summary: after a challenge stirs up too much drama for even the Villa to handle, you've been avoiding Corbin. But he just won't have that.
genre: angst
notes: not prood read. one-shot. i need this man i fear. also not accurate to the show rules (reader is reading a book) or the timeline of the episodes - idk bruh i made up some stuff
inspired by damned by miguel
STRAY STRANDS OF YOUR LOOSELY plaited hair had escaped and were now dancing along your temples, fluttering gently in the warm breeze. You sunk deeper into the feathery comforts of Soul Tie's cushions, the subtle bronze tan your legs had earned from these weeks in sun glowing faintly with the sunlight.
A comfortable sigh parted the pillow of your lips as your finger skimmed the bottom of the page. The book was supported by your thighs, resting on your lap and having you totally enraptured by the story it was painting in your mind.
Distantly, the ripples of conversation thrummed through the walls of the Villa, voices carried faintly on the wind towards your ears. No inkling of attention could be spared to its topics however, for you were much too disposed here--swathed in the constructions of your own peace.
Well, that was until the soft thudding of footsteps prompted your gaze away, scanning to discover the source of the noise.
And identifying hastily that the origin of those steady steps was none other than the towering, olive-toned man approaching you, the corners of his mouth curled up into the beginnings of a smile.
Not a smirk or grin or something deviating from a mischievous intent. Only a achingly deep softness that yanked at the heart between your ribcage.
Corbin.
He stalled just before the circular edge of the daybed.
"Mind if I sit?" The deep timbres of his voice rumbled, extending the laced offer in a gilded presentation.
In that split, lulling breath, you felt all the reasons you should deny him swell up, so high in your chest that its seemed to press into your lungs. But then you caught that almost nervous gleam in the honeyed brown hues of his stare, the way he was subtly clenching his fist as though taken by timidity.
It didn't suit him--that tenseness that looked to be barricading his usual confidence, that seemed to have unsettled his balance.
With an almost indiscernible dip of your chin, you quietly accepted. "Okay."
In a few brief movements he was situated beside you, forearm resting atop his bent knee, bare chiseled chest caving with the extent of his sigh. The distance he maintained between your forms didn't pass without notice. Usually, when he was close, he ensured to be pressed up against you, your bodies in constant contact.
Now, he'd enlisted the weight of this separation. Instinctively, you wanted to bridge the gap, to burrow your face in the crook of his neck as you had done so many times before.
But, you refrained, allowing the languid perusal of your contemplation to rove across him.
The silence between you was firmed by the swirling tempest of words teetering on the edge of your lips--things that were probably better left unspoken. But still, you felt them.
Floating in the air, so palpable you could almost reach out and feel its textures.
In the end, none of those words came. Instead, Corbin's gaze flittered lower, to where your book was perched in your lap. He gestured towards it with the inclination of his chin. "Juliette still pissed at Warner?"
Your lips parted, accompanied by the slightest widening of your eyes. "You remember me tellin' you about that?"
The faint twang of your accent furled around the question, made a near impalpable arc take form on his mouth.
His eyes were dark usually--so much so that you had initially thought them to be brown when you first met. But now, with the sunlight streaming across his face, the intensity of his rich, hazel eyes swirled together the vibrant shades of chestnut and a foresty green, ringed by marigold.
"I remember all the shit you tell me." He said it so quietly it could've been a whisper.
The sincerity in his tone made your stomach roil with a distinctive kind of grief. Your face must have bared the effects of that declaration because you watched as his smile faltered, as his hands bunched into the fabric of the daybed as though to keep himself grounded. To keep himself from extending his touch in comfort.
You faintly shook your head, as if it would help clear away the haze of that emotion. Then, in a hushed admission, you said, "We probably shouldn't be talking right now."
You were right, of course. Ever since that challenge. You were, at least as the show proclaimed, "single and vulnerable". Corbin was coupled up with Kenzie, the choice given to America.
Were you so foolishly hopeful to think if the decision was in his hands, it would've been you who he would've picked as his connection?
The answer to your wondering was of no value regardless.
Three nights ago, under the guise of an exciting, sexy slumber party, the show had presented a challenge: find your connection while under the limitations of a blindfold and mark them with your unique color of paint.
You, having no partner, were simply instructed to stir trouble. To slather your hands in paint and touch and tease.
Simple enough.
So, you indulged in the blind crash of mouths and tongues and bodies. It was thrilling, erotic.
Until you had reached him.
You'd known immediately when your lips touched his that it had been Corbin who your hands slid along, guiding down the planes of muscle and heat he gave. Had known by the familiar way he positioned his hands at the dip of your waist, the curve of your nape. The way he let a muffled fuck escape his thoughts and rumble against your colliding lips. The way he gripped a fistful of your hair and slung your thigh over his lap so you were straddling him, pressing your weight down.
How when you'd begun to retreat, knowing this kiss had lasted too long, that this kind of stirring trouble would only bring consequences--he had grasped you by the hips and held you down, eager for more.
And when it was revealed that you were branding each boy with sticky streaks of white paint.
And when everyone saw that all the paint smeared across Corbin was tinted lighter, that coatings of white were along his cheeks and stuck in hair and plastered along his broad chest.
More so than any other boy.
Trouble was stirred indefinitely.
By the end of the night, word of Kenzie and Corbin's argument had journeyed through every hall and staircase of the Villa and curled around every ear.
Including yours.
Especially yours.
Since you were the topic of the disagreement.
You had attempted to pull Kenzie for a chat to discuss the events of the challenge, to maybe quell the rising tensions and squash any drama. But ultimately, you could only offer an apology.
Had you really taken it too far? You supposed so and had tried your best to make amends.
And in the days since the slumber party, you'd been carefully, tactfully avoiding Corbin. When he joined a conversation, you discreetly left, feeling only the heavy poundage of his stare burning along your spine as you walked away. In the morning, when he delivered breakfast to Kenzie, you kept your head down, eyes locked onto any sight other than him.
He noticed. Of course he did.
He'd lasted half a day of it--of your silence, of only hearing your laughter at a distance and not directed towards him, of constantly seeking your gaze only for it to be cast elsewhere.
He had walked up to you while you were buckled over in a fit of laughter from something Aniya had said. For that flicker of a instant, he breathed lighter at the sight of you with such joy.
He'd asked to pull you for a chat.
You hesitated--the plushness of your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you mulled over it.
And, you had denied him.
He'd wanted to protest, to demand it, to plead for just a moment to simply talk. Instead, you had watched the muscle in his cheek shift as he clenched his jaw, nodding tightly before walking away.
You'd watched every step he took as it carried him farther. Wished every second that he would turn back around.
But then, out of the rims of your vision, you descried a heavy glare from where Kenzie was sat not so far away, and you quickly ripped your attentions back.
A night later and his endurance fumbled again.
He caught you as everyone was getting ready for bed. You'd misplaced your water bottle, having forgotten it in the kitchen earlier in the day. He'd slipped out the bedroom without notice from anyone else and followed you down the stairs.
Fiji's night had carried a chill that raised goosebumps all along your flesh, causing a faint shiver to wrack your frame. The darkness swathed the Villa in one large, inky blanket, neon lights and the moon being the only instances of illumination.
And when Corbin had said your name, the octaves of his call balancing just below a shout--you'd startled in a jump, a sharp yelp escaping you as he'd taken you by surprise.
When you turned to be greeted by the sight of him, relief doused your body, the hand you had splayed against your chest measuring each heaving breath,
He'd let out a light, slightly amused chuckle, along with an apology. "My bad, ma. Didn't mean to scare you."
Ma. Your heart twisted at the sound of that nickname. How it only ever left his mouth when you were around.
Then the confrontation hit.
You didn't deign any interest in the conversation, but he wouldn't grant you the liberty of evading him this time.
You had argued. He had raised his voice in frustration. You failed to take that in jest.
The peaceful conversation Corbin had imagined transformed to a screaming match. So much so that Sincere and Bryce had rounded the corner of the staircase with Trinity not far behind, their eyes wide in confusion.
Trinity had consoled you, asking for the details of what the hell had happened as she led you to the glam room.
The whole Villa went to sleep later that night. And when they did sleep, you didn't, too suffocated by the heat of your anger and the billowing of unease straining your conscience.
And now, for the first time in a day, since that late night dispute, Corbin faced you once more.
We probably shouldn't be talking right now.
Your utterance clamored in his mind. It resided with truth. But he still couldn't summon enough of a care to address it.
"To be honest, I don't give a fuck what we should be doing."
You looked up at him then, surprise flickering through your eyes as they met his own.
You watched the swell of his chest as he inhaled a powerful breath, as though steeling himself. "I shouldn't have yelled at you the other night. That shit's on me," he spoke clearly, each vowel potent and assured. No trace of hesitance or ingenuity in the statement.
He held you captive in his gaze, never letting his eyes stray.
"Yeah, you were a real piece of shit," you agreed. The insult held no real intent behind, for a teasing inflection imbued your every syllable. The brittle smile that your humor earned from him sewed together whatever cracks had been left in your chest since your argument.
"I'm sorry, too. For avoiding you," you relinquished your grip on any pride that still dwelled, prepared to strike still after the hurled, hurtful things you both had spoken that night. "Just with Kenzie and the challenge, I didn't wanna start any more drama, you know. And, Kenzie is my friend and all."
Your eyes had fallen downcast, towards where you fidgeted by twisting your fingers together.
You felt his hand brush along your jaw. His thumb settled on your chin and tipped your face up. "Yeah, I get that," he murmured lowly, his pupils dilated as they roamed across the curves of your face. "Fuck, but, don't do that no-talking-to-me bullshit again, alright."
"I missed talking to you." The confession slipped past your lips.
Maybe you should've caged that thought deep into the crevices of your mind, hidden behind the heavy walls of your heart.
But, maybe, because of the gentle notes in his voice as Corbin whispered back, "Me too."
Maybe that made it worth it. Worth the risk of it all.
"Stop looking at me like that," you ordered when you saw his eyes plunge to the bow-shape of your mouth.
"Why?"
His eyes were fastened to the shape of your lips as they delivered your response.
"Because it usually only gets us in trouble."
His vivid hazel gaze, framed by a sweep of dark lashes flickered up to fully grasp your attention, to fix you to the substance of his words.
"We like trouble."
And then, his mouth was colliding against your own.
summary: you wake up with your memory fuzzy, a haze of alcohol in the air, and a nameless man in your bed.
genre: spicy fluff
warnings: mentions of sexual activity/brief depictions of sexual acts
notes: not prood read. shortish. a continuation of that one shot because people were asking for it and i'm simply a servant to the people.
THE MORNING LIGHT SLANTED THROUGH the sheer fabric of your curtains, swirling a myriad of hues behind your sealed eyelids. The colors whirled together in a pirouette, prickling at the corners of your eyes until you were dragged completely from the comforts of sleep. You muffled a hoarse groan into the silk of your pillowcase, a lingering haze of patrón still clouding your mind, your limbs vaguely aching all over.
It was not entirely unusual for you to greet the day with such excitement. What did present itself with peculiarity however was the warmth spread across your back, the unfamiliar weight wound around your stomach.
As you stumbled towards consciousness and reality seeped through, you came to one very important conclusion:
There was a man in your bed.
A very naked man.
Shit.
In a slow flicker, the recollections of last night presented themselves, settling heavy into the air along with the scent of sweat and faded cologne—The fragile lace of your dress. The dense heat of the club. The dim lighting and how it’d angled across winsome features. The splay of hands across your waist, feeling now as though some distant dream.
How those very same hands had felt teasing your flesh, pinning you to the mattress.
How one of those hands rested still at the curve of your hip.
Tentatively, you carefully twisted your frame, turning until you were on your side, facing chiseled contours and tousled golden hair. You pried your memory for any echo of a name but it was to no avail.
The man was finely wrought—all defined aspects and strong delineations, with thick, blonde lashes fanning out against his cheeks as he resided still in slumber. This close you could even admire the faint speckling of freckles along his nose and notice even the subtle bump along the bridge of it. With streaks of sunshine hitting him, his skin glowed bronzen, smelling vaguely of cardamom and the remnants of your perfume.
So in your quiet perusal of his visage, you'd realized what the slight twitch of his bow-shaped lips meant. Your gaze tarried at the lines of his mouth as the man began to stir awake, recalling then the blazing path his lips had made along your thighs just hours before.
Languidly, he came to awareness, his eyelids moving in a tepid flutter. Then—before you had the time to steel yourself with a breath—drowsy emerald eyes held you in place. You watched his thoughts stutter in their course of processing the moment, your bodies woven together, the rise of your breathing. You observed the leisurely bloom of recognition over his expression, followed almost immediately by unmistakable amusement. Apparently waking up in a stranger's bed wasn't enough to rob him of his ego.
Unhurriedly, mischief began to rim the edges of his irises, punctuating the serrated grin taking form at his lips. The arm he had draped across your figure curled, tightening its grip and dragging you closer. You felt the muscles of his arm shift along your bare back as you were pulled atop him, the man situating you onto his chest.
Reason tore at you, offering whatever relic of sound logic still stood after the events of the previous night. But you found herself enjoying the gleam reflecting in his eyes, the unbridled warmth of all of him pressed against all of you. So, for now, you allowed him to handle you, for his touch to roam along your frame as if he were trying to remember the dips and swells of your silhouette.
And when his fingers coiled at your nape, tilting your face lower so that he could softly press his mouth to your—you allowed too for your eyes to gently seal. He kissed you in the manner of a person still half-attuned to sleep, with the slow and lazy sloping of his lips.
And then he almost reluctantly seemed to pull back, permitting you breath, sweeping the pad of his thumb along your plush lower lip.
“You’re beautiful in the sunlight,” he whispered as if it were more confession than thought. “Shitty club lighting doesn’t do you justice.”
The scoff that escaped you was in tune with low notes of amusement—despite yourself. You let your fingers card through his unkempt waves, tugging lightly at his roots. “Not so bad yourself, playboy,” you murmured with a matching grin adorning your features.
With his hand positioned on your jaw, he drifted his thumb from the pillow of your lip down to your chin, canting your face low enough for him to whisper against your mouth, “Round 2?”
You felt the offer rumble against you, felt the corners of your smile sharpen. Your reply tasted sweet on your tongue.
But then your phone exploded from off your nightstand with violent ringing. With one quick scanning of the illuminated screen, you knew you were surely about to receive a never-ending lecture if Evie discovered the exact predicament you were in.
You rolled off his chest, the sheets sliding from your frame and bunching at your waist as you sat upright, the cool air of your bedroom a stark contrast to the flush across your skin. Reaching forward to silence the incessant buzz of your phone, you tossed a playful grin over your shoulder. “Maybe some other time.”
You sensed him shifting from behind, felt the depth of his sigh stir strands of hair twined around your neck as he bowed his chin against the arc of your shoulder, trying to read the name glowing on the screen.
You jerked the phone from his line of vision, whirling to shove him back with a palm at his chest. The husky chords of his laughter filled the room as he raised both hands in the air—as though in surrender.
“Hey,” you greeted, holding the phone to your ear. “...No, yeah I’ve been up.”
You caught the small lift of the man’s eyebrow at that statement.
Evie’s usually soft cadence was nowhere to be found, her ceaseless intonation droning on in your ear. You glanced towards the alarm clock on your nightstand, cursing yourself internally when you read the numbers 10:48.
You were supposed to meet at Malone's for 11.
And as you felt the warm touch of two hands slide along your waist, up towards your ribs before tugging you back into the confines of ruffled sheets and a haven of friction-filled bliss—you knew with unwavering certainty that you were completely and totally fucked.
DEAN DI LAURENTIS WAS STILL FAINTLY ENRAPTURED by the crystalline hues of your gaze—eyes so piercingly vivid that the poundage of your stare seemed to slice straight through his chest. When he’d first emerged from the binds of pacifying sleep, they’d been the first of your features to take his attention. Nobody should have eyes that color. Even now, with those bright shades of iridescent pigments framed by a sweeping of dark, long lashes, he’d become affixed to them, moving with all the desire to simply keep those eyes steadied on him.
“It was fun. Still feel like I’m a little drunk though,” you spoke desultorily to the person on the phone, fingers twisting the cloth of your sheets in a restless fidget.
Dean would be more than obliged to give your hands something to do.
With the formations of an idea sparking in his mind, a devilish grin spread across his lips, puncturing dimples into either cheek.
Christ—he’d recalled the way you'd said your name last night, your whisper brushing along the shell of his ear when he’d asked. How he knew at that moment exactly that he would be leaving that club with you at his side. You sat half-turned from his view, the arch of your spine on display instead. While he enjoyed the sight, he almost came to the dawning realization that perhaps this positioning was to encourage distance between you, to conceal that conversation you were having.
And Dean simply couldn’t have that.
But, out of pure generosity, he granted you the briefest moment of peace as he let himself fully absorb the sight of you, observing you in the dawdling stretch of light in the room.
Cascading waves of hair fell over your shoulder, subtly ruffled from sleep and all those other nighttime activities you both had indulged in. Your nose had a delicate upturn to its tip, your cheeks round and cherubic, your lips addictively soft. Your figure was surprisingly toned—smooth, velvety skin highlighting the obvious indentions of muscle all across your body.
Altogether, you were gorgeous. The kind of breathtaking looks that had made him willingly blow his entire wallet at the bar last night. What else was he supposed to do when faced with a woman like you?
And now you were poised beside him in bed.
Naked.
Still gorgeous—even more so if he was being entirely honest.
Slightly hungover.
Definitely trying to hide whoever you were talking to.
Well, that just wouldn’t do.
Shifting his body weight, Dean slid an arm around your waist, tugging you back into the rumpled bounds of your sheets. A quiet, surprised gasp parted your lips as your back collided with the mattress and he anchored himself between the brackets of your thighs.
Any fragment of shock faded into a whetted glare, sent downward towards his descending figure as his lips brushed down your chest, towards your navel.
God, you were so warm, smelling still of traces of perfume he had drowned his senses in. He might never rise from this bed.
“Yes, I’m wearing your favorite set,” you teasingly remarked to the person on the other end of the call, shaking your head vaguely as Dean felt your fingers comb through his tangled locks.
“Actually, you’re not wearing much of anything,” Dean quipped in between gentle presses of kisses along the outlines of your hips.
You pulled harshly on a fistful of his hair—enough to actually hurt this time, as though a warning.
Dean only smiled wider into your skin.
In a slow, tantalizing move, he dragged his palms up the sides of your upper thighs, pushing them over the width of his shoulders.
“No, I am not gonna be late…” Your voice trailed off as his mouth moved closer to the apex of your thighs. “Huh? No...That only happened twice.”
The distracted lull in your tone stoked a flame in his arrogance, the raw audacity he had to do such a thing to you when you were very obviously trying to keep quiet. It bolstered his confidence.
Dipping lower, he let his tongue lick a long stripe up your core, feeling an acute amount of pleasure at the way you began to writhe, trying to squirm away from the contact despite the subtle shakes of your legs.
“I am actively walking out the door.”
Actually, you were fastened to the mattress by the splayed hand Dean pressed onto your lower belly.
“Okay…okay, bye. Yeah, love you…”
Dean wondered what reason the person you was talking to would assume was why you were so seemingly out of breath.
The hushed clicking sound as the call ended only enticed the lazy rise of Dean’s gaze to meet your own.
Those intense eyes were roaming the planes of his face as though calculating, walking the fine line between surrender and withholdance. He could view the churning of your mind as you considered the blatant sway of what the consequences would be.
In the end, a whisper drifted from your tongue. “Can you make round two take ten minutes?”
summary: you wake up with your memory fuzzy, a haze of alcohol in the air, and a nameless man in your bed.
genre: blurb, kinda spicy fluff
warnings: mentions of sexual activity/brief depictions of sexual acts
notes: not prood read. short. just an idea i'm testing.
extended version up now on my page!!
THE MORNING LIGHT SLANTED THROUGH the sheer fabric of your curtains, swirling a myriad of hues behind your sealed eyelids. The colors whirled together in a pirouette, prickling at the corners of your eyes until you were dragged completely from the comforts of sleep. You muffled a hoarse groan into the silk of your pillowcase, a lingering haze of patrón still clouding your mind, your limbs vaguely aching all over.
It was not entirely unusual for you to greet the day with such excitement. What did present itself with peculiarity however was the warmth spread across your back, the unfamiliar weight wound around your stomach.
As you stumbled towards consciousness and reality seeped through, you came to one very important conclusion:
There was a man in your bed.
Shit.
In a slow flicker, the recollections of last night presented themselves, settling heavy into the air along with the scent of sweat and faded cologne—The fragile lace of your dress. The dense heat of the club. The dim lighting and how it’d angled across winsome features. The splay of hands across your waist, feeling now as though some distant dream.
How those very same hands had felt teasing your flesh, pinning you to the mattress.
How one of those hands rested still at the curve of your hip.
Tentatively, you carefully twisted your frame, turning until you were on your side, facing chiseled contours and tousled golden hair. You pried your memory for any echo of a name, but it was to no avail.
The man was finely wrought—all defined aspects and strong delineations, with thick, blonde lashes fanning out against his cheeks as he resided still in slumber. This close you could even admire the faint speckling of freckles along his nose and notice even the subtle bump along the bridge of it. With streaks of sunshine hitting him, his skin glowed bronzen, smelling vaguely of cardamom and the remnants of your perfume.
So in your quiet perusal of his visage, you realized what the slight twitch of his bow-shaped lips meant. Your gaze tarried at the lines of his mouth as the man began to stir awake, recalling then the blazing path his lips had made along your thighs just hours before.
Languidly, he came to awareness, his eyelids moving in a tepid flutter. Then—before you had the time to steel yourself with a breath—drowsy emerald eyes held you in place. You watched his thoughts stutter in their course of processing the moment, your bodies woven together, the rise of your breathing.
You watched the mischief rim the edges of his irises, the way it punctuated the serrated grin taking form at his lips. The arm he had strewn across your figure curled, tightening its grip and dragging you closer. You felt the muscles of his arm shift along your bare back as you were pulled atop him, the man situating you onto his chest.
Reason tore at you, offering whatever relic of sound logic still stood after the events of the previous night. But you found yourself enjoying the gleam reflecting in his eyes, the unbridled warmth of all of him pressed against all of you. So, for now, you allowed him to handle you, for his touch to roam along your frame as if he were trying to remember the dips and swells of your silhouette.
And when his fingers coiled at your nape, tilting your face lower so that he could softly press his mouth to yours—you allowed too for your eyes to gently seal. He kissed you in the manner of a person still half-attuned to sleep, with the slow and lazy sloping of his lips.
And when he almost reluctantly seemed to pull back, permitting you breath, the pad of his thumb swept along the plushness of your lower lip.
“You’re beautiful in the sunlight,” he whispered as if it were a confession. “Shitty club lighting doesn't do you justice.”
summary: billy hargrove is not a morning person, she's learned. he doesn't sleep much. so when he gets the chance, he likes to drag it out.
genre: blurb, kinda spicy fluff
warnings: mentions of sexual activity/brief depictions of sexual acts -> (dry humping)
notes: angela valence is my own character. not prood read. based off a headcanon i saw. short.
The firm hold of his arms around her middle pinned her completely to the heat of his frame, the hand splayed across her hip digging into her flesh. The majority of their clothes had long since been abandoned, carelessly strewn into some cluttered corner of her room in their haste. Angela now lay in the comfortable confines of her queen-sized bed, dressed in only Billy's large shirt—which she'd pulled on when the sweat glistening across her body had begun to chill earlier in the night. The warmth of his bare chest seeped through the thin cotton of his shirt, spreading along her back and through her limbs, swathing her in a heavy, content ease.
And yet the faint scratch in her throat had grown dire. The need to soothe the aching with a glass of water propelled her then, as she carefully began to slide from his grasp.
Slowly, she settled her hand on top of his, lifting it from off her hip, guiding his arm from her stomach. For the briefest moment, it appeared like she had succeeded.
That was until the sleep-worn mewls from behind her sounded against the shell of her ear, and Billy swept his arm back around her in one quick, instinctive move.
She could feel him beginning to unhurriedly stir from his dreams, the clasp his hand had on her body tightening as though a reflex. The residuals of sleep hinged on the end of his voice, dropping it to a coarse huskiness.
"Stop moving."
The order was barely more than breath against her ear—still edged enough to still her for half a second.
"Billy," Angela whined, trying fruitlessly to untwine his touch on her frame, pawing at his wrist. "I need water, baby."
He canted his head into the shallow curve along her neck, his lips brushing the edge of her shoulder. There was a pause—tight, irritated.
"Swallow your spit."
"Let me go," she demanded with a groan, now trying to turn around in his grip. "I'll be quick."
His hand flexed against her once before relinquishing his clutch narrowly enough to allow her to roll towards him. So that now, in the dim sunlight bleeding in through the curtains, she could fully acknowledge the drowsy weight to his eyelids, the slight downturn to his puffy lips, and the golden curls messily draped across his brow. And, she didn't fail to notice the way the shallow glint of sunshine reflected off his crystalline blue eyes.
His half-lidded gaze roved along her face, absorbing every minuscule detail her features presented. A low hum emanated from deep in his chest as he completed whatever consideration he'd made.
Then, his hand was dipping to her inner thigh, wrapping around the thick of her leg and heaving it across his hip. With their bodies weaved so tightly together, she could feel the hard indention of his clothed groin against her lower belly.
"Billy—"
His mouth captured hers harshly, silencing whatever protest was beginning to take shape. The kiss itself was a rarity to be delivered from a man like Billy. While it still dominated—demanding her follow in every slant of his lips against her own—he moved lazily, almost softly, with a slow rough command.
The command to simply stay put.
Angela knew Billy rarely slept when he was without her. She'd viewed it herself the first time he'd stayed lounged in her sheets past sundown—the way he had writhed for hours, searching for comfort until she'd settled herself on top of him as though to personally anchor him to a dream state. She knew with an acute certainty that Billy indulged himself in this kind of languid intimacy none to often. It made the phantom of a wince pass across her visage when their mouths parted and he slotted his forehead against her own, sharing the depth of his sighs with each tangled breath.
Her approach shifted in the gleam of sunlight. Gingerly, she raised a hand, placing cool fingers along the chiseled line of his cheek. She whispered pacifyingly, "I'll be right back, promise—"
"Or," he cut in with a murmur, "you don't move."
A scheme leisurely took form in her mind, and Angela set her body to do its works. Tilting her face forward, she crashed her lips against his, any inkling of tenderness abandoned in favor of a desperate severity. Leveraging his surprise, she swung her frame until she was fully perched atop him, her thighs bracketing the straight of his hips. Her mouth still in motion against his—all wild and insistent, she began to roll her body, circling her hips along the length of his firm cock, the friction of their thin underwear near maddening for the two.
A jagged moan tore from his throat, his hands finding purchase at either side of her waist, guiding her movements as she kneaded her weight down onto him.
Then—just when she felt his breathing hitch and the drag of her center along his crotch grew torturous—Angela pushed herself off Billy in one hurried, clean shove. Too dazed by the stirrings of pleasure to register what was happening, Billy did not stop her in time.
For a split second, he just stared—caught between sleep and heat and the abrupt absence of her.
Then she was gone.
And so, from his defeated, pathetic place in her cream-colored sheets, he watched the oscillating sway of her hips as she strolled from the bedroom towards the kitchen, felt his heart even stumble in its pace when she threw a wicked, triumphant grin over her shoulder.
Oh, Billy thought, the indentions of a smile carving his cheeks, she'd pay for that.
summary: angela valance collided with billy hargrove just nights before. and one afternoon, billy corners her with an offer that she simply can't refuse.
genre: excerpt from my drafts
warnings: mentions of sexual activity
notes: angela valence is my own character. this has been in my drafts forever and kinda just wanna see how people feel about it. not proof read. very wordy. it was written a while ago but billy hargrove is literally my favorite toxic man so yeah.
THE RUMBLING PEALS OF HER 1970 MACH ONE echoed, crackling through the air as she swung into the parking lot. As she slowed near her usual spot, the roar of the engine sank to a low, satisfied purr, before falling entirely silent with a final twist of her key.
Her features sat in a subdued, surveying moue. Lightly pursing her lips, she tapped burgundy-painted fingertips against the sleek chrome finish of the center console, her gaze scanning the sluggish drift of movement before her. Absently, her chin dipped in time with every rhapsodic lick of guitar that boomed from the radio's variety of Fleetwood Mac.
The morning’s tentative rousing began with rays of sunlight peaking above a sprawl of rolling clouds, shedding a golden hue across the gathering array of students. Bleary-eyed highschoolers who wound through the school's car-littered space or merely dawdled time before the demand of first bell called them through double glass doors.
Angela Valance was considerably more disposed to remain lolling in the comfort of her vinyl seat, content enough to observe the first unfoldings of dawn with bland prospect. Numbly, she recalled the desire to set enough of a sturdy, more sanguine foundation for the outlook of her day, but with the present peering back at her face, no morsel of care seemed to persist. Still a billow of tenebrous gloom followed her. She'd attempted the best she could to abjure such feelings. And yet, persistently, it haunted her. Though the matter was of little concern—it was often that Angela felt haunted these days.
As if to liberate herself from the fetters of her wandering thoughts, she directed her attention to the rearview mirror. Her nimble fingers caught its edge, tilting it downwards so that the reflection manifested as an evolving picture. First, her eyes were mimicked by the glass in their churning medley of pale shades and glaucous tints. Then her lips fell into view which, at the sight, curved into a soft arc.
Reaching into her purse in the passenger seat, Angela withdrew a small tin of cherry-vanilla lip balm. With a deft twist of her hand, she revealed the cerise-tinged ointment. She dipped a polished nail into the container, collecting the concoction onto her fingertip. Turning back to the glass, she used the echoed image as a guide while she smoothed the balm across the pillowy swell of her lips and rubbed them together. Seeing the tinted fullness of her mouth, that gentle smile grew into a bright, beaming grin. Inside, she was a writhing storm of unease. But with unwavering certainty, none would look at her with any deviation but that she appeared with a winsome, leisurely confidence, malaise that had been marbled with mystique.
The slight whooshing of air and a distinct click compelled Angela's focus to take in the car door being hurled open, the head of plaited blonde hair that followed, dipping inside her Mustang's passenger side. Eliza Halbert—in all her seventeen years, had never once been informed that slamming closed a heavy Ford Mustang door and proceeding to then babble on with unnatural volume for any human being at the fresh hour of seven, was not something particularly enjoyed by anyone. Well, anyone except for Angela Valance. For Angela was accustomed to such occurrences by now.
Her steering wheel acting as a cushion for her head, Angela peered at her oddly spirited companion, seeking to keep pace with each statement that tumbled from the girl's mouth. But apparently by Eliza's opinion, Angela’s finest struggle was not adequate because a hand bedecked in rings was then waving before Angela’s face, taking up much of her vision with its flourishing gesture, "Ang, hello—earth to Angela here. Jeez, how late were you out last night?"
A connection must have been made in Eliza's mind faster than Angela could produce a response because no reply was sufficiently swift to beat the next mortifying question flying from the blonde's tongue, "Wait, did you go all the way with Doug?! Aw, on the second date too, you skank!"
Angela shoved off the elbow Eliza had nudged into her side, completely unfazed by that last comment as such things were fairly rife, an ordinary happening to be found throughout the scope of their friendship. Nonetheless, Angela's groan ricocheted through the car as she turned her head, forehead pressing against the sleek wood grain of the wheel, squeezing her eyelids sealed as if in hopes of clearing away the images arising from the girl's crude suggestion.
"It's too early to talk about sex," she pitifully murmured, listening to the quick, incessant ticking of a dial that quieted the piping notes of Stevie Nick's voice.
Angela pried open her eyes promptly enough to study the wool cardigan that sloped over Eliza's knuckles as she withdrew her hand from the control console. A rich, mahogany gaze scrutinized Angela in turn, shining mirth bound there in a glint of emotion. "Dude, it's never too early to talk about sex. Did you get hit on the head or something?"
Angela's mouth persisted in an attenuated line. Eliza had the ability to contain herself a total of six complete seconds before her voice permeated the space between them, exacting yet playful. "So? C'mon, dish!"
"I'll talk," Angela lifted her face from the wheel, the grasp of her sight divagating to the surroundings outside the windows, held by the smeared colors of an ebbing sunrise, "but you're not gonna like it."
Light brows bunched together, her bottom lip jutting out in a frown—the mere truth chastened Eliza. Her head tilted, her countenance acting as a display of her displeasure. "You didn't get bent over?" she mumbled, despondency imbued with the quiet, redundant inquiry.
"Afraid there was no bending," Angela shook her head, casting a mock sorrowful look across her visage as to express her dejection. Watching the formulation of an argument already begin in Eliza's deep eyes, Angela hastily added, "I canceled."
The smack that came splintered across Angela’s upper arm, stifled by the thick layer of her bomber jacket's sleeve. Eliza's strike did not engender any trigger of pain, nor was it enacted with any honest fury—if you weren't counting the unrivaled frustration now twisting Eliza's angular features.
"Ang!" Her tone chided, the exasperation said with her mere name saturating the following chastisement, "Dude, I love you. Really, I do. But, Doug Belford! Have you completely lost it!? The man looks damn near pornagraphic. Captain of the football team. Captain!"
Angela loosed a morose, heavy breath, the sigh more expressive than perhaps any drawn up retort she could compose. Eliza, even in all her unperceptive discontent, discerned the burdensome weight that crept free of such veiled confines of vulnerability, the rampart Angela had raised to encase her sentiments in security. Recognizing her friend's penchant for enduring adversity soundlessly, Eliza felt the grip of her irritation slacken, her gaze softened as she began to see the nearly indiscernible grief lurking in Angela's disposition. A pinch of shame prickling in her gut at the fact she had failed to notice it sooner.
Angela cognized the revision of her temper, absorbing the diminutive altering of her expression as Eliza pacified. Her careful, gentle stare held Angela as Eliza asked discreetly, "Anything…happen?"
In tactful avoidance of admission, Angela casually leveled her sights onto a bustling group of students. They clamored around a rustic Buick, probably enjoying some new album blasting from the vehicle’s speakers. Dragging her gaze back to an expectant blonde, Angela plastered on a faint smile, heedful of her friend's vigilance. "Other than my five breakdowns, doing lines, and accidentally—kind of intentionally—killing a man… mmm, nope, not really."
Eliza hesitantly scanned her expression. If she studied her long enough, Eliza would become aware of the lone, delicate thread Angela dangled from—which kept her from fully submerging herself into an endless abyss of insensate nullity, her sole tether to sanity that frayed more and more with each waking conflict.
Despite it, Angela's mask of complaisant composure misled Eliza's worry. She combed through her honeyed tresses, effectively looking relieved to whatever extent she’d measured. "Yeah, well, call me next time, okay?"
The words were layered, every syllable laced in a double meaning. Perhaps if Angela knew herself to be in resolute solidity, to conclude herself with terms of wholeness—perhaps then she would wield the strength to rifle through the sheets of connotation and harness the love which drafted them. But she was not, and so she could not allay the swathed offer of support. Instead, she settled herself in a veneer of practiced acknowledgment and soothed her friend, as she could not do for herself, "Alright. If you bring bail money."
Eliza's lipstick-painted mouth spread in an alluring smile—the one which only reminded Angela of why every guy in Hawkins desired her company. Her friend, a girl of lewd, sweet laughter, tittered mischievously as she said, "Who says we're getting caught?"
Before Angela could respond, her lips already parted with a light chuckle, a bellow howled across the lot, a throaty growl resounding with guttural dominance. The sound demanded attention. Helpless to its pull, Angela's eyes flashed, bound to the magnetizing scene that played out before her, the wicked pitch of the Scorpions entwining with the blaring noise—a veritable ambiance.
The crash of a relentless, deafening rumble emanated from a blue Camaro, whirling into a parking spot with seasoned ease. The sequence was so effortless, so seamless—it bordered on captivation. Low in her stomach, nerves lurched as she witnessed the wide, opening swing of the driver side door. Heavily, a boot stomped onto the concrete.
And Billy Hargrove emerged.
From the distance sundering them, Angela descried the appearance of the seventeen-year-old boy, who didn't much resemble any affinity of a boy at all. Adorned in denim, he was a sight to behold. The muscles in his legs shifted as he casually sealed the car door with a slam, thighs wrapped in tight jeans thats sole purpose was spectacle. Smoke twirled from a cigarette at his lips, rising above like a halo over his coiffed curls sported in a mousey blonde mullet.
Sharp movements snatched her gaze to a small girl with rufous locks, her hair swishing as she stormed off from Billy’s car, clutching a skateboard under her arm. For a brief flicker, Angela's thoughts skidded down a path of worry, innate empathy which spurred her heart and set itself onto the situations of that young girl. She was unfamiliar—the responsibility of that belonging to the likelihood of her novelty. Skipping through her recollections, Angela possessed no evocation from the girl's countenance. Subliminally as she viewed the redhead march off, Angela scrawled a note in her mind to ensure the school's reception of the girl was a pleasant one.
But her consideration of the teenager was fleeting, cut into evanescence by the riveting clutches of Billy Hargrove's presence. There he was, flicking away a cigarette, all reckless swagger and visible violence.
"You shouldn't litter," Angela spoke in a murmur, the admonishment scarcely able to be perceived, so inaudible only the sharpest syllables were ample enough to be followed. Unbeknownst to her, Eliza cast a wary glance her way, confusion pinching the blonde's brows as she acknowledged the peculiarity now present in Angela's expression—the parting of her lips, the slight tilt of her head.
Intrigue. Amused intrigue—so blindly bared on Angela’s face.
With a keen gaze, Angela traced every motion that transpired, proceeding from his powerful frame. Deep in her chest, a vague, beguiled irritation flared to life. Her eyes were augers set onto Billy, burrowing deep.
His own pair of crystalline, faultless azure eyes settled onto her. Any expanse that parted them diminished, fading away into a blear existence. He was captive in her gaze, and she in his. A silent conversation passed, distinct by floating memories and tantalizing recognition. Through the blear, over the expanse, she heard the teasing whispers in his stare.
The corners of his mouth turned upwards into a slow, secretive smirk. Her sights narrowed, ensnared by that single smile directed purely to her. But, with cool indifference, Angela raised a finger to her lips, hovering a hair's breadth above. She made the feigned act of swiping the pad of her finger across her pout.
That smirk—that goddamn smirk she'd savored not so long ago in another place, under cracking stars—broadened, conformed to become a portrayal of wild triumph. His satisfaction from garnering such a riposte no doubt. And with that slaking gratification lighting his intense, rugged visage, Billy pivoted on his heel and began to stroll away. His bearings were so languidly assured, each step poised arrogance. That's what the near obscene image of him walking away was—what he was indefinitely—defiance and temptation incarnated in the slope of his shoulders, the ego in his stride.
“You didn't.”
Angela whipped her head towards Eliza, who wore a stain of consternation on her face, trepidation alive across the planes of her countenance.
With levity assuaging her words, Angela said, "Huh? Didn’t what?"
"Please tell me you didn't." Her friend's eyes were wide with the lacerations of sheer dread.
"Yeah." Uncertainty now tightened Angela's tone. She mindlessly tapped her palm against the wheel, repetitive and lulling. "What is happening right now?"
Eliza's posture had become rigid, her spine unbending. Urgency flared in her expression. Rapidly, the beginnings of her sentence sputtered, plummeting from an edge of disbelief, "Did you and Billy Hargrove—?"
Angela's entire body jerked, bewilderment constraining her exclamation, spirants strident. "What!?"
"Angela Danielle Valance," Eliza voiced harshly, "you two pretty much just boned with your eyes across the parking lot."
"Government name, really? And, we didn't—"
"You did!" The blonde flailed her hands around in a crazed display, then pointed an accusatory finger in her face. "You were giving that man sex eyes in broad daylight!"
Sparing a glance to the horizon, Angela gestured a hand to the unhurried, cresting disc of the sun, gold bangles jangling with the action. "Technically, it’s not fully daylight yet so—"
"Dude." Eliza's features were set in a grave expression, severity present in every line. "Did you two…?"
Angela's celadon gaze fixed sternly onto her friend. "No, Liz, I didn't screw Billy Hargrove."
A grimace narrowed mahogany eyes. "Do you want to?"
"Oh my gosh, what is literally happening right now? Is this the twilight zone?"
"Angela…"
"Eliza."
Eliza had readjusted, settling fully before Angela as if to encompass all of her attention, to guide it to the weight of her declaration. "Not to be the bearer of bad news here, but let me just put this into perspective, remember how you once made Mrs. Krupke cry tears of joy with a thank-you card. How you carry around bandaids—with hearts on them—just in case someone gets a papercut or some shit. How you'd quite literally dive into traffic to save a kitten," She implicated with a digit aimed stringently in the direction where Billy had once stood, "Let me make this clear, that guy would be the traffic."
"Okay, one, why do all our conversations end with either arson or vehicular manslaughter?"
"Because you have a thing for guys who look like arsonists!"
Had the solemnity of the moment been absent, Angela would have been powerless to the urge of hysterics. However no form of mirth could be summoned as Eliza continued, unwavering in her dourness, "I'm serious. That guy's been here, what, two weeks? And he's already king of all dicks."
"Maybe I wouldn't mind getting on his di—"
"No!" Eliza swatted a hand. "Bad Angela! No!"
Angela did laugh this time, the lightness of it infecting her accusation and mocking tone, "You're the one who told me I should—How did you put it?—‘Get back out there because our youth is fleeting and Susan B. Anthony didn’t fight for nothing’."
"Yeah! With someone like Doug. Or I don't know literally anyone who isn't the lead singer of Mötley Crüe reincarnated."
Beneath the wit of the retort, an insinuation laid. It was that scant implication alone that sobered Angela. With a shake of her head, she resolutely vindicated the smoke–laced rebel. "It wasn't about Billy. I didn't bail on Doug because of him."
A gentleness torpidly prospered in Eliza's perception, dulling the intensity as she warily considered, "Then why?"
"I don't know." Angela pulled the key free from the ignition, gathering her chattels and unlatching the door, stepping out onto pavement. Eliza followed her motions until they stood across from each other, gazing over the candy-apple red roof of Angela's Mustang.
Angela passed her vision to the mundane vicinity, reprieving herself of the defiance which became palpable when attempting to maintain resolve before her friend's attentive dissections. Her stare held by only the lines etched into a cracking sidewalk, Angela let the words flow from her in a staid admission, "Doug's great. Super nice and respectful. But something just felt… off. Like I was sitting across from him thinking, "This should work," and it just didn't. Like—I guess something just felt like it was missing"
"Oh, what, like cigarettes and a mullet?"
A huff expired with tense design, unadorned agitations crowning thorns to slice through Angela’s patience. "Oh, come on, you know me better than that. You're acting like I'm in love with him or something."
"What I just witnessed was one hundred percent some weird foreplay thing."
"Okay, what kind of sex are you having?"
"And yeah, I do." Eliza leaned far onto the lustrous surface of the car’s roof, sunshine glistening the top of the vehicle in a blinding effulgence. "I do know you and that's why I'm warning you because right now, you are seriously in danger. Emotionally. Because, little mullet guy over there is only ever gonna be trouble. Trust me."
"Liz, you don't even know him."
Eliza's gaze flickered with a gleam of light, something that looked far too cognate with disdain. "And you do?"
"No!" Angela exclaimed sharply, "But, just because he acts like a jackass half the time doesn't mean that's all he is. It's not fair to assume shit like that. We learned not to judge a book by its cover when we were like five."
Eliza stood unconvinced, leveling a flat stare. "If the book basically screams ‘I’m an asshole who only wants to get his dick wet’? Yeah—you judge it!"
Pinpricks of annoyance deleteriously began to bite into the girl's temper but Angela steadied herself, relieving a harsh breath as she proclaimed, "Look, nothing happened, okay? Chill."
"I just…" The beauty of Eliza's soft countenance became apparent in the morning's glow. Care scrawled its marks in her every word. "You already deal with so much, Ang. And you just started getting it all together. Look, you just don't need some guy's mess dumped on top of yours."
"I know." Angela's frustrations fell to the tide of reasoning. "I know, but you can trust me when I say, me and Billy Hargrove…it’s not a thing."
"Good," Eliza spoke, roving an assessing look over Angela's face, her aspects. "Be sure to keep it that way."
With the quiet sound of their heels clopping against the concrete, they began to steer themselves towards Hawkin's entrance, wary of the time that remained before they needed to part ways. With precarious belief in conciliation, Angela channeled humor as she pressed her fingertips to her lips, uttering with a deliberate smile, "Ah, let me kiss my darling bad boy fantasies goodbye. Taken too soon."
The barest expire of a laugh was Eliza's response, colored by the paltry upturn of her mouth. Silence enveloped them—though it was a congenial, familiar quiet as they attuned themselves to the rustling of the world. And it was only when they'd reached those glass double doors, Eliza's jewelry-decorated hand wrapped around the door handle, that she'd faced Angela, expression so open and vulnerable as she said with limpid conviction, "You're gonna find someone who deserves you. A good guy. I promise it. Someone who loves you just as much as you love him. The kind of guy who says good morning and doesn't set things on fire."
Angela felt the liaisons of fondness swell in her heart, overtaking her as she grinned, teasing as she remarked, "Setting the bar very high, I see."
The two girls smiled at each other, blossoming affection between them. A friend in on another, they stepped into the chilled hallways of Hawkins High School, poised to meet the day. Side by side.
THE DAY HAD PETERED AWAY IN A SLOW CHURNING FLICKER. By the definite chime of the final bell, Angela's spirit had begun to balefully leer at any instances of amiable exchange. Her capacity for interaction dwindled by the continuous demand for pleasantries—the deliverance of which she had all but exhausted. Not to be mistaken, Angela could not be classified as any manner of outcast. In contrast, she’d firmly stuck her claim of position in the school’s landscape. But be that as it may, the day had worn her. Strikingly apprised of the lack of blonde-headed company, she gathered her last resolves and maneuvered through the bustling halls. Dodging around rowdy students, the atmosphere humming with activity, she felt a jaded groan build in the base of her throat.
"Dickhead," Angela murmured beneath a coiled breath, the affront intended for a companion who had left her to fend for herself in this hellscape in favor of attending some trivial extracurricular. Angela felt the betrayal starkly.
The very moment she unfastened the door which led her to the outside, hauling it open with a mighty tug, her chest seemed to cave with relief. Sharp autumn weather greeted her, an icy gale numbing her flesh with each goosebump it raised. And though wearisome, a frail grin pierced her cheeks, carving dimples into her skin. Salvation, at last. The sturdy soles of her Converse crunched against gravel, her feet weaving between and across the swathe of cars and students alike that separated Angela from her vintage Mustang.
Sliding her hands deep into the slits of her bomber’s pockets, she strolled sedately towards her escape, digits curling unhurriedly around the cool metal of her keys. The cadency of some partially-remembered, lulling ballad droned from her throat. Unmoored in her reverie, the appearance of one denim-clad rogue was nearly lost on her as she reached her Mustang.
As if he would allow such a thing.
Sensation befell as the first peculiarity. The feel of the air, the way her body swished through the world, the pace of each exhale—it all seemed to stir. To alter into a volatile spark mid-step, fraught with the tangible zeal of presence. Unseemly power invigorating his imminence. Her hand seemed to still on the glossed handle of the car, fingers slipping in their grip.
Aura preceding himself, the undulating timbres of a sonorous, husky voice were of no surprise to her as the words filled her ears, coming from behind.
“Long day, Valance?”
Her eyelids fluttered softly, the proof of him potent. Her arm had been in the midst of motion, prepared to fully unseal the door, rev the engine, and blissfully cruise towards refuge in a sanctified tantivy. To abscond the capture of draining pressures. Still, obstinance hung resolute with the craving, so much that the desire lingered, a clear fog hazing around her mind—to flee from the stringent detritus of existence, to embrace the relief of loneliness. And yet, it was that meager question, uncurling so smoothly from his tongue, the vivid authority he exuded with only an innate sense of being. Inside, there were shards of her that loathed the dominion he held. This control he enacted over her—that swayed in such abundance, it would make her stall her pursuits. Yet, she too thrummed with ability, the vigor of influence which dangled his own will before her. And she’d ensure its exploits.
In spite of the sudden tension which perturbed her spine, rigidly bracing her body for the effects of him, her movements were laced with the couth of facile grace, feline slowness as she whirled on the heel of her Converse.
Embellished by wisps of twining smoke, Billy Hargrove was before her, mischievous intention bound in his roaming gaze.
His imposing frame was canted against the nearby brick wall, cigarette settled comfortably between his lips, piercing vigil tracking every locomotion she served for his judgement. Lasting in ephemeral relativity, his aspects became known to her. And, gleaming above the rest, an acute satisfaction steeped him in his approach, manifested in the sawed edge of his grin. The heavy tread of his boots resounded like knells, awakening and warning, an omen illuminating all that laid unknown, dressed in a wreath of perilous appetency. When dawn had hailed them in its raw luminance, a scope of filled aperture had sundered them. But now, no obstacles would hinder his undeviating advance, his quest for convergence with her.
The broad span of his shoulders intrepidly emboldened his steady assertion of the space. Rousing command evident in his bearings—this was a man who had long since become intimate with the substance of attention and he remained aloof under it, relished in its value. The palpable tenor of him invaded her advertance, a crepitating impression he incised into the faltering beat of her heart.
Long day, Valance?
Propped against the car’s side, the frigid exterior was an enemy to the newborn flush across her skin. Angela roved her focus along the length of him. Arms folded across her chest as she took in the haughty devilishness of his expression, bolstered there in the depths of his blue eyes. Prepossessing purpose was in his steps. He came to her with cunning motive, an epicenter of coercion she was drawn to.
Yet she matched him with unabashed detachment, her face unchanged, “Depends. You plan on making it any longer?”
Gravel shifted under his boots as he came to a halt before her. The heady scent of his cologne drifted on a tangled breeze towards her. The musk was noted with redolent leather and warm hints of jasmine, encircling her as it meshed with swirls of smoke from the bud of his cigarette. The aroma felt as though it seeped through her clothes, through her very skin.
“I like to take my time.” The words were drawn out, his deep voice winding around them and imbuing insinuation into every vowel.
She watched the way his mouth moved when he spoke, pillowy lips curving to make sly innuendos. “So, now you came to take up some of mine?”
Billy turned his head, gaze cast off towards the side so that she could only take in half of his smile. The parking lot around her was a verb in perfect view, classmates swerving and branching out all around as the school day drew to its close. The trenchant crunch of gravel from stepping feet, the murmurs of muddled conversations, and all the din of cars starting up and veering off were lost to her. Her focus tunneled to that smile. The only tactile portrayal in the scheme of the world that her mind could register. It was soft on his face. Without the cognizance of a loaded grin or those suggestive smirks his penchance threw freely. Genuine delight hooked the edge of his lips. Perhaps that was why desideratum to hide it urged him. He hadn’t calculated it—being amused by her. Angela knew his cause for conversation was fashioned by the belief he could toy with her. Right now, she was banking on that hope. Because if she could maneuver that skill and incite reaction from him, then that meant she too could play in this game of his own construction.
He twisted his face back to hers. A glister of lingering mirth reflected back to her from his bottomless eyes. She studied the way a few blonde curls had fallen across his brow, a contrast to his tanned skin. The way his mouth had sharpened all of that gentle smile to be viciously keen.
She was searching his expression. And as she lazily retreated the acute intensity of her perusal, she realized he had been doing the same.
His tongue swept out over his lips, his head tilting, eyes on the gloss of her mouth. "Heard you were supposed to go out with Doug Belford last night."
There was no question in his statment—only weighted depth.
"Yeah,” Angela sought through the faint hardening of his gaze, the tightening of the muscles in his jaw for his opinion on that detail. “He tell you that himself?"
His grin widened, growing razors. Smoke sedately slipped between his clenched teeth in the moment before he spoke. "He did. And you know what I thought?"
"What'd you think, Hargrove?"
"Thought about whether or not he should know last night, when you two were supposed to be out on that little date," The timbre of his voice grew rough, went lower as he leaned in, his words brushing the inner shell of her ear, "you were with me, in the back of my Camaro. Think he would’ve been interested to hear that?"
Angela stifled the shudder that teased at her limbs. “Should’ve told him.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He was whispering now, the hushed, raw notes in his voice raising goosebumps along her arms. He tipped his chin forward, gesturing to all those surrounding them with that move and the fall of his sight across the blurred jumble of activity. “What do you think all these people think right now? With me and you up against this old Mustang?”
“Okay, it’s not that old–”
“Don’t avoid the question, baby.”
That crucial, endeared nickname hinged on the rear of his demand weakened her knees faintly. Her stubborn nature endured as her only saving grace as she gathered the strained threads of her control. “They probably think you’re harassing me.”
In one fluid motion, his arms had her effectively pinned, veiny hands positioned on either side of her, settled against the hood of her Mustang, another move in the tactic he played. “Mmm, is that what this?”
“Unwarranted approach, backing me against my car, talking in that low voice—I’m honestly a little scared right now,” Angela shot back, the promise of challenge glazing her stare.
“Low voice?”
“You know what you’re doing.”
“I think it was very warranted, Valance.” The smile he wore nearly drove her heart to accelerate past what should be humanly possible. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would say you’re delusional.” She prayed the thick swallow she took didn’t give away her more truthful line of thoughts.
“You weren’t singing that same tune before,” he spoke, purposely giving breath to those memories she’d attempted to press far from her consideration. “Something changed? You think goodie two-shoes Doug is your right fit?”
Angela did not fail to register the dim tension at the end of that inquiry.
“You know what changed? My mind. Maybe reality set in. Maybe I don’t wanna be backed up against a car on a random Tuesday.”
The offer lay there, gilded with promise. But no inkling of desire could be raised to urge closer to it. And by straying from that possibility of turning him from her, she relented a partial grip on the power she held over him. In an attempt to reaffirm the ground she held, she raised a hand, plucking the cigarette from between his lips, ignoring the widening of his gaze and settling it against her mouth, taking a long drag.
“What’s all the point of this, Hargrove? What do you want?” She sewed a harsh impatience into the chords of her reply.
The knowingness that whetted his grin, the way his eyes tunneled to her lips curving around his cigarette was akin to torture. “Wanted to talk to you, Valance. That a crime now?”
“No, but it might have a fine.” A move.
And a parley. “Yeah, what’s the price?”
“Haven’t decided yet.”
“Can I offer a compromise?”
Angela tipped her head, roving her gaze along him in assessment. “I’m listening.”
“I take you out. Tonight. 8 o’clock.”
Her heartbeats skittered into an unlawful rhythm. “Bribing me? Feels dishonest.”
“You want it honest?”
The prospect of his brand of honesty seemed like a danger, and yet she gave into it all the same. “Yeah. I do.”
“Alright, Valance.” His fingers toyed at the waistband of her jeans, curling a digit around a loop and tugging her closer. “I want to take you out. I want to have you in my backseat again. I want a lot of things and I’d be more than willing to show you. That’s the truth.”
“I’m understanding the rumours now.”
“All good things?”
“Anything but.”
The soft huff of laughter he let out lightened something coiled in her chest. “So, what’d you say?”
She examined him—eyes cruising along the slopes and angles of his visage. “What’re we gonna do?”
He teased back, “What’s the fun in telling you?”
“The fun is, you know, me knowing. Me not potentially agreeing to being axe murdered.”
A short shake of his head paired itself with the stretch of his smile. “Trust me. You’ll have a good time.”
“Why does everything you say sound sexual?”
His breath fanning against her cheek, he grinned with a smugness no man ought to possess. “You tell me, Valance.”
A beat slid its place into the moment, drawing on the long churning of Angela’s consideration.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t what, have fun?” He pushed, unrelenting to accept refusal.
“I made a promise.”
“To not go out with me?”
Angela’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Something like that.”
“Well, I never said it was a date.”
“You literally sai–”
“Give me a chance, angel. Just one little chance,” He spoke, a keening edge to his plea. “What’s the harm in that? I promise I'll make it count.”
The full and lusty scent of his cologne seemed to swallow her as she breathed. All of him was simply so much. She wanted to grapple with it, to play at its ends and test the strength of his boundaries. She recalled the exchange made just that morning between herself and Eliza, the firmness of her proclamation against the very boy who she was up against. And Angela learned in that very moment the strength of her will bowed when faced with Billy Hargrove and his own sultry promise.
“Alright. Alright, fine. One chance.”
The plush of his lips skimmed her skin as he softly said, “See you at 8, Valance.”
summary: the night is fresh across king's landing. nesaenya targaryen is left with a mind fraught with turbulence. that is until her sworn knight comes with a distraction.
genre: blurb
warnings: none
notes: nesaenya is my own character. recently started watching hotd and realized i need harwin strong in my life. they crisped my man up way too early. not proof read. just a blurb but there needs to be more harwin strong fanfics out here.
The inky creases of night folded in around the wearisome princess, shrouding the writhing thoughts of her mind with a numbness wrought only by the sight of fresh-born stars. Behind where she perched against the arching windowsill, the sound of rustling fabric and faint clink of armor emanated. The heavy footsteps that followed were like a familiar caress.
When the deep timbres of his voice reached her, a peace settled slow across her.
"You think too loud."
Lazily, she whirled to meet him, gaze tracing his expression and frame. The flickering candlelight limned his silhouette, the wide berth of his build more imposing in the dim illumination.
"Much is deserving of thought, Ser Harwin," Nesaenya carefully let the words unfurl, an undertow of connotation heating her musings.
"Ah, I see," Her sworn shield murmured, drawing closer with every footfall. His movements were tortuously languid, fully taken with intentions that should not escape the confines of her room. His approach did not stall until he was before his princess, the warmth of his frame bleeding into her thin gown and his towering brawn having her pinned to the cool stone of the windowsill.
"Princess," he whispered, breath fanning across her cheek.
A phantom of a smile touched her lips. "Ser."
"Might I urge your mind to other thought?" Mischief engrained its patterns into the offer. "Or perhaps no thought at all?"
His head dipped, the tender press of his lips trailing a burning path along her jaw. Instinct overtaking her, her chin tipped back, the column of her throat his to claim. A soft, whining groan came deep from his chest, and she felt it rumble against her, through her.
"You wicked man," Nesaenya all but breathed as his teeth clamped gently down on her neck, branding her flesh with bruises she would fight to keep hidden come morning's first light.
"Am I not also deserving of attention?" The question fell across her collarbone in a tantalizing stroke. A shudder wracked her frame when his fingers splayed along her hips, sliding high up her torso towards her breasts.
And so, as the night wholly consumed the lovers, the princess directed to her knight all the attentions she could, and her knight gave back in turn.
summary: arthur morgan left their tent before livie woke. when he returns later in the morning, livie tells him exactly how she feels about that.
genre: fluff, blurb
warnings: none
notes: livie sinn is my own character. this is one of the interactions she and arthur would have if i ever finish writing those damn chapters. not proof read. please i literally need this man so bad.
The dawn was kind upon the world that morning, stretching out her rose-tipped fingers across the horizon, bleeding hues in whispers and letting them mingle with the clouds. The breeze was tentative across the prairie, tantalizing as it brushed against the swaying blades of grass.
It ruffled the loose strands of Livie Sinn's long braid, having escaped her carefully folded plait. Those free tresses tickled her cheekbones, dancing along her temples. The camp around her began to rise in slow breaths, movement sluggish, faint, idle voices carried on the wind.
Tinctures of peace washed her, settling that restless fervor embedded between her ribs—if only for a brief respite. Along with that peace, an intimate pang of longing began to fester.
For Arthur had slipped from their shared confines since long before the sun crested the line of the horizon, stealing with him all warmth and safety.
Now, Livie bathed herself in the potent rays of sunlight, in the mindless hope that its heat would perhaps remind her of the warmth wrought from his frame slotted against her.
She harbored a growing displeasure for the mornings in which this routine became necessity—the ones where Arthur was off somewhere unknown to her and she was left waiting earnestly for his return.
She abhorred such a feeling as the one clawing in the corners of her chest. How an emptiness that could not be thwarted inhabited her in his absence. She'd made endless attempts at distraction—tending to small chores around camp, combing through her mare's mane and coat, exchanging half-hearted insults with Marston.
And yet none of it quelled that sensation that a substantial piece of her was lacking. It had begun to prick at her patience, incising the grooves of irritation along her mood. And for a woman with a temper as capricious as her own, such a thing was devastating.
So when the quiet clomping of hooves fell onto her ears and she recognized the pattern of that trotting, Livie did not engage with her desires. Did not move from where she stood poised against the wooden fence.
Regardless of how her heart swelled with relief at the first sight of him.
His worn hat was cast low across his face, obstructing most of her view. His mouth remained on display however. He wore the barest inkling of a frown. But when his head lifted and his gaze dragged itself along her demeanor, the points of his lips turned up just slightly.
Battling with herself, Livie did not relish the image of his muscles shifting as he swung himself off his steed, a gloved hand running along the animal's dark coat.
The pacing of his steps were intentional as he sauntered closer. The way he made to draw out each footfall, to test the strength of her will no doubt.
For she knew he cognized the vexation weaving her expression.
"Mornin', sweet'art."
The languid unfurling of his tongue twisted the greeting into something sultry and imbued it with insinuations she was not so keen to toy with.
Not yet at least.
When his hands found places on either side of her stomach, long fingers splaying out across her torso, she did not evade the touch. But she did not reciprocate it either.
He noticed.
A furrow drew a line between his thick brows. The cobalt in his eyes was swimming with a muddled storm of emotion as it roved across her features—assessing her state, gauging the intensity of her indignation.
"You gon' kiss me?"
Livie Sinn tipped her chin back, watching Arthur register the move as she stared down the bridge of her nose at him. "You left."
"I know." The reply was delivered with a soft breathiness, as though the fact did not reside lightly in his conscience. "M'back now."
His palms slid lower on her body, settling at her hips and folding her closer with a tug, the familiar curves of her figure fitting snuggly against his chest.
"Don't like it none when you do that," Livie murmured, that aggravation dimming in her gaze at the contact. "Up and gone. Jus' like that."
"Always come back, don't I?" He mumbled, slanting his face closer to her own, dipping until his heavy exhales fanned along her collarbone. Residuals of sleep diluted his voice, sifting it with a raw huskiness that distantly made her knees feel weak.
"You pull a stunt like this again, Morgan"—the anger in her tone resonated with a severity that shook his bones—"You'll be sleepin' out in the cold for a month."
The pinpricks of a fond smile curled his mouth. "Yes ma'am."
"M'serious, Arthur. Don't want you leavin' me with no goodbye no more." The sternness in her inflection remained present but it dulled as she recognized the smirk expanding on his face, soothing that rigidness in her.
"Alright," he whispered softly. And unable to delay the moment any longer—he pressed his lips to the pillowy cushions of her mouth, discovering rapture in the way she eagerly moved against him. Arthur pulled back just enough to bind his promise with one last assurance. "No more."
He would've undertaken any oath—no matter its substance—if it meant keeping the bright grin that swept over her features just a moment longer.
summary: livie shows up at arthur's tent in the dead of night, battered and bloody and wholly in need of some comfort.
genre: spice, p in v, hurt/comfort
warnings: none
notes: livie sinn is my own character. this is one of the interactions she and arthur would have if i ever finish writing those damn chapters. not proof read. wrote this when i should've been doing chemistry. wrote something similar to this with arthur coming in to livie's tent and thought i should flip it.
Few chords persisted through the thickness of black that enveloped the cliffside of Horseshoe Overlook, the veil of night having hushed the world. The distance muffled the chirps and rustles of the tall forests, the winds abating. So it be that for Arthur Morgan, the most potent notes were merely the scrapes of his lead pencil against paper and the flat hymn droning from the base of his throat—some half-remembered tune she'd been whispering earlier.
It lay in that fact—the dulled creaks the world has reduced itself to being the only sound—that he noticed the unfamiliar resonance that entered the space.
His figure tensed, instinct urging the rigidness that overtook his spine. His grip on his leather-bound journal eased, in favor of edging nearer to the Cattlemen at his side. But as the thumps continued, they developed recognition. For they were footfalls.
And ones he had become accustomed to.
The quiet clink of spurs ceased as a woman's long shadow cast across the cloth of his tent's flaps. A breath stilled in his chest when that flap tentatively raised, displaying the gunslinger who'd weaved through the midnight and found him.
Livie Sinn's sharp features were adorned with streaks of blood.
By the flicker of his lantern, the battery she'd endured became known.
Her shoulders were drawn in a straight line, her boots positioned firmly, parallel to each other, the gleam in jade irises tainted by the residuals of carnage—her stance all together figured as though she still faced the onslaughts of bloodshed.
"Hey there, darlin'," Arthur murmured nearly inaudibly, voice lulling and wary. "What trouble you get yourself into this time?"
A shallow exhale wracked her frame—her attempt at a laugh. Her gaze shed across the tent, settling on the half-filled pages of his discarded journal. "All the worst kinds," Livie admitted in a faint sigh.
Arthur's brows tightened to a pinch as his eyes roved across her, accounting for the beginnings of a bruise at the corner of her jaw, the split across her cheek that oozed crimson, the tilt of her weight onto her left side.
The image of her in this state didn't register with novelty. In fact, it'd begun to develop itself in expectation. But there was an unsteady stoicism residing in the air around her, infecting the space with its heaviness. If he peered closely enough, he could view the slump of her shoulders under its weight.
"C'mere."
Her eyes drug themselves up to him in a languid sweep—hesitant as Livie examined the emotion contorting his expression. Like he always did, Arthur stood unwaveringly beneath her scrutiny.
And so, her feet carried her over to him.
He reclined against his bedroll, propped against the quilted pillow at its head, vision tracing her movements. She halted before him, the tips of her boots brushing his linen sheets.
"C'mon," he encouraged in a whisper.
Gingerly, she peeled off her boots, unbuckled the gun belt slung low on her hips, and fell to her knees. Bowing against the thin mattress, she steadied her sights onto that journal, eyes kept downcast as Arthur enlisted himself in a perusal of her injuries.
His large, calloused hand raised, bent knuckle tipping her chin up, thumb flitting across her puffy lower lip. He canted closer, his burly frame angled so that only a breath parted them.
She felt the rumble of his words against her mouth when he mumbled, "Gon' lemme clean this blood off ya?"
The quick shake of her head was his only response.
A hum crooned dimly back to her. Slanting forward till their noses bumped, he sighed out, "What d'ya need, darlin'?"
Intention plaited itself into that dangerous glistening of her eyes. Her fingers skimmed along his forearm, mapping along the raised cords of his veins. In one torturous move, she slung her thigh across his lap, fixing herself atop him, feeling the raw, blinding heat where their bodies touched.
The pressure of her core against his cock forced his head back, his eyelids fluttering briefly, his palms splaying instinctively across the curve of her hips. "Livie," he breathed as though physically pained.
"Touch me," she murmured against the shell of his ear, lips gliding across the light stubble of his jaw.
With his orders delivered and his obedience plentiful, his hands slid from her hips to find the shallow dip of her waist. Her flesh was warm, smelling dully of jasmine. This contact, the collision of their bodies as she begun to sluggishly rock against him had him intoxicated, spurring him past sanity into a paradise where only she existed and his only purpose was worship.
Devoted, his mouth crashed to her own, rough and needy. Her lips parted in a stunned gasp when he hastily thrusted up against her clothed center, slipping his tongue into her mouth. The friction drove Livie to desperation, her mind succumbing to only contact and the pleasure it wrought.
In a messy clamor, they tore clothes from their frames, slung about the tent with little heed. Bared to each other, they resumed, this time with Arthur atop her, pressing his weight down, her wrist suspended above her head by his tight grip. He rolled slow, lazy thrust against her core, the soft mewls falling past her lips setting him aflame, the sensation nearly hypnotizing as she scraped her nails down the length of his spine, incising red marks into his skin.
And when they tumbled from that peak together, he drew her close, face hidden in the crook of her neck, heavy breaths muffled against her slick flesh.
"That better?" He whispered, placing a slow kiss to her shoulder, throat raw.
"Much," she replied with the barest hint of a smile.
He doesn't carry around an edge-worn, beloved photo of you slipped into the space behind his vest as if it were the idea of you waiting at home for him that would stop a bullet, not the kevlar. He has nothing of you he can hold when the nights get too dark and the gun steel gets too cold.
Simon Riley has no background on either his work phone or his personal phone, just a black screen. Not of your smile, your precious face. Your number isn't even saved. He has it memorized and any call or text logs with you will only show a string of numbers, not your initials, your name, an ambiguous emoji, or a one word moniker that carries more truth than you would ever believe: angel.
Simon Riley reads the notes you leave for him over and over again until the divots in the paper where your pen pressure carved lightly into the fibers are also present in his mind. He runs his thoughts over them like his thumb over the ink. Every note you write him is burned, held over his lighter until your words are nothing but smoke.
Because when he's in the field, he's responsible for the safety of his team, the mission, and you. The only way he can do that is by keeping you as far away from Ghost as he can. Because Ghost and the rest of the 141 carry a target on their back always. And if the ones with their sights on that target ever aim true then they will only get him.
Simon Riley has no pictures of you, no tokens of you, no evidence that you even exist.
Simon Riley who instead keeps every memory and reminder of you in a place in his heart he's convinced is what keeps it beating. Somewhere where no blade or bullet can reach. They can string him up, carve him to the bone, cut out that cold organ from his chest and they still wouldn't be able to get you.
Simon Riley carries nothing of you that someone else can take.
"Those eyes, clear as rushing water and fierce as the river's flow, stared down at her, meeting her gaze with an intensity that cut through the fog clouding her mind. Blue, she realized, even in the gloaming of the atmosphere. Though not the glacial blue of a winter sky or the harsh steel she'd seen before. This was something alive, something burning with intent. The color tethered her, kept her anchored in the here and now, though—Danger. It seemed to scream. Something about it felt like it held the weight of worlds, like it would change everything she’d ever known. Her hand quivered as she moved her gun, pressing it against his chest, right where she knew his heart beat beneath layers of warmth and fabric."
"Sandalwood and leather and gunpowder."
"His words cut through the fog, hushed and resonant, with that same strange, unexpected clemency, a kindness she didn’t know could exist in someone whose hands felt like they’d held more blood than mercy."
"His movements, controlled and sure, had the kind of ease that came from years of having someone else’s life balanced between his hands and made her wonder just how many times he’d done this before."
"His eyes, that same eternal blue she’d clung to, roved over her, and she returned his gaze with equal dissection. He sat against the wall opposite her, knees drawn up, arms resting loosely across them. His shoulders were wide, his build stocky. Strong—the muscles shifting beneath his clothing attesting to that."
"Thick brows, the deep set of his eyes, a sharp jaw covered in scraggly, stubble of a beard—a scar on his chin where the coarse hair refused to grow. His hair was longer than she’d first pictured, almost brushing his shoulders in its flowing hazel brown color, framing the striae of age scoring his face. He must’ve been older than her then, perhaps a few good years. He was handsome, she discovered gingerly—in a rugged yet conventional way."
"Arthur Morgan was a man to be wary of, to always watch from the corner of one’s eye."
"He assumed a position of casualness but she could see both the weariness and vigilance beneath it, a certain roughness to his edges that reminded her of the cracked wood and rough-hewn stone of the cabin itself. The morning light slanting in from the small window to the side cast shadows over the lines of his face, hardening the set of his jaw and accentuating the soft, almost vulnerable curve of his mouth."
"His voice—sultry, kind, and maddeningly distracting—had begun to dull the edges of her caution."
"That was Arthur Morgan. An intrusion."
"The build of his frame alone could’ve explained the law’s eagerness of his capture, his ceasement of plaguing their profession’s credence. It was in the quotients of heightened proportion, the construction of fine, firm lines of his figure. She viewed it all in the curvature of his pronounced, sloping shoulders and corded, irrefutable strength braiding with the thew of muscle that exuded brawn. All of it refined by the transit of time and labor, the grafts of sheer toiled exertion. That time and labor shone in a display of subdued freckles bestowed against skin touched by the sunbeams. It made the faded striae of years gained wane to vague, blanched filaments that now mapped the grooves of pleated expression beholding her—in a downcast observation that deemed her the recipient. There was a keen ability, an adept aptness of power within him. It was in every breath exhaled into the impassioned atmosphere strung between them like the atoms of air pulled taut."
"Tentative still—the careful, devouring cavities of a color that rivaled the hottest of flame—all incarcerated in his gaze—raised, steadying upon her, engulfing her in a blaze."
"Storms and seas roiled in a way that left her questioning how simple eyes, a mere stare could feel so impossibly inimical yet equally essential. Though within those eyes, that hardset gaze, she observed a dilation of softness. It was slight and inconsiderable yet she noticed it and felt the urge to hold tight to it. It felt like understanding. It was beyond her scope of comprehension yet no less devastating in its effects."
"The gunslinger hadn’t moved. He stood there—the embodiment of nonchalance wrapped in rugged defiance. His arms crossed and that maddening grin curved his features, his weight settling lazily onto one foot, but his brow quirked higher, his smirk deepening ever so slightly, nearly negligibly. Though, the light in his eyes—like glinting steel beneath winter skies—told her everything: he knew. Of course, he knew."
"She could feel his eyes on her, like the weight of a loaded revolver leveled at her skull."
summary: in the aftermath of their passion, Arthur recalls the warnings Dutch gave him about what it means to be with a woman like Livie.
"Someone like her starves herself to survive. And if you're not careful, she'll starve you too."
Arthur grapples with the warnings, all while clinging to her body.
genre: mentions of spice, yearning, dark western-ish vibes
warnings: none
notes: livie sinn is my own character. this is one of the interactions she and arthur would have if i ever finish writing those damn chapters. not proof read. written and deeply inspired by it will come back by Hozier. short.
───────────────୨ৎ───────────────
The sting of Dutch's warnings still pierced his conscience. Knells of danger resounded like the far cries of ravenous thunder. For those whispered cautions wrought from his premonitions came not entirely untrue. For Arthur himself, outside of such counsel, had seen that rotting thing inside her. In the brimless depths of jade irises, he'd viewed the writhing hunger housed in the pits where her soul should've been, a place that howled when it should've sung.
He saw it even now—in the dim amber glow of the room, her body bare and lithe before him. That appetite for darkness was firmed within the very marrow of her bones, and yet it'd receded to the edges of her gaze for the moment. Her features were a peculiarity—nearly gaunt at times, angular in others. Now, they only appeared open. One could've even mistaken that unfurled brow to be softness.
Arthur knew better.
Knew in moments, she'd have him by the throat if she wished.
Women like her weren't granted luxuries of peace, where such things like softness rose from. Arthur'd offered it best he could—kindness, affection, a tenderness he watched her toy with in heed.
In this threadbare hostel room, their silhouettes shed against the walls, Arthur slid a hand to rest against the languid swell of her stomach with each breath, a thumb brushing back and forth across the supple flesh. The luster of sweat on her shoulder faintly gleamed in the candlelight, gained from the reeling of her body against his own. He found himself enraptured with the sight—these shards of her granted through the toil of his care, the injuries he bore from desiring her closeness.
Dutch had quarreled with the knowledge within him. The recognition that this—Livie, these glimpses at her latent depths—outweighed the aches of being devoted to her. But as his palm glided from her stomach, clutching the curve of her hip and drawing her closer against him, feeling the shallows dips of her body fit to him, his conviction bolstered irrefutably.
His dragging sighs fanned against her neck, stirring the delicate strands curled around her ear. The satisfied, intimate murmurs emanating from her frame settled the craving that drove him.
The wind gingerly pattered the glass of the window—as though wary to not disturb them. The purest sounds in the world was simply those notes: the sluggish rasps of their breathing, the reserved winds, and the chords of night that stayed awake with the veiled stars.
That was until the drowsy, half-asleep lilt in Livie's voice slithered to him, dawdling til it reached his ears. "You're thinkin' too loud."
His arm streamed across her middle, tugging her firm to his chest, the warmth of every touching contour permeating through his veins. "Not thinkin' right now," his drawl came tired, content.
"I hate a liar," she whispered, the inflection at the rim of her words slightly jagged.
His heartbeat pulsed against her back—and for that brief instant of pondering—Arthur considered expelling the doubts spoken, the fortokens birthed by Dutch's insight. To peel back the bindings and reveal to her the incisions across his heart. To display every bruise her adoration earned him.
But Arthur had long since quit in his pursuits of offering Livie Sinn a soul. For all she was, she'd steal one for herself. If only she'd extend a hand.
And so, Arthur Morgan embraced this unraveled, tarnished woman with intention, fed her his reverence and in turn accepted the battery she fumbled with in stalking for love.
Livie Sinn yielded what fragments of warmth she had left. And he accepted them faithfully.
"Sleep, darlin'," he uttered soft and pacifying. "I'll tell you when you wake up."
Against him, her figure tensed, her spine straightening, as though gauging the gravity underneath his assurances. But his touch was gentle, his heat soothing, and her trust in him near boundless.
So Livie Sinn—swathed in the comforts of a man who faced onslaughts to keep her—tentatively sealed her eyes and slept.
And for that night, even dreamed.
For her lover was there to guard her from those other things that tended to visit her when rest came.
summary: arthur's been out in town all day on an errand from dutch. when he arrives back at camp, in desperate need of his woman's touch, he finds himself crossing a thunderstorm to reach her.
genre: fluff, minor spice, needy arthur
warnings: none
notes: livie sinn is my own character. this is one of the interactions she and arthur would have if i ever finish writing those damn chapters. not proof read, written at one a.m.
Just past the chime of midnight—when shadows swathed the prairie grasses and only the stars offered fragile light—came time for the heavens to crack open.
The boundless sky cleaved itself apart slowly, a riotous outpouring of hard rain pelting the ground. Thunderclaps echoed through the night occasionally, rattling the earth entirely. They were accompanied by lightning bolts that shined through the floss of the clouds, flashing brightly before melting away into the inky darkness.
The deluge cooled the air. The rainfall so potent it began to stir a chill into the uncoiled winds that sloppily battered the fabric of Livie Sinn's tent. The gunslinger herself remained entirely unbothered by the presence of the storm—if anything, she found comfort in it.
She lay reclined against her bedroll, swaddled in blankets, toying with the fraying edges of the quilt she'd draped across her torso. Sleep teased at her weary mind, lingering just at the outskirts but not fully granting her escape. She focused her attentions onto simpler things—the soft flicker of the flame in her lantern, her silhouette traced against the cloth of the tent by its light. It lulled her consciousness, easing her deeper towards slumber.
Until she heard the boots squelching against the wet earth.
Just outside her tent, steps resounded. They were faintly noticeable, but Livie hadn't kept herself alive this long by not picking up on the shifts in her surroundings. By instinct, her hand slid beneath the thin pillow her head rested against, fingers encircling the pearl handle of her prized revolver.
Pulling back the hammer with a slow drag of her thumb, she rose from her cot, blankets tumbling off her in a heap, the icy air assaulting her flesh. Silently, she moved towards where an obscure outline of man's build began to darken. Revolver tight in her grip, she steeled her will, lashing against the residuals of near sleep.
The flaps of her tent were pulled back in one languid motion. Then, a man stepped through.
The barrel of her gun was leveled to Arthur Morgan's skull when his boots crossed into her sanctuary.
A swollen breath left Livie—mingled with the tenures of annoyance and relief alike, her revolver falling to her side unused. "Shit, Arthur," the words left her in a whisper.
It was then that her eyes fully drifted along his form, gathering the full extent of the state he presented. He stood before her, chest surging with each powerful inhale, his fists balled so tight his bones nearly peaked through the skin at his knuckles, a wild desperation poised in the air around him.
The split on his bottom lip was hidden by the way his mouth thinned into a flat line. The rain clung to his skin, his face slick with water, his caramel tresses plastered against his forehead. The charcoal button up he wore was fixed tautly to his figure along with his matching trousers, the definitions of muscle across his chest and arms and thighs on full display. But it was his eyes that stayed her scrutiny, pilfered her attention and refused to enact its return.
The deep hues of cobalt in his gaze smoldered with an intensity that churned, rigid tension bleeding into the space between them. He had not yet spoken, his mouth firmly soldered, but that raw fervency residing in the plains of his eyes said enough.
Livie's feet riveted her to the wooden planks, not ceding nor drawing closer as Arthur took two heavy steps towards her, sealing the distance that parted them. The heat of his ragged breathing fanned against her neck as his bowed his head, a hand rising to settle against the line of her jaw. Livie felt a droplet from the water on his palm wane its way down the side of her neck, wracking her frame with a shudder.
"Livie," he murmured, throat raw, voice straining with what whined like torment.
She felt the pressure of his lips against the curve of her shoulder, brushing across her clavicle. His mouth was cold, biting into her flesh deliciously. A gentle sigh slipped free as she instinctively tipped her chin backwards, her palm lifting to press against his chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall of his breathing.
When the sodden cloth met her hand's underside, she hissed. "Christ, Arthur, you're soaked through the bone."
"Don't care," he growled, the husky timbres of his words muffled against her flushed skin.
Weakly, she tried to nudge him backward, driving him away with a shove that buckled against his immovable frame. He only drew closer, hands slithering beneath her top, gliding up to splay across her ribs.
"You're so damn warm," he breathed, mouth peppering soft kisses up her neck, his accent rough and worn as it brushed the shell of her ear.
"Well, you're freezing," Livie retorted in a quiet mutter.
"M'sorry, darlin'." He nipped at her earlobe, words tumbling from his tongue lazily, sounding so far away as his eyelids fluttered shut. "Gimme mercy. Battled a storm for you."
"Don't know why you did that." She whispered honestly, her fingers coming up to comb through his sopping hair, tugging gingerly at the roots. "Could've waited til the morning to see me."
"Couldn't," he groaned, a hand sweeping behind her head, gripping her neck at its nape then continuing the journey of his mouth along her jaw. "Needed you now. Don't give a damn 'bout the rain."
With her fingers corded in his hair, she yanked his head back softly, forcing his gaze to steady on her own. His cobalt eyes were glazed with a hunger rippling within them, fostered in shadows made by the dim light of the lantern cast across his face. "And what do you expect from me?"
"Whatever you're willin' to give up," he mumbled roughly. "Don't care what it is. Jus' need'ta feel you."
Her gaze flitted down towards his puffy mouth, lingering on the angry cut along the near center of it. It probably stung with each kiss he pressed into her skin.
"You need it that bad, cowpoke?" Livie inclined her head, dipping her chin, parting her lips.
His own sight was fixated on the way her mouth moved as it shaped the question. It registered slow. "I need ya, Liv. Need ya bad."
Her lips brushed against his—taunting, torturous.
"Please."
The keening sound left him. And, it undid her.
She crashed her mouth against his—tasting heavy rain and traces of salt. She slanted her lips as his burning grip on her body tightened harshly, pulling her flush against him, making her gasp at the cold wetness soaking her own clothes through, the sweet heat of her breath against his open mouth. His tongue hungrily slid along her lower lip, probing before sliding inside, licking at her own. She was set aflame by his touch, this contact, the sound of their panting filling her small tent.
Then after a few scattered heartbeats, she retreated for a moment, smiling against his mouth, teeth grazing the soft skin. "S'pose it's time I get these wet clothes off ya."
