#It’s not like hurting me or anything it’s kind of humorous if anything

[not-neverland06]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚕 𝚂𝚘𝚗

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

A/N: It's finally here, the fruits of my labor have finally come forth lol. I finally managed to get out those last few bits that I was struggling with so much. Turns out, finally getting on anti-depressants is actually a fucking game changer. Who knew?

I'd like to apologize for how long this took, but, also, I'd like to thank you all for being so supportive. I know there can be a lot of toxicity in fandoms, especially in fanfiction. I have been absolutely blessed with such wonderfully supportive, understanding, and kind readers. I want you to know that I do not take you guys for granted and absolutely love the small community I've found on here. Thank you all, and know that the epilogue is nearly finished and will be posted within the next 1-2 days, as I'm sure some of you will be wanting it after this one.

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: The end is nigh. Arthur feels it in the air, the broiling tension and building hostility within the gang. Their enemies are no longer their biggest problem. Instead, they have to worry about each other now. There's betrayal at every turn and Arthur is stuck in the middle of it all, pulled incessantly between two worlds. His old life as an outlaw, and the possibility of a new one with you.

You heave the hog off your shoulder and drop it onto Pearson’s table with a heavy thud. The legs creak under the weight, groaning as though they might give way. For a moment, you hover, watching the table tremble before it steadies. Satisfied, you take a step back.

Pearson ambles out of his tent, wiping his hands on his stained apron. He spots the hog, and his face twists into a suspicious scowl. “What the hell is that?”

You give a faint grin, more out of habit than humor. “Helped a farmer down the road. Didn’t have the coin to pay me, so he gave me one of his prize hogs.”

Pearson’s frown deepens, his lips twitching as though he’s struggling to process the situation. After a beat, he shrugs. “Alright, fine.”

You scoff, the lack of gratitude digging under your skin. Would it kill him to crack a smile? Shaking your head, you turn away, irritation simmering as you leave him to his work. Maybe you’ll go for another ride tonight—most likely camping out under the stars. Anything to clear your head.

You’ve still got a few hours before sunset, so you mull over how to kill the time. A race with Sadie might do the trick. The familiar sound of hooves splashing through the mud catches your attention. Normally, you’d ignore it, but a sudden commotion pulls your focus.

Mrs. Grimshaw’s gasp pierces the air, her hands clasped over her mouth in shock. Frowning, you follow her gaze, your stomach twisting as you spot riders approaching. Their faces are blurry in the distance, but something about the way they move makes your chest tighten. Stepping closer, your heart drops like a stone.

Dutch is at the head of the group, leading his men back into camp. Those who’d been on the ferry are all there, alive and well—except for one. The absence burns hotter than the sun on your back. Anger flares like wildfire in your chest, threatening to consume you.

The others cheer and laugh, crowding around the returning riders. Your gaze locks with Micah’s, and your teeth clench so hard it hurts. Dark circles frame his eyes, and he coughs into a bloodied cloth. The sight of him—the fact that this bastard gets to live while Arthur doesn’t—is enough to make you sick.

You turn away sharply, unable to stomach the celebration. Across the camp, your eyes meet Sadie’s. She’s leaning against the cabin, her face a mask of restrained fury. The sight of Dutch soaking up the adoration like a starving dog gnaws at what’s left of your patience.

You can feel it slipping away—your peace, your freedom. Dutch’s return threatens to drag it all back into the muck. But not this time. You swear it, not this time.

Dutch Van der Linde isn’t your leader. He isn’t your friend or your family. He’s nothing but a man who takes and takes until there’s nothing left.

Your gaze hardens on his back, your lips curling in quiet defiance. Tonight, you’re leaving—for good. Damn the gang. Damn this camp. And damn Dutch Van der Linde.

Arthur finds Diablo waiting for him at Shady Belle, as though the horse knew exactly where he’d return. He walks up to him, rubbing the horse’s nose gently. He finds an apple and gives it to Diablo, relishing in the familiar connection.

He’d known, deep down, when he was on his way here, that the gang wouldn’t be around. There was no way they could stay near St. Denis after what happened. Still, when he doesn’t see you immediately, the gut-deep ache doesn’t fade, even if he’d expected it. 

The note Sadie leaves is easy enough to figure out. Going off the hooves circling around the house, he’s sure the men who were ahead of him discovered the location too. Mounting Diablo and riding off toward camp is such an achingly familiar feeling it almost hurts. After weeks in Guarma, scorched by the sun and tortured by corrupt politicians, riding Diablo feels like a return to something sacred, something he can’t quite explain.

Reacclimating himself to the feeling of riding a horse isn’t an arduous task, but it is uncomfortable at first. He’d walked across every inch of Guarma, then spent weeks on a boat. It’s been so long since he felt the freedom of the open plains.

 Arthur looks toward the horizon, to the setting sun and the golden light casting its net across the world before him. It won’t be much longer until he’s back with you. He’s almost looking forward to hearing you say ‘I told you so.’

It’s not much longer before he’s riding through the muddy puddles in front of the cabins deep in the moors. Sadie is the first to see him. Her head is ducked, eyes down as she speaks in hushed whispers with you. Your back is to him and he doesn’t know if he’s grateful or not. The idea of a reunion has felt like a distant dream, he’s not sure if he’s truly ready to see you again. 

Sadie’s head lifts slightly, eyes locking on his. Her face goes slack with shock, cheeks pale, and eyes wide. “Sadie?” You ask, and your voice is like a balm over all his aches and pains. “What is it?” You don’t look,as stubborn as ever, you nudge at Sadie’s shoulder, waiting for an answer.

She spares you a brief glance as Arthur dismounts, eyes still stuck on him. “Turn your ass around and look,” she demands, her voice a mix of disbelief and wonder.

Arthur doesn’t notice the way Sadie throws herself at him, her arms wrapping around him, pulling back, and slapping his shoulder. He’s too focused on you. Your shoulders are stiff, fists curled tight like you know he’s there but can’t bear to turn around. In all his time thinking of this moment, of seeing you again. He’d forgotten something very important. 

Finally, you turn around. Arthur grins, the relief in his chest rising. “Well?” He teases, arms open wide as he narrows his eyes at you. “Aren’t you gonna say hi?”

You don’t answer, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you look close to tears. Arthur’s brow furrows in confusion. He thought you’d at least look happy to see him. “Arthur Morgan,” Sadie chides from beside him, though her grin betrays her. “I thought you were dead, you bastard.”

Arthur feels his heart drop, finally realizing why you’re acting like you’ve seen a ghost. He was gone for weeks, last you heard he’d been on a ship. And word had probably gotten around that they’d been shipwrecked. Weeks without word, the shipwreck, and the rumors that must’ve circulated. He hadn’t thought for a second that you might actually believe he’d left you behind. After the way you’d parted, he supposes he didn’t do enough to convince you otherwise.

“Sweetheart,” he starts, chest clenching tight, “I-” 

You take quick steps toward him, boots splashing through the mud. He mutters your name lowly, an apology and a promise laced between the syllables. You suck in a sharp breath and he thinks you might hug him. Before he can say anything else, his head is whipping to the side, cheek stinging. 

Your hand lingers in the air for a moment, as if still caught in disbelief. You stare at him, your eyes wide, voice trembling. “Arthur?” you whisper, your words barely audible, your face crumpling under the weight of the truth.

You surge forward, grabbing the collar of his tattered shirt and dragging him down. You surge up, pressing your lips to his with a desperation that nearly matches his own. He can taste the salt of your tears as you kiss him, the way they streak down your cheeks. 

Arthur’s heart drops. He’s used to being a disappointment to the people around him. He’s experienced this a hundred times. His relationship with Mary was no exception, he should be used to this pain by now. But knowing he’s failed you, makes it hurt worse than it ever has before. Arthur grabs you by the waist, desperate to make up for everything. He pulls you as close as he can get, pressing his lips to yours. 

You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, desperation nearly a physical thing as you return his touch. You hold each other as though this kiss could somehow erase the weeks of suffering you’d both endured.

He doesn’t want to let go again. Arthur never wants to see that heartbroken look on your face. And he doesn’t ever want to be the cause for it, not anymore. The ache in his chest loosens as he breathes you in like you’re the only air he’ll ever need. Arthur won’t let you go again, he swears it to himself, because he knows you won’t ever believe him again.

You and Arthur sit toward the back of the cabin, away from the heart of the gathering. Everyone had been thrilled to see him alive, their greetings warm yet subdued, their relief tempered by everything they’d been through in his absence. 

Your hand rests loosely in his, a token of comfort you hardly seem aware of offering. Arthur studies your face as you listen to Dutch’s grand retelling of Guarma, your narrowed eyes betraying the skepticism simmering beneath your otherwise still expression. Each time Dutch embellishes a detail, you flick your gaze toward Arthur, silently searching his expression for the truth. The scrutiny makes Arthur shift uncomfortably, though he knows it’s not unwarranted.

“I truly do not know how you all made out so well here.” Dutch comments, lips curled slightly as he glances around at the thick layers of dust and dirt coating the walls 

Tilly grins eagerly, motioning toward you and Sadie. “It was all Mrs. Rowe and Sadie, they found this place. They been taking care of everything.” 

Arthur’s brows furrow as he watches a sheepish smile grow on your face. He squeezes your hand and you glance toward him. He lifts his brow in question and you nod your head. “Ain’t been doin’ much,” you tell him, shrugging. 

Sadie must hear you because she scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You kiddin’ me? Once you finally stopped mopin’, you were the only reason we didn’t all lose our minds.” Your smile tightens, the edges hardening as your shoulders stiffen.

“Well,” Dutch interrupts smoothly, his voice cutting through the tension. He fixes you with a look, and you straighten under his gaze. “I suppose I should thank the both of you for holding things together.”

“Suppose you should,” you reply sharply, meeting his eyes without flinching. “Or maybe you could apologize for that half-assed plan that got us stuck in this mess in the first place.”

Arthur’s hand tightens on yours, his voice low and warning. “Don’t—”

You whip around, glaring at him, and he’s startled by the fire in your eyes. Without a word, you yank your hand free and stand. Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but Dutch steps forward, his gaze narrowed in on you.

The tension is interrupted by the door bursting open behind Dutch. Bill stumbles in, his face red and sweaty. “Go’damn!” he bellows, his chest heaving. “I’ve been lookin’ for you all damn day. Had to ask every soul in town where the hell you were.”

Arthur’s gut twists. He bolts to his feet, striding toward you and Bill. “What’dya mean you asked around town?”

Bill falters, his face draining of color. His lips part as if to speak, but the words are stolen by a booming voice from outside.

“This is Agent Milton,” the voice calls. The blood drains from Arthur’s face as he grabs your arm, pulling you toward him. “You have one minute to surrender before my men decide to take you in dead.”

“Dammit, Bill, you fool,” Arthur growls, the words biting through clenched teeth. His mind races as he grips your arm firmly. He knows the men outside won’t hesitate. They aren’t the type to spare the women or the children. They’ll gun you down just for being around him and the others. He tugs you closer, instinct has him shielding you from the chaos as best he can. 

Milton doesn’t wait for the countdown. “Forget it,” he barks. “Start shooting.”

The first bullets shatter the cabin’s windows, sending shards of glass spraying like rain. Arthur curls his body around yours, as the rest of the gang scatters, some diving to the floor, others scrambling for cover. A lamp explodes nearby, and the oil catches fire, dripping to the floor and licking at the walls.

Arthur’s focus is on you, but you’ve already moved. You duck and grab a rifle from beneath a cot, slinging it over your shoulder. There’s no hesitation, no look back for approval. You dart toward the door, your movements swift and purposeful.

“Wait, dammit, don’t!” Arthur shouts, but you’re already outside, firing before the Pinkertons can adjust their aim. The sun has dipped below the fire, he only spots you through flashes of bullets and the fire steadily growing behind him. He tugs his revolver out, shooting wildly, the Pinkertons are swarming out of the forest like wolves, there's no point in aiming now.

Arthur follows along behind you, taking cover behind a wagon as some of the others pick up their own guns. He spots Sadie running past him, shouting something indecipherable as she takes out the Maxim gun. Blood flies as bullets make their marks, after weeks on a boat it almost feels foreign to feel the warmth of someone else’s life pressing against him. 

Through the chaos, he watches you move with precision, directing shots with a cold efficiency that makes his chest tighten. You’re not the woman he left behind. You’re faster, bolder, and sharper, your confidence and stupidity is clear as you throw yourself into the center of danger, taking aim at some of the men on the roofs of the cabins. 

Arthur sees another man creeping up behind you. His gun has been abandoned somewhere, he only has a machete in his hand now, arm arcing down toward your head. Weeks without practice might have left him slower than he used to be, but he’s still quick enough to shoot the blade out of the man’s hand. 

You flinch at the shot, whipping around with a pinched expression. The attacker shouts, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest. Without hesitation, you rise and swing the butt of your rifle at the back of his skull. The man crumples face-first into the mud, lifeless. You don’t even look at him again, your focus snapping back to the fight as you resume shooting, each shot clean and deliberate.

The tide of the fight begins to shift. Once Sadie got ahold of the maxim, the Pinkertons had no choice but to start their retreat. Even outnumbered fifty to one, the gang still has some fight left in them. But it’s a fragile victory, and Arthur knows it won’t last.

He weaves his way toward you, his mind racing, but you speak first before he can get a word out.

“They’ll regroup,” you say, your voice firm but low. “We need to track them into the woods, pick them off before they get away.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. “What’re you talkin’ about?” His voice is sharper than he intends. “You’re stayin’ right here. You hear me? I’ll deal with it.”

Your face screws up and it’s the first time you’ve given him a glance of the anger that had been burning under the surface. You go silent, lips set in a firm line before you glance over his shoulder. “They’re getting away,” you tell him quietly. “You can stay here if you want, but I’m going after the rest with Sadie and Charles.” 

You move around him without waiting for a response, your rifle brushing his arm in a way that feels deliberate, distant. The message is clear: you no longer need his protection. Arthur watches, stunned, as you stride toward the others.

For a moment, he stands frozen, the weight of the realization sinking in. The way you fight now, the fire in your eyes, the complete lack of hesitation, it’s all different. You’ve become someone who doesn’t need him, someone who’s learned to stand alone.

His chest tightens as he mounts Diablo, his gaze flickering toward you one last time before spurring the horse forward. He’ll follow the Pinkertons like you suggested. But even as he rides, a different battle churns inside him.

This isn’t something a few dead Pinkertons will fix. The distance between you both is growing and for the first time, Arthur feels powerless to stop it.

Dutch moved them down to Beaver Hollow, it’s a nice enough spot near the base of the mountains. The only problem is a bad brood of folk called the Murfree’s. A bunch of animals masquerading as men, cannibalizing people, and taking women without a care. Arthur hates the idea of you being anywhere near them. He’s doing his best to keep you in camp and you don’t argue. Arthur’s surprised at your easygoing obedience after what happened at the other camp. 

He’s getting worried about you. You’re quiet more often than not, you don’t bite back at Dutch or Micah like you usually would. And you’re more on edge than he’s ever seen you. He tries to talk to you about it, to understand what’s going on with you, but you won’t tell him. 

You always just say you’re worried about what’s going to happen when everything finally goes wrong. He thinks he knows what you mean, even if he doesn’t want to admit it to himself. Too many times has he been told that the reign of outlaws is over. There’s no room left for them anymore. 

When he was a boy, he would have thought that the time of outlaws was immortal. It’s easy when you’re young and foolish to think that you’re invincible, that nothing can ever touch you. He sees everything coming close to an end now, though. Despite the elation of their return back to a land they know, nothing’s the same. 

Micah’s only gotten worse since they returned from their shipwrecked time in Guarma. He’s always coughing, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth. A doctor down in St. Denis told him it was tuberculosis a while back, Arthur knows that their time on the island only further agitated the disease. Since then, he’s been angrier, always whispering in Dutch’s ear. 

And Dutch, he won’t listen to Arthur anymore. Since the Pinkertons turned up at the cabins, he has it in his head that everyone’s a traitor. The only person he’ll trust is the one whispering poison into his ear. It drives Arthur mad. He keeps trying to get Dutch to tell him what’s going to happen next but he just says the same thing every time. “I have a plan, Arthur. Don’t you trust me?”

Before Guarma, before the O’Driscolls, before you, he would have said yes in a heartbeat. But he doesn’t trust him anymore, he can’t. Not after Dutch left him for dead, and then Sean and John. Sadie and Arthur had to go bust them both out of the chain gang they’d been working at in jail. It had been a mess and a half but when they’d returned to camp the only thing Dutch had to say was, “I had a plan.”

He’d been angry at them for rescuing the men and Arthur couldn’t understand why. He never would have left them to rot if Hosea were still here. 

The thought of the old man’s death leaves an ache in Arthur’s chest. He keeps picturing him lying on the St. Denis road, bleeding out. He knows Dutch couldn’t have done a damn thing about it, that bastard Milton was never going to spare him. But, if he had been given the opportunity to save Hosea by turning himself in, Arthur knows he wouldn’t have taken the chance. Dutch has grown selfish and arrogant, prioritizing himself over the rest of the gang and it only makes Arthur’s resentment grow. 

Still, he can’t help but see him as the man who’d taken him off the streets. Dutch and Hosea had taught him how to shoot, how to read and write. They’re the reason he knows how to hunt and make it on his own in the wild. How can he turn against the man who raised him to be who he is today?

You shift restlessly beside him, turning out of his hold and onto your side. Arthur frowns at the action, placing a light hand on your arm. You don’t shrug out from under his touch but you don’t reciprocate. You’ve turned cold and it’s only making everything harder. 

“I want to leave,” you whisper, and he startles slightly, thinking you’ve been asleep this whole time. 

“Huntin’?” Even as he speaks, he knows it’s not what you want, but he tries anyway. 

You scoff, the noise bitter and angry. “No.” You tell him shortly, tone clipped as you rise from the cot. Without another glance at him, you start changing out of your nightgown. Arthur sits up slowly, watching you. He doesn’t know what he’s done to spark this sudden shift in you, but the tension is near suffocating. “You have to see it, Arthur,” you say, pulling up your pants and tightening the belt. You glance over your shoulder, your expression is expectant, almost pleading. 

He lets out a rough sigh, figuring that there’s no chance of convincing you to rest a little longer. “See what?” He asks, dragging his hand over the stubble on his jaw. A low groan slips from his lips as he gets to his feet, back protesting at the too-small cot. 

“This,” you motion wildly, arms swinging out towards the camp that waits outside the closed flaps of his tent. “All of this, Arthur. It’s coming to an end. I can feel it,” you tell him, voice impassioned with fear and urgency. “There’s only so far we can run.”

Arthur looks away from you, shrugging on his shirt. “I know it’s hard right now. But Dutch-”

“Has a plan?” You snap, taking a step closer to him. Your brows knit tightly together, anger burning hot behind your eyes. You swat his hands away as he fumbles with a button, doing his shirt up for him. Even in your frustration, you can’t help but help him. It’s oddly endearing, despite the tension yawning between you. “He’s gonna get us to Tahiti?” You scoff, voice dripping with sarcasm as you roll your eyes. You smooth out his collar before stepping back, movements curt and precise.  

He reaches forward, hands catching your waist and tugging you back toward him before you can get far. You don’t meet his eyes, stubbornly looking away, but you don’t stop him from pulling you closer. 

“We’ll leave,” your head whips towards him, face lighting up with hope. He winces, wishing he was more clever with his words. “For a few days,” he clarifies and your eyes narrow into irritated slits. 

“I promise, what happened in St. Denis isn’t going to ever happen again.” He needs you to believe him, to understand just how much of a fool he felt like getting on that boat with Dutch. They hadn’t truly had another choice, but if he had a chance to do it all again he would have ran away with Charles. He never would have even left you at camp. 

“After a certain point, Arthur,” you squeeze his hand in yours and he feels just a little bit of relief at you finally returning his touch. “Your promises stop meaning much when you don’t keep them,” you slip out of his hold and his face falls flat, chest caving slightly. “But, sure, we’ll leave for a few days,” you shake your head, slipping out from his tent as he stares at the spot you’d once occupied. 

How had things gotten so bad?

“And where are you going, Mrs. Rowe?”

Arthur turns toward the sound of Dutch’s voice, spotting him standing near Pearson’s station. He looks for all the world like he’s at ease, but the tense set of his shoulders and twitch at the corners of his lips betray him. Arthur’s gaze shifts to you, standing by Lady, one hand gripping the reins of the restless mare.

“For a ride,” you say curtly, your tone flat and face pointedly blank. “What’s it look like?”

Arthur’s stomach knots as he notices the tension in the air. You’re already gripping the horn of Lady’s saddle, pulling yourself up with practiced ease. Arthur watches as you glance down at Dutch, your expression hardening and eyes slit in challenge. 

Dutch steps closer, his mouth curving into a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I understand things were run a little differently while we were gone. But I don’t think you going out alone is what’s smart right now-”

“Frankly, Mr. Van der Linde,” you interrupt, voice laced with venom, “I don’t give a damn what you think. I’m going for a ride.”

Arthur watches the muscle in Dutch’s jaw tighten, the flare of his nostrils betraying his irritation. Dutch turns to him, his eyes sharp, searching Arthur’s face for the usual complacent obedience.

Arthur whistles, and Diablo trots up to him obediently. Swinging into the saddle, he shoots you a quick look. “You heard the lady. We’re goin’ for a ride.”

The trail you lead him down is unfamiliar, winding through thick trees and rocky inclines. Arthur catches himself stealing glances at you- the way you sit tall in the saddle, the ease with which you guide Lady over uneven terrain. He tries to meet your eye, but each time, you only offer him small, polite smiles. They feel hollow, and it gnaws at him.

The silence stretches, prickling at his nerves. Finally, he speaks, voice cutting through the suffocating stillness. “Alright. Where are we goin’?”

You glance at him briefly, nodding toward the mountains in the distance. “Meeting up with Charles and the local tribe. I’ve helped them hunt a few times, but,” you trail off slightly, voice growing heavy, “they’ve been having problems.”

Arthur raises a brow. “Problems?”

You hesitate, your jaw tightening. “With the military,” you admit.

He doesn’t feel like you’re telling the whole truth and he can’t help but prod you further. “What kind of problems?”

You let out a frustrated sigh, shifting in your saddle. “The kind Dutch has been making worse.” You shoot him a pointed look and his jaw clenches at the blame lurking in your gaze. “He’s been riling up the chief’s son, getting him involved in jobs he shouldn’t.”

Arthur’s frown deepens, his brows furrowed as he struggles to think of Dutch’s reasoning for getting involved with the local tribe. Though, it’s not as if he’s been involving him in many plans lately. “Why would Dutch do that?”

Your head snaps toward him, your eyes filled with pent-up ire that’s been waiting to spill over. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Hey, now,” Arthur objects defensively, his tone growing just as sharp as yours. “I’m just askin’ a question.”

You fall silent, your expression flattening as you look ahead again. The weight of your resentment  hangs heavy between you, unspoken but undeniable. Arthur feels it like a stone in his chest, and it makes his teeth grind.

Arthur isn’t sure what he expected, but the sight before him twists his gut. Women huddle around children, feeding them thin soup from chipped bowls. Elderly men and women cough into bloodstained rags, their frail bodies barely covered by thin blankets. The air smells of sickness and desperation.

Arthur glances at you, but you’re already dismounting and striding toward the center of the settlement. Despite the distrustful stares from the tribe members, you move with purpose, your shoulders squared.

Charles stands near an older man, his voice low but urgent. Arthur catches the tail end of the conversation. “…my people will not survive this much longer,” the man says, his voice weary but resolute.

Arthur follows behind you as you approach. The man carries himself with a quiet strength, but his face is lined with worry and it’s ageing him by the minute. There’s a glint of familiarity in his eyes as you approach and he nods his head in greeting.

“Arthur, this is Rains Fall, he’s the chief of this tribe,” you explain to Arthur, introducing the two. “He-”

“I know you,” Rains Fall interrupts, still looking at Arthur. “You were there in the city. Your leader was meant to help my people.” He shakes his head, and Arthur sees the pain of being betrayed one too many times in the old man’s face. “Now the military is holding our medicine hostage.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens as he takes in the scene. It’s worse than he imagined. He’s heard the stories—the government stealing land, taking children—but seeing it up close is something else entirely. 

Being associated with Dutch has never brought about anything but pride. But standing here, seeing the people he’s taking advantage of, he’s overcome with shame. Rains Fall speaks again, his voice steady despite the weight of his words. “If we cannot retrieve the vaccines soon, we will lose many more. My people are already weakened.”

Arthur looks to Charles, who meets his gaze with grim determination. “We’re going to get the medicine back.” he tells him, and Arthur knows that you’re going to help, whether he wants you to or not. “The officer’s camp isn’t too much further down the mountain. But we can’t risk this looking like the tribe’s retaliating, it’s why I need your help, Arthur.”

Arthur and Charles are close, perhaps not as close as they should be. But they respect one another. Right now, Charles isn’t just asking for a favor, he’s asking for the help of a friend. Of a brother. And Arthur won’t allow himself to keep disappointing the people he cares about. 

Arthur nods, his decision immediate. But the truth burns in his chest: Dutch’s hand is in this. Somehow, the man he once idolized has turned these people’s suffering into a means to an end.

He glances at you, and your expression says it all. This is what you’ve been trying to warn him about. The look you give him is sharp, almost scolding, as if to say I told you so. Arthur doesn’t have the words to argue—not this time.

The conversation with Rains Fall and Charles winds down, and the three of you prepare to part ways. Arthur adjusts his hat, turning toward you. “You comin’?”

You pause, exchanging a glance with Charles. The look between you is brief but meaningful, and Arthur feels a pang of something he can’t quite name.

“We’ll catch up,” you say simply, your tone dismissive.

Arthur hesitates, searching your face for… something. An explanation? Reassurance? But you’ve already turned away, speaking quietly with Charles. He lingers for a moment longer, then mounts Diablo.

Arthur finds himself screwing up more often than not lately. But letting Dutch know about the plans for the tribe, has to be one of the stupider things he’s ever done. Dutch wants to get involved, of course, for the good of the natives, he claims. Arthur knows him, though, he knows it’s more than that. 

Together, they go and find Eagle Flies, the chief’s son. He’s already with his own band of men, each of them young and healthy, the few fighters their tribe has left. Their plan to get the medicine back, to stick it to the military, is far more violent and grand than yours and Charles had been. 

“This is the dumbest idea I have ever heard,” Arthur tells Eagle Flies, glaring down at the dynamite in his hand. He turns toward Dutch, expression disbelieving, “I can’t believe you’re encouragin’ this!”

“Encouraging what, Arthur? These young men to fight for their home, their land back. I’m disappointed in you son,” Dutch chides, and the way he says son rubs Arthur the wrong way. “I thought you, of all people, would support a cause such as this.”

“I support the cause,” Arthur snaps, snatching the dynamite out of Eagle Flies hand, “but I cannot support acting like damn fools and getting yourselves killed.” He turns toward the boy, imploring him to see reason, not to listen to Dutch’s silver tongue. “My friend has a plan for your people, he can get the medicine back. And he can do it without getting anyone killed.”

“What is the point in that?” Eagle Flies growls, taking the dynamite back from Arthur. “You want us to just lay down, belly up like dogs and let these men take everything from us? You would have us stay quiet instead of fighting back? The only way your people hear us, is if we make ourselves loud.”

He steps back, looking around Arthur to Dutch. “Tonight, we’re going to their camp and we will send them a proper message. You can join us or not,” he snaps, storming back toward his men. 

“Dutch-”

“I’m disappointed in you, Arthur,” Dutch starts, shaking his head as he makes his way back to the horses. “Not just for this, but for how you’ve been acting lately.”

Arthur stops in front of Diablo, eyes narrowed on Dutch, “And how have I been actin’?” He snaps, tired of the superiority that Dutch carries himself with, as if he’s not trying to get these boys killed. 

Dutch stares down at him, distrust and suspicion lingering between the both of them, “Like someone I can’t trust.”

“Well,” Arthur shakes his head and mounts Diablo. “I guess we both feel the same, then.”

Charles is furious as Arthur tells him Eagle Flies plan to blow up the military encampment and steal back not just the vaccines, but the deed to their people’s land. “We had a plan,” Charles shouts, the first time Arthur has ever truly seen him lose his temper.

“Arthur,” you start, letting out a low sigh. “Why did you tell him?” He doesn’t need you to say his name for him to know who you’re talking about. 

“I thought,” he can’t finish his sentence. Too ashamed of what the end might be. He thought that, maybe, you were all wrong, that Dutch could still be relied on. That the man he once knew was still in there somewhere. It felt too childish to admit out loud. 

“We’ll need the others,” you start when it's clear Arthur doesn’t have a reasonable excuse. “We won’t be able to stop Eagle Flies on our own. Especially not if he actually picks a fight with the military.”

It doesn’t take long to gather the rest of the gang, some of them ready to join Dutch as he goes to see Eagle Flies. But Arthur knows that he’s doing this for the wrong reason. He doesn’t understand what Dutch thinks he can gain from exploiting the tribe, and he knows that Dutch is never going to share it with him. 

The ride toward the military encampment is quiet, the tension thick enough to choke on. Eagle Flies and the other men are already moving around the area when they arrive, dynamite placed and ready to ignite. Their faces are set with the determined fury of men ready to face death. 

Charles brings Taima to a harsh stop and swings down before she’s fully still. He heads straight toward Eagle Flies, face tight with anger. “What the hell are you doing?” He demands, voice sharp as he jerks the boy forward by his arm. “We had a plan! Your father-”

“My father would do nothing!” He snaps, ripping his arm out of Charles's grasp. His hands ball into tight fists at his side, as though he’s prepared to take his anger out on anyone close enough. “He waits, and we die slow. The army has taken everything from us, and you want me to stand by and watch?”

Arthur dismounts from Diablo, mud splashing around his boots as they hit the ground. “You blow this place sky-high, you think they’re just gonna walk away? They’ll come down even harder on your people.”

Eagle Flies’ expression flickers for a brief moment, the weight of his father’s disappointment visible in the tightness of his jaw. Before he can respond, a sharp sound cracks through the night. Everyone turns to face it as another breaks the silence. A gunshot, clear as day. 

Chaos erupts instantly, soldiers startling from their tents and returning from their watch along the treeline. They run forward, rifles raised, gunfire already ringing out through the night. “Shit!” Arthur curses, reaching for his revolver. 

As he turns to run for cover, the rest of the gang scattering, he realizes that he can’t find Dutch. He doesn’t want to assume the worst, he can’t. But he wasn’t beside Arthur when the first shot rang out, and the soldiers didn’t even know they were there yet. 

He doesn’t have time to linger on the thought as the first explosion detonates prematurely. A fireball launches to the sky, the ground below him shaking as though it’s about to split open. The horses make a run for it, bucking off riders and racing for cover. Shouted orders and screams become one cacophony as he finds cover. He fires from behind a stack of crates, bullets disappearing into the dark of the night, but the return fire is relentless. 

Arthur has lost sight of everyone, you, Charles, he sees no one except the soldiers bearing down on him. 

He grits his teeth and keeps shooting, even as the fire begins to spread across the dry grass and smoke fills his lungs. He sees one, two, three men drop before he’s forced to reload. As he turns, he spots Dutch nearby, moving through the smoke and fire with a calculated calm. For a brief moment, Arthur feels a flash of relief, if only to see one familiar face. 

Then, something slams into him. He’s knocked to the dirt, teeth rattling from the force. A soldier grapples Arthur and raises his arm, a knife flashing in the firelight as he swings it toward Arthur’s throat. He catches his wrist just in time, muscles straining and breath ragged as he holds the soldier back. The blade trembles inches from his neck, the soldier’s weight pressing him further into the suffocating earth. 

“Dutch!” Arthur chokes out, struggling to keep the knife at bay. “Dutch, help me!”

He sees Dutch stop and turn to face him. The gunshots have lessened, soldiers dropping to the ground like flies as the gang swarms over them. Dutch has nothing to worry about as he watches Arthur. Yet, his eyes are unreadable, cold in a way Arthur has never seen before. He looks at Arthur for a long time. Then he turns. 

And runs. 

Arthur’s grip slips, for a horrifying second, he nearly lets the knife drive through his throat. The shock and betrayal hits him like a punch to the gut. But before the knife can land, a wet, gurgling sound fills the air. The soldier jerks, eyes going wide and face paling as blood spills from his lips. 

Eagle Flies stands behind him, his knife buried deep in the man’s throat. He rips it out without a care and the body slumps to the ground. Arthur remains in a state of shock as Eagle Flies offers his hand. He hesitates, only for a second, before grasping it and hauling himself to his feet. He barely has a moment to catch his breath before another shot rings out. 

Eagle Flies gasps, his body jerking to the side as blood blossoms from his ribs. “No!” Arthur shouts, whipping around and putting a bullet between the eyes of the soldier who fired the shot. The man drops, but Arthur barely pays attention as he turns back to the boy. He grabs Eagle Flies as he wavers, slinging his arm over his shoulder. 

“Come on, kid. We’re gettin’ outta here,” he swears. Eagle Flies groans in pain but doesn’t argue. Arthur grits his teeth, half-dragging and half-carrying him away from the battlefield, bullets whizzing past him. 

He stumbles through the trees as the soldiers scream, wildfire consuming them quicker than his revolver ever would. He hears your voice over the sounds of death, sharp with desperation. “Where’s Arthur?” You shout and he lifts his head. You stand by the horses, face tight with worry and finger twitching close to the trigger. 

Dutch stands in front of you, expression impassive. “Where the hell is he?” You demand, stepping back from Dutch and raising the rifle to be level with his face. 

“Here,” Arthur calls out before you put a bullet in the man’s skull. You spin, your relief immediate but fleeting as your eyes fall on Eagle Flies slumped in his arms. Charles steps forward, his face contorting with grief as he looks at the boy. 

Arthur meets Dutch’s eye, something flickers in the man’s expression, something that could be shame if Arthur didn’t know better. He stares at him, and for the first time, he sees Dutch for what he truly is. A liar, a coward. And a man who would leave him to die. 

“I’m takin’ him home,” he turns his back to Dutch and prepares for the long ride back. 

He pushes Diablo faster than he ever has, heels digging into the shire’s side as he pushes him over the edge. Eagle Flies is only getting weaker and he can’t return another dead son to Rains Fall. He can’t be the reason that the rest of his family dies. 

He knows, though, that there is no chance of survival for a wound like Eagle Flies. No herbal remedy or medicine could fix this. But the least he could do is give them one last moment together. 

When he rides back onto the reservation, Rains Fall is already waiting to greet them. He rushes forward, face stricken as he sees his son slumped against Arthur’s back. Charles walks over, helping Arthur gently lower Eagle Flies from his horse. 

Rains Fall kneels beside his son, quickly scooping him into his arms and pressing his forehead to his. Eagle Flies is too weak for words by this point, eyes fluttering shut as he relaxes into his father’s embrace. 

“You brought him back,” Rains Fall murmurs, his voice breaking. Arthur nods, not trusting himself to speak. The chief closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them, they’re wet with sorrow. “This land will never be safe for us. We must go. Find somewhere else to settle.”

Arthur looks away, knowing nothing he could say would ever fix this. He could never salve over a wound like this with something as trivial as empty promises or kind words. You and Charles stand at his side, watching Eagle Flies take in his last shuddering breath. The disappointment is palpable. 

He can’t face it any longer. Can’t face the death or the grief that seems to follow him wherever he goes. Without a word, Arthur mounts his horse and rides off into the night, leaving the weight of it all behind him. 

And he knows, deep in his very soul, that nothing will ever be the same again. 

The trail lightens as the sun begins to rise. The sounds of the reservation fade behind him, swallowed by the rustling trees and the distant call of an owl. He rides without direction, without thought, just the steady rhythm of Diablo’s hooves against the earth, carrying him further from everything he no longer knows how to fix.

Then, a voice cuts through the silence.

“Oh!” Someone shouts from the trees, “You goddamn, useless,” the man’s voice trails off into a series of expletives that’s too quick for Arthur to make out. Face pinched in confusion, he nudges Diablo forward, leading him towards the man. 

An old man stands in the middle of a clearing, hopping around on one leg, fist waving wildly in the air as he curses to himself. Arthur chuckles to himself, watching the man plop to the ground with a huff. He reaches down and rolls his pant leg up, revealing a stump where his leg should be. 

Arthur frowns, slipping off Diablo and moving closer to the stranger. He’s barely got a chance to greet him before the man's whipping out his revolver, eyes narrowed in suspicion as Arthur approaches. 

“I ain’t lookin’ for trouble, sonny.” The man tells him, pulling back the hammer of the gun. 

Arthur puts his hands up in surrender, shaking his head, “I’m not lookin’ to cause any. Only wanted to see if you needed any help.”

The man’s eyes turn into thin slits, lips pursed as he eyes Arthur up and down. He looks the part of an outlaw, but right now the stranger doesn’t have much choice but to trust him. He lets out a heavy sigh and puts his gun down. “Hamish Sinclair,” he offers as an introduction. Arthur gives him his name and Hamish gives him a brief smile. 

“Forgive my poor manners, don’t see much of anyone ‘cept those Murfree folk.”

Arthur shakes his head in dismissal, taking a step closer. “It’s fine. You wanna tell me what’s got you out here shoutin’ at the sky?” He can’t help the slight chuckle that slips out when he sees how Hamish’s shoulders slump in embarrassment. 

“It’s my damn horse, Buell, bucked me off, took my leg with him.” He gestures vaguely behind Arthur with a huff, “ran off that way.” Arthur nods, grabbing his rope off Diablo and heading off. “Feel free to shoot him,” Hamish shouts from behind him, “bastard’s caused me enough trouble.”

Arthur laughs quietly to himself, Hamish reminds him a bit of you. 

It doesn’t take long to find the horse. But Hamish wasn’t lying, he was a right bastard. It was more of a chore than Arthur thought it would be to get him lassoed and corraled back to the old man. 

Hamish’s leg, as he’d promised, was still tucked into the stirrup, the wooden appendage waving in the wind as Buell stomped around. “Oh!” Hamish shouts, waving his hand as Arthur brings the horse forward. “Shoot the son of a bitch, I’ll go get me somethin’ nicer,” he mutters, reluctantly bringing a hand up to pet Buell’s nose. 

Arthur offers Hamish a hand up, holding the wooden leg out for him to take. Hamish holds himself steady on a nearby rock and latches the leg back on. “Cannonball,” he says idly. 

“Which war?”

“Civil, whatchu think?” Hamish snaps, narrowing his eyes at Arthur and shaking his head. “Named this damn thing,” he lays a heavy hand on Buell's side, “after my commander. They were both pains in my ass, and they both cost me my damn leg.” Hamish laughs at himself, swinging up onto the saddle and glancing down at Arthur. “Comin’ or not?”

Perhaps it’s the loss of Hosea that has Arthur following this man. Or maybe it’s just the need for a moment of escape. Either way, he finds himself mounting Diablo and following after him. “What were you doin’ out here, anyway?”

Hamish digs his heel into Buell’s side with a huff, driving the horse down a small path Arthur wouldn’t have found on his own. “I went out to get some bait. Got this pike that’s been eatin’ all the fish in my creek,” he turns and gives Arthur a wild grin over his shoulder. “I’m lookin’ to turn it into my dinner.”

A smile curls upon Arthur’s lips, something uninvited and unnoticed. Things in camp have been so tense, every conversation with you or Dutch just feels like a noose tightening around his neck. He’s being drawn in so many different directions that he’s forgotten what it feels like to just talk to someone without any ulterior motives. There’s no hidden message within Hamish’s gaze or underlying threat to his words. For right now, he can just ride and pretend that all is fine within his world. 

“Can’t seem to get the damn thing on my own, maybe you’ll have better luck. You seem a touch spryer than myself.”

Arthur snorts and shoots the old man an amused look, “A touch?”

“Hey,” Hamish warns, tone light as he grins, “I may be weathered, but I can still take you down, sonny.” Arthur raises his hands in surrender, bowing his head in defeat as Hamish lets out a low chuckle. “Gotta say, been a while since I hollered at anyone ‘cept those Murfree boys. It’s quiet out here, that’s for sure.”

Arthur takes in the scenery around him. The way the sunlight just barely parts through the thick cover of trees and shines across the creek running beside them. The deer he can hear rustling off in the distance. There’s a whole other world around him, one he hasn’t been a part of in a very long time. 

“Quiet’s what I’m looking for,” he mutters, not much thought behind the words as he makes note of a bunch of wildflowers. They look like some you used to pick for the tent. 

“No point in quiet when you’re all alone,” Hamish chides softly, a heavy sadness hangs off his shoulders that Arthur’s not sure he’s ready to dissect. Hamish doesn’t leave him worrying for long, shooting Arthur a quick smile and shaking away the emotions. “Nearly there,” he tells him, nodding toward a clearing. 

Wildflowers and rocks that reflect the midday sun surround a shimmering lake he’s never noticed on his travels. Arthur’s fingers twitch toward the journal in his satchel, the scene too perfect not to draw. Still, he doesn’t think Hamish would appreciate the interruption much. 

Instead, he commits the image to memory. The quaint cabin that sits in the middle of it all, so unimposing it looks as though it had grown there like a tree. He’d have to draw it later, maybe even show it to you. 

Hamish leads him around the cabin and orders him around like he’s spent all his life doing it. Arthur drags out the fishing poles and takes the boat off the shore. He laughs when Hamish slaps his hand away when he tries to help in the boat. And he laughs even harder when Hamish nearly topples over the edge in his stubborn fit. 

The fishing itself is spent in silence. One of them occasionally breaking it by humming something or thinking they spotted movement in the water. It makes Arthur’s chest ache with a familiarity that’s a stranger to him. Yes, he used to do this with Hosea. But Hamish wasn’t Hosea, and there would never be anything to replace or soothe that gnawing pain of never being able to sit on a boat with him once more. 

“There!” Hamish slaps his shoulder hard enough to force Arthur out of his spiraling grief. He nearly knocks him out of the boat as he starts frantically jumping up and down, arms pinwheeling to keep himself balanced. “There’s that bastard, whoo I got you now!” He hollers, lighting a stick of dynamite and tossing it into the water before Arthur knows what's happening. 

He ducks, bracing himself as a ripple of water nearly puts the boat on its side. It’s quickly followed by a fin rising up in the water in the distance before disappearing once more. “My god,” Arthur gets to his feet, jaw gaping as he watches the behemoth of a fish swim away. Not once, has he ever faced a pike as large as that before. It could eat him. 

“What’re you doin’, you fool? Reel it!” Hamish snaps, already lighting another stick of dynamite to force it back towards them. Arthur shakes off the silent astonishment and quickly grabs his fishing pole. It feels like a battle, hauling this fish toward them and finally killing it. 

They must spend nearly an hour on those waters, blowing up half the lake just to haul a fish the size of Bill out of the water. Hamish is cackling and hollering the whole way back to his cabin. He goes on and on about how long that pike has been taunting him. How Arthur must be his goddamn lucky charm to have gotten it on their first day. 

It’s only when Arthur lingers by the edge of Hamish’s doorway do either of them acknowledges the shared pain between them. Arthur doesn’t know exactly what Hamish lost in the war, but he knows it must be something just as bad as Arthur. There's a creeping loneliness that they both know neither one of them can fill. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try. 

“You helped kill the bastard, sit down, I’ll cook up some of him for ya.” It’s an invitation that Arthur can’t deny. He gives Hamish a small smile, sitting down at his table while Hamish moves quickly through his cabin. 

“Did I ever tell you,” Hamish starts, as though they’ve been friends long enough for Arthur to hear his stories. Arthur doesn’t object or interrupt, he leans back, eyes alert as he listens to everything Hamish tells him. Tales of the war, the time before, the time after. Arthur shares a little about himself, but for the most part, he’s content to let the old man talk. 

That’s how most of their time together goes. When Arthur manages some time away from Dutch’s suspicious eyes, he goes to Hamish. He listens to his stories. And they use the excuse of hunting animals Hamish claims to be haunting him. It’s on his fourth visit that Arthur mentions you. 

“I don’t get it. You’re big, strong, you gotta have someone.” Hamish pauses, glancing away from his fishing pole and narrowing his eyes at Arthur. “Don’t tell me I’m your only friend, son.”

Arthur chuckles a little, shaking his head. “I got a lady,” he tells him, reluctant for Hamish to know exactly what company he keeps. Hamish nods his head, giving him an expectant look. Arthur lets out a low sigh, rubbing his palms across his pants and shrugging. “She’s gorgeous,” Hamish lets out a disbelieving snort and Arthur shoots him a look. “Smart” he continues and it’s the first time he’s ever struggled to describe you. 

Such simplistic terms don’t seem fitting for someone like you. If he had his journal, if he could show him a drawing of you, of the little bit of you he’s managed to capture on paper, maybe Hamish would understand. “And she’s a good person, a better one than I ever will be-”

“Then what’s she doin’ with a fool like you?” Hamish interrupts, snickering when he sees the irritated look on Arthur’s face.

“Weren’t you just tellin’ me what a catch I am?” Arthur snaps, eyes narrowed in amusement at the old man. 

He shrugs, tugging slightly on the string of his fishing pole and huffing out a laugh. “Eh, she can’t be that great if she’s with someone like you.” Arthur straightens up but Hamish barrels on, paying him no mind. “Bring her down tonight. I’ll cook up whatever we catch here. It’ll give me something other than your ugly mug to look at.”

Arthur scoffs, “You are a piece of work, old man.”

Hamish waves him off, leaning back in the boat and smiling softly as he waits for a fish to bite his bait. Arthur shakes his head, looking back to the familiar blue waters and feeling something like contentment settle over him. 

“You didn’t have to dress up,” Arthur tells you, holding his hand out to you. Perched atop Lady, you give his outstretched palm a long look before slowly settling your hand in his. 

“I’d hardly call a corset and some nice pants dressing up, Arthur,” you tease. It’s the first time you’ve spoken to each other without there being some underlying current of tension to your conversation. 

He leads you toward Hamish’s front door, smiling slightly when you stop to admire the garden at the side of the cabin. “I wanted to make a good impression,” you tell him, straightening up from where you’d been smelling some of the flowers. You give him a brief look out of the side of your eye before brushing dirt off the knees of your pants. “You’ve been talkin’ about him a lot and well,” you suck in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I know things have been hard after Guarma,” you can’t seem to look at him, eyes always darting away from his. 

Arthur stays silent, worried anything he says will ruin the first honest conversation you two have had. “And everythin’ has been so odd between us." You take a step forward and Arthur follows, craving the closeness that has been so sorely lacking. Looking up, you finally manage to meet his eye. The hurt and frustration so plainly displayed on your face makes his stomach clench. 

“I care about you, Arthur, deeply. And that’s not ever goin’ to change.” He expects there to be a ‘but,’ some clause added on that means he needs to change his ways. Or even you telling him that you just can’t handle this life anymore. He wouldn’t blame you if you told him that, but just the thought of it makes him hurt. 

Instead, you give him a smile and lean up, pressing your lips timidly against his cheek. Your hands find his, squeezing slightly, like an assurance to you both that there’s still something to be saved between you. 

Arthur can’t help himself as he turns his head, capturing your lips between his own and tugging you closer. You let out a short huff of laughter, smiling against his lips. It’s a chaste kiss, certainly one of the more demure ones you’ve shared. But it means more to him than he ever thought it would. 

“What the hell are you two doin’?” You startle back from him, eyes wide as you turn. Hamish has his head peeked around the corner of his porch, a stern look on his face but a slight mischievous tilt to his lips. “I invited you to dinner, I didn’t need a show to come with it,” he scolds, but there’s no hiding the humor in his tone. 

You bite your lip and move away from Arthur, though you let your hand linger in his as long as you can before you slip to the porch. “It’s nice to meet you,” you tell Hamish sheepishly. 

“Hm,” Hamish shakes his head as he looks at you, “Can’t believe you let Arthur fool you into bein’ with him.” He grins at Arthur’s affronted scoff and nods you along. “Go on inside, fish is almost ready.” You send Arthur one last look before heading off. 

Climbing the steps of the porch, Arthur lightly shoves at Hamish’s shoulder. “What’re you playin’ at, old man?”

Hamish shrugs, beckoning him inside, “I need somethin’ to entertain myself with.”

“How long have you been out here?” You ask Hamish as you settle down at his too-small table. He plates the fish and takes a seat across from Arthur, brow wrinkled as he thinks. 

“Well,” he laughs lightly and shakes his head. “It’s been so damn long, I can’t quite remember. Probably longer than you’ve been walking, sweetheart.”

Your eyes round, something like concern flitting across your face. “All on your own?” Arthur pauses from where he’d been cutting into his meal, content to let you carry the conversation. He glances up at Hamish, gauging the look on his face. 

Hamish’s solitary lifestyle has been something Arthur’s been avoiding talking about. He knows there’s something painful in Hamish’s past, something he does his best to keep quiet about. Arthur hasn’t wanted to push, too afraid that he’d ruined the good thing they had going. 

But the look on the old man’s face isn’t defensive or angry. It’s soft, his eyes are sad as he looks nostalgic, as if thinking back to happier times. “All on my own,” he confirms and Arthur sees the way your expression slacks with sympathy. “Honestly, this cabin is starting to feel too big,” he admits, glancing around at the barren walls. 

Where some would have family portraits, heirlooms, or memorabilia, Hamish has mounted deer and stuffed fish. There’s nothing besides a slightly dusty metal from the war to hint at what his life had once looked like. “It needs a family, or,” he glances back at you and smiles, “someone besides a sad old man.”

Hamish turns back to his meal and asks Arthur something, he responds vaguely, eyes still trained on your face. Your gaze has hardened as you glare down at the fish on your plate. There’s a wrinkle between your brows that he’s come to know as you plotting something. Whatever Hamish has said has given you an idea that Arthur’s not sure he wants a part of. 

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Hamish shouts, jumping from his seat and running toward the window. “That goddamn bastard!” 

You shoot Arthur a bewildered look and he shakes his head, standing up to join Hamish by the window. “What is it?”

“That boar! It’s back!” Hamish points to a vague shadow of a shape on the crest of the hill. It’s larger than any boar he’s ever seen, but Hamish seems to be cursed with animals of legendary size and vindictiveness. He runs from the window, grabs the rifle mounted above his fireplace, and runs toward the front door. “You better get a move on, boy, I ain’t waitin’ for ya!” He hollers over his shoulder, already whistling for Buell. 

Arthur sighs and gives you an apologetic look. “I oughta make sure he don’t get himself killed.” 

Smiling, you wave him along, “Go ahead, though,” you muse, glancing out the window, “it doesn’t look like he needs much help.” Arthur turns, letting out an aggrieved huff as he sees Hamish already shooting wildly at the beast. 

“Won’t be long,” he promises as he rushes out the door. 

He only vaguely hears your small, “I’ve heard that before.”

Arthur spots Buell grazing in a small patch of grass and leaves Diablo beside him. The two horses don’t seem to get along very well, but he’s more concerned with the trail of blood in the underbrush than them. 

Kneeling down to investigate, he’s stopped by nearby shouting. “I’ve almost got him, Arthur, hurry-” Hamish’s voice is cut off by a loud cry of pain and a boar squeal that almost sounds like screaming. 

Dirt flies up under Arthur’s boots as he races forward. He pushes through the thick foliage, stumbling out into an open area where Hamish lay sprawled on the ground. His body twitches, fingers weakly grasping at a dark, gaping wound in his stomach. Blood pools beneath him, soaking into the earth.

“Oh, Hamish, no,” Arthur mutters, dropping to his knees beside him. He presses his hands over the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding, but it’s no use. He can see it in the way Hamish struggles for breath, his chest stuttering with each ragged inhale.

Hamish lets out a shaky laugh, the sound wet and gurgling. “Flesh wound,” he croaks, though the blood trailing from the corner of his mouth says otherwise. His voice is strained, each word dragged from his throat like it pains him to speak. “I’m an old man, Arthur. This was bound to happen sooner or later.” Arthur wants to tell him to stop talking, to save his breath. But he’s seen death enough times to know there’s no coming back from this. 

“Don’t,” Hamish chokes on his blood and flinches forward. Arthur props him up on his knee, still keeping his hand over the wound. It’s not doing anything except prolonging this, but he can’t find it within himself to let go. Hamish settles, lungs wheezing with effort. “Don’t be like me. Don’t die lonely.”

Arthur doesn’t have the chance to tell him he’s not alone before the light leaves his eyes. He finally takes his hands off of him, looking up as he hears squealing. He spots the boar in the underbrush and picks Hamish’s rifle up off the ground. 

The trek back to the cabin is slow. Hamish’s body is slung over Diablo and Buell carries the boar. Arthur wonders if Buell knows that his master’s dead. If he can smell it, or if he even cares. 

He leads them both toward the hitching post at the side of the home. He sees you watching in the window, eyes narrowed in on Hamish’s body before you disappear from view. Footsteps sound out on the porch as he slings the body over his shoulder and walks it toward the clearing of wildflowers. 

“What happened?” You call out, voice soft as you join him. 

“Boar,” he answers shortly. He doesn’t have the patience to speak. He’s faced and caused death hundreds of times, but something about this feels like a slap in the face. It wasn’t enough that he had to lose Lenny and Hosea and then watch as what used to be his family falls apart. He had to drag Hamish into his problems, had to loop you into this business. 

He knew, when his mother died and when his son died, that he was cursed to lose everyone he loved. That he would never be allowed a happy, or a simple life. And yet, like the fool he is, he keeps trying. He keeps trying to allow himself a sliver of peace or happiness. 

You hand Arthur a shovel as he sets Hamish down on the ground and he starts to dig. Until the sun sets and the moon is high in the sky, he digs a grave for Hamish. You stand there with him the whole night, never saying a word, and for that he’s grateful. He’s learned that it's better not to have to do something like this alone. 

When he’s done, and Hamish is six feet deep, facing the east so he can see the rising sun, he leads you back to the cabin. It’s a comfortable quiet as you help him rinse the dirt and blood off his hands. You take the clothes he stores on Diablo and bring them to him, convincing him to just stay at the cabin for the night. 

He’s too tired to understand the concentrated look on your face, but there’s something niggling at the back of his mind. A sort of intuition he usually wouldn’t ignore but can’t bother with tonight. “Good night, Arthur,” you whisper but he’s already asleep before he can say it back. 

When he wakes up, you’re sitting at the table, writing something on a scrap piece of paper. You turn slightly, smiling briefly at him before going back to the paper. “What’re you writin’?” He asks, sitting up in bed and stretching out the soreness from digging for so long. 

Your shoulders tense up, expression going blank before carefully reconstructing itself into something pleasant. Placing the pen down, you slide the paper away from yourself and turn fully to face him. 

“Eagle Flies is dead.” Your voice is clipped, emotion buried beneath steel. “Dutch was at the heart of it all. He didn’t just destroy a tribe and a family for nothing but his own gain, he left you for dead.”

Arthur grimaces, shooting you a sharp look. “I don’t need the reminder-”

“I think you do, Arthur.” Your tone hardens, cutting through his defensiveness. “Charles is devastated. He won’t stay with the gang much longer after this. That’s who the letter’s for,” you say, nodding toward the paper on the table. “I need to tell him some things before he disappears for good.”

Arthur watches you carefully. There’s something else behind your words, something bigger than just grief over Eagle Flies. A knot of unease tightens in his stomach.

“John and Abigail are leaving soon,” you continue, voice steady but insistent. “They won’t risk Jack getting caught up in Dutch’s mess. Sadie’s been itching to go off on her own for a while-”

“What’re you gettin’ at?” Arthur snaps, frustration creeping in. He’s tired, exhausted from everything, and you dragging this out isn’t helping.

You inhale sharply, rolling your shoulders back as if bracing yourself. “I want to stay here.” Your expression is unreadable, your voice flat. “Here or anywhere else, but I am not going back to that camp. I won’t.”

Arthur stiffens, dragging a hand down his face before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He tugs his shirt back on with sharp, jerking movements, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “You want me to just leave?”

You shake your head, voice calm but firm. “I want you to do what you need to do.”

Arthur doesn’t believe that. He can’t accept that you would be so calm giving him permission to leave again. He searches for an ulterior motive, for some hidden tone to your words, even though he knows there won’t be one. “They’re my only family. You expect me to just walk away?”

Your expression softens, but he can see it in your eyes, the steel behind each word. Your resolve isn’t bending, you won’t be changing your mind anytime soon. “I expect you to decide for yourself, for once.” You step closer to him and he feels two ideals, two lives, warring against each other in the back of his mind. 

“You’ve spent your whole life followin’ someone else’s lead- Dutch’s, Hosea’s.” Arthur wants to leave before he has to listen to anymore, not ready to confront the truth. “Even now, you’re just tryin’ to hold it all together because you think you have to.”

Arthur swallows hard, “It ain’t that simple,” he argues, even though, deep down, it truly is. 

“It is,” you counter gently, voice calm like you’re soothing a bucking horse. “I’m not tellin’ you to abandon anyone. But you know how this ends,” the look in your eyes shifts. It changes from something earnest to the distant gaze of someone whose sick and tired of marking new graves. “You’ve always known.”

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, his jaw tightening as he turns away from you. If he doesn’t meet your eyes, maybe he won’t have to face the truth in them. 

But you’re stubborn as all hell and you never know when to quit. “I’m stayin’ here. This is my choice. And I’ll be here when you get back,” you pause, your last words quieter, “if you choose to come back.”

Arthur hesitates by the door. There’s so much hanging over the gang, the Pinkertons, Cornwall, Dutch’s tightening grip. Even if they all wanted to leave, Dutch would never let them. And Arthur… 

Arthur has to see this through. 

“I have to go.” His voice is quiet, resigned. 

“Then go,” you tell him as if it’s the simplest idea in the world. 

He lingers a moment before stepping through the door. He doesn’t look back, but he knows what he’s fighting for now. What he’s fighting to come back to. 

Arthur rides into camp, his gut twisted with unease. He’s not sure what he was expecting, certainly not an idyllic scene, but the sight before him still takes the breath from his lungs. 

Molly lies sprawled in the dirt, blood soaking the earth beneath her. Mrs. Grimshaw hovers over her body, shotgun in hand and the barrel still smoking. Her face is unreadable. The rest of the gang looks at her in stunned silence, some horrified, others grim. 

“She said,” Susan mutters, voice hoarse. “She said she sold us out. Gave us up to the Pinkertons.”

Arthur’s stomach drops. He steps forward, his voice low and urgent. “No, she didn’t,” he looks at Molly, the flickering light of the fire dancing across her lifeless face. He turns his gaze to the real snake in their midst. “It was Micah.”

Mrs. Grimshaw pales and Micah scoffs. “Oh, give me a goddamn break.” He leans lazily against a post, arms crossed over his chest, a smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes are alight with amusement as if this is all some great joke to him. “You’re graspin’, Morgan. I get it, you need someone to blame, and Molly’s already dead, so why not pin it on me?”

Arthur’s jaw clenches, “I see you for what you are, you rat bastard.”

Micah just shrugs, cocky as ever. Mrs. Grimshaw, though, in all of her wisdom and unflinching loyalty, sees right through him. Her eyes narrow and she comes to stand beside Arthur, “Arthur’s right.”

That’s all it takes. The shift on Micah’s face is instantaneous. The gunshot rings out before Arthur can even react. Mrs. Grimshaw jerks back, her body crumpling to the ground. Blood seeps through her blouse and spreads across her chest. 

The camp erupts. Shouts ring out, insults are thrown, and guns are pulled by people who had once called each other friend and brother. Dutch steps forward, getting between Arthur and Micah, his hands raised, eyes darting between them both. Arthur can’t read his face. It’s calm on the surface, but beneath it, something fragile and uncertain lingers. 

Micah steps back, but he isn’t alone. Bill and Javier fall in beside him, weapons drawn. 

John pushes Abigail and Jack behind him. Charles and Sadie round up the rest of the women, dragging John’s family off as they lead them to the horses to flee. John meets Arthur’s eyes, and there’s no hesitation. He grabs his revolver and steps to Arthur’s side. 

Arthur breathes out sharply, giving Dutch one last chance. “You can still do this,” he tells him, voice raw. “You can still make this right, Dutch. You can stop this.”

Dutch’s face twists, pain, doubt, anger, all flickering at once. He shakes his head slowly. “I thought of you as a son, Arthur.” His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. Then louder, firmer, “I can’t believe you’d betray us.”

Before Arthur can say another word, the Pinkertons ride in, guns blazing. Chaos takes hold of the camp as Micah takes his eyes off of him to start shooting at the others. Arthur doesn’t hesitate, grabbing John as they bolt for their horses. Bullets fly past them, grazing against their clothes and nearly nicking them. Pinkertons certainly aren’t good shots. 

They mount the horses, racing through the woods. The sound of gunfire and shouting follows behind them before slowly fading. They can’t afford to slow down or stop, wordless as they push their horses harder and faster than the animals can stand. 

They don’t stop until they reach the base of a mountain. The money’s nearby, stashed away in Dutch’s greed-fueled paranoia. It’s their only chance of making something out of this mess. Arthur can’t afford to let Dutch and the other’s get to it first. 

Arthur dismounts and John follows. “This is it,” Arthur turns toward John, placing his hand on his shoulder. “You take the money, you get Abigail and Jack outta here. Make somethin’ of yourself.”

John frowns, shaking his head. “Arthur, I ain’t-”

“Go,” Arthur’s voice is firm. The finality of it stops John short. “I’ll hold ‘em off.”

John hesitates, and Arthur knows how desperately he wants to stand beside him and fight. To prove that he’s more than a coward. But he knows better than to argue, and he knows he can’t leave his family behind. He gives a short nod and starts running. 

Arthur begins his climb up the mountain, hoping to find a vantage point to hold the Pinkertons and the others off. He’s not far when he hears them behind him. Turning, he sees Micah and Dutch closing in. 

Micah grins, “Should’ve run while you had the chance, Morgan.”

White hot fury floods through Arthur’s veins, it pushes him forward and he lunges at Micah, grappling him to the ground. Micah lets out a wheeze, his blackened lungs not prepared for the attack. He doesn’t hesitate, bringing his fist down until he feels bones crunch under the force of his hand. 

Micah struggles against him, kicking him off and struggling to his feet. Arthur lets him get up and then he goes after him again. He pins him against the wall of rock behind them both, letting his rage drive him forward as he hammers against his face. Micah keeps gasping for air, arms rising feebly in defense only to get knocked down again. 

A click echoes through the cold air and Arthur freezes, dropping Micah and letting him slump to the dirt. His eye is purpled, swollen completely shut and Arthur almost can’t recognize him anymore. 

He turns, finding Dutch standing behind him, gun aimed at his chest. 

For a long, silent moment, they just stare at each other. Dutch’s finger hovers over the trigger and Arthur just watches. He sees the conflict in Dutch’s eyes, the doubt warring with years of manipulation and ego. 

But in the end, Dutch does what he always does. 

He runs away.

Micah groans, nails digging into the dirt as he struggles for air. Arthur doesn’t bother finishing him off. He watches Dutch disappear into the night and leave them both behind. Breathing slowly, his chest heaving, Arthur turns away from Micah and leaves him to rot. 

The ride back to the cabin is slow. Every muscle in Arthur’s body aches, his lungs burning with each breath, but for the first time in a long while, he’s not carrying the weight of the gang on his shoulders. It’s over. Dutch is gone. Micah is as good as dead. The life he’s known has fallen apart, but he’s still here. And he’s free. 

He crests the final hill, the cabin coming into view, and there you are- waiting. 

You’re not crying with worry or pacing in anger that he left again. You stand, arms crossed, watching the road like you always knew he’d come back.

Arthur exhales, something in his chest easing at the sight of you. He slows Diablo to a stop, dismounting with a grunt of pain. You don’t rush over to him and demand to know what happened, or how he got the fresh bruises littering his skin. The both of you have always known that the only way this was going to end was bloody. Arthur looks up and you hold his gaze, waiting for him. 

Waiting for him to finally decide. The outlaw life, or this new one with you. 

He takes a step toward you, and you stay still as a statue, another and he’s nearly on top of you. You don’t move away or take a step back, you peer up at him, meeting his gaze expectantly. “It’s over,” he tells you simply. 

You nod, nothing gleeful or victorious on your face that you finally got him right where you wanted. You’re not Dutch, this was never about controlling him, he realizes that now. Without his loyalty blinding him, he can finally understand that you were only ever trying to help him. “I know,” your voice is calm as your eyes rove over his face. 

A silence stretches between you, heavy with words left unsaid. Then, slowly, Arthur lifts his hand toward you. You don’t pull away, and when his fingers brush your waist, you sigh, your shoulders easing like you’ve been holding yourself together for too long. Arthur doesn’t waste any more time pulling you in close to him, the both of you holding each other up. 

Arthur breathes out slowly, resting his forehead against yours and pulling you as close as he can get. Your hands come up, gripping his shirt like you’re trying to make sure he doesn’t slip away. But he knows he won’t, not ever again. 

For the first time in what feels like forever, Arthur allows himself to feel real and true hope. He keeps you tight in his embrace, and you bury your face in his neck, he can feel your lashes flutter against his neck as they finally close and you relax against him. He’ll make something of this second chance. He’ll become a man you can be proud to call your own. 

As the sun rises, casting its golden light over the both of you, Arthur finally leaves behind his old life, to begin this new one with you. 

Next part end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @committingcrimes-2047

@m1stea @pokiona @fleouris @soupvender00 @warmsideofthepillow03

@whimsiwitchy @cloudywithachanceofcrisis @martinys-world

[hitlikehammers]

astral cartography✨💫

“And I did always say, right, that tattoos are a map of what you love.” Steve kisses Eddie firm, not least in appreciation for shutting Dustin’s harebrained bullshit down. But that doesn’t solve his original mystery.  “These aren’t a map, though,” Steve taps one of the new spots, smaller but still at the neck. No rhyme or reason to it.  “They’re the start of one.”💖

rating: t ♥️ cw: post-S4, extensive tattoo/birthmark/scar appreciation, established relationship, romantic gestures, a soupçon of angst surrounding some necessary work on self talk/body positivity re: extensive canonical scarring (it’s hurt/comfort in full service of fluff, so), little ✨sprinkling (lol) of humor, softness ♥️ tags: boys being tactile as shit, steve harrington being the canonical reason anyone ever called them ‘beauty marks’, eddie munson’s philosophy of tattooing, falling deeper in love

for @steddielovemonth day three: "if there is love, smallpox scars are as pretty as dimples. I'll love your face no matter what it looks like. because it's yours.” —Stephen King, 11/22/63

For all the attention he has wilfully, consciously, and very intentionally given certain elements of his appearance, Steve’s never though anything really about the fact that he’s got enough moles to dress up for Halloween as a fucking chocolate chip cookie.

Like, they don’t bother him at all or anything, but he’s never really understood how a handful of people he’s been with have just…zeroed in on them. Got a little crazy about them. Tracing them. Licking them. Nipping at them so they look more red than brown for a day or two. Whatever, Steve’s always figured. Everyone’s got their thing, and this one costs steve absolutely nothing to indulge, and if there’s one thing Steve prides himself on that doesn’t rhyme with ‘hair’? It’s making sure his partners leave satisfied.

But then there was Eddie.

And Eddie has a…well, a umm…

If you looked up the word ‘fixation’ in the dictionary, Eddie definitely has that.

Probably looking up the word ‘fetish’ might not be too far off, either.

What it means that Steve gets a little hot under the collar of his polo when he so much as thinks about either of those facts is a word he doesn’t know and isn’t going to bother looking up because why the hell would he, when he can just turn to Eddie, and…

Eddie’s fetish-fixations aren’t idle things, guy’s a man of action. Steve’s not gonna pick a book over what he gets out of the bargain like…for anything.

Plus, better stated—now there is Eddie. And Eddie…isn’t going anywhere, ever, if Steve has anything to say about it.

And it doesn’t cost Steve anything to lie there under his boyfriend’s unwavering, devoted attention. Kind of actually the sort of thing Steve never had before this, before him, and got addicted to quick—and that shone hasn’t worn off one bit. Isn’t actually showing any indication of everwearing off.

And when attention grows more heated, grows more more, well, then…fuck.

Ha, ha, that’s: fuck. Literally.

Point is, Steve doesn’t even really notice all the little dots on his skin, but hell if he’s not reaping the benefits.

——

It’s also not really fair to even consider judging Eddie for his fixation with Steve’s collection of birthmarks. Because Steve’s got his own not-quite-but-close-enough-the-distinction-doesn’t-matter obsession with Eddie’s skin.

Notably, but not exclusively, with his tattoos.

And more than that? With his scars.

Which is something that kinda comes about…tumultuously. Steve can acknowledge that.

“It’s too fucking hot, dude,” he’d frowned, rolling over and plucking at Eddie’s soaked-through shirt; “and you’re sweating buckets here.”

Seriously. The mattress was gonna get ruined at this rate.

“Jeez,” Eddie had snapped, straight off the bat; “sosorry we don’t all have central goddamn air.”

Which: the government hadn’t sprung for that, no. But:

“Don’t try and pull that shit on me,” Steve bit back, plain and simple, and it cowed Eddie the way it sure as hell should: he knew better. He knew Stevebetter, by now. They’d been fucking for months, since Eddie got the medical okay. They rarely spent more than a work-shift’s length out of each other’s sight. They were both—for the first time Steve’s ever got to feel it, both of them, together—clear-eyed on the way to bonafide bone-deep love; saying it out loud for keeps, and soon. They slept together every goddamn night.

So yeah. Eddie knew better.

He curled farther from Steve, into himself, but Steve just followed, even if doing so kinda exacerbated his complaint about the heat as a matter of course. He molded himself around Eddie and pulled him into his chest so he could murmur into the wet curls plastered at his ear:

“I get if you don’t want anyone else to see,” because wearing a shirt in this fucking heatwave really only made sense for one reason; “I get if you’re not ready yet, or if you’re never ready,” and Steve meant that: if Eddie was never ready to show off the worst of his scars? Steve would stand by him every day for the rest of his days.

That was basically the rule for…most things, now. With Eddie.

“But I already saw all of it, babe,” Steve tried to reason, because it wasn’t even that Steve was uncomfortable, mostly-nude in the bed himself; it was that Eddie’s misery hurt in his chest and he just…maybe it was selfish, to want to cast it out, but he just didn’t want Eddie to suffer. Ever.

“I cleaned them at their worst, y’know? I changed the bandages, I saw—”

“How much they look like Frankenstein’s fucking monster?” Eddie’d halfway snarled it, and Jesus fuck, no.

No.

“How much they almost make me fucking start crying,” Steve was willing to admit it, out loud, for this specific purpose alone, which said a whole fuck of a lot—

“Because they’re goddamn hideous—” Eddie tried to derail him but that wasn’t happening. Steve was on a mission, here. And Steve didn’t commit if he wasn’t gonna see something through past the finish line, and in first.

“Because they’re so alive,” Steve pulled Eddie in tighter, pressed his lips into Eddie’s neck.

“You have them, and you’re warm here next to me, I get to hold you in my arms like this and your fucking heart’s still beating, when I was so goddamn scared it would stop because of how torn up all this was,” and Steve laid just his palm blind to the deepest cratering of flesh that’s concave to the bone a little, knew where it was by muscle memory alone and he could feel Eddie’s pulse hammering for the fear and the shame and what had sounded too much like self-loathing, that Steve hadn’t realized was still so strong: but now he knew it. Now he knew, and he’ll wasn’t going anywhere, so he was gonna be right there, watching and helping and coaxing a way through it however he could.

“But it’s fucking beautiful, and it’s not red and torn open and bleeding out to take you from me anymore,” and Steve didn’t even think to feel ashamed of it when his voice cracked around how he didn’t realize that sore spot was still so close to the surface in himself.

“But now it’s pink and healthy and it stretches when you breathe in, because you’re here and you’re alive,” and there came the crack again in Steve’s voice but he expected it that time, and smashed his lips to Eddie’s neck again as he moaned a little:

“With me.”

And he breathed there as long as it took for Eddie’s breathing under his hand at the scars in his side to even out, and he just…appreciated them. Because they’d done the unthinkable; doctors and surgeons and modern medicine, sure, yeah, them too, but Eddie’s own body—the very skin under Steve’s hands—had decided to say fuck the reaper and knitted itself together the best it could, and the best it could had led them both here, had led Steve in Eddie’s bed, and Eddie in Steve’s heart, so.

Steve thought every single one of those scars was goddamn magnificent. He’d praise each of them in gratitude, separately and painstakingly every goddamn day, if he thought it’d convey how thankful he was for the textured artwork of Eddie’s left ribs, the way his whole side stood like a permanent installation in celebration of what it meant to demand to survive.

“They’re so,” Eddie eventually whispered, and it sounded already like he was gonna say something kinda like the opposite of everything Steve saw, so—they’d deal with those mean thoughts later.

For the moment though:

“You know how you said you’d never seen the ocean?” Steve had said, knowing it would sound like it came out of nowhere, but it wasn’t. “And I promised I’d take you?”

Eddie’d just turned, stared at him like he was losing it which…was fair. But Steve had a point to it, promise.

“I’ve seen it though,” Steve had closed his eyes and the memories are hazy because they’re so old but the feeling of it: s’not something you ever forget all the way. “Couple times, just because my parents had to be somewhere and I was too young to leave alone when the babysitter cancelled last minute,” and he’d reached out slow, opened his eyes to watch Eddie every millimeter his hand moved closer to the collage of divots and skin grafting and stitched-together planes that pulled too far to lie even when the staples came out. Eddie tensed, held his breath—it wasn’t that Steve hadn’t touched him here, far from it, but so intentionally, so eyes-open—but he didn’t flinch. And he didn’t stop Steve’s hand from pressing down.

His breath did catch, but so did Steve’s, just for clearly different reasons as Steve delicately traced the scalloped edgings and whispered, didn’t even try to hide how it made him feel kinda-sorta awed:

“It reminds me of the tides.”

“The sand goes smooth under the waves,” Eddie shot back, but without heat, more just…defeated as he muttered on; “even I’ve seen fuckin’ movies.”

“But the foam, like, of the waves coming up,” Steve pushed back; “it’s so pretty, that’s the part I want your to see most because it was so long ago, and that’s what I still remember,” and he’d sighed a little, going back to that place in his head:

“It’s like layers, and all the motion of it lapping up the coastline feels like like you could just lose yourself in the rhythm forever and never climb out,” and he’d let his eyes open slow, and he’d caught Eddie’s own and let himself do the same inside that gaze until Eddie got the fucking hint:

He was just ad beautiful, as impossible, as incredible as those tides.

“One wave after the next, in turns, crashing so strong but it’s not, like, violent,” Steve had let his thumb trace the raised lines under his touch back and forth; “it’s magic.”

Like Eddie. Who tucked a little further into himself before he turned, jostled Steve’s hand then burrowed into Steve instead:

“It’s not even smooth,” he protested all muffled; “you can’t even—”

“My nan loved photos.”

Again, Steve was pretty sure he sounded insane. But again, he was building to a point.

“Not even ones she took, most came from magazines. She couldn’t travel like she wanted to, my Gramp was building businesses but my Nan wanted like, adventures and the sights. So she made scrapbooks of wishes, she called them,” Steve had smiled at the memory, until the next one washed it away:

“My dad thought she was a silly old woman. We didn’t see her too much, in the end.”

Steve missed her.

“But the most beautiful thing she showed me once was this one tiny island somewhere way far in the north, where the beaches were made of stones.”

Eddie’s turned a little, frowned. It gave Steve access to his side again, though, and that’s all he needed, but his hand right back on that tangled-perfect marvel of scar tissue and indomitable life.

“Not pebbles, but big stones,” and Steve had outlined the larger waves in the flesh like examples with his hands as he spoke. “No rhyme or reason. It was special, the place itself, like it had some historic significance or whatever, but,” and Steve had let himself work around one knot of tissue he knew caused pulling sometimes, just in case it could use a little loosening, a little extra love, and he’d fought a full grin when Eddie’d grunted and caved under the attention, eager for the relief.

“The picture she had was of the waves crashing over the ricks and,” Steve had worked more at the knot as he searched for the right words;

“It was like the could have been at odds, like fighting each other, but instead they were this marvel that people came from across the world to just,” and he didn’t still his hands at all, but he did lean in to kiss behind Eddie’s ear; “just to have the privilege to see.”

And Eddie had shuddered, and his breath had caught hard, and Steve had turned him in his arms and slipped his hands under that sweat-soaked shirt and held held, held him, held him.

“Nothing smooth about it, really,” Steve had mouthed against Eddie’s jawbone then; “think that was most of the point.”

And Eddie’d slept without a shirt the rest of the unbearable second summer, chest-to-chest so Steve could feel the scars straight to his own skin, and from there on, it was understood.

Maybe not for everyone, but definitely for Steve: they were maybe not quite welcome—yet—but definitely allowed to be worshipped for the proof of life, the gift of love that they fucking were.

——

The tattoos aren’t quite the same. Steve thinks that’s because they were something Eddie chose; the scars interfered, deformed—weren’t the marks in themselves.

But after getting the memo about how complicated the scars are, and knowing these marks are no longer unentangled with those ones?

Steve may be oblivious sometimes, but. Once he learns a thing—especially when it’s tied up with loving—he tends to remember.

“Do you mind, when I,” Steve pulls his head up to meet Eddie’s eyes from where he’d already been basically sucking the ghoul head thingy above Eddie’s pec into a purple shade for like fifteen whole minutes, like a free color-job. Steve does like to think Eddie could have stopped him—and definitely wouldn’t be so hard between where they’re pressed together—if he had had a problem, but.

Steve…likes to be careful. When there’s loving.

“Not at all, sweetheart,” Eddie fucking purrs, and Steve grins cheshire-sharp for it, pleased with himself. Hr actually kinda loves this particular tattoo especially; the scars that cut into it make it look like Mr. Zombie-face got into a nasty fight with Wolverine from X-Men—which yes, thank you Henderson, he already knew about before starting to screw your DM—but anyway.

“I just,” Steve traces one long scar of the three as he talks, tries not to grin too much when Eddie shivers, when his nipple proves it’s not too scarred-up to pebble under the attention fucking beautifully; “since you don’t want to get any more, and—”

“No, I don’t,” Eddie says simply, if a little breathy as he arches into how Steve does the same up what looks like the second claw mark, just a fingertip alone the line; “least not right now. But they’re still a map of the things with love, yeah? Present tense, past tense, it’s all a story.”

And that is…Eddie. That answer is so fucking Eddie.

And he’s worked so hard—both of them have—to say that kind of thing from a place where they could believe it, and damn if it doesn’t come out now like its said like a man who’s made his peace, and feels solid standing in it.

“And, like, maybe these are just ink from a really shitty apprentice artist,” Eddie taps at the weave of scars lower, the worst of them: his rocky beach on the waves, and fuck, if he’s willing to try even a kinda shitty joke about it all, in the privacy of their bed where there’s no need to fake it, or force it to make nice?

They really have made progress.

“Hmm,” Steve doesn’t take his hand from that second pseudo-claw mark but he does crawl down a little to get a better look at Eddie’s biggest set of scarring—not that he needs to, but if he’s gonna play alone he’s not gonna half-ass it, so he tuts a little and shakes his head regretfully:

“Honestly, I just don’t think the Upside Down has a real established scene to expect high standards,” Steve laments, shaking his head; “they can’t even keep the lights on down there, man, plus teeth for needles? Can’t be the best practice,” he sighs wearily. “Health code violations fucking everywhere, Robin would pass the fuck out—“

And maybe Eddie’s tackling him them, shaking with cackles as he takes the lead to pin Steve to the bed, sucks between the moles on his neck—perfect vampire bites, baby, marked just for me—and Steve maybe giggles for it, the impatience, the enthusiasm, the joy in the tussle. It’s basically perfect.

So yeah. Eddie’s as marked up as he’s probably gonna get, at least any time soon. Steve won’t let another round of violence touch him ever again, over his dead fucking body, and tats…maybe they’re gonna just stick with the story they’ve got on Eddie’s skin, close that chapter where it naturally turned a page.

To start this new thing, together. Where Steve leave the marks, and proudly, and touches them up as often as need be. With pleasure.

And if Eddie’s as happy about that as he currently looks, flushed and panting and far beyond ready to get on with more than sucking at skin?

Maybe that actually works out perfectly.

——

So, the point is, the love each others marks, the things that trace their skin to make them them, but blemishes but serial numbers: just more undeniable proof to celebrate the person they like most in the whole world.

Love most, as is becoming abundantly clear.

Which means they notice right away when so much as a bruise pops up from knocking into the kitchen table—but Steve’s not looking at a bruise.

He squints—this isn’t really a task he’d lean on his classes for but…so weird and also, odd fucking place underneath Eddie’s chin—

“Did your sharpie break?”

Because that would make sense. Eddie purrs on basically anything that can pass for a writing implement, if he gnawed to much, maybe he was lucky and the ink dribbled rather than sprayed.

“No,” but honestly, Steve is not convinced. It’s not a convincing denial, first off, but then on top of that, there’s more incriminating evidence:

“You’ve got marks, like, all over,” dark little speckles, like an egg at Easter before you dunk it in the bright vinegar water. It’s not sunny enough for his freckles to be coming out yet, is it?

“I do,” Eddie agrees, but kinda distant, like his head’s elsewhere. Steve looks up from where he’d become sprawled out over Eddie’s chest on the couch: he’s working on campaign notes and: oh look. Not a sharpie.

One of those Mr. Sketch monstrosities that smell like ‘fruit’ and everyone’s gotten high off of at some point, which 100% belonged to the school at some point, and 100% now has Steve’s boyfriend’s dental imprints on the end.

Steve just rolls his eyes and, which the colour still isn’t exactly—the speckles on Eddie’s skin really are a more chocolate brown—he’s gonna let this one go.

Maybe get up and make dinner or something, so he’s no stuck with that suffocating alcohol-licorice smell the black marker gives off.

——

“Are you sure you were using sharpie last week?”

Steve also means today. Or yesterday. Or right now. There are more…speckles.

He knows there are more of them.

“I didn’t use any sharpies last week,” Eddie shrugs, not looking up from his book but gesturing broad with his forkful of mac and cheese. “All mine are dried out and I keep forgetting to pick up new ones.”

Okay, well. That does track. He leans in closer, runs a finger over the first spot he noticed: same color, maybe a little less bold; the other ones look a little red around the edges, like when Steve’s moles get sucked at and—

“Look familiar?”

Steve turns, looks at Eddie who appears to have very quickly given up pretending not to care about the conversation. Steve blinks, looks a little closer, and…

That’s ink, alright. But it’s under the skin.

“I didn’t think you were gonna get any more,” Steve says, doesn’t expect his voice to be so soft. He doesn’t understand what they are, what they’re building up to be a part of but it looks like a big sort of project, and definitely in clearly visible places, so it feels worth some respect for the weight of the decision, what it means for Eddie who smiles small and nods; agrees simply:

“Me neither.”

“But, y’see, Henderson—”

“Ugh,” Steve groans because Dustin is, in fact, currently on his shit list. See previous ‘you only know that because you’re fucking my DM’ transgressions. Kid’s on thin fucking ice.

“No, no, it’s to a point,” Eddie soothes him, and it works, cause Eddie is always in his corner before anyone else’s, he killed Dustin’s character weeks ago and Steve still isn’t sure if Dustin’s stilll just watching when they get together, waiting to somehow find a narrative launch-point back into the action: “but he wants ink, which I told him, too fucking young,” and Eddie looks up to soak in the approval he knows is waiting for him in Steve’s eyes—he’s not wrong at all, and preens a little for it, too.

“But he was eyeing my bats, and he tried to say, well, what does it matter, they only meant something after,” and he gestures toward the bigger wound, the more unforgiving mark of bats opposite the still-fairly clean cookie-cutter type fliers on his arm.

“And that was just the dumbest attempt at an argument in his favor, because it not at all fucking true.”

For Steve’s part, it’s the one piece he’s never asked after. Too close to home. But he just figure…cool. Metal. Maybe about Ozzy.

“My mom used to read me nursery rhymes,” Eddie’s face goes so soft as his voice gets all fond, like it always does whenever Elizabeth Munson comes up. “Like, the old ones. And she did it way longer than probably most people, like, I was way too old for it but,” Eddie chews his lip and looks up at Steve like he’s confessing a secret:

“I just really loved it.”

Steve pushes and pulls Eddie a little until there’s the barest sliver of space at the back of the sofa for Steve to lie down in, wholly boxed in by Eddie’s weight, specially when Eddie rolls the priest bit into him to pin him close.

“My favorite one was about bats,” he whispers. “About hiding them from people who didn’t understand how nice they were, and how all they wanted as to do their thing, even if it wasn’t what everyone else liked, and be good for everybody by helping eat bad bugs or whatever,” he hums what Steve imagines is the rhyme; “so you put them under your hat, and give them bacon, and if they’re as good and as poorly treated for no good reason as you suspect is the case, you’ll bake them a cake. Because they deserve it.”

He doesn’t really have to say more for the connection to kinda stick out like a sore goddamn thumb.

“Couldn’t put it under my hat, but,” he ruffles his curls ruefully. “And I did always say, right, that tattoos are a map of what you love.”

Steve kisses Eddie firm, not least in appreciation for shutting Dustin’s harebrained bullshit down. But that doesn’t solve his original mystery.

“These aren’t a map, though,” Steve taps one of the new spots, smaller but still at the neck. No rhyme or reason to it.

“They’re the start of one.”

Steve frowns, so fucking confused, pulling back a little to try and see if he can read any answers from Eddie’s face.

But Eddie’s just smiling at him softer than he’d even been smiling before, thinking of nursery rhymes and the few good memories that came from the days before living with Wayne. He’s looking at Steve right now mostly like he hanged the moon itself.

“I’m gonna ask again,” Eddie breathes low, and grabs Steve’s cheek:

“Look familiar?”

And Steve, when it falls into place, doesn’t actually thing he should face any blame for not seeing it at first, or second, or even tenth glance. Because he’s never paid attention. Other people did.

But Eddie finally turns his neck and: vampire bites.

Marked just for me.

And then Steve starts touching each dot, and trying to find the sublest hint of a raise in the skin in the same place on himself. Every time, he finds it, some quicker with other slower, some needing him to look at the glass of the china cabinet behind the couch that’s never made sense there, but is reflective enough for the task and…they’re all there.

The marks aren’t…sharpie tips. They’re Steve’s, they, they’re all of Steve’s—-

“I love you something fucking fierce Steve Harrington,” Eddie bites out with what Steve gets the feeling is only a sampling of the very ferocity he’s speaking of; “and tolerating another second where I didn’t have you etched into my skin, the most important, most adored,” and Steve’s heart flips to hear it said so earnest, so felt full from Eddie’s heart:

“You not being on here was just fucking unacceptable.”

And goddamnit, Steve’s eyes are stinging. He, he’s…Eddie is…

“It’s like a star map,” Eddie murmurs, tracing the originals the way he often does, like connect-the-dots but reverent, always; “like how sailors navigated,” then he looks away, doesn’t move his hand but makes sure Steve meets his eyes:

“You’re my way home, because you are home.”

And yeah. No one could ever have expected him to hear those words and not let the waiting tears fall, okay? That’d be fucking insane.

His chest is so tight with so much right now, holy shit.

“All of it’s constellations made of you,” and he says that, too, has made up whole legends for the stars on Steve’s back; “so when I look at them, my heart’s always just that extra bit reminded where it’s meant to be, the direction it’s always gonna be headed, for forever.”

Steve’s breath catches loud and gaspy around a sob, and he’s not even speaking. What the fuck.

“Fuckin’ sap,” he says like it’s the highest honor he could give, and maybe here and now it is; “fuck, but love you,” and he draws Eddie in for a salty kiss that’s sloppy and heady and more heartfelt than Steve might just know how to stand.

When they finally part just for breath, Steve’s thumb is on one of the spots—on of the stars of the map.

“How,” he starts, because why, did he take a photo?

But Eddie just scoffs:

“Think I don’t know every inch of you by heart?”

And yes, of course that earns him Steve trying to suck his tongue from his mouth for the explicit purpose of his soul coming out easier for the way he kisses him deep as he knows how. And they do that, for a long fucking time because…

Steve’s kind of reeling. Steve’s never loved more in his life but then, but then—

No one has ever loved Steve even a fraction of this. Steve’s never had this, never known this. Steve…

Steve thought loving that big was his fucked up burden to bear, but now—

He’s not alone in how deep it rubs. How far he’ll go, and gladly.

What. The. Fuck.

Is this what a cheat is supposed to feel like, is this how normal people who love normal amount so that they get loved back the same got to feel all along?

Steve…almost doesn’t think so. Steve thinks this is what it feels like to love extravagantly and with more than your full self as a rule to the point of insanity for anyone on the outside looking it, and to fucking finally find your match for it.

And to know, then, that it was never crazy. It was only ever exactly right.

“Two more sessions, just for time,” Eddie nips at Steve’s lower lip, slick for spit and tears in equal measure.

“You’re unbelievable,” Steve gales, grinning wide enough it hurts.

“Hey now,” Eddie nips a little harder, narrowing his brow playfully; “I got the little one under your balls and the sprinkle set on your taint this last time,” and Steve can’t help himself.

He bursts out laughing so hard his sides ache.

“Even I needed a breather, sitting on that to drive home!” Eddie protests as Steve straddles him fully, properly, and…

Gets ready to read some fucking maps.

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here and here

[rassmentalism]

ONESHOT

-ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ- am i real?

pairings : carlgrimes x f!reader

warnings : sh, knife, cruel past, angst

words : 687

the night is quiet. too quiet. the kind that weighs on carl’s chest like a boulder, makes his fingers twitch against the grip of his gun. there’s no wind, no rustling leaves, no distant groans of the dead. just silence.

he hates silence.

you sit a few feet away, back against the wall of the run-down house you found for the night. your knees are drawn up to your chest, arms wrapped tight around them like you’re trying to hold yourself together. carl knows that feeling too well.

he watches you in the dim glow of the lantern, the flickering light casting long shadows across your face. you look tired. not just the kind of tired that comes from running all day, from swinging a knife into soft, rotting skulls, from watching your own back like it’s second nature. no, this is something else.

he knows what it is.

“you should sleep,” he says, voice low. he’s not looking at you when he says it. it’s easier that way.

you huff out a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “should you?”

he shrugs. neither of you are sleeping tonight. that much is clear.

the silence stretches between you again, heavy and unspoken. the kind that’s worse than words.

then, so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it—

“do you ever feel like you’re not real anymore?”

he turns his head, frowning. you’re staring at the floor, fingers clenched into the fabric of your jeans.

“like… like you could disappear, and nothing would change,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper. “like the world wouldn’t even notice.”

his stomach twists. because he knows. god, he knows.

“yeah,” he says after a beat. “i do.”

your breath shudders, and he catches the way your shoulders tense, like you regret saying anything at all. he wants to tell you it’s okay. that he gets it. that it’s not stupid. but the words die before they ever reach his tongue.

instead, he reaches for the knife at his hip and pulls it free. the metal catches the light as he turns it in his fingers, the motion slow, careful.

“what are you—”

before you can finish, he rolls up his sleeve.

his arm is a map of old scars, pale and faded, blending into the rest of his skin like they belong there.

you inhale sharply.

“carl…”

he doesn’t look at you. just presses the flat of the blade against one of the scars, tracing over it like he’s trying to remember.

“it doesn’t help,” he says finally, voice flat. “not really.”

you don’t say anything. maybe you already know that. maybe you don’t.

“hurts like hell, though,” he adds, a bitter smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

your fingers twitch against your knee, like you want to reach for him but don’t know if you should.

he finally looks at you then. your eyes are wide, glassy.

“do you?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

you flinch. then, slowly, you roll up the sleeve of your own jacket.

carl swallows hard.

your arm is lined with fresh cuts, some still red and angry, others barely healed. some shallow, some not.

his chest feels tight.

he doesn’t say anything. just sets the knife aside and holds out his hand.

you hesitate, glancing at it like you don’t understand what he wants.

“let me see,” he says.

your throat bobs as you swallow, but after a long pause, you finally reach out. your fingers are cold when they brush against his, but you don’t pull away when he turns your arm, tracing his thumb gently over one of the older scars.

“you’re real,” he murmurs.

your breath stutters.

“you’re real, and you’re here.”

your eyes shine with something he doesn’t want to name. something too fragile, too raw.

“it doesn’t change anything,” you whisper.

his jaw tightens.

“it changes everything.”

you don’t argue. don’t fight him on it. maybe you’re too tired. maybe you just want to believe him.

the night is still too quiet. but somehow, it doesn’t feel as heavy anymore.

quick note : i hope it wont trigger anyone.. thank u for all the support i got on my previous oneshots, i usually write cai bots so this format is different for me ;p

[sweet-herba-mystica-archive]

Nothing like being at an orthodontist office at 8am and seeing your deadname in bold letters on the chalkboard

[domjaehyun]

the need to know (l.dh) —part one

PAIRING. sneaky link!fwb!haechan x fem!reader  GENRE. smut, fluff, mild angst, some humor CONTENTS. mentions of marijuana, explicit smut (unprotected sex, oral (receiving), overstimulation, praise kink, dom!haechan, switch!reader, breast play, nothing too crazy in this fic dw) WORD COUNT. in total, 40.4k, 13.5k in part one SUMMARY. you and haechan have undoubtedly had tension for the majority of your friendship. what happens when you act on it? PLAYLIST. the need to know (feat. sza) - wale // notice me - sza NOTES. i hope you enjoy! if you’re subscribed to my patreon, this fic is already published in full over there :) the next part will be up on wednesday, december 11th! :) friendly reminder that leaving nice feedback is incredibly sexy and very appreciated!

“I feel like we’ve been in line for these bumper cars for twenty minutes,” Haechan groans.

You check your phone and roll your eyes. “It’s been eight.”

“Well, eight too many! What’s taking so long?” he complains, standing on his tiptoes to peer over the numerous heads in front of you.

“Patience is a virtue,” Jihyo chimes in, and Haechan huffs.

“Well, I’m running out of virtue.” he mutters, and you snort. He looks over at you with a small grin. “You liked that, huh?”

“Yeah, that was kinda funny.” you admit, and his smile widens as he turns fully to face you.

“Well, you know what they say about funny guys,” he muses, and you look off into the distance thoughtfully. 

“I don’t think I recall.” you say after a moment, and he narrows his eyes at you.

“They say funny guys are dangerous. They’ll make you laugh and chuckle and then they’ll make your knees buckle.” he announces proudly, and you shoot him a look.

“Literally who is saying that?”

“They are!”

“Who’s ‘they,’ Haechan? I want names and receipts, because I feel like you made that up.” 

“Well, I don’t have names or, like, timestamps, but—”

“You have nothing to back you up, is what I’m hearing.” you reply with raised brows, and he scowls at you.

“You’re no fun. Why are you my favorite?” he mutters to himself, and you laugh.

“I’m your favorite?” you coo, leaning onto him with a smile, and he looks over at you with a smile he tried and failed to restrain.

“Unfortunately.” he grouches. “Hey, look, we’re moving!”

“See how time flies when you stop complaining?” you say as the eight of you move up. Shifting slightly behind you, Haechan steps on the back of your shoe, making your heel slip out of your sneaker. “What is your deal?”

“What are you talking about?” He’s the face of innocence, if you ignore the mischievous glint in his eyes.

“You did that on purpose.” you point out.

“What’d he do?” Jiwoo asks curiously, and you turn to her with a pout. 

“He stepped on my shoe so it came off.” you complain, and Jiwoo rolls her eyes in Haechan’s direction.

“I did not!”

“You’re a bad liar.” Mark points out, and you smile, satisfied that your friends have your back.

“I haven’t done anything wrong.” he replies, maintaining his innocence, and you huff, glowering at him before turning back around. When the line moves up, he does it again, and you growl under your breath, whirling around to face him once more. “Hi.”

“Shut up.”

“Ouch?” He places a hand over his heart like he’s been wounded, and you roll your eyes dramatically. “Words hurt, you know.”

“Not nearly as much as I wish they did.”

He gasps, loudly and obscenely, and points at you accusingly. “You want to hurt me?” He looks you up and down with budding intrigue. “Why is that kind of hot?”

You sigh loudly, resting your hand on his shoulder as you fix both of your sneakers. “You’re insane, and you’re a nuisance, Haechan.” 

“Only to you,” he coos, and Renjun clears his throat pointedly from his spot in front of you two.

“Not true. I also find you to be a nuisance.” he adds.

“I thank you for the support, Renjun, but you find most things to be a nuisance… so that’s not really a surprise.” you say carefully, and his brows knit together thoughtfully before he shrugs, nodding in agreement.

“Fair point. On the bright side, we’re almost at the front of the line,” he points out, and you shift to Haechan’s side as you all step up.

“Aw, you wanted to stand next to me?” he teases.

You blink at him. “You can’t fuck with me if I’m standing right next to you.”

“Is that a challenge? It sounds like a challenge.”

“And if I throttle him?” you announce to your friend group.

“He’d probably moan,” Jaemin says regretfully, and Haechan nods, eyes wide with glee as he presents you with his neck.

“I definitely will. Go for it.” 

“Have you no shame?” Jaemin remarks, scandalized, and Haechan pauses to think.

“No.”

“Lovely. Great.” Jaemin mutters to himself, and Haechan smiles, pleased. “Can this line move so I can hit Haechan with my bumper car?”

“Agreed,” Jihyo says.

“Amen,” Mark chimes in.

“Retweet!” Jiwoo adds.

“Period.” you agree.

“Damn, even you?” Haechan exclaims, looking at you with a frown.

“Do you have short term memory loss? Did you forget how you deliberately made my shoes come off, like, two minutes ago?” you ask incredulously, and he rubs his chin thoughtfully.

“Doesn’t ring a bell.” 

“I’m going to harm you physically.” 

“Maybe come stand next to me,” Jihyo offers, gently pulling you forward in the line towards her.

“Yeah, and you come here.” Jeno suggests, yanking Haechan backwards in line by the collar of his jacket.

“I don’t wanna stand next to you!” Haechan complains. “You smell like weed.”

“I took an edible today.” Jeno remarks plainly, and Haechan wrinkles his nose.

“The stench is embedded in your clothes.” 

“I washed this jacket yesterday.” Jeno answers flatly.

“Well, in my defense, how was I supposed to know that?” Haechan huffs.

“Can you shut up and move up? We’re next, I think.” Jeno pushes Haechan forward in the small of his back, and Haechan crumples with a wail, stumbling forward to clutch onto you.

“He stabbed me!”

“Poor baby,” you coo, embracing Haechan as he clings onto you. 

“I cannot, for the life of me, make sense of you two.” Jihyo chuckles with a shake of her head, and you shrug, the movement difficult due to Haechan holding onto you.

“He’s cute when he whines.” you answer, and Haechan coos at you fondly, nuzzling his nose into your neck affectionately.

“I think you’re the only person who thinks that,” Jeno chuckles, and you shrug again.

“Don’t listen to him,” Haechan mumbles, words muffled by his face being squished against your neck. “He’s mean. He stabbed me.”

“I poked you.” Jeno sighs with a roll of his eyes.

“You jabbed me!” Haechan counters, and you stroke Haechan’s hair, shushing him gently.

“It’s okay,” you hum soothingly. “You’re safe over here as long as you don’t get on my nerves again.”

“I’ll be such a good boy,” Haechan promises, and your eyes widen in surprise, your sharp intake of breath catching in your throat and making you cough for a second.

“Did not expect you to say that,” you mutter when you recover, and he chuckles, tilting his head up to look at you.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” he teases, and you blink down at him blankly.

“Shut up before I make you stand with Jeno again.” 

“Shutting up.”

Finally, your group moves up to the very front of the line, the attendant briefly going over the rules. The eight of you agree to follow the guidelines and he lets you in, all of you scurrying to get in a car. You spot a cute, baby pink bumper car and get in that one, strapping yourself in and quickly familiarizing yourself with the controls. 

The attendant hits the buzzer to begin the timer for your session, and you all start to drive around the course, quickly getting the hang of the controls and maneuvering the small vehicles.

You’re careening down the course when you’re bumped from the side, sending your car veering into the guards on the wall. You glare over at the culprit, Haechan grinning flirtatiously as he surges forward, repeatedly bumping your car closer and closer to the corner and more off-course.

“Haechan, pick on someone else.” you complain, and he scrunches his nose as he shakes his head.

“You’re so fun to mess with, though.” he says with an attractive pout. 

“God, you’re lucky you’re cute.” you mutter, missing too late the way his eyes flash with satisfaction and budding mischief.

“What was that?” he calls over to you, placing a hand behind his ear. 

“I didn’t say anything.” you huff, and he raises an eyebrow skeptically.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Too bad? Not my problem.” you reply with a shrug, and he narrows his eyes.

“Don’t make me come over there.”

“How are you gonna come over here when we can’t leave our bumper cars?” you ask, rolling your eyes.

“I’ll get out and come over there and climb right onto your bumper car.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Jeez—” you mutter, huffing and puffing before admitting, “I said, ‘you’re lucky you’re cute.’”

He grins widely and runs his fingers through his hair, mussing it up casually before he speaks. “How lucky am I, hm?”

You shoot him a wary look. “Haechan, what are you talking about?” 

“I wanna get lucky tonight.” he says slowly, wiggling his brows, and you blink at him, waiting to see if he’s serious before an incredulous scoff-laugh escapes you involuntarily.

“I suggest you get real acquainted with your hand, Haechan.” you chuckle, starting to drive forward and bump him out of your way. 

“You’re cruel,” Haechan laments. “What happened to me being cute?”

“You’re still cute,” you assure him, blowing him a kiss. “Just not that lucky.”

“Next time,” he calls out to you as you drive away, and you wave him off dismissively.

You half-wish you hadn’t brought up the image of Haechan touching himself, because now it’s all you can think about; his hand gripping himself, the way he might stroke—fast, slow, tight, with a flick of the wrist—

“Pay attention, girl!” Jihyo laughs, bumping into you as she drives by. Rapidly blinking out of your reverie, you realize you’ve been slowly veering in towards the center of the rink, your car riding along the guard rails, and you do your best to clear the Haechan-induced fog in your mind.

The rest of the bumper car session passes fairly quickly, with shrieks and giggles of delight and Haechan repeatedly bumping into you “by accident.” When you get out of the bumper cars, your legs are a bit wobbly, but the light, bubbly feeling you have in your heart more than makes up for it.

“Can we please go on a roller coaster next?” you say hopefully, and Jihyo frowns instantly.

“Those make my stomach drop… I’m gonna pass this time.” she says apologetically, and you nod in understanding, although your face falls a bit.

“We just ate corn dogs and funnel cake, like, right before the bumper cars, and if we go on, we might blow chunks.” Jeno explains, gesturing between himself, Mark, and Jaemin. 

Jiwoo looks over at them in confusion. “When did you have time to get food?”

“We snuck off,” Jeno admits sheepishly. “Well, I snuck off… Mark and Jaemin just followed me.”

“You just sensed corn dogs and funnel cake so you wandered off?” Jihyo snorts, and Jeno looks even more embarrassed now than he did earlier.

“I smelled them…” Jeno admits quietly, and you blink, surprised. 

“Okay, bloodhound.” you joke, and Jeno snorts in amusement. “So Mister Super Sniffer and his greedy nosy companions are out, Jihyo’s out… I can tell by the look Renjun’s giving me that he’s also out…”

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Jiwoo? Haechan?” you ask hopefully.

“I’m sorry, girl, I’m just—I’m kinda scared.” she admits quietly, a small frown on her face.

“Aw, okay,” you reply sympathetically, squeezing her hand gently. You look over at Haechan hopefully, and to your relief, his face softens into a fond smile. “That’s the smile you give me when I’m about to get my way,” you say excitedly, and he chuckles, something warm and inviting in his eyes.

“I’ll go with you.” he agrees, and you squeal, wrapping your arms around his neck for a hug. “Careful, now, before I ask you to ride something else.” he murmurs in your ear suggestively, one hand moving to clutch at your waist, and you gasp, releasing him instantly.

“You’re gross.” you scold him.

“What’d he say?” Jiwoo asks curiously, and you narrow your eyes at Haechan before waving your hand at her dismissively.

“You don’t want to know. Let’s go, Haechan!” you chirp, grabbing his hand and pulling him after you to the biggest, baddest roller coaster you can find.

When you get in the line, Haechan sighs loudly as he looks at the numerous people ahead of you.

“We’re gonna be in this line forever, you know.” he complains.

“Worth it if I get to ride this thing.” you say, looking at the rollercoaster lovingly.

“You are so cute.” Haechan coos, squishing your cheeks until your lips pucker out.

“Can you unhand me, you fiend, you?” you huff, pushing his arms until he releases you with a frown. “You like being treated like a baby; I don’t.”

“Oh, really?” he asks, brows raised in a challenge. “So if I offered to hand feed you and tie your shoelaces and coo at you all the time, you wouldn’t like that?”

“Oh, I’d love that. But that’s being pampered, not being treated like a baby.” you say, and Haechan rolls his eyes.

“Same thing.” 

“Nuh-uh! Pampering is treating me like a princess, not a baby.”

“Is that right?” he muses thoughtfully. You nod, and he chuckles, continuing on to say, “So I’m dealing with a little pillow princess, huh?”

“Hey!” you exclaim, looking over at him in surprise.

“Relax, I happen to love pillow princesses.” he assures you, and you eye him warily. “I do! Something about the idea of a pillow princess lying back and letting me do whatever I want to you…” he trails off with a dreamy smile, and you blink rapidly in alarm.

“Her?” you suggest, and he looks over at you, brows furrowed in confusion.

“Huh?”

“You said ‘you’ instead of ‘her,’” you point out, and he nods slowly, clearly not getting your point. “The way you said it made it seem like you were fantasizing about… doing that… to.. me…” you say, trailing off slowly as his brows lift as if to confirm what you’re saying. “Oh.”

“Oh,” he copies you, stepping closer with a grin. “Now what, hm? What’s so wrong with me thinking about you like that?”

“We’re friends, Haechan. Friends don’t typically fantasize about their friends.” you remind him.

“Friends should be allowed to fantasize about their friends,” he counters, “as a treat. Especially when their friends look as good as you do.” 

“You’re such a flirt.”

“You know you’re lowkey into it.” he replies confidently, and you hate that he’s right.

“Move up, I think we’re gonna be in the next group.” you say, deliberately shifting the topic.

Haechan eyes the moving line ahead of him and looks back at you with a smile that says he knows exactly what you just tried to do, but relents and moves forward regardless.

As he turns to move, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, realizing that maybe, just maybe, Haechan’s a bit more serious about his flirting than you thought he was, and you have yet to determine how you feel about that.

The smell of cheese and pepperoni pizza fills the bowling alley, almost a pleasing enough aroma to mask the faint but still present smell of sweaty socks and shoes. You sip your diet Pepsi and look around the room; there are birthday parties for children, teenagers congregated by the fountain soda machine, and a smattering of tired parents sitting in the chairs by the bowling ball dispensers—and then there’s your group of friends, eight twenty-somethings far more rambunctious and chaotic than the younger age groups present.

“You’re up,” Jihyo calls to you, nudging you gently, and you sigh heavily before setting down your drink and standing up, making your way to the bowling balls. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you announce loudly to your friends, and you pick up a sparkly pink ball, walking over and just rolling it down the lane with no thought towards strategy or physics or anything of the sort.

To your surprise, you manage to hit three of the corner pins, your ball coming dangerously close to landing in the gutter, and you hear Haechan snicker behind you.

“Laugh it up, Haechan; not everyone is good at bowling. Some of us have other strengths.” you huff, glowering at him, and he raises his hands in defense.

“Hey, I didn’t say anything!”

“You laughed. That’s arguably worse than saying anything.”

“Maybe you should stick to the influencer thing… live life on easy mode, you know?” he says with a wry grin, and you watch as Jiwoo freezes, Jaemin audibly gasps, Mark smacks Haechan on the arm, and Jeno and Renjun exchange a look of disapproval. 

“Oh, that’s not–” Jihyo starts, but you hold up a hand to silence her.

“Haechan, do you have any idea how difficult my job is? Just because I don’t spend my days learning the intricacies of Cobra—”

“Python,” Haechan corrects.

“Whatever! Just because I don’t have to submit pages upon pages of technical jargon to my boss, that doesn’t mean I have it easy.” you huff, placing your hand on your hip as you stare him down.

“How hard can it be to be an influencer?” Haechan says with a dismissive roll of his eyes. “I have to submit a code to my boss by midnight, and you have to, what? Do a TikTok?”

You glower at him. “You’re horrible. My job comes with the constant pressure of maintaining public approval, and you know how they have hive minds on TikTok! One day, you’re good, the next week, you could be nothing and everyone’s in your comments talking about, ‘Oh, you fell off,’ or, ‘Not you flopping.’” 

Haechan levels his gaze at you, raising an eyebrow. “You get to go on social media and shake your cute little ass for a living… stop whining.”

You blink at him for several beats, processing which part of his statement to address first. “...Did you just call my ass little?”

He rolls his eyes and stands up from his spot, walking in the narrow space between you and the bowling ball dispenser. “More importantly, I called it cute.” he points out, and you can’t help but smile. “Personally, I think your ass is perfect.” He murmurs in your ear, and you hum softly in acknowledgement. 

“Oh, yeah? Is that why you spend so much time looking at it?” you ask, and he grins.

“Absolutely. How else do you think I made such an astute observation?” he chuckles, picking up an emerald green bowling ball and lifting it in the air. You watch as his forearm muscles tense with the strain of managing the extra weight of the ball and do your best to hide your staring. “Why? Does that bother you?” he wonders, raising his eyebrows handsomely.

You think about it for a second. “It probably should, huh?”

Haechan grins brilliantly. “Does that mean you like it?”

“I never said that.” you reply, shooting him a look. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He chuckles and turns from you briefly to bowl, the ball rolling down the lane in a perfect straight line before it hits the center pin and subsequently knocks every other pin down. He turns back to you, smiling smugly, and says, “It’s all in the subtext, baby.”

“Baby?” you echo incredulously.

“Yes?” he answers as if you’ve called him, eyes glinting with mischief, and you roll your eyes with an undeniable smile growing on your lips.

“You’re too much.” you mumble, laughing softly, and he smiles at you, his eyes twinkling.

“Can’t handle it?” he murmurs in your ear as he passes by you, heading back to his seat.

“Never said that, either,” you say as you walk over to him and sit beside him. “Just think it’s kinda crazy to call me ‘baby.’”

“Why is that crazy?” he hums, reaching behind you to rest his arm on the bench behind you, his fingertips grazing your shoulder. “Should I call you something else? Honey, baby girl, angel, babe—”

“Shh!” you giggle, reaching to cover his mouth, but he dodges your attack smoothly, eyes alight with mirth as he joins in on your laughter.

“What? Pretty, gorgeous, cutie, sexy—” he continues, dodging your attempt to silence him again and grinning cheekily. “I could do this all night.”

“Please don’t,” Mark and Jeno pipe up in unison. You look over at them with a slight jump, having temporarily forgotten you and Haechan aren’t even remotely alone in this building. 

“Killjoys.” Haechan mutters mostly for your ears, and you laugh quietly, covering your mouth to remain inconspicuous. “It’s your turn again,” he points out with a jerk of his chin at the lanes as he pops a piece of gum in his mouth, and you manage to tear your gaze away from his jaw and the attractive way it moves as he chews for long enough to stand up and walk over to the lanes again. “Want them to put up the rails?” he teases, and you turn back to glare at him. “I’m just trying to help you out,” he says, hands raised defensively, and you raise an eyebrow.

“Maybe you should come show me how to do it, then.” you suggest with a small smile, and he chuckles before rising to his feet and striding over to you. 

He’s quick to place his hands on your sides, squeezing gently before carefully repositioning you. It doesn’t take long for his hands to slide down to your hips, pulling you back against him so close you can feel his chest rising with every inhale he takes. 

“You wanna start with your feet like this,” he murmurs in your ear, manually moving your legs by holding under your thigh just above the back of your knee until he’s satisfied.

“Like that?” you muse softly, looking over your shoulder at him, and he sucks in a breath before chuckling to himself under his breath and nodding.

“Just like that.” he assures you, but the way his voice dips when he says it leads you to believe there’s a suggestive meaning to his words. “Next, you’re gonna bend your arm like this and hold the ball just a bit in front of your shoulder.” he instructs gently, and when you do as he says, he smiles, pleased. “That’s it,” he encourages you, his voice dropping to a deliciously low pitch with that same suggestive lilt. “Bend your knees a little bit and put the foot that’s gonna slide slightly behind the foot that’s gonna stay still.” You do, looking back at him for approval, and he nods proudly. “Ready?” 

“Yeah,” you say confidently, and he squeezes your hips slightly before releasing you. You send the ball rolling down the lane in a perfectly straight beeline for the center pin, the ball knocking it and all the pins behind it over, and you squeal with excitement, wrapping your arms around Haechan’s neck and pulling him in for a hug. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in closer, and just like that, the vibe of the hug shifts, his touch electrifying you as he tucks his face in your neck, breathing in deeply. 

“Good job,” he mumbles into the crook of your neck, lips grazing your skin ever so slightly but making you shudder nonetheless.

There’s a loud, obscene retching noise from behind you two, and you both break apart in alarm, turning to look at the source of the noise, Renjun sitting with a very displeased expression on his face and his arms crossed. 

“Can we help you?” Haechan asks slowly.

“Yeah, you can get a room.” he says with a grossed-out scowl, and you remove your arms from around Haechan’s neck sheepishly, warmth blooming in your cheeks.

Haechan doesn’t release you just yet, though, still maintaining a firm grip on your waist and the small of your back until you clear your throat gently and his gaze shifts from glowering at Renjun to looking down at you with a question in his eyes. Your throat dries, not expecting his full attention so suddenly, and he lets out a tiny chuckle, lips quirking up into a smile before his eyes drop to your lips.

Your lips part subconsciously, and his grip on you tightens slightly before Jeno clears his throat pointedly, garnering your attention once more.

“Yes?” Haechan asks impatiently.

“A room. Get it.” Jeno remarks with a grimace, and you carefully pry Haechan’s hands off of you, since it seems like he won’t be doing it himself.

“Don’t be a hater,” Haechan remarks with a huff. “It’s not a good look on you.”

“Desperation isn’t a good look on anyone, either, but here you are.” Jeno counters, and Haechan frowns before he looks back at you with a pout.

“He’s so mean,” Haechan whines dramatically, pulling you to stand in front of him. He points at Jeno accusingly. “He hurt my feelings.”

“Don’t worry, Haechan,” you coo, turning to face him. “I happen to think you look very cute when you’re desperate.”

He grins. “Thanks.” His brows furrow in thought a second after, and you wait patiently, eyebrows raised expectantly, for the rest of the sentence to kick in. “Wait—hey!”

“There it is.” you chuckle. “For a software designer, your processing is surprisingly slow.”

“You’re mean, too.” he laments, pouting in a way that’s somehow both cute and handsome. “You’re lucky I kinda like it when you’re mean.”

“Oh, do you?” you muse thoughtfully, reaching up and running your hand through his hair. His eyes flutter shut and a blissful smile makes its way onto his face. “Do you prefer it when I’m mean or nice?”

“Nice, for sure.” he sighs happily as you repeat your motions of playing with his hair. “I like when you dote on me.”

“Is that why you’re such a whiny baby?” you chuckle, and he nods.

“Only for you.”

“Aren’t I lucky?” you drawl sarcastically, and Renjun snorts.

“I’d consider the rest of us deeply unlucky for having to witness it.” he chimes in, and you look back at him.

“Then close your eyes.” you hum dismissively, and Renjun gasps in disbelief.

“I think they’re worse when they’re on the same page.” he remarks to Jeno, who nods.

“They’re definitely worse together, if you ask me.” he agrees, and Haechan opens his eyes to narrow them at Jeno.

“Good thing I didn’t ask, then.” you reply, and Haechan grins at you.

“That was hot.”

“Down, boy.” you warn him playfully, and he wets his lips slowly and deliberately, grinning when your gaze drops to his mouth. “What did I just say?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t listening.” he says with a cheeky grin. “Got distracted.”

“By what?”

“Take a guess.” he suggests, raising an eyebrow pointedly as he looks you up and down.

“There’s, like, no hope for you, is there?” you laugh, and he shakes his head.

“No, ma’am.” 

(You ignore the way the term of respect makes something tingle inside of you.)

“Guys, I think Deadpool tickets sold out,” you say worriedly as you enter the movie theater.

Jihyo looks over at you, confused. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, it says ‘Deadpool sold out’ right under the movie time listings, so… that kinda gave me a hunch.” you explain, pointing right at the sign, and Jihyo frowns.

“Maybe that’s an old sign,” Haechan says, striding over to the front desk confidently. “Hi, can we get eight tickets for Deadpool, please?” You don’t get to hear the woman’s response, but you do see her point behind herself at the sign you very much just pointed to. Haechan’s shoulders slump slightly and he walks up to your group once more. “They’re sold out.”

“Gee, how unfortunate. If only there was some way we could have known… some sort of sign, perhaps… maybe one that your dear friend already pointed out…” you lament sarcastically, and he narrows his eyes at you.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“Oh, I can. Not only can I, but I will.” you retort, and he scrunches his nose at you.

“Well, can you two stop doing that weird foreplay banter thing you do so we can pick a new movie to watch?” Mark asks, and you splutter, surprised.

“That is not what we’re doing—” you start to defend yourself, but Haechan cuts you off.

“No, no, no, that is what I’m doing.” he says, and you slowly turn to look at him in disbelief.

“You shut up.” you huff, crossing your arms. “What are we gonna watch now?”

“We could watch The Texas Chain Saw Massacre,” Renjun suggests. “They’re re-releasing it.”

“How about we not?” Haechan says instantly, brows knitting together in distaste. 

“No, I think it’d be fun!” Jiwoo chirps.

“I’d rather actually be able to sleep tonight, thanks.” you disagree, shifting to stand next to Haechan.

“Well, how about we just split up and see what we want?” Jihyo suggests, and you shrug, looking over at Haechan.

“Wanna see a romcom or something?” you ask him, and the corner of his lips quirks up into a smile.

“Sure thing.” he replies, and Renjun gags.

“Can we go get the tickets now?” he half-requests, half-pleads. “I can’t bear witness to whatever these two have going on for much longer.”

“You dramatic ass whiny baby.” you scoff, and Renjun glowers at you.

“You call me a whiny baby, but when Haechan goes on his whiny baby tirade, it’s all ‘poor Haechan,’ and ‘poor baby;’ what about me?!” he complains, and you raise an eyebrow in amusement.

“Renjun, if you want me to baby you, you could just ask.” 

“No, you can’t,” Haechan cuts in, taking your hand and pulling you towards the ticket booth. 

“Wh—Haechan!” you laugh incredulously.

“I’m the only one you can dote on,” he huffs petulantly at you before turning his attention to the attendant at the ticket booth. “Good evening; could we get two tickets to, uh…” he looks over at you and you roll your eyes with a smile before scanning the movie listings briefly.

“We Live In Time,” you finish, and he nods resolutely. 

“We Live In Time,” he echoes, and the attendant smiles and nods, typing something into the computer.

“That’ll be $20,” she says, and Haechan reaches into his back pocket and pulls his phone out, tapping it to the card reader.

“Ooh, and you paid? What a gentleman,” you pretend to fawn over him, and he chuckles.

“You know I’ve got you, baby.” he remarks casually, and his sincerity stops you in your tracks.

Why was that so attractive?

The attendant prints out two tickets and hands them to Haechan, who takes them with a smile and a “thank you” before looping his fingers with yours once more and leading you further into the movie theater.

You want a snack from the concession stand?” Haechan asks as you two walk by it, and you look over at him.

“Maybe? Why; are you buying?” you half-laugh, not expecting him to agree.

“Yeah, come on.” he urges, leading you over to the snacks. “What do you want?”

“Sour Patch Kids,” you answer, pointing at the box. “The strawberry ones.”

“Good choice,” he remarks, amused as he takes the box from the display and hands it to the guy behind the counter. “Can we also get a large popcorn?” He turns back to look at you. “You want something to drink?”

Taken aback by but admittedly attracted to this energy from him, you nod—obediently, even. “Sprite, please—no ice.”

“Large Sprite, no ice, and a large Mountain Dew, please?” he finishes the order and you step forward to stand beside him, trying your best not to look at him with hearts in your eyes.

When you two get to the theater where they’re showing your movie, Haechan gestures for you to lead the way, so you do, picking a spot close to the back of the theater and sitting down.

He sits down next to you, setting the popcorn between your seats, and drapes an arm over the back of your chair. 

“How smooth,” you drawl sarcastically, and he grins, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“You know you like it.” he replies confidently, and you try to hide your smile as you focus your attention on the screen as the trailers start to play.

It’s about thirty minutes into the movie, and paying attention is harder than you thought, considering Haechan’s doing everything in his power to make you focus on him instead.

At one point, you reach for popcorn, startling yourself when instead of feeling a buttery popcorn kernel, you feel the warmth of Haechan’s fingers.

“It was fate,” he coos sweetly at you, and you narrow your eyes at him playfully.

“Move your hand or I’ll throw popcorn at you.” you threaten, and he laughs, tipping his head back in mirth.

“You’re so cute,” he sighs in delight, eyes twinkling as he watches you fondly. “Fine, I’ll move my hand—”

“Great.”

“But you have to feed me a piece of popcorn.” he says with a smirk, and you blink at him incredulously.

“You’re really something, you know that?” you chuckle, picking up a piece of popcorn and bringing it to his lips. “Open.”

He obliges, sticking his tongue out flat, and you place the fluffy popped kernel on his tongue, trying the whole time not to think about how nice his tongue looks, glistening in the light from the movie screen.

“Thank you,” he hums, chewing happily, and you snap out of it, clearing your throat and returning your attention to the movie. “What a coincidence that it’s just the two of us,” Haechan remarks quietly, and you turn your head to look at him. “Are you sure you didn’t just want a chance to be alone with me?”

You sigh. “Haechan, this movie was my idea. You followed me in here.” 

“Watch that cute little mouth of yours before I revoke your snack privileges.”

“You touch my snacks and I’ll make you wish you were at the mercy of that Texas Chain Saw Massacre killer.” you promise him, and he exhales quietly through his nose in amusement.

“Don’t worry, baby; I wouldn’t actually dream of getting between your snacks and your little sweet tooth.”

“Good.”

“Actually,” Haechan muses, and you turn to look at him again. “That’s probably why you and I get along so well.”

It’s your turn to exhale through your nose in a quiet laugh. “Why, because you have a sweet tooth, too?”

“Because I’m sweet.” he answers plainly, like it was obvious, and your snort of amusement is loud enough that someone else in the theater shushes you.

“Is that what your mom tells you?” you tease, and he glowers at you.

“Hey! I’m a delight!” 

“Didn’t say you weren’t,” you reply with a smile, and he matches it, leaning a little closer as his eyes drop to your lips.

“Wanna see how sweet I can be?” he asks softly, and you find your breath hitching as he leans even closer. 

His lids drop slightly in preparation for the kiss, but you press a Sour Patch Kid treat to his lips instead, smiling innocently when he opens his eyes with a slow flutter.

“What was that for?” he whines slightly, and you raise your eyebrows.

“You seemed like you wanted to taste something sweet.” you hum, and he frowns handsomely at you.

“You know what I wanted.” he huffs, and you shrug, returning your attention to the movie.

“Pay attention to the movie.” 

“I’d rather pay attention to you.”

“And as much as I love attention, I’m trying to pay attention to the movie, which I am struggling to do with your repeated attempts to put the moves on me.”

“Oh? I’m distracting you?” he murmurs, a smug smile audible in his voice. “Sorry, baby.”

“It’s okay, baby,” you say as he pops a piece of popcorn in his mouth, and he sucks in a sharp breath, promptly choking on the piece of popcorn and making you whip your head around to look at him in alarm. 

He glowers at you as he recovers, your eyes bright with amusement once you’ve assessed that he’s in no real danger. “That was evil.”

“I’m evil.”

“That’s hot.”

“Haechan?”

“Yes, baby?”

You roll your eyes with a chuckle. “Pay attention.”

“Maybe I could if you weren’t flirting with me.”

“Get real, Haechan.” you snort.

“Baby, there’s no one realer than me.”

“Baby,” you say, stressing the pet name, “pay attention and stop flirting with me before I stuff more popcorn down your throat.”

“Damn, that’s kinda hot.”

“Haechan!” you whisper loudly, laughing in surprise and incredulity, and several voices shush you from around the theater. 

“Can’t help it; you’re kinda hot when you’re bossing me around.” he defends himself, and you roll your eyes.

“Get a hold of yourself.” you huff, and he frowns.

“I’d rather get a hold of you instead.”

“I’m sure. Too bad.”

“God, you’re a tease.” he sighs dreamily, and you shoot him a funny look out of the corner of your eye.

“Sure, if that’s what’ll make you shut up.”

“I kinda love it.” 

“Shut up before you get us kicked out!” you whisper insistently, your cheeks warming at his incessant flirting.

“Mm, yes, ma’am.” he groans, the sound so suggestive you whip your head around to look at him in surprise, scandalized. “I like when you’re bossy.”

“I’m ignoring you now.”

“You can try.”

“I will succeed.”

“You’re already failing,” he points out with a grin, and you scowl at him, pointedly looking forward at the screen without another word.

Even with the music filling the room and the numerous bodies in between you two, Haechan’s staring is getting harder and harder to ignore. His eyes bore into you from all the way across the room where he stands talking to Jeno and Mark, and it’s so intense it’s almost palpable, prompting you to meet his gaze with a raise of your eyebrows.

He grins, flicking his eyebrows upwards, and you chuckle, turning your attention back to Renjun’s rant about his neighbor.

“...and then he had the nerve to tell me to ‘keep my music down’ as if he’s not up at the asscrack of dawn doing construction in his apartment!” 

“What a hypocrite,” you say with a grimace, and Renjun nods vigorously, relief written all over his face.

“I’m surprised you even heard any of that,” Jihyo remarks, raising an eyebrow at you as she sips at the straw sticking out of her drink.

You shoot her a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

“Well, with all the eye-fucking you and Haechan keep doing, I figured you were a little preoccupied.” she comments, and you narrow your eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” you lie, turning your nose up with a sniff.

“Oh, I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. Don’t lie to me.” she says with a playfully stern look. “Now, what’s going on with you and Haechan?”

“Yeah, what is going on with you and Haechan?” Renjun asks curiously, leaning forward in anticipation to hear you better.

“Nothing!” you say defensively, and Jihyo arches an eyebrow.

“Oh, yeah? Then why is he coming over here?” she asks with a knowing smile that only grows when you subconsciously fix your hair as, sure enough, Haechan approaches, eyes on you the whole time. “Hi, Haechan.”

“Hey,” he replies distractedly, tilting his head to the side as he regards you. “Hi,” he says to you, his lips quirking up into a smile.

“Hi,” you answer, mirroring his expression.

There’s a beat of silence before Renjun speaks. “‘Hi, Renjun. How was your day? I totally see you standing to my right, and I’m definitely not ignoring you like a piece of lint—’”

“Hi, Renjun.” Haechan says with a laugh, and Renjun glowers at him, muttering something under his breath about going where he’s appreciated before stalking off, presumably to subject another one of your friends to his tirade about his neighbor. “You having fun?” he asks you, and you nod, prompting him to smile widely and puff out his chest slightly before saying, “More now that I’m here, right?”

“Sure, Haechan,” you reply with a small laugh, and Jihyo just raises her brows at both of you.

“I’m gonna go find Jiwoo,” she says, shooting you in particular a secretive smile before disappearing into the crowd of people.

Haechan immediately steps into the space she occupied, now much closer to you, and his smile widens even more before he speaks, murmuring, “I like your top. You look so good tonight, but I’m sure you knew that.”

“I did,” you confirm, and he snorts. “But thank you. You look good, too.”

“Oh, yeah? We’re kind of matching.” he points out, gesturing to your black lace up top and his dark gray Nirvana t-shirt. 

“Are we? That’s gray.” you reply with a growing smile.

“Dark gray and black are practically the same color.”

“But are they actually the same color? No.” 

“Why are you being difficult?” he says with narrowed eyes, and you shrug.

“It’s my specialty.” you answer with a beguiling smile, and he rolls his eyes, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips even as he feigns exasperation.

“Anyway,” he stresses the word, shifting the conversation. “Do you wanna get some fresh air with me?”

“Mm, not really; it’s kinda cold outside.” you say with a small pout.

“You can wear my jacket,” he offers, and you pause, thinking about it.

“Maybe later. For now, do you wanna come with me to the kitchen? I want a snack.” you ask, and he smiles at the invitation before nodding.

“Lead the way, baby.” he coos, and you roll your eyes with a smile as you do just that, reaching back to link pinkies with him.

“So we don’t get separated,” you explain.

He beams. “Good idea.” 

You two make your way through the throng of bodies and into the kitchen, where you promptly start raiding the cabinets.

“I love Jeno and Jaemin to death, but their snack selection is shit.” you huff in disappointment, turning back to Haechan to see that he’s propped himself up against the kitchen counter, watching you with amusement and intrigue.

“Jeno went on a snack purge the other day,” he reminds you. “Said something about overly processed foods and saturated fats.”

“Well, sorry if I like my foods overly processed and my fats saturated.” you gripe, and Haechan laughs, pushing off the counter to walk over to you. 

“I think they have fruit in the fridge,” he says, leaning into your space to open the refrigerator door. He pauses before he pulls back, eyes trained on your lips and his own lips part in a soft sigh, tongue poking out to wet them. 

“The snacks?” you remind him with a growing smile, unable to resist glancing at his very tempting mouth.

“I’m looking at one,” he breathes, and you burst out laughing, pushing him back gently.

“That was very cheesy.” you giggle, and he shrugs shamelessly.

“It made you laugh, so I consider it a win.” he says with a soft, fond smile. 

Your cheeks flare with warmth, not used to the gentleness and sincerity in his eyes, and divert your attention to the now open fridge, picking out a container of grapes that you hope are washed as you pop one into your mouth and chew. The burst of sweetness is very welcome on your tongue, and you lean back onto the fridge, closing your eyes in bliss.

“Better?” he chuckles, and you nod.

“Want one?” you say, offering him a grape, and he nods, leaning in to eat it from your fingers. Before he pulls back, he looks at you with heavy-lidded eyes, his sultry gaze too much for you at the moment and making you return your attention to the container of grapes with an urgency that doesn’t go unnoticed by Haechan. 

“Cute.” he murmurs softly, and you huff, trying (and failing) to hide your budding smile at the compliment.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom.” you say, carefully extracting yourself from the small space he’s got you cornered in. 

His eyes twinkle with amusement as he raises his eyebrows suggestively. “Was that an invitation?”

“It most certainly was not.”

“Aw, man. Next time?” he asks hopefully, and you snort.

“Don’t count on it.”

You do your best to hold your breath as you make your way through the hallway, stopping by the window for a moment before sticking your head out and breathing in the fresh air gratefully. After a moment of relief, you decide to open the window wider, climbing out and sitting on the windowsill, feet carefully resting on the fire escape attached to the side of the building.

It’s quieter over here, you note, pleased with your newfound situation as you scroll through your phone. Sure enough, when you open Instagram and tap on Jeno’s story, you see two boomerangs; one of him and his friends sitting in a circle around his bong, and one of him blowing smoke out of his mouth.

You tap the heart for both posts before footsteps pull your attention away from your phone, making you turn your head to see the newcomer. 

Haechan stops about a foot away from the window, leaning against the wall. “I thought I’d find you out here. Thought you said it was too cold?”

“It is, actually, but this air doesn’t reek of weed.” you explain, and he nods in understanding.

“Mind if I join you?”

You wordlessly scoot over to make room for him, and he smiles, climbing out and sitting beside you. The side of your leg presses against his as he makes himself comfortable, but you don’t really want to move it. 

So you don’t, and you just silently appreciate the warmth radiating from his body as he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. 

“Thank you,” you say sincerely, and he smiles at you, nodding.

“The city looks so pretty like this,” Haechan sighs, and you direct your gaze straight ahead of you, taking in all of the city lights in the nearby buildings and the bridges in the distance. “It’s almost as pretty as you,” he says, nudging you with a cheeky grin, and you exhale through your nose in amusement.

“It is pretty,” you agree. “Someone’s feeling flirtatious, I see.”

“Can you blame me? You show up tonight looking as good as you do and expect me not to want to be all over you?” he snorts, and you raise your eyebrows, slightly surprised by how forward he’s being.

“‘All over me?’” you repeat, and he nods, looking you directly in the eyes. “Like… all over me?”

“You interpret it however you want to, baby.”

“You’re gonna have to stop calling me ‘baby,’ by the way; it’s starting to confuse me.” you tell him, and he raises an eyebrow.

“How so?”

“I think I kinda like it,” you confess, and his gaze drops to your lips instantly, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips. 

“Oh, really?” he murmurs suggestively, running one finger around one of the rips on the thigh of your jeans, and he chuckles softly as you shiver slightly, goosebumps raising on your arms. “Cold?”

“Something like that.” you reply evasively, and he snorts, his smile widening.

“Back to what you were saying… about liking when I call you ‘baby,’” he quickly returns to the previous topic, and you roll your eyes slightly in amusement. “What’s so wrong with that?”

“Friends don’t typically call each other ‘baby.’” you point out, and he shrugs.

“Maybe we can be special friends.”

“Oh, yeah? Special how?”

“Maybe we call each other cute names… touch a little bit… kiss a little bit…” he trails off, and you look over to see that he’s watching your lips again, a small grin on his lips.

“Mm, that could get messy though.” you murmur, and he gazes at you, longing openly written all over his handsome features.

“Life is messy.” he points out.

“This doesn't have to be.” you reply, gesturing between the two of you. Haechan links his fingers with yours and sets your linked hands on top of your touching thighs, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand. “That feels nice,” you sigh, leaning against him slightly.

“I bet I could make you feel even nicer.” he muses suggestively, and you snicker.

“Won’t lie and say I’m not a little curious.” you admit, and he sucks in a sharp breath of surprise.

“Don’t tempt me,” he murmurs. “I don’t particularly feel like holding back right now.”

“Oh, is that what you usually do?” you reply, speaking as soft and low as he just did.

He nods. “You always tempt me, actually—I’m just not feeling like beating around the bush right now.”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise and—you won’t lie—intrigue. “And what’s making you feel like that right now?”

“A number of things,” he replies. “How unbelievably good you look tonight, the way I can see the goosebumps on your skin when I touch you, and,” his voice gets even softer but carries an urgency you don’t believe you’ve heard from him before, “the way you’re looking at me.”

“And how am I looking at you?” you question, tilting your head to the side curiously.

“The same way I’m always looking at you.” he answers, and you don’t need him to elaborate.

“So if that’s all true,” you muse, regarding him carefully, “then why aren’t you doing anything about it?”

“I like what we have,” he says in reply, and you smile. “Wouldn’t want to ruin it.”

“And what if I said I kind of want you to ruin it?” Your words are quieter than ever, tentative even, but by the way the fire in Haechan’s eyes intensifies, you know he heard you all the same.

“What did I just say about tempting me?”

“It wasn’t a temptation,” you say carefully. “It was an invitation.”

He sucks in a sharp breath. “You know, I’ve never been one to ignore my urges before,” he admits. “If I want something, I get it.”

“Oh, yeah?” You can’t even try to hide the arousal building in you as you watch his lips with uninhibited longing.

“Yeah.” His gaze matches yours, unbridled desire swimming in his eyes as he slowly leans in, and you find yourself mirroring him, the two of you moving painfully slowly as you get closer and closer.

“And what is it that you want right now?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“I bet you can guess,” he murmurs as his lips brush the corner of your mouth.

“Give me a hint.” you reply, and he grins, turning your face towards him gently and bringing his lips to yours. 

It starts slowly, his lips gently moving with yours, before he pulls back ever so slightly, your eyes opening to see him watching you carefully.

“Good?” he murmurs.

“Good,” you confirm, and he smiles before leaning back in to close the gap between your lips. This kiss is much less tentative, his lips parting to suck gently at your bottom lip, and when you whine softly, he pushes forward, reaching up to cup your cheek as he captures your lips with his over and over again, each kiss more dizzying than the last until his mouth is moving fervently against yours, his tongue tracing along your bottom lip before slipping into your mouth with a quiet groan.

Your hand finds its way to his thigh, and as soon as it makes contact, it’s like a switch flips in Haechan, his lips leaving yours to kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek and along your jaw before finally settling comfortably on your neck, mouth kissing, sucking, and licking at your pulse point.

“Haechan,” you whimper, and he hums against your neck, but you can tell he’s not really listening. “Haechan,” you sing-song softly in another attempt to get his attention, but he just slips his hand under your thigh farthest from him, scooping your legs up and moving them to drape over his lap. “Haechan,” you whine urgently, and his kisses finally falter, the male pausing but not moving away from you as he waits for you to speak. “Can we go somewhere more private and… less chilly?” 

He pulls back, lips deliciously puffy from kissing, and nods with a dazed look in his eyes. “Jaemin’s room?”

You don’t even have it in you to be considerate of your friend, the lust clouding your mind and doing away with your judgment as you nod. He grins and ducks back into the apartment, helping you do the same before leading you to Jaemin’s room, never once letting go of your hand. 

When you two get to Jaemin’s room, you’ve barely cleared the doorway before Haechan shuts the door and pushes you up against it, kissing you ardently and clutching your waist to drag you closer to him. He nips at your bottom lip briefly before kissing down your neck and sliding his hands up to cup your breasts, squeezing them and looping his finger in the string tying your top together. 

“Why don’t we take this off, hm?” he murmurs, slowly pulling the string with a growing grin as the bow—the one Jiwoo so carefully tied for you earlier this evening—comes undone, leaving no resistance when Haechan pulls your top over your head.

He eagerly returns to kissing you, hands groping at your chest as he traces circles around your slowly hardening nipples. He pulls back from the kiss slightly and moves like he’s about to kiss down your neck, only to whine and bring you back in for another kiss, panting against your lips, “I wish I had more mouths.”

“You what?” you say, bursting into giggles so strong that you can barely manage to kiss him back, and he joins you in your laughter.

“Stop, I’m being serious!” 

“I know—I think that’s why it’s so funny,” you say through your laughter, and he growls in lighthearted frustration before whirling you around and all but shoving you onto the bed. You squeal in surprise, giggling still as you bounce on the bed, and he rolls his eyes, climbing on top of you. “What kind of eldritch horror are you thinking of becoming? Like how many mouths and where?”

“Can we just—forget I said that?” Haechan whines, and you shake your head with a gleeful giggle. 

“I don’t wanna,” you say with a pout, wrapping your legs around his waist, and he groans in exasperation. “I’m kind of a monsterfucker, so you saying that really got me going.”

“You’re joking.” 

“Do I look like I’m joking?” you ask, looking up at him, and he slowly shakes his head—whether it’s in disagreement or in disbelief, you’re not sure, but when his lips start trailing down to your collarbone, you’re not entirely sure it matters anymore.

“I’d want mouths on the palms of my hands,” he grunts, cupping your breasts again through your bra, “so I can kiss you and suck your tits at the same time.” Before you can respond, his wet, swollen lips fall to your chest, tongue trailing all over your exposed skin before he’s tugging the cup of your bra down and taking your nipple into his mouth.

A whimper escapes you, spurring Haechan on further, and he wraps one arm around you, pressing between your shoulder blades to bring your chest closer to his mouth. His tongue is warm and wet as it flicks at your nipple, Haechan groaning as he swirls it around and around your stiffened bud. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he mumbles around his mouthful of your breast, and his other hand trails down your body to settle between your legs, Haechan delivering two gentle pats to your inner thighs in a wordless request for you to spread them. When you oblige, he smiles around your nipple before wetly licking and sucking his way from one breast to the other. His fingers quickly and deftly unbutton your jeans, barely yanking them down before his hand slips into your pants, stroking along the seat of your underwear, pressing down harder when you whine.

“Haechan, please,” you moan, running your fingers through his hair and tugging gently when you reach the ends. 

“Mm, what is it, pretty? What do you want?” he teases with a quiet laugh, looking up at you as he pushes your underwear aside and trails two fingers up your slick folds, hissing in delight. “Is this what you want?” he asks, dipping his fingers into your entrance slightly and relishing the groan of frustration you let out.

“Yes,” you moan, tugging his hair a bit harder in retaliation for his teasing.

Finally giving into your demands, he pushes his middle and ring finger into your core, lapping at your nipple as you whimper loudly in relief. “Shh, shh, shh—I know, baby, I know.” he soothes you in a hushed murmur, slowly starting to pull his fingers out before pushing them in deeper.

“Feels good,” you exhale shakily, and he coos in understanding.

“It’ll feel even better in a second,” he promises, starting to move his fingers in and out of you. “Just gotta open you up first.” He releases your nipple, giving it one last lick before moving back up to hover above your face, gazing down at your pleasure-filled expression in wonder before he’s leaning down to kiss you, silencing your cries of pleasure as he starts to twist and scissor his fingers inside of you. “Fuck, baby, you’re so wet. All this for me? Hm?”

“No, it’s for Renjun,” you huff sarcastically, breaking the kiss momentarily to glower at him. “Of course it’s for you, dummy.” 

He narrows his eyes at you. “There is a time and place for your sass, and it’s not when my fingers are literally inside of you. Besides,” he says, curling his fingers inside of you and making you gasp in pleasure, “why would you be mean when I’m making you feel so good, hm?”

“S-Sorry,” you stammer as his curled fingers massage at your inner walls in search of your g-spot, which he finds quickly, eliciting a sharp whimper from you as you clench around his fingers. “It’s all for you,” you confirm breathlessly, and he grins before kissing you again.

“Good girl. You’re gonna have to make it up to me, though.” he murmurs against your lips, and you pout, prompting him to coo fondly and kiss you again. “Even with that cute little pout.”

“I said sorry,” you complain, and he shrugs, fingers quickening their pace inside of you.

“I’m sensitive.” he replies simply, kissing down to your neck and sucking and biting at various spots until you’re sure there are marks blooming all over your skin. “It’s okay, though—I know how you can make it up to me.”

“H–How?” you ask warily, voice catching as the pleasure builds inside of you, his repeated stimulation of your g-spot bringing you closer and closer to climax as your insides tighten in anticipation.

“Cum for me?” he grunts, and you can’t tell if it’s a request or a stated demand, but you nod, breath hitching and your cries escalating in pitch as you start to do just that, your climax washing over you as your abdomen tenses repeatedly, your body curling in on itself as much as possible given that Haechan’s practically pinning you in place.

“That’s it, baby,” he purrs, coaxing more of your climax out as he keeps fucking you with his fingers, milking your orgasm for everything he can get, your entrance drooling clear evidence of your arousal all over his fingers and into the seat of your underwear. “Making such a pretty little mess for me,” he breathes, kissing you again as his fingers urge the last convulsions of your climax out of you.

You’ve barely recovered before your hands reach for his pants, fingers clumsily unbuckling his belt, undoing his button, and yanking down his zipper. He chuckles fondly and pushes them down to his knees, your eyes locking in on the imprint of his length in his boxers as he palms himself through his underwear.

“You like what you see?” he teases, and you furrow your brows.

“Your underwear’s in the way.” you grouch, and his eyes brighten with amusement, thumbs hooking into his boxers and pulling down until his length springs free. “Much better,” you hum, pleased as you rest your head down on Jaemin’s pillow.

“Look so pretty laying like that.” he grunts as he slowly fucks his fist. “Wish I could take a picture and keep it forever.”

“I’m only going to say this once, so listen carefully.” you say, and he raises a brow expectantly. “Please fuck me.”

The brightness in his eyes remains, but now there’s a heavier, darker edge to his gaze as he leans over you, lips teasing yours apart.

“Did you just beg for me?” he coos tauntingly, and you sigh.

“I did not beg. I asked nicely.”

“Sure, baby. I’ll give you what you want,” he promises, lining the head of his cock up with your entrance and slowly pushing into you, making your breath catch in your throat. He exhales deeply and dips his head down to your neck, latching onto your skin and sucking as he starts to drag his length out and back in, building a teasingly slow rhythm. 

“So full,” you gasp, and he chuckles, kissing up your neck to your lips. 

“You feel so good, pretty girl. Tight little pussy keeps sucking my cock back in; you like this that much?” he coos, one hand groping your breast. 

“Don’t tease me,” you huff, and he grins widely.

“How are you gonna stop me?” he counters smugly, choosing that moment to speed up the movements of his hips until the sound of skin slapping on skin fills the room, each thrust punctuated by a whimper from you. “You’re not going to do anything about it; you’re just gonna lay here and take this dick nice and deep in your little pussy until you cum all over it.”

“Fuck, Haechan—” you mumble, dazed by his thrusts and even more by his filthy language.

“You love it, don’t you?” he teases, capturing your lips in a filthy kiss where he plays with your tongue almost lazily. 

“Uh-huh,” you can barely manage to get out, and he hums in satisfaction.

“Show me how much you love it.” he urges, rolling his hips against yours sensually. When you start to move your hips against his, rocking up into his every thrust into you, he rewards you by sucking on your bottom lip and flicking your nipple back and forth with his thumb. “Fuck, that feels so good, pretty girl, keep doing that.”

You fuck him back to the best of your ability, that familiar tightening sensation in your stomach alerting you to your impending climax. “Haechan, think I’m gonna cum—” you warn him, and he nods, pinching your nipple just enough to make you squeal. 

“Cum, baby; wanna feel you clench around my cock.” he purrs, and your climax hits a moment later, a cry slipping from your lips as your back arches, your hand clutching his arm for something to ground yourself as your body curls in on itself involuntarily. “That’s it, pretty girl—doing such a good job—squeezing my cock so tight, baby, fuck—”

By the time your climax has passed, you’re still trembling slightly as aftershocks of pleasure travel through you with every thrust from Haechan, and you’re so wet you can hear his length moving in and out of you, hear your pussy sucking him back in as it hugs his length tightly, and heat rises to your face.

“My turn, baby; think you can take my load?” he grunts, and you nod instantly, clenching around his length every time he bottoms out in you. “That’s my good girl,” he coos fondly, his brows knitting together as he starts to release into you. “Milking me dry, baby, fuck—” he hisses, and you smile in satisfaction as he shudders, lowering himself to kiss you as he fucks the last bit of his cum into you.

Finally, when his length stops throbbing inside of you, he pulls out and lies down next to you, both of you breathing heavily.

“Hey,” he says, turning his head to face you.

“Hi,” you reply with a smile, and his lips curl into a matching smile.

“You okay?” he asks gently, and you nod.

“Better than okay.” you assure him, and he sighs, relieved. A thought comes to your mind and you nudge his leg with your knee. “Hey.”

“Hi?” he answers curiously, and you roll onto your side, propping yourself up on your elbow.

“If you had multiple mouths—”

“Please let it go, it was silly—” he interjects with a half-chuckle, half-groan.

“I like silly!” you counter, and he looks over at you skeptically, his features relaxing when he reads the sincerity in your face. “If you had multiple mouths, would you have them anywhere besides your hands?”

He thinks about it for a moment before he nods. “I’d have one on each thigh… so while I’m kissing you, I can grope your tits with my hand-mouths and have you sit on my thigh so I can eat you out, too.”

You shudder slightly, and he raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, I got a little excited.”

“You’re joking… damn, you’re kinkier than I thought. That’s hot,” he grunts appreciatively. 

“I think we should get up before Jaemin comes in here and chops our heads off.” you say suddenly as the reminder that this is not somewhere you want to be caught fucking dawns on you.

“You’re so right,” he agrees, sitting up and helping you off of the bed. You both hurriedly redress, Haechan stumbling as he pulls his pants up and making you both giggle. “Ready?” he says finally, fully redressed.

You ruffle his hair, messing with it until it’s back in place, and hold the strings to your top out to Haechan. “Tie it for me?”

He smiles fondly and steps closer, tying a cute bow into your top and leaning back to inspect his handiwork. “You’re good, baby.”

“Thanks,” you say sincerely, opening the door and heading back to the party. You two give each other a knowing look before you enter the living room and go your separate ways, Haechan heading for Jeno and Renjun while you head for Jiwoo and Jihyo. “Boo!” you say from behind them, and Jiwoo whirls around, clutching her chest.

“Shit!” she exclaims. “Don’t do that!”

“Sorry,” you reply without a hint of remorse. 

“Where’d you go?” Jihyo asks curiously. 

“I was on the fire escape,” you explain, deciding to tell a half-truth. “I didn’t want to smell Jeno’s weed.”

“Ah, fair.” she answers with a nod. 

“Hey, your bow is different.” Jiwoo points out, pointing at the bow on your shirt that Haechan tied. “Did you take your top off or something?” she snorts, amused with her little joke, but Jihyo looks over at you carefully, shrewd gaze scanning your body for anything else out of place.

“No, I just had to re-tie it because one of the strings got caught on one of the screws on the fire escape and it looked all wonky,” you lie, and Jiwoo nods in understanding. 

“Copy that. Well, I’m hungry; wanna go raid their fridge?” she offers, and you start to nod, but you freeze when you feel something drip out of your core. 

“I am totally in, but I have to use the bathroom first.” you say, clasping your hands together in a pleading gesture. “Wait for me?”

Jihyo’s still staring at you like she’s silently interrogating you, and you won’t lie and say you’re not unnerved. “Earth to Jihyo?”

She blinks slowly before focusing her gaze on you once more, eyes now softer and less scrutinizing. “Sorry, I was just… thinking. Yeah, we’ll wait for you.”

“Cool,” you say, relieved, before making your way to the bathroom to clean yourself up. You make quick work of peeing and sorting yourself out, washing your hands and drying them before heading back to the living room where Jihyo and Jiwoo and, to your surprise, Haechan stand. “I’m back!” you chirp before looking over at Haechan. “You weren’t here a minute ago.”

“Jeno and Renjun started bickering about something, so I left.” he replies with a shrug. “You don’t mind if I join you guys, right?” he shoots you a knowing look with a secretive smile, and it takes everything in you not to start giggling like a schoolgirl. 

“I guess you can,” you say nonchalantly, and he beams at you.

“Great! Where are we going?” he asks curiously, and you point towards the kitchen.

“To find snacks!” Jiwoo says eagerly, and you all walk to the kitchen, you and Haechan starting to fall to the back of the line until he’s side by side with you.

“You already said their snack selection was garbage,” he remarks, confused, and you shush him.

“Yeah, but I’m not getting a snack; Jiwoo is. So we’ll let her figure that out for herself,” you explain, and he nods in understanding.

“I see,” he hums thoughtfully. “Well… did you tell them? About earlier—”

“No,” you answer, and he sighs in relief. “Don’t worry, it’s our little secret.”

“Copy that,” he chuckles, fingers brushing against yours before they intertwine and he squeezes your fingers gently. When you look down at your linked hands and back up at him, he smiles cheekily. “So we don’t get separated,” he says with an upwards flick of his eyebrows.

You roll your eyes but pull him forward, finally entering the kitchen in time to see a cranky Jiwoo.

“Their snack selection is ass. What am I, a rabbit?” she laments, and you smile in amusement.

“They’re great at house parties, bad at refreshments.” Haechan says, and Jihyo looks over at you two before her gaze drops down to your linked hands, an eyebrow raising in suspicion.

You carefully and casually let go of Haechan’s hand by running your fingers through your hair, and Haechan fixes his mouth to complain before he looks in Jihyo’s direction and seems to understand, relaxing slightly.

Between Haechan’s need for attention, your inexplicably magnetic attraction to each other, and Jihyo’s deeply suspicious and perceptive gaze, you know you have quite a night ahead of you.

The following morning finds you back at home sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling through your phone and checking your engagement before a text banner notification drops down from the top of your screen.

haechan [10:08am] good morning 😌 did you miss me? you [10:10am] sorry……who’s this? haechan [10:11am] you’ve GOT to be joking 😟 you [10:13am] i very much am 💖 good morning haechan ☀️ haechan [10:15am] don’t play with me like that i almost crashed out haechan [10:15am] can i come over? i have a question for you you [10:16am] haechan what are we doing rn haechan [10:17am] ….talking? you [10:17am] right… and would you consider talking a synonym for ‘having a conversation’ or no? haechan [10:18am] ……….yes……….. is this a trick question you [10:20am] so if we’re already having a conversation, by your definition….. why, pray tell, can’t you just ask me NOW 🤨 haechan [10:22am] *Message sent with Invisible Ink* maybe i just wanted a reason to see you ☹️ you [10:24am] oh… well that’s cute actually haechan liked your message “oh… well that’s cute actually” haechan [10:25am] awesome…… so can i come over? 😁 you [10:26am] ofc you can 💖 haechan [10:27am] great can you let me in 😁

You tilt your head, confused by his message, but a knock on your door makes you practically jump out of your seat. You make your way to the front door and look through the peephole, barking out an abrupt laugh when you see Haechan sporting a cheesy grin on the other side of the door.

“You are insane,” you laugh as you open the door for him, inviting him inside. He enters, still sporting the playful smile, and shuts the door behind himself.

“In, like, a cute, hot, sexy way, though, right?” he asks hopefully, and you roll your eyes with a smile before shrugging and nodding, watching as relief floods his features.

“Your question?” you ask, getting straight to the point, and he visibly balks, the normally shameless Haechan becoming quiet and shifty. “Haechan?” you call his name with a tinge of worry in your voice.

“Did you have a good time last night?” he asks, and you raise your eyebrows.

“That’s your question?” you question, in disbelief.

“I’m building to it,” he explains. “Now: did you have a good time last night?” he repeats, and you blink at him impassively before sighing in slight defeat.

“I did,” you answer, not sure if he meant the party or… well, the sex… but you had a good time regardless of which he meant. “Did you?”

“I had an amazing time.” he says sincerely.

“Great,” you reply, just as sincerely. A small silence passes before your impatience gets ahold of you. “Haechan…”

“Yes?” he responds, nervousness creeping into his voice.

“Your question?”

“Right,” he mutters, clearing his throat as he prepares to speak. Meanwhile, you move to sit back down in your chair, swiveling around in the seat as you wait for his question. “Um—look—I really enjoyed last night. It was amazing, actually, and—I’m talking about the sex, by the way.” he stammers, his sudden clarification at the end making you giggle, regarding him fondly. 

“I figured, yes.” you assure him, and he nods, somewhat relieved. “Go on,” you urge him gently, and he swallows visibly.

“I would love to, um… do that again… but I don’t know if I’m ready for a relationship right now. I’m still getting used to juggling my job and my social life, and I really don’t want to fuck up our friendship—”

“And you want to be friends with benefits,” you finish for him, and he pauses, body tense as he rapidly tries to read your reaction.

“...Yes?” 

“Okay,” you agree, and he just about crumples with relief, leaning against the kitchen island for support. “I’m down. But if we don’t want it to ruin our friendship or the friend group, maybe we shouldn’t tell them?”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he sighs, significantly more relaxed than he was a moment ago. “Plus, it could be kinda fun, y’know? Us… sneaking around… together…” he says, gesturing between the two of you with a suggestive wiggle of his brows.

“I couldn’t agree more.” you say sweetly, and he beams at you, all traces of his earlier nerves gone. “Do you think we should have some ground rules? So we don’t complicate things?”

“Sure, yeah,” he agrees instantly, and you smile, patting the chair next to you invitingly as you pull up the Notes app on your phone.

“So we want sex with virtually no emotional connection, right?” you clarify, and he nods, his reaction a second too late to process as casual. Ignoring it politely, you continue on. “So, maybe ‘no cuddling’ should be a rule.”

“No cuddling?” he laments, and you nod resolutely.

“Cuddling encourages emotional intimacy.” 

“Fine,” he sighs, frowning slightly. “Can I still hug you?”

“Hugging and cuddling are… not the same thing, so yes.” you answer with a laugh as you type the first rule, and he smiles, chuckling lightheartedly.

“Maybe… we shouldn’t spend the night after we have sex?” he suggests, and you nod, typing it into the note you’ve made.

“Is this, like, exclusive?” you ask, gesturing between the two of you, and he tilts his head thoughtfully.

“I guess not…” he says, an air of reluctance to his words that makes you pause and look at him carefully.

“Haechan, speak now or forever hold your peace.” you warn him, and he nods firmly.

“We don’t have to be exclusive if you don’t want to be. It’s up to you.”

“How about we leave that part open-ended for now, but make the next rule ‘no jealousy?’” you offer as you type in the next rule.

“Okay, that sounds good.” he says, nodding slowly in agreement. “Next rule?”

“Um, no romantic gestures? Like, no buying each other special gifts you wouldn’t buy for another friend, no flowers, no making each other romantic playlists—stuff like that.” you say, and he looks off into the distance pensively.

“What about pet names?” he asks warily, and you half-sigh, half-laugh.

“Haechan, I think you would pop a blood vessel if you had to restrain yourself from calling me pet names.” you state, and, eyes wide, he nods vigorously in agreement, making you laugh.

“It’s true!” he insists, and your laughter grows.

“I know! That’s why I said it,” you giggle as you type in the next rule, and he starts to chuckle before joining in on your laughter. “So pet names are fine, but—”

“But?” he asks hesitantly.

“‘No PDA’ should definitely be a rule.” you suggest. “It’d definitely blow our cover.”

“Okay… agreed.” Haechan says slowly, his subsequent nod more confident than his words.

You type in the new rule and sit back, regarding the list carefully. Haechan peers over your shoulder at your phone screen, his chin resting on your shoulder. “Does this look good to you? Do you think we’re missing anything?”

“No, I think it’s perfect,” he says, sounding sure of himself, and that’s enough to comfort you.

“Well, great!” you say, taking a screenshot of the list and texting it to him. His phone pings on the kitchen table with your incoming text, and he looks at it briefly before tucking it into his pocket. You rise to your feet, Haechan straightening back up as you stand, and turn to face him, extending your hand. “Wanna shake on it?”

He takes your hand with a small smile, lips quirked up in amusement before he looks up at you and tugs gently, pulling you against his chest. “Honestly? I’d rather kiss on it.”

You blink twice, stunned slightly by the sudden intimacy, but you nod. “We can do that.”

He grins, tilting his head and nudging your nose with his gently. “Good,” he breathes before he kisses you. It doesn’t take long for his hands to move, one hand cupping your jaw and the side of your neck while his other arm wraps itself around you, resting on the small of your back as he pulls you in close. His lips mold with yours so smoothly that it’s like you’ve been doing this for a lifetime, but every nip and suck from him winds you up even more than you thought possible, making for a beautiful combination: all of the comfort, no stilted awkwardness, with all of the excitement. 

When you two finally break apart, it’s for air, your hand gently resting on his chest, still clutching his shirt—you don’t even know when you started doing that—as you both attempt to catch your breath. 

“Good talk,” you pant, and he grins.

“Great talk.” he agrees breathlessly. “I actually have to go home to work on a code for this new program we’re building, but I’ll see you? Hopefully before our trip to Fire Island with everyone else, but if not, then I’ll text you?”

“It’s kind of criminal that you have to do work on a Sunday when you have actual work days to work on stuff.” you say with a pout, releasing his shirt and gently smoothing out the small wrinkles you caused. “Yeah, I’ll see you for the Fire Island trip.”

“I know.” he agrees with a frown. “Alas—not all of us can make it in life by being cute and likable.” he teases, and you shoot him an empty glare, making him laugh. “But I’ll see you soon, pretty girl.” he says, thumb carefully brushing your cheek.

“Okay,” you hum, trying your best to avoid leaning into his touch and closing your eyes.

“Later,” he says, reluctantly releasing you and walking backwards to your front door until he bumps into the corner he has to go around, a sheepish chuckle escaping him as he waves once, turning and exiting your apartment after you wave back.

Now alone, you look at the list you two compiled, carefully reading over each word.

1. No cuddling. 2. No sleepovers after sex. 3. No jealousy. 4. No romantic gestures. 5. No PDA.

They seem like simple enough rules to follow; straightforward and to the point, carefully designed so you don’t blur the lines too much between platonic and romantic. 

But, given the way he embraced you earlier and the way you so badly wanted him to stay longer, you can’t help but wonder if the lines were already blurred to begin with.

tada!!! i hope you enjoyed, and stay tuned for part two, coming out on wednesday, december 11th!

DON’T WANNA WAIT? parts two and three are currently posted on my patreon here :)

[tender-rosiey]

WE’VE SEEN SUKUNA WITH A SHY DAUGHTER, BUT WHAT ABOUT..SUKUNA WITH AN EXTROVERTED ENERGETIC HUMOROUS DAUGHTER⁉️⁉️

mischief reign — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: I HEAR YOU ANON

sukuna, the king of curses, master of terror and destruction, sits cross-legged on his throne with a look of pure exasperation carved into his features.

his crimson eyes follow the whirlwind of energy that is your daughter as she darts across the room.

“stop running, d/n,” sukuna orders, his voice heavy with authority. “you’ll trip over your own feet and break your neck. then what will you do?”

d/n skids to a halt in the middle of the hall, her little arms spread wide for balance.

her grin is as wide as her father’s, though hers is filled with boundless mischief rather than malice.

“then you’ll fix me!” she chirps without a second of hesitation, twirling on one foot.

sukuna pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. “you’re too much like your mother.”

“is that supposed to be an insult?” you call out, stepping into the room with a knowing smile.

sukuna’s gaze flicks to you, and though his expression doesn’t soften, you can tell he’s relieved by your presence.

“it’s a warning,” he retorts. “one is enough. two of you? that’s a curse even I don’t deserve.”

d/n bounds over to you, her tiny hands clutching at your robes as she peers up at you with wide, excited eyes.

“mama, did you see me? I ran so fast! like this—zoom!” she dashes in a quick circle around you, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process.

“I saw,” you reply with a laugh, steadying her before she topples over. “but your father’s right. you’ll hurt yourself if you’re not careful.”

she pouts up at you, her brows furrowing in an uncanny imitation of sukuna. “papa’s always telling me to stop. he’s so grumpy!”

“because you don’t listen,” sukuna snaps, his tone sharp but not unkind.

“because you’re always grumpy!” d/n shoots back, sticking her tongue out at him.

the audacity of her response earns a low growl from sukuna. “insolent brat,” he mutters.

you stifle a laugh, knowing better than to let sukuna see you encouraging her sass. d/n, on the other hand, has no such reservations.

she scrambles up the steps to his throne, plopping herself down beside him with all the confidence of someone who knows they’re untouchable.

“why don’t you smile more, papa?” she asks, leaning her chin on her tiny hands as she gazes up at him.

sukuna stares at her like she’s just suggested he grow a third ear. “I don’t smile because I have to deal with you,” he replies flatly.

“you’re so mean!” d/n huffs, crossing her arms. “mama, tell him he’s mean!”

you step closer, your hands resting on your hips as you give sukuna an amused look. “you are so mean, sukuna.”

“I will show you mean later,” sukuna counters, eyes focused on you before they narrow as he turns to look at your daughter. “the world isn’t soft and kind. you might as well learn that now, you brat.”

d/n puffs out her cheeks in defiance. “but the world isn’t just mean either! there’s fun and happy things too! like flowers, and festivals, and—” she pauses, a sly grin creeping onto her face. “—frowny grumpy old men like you!”

sukuna’s eye twitches, his patience visibly wearing thin. “old?” he echoes, his tone dangerously low. “do you have a death wish, child?”

“maybe!” d/n chirps, completely unfazed.

the sheer audacity of her response leaves sukuna momentarily speechless, and you have to turn away to hide your laughter.

“d/n,” you say gently, crouching down to her level. “why don’t we give your father a break? he’s had a long day.”

“but he doesn’t do anything!” she protests, pointing an accusing finger at sukuna.

the cursed king leans forward, his crimson gaze locking onto hers with a dangerous gleam. “do you want to find out what I can do, little girl?”

“sure!” d/n replies brightly, hopping off the throne and striking a playful fighting stance. “let’s see what you’ve got, old man!”

sukuna’s lips curl into a predatory grin, and for a moment, you think he might actually take her up on the challenge.

but then he leans back with a huff, crossing all four of his arms.

“you’re not worth the effort,” he declares.

d/n pouts, clearly disappointed. “you’re no fun,” she grumbles, flopping onto the floor dramatically.

“and you’re exhausting,” sukuna fires back.

you step between them, shaking your head with a fond smile. “

“alright, that’s enough. d/n, why don’t you help me in the garden?”

“but I don’t wanna leave papa!” d/n whines, clinging to one of sukuna’s lower arms. “he’s fun to tease!”

sukuna pries her off with minimal effort, holding her at arm’s length like a particularly annoying kitten.

“I don’t need your help to be teased,” he growls. “I’ve got your mother for that.”

you chuckle, reaching out to take d/n from him. “come on, troublemaker. let’s go pick some flowers for your father. maybe that’ll cheer him up.”

“good luck,” d/n mutters, allowing herself to be led away. “papa doesn’t like anything.”

“except for you,” you murmur under your breath, glancing back at sukuna.

his eyes meet yours, and though his expression remains unreadable, there’s a flicker of something softer in his gaze.

as you and d/n move toward the door, sukuna’s voice follows you, low and gruff. "you're both in the same lump to me," he says.

your eyes widen slightly at the admission. your raise your head to look at him, suddenly right in front of you. you’re about to respond.

but without waiting for a reply, sukuna lightly bumps his shoulder against yours as he passes, the motion almost casual but undeniably intentional.

his gaze never wavers from the throne, but you catch the small, reluctant smirk that tugs at the corner of his lips.

"don't forget that.”

taglist: @magenta-cat-drawingss@pompompurin1028@scul-pted@requiem626k@nameless-shrimp@sonder-paradise@jessbeinme15s-notebook @todorokichills @ginneko @missrown @shrynkk @simplyxsinned @beautiful-is-boring @starlostlaiba @izukus-gf @irethepotato @thekaylahub @dazaisbloodybandages @aeanya @sweetcloudsimp @moon-catto @the-midnightskies@pianopuppygirl @gojosblackqueen @kryscent @kunikida-simp @whoami-72 @mx-0-child @fiona782 @kisakitwister @imjustasimpxd @psychopotatomeme @dreamcastgirl99 @watyousayin @doobiebochana @laylasbunbunny @hojicha-expresso @4sat0ruu @nineooooo @chuuyasboots @alekssashka7 @rieejjyubi02 @satoryaa @nothisispatrick300 @fallencrescentmoon @etheviese @ho34gojo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @the-weeping-author

@libbyistired @anon1412@maehemthemisfit @satorustar @b4nka1@sad-darksoul@ko-fi-heart@pumpkindudeishere@suyaaachin@babyqueen17@chaosguy352@murakami-kotone@sukun4ryomen@yumieis@hearts4itoshi@sleepyxxhead@dunixxd@sleepycrybbylaiah @imjustaduckwholikesbread @emilyyyy-08@spacebaby1@arabellatreaty@viscade @washeduphasbeen @janbannan @sugurubabe @enidths @mwtsxri @peppersapro @uranosbaaee @lifeisadumpie @guacam011y @kurooandkenmasslut @callmemirro @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @dindjarins1ut @candy-s72 @lulumi1u @yoko7658 @c4xcocoa @ohio-gyatt-mega-sigma-rizzler @llawlietluv @bluebell33

copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or I will make my cat bite you

check out my buy me a coffee!

[gloomwitchwrites]

His teammates call you because he isn't handling the break up well.

I'm gonna be honest, Anon. I went a more humorous route with this (but some angst in there too because why not!) I'm just imagining all of them being completely pathetic and the one calling is on the phone like "come get your man please." So, with that being said, I hope you enjoy this!

Presented in four double drabbles.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, some angst, established relationship, breakups. brief humor

Word Count: 800

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“You have two minutes,” you say immediately after answering your phone.

“You need to call him,” comes Simon’s gruff voice on the other end.

You’ve only met Simon a handful of times, but he’s always been your favorite of John’s team. He has consistently treated you with kindness and respect, and he never oversteps boundaries.

“Why?” you ask, glancing at your nails, pretending you don’t care.

“He fucking misses you.”

“That’s not enough of a reason,” you reply.

It isn’t. Not really. Even if your heart aches and your stomach flips from hearing it.

“Captain isn’t taking the breakup well.”

You want to say that you aren’t either, even though you’re the one who ended things. In reality, you miss John. It’s agonizing.

“And?” you ask, trying to hide the slight crack in your voice.

“He has us running laps around the fucking track, love. Haven’t done that since I was a grunt who couldn’t properly tie his boot laces.”

You sigh. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“Yes.” Simon’s response is immediate.

Rubbing your temple, you decide to take a leap. It wouldn’t hurt to talk. Not really. “Fine. I’ll talk to him.”

“Thank fuck,” he breathes.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“This is absurd,” you mutter, rubbing the middle of your brow, irritation building in the back of your head.

“Just give us a few minutes,” comes Captain Price’s voice. It’s Kyle’s boss, but he’s not the only one on the phone.

“Oh, aye. Hear us out.” Soap is there, too.

For all you know, Ghost is lingering on the call, a silent entity listening in but not saying anything.

“Why? Give me a reason?”

“Kyle misses you,” says Price.

“He loves you, lass.”

This isn’t new information. You’re aware of how Kyle feels but that doesn’t change things. The two of you are not together anymore. He needs to move on.

“He’s not handling the breakup well.” This time it’s Ghost. The silent man speaks.

“What do you want me to do,” you sigh.

“Talk to him,” says Price.

“No.”

Your phone buzzes and you hold it away from your ear. It’s a text from Price. You click on it, revealing a photo.

It’s Kyle. He’s curled up in his bed in the barracks, clutching a teddy bear he won you at a carnival on your first date.

“We can come get you,” says Price.

“Fine. I’ll talk to him.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“I’m sorry, John. But you shouldn’t have called. I don’t want to hear it.”

There is a deep sigh on the other end of the phone. You respect Captain John Price. The few times you’ve met him, he’d been pleasant, and he was always the first one to greet you whenever you visited Johnny on base.

“I understand that you broke it off with him.”

“John—”

“Listen. Please.”

He genuinely sounds concerned, and that gives you pause.

It’s not like you and Johnny ended things on bad terms. His life is busy. It’s dangerous. You just don’t fit in it, and the stress of never knowing when or if he’s going to come home is something far to difficult a thing to carry with you.

“He’s been struggling. Had to corner him in my office to get him to talk. He’s really hurting.”

You swallow. Lick your lips. “Why are you calling me, John?”

“I want you to talk to him.”

“John—”

“Soap is currently facedown in his bed in the barracks. Sulking.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to him.”

“In person,” says John. It sounds like a command. Not an ask.

“Fine, John,” you reply, grabbing your car keys.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“You need to talk to him. Simon is a bloody mess.”

“He’s fine, Johnny. He’ll get over. There was no reason for you to call me.”

Johnny snorts on the other end. “You don’t think so? I thought he was going to crush a new recruit’s skull in this morning.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not interested in talking with Simon right now.”

Is it really a breakup? No. Not really. More like a separation. Simon has your whole heart, but he’s stubborn and cold. His shell is difficult to crack.

“That’s too bad. Because I’m here.”

“You’re—what?”

“Aye. Walking up to your front door right now.”

You blink. Aghast. “John MacTavish you better not—”

There is a sharp series of knocks at your front door. “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” you mutter.

Growling, you storm to the front door, phone still pressed to your ear. You unlatch the deadbolt and yank the door open. Johnny is standing on the other side, his phone also held to his ear. He gives you his biggest grin.

You want to smack it right off his face.

“What are you doing?”

Johnny ends the call. “I’m taking you to Simon.”

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@enarien @saoirse06 @ferns-fics @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett

@ravenpoe67 @tulipsun-flower @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat @ninman82

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

@haven-1307 @voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @spicyspicyliving @keiva1000

@littlemisscriesherselftosleep @greeniegreengreen @umno-yeah @blackhawkfanatic @talooolaaloolla

@sadlonelybagel @kadeeesworld @iloveslasher @sammysinger04 @dakotakazansky

@suhmie @jaggersinclair @jackrabbitem @lxblm @beebeechaos

@no-oneelsebutnsu @kidd3ath @certainlygay @thewulf @lovely-ateez

@whisperwispxx @gingergirl06 @eternallyvenus @smileykiddie08 @arrozyfrijoles23

[doestarkey]

summary: sneaking onto drew’s phone after a gnawing suspicion of him cheating on you

the age gap between you and drew had always lingered in the back of your mind, quietly eroding your confidence in the relationship. no matter how much you tried to push the thought aside, it left you questioning—doubting. if it was a concern for you, surely it was for him too… right?

at twenty one, you were still navigating life—balancing college, exploring career paths, meeting new people, and experiencing things for the first time. drew, on the other hand, was in an entirely different chapter.

he had everything already figured out—a thriving career as the ceo of a globally recognized company, financial security, a beautiful home, and the kind of life experience that only comes with time. and, of course, there was the attention.

women—his age—throwing themselves at him, drawn to his success, his confidence, and the effortless charm that came with being an attractive man in his late thirties. women who seemed like they belonged in his world more than you ever could.

so what made you any different?

late nights at the office became a routine for him. he explained it all—overtime, project deadlines, the occasional presence of a coworker or two in the building. you never questioned it.

until one night.

maybe it was real, or maybe it was just your own insecurities manifesting into something tangible. but as you washed his suit, you could have sworn you caught the faintest trace of perfume that didn’t belong to you.

it gnawed at you. the doubt, the fear. until, finally, you caved to the one thing you had sworn to yourself you wouldn’t do.

as he slept beside you, you carefully reached for his phone on the nightstand, your fingers hesitant but determined. the screen lit up, illuminating your face in the dark. you tried once. twice. a third time—

“it’s your birthday.”

his voice was soft, laced with sleep, yet fully aware. he lay on his side, head propped up on one hand as he watched you, offering the password without hesitation. a quiet reminder of the trust you were on the verge of betraying.

a lump formed in your throat, but you pressed forward. as the phone unlocked, you combed through everything—messages, photos, calls—desperate for proof of something that didn’t exist.

and there it was.

nothing. no betrayal. no late-night secrets. just the overwhelming weight of guilt settling in your stomach.

silently, you turned off the phone and handed it back to him, unable to meet his gaze.

drew chuckled, taking the phone and placing it back on the nightstand before reaching out, his fingers gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“feel better now?” he asked, voice calm, understanding.

you didn’t answer, just stared at him with a deep frown, the shame too heavy to put into words.

“it’s okay,” he reassured you softly, though there was a hint of hurt in his voice. “but talk to me, baby. why’d you do that? what did i do that made you go through my phone?”

“you didn’t do anything, i just—” you hesitated, frustration bubbling up. how could you explain this without sounding irrational?

his head tilted slightly, reading you with ease. “been in your head too much, thinking things you shouldn’t?”

you nodded, exhaling shakily. “i just got scared… you’re always working late, and there are so many women—women your age—”

drew let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “that’s what you’re worried about? women my age?”

you pouted, not finding the humor in it, but his smile only grew.

“baby, if i wanted someone my age, i’d have them. but i don’t. i want you. age doesn’t change that.”

the sincerity in his voice made your throat tighten. “i’m sorry, drew,” you murmured, burying your face in your hands as embarrassment burned tears into your eyes.

“hey, none of that,” he whispered, pulling your hands away before wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you against his bare chest. “c’mere.”

you clung to him, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, your sniffles the only sound in the quiet room.

“m’not upset with you, sweetheart,” he promised, one hand threading through your hair as he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head.

“why not?” you mumbled into his skin, the warmth of him grounding you.

he chuckled. “because i know you didn’t mean any harm. just promise me that next time, you’ll talk to me instead, yeah?”

you nodded against him, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. “i promise.”

“good.” he sighed, his arms tightening around you. “now, let’s get some sleep.”

“i love you,” you whispered.

“i love you too, baby.”

[ahqkas]

♯ I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO MY DAD . . . for teaching me everything he knows ( dick grayson & jason todd as dads ! )

— fem!reader as mom, fluff, not edited, based on this req.!!

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

. . . DICK GRAYSON !

dick was always great with kids; his natural warmth, patience, and humor made him a magnet for them, even before he became a father. he often thought back to his days as robin, remembering how bruce wayne took him in and gave him stability, and he wanted to offer that same feeling ( and definitely more ) to his children.

when you two first talked about having kids, he was equal parts excited and nervous about it. dick worried about balancing family life with his vigilante responsibilities, but he couldn’t wait to start a family with you. he knew that no matter what, you’d face it together

your first child, a boy, inherits your husband’s bright energy and natural charisma. from the moment your son was born, dick was a hands-on dad. midnight feedings? no problem. diaper changes? a breeze ( well, almost ). he approached fatherhood the same way he approached everything else—with passion and a healthy dose of humor

he’s not just the dad who builds the coolest blanket forts or makes pancakes shaped like bats; he’s the dad who listens, encourages, and shows up, no matter how tired he might be after a long night of patrol. even when exhaustion clings to him like a second skin, his kids come first. if his son wants to show him the new drawing he made, dick will sit down and marvel at it as if it belongs in a gallery. if his daughter has a nightmare, he’s at her bedside in seconds, stroking her hair and whispering how she’s okay and nothing’s gonna hurt her while he’s here until she drifts back to sleep

he’s the dad who remembers every detail about his kids’ lives—their favorite bedtime stories, their least favorite vegetables, the songs that make them smile—and makes sure they feel seen and heard every single day. when he’s with them, he’s fully present, setting aside his worries about blüdhaven or the weight of his world. to them, he’s not nightwing; he’s just dad, their safe place, the person they know will always be there no matter what

he teaches your son how to ride a bike, holding the seat steady as those wobbly first attempts make an appearance. “you’ve got this!” dick encourages his son, jogging beside him. when the first scrape happens—knees meeting pavement in a blur of surprise and pain—he’s there in an instant, crouching down with the kind of gentle urgency only a dad can master

his strong arms wrap around his son in a hug that says, i’ve got you, even as tears well up in the young eyes. he’s quick with jokes to soothe the sting, brushing dirt and pebbles off tiny palms. “hey, you know what? you’re officially a biker now. all the pros have scars to prove it.”

it doesn’t matter if he’s running on just a few hours of sleep or if his legs are sore from the night before. he’ll stay on that sidewalk all afternoon if it means helping his son find the courage to get back on the bike

when your daughter is born, it’s as if a new light ignites in dick’s heart, one that’s softer and warmer than anything he’s ever felt before. from the moment he holds her—tiny, delicate, and swaddled in pastel pink—he’s utterly smitten by the baby. his breath catches in his throat as her little fingers curl instinctively around one of his. it’s the smallest thing, but to him, it’s everything. he gazes at her with an awe that rivals the first time he stood under a gotham sunrise after a long patrol as robin

every little thing she does—every yawn, every sleepy coo, even the way she scrunches her nose—melts him completely. he’s the first to volunteer for late-night feedings, cradling her against his chest while whispering soft lullabies. “it’s okay, princess,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing, as if the sound of it alone could shield her from the world

she’s the spitting image of you, but she’s got dick’s sense of curiosity and mischief. as she grows, it’s clear she’s a daddy’s girl through and through. dick spoils her with affection, often carrying her on his shoulders or letting her “style” his hair, even if it means showing up to patrol with hair ties

she’s the one who always convinces him to stay for “just one more bedtime story,” and dick can never say no to those puppy eyes. he does all the voices, acting out scenes with a dramatic flair that leaves her giggling uncontrollably

family movie nights are a regular occurrence. dick lets the kids pick the movie, even if it means sitting through the same animated film for the fifth time. he doesn’t mind—he’s just happy to have everyone snuggled up together

. . . JASON TODD !

jason never thought he’d be a dad. gotham wasn’t kind to kids, and in his darker moments, he felt like it had swallowed the boy he used to be whole. he worried his own traumas—nights spent cold and hungry on the streets, the ache of betrayal, the sting of abandonment—might cast shadows over the kind of father he’d want to be. how could he teach love and trust when his world had been built on survival and second chances?

the thought of holding a child, so small and fragile, scared him more than any villain ever could. what if he didn’t have it in him to be the kind of dad they deserved? what if his sharp edges cut too deep, or worse, he failed to protect them from the city that had failed him? jason had spent so long fighting his way through life that the idea of creating a safe, warm space for someone else felt like trying to plant flowers in a wasteland. and yet, the thought of building something good—something untouchable by gotham’s darkness—stirred a longing in him he couldn’t ignore.

when you told him you were pregnant with your first child, he was stunned silent for a solid minute. then came the slight tremble in his hands as he cradled your face and whispered, “we’re really doing this?” you swore you saw tears in his eyes, though he’d deny it later

he threw himself into preparing for fatherhood. between patrols, you’d catch him reading baby books, jotting down notes in that same serious way he planned missions. ( “what the hell is a diaper genie, baby? is it a genie for diapers, or does it genie them away?” )

when your first daughter was born, jason held her for the first time with an awe. he whispered promises to her, things like, “you’ll never go through what i did,” and “i’m gonna give you the world, princess.”

jason’s daughters own him. his rough, serious ide of personality melts into a puddle of mush when they so much as giggle at him. one pouty face, and he’s done for

when they’re little, he becomes a human jungle gym. they’ll climb all over him, pull on his hair, and stick stickers all over his face while he sits patiently, letting them “decorate” him. ( “you’re turning me into a unicorn, huh? cool. just don’t let your mom take pictures—too late? figures.” )

as they grow, he keeps a close eye on everything, from their friends to the neighborhoods they walk through. he’s not overbearing but has serious dad-radar. if they so much as mention a creepy guy or a mean teacher, he’s all, “do i need to handle this? no? you sure? okay, but say the word.”

by age eight, they’ve both mastered basic self-defense, thanks to “daddy’s fun time karate sessions.” he makes it a game—lots of laughter and encouragement—but underneath it, he’s deadly serious

when they’re older, he teaches them how to change a tire, handle their own money, and, much to your exasperation, how to throw a punch. ( “jason, they don’t need to know how to disarm a grown man at ten years old!” “baby, it’s gotham. yes, they do.” )

he’s the kind of dad who makes pancake breakfasts on weekends, complete with smiley faces and way too much syrup

on father’s day, his daughters surprise him with handmade cards every year. jason’s tough demeanor cracks every time he reads their scrawled messages: “daddy, you’re my hero.”

and jason as a father to teenage girls? lord, help us all.

when his eldest goes on her first date, he plays it cool—for all of two seconds. he grills the poor kid with subtle threats hidden behind a charming smile. ( “so, you like my daughter? good. treat her right, or you’ll have a real bad night. understand?” )

you have to remind him not to tail them when they go out. “jason, they’ll know you’re following them.” “i’ll stay a block behind. they’ll never see me.”

but despite his overprotectiveness, he’s their anchor during tough times. when they experience their first heartbreaks, he is there with hugs, ice cream, and the kind of pep talks that make them laugh through their tears. “anyone who doesn’t see how amazing you are isn’t worth crying over. you’re the todd girl. we don’t settle for less.”

deep down, jason worries about failing them. he knows what it’s like to lose everything, and the thought of his girls experiencing even a fraction of that makes his stomach churn

[nightprompts]

&. 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝟐 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

(  dialogue prompts taken from the silent hill 2 remake, developed by bloober team. trigger warning for dark themes. feel free to change as you seem fit. )

❛ in my restless dreams, i see that town. ❜

❛ hey, it's okay. i didn't mean to scare you. ❜

❛ i'm kind of lost. ❜

❛ i guess i don't really care if it's dangerous or not. i'm going either way. ❜

❛ what happened to this town? ❜

❛ whatever it is, it's not human. ❜

❛ i didn't do anything! he was like that when i got here. ❜

❛ you wanna come with? maybe together we can find a way out of this town. ❜

❛ sorry, but i can't leave. not yet. ❜

❛ are you afraid? ❜

❛ did you find the person that you were looking for? ❜

❛ don't worry, i'm not crazy. least, i don't think so. ❜

❛ should i go with you? this town really is dangerous. ❜

❛ what's a big dumb-dumb like you doing here anyway? ❜

❛ hey, that's not very nice. didn't your parents teach you any manners? ❜

❛ do i look like your girlfriend? ❜

❛ i can't believe it. your face, your voice... you could be— ❜

❛ i don't look like a ghost, do i? see? warm. ❜

❛ i can show you if you want. unless you have somewhere else to be? something else to do? ❜

❛ hey, easy there. i'm just messing with you. ❜

❛ you're coming with me? can't you just tell me where it is? ❜

❛ what, you were just gonna leave me here? alone? with all these monsters around? ❜

❛ is it because i remind you of... her? ❜

❛ this place we're going to, what is it, exactly? ❜

❛ you ever stay in a place like this? the walls are so thin you can hear everything. love, hate, jealousy... ❜

❛ i think you just saved my life back there. ❜

❛ hey. you think i'd look good in this one? ❜

❛ this room... there's something wrong with it. i think we should leave. ❜

❛ oh, loosen up. it sure beats running around with those monsters out there. ❜

❛ what will you tell her if... when you find her? ❜

❛ oh, c'mon. don't give me that look. i was just kidding. ❜

❛ can we stay? just for a little while? ❜

❛ this place, this whole thing, it's like a nightmare. i just wanted to get away from it, even for a second. ❜

❛ here. something to take the edge off. ❜

❛ we should probably get going. ❜

❛ we could come back later, if you want. you know, in case we need a break. ❜

❛ i wanted to ask you... what if you can't find [ name ]? what will you do? ❜

❛ thanks for checking up on me. it's very sweet of you. ❜

❛ how do you know my name? ❜

❛ i'm sorry, but i can't let you just run around this place. you might get hurt. ❜

❛ please open the door. there's something in here. ❜

❛ i was almost killed back there! i've never been so scared in my whole life! ❜

❛ all you care about is that dead wife of yours. ❜

❛ you couldn't care less about me, could you? ❜

❛ stay with me. don't leave me alone again. you're supposed to take care of me. ❜

❛ i don't know, for some reason i feel like it's up to me to protect her. ❜

❛ well, whaddaya know... a stroll in the rain. how romantic. ❜

❛ i'm trying to keep things light. just humor me, okay? ❜

❛ you think you could give me a hand? ❜

❛ you're supposed to be the big man around here. how's a little girl like me supposed to help? ❜

❛ what's wrong? i thought you wanted to get out of here. ❜

❛ this place is different from what i remember. i guess... things never really stay the same, do they? ❜

❛ you... still don't want me to go with you? if we stick together, we just might make it out of here. ❜

❛ ain't no big deal. just put the gun to their head and... pow! ❜

❛ you can't just kill someone 'cause of the way they looked at you. ❜

❛ please. i'll be good. i promise. ❜

❛ it's always the same with you. you're only after one thing. ❜

❛ i don't know who you think i am, but i don't want to hurt you. ❜

❛ i thought that thing killed you...! are you hurt? ❜

❛ but that thing... it stabbed you. there was blood everywhere. ❜

❛ stabbed me? what do you mean? ❜

❛ honey... did something happen to you? ❜

❛ are you confusing me with someone else? ❜

❛ you said you took everything. but you forgot the videotape we made. ❜

❛ it doesn't matter who i am. i'm here for you. ❜

❛ see? i'm real. ❜

❛ don't you want to touch me? ❜

❛ i'll come back, i promise. ❜

❛ how many times do i have to kill you? ❜

❛ it doesn't matter if you're smart, dumb, ugly, pretty... it's all the same once you're dead! ❜

❛ you wanna talk down to me some more? tell me to relax? ❜

❛ you know i'll find you! ❜

❛ guess i deserved it, huh? the fartface that i am. ❜

❛ you got any other things planned? i think i saw a dark room back there you could lock me up in. ❜

❛ where are you? i'm waiting for you. please, come to me. ❜

❛ i think you were right. what we're looking for... it's not here. ❜

❛ thank you for helping me earlier... but i wish you hadn't. ❜

❛ i know what you are. i know why i needed you. but it's all over now. i don't need you anymore. ❜

❛ it'd be easier if they just killed me. ❜

❛ why are you still here? i told you to go. ❜

❛ wait! please don't go. don't leave me alone. i didn't mean what i said. ❜

❛ please... tell me i'll be okay. ❜

❛ i'm here for you. so what if i'm not her? ❜

❛ i can give you what she never could. i can be better than her. ❜

❛ what else do you want me to be? ❜

❛ i won't let you do this to me. i won't let you go. ❜

❛ the truth is, i hated you. ❜

❛ i wanted my life back. ❜

❛ i tried. i really did. but... i just... can't go on without you. ❜

❛ i can't forgive myself for what i've done. ❜

❛ i want you to go on. i want you to live. for yourself and for others. ❜

❛ you made me happy. ❜

[luvvyouforever]

harvey (sdv) - nsfw alphabet <3

-> there is not nearly enough harvey content on tumblr for my liking. SO two harvey posts in a row, yes i do believe. and i do love reading an sfw/nsfw alphabet so of course i have to provide for our favorite nerdy doctor <3 i also want you to know that as i write this, i imagine harvey as a taller, bigger man. so like he's got some chub on him and he's got broad shoulders. idk idk it's my headcanon.

-> this is nsfw and dirty! like i really tried to get over my reservations about using descriptive language. with that being said, NSFW 18+ MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

a = aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

harvey is the sweetest, most gentlemanly partner after sex. he makes sure that you get cleaned up, that you protect yourself against any UTIs or other gross things, makes you some coffee or tea, and cuddles with you endlessly. harvey would need some extra reassurance that what he did was good, that you enjoyed it, or that you didn't get hurt. he'd get anxious and worry about it for the rest of the night if you didn't offer him some kind of honest discussion.

b = body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

i think he appreciates his arms and hands! he knows that he has some strength and likes when you can grip on to his biceps in the heat of the moment. knows how to work his hands i mean, come on. he can do minor surgical interventions. if you hold onto his arm while you're walking in town, he'd get all blushy.

as for you, he truthfully loves every part of you. if you ever asked him "what part of me is your favorite?" he would actually stress over it and couldn't answer. however, if you really really wanted him to say, he would choose your eyes. there's nothing better to him than looking at them when he's giving you pleasure. sends him reeling, actually.

c = cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

i don't think harvey is particularly keen on making a mess, especially of the bed or another surface. he'd try to keep his cum inside of you, or at least contained to an easily wipeable surface (like your face). on the down low though, i truthfully think he'd surprisingly enjoy cumming on your face, mainly around your lips. messy oral? he's done for.

d = dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

meeting dr. harvey in his office for a confidential check-up? hmm. definitely not when you first start dating, but give him some time and you may just find yourself on his desk (never in the actual, sterile field) receiving a little extra attention wink wink nudge nudge

e = experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

he has plenty of knowledge about anatomy, trust me. he never struggles with finding your best spots. however, he struggles with foreplay and building intimacy and dirty talk, etc. he's a nerd! what can i say? tell him what you like, guide him, and help him and he'd be confident in no time. he's a quick learner.

f = favorite position (this goes without saying)

so, i think there are two sides to harvey. he is either incredible slow, passionate, and earnest. this lends itself to something simple like missionary where he can stare into your eyes, kiss you, tell you sweet things, etc. his other side comes out later, when he's gotten more comfortable with you and with himself, and he can get a little rougher or faster or intense. he likes to be able to grip on to you so something like doggy, maybe riding?

g = goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

harvey can't help but be clumsy sometimes. he learns to be able to giggle at himself when his hand misses the bed and he falls. he also can't help but giggle when hair gets caught in your mouth or some other silly thing. however, he likes to keep things intimate and prefers to have a serious moment with you in bed.

h = hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

i don't think he fully shaves, he just doesn't strike me as that kinda guy with his mustache. but i do think he trims it, kinda manscapes it a little bit to tame everything down but he likes to have a little hair down there.

i = intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

loves making sex romantic. he doesn't do it often, but on special days like your anniversary or birthday, he will harvest some flowers from the farm and throw the petals around the room, open up some freshly made wine, and showers you in affection. as for every day sex, he still likes to make it special for you and never backs down on his pure, teeth-hurting sweetness.

j = jack off (masturbation headcanon)

i think that he is the kinda guy that starts feeling guilty for masturbating after he gets into a relationship. prefers to just wait for you. however, before your relationship, he would masturbate every once in a while when he was stressed or horny. if he ever watched porn, which i feel like would be very rare for him, he wouldn't watch highly produced, fake porn. it would have to be something amateur. (harvey has a secret twitter account)

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

okay so...i think harvey starts out vanilla. when you're getting to know him and for the first few times you have sex, he keeps it simple. mainly out of nervousness. however, i think he's kinkier than we might assume. i think he really enjoys being praised and praising you. i think, too, he likes feeling big and strong in that he gives in to his possessiveness sometimes, and he likes being able to manhandle you a little bit. also, i propose this everyone....bondage? nothing super strong! just with his tie or belt. and your hands. to the headboard.

l = location (favorite places to do the do)

your bedroom, mostly! he has a reputation that he needs to uphold so anything in public is nerve wracking. but with some convincing, like i said, his fancy office is not totally off limits.

m = motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

seeing you do anything! especially if you're really determined to get something done and you're working hard at it! like, you've been working so damn hard on renovating and cleaning the farm and you come back proud of everything you've done, he will look at you with a glow in his face. kisses on the neck, too!

n = no (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

i don't think he'd ever hurt you. it's just not something he could ever see himself doing. he doesn't mind seeing like fingertip marks on you the day after but anything like choking, spanking, etc is out of the question. he also would find rudeness a turn off in a person. like he would hate to see anyone be rude to another person and it would take away from someone's attractiveness immediately! (that's not to say that he doesn't enjoy some town gossip here and there)

o = oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

my first headcanon here is that harvey LOVES giving oral and on the days when he hasn't cleanly shaved his face, his stubble leaves marks around your thighs. okay, now that that's out of the way: harvey is such a pleaser and he'd do anything to make sure you feel good. he likes when you guide his head, mouth, or hands and he likes being told if you want more, or faster, or less. as for him receiving, i think he enjoys it but he gets so in his head that he can't really cum from it. it takes some extra praise and reassurance to get him to fully open up.

p = pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

like every other answer here, it depends on his mood! he can get really fast when he's feeling extra needy or kinky. however, when he's trying to be romantic, he will take his sweet time and go nice and slow with his thrusts, movements, touches. however, i think he could also use slowness to his advantage and tease you.

q = quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

prefers to take his time but sometimes he likes to catch you before you wake up and start working on the farm and before he has to go to work. he enjoys these more than he will admit to himself though and he thinks it can be fun!!

r = risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

he's down to try new things, don't get me wrong! if you wanna try something new, he'll let you to an extent but he won't do anything that comes with a dangerous outcome or health risk! like, sure, he might be down to try some new rope positions but he won't dare put chocolate sauce around his genitals. do you know the bacteria risks that can come with that??

s = stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

i don't think he has very high stamina. it's not that he gets really sleepy after, but he can't go for multiple rounds. maybe two if it's been a long time since he's seen you. he can last a while though, i think. he won't cum the minute he engages in anything and with his anxiety, it may even take him a while to get to that point.

t = toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

he doesn't mind bringing out a vibrator because he knows how good it could make you feel. he doesn't like them on himself though! he doesn't mind taking a trip out to zuzu and hitting up a sex shop to buy some new bondage-y toys. they will be thoroughly cleaned though. why would nipple clamps be any less clean than forceps?

u = unfair (how much they like to tease)

he doesn't do it with malice in his heart, trust me. he just likes seeing you on edge, waiting for him of all people, begging for more pleasure. he experiments to see how long you can go for, or how far he can drag out oral. he definitely enjoys it more than he'd let on. oh, and, i leave you with this, imagine harvey offering fake pity and cooing at you:

"my poor flower...you must want it so bad!"

v = volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

keeps quiet, mostly. some interjections of grunts and groans, especially when he cums. he uses his voice more for sweet talk! he loves hearing your noises, though, and it gives him more encouragement than anything.

w = wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

the first time you called him dr. harvey in a joking, yet somewhat flirtatious manner, he blushed and got incredibly flustered. then, you did it again, and it had the same effect. and then...oh lord. your hands were roaming his body and you, just testing the waters, called him dr. harvey and he could have finished right there.

x = x-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

he's big guys, i'm sorry. nerdy white men are always packing. i headcanon him as a big boy and it's only fitting that he's proportionate. more thickness than length. he was a little ashamed the first time you had sex but he realized just how good it feels and it makes him proud. big dick energy if you will.

y = yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

i think he has a fluctuating sex drive. during flu and cold season, he is so stressed and likes to come back and make dinner, cuddle, and go to bed. however, during the summer, when everyone is healthy and only needs some aloe vera gel for sunburns, he could go day after day with you. it just all depends on his mood and the time of the year.

z = zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

he enjoys cuddling and talking after sex but give him an hour and the man is CONKED. he's the older bachelor so of course he's a sleepy man. cuddle up to his chest, open up the window to let fresh air or the sounds of rain float in, and he'll be like a baby.

[smutinlove]

ᴅɪᴄᴋ ɢʀᴀʏꜱᴏɴ—ɴꜱꜰᴡ ᴀʟᴘʜᴀʙᴇᴛ

—ladies, i love you. this is for y'all <3

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Dick is just another softie. He will literally worship you after sex. He'll bring you water and a snack and tell you how amazing you were. And he'll obviously run you a nice and warm bubble bath.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

This man knows he has THE ass. He is definitely proud of it and so are you. As for you, he loves your boobs. Dick loves watching them bounce as you ride him. He is a fucking boob man. No question there.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He has a breeding kink. Dick wants to fill you up, over and over. The thought of you carrying his kids gets him every time. He wants you dripping.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Dick will record you sucking him off just so he can jack off to it when he's alone. What can I say? This man is wild.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Dick knows what he's doing. He knows how to fuck a girl and keep her wanting more. He knows exactly what makes you scream and arch your back.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Missionary. He loves telling you how well you're doing and he just cannot stop praising you. He'll tell you how much of a good girl you are and he will definitely say, "you're so good for me, baby. that's right, you're my good girl. you're practically made for me." this man is feral.

But if you piss him off? Your face will be sinking into the pillow, your ass up. He will relentlessly pound into you, pulling your hair a bit. (you will definitely be left a panting mess. and he will definitely degrade you a bit, calling you pathetic and down bad for his cock)

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Dick is just another silly tease <3

This man will flirt with you and put you into the craziest positions.

And he definitely gets cocky (contributing to his ego. it's as large as his dick) when you cum quicker than usual.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Dick is THE definition pretty boy. He keeps himself neatly trimmed.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Dick is cocky. BUT he loves you. He's very open to showing his affection for you in certain ways. He's definitely the kind of guy that will give you a massage after sex. Dick will also whisper sweet things like, "you did so good, baby."

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Dick is the kind of guy that'll moan your name whenever you're not around. Why? He misses you, meaning he's a total softie at heart.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

BDSM — This man will tie you up, whether it be done by using ropes, handcuffs, belts, he will do it. He also likes to inflict punishments (he can punish me all he wants) Bondage, disciplining, dom/sub, etc

Breeding kink — Dick definitely has a breeding kink. I swear, he will blow his load into you at random times during sex and he'll go all cheeky and silly, watching you squirm. He loves the thought of you carrying HIS kids.

Choking — He loves being in control. And if he's frustrated/a bit angry, his hand will magically make its way to you neck.

Honorable mentions: Spanking, orgasm control, exhibitionism, etc

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He will do it anywhere. This man has no shame, I mean come on—he has the best ass in Gotham. AND HE KNOWS IT. He will fuck you in a bathroom stall, in a car, a random alley or even on a roof-top. Bonus points if you get caught.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

He is horny af. If your shorts are a bit too tight, he will definitely notice that. And suddenly his hands are creeping up your thigh.

+Hot and angry makeup sex after arguing oml

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He will not hurt you in anyway that'll scar you permanently. And nothing too serious either. Scat/piss is a NO.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He will eat pussy like it's his last fucking meal and he will be proud of it. He'll bring you to your limits, edging you and denying your orgasm. But if you're giving him head, you better be experienced. This man will gag you.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Highly depends on his mood.

If he just returned from patrolling/crime fighting and is high on adrenaline? Cancel your plans.

You two fought and suddenly you're wearing something slutty? Prepare to suddenly be bent over the kitchen counter.

On the other hand, you gave him a massage and cooked his fav meal? Get ready to be worshiped and clinged onto. He also loves reminding you that he's the one fucking you and not those "lame and ugly guys" from clubs.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Dick likes to take his time with you. But if he's really horny and you're at some gala or public event, he will drag you into a bathroom stall, bend you over and pound into at an incredibly fast pace.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

This man loves taking risks and experimenting. He'll definitely be down to try something new. Except sharing you. He never believed in "sharing is caring."

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

This man is wild. He isn't a sex addict but he is horny 24/7. He could go for a 2-5 rounds with a bit of recovery. (Recovery being him eating you out.)

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Dick "super into trying new things and is very experimental" Grayson definitely owns toys. He definitely owns a dildo and a pair of handcuffs (in blue duh!!) and other sex toys.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He loves teasing you. He doesn't get angry or upset. But he definitely gets petty, turning him into the most teasing fucker in bed. (It's fact-checked too!)

Denying your orgasm and overstimulating you is his thing. He'll touch you EVERYWHERE expect where you actually want him to.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He actually doesn't give a shit whether he's loud or not. Dick is definitely not afraid to let out the sluttiest and most disturbing sounds ever.

And he will want you to match his volume. "Don't be shy, love, I wanna hear you scream my name."

This man does not care what your neighbors think. Hey, it's even better if they hear! They'll know HE is fucking you.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Dick loves fucking you when you're wearing his clothes. (Especially something Nightwing-themed) The mere thought of you covered in his hot cum while you're wearing his clothes drives him insane. He is feral and he knows it.

+he def listens to heartless by the weeknd while he destroys your cunt

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He's definitely big and thick. Like 6-7 inches. 🤭

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Dick "I can go 5 rounds without breaking a sweat" Grayson has a HIGH sex drive. We've mentioned this ladies, he is a horndog. He will do it anywhere. Anytime.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Dick will never sleep before you do. He always makes sure you fall asleep first. And he'll wait around 10 minutes after you fall asleep just to make sure that you're okay. He's a total softie <3

»»————<3———-««

noticed we needed some more dick grayson content. here it is! i hope yall enjoyed <33

also, here are some HOT things i found on pinterest:

SLUT!

bro is def switching the positions for me

yes, officer, i have been a bad girl.

HIS ASS OMG. BABE, SIT ON ME!

[passengerprincessblog]

“Too Rough”~ Max Verstappen short

WARNINGS: SMUT! NSFW! Mean max, degrading? Rough blowjob.

Summary: After a brutal press conference where doubts about his championship prospects are thrown at him, Max storms back to his room, seething with frustration. When his anger spills over onto Y/N, she stands her ground, igniting a tense, charged moment between them.

The door slammed shut, and Max stormed into the room, his expression thunderous. I barely had a chance to stand before his voice cut through the silence like a knife.

“Unbelievable,” he spat, pacing back and forth, hands flexing with barely restrained fury. “They actually think I’d lose to Lando? Lando.” He scoffed, rolling his eyes as if the very thought was a personal insult. “I’m the best out there, and they’re acting like I’m already washed up.”

I could see the anger twisting his features, his jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder he hadn’t cracked a tooth. I stepped forward, cautiously, reaching out. “Max, it’s just press talk. You know how they are. Don’t let it get to you—”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he snapped, his tone sharp enough to make me pull back. His eyes, usually so bright and clear, were dark and narrowed, focusing on me with an intensity that felt almost hostile. “They’re talking to me like I’m a nobody, and now you’re here, acting like I need some… some kind of pep talk.” His words were biting, dripping with disdain.

I swallowed, feeling a sting from his harsh tone but choosing to ignore it. “I just thought maybe you needed someone to be here for you, that’s all. You don’t have to carry it alone, Max.”

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Alone? You don’t get it, do you? I’m not some charity case that needs your comfort. I’m Max Verstappen. I don’t need anyone, especially not someone telling me to ‘not let it get to me.’ If you’re not going to say something useful, maybe you should just go.”

The words cut deeper than I’d expected, each syllable sharper than the last. But I stayed silent, letting him vent, knowing this wasn’t really about me. I’d seen him like this before, on the worst days, when nothing went according to his plan. I knew he’d push everyone away if it meant keeping his pride intact.

Still, it didn’t make it hurt any less. I took a small breath and steadied myself, speaking softly. “I’m not going anywhere, Max. Even if you think you don’t need me.”

He just glared at me, and I could feel the weight of his frustration directed fully on me now. His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing me like I was another one of his problems. I looked at him, hoping he’d see that I wasn’t backing down, but that only seemed to irritate him more.

“What?” he snapped, his voice rough and unyielding. “What? What’s wrong with you? Don’t look at me like that.”

A flicker of defensiveness sparked in me, and I crossed my arms, taking a small step back. “I’m not even doing anything, Max.”

His jaw clenched tighter, and his stare hardened, a dangerous glint in his eyes. He took a step toward me, his presence overwhelming as he loomed closer. “Watch it,” he warned, his voice low and dripping with a threat that sent a shiver down my spine. “I’ll make you regret opening that mouth.”

The tension was thick, charged with a mixture of anger and something else I couldn’t quite place. My breath caught as his gaze bore into mine, challenging me to either stand my ground or step back. But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. Not tonight.

“Fine,” I replied softly, my voice steady. “Do whatever you want, Max.”

Before I could process what was happening, his hand shot out, gripping my arm and pulling me to him, our faces mere inches apart. His eyes darkened, and the intensity in his gaze sent a jolt through me.

“Excuse me?” he whispered, his tone dangerously low. “Watch your tone. Do you know who I am?” His grip tightened just slightly, grounding me in place. “Do I need to fix that mouth?”

My heart raced, my breath shallow as his words hung in the air, thick and laced with a challenge I wasn’t sure I wanted to meet

Without warning, he pushed me backwards, his hands gripping my shoulders and shoving me down onto my knees. The cold tile floor was hard against my skin as I knelt before him, looking up at his towering figure.

"Look at you," he sneered, his gaze raking over my body. "On your knees where you belong. Maybe this is what you need to remember your place."

His hands moved to his belt, undoing it with practiced ease. The sound of his zipper lowering made my heart race, and I watched as he pulled out his already hard cock, stroking it slowly.

"Open your mouth," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. "And don't you dare make me ask twice."

I hesitated for a moment, my mind racing. But the look in his eyes told me that disobeying would only make things worse. With trembling hands, I reached out and wrapped my fingers around his shaft, feeling the hot, velvety skin beneath my touch.

"That's better," he purred, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Now put that mouth to good use. Show me how sorry you are for pissing me off."

I leaned forward, parting my lips and taking him into my mouth. The taste of him filled my senses. I worked my tongue along his length, trying to please him, to make up for my earlier comment.

But it wasn't enough. His hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back roughly. "Is this all you've got?" he taunted, his voice dripping with disdain. "I thought you were supposed to be good at this. Guess I was wrong."

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I didn't dare protest. Instead, I took him deeper, relaxing my throat and letting him slide further into my mouth.

His grip on my hair tightened, his fingers tangling in the strands as he held me in place. "That's it," he growled, his hips thrusting forward, forcing himself deeper into my mouth. "Take it all, like the good little slut you are."

I gagged slightly, my throat constricting around his thick length. But I didn't fight it, instead focusing on pleasing him, on making up for my earlier mistake. My tongue swirled around his shaft, tracing the veins and ridges, eliciting a low groan from his lips.

"Fuck, that's better," he panted, his voice strained with pleasure. "Maybe you're not completely useless after all."

I felt a surge of pride at his words, even as they stung. I hollowed my cheeks, sucking harder, my head bobbing up and down his length. My hands gripped his thighs, nails digging into his skin as I worked him over.

"Yeah, just like that," he hissed, his hips rocking faster now, fucking my face with abandon. "Keep going, don't stop until I tell you to."

I complied, my jaw aching from the strain, my lips stretched wide around his girth. Saliva dripped down my chin, pooling on the floor beneath us. The wet, obscene sounds of my sucking filled the room, mingling with his grunts and moans.

"Goddamn, your mouth feels so good," he groaned, his head falling back in ecstasy. "I should keep you on your knees like this all day, every day. Would you like that, baby? "

I whimpered around his cock, the degrading words sending a shameful thrill through me. I knew it was wrong, knew that I shouldn't enjoy being treated this way.

After a few more moments, I felt his movements become erratic, his breathing growing ragged. With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep in my throat, his cock pulsing as he found his release. I swallowed quickly, desperate to take everything he gave me, not wanting to waste a single drop.

He held me there for a long moment, his grip on my hair loosening slightly as he caught his breath. Then, with a soft curse, he pulled away, his spent cock slipping from between my lips.

I looked up at him, my vision blurry, my face flushed and tear-streaked. He stared down at me, his expression softening just a fraction. One hand reached out, gently stroking my hair, almost tenderly.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice gruff. "I was too rough, maybe. I let my anger get the best of me."

There was a hint of regret in his words, but it was overshadowed by a condescending note, as if he were patting me on the head, reassuring a child.

He helped me to my feet, his hands lingering on my hips for a moment before he kisses me softly.

"Go clean yourself up," he ordered, his voice back to its usual brusque tone.

————————————————

Note: welp 😅🚨💀

Lmk if you want more! Liking and following let’s me know you want more writings! 💜

[imaginedanvrs]

atonement

masterlist

camp counselor!wanda x reader

word count: 6k

warnings: homophobia and homophobic slurs, conversion therapy, manipulation, gaslighting, references to drug use, unhealthy power dynamics (so rape), noncon to dubcon, cunnilingus, degrading, fingering, nipple play, size kink, general mean Wanda

a/n: me? posting blasphemous content on Easter Sunday? I would never

It looked harmless enough. You weren’t sure what you had been anticipating, mostly because you had been trying to keep your mind off of the unavoidable destination, but it certainly wasn’t the depressing place you had expected. No, they were smart enough to keep that reality away from the parents that dropped their ‘troubled’ children off. If anything, it looked like the kind of summer camp that a lot of your friends would be enjoying about that time. 

  There wasn’t a church for one thing. In its place was what appeared to be a ranch style house that had kept its traditional family features such as the pair of rocking chairs on the porch and the maintained flowerbed around the borders. On either side of the building, closing in the driveway, were several other intimate buildings that created the impression of a community style living. They were all decorated with various posters about god’s love and acceptance that you guessed you were going to be hearing a lot about during your stay. 

  Your mother got out of the car first as a man who looked like he was still being dressed by his own mum jogged over from the main house to greet you both. You clenched your grip on your bag strap before deciding to face the music and follow her lead, still examining the area sceptically as your mother and the man introduced themselves. Your mother failed to deliver the same excitement the blonde did, but she attempted to force it nonetheless while your hosts laughed easily at something she had said.

  You weren’t listening to either of them as you retrieved your other bag from the boot of the car, not expecting the man to walk around the other side to greet you. “Y/n!” He said like you were an old friend. “I’m Reverend Vision but you can call me Rev Vis.” You most certainly weren’t going to be doing that. “We’re so happy to have you here, let me give you the grand tour of our home,” he beckoned. You trailed behind them.

  “Do you live on site?” Your mother asked.

  “Oh yes, me and the Mrs. We love our work,” he drowned on and began guiding you through the various rooms of the two buildings either side of his house. The more you learnt about the place, the more you began to dread your stay. There were ‘entertainment’ rooms that were filled with musical instruments and religious books and music. A canteen area fueled by the kitchen in which all of the students were to prepare every meal. A prayer room that was deserted at that time. Finally, the dorms. 

  Vision wasted no time in searching through your bags for anything that could “interfere with your journey” and came up empty handed, much to his well hidden disappointment. Your mother didn’t seem to notice it, too focused on the contents that came out of your bag, but you saw the flicker of his brow when he declared you were all good and began explaining the long lists of rules that you had no intention of memorising. 

  “And we do not allow any kind of sexual acts, with yourself or others,” he said lightly. Your mother shifted uncomfortably and you nodded. You had no intention of being caught by him with your hands down your pants when he did his checks during the night. You didn’t anticipate being there long because you were fully prepared to fake your conversion to heterosexuality. How hard could it be? Besides, you dreaded to think how much your parents were paying the capm under the illusion that they could somehow change you. You had to find it humorous, otherwise it would really fucking hurt. 

  It still did when you watched your family car disappear past the camp gates and into the dense tree line. You sighed, resting your head gently against the cool glass of your window and took in the camp in its entirety. It was a waste of beautiful land, you concluded as you examined where the large field met the changing trees. There were a couple guys in the camp uniform playing football on the grass while a cluster of girls sat to the side cheering them on. Apparently you had caught the end of the game, because Vision appeared on the edge of the grass and called them back inside, most likely to prepare for dinner. 

  “Y/n,” a voice behind you called. You spun around at the unexpected caller just as she opened her arms and enveloped you in a tight hug that took you wholly by surprise. 

 “Hi?” You greeted as a question, making the older woman chuckle as she held you before pulling away and keeping her soft hands on your arms as she took you in and allowed you to do the same. Holy fuck she was beautiful. Her striking emerald eyes bore straight through your own and somehow had the ability to make you feel entirely exposed, as though it would be futile to ever conceal anything from her, including your undeniable attraction to her. In contrast, her smile was soft and polite as she gazed at you in a friendly fondness you would with someone you haven't seen in a long time. There was something noticeably comforting in it and the way she carried an entirely put together personar that you wanted a peek beneath. Metaphorically of course… but also literally. 

  “I’m Wanda, Vision’s wife.” Rev Vis was punching way above his weight. This woman’s voice was even hot. Maybe pretending to be straight would be harder than you thought. 

  “Nice to meet you,” you smiled and glanced away awkwardly, finding her impossible to maintain eye contact with. She didn’t seem to care as she hooked her finger under your chin and turned your head to keep your attention on her. 

  “I have every faith you’re going to do so well here, sweetheart,” she told you fondly then dropped her hand and took a respectful step back. Right, gotta leave room for jesus. “Your roommate will be back soon then you too should head down for supper,” she instructed as she headed for the door.

  “Okay,” you nodded and pretended to unpack your bags. 

  “See you later, honey,” she said before disappearing. You exhaled a breath you didn’t realise you had been holding and collapsed onto your bed. 

*

Your first day dragged by painstakingly slowly. Between meals, you attended bible study taught by Vision who gave you his extra attention as it was your first time there. He asked you to compare your own relationship with god to that which he was teaching, expecting an answer in front of all the other students who had been through the same ordeal and spotted your lies as well as Vision did. Apparently everyone did the same when they started at the camp. 

  You had kitchen duty in the morning and garden duty in the afternoon (which was probably the least crap one) before you had to sit down for what felt like hours to listen to Vision sing about god on a guitar he didn’t know how to tune properly. During every interaction you had with him, all you could think about was how he had ended up with a woman like Wanda. Had they been high school sweethearts? Had their parents pushed them together? Did he have some kind of twisted blackmail over her? They were the only three explanations that made any sense to you but you weren’t about to ask any of the other students for their input. 

  As it turned out, your daily routine was also going to include a one on one session with the older woman which should have been something to act as a silver lining in your stay, but it was the most challenging aspect of all. 

  “When did your desire for women begin?” She asked after some small talk.

  “I’m not sure,” you lied in an effort to buy yourself some time to think of a good response. She smiled at you softly.

  “You can lie to me, but you can’t lie to god,” she informed lightly. 

  “A couple years ago,” you replied honestly. This seemed to please her. 

  “And how did it manifest?” She sounded genuinely curious to know, lulling you into being unexpectedly open with her. It wasn’t as though you had anyone else to talk about that stuff with. 

  “There was a girl in my class that I thought was pretty,” you told her as you recalled your first real crush. “I felt more when she smiled at me than I did when I kissed a boy.” Wanda smiled as though she could see the purity of your memory as well as you could. Except to her, it wasn’t so innocent. 

  “The devil likes to work his way into places we could never expect,” she told you and your smile dropped. “Especially when we’re naive,” she added. It sounded as though she didn’t hold anything against you and she wholly believed you had been seduced by the devil himself and that it was impossible for there to be any other explanation. 

  “I was seventeen,” you reasoned. “I wasn’t naive.” Wanda liked the challenge you gave her. That whisper of a promised defiance gave her a thrill she knew to keep a cap unless she was required to use it. She would do anything for her beloved students to guide them back on the right path, especially one that wore the face of morality so well. 

  “And what do you mean by that?” Wanda enquired. 

  “I knew- I know what desire and attraction feel like,” you told her without looking her in those expectant eyes that unknowingly glimmered at your revelation. 

  “Lust,” Wanda said simply. “One of the hardest sins to resist when it affects one so physically.” 

  “Surely it can’t be bad if it’s natural,” you pointed out. That was not the response the brunette wanted to hear.

  “It is not natural,” Wanda said so quickly that she had to take a moment to recollect herself as you looked at her with shock as you took in that momentary crack in her exterior. It was interesting to watch and you wondered why it had hit a nerve. Surely you weren’t the only one to come into her office and state the fact. 

  “Y/n,” she called slowly. “If lust comes to you while you are here, you must come and tell me,” she told you seriously. Yeah, you definitely wouldn’t be doing that. You agreed obediently anyway. 

  “Good,” she smiled again. “Now, is there anyone you currently feel ungodly towards?” 

  “The same girl,” you admitted sheepishly. Yes, you had had a variety of other minor crushes in the past couple years, but she always managed to fill you with that teasing anxiety that never fully manifested when she said hi to you. 

  Wanda raised her brows indiscreetly. “I hope you will soon be able to give that same loyalty to god,” she said. You didn’t give her a response, unsure of what to say when you had no intention of doing such a thing. “In time,” she added when she saw your hesitation. 

  “Maybe,” you muttered, meeting her half way. “Won’t he love me regardless?” You painted the question with an air of innocence that anyone else would have fallen for. But Wanda saw beyond that and knew you used the faux front purely to challenge her again. She was impressed. 

  “Of course,” she told you gently. “Always.”

*

You thought you were being subtle with the way you kept glancing over at the couple. It was breakfast time so there was a general murmur of conversation that you didn’t feel particularly pressed to join in with. All it did was teach you to avoid sitting with the group you had found yourself with again because they seemed to be the only students there who were actively participating in the conversion with the belief it would ‘fix them’. You pitied them in a way, but not enough to interfere with their ramblings about their opposite sex celebrity crushes. 

  Wanda caught your eye on one of the many times you had peered over. Vision was talking to her but apparently she was as distracted from her company as you were, more fixed on returning your gaze. The corner of her lip twitched when you realised you’d been caught and you swiftly looked away to stare down at your cereal, actively keeping your wandering gaze on the other side of the room for the rest of the meal. 

*

“So what did you do to end up here?” A curly haired boy asked as he strolled into the kitchen you occupied alone. He was swinging a tea towel in his hands as he joined you and started on drying the washing up you had started. 

  “Got caught making out with the pastor’s daughter,” you said stoically.

  “You’re fucking with me,” he grinned and your composure cracked. 

  “Yeah, but it’s much cooler than the truth,” you told him honestly as he jumped up onto the counter. 

  “I’m sure it’s not that bad. My grandma walked in on me with my dick down my best friend’s ass,” he told you and you couldn’t stop the laugh that rose promptly. You grinned at the boy next to you in disbelief, thankful that your own luck wasn’t that bad. “Your turn,” he prompted. 

  “I told my best friend that I like girls. She told my parents,” you said humorously, as though it didn’t hurt like a bitch just to remember. 

  “I think I have better mates than you,” he concluded. You didn’t argue with that. “I’m James.”

  “Y/n,” you replied. “How long have you been here?”

  “Four months.”

  “What?” You splashed some water over the floor when your hand slipped in shock and James yelped when some drops hit him then started chuckling at the look you were giving him. 

  “What? Did you think it was only going to last a couple weeks?”

  “Kinda, yeah,” you muttered as you returned your attention to your chore. “Do you think you’ll be out soon?”

  “Nah, they know I’m bullshitting them. We all are, of course, but some of them can trick themselves into believing it, which is good enough for Vision.” 

  “Yeah, I know Wanda sees right through me,” you told him. “Which by the way, that makes no sense right?”

  “I reckon he’s holding her family captive,” James stated simply. You laughed with him easily, glad you had found someone like minded to you. “Hey, do you wanna get high?”

*

The nimble threads at the bottom of your uniformed cardigan were multiplying as your stay at the camp went by. Your fingers frequently found their way to them when you were uncomfortable, which was more often than not, and pulled at the finer threads until you unintentionally collected a small bundle in the palm of your hands that you had to hide. Vision never commented on it, but Wanda did, telling you that it represented your impulse to repress your femininity or some bullshit like that. 

  You left the threads alone and laced your hands together in your lap when she gave you a pointed look from her office chair and you muttered an apology. 

  “I’ve noticed you and James have become quite close,” she commented. “I must admit I was hoping you would find better company in some of the other students here. James doesn’t provide the best example to follow,” she told you. 

  “We’re just friends,” you shrugged, slightly irked that the older woman had a problem with the one refuge you had been able to find in the camp. 

  “Are you friends with anyone else here?” She questioned, not yet providing you the warm smile she offered every time you stepped into her office or saw her in general. She didn’t look happy that day. She looked troubled but you didn’t believe that was solely down to your decision to spend time with James. 

  “Not yet,” you told her even though you weren’t planning on expanding your social circle. Though if it was only two people it must be more of a line. Still, adding that unfulfilled optimism was meant to appease Wanda. You should have expected her to see it for what it really was. 

  “What do you and James talk about?” She wasn’t going to let it go.

  “Our lives, I guess,” you shrugged. 

  “Your experiences,” Wanda said for you. You knew there was no point in denying that when your glance towards her told her all she needed to know. 

  “Sometimes.” 

  “You should only discuss those topics with myself or Vision, otherwise you may end up having those experiences affirmed and encouraged,” she explained pointedly. You nodded uncomfortably as your fingers found their ways to your threads again only to snap back in place when you felt Wanda’s eyes momentarily burn into you. Something was very different with her. “So tell me what you discussed,” she pushed. 

  “I told him how much I dislike kissing boys,” you told her matter of factly as you tried to suppress your rising irritation. Maybe it was her job, but you hated her need to know everything you and James did. 

  “And you want to kiss girls instead?”

  “I want to do a lot of things with them,” you laid on the innocence thick, playing your role as the good christian who was simply admitting to how she had been led astray and just wanted to atone for her sins. As always, Wanda saw through your facade though that time it made her tick. You knew exactly what you were doing, you just had no idea the effect it was having on the older woman. You had no idea that your insistence on pretending to be good while knowing you were bad stirred something in her that she wasn’t supposed to feel. You were pushing those sinful desires that had infiltrated your mind right into her own and she wouldn’t allow it. 

  “That’s all for today,” she declared without giving a response to your statement. It hadn’t even been your full session time, maybe more like half of it. 

  “Okay,” you said slowly as you stood up. 

  “I suggest you spend the rest of your evening with your roommate today,” she told you as you lingered in the doorway. 

  “Right, bye,” you bid awkwardly, frowning to yourself as you walked away.

  The moment the door closed Wanda sighed heavily and leant back in her chair, catching sight of the framed photo of herself and Vision when they went on a hiking holiday in Colorado. The both beamed at the camera as they held each other close, though Wanda’s love for her husband had been as dim as it was in the present. But it was what god wanted. What god certainly didn’t want was for Wanda to allow her mind to wander to you in the way it had during that session when you had been taunting her with that faux naivety that everyone else seemed to fall for. 

  She had such hope for you when she first met you. But the images you had put in her head of her hand disappearing beneath your skirt as her lips clashed with yours, pinning you down to that very couch you perched on, that was something that could not be allowed to flourish, no matter how it made her throb between her legs. Wanda forced herself to stare at her husband’s image and remember when he used to make her feel that way, but those memories of his breathless features beneath her were replaced with your own and suddenly she couldn’t help but ponder what your sweet moans would sound like next to her ear as her fingers dipped inside-

  “Lord help me,” Wanda called, but he never came. 

*

You and Wanda both faced your own new challenges as the weeks went by. For you, your only refuge was gone. James had been sent back home randomly one night after an incident that no one would discuss with you. You had written your numbers on pieces of paper before that night, but it had disappeared as mysteriously as James had and gave you an equally chilling feeling. You had no idea what was going to happen to him when he arrived home without the results he had been sent away to achieve. Would they send him somewhere else? Somewhere worse? The only thing you could do was try not to end up like him. 

  Unfortunately, Wanda knew that nothing had changed within you. You continued to try and fool her with your illusion of innocence, reciting what Vision had taught you, socialising with the committed students and answering her questions in the way she wanted to hear rather than the truth. Little did you know that your efforts to quicken your release from the camp were futile, because Wanda simply didn’t want you gone yet. You were fighting a losing battle, just as she was. 

  As much as she despised to acknowledge it, the brunette fought her own desires as much as you did. It made her hate how much she was drawn to you. It made her ashamed of the acts she envisaged herself performing with you and how she just knew in her heart that you would so willingly part your legs for her. She wasn’t blind to your attraction to her, she had encountered it enough in her career to see it a mile away, no matter how discreet you thought you were being. 

  “I think I’m getting better,” you lied as you peered at Wanda cautiously. 

  “And what makes you say that?” The older woman inquired, humouring your plain fib. 

  “I don’t think about girls,” you said as you willed yourself not to look at Wanda’s long legs that were crossed eloquently. 

  “What do you think about?” You hadn’t been prepared for that. 

  “God?” Wrong. Obviously wrong. Wanda hummed and you knew that meant she didn’t buy it. 

  “Y/n, I want you to start being more honest with me.” You froze and didn’t dare look her in the eye. “I’m aware that you’re not progressing, so I think we should try something new. Just you and me.” You frowned and risked looking up to the confident woman, not having a clue of the excitement that manifested so secretly. “Are you familiar with penance?” You were, yet you had no idea where Wanda was going with it. 

  “There are many different forms. Some fast, some pray, some confess, but as we practise most of that here anyway, I want to try something else,” Wanda explained as she stood up from her chair and sauntered over to the desk in the corner of her office. You heard her rummaging around in the draws as a feeling of unease began to emerge in your chest. Rightfully so, because when Wanda turned back around, she held a riding crop firmly in her grasp. 

  “Stand up,” she instructed and you quickly did so as you eyed the tool in her hands. “Usually you would do this yourself, but I don’t believe you’re capable,” she explained lightly. “Hold out your hand.”

  “Wanda,” you said as you kept your hand glued to your side. “I don’t want to.” Her features were deceivingly gentle as she listened to you. 

  “I don’t want to do this to you either, sweetheart. It’s just the only solution. So hold out your hand,” she repeated, gripping the crop so tight you could hear the leather stretch in her grasp. It unsettled you greatly. 

  “But it will hurt,” you objected, eyes wide. Wanda could have laughed at how oblivious you were to her intentions.

  “It’s meant to,” she said simply and grabbed your wrist with a force that completely paralleled the softness of her tone. 

  “Wanda-” you tried to yank your hand back but you weren’t as strong as the brunette who only had to hold you with one hand while the other brought the crop down hard. 

  You cried out but Wanda used her grip on you to pull you flush against her chest, her features having turned ice cold. Her lips formed a straight line and her eyes pierced through your own with a sharpness that was usually dulled. The next words she uttered were void of that nurturing faith she used with everyone else and were replaced with something much darker. “If you keep struggling I’ll bend you over that desk and whip your ass instead.” You trembled against her, trying to decipher what your best bet was. When you took too long to decide, Wanda reached around and groped your ass, digging the crop in as she did so as though to make sure you knew she was serious. Your breath hitched as you found yourself completely trapped against the woman that squeezed you through your skirt. You whimpered, riling her up more until you nodded. 

  “Good,” Wanda exhaled, calming the heat she was struck with at the sight of your fearful eyes. “With every strike, you’re going to confess something you’ve lied about to me.” There were so many lies to choose from that when the first strike came, you struggled to pick one out. “Confess,” Wanda demanded, all of her patience suddenly absent. 

  “I don’t like boys, I like girls,” you admitted in a rush, refusing to look at Wanda or your burning hand that she struck again. “I’m not doing the work,” you continued. Wanda remained dissatisfied, striking your raw palm again and again as you admitted to your lies, none of which being what Wanda wanted to hear. 

  “I touch myself!” That was what she was looking for. 

  “Look at me,” Wanda instructed, examining the tear streaks down your cheeks as you whimpered. It was clear you were trying to appear strong and indifferent, but it was quickly becoming too much. The older woman cooed at you as dropped the crop to the couch behind you and took a hold of your inflamed hand, rubbing the abused hand with a tenderness that only made it burn more. 

  “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Her smile had grown sinister and you realised you were nowhere near done. “What thoughts do you touch yourself to?” Wanda questioned further, rubbing the most tender areas of your palm. 

  “Lying with a woman,” you hiccuped, hoping the harmless phrasing could somehow ease your next punishment. 

  “Who?” She pushed, gripping your chin roughly and forcing you to look straight ahead at her as you confessed what she already knew. 

  “You,” you whispered. Arousal rushed to the forefront of Wanda’s mind, and with it came anger. You weren't allowed to make her feel the way you did. She had a husband and she was a faithful Christian wife until you showed up and infected her mind with your own illness. You had to be put in your place. 

  In a blur, you were laying flat on the sofa you had lied continuously to Wanda on. You were barely given the chance to react before Wanda hiked her leg over your chest and straddled you with a purely feral look upon her face. You felt a strike of fear hit you, however you also weren’t blind to how attractive Wanda looked in her state of desperation. It may have been a desperation to reclaim control and to punish you for her own feelings, but it was hot nonetheless. 

  “You’ve been tempting me ever since you got here,” she hissed, feeling under her conservative skirt for a moment before she lifted it up around her waist. “This is your fault,” Wanda told you as you soaked in the view of her exposed pussy just inches from your face. You could smell her arousal and when she moved to lower herself onto your awaiting mouth, you eagerly grabbed at the back of her thighs until she slapped you away. “You don’t get to touch me with those filthy fingers, just let me use you.” Although you knew it was terribly wrong, you felt your own cunt heat up at her instructions. You knew that it was fucked up that the married woman wanted to get off on riding your mouth, but you wanted it so bad. 

  “Just like that,” Wanda sighed as you ran your tongue through her wet folds and sucked on them lightly, aiming to savour every drop and inch of her. “Put your tongue out,” she continued to demand. As soon as you did, Wanda began to vigorously grind her clit against your muscle, allowing your tastebuds to become ablaze with her as she cursed above you. You had never heard her swear before and knew she would scold anyone who muttered anything close, so knowing you could elicit such a reaction from her made your insides twist with pride. 

  She didn’t argue when you switched to sucking on her pulsing clit and felt it throb in your mouth. You moaned against her as her movements continued and her thighs locked around her head. It felt as though she really was using you for her own pleasure, not caring about your own or any comfort. You were the shameful bliss she was forbidden to engage with, but it felt incredible to ignore her god and use you as she wished. But she was really disobeying him, she was just teaching you a lesson. It wasn’t really sinning. 

  “Fuck, don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop, you slut!” Wanda cried out as she became engulfed with the sensations you gave her. You had no intention of stopping as you shifted to pushing your tongue inside her. You were met by the tight squeeze of her walls and felt your own clench at the discovery she hadn’t had sex in a while. That explained why she was so sensitive too. Besides yourself, you smirked into the older woman and doubled your efforts. 

  It didn’t take long for Wanda to get close to the bliss she had become stranger to and you weren’t about to let her lose that. She knew her body, even after some time of depriving herself, and told you exactly what to do to get her there. “That’s it, that’s it,” she panted, head swimming as she erratically thrust herself onto her mouth and came with a sharp cry. You moaned against her, adamant on tasting your reward as Wanda trembled on top of you and eventually forced herself off when you didn’t stop. She wasn’t about to let greed overcome her. 

  You looked up at her with a hesitant smile that was apparently the last thing Wanda wanted to see. She glared at you and immediately lifted you up and spun you around so that you were leaning over the armrest on the sofa, not allowing you a second to object. “What-” you tried but she didn’t want to hear it. 

  “We’re not done,” she said without care as she lifted your own skirt over your back and yanked down your soaked underwear. She bit her lip at the sight of the wetness that stained them and threw them over to her desk for safe keeping, definitely not to sniff and use to get off later. 

  “Desperate whore,” she muttered to herself as she ran two fingers through your drenched lips. “You want to get fucked so bad? I’ll show you what it’s like to get fucked.” She let the threat loom over you as dipped her digits into you lightly, barely enough to stimulate you but enough for her to decipher how tight you were. Wanda groaned when she felt you clench in anticipation, desperate for any touch you would give her. At that, she let the remains of her self control slip away and thrust her fingers in at once. “So tight,” she commented as you clung onto the sofa, moaning at the feeling of her filling you up in the way you had dreamed ever since you first met the older woman. 

  “Wanda,” you whined when she spread her fingers out within you to push your walls. 

  “Shut up,” she hissed, refusing to listen to your pathetic pleas on the tip of your tongue. “Take it.” And you did. You bit into the couch to mute yourself as Wanda curled and thrust her fingers inside your wet cunt, mapping out every inch of you and pushing your body’s limits. She added a third finger without any consideration to your stifled whines. 

  Wanda, as she told herself, was only doing it to hurt you and punish you. You deserved it for sinning so openly in her home and for attempting to corrupt her. It wouldn’t work, she convinced herself, she wouldn’t succumb to your lust but she had to show you the right path. She had to make you ache. With that in mind, she added a fourth finger and pumped her fingers in wildly. 

  You cried out into the material you sunk your teeth into, feeling your pussy sting at the stretch Wanda was causing. Still, you continued to soak down to her palm. It just hurt so good. Too good for Wanda to allow, so she snuck her hand under your shirt and bra to take your nipples between her fingers and twist them cruelly. You whimpered at the unnecessary act, making Wanda grin triumphantly. 

  Despite the pain, it did little to distract you from the heat between your legs that was quickly growing out of control. Having stretched you out as much as she pleased, Wanda was able to thrust her fingers inside you without mercy, attacking every sensitive nerve until you became a mess on the sofa she was meant to therapise you on. “You going to cum for me, whore?” Wanda asked when she felt you twitch around her. You mumbled a yes you were lucky she heard. “You’re so pathetic like this, so weak to temptation,” she scolded you with a wicked smile you couldn’t see. “Cum for me.” That was all it took for your muscles to clench tightly around her and let go. You moaned like the whore she saw you as as you came, gripping onto the sofa for dear life as Wanda continued to ruthlessly pump her digits into your cunt. 

  “Too much,” you whined when she failed to stop. She didn’t listen. You came down from one orgasm and soon went tumbling into another when Wadna kept up her actions, making sure to drive her point home. You squirmed under her as your body became overstimulated but there was no room or strength for you to move away. “Please!” You begged as you bucked into her palm, unable to stop the contradicting action that served to amuse Wanda. 

  “So sensitive,” Wanda mused, coaxing you through another orgasm until she deemed that the message had gone through enough. You collapsed in a defeated heap as she stood up from the sofa and corrected her uniform as though you weren’t even there. You missed her taking her tainted digits into her mouth to appease her curiosity. Lord, she thought as she tasted your sweetness. She swiftly pushed away the impulse to keep you down and taste your sweetness directly from the source. She had to keep things professional after all. 

  “See me first thing in the morning,” she instructed, features still flushed with lingering lust. She had given into temptation and whether she liked it or not, she would indulge in you again. You weren’t going home anytime soon.

[colleendoran]

Great Big Good Omens Graphic Novel Update

AKA A Visit From Bildad the Shuhite.

The past year or so has been one long visit from this guy, whereupon he smiteth my goats and burneth my crops, woe unto the woeful cartoonist.

Gaze upon the horror of Bildad the Shuhite.

You kind of have to be a Good Omens fan to get this joke, but trust me, it's hilarious.

Anyway, as a long time Good Omens novel fan, you may imagine how thrilled I was to get picked to adapt the graphic novel.

 Go me!  

This is quite a task, I have to say, especially since I was originally going to just draw (and color) it, but I ended up writing the adaptation as well. Tricky to fit a 400 page novel into a 160-ish page graphic novel, especially when so much of the humor is dependent on the language, and not necessarily on the visuals.

Not complainin', just sayin'.

Anyway, I started out the gate like a herd of turtles, because  right away I got COVID which knocked me on my butt. 

And COVID brain fog? That's a thing. I already struggle with brain fog due to autoimmune disease, and COVID made it worse.

Not complainin' just sayin'.

This set a few of the assignments on my plate back, which pushed starting Good Omens back. 

But hey, big fat lead time! No worries!

Then my computer crawled toward the grave.

My trusty MAC Pro Tower was nearly 15 years old when its sturdy heart ground to a near-halt with daily crashes. I finally got around to doing some diagnostics; some of its little brain actions were at 5% functionality. I had no reliable backups.

There are so many issues with getting a new computer when you haven't had a new computer or peripherals in nearly fifteen years and all of your software, including your Photoshop program is fifteen years old.

At the time, I was still on rural internet...which means dial-up speed.

Whatever you have for internet in the city, roll that clock back to about 2001.

That's what I had. I not only had to replace almost all of my hardware but I had to load and update all programs at dial-up speed.

Welcome to my gigabyte hell.

The entire process of replacing the equipment and programs took weeks and then I had to relearn all the software.

All of this was super expensive in terms of money and time cost.

But I was not daunted! Nosirree!

I still had a huge lead time! I can do anything! I have an iron will!

And boy, howdy, I was going to need it.

At about the same time, a big fatcat quadrillionaire client who had hired me years ago to develop a big, major transmedia project for which I was paid almost entirely in stock, went bankrupt leaving everyone holding the bag, and taking a huge chunk of my future retirement fund with it.

I wrote a very snarky almost hilarious Patreon post about it, but am not entirely in a position to speak freely because I don't want to get sued. Even though I had to go to court over it, (and I had to do that over Zoom at dial-up speed,) I'm pretty sure I'll never get anything out of this drama, and neither will anyone else involved, except millionaire dude and his buddies who all walked away with huge multi-million dollar bonuses weeks before they declared bankruptcy, all the while claiming they would not declare bankruptcy.

Even the accountant got $250,000 a month to shut down the business, while creators got nothing.

That in itself was enough drama for the year, but we were only at February by that point, and with all those months left, 2023 had a lot more to throw at me.

Fresh from my return from my Society of Illustrators show, and a lovely time at MOCCA, it was time to face practical medical issues, health updates, screening, and the like. I did my adult duty and then went back to work hoping for no news, but still had a weird feeling there would be news.

I know everyone says that, but I mean it. I had a bad feeling.

Then there was news.

I was called back for tests and more tests. This took weeks. The ubiquitous biopsy looked, even to me staring at the screen in real time, like bad news. 

It also hurt like a mofo after the anesthesia wore off. I wasn't expecting that.

Then I got the official bad news.

Cancer which runs in my family finally got me. Frankly, I was surprised I didn't get it sooner.

Stage 0, and treatment would likely be fast and complication-free. Face the peril, get it over with, and get back to work. 

I requested surgery months in the future so I could finish Good Omens first, but my doc convinced me the risk of waiting was too great. Get it done now.

"You're really healthy," my doc said. Despite an auto-immune issue which plagues me, I am way healthier than the average schmoe of late middle age. She informed me I would not even need any chemo or radiation if I took care of this now.

So I canceled my appearance at San Diego Comic Con. I did not inform the Good Omens team of my issues right away, thinking this would not interfere with my work schedule, but I did contact my agent to inform her of the issue. I also contacted a lawyer to rewrite my will and make sure the team had access to my digital files in case there were complications.

Then I got back to work, and hoped for the best.

Eff this guy.

Before I could even plant my carcass on the surgery table, I got a massive case of ocular shingles.

I didn't even know there was such a thing. 

There I was, minding my own business. I go to bed one night with a scratchy eye, and by 4 PM the next day, I was in the emergency room being told if I didn't get immediate specialist treatment, I was in big trouble.

I got transferred to another hospital and got all the scary details, with the extra horrid news that I could not possibly have cancer surgery until I was free of shingles, and if I did not follow a rather brutal treatment procedure - which meant super-painful  eye drops every half hour, twenty-four hours a day and daily hospital treatment - I could lose the eye entirely, or be blinded, or best case scenario, get permanent eye damage.

What was even funnier (yeah, hilarity) is the drops are so toxic if you don't use the medication just right, you can go blind anyway.

Hi Ho.

Ulcer is on the right. That big green blob.

I had just finished telling my cancer surgeon I did not even really care about getting cancer, was happy it was just stage zero, had no issues with scarring, wanted no reconstruction, all I cared about was my work. 

Just cut it out and get me back to work.

And now I wondered if I was going to lose my ability to work anyway.

Shingles often accompanies cancer because of the stress on the immune system, and yeah, it's not pretty. This is me looking like all heck after I started to get better.

The first couple of weeks were pretty demoralizing as I expected a straight trajectory to wellness. But it was up and down all the way. 

Some days I could not see out of either eye at all. The swelling was so bad that I had to reach around to my good eye to prop the lid open. Light sensitivity made seeing out of either eye almost impossible. Outdoors, even with sunglasses, I had to be led around by the hand.

I had an amazing doctor. I meticulously followed his instructions, and I think he was surprised I did. The treatment is really difficult, and if you don't do it just right no matter how painful it gets, you will be sorry. 

To my amazement, after about a month, my doctor informed me I had no vision loss in the eye at all. "This never happens," he said.

I'd spent a couple of weeks there trying to learn to draw in the near-dark with one eye, and in the end, I got all my sight back.

I could no longer wear contact lenses (I don't really wear them anyway, unless I'm going to the movies,) would need hard core sun protection for awhile, and the neuralgia and sun sensitivity were likely to linger. But I could get back to work.

I have never been more grateful in my life.

Neuralgia sucks, by the way, I'm still dealing with it months later.

Anyway, I decided to finally go ahead and tell the Good Omens team what was going on, especially since this was all happening around the time the Kickstarter was gearing up.

Now that I was sure I'd passed the eye peril, and my surgery for Stage 0 was going to be no big deal, I figured all was a go. I was still pretty uncomfortable and weak, and my ideal deadline was blown, but with the book not coming out for more than a year, all would be OK. I quit a bunch of jobs I had lined up to start after Good Omens, since the project was going to run far longer than I'd planned.

Everybody on the team was super-nice, and I was pretty optimistic at this time. But work was going pretty slow during, as you may imagine.

But again...lots of lead time still left, go me.

Then I finally got my surgery.

Which was not as happy an experience as I had been hoping for.

My family said the doc came out of the operating room looking like she'd been pulled backwards through a pipe, She informed them the tumor which looked tiny on the scan was "...huge and her insides are a mess."

Which was super not fun news.

Eff this guy.

The tumor was hiding behind some dense tissue and cysts. After more tests, it was determined I'd need another surgery and was going to have to get further treatments after all.

The biopsy had been really painful, but the discomfort was gone after about a week, so no biggee. The second surgery was, weirdly, not as painful as the biopsy, but the fatigue was big time.

By then, the Good Omens Kickstarter had about run its course, and the record-breaker was both gratifying and a source of immense social pressure.

I'd already turned most of my social media over to an assistant, and I'm glad I did.

But the next surgery was what really kicked me on my keister.

All in all, they took out an area the size of a baseball. It was  hard to move and wiped me out for weeks and weeks. I could not take care of myself. I'd begun losing hair by this time anyway, and finally just lopped it off since it was too heavy for me to care for myself. The cut hides the bald spots pretty well.

After about a month, I got the go-ahead to travel to my show at the San Diego Comic Con Museum (which is running until the first week of April, BTW). I was very happy I had enough energy to do it. But as soon as I got back, I had to return to treatment.

Since I live way out in the country, going into the city to various hospitals and pharmacies was a real challenge. I made more than 100 trips last year, and a drive to the compounding pharmacy which produced the specialist eye medicine I could not get anywhere else was six hours alone.

Naturally, I wasn't getting anything done during this time.

But at least my main hospital is super swank.

The oncology treatment went smoothly, until it didn't. The feels don't hit you until the end. By then I was flattened.

So flattened that I was too weak to control myself, fell over, and smashed my face into some equipment.

Nearly tore off my damn nostril.

Eff this guy.

Anyway, it was a bad year.

Here's what went right.

I have a good health insurance policy. The final tally on my health care costs ended up being about $150,000. I paid about 18% of that, including insurance. I had a high deductible and some experimental medicine insurance didn't cover. I had savings,  enough to cover the months I wasn't working, and my Patreon is also very supportive. So you didn't see me running a Gofundme or anything.

Thanks to everyone who ever bought one of my books.

No, none of that money was Good Omens Kickstarter money. I won't get most of my pay on that for months, which is just as well because it kept my taxes lower last year when I needed a break.

So, yay.

My nose is nearly healed. I opted out of plastic surgery, and it just sealed up by itself. I'll never be ready for my closeup, but who the hell cares.

I got to ring the bell.

I had a very, VERY hard time getting back to work, especially with regard to focus and concentration. My work hours dropped by over 2/3. I was so fractured and weak, time kept slipping away while I sat in the studio like a zombie. Most of the last six months were a wash.

I assumed focus issues were due (in part) to stress, so sought counseling. This seemed like a good idea at first, but when the counselor asked me to detail my issues with anxiety, I spent two weeks doing just that and getting way more anxious, which was not helpful.

After that I went EFF THIS NOISE, I want practical tools, not touchy feelies (no judgment on people who need touchy-feelies, I need a pragmatic solution and I need it now,) so tried using the body doubling focus group technique for concentration and deep work.

Within two weeks, I returned to normal work hours.

I got rural broadband, jumping me from dial up speed to 1 GB per second.

It's a miracle.

Massive doses of Vitamin D3 and K2. Yay.

The new computer works great.

The Kickstarter did so well, we got to expand the graphic novel to 200 pages. Double yay.

I'm running late, but everyone on the Good Omens team is super supportive. I don't know if I am going to make the book late or not, but if I do, well, it surely wasn't on purpose, and it won't be super late anyway. I still have months of lead time left.

I used to be something of a social media addict, but now I hardly ever even look at it, haven't been directly on some sites in over a year, and no longer miss it. It used to seem important and now doesn't.

More time for real life.

While I think the last year aged me about twenty years, I actually like me better with short hair. I'm keeping it.

OK. Rough year. 

Not complainin', just sayin'.

Back to work on The Book.

And only a day left to vote for Good Omens, Neil Gaiman, and Sandman in the Comicscene Awards. Thanks. 

[yawnderu]

Ghosts wife coming home from work complaining about how her back hurts and she hates her job and hes all like “i dont know why you havent quit already, i can provide for us” OR SOMETHING LIKE THATT

YES omg because why are you getting so stressed over your job when this man can easily pay for you to stay home?? What kind of husband would he be if his wife is breaking her back in a job that she doesn't even like??

You stumble into the room with a small frown, not saying anything as you crash into bed with your husband... face-first. He chuckles softly at your entrance, one hand running over the length of your hair while the other one caresses your back.

''You okay, love?'' He's gentle when talking to you, voice tender and full of affection.

''Hard day at work.'' He hums softly in acknowledgement, waiting for you to continue.

''Had some awful clients and someone new got a promotion instead of me. I hate it.'' There's slight humor to your tone despite the situation, turning your head to look up at Simon who offers you a small smile, still gently running circles over your back.

''Offer still stands, you know? When I offered you to stay home and I'll take care of both of us.'' He leans down to plant a soft kiss on the top of your head, now trying to ease the knots he can feel all over your back.

''I'll take it.'' He's almost surprised— you've been rejecting the offer ever since you got married 3 years ago, but it seems you reached your limit today. If being a housewife will save you from dealing with people and having horrible back aches, so be it. He's more than capable of taking care of both of you and will gladly do it.