with a sense of pride. no one had ever talked to you like that, made you feel so wanted. your cheeks burned with pleasure, as your smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “thank you, georgie,” you murmured, feeling your chest tighten with emotion.

he chuckled, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “don’t thank me yet, sugar. we’ve got all mornin’ ahead of us.”

his cock slipped out of you with a wet sound, and he kissed you one last time before rolling off the bed. you watched, a little dazed, as he stumbled to the bathroom, his legs shaking slightly. the early morning light painted his skin in a soft glow, highlighting the muscles that rippled with every step.

you could still feel him inside of you, his warmth lingering. your legs were trembling, the aftershocks of your orgasm making it hard to keep still. the bed was a mess of rumpled sheets and discarded clothing, the scent of sex thick in the air.

you watched as he padded into the bathroom, his naked form casting a long shadow across the wooden floor. the low hum of running water echoed softly, filling the quiet space between you. and though your body still ached in the sweetest ways, it was the feeling - the stillness, the warmth, the closeness - that made your heart flutter.

when he returned, his footsteps were slow, almost reverent. the mattress dipped as he climbed back in beside you, a warm, damp cloth in his hand. he didn’t say a word - just leaned in close, eyes locked to yours, and began to clean you up with a tenderness that nearly undid you all over again.

his touch was gentle, careful, like you were something precious. like you were something his.

you reached up instinctively, fingers brushing into his hair, still a little damp with sweat. he closed his eyes, let out a soft sigh, and leaned into your touch. the room felt suspended in time - only the hush of morning, the scent of him still clinging to your skin, and the weight of everything unspoken.

then, just as he was about to settle beside you, he paused. his brows drew together slightly, and his thumb brushed the side of your head.

“your bow came loose, love,” he said softly, voice hoarse from sleep and something deeper. “can’t have that.”

you blinked up at him, cheeks warm as he reached over to your nightstand where the little pink bow had fallen. he took it between his fingers like it was something delicate, something that mattered.

he shifted closer, nudging your legs over his lap, and gently gathered your hair. with slow, practiced movements, he retied the ribbon into place. not perfectly, it sat just a little crooked, but the care in it made your throat tighten.

“there,” he murmured, thumb grazing the underside of your jaw. “pretty again.”

you smiled, soft and small, heart blooming so wide you thought it might spill out of your chest. it wasn’t just the bow. it was him. always him.

and when he finally pulled you into his arms, his chin tucked on top of your head, the ribbon still warm from his fingers, you knew, without a single doubt, that this man would always take care of you.

in every way that counted.

[beloveds-embrace]

)some graves love for graves enthusiasts like @nightunite & @grombs-blog <3 :3)

No one breathed too loudly in your court. You made sure of that.

The throne room was a thing of precision- cut glass chandeliers that dripped crystals like frozen tears, walls the color of spilled wine, and floors polished until they reflected the gleam of your wrath. Ministers spoke only when addressed, and courtiers knew better than to linger near the dais, and ladies flicked open their fans in practiced fashion so as not to raise your wrath and displeasure, for you were not kind nor were you warm, and you wore your reputation like a crown sharper than the one on your head.

But the moment the great doors creaked open and he entered, the air shifted.

Philip Graves walked with the quiet arrogance of a man who had never truly known fear- not the way others did. Shadows seemed to coil around his boots like old friends. He bowed as always- graceful, efficient, head low, almost theatrical- but those damned eyes found yours the moment he rose and a grin stretched across his face- even when yours curdled like milk.

“You’re late.” You said, voice cool enough to crack glass.

“Only by a few hours, Queen,” he replied, smiling just enough to test your patience. “And I brought you a gift.”

He held out a velvet pouch, and the court stiffened when the glint of a ring- plucked from some now-dead rebel prince-of-the-people, if you had to guess- shimmered inside. But it wasn’t the token that pleased you, for you had far more fancier rings and jewels.

It was him.

You leaned back, studying him like a particularly fine blade, and thus your finger curled to summon him close. “Come here.”

He obeyed, of course. Philip always obeyed you.

With a casualness that sent ripples of horror through the room, you pulled him to sit on the wide arm of your throne, letting one leg drape lazily over his lap. Your hand curled into his hair, tugging lightly- an unspoken warning and a familiar comfort. You felt him exhale, the only noise to be heard in the dead silence of the throne room.

This was your routine. A dance sharp as the knives he uses.

“My little pet,” you murmured, stroking his jaw with the back of your fingers, your cold rings brushing across his cheeks. “Did you make a mess?”

His lips curled, the barest echo of smug pride. “Nothing that can’t be cleaned up.”

You smiled, slow and dangerous. Ministers looked away. One of them- a particularly vocal noble from the southern isles- looked like he might be sick, but you didn’t care; you wanted them to see. Let them clutch their pearls and avert their eyes, for you and Philip were a sight unmatched.

Let them try to reconcile the brutal head of the infamous Shadow Group with the man now nuzzling into the crook of your neck like a favored pet.

They didn’t understand and they never would, because he was yours. Not just your assassin, not just your hound- yours. And no blade he carried was half as sharp as the softness he reserved only for you.

“You missed me, Queenie.” He said quietly, so only you could hear.

“I don’t miss things, much less belongings.” You replied, but your fingers still curled tighter into his shirt, digging like claws that would not let go.

Liar, he almost said. But he just smiled again for he fancied keeping his silver-tongue, eyes glinting like knives beneath silk.

The court watched, silent and stunned, as their cold, untouchable Queen cradled him with all the tenderness of someone holding a beloved cat.

Let them whisper and let them fear, for you had your throne and you had your blade.

And curled in your lap, purring like a devil in velvet, you had Philip Graves.

[whaleofatjme1920]

Kinktober Day 6: Gas Station Bathrooms [Masky X GN!Reader]

Warnings: Glory hole, oral sex, cum, MINORS DNI

AN: my shift today was so cursed that I had to touch grass to feel human

Kinktober Masterlist

Reblogs are appreciated!

You look with wide eyes at the thick cock that slides through the hole from where you kneel. It almost makes heat rise to your cheeks, just how big he is and that he's uncut. You can make out a pearl of precum that's already rolled up on his tip and you start to drool. You can smell the faintest tinge of cigarette smoke and some cheap cologne, like he's been attempting to mask it.

"Don't make me wait any fuckin' longer," his low voice with just the barest hint of a southern accent commands you.

Your eyes glitter with mischief. "Of course not," you slyly reply. Your hands reach forward and you adjust yourself where you kneel ever so slightly. Your hands wrap around him, slowly at first, and then you grasp him. You groan softly at just how warm he is and wonder what he would feel like, thick, uncut and stuffed inside of you. You let the thought cloud in your head to fuel your movements and slowly stroke him.

You smile when you feel him buck his hips a bit and see the brown curls that poke into the hole from the gas station bathroom's stall. He's got slightly tanned skin around his arms, you can see from his wrist that barely adjusts himself so he can jam in further, but the rest of him is a little pale. He must be a traveler seeking some kind of physical relief.

Why don't you give it to him?

Your fingers expertly map out his veins as if you can read him without even needing to feel him. Your nails gently scrape along his underside with feather like touches just to toy with hum further. You hum softly as you do so in amusement and squeeze his thick cock. You want to compliment him as you do so. You grin in satisfaction when you hear another low groan emanate from his lips. You squeeze him again and start to stroke him even faster, fingers curled tightly around him as you play with his big cock.

You take special satisfaction in how his foreskin is pulled back with some of the 'harsher' tugs and watch as his tip glistens with more precum.

"Fuck," he hisses in pleasure.

You hear a small thud. He's resting his face in his forearm against the bathroom stall's wall in order to steady himself as he ruts his hips lightly. You can hear him breathing heavily, and if you imagined hard enough, you could feel his chest heaving and pressing against yours.

You can't take it, and you decide to pop him in your mouth. You expertly slide your tongue over the underside of his cock and lick him, top to bottom. You repeat again and again, drool falling from the corner of your mouth as you savor him before finally working up the courage to take him whole.

A small gasp escapes your lips as he pushes at your smirking lips and pops himself into your mouth. You giggle and then moan, feeling warmth spread all throughout your body as you open up a little wider in order to accommodate him. You can taste slight salt, and just a little sweetness. Someone must like cranberry juice, you deduct.

You resist the urge to tend to your own budding desires and focus on him and his delicious moans. You swallow thickly and he slides down your throat. Gods, he's thick. You can hardly breathe as he pumps into your mouth and makes you take him. He's delicious and you can't get enough of him. You close your eyes in pleasure and continue to suck him as your warm, pink muscle slides over him and creates a tantalizing sensation.

Once you've finally figured out a proper rhythm with him, you bob your hear faster and try to get him to spill in your mouth. You moan and use your soft hands to grip his base, rubbing him in complete synchronization with your head bobbing. Your tongue swirls his tip every time you come upwards and your teeth touch his underside like a ghost. You can feel he's close.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck-!" The stranger groans, his eyes squeezes shut as he lurches his hips forwards. He hears you gag and he finishes. Hot, thick white ropes of cum shoot down your throat and fill you. He's creamy, still just a little sweet but salty.

You aren't unused to the taste and revel in it as he continues to barely rut down your throat and make you drain him for everything he's got. When you finally pull away to take in your first real breath of air, you're delighted at his semi-hard cock. Your lips press a kiss to the tip and he twitches, making you giggle. It's your signature, after all.

The man on the other side pants, his chest rising and falling dramatically in deep, labored movements. The two of you pause for a moment and consider what to actually say to one another before he speaks.

He clears his throat. "I still got some time left," he trails off. "What else do you have to offer?" He asks it almost awkwardly, like he's worried you'll reject him.

Instead, you smile and slowly reposition yourself in the stall. "I can give you a tighter squeeze," you tease. "Costs a little more though," you hum, "with the tip included."

[bennyboyfics]

Reader's family going to Ben's match and meeting him for the first time <3

Meeting your family || Ben Shelton x gf!reader

A/n: ty you for this request!! !!! Also don’t mind how I spell “mum” I’m from Australia lol

Wc: 1,668

Warnings: none!

MASTERLIST

-

You’d been pacing the private player’s box for the past five minutes, your footsteps soft but frantic against the plush carpet. The air-conditioning hummed above you, yet your palms were clammy around the chilled water bottle you’d barely sipped from. Every few seconds, your eyes flicked to the door, your heartbeat a steady drumbeat in your ears—and not because of the match about to start.

It was because your dad was about to meet Ben.“Okay, you need to stop,” your sister Madelyn muttered from the lounge seat, lazily chewing her gum like she was trying to set a world record. She looked completely unbothered, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, Yankees cap pulled low over her brow, her denim dress creased from sitting like she owned the place.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor. Relax.” “I’m fine,” you replied, though the tightness in your voice made it sound like you were very much not fine. Madelyn didn’t even look up. “Sure. And I’m Queen of England. You’ll sweat your makeup off.” You shot her a glare, but she kept going, lips twitching. “Let’s be honest. This is so not about Ben’s match.” Your eyes roll at this.

“You’re nervous because Dad’s about to meet your very famous, very hot tennis player boyfriend.” You froze mid-step, eyes narrowing with a sharp glance. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear you call my boyfriend hot. You’re fourteen, Madelyn.”Your little sister just shrugged, unfazed, the corners of her mouth tugging into a smug smile. “I’m just calling it like I see it.”

Before you could retaliate, your mother stepped in with her signature grace, gently placing a hand on your arm She was dressed elegantly as always, pearl earrings gleaming against her swept-back hair, calm in the way only she could be. “Sweetheart,” she said softly, “breathe. He’ll be wonderful. You’ve told us so much about him. And your father—well, his bark has always been worse than his bite.”

As if summoned by the mention, your dad strode in right on cue. Tall, broad-shouldered, and impossible to miss, he stepped into the box like he owned the stadium, wearing dark sunglasses indoors as if he were Secret Service. His arms were folded across his chest, jaw set with that familiar stern expression that had terrified most of your high school boyfriends.

“Seriously?” Madelyn scoffed, nodding toward his shades. “Sunglasses, Dad? It’s night.” He ignored her completely. “Where’s the kid?” You flinched. “Dad. He’s not a kid. He’s twenty-two.” He gave you a look. “He’s a professional athlete dating my daughter. Same thing.” You groaned under your breath and ran a hand through your hair, trying to keep your cool.

“Please be nice.” “I am nice,” he said, straight-faced. “You just don’t like that I ask questions.” He turned to your mother. “What kind of man dates someone for months and hasn’t met her father?” Madelyn snorted. “Maybe the kind who isn’t scared of you yet.” That earned a soft laugh from your mum and a warning glance from your dad, but before anyone could say more, a knock sounded at the door—soft, almost hesitant.

Your heart stopped. Ben. He stepped in a moment later, looking like something out of a commercial—warm-up jacket half-zipped, headphones resting around his neck, racquet bag slung over one shoulder. His curls were still damp, face flushed from warmups, and when his eyes found yours, his whole face lit up. “There she is,” he said, his Southern drawl a little thicker than usual.

Nerves, you realised. “Hey, baby.” The warmth of him, the ease, the way he looked at you like he’d been waiting all day just to see your face—it made your breath hitch. You crossed the room in three steps and wrapped your arms around him, holding on tight as you whispered, “They’re all here.” “I figured,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to your temple before turning to face them.

Your mum stepped forward first, all grace and poise. “Ben, I’m Y/m/n. It’s so lovely to finally meet you.” Ben smiled instantly, offering his hand. “It’s an honour, ma’am. I’ve heard so much about y’all—only good things, I promise.” Madelyn stepped in next, already grinning. “Hey. I’ve seen your TikToks.” Ben chuckled, slipping right into the moment. “You and about a million others, apparently.”

And then came the part you’d been dreading. Your dad stepped forward slowly, still wearing those ridiculous sunglasses, arms folded like a man preparing for a formal interrogation. “Ben.” Ben didn’t hesitate. He placed his bag down and extended his hand firmly. “Sir. It’s really good to meet you.” Your dad didn’t shake it at first—just looked him over with the intensity.

“You from Atlanta originally?” your dad asked, shaking his hand but not letting go right away. “Yes, sir.” “Raised right?” Ben’s brows lifted slightly, but his voice remained calm. “I like to think so. My parents kept me grounded. My mom still tells me off when I curse on court.” That earned the smallest crack of a smile from your dad. “Good woman, your mom.”

“She is. Tough. My dad too—he’s my coach. Played pro tennis before me.” Your dad finally released his hand, stepping back slightly, eyes narrowing. “So you know what it’s like to fight for something.”Ben nodded once. “Yes, sir. On and off the court.”There was a pause—long and thick with tension. And then, your dad gave a single, gruff nod. “Alright.” You blinked.

“That’s it?” “I said alright, didn’t I?” He turned toward the seats like the conversation was over—but not before you caught the faintest flicker of approval in his expression. Your knees almost gave out with relief. Ben leaned toward you, whispering, “That went better than I thought.” “Don’t jinx it,” you whispered back. The match began shortly after, and the family settled in to watch.

Your mum and sister chatted between rallies, reacting with gasps and soft claps. Your dad stayed stone-faced, arms folded as he watched Ben like a man assessing a candidate for the CIA. But you noticed the way his eyes tracked everything—Ben’s composure, his focus, the way he pumped his fist without arrogance, the way he looked up at the box and smiled at you after each big point.

“Alright, I’ll give him this,” your dad muttered during the second set. “Kid’s got good footwork. Lefty. Smart.” “Which is what I’ve been saying,” you whispered, barely hiding your grin. Your dad was quiet again, watching closely. Then, as Ben hit an ace to close out the set, he added, “He respects you.” You turned toward him slowly. “What?” “He respects you,” he repeated, voice lower.

“You can tell. The way he looks at you. Like you hung the damn stars.” You stared at him, momentarily stunned. It was the most sentimental thing he’d said all year. “Thanks, Dad,” you murmured, throat tight. By the time Ben clinched the win in straight sets, your mum was on her feet, your sister was recording every second for her Instagram story, and even your dad clapped—just once, but it was real.

When Ben came up to greet you afterward, still catching his breath and sweat dripping from his brow, he wrapped his arms around you and pressed a kiss to your cheek. “That one was for you.” Your dad watched the whole thing without saying a word. But later, as Ben signed autographs by the tunnel and you gathered your things, your dad pulled you aside.

You braced yourself. “He’s alright,” he said, eyes on the court, not you. “Better than alright.” You blinked. “Wait. Seriously?” He looked at you finally, lips twitching into something faintly resembling a smile. “You did good, sweetheart. I can see he loves you.” Your chest swelled, heart thudding. “I love him too, Dad.” He nodded, once. “Then I guess we’ve got ourselves a tennis player in the family.”

-

The steakhouse was dimly lit, expensive, and quiet enough to hold a conversation—which your dad insisted on when picking the restaurant. You were seated in a private corner booth, velvet-lined and dark wood-paneled, tucked away from the public eye. The match was over, Ben had won, and for the first time in hours, your heart wasn’t doing somersaults. But your nerves hadn’t completely disappeared. Ben sat beside you, his warm-up jacket swapped for a crisp button-down and slacks.

His damp curls had dried into their usual soft chaos, and he smelled faintly of mint and whatever expensive cologne you loved on him. His hand was resting on your thigh under the table—quiet, grounding reassurance. Across from you sat your parents, and next to them was Madelyn, sipping from her glass and looking like she was thoroughly enjoying the show. The waiter had just left after taking orders, and the silence lingered for a beat too long.

“So, Ben,” your dad started, setting down his menu and leaning back with that all-too-familiar look of interrogation masked as polite interest. “Walk me through that second set. That rally at deuce—you nearly lost control of the tempo.” You stiffened. Ben, to your relief, didn’t. He smiled easily and leaned in, genuinely interested. “I felt that too. He started rushing the net more often, trying to pressure me into mistakes. I had to slow it down—use the slice, pull him wide, then take the forehand up the line.”

Your dad nodded slowly. “Smart. Most kids your age go for flash. That was patience. Discipline.” “Thank you, sir.” “You can call him by his name,” your mum interjected gently, giving Ben a smile. “We don’t bite. At least not all of us.”“Speak for yourself,” Madelyn mumbled around a forkful of lobster mac and cheese. Ben laughed, but your dad stayed focused. “You’ve had a good season,” he said, tone almost neutral. “You planning to settle for that, or are you pushing for top ten next year?”

“I want top ten,” Ben said firmly. “I’ve been building toward it. And I’ve got the right team around me now.” His hand squeezed yours under the table. “The right support.” That subtle look your dad gave him—like he was re-evaluating, recalibrating—wasn’t lost on you. “Good,” your dad said, finally reaching for his drink. “Aim high. Stay grounded.” There was a pause. Then Madelyn leaned forward, ever the chaos agent. “So, Dad, when are you gonna ask him what his intentions are with your daughter?”

You practically choked on your water. “Maddie,” you hissed, lightly kicking her under the table. Ben chuckled nervously, but to his credit, he didn’t flinch. He looked directly at your father and said, “I care about her. A lot. And I respect her. That’s not going to change.” Your dad didn’t respond immediately—but he was quiet in that contemplative way, like he was weighing every word Ben just said. Your mum smiled knowingly.

“Well, I think it’s lovely. He’s polite. He listens. And he clearly adores you.” She looked between you and Ben. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so happy.” You flushed slightly, heart warm. “Thanks, Mum.” Madelyn rolled her eyes. “Okay, can we stop with the Hallmark moment before I throw up into the bread basket?” Ben laughed again, eyes crinkling. “I like her.” “She’s not coming on tour with us,” you deadpanned.

Madelyn feigned offense, but your dad spoke again—quieter this time. “You love tennis. You’ve got talent. And I can see that you treat my daughter with care. That matters more than the rankings.” You blinked, stunned. “That almost sounded like approval,” you teased. Your dad met your gaze. “It is. Conditional, of course.” You groaned. Ben grinned. “Understood, sir. I’m good with conditions. I’ve got a whole career based on rules and boundaries.”

“I like that answer,” your dad said, finally lifting his glass. “Alright then. Welcome to the family.” You could’ve cried from the mix of relief, pride, and joy. Ben lifted his own drink and clinked it against your father’s. “Thank you, sir. That means a lot.” Your mum beamed. Madelyn muttered something about needing dessert to survive all this sincerity. And you… you just leaned your head against Ben’s shoulder, smiling as his thumb rubbed slow circles on your leg under the table.

[theshiniestgemstone]

the tour guide- fem!reader x gideon gemstone

corny as hell

warnings: some strong embarrassment

You were halfway through a granola bar, legs curled up into your chair like you were in your own little cocoon, eyes lazily scanning your 1PM slot on the calendar: GEMSTONE - Private Tour.

Generic. Vague. Probably another rich family trying to find the perfect school to dump their legacy kids into. There’s a fair share of them and they share the same common traits. Sometimes the kids thrive. Sometimes they run off campus the second they get the chance.

The campus was quiet for a Friday afternoon, the spring air warm and lazy. You considered taking the tour group through the longer route by the greenhouse just to enjoy the flowers before finals season made everyone collectively lose their minds.

Your office door creaked open and Tate, the other student worker, poked his head in. “Hey. Your tour’s here. And they’re-“ His eyes widened. “Not bad, but I can tell it’s a lot of questions." He glanced over his shoulder. "I think I have more questions for them."

You slid your feet down and stood, brushing crumbs off your shirt. “Thanks.”

You walked out into the small waiting area of the admissions building and immediately clocked then. Well-dressed. Overdressed, really. The woman, complete with a fitted blazer and pearls who looked like she walked straight out of a southern lifestyle magazine. The man beside her wore sunglasses indoors and looked like he was two seconds from asking for someone’s manager as he surveyed the room. A smaller boy stood between them, clearly bored out of his mind.

“Hi there,” you greeted, putting on your best customer-service smile. “You must be the Gemstones.” You introduced yourself. “I’ll be your tour guide today. It’s so nice to meet you all.”

The woman stepped forward, her grin sharp and glossy. “Yes, I’m Amber. This is my husband Jesse, and our middle son, Pontious. Our other boys should be right-“

“Here!” Jesse interrupted as the doors opened behind you.

You turned at the sound of footsteps. Two figures entered—one younger, probably only a few years younger than Pontious, and the other-

Your breath hitched.

He was cute, just cute enough to make your breath falter, tossing away a crumpled paper towel. He wore a simple white T-shirt, a jacket slung over one shoulder like he hadn’t even tried to make an impression and somehow still did. His hair was messy, not in a styled way, but in a he ran his fingers through them and moved on way. His gaze met yours and it knocked something loose in your chest.

“This is Abraham,” Amber said proudly, gesturing to the younger one. “And this,” she added with an almost self-satisfied smile, “is Gideon.”

Gideon nodded politely. “Hi.”

Your lips parted, and for a split second, you forgot your script. The one you’d practiced a hundred times.

“Hi,” you managed, your voice slightly breathier than intended.

Amber raised an eyebrow, barely hiding her smirk. You snapped back into professional mode so fast it almost gave you whiplash.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, clutching your clipboard a little tighter, “welcome to campus. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, so let’s get started.”

You turned toward the exit, heart racing, eyes glued to your notes—but you could feel it. The way Gideon fell in step beside you, hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulder just close enough to brush yours if either of you leaned half an inch.

You finally found your rhythm about halfway through the quad. It always came back to muscle memory, this was your fourteenth tour of the week, after all. You knew which buildings had the prettiest windows, which professors were the quirkiest, which fun facts to sprinkle in to keep people engaged. You hit all your marks, pointed out the century-old bell tower, the weird student-made sculpture that looked like a pile of intestines but apparently had a deeper meaning, and rattled off historical tidbits like you were born to do this.

You just didn’t look at him.

You kept your eyes focused on the buildings, the pathways, the parents who nodded politely, asked questions about meal plans and campus safety. You even managed to get a laugh out of Pontious when you told the story about the campus raccoon who broke into the bookstore last year and ate himself into a coma. But Gideon was a presence. You could feel him. Occasionally chiming in with a quiet “cool” or “thanks” when you answered something one of his brothers asked. Always walking just slightly closer than necessary. Always in your peripheral, always there.

You caught a low-hanging tree branch right in the temple when you turned to answer a question about dining halls. Didn’t bleed, but it left a sting and probably a red mark. You also tripped on the uneven sidewalk behind the student union. You recovered quickly, cracked a joke, but you knew he saw. He'd even extended his arm and let his hand graze over your back.

And worst of all: your voice did that thing. That little breathy lift it only ever did when you were nervous. You could hear it now, echoing in your head every time you tried to remember how you introduced the rec center.

Eventually, you reached the end.

The admissions building came back into view like an oasis. You gave your final spiel, thanked them for their time, and guided them inside, where the admissions counselor waited to go over next steps. You offered a firm smile, a polite nod, and slipped away like a ghost.

Back in your office, you closed the door with a soft click and collapsed into your chair, feet curled up again like before.

You buried your face in your hands. The door creaked open and Tate slid into the room. “How did it go?”

“God,” you mumbled to yourself, “that was so embarrassing.”

You peeked through your fingers at your reflection in your dark computer screen.

“Tree branch,” you said out loud. “Tree branch. What were you thinking?”

“By the dining hall?” Tate chuckled as he picked up a fidget toy from your desk. “I’ve asked maintenance for weeks. I’m about to ask John for a chainsaw and do it myself.”

You sighed. “You’d do all of us a favor.”

Tate stood up. “You did fine. Things happen, but I think you made a sale.” He stepped out before you could respond.

But despite the inward cringe, the blushing embarrassment, and your desperate attempt to forget the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled at something you said… there was something else underneath it all.

A tiny, quiet voice whispering, he didn’t look away either.

You slipped out of your office, brushing the last of your insecurities off like lint on your shirt. Maybe you imagined half of it. Maybe you were just tired. But as you rounded the corner back into the admissions lobby, there they were.

The Gemstones.

Jesse was giving the admissions counselor a wide grin, Pontious stood staring at the office fish tank like he could hear them speaking, and Amber was already halfway to the exit, purse clutched tightly in one hand.

You couldn’t help it. Your eyes found him instantly.

But you turned your attention to Abraham, the youngest, who had been remarkably well-behaved for a child dragged through a two hour-long college tour. You smiled at him and crouched beside the small bowl on the welcome table outside your office.

“Hey, Abraham,” you said, holding it out. “Want to pick something before you go?”

Abraham beamed. “Can I take two?”

“You can take three if you want.”

He giggled and dug into the candy like he was choosing a weapon from a sacred chest. A lollipop, a pack of fruit snacks, and a single toffee later, he floated back toward Amber’s retreating figure.

“Cool office,” Gideon said behind you.

You straightened and looked back at him. He was lingering at your doorway, eyes scanning the space behind you.

“Thanks,” you said with a little shrug, stepping back so he could see it better. “It’s a little cluttered, but it’s mine."

He leaned against the doorframe, his eyes flickering from the pink rolling chair to the mess of highlighters on your desk to the little row of knick knacks along the shelf—tiny plushies, a couple of enamel pins, a rubber duck in a cap and gown.

“Better than the others,” he said. “Feels like someone actually works in there.”

You smiled, more genuinely this time. “Well, I meet with a lot of first years. It helps to make the space feel warm, you know? Some of them are away from home for the first time, and they walk in here already overwhelmed. I figure… if they’re gonna cry anywhere, it should be in a room that has a Squishmallow on the couch.”

He laughed, then looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s actually… really cool. Might have to enroll just to stop by for a session.”

Your stomach did a weird, swoopy thing.

He turned toward the door then, giving you a little nod. “Come on, Abe."

Abraham was already halfway out the building, his tiny arms juggling his candy stash. You trailed a few feet behind them, walking toward the front desk, the automatic doors hissing open to let the family spill out into the parking lot.

You paused at the front desk, thanked the receptionist for covering while you were gone, and were just about to head back to your office when you heard it. Low, but clear, Jesse’s voice, with that signature smirk you didn’t even have to see to know was there.

“She was cute, Gid. You should’ve gotten her number.”

You froze, blinking.

And then you heard Gideon’s voice, a touch flustered, a lot quieter. “Shut up, dad.”

You turned, catching just a glimpse of Jesse’s shit-eating grin as he tossed an arm around Gideon’s shoulders, leading him away. Gideon looked back once, just a glance that wouldn't have meant anything to anyone else.

But he was definitely smiling.

[juicycoutureheaux]

Pairing: Mark Grayson x TransferStudent!Reader

A/N: This is inspired by @wordsofwhimsy southern belle reader. As a girl from Georgia, I loved the idea of a transfer student from the south. This is short fluff, I don’t know if I’ll turn it into a multi chapter or keep it as just a fluffy one shot. This is definitely AU. I didn’t know how to fit in Amber into this if it becomes multi chapter.

No TW’s.

Y/N tapped her pink-painted nails on the desk, a soft rhythm filling the quiet classroom. Her gaze wandered out the window, where a squirrel was in a full-blown loop of climbing up and down the same tree. It was almost funny enough to distract her from the knot in her stomach.

She was early. She was always early—part nerves, part habit. Her family had just moved up from South Georgia, and this was her first day as the new kid. She had gone to the same Christian school her entire life. Now, she was a senior in a public school where cliques were sealed shut, and no one knew her name.

The culture shock hit hard. No uniforms, for starters. She hadn’t known what to wear. Her first day outfit—a Lily Pulitzer shift dress and white cardigan—made her stand out like a highlighter in a sea of hoodies and skinny jeans. She tried not to let it get to her. She liked the way she dressed. That should be enough, right?

Today she wore a pink gingham dress and the same monogrammed cardigan. A delicate strand of pearls sat at her collarbone, and her golden-brown curls were half-pulled back with a ribbon. She felt like springtime in a room full of November.

The classroom door banged open.

A tall boy with black hair rushed in, clearly late. His backpack half-zipped, one shoelace untied. He scanned the room quickly—and his eyes landed on the open seat next to you..

He hesitated.

“Is this seat taken? I mean—of course it is, I’ll find somewhere else—”

“Wait!” You blurted. “It’s not. You can sit here.”

He blinked, caught off guard. Then offered a crooked smile. “Thanks.” He sat, dropping his bag with a thud. “I’m Mark.”

“I’m y/n.” She tucked a curl behind her ear, heart fluttering. He was the first person to talk to her all morning.

Mark gave a little nod, but the silence crept in quickly. You cleared your throat.

“So… how long have you gone to school here?”

Mark straightened in his seat. “Since freshman year!” he said a little too enthusiastically. His ears turned pink.

You giggled softly. “That’s awesome. Have you lived here your whole life?”

“Yeah, born and raised. You’re not from around here, I’m guessing?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Kind of.” He grinned. “You dress like you walked out of a magazine ad. In a good way!”

You blushed. “Thanks. I’m from Savannah. I used to go to a private Christian school. We had uniforms, so this whole ‘pick your outfit every day’ thing is… kind of intense.”

Mark laughed. “Honestly, uniforms sound great. Half the time I just wear whatever smells clean.”

She laughed again, brighter this time. “I kind of miss the simplicity. And the style here is so different—dark colors, graphic tees. I feel like a cupcake in a room full of Hot Topics.”

Mark’s gaze dropped to her dress for the first time. “Well, I like cupcakes. Especially pink ones. You look… um, really nice.”

She tilted her head. “Like Barbie?”

He winced. “Okay, that sounded better in my head—”

“No, no! I love Barbie.” Your eyes lit up. “She has, like, a thousand careers. What’s not to love?”

Mark chuckled. “Fair enough.”

Before he could say anything else, the teacher called class to order. They shared a textbook since Mark had forgotten his. Anna didn’t mind. She liked the way he kept whispering sarcastic comments during the video about photosynthesis. She had to bite her lip not to laugh out loud.

When class ended, Mark stood up slowly, surprised when you stood next to him.

“What’s your next class?” he asked.

“English, I think? Room 208?”

“No way. Me too.” He smiled. “Guess you’re stuck with me again.”

You blinked. “I’m never this lucky.”

Mark’s eyes widened, and he flushed. “Uh…”

“I mean—just having a friendly face in two classes. That’s all.” You fumbled over your words.

He smiled, heart pounding. “Where in Georgia did you say you were from?”

“Savannah. It’s all old trees and humid summers. And way too many tourists.”

“I’ve only seen it in movies. It sounds nice.”

“Yeah… quieter than here. And nobody wears all black.”

Mark laughed. “So is it a rule where you’re from? Skirts and pastels?”

You giggled. “Not a rule, just… tradition, I guess? It’s how my mom dressed, and her mom. It’s kind of fun, dressing up every day.”

“Well… I think it suits you,” he said, looking genuinely impressed now. “You make it look cool.”

Before you could respond, a tall, broad-shouldered blonde guy swaggered up.

“Grayson,” he sneered, eyeing Mark. “This guy bothering you?” he asked you, full of mock concern.

You blinked. “Do I know you?”

Todd raised an eyebrow. “I’m just wondering what a girl like you’s doing sitting next to him.”

You crossed your arms. “Weren’t you just leaving?”

Todd squinted. “What?”

You tilted your head, voice sweet as honey. “You said you were leaving. Or… was that wishful thinking?”

Todd’s face turned pink. “Uh—whatever.” He turned and walked off, mumbling something under his breath.

Mark stared. “He never leaves without trying to embarrass me. How did you do that?”

Anna smirked. “Gaslighting.”

They both laughed.

“Seriously,” Mark said as they walked down the hall together, “you’re kind of amazing.”

You smiled. “You’re kind of the first person who’s been nice to me today. I think I’m keeping you.”

Mark’s heart did a backflip.

[lilyway]

Icarus {Alastor x Reader} Part 1

Warnings: Blood, Gore, Death and canon-typical violence. Please be aware of these warnings going forward.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Sequel

Part 1: The Road Back to You

The town was cloaked in a dimly lit embrace as a young woman emerged from the confines of the jazz club alongside her coworkers. Their rising star, a vision of elegance and charm, illuminated the night with her radiant smile, her presence akin to that of a belle of the ball, her heart as vibrant as the melodies she sang.

As they stepped onto the cobblestone streets, the camaraderie among them blossomed into animated chatter, punctuated by laughter that danced upon the evening breeze.

Tonight was special, a rare occasion when the jazz club closed its doors early to commemorate the birthday of their esteemed boss. The air buzzed with anticipation, the promise of celebration lingering in every corner as they made their way through the labyrinthine streets.

Their songstress was quick as she pulled her purse to her side and started walking away while saying her goodbyes. She had some very important plans with her husband, perhaps she was too excited as she practically skipped her way down the street. 

As she traversed the dimly lit street of New Orleans, she couldn't shake the nagging sense of caution that gnawed at the edges of her consciousness. The presence of a serial killer, a phantom lurking in the shadows, cast a long shadow over the once-vibrant city. 

Each night, as she tuned in to her husband's somber voice on the radio, recounting the grim details of yet another victim claimed by the darkness, she couldn't help but wonder if she, too, danced perilously close to the edge of danger.

The danger that would come and soon claim her own life to their ever-increasing number of victims. But, there would be nothing in the world to stop her from returning to her husband. Her husband said he had something planned for their anniversary and that she would need her best dress. 

She was beyond excited.

"(Name)! Sugar, are you sure I can’t give you a lift home?" Rowan's voice called out from the doorway, his Southern drawl carrying the warmth of a bourbon-soaked evening. (Name) turned, her smile as dazzling as a string of pearls, her curls bouncing with the rhythm of a Charleston beat.

"Thank you kindly, Rowan! My husband will be meeting me halfway," She replied, her words dripping with honey. With a graceful wave, she turned on her heel, the click-clack of her heels blending with the syncopated melody of the night as she made her way toward the radio station.

The dim glow of the radio station beckoned in the distance, the building was a beacon of safety amidst the dark empty city streets. With each hurried step, (Name)'s heart quickened, the anticipation of her husband's waiting embrace urging her onwards. 

As she rounded the corner, her gaze caught sight of the alleyway, a narrow passage veiled in darkness, where the plaintive cries of a woman pierced the stillness of the night. Without hesitation, without a second thought, she veered from her path, drawn by her concern for the unknown woman.

There, amidst the shadows, she found them – a young girl, trembling with fear, and her mother shielding her from a group of thugs that loomed over them. 

She should have turned away, and retreated to the safety of the main street, where she could’ve asked for help. Her husband knew his way around self-defense and they would have a phone to call the police.

But (Name) had a terrible feeling in her gut. If she left them now, these women might not be alive when help arrives. 

"What do you gents reckon you're up to?" That seemed to get their attention as they turned to face her. As she walked towards the two women, she couldn’t help feeling so small as the men dwarfed her in size.

"Turn back, doll," one of the men jeered, his tone dripping with menace. "We ain't lookin' for trouble."

(Name) positioned herself between the two trembling women and the menacing thugs, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and determination. "Leave these poor dames be! If it's coin you're after, I can see you compensated," Her declaration must have seemed like a bluff. Her voice quivered as she placed one hand on her purse. 

The thugs, their laughter echoing in the narrow alley, closed in on her, their intentions clear as the moonlight filtered through the darkness. "This ain't about the scratch, sweetheart," one of them sneered, the glint of malice dancing in his eyes. (Name)'s breath caught in her throat as she took a cautious step back, her resolve tested by the looming threat that surrounded her. "This is about settlin' scores."

"Please, just let them be," (Name) pleaded, but her words fell upon deaf ears, drowned out by their laughter. Their leader pulled out a blade as he approached the crying women. 

Before she could react, one of the men seized her arm in a vice-like grip, wrenching her aside with a savage force. "Just watch, my dear," Another man sneered, his voice dripping with malice as (Name) struggled against his hold. 

With a surge of adrenaline, (Name) pushed his hand toward her mouth, her teeth sinking into flesh with a ferocity that seemed downright foreign to her. As he howled in agony, she wrenched herself free from his grasp, her heart was beating loudly in her chest and she wasn’t thinking straight. 

With trembling hands, she lunged toward their assailant, her fingers grappling for purchase upon the blade. The metal bit into her skin, drawing blood, but she was beyond desperate, driven to protect the helpless young women. 

“Run!” (Name) shouted as they stared at her like deers in headlights. 

Even as she fought with every fiber of her being, the odds stacked against her, (Name) refused to yield. She could feel the sharp sting of pain as the blade cut into her hands, but she pressed on, fueled by sheer determination and the fierce resolve to survive.

Meanwhile, the two women forced themselves to their feet and ran, their cries for help echoing through the alleyway. (Name) couldn’t help but feel a smirk on her lips, before another man pulled her hair back trying to claw her hands away from the blade. 

With every ounce of strength she could muster, she battled against the relentless onslaught, her hands slick with sweat and blood as she grappled for control. But in the end, it was a futile struggle, a desperate fight that meant nothing. As the assailant's blade found its mark, plunging deep into her flesh. 

As (Name)’s body fell to the ground, there was the sound of fleeing footsteps and gunfire. All she could do was close her eyes and pray the pain went away. All she could do was lay there and feel her blood pool around her as she choked on the blade as her blood suffocated her lungs. 

She was so close to seeing her beloved radio host too. 

The sound of footsteps running towards her and her name came after. The voice was too distant to hear as she drifted off and prayed she’d see her beloved radio host when she woke up. 

💟

As (Name)'s eyes fluttered open, she found herself standing before majestic golden gates, their brilliance illuminating the ethereal surroundings with a celestial glow. A wave of disbelief washed over her as she pushed herself up, half-expecting to feel the sting of pain or the weight of wounds that should have marked her body. But there was nothing – no trace of blood, no lingering ache – only a sense of surreal tranquility that enveloped her being.

Clad in a flowing white dress reminiscent of the ones she wore during her performances at the jazz club, her hair cascading down her back like a river of silk, she realized at the start that this was no hospital. It wasn’t a place that could be built by man and that started to make her panic. 

"Where am I?" Her voice trembled with uncertainty as she spoke aloud, her eyes searching the expanse before her. And then, as if in response to her query, an angelic figure with a thick book turned towards her, his presence confirmed her fears. This wasn’t New Orleans. 

"You're in heaven! Congratulations, you're a winner!" His words, spoken with pride and joy, hung in the air like a gentle breeze, filling the space with a sense of awe and wonder. But for (Name), the revelation struck like someone poured ice water all over her. 

"No. No. No, no, no, no." Her voice cracked as felt her legs turn to jelly. This was not a dream, not a figment of her imagination – she was dead. She died saving those two women on the eve of her anniversary. “I wasn’t supposed to die like this! I have to go back! My husband! Good heavens, I’m not ready to leave him yet…” Her begging seemed to have no effect as the angel got up out of his chair. 

(Name)’s tears seemed to touch the man, but it didn’t faze him whatsoever. “This is the end of the road, miss. There’s only joy from here.” 

"Please, let me go back!" Her plea, filled with anguish and longing, echoed through the hallowed halls of heaven, a desperate cry for a second chance, for a return to the life she had been torn away from. As she crumpled to the ground, her hands pressed against her tear-streaked face, she grappled with the cruel irony of her fate – a life snuffed out in the blink of an eye.

As (Name) crumpled before the gates of Heaven, her sobs seemed to never end. "Please, let me return to my old life," she implored, her voice choking on her despair of dying so easily. 

"Shh, my dear," came the gentle reply, a soothing murmur amidst the tumult of her anguish.

"I'm begging you. Let me go back," she persisted, her voice trembling with a fervent plea for a reprieve, for a chance for a rewrite, for her to choose something different. 

"I'm sorry, but that's not possible. This is the end of the road, the culmination of the life you were promised for all the good you've done in this world," the angel explained, his tone tinged with a solemn finality that brooked no argument.

"Let me see my husband! I haven't said goodbye!" (Name)'s words, tinged with desperation, hung in the air like a prayer unanswered, her heart aching for one last embrace, one final moment of solace in the arms of her beloved.

"Again, I'm sorry. But that isn't possible, "The angel replied, his voice tinged with sympathy. "But, may I ask your name?"

"(Name)," she replied, her voice barely a whisper as she pulled herself up off the floor. 

"Full name, please," the angel persisted, his gaze unwavering, as he started flipping through the book and sighed at all the names on the page. 

"(Name) Winters," she confessed, her last name was a reminder of happier days. The day she joined her husband's family and took on his last name. 

With a gentle rustle of pages, the angel consulted the book before him, his expression softening as he found her name inscribed upon its hallowed pages. "There you are, on the list," he confirmed, his voice tinged with reassurance. "Dry your tears, my dear, and come on in."

"But, my husband-" (Name) was quickly interrupted by the angel. 

"He might show up in heaven someday," the angel offered, “As long as he doesn’t end up in hell. There’s a chance he might come back.” 

As (Name) gazed upon the gates of Heaven, her heart was heavy, wanted to be able to greet him with a smile. “Okay.” 

💟

The celestial streets of heaven bustled with the vibrant energy of joyous winners, their laughter and song echoing through the golden expanse. Yet, amidst the revelry, (Name) found herself perched on her rooftop, a quiet observer of the lively scene below. Today, the usual melodies and dance numbers failed to lift her spirits. 

As she leaned over the balcony, the celestial breeze playing with her hair, (Name) contemplated the passage of time, and how meaningless it truly was. There was no sense of actual time in this place. She would’ve been here for a week or twenty years. 

How long had she been in this place of eternal bliss? The passing of time seemed to blur into an endless expanse of moments, each one blending seamlessly into the next. Her parents had found their way here, as had her little sister, their laughter and love echoing through the hallowed halls of heaven. 

And yet, her brothers remained conspicuously absent, their absence a silent ache that gnawed her. Enough time must have gone by for them to show up. They couldn’t have ended up anywhere else other than in heaven! They were around the same age as her husband and would come up around the same time. 

As she leaned over the balcony, the angels below danced and sang of pastries and delights, their voices like honeyed nectar amidst the gentle breeze. But for (Name), their songs felt hollow, their melodies unable to penetrate the veil of sorrow that pulled her under. 

Even in her sorrow, there was a little flame of hope that flickered brightly. Perhaps, she thought, a song could indeed work wonders, lifting her from the depths of her melancholy.

As (Name)'s voice trembled with emotion, her words carried her pain along the wind. "I never needed anybody in my life, " As the notes danced upon the wind, images flickered in her mind.

Her husband's brown fluffy hair, tousled by the gentle breeze, his charismatic smile lighting up the streets as they walked arm in arm. How her days were bright and simple back then. With the minor inconveniences and the small pleasures it held. 

"I learned the truth too late, " she continued, her voice wavered as the tears threatened to fall. With each verse, the distance between them felt like an impassable chasm, one that would pull her into its lonely depths. 

As she pulled herself away from the edge of the balcony, her eyes remained fixed upon the golden gates. How she was starting to despise herself and her self-pity here. 

Her words became a lament, a melody of longing and her pain as she wished for her old life back. " I close my eyes but he's still there, " Her voice trembling as the image of her beloved husband materialized before her. 

He was bathed in a golden light making him appear as a gift from God himself. She craned her neck up to look at him and there was a surge of hope. (Name) reached out to hold him and cry into his arms. Only to watch him vanish in the wisp of glowing smoke at the smallest touch of her fingertips. 

“Even as he fades from view,” Her voice quickly got louder with every passing syllable. 

You’re never fully dressed without a smile, my dear. His voice echoed loud and clear in her mind as she forced a smile on her face as the tears forced themselves out. "He will still inspire me, and be a part of everything I do," 

As she pulled herself onto the balcony railing, her wings unfurled and she jumped off the edge. She watched the other winners sing and dance below her as they enjoyed their eternal life. However, (Name) had another plan in mind. She set out for the gates as she stumbled her landing as she arrived. 

"Wasting in my lonely tower, awaiting by an open door," she sang, her voice rising like a prayer into the heavens above. And as she reached out towards the gates, her fingers brushed against the gilded bars, and her small flicker of hope died instantly. 

There wasn’t anyone at the gates and she was just being delusional. He wasn’t coming up here anymore. That her dear, Al was still back on earth and it was a place (Name) wished he stayed. 

"I'll fool myself and he'll walk right in," she whispered, her voice breaking as she tried to maintain some level of internal harmony. Her hands clung to the bars hoping the gates would open and let her out. Just five more minutes on earth and she would gladly join the rest of the winners.  “Waiting here for evermore…”  

But her solitude was shattered by the harsh voice of an angel, her words cutting through the silence like a blade. "You're pathetic," she sneered, her tone dripping with disdain. "If he isn't here by now, he's in hell."

"That was quite uncalled for.” (Name) spat as she walked past her. She could tell this woman had something up her sleeve and she wanted no part of it. 

“I call it as I see it,” the woman retorted, her voice dripping with disdain. No, that wasn’t right. This woman was downright looking down at her like she was a piece of garbage. 

(Name) scoffed as she tried to keep herself focused on just walking away. “Aren’t you a ray of sunshine.” 

“Better than singing her problems,” The woman shot back, her words stabbed daggers into her feet and rooted her in place. 

(Name) crossed her arms, she was getting fed up and there wasn’t a point in picking a fight in heaven. “You're quite the piece of work, aren't you? Do you need something?”

The woman’s response was curt. “No.”

“Okay, I'll be on my way then,” (Name) replied, her steps quickening. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling of the woman’s eyes boring into her back. “What do you want?”

But before she could receive an answer, the woman’s voice taunted her, sending a shiver down her spine. “With that obsession of yours, there’s only one place you’ll end up.”

(Name) wished that her voice didn’t shake and give her away. She didn’t want to kiss her place in heaven goodbye for her stupidity. “What are you saying?” 

“You look like you need a purpose.” 

“I don't need a purpose,”

The woman laughed as (Name) felt a chill going down her spine. "The rate you’re going, you won’t need one and burn with the rest of the sinners in hell."

"I earned my place here," (Name) countered, her voice trembling, as she tried to keep herself from shaking. She couldn’t ever go to hell and become a fallen angel. 

"Keep telling yourself that,"

(Name)'s mind raced with questions, her unease growing with each passing moment. "What are you getting at?" she demanded, her voice betraying a hint of desperation. She wouldn’t ever end up there. 

"I'm offering you a deal,"

"I don't want it,"

"Suit yourself, but you'll be back. Come and find me when you've run out of options," With her business done, the woman took to the skies and (Name) shouted for her to wait. 

She didn’t mean to yell her question at her. “If that ever happens. What's your name? So, I can find you.” 

“Lute.” 

💟

Another decade passed in heaven and (Name)’s search for her husband and some clue of his whereabouts were fruitless. Every passing year that she searched a small part of her died, first few years it was her hope and later it was her love. (Name) having to come up empty-handed every single time took its toll. 

In the quiet moments of solitude, (Name) grappled with the bitter truth that her love may never return to her side. The echoes of his laughter and the warmth of his embrace seemed like distant memories, fading into the recesses of her mind like whispers carried away by the wind.

In her solitude, came the truths she refused to face. That her soul was becoming consumed by her envy and prayers to see him again. She longed to feel his presence once more, to hear his voice echoing through the golden streets of paradise. There was something about being condemned to paradise without all your loved ones that was driving her insane. When did he become her world? When did she corrupt her pure unconditional love for him? Why was she so hung up on him even now? 

Alastor,  her dear husband. 

Her beloved husband and her world. He would never come, and her prayers wouldn’t be answered. Alastor would forever be beyond her reach and never be someone she could hold again. 

Alastor would never come, because he was in hell. As much as she refused to believe it or admit it. Deep down? She knew. Her husband was being tortured in hell for reasons that were foreign to her. 

Alastor would never be here. He would never come. (Name) would never hear him play his piano as she sang or snuggle up to him when he read the morning paper. Or touch his hair and wear his glasses. 

He was in the worst place now and that was final. The place that tortured those who lived vile lives. A pit with killers, cannibals, terrorists, and abusers. 

She wanted nothing more than to forget. 

Which lead her here, in front of the Exorcist’s main building with a meeting in place with Lute. She did her homework and quickly learned she was a fearsome fighter. But, more importantly, she was Adam’s right hand. 

She did exactly what Lute said she would do. (Name) would come back for that deal. She would screw everything she had ever hoped to do here. As long as Lute would give her a purpose and a method to prevent her from falling to hell. 

(Name) was going to take that damn deal. 

And so, with a heavy heart and a steely resolve, (Name) made her decision. She would embrace the deal offered by Lute, no matter the cost. She would forsake everything she had ever known, everything she had ever hoped to become, in exchange for a chance at redemption.

Her heart ached as she pushed the doors open and saw Lute and Adam awaiting her. Adam looked bored as she ate his lunch and Lute seemed to have a wicked grin on her face. 

"Took you long enough," Lute might have been grinning, but her tone was anything but one of joy. She seemed more annoyed than anything else.

(Name) straightened her posture as she held her hands tightly.  “You said you had a deal for me.” 

"The deal to prevent you from becoming a loser?" Lute sneered,

"No," (Name) retorted, her gaze narrowing. "Make a deal with me to forget him."

A wicked grin spread across Lute's face, sending shivers down (Name)'s spine. "I'm going to enjoy breaking you," she declared, her eyes glittering with malevolent intent as she extended her gloved hand toward (Name).

With a deep breath, (Name) reached out and grasped Lute's hand in a firm shake, sealing her fate. There was no turning back now, no retreat from the path she had chosen. She knew the road ahead would be fraught with peril and pain, but she was willing to endure it all if it meant escaping the clutches of damnation.

It was a price she’d pay willingly if she could avoid joining the ranks of the sinners. 

"Deal," Her voice was one of determination as her heart wept at her decision. 

"Welcome to the exorcists,"

(Name) offered a silent nod of gratitude as she clenched her hands into her dress for something to calm her nerves. She had picked her fate and would find herself in the care of these two sadistic angels. But, she wouldn’t let herself be down on the first step of her journey. 

“It’s a pleasure to be here.” 

There was no going back now,

No escape that she was willing to take. 

The only escape was forsaking her place in heaven. 

And she would rather have a permanent death. 

This was cross posted on A03!

The song she sings is Evermore from Beauty and the Beast from the live action.

[dazed-and-confused23]

Dear Hearts and Gentle People 19

Summary: While in Goodneighbor, you find out that Cooper was a famous actor before the war, and ask him to tell you about some of his favorite ones. Much to the amusement to you and Hancock.

Pairings: The Ghoul | Cooper Howard x Female Reader , John Hancock x Female Reader

Warnings! Drinking and Drug Use. Movie references. Fluff and Domestic Fun.

Masterlist

The three of you are drunk as a skunk, high as a kite, and having the time of your life in the old state house that John calls home. You sit curled against the mayor, watching Cooper, who, in his delightful mood, had decided to regale the two of you with movie quotes and scenes that he'd done back before the war. It had started after he'd made a comment about being a better actor than the one they'd been watched on the fuzzy TV screen.

You had laughed and demanded that the ghoul show you a scene or two from the movies that he'd stared in.

Cooper stands across the living room table, a crocodile grin on his face as he quotes one of his films, his accent thick with a southern draw, "You ain't never heard of Wellenbeck prisoner of war camp, West Virginia?"

You shake your head, playing along with the ex-actor, and John snickers beside you, his laugh smokey and rough from the hit of jet he'd just had. Cooper continues, strutting around the room as he tells his story.

"Oh, Major Marquis did more than bust out. Major Marquis had a bright idea. So bright you hafta' wonder why nobody never thought about it before."

He skips over the other dialog, unable to remember half of the other men's lines, and continues. He gives you and John a look under the brim of his hat, "There was a rookie regiment spendin' the overnight in the camp. Forty-seven men... burnt to a crisp. Southern youth, farmers' sons, cream of the crop."

You gasp dramaticly, eyes wide as you clutch your imaginary pearls. Coop had told you a bit about the movie, set sometime just after the first Civil War back in 1877. You wish you could have seen Cooper back then, but this was just as good. The bounty hunter sets the scene, a small pit stop way up in the mountains.

He suddenly switches up, expression becoming a bit feral at the edges as he gives you and John a mean grin. He explains that Major Marquis has them all lined up against the wall after two men died from poisoned coffee. His voice is sarcastic, disbelief coloring it.

"So you finally decided I'm tellin' the truth 'bout bein' the sheriff of Red Rock, huh?"

He steps away from the wall, turning dramatically and stalking forward, hand under his chin as if he is pulling his thoughts together, "John Ruth was one mighty mighty bastard. But the last thing that bastard did before he died was save my goddamn life."

Cooper pauses and points at you, "You didn't. You were sitting there all quiet like when I poured that cup."

He spins on his heel, his duster flapping and his spurs jingling as he paces the room, "Both of you. Just watching me, waiting, waiting for me to drink myself to death. So what was the plan, Joe Cage? I drink the coffee, OB drinks the coffee, and John Ruth drinks the coffee? And you two sit around and laugh while we roll around on the ground, holding our bellies, screaming in pain?"

You and John are hooked after the speech, eyes wide as the two of you watch Cooper stomp across the room, grab a chipped coffee mug, and stalk over to them. You jump when he slams the cup in front of John, a nasty smile on his face.

Cooper pulls out all the stops, reaching for his side arm and aiming it at John, who looks more than a little nervous at having the hand canon pointed at him. The ex-actor mimes pulling back the hammer and then swings the barrel of his gun at the coffee cup, a snarl on his lips as he glares down at you and Hancock.

"Drink it."

Cooper keeps the scene going for several long seconds before breaking character and stepping back, shoving his side arm back in his holster and spreading his arms, a grin on his face, "Well?"

You burst into laughter and clap, snickering at the look of relief on John's face and the self-satisfied one on Cooper’s. The ghoul across from you bows before loping over to the couch and plopping down between you and John. He sits back and lights up a cigarette, smug as can be.

"Told ya, I still had it."

Ps. I own nothing here.

[ur-mom-did-69]

Hey y’all! This is my first time writing so please bear with me. Let me know what y’all think though!

Bull rider x Nika Mühl

(Yes ik a bull rider is weird I was just thought about it today💀)

Nothing kills you slower than letting someone go

In the heart of a small Texas town, the lights of the local bar flickered like fireflies, inviting weary travelers and spirited locals. It was a raucous celebration, the air thick with laughter, camaraderie, and the scent of barbeque. The night was alive with the sound of clinking glasses and country music wailing from the jukebox. Among the crowd, Alex, a vibrant bull rider, stood out—not just for her victorious grin, but for her unmistakable Texan charm.

With a cowboy hat perched atop her sun-kissed curls and a worn pearl-snap button-up shirt clinging to her muscular frame, Alex was a walking Southern stereotype. Her jeans were perfectly fitted, revealing her strong legs honed from years in the saddle, and her boots were scuffed from countless rodeos. As she settled onto a barstool, she couldn't help but beam at the crowd, her heart still racing from the adrenaline of a successful ride.

Today, however, was special; it wasn’t just her victory that fueled her energy; it was the celebration itself. Spying a group of tall women nestled in the corner, Alex recognized them immediately—the UConn women's basketball team, in town for a break. Without hesitating, she flagged down the bartender and ordered them a round of drinks. Her deep Southern drawl broke through the chatter as she introduced herself, her smile infectious.

With a confident stride, Alex approached the lively table. “Howdy, y’all! Is this a winning celebration I’m intruding on?” she grinned, her Southern drawl wrapping around every word like a comforting embrace.

“Not at all! I’m Nika,” one of the players replied, her dark eyes sparkling as she extended a hand. “Thanks for the drinks, by the way.”

“Alex!” she said, shaking Nika’s hand firmly. “Glad to meet some champions! I’ve been tellin’ everyone in this town that the only sport that matters is bull riding, but maybe y’all could convince me otherwise,” she chuckled, her accent lending an extra layer of warmth to her charm.

Nika felt a quickening in her heart as she studied Alex: strong but gentle, a prominent presence yet grounded. “I’ve always wanted to ride a bull. What’s it like?”

“Like dancing with a tornado. You either get twirled around or sent flyin’. Makes you feel alive!” Alex said with a twinkle in her eye. They continued to talk, the energy around them buzzing as the night wore on, laughter mingling with stories of triumph and trials.

The two women lost themselves in conversation, sharing stories of their lives—Alex’s wild west adventures and Nika’s basketball powerhouse experiences. Each laugh and exchange sent little sparks between them. With every word, they discovered more that connected them despite their different worlds. That evening, under the dim lights, Alex worked up the courage to ask for Nika's number, and when Nika easily obliged, a thrill shot through her.

“Let’s make this a date then,” Alex suggested, her Southern charm radiating. Nika nodded, excitement bubbling up within her.

Their first outing was unexpected. Alex took Nika to a nearby rodeo, and as they settled into the bleachers, Alex turned to her, a mischievous grin plastered on her face. “So, how’d you feel about seeing me get thrown off a bull tonight?”

“You’re competing?” Nika asked, her eyes wide with surprise and a hint of nervousness.

“Sure am! Just a little amateur rodeo,” Alex shrugged, trying to play it cool, but Nika could see the pride in her eyes. As the night wore on, Nika cheered louder than any of the rowdy spectators, her heart pounding in rhythm with the pulse of the event.

When she watched Alex flawlessly ride a bull, she couldn’t help but admire the tenacity and skill of this spirited Texan. Afterward, the connection deepened, and for the next two weeks, they spent every moment they could together, especially at night, tangled between the sheets, whispering sweet nothings and sharing dreams.

But a looming reality soon hit. The time came for Nika to return to Connecticut, and the distance stretched before them like an insurmountable wall. Their message exchanges grew sparse as they struggled to maintain their connection. The longing turned to frustration, culminating in an argument that lingered over their heads like a thundercloud before it finally burst. Days passed without a word, leaving Alex feeling empty and alone, and Nika wrestling with a sense of loss.

Then came the day when fate intervened, and Alex found herself on the wrong side of a bull's fury. The ride ended in calamity, and the pain was sharp and immediate. When Nika received the call about Alex’s accident, panic and worry surged through her. Without a second thought, she hopped on the next flight to Texas, her heart racing with fear and determination.

Arriving at the hospital, Nika rushed to Alex’s side, the sight of her bruised and bandaged partner shattering her heart. Tears spilled over as they locked eyes; finally, the dam broke, and both began to cry. They had fought so hard to stay connected, but it took this moment of vulnerability for them to truly understand the depth of their love.

“You scared the shit out of me, Alex I thought I almost lost you,” Nika whispered, holding Alex's hand tightly as the tears streamed down.

Upon her arrival, she found Alex bandaged and bruised but still strong. “Hey, don’t look so worried. I’m tougher than I look,” Alex joked, but Nika saw through the mask of bravado. Alex’s face turned from a small smile, into a pained expression. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened. I don’t want to lose you either though,” Alex replied, her voice shaky. They poured their hearts out, sharing their fears and desires, vowing to fight for what they had built together.

As Alex healed, she began to reevaluate her future. The idea of riding bulls, once a thrill, felt more like shackles. She realized that the life she longed for was not rooted in the arena but in moments shared with Nika. The decision came swiftly. With each passing day, recovery transformed into purpose, and soon after, Alex packed her bags and moved to Connecticut, embracing a new chapter with Nika.

But life in Connecticut felt overwhelming. Alex struggled against the quietness of country life compared to the excitement she had left behind. As days turned into weeks, an unshakeable tension hung in the air. Nika’s once-warm smile grew cold and distant, and Alex’s pleas felt like whispers lost in the wind.

Alex recognized that things weren’t changing with Nika and finally had a sit-down conversation with her. “I feel like we’re in the same exact place that we were in a couple of months ago. I mean I’ve tried talking to you about it, which is rare these days because I feel like I don’t even see you anymore when we live in the same damn place for Christ’s sake!” Alex said, trying her hardest not to raise her voice.

Nika scoffed, “I never asked you to drop everything and come up here, Alex! You say that we don’t see each other, but one of us is actually doing something important with their lives. I mean, how far did you seriously think bullriding was going to get you? I’m working my ass off during practice and studying for my classes. What have you been doing the entire time you’ve been here?”

Alex’s face fell as she heard Nika talk about her career. “Wow. So that’s how you feel about everything? You didn’t have to ask me to drop everything for you because I would’ve done it regardless, Nika. Say what you want, but I was doing just fine with my career because I had enough to buy me a farm up here in Connecticut that I was going to surprise you with on our anniversary. That’s what I’ve been busy with the entire time that I’ve been here, but even then I still made time to try to spend with you, but you just kept brushing me off,” Alex said with a lump in her throat.

Nika’s expression suddenly changed from frustrated to regretful. “Alex, I’m so sorry. Please, I didn’t mean it.”, she said teary-eyed.

A moment of silence passed between them. “I don’t think we thought things out enough for us,” Alex spoke softly.

Alex stood up, putting on her boots and hat. “I think I should go. It’s clear that we want different things. I want you, and you want your career and studies, which I understand. Maybe I’ll see you around, Nika. I love you.”

Nika shot up from her seat. “No, Alex, please don’t go. Please, I’m sorry. I love you, I don’t want you to go.”, she said sobbing.

It was too late though, Alex had already gotten into her truck and drove off as Nika watched her from the window. Maybe they were too different to be compatible, or maybe this only made them realize just how deeply they impacted each other’s lives.

So… what do we think…? Part 2? Thank yall for reading hope you enjoyed it!

[shxrry-blossom]

RUBY DRESSES IN THE NOVEL

All the times Ruby's outfits are described in the novel.

1. The Royal banquet

"Anyway, my debut appearance in Erendille's society came. I chose a silk jade dress I had worn for my Sacrament of the Eucharist, which was the simplest one I had. My accessories were also understated: cream leather shoes with pearls, a pair of summer gloves, and a pair of aquamarine earrings. I wore nothing on my head and had my hair braided down. My unfriendly maids looked quite surprised by my unexpected choice of such a simple look, but they asked no questions" - Chapter 7

2. Nosebleed moment

"Most outfits in this world were impossible to put on without assistance, but there were some simpler everyday dresses I could get into on my own. I struggled to tighten the corset and pulled a tunic over my head. Then I put on a simple, soft green dress with white puffed sleeves." -Chapter 11

3. The Horseback riding club

"The dresses I'd ordered from the local dressmaker were far from finished, so I picked the plainest one of the riding habits I'd brought. It was a sky blue dress with short ruffled sleeves that came down to my elbows. As for my hair, I wore it down in a long braid and topped it off with a blue ribbon." - Chapter 13

4. The van Omerta banquet

"No matter how ugly and torn I was on the inside, the reflection in the mirror showed a lovely Southern lady. Milk- white pearls adorned my wavy blond hair, and my cheeks glowed with a lively hue thanks to the makeup. As for the pink satin dress with wide lace sleeves..." - Chapter 50

5. Cesar Arrival

"Thanks to the makeup, I looked much livelier than before. I was wearing a rose-colored dress decorated with fur and gems studded along the bustline and a pair of velvet shoes adorned with matching ribbons. My lips and fingernails all shone, and colorful diamonds sparkled on my ears and neck. Perched on my delicately curled blond hair was a glorious coronet with rubies and sapphires that glittered like stars." - Chapter 81

LAST UPDATED —➤ [16/01/25]

[drowninnoodles]

Just gonna watch Pearl through and leave commentary in one ask lol. So you don't have 1000 asks lol.

She a southern gal'??

yes girl stab it ig? Is this foreshadowing?

Alligator??? Fun fact that was my highschool's mascot. (In my freshman year at least, was only there for 9th grade)

This takes place during the Spanish influenza???

Thought the dad was dead for a second LMAO?! Bout' to say why they just got a corpse sitting there.

If I had a penny everytime some girl in overalls went looking for something in corn fields I definitely wouldn't have to worry abt gas money.

Bro what is this girl doing with the scarecrow-

Its giving that one time the Joker just danced in the washroom in "The Joker".

Bro why you kissing it like that?!?!

BRO THE "I'M MARRIED!!" girl? You just danced with and kissed an inanimate object???

BRO SHE'S STILL GOING WHAT THE FUCK?!

ew.... Sorry had to skip lmao I just couldn't.

Girl can you stop bathing in front of your father-

Girl what. I don't see how you think I have her vibes tbh. But I'll watch the rest and see.

Bro idk her name but this blood chick that just showed up with the blong curls yk, her eyes are so blueeeeeeee my god.

She likes kissing cows too apparently.

Yo how old even is she??

Bro this is kinda hard to watch....

Okay so dad gon' die?

Welp nvm.

Welp that's a traumatized mother.

Oh shit that's a real traumatized mother, pop off?

Well shit she really just said her daughter was a mistake and a failure.

Whoop- ooooo girllllllll they gon' die??

Lol.

Welp she just dragging the body, kk.

Bro the dad looks terrified.

Did she really just kill her mother, leave her father, and then go cheat on her husband lmao?

IS THAT HER HUSBAND?! Bro the timing in impeccable.

Bro a little late for "sorry" girl. Like cmon.

Aw sucks there's maggots on the meat.

Bro. Cheating again dude? I have a feeling ima need to skip in a minute. -_-

Okay we good nvm he left lmao.

Pearl jumpscare lmao.

Bro he is so unimpressed.

Nah we aint the same, girl can't even keep up with her lies lmao. "Did I do smth wrong?" yeah bitch you fucked up. Couldn't even remember the lie you said a second ago. I'd do better. I've done better lmao.

Why you screaming girl- you have a husband lmao. "Your scaring me Pearl" is crazy.

Oh? Murder?? God damn girl?? Okay?

Damn she crazy?? Oh????????????

Chat im in love?

BRO HOW IS THE MOM NOT DEAD?!

Oop nvm she prolly is now-

"Let's clean you up" she says to her dad as she's covered in blood.

The red dress reminds me of Lydia I love it.

Is she gon' kill the dad?

Yep, knew it lmao.

I know that alligator eating good.

BAHAHAHAHAHAH THE "thank you, but its gonna be a no" after she did all that.

"Pardon?" LMAO.

Girl suck it up. Or just murder em' yk.

STOP WAIT THIS IS WHERE THAT AUDIO CAME FROM?!?! "I'm a star!! Please I'm a star!!" BAHAHAHAHAHAH.

Girl stop screaming it ain't that deep.

If your gonna cry do it silently.

Oh Lord not the snot I can't even.

Kk so is the blond chick gonna die next??

"I don't feel well" she says after killing her family and the man she cheated on her husband with.

God damn- girl.

Again, how old is she lmao??????

Lmao she was relieved when her baby died? Kk girlie.

Gotta give props to the actress, bravo.

Bro "I liked how killing felt" is so real omfg.

Bro the blond chicks reaction is priceless. She's like "oh shit nah I gotta get out of here".

Welp, she gonna die.

Bro the "don't lie to me" part reminded me so fucking much of what I was like a few years ago.

Just realized but why her eyebrows so hard to see lol.

Knew it, she gonna die.

Yes girl get it?????

Oh cmonnnnnn, they didn't even show her dying.

LMAO?!

Okay girl chop the body up ig?

Welp were having maggot dinner with corpses apparently.

Yo is her husband finally back???

Imagine coming home from war to find this shit lmao.

Bro her awkward smiling is hilarious.

Oh shit she crying now.

Bro is she constipated.

GIRL BREATHEEEEEEEEE

why she kindaooks like a horse-

Finished movie

Shit man, how have I never watched this before lmao. Gonna be honest all the sex stuff at the beginning threw me off a bit... But I mean the murder shit hell yeh 👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻

What vibes you said I have like her tho lmao.

chat idk just whole insanity stuff kinda reminded me bout you. may be wrong ofc

perfect commentary tho, laughed hard

also there is second movie where she is old but there is many sex scenes so you probably wouldnt want to watch it. its kinda plot related though so i didnt skip cause shit was happening lol. its called X if u ever want to check. imo great movie but hard to watch kinda because yk.

anyway glad u enjoyed uwu

[magntx]

𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄     𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂  ,     𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑     𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍!

bold  whatever  applies  ,  italicize  what  sometimes  applies.

𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜  𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫.       /       gaslights.  corsets.  ballrooms.  candlelight.  mist.  starless  nights.  full  moons.  cobbled  streets.  horse-drawn  carriages.  mysterious  strangers.  bogs.  moors.  forests.  mountains.  castles.  velvet.  silver.  brass.  gold.  jewels.  domino  masks.  the  opera.  dangerous  romances.  tragic  romances.  violins.  roses.  lilies.  empty  graves.  crosses.  cemeteries.  snow.  ice.  the  gallows.  crows.  milk-white  skin.  ambiguous  illness.  fangs.  pointed  nails.  something  howling  in  the  night.  capes.  gloves.  top  hats.  straight  razors.  lightning.  pipe  organs.  underground  caverns.  bats.  mice.  rats.  ravens.  cats.  pearls.  attics.  talismans.  axes.  wood.  isolation  in  a  room  full  of  people.  vampires.  werewolves.  ghosts.  coffins.  southern  europe.  western  europe.  eastern  europe.  bones.  churches.  catacombs.  mausoleums.  books.

𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐜  𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫.        /       black  and  white.  powder  puffs.  red  lipstick.  winged  eyeliner.  white  kitten  heels.  black  lace  lingerie.  icy  blue  eyes.  rain.  abandoned  cars.  skeletons.  acid.  poison.  voyeurism.  switchblades.  strangling.  overcoats.  looking  over  your  shoulder.  trans-atlantic  accents.  private  detectives.  dinner  parties.  haunted  mansions.  alcohol  in  glass  decanters.  cobwebs.  perfect  blonde  curls.  kitchen  knives.  shock.  cellars.  dust.  ghosts.  dark  alleys.  empty  streets.  driving  at  night.  horn-rimmed  glasses.  radiation.  zombies.  serial  murder.  suspicion.  paranoia.  the  city.  witches.  the  devil.  cannibalism.  conspiracies. amulets.  abject  terror.  the  american  south.  the  american  northeast.  england.  analog  cameras.

𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬.       /       bloodbaths.  massacres.  wanton  nudity.  newspapers.  leather  jackets.  letterman  jackets.  converse  sneakers.  obscured  faces.  social  unrest.  bonfires.  lakes.  babysitters.  suburbia.  high  school.  lockers.  dead  leaves  in  the  fall.  jack-o’-lanterns.  outdated  television  sets.  nightmares.  psychiatrists.  hospitals.  unstoppable  forces.  gunfire.  police.  landline  telephones.  household  objects  turned  into  improvised  weapons.  halloween.  secrets.  revelations.  character  masks.  scrunchies.  queerness.  wild  curls.  jeering  children.  parties.  fire.  swearing.  revulsion.  california.  the  american  midwest.  ambulances.

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐥  𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫.       /         malevolent  spirits.  seances.  spells.  missing  bodies.  curses.  hidden  graves.  white  noise.  static.  flickering  lights.  rings  of  salt.  demons.  poltergeists.  dark  histories.  old  buildings.  cold  air.  mausoleums.  wells.  urban  exploration.  a  dog  barking  at  something  you  can’t  see.  black  ooze.  old  photographs.  faces  you  can  swear  you’ve  seen  before  but  can’t  for  the  life  of  you  figure  out  where.  dark  bodies  of  water.  crucifixes.  priests.  possession.  exorcisms.  dolls.

𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐝  &  𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐧  𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝  𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫.       /       aliens.  blinding  light.  dark  woods.  driving  at  night. claw-marks.  bite-marks.  men  in  black.  memory  loss.  dismembered  bodies.  sewers.  flashlights.  cell  phones.  video  cameras.  cars  with  tinted  windows.  unlabelled  cassette  tapes.  bugs.  big  cities.  urban  crimes.  clowns.  something  rustling  outside  your  window.  glowing  light.  unsolved  mysteries.  suburbia.  mirrors.  the  american  pacific  northwest.  the  american  midwest.  hiking  /  backpacking.  

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐬.        /        daylight.  fluorescent  lighting.  morgues.  asylums.  unwavering  eye  contact.  tension.  lit  rooms  with  no  one  inside  them.  a  dog  digging  in  the  newly-planted  flower  bed.  steely  gazes.  paperwork.  anagrams.  codes.  convicted  killers.  missing  persons.  law  enforcement.  federal  agents.  small  towns.  suspicion.  paranoia.  subdued  terror.  dimly-lit  parking  lots.

tagged by: @roquish <3

tagging: @witchkillr, @hexsreality, @onlyarogue, @alwaysxinxtrouble, @abovedivinity, @belayadeaths and anyone else that wants!! steal it!