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awritesthings1 · 5 months

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Gone with the Leaves

Pairing: Tommy Shelby / Wife Reader

Summary: Despite your happy marriage to Tommy, you feel an undeniable jealousy towards Lizzie. Perhaps a day in the forest will do you some good.

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A/N: I'm starting a tag list, comment if you want to be added :)

“You write like you’re running out of time,” mused Lizzie Stark, former prostitute, now Tommy’s secretary. “They have typewriters for those types of things, y’know?”

You saw the volley of cannonballs that launched and subsequently landed on Tommy’s desk as the words left her mouth. It wasn’t that you expected more of poor old plain Lizzie, but you thought that the time she had spent lying on her back staring past the shoulder of a customer at the ceiling would have taught her to read a room. Nevertheless, she stood there, quite amused with herself, smiling stupidly at your husband.

Tommy, who had been sitting at his desk all afternoon attending to letters, the ledger, and god knows what else, peered up from the paper. “What did you say?”

This time, it was your turn to be amused. He pointed accusingly at Lizzie, who by then had realised her impetuous mistake. Her wide eyes fluttered to you desperately, like a bee that had indulged itself in so much pollen that it became stuck in its own honey. No, that was putting it lightly. She looked to you like a frightened child who knew exactly what kind of trouble they were in.

You made sure you looked the other way.

“It was only a silly joke,” came her spluttering apology.

Tommy squinted, and his mouth curled into a frown. Smoke chased the deep exhale from the cigarette hanging between his lips. Your husband carried this terrifying look to him that many feared. Without the peaky cap to cover his striking blue eyes, you saw his glare cut away the cords in Lizzie’s throat with just one look. How could poor Lizzie defend herself from eyes that had witnessed nightmarish things?

“I’m not clear. Is it funny that I sign my letters by hand, or are you above using ink now that you have graduated from the bed to the desk?”

Lizzie’s mouth wormed into a thin line, yet she still looked to you for help. Of what help she thought you would possibly spare, you weren’t sure. For once, Lizzie used initiative and showed herself out.

Your heels clacked across the wooden threshold of your husband’s office. Now that no one was there to disturb you both, you sat down on Tommy’s lap. By then, he was leaning back on his chair, work abandoned for the time being until he could wash the sour sight of Lizzie Stark from his eyes.

“You know I don’t like her,” you said plainly.

There was no need for fake smiles or lies with Tommy. You knew him, and he knew you.

Tommy exhaled loudly, stubbing out the last of his cigarette on his ashtray and taking a swig of whiskey before his calloused hand found your waist.

He clears his throat. “It’s only business with her.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I like her any less.”

Tommy loved you, not Lizzie Stark, yet you couldn’t stomach the undeniable jealousy that arose with her presence. Perhaps it was a natural inclination women had toward their lovers. Lizzie had never done anything outwardly wrong to you. So, what was it then that turned your plain teeth into hissing fangs?

Everyone knew that Tommy was one of her paying customers before you met him, but so were all of Small Heath. You never felt insecure in your relationship with Tommy; there was no need to feel threatened by a prostitute. Yet that wouldn’t stop the catty feline that emerged from its slumber when Lizzie’s wandering eyes battered at your husband.

No. Lizzie Stark would never know what it felt like to be loved by a man like Tommy. What you held in your hands each night was a transcendental, unconditional type of love—one that surpassed the heart and soul, which drew two beings together in the most unconventional yet fitting way. The way that covers kept you warm at night, Tommy watched over your hearth and kept the fire burning, even if he were on the other side of the country.

You closed your eyes, leaning into the valley between Tommy’s neck and shoulder as you listened for the bah-dum-bah-dum of his heart. They sat together in silence, cherishing each other’s presence, while Tommy rested his cheek on your head. Outside, the world waited, barking at their front door and scratching at the delicately carved wood. Even the rain lashed at the windowpanes, playing together like one elemental orchestra.

The hand not resting on your waist rose to gently stroke up and down your arm. You shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold.

“I think you have some work to attend to in the bedroom,” you mumbled into his neck.

Your nose searched for the spot where he applied his aftershave.

“Eh?” Came his gruff response.

Your hand wandered down his suit in answer.

The sheets were bundled around Tommy’s naked waist when you sauntered back over to the bed with his case of cigarettes in hand. Gratefully, he took the case from your hand, wrapping an arm around your shoulder to pull you into the warmth of his chest. Then he began the usual routine. He fished out a cigarette to offer, but you shook your head no, so he slid it once, then twice, across his bottom lip. On the bedside table, he grabbed the half-empty matchbox to light the cigarette.

Tommy was the resident chain smoker in your house. With an appetite for tobacco and whiskey, you often wondered just how he sustained himself throughout the day. Of course, there were the home-cooked meals at Arrow House waiting for his return, although that didn’t stop you from worrying any less. It was pathetic, really, sitting all alone in his study, twiddling your fingers, and sitting beneath his portrait like you were praying to him. Tommy was no god, no matter how much he tried to convince everyone else. Yet whenever headlights passed the window and lit up the office momentarily, you would stand up and peer out, hoping to spot your husband exiting the car.

He cleared his throat, drawing your attention back to the present. You loved watching the way the cigarette shifted between his lips when he spoke, even more when his hooded eyes looked over at you. Tommy was a man of few words, simply because he didn’t need language to communicate. His body spoke for him in tongues for all his enemies to understand. And more importantly, in a way your body understood.

Your hand abandoned his tattoo to stroke a thumb across his full bottom lip. Lust swelled there, eager to chase the rest of the night away into a haze of pleasure until the sun rose. As tempting as it was, you sighed at the thought. You would rather spend this time taking in your husband, remembering the fine details across his face and body, from the scar in the hollow of his cheek to the rough texture beneath his shoulder blade where a bullet was once lodged. You wanted to trace the sockets of his eyes the way a blind person would, treasuring each valley, mountain, and cut of skin as if it were to disappear the second you stopped touching him.

“You’re beautiful,” you decided, bathed in candlelight, tangled up between the sheets and Tommy’s arms.

Tommy’s brows furrowed, and the cigarette hung dangerously loose from where his lips curled into a frown. He grunted, clearly dissatisfied with your words. Tommy wasn’t beautiful. He was hard, ambitious, and unmovable force.

Beautiful was a conventional word savored for the finest women. To you? It meant so much more. Crafted in a way that would cause people to stare, sure, but there was also a poetic sense to the word. The type of beauty you would use to describe a well-written novel or heart-wrenching poem. Thomas Shelby stood for something, and that was beautiful.

“Then what are you, eh?”

A lazy smile floated onto your face, so much so that you had to bite your lip to refrain from looking devastatingly pleased at his answer.

A woman, a dreamer, a friend, a reader, an achiever. “A wife.”

He huffed, raising his eyebrows playfully.

Why was it that most women felt like they could only fit the frame of one? With Tommy, you were never limited to the endless possibilities. You treasured being a wife the same way you treasured your other roles. Marriage wasn’t the end all be all. Perhaps that’s another lie men spun—that perfectly capable women stopped existing as soon as a diamond ring slid onto their finger. How sad, you thought, to waste away all that potential when men were still free to pursue stupid ideas like war and dog fights.

Tommy was unbothered by traditional ideas like that. Change powered his ambition; he had no time for parallel lines. You could be his wife, a writer, a singer, or a mother—whatever you wanted—and he wouldn’t think of you any less.

You hummed, chasing that cigarette from his lips and stubbing it out in the ash tray by his bedside table. Tommy didn’t seem too heartbroken about it. In fact, there was some mirth in his gaze. His hands traced up your naked spine, pulling your body further into his until you could smell the smoke in his breath.

“Yes,” he breathed in loudly through his nose, “my wife.”

The following day, you were invited to the Basnett's hunting party. You would’ve been more enthusiastic to write about your excitement to attend if the whole ordeal hadn’t been so troublesome. Because a few days prior, when you were visiting your husband’s office, you had caught sight of the letter on Lizzie’s desk, a letter that was supposed to reach you days earlier.

“What’s this?” You asked.

“Oh, nothing interesting,” Lizzie had said, too occupied with filing her nails while on the clock.

You kept your composure for the sake of keeping the peace. You didn’t wish to disturb Tommy if he were to walk by.

“This is a letter addressed to me,” you pressed.

“Oh.” She stopped for a moment, then leaned over to read the letter you had pulled from the messy pile. “No, it’s addressed to Tommy.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Shelby,” you hissed quietly, with emphasis on the missus.

“Hm, I didn’t notice.”

“You are paid to notice.” You fought the urge to comment that she was paid for other things not long ago. “How long has this been sitting here?”

Lizzie tapped her cigarette ash into the tray. “The post boy dropped that lot off yesterday.”

Even if it was only two days late to reach your hand, by society’s standards, that may have well been taken as you snubbing the invitation. Frustratingly, you had to cancel your plans that day and personally deliver your letter to the Basnett’s door, citing some excuse of it having been lost in the post.

“That woman is up to no good.” You said glumly that night into Tommy’s chest.

“I’ll speak to her,” he promised in that stoic tone of his.

Whether he had been true to his words, you weren’t sure because Lizzie made an effort to avoid you when possible.

“Oh! Mrs. Shelby! How wonderful for you to join us! Come in, come in. The men are readying their rifles for the hunt outside. How exciting!” Gushed Lady Basnett, shooing you into the atrium of her lavish mansion.

Your riding boots clacked across the floor before being muffled by an intricately woven rug. You stared up at the chandelier, childishly wondering if it would hit you if it were to fall at that moment.

“Right this way, Mrs. Shelby!” Lady Basnett ushered excitably.

You debated if all her energy was for show—to please her husband and be the good wife he expected of her. After she showed you through to the veranda and down to the circle of wives who had gathered under the trees while their husbands readied for the hunt, you decided that no, she must truly enjoy planning social occasions like this, as evidenced by the way she kissed Sarah’s cheek in greeting with a wide grin.

It pleased you to know that Lady Basnett found joy in something. Ever since her eldest died in the war, she has been known to be a bit of a recluse.

“Oh, what a beautiful ring! May we see it?” Doe-eyed Catherine asked.

She was one of the younger wives, like yourself. Catherine married an older man, twice her senior. Many of the wives here faulted her for it behind her back, but not you. You saw more of yourself in her than you did in any of the other women. Because, despite the age gap, the girl seemed to be utterly head-over-heels in love with a man society deemed old-fashioned for her. And how could you blame her when you swore an oath to a gangster of all people?

You obliged and let the wives twist and turn your hand to better inspect the diamonds on your ring finger.

“It’s perfect!”

“How many carats?”

“My Mary would be so jealous!”

After dutifully showing your wedding ring, you noticed the men beginning to mount their horses.

Catherine hooked her arm around yours. “Come on, we are going to be left behind!”

She jovially pulled you along the stone tiles at a speed that made you grateful for wearing riding boots. The backyard was grand in the sense that the acres they owned stretched vastly into the nearby forest. Although there were impressive features, like the hedge they had grown into a maze and the trees that were shaped into birds.

“Lady Basnett owned an aviary of budgies. Dear little things they were, she was devastated when they all escaped one night after the groundskeeper forgot to close the door,” Catherine commented, having noticed the way your head was turned.

You laughed, because you could precisely picture Lady Basnett as the type to fawn over little budgies.

Catherine led you to the horses, where some of the wives were already perched, waiting for the party to leave. None of them carried rifles, but rather wicker baskets strapped to the saddle for the picnic they planned to have at the top of the hill while they waited for their husbands to finish hunting.

Together, you set off, having mounted the back of Catherine’s mare. Deeper into the forest you went, the black mare trotting over loose dirt and rocks. Both of you remained at the end of the pack, preferring to keep to yourselves in light conversation.

Then it all happened so suddenly. One of the rifles went off up ahead, and a flock of birds rushed at you from the break in the foliage, startling your mare. You gasped in shock and reached for Catherine’s jacket to hold on, but only skimmed her. She went face first into the dirt while you were swept into the air like a leaf and fell with the grace of a rock. The ground thundered as the mare galloped into the distance.

“Fuck!” Catherine spat.

(On her fall she had taken a mouthful of soil and leaves.)

“They’ll come back,” you tried to reassure her.

Hours later, the two of you still had not been found.

“I was a prostitute before George found me, y’know.”

No, you didn’t know.

“That’s why I’m so young and he so old,” she smiled fondly, laughing as if it were the most normal thing.

You couldn’t find it in your heart to dislike her because of her circumstances. She was your friend, and a true one at that.

What was it that Tommy said? The past is the past.

The sun began to set when one of the men from the hunting party found you both huddled together under a tree. Kindly, he let the two of you ride the rest of the way back despite your hesitance to mount another horse.

When you returned to Lady Basnett’s, with Catherine in arm, the sun had been set for at least two hours. You hadn’t realized what trouble you had gotten yourself into until you noticed Tommy’s Bentley parked in the crowded driveway of the mansion. Men stood at the gate, armed and waiting. Catherine opened her mouth to remark how ridiculous it was, but you kept your lips sealed after recognizing the guards to be Peaky Blinders.

Tommy had to be beside himself.

A young boy who was playing between the cars popped his head out when the gates squealed open. His ears perked up, and he ran inside, clutching his peaky cap, to probably inform the adults inside of your arrival. People pooled out onto the front steps, the women covering their hearts and sighing with relief, and the men holding their hats to their chests. But when your husband, Tommy, came storming out, they parted like the red sea.

He stalked across the gravel like a predator, his eyes trained on you with an unblinking stare.

“Are you hurt?” He ignored Catherine, cupping your face and frantically looking between both your eyes as if you would disappear.

Upon further inspection, his eyes were bloodshot, and the white sleeves of his blouse were bundled into the golden garters. Your hands itched to muse his disheveled hair into place, but with all the curious onlookers, you thought better of it.

“No.”

George, Catherine’s husband, was quick to whisk her away inside. You heard Lady Basnett’s voice trailing after them: “Oh my, what a terrible thing. Come now, let me pour you some tea.”

Unfortunately, tea wouldn’t make up for any lost ground with Tommy.

“We’re going.”

You knew better to open your mouth to disagree. This was Tommy being afraid and carrying on. He retreated into himself. It didn’t look pretty or like he cared, but he cared; you knew he cared. It was only that no one else was allowed to know that the great Thomas Shelby felt any emotion.

At Arrow House, he swallowed two glasses of whiskey before saying a word. You were pulling at the hem of the overcoat that Tommy had shook off his shoulders to give you for the ride home. Your fingers just couldn’t stand the anxious silence that rang throughout the room.

“What the fuck happened?”

He stood in front of you, stoic as a soldier but cracking around the exterior thanks to his hand, which itched for the cigarette case inside his pocket. (A nervous tick of his.) You grab his hand between your own before he can fish out the case.

“The horse got spooked. It bucked Catherine and me off, but we’re fine.”

His thumb rubs across your knuckles as he looks past your shoulder out the window.

“Do you know where I was when I got the call? Eh? I was handling some business when Lizzie came in and told me some posh old woman was on the line, saying you were missing.”

He exhaled sharply, dropping his gaze to you, where you noticed his eyes soften.

“I thought…” He broke off.

His chin dropped, and he went to itch his nose with his other hand.

“What did you think happened? Is there something I should know about?” Concern leaked into your voice.

“No,” he huffed, clearing his throat. “It doesn’t matter. You’re home, and you’re safe.”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from saying anything that might push him over the edge. He was fragile in a state like this in the sense that he pushed the stronger, more vivid feelings to the side because you were his wife, not a Peaky Blinder. No, you would never be, even though you married one.

Often, you would wish you could turn into the leaves that swept off the pavement and into the air. Imagine then how much easier life would be for you both—to forget the animosity of life and rise above it all, breathe in that crystal air, and then finally exclaim the truth because up there no one could hear them or cared enough to try anyway.

Cautiously, you let go of his hand and traced your fingertips up to knead away the tension in his jaw.

“Thomas… Do you remember what you asked of me? To help you with the whole fucking thing—”

“From now on—”

“Thomas—”

“From now on, let me know where you are going. I will organize a guard to watch over you.”

‘You write like you’re running out of time,’ Lizzie’s poorly placed joke from the start of the week reverberated in your skull.

Was he?

“I need you,” he breathed, the smell of whiskey fanning over your senses.

You nodded, pressing up on your toes to kiss him. A soft breath escaped him when you pulled away.

“You have me.”

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lord-of-the-prompts · 2 years

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DESCRIBING THE PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTES OF CHARACTERS:

Body

descriptors; ample, athletic, barrel-chested, beefy, blocky, bony, brawny, buff, burly, chubby, chiseled, coltish, curvy, fat, fit, herculean, hulking, lanky, lean, long, long-legged, lush, medium build, muscular, narrow, overweight, plump, pot-bellied, pudgy, round, skeletal, skinny, slender, slim, stocky, strong, stout, strong, taut, toned, wide.

Eyebrows

descriptors; bushy, dark, faint, furry, long, plucked, raised, seductive, shaved, short, sleek, sparse, thin, unruly.

shape; arched, diagonal, peaked, round, s-shaped, straight.

Ears

shape; attached lobe, broad lobe, narrow, pointed, round, square, sticking-out.

Eyes

colour; albino, blue (azure, baby blue, caribbean blue, cobalt, ice blue, light blue, midnight, ocean blue, sky blue, steel blue, storm blue,) brown (amber, dark brown, chestnut, chocolate, ebony, gold, hazel, honey, light brown, mocha, pale gold, sable, sepia, teakwood, topaz, whiskey,) gray (concrete gray, marble, misty gray, raincloud, satin gray, smoky, sterling, sugar gray), green (aquamarine, emerald, evergreen, forest green, jade green, leaf green, olive, moss green, sea green, teal, vale).

descriptors; bedroom, bright, cat-like, dull, glittering, red-rimmed, sharp, small, squinty, sunken, sparkling, teary.

positioning/shape; almond, close-set, cross, deep-set, downturned, heavy-lidded, hooded, monolid, round, slanted, upturned, wide-set.

Face

descriptors; angular, cat-like, hallow, sculpted, sharp, wolfish.

shape; chubby, diamond, heart-shaped, long, narrow, oblong, oval, rectangle, round, square, thin, triangle.

Facial Hair

beard; chin curtain, classic, circle, ducktail, dutch, french fork, garibaldi, goatee, hipster, neckbeard, old dutch, spade, stubble, verdi, winter.

clean-shaven

moustache; anchor, brush, english, fu manchu, handlebar, hooked, horseshoe, imperial, lampshade, mistletoe, pencil, toothbrush, walrus.

sideburns; chin strap, mutton chops.

Hair

colour; blonde (ash blonde, golden blonde, beige, honey, platinum blonde, reddish blonde, strawberry-blonde, sunflower blonde,) brown (amber, butterscotch, caramel, champagne, cool brown, golden brown, chocolate, cinnamon, mahogany,) red (apricot, auburn, copper, ginger, titain-haired,), black (expresso, inky-black, jet black, raven, soft black) grey (charcoal gray, salt-and-pepper, silver, steel gray,), white (bleached, snow-white).

descriptors; bedhead, dull, dry, fine, full, layered, limp, messy, neat, oily, shaggy, shinny, slick, smooth, spiky, tangled, thick, thin, thinning, tousled, wispy, wild, windblown.

length; ankle length, bald, buzzed, collar length, ear length, floor length, hip length, mid-back length, neck length, shaved, shoulder length, waist length.

type; beach waves, bushy, curly, frizzy, natural, permed, puffy, ringlets, spiral, straight, thick, thin, wavy.

Hands; calloused, clammy, delicate, elegant, large, plump, rough, small, smooth, square, sturdy, strong.

Fingernails; acrylic, bitten, chipped, curved, claw-like, dirty, fake, grimy, long, manicured, painted, peeling, pointed, ragged, short, uneven.

Fingers; arthritic, cold, elegant, fat, greasy, knobby, slender, stubby.

Lips/Mouth

colour (lipstick); brown (caramel, coffee, nude, nutmeg,) pink (deep rose, fuchsia, magenta, pale peach, raspberry, rose, ) purple (black cherry, plum, violet, wine,) red (deep red, ruby.)

descriptors; chapped, cracked, dry, full, glossy, lush, narrow, pierced, scabby, small, soft, split, swollen, thin, uneven, wide, wrinkled.

shape; bottom-heavy, bow-turned, cupid’s bow, downturned, oval, pouty, rosebud, sharp, top-heavy.

Nose

descriptors; broad, broken, crooked, dainty, droopy, hooked, long, narrow, pointed, raised, round, short, strong, stubby, thin, turned-up, wide.

shape; button, flared, grecian, hawk, roman.

Skin

descriptors; blemished, bruised, chalky, clear, dewy, dimpled, dirty, dry, flaky, flawless, freckled, glowing, hairy, itchy, lined, oily, pimply, rashy, rough, sagging, satiny, scarred, scratched, smooth, splotchy, spotted, tattooed, uneven, wrinkly.

complexion; black, bronzed, brown, dark, fair, ivory, light, medium, olive, pale, peach, porcelain, rosy, tan, white.

#writing prompt #writing ideas #writing tips #creative writing #writers of tumblr #writers block #writing things #writers #writing advice #characteristics #character description

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bourbon-banter · 2 years

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Kissimmee My Ass – Bourbon & Banter Podcast #26

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#Brown Forman #Catoctin Creek Distilling Company #Few Spirits #Florida #GWAR #Jackie Zykan #Old Forester #Wyoming Whiskey

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tripleyeeet · 8 months

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WHERE'S YOUR PATIENCE? (7)

SUMMARY: You and Astarion finally have the conversation. Among other things.

PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 5,912

WARNINGS: 18+ sexual content, teasing, little bit of hand stuff, vaginal sex, CONSENT IS SEXY, mentions of past sexual/physical trauma, potential spoilers for acts 1/2.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Say thank you to the 2 bottles of Corona and the tequila shot I took to loosen up my brain enough to write this smut. I couldn't have done it without them. (And also my bardic inspiration @imgoingtofreakoutnow)

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST / NEXT CHAPTER

The weeks following feel like an uphill battle —a never-ending course of constant information and action all tied into one long work month. Without warning, you find yourself overwhelmingly annoyed with the pace of it all. Not to mention the unwavering guilt, knowing that if you’re not fighting hordes of Absolute cultists or doing research on how to rip the Illithid out of your head, your time is essentially wasted.

Or at least, that’s what it feels like.

Considering the severity of everything, even when you’re resting from a long day's work, you always find your mind wandering. Picking apart texts from old books you’ve found during infiltration missions. Oftentimes late at night when Astarion’s come back from feeding, you spend a lot of your time together relaying said thoughts. Using the late-night silence to fuel the drive that’s been missing throughout the day.

By the time you get to the Inn within the Shadowlands, you’re surprised he’s not sick of you for it. Nowadays, just the mere thought of your own voice makes you want to rip off your ears, and although you know it’s crucial that you discuss things like this, you know there are other things that are important too.

Like your shared confession. And your promise to talk of the past when you were both ready.

Since that night you haven’t asked him about it. With everything happening so quick, it’s been pushed to the back of your mind —lost amongst the clutter of thoughts that you’re often forced to leave behind. Deep down, you imagine he’s somewhat in the same boat but still, there’s even more guilt that surfaces. Filling both sides of the spectrum like an overflowing glass of water —so much so that by the time you’re gifted a proper night’s rest in an actual bed you’re already too tired to care.

As soon as you enter the Inn after your journey through the cursed shadows of the forest you head straight to the bar, barely batting an eye at the barkeep who looks you up and down, horrified by the state of your dress.

“Whiskey, please.”

“And… whatever else you got back there that doesn’t taste of fermentation.”

You turn to see Astarion already standing beside you, moving his hand to the small of your back to usher you into one of the stools. Immediately, you oblige with a sigh, blinking back sleep as you rest your bloodied elbows on the countertop, earning yourself a look of annoyance that Astarion squashes with an unfriendly scowl, showcasing his canine teeth.

If you weren’t so exhausted you probably would’ve laughed at such a sight, but considering you are, you instead let out a soft hum and down your whiskey when it’s placed in front of you, signalling for another.

“I see you’ve already decided how you’re going to spend your night off.”

Nodding your head, you barely register his words, slumping your damp forehead down against the counter with a groan. “How the fuck are we even alive?”

It’s a fair question when you take into account all that you’ve been through. All the puzzles and battles and endless expectations to now save all of Baldur’s Gate just to get these damned Illithids out of your head.

At this rate, you and everyone else should’ve been dead ages ago. Either murdered and looted for your tadpoles and their powers or already turned into tentacle-faced beasts. Not sitting next to Astarion, covered in blood, sweat and tears, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to keep going. How you’re meant to keep this unrealistic momentum of burnout over and over and—

He runs his palm along the base of your spine, drawing his fingers up and down as he takes a sip of his drink. “Hells if I know, darling.”

Feeling a bit delirious, you laugh and raise your head to look between him and the new drink in front of you. “We should’ve been dead by now.”

“You? Perhaps. Me?” He pauses to dig his digits into your aching neck, making your head fall forward again in delight. “Well, I have far too much to do after all of this is over.”

“Yeah, like what?”

When he doesn’t answer right away you remember the conversation. That moment by the fire where you kissed and confessed and told each other you’d talk about it. Immediately it fills you with anxiety, clouding your features with a worried brow and frowning lips as you crane your neck to the side.

When you look at him you notice he’s not really there. His eyes sit in their normal position, staring back but there’s nothing. Not a thought or feeling; just two empty voids surrounded by bloodied dissociation.

It pulls at your heartstrings far too much —makes you let out a breath and raise your frame to slip off the stool and move to hug him. Despite the lack of attention, he manages to follow suit as it happens, wrapping his arms around your neck as you burrow into his chest, once again sighing, wondering if you should apologize and offer your ear or merely forget the exchange entirely.

Before you can even think to do either he’s standing up, keeping his hold as he grabs your other whiskey and proceeds to drink it down, barely batting an eye.

Raising your brow at him, you feel his fingers dig into your neck again, rubbing rough circles that have you resting your forehead against his chest, trying to form any semblance of a thought.

It makes him laugh and raise his hand to your hair, running his fingers through the roots. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

You’re already off and climbing the stairs before you’re able to answer. Pushing through the pain that radiates through your calves with every step. Leaning against him with tired eyes that eventually open up when the door creaks open in front you of.

Somehow you managed to earn yourself a private room. One that’s actually clean with a real bed and a tub —all of which almost have you in tears.

“Nice of them to give us some privacy, hm?” Astarion smirks down at you as he speaks, watching as you roll your eyes and finally pull yourself away, reaching for the clasps of your leather vest. Like the rest of you, it’s coated in a thick layer of dirt and blood. All of it dried and coming off in disgusting clumps that have you scrunching up your face. Brushing off the top few clasps, you try not to focus on the way it feels against your fingers. How it collects under your nails as you narrow your eyes, struggling to get the damned thing off.

It makes him scoff and pull you back in, pushing your hands aside to undo the first clasp. “I feel as though I recall a time where you claimed to be patient?”

As he moves down to the next one you shake your head and look away. “Emotionally, yes. Physically I—“

“I’d say you’re far more patient in that regard, actually.”

For a second you’re not sure what he means but then it hits you. He means sex. Physical intimacy. A line of which you hadn’t yet crossed due to several things. The main being your lack of conversation —your lack of focus to a promise you both said you wouldn't break.

Obviously, the lack of time hasn’t helped either, but as you stand there, watching his fingers pull apart your top layer, you find yourself visibly frustrated. Angry at yourself for not taking the time to offer the piece of yourself you desperately want.

After that night it was always your intention to go first. To tell him all about your past in order to open the floodgates. You figured if you were brave enough to do it —to be the one to bite the bullet— maybe he’d inevitably follow.

But then life got in the way and now nearly five weeks later it suddenly feels like you’re stuck in this limbo. One where you’re dancing on the edge, teetering with bated breath. Wondering if maybe the time is right.

As his hands move further and further you find yourself fighting your imagination. Brushing off the feelings that start to surface as you stare down at his hands, watching their delicate ministrations.

It’s apparent then that he's no stranger to the art of undress. As his fingers twist and turn to work the clasps apart, you have to stop yourself from giving in to temptation, knowing that it’s wrong. Remembering the promise you made.

Moving your hand to stop him, you clear your throat and watch his eyes. Noticing the way they filter through the air to eventually focus on you, blinking as if he wasn’t there to begin with.

“Can we talk now? Maybe?”

His hands sit against your leathers, gripping the metal with tightened fingers that still somehow manage to pale from their hold despite his complexion. “Course.”

Running your fingers along his knuckles, you slowly wrap your fists around them, bringing them up toward your mouth to place soft kisses despite the mess of battle that lingers. Then you drag him further into the room, placing him on the edge of the bed.

“Do you know who Beshaba is?” you ask, plain and simple, unsure how else to start the conversation of your past as you sit beside him.

“The deity?”

You nod, slowly, letting your gaze anxiously fall to your lap. “I grew up in one of her churches after my parents died. Learned everything I know about the world from a priestess named Hessa.”

As you try your best to further collect your thoughts, Astarion leans in, narrowing his eyes at the way your hands start to shake against your thigh.

“Is she the one in your dream?” he asks.

Without hesitation, you nod. “They thrive on infliction,” you explain after, watching him frown. Taking in the way his demeanour changes without warning to become something you’re not quite sure you've seen before. “Their doctrine revolves around fear. If you don’t participate you’re expected to endure only pain and misfortune.”

You remember growing up underneath all these women, listening to their cautionary tales of Beshaba’s terror. It instilled fear in you from the get-go —taught you that the only way to endure the horrors of this life was to devote yourself to her. To offer everything you could in exchange for peace, so you did. Unwaveringly so.

“As a child, I grew up listening to these women scare everyone for the sake of their goddess.” You pause to swallow, feeling the memories of Hessa’s knife each time you later disobeyed, slice across your skin. “Then, as an adult, I followed the cycle.”

“Willingly?”

You shrug your shoulders. “At first.”

You remember as soon as you were old enough you were sent out to recruit. To trick the minds of all the simple folk, weaving fabricated tales of disasters that were carried out by Beshaba’s hand. It was difficult to do. Seeing all those ruined minds come crawling to you for salvation —begging for forgiveness in the form of eternal loyalty.

Thankfully though, it grew old pretty quickly. The formula of travelling Faerûn, following the endless calamity and blaming it on the lack of faith was enough to pull you out of the fog. As each day passed, it became increasingly hard to pretend your faith was still intact, so you formulated a plan.

“When we arrived in Baldur’s Gate I tried to leave. In the middle of the night I abandoned my sisters —tried to run and never look back but…”

There’s a moment where your mouth just closes, trailing from the memories of your story; straying solely to the image of Hessa. To her hands and face each time she broke you apart and put you back together.

Without even trying you can feel her next to you, whispering her teachings in your ear —touching your scars with calloused hands. Her voice still has that icy hold on you even when you’re far away, keeping you still as she forces you down to kneel on the stone floor and await your punishment.

A punishment you’ll always feel you deserve. Even now that you’ve well and truly denounced the faith. Deep down you still feel the guilt of your exit. The pain of having to carry the trauma of an existence you never had the choice of living. To this day, it still eats away through the scars that line your stomach. Boring lines of betrayal across your skin.

The last thing you want to do is cry, but as the reminder of such abuse continues to penetrate your mind you find the tears falling anyway. Collecting at the edges of your eyes so quickly that you’re forced to close them in order to reset your vision.

As you do you feel Astarion wrapping himself completely around you. Pulling you into his chest with heavy hands that feel nothing like hers. Reminding you that you’re safe. That you’re here with him and nobody else.

“Is this wretched woman still stationed in Baldur’s?”

You feel his fingers on your chin, pulling your face up so that he can see you when you nod, holding back tears.

“Good. Then our destinations align.”

His voice sounds different. Instead of the usual softness or flirtation, it’s spoken through clenched teeth that strain against his throat, somehow feeling almost like a threat. An unspoken but well-articulated phrase of warning that has you sniffing and wiping your eyes. “What do you mean?”

At first, you figure he’s talking about the Illithid. The urgent need to get to Baldur’s Gate before time runs out. But then you’re ripped back to reality —to the moments where he’s briefly mentioned his desire to return home. To finish whatever business he has after this timely journey is over.

“The person who sent the hunter—“

He practically spits out his name. Cazador Szarr. A man you’re unfortunately well aware of given his reputation.

After arriving in Baldur’s Gate it was common knowledge to avoid him and his property. As awful as your church was about promoting the misfortunes of others, they made it very clear not to get involved. According to them, he was an unholy man —one that could never fully be understood due to the obvious seclusion of his person.

To this day, you've always wondered what lies behind those doors of his. What sinister things he was up to throughout the years.

However, when you look at Astarion —when you see the way his rage suddenly seems to know no bounds, you know it’s bad. Worse than bad considering Astarion hardly ever gets angry. Sure, annoyance and frustration often come out but anger —real anger— never does.

“When you told me that you wished I didn’t know what it felt like, I didn’t realize how similar our experiences were.” His fingers rub rough circles into your flesh, distracting his mind as he lets out a breath and continues. “I didn’t know the level of your pain.”

“I didn’t tell you.”

“I know.”

His voice cracks. Your heart breaks. Then, both of you sit in another wave of silence, letting the words previously spoken sit at your feet as you stare at one another, trying to gauge what happens next.

You don’t anticipate his hands moving to his armour. Nor do you retain any sense of restraint when you reach to follow them, both of you working to pry it off before he pulls his tunic over his head.

Despite being on the road together for so long you’ve never seen him bare like this. So open and willing to prove to you that he's here. With you, here’s here and ready to share whatever you think you need.

Embarrassingly, it makes you want to cry all over again, reaching for his face. Feeling that familiar coolness beneath your touch as he turns to rest both hands on your hips again.

“It’s been so long since I’ve willingly wanted this.”

“This?” You look at him confused.

“To be intimate.” His fingers tighten around your flesh, digging into the plush ever so slightly. “To share the act of sex with another rather than exploit it.”

There’s a small smile that creeps through then. An inkling of hope for the vampire’s happiness as you inch in closer, placing the softest kiss you can muster to his cheek. “But you’re nervous?”

“Terribly,” he admits with a heavy breath. “In the span of 200 years I’ve bed countless men and women —all of them willing. All of them happy to have enjoyed my body only to end up at death’s door.”

It’s a lot to take in —the admittance of his faults. As soon as the first detail is uttered it’s as if the floodgates open and he’s telling you everything. From the moment he was turned and forced to crawl from his grave to the years that followed luring person after person into the Szarr home for a master so cruel you immediately wish to kill him.

“I spent so long under that bastard’s thumb that… I don’t even know who I am anymore. How I’m meant to be now that I’ve attained even the slightest bit of freedom.”

You understand how he feels. Perhaps the levels are different but deep within there’s always been this nagging feeling of how you’re supposed to live your life. How you feel as though you should be travelling the world in search of a new purpose rather than once again fulfilling someone else’s.

But then you remember what’s at stake. And how even someone else’s fate can affect your livelihood. Then it’s as if the cycle repeats itself, constantly reminding you that if you don’t participate then that’s the end. Your freedom is null just as Astarion’s, leaving you to wonder what’s the point of it all.

“I think people like you and I are just meant to live.” Your hands move up to touch his hair. Carefully, you grip his curls between your fingers, pressing the pads into his skull as you run them down, hearing him sigh. “To enjoy what little time we have.”

“Little?” He raises his brow with a smirk. “Darling, I’m immortal.”

“True but you could still become a Mind-flayer like the rest of us.”

“Fair point.”

He seems calmer now. The usual persona of his overbearing personality coming through, making you grin.

Instead of tightly wound he’s relaxed under your hold, practically melting against your touch as he lowers himself to rest on your shoulder. As he does, you end up catching a glimpse of his back, fully seeing Cazador’s work in the form of rough, red etchings that coat his entire spine.

You have to force yourself not to ask about them until he’s ready, tightening the hold you have around his head as you riddle his face in kisses, letting your lips linger against his temple as you close your eyes.

“They’re not as bad as they look,” he says then, somehow reading your mind.

As painful as it is to admit, you know he’s right. Compared to other scars you’ve seen his look undeniably perfect. The way they paint the image of what looks to be some sort of sigil against his pale flesh. Despite the violence endured to create such a piece, it’s obvious that there was care put in too. A meticulous hand working away with the precision of someone borderline obsessed.

If it wasn’t the result of abuse you could even call it beautiful. But since it’s not, you only continue to hold him, gripping his face for dear life, wondering what kind of pain he had to suffer to earn such a massive reminder of his ownership.

“Do you know what it is?”

He lifts his head, looking at you like he’s seeking the answer himself. “A brand I’m guessing. Not that I can tell. Unlike you I can’t use a mirror. Nor can I very well reach to trace the damned thing myself.”

Your fingers twitch at his words, feeling the temptation to touch them grow as you remember your own scars. In terms of appearance, they’re much more rigid. Three jagged lines that cover the middle of your stomach, making sure you remember. Ensuring your mind that every day you live on this earth —every new moment spent thinking that you’re worthy of whatever this is between you— that you’ll never be normal.

The moment they dug that first knife into your gut you were marked for life. Branded just like him.

Swallowing hard you force yourself to slip away from his grasp, watching the confusion that erupts before the understanding starts as you shakily discard your leather layer and throw your tunic over your head.

It takes everything in you not to put it back on when you see the look on Astarion’s face. How it studies you with knitted brows and a clenched jaw that makes you want to hold him again.

“Mine are just… lines. They don’t mean anything.” As you motion to the thick slashes that have been carved over countless times you catch his gaze twitching upward, taking in the exhaustion.

“She did this?”

After you nod you feel his hand move forward, ever so gently grazing the top of the centre line with curiosity. “How many times?”

“I don’t remember.”

“But you remember how it felt?”

You press your lips together, breathing through your nose. Sucking in the Inn’s dusty air before blowing it out as you nod, forcing back the memory. Pushing through the pain as your tadpole squirms, asking to let him in.

Like all the other feelings you’ve shared as of late, it’s been so long since you’ve felt his presence like this. Even with the Illithid’s constant use outside of each other, when he calls out to you it’s completely different. The movement behind your eye doesn’t feel like an annoyance. It feels like a call. A tingle of hope that has you answering before you can even question what it is he might want.

When you answer there’s a warmth that hits your skin. Enveloping you completely, you feel the aching of the heat carry through your extremities, cascading down in anxious pools that have you breathing rather hard. Closing your eyes, you see the image of Astarion’s hands in front of you. Slowly he wiggles his fingers and turns his palms, taking in the fact that he’s safely under the sun, despite what he is.

You realize then that this is the first memory he has of freedom. Of a life where he truly believes the tether’s been severed. All the thoughts inside his mind are full of nerves. Building anxieties of the past and the future being interrupted by a present he never thought was possible.

It’s a memory that stirs you to move. To guide his hands to your waist as you crawl into his lap and grab his chin.

Touching his skin you feel that same warmth flow through to your core. Letting it take over all the thoughts of scarring and owners and the lives you’ve both lived to get to this point, it takes away your breath. Pulls from you the needs of anything but him.

In this moment, none of it matters anymore. Every experience is nothing more than a dimming shadow compared to the sensation of his breath wafting over your face as you angle your head down to look at him.

“Do you want this?”

His tongue darts out to line his lips. His hunger growing at the sight of you —at the feeling of you moulded to him like melting wax just cool enough to touch. “Yes.”

“So it’s okay if I—“

There’s a hand in your hair before you can finish, forcing you down to his mouth. It’s rough at first but quickly softens once he’s got you where he wants you. Firmly set atop his thighs and in his grasp. Allowing him enough access to reach up and touch the edge of your neck, his thumb lingering towards the centre to press a soft touch —reminding you that you have to breathe. That the usage of your lungs is no longer second nature but something you actively have to think about through the open-mouthed kisses that work to take it all away.

Your head dizzies at the feeling. All at once your vision blurs while your hands begin to roam, stretching over skin and bone, eventually hitting raised scars that make you kiss him even harder, knowing it’s what he needs. What he deserves after countless years of loveless encounters. After touches, empty of anything resembling the adoration you wish to offer him.

While laying waste to his bruising lips, you clumsily slide down his lap so that you’re standing on the ground, tucked between his open legs and bending forward.

Confused, you feel his face twist against your own, prompting you to pull away and lower yourself further, letting your knees gently come in contact with the floor.

“I was enjoying you where you were,” he muses then, cocking his head to focus on the way your hands begin to slide up over his knees, resting on each outer thigh.

“And now you’ll enjoy me over here.” You smirk.

“Cheeky pup.”

“The cheekiest.”

After that, you shuffle closer and reach for his belt, keeping eye contact every step of the way to make sure you aren’t stepping over any boundaries.

The last thing you’d want is to make him feel uncomfortable —to feel used in all the ways he used to experience. So you combat all that by checking in; offering him subtle glances every time you take the next step.

You can tell immediately that he’s appreciative. Whenever he nods there’s a faint smile that sits across his lips, offering you approval as your fingers knock against the metal clasp of his belt, shakily moving to open it up.

At some point he ends up doing it himself, leaning forward to kiss your forehead and laugh at the nerves that render your fingers useless. Nerves that only spread when you stare up at his face while his hands busily move the strap aside.

After tossing his belt aside he doesn’t let you go further. Instead, he drags you further between his legs, leaning down to cup your cheeks and kiss you all over again.

It’s distracting, to say the least. The feeling of his lips moving in tandem with your own as he reaches around to rid you of your bra with two quick swipes, leaving you just as bare as him.

It sends a shiver down your spine that makes him smirk, his upper lip quirking against yours before he gently bites down making you groan.

“Can’t let you be the only one with a view,” he mutters against you, making you awkwardly laugh as you watch his gaze lower to your naked chest. “Can I, pet?”

“No, I suppose not.”

Your voice sounds anything but confident as his hands continue their descent, matching your previous desires when they linger at your belt, waiting for you to give him the okay.

When you do he makes quick work, unclasping the belt with skillful hands before lightly smacking your ass, signalling you to stand before he carefully slides the rest of it down, thumbing the edges of your legs.

You have to force yourself not to cry out right then and there, feeling overwhelmed by the soft touch of his fingers. How they barely graze the outer parts of your already parting thighs, stopping at your knees when he looks up at you with a smirk.

“You seem nervous, darling.”

Rolling your eyes, you shove an open palm to his chest, pushing him back against the bed with a scoff. One that makes him laugh and watch as you kick off the remainder of the fabric, trying to appear brave. Something that proves to be harder than you anticipate when he swiftly follows suit, giving you a show of your own in the form of freshly exposed skin you’ve only ever imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.

In almost an instant, the fabric slips away, revealing more of him than you possibly could’ve expected, making your mind wander as the building arousal between your thighs twitches with desire. Telling you that you need this.

You open your mouth to ask for more only to be yanked upon his lap causing a yelp to fall from your lips that makes you both laugh.

“You really are a marvel, aren’t you?”

With a smile, his eyes scan your naked frame. Up and down and back, they linger at every part as if he’s studying you for future use. Taking mental notes with each passing freckle or scar that lines the length of bare skin. “I mean truly, look at you.”

As he speaks, one hand runs along your neck —over your shoulder and down your arm until it’s resting at your thigh, gripping you tight. “I’m not sure what God out there decided to make you but remind me to give them my utmost thanks after this is over.”

When he leans in you have to force yourself not to nervously laugh at his praise, once again feeling his lips find refuge on your own, driving you to take things further. Encouraging you to make him feel as good as he deserves.

This time though, instead of asking for approval with a glance you do so with a touch, reaching down to grip the end of his length with gentle hands that make him moan. Ever so quietly, the second you hear it you immediately strengthen your hold, using your free hand to grip his shoulder as you work him slowly, noticing him push. Feeling the subtle arc of his hips buck against your hand, wanting more.

For a moment you think about doing it. Letting your hand tighten further while you pick up the pace. It’d be easy. Nothing more than a simple readjustment but something mischievous stops you from doing it.

Remembering that night at the grove —the one where he relentlessly teased just to get a rise out of you— you find yourself smirking and pulling away, gripping his shoulder even tighter to keep him in place.

Almost immediately, he knows exactly what you’re doing. He can feel it in the way you languidly pull at his cock, barely holding on with each stroke.

“You think you’re clever, do you?”

You quirk your brow and bite your lip, massaging the apex of his shoulder. “I have to be if I’m going to be hanging around you.”

Furthering his torment, you then tighten your grip for a couple more pumps before returning to your previous pace, eliciting a hiss of disapproval that has him gripping both your hips and maneuvering you to sit against his right thigh.

“Oh really?”

Pushing up into your core, Astarion shifts you back and forth with his hands, making your breath catch inside your throat once you realize what you’ve done. How you’ve instantly set yourself up for a failure you know he’ll only revel in winning.

Considering he’s more than capable of making you fluster solely with words, you should’ve expected this —saw it coming from a mile away.

Continuing your ministrations as lazily as possible, he barely registers them as he glides your folds against his leg. Holding you down, he manages to apply the perfect amount of pressure to build the tension, making you press your lips tightly together, forcing back any sound that might be deemed a loss.

Even though it’s anything but a competition. A detail that’s reminded once he maneuvers one of his hands to cup your sex, rubbing rough circles into your clit.

It makes you lose all semblance of thought, forgetting the hold you have on his cock as you shakily reach for his other shoulder, steadying yourself against him.

“Doesn’t it feel nice when you give in?”

Despite the context, there’s surprisingly no snark to his words. No sarcasm or bite —just genuine thought. A question so true to its word that all you can do is pant through the building pleasure and nod; letting him raise you off his leg and station himself at your entrance.

It fills your mind to the brim with needs and wants you never thought you’d feel again. Having been subjected to abuse and then forced upon a journey you’re still not sure you’re ready for, the thought of attachments like this never once crossed your mind.

Even after everything you’d been through, you never thought Astarion was capable of such tenderness —of loving care and safekeeping. Of gentle touches that run across your aching skin as he looks at you and you at him, both of you deciding it’s okay.

As soon as it’s given, he’s sliding into you. Painfully slow, he uses the approval to grant you access to your shared pleasure, pushing through the tightness just as you open your mouth.

“Feel alright?”

Your fingers press against his neck as they slide up to cup his chin so you can pull your foreheads together. “More than alright.”

Through an unsteady breath, he laughs and guides you further down, allowing you both to savour the sensation for a moment before pulling back out again.

As soon as he’s missing you’re already longing for more. Desperate for the fill of his cock, prompting a whine to escape; earning yourself a tut.

“Remember patience?”

You do. More than anything in this moment you remember your claim and how foolish it was to think he wouldn’t forget it.

“I recall you saying—"

“Astarion, please.”

You’re not sure if it’s the anguish in your voice or the squirming of your hips that does it, but almost instantly he’s giving in. Once again offering you exactly what you need in the form of a push and pull so viscerally satisfying you’re left slumped against his chest, keeping hold of his neck. Forcing his hand to grip the back of your head to see the way he ruts inside of you.

It’s a sight that’s almost too much. One that makes you moan and close your eyes, allowing him to move your face to his. At which point you’re on the precipice of ruin. Both body and mind becoming a mess of everything and nothing, forcing your breath to falter.

You can tell Astarion’s in the same boat, struggling to maintain his starting pace the longer you mindlessly grind against him, unable to contribute much of anything else.

Together, the two of you try to move in unison, pushing and pushing —inhaling and exhaling. Anything you can do to share the burden of the building pleasure that grows and grows until—

When it hits, it feels better than you imagined. Deep within there’s a blooming that unfolds, petal by petal, opening to reveal unholy tremors that make you release a heavy plume of air through your closed lips.

Gripping you close, you can feel Astarion follow quickly behind, twitching inside before he inevitably spills out, making both of you groan and fall back onto the bed in a fit of nervous laughter before he cheekily suggests you make use of the tub.

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#where's your patience?#astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion fan fic #astarion series #astarion x female reader #astarion x reader #astarion x you #summer writes

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violentdelightsandviolentends · 6 months

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Can I get a whiskey with Steve Rogers as a married couple please one where it’s not quite marvel universe?

New Perspective.

set in a universe where steve doesn't leave, but instead stays to live out the rest of his life in happiness. this is just tooth rotting fluff. <3

warnings - the tiiiiiniest bit of angst at the start. mainly just sweethearts in love.

word count on this is 1k <3

3k masterlist here.

masterlist. inbox.

It's panic, first.

Then horror.

Sadness comes next.

And then... complete and utter relief.

You'd begged him not to go. Pleaded and bargained, promised him anything and everything. But he insisted.

You knew the risks. You also knew you'd never forgive yourself if you let him go while you were arguing.

So, you accepted it. He was leaving to go on a mission through space and time, and you were fine with it. Completely and totally fine with it.

You kissed him goodbye on the platform, whispering gentle love against his lips.

"You come back to me in one piece, Steve Rogers. You understand?"

He nodded gently, pressing his forehead to yours.

"Yes, ma'am. Understood."

He'd told you he loved you at least forty times before he went. It didn't do anything to quell the unease in your heart.

And then, it was time. And he was gone. And you held your breath. And the minutes went by. And he hadn't returned.

"Where is he, Bruce?" you questioned softly, trying not to let on how scared you were.

"Yeah, where is he, Bruce?" Sam had said, firmer, laced with more fear.

"I, I - I don't... I'm trying, okay?"

"Trying?" Bucky asked in disbelief, scoffing. "Trying?"

All four of you began to panic. Chests heaving, bones vibrating, lips chewed between teeth.

Finally, there was a noise. A clattering whoosh, a signal of return. You watched the platform, waiting for him to appear.

And he didn't.

"Where is he, Bruce? Where the fuck is he?"

It was the most upset you'd ever seen Sam. You didn't like it. You'd scanned the horizon, and saw broad shoulders and blond hair in the distance.

"I think he's back."

You were whispering, afraid to ruin the tension of the science. You slowly walk over to the bench, and there he is. In all his golden glory.

"Steve?"

"Baby?"

He looked a little dazed, a little confused. Suppose that happens, when you travel between dimensions.

"You okay?"

"I did it. Everything's back where it should be."

"Proud of you," you smiled, sitting down next to him and linking your hands together. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. Saw some old faces. They just made me want to get home to you."

You had grinned at him, then, all bright and blinding. You surged forward and captured his lips with yours, throwing your arms around his neck.

"Never leave me again," you'd laughed. "My heart can't handle it."

"Never again," he'd promised into your mouth. "Never again."

That was years ago.

You'd both vowed to live a simple life, from that moment on.

You got married a couple of months later, in a quaint little courthouse in downtown New York. Sam and Bucky were your witnesses, both of them standing with tears in their eyes as you and Steve promised to love each other forever. The four of you grabbed dinner afterwards, at a small family run place that Sam recommended. It was perfect.

You bought a house on the outskirts of New York, out of the city. You wanted greenery and nature, and Steve vowed he'd give you anything you ever asked for.

It's a three bedroom cottage, plenty big enough for the both of you. There's a white picket fence and a rustic stone wall, pathway paved with lawn on either side. The front door is forest green, painted by your husband at your request. You'd suggested Captain America Blue first, but he'd protested. You'd laughed and compromised, picking out paint colours hand in hand at the hardware store.

You've planted fruit trees in the garden, watering them carefully every evening. Apples, pears, cherries, plums for Bucky. You're hoping it'll be warm enough to plant an orange tree or two next year. Steve helps, more than happy to muddy his jeans and get his hands dirty, on his knees in the soil with you. He's hung fairy lights and lanterns among the trees, illuminating the backyard. It's the perfect atmosphere for a dinner party, your friends and family laughing and chatting around a carefully prepared table, food and wine scattered across the cloth. You live for nights like those. Both of you do.

One of your favourite places is your sun room. Big glass panes, sunlight beaming in at all hours of the day. It's prettiest at sunrise and sunset, pinks and oranges cast across the space. You and Steve curl up on one of the love seats, limbs and heartstrings tangled together. You watch the sun come up, excited at the possibilities the day holds. Then, you watch it set, content and warmed by the fullness of your love. You drink coffee there in the morning, and tea there at night. Whiskey, sometimes. You'd be happy to sit there forever, never leaving your husband's side.

Steve installed a vintage claw foot tub in the bathroom. It has ornate gold feet, shiny and intricate. You light candles, close the blinds, and fill it up with warm water and bubbles. Both you and Steve slip into it, your back against his chest, strong arms keeping you steady. He washes your hair carefully, taking his time, slow and gentle. He presses kisses to your wet skin as he works, memorising every inch of you. As if he doesn't already know it by heart.

The most frequented room in the house is the kitchen. You and Steve spend hours cooking, baking, making cocktails. You'll perfect a recipe while Steve sits on the counter, stealing kisses as you work. The sunlight glints off your wedding bands, illuminating the big, open room. It's light and it's spacious and it's a haven filled with love and laughter. And cake. Lots of cake.

He keeps his promise right until the very end. He never left you again.

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blueberryarchive · 8 days

Text

The One Were Jungkook;

more slasher!jk

𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙨; slasher, 80s, psychological horror

𝙩𝙬; non-con, somnophilia, horror, violence, blood

(thank you to @hoseokshobagi for helping me with this big mess, I love u, shut up)

NY, 1985

The little ol' Brew House wasn't like the bar you went to with Jimin. It was so small that you could feel the sweat running down your back, the ghost of a hand or a glance behind you with every step. There was a sour smell of old, dried beer on the rustic green furniture and freshly disinfected vomit in the corner where Jungkook motioned for you to sit.

"Sit down, don't move."

You climbed onto the cracked brown leather stool, your bare thighs sticking to it like Velcro. A band was playing Iron Man on the other side and it was so uncoordinated that it matched the people sitting there: middle-aged men in blue-collar jobs, women in black leather skirts and foreign students with little money, underworld poets and their upper class girlfriends living the fantasy of muses sitting one their boyfriend's thighs while they discussed Bob Dylan and Williams Burroughs. A green and brown amalgam of sweaty skin drinking warm beer and watered down whiskey.

You couldn't help but compare both places.

Sweaty Joe's was a bar just two corners from the university, it was bathed in colored lights and posters as old as the owners of the place themselves. Red leather sofas were distributed in the corners and those, for years, have belonged to the Maroon Knights players.

This is where you met Jimin, it was your first week and you and Bobby Joe decided to have a beer, you two were new, smiled candidly at each gentleman who offered you another drink. You had never done that in the small town where you came from.

Jimin was celebrating his first winter tournament, his crimson cheekbones and his elegant smile conquered your heart, he let you sleep in his room in the trailer where he lived with his four brothers. His hands never took yours without first asking you, never looked away. You fell asleep so quickly in that bed while the little snores of the quaterback kept you stable, safe.

At dawn, you couldn't even see his face, you spent a week avoiding the hallways where he frequented until you did what your mother did to apologize to people: you baked some cookies. Unfortunately, he was on a diet but he still accepted them, his younger brother would eat them all with pleasure, you offered him a kiss and he let himself go.

That afternoon you lost your virginity behind his secong-hand orange Pontiac, white cotton panties crumpled and drooled between your teeth as Jimin held your calves. You cried so much that he forgot to moan, but your boyfriend wiped away each tear with his wet tongue and his thumbs until his cum fell thickly onto your skirt and his uniform.

The second time was different. What you don't know is that you cooking for him lit a spark, a simple breeze in a dry forest and you were the summer sun. You were going to be his wife, he promised you, with drooping eyelids and your pelvis on top of a pillow, his hands guiding your ass until they collided with his waist.

“I'm going to make you mine, I'm going to buy you a house and a huge ring. Fuck—you’re going to have to stop me at some point because I’m going to get you pregnant every time you smile at me, love. Doesn't Ms. Park have a ring to it?" He growled grabbing your hair to pull you closer to his sweaty chest.

“What is that pretty head of yours thinking about, huh?” Jungkook snapped his fingers at you, placing a long mug of beer in front of you. The second cigarette of the afternoon dangled between his fingers as he waited for you to take a drink, his eyes darting from your chest to your hair. “I saw you look at the ring on your finger.”

“My boyfriend gave it to me a month ago.” You said fixing the thin silver ring, a promise desperate to be fulfilled.

“How very” The boy laughed, choking on the smoke, you held the beer and took a long drink.

You realized that men when they exist in a cloud of promises and anonymity are more fuckable, because now seeing the metalhead in front of you, you just wanted to hit him.

“I don't understand why you keep yapping when you're not here to hear me speak.”

“I didn't want us to move on to fucking so quickly, but if you can't wait, then we'll make a little something in the alley.” Seeing your face blush he laughed again. “I'm kidding, doll. Don’t be so rigid.”

With a whistle, Jeon effortlessly caught the eye of a man nearby. His muscles were noticeably defined, and he sported a pair of square glasses that added a touch of charm. Dressed in a casual plaid shirt, his hair styled like a military man. Spotting Jeon, his face lit up with recognition, and he quickly closed the distance between you.

“Kim, I thought you weren't coming to the meeting.” Out of the corner of your eye you caught a glimpse of the man's slight tensing as his friend spoke, but without skipping a beat, his hand gently landed on his friend's shoulder.

"What do you mean?"

"You literally said-"

"No, I didn't. Gosh, give me a break."

Hoseok looked in your direction with a hint of distrust, the creases on his face sharpening with each step you took. You walked closer, his eyes traced your body from head to toe, his initial skepticism fading away the moment he reached your side. Your little shorts and Wham! t-shirt hugged your curves tightly, clinging to your tits like a sculpture of marble.

"What's this?" Hoseok pointed at you and moved his fingers up and down.

"Come, I want to introduce you to my friend. We met in…" Jungkook's smile widened as he tilted his hand. “Well, it doesn't matter. What does matter is that you have to make a place for her in the club, wouldn't you gladly have one of the sweetest pieces of meat of the whole faculty on the team, eh?”

Jungkook looked in your direction again, he knew that the way he spoke caused tremendous disgust in you and he enjoyed it. “This is Hoseok, the president of the archery club. Greet him before he hates you for some reason.”

"Shut up." Hoseok's voice cut through the air as he extended his arm to shake yours, his calloused hand brushing against your skin. His sharp eyes studied your hands intently, examining every detail. "You got weird fingers."

"Is that how you give compliments to pretty girls?"

Hoseok let out a sigh, nonchalantly plucking the cigarette from Jungkook's mouth. With a subtle gesture, he motioned for his friend to approach while bringing the cigarette to his own lips.

“If you want to fuck one of the cheerleaders, find another way, I'm not going to put her in the club, dude.” His failed attempt at whispering, which was clearly intentional, didn't escape your ears.

“Do you think I have to fuck one of you to be part of your Disney Heroe theatre team?”

Hoseok's eyebrow arched, while leaning back against the bar stool. With a confident yet subtle sway, he adjusted his posture, his pelvis shifting ever so slightly, but still managing to catch your eye. A mischievous grin formed on one side of his lips, knowing full well of the effect he had on you. “And why the hell are you looking for me if you don't need me, Barbie?"

"I'm here to let you know that I'll be waiting for you in the green area on Monday at 3, expecting you to hand me a bow and arrow," You declared, a sweet smile playing on your lips like a precious jewel shimmering beneath a cloak of innocence as you deftly snatched the cigarette from between his parted lips. "And I hope you show up with a smile that could outshine the sun and a more decent cologne."

Hoseok scoffed with raised eyebrows, clearly unimpressed by your little rebel talk as you took a drag from his stolen cigarette.

"You do realize you'll be the only woman in the group, right? The guys ain't going to like you, they tend to be very…"

"Terrified of women," Jeon chimed in, leaning against your shoulder.

"Exclusive," Hoseok added.

"They'll probably do a jerk-off circle if they see me in a skirt." You quipped, a sly smile playing on your lips.

The three of you looked at the cubicle where the a few memebers sat, all upper class kids who couldn't get into anything in their lives without Mommy opening the door for them first.

“Whatever, you're not even that hot, they'll live.”

You smiled, turning around on your stool to continue drinking your beer. “See you on Monday, four eyes.”

“Bye, Hobi-Bobby.” Jungkook rested his arm on the bar, his eyes positioned on your profile.

“Do you want to fuck now? I love women who know how to silence men, i'm already hard.”

"Why are you so fucking disgusting?"

"You're the one sitting next to me, you can go now." And he waited. You stayed there, speechless and waiting, too.

"Kim?"

"Who?"

“The dickhead called you Kim.”

“I don't know who that is, sweetheart.”

“Mm.” You nodded. You weren't too sure now. “Are you sure you're the one I talked to that night?”

"I promise you." Jungkook dragged his stool closer to your ear, the smell of nicotine and shaving cream was pleasant, manly. "Are those sugar tits as sweet as that voice of yours?"

“What time did I call you?” You ignored his nutty breath.

“Are you questioning me now?”

"Yeah."

His jaw tensed, biting the inside of his cheeks.

“I'm going to give you some advice, doll. If you want things to go well today, don't question me.”

You felt a rush cover your back, the beer felt colder on your fingers and you were more aware of his proximity. You were in his territory, you didn't know anyone there, you were screwed.

“Can you answer me just one thing and that's it?”

Jungkook moved closer and nodded, his pupils stabbing at your lips waiting for you to say something out of line so he would have an excuse to destroy you with.

“Why do people think you are weird?”

His sigh collided with your neck, a smile woven little by little; you could see stars in his eyes when he moved back. The raw desire to show you why.

He leaned close to your ear and whispered slowly, the urge to laugh drowned out by his words. Both his hands hiding his lips like a child. You swallowed as you finished listening, a long drink to finish the remaining beer.

He pulled out a new cigarette before your eyes met his again.

“So, in your room or mine?” He mumbled before lightning the tip.

“I'm- I think I'm going home.”

"Isn't your home in the middle of nowhere in Pennsylvania, you silly little bun'?"

The man in front of you pouted, nodding with a dejected face when he saw you stand up, the large mug of beer hitting your trembling anatomy. You wanted to vomit, to shed your own skin to pieces, to vanish, to crawl along the road back home like a mass of nerves and to sleep in your bed until you forgot what this psychopath had just hummed in your ear in the middle of the crowd.

But what did you expect? Wasn't this what you were looking for?

That's why curiosity ends up being the cruelest animal feeling. It takes you to the cheese on top of the trap, it makes you look at the sun and go blind, it makes you run through the grass until you fall at the bottom of nowhere. Voices like Jungkook's end up taking you to a seedy bar, at the mercy of God if he is even allowed in these parts.

“Come on, I'll take the bike down for you, then.”

You grabbed your backpack and walked in front of Jeon, stares like needles digging into your shorts.

Outside, his arms stretched out to take the bicycle, as light as a feather.

“I would've take you to college but-”

“I think this is where our journey ends, Jungkook.” Your voice was firm, elegant. You knew when to say goodbye.

He remained silent, one last smile as a gift. "If you say so." His hands opened dramatically to show you the road.

You raised your leg until you sat down and accelerated down the street, the sun hiding on the horizon. You didn't know if it was the wind hitting your cheeks and eyes, but you felt the cold stream go down to your neck. You wanted the road to get shorter in front of you and suddenly you were crying like a lost child, the sharp exhale stinging your lungs, you took all the alleys you recognized and the ones you didn't and you looked around at the desolate sides of New York.

Hiding from the sun your skin grew cold and the sobs turned to murmurs praying that you would return alive to the arms of Steph or Bobby Joe.

But oh, how angelic you looked with the halo of Jungkook's car headlights on your back. A honk chilled your blood until you couldn't do anything but grip the handlebars until your knuckles turned white.

“I changed my mind, I'll take you.” His breathing was jagged, he was sweating deeply, swallowing hard to hide the psychosis.

“It won't be long now and my boyfriend is waiting for me.”

“Don't worry, just load the bike and I'll drop you off at his house.”

'No' was not an answer and you knew that, no one ever said no to her and if they did no woman managed to keep her tongue to say it.

"Roger that. Thank you, Jungkook, you are a gentleman.”

“Of course, get off the bike now.” "She muttered as she snatched the iron from your hands and threw it behind her vehicle.

The trip was lethargic, the music faltered in the car with each curve until you reached a neighborhood of white houses and yellowish lights, the crickets chirped in the safe silence of a suburb. You thought about getting out when the car stopped and screaming until your lungs vomited.

But of course when you arrived the garage door was open, the car slid across the smooth concrete without a sound.

“Do you mind if I look for a few things before I take you home?” His voice sounded so carefree that you almost believed you were going back to your dorm room. You shook your head as he went down to close the garage door, the darkness consuming your hope.

Your heart began to beat blood so fast that your hands began to try to open your door, Jungkook tilted his head at the noise until he saw your reflection in the side mirror.

"Why you do that? God, you’re so stupid.” Jungkook took your hair in his hands and without much effort dragged you out of the vehicle and onto the garage floor. His hand covered your mouth, his calloused and sweaty fingers undoing the button on your Levi's until they stuck to your ankles.

“It's only once, you have to reward me for the beer you had.” His voice burned in your ear along with the beating of your heart, a light hum of your soul trying to get away from your dirty body.

“Mm-” You groaned as you felt the fabric of his jeans mold between your ass. Moving was in vain, fighting a mere fantasy.

“Just a quickie and then I'll drop you off, don't be so rigid.”

Your body was puppeteered to the living room with dim lights, curved and modern furniture that someone paid great attention to match with the upholstery and the carpet that decorated the floor.

And your body was thrown to the edge of the pink couch, the metal underneath the cloth digging into your stomach, your ass in the air as you felt cold hands remove your underwear. Why weren't you moving? Why did you let this happen to you? What was your mom doing right now? You thought of her chubby body moving around her room while organizing her dresses.

Warm spit fell onto your pussy and you closed your eyes, the last tear creating a shadow on the corrugated carpet as Jungkook slid his cock around the entrance to wet the entire area. The phone rang five, six, ten times next to you. Beep.

Hello, you are calling the sweet home of Bee, Dr. Kim and Taehyung. We are on vacation in Florida, but when we arrive we will take your message. Bye bye!

Who were the animated voices humming on the phone and why was Jungkook's voice there? You looked at the stranger loosening his grip on the sudden crackling laughter coming from the small speaker on the phone.

"Fuck." The now stranger mumbled, holding your neck with his forearm.

"You got the wrong kid, callgirl." And your eyes opened like a full moon, you looked at the closed windows of the room. “Taehyung, you have ten to hide.”

"Shit." Taehyung whimpered behind you pushing your body to the ground, instinctively you grabbed his leg causing his body to fall to the ground next to yours.

If you were going to die today, you wouldn't do it alone.

"Five, six…"

“What the fuck are you doing, you fucking whore?! I will die if he finds me.” His reddened face dragged trying to take your sudden weight and strength off of him. It was useless. Black Sabbath began to play above the house, reverberating, like thousands of wasps between the walls. “I'm sorry, I won't do it again, please. Let me go."

Taehyung's head reached the kitchen when a worn military boot stopped his movements. The muddy sole of the boot collided with Taehyung's head, making it bounce again and again and again against the wood of the kitchen. It was a hollow, wet sound, more forceful with each blow.

You leaned your body back until you collided with the sofa, your nails anchored in the carpet.

"Sorry. I'm sorry, ple-” Taehyung tried to speak until the boot took the last hit and his jaw hung from his mouth like a toy. His eyes looked back with mercy. Run, he shouted to you with his bleeding eyes, run until you die but run. A broomstick passed through his mouth until his body bounced once more.

So still.

Drool was falling from the corners from having your mouth open for so long. Why didn't you run? Is it that the boot you were looking for so long? Was the cruelty of being curious true?

An excessively tall figure passed through the kitchen frame, avoiding Taehyung's lifeless body. Black was the first thing you saw, the dirty jeans, the leather jacket tied around his waist, the Motley Crue tank top pressing against his chest and shoulders. Sweat dripped from his mullet to his tattoos.

His face, soft and covered in red. His oval nose and thin lips, eyes like a dead deer. Metal surrounding the room like the choir of fallen angels.

It was him, it was Jungkook.

“Poor little thing.” He licked his lips as he held your chin so you were looking at him. “Look at you, so afraid of that fucking-” he growled under his breath, getting down to your level.

"Please do not kill me." You cried, the air was thick, like sulfur around him.

“I didn't promise you that in the call, baby. Did you forget already?"

His hands were delicate under your armpits until he lifted you up and took your body to the furniture sitting you on top of his wide thighs. Your body looking at the turned off television, the curved reflection showed the difference in size. You were a doll on top of that beast.

“Put your foot up.” He ordered as he grabbed your knee to help you put on your Levi's with the softness of a creature in feather hands. "Stop crying."

“I can't, I'm too scared, I want to go home.”

"Pity." Jungkook sighed, taking your underwear from his jeans, wet with some chemical. His tattooed fingers took the flimsy cotton to your nose. Bitter at first and then it burned in your lungs. “Don't try to fight it, it'll be worse for you, baby. Atta girl, just let go, inhale.” His voice was serious, unharmed, like an anesthetic just like the clorophorm. There was no harm in closing your eyes if you were in the great hands of a beast, a mammoth.

"I like you girls manageable, stupid." Was the last thing you heard, a smile grazing your neck.

Your body rose without permission, abrupt. The pain was immeasurable.

“Jimin, she's up!” You heard a small voice in the corner of a familiar room, the sheets rough and thick.

The silhouette of Jimin's younger brother ran to the kitchen. The other two brothers approached the door, their blond heads peeking out. Jimin pushed them until he reached you.

“Hyung-”

“Shut the door, JP. I’m sick of you, just eat your fucking breakfast and get out of the house.” Jimin shouted, looking at his brothers out of the corner of his eye.

The slow footsteps receded and Jimin turned his attention to you.

“Love, no, don't cry. I'm here.”

His name fell from your lips desperately as you squeezed his face, consuming every detail so your body knew it was real and wouldn't squirm like a worm.

“Breathe with me, come on.”

You closed your eyes hugging your boyfriend's neck.

“Come on, I've prepared a hot bath for you in the twins' room.” You shook your head frantically without breaking away. “It's just to get the mud off your body, then we'll go back to bed.”

"Mud?"

“Minjun found you outside this morning, do you know where you were last night, who did this to you?”

You grabbed the sheets and uncovered your body, bruises covering your legs and stomach. The dried mud covering the sheets of Jimin's bed. A scream choked in your throat.

“Its okay, I can change the sheets. Don’t worry about that. Let's go champ, up.” Jimin patted your injured thigh so you would chain your legs around his abdomen. With a grunt, Jimin lifted you up and carried you to a makeshift tub of hot water.

The little beds were together on one side of the small room, a metal tub emanating sweet steam covering the walls of the room in a thin web of drops.

“Raise your arms.” Jimin kissed your neck gently, the nausea returning little by little but you just let your body melt in the arms of the only person who mattered. His eyes shone with the concern of a father, he undressed you as quickly as possible so that the bruises didn't have time to hurt. Reaching your shorts, he knelt in front of you and stared at your tired face.

“I shouldn't have gone to the bar last night.” He wavered his speech for a second as he slowly lowered the zipper.

“Shh.” Your hand fell into his messy hair, he was still wearing his pajamas, what time did Jungkook throw you in front of Jimin's trailer?

The silence became strange, different. You didn't understand Jimin's sudden furrowed eyebrows when he took off your Levi's.

“Minnie?”

“Motherf-” Jimin stood up and hit the wall hard. His body turned around until he was looking at the jeans on the floor again. “That's it, I'm calling Yoongi.”

"What? Yoongi, what for? Minnie, don't leave, please."

"Don't move!"

Your boyfriend disappeared from the room before you asked him what was happening. You sighed with a heavy heart as you walked in pain to the shots on the floor: a wide, slimy stain extended from front to back. The pants fell to the floor and you went to the mirror on the wall.

Your trembling finger curved until you felt the hole between your legs, the whitish and salty cum thread stretched from your entrance to your shocked face.

You don't remember Taehyung penetrating you. Was Jungkook such an animal that he came inside while you were passed out? How could he?

Tears gathered in your eyes as you laughed silently, the pain was unbearable around your waist and legs, pussy still numb and you could only remember the patterns on the carpet.

Cruel curiosity.

#❗slasher! jk thoughts #bts imagines #bts #bts fanfic #bts smut #jungkook smut #jungkook fanfic #jungkook imagine #jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #bts dark fic

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blueywrites · 2 months

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the boy is mine (bluey's version)

I saw @carolmunson's writing challenge and was immediately so inspired! what a lovely distraction from some pesky contractions haha. I can't wait to see everyone's interpretations and their takes on our boy eddie 🩵

cw: eddie x fem!reader, established relationship, sfw aside from some lewd innuendos (including an insinuation that his goods make him a man, so traditional 80s-esque views on gender identity)

length: 1.9k

prompt rules: the scene: a romantic night in at the trailer. props included/mentioned (in passing or can hold bigger meaning): a throw pillow, vanilla frosting, a small notebook. dialogue included (can be manipulated slightly if needed, can be placed in any order): "i ran out of like, nice cups, is this okay?" ; "aw, don't be like that. that's not even true." ; "and you like that?" ; "if you don't stop, we're gonna have a problem."

to view the full challenge description and try it yourself, go here!

When you arrive at Eddie’s trailer home this early summer evening, you are faced with two surprises. The first is delightful, and the second… well. Let’s just say it is, unequivocally, a very Eddie Munson type of surprise.

The first comes when you rap on the screen door frame and hear Eddie’s greeting float to you not from within the trailer, but from behind it. You purse your lips curiously, and your sandals slap against old wood and then dry, frazzled grass as you descend the porch steps and follow the rasp of his voice.

The Munsons’ trailer backs up against the woods surrounding Forest Hills. As you emerge from the side of the building, you see the familiar piles of junk scattered along the sparse treeline, including the husk of an old Buick which has become a permanent part of the landscape. But where the space between the trailer and that treeline is typically empty, tonight, it isn’t. Plopped right in the middle like some garish plastic zoo exhibit is a blow-up wading pool, and the animal on display is your boyfriend.

Eddie’s lanky legs are spread out in as wide a v as he can get them within the round inflatable tub, and his shorts— which are a pair of faded jeans he’d cut off at the knees— are pitch dark with soaked-up water to his lap. When he sees you, he slides down a little further in the basin, unconcerned about the obnoxious sound of denim-on-plastic as he casually slings his arms over the bulbous sides of the pool.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he drawls, grinning at your flabbergasted face. “Ready to get all soaked for me?”

Once you’ve recovered from that atrocious one-liner, peeled off your blouse, and, wearing just your shorts and bra, wedged yourself in-between his spread legs, Eddie explains that the kiddie pool came from one of his neighbors. She bartered with him for it; he’d provided her with a fresh coat of paint for her deck railing, and she’d provided him, and thus you, with relief from the oppressive summer heat in the form of a shallow, lukewarm pool of metallic-smelling hose water.

It truly is a delightful surprise.

You wiggle into place, leaning back against Eddie’s warm, damp chest. He holds you pressed into him as if you’d have any inclination to move away, and you hum happily as his hand dips beneath the water to curl possessively around your hip. You feel his torso shift to the side behind you as he says, half-teasing, “I ran out of, like, nice cups. Is this okay?”

You wiggle your toes in the water, making little rippling splashes as Eddie reaches down over the side of the pool and retrieves your favorite cup— thick, plastic, and Snoopy-themed— filled with your favorite drink— three-quarters lemonade made from powder mix, one-quarter whiskey nicked from Wayne’s stash in the back of the stereo cabinet. Eddie’s chuckle rumbles against your shoulder blades as you cradle your precious brew in both hands, taking a healthy sip and chasing the burn with a sweet peck to his stubbly cheek.

Together, you and Eddie lounge contentedly for a while, talking about nothing and sipping your whiskey lemonades until your toetips prune. Eventually, the day’s oppressive heat breaks, and Eddie reluctantly relinquishes his grip on you when you declare you’re no longer hot enough to be sitting soggy in the pool any longer. You don your shirts, squeeze the moisture as best you can from your shorts, and then heft the pool up sideways, dumping its innards out in a river that rushes toward the forest.

As the water laps up against old tires, your boyfriend turns to you in a whip of eager curls, pinning you with a suddenly intense look. His eyes gleam in the deepening auburn light as he asks you, “Wanna see something cool?”

You follow him obediently over to the Buick, standing back a couple of feet as he wedges his fingers under the front hood to pop the clasp. You watch him curiously as he bends at the waist, shifting the hood up just slightly and peering into the dark sliver of space for a moment. He straightens up with a grin. “What is it?” you ask, but he doesn’t reply; he just lifts the lid, letting you see your second surprise.

There, nestled between metal piping and the side of the rusted-out engine, is a large lump of bristly gray fur. Your eyes dart to Eddie, but his grin hasn’t budged at the sight of whatever-the-fuck-that-is. Wordlessly, you watch as Eddie slowly and carefully eases the hood up, prompting the motionless lump to shift slightly in a rustle of surrounding detritus. With each inch that Eddie’s arms extend upward, your concern mounts as the shifting bundle becomes more and more restless.

And then a textured tail pops out.

It’s long and ugly, sparsely furred and, unnervingly, the same color as the bottom of Eddie’s feet. As the car’s hood creaks near the apex of its journey upwards, a head suddenly snaps up just as sharply from the bristly mound. It is large and white, with beady eyes and a pale pink snout that parts to reveal little vampire fangs jutting from the top and bottom of its maw.

The creature’s mouth widens as Eddie’s torso grows closer when he hefts the hood up all the way. As he lifts the stick on the side to hold it in place, his frizzy waves dangle dangerously over the animal. You tense when you hear a high, raspy hiss.

But your boyfriend doesn’t seem to share your concern. With a long-suffering sigh, he lightly chastizes the thing like he’s scolding a small child. “Look, if you don’t stop, we’re gonna have a problem.” He stares it down, and slowly, its mouth begins to close. “That’s better. No need to get your panties in a twist; it’s just me. Well, and her—” he juts a thumb at you over his shoulder without bothering to look. “But she’s harmless, I swear.”

Instantly, you’re affronted by the fact that Eddie would need to assure it of your harmlessness rather than the other way around, and you shoot your boyfriend a glare he doesn’t notice. He’s too busy trying to mollify the creature. From a cautious distance, you examine the— rodent?— and its home, quickly recognizing the deflated floral fabric of one of the throw pillows from the Munsons’ couch. The animal has clearly torn a hole into it and dragged out the feathers inside, using them to line its nest of dried grass and crumbling leaves.

A sudden shift of Eddie’s elbow has the thing scrunching back in a flinch. “Aw,” he coos. “Don’t be like that. I’m tellin’ you, she’s harmless.” Silence follows his proclamation, and you shake your head slowly as he pretends to rebut the animal’s complaint. “That’s not even true,” he argues. “You can’t believe everything you hear, y’know. I have it on good authority; she’s one of the nice ones.”

Eddie finally glances over his shoulder at you, pouting at your continued distance; at his impatient beckoning, you draw reluctantly closer, eyes locked on the small beast inside the old vehicle. When you’re a few paces away, you finally see it clearly enough to place what it is:

An opossum.

You sigh heavily out of your nose, consternated but no longer confused. Of course your boyfriend would have a pet opossum living in a rusted-out car behind his trailer, because why the fuck not? He already feeds the stray cats in the park; why would it be a problem to add another cat-shaped creature to the mix?

Figures.

Now that you’ve identified the lump as an opossum, the veil of mystery falls and it becomes less intimidating. You inch a little closer, glancing down when your bare toes hit smooth, hollow plastic. You’ve kicked the empty carcass of a small round container in the grass, and as you peer down at it, its blue and white label resolves itself into clarity.

“Eddie.”

“Hm?” His mop of hair whips as his chin snaps away from the opossum and towards you, though his gaze remains on the animal as if reluctant to drag away. You wait for his eyes to follow before asking, slowly and deliberately,

“...Did you feed the possum vanilla icing?”

You don’t actually need Eddie to reply to know the answer to that. In fact, you don’t even spare him a glance. Instead, you squint at the animal, which is currently staring into the middle distance between you and Eddie with black, glassy eyes. It feels only appropriate to address it directly, so you ask the opossum a follow-up question. “And you liked that?”

“Of course she likes it,” Eddie cuts in defensively, crossing his arms over the tattered WASP t-shirt he’d hacked the sleeves and hem off of. “Who doesn’t like vanilla frosting?”

The sight of his tight pale biceps and the veins running from his ruddy hands up to the tan line around his elbows is almost enough to distract you. But you valiantly persevere, turning your skeptical squint on him and ignoring his rhetorical question to ask instead, “How do you know it’s a girl?”

Eddie’s head rears as if he’s genuinely taken aback by your question. He gestures widely toward the opossum, flinging his arms and scoffing, “Isn’t it obvious? I mean, just look at her fuckin’ eyelashes.”

You blink up at him, bemused by his logic. “Eddie. You have really long eyelashes. Are you a girl?”

Those aforementioned eyelashes bat dramatically, and then Eddie’s brown eyes sparkle with mischief. His lips curl wolfishly as he pitches his voice low, murmuring, “I think you know the answer to that, sweetheart.” He squeezes the crotch of his damp cut-offs showily, that devilish smile widening with delight when you wrinkle your nose and grunt with disgust.

“Perv,” you snap back, but there’s no bite in it as you dig in your blouse pocket and pull out the small bound notebook and stub of a pencil you always carry with you.

He gets nosy then, trying to look over your shoulder as you start to commit the creature to the page. He plants his chin on your shoulder and wraps his arms around your middle, watching as you carefully scratch down the bugged-out eyes and gaping maw it greeted you with.

The gesture is cute, but in his jostling of you, one of the opossum’s teeth goes horribly jagged. “Eddie! Quit it,” you whine, though your complaint dissolves into giggles when he mouths playfully at your salty neck.

“You drawin’ my little possum?” He murmurs in your ear.

“How’d you manage to make that sound dirty? Actually,” you slant him a deadpan look, “pretend I didn’t ask that. I don’t wanna think about you and that poor possum in any way.”

“Oh, c’mon. Don’t tell me you’re jealous of her, sweetheart,” he teases.

His arms tighten in anticipation of your resistance, but you don’t push him away or even groan like he expects. Instead, you hum happily as he holds you tight against him, leaning into his embrace.

You can almost feel Eddie’s happiness like a physical presence as he sways you gently in place, so freely affectionate in a way that you never would have guessed when you first met him. It melts you every time you remember that the walls which stand in place for everyone else crumbled for you long ago.

With that feeling bubbling in your chest, you shoot the opossum a playfully threatening look. “Back off. He’s mine,” you say.

She tucks her head into the straw with a huff, digging in deeper when you squeal as Eddie attacks the side of your face with sloppy, smacking kisses.

Yeah. Eddie Munson is yours, for sure.

#blueywrites #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem!reader

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propadv · 10 months

Text

1947 Old Forester. 'There is nothing better in the market'

Source: Collier's Magazine

Published at: https://propadv.com/alcohol-ad-and-poster-collection/old-forester-ad-and-poster-collection/

#1947 #Old Forester #Whiskey #Whisky #Alcohol #Ad #Advert #Advertising #Poster

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daycourtofficial · 8 days

Text

We started alone, in the end we’re okay

| Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Rhys’s sister!reader

| Summary: on a rare night alone, Eris reflects on the loneliest night of his life, and how he’s a long way from the person he had to be.

| Author’s note: yes this is inspired by Pretty Little Girl by Blink-182 how’d you know the last 45 seconds of that song are everything to me

| TW: mentions of physical abuse, blood, death

| WC: ~2k

Servants bustled up and down the halls of the Forest House, preparations being made for the Starfall holiday, one he and his family won’t be attending.

He was the only one left in the house - you had taken the kids to Night a day early so they could have a sleepover with their cousins. Meanwhile Eris had a meeting with some advisors in the morning he was unable to reschedule.

Eris strode toward his chambers, his long legs carrying him through the halls that have been the only witness to his comings and goings during his long life. He walked a path so familiar to him he could be reincarnated and still, his feet would carry him where he needed to go.

He had broken tradition when he became high lord, opting to stay in his previous chambers over taking Beron’s previous ones. He wanted to burn those rooms down, wanted to feel his fire consume every remaining remnant of Beron on this plane of existence.

He turned it into additional servant’s quarters instead. His father would have hated it. Lucien was delighted at the news.

Walking through his chambers, a pang echoes through him at the missing toys across the floor, especially the wooden sword he had been tripping over all week, asking Atlas to put it away, his request falling on deaf ears. The floors looked so empty, the room too quiet, despite his children being gone for only a handful of hours.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he breathed in deeply, the scents of his family already several hours old, the rooms slightly colder without their body heat warming them, especially the younger ones, unable to properly regulate their powers yet.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey, sitting in the old leather chair that’s been in this room as long as he has. His amber eyes roam about the room, taking in every detail, despite very little physically ever changing about the room.

His mind wandered, opening doors into his past he had sealed shut. Doors he would give anything to forget where they sit, doors that he can hear screams from the other side of.

Without intending to, he stumbles through one of those doors, perhaps the largest and most foreboding of all.

The rag made a disgusting squishing noise as it met the tile of his bathroom. The pile was growing larger, his blood seeping out of the rags onto the floor.

He braced his hands on the counter, fingers gripping tightly to the marble counter, sucking in a breath through his teeth, trying not to think, to feel.

He grits his teeth, grinding them together as he pours more alcohol on the fresh rag, preparing himself for the sting.

He quickly placed the rag on his back, a small gasp coming from his lips at the pain. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, and he sparks a flame on the tile, needing something to distract him.

He skitters the small flame across the floor, rubbing the rag across his torn and shredded back, the alcohol seeping into his wounds, sterilizing them from Beron’s cruelty.

If only he were given the same treatment.

He closed his eyes, breathing deep and slow, trying to stop the images flashing behind them.

Lucien, his baby brother, the best of them, running through the woods, intentionally taking the paths most covered in root.

Lucien, whose long hair resembled Eris’s, and whenever they smiled, they both had the ability to unsettle people.

Lucien, who was slightly taller and stockier than his big brother. Lucien, who spent his young and vulnerable years searching for Eris in every room. Lucien, who Eris took on walks through the woods, teaching him how to snare rabbits.

He was too late to save his lover, had barely arrived in time to send word to Tamlin and redirect Lucien’s running towards the border with Spring.

He had warned and warned and warned Lucien not to test Beron, that he would fail as a father, fail to do the right thing every time.

Lucien, the snarky bastard, could never resist biting back, always testing the boundaries of those around him.

Eris wasn’t surprised when his father had called him to his office one night, desperate for answers to how any son of his could dare be enchanted by a lesser fae. He was, however, more than surprised at Beron’s ridiculous plan for punishing Lucien: forcing Lucien to watch as they killed Jesminda and then killing Lucien.

He couldn’t look at himself, couldn’t believe that they had gotten here, to this point, to this ridiculous sham of a family.

He didn’t know what he was doing until the knife was in his hand, blindly sawing at his hair until the ground around him was covered in strokes of red.

He ignored the throbbing in his back as he moved his hands, ignored the warmth spreading down his back as the wounds reopened. The hacked hair began coating his chest and sticking to the blood on his back.

He stood in a pool of his past, years and years of decay around his feet, a ghost looking back at him in the mirror.

At least his hair was dead before he took the blade to it.

There was no sign of his brother in his reflection. Just a short crop of red hair and some creature looking back at him. Something new roared beneath his skin, some new sense of purpose.

He dropped the knife, the blade clattering against the floor, the sound echoing through the room, but he couldn’t hear it over the rushing of his thoughts, the one thought consuming him.

He knew what he had to do. He would kill Beron. For Lucien, for his mother, for his brothers, for Jesminda.

For himself.

He walked out of the bathroom, into his chambers, opening the large window. The wind was sharp on the wounds on his back, but he couldn't help being drawn into the night sky before him.

An endless sea of stars above him, ones he knows are watching him make poor decision after poor decision. But still they call to him in some language he can’t understand, something deep within him yearning for their company.

He put on a loose shirt, the fabric suffocating his wounds. He slipped through the open window, the night sky infinite before him. Treading through the woods, he walks through unmade paths, paths that one day his children will forge in these woods.

They will never know the path he took that night, searching in the moonlight for a body, disrespected and desecrated. It took him a few hours, but he found what remained of her, parts of her body missing from predation. He waves his hand to shoo off some birds, their annoyed caws growing softer as they flew away.

He uses the shovel he brought to break ground, the wounds in his back that had began healing reopening, fresh blood mingling with the sweat dripping down his back.

All he could feel was the night air, somehow colder without his brother. His hands blister as he digs and digs and digs, offering penance for an atrocity not of his own.

He didn’t know why he did it. Maybe it was the right thing to do, even though Eris was never able to properly discern between right and wrong. Was it out of respect for Jesminda, whose last moments were filled with nothing but terror and the worst the fae had to offer? Was it out of mourning for Lucien, his youngest brother gone forever? Was it penance for all the terrible things he had done in his life so far?

He pulls himself out of the hole, grunting as he gets out of the grave. He looks into it, thinking how easy it would be to just bury himself instead.

Will this be his end? A burial under the cover of darkness by someone he hardly knows?

Knees meet the dirt, his hands moving to her face. He never knew her, not really. Met her in passing at one of the markets in town. She gave him some pastry, her little stall so homey despite its impermanence.

Her eyes are open, not seeing anything. He offers a prayer to the Mother - for Jesminda, for Lucien, for everyone who comes into Beron’s orbit. He asks for safe passage for Jesminda, into whatever afterlife exists.

He closes Jesminda’s eyes, his movements slow and deliberate. He takes her arms - what’s left of them - crossing them against her chest. He fishes from his pocket, putting a gold coin in one hand and an apple in the other.

Food for the journey, to nourish the soul. Gold for enlightenment, a hope that Jesminda will receive some peace in the journey before her. He delicately kisses her on the forehead - a last touch, performed with love and selflessness. Words never before used to describe Eris Vanserra, words that won’t be used to describe him for centuries to come.

He gently scooped her into his arms, taking care to keep her head from rolling back. It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

Except to Eris it did.

He walked with her over to the grave he had dug, gently lowering himself into the grave. His knees bent, delicatelt placing her on the ground as his chanting continued, pleading for safe passage, for a better ending than this. For an opportunity to come back, for her to get anything better than this.

Her body presses into the ground, relaxing into what will be her final resting place. Eris climbs out of the grave, peering down at his brother’s lover. His brother’s hope for the future, cruelly ripped from him by their father.

He grabbed the shovel, beginning to scoop dirt over her. It felt wrong to do so without Lucien or an audience. But it had to happen.

Once the grave was completely covered, Eris walked over to a patch of asters, using the shovel to scoop several of the flowers up. He lowered them onto her grave, a marking of sorts as he patted the soil around it so the roots would stay in place.

He looked at the asters, their purple hues looking so bright in the moonlight. Words are on the tip of his tongue, begging to be let out to pay some form of respect for Jesminda.

But nothing comes out. After a long time, the inly noise around him the chirping of insects, he turns, treading back to the Forest House. His footsteps are quiet, but much heavier. He finds his window easily, taking one last look towards the night sky, wondering what their everlasting gaze would have to say about what they’ve seen before slipping back into his room.

But Eris isn’t there anymore. Many sleepless nights had been spent since then gazing at the stars, dreaming of a better life. Dreaming of the day he would get to see Lucien again, silently asking the stars for any help they could provide.

Eris never put much faith into the Mother, assuming she had forsaken him and left him to be on his own. Until he met you. You who walked on stardust and moonlit skies. You who facilitated a reconciliation between himself and Lucien.

Eris’s fingers push through his short hair, reminding himself of how far he has come since that fateful night. For the first time in a long time, his fingers ache to feel more length.

#eris vanserra x y/n #eris vanserra x you #eris vanserra fanfic #eris vanserra x reader #eris x y/n #eris x you #eris x reader

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