#Bulk Leather Jackets

[crumbleclub]

So sorry for the confusions. For them their middle aged but like in the 40-50s. And their not fused their married tho

they haven't changed much.

[shotmrmiller]

being at a restaurant because of a blind date set up from a friend but the thing is you don't remember his name, or what he looks like- did she even tell you what he looks like?

you quietly sit there, fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the polished mahogany tabletop, your wine glass stained red with tonight's indulgence, stands as empty as your stomach. just when you're about to wave a hand to your waiter, a massive brute of a man crashes into the chair across from you with so much force that you can hear the wood groan under his bulk.

he settles into it, unhurried, as if he wasn't 20 minutes late, his worn leather jacket creaking as he does before leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table, and the silver wear rattles with the impact.

then he looks at you with an unsettling intensity, irises so dark they blend into the pupils and asks if you've been waiting long.

you've a mind to leave him there but you're hungry- starved, really- and he's going to cover the check so you might as well stay and get your free dinner. "doesn't matter now, does it?"

you shoot a quick text to your friend, telling her that he- simon- is here and slip your phone back in your bag, not reading the messages she sends back until the morning after, when your head pounds in rhythm with your sex.

who's simon?

[hanasnx]

MINORS DNI 18+

! ── BABY DADDY!JASON TODD who can't come around more than once or twice a year. His way of life isn't sustainable for a home, and it certainly isn't safe for a daughter. You and him decided it was best to part ways before that positive pregnancy test, and since he discovered a kid he helped make it didn't change his level of involvement. He's got a lot of eyes on him, and he can't draw attention to anything important to him.

! ── Your daughter adores him. She squeals with delight every time he visits, running full barrel towards him so he can scoop her up. Unbeknownst to her your concern with how he found you again, and how he broke in to the apartment. Apparently running and hiding is not enough when you face the Red Hood. You reluctantly greet him with a half-assed kiss on the cheek, wrapping your arm around his neck to incline him towards you. Your daughter on his hip takes full advantage of hugging you both at the same time, and pressed against your former lover makes you tight-lipped.

! ── He's dangerous for a number of reasons that span beyond what any angry enemy of his would do if they found out where he's been going. You're most afraid of what he's able to make you do the longer you're with him. Only able to hold onto your anger for so long until he melts that cold exterior and somehow convinces you to let him warm your bed again.

! ── He's got it down to a science. As soon as you give him that scathing look, he tells your daughter to run along because "Mommy and Daddy have to talk." while she thoughtfully strokes his chin with her little hand, only to nod with an audible sigh, shaking out her wild hair she won't let you brush. With a little push to her back, she scampers off to her room and he stands to his full height. "I just wanted to see her." he tells you, with that pleading tone you've fallen for countlessly because he knows you're going to say: "It's not safe." for the thousandth time.

! ── He'll tower over you, incline towards you while you scold him under your breath. A hushed argument ensues that your daughter tries to listen in on, and can only hear bits and pieces about how she's not owned, and her dad should get to see her. Stuff she doesn't understand, especially because she can't understand his lack of presence being such a complicated thing when she has no sense of object permanence. If a dad refuses to be there more, it's a problem. You want to cut Jason out completely. That's not fair, as he'll tell you, to the daughter you get to keep.

! ── It's in the way he stands next to you. He's so much taller than you, broader, and muscled. He bulks up more and more every time you see him. He doesn't use his size to intimidate you, rather takes advantage of something else. Big hands stuffed in his back pockets make his leather jacket sit on his wide shoulders exquisitely. His hair is windblown from his motorbike and just the smell of him has a dangerous Pavlov effect on you. Like your eyes want to flutter as they roll into the back of your head and lightning shoots straight down to your core, stinging at the memory of what it's like to be filled by him. The longer you're with him, the thinner your resolve becomes. It evaporates in front of you as he sweeps a hand through his hair, and his posture slacks. "C'mon." he drags out the word playfully, advancing on you. Your hand interrupts him, bracing on his firm chest to keep him from coming closer. "Can't we talk about something else? You're getting me all worked up. Missed you."

You roll your jaw, that resolve slipping. Addicted to him, you're reticent as his tongue darts out to wet his lips while he's eyeing yours. "Jay..." you murmur, and he can hear the defeat in your voice.

! ── "Lucky we got a sitter, huh?" Jason's smug voice cuts through the wet sounds of sex that fills the room. "Now I get some time with my other little girl." That sick delight causes you to reach back, weakly banging your fist against his thigh. He snickers, wolfish and husky resounding from the back of his throat. "Mommy's been missing me, huh? Can feel her clenching down on me like a fuckin' vice."

His thick cock hurts stretching you out, but you needed that pain. There's something about Jason that keeps you saying yes, and it pushed through your requirement of foreplay, unbuckling that belt in haste, comfort be damned you wanted that dick. You're on all fours and he's giving it to you from the back, just how you like it, fucking you like a dog while his hand tangles all up in your hair. He yanks you back by it, and you can't even think of what to say other than mindless pleasured babbles.

"You let me do this every time I come over. Seems like you fuck with me or something." It's true, regardless of the cruel insults you've thrown at him to get him to stay away from you, it's all because you can't say no to him. It's the reason you got pregnant, it's the reason you can't run away far enough, and it's the reason you fuck him every time he comes to visit the kid he helped make.

[ahqkas]

hey goergous!! I've been BINGING your writing on the batboys and I absolutely love them!! Is there a chance you can do Costco runs with the batboys? Weird idea but I was just at Costco and was thinking about it hahaha!! Thank you!!! ❤️🦇

♯HEAVEN IS A PLACE ON EARTH WITH YOU ( the batboys accompanying you to costco ! )

— gn!reader, bruce & dick & jason ( separated ), i had to google what costco is so i hope i got it right !! fluff, this is so short i’m sorry 😣

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

. . . BRUCE WAYNE !

THE MERE IDEA OF BRUCE WAYNE IN SUCH A SHOP WAS AS SURREAL AS ENDEARING. it happened during a simple saturday morning, still when many people were busy sleeping in, when you got to the task at your hand: grocery shopping.

you glanced over at your company, noting how his well tailored black sweater and dark jeans contrasted with the whole place and its contents. his classy clothing looked so out of place among the sea of puffy jackets, hoodies, and sneakers. yet, as always, he didn’t seem to mind. he almost looked comfortable ( if you could call the expression on his face by that word ) by your side, but you had your suspicions it was only because he was with you.

he pushed the cart with one hand, his other resting warmly on your lower back as he guided you through the place like he knew exactly where to go. you’d begged him to come with you—not because you couldn’t do it alone, but because you were curious about him in such a place. the idea of bruce wayne, a billionaire who owned sprawling estates and could have groceries delivered with a snap of his finger, was far too good to pass on.

bruce picked up a bulk-sized box of protein granola bars and studied it like he was deciphering a riddle from the riddler himself. “do we eat these?”

you tilted your head towards him, eyes flickering between his handsome face and the bars in his hands. he managed to look good even under those fluorescent lights. “i eat them. you inhale them after your patrols.

a flicker of smirk danced on his lips while his free arm tightened around your waist, tossing the box into the cart with a nod of his head. “point taken, sweetheart.”

. . . DICK GRAYSON !

the idea to shop at costco was his.

it was funny to watch him move through the shop, one hand pushing the cart while he held your hand with the other. ( “costco? are you kidding? i love costco,” he’d said with excitement filling his voice, practically dragging you out the door before you could protest. ) . now, you were strolling through various aisles with your boyfriend. dick was dressed in his usual hoodie and jeans, although you knew he was hiding his suit under the casual clothes. his blue eyes sparkled whenever he discovered something that was ‘essential’ for your home.

“do we really need a 10 pound tub of peanut butter?”

“we do now.”

it was nice seeing him like this, doing normal things like shopping for once. he scanned the rows of fresh fruit like a normal guy instead of the acrobatic vigilante who swung through blüdhaven’s skyline every night. dick picked up a bag of green apples and tossed it into the cart. they’d bruise, no doubt. “do you approve of these?”

“i approve of anything that gets you to eat actual food instead of protein bars and instant noodles,” you pinched his biceps, feeling the muscle flex under your touch.

he swatted your hand away. “hey, i make a mean bowl of mac and cheese.”

“you mean you open a mean box of mac and cheese.”

dick shrugged with an ashamed smile on his face, hand reaching out and picking up a tub of pre-cut pineapple. “there. that’s balance right here. carbs and fruit. meal prep done.”

. . . JASON TODD !

THE TRUNK OF YOUR CAR GROANED UNDER THE WEIGHT OF WHAT FELT LIKE AN ENTIRE GROCERY STORE as jason hefted yet another bag onto his shoulder, the plastic handles straining under the bulk of sparkling water. his leather jacket creaked with the movement, and a few stray strands of his dark hair fell across his forehead as he turned to you with a playful look on his face.

“explain to me again,” he drawled out lowly, “why two people need this much stuff?”

you shrugged your shoulders and leaned casually against the car while sipping your iced coffee, looking far too pleased with yourself ( which you kinda were ). “because it’s costco, jay. you don’t go in for just a few things. you go in, black out, and come out with a year’s supply of paper towels and enough food to survive the apocalypse.”

your boyfriend huffed a laugh at that, shaking his head as he grabbed another bag, this one balanced with a carton of eggs and a bag of frozen chicken nuggets. “pretty sure you’re prepping for more than just the apocalypse. you’ve got enough granola bars in here to feed an entire boy scout troop.”

“don’t act like you’re not going to eat half of those on your next patrol.”

jason ate like he was the entire boy scout troop.

“fair point,” he admitted and you watched as his lips twitched into a smirk. jason had this way of making even the most normal activities feel like they were charged with a kind of electricity. the way he moved, the way he joked — it all carried that signature side of him.

[lyonnerileyauthor]

the minotaur, the orc and the werewolf

you went to the punk show by yourself because your favorite band was playing, but none of your friends could go. you know you look out of place, but you couldn't care less what others think of you.

you dance alone, enjoying the pounding music as it washes over you. but soon you're dwarfed by a tall shadow: a minotaur with broad horns, dressed in a ripped jean jacket and leather pants. he joins you in your one-person mosh pit, and you dance together, or as "together" as you can while you're both going wild.

soon, the two of you are joined by a third—an orc in heavy black boots, with gold rings on his ears and tusks. his leather jacket does nothing to hide his bulk. he slams into you, making you giggle as you collide with the minotaur.

they pass you between them, their hands touching more and more of you as one song blends into the next. but the three of you haven't gone unnoticed. a werewolf watches from a few yards away, a thick spiked collar around his neck.

you wave him over. there's plenty of room in the pit, after all. with a fanged grin, he throws himself into the mix, nearly knocking you over—but the minotaur catches you. he doesn't let you go as he rubs his crotch against your ass, and you can feel his thick bull cock through your clothes.

it's not long before the orc is in front of you, running his big fingers down your body. the music throbs faster and faster, drawing them both in closer, pushing your bodies tighter together. but the werewolf lingers, unsure where he belongs now.

the orc grabs him by the arm and brings him into the fold. now you're surrounded, three monsters with their hands all over you, their breathing growing faster and heavier. they don't hide how much they want this one little human in their midst. you barely notice when the show ends.

come home with me, the minotaur whispers in your ear, and I'll show you a good time.

no, you should choose me, the orc says, pulling you away. the werewolf shyly steps back, unwilling to make his own case.

but you have a third proposal: that all four of you go back to your apartment together. the werewolf's eyes light up at the suggestion of including him.

with a huff, the minotaur agrees. the orc smirks, immensely pleased with your decision, and all four of you leave together.

pt 2

[1800titz]

ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ — ʟᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ/ᴍᴀꜱᴋ ᴋɪɴᴋ

KISS ME | Stalker!Harry x Reader, purge au

You left him with a taste of you lingering between his teeth, after the first time. With his appetite, it’s only fair he comes back for seconds.

★18+

I don't know what possesses me to write a psycho sicko every time the pumpkins start rolling out onto the doorsteps (see Hitchhikerry) but there is simply something in the air, I fear. This is ᴋɪꜱꜱ ᴍᴇ for the KINKTOBER projects.

PLEASE read the warnings, and please put yourself and your comfort first and foremost. Consume only what you’re comfortable consuming. This one is not intended to be read as a love story, and has sensitive topics, dark themes, and *dubious consent.

If you enjoy this, consider checking out my patreon masterlist, constantly being updated, with loads of exclusive content. If you would like to see the other KINKTOBER projects and join the taglist for upcoming projects, do so here.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: dubcon. stalking. sexual assault. coping with sexual assault. under negotiated kink. unsafe sex (no use of condom, no negotiation prior). manipulation. mask kink. leather kink. daddy kink. breeding kink. p-in-v. oral (m to f). general manhandling.

WC: 12.3K

As always, Harry is just a faceclaim.

Spring is bleeding out onto the tarmac. 

Gold and liserian and bluebonnet. Midnight and cherry-red massacre, seeping into the gutter grate with the sky glowing like a peachring. 

Spring is bleeding out onto the tarmac. It’s unstilted, and smells like rust, and kerosene, and Summer feels a hundred miles away. A thousand, like sunrise on the twenty-second, milliseconds seeping like sand through a clogged hourglass. Like someone wedged their sticky fingers in through the top and stuck a piece of gum to the narrowed opening.

The miasma, even days later, when waste management hordes the lily-white cadavers into semi’s and street sweepers come out to pressure wash the asphalt, burns your nose like you’re huffing acid. 

And it feels like God cupping his hands around the continent and squeezing every ugly, brutish thing out. You wonder if the blood seeping between the asphalt slates sticks to the grooves of his palms. His fingerprints, casting massacre into the pitch sky, smudging asterisms together. You’re supposed to feel the holy spirit. 

(Feel it— don’t you feel it?) 

At the back of your tongue, in every empty room, like a nebulous haze of goodwill and unconditional love. When you were a kid, you wondered why feeling God didn’t make your skin itchy. It would, right? If the body of Christ stalled at your nape, looming over your shoulder. You were raised catholic, so it still lingers and sticks to the nook of your periphery like an oilslick, no matter how hard you knuckle at your eyes. 

You wonder if it’s that same holy spirit they’re tasting in the heme when they cough, supine on the sidewalk. If it’s God’s liquid love, righteous across every capillary, with the swing of a sword. A forefinger on a trigger. 

That’s what they say, anyways. Last Tuesday the blonde lady on Fox news said it was always God in our veins on the night of the holy purge— feel God (transubstantiation like a distant, muffled folklore ringing in your ears) cleanse your soul. Fox news always starts to lean on epistemic justification in Spring, and you wonder if people believe God is scrubbing them from the inside with a bathbrush. You wonder if they really even believe in God, anyways, when it’s all just a mangled apparatus for population control. 

(But God wants them to kill the poor people, right?)

Last spring, a man broke into your apartment. 

Charcoal bulk. Tapered obsidian. Wide shoulders, wide arms, wide, herculean thighs, in all black. Slate denim. Battered leather jacket. Those massive hands, coated in pure-nightfall leather. You remember them well, because you thought they resembled the thick, sheepskin gloves your grandfather would wear out in the snow—

Nothing besides black on him, besides the cruel arsenic white of a plastic doll mask stretched over his balaclava. Like those ugly, inexpressive porcelain things you’d find stacked up in antique stores. Your gaze lingered on the delirious scripture across the forehead. Kiss me.

He slunk in while you were in the bathroom. Cracked in your front door. You discovered a crater in the shape of his kneecap, days later, when you replaced the broken locks.

You found him on your couch like a stygian king, thighs split, like he belonged in your tiny living room in all his ominous, leathery heft, and for a second, you just stalled at the threshold with your heart at the base of your throat. Eyes wide. In stagnant impasse with this absurdly nonchalant intruder. Between a beleaguered rock and a hard place. He’d cocked his head at you. Dead silent, and your hindbrain prickled with parity of a slasher film clip— the kind you’d peep over your blanket, folded up to your nose with shaking hands, after bedtime. You weren’t allowed to watch the movie, at the time. But you always remembered that scene where the indifference rolled off the killer in lapping, tidal waves before he’d strike and carve a character open. 

Something scratched at your hindbrain. Some hysterical thread, clinging to the falsehood that this was a rancid illusion. A nightmare, limned in butter-yellow off the lamp on the side table. His dirty boots kicked up on your coffee table. Inkblots in the plastic cut-outs of the eye sockets, glimmering like hungry nightfall. Because it was the purge, sure, but it wasn’t you. 

Never you. It couldn’t happen to you.

Hindsight humbles the untouchable, crooked complex you wore on your shoulders. Your head, with your chin held high, behind the glowing string-lights tucked across your blinds and the bleeding street under your balcony.

(You remember you thought God prickled at your nape that night. May God be with you— that’s what they say.)

(God was cold, and it made your skin itch. Maybe he would have been warm, and kind, and you would’ve felt the goodwill and unconditional love if you didn’t ask so many stupid questions in kidhood during bible camp. If you didn’t bury your bible into the bottom of your nightstand when you realized they were justifying their gnarled agenda with the pages.)

You felt sick—

And he told you he didn’t have any interest in killing you. A purr, muffled by layers of stitched cotton and plastic. No interest in all that. Wouldn’t wanna hurt a pretty thing like you. 

Like a sarky paradox to all the formidable space he was taking up, in all his horrifying gear. 

Kiss me.

An irony to the ichor thumb-smudge across his forehead. An irony, you thought, to God with a bathbrush, and the date, and the time, and the uncomfortable, imperfect squeeze of you into the bracket of wrong-place-wrong-time. In your own apartment.

Aren’t you gonna thank me, he hummed, on his feet now, from across the room. Stalemate. Rotten stasis. Deadlock, at his discretion, with you, shaking like a leaf under the archway. 

For protecting you? That’s what he said. 

(If you weren’t frozen in place with the leftovers you had for dinner curdling in your belly— eye to eye with a facsimile of the reaper— you would have snorted. It was just so absurdly ironic that it nearly made your ribs ache.) 

He was so big, you thought, when his shoulders climbed and his chest swelled, under the animal skin. So rigid. You wondered if he was all bulk like that, under the layers, or if the loose coat, and the gloves, and the daunting mien of a predator just made him seem that much larger. You’re not a small thing, but he made you feel as much. Like a dolly. A maquette— a perfect marionette to toss around between his hands on the perfect night, the perfect date on the calendar. 

Lotta bad men around, tonight.

The floorboard creaked under his weight. One step forward. The carpet bristled under your heel. 

Aren’t you gonna thank me for protecting you? 

(Kiss me.)

You remember how you went along. Easy. Didn’t say no.

And you could chalk it up to survival— pure, self-preservational instinct— and the gunfire looming outside your window. No. You remember the swell of panic, the riptide of adrenaline tearing you into a deluge of auto-pilot. Something seeped into the hairline fracture across the line between saving yourself— and your dignity, your pride. 

(Something ugly, and wrong, and so out of place. So warm in a room so bone-chilling.)

You thought you were broken. The two choices, unequivocally, were always fight or flight. 

(So which synapse misfired, that night, that kicked your gears into neither?)

You remember ugly things from that night. It felt like your ribs were being pried open, and he was picking you apart, pinching some raw and deep to pluck it out between leather fingers, until you were squirming in a pool of your own spilled volition. Like milk knocked over on the counter. Left to rot. Curdle.  

Because it didn’t hurt. He didn’t hurt you. 

And maybe that was worse. Because you were supposed to kick, and fight, and scream, and you— 

Didn’t. 

And maybe at first, it was a form of endurance. Survival sense— shutdown, like a generator on its last limb, preserving its own continuance. Just go along, just survive, just—

It’s easier, you think, in retrospect, to justify that. 

What’s harder is that you remember you thought you were broken because part of you, eventually, didn’t want to kick, or fight, or scream. 

(Go for the eyes— that’s what they say— and where would you go, in those inky craters, under the shadows? Like polynyas brimful of tar. You’d drown.) 

You remember the way he called himself daddy— come sit on Daddy’s cock, tell Daddy how good he feels— and you remember the visceral burgeon of disgust swelling in your belly. 

The way it made you revolted, and shuddery, and white-hot. 

Wanting. Slick. 

Because he’s not your daddy. Wasn’t. Isn’t.

You knew it for what it was. A gross game. Meant to debase your conation. This scary man in his scary mask on this, scary night, in your home, here to take something for himself. A flinder of your rib— a cracked piece of bone, here to tuck it into the inside of his coat. To watch your face crease with the juxtaposing blend of repulsion and want, rolling down your spine like rainwater off a downspout, as your cunt fluttered. 

He fucked you stupid on his cock again, and again, and again, until the sun was scraping at the land with its hot fingers, and the corners of your room were white and blue. Took what he wanted, because he decided he could. 

And that’s the game. The brutal nature of humanity crumbling under the weight of anarchy, and unrestricted autonomy, even if only for a night. Bereft morals. Selfish whims.

(And you took it. Just took it. Didn’t put up a fight, not when terror started lagging behind pleasure.)

He ate your cunt, too, just the way you liked. For hours, with the plastic mask tucked up like the balaclava, to the tip of his nose. The hard edge, and the cotton, pressing into your mons when he rolled your clit with his tongue, pressed the flats of his white teeth against it. You remember that. 

His nice, clean white teeth, and his pink lips. 

He must’ve been a pretty man under all the unnerving guise.

By the time the siren screeched at seven, you were strewn on your sheets like puddy across the sidewalk. All worn, and tired, and malleable, which he seemed to like. Panting, sweaty, tacky. Covered in him. The sticky, pearlescent mimesis, like memorabilia. Your pink underwear dangling out of his pocket like a perverted token to pin up onto his wall like a poster, after. His hard, leather fingerprints, blooming across your soft love handles, where he held your bones in place (but you didn’t need him to— not when you were so willing to placate and assuage and give). The chiaroscuro made your ribs rattle when you breathed deep. 

You stared at the popcorn ceiling when his belt buckle clinked. Slotted himself back together, into unobtainable nightfall against the backdrop of daytime. 

There’s a lot of things that stuck with you from that night. He didn’t hurt you, and your skin stayed sealed, but according to everyone, a part of you maybe-died, or that’s how you should feel, anyway. So, you wondered if that gangrenous part of you was severed off, bleeding out onto the carpet. Between the floorboards, staining the ceiling of the apartment on the floor under yours. A nebula of rust red across plaster.

(You thought it was severed, because at first you didn’t feel it. Anything. Nothing. Numb. Pinpricks across your psyche like your hand when you slept on it the wrong way. Maybe he cut it loose when you weren’t looking— when your lashes fluttered, smogged in the haze of yellow string lights, when your cheek kissed the mattress, and sex.)

You remember a lot of things that make your chest feel tight, like cotton unspooling in the crevices of your lungs, and your head feel waterlogged, and your knees brittle. But you remember he told you, before he left, that he’ll see you next year. 

I’ll see you next year, sweetheart.

Like a portent. It should’ve been. In a way, it felt like a reassurance, and you hate that pulpy part of yourself. 

And what can you do? 

You’re a statistic. 

The label feels wrong. Permanent. Like a bumper sticker stamped onto your forehead with gorilla glue. You’re lucky, they tell you, after. What a close call, when you swallow preventive abortion pills and shiver at your own reflection passing in the mirror. You think, maybe, your guardian angel blinked, somnolence searing at the backs of its eyes. Because, maybe, angels sleep, too. You don’t know. They didn’t teach that in church. 

You go to therapy. The woman in the big, sable chair gives you this look. Crinkled countenance pinched in pity. How pitiful, you’re reminded, and how lucky you are to only be scratched by a freight train. You’re not smattered pulp on the railroad tracks, but in the cruel cosm, you feel like jam dripping down God’s hands. 

You ask her if it’s fucked up that it felt good. 

She tells you it’s not. 

But then, you ask if it’s fucked up that a crackled fragment of you, maybe-sort-of-in-a-way, wouldn’t mind if it happened again.  

That’s a different question. 

Because you’ve been mulling that thought over between your teeth, in the hollow gaps between mortified, pale-faced solaces, I’m sorry’s, I’m-sorry-that-happened-to-you’s. It’s been festering, and feels like a chunk of you rotting under the sun. But maybe, if someone tells you that it’s okay—

If you had to do it over— you put it that way, like emphasizing a crease in a sheet of paper, and she gives you another, long, reticent look this time, instead of a response. 

(Because, maybe, putting it that way makes the insatiable itch in your arteries more relatable. Easier to swallow. Easier to tolerate. Maybe you sound like less of a freak, with the tumult.) 

Guilt for feeling pleasure is, apparently, very common, as indicated by the PDF she emails you that night to look over. Rape Victims and the False Sense of Guilt. 

Rape. The word rape, across the screen, makes you flinch. It’s such a small word in the sea of the text, only four Lilliputian letters. Teeny-tiny. But it feels big. Like a big deal— rape, that’s a big word. It’s razor sharp when it echoes behind your skull. It’s ugly, and it ends on a blunt, hard sound. No elasticity. No give. This unyielding, little word that shatters around you in its hideous, mangled phonetics— is that what happened to you?

You’re lucky. What a close call. I’m sorry that happened to you.

Pleasure is a natural, physical reaction. A bodily reaction. That’s what it says.

You can cope with that. Comprehend that. The rest is— loaded. Like an assault rifle, in spring. You don’t know how to peel the pieces apart. You never learned how to take apart a gun.

You know what a bodily reaction is. 

But nothing explains the chimera you chase after— the fantasy, when you’re plugged around two of your own fingers, weeks, months later, chasing the phantom ache. 

Liking masks is okay, but liking masks is only okay if there’s something preliminary about them. Liking to feel small and scared is okay, but only if there’s a safety net, and safewords, and you trust the other person, and know them like the pores across the back of your hand. A stranger isn’t allowed to make you feel this way. 

But liking this— thinking about this, with your head fuzzy and your skin simmering— is wrong. Bad. 

It’s okay, but you need to heal. Something bad happened to you, and you need to sweep your pieces into the dustpan before you start to put them back together. That’s what you read between the lines. It feels accusatory.

(Only, you don’t think you could mold them into the same form, if you tried. Stick them back into their rifted crevasses, when they’re jagged and misshapen.)

The things you feel are, by all definitions— according to the internet, and everyone around you— wrong. Ugly. Sick. You shouldn’t feel anything but nausea scraping at the back of your throat, pooling briny under your tongue, when you think about that night. About him. That’s what you find in the vats of their eyes when you tell people what happened, the stricken shape of their faces. Like you’re broken. Because you are broken. 

Some part of you has a big indigo bruise stretched across it, smarting something awful. Some part of you is fractured ceramic. 

You’re a statistic. A number. A sliver on a bar graph. It feels like throwing yourself headfirst over a rock face. Into a yawning abyss. You splinter upon contact with the water, but it doesn’t ripple around you. Just lets your dissevered pieces wade and buoy.

You don’t go back to therapy after the third time, and you spend all summer burying your esoteric predilections at the back of the shelf. Let them gather dust, because they’re shattered anyways, and you don’t know how to make any sense of the smashed fragmentations. They’re so jagged, they’ll cut the soft skin on your palms up if you cup them too close.

You move when your lease ends in the summer. Not really by choice, but the decision has the weight of all those ruckled, condolatory looks. Those I’m-sorry-that-happened-to-you’s, like flour-sacks across your shoulders. Your apartment still reeks like him. It’s a phantom musk, whispering along your lungs. Cigarettes, and leather, and tangy sweat (it almost feels like it belongs— not unpleasant, like the brine across Poseidon’s abdomen). It’s uncomfortable. You long for it. You’re imagining it, you know that. 

Your new apartment is clean. It smells like bleach, and it has all different locks, and the promise spills in cobwebs behind your skull. You try not to get tangled in them.

And everything tells you it’s wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong— everything. A churning, gut feeling, when you sign the new lease, when you roll around your sheets in the middle of the night with your hand between your tacky thighs. 

You feel like you’re breaking an unspoken rule. You’re supposed to heal. This isn’t healing.

You consider booking that out-of-country trip in March. Week-long, just to stifle the premonition under the heel of your palm. The omen, that was still dripping heady, clotting the air alongside the stifling sound of the zipper closing its teeth together. Crinkling leather when he buckled his belt.

Your mom gives you a call. Tells you to come out to Maine for the weekend. You shrug the invitation off with your phone cradled between your cheek and your shoulder, and your laundry between your fingers. I’m fine, mom. I’m—

Fine. Cataclysmically. Okay. Bleeding out onto the tarmac with every step, like the incipient springtide. 

You cup a posy of daffodils between your hands with wistfulness speckling across your chest. 

You used to love spring. In kidhood, before the heavy, inordinate burden of purge-nights spanned across your shoulders, spring had the delicacy of a flower. The warmth of sunshine beading across your skin. The naivety of pastels. A callow touch of rose-tint.

You always knew living alone had its risks. In an apartment, no less, flimsy and unsheltered by security shutters and the bulwarks of a standalone. A danger, like a yellow warning sign. It’s the same precarious footing that warrants your mother’s calls back to your hometown every spring. 

(The same reason she called you last year. And you— stupid, stupid— didn’t go.)

You don’t know how to excuse yourself this year. Lack of self-preservation? Stupid, callow hope? You don’t know what you’re hoping for. 

(What you’re feeding.)

Maybe it’s the way you’ve been dusting the shattered shards on the shelf. 

Anybody else in your position would be halfway across the continent, and you’re shutting down your flower shop and turning in for the night. Pretending (that you’re pretending) you’re inviolable, like that headspace didn’t get crushed under his thumb last year. The clock ticks on the wall. 

The man who comes up to the register has a bouquet in his hand. A sprig of carmine carnations that crinkles when he lays it flat onto the countertop. He’s tall. Broad. Pretty— the first thing you think of, upon impression, mapping out the ridges of his face, the even slope of his nose, the burnt umber curl that spills over his forehead. Wordless. He stares at you. 

Just stares. Not quite boring into you, but lingering, inkpools fixed. Indescribably. Unremitting.

There’s a familiarity in his gaze. Something that weaves across you in unspooling, crepuscular cobwebs, something that prickles. And eye-contact feels like a stalemate. A competition; who will give first? Your mettle splinters in hairline fractures. 

“Is this,” your smile is flimsy. Brittle. Eyes dipping to the flowers he’s laid out. “…all for you today?” 

He smells expensive. Like amber musk, but something sticks to his scent like an afterthought. A note, in undertow. 

Smoke.

Like he washed his hands, brushed his teeth, but couldn’t kick the odor off his clothes, lingering in the stitches.  

Emotions dredge up from the pit of your psyche like his presence is the metal head of a shovel. Cold leather. A hot touch. Things you’ve left numb for too long, oozing, electric, alive. Your fingers flex on the stems, and the plastic clicks under your hand when you stare down at it. You can’t look. 

“Mm.”

You feel flayed. Raw. Like you’re going to come apart into tatters in the middle of the store. In front of a customer. You cast your gaze up. He isn’t looking at you anymore. Hands buried in his pockets, eyes listing across the melange of flower assortments you’ve got on display behind the counter. And you feel—

Embarrassed. Silly. Your cheeks heat, your heart thundering at your throat. It’s silly. 

“Oh,” you breathe as you roll the bouquet between your hands. Key in the numerical series to the system, “I like these. They’re very pretty. …Looks like today, it’s going to be… twenty-six.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Nothing at all, doesn’t make any motion towards procuring a payment method, and that nagging sense of worry spirals between your brows when you cast your inkpools up to find him staring again. Under your hands. There’s a judder to them. You watch his hand reach into the front-pocket of his jeans, and cull a cashfold. He licks his fingers before he separates the cash, and hands it to you. 

Your fingers brush. You swallow. 

You hand his change over with your fingers twitching. 

“Happy purge,” he tells you. Suddenly.

Your smile wobbles. Creases. Curls back up into a proxy of a cheery mien you have the resolve to upkeep. “Happy purge.”

His fingertips drum across the counter. “And may our souls be cleansed.”

It sounds droll. Wry. Like he’s making a mockery of every piece of propaganda the news channel paints across your screen, a week-long affair in snippets before commencement. You swallow. 

“Up for anything tonight?”

The question shouldn’t nick between your ribs. Scrape into the soft place— you’ll get loads of customers that ask. That participate, affluent folk. Young people, with grease smeared across their smiles when they tell you that they’re excited to exercise their God-given right. 

You shake your head. “No— no. I don’t… partake.”

The silence that congeals between you is suffocating. Heavy. You feel your poise withering. Shrinking back into you, under the weight of his gaze. It’s an eerie stagnancy, and you feel like you’re sinking to the depths. 

“You’re,” you tell him, trying to smile, but it doesn’t meet your eyes this time, “…all set.”

His eyes roam. Openly. Lash across you in bounds, slow, detail-oriented. It’s odd. Makes you feel strange. Finally, they fix on your face. No doubt, creased with discomfort. 

“Stay safe tonight,” he tells you, before he turns, bouquet in hand. 

“Right. You— stay safe,” you rock forward on your heels. The bell over the door jingles. 

You’re broken, but you’re not stupid. You twist the locks when you get home. Double-check every window. Turn off every light that you aren’t using. 

The announcement comes across the TV when you’re in the shower, and by the time you come out, the emergency broadcast has morphed off into a rerun of Friends. You don’t know what to do with yourself. Tuck your knees to your chest and stare at the clock? Roll into the fetal position and pray? 

May God be with you. 

The gunfire outside begins during the credits. You can’t stomach the harrowing scream that seeps across from the street below, so you plug your ears with your headphones, and you blast music until you feel like your ears are bleeding. Hole up in your bedroom.

You can’t discern the feeling that clots in your chest when you come out to your living room, eventually, to find him on your couch. In eerie stillness. Terror? Relief? 

He notices you. Swells when he breathes, all heft, just like you remember. The burgeon of fear that prickles at your nape, making your hair stand on end, you find, clots beside something you’re unable to dissect. For a long second, the both of you just breathe. Observe. 

He breaks the silence. 

“…Come tell Daddy hello.”

Daddy. Daddy— the titular moniker makes you bristle, startling you out of your stupor like whiplash. What are you doing? What are you doing?

You stall by the bathroom door. This game of cat and mouse is precarious. You’ll lose— that fact is brassbound. Undeniable. You don’t know what you were expecting. Why you stayed. You’ve got the short end of the stick, always. And still, you contemplate, lingering with your hand on the doorknob. The stagnancy in biding your time feels like staring at a snake coiling beside your feet. Waiting for it to lash forward. 

You take a slow step forward. Another. He doesn’t make any moves towards you, doesn’t give any indication that he’s keen to sit up. Content with the view of your dread snowballing. Mushrooming. Hands resting across his lap, his tree-trunk thighs split apart. 

Waiting. Watching. 

You don’t expect it when he sits up, grunting, to wrap his hand across your forearm. Lug you forward, into the alcove between his thighs. The brush of leather across your bare skin makes chills erupt across your skin. Manhandling you, like puddy between his hands. You’re supposed to fight, you’re supposed to kick, you’re supposed to—

Scream. You exhale when he twists you and forces you to sit on his knee. You’re stupid. What you’re chasing isn’t healthy.

You think he’s going to ask why you moved. Silly girl. Didn’t think I’d find you?

He doesn’t. 

“Been a good girl?” he drawls, instead, chest swelling in your periphery. It feels mocking, despite the casualness of his tone— unsanded around the edges. The irony of the position has your teeth set, like you’re a child on Santa’s lap, and not a grown woman on his. A petrifying— 

Half-stranger. Almost.

The revelation is uncanny to the way you’re searing under your skin. And there’s a thin line, you think, between coercion, and the way your heart batters a little faster, the way you clench your fingers together to avoid squeezing your thighs.

You don’t say anything. It’s rhetoric, because he isn't finished. He cups your knee under his palm, the dark leather, and says, “Kept your pussy to yourself, mm?”

Not your hands. Not your hands. 

Your pussy. 

The undiluted vulgarity trickles down your nape, makes you flinch, and you fist your hands a little harder, until the crescents dig into your palms. It’s still just as nonchalant, even-toned. But it’s crude, and it makes your face hot. 

Like he owns that. Like you belong to him, in some way.

(And maybe, in some way, some part of you does. That piece of your rib he still has tucked into his pocket from last spring.)

Your heart is in your throat. You turn your cheek. Away. Just enough, but the hand that was on your knee presses against the side of your face. Two fingers, gloved, that pry your attention back onto him. It’s almost effortless. Feels like he’s using hardly any strength at all, has your chin snapping back, and the weight of two fingers, against that groove under your cheekbone, has an ache radiating up into your temple. He’s feeling the ridges of your teeth through your soft flesh. Wrenching his fingertips into the hollow rift between the two rows, and your breath ebs your lungs in soft pants, free falling the gap between your lips. The slick, gummy inside of your cheek twinges under the pressure.

You stare back, and—

You don’t know what you find. What you’re looking for. There’s a hunger in the plastic cut outs, glimmering in the tenebrose, like a predator shimmering in the distance of the thicket. One that’s spent all winter hibernating.

He digs his fingers in a little harder. Makes your head tilt with an ease that makes your head spin. The sound that leaks out of you is embarrassing. So unlike you. So small, and vulnerable, and raw. 

It reminds you of feeling like you were being carved open, like you were having those pieces pulled out of you. Those fragments that you’ve buried deep behind your ribs, all yours. Delicate chattels between his fingers like a thread that he’ll tug to unspool you to the core.

His thumb grazes the corner of your mouth. Your lower lip. Rests there, all leather. It smells like charred tobacco. Tar. 

“Yes,” you breathe. Appease. The word comes out tangled with a frantic note, an exhale, and sounds garbled off your liquified, molasses-heavy tongue. 

Maintaining eye contact is difficult. Intense. Feels like wading a knee-deep morass with how treacly it makes your head feel, but it’s impossible to look away. With the angle he has your head, you feel snared into an unspoken standoff. Feels like you’re caught in a springe he’s laid out. You, with your rabbiting heart, and your ankle caught in a noose. And him—

Those deep-seated inkpools glimmer from the underbrush. 

“Is that right?”

It’s like a car crash, you think, stuck in limbo. A beatific maelstrom of metal scraping on metal. The beautiful, horrifying view, in the split-second of collision. Time in stasis. Slow motion.

You can’t look away.

He stops pressing to rap the pads against your cheekbone, instead, and the thump that echoes in your skull almost sounds hollow. Loud in your ears. The pang lingers in your jaw, like a dull ache, across your upper teeth, the inside of your cheek. 

There’s a split second there, where that bilious feeling slinks into your stomach and coils up, stretching between your lungs. That sick you find, buried under the galvanized cobwebs spooling your sense of self-preservation, like a haze of little, electric gossamers across your synapses. The incipience of a wave of nausea, softly lapping, at the thought that all of this, everything, is premeditated, and the gnarled root of it all sinks so much deeper than you’d ever expect. 

That he’ll know— knows— that you brought another man home last fall. 

It was stupid. A one off, scraped off a bar stool on a Saturday night after one too many whiskey sours, and the sex wasn’t even any good. You don’t remember it. 

But your head feels syrupy. You don’t know what’s worse: this burgeoning fear that you’ve disappointed him with— what? Free will? Autonomy? 

Or the slick ooze of the bone-juddering revelation that settles; he’s probably been watching you. Keeping tabs. 

(How else did he know where you moved? How to pin you under the pad of his thumb with such startling ease? You’re a thumbtack on a paper map, and a petrified part of you wonders if he’s got it— a chart of your whereabouts, your existence snared into a creased sheet— dangling next to the panties from last spring.)

If he knows about your liaison, he doesn’t indicate it. Opting to, instead, graze the shape of your lips with his thumb again, and push in to scrape the flats of your teeth with the leather. It’s gross. Feels strange— leather against the smooth inside of your lips, and when you breathe around it, you feel like you’re spinning out, headfirst, hurtling toward the ground. Something you don’t want to acknowledge rolls over, white-hot, in the pit of your tummy. 

“That’s good,” he settles on, and palms your breast so abruptly that it makes your lungs squeeze. Your throat clicks when you swallow. 

It feels so mechanical. Calculating. Collected. Nonchalantly purposeful— nothing gradual, no build up— like he’s here to reap and take, intent on what he’s looking for. But it’s all a startling, unnatural paradox, considering you were left so overly-satiated last spring, that you almost felt like a mindless shell of yourself. Entirely sapped. The enigma left your head clogged up and heavy for days. Weeks. Months. Your lashes flutter, dusting unfitting bliss across your cheeks like the speckling heat. Like pleasure is bulky, and rounded, and doesn’t fit into the jagged slot your anticipation has chiseled. 

He squeezes the doughy flesh in his hand, and scuffs your pebbling nipple with a side-swipe of his thumb. Then, the other. Long, thick fingers spanning, and coasting across your diaphragm, climbing your waist, the chiseled, swelling rungs of your ribcage, cupping under one of your tits again. He only stops at the soft sound that crawls out of your windpipe. Eyes flickering at the reedy, wanton whine that gushes through the seal of your teeth. The self-awareness makes you wither into yourself. Shrinking. Ecstasy feels like an agrestal parasite, mushrooming between your nerves. Budding in that slope under your navel.

(Wrong, wrong, wrong— a broken mechanism, misfiring. Grinding. Your eroded mettle squealing under the pressure.)

You can hear him breathing. He sounds like an animal. A panting beast. Feral. Untamed, wild, huffs stifled by ribbed cotton and matte plastic. He notches a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and pinches it. Tugs. A gust of your desperate breath escapes through that barren dearth between your teeth when he palms you by the front of your neck and pushes you against the back of the couch. 

It’s sloppy. Clumsy, an awkward angle from where you were on his lap— your limbs flail before you topple, and it requires more core strength on your part than you anticipate to sink back, but it isn’t violent. Aggressive. The coarse denim on his thigh abrades your naked skin when he twists to hover over you. Cushion denting under the weight of his knee. Your neck cranes back as he pins you to the back of the couch by the column of your throat. Head tipped back, nearly dangling over, neck straining. He looms over you.

Just—

Staring. Staring. You stare back and wonder if he feels your pulse hammering with the layer of the leather barricade between skin kissing skin. Like this, the mask is limned in shadows from the slant, and the crepuscular orifices under the plastic are even harder to make out. Harder to gauge. You want to gauge. You want to see—

You won’t have the upper hand. You know that, but prying for the threadbare margin of a hint, a motive, a reaction, feels like digging your fingers in for a last-ditch lifeline. 

His eyes are half-mast. Dark lashes spanned over the glint in pitch, mounted in white. You can’t see what he’s thinking. Can’t—

He reels forward, back hunched, leather jacket crinkling, and you feel the plastic mask tucked to your cheekbone. Your temple. Your hair. He reeks like santalum. Petrichor— the first rain spilling onto the pavement, scrubbing the bloodshed off into the grates— and the overwhelming scent of leather that clots in your nose. His mask scrapes your ear. He sniffs.

And you think, a little hysterically, that he’s smelling you. The recognition prickles in your skull, and climbs up your nape in a shiver. And it feels so— 

Animalistic. Primal. Indelicate. Like any sense of decorum flaking off and shedding like desquamate feathers, and it makes you feel so small. A frisson rides the ledges of your spine. Something shudders across his shoulders. Rattles them— you clock it in your periphery, stunned into subservience with your fingers twisting into the couch cushion. 

He sighs. Hums. Like he’s vibrating over you, buzzing, and the thought has that skein across your lungs tightening. The sound that seeps out of him is brassy. Low. Hungry. And the likeness that scrapes at your hindbrain, through the plume of reluctance and crushing desire, nearly makes you feel delirious— it almost sounds like a dog whining. Like he’s been holding himself back, and your scent is too much, chips an integral shard out of his flinty resolve. 

You don’t know why, but it makes you squirm. Makes your chest roll under him, hips shifting. Your eyes oscillate. Stutter from the ceiling fan to the corner of the room, because he’s smelling you and sounds like he’s falling apart. 

Your throat jumps under his hand. He drums his fingertip under your jaw, and it feels like the tick of a clock. He reels back. Slowly. Tipped over you, huffing with his head cocked. Almost panting. This harrowing monster, quivering in his skin, in all his heft, like he wants to eat you alive. Swallow you whole. His eyes slip. The feather-dust of his lashes kisses the pink-rimmed seam of his lower lashline, and he takes a deep breath, intumescent across the breadth of his shoulders. 

You swallow again, your throat still under his hand. The heel of his palm glued to your trachea. Your jaw arched back, under the press of his fingers. His eyes list. Stall across the apex of your denuded thighs, and the brief blip of pressure across your jaw, your throat, the fleeting restriction on your airway when he levels his weight and resituates, has your irises lolling and tainted gossamers stretching in sticky netting behind your skull. His freehand skates your abdomen. Prods your diaphragm, leather fingers grazing your belly button, the hem of your sleep shirt. Rucking it up. 

The boundary between arm-twisting and downright craving is negligible. It’s a foundation, under you— a poor excuse of a half-wall— crackled in fissures. When your hips hitch at the way he circles your navel, in a way, it feels like crumbled free will. Your own autonomy worn down and corroded by the chemistry spuming your veins (you tell yourself it’s artificial. A lethal injection of dopamine and melanocortin), because it feels like the hunger is pried out of you. Pulled out, tangled on his crooking fingertips. 

(And what do you have to say for yourself, when you need him like you need to eat.)

Your hips cant when he strokes his fingers over your waistband, across the sensitive, soft stretch of skin over your mons. You can still hear him breathing over the bloodrush, like spindrift, across the little, vibrating bones, deep in your ear. He sniffs, gaze pinned to the shape of your quivering thighs (juddering knees, swelling tummy)—

He knocks your legs apart with his thigh, until the plush of them spills around the shape of him. All broad, all muscle, all denim against your smooth skin, and he wrenches one of your thighs up with his fingers under your knee. Presses you back by the shin, with your sole planted on the couch cushion, and—

Like this, he has the perfect view. The perfect shape of your cunt, through your panties. They’re white this year. So unassuming, just a plain bikini-cut in ivory, but you wonder if he’s weighing the way they’ll look beside the other pair, like a sordid tchotchke. 

His eyes linger on it. You can’t see his inkpools, but they feel molten. Heady. Predatorial, and the shockwave riding the slanting arches of your ribcage makes it harder to take in a full breath. Lagoons spilling heat. They surge the soft shapes of your body like lavascapes, melting across your skin. 

You’re wet. You know that— feel the damp heat like you feel the want droning across your bones, lacing your muscles. And the sloppy, saturated shape of your dribbling pussy, behind the thin veil of a gusset, is no exception. You curl your toes. Dig them into the couch cushion. The carpet. Dangling onto the fragility of your self-possession (unraveling), and then he probes, with the tip of his index, right where your clit sits. A meager tap.

Your arousal is a tangible wad in your gut, and he plays with it between his fingers.

Desperation climbs to the base of your throat at an alarming rate. Echoes in your jugular as a thrum when his eyes sway between your face and the shape of your cunt. The shape of it under the entirety of his palm, swallowing you whole, between your legs, when he pastes his hand there. And he can’t feel the way it’s soaking, can’t feel how slick you are, but you wonder if the sheer heat leaches through the layers. 

If he can feel how hot and wanting you are, through the glove. 

He purrs like he can. Trails two fingers along the splitting fjord, your puffy lips. His thumb crooks into one end of your gusset just to let it snap back and watch the shiver roll up through your shoulders, huffing around a thick, rumbly noise that sounds amused. Drenched in humiliating mirth. A crater forms around his knee cap when he presses it onto the cushion. Between your split legs, thigh pressed flush to your cunt. Tight. 

“Gonna be a good girl,” he murmurs, face dangling over yours, and the words sound masticated. Starved. “—and let me eat that slutty cunt?”

There’s a fine line, you remind yourself, between being forced, and whatever the— you don’t want to admit it, won’t admit it, stuff it down— rapacious froth inside of you means.

He splits your lips with his fingers. Pries them apart like a butterfly to pin up and frame.  

Mental snapshots to encase on a shelf, mounted beside your underwear and a pushpin map with your face smattered in uneven, sawtooth cut-outs. All raw, and sloppy, and wet. Gushing down to the cleft of your ass— he can see everything, and his eyes rove like he’s mapping every bit of you to memory, your underwear balled and tucked into the pocket of his coat. Drinking in every delicate detail, your pebbled clit twitching under his thumb scuffing, and it’s so—

Humiliating. 

Embarrassing— shame clots in that interstice between your battering heart and your ribs, that soft spot it’s been dribbling into since he perched you on his lap like a little girl begging for a present. You screw your eyes, cup the heels of your palms over them. You can’t look— can’t—

He moans again. Gives you a heady hum, nearly as slick with want as you are between your thighs. Only, his is oil to your honey. Motor fluid to your syrup— a slippery smear of grease to sap. Rotten. Thick and coal-dark, like tar. Something gritty that catches like sand between his teeth when you try to close your knees. It’s a faulty maneuver, with your feet pried apart on his elbows, and you can only latch your knees, and—

It’s the wrong thing to do. 

A slipshod attempt to preserve your dignity, but what’s the use, when it’s porous enough for him to spew the virulent pollutant of longing for him? Noxious. Infectious. Enough to mill your pride from the inside into a powdered dust. Instead, he pries the folds of your cunt apart with one hand, on two fingers— an index and a thumb— and slaps the back of your thigh with the other. 

Your thighs quake. Plush flesh shaking upon impact, the searing heat wave that robs you of your ephemeral resistance— rolling the thought that this is gross, not what you want— and scorches it through to the core, until all that’s left for you to face is the overwhelming desire.

“Eyes on me,” he grunts. Dour. Unrelenting, until you peer through the spaces in your fingers like you’re watching a nightmare unfold, and let him wrest your knees back apart. “Yeah,” he tells you, hardly over the feather-light weight of a whisper, despite the way it feels like it’s crushing your skull from the inside when it swims your ears. “Just like that. On me, pretty girl.”

You can’t look away, so you chew on your fingers instead. Tuck them between your teeth, toes curling into the cushions. Your sleep shirt is in a discarded puddle of fabric on the floor, beside him. There’s something so uncomfortably potent in nakedness when he hasn’t even discarded his gloves. 

He won’t.

But an element of intrigue gets dredged up into the mist of your yearning when he sticks the pad of his thumb under the plastic chin of the mask to pry it to the bridge of his nose. Speckling the nebula, that clouds you, like stardust. Worse, yet, when he pries the balaclava to the same, angular slope, to show his bare chin, his full, pink mouth, his cupid’s bow. 

His nice, clean white teeth. 

His tongue, slinking out to smear across his lips. Like this, the cut outs aren’t over his eyes, and the pools of hunger are shrouded behind the plasticated layer. He feels with his fingers. Spreads your pussy apart, grazes his thumb pad across your throbbing clit, slick with your own sticky wetness, and you watch him purse his lips before a tacky, wet glob lands across your hood. Drool, dripping down, coagulating at your drenched hole. 

You shudder. Can’t look away— it’s—

Gross. It’s wet, and it’s rancid, and the feeling of it being smeared across your cunt, the feeling of a finger prodding at your rim, uselessly clenching at the air, makes your face crease. Brows pinching. 

(So why, then, do you feel so dizzy from the spiraling wave of your own lust fizzing across your veins?) 

You mewl. He tucks his fingers into his mouth. The same ones that have been smudging the amalgam of your slick and his own saliva, still tucked in that leather glove, and the sound he makes at the taste— pure hedonism, dripping around the plug of his own fingers— has your thighs hinging apart wider. Straining. 

It sounds so— shattered. So desperate. Frenzied. A sound like that, out of him, feels so unco that it nearly wrenches your head back. He groans around his fingers, sloppy, and grunts when he takes them out to feel for your hole, tease a breach with the middle digit, not quite bursting the threshold— 

And God, when he eats, it’s like he’s a man starved. Famished. All animal between your thighs, suckling on your clit, dragging his tongue across your hole, like it’s pure sustenance and he hasn’t eaten in weeks. Slurping around you, bullying your clit between his teeth like he wants to chew you up to spit you out. Rinse and repeat. 

He drags his tongue across you, so obscenely, seam to hood, like he wants you to see. Wants you to watch— wants you to know that you’ve got this horrifying brute on his knees between your legs, kissing on your cunt. Wants that ugly revelation to stick to the inside of your skull like knotgrass spilling across your bones— a twisted thought you’ll never be able to tame out of fruition. You let this happen; let him take. 

(And worse yet, you liked it.)

“Sloppy, little pussy,” he grunts, the words muzzled against your sopping cunt, spilling against his mouth, dripping. Sticking in strings to his lower lip, the corner of his mouth— and he crooks his finger. Notches it against your rim. 

It feels wrong. Strange. Leather against your cunt, instead of skin, when he prods and—

Pops the tip in. Stretches your gummy walls to the first, gloved knuckle. The soft, wet heat of you pulsing around him like a heartbeat is lost on the leather, the barrier between your skin, but he’ll make up for it. He’ll make up for it, he’ll—

“God,” you mewl when he crooks the finger and stuffs it to the hilt, stroking the wet squeeze of your walls enveloping it. 

The brutal ugliness in the concept of this man prying you open, stretching you taut when he wedges his ring finger in beside the first, with a glove on, douses you in shame. Has a white-hot heat spewing, geyser-like, at your underbelly. 

The sounds, though, the wet-squelch of those leather-coated fingers fucking into you, spilling slick and shoving it back in, makes your eyes screw. Has a heat nipping at the apples of your cheeks the way it nips at your cunt when he grinds harsh circles around your clit. It’s too much. Nearly too much when he nicks the razor-sharp mantel of your nerve-endings and hones there upon the horrid, wheezing sound you make, the way your leg flexes out beside his head in jarred reflex. Like he’s punishing it. You. For congealing up in his teeth like an insatiable sweet-tooth he’ll never scrape off his enamel. 

You cry out. Knock the heel of your palm into his forehead. Into the edge of that eerie mask, the kiss me, unsmudged, but he’s unperturbed. Unruffled. Unyielding, the same way the brutal crash of pleasure spooling tight behind your navel, your burning, flexed core. 

He catches your wrists in his hand. Like two limbs of a lamb, ensnared. The most perfect, decadent feast to carry out on a charcuterie board, and the sound he makes against your cunt nearly sounds inhuman. Like a rabid, territorial animal at its mealtime, mouthing off at a hand that tries to intrude. Encroach. Take. The vibrations make your head spin. Dizzy— you’re so dizzy, and you don’t recognize that you’ve been holding your breath until the shuddery cry that tears its way out of your mouth is silent. A hiss of a breath that melts into a long, wet gasp. 

He tucks your hands to your tummy, and takes. And takes, and takes. It belongs to him, right? The garbled slur that slips through the negligible gaps between your teeth sounds fucked stupid, and he hasn’t even split you apart on his cock. 

Your fingers twitch, pressed to your mons. Try to reach— to pry— hips canting back, forward, away, into. Against his slippery chin, and his tongue, and his unrelenting mouth. 

And oh, how you unravel, under his jaw, like you belong there. Under his hands, and the tip of his nose tucked to your mons, and the flats of his teeth, grazing—

He doubles down when he feels the pop— the release— your pretty, little cunt fluttering around his fingers, sucking them back in on every twist out, like a vice.

It starts on a long, wilting mewl. A desperate note that laces across your vocal cords and seeps out, not by your own volition, and ends on a gasp. The cord snaps. Too taut. Too much. The ripples of the aftershocks, lapping at your core, red-hot, sloppy, and spent, and overly sensitive, crescendo into a horrible ache when he suckles over your clit. Draws a searing stripe across your nerve endings with the tip, stifling groans into your puffy sex. 

You squeak. Tremble, toes tensing. Flexing. Hips arching back, trying to scoot away. Off. 

“I— came,” you bluster, but it sounds hoarse. Distant, in the thundering thrum of your vertiginous headrush. “I—“ you try again, hips canting, and he swipes out with his tongue, catches something raw and smarting on the fleshy edge. 

You jolt. Spine twisting, distorting pleas between your teeth you’re swishing them across your gums. You wriggle your foot, wheedling it under the space where his mouth is flush with your cunt. “I— please—“

He wrenches your foot back into place so aggressively that all you can do is make a pitiful, helpless squeak. Lashes fluttering, writhing, gnawing into your lower lip when he rolls his tongue across your pulsing clit. The sound that rumbles across your core rattles you down to the marrow. It feels like he wants to chew you to the bone. 

And when he pops off, finally— finally— panting like he’s had his fill, sucking at one of your lips until it’s tender and kiss-bruised— satiated this quenchless thirst that riles in the apertures of his skeleton, humming in his musculature— you breathe. Just breathe. Catch it— snag it. A soft repose in recompense for the throb in your guts, between your legs. Crystalline beads hover, sprouted from the corners of your eyes, streaking across your lash line. Your gaze is lachrymal. Pools of an unspooled bliss, mottled overwhelming, shimmery and red-rimmed. 

And the breath you’ve been catching—

Is forced out from between your lips when his hand lurches. Pins you, supine, to the couch, fingers spanning your nape. Heel of his palm at your jugular. The abruptness of the motion has your heart lurching to your throat. It nearly kisses the shape of his hand.

(But you suppose, if that cracked bit of your rib belongs to him, then maybe a sliver of your lung does, too.)

Somewhere between the dazed stupor of you, panting like you’ve run a marathon, and laying you out on the couch, he’s fixed the mask back on. The balaclava. And the crass, dirty thought that his chin is still slick under the cotton, making it sodden, and hot, and tacky to his skin, seeps across you and cakes like cement. 

He stares down at you through the cut-outs. Your heart is a hummingbird behind the rungs, trying to break free, and you feel it in your pulse, where his thumb strokes. You wonder if he can feel it. You’re still in that balmy, soggy headspace with your muscles pliable, your head heavy. A pastiche of heaven in a come-down, roping its way across your bones and smogging your hypervigilance. 

You’re less unnerved to be stared down at like that— like you’re a meal for him to chew apart between his teeth, like he’s contemplating every possible scenario and picking through to find the prettiest position to put you in, how to grind out the prettiest sounds— with your head feeling like it’s liquified.

Your lashes flutter. You trace the seams on the ceiling, where it’s been repaired for water damage. Maybe someone bled out on the floor above, you think. 

But the warmth of the evanescent fog doesn’t curb the note of nervousness that paints its way into your respiration— like bleeding watercolor— when you hear his hands on his belt buckle. See the way he hovers over you, so large, and indomitable, eyes potent and intoxicant. Hungry. 

(He’s sated his appetite enough to hold him over, bar him from tearing you apart, but he’s still hungry.)

“Think it’s about time you start to give back, sweetheart,” he tells you. Dripping ichor-thick with want. Like blood melded with syrup. 

Even with apprehension dancing across your mind, you want him to fuck you. You want him to stretch you fucking dumb around his cock, just the way you remember he did—

But his next words make that reluctance buzz a little louder in your hindbrain. Alarms. The blood-curdling croon of the siren.

“What do you think, mm?” he mulls aloud, tracing the pad of his finger across one of your pebbled nipples, then the smooth, unmarred skin of your tummy, pausing over your belly button. “Should Daddy make you a mommy this time? Make it stick?”

Your gasp sticks to your throat. Tangles between your tonsils. Your nostrils flare when you try to take a deep breath as indemnification, and you blink up at him, you find nothing but firm resolve in those voids. Abysmal, and unrelenting. 

“I— can’t… have a baby,” you croak, a touch incredulous, but you sound alien in your own ears. Like you’re drowning. 

He cocks his head, tipped down at you, with that ugly, ivory mask. “Sure you can. That’s what you’re built for, isn’t it?”

And the degradation, being stripped down to the metal cogs, the tender technicalities of your biology, makes your cheeks blister. It’s demeaning. You hate it. Hate him, you hate him— something molten rolls in your underbelly. 

(Something hot lingers between your thighs.)

You feel your legs dipping when under the weight of his crowding closer, between your split thighs. Bent at the knee, feet planted. The couch creaks. And when the coarse brush of denim kisses your naked skin, you feel the heat from it like a furnace. 

“No,” you tell him, eyes carved into narrowed slits, and the demand in your own voice makes your bones tremble when you hear. You suck in a breath. 

He blinks. Something flickers, congeals, in his eyes, almost like you’ve stunned him with your gall. Your unrestrained defiance. And there’s something uncomfortably stifling in his gaze, searing down at you, when he tips his head. Almost like he’s contemplating your response. Rolling it between his fingers. His thumb draws a feather-light line over your mons, across the stretch of skin where your womb is buried under the soft layers of muscle and fatty tissue. 

“How do you think,” he kisses his teeth behind the layers— a muffled sound, but one you pick up on with your heartbeat in your ears, “it works out if I take you now, and they find you later? Keep you all to myself. Cancels out, doesn’t it?”

The indirect threat, framed as a hypothetical happenstance, makes something curdle in your blood like sour milk. The bile rolls in the pit of your tummy, and you feel your throat squeeze. Your exhale is a weak hiss. A wheeze, because you feel like the breath has been knocked out of you, alongside the foolish temerity.

The finger that’d traced a line across morphs into a hand, and he presses the breadth of it to your underbelly. Big. All leather, broad, your belly button peeking from the wedge between his digits. 

He sighs, and takes the hand away. Works it back over his belt buckle, until the tails are free-standing, bifurcated, and his fingers work over his zipper. It’s a huff that swells his shoulders, and you’re reminded just how big he is, over you. How massive. How staunch to his ideas— you wouldn’t stand a chance. 

“But maybe,” his head bows to watch where he’s working, and his tone is thoughtful. Menacing. Saturated with condescension, the same way you’re drenched with the remnants of your gushing slick, between your thighs. He meets your eye. “They wouldn’t look at all. Awful lotta people go missin’ altogether, tonight.”

You blink. Squirm. Thoughts of you, swollen and pregnant with his baby— chain-linked to his wrist, to a dreary, foreign bedroom like a dog to a doghouse in a backyard— makes you vitriolic. Angry. 

Horrified. 

(So why, then, does it make your head fuzzy? Kindles crackle at your underbelly, where he pressed his enormous palm.)

“No— no. I’ll be. You can—“ you shake your head. Try again. Placate. This is a gun, broken china on a back shelf. You can’t dissect it for what it means. Your ribcage shakes. “You can do— anything. Please.”

You imagine he’s sneering at you from behind the mask. Under the balaclava, lips crooked, when he tucks a thumb into his waistband and frees his cock. One hand squeezing at the root, stroking up. The motion has a slimy glob of precum blurting from the tip. It’s thick in his fist. Heavy. Mushroomed ridges vivid pink, long, fat. A little lopsided, skewed slightly to the left in his hold, arching towards you. 

He didn’t make you suck it last time, but you wonder if he will, tonight. Gag the bold subversion out with the subtle flex of his hips, your insolence— you, stupid, little thing, telling him no— with his cockhead spewing against the gummy wall at the back of your throat. 

The view makes you dizzy. Like you’re staring up to the summit of a mountainside with him looming over you. The peak that crawls over you, so tall, and makes you feel so insignificant. 

Those liquid gemstones have shed across your temples, but you don’t recognize it until his thumb swipes at the corner of your eye. A pillow-soft caress. It’s almost tender. Almost. Deliriously, you watch him smudge the same thumb, brandished in your tear, along his cockhead. The wet thumbprint coagulates with the slick there, weeping from his slit. 

“‘Course I can,” he tells you. 

There’s no gentleness in the way he manhandles you, then. Wrangling you, by the scruff of your neck, into a hover across his lap. Positioning you how he sees fit, with him seated back on the couch, and you dangling over his cock, angled up in the seal of his palm. Your knees split across either side of his lap. 

“But mum and dad,” he grunts, and when his cockhead prods against your seam, you gasp, flinching up. “should stick together. Don’t you think?” 

He drags it forward, smudging it against your spent core, and it catches on your clit, the overstimulated nerve endings there, enough to make you shiver. It wracks up your spine. 

There’s nothing romantic about the way he holds you. He doesn’t cradle you close with this sense of softhearted adoration— despite your vulnerability— only pulling you close by the nape when his slick cockhead slaps your clit, your mons, with a wet smack. You gnaw into your lower lip, muscles clenching. Seeking. He smears the tip back to your pulsating rim. 

“What’s’a’matter?” he coos, probably at the rucks between your brows, creasing across your forehead. Your eyes flicker up. “You don’t wanna be my sweet, little wife?”

(You do, you do— you—)

“Oh—“ 

The press of his tip wrenching you open, taut around him, knocks your head back. Makes your shoulders rigid, spine arching over him, and his chuckle to the gasp that clots in your trachea is dark. Rich. It fizzles into a husking growl, though, when he presses down on the tops of your thighs and sinks you over him. Against him. Stretching the wet, sopping heat around him that throbs like a heartbeat with every tight breath you take, every inch lower. Your knuckles scrabble. Notch into his leather jacket, crinkling, burrowing, balling. 

“There you go,” he hisses. Groans. You’re not looking, but you know he is. Feel the molten pools of his gaze fixed where he’s feeding his cock, unwavering. He nearly sounds awed— splintering apart— when he tells you, “Such a pretty pussy. Look at this slutty, little cunt. Swallowing me right up.”

It’s raw. Bare— skin on skin— as close as you can get, and the pang that smarts at your rim permeates all the way up to your head, until that too, feels plugged. Foggy. 

It’s too much. Too—

He flexes his hips up sharply when you stall, just enough to wedge in to the hilt, and it wrests a high sound of surprise out of you. Nearly pained. Liked a kicked animal. It snags on something deep with the motion, something you haven’t been able to reach with your own measly fingers, and you mewl. 

He gruffs a slur behind the mask, tethers it with a groan, a breath that sounds caught in his mouth, but you can’t make out what it is. Not over the thrum in your ears. The assault on your senses, the unstilted stretch that feels like it’s prying you apart. Splitting you down the middle. Your thighs tremble. A sting. A dull throb that spills in your underbelly, lapping at your sex in sweltering, warm waves. Your clit twitches. 

There is something so cataclysmic in the way he hollows you out. Carves himself deep, scoring you in a way that’ll leave you begging for a piece of him, after, when you’re empty. A piece of his rib in return. It’s wrong— you shouldn’t want this man, crave him like you crave sanctum and stability. Your frenzied desperation, panting over him, seated to the throbbing root, feels chock-full of a festering longing you’ve been burrowing down since last spring. Spilling over. It sprouts— and spring, you think, bitterly, is all about revival. Rebirth. Flowering— the yearning you’ve been hiding behind your teeth germinates across your shuddering shoulders. 

He makes you ride him. Grunting, spitting how he wants you to bounce on his cock like the good girl you are. Soft, sloppy, half-hearted grinds you can manage over him, until he takes over, hitched on a huff that sounds nearly exasperated, and ruts up into you with the leverage of his feet on the carpet. 

He fucks you like he’s sedulous to make good on his words. Hard, fast, bludgeoning your rationale until it feels like you need the tang of cigarettes and santalum in every wheezing breath you take, writhing over the shape of him. His thumbs on your nipples. His fingers under the weight of your bouncing tits. 

Every pummel up into you feels like it kisses the seal of your womb. Feels like it’s battering a little closer to fruitions, to threats, and omens, and promises. 

And you like it. Love it. Can’t get away, can’t get enough, pawing at his chest, and then his collarbones, and then his chin, fingers knocking the border of the plastic mask. Kiss me— you think it’s cruel. So cruel, that you can’t kiss him. Can’t make out the shape of his bared teeth, the glint of them with his lips snarling. You want to lick across them. Bite. Taste blood for doing this to you. For making you feel this way. You want to tear him apart. Catch his tongue against your incisors. 

The thought is a distant chimera. A daydream you can’t chase, snared in a limbo— just take, take, take. But over the crests of your cheekbones, your dewy gaze watches him. Watches him, the way he’s watched you. Unrelenting. It’s hazy at the borders. Your sight flecked with wetness, shuddering, like a camera in hands that can’t stay still, but you’re unremitting. 

“Spit on me,” he growls. It’s an abrupt request— command, brimful of authority. Perverse. Then again, when you don’t oblige, it spills as a rasping grunt, “Spit on me.”

It wheedles into your threadbare sense of logic, registers. Your brows weave. Pinch, face creasing when he delivers a sharp plunge up, into you, tip to root. It’s gross. Disgusting. Lecherous. You think about your saliva blooming across his face, the way his heavy balls will throb. 

You want to spit on him. You want to bite him, claw at him, hit him— you pucker your lips. 

It lands as a tacky glob stretching across the bridge of the nose on the mask. Seeping into the inner-corner of the eye cut-out. Glistening, slick. The sight is revolting. Nasty. Your lips curl down, your brows crinkle—

He groans. It’s loud. Suffocated on desire, hunger, want, akin to the noise he made sniffing at your hair like a monstrous hound. A fucking creep. 

One of his hands leaves your chest, his thumb wriggles under the plastic white mask. It gets discarded, tossed off onto the couch. 

The view of him in, only in a balaclava, is new. 

No less unnerving, but it’s different, and it makes your inhale tangle in your throat. Something clicks in your lungs. You hover over him, with his neck craned up at you, and his eyes are green. Two pools of epidote, eroding under the swell of his pupils. Hornblende inkblots. A long, winding wild forest. You could get lost in it. 

(And pitifully, part of you already has. Melting apart like gum under the sun, between his stupid, thick fingers.)

“Fuck. Again. Give me another,” he tells you. It rumbles, but it sounds like a plea. You feel it vibrating in his chest, under your fingers, first, then watch the divot of the balaclava wavering into his mouth when he takes in a breath between his teeth. The way the cotton is stretched, tucked, across the bridge of his nose. 

You spit where he breathes. Where he’s huffing with every brutal thrust of his hips. It speckles the ribbed cotton with shimmer, then melts into the black where his lips lay. You can’t see how it saturates the mask, but you watch the way it affects him. Watch him unravel— the way he breathes through his nose, long, deep, lashes fluttering and dusting along his cheeks as his irises loll, and you’re faced with the view of their pure ivory frames. The pink rim across his lower lash line. 

He hammers into you, mercilessly, with his leather fingertips against your clit. It’s too much. Too harsh. Pleasure and pain coagulate into a lagoon that sloshes your head, pulses between your thighs, under his incessant fingers. 

And when he comes apart, under you, you nearly tip over the precipice at the experience alone. He makes a ragged sound, a groan, hips stuttering, and spurts ribbon after ribbon of his cum against the spongy walls flexing around him. Into you. Against the seal of your womb— oh, God— you burrow your hot face into his shoulder, hips canting, and bite at the leather. 

“Fuck,” he slurs. Heaves— and you feel him melting under you. Thawing. 

Your spine ripples. The molten heat of his cum, sticking to you, plugged up by his throbbing cock, makes you feel feverish. Aching. Charred all over, from the inside. You take a deep breathe and taste his musk at the back of your throat. Lingering along your tongue.

It’s almost comforting. But the reminder of who this man is, and what he does (has done to you, is doing), crawls along the serenity of your haze like a poisonous treacle. You muster the strength in your core to rock up onto your knees, make to clamber off. 

“Okay,” you breathe, “Okay—“

The thought of repose is a bittersweet mirage, though, sparkling in the distance, when he nudges his hips back up from beneath you. 

It knocks into something that makes your lungs seize. You feel his tacky spend coated across the undersides of your ass cheeks, spilling against the inside of your thighs. Pooling in the thicket of dark, wiry hair that nests around the root of his cock, dusting his balls. He grunts, and when he jostles you over his lap again, you have to catch your balance with your hands against his pecs. 

His eyes are shimmery when you blink up at them. Expressive enough for you to clock the derisive mirth that curdles, in shavings, along the chrysoberyl flecks in the tumultuous seas, when he hums. “You didn’t think I was done, did you?”   

He’s not done. Not for a good, long while. But you suppose, that a year of self-denial, precipitous self-restraint, is bound to spill over, eventually.

(It’s just too bad for you that you ended up in the path of the hurricane, front and center.)

He fucks you again over the arm of the couch, with your ribs smushed to the ledge and your knees on the cushion. Arms behind your back, head dangling, tits aching with the press of his weight, every drag against the fabric. Fingers in your mouth, straining the corners wide, riding the grooves of your clamped, slick teeth. Pawing at your ass, squeezing the flesh, prying your cheeks apart humiliatingly wide.

He makes you cum again. And again, until you’re sobbing. Legs hitched over his shoulders, chin twisted, gnawing into your own shoulder to stifle your mewls. 

“Tell me your name,” you slur under him. With his chin over tucked your shoulder, his hum ripples across your eardrum like a humid gust. Rolls between your shoulder blades. 

“Tell me your name,” you beg, again, mottled with frenzied desperation that climbs your throat. You know those eyes. You know that face— the one that lies underneath. The misty contours of it scratch across your skull in the smog of a memory. You know—

Your lower lip wobbles when he cups over your sternum, takes your breast in a doughy handful, squeezing around it, drowning you in every wet squelch, every slap of his hips against your ass. 

“Daddy.”

When you wake up, he’s not there. Ephemeral. The night nearly feels temporal, if not for the slick between your thighs, dewy at your cunt, where your seam is still aching. Crusting along the insides of your thighs. 

You feel like every bone is out of place. Like everything needs to crackle and slot back. Worn, tired, when you kick your feet over the edge of the mattress and stand. It pangs between your legs, first. And then across your chest. 

Your underwear is gone. You know you won’t find it. 

When you check the clock it’s midday. Late, too late to even be considered sleeping in. You’ve wasted the twenty-second off into somnolence. There’s still a haze across your head. This balmy, misty thing that keeps you sluggish. Tired. You’d chalk it up to oversleeping, but. 

It’s short-lived. Hollowed by the vacancy. Something stirs in the back of your head— you should probably send a life signal out to your family. Let them know you’re not splattered across the sidewalk, somewhere, or worse yet—

You think about his words. Keeping you all to himself. The thought makes your shoulders shudder. 

On the way to the bathroom, you find carmine carnations in your kitchen. Mounted in a vase that belongs to you, plucked out of the cabinet over your fridge. Beautiful, beautiful carnations.

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[regressionschool]

Crinkles in the Revolution

The bar buzzed with chaotic energy, its mismatched furniture and neon glow a haven for those who refused to conform. Ella’s so-called “friends” gathered around a sticky table, their laughter high-pitched and giddy. Most of them had succumbed to the regression laws—mentally, physically, or both. But they didn’t care. In their minds, they were the last bastion of rebellion.

“Ella! You’re such a *big girl*! You don’t even need anyone to check you!” giggled Penny, her pigtails bouncing as she clumsily sipped a drink from a sippy cup. A faint, telltale sag peeked beneath the hem of her pastel skirt, but no one mentioned it. It was just the norm now.

Steph clapped her hands, though her coordination was off. Her oversized hoodie hung loosely over her padded form, the occasional crinkle betraying her movements. “You’re like, the coolest,” she slurred, her words slightly muddled as she fumbled with a pacifier dangling from a clip on her collar. “Teach us how to be, like… grown-up like you!”

Ella smiled, soaking up their adoration even as a pang of guilt twisted in her stomach. She raised her glass—a real glass—and toasted, her voice steady. “To staying free!”

The table erupted into cheers, clapping and banging their cups on the table. Ella grinned and leaned back, though the sticky chair made her wince. Penny gave her a dreamy look. “You’re so lucky, Ella. You’re not like us. You’re still, like… *normal*. You’re, like, a real grown-up.”

Ella’s smile tightened, but she played her role. “Well, someone has to set an example, right?”

Another wave of cheers erupted. Ella, ever the performer, pushed back her chair and stood, smoothing her jacket over her skirt. “Speaking of setting an example,” she announced with mock confidence, “I’m going to use the bathroom. *Like a big girl.*”

The table gasped in amazement. Penny even dropped her sippy cup. “You’re so brave!”

“Big girl! Big girl!” Steph chanted, and the others quickly joined in.

Ella gave a theatrical bow, though her cheeks burned hot. “Be right back,” she said, striding toward the bathroom.

Inside the bathroom, the muffled noise of the bar faded, replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights. Ella leaned against the stall door, letting out a shaky breath. Her heart raced—not from the thrill of her act, but from the fear that someone might discover the truth. She tugged nervously at the hem of her jacket, feeling the unmistakable bulk of her soggy diaper beneath her skirt. The once-soft padding was heavy and swollen, pressing against her thighs.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Ella stiffened. Her heart jumped until she saw the figure stepping inside.

Dave. His leather jacket glinted faintly in the pink neon light, his sharp eyes scanning the room before locking on hers. A smirk tugged at his lips as he approached, his boots echoing on the tile floor.

“You’ve got fans now,” he teased, his voice low enough to keep their conversation private. “Rebel queen Ella. How’s the ‘big girl’ act holding up?”

Ella gave him a tired smirk, letting her shoulders drop. “Daddy, they’re not suspicious,” she muttered, the term of endearment slipping naturally between them.

Dave stepped closer, tilting his head toward the stall. “Let’s take care of that little problem of yours before anyone else catches on.”

Ella bit her lip, letting out a small, embarrassed whimper as he guided her into the stall. The door clicked shut behind them, enclosing them in their private world. Her cheeks flushed as Dave crouched down, pulling a small bag from under his jacket. His movements were calm, steady, practiced.

“Up,” he ordered softly, and Ella obediently lifted her skirt. The swollen diaper crinkled audibly, its once-white surface tinged yellow and sagging heavily between her thighs. Dave raised an eyebrow, smirking as he surveyed the damage. “You’ve been busy.”

“It’s your fault,” she pouted, crossing her arms as she glanced away. “You made me drink all that water earlier.”

Dave chuckled, shaking his head as he peeled open the diaper tabs. The sound echoed softly in the cramped space, blending with Ella’s quiet breathing. He worked quickly, cleaning her up with a warm, damp cloth before sliding a fresh diaper under her. The crisp, powdery scent filled the air as he dusted her with a light puff of powder, sealing her snugly into the new padding.

“Much better,” he said, standing and adjusting her skirt. His hand lingered briefly on her cheek. “You’re ready to get back out there.”

Ella hesitated, looking up at him. “Do you think they suspect anything? About us?”

Dave’s expression softened, and he cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb lightly against her skin. “Not a chance,” he reassured her. “To them, you’re the face of rebellion. They think you’re standing up to the government by refusing to regress.”

She nodded, taking a deep breath. “Okay. We just need a little more time. I’ll keep them distracted.”

Dave kissed her forehead, his voice dropping to a whisper. “That’s my girl. Now go remind them why they believe in you.”

Ella straightened her jacket and smoothed her skirt. With one final crinkle, she pushed the stall door open and strode back into the bar. Her friends erupted into cheers the moment they saw her, crowding around her with adoration.

And in the shadows, Dave lingered, his expression unreadable as he watched her seamlessly fall back into the role she played so well.

[yeyinde]

Outlaw!Price, the enigmatic leader of the notorious and deadly 141 gang, who stumbles upon you one evening near the stables (attempting to steal the mare he had his eyes on, no less) as you try to sneak out of the city (and away from the awful, awful man you're supposed to be married to in the morning), and decides to help you get away.

But if you think it's altruism that's making him lend a helping hand to a stranger, you're wrong. In this life, he knows it's kill or be killed.

And most importantly:

finders keepers.

“How's this,” he begins, and everything inside of you screams to run. “I'll accompany you across the desert. Get you somewhere safe.” 

“Out of the goodness of your heart, I'm sure,” you sneer, edging backwards. “As if I'm dumb enough to believe that.”

“Can't leave a maiden—” your scathing hiss makes his lips twitch beneath the thick moustache; “—all on her own like that. I know these parts like the back of my hand. No harm will come to you. That, you have my word for.”

“And what's that worth?” 

He dips his chin. “Far more than you could imagine, love.” 

You swallow. “I don't know. I don't trust you—”

“Smart,” he nods, drops the cigar on the ground before snuffing the end out with the heel of his boot. “But I ain't very patient. Better make up your mind quickly.”

“Well, in that case—”

“But," he cuts your scoff off with a low hum. "I'll put it this way for you: do you want me to be the one to accompany you across the desert or the one they'll pay, handsomely, tomorrow morning to drag you back home, mm?”

“You scoundrel—! You dirty, rotten—”

“It's business, love.”

“I don't have any money to even pay you to—”

His eyes are searing when they catch on the threads of your lace collar, razing over exposed skin like he's owed the privilege. You've never seen such hunger on a man's face before.

Your skin prickles. Heart sinking low with each rasping sweep of his eyes across your body. It's as if you're meat. Something to be bartered with. Bargained.

The rasp in his voice makes you shiver. “You're a smart girl. I'm sure you can figure something out.”

“I—”

“I'll leave it to you, then, mm?” He starts forward, then, chin ducking low into his collar to stare down at you through the wide brim of his hat. Each thud of his boots echo against the floor in haunting harmony with the metal clink of his spurs. 

More of his bulk is revealed as he steps out from the shadows and into the pale moonlight, and somewhere in your chest, the air becomes trapped. 

He's huge. Bigger, now, where most of him blended in, almost seamlessly, into the shadows. A massive mountain of a man. 

His shoulders seem to stretch the fabric of his vest and waistcoat taut, pulling sharply on the straining threads. The heavy brown of his jacket sweeps down to midthigh, the seam tucked behind the leather holster of his gun tied tight at his waist. The brass buttons of his dress shirt crease against the pull of his broad chest and barrelled stomach. The softness around his midsection speaks almost highly of a luxurious lifestyle—pure hedonism. The sort ladies back home whisper about. Violence, women, and booze—ruffians, the lot of them! But it seems to belie the power in his gait. In the flex of his thick, corded thighs bunching in the tightness of his denim trousers and the leather caps covering them.

He has the walk of a bear. Lumbering, sloven. A touch clumsy. 

And yet—

The softness about him hides the raw strength under the thick pelt. Deadly. The slow, meandering trawl of a man who knows, unequivocally, that he needn’t run or rush anywhere. 

It lodges somewhere inside of you. This knowledge, this fact. He'll outpace you in spades. Catch up no matter where you flee to. 

Your stomach folds, looping over itself. It's nausea, maybe. And something else—

He's so big. Burly. Thickened like the strong trucks of ponderosa pine. A man cut from the wilderness; made in the likeness of the savagery of the wild. The brutality of the desert, of mother nature herself. Kin to the affinity this land seems to have in taking every ounce of a man and leaving him bereft in the face of the looming unknowns in the vast desert.

None of the men you've ever met before look like him. Grizzled. Hardened.

His scarred, tanned skin speaks of a life living outdoors. On a horse, on the run—hard work made with his bare hands. You think the softness, the callous-free palm that gripped your fingers tight in a vice, and can't help but to lean, just a little, into him. Drawn there, like a moth to a flame.

There's something about this man that makes you tremble. Something that curls inside of your guts. Something deeper, darker than fear. Primal. Animalistic. There must be something wrong with you, then. Most know to run from the predators—not move closer.

He comes to a halt less than an arm's length away from you, close enough that you can scent the heavy musk of him so thickly in your nose. Something purely masculine—loam, humus—and yet unfathomably different from the men you've known your whole life. Horse, and sweat. Sun. The headiness of riding nonstop through the sprawling deserts of New Mexico. Leather, and gunpowder. 

The novelty of it all is enough to make you dizzy. And, as if to reinforce it, he leans down, the brim of his hat narrowly missing your forehead, and he rasps, guttural and dark, 

“and I do expect to be paid back in full, love,” his voice is felled timber. Low, and firm. “Or you'll find you don't like the consequences very much. Am I clear?”

The unmistakable iron in it snags on the tendrils of your resolve, pulling messily at the threads. No escape. It winds tighter, tighter— 

Still. 

Your only other option is to stay here, and in the morning, marry a man who made it abundantly clear that the sole use he has for you is to rebrand a dwindling legacy (women ought to be seen, not heard, darlin’, and I think it's high time someone teach you that); or— 

Make off on your own. Through the unmapped, untamed wilderness of New Mexico with nothing for protection except whatever you could reasonably steal away with uninterrupted, which. Isn't much. Not only that—this man, this outlaw, had made it abundantly clear that there would be a bounty on you come sunrise. One he'd be most eager to fulfil. 

Rock, hard place. No escape. 

You steel yourself, grappling with trembling fingers against the dwindling options in front of you, and offer a slow, jerking nod. 

He heaves a breath in response. “Good choice, love.”

It doesn't feel very much like one. It doesn't feel very good at all, even. 

In this little stable just outside of town, you sell your soul to the devil in New Mexico while the cicadas in the background scream through the ink black night. The sounds they make seem to ask, 

what have you done?

[hotyanderedaddies]

The School Bully Loves You, Pt. 4:

Yandere Bully Interrupts Your "Date"

Part 0 │ Part 1 │ Part 2 │ Part 3

[Yandere! Bully x GN Nerd! Reader]

·゜·:.。..。.:·☆·゜·:.。..。.:·☆

Jonathan was a nice guy, you figured.

The quarterback of the football team was always all smiles, and he seemed to never treat you differently despite being way higher up on the social ladder. Therefore, you sort of liked to tutor him. Not only did it feel like you were sometimes hanging out with a close friend, but it also made you feel good deep down that a guy was paying you some attention... even if it was just for school. But still.

And plus, you figured that he could potentially protect you from Blake.

Seriously, it was crystal clear that Jonathan lived in the gym after school, given his large muscles and athletic prowess.

Blake is muscular too, but he tends to hide his bulk underneath his leather jacket.

But still!

You tried your best to force your mind away from Blake as you and Jonathan pulled into the parking lot of a local diner. It was a small place where the two of you could be uninterrupted during your study session. It was one of the few local spots where Jonathan would treat you as payment for tutoring him, and you'd always order something sweet and tasty!

The two of you took your seats at one of the booths near the back, and your eyes stayed glued to the door. The constant fear of Blake finding you kept you on edge, and you found it hard to stay present with your brain always straying back to the bully.

You mentally berated yourself, annoyed that you kept thinking about Blake.

He'd claimed you as his, and you'd gotten three strikes.

Both of those spelt trouble in your mind, and you wanted nothing more than to avoid the guy. Therefore, you figured that being away from school with someone big who could protect you was the best course of action.

Jonathan and you placed your orders and tried to start the tutoring session, but it was close to impossible for you to get your nerves settled.

"Is something on your mind?" the jock finally asked when he'd noticed you staring nervously at the door for the millionth time.

"O-oh!" you mumbled, jerking out of your panicked daze. "I'm sorry, I'm just a little... distracted." You sheepishly smiled at the end of your statement, hoping that the jock wouldn't catch onto you inadvertently using him as protection.

Jonathan pursed his lips into a thin line, deep in thought. "So," he slowly asked, shrugging his broad shoulders, "is it Blake?"

You jerked back in your seat, shocked. "Wh-what do you mean?" you stuttered, trying your best to force an innocent smile onto your face.

Jonathan scrunched up his face in confusion. "Oh, my bad," he muttered. "I just thought that you two were having couple problems."

"'Couple problems'?" you repeated.

Jonathan shrugged again. "Well, yeah," he grunted. "I mean, by the way Blake talks about you, I thought the two of you were dating..."

"The way he talks about me?" you repeated again, feeling yourself go pale at the words you heard.

Never in your life would you have ever expected Blake to talk about you in any sort of positive manner. You always tried to avoid him like the plague, hence you'd preferred if he didn't know that you existed. But if he were to talk about you, you half-expected him to curse your name and call you the scum of the earth given how badly he's beaten people up all around you.

Thinking about it, there were several of Blake's victims you knew personally:

Kyle, the bully who's stolen your lunch money back in the sixth grade. He'd gotten his face beaten to a pulp, causing his nose to be a little crooked now.

Tristan, the guy who'd called you ugly on picture day. Blake had based his face so hard that his front teeth had been knocked out, totally ruining his picture.

Cesar, the douche who'd smashed your science project to smithereens for a YouTube prank. Well, Blake had filmed himself stomping him in the nuts, posting it to Cesar's now defunct account.

Wait...

"Wh-what has Blake said... about me?" you asked, feeling your heart fall to the floor as you thought everything over. It all had to be a coincidence, right?

The waitress delivered your food, distracting the jock for a second as he began to eat his fries. "Oh, um, he says lots of things about you," he mumbled, his mouth full of food.

That didn't really help.

"Like what?" you pressed.

The jock took a loud gulp of his soda. "Well, he says that he--"

He was cut off by the loud slamming of the front door. The both of you were altered to the booming noise, making you both flinch as you turned to see none other than Blake enter the tiny diner.

The bully's eyes scanned the area before landing on you, narrowing in your direction.

Uh-oh...

To be continued...

·゜·:.。..。.:·☆·゜·:.。..。.:·☆

I'm sorry about the lack of tagging people! I'm forever and always appreciative of everyone's interest in this story. Unfortunately, I just can't tag everyone at the moment. I apologize and hope you all understand!

[howdoyousleep3]

Pairing: 3DWD/Bunny Baby Rating: Mature Word Count: 2.7K Tags: Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Power Dynamics, New Relationship, Confession of Feelings, Origin Story, Groping, Office "Sex", Orgasm Denial, Teasing, Age Difference, Size Kink, Yearning (oh the yearning, the chase!) A/N: Woke up one morning thinking about them, couldn't stop myself from pouring it all out into a doc. I don't think about their beginnings enough. I hope you enjoy. ❤️

Bucky suspects something is amiss when he feels more eyes on him than he’s used to as he walks into the office after lunch. 

Truthfully, he’s used to eyes on him wherever he goes, but he’s not used to the silence. 

Hmm. 

He carries on down the hallway towards his office, unbothered yet curious. He quickly stops to check in with Pepper, confirming their outing with their newest client to the nearby fabric district. Bucky is grateful she seems as excited as she is; it’s always thrilling to take on a new client and start a project from the ground up. 

He turns and heads towards his office, fully intending on spending the next hour he has before their outing ensuring his deliveries and meeting times at the Romanoff house later tonight are squared away, when he stops in his tracks. 

The second and final clue that something is amiss. 

He’s embarrassed to admit it, to recognize it. 

Steve is here. 

Bucky can smell him. That overwhelming and intoxicating smell of masculinity, of ruggedness. Cinnamon, sandalwood, citrus; it drives Bucky insane that he can’t pinpoint what the notes are. Steve has claimed he doesn’t wear a cologne. Bucky calls bullshit. 

Nobody smells that good, naturally and without any help. 

Nobody. 

The smell of Steve in his office building, on his floor, nearby, immediately puts him on edge. He wills his knees to keep him upright even when his body and mind want to cave immediately. There’s no way Steve is here. Bucky must be imagining it, his subconsciousness conjuring up the smell in his mind in order to distract him, in order to force Bucky to think of Steve when he’s convinced himself he doesn’t want to. 

No, he won’t be distracted by a crush, by a one-night-stand. 

He reaches for his keys, opens his office door with ease— 

And nearly falls to the floor. 

Steve is here. In his office, standing at his office window seemingly admiring the view of the city just outside it. 

What is Steve doing here? More importantly, how did he get into Bucky’s office? 

When Steve turns to look at him, expression riddled with proud mischievousness, Bucky immediately takes pause. He can’t let Steve think he has the upper hand even though he’s surprised Bucky at his place of work. He can’t let Steve’s sweet talking ways and his rugged sex appeal chip away at Bucky’s self-control and boundaries. 

This is unacceptable. 

But Christ, Steve looks good. 

He looks better than good— he looks sexy as hell. 

His beard is neatly trimmed, his hair infuriatingly windswept. He looks as if he’s come off the farm after a long day's work: well-worn jeans, a navy blue henley that clings to the bulk in his arms, a pair of reliable boots. A leather bomber jacket with a sherpa collar is tossed carelessly across one of the chairs opposite of Bucky’s desk. The ensemble’s sticker price would send Bucky reeling into a coma, but one would never know it. 

He’s certain Steve doesn’t even know how much his clothes cost and that’s because he doesn’t care. He doesn’t have to care. And the thought of Steve not caring about price tags is enough to ratchet up the arousal Bucky is trying uselessly to ignore. 

Stay strong. 

“Hey, Bunny…” 

Fuck. 

Bucky’s willpower clings to its existence. 

Bucky takes a deep breath, steps into his office, and closes the door behind him. He ignores Steve’s pet name for him even though it digs under his skin in the hottest of ways. Nobody has ever given him a pet name. Bucky doesn’t do pet names, is too strong-willed and confident for them. No partner has ever babied him or given him sweet names or worshipped the ground he walks on. 

Steve did it from the moment they locked eyes. 

Bucky sends out feelers for his willpower, questions if it even exists when it comes to Steve. 

“What are you doing here?” is all Bucky can damn near choke out. He steels his spine and walks to his desk, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. 

When he chances a glance up and over at Steve, he nearly whimpers. Fuck, he’s so sexy, Bucky can barely stand to look at him. 

Steve shrugs. 

“I was in the area, thought I’d stop by.” 

A lie, one that Bucky can call him out on. 

“No you weren’t. There’s nothing around here that would interest you.” 

Steve chuckles and the noise goes right to Bucky’s groin. 

“You interest me,” he says matter of factly, pushing away from the window. “Thought I made that pretty clear, Buck.” 

Bucky swallows audibly, makes a show of turning his computer on. 

Yeah, pretty fucking clear. The older man has all but professed his love for Bucky, sent him endless gift deliveries, whispered his affection and awe into Bucky’s skin, laid himself bare and—

Stop. 

No sex, don’t think about sex with Steve, god. 

“How’d you get in here?” Bucky presses, ignoring the hot press of Steve’s presence against the line of his back.

He can sense Steve’s easy grin even if he doesn’t chance another look up at him. 

“I sweet talked my way in. I’m pretty good at sweet talkin’. Ain’t that right, Bun?” 

He doesn’t think Steve understands the power of his sweet talking ways, even as he jokes about it. 

Bucky thinks he’s sweating, can feel the drops of it pooling in the curve of his lower back, can feel it on his upper lip. It’s embarrassing. He can command a boardroom, lead a design team, walk confidently through rooms, homes, exhibits he himself has designed. He’s confident, overly so, is bossy and demanding and overbearing. 

And here he is crumbling under the mere words of Steve Rogers, a man ten years his senior who has been relentlessly chasing after him ever since their first date. 

This is what Bucky gets for sleeping with Steve on their first date. But fuck, who could blame him? 

Bucky feels as if he’s going into heat. 

When Bucky turns to admittedly flee from his office and demand security come take Steve from it, he runs right into the familiar wall of packed muscle. The older man doesn’t even hesitate; he grabs onto Bucky confidently and purposefully. 

“It’s easy to get what I want, Buck. I’m a man who’s used to getting what he wants,” Steve murmurs, a mitt for a hand cupping the back of Bucky’s head, the second pulling Bucky snugly against his front by his lower back. 

When their bodies meet, sex is all Bucky can think about. 

“That’s why I’m so frustrated with how difficult it’s been to get the thing I want most,” Steve tells him, his voice taking on a gravely edge that damn near sends Bucky under. “I appreciate a good chase, I love good back and forth. But goddamnit, Buck— what the fuck are you makin’ me wait around for?” 

Bucky feels the burn of shame in the form of a blush build on his neck.

The thing is, Bucky doesn’t have a good answer and he’s ironically afraid to admit that he’s scared. This isn’t traditional, this isn’t normal, what he shares with Steve. Their age difference is surely to be frowned upon, Steve’s position as a CEO will surely make it seem to others as if Bucky is just wanting into his pockets. 

More prevalent and more difficult to admit is that Bucky’s not used to Steve’s treatment of him. 

He doesn’t think he’s deserving of Steve’s treatment. He doesn’t know what to do with his attention and his affection and the way he wants to surround Bucky with an endless flow of devotion. 

Steve’s fingers tighten in his hair and Bucky all but moans, bringing his hands up to curl his fingers into the front of Steve’s shirt. He wants to curl his lips up in a snarl when his fingers find their way into the fuzz just underneath said shirt. 

“I won’t have you denying us something good because you want to be stubborn. I won’t have you stopping us from having each other because you’re afraid.”

Bucky does what he does best when he’s backed into a corner— push. 

“I don’t want you,” he weakly attempts, the words making his gut churn and his throat burn, his body rejecting them immediately. 

Steve smiles, crowds Bucky further against his desk. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, Bunny,” he turns and whispers into Bucky’s ear, their bodies curling tightly together. Steve easily pulls Bucky into him, a hand on his nape and now an arm around his lower back, reminding Bucky what Steve does to his body. 

Just the presence of Steve, the press and bend of their bodies together, does something to Bucky that he’s never experienced with someone else. 

When Steve squeezes at his nape, pulling Bucky’s attention upwards, the older man’s exhale sounds like a groan. 

Bucky’s vision blurs when he feels Steve’s growing and impressive erection dig into his belly. 

“You’ll learn not to lie to your Daddy over time,” Steve tells him, breath hot on Bucky’s mouth. The title goes right to Bucky’s own growing erection, arousal shooting through his body hot like lightning, his mouth dropping open to let a whine easily slip out. 

“You may try to lie to me now, but your pretty little body can’t lie to me, oh no. Sweetheart, your body can’t lie to me. Just look at’chu…”

Bucky is finding it more and more difficult to remember why he’s spent weeks denying Steve another chance with him. Steve’s hands feel like magic on his body, like Bucky can drop the facade and feel. And once Bucky’s eyes lock with Steve’s ocean ones, they drive that point home even further— 

Let go. 

Unsurprisingly, Steve sees the internal waver. 

“There he is,” Steve coos, deliciously pursing his lips around Bucky’s bottom one. “There’s who I’ve been chasing.”

Steve presses another hot kiss to his mouth, Bucky’s knees buckling. 

“Who I’m done chasing.” 

Another long and hot kiss that Bucky helplessly moans into this time. 

“Who I want.”

Just when Steve dips his tongue into the next set of kisses he gives Bucky, he trails his lips down the column of Bucky’s neck, sucking his way down it. Bucky doesn’t even fight the way his eyes roll back into his head.

“Want is an understatement— I’m damn near obsessed. You may be afraid to show your true feelings or give into this, but I’m not, Bun. I can’t stop thinkin’ about you. Everything I do in a day I wonder what it would be like to do it with you by my side. When I go to sleep, I want you there. When I wake up, I want you there.” 

“Steve…” 

“When I touch my cock, I want you there. Fuck, do I want you and your tight, little bunny ass there.” 

It’s as if he’s lost all sense of himself as Bucky hears those words. He curls his fingers around Steve’s thick neck at the same time he moves to wind his legs mindlessly around Steve’s stocky waist. He knows Steve will hold him, that Daddy won’t let him fall, and he’s proven right when Steve does just that with a heavy exhale. He gathers Bucky easily up into his hands, obviously appreciating the feel and weight of Bucky in them, before sitting him on top of his own desk. 

“Christ, I miss you, Buck,” he tells him in between kisses, hands holding onto either side of Bucky’s face. “Tell me you miss me too, baby.” 

Bucky’s moan grates against the front of his throat. 

“I miss you,” Bucky murmurs, reaching for Steve’s tongue with his own. “I miss you so much, Daddy.” 

Steve groans into Bucky’s mouth. 

“Fuck yeah, missed that. Missed the hell outta that. Lemme hear it again, Bun.”

Easily, eagerly.

“Daddy…” 

Bucky lets out every ounce of pent up want and need he’s been ignoring over the past weeks and pours it into that word. He digs his fingers into Steve’s shirt, yanking at it until his hands meet the warm skin of his stomach, pulling at the older man until Bucky’s hands slide easily around to his muscled back.

Steve’s skin is so shockingly warm it forces another moan out of Bucky’s throat.

As someone who runs cold, he misses that warmth. 

“You’re such a fuckin’ brat,” Steve mumbles between kisses before he’s smirking. “We’re gonna have so much fun together.” 

Bucky is more than ready to let Steve fuck him on his own desk, in his own office. The thrill of being chased by someone he’s so wildly attracted to combined with the surprise of him showing up at Bucky’s office to confess his feelings has Bucky feeling like a live wire. His dick is so hard his balls ache, Steve’s hands on his body coaxing noises of pleasure out of him that others are sure to hear. 

If they saw Steve walk in though, they shouldn’t be surprised by what’s happening in here. 

He turns his cheek and bites at Steve’s bearded jawline, reaching for the older man’s belt buckle, fingers digging into his zipper to feel the pushback against the metal. 

“You got a party tonight?” 

Bucky is too distracted by the feel of Steve’s thick cock beneath the denim of his jeans to register his question. 

It’s a bite on Bucky’s own chin that pulls him back into his brain. 

“What?”

“Don’t you have a Christmas party tonight?” 

“How…how do you know about that?” 

Steve’s teeth catch Bucky’s bottom lip between them. Bucky’s toes curl in his dress shoes. 

“Pepper told me about it.”

Of course she did. 

“I’ll pick you up at 8.” 

What? 

Bucky’s vision may be blurred, but he’s certain Steve is pulling away, suddenly widening the gap between them. His dick aches something fierce between his legs, yearning for Steve’s touch, Steve’s mouth, Steve. 

“What?” Bucky asks, unable to hide his breathlessness, running a hand down and over his mouth. 

Steve’s reached his jacket now and he turns to Bucky, slipping his arms into it. 

He barely looks affected by their office rendezvous at all. 

“I’ll pick you up at eight at your place. Make sure you pack a bag; you’re comin’ home with me tonight.”

Bucky resists the urge to collapse back onto his desk. 

“Are you…are you insane?” Bucky huffs, doing nothing to disguise his annoyance at being left in his office to deal with his own erection. He watches through half-lidded eyes as Steve walks back over to him, stepping between Bucky’s spread legs and reaching for his throat. 

“You thought I’d come in here, profess my love, and give you my cock?” 

Bucky’s neck goes lax at the word love, but he curls his lip anyway. 

“Yes?” 

Steve chuckles happily into his last set of smacking kisses before squeezing at the fingers around Bucky’s throat. 

Fuck. 

“Daddy’s got a lot to teach you.” 

He gives Bucky’s cheek a light smack. 

“You make sure and wear somethin’ pretty for me, you hear?”

Bucky doesn’t argue. His heart slams against his ribs. He hears Steve at the door of his office. 

“I’ll have what I want you to wear underneath it sent over.” 

Bucky not-so-slowly collapses backwards onto his desk, chest falling and rising rapidly, dick throbbing in time with it. 

“I’ll see you soon, Bun. Don’t ignore my calls.” 

And just as surprisingly as he showed up, Steve’s gone, leaving Bucky a damn near hyperventilating mess atop his once pristine desk. 

With too much to think about, Bucky focuses on settling his breathing, on easing the ache in his dick without the time or place to take care of himself. When the absurdity of the situation hits him, when the full force of his crush on Steve makes him kick his feet where he lies, Bucky giggles. 

And once he starts, he can’t stop. 

Steve was right— they’re going to have so much fun together.

[solbaby7]

*sidles up to bar*

Uh, can I have a whiskey sour, frozen, with a salt rim please? 🥃

*drops a twenty in the tip jar*

[ “i’m not the jealous type but what’s mine is mine + smut + cassian ]

and a tip too? wow this gonna be a generous pour lemme tell u 😘 *grateful smoosh*

-> BLURB BAR <-

—

It’s routine. An obligation. A means to an end.

It’s not like you actually wanted to be shmoozing up that Summer Court douchebag and yet Cassian can’t quell the uncomfortable itch under his skin at the sight of you smiling up at another male.

Sure, it doesn’t fully reach your eyes; doesn’t force those cute lines to carve their way in your cheeks or show off the pearly white teeth that have sunken their way in Cassian’s shoulder a time too many in a bout of excitement.

This is not the same—that much he knows and yet still he can’t shake off the distaste that lingers on his tongue. Reason refuses to reach that part of him that remembers flesh and blood, the sound of iron clashing against iron and the satisfaction that follows when an enemy took their last breath. “The point of this meeting is to establish peace,” Rhysand casually mentions, sauntering to Cassian’s side so silently it nearly makes him jump. “Those kinds of thoughts don’t exactly start friendships.”

He doesn’t mention Cass’ shoddy mental shields, too distracted by the way you seem to blend seamlessly into Summer Courts surroundings. From the style of your sundress to the iridescent glimmer of heels that resemble the waves in the ocean when the sun hits—gifts from Tarquin that fit entirely too well. “These friendships are becoming too friendly.”

The chime of your laugh cutting through the air has Cassian’s teeth grinding against each other, his arms crossing over his chest in favor of reaching over for the fancy battle axe anchored above the mantel and making good use of it “I don’t disagree,” Rhys grimaces at the male dragging a hand along the curve of your spine in a dangerous display of appreciation. “It’ll all be over soon. An hour tops.”

“Rhysand.”

“An hour tops,” He repeats, palms smoothing over creases in his suit jacket. “I promise.”

But not even Rhys can say no when Tarquin’s second in command all but insists on stealing you away for a quick peek of his personal gardens—bragging about its ocean view at sunset. It’s too good an opportunity to pass up and the genuine glee on the soldiers face in your presence doesn’t go unnoticed. The alliance is so close Rhysand can almost taste it but Cassian’s fingers are flexing in barely contained rage as you’re guided off down a hall separate from the others.

One minute passes and his eyes can't stop flickering towards that hallway. Five minutes go by and his stance is less sturdy, shifting the bulk of his weight from foot to foot like an antsy bull readying their hooves for a fair fight. He lasts ten whole minutes before his restraint snaps, leather boots clunking against marble floors as he all but takes off in a run towards you.

For once in Cassian’s life he gets a fraction of an understanding about how it feels to be a shapeshifter—the unbridled rage altering him from male to beast until he’s foaming at the mouth, claws protruding from blunt nails and all he thirsts for is blood. To spill crimson red and paint the walls in its luster while flaunting you as some pretty prize.

He finds you off scent alone, aureate irises latching onto you like a fish on a hook, reeling in closer and closer until you can feel the warmth of him radiating through his clothes. It’s pure luck that you’re alone, heels hanging limp in one hand as polished toes tease at sand so white it seems to sparkle under the sunlight. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re going to get us in trouble.”

“Taking too long,” Cassian ignores that bewildered expression on your face, eyes darting to a set of double doors on the far left. “Had to check, needed to see you were alright for myself.” He’s touching you before you have time to fully process the panic that churns through your gut at the mere thought of Cassian being caught somewhere he didn’t belong.

It becomes all to clear that you’re the only one who cares when strong hands begin their trek around the hills and valleys of your hips. He takes the scenic route, paying a touch too much attention to the round of your ass but you don’t push him away—you wouldn’t dare. “It’s not like he was going to hurt me.”

Lips press kisses into the curve of your neck, teeth grazing along the slope of your shoulder until the flimsy little strap there falls limp along your arm. “Wasn’t worried about him hurting you, peach.” The grip on your rear tightens, spreading cheeks until you can hear the sticky separation of a needy cunt. “Wanted to make sure he wasn’t getting comfortable putting his hands places they don’t belong.”

“Cassian.” You shouldn’t be attracted to the possessive words and yet a shiver runs down your spine; anticipation awakening beneath your skin and suddenly you hope that it takes forever for Tarquins second to find that stupidly ancient tome he’d mentioned earlier. “Are you…jealous?”

“I’m not really the jealous type,” Each one of his actions contradicts that very statement. From the noticeable reddening marks he leaves along your clavicle to the harsh way your dress is wrinkled when hiked over the swell of your ass. A warm mouth crashes with yours, the groping accelerating tenfold once he’s found something sturdy enough to lean you against. “But, what’s mine is mine and it felt like I needed to get that message across.”

It’s all so rushed; movements hurried, heart thrashing against your ribcage while his leathers are unfastened and the ruddy tip of his cock is straining for a warm home to hold its release. Your ears are sharply attuned for noises, hold out for the scuffle of a shoe, the weight of a body against marble floors. Such awareness doesn’t take away from the feverish kisses with Cassian nipping at plush lips, fingers absolutely ruining the elegant curl of your hair as he tugs it back from your shoulders. “We don’t have much time.”

“Do some of my best work under pressure.” You almost find the urge to laugh but it disappears once you feel the blunt head of his prick nestling between your thighs. The sodden gusset of lacy underwear is pushed aside just enough to show off the arousal dribbling from your sex. “Hold on to me.”

The warning does you no good, the very breath knocked from your lungs as he feeds the thick length inside of you. Nails bite into the strong birth of Cassians shoulders, eyes fluttering shut as you’re given a few precious moments get used to the feel of him before the Illyrian takes you as he pleases. “Cass—oh gods!” It’s not your fault, you swear; blaming the force on his thrusts for the moans that spill free.

He doesn’t even bother trying to keep you quiet, encouraging the whiny mewls and choppy groans with skilled fingers twisting along your nipples and pressing tight circles to your clit. “Not the gods peach, just me.” Wall decor tremors behind you as pleasure shoots through your bloodstream, legs curling tighter around Cassian’s waist as you push him in further—allowing him impossibly deeper. “I’m the only one who gets to touch you like this and I’ll make sure the whole godsdammed world knows it.”

[hanasnx]

MINORS DNI 18+

Usually when you envision a "dad" you see someone dorky. Someone with the same sense of humor as a child, someone with a lot of energy who keeps up with toddlers running him ragged, someone with a desk job to provide for his family. The stereotypical "dad" imagery dissipates at the sight of BABY DADDY!JASON TODD interacting with his daughter.

He's not around a lot—it's not feasible to be—but when he comes over, you tilt your head at how different he looks than what one would expect. Sometimes you forget that he's a father at all, since he appears so far removed from one. He's dangerous, and untameable. Nothing like any dad you've known. Wild hair, that striking white streak pluming proudly from his hairline. He hasn't gotten a cut in a while, and it looks too good on him. He wears clothes you'd think a father wouldn't like, the kind of biker jackets and big boots that would make a father forbid his daughter from seeing that rebellious boyfriend. Brief memories of riding around town on the back of his motorcycle or staying up late to fuck brings a smile to your face despite how mad you still are at him.

There's something hopelessly alluring about him, keeps you forgiving him every time he tracks you down when you've hidden yourself and your daughter away. No matter where you move, it doesn't take him long to find you.

"Dad! Dad! Watch this, watch me!" the shrill voice of your daughter cuts through your thoughts, demanding Jason's attention as she stands wobbly on the couch cushion.

He towers next to you, halfway facing you and your daughter, dividing his attention. Hands rest on his hips, shaping his leather jacket exquisitely as he nods to her to let her know he's watching. She leaps from the cushion to land on the floor, flipping her hair up to beam at him, waiting for his approval.

"You're a regular acrobat, you know that? Just like your old man." he commends casually as she chases his leg, latching on with her full body to peer up at him. Carefully, he extracts her, picking her up by her arm like a monkey until he can settle her on his hip. Your gaze scans his figure, having bulked up since you last saw him. You knew bits and pieces about his past, specifically his time as a Robin. He was flexible then, flying through the air like a bullet. Now he's much more solid, as immovable as a mountain and less agile which he makes up for in sheer strength. You don't want to imagine your daughter growing up in the same way he did.

[bluetooththereptile]

Black Robin

(Yandere Tim drake x twin brother reader x yandere Bruce Wayne)

( English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in the following text.)

Note: I couldn't resist making this, Tim's personality and also Bruce's possessiveness to his adoptive children and sometimes his cold indifference are ripe for making agnst and a good fic!

Summary: Your stubbornness ends tonight, and Bruce will make sure of that.

Tw: mentions of abuse

"Are you out of your mind?!"  you were taken aback by Tim's shout, your eyes widening behind your mask slightly. The always composed and nervous Tim was now yelling at you, well, this was new. You shifted on your feet in the dark place, sighing as you crossed your arms on your chest, trying to not groan since the bruise on your chest hurt to the touch. "Please just spare these words" you grunted, but your response only made Tim more livid, and he took a hold of your jacket, pulling you closer to him "You will come home with me!" He hissed "And that's final!"

You pushed Tim away with a scoff "Woha...easy right there bro, slow down, I'm not coming back, not after finally finding the place I deserve!" Tim couldn't help but let out a forced bitter chuckle "Deserve? Look at you! You're all bruised and battered, wearing a cheap leather jacket and military pants, and your only gadget is probably comms, you are dragging yourself around without proper care and you call it a deserving place?! Is your hatred for me that strong?"

You rolled your eyes, groaning, dear God how many of these conversations you've had already with him? Probably close to a thousand times. "Look, bro, I'm an adult, I can make my own decisions-" "Don't bro me!" Tim's voice echoed in the dark empty alleyway, after the joint mission of Batman and Midnighter, Tim finally after a whole year of not facing you had dragged you away so you could talk.

"I could understand your frustration and anger, I could have tried to make things right, I knew you were by the fact that you were not chosen as the Robin, I can understand that you didn't get enough attention and you wanted to be a hero yourself, but you couldn't leave just like that!" Pushing Tim away from you, you finally snapped "Wait a damn minute!" You took your mask off so you could talk to him properly. Approaching him you looked deep into his eyes, looking at your reflection in them and Tim winced a little at the hint of smoke on your lips, his brows furrowing as he realized what you had been smoking before the mission. You then sighed and looked away, looking down at the puddle of water on the ground. Damn, you were indeed bruised up, you were still a rookie and the hero responsible for you, Midnighter truthfully didn't have many rules for you to follow, just do the things and get them done by any means necessary, I don't care, which meant you had to do everything yourself, ending up as an official mess. In the past year, you had strained yourself so much that you couldn't recognize yourself in the mirror anymore.

Sure you were Tim's identical twin, you looked nearly the same, minus the eyes of course, but you had changed from that, your body had bulked up under the pressure of constant training under Midnighter's eyes and the diet of protein bars, you didn't have time to eat so you had to resort to those, you had forgotten the taste of normal food, yet you refused to complain. The only reason that Midnighter had taken you in was your stubbornness and willpower, no one wanted to take Batman's boy in when the old bat didn't like the idea of it, you had to prove him you were worth taking in. You had to cut your hair short to cut out the water bills, oh right, he didn't pay for you either, you had to work your ass off to make some money for yourself, you just hated working at fast food joints, sometimes you wanted to serve some Karens some of those knuckle sandwiches Midnighter gave you when you messed up. Around your eyes were still smudged with the smoky eye makeup your new friends had put on you for last night's concert, personal hygiene was sort of out of the window for you, but you still kept pushing. You were a mess, but still an independent mess out of Tim's shadow.

"I chose this path and I'm happy with it! It's none of your business anymore!" You finally spoke, "Oh so all of a sudden when you are 18 you can do whatever the hell you want?" Tim sighed as he crossed his arms "Yeah?" You answered, "We both know Bruce had only let you go just to make you realize your place is with the family!" Tim's response wasn't that farfetched, you knew Bruce was capable enough to drag your sulking ass back to the Manor but he had chosen not to, why? You weren't sure, perhaps it was because he wanted to punish you for being too rebellious, the thought made you shudder.

"Whatever..." you waved your hand in the air "You know that I don't want to go back from this path" Tim scoffed "Oh? Being the "Black Robin" is that good?" He teased you about your name, making you let out a soft groan in irritation. Midnighter was mistaken as Batman and now you, as his sidekick, was the black Robin, another mistaken identity, well you did look like Tim, just larger in muscle mass. "Yes, it's better than being compared to you all the time!" You snapped at your twin, making his lips turn into a frown. You had hit a nerve, well it was progress.

"You were always the one that was better, you were the Robin and then the Red Robin, while I had to train harder and harder, watching you get all the attention while I was just there!" You continued "You know it's not true, Bruce adopted you as well, you are still his son! You were not chosen as Robin because he wanted someone more...smart..." You rolled your eyes at that, you had heard all of those excuses so many times, you wanted something more out of your life, and you had decided to get something out of it one way or another.

When Tim was adopted you had dragged along him, but since Bruce needed help, he examined you both but he found Tim more fitting for the role. At first, you were happy for your brother, but as time progressed on, that feeling turned into resentment, Tim was the nervous smart brother, always getting the attention of others, especially Bruce, while you pushed yourself to your limits, yet since you were more capable than your brother, Bruce thought of you more of a pillar of trust for Tim while he wasn't there, but you wanted more, you wanted his attention, his fucking love, you wanted to feel like a true son, so if he didn't want to pay you attention, you'd rebel, and you did it on your 18th birthday, and your life had become a hellish arena after that, but you still kept pushing, unknowingly digging your own grave.

Your bickering with Tim was interrupted by a loud bang, and before you could react Midnighter had been thrown over two buildings, his landing making a hole into the wall close to you and your twin. Who... who had done that?! Who could do that to the superhuman clad in black? Oh no...The soft thud onto the ground and that familiar presence...oh no no no no...it was the big bat himself.

"Shit," you and Tim said in union "language" Bruce's stern voice made you clamp your lips close, you hadn't seen him like that before, his gaze burying deep into your wide eyes as he approached you with that imposing figure. "Black Robin" your hero's name rolled onto his tongue with a dark tone. "How fitting" he continued before he suddenly reached out and grabbed you by your jaws, making your mouth open.

You were too afraid to talk, you knew he wouldn't listen even if you wanted to talk "Three teeth..." Bruce hummed, before tightening his grip, making you let out a soft groan of pain "Cracked jaw..." he added "Muscle tissue of your left eyelid is hurt, your ear is broken and this is just for the head..." he hissed "I had warned him before to not touch any of my boys..." he let go of you but his hand moved to take a hold of your jacket as he looked down at you.

"Malnourished and still high on drugs, what was he thinking?!" He growled before looking up at you again, he leaned closer as he took a sniff of you, his grip tightening even more "And you've been smoking...it's the same brand as he does..."

"B-bat-" "Silence..." Bruce snapped at you, "Being mistaken for me is one thing I can sort of tolerate, but stealing my boy from me is something I can not overlook...look at you Y/N!..." he pulled you closer to him "You are on the path of self-destruction! You are no superhuman, you are a young one in need of care!" Your throat dried up as he spoke, you knew the consequences of your actions were creeping to get closer to you.

Bruce's heart ached at your sight, he shouldn't have let you go, he had thought no one would take you in and within a month you'd be back into his arms, begging for forgiveness and he'd punish you lightly. You reminded him so much of himself, that was why he didn't want you to get into the world of heroes, yet his worst nightmare had happened and you had plunged into the worst scenario head first like a mad bull.

"You're coming home with us" Bruce's words were final as he took you in "H-hey!" You wanted to pull away but his hold was too strong, he didn't bat an eye at your struggles "You need stitches and a new set of teeth, and when you are ready enough, I'll whip you into the right shape of the Black Robin..." his last words made your shudder in fear, he was angry, but deep down, a small part of you was happy that your dad had finally come for you.

You were strapped into the Batmobile and Tim sat close to you, holding onto your arm tightly, you felt something tug on your heart, that look in his eyes, you knew that too well, you were just minutes older than him but he still looked up at you as his older brother, perhaps you'd reconsider your decision and give in...perhaps...only time could tell. 

[clairdelunelove]

hahahah definitely not biting my fist from the thought of boyfriend!ghost taking you to a scare park for the night

doesn’t grasp why people would wish to be scared by a bunch of underpaid workers in costumes and dramatic makeup. hell, people even pay for this. actual money dropped on a couple minutes of entertainment. he’d rather spend his money on gifting you something pretty like a dainty necklace that’d look stunning adorning your neck. maybe fit his initials on there as well. I digress. sure, visiting the scare park was just for the occasion but hell, he’d gladly give people a run for their money- free of charge. a massive man clad in a skeletal mask was bound to gain such a startling reaction. and honestly, ghost’s assumption is true as he fits right in with the spooky decor. flocks of people parted a way for him to pass through when the two of you ambled into the scare park. not to mention the obvious stares that were directed to you two when ghost pulled up into the parking lot on a sleek motorcycle. dark fumes and a resounding engine. the epitome of bad news but tempting promises that normal men wouldn’t dream of competing with. 

boyfriend!ghost who doesn’t care for the attention or scrutiny. no, he’s much more focused on the pretty little thing that dangles by his side. ghost isn’t sure how but you manage to appear even more radiant in the cheap fluorescent lights that litter the entryway of the scare park. you’re excited, he notes, as your fingers eagerly thrum against his forearm where he has your hand tucked in the crook of his arm. attempting to keep you warm in the breezy autumn evening. it’s dusk; when the sky morphs into a splattering of crimson and orange. the corners of your lips lift before exclaiming, “this way!” he allows you to tug him around, an absurd sight to witness such a menacing man being heaved away, and the two of you end up in line. it’s the fast lane, of course. ghost couldn’t help but spend a little more to lessen the wait-time so you wouldn’t stand for so long. can’t have his sweetheart doing that on such a chilly night. 

boyfriend!ghost who lets you ramble on and on while the two of you are standing in line. appreciates how you can both share silence but also revels in your ability to prattle about whatever’s on your mind. could be anything, honestly. pointing out which decorations you found the most sinister, how you had to change your outfit several times beforehand (he worshiped you in everything you put on and took off), or how the night grew colder with each passing moment. thinks highly of your voice and enthusiasm since they’re such particular traits that belong to you. adds in the occasional quip to demonstrate that he’s listening. but he always is. very cognizant of how your voice lifts at the end of your sentences, the stutter in some words, or the pace of your breathing. but goodness forbid if anyone else in line was talking. leans real close to you and murmurs, “bloke’s as loud as a fuckin’ fire alarm. whole city can hear ‘em.” he’s enamored by the giggle that leaves your mouth and ghost is no stranger to being pompous, especially if someone else interrupts you. raises his brash voice and snarls, “bloody loud so do me a favor and shut up, yeah?” 

boyfriend!ghost who gives you his jacket. shrugs it off and drapes it over your shoulders. forever the gentleman. the bulk of his physique is fully on display and it’s taking you all of your willpower to not ogle at him. all breadth and muscle. the jacket smells distinctly of him too. gunpowder, cigarette smoke, and musk– your favorite. you pull the leather jacket closer to your face to discreetly take a whiff of the intoxicating scent and ghost knowingly shakes his head while ruffling your hair. lightly chastises by mentioning, “don’t needa do all that, pup.” when he pulls his hand away he intertwines yours with his. the small intimacy was significant to him. you can feel his cold rings against your fingers and it has you inwardly swooning. absentmindedly twirling the pieces of jewelry on his fingers until the two of you are finally ushered into the building. 

boyfriend!ghost who wouldn’t necessarily claim that he’s protective of you but he does have a firm hand on the small of your back while traversing in the dark space. he’s so good at moving and tracking in the dark that it’s impressive. figuratively has night vision. he prefers the two of you to be side by side rather than letting you lead in front. wants to be the first one to encounter the scare actors/animatronics so he’s aware of what to expect. he's your own personal guard in the scary place. huffs in amusement whenever you’re spooked by the jumpscares but always checks up on you. mutters, “let me know if it’s too much, pretty thing. can always exit out the back,” and his voice is considerably softer to show that he’s serious. your comfort is his comfort. 

boyfriend!ghost who’s the type to lock eyes with the scare actors and will keep staring at them until they’re the one to avert their gaze. uses his big, sharp eyes to intimidate. it’s a sign of dominance and he wins every time. to be honest, the scare actors recognize that he’s just here for you because no matter what– he doesn’t get scared. not even startled. doesn’t even pretend to be ‘macho’ because that’s just how he is. he literally slow blinks at them when they shriek in his face. mans has been on the battlefield for a majority of his life, a little fake blood and screaming isn’t alarming to him. the only reaction they receive is if they accidentally get too close in your personal space. he’ll place a heavy hand on their chest to smoothly ease them away as he remarks, “gettin’ too cheeky there, mate.” 

boyfriend!ghost who supposes that scare parks weren’t entirely a waste of time. not if it’s a function where he can flaunt you off. a big, gruff man like him granted the pleasure of spending time with you. you’re in high spirits once the two of you leave the building. all smiles while swinging your intertwined hands around and expressing, “it wasn’t as bad as I thought.” loves you like this; basically a melted puddle of bliss and he’s debating on spending more money on additional tickets just to see you so satisfied. “what did you think about it, si?” you ask him with a cute tilt of your head, “did you like it too?” he steers you clear of a crowd of people before answering, “‘ts was alright. thought you’d piss your pants from how much screamin’ you did.” a chuckle escapes his lips when you lightly jab at him for the comment. although he’s attuned with your conversation, his hooded eyes drift entirely somewhere else. specifically to a couple of people that sleazily drag their eyes to you and his blood boils at the audacity. 

boyfriend!ghost who tenderly grabs your neck while leaning into a kiss. he’s not one for outward public affection so it catches you by surprise yet you part your glossy lips with such ease that he groans in delight. you look up at him through your lashes as the feeling of his calloused fingers encircling your neck do little to quell the swirling desire within you. “si,” you gingerly whine and attempt to press yourself closer to him, “everyone’s looking.” you peek at the throes of people that are steadily lined up to go into the building. and in ghost’s case, that’s exactly what he wants. doesn’t bother throwing a glance over his shoulder. just gazes at you with that dark, hungry glint in his eyes before murmuring, “let ‘em,” and pulls you in for another slow kiss. his voice is wrecked. the kiss is messy– greedy in the way he knows how to be with you only. a soft mewl passes from your lips and he’s gone. you devastate him. needs to usher you home and sink his teeth into your soft, pretty skin. litter you with love that others can immediately comprehend that yes, you’re well taken care of by him. the ruthless man that does everything (and anything) to plead for your adoration. he drinks up your heady noises and pulls away with a hot huff near the shell of your ear. his praise is like music to your ears, “did so good for me, y’know that sweetheart?”

[lazypanartist]

Hobie Brown x Artistic/DIY Reader

I love him 💙

pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3 - Pt 4

Warnings: maybe spoilers for ATSV, IDK. Reader's in the punk scene and from Hobie's universe. Whole lotta projection. Canon-typical injuries

Features info dumping and personal Hobie HCs I guess. It's long ASF. And just self indulgent

Please RB, likes alone don't do anything for the algorithm!

-----

DIY/punk Hobie Brown

If you're in the scene, you know the basics

Patches?

Hand-Stitched

Usually with dental floss for durability/cost efficiency

And originally painted with white-out for the same reasons

Spikes or studs?

Cheap, bulk buy, screw em on yourself

Or just make em out of cans

Hobie's fit looks like it fits the bill

Old leather or denim jacket with the sleeves cut off

FN/SM painted on the back

Shirt's kinda tattered iirc

Spiked collars are easy

Same with the wristbands

When he meets you?

Whoo boy

It was one of his shows he was putting on

New songs, new faces in the crowd

He spots you from a distance at first

Little sketchbook in hand

You stay through his whole performance

When he's chatting up the crowd afterwards, though?

You're already gone

(Bitch writes a song about the pretty thing watching from afar, bc ofc he does)

He next sees you during one of President Osborne's speeches

Standing in the front row of a gathered crowd, shaking your head at the screen

He drops down after a few minutes, hanging upside down and blocking the less-than-pleasant view

He takes a few moments between questions from others

Little explanations

A promise to do what he can

Takes just a glimpse to look you over

You have a similar touch to the rest of the crowd

Worn out boots, tattered clothes, hand-sewn and painted patches

And your sketchbook still in hand

It's a little peculiar for the crowd

But he doesn't question it

What he does question is where you've gone after he turns to look at you

He only took a second for more reassurances

But when he goes to see you again

You're gone, just like the first time you caught his eye

He realizes then

That he's intrigued

He doesn't know what it is about you

Until he keeps seeing you pop up again

Riots

Concerts

Shows

Speeches

His immaterial object of interest

He finally starts actually talking to you the third or fourth time he sees you

At another of Osborne's liefests

An ambassador on a stage, surrounded by punks

Speaking of the President's virtues

Yeah

Spider-Punk shows up pretty quickly to run him off

And gets to chatting with you

When he first approaches, you ask for his opinion on a patch idea

And turn your sketchbook to show him the page

His spider symbol backpiece

But instead of FN/SM, it simply states

"Down With President Osborne"

He takes your pen and signs as a seal of approval before swinging away

Sure, it was a short interaction

But it led to even more meaningful ones

Like, say..

Him practically dropping out of the sky into a park

You were just minding your business, sketching the scenery

When he almost fell on top of you.

Covered in injuries

He laughs when he looks up and sees that it's you

Because of course it's you

Tries to resist when you start futzing over him

If you're the parent friend like me?

Patch him up

PLEASE

Even if you can't see him back together

Just

Bandaids and gauze pads

And maybe some candy

Bc suckers help with creativity

Or it's just my neurodivergence? Idk

Just. Offer him one in case he needs to bite on something while you're putting alcohol on his injuries

When you're done he looks them over

Promptly winces when he twists his arm 🙄

But then thanks you for your help and swings off

Again

These kinds of interactions become common

He'll find you hanging around the city

Either doodling or just vibing

And drops down to talk for a bit

Or get patched up

Loves when you offer to fix his costume

Bc it looks just as nice & homemade as the rest of your/his fits

Grins under his mask when he sees a new patch or two

And starts snickering if you deny their application

He really appreciates everything you do for him

And figures he should prove it

Sure, he's saved you

But he's saved a lot of people..

He wants this to be special

Unique

And he thinks he knows how to do that..

---

Click for next part

[photo1030]

Leather and Lace - Chapter 18: Feelings Revealed

Part 4 - SEE ME, FEEL ME, TOUCH ME, HEAL ME

Summary: You and Arthur finally have your first night together.

Warning: 18+ please, Minors - DNI; This is a long one, too.

*I had another title for this, but as I was listening to The Who, this lyric began to play as I was editing and it just seemed to fit this chapter perfectly. 

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

*These are NOT my images. However, I have seen them in multiple versions and on multiple sources. So I don't know who the owners are to credit. But if anyone knows, let me know.

Tag List:  @rivetingrosie4​ @bimbo-dollz​ @pine4pple-b0i​ @redwritr​ @kuri-chans-blog​ @queer-sadie-adler​ @joelmillerswifey​ @gimmethosedaddymilkers​ @pcotarelo​ @delilah-grimes​ @maemortem​ @wistfulwisteriawitch​ @lilacxxdreams​ @mentallyillfrogs​ @absolutegeek​ @spurz​ @sophiaj650​ @uniqueclodzinevoid​ @lookingformaurice​ @pawoui​ @randomidk-123​ @yyiikes​ @eddiemetalheadmunson​ @twola​ @kmartkiddieisle​ @red-dead-simp @regwishesshehadmagic​  @rhehr241​  @earwen-x​ @akariver75​ @djennty​ @nervousmumbling​ @xliliths​ @unbotheredbeeeee​ @onnetonprinsessa​ @kittiowolf210​ @ezrynn​ @suhiss @arthurmargon​​ @codnerd1999 @queer-sadie-adler​​ @alice-vanderlinde​​ @sweetandstoned21​​ @j4llyf7sh @spooky631​​ @m0r4rx @ilovrxats​​ @i-69-urmom​​ @ddbluesie @ivuravix @nervousmumbling @sickvictorianangel @tirededuxhours @ezzythereal1 @chloepluto1306 @ivys-valentine @spiritcatcherxo

*I tagged people who expressed interest in the continued story. If you’d like to be added or removed, please let me know. There are a few that would not let me link, so I apologize if this doesn’t ping some people. 

Arthur gets a small fire going outside the lean-to hunting shelter. The fire burns a deep red and vibrant yellow as the flames lick up around the logs. It’s a soft and comforting sight, the popping and crackling of the wood drowning out all other sounds in the forest this evening. The sky is deepening to a majestic royal purple hue, with its diamond-glittering stars emerging like a crown. The glow of the fire casts its light only upon your little shelter and the immediate area surrounding it as if protecting you inside of an intimate little sphere made just for the two of you. 

With his task complete, Arthur moves into the shelter and sits down on the ground, nervously wiping his hands on the sides of his pants as he looks over and watches as you flit about to fix the make-shift bedding. You’ve rolled out his bedroll and fanned out a blanket overtop. You’ve even taken off your jacket, rolling it into a pillow of sorts and tucking it under the other fabrics. 

Part of your fidgeting is because you want everything to be perfect. The other part is because you are so nervous. Although, you are not really sure why. Arthur is the one person in the world who you feel the most comfortable and safe with. And yet, with all of the previous restrictions and obstacles now removed, you almost feel more vulnerable than ever.  

When you finish fidgeting with the bedroll and blanket, you turn and look down at him, meeting his gaze with a shy smile gracing your features. You nervously bite your bottom lip as you hesitate for just a moment before you hike up your skirts. Loosely balling the cotton into your hands to show just the slightest amount of your calves, you move to sit on Arthur’s lap. And straddling his hips so that you can face him, you slowly lower yourself down on top of his folded legs. 

He tentatively sets his hands on your hips to help guide you down. Your hands come to rest upon the sides of his neck and shoulders for support, but you leave them there for a few moments after you settle, the muscle and bulk of his body keenly radiating through your fingertips.

Arthur’s hands carefully come up around your neck, his long fingers stretching around to the back and into your hair as his thumbs brush against your chin. He cradles your face, staring as if he hasn't seen you in years, because now he sees you in a whole new light, more radiant and precious to him than ever before. 

You and Arthur simply sit and stare at each other with no words spoken, neither of you sure where to even begin. And yet the anticipation is epic. The comforting silence that encompasses the air is like that that follows the rain. The soft crackling of the fire just outside the shelter is the only sound you hear besides your measured breathing.

Excitement fills your mind as you cannot believe that this is finally happening. But suddenly, you have the fear that Arthur is going to change his mind about this whole thing; that he’s going to get up and bolt from you. Now that you are actually here alone together, you are filled with insecurity. What if he doesn’t like what he sees? You are not the prettiest girl in camp. What if you're too forward? What if you're not forward enough? (He is an outlaw after all.) 

But your whole internal struggle is ridiculous, because Arthur is having the same exact conversation with himself in his own mind right now. He’s ugly. He’s riddled with scars and calluses. He’s older than you, too. And, he is not a good man.

But what neither of you realize is that despite how broken you both are, you are exactly what the other wants and needs. 

His hands release your face, smoothing down over your shoulders and arms to now rest gingerly on your upper thighs. Arthur’s mind races as he stares at you perched so perfectly upon his lap, right where he’s always wanted you. He wrestles with his self-doubt, but in contrast, he also has to deal with his own heated desires. He's wanted you for so, so long. It is all he can do to restrain himself from throwing you down and roughly taking you here and now. 

But eventually, your hand lifts and moves slowly like a butterfly hovering in the air to lay across his cheek. His skin is warm and his beard stubble tickles the palm of your hand. Arthur slowly closes his eyes the moment your fingers graze his skin. He slightly leans into your hand as he places his own massive one overtop of yours to hold it in place, basking in the tenderness found there. It is like a gift that he’s rarely received in his life, and his reaction to your simple gesture almost makes your heart break for him.

Your fingers soon leave his face and proceed to his neck to pull at the knot of his neckerchief which quickly comes off and gets tossed to the side. Then your thumbs gracefully hook under his suspenders to lower them down off his broad shoulders. Although your movements are fluid like water, you can feel Arthur’s whole body begin to stiffen a bit in apprehension under you. 

With the suspenders out of the way, you drift back up to the collar of his shirt, hesitating but just for a moment. You slowly begin to unbutton, working the fasteners back through the holes with slightly shaking fingers. Your eyes follow the trail of your fingers, but Arthur’s gaze never leaves your face, watching you so intently as you work. The glow of the fire outside warms your skin and causes copper flecks to dance in your eyes. He takes note how your breathing has become a bit faster, yet shallow. He’s not sure if it is from nervousness or second thoughts.

When you get to the last button at his waistline your hands float up again, resembling the wingspan of a dove, and tuck under the collar. You slowly push the worn cotton fabric back and off of Arthur’s massive shoulders. Your fingertips trace along the thick sinewy muscles of his arms as you continue to push the fabric down to reveal more of his skin to you. The cool air nips at his skin the moment it is exposed. However, it’s a welcoming sensation to wake him up and anchor him to the present before he drifts off entirely and loses himself. 

Once freed from the garment, your fingertips retrace their path, dancing back up along Arthur’s arms again until they find his shoulders. They continue to explore along his strong neck and move back up to cradle his jawline, until you are holding his handsome face in your hands once more. You pull Arthur in to you for another kiss; slow, deep and passionate. You close your eyes, savoring the taste of his lips. This kiss, just this simple kiss is all it takes for your heart to lose its balance. And all you want to do is fall. 

Arthur’s hands suddenly leave your hips to clutch at your back hungrily while you kiss. He pulls at the bottom of your blouse, lifting it up enough so that he can place his hand onto the bare skin of your lower back, which is softer than he could’ve imagined. 

You lean back from him just enough to catch your breath, reluctant to break the kiss, and take the opportunity to pull your blouse and chemise over your head and toss it to the side, leaving yourself now chest bare before Arthur. The movement causes your hair to ruffle, the locks falling softly like fire ash in the wind to frame your face. 

Arthur blinks a few times and locks onto your eyes, as if testing if his are allowed to roam. At this precarious little moment, he is literally standing on the precipice of no return, and happily waiting to plunge over the side and into your arms.

Your soft smile gives him permission to explore and Arthur swallows thickly as he lets his gaze draw down your face and over your delicate throat, where he catches the skin flicker as you swallow and your pulse quickens. His eyes continue to float down across the delicate curve of your clavicle, until finally landing on your breasts. You watch his reaction closely, noticing his breath hitch slightly as you feel his body shift underneath you. 

Arthur sits motionless, taking in the sight and taking time to appreciate the sheer beauty before him. He has waited and prayed for this moment and he wants not a second of it to be rushed. You reach down and collect his left hand into both of your own and bring it to your lips to softly kiss his dirt-stained knuckles before placing his hand on your right breast, closing his thick fingers around it. A soft puff of air huffs out of his nose at the intimate contact. Arthur draws his thumb across the bud of your nipple and gently squeezes the flesh, amazed at how supple it is. 

You slowly remove your left hand from his and reach to set it upon his firm chest, trailing your fingers through the soft curls of golden-brown hair that is scattered across his body. You start at his collarbone and drift downward before placing your small, delicate palm directly over his heart. 

"I can feel your heartbeat." You smile, pausing to experience the fluttering under your fingertips. "Can you feel mine?" you innocently ask him, staring at him with wide and hopeful eyes. You look at Arthur as if he is so special, so wondrous, that the feeling seems so foreign to him; almost as if it actually hurts him to be gazed upon so intensely like this. But it is not so much as the way you look at him, but how you can’t bring yourself to look at anything else.  

“I feel your heart, your breath, your skin, your hair," he rambles as he gently pulls at a lock. "…everything.” 

The poor man is so overwhelmed. All of his senses are saturated:  seeing you perched on his lap so close that he can count the freckles on your cheeks, your honeyed voice and soft giggles of excitement ringing in his ears. He can taste you on his lips as you kiss. 

And the kisses… dear God, you have lips so soft yet firm that they draw the very breath from his lungs. The feeling of your tongues rolling over each other is heavenly. But it’s your touch that does him in. When you caress Arthur’s tired face, or run your hand along his strong and burdened shoulders, he sweetly shudders beneath you. 

It's been a long time since Arthur has done this; has allowed someone else to touch him in this way. Sure, there were Mary and Eliza, with the occasional working girl for the dire release, but those instances were far and few between. But Arthur has cut himself off for so long that he can’t even remember the last time he was touched like this. He can't even stand to look at himself, how could he manage to let a woman see him in this state? 

Touch starved doesn’t even begin to describe it. And Arthur didn't notice how bad it was until the moment you ran your fingers along his bare arms and chest, your fingers caressing his face. Or, maybe it is just that it is specifically you touching him that is driving him crazy with desire right now.

You eventually begin to explore his body, and trace your fingers along several scars in particular along his chest, arms, and torso, mesmerized by them. Some are larger than others. Some are less angry-looking as time has healed them. But all show the contrast between an old wound and the tanned skin they bury into. 

Being self conscious, Arthur instantly stiffens and tries not to instinctively recoil from you as your attention focuses on his scars. You don't pull back in revulsion as he had expected you to. But you simply stare and curiously run your finger over each one that you can find, like studying the fine thread work of a tapestry, and wondering how it got there. 

"I know I ain’t much to look at for you," Arthur mutters lowly and embarrassed. 

The comment causes you to look up into his eyes with a twinkle in your own before you lean over and softly begin to kiss each scar that you can reach with your lips. Each patch of hardened tissue is a target of your divine attention. The gesture catches Arthur off-guard and his eyes roll shut with a sigh at the feeling of your delicate lips on his damaged skin.

After a few moments of sweetly-delivered kisses, you sit up to look him in the eye again. "Your scars aren’t ugly, Arthur. They tell your story.” Your voice is an angelic whisper, both light-hearted and earnest at the same time; almost childlike in its wonderment. “They are a testament to how strong you really are, and of all of the things you’ve been through. Others would have crumbled under half the weight you’ve had to endure. You're like a tree; strong and weathered, and where everyone takes refuge." 

Your hands dance along his chest again until your index finger lands on one scar in particular that is about three inches from his heart. Your face turns dark for a second, your brows furrowed at the thought of the glaring hardship that he unquestioningly assumes on behalf of everyone else that he cares for. 

"You take the brunt of the storm while everyone is protected by you, Arthur." You gaze at him from under your thick lashes with a look of concern that darkens your once-bright face, worried about his well-being. 

“Yeah, I’m rough and gnarled like an ol’ oak tree”, he sighs with a sad little self-deprecating grin as his fingertips drum nervously on your back.

The effervescent giggle that bubbles from your lips at his statement is music to his ears as that grin of yours that Arthur loves so much blooms across your cheeks.

“Yes, you’re rough, I’ll give you that,” you chuckle in agreement. “But, also like an old oak tree, every once in awhile, Arthur, you show the most magnificent colors.” The demure little smile that graces your face is enough to make Arthur’s heart stop. 

He’s not used to this. He’s been denied attention for so long. Which is ironic, as all you want to do is touch him: run your fingers along his face, draw your leg along his, push yourself up against his bare chest. It's hard for you to imagine anyone ever thinking Arthur is not enough as he is all that you ever seem to think about.

Arthur pulls you to him again for more kisses which you happily reciprocate. The more you touch each other, the more the two of you relax and let go of the inhibitions and hesitations; the comfort settling upon you two like a warm blanket. Your kisses quickly lead to tight embraces, holding each other so close that it's possible that a rib may crack. Heavy breathing and gentle, needy moaning begins to fill the quiet night air.

Getting bolder, Arthur places hot, wet lips along your jawline, down your neck and over your collarbone, getting more and more greedy as your chin gently drops back to grant him access to the sensitive skin underneath. A contented sigh pulls from your slightly gaped mouth as his tongue darts out to leave trails along that soft spot on your chest above your breasts. Your arms affectionately cradle his head to you as your fingers comb through the amber-colored locks of his hair that are forever-embedded with faint hints of woodsmoke.

It is such a blissful moment as you feel each other wrapped in the other’s arms, held so close that every inch of you is heightened and yearning for more. 

Arthur eventually rolls you to lay you down, his own body pinning the side of yours to the ground. Your leg lifts to intertwine with his as your arms slot under his own like a puzzle piece as he deepens the passion with hungry lips and curious hands. Closing your eyes only enhances the extension of his touch as he continues. Everywhere Arthur’s fingers and lips graze, the sensation bursts forth to travel the entire scope of your body.

He eventually sits up on his knees, straddling your right leg, to pull at the strings of your skirt. He’s trying not to get impatient when his giant fingers fumble with the ties. But quick enough, the waistline comes loose and Arthur’s fingers hook underneath and slowly pull the fabric back to expose your hips, and all their glory in between, before showcasing your legs. 

Arthur’s hand comes up to cover his mouth in awe as he takes in the sight of you lying naked beneath him. Slightly embarrassed under his heated gazed, you instinctively pull your legs up a bit, curling in on yourself like a potato bug to try to hide from the exposure. Upon seeing your reaction, Arthur gives you a reassuring smile and leans overtop of you to protectively shield you from the world outside the shelter. His hand caresses your face, a gesture so gentle that belies his gruff exterior. 

“You are so beautiful, you know that?” he whispers to you, kissing your temple. But Arthur’s compliment only makes your cheeks turn as red as the fire outside as you hide your face into his bare chest. 

“Stop it”, you mumble into his muscles, self-conscious of his praise. 

“Oh, so it's okay for you to say nice things, but not me?” he teases with that gruff baritone voice. “I see how it's gonna be.”

“You deserve to hear it more than I do.” Your voice is small and humble, averting your eyes from his as you roll your fingertips around his chest hair.

“Bullshit. If that ain’t the biggest lie I ever heard…”, his nose nudging against yours before encompassing your mouth with his own again.

Arthur carefully moves to crawl completely over you. Both of you are shaking slightly, but it's not from the chill night air. His movements are slow at first, terrified of hurting you physically or offending you with his pent up lust. His hands begin to roam more freely over your skin, which is softer than he ever dreamed. 

Now that he finally has you, Arthur is eager to see every bit of you. His lips kiss over the faint lines and stretch marks that occasionally decorate your skin. His fingertips trace them first as he discovers every bit of you. His attention eventually lands on the soft swell of your breasts, which he caresses before clamping his hot mouth over the nipple, his tongue flicking and swirling over the highly-sensitive skin. You softly hum as your hands find their way to come up again to finger through his hair, your nails dragging slightly across his scalp before lightly grabbing onto the thick waves. 

Your image, your shape, gets burned into Arthur’s brain as he continues his line of kisses and fingertrails all over your body:  every curve, every freckle, even the soft roll of your stomach and hips. Everywhere Arthur touches makes you melt, as his hands are hot like the sun from his own want mixed with his nervousness. 

Your heat is so sensitive as his hand carefully drops to caress it, causing you to jump slightly with a whimper. His fingertips linger around your soft mound until they dance along the delicate folds, already slick with want as you buck slightly into his hand, panting hotly into his mouth. His face now hovers so close to yours, close enough for his eyelashes to tickle your skin, as he gently slips a digit into you. Your spine arches back at the sensation of it, a breathless moan escaping your kiss-swollen lips and your toes begin to curl in pleasure. 

Arthur watches your reaction carefully as he pumps his finger into you. Your eyes roll back as your chin lifts, your mouth sharply sucking in air. Your hand desperately reaches out to grasp his bicep with desire. Your eyes open again to meet his gaze, burning into each other with such intensity. His hand moves faster, adding a second digit now, and curls them to rub that certain spot so perfectly. The sensation draws the most beautiful moan from your lips. It is a sound that almost makes Arthur weep.

Suddenly, the realization of what’s about to happen hits him. What if he’s not good enough? What if you reject him after this? What if he hurts you? What if this ruins the one good thing he has in his life? Arthur pauses in his worship of you, retracting from between your legs for a moment. His hand graces over your forehead as his thumb lingers at the corner of your eyebrow. 

“Are you sure this is what you want, (Y/N)?” His eyes crease with concern as he searches yours, not 100% sure if he should continue. “We don’t have to do this right now.” 

But you are getting restless. You’ve been pushed to the limit in body, mind, and soul by this man and it is time to put an end to your longing. You cup Arthur’s face again with a look of seriousness settling across your features as you are afraid that maybe he is having second thoughts after all.

Your (y/e/c) eyes burn into his with such intensity and longing. “I only want you, Arthur. Of that, I am certain.” 

Arthur inhales deeply, weighing the possible consequences. “If this is too much, you need to tell me. Promise?”

You lift up slightly and give him a chaste kiss upon his plump lips. “I promise.”

Giving a faint smile in acceptance, Arthur pulls away from you. He carefully stands up again, stooping slightly in the small shelter, and begins to unbuckle his pants. With no union suit on today, his remaining layers of clothing are quick to come off. His hardened cock springs forth from its confines as he bends to shuck the pants and boots from his legs. 

You watch him intently, taking in the vision of him. Arthur truly is a beautiful specimen of a man. You have patched him up multiple times after jobs and fights, and of course there was that time when you accidentally stumbled upon him bathing in the river, so you have seen him before. But now you are free to observe his body, to truly take in the sight of him and appreciate the man standing before you.

Of course, he is muscular, his arms and thighs thick from years of hard labor. His entire body is littered with hair, but not in an unpleasant way. Now that he is completely naked in front of you, even more scars are made known to you. You notice old knife wounds on his thighs and an old white scar creeping up along his shin. He almost resembles a ragdoll, one that is tattered and has been stitched back together over time. 

Arthur tosses his pants to the side and looks down at you, hesitating when he notices how keenly you gaze at him. Seeing his look of concern, you sit up to run your hands up his thighs and reach over his abdomen, making the mental note of how his bodyhair trials downward towards the V between his legs. When your face tilts upwards towards his, he leans in for another impassioned kiss before gently pushing you back down and settling himself between your legs. 

Arthur shifts between your hips, getting his knees and elbow set. Caging you underneath him, he begins to rock back and forth causing his whole body to rub against yours. The rhythmic motion lulls you into a relaxed state like no other. You can feel his cock beginning to twitch as it pushes against your heat as if begging for attention. You hear him hiss slightly under his breath, fighting to keep his composure before he loses all self control. The sound makes you moan and mewl on your own accord.

Finally, it’s at the point where Arthur just can’t wait any longer, and neither can you by the way you're grasping and whining at him. He reaches down between you to line himself up and pushes himself into you so gently. Your hand immediately shoots out to his shoulder, bracing yourself. He's well-endowed between his legs and he knows it. Your eyes meet his, holding his gaze as he stretches you so wonderfully below, causing you to lightly gasp. He watches your face as you wince slightly, letting out a brief whimper as he pushes. He's trying to be so mindful of your comfort, knowing he's going to fully bury himself into you to the hilt. 

"You alright?" Arthur cautiously asks as he grabs and hooks his arm under your leg, lifting it up and over his hip to open you up more to him. 

"Yes", you pant out, smiling sweetly and lifting your face up to kiss him gently again. He takes a brief moment to get himself adjusted and then begins to move, causing your breathing to be heavy in his ear. He pushes his cock all the way into you, grunting at the heavenly sensation of it, before retracting again. He moves so slowly at first, but then begins to move at a steady pace. The experience is so utterly amazing to you both as you can feel every inch of each other in the most intimate of ways. 

He begins to pump himself in and out as your whole body moves with him. You hook your arm around Arthur’s wide shoulders and neck while the other hand has a tight grasp onto his bicep, fingers digging into the muscles there. After a few moments, he wants to ask again if you're okay, but when your mouth falls open and he hears the words, "damn, Arthur" whispered into his ear, he knows his answer. 

But you can still see the apprehension in Arthur’s face; feel it in his fingers as he touches you. He buries his face into your neck and holds you so tightly as his hips find their place in a steady rhythm between yours. Yet Arthur is still so hesitant, still holding back from you as if nervous.

"Arthur…I need you," your whisper to him barely audible. 

“You're sure about this?” he asks again, lifting his face from your neck to look into yours. “I mean, I really don’t want to hurt you, (Y/N), after everything and all.” Arthur sweetly searches for any misgivings, for any sign that you are not ready for this next step.

“I want all of you, Arthur," your voice yearning with desire as you cup his face again. You are so touched that this sometimes-brutal man can be so careful with you, especially in this situation. "It’s okay. I’m tougher than you think." You give him a little nod as his favorite little smile graces your lips once more.

And just like that, that confirmation is all that Arthur needs as he suddenly crashes into your lips, hot and all consuming this time. His thrusts instantly become deep and steady as his hips begin to snap sharply into yours with the ferocity of a caged beast that has been released back into the wild. And you gasp in the most satisfied way as you give in to him. 

“That’s it,” you pant, praising him as you wrap your one leg around his waist to pull him deeper into you, while using the other to stabilize yourself against his force and push yourself up to receive him. 

It doesn’t take long for Arthur to give in to his long-denied desires and lose himself completely, drowning in his senses. He didn’t realize just how empty his soul was until you were there to fill it again. And you are more than happy to be the one to provide that comfort to him. It’s the simplest, yet most selfless thing that you could offer him with your humble existence. 

Arthur used to think that he just wanted to disappear sometimes, to get lost from everyone and everything in the world. But what he realizes is that all he’s ever wanted was to be truly found. And clinging to him, you are just as desperate as Arthur is. Loneliness isn’t something just for an outlaw. You wrap yourself up into him, into his arms, against his barrel chest which is heaving and trying to catch the air for the lungs within as he moves faster and faster on top of you.

“Don’t let me go." Your plea wafts into his ear as tears form in the corners of your eyes as the weight of everything that you've been through and everything you've been waiting for, finally comes to a culmination. 

”Never” is all he manages to murmur in response, not even sure if you hear him. 

The feeling of Arthur on top of you, of him inside of you, is so wonderfully overwhelming and electric. The fullness of him inside you, his rough hands on your skin, his soft lips nipping at your jawline, and his hot breath on your neck, it’s all as if lightning has hit you and is traveling throughout your entire body. Your skin is buzzing with the exquisite sensation, acutely aware of even his chest hair as it drags and rubs against your sensitive breasts as he moves. 

Arthur grabs onto your hip again, digging his fingertips into the soft flesh there. There will be slight bruising there for sure later, but neither of you are in any frame of mind to acknowledge or care right now. His cock continues to ram into you, hitting the back of your walls as his girth stretches you so wonderfully. His thrusts are sharp and hard, more desperate than harsh, chasing you, as if you’ll vanish from him in moments like the sun burning the morning fog away.

It is a good thing that your first time together is out and away from anyone else in camp. It gives you both the opportunity to explore and appreciate each other properly. But it also allows you to be free and unrestricted, as the sounds of your lovemaking burst forth in waves of moaning, squeals, and grunting, only getting louder and louder with each cascading wave of building ecstasy. 

Looking down at you, Arthur never thought he’d see you like this:  flushed and pupils blown, your mouth fallen open and making the most incredible noises in his ear. In all the time he's watched you from afar and sketched your image to keep privately for himself, Arthur never dreamed it could be like this. He looks down at himself pounding into you, watching how your body shudders with each stroke. Like a musician playing a fiddle, you move and moan with his fingers. Your chest heaves while your back arches at an almost inhuman angle, desperate to receive more of him. It makes him want you even more. It's crazy how your body responds in perfect union to his. Every time you moan his name in broken syllables and wanton whispers, Arthur shudders and groans even more as it is a confirmation that you are really here for him and only him. And like a selfish child, he wants you all to himself.

The two of you form a beautifully ungraceful knot of limbs and noises, hard to tell where one of you begins and the other ends. Arthur rocks into your hips like a wave on the ocean, repeatedly surging and retreating. Your hands wrap under his arms to grip the planes of his back as your fingers dig into the hard muscle there, clawing for a handhold. You draw your knee up, causing your hips to open wider and granting Arthur more access to your core before your heels dig into the backs of his thighs. And in reaction to your movements, he swallows each of your gasps with his mouth, hungry for you. He winds his hand up into your hair again, pulling slightly to tip your chin back to expose the delicate area of your throat and allowing him to claim what is his with a twinkle of pure delight in his eyes. Your mouth opens up into a soundless scream, an airless breath that fights to escape your chest. And all the while, you are completely absent of coherent thought. Your mind is taken over by the feel of Arthur completely encompassing you. 

This goes on for what seems like hours, as time seems to stand still. For the first time in forever, this feels different for both of you. You cling to Arthur as if your life depends on it because maybe it does. Arthur is the very air you breathe. But that is okay, because he clings to you just the same. The two of you lie there, skin against skin, yet you still try to pull each other even closer. It's a wonder that either of you can move at all for how tightly you hold each other. But it's because you move in perfect unison together that you are able to make it work so heavenly.  

In this beautiful moment, nestled in the thick of the forest and caressed by the darkness of the night, yet kissed by the glow of a fire, you and Arthur give in to each other so completely and so deeply, each finding that missing piece in each other to make you both whole once more. He is the strength that you so desperately need, and you are the hope and humanity that he lost so long ago.

Lightning begins to build in your abdomen as your climax is soon to come. You can’t even form words to tell him, but Arthur can tell by how much faster you're panting and squirming beneath him. Your hot breath dances across Arthur’s neck as your bottom teeth drag along his earlobe, causing an almost animalistic grunt to erupt from him. 

Now it’s your turn to dig your fingers with bruising pressure as your fingernails begin to cut into the flesh of his strong back, holding onto him desperately while the crescendo builds between your legs. You throw your head back with a loud and overwhelmed moan the moment it hits, stars clouding your vision as your climax comes hard with full force like a tidal wave. Arthur stares at you, mesmerized, as his hand comes up to cradle your face as if he’s trying to actually catch the feeling of it into his palm. He is utterly amazed by you. He can’t remember when, or even if, he’s seen a woman react to his touch like this. 

And with this sight, Arthur is soon to follow you. Moaning loudly, his eyes shoot wide before screwing tightly shut again to brace himself for the impending sensation about to rock his entire body. And the intensity of his orgasm hits him like a ton of bricks. Arthur quickly reaches up to fist your hair again as he pulls himself out of you just in time to release between your thighs. The muscles of his entire body tense up and restrict, clamping down tightly onto your body underneath him. His breathing becomes staggered and jagged as he sputters to catch his breath.  

Arthur has a split second of panic as he pulls out of you, not sure if he has timed himself properly. He almost doesn’t make it because he can barely pry himself from your reflexive grasp to move. Aside from the obvious precautions against pregnancy, Arthur doesn't want to offend you by assuming he could release inside of you. 

Arthur remains motionless for a few moments, still trying to catch his breath from his own orgasm, before his bear-like frame collapses onto you. You notice how sweetly his legs and arms tremble as he tries not to crush you beneath him. His face returns to the crook of your neck, panting hot breath onto your sweat-glistening skin. The cool night air is a blessing as a slight breeze chases away the excessive heat that radiates off of your naked bodies. You slowly drag your fingers up the valley of his spine, dancing along the back of his neck and into his hair as the feather-light touch of your fingers causes him to shudder again. You let out a satisfied moan as you flex your fingers into his sweat-damp hair. 

Arthur eventually pulls himself up onto his elbows to look you in the face again and is relieved to be greeted by the softest of smiles. You place your hand along his cheek again, just as you did before, and lift up to pepper his face with sweet kisses along his jaw and his cheek and over his eyelids and nose. 

Carefully, Arthur rolls off of you and onto his left side, but keeps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him as he moves. He reaches over you to grab his neckerchief that was discarded earlier and uses it to gently clean your legs and then himself before tossing it aside once more. 

Laying there wrapped up into each other’s arms, you forget that the rest of the world exists. You stare into each other's eyes, soaking up the reality of what has just happened between you, as your hand floats up to nestle your fingertips in between the pectoral muscles of his chest. There is a new sense of depth to Arthur’s ocean-blue eyes, a calmness that you haven’t seen before. Arthur studies your face, taking in the way the firelight catches in your irises and mapping the curvature of your lips that he has to fight the urge to kiss again and again. 

“So now what?” Arthur asks, finally breaking the blissful silence.

You release a hum of contented exhaustion as you smile at him. "This doesn’t have to be anything that you don’t want it to be, Arthur. Although I’m really hoping it goes past this moment." 

“I gotta be honest, (Y/N), I haven’t done this in a long time. I...I don’t know if I can.” He draws his lips inward, biting down slightly as he’s embarrassed to tell you this, worried you’ll reject him here and now. 

“But what you don’t realize, Arthur, is that’s where you have me at a disadvantage,” you tell him with a voice so soft and gentle. “At least you’ve had love before. I’ve never been fortunate enough to have what you had, even if it was only for a brief window of time.” You lovingly reach over and run the pads of your fingers over his lips and chin. A lop-sided grin dusts your face as you study him for a moment. “You are capable of so much more than you know, Arthur. I can’t wait for the day that you realize that.” 

Arthur hums in contemplation, averting his eyes for a moment as the corners of his mouth lift a bit. His fingertips roll over the delicate skin of your back as your words embed themselves into his mind.

“I don’t want anything from you, Arthur. I just simply want you.” Your breathy voice carries your warm proclamation, assured with the glinting look that you give him. 

“This could go so wrong, you know,” he warns, his eyebrows knit with concern as his gaze meets yours once again.

“True. But, it could go so right, too,” you counter with a smirk. “This could be the best thing to happen to either of us, Arthur." You reach over again and gracefully run your fingers through his hair before cupping his cheek again as your thumb gently swipes over his bottom lip. "And I think you’re worth the risk.” 

Arthur runs his hand along your back and over your hips, taking in all of your beautiful words. He thinks he is just so ordinary. Or maybe not even that. But to you, he is extraordinary, vast and breathtaking like the bluest sky over the valley. And he can see it in your eyes when you look at him and it makes it hard for him to breathe.  

“Do you have any idea what you do to a man?”, he finally smirks, his eyebrows arching questioningly at you. 

A coy smile dances upon the petals of your lips in return. “Don’t care about other men. Just you.” 

That affirmation causes Arthur’s heart to soar higher than the stars sparkling in the sky above you, and he surges forward and into your lips again. He doesn’t want this moment to end, but only to fold the two of you up into it forever. You smile and hum into Arthur's mouth as his tongue pushes over yours again and again as you can feel his confidence building with each caress of his strong hands across your body. 

When you feel him harden against your legs again, you take advantage of the opportunity and gently push the man over to climb on top of him. Your hair falls to create an intimate curtain, housing your two faces so sweetly as you catch Arthur’s lips with your own. You pull away from his mouth and begin to place kisses along his neck and over his shoulder. The thin blanket that Arthur had wrapped around the two of you slowly falls away to expose your naked body to the cool night air once more, causing goosebumps to prickle your skin. 

Using one hand to steady yourself, you use the other to explore Arthur’s muscled chest, rolling over the chest hair that decorates his weathered skin. Playing on both angles, you draw your leg up along Arthur’s body, running your knee and leg along his side, while simultaneously moving your hand and lips down his thick torso. The full body caress makes Arthur’s whole body come to life. His body is used to hardship and blows; to be abused and pushed to the limits of its capabilities. Certainly not this type of coveted affection and touching that you are providing him now.

Arthur’s head rolls back with a moan as he is now the one being taken care of. His head thumps back against your make-shift pillow with a soft ‘thud’ sound as his hands land on your shoulders, massaging the muscle there between his strong fingers as you travel downward along his body. Your trail of kisses leads you down to his hips as your hair feathers out over his abdomen. 

His breath suddenly hitches as he quickly looks down as you hover over his cock. You look up at him and meet his gaze, before you duck back down, gently taking his large cock into your hand. Arthur’s eyes go wide then immediately heavy-lidded as the heat from your mouth envelops his tip before slowing working down the thickness of his shaft. 

You have only done this a few times before now, and Arthur is much larger than you're used to. But desire is a wonderful motivator. Your head starts to bob slowly at first before picking up a faster pace. Using your hand, you're able to take him entirely into your mouth without gagging. Your tongue wraps around the shaft before teasingly flicking at the tip. The muscles of your mouth firmly encompass his cock, creating the most blissful sensation of pressure and suction as you pull up and down. You can hear the hissing and moaning sounds the man is making and it only increases your confidence in your performance, and you change your technique to elicit the specific sound you desire from his trembling lips. 

Right now, you only want to take care of Arthur; to make him feel good and show him the attention that he so rightfully deserves. And yet, the idea that you could hold this strong and fearsome outlaw hostage in the palm of your hand is incredible. This position also gives you the opportunity to take note of just how large Arthur is. It’s little wonder how he was able to pull such an intense orgasm from the depth of your body just moments ago. The very memory of it causes your own desires to ramp up, as your heat begins to tingle and get wet between your legs again. 

Once Arthur is at the point that he is rock-hard again, you slowly remove his cock from your mouth with a soft “pop” and gently rise-up to place yourself on top of him. Arthur watches you, captivated, as you crawl over him like an animal stalking its prey, and slowly rock back and forth, rubbing yourself against him. He’s tempted to take himself in hand, line himself up with your heat and push up into you again. But he’s too transfixed by your dominance at the moment to do anything but watch you move atop of him. 

As if reading his mind, you smirk and you lift up a bit more, wrapping your hand around his rigid cock to guide yourself as you lower onto him, moaning softly and biting down on your lip as his size fills you up yet again. Your head drops back, hair cascading down your back, as you start to slow-grind on him in a hypnotic rhythm. 

Finally able to pull his mind out of its lust-drunk fog, Arthur runs his hands up the front of your thighs, his thumbs rubbing small circles into the plush skin there. He snakes one hand along your stomach and up into the valley between your breasts as the other hand lands on your hip, his fingers digging slightly to help hold the pace you are setting. Letting you take the lead this time allows Arthur to take in the sight of you as you straddle his hips with your own. 

You're not perfect. But it’s your imperfections that make you perfect to Arthur. It really is as if you are made for each other. You have curves, for sure. You're not as small as some of the other girls in camp, but you fit into Arthur’s large hands perfectly. He doesn’t feel like he’s going to break you as if you are a porcelain doll. Your individual features are pleasant for sure, but taken in as a whole, you are striking. At least to Arthur you are. 

He savors the touch of your soft skin against his which is rough and weathered; how the large orbs of your adoring eyes are looking down at him right now, and how you so generously take him into yourself. You are beautiful, you are kind…and you are his. And the two of you can’t get enough of each other. 

For you, you had been so worried that what happened in Rosewood would have ruined you. And it almost did. But you didn’t want that act of depravity to define you. And you pulled from the common adversity of your new family to help rebuild your spirit like a phoenix rising from the ashes. And if that hadn’t happened, you wouldn’t be here now, like this. With Arthur. 

If it were anyone else touching you like this, you’d probably curl up into a ball, retracting into yourself in fear or self-loathing. But with Arthur, you feel safe and shielded as if no one else in the world would, or could, touch you. 

Arthur is different and you’ve always known it by the way he makes you feel, even when he simply speaks to you. He is warm and instantly feels familiar to you, like he has always been the other half of yourself. He feels solid and secure to your touch and almost makes you feel drunk with emotions that can’t even be named. The best feeling in the whole world is to be with someone who wants you just as much as you want them.

It's amazing how life works sometimes. Some people always have the sunshine in life while others always seem to get the rain. But sometimes, you really do need to suffer through the storm to see the magic of the rainbow at the end of it. 

As you continue to ride him, Arthur can see and feel both of you rapidly approaching your conjoined climax again as he can feel the velvet walls of your heat clenching around his twitching cock inside of you. As you begin to move even faster, you take your hands off of where you've been holding on to Arthur’s forearms and lean over him to plant them on his shoulders. This angle gives you more leverage to grind Arthur even deeper into yourself, if that’s even possible. Harder, faster. Deeper than you thought possible, until you feel as if he’s up into your ribcage. Arthur reciprocates by bucking his hips up into yours with each stroke, causing you to gasp as the breath is taken right out of your lungs with the feel of it. And it’s shortly thereafter that you both start to grasp at each other again, bracing for the overstimulation about to hit. 

Your climax is intense and hits first again. A sharp moan erupts from your lips as your head instantly snaps backwards. And as your muscles begin to go limp as you come down, Arthur grabs you and takes control, sitting up slightly to wrap his strong arms around you, and rides you through the surge of it. 

Watching your eyes roll back into your head with a strained cry, he is quick to hit his own climax and swiftly lifts you up to pull himself out of you again. He pitches you forward, causing your trembling arms to brace yourself against him as he spills his seed along your conjoined thighs once more. It’s a good thing Arthur has a hold of you, too, as you are completely undone at this point, your whole body seemingly boneless. You roll your head to the side and close your eyes before leaning forward to collapse against his chest. 

You both lay there for some time, motionless except for your heaving chests. Arthur’s massive arms encircle you to hold you tight to him as you curl up onto the plane of his chest, your fingers clutching at him. Eventually, you shift to lower yourself to lay along Arthur’s side. You turn into him and snuggle your face into his chest as your hand rests across his heart which you can feel beating like crazy beneath your palm. You absentmindedly rake your fingers through his chest-hair and lift your leg up and over to entwine with his, still trying to keep as close to him as possible. 

Smiling slightly at the feeling of your warm body against his, Arthur pulls the blanket around you again to cover your naked body as it drapes over his own. He lays his hand atop of yours that rests on his chest and wraps his other arm around you to cradle you back into him, his hand tangling in your hair as he holds your head. 

And here in this perfect little moment of satiated bliss, Arthur is happy.

“We could have done this a long time ago, you know,” you snicker as you roll your eyes up to look at him. 

“Hmmm, don’t I know it. Remind me next time to listen to you, would ya?” He pulls his rough fingers along your spine and up over your bare shoulders, still fascinated by how soft your skin is. 

“It’s like I told you before, Arthur:  you look out for me, I’ll look out for you,” you say drowsily, as sleep is about to take over your worn-out senses. And within moments, you are asleep. 

When you go silent and the only sound he hears is the crickets in the night, Arthur looks down at your form, curled up into him like a kitten and almost as fragile looking as one, too. He runs his fingertip along your shoulder again, admiring how the appendage curves. And as he watches you in your euphoric slumber, his mind starts to wander now that it’s quiet and his wits are about him once more. 

It is amazing how this person who was once a total stranger to him can suddenly, and without warning, mean the world to him. You are everything Arthur has ever dared to hope for. And somehow, by some miracle, you have graced him with your affection. And Arthur knows it now: time, distance, background - nothing could separate you two. This is real and this is right. Arthur understands now that you are the person that he was always meant to find, and he is unimaginably captivated by you. 

In the quiet night air, now that the symphony of moans and panting are done, the only sound carrying through the still night air is the popping of the fire as it dies down. The faint noise of a hooting owl in the trees can be heard off in the distance. Left to his own thoughts, Arthur’s reason and self-doubt begin to creep up again, but it’s only for a moment. Spreading like black ink, Micah’s words ring through his mind : if Arthur really cared for you, he’d save you the heartache and keep you safe from him and the trouble that someone like him brings. 

But now, Arthur doesn’t think he could ever do that even if he tried. Selfishly, now that he has you, he doesn’t want to let you go. It would be like taking the air from his lungs or the blood from his heart. Arthur is all-consumed by you now. He could die tomorrow and he'll be a happy man. 

What if he doesn’t run this time, but stays and lets your affection for him, possibly even love, overtake him? Arthur never fathomed that even something as simple as the sound of your voice could ever calm his soul like you have. 

So instead of the foolish notion to leave you in order to protect you, Arthur determines he’s going to do everything in his power to keep you safe and protected in his care. He is your guardian, and you are his angel. 

As he comes to this conclusion, Arthur’s powerful arms involuntarily tighten around you as if someone was going to come and take you away from him. He leans down and places an ever-so soft kiss on the top of your head, causing you to shift even closer into him in your sleep. 

“I got you, baby-girl. I got you”, he whispers. 

-----------------------------------------

Several hours go by and you slowly wake from your blissful slumber to the sound of chirping birds in the air. The lightening sky of soft lavender and subdued pinks washes over the landscape and creeps its way into the hunting shelter, intruding upon the blissful solitude where you and Arthur are still tucked away. 

The last few plumes of smoke from the dying fire slowly waft through the air. Both of you must have been worn out from your passionate love-making as you are both in the same position as when you fell asleep in each other's arms. The slightly damp, cool breeze of the morning blows across your exposed shoulder, causing you to stir. You slowly stretch and curl into a tighter ball around the bulk of the man beneath you. You inhale deeply as your muscles flex and you instantly catch his scent. The smell of leather and cigarettes, mixed with a bit of clove from his soap, fills your nose. It instantly makes you smile in your hazy sleep, remembering where you are and that this is indeed not a dream. 

Arthur refused to sleep much overnight, keeping a watchful eye on you as you slept, but he did end up dozing lightly here and there. When he feels you move against his bare skin, warm and soothing, he peels open his blue-green eyes with a sleepy grunt and peers down at you. 

“Hey you,” he murmurs softly as he runs his thumb across your temple. You smile, inhaling deeply again, taking a moment to appreciate where you are before you reply with your own sleep-hushed “Hey you”. 

“We’re gonna have to get goin’ here soon, little miss. Dutch ain’t gonna be too happy if we’re out much longer.” Arthur’s voice is thick with sleep and, of course, carrying with it the reluctant tone to enforce what he's saying.

You groan in disappointment, burying your face back into him as you shuffle a bit as your limbs slowly awaken once more. “You sure that’s the way you want to go?” you ask coyly, as you start to leave kisses on Arthur’s chest while seductively drawing circles on his skin with your fingertip. 

“Aw c’mon, you’re killin’ me,” he whines, causing you to giggle mischievously. Arthur wraps you up into his arms and squeezes tightly before relaxing again. When you’re able to lift your head, you reach up to pull his face to yours and plant a soft, yet very intimate kiss on his lip. Your eyes create that dreamy, longing stare again as you look up into his face and run your knuckles along his cheek. 

“You’re gonna get me in so much trouble, you know that?” Arthur raises an eyebrow at you.

“Oh, I know.” With a quick kiss to his nose, you slowly sit up and stretch, looking around for your clothes with a sigh of disappointment. “But I suppose you’re right. We should get going.” 

Arthur reluctantly sits up as well, leaning over to kiss your naked shoulder as he runs his hand slowly down your back, his touch tickling your skin. Your eyes slowly float closed as you turn your head into his, trying to savor every last bit of time you have alone together.

“Trust me, Darlin’, I’d stay out here with you forever if I could,” he mumbles into your skin as his nose and lips smoosh into your shoulder as if trying to melt the two of you together.

“Yeah, yeah, promises, promises,” you joke as you roll over to grab your blouse and skirt. Arthur sees the perfect opportunity and playfully smacks your exposed butt, pulling a slight squeak from your lips.

But soon enough, the two of you get yourselves together. You reluctantly pull apart from one another long enough to pack up the few things you had brought with you in your hasty departure yesterday and prepare to leave the little hunting lean-to and head back to camp. The sun has awakened as well at this point and begins to shine down, its beams freckling through the tree branches. It is a gloriously beautiful morning and you look upon it with a whole new sense of wonder and happiness in your heart. 

As you shake out the blanket and roll it up in your hands, Arthur stands hesitantly behind you, watching you gracefully move as you tuck the last bit of things onto Buck’s saddle. Noticing him out of the corner of your eye, you turn and give him a curious look. “Everything alright?” 

“I’m fine. Just rolling the last 12 hours around in my head," he mumbles, swirling his hand in the air by his temple. "It’s hard to believe what just happened.” Arthur smiles sheepishly, rubbing his hand along his chin as he thinks about his current situation. 

So much has changed in the last few days, let alone hours. From the fighting between you, to his ride to Rosewood; from the confessions to the embrace. And of course, the beautiful night you’ve just spent together. The river of emotions have weighed heavily on Arthur, leaving him delightfully overwhelmed and uncharacteristically content. 

You beam with sparkling eyes as you take a few steps over to him. “Well, now you can touch whenever you want to. That should be fun, yeah?” You reach your arms around his barrel-chest, squeezing him to you, and lift your face upwards to start placing sweet kisses along his face and neck. 

"Whatcha doin?” Arthur asks cautiously, a suspicious eyebrow raised, but one that belies the grin creeping across his bearded face. 

“Just lovin' up on you again,” you giggle into his neck. "Something tells me you're past due and I got a lot of time to make up for." 

A low hum rumbles from deep in his chest as Arthur folds you up against him, squeezing you into a strong embrace in return. He collects your beautiful face into his giant hands and leans down to kiss you deeply. Your breath rolls over each other’s as you indulge your senses yet again. Once more, the rest of the world falls away the moment your lips touch. The feeling leaves your knees weak and you have to fight the urge to push it farther as your arms tighten around his torso and begin to creep up his back. 

When he pulls back again, Arthur looms over you, looking down into your face and admiring the precious gift he’s holding in his hands. He gives a slight shake to his head, absolutely blown away by his dumb-luck and how he’s managed to fall ass-backwards into your life. Arthur stares at you for a moment, those vivid blue eyes of his bright with a whole new purpose behind them as you reflect back to him the most resplendent smile he has ever seen.

“Mine,” he whispers.

“Yours,” you respond breathlessly. 

----------------------------------------

It is mid-morning by the time you and Arthur make your way back to camp. You’re not too sure of what you’ll come back to, but prepare yourselves for the teasing and cat-calls you’re sure are coming. Thankfully, though, it’s mostly knowingly smirks and waves that greet you. A slight wave of relief settles over you at that, as you are not sure how Arthur would react to such personal teasing. Despite the connection that the two of you have, he is still very much a private person. 

You both get Arthur’s horse taken care of, offer your apologies to a very agitated Blue for being left behind, and then head over to Pearson’s wagon to get some much-needed coffee. The camp is relatively quiet this morning, with a few members milling about with their own agendas. The slight breeze waffs the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee in your direction and pulls you like a tether. You inhale deeply, your eyes briefly rolling shut, and smile with the feeling of “being home”. This little moment is so perfect:  a beautiful morning, surrounded by friends, hot coffee on the fire, and your man at your side. 

“There’s the love-birds,” Pearson chimes loudly with a wink when he notices you and Arthur. The cook stirs the last remnants of breakfast in his pot, clanging the utensil loudly on the side to shake off whatever coats the spoon. The portly man quickly puts down the ladle and grabs the coffee pot and a few cups for you. 

“Yeah, yeah,” says Arthur, waving him off as his face turns a slight shade of pink. You simply smile and gratefully take the cup from Pearson’s hand. A quick, eager sip of the hot, bitter liquid cascades down your throat, warming you from the inside out and a soft “Ahhhh” escapes your lips. And before the two of you can do anything else, you are greeted by the sound of Dutch’s voice carrying through the air. 

“Well, well, nice of you two to join us again!” 

You and Arthur both turn to see Dutch and Hosea approach and notice Hosea holding a few rolls of paper in his hands. 

“Are you two done foolin’ around so we can get some work done around here?” asks Dutch, raising his eyebrows at you both in impatience with a slight wave of his arm. 

“For now,” you quip back. “But I was hoping to fool around a bit again before dinner”. You give Dutch a cocky smirk and a wink. 

Hosea's face wrinkles delightfully as he tries to stifle a laugh while Arthur lowers his head to hide a huge smile under the brim of his hat at your insinuation. But the look on Dutch’s face is anything but amused by your comment right now. 

“Not in the mood. Right,” you say awkwardly under Dutch’s impatient glare, clearing your throat and quickly minding your place. “I’ll just...go somewhere over there.” You wave your hand dismissively towards the center of the camp before turning to Arthur. “I’ll see you later, Arthur,” you giggle. 

Placing your hand on his arm, you give it a slight squeeze along with a big smile. He gives you a quick nod before you quickly scurry away from the men. Arthur’s eyes continue to follow after you, landing on the curve of your rear as you walk away, instantly missing your presence. He reluctantly turns back to Dutch only to be met with the older man’s stink-eye look. 

“What?” asks Arthur innocently, chuckling a little. 

Dutch plants his ringed hands onto his hips in annoyance, tilting his head to the side just a bit as he looks at Arthur. “This is going to get really old, really fast, isn’t it?” asks Dutch with an exasperated sigh.

“Oh, leave him alone, Dutch. He’s finally got a good thing goin’ there for himself,” interrupts Hosea approvingly with a knowing grin on his face. “Now, come on you two. We need to go over these carrier routes.” Hosea waves the papers he’s been holding in front of them and motions to the nearest table with his head. 

Leaving the three of them to their business, you take your cup of coffee and saunter over to the fire to take advantage of a rare quiet morning to relax. Noticing that you are back in camp, Abigail is quick to run up to you with a huge cheshire-cat-like smile sparkling on her face.

“Well, good morning, Miss (Y/L/N),” Abigail sings as she hustles over, shimmying up to you and elbowing your arm. “Soooo?” she questions you with a smirk.

But you playfully roll your eyes at her and shake your head as you take a seat next to the other girls who are already gathered around the fire and trying to wake up for the day. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell," you tease Abigail with a grin, demurely pulling your shoulder to your chin. 

“Well, we know there was more than kissin’ going on last night, so why don’t you tell us about that then?” jokes Abigail, swatting your arm.

"So tell us, (Y/N)! How was it?" Karen blurts out eagerly. Her sleepy face instantly perks up the moment you sit down.

"Karen!" scolds Mary-Beth in a hushed tone. Judging by their snickering, you can only imagine that your departure last night has been the talk of the camp.

"What?” Karen protests innocently to Mary-Beth. “I'm genuinely curious.” She waves her hand nonchalantly towards you. “I wanna know if it was worth all the trouble and the wait.” When Mary-Beth gives nothing but a disapproving stare, Karen leans in to her and swats her friend’s leg. “Oh c'mon, like you ain't dyin' to know yourself," she hisses. 

"Actually, I'm kind of curious about it myself," interjects Abigail, looking back to you with that same cat-like grin.

“Yeah, (Y/N), how’d it go?” asks Tilly, leaning forward in her chair and planting her elbows on her knees in keen interest.

It is so sweet to you how your friends want to share in your excitement. You’ve never had siblings, and even your friendships as a young girl were never as open and close as the relationships that you have quickly cultivated with these women. Your face begins to bashfully dust pink at their attention, yet you can’t help yourself as your smile gets even wider by the minute. 

“Some of the best moments in life are the things that you can’t tell other people about,” you gush, yet still trying to be elusive.

“Oh, come on! That ain’t fair! You gotta give us somethin’!” begs Karen, smacking her hands on her thighs and leaning in towards you.  

You simply reply with a long, mockingly-impatient sigh before your face turns a deeper shade of scarlet. You cover your face with your hands for a few moments before pulling them down to peek over your fingertips at your friends, blushing and giggling like a school-girl. 

"It was...perfect," you say with a dreamy, love-drunk grin on your face. 

“Ooooo” They all let out a collective excited giggle, elbowing each other and so happy for both you and for Arthur. 

—------------------------------

Fortunately, it is a bit of a slow day today and Ms Grimshaw is not chasing after everyone to get back to work for once. So you are able to just sit and socialize with the girls. You pass the time sipping coffee and gossiping, discussing what the plans are for the day and watching Jack play “swords” with a stick with Uncle. It is a perfectly content afternoon for once.

Somewhere off to the side you hear the sound of someone clearing their throat before they approach your little group. You turn your head when movement out of the corner of your eye catches your attention and instantly grin ear to ear when you see that it is Arthur. The way your whole body lights up the moment that you see him makes Arthur instantly wish you were back at the hunting shelter. You’ve only been apart for a little over an hour and yet it already feels like days. 

"Ladies", he addressed the group of you with a nod and polite touch to the brim of his hat.

"Hey, Arthur" they all giggle and smirk at the outlaw at their inside joke. You are quick to swat at them, trying to get them to hush.

"Uh...right.” His hand comes up behind his neck as he stands there awkwardly, suddenly a little uncomfortable with their smirking faces all turned to him. “(Y/N), can I talk to you for a minute?" He waves his hand to usher you away from the small group to speak in private. 

“Sure.” You bounce up from your seat to follow him, turning back over your shoulder with a quick glare at your friends in warning to knock it off with the teasing cackles. 

You and Arthur walk a few feet away from the girls before you stop and turn to face each other. "Don't mind them,” you say quickly to Arthur, waving at the girls.  “They're just..." and you roll your eyes and shake your head, totally at a loss for words.

“Hmmm…yeah I know how they can get,” Arthur acknowledges with a chuckle. He pauses for a moment, looking down at you with a bit of a dopey grin. This is the first time you’ve had a moment alone together again since you’ve gotten back and he’s missed you already. 

“Listen, I gotta leave for a bit. Hosea’s got a lead on some work, need to check it out. But I’ll be back as soon as I can.” His eyebrows raise a bit, waiting to see how you will react to this information.

“Okay”. You nod in understanding, giving him a simple smile. Your response is so easy and accepting. Arthur was expecting a protest or for you to be upset, but he’s pleasantly surprised when you are not. 

“Well, after last night, I wasn’t sure if it was proper to leave.” He gives you a sheepish, guilty look as his thumbs tuck into his gunbelt in his usual, comfortable stance.

You place your hands over his arms as you lean in closer. “It’s alright. Go do what you gotta do. I’ll be here.” 

Arthur hesitates for a moment as something else is clearly on his mind, and he shifts his weight from one hip to the other before he speaks again. “One more thing. Would you do something for me?” His eyes squint just a bit as he thinks on how to pose his next question.

“Anything.” You smile at him, moving your hands onto his chest now, and your fingers begin to fiddle with the knot of his neckerchief. Arthur hums a little, his eyes following your fingers and trying not to get distracted from his task at hand. 

“Stay here in camp ‘til I get back, would ya? Don't be goin' out with the girls or nothin'. I’d feel better knowing you were safe here 'til I got back.” Arthur’s face becomes more serious now. You instantly realize what he’s asking of you and why, and his protectiveness is quite touching. You are relieved to see that Arthur has already taken to the idea of the two of you being “together” and it warms your heart. 

“Sure, I can do that,” you agree and your smile grows even bigger like a plant that has been watered and set in the sun. You take Arthur’s chin in your fingers and pull him down as you raise up on your toes to kiss him sweetly. He blushes a bit at the public display of affection that he's not used to. But he loves it just the same.

"Be careful, please." You playfully scold him, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Always am," Arthur smirks. 

From somewhere behind him, you can hear Bill yelling for him. “Come on Morgan, let’s go!” Arthur lets out an exasperated sigh as he looks at you, rolling his eyes before he turns to leave and making you giggle. 

“Play nice!”, you call after him as Arthur begrudgingly walks away.

"Never do!" he calls back with another smirk and a wink at you over his shoulder. 

Your eyes follow Arthur with a contented sigh escaping your lips as he walks towards the awaiting group that is about to head out. His broad shoulders rock slightly with his slow, swaggering walk; his burly arms sway at his sides, hovering above the guns that hang so naturally on his hips.

Yep. No doubt about it. You are just stupid for, and hopelessly in love with, this man. 

You shake your head at the wonder of it all and turn to head back to the girls.

Arthur makes his way over to the hitching posts to join the others in getting ready to head out on the scout job. He lifts his chin in acknowledgement to John who is already sitting atop Old Boy, waiting for Arthur to join the group. Then suddenly Arthur is brought out of his reverie by an unwelcome sound. 

“So you and (Y/N) have finally done the deed, eh, Morgan?” The sound of Micah’s voice grates on Arthur’s nerves like a knife scraping across metal as the man saunters over to follow Arthur to the horses. (Ugh, of course Dutch wants him for this job, as well.) 

“Well, how was she?” the bastard grunts.  “I bet she’s real frisky. Like a cat.” Micah shakes his eyebrows suggestively at Arthur, knowing full-well that he’s pressing his luck.

A lightning bolt of anger shoots through Arthur’s very being at the very mention of your name from Micah’s despicable lips. His jaw flexes tightly as he grits his teeth together. He reaches out and shoves his massive hand onto Micah’s chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. Arthur pulls a deep inhale through his nose in order to collect himself before he speaks. His eyes turn to that hard, icy-blue color as they pierce menacingly into Micah.

“Let’s get something straight right now.” Arthur points his finger at Micah’s chest. “You don’t talk about her. You don’t look at her. In fact, do yourself a favor and don’t even think about her. Or you and I are goin' to go rounds. Do I make myself perfectly clear?” Arthur’s voice is low and unyielding. That hardness that the outlaw is known for rears its dangerous head in Micah’s direction and the weasel freezes, instantly knowing where that line in the sand has been drawn.

“Say it,” Arthur slowly grits out between clenched teeth as he menacingly towers over Micah. “Say you understand me, asshole.” 

Micah narrows his eyes at Arthur, the argument right there on the tip of his foul tongue, trying to decide just how far he wants to push this right now. But ultimately, he slowly swallows and concedes to back off. For now.

“Sure, cowpoke,” utters Micah, holding his hands up in surrender. “Anything you say.” His scummy, snakelike grin leaves Arthur with an unsettling feeling. If he didn’t like you being around Micah before, Arthur sure as hell doesn't like it now.

—------------------------------

It’s well into the evening when Arthur and the others come back to camp. It’s been a long, yet productive day and Arthur just wants to sit still for one damn moment and relax. Everyone who was left at home is sitting around the fire sharing stories and passing a bottle or two. Your head perks up when you hear the sound of hoofbeats in the distance and you watch Arthur ride in. You notice how he slowly climbs down from Buck’s saddle, almost bone by bone, with exhaustion. As he turns to head into the camp, the outlaw’s tired eyes immediately seek you out amongst the group. And once your eyes meet, your smile draws him in like a moth to a flame. 

Arthur stops to grab a bottle of his own out of one of the crates before ambling over to the fire to take a seat next to you on the ground where you are curled up on a blanket. You nudge your shoulder into his side as he gets settled, placing your hand on his knee and giving it a gentle squeeze. The corners of Arthur’s mouth turn up as his eyes slowly blink at you with fatigue. The feeling of your warm body curled up against him instantly calms and centers him. He didn’t realize until now just how nice it is to have someone waiting for him when he comes home.

“Before you two get too cozy over there, you’re on guard duty tonight, Arthur,” announces Javier over the fire pit, interrupting your little private reunion. 

Arthur quickly throws an annoyed look in Javier's direction. “What? You gotta be kiddin’ me.”  

“I covered for you last night, amigo” Javier tips his beer bottle towards Arthur with a knowing smirk. 

Arthur groans with disappointment. Feeling his frustrations, you lean into Arthur’s side, your face close to his. “Don’t worry, it’s alright,” you whisper. “We’ll have plenty of time later.” Fortunately, you get at least an hour together to relax at the fire before Arthur has to take his leave to head to the look-out post.

Soon after, after the darkness has snuffed out the sunlight of the day, the camp begins to settle for the evening and the people begin to meander back to their respective places for the night. You stand up from your spot at the fire, stretching your stiff joints before bending over to pick up the blanket you were sitting on. Shaking out the fabric, you neatly fold the blanket over your arm and turn to head to your tent. 

You haven’t wandered too far off when you begin to hear the shuffling of footsteps behind you. And before you can say or do anything, the sight of Micah Bell comes into your line of vision. Your eyebrows crease in confusion as you wonder what in the world he could possibly want right now. 

“Looks like you and Arthur have finally "consummated", as it were. Tell me, (Y/N),” Micah sweeps his hand out in front of him, “Can anyone take a ride in that saddle?" 

You can only glare incredulously at him for such an insinuation. God, he is such a disgusting pig. Apparently, Micah is not only going to antagonize Arthur about it, but he’s going to make an attempt at you as well. 

"I mean, if you're gonna spread them pretty legs of yours for the likes of Morgan, can't imagine you got any high standards." Micah arrogantly drags his dirty fingers over his nicotine-stained mustache as if he is about to eat a delectable meal.

You slowly tilt your head at him, your gaze cold. "And that is what burns you up the most, isn't it, Micah?" Your eyes narrow at him, trying to figure out his angle as you play his little game. 

Micah licks his lips and nibbles a bit, taking the bait in return. "What's that, Princess?"

"That I would concede to lay with a man like Arthur, yet I won't even give you the time of day.” You cross your arms over your chest as you hold his gaze in defiance. “That must really get to you, hmm?" you purr.

The smugness instantly drops from Micah’s face being replaced with a sneer. You step a few paces closer, right up into his face so that he can smell the lavender oil you wear. His eyes rake over your body, noting how your cleavage gathers under your crossed arms. He can feel your warm breath scattering across his face. Your boldness, your lack of fear of him, is as annoying to Micah as it is arousing. He sucks his teeth in an effort to regain his composure as he stands in front of you. 

"Know this, Micah. Arthur Morgan is twice the man that you could ever even dream to be," you say with a chilling dead calm. "And in more ways than one, I might add.” 

Micah’s mouth twitches at that last rub. "Well, (Y/N), I guess it's a good thing I ain't ever aspired to be more than I am, then." His tone challenges yours as he leans even closer to you, the tone in the air bordering on threatening.

"That is unfortunate," you say coolly as you confidently hold your ground. "For all of us. Good night, Mr. Bell." And you turn to head into your tent, leaving Micah standing there alone in the cold night air. 

—----------------------------------

Arthur leans his shoulder against the large tree, staring out into the darkness of the woods. The moon is full tonight, looming high above the tree tops and cascading its bright silvery light upon the silent world below. He stands guard over the camp as a brooding sentinel as he slowly draws on yet another cigarette. Smoke huffs out of his lungs like that of a locomotive. 

This is not the place he wants to be right now, as his thoughts drift and focus on you and your night together. Even now, as he recalls even the smallest detail of last night, it seems like a dream to him. He half expects to wake at any moment alone in his tent, surrounded by nothing but the lonesome night, as it all seems just too good to be true. He still has no explanation as to how you seem to pull him in, but you just do. Like that same silvery moon hanging above that pulls on the ocean tides, you draw Arthur to you; just as unyielding, unchanging, and just as magical.

Suddenly Arthur’s daydream is interrupted by the very person he’s thinking about. He catches a wisp of fabric in his peripheral vision. Turning his chin over his shoulder, Arthur sees you coming down the path. He watches as your breath swirls in the frosty air, preceding you as you approach. Like an ethereal being, the moon’s glimmer casts your hair in a soft backlight, causing your gown to be almost see-through in the luminescence as he can see the outline of your calves as you walk. Your delicate hand clasps your shawl around you in the chill air while you carry something else in your other hand. As you get closer, Arthur can see that you have come to bring him a steaming cup of coffee. 

A huge smile instantly erupts across Arthur’s face as he pushes himself up off of the tree. "Hey there, Beautiful. What are you doin’ out here this late?"

The nickname causes your cheeks to burn red more than the chill night air that nips at your tender skin. 

“Coming to see you.” You hand him the cup of coffee, which he gratefully accepts and immediately takes a sip. The hot liquid instantly chases the cold from his tired body and offers just the pick-up that he needed. “How’s it going out here?” you ask as you shiver a bit before pulling the knit shawl tighter around yourself.

“Oh, loads of excitement.” Arthur’s dead-pan drawl makes you laugh a bit.

You snuggle up to his bulky frame, putting your hands around his ribs and looking up into his face with your beautiful (y/e/c) eyes. With his free hand, Arthur snakes his arm around your waist and pulls you closer to him. Despite the cold night air, he is so warm that you just want to curl up into him again like you did at the shelter. He leans in to kiss you, his plump lips finding yours once again. Starting off slowly, your tongue quickly begins to wrestle with his. He tastes like the cigarettes and whiskey he's been consuming while out here. 

Dropping his chin, Arthur starts to kiss the tender skin underneath your ear before he proceeds to drag his fingertip along the area. “I love this spot,” he says, his voice a husky murmur in your ear..

“Do you, now?” you sigh with a silky tone of your own.

“MmmHmm. Because when I kiss it, you make that sound.” And he leans in again, placing another kiss in the same spot, only this time sucking a bit harder as his teeth catch your skin. And as if on command, a breathless whimper escapes your lips before you can control it and your eyes flutter closed again. It makes you melt at how playful he’s become just from simply providing him the opportunity and the feeling of being safe to do so. 

After a few more moments of delicious kisses and nuzzling, you pull away just a bit, leaving your faces hovering close to one another's.

"I’d better get out of here," you whisper, "before I’m any more of a distraction." 

"Too late for that now," Arthur hums, dipping his face down as he rubs his nose to yours, trying to entice you into another kiss. 

"Tell you what.” You pull your face back a bit more to get his attention only to be met with a playful scowl of disappointment from him. “I’ll be waiting for you in your tent. When you’re done here, you know where I’ll be." You reach up to set a soft kiss upon Arthur’s stubbled cheek. And with a teasing grin, you turn and saunter back toward the camp, hips swaying exaggeratedly. 

Arthur’s eyes follow you, the movement of your hips almost hypnotic, causing him to sigh deeply. And just like that, you are gone just as quickly as you had arrived; almost like a dream. 

"Damn..." he says with a slight amazement. 

—---------------------------------

It’s shortly before dawn when Bill comes down the path to relieve Arthur from his post. The large man ambles towards Arthur rubbing his bear-paw over his eyes and yawning profusely.

“I swear he’s walkin’ slower by the damn minute”, Arthur grumbles to himself with a huff when he lays his exhausted eyes on the man. He shoots Bill a look of annoyance as he briskly walks past the burly outlaw to head back to his tent. “I got things to do, Bill,” he snaps. 

Bill simply chuckles with that deep voice of his as he adjusts his hat on his head against the brisk early-morning air. “Oh, I bet you do, my friend.” 

Arthur can’t get back to his tent fast enough. He quickly strides across the camp, hurriedly passing by the other snoring and sleeping residents. It's still quiet out and the sun has yet to poke its radiant head above the horizon line. With any luck, Arthur will have a few hours alone with you before the flurry of daily activity kicks up again.

Excitement travels through Arthur’s exhausted body as he reaches his tent. The very sight of his humble little nest that waits for him in the shadows offers him a whole new level of tranquility. He is quick to notice that it is all silent and dark in the space. He half expected a candle to be burning or something. 

Arthur hesitates outside the canvas before quietly pulling back the flaps and peers in before entering. And he is elated at the sight of you asleep on his cot, waiting for him just as you said you would be. In the back of his mind, Arthur harbored some doubt that you would be here, thinking maybe you’d change your mind for one reason or another. He cherishes the idea that someone, but especially you, would be waiting for the likes of him. 

Arthur quietly creeps in and fixes the flaps back down to ward off the cold autumn breeze before it wakes you. He smiles to himself as he quietly shucks off his jacket and holster, his eyes continuing to rest on your sleeping form as he quietly moves about the tent.

He carefully sits on the edge of the cot, taking a moment to watch you sleeping peacefully. His eyes roam over your body from head to toe, taking in the sight of you and marveling at the treasure he has in front of him. 

You're laying comfortably on your back, hair splayed round your face on the pillow. Your one arm rests up by your face, the other lays gracefully across your abdomen. Arthur’s head tilts to the side as he observes how your chest slowly rises and falls with calm breaths. Your eyelids occasionally flutter, making your lashes dance upon your angelic face. Oh, what it must be like to rest so peacefully, he wonders. Maybe now with you by his side, he’ll get to know what that’s like. Maybe. 

Arthur places his hand beside your head as he leans over to gently kiss your delicate lips. The action causes you to startle awake, a sharp gasp crossing your lips as your hands shoot to his chest in surprise. But you are quickly relieved to see his handsome face hovering above yours. 

"Sorry," Arthur murmurs with an apologetic grin. "Couldn’t resist." 

You hum with a sleepy countenance as you slowly sit up, the heel of your hand rubbing your eye in an effort to wake yourself. You reach over to cup Arthur’s face and kiss him back as a welcome. When you pull away, you look him over, noting the sheer exhaustion that coats his whole body. 

"You look so tired," you say with a sympathetic smile. 

"I am tired." A deep sigh of acknowledgement escapes from Arthur’s chest as he reaches up to rub his eyes with his thumb and forefinger with his one hand.

You nod in understanding. "Okay, then." You smile sweetly as you take a moment to curl your fingers through his hair, touching your forehead to his, before you swing your legs over the side of the cot and start to stand up. 

Confused, Arthur sits up straighter with apprehension. "Where you goin’?"

You turn back around with a fluid and graceful movement as you catch his chin between your fingers in reassurance. "I’m just going back to my tent so you can get some sleep, is all." 

"Well…", Arthur huffs in disappointment, his face dropping and his hands flopping into his lap.

"What’s wrong?" you ask, slightly amused at his pouty face.

"I mean…I know we’re not gonna…you know…” Arthur waves his hand at you suggestively. "But I was hoping you’d stay with me while I get some sleep."

"Oh." A big smile erupts on your face. "Okay, then," you gush, biting your lower lip a bit and trying to contain your excitement. You move to settle back down onto the cot, scooching over and fidgeting to make room as Arthur lays down alongside you. 

“Boots, please” you say in a soft scold, tapping his shoulder.

"Huh? Oh!" And Arthur quickly sits back up to take off his boots. He’s so used to being on his own that he’s often just falling into bed, not even bothering to take off his jacket let alone his boots. Arthur is not used to having anyone in his space, let alone a woman in his bed. You look down with a soft smile as he pulls at his mud-dried boots with thick, clumsy fingers. 

He lays back down and gets settled once more. You both wiggle awkwardly, giggling as you do, so that you can both fit onto his squeaky one-person cot. You face each other as his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close. You lift your leg over his, so that you can snuggle in tight, laying almost nose to nose to make room for each other. 

Finally finding a comfortable position, Arthur inhales deeply and lets out a long exhale. You smile as you watch the tension drain from his shoulders. (You swear he just lost about 2 inches in height in doing that.) You gently reach up and lay your hand along Arthur’s neck, fingers resting along his jawline, as your thumb sweeps across those scars on his chin. Your eyes scatter across the tired features of his strong and handsome face. 

You have no idea how this is going to play out between you two, but right now, you don't care. He is a risk, as you told him before, and your future together is an uncertain mystery. And yet, this is the most certain thing that you have felt in what seems like forever. Here, at this moment, in this precious, precarious little bubble, you are with Arthur, and that is all that matters.

"Hmmmm…that’s better," says Arthur, finally relaxed and content. 

“Happy, now?” you affectionately tease.

“Quite.”

"Goodnight, Arthur." Your honeyed voice sings to him in the darkness before you close your eyes again.

"Goodnight, (Y/N)."

See me, feel me, touch me, heal me

-Pete Townshend - The Who

*The line about the storm and the rainbow is based on a quote from the wonderful Dolly Parton, whom I idolize. And the “guardian angel” line is based on a meme that I saw.

***Ahhh! Finally! I've been working on this for over a year, but had to write the events that lead up to this first. But good news, this is not the ending! I have much more taking place after this. Some of it is fluffy, some will be smutty, some will be angsty! For those who are interested in reading a continuing storyline, I can tell you that my plan is to see this through to the end (which I have already written, btw). If anyone is interested in being on a taglist, let me know. (I am really bad at those, so I am trying to figure out how to keep track of that kind of thing.)

Comments and feedback are welcome! As I continue this story, I also want to develop my writing skills. So please let me know what you like and don't like.