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mukbangg · 6 months

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Soft Billy thoughts...

18+

(I'm waiting for my rollercoaster ride like this queue is so long for what....anyways billy drabble)

Early mornings before the summer sun comes out, and the chill has yet to leave the air so its cozy and snug under the sheets pressed against Billy. Hes sprawled over you like you'll fly away if he hasnt got his arms and legs wrapped around you. Honestly the first few times you had tried to kick him off but you're resigned to your fate after he keeps crawling back , cooing and kissing your jaw, face tucked in your neck with half his body practically pressing you down. Sometimes you say hes more baby than cowboy.

But mornings like this with Billy, pressed skin to skin like hes trying to merge with you, half naked and toasty sandwiched between him and the bed, you couldn't ask for anything more perfect.

"Mornin' doll,"

He murmurs, lips already trailing hot kisses down the side of your face that could only mean one thing. His arm was under your back and hooked under your armpit, pressing your side into his chest while his other hand palms at your belly, thumbing at the under curve of your breasts. Billy's obssessed with touching you, often times trailing behind like some puppy, hand stuffed down your back pocket despite your repeated chidings that you're busy.

He cant help it, he just need his girl.

Breath hot on your cheek, theres no stopping Billy when he gets like this, so full of love for you as he mumbles sweet nothings, hand sliding down to tug your panties off and tease your clit. You whine, still bleary with sleep, eyes barely open as each press of his callous finger shoots straight pleasure up your spine.

"Open up f'me,"

Billy chuckles, tapping on your thighs.

You breathed out a sigh, doing as you're told and he awards you with another kiss on your cheek.

"That's my girl,"

He sucks in a harsh breath when he dips a finger into your cunny, slippery with the slick pooling already. He squeezes two thick fingers in, curling to rub at your sweet spot as he echoes your moans, nuzzling into your hair.

Then he squeezes a third finger in, stretching out your sloppy cunt and you mewl, back arching to grind down lazily on his fingers.

He swirls his thumb on your clit a few more times and you sputter gasping breaths as you gush around his fingers.

But Billy's not done and he continues to fuck your cunny with three fingers, trying to coax another orgasm out of you.

"Its t-too much Billy-"

"I can't-"

But he doesnt care and your jaw goes slack as he fits his pinky in, the sweet burn accompanied with his frantic swirling on your clit making you choke out a broken whimper at the sudden burst of pleasure as you see stars.

You're panting, head lolling back as you try to blink away the fuzziness in your head, his fingers pulling out to stroke your wet folds. Hes murmuring praises into your ear and you think hes finished as he pull you into his lap, brain too stuffed with cotton to register his large palms spreading your thighs again his chin hooked over your shoulder to watch your sweet cunny swallow his cock.

Then hes planting his knees firmly into the bed to thrust up frantically into you, the wet slickslickslick of your sloppy pussy filling the room alongside your choked moans and the squeak of the flimsy bed.

"G'me another doll,"

Billy coos into your ear, almost condescending if not for the soft lilt of his pet name for you.

"Y'can do it, hm? My best girl,"

His hand leaves the underside of your thigh and reaches in front of you, fingers rubbing roughly on your swollen clit as tears leak out your eyes at the overstimulation, not a single coherent thought in your mind.

Then he drops you down on his cock just right and your orgasm rips through you so hard your vision goes white for abit as you practically squirt his dick out.

You can hear Billy's delighted snort of laughter before he choked out a moan, his other hand going to fist his cock desperately and hes spurting thick strings of white over your pussy. His fingers were quick to smear his cum over your folds, tap tapping at your clit to coax out spurts of clear liquids as you whine in protest, too sensitive to do anything but jolt and tremble in his arms.

But then hes squeezing three fingers back into your sloppy hole to fuck his cum in slowly, tutting at the waste.

"My girl's the best in the world, hm?"

He mumbles into the side of your head, kissing you softly and watching your sleepy eyes flutter as his other hand goes to cup your jaw to support your lolling head.

His thumb swipes at the line of drool at the corner of your lips, thumb pressing into your mouth for you to suck lazily before hes lining his already hard cock up to your leaking hole, rubbing against your clit once, twice, and you both moan as he pushes his swollen head in to kiss your cervix.

"This time you'll take my cum in your tummy, 'kay? Don't waste it again,"

The threat in his tone as he forces you to look at your drooling cunny stretch over his fat cock was enough to make you mewl in agreement, nodding clumsily as he begin to fuck you in earnest once more.

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cowboydisaster · 6 months

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I have no idea about the historical accuracy of this but imagine a reader who used to be in a pretty well off family (think like the braithwaites level in society) but she left it all and gave everything up to be with Arthur. It’s her first Christmas away from her family and she misses the Christmas tree back home. Queue Arthur cutting a tree down with his big manly man strength and dragging it back to camp to surprise her🥲

* ˚ ✦ Stardust * ˚ ✦

pairing: arthur morgan x f!reader word count: 4k a/n: margo!! This prompt was too cute. I kinda took it and RAN so I hope I did it justice! xx

cowboydisaster's christmas countdown: SEVEN days 'till christmas!

christmas countdown┊main masterlist┊rdr2 masterlist

If there's one thing you haven't gotten used to in this way of life, it's the elements. Camp is situated in Big Valley along the Upper Montana River. It's beautiful, and more open country than you've ever seen in your life. But damn, is it cold in winter. Snow drifts down from Mount Shann, creating a beautiful flurry of white around camp, albeit a freezing one.

At this moment, though, the cold doesn't bother you. In the safety of your tent, back tucked against Arthur's chest, it's impossible for the cold to reach you. He keeps you warm. Like a furnace, that man. You'd be worried he was running a fever if you weren't so used to his toasty-warm temperature.

You shuffle against Arthur, readjusting in the soft cotton cot. The wind whispers quietly outside, peacefully. Gone is the loud whipping ice storm that had come through a week or so ago. It's been replaced by a quiet falling of snow, the creak of nearby oaks.

“Darlin’? What is it?” Arthur whispers, voice sleepy against your ear. The hand that's hung over your waist squeezes gently, a small act of encouragement to respond. You smirk. You can picture his face, eyes closed, or half-lifted, eyebrows knitting with worry.

“What's wrong?” He whispers again. The hand on your waist flattens against your stomach, gently pulling you back towards him.

Oh, your Arthur. His heart is perfectly in tune with yours, and well, when yours is sunk, he notices. A peculiar little thing you've discovered– he always notices those small details, those small fluctuations in your mood. On top of that, he always addresses them.

Those selfless personality traits are why you left the city in the first place. Arthur is genuine, real. He's caring, and he communicates with you when you're upset. Your mamá and papá were far too concerned with selling you off to the most eligible bachelor in Saint Denis to care about your feelings. The bachelor's characteristics were of no importance, just his wealth and status in society. That life was… a load of shit, as your dear Arthur would say.

You'd started sneaking downtown at night to get away from the chaos of your home. Your parents were always fighting and screaming. Broken dishes and ringing ears became a staple in that house. La Bastille Saloon was a short walk from your house on Flavian Street. And that's where you met Arthur.

Despite his career, you immediately recognized him to be the first honest man that you'd ever met in your life. In a mere thirty seconds of conversation, you'd found a depth to him that your father could never scratch, a kindness that no arranged husband would show you. And so it became a habit. You'd sneak out of your window a few times a week, meeting him at La Bastille– talking, laughing, drinking. Arthur's whiskey burned far more than the French wine you'd sipped on in your life. Where you came from, drinking was for show. To sip on a glass of imported chablis was to assert class, but Arthur taught you how to drink for fun. He'd taught you how to play cards and how to cure a hangover. Your parents would be mortified at your unladylike behavior.

Arthur showed you fun, and kindness, spontaneity and honesty in a world that you thought was without those virtues. When Arthur had asked you to join him, it was an easy yes. He laid it all out. the good, the bad and the ugly. Criminals, you'd be joining. He was afraid that you would turn away, but crime is no stranger to you. Coming from high society, you saw the rich take from the poor time and again. You saw laundering and fraud, servitude, coercion and arranged murder.

All your family does is twist lies for their own benefit. They're all snakes, sinking their teeth into everything they come across. Gluttonous in their pursuit to expel venom. It has drowned the whole city of Saint Denis, sunk into the cobblestone roads and poisoned the entire place.

You see more honesty in the Van der Linde's life of crime than in your family's. At least the Van der Lindes are honest about what they do, and only rob from those who rob from others.

Leaving with Arthur was the most freeing feeling you've ever experienced. You love him with all your heart. You love the gang, and your new life, and yet even with all that you've gained, you still left so much behind. Joining Arthur; it's the best decision you've ever made, and you don't regret it for a moment, but the approaching holiday is bringing out sadness, memories of your childhood, friends that you'd left in the city. Any good memory of the city is recalled through rose tinted glasses, but still, it's beginning to sting now that it's almost Christmas.

“Darlin’?” Arthur says, the grogginess no longer evident in his voice. He pulls you back to the present like a tether. His thumb drags soothingly over your hip bone, and underneath the thick blankets, you lay your hand atop his.

“Hmm?” You offer.

“Where's your head at?” Arthur whispers, breath against your ear.

“Oh, just thinking.” You smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes. It's a sad smile, bittersweet. If a candle were lit, and he could see it, Arthur would be much more worried.

His fingertips brush your hair away from your face, gently pulling some strands behind your ear towards the braid they have escaped from.

Arthur lifts his hand from you, adjusting the blankets as you turn over in bed. Once you're facing him, he makes sure that all of the blankets cover your frame.

“It's just that this will be my first Christmas away from home.”

A small silence ensues. One that threatens to let tears slip down your rosy cheeks. Your nose tucks into Arthur's chest as you sniffle, hoping he hasn't taken your words with offense. This is your home now, and you wouldn't have it any other way. But old habits die hard.

“You missin’ home?” Arthur whispers between kisses to your hair. You shake your head quickly

“No-no. I don't want you to think-”

“Baby, I ain't gonna give you a hard time ‘cause you're missin’ home. Hell… my childhood weren’t nothin’ but a world of pain, and sometimes I miss it.”

You should have expected his understanding. Arthur's never made you feel foolish for your feelings. His hand traces along your hip, keeping you warm and coaxing you to settle back into the comfortable space that he’s surrounded you with.

“I’m finding it difficult.” You whisper, “The holidays are coming up, and they’re bringing lots of memories. Fond ones, things I don’t want to forget.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Well…” You crack a small smile, eyes going far away, back to old memories long ago, “Papá would have a Christmas tree shipped from Cumberland forest, only the best for him of course.” You chuckle, and Arthur smiles for the sweet sound.

“And we would decorate it with candles, blown glass, popcorn and cranberries. Oh, it was such a sight Arthur.” You say, a wonder in your voice. The memories are crystal clear in your head. Bright colors, laughter, songs.

Arthur's Christmas memories don't bring much joy. Except for the year his daddy didn't come home. Still, the way your eyes have lit up– Arthur wishes he could have experienced the Christmas that you're describing. He wishes he could see you with that much joy.

“Have you ever seen a Christmas tree?” You ask, rekindling that tether and pulling him back to you.

“Nah, only in the papers. I ain't never lived nowhere so fancy to have a Christmas tree.”

“It was so beautiful…” You whisper, a chill running down your spine. You hardly notice it, but Arthur pulls you closer nonetheless, his body heat wrapping around you like the warmest of blankets.

“It seemed as if when the tree was decorated and we all sat together, maybe it was not so bad.” You murmur, and the wonder dissipates from your eyes, replaced with reality.

Arthur waits for you to collect your thoughts. A whistle of wind breaks the silence before you do.

“Ah, I'm sorry for this show of emotion. It's silly of me.”

He shakes his head, forehead gently meeting yours. Your eyes marvel up at Arthur, making out the deep blue of his eyes from a stretch of moonlight that's infiltrated the room.

“You ain't ever gotta apologize for gettin’ emotional, sweetheart. Not with me.”

All you can do is nod, feeling again like a schoolgirl with butterflies running rampant in your stomach. His breath traces your face, noses just barely lining each other.

His lips meet yours, soft and sweet. Your heart soars like it does every time he kisses you. It's something that you're sure you won't ever get used to. But something you're hoping to find familiarity in, because you never want to stop kissing him.

He pulls away all too soon for your liking, placing a sweet kiss to your forehead. When he hears your small whine, he huffs.

“I know, get back to sleep baby, I'll still be here in the mornin’.”

It doesn't take long for you to slip back into slumber, not with the soft whisper of the wind, and the cocoon of warmth around you. Arthur practically carries you across the threshold into sleep with the way his arms wrap around you.

In the little tent, deep in the snow, Arthur begins to hatch his plan. He kisses your head, climbing over you and out of bed to light a candle. It provides just enough light to illuminate the pages of his journal. Just enough light for him to illustrate his surprise.

He had promised you– all those months ago, when he'd packed your bags onto his horse and ridden you out of the city– that he would do anything and everything to make you happy. It's a promise that he intends to keep

— — —

a few days later

“This is the one.” Arthur marvels, sparkling eyes cast upwards toward the fullest, greenest evergreen in Cumberland Forest. You deserve nothing but the best, and he’s sure that he’s found it.

Arthur takes a short moment to pull out his journal, dusting some fallen snow from the leather cover. He sketches the tree, a way for him to remember the moment. To remember how the tree had been, perfectly untouched in nature. He takes his time, back propped against the unhitched wagon in the forest, hat covered in a thick dusting of snow. A few flakes even drop onto the page, melting and smudging his charcoal.

When the branches are sketched to his liking, he accompanies them with a quick passage and closes the book.

For the lady. Christmas. 1899.

When the book snaps shut and is stuffed back into his journal, he looks up, finding a questioning look on his trusted stallion’s face.

“What?” Arthur’s brow furrows, “I’ll plant another one.”

The stallion sighs.

Arthur moves around the back of the wagon, pulling an ax from the toolbox, dusting some snow off the handle with gloved hands. The ground is covered in a thick layer of white, the horses too. They press their noses together, whinnying and rumbling, entertaining each other with horse-typical play in the snow.

“Jasper. Sugar. Quit bein’ sweet on one another, we got work to do.” Arthur calls back to the two horses. What a pair, those two.

Jasper is Arthur’s stallion. He’s well behaved. Shy. Obedient. Then there’s Sugar. She was a gift from Arthur to you. White as snow and wild as the wind. She still is, despite all of her training.

Arthur had brought the pair of them with the wagon to pull the tree back to camp. But now, Sugar seems more interested in kicking up snow, and well– Jasper is only interested in following Sugar around, hearts practically emitting from his eyes.

Snow falls in thick flakes, dotting Arthur’s red flannel and melting against the thick material. He pays it no mind. The snowfall silences the forest, save for the rhythmic whack…whack of Arthur’s ax hitting the evergreen, and the softened sound of playful hooves in the snow.

“Don’t tire yourselves out.” Arthur huffs to the horses, “Jesus.”

A few more swings of the ax, and the tree begins to fall. It hits the ground with a thud, not nearly as loud as Arthur imagined it would be. But, the snow softened the fall, he supposes.

In a matter of minutes, the tree is in the wagon. Just a few more, and Jasper and Sugar are pulling it home.

If everything is going according to plan, right now you should be with Marybeth, picking holly. She had taken you out, because she had “wanted to spruce up camp a bit.” Little do you know, the little adventure is a part of Arthur’s plan. With you away from camp, he was able to borrow Sugar, take Jasper, and get the tree. With you away from camp, the final touches can fall into place.

Arthur gently taps the reins over the horse’s backs, urging them into a faster canter along the beaten down snow path back towards camp.

“Hyah! C’mon, we’re pushin’ it.” He calls to the horses. The little golden bells on their harnesses jingle and ring as he pushes them towards camp, massive evergreen in tow. He checks his pocket watch, cursing quietly before putting it away. Sadie should be done by now.

It’s not long before the horses are pulling into camp, large puffs of white billowing out from their noses as they catch their breath. Arthur hops down from the wagon, his hand running along the expanse of it as he reaches the back.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Dutch’s voice booms from across the camp. He makes his way towards the wagon, “Now this is how we celebrate Christmas!”

The evergreen nearly overtakes the wagon, branches sticking out from all directions, billows of snow still stuck to them. Dutch has no idea how Arthur managed to get it into the wagon. An approaching Hosea is just as flabbergasted.

“You know, I never took you to be much of a romantic, Arthur. But this might just prove me wrong.” Hosea

“Whatever you say. Now, quit gawkin’ and help me get this big bastard up.” Arthur mumbles, grabbing the thick tree by the trunk and pulling it down. Sap sticks to his hands as he begins to drag it out of the wagon. Carrying it into the center of camp is a group effort– much easier than Arthur getting it into the wagon by himself.

“I reckon you two can handle this. I got some other things to check up on.” Arthur steps back, sizing the tree up and down.

“Run along then and leave us the hard work.” Dutch muses, within earshot of Arthur.

“Figured it would do your old bones some good to do real work, Dutch!” Arthur hollers back over his shoulder, chuckling to himself as he makes his way towards the circle of tents.

“Mrs. Adler?” Arthur hollers, approaching the A-frame tent, “You in there?”

Before he can part the white canvas tent, Sadie emerges, and he backs up.

“You get it done?” Arthur asks, cheeks tinged bright pink from the cold. Hat white instead of black. Sadie chuckles for it.

“Did I get it done?” Sadie mocks with a huff, “A’ course I got it done.”

From her tent, she pulls out a Christmas tree garland. A string carefully woven through dried cranberries and popped corn. It's beautiful and long. It must have taken her hours to make. Arthur’s eyes go wide in small wonder as she transfers the garland to him.

“S’perfect, Sadie. She’s gonna love this.”

A wide, bittersweet smile stretches across Sadie’s face, “Jake taught me how,” there is a pause as Arthur nods in understanding, “Now go. Go decorate it for your woman.” Sadie smirks.

“Dear boy! Dear boy, how does it look?” Hosea calls out, and Arthur’s attention shoots towards the tree. They have it standing upright now, perfectly in the center of camp. It stands tall, a real beauty.

“Perfect.” He gapes at it, wishing he could have done something like this when he was younger– hoping that it will live up to your memories. Arthur doesn’t have the money to buy fancy ornaments, but he’s doing everything in his power to make it special for you.

With the help of the horses and the wagon, everyone manages to wrap the garland the whole way around the tree, even up to the top. The little trail of white and red looks beautiful against the dark green of the pine. Arthur places lit candles in holders on the branches, casting a beautiful hazy glow that lights up the tree. Camp members begin to gather, circling around the tree, watching and helping. Mrs. Grimshaw offers some holly. Karen offers some candy canes that she had bought in town, hanging them from the branches.

The sun begins to set, and Arthur checks his watch, knowing that you’ll be back any minute. A small tug on his pants pulls his attention downwards.

“Uncle Arthur?” Little Jack whispers, eyes sparkling with the reflection of the tree lights, “I made this for you! For you to put it on auntie's tree!”

Arthur’s brow furrows, and he glances quickly up to Abigail, who is smiling warmly. Jack reaches into his little bag and pulls out a beautiful paper star. He has apparently put a lot of time and effort into folding and cutting the paper into a perfect little topper. Jack’s little hands extend the star up to Arthur, the smile on his face brighter than any of the tree’s candles.

“You made this?” Arthur asks.

“Yep, I sure did! Momma even helped me cut the paper!”

Arthur kneels on the ground– eye level with Jack, a smirk on his lips, “I think we better put it on the top then, don't you?”

“Oh yes! It would be perfect on top! I just hope aunt y/n likes it…”

“She’ll love this, buddy.”

With some more help from a very grumpy Sugar, Arthur manages to place the star perfectly on the tree top. And just in time, apparently.

When Arthur steps back, taking in the tree for all its glory, his jaw falls slack, eyes filling up with wonder.

It's beautiful. At dusk, the candles shine brightly. The garland has attracted a few red cardinals, and they rest in the branches, comfortable in the new camp tree. Everyone looks in awe. It’s perfect.

— — —

“No peekin’.” Arthur whispers in your ear from behind, his hands covering your eyes. He slowly walks you forwards towards… something. He hasn’t explained anything to you, just… kidnapped you right outside of camp. You’ve been walking with him, eyes covered for nearly five minutes.

“Oh, Arthur, what is going on!?” You giggle, hands covering the length of his own, a smile plastered on your face.

“S’a surprise, darlin’. That’s why you can’t peek.” Arthur’s voice whispers from behind you, his chest nearly pressed against your back as he inches you forward.

You roll your eyes. Suddenly, his footsteps are still behind you, and you stop in return.

“Is this why I was stuck in the forest picking berries all day?” You ask. Arthur huffs.

“Shhh. We’re here.” He shushes.

Your heart quickens with excitement, bottom lip tight between your teeth with anticipation. As much as you try to listen for any clues, all you can hear is the munching of hay and the crackle of the campfire– typical for camp after dusk.

“Arthur…?” You whisper, almost afraid to break the quiet. Anticipation swirls in your stomach, followed by anxiety tickling up your spine.

His calloused hands pull away from your eyes, and your lashes flutter as you focus on the sight in front of you.

It’s… a christmas tree. Your jaw falls slack, and as unladylike as it may be, you can’t help it. A small gasp escapes your rosy lips.

It must be twelve feet high, and it's thick with branches. Candles, and decor wrap around the tree like a dress tailored to perfection. Color and light burst from the beautiful tree, and before you can control yourself, tears are welling up in your eyes.

“Arthur, I–” Your voice cracks, the tears almost spilling over.

“Darlin’?” Arthur’s thumb softly brushes the inside of your hand. For a moment, he worries that he’s misstepped terribly. The sight of your tears brings forth a small panic, quelled by the outburst of your smile. Tears fall freely from your eyes, but they are of joy– not sadness.

“You got me– You got me a Christmas tree?” You smile, wiping away the tears as he envelopes you into his warm arms. You sniffle, laughs of pure joy escaping into his chest as he holds you tight.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.” Arthur whispers to you, arms wrapped around your waist. The light from the tree dances in your eyes, almost as beautiful and bright as your smile.

“Oh, Arthur, it’s perfect.” You gasp, eyes glued to the tree, pulling away to glance into Arthur’s eyes, “How ever did you get it here?”

“With a little help.” Arthur nods towards the horse station where Sugar and Jasper are laying in the hay, nuzzling each other sweetly. As if knowing, Sugar whinnies towards you softly, followed by a quiet neigh from Jasper.

Your eyes wander back towards the tree in front of you, and then to Arthur once again. His hands slide down from your waist, thumbs settling into the dimples in your back.

“It's beautiful.” You say.

“It’s all yours.”

In all of your life, Arthur has been the first person to cater to your emotions– to care about them. Your heart fills with love, so much that it overflows and floods the earth at your feet. Soaking into the ground of the camp, touching the hearts of the others around you.

“I love you.” You whisper, head resting on Arthur’s chest, eyes fixed on a cardinal that’s pecking at the popped corn on the tree.

“I-” Arthur pauses, realizing. His brow furrows, eyes flickering down, “Wait, what?”

“I said I love you.” You reiterate, chin propped on his chest to look up at him. Arthur looks nearly blown away by the words. Words he’s not heard from you yet. Words that he’s nearly let slip time and again over the past few months.

Arthur’s lips crack into a smile, crows feet wrinkling for the action. His thumb brushes your cheek before trailing down to your chin, pulling you in towards his lips. You lean on your tiptoes, brushing your lips against his, meeting him with all the love and joy that you never thought would be possible for you. He’s taken you from a bad situation, and given you everything you could have wanted and more. Your lips press against his, pink-tinged noses lining each other. Your eyes flutter shut, snowflakes catching in your thick lashes as you deepen the kiss. Your fingers tangle into the hair at the base of his neck, your tongues dance with one another.

When you pull away to breathe, your eyes lock with his, sparkling with light.

“I love you too.” He smirks, hands wrapping under your thighs, eliciting giggles from you as he hoists you into his arms. Fat snowflakes fall into your hair as Arthur turns towards your tent, ready to carry you to bed.

“No- wait!” You grip his arm, stopping him in his tracks, “Please, Arthur- just five more minutes. I’d like to keep looking at the tree.”

Arthur pauses, brushing your cold cheek, “Alright. Five more minutes.” He smiles, pressing a sweet kiss to your hair.

The tree shines bright as ever, as if god had sprinkled stardust down from the heavens, painting your tree in beautiful white light.

taglist: @margofiore @mrsarthurmorgan7 @woman-with-no-name @tillith @luvliewriting @pine4pple-b0i @photo1030 @dudsparrow @holyratrimony @twola

#divider by cafekitsune #cowboydisaster's christmas countdown #bea's christmas countdown #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan fluff

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buckychristwrites · 1 year

Text

Could This Be | Chap. One | j.t.

Summary: One minute, you're single and working for AFC Richmond as the team's medic. The next minute, you're in a fake relationship with the team's handsome striker who you know next to nothing about..

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Cussing. Fake Dating

A/N: Back again with my favorite idiot boi. I hope you guys enjoy :)

Masterlist | Could This Be Masterlist | Main Blog

Oh, if only.

If only you knew what was about to happen.

The music from inside the house made the ground vibrate as you walked up the front path. It was a toasty summer evening, the sun not quite out of the sky just yet. The perfect night for a party, in anyone’s opinion. Certainly in yours. The front porch was filled with people, standing around with drinks in their hands and smiles on their faces. You pushed passed and let yourself inside.

From where you stood, it seemed the whole house was filled with people. Not an inch of standing room to be seen. No familiar faces either. None that you could see, anyway The room was humid, but it wasn’t from the air outside. You squeezed through the crowd, making your way to the kitchen. Thankfully, there was more space in there. You grabbed a soda from the fridge, popping the top open and taking a large gulp. Somehow, the drink in your hand made you less anxious, taking another sip as you looked around the room. The back door was cracked open, calling your name. As you approached, you heard the sound of a familiar voice from the other side.

“Oh Keeley!” You called, holding out the last note of her name. Her head whipped in your direction, her hair flailing along with her. It was clear she was already a few drinks in, her hands flying above her head as she stumbled towards you.

“Hey, babe!” She shrieked. When she got close enough, she threw her arms around you. You instantly melted into her hug, as you always did. There was just something about Keeley Jones that made everyone around her feel better.

Behind her was Dani Rojas and Sam Obisanya, who excitedly waved at you.

“The medic is here!” Sam announced happily. “Now we may resume all dangerous activities.” Dani giggled. As Keeley released you, you shook your head at him.

“It’s my night off, Obisanya,” You said, a slight warning in your tone. “If you hurt yourselves, I’ll be sending you to hospital in an ambulance where you can queue like everyone else.” It wasn’t true. You knew you’d still help them. And he knew it too, by the look he gave you.

“You are too nice of a person to leave us without care,” Dani added, pointing at you with a smile so wide that his eyes turned into crescent moons. You bit the inside of your cheek to hold back a smile of your own.

“She can’t help anyone once she gets a real drink in her and not just some soda,” Keeley declared before pushing you back towards the door. “Go on. It’s your night off. We’re having fun tonight.”

“What if I wasn’t planning to get drunk tonight?” You asked her while fighting every urge to smile. It broke out anyway when she gave you a look of surprise.

“You can’t come to my party and just expect to not get shit faced!” She exclaimed. “Damn near blasphemy, that is!” Shaking your head, while still laughing, you made your way back inside the house. She called after you again, “Either come back with a proper drink or don’t come back!” Isaac, Richard, and Bumbercatch passed by you when you entered, all greeting you excitedly before disappearing out the door.

Surprisingly, the kitchen had pretty much been vacated by the time you had entered. Also surprising was the only presence left in the room.

“Jamie,” You said, sounding more taken aback than you had intended. He had been standing in the corner with his lower back leaning against the cabinet, staring at his phone while sipping on a beer. When you spoke, he jumped at the sound. It would’ve made you feel bad if it wasn’t so hilarious, but you tried to hide your amusement. Seeing that it was you, he calmed.

“You alright?” You asked. He shrugged.

“Just hidin’ is all,” He said. You approached the kitchen island, placing your hands on top of the marble. His candor shocked you. While you had never taken specific issue with Jamie, it would be a fat lie to say the two of you were friends. More like acquaintances. Or, probably more accurately, just coworkers.

“Hiding from what?” You decided to ask. Curiosity was a fickle bitch, and you also knew it must’ve been really bothering him if he was talking to you over literally anyone else. He peaked over your shoulder at the back door, then over at the doorway that led to the living room, before turning back to you and sighing.

“Keeley.”

Leaning your elbow on the counter, you set your chin in your palm and stared at him. It had been impossible to stop your eyes from widening.

“You’re hiding from Keeley, in her kitchen, at her house, at her party?”

He sighed again, exasperated, as he pushed himself away from the cupboard and approached the island. He was now directly across from you, his palms pressed against the countertop.

“She woulda been upset if I didn’t show up, which I didn’t want.” Raising his beer to his mouth, he took another quick swig before lowering it back down. “But I’ve been tryin’ to keep me distance.” He set the bottle on top of the counter and began to twirl it. You watched him do this for a moment before speaking again.

“And why are you avoiding her?”

“I’m just…” He scratched his head. You could see the wheels turning in his mind as he tried to think of the best way to explain. “She keeps tryna set me up with new girls. Tellin’ me I need to find a girlfriend. I think she feels bad because she’s with Roy and thinks I’m just a lonely loser.” You scoffed.

“Yes, Jamie. I’m sure everyone is sitting around thinking about how much of a loser you are, purely because you don’t have a girlfriend.” I let out a long drawn out breath as he gave you a blank stare, his lips pressed tightly together to hide a smile. “It’s so hard, being you, isn’t it?” He pointed at you.

“Don’t be smart,” He warned, sounding playful. Rolling your eyes, you stood up straight.

“I think she’s just doing that because she loves you and wants you to be happy,” You explained, all seriousness now. He looked at the countertop as he considered this. “I think you should be flattered, honestly. She thinks so highly of you that she’s willing to let her friends date you? That’s a fucking compliment in my book.” He ran a hand through his hair.

“It’s just weird, going on dates with her friends,” He said, sheepish. “The ones I’ve met are all so… superficial. They all just want to say they’re datin’ a footballer.” The bottle he was messing with fell to its side, the sound making the both of you jump. Once he had it upright again, you looked back up at him.

“You could just do what I do when she tries to set me up with her friends,” You said. His eyes snapped in your direction.

“She does it to you too?” He asked in a stunned voice. You nodded, slightly offended by his shock, but not commenting on it. He leaned further across the island. “What do you do?��

You shrugged.

“I lie.”

He looked completely flabbergasted at this, mouth agape.

“Ain’t she one of your best mates?” He asked, his voice a whisper. The look on his face was priceless, with his wide eyes, and you wish you could’ve taken a photo. “And you just lie to her? Just like that?” You leaned forward and grabbed a cup from the pile before grabbing one of the bottles of alcohol.

“Not anything crazy,” You said casually as you poured. “I just tell her that I’m already seeing someone, and that I’m not interested in dating more than one person at a time.” Sliding the vodka back to the middle of the island, you grabbed a mixer. “I just have to change it up at times so that she doesn’t ask why she hasn’t met the person. Nothing crazy.” He watched you with an intense stare as you finished pouring your drink and took a sip.

“And you don’t feel bad about it at all?” He asked.

“Sometimes,” You admit, staring at the ring of the cup so you didn’t have to look at him. “I just don’t want to go on any more blind dates. And she’s so hard to say no to, as you are aware.” He nodded, jabbing his finger in your direction.

“You get me.”

The back door burst open at that moment, and in walked Keeley. Her cheeks were bright pink, much like the top she was wearing, and when she spotted Jamie, her eyes widened.

“I’ve been looking for you!” She exclaimed happily, making her way towards him. Jamie stood up straighter, his face tense. She looked over at you, a sway in her body when she turned. “Babes, would it be okay if I talked to Jamie alone?” From over her shoulder, Jamie shook his head violently, giving you any and every gesture that would suggest he did not want you to leave. You smiled sweetly at her.

“Of course, toots.”

When she turned to face Jamie, her back now to you, his eyes sent a glare in your direction, complete betrayal riddled on his face. As you backed up towards the door, you sent him a sweet smile before turning and rushing out.

Sitting in one of the chairs was Roy Kent with a beer in one hand. He sat as stiff as ever. Walking over with your drink, you sat down in the seat next to him.

“Hiya, ugly.”

He grunted in response as you took a sip from your drink. Sam, Isaac, Colin, Dani, Bumbercatch, and Richard were kicking the football around the giant backyard just beyond the patio where you and Roy were sat. You watched them, your eyes following the ball. They weren’t doing anything serious, just showing off some advanced moves that were hard to work into a game.

“Did you see Jamie while inside?” Roy asked, glancing at you. “Saw the prick once since gettin’ here, then he disappeared.” You didn’t take your eyes off the football talent show going on in front of you when you responded.

“He’s talking to Keeley in the kitchen,” You told him. He grunted again, nodding.

“Talkin’ about what?”

You shrugged. “I didn’t stay to listen, although he did mention that she’s been trying to play matchmaker for him. So maybe about that.” Richard tripped Colin intentionally, the players all letting out an ensemble of laughter. Even Colin, from his place in the grass, was laughing along with them. You couldn’t hide your smile, even with Roy staring at the side of your head.

“Since when do you talk to Tartt?” He asked. The drink in your hand had been at your lips, but the sip was never taken. You looked over at him.

“We were in the kitchen together while I made a drink,” You explained, casually. “Got to talking. Not about anything serious though.”

“About what then?”

“You’re fucking nosey today, aren’t you?” You looked at him, finally breaking away from the game, with a scrunched up face. “I thought you liked Jamie now. What’s your deal?” He raised his hands defensively.

“You’ve never talked to him before.” He let his hands drop again. The football was kicked in your direction, but you ignored it, giving your attention to Roy. “Except when he’s hurt on the pitch. Just weird, innit?”

It was weird, now that he was pointing it out to you. You had been the primary paramedic for AFC Richmond for a few years at this point, having proceeded even Jamie’s time on the team. During your tenure, you had become close to Roy Kent. He was still just a player when you came around, meaning you saw him often for his many knee issues and injuries, and he had become a sort of big brother figure to you.

When Jamie joined the team initially, he was easy to avoid due to the fact that he was a huge prick. And while you acknowledged his turn around when he rejoined after the Lust Conquers All stint, the opportunity simply never arose for the two of you to become closer. It wasn’t hate though. When he got injured and needed your help, he was always kind, the two of you occasionally even joking around when you wrapped his foot or iced his knee. But never more. It was simply a mutual respect for what the other did.

“Oi!” Isaac yelling brought you back to reality. You looked over to see him pointing in your direction. “Throw us the ball!”

Following his finger, you saw him pointing towards the football, which was now conveniently parked next to the seat you inhabited.

“Wouldn’t it have been faster for you to get it instead of waiting for us to stop talkin’?” Roy asked. The players all muttered amongst themselves, unsure of what to say.

“This ball?” You asked innocently, pointing at the black and red coloured ball. They all nodded. You stood, slowly approaching the ball and dribbling it towards the field. They all watched you closely. “You’ll have to get it from me first!”

Suddenly, you took off, kicking the ball around the yard as they began to chase you. You squealed as you ran, the alcohol making you feel lighter. Your football moves were nothing compared to theirs, but you were giving it your best go. A pair of arms wrapped around you, yanking you away from the runaway ball. The sound of joyful laughter gave away your kidnapper immediately.

“Looks like I got you!” Dani Rojas yelled proudly as he hoisted you over his shoulder and marched you around the yard. You laughed loudly, hitting your hands lightly against the small of his back.

Life was lovely. You loved your job, and your coworkers, with all of your heart. Moments like these happened all too often. Blissful.

“ARE YOU FUCKING JOKIN’?”

Everything froze. Dani came to a halt, dropping you to your feet. All eyes were staring at the back door, where the voice had just easily yelled over the music and voices from the other side. It felt like everything had gone quiet. Instinct made you start moving, almost reaching the door when it opened rather quickly, and Jamie came out. His eyes were wide as he stared at you. If the good mood hadn’t already been ruined, the look on his face finished the job.

“What-” He approached so fast that your words evaporated off your tongue.

“I panicked,” He whispered so no one else could hear. This made your heart jump into your throat. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I fucked up.”

Before you had the time to even open your mouth, your name was being yelled from inside and then, Keeley Jones came storming out of the house. The jovial attitude she held before was gone, and was replaced with intense anger and confusion. In turn, you were filled with immense confusion as well. When she spoke, it could all be heard in her voice.

“You and Jamie are together and you didn’t fuckin’ tell me?”

#jamie tartt #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #tedlassosource #ted lasso fanfiction

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historia-vitae-magistras · 6 months

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Christmas fic please?

☺️

The Blue Hour This is somewhat of a sequel to my other 18th-century fics 'When the Heart is Full the Tongue Will Speak" and "The Prison Ship," but it also stands alone. Valley Forge was arguably the worst winter of the war. Alfred's having a bad time. Matt tries to help. He has something for Alfred. This was supposed to be longer, but I had to say fuck it and put it in the queue, or it wasn't happening, so I'm so sorry for inflicting it on you. Apple pie reference is from the HC that Alfred's pie recipe comes from a nice Pennsylvania Quaker lady who took him in in the late 17th century when he was little after the Massachusetts witch crazes. This isn't a happy fic, but it is deeply loving. Also on ao3

Valley Forge, Christmas 1777

Alfred’s legs didn’t feel quite real as he approached the clearing. It was silent here. No animals. No people, either. Even the last chickadees, so faithful through the winter, had disappeared behind him as the previous winter sun faded from a depressing grey to pitch dark. He was a bit numb and more paranoid as he rounded a copse of trees and found himself staring at a pristine clearing. He recognized this house, grey stone with a heavy slate roof. There was no glass in the windows, but cheery, flickering firelight escaped through whatever slight cracks there were in the shutters. He hefted his rifle, bayonet attached, closer and approached, wary. The forest held its breath, and the fire crackling became louder as he approached. There was smoke from the chimney but no shadows of movement inside. He gripped his rifle. He should go home to his haphazard tar paper and log shack, but it was dark now, and Valley Forge was 30 miles behind.

He pushed open the door with a bang, rifle to his shoulder, and heard a surprised shout. A figure twisted, axe in hand, poised to hook it into Alfred’s neck and remove an arm at the shoulder like a branch from a trunk. Then, a note of laughter, and he was embraced.

Warmth hit him. First, Matt’s entire body was warm, and his clothes were fire-toasty. Then the smell of roasting meat floated, so solid it was almost visible, into his senses. Then, dizziness. Dizziness struck like a blow to the head. Alfred might have passed out on the floor if Matt hadn’t already had his arms around him.

Matt squeezed with more strength than Alfred had ever known his baby brother to have. The rifle was tugged from his hands, and he was suddenly sitting, sodden clothes and boots pulled off, feet stretched towards the fire. He might have vomited if he wasn’t so hallowed out. Matt was gone for only a moment, but Alfred grabbed a hold of him as soon as he was back.

“Have you changed your mind?” He grasped Matt’s sleeve with a shaking hand. “Did you come to your senses?”

“Have you?” Matt said, derisive even as he pressed a mug into Alfred’s hands. “Drink that, and the world will stop spinning.”

“Matthew---” He didn’t let go of Matt’s sleeve. “You haven’t come to—.”

“Bend the knee?” Matthew’s eyes flashed, and Alfred was all too aware of the axe on his belt and the rifle against the wall. “No. I’m not.”

“What are you doing here then?” He let Matt go and sipped on the contents of the mug—broth, salty and rich beyond belief. Matt was right. The world did stop spinning.

“It’s Christmas.”

“Is it?”

“It is,” Matt said with a watery smile. “I take it you got my note.”

“Pie at sundown,” Alfred recalled. “I got it. I could hardly believed you remembered that.”

“First apple pie you ever made me. I’ll remember it til the sun goes dark.” Matt was before him with a blanket and a stack of clothes. “Finish drinking that, put these on and then we’ll talk.”

They were his own clothes, what he’d left in the chest of drawers in Boston after he’d slipped his guards and disappeared across the border and into Quebec. He wanted to toss them back. They were the clothes of a crown subject, a boy with a British boot on his neck. Not the free man he wanted to be. That he was, but he hadn’t had a fresh shirt since his baby brother had dragged his corpse out of his shallow grave on the Hudson. He could wash it as often as he liked, but the linen was still wearing thin. His former things were practically new, the linen fresh and clean, the wool still warm. Alfred ran a hand over the fabric, still so chilled he hardly considered his pride as Matt turned away to tend to the bird slowly roasting over the fire and dressed. He glanced over his shoulder when Alfred slipped the shirt over his head. There hadn’t been a mirror to look at himself in months, and he didn’t want to. He knew his ribs were stark; he could feel them. Matt looked that kind of devastated that, if he hadn’t turned away, might have made Alfred cry.

“Have you had a decent meal since I saw you?” He didn’t look over his shoulder again until the shirt was over his head, and he’d buttoned the blue waistcoat over his chest. Everything was so ill-fitting now.

Alfred ignored him. “Does Father know you’re here?”

Matthew snorted. “It’s Christmas; he’s so deep into the officer’s nog when I left he won’t realize I’ve gone unless I’m not there for epiphany morning with tea going. So I shot a turkey and pissed off south to find you. Looks like its a good thing I did too.”

“I’m fine.” Alfred scowled. “There’s a camp of thousands of men 2 miles from here with nothing but rice and vinegar for Christmas dinner. Next to them, I’m all right.”

“I’m sorry,” Matt said, and it damn well looked like he meant it, narrow shoulders bowed as he sat heavily onto one of the overturned logs he obviously meant to use as a kitchen chair for the occasion.

“You could feed a lot of people if you stayed. You’re a good hunter.”

“Don’t,” Matt said. “We’ve had this conversation. Look at you. You know I wouldn’t survive another war like this. You’re kissed by God himself and you look like death.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Rice and vinegar, eh? Yeah well. Try some turkey and see if it compares.”

“Why do you keep coming to see me if you won’t pick a side, Matt? You’re committing treason and you know it.”

“You’re my brother.”

His shrug was simple, unemotional. The sky was up, the Earth was down, the snow was cold, and Matt would haul and shoot a turkey and walk four days just to sneak him a decent meal. He teared up. Maybe it was the cold, the deprivation or just how much he missed home and heart and heart. Throat working, shoulders shaking even if he wasn’t crying, he grabbed Matt by the shoulders and squeezed for a third time, kissing him on the forehead about a dozen times and just feeling something so desperately affectionate he had to ride it out like dizziness.

“I missed you.” He said.

“You too.” Matt had clamped himself around Alfred, playing as if he just held on; he wouldn’t feel how much weight he’d dropped since summer. After a long moment, he made Alfred sit on one of the logs and tossed the rucksack while he struck flint and steel and put tinder to kindling. “Have you been sick? You look terrible,”

“Everyone is.” He said. There was no point in hiding it. “You know what it’s like. A moving army is a healthy army. A camped army is a sick army.”

“Why do you think I like the woods so much? I could run from the British as easily as from the typhus.”

“Yeah, well, they’re my people. I can’t leave them.”

“Do you have scurvy yet?”

“Gettering there.” He poked his tongue at his teeth. He had all of them, but he was always so tired. It couldn’t be far away.

Matt pivoted and took an orange in each hand, shoving them at Alfred. “Father... he’s in the habit of buying two.”

“I can’t take these!”

“Think of them as reparations.”

“Won’t you get scurvy?’

“I get lime juice twice a day. Just take anything you want out of my pack and eat it. Take the rest tomorrow. I’ll get a rabbit on my way back if I get hungry.”

“Why do you have to go back?”

“Stop asking me that. Pick something for me to make out of what’s in there, all right? Anything you want tonight, and you can take the rest tomorrow.”

“I want you to stay.”

Matt leaned against the wall by the hearth, arms crossed. “And I don’t want to die. So stop asking. That’s the agreement. Stay alive. Not stay with you.”

“You should be my right hand. It should be me and you against the world.”

“You’re the one fighting with the world, Alfred. I already have. I lost. Pick a vegetable, eat an orange, have some wine and stop trying to sentence me to death because you’re lonely again.”

He was tearing up, and so was Alfred. They looked away from each other, and Alfred went to the pack.

He opened food like he had once opened pewter inkwells at the apothecaries, looking for the blue ink he liked better than the quickly fading walnut; there were cranberries, potatoes, apples, stalks of celery, onions, cabbage, carrots, mushrooms, honey cakes, tea, coffee, a jug of wassail and a smaller bottle of Madeira. Smaller quantities of sugar, flour, oats, rice, raisins and rye. There were more of his clothes that he hadn’t taken when he’d fled Boston nearly two years prior. And under all that, a length of blue cloth with shining brass buttons.

“Mattie.... What is that coat?”

His brother froze. He’d been dragging his knife down the side of the roasted bird and onto a rough-hewn platter. For one long moment, Alfred thought he might burst into tears.

“It’s for you.” He said.

“Whe did you get it?”

“General Montcalm.” He said. “It was too big so I hid it under the floorboards. Thought I’d wear it too the victory parade someday. It’s... it’s your colour now, isn’t it?”

“It— Yeah it is.”

“I hope its luckier for you than it was for me.” He said quietly. “I hope Lord Bonnefoy is better to you too.”

“Mattie.” Alfred said quietly.

Matt was standing there, eyes shut against tears, until he looked up at Alfred with those same big, hopeful eyes he’d always had before all this. Full of all the softness and warmth of Canada that may not have existed elsewhere that winter. Words stuck in his throat, and suddenly, so homesick he wanted to burst, Alfred opened his arms. Matt gave up on carving the bird, put down the plate, and allowed Alfred to pull him in again. If Matt had grown, it was only a little, and Alfred could still easily rest his cheek on Matt’s crown, which he did for a long moment.

“Thank you.” He said.

“It was meant for you,” Matt replied. “You’re... tall and capable like that. It will fit you, even when you fill it out again.”

“You’ll grow.” Alfred said. “Someday. And then we'll be fine."

Someday.

#hws america #hws canada #na bros #my writing || cacoethes scribendi #the ask box || probis pateo #alfred and matt || lonely boys with the longest borders #matthew || my country is winter #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies

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greycaelum · 1 year

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HI!I LOVEEEE YOUR WRITING!!!!

Can i pls pls plssss request a one shot with gojo and his girlfriend,where his gf always get really excited about snowing,to the point of jumping up and down and her eyes twinkling like a child?!

Its snowing in my city and i keep jumping up and down ;)

Scribbles and Doodles: { Let it Snow }

—Gojo Satoru X Reader

"Hi sweetheart, thank you for your kind words, I'm sorry it took me so long. Research and my job kept me preoccupied. I hope it's still snowing and be careful too! Have tons of warm stuff to keep you toasty and snug in the winter!" —Grey,

Satoru woke up to a chilly morning. He remembers turning the air condition mid-2 of the dawn after getting chills but now, it was even colder. Peeling off his mask, Satoru turn to his window and saw the grey skies, and he has to double-take at the white thing slowly falling off and cluttering on his windowsill.

It's snowing.

And by any chance, he's hearing a familiar voice faintly laughing.

Satoru groaned, pulling off the covers from his naked body. Rubbing his bleary eyes, he walks to his window and looks down. As if in a queue, you run through the small pile of gathering snow, a wide smile adorning your face, still in your hoodie pajamas.

"She'll catch a cold." Satoru clicked his tongue and grab his clothes. His muscles are aching and he'd rather sleep than trudge into the frosty powder winter has to offer. Satoru stop his tracks and went back to the bedroom. Rummaging through the cabinets he found his jacket and went out of the room.

"'Toru! It's snowing!" You shrilled at him. You ran in his direction and almost tripped on the slippery ground.

"Fuck, Baby, you trying to give me a heart attack?" Satoru held your arms and steadied you.

You just grinned in reply and stood on your tiptoes, grazing your lips to smear a kiss on your boyfriend's cheeks before turning your heel and tumbling on the snow again.

"Slow down, you little rascal, you wanna catch a cold or somethin'?" Satoru pulled back the scruff of your hoodie making you recoil and yelp.

He wraps his thickest available jacket around you, zipping the thing that reaches your ankles all thanks to his height, and pulls the hood over your head.

"There," Satoru smirked at your pout. "Now that's what you call a burrito."

"I can't move!" You flail around with difficulty, all the blame falling into the jacket's thick insulation. "'Toru! Get this off, you cheater, you're not even wearing one." You accused.

Satoru is tempted to hold a carrot around your nose but throws off the idea if he doesn't wanna sleep on the couch. After all winter's privilege is getting to cuddle you more to share warmth.

"I don't catch a cold, because I'm the stro—" Satoru pointed at himself assuringly.

"Because you're abnormal." You deadpanned and turn around, marching off.

"Hey! That's just mean. Come back here!" Satoru bends down and makes a ball of snow throwing it on you.

"Y-You!" You turned around only to get hit by another on your chest. It didn't take long for you and Satoru to have a snowball war filling the front yard with squeals and snowballs hitting whatever it hits.

By the time you're both spent, laying on the snow with a snow angel behind you both, your hands are all numb from the snow and Satoru's nose is almost as red as Rudolph's. Both of you panting but holding your hands together. This time a thin layer of Satoru's Infinity encases you to keep snow from getting in your eyes. Catching your breaths you both went inside, got into a warm bath, and eventually found yourselves tucked on the couch of the living room, hot cocoa in your hand, a bowl of chicken broth in Satoru's, and a thick quilt covering the two of you.

The snow quietly piles up outside, sweeping the city into a white wonderland. You and Satoru curled up on each other, snug and cuddled in each others' arms.

—GreyCaelum

PLAGIARISM IS A CRIME

Check out the Masterlist for more

All rights and credits of the Jujutsu Kaisen character(s) mentioned image(s) and song(s) used belongs to their respective owner(s)

General Series Taglist: @ice-icebaby @aeanya @lexiene @tender-rosiey

#scribbles and doddles #warm winter for everyone #gojo fluff #gojo x reader fluff #jjk gojo fluff #greycaelum #gojo x y/n #gojo x you

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yelenabemylova · 4 days

Text

things about the eras tour i didn't expect:

the amount of people in debut outfits omg it was so cute

how many drunk/passed out people got taken out

taylor swift is real

honestly like nobody tried to interact with us and people were a bit rude if we tried to talk to them so i ended up not getting to trade any bracelets

i tried to go to the bathroom before the show and it was queued out but i went to use the disabled bathroom with my walking aid and there was a giant queue of people who said they didn't need the disabled toilet but wouldn't let me use it so i ended up not getting to pee till i got home

the hearing damage. i wish i took earplugs because taylor sounded like a chipmunk for half the show

it was so cold omg i thought with 70k people it would be boiling

the fire effects were so toasty and appreciated

the confetti reached us in the lower bowl yippee

the amount of times taylor had to stop to get help to people on the floor

and also the amount of security guards was insane but at one point a gal had passed out i think and nobody went to help even though taylor asked for help so many times

i think i blacked out a lot of the concert just like it was so much to process i can't remember it all but regardless, it was the best night of my life and i can't recommend it enough !!

#eras tour🫶#taylor swift #the eras tour

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lcftcult · 5 months

Note

"a cursed book? how obvious." from octavia

SENTENCE MEME || Accepting

"Are you.. sure we can.. trust it?" Questions the sinner, looking rather nervous. Guess she missed the 'cursed' part of cursed book. But Black Star assumed Octavia was more familiar with such objects, considering who her father was. "Maybe we sh-should.. um.."

@monmuses

#ask #ic #monmuses #I Don’t Wanna Upset The Queue #eeee ty Toastie!!

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wishingbcnes · 7 days

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TENANT FILES — POET HAWLEY.

is that NICOLA COUGHLAN? oh, no, that’s POET HAWLEY, a THIRTY FIVE year old BARTENDER AT LOS FANTASMAS IN QUILPUÉ who uses SHE/HER pronouns. they currently live in LAS VILLAS DORADAS IN QUILPUÉ, and the character they identify with most is LORELAI GILMORE FROM GILMORE GIRLS. hopefully they find their own little paradise here in el país de los poetas! ( JAMES, 25, THEY/THEM, EST, N/A )

...content warnings for... repeat mentions of drinking and gambling.

profile.

full name — poet kathleen hawley.

nickname(s) — poe by friends, kath/kathy by those whose she's given a "false" name to, howlin' hawley on her old roller derby team.

date of birth & age — december 7th, 1988. thirty5.

gender / pronouns — cis woman, she/her.

sexuality — bisexual.

occupation — bartender at los fantasmas / jack of all trades / incessant gambler.

astrology — sagittarius sun, scorpio moon, aquarius ascending.

interests — bright florals and toasty gourmands. trinkets and sea glass. waking up next to a warm body or two. drinking. spinning stories and tales - not always true. bets. winning those bets. friendly competitions. splitting up barfights. renaissance fairs. drinking. compelling fantasies. gambling. traveling. dancing. parties of any sort. cooking, sometimes. baking, on occasion. sleeping. laughing. loving.

aversions — sunburns (curse thy irish skin). pessimists. people she owes money. hangovers. reality, at times. losing. cooking, at times. baking, even more often than that. souring the mood. bras at home - let them be FREE. letting things hold her back. people who think she's unfulfilled as a single, childless woman. misogynists. sourpusses. debby downers.

next in queue — what you waiting for? by gwen stefani; shut up and let me go by the ting tings; edge of seventeen by stevie nicks.

notable features — plump, rosy cheeks & bright eyes; the jingle of jewelry with every step taken; the leftover laughter in an emptied room.

general disposition — boisterous, jolly - taller than she appears; always smiling, seemingly without worry.

last known location — stumbling out of club divine, lipstick smeared and a stray boa feather stuck to her tongue after a night off.

pinterest & parallels — lorelai gilmore ( gilmore girls ), phoebe buffay ( friends ), donna noble ( doctor who ), ilana wexler ( broad city ), veronica fisher ( shameless ).

brief history.

born off an isolated isle in ireland to an irish mother & scottish father; her dad would be away for long periods of time, keeping a lighthouse - his presence barely a whisper in their home either way; not the kind of man to emotionally connect with his kin. her mam a teacher in their tiny town, tending to all the children - including all of her own; a gaggle of hawleys. poet among the oldest, though she rarely felt compelled to mother them.

poet, from the very beginning - was always a bit of a menace. not typically a schoolyard bully - but rambunctious and too high energy, too much to be confined to the walls of a classroom all day. always loud, borderline rude - always accidentally in an attempt to be honest (when it'd never been asked of her). as she got older, she grew to understand (vaguely) the border of what's okay and what isn't - became quick to put others back into their place when it came to blatant disrespect of their elders (unless well deserved, then poet would step into their place instead).

always. always. respected her mam. dad less so, but besides quiet holiday dinners and the occasional shoulder pat, their interactions always felt scarce. was always closer to her mam than the rest of her siblings, except maybe her brother ransome. but there was always an unspoken agreement between them all - take care of their mam. always.

possibly one of the first hawleys to ever want more than their small isle town, more than their rocky cliffs and permanent fog. loved ireland more than anything - always prideful - but drinking and smoking with the same lads since 2nd year, the very same lads known since diapers, every day the same as the one before...

with a kiss to the cheek for her mam, a pinch to her siblings, and a solid shoulder pat to her dad - poet left ireland as soon as she turned 18, with a rucksack and all the funds from her odd jobs over the years. traveled down europe first, got pickpocketed in france and mugged in italy - and returned back to ireland with her tail between her legs.

worked another year at home, refusing to be burnt by the shame of her immediate failure and others' newfound lack of belief in her - and set off again at the ripe age of 19. did not get pickpocketed, or mugged - and began her travels for real this time.

survived off of what she deemed as a "workcation" - doing what she knew best, and picking up literally any jobs offered to her to make ends' meet and support her lifestyle. had a brief stint as a crew member on a private yacht business and! met a man, the son of a client - named charles. charlie for short. and in typical (now 20) year old fashion - abandoned her fancy job as a yachtie to cruise hop with him, entering a years - long relationship.

eventually, after the hundredth jack - and - rose titanic larp experience minus the tragedy, she brought charlie back to ireland to meet the family (and because she missed them so dearly, as she always found herself when so far away, for so long) - and then off they went to america to meet his (again).

and! well! it was the collision of two worlds; his parents hadn't approved of their relationship to begin with, thought it wouldn't have lasted for more than a few months - at the very most - and everything poet could do was wrong. from the way she spoke, the way she walked, the way she looked - she was nobody from the middle of nowhere, and charlie - no, charles - had a "future" he had to think about. he'd put off university long enough - and now it'd been time to get serious.

but they were still young, and still in love - and as someone who grew up kissing fucking - craig from 'cross the irish sea, the only full - scot in her class of 15, half of which were her own siblings and cousins - well. poet thought this was where she was meant to be, in her sweet charlie's arms as they flipped off his weird, new england elitist wasp parents and told them to go fuck themselves.

so they ran off to vegas and got married, elvis impersonator and all. and everything was grand and dandy for exactly six months before poet woke up in an empty bed and his belongings gone - no note except for a measly sprawled sorry - just poet all alone, on the outskirts of vegas. part distraught, part ashamed - instead of seeking out home, like she always had when things got rough - poet bartended from club to club, bar to bar - lounge to lounge. got out of vegas, joined a renaissance festival's troupe of actors - she always enjoyed a good antic, the theatrics - traveled the states while she tried to banish the thought of her sweet charlie from her mind. she wouldn't search for him - or seek him out in crowds, or wake from dreams where he was still there, still in her arms - poet did not beg to be loved. she never had - never would. if he hadn't wanted to be there, with her - for whatever reason (though a small, suspicion of his parents' involvements stayed at the back of her mind) then that was fine! dandy even. poet would live without him - she had done so before.

for years there on, poet was a so - called tavern wench for the renaissance festival, moving town to town, city to city - month after month. by day she was bound tight in a corset, and by night she was at the local bars - mingling with locals, weaseling her way into minor poker games - a habit she had picked up in vegas; though now it was her own money she was gambling away, and not just her husband's. sometimes she won - sometimes she lost, but the thrill of the game was enough to keep her coming back. each town, she'd make a new friend or two, and double the enemies - and each time, she would run from her debts.

after a minor... confrontation during one of her shifts, involving money owed and her tower - high debts - poet was thereon released from her tavern wench job. and with nowhere left to really... go, poet used the last bits of her savings to hop onto another cruise ship. and when they docked in valparaíso, she hopped off and never got back on. it's been eight months since then.

facts & temperaments.

poet is incessantly friendly; she was the girl who always started singalongs in the pub around christmas time, already drunk off her ass but no drunker than the rest of them. always complimenting friends' nans on their cooking, even if they've added sugar instead of salt or vice versa - holding up the hair of others after a long night out, even if strangers.

loves to talk. so much. will talk the ear off of anyone around if it fancies her. is a great bartender if only because she can keep a conversation going - is equally great at listening, as long as there's something to fill the quiet. it's hard for her to not talk - quiet solitude is not her forte, unless it's for something she deems an acceptable quiet activity. reading, hikes alone, sometimes funerals, things of those sort.

loves to flirt equally as much. hasn't been in a serious relationship since her sweet charlie charles up and abandoned her - pretty sure they're still legally married, but feck all. it doesn't necessarily bother her - she doesn't typically feel lonely - but there's nights, sometimes. preferably keeps her bed busy.

confident and shameless - poet learned young from her mam to never be ashamed of her body, because it keeps her warm and protects the rest of her, because it's her body and she lives inside it - because it's the body that reflects the women in her family before her, and they all deserved that same love and care. she refuses to be embarrassed of herself - for any reason - and even if she's scared, she's learned to pocket it away and take a chance anyway.

struggles with confrontation in the sense that she's not afraid to confront her emotions, and can't seem to hold anything back when she finds fault, issue, or just really really has to say something - but she's defensive when it's the other way around. has trouble facing reality when it comes to herself - can be a little pigheaded, and a little arrogant, and hates to admit when she's wrong. she's honest to a fault, borderline rude at times though it's never intentional - and incredibly nosy. loves to hear gossip, it's one of her favorite parts of bartending, and tries not to spill secrets, but, well. accidents happen!

loves storytelling and has a habit of stretching the truth and exaggerating. she loves entertainment, loves entertaining and being entertained. she can't help it.

fiercely competitive, looses all good manners when it comes to a competitive sport. has definitely broken bones in her old roller derby team during her teenage years. she just loves to win, and the feeling of adrenaline. she's a major adrenaline seeker, it fuels all her vices. drinking, smoking, gambling, etc. anything for the thrill.

has a sailor's mouth and an irishman's stomach - she has an insane tolerance and is good at handling her liquor.

sometimes she's great at cooking, sometimes she's starting a fire over boiling water. it's a good 50/50 chance with her - just all luck. same with baking, but like... worse. tries anyways - especially if she's trying to impress somebody, or apologize, or really any occasion where she thinks a freshly made treat is necessary.

drives a little volkswagen buggy. don't ask how she got it, but its one of her prized possessions. and she's amassed a lot of possessions in her time in valpo. a collector of trinkets. loves little tiny objects, and anything that flashes in the light, or emits color, or really anything that clinks and jingles or sparks joy.

always down to do things! loves spending time with people, prefers not to be alone. loves being surrounded by people, and values her friendships deeply. is very affectionate, very loving!

selfish at times, but poet doesn't necessarily think that's a bad thing. as much as she loves people, and the world, and will go out of her way to help her community if she sees something in need of doing - she will put herself first if it's to protect her peace. sometimes she's just afraid. of what? who knows.

jack of all trades! has learned many a craft in her times traveling, and has picked up hobby after hobby. can do most things involving handiwork, just don't ask her about mathematical problems. has to feel capable, or else she just feels helpless.

and that's all i have for now! poet is a new muse of mine, so while i've written a lot here, i actually have no idea what she'll turn out being so. good luck charlie! (not that charlie) (im charlie in this situation)

potential connections.

i know, you know! — inspired by the friendship between shawn spencer & gus burton from psych, this is the person poet's gotten the closest to since moving to valpo, the person who completes her and vice versa. someone on poet's wavelength, but also the voice of reason (or more or less) when she gets too extreme. but most of the time, where there's Antics, there's them.

it's a murder on the dancefloor! (or alternately, challengers techno ost) — this connection isn't about befriending the richest person you know and then getting rid of their family one by one, or having a tennis - fueled threesome, but instead about friendship! a gaggle of partygoers who, like poet, will not often say no to a night out. pub hoppers, club attenders, they're out all night on most weekends, if not most weekdays because the party doesn't stop! there's murder on the dancefloor! best friends during the night, and maybe just regular friends the morning after. includes brunches every sunday with bottomless mimosas - to keep the hangovers at bay, of course.

[insert a fun witty phrase for found family] — being in a new place can be lonely, but these people have made it all worth while, and frankly - keeps poet's head screwed tight (or at least just a little loose). from just the closest of friends, to pseudo - siblings, to maybe potentially the other hawley siblings who've found their way back to poet; these are her rocks. enough to create a dam. the people she really, really loves. with all her heart. that she'd probably die for! probably! maybe. poet's afraid of dying, but maybe maimed.

ye barkeep! — both coworkers, bartenders from other establishments, and patrons that poet serve. whether they enjoy poet as their bartender, whether they hate the way she works (chaotically), whether there's a rivalship for best bartender. this connection is based on the workplace - these are people that she drinks with, on and off shift, and sees fairly often as the bills don't pay themselves.

missed connections! — whether a brief, wistful glance in the line to buy cigarettes and an energy drink, or a first date (or two!) that dissolved into nothingness, or a ghosted bed partner, these are either people who've come in and out of poet's life since moving to the region, or people she's had fanciful daydreams about to keep herself entertained throughout the day. small crushes, things that usually don't lead to anything of consequence.

the consequences! — except for this person, potentially? they're a consequence. poet's not - careful, in the sense she doesn't try not to have a crush turn into something more, something - meaningful. but that doesn't make it any less scary. she's not afraid of a lot of things, but having her feelings go from something light, flirty, and fun to something - deeper? she's either put her foot in her mouth with this one, or she's woefully pinning, or fully unrequited - there's many routes to take with it - but it's! a lot for her, and that's saying something.

u live this way? lol? — a semi antagonistic connection where their lifestyles just don't align at all, or their personalities - or their zodiac signs, or something. poet is probably the messier person in this situation, the one who doesn't have her life together, but she can find her own issues in the other as well. but the best part about opposites is putting them in situations where they have to interact with one another, and the universe either wants to see them kiss kiss fall in love, craft friendship bracelets for one another, or like, kill each other. maybe the last one.

an actual murder on the dancefloor. — ok not an actual actual murder on the dancefloor. but this is an antagonistic connection where it's not just a mild dislike, or annoyance, but an intense - jarring hatred for one another. whether they were wronged on a night out, or betrayed in some way, or whether the vibes are just fucking off - there's no rekindling what friendship could've been there - if there was even a chance at all. just pure hatred. cue loud arguments, mocking one another, a semi - comical drink - in - the - face - glee - version (without rock salts. or with?). it's just nasty. bonus if they have mutual friends, so everyone's just having a Bad Time!

and like all the connections. ill take anything. i love plots. i love platonic plots, i love antagonistic plots, i love flirting, i love angst, i really really love familial plots.

#valpohqintro #drinking mention #gambling mention #˗ˏˋ intros ⟶ ❛ poet hawley ❜#wipes sweat off my brow i need 2 lay down #LKSDGFHLKSDFHLKSDF #im so sorry this is so long btw.

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