#i am hanging by a thin thread and he is holding it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dottores · 9 months

Text

HELIOTROPES

pairing: dottore x fem!reader & segments

summary: the gods were sick and twisted. for five hundred years, he believed he was fated to be alone. he had long accepted it—embraced it, even. that is, until a midwinter night when that elusive red thread finally appeared on his finger. but as much as he wants to ignore it, the pull of a soulmate simply cannot be ignored.

genre: soulmate au, canon compliant for the most part.

warnings: fem!reader, worldbuilding for snezhnaya & fatui & fontaine, theta hurts reader but only a little, this was not edited sorry for mistakes 😭

notes: alrighty guys, this is officially the last chapter of the regular schedule—after this one, updates are going to be sporadic but they will at the very least be monthly. wish i could keep up the schedule but its not going to be feasible considering i start law school this upcoming wednesday </3 i'll update the masterlist to reflect the change too

SPIT IN MY FACE

“Excuse me?”

The masked man—had Gamma called him Theta?—kept a tight grip on your wrist, holding it up in front of you so he could look at it himself. He was stronger than he looked, you tried to rip your wrist out of his hold but failed. His nails dug into your skin in response to the attempt, drawing blood. You grimaced as you watched a thin line of red seep down your forearm.

“You heard me.” Theta’s smile didn’t budge as his other hand came up to grab your chin, turning your head away from where Kappa was still buried in the crook of your neck to face him. “Was he trying to keep you hidden away or were you trying to hide from us?”

He wasn’t looking at your hand. He was looking at your finger or more specifically… where your thread was hanging from it, leading off somewhere to the left of you wherever Dottore was. You remembered how Kappa had looked down at your hand curiously before deciding to come over to you, the way he was so at ease with you for no reason. And Gamma. Gamma had looked at your hand before he started panicking and ran off.

Could they… see it?

“Hm?” Theta’s nails dug into your cheeks now, just like how he had with the aristocrat—you didn’t even know where they went, if they had taken the opportunity to flee or if he had done something to immobilize them, you couldn’t turn your head to check. You grimaced as you felt his nails break skin again. “Answer me.”

How was that possible?

You could all but taste the poison in his words, the impatience and the frustration. You were at a loss as to how to proceed—your arms were tied up with Kappa, one of your hands was stuck in his and he was forcing you to look at him, and that unhinged look in his red eyes was causing your brain to fog with fear.

Think. You had to think. You had to free your wrist from his hand. You had to get back to your room, or to Pantalone’s.

Where was Pantalone? Livid, you realized that the man was probably still listening in on the show, not getting involved, leaving you to deal with this unstable bastard.

Think. What did he want to hear? What would make him settle down at least enough to loosen his grip on you?

But how the hell were you supposed to know what he wanted you to hear? Even with just the way he spat out those two questions, you knew both answers were wrong and would set him off more. But you had to say something, the longer you went without answering his question, the more his eyes flamed with impatience—you didn’t want to know what would happen when that thin thread of patience snapped.

“I came here, didn’t I?” you asked quietly. You tried to relax your shoulders and upper body, exuding a type of faux-comfort with the man. “I came looking for you.”

Theta’s red eyes narrowed with suspicion, watching you carefully—his grip did not waver, much to your distress.

“You don’t even know who I am,” he said coldly, speaking the one truth you’d hoped he wouldn’t. His grip on your wrist tightened and his nails dug deeper into your cheeks. “I hate liars.”

“I’m not lying,” you told him, grimacing as his nail dragged against your skin. Kappa shifted in your arms, bristling, you couldn’t tell if he was watching or not. “You can see the thread, no? I may not fully understand how you can see it but the fact that you can speaks enough.”

Theta hesitated, the corner of his lip dipping in doubt as he tried to decide whether or not he thought you were lying. You watched with bated breath, tongue kissing the inside of your teeth, as a flurry of emotions rushed through his eyes ranging from anger to hesitancy and hope. Then his eyes hardened, decision made, and your heart sunk to your stomach.

“Liar.”

Again, his grip tightened but it was painful now and your body begged you to pull away or do something but he was stronger than you. He forced you closer to him, turning you so that if Kappa wasn’t between you, you would’ve been chest-to-chest with him. You wondered if you should let him go, let him flee somewhere safe, but he was still clutching your shirt.

Theta leaned in close, you could feel his breath hot against your cheek and the cool ceramic of his mask nudging against your skin where his nose would have been. You grit your teeth together as you felt something warm and wet press against the skin of your cheek where his nails had broken through, lapping at the blood.

Your face felt hot, anger and humiliation curdling your blood as Theta let out a puff of amused laughter against your skin.

“You taste like a liar too,” Theta crooned. “Lambda thinks you’re a fake sent to distract us. Are you a fake, little liar?”

Us. He kept saying us but you don’t know what that meant or how it was possible—they could see the thread but as far as you could tell, they did not have a connecting one. You had never seen anything like that before, nor had you ever read about anything like that.

You thought you should say something but your mind was reeling as you tried to piece together the puzzle and figure out what was going on.

But before you could do or say anything, Kappa squirmed and twisted in your arms, hanging over you to whack his small fist hard against Theta’s mask—with more strength than you expected from the boy.

Theta grunted stumbling back—he wasn’t hurt but the force of Kappa’s swing had partially knocked his mask off, revealing thick scars similar to the ones you had seen on Gamma. He fumbled trying to straighten out the mask and as he did, you whirled around to rush to your room.

You didn’t get far.

Not because of Theta, who was cursing as he fastened the mask back on, but because you slammed right into someone else’s chest, broad and dressed in dark clothes. You glanced up as a pair of gloved hands grabbed your waist, irritation rising at Pantalone’s thin, close-eyed smile. You wondered if you had passed or failed whatever test he expected from this situation.

The pads of his fingers pressed into your waist as he shifted you over to the side and behind him, leveling his attention on Theta as the man straightened back, narrowed eyes still trained on you instead of the Harbinger.

“Theta.” Venom dripped from Pantalone’s words as he spoke his name. “I suggest you make your way back to the Doctor’s labs instead of bothering my guest.”

“Your?” Theta spat out, taking a step forward. His eyes were wild again now, far gone from the hardened look he had directed toward you after he made his decision. You stiffened, watching as Pantalone lifted his chin, raising his eyebrows, challenging Theta. “She is not your anything, banker. Go back to counting your coins and sucking noble cock to get further in the world, stay out of our business.”

Pantalone, to his credit, did not look bothered by the dig—the only sign of anger was the way his lip twitched before he spoke: “Take it up with your maker, fraud. You have no authority here, you are not the Doctor.”

“I am-”

Sharp and loud, Theta’s voice rang up and down the hall as he took two long steps forward as if to attack Pantalone but the Harbinger only let out a huff of amusement as he cut Theta off mid-shout.

“I am not one of the subordinates who you can fool into believing you are him. You are a rabid dog running a thin line between life and death. It is only a matter of time before you’re put down, I again suggest you leave before I make that day come sooner.”

You thought that you shouldn’t feel anything for the man standing a few paces away but something deep in you clenched when Theta drew back as if he’d been physically slapped, red eyes wide with shock. The feeling did not last long though because as quick as the hurt appeared, it was gone, twisting into something far more sinister as a wide smile spread across his lips, teeth bared much like the rabid dog Pantalone claimed him to be.

“You think you can kill me?”

Something manic stained his words, deranged and challenging as if he meant for Pantalone to back his words right then and there. Theta did not have a vision, not one that you could see or feel at least, but you knew in your bones that he was far, far more dangerous than he looked—he was strong and he moved faster than any visionless human you’d ever seen. Briefly, you wondered if he even was hu-

Pantalone stepped forward and the air around the four of you crackled with an energy that made your skin crawl. You let out a shaky breath, eyes widening as you took a step away from the man, unconsciously trying to get away from the source of the energy, an unnatural and uncomfortable feeling spreading through you.

What is that?

It felt sick. Corrupted. The air tasted stale and rotted as it seeped down the halls like poison. Your vision was reacting in response to it, the purity of the hydro energy trying to repel the new, malefic energy but it was curling all around you, trying to find chinks in the thin shield your vision was providing you from the decay.

You had to get away from it but your feet were rooted to the ground, watching the scene play out before you. Neither Theta nor Pantalone looked bothered by the energy—in fact, Theta looked thrilled, eyes alight as his impossibly wide smile widened even more, a giggle slipping from his lips as he raised his hand as if to summon something, but before he could snap his fingers, his eyes dulled and his knees hit the ground hard. Almost like he had been turned off, just like that.

What-

At once, the energy around Pantalone dissipated and you could move, confusion riddling your mind as you tried to figure out what happened to Theta and what that disgusting energy was. You took a step forward, eyes wide and trained on Theta first—was that Pantalone’s doing? But as you turned to look at him, your gaze caught sight of a figure down the hall.

Dottore.

You were bleeding.

Dottore could feel his cheeks stinging but he hadn’t been sure what it was until he got to the hall in Pantalone’s wing where Gamma had left you. Theta was on the ground, empty-eyed and still, turned off courtesy of Dottore, and Pantalone was standing to the side of you, seemingly unimpressed by the whole situation.

But you were looking at him, and only him, and he could only focus on you, eyes tracing the blood as it dripped down your cheeks to your neck, dribbling down your skin. With creased brows and lips pressed together tightly, he couldn’t tell if the look you were directing toward him was suspicion or anger or something else entirely. The only thing he could feel from you was what he assumed were the remnants of the confrontation with Theta: fear, anxiety, skepticism, confusion, disgust.

Disgust, was that directed toward him or Theta or both of them? It didn’t sit well with him. He wondered how much Theta had told you, and he wondered how much you’d been able to piece together from what he had. Dottore had been hoping to keep the existence of the segments a secret from you.

The last thing he wanted to have to do was get into depth about what they were because if he knew you even half as well as he thought he did, he knew it would turn into an interrogation of all that he’d been up to with his research. Even when you were young, when the third phase of the bond had first manifested, he had to be careful about what he was thinking about so that it wasn’t transcribed to you. Countless times he received words from you that could have only been originally given by him: the names of the segments, residue, deactivate, and Dottore knew that you must be taking every word he sent you to relentlessly research into them.

“Doctor,” Pantalone finally drawled as Dottore came to a stop in front of them, forcing his attention away from you just for a second. “It’s about time that you’ve leashed your mad dog, I’m quite tired of dealing with him.”

Dottore didn’t acknowledge his words. Instead, he focused his attention back onto you—the only apparent wounds were the deep scratch marks on your cheek and wrist, painful but mostly superficial. It would heal in a few days at most, he would pass along an ointment to Pantalone so he could give it to you to speed along the healing process.

The issue for Dottore laid in the boy tucked neatly in your arms, hiding his face against your skin.

The Kappa segment.

Dottore exhaled. That would be trouble trying to handle. The Kappa segment was skittish and nervous. He usually only stuck around Epsilon, Iota or Gamma, he even tried to avoid the other segments if he could. Dottore had a feeling that it was because they reminded him of their father but he couldn’t be sure.

Either way, he had never latched onto someone like this before and Dottore had a feeling it would be an issue trying to get him away from you. He didn’t like shutting down the younger segments—or any of the segments for that matter because it tended to mess with their wiring—but he thought he might have to in order to get the kid back to the estate without alerting the entire palace to your presence and relationship to him.

His eyes lingered on you, only for a few more moments, watching the way you held Kappa close, arms wrapped around him tightly as if to shield him from danger. Kappa seemed like he was on the verge of dozing off, his shoulders rising and falling steadily—he’d never seen him so comfortable with someone that wasn’t Epsilon before. Something unfamiliar tightened his chest. Longing? Desire? Whatever it was, he didn’t like it.

He looked away sharply, finally turning his attention to Pantalone.

“Regrator, don’t act as if you spend all of your free time reluctantly handling my segments. You are usually asking for them, in fact,” Dottore said dryly. He barely spared you another look as he said: “I’ll handle this. Go back to your room and rest.”

Your face twisted and Dottore bit back a sigh, realizing that round three of his war of words with you was about to begin.

“I am not a child,” you shot back, voice tight. “You can’t just send me to my room. I have questions and you will give me answers now. I’ve waited long enough.”

Dottore had a feeling that you were not just talking about the past few hours. You were talking about the decade he had spent ignoring your existence. Unfortunately for you, he had no interest in answering your questions, not now or ever.

He turned his attention back to Pantalone, ignoring the furious look that spread across your face at being blatantly ignored. Luckily—or unluckily, time would tell—Epsilon stepped in. He watched as your brows dipped in suspicion, looking between Epsilon and Dottore warily. If you hadn’t put together something was very, very wrong with the existence of Kappa, Gamma and Theta already, he had a feeling that Epsilon’s appearance just sealed it.

Dottore turned away as Epsilon took your hand in his to press his lips to your knuckles before he gently led you in the direction of the door on the left. Gamma and Iota followed behind, the latter far more excited than the former. Gamma cast one last pleading look in Dottore’s direction just as Iota slammed the door shut behind them.

Dottore, as he turned his attention to Theta’s still body, thought this might just be the worst case scenario. All three of the children. Theta. Epsilon. The last segments Dottore wanted meeting you all somehow managed to do just that within hours of you being in Zapolyarny. This would spread to all of the rest of the segments in no time and then he would have Zeta demanding to see proof of your existence and Rho lurking about curious; he’d have Delta bashing down the palace door to get Iota away from you, convinced by Lambda that you were only here to deceive them. And he’d have Lambda doing god knows what to try to remove your existence from their lives so they could continue their research without distraction.

He needed a plan of action and he needed it fast but first, he had to deal with this.

“What happened?”

“Two aristocrats came up looking for the Kappa segment,” Pantalone said off-handedly. “Your soulmate interfered.”

“Interfered?” Dottore demanded. “What was she doing wandering around?”

Pantalone raised his eyebrows. “Was I meant to lock her in her room?”

Dottore looked at him coldly, silently telling him yes, he should have. They could not afford to have any of their subordinates run into you, much less any of the Harbingers and he knew that some of them would be searching for you. He remembered Columbina’s cryptic comment about you a few months ago, Sandrone’s fury at your presence in Snezhnaya, Arlecchino’s odd interest in you—and if Arlecchino was interested, it was only a matter of time before she sent her attack dog after you to find out whatever she wanted to know. Keeping you isolated from the rest of the Fatui was paramount.

“What happened with Theta?” Dottore asked after Pantalone let out an exaggerated sigh of agreement.

“What always happens with Theta,” Pantalone said dismissively. “He gets set off and lashes out. Was going on about her faking the bond, apparently Lambda is going around convincing them she’s lying.”

Of course, Dottore thought bitterly. He knew that Lambda had been talking to Zeta, Delta and Rho but he thought the segment knew better than to get Theta wound up about this.

He took a deep breath, taking a step away to calm himself down. Well, that made that decision: the first thing he had to do was talk to Lambda, he couldn’t have him turning the segments against you, least of all Theta, who was very liable to attack those that he thinks did him wrong. After that, he would figure out what to do with the rest of the segments because in stopping Lambda, he would have to admit to them all that you were his soulmate, that this was all real.

That this was all real.

Dottore shut his eyes briefly, unconsciously looking in the direction of where you, Epsilon and the kids had disappeared behind the dark door that led to your room. His body itched to follow them in there—the bond in work, surely, but he could feel it was getting stronger. It was stronger than it was while he had been dancing with you, and even stronger than it had been while talking to you outside of the washroom. He should just grab Theta and drag him back down to his lab, leaving Epsilon to deal with your interrogation, but his feet weren’t cooperating.

“You should speak to her,” Pantalone said as he turned to go back to his own room. “If you’re going to have me confine her to this wretched place, you should at the very least, explain to her why… lest you have a very unhappy soulmate on your hands. I doubt that would be conducive to productivity.”

Dottore hummed dismissively, glancing back at the door once. He supposed should, he didn’t want to deal with your turbulent emotions, especially when he was going to be dealing with the segments.

Distantly, a part of him wondered if he was just using that as a logical excuse to give in to the pull of the bond.

“And Doctor, do get me that prototype by the morning as promised.”

You felt overwhelmed. The older boy, Gamma, was sitting in the corner of your room, knees tucked to his chest as he watched you with the younger two. Kappa was fast asleep now, tiny arms slung around your neck as he slept—you had tried to place him down on your bed but whenever you tried to pull him away from you, his arms tightened and he started stirring awake. The other one, you didn’t know his name yet, was kneeling on the floor next to the bed where you were sitting, big red eyes peeked above the comforter, watching you with varying degrees of suspicion and distrust and longing.

He had the same scar on the upper half of his face that Gamma did, you couldn’t help but notice, down to the burn patterns and wrinkles. And they were identical, if Gamma was a few years younger, he’d be the spitting image of the kid. It was impossible. Not even brothers can be so similar as to be identical down to the wrinkles and patterns in scars.

So, what were they?

You had to have been onto something when you thought it was some sort of experiment—Kappa was too young to have been born eight years ago, Gamma and the new kid were too similar in appearances, if you saw correctly when Kappa partially knocked off the mask even Theta seemed to have some scars on his face, and Theta and Kappa both showed a strength that did not reflect in their body.

A throat being cleared knocked you out of your thoughts, your eyes drew up from the kids to where the man was standing near the door. He gave you a small, apologetic smile as his eyes met yours—red and gentle.

Who was this?

You watched the man with thinly veiled suspicion. He looked just like Dottore, silvery blue hair styled the same way and even wearing a similar dark button-up that he did.

Except unlike Dottore, he was not wearing a mask.

His skin was smooth compared to the scars of the children and instead of the ever-present frown of Dottore, the corner of his lips were turned up. You had grown used to the cold aloofness of your soulmate over the years, it unnerved you how someone could look so much like him and yet feel entirely different.

You raised your chin as Epsilon came to sit on the edge of the bed next to you, keeping your expression stony, studying him to try to figure out what he wanted from you.

“Peace,” he murmured. “I’d just like to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

He had a white handkerchief between his fingers and you were acutely aware of the blood still dripping down your cheeks and arm. He raised his eyebrows, but sighed when he realized you weren’t going to budge, placing the handkerchief back in his pocket.

“Very well,” he said quietly. “I’m sure you have questions. I can answer them if you’d like.”

Of course you had questions, but could you trust him to answer them?

He didn’t appear as if he was trying to deceive you, his eyes were warm and his lips were lax, he had none of that tightness that Dottore usually had. Was he faking it? Or was he wanting to help you? You couldn’t tell, his demeanor was throwing you off.

“You’re really her?” a new, young voice said softly, voice hesitant but tinged with the slightest bit of hope that had your heart aching. You looked back toward the kid as he peered up at you through thick curls of hair cautiously. “Our soulmate?”

Our.

Your ears rang, distantly watching as the boy reached out for your hand, thin fingers playing with yours until he reached the one your thread was looped around. From the corner of your eye, you looked at the older man, who was watching you with a knowing expression.

Our.

How was that possible? He could clearly see your thread, trying to play with it and tug at it in the same way you used to as a child, but he had no connecting one, like the Doctor did. Did that make you his soulmate but he was not yours? Was there such a thing as unrequited soulmates? But you didn’t think it was that simple, there was a critical piece of information you were still missing.

But the kid was looking at you again, anxiously awaiting your response, and you didn’t have the heart to deny him. Even if you weren’t sure what was going on, he could undeniably see your thread.

“Yes,” you finally said, watching as he lit up, red eyes pooling with tears and lips trembling as he flung himself forward, burying his face into your lap. He jostled Kappa, who kicked his foot out instinctively, but the kid was unbothered.

“I knew you were real.” His voice was muffled into the cloths of your dress. “Everyone said you weren’t but I knew you were.”

Your throat tightened and your now free hand twitched from where it was laying on the comforter of your bed, coming up to pat his head.

You let out a shaky breath, lifting your gaze to focus on the man still sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you with an indecipherable expression.

“I’ve never seen them take to someone like this before,” he said softly. “I suppose it’s just further proof that you are who you claim to be. Some of the others thought it might be a ploy.”

Others, you wondered distantly but you were more focused on the last thing he said, face twisting.

“I would not fake a soul bond,” you said tightly, mind turning to your stepfather and your mother, your dead father and your destroyed family.

“I insulted you,” he realized. “My apologies, it was not my intention. I was not one of the ones that thought that way but I figured it was best for you to know and prepare, some of them might doubt you when they meet you.”

“How many of you are there?” you asked, but the more important question that you just couldn’t push out was what are you?

“Excluding the Doctor, there are nine of us. I’m called Epsilon. Kappa is the youngest, then Iota, who is on your lap, and then Gamma, who’s sitting over there,” he explained.

You looked back over to where Gamma was sitting. He wasn’t looking at you anymore, staring out the window into the dark night… or maybe he was. Amused, you realized that he was still watching you carefully through the reflection of the window. As soon as he realized that you noticed what he was doing, he turned his head away quickly.

“He’ll warm up,” Epsilon said quietly. You looked back toward him, watching as his lips turned up, red eyes glittering, as if sharing some secret with you. “He’s nervous.”

You couldn’t help the way you let out a puff of amusement, studying Gamma and the way he was digging his nails into the palm of his hand and tapping his foot against the wood of the window nook incessantly.

“I don’t… really understand all of this,” you finally admitted, relaxing a bit with Epsilon. You let yourself lean back against the large, decorative pillows set up on the bed, watching the man that looked eerily similar to Dottore, wondering if this was what he looked like beneath the mask as well.

“This is new for all of us too,” Epsilon told you, “so I can’t really explain to you what all of the bonds might be or mean… but I’m sure that is not what you’re asking right now, is it?”

“Not entirely, at least. First I’d like to understand…”

What you are. What they are. Why you can see the thread and why the children think that I’m their soulmate too.

“Well, I’ll do my best at explaining then. You deserve that much at least.”

The heavy weight on your chest lifted, if only a little. You thought that this might be the first time in weeks, months, that someone was actually giving you answers. Your father passed and left you with only questions, the masked person from the inn gave you even more questions and not a single answer, and now even Dottore refused to answer your questions, he just sent you away for Pantalone to deal with.

“Thanks,” you said softly, eyes meeting his again.

Epsilon gave you a small smile, lips parting to speak but before he could say anything, the door to your room opened again. Your gaze shot up, eyes falling upon a familiar masked figure standing in the frame, lips pressed together tightly.

“Epsilon,” Dottore said coldly. “Bring Theta down to the lab.”

Epsilon sighed heavily, shooting you an apologetic look before rising to his feet. “Another time,” he offered, and you nodded, disappointed, ignoring how Dottore’s lips turned downward.

Epsilon made his way out of the room, slipping past Dottore, and Gamma threw himself off the nook and scampered after Epsilon, fleeing the room without another look toward you.

The door slam shut behind them, an eerie silence sweeping over the room as he left you with Dottore.

Dottore’s already sour mood worsened when Epsilon flung him a triumphant look as soon as his back was turned to you. He wondered what he said to you in those few minutes he was in here alone with you but for some reason, he doubted that you would tell him and he by no means wanted to add more fuel to the fire by appearing interested in you. Narrowed eyes followed Epsilon as he left the room, shutting the door harshly behind him and the Gamma segment so he could speak to you without unwelcome ears listening in.

The Kappa and Iota segments made no move to leave—one being fast asleep and the other now watching Dottore suspiciously, shifting behind you to peek over your shoulder at him. Dottore could see the boy clutching something in his hand, knuckles white around the object and arms tensed as if ready to throw it. Dottore raised his eyebrows, albeit knowing neither of you could see the action anyway.

He ignored Iota and drew closer to the bed, taking a seat on the opposite side of the mattress that Epsilon had been sitting on as he observed you. You looked exhausted—your eyes looked heavy and tired, they didn’t have the same spark in them that they had earlier in the night, and the blood from the scratch marks on your was smeared messily, staining your skin and dress.

Irritated, Dottore wondered why Epsilon hadn’t cleaned it up, pulling out a cloth from his jacket pocket and shifting a little closer. He grabbed your arm first, ignoring that tingling sensation as it reappeared as soon as the pads of his fingers were pressed against your bare skin, and especially ignoring the red thread tied around your finger.

He could feel your eyes on him as he carefully wiped away the blood, distantly noting that Iota had shimmied out from behind you and was darting to the opposite side of the room.

“He will not bother you again,” Dottore finally said, sparing a look to the side as Iota approached from the side, this time with bandages. He eyed the boy curiously, wondering if this room was one of the places he fled to those rare times he was stuck in the palace and got overwhelmed by the amount of people. Iota turned his head away pointedly and Dottore just shook his head, taking the bandages and wrapping them neatly around your wrist and forearm.

You didn’t respond to him and Dottore glanced up at you, waiting for you to say something. You looked away, Dottore bit back an irritated sigh, tying off the bandage and moving a bit closer to look at your face.

“Thought they just called you a doctor for the irony,” you snipped half-heartedly, keeping your eyes averted as his fingers grabbed your jaw, turning your head to the side to see just how deep Theta had cut you.

Dottore let out an amused puff of air. “They do,” he drawled, “but I’m usually presented as one to acquire more willing test subjects. I must at least know the basics.”

You gave him a withering look from the corner of your eye, bottom lip pushed out. He was grateful for his mask hiding the way his gaze lingered on it, focusing back on the scratch marks. They weren’t too deep but he didn’t have an ointment with him to spread over them, so instead he just pressed the handkerchief to the skin, cleaning up the blood.

“What are they?” you asked, eyes steeled for an argument.

Dottore sighed heavily, considering briefly trying to avoid the subject but you did not seem keen on letting this slide and he was not in the mood for an argument. He wanted to get this done and get out of your room as soon as possible, even if his body was betraying him by allowing his fingers to linger on your cheek as he wiped away the blood.

“They are me.”

Concise and to the point, as he always was, Dottore waited for the explosion of questions and demands to come from you but you only stared at him, studying him. Again, Dottore was grateful for his mask because he did not like the way he felt beneath your gaze.

“How?” you finally questioned.

“Experimentation,” Dottore said dryly, your eyes narrowed as if that was an obvious answer. His lip unconsciously pulled up into a smirk. “I was able to isolate and extract my consciousness at specific periods of my life after years of study into-”

“Irminsul,” you finished for him, voice little over a breath and eyes darting down to your forearm.

Dottore’s lips pressed into a thin line, watching you carefully—he did not like that, or did he? A part of him was impressed that you’d managed to put it together so easily just from the little he said and the words that had been transcribed to you through the bond. But on the same note, he thought that the fact that the bond had given you enough words to so easily string together how he had gone about his research was unnerving.

Not for the first time since the bond appeared, Dottore felt distinctly violated.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Study into Irminsul. All I had to do was create vessels for the consciousnesses after extracting them.”

“And they are… you?”

You were looking at Kappa with a different expression now, Dottore couldn’t figure out what it was but it made him uncomfortable, vulnerable. There was a reason why he made sure to keep all of the younger segments far, far away from people. Dottore let his hand drop back to his lap, folding the handkerchief and placing it back in his pocket.

“Yes.” His voice came out colder and sharper, and you caught the change in tone, looking up at him quickly with furrowed brows. “I’ll be taking them back to the labs.”

You didn’t look pleased, frowning as you looked down at Kappa, who was still fast asleep. Behind Dottore, Iota let out a noise of protest but Dottore only had to turn his head to the side to stop the boy from speaking his complaint out loud.

“So what? You’re just going to leave again?” you asked harshly.

“Did you think I was going to stay?” he quipped back, sarcasm dripping from his words. “That you and the younger segments and I were just going to be one happy family?”

To your credit, you didn’t look too perturbed by the harsh words but he knew it affected you, if the way your grip tightened on Kappa had anything to say about it.

“You can’t just keep me here,” you spoke through gritted teeth. “I’m not-”

“You’ll find that I can do whatever I want,” Dottore corrected, rising to his feet.

You didn’t hesitate, shifting Kappa down to lay on the bed next to you as you moved forward, fingers wrapping around his wrist to hold him in place. A commendable effort, but all it would take was one quick snap of his wrist to free it from your hold…

But he did not snap away his wrist. As easy as it would have been, instead he just stood there, staring down at you, waiting for you to say whatever you wanted to say. He tensed as if to pull away but his body didn’t cooperate—he blamed it on the bond but he wasn’t so sure that was the case.

“I’m not done,” you said. “I have more questions.”

“Another time,” he dismissed, finally forcing himself to pull his wrist back. Again, he felt a strange void as soon as the pressure of your fingers was removed from him. “I’ve wasted enough time tonight.”

Wasted?

“Wasted?” you echoed his very thought, scoffing loudly before shaking your head. “You know what, I don’t really care. What I do care about is knowing what that energy was around Pantalone—what was that?”

Dottore looked at her steadily from beneath his mask. “That is none of your business,” he said coolly. “Do not go sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong lest you find yourself a guest here forever.”

The look you gave him was nothing short of murderous. “As if I won’t be already,” you spat, rising to your feet to take a few steps closer to him after he moved away. Dottore remained rooted in place, looking down at you. “I will not be kept here like a caged animal.”

“Then maybe you should not act like one.”

“Excuse me?” Dottore’s words held no weight, but he did very much enjoy goading reactions out of you, watching as your face twisted in fury at the insult. “I came here for a reason, Doctor, and that reason was not to be imprisoned by you. I have information I need to find and one way or another, I will acquire it. You can either-”

“You will do as I say so long as you’re in this palace,” Dottore said, cutting you off by pinching your cheeks between his fingers and tilting your face up to look at him. “Just because we have a bond forced on us by Celestia does not make you untouchable, control that tongue of yours before it lashes at the wrong person. Once I get the information I want, I will consider getting you what you want. Then, we will never have to see each other again. Until then, you have reaped what you sowed and it is no one’s fault but your own that you were not adequately prepared for the consequences of your actions, do you understand?”

Just for a second, he watched as a helpless expression spread across your face, eyes glassy and lips pressed together tight as you stared up at him. His tongue itched to say something else but no words formed on it before you snapped your face out of his hold, looking away.

“Get out.”

A part of him wanted to refuse just to be spiteful—was it spite? Or was it something else, that heavy feeling weighing at his chest? That was a question he was not ready to answer, so instead, he smiled thinly:

“Gladly.”

i promise they’re going to start warming up to each other soon more than just in their internal narration <.< soon as in very soon wait til you see the scene i have planned

RBS APPRECIATED!

#dottore x reader #dottore smut #dottore x you #genshin x reader #genshin smut #genshin x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact smut #genshin impact x you

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juuuulez · 3 months

Text

📰 | part ten: capulet.

info: Carl Grimes x Saviour! Reader, slow burn, enemies to lovers, gun violence, father figure! Negan, soooomeeee ooonneee has a crush, teenagers in love.

summary: You tussle with your emotions regarding Carl, whilst Grimes and co pay a surprise visit to the Sanctuary.

omg i’m on fire!!!!! cliffhanger ending……but also next chapter will be similarly juicy so don’t fret! also half-written a carl x reader oneshot/drabble i’ll post soon between chapters :P

i’m so glad you all love my saviour reader story because i am her she is me…….this series is my CHILD i will defend it with my life!

-> masterlist <-

You hadn’t been to Alexandria in, frankly, what felt like years.

It was actually just weeks.

With an alliance between Hilltop, the Kingdom, and Alexandria, things for the Saviours were trickier than ever. Most of the time Negan spent in his office, trying to decode the best play. You helped, of course, and were practically running yourself ragged trying to keep things together at the Sanctuary.

It felt like everyone knew what was happening. Or they expected it, were waiting for it. It irritated you to no end, that others would blatantly show their disbelief in your cause, in Negan’s cause.

And then there was Carl.

You missed him, which was weird. He had become a constant in your life, the arguing and fighting, the pushing and shoving. But now your relationship had crested into something else… and you didn’t hate it.

In fact, you quite enjoyed kissing Carl.

Not that you’d admit that. To him, to anyone. Nobody needed that amount of power over you.

“You can go to bed, doll.”

You looked up from your lap, where a book of supply schedules was scribbled down. You were seated on that long leather couch in Negan’s office, whilst he worked on god knows what. Hopefully a viable strategy.

“No, I’m fine.” You tell him, politely. Too politely.

Truth is, you were hanging on by a thread. But with no supplies from Alexandria, nor Hilltop, the situation at the Sanctuary was becoming dire. You were trying to figure out how to jig things around so that everyone could be satisfied, or maybe even rethinking the points system, making the imaginary economy more competitive.

“I’m serious,” Negan insists, “You don’t gotta be doin’ this shit. It’s below you.”

You roll your eyes, “Who’s gonna do it, then? Simon’s corpse?”

The sarcastic comment earns you a glare in return, which does make you feel a little bad. You’d watched the brawl firsthand, and had almost tried to help Negan, if not for Dwight holding you back. Either way, it didn’t matter, for Simon was eventually strangled to death.

Brutal, but fitting.

Maybe you were trying to fill that void. The line between right-hand man and teenage daughter was thinning.

Negan rose from his seat, coming over to stand in front of you. He didn’t even need to lean down, swiftly plucking the tattered notebook from your lap, to which you groaned and leaned back on the couch.

He inspected it, reading over the numbers and scrawled figures. “You’re doing this wrong.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should start making your wives do the bookkeeping.” You grumbled, laying down on the couch in defeat.

Negan tossed the notebook onto the coffee table, sitting on the couch opposite you. “Doubt they can count past ten.”

It was a terrible thing to say, but got a smile out of you. It was difficult to be in a good mood on so little sleep, so the tiniest hint of happiness was well appreciated.

“When will we go to Alexandria again?”

You tried not to sound too interested in the question, but couldn’t help yourself, and needed to ask. Not for Carl, just for supplies. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

“Soon. Give it another week,” Negan confirmed, though his eyes said he knew something more. “Awfully interested in that shithole, aren’t you?”

This caused you to roll over, onto your side, so you could glare over at the older man. “We need that shithole to survive.”

There was a playful glint on Negan’s face, the words earning a small laugh from him. “Maybe you do. Bet you’re just itchin’ for your little cyclops.”

The joke causes you to bristle, irritation rising as you hoist yourself from the couch, making a play for the door. On such little sleep, you weren’t in the mood to entertain being teased.

But Negan stopped you, that grin still on his face. “Hey, c’mon, doll. You know I’m just tryin’ to rile you up.” He admits, coming to a stand.

The glare remains, but at least you stop your escape, instead just standing near the door with your arms crossed. You’d likely give some defensive retort, but Negan is already speaking again.

“Everyone has their first crush at some point. I’m just surprised it took you this long.”

“I don’t have a crush,” You practically snarl. “I’m not twelve years old.”

“Okay, sorry. Not a crush,” Negan approaches slowly, like you’ll run off again, though is pleased when you stand still. “Sounds like it’s past your bedtime.”

Your nose scrunches up, eyes narrowed in offence as he continues to treat you like a child. But you know he’s just making a point to tease you, judging by that stupid grin on his face, so you try not to react.

His hands bracket your arms, giving you a little spin so that you’re facing the door. But now you sigh, turning back around, unable to just drop this conversation all together.

“You don’t care?” You ask. “Like, if I did have a crush, you don’t even mind? Not that I do, I’m just… wondering.”

Negan smiles, finding your half-confession quite adorable. “That’s what kids do, darlin’. Besides, the boy’s got his head on straight. Certainly got more balls than his father.”

You look down at the floor, a little pensive. “I don’t have a crush on Carl.” You reiterate, standing your ground, trying to sound firm in order to convince the both of you.

He seems to get the hint, understanding that maybe you don’t even know what’s going on. “I know, doll. Don’t stress it too much.” Negan drops the subject, letting his arm encase your back for a small squeeze before letting you go. “Go get some rest.”

You muster up a little smile, finally accepting the offer and scampering back off to bed. After all, you were exhausted, despite that inherent need to make yourself useful. Supply counts could wait.

It was a comforting space, your bedroom, one you retreated to whenever things got overwhelming. It was filled with photos and trinkets, candy stashed away in the drawers, all the things you didn’t have when growing up. It was your space.

That night, you fell asleep weighing the severity of simply going to Alexandria yourself. You passed out a few minutes into debating what transportation to take.

Fortunately, or, probably unfortunately, that wasn’t necessary.

For Alexandria had come to you.

Gunfire was a familiar sound to wake up to. Usually, it was a low-level squabble, or maybe one of the Saviours proving a point. Either way, it never lasted long.

But this time, there was shouting, and more bullets. It was enough to jolt you awake, pushing past that bleary state of consciousness and waiting, still, for it to continue.

It did.

You climbed out of bed with urgency, moving on autopilot as you threw on some jeans, not bothering to change from your sleep tank before bolting for the door.

Just as your fingertips brushed the bat, you realised it wouldn’t do. That gun was still locked away in the bottom drawer, so you reached for it, shoving a handful of bullets into your pocket before leaving.

Now, you’ve never been a very good shot. That’s why you preferred using the bat, or at the very least, hand-to-hand combat. You had terrible aim. But maybe now was the best time to fix that issue.

So, you made your way through the Sanctuary, swiftly stepping through hallways, gun at the ready. You were outside in minutes, the shouting becoming much clearer now, a voice you could recognise:

Rick Grimes.

“Fuck this..” You grumbled, growing irritated with this relentless back and forth. And now, they were in your home.

Another shot blew out the glass from above you, forcing you further against the wall, as the shards piled on the concrete. Some littered your skin, your shoulders bare, due to still wearing a tank intended for sleeping. You didn’t even have a bra on.

But there were worse problems, you supposed.

The gun felt heavy in your hands, fingers twitching around the trigger. Hopefully you wouldn’t have to use it, though that seemed like wishful thinking. You wondered where Negan was, yet believed he could handle himself. You and this gun were the main concern, a gun you had no idea how to use effectively.

You hid behind anything available, crouched down, trying to survey the surroundings. From here, you could see the scattered factions of makeshift soldiers, though Rick was now missing. You presumed he had a similar thought process to you: Negan.

That was fine, for now.

Clutching the gun tightly, you shifted into view, holding it outwards and discharging a shot into the distance. It echoed in the nearby vicinity, though there was too much gunfire to distinguish where it had came from, luckily. It didn’t seem to hit anyone.

What a waste.

“Hey!”

It was a whisper-shout, one clearly intended to gain your attention. You spun your head around, searching for the voice, amongst all the yelling and fighting taking place within your home. It took an embarrassing amount of time until you saw him.

Carl.

Thank fucking god.

He’d been watching you, on alert for your figure the second they arrived. He clocked your creeping approach into the battle field, ducking behind anything possible. It was almost amusing, the stark contrast in how you usually chose to fight, but made sense after you fired that hopeless shot.

You had no idea what was going on, assuming that Negan and Rick were off fighting, whilst a few Saviours tried to keep the rival gang at bay. Or gangs, plural. You guessed that speaking to Carl would be your best chance at getting a grip on the situation. That, and you weren’t in the mood for a defensive Saviour to shoot him.

So, you tried to get closer, looking left and right to make sure the coast was clear before ducking behind rubble or vehicles, anything to provide cover. Carl was used to fighting, sure, but felt slightly anxious for a reason he couldn’t pin. It was just a bad feeling, like something was not right.

This time, Carl called out your name, causing you to look up and at attention. He held out his hand, despite being meters away, a signal to come closer under the cover he’d found.

You clutch the gun tightly, safety off, poised at your side. But it’s difficult to see everyone, from this position, forcing you to inch out from behind the truck in order to get a visual.

Still holding out his hand, Carl waits, watching as you peek your head out.

Pop!

A shot fires, crackling in the distance, though it takes you down with a solid thud.

#carl grimes x reader #the walking dead x reader #negan smith x reader #twd x reader #carl grimes #twd x you #carl grimes x you #the walking dead #negan smith

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winged-void · 15 days

Text

Here's the story yall asked me to post

Hello! I am posting this short little story, which is the first of a number of short stories I have written about these two characters, a delusional noblewoman and her deranged maid. By clicking the readmore you agree that both characters contained within, regardless of what the text says, are girls.

In some forgotten corner of some forgotten city, a forgotten noble of a forgotten family sits in petty agony.

Protected from the onslaught of acidic rain only by a hastily constructed sheet metal roof, he imagines Mother's pain at the tears in his coat, and the scion of the Branche family considers weeping.

What would it cost?

Too much.

Elan Branche pushes it down. At twelve, one puts such childishness behind them.

Back straight. Assess the damage. Find the solution.

The coat was heavy. Too large, and far too decorated with old and meaningless signifiers of unearned and forgotten glory, weighed down further still by the damp of rain and blood (hidden at least by the deep red color of the fabric), he takes it off and hangs it on a bit of exposed rebar.

It was old and beautiful; burgundy and torn to shreds. The sleeves and the tail had cuts and rips that Elan knew he could never fix. He thought of a picture he'd found of the family's old staff, and the dedicated tailor among them. All gone now, gone since before his birth. This burden, like all before it, must be borne alone.

Put it out of mind for now.

He turned away from the coat to inspect his blade. Sharpening the noble edge sharpens the noble mind, he thought, and began to clean. His adventures to these parts were proving more expensive than he thought, but the rabble must know the Branche Family. Their petty vassals and pettier commoners had forgotten and darkness had come to them.

By sword and torch and pistol he would bring light and flame back. He would polish the old blazonry with the blood of those foolish and cruel enough to have taken advantage of the weakness of his family. No longer would commoner merchant thugs an-

Hold. A sound.

Elan jumped and turned, blade pointed at his empty coat, hanged and swinging in the breeze.

Foolish. Too easily startled. Undignified. Waving your sword around at an empty coat.

But then another sound, like the whimper of a kicked dog.

“N-Nothing gets by you, milord….”

A hunched and crouching pathetic figure emerged from behind the rebar, raising its hands, but holding onto what seemed to be an especially short thin piece of scrap metal, bent at the end such that a thread could pass through it.

Elan's mind raced. First, relief, then recognition. Figure was a boy. No older than thirteen or fourteen. Thin, so thin, tall and dressed in rags.

“You. You're that kid from the other day. The mugging victim, yes?”

Wasn't that mugging four towns over?

He left it unsaid. He continued.

“What are you doing with my coat?”

The figure squirmed, and tried to stand up straight.

“I-I-I saw. The state of your coat. And I thought I might be useful, milord…” It paused, and jumped as though shocked, “My lord.”

It gestured towards the left sleeve, and Elan's eyes traced the crimson thread from the needle in its scarred hand to the sleeve of the coat, partially sewed with baffling skill.

Elan considered the boy. His hair gray (common in these chemically stained regions), his form clearly starved, his body shaking but his hands so very steady.

Potential and possibility, all of it. Solutions to problems named and those he refused to name.

“How useful,” Elan lowered his sword and allowed himself to smile, “would you like to be?”

#Harpyguide #Wing Tipped Pen #maid

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luveline · 2 years

Note

hi jade!! could i please request a steve harrington x luna lovegood!reader? i don't have an specific idea in mind, sorry about that. <33

r makes her move on a lovestruck Steve! ty for ur request ♡ fem!reader

"Stevie," you sing quietly, creeping up behind him. He knows you're there because you'd bumped into a cardboard cutout and apologised, but otherwise he'd have jumped a half mile.

"You walk, like, silently, you know? It's creepy," he says mildly, on his knees in front of the horror tapes.

"Thank you." You're completely genuine. Steve's glad – he's not insulting you to be cruel. He's trying to flirt.

He'd tried the normal route. Called you pretty, asked for your number, taken you out. And while you'd eagerly accepted each of his advances, you hadn't seemed to clock that they were of romantic intent.

So now he's taking relationship tips from thirteen year old boys and hoping something will stick.

"What do you want, trouble?"

"I don't want any trouble," you say, kneeling down beside him.

Your skirt falls around your thighs in a pretty heap of thin, flowing fabric. There's a horrendous bruise on your leg, though whether you know it's there or not is anyone's guess.

"No, I mean- how are you?" he asks.

"I miss you like crazy. You didn't call me last night."

His hand slows where it's reaching out for a tape. He looks down at your bruise and asks tentatively, "You wanted me to?"

"Duh." You hand him the movie he'd been aiming for and dip your chin to your chest slightly, drawing his gaze. "Wanna go get food?"

"I'm working."

You wrinkle your nose like this hadn't occurred to you. "After?"

"Sure. Are you hungry now? I have a peanut butter-"

"No, it's okay."

He nods to himself. "Okay," he mumbles.

You lay out all the tapes in the plastic tub he'd been carrying them in on the ground and start to sort them from most scary to least, asking his opinion every now and then.

"You've seen all these?"

"No, I'm going by cover. This one?" you ask, holding up The Morgan Murders with a curious smile.

"Definitely least scary."

He shoves the rest of the movies on the shelves, leaving your least to most ranking intact on the very bottom.

"How'd you hurt yourself?" he asks, standing up and offering you his hand.

You take it, your palm soft as silk. He knows your hands must smell nice because he's seen your little tube of herbal hand cream. He wonders what it smells like.

He cringes at himself and goes to drop your hand. You hold on tightly but let them hang between you, eyes wide as you explain your injury.

"I fell in the bathroom."

His eyes fly to your head. "Are you okay?"

"Of course I am. I slept really well after, like half a day! I think I reset my sleep cycle. Although, that might be 'cos I stayed up to try and find a Lunar Moth yesterday."

He takes a while to let all of that sink in, your fingers gentle where they've curled around the back of his hand. He uses the little bit of height he has over you to lean over your shoulder and check the back of your head for bumps.

"Why didn't you call me?" you ask.

Steve can't believe you're still holding his hand, to be honest, and he blames it entirely for his ineptitude. "I didn't think you were interested."

"In what?"

"In me."

"Oh…" You step between his shoes and look up at him. "Please call me tonight."

"I thought we were going to get food?"

"After food."

He shrugs, more blase than he feels. "Okay. Whatever you want."

Your smile is blinding. Despite your general attitude, Steve can count the amount of times he's seen you smile on one hand. It really does stun him, worse when you look down at your joined hands and thread your fingers together properly.

"You have bigger fingers than me," you say conversationally, "so you'd worry that we wouldn't fit together, but look." You squeeze his hand.

Steve short-circuits.

"How about we go for food now?" he asks.

Another blinding smile. Steve could get used to those. "Really?"

"Yeah. I'll take a sick day."

Your head skews quizzically to the side. "You don't look sick."

"I'll explain in the car."

#steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x fem!reader #fem!reader #stranger things 4 #stranger things #steve harrington drabble

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noisyquokka · 7 months

Text

Losing Game

PAIRING - Felix x GN!Reader

SYNOPSIS - If your teasing is infuriating, Felix's is something akin to Wonderland - trapping your mind in a haze of desire, spiraling you into madness with just a few caresses and kisses. He won't allow you to push too far without pushing back with everything he has, and everything just means pulling your strings until you've admitted defeat. You're playing a losing game with a man who knows such things a little too well.

WORDCOUNT - 4.2k

WARNINGS - Fluff, Suggestive (Borderline NSFW so 18+), Established Relationship, LOTS of Teasing, Felix is the biggest tease this side of the galaxy, but so are we

A/N - Y'all don't look at me, this was meant to be a tooth-rotting fluff piece but Boyfriend!Felix is too much fun to write I swear I blacked out typing the majority of this, idk where I went wrong-💀 Anyway... Happy Felix day!!🎉

Felix is adamant that the scent of one of his favoured candles is what coaxed him out of his slumber, though the 9:00 AM sunlight may be the real culprit. It bleeds through the sheer curtains of the shared bedroom, softened by the cascading polyester. Brown eyes glare back in a mess of displeasure, thin lips curving into a frown at the audacity of twilight breaking into day only hours prior. He stretches against the sheets, limbs popping in protest of their owner's insistence. Felix glares a moment longer, the muscles in his face twitching as the luminary beams back. A great sigh is released and eyelids flutter closed, rolling onto his opposite side to keep the blasted sun at bay.

Long legs kick outward, connecting with a mountain of soft plush at the foot of the bed. Dark brows furrow. That's not meant to be there...

Before Felix can tilt his head downward, the canopy of flat sheets above catches sleep-riddled eyes. He rolls onto his back, gazing at the woven sheets with a furrowed brow. They fall off to one side of the bed frame, a makeshift wall made up of carefully crafted horizontal and vertical threads, the entrance to the bedroom just a shadow beyond. The entirety of the mattress is encased by blankets, dimly lit by the warm glow of fairy lights hanging from it's ceiling. Stiff arms push against the mattress, the few rays of sunlight that's allowed in warming the bare skin of his wrist.

A blanket fort; erected over the course of the early morning by determined hands. A sanctuary.

Brown optics shift to the foot of the bed where that plush mountain sits beneath bare feet. The collection of pillows aren't just from the bed, Felix notes, but from every other room in the apartment. They most definitely weren't there when he crawled into bed with you late last night, he knows that much. The man can't help the sly grin that pulls his lips, shaking his head as he presses an open palm against one eye. An attempt to rub the sleep away.

The bedroom door opens with a creak, quiet footsteps padding over hard-wood floors. There's the sound of dishes clanking and utensils screeching against plates, a mumbled curse that leaves hushed lips. Felix has to hold in his chuckle, following the human-shaped shadow behind the sheets with groggy eyes. He smirks once you emerge on his side of the bed.

"Morning, Sleepy Head."

You're balancing two plates on one forearm, two bottles of water in your other hand. You managed without much issue, handing Felix a bottle and setting the other on the nightstand along with the plates. He eyes the grub on the plate; a simple breakfast for two. He takes a swig from the bottle, his attention naturally falling back to you. Especially when you hop onto his side of the bed, mischievous grin on your lips.

You shift your weight from your bum to your knees, crawling up the bed until your hands splay on either side of your boyfriend's hips, fingers pressing into the mattress. Felix's eyes narrow at your actions, a wry grin settling on his face as the proximity between you two dwindles.

"Happy Birthday." You murmur, so low as the purring of a feline near their person. It earns you a wider grin, Felix's gaze traveling downward as he takes you in. He hums.

"Thank you, Babe." Sleep holds his vocal chords in it's clutch, that deep rasp like music to your ears. Those eyes linger on your lips, waiting for you to lean in just a bit further.

"Is that all?" He asks, his voice taking on that teasing tone. A smirk crosses your face in response, leaning in until your nose is nuzzling his.

"Maybe... maybe not..."

You're so close that your lips ghost over his with every word. This is familiar; the teasing. The man tilts his head back against the headboard, impatient to your featherlight caresses and your body heat seeping into him. The chuckle you release only aids that.

You know what he's waiting for. He's waiting for you to initiate things.

A slight tilt of your head brings you closer to the bareness of his neck and you press your face into him, breathing him in. It's less to tease him and more to satisfy your own need to be close, but when he tilts his head toward your ear, you can't help but leave a kiss behind. Felix bites his lip, lashes fluttering.

"I wonder... what else you have in mind." He whispers. You only continue to press kisses along his throat - soft and tender, grinning against tanned skin at the subtle bob of his Adam's Apple - lingering there for a moment longer. Brown eyes close as you pepper more up the side of his neck, his chest rising and falling with the uptick of his pulse. You pause with one last kiss behind his left ear, nuzzling the shell of it with your nose.

"Your breakfast is getting cold."

God, you're infuriating...

Brown eyes lock on yours when you pull away and Felix huffs a laughter of disbelief, watching as you lean over and reach for the plates on the nightstand. You hand him one of the two, fingers brushing over one another at the exchange.

"You do know it's my birthday, right?" He questions, arching a brow. Your eyes dance with unbridled mischief as you bring the utensil to your mouth.

"Mhm, and you, my Pretty Boy, are staying under the shelter of this blanket fort with me all day."

"Mm, I didn't agree to that."

"You tossed and turned through the entire process of it's construction, not to mention I almost stepped on you." You point the prongs of your fork at him in warning. "You're staying in here even if I have to tie you down."

"Oh? Is that what you had in mind?"

You hand connects with a sturdy chest, mumbling a shut it as you swallow your food. Felix just chuckles, finally digging into his own helping. A moment passes of quiet solitude, forks scratching and tapping against stoneware. His gaze flits to you every few minutes as he takes in the work you'd done.

"This is pretty impressive, I've gotta admit." He says, poking at what little remains on his plate. "What made you land on 'blanket fort date' as my birthday gift?"

You shrug, setting your own empty dish to the side.

"I don't know. Just thought you needed this before tour starts. I know that as much as you love what you do, it can be stressful." You shift your weight on the bed, settling in beside your Lover. "That, and I wanted you to myself before our relationship is diminished to text bubbles and video calls for eight months."

You don't even care that you're both grown-ass adults getting cozy under a blanket fort like you're still in grade-school. To other people, maybe this is considered childish. To Felix? He didn't care as long as you were here with him. The two of you were children at heart anyways, and with a hectic schedule coming up, he was more than content to just lay here and do everything and nothing with you.

Brown eyes meet yours instinctually, a tilt of the head and thin lips.

"I know the distance sucks. Eight months will be here and gone before we can blink, though." Felix murmurs. He places both plates on the bedside table just as you rest your head against his shoulder, your eyes drifting shut with a long sigh.

"I know, it's just... it's difficult. I just want you to have a memory to think of me while you're away."

You mumble into his skin, nuzzling your face into his arm. Felix reaches for your hand, slotting your fingers with his before bringing them up to press a lingering kiss to your knuckles. He feels you smile against his skin, pulling away to glance up at him.

"Plus, you're adorable when you're flustered."

"Flustered? Me? When?"

I have cold, hard evidence, Mister! Don't even try to deny it."

A scoff leaves your boyfriend's lips, eyebrows arching incredulously.

"And where is this cold, hard evidence?"

"Right here," You tap an index finger to your temple, a smirk taking over your face. "video surveillance of Lee Felix anticipating a Birthday kiss from his Lover, loses his mind when teased. Not Clickbait!"

"Not clickb- get over here, you!"

You squeal when Felix reaches for you, your eyes bright with amusement. He snatches at your wrist, just missing your when you smack his hand away and shuffle towards the foot of the bed as a means of escape. You know this game well, and you know how he plays. Before you can throw anymore shade, a hand catches the crook of your knee and pulls you back towards the headboard.

"Felix!" You shriek, falling back into the plush cloud of pillows and sheets. You're still attempting an escape when he comes to hover over you. Anticipation dances within your eyes.

"I'm gonna have to see this supposed evidence, you know, for research purposes." He says, a teasing lilt in his tone. His hand finds the bare skin of your thigh, welcoming goosebumps in it's wake. You hum, a lighthearted chuckle leaving upturned lips.

"Research purposes, huh?" You reach a hand up to sweep those unruly strands from his face, fingers scratching softly at the back of his scalp. Felix smirks, humming an affirmative that almost sounds like a purr. He leans in, voice low as he stares you down in mock seriousness.

"Of course! They're gonna need a thesis statement!"

"Who?" You scoff, arching a brow.

"Judge and jury, obviously."

The sound of laughter erupts from your lips, your free hand pressing against his chest.

"Obviously." You muse, fingers trailing through golden tresses. "The jury of public opinion... I'm sure you've got some good things to say about me, hm?"

His eyes twinkle with something familiar; that soft admiration that he holds for you. The smile on his face broadens.

"You know I do." Felix's voice is low, teasing, and playful. His gaze heats your skin the longer he stares, deepening pools that pull you in. He dips down, lips brushing yours in a moment of sweet hesitation.

Or, perhaps... he's just teasing like you did.

Your words come out in a whisper through parted lips, grinning at your circumstances.

"Go on, then."

You barely have time to finish your sentence before Felix presses his lips to yours in a heated kiss. One hand finds it's way to the crook of your jaw and your neckline, tilting your head with a delicate touch. Your pulse races even as he takes his time, the heat from his body intoxicating to your senses. You can feel the tension grow with every movement that's made, the soft caresses and slow kisses a reminder that this game of cat and mouse continues.

And right now, the Birthday Boy is winning.

The hand on your jaw falls back to your thigh, slipping higher that before. Your mind blanks, wandering hands gripping onto the fabric of his T-shirt. Just as you're about to throw the ball back in his court, Felix shifts back, allowing both of you to catch your breath.

"Judge, jury... and executioner?" Your voice is hushed, the words a breath against slightly swollen lips. That earns you a chuckle, his fingers slipping under your shirt as your arms trail up to protruding collarbones. They splay over your skin, over curves and muscles that tense with every gentle caress.

"If looks could kill, I'd be a dead man, Love."

A smile tugs at the corners of your lips as your head sinks back against the pillows, your arms snaking around his neck. Felix allows you to pull him down with little argument, no hesitation to lock lips this time. Your fingers curl through soft locks, nails running down the nape of his neck in just the right way that ushers forth a shudder from the man above you. He nips at your bottom lip in retaliation, smirking at the sigh you release.

All thoughts of anything aside from each other slip away as one of your hands slide down the expanse of his chest, fingers twitching with a newfound need. There is nothing else. No one else but the two of you, tangled up in one another. Hearts race as the minutes stretch on. Needy hands pull you closer, squeezing whatever bare flesh is available to them. You break away from him, lips parting in heavy pants and desperation. Felix doesn't stop though, capturing your lips in another long kiss.

Any sly moves you'd thought up to get the upper hand are completely and utterly trampled once he deepens the kiss, hips pressing into your own. You accommodate him, sliding a leg up, hooking around his thigh to pull him closer. If that were even possible. Sleep shorts rustle against skin, hiking higher and higher with every shift.

If your teasing is infuriating, Felix's is something akin to Wonderland - trapping your mind in a haze of desire, spiraling you into madness with just a few caresses and kisses. He won't allow you to push too far without pushing back with everything he has, and everything just means pulling your strings until you've admitted defeat. You're playing a losing game with a man who knows such things a little too well.

Felix's lips leave yours, his teeth nipping at the corner of your mouth and chin before trailing lower to the skin of your jaw and neck. If this keeps up, you don't see an end in sight.

"Lix," You breathe, biting back a moan at his teeth grazing against your pulse point. Your fist clinging on his shirt presses against his chest and Felix lets up, muscles flexing under your touch. Brown eyes find yours, pupils blown in a haze of passion and lust.

"What, what's wrong?" His heart is beating out of his chest as he sucks in air through parted lips. Dark brows furrow, his head tilting at your insistence to stop.

"Nothing," You release his shirt, patting the wrinkles from the fabric. You shake your head. "I just... I left your cake out on the counter."

You already know the response you're about to get, a Cheshire smile taking over as he leans in again.

"I was just getting to that, wasn't I...?"

Wandering hands slide high enough to grab at your bum and you chuckle. Your fingers flex, gripping around lean forearms. Your calf is still hooked around one of his thighs and your eyes burn with some sort of trickery.

Gaining that upper hand.

You're quick about it, pulling your leg back with just enough strength to swap places with him on the bed. Felix just stares up at you, unfazed by your actions. In fact, you're sure he expected it. The fairy lights warm his face, sparkling in the glaze of his dark gaze.

"Cheeky," You mutter, giving him one last kiss before you climb off of his lap and out of bed. "I'll be back. Don't leave this room or there'll be consequences."

"Alright, alright." He says, and you catch the smirk on his face. His brows raise in anticipation when your eyes lock, your threat lingering in the air. An empty threat. The dirty dishes clatter together as you collect them and take your leave, your footsteps fading down the hall. The mattress dips as he shifts, pulling himself up against the headboard. Felix can't help the broad smile that follows, a contented sigh leaving his lungs.

—

"You're bringing that in here?!"

"Babe, just blow out the candle."

You settle on the edge of the bed. Two plates in both hands. Two slices of birthday cake, one with a single candle sitting pretty atop the icing. The flame dances in a make up of hydrogen and carbon, flickering when you shift it closer to him. Felix eyes the plates, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he straightens up with a groan. The flame is blown out in one short, heavy breath, the smell of sulfur assaulting your nose.

You hand him both plates, sliding into bed with ease. You situate yourself so you're facing your boyfriend, moving a few pillows behind you to get more comfortable. By the time you focus your attention back on the Birthday Boy, himself, he's already pulled the candle from his slice, digging into the sweet treat.

"Uh, Felix?"

"Hmm?"

He's so shameless in his indulging, mouth full. Icing smudges the corner of his mouth as he hums in approval. You eye the plate sitting on the other side of him - the slice of cake you'd cut for yourself - with a small smile on your lips, holding a palm out in waiting. Brown eyes follow that gaze, pushing the slice of sweetness out of your sight with a sly grin.

"You know, just because it's your birthday doesn't mean I have to play nice all day..." You mutter, eyes narrowing.

All that gets you is a snort of amusement.

"Mm, see, that's where you're wrong, Love." He says, leaning back against the headboard. The fork pierces through his slice a third time, ready and waiting on silver prongs for when he's finished this argument. "You see, it's my birthday. And since it's my birthday, you have this reputation to uphold of being the world's Angel. Especially on my birthday."

The smirk on his face only grows.

"Keep saying birthday and the word will become redundant." You sound annoyed but you're unable to bite back your own smirk while you hold his gaze.

"Have I mentioned it's my bir-" He grunts, chuckling as he soothes the shoulder where your fist connects, "Alright, alright! Gee, didn't know my Baby had a nasty right hook."

"You think that's good, you haven't felt my left." You glare half-heartedly, holding out your hand again. Fingers twitch impatiently. And Felix just stares back, that smirk stuck on quirked lips. After a minute of just this - staring at one another, trying your hardest to not get caught up in staring longingly at your boyfriend - you huff, jutting your bottom lip out in a pout. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Felix rolls his eyes, setting both plates on the nightstand before he reaches forward to pull you into his lap.

"Forget the cake, alright? You spent all morning making this-" He gestures to the blankets and flat sheets that hang above the bed, hiding the two of you away, "-even though you didn't. Need. To. Let me make it up to you."

"You could make it up to me by letting me have my slice of cake that's dying to be eaten." You chirp, reaching for your plate with a hint of a smile. But as over-the-top as Felix is, he catches your hand mid-air, lacing his fingers with yours. You groan in response, letting your face fall into the soft cotton that envelopes his chest and torso. His chest moves with the lighthearted chuckle it produces and you swear your brain short-circuits.

"Here I am trying to be a loving and appreciative boyfriend, yet all you care about is food!" He chastises, listening for that scoff that he could always draw from you after such remarks are made. And right on time, you do it, letting your free hand fall against his chest.

"No, no." You drawl, tilting your head up to look at him, lips twitching in a feigned grin. "You're right! I spent all morning playing chicken with your unconscious ass and still managed to make this bomb-ass blanket fort. I think all that work I did deserves the slice of cake sitting right. Over. There."

Your matter-of-fact tone is lost on the man, his gaze clearly set on your lips. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, attempting to hide the full-on grin that's determined to take over your face.

"Mm, I dunno..." He says, reaching for his plate once more. The fork is still loaded with fluffy cake and icing when he picks it up, eyeing it with knitted brows. It's held up just out of your reach. Oh, so close. Sunlight dances in dark irises, tiny shards of citrine catching the rays like stained glass as he shifts his focus back to you.

"I think you'll have to work a bit harder for it."

He can't even say it without his eyes falling to your lips. It's painfully obvious where this is going, and yet - once again - you're taking the bait.

"And what's your offer, Mr. Lee?" You question, shifting one leg so you're straddling his thighs. He takes you in with hungry eyes, mouth twitching in a slight grin. Fingers trace their way down his chest in lazy patterns.

"One kiss. One slice of cake." The plate in his grip keeps a slight distance between you, but at this point, you're not afraid to get a little more even from all the teasing earlier.

"You let me have my slice of cake, I'll give you all the smooches you want, Babe."

Your legs shift around him as you lean over the plate, your gaze level with his. Back to this - noses brushing and stalled eye contact and a desire for those fucking lips on yours. You can't make a play now. You've just moved your game piece. You would lose.

It's his turn now.

"That doesn't sound like a fair trade..." He mumbles, and you feel him lean in just a smidge more. Right where you want him.

"Life's not fair, Babe."

Felix's ears twitch at the sound to his left. A fork, screeching lowly over the surface of the plate as you lean back with your delicious prize. Oh, you haven't just grabbed the bait. You've outsmarted the hunter with all the finesse in the world. Left the trap empty and tripped. You smile triumphantly as you watch the muscles in Felix's jaw work.

You. Are. Infuriating.

"Even on my birthday? You are cruel." Felix's free hand comes to rest on one of your thighs that still straddle his own, browns locked steady on yours that roll in mocking exhaustion.

"Takes cruel to know cruel, hm?" You tilt your head at him, stabbing the utensil into the store-bought confectionary. Decadent goodness envelopes your taste buds and you feel the dopamine release of temporary pleasure flow through you. His eyes haven't left yours, deep brown narrowed on the fork that slowly makes its way back and forth from the plate to your lips. Your lips that were so close just a few minutes ago… He's watching you like a dog, waiting for its owner to drop the smallest morsel that it can snatch. It was comical, if you were honest.

"Shouldn't the Birthday Boy be indulging in the rest of his cake?" You ask, brows raised as your fork sinks into the layers of cake. "Or, is that slice for the taking as well? This is just so delicious."

You shouldn't be grinning so wide. Shouldn't be enjoying this as much as you are. But you are. You're relishing the expression on your boyfriend's face as he barely shakes his head, narrowed optics zeroed in, tongue darting out to wet a twitching bottom lip.

You've properly ruffled his feathers. He doesn't know whether to be proud of your victory or jealous of it.

However, he hasn't admitted defeat yet.

The cogs in Felix's mind are working overtime behind dark eyes, you can tell. An internal debate rages. His hand still rests on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth in soft, slow motions. You're too busy making a show of indulging to notice Felix shove his plate away to the night stand.

"You have a strange idea of cruel, Love."

His comment makes you pause, the fork halfway to your mouth. Felix leans back, his back pressed up against the headboard. He places both hands on your thighs, the muscles tensing under his steady hold. A wave of goosebumps ripple across your skin.

"As much as I enjoy watching you torment me, I think I need to even the playing field." He mumbles. Eyes flicker over your face, studying you. Your reactions.

The way your breath catches in the back of your throat. The little noise that accompanies it that you're unable to hold back. He tilts his head as he continues, his fingers trailing lightly up the back of your legs. Up… and up… and up.

Oh, Fuck it.

You yelp as your perspective tilts, eyes wide as your back sinks into the mass of pillows and blankets that had been behind you. Felix chuckles above you, a show of pearly whites.

You know why he's laughing.

Blue and white icing smears your neck and part of your jaw, the rest of the cake a mess of color over your chest. And the plate? Well, you're lucky you had chosen the paper ones this time because it wouldn't have survived the fall to the floor.

"Felix!" The look on your face is just priceless, really.

"The sheets-"

"Can be washed!" He cuts you off, glancing down at the mess.

"When I said it takes cruel to know cruel, that wasn't an invitation to challenge me on that."

The shock of being toppled backwards in bed is still working through your mind, nevermind the added mess. But by God, are you narrowing your eyes at the man hovering over you.

"Oh, you have no idea how cruel I could get, Babe." He says, voice lowering as he leans down. His breath cascades over the icing on your neck, pressing an open mouthed kiss to the skin there. The squeak you let out is quiet, but oh boy, Felix hears it.

Your persistence is admirable, he'll give you that.

"You're right." He hums to himself, licking away at the blue and white stuck at the corner of his mouth. "Delicious."

One look into those deep browns and you know.

Retaliation?

Inevitable.

Psst!! If you made it this far, thank you for taking the time to read my work 💕 I appreciate you!

#stray kids #skz #lee felix #stray kids x reader #lee felix x reader #felix x reader #lee felix x you #stray kids felix #lee felix imagines #skz x you #skz smut #stray kids smut #gn reader #x gender neutral reader #quokkawritings🌻

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toms-cherry-trees · 4 months

Text

Don’t Hold My Hand (I’ll Break Your Heart) || Tommy Shelby x Fem OC ~ Ch. 3

Summary: The day Thomas has been awaiting for is finally here and things don't go as planned. The first crack begins to show

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: Talks of medical procedures, needles and blood. Tommy suffers a pain episode

Author’s note: I am so sorry this took so long! These past weeks have been terribly busy and I have been having a major writer crisis. Yet here we are and I hope you enjoy!

Requested taglist: @call-sign-shark @zablife

《 Prev part -

Ever since their last encounter, Thomas’ attitude towards her shifted. Charlotte couldn’t say he respected her, for that would take more than a few harsh words and stern looks. But he seemed to have found something in her that piqued his interest. He still refused her help on the daily with the most basic of things, stubborn as a mule, or rather stubborn as a Shelby, but he granted her the ‘honour’ of a few words of conversation every now and then. And Charlotte used every chance she could to try and talk him out of his miracle doctor.

She brought up every argument she could muster, but they were all met with indifferent shrugs of the shoulders, dismissive waves of the hand and, when she pressed too hard, with Thomas turning his back to her and escaping her well intentioned words, seeking refuge in the safety of his veranda. Charlotte remembered time after time when she had to convince soldiers to follow treatment for their own good, to have their medicines and do the exercises and quit the alcohol and the laudanum. She never had to talk a man out of doing something, and definitely never a man like Thomas Shelby.

“Just tell me this, Thomas. Have you ever, at least once, met or even seen any of these veterans this doctor has claimed to cure?”

His silence sufficed as a reply.

The faithful day, Charlotte awoke with a bitter taste in her mouth and a heavy feeling in her stomach. A dull headache throbbed in her temples, since sleep had refused to find her, leaving her to toss and turn as the moon slowly gave way to the sun and the birds chirped in their branches. She did her best to carry on with her duties as usual, but every now and then she nervously glanced up towards the clock, waiting for the strike of 3 in the afternoon. The minutes felt too long and the hours too short. If she stared at the clock, the hands refused to move under her watchful gaze. But then she would turn her back for what felt like five minutes, and when she looked again, nearly an hour had transpired.

The doctor had sent beforehand some medicines that Thomas had to drink prior to the appointment. Charlotte had poured some onto a cup and stared at it intently, hoping that if she looked hard enough she could discern what exactly had been mixed into the ambary liquid, since the bottles had neither a chemist’s name nor any label. But other than identifying a hint of a sweet, herbal scent, she got nothing.

A taxi stopped before the gates just five minutes to three. Mrs. Gray and Charlotte both awaited in the foyer, standing side by side, to welcome the man who promised them the greatest miracle to be ever seen. They heard voices out the door, and Frances opened before he could knock. The second the doctor crossed the threshold, the bad feeling in Charlotte’s gut worsened.

The man before her dressed poorly. And not in the modest but clean way that most working class people did. His brown suit had definitely seen better days, perhaps better years too; frayed at the hems, the seams stretched out and the buttons hanging precariously from thinned out threads. Whoever had sewn in the elbow patches definitely had very little practice in tailoring. The shirt had taken a yellow hue from wear and time, and some bare threads hung from the collar. The shoes desperately needed a visit to the shoemaker, soles detached on the tips, the gap widening with each step.

Two women came with him, one on each side and just a step behind him, both with severe faces and strict postures. They dressed as nurses did, with the light blue dress and the Sister Dora cap upon the hair, but had black rubber aprons tied about the waist instead of the usual soft white linen she herself wore. Their appearance evoked more butchers than healers. Charlotte could certainly picture them wielding cleavers and with red splatters on their faces, not precisely from slicing meat.

Mrs. Gray shared her apprehensions, that much Charlotte could tell by the way the older woman lowered her cigarette slowly, one hand holding onto the ruby pendant hanging from her neck, twirling the gem between her fingers nervously. They both shared a tense and brief side glance, loaded with trepidation, when the doctor took Mrs Gray's hand and kissed it, his head lowered in a bow. She pulled away from his grasp delicately but firmly, the only betrayal in her collected facade being the slight narrowing of her eyes. He then tried to repeat the impish gesture with Charlotte; but the nurse’ hands remained firm behind her, not giving the audacious man even a speck of chance.

The doctor straightened, arms behind his back and puffing out his chest like a proud peacock. He appeared to not be unfazed by the tepid welcoming, although Charlotte easily noticed his barely concealed disappointment. Perhaps in other houses he had been received with tears and cheers like a hero who would save the day. She wondered if he had been sent off with the same enthusiasm after his magical treatments.

“Miss and Madame, I am Doctor Elias Keller '' He put a hand to his chest and bowed again, as if he were being presented to Queen Mary and her daughter in Buckingham Palace. “These are my assistants, Bertha and Henrietta” Both women nodded curtly once, still standing just a step behind Doctor Keller, like petty soldiers flanking a high ranking officer, ready to rush to do his bidding.

The man put out his hand again towards Mrs. Gray, mayhaps hoping for a handshake. But she didn’t give him the satisfaction, instead reaching for her cigarette case and lighting a new one. She took her time to take a long, deliberate drag and allowing the smoke to billow from her dark cherry lips before speaking

“I am Mrs. Gray, Mr. Shelby’s aunt. And this is Charlotte, Mr. Shelby’s private nurse” Charlotte had never heard her refer to Thomas as Mr. Shelby, but she understood the motive; she didn’t want to give Dr. Keller any chance of familiarity. As if she wanted, through subtle actions, to remind him of his position before he got too cocksure. In her line of work she had surely met one too many charlatans, Lottie thought, and she too could smell the rottenness in him.

Doctor Keller smiled, although the gesture looked perfectly practised and not at all sincere. Charlotte did notice that he looked her up and down out of the corner of his eye, and not in a bawdy way; quite the opposite, in fact. He seemed uncomfortable with her presence, a feeling that had appeared upon his face only after Mrs. Gray mentioned her to be a nurse. He fixed his bowtie, giving it a firm tug before addressing her

“A nurse, you say? You certainly don’t look like one, far too young you are. Perhaps a maid turned caretaker?” He raised his eyebrows, his eyes twinkling with condescending amusement. Charlotte clenched her jaw, teeth nearly grinding in annoyance.

“War nurse, in fact. I served in convalescent homes and then field hospitals in France since 1916. I was awarded for distinguished service” She puffed out her chest at the last part. Even if her recognition strips and medal lay forgotten at the bottom of a drawer in her room she had the right to boast about them. She had earned them through hardship and sweat, and she would not let this mountebank look her down.

Doctor Keller’s lips tightened into a line, but he regained himself with such ease one might even doubt the gesture existed. He straightened up once more, his eyes fixated upon Mrs. Gray, every aspect of his posture and demeanour indicating he wished to keep Charlotte excluded from the conversation

“Well Mrs. Gray, I must not be delayed. Every second that I am not by my patient’s side it is a second lost. I am very devoted to them and wish to give them only the best of everything, including my time” Charlotte had to look aside to disguise a poorly stifled laugh. The man didn’t spare her a glance, but his guarding dogs both looked her down with a mixture of annoyance and indignation. The shorter, much older woman reminded Charlotte of her commanding matron in the ward when she first enlisted; they both bore a particular type of severity in their faces that could put generals to their knees. Charlotte had bowed her head before the matron; out of respect for her status and service, but she would not let herself be intimidated by the walking circus before her.

Mrs. Gray on the other hand, had Doctor Keller’s complete attention on her. The man kept trying to go up the stairs, but she kept trying to delay him just a few more minutes

“You have just arrived, why don’t we have tea in the drawing room? We can sit down and discuss what treatment are you planning to implement on my nephew” Her manicured hand came to rest on the doctor’s bicep, as if attempting to steer him away from the grand staircase. But the man, who mere minutes ago had presented himself as fulsome and flirty towards her, didn’t take her attempts kindly. He stepped away from her touch, straightening out his worn jacket.

“Mrs. Gray, I must go to my patient at once. I am a very busy man and see many soldiers like him a day. My time is of precious value and not to be so easily wasted. If you do not show me to his rooms I will be forced to leave and reconsider his position as my patient” He spoke fast, a shrill tone edging his voice, the perfectly polished facade he had brought with himself showing the first crack. He appeared nervous to not have the family’s support, surely not used to be resisted that way. Charlotte prayed internally that Mrs. Gray would push just a little harder, that she would stand her ground for a bit more, enough to scare this opportunist into running and never looking back.

But alas, Mrs. Gray relented, perhaps to spare herself of a round with her nephew when he found out she had blocked the way for his miracle doctor, or mayhaps because she too bore a miniscule sliver of hope that whatever they did to Thomas may work.

She gave Charlotte a look, a brief one, no more than a second, but loaded with many conflicting feelings. Her lips quivered from the effort it took her to not say word, and she had to remind herself mentally of her position within that house; just a worker, placed there to look after the Master of the house, not to give opinions or interfere with his businesses. Feeling her heart tighten, Charlotte led the way towards Thomas’ chambers. When they reached the double doors she pushed them open, allowing them inside before stepping in. But she found her path blocked by the older assistant, who crossed her arm on the threshold to hold her back

“Doctor Keller works alone. If he needs help he will have us. Please wait outside” The harshness of her voice matched perfectly that of her face, her broad frame firmly forcing Charlotte out of the room. Incensed, and perhaps frightened, Charlotte stood her ground, her shoulder pushing against the human wall that was the other woman.

“I work here. I am his caretaker. You will not touch a hair of his head without me there” She spoke perhaps with more passion and strength than her station required, but she felt an overwhelming need to protect Thomas. She could not let, on her best judgement, allow this swindler to beguile Mr. Shelby and endanger his life on false promises.

Just when she readied to perhaps commit acts unbefitting of her against that woman, Mr. Shelby spoke up, his voice calm but firm.

“Charlotte. It’s okay. Just go downstairs”

The assistant stepped aside briefly, allowing Charlotte a peek inside. Thomas sat in his chair near the windows, an unlit cigarette perched between two fingers. Doctor Keller kneeled at his side, holding his free hand in his own in a reassuring grasp. The sunlights poured abundantly through the panes, golden beams framing them.

“Charlotte. Please” He had never said please to her.

He nodded towards the doctor, and the man stood up, taking control of the wheelchair and leading Thomas away from the windows and from Charlotte’s view.

The last thing she thought she saw was a smile on Mr. Shelby’s face before the assistant slammed the door on her face.

Time moved painstakingly slowly. Hour after hour slipped away, the sun steadily making its way across the skies. Warm orange bathed the rooms towards the back of the house, shadows lengthening as afternoon gave way to sunset. Charlotte sat in the main room, a luxury she rarely granted herself. Before she laid a teapot of black currant tea which had not been touched, and biscuits she refused to eat. She had chewed her thumb in anxiousness, leaving the imprints of her own teeth on the pads.

At least five times during her wait, Charlotte made her way towards Thomas’ bedroom but stopped halfway through, doubting in her feet before slowly making her way back down. She wanted to go up and see for herself what they were doing; every fibre of her being urged her to. But at the same time she feared what she would see or hear there.

A half past six, the double doors closed with a dry thud, and heavy footsteps resonated in the stairwell. Charlotte scrambled from her seat, almost slipping on the fancy rug and knocking her hip against a side table as she rushed into the foyer. Somehow Mrs. Gray beat her to it, already standing at the foot of the stairs even though she hadn’t seen her around since the doctor’s arrival.

Doctor Keller marched down the stairs ceremoniously, his head held high, as if he had just rediscovered America. He had removed his jacket, and his yellowed shirt clung to his body with sweat. His assistants walked behind him, carrying his cases and a bag Charlotte swore they hadn’t brought with them. Their rubber aprons had been wiped clean, and for some reason, that didn’t sit right with Charlotte.

He addressed Mrs. Gray, once more his posture and actions disregarding Charlotte’s presence. The man took Mrs. Gray’s hands, and this time she didn’t push him back. His smile suggested reassurance and triumph.

“The procedure has gone well. Mr. Shelby is now upstairs in his bed, sleeping. He has been left exhausted and I suggest he is not disturbed until morning. I will return in a fortnight to repeat the treatment, and will continue to do so as many times as it is necessary, but I feel confident that progress will be seen before my return”

Mrs. Gray’s eyebrows knit together in worry, and although she didn’t grant the doctor the reward of a smile, she had lost some of the apprehension she bore in the morning.

“Can you tell me what exactly is it that you have done to him? What sort of treatment is this?”

Doctor Keller chuckled heartily, shaking his head while he patted her hand “Now Mrs. Gray, those are gruesome details that delicacies like yourself should not have to endure” Charlotte buffed at the last part. Mrs. Gray could be described as anything but delicate. And the comment obviously didn’t sit well with the older woman either, for she immediately dropped the doctor’s hands and took a step back.

“Allow me to see you out, Doctor Keller” Even in now obvious annoyance, Mrs. Gray displayed an affability that Charlotte envied; a possession and control of the emotions that very few mastered. The small group headed outside while the valet brought the car around. But Charlotte did not follow, instead sprinting up the stairs towards Thomas’ bedroom.

She peered inside quietly, walking on tiptoes. Every window had been opened, the room smelling of damp soil and autumn leaves, but the earthy scent could not entirely mask the acrid smell of rubbing alcohol. The breeze had scattered papers from the desk all over the floor, and she hurried to pick them up, knowing how much disorganisation ticked Thomas off. As she placed them on the desk, she noticed they had left a kidney dish forgotten, alongside with a syringe filled with a milkish substance. The needle, the length of Charlotte’s hand, was coated in red.

Slowly, fearfully even, she turned towards the bed. She didn’t know what she expected to see, perhaps a gory scene with blood splattered on the walls and pooling on the floor, or a massacre akin to those seen in the field hospitals in France. Yet she only saw Thomas, laying on his side and submerged in a deep slumber, dressed only in his sleeping shirt and underwear.

She approached him slowly, her keen eye noticing the layer of sweat covering his skin, hair sticking to his temples and beads rolling down the curve of his neck. She dampened a cloth in the basin and wiped his forehead, feeling his skin feverish to the touch. The corners of his mouth had reddened marks, as if they had been rubbed raw against something coarse. Frowning in confusion, Charlotte leaned back, moving to examine the rest of his body. She found nail marks in his palms, in lines of bloodied crescent moon shapes. Just as she moved to grab the first aid kit to clean them, she picked up a small but significant detail.

The sheets had been changed

That morning, the bed had pure white sheets of plain linen without any embellishment, and these had simple blue embroidery on the edges, intertwined with Thomas’ initials as laundry marks. Charlotte could simply not understand why they would change the sheets amidst such secrecy instead of asking her or one of the maids to handle it, and neither could she find said sheets no matter where she looked. Clearly, whatever had been spilled on those linens, the doctor and his devils in tow wanted to be kept secret.

Worry crept up Charlotte’s spine and clawed at her throat. She didn’t want to disturb Thomas’ slumber, not after seeing him sleeping better than he had ever done before. Yet she could not ignore her instincts, not when they screamed at her so loud they drowned every other thought in her mind.

So she sat by the bed and watched.

Waited and watched, while the sun gave way to the moon. A maid brought her food but she barely ate, feeling as if Thomas would burst into pieces or fade into mist if she took her eyes away from him for one second. Frances came near eleven, urging her to go to bed, but she only asked the older woman to take watch for a moment while she changed into her nightgown and robe. Even during the brief routine of closing the curtains and turning off lights she kept glancing towards him. But despite her best efforts she was only human, and the ever growing tension of the day had worn her out. She huddled in an armchair near the bed, a blanket around her legs and a small pillow supporting her neck. She had a book in her lap, but fatigue clouded her vision and foggied her thoughts. She swore she heard the grandfather clock chime 1 in the morning just before she fell asleep.

Charlotte woke up in a nightmare.

In the space between the land of dreams and the real world, guttural, horrific groans of pain seeped into her mind, making her hair stand on edge. Her heartbeat quickened and her feet chilled. She had to fight the drowsiness and exhaustion off her body and will her eyes to open. The room was illuminated only by moonlight coming from one curtain she had kept drawn back, casting phantasmagoric shadows on the walls. As her vision adjusted to the darkness and her senses sharpened, she sought the source of those sounds. Her first instinct was to go to the window, but she hadn’t moved a step when the grunts of pain returned, coming from very close to her.

Thomas doubled over himself in the bed, fingers digging on the sheets and his jaw locked tightly around a corner of the pillow, poorly attempting to drown his pained cries. Charlotte rushed to turn on a lamp, and when warm light bathed him, she let out a scream of her own.

Crimson blossomed in the back of his nightshirt, the stains growing like flowers along the length of his spine. When she pushed his shirt up, she saw bandages entirely soaked in blood, the coppery scent filling her nostrils. The flesh around them had reddened and swelled. Thomas kept writhing, only worsening things as whatever they had done to his back kept tearing open and bleeding anew.

His fingers dug into his own hair, pulling at the black strands in desperation as he muffled the screams by biting into his forearm. Somehow that grounded Charlotte, setting her back into the same steeliness that got her through the war. She rushed to the medicine cupboard and pulled out bottles, not even bothering to check the labels, for she knew what she looked for. The laudanum she kept at the very bottom, hidden behind all the taller bottles, had not been opened. She went to pour it in a spoon, but thought it better and instead poured it into a glass, estimating what dosage would put two adult men to sleep. With the amount of whiskey and other things Thomas consumed on the daily, she knew a spoonful would barely give him a tickle.

She climbed in bed next to him, trying to sit him up so he could drink. But Thomas seemed to be paralysed with pain, and even the tiniest of movements reignited the agony. Not a word passed his lips, only exclamations of pains mixed with heavy, slowly drawn gasps of air, for even the simple act of breathing had become a struggle.

“Thomas, Thomas, breathe. Breathe with me” She cooed soothingly, running her fingers through his hair in a gentle caress “I have your medicines. But you need to sit up a bit to drink” Her calm words fell on deaf ears, and she couldn’t blame him for not heeding her command. Charlotte wanted desperately to ease his suffering, but for that she had to move him, which would only worsen his pain. She hated she had to do it, but it was for his own sake.

“I am sorry about this” She murmured as she sat by his side, hooking her arms under his heavy body the best she could to pull him up. The scream he emitted was otherworldly, and she could only silence it by putting her hand in his mouth, letting him bite her flesh like a rabid dog. The pain shot up her arm but she ignored it, not moving until his jaw had unclenched. She had managed to prop him upright against her chest, with her own back resting against the headboard. His head laid limp against her bosom, and the still fresh blood stained her robe. But none of that mattered at the moment.

Charlotte tried to get him to drink with the spoon but he refused to open his mouth. Sweat now poured profusely down his face and neck, giving his skin an unhealthy glistening. Even in the faint light she could see his complexion had paled, but at least it appeared the bleeding had stopped. Charlotte forced the spoon past his lips, but he only splattered on it, spilling the laudanum everywhere. When she tried again, he shook his head like a child refusing his porridge. She sighed in frustration, and also because his weight against her made it hard to breathe.

“Thomas, please. It will do you good. I promise it. You will feel better”

Again, nothing. Every muscle in his body was painfully tense, and she could see the vein in his forehead popping and the pulse beating strong and quick in the side of his neck. She placed a tender hand on the side of his face, her thumb running up and down the sharp length of his jaw to ease the tension. After a few minutes she noticed a slight improvement and how his lips parted open. Lottie seized that opportunity and brought up the spoon again. And this time, he sipped the medicine.

“That’s it. Take it slowly. This will make you feel better Tommy”

The pet name escaped her without thinking, and honestly, she didn’t give it a second thought. His aunt called him that so often that it had simply slipped into her vocabulary.

Spoon by spoon, slowly and carefully, Thomas drank the laudanum. The medicine acted quickly, and soon the relaxation became visible in his body. His muscles loosened, his breathing calmed and his pulse returned to normal.

Minutes ticked by in peaceful calmness, a stark contrast to the abrupt awakening she had. A brief glance to the clock showed her a quarter to four. Still a long time to go before sunrise. And a lot to be done. The bed had been left a disaster, as had Thomas himself. She would not bother with the sheets but the bandages and his clothes needed changing. It took her some serious shifting and pulling to get out from under him, but at last Charlotte managed to lay him down, propped comfortably on some pillows. She laid him as comfortable as she could, since she doubted she would be able to move him again.

The shirt was a goner, so she had no qualms in cutting it to shreds to slip it off his body. The bandages soon followed, alongside the thick folds of gauze which were now blood soaked. The sight underneath stole the breath from her lungs

A series of wounds traced the length of Thomas’ spine, from lower to mid back. Perfectly lined puncture wounds, in pairs, going up at regular intervals. Whatever needle had been used surely resembled more an icepick, for the holes seemed to have been drilled in his flesh. Charlotte could not even fathom what sort of procedure Tommy had been put through, but now her other findings made sense. The nail marks on his own hands from where he has fisted them so tight, and the abrasions on his mouth, surely a leather strip or a simile had been put in his mouth as a gag. Tears welled up in her eyes when she thought how he had willingly subjected himself to torture of the worst kind just for a crumb of hope.

She washed him clean as best as she could in that position, rinsing away the blood and sweat. She didn’t have any medicines at hand to apply to the wounds, so she only rebandaged them, making a mental note to ring a real doctor the next day for some real medicines. Since the sheets could not be changed nor could he be dressed again, Charlotte laid some clean towels around him and tucked him tight with the blankets.

As she moved around him, she paid close attention to his face for the first time. Without that perennial scowl on his face he appeared much younger, even under all that messy hair and unkempt beard. His eyelashes were enviably long, casting shadows upon his high cheekbones even under the weak light of the bedside lamp. His nose had a straight slope, and his jaw a particular sharpness, noticeable despite the beard. He was objectively very handsome, a man girls would surely fawn over.

Just as she readied to retake her watching post, Charlotte noticed again the nail marks on his palms, now swelling up and the skin purpling. She took his hand on her lap as she cleaned it gently, wrapping a simple bandage around them. Just as she moved to stand, his hand gripped tightly the fabric of her robe, stalling her moves.

When she turned to face him, she realised Thomas had been awake this whole time. His eyes were open, and the ice had melted from them, giving way to a sharp shade of blue, vibrant even under the obvious exhaustion. His eyes fixed upon her, and they held each other’s gazes for a moment. Charlotte had stared into those eyes many times, and had read many hidden emotions behind the blueness, but that night she saw something new, something she never expected to see in him; vulnerability. Raw, deep, unsuppressed vulnerability. The first glimpse of the man behind the carefully crafted iron mask.

It felt almost wrong to be allowed to see the facade crack, like being made privy to a secret she felt unworthy of. At last, she lowered her eyes first, working on putting aside her medical supplies, just to keep her hands and her concentration busy.

“Sleep, Tommy” The words were hushed, her voice meant to be soothing, although he wouldn’t need much soothing with the dosage of laudanum she gave him “Rest will do you good”

Charlotte moved to stand, but he moved to grip her wrist instead, his hold firm but not hurtful. She looked up to him again, confusion lacing her features.

“Stay”

The words were spoken through great effort, coming out raspy and strained, but perfectly clear.

“I will not leave you. I will sit right by your bed” She reassured him, but he didn’t let go. In a sudden movement he pulled on her arm, throwing her off balance and tossing her rather unceremoniously on the bed, so that their bodies laid close together. She felt her heart rise to her throat, eyes wide and breaths quick at the sudden proximity. She wondered if the pain medicines had loosened Thomas’ inhibitions. Or perhaps he was just in desperate need of some of the human contact he often rejected.

For long minutes Tommy just stared at her wordlessly, not offering an explanation as to why he did that, nor letting go of her arm either. Heat rose to Charlotte’s cheeks, yet she could not look away from him either. The silence lingered until she chose to break the spell.

“Tommy?”

His fingers slid down from her wrist, lacing his hand with hers. His next words held a longing and rawness Charlotte didn’t believe possible in him.

“Don’t leave me alone. Not tonight"

#marsie writes #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby x fem oc #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby series #tommy shelby one shot #charlotte tindall #female oc #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #peaky blinders #don't hold my hand (i'll break your heart)

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whymzecal · 9 months

Text

So I wrote a little something.... its been awhile. Just because I cant stop thinking about this.

‐---------‐-----*******

As we walk towards the market, my arm curled around Laudnas. I want her close. I slow my walk and gently pull us to a stop.

"This is not how I imagined reuniting would go." My heart fluttering as I turn towards her.

"I am sorry for my outburst." Laudna says.

" I am sorry ya'll went through so much." I respond. Looking at my feet.

Laudna looks uncertain and ashamed. "It's not directed at you or anyone, I hope you know that."

I grasp her hand in reassurance. " I do." I meet her eyes.

"Its just the circumstances thats frustrating." She looks defeated.

My heart breaks knowing that she was hurt. "It is weird Laudna, I cant hear your thoughts."

"Even now?" She asks.

"Yeah," I reach up to my circlet.

Laudna nods, "Because of your circlet? Thats great...."

"Its great but its also strange. Its very strange." I hear my own voice uncertain. Thoughts that were once so clear to me and soothing in my mind are now quiet. I look at her face as I have done a thousand times, expecting to hear her thoughts.

She smiles at me, "Does it make crowded enviroments easier?" Eyes hopeful.

"So much easier." I assure her.

"Then thats wonderful. You dont have to listen in to get my thoughts. I'll always share them willingly with you. Just ask."

My heart racing, I hold her hands and before I can lose my nerve, I look up and cup her cheek. "Can I kiss you?" My voice trembling, "I cant tell if its alright or not anymore."

I hold my breath as Laudnas face processes the words I have said. Shock, surprise, fear, hope all race across her face. And she barely whispers, "Alright."

I reach for her face, meeting her eyes and pull her gently towards me, so I will, I do, I do, I kiss her. I put every ounce of love into that kiss. I want her to know how much I love her and missed her. I dont want to scare her. My heart is pounding so loudly I scarcely remember that we are in the market.

I could not go one more day without letting her know how I felt. How it is only now, unable to hear her thoughts that I can tell her. The choice should be hers. I pull away still holding her face. I never want to be far from her.

"I... you don't have to..." my words fail me. "I just..." holding my breath.

Laudnas voice trembles. "Obviously I care for you an immense deal. I dont know if you realize how much of an anchor you are for me. And when you weren't... when you weren't there I was adrift. And Imogen, you make me better and when you weren't there I did horrible things. I'm afraid, I'm a bad person. Imogen." Her eyes fill with tears.

I am quick to reassure her, "You're not, you're not a bad person." I squeeze her hands, meeting her sad eyes. Suddenly Laudna kisses me. Hurriedly and desperately. As if she is afraid I will change my mind and run. I will never run. I love her so much.

"I've heard everything inside you Laudna. You are not a bad person." She struggles to meet my gaze. "I called you my anchor, my tether, we're that for each other. Whatever you did you can tell me." My thumb brushes her cheek. My hand in hers.

Tears streaming down her face "When Bor'Dor betrayed us it was the last... I was so strained and stressed.." her voice falters more. " and literally hanging on by a thread.. I couldnt deal with one more person betraying us, we put our trust in him and Deni$e and Prism. Just like you all did with Deanna and F.R.I.D.A just like Yu and so many other people who betrayed us in the past. It broke me and I couldnt let him... " her words trailing off.

I am holding my breath not wanting to show my anger for her being put in that position. Trying to be supportive and loving. " Had he attacked you? Or was it...?"

"Yes it was after he revealed that he was part of the Ruby Vangaurd. He unleashed this acid... this vitriolic sphere on all of us and watched several people go down and, and.. I lost control. I lost control. And I havent asked, but I think she's back." She gestures to her chest.

I am stunned, shocked nearly speechless. I understand her fear now. Why she looks distraught. My hands cover my mouth in shock.

"I think shes back and I just feel so guilty for what all of you went through to defeat her. And..and in just in that moment I was another person and I... I sucked the lifeforce out of him. Then, I felt it, I felt that dull, deep beating heart that isnt mine return. I havent felt that in months!" As she twists her hands in fear, her voice breaking. "I am so sorry! It feels like such a betrayal to everything you all went through."

I reach for her once more determined to hold her. "You dont have to apologize. He attacked you first of all. Fuck him." My anger seaps through... ,"and whatever happened with her," I place my hand on her chest. " We'll make it right again. Alright?"

She meets my gaze and I can feel her calm, "Can I be honest with you?" She asks.

"Always." I say.

" There is part of me that thinks that maybe we should... we're about to face the grandest challenges of our lives...."

"You want to use her?" I look unflinchingly into her dark eyes. "Make yourself stronger?"

Laudna looks down in shame unable to even say the words.

"I get it. Look at that fucking moon in the sky. I dont know if I want to get rid of it."

She smiles at me and I know that we are in this together. I would do anything for her. Anything.

"Powers very tempting. I won't judge you either way." Never breaking eye contact.

Laudna shifts slightly, " Maybe we can... maybe its our destiny to harness..."

"Maybe its our destiny to fight it." I smile at her.

"I guess time will tell." She grips my hand tighter, hopeful.

"Together either way."

"You're very capable." She smiles at me and for the first time in what seems like forever, I giggle. I hug her and pat her back. I make sure she knows that I am not going anywhere. For better or worse I will be by her side. I take her arm and we continue through the market.

"Do you think shes a rye or whole wheat? Laudna asks as we pass the baker.

"Pumpernickel for sure." I say and grab a loaf.

She smiles at me. "Of course!"

#imodna #imogen temult #imogen x laudna #critical role #laura bailey #marisha ray #i am ded #laudna

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mindshelter · 2 years

Note

on writing prompts: how bout timkon (platonic or romantic or the muddy in between they're laying in) + ttk shenanigans?

(also just wanted to say i loooove your timkon fics, they're the few i reread every so often bc the characterization and the dynamic you write for them Hits. hope you're having a lovely day!)

Hands slide up Tim’s face, large thumbs stroking his cheekbones in slow swoops. Water is still beading at the tips of his hair, gravity willing it downwards. The fog is clearing, heat sinking towards tiled flooring, but the temptation to sleep blurs the edges of his consciousness.

“Don’t fall asleep here,” Kon says, clearly attempting to sound stern—but Tim can imagine Kon’s scrunched-up grin even as his eyelids flutter and fatigue reduces the world to little more than a muted smear.

“Mm,” says Tim, head tipping forward. He hasn’t been able to afford a good night’s rest for nearly two months, rationing sleep on rooftops as a teammate kept watch or in the quiet of a fusty motel room close to their target, nodding off as a computer program dug up files like scraping char off a pot. Espionage work is as gratifying as it is long and soul-destroyingly boring. Being attacked from behind with a knife was the biggest highlight of the assignment aside from finishing it and going home.

The delicate pressure begins at Kon’s fingertips, wicking the excess moisture where they touch Tim’s skin. They slide upwards, smoothing back the clumps of hair clinging to his forehead. Tim shivers when Kon reaches the nape of his neck, gliding over an island of scar tissue. The nerves there are either semi-healed or beyond repair, oversensitive at some spots, numb at others, all overlaid with leather.

Kon had his palm laid over the small of his back and a smile against his mouth, the first time Tim let himself be touched like this. His hand had continued to meander before it gathered some courage to wander upwards. Unhurried and light, giving plenty of time for Tim to pull away. Tim had waited for the familiar feeling of insects crawling over him—but a hush had fallen inside of him.

Before he knows it, Kon is taking a step backwards. The distance is still short enough that Tim’s legs still flank either side of his hips.

“Is being able to sleep anywhere and everywhere part of spooky’s training regimen?” Kon asks, giving Tim’s hair another ruffle. “Alongside ‘how to hang upside down,’ intensive endurance, strength and martial arts training? Mastering the crabby grunt?”

Tim grunts.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Kon says, dragging out the first word. “I bet Bruce made you practice sleeping upside down, with all those bats in your cave. Stick with the theme, you know. My working theory is that it’s mandatory. Only after you’ve inhaled enough bat guano fumes to lose your mind—then you’re ripe and ready to hit the streets.”

“That’s just me, Conner,” Tim mumbles. And the repeated head trauma, probably.

Tim’s body lifts off the bathroom counter—and then the counter is upside down, as is everything else in the en suite. The bend of his knees dangle off of Kon’s outstretched arm, but it’s the TTK wound around him holding Tim steady. Tim yawns, but wraps his arms around himself in the best mimicry of the actual animal he can manage just to hear Kon laugh.

The things he does for love. “I am the night,” Tim says.

Kon chortles before flipping Tim back upright—Tim lands in his arms, and he rolls his eyes as Kon elbows the light switch and unceremoniously kicks the en suite’s door open to cross the short distance needed to reach Kon’s bed. It’s on the smaller side for two grown men, but Tim can’t say that he minds.

There are a few thin, faded strips of moonlight threading past the window curtains. Kon chose an East-facing room to get the most sun in the morning. The bedsprings squeak and whine as Kon drops their combined weight onto the mattress. TTK rearranges the duvet over their bodies while hands draw Tim in by the waist; Tim wriggles to nuzzle closer.

This kiss tastes of spearmint. Tim is sure Kon is listening for his pulse; he can hear it too, loud, steady, and just as well as the soft breaths Kon releases as Tim licks into his mouth. It’s perfect, even if Tim’s exhaustion is apparent in the way their teeth clack together.

Tim can’t see Kon properly in this darkness. But he traces Kon’s jaw, his browbone—indulges, luxuriates in the softness of Kon’s hair, the rise and fall of his chest, his golden heart—

“Missed you,” Kon murmurs once they break apart. Tim uses the last dredges of his energy to leave one more kiss between Kon’s eyebrows.

It’s so warm under the covers, his limbs tangled with Kon’s. Like they made their own hearth.

He never wants this to end.

Tim’s more than terrified that it might. (It will, part of him insists. He’ll come to his senses; it’s just a question of when.) Good things rarely last, and Kon won’t ignore the rot inside of Tim forever.

In the meantime—he’s happy, pursuing the indomitable challenge of being enough, and is entirely too selfish to walk away from this.

Kon’s happy too, Tim thinks; sadness always paralyzes him. Tim becomes volatile—and so, so angry—but Kon prefers to vanish, making himself scarce and quiet if he could wish himself away.

He’s been singing, lately—off-note, but Tim never says a thing. It’s only as it started happening again that Tim had realized it used to be a regular habit of his. His laughter is loud again, booming down hallways, no longer fearful of taking up space.

It’s Kon’s turn to yawn. “What’re you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” Tim says. “You,” he amends.

thank you for the prompt, anon! i had fun with it, and hopefully it’s to your liking. i think i adhered to the ttk theme enough dsksls <3

i’m accepting fic prompts; details here!

#timkon #tim drake #kon el #dc #my writing #heavily influenced by the fact that post-resurrection tim basically lets kon get away with anything #he has infinite patience for this guy now #fic requests

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little-peril-stories · 4 months

Text

The Prince of Thieves: As Good as Gold, and Better: Part II

Contains: annoying children; annoying men; social pressure to kiss under the mistletoe

Previous | TPOT Masterlist | Next | Read on Ao3 instead

Word count: 4000 || Approx reading time: 17 mins

Easier to understand if you've read Are You Nobody, Too?

As Good as Gold, and Better: Part II

Teaser: I can feel a gaze burning into my back, but when I turn, Henry is distracted, talking to one of his idiot friends. Sure I’m going to find Colette watching me from over her book, I glance to the corner. It’s not a stare of deep, coffee-coloured brown that’s on me, though, but a hazel-eyed one instead.

Bree

The deal is thus: one more round of preparatory Christmas baking to keep our patrons well-fed and smiling on Christmas Day, and then I am permitted to join the hullabaloo out on the floor, where everyone is busy decorating the tree Will, Jamie, Geoff, and Allan brought inside. (Well, if the way they barrelled through the door is to be believed, the former three did the hauling of the actual tree, and Allan was the one who ended up carrying all their stuff, including Will’s coat that he oh-so-wisely doffed despite the cold wind and the snow.)

I make it out of the kitchen to see Stella loudly warning the children staying at the inn that no one is to put any candles on the tree branches, and just because the fancy trees owned by rich families and royalty bear gleaming, brightly lit flames does not mean that she has to do the same. How would we all like it, she barks, if the entire inn caught fire and we were all thrown out in the snow for our own safety in the dead of night?

Even Celeste doesn’t try to stem Stella’s tirade; none of us, as it turns out, wants to burn to death on Christmas Eve, and no one puts up a fight on the matter.

“Ah, here’s Lucy now,” Celeste says, waving me over. “These lovely little lads and lasses are going to make us some beautiful ornaments to hang upon the tree. Isn’t that right, children?” She points to the table, now strewn with all the coloured paper, scissors, needles and thread, and other decorating paraphernalia.

An excitable chorus of agreement swells around us, making me smile until Celeste finishes, “And Miss Lucy’s here to keep an eye on you and help you, all right?”

Across the room, Victoria, who’s obviously listening, presses her hand to her mouth in genuine pity as mine drops open.

“How wonderful,” I manage to say. The first barrage of little hands is already tugging at my skirt.

Celeste smiles sympathetically—not quite sympathetically enough to take over the task herself, though, of course. I suppose someone does need to ensure things are running smoothly around the inn and she is perhaps a bit old to be minding little ones…but still.

“I’ll be around if you need me,” she says, which does not offer me much comfort. “Don’t let the really young ones touch the scissors or the needles.”

“You’re responsible for wiping their tears and cleaning up the blood if you do,” Stella says, whizzing past with a broom and disappearing again.

Great.

As I’m about to let myself fall into self-pity looking at the crowd of children—every single one vying for my attention—and wonder where all their parents are, I notice that a blue-eyed gaze is watching me from across the room.

“What?” I mouth impatiently. I don’t have time for Henry’s nonsense on a good day—certainly not when I’m going to spend the next two hours stringing dried apples and popcorn into garlands, or folding paper into stars and flowers while being shrieked at by a horde of children.

Instead of trying to answer through all the chaos, he just holds something up into the air.

Oh, he’s lucky I’m not anywhere close to him right now, because I am holding a very sharp pair of scissors and he ought to be very, very grateful I can’t drive them right into his hand.

Dangling from his hand: a bouquet of greenery tied in a red ribbon. Soft green leaves, thin stalks, and brilliant, round berries as white as the snow that coats the ground outside.

“Absolutely not,” I shout across the room, forgetting myself, and he flashes me that asshole grin of his. “Get it out of here!”

Colette, who is pretending to read Dickens while she coolly observes the pandemonium from the corner where she’s sitting with the others, notices me yelling and follows my gaze to Henry Bailey and his goddamn sprigs of mistletoe. Her eyebrows move upwards.

Unfortunately, the bombardment of, “Miss Lucy! Miss Lucy!” grows to be too much then, and now I have to actually be grateful to be surrounded by all the little Christmas goblins who need to me to do everything for them, because as long as I’m being climbed on by five-year-olds, Henry can’t get anywhere near me with his stupid plant or his stupid mouth.

“All right,” I say, clapping my hands in a weak attempt to look like I know how to command the attention of children. “Shall we begin?”

I can feel a gaze burning into my back, but when I turn, Henry is distracted, talking to one of his idiot friends. Sure I’m going to find Colette watching me from over her book, I glance to the corner. It’s not a stare of deep, coffee-coloured brown that’s on me, though, but a hazel-eyed one instead.

One kid ends up on the floor and makes me yelp when she crawls right under my skirt, between my legs, all rosy-cheeked and giggling.

“Right! No, thank you!” I tug her to her feet and catch Victoria leaning against the wall, giggling helplessly at my plight. She’s supposed to be untangling the existing garlands, I think, and she’s got part of one hanging over her shoulder, but apparently my suffering is an endless well of amusement. Maybe this was her duty last year, before I was hired, and she is sympathetic but relieved to be free of it. Maybe this is some sort of rite of passage I need to survive. Somehow.

I take the little girl by the hand and guide her to the table. “What about a star?” I ask her uncertainly. “Does that sound fun?”

She gives some sort of incoherent babbling in response and reaches for the coloured paper and a pencil. With her attention on that, I can move on to the next squealing child.

There are a few older kids, thank goodness, that I pass some of the duties to, getting them to cut paper snowflakes and stars for the younger ones while I thread needles and fold paper into roses. Well…try to.

“Hey. Let us help.”

It’s so loud in here, I almost miss it. Maybe I did miss the first few times they said it, because Colette just elbows her way in and sits down, directing Will to do the same on the other side of me.

“Let me fold,” she says, not-at-all-subtly biting back a laugh and taking my sorry attempt at paper foliage right out of my hands. “You do the other stuff.”

Well. If she wants to suffer through that, I’m not going to take the opportunity away from her. I’ll happily relinquish that responsibility.

“I can do this,” Will says, picking up one of the threaded needles. He must be able to read the question in my raised eyebrows, because he says, “Hey! It’s not that hard. And I can sew. Sort of. Now. Kind of.”

Next to me, Colette snorts.

“It’s not real sewing, anyway, though, is it?” He’s going a little red, but the look on his face is earnest.

I pluck the needle from his hand. “I think I have a better idea.”

I’ll take care of making the garlands with the “help” of some of the little ones. He can be the one to lift them up and stand them on chairs sturdily enough that they don’t fall and break their necks or knock over anything that might shatter while they add their decorations to the tree.

“Brave,” Colette murmurs once we’ve set him doing that, “but pretty smart.”

“Brave?” I repeat, wincing. How is this needle so dull? This is the eighth time I’ve accidentally stabbed myself trying to string popcorn.

She nods toward Will. “Well, smart to have him do that so you don’t have to do all the heavy lifting.”

She grins conspiratorially, and I can’t help but match it. “Was it that obvious?”

“No. I just know you’re clever. Like me.” She laughs. “And brave to trust him with—well, with anything.”

My answer slips out so fast, I’ve said it before I’ve even thought it through. The words just fall out. “Of course I trust him. I trust him with my—”

The needle bites into my finger again, and I stop, hissing and checking for blood.

Still smiling, she concentrates on her folding and twisting and doesn’t give an answer.

For a few minutes, anyway.

“And Goldilocks?” She nods across the room, and I peer out through the chaos, trying to find who she means. “You trust him?”

It takes me a moment to realize who she’s talking about: a grinning, loud-mouthed figure who’s got Stella’s glare on him as well as mine and Colette’s.

Goldilocks. She’s calling Henry Goldilocks. I almost fall off my chair, giggling and silently resolving to bring the name into our next practice session to see what he says.

“Oh, he’s harmless,” I tell her when I can speak again. “I mean, he’s shameless. A ridiculous flirt.”

“You don’t say,” she says drily.

I bite my lip. Sounds like he’s tried at least a little to get her attention, too, albeit unsuccessfully. “Yeah. He’s an idiot. But he knows it, at least. And he’s all right when you get to know him. Just…irritating.”

“Are you actually friends with him?” she asks, incredulous.

“I suppose so,” I say, thinking of a bruise I’ve got on my hip from our last morning session that I still need to pay him back for.

“So you trust him, too.”

Trust him? I must, considering all the times I’ve put my bodily well-being in his hands. “Well, I suppose I trust him enough.” I shoot a dirty look his way, though, at the reminder of what new instrument of annoyance he’s brought into the inn. “I wasn’t expecting the mistletoe, though.”

“Want me to set him straight for you?”

A funny thing happens deep behind my ribcage at her words. “No…no, I can handle him. I promise.” At this, I almost want to cry, although I expect it would look strange to see me weeping into a bowl of dried oranges and popcorn just because she offered to get Henry to lay off and quit bothering me. Because maybe Colette, even just a bit, sort of cares. “But I appreciate it. Really.”

“Just say the word,” she says, leaning over a paper carnation. “He looks like he’d be fun to smack around if he stepped out of line.”

“He is,” I joke back without thinking.

Colette’s head snaps back up.

“I mean…” Shit. “You know. Telling him to back off. And stuff.”

I don’t know why I’m keeping the lessons a secret from her. I’m pretty sure she knows how to fight. She probably wouldn’t think it strange. But I find my gaze pulled to another figure in the room, all freckles and flailing elbows and big grins, and I have to wonder what he’d think if she went and told him. Not that it matters, of course. It doesn’t. But still. I wonder. Just a little.

Colette gives me a look that says she knows very well what it looks like when people are keeping secrets, but she doesn’t press the matter.

After a cursory look at the little ones to make sure no one has a sharp tool who shouldn’t have one, and no one’s crying, fighting, or making more of a mess than expected, I put my attention back on Will. I didn’t really know what I was doing when I told him to help the children put their ornaments on the tree, but he’s doing a splendid job, so much that I almost want to let my hands fall still so I can keep watching him. He’s got this great silly smile on his face every time he kneels down to talk to one of them, and even though they’re so much smaller, none of them seem the slightest bit frightened. One of the little girls—of course, it’s the one with personal space issues, the one who crawled under my legs earlier—even leaps into his arms out of sheer excitement to put her messily drawn star as high upon the tree as she can reach.

As she stretches her arm and hangs it near the top, Will looks over here too, and I’m caught staring.

Stupidly, I wave at him, not sure what else to do since it’s too late to look away, and he grins, holding my gaze with those sparkling eyes for a few extra moments before he has to bring the girl back down to the ground.

“You all right?” Colette asks lightly, and I realize one of my hands has come to rest over my heart, which is pounding in a most unseemly and ridiculous way.

“Yes,” I say quickly, reaching for another slice of dried orange. “I’m just getting tired. It’s been a busy day.”

She gives me that look again.

“I didn’t know Will liked kids,” I say.

She glances over at him, a little smile on her lips. “Why wouldn’t he? He’s nothing but a big kid himself.”

And to be fair, he seems to be having the time of his life, bouncing around and making them “fly” a little when they ask for it and laughing at the same silly things they all find amusing. “I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” she says, and she winks.

I don’t expect there will be any Christmas gifts under that tree for me tomorrow, but, even so, it sure feels like I’ve got something else, something that can’t be wrapped up in a box and ribbon. Something I didn’t have before.

And like mulled wine, warm and comforting and steeped in spices that taste like home, gratitude spills over me—for smiles and company and maybe, just maybe, newly forged friendship.

***

The other three have been hiding out in the corner for through most of the decorating, but when it comes time to crown the tree with the star, Stella takes one look around the room and lands a stare on Geoff. “You. Get over here.”

There’s only a split second of him staring back at her in surprise, and then, at the sound of Colette bursting into laughter, and at the unbudging resolution in Stella’s voice, he rises and crosses the room.

“Wow,” says one of the children, practically bug-eyed. “He’s tall.”

“I know,” Celeste says with a laugh. “That’s why we need him.”

The little girl from before, who seems to have finally found her harried-looking mother, bursts away and darts toward Geoff. “Can I do it? Please? Please? Please?”

Geoff stands helplessly, clearly not knowing what to do while she dances around him, pleading to be the one to put the star on the top of the tree. A glance at Will shows that he’s almost toppled to the floor, shaking with silent laughter, and another at Jamie shows that he has his arms crossed and is merely watching with a smile. He doesn’t notice me staring, but gives Geoff an encouraging nod.

“That okay?” Geoff asks the girl’s mother, voice low but uncertain, almost nervous.

She looks him up and down, obviously wary of his gruffness and his ridiculous height, but the daughter is clinging to his hands now, jumping up and down, and the mother has no choice but to say, “Well, all right then. If you’ll—um—if you’ll be careful.”

The girl squeals with delight as Celeste hands her the star and Geoff lifts her into the air, no step-ladder needed.

“Perfect,” Celeste says when the star is glinting atop the tree, and after Geoff has taken a moment to straighten it from the slightly drunken posture it was left in by the girl. Even Stella looks genuinely happy. She doesn’t bat Celeste’s hands away when they come to rest upon her—one on her shoulder, the other with fingers entwined with hers.

I peek back at the others, curious to see their reactions to the loveliness of the tree they chose, adorned and glittering. Will’s grinning, although for some reason he glances a few times at the clock; Jamie looks content; Allan is distracted by tending to someone’s kid who got a pine needle stick under his fingernail; Geoff is trying to slink back to Jamie’s side without being noticed; and Colette’s given up her reading ruse entirely, now openly watching Stella and Celeste with undisguised interest. It’s clear from how she’s always watching everything that goes on around here that her old habits from being IA’s information-gatherer are taking their sweet time to fade away.

“Hey, Miss Lucy.”

And, of course, now there’s this voice interrupting my thoughts.

“Yes, Mr. Bailey? What can I do for you?” Turning around brings me face to face with his red waistcoat, and I tilt my head up to frown at him, suspicious. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?” he asked, all innocence.

“You know what.” I cross my arms. “Your damn mistletoe.”

“What damn mistletoe?”

“Henry.”

He flashes me that stupid, stupid grin. “You mean this?”

All around us, the older kids burst into cries, giggles, and oohs when he pulls it from behind his back and dangles it over my head. The younger ones don’t seem to know what it means, but buoyed by the infuriating enthusiasm of their older siblings, they join in on the excited squalling.

“We had a deal,” I say, trying to keep smiling for the sake of these goddamn children and no one else.

“Ah, yeah. We did. I recall.” But he’s still smirking. “This, though. It’s a Christmas tradition! Nothing more. And you don’t want to spit in the face of tradition, do you?”

“I hate you,” I say through gritted teeth.

He laughs, damn him. “No, you don’t.”

The kids are all shrieking now, like they’ve never seen mistletoe before, which cannot possibly be true. With my face burning, I step a little closer, aiming for his foot with mine. He dodges at the last second.

“You gotta try a little harder than that,” he says with a wink.

“Is that a challenge?”

I can’t control the way my eyes peer back, just for a second. It’s Colette who catches my eye; she has somehow commandeered Geoff away from Jamie, but she’s not looking at him while she talks. Like everyone else in this stupid inn, she’s watching Henry taunt me with those stupid fucking berries over my head.

With a sigh, I step forward and plant the most chaste kiss I can possibly manage on Henry’s cheek, this time landing a stomp on his toes.

“I’m going to make you pay for this,” I hiss in his ear.

Even though I’m sure his foot hurts, his eyes are still sparkling. “Darling, I’m counting on it.”

No one notices me trampling his toes or whispering threats, of course; the kids are all too busy losing their minds, along with someone else. Throwing his head back, laughing his ass off, Henry lets out a victorious whoop, then kisses me in matching chasteness on my cheek, and it’s only because he doesn’t try to steal a real kiss that I don’t sock him right in the stomach and show off all he’s taught me in front of everyone.

My heart’s pounding, I realize when he pulls away, but it has nothing to do with Henry’s lips against my cheek.

Victoria, looking sulkier than she did before, tries to nudge through the crowd, and I grab her hand. “Hey! Look!” I cry dramatically. “Mistletoe!”

And I switch places with her, so she’s now standing with Henry instead of me, and she’s giving me a look of pure joy, all sullenness instantly banished, and Henry’s rolling his eyes but also seeming to say, Well, may as well, and he kisses her, too, making her squeal and eliciting a round of cheers from his friends.

“Merry Christmas, you annoying bastard,” I say, quietly enough that no one can hear me—it wouldn’t do to scandalize the children, after all—but maybe, with any luck, he’ll read my lips and get the hint.

I glance at the corner, where Colette is clutching Geoff’s arm and suppressing a laugh with her lips squeezed together. Jamie’s stone faced. Allan looks confused.

Will is gone.

***

I don’t think my feet have ever hurt so much. This is the thought that keeps repeating in my head as I stumble upstairs to mine and Victoria’s room. Actually, it’s just my room tonight, because after she finished work, she departed to spend the night with her family so she can wake up with them on Christmas morning. I asked her once why she lives here with Stella and Celeste if her family’s not that far away, and she just said they lived too far out of town that the journey every day wouldn’t have been worthwhile. I figured I’d just take her word for it, but if I had a choice between living with Stella and not, well…

I’m almost up the stairs when a familiar voice breaks through the quiet.

“Will, are you even listening?”

Seems that when he disappeared earlier, he just came straight back up here.

“Mmm hmm,” he responds, or that’s what it sounds like, anyway. It’s quiet, almost inaudible, and unmistakably the voice of a man who is not listening at all.

Another voice. Jamie’s. Faintly concerned and quieter than Colette’s. “I guess none of us are getting any sleep tonight, huh?”

“You can do whatever you want,” Will mumbles back. “It’s not finished.”

“Looks finished.” That one’s Geoff, all rumble and thinly disguised amusement.

“Well, it’s not.”

Eavesdropping is wrong, but my curiosity burns a little. Well, a lot. Not finished what? Is “it” the reason he ran off, away from the mistletoe and the tree and the Henry Bailey debacle? Did he even see any of that?

Not that I care, of course.

“I still think you should listen,” says Colette. “I’m going to keep going now.”

“Okay,” he grumbles. “Hurry up, then.”

A soft grunt and the faintest thud make me wonder if she didn’t throw a pillow right at his head.

“‘And yet I should have dearly liked, I own,’” Colette reads after Will’s cursing has died down, “‘to have touched her lips; to have questioned her, that she might have opened them; to have looked upon the lashes of her downcast eyes, and never raised a blush; to have let loose waves of hair, an inch of which would be a keepsake beyond price: in short, I should have liked, I do confess, to have had the lightest licence of a child, and yet to have been man enough to know its value.’”

There’s a moment of silence as she pauses, a silence that seems to contain every possible emotion, breathless and urgent, as it rolls through the air.

Then…

“You’re a goddamn busybody, Colette.” It’s not Will who tells her off, even though he was the one whose attention was being requested; it’s Jamie. “I know what you’re—”

But someone’s laughing—no, more than one person. At least two. Colette, for sure, and if my ears don’t deceive me, Geoff.

“What are you so worked up about? I’m just reading. It’s right here! Look.” I can only assume she’s pointing to her page. “He didn’t hear a damn word, anyway.”

And it certainly seems like it; there’s not even a hint of a reaction from Will, except for, “The hell is so funny?”

“If it’s worth anything,” Allan’s voice says, “I’m not sure I’m comprehending, either.”

Colette says, “Oh, you’re both hopeless. Never let it be said that I didn’t at least try,” and then she’s back to reading A Christmas Carol and there’s nothing interesting left to listen in on except for Dickens’ beautiful prose.

I back away from their door, guilt already swarming all over me about the eavesdropping but warring with the strangest feeling, fuzzy and muddled to say the least, that there were two people meant to hear that passage, and while one of them did not, the other, quite possibly, heard it loud and clear as the tolling bells of midnight, heralding the arrival of Christmas Day.

Previous | TPOT Masterlist | Next

#lps the prince of thieves #lps-christmas #christmas #christmas story

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monsterfloofs · 1 year

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Already in love with the Nightmare guy! He's just a little guy😔 Suddenly an idea popped into my mind and I want to make a request, a reader (at a time when they became used to Nightmare) they surprised him with a doll they made for him (face closest to humans because it was the easiest lol) they got into a new hobby making dolls like that and didn't think unto it when they made the doll l meant dolls like theos ⬇️

Now l want one...

Oh gosh-- Are you talking about the Nightmare Collector?? QAQ ) AHHHHH-- This is such a cute idea! And now I totally want one of him too aahdkdixjsnxnsjzjs ;//3//; )

The Nightmare Collect x Anonymous Reader

Uncanny Valley

You carefully weave the last arm onto the body of a new doll. Knotting the black thread and snipping off the excess with a pair of scissors. A smile on your face as you hold up your new creation at arms length and study it.

You hadn't meant for it to look like a certain someone. It had started with the eyes, you weren't the best at sewing details yet onto the dolls and had botched them at first, trying to fix them and work with what you had made until you liked them better.

You were sure ever since your attempt to save the eyes, the face reminded you of him. Which was a funny thing to think about, because you weren't truly sure if he even had eyes, they may just be pools of black that wept some kind of black fluid for all you knew.

Yet, after that, you couldn't help leaning into the idea until its completion. A small doll with black hair curled up like horns with black eyes and lines running down its face.

It was late, even before manic inspiration had taken hold of you. You pick up your phone and groan at the sight of the clock.

2:36 am

It could be worse really, you gather up your crochet hook and the yarns that had taken over your bed. Plunking them down in your nearby reading chair.

"I will get to putting it away tomorrow–" You promise yourself, knowing full well the danger of settling things into improper homes.

You bow your back and stretch, looking back at your doll and glowing with pride.

You had a funny thought in the back of your head, scooping up the doll in your hands as you walked to turn off the light in your bedroom.

"Huh. . . worth a shot I guess,"

You tossed your blankets over enough to snuggle into bed, throwing them back over yourself once you had gotten settled. You rest on your back with the doll settled on your chest, staring up at the dark ceiling.

–

You're walking down a long hallway that seems to warp and jutter like an old damaged tape recording. Doors cutting into thin glitchy pieces before unscrambling and becoming whole again. The height of the hallway shifting, stretching and contorting. You rub your eyes with one hand and beam triumphantly to see you had brought the doll with you.

You were sort of getting the hang of this whole cheshire cat dream world logic!

Whatever strange dream you were having you mostly ignored it, walking down the hall and peering at the different doorways. Looking for one that didn't belong.

It wasn't hard to find.

You pause in front of a yawning door that had mountains of bright guttering candles on either side of the door frame. Wax spilling down and pooling onto the floor. This door did not flicker or jump, and stood solid like an anchor in the shifting hall.

You smile and try the handle, which gives easily and swings open for you to step inside.

A gothic cathedral-like library greets you, with a high dark ceiling that seems to stretch on forever, and rows upon rows of dark books lining the shelves. There were even strange arranged book stacks that were built up from the floor along the nooks and crannies free from shelves. Towers of them, teetering high. Books upon tables, books on chairs. The library was bursting at the seams, and there were more of them than ever before.

You heard humming, and turning your feet towards the direction you followed the sound. The soft melodious voice leading you forward until you reached a dead end. You look around the labyrinth of books and shelves scratching your head in wonder.

A person could really get lost in here–

"Boo."

You jump and whirl, uttering a sound of surprise. The voice so close to your ear you could feel someone's breath.

You rub at your ear and scowl crossly at the entity who grins and laces their fingers behind their back. A pair of black shined shoes stood in front of you, a tailored suit.

"Well hello there~" The collector hums at you, dark abyssal eyes staring transfixed without blinking.

"Come to visit me?"

"I am beginning to think it was a mistake," You grumbled, hugging the doll to yourself.

The Collector chuckles with amusement, eyes crinkling in mirth. "Ah, but you are still here. . . aren't you? Perhaps you need my assistance?"

You shake your head, "No, no. I am good actually, I haven't been having any bad dreams." You clutch the doll, and you look away, "I have a gift, actually."

"Oh?"

The usual smooth amused voice had curiosity seeping into it.

"And what might that be?"

You fidget with the doll in your hands, feeling suddenly silly. You step forward and hold the doll at arm's length.

You stare at the black oxfords stopping in front of you, feeling long fingers gently take the doll from your grasp.

"I uhm– made it," You glance up to see the Collector studying it with rapt attention, before bowing their head, with the doll held between their hands.

". . . This is a very precious gift." They say softly, "I shall take good care of it."

You feel a rush of nervous relief and smile, looking up at him.

–

You wake up to find the doll missing. And you check everywhere for it. Pulling apart your bed and throwing the blankets onto the floor. Even going on hands and knees armed with your phone in hand to search under the bed with its flashlight.

It. . . couldn't be gone right? But after checking the same places over and over again, even places in your room that you couldn't possibly have put it.

You felt an uneasy prickle run up the back of your neck.

You knew the dream world was just that. . . dreams. But some strange impression made you feel that the doll you created the night before wasn't going to be found.

Well, Mr. Spooky Nightmare Man

If this doesn’t show you that you are doing something right by helping the silly hoomans of the world— I dunna what to say!

#monster x reader #monster x human #exophilia #sfw #floofydoodles #the nightmare collector

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artdecosupernova-writing · 9 months

Text

Find the Word Game XIX

(Double Feature)

tagged by: no one, taking a couple open tags by @outpost51! my words: jaw, pass, direct, slump, shock, flood, stumble, retreat, brink, kneel tagging: @drippingmoon, @druidx, @drabbleitout, @cataclysmicwriting, @calicoy, and anyone who sees this. absolutely no pressure to do it, either ��🏽 your words: damage, queen, beginning, forward, still, broke

jaw (Warpath)—

"You must've known." Warren grit his teeth, his throat dry from the anesthetic. "You had to have known." Thrive's brow twitched, as did a muscle in his jaw. He looked at Warren almost vacantly. "...I did." Warren felt a swell of emotion, and whatever he could control of his body began to shake. "And you did nothing." "This isn't what I'd intended to happen, Warren." "You did this to me." Thrive recoiled as if he'd been struck, then. He observed Warren, awake on an operating table, his spine open for Gouna and Thyru to rearrange, to mend, and he visibly swallowed. He couldn't bring himself to say anything else.

pass (Eternal)—

Thrive, acutely aware of the reason behind the sudden and drastic change of mood, nodded. "Guetry's strong, but it's going to be hard to see him at his lowest. Remind him that he's loved and that we're here for him. His family will be there, too, don't forget that." Warren watched the false window, eyed the ships passing by and the endless stars in the distance. "That view is crazy," he whispered. "It's exactly what you wanted, isn't it?" "Yeah." He fidgeted with a hanging piece of threaded embellishment on his own robes. "Nothing's exactly what I want these days." Thrive watched the ships with him for a while.

direct (Meridian)—

Thrive moved closer to the hunched form, glancing Harmony's way. He waited for a couple of digital ticks, inching his fingers involuntarily toward the figure's shoulder. He inhaled as if prepared to speak, but he said nothing. Warren thinned his eyes, unsure if he could take the anticipation much longer. His own words died in his throat upon the figure's head angling up and staring directly at Thrive. Copper eyes blinked and neon violet swelled within the irises, swallowed by a hazy glow. They blinked again, cold, emotionless, and snapped to Warren. The programmer leaned forward. "I am Harmony Willis. What is your name and designation number?" Another set of blinks. The face contorted in confusion and steady awareness. "I am SCOT...and my designation number is 734A252D682O." "Scotty," Warren breathed before he could stop himself. The chassis blinked at him. "Yes…" He nodded, slow and unsure of the gesture. "I am...Scotty." He twitched a bit and his brows pinched. "I can...see?"

slump (Aurora)—

"Keep firing." Warren rubbed his face. "Just...don't stop." Mercury joined him and Gouna at the viewscreen. "What if in reality we're firin' at our allies?" Warren fell silent, watching the beams zip into the very far distance, never ceasing, passing through infinite space. His headache had only gotten worse, and that meant something he didn't want to think too much about. He could feel the bags under his eyes, and his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. A trickle of blood dripped from his nose and he casually wiped it away. "We're not," he finally said. The trickle grew into a full gush, and he cupped his hand to his face in a very half-hearted attempt to hide it, experiencing flashbacks he used every ounce of effort he could muster up to ignore. "You'd know if...oh, fuck." The blood streaming between his fingers was black.

shock (Eternal)—

Warren stopped short after realizing simultaneously that he was no longer holding the device and that his floor looked different. A buzz of static snapped within his skull, and he reeled back as if shocked by a livewire. A mirror on a wall across from him caught his attention; his reflection much thinner and with a full beard, hair reaching his ears. He stared, unable to fully comprehend what had happened. He watched his reflection reach up to the collar of his maroon jumpsuit. Stars going out through the window in his peripheral, dying one by one, the power in the station shut off. Flashing crimson emergency lights bathed the room in chilling shadows. He started to breathe heavily despite every nerve in his body telling him this wasn't real. He wasn't on the Destiny, he was on the Consortium Node. No longer in his cell, but his far too small apartment in the Southern Division. ...H̸e̸r̸e̵ you are.

flood (Aurora)—

Suddenly they punched through blackness and Varussa pulled up with a jerk, lifting the nose of the ship before they could impact with the side of the planet. Warren stared through the window, eyes going wide. "My god," Mercury whispered. The sky was colored with an unpleasant crimson bleeding from a single white sun on the horizon, as far from a gorgeous sunset as you could get—compounded with the fact that there was no sun of which to speak on behalf of Torris, the black clouds and ash-like ground made for an eerie, hellish landscape. "We're about to clear the coordinates," Varussa said. "Fine." Warren straightened his spine, relief flooding his frame at having made it to the surface. "We can double back on foot. I want everyone wearing armor and helmets once we disembark." "Copy," Guetry said, relaying the message to the rest of the ground troops.

stumble (Meridian)—

Frantic urgency, unlike anything Warren had seen from Thrive before. He vaulted out of the shuttle, sprinted down the incline into the port, and it all seemed to happen in slow motion. Both he and Warren stumbled off-balance by another meteor ripping through the atmosphere and impacting with the ground, screams from port workers and evac teams, a stuttering attempt at a shield from Thrive that encompassed the entire dock. He tried to push it farther, unsuccessfully, and he cut it. He took off again. Dodged the volunteers attempting to hold him back before he was overpowered and grabbed by the arms by tens of them to stop him from doing something he couldn't take back. "There's no one to save! No one's survived!" a voice cried out to him. "There are no survivors! The entire area is a crater!" Warren collapsed to his knees on the ramp, throat closing and face already wet.

retreat (Eternal)—

They reached a beach in a gulf peppered with numerous caves built into mysterious domed cliffs standing guard over the shore. The ocean was an opaque turquoise, gently stroking the sand colored with a light dusting of baby pink. It reminded Warren a bit of Holeph. "They're laying the utopia thing a little thick, aren't they?" he quipped as the shuttle landed a respectable distance away from the shore. "Every part of this planet is beautiful." "I'd rather see this than the forests of Logoryt any day," Mercury said, moving to exit the shuttle with everyone else. "That is for damn sure." "Seconded," Alec said gleefully. "This place is gorgeous." Thrive dropped to his feet and took off in the direction of the cliffs, leaving Warren to watch after him and feel more empty the farther away he got. Warren glanced around at everyone else, at Guetry who watched all of this happen with concern knitted between his eyebrows, and retreated into one of the larger caves.

brink (Meridian)—

"How much more time?" "Maybe…" Corin tapped his long fingers against the machine in an otherwise unheard rhythm. "...Maybe five months. I can—I can do this, I know I can, dammit." Warren slid down the wall, passing a hand through his hair. "Five months. That's...not bad. You think it'll work?" "Look, don't ask me if it's gonna fucking work," Corin snapped, jabbing a finger Warren. "I am the greatest scientist this galaxy has ever known. I've cured a ten thousand year old virus, I've brought thirteen species back from the brink of extinction, including ———, and I've invented a new fucking method of immunization against five million types of diseases. It's gonna work, or I'm never setting foot in this lab again." "Atta boy," Warren said, his lips curling into a subdued grin. "Thrive's gonna be stoked." "Well...that may be reaching." Corin aimed a pointed look at Warren. "He's never liked surprises, and this particular type of surprise…"

kneel (Warpath)—

It struck Warren like a six ton projectile. The emotion washed over him with more force than he ever expected, and he slid down the bulkhead, sobs bodily wracking him. He buried his face in his hands, almost afraid that if he did, ——— would disappear into thin air. "Oh," he heard Jasper say meekly. Warren felt someone kneeling in front of him, and he startled as two hands gripped his wrists and pulled them away from his face. ——— peered at him, nearly into him, meeting his scattered gaze. "Hey, don't fall apart on me," ——— said in a hushed voice. "C'mon, baby, we got a mission. Keep it together until the mission's over. I promise, this is only gonna seem really cruel unless you understand I can't be here long."

#tag game #find the word

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xenokattz · 9 months

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I continue to feel terrible for being so very, very late with the last chapter pf The Pearl (actually 1 chapter bookended by 2 interludes) so here's a snippet for y'all.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

K’uk’ulkan moved to Attuma’s side again, facing M’Baku but looking at Shuri. Kolel stepped to his right, holding a cylindrical basket high as her shoulder and threaded through with gold wire and jade. K’uk’ulkan took the basket, nodding quickly at his cousin, and carried the basket before Shuri.

“The panther is sacred to us,” he said. “She is the animal of the gods of the night and of fire, of war and childbirth, a symbol of transformation with both the chaos and the prosperity it brings. You, Shuri, Black Panther of Wakanda, will be Queen Panther of Talokan. And as such, you deserve a pixom befitting your station.”

He lifted the top half of the basket. On a stand within the remaining half was one of the most exquisite headdress Shuri had ever seen. Made of alternating plates of darkened gold and tuunich ek’, it was shaped like a black panther roaring. Its eyes were fire opals, brilliant under arched brows. Hanging from thick loops at the temples, solid curved plates of darkened tuunich ek’ created cheekpieces that resembled a panther’s open mouth. Sharp mother of pearl teeth tipped the jaws with smaller ones embedded in a row along the top border of the cheekpieces. Three rows of feathers burst from behind the panther’s ears: a row each just behind the cheekpieces and a crest reaching past her thighs, all made of star obsidian, dark blue tuunich ek’, and pale pale jade. All carved so delicately they were nearly translucent.

The crowd murmured their approval in Talokanil and the various languages of Wakanda. Shuri herself had no words for once. There was so much thought put into the design. The gold edges on the panther mimicked the gold and silver lines of her costume. The subtle dark streaks of tuunich ek’ and jade making up the lines of the panther’s face resembled the murals she painted in her room. Even the choice of star obsidian with its tiny white spots recalled her traditional make up and the dots on her Black Panther mask.

“You designed this,” she said, looking at Kanul.

He smiled. “Yes.”

“For me.”

“Yes.”

She stroked the snout of the panther. Bast knew she was not a spiritual person but she could feel Kanul’s touch in every edge and every dip of the pixom. Her throat tightened. She reached out blindly. He found her hand and held it to his chest.

“I have one more gift,” he said.

“I cannot possibly have room for more!” said Shuri, laughing to choke back her tears.

Kolel stepped forward and handed K’uk’ulkan a thin obsidian blade, the type Shuri knew the Talokanil used for bloodletting. He, in turn, gave her the blade. When she would have kept her palm flat, he curled her fingers around the handle as he pressed his cheek against hers. “I took your mother from you,” he whispered in her ear. “Take the blood you think such an atrocity warrants. I give it to you, even if it means giving you my life.”

“I do not want or need your blood,” siad Shuri.

Kanul kissed her cheek. “I cannot be forgiven for such a thing, Princess, even by you. I am halach uinik. I am held to a higher standard than all of Talokan. I have taken the life of a head of state, of your family. The law demands balance.”

“Whose law? Not Wakanda’s.”

“Talokanil law.” He guided her hand over his chest. “My conscience. I will heal. Take your blood.”

Shuri closed her eyes. She pictured her mother. What would Mama have worn today for her gift presentation? No doubt something extremely impressive and forbidding: her golden isicholo and a dark coloured gown whose patterns were created by beads made of semi-precious stones. She would have a white line on her chin and dots on her brow all the way to her ears. She would act as if no gift was good enough even though moments before, she would have hugged Shuri so tightly with tears in her eyes. Father would have watched it all with a benign expression, revealing nothing until the tasting of the elements. He would have cried then, Shuri imagined, and then she would cry as well which would set Mama off. And T’Challa– If T’Challa were here, he would be gently encouraging. Smiling, always with that gentle smile, and an open hand to welcome Kanul into the family, as was his duty as her eldest sibling.

“You took the life of the only person left of my family then,” said Shuri, keeping her voice pitched for his ears only.

Kanul nodded gravely. She drew the point of the knife across his chest, bringing up a dark, raised welt but not piercing his skin.

“I demand you shed your blood if needed to protect the only person left of my family now.” At his questioning expression, Shuri whispered right into his ear. “See the boy with the big smile and the green clasp on his cloak? He is my brother’s son. Swear to me that you will do everything in your power to ensure he lives until he is an old, old man.”

Kanul drew back, cupping her face in his hands, staring at the tears threatening to wet her lashes. He nodded imperceptibly. “My life for his, Shuri.”

“I accept your gifts,” said Shuri in a louder voice. “We will marry.”

“If you are not going to stab him, can I?” asked M’Baku.

#nashuri #shuri x namor #namor x shuri #namuri #seaprincess #black panther wakanda forever

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gingerbreadmonsters · 2 years

Note

Been seeing a lot of Gavin on your blog recently, had this thought and thought you might appreciate it

Damien (especially Damien’s mouth) gets very hot during hanky-panky activities, we all know this, however an addition

Gavin is incredibly into it

anon. anon i am fighting for my LIFE out here you cannot just drop this on me and expect nothing to come (ha) of it you CANNOT

minors dni. this work is 18+.

It's so hot.

“Damien?” His voice is a little breathier than normal, drunk on desire and the sheer heat in the room - Gavin, for probably the fifth time in the last ten minutes, says a silent prayer for the poor air-con unit working overtime to cool them down. They’ve been here for a while, maybe about half an hour, but somehow - in what must be a new personal record - both are still at least partially clothed.

(Well. That does depend on your definition of clothed. In the strictest sense, underwear doesn’t technically count, but whatever. He’s always been very generous when it comes to matters of pleasure - no need to draw the line here.)

“I…” Damien looks up, clearly fighting the haze of lust threatening to overwhelm him as he squirms desperately against the bed, shuddering as his cock grinds just right against Gavin’s hipbone. “Y-Yeah?” Poor thing, he looks absolutely fucked-out already - eyes blown wide, chest heaving, hair a mess and fingers twisting frantically in the bedsheets. Both of them are aching, painfully hard, and Gavin can feel that Damien’s only just hanging on by a thread. They’ve already had at least one close call with the smoke detector, courtesy of the new scorch marks dotted across the sheets, and it looks like they might be due another if he keeps this up much longer.

“Mm, I th- ah!” He’s barely started before Damien is kissing a searing trail across his chest from where he’s pinned underneath him, all teeth and tongue and need. “I think - ah, yes, yes you can bite - Damien, darling, I think you might be getting - nng! - getting close, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t reply as such, just moaning louder into Gavin’s shoulder - yep, he’s close. It’s a point of pride, really, to get Damien like this, to have the privilege of seeing him all flustered and needy. He’s usually so careful, so eloquent and controlled and steady, which just makes it all the more delicious to have him writhing mindlessly in sweet agony, groaning into the mattress, gasping breathlessly as his back arches clear off the bed.

“Yeah, that’s what I - what I thought,” he chokes out, still mesmerised by the man underneath him, leaning down to whisper right by his ear. “And you know, don’t you, angel, I’m going to give you what you want.”

Damien keens quietly, high and thin, as he says it, but-

“That is, if you do just one thing for me first.” God, he can taste how close Damien is, how much he wants it, needs it - normally he’d fold, give in straight away, but today is special.

“You see, I have something that I want you to hold on to for me - if you can hold on for, mmm, let’s say… A minute? Hold onto it for one minute, that’s all, and then I’ll give you what you want, okay?”

Damien quickly nods, obviously eager to get this over with, and oh, he’s just too precious. It’s never that easy.

“The problem is, this little something doesn’t do very well with heat… But I’m sure that won’t be a problem, will it? After all, my Damien is very, very good when it’s hot, so it’ll all just cancel out, I’m sure.”

Three things happen very quickly, after that.

One: Gavin leans down and kisses him hard, grinding his hips down until Damien’s almost wailing into his mouth.

Two: He takes a quick look at the clock on the wall. A minute isn’t that long, right?

“You see, I know you can get a little… hotheaded, can’t you? I do hope that doesn’t include your mouth.”

(Magic, it turns out, is a very useful tool when it comes to sex.)

Three: The ice cube that Gavin just kissed into Damien’s mouth settles on his tongue, and begins to melt. This is going to be fun.

“Just one minute, darling. That’s all.”

#redacted asmr #minors dni #ANON LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO ME /pos #i wrote this very fast and in an incredibly sleep-deprived state so do excuse the poor quality of the actual writing #but YES i do appreciate this very much hehe #i need to take a cold shower and go to bed WOW #ginger after dark #ginger writes

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van-der-linde-worms · 1 year

Text

Take Your Cigarette From Its Holder, Burn Your Initials On My Shoulder

Pairing: Arthur Morgan/ Mary Gillis Linton

Fic summary: AU in which Mary is wanted for the murder of her husband and that of her father, and Arthur is a bounty hunter going after her.

Rating: Explicit

Genre: Enemies to lovers, slow burn

~~~~~~

Chapter IV: Justifying the Means

Word count: 6394

Previous chapter

~~~~~~

Arthur leads Boadicea to a shallow cave nearby where he spent a night several days ago. The rain has stopped, but Arthur knows it will start pouring again anytime. He helps Mary drop down onto the ground at the entrance of the cave and unties her, holding up a gun.

“Light us a fire then, there ain’t no use needlin’ around in the dark.”

“Do you have to hold that up?”

“Well I don’t trust ya not to run off.”

She sighs and leans down to try to find something dry among the damp twigs on the ground.

“The wood is all wet! How am I supposed to light a fire with this?”

“Cut the bark away, the center should be dry,” he rolls his eyes as he hands her his blade. “Here, take my knife. How have you even survived this far?”

“You want me to do this or not?” she retaliates, gathering a bunch of branches into her arms and walking into the cave. She grabs a bowl from one of his bags hanging on the saddle and places it in the rain. “And do ya have somethin’ for cleaning that out?”

“Well I got some bourbon.”

“You mind drinkin’ some of that? Might help numb the pain. And I can’t have you move around too much.” She suggests. He squints, but pulls out the bottle anyway. Arthur pops the cork off the bottle and takes a few large gulps of the burning liquor. “Not all of it!”

She whittles the exterior of the wood away with the knife he has given her and tosses the pieces into a pile on the dry rocks in the cave. He throws her a box of matches from his pocket, and she has a fire built up in no time.

She walks around the fire once, searching for the most illuminated spot and snatches up the clean water. Finding it, she sits down, taking out a needle and a thread from his satchel.

“Take your shirt off and come over here.” she pats her lap. He reaches for the buttons, wincing at the pain of his flesh separating.

“Just come over here.”

He carefully crawls over to her. She unbuttons his bloody shirt and takes it off his shoulders with care, revealing his union suit underneath. It is almost impossible to tell its original color, with the cloth completely stained with dried, brown blood.

“Just cut the thing away, that'd do,” he instructs, handing her the knife. She cuts through the fabric with caution and tears the whole thing away.

A red tint creeps across his face as he sits half-naked before her. She lays him down on her lap and positions him across her lap. He places the bottle on the ground beside her and takes a deep breath, Mary dips a cloth in the clean water and carefully dabs away the blood, nearing the incision. It was longer than she initially thought it to be. She moves closer to the source and cleans up the edges. She grabs the bottle and drips it into the wound. He gasps and his muscles stiffen. She slips her hand into his hair and soothingly strokes his scalp.

“Keep still,” she continues along the split steadily and feels him relax slightly.

Gently, she dabs away the excess alcohol pooling near his wound with the cloth and picks up the needle, pouring a splash of bourbon over the thin metal. He takes another gulp of the bourbon as she gets the thread through the eye of the needle.

“You’re doing really well,” she coos as she positions the needle at the end of his wound. “I'm going to start stitching you up now, okay? Try not to move for me.”

He hums in response. The needle pierces through his skin and he cries out in pain, but he manages to remain still. The alcohol has numbed most of his senses, yet the pain is still acute and intense.

The thread travels across his wound and the sharp metal tip once again punctures his skin and he can't help but shiver this time.

“Shh, shh,” she soothes. She grabs his shirt and places it in front of his face. “Here, it may help if ya bite onto it.”

He does as he is instructed, and it does help, though not much. He manages to stay still for a few more stitches until she hits a spot that is particularly painful, sending him into a violent shake. She gives him a minute to recover before continuing, trying not to be distracted by his muffled grunts.

Beads of sweat roll down his forehead despite the cool winds of the night. It begins to softly drizzle as she gets closer to the other end of the cut. The gentle sounds of the rain is soothing enough to help him calm down a bit. By the time she is done, he can barely feel his wound. The sharp pain has faded into a faint, tingly soreness, and he is more comfortable using his arms now, though he still doesn't dare to move them too vigorously. He grabs the bottle again and drinks more. It leaves his head swimming and he leans back against the cool, dry wall of the cave.

She looks up after putting everything back to where they belong and frowns at him, “You sure you don't want to put something back on? It's bit cold in here.”

He shrugs, “Well, my only shirt's ruined.”

“Do you have anything else? A jacket, perhaps?”

He stares at the fire, thinking. Then he muses, “I think I've got a blanket in the largest bag.”

“Alright, I'll get it for you,” she says, walking up to the horse. She pulls the blanket out of the bag and a bag of oatcakes falls onto the ground. She picks it up and looks inside. Just horse treats. Bo’s ears perk up and she reaches to snatch the treats out of her hand.

“Alright, 'posse you deserve a treat. You've been real good,” Mary giggles as she picks out one and lets her have it, slipping the rest back.

“Ain’t I getting any treats? I’ve been good too!” he calls out. She rolls her eyes and replies, “No you ain’t, you've been quite bad so far, in fact!”

“Y’know you’re a lot nicer to my horse than me!” he continues as she steps back into the cave. “You rode us both so why?”

“Well I saved your life and fixed ya up so it ain’t fair to say that.” She drapes it over him and sits down next to him.

“Why’d ya do it then?”

“Did what?”

“Warned me. About that feller.”

“I don’t know, didn’t wanna see a stabbing I suppose. Why do you care anyway?” He lets out a laugh.

“Well ya shot your dad so it doesn’t make any damn sense.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t have a choice in that! I told ya, he tried to strangle me. And… I don’t like seeing people die, even if it’s just some ratty bounty hunter.”

“You wanna tell me about your husband then?” he asks.

She shakes her head. Arthur notices that she is shivering and has her arms wrapped around herself. That is when he realizes how thin her clothes are.

“You look cold, why don’t ya come here too?” She scoots over and pulls it over herself as well, holding a slightly respectable distance. “So, what was the affair then?”

“It-it wasn’t an affair really, it ain’t right to call something of that sort an affair.”

“Hm? What was it then?”

"I promised someone to keep it a secret, it’s not my right to share.”

"Who was it then?” She shakes her head. "Come on, just tell me."

"It's supposed to be a secret, y'know." She falls quiet and stares into the fire, clearly thinking of something. He stares at her face and watches the light of the fire dance on her face, a deathly serious expression etched into her features.

"Well you're drunk outta your head. You'll probably forget it the next morning anyway. It was our maid."

"Your maid? What a scandal," he scoffs. That was the big secret? That little thing? She flashes him a disgusted look.

"It wasn't what you think! She did not... she wasn't willing. And then apparently it’d been happening for a while before I learnt about it and I... I was just so angry… He really deserved it, she was just a kid, sixteen, for christ's sake! I-I have a brother around that age, he knows-knew that! I didn’t know he could do such a thing! I defended him when the people talked about him!"

“Oh. I’m- sorry, jesus, that's a hell of a thing.”

“Well, it’s done now. I think that girl married that nice young feller up the river, the fisherman.”

“I really don’t see how ya got into this much trouble over such a little matter, I’ve probably killed, well, way too many folk, never got into that much trouble over it.”

“I thought you said you didn't kill nobody— though you just went and killed that guy just then.”

“Ha, well I didn't get caught did I?”

“True,” she muses. “It ain’t the state paying out, Mr. Morgan, it’s his family. I don't know how they found out it's me either but… I figured they wanna see me alive to get hanged. ”

“They’ll just forget at some point. They can't be after you forever.”

She sighs, “I guess.”

They both stare at the dancing flames for a long while. Unconsciously, she slightly leans towards him, seeking more of his body heat.

She is throwing some extra wood into the fire when he opens his mouth, “I s'ppose you're right when you said ya have a conscience.”

“What?” she looks up at him, surprised.

“You didn't even do it for yourself! Your husband… he deserved worse, for laying his claws on a girl that young. You didn't do nothing wrong.”

“Well, thank you, I'll take that as a compliment, I guess,” she mutters, not knowing how to react.

He continues, “I've killed way more than you did, y'know? For worse reasons. I'd be damned if I even dared to say I have a conscience. What kind of man would I be to send ya to the gallows?”

“A hypocrite. And no, you're not. We have a deal, remember ? I'll be off as soon as the rain stops the next morning. You better not tie me up when I'm asleep,” she jokes.

“Of course I remember. Where you headin', though? You got any place to stay?”

She shakes her head. Some other guy would have probably found that cabin by now. Plus, it will be a long way on foot. It would be much easier to find another hiding place.

“Look, look, if ya would, ya could stay over at my house!” he eagerly offers. She laughs and pulls the blanket back over him. His excitement is oddly warming. It’d fade soon, but it is nice to enjoy things, as people generally do.

“Well, if ya even remember that in the mornin’.” She leans against the wall, tugging the blanket a bit closer to her. He pulls her closer and makes an attempt at strewing it over her again. She laughs again and swats his hand away. He’s warm, warmer than the glow of the fire. She curls up against him like a lizard on a sun baked rock, her hand wrapping around his bare waist.

“I will, I s-swear it.” He slurs. The low rumble reverberates through her and leaves a warmth through her.

“Sure you do. Try to get some sleep then mister, it’s good for ya.”

“Okay, okay. We should get goin' 'morrow mornin'. It's less than a day away…” he murmurs as he finally dozes off, his head on her shoulder.

It feels a tad awkward in this position. She can feel his ticklish breath on her upper arm, though the weight or his head on her shoulder is oddly comforting. She grabs the knife and slips it into her pocket again, just in case. She snuggles a bit closer to him for more warmth and a more comfortable position, and finally falls asleep, resting her head on his.

It is long past sunrise when Mary finally wakes up. Though it's still raining, it has gotten much brighter outside. The flames have died down, and she quickly relights it with a match.

Her stomach growls, and she realizes she has hardly eaten anything in the past two days. Surely, he won't mind if she grabs something from his bag?

She carefully slips out of the blanket, gently laying his head down on his dirtied shirt and wrapping him in the blanket as she does so.

She recognises some of the cans, but having eaten nothing but canned food for a solid week, she would rather starve than open another tin. Thankfully, she also finds a packet of crackers and an apple. These would do for the moment, she thinks.

Quietly, she walks back into the cave and sits down next to him. She stares at the provisions in her hands. It doesn't feel right to just eat his food without permission, now that he's being so nice to her; but it doesn't feel right to just wake him up either.

Her eyes land on his face as she ponders on her next step. He is much finer looking when he isn't being a little shit, she discovers. He looks peaceful like this, his brows relaxed, his expression softened by sleep. A drop of drool drips down the corner of his mouth as he snores, and she almost wants to laugh at how boyish he looks.

Somehow, he looks even more handsome under the firelight, his features sharpened by the dim orange light from the dancing flames. His hat has fallen off at some point, revealing his messy, wheat-colored hair.

Her face heats up when she realizes that she is staring. What the hell is wrong with you? she scolds herself, looking away with haste. Her cheeks slowly cool down.

Finally, she decides to wake him up.

“Mr. Morgan?” she says, shaking him by the shoulder. He remains still as a rock.

She gives him another shake, “Arthur?”

“Hmmm?” he mumbles, his eyelids still heavy as he looks around, confused, “what's wrong? Is it time to get going now?”

“Ugh, no, it's still raining,” she says, her hand still on his shoulder. “I was just wondering, would ya mind if I eat some of your stuff?”

“Sure, sure, whatever,” he murmurs, once again shutting his eyes.

“Well, thank you,” she says, sitting back down beside him to unwrap the biscuit. She leaves half of the pack for him, laying the paper package on the ground before them.

She is munching on the apple when he actually wakes up. He sits up with a big yawn, blinking as his eyes adjust to the light.

“Good mornin',” he says, his voice half an octave deeper than usual.

“Mornin',” she replies, her voice muffled as she chews. She slides the packet of crackers closer to him. “Here, eat something.”

He grabs a piece with a slight nod. They both stare at the seemingly everlasting shower as they eat.

Arthur takes out a wedge of cheese covered in wax paper from his pocket and unwraps it. He finishes half of it with a single bite and hands it to her, “Want some?”

“Was it in your pocket?” she scrunches her nose, but takes it regardless. She hands him the half finished apple with her other hand, nibbling on the hard cheese.

They enjoy their humble meal in silence. He stands up to throw the core out of the cave after finishing the fruit, and sits back down again, “So… about my offer last night, what'd ya think?”

“Oh, you remembered that,” a shiver runs through her at the thought. She really didn't think he would remember. She had promised the girl to keep her mouth shut— but, surely, this Arthur Morgan wouldn't tell anyone, right?

He seems to have noticed her distress, “Well you don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

She bites her lip as she ponders on the offer. It doesn't take her long to make up her mind.

“As long as you don’t turn me in, I suppose that could work,” she shyly replies, stretching.

“Guess we’re leaving when the rain stops then.”

As they once again wait for the rain to stop, Arthur pulls out his journal and scrawls down another note: Think I'm finally going nuts. I’m letting Mrs. Linton stay over at my house for the time being. Truth be told, now I feel kinda bad for treating her like that. Turns out she isn't half as bad as I thought her to be. Guess I should hope she doesn’t kill me too.

“Why are ya getting all nice to me now?” Mary says, turning to face him.

“What?”

“You don't have to do this, y'know, it wasn't part of the deal.”

He pinches his lips together, thinking of a way to put it into words. “Well, ya saved my life, twice. It's only fair that I help ya back.”

“You're already letting me go. That was the deal, remember?”

“You spared my life too, in the church. Gotta pay that favor back.”

She hums in response, giving a thoughtful nod as her gaze shifts back to the entrance of the cave.

The rain pauses again, she stands up and glances outside.

“I think it stopped, Mr. Morgan,” she carefully jabs his arm.

“Guess we should get movin’ then.” He gathers the things and re-stows them on the saddle. They stand in silence, he pulls his blanket on and lifts her up onto Bo’s rump. Her hand rests on the handle of the knife, offering a promise of security. He hops on and knocks the horse into a steady trot. She grabs the saddle and struggles to maintain her balance. Arthur notices and slows down. “Y’know you can touch me, right?”

“Doesn’t it hurt? Your back I mean.”

“Like hell, but don’t fall off.”

“Thank you.” She carefully steadies herself by wrapping her arms around him, avoiding the wound. The easy trot and the silence makes the ride feel shorter, the rain starts falling and the sun sinks again as they arrive at a little cabin. Pulling away from him leaves her shaking, it’s unexpectedly cold.

“This is the place. Go on in then.” he gestures to the door. She awkwardly walks over and opens it, stepping inside. The space is rather messy, it’s the first thing she notices. Not really dirty, there are newspapers and papers all over the table and scraps on the floor, things strewn about. There are two rooms, the bedroom with an unmade bed and a kitchen and dining room. The spaces are separated by walls, but no door. He pushes past her to join her inside. “Wasn’t really plannin’ on havin’ guests any time soon.”

“No, it’s fine enough.”

“You mind if I change into something dry?” He steps into the bedroom.

“Oh, no, go ahead, I’ll just stay here.” She sits down by the window and politely looks outside, averting her eyes. He lets his clothes fall to the floor, the wet slaps are rather audible. He walks past the doorway to the armoire. His reflection shines on the windows and she feels a heat pool in her stomach again and a flush creep up her neck. Not even her soaking wet, cold clothes could pacify it. His sturdy frame, the coils of muscle under his skin, the freckles, the dark hair accentuating his contours and gathering around his flaccid— oh, no, it ain't right for her to keep looking. She turns her head swiftly to stare at the wall instead.

It is ridiculous, honestly, his…well, thing, has been inside her only hours ago, and now she is getting all bashful like a schoolgirl upon the mere sight of it. Yet she just can't help but blush, the image of his naked body in her mind stirring up a strange reaction in her.

He steps back in a different set of clothes. The half-soaked fabric clings to his wet skin a bit too tightly. He hangs his wet clothes up to dry on the wall.

“You got a change of clothes?”

“No. We came here on the same horse!” she remarks. He nods and looks away, realizing the stupidity of his question. She looks around, “Do you, um, do you have anything I can borrow here?”

“Eh, just those over there,” he says, gesturing to a pile of dirty clothes lying in the corner of the bedroom. “Don't think a lady like ya would be willing to wear these.”

“Oh,” she says, “then maybe I'll just…um…”

“Well, em, just get under the blanket. I could let ya take the bed, and I’ll hang that stuff up to dry,” he offers.

“Oh, nonsense, it’s your house, I'm the guest, you take the bed.”

“You are the guest, you take the bed, I’ll stay on the floor.”

“We could both stay on the floor then?”

“If we’re going that route, we could both sleep on the bed.”

“Well, alright. Guess it ain't that different,” she shrugs. She steps into the room and moves to the corner, grabbing his blanket along the way. Mary carefully peels the clothes off and folds them in a pile. She hides herself in the blanket and places the clothes closer to the entrance. Arthur grabs them and quickly hangs them up by the fireplace. He lights a fire in the stove.

Arthur grabs a can of soup from the cabinet, pours the contents into a pot and places it on the stove. He distracts himself, staring and waiting for it to boil. There’s a nude girl in his bed, and a real pretty one too, he can’t help thinking of her there. And she had suggested he should join her there. It’s been a while since he’s been with anyone else, it certainly didn’t help him avoid the thought. She’s real willing too, or so he still hopes.

He pours the soup into bowls and looks around for another spoon, finding it in a drawer. He tosses it in and takes one of the bowls. He stares up at the ceiling and wanders into the room.

“Are you decent?” he asks, trying to estimate where the night stand is.

“Well, not at all, covered is the word you might be looking for,” she replies. He looks down to see her covered to the neck with the white blanket. He hands her the bowl. She lets the blanket slip a bit as she takes the bowl over from him, revealing a good deal of her smooth, bony shoulders and collarbone. She has undone her braid to dry her hair at some point, letting her damp, dark hair fall loose on her shoulders. Her black curls frame her face and contrast with the slightly paler tone of her exposed shoulders nicely. Arthur swallows and averts his eyes again.

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” she says, picking up the spoon.

“Am I still Mr. Morgan to you?” he asks, a hint of laughter in his voice. “Arthur's fine.”

She smiles, “Alright, Arthur.”

“Can I call ya Mary?” he asks, stepping back.

“Of course,” he moves to the kitchen as she says so and sits down to eat. It wouldn’t be appropriate to stay there, with her. “What's the matter, Arthur?”

“Nothin’.”

“Won’t you come back?” she asks, suddenly getting unsettled on his bed. It's his room, after all. He shouldn't be the one excusing himself. He picks up his bowl and sits down at the foot of the bed near her. She softly smiles at him, perhaps a bit awkwardly. “This is pretty good.”

“I do know how to pour stuff out of a can.” Arthur jokes. She lets out a small laugh in response, and he can't help but notice what a pleasant sound her laughter is.

“Tell me more about ya,” he says, shoving a spoonful of soup into his mouth. She raises an eyebrow.

“Well, we're sleeping in the same bed tonight. Figured we should, y'know, get to know more about each other before that.”

She nods in agreement, “What do you wanna know?”

He stares into his bowl as he thinks. He is still curious about the murders, but it doesn't seem like the best time to ask about it now.

“You said something about having a brother, right? Mind tellin' me more about him?”

Her face lights up at the mention of her brother, “Oh, yes, his name is Jamie. He's just turned seventeen. We've sent him to a boarding school in New York, he'll be graduating next summer.”

“New York? That's real far away; have ya been writing to him?”

“Well, not since the… incident.” She sees Arthur's somber look and adds, “He hates Daddy's guts and he's never liked my husband either. I just didn't wanna drag him into this.”

He nods, “Well, I guess it's best to keep the kid outta this.”

“Yeah, he's in enough trouble already; he's trying to become a lawyer, y'know? If all goes as planned he'll be in university in no time. The inheritance should be more than enough for tuition,” Mary continues, her voice getting increasingly excited as she talks Jamie

“He's a good lad, isn't he?”

A smile creeps up her face. “Yes, he's my pride and joy. I couldn't believe what life would be like without him.”

“Well I wish that young man the best of luck,” he says as he scoops up another spoonful of soup. “University, hm, good for that boy. Never been in a real school my whole life.”

“Never?” she asks. “Not even those classes they hold in churches?”

He shakes his head.

“Who taught you to read then? Your parents?”

“My ma died a loooong time ago, I was five. I think. My pa never bothered to teach me anything. He died a few years after that,” he catches her giving him a sympathizing look. “Don't look at me like that. He never tried to kill me, but he was nowhere near a good pa. I'm glad he died, frankly.”

She stays silent and just nods, unsure of how to react.

He continues as she takes another sip of the soup, “Well, then these fellas took me in. A guy named Hosea and another named Dutch. They're kinda like my parents and taught me everything I know, so I guess you can say that. And what about ya? What happened to your ma?”

“My mother's been dead for a long time too. It was a few weeks after Jamie was born. He never got to know her,” she says. “I don't even remember her voice anymore.”

“Same thing for me,” he says.

“And what about those guys you just talked about? Why aren't you living with them?”

“Dutch died a couple of years ago, we fell apart from there. ‘Sea lives with his wife Bessie out in the woods, I see some of the other folk every now and then. Oh, with John ‘n Tilly too. They're kinda like my siblings. Got my own place here after that, ain’t much but it’s mine.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. Things are just fine, I got over it.”

He scrapes the bowl clean with the side of the spoon and licks the last bit of soup off the metal, before placing the bowl on the nightstand.

“You're done over there?” he asks, eyeing her empty bowl. “Give me that, I'll bring it to the sink.”

“Yes, thanks,” she says, handing him the bowl. He notices a bright red mark across her left wrist. He grabs her arm with his free hand, making her gasp in shock.

“Sorry,” he apologizes as he examines the wound on her arm. It seems to be some sort of burn, with several burst blisters on the side of her wrist. He's not gonna lie; it looks pretty bad.

“Oh, think it was the burning rope,” she says light-heartedly.

He frowns, “I made it worse when I tied you up again, didn't I? Jesus, I'm so sorry.”

“No no, it's fine, really,” she assures him. He shakes his head.

“It looks a bit infected. Wait, I'll fetch something,” he says, walking away with the bowls.

He drops the empty bowls in the sink before heading out of the door. About ten minutes later, he comes back with a mortar, a pestle, and a roll of linen.

She watches as he grinds up some sort of herbs in the mortar. “What's this?”

“Not really sure what they call it,” he says, crushing the leaves into a thick paste, “but that's what I use for minor wounds like this. It'll help ya, I promise.”

“Alright,” she says, giving him her hand. He spreads the paste on her wound and she winces as she feels her wound burn upon the contact .

The pain soon subsides and is replaced by a cool, almost pleasant sensation. “Much better, is it?” he asks, wrapping the linen around her wrist.

“Yes, thank you, Arthur.” He smiles back at her.

“Anyway, I'm heading out to the doc for my wound tomorrow. Why don't ya come with me? We better get this checked too,” he suggests, gesturing to her wrist.

She shakes her head, “No, it's fine. It ain't that bad. 'sides, I'm not sure if it's safe to show my face in town right now.” She has visited more than a few towns in the past few months, but she tried to avoid going there unless she absolutely has to. Besides, she never stayed near one town for long. Now that she is settling here for the time being, it is best to play safe this time. “Besides, you know the best remedy is time anyway. I’ll be fine.”

“Hm, well, alright.”

“I think I should go to bed, right about now.” she leans down.

“I guess I should join ya then.” Arthur replies and pulls off his boots. Mary stops him with a hand.

“Can you take it all off? It’d-it would make me feel a bit more comfortable.”

“Oh. Well, alright.” Arthur replies. She turns away as he undresses and slips under, right next to her. He turns, her eyes drift down his chest. Somehow, he looks even better up close. She lets the blanket slip down as she takes in his features, the map of scars decorating his muscular form, the hairs covering him, just slightly darker than the hair on his head. She catches herself leering at him again and regains her composure.

She turns and blows out the light, but his form is still outlined in the pale glow of a clouded moon. Almost instinctively, Mary leans in and places a careful kiss on the corner of his mouth. He kisses her back and lays her down on the bed, positioning himself between her legs again. She pushes him back down, he lets out a pained growl.

“Sorry,” she hastily straddles him, grabbing his shoulders. He pulls her down and kisses her, his hands wandering up her body, feeling and enjoying every inch of skin, soft and warm and smooth underneath his calloused fingers. He finds her bare breasts and gently massages the tender flesh there. She lets out a little gasp and wordlessly encourages him to keep going by placing her hands on his. He softly chuckles and his other hand trails down to find her dripping wet already. She lifts herself up and tries to push his cock inside herself, in an attempt to cure the aching emptiness. Her eagerness amuses him.

“Easy there, sweetheart, let me,” he stops her and places himself at her entrance. She hastily sinks down on him and lets out a soft whine. Arthur grabs her hips and holds her steady as he thrusts into her.

“God, you're so tight,” he groans, feeling the muscle of her pelvis contract around him. She lets out a restrained sob, still adjusting to his size. She bites down on her lip as he pushes himself deeper into her, pushing his whole length inside her. “You okay right there?” he says, slowing down.

She swallows, “I'm alright. Just need a moment.”

He nods, adjusting his pace. He keeps still for a minute, giving her the time she needs before starting again, more slowly this time.

Inhaling deeply, she begins to bounce on him, shaking as his cock splits her open, over and over again. Goddammit, how can he be so fucking big? How can he feel so incredible?

He soon catches up with her pace, his mouth dropping open to let out a shaky breath when she squeezes her legs together. The sensation of her warm tightness around him is just so intense, he almost cums right at that moment.

Despite all the wetness gushing out of her, he feels a slight resistance when he tries to pull out. “Relax, girl,” he whispers, gently pushing her thighs apart, “yer too tense for me to do anything.”

“Okay,” she breathes, leaning down to kiss him again as he continues his maneuvering. Both his hands travel up her torso to play with her tits. He grabs a handful of her softness and gives it a light squeeze. He's almost surprised by how amazing her tits are. He can't see them clearly in the dark, but he really enjoys how soft they are between his fingers, how fine their shape is and how they seem to fit perfectly in his hands, though they’re rather full. His thumbs gently stroke her nipples, making her moan.

“Oh, Arthur,” she pants, “you feel so, ah, so good inside of me.”

The little yelp she makes sends a jolt of fire straight to his throbbing cock. She can even feel his pulse inside her, it makes her a little light-headed, for some reason, but it isn't an unwelcome feeling.

“I like—like it when you say my name,” he groans. “Say it, say it again.”

“Ah, Arthur, please, do it again, Arthur, please,” she whines, as he gropes her chest more roughly. He feels her pace quicken and her breath get heavier, he takes the soft flesh between his fingers and rolls it between his fingers.

“You’re such a good girl for me…Mary,” he mutters. His other hand trails down to her cunt again and he feels a soft bump under her flesh, a spot that pulls a gasp out of her. He carefully massages it as she rides him. He looks down to see his erection sliding in and out of her. It is a lewd scene, indeed, but almost gracefully so: the way his cock glistens with her moisture, the way her slickness so readily engulfs him, the way their flesh collide, producing a slick smack each time he pounds into her… it is overwhelming, and he can't help but give her a particularly hard thrust upon the sight of it.

He feels her shudder and clench around him as she lets out a sudden shriek. She continues to ride him through her orgasm, prolonging it. He feels his release coming and pulls her down almost instinctively, forcing himself inside her at a hard staccato place, enjoying her cries and moans.

“Finish inside me, Arthur, please,” she pleads. Her fingers dig into his shoulders, as he pulls her down one last time. He lets her go, as he shoots rope after rope into her inviting warmth, ecstasy flooding his body like never before. She pulls off of him and lazily lays down by him. He catches his breath and wraps his arm around her.

“Oh, shit, shit, shit, I didn’t pull out.” he tenses and sits back up. She lets out a soft laugh again and pulls him back down.

“Calm down, Arthur. I can’t get pregnant.” she rests her hand over his chest, before he slumps down again, letting out a relieved sigh, before frowning again.

“How are you so sure, though?”

“Seven years of marriage, never got a kid.”

“Still. It may not be your problem, y'know, maybe it's his.”

She shakes her head. “He'd had children before. Four of them. It can't be him.”

“Oh, oh well, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Oh, it’s fine, just ain’t in the cards for me, not worth being sorry about,” she dismisses his apology. He wonders if he heard a slight sadness in her tone. “More fun like this anyway, isn’t it?”

He lets out a chuckle and adjusts her in his arms. He drags his finger along her back in a lazy circle. Her skin is soft, but not too soft, warmer than his hand, but not uncomfortably so, she feels just right under his hands.

“Night…” she mutters to him, her voice slurring with sleep as she buries her face in his shoulders.

He notices her breath gradually slowing down to a steady pace as sleep overcomes her. He can feel the way her chest rises and falls with each breath, how warm and ticklish her breath feels on his skin.

Strands of her hair fall on his face. He indulges himself in her scent. She smells warm and pleasant, like cinnamon and some sort of flower. He lets out a yawn, feeling his muscles relax as his mind starts to go foggy.

“'night,” he whispers, shutting his own eyes close, a small smile creeping up the corner of his lips. It’d be a fun few weeks, at least. Really fun.

#take your cigarette from its holder burn your initials on my shoulder #mary linton x arthur morgan #mary linton/arthur morgan #mary gillis linton #mary linton #mary gillis #arthur morgan #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #our fic

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