#old home with acreage

[bitten-fruit]

price….. in a.. a.. cowboy hat

girl... you have no idea what you have done to me with this ask. Cowboy Price!?? I had so much fun with this, I might even do a part 2! I'm sorry this took me so long - I really hope you like it!!! ♡

18+ mdni - cw: chasing, spanking - 3.2k words

John Price owns the ranch that neighbours your father's. You've got a habit of climbing the fence between them, snooping around Mr Price's property and leaving traces of your misbehaviour behind. This time, he catches you.

Here’s part 2!

Daddy had warned you about wandering onto Mr Price’s property. The lichen-coated fence that separated his land and your father’s spanned miles; carving through tall dry grass, through woods of oak and pine trees, over a bumbling shallow creek. It was easy enough to climb over, but there was one little gap in the barrier, where the splintering planks had fallen from their fastenings. Tucked under a towering cottonwood tree, hidden by the grass, it was easy to wander through as if it were more of your own land on the other side.

Mr Price was a reticent man. An arguably shadowy figure, who you might occasionally see on horseback up on the hilltops of his ranch, tan cattleman hat bowed as he surveyed his acreage. You had met him, once or twice, as a girl. Then, he was in his early twenties, tall and aloof. Eldest of three sons, all three of whom had enlisted and served, sent to fight a war whose nature you were oblivious to in your innocence. He had been absent for years, and once his father was taken by whatever cancer he chose not to treat, John was the only one of the three to return.

His father you had known, vaguely, only as a man that your father despised with an unwavering passion. Some daft rivalry, dating back long before you were born. Whatever enmity existed between old men had not quite been passed on to the last remaining son, it seemed – where there might have been out-and-out conflict, existed only cold disinterest.

Thus explained your intrigue. You found yourself strangely captivated by him, in a nosy sort of way, once he had finally come home. Suddenly bearded and jaded, no longer the bright-faced young man you had distantly remembered, he had picked up where his father had left off. He lived alone, as far as you were aware, in his inherited six-bedroom farmhouse, atop a five-thousand-acre piece of natural splendour. Don’t bother the man, daddy would tell you, he’s not our friend.

But you had always been at the mercy of your impish curiosity. You couldn’t help it. It was an impulse, a compulsion, to stick your fingers where they didn’t belong. You would habitually explore his acres when you came home from college. You’d peek into his empty old shacks, pet his mooing cattle, pick handfuls of wildflowers from his unkempt fields.

Sometimes you’d sneak into his stables. You’d coo at his horses, stroke their velvet snouts, feed them the flowers you had plucked with a smile. They had grown to like you, his sweet horses, you wished you could know their names. They probably liked you more than him, no doubt, the mysterious little neighbour that would sneak in at dusk and feed them treats.

But your most regular habit – one that had gotten you into trouble before – was your proclivity for picking bunches of glossy red cherries from his rows of fruiting cherry trees. The orchard was under-loved and weedy, but those glimmering little baubles of ruby were just too delightful to let fall to the grass and rot.

He had caught you, once, while your arms were stretched far above you, reaching among the droopy branches and floppy leaves to pick the brightest sun-ripened cherries. You had heard him yelling;

“Hey! I see you in there, missy!”

Lips stained red, slick with sweet juice, you gave him a puckish grin before you ran off like a rabbit and hopped back over the fence.

“There’ll be trouble next time I catch you over here, little lady,” he had roared after you, watching you clamber over the oaken planks, “You hear me?”

It didn’t stop you, of course, whatever threat he threw at you. If anything, it emboldened you. Now you meandered down the rows of cherry trees like they belonged to you, picking the prettiest ones, popping them behind your teeth and meticulously nibbling the flesh from the pit, spitting them into the grass as you moved onto the next.

You left a trail wherever you ventured. Little wet pits and green tooth-pick stalks in piles around the place; in stables, along pathways, among the cows. Sometimes you’d leave juicy red fingerprints on doorframes, on the planks of the fence, on horse snouts – perfectly incriminating.

Today was no different. You wandered in scuffing sandals along an old dirt road, green sprigs of grass almost covering it entirely. Some old route that settlers may have followed state to state, spotted occasionally with two-hundred-year-old milestones, ignored just enough to have been spared from crumbling to dust.

Shaded by a cottonwood, humming to yourself, you created a little tipi with your cherry stalks on the flat top of a mile marker. Balanced them carefully as you licked the fruity flesh from your teeth. And when a gentle breeze blew it over, scattering your creation, you leaned over the stone to pick them from the dry gravel around its base.

One, two, three, four…

At the familiar rumble of a truck trundling over dirt, you straighten your spine, palms resting on the edge of the milestone as you look over your shoulder. A dusty Chevy square-body had already coasted to a stop behind you, red paint faded and matte after a decade or two of proper use and neglect.

There he was, the enigmatic man, hanging his elbow out of the open window. Mr Price squinted through the glare of the afternoon sun, crow’s-feet pinching, eyes barely shaded by the cattleman he wore even inside his truck. Your throat bobbed with a swallow as you caught his eye; the flitter of adrenaline buzzed in your chest, toeing the line between nerves and excitement.

With a disapproving suck of his teeth, he grumbled at you, “What’d I tell you about catching you back here?”

Plucking the short skirt of your cotton dress downward, to cover where it had ridden up, you spun around to face him demurely.

“You said there’d be trouble,” you answered with a simper, shyly scratching the back of one hand with the fingernails of the other.

“Mhm,” he grunted in agreement, tapping the metal door with his palm. He flicked his head in gesture for you to make your way around to the passenger side. “Get in.”

A crease pulled between your brows as you frowned at him. “What for?”

“I’m takin’ you back to your daddy,” he barked, irate and impatient, “I’ve got some words for him, too.”

You absently kicked the rocky dirt with the heel of your sandal, pouting at him. “What words would those be?”

With a snort, he rocked his head to peer out of his windshield, then back to you. “To keep a fuckin’ handle on his daughter.”

“Don’t think there’s anything you could tell him that he hasn’t already tried,” you mumbled, attempting to subtly flick the handful of cherry stalks you had collected to the ground.

He chuckled at that, breathy and hoarse, a hint of frustration in his throat. “I believe that,” he scoffed, “c’mon. In. Don’t make me ask again.”

You chewed on your lip, squinting in challenge as you stood up straight. “Or what?”

Glowering at you for a moment, his nostrils flared in frustration, as he seemed to swallow what must have been an inappropriate retort. Instead, his arm retracted through his window, and following the thud of the handle he swung open the door with his forearm.

With a hop he landed in the dirt, dust rising from under his well-worn leather boots. You hadn’t seen him up close in as long as you could remember, and Christ, how he towered over you. It may well have been the looming shadow of his sizzling anger that made him seem so daunting, so delightfully thrilling. You felt the shiver of gooseflesh tingle down the nape of your neck as you tilted your head to look up at him, sheepishly watching his steady approach.

“You’ll be in more trouble than I will if you lay a hand on me,” you spat, with a faint curl in your lips, almost daring.

He gazed down the bridge of his nose at you, wearing a snide and thin smirk, curled under his dense beard. But as his gaze raked you up and down, his sneer shifted quickly into a pout of disapproval, eyes caught on your chest.

“Care to explain this?” He queried severely, wide hand reaching for you; you leaned back further against the milestone behind you as if it might evade him. With his fingers he pinched the cream linen of your blouse, and for a moment you feared he was peering down the gap - brazenly inspecting your bare breasts underneath.

But, no, he instead curled the fabric between his fingers to show you the bright red stain dribbled down the front of your dress.

Oops. Your gut reaction was to giggle, yet unsure whether to admit guilt or feign ignorance.

As you parted your lips to speak, his judging hand suddenly moved to your face; a hold of your chin with a thumb and hooked finger. Piercing glare glued to your lips, his eyes sunk into a defeated ire, shadowed under the brim of his cattleman.

Your tongue writhed behind your teeth, heart thumping in your throat; as he tilted your head up and to the side. He used his other thumb to wipe your bottom lip, pointedly slowly, from the corner to the centre.

“You’re a little thief,” he gritted, dropping your head and peering at the red smear of juice on the pad of his thumb. “Aren’t you.”

Were you scared of him? It was hard to distinguish your fluttering heartrate between terror and thrill – perhaps a touch of both. Because you didn’t know him. You couldn’t trust him. You had no basis to assume he wouldn’t club you with a closed fist and throw you in the back of his pickup. But you felt the tingle his touch left behind on your lip. You got stuck on his pinched blue eyes, the glare of the sun reflecting off your dress illuminating them like they glowed from within.

“No I’m not,” you muttered, readjusting your dress after he left creases in the low neckline.

“And a liar?” He scoffed, as he grabbed one of your wrists – lifting your hand to reveal the sticky burgundy juice under your fingernails, red drips dried in your palm. “You’re covered in evidence, missy.”

Snatching your hand from him, you crossed your arms in petulance. “It’s not stealing if you don’t use it.”

“The fuck it isn’t,” he snapped, hooking his hands onto his hips. “Now get in the goddamn truck.”

“I can walk home,” you grumbled, “you’re not the boss of me.”

Huffing in anger, he leaned forward – looming over you with a domineering lour. “While you’re trespassing on my property – yes I am.”

Glaring up at him from under your brow, you nibble at the inside of your lip as you pouted at him. “What’re you gonna do if I don’t go with you. Kidnap me?”

He tilted his head, shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got some rope in the truck,” he gruffly warned, “you gonna make me use it?”

Did you imagine the glint in his eye? Did you make up the lascivious quip in his tone? Whether or not it was dreamt, it plucked a coy smirk in your lips.

He was daring you, wasn’t he? Goading you to challenge him.

So with a glistening smile you reached for his cattleman hat – plucked it from his head, and swiftly placed it on your own. Too big to sit properly, you perched it on the back of your head so that you could still see out from under the brim.

“Hey!” He barked, lunging to snatch it back from you – but you bolted, kicking off your sandals, ducking under his arm and sprinting across the dirt road. Through the field of grass and dry wildflowers, you bounded like a deer. “Fuck’s sake.”

Holding his hat in place, you peeked over your shoulder in your escape, and he was swiftly in pursuit.

“God dammit, girl, you get back here!” He roared – already closing the distance. You hadn’t expected a man as bulky as him to sprint as fast as he was, charging after you like a grizzly.

You only giggled, leaping over fallen logs and stray planks of wood, weaving between the tall white oaks that littered his prairies.

“If you get so much as a dent in that hat I’ll fuckin’–”

“You’ll what?” You squealed through a grin, holding the skirt of your short dress in a fist against your hips, to allow your legs to sprint in full stride.

You heard him grunt, close to a growl, as he encroached on you. “You’ll be in big fuckin’ trouble!”

Breathless, panting, you failed to think of any witty response as you dashed towards one of the many stables on his expansive property – this one devoid of horses or livestock, simply a storage building for stacks of haybales and racks of tools. You’d perused it before. He might have found more discarded cherry pits in there.

He was behind you already, as you barrelled through the ajar stable door, stumbling into the centre of the dishevelled space. Illuminated only by the cracks of glowing sunlight that broke through gaps in the plywood boards, you stood amongst dust and scattered hay. You turned and faced the entrance, watching in anticipation as he steamed in after you.

Face burning red in fury and exasperation, he jabbed two angry fingers in your direction. “Give me the hat,” he ordered, throaty and severely – no longer joking.

But stubborn as you were, overly enjoying the needless chase, you were not going to capitulate that easily. You stood poised to dash, and with hunched shoulders, he prepared to hound after you.

“I like it,” you puffed, exhilarated, purposefully impudent. You pinched the brim, pulling it down with a disingenuous hat-tip. “It probably looks better on me.”

“Even if it does,” he chided through teeth, out of breath, “it’s not yours.”

You snickered girlishly, pursing your lips. “Maybe it should be.”

“Give it to me.” He thundered, hand outstretched, your heart flipped in your ribs at the sudden eruption of stern rage.

So you spun on the ball of your bare foot, before flitting hastily towards the rickety ladder that led up to the hayloft. Clambering up it like a spider, the old wood and rusted nails squealed in dispute of being used for likely the first time in decades.

But he was blindingly rapid in his chase, and before you made it even halfway up the ladder, his heaving forearm scooped around your waist, hooking you by the stomach.

“C’mere,” he growled through a clenched jaw, as he peeled you from the ladder; hoisting you like a small animal, holding your back to his chest with a constricting arm, leaving your feet dangling high off the ground.

You writhed and kicked, bucking like a goat, still holding his hat tightly to your head to prevent him from snatching it back from you. “Let go of me!” You squeaked, still giggling.

“No,” he snarled, “I’m taking my fuckin’ hat back, and then I’m taking you back to your daddy so he can knock some goddamn sense into you.”

You whinged, clutching his thick forearm in an effort to loosen his grip; nails digging into his bronzed and hairy skin, corded with veins bulged from the exertion of keeping you contained. His body burned like a furnace, pectorals stiffening underneath you as he flexed them, while he hauled you towards the exit.

“It’s just a hat,” you whined, “you’ve probably got heaps of them.”

Your obstinance was aimless – no particular interest in the hat, and no true understanding of why you fought so desperately to keep it. Maybe you just wanted to see how far you could push him. Wanted to see what would happen.

“It was my father’s,” he griped, anger approaching a boiling point as you continued to squirm around in his grip.

You groaned in dispute, still holding the leather cattleman tightly to your head. “Well he won’t be needing it, will he?”

That was a step over the line.

You knew it immediately, quick to bite your tongue after the words spat from your lips.

And his retaliation was sudden and severe; dragging you closer to the exit, he tossed you unceremoniously, almost tumbling down with you into the pile of block-shaped haybales that sat by the stable door. You landed face-down against the bale, winded, a squeak jumping from your chest with the impact; and his hat toppled from your head, rolling out of reach.

He kneeled beside you, with his forearm weighing against your lower back - you were flustered and confused by his haste. Skirt hitched up by the fall, he suddenly swung his free hand down with an open palm, smacking against the bare skin of your ass with a thunderous whack.

“Ah!” You squealed, a shriek, followed quickly by a breathless whine that slipped from your lungs outside of your control. The explosive clap rang in your ears, echoing within the bowels of the stables, loud and shrill. And the sting was sharp, hot and prickling like a brand, no doubt the raised outline of his hand was quick to form in your shivering skin.

A silence followed, pregnant and heavy, and you dared not move nor breathe too loudly – you inhaled and exhaled with trembling breaths, lips parted and wet, eyes wide as you stared into the packed hay.

He was dead quiet, too. Panting throatily, he kept you in place; grip of you not easing, though he stayed utterly still. You thought he might apologise, might express some remorse, might beg for you not to tell your father what he did. But he was silent. Like he had even surprised himself.

You tilted your head slowly, peering at him doe-eyed over your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you whimpered, close to a whisper, dripping with pleading humiliation.

“For what?” He growled; his glower potently intimidating, a glimmer of voracity in his shadowy eyes, strained like he was suppressing greater hunger.

With a whine you turned your head back, facing ahead into the shack wall, you spoke quietly and nervously. “For taking your hat.”

Followed another swing of his arm, wide hand colliding with your rear in another deafening crack, forcing a laboured squeak from your chest. But there was something more than pain in your throat, wasn’t there? A whisper of thrill, a yelp of delight in your subsequent gasp.

And he must have heard it, took it as encouragement; as you felt the hand of his arm that pinned you down curl into a fist, balling the fabric of your dress tightly in his palm – lifting up the hem even further, you felt the cool air of the stable bite at your stinging skin as your ass was entirely exposed.

“Yeah?” He rumbled, gritting teeth, huffing like a beast. “What else?”

#bet his handprint is the size of a dinner plate #john price #call of duty fanfic #john price x reader #john price x female reader #captain john price #cod fanfic #john price x you #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price smut

[hier--soir]

heart to heart

john price x f!reader

rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: john takes you away for the weekend, and nestled in a cottage on the countryside, you show him just how much you've been missing him. warnings/tags: long term boyfriend!john, john price never finishes his cigars, explicit smut, a little body worship, oral [m receiving], fingering [f], unprotected piv sex, multiple orgasms [m], some overstim [m], come eating x2, brief cock warming, idiots in love, porn with minimal plot. word count: 4.4k masterlist a/n: this was born out of me being physically unable to stop thinking about that middle picture being john price, so here we go follow @hier--soirupdates if you’d like to be notified when i share my writing

It hasn’t rained in six days.

Late autumn spins the countryside in its grasp; a warm cloak that sends the leaves golden and the grass dewy. In a small, unfamiliar kitchen you drop teabags into mugs and gaze out the window. Admire the vast acreage that surrounds the cottage, and the marshland beyond that.

The early morning rays are bright and cool, turning the cabinets a washy yellow colour around you as you wait for the kettle to boil.

Everything is quiet, calm. If you listen closely, past the sound of birds chirping and water bubbling, you can hear John’s heavy snores down the hall; still catching up on sleep after a long few weeks away.

When he came through the front door two nights ago, you’d been quietly surprised to see him home so soon. After not hearing much for almost a month, you’d resigned yourself to getting on with things in his absence. A fairly covert operation, you knew, so you’d spent your days waking to an empty house. Working and eating and showering alone and never exceeding the appropriate number of messages you could send him in one day without stirring worry. Little Angus with his long orange tail and his soft whiskers your only company in John’s stead.

Home at last, he’d wrestled out of his heavy boots and draped himself over where you lay on the couch. Soap opera long forgotten on the tele, he’d slipped an arm around the back of your head, held you to his chest and said, Let me take you somewhere.

The kettle whistles and you pluck it from the stove, still smiling at the memory. Douse the teabags in boiled water and watch as the windows cloud with steam. You leave his black, just the way he likes it, but soften your own with sugar and milk. Your toes are numb against the cool tile, and you rub them against your calf in search of warmth. Inside, your body is at sleepy old war with itself. One half longing to be back in bed, or perhaps to have not gotten up at all yet; the other half taking great pleasure in the mundanity of doing things like this for him again, after so long of not. Tap tap tap of an impatient finger against the counter until his tea turns the perfect colour, and then you’re on your way back to the room.

Leant amongst paisley patterned pillows and white linens, John looks a little out of place knuckling sleep from the corner of his eyes. A little too rough around the edges, too big, too hardened for such soft surroundings. In your brief absence, he’s drawn the curtains and nudged the window beside the bed open a crack. A long arm stretches out toward the sill, ashing a cigar onto the small dish he’s balanced there.

Naked as the day he was born, he lifts the cigar to his lips and blinks drowsily at you. Stretches his legs out, the muscles in his thighs straining, curled toes skimming the end of the bed. Eyes wandering, you kick the door shut with your foot and slink to the end of the bed, holding out his mug.

“’Morning,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. Accepts the tea with a soft smile, the skin beside his eyes crinkling as he watches you crawl in beside him. Hands full, he twists an ankle around yours, face pulling up at the feel of your cold skin against his. “Jesus, you’re like ice. I’ll shut the window.”

“Don’t move,” you hush, nestling your head against his shoulder. “You’re right where I want you.”

John laughs softly, warm body vibrating against yours. “Is that right, sweetheart?”

“Mhm.” You watch him tap his cigar against the dish, sipping your tea and trailing fingers through the dark hairs on his stomach. Enjoy the way his body draws tense beneath your cool touch, goose flesh sprouting across his skin. “Middle of nowhere… unfamiliar town… no one will ever find you. You’re all mine out here, Price.”  

“M’all yours everywhere,” he says, abandoning his cigar in the dish so he can tug on the neckline of your—his—t-shirt. “This proves it, yeah?”

“I suppose,” you smile, lifting your mug to hide behind a sip. He watches you move, calculating and quiet as he sips his own tea. You fidget beneath the intensity of his stare, painfully aware of how well he knows you. That your want, your need, must be painted across every inch of your face.

“Love you in my clothes, sweetheart, I do.” John’s fingers curl beneath the hem of the shirt then, rough callouses tickling over your collarbones. “But you’re makin’ me feel awful naked.”

Heat flares in the base of your stomach and you chuckle, matching smirks splashed across your faces as you sit up and drag the shirt over your head. He watches as you flick it to the floor, gaze darkening as he looks over your body, focusing on the thin grey panties that cover the skin between your thighs. A thick arm curls around your waist, tugging you back onto him, and as you settle there his fingers slip down to fiddle with the band of your underwear.

“Cute,” he comments airily, middle finger dropping under the band to caress the skin beneath it.

Mug discarded off the side of the bed, you put both hands to his stomach now. Tickling his soft skin, playing with the hair there as you lean in and press a kiss to the centre of his chest. And then another, and another, with John simply humming, palm flattening against the small of your back to hold you against his side.

Your lips part, tongue dancing lazily against his nipple. Soft strokes until the flesh is stiffening and you’re practically purring against his skin, drifting across to the other one. You hear the soft clink of his mug hitting the side table, and then John’s hand falls against the back of your head. Thick fingers twist through your hair, playing as you kiss and lick over his collarbones, and the little tugs he gives have a low throb starting up between your legs.

“Feelin’ needy this mornin’, hey lovey?” John asks. His fingers come to the front of your face, cupping your jaw and forcing you to look up at him. Big blue eyes watch you pout, cheeks squished between his fingers as you nod.

“I missed you,” you say, turning to press your nose into his palm and inhale the smell of him.

His eyes soften, and all sense of teasing seems to slip out the window. “I know, sweetheart, m’sorry. Come here’n give us a kiss.”

His lips are soft against yours. Warm, and familiar, with a hint of Darjeeling. Pulling you up to straddle his waist, he coaxes your chest down against his and huffs into your mouth at the feel of your nipples against his skin, teeth sneaking out to smart at your bottom lip.

“Thought about you every day,” he mumbles against your lips. “Missed you every second, love, always do.”

You feel something hot and sharp spark behind your eyelids at those words, and flick your tongue against the seam of his lips, pushing it away, not now not now. You go soft and pliant against him; let him guide you through the kiss, coaxing your mouth open with his long tongue as his fingers dance down your spine. When his hand reaches the round of your ass he grips your flesh there, kneading it between his fingers and pushing down so your clothed cunt comes flush with his cock.

“Feel that?” John says, pulling away an inch to nose at your cheek. His cock is heavy between your legs, thick and stiff where it presses against the gusset of your panties. You gasp as he rocks his hips up, grinding against you until the damp fabric slips between your slick folds and rubs over your clit. “That’s how much I missed you, sweetheart.”

As he talks, the hairs on his moustache prickle against your lips, and you find yourself opening your mouth. Breathy moans spill as you roll your hips against his, lathing hot opened mouthed kisses over his jaw.

“Looked at your picture every night,” he continues raggedly, breath hitching as you suck at the hollow of his throat. His cock twitches against you, the slide only getting smoother as more slick spills into your panties. “Thought about comin’ home ‘n’ never leavin’ again, just so I could play with this pretty little cunt whenever I like.”

Your hips stutter into his and you whine, a tiny glimpse of an orgasm fluttering through you just from those words.

“S’yours,” you whisper against his skin, the words he spoke moments before dancing through your mind. “All yours everywhere.”

Faster than he can stop you, you’re slipping off his lap and settling beside him on the bed. Continuing the onslaught, you lick hot, messy kisses over the skin of his neck, across the broad span of his shoulders.

“My big man,” you say tenderly, fingers itching their way across his chest. You skirt your teeth down the middle of his sternum, squeaking a little when he murmurs in enjoyment and presses a hand to your ass again. “I missed your body so much.”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Yeah.”

“Show me then,” he goads lightly, grunting around a smirk when you sink your teeth into the soft flesh over his ribs in response.

His fingers toy with the material of your panties as you drag your tongue over the dip of his belly button, and when you kiss the soft curve of his lower stomach, nose buried in the dark hairs above it, you feel him grip the fabric tight. You can see his cock in your peripheral vision. Swollen and heavy against his hip now. The tip has turned a pretty shade of dark pink, accented by little streaks of white where pre-come oozes from his slit and glides down his throbbing shaft. With your mouth on his belly, you reach out and wrap your fingers around him.

“Fuck,” John grunts, head lolling back against the pillows.

You smile, stroking him slowly as you drag your nose through his thick happy trail, all the way down to nuzzle against the dark thatch of curls above his base. Insistent now, his fingers push beneath the edge of your panties and drag through your slick seam.

You whimper, forehead resting heavily against his skin as he slides two fingers through the wet mess of you. Lewd sounds of your arousal fill the room as John traces featherlight circles around your clit, and your face heats against his stomach, fingers returning to their lazy pace around his length.

The throb between your legs has become a second heartbeat now, so strong that you’re sure he must feel it beneath his fingertips. If he does, he just sighs softly. Lets the thrumming of your cunt sync with the pulse in his fingertips, heart to heart, and murmurs low encouragements as you tilt your head to the side and begin mouthing at his cock.

“Missed my cock.” Your voice is low and unfamiliar in your ears, mouth overrun with desire and spilling your guts before you can stop it. “So pretty, John…”

Circling your entrance with a thick finger, he just says, “I know, love, s’yours. Go on.”

As slow as you can bring yourself to be, you lay gentle kisses down the entire length of him. Wetting your lips and gliding them over his warm, silken skin, before dipping lower and sucking his balls between your lips. A harsh grunt sounds behind you, and, as if in retaliation, he sinks two thick fingers inside you. You moan around his sensitive skin, holding his balls in your mouth and jerking him off until he’s trembling beneath you, broad thighs straining as he tries to hold himself together.

“That’s good, love,” he murmurs softly, almost speaking to himself as he curls his fingers inside you, humming when you grind into his hand. “Need ta get my fuckin’ mouth on you.”

But you just shake your head. Let his balls slip from your mouth with a soft pop before sticking out your tongue and guiding the weeping tip of his cock towards your mouth. Hasty, too needy for your own good, you slip your lips around him and try to take him deep on the first pass. Out of practice after weeks away, your throat constricts and you choke a little around him. So big, so overbearing, you’re too eager to be filled by him that you push and push until you’re gagging and sputtering. Cheeks hot and eyes downturned, you draw back, skin prickling as you hear him say something past the rushing in your ears. Take a moment to catch your breath and ground yourself, fingers tight on his thigh as your tongue swirls around his tip.

“This what you missed then?” he’s saying, collecting your hair in his fist to keep it off your face. “Hm, missed bein’ all full of me?”

“Mhm,” you hum around him, pulling back with a gasp only to press his head against your cheek. Eyes closed, you rub his ruddy tip against your chin, your lips, painting your skin with his precome. Feel the weight of him warm your skin and sigh in quiet delight. And when he groans, exhaling a heavy, ragged breath, you press your mouth around him again, desperate to hear him make that sound over and over again.

“Easy, darlin’, lemme see you,” John chokes out, thumbing sliding over the apple of your cheek. “So pretty with your lips around my cock.”

Heat floods your chest, and you drool around him. The words seem to trigger something in your mind, some insatiable desire to please, to make him feel good, because you’re relaxing, sinking your mouth down further on him. A low, drawn-out curse falls from his lips, fingers curling in the hair behind your ear.

Gaudy sounds of sucking and slurping fill your ears, and you would be self-conscious if it weren’t for the way John’s growls met them in the air. Wordlessly, he slips a third digit inside and the stretch brings a dull burn that has your mouth slowing against him.

Your eyelids flutter as his thick fingers stroke at your walls, searching for the spot that makes you spill every time, but your wanton cries of desperation are muffled by the heavy weight of him on your tongue. In slow, measured movements, he begins to shift his hips in time with your head. Feeding his cock to you and grunting when he feels your throat go soft and easy around him, letting him slip further in until your nose buries in the hair at his base.

John watches you, the blue in his eyes almost entirely swallowed by desire fattened pupils. Rakes his gaze over the way your lips stretch around his thick cock, tears dancing on your lashes as you take him in your throat. The heady taste of him is intoxicating, and you can only hold his gaze for so long before your eyes are rolling back, stomach pulling tight as you swallow around him.

Stuffed to the brim with John, John, John. He’s everywhere, filling your mouth, your aching cunt; it sends your heart racing, thighs trembling as your orgasm begins to crest.

Molten heats swims in the base of your stomach, curling and bubbling there as he you ride his long fingers, moaning his name around his cock. But just as you feel everything begin to go tight and tingly, John’s pulling on your hair and dragging you off him.

A thin strand of spit dangles between his tip and your mouth and he snarls at the sight, swiping his thumb across your bottom lip.

“Fuck, c’mere,” he huffs, squeezing insistently at your shoulders. “Wanna feel you on my cock when you come for me, yeah?”

Mind a hazy blur, you let the weight of him fall from your mouth, the hinge of your jaw still burning as you peel your underwear down your legs and spread yourself over his lap. John doesn’t pull his hand away though. No, he keeps his fingers between your legs, pumping them in and out, slowly, as you hover over his cock.

“My girl,” he says, eyes focusing on where the puffy lips of your cunt almost touch his cock. “My filthy, sweet girl.”

“John,” you puff his name, abdomen tensing when he rubs his thumb against your clit. Balanced on your knees and the tips of your toes, your legs shake a bit. Fingers dance forward to touch his shoulder, desperate for an anchor.

You frown a little, swollen lips parted in a torturous mix of desire and confusion, but he just offers a filthy grin and says, “Tell me you missed me again.”   

“Oh, fuck off,” you smart instinctually, lips twitching when he barks a laugh and slips his fingers from your wet clutch, grasp drifting to your waist. “Please.”  

“There she is,” he rumbles, jaw tensing as you glide his tip through your folds, coating him in your slick. A heavy rush of air spills from his nose. “My impatient girl.”

Once he’s got you on his cock, it doesn’t take long for you to fall apart.  

He lets you keep having it your way for a bit. Watches, gaze heavy, as you bounce on his cock, hands gripping his shoulders for leverage. You squirm on him, face twisted up as you adjust to the thick stretch of him after so long. It burns and aches between your thighs, but you can’t help but keep coming back for more, sinking down on his length faster each time. He tilts his head forward to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, moaning against the plush of your breast when you arch your back, crying out at the feeling of his teeth on the sensitive bud.

After a while he slots his greedy lips against yours. Presses hot, sucking kisses to your mouth, swallowing down every gasp and moan that crawls its way up your chest. The bristles of his facial hair scratch at your cheeks, your nose, and you love it. Have desperately missed the way it warms your skin as he presses his tongue inside your mouth and tastes behind your teeth.

Using his hold on your hips, he rolls you against his lap. Meets you thrust for thrust until you start to soak his length, jaw going slack as he growls into your open mouth.

“Fuckin’ hell, love, that’s it,” John groans, fingers tightening on your waist as your cunt pulls tight and hot around him. Thighs shaking, you let your forehead fall against his chest and ride out the flood of your orgasm. “I know, darlin’, I know, I’ve got you.”

Fingers fly up to grip the back of your neck, his other arm snaking around your waist as he continues fucking up into you. His cock presses hot and heavy into that soft, gushy spot deep inside you and you shudder against him, helpless little moans slipping from your parted lips. Face smushed against his hairy chest, you drool a little. Feel it pool between his pecs and smear across your cheek as your eyes roll back, dopamine pounding in your veins as he pushes you relentlessly through the high.

“Gonna let me fill you up?” he’s panting, feet planted on the bed now as he bucks into you, hips stuttering as he sinks closer and closer to his end. “Fuck, I’m gonna make a right mess of you, darlin’. That’s it, lovey, show me that pretty face.”

“John,” you mewl, toes curling against the sheets. “Shit, oh shit.”   

“Christ,” he grunts when you meet his eyes, jaw pulled tight. “So tight, m’ gonna come—”

“Wait,” you mumble suddenly, senses sharpening despite the way your thighs still shake against his hips. John stills immediately, grip tightening on your waist. “In my mouth, I want you in my mouth.”

His face crumples at that, a guttural noise sputtering from his lips as you lift off him and slip down to rest between his legs. He nods, brushing hair back off your face as you sink your mouth down on him, slick tongue hungry on the underside of his pulsing cock. He mutters your name, tells you how perfect you feel as he rocks his hips forward, tip nudging the back of your throat with every careful thrust.

“My sweet girl, doing so good for me,” he breathes, a coy grin on his face and a firm hand at the base of your skull. He holds your head in place as he fucks your mouth with slow, steady strokes. Groans every time you swallow, warm wet throat drawing tight around his swollen head.

“Look at me, let me see those eyes,” he mutters urgently, tugging on your hair until you’re blinking, focusing blurry eyes on his face. He thumbs at the teary streaks on your cheeks and gives a rough, prolonged groan as he begins to spill down your throat. “Fuck, fuck.”

You bob your head as his cock twitches and jerks against your tongue, sucking until he’s filled your mouth with warm come and it starts seeping from the corner of your mouth, dribbling down his shaft. You catch the spill with your fingers, swallowing his thick spend down and then licking what’s left from your trembling hands.

John watches on, chest heaving, and tuts fondly when you whimper, head spinning with the salty taste of him on your tongue.

“Bloody hell,” he exhales after a moment, dragging his knuckles over his face. “We’re never goin’ home.”  

You laugh, drowsily nuzzling your cheek against the inside of his thigh as his cock softens against his stomach. John cards his fingers through your hair absentmindedly, legs still twitching and eyes drifting closed as he tries to catch his breath. Lips slick with spit and come, you lay soft pecks along his sweaty skin. Smile when he shudders, fingers tightening against your scalp, but doesn’t pull you off.

There’s a hot flush of red splashed across the skin of his neck, his cheekbones, and his stomach is still warm to the touch when you reach out to graze his soft flesh. Sated and sleepy, he wets his lips and continues to play with your hair. Lovingly curls strands of it around his fingers and tugs gently before letting go, only to pick a new strand and do it again.

Overcome with emotion, and unable to stop yourself, you lean forward and take his soft cock back into your mouth.

John hisses through his teeth in surprise, eyes flashing open.

You don’t do anything crazy yet. Just let him feel the warmth of your mouth around him, the soft glide of your tongue against the ridge around his head. When he doesn’t pull you off after a second, you give him a little suck. Not hard—just enough to make his hips flinch down into the mattress and his legs pull tight at your sides.  

“Fuck,” he exhales, face pinched. His hand trembles against your head. “Fu—hang on, fuckin’ hell, love.”

You peer up past his stomach to where his mouth hangs open and his eyes are shiny and wide. His nails scratch against your scalp. Needy little nudges that blur the line between too much and not enough. You hum in pleasure around him when a choked sound falls from his mouth. Feeling a little mean, though, you pull back, licking your lips and smiling apologetically.

“Sorry,” you murmur, face hot as you squeeze his thigh. “Just want to love on you a little longer, that’s all.”

He hums deep in his chest, brow creasing a little as he brings his big hands to cup your face. His thumb swipes at your chin, smearing the saliva there, and you part your lips for him. He makes a sort of pained sound as he slots the digit into your mouth and watches you hollow out your cheeks out around it, swirling your tongue and sucking like you’d done to his cock just moments ago.

“Christ,” John breathes. Something needy and desperate glints in his eye, and he slips his finger from your mouth. Grips the back of your neck and gives a short nod. “Gonna be the death of me, ain’tcha?”

Guided by his hand, you take him back in your mouth and sigh in relief. Your eyelids flutter closed, and you rest your face against his hip, taking deep breaths through your nose and just holding him like that for a while. You can hear the way his breathing goes haggard above your head; short sharp bursts of air huffing from his nostrils. Sensitive as he must be, John lets you have your fun, shivering and spiting low curses as your touches get increasingly needier. And when you begin to suck softly at his length again, he seems unable to help the way his strong legs writhe against the mattress.

He says your name, rough and urgent, when you pull back only to snake your tongue out against his slit. Eyes fluttering open, you look up at him as you lathe your tongue down his length, smiling at how red his face has gotten, at how he seems to be holding his breath. John’s cock starts to swell and stiffen beneath your touch.  

“D’you want me to stop?” you whisper, tracing the blue vein that pulses down the side of his length with your tongue.

“No,” he pants, head lolling from side to side. “Fuck no, gorgeous. Just go easy on me, yeah? It’s ohh—” he winces “—s’a lot.”

You nod understandingly and press a kiss to his tip, smearing the fresh pearl of precome there against your lips. He’s fully hard now, throbbing when you wrap your fingers around his thick base and wrap your lips around his head. A guttural sound rips from his chest and he’s tugging at your hair. For a moment you pause, unsure, but then he’s pushing a little on you. Nudging you closer, further, so you take him deeper and deeper until his tip is nudging against your throat.

“Fuck,” John gasps, hips stuttering against your palms, sensitive cock twitching against your tongue. “S’too much, love, it’s—oh fuck.”

With a ragged grunt his cock pulses in your mouth, and a little spurt of come dribbles from his head. You moan, eyes closed, and swallow tight around him, milking every last drop of spend from his cock until he’s winded and clumsily pushing you off of him.

Breathless, you fall flat on the mattress beside him, feet dangling off the end of the bed. John’s broad palm cradles the back of your head still, a comforting weight as you wipe your face against the sheets.

Ears pricking, you realise it’s begun to rain outside. Soft patters of liquid that knock against the window, thin rivulets that drip down to splash and splutter against the sill. Long forgotten, his cigar sizzles and dies beneath the spray.

“Another tea?” you murmur finally, pushing up onto your elbows.

But with a soft, startled laugh, you find that John’s eyes are closed, chest rising with steady breaths; already back to sleep. Shaking your head a little, you smile fondly at his lax form, and consider closing the window. You settle instead for pulling the duvet from the corner of the bed. Curled against his thick side, you settle the blanket over the two of you and lay an arm over his stomach, content to have a proper lie in after such a busy morning.

thanks for reading, i'd love to hear what you thought x

#my writing #fic: heart to heart #john price x reader #john price smut #john price fanfiction #john price x you #john price cod #captain john price #captain john price x reader #captain john price smut

[soberscientistlife]

George Washington Carver had a difficult start in life. His father died shortly before his birth And weeks later, slave traders kidnapped him and his mother. The group sent out to find him and his mother exchanged a horse for the young boy. His mother, however, was lost to the traders.

Often sick, frail, he was not expected to live. But live he did, and from a young age, he showed much devotion to work and a desire for learning. He was curious, and as he'd roam the woods near the Carver home, exploring flowers, trees, rocks, and birds, he began asking questions about their purpose.

While much of his education early on was self-motivated, he began formal schooling at ten. He learned of a school about eight miles from the Carver home. And without any money or a new home, he left the Carver's to attend this school, living in an old barn while doing odd jobs to earn money to survive. Eventually, he was adopted into a family there.

Education for George would continue through completing a Master's Degree in agriculture from Iowa State University in 1896. After which, he took a job as Head of the Agricultural Department at the Tuskegee Institute in Alabama.

George was also an artist. At the age of 30, Carver gained acceptance to Simpson College in Indianola, Iowa, where he was the first Black student. Carver studied piano and art.

As an agricultural scientist and inventor, his goal was to help farmers improve their lives by earning more from their crops. He found hundreds of uses through his research of peanuts in particular and other products such as sweet potatoes and pecans. His work was instrumental and impactful. Between 1915 and 1918, acreage for peanut cultivation grew from half a million to over four million acres.

After George passed away in 1943, Franklin D. Roosevelt sent a message that said: "All mankind are the beneficiaries of his discoveries in the field of agricultural chemistry. The things which he achieved in the face of early handicaps will for all time afford an inspiring example to youth everywhere."

Source: African Archives

[alexiela73]

Hi!!!! <3 Is it possible to get another Ramattra headcanon, maybe a little angsty? Like...what are his final days with human s/o like?

Absolutely!

Ramattra

The life the two of you lived together had so many beautiful moments

Ramattra was the first omnic to get married- something the two of you decided to pursue a few years after getting together

While the two of you never had kids, you both travelled all over the world helping to repair omnics and try to make peace between the omnic and human societies

The two of you spent the last fifteen years in a house on a small acreage, as you started to get older. It was your first house together, and holds so much love

Despite how the years wore on, and how you continued to age, it never mattered to Ramattra how many gray hairs or wrinkles you had. He loved you, intensely

He was used to now helping you up and down the stairs, letting you nap and cleaning the house or taking care of the property. Your favorite thing to do together was to look through the albums you'd made of all the places the two of you had gone together

Ramattra knew your time was coming. You'd reached the ripe old age of 86, and while humans could have lived longer, Ramattra felt it- the shift in your life force

It was like watching the dying embers of a fire trying to stay alive

You had very little energy left

Ramattra would sit in the bed with you, a tray in your lap, and feed you while crooning soft words

You slept more often now, and Ramattra would gently stroke your hair and hum to you

Seeing you so fragile and small broke his omnic heart

The two of you had talked about this many times- Ramattra had felt like the years were passing far too fast. For him...he would never age or die like you.

You had held him at the time, as he struggled with the reality of knowing someday you would be gone...and he'd be all alone

Now he held you. It felt selfish, the way he held so tight to you, praying that you'd live another day

Each breath though clearly caused you discomfort, and he could only gently press a damp cloth to your head and hold your hand

It felt like the both of you knew when the moment came

"Ramattra," you had rasped, looking at him with half lidded eyes. As he leaned his face into your soft, delicate hand, he watched as the corners of your eyes scrunched as you smiled. "I want you to remember that I love you. So much...and that the world...is not a evil place."

"Shhh, y/n," Ramattra had said softly. "Save your strength."

A low chuckle had left you. "My darling...I have no strength left to save. You know...as well...as I that...this is it," you choked, coughing a bit.

Ramattra smoothed your hair, leaning in to press his forehead to yours. "I'm not ready yet," he said softly. "Please."

"No one... is ever ready, Ramattra. This is part...of humanity. And this...is why I have appreciated....everything I've had with you. When I'm dead...I will live on...in your memories," you said, voice weakening with every word, your breaths drawing out. "And carry... your love with me...always."

A part of him knew you were right, though that made accepting this no easier. Ramattra was scared of you going though, without knowing how much you meant to him. But what words could describe enough how you meant to him?

His voice sounded choked, even as you closed your eyes. "I love you, y/n...thank you. Thank you for being...my home," he said softly.

The way your lips pulled, eyelashes fluttering...your smile, no matter how small, was so beautiful to him.

"Thank you...for being...mine....." you whispered.

It was minutes before your heart gave way. Ramattra knew the moment it stopped beating.

For him, it was impossible to understand the kind of anguish he felt, the loss and grief, the love...

After all, he had never expected to fall in love with a human

And yet...given the chance to repeat it all... Ramattra knew he'd fall in love with you all over again, if only to hold your hand one more time

He ended up burying you beneath your favorite tree

Even years later, he visits it every day, and leaves flowers on your birthday and anniversary

#Ramattra #Ramattra x Reader #Ramattra Overwatch #Ramattra Headcanon #Overwatch #Overwatch headcanon #Overwatch x Reader #Overwatch Angst

[youngcigarsmokingguys]

It was a cigar that Jordan had wanted for so long. He was spending a few weeks with his Aunt and Uncle while his folks were on a cruise in Europe. His parents had invited him along, but the thought of being stuck visiting cathedral after cathedral with old people didn’t appeal to him in the slightest. Plus Jordan loved spending time with his Uncle Andy specifically. His Aunt Amy was great but she was kind of a prude and always chided his Uncle Andy for cussing, telling off color jokes, or smoking cigars around Jordan. Jordan wanted to tell his Aunt to shut up because he secretly loved when his big, beefy, bearded Uncle would smoke and just be himself. Andy was one of the only people in his life who didn’t treat him like a kid. Jordan loved spending time with his Uncle driving around his acreage in his beat up old truck as his Uncle would smoke a cigar or drink a beer. He loved that he never took down the naked woman calendars he had in the shop when Jordan would come visit. Now that Jordan was older his Uncle would even give him a beer whenever he had one and they were alone. Andy had noticed his Nephews curiosity whenever he would smoke a stogie. He empathized with the him as he had also became fascinated with cigars in his teens. He took the chance to teach his nephew how to correctly cut, toast, and light a cigar. He even gave him a few puffs off of his occasionally. This weekend he and his wife were going to an away football game with friends. Andy thought this was the perfect time to reward his young Nephew for all of his help at the farm. When Jordan came in from doing chores his Aunt and Uncle were already gone. On his bed was a brown paper bag with his name written on it. He recognized his Uncles penmanship. Inside he was thrilled to find a 6 pack of beer, a variety of 6 large ring cigars, a brand new cutter, torch lighter and a note that said “Thanks for your help. I want you to have a great weekend. Don’t smoke these inside. Also the here is the code to disable the adult content blocker on the wifi. Be sure to turn it back on before we get home or your Aunt will freak. When you get home hide these from your folks and you didn’t get them from me. 😉 Andy”. Jordan was instantly hard sharing this secret with his bearish Uncle made him feel like a man.

#young cigar #cigar boys #cigar cub

[rafedaddy01]

I cant believe out of all places my parents chose Outer Banks to move too. This place is a shithole, except for the nicer part of town, where the rich live. This place is completely different from where i grew up, a small town In California called Nevada City. Man it was wonderful! the town pop was about 3,000 people and everybody knew everybody. it was home. but this place... in lack of better words; is a complete shithole.

of course my parents being the rich pricks they are, stayed back home to "deal with business" whatever the hell that means for them. so im staying with an old family friend of theirs, great! not..

the driver picks me up from the airport and as we drive to said family friend i admire the scenery. Houses, boats, shacks, homeless people, shops, that was all in the "poor side" as it call it, eye roll, i never enjoyed being rich. i was born into it. my father on the other hand was a made man. He opened up quite a few banks in our little city and recently they have evolved into bigger states/cities, hence the move.

we lived in a big manor on a secluded acreage back home, thats weird to say, i guess its not home anymore. we were close enough to town for me to be able to pop in everyday and work at the local museum, we always had lots of tourists come in and i enjoyed telling people about the history of our town.

i sigh in the back seat of the limo as i think about was used to be home and prepare to make acquaintance with the kings of the island. The Cameron's. my parents told me a little bit about them since id be staying with them until mom and dad could come down here permeantly.

There was Ward Cameron, the father. Rose Cameron, the stepmother. Rafe Cameron, the eldest. Sarah Cameron, the middle child. and Wheezie, the youngest of the bunch. They seemed noraml enough and i was kind of excited to make some new friends.

we pulled up to the house and man oh man. Ive seen some houses in my day but heck! seeing all the worn out building on the way over? the hosue has two stories and is white, it almost looks like the white house!

my eyebrows raise to my forehead as we drive up the long driveway and stop at the front of the house. the driver comes to my side and opens the door, ugh i hate being waited on, "thank you, Scott. You dont have to worry about my bags, i can carry them" i tell the older gentleman who looks like he should be in a retirement home with his white hair that is swiped back and covered by that redicioulse chauffer hat and that outift that sits loosely on his visible scrawny bones. "No worries Miss, Morales, its my pleasure." he smiles as he wobbles over to the trunk and takes my luggage.

"You must be Avery!" a feminine voice beams as she embraces me in a hug. Ugh, i do not like being touch. This town is just getting better and better. "im Rose Cameron, welcome to our home" she introduces herself and i take a step back examining her, she has blonde hair that comes down to about her shoulders and its pampered to perfection. She wearing a baby pink dress that hug's her curves magnificently. she has gold dangly earrings on and black thin heels, the kind that a sophisticated women would wear, shes beautiful but theres something about her i dont really like. "yes, hello" i smile back at her. "thank you for being so kind as to take me in" i tell her "oh nonsense, your parents are lovely people and we told them wed be happy to let you stay with us. as long as it takes"

As long as it take? what is that supposed to mean. does rose know something i dont, should i be worried?

i scratch the thoughts from my mind as we step into the estate, its beautiful, the twisting stairwell that leads upstairs and the gigantic chandelier that dangles in the middle. "wow, very beutiful Mrs. Cameron" i say as i take a look around "oh please, call me rose" she smiles, theres a viscousness in her smile, its fake. Ive seen it before, from my own mother none the less.

"let me show you to your room, the driver has already set your luggage in there" she says as she leads me up the staircase.

we walk into one of the many guest rooms, but this one is mine. the walls are a shade of gold and its oddly comforting. theres a large king bed in the center of the wide room and a balcony that hovers over the green grass and water thats seen in the distance. The bathroom is in the room and seems to connect to the room next door, i wonder whose room that is, probably another guest room.

"ill let you settle in and once your done you can come down for dinner and meet the rest of the family" rose smiles at me as she shuts the door and lets me settle.

i take a momment scanning the room, theres not much in it besides a closet, a bed, some nightstands, and curtains that fall along the frames of the windows. its much bigger than my room back home. i decide not to unpack everything, i dont plan on being her long, i hope.

I decided to take a shower, i was in a plane for 15hrs overall.

I wash myself with some shampoo that is in there, it smells like cedarwood and ginger, an odd mix but also strangly comforting. i lather my hair and body and let the hot water relax my built up tension.

once i hop out of the shower i wrap a towel around my body and head through my bedroom door, i stop and stare at the door across from mine, i wonder whose room that is.

i walk up to my luggage and pull out a mini plaid green skirt with a matching top, i dry my hair and let the pin-straight black strands flow down my back

i step out of the room at about 7:20pm and head downstairs, the smell of chicken infests my nostrils and my stomach grumbles, i hadnt even realized i didnt eat much today. i stride into the dining room and everybody is in there seats, except for two open ones, mine and i presume rafes, whose is empty.

"ah, there she is!' Ward speaks as he stands and rounds the table to me "Avery Morales, Sir" i say extending my hand. Ive learned my manners from talking to my father, he is a kind man when he wants to be but money changed him. he and my mother have both become vicious and would do anything to fill their wallets. its sad really, we used to be the perfect little family in Nevada and we still are, were, but with much darker secrets now, thats a story for another time.

"Im happy to welcome you to our humble abode Miss Morales" he says pulling my chair out for me. The empty chair is beside me while who i presume are sarah and wheezie sit across from me and ward and rose sit on opposite ends of the table.

"Im sarah" the girl to the left in front of me says. She is gorgeous, she has a tan that sticks to her skin like its her natural color and dirty blonde hair that flows down her shoulders and chest, her lips are plump and full and her eyes sparkle with kindness, i like her. "Wheezie" peeps the little girl next to her, shes young, maybe 13 or 14. She had black hair thats braided in two braids and glasses that frame her face.

"lets eat!" rose cheers as we dig in

we finish dinner and i insist on helping clear the table but ward says they have staff that do that and that i should get some rest because ive had a long day. Hes right im exhusted. I got to know sarah quite a bit, wheezie doesnt talk much. it seems like nobody really notices her and they all just ignore her whenever she trys to speak up. But sarah told me about the island a little bit and even said shed introduce me to some friends tomorrow.

I walk up the stairs and head for my room but i couldnt help thinking about the empty chair next to mine. why wasnt he at dinner? does he not live here, does he even exist. My mind is heavy with thoughts as i walk to the bathroom and turn the doorknob, that weird, i didnt leave the light on

"oh my god! im so sorry!' i squeal as i cover my eyes.

There is Rafe. standing. naked. in my bathroom, well, our bathoom. I guess i found out whose room is next to mine.

Pt2

@f4ll-for-you @v21sstuff @rafeysworldim19 @baby19sthings @eventualoptimism @drewstarkeysbae @sevenwivesofrafecameron @rxfecameronsslut @findapenny @r1vrsefx

#outer banks #rafe cameron #drew starkey #smut #dark rafe cameron #outerbanks #drewstarkey #drewstarkey smut #rafecameron #fanfic #rafe fluff #dark rafe

[fortheloveofwonderland]

Rusty | Chapter 2 | S.R

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter Summary - As you arrive at Spencer’s ranch, an intrusive look around his home offers some insight into the stranger. Meanwhile Spencer has his injuries seen to whilst taking a nostalgic glance down memory lane.

Paring - Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - strangers to friends to lovers | angst | smut minors DNI

Warnings - antidepressant medication, smoking, hospitals, mentions of Spencer’s past canon injuries, pain relief, bisexual Spencer and talk of sexuality, a rundown of Spencer’s past sexual encounters, brief mention of past drug addiction and Maeve, mentions of casual sex, talk of prison, broken bones.

WC - 6.5k

Chapter 2 - Take Me Home, Country Road

As promised the large creature led you to the strangers ranch, but at her slow gait it had taken almost an hour to travel four miles. It was a pain to drive so slowly, feeding her slices of apple and carrot out of the car window every five or so minutes. 

By the time she led you off the main road and up a dirt path, your hand was almost black from feeding her. 

You travelled a little further up the path until you came to what you assumed was the lodge Spencer had told you about. 

You slowed the car to a stop and cut the engine, opening the door and sliding out before giving Willow the final piece of fruit from the bag. 

“I have to say, I’m impressed.” You nodded at her, tentatively reaching up and patting the side of her face. 

She mewled and nuzzled against your hand in appreciation. It might have been the first time you let your guard slip a little. 

She was huge and imposing, terrifying from the offset to someone who had never spent any time around horses. But now as you looked at her, really looked at her, you saw her beauty.

She was a stunning greyish blue, with slight dappling in her coat. Her mane was nearly black, long and sleek. Her large eyes were a deep brown, almost as intense and alluring at her owners.

She was broad and tall, intimidating yet graceful. She made a soft snuffling sound as she slowly turned around and started trotting in the direction of the lodge. 

You quickly followed her, making a grab for one of her reins in case she wandered off somewhere she shouldn’t. She led you passed the old lodge and further up a slight incline to where the ground levelled out again and you caught sight of where she was heading. 

Up ahead was the stable Spencer had told you about and she took you right to it. Upon reaching it you unlatched the large barn doors and heaved one opened, Willow already making a move inside. 

As told there were two more horses inside, one brown and one jet black and both slightly smaller in size than Willow. They eyed you up as you passed by and you tried to keep your head down. 

There were three empty paddocks, two of which you could tell weren’t in use. Willow knew where to go and led you to her own. 

She was content in being motioned inside and once her whole body was in, you closed the fence behind her, latching it like the others. 

She headed straight for the trough of food - despite the snacks you’d bestowed on her - and happily started munching away at her dinner. 

The black horse was near his own fence, eyes boring into you as you offered Willow another pat on the side of her back. 

The darker horse seemed wary of you, making little grunts of disapproval at your presence. The auburn horse didn’t pay you too much attention.

“Trust me, I don’t want to be here just as much as you don’t want me to be here.” You held your hands up in surrender. “I’m leaving, don’t worry.” 

You backed out of the stable, keeping your eyes on the dark stallion as you went. Once outside you were quick to close the doors and fix the latch in place. 

Spinning around, it was too dark to make out the extent of his land. Given that he had at least two lodges, a stable and he’d mentioned cattle you assumed had must have a reasonable amount of acreage. 

You padded back toward the lodge you’d passed earlier and fished out the keys. You really should hit the road, you could drive down to Mexico before Spencer was even released from hospital. When they inevitably rang you, asking after the fake name you’d given, you could tell them they had the wrong number.

Or simply ignore the call. 

Staying in one place for too long could be dangerous. However Spencer’s ranch was certainly secluded, no other buildings or claimed land for miles you would ascertain. So if you had to lay low somewhere for the night, this was probably the best place to do so. 

You climbed the creaky wooden stairs to his lodge and located the largest key on the loop before slipping it in the lock. You pushed the door open and fumbled for a light switch. 

Finding one and flicking it, the room was suddenly awash with light and you had to blink a few times at the onslaught. 

Adjusting to the light you glanced around the small quarters. The floor and the walls were all the same wood as the outside and it was furnished minimally. 

There was a single leather couch beneath the back window and a small coffee table in front of it stained with coffee rings. A newspaper sat folded neatly on the corner, upon closer inspection you frowned curiously at the copy of The Washington Post dated today. 

Next to the couch was a large bookshelf that spanned from floor to ceiling and books were packed in so tightly it looked fit to burst. Another stack of books was on the floor next to it, unable to stuff a single extra hardback on the shelves.

You run your fingers along old, cracked spines. His collection covered everything from War and Peace in its original Russian, an extremely old and battered copy of a book titled The Log of a Cowboy, to poetry anthologies and books on behavioural profiling. 

Eclectic and diverse, neither things you expected from a cowboy. 

The key to his second lodge hung by the door like he said and you should take it and leave. But you’d always been a little too curious, couldn’t stop yourself from continuing around the small abode.

To the right of the door was a kitchen, if you could really call it that. It was essentially a small breakfast bar separating it from the living space and another counter that held a microwave and an stove top that looked as though it had never been used. 

On the breakfast bar was an empty mug of what you presumed had once held coffee judging by the smell and an extremely outdated cell phone. There was a book next to it, closed with a sliver of paper sticking out you presumed to mark his page. There was a fridge which you couldn’t help but peer into - he did tell you to help yourself - but it was mostly baron. 

It held a half empty glass bottle of milk, a small tub of butter, two sad and lonely looking microwave meals and a couple of half eaten tubs of Chinese take out. 

Closing the fridge you dared breach beyond, stepping past the fridge towards a closed door. You opened it and stepped into his bedroom, switching on another light. 

His king sized bed took up most of the space and was made with near military precision with an olive green bedspread. The pillows were neatly fluffed and the sheet tucked crisply over the top. 

The bed on one side was pushed up against the large window with its blinds tilted almost fully closed. Without opening them, you peered between the slats but given the darkness outside you couldn’t see much of anything. 

The side of the bed that wasn’t cast against the wall had a nightstand next to it with another six or seven books piled up on it, almost entirely obscuring an old alarm clock. 

There was a wardrobe in one corner which you pushed forward to and swung open its double doors. 

Most of the clothes were reminiscent of what you’d seen him wear today: various cuts of jeans in different washes, multiple plain t-shirts in a variety of colours, several more denim shirts in both blue and black and an array of flannel shirts in all kinds of colours. 

Rifling through them a little, you did come across something more curious. 

At the back of the closet hung several knitted sweater vests, a couple of crisp button downs and two pairs of black slacks. You found them to be out of place in this man’s closet, and given their proximity, hidden away at the back you found it a little strange.

There was something soft and plush on the floor, kicked towards the back but you ignored it. Shaking your head you closed the closet and turned back into the room. 

On the other wall was a desk with a small stool tucked underneath. On the desk was yet another stack of books - you didn’t peg a cowboy to be as big of a reader - and two framed photographs.

The photographs were the only personal touch in the place. You picked up the first one and studied it. The man in the image was most certainly the injured cowboy but he looked to be at least ten years younger you would surmise. 

His hair was a little shorter, still messy and curly. He had his arms wrapped around an older woman with short white hair you could only hazard to guess was his mother. It was just a head and shoulders shot but you could vaguely make out he seemed to be wearing a sweater vest similar to one in his closet.

The other photograph was of a group of eight people, four men and four women. Spencer was in the middle, one arm slung around the shoulders of a blonde woman dressed in bright, garish colours with thick rimmed glasses and his other around the shoulders of an older man with grey hair and a grey beard. 

Aside from the grey haired man, they all looked to be around a similar age, and they were all smiling brightly at the camera. In this picture you could see Spencer was wearing a pale pink button down, tie and black slacks. It looked to be fairly recently, maybe no more than a few years old. 

You scanned the faces and your eyes narrowed on the man on the end who had a large goofy smile on his face and an arm slung around the shoulder of a woman with raven hair. 

He was latino, with jet black hair swept off of his face. His large dark eyes were expressive and his smile reached all the way to them. You rolled your bottom lip between your teeth, brow furrowing as you took in the details of his face. 

There was something about him that caused a knot to form in your stomach but you couldn’t place it, couldn’t put a name to what you were feeling. 

Shaking your head again and replacing the photo on the desk you glanced around again. 

It was clear he lived here alone. There were no feminine touches, nothing to point to the idea that he shared his home with someone else, woman or man. The bed even dipped a little on one side, a clear indicator that it was only slept in by one person. 

You carried on through to the bathroom but it wasn’t until you started going through his medicine cabinet that you realised what an invasion of privacy this was. 

This man had been nice enough to give you a place to stay for the night when you’d been belligerent. He’d offered you his home while he was in hospital and you were repaying him by snooping in his life. 

And now you stood in his bathroom with a half empty orange pill bottle, the label of which read Paroxetine.

Returning it to the cabinet and closing it, you couldn’t ignore the curiosity that was pulsing through you and without really meaning to, you pulled out your phone and googled it. 

Paroxetine - Brand Name: Seroxat - is a type of antidepressant known as a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor (SSRI). It’s often used to treat depression, and sometimes obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), panic attacks, anxiety or post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). 

You read the words in your head, hand gripping the phone tightening. Now you felt guilty. You should not have been rummaging through his things like this, unearthing secrets about a man you barely knew. 

But now you did know he suffered from some kind of mental health issue and you would have to see him again and pretend you knew nothing of it. You couldn’t imagine living out here on his own like this was helpful to his mental health. But it wasn’t your problem, not your concern. 

You forced yourself to leave after that, the guilt clutching at your chest for snooping in the first place. You grabbed the keys to the spare lodge, switched the lights off and exited this stranger's home. 

You stepped out onto the porch but before you could get too far you lowered yourself to the top step. Your firearm which was still tucked into the back of your pants shifted a little as you did so. 

You pulled out a packet of cigarettes from inside of your jacket. You weren’t a regular smoker but on occasion you enjoyed the relief that came with having one. 

You lit one and took a long drag on it, staring out at the quiet expanse of land rolling out into the darkness. 

This was so far removed from anything you’d ever known, this way of living was so out of the realms of normal to you. 

You’d been born and raised in the city, surrounded by people and tall buildings and a constant swell of traffic on the roads. Your life was always bright and loud, chaotic in a sense. But this place brought about a certain peace. 

You watched the smoke dance up into the still air and as you followed it, your eyes landed on the sky. Out here, away from all the light pollution of the big city, you had an uninhibited view of the stars. 

You felt your chest tighten in a kind of whimsy. You’d never experienced the sky in such a way, unhindered, uncensored. You’d never had a chance to just sit and watch the sky, take in the beautiful pin pricks of light that decorated the dark blanket above you. 

It was so quiet. The only sounds you could discern were the tiny crackle of the cigarette paper as you took a drag and the occasional snuffle coming from one of the horses in the stable. 

In a sense, you could understand why people choose to live like this. It was tranquil, soothing. You almost felt yourself cleansed as you sat there. 

Maybe you could put Mexico on the back burner. Perhaps this place was the perfect haven for you to remain hidden away and maybe you’d even get some clarity and peace of mind while you did so. 

That was to say, if Spencer was okay with you hanging around. He seemed to be a loner type, living out here alone with his horses and cattle. Maybe he wouldn’t appreciate an uninvited guest. 

But you had saved his life in a sense, didn’t he owe you? 

Being out here in this sleepy sanctuary, the quiet and the pull of nature were only part of the appeal. The injured cowboy who had opened his home to you was not at all hard on the eyes, quite the opposite in fact. 

And on top of that he intrigued you. There was something in his eyes when he looked at you that told you he’d seen some things. There was a slight crack in his foundation, a chink in his armour which was further proven looking around his home. 

There was a reason someone had such few personal items, causes for a person to live so far off the grid like this. 

You dragged on the cigarette as your brows furrowed in contemplation. Perhaps he was running from something just as you were. Maybe the two of you weren’t so different. 

He most certainly had a story to tell and for some reason, unbeknownst to you, you wanted to hear it. You wanted to bury yourself deep in the tale of this lonely cowboy by the name of Spencer Reid. 

You finished the cigarette and dropped it to the floor before descending the stairs and stamping it out with the heel of your sneaker. Returning to your car you popped the trunk and grabbed out the small duffel bag before heading back up past the stable to the other near identical lodge. 

Somehow this one was even more sparsely decorated than his own. There was a single couch, no coffee table and no bookshelves bursting at the seams. The kitchen layout was identical minus the microwave and upon further inspection the fridge was empty and unplugged from the wall. 

The bedroom had a small double bed, but much like his own it was made with precision. This one wasn’t pushed up against the window like his own but in the centre of the room. There were no nightstands, no desk, just a small chest of drawers in the corner. 

You dumped your duffle bag on the bed and kicked off your sneakers before padding through to the bathroom. As he said there were clean towels hanging on the back of the door. It only occurred to you then that you’d been driving for days and hadn’t showered since the day you jumped in a car and left everything behind. 

Making quick work of stripping out of your clothes, setting your gun down next to the sink and switching on the shower, you were soon standing under the flow of warm water. You inhaled deeply before slowly exhaling the breath through your nose as the water coursed around you.

The water pressure left a lot to be desired but it was a decent temperature and it would at least clean you. There were little bottles of what appeared to be hotel shampoos and body wash lining the bathtub which you helped yourself to.

You washed your hair before turning your attention to your body and cleaning yourself thoroughly after days spent inside your car. You massaged the aching muscles of your neck and shoulders, lathering up the body wash as you did so. You stretched your back and your limbs, only really now taking heed of how sore you were from being confined to your vehicle for so many hours. 

You supposed you couldn’t complain, imagining what Spencer was going through in the hospital. 

You finished your shower and got dried before changing into a pair of shorts and tank top from your duffel bag. You carefully untucked the sheet from one side of the bed and slid beneath it. 

Your eyes closed as soon as your head hit the soft pillow. You sunk into the mattress, the smell of clean linen wafting around you. 

You were asleep within minutes of crawling into the strange bed. 

***

Given the late hour in which he’d been admitted, as Spencer suspected he was required to spend the night in the hospital. 

He was taken for x-rays of his knee, back and arm and pumped with fluids via an IV to combat his dehydration. 

It had grown awkward rather quickly when a nurse tried to offer him something for his pain and he’d had to explain that he didn’t take opioids without actually having to explain why. 

The pain was manageable at least in comparison to some other times he’d landed himself in hospital. But if he could refuse morphine after being shot in the neck, shot in the knee and whilst suffering from anthrax poisoning, he could go without now. 

He accepted a couple of Tylenol to help him rest while he awaited the results of the x-rays and honestly it did help. It eased the aching in his back and the pain in his extremities enough for him to close his eyes and drift a little, although he didn’t quite reach the allusive REM stages sleep. 

With his mind more at ease he was consumed by thoughts of you, the stranger that had saved him from being eaten alive by desert critters and potentially his own animal companion. 

It was only really now he allowed himself to dwell on just how breathtaking you were. He’d told you he thought you were pretty, but that was doing you a disservice. 

It had been more years than Spencer could count since he’d last been so taken by another person. His history when it came to physicality or matters of the heart was painfully thin, more a pamphlet than book. 

Ethan had been the first person he’d ever had romantic feelings towards when he was just a teenager. It was also with Ethan that he’d first explored sexually. 

Up until his kiss with Lila Archer in her pool he’d assumed himself to be only interested in men. She was the first woman he’d ever been attracted to and their kiss had certainly sparked something within him. 

Years later, after Gideon left, after his battle with dilaudid, somewhere between accusing his father of murder and getting shot in the knee, he reconnected with her during the course of another case in LA. After a few drinks and some not-so-subtle flirting on her part, he found himself in her bed. 

She was the first woman he’d been with sexually and still to this day there was only one other woman he’d been with in that way. After Maeve’s death he’d been in a bad way and had ended up in the bed of a woman he met in a bar. It was nice, maybe more perfunctory than anything, but then again he’d felt the same with Lila. 

He was certainly attracted to both of the women and had been towards other women over the years - he’d thought Elle Greenaway to be beautiful and as much as he hated to admit it Cat Adams had a certain allure. And of course there had been Maeve, who he’d been consumed by without even seeing her face.

He often wondered if they’d had a chance to meet if their intimacy would have been different, perhaps because they had a deeper attachment with one another. But in his limited experience he’d never quite connected to a woman the same way he did with men. 

Again, it wasn’t to say he had a wealth of experience with the same sex either. After Ethan there was a long gap in Spencer’s sexual history, the next time he was with another man was long after Lila. It was a casual thing, he supposed it was a booty call kind of arrangement that never really did sit right with Spencer, yet he continued it for almost half a year. 

And then more recently he’d been involved in something more serious with a man for the first time. They’d started dating prior to his arrest and the relationship had continued after his release. 

However, Spencer’s time spent on the inside had driven him into the dark recesses of the human mind. What he’d experienced in prison caused him to view sex and intimacy in a different light. 

Even after months of therapy and medication being prescribed, Spencer was unable to allow himself to be intimate with his boyfriend and as such the relationship had ultimately ended. They managed to remain friends, more out of necessity than a true desire to do so, but things had never been the same. 

Since his incarceration, the idea of relationships of a physical or emotional variety, regardless of gender, had been off the table for Spencer. Part of the appeal of moving out to Bandera in the middle of nowhere was the social isolation. 

For years he’d been content on his own, not happy but honestly he wasn't sure he’d ever really been happy per se. But it was entirely probable, if he allowed himself to dwell on it, that he was incredibly lonely. 

Since moving to Bandera two years ago he’d barely had any interaction with anyone, let alone anything meaningful. He went to the store once a week for groceries and exchanged pleasantries with the kindly elderly lady that worked the check out line. He had encounters with other ranchers in town when he saw them, mostly conversations pertaining to cattle rearing and farming.  

He spoke to the old members of his team on the phone from time to time although the longer he was gone, they calls became few and far between. Penelope called him more than the others, usually once every few weeks and they would spend a good amount of time talking about everything and anything. Jennifer called once a month, sometimes there was longer between the calls and Emily and Rossi phoned him once in a blue moon.

He had the rare text exchange with Matt and Tara and, even less frequently Luke, but it had been a long time since he’d heard any of their voices. 

So for the most part, he was alone, his horses and cattle his only company. But that had been by design, Spencer intentionally shut himself off from the world to save any further disappointment in his life or the having to explain why he was such a damn basket case to anyone. 

And then you appeared on the side of that abandoned stretch of road and saved him from uncertain death. You had ignited something in Spencer he thought had long ago been burned out. And now maybe the idea of being alone didn’t appeal to him quite so much anymore. 

But of course he inevitably would be. You’d made it clear that you were in a hurry to get somewhere and certainly wouldn’t be sticking around longer than you had to. Perhaps it was for the best, he wasn’t exactly keen on the idea of sharing his neuroticism with you. 

He was awoken from his drifting by a young doctor with friendly eyes. She introduced herself as Doctor Rhodes and offered Spencer a cup of water which he gratefully took despite his IV fluid intake earlier. 

She had a folder under her arm which she opened now, he could see the x-rays peeking out from within. 

“You should consider yourself very lucky, Mister Reid.” She began.

There was a time when Spencer would have corrected her misuse of his title but since relocating to Texas he’d left his honorific behind in an attempt to feel more normal.

Internally he was screaming, Doctor Reid, it’s Doctor Reid, not Mister! Externally he remained silent. 

“The swelling in your knee is already subsiding and it doesn’t appear that you’ve done any muscle or tissue damage. It may be sore for a few days, but it should get better over time. Your spinal x-rays didn’t show any damage either, the radiologist did note some bruising on your lower back but again the pain should ease up.” She informed him with a smile.

“Thanks, it’s easing up already a little.” He nodded stiffly.

“As for your arm, you have a hairline fracture in both your ulna and radius at the farthest distal end of the bones.” She held up an x-ray of his left arm and Spencer squinted, making out the small area in which his arm had broken thanks to the wild horse. “Again, this is a very favourable outcome, I see a lot of injuries of this nature due to the number of rodeos and ranches nearby and I have to say this is very minor in comparison to what could have happened.” 

“Okay, that’s good.” He nodded again. “So, what, I need a cast or something?” 

“Had it been more severe you may have needed surgery to fix the brake but in this instance a cast should suffice. I imagine six weeks in a cast at most and you should be good to go, Mister Reid.” 

Doctor, Doctor Reid.

“Can I still ride? I don’t have any other form of transport other than my horses.” He rolled his lip between his teeth.

“That would really depend on how competent of a rider you are. If you think you’re safe to ride one handed then that’s really your call. I would suggest, given the fall and the residual pain you might be feeling in your patella and lumbar, to give it at least a few days before you attempt to get back in the saddle, literally.” She chuckled at her own bad pun. 

Spencer’s own lip quirked a little at the corner. 

“Okay super.” Spencer nodded. 

“I’ll send in a nurse to get your arm set and then I don’t foresee any reason you can’t be discharged. I’ll write you a script for some more Tylenol,” she glanced at her notes with a small brow furrow. “I understand you turned down anything stronger?”

“I, uh, I have a history with opioids. I’d rather not go into it.” He shrunk down a little in the bed. He didn’t need to go further into detail, it was clear what he meant. 

Doctor Rhodes offered him a slightly melancholy smile and a nod of her head, closing the folder and slotting it back under her arm. 

“Say no more. I’ll send a nurse in as soon as possible and then barring any complications you should be able to go home.” 

“What time is it?” He frowned. He’d lost all sense of time, had no idea how long he’d been drifting on the cusp of sleep for. 

Doctor Rhodes raised her left arm, shirked her lab coat out of the way and checked her watch. 

“A little after six am.” She spoke as she glanced back at him. 

“Oh man,” Spencer pulled a face feeling suddenly disorientated. “I had no idea I closed my eyes for so long.” 

“Dehydration can have that effect. You should be feeling much better now we’ve pumped you full of fluids.” Rhodes smiled once more, giving a brisk nod of her head before turning on her heels. “I don’t want to see you back here after another botched animal rescue okay?” 

Spencer chuckled lightly to himself, nestling his head back against the pillows. 

“I make no promises.” He yawned as he spoke. 

A small titter met his ears and seconds later Doctor Rhodes was gone. 

***

You were rudely awoken from an extremely peaceful night’s sleep in a ridiculously comfy bed by the sound of your phone ringing. 

You had to drag yourself out from between the soft sheets to locate your jeans where your phone was cradled in the pocket. 

You pulled your legs under your body on the cool hardwood floor and blinked a few times at the device before answering the call. 

“H-hello?” You croaked, eyes heavy with sleep and your head spinning in unfamiliarity. 

“Miss Parker?” A female voice assaulted your ears. 

You frowned, closing one eye and inhaling deeply. 

“Uh…sorry I think you have the wrong number.” You grumbled, rubbing at your forehead to ease the confusion. 

Light swarmed the room through open blinds and you took in the neutral decor trying to ascertain where you were. The last few days had been a blur, you couldn’t quite bring to memory where you’d ended up. 

“Oh…” the confusion was evident down the phone. “My apologies. I have you listed as an emergency contact on a patient discharge form.” 

Emergency contact? Discharge form? What was she…oh…oh! 

“Oh right, sorry, yes!” Your brain started to lift from the fog that was surrounding it. “Cowboy dude, uh, Sp…Spencer?” 

“You do know Mister Reid?” The voice sounded even more befuddled.

“Yes, yes, good friend of mine.” You lied. “Sorry I just woke up, I’m a little disoriented. Has he been discharged?” 

“He’s just filling out his discharge papers and said you would be collecting him.” 

“Yes, of course.” You nodded sleepily. “Uh…what hospital is he in?” 

There was a short stretch of silence, you ran your free hand through your hair while you waited for confirmation.

“University Health in San Antonio.” The voice replied.

Right, no help at all.

“I’ll, uh, be there as soon as I can.” You nodded again, mostly to yourself. 

“Very well.” The clipped female voice replied. “I will have him wait in the main lobby once he’s completed his paperwork, Miss Parker.” 

Soon after the woman hung up and you dropped your cell phone to your lap. You rubbed your eyes and stretched out your legs. 

Signing a fake name on the patient form last night had been a force of habit. You were trying to run away, trying to fly under the radar and it would have been a potentially disastrous oversight had you given the EMT’s your real name. Giving over your phone number had been risky enough, but hopefully not damning. 

You picked the phone back up and almost googled the hospital for its address before cursing under your breath. You couldn’t risk leaving an internet paper trail, even though you doubted it would put you in harm's way, it wasn’t worth it. Hopefully you could find the route the good old fashioned way, with the use of the paper map in your car.

Pushing yourself back up to your feet you remembered Spencer mentioning the nearest hospital being about forty five miles away and you groaned to yourself. You’d appreciated the decent night’s sleep you’d gotten but at what cost? 

You found your duffle bag and dressed in clean underwear, the same black jeans you’d been wearing yesterday, a clean tank top under an oversized blue and black checked sweatshirt. You collected up your belongings, firearm and Spencer’s keys included, before padding your way to the door. 

You grabbed a quick glass of water before leaving the lodge, wondering if you may entertain the idea of staying another night in this safe haven or if you would never step foot inside that cabin again. You locked the door behind you and took the steps down, bag slung over your arm. 

You exchanged his keys for your car key and drew a cigarette from its packet as you walked. You opened the car and dumped the bag on the backseat, returning your firearm to the glove compartment and starting the engine. 

You lit the cigarette cradled between your lips whilst rolling down the window, picking up the map from the passenger's seat and scrutinising it. Holding the cigarette out the open window, your other hand drew a path on the map towards your destination.

It was a good job you had a decent sense of direction otherwise this would have been made impossible without a GPS system. 

You tossed the map aside and took a drag on the cigarette as you cranked up the radio. You slid the car into reverse and turned around until you were facing the dirt road that led out of Spencer’s ranch.

Once you hit the road you slammed your foot on the accelerator and sped along through the isolated desert with your hand out the window and the breeze ruffling your hair. 

***

Spencer limped almost comically towards the open car door whilst you leant against the side of the vehicle offering no help whatsoever. His purple casted arm was cradled against his dirty t-shirt. 

“Probably should have asked you to bring me some clean clothes.” He grumbled, noticing you eyeing his dusty attire. 

“Hmm so you could further exploit the kindness of a stranger?” Your lip twitched into a small smirk. 

“Oh I’m sorry, did you not enjoy spending a free night at my ranch?” He scoffed, hobbling closer and wincing a little as he did so. 

“Eh, it was okay.” You held open the door for him. 

Spencer rolled his eyes and slowly lowered himself into the passenger seat, trying to avoid putting any unnecessary weight on his sore knee. He groaned as he swung his legs inside. 

You closed the door behind him before rounding the car to the driver’s side and quickly starting the engine. Spencer removed his stetson and laid it in his lap, cradling his arm closer to his chest. 

Soon you were pulling away from the front of the hospital and heading back towards the memorised route. 

“So, broken arm, huh?” You asked as you drove, sending him a sidelong glance. 

“Apparently I was lucky. Don’t feel very lucky if I’m honest.” He grumbled again. 

“You’ll be fine, big tough cowboy, like you.” You smirked to yourself. 

“Big and tough?” He turned his head to face you. “I can categorically say no one has ever referred to me as big and tough.” 

“I thought it kinda went with the territory. Rangling cattle, riding horses.” You teased in a fake southern drawl. 

“Hmm.” He simply responded, clearly unamused. “So you’re names Elizabeth? Elizabeth Parker? I saw it on the intake form.” 

“Indeed.” You nodded, keeping your eyes focused on the road. 

“Huh.” He mused, narrowing his eyes on you. 

“What?” Your forehead pinched into a frown. 

“Nothing,” he shook his head. “Just heard that name before.” 

“I’m sure it's a very common name.” You shrugged. 

His gaze on the side of your face was making you feel a little uncomfortable and you tried to ignore it but his eyes bore into you heavily. You gripped the wheel tightly, hearing him shift slightly in his seat. 

“You know where I think I‘ve heard it?” His tone held a thinly veiled hint of amusement. 

“Where?” You sighed in frustration. 

“Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Elizabeth Parker of Bonnie and Clyde fame.” He noticed the way your back straightened in your chair, how your grip tightened on the wheel. 

You huffed out a breath and rolled your eyes.

“Fine, you caught me. My name is not Elizabeth Parker.” You confessed in a slightly irked tone. 

“So what is it?” 

“Does it really matter?” You grumbled.

“Well, seeing as you know my name and you’ve stayed at my ranch, it would be nice to know your name.” He shrugged, shifting again in his seat and struggling to find a position that didn’t ache his back. 

“Y/N.” You spoke under your breath, half hoping he wouldn’t hear you over the radio. 

He did.

“Y/N…?” 

“Just Y/N. Consider me like Cher or Madonna. No last name.” You murmured. 

To your surprise, Spencer chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. He brushed his hair back off of his face with his good hand and sat back against the chair. 

“Okay, Y/N. I guess it’s nice to meet you. And I suppose a thank you is in order, seeing how you kinda sorta saved my life.” His laughter subsided and he glanced at you seriously. 

You offered him a brief look before focusing back out the windshield, your lip tugging a little at the corner. 

“Kinda sorta?” You cocked an eyebrow. “Dude, I totally saved your life. You’re forever indebted to me now.” 

Spencer smiled to himself, the sound of your laugh alleviating his pain momentarily. He turned his attention out of the window as you sped down the road. He wouldn’t at all mind the idea of that, he’d take any excuse to keep you close. 

@andiebeaword @muffin-cup @measure-in-pain @dreatine @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @people-whatabunchofbastards @spencer-reid-wonderland @thebloomingeagle @kalulakunundrum @small-and-violent @voledart

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x fem! reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

[sotwk]

Hello! I'm not sure if my question will meet the criteria you posted regarding asks/headcannons/fanfics (itz my first time hehe), but I gotta ask 😅: If Thranduil, his wife, and the 5 brothers had lived in the modern times, what would their lives be like (ex. jobs, lifestyles, modern interests, etc.)? Basically a modern au of sorts...? I understand if you do not answer my question if it really didn't meet the criteria, but if you do answer, thanks in advance!

MODERN AU: THE ROYAL FAMILY OF MIRKWOOD

The House of Thranduil

Modern AU set in the United States (this writer is American and doesn't want to embarrass herself speaking of other countries, lol)

Fair Warning: This entire family is ridiculously accomplished in this AU, but this is clearly fictional so just ride along the fantasy with me!

Apologies for the length and infodump style--my mind really ran off with this concept!

Thranduil, The Patriarch

Businessman/CEO and 4th generation landowner.

Land ownership currently includes 1 million acres of timberland around the West Coast.

Business holdings include logging, saw mills, wineries, and forest-product manufacturing companies that employs thousands of employees.

Attended Wharton School to study business but dropped out in his third year when his father passed; (reluctantly) took over the company at 21 years old to prevent it from being seized by his father's scheming partners.

Met and fell in love with Maereth, a classmate at Wharton, but she was already in a relationship with someone else.

Continued to pursue her over the course of 10 years until they finally wed right before he turned 30.

His family home is a 2,000-acre ranch in Northwest Oregon, but he travels constantly all over the country.

During the economic downturn, saved the business and his people's livelihood by selling off a third of the family's acreage.

Refuses opportunities to expand in favor of maintaining fair wages for his employees and ethical and environmentally sound practices.

Personal hobbies include breeding and racing horses, outdoor activities, wine-collecting, and travel.

Despite rubbing elbows with powerful, rich businessmen like himself, he despises that crowd and spends only as much time with them as necessary for business.

His closest friends are the folks in his small hometown and the employees who work alongside him.

Maereth, The Matriarch

Born to a lower-middle class family from Scranton, Pennsylvania. Father was a construction laborer and mother was a part-time receptionist.

The middle child and only daughter; has 3 brothers.

Only one in her family to attend and finish college.

Practically engaged to her boyfriend at the time she met Thranduil.

Despite her rejecting Thranduil's advances and professions of love because of her existing relationship, she felt attracted to him and could not bring herself to forget him. They maintained a friendship after Thranduil dropped out of Wharton and moved back West.

Once her relationship with her boyfriend ended, Thranduil resumed courting her, but she rejected his marriage proposal out of a desire to pursue a career on her own.

Started her own company and ran it for several years before selling it at a large profit. Used the money to pay off her family's loans and help her parents retire.

Was finally won over by Thranduil's persistence and obvious devotion, and agreed to marry him.

Gave birth to their five sons over the course of a single decade.

Raised her children as a stay-at-home mom until they all reached their teens.

Currently sits on the board of the family's corporation and serves as the Chief HR Officer.

Chairs the family's private foundation that gives millions to charitable causes annually.

Is a talented crafter, craftsman, and builder, more so than her husband and most of her sons (except for Mirion), with enough skill to complete simple remodels on her own. She is the ultimate DIYer who dives eagerly into manual labor, which is one of the things Thranduil admires most in her.

Is also a successful gardener, able to keep flourishing backyard gardens that bear flowers, fruits, and vegetables of different kinds.

Spends most of her free time on endless home improvement projects or traveling as needed to visit her sons.

Mirion, eldest son - The Heir

The dutiful son who accepted his role as the eventual heir to the company. Started shadowing his father as a teen.

Married to his high school sweetheart, with whom he has two children (so far the only grandchildren of Thranduil and Maereth).

Lettered in 3 high school sports: baseball, football, and track, but discontinued sports in college to focus on academics.

Holds a degree in materials engineering from Carnegie Mellon University.

Upon marrying, settled his family at a ranch house in Oregon to stay close to his parents and majority of their holdings.

Started his own construction company that eventually became a part of the family conglomerate.

Was a stay-at-home dad for several years to allow his physician wife to return to her small town practice.

Attends many high-profile social engagements on behalf of his parents.

The ultimate dad: very involved in his kids' lives and is beloved by their friends; their home is a popular hangout for the neighborhood kids.

Constantly hit on by single moms and dads; unfortunately for them, he is singularly obsessed with his wife.

Had a very brief stint as a commercial model during his college years, and agents often suggest he return to it--but he has zero interest.

Very down-to-earth and a homebody outside of work. Leans towards introversion.

Favorite past times: DIY projects around his house, fixing up old cars, riding his horses, playing with his dogs, and having neighbors over for big backyard BBQs.

The closest thing the family has to a cowboy. The only one of his brothers to reside in a rural area and the only one besides their parents to own and keep horses.

Turhir, second-born son - The Soldier

Knew early on that he wanted to travel the world and serve his country as a soldier in the armed forces.

Enlisted in the US Navy straight out high school and became a SEAL.

Joined DEVGRU (Seal Team Six) where he became the officer of an assault squadron.

Has been in back-to-back tours of duty since his first deployment at age 19.

Has a running count of 10 combat tours, which would have been more if not for an entire year sidelined while he recovered from a serious spine injury that almost left him paralyzed.

Is quietly the most decorated Navy SEAL in history, with commendations that include two Silver Stars, three Bronze Stars, five Purple Hearts, the Navy Cross, and the highest honor: the Medal of Honor.

The perpetual nomad/couch surfer and the only brother not to own his own residence.

Was cheated on by his girlfriend while he was away on deployment. Never recovered from the heartbreak and has had no serious relationships since.

Favorite past times: Training for triathlons (running, swimming and biking), spending time with his brothers, reading novels.

Has competed in the Ironman World Championship and Badwater Ultramarathon.

Consumes paperback novels like water; buys them from used book stores and then donates to libraries afterward.

Frequently does hands-on volunteer work for charities like Habitat for Humanity and local food banks.

Suffers from PTSD and depression, which he manages with medication and regular therapy.

Absolutely detests social media and refuses to engage in any of it.

Avoids press attention like a plague. Does not attend big social functions with his family unless begged to by his mother.

Stays so far away from the limelight, the press/media sometimes forgets he is part of Thranduil's famous family.

Arvellas, middle-born son - The Genius

A bonafide genius with an IQ of 165, tested when he was only 12 years old; was subsequently accepted into Mensa.

Although he was a clearly gifted child, his mother declined to accelerate his education or place him in a different school from his brothers. She believed it was more important for him to enjoy as normal a childhood as possible.

Started college at Stanford University at the fairly typical age of 17, but completed his premed degree within two years and was a Doctor of Medicine by 26.

Not a practicing physician since he has instead devoted himself to a career in medical research, specifically in developing targeted treatments for aggressive cancers.

In addition to his MD, he holds graduate degrees in biochemistry and biophysics.

Has more trophies and accolades than all his brothers combined, all of them for intellectual achievements in various fields.

Holds over a dozen patents for different scientific devices, processes, and formulas.

A polyglot who speaks 8 foreign languages conversationally, including Spanish, Mandarin, German, Italian, French, Arabic, Hindi, and Japanese. Once he has gained fluency in one language, he immediately starts studying another.

Also speaks at least a couple of constructed languages from sci-fi/fantasy worlds.

On a dare from his younger brothers, took and aced the LSATs and was accepted to several Ivy League law schools, though he never attended.

Stays in athletic shape through biking, swimming, and playing tennis.

Reads (and collects) comics and graphic novels as often as he reads scientific journals.

Goes to at least one comic con a year as his schedule allows.

Wears a coat and tie even more frequently than his father does.

Has been with the same romantic partner for the last 5 years, but has shown no signs of getting married.

Gelir, fourth-born son - The Adventurer

A wildlife biologist and rehabilitation specialist with degrees in zoology and veterinary medicine.

Specialty is working with and rehabilitating wild mammals. His favorite animal is the wolverine, which was the first truly wild creature he had rescued and nursed back to health early in his career.

Prefers to do contract work with non-profit organizations, which enables him to continue travelling due to a a less-restrictive schedule.

Also does a lot of short-lived gig work on the side that allows him to engage in his hobbies while earning. Examples are working as a safari guide, a park ranger, or climbing instructor.

An avid (almost obsessive) outdoor adventurer who avoids spending time in cities as much as possible, and likes to explore new remote locations through camping and hiking.

A skilled climber with experience in nearly all types, including free soloing, mountaineering, and ice climbing.

A licensed scuba diver and skilled surfer and rafter. Swims like a fish.

Licensed to pilot private planes, drive motorcycles, and drive boats.

Most widely traveled member of his family, having been to every continent in the world, including Antarctica.

Only one in his family who can speak an African language (Swahili), which he likes to crow to Arvellas about.

Has made a conscious decision to keep/owns no pets, due to his frequent travels making him unable to properly care for one.

The eternal bachelor whose interest rarely goes beyond a few dates; has never been in a serious relationship and understands his restless wandering would make him a terrible boyfriend.

Was previously reluctant to put himself and his work in front of a camera, but realized (through his brother Legolas) that he can make a good amount of money by creating and posting videos on social media--money that would fund his travels and exploits.

Has been approached by major producers to host his own adventure show series, but prefers to work with independent filmmakers on legitimate documentaries.

Legolas, youngest son - The Celebrity

Professional footballer. Star striker of the US Men's National Soccer Team and the Seattle Sounders FC.

Career achievements include an Olympic bronze medal, an MLS (Major League Soccer) Cup, and a FIFA World Cup (a US first!).

The most independently wealthy of all the brothers due to multi- million dollar endorsements that include Adidas and Pepsi.

Has his own staff that includes a personal assistant, a publicist/social media manager, a private chef, and very hardworking sports agent.

A social media star with a following of 50 million in Instagram and still climbing, making him by far the most famous one in his family.

Is occasionally able to convince Gelir to do adventure/extreme sports-related videos with him, which always go viral. While Legolas does it for the fun and bonding experience, Gelir agrees to do it mostly for the money. On rarer occasions, he is able to convince Mirion to participate as well, when it has a fundraising aspect.

Diagnosed with both dyslexia and ADHD, which he manages with medication.

Aside from playing soccer and other traditional team sports, his hobbies include extreme/adventure sports such as skiing, snowboarding, windsurfing, mountain biking, skydiving, and paragliding.

Also a talented sketch and comic artist who occasionally shares his works online.

His favorite charitable activity is visiting children's hospitals, (including making sizeable donations), and has been requested several times by the Make-A-Wish Foundation.

Constantly being romantically linked to celebrities, less than half of which are actually true.

Receives a lot of attention from women and is frequently pursued by them. In all the "noise" on top of being in the public eye, he finds it challenging to find partners to genuinely fall in love with.

Tends to struggle with periods of loneliness, during which he seeks refuge in his family.

For more Thranduil/Mirkwood headcanons: SotWK HC Masterlist

Tolkien Headcanon tag list: @laneynoir @auttumnsayshi @achromaticerebus @tamryniel @friendofthefellowshipsnerdblog @blueberryrock @aduialel @glassgulls @ladyweaslette @klytemnestra13 @creativity-of-death @heilith @fizzyxcustard @absentmindeduniverse @lathalea @tamurilofrivendell @jordie-your-local-halfling @ladyk8tie @scyllas-revenge @asianbutnotjapanese @conversacomsmaug @lemonivall @ratsys @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @entishramblings @stormchaser819 @freshalmondpandadonut @beekieboo

Interested in SotWK content?

Introduction to SotWK

My Headcanon Masterlist 

My Fanfiction Masterlist

#sotwk headcanon #thranduil #thranduil headcanon #legolas #mirkwood #mirkwood elves #the elvenking #lord of the rings #tolkien #tolkien headcanons #tolkien elves #sotwk ocs #thranduilion #mirion thranduilion #turhir thranduilion #gelir thranduilion #arvellas thranduilion #lotr modern au #lee pace #jennifer connelly #henry cavill #sam heughan #rupert friend #sam claflin #orlando bloom

[dulcewrites]

AB!Elvis x black!reader with Him professing his love for her for the first time. 🥺if you have time.

The Closer I Get to You

Pairing: austin!elvis x black reader

Summary: A trip to Graceland cements Elvis’s feelings for you

Warnings: none, just sweet and fluffy

Requested: yes (thank you 🫶🏽)

A/N: ok so l wrote something and then scraped it (I actually might post it separately as a different thing). It was turning out to be long and a bit more antsy so I went back to the drawing board for something a bit softer. I hope y’all like this, and please keep sending in request

Masterlist

You’ve been staring at the outside of the house for a few minutes now. House is putting it lightly. Graceland is a mansion with sprawling acreage and a bevy of nice cars outside to match the opulence of the home. You can’t stop looking at the outside, a little mystified. 

“Y’know there’s an inside too, right?” Elvis teases as he leans against the Cadillac next to you. 

There are certain moments you get reminded that he’s a star. For example, like when you hear him on the radio at the bookkeeping shop you work at or when he calls you late at night after a show, recounting the new city he’s in. And now this giant structure in front of you that he calls home. Everyone wants a piece of him, and he’s here with you; giddy to show you a piece of his world.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen something so nice,” you say with a smile.

Elvis grins shyly at you and takes your hand in his. You can tell he’s proud of this place. This little visit had been weeks in the making. First wanting a time conducive for privacy to get you there, then working through busy schedules. Picking a time that was more peaceful, something Graceland rarely was these days. His dad, grandma, other family members, and friends were away, leaving just you two and his mom. When he said she’d be there, you didn’t know how to take it. Elvis clearly adores his parents, especially his mom, and to make anything less than a great first impression would be crushing to you. 

While walking up the stairs to the door, you use your free hand to fix your pin curls. Then rub your lips together, feeling the lipstick you applied while in the car. You’re nervous for obvious reasons. Being told you exist and were in his life is different from you be there in his house.

“Baby you look beautiful. Nothin’ to worry about,” he reassures you, squeezing your hand slightly. 

You nod and squeeze his hand back. He opens the door, and you’re hit with the smell of food and the sound of music. The living area that leads into the dining area is brightly lit and power blue. It was so him it hurt.

“Mama, please come greet your guest,” Elvis calls out. 

Trying to distract yourself for your nerves, you pick up a bright red pillow that catches your eyes. You’re taken aback when you turn it over and see Elvis’s face stitched into it. With a laugh and your brows raised curiously, you show it to him. He sheepishly takes it from you and throws it back to the coach.

“Oh, look at you two,” a warm, southern voice interrupts the moment. The two of you turn around to see his mom there. 

Elvis pulls you into his side with a bright smile. The introduction goes much better than you thought it would. Mrs. Presley insists you call her Gladys, and she tells you that you’re even prettier than Elvis described. The evening starts with Elvis giving you a grand tour of the whole place. Each room more opulent and over the top than the rest. You even marvel at the gorgeous kitchen and bathrooms. His bedroom is the last stop on the tour. It’s spiraling and you sit on the bed with a smile. Despite the grandness of it all, its lived in and comfortable.

After the tour, Gladys pulls you to the living area with a ton of old items of Elvis’s youth.

“Mama really?” Elvis winces at the baby clothes in her hand.

“She doesn’t mind, do ya honey?” 

You shake your head enthusiastically, fighting back a smile. His cheeks get a bit pink when she gets the photos of him on the road taken recently.

Dinner was full of laughs and warmth, and Elvis keeps his hand on your thigh throughout the whole thing. It’s all so… intimate, and you expect yourself to clam up, but the moment never comes. You basically beg Gladys to let you do the dishes in return for the hospitality. She agrees but only if Elvis helps you. 

You wash, and he dries, like a well-oiled machine. For a period, there was a comfortable silence except for the small radio in the kitchen. 

“I liked seeing you here,” Elvis breaks the silence, glancing at you slightly. “Seeing you with mama, seeing you at the dinner table, seeing you upstairs.” 

He trails off at the end before letting out a laugh and shaking his head. He wants to say something more, you can tell. He takes a deep breath before continuing, focusing hard on the pot he’s drying as if it is giving him the will to go on.

“I like you in my life. I love you in my life.” He says slowly, as if he hopes you’re getting what he’s saying. “I love you.”

He ends the sentence firmly suddenly turning to you with puppy dog eyes.

Love. That’s a new word for you two. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You’re so entranced by his words you don’t even realize you haven’t said anything back. You watched his panic a bit while drying your hands on a towel

“You don’t have to say it back,” he rushes out. “I just couldn’t let you leave wi-“

You interrupt him by grabbing his face and pulling him down for a kiss. He seems a little shocked before wrapping his arms around your waist. You pull away rest your forehead to his.

“I love you too,” you murmur.

And with that you turn back to your dishes. Out of your peripheral you see him staring a bit dazed. He had not planned this love confession, let alone prepared himself for you feeling the same way.

“Those dishes aren’t gonna dry themselves Mr. Presley,” you nudge him playfully. He grins and turns back to the double sink.

“Yes ma’am.” 

Yeah, you can get used to this.

#austin!elvis x black!reader #austin!elvis x reader #elvis imagine #elvis x reader #elvis 2022 #austin butler elvis #austin butler imagine #requests #my writing #black!reader

[creativeashproductions]

The Old Therebefore // Luke Castellan

Part of the “The Threads the Bind Us” blurb collection

IN WHICH: Hex does the unthinkable and creates a successful adult life. Or Hex has made peace with the ending of her former relationship with Luke. Or thought so when suddenly Hex is sitting on her acreage porch reminiscing with him on their teen years and the interlude between Luke leaving and this moment.

Warnings: Swearing, angst, May’s mental state, and nostalgia.

Pairing: Luke Castellan x fem!reader (nicknamed Hex)

Words: 2.2k

Part of the “The Threads that Bind Us” blurb collection

A/N: Divider comes from @firefly-graphics.

@websterss Julieeeee look what I did!

Masterlist

It was the fifth anniversary of that night. 1,826 days, give or take, since the life you intricately built imploded. Even in the years following Luke’s disappearance from camp, the bitterness that had coated your love for him hadn’t kept you from your promise. Unlike Luke, you honoured your promises. So once the agony and heartbreak had dulled, you set out from camp to Connecticut.

The house was a pale blue with chipped white trim and flower beds just a tad overgrown. The massive tree in the front yard had a worn swing attached to the thickest branch that swayed either by the wind or the memories of a young child. There was an indent on the porch exactly where Luke had described falling and breaking his collarbone. The steps had been slick from the January snowstorm that year.

It was the Castellan home. The lights were on, and a man sat on the porch steps unmoving. Even if the godly attributes didn’t give it away, the nose and his fingers tapping a specific melody on his thighs gave him away. Even his posture.

Hermes. God of Messengers, Travellers, and Thieves. Messenger of the Gods. Or Luke’s estranged father and bane of his existence.

“He-“ 

“—respectfully, Hermes, I don’t want to discuss your child. I’m not your therapist nor your friend.” You sternly informed the god. You didn’t spare him another look before striding up the porch to the front door. When your hand is raised to knock, the grip of a warm hand is wrapped around your wrist.

“Fine. But taking it out on his mother—“Hermes almost winced when you cast a glare upon his features.

“Unlike you, I am not entirely a self-absorbed little errand boy for Zeus. Nor do I abandon people I love, even if Luke did it first.” You spat his name out with barely restrained disgust, “I made a promise to help, and I intend to make good on that promise.”

Hermes let you wrench your wrist from his hand and rap three times on the house. The door opened, revealing a woman about 5 feet 5 inches tall with thick black hair streaked with grey strands and a smile on her face. The shattered expression in her eyes and the blankness of her face stole your breath. May Castellan was older but still the same woman in that worn picture Luke hid under his bunk mattress; it had disappeared along with its owner.

“Hello.” May breathed, blinking until an unsettling smile coated her features, “Are you here for the cookies?”

“I am.” You spoke, deciding to keep her as calm as possible. 

You toed off your boots beside the much smaller kid shoes stashed on the mud rack. The rubber sole of the Converse had a little stick man doodled on it. Luke doodled the same stick man on all the soles of his shoes to deter his siblings from swiping them.

“I made Luke’s favourite. He’s at a friend’s.” May breathed in a trance, and you wondered what year she thought it was.

Even without peeking into her mind, you could feel the splinters of her sanity cutting into your abilities. It was so fragmented that you genuinely worried if you had even a chance to mend anything.

“Mrs. Castellan, do you remember the doctor talking about new methods beyond medication and traditional therapy?” you gently asked, watching as she pulled a pan of cookies from the oven. The warmth of the appliance heated the room to almost an uncomfortable temperature.

The sight of dozens of pans of cookies around the room, varying in colour from severely underbaked beige to as dark and hard as a hockey puck. 

“Oh yes.” May hummed, keeping her brown eyes on the scuffed blue porcelain mixing bowl. 

“Would you be interested in trying a few sessions with me?” You questioned and found for the first time since coming that she was all there mentally.

“Would it help Luke?” It was a timid question that confused you, but nonetheless, you answered.

“Maybe.”

“Okay.”

Your eyes peered over her shoulder to the entrance of the kitchen, where Hermes was standing as quietly as possible. His eyes followed May as she puttered around the kitchen and wandered to the plush couch in the living room. The walls held pictures of Luke at different ages, until the forlorn one with barely a smile at nine years old.

“Here, love.” Hermes soothed, guiding May’s hands to the cup on the coffee table. It still held the paper and crayons with LC on the box in chicken scratch.

You saw the little touches that meant a much younger and more innocent version of Luke had been here. Did the memories of Luke haunt the halls of his house like he did at camp? 

While having Hermes there was the last choice you would have made you would just have to make do. He kept urging May to listen as he told her tales from his long life. She didn’t twitch when your fingertips caressed her temples, and you toed inside her mind.

You had spent an entire year in Westport, using every weekend to untangle the strings of May’s sanity. Hermes never failed to be there to distract her and help her from fighting it. It was an intensely slow and exhausting year, but by the end, the fractures of her mind had mended. Now, it was a beautiful Kintsugi in her mind.

You left Westport to build a new life. You attended college and found a job at an independent bookstore. You had your own house. Had a promising career you were proud of. You did fairly well.

“Can you get the door?” 

You hummed from your position on the rug in the living room to get back on your feet from tidying it up. You could quickly wave a hand and manipulate your energy to pick everything up, but you liked pretending to be a regular mortal. Your only worries were being on time for work and keeping up with hobbies.

“Got it!” 

Your lips twitched. You found Chris Rodriguez trying to wrangle his kid into the karate uniform. You gently pushed him further away on your trip to the front door.

“Rodriguez, it’s Friday.” You spoke gazing over your shoulder while your fingers twisted the lock open, “Flag Football Friday.”

“Shit!” Chris swore, scooping Axel into his arms and racing back to the stairs. Your laugh cut off when you finally looked at the person at the front door.

Genuinely, you felt the blood drain from your face. Standing there before you with longer curls and an ease you didn’t remember. It was one Luke Castellan in the flesh.

“Hey, Hex.” 

Luke faltered, peering beyond you to the frozen form of his brother holding the tiny cleats for a child. The child in question was listening intently to Clarisse.

“Now it’s only dirty if you get caught.”

“Chris, can you take Axel into the backyard and throw the football?” You questioned, refusing to look away from the man who shouldn’t be here.

You felt the fury from Clarisse’s direction and put your hand on Luke’s chest to push him out of the house. The door closed firmly, cutting off any view of your small family and life.

“How are you here? How are you alive? Aren’t you supposed to be Kronos’ vessel?” you demanded, crossing your arms and glaring at your ex-boyfriend.

Luke pushed his hands into his jeans. “Uh, I guess you guys haven’t kept in touch with camp.”

Your lips twisted, “No. The summer you left, I decided to take a page out of your book and leave.”

You caught the wince from the man and felt the slightest twinge of guilt at his reaction, but you had a right? Didn’t you?

“Is Annabeth here?” Luke asked, trying to look in the frosted glass of your bright blue door. All Luke had for communication was Iris-messaging and letters from his little sister.

“No,” you bluntly responded and elaborated out of pity, “Annabeth and Percy live in California now.”

“No way. Annabeth would never live in California! It’s too dangerous!” Luke adamantly replied, tensing his muscles. His body language took you back to his training sessions with the younger campers.

Your brows furrowed, “Oh! Shit, no, actually, Percy went missing before the Second Giant War happened. We found him at Camp Jupiter. It’s a Roman version of Camp Half-blood.”

It was rather unsettling how easy it was to revert to your old relationship with Luke. Revealing things you probably shouldn’t.

“Roman?” Luke questioned, tilting his head to the right like he had always done with his curious nature.

“Yeah. Anyway, the lovebirds attend New Rome University there. Annabeth alternates between school and travelling between Mount Olympus, New Rome and New York for her architecture work.”

“Oh.” Luke mumbled, peering at the ground, “I guess things have really changed.”

That soured your reminiscing, “Why are you here, Luke?”

“Chiron said I should start trying to repair my friendships with everyone. Can I come in?”

You gently glanced back to your house and found Clarisse stoically staring him down, “Honestly, it’s not a good idea. Clarisse would be very interested in teaching Axel about the importance of protein and using you like a skewer as an example.”

You watched Luke stumble before dropping to sit on the porch with a devastated look.

“I don’t know what happened between you leaving and now. When Ethan or I suppose Kronos, announced your disappointment, Annabeth looked everywhere for you. What made you stop?”

It was the one question you had wondered about for years: Why did he give up his plans and his servitude to Kronos? Why did he never come back? Why did he give you up so easily?

Luke twisted to peer off into the sunset, saying, “I went home to Westport. I had prepared myself for seeing my mom because it was necessary for the next part of the plan—“

“Dipping yourself in the River Styx,” you sarcastically respond, glancing over, “Ethan’s really got a big mouth.”

Luke tugged a blade of grass from the yard and started twisting it in his fingers.

“Imagine my surprise when I see the house has been repainted, the decorations and fixtures updated, and my mother preparing a feast in the kitchen with no cookie in sight.”

Your lips stretched, happy to hear May was thriving still. You really need to get back up to visit her.

“Good for her.” You sighed, dropping to sit beside him and watch the sunset with him. I last saw her three years ago at my college convocation.”

It was silent, and when he spoke, his voice cracked, “Why couldn’t I fix her?”

“I think it’s because May was never broken like Hermes described or Apollo claimed. I won’t lie and say her mind was perfect or just needed polishing. The memories were sharp, and the splintered remnants were the hardest puzzle, but I restored it enough. When Rachel became the Oracle of Delphi and the curse was fully lifted, whatever I hadn’t been able to help May restore snapped back into place.”

You wrapped your arms around your legs and rested your chin on your knees, staring at the field. You’d intentionally bought your property with an excellent commute to the urban areas but still having privacy.

“So, is Axel yours?” Luke asked, glancing over to you. His barely concealed question amused you the most.

“No. He’s Chris and Clarisse’s son. He’s the best part of them.” You replied, “He brings out the best in them, too. Clarisse is incredibly patient with him. Don’t let her hear, but she’s softer with him.”

“Clarisse as a mother.” Luke chuckled, mimicking your position, drawing his long legs to his chest. “That I didn’t see coming.”

“Clarisse wants another one, but Chris refuses. He wants to be married first.” You sighed, shifting to stretch out your legs.

“They aren’t married yet?” Luke laughed, peering over, “I genuinely thought they’d be the first to run to city hall.”

“Chris didn’t want to be married and not have you there for him.”

The conversation petered out, leaving neither an uncomfortable nor peaceful silence. The two of you simply existed in that space.

“Do you think we’d be together if I hadn’t left?” Luke murmured after a few minutes. He had watched Chris rushing the child to the car with Clarisse clenching the keys in her fist. Chris refused to look back at Luke, and Clarisse staunchly looked away to avoid storming over to beat him up.

“I don’t know.” You were truthful, but it didn’t mean it didn’t feel like someone had shoved a fire spot rod into Luke’s stomach and churned his insides, “Maybe we would have been, but I made peace and laid that possibility to bed a while ago.”

You stood up from the porch and brushed off your pants, “There’s a cottage on the property in the forest you can crash in. Stay as long as you want. Chris and Clarisse built a house a mile further ahead.”

“Do you live here alone?” Luke asked, puzzled by the size of the house and the extensive land. It took him an hour to walk from the bus station in town to the house.

“No, I don’t. Besides the Rodriguez-La Rue family, I have taken in orphaned demigods.” You replied gently, opening the front door. Sometimes, this is the pause in the journey to one of the Camps. It was a team effort between the Hephaestus children, Vulcan’s children, some of Hecate’s children, and me to make this place as impenetrable as Camp Half-Blood.”

You left Luke on your porch, skillfully evading the disclosure of your relationship status. 

Taglist: *Please send me an inbox to be tagged

#luke castellan x fem!reader #caitsy and ash productions #Caitsy *~* The Threads that Bind Us collection #PJO x fem!reader #luke castellan x you

[kcvulpinestudios]

Pri wanted some adventure, and I would be lying to say that I didn't. I too can't stand the small town vibes that we were all living in for so long. It was too much. A while ago in the apartment, Pri and Kendall were discussing landscapes for art pieces as I was writing down my fantasy stories. He mentioned the desert is a great place for exploring wide open spaces, especially in art. He even showed her some pieces he did and pics he took. It was there that she decided we should head out there to see for ourselves, and we invited Kendall along to help out.

So, after getting ahold of my uncle's old camper, we made the trek from Puttnamville down through Bakersfield, through the Tehachapi's, and into the Mojave Desert until we got into the area of this weird place called California City. From what Kendall has told me, this is the 5th largest city in California...by land acreage. It was just a small city with a lot of empty home lots. It was there (away from the OHV trails) that we made camp.

For the next few days, the two of them were busy with art and stuff. I used the time to write out ideas I will put into my novel, doing some exercise, and some exploration around the camp. This was a place much different than the Valley. After a while, I got to know this spot well. Warm in the mornings, blazing hot in the afternoon, and calmly cold in the evenings.

At night, we would gather around the fire to just hang out. On the second night, Pri was extra tired and head to bed early. So it was just me and Kendall out there. This was a great opportunity to just hang out as guy friends. I don't have many guy friends, which is why I appreciate his company. Eventually, we discussed the stars that were above us. I even pointed out a couple of planets, though Kendall had to sit close to me so I could help him. Eventually, he got tired and was about to fall into the dirt when I rested my arm on his shoulder and pulled him in. The last thing I want is to see him face plant into the ground next to a fire. Soon, he fell asleep on my chest. This isn't too bad, though it felt awkward that this was happening. Dude's a friend, and yet this felt wrong. I just sat there holding him until I was too tired to stay outside. I picked him up and got ourselves into the camper, rested him on the couch, and made my way to the bedroom where Pri was sleeping. I then simply changed into my sleep pants and just went to bed, kissing her as she slept. We had a good trip overall. I guess it was an adventure after all. One that was definitely...full of warm memories.

#furry art #furry #digital art #digital illustration #kcvulpinestudios #life beside the tracks #anthro #anthro art #art #artwork #illustration art #illustration #illustrators on tumblr #artist on tumblr #anthromorphic #anthromorphic art #coyote #fox #desert #night #night time #camping

[hyperesthesias]

Decisions & Desire Part II

Notes: Look, what I want you to take away from this is: 'I love you. Most ardently'. I even got the rain thing going. Song choice for this installment is: Arrival of the Birds by The Cinematic Orchestra.

Context: Anya and Viktor are childhood friends who have reconnected seven months ago. Anya is a mage, and a theoretical physicist; she is also a patron of Viktor and the Academy. They have rekindled their friendship, and are in love with each other. Because Anya is a different species, who lives for hundreds of years, and takes only one mate for her lifespan, Viktor has recused himself from her life, not wanting to cause her further pain. However, Jayce has some choice words for his friend. Anya also learns more about transformation rituals from her temple elder.

word count: 4,411

Tag List: @uniquedeerwitch ; @funcoolchickie (Let me know if you would like to be tagged!)

AO3 link

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Anya kept the company of her kinfolk, while Viktor kept himself confined to his laboratory. She had not seen him in nearly a week – neither had she heard from him, despite her occasional visits to the lab with pertinent information and translations of runework. Whenever she made an appearance there, Viktor always seemed absent, and her work was relayed solely through Jayce, who asked her no questions, neither pressed any agendas about the crystal or her relationship with her friend. It only made her feel more alone.

Despite the happy faces and the welcome invitations from her kin at the temple, Anya felt no desire to join them in preparations for the Autumnal Equinox festival – she had no mirth to contribute to the festival at all, and instead planned on recusing herself from the event. Regardless of where she went, or with whom, the abstinence of her friend’s love, and desire for their bonding, followed her – a horrible shadow that clung to her, even when the Sun shone brightest. His life was fragile, its length short, and she saw his grappling as a hindrance to the time that could be shared between them, despite the obstacles presented to them. 

Her elder, Nana, was the only one of the temple who asked nothing of her, nor expected her presence in any capacity, except for that of a cup of tea. Nana was seven hundred years old, and she was the oldest and wisest among their community. She had long, silver hair that ran past her feet, and that matched her age; she had weathered skin and a warm smile that crinkled her eyes. Her home resided on the temple acreage, and she tended the sacred trees and flora and fauna that made the grounds lush and vibrant. Her cottage smelled of herbs, and the couch was well worn from visitors who sought her company. She was quick to listen, and slow to scold, but always had advice when it was asked of her.

“I have more ideas about the transmutation spell you asked me about some while ago,” Nana said, and served Anya a cup of berry tea. “I found a codex in the old catacombs of the temple. Don’t tell anyone.”

Anya smiled lightly, and held the cup in her lap. She had no desire to speak.

“There are many legends of shape shifting, as you know,” she continued with a huff and a grunt as she sat down on the couch. “Many talk of our ancient ancestors who could change into jaguars or hummingbirds during the heat of battle. Even dragons. But birds and cats sounds more believable to me,” she eyed her young guest with a simper. “Though much of what is written in these codices are thought of as fantasy by the majority – superstition and stories meant to inspire awe and terror into the hearts of enemies from long ago.”

“Do you believe it is possible?” Anya asked.

Nana looked at her and shrugged as she took a sip of tea. “I’ve seen too much to disregard anything at all. There are some who are gifted with the abilities of magic – like you and your parents; others who can communicate with animals and spirits. Who’s to say there is not a gene somewhere out there, wandering around, that can cause someone to shape shift? Maybe it got lost,” she chuckled.

“Did the codex suggest wanting anything in return for this power?”

Nana looked at her, suspicious, but she conceded: “No, there was no mention of an exchange – it was a power bestowed by the divinities. A gift. There were times it was granted as a way to smite an opponent in battle. Others, it was given as a way to protect a village or a family.”

Whatever the secret had been of transmutation, it was evident it was long lost, and was now regaled into the nebulous mythos of cultural tales. Anya set her untouched tea on the table in front of them, and nodded. “Thank you, Nana. But I do not feel up to having anything at the moment. I think I will leave.”

“What is wrong, my dear?” Nana asked, and held out her hand that she might stay.

“It is nothing. Childish things.” She shook her head, afraid she would think her a fool for her despondency. Viktor’s stubbornness was a sufficient burden, but Nana’s disapproval would be more than she could bear.

Nana gave her a sad smile as she watched the affliction on her soft face. “There is no such thing as too small a grief.”

Anya looked to her, reticent. She debated on what to say, but knew that if there was any one person in her community who could be relied upon, it would be Nana. “It does not feel small,” she admitted.

“This isn’t about runes.” Nana set her cup of tea down.

“No. It is not.” She looked out of the window at the far end of the room, she watched as the wildflowers blew, delicate and limber, in the afternoon sun – their stems and leaves had begun to turn brittle as Summer ended and as Autumn began. Soon, they would be wilted and returned to the earth from which they first grew. Viktor’s ailing health pressed upon her heart and she resisted the stinging in her eyes. She swallowed the hot, salted water that had gathered at the back of her throat, and she kept her head down. “There is someone with whom I wish to bond,” she said. She could not bring herself to say anything more.

“Have they refused you?” Nana asked.

“The desire is mutual. But he will not bond with me.”

Nana could think of no reason why someone would be so indecisive. Anya was well off – finances would never be a concern; there were no wars in which their kind had been involved, in Piltover or in Zaun, that could have amassed prejudice; there were no quarreling families within their own community that would prevent a peaceful union with Anya – a union with her would have been covetous. “Why?” she asked, bewildered.

“He is human,” she said. The tears she fought gathered at the edges of her eyes, and she struggled to keep them at bay as she looked at her elder. She turned away as a droplet ran down her face. “His health is frail, even by the standard of his kind. His lifespan will be cut short. He will not bond with me, so that I will not be alone when he dies.”

“That is honorable.”

“Too honorable,” Anya sniffled.

Nana smiled. There were few who understood and heeded the ways of their species – especially humans. To find someone with such zealous respect was both a blessing and curse.

“Nana – What is it like? To have a bonded who is no longer here.”

She took a long, slow breath, and memories passed her eyes as she thought on what to say. Her own bonded had been gone for nearly fifty years. It felt like an eternity. “I can still feel him – as I always did. When you bond with someone, you can feel what they feel, you can know where they are, and see the world through their spirit. It is the same, even now. He is still alive, somewhere. But not here. I feel that he misses me, as much as I miss him,” she gave Anya a smile, one full of joy and longing. She caressed her face – bright and full of youth and knowing. “This man loves you. Human men make no sacrifices for things they do not love. What will be, will be. Even if you love him from afar.”

Another tear fell onto Anya’s visage, and Nana gently brushed it away.

Anya returned to her quiet, cavernous home as clouds began to move their way through the sky. She recalled a rainy day in Zaun, where her mother told her to search for a bucket in the scrap heap around the corner from their house. The roof had sprung a leak, and Anya spent the night bailing out buckets of water. She was stricken with the cold, and became bed-ridden and ill, her mother tended to her with poultices and compresses for a week.

Her mansion made of marble had no leaks, and every gutter led to the gardens beneath. There were beds for vegetables and fresh herbs, there were fruit trees and bushes that yielded plentiful stone fruits and berries. She wanted for nothing. Except for the love she could not have.

She sat alone the rest of the afternoon in the salon, with a well lit fire and a hot cup of coffee as the rain began to fall, persistent and dour against the breadth of the windowpanes. She had numerous books on runes and shape shifting spread across the cushions, but she resented each of them. They all reminded her of Viktor.

Viktor arrived at the lab in a foul mood. The previous night left him restless, and what little sleep he gathered was listless and fitful. His mind was tired and overworked, and his heart had grown numb from the final exchange he shared with Anya; it sat on his stomach like a stone, and he felt himself pinned beneath it. Though he gave little credence to the tenements of Fate, he was beginning to believe in something far worse: bad luck. Luck, that he had reconnected with his friend after a decade and a half, and bad luck to have sabotaged his relationship with her. He lost the love of his life. He had no one other than himself to blame.

Viktor said nothing upon entering the lab and he promptly sat at his workbench, hunched over his journal; he analyzed the data he gathered the previous evening, along with several of Anya’s notes taped to the inside of his notebook. He could feel Jayce’s eyes on him from across the room. 

Jayce sat not far away – he had been studying the crystal under a lens, having arrived at the lab nearly two hours before his partner. He leaned back in his chair with a deep sigh, his hands ran down his face – every facet of the crystal was beginning to blur into one another, and he could hardly tell the difference between the runes anymore. He looked up towards his friend again, who seemed to share his same, glossy-eyed look. 

“You hungry?” he asked.

Viktor gave no reply.

Jayce tilted his head, trying to see the expression on his friend’s face. It was stern, guarded, and unmoving. Viktor was not often outwardly expressive, but he was not devoid of feeling altogether, and he had come to know Viktor well enough to see when his friend was perturbed – despite the few indications he might give evidently. Jayce rolled the chair closer to his partner. “Hey –” he tapped his shoulder.

Viktor started and took a sharp breath. “What?” he growled as he shot Jayce a glance.

“I think we could both use a break. Why don’t we get something to eat.” A drop in blood sugar would explain Viktor’s harsh disposition.

He waved him off. “I am fine, go on without me.”

Jayce stared at him with scepticism. “You don’t look fine.”

Viktor closed his eyes and slowly inhaled. “There are things in my private life I would like to keep private,” he said. Jayce had become a friend – Viktor’s only friend besides Anya; and while his two friends were each other’s acquaintance, Viktor was careful never to divulge more than the superficial in regard to Anya and her background. He had given Jayce no knowledge as to her species, or her capabilities as a mage; the extent of his appraisal had been their friendship in childhood, and her success at the Academy. Nothing more, and nothing less. 

Concern built itself deeper into Jayce, and worry furrowed itself into his features. Not long ago, Viktor saved his life from the broken ledge of his apartment. The chill of that terrible night’s air gripped him by the throat, and he refocused himself onto his friend, instead. “You don’t have to suffer in silence.”

Viktor stopped, overcome with the memory of watching Jayce nearly step over the ledge and into death. They never spoke of it. They did not have to. It was a hermetic secret between the two of them, one that was never forgotten, and never mentioned. But Viktor could hear between what was not said. He sighed and turned on the stool, throwing the pencil on the notebook. “There is a dilemma, in my personal life, that has no favorable solution,” he said. “My only choice is to accept the consequence, and proceed with my life. My work,” he motioned to the notebook.

Jayce stared at him, more confused than before, his worries no more allayed. “Are you…getting fired?”

Viktor scoffed. “No. Although, I supposed I could be,” he murmured. His position at the Academy forbade any fraternization with a donor. It was yet another obstacle that bid him forget about whatever childish emotions welled themselves inside of his mind. “My affections for Anya have grown beyond that of friends,” he admitted. The feeling of her soft skin imprinted itself on his hands as he spoke, the feel of her breath as he kissed her, the sweet taste of her – she flooded into him all at once, and his chest tightened.

Jayce’s face softened and he began to smile.

“There is nothing to be done about it.” He turned back to his workbench.

“What do you mean?” Jayce asked, taken aback.

Viktor rolled his tongue in his mouth, his jaw stiffened and his eyes pierced through the pages of the book underneath his palms. He debated whether to speak of Anya’s species, but if he knew anything of his friend, he knew Jayce understood the value of a secret. “Anya is not like you and me. Her species is capable of living for a thousand years. In that time, they will have only one mate. It is for their lifetime. It is a bond that will last, even after death. My affection for her now will be meaningless in five hundred years.” He swallowed and closed the notebook. “She would be alone. That is not something I will allow.”

“So you’re not going to say anything?” 

“I already have.”

“And? What did she say?”

“We have not spoken in a week, since.”

“Well what the hell did you say?”

Viktor rolled his eyes. “I was honest with her. It is what she deserves. I told her my affection, and also told her it was better we do not bond.”

“She deserves the opportunity to decide for herself, Viktor.”

The lines in Viktor’s face drew deeper, and he felt offense flush his face.

“You made the decision for her. What if she wants to be with you?”

“Then it would be better for me to suffer the next thirty years alone, than her for centuries more.”

Jayce stayed quiet as he watched his friend anguish. 

“My refusal to bond with her is not out of arrogance or self-centeredness.”

“Viktor, she won’t wait for you forever.”

“That is exactly the point,” he denounced him. “Thirty years from now, I will be dead. And in three hundred years, she will find another she loves.”

“What if she doesn’t find anyone? What if it’s only you?”

“Statistics would argue otherwise.” He sighed and looked away from his friend as he leaned back in the chair. “I would never fault her for wanting to love another. But we will have already been bonded.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“No, not bad – foolish. We are not the same kind. We were not meant to bond.” He ended the conversation and returned to his notes.

Jayce gave him a disgruntled frown, though he knew Viktor was unable to see it. He remained silent, and only watched his friend compartmentalize his pain – despite how well Viktor assumed he was hiding it, Jayce could see his grief plainly. They had not known each other long, but knew him to be a lonely, stoic man, who devoted his life to proving his worthiness through science and advancement. He was a good man, who always thought of others before himself. Who thought of the woman he loved before his own desires. Jayce could not say the same about himself. Though he did not know Anya well, he knew she was the only one who could make Viktor laugh and smile without restraint; when they were together, Jayce saw enjoyment in his life – rather than only discipline and hardship. 

Perhaps he lived vicariously through his friend – that the merit of perseverance could be met with reward and happiness. Perhaps he resented him for refusing to accept such happiness. Or perhaps he was merely frustrated with his friend’s stubbornness. “You’re fighting this really hard,” he said.

Viktor took a grated breath and threw up his palms, knowing he would not get any work done with Jayce’s ever-optimistic meddling. “What would you have me do?”

“Stop sabotaging yourself.”

“And when she is left alone with no one, with nothing? What then? I will not be responsible for her suffering.”

“You already are.”

Viktor gnawed the inside of his mouth and looked away.

“You can’t live your life in the theoretical.”

Life was incalculably more complicated than the theoretical, or the practical – it was an egregious amalgamation of both, that fit neither descriptor. And sometimes, there were no viable solutions. Sometimes, there was only the best that could be done. Viktor’s parents did the best they could, despite their poverty, despite their flaws and faults. There were times, much like this, he wished he could talk to them. Ask for their guidance and advice, their life experience. But even without it, Viktor did the best he could. 

That was all that could be done.

Viktor drove a carriage from the Academy, after Jayce left the lab in the late afternoon. The Sun was setting, and dusk and rain were easily approaching on the horizon – cooler hues of orange and magenta sunk with the dark, impending clouds behind the Piltover skyline, and Viktor recalled a time when he could not see the Sun set, nor when it rose. He drove in silence as he mulled over the arguments of his friend, and the blistered emotions that imprinted themselves within his chest. The ability to intuit the machine beneath his hands allowed his mind to wander freely; he shifted it from each of its gears without fault or hesitation, and his left leg moved with ease to control the clutch and acceleration. The ability to pilot a machine granted him freedom from the physical fetters that plagued him daily – the rare moments in which he felt his body free from restraint, granted his mind clarity and respite.

Anya deserved honesty, he concluded. Honesty – not only in his emotions, but in his actions. There was a distinct line he observed: to deny them both the opportunity of bonding was dishonest, to himself, and also to her. Jayce, for all his meddling, had been correct: Anya deserved to make her own honest decisions, and Viktor was required to trust her instincts, and trust the decisions she made for the course of her future. It was iniquitous, and it was presumptuous to determine her future for her. It was her future. Not his. But together, they could share the present.

The road to her home was winding, along a paved path lined with trees and wildlife. Though her mansion was modern, even by the Kiramann’s standards, the reclusivity and pastoral beauty of its location was something that appealed to him. Her culture revolved around the natural world, around the connection between their species and all life around them. It suited her that her home was deep within the forest. The fresh air of the treeline, and the onset of clean rain was a relief to his lungs, and to the memories of Zaun’s filth that permeated his mind.

The carriage pulled into the circular driveway, and he could see a dim light through the many windows of the house. Rain pummelled his shoulders the moment he stepped out, and he hurried with his cane as well as he could across the cobblestone for cover underneath the porch. But the winds were shifting through the forests and mountains around them, and despite the cover of the overhang, the rain smattered him sideways. He pulled a gilded knocker on the door, and tapped it three times. He waited, eagerly, and mulled over everything he wanted to say while he attempted to keep a chill at bay.

Moments seemingly blurred into hours, and, presently, Anya answered the door.

“Viktor?” She stared at him, shocked – misery clung to his features, and she knew he had not slept; hunger drew the color from his face, and the rain drenched him from his hair to his shoes.

Everything he wanted to say, everything he planned on saying – every point he wanted to make suddenly vanished. He stood there – dumb and silenced.

“Are you alright?”

But everything he wanted to say, could be condensed into one singular phrase: “Anya, I love you.” He met her eyes with pleading, and swallowed; he felt bare having said the words aloud. “I do not know anything with certainty, but that I love you. I do not know the future. And I know nothing of magic. But, I try.” Even in the downpour around them, his throat felt parched. “I want to try. For however long the future will have me in this life. If you will have me.”

Anya’s heart raced within her, and she saw their future written plainly on his face: one of happiness, and one of hope – despite whatever hardships they might face. Her smile trembled at the thoughts and images that played before her mind’s eye. She nodded, breathless.

But he shook his head, afraid she had given her blessing too soon. He reached for her, as if to implore her, and petition her grace. “I cannot give you status. I can give you no children –”

She dismissed his fear, and cupped his face. “I do not bond with you for what you can give me,” she said. “My bond is my love for you, Viktor. Always.”

Viktor weakened at her words, and water flushed his face – though from tears, or from the rain, he could no longer distinguish. Her hands were warm, and any part of him that had been frozen or chilled melted at her touch. He nuzzled his cheek into her palm, and took her hand to kiss it – his cane moved to the crook of his arm. He breathed in her scent and revelled in the benevolence of her softness, with the thought of awakening to her beside him every morning, and falling asleep to the sound of her every night. He looked to her one last time: “Are you certain?”

“More than anything.” She brushed the water from the stern lines of his countenance, and gently pulled him towards her.

Gladly, he met her lips and drank in the sweetness of her taste. He caressed his palms around her face, where he left behind streaks of rain on her skin, and on her clothes. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him taut, pressed against her.

Viktor took a breath and leaned against her face as she nuzzled her head into his shoulder. A pang gathered in his throat: not one of sadness, nor of the grief that had so despairingly plagued him the last week, but a pang of great and overwhelming emotion. Which emotion he could not clearly ascertain: happiness, relief, uncertainty and anxiousness of the future. It was akin to the peace and quiet calm that is only left behind after a storm. He felt a tear escape him, amidst the serenity inside of him. “What must I do,” he asked, his voice overcome with whelm and affection, “to bond with you, with the ritual of your people?”

Anya held him tighter with gratitude for his recognition, and moved to see his eyes: “You must find me a feather, and braid it into my hair.” 

The carnal intimacy of her sacred hair – to caress it, and comb it, to bring her pleasure with it, seldom occurred to him, but the thought was ardent and clear to him now. He stroked the side of her face, where the back of his hand graced against the edge of her mane; she emanated a quiet purr at his touch, and he relinquished his hand, flustered – though she had made no effort to pull away from him. He took her hand, instead, and kissed it once more.

Anya invited him inside, to warm himself by the fire; he sat on the couch where she had staked herself throughout the afternoon – books were still strewn across the salon, he chose one as he put his leg up onto an ottoman. Before he could protest, she poured him a hot cup of coffee of his own, and offered him a helping of sweet bread and fresh cheese.

“Thank you,” he said, and took the cup and plate.

“You forgot to eat again.”

“Bad habit,” he looked at her, diffident.

She raised a brow. “Which means you have also forgotten your medicine.”

Realization struck him, and he searched his pocket for his pill case. In the wave of ecstasy and emotion, he had not felt the pain in his back and hip, but as his mind anchored itself again, he felt it worm itself into the forefront of his attention.

Anya sat next to him, and leaned against him as he ate, and drank, and swallowed his pills. He looked at her, in the firelight – she was the beauty of a brilliant star, illuminated by the cosmos. He wrapped her in a blanket that was thrown behind them on the couch. He wondered, what life would be like thirty years thence, when he was frail, when he had even less to give her – nothing except the love he would always have for her. He saw his own future with her, as the fire danced across her: lenitive, contented, and a life in which he may always be free from fear. With her, Viktor felt safe. He always had. He always would.

#next chapter is S E X #viktor smut almost two years in the making LMAO #but i will have finally fulfilled my promise to yall #there will then be an additional s e x scene soon after that #and that's it i think #as far as i can see for now at least #viktor #viktor arcane #arcane viktor #jayce talis #viktor the machine herald #machine head #machine herald viktor #arcane #viktor fanfic #viktor x oc #viktor x anya #arcane fanfic #arcane netflix #netflix arcane #jayce arcane #machine herald #viktor fanfiction #oc x viktor #*that's it as far as sex scenes go. there is still more of the story

[irvleburv]

Old Oak Acreage | The Sims 4 Horse Ranch Speed Build

Old Oak Acreage is the perfect home for a small family interested in tending to and caring for horses. The sizable barn, equipped with a nectar cellar, in addition to the back garden pair greatly for any sims interested in producing their own nectar.

Lot Name | Old Oak Acreage World | Chestnut Ridge Price | §105,530 Lot Size | 30x30 Rooms | 3 Bed, 2 Bath

EA ID - Irvleburv Speed Build | https://youtu.be/tx0At9A-HJs

#thesims #thesims4 #sims4build #showusyourbuilds #chestnutridge #horseranch #horse #ranch #nectar #nocc #sims #ts4

[soberscientistlife]

George Washington Carver

George Washington Carver had a difficult start in life. Born sometime around 1864, his dad died shortly before his birth, likely from an accident when he was out hauling wood. And only weeks after birth, slave traders kidnapped George and his mother. Rescued would not be an apt term; recovered is more appropriate. But the group sent out to find him and his mother exchanged a horse for the young boy. His mother, however, was lost to the traders. Less than two months old and George was already an orphan.

Often sick, frail, he was not expected to live. But live he did, and from a young age, he showed much devotion to work and a desire for learning. He was curious, and as he'd roam the woods near the Carver home, exploring flowers, trees, birds, he began asking questions about their purpose.

While much of his education early on was self-motivated, he began formal schooling at 10. He learned of a school about 8 miles from the Carver home. And without any money or a new home, he left the home to attend this school, living in an old barn, doing odd jobs to survive. Eventually, he was adopted into a family there.

Education for him would continue through completing a Masters Degree in agriculture from Iowa State University in 1896. After which he took a job as Head of the Agricultural Department at the Tuskegee Institute in Alabama

George was also an artist. At the age of 30, Carver gained acceptance to Simpson College in Indianola, Iowa where he was the first Black student. He studied piano and art.

As a scientist and inventor, his goal was to help farmers improve their lives by earning more from their crops. He found hundreds of uses through his research of peanuts in particular and other products such as sweet potatoes and pecans. His work was instrumental and impactful. Between 1915 and 1918, acreage for peanut cultivation grew from half a million to over four million acres.

After he passed away in 1943, Franklin D. Roosevelt sent a message: "All mankind are the beneficiaries of his discoveries in the field of agricultural chemistry. The things which he achieved in the face of early handicaps will for all time afford an inspiring example to youth everywhere."

[moodmother]

Witch's Dozen - Part III

The doors of the shack groan ominously on their hinges. Light still lances its way in through the windows. Straining to look down across itself, herself, the thing can see only a horizon of flesh poured out in every direction, and beyond that only the walls. The hateful walls, pressing in on every side.

“Tight quarters, eh?” The hag laughs. A deranged, delirious cackle that rings in the blob’s ears, muffled and buried though they are.

A seventh biscuit is crammed into her mouth. Ruefully, she welcomes the pressure, the filling up.

+++

From outside the shack, to an outside observer, it would appear as though something inside is rising up behind the windowpanes. A fleshy mass, pressing up against the glass, the pressure building and building--until the windows shatter outward and the blob bulges out as if desperate to escape.

+++

Inside, the room goes dark. Heaped up even nearer to the ceiling, and pressed unbearably against the sides of the cabin, the thing silently urges on her own growth against the oppression of the walls.

+++

The doors buckle and burst off their hinges. A huge, soft, expanding mass bulges out from every window and doorway.

+++

The growth stops. The joints and seams of the cabin moan and creak, but the walls hold. The thing is stuck.

Dried stems and leaves from the witch's noxious herbs tickle the thing's face, and she is helpless to brush them away. Her limbs are buried deep, never to be seen or used again. She cannot even turn her head.

The thing cannot contemplate the impossibility and horror of her size. All she knows is that she is mercilessly confined, squeezed and pinched on all sides by the hateful, awful walls. She whimpers and begins to weep.

"Aw, what's wrong, dearie?" comes the hag's voice, from somewhere just behind her head. "In a bit of a spot, are we? Looks like our hog here is stuck fast."

The thing only blubbers in reply.

"I think we both know the solution to your predicament," the hag whispers in the thing's ear, perversely seductive. "Just say the word."

The thing wails softly.

"What's that, dearie? Tell old granny what you want."

The thing cannot find the words, cannot form a sentence. "Nnh," she moans, opening her mouth hungrily. "F-feed," she begs, "Need...eat...."

The witch cackles. "Well, if you insist!" And an eighth biscuit is pushed into her waiting mouth. The thing gulps it down and implores herself to grow.

+++

Finally, mercifully, the walls give way.

With a shriek of tearing wood, the whole shack collapses, blown outward by the mass that swells triumphantly into the sunlight. The hogs flee, squealing.

The thing can feel the warmth of daylight against her acreage of bulging skin, but she can see nothing but darkness: the roof of the shack still rests atop her body and covers her head.

Laughing jovially, the hag hefts away the roof. The thing, a featureless mass of fat with the remnants of a woman’s face, blinks in the radiant summer light.

“Right out of house and home!” the hag declares, and cackles some more. There is no way for the thing to reckon or comprehend her own size. Tens of thousands of pounds of living human flesh. Vast forms that might have been a belly on one side, and an obscene parody of buttocks on the other. Two mattress-sized mounds near the top of the thing, on either side, that were once its upper arms. Between those, another mound of flesh like a monstrous collar, a hideously inflated jowl, around the top. And sunken into that, just slightly forward of the mass’s center, a face. Not a discernible head, but a tuft of hair, eyes, nose, and mouth, all flanked by two heaps of fat that might still be understood as cheeks.

Any other feature that might have marked the thing as human has been thoroughly obscured. Feet and hands long since buried. Its limbs now bloated to such impossible proportions that they too have been subsumed into its general bulk. Even its areolas have apparently disappeared, hidden beneath the lower curve of its nearly sofa-sized breasts.

“The hogs is long gone, dearie,” the hag whispers menacingly, still perched atop the thing, peering down into the face, dangerously close to the gasping mouth. “Can’t let these biscuits go to waste. The ingredients come dear.”

There is no way to resist. The ninth biscuit comes, coaxed into her mouth almost gently. As she feebly chews, it dissolves, and the eldritch unctuousness of it pours down her throat and coats her guts. And the sweet unbearable pressure, the sensation of being filled, pumped up full from an unseen well, breaks through her like a tidal wave. She surrenders to it. Her last coherent thought before the growth takes hold is that she has felt something like it before, in the distant past when she was a person and not this thing.

Unfettered by walls, she swells across the ground, flesh rolling out to flatten the damp grass. The center of her bulk does grow taller, its apex some 8 or 9 feet from the ground. But gravity pulls most of her ever-multiplying mass downward and outward. The overall shape of the thing, viewed from a distance or somehow from above, is a widening, flattening dome. Flesh pours outward on all sides in a steady flow.

Able only to feel the sunlight and the breeze without, and the relentless sensation of her growth from within, the blob revels in the weird serenity of the scene. Peacefully billowing out larger, and larger, and larger. Unfettered, untroubled.

When the wave of growth finally stops, the massive thing feels a twinge of disappointment deep within its bulk. It has no way to know this, and it does not care, but it now weighs as much as a whole big top's worth of respectably-sized elephants. Heaped up alone and strange in a desolate field, the thing’s dimensions can be described only in tonnage and yards. To an observer, the mass would seem not so much a creature as a bizarre object. An inexplicable profusion of flesh slumped out amid the summer grass and wildflowers, like a monstrous fungal bloom. A mound of strange, terraced formations like cooling lava, except that across its surface stretches acres of dimpled skin. The whole thing pulses very slightly, slowly, as it breathes.

The stillness, the sensation of being sprawled out vast and helpless, impossibly heavy, left to contemplate the ground pressing up against her underside and the unreachable clouds casting shadows on her surface--it is unbearable. If it could speak, the thing would beg the witch to give it another biscuit, just to feel the sweet pounding pressure of growth. That would eventually leave the thing twice as heavy, more vast and helpless than ever before, but any sense of the future or past, of cause and effect, has evaporated.

#xwg #extreme weight gain #body growth #body expansion #moodmother #weight gain fiction #weight gain story

[shadowmaat]

Hallmark AU

Obi-Wan Kenobi has always put duty first. He has always been dedicated to helping others and it has earned him respect as he's climbed the ranks of the Jedi.

One fateful holiday season Obi-Wan is assigned a mission to his homeworld, Stewjon (or Dachaig, if you aren't a colonizer). He hasn't been back since the Jedi collected him as a toddler and it's seen as a chance to connect with his roots.

Obi-Wan isn't particularly interested in his roots. He's a Jedi, he was raised as a Jedi, he will always be a Jedi, and as far as he's concerned those are the only roots that matter. But a mission is a mission and if he succeeds on this one he may be asked to join the Council.

*spins wheel* *spins wheel again*

The mission is to [oversee the purchase of a Christmas tree farm some open acreage] in order to [establish a new luxury resort temple]. Very cut and dried, right?

Wrong.

The local government is very much in favor of the sale and the prestige it will bring to their humble little world. Plus, y'know, the buckets of money they stand to make off of this; not only from the sale itself, but from all the jobs, supplies, etc that go along with it.

The locals, however, are very much against it. Including Maul Rimsen, adopted son of Old Lady Rimsen, who owns the deed to the land in question. A deed that dates back to before Dachaig was annexed and thus isn't recognized by the current Stewjoni government. Those land rights died with her.

Obi-Wan just wants to close the deal and go back to his home in the Temple. Maul, however, is very persistent in his efforts to force Obi-Wan to look past the surface. He's very... compelling. Sparks fly between the two, but there could be more going on than even Maul suspected. They'll have to put aside their differences and work together to uncover the truth, and maybe, just maybe, Obi-Wan will realize that connecting to his roots here might not be such a terrible thing after all.

#jedimindfic