#also was burned out on art for a very long time so I barely have anything from 2023

[leopah]

The 10 year art meme but it's only Noragami

[maudie-duan]

Summary: And god, this was the craziest part for him, the part he couldn’t wrap his mind around—you—how you had him so easily. How if you had been any other girl, he would have just fucked around, given you nothing but an act, someone clever, detached, someone that would have played this safe. He never pictured giving you this version of him, the one kneeling behind you, already half hard from nothing but the sound of your breath, knowing full well you loved the way he used his tongue.

A/N: Based on this request<- Thanks Anon for this awesome request!! I hope it's everything you want and more. 💓

Word Count: 10k

Warning: If you've seen the music video or heard the song...you know the vibe. Just a cute little lead up to pure smutty filth. Fluff/Smut…also ass play if you squint.

It was the way his cross pendant dangled from his neck, your red lips reflected back as he pressed you into the backseat, your sweaty bodies melding together in the heat of the night. The way you knew in your bones that he was far from holy, but you would have fallen to your knees for him any chance that you were given, his body like a work of art, an altar, his car your sanctuary.

Maybe there was innocence before his hands found your body, but the innocence had drifted, stretched beyond your grasp the second he laid you bare, young lust a driving force for all your sins, each moment you chose to steal away with him. 

Now, close your eyes.

Do you see it? The ink etched into his tan skin. Your very own road map, like an anchor, like a guiding light. His body the lighthouse, your body his harbor—a dreamscape vision you could always evoke, his hand gripping the steering wheel, the other on your thigh as your heart raced, watching the sun dip low on the horizon, knowing he was yours the moment the sun went down. 

It was always the nights that you longed for.

When the heat of summer filled the night breeze thick and heavy in your lungs, like all the times He had you gasping, your whole body teetering on the cusp of reality, the pleasure sending you to a wordless realm, you could never explain in the light of day as the windows fogged over, blurring the outside world around you—a building high snatching what little oxygen was left in the car, but god, it was worth it. 

The heat only adding to the sensation as the weight of his body hovered above yours and you knew once your bodies collided, flesh to flesh, there would be nothing else, just the sweet taste of his name filling your mouth like the crisp burn of carbonation on a hot day, drinking him in until there was nothing left. 

 Because it was just a sip at first, you savoring the taste of him on your tongue until you needed more, a gulp down your throat, and then it was gulp after gulp.

Yet a gulp could never be enough to quench the thirst you had for him. 

Harry.

His name, your sweetest thought, your endless mantra booming from the depth of your lungs, a fierce prayer uttered at the end of a breath as you gasped in air, desperate for more. Little did you know Harry would become the song you played on repeat all summer until you knew it by memory, his presence forever ingrained in your mind, a fucking anthem you would never forget. 

H: I’m on my way. Could you wear those cute jeans I like? The ones with the rips.

Y/N: The ones you said my ass looks good in? 

H: You know which ones I like. 

H: Also, we’re going swimming, bring what you need. 

Y/N: I have to be home early.

H: Damn, how early? 

Y/N: 10.

H: Yeah, that’s not happening. It’s like the last days of summer. We’re breaking the rules. We’ve been good all summer. 

Y/N: Harry…

H: Come on, love, tell me you don’t want it. 

Y/N: Want what? To get in trouble?

H: 10 is early. You know what I want to do. 

Y/N: Yeah?

H: You know I want it.

Y/N: Tell me how bad you want it? 

H: I’ll show you later. 

Y/N: Promise?

H: Save that dirty talk for tonight. Now, get ready, I’ll be there soon, gorgeous. 

The moment you stepped out of your front door Harry knew he was a goner, you standing there, ass turned to him in those fucking jeans that hugged the plains of your curves in all the right places, and Harry sat there like a begger looking for scraps, eyes feasting as you fumbled with the keys in your hand, your arms full of stuff, as you turned the key in the door. 

When the keys dropped from your hands, Harry took this as his cue. Surveying your body as you bent to grab them. He got out of the car then, his mind already sifting through every dirty thought, filtering through every position that’s ever had you face down, ass up, making him weak for you already, weak for what he knew was to come—always needy for you, a hopeless fool knowing he would be peeling those fucking jeans down your strong thighs later. 

As soon as you turned around, Harry was already hooking a hand around you, gripping a handful of your hair, and when he gave it a light tug, drawing your head back, your eyes met his. He smirked down at you then, and let out a breathy laugh, unable to wait any longer to press his lips to yours. 

This had become one of his favorite things to do: to take you by surprise. It was something about the way your eyes went round, your mouth slightly open—a deer in the headlights look in your eyes, like the first time he pushed inside you. The look of wonder as he filled you, your mouth rounding into an “o” as a pained moan left your parted lips. 

He thought you would make him stop like every girl that came before you, but as he buried himself completely he felt you tense around him, and your eyes drifted shut, your nails digging into his flesh, almost painful, and out of instinct he stilled himself above you, unsure of your silence, or the stillness of your body, and what it meant.

Harry watched as you drew in a slow breath, your chest rising and falling with the effort. The pain he knew you felt was evident in the pull of your brow as your eyes flitted open, pupils blown, and he swore he felt his world stop when the most beautiful smile he had ever seen slowly spread across your face, something mischievous playing at your features.

When you exhaled he felt your body relax under him, his dick pushing deeper, and you gasped out a laugh, sucking in a harsh breath, and when you said, “Why did you stop?” meaning every word. 

You had him. 

Like a thief in the night, you stole him in that moment, but really, you had him the moment you stepped foot into his car. When the smell of your vanilla perfume filled every one of his senses, your presence ushering in summer, and he knew, he just knew. 

This is what you liked most about him, the way he couldn’t keep his hands off your body, his lips always finding yours the second he was close enough to engulf you, but you couldn’t blame him, because fuck, there had never been anyone else that had you this way, every touch welcomed, every touch wanted, needy in the way that it was never enough. 

“You haven’t worn that lipstick in a while…” Harry says, eyeing your lips, that sexy smirk that found you at your door, still out to play, and his mouth completed the smile as you smoothed your lips together. 

“I forgot how much you liked it,” you lie, dragging a thumb over the corner of your mouth, wondering what it looked like after his mouth just had his way with yours. When you had to nudge him off you, so you didn’t get carried away, knowing that someone was sure to see you. 

“It’s so red…” he tells you, his eyes on the road, “like cherries in the spring…” and his words are smooth, as smooth as the hand reaching over to run a slow path up your thigh. 

“Red like your cheeks that one time I…well there were a lot of times actually…” he begins, his hand continuing to roam, inching further up your thigh, the warmth nearly grazing the inseam of your denim jeans, and you clap your hand over his, stopping him in his tracks, stopping yourself as the impulse to spread your legs swarmed your mind, but you knew it would feel so good. 

“Behave…” You joke, squeezing his hand, “Don’t start something you can’t finish…”

Harry lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head, as he pulls into the gas station, “You know I can’t control myself, baby,” he rasps, leaning in to kiss your cheek, and he shifts the car into park, “I’m addicted…” Your eyes roam his face as he hooks a finger under your chin, and you stare, watching his green eyes take you in. 

“You have a little smudge…” he starts, his voice low, running his thumb along the swell of your bottom lip, his gentle touch drawing it open, and he bites down on his lower lip, “Fuuuuuuck—” he breathes.

“Those lips…so fucking beautiful. So fucking good for me.” he finishes, dragging his thumb down the center of your lip, his eyes trained on the movement, and the hunger in his eyes sends a pulse between your thighs, your head already swimming with wild thoughts, like hoping he would push that thumb into your mouth, force it back, until your lips were closing around it. You knew exactly what he would do, the exact reaction you would pull from him. 

And this thought still surprises you, even today, even now after the countless moments the two of you have shared over the past couple of months. You hadn’t experienced anything like Harry before; whatever this was between you, this electric undercurrent running through you both anytime he was near.

You understood it, the lack of control, because you barely had any yourself. It was like this magnetic draw he held over you, the feeling blanketing the world around you whenever he was near, narrowing your focus to only him, but you didn’t care about anything else, because what did you need to care about, when you knew you could let it all go the second you slid into his passenger seat. 

He was right, though, the lack of control neither one of you had. He seemed to pull something out of you, something that lived within, a side of you that very few had ever seen. At least not to this extent, it was always a rare sighting, this fierce longing that forced itself from you both the moment you knew it could be more, that this connection was buzzing with a want, that hummed at the tip of your fingers the first time he touched you. 

You didn’t understand it at first, what was happening, what his energy was provoking in you. The first time you wore this lipstick was the first time you noticed his interest, how he couldn’t keep his eyes off your lips. 

It was one of those nights before you guys ever hung out alone, but you could feel it inching toward it; you just weren’t sure how you would ever make it happen, but you knew you wanted to. All night, Harry had been sneaking glances your way, you catching his eye from across the room, that sly smirk peeking at the corner of his mouth.

You felt it in the pit of your stomach, the nervous flutter threatening to show its face, and all it took was the accidental brush of his fingers over your hand as you both reached into the cooler full of random drinks—Harry reaching for the last diet Pepsi—and your whole body heated at the thought of a single touch. 

Of course, he did the kind thing and gave you the drink—eventually—and as you reached for it, he drew it toward him, and you stood there confused, yet captivated, watching as his strong hand gripped the can with an air of confidence that had every nerve in your body standing on edge. 

You had no words for it, and when he popped the tab on your drink, you felt the click burst through your chest with excitement, the crisp sound breaking the silence building between you, yet somehow it drew you closer, your cheeks burning, and you stared back at him wondering how he just made a gesture so fucking simple, feel like a moment of intimacy, you weren’t sure you should even be witnessing. 

Then he passed it toward you, your eyes surveying the can as if it could explain what had just happened, explain what you were feeling, because you were definitely feeling something, and out of nowhere, you were pushing the can back toward him, your hand resting on his forearm.

“You can have a sip if you want…it only feels fair since it’s the last one…” and you knew you were smiling as his breathy laugh made your ears perk up, but you couldn’t help a single thing that was happening. 

Because something was in fact happening. 

“Are you sure?” he laughs again, “I’ve heard I can be a bit greedy…” he admits, his eyes dropping to your lips.

“Just don’t drink all of it,” you tell him, “Only a sip…” Then you were pushing your hand into his arm, nudging the can his way. 

“I can’t promise anything…” and there was something thrilling in his words, nerve-wracking as he brought the can to his heart-shaped lips, pressing the rim flush, making your mouth water, as Harry watched you swallow down hard. 

There it was, the look you would never be able to escape again. It was the way his eyes never left yours that made your mouth go dry, and the second his head drifted back ever so slightly, his eyes fluttered shut, the can tilting enough to spill into his mouth, and then his lips parted, the liquid beginning to waterfall at a pace you knew you needed to stop, but you almost couldn’t bring yourself to stop him as he guzzled down your drink. 

And that was when you realized that your hand was still on his arm, and you gripped hard, tugging it back toward you as Pepsi dripped down the can, Harry taking a wide step back. His eyes flicked to his arm, to your firm grip, bringing a smile to his mouth, and when he passed the can your way, you locked eyes with him. 

As soon as you brought the can to your mouth his smile widened, a cunning smile you would eventually learn meant trouble, but in that moment, you felt your first greed for him, the feeling tingling up your spine as you let your lips meld to the wet rim, and as the cold chill of the soda filled your mouth, you watched as Harry slowly dragged his tongue across his bottom lip, and you were screwed

A single look dragging you under, and you knew you would drown in it. 

The first time Harry kissed you, you were wearing that lipstick, your red painted lips the only thing he could see, the same night he had watched them close around the rim of a can he had just had his mouth on. 

The truth was he had felt you creeping through his bloodstream for weeks, and now that your friend group was back from college, ready to start the summer with a bang. He knew he could no longer lie to himself and say he hadn’t thought about you from time to time. Wondered what your life was like, wondered what life would have been like if you guys had ended up at the same college like you all planned.

And that plan worked for everyone but you. 

You were always that girl in his mind, the one who got away. Before he ever took a chance with you, he could always feel whatever attraction that was obvious between you ebbing at the surface, but at the time, you were his best friend’s girlfriend—always out of reach, always off limits. 

So when your ex came with a date to your guys’ little friend get together, Harry knew this was his chance, and when Monica was too drunk to drive you home, he offered you a ride. To his surprise, there was no reluctance; you slid into the passenger seat, sealing the unspoken fate of your summer. 

When Braden brought his new girlfriend to the party, you knew it had to be serious. It’s not like you hadn’t heard the stories, that was what your best friend Monica was best at, the gossip, your vessel for all the things you had been missing out on since you decided last minute to go to a different school. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to go; you just knew that everything with Braden would have turned toxic, and at the time, you weren’t over him, over the thought of you two. When he broke things off, saying “you both needed time to be your own person,�� you hated him, and later, you would hate him even more when you realized he might have been right, like maybe, deep down, you needed the push more than you knew.

So when you saw Braden with his new girlfriend, your polar opposite, it ignited a sense of freedom, solidifying the ground you both stood on, and you didn’t give the thought of him another chance, because if you were really honest, you had moved on way before you had seen his familiar face, even if there was that little voice inside you wondering what if? 

But maybe that was natural.

That night, Harry offered you a ride home, and the moment you climbed into the passenger seat and he closed the door behind you, something about it was like taking a breath of fresh air, a new vision floating to the front of your mind.

There had always been something about him. Of course, you knew him; you were as close to him as you could be to your boyfriend’s best friend, but there was always some invisible boundary. A line you never dared cross. Every conversation had always been surface level, eyes never lingering too long, always Braden and Harry in the same sentence. 

Even in those times, your eyes found his from across the room; he was a familiar face. And maybe there were those rare moments when you both clicked, and shared a random conversation in a group setting, or one of you told a joke that had you both laughing, you couldn’t lie to yourself, and not wonder, even if it was for the briefest moment, that you both might actually have more in common than you thought. 

In those moments when it happened, it was always a tiny thrill, a subtle moment of excitement bursting through you mind when your eyes met his, because he was hot, sexier than your boyfriend at the time, fuck, like no other guy you knew, and there was something about him that was different from the rest, and everyone knew it. Everyone said it, all the stories you heard, the girls, god, you just knew.

And maybe there was always a little piece of you that wanted to explore it.

So when he pulled up to your house that night. You both slowly let your easy conversation fall silent as you gazed out the window, your front door marking the end of your evening, but you weren’t ready for the night to be over. “Are you excited to be back for the summer?” Harry asked, clearing his throat. 

Your eyes moved from the window to his face, falling to his mouth, his neck, and lingered, and you watched him swallow as his Adam apple bobbed with the effort, “Maybe at first, I mean I am…I don’t know I’m kind of bored.” you answered, letting a slow smile rise as your words landed. Harry shifted in his seat, licking his lips, as his back fell against the driver door. 

“Do you think there is anything that could change that?” He prodded, and it’s like the universe itself was trying to set the mood as the song lapsed into something smooth, a familiar song, setting the backdrop for the tension rising. 

His eyes were on your mouth again, eagerly watching, awaiting your response. “I don’t know…I’m sorry. Is this maybe strange? I don’t know, like the two of us alone?” You questioned, mirroring his position in his seat, and you narrowed your eyes at him, a playful gesture, and then your back hit the door, firing off the automatic locks, and the frantic noise ricocheted throughout the car as Harry let out a laugh, his gaze sweeping over your face as your heart picked up at the sudden jolt of panic shooting through you. 

You couldn’t hide your surprise in that moment, knew the look was written all over your face. Quickly, you tried to play it off, pretending like it didn’t faze you, and you lowered your brows, easing your body from its rigid state as you began to slowly slouch against the door again, this time more aware of your placement. 

“Guess we’re not going anywhere now, are we?” He says, more as a joke, but you were definitely not going anywhere, “Do you feel ‘strange?’” Harry starts, bringing his hands up to make air quotations, and you roll your eyes, biting down on your lower lip, trying to fight the smile that wouldn’t leave your face.

“No, really, are you uncomfortable?” He asks, poking your knee with his long finger, “Does it feel weird…just us hanging out?” 

“Honestly? I thought it would…” You tell him, “and maybe it should?? Feel weird? But it doesn’t.” You answered meaning every word, and when you saw the sly smile spread across Harry’s face, you sucked in a breath, your chest tight, that same thrill from earlier that night, stealing your focus. 

“Good—“ he breathes.

“What about you?” You toss back the question, “Technically, we haven’t crossed any lines. You’re just driving me home, right?”

Harry laughs, looking down at his hands, those cute dimples dipping as a strand of hair falls in his face, and when he looks up, he runs a hand through his hair, eyes dropping to your fucking mouth again, and god, it was so fucking obvious, but you wanted to hear the words leave his mouth, wanted to be able to repeat them later when you left this car, and he’s staring back at you with that smug smile that’s starting to ruin your life and when he says: 

“Yet—I think the answer you’re looking for is yet…and I’m not normally one to push my agenda on anyone, but I know you can feel this…” he tells you flitting a finger back and forth, “and maybe I’m a shitty friend, but Braden has clearly moved on. I know you saw it tonight…I guess I just…have thought about you…have thought about this before—”

“Before?” You stop him as curiosity floods your whole body, a rush of excitement flooding to the tips of your fingers as you straighten your spine.

“Yeah…is that shitty of me?” He asks, and his British drawl has you fucking beside yourself, swooning like every girl at the party tonight, like idiots tripping over themselves to get in a single word, yet here you were, the one alone with him, the one he’s confessing truths you’ll hold for dear life later—for those rainy days, when you think of all the words he will have whispered across your naked skin. All the nights you will have rode that dick, you’ve been peeping all night. Those tight yellow swim trunks not hiding a damn thing—like right now as you peered over at the bulge resting between his legs, the yellow mesh material packed and he wasn’t even hard—and fuck, he just said exactly what you wanted to hear. 

“Is it shitty of me for thinking the same thing?” You forced, swallowing down the saliva that was trying to collect in your mouth. It’s like his presence is bringing out this animalistic hunger, that’s beating at your chest, and you sense it in the air, smell the scent of your body heating up, sweat pulling between your breast, your pussy pulsing in your shorts. 

“Would you want to hang out again… like just the two of us?” He offered, pulling at his shorts as he adjusted in his seat, and you sat there as still as you could, nearly holding your breath. 

How could a question as simple as hanging out hold so much promise? A simple question, yet you felt it like a spark, a surge of electricity buzzing over your skin, a tingle up your neck. They weren’t just simple words. They were an invitation, a fucking polite ask to explore whatever this was building between you, because it was there, this energy pulling at you both like a dare. 

His easy question pushing you both to the edge of temptation, yet you wanted it, and you knew it, and so did he, or he wouldn’t be asking, “Yeah, I’m game for whatever.” Was all you could push past your dry throat, and you looked him dead in the eye, a smile rising on both your lips, and that’s when you knew there was no turning back. That this would be the start of something that might change you forever. 

Harry was beside himself when your answer was yes. He hadn’t really thought it through, his question had just spilled out of his mind in a desperate attempt to not end this feeling that was pulling at his chest—this tug like a magnet to you as his heart picked up, the sound drowning out the hum of the engine, every beat like a fucking countdown to what might happen next. 

He had always pushed this energy he felt with you away, dulled it in his mind. Made every excuse to keep his distance, but tonight he felt the tension rising in the air, a veil slipping over you both as the outside world fell away, and it was you, only you. 

He knew how he wanted to end this night, felt it like a low simmer across his lip every time his eyes fell to that perfect mouth, so fucking red, so fucking inviting. He had to kiss you. He had to find a way for his lips to meet yours, or he might not make it to the next hangout, because it was already too far away, even if you said tomorrow, he knew he wouldn’t make it. 

Because all it took was one glance from you, one lingering look to steal his thoughts, to steal what little composure he had left of himself because your presence alone was working him to the fucking bone, unlike any girl before you. He couldn’t even compare because there was already this hopeless level of want that had been forbidden all this time. 

And here it was—you—finally within reach, so he knew he had to take his chance, “I like that lipstick on you…” is all he could come up with. He didn’t want to come out and just say it, knew he didn’t want to rush you, but he had to try at least. 

He couldn’t help but stare at your lips, watching you smooth them together at the mention. When his gaze finally flicked to you, your silence weighed heavy in the air, thick with the weight of anticipation, all the possibilities pulling at a single gaze once your eyes met his. 

Christ, you were stealing his breath, the innocence in the way your hands balled in your lap, fist squeezed tight like maybe you were just as nervous. Harry’s heart was racing, excitement constricting his chest. That’s when you spoke:

“What do you like about it?” You barely asked above the noise in the car. 

“Everything…” he muttered, his nerves threatening to take the words he already had filling his mouth, “The way it hasn’t budged all night. It’s perfect.”

“Honestly, don’t let it fool you. I’ve had to keep up with it all night…it’s one of those annoying lipsticks that smears easily—” And you laugh, cutting yourself off, “Not that you care about the details…” You finish.

“Smears, huh?” Harry follows up, eyeing your tongue as it darts out to wet your lips. 

Each second was like a time bomb waiting to go off, and he knew he just needed to take the leap, but then you surprised him. “I can show you…” You nearly whisper, your words almost shaky, but Harry felt it too, the most nervous he had ever been, but there was a safety in your presence, in your past history, an almost friendship just waiting to be explored.

“Here…” You tell him, and when you reach forward and grab his wrist, you pause, locking eyes with him, “Is this cool? Sorry, I didn’t even ask.”

“Yeah—” Harry chokes, barely able to get a single word out as you inch closer and suddenly you are so close, and when he scoots his body forward on the seat, the narrowing space between you closes, now loaded with a shifting energy that had the hair on the back of his neck rising. 

This is it, he thinks, when he says, “I’m good with anything. I trust you…” His gaze drops to your hand, firmly encircling his, and he feels the slight tremor of his own hand, already trying to fight against it, determined, as your grip tightened with a quiet intensity, and then he saw it, the slight shake you were trying to mask, and he let it go.

Silently, without a word, he watched as you brought the sensitive flesh of his wrist to your plush mouth. Jesus, the press of your mouth against his skin was so delicate, so slow, it almost felt like a secret. Harry could feel your breath, the warmth of it blooming out and up the length of his arm, making his stomach lurch. And as your lips pushed into him he wondered if you could feel his pulse, wondered if you noticed the jump beneath your lush mouth, so fucking soft, and red. 

All the while, Harry just sat there, stunned, holding his breath the entire time, his eyes never leaving your face. And when you lingered there—he swears you did—longer than necessary, He found himself having to fight the thoughts that were making his dick stir in his shorts, because this, he never pictured this, and now he could feel his polite composure slipping as a hunger rose like a ravenous animal. 

When you pulled back, you didn’t let go of his hand, Instead, he watched you gaze down at the perfect imprint, a half-moon curve of lipstick, and it was as if you had branded him, made him yours in a way that was more permanent than any ink he had ever gotten, because he would never forget this. This moment would live forever in his mind, and fuck, he wanted to say something so bad, but god, he had never been at a loss for words, not like this. Not when it felt like every word mattered. 

The longer he stared the more he wondered if you were as shocked as he felt, because you hadn’t looked up at him, you just kept staring at the work of art stained on his skin, your fingers still curled around his forearm, jaw slack, and dammit, when your wet tongue smoothed across your bottom lip, he pulled away from your grasp, and grabbed your face, your cheek cradled in the palm of his hand.

That’s when your eyes finally meet his, that look of surprise still lingering, the one he’ll obsess over all summer came to life in your eyes, wide and questioning, and when Harry’s thumb caressed your cheek he felt you relax into his touch, a gentle ease, easing between you both, a moment as delicate as your lips to his wrist.

Your eyes were searching his face then, eyes darting probably mapping him out, and when they land on his lips, he knew what he wanted to do, but there was that hunger again, twitching at the tips of his fingers, and all he wanted to do was smear that perfect lipstick across your beautiful face.

So when his gaze moved to the swell of your lower lip, he felt your breath halt, and he pressed a firm print into the center of your lip and dragged a slow strip of red past your mouth and onto the smooth skin of your cheek, and holy fuck, it was electric, that doe-eyed look in your eyes, that never left his as he destroyed the tiny perfection that you just gave like a gift. 

Yet it was fucking primal, a need that had to be satiated, and when you let out a strangled moan, he didn’t fight the thoughts this time, because he wanted you to know what you did to him, he needed you to see the desire growing hard for you in his shorts, for you and only you.

Because that’s what he wanted, and that’s what he would get.

He wanted you like the oxygen leaving his lungs, like the heart pounding in his chest, and when you pressed his hand into your cheek, there was no second-guessing himself, because you wanted it, he knew it, he could see it in your eyes, feel it in your touch. That’s when you sprang forward, crashing your mouth to his with a force so wild it knocked the air from his body. 

There was only greed in this moment, only need, only a want so desperate that there wasn’t a single second of apprehension, only compliance, and as his mouth moved against yours, he felt the rhythm fall into the perfect give and take, something so natural he didn’t even have to think, and when he coaxed you into his lap, shifting the seat back to make room for you, you pulled away, giving him a silent nod, and that’s all it took to seal the deal, setting the tone for the summer, because now there really was no going back.

And you both knew it. 

Harry wasn’t your first, yet every experience with him felt like venturing into uncharted territories—a thrilling escape, where the familiar turned into a breathtaking marvel, your world now bursting with color before your eyes, as if Harry was shining a light on all your shadows, all the things you thought you should hide. Illuminating your view with every touch, every kiss until it was all that you saw, all that you wanted. 

It really did start as innocent, only making out, granted each time was hot and heavy, never a dull moment when you two were alone, but it was something you guys wanted to keep to yourself, something that was just for the two of you, and it stayed that way for a while as you both explored one another. 

It wasn’t until the first time you had sex that things seemed to shift. You had felt it coming, knew you wanted it, but it still took you by surprise. You didn’t think it would happen like that, it just did, Harry laying you down in his back seat, your body already sticking to the leather. 

Everything that was leading up to that moment was pure desperation, but not this, not that night. It had changed everything, it was the night you knew you wanted more, that you knew you could fall in love with this guy that was hovering above you waiting for you to say the words, to grant him passage to a world you both knew was changing, even if you didn’t say it out loud.

And god, he was so fucking delicate and patient, a kindness he had given so many times before, because it’s not like you didn’t know what you were getting yourself into, like you didn’t know what was waiting for you. How many times had you felt the press of his dick through his jeans before you felt it in your hands. Felt the solid ridge of his cock begging for you to touch him, because that’s how it started. 

It was your curiosity that was the driving force for everything leading up to this point. Because you knew it would be different from your hand wrapped around his dick, or your mouth stretched around his girth—a choke here and a gag there, it wasn’t the same. Those were just the baby steps, and even though you both felt that needy hunger trying to take over, you tried not to let the fear steal your courage.

 Later after everything, you would tell him how it felt, how painful it was, but in that moment you wanted it, you wanted him, so you didn’t make him stop, and fuck, when he pushed inside you, you felt that primitive urge rise, that anamilistic nature he seemed to feed take over. 

And it was already begging for more.

Braden had been the only guy you slept with before Harry, and you couldn’t even remember the last time. So when Harry pushed into you that night, you felt your whole body freeze as you gawked up at Harry. It wasn’t out of fear, or nerves, but because the shock of him splitting you open was so intense, so foreign to anything you had ever known, that for a moment all you could do was clamp your thighs around him and hold on for dear life as every fantasy you had of this moment turned into a searing ache so blinding you had to force your eyes shut, to collect yourself.

Yet the pain continued, and as Harry stilled himself inside you, you thought you would scream, your nails digging so deep into his skin, you could feel the flesh gathering underneath the nail—a fucking brutal fullness you thought, as a dream and reality collided, an ache so fierce you could feel in your teeth. 

For a second, you thought you would cry as your body sang with the pain of him sinking deeper, filling you more the moment you tried to relax, and you lay there as your body tried to rebel, yet you wanted it, you wanted more, the cruel stretch, your walls trembling and raw around him.

Holy fuck, it was like a light switching on, as a smile spread across your face, all the endless possibilities flooding your mind, and you needed it. Wanted him to destroy you in every way, wanted to give yourself in ways you had never given yourself before, and when you opened your eyes and saw him staring down at you, you knew he would let you, that he would give you the space, the freedom you had longed for, because he had already given the power you had craved long before this, his body and endless plain to explore that he let you have anytime you wanted it.

And when you asked, “Why did you stop?” with a breathy laugh, it would become the sweetest contradiction and as he began to move, you both drifted to a place you would never be able to find words for as you spread yourself wider, and he filled you with a pain that was almost too much, yet there was pleasure, a tenderness so deep that your bones rattled in the aftershock, when he made you come, your whole body coming undone in his arms as you lost control.

You had never come like that before, not even alone, and you knew that nothing would ever quite match the way you trembled in his arms, gasping into his shoulder as tears pricked behind your eyes, joy and pain so intertwine you couldn’t tell the difference between the two, in that moment you knew there would always be a mark, not just on your neck or the insides of your thighs, but somewhere deeper, somewhere primal, somewhere only he could reach.

And these were your thoughts as you gazed into his green eyes, his hands pulling you snug to him on his lap as your friends moved around you, carrying on as if this had always been—you and Harry— and as you watched his eyes sweep to the sunset, you felt the slow crawl of anticipation mount your spine. 

You loved the sunset, knowing that with it brought the whisper of the night already calling to you both as you let your pool towel drop, and you stood, beckoning Harry to follow you into the pool.

Harry discovered early on that whatever you guys were doing would be an equal give and take. Except on the nights you begged him to wreck you, to fucking destroy everything. He never knew if it was the past or the present you that you wanted to banish. He could only guess, because every time he followed through and you were crying out his name, or the rare nights, when you were sobbing into his neck afterward, something would change, a tiny spark turning to a blazing fire in your eyes. 

It changed him, whatever it was; you had changed him. He had never been more sure of himself than when your bodies collided. When he knew he would be able to give you what you wanted—and that was him.

And he wanted you, so it worked. 

It was fucking majestic.

Like right now in this very moment, all his thoughts from earlier, coming full-circle. When his only thought was to have you face down ass up, and here you were, face planted into the back seat, your ass in his face. Just for him, just the way he liked it, and he spread you wider, both palms on your ass cheeks, pausing long enough to appreciate the view, the almost bruised purple of his handprints on your hips from last night, the way you shamelessly arched for more.

“Harry,” you whispered, and he could feel your body trembling already, jerking toward him with a need, in the stillness of his movements.

And god, this was the craziest part for him, the part he couldn’t wrap his mind around—you—how you had him so easily. How if you had been any other girl, he would have just fucked around, given you nothing but an act, someone clever, detached, someone that would have played this safe. He never pictured giving you this version of him, the one kneeling behind you, already half hard from nothing but the sound of your breath, knowing full well you loved the way he used his tongue.

There it was in all it’s fucking glory, your pussy—fuck, yes, that pussy was already dripping, needy—opened to him easily, swollen with need and glistening, and he buried his face in it, tongue lapping through your folds and circling your clit, savoring each sound you gave him. 

Harry knew how to work you, starting with a gentle suck, then hard, as the pressure built in your moans, making his head spin with pride only you could give. He loved this, loved how unguarded you became under his mouth, how giving, how much you wanted him. He found your slick entrance with his thumb, sliding through it, then pushing up, curling until you gasped his name and pushed back into him, your nails scraping across the leather seat in tandem.

He could do this for hours. He would, if you asked him. He told himself that was what made you different from every girl who came before—that you truly wanted him, how you fucking melted for him, became molten and alive in his hands, eyes rolling back as if the pleasure he gave you was religion.

Every night spent like this was like a mission, and he ate you until you were shaking, thighs beginning to buckle, and when he parted your ass, tongue trailing up, you moaned out the word “Baby..”, the sound going straight to his cock, and he groaned into your ass as he began to lick a stripe along your rim, then pressed in, slow and dirty, his pointer finger slipping into your wet cunt while his tongue fucked your tight little asshole. 

It was fucking filthy, he couldn’t deny it, but you were a vision, hips jerking, shoving your ass back until his face was buried in it as your hand worked your clit, and you took everything he gave you, begging for more. “Harry—holy fuck—don’t stop, please don’t—” and he wouldn’t, not until you came. Not until you were falling to pieces in his mouth.

He loved you for this, for letting him do anything, for trusting he would never hurt you. He wondered—more and more now—if this was maybe love. 

If this was what he had been trying to avoid, pressing the thought of you into shadow, refusing to say the word aloud. It was easier to show you. To drown you in pleasure, to never let you doubt what you meant when you were in his arms. He knew he could make you come, and that’s what he did, and when the sound filled the car, high and sharp, fucking guttural, he growled into your skin, nipping tight on your ass as you pulsed and jerked in his grip.

And as you repeated his name over and over, he wondered if he could say it. If having you like this would be enough, if it had to be. Summer was ending soon. You would go back to your college, he to his, and maybe you both would pretend this was just a fling, a pause between lives, but every time he was inside you—like right now, you pushing him back against the seat, hard, knocking the air from his lungs, and climbed onto his dick, letting him slide into your body, deep, and it was everything, your pussy was so fucking slick and perfect, and here was that desperation roaring up in you both—he wanted to tell you all of it.

He wanted you to know. Even if you never said it back.

At first, you thought it was the orgasms, your mind wrecked with the aftermath, your mind giddy and stupid in the afterglow of his presence settling over you. It was magic, pure fucking magic. 

And that’s what you had chalked this summer up to, but then something shifted, your mind becoming maybe obsessive, but that wasn’t it, maybe you obsessed over the feeling, but take all the pleasure away and it was him—Harry holding you, his arms becoming a sense of safety, that feeling of home.

You didn’t understand how you could already miss someone when they’re hands were on your body, they’re dick pushed inside you so deep you could feel him in your belly, a feeling that you felt you could no longer live without, but did you truly have to? 

“Can I just feel you for a second? I just want to feel you…inside me,” you whisper, sitting flush to his thighs as he sinks deeper inside you. 

“Yeah…” Harry groans, his breath hitching in his chest as you wrap your arms around his neck. “We can take it as slow as you want, Love.” He tells you, pressing his warm mouth to the skin of your neck, and you lifted your gaze to him, a soft smile playing at your lips.

It was this, the fervor in the lilt of his voice washing over you. It was there from the start, how you knew you’d be safe. There was always an openness, an exploratory nature, that he let unfold between you. 

It was the smear of your red lipstick across your cheek, that awakened it all—the low hum of panic that set in, but you felt that thrill, that tiny morsel of shame that rose with the act, but the second his mouth pressed to your lips for the first time you felt the twitch of something wicked, a guttural longing to destroy yourself, a messy disire to satiate that shame.

To take back its power over you, flip the feeling upside down, to flex and bend that feeling, until it was yours, until you got everything you wanted—until you were used and spent, and fucking turned out until you no longer recognized yourself in the mirror. 

It was a hunger, a need and as your mouth pressed to his, gentle and slow, Harry moved with you, following your lead, you felt the flutter in the pit of your stomach, the pulse of his dick, the reaction you knew you could pull from him.

It made you wild, and here it was that feeling creeping down your spine, making your pussy clench around his dick, and you both felt it, a collective gasp filling the car, your sweaty bodies a slick, slide as your boobs pressed to his chest, and your hips began their slowed rock. 

Harry forced his mouth to yours, and his lips parted as the sensation set in. That’s when you shoved your tongue into his mouth, and his tongue met yours, making you let out a soft moan as you reveled in the taste of yourself on his mouth, which still lingered on his tongue like a gift. 

You pull back then, bringing your arms with you, and you press the palms of your hands to the tops of his knees as he scooted forward in the seat, his hands at your waist to keep you steady. You both knew this was only the lead up, your eyes locking as you situated yourself on his hard dick.

And you shifted your weight into your palms, rolling your hips up with the movement, watching as Harry’s eyes rolled back, his head falling to the headrest, and his hands lazily fell to the curve of your hips. 

“Fuck—that’s already so good,” he breathes, pushing the words to the ceiling, and you smiled that knowing smile, because god, it’s already so fucking good, his dick the perfect stretch inside you. 

You do it again, this time a little slower to tease, listening as Harry sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, how easy, how fucking amazing it was to make a pitiful pained mess of him, his grip needy, digging into your skin. 

When you do it again, hips rolling faster, his head falls forward, face diving into your tits, greedily lapping his tongue over skin as they begin to bounce, and your rythmn picked up to match his mouth. 

Your grip on his knees tightened as his tongue landed on your nipple, then he sucked it in with a loud pop, that made you laugh as pleasure ran through you, “Do it again,” you tell him, meeting his eye.

“You like that?” he asked, voice rough with desire, you could see it in his eyes, a wild glint roaming.

“I want you to bite it,” You told him with a breathy laugh, “Mmmm…just like that…” you cooed, your hand flying to the nape of his neck, desperate to keep his mouth at your breast as he began to suck and lap at your nipple. 

And you ground your hips down with the sensation, Harry already dragging your hips forward, his hands now fully devouring your flesh, kneading your ass and thighs as he slouched lower, feet braced on the floorboard of the car, like his whole body was a throne made for you and your pleasure. 

You could feel the pulse of him inside you, and it sent you reeling, it was fucking insanity, your cunt like velvet, fucked raw as you lifted your hips, grinding a slow circle around the head of his cock. You knew it was vicious, but you did it just to hear him whimper, a tender high-pitched sound shooting straight through you, and you rolled your hips again, slower this time, more teasing, taunting, forcing your pussy to clench just to watch his breathing stutter, his eyes squeezing shut, tongue catching at the corner of his mouth.

When did it happen? When had you gotten this bold? Because it was addicting, this sense of control, the grip you had on him, how you could fuck him stupid just by moving your hips a certain way, yet Harry was eating it up, every second, his broad tatted chest gleaming with sweat, eyes glazed over, adoring, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You gonna come for me?” he said, voice rash with want.

And you nod, want stealing your words as you ground down hard, feeling every ridge, every inch of breath snatching friction as your body stretched tight around his dick, that familiar ache giving way to a slick, heated pleasure, a build so fast you nearly gasped at how close you already were, but you needed it, and so did he, and fucking hell, his hands were urging you on, a rhythm set by his hips bucking up to meet yours, so deep and so hard you had to throw your head back, the whole car echoing with the messy slap of skin.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, crying out as you clamped down on him, and suddenly you were desperate—like if you didn’t come now you would die, like if he didn’t hold you tighter you might fucking float away as you clawed at his shoulders, and you mashed your tits to his face, smothering him as you bounced on him, faster, harder, as the salacious squelch of your messy pussy, echoed around you both, and it was like the thumping of the car seat was making you ferocious—your desperation driving him deeper.

“Oh fucking god, Harry—please—I swear—”

He couldn’t answer, only groaned and bit at your breasts, leaving marks, tongue lashing over your nipple as you rode him, a finger sinking hard into your ass as the other spread you open. 

Harry forced his hips up then, trying to meet every needy drop of your body, and his finger plunged deeper into your ass, fucking plugging you, the double sensation taking you higher as your clit throbbed, catching on every upstroke. Shit, It was consuming you, every drag against him almost too much, and you could feel it, the tension tightening, the wave threatening to crush you.

“Say it,” you begged, not sure what you needed, you just needed something—his words, his mouth, anything to keep you from unraveling too quick. 

“Say what, baby, fuck—Tell me what you want.”

“Say I’m yours,” you gasped, nails raking down his arms, “Say I’m your fucking baby, Harry—Tell me I’m—”

And your words brought out something in him, almost feral as groan spilled out, so fucking loud you almost came on the spot, his hands clutching you so tight, you knew there would be handprints later. 

“You are, yeah?” he whispered, smashing his mouth to your ear, breathing it like a sin. “You’re my fucking baby—my girl—always—”

Fuck it was everything you needed, you coming undone, splintering around him, whole body locking, your orgasm ripping through you like a fever, heating like a fire, a thousand tiny explosions that made the world go white behind your eyes—a deafening loss of control  as your muscles clenched so tight around him that you didn’t even realize you were sobbing until he made a desperate, broken sound, shuddering as he trembled underneath you, cock bursting deep inside as jets of heat filled you up.

It was too much, and you collapsed forward, chest to chest, fists bunched in his hair as you rode out every last wave. But he didn’t stop, not even as you crumbled into his lap, he only held you, both of you swealtering in the heat of the night, shaking, and soaked in one another’s filth. Harry’s lips found your temple, your jaw, your ear as you blinked back to life, and your hands began to caress his scalp as your grip let up.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, chests heaving for air, the weight of it settling in your bones: not just the sex, but the feeling.

You pulled back then, hand moving to his cheek, thumb trailing his bruised, bitten lip. “Oh my god,” you breathed, half-laughing, tears welling in your eyes. “Harry—”

Harry met your eyes gently, everything on his face laid bare. “Yeah?” he whispered, thumb brushing over your collarbone, a delicate gesture like he never wanted to let you go.

You felt your throat seize, fear threatening to take over, and you almost chickened out, almost bit back everything coming forward, but you couldn’t fight the words, not anymore. “I think—I think I’m in love with you,” you confessed, voice tender with wonder.

And for the spance of a single heartbeat, there was silence, and as your eyes swept over Harry’s face, his answering smile was the truest thing you had ever seen, and when he pulled your face to his. You felt it, the way his lips moved against yours, an achingly tender pace that made you want to cry, and then he said it against your mouth, a ragged rush of I love you, baby, I promise, and you knew he meant it.

You both stayed like that for a cooling minute, tangled together, until your legs started shaking and you laughed, peeling yourself off his lap, his cum running down your thighs as you righted yourself on the seat. Then, Harry reached for your face, sweeping stray hair back, kissing your swollen lips again, like a soft, reverent caress, so intimate you felt your throat burn with it.

“I meant it,” he said, quieter now, nervous, heart in his throat. “I’m so fucking in love with you, it’s not even funny.”

Heat rose then, a fresh warmth blooming in your chest, but it wasn’t lust, it was something better, something wholesome, devastating, but it was all yours, and you smiled, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and you leaned in to kiss the tip of his nose. “Yeah,” you hummed. “Me too.”

He laughed, and the sound of his rasp was nearly dizzying. “My girl,” he said again, like he was trying it on for size, like he couldn’t believe his luck, like finally he could speak his truth.

You looked down at yourself, at the mess you guys made, at him and the red lipstick smeared on his jaw, his neck, his chest, at your own reflection in the window when Harry turned the overhead light on, as a blur of color and sweat, and fucking bite marks filled your vision, and holy fuck, you had never felt more yourself, never felt more awake, like summer had been invented just for this, just for your bodies and the filthy fucking—and now, for love.

Because what could be better than this?

And as you both collected yourselves, you knew the world was waiting, but in here, there was only the two of you, the soft music looping, the familiar smell of sex and summer heat, the taste of him still lingering in your mouth, and you knew you would never forget this, not a single thing.

Harry pulled you back in, both of you sticky and half-dressed, his hand trailing lazy circles on your bare thigh. “At least we still have tomorrow?” he teased, his voice sleepy as a satisfied grin took way.

“Tomorrow,” you repeated, beaming up at him, “and the day after, and every fucking day after that, if you want.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Darling, there’s no one else I’d rather see. Promise.”

And damn, if you didn’t believe him.

Because this was your summer, and you knew exactly whose baby you were.

Taglist: @sassamanda77 @harryyloverrr @panini @unfuckwitablenarry @triski73 @haleyannaw @dipmeinhoneyh @lizsogolden @spinninc @iloveharrystyles04 @mema10 @avas-daniel @starshollowgazette @practistyles

Other Stuff<-

[silksongeveryday]

Drawing Hornet everyday until Silksong comes out - Day 700!

Choosing not to do anything fancy for this milestone since 2 year anniversary is coming up soon anyway and would prefer the big artwork be done then. Also I’m too tired to do one lmao.

Some general updates and announcements below the cut:

Hornet’s Strange Adventures:

While initially my plan was to have the whole base game done by January, life likes to get in the way. I have made zero progress since my last major update about barely getting things into the game engine I chose. Going forward, it’s possible this project will not be done any time soon but it will happen eventually. (I almost sound as bad as team cherry lol). Progress will be a lot slower than I want unfortunately since I’m kinda burned out at this point.

Continuing Hornet Journal Series/changes:

So I’m still technically on this project currently. While at the beginning it was fun and ambitious, I can definitely feel the burnout from it too. I do want to finish this project to the end, but I refuse to make myself post it every day because that’s made me more and more upset about having to just get it done instead of enjoying it. So going forward with this project, I plan to only post Journal Entries about once or twice a week with large batches of entries in one drawing until it’s done. Even if it happens after my two year anniversary. (Though it’s likely it’ll still finish before then I believe.) This is just so I don’t get absolutely exhausted from this again.

General life stuff:

So I meant to mention this on my main but I was too emotionally exhausted to explain it and didn’t feel like to afterward. I member of my close family passed away a few days after christmas. We already knew this was coming so it’s actually why I took a break from my big project with the journal series around that time and haven’t been able to really pick it back up until now. It’s also the reason a lot of general doodles have been posted late and/or are not that high of effort. I’m just tired.

And this kinda leads into my next thing.

Taking an actual break:

1 month left. That’s how long I plan to keep doing daily doodles for. Once my 2 year anniversary hits, I’m no longer planning to post every day. As you can imagine, posting something every day for two years can take a toll and life has changed a lot since two years ago. I really want to move on to bigger things now and keeping this blog running at constant speed hasn’t allowed me to do that. So I’ve made the decision that I’ll be taking a long break from that.

Will I return to daily doodles ever? Yes, technically.

My plan is start daily doodles back up only when a Silksong release date is announced (if it ever is.) Ptherwise my art/doodles will be posted very infrequently, especially at the beginning when taking my break. For sake of mental health and creative burnout with this blog, this is the best decision I could reasonably come too

—

But thank you all for your wonderful and continued support of this blog!! I look forward to the last official month of daily doodles!

[applecidersugar]

Sweet Treat

Soap x Baker!reader. Very wholesome, very sweet. Tempted to make a whole oc dedicated to this idea tbh. I have not written in ages, so if this is bad or has odd pacing, I promise I can write 😭. Also, there are not really any triggers so don't worry! Just some wholesome fluff. Also shout out to @readgoods for responding to my ask and inspiring this piece.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Soap has lived in the same cycle for as long as he could remember. Blood, gunfire, smoke. Life and death situations that he had no ability to control. Unmanageable stress he tried so hard to get a grip on. The man had no consistency in his life ever since he enlisted.

The one bit of normality Johnny had was bakeries.

Every town, every village, every place has that one good shop to buy something sweet. From German Apple Pancakes to Coffee Jelly, Soap has tasted a sweet treat everywhere he's gone. It's consistent, it's sweet. It brings light to otherwise dark times in his life.

So when he heard the town he was stationed in had a brand new bakery opening, Soap knew he'd have to go. So on his one day off, the man got dressed and walked down to town just for some sweets. When he actually arrived at the bakery, the soldier had to stop and compare photos.

The ones on the map showed this... beige building. But the building before him was a soft lavender color with a hand painted door. There were flowers outside, there was a pretty sign. It looked a hell of a lot better than he expected.

Walking inside, Soap relaxed a bit. Just a quiet bakery with a nice seating area. The smell of baked goods and real coffee hit his senses like a truck. Setting his bag down to claim a seat, the Scotsman walked up to the counter.

He barely read over the menu before he saw her. This woman, who seemed sweet and a little shy. Her eyes seemed to sparkle when Soap even looked at the counter. Maybe she was stunned someone like him had decided to get a pastry. That's a fair reaction, he's gotten that a lot. As Soap speed read through the menu, he decided on what he'd like.

"Hello, welcome to Berry Sweet Bakery!" The woman started, her cheeks glowing as Soap straighten his back. "What can I get for you today?"

"Can I get a caramel macchiato? No whipped cream just the caramel on top. And one of those little..." Soap paused, his mind going blank as the pretty lass in front of him gave him this big, doe eyes smile. Man, he's missed seeing women.

An odd thought to have, but a very real one. The only woman he's seen lately was either Laswell, who he had no interest in, or Farah. And, in Soap's opinion, Farah is basically his sister. So the man hasn't looked at a not professional woman in... in a hot minute.

The woman didn't rush him, didn't make him hurry. She just stood there with that reassuring smile. Good god, this woman was gorgeous. Pretty eyes, soft looking lips. An angel before him. Soap finally was able to snap out of his daze before speaking.

"Sorry, lost my train of thought. An apple fritter, please."

As the woman rang him up, Soap noticed the burn scars near her wrists. Such a sweet girl shouldn't be getting burned by her oven. His eyes glanced over to the little doorway, staring at the big ovens. It's a wonder this girl isn't hot and uncomfortable all the time. He breaks a sweat anytime he's on the field or near fire or-

Soap paused, staring at the receipt. It was only a couple pounds, but it should be more. He wondered if maybe he just read the signs wrong. Maybe he got the cheaper options this go around. So as the man went and sat down to wait for coffee, he dragged out a sketchbook. Art was another constant in Soap's life, all the way back when he was a lad. It keeps him sane. Keeps him human, he'd joke.

After a few minutes, that gorgeous girl appeared again. Soap barely looked up when she set the plate down, mostly in fear he'd embarrass himself. Out the corner of his eye, he noticed there was an extra apple fritter. One he didn't order. And his macchiato was a large, with an intricate flower made from caramel on top.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am. But I didn't order-"

"It's on the house. Consider it a thank you for your service." The woman cut him off, offering a kind smile. Soap raised a brow before she pointed to his army tattoo. Ah. Right. Makes sense. Military discount. Not because she- never mind.

"Thank you, lass. Though you don't need to thank me. Seeing people living happy lives, seeing people thrive and live their dreams? That's what keeps me going."

The woman gave Soap a smile, and Soap swore he felt his heart skip a beat. Soap realizes now just how much he missed being around women. Especially pretty women. He could feel his nerves spike as the woman giggled in response, her eyes crinkling in a way that made lighting buzz under Johnny's skin.

"You're so poetic." She started, looking around the café. "This place was my grandmother's. She and my grandfather raised me. She passed this January. I thought I'd give it my go at the business. Ya know, keep her honor alive."

"That's touching." Soap managed to say as he reached for his coffee. In all honesty, this woman was the first normal person he's talked to. Lord knows Ghost and Price aren't normal. Taking a sip, Soap grinned. "I think you're doing great. This is incredible."

The rest of that afternoon was spent talking to the woman as she went about her work duties. Soap just smiled and sketched her at every possible angle he could. And the woman just kept working about, rambling about life and other things. When the inevitable customer came in, Soap was able to really look at his work. She was...wonderful in his eyes. The way she laughed, the way she scrunched up her face when she focused. All these little things seemed to add up into a woman Soap found to be inspiring.

And, if he was completely honest, she was hot. Like, Soap had to fight the urge to flirt with her because God knows he doesn't want to fuck this up.

At the end of her shift, Soap let her clean up and get things put into boxes. Though he was quite surprised to see this woman load up her van with baked goods.

"Hey, dove. What are ya doing?" He asked, leaning against the brick wall.

The woman smiled, setting the boxes down before turning to Soap. "I donate all my day old pastries to the women's shelter in town. Keeps food from being wasted. Plus raccoons don't dig in my trash as much." She explained as she shut her hatch.

"Aren't you an angel?" Soap teased, before realizing the woman had a box in her hand. He raised a brow as she handed it to him. Blinking, Soap looked back at the woman he just rubbed the back of her neck.

"Thought you may like some to take to base. I know you may never be back here again, so I thought you maybe wanna keep some for later in the week. Or share them! Just don't let anyone read the inside of the box. That's only for you."

Soap stood there in stunned silence as he looked at this girl. She was giving him sweets to take back to base. This girl seems genuinely sad that he's leaving. The soldier could hardly speak as he just held the box in his hands. No one, in any place he visited, gave him some to take back home. No one ever made him feel like he'd be missed. Not even his mother gave him this type of kindness when he left.

"I'll be back one day. I promise." Soap insited, making the girl smile. "And when I do, I'll be your little errand boy. Do deliveries, wear an apron. May even wear the silly little hat most bakers wear."

The woman laughed, and Soap knew he'd have to come back someday. Come hell or high water, he'd come back and see this random girl again. She grinned back at Soap before walking towards her car.

"I'd love to see you in an apron. And I'm gonna hold you to it, MacTavish." She shouted, stepping into her car. Sticking her head out the window, the girl shouted again. "I'll see you later! Be safe!"

As the girl drove off, Soap flipped open the boxes lid. His eyes went wide as he read the paper note taped inside.

"Here's my number so you can text me. And here's my Instagram if you wanna follow me. Stay safe!"

Soap practically ran back to base to show off the pretty girl he became friends with. He followed her as soon as he was home, and as he ate his box of sweets, he couldn't help but think of the pretty lass who he drew over and over again.

It's a good thing Price told the team they'd be here for the next couple of months. He couldn't hide his excitement as he checked his phone after briefing.

Maybe a sweet treat couldn't hurt.

[hyperballart]

pls we need what happens after patrick finds repressed art's porn history pls pls pls 🙏🙏🙏

prev.

they definitely don’t want to bring it up out of guilt from both sides. patrick wants art to be selfish for once, for him to take what he wants from him and let go, but that’s a wish that would be hard to come by. art is in a different headspace — he finds it difficult to sleep next to patrick for the first time in the years since they’ve started pushing their beds together (they always said they were too small but won’t admit that it’s because they like staying close.) he’s paranoid of acting on all the wet dreams he’s been having, waking up with a gasp and grinding his cock with the mattress until he runs to the bathroom and waits for it to go down.

it seems as if their overthinking paired up and cruelly manifested the present; where patrick is rudely forced awake at an ungodly hour by some rustling. he is used to art kicking the blankets off in his sleep and he’s about to pull the duvet over himself with a huff when he suddenly realizes he is actually warm — too warm, in fact. it’s then when he registers the whining, an incoherent chant coming from the body that is directly pressed behind his own.

he doesn’t move. art is asleep, but he grinds into patrick from behind, fully hard and almost piercing through his boxers. they’re not cuddlers so patrick is confused even more when he feels the tightening grip art’s arms holding him. he really is at a loss of knowing what to do, the moment his brain computed that his best friend was using him to get off from a wet dream his mind fogged and cock twitched in interest.

a particular push of art’s hips has him moaning subconsciously, he quickly shuts his mouth, but when art suddenly groans out a patrick, nnghh a louder sound escapes him. that is what jolts the blonde awake. it takes him about 30 seconds of silence to understand the scene and figure out that patrick was conscious to know as well. his face is burning and he flops on his back while he tries to say something, “oh my fucking god, i don’t know what— it’s not what it looked like,” and he can hear patrick stifle a laugh.

“are you good?” patrick sounds a lot more calm than what the situation calls for, as if he’s not leaking through his underwear. art shoots him a look even though the darkness of the bedroom conceals his expression, “sorry, lately i’ve been a little off. i haven’t really — um — you know, gotten off in a while or whatever,” he’s scrambling, “i was just having a dream, i guess — and um, you were there and i don’t know.”

patrick opens his mouth without thinking, “why are you making this weird, man, i don’t mind.” a beat of silence.

“what?”

“what i’m saying is, you’re my best friend. i’m doing you a solid,” he tries to rationalize without sounding desperate, “you just need a warm body s’all, you can keep going — it’s not like we’re technically touching each other.”

after a bit of dubious back and forth, art hesitantly brushes up against patrick’s ass and let’s out a long sigh. patrick feels him holding back and he puts a stop to it quickly, “it’s okay artie, do what feels good.”

and so, he does. the tent in his boxers is so hard and warm against patrick, he makes shallow grinds and keens when the brunet subtly arches his back to push back. “f—fuck patrick, i can’t stop , ah—“

“don’t fucking stop art, i know it feels good—hmm,” art’s hands grip the sheets to keep them from grasping at patrick. he takes a peek over his shoulder and sees his friend’s bare chest; dusted by hair and filled out with muscle. his eyes trail lower and he sees the way his stomach is sucking in deep breaths of his restrained arousal, but then he looks lower and spots that he is also very hard — the sight pushes him to a hard thrust and a whine.

the fact that he has been wanting this for a long time (even if unknowingly) makes it so much hotter. the fantasy of seeing the cocky boy he’s shared clothes and cigarettes with struggling to act unaffected — eyes shut and lip held between teeth — is quickly sending him to his end.

“patrick — i think i’m gonna —“ art can’t stop himself from letting go of the duvet and grasping on to patrick’s hips instead and making him fuck back on his cock through the fabric. “oh shit, i’m there — i’m almost there, just let me use you a little more—“

patrick himself is on the verge of coming untouched, being used activates a slutty part of himself, “c’mon keep fucking me like you mean it — ah — that’s right.” he slips in something that can be misunderstood by the boy behind him in his state of ecstasy, but will still take his breath away: “cum in me, art. i want you to.”

art squeals out a pitiful sound, almost like a sob, before he spills out against patrick. his cum is bleeding through both of their boxers and none of them seem to be alarmed by this. he leaves bruises on patricks hips while he rides out his high and melts into the mattress with his mouth panting behind his neck.

when he’s coming down and gaining consciousness he mutters three words before falling back to sleep, i’m not gay.

patrick wants to bring up his search history, but he’ll save it for another day.

[muiitoloko]

Hey there! I absolutely love the way you write the sheriff and was wondering your take on how the sheriff would behave with more masculine woman, one who wears men’s clothing, and is a hunter, and who’s quite tall and muscular. I think it would be interesting to see how he would behave when faced with a woman who actually stands up to him and who he really has to work to gain any affection from. I also see him not understanding her at all at first, but finding her interesting, perhaps he sees her shoot a deer while on a hunt and finds it weirdly sexy, would LOVE to some internal conflict with him as he realises that he actually finds this bizarre woman very attractive.

I love your work so much!!!

Title: A Demon With Breasts

Summary: George swears the strange huntress in the woods is a demon—stronger than a man, silent as the grave, and utterly infuriating—but why, then, does he crave her presence so damn much?

Pairing: Sheriff of Nottingham × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Obsession.

Author's Notes: Thank you for your request; I hope you enjoy it.

Also read on Ao3

The forest was alive with the whisper of the wind through ancient trees, the rustle of unseen creatures darting through the underbrush, and the occasional snap of twigs underfoot. It was the perfect setting for a hunt—solitary, brutal, and, most importantly, a place where the Sheriff of Nottingham could best his cousin without the inconvenience of an audience.

George stood at the edge of the glade, the weight of his crossbow comforting in his hands. His long black hair, slightly damp with sweat, clung to his jawline, and his hazel eyes burned with predatory focus. He had seen the deer—a magnificent stag, muscles rippling under its tawny hide, antlers like the twisted limbs of the very trees surrounding it.

He had to kill it first. He would kill it first.

On the other side of the glade, somewhere deeper in the undergrowth, was Sir Guy of Gisbourne, his ever-irritating cousin and the only man alive who had mastered the art of being insufferable at all hours of the day. They had wagered a small fortune on this hunt—first kill takes all. A friendly competition, if one ignored the fact that George would rather eat his own boots than let Guy best him.

George licked his lips, lifted the crossbow, and took aim, then—

The arrow whizzed through the air with a sharp whistle and embedded itself in the stag’s side. George’s breath caught as the great beast staggered, letting out a low, mournful cry before its legs buckled beneath it. His grip tightened on the crossbow as his brain scrambled to make sense of what had just happened.

Where had that arrow come from? He hadn't fired, and neither had Guy—he would have heard that bastard’s obnoxious laugh if he had. Then, from the canopy of trees above, something moved.

No. Someone.

George barely had time to process before you dropped down from a thick branch, landing beside the dying stag with a feline grace. The air around you was thick with the scent of damp earth and crushed leaves, and as you crouched beside the beast, stroking its heaving flank, George narrowed his eyes.

A man, surely. A tall, strong figure wrapped in dark, practical clothing. Someone who clearly lived outside the bounds of proper civilization, judging by the rough edges and the primal way they carried themselves.

You didn’t acknowledge him at first, not even as he stormed forward, boots crunching against twigs and fallen leaves.

“You thief,” he hissed, voice rich with fury. “That was my kill.”

Still, you ignored him. The stag shuddered one last time, exhaling its final breath. You whispered something—some strange language George couldn’t place—before closing its glassy eyes with careful fingers.

That simple act of reverence only made his blood boil hotter. With a growl, he raised his crossbow and aimed directly at the back of your head. “Stand up, you coward, and face the man you’ve just stolen from.”

And finally, you turned, and George froze.

What…? That wasn’t a man.

His mind floundered, grasping at anything logical, but all it could do was stutter and stall as he took in the bizarre woman before him.

A strange woman.

George noticed how tall you were as you stood up, not taller than him, but certainly taller than most women. Your arms were thin yet strong, and you faced him with a quiet intensity that unsettled him. For a moment, all he could do was stare, his grip tightening on the crossbow. He had expected a rugged outlaw, a common thief, or even one of Robin Hood’s pathetic Merry Men.

Instead, he got… this.

A bizarre woman.

A woman who had just stolen his kill, yet carried herself with an almost unnerving calm. Finally, George’s mouth caught up with his brain, and what spilled out was something only he could manage. “You… you’re a demon.”

You blinked.

“With breasts,” he clarified, as though that somehow made his accusation more logical.

You blinked again.

George scowled, confused and slightly unnerved by your utter lack of reaction. “Oh, so you’re mute, too?” he snapped, growing irritated. “A mute demon with breasts. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.”

Without a word, you knelt, grasped the stag by its antlers, and, with shocking ease, hoisted the entire beast onto your shoulders as though it weighed no more than a sack of grain. George could only gape in horror as you turned away and started walking, completely ignoring his very important, very indignant presence.

“Oh, no you don’t!” George shouted, storming after you, his boots crunching against the undergrowth. “You do not just steal my kill and saunter off like some mystical woodland spirit! That’s mine, you insufferable—”

You kept walking.

George quickened his pace. “Oi! I am speaking to you, woman!”

Still, you ignored him.

“I will have my venison! You will acknowledge my existence! You will—”

A sudden yank stopped him mid-rant. His cloak had caught on a gnarled tree branch, jerking him back with an undignified grunt.

He stumbled, struggled, flailed like an angry cat in a bath. “Son of a—bloody—fucking—”

When he finally yanked himself free, nearly toppling over in the process, he whirled around—only to find the glade empty. His jaw dropped.

His deer?

Gone.

The demon woman?

Gone.

His pride?

Wounded.

A feral scream of frustration tore from George’s throat, echoing through the forest with all the grace of a man who had just lost a fight to his own wardrobe.

On the other side of the forest, meanwhile, Sir Guy of Gisbourne was kneeling, crossbow aimed at a particularly plump rabbit. He held his breath, waiting for the perfect shot. His finger tightened on the trigger. The rabbit twitched its nose.

And then—

“AAAAAAAARGHHHHH!”

The unholy wail sent the rabbit fleeing in terror. Sir Guy, watching his dinner disappear into the undergrowth, exhaled slowly and pinched the bridge of his nose.

The road back to Nottingham was long, but for Sir Guy of Gisbourne, it was far longer than usual. Not because of the terrain, not because of the weather, not even because of the miserable lack of game in his saddlebag.

“I hate my family.”

No—tonight’s journey stretched into eternity for one reason and one reason alone: George.

The Sheriff of Nottingham had not stopped talking since they left the forest. He rode beside his cousin, gripping the reins of his black stallion with one hand while wildly gesturing with the other, his long black hair whipping in the wind as he recounted—again—his harrowing encounter with the demon woman with breasts.

“And I tell you, Guy—she wasn’t human!” George declared, eyes blazing as he nearly lost control of his horse in his dramatics. “She moved like the shadows themselves! Silent. Calculated. Unnatural.”

Sir Guy, resigned to his fate, merely nodded along. “Mmm.”

“And she was strong, Guy—stronger than a man!” George insisted, twisting in his saddle. “She lifted the stag—lifted it—as if it weighed no more than a feather!”

“Shocking,” Guy deadpanned, adjusting his gauntlet.

“I knew you’d understand,” George said, either missing or ignoring his cousin’s lack of enthusiasm. “I mean, how could she not be a demon? Tall as a man, built like a beast, and mute as the grave!”

Sir Guy hummed in vague agreement.

“And her eyes!” George continued, undeterred. “Cold. Unfeeling. No remorse for her crime!”

Sir Guy tilted his head. “Crime?”

“Theft, Guy!” George roared, gripping his horse’s reins as if they were the demon woman’s neck. “She stole from me! From my very hands! MY DEER!”

Sir Guy exhaled slowly, trying—really trying—not to roll his eyes. “George, you didn’t even shoot the damn thing.”

George ignored him. “And let’s not forget the most heinous crime of all.”

Sir Guy braced himself. “Oh, please, do tell.”

George turned to him, eyes gleaming with righteous fury. “She is evading taxes.”

Sir Guy actually choked. “What?”

George’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, his expression grave. “I realized it just as we were leaving the forest, Guy. That demon woman… she’s not just some wildling lurking in the woods. She’s a criminal. A tax thief.”

Sir Guy blinked. “A tax thief.”

“Yes.”

“A woman. Living in the woods. Hunting her own food.”

“Yes.”

“And your conclusion… is that she is evading taxes.”

George scoffed. “Guy, don’t be simple. Where does she get her income?”

Sir Guy opened his mouth. Then closed it.

George smirked, triumphant. “Exactly. She is a thief, Guy, a menace to society! She steals my game, my coin, my patience!” He shook his head, gripping the pommel of his saddle. “But she will not steal my pride.”

Sir Guy ran a hand down his face. “George, please, for the love of God—”

“Tomorrow, I return to that forest.”

Sir Guy sighed. “George—”

“I will find her.”

“Oh, no.”

“And I will—” George’s lips curled into a wicked grin, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper—“rip out her demon heart… with a spoon.”

Sir Guy groaned loudly, throwing his head back. “By all things holy, not the spoon again.”

“Oh, yes, Guy. The spoon.” George tightened the reins. “Imagine it—the slow, agonizing scrape of cold metal against flesh… inch by inch… her screams of agony echoing through the forest…” He let out a wistful sigh, as if imagining a particularly fine vintage of wine. “A work of art.”

Sir Guy’s expression was one of pure suffering. They rode in silence for a moment.

Then—

“…How would you even find her?” Guy asked, against his better judgment.

George grinned. “Oh, she’ll come to me.”

Sir Guy gave him a look. “And what makes you think that?”

George’s smirk was pure evil. “Because, dear cousin—I will set a trap.”

George was not accustomed to patience. He was a man of action, of power, of immediate gratification. When he wanted something, he took it. But for three long, infuriating days, he had returned to the woods, waiting for her to appear.

Sir Guy sighed so deeply it could have been mistaken for a death rattle.

And for three long, infuriating days, she did not.

No demon woman, no thief, no tax-evading forest creature with a disturbingly calm demeanor. Just trees, silence, and the oppressive weight of his own wounded pride.

By the third day, George was half-convinced she had never existed. That he had been tricked by some fae spirit into imagining the entire affair. That his mind, exhausted by years of stress, had conjured up some feverish hallucination to torment him.

But then, of course, he had gone and sprained his bloody foot. It was, in hindsight, a deeply humiliating injury. He had not been in the midst of battle, nor had he fallen victim to some treacherous woodland beast. No, he had been stepping over a particularly gnarled root, swearing under his breath about the lack of proper roads in this godforsaken place, when his foot had twisted at an unnatural angle and pain had shot up his leg like wildfire.

And now, here he lay, sprawled pathetically on the forest floor, scowling up at the indifferent sky, clutching his ankle as he groaned in a very dignified, very masculine way.

“Marvelous,” he muttered. “Simply marvelous.”

His horse had bolted at the moment of his fall, which was entirely the animal’s fault. A poor reflection of its training. And now he, the Sheriff of Nottingham, was alone in the wilderness, injured, with no one to—

A sound.

Soft. Barely there.

Someone was here.

George held his breath, his hazel eyes flicking to the tree line. And then—

There she was.

Appearing as though conjured by his very thoughts, she emerged from the underbrush, silent as a ghost, moving with that same impossible grace. A satchel hung over her back, and she paid him no attention as she knelt by a nearby tree, picking up a twig of all things, examining it with what seemed to be great interest.

George’s eye twitched. “You,” he hissed, propping himself up on his elbows. “Demon woman.”

She ignored him.

He clenched his jaw. “I have been waiting for you for three days, three days, and you choose now to appear?”

Still, she ignored him. George was not accustomed to being ignored.

His scowl deepened. “Are you deaf?!”

Nothing.

“Are you simple?!”

Nothing.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face before attempting to sit up fully—only for a fresh wave of pain to shoot through his foot. He winced, biting back a curse, realizing with dawning horror that he could not walk.

He was alone in the woods, injured, with no way to—

No.

No, he was not alone.

His gaze snapped back to her, and for the first time in his life, he uttered a word he never used.

“…Please.”

She hesitated.

Ah.

George narrowed his eyes, licking his lips as he forced his voice into something softer. “Please,” he repeated, tilting his head ever so slightly, mustering what he hoped was a humble expression. “I am injured. I require assistance.”

A long pause.

Then—without warning—she moved.

In one swift motion, she closed the distance between them, knelt down, and before George could even react—

She lifted him. Like a bride.

George froze; his brain short-circuited. For a moment, all he could do was exist in this utterly bizarre reality. His arms instinctively looped around her shoulders, his long black hair falling over his face as he blinked in utter shock.

So this was what women felt like when they were carried.

It was… rather nice.

Dare he say, wonderful.

Oh, yes.

Yes, he could get used to this. He felt like a queen.

The warmth of her body against his, the way she carried him effortlessly, the power in her stride—this was the sort of luxury he had been deprived of all his life. From now on, he decided, the castle servants would carry him everywhere.

Up close, he could study her properly. She smelled like the forest—damp earth and pine, wild and untamed. Her face, now that he had the chance to examine it, was not entirely unpleasant. Not beautiful, perhaps, but striking. Sharp features, fierce eyes.

He smirked. “You know,” he drawled, “you are not as hideous as I originally thought.”

No response.

He blinked. “Ah. The mute act again.”

Still, nothing.

He tilted his head. “Where, pray tell, are you taking me?”

She walked in silence.

His smirk widened. “Ah, planning to keep me for ransom, are you? Wise. I am, after all, a very valuable man.” Nothing.

George huffed, adjusting his hold on her shoulders. “Really, now. Must you be so—”

You turned your head, your gaze locking onto his. “You talk too much.”

George gasped. He gasped.

“You speak?”

You went back to ignoring him.

His jaw fell open. “You speak!”

Silence.

“This entire time, you could speak?!”

Nothing.

“Oi! Say something else!”

You did not.

George fumed. “Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable.”

Despite his protests, he made no effort to move from her grasp. No, he quite liked this arrangement. It was, in a way, almost intimate. He had never been this close to a woman before without some degree of plotting involved.

It was rather… nice.

By the time she carried him into a clearing, he had more or less resigned himself to his fate. A cabin stood before them, half-hidden by the trees, rough and weathered but sturdy. You carried him inside, setting him down on a cut tree stump near the fireplace before kneeling before him.

Without warning, you grasped his boot.

George stiffened. “Hold on, I do not—”

You yanked it off.

A strangled noise escaped his throat.

Then your hands were on him—strong, calloused fingers tracing the swollen skin of his ankle, pressing, testing, sending sharp jolts of sensation up his leg.

George inhaled sharply. “Ah.”

A smirk tugged at your lips.

His brow twitched. “That was entirely unnecessary.”

You pressed harder. George yelped.

“Oh, you enjoy this, don’t you?” he hissed, gripping the stump beneath him.

You said nothing. Your fingers worked expertly, massaging the swelling, applying careful pressure, sending small sparks of pleasure and pain curling through his nerves.

George exhaled sharply. “You are… quite thorough."

You stood up and walked away from him.

George wondered what you were going to do now. Eat him?

Of course.

Demon women with breasts eat men.

His stomach clenched, his hazel eyes darting around the clearing as panic curled around his mind like a viper. That was the only logical conclusion. He, the esteemed Sheriff of Nottingham, had just been carried off by some wild, inhuman woman, brought to her lair—her hunting ground—and now she was going to devour him like a fattened hog at a feast.

He had read about creatures like this in old, dusty tomes. Witches. Forest demons. Fae tricksters with uncanny strength and dead eyes. Oh, how the monks in the abbey would laugh at his fate! Eaten by a mute, tax-evading she-beast of the woods. The scandal of it!

As he scrambled to his feet, pain shot up his leg, forcing him to sit back down with an undignified grunt. Cursing under his breath, he watched as you crouched beside the firepit, pulling branches from your satchel.

George’s mind reeled.

What was this? A fire?

To… roast him?

His breath hitched in his throat. He could already see it—his own sorry corpse, skewered over an open flame, rotating slowly as you basted him like a prize hog. Would you season him first? Perhaps rub some forest herbs onto his skin before carving into him? Oh, how humiliating!

The great and terrible Sheriff of Nottingham, reduced to supper. He refused to be seasoned.

“That’s quite enough of that, you wretched creature!” he barked, jabbing a finger in your direction. “You will not cook me, you hear?! I am not some lowly peasant to be boiled and basted like a common stew!”

You ignored him. He seethed.

“How dare you treat me with such indifference! I demand—demand, I say!—that you return me to Nottingham this instant!”

Still, you paid him no mind, calmly arranging the branches in the pit.

“Have you no respect for authority?” he continued, voice rising in frustration. “Do you know who I am? I am the law, woman! The law! And I—”

“I’m going to get your horse,” you said flatly.

George blinked; his brain needed a moment to adjust.

“What?”

You dusted your hands off and turned to him, expression unreadable. “Your horse,” you repeated. “I’m going to find it. In the meantime, you can warm yourself by the fire.”

George stared. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t… that.

“You—” He licked his lips. “You mean to say you are not…?”

You gave him a long, unreadable look. “I am not going to eat you.”

Silence.

Then—

“Oh.”

A beat.

George coughed into his fist, shifting awkwardly on the stump. “Well,” he muttered, “that is a relief.”

You turned away without another word, striding back into the forest, disappearing between the trees as soundlessly as you had arrived.

George sat still, listening as the quiet returned, the fire crackling faintly beside him. It took precisely thirty seconds for his pride to recover enough to fume.

“How dare she!” he muttered under his breath. “How dare she abduct me only to not eat me!”

But even as he grumbled, he found himself glancing around, curiosity slowly overtaking indignation. Now that the initial panic had passed, he took in his surroundings properly for the first time.

And what he saw only made him more irritated.

Leftover meat hung from a crude wooden rack, some dried and some still fresh, the scent of blood mingling with the damp earth. A few animal skins stretched across the clearing, drying under the fading sun, their edges curling with age. Nearby, a splintered wooden table sat covered in an assortment of bones, broken tools, and what might have been an old drinking horn. The hut itself—if one could even call it that—was small, haphazardly constructed, and utterly filthy. The door hung slightly ajar, revealing nothing but darkness within.

George wrinkled his nose.

This was no demon’s lair. This was a hovel.

A wretched, unkempt, poorly maintained hovel.

He scoffed. Disgusting.

The woman clearly had no sense of hygiene. No sense of organization. No—no decorum. If she were to be a proper outlaw, she could at least have some taste.

He crossed his arms. Oh, this simply would not do.

If he was to be stranded here for any length of time, he would have to set things right.

And first thing first—

George didn’t know what irritated him more—the fact that you had so effortlessly located his horse, or the way you handed him the reins without so much as a word before turning away like he was nothing more than a passing inconvenience.

That table needed cleaning.

He stared at you, then at the reins in his hands, then back at you. His brain, still struggling to catch up, did its best to conjure a suitably scathing remark.

“Ah—so that’s it, then?” he scoffed, lifting a brow. “I am simply to be dismissed? Sent away like an unruly child?”

You didn’t even look at him.

George bristled. “I refuse.”

You did not respond.

“I refuse, I say!”

Still nothing.

“I will not—"

Before he could finish, your hand shot out, grabbing the back of his coat with a firm grip, and with terrifying ease, you shoved him onto his horse.

George flailed. “What in the—?!”

Then, before he could so much as curse you to the high heavens, you gave his stallion a sharp slap on the flank. The horse, startled, bolted.

“YOU WRETCHED—!!”

His outraged scream echoed through the forest as he clung to the reins for dear life, his stallion thundering down the path, carrying him straight back to Nottingham in an undignified, furious mess.

Not that it mattered, because as soon as his foot healed, George returned.

And then he returned again.

And again.

And again.

Before the sun had even properly risen—you heard a distant, unholy screech echoing through the forest.

“DEMON WOMAN! SHOW YOURSELF!”

You ignored it. And yet, day after day, the screaming continued.

“COME OUT, YOU TAX-STEALING, GAME-THIEVING, UNHOLY CREATURE!”

“DID YOU THINK I WOULD JUST LEAVE?! I AM THE SHERIFF OF NOTTINGHAM, YOU WRETCHED—”

“YOU CANNOT HIDE FROM ME FOREVER!”

This went on for an entire week.

The first few times, he made an effort to track you down. He bumbled through the woods, tripping over roots, cursing loudly, occasionally getting his cloak stuck on branches like some absurdly dramatic cat. At one point, he found a pile of deer droppings and, in his infinite wisdom, tried to determine if they were fresh—resulting in a very loud, very undignified gagging fit.

You watched from a tree, mildly entertained.

But then, on the eighth day, you made a grave miscalculation.

You let your guard down.

George followed you long enough to memorize the path to your cabin, and from that moment on, he no longer wasted time searching; he came straight to you.

The first time George entered your cabin, he looked around with exaggerated surprise, hands on his hips. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, hazel eyes sweeping over the room. “This is… shockingly civilized.”

Every damn day.

You didn’t bother responding.

Because, of course, the idiot had expected filth. He had expected a hovel of sticks and dirt, some crude cave where you—his so-called “demon woman with breasts”—lived like a wild beast.

Instead, he found a meticulously organized cabin.

Shelves lined the walls, stacked with dried herbs and neatly labeled jars. A sturdy wooden table sat by the window, its surface polished, free of dust. Your weapons were mounted carefully on the far wall, well-maintained and sharpened to a deadly gleam. Even the furs spread across your bed were arranged with purpose.

George scowled. “This is unacceptable.”

You turned to him, arching a brow.

He gestured wildly. “Where is the chaos? The filth? The wretched stench of depravity? You’re supposed to be a witch-man, not a—” He made a vague, disgusted gesture. “—a homemaker!”

You didn’t dignify that with an answer.

Instead, you grabbed a piece of bread, ripped it in half, and sat down at your table to eat.

George watched you.

Then he sat down, too.

Then he reached for your bread.

You slapped his hand away.

He recoiled, gasping as if you had just stabbed him. “The audacity!”

You sighed. “George.”

He blinked, as if he hadn't expected you to say his name. That you knew his name.

You met his gaze, voice flat. “Get out.”

He ignored you.

Instead, he draped himself over the table, dramatically resting his chin on his fist. “You know,” he mused, “this wouldn’t be such an unpleasant arrangement if you weren’t such a cold-hearted goblin.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose.

George took that as an invitation to keep talking. “And really, you should be flattered by my presence,” he continued, absently twirling a dagger he had no business touching. “Most women would kill for my company.”

You snatched the dagger from his fingers and slammed it into the table.

George grinned. “Oh, you like it rough.”

You stared at him, considering your life choices. At what point, exactly, had things gone so catastrophically wrong?

Because now—now—you had this: An annoying man.

A man who ate your food, despite contributing nothing; a man who followed you around, despite being absolutely useless; a man who made demands as if you owed him something; a man who, despite all logic and reason, refused to leave.

And worst of all—

A man who called you every name in the book.

Demon with breasts.

Witch-man.

Goblin.

Beast in woman’s skin.

Tax-evading monstrosity.

And, just yesterday—

“Curse you, you venison-thieving harpy!”

It had taken everything in you not to strangle him.

And now, now, he was back. Again.

Eating your food. Again.

Making himself at home in your cabin, as if he belonged here. Again.

And you—you—had reached your limit.

Which was why, when George leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head, smug as ever, and drawled, “Face it, goblin, you’ll never get rid of me,”—

You slammed your hands onto the table, leaned forward, and hissed—

"My name is [Your Name]."

George froze, his smirk faltering, his brows lifting slightly. For once, he looked genuinely surprised.

You narrowed your eyes, voice dripping with irritation. “Say it.”

George blinked.

Then, slowly, a slow, wicked grin curled across his lips.

“Oh,” he purred, leaning in.

Something in his gaze changed. Something filthy.

You regretted everything immediately.

“[Your Name],” he murmured, rolling the syllables in his mouth like fine wine.

You clenched your jaw. He smirked.

“Oh, I like that,” he murmured. “It suits you.”

You had never wanted to throw someone into a fire more.

George’s hazel eyes gleamed with something far too pleased, far too wicked, and when he leaned closer, voice dipping into that low, taunting purr, you knew you had made a mistake.

“Tell me, [Your Name],” he mused, voice like silk and sin, “do all demons have names?”

You were going to murder him.

George tilted his head, watching you with an infuriatingly smug expression. Then, with deliberate slowness, he picked up the bread, took a bite, and smirked.

“You’re a terrible host, you know.”

You stared at him. Then, in one swift motion, you grabbed his entire chair and tipped it over.

George yelped, crashing to the floor in a heap of flailing limbs and wounded dignity.

You stood over him, glaring down, your patience utterly obliterated. “Get. Out.”

He blinked up at you, utterly unbothered.

Then he grinned.

“Oh, [Your Name],” he drawled, sprawled on the floor like a fallen king. “I’m never leaving.”

You inhaled sharply.

You were going to kill him.

You were going to gut him.

But—

God help you—

The days passed with an infuriating, exasperating, utterly impossible routine.

You almost smirked.

Every morning, George would storm into your clearing like a man possessed, ranting about your crimes—theft, tax evasion, demonry!—as if he had any authority over you out here in the wild. Every afternoon, he would follow you around like a lost pup, peppering you with endless, insufferable questions.

And every evening, he would make himself comfortable in your cabin, refusing to leave, claiming it was his right to ensure that the dangerous forest witch-man wasn’t plotting against Nottingham.

You had long since stopped trying to throw him out; it never worked. Instead, you tolerated him, barely.

But George, for all his dramatics and arrogance, had curiosity. And curiosity, in a man like him, was a dangerous thing.

“So.” He propped his boots up on your table one evening, smirking as he took a sip of your ale. “You live out here. Alone.”

You nodded, skin still warm from a hard day’s hunt.

George tilted his head. “Why?”

You huffed, reaching for your knife to sharpen it. “Because I have no other choice.”

George squinted at you, clearly not satisfied. “Oh, come now. No family to speak of?”

“No.”

His brows lifted slightly, intrigued. “None at all?”

You shook your head. “My parents died when I was young. I was left to fend for myself.”

Silence.

George hated silence.

“So, you’ve lived in this miserable little woodland your whole life?”

You didn’t even look at him. “Yes.”

“That explains why you’re built like an ox.”

You rolled your eyes. “Strength comes with necessity.”

George let out an incredulous chuckle. “Necessity?” He scoffed. “Women aren’t supposed to be strong.”

You didn’t even glance up from your blade. “Men aren’t supposed to be insufferable, yet here we are.”

George’s smirk faltered. His eye twitched.

You had been doing that more and more lately—talking back.

And for some infuriating reason…

It thrilled him.

George leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, voice dipping into a taunting purr. “So, what? You became strong simply by hauling around wild beasts and building houses out of twigs?”

You shrugged. “Close enough.”

He scoffed. “Ridiculous.”

But even as he said it, his mind—traitorous, wretched thing that it was—lingered.

The image of you lifting that stag onto your shoulders, muscles flexing beneath rough-spun cloth…

The way you wielded your bow, loosing arrows with a precision that made his own hands itch with something.

The way you moved, with such effortless, unbothered strength.

George swallowed hard, forcing himself to scowl.

Absolutely not.

He was not attracted to a feral, tax-evading beast woman.

He was not enthralled by the way your body moved—sharp, graceful, commanding.

And he was certainly not imagining the feeling of those strong hands grasping his waist, carrying him to bed—

George choked on his drink.

You glanced up, unimpressed. “Are you dying?”

He slammed his cup down, glaring at you like it was your fault that his thoughts had just turned unspeakably filthy. “Oh, shut up,” he snapped, cheeks tinged pink.

You raised a brow. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Yes, well—” He shifted in his chair, crossing his legs defensively. “—you were thinking something.”

You hummed, unconvinced.

George scowled, forcing himself to focus on anything else.

But unfortunately…

everything else only led back to you.

To the way you walked. To the way you stood.

To the way you didn’t flinch when he sneered, didn’t fawn when he boasted, didn’t cower when he threatened.

You were untamed.

And something deep, deep in his wretched, depraved soul… Liked it.

Wanted it.

George’s fingers curled into a fist, his pulse thrumming with an unfamiliar, maddening heat. He had always preferred his lovers weak.

Submissive. Eager to please.

But you—

You were untouchable. You had no interest in him. No fear of him. No desire to even acknowledge his power.

It was unacceptable. It was infuriating.

And it was so… unbearably attractive.

George gritted his teeth, willing himself to stop looking at your hands. Beautiful hands. Calloused hands. Hands that had—

He needed to leave.

Now.

Without another word, he shoved back his chair, storming toward the door.

You barely glanced up. “Finally giving up?”

He scoffed, tossing his hair over his shoulder with a dramatic flourish. “Hardly.”

Then, with a wicked smirk—just to regain some semblance of control—he leaned in close, voice dripping with challenge. “Don’t miss me too much, demon.”

You rolled your eyes.

George stormed out into the night, shoving his way through the forest with a scowl—his body betraying him with every unbearable step.

This was ridiculous. He was the Sheriff of Nottingham.

He was not in love with a man with breasts.

Absolutely not.

And yet…

Your voice lingered in his ears; your strength haunted his thoughts.

And George—miserable, furious, burning with something he refused to name—

Knew he’d be back. Tomorrow.

And the next day.

And the next.

Because no matter how much he raged, no matter how much he denied it…

He was utterly, hopelessly enchanted.

[itadoraki]

Spices of Love….

—————————————————————————

Night Raven Colle Vice-Leaders x R.femele

—————————————————————————

Passionate about cooking, she treats food as art.

Very seductive, intense and gallant with those she loves.

Fiercely protective, but she loses her composure when she sees her boyfriend.

He has a sense of honor and pride in feeding others.

It's capable of kicking someone for food, but it melts for love.

—————————————————————————

Trey Clover

Trey was coming back tired from work at Heartslabyul when he smelled hot pie.

- "Welcome, love~ I made something special just for you... with a touch of cinnamon and a lot of love," - she said, with a provocative apron and a killer wink.

Trey smiled, used to the calm, but she always took him off the axis.

- "You treat the kitchen as a weapon of seduction, right?"

- "It's your culpt for looking so beautiful trying my recipes..."

When he took the first bite and moaned with culinary pleasure, she almost threw herself on his lap.

- "W-Again that voice... I'll end up throwing you on the kitchen counter!"

Trey just laughed, red, and replied:

- "If there's dessert left... you can try it."

⸻————————-

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie entered the room sniffing the air like a hunting dog.

- "Smell of roast beef and spicy sauce... this is... MY FAVORITE DISH!?"

She appeared holding the plate with a feline smile and an apron too tight.

- "I did it just for you, my hungry wolf."

Ruggie widened his eyes.

- "You... you don't have sit on my heart, do you?"

She fed him in her mouth and then licked the corner of his, laughing maliciously.

- "You feed me with looks all day long. It's my turn to give back..."

Ruggie almost fell off the chair.

- "You're a danger... delicious."

⸻ ————————-

Jade Leech

Jade was trying an exotic tea when she arrived with a hot platter, covered by an elegant cloche.

- "I prepared something... exotic like you."

Jade arched an eyebrow, intrigued.

- "Are you trying to seduce me with rare flavors?"

- "No. With love. And aphrodisiac pepper," - she smiled.

When tasting, Jade let out a slight sigh of pleasure.

- "Hm... spicy. And... provocative. Like the chef."

She approached, sitting on his lap.

- "Do you accept to be my main course tonight, Jade?"

He just smiled, half-closed eyes.

- "With pleasure. But be careful... snakes also know how to bite."

⸻ ————————-

Jamil Viper

Jamil was cleaning the kitchen when he saw her take a tray out of the oven, with a sparkle in her eyes.

- "Help me here, Viper... it's very hot..." - she whispered, sweating and wearing only an apron attached by ribbons.

Jamil looked away, tense.

- "You always do that when you know I'm trying to keep my composure."

- "The food is better when I'm... horny," - she whispered in his ear, making him almost let the cloth fall.

When he tasted the dish and moaned softly, she smiled like a predator.

- "Your voice is the best spice of my day."

Jamil turned red up to his ears.

- "If it continues like this, we'll burn more than the oven."

⸻ ————————-

Rook Hunt

Rook found her in the kitchen to the sound of classical music, swirling between the stoves with absurd grace.

- "My love~! I prepared a dance of flavors just for you!"

Rook applauded passionately.

- "Oh, you are the true culinary masterpiece of my life!"

She fed him with a spoonful of the plate, her eyes on his.

- "And you are my hot and melted inspiration."

- "Mademoiselle... with this sweetness, I will melt faster than a barely beaten soufflé."

She pulled him by the collar and whispered:

- "So come and taste me before it gets cold..."

And he answered with a kiss on the back of his hand.

- "With the greatest of pleasures."

⸻ ————————-

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia tried to cook. The stove almost exploded.

Then she appeared, saving dinner - and the world.

- "Honey, how many times have I said that you are only good for eating... not for cooking."

Lilia laughed, sitting at the table.

- "And you are my burning heroine in a short skirt."

She put a spoon on his lips and he made a dramatic grimace of exaggerated pleasure.

- "I love it when you feed me. I feel... nourished and tempted."

She laughed, touching her forehead to his.

- "You're worse than Sanji. Are you really going to eat or eat me with your eyes?"

Lilia laughed.

- "Both, my lethal chef."

⸻ ————————-

Ortho Shroud

As Ortho is an android and much younger (with a childish mind), any romantic or sexualized scenario would be inappropriate.

————————-————————-————————

[hannah-lou]

🍃riverbank tension🍃

This is the 1st part of my fic, which takes place over a year after the events of Kingdom. I also worked on an art piece specifically for this one. So I hope you like it!

It had been over a year since Mae left Noa that day, but the feelings she had for him were still very much alive. She couldn’t ever seem to shake them no matter what activities she did to preoccupy herself. Not able to quite describe what the feelings were other than extreme attraction towards him. She imagined how he would look now if she were to see him again and wished she could, but who was she to go marching back into his village uninvited. He’d probably not even remember her now.

Clinging onto the necklace that he gave her the last time she saw him, she stood at the rivers edge and watched the water dance with the sun’s rays, the flickers of sunlight shone onto her face. She could feel herself getting lost in the therapeutic sound of the water battling against the rocks a little further downstream.

Crouching down to feel the waters temperature, she felt that it was cold but not too cold for her, after all, she was used to bathing in such conditions, even when it was icy conditions, she was able to take a quick dip as long as a fire was steadily burning nearby so that she could warm back up again. It wasn’t ideal but she didn’t have anything else.

Standing upright again, she started removing the tattered fabrics covering her, exposing the scars on her arms and legs from the previous attacks and shivering as the cool air greeted her bare skin. Closing her eyes and stepping into the water, goose bumps appeared on her arms. She hugged herself for a minute or two until her body got more used to the temperature, then began to wash.

Little to Mae’s knowledge, Noa was travelling in her direction on his horse. Cantering through the trees, he had decided to go foraging for any other human items worth taking back to his village. Eagle Sun gently glided above him, calling quietly until he landed on a low tree branch next to Mae and fluttered his wings a few times to settle.

Noa pulled the reigns when he saw that his eagle had perched, slowing his horse to a stop. He looked at his eagle and narrowed his eyes before attempting to call him back, tapping the gauntlet on his arm.

Then he saw movement in the river and decided to dismount, landing as softly as he could. He walked cautiously with his left hand positioned ready to pull his knife if he needed to, his steps were slow and light. But when he was able to see her clearly, he had no trouble recognising her instantly.

“M- Mae?”

He whispered, his eyes widening for a moment at the sight of her pale, naked body. It definitely took him by surprise. He stared at her, admiring how she looked similar to the females of his clan but some parts of her still managed to make him curious

He knew he should look away but he simply couldn’t. He’d never seen her without clothing before and his mind ran wild with curiosity. Hiding behind a tree, he watched intently, a feeling building inside of his chest that he’d never felt. His breath quickened, his heart felt like it might jump out of his chest.

Mae was unaware that she was being watched. She turned around, revealing her bare chest to the ape. He gasped but covered his mouth quickly, feeling a need for something but he wasn’t sure what. It was like a magnet pulling him toward her. He gripped onto the tree bark, his fingers digging in and chipping away some of the looser pieces as he released a trembled sigh.

Where is swelling from oestrogen?

Echo’s chest ha full breasts even when not baring a child?

Why does echo wear fabrics to cover?

Echo only has fur in only some places?

Stepping out of the water Mae dried off and put on her clothes, the blue top with black jeans that she had worn the last time she saw Noa. She picked up the necklace and put it on, her mind wandered again, visualising him. The way he walked, how he sounded when he spoke, his protective personality. She was quickly snapped back away from her thoughts, though, when she noticed some rustling not far away, she paused then gabbed her gun.

“Don’t even think about attempting anything!” She held the pistol tightly in both hands “come out... now!”

Noa closed his eyes tightly, bracing himself before stepping out from behind the tree and into view. Mae didn’t recognise him. He wore a necklace made from feathers and and what looked to be canine teeth draped around his neck and down his shoulders. more feathered arm cuffs wrapped around his muscular arms and his face had traces of blue and grey paint on it which made his bright green eyes seem as though they were glowing.

He slowly stepped towards her, putting his hands out in front of him in an attempt to signal that he wasn’t a threat but Mae stood firm.

“stay away! I’ll shoot!”

Noa raised a brow, taken aback by the fact that she didn’t recognise him, he wasn’t surprised though. He was aware that he looked different. He also knew Mae was telling the truth. After all, he saw her put a hole in an apes chest in the vault that day. The memory of the gunshot circled around his mind for a moment, but he continued slowly closing the gap between them.

She will remember he thought, taking another step forward.

Mae’s finger landed on the trigger, ready to squeeze it, but Noa quickly pointed to the necklace she was wearing. Throwing her off.

“Important”

His single word stopped her abruptly, gasping. She knew that voice. “w- what did you say?”

“Very... important”

Hearing him speak again. Mae stared at him with wide eyes, struggling to believe that it was really him. This scenario had been swirling around in her mind for such a long time. She opened her mouth to speak but she couldn’t make words.

Noa gently lowered the hand with the gun that was still pointing at him. Mae held her breath and raised one hand up to touch his face.

“You’re real” she said, a tear rolling down her cheek.

Noa hummed softly, enjoying the feel of her skin on his before placing his hand over hers. A sensation built in the pit of his stomach. A feeling he had for her before, but this time it was so much stronger.

Mae pointed to the paint on his face and finally managed to speak “w- what is it for?” she asked, her voice a quiet tremble “I really didn’t recognise you”

Noa’s eyes glinted at her question, he remembered that she didn’t know his clan’s ways, it amused him. He answered with a low raspy tone.

“For honour. A mark for other members... of my clan to know my role... and females to know that-” he trailed off and looked away for a moment.

“To know what?” Mae instantly regretted asking that question. She already knew and it made her jealous. She didn’t understand why.

“That I... am ready” he lowered his brows and wrinkled his nose before turning his gaze back to her “to... mate”.

The vision inside Mae’s mind of him breeding another female felt like torture. She knew she needed to shut it off but she just couldn’t. In some ways, she missed the version of him that wasn’t available, even to his own kind.

Noa tilted his head, he could smell the jealousy radiating from her “I have not... claimed a mate yet, Mae”

He wasn’t quite sure what he was feeling, but he liked it. He had never felt this, not even for his own kind. He knew that it was something primal, burning deep inside that every inhale of her scent made it stronger, but he didn’t want to stop.

Mae blinked hard, wondering why he felt the need to tell her that. Did he feel the same way as her? Was he saving himself for... her? She wanted answers. She shouldn’t, but she couldn’t stop herself, she needed to ask.

“so, who are you saving yourself for?”

No going back from it now.

Her question seemed to ring loudly in his ears. He suddenly felt like the shy, younger ape who he thought he buried long ago. His eyes widened before moving his hand to subtly sign. He began motioning to her but quickly clenched his fist. He didn’t want her to know yet.

He needed to change topic, needed to shake this feeling. He wanted to take her there and then, but what would she think of him if he told her that he stood and watched her in the river?

He glanced around and motioned to a small spot Mae had set up earlier “You are... camping here, yes?”

Mae somewhat welcomed the subject change, she wished that she never even asked that dreaded question.

“I am... you’d better get back to your clan, right?”

He narrowed his eyes, his brows lowered with confusion, his protective instinct coming back for her once again “I will stay... with you” he closed his eyes tightly and let out a breath, putting one hand under her chin “I need... to stay with you, Mae... will not lose you again... I cannot”

Mae didn’t say anything, she felt his hand squeeze hers softly. She smiled and leaned in, resting her head against his chest and nuzzling into his thick fur.

[galacticgraffiti]

A Borrowing of Bones (8)

This work is a collaboration with my most beloved artist and friend of all time Blumi: Story by me, art by Blumi ♡

Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish Rating: Mature (for heavy themes) Chapter Wordcount: 3.3k

MCD, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat// Heed also the Masterlist for general warnings. CW: maceration, canon-typical violence, military inaccuracies, hallucinations, descriptions of gore/rot.

A/N: Blumi's artworks are added at the end of each chapter, please leave them some love!

Read on AO3 ✧ Taglist Signup for this fic ✧ Fic Masterlist

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Eight. Hateful to Me as the Gates of Hades

Ghost presses his thumbs into his eyes, grunting from when black dots dance behind his lids, but greedy for the relief it brings from the burning vapours of the chemicals he’s been tinkering with.

Water splashes when it hits the bucket, sloshing around uselessly against white plastic walls. Ghost felt like a serial killer when he bought the supplies he needed. Which- well, it isn’t inaccurate. He has killed a lot of people, after all. Good at his job and all that shite.

The supplies he needs now, though, are not meant for violence but for love. They are not meant to destroy and inflict pain, but to preserve and keep for an eternity.

This is all for Johnny.

Ghost squints and closes the chemical concoctions he prepped to put away. For now, the water will do just fine. Might smell. Of rot and decay and death. But nothing cleans bones better than their own bacteria and a bit of warm water for them to propagate in. Close the bucket with a tight lid, leave it out in the sun… and most of the work will be done for him, without any risk of damaging the bone. He’s done enough research to be sure of it.

The thought of the smell makes him grateful that he keeps a place outside of their home base, glad for the childless great-great uncle who forgot to write a will and unwittingly left his small cottage to Ghost as his closest ‘living’ relative. Rileys aren’t exactly known to have long lives. Runs in the family, it seems, all that violence, all that drinking.

He’s glad for Price who had decided that familial connection was loose enough to let Simon keep it even after his official death. Glad the cottage is situated in bumfuck nowhere, with no nosey neighbours to come sniffing around. Not even tourists or hikers come by this place. Quietest cabin in all of England. Loneliest house at the edge of the world.

That uncle was a fucking weirdo, and Ghost is better off for it.

It’s isolated, sure. But Ghost has never minded that. Not until Johnny. Being alone had always been the way. Johnny changed that, changed him.

Ghost had always enjoyed the peace and quiet of this place before Johnny. Had liked it; how tranquil it was, how much it eased the pain of his sensitive ears, how far removed it seemed from the reality of the job. Barely even birds singing out here. But after Johnny, he’d realised he had started to miss the noise. The very specific noise made by Johnny: the clattering of his various stupid themed mugs, the sounds of his steps, his snorting laugh, his voice (god, fuck, his voice, with that stupid fucking rasp and that stupid fucking accent)...

So, after Johnny joined them, Ghost simply… didn't come here. Why would he leave base when Johnny remained there, spilling over with energy and light? 

Ye goin’ home fer christmas, LT? he’d asked that first year.

And where would I go to find that? had been Ghost’s mumbled answer, barely loud enough for Soap to hear. Johnny had never asked again after that, and he’d stayed on base with him from then on. Had become the home Ghost had so desperately, silently longed for. It had been him. Ghost had never needed anyone else, neither before him… nor now after.

Nothing could ever fill that void.

And so, Johnny had always been there with him, barely ever left if not on missions, and even those, they did together most of the time. Stupidly, Ghost had assumed that Soap’s family must be dead as well, or at the very least so dysfunctional he would not visit them even for holidays. Now he knows that isn't true. Saw Johnny’s mother crying at his funeral until her eyes, blue just like his, were red-rimmed and her lids puffy and her face blotchy.

Johnny never went home to her. Stayed on base with Ghost instead, even though he had a family, one that loved him enough to mourn his death.

Did you stay for me, Johnny?

The thought crackles through Ghost with the force of lightning. He looks up from the floor, finds Johnny right there. Of course he is. Hasn't left his side for long since Glasgow. Clings to him so close it’s like his presence is wrapped around Ghost.

Bit cocksure of yerself, aren't ye, Ghostie?

Shut up.

Johnny snorts, his feet dangling from the metal workbench. Tan skin, flushed and lifelike, covers his hand that’s hovering right next to Ghost’s face. No more rot. No more bone or muscle shining through decaying flesh. He seems almost… whole again. When he bends forward to stare down at Ghost and inspect the bucket he has prepared, Soap’s eyes are shining blue and curious.

What are ye plannin’ tae do tae me, love?

“Whatever I bloody well need to to shut you up,” Ghost grunts, heaving the bucket up to carry it outside.

Och, don’t be like that.

“Like what? Goin’ fuckin’ insane, aren’t I? Talking to you like you can hear me, fuckin’ hell. If Price ever makes me go through psych eval again that’ll be my career done for.”

Ye were fucked in the heid long before this, aye? Don’t tell me ye wouldae passed even a single psych eval withoot a bit o’ help from Price. Ye’ve always been fuckin’ gyte. ‘s what I loved aboot ye.

Ghost just hums to himself. Takes in the carefully placed bones that lay before him. Soap’s skull shines beautifully, gilded by the warm light of the afternoon. Barely any flesh remains; a week in the water should be enough to get the last bits off cleanly. 

He is beautiful.

Ever since Ghost took his bones, the Johnny that keeps him company has started to look less and less rotten: Flesh restoring itself, colour returning to dead eyes. The only wound that won’t seem to heal is the goddamn hole in his temple, just as red and deep in his head as it is ingrained in his skull.

Whether that’s a good sign is up for debate, but Ghost chooses not to think about it too much.

He takes a deep breath and tries to ignore that Soap’s hand on his shoulder has no weight to it at all when he hops down from the bench to stand behind Ghost and watch him work.

His fingers trace the pale, cool bone before him in something akin to reverence. In worship, perhaps, though his heart aches at the sight of it.

I’ll make you whole again, Johnny. His thumb presses into bone, imagining the flesh there and what it might have been like to stroke Soap’s cheek. What it might have been like to wipe tears and sweat and blood off his skin like Ghost had wanted to so many times.

"You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen," Simon says quietly, eyes fixed on the empty sockets of the skull in front of him. “First time I saw you, I knew. Knew I’d never have you, and I’d always want you. Knew you were it for me. Just… fuckin’ knew. Couldn't have you because I would never deserve it. Just thought it’d be me who’d die first. Never even entertained… the- the fuckin’ possibility of being the one left behind, did you know that? On missions, always worried for you. Never about me.”

Soap blinks up at him, all long lashes and sad eyes.

And look where we are now, huh? Finally got me, LT. Even if it is from beyond the grave. Should be yer job to haunt me, really. Ye go’ the right name fer it an’ all.

His voice is too sad to make the joke work, and a bitter laugh drips from Ghost’s lips. Simon’s been talking so much lately. Maybe more than he has in the decade before this.

“Like I don’t know that. Should always have been me goin’ first. I’m already dead, aren't I? More so without you, Johnny.” His scarred fingers curl around the bone of Soap’s skull, carefully avoiding the bullet hole that forms the only imperfection, but his eyes are fixed on Soap’s hand that remains weightless on his shoulder, always almost touching him and never quite managing. Just like it was when he was alive. “Yeah, look where we are now. Me taking the skull from your grave shouldn’t be less bloody insane than the fact that I’m talkin’ to you like you’re actually here.”

Mhhm. Do nae worry too much aboot it. Ye said it yerself- 

“-it’ll all be fine once this is done. Has to be.” Ghost sighs deeply, rubs a hand over his face and is still somehow always surprised that there is no eyeblack on it afterwards. Civilian clothes, civilian mask, civilian face. No grease paint, no balaclava. His bike helmet is the utmost protection this world will afford him without raising too many eyebrows. He can't get used to it. Thinks that somehow it might have been easier if he could have held Johnny’s hand. Reckons he won't find out now. Not ever.

Soap taps his shoulder, and this time, Ghost swears he can feel it. Has been touched by Johnny so often the weight of his hand is familiar like the slash of a knife sinking into skin. It’s so easy to imagine that it's real. So natural. Hard to remember that Ghost is just insane.

Ye’ll have tae leave me here while you go back tae base. Ye alright with tha’?

“Gotta be, I guess.” Ghost shrugs, but feels his stomach drop. He knows Soap is right. Knows he can’t have weeks off to watch Johnny’s skull macerate. Knows he can't take it with him, either. He might be insane but he's not fucking stupid. Wouldn't make any sense to, either. Nothing he can do but wait. The real work starts after this. Shouldn’t even take that long – Ghost has done his research and done it well.

But the thought of leaving Johnny alone – again – makes his fucking hands shake, makes him place the skull in his hands back on the workbench so he won't drop it. 

Ghost drops to his knees, wills his bloody hands to calm down. Presses bruises into his thighs until he remembers he is a real person again. He can't even see Johnny like this, but it's alright. Simon knows he’s there. Can feel the weight of his gaze in the back of his neck, just the way he used to feel.

The empty sockets of the skull stare dully at Ghost. He strokes the sharp cheekbone with his thumb, calms himself with the touch, but his heart aches and there is blood in his lungs, viscous and heavy.

“I don’t want to leave you, Johnny.”

Be alright, LT. 

“You can’t promise that.”

Could never promise that, could I? But I can promise I’ll still be here when ye get back.

He’ll be here. He’s not going anywhere. It’s a mantra, the best he’s gonna get. He’ll be here. He’s not going anywhere.

“Gotta look in on you every few days anyways, change the water. Helps the maceration if I do.” Ghost is mumbling to himself more than anything. Hopes that the one week might be enough. Maybe two, just to be safe. He prays to all gods that never existed that Price won’t send him away on long missions. Maybe he’ll get lucky, just this time around. Just this once.

With careful hands, Simon carries Johnny’s skull outside. Places it in the water bucket and seals the lid.

“See you when I see you, Johnny.”

Not if I see ye first.

________________

The mission is fucked from the start.

Always is, when it comes down to it. Bad intel, bad conditions, traitors- everything that can go wrong piled into a shitheap of fucked missions. It’s not the first mission gone wrong since Soap’s death, but it’s the worst one yet.

Gaz ends up in the shitty field hospital, almost dies on the table. Price’s fingers get crushed in a wreck – Lucky they’re my left ones, eh? he jokes and cocks his gun in defiance of death. Ghost’s ears are still ringing from an explosion going off way too close to him when he gets off the helo and steps onto the plane back to British soil. 

If he had to guess why they all made it out alive, in spite of everything, in spite of almost everybody else dying there… his first answer would be Soap. And people might look at him like he’s lost the plot, and maybe he has – he probably has – most definitely has – but it wouldn’t change his answer: It was Soap.

Like Soap’s voice nagging in the back of his head that there's enemies ahead. Soap’s fingers pulling him in a different direction than he had planned on going, and there, Ghost sees the reflection of a sniper in a dirty window and shoots the guy before he has a shot at Price. 

Soap, always Soap. Never more present, never more alive than on missions. Always vibrating with it. Let’s get ourselves a win, aye, LT? Ghost never loved him more than bathed in the blood of their enemies.

He doesn't show up like a ghost in the warzone, though. No, that’s reserved for the privacy of Ghost’s time on base, at home, off-duty. First time his spectre has left Ghost’s side in days. First time he has felt truly gone since Glasgow, save for those little glimpses that feel like he is tugging at the edge of Ghost’s consciousness.

And Ghost knows that it’s just instinct, is just training and honed reflexes. He knows it. And still he can’t help but ascribe his survival – all of theirs – to that feeling of Soap that lingers in the back of his mind the whole mission. He wishes he could see him. Swears he sees Johnny’s reflection in a window, but it’s just another enemy for him to shoot, brownish mohawk stained red with blood after Ghost’s perfect shot rips through his head. 

Ghost swears he can hear the clicks of Soap reloading, hear him mumble the maths when he does his complicated shit to do with explosives. Used to drive Ghost mad, all the noise Johnny made. He was quiet on ops – of course he was, he was good – but never as quiet as Ghost could be. Always had to voice his thoughts to keep them in order. Said there was too much in his brain all the time when Ghost asked why he was always talking to himself.

Over time, it shifted. Went from Soap mumbling to himself, to Ghost overhearing. From overhearing to listening, and to Soap no longer talking to himself but listing things to Ghost as if it meant anything to him. And Ghost nodding along, playing the game, willingly becoming the blank slate that Johnny could place his thoughts upon.

Good teamwork, Price used to call it. If Ghost had to call it anything now, he would call it love.

Irrationally, Ghost misses Soap’s battlefield noises and memorised chemical reactions now. Misses all the little sounds that meant Soap at his six. Misses him even more than he did before he went insane and started talking to him like he was alive. He feels Soap’s absence so much heavier now. Hopes it’ll ease once he completes the process, can take Soap with him again, the way it was always supposed to be. The two of them together. Against all odds, against the world.

The mission is way too long. Usually, Ghost relishes the time in action, hates nothing more than idly sitting around on base, waiting for something to pop up. Needs the thrill of the kill, needs to be bathed in blood and fury; needs distraction so he won’t lose it.

Now, all he wants to do is go home. Check on Soap. Make sure he’s safe, he’s alright. Make sure he’ll come back to him, that he’ll still show up when Ghost calls, that they’ll do their call and response like they always did, until that one time when-

Ghost interrupts himself. Focuses on his reflection in the broken window and barely even notices that familiar blue eyes are staring back at him, framed by long, dark lashes.

Reload, shrug it all off, and get it done.

He gets them out of there, saves who he can save. Because the one person he wants to get back to, wants to come home to, isn’t here anyways. No need to draw it out. And if the fates won't let him die and the thread of his life will not be cut, then he won't let anybody else die either. He is already unravelling. Needs the others to intertwine with him so he won't curl into a fucking ball of yarn drenched in blood.

Price lets him leave base without question after Ghost’s medical checkup comes back clear. Well. As clear as it ever is. Nobody asks too many questions. The Captain himself and Gaz are out of commission for a few days at the very least, and no intel means no solo missions either, so there is no point for Ghost to hang around. He used to. Used to stay for Soap; stay with Johnny. But now the base feels so much less like home than the cottage where Johnny’s skull rests.

After a little more than a week away, relief brightens Ghost’s heart when he steps through his creaky front door and into his empty living room to find the shadow of Soap perched on the couch, slowly soaking the fabric with thick, imaginary blood.

“There you are. Have you been waiting long?” Ghost’s voice is soft and quiet. He can allow it to be, in the silence out here. Nobody here but two ghosts, staring back at each other: One real, one not. Ghost isn’t sure which is which anymore.

His heart aches, longs to touch. Longs to beat in unison with Soap’s again as it did when they worked together, as it did even when they were just sitting close.

Was always right there, wasn't I?

“Mhh. Haven’t seen you for too long, though.”

Aww, startin’ to miss my mug already? Yer goin’ soft, LT.

Ghost grumbles out a curse when he stubs his toe in his haste to get to the work space out back. To look at Soap, properly, and to know if it worked.

His steady, reliable sniper hands tremble when he pulls the lid off the bucket. The smell makes his eyes water: even after mere days, the bacteria has done more gentle work than even Ghost’s reverent hands ever could.

He looks perfect.

Ghost has to say it out loud, has to let him know.

“You look perfect, sweet’eart.”

Johnny’s eyes are wide and dark when he looks back at him; stares at his own skull and at Ghost’s face, covered in his balaclava still, too anxious to bother taking it off.

For you. This was all you.

The shake in Simon’s fingers subsides as he lifts the perfectly cleaned skull out of the nasty water, not caring what he touches. He has to know what this bone feels like against his skin.

Warmed by the sun. Smoothed by the water. Brittle, too brittle to leave it, to work with it. 

Carefully, Ghost examines the skull, determines he wants to bleach it first.

What are ye thinkin’ aboot, LT?

And all Ghost can answer with is the truth:

“How to finally make you mine.”

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

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── Previous Chapter ← ⋆ → Next Chapter [coming] ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Oh Johnny.

@ulchabhangorm @purgetrooperfox @captav @gibsalotdoodles @staygoldnimoy @blinca @therestroubletakinplace-blog

[genshin-impact-unofficial]

Naughty Little Secret Pt.2

Reactions of Genshin men finding your spicy literature.

Ft. Childe, Albedo, and Alhaitham  (Aka blue eyed boy edition)

(PART 1) Ft. Diluc, Cyno, and Thoma  (PART 3) Ft. Scaramouche, Itto, and Xiao

Tags: PG-13, Sexual Themes, GN!Reader, Technically SFW, Crushes, TW!Blood (Albedo) but it’s very mild, LOTS OF TEASING Notes: I swear my first time writing a character always turns out so long. I so appreciate everyone cheering me on tho! Feel free to send suggestions to my inbox! 💘(Repost!)

Childe

Spicy romance novels were your guilty pleasure. After a rough week at work, you deserved to sit back at Yanshang Teahouse and let the flow of words on the pages guide your imagination. You held your newest purchase in your hand and pondered if the cover art was a coincidence. Perhaps deep down, you subconsciously picked the book with a pretty ginger boy on the cover.

Tartagalia hadn’t visited Liyue in a while... and maybe there was a part of you that missed the tall handsome Snezhnayan boy just a tiny bit. You were a tad totally heartbroken when your friend departed from the harbor. He would come by your work quite often just to chat and whenever he had time to kill. Eventually, his company and charming words just became a part of your routine. It was impossible not to be dazzled by the boy’s abundant attention. But as time passed and you felt confident that you were completely over your little crush. You shook your head of those thoughts, it wasn’t important why you chose the book you did. You were here to enjoy yourself and you were hell bound to do just that.

The orange haired protagonist finds himself swept up in trouble much bigger than himself. To protect what’s dearest to him, he becomes a spy to an organization he holds no loyalty to. While behind enemy lines, he meets a girl who sees right through the mask he puts on. She not only figures out he’s a spy, but also sees his bleeding heart that has the ability to turn for the better. Your heart ached for the boy. The way he was stuck between his duties and who he loved made you feel endless sympathy for the protag. He had to betray one in the end to accomplish the other. 

His mission was going to be completed in the morning. After that, he would never see the girl again. The handsome ginger spilled his feeling, laying himself out bare to the girl he loved. She knows, she always did, and she wanted to show him now on their last night. Emotions flood forward as their bodies tangle with one another. He wants her to feel his earnest passion.  He wants to bring her joy, to bring her the happiness she deserved, to bring her pleasure...  A low familiar whistle pulled your mind from the scene. No way...

“Huh, so this is what you do while I’m away...” A cheeky voice teased. You whipped your head to look at the widest shit eating grin that you’ve ever seen since.... well since he left.  

“Tartagalia? What- When did you?” You were reeling and sputtered in surprise and embarrassment. You attempted redirect his attention and tuck the novel behind you as a last ditch effort to save your pride. But alas, Ajax was not known to be a merciful guy.  

“Ah ah ah Y/N, I hadn’t got a good look at that last page. I just have to know about those ‘rippling abs’ mentioned.” Childe playfully reached behind you and snagged the book from your grip. You tried to swipe it back but his reflexes were too fast. “You don’t mind sharing right?”

“I’m serious give it back Childe!”  You threatened, but it only spurred him further. He had a whole head up on you, and was talking full advantage of it. Childe held the book open above you and dramatically cleared his throat before reciting naughty lines from the passages. Your felt your face burn red in both embarrassment and now absolute fury. 

This kid was so dead!

Albedo

There was urgency in your steps while you trekked through the snowy path. You visited Dragonspine enough times to know the beaten trail even when covered in fresh snow, but it was still your least favorite part of coming to the lab. If you had to list your favorite part, well...... your friend Albedo wasn’t exactly terrible to look at. You were glad to see him again so soon. Typically, you purposely spaced out your visits up the mountain, but when you received a letter asking for your assistance in a research matter you really couldn’t say no. 

As junior librarian of the knights, you were tasked with dropping off books and other study material to Albedo’s lab. It’s a grueling task but the two of you got along very well so you were always happy to do it. That being said, you weren’t exactly a person of science and opted reading into history and arts most times. Through years of knowing Albedo, you had to set a clear cut boundary on being a test rat for the alchemist. So far he has respected your wishes, so you didn’t assume it was why he’d call you out here. The curiosity was almost as bad as the blistering cold hitting your nose. As soon as the light illuminating from the lab was in view, you rushed forward desperate for warmth. 

“Y/N, I’ve been awaiting you.” Albedo greeted you kindly. 

“Hey Albe-” The words died in your throat when you caught sight of your friend. The blond’s hair was free from its usual up-do, messy locks framed the boys handsome features and flowed over his shoulders. Albedo’s neat attire was now lax, his knightly accessories nowhere to be seen. What could be seen was the expanse of the alchemist’s collarbone since two additional buttons were undone on his dress shirt. Somehow even while fully clothed, it felt indecent to witness him like this. “Is... everything alright Albedo?” You asked, averting your eyes to keep from ogling your friend. 

“Of course.” Albedo answered easily, his voice was low and sultry. “Please take a seat Y/N. I have something urgent that needs your eyes.” He directed you, cocking his head towards the small table. Your brain was short circuiting and all you could think to do was obediently sit. You had never seen the serious and calculated man like this but you weren’t exactly complaining either. Albedo served you a cup of hot tea and opted to lean against the table instead of sitting. 

“So... um what did you need me to look at.” You asked awkwardly, unsure what to do with yourself. 

“Well obviously I want you to look at me Y/N” A light smirk formed across Albedo’s lips and he smoothly leaned over your chair. Your eyes followed every single movement while your face quickly began to heat up. Where was all of this coming from? Should you be concerned? 

“W- what do you mean by that?” You blurted out, mind racing a mile a minute.

“I want you to-” Everything came to a screeching halt when your chair, that Albedo had been leaning on, began to tilt backwards. Both you and blond were sent crashing to the ground, ruining any kind of mood that was building. Your head ached from where you bumped it but Albedo intentionally took the brunt of it, completely face-planting into the hard floor. 

“Albedo are you alright??” You hovered over him. The boy simply turned to you and blinked. His stoic expression was more akin to what you typically were used to. 

“I apologize Y/N. It seems I didn’t fully grasp the concepts in the experiment before executing it. Are you hurt?” He stood up and carefully helped you to your feet. He examined you for any signs of injury, regardless of his obviously bleeding nose. 

“Im good, the chair broke most of my fall. You on the other hand...” You grabbed a handkerchief and try to assist him. “Wait... experiment? Is that what this is all about?” You accused, slightly irked. 

“Yes, I saw a fascinating book among the study material you left behind recently. I assumed that it was a new subject you had recommended for me.” Albedo stated simply. “Its contents was um... quite intimate at times, but I thought it was a interesting perspective on forming human connections.” You felt froze, but this time not from the blistering cold. 

“Did the book have um.... did it have a pair of cuffs on the front?” You asked, praying to the archons that you were mistaken.

“Yes, I studied it extensively.” Albedo replied without a hint of shame on his features.  You replayed his interactions and what had just transpired in your head and looked back over to your friend.

“Okay two things. One, don’t you dare breathe a word to anyone about that book or else I’ll be very upset with you. And two, that was fucking hilarious.” You bursted out in laughter at the absurdity of the whole happenstance. Albedo gazed back at you confused, but your amusement was undeniably infectious. He smiled fondly back at you. Although the experiment couldn’t be labeled a success, the outcome was still one he found pleasing.  

Alhaitham

It was grueling working in the Akademiya recently. The overthrow of power left everyone with plenty to do. You would go mad from attending meeting after meeting if you didn’t have some sort of stress outlet. Writing was a way you liked to ease your mind, like an escape of sorts. You loved writing loose plots for light novels and dreamed to one day send an entry to the “Wow This Novel is Amazing!” contest in Inazuma. You were far from a finished manuscript, but it’s days like these that gave you inspiration. After working through piles of paperwork, you earned yourself a moment of indulgence. Especially when stress was eating you alive, your scenes tended to take a turn for the... suggestive. 

The scene opened to the main character pondering why their mentor kept themselves at arms length. She respected him immensely and strives to uphold his reputation by improving her skill. He was young and handsome, skilled far beyond his years. They held a close bond, closer than either of them have ever experienced. Now it was unclear why he was giving her such a cold shoulder. She confronts her mentor about the reasons behind his actions. He expresses his pride in her, how she has come far in the their time together. But for her to achieve new highs, she must leave him behind. His feelings for her would only be a hindrance now. 

She felt the tension between them for some time now. It was lingered in soft bushes between fingers, meaningful glances over meals, and caring gestures done without thinking. She’s fallen for the beautiful man, to a point that it wasn’t logical. No words need to be exchanged, only body heat. Arms hold onto the other in yearning desperation. Lips hungrily meet, as if they’ll never to be sated. Her want clouds all her senses and she could feel his willingness to give her everything, all of him. Hot needy breaths trail down her body, discarding any clothes that stood barrier, until he finally put his mouth directly on- 

“Busy Y/N?” The amused man asked from the doorway. You jump in response, quickly pushing aside the parchment that you were writing on. 

“Alhaitham! What are you doing here?” You pipe up, surprised to see your friend for more than one reason. Alhaitham had been promoted to acting grand sage while the rest was still settling, he had to be incredibly busy. 

“I see you’re not very excited to see me,” Alhaitham teased, strolling casually into your office anyway. “Even after I went through the trouble of coming to grab the data reports myself and pay you a visit.” He tsked. 

“You came to see me? Ah, so you need a favor.” You playfully jabbed back, easily finding comfort in the other’s company. It really had been quite a while. If it weren’t for the man’s inflated ego, you might have told him that you’ve missed him. 

“You wound me. It’s not an oddity for colleagues reconnect reminisce while also carrying out an errand for the acting great sage.” Alhaitham replied smoothly, not bothering to go through the motions and pretend to act hurt.

“Yikes, already pulling the ‘acting great sage’ card.” You chuckle. Alhaitham and you have worked closely together for years, so you didn’t mind going out of your way to do him a favor. But maybe one day he would learn that all he had to do was ask nicely. 

“It would be foolish to not use the assets as they are presented to me.” The former scribe shrugged. He opened his mouth as if to continue the witty banter, but a beep from on his person alerted him of something. “I’ll have to brief you later. I’ll just take the data reports and be on my way.”

“Right, here it goes.” You handed him the prepared stack of papers on your desk and just like that Alhaitham was gone, off to his next endeavor. Wow he really is swamped now a days. You thought, ready to get back into your writing. Ideas kept flowing through you as you looked for the parchment you just had.... Wait it was just right here. Oh no.

-

“ALHAITHAM! I NEED THE DATA REPOR-” You barged into acting grand sage’s office, which was no easy feat. You were stopped again and again by all the matra crawling about. Your mouth ran dry when spotted the parchment in the smirking man’s hands. You wished the floor would just open up and swallow you whole so that you wouldn’t have to look at that cocky handsome face. 

“The data report? Certainly, it’s right over there on the desk.” Alhaitham stated, not bothering to take his eyes off your handwriting. “I’m still going over some of it now and I have to say, it’s quite in depth.” He went on.

“You are such a jerk! Give it!” You resorted to trying to snatch it, but the former scribe easily turned away without sparing you even a single glance. You knew what he wanted and damn did it feel like making a deal with the devil. “I’ll owe you a favor, no questions asked. Just hand it over and keep your mouth shut.” 

“Two favors.” He bargained without batting an eye.

“You’re pushing it-”

“One is for my silence and the other for the safe return of your... passion project.” Alhaitham interjected, finally tearing his eyes from your writing to shoot you a glance above the paper. You willed a stern expression onto your face, even while a furious blush bloomed cross your cheeks. A curt nod sealed the agreement and the man casually returned the parchment to you as promised. You snatched the paper from him and averted your gaze.

“Y/N you have quite the knack for imagery.” Alhaitham added slyly. You expected he would tease you a little longer, so you braced yourself for the worst. What you did’t expect was the tall man to lean over you with his hand braced on the desk. Your eyes shot up to his in surprise. “If you’re ever in need for another peer review, I’d be happy to offer my services.” He winked. 

<A/N: These men need to be stopped>

[dallasgallant]

Time period post: Car culture 2 - Hot rods and racing

Not going to lie, this one was hard for me as I don’t have that much existing background knowledge on the topic. I had to do a lot more digging than usual so they’ll be some more links at the end of this. But I figure it’s an important thing to learn especially when thinking about the Curtis gang, as they are “car” Greasers, if you want to subcategorize them. Pony does mention supped up cars and it’s established several of the guys race or like to watch them— at the very least they all speed and enjoy it. While they might not be full on Hot rodders themselves it could simply be useful to flesh out the world/understanding of the corner of car culture.

Also please if you do know more about cars and car history please do add on! These are intended to be informative and helpful so all help is appreciated lol.

Hot rodding-

It started by necessity, post war lack of cars being made or perhaps not affording a brand new car you go around to shops and yards and you get parts and modify till you have a nicer working machine. Then it starts being picked up in racing and the youth and a hobby within itself.

At its core all a “Hot rod” is, is a souped up car. Modified usually for the sake of performance- primarily speed. Parts are taken out or added, the fronts lowered, the engine is bigger and so on. The culture started in the 20s-30s and a lot of the real examples of these kinds of cars are older, it’d be done with modern cars (40s-60s) but hardcore fans stuck with classics. Also mind you a lot of these unique modifications were not street legal or just barely skirting the line.

These modifications are to show off. Not just in performance but also looks. Really a lot of the time it’s hanging around showing off your work to each other and putting it to the test, major mods are still in car shows today. Mainly show than racing— as far as I’m aware. Things things need constant attention and tweaking too, not just as a way to improve the next time you race but because it’s not a standard car. All these little things add up.

The hobby of making and racing these cars really ramped up in the 40s-50s but by the mid 60s there was a craze. It was featured in a lot of media, there were industries catering now and magazines! Car craft, hot rod, etc.

Drag racing-

Now here it gets alrighty complicated as there is a split off into drag racing becoming somewhat of a legitimate sport — which let’s be real the kind any of the guys on the East side were engaging in was not “official” or completely legal. Also not to be confused with street racing fast and furious baby driver type— though it could be on a street/public street that’s not the same thing necessarily. Too many turns and hindrance and a totally other type of reckless. Really frustrating to look up as you get more of the regulated sport than the actual thing.

Their type of drag race is a street race, set out on a short, straight stretch of road side by side. Usually on the edge of town or a start of a highway or route- a long straight stretch out of the way. In movies at least there’s always a dramatic local name for it too like “Thunder road” or “dead man’s curve” something like that. It gives you a notable location besides “uh you know that one place out uh by uh.” Lol “Burn out” / “burn rubber” is essentially burning off a part of the wheel onto the road at the start- it helps with traction. Don’t ask me how. Straight forward, first to cross the finish line wins (in this case probably a land-marker or a set point than literal)

Why race? Largest sited -> Community, excitement, bets 

You do not need a hot rod to race, it’s not a requirement mind you but it’d certainly help. Added to, not all cars were extremely tricked out deconstructed art pieces, you could’ve had a lot of not visible work done on the car etc.

A good character to look to in regard to Hot rodding and racing is John Milner in American Graffiti (1973).

Club car v hot rod-

A club car is basically the main car of a Social club, as say many members don’t have a car or just it fits the most members to go riding around with. (Remember, bench seats you could fit so many more people in a car). It could be a hot rod, more likely it’s just a car.

Social club v gang-

A social club is a pretty broad term that’s just a group of people brought together by a common interest. By definition a book club is a social club, technically. Now, there were a lot of Juvenile delinquent aligned social club types- based around cars or just the general lifestyle. Sometimes there was little difference at all and it just gave a gang more legitimacy/threw police off as it made them seem more reputable.

So really the big difference between a Greaser gang and a Greaser social club is police and public scrutiny. Clubs had a - I wouldn’t say easier time but slightly more trust? However, this also isn’t to say that all social clubs are fronts for a gang as it can just be tough looking kids but chill and mostly law abiding.

Clothing too, before the internet identity was built and shown in person. How you dressed, worn literally on your sleeve. Not like the remnants of today but fully living and showing yourself and your affiliations through appearance. Having a group look, or group jackets- the conformity in a way was individuality. It’s a bit paradoxical. But club jackets, the hair, the jeans etc are a great example of this.

(Really funny aside but looking up social clubs and it’s Rockstar telling me how to join a gang in GTA)

Junkyards-

Still very much in existence but a great place to scavenge for just about anything but especially car parts. Same goes for salvage yards, wrecking yards, second hand parts shops etc. Greasers, and other car culture staples would be overflowing in shop classes and mechanic shops (stereotypically anyway) so there’s the knowledge and the access there already. Sometimes a part or two might go missing… who knows.

Really I’ve started thinking about yards like this more as I visit the country more and someone’s yards filled with rusted cars and a bunch of parts and stuff like this. Like part of it might just be someone leaving it to rot but another part is— yeah they’re pretty valuable communitively. Not just to car loving teenagers! Hell the Curtis’s have a few dead cars in their yard (and a bunch of boards ??? And supplies for some reason???) and the lot appears to have at some point been a dumping ground.

[spoopieere]

A collection of my Asa Emory headcanons

[PART 3!!]: How he is (how Asa's doing mentally/ how that affects him)

PART 1 ; PART 2;

Next part: What the fuck is wrong with him ( why is Asa this way/ his past ) Next next part: Asa and friends :) (Asa & his collection lmao ) Even next-er part: Toxic yaoi!!! ( Asa's relationship with Arkin ) RULE OF THUMB: Asa is autistic, idk why, he's just is to me.

---*Cracks Asa's skull open and look inside with a microscope* / How Asa is doing mentally--

Autistic, but undiagnosed. I think he already *knows* he's autistic. So he didn't see a purpose in going to a professional just to get the same results. Also having the diagnosis in his goverment information might put him in a disadvantage- whenever he wants to find a new job, or get medical treatment. Also he def doesn't want people to infantialize him. --

Emotionally stunted. Asa doesn't process his traumas well. Idk apparently witnessing ur entire family gets murdered by your mildly-abusive dad fucks you up or something --

Anger. Idk how to tell you guys this but to me.. TO ME... Asa is this big ball of repressed anger and rage and pent up energy that is just BEGGING to be let out. But Asa is like "oh im so sophisticated and calm" that he fails to realize all that rage has transformed into something else entirely. It's all that anger coming out in the guise of "self-expression" and combined with his fucked up perception of Art (the Collection) And I think that's part of why Asa enjoys what he does so much. He's like a kettle with freshly boiled water. He may looks cool and clean and well put together, but if you lay a finger on that steel surface you're gonna instinctively recoil. And if you decided to put your finger into the water you're gonna get 3rd degree burns. Because of it, Asa gonna crash out so hard.. all that anger being poured out all at once onto the cold floor. Not knowing that the only reason why it stays hot for so long is bc they were trapped inside the kettle and- around each other. Once they're all splattered on the floor, they cool down pretty fast. The first few moments of the spillage are gonna be disastrous, you better not be in the splatzone, but then it's gonna end up with Asa on the floor sobbing but not knowing why he's crying. --

In denial over his problems. Asa simply convinces himself that he's "over" his traumas. He "got over" it. He's "not dwelling" on it anymore. And that he's "perfectly fine" (Note: he isn't) Ah yes, trauma can fuck a person up very badly- Asa read. But nooo he's different, he's not like *other* people. His trauma barely affects him at all <3 Asa just refuses to acknowledge that his traumas have affected him in ways he never realized. By suppressing them, their effects on him just slowly gets worse and worse and worse.... And Asa tries to rationalize them by other means: logic, mental gymnastics,... whatever. He's not being emotional and *weak* over it like *other people* ahahaha- But when things slows down, and he lets the thoughts of what he has been through walk around in his mind, I do think Asa does feel something that is... uncomfortable. He can't keep them in a bottle forever and he knows it. Unfortunately Asa doesn't know that they're even in a bottle. It is made of glass anyway. --

Insecure about his image, his hobbies, his domesticity Asa is a fucking loser in my mind. He's such a loser oh my godddd he fucks up ordering takeouts through the phone like 3 times in a row. he falls flat on his face when he wears non-grip socks on wooden floors. And Asa fucking knows it. His Collection and the shit he does at the hotel is like a power trip to him- Yes Asa is meticulous, careful, strict and mysterious and cold and uptight and all that.... but those traits are as much part of Asa's personality as they are apart of his fabricated image. They are real, of course, but he only loves them so much because of what they can do for him. Asa isn't particularly favorful of other aspects of his personality however... Asa knows that: outside of his Collector hobbies, he's boring as fuck. He lives like an old man that yells at the kids to get off his lawn. He barely attends any events in his neighborhood; Even when he does, he just says hi to the host so they'd know he atteneded, then he goes home. Any fuckass events that don't cater to his interests, Asa only goes there to show some face. If he can, he'd go to bed at 9pm and content with eating the same meals every day. It's almost like he's unsure if people would like him when he's not *the image the built for himself*. To a point that it feels shameful to do the domestic things he likes in the privacy of his own home. He loves being domestic and watch bad TV shows while eating dinner on his couch; what were supposed to be super mundane and normal things people enjoy, feel like guilty pleasures to him to an extent. He's so insecure about his image (hence why he tries so hard to keep one that he *thinks* is him) blah blah blah... toxic masculinity, repression, depression, lack of a support system. --

Identifies as his killer persona and puts it as more important than other aspects of himself. See reasoning above. --

In conflict with what he wants in life. Which leads to frustration, which adds more water to the boiling kettle. I think Asa embraces the worst of himself while reluctantly includes the other aspects, but refuses to let go of any of them. He can't bring himself to accept both, yet he desires both goals: His collection, and the dreams his domestic-self strive for. Theoretically, he can achive both with some lies and deceit. But risking someone he holds dear & a fairly normal life, to a part of himself he can't seperate from is daunting. And risking his collection because he let his other personal life interfere is also very upsetting. He can't have his cake and eat it too. But be real, the fact that his Collection exists is already proof enough the he chose, and is/ was committed to his killer persona. And now he's having second-thoughts years into the commitment. The grass is always greener on the other side. He can't keep working on his Collection forever, it's either gonna be exposed someday or doomed to obscurity, known by no one but himself. Maybe that's enough for Asa. Maybe the collection is Art for No one. But once it is done, what's left? He had already sacrificed so much to build it, and he'll be spending the rest of his life doing maintenance for it. In order to have his collection complete, is to sacrifice those other parts of himself that he still clings to. And vice versa. It's hard to let go of something you've put so much effort into. It's hard to let go of something that could've been if you chose differently. And it's even harder to accept that because of your decision, what could've been is now impossible to achieve. --

Expressing needs and wants is a reason to be embarassed over apparently. --

Needs help but doesn't want help. (Self explanatory) --

This is who he is. He let this happen. He deserves what he deserves. And nothing can change him nor is it worth "saving" him at all. Because he is both the best and the worst. He is the best when his Collection exists. And he is the worst when his Collection *exists*. And when it is gone, he remains the best because he's the reason it exists, and he's also the worst because he allowed it to exist. He made the decision to have this brain-child, and he must take responsibility for its existence. He loves what he is, and hates it at the same time. --

Conclusion: Asa isn't doing very good.

SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. I GOT DISTRACTED WITH OTHER PROJECT LMAOAOAOAOA- Next part should be fun though :3c

[aller-geez]

hii, saw your last reblog, the bronchitis scenario, and now i need a svelex fic/art about it 🙏🙏

Hey there Nonny! Okay I literally love you sm for this req, bc usually I don’t write dramatic fics, (and granted, this might not be exactly what you were looking for, but I digress…)

But oh my god, this is definitely my favorite Svelex fic to date, although @thekinkyleopard may disagree whenever she comes back and reads the 300 fics I’ve written since she’s been online 😂

It’s not technically a snzfic cause the prompt was about bronchitis, but definitely very whumpy at least •⩊• so I hope you enjoy it!

I also was so excited to post it that I didn’t really draw a cover, I just slapped some text on a gif so there’s that ˙ᵕ˙ 2.5k words

⤹ The prompt nonny is referring to is this one ⤸

This was supposed to be a kind of a follow up for Live, Laugh, Lose Consciousness found here, but doesn’t actually have any context so do with that what you will~

Elex had never been good at handling emotions. Anger? That was easy. Frustration, violence, resentment? Second nature. But this—this tight, twisting feeling in his chest as he sat on their couch, cradling S7en’s overheated, miserable body against him—this was something else entirely.

The kid was burning up, fever pressing into Elex’s skin through the thin, sweat-damp fabric of his hoodie. His hands, calloused and rough from years of fights and harder living, felt clumsy as they adjusted the nebulizer mask over S7en’s flushed face. The mist curled out from the edges, visible in the dim glow of the TV’s silent menu screen. He didn’t know how long they’d been sitting here, but his legs were going numb under S7en’s weight—not that he gave a shit.

The wheezing was bad. Worse than bad.

Every breath S7en managed to pull in rattled through his lungs like broken glass, thick and wet and wrong. It was the kind of sound that made something animal deep in Elex’s gut tighten in instinctive dread. This was bad. Too fucking bad.

S7en stirred against him, whimpering softly in his sleep before a cough wracked through him, convulsing his thin frame so hard Elex had to tighten his grip to keep him upright. The coughing fit went on longer than it should have, deep and raw, until S7en made this awful little sound—like he was drowning. Elex clenched his jaw, shifting his mate just enough to rub slow, grounding circles against his fevered back.

"Easy, dumbass," he muttered, voice lower than usual, almost gentle. “Breathe through it.”

Not that S7en had much of a choice.

His breath hitched weakly, another wheeze scraping its way out before he slumped heavier against Elex’s chest, boneless and exhausted. His head lolled to the side, cheek pressing into the crook of Elex’s shoulder, mouth falling slack with hoarse, congested snores that were barely distinguishable from his wheezing.

Elex swore under his breath.

This was not just bronchitis anymore. He’d seen S7en sick plenty of times—hell, the guy caught everything like a damn sponge—but this? This was the worst yet. Every inhale sounded like a battle, and every exhale took just a little too long to come.

Elex wasn’t a doctor. Didn’t know shit about medical stuff, other than how to patch up a knife wound or pop a dislocated shoulder back into place. But he knew what it looked like when someone couldn’t fucking breathe.

His fingers found their way back into S7en’s sweat-drenched hair, combing through the tangled mess with slow, deliberate motions.

“Geezus fuck,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “You really don’t do shit halfway, huh?”

S7en whined softly in response, shifting just enough to bury himself further against Elex like he was seeking out his warmth. Elex let him.

He’d let him do whatever the fuck he wanted, as long as he just—kept—breathing.

The badger was out of his depth.

He could handle a lot—had handled a lot. Fights. Crime. The constant weight of hiding who he really was. But this? Watching S7en struggle just to breathe in his arms, his chest barely rising before another wet, strained wheeze forced its way through his lungs—this was worse than any fight he’d ever been in.

The nebulizer wasn’t helping. The mist curled and dissipated into the thick air of their apartment, but S7en’s breathing wasn’t getting any easier. If anything, it was getting worse.

Elex gritted his teeth, eyes darting down to the weak rise and fall of his boyfriend’s chest. Too slow. Too shallow. Every inhale was a war, every exhale a desperate, failing attempt to clear the congestion that clung like tar in his lungs.

And he wasn’t winning.

"Hey." Elex shook him gently, trying to rouse him. "S7en. Wake the fuck up."

Nothing.

S7en barely reacted—just a sluggish twitch of his ears, a pathetic little whimper as another round of coughs rattled through his fragile frame. His head lolled heavier against Elex’s shoulder, burning hot and damp with sweat, his body boneless in a way that sent a bolt of pure panic through Elex’s chest.

No. No, no, no. This was bad. So fucking bad.

He pressed his fingers against S7en’s ribs, feeling the sharp, stuttering way his breath refused to move properly, how his body worked too hard for air that just wasn’t coming.

"Fuck," Elex hissed under his breath, his grip tightening.

He should’ve seen this coming. The second that fever started climbing, the second the wheezing didn’t ease up after the first treatment—he should’ve done something. But he’d let S7en convince him it was fine, that he’d been through worse, that he didn’t need to go to the damn hospital.

And he believed him.

Like a fucking idiot.

Another strangled noise clawed out of S7en’s throat, half-cough, half-miserable gasp, and his body jolted weakly against Elex’s chest. His breath hitched. Then hitched again.

And then—stopped.

For one horrific second, there was silence.

Elex’s blood ran cold.

"Sven—!"

A choking, rasping inhale suddenly tore through the quiet, and S7en shuddered hard against him, sucking in air like a drowning man breaking the surface. His hands jerked where they were limp in his lap, weakly gripping at Elex’s hoodie like he was trying to ground himself.

The breath wheezed out of him in a shaky, half-conscious moan of pain, his chest rising in uneven, frantic movements as his body fought violently to breathe again.

"Shit, shit, shit—stay with me, kid, come on—" Elex muttered, shifting to get a better hold on him, his own heartbeat a rapid-fire thud in his ears.

S7en was barely clinging to awareness, his lashes fluttering against fever-flushed cheeks. His lips, normally some shade of cocky smirk, were pale—too pale.

Elex had seen enough.

Fuck stubbornness. Fuck whatever argument S7en was gonna put up when he got dragged into the ER. They were going.

Now.

With an iron grip, Elex hooked an arm under S7en’s legs and lifted him like he weighed nothing—because right now, in this state, he did.

S7en groaned weakly at the sudden movement, head lolling against Elex’s shoulder. His tail, usually flicking with irritation or mischief, just hung limp.

Elex’s jaw clenched.

"Yeah, I know," he muttered, adjusting his hold as he strode toward the door. "But you don’t get a choice, kid."

And with that, he kicked the door open, disappearing into the cold, night air, S7en burning fever-hot against him the whole way down to his car.

Elex barely registered the sound of the car door slamming shut behind him as he maneuvered S7en into the passenger seat. His grip was too tight, too urgent, his fingers digging into S7en’s burning skin as he wrestled the seatbelt across his trembling frame. His breathing was still so wrong—fast and shallow, like his body was trying to compensate for what his lungs refused to give him.

“Stay with me, kid,” Elex muttered under his breath, fumbling with the belt buckle before finally clicking it into place. S7en didn’t respond. His head lolled against the window, his fluffy ears twitching slightly but otherwise unmoving.

Elex didn’t like that. He didn’t fucking like that.

His breath was coming fast, sharp through clenched teeth, but the only sound he was really hearing was the wheezing. The sick, labored pull of S7en's breath, like a fucking broken accordion barely holding together.

“Fucking hell,” Elex snarled under his breath, slamming the door shut hard enough to rattle the frame before bolting around the hood of the car and throwing himself into the seat. The keys shook in his hand as he shoved them into the ignition—too hard—the metallic clang echoing through the car before he twisted them with a forceful jerk. The engine roared to life, but Elex barely heard it over the pounding of his own heartbeat.

A string of curses tumbled under the badger’s breath as he slammed the gear shift into drive and tore out of the driveway, the tires shrieking as they lurched forward. He wasn’t supposed to be driving, but fuck that. Fuck everything.

He wasn’t about to let this stupid, stubborn cat die on him.

His hands were white-knuckled on the wheel. His eyes kept darting between the road and S7en, glancing over every few seconds to make sure he was still breathing.

His chest still rising? Yeah. Okay. Fuck.
But how long could he keep that up?

"Just hold on, S7en," Elex muttered, foot pressing harder on the gas. "We're almost there."

S7en had been so still, so out of it, that when he suddenly sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath and jolted forward with a strangled choke, Elex nearly swerved off the road.

"Geezus—!"

S7en gasped again, curling in on himself, his orange ears flattened completely as his claws scrabbled weakly across the fabric of his seatbelt. His breaths were shallow, coming way too fast, way too wrong.

Panic.
He was panicking.

"Hey, hey, hey—Sven—!" Elex reached over without thinking, resting a firm hand against S7en’s chest, feeling the uneven, frantic rise and fall beneath his palm. "You're okay. You're alright, just breathe, babe. Breathe slow."

S7en blinked blearily, his pupils blown wide in the dim glow of the dashboard. His chest stuttered with another ragged breath before he whined, soft and miserable. "Elex…?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got you," Elex said quickly, eyes darting back to the road for a split second before locking onto him again. "We're going to the ER."

S7en’s expression barely shifted, but the little furrow between his brows made Elex know the argument was coming before the hoarse words even left his mouth.

"’m fine," S7en rasped, his voice barely audible over the sound of the road beneath them. "Don’t need the—"

"Bullshit."

The word came out sharper than he intended. But Elex was done pretending this was fine, that this was something they could just ride out.

S7en flinched at the tone—then slumped back into the seat, squeezing his eyes shut.

He tried again, weaker this time. "Elex—"

"You can’t breathe, S7en."

Silence.

S7en coughed, a horrible, wrecked sound that rattled through his frame and left him panting for air. When he finally opened his eyes again, something had changed in them.

Realization.

Defeat.

And finally—reluctant, unspoken acceptance.

Elex swallowed hard. His grip tightened on the wheel.

S7en didn’t argue again.

Elex was driving like he stole the damn car, which—okay, he had stolen plenty of cars in his life, but S7en’s wasn’t one of them. Still, right now, it felt like he was outrunning something worse than the cops. He was pushing the speed limit, weaving through empty streets with white-knuckled fists, but no matter how fast he went, he couldn’t outrun the rasping, strained breaths coming from the passenger seat.

S7en’s head lolled against the window, his half-lidded, fever-glossy eyes barely tracking the streetlights as they flashed by. His mouth was parted, sucking in shallow gasps of air that weren’t nearly enough, and Elex could hear the congestion rattling thickly in his chest. Every breath sounded wrong. Too much and not enough at the same time.

Elex tried, just once, to lighten the mood. “Y’know, you bitch at me for my driving, but you’re real quiet right now,” he muttered, flicking a glance over at S7en in the dim glow of the dashboard. “Guess that means I win.”

It was meant to be teasing. Just a distraction.

But then S7en let out the weakest huff of amusement—and it shattered into a coughing fit so violent that his whole body pitched forward, his spine arching against the seatbelt. His face went red, scarlet, as he gasped and choked, his shoulders trembling with the force of each ragged hack. The sound was awful, wet and shredding, like it was scraping raw against his lungs.

“Shit, breathe—” Elex yanked one hand off the wheel, blindly reaching over to rub circles into S7en’s back as he choked. It wasn’t doing anything. It wasn’t helping. Elex gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. “Almost there, kid, just hold on—”

They skidded into the ER parking lot a minute later, Elex slamming the gear into park without even turning off the engine. He whipped around to look at S7en, bracing for a complaint about his driving, about whipping the car around like it was some GTA getaway.

But S7en didn’t say anything.

He just slumped weakly against the window, his usual sharp, Cheshire grin nowhere to be found. His pupils were blown wide, dazed from fever, his breaths shallow and barely moving his chest.

That was not right.

“Fuck—no, fuck that—” Elex was out of the car in a flash, yanking S7en’s door open and hooking an arm around his waist, practically hauling him out of the seat. S7en barely reacted, his legs almost folding under him the second he was upright. His tail drooped, heavy and limp, barely twitching.

That scared Elex more than anything.

He half-carried, half-dragged S7en through the sliding doors of the ER, his heart slamming against his ribs. As soon as they stepped inside, the nurses at the front desk immediately jumped to action.

“S7en? Again?” One of them—Lillian, maybe?—was already reaching for a nebulizer before Elex could even say anything. “What are we working with this time?”

“Bronchitis—maybe pneumonia, I don’t fucking know—” Elex snapped, gripping the back of S7en’s hoodie so tight his nails almost tore through the fabric. “He’s burning up, he can’t breathe, he—”

“We’ve got him.”

That was the only thing they had to say before taking S7en out of his hands, guiding him toward a room like this was routine. And, fuck, it was routine. S7en was in here so often that nobody even blinked. They just got to work.

Before Elex knew it, he was sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair beside S7en’s bed, watching the nurses slip a nebulizer mask over his boyfriend’s face.

The first few minutes were tense—S7en sat there, glassy-eyed and swaying, chest still rattling—but after a while, the mist started working its way into his lungs. His shoulders slumped, his body slowly unwinding, like his muscles had been clenched so tight for so long that he forgot how to not be in pain.

Elex sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at him in silence. Just waiting. Watching.

S7en’s ears twitched first. Then his tail. Then his orange eyes—bleary, but focused—flicked toward Elex, catching him staring.

“…y’look like you’ve seen a ghost,” S7en murmured, voice still wrecked but a little stronger.

Elex scoffed, raking a hand through his green hair. “…Yeah, well. You weren’t exactly breathin’ a few minutes ago, dumbass.”

S7en blinked slowly, processing. Then, to Elex’s absolute horror, his lips curled into a soft, lopsided grin.

“Worried about me?”

“No.”

S7en hummed, tipping his head back against the pillow, eyes slipping shut. “Liar.”

Elex didn’t dignify that with a response. He just exhaled, leaning back in his chair, his shoulders finally losing some of the tension they’d been carrying for hours.

For now, at least, S7en was breathing.

Elex would deal with whatever came next.

The end 🖤

[cloveroctobers]

THE STRANGERS: SINNERS ON COURT

A/N: the point? I’m highly disappointed with the new release of the strangers and the summer is the perfect time for the horrors and THAT was just not it for me. I’ve also been strongly debating if I even want to dip into writing for challengers since it’s very layered but also MESSY and who wants to flop if you drop something but you don’t know unless you try right? So here’s me serving something since chapter 1 gave us…not much? I’m blaming the writers and not the actors ofc so they need to hire me for chapter 2 ASAP. So this is for my horror and challengers lovers I guess! I might have to do a trilogy myself depending how this turns out.

In short: Challengers meet The Strangers.

WARNINGS: mostly oc x art pairing with a hint of Tashi x oc! Language, slow burn/slow start? Slight graphic violence + animal brutality?—Not overly described but hinted + a LENGTHY read!

SYNOPSIS: Andromeda, “Andra,” Cove has always been the secret double to Tashi’s game even when Andra claims that is far from true. Although their friendship has been on and off since Andra transferred out of Stanford…everything always comes back to the court. Andra seeks out Art’s company to attend her grandfather’s birthday party back in her hometown in Virginia Beach not expecting Tashi and Patrick to show up as well considering the confirmed secrets the three have recently spilled. After the events at Andra’s grandfather’s birthday party, the four decide to take a trip up to Andra’s cottage to get reacquainted but soon find three more guests at the door who release nothing but terror that surely ruins the weekend.

.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *

“I just remember the knife plunging into him and the amount of blood that spluttered from his mouth as they flung his body to the floor…” Andra hears the intake of her breath before she continued, “his eyes still locked on me as if—as if he was imagining during his last moments what our life as a married couple could be like and I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t stop them from hurting the man I wanted forever with. They took that from me and I still feel that knife, shoving its way through my body every time I think of him. My forever husband.”

The host of the podcast speaks now, “Not long after Maya honored us with this virtual interview, she was found brutally murdered in her shared home with her late fiancé, Ryan. The case of the road-trip lovers still remains unsolved till this day.”

A nudge to Andra’s bare upper arm makes her flinch, bringing her back to reality as she glances to her right to see her good friend, Art Donaldson staring at her, freshly awakened from his nap. Andra allowed him to be her passenger princess since he had to take two flights to get here, which she was thankful for.

After he received more frustrating than devastating news: that Lily was biologically Patrick’s, Art fled to London to take a much needed break from his two opponents. Art held Lily so tight and even thought of taking her with him but had no energy to fight Tashi who made little noise at his departure. She knew he would be back. Andra received a text from Tashi before Art ended up calling her and it was so laughable that Tashi acted like she had everything so figured out.

[~From: Tashi Duncan.

I fucked up and it’s finally caught up…you’ll probably be hearing from Art soon. I know you’ll do me a solid and watch over him for me, won’t you Meda?

Purposely leaving Tashi on read, Andra didn’t engage in a conversation because not even three minutes later, Art was in fact calling her phone—which led to a two hour call.

“What the hell are you listening to?” Art stretched his arms back around the headrest, a frown in between his brows.

Andra glances at him while rolling her stiff neck around in the driver’s seat, “A true crime podcast…about this couple that ends up having to stay in an airbnb and they basically get slaughtered by three sociopaths in creepy masks.”

Art squints, “and you feel that’s appropriate for us who are currently on the road alone surrounded by nothing but trees in this hillbilly state?”

“Hey! You wanted to see the cottage. I was—

Art interrupts his old friend, “Don’t say perfectly fine staying with your mom and step-dad because you and I both know you can’t stand those bastards.”

Which was not untrue…

Andra’s mother was big on living up to “the Cove,” name and felt that her daughter was the biggest disappointment (compared to her older brother Ahmed) although she kept a tight smile on her cheeks when speaking about Andra to family members. Andra’s mother’s side of the family came from a lineage of historians and archaeologists and Andra’s grandfather was also a well known tennis player in Ethiopia. Half of Andra’s mother’s siblings were also in the athletic field, her mother was once a gymnast and even made it to the Olympics multiple times until she suffered a severe neck injury on her third attendance ultimately ending her career—you can just guess how well she bonded with Tashi more than she ever did with her own daughter—later becoming a athletic sponsorship director.

Andra laughs with a nod of her head, “yeah, you’re right.”

Art hums already being aware, reaching for Andra’s phone pausing the podcast to search for a playlist for this late night morning drive. “This is a mood killer…no pun intended so I’m switching this but rest in peace to Maya and Ryan.”

You’re resting your head back against the headrest, eyes focused on the road, “You’re lucky I’m getting tired and don’t want to argue with you since there are rules such as: Driver always gets to pick the soundtrack.”

“So you were listening to this to scare the shit out of you and keep you awake?” Art states with a curious glance at the braided haired woman, “pull over and let me drive the rest of the way then.”

Andra twists her lips around, ready to debate on that since she loved her “little,” coupe and actually loved being the designated driver. When she transferred out of Stanford, she may or may not have gotten into illegally racing a few cars for extra cash, after her mother put a hold on her card until she declared a new major that was satisfactory enough to her. If anybody needed a ride and fast then Andra was your girl…just try to keep that on the low, although it was public record.

A yawn ripped through her lips before she can even stop it. She didn’t even want to dare a glimpse at Art who now sat up with a fold of his arms. He was being such a dad and Andra found this funny, laughing to herself while Art patiently waited for her to say something.

“You’re too cute, Art.” Andra tells him, lolling her head to peek over at the now dark haired blond, “looking like a scolding parent as if I didn’t get enough of that at the beach.”

Art sighs at that.

For as long as Art’s known Andra, she’s always been this humorous vibrant personality but it only ever shined when she stood on her own. It dimmed a bit whenever Tashi took over and Andra made herself small enough so her own mother wouldn’t find something to pick at but that never did her any good. Andra only came out here to celebrate her grandfather, since she was never sure how many more years the old man had left in him and he was much softer on her than the way he treated her mother, which was a cycle for what Andra endured. Her step-father refused to see it, comfortable in his rose colored lenses while she also often had a bickering relationship with her brother, Ahmed who claimed she played the victim game whenever their mother said something that basically teared her down.

It was a tale as old as time.

Andra thought inviting Art out here was to mainly help him wrap his head around what he was going to do and it would be good to see each other face to face after all this time but turns out it was him being by her side that made things a little easier.

“What do you need?” Art decided to ask, keeping his eyes trained only on her.

Andra chewed down on her bottom lip as she whispered, “…for you to drive.”

Art dipped his head at this, waiting for Andra to pull over to the side. They unbuckled their seatbelts and Art was out into the night while Andra climbed over to the passenger side with her fallen over zip up hoodie. Shutting the door behind him, Art adjusted the seat with a small teasing smile at the bronze skinned woman who scoffed at him in return.

Before he switched gears he says, “for what it’s worth…I think you’re brilliant at whatever you do and the only thing that matters is what you’re comfortable with when you look in the mirror. Be proud of that.”

A watery smile goes his way and Andra lightly reaches over to shove his shoulder, “you’re disgustingly sweet and I’m glad you’re in my life.”

“I love you, you know that?” Art sends a lopsided grin back.

Andra breathes, “I love you too.”

And that keeps Art warm in the sixty-five degree summer night. He runs his fingers over the door and cracks the window open, allowing the air to brush against the side of his new do, loving to hear the sound of that. It felt good to hear sentiments being reciprocated verbally and Andra never had a problem letting it be known. The pair connected in that kind of way, the whole words of affirmation was huge in the way they wanted to be loved and can always count on each other to be so reassuring.

“Now how many more hours do we have to go?”

Andra who’s balled up on her side, peeks at her glowing phone that was plugged into her car informs, “just a hour and nine minutes.”

Art puffed out some air as he switched gears, then checked over his shoulder before pulling back onto the road, “It’ll be sunrise by then so…hopefully a gas station will grant us with it’s presence and we can fill up, grab some shitty coffee or energy drinks and be on our way to your fancy cottage.”

Andra rolled her eyes, “it’s nothing compared to your California barbie dream house.”

“Please,” Art snorted, “it’s far from that and just a place to lay our heads and raise Lily in…” He clears his throat, “it’s just a house.”

Andra knew Art was still coming to terms with it all. He already went off about it and what he thought marriage should be despite spending years in one. Art claimed he wanted a divorce but the next thing Andra knew, Tashi and Patrick were showing up without her invite. Art didn’t invite them necessarily but he did let it slip to Patrick where he was over texts and that he didn’t know when he was coming back. Art needed some time and he always felt like there was never enough in this world.

The next few moments consisted of Andra dozing off, her phone buzzing with notifications as Art got off the next exit after driving nine miles and headed to the gas station. Art grabbed his own phone, tempted to wake Andra but she looked so at peace with some much needed sleep. He quietly exits the car and makes his way to the dingy gas station, greeting the grunting old man with the Santa Claus beard at the counter before searching their inventory. Art decides against the coffee that has a few dead flies floating at the top and circled back to the fridges.

Once he finds the little that he wanted, he slides the objects onto the counter at the man with the unkept beard. A small smile graces Art’s lips in a attempt to be friendly but the man doesn’t budge.

“That’ll be it, thanks.” Art urges as he holds open his wallet, also hoping to get the strange man to get a move on so he can get out of here quickly.

The man grunts, reaching forward from his spot on the stool to bring the few items closer to his view before he slowly starts punching them into the register. Art’s patient as the man takes his time and before he can start looking around his gruff tone comes out, “that’s a pretty one you got out there, don’t ya?”

Art blinks, easily picking up at what the man is hinting at and chooses to ignore him, “I’ll need some gas too. $25 on pump three.”

The man hums to himself, reaching over some more to punch his dirt stained fingers into the buttons although his eyes keep darting out the window. This time Art follows the old man’s stare but only to check on Andra to see that she is still in fact asleep on the passenger side.

“Y’all not from around these parts are ya? Headin’ north might not be the best choice ‘round this time of year.” The man tells Art who feels his brows coming together in a frown.

He wasn’t concerned about how the man can figure out if he was from here or not. It was the same as visiting any place and Art’s been to many considering his status. It was what the man, Walter (according to his also grimy looking name tag) said afterwards.

“It’s a week before the holiday, I think we’ll be okay but thanks for caring.” Art keeps his calm, small smile still on his lips as he pulls out two twenty bills, noticing the: CASH ONLY sign, “keep the change and you have a nice upcoming morning.”

Art doesn’t bother engaging in more conversation, shoving his wallet back into his jogger pocket, and scoops the items into his arms; not asking for a bag either. Art half expected the man to latch onto his wrist and deliver another unsettling line. This time Walter just goes back to being silent and Art’s not sure which one was worse, as he steps away and exits the store.

The pinging of his own phone, doesn’t stop Art in his tracks as he continues back to the coupe. Opening the door, he dumps everything into the driver’s seat for now before moving quickly to the nozzle. The minutes feel long as Art darts his gaze from the changing numbers on the pump, to Walter’s stare from the store, and back to Andra whose body gently rises and falls with each breath.

With a click, Art brings his attention to the nozzle to place in its original space, then moves the drinks into the holders and tossing the few snacks onto the floor by Andra’s sneakers on the floor. He searches the glove box for some sanitizer, but no amount of alcohol can erase the internal feeling of something going wrong.

Art laughs to himself as Walter holds up a hand in their departure, feeling that he was just being paranoid since his nerves were already out of whack way before he got to this state. Art shrugs it off once the gas station is no longer in sight and feels his phone ping some more.

“Not now, Patrick.” Art bites with a scratch to the back of his head.

He doesn’t have to look at his phone to know that it’s Patrick. He’s been the main one sending texts at all sorts of times since Art left the country. Art was already irked before but now that he brought Tashi to impose on his time with Andra was just another thing to tick off the list. Andra was great at distancing herself from the two and was always vocal on her distaste for Patrick but this was still a process for Art.

You can only be on the court by yourself for so long according to Art Donaldson.

Andra Cove strongly felt different.

“Hey,” Andra’s raspy voice is followed with a grasp to Art’s shoulder, catching him off guard which makes her widen her half lidded eyes at his flinching, “…everything good?”

Art scoffs, “what? Oh yeah! I just thought southern people would have the best manners.”

Andra clenches the tiredness from her eyes, trying to comprehend what the blond was saying to her, “…what happened?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Art says, “take a look in the holder, I got your favorite.”

Peeking at him with one eye, Andra glances down at the yellow bottle and reaches for it with a smile that splits over her lips. “Pina colada Fanta? I can’t believe you remember that.”

“How can I forget? You talked about it all the damn time back at Stanford and would throw a fit every time the campus never had it.” Art briefly looks at the woman from the driver’s side.

Andra laughs as she squeezes it to her chest before placing it back in the holder, “appreciate you, bub.”

“Sure,” art replies, “try not to chug it all down for breakfast later and then complain about a tummy ache afterwards.”

“Are you this bossy with Lily?” Andra questions while getting ready to roll her body to face away from Art again.

She freezes a bit, wondering if it’s a sore subject to even mention the child’s name but Art just shakes his head with a snort, “I’m actually the fun parent, believe it or not.”

“Oh I do.” Andra’s turned back to the window again, reaching a hand back to squeeze Art’s thigh in comfort.

He watches Andra’s hand: her gel nails a combination of a summer orange sunset and magenta. Her pretty fingers are inked with delicate designs and Art finds that her touch radiates a warmth that he’s not used to. A touch that is gentle but firm enough that lets him know that perhaps this gloom season doesn’t have to last forever.

There’s some instrumentals playing throughout the car now but Art doesn’t seem to mind it. Andra’s hand is now back to her own lap as she catches up on another round of a nap and Art is left to his own thoughts and this horrible energy drink that tastes like battery acid.

“Jesus,” Art mutters to himself as he feels himself gag balling a fist up to his mouth, in hopes of settling his stomach on his own.

He glares down at the drink momentarily before his eyes connect with something in the road, which makes him tap on the brakes. They squeal some, which makes Andra pop up in bewilderment, hood to her hoodie sliding right off.

“Damn,” Art comments as Andra grips onto the dash, leaning forward to get a good look at what’s in the road.

Andra sighs, “it’s a deer.”

“Yeah but…it doesn’t just look like roadkill.”

The way its head is bent back is unnatural along with the amount of blood that stains the gravel. There’s traces of glass the decorate the ground which indicates it could have been hit, which was not uncommon. It was the way that both sets of eyes locked on the deer with squints in their eyes that they noticed multiple wounds on its backside that appeared blunt and not accidental.

Andra exhales, her side eye going to the sides of the car before her hands went to check that the doors were locked, “nope. Art, if you don’t float this shit, then I will.”

The glance Art shoots Andra’s way, confirms that twisting feeling he felt back at the gas station. He crosses his hands over the steering wheel, turning the car to go around the deer and picks up the speed just as the navigation system speaks telling the two which direction to continue in.

That was enough to keep Andra awake for the rest of the drive.

6:46AM

The old friends are pulling up to the Olive green and white cottage. Equally they both rest their heads against the seats, just measuring the amount of energy it was going to take to collect their things and bring them into the home.

“It’s nice.” Art compliments while Andra who rolls her head to meet his tired stare with her blank one, “what? I’m not bullshitting you, honest.”

“Uh huh,” Andra answers as she grabs her Fanta staring at it a bit with a smile, “c’mon Ken, let’s get inside before the bugs start chomping.”

Art teases with his own nickname, “can we check our surroundings first, Belle? I’m getting some red flags?”

It was the way he actually had a rose by one of his own personalized nicknames for Andra in his phone—the only one with a emoji by her name truly—that reminded Art of how much he missed their friendship.

“Is this more about the Santa Claus cashier or the stabbed up deer?” Andra asks with her hand on the door.

Art scratches at his brow as Andra’s phone dings, “uh…both?” He muttered while she deeply inhales, eyes going to the phone she was about to leave behind in the holder. Pulling it free, she unlocks the phone and reads the message with a scowl.

Holding the mic on the bottom right of the device, she speaks into it, “thanks for letting me know last minute, dumbass. Send.”

Shoving the phone into her hoodie pocket, she meets Art’s eyes, “Ahmed gladly let me know that the front porch light is still broken from the last time he snuck up here to use my place for who knows what.”

“I’ll take a look at it, just set a reminder.”

Andra nods, quickly doing so before pushing the door open followed by Art. He breathes in the fresh air which smells of pine and salt from near by water. It’s quiet besides the light chirping from some birds and there’s not many cars near by at Andra’s neighbor to their left.

“The Triplett’s come here in the winter months, they’re Minnesota natives if you can believe it.” Andra informs as she swings the strap of her duffle bag against her shoulder and moves the seat back into place.

Art nods, “so what you’re saying is…we’re actually alone?”

Andra shrugs, “that’s kinda what the cottage life is all about, babe. Don’t worry though, that’ll be ruined once your two favs decides to grant us with their presence.”

Art watches as Andra slams the door, leaving Art behind as she crosses the pathway towards the front porch. He’s scrambling a bit now, grabbing his own bag and locking the car. He jogs up the steps just as Andra is unlocking the door. “Did I mention that I’m sorry about that?”

Andra fans her hand as Art steps into the home, being met with the grand view of the water out back. She’s locking the door behind him and then responds, “you sure did but nothings changed.”

She hoist the bag on her shoulder as she breezes by that, “alright little house tour since it’s still early and we could both use some more sleep. Dining table is here, kitchen in the corner, sitting area to a pretty great view is up ahead with the best deck in this sleepy town right beyond those doors, bathroom is right by the last set of sliding doors leading out to the deck, and your room is right around that wall. Around from there is the actual living room and my room is upstairs. Please keep your shoes by the door.”

Art breathes out a laugh, “if I didn’t know that you were once a careless tennis athlete who chose cross country instead—out of all things—then went on to sports journalism later turned kinesiologist, I’d say real estate might be your true calling.”

Andra rolls her eyes with a laugh, “thanks for the whole run down of my résumé, you’re a great guest so far.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet.” He winks as he moves to start unlacing his sneakers while Andra shakes her head, moving towards the couch with her back to the sliding doors.

She jokes, “I’m not on your salary so I don’t have a personalized chef or anything—

“Shut up, Andie.” Art playfully aims his shoe at the braided woman who grins at him with a wink, “I don’t need that special treatment shit, especially when it’s going to be over by next year anyway. I already know I’m gonna be taken care of by you.”

Since Art got his friendship with Patrick back, he seems to believe that he’ll be retiring soon and he wasn’t anywhere near forty just yet.

She shrugs her shoulders, “…all depends on how good of a guest you are.”

“I think I’m the best you’re gonna get…compared to your brother anyway.”

“Don’t even get me started on his bobble head!” Andra yells before continuing, “Now I have to check the house to make sure he didn’t ruin anything and try to hide it but at least he was honest about the light. The bare minimum! Please let me know if anything seems off in your room?”

Art laughs a little, knowing just how much Andra went at it with the older guy. Art never had any issues with Ahmed, he had an award winning smile and was definitely a charmer. The only thing Art didn’t get was why he didn’t have his sister’s back when it came to their mother? Probably because he got all the credit of being the “good” kid and didn’t want to ruin that but that was selfish. Art didn’t know what it meant to be a sibling but he figured it should be some sort of union, even if you had to Duke it out from time to time.

Blood was supposed to be thicker than water is what they say.

Art was an only child so he’s always been on his own but he felt like his late nana was the closest thing he’s had as true family.

Art zones back in on Andra stepping back into his view, “…what I was meaning to say before my mind goes all over the place is the kitchen should be pretty stacked although we’re only going to be here for a day or two. I had someone make sure of it so we don’t have to make any special trips but if you want to later—

“Andie,” art calls out to her making her blink and realize that she’s talking a lot, something she does when she’s stressing or needing some rest, “we’re good, get out of here.”

Her hands are on her hips now, “Are you trying to bully me, Donaldson?”

“No?” Art blinks.

“That’s what I thought. See you in a few hours and holler if you need anything.” She starts to walk off but Art follows her.

“…you do have weapons here right?”

She glances at him over her shoulder, “duh, who the hell do you think I am? Oblivious?”

“…what’s your middle name again?”

“Good night, art!” She waved her fingers in the air while Art is smirking.

“It’s morning!”

“Then tweet, tweet, bitch!” She calls back over the wall before she disappears and heads up the stairs.

Art can’t help but to let the bubbled laughter fly past his lips, heading to the right where the bedroom is waiting behind the sliding barn doors. Dumping his bags on a near by chair, he plops down on the side of the bed, resting his hands on his knees as he soaks in the stillness.

Flinging his body sideways to lay down, after staring out at the view for some time, he pulls out his phone to see a few texts from no other than Patrick.

The most recent says that Art’ll be seeing him and Tashi by the early or mid-afternoon at the latest, depending on when Tashi was ready to go. All Art did was like the message, placing his phone back on his belly before he closed his eyes.

Art is awakened by the stench of food and the goosebumps that decorate his skin. Rubbing at the new texture on his skin, he pushes himself up into a sitting position and peeks through his slumber eyes to get a sense for what time it is.

11:52AM

He gets to his feet, rubbing at his eyes and leaves his phone behind face down on the bed. Leaning in the doorway he looks both ways before stepping out onto the dark wood floor and heads back towards the front of the cottage. He spots Andra immediately facing his direction in the kitchen, leftovers of a sandwich in her hand while she’s sipping at some sort of smoothie.

“Morning sunshine, how did you sleep?”

Art leans against the counter from the opposite side and grins, “like a baby.”

“See the magic of this place yet?”

“I still need some convincing…maybe the last bite of that sandwich will help?”

“Oh you mean this one? That’s full of grease and has the potential to clog arteries? Aren’t you an athlete?”

Art gives a straight face, “doesn’t mean I can’t have cheat days and when did you become my trainer exactly?”

Andra pops her lips at the taste, leaning forward to mockingly toss the rest of the sandwich into her mouth.

Art leans away from the counter, “alright, okay. Your hospitality actually sucks and I rate this establishment zero stars.”

“You can’t chop me.”

“I just did.” Art states matter of factly as he starts making his way into the kitchen.

Andra scrunches up her nose, “always such a little baby! There’s one waiting for you in the toaster oven and I’ll be reporting this to the blogs.”

Art argues, “And you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

“Classic answer,” Andra circles around Art now in her flowy white skirt to plop on the couch dramatically with a hand tossed against her forehead, “I thought you said you loved me, Arthur?”

“Oh c’mon, not the whole government name drop, Andromeda!” Art drags out her name around stuffing his face while Andra laughs laid out on the couch.

He preferred “Art,” over his full name any day and that’s what everyone’s known him as before he even made it big. That of course didn’t apply to his own parents who felt it was foolish to call their son by a nickname rather than what they gave to him at birth. They were less hard asses than Patrick’s parents but when it came to titles that’s where he and Andromeda related.

“I’ve been added to the group chat thanks to your side piece.” Andromeda waves her phone in the air.

Art takes her leftover smoothie and plops down beside her, sipping at and ignoring her raised brows, “what side piece?”

“Mickey mouse.” Andromeda tells as she shows the dark blond her phone, “Patrick says him and Tashi are now on the road so we should see them around 2 at the latest.”

Art slowly finishes chewing, elbows on his knees as he’s in thought, nodding at this information. He can’t exactly say he’s thrilled to have them here—as bad as it sounds considering 1/2 of the pair consists of his wife but he’ll keep that to himself.

Andra sits up then, shuffling to sit thigh to thigh with Art as she nudged his shoulder, “Take a minute and get ready, I’ll be outside enjoying the sun until I give you the rest of the tour.”

He questions with a lopsided grin, “there’s more?”

“Always.” She flashes her teeth at him, leaving Art to peer down at her lips briefly before she turns her head to look at the waterfront for a bit, leaving Art to analyze the profile of Andra’s face. The little chocolate chip mole by her hairline of her straight backs is something he always found cute no matter which way she wore her hair. Just like her finding the spec of honey brown on the side of his dark blue hues in his right eye.

She gets up, using his shoulder for leverage before she breezes by him smelling like caramel, peonies, and pink pepper—a mixture of many scents that matched her body chemistry quite well. Art lets out a long sigh, leaning back against the couch after she slides the door closed but that doesn’t stop him from watching her walk across the deck to sit pretty on the wicker egg chair.

Some time later Art makes his way out to the deck, freshly changed and dressed for the remainder of the day. He meets Andra out on the deck, leaning over it just as she’s getting off the phone.

“I don’t care when you bring it, Ahmed. All I know is that it better be back here by the time I come out here again. Yeah, yeah. Bye!” Andra ends the call while there’s amusement on Art’s face while he takes a spot right next to her.

He glances at her before looking back at the view, “are you out here tearing your big brother a new one?”

“Nooo, what gave you that idea?” She’s sarcastic although her smile is as sweet as can be.

She spins to rest her elbows on the banister, eyeing Art’s appearance. He meets her stare, raising his brows in question as she says, “The facial hair is a good look on you. What’s next? Growing your hair back out?”

Art snorts, “nah, I think that’s over for me. Too much maintenance.”

Andra hums as she waves him along, “let’s see the dock…wait did you put your sunscreen or bug spray on?”

“Uh no?”

“Not on my watch, Donaldson.” She charges right by him to the egg chair, coming back with a dropper, “hold out your wrists.”

“What is it?” He asks but complies as the oil is dropped right on his skin.

“Now pat it against your neck and ankles then finish with your wrists.” She instructs, “the mosquitoes are devils by the water and hate lemongrass.”

Art shakes his head with a smile, “whatever you say, mom.”

“That’s okay, clown me all you want but you’ll be thanking me by the time we’re inside for the night, free from bites.” She pats his waist on her way by to put the dropper back.

Together the friends make their way down the set of stairs to the lower level. They walk across the grass where Andra points to their left, showing where the shed is full of equipment for water activities.

“Paddle boarding?” Art quizzes as he caressed his facial hair, “I can’t picture it.”

“What? I can’t have other hobbies?” Andra asked, hands on her hips while staring at the man underneath her eyelashes.

Art shrugged, “course you can. I just remember a certain lake party where you were lounging by the lake instead of being in it.”

Andra shields her eyes from the sun as she turns up her glossed lips at the memory, “I’m surprised you remember that when you had your tongue down Divinia Alonto’s throat.”

“Did I?” Art inquires, “I was honestly so worried about my new friend not having a good time.”

“And keeping Patrick from getting his ass beat by one of those guys that’s probably a linebacker now.” Andra chuckles as she leads the way up the small hill towards the dock.

The air is warm just as the light breeze while the two travel some more together. It was funny thinking about it all, how Andra became acquainted with the pair, first watching them at the US open since she was visiting Ahmed who recently moved out to Queens, New York. She would later end up at Tashi’s match a week later, sitting on the bleachers not far from Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson. She ended up introducing herself to the two prior and congratulated them on their win just for Patrick to invite her to a lake party they were attending that night.

Andra said she would think about it just as her pink LG chocolate phone was ringing. It was Tashi. Art even took it further to round off a number Andra can reach them at, leaving her to just stare at them in amusement.

“Aren’t you gonna type that in? Or do you need me to do it for you?” Patrick attempts to flirt but Andra just peers at him from underneath her oval purple and black glasses.

Andra laughs, “I’ve got it but if I need someone to lift a finger for me, I know just who to call. Later.”

“Later.” The boys echo as they watch her walk away.

“She wants me, dude.” Patrick leans back into Art’s shoulder as they both watch her hips sway, doing a signature spin while answering the phone.

“Yeah right, in your dreams!

“Hey,” Art speaks, his eyes were off to the right, “you never mentioned a court.”

Andra deeply exhaled as they both face it now, “that’s because I try to forget it every time I’m out here. After I purchased this property, my mom made it her mission to have one put out here as some sort of gift to me? Honestly it feels like torture porn to me but I shut my mouth and never use it.”

Art turned his eyes into slits, “if you don’t use it then somebody definitely does. What do you get up to out there in Alaska?”

It still shocked Art to hear that Andra settled out in Alaska these past few years. Of course she still traveled all over working with the most popular athletes, this he knew because he seemed to get the runaround whenever he mentioned her but Tashi deemed it as Andra still holding a grudge with her cutting Andra off after she transferred.

Art believed it was possible but eventually they reconnected instead.

“Lots of things,” Andra answers, “but you’d have to come out there and see.”

Art hums, “that another invitation?”

“As if you need anymore.” Andra looks at him and he holds her stare.

“…I think,” he starts as he leans towards her a bit, “I’d like to see if you still got it.”

Andra scoffs, “I don’t need to prove a damn thing.”

A smile twitches onto his lips, “sure you don’t but we’ve got nothing but time?”

“And we can enjoy that time by the dock underneath the sun. I know you like to get a little tan for the summer.” Andra argues with a cross of her arms.

Art rolls his eyes, “if you’re a chicken shit just say that.”

“If you wanna see me in a skort just say that.” Andra fired back, standing on her toes a bit to match his height.

Art presses his tongue into his cheek, looking off to think about it, “fine, you caught me! I’d love to.”

And the way he’s speaking to her makes Andra bite her bottom lip and Art knows he’s got her. He’s smirking as he tries to reach for her folded arms in attempt to hug her but she playfully slaps his hands away and points at him in warning.

They’ve worked up a good enough sweat on the indigo blue court. Art’s serving with the ball at the neck of the racket before he sends the ball over. Andra has no issue matching Art’s rhythm, he’s found his spark again but Andra knows he’s been tired of professional tennis. It just took him much longer than it did Andra. She knew right from the beginning that it wasn’t her sport although she was phenomenal at it.

It was a shame really because it seemed effortless. So causal she swung but it was always fast, her brows remained turned inward while the rest of her face remained calm despite the usual routine of pulling her bottom lip underneath her teeth. Art is so lost in the swing of things, picking up on Andra’s own tics that he tries to go for the ball at the last minute. Andra pulled another one of her moves, almost like a ballet twirl spinning just as she smacks the ball back to Art.

Stretching his arm just too far, Art hisses as he feels his shoulder sting almost like static radiating down his arm followed by a burning sensation. Andra sharply inhaled, eyes widening as she tosses the racket to the side. Moving around the net she’s down on her knees as Art lays on his back panting.

“Hey,” she speaks touching his shoulder which he lightly grips, “Let me.”

Carefully he moves his fingertips out the way, choosing to stare up at the sky for a while as Andra feels around. Art groans as she touches just at the crease of his armpit, surrounding by his old wounds.

“It’s a muscle spasm,” Andra informs as she digs her fingers along his skin, “breathe through it, Art.”

He pinches at the bridge of his nose, doing as instructed and croaks out, “my shoulder stood no chance, I should have known, you still got it and do that famous spin of yours.”

“Whatever,” Andra dismisses, “now look at you, all messed up, old man.”

Art huffs, “well I wouldn’t pick anybody else to look after me.”

Andra shakes her head with a small smile as she raises Art’s shoulder while still pushing back at the stubborn spasm. When Andra shakes his shoulder out to help relax it, she goes to raise it again but he’s sitting up now with a wince. With one hand he slips against the small of Andra’s back, making her inhale as she looks over at him.

“Am I hurting you?” She softly inquired, quickly checking in but Art shakes his head.

He’s pushing her to his lap and whispers into the summer air, “Never that.”

Before his lips are placed right on her’s.

Their noses are smashed together as their lips work together. Andra makes the move to grip Art’s jaw, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. He rubs at her back and squeezes her hips, matching her speed as if time is all they had.

Abruptly she pulls back, holding her lips while Art peers at her in alert. His eyes are even darker now but the spec of gold in that one eye is bright.

It’s such a pretty sight with his lips pink and panting.

“Art…what was that?” She questions behind her hands.

His hands don’t leave her frame as he breathes, “that was something I wanted to do since I hugged you for the first time in years at your grandpop’s party.”

She tilts her head at this news and moves to sit beside him against the hot court, “You’re married, Art.”

“I don’t think Tashi knows that.” Art mutters while Andra sighs.

“So this is about revenge?”

Art shakes his head, “no. It’s about finding what’s missing and you’re it.”

They both lock eyes and Andra doesn’t realize she’s leaning in until Art is kissing her again, pushing her back onto the court which burns her bare back in more ways than one. She hisses and Art pulls away and sits her up immediately as he cups her face, “…can we go inside?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Their grins are wide as they scramble to their feet like two old friends secretly up to no good. The excitement was real, doing something that most would frown upon but the pair were not the only two that moved to their own drums.

Andra’s helping Art remove his shirt, he playfully whines more than needed as she pulls it over his aching shoulder but reveals he’s just messing with her and it’s not anything he can’t handle. His hands find comfort right on her ass, pulling her lips right back to his as he lays back against the couch. It’s when he starts bucking his hips against her’s after she slips her tongue into his mouth that Art knows he’s in trouble.

“I’ve missed you, Andie.” He tells her as she presses kisses down his neck.

She pulls back, “how much?”

He managed to flip the two over, sliding his hand up her leg brushing her white skirt all the way up as he presses his front against the only cloth that’s left covering her. “That much.”

“Then I think we need to fix that, don’t you?” She quizzes, holding his face in her hands again.

His lips are pressed to her’s and she nips at his bottom one and just as he’s reaching to shove down his own pants, there’s knocks at the door.

Both of their gazes turn to the door and Art sits up.

“Special delivery!” A familiar voice screams behind the door.

Art clenched his eyes shut while Andra sits up on her elbows to pull her skirt back down.

“Sorry,” Art kisses her cheek while Andra just secured the satin pearl colored tie around her braids before handing him his shirt back.

Art can already see Andra closing up and he hates to see it. She waits for him to fix his shirt again, this time with the tag in the right place, and wipes the gloss from his lips before making her way to the front door.

Yanking the door open to stop the pounding at it, she spots a grinning Patrick with shades on leaning against the door. “Mickey! You don’t have to kick my door in to announce your arrival, we can hear you from up the street.”

“You sure? Didn’t want to startle your quality time, sweetheart.” Patrick clicks his teeth with a wink as he leans forward to smack a kiss to her cheek before squeezing his way by.

Andra yanks Patrick by his backpack and scowls at the back of his neck, “Take your shoes off in my house, asswipe.”

“Yeah, whatever you want. Got it.”

Andra steps onto the porch now, spotting Tashi with her phone pressed to her ear pacing back and forth. Patrick snickers as he makes his way over to Art, arms held out ready for an embrace but Art just gives him a side eye before choosing to move into the kitchen.

Tashi lifts her head just to meet Andra’s eyes on the porch. They watch each other, Tashi half expecting Andra to send her a Princess wave like old times but she doesn’t. Once Tashi starts crossing the lawn towards the steps is when Andra turns her body to lean her back against the front door. She sees Tashi’s mountain of bags resting on the porch and raises her brow at them.

“Hey,” Tashi greets shortly as her heels click against the porch.

Andra dips her head, “Hi, Tash. Have a nice ride up here?”

“I never would have picked this hick town for you even if it’s part time, what were you thinking?” Tash asked as she begins moving her bags into Andra’s home herself.

Once Art comes over, he silently grabs the last bag to bring in before putting space between him, Tashi and Patrick.

“I was thinking, my money, my choice.” Andra replies as she closes the door.

Patrick lets out a low whistle, arm stretched along the back of the couch, “easy with the claws ladies.”

Tashi glares, “Shut the fuck up, will you?”

“Don’t start.” Andra warns the dark haired man who just shrugs, peeking over at Art with his tongue out in silent laughter who’s shaking his head at him.

Tashi surveys the cottage, heading to the waterfront view while looking left and right. “So what’s the sleeping arrangements?”

“Art’s on this level, I’m upstairs, Pat and you can have the couches.”

Patrick bounces on the one he’s sitting on now, “cool.”

“Right,” Tashi snorts, “So the room with the barn doors? Got it.”

Andra sends a look to Art who just moves the tension from his jaw. Tashi picks up on this and says, “what have you two been up to?”

“Yeah! It’s a nice set up you got here, Andra! I’m sure there’s plenty and nothing to do.” Patrick’s fishing but they’re not taking the bait.

Art decides to change the subject, “have you two eaten?”

“We stopped at that one place for breakfast before we left but I’m always down to decide what’s for dinner.” Patrick admits while Tashi rolls her eyes.

The now blonde haired woman brushes by Andra, “I’m going to bring my things into the room while you guys figure out how to entertain yourselves.”

Andra follows after Tashi as she’s going back and forth, bringing her things and arranging them and Art’s things. Andra sits on the edge of the bed waiting for Tashi who raises a brow at her. Art lets out a long exhale as he listens to the door slide closed and Patrick gets to his feet to place his backpack on the floor. Stretching his arms above his head, he moves towards the wall where the front door is to mess with the record player.

“Just make yourself at home, why don’t you?” Art mutters to Patrick as he flicks through some records and picks a random one to place down.

Patrick shrugs, “what am I supposed to do? Just sit around and wait for you to talk to me?”

“You’re lucky that Andra even opened the door.”

“What is this? You finding a new team member to replace me? Don’t forget that I’m always your number one.” Patrick leaves the needle off as he burns his stare into Art who’s resting his hands on the counter.

“Are you fucken serious right now? No way are you saying that to me when you did what did behind my back, again.”

Patrick rests his hand on his chest, “you’re acting as if I knew, which I didn’t, and what we’ve been over already! I would never try to take Lily away in the first place, I’m fine being uncle Patrick and I’ll still love her regardless.”

“Well shit, thanks for your permission!”

In the room, Tashi has now taken a space on the bed, arms crossed while Andra stands in front of her. “…Do you really think being here smothering him is the best choice?”

“Smothering?” Tashi scoffs, “Art fucked off for two weeks and he folded right into your arms. Whether you like it or not, I’m his wife and he’ll always need me.”

“Tashi…you had him believing that lily was his—

“She is!” Tashi exclaimed, “you honestly think Patrick would be a good father and god forbid a husband? They’re not children, they’re men and should start acting like it. Those white boys wouldn’t be shit without me and you know it, which is why you walked away.”

Andra frowned, “I don’t have anything to do with your relationships with Pat and Art so I don’t appreciate you trying to wrap me into your bullshit. I’ve been out the mix, sis. You’re already in my house, which takes a lot of balls from the both of you after you did Art dirty.”

“Art, art, art, art, art! Jesus! Did you fuck him already? Was it even better now than back when you were nineteen?”

One thing about Tashi, she knew how to be so disrespectful. However it had no effect on Andra as a smile split over her lips at the blunt short haired woman. It wasn’t a secret that Art was Andra’s first before he decided to start going after Tashi. They were each other’s flings and that was good enough for Andra as long as he wasn’t screwing anybody else that didn’t deserve him. It was her mistake then and maybe it would have been her mistake now if they had more time on that couch.

She didn’t need Tashi picking at scabs.

“Would that make you feel better?” Andra asked with a tilt of her head, “voluntarily giving us a pass for what exactly? To even the score?”

Tashi smirks, “You were always my greatest weapon and I don’t get even, I win.”

Patrick stands on the other side of the counter, taking Art’s glare, “I don’t know what you want from me, man. We were back to normal, great even! I’m at my best and you’re going out with a bang, don’t let this ruin how far we’ve come.”

Art huffs, “I’ll decide.”

“Fine, whatever you want but don’t make it another thirteen years.” Patrick snaps, “…where’s the booze?”

Andra pats at her scalp in frustration, “if you have any respect for me as a past friend, you’ll do right.”

“What’s your definition of right?” Tashi rolls her hands around trying to understand, “Leaving when it gets tough and having unrequited love?”

“What’s yours?” Andra debates stepping to Tashi who gets up in her face, “Cheating on your husband, having a baby on him, lying to him for years, and still walking around like the mean girl you are? Let me tell you something Ms. bob, we’re grown now and it’s tired.”

Tashi sizes Andra up, “it’s cute that you think you have a back bone now. Took you long enough.”

“Keep trying me and you’ll see just how that back bone works.”

Tashi kisses her lips at Andra who steps back, “great talk.”

“You haven’t changed and I don’t think you ever will. I’m glad I walked away from this friendship years ago, you make me sick.” Andra snips over her shoulder as she reaches for the handles.

Tashi fans her hand, “oh fuck you and your excuses. You’re just looking to point the finger at every bad guy to make yourself feel better about your lack of drive for anything.”

“What?” Andra whips around, “You’re the only miserable one I see here. At first I thought it was ambition but that turned into greed and then control. You’re just mad that I would no longer let you diminish my voice. I’ve had enough of that with my own mother! I’m not tennis, I’m more than that, which you’re not and that bothers you so maybe you’re the one that’s really sick.”

Tashi claps it up while Andra stares up at the ceiling, “glad you finally found your voice and told me how you really feel in person, instead of laying it out to the public like you should have. Only took you forever.”

Andra shrugs her shoulders, “if I have something to say, I’ll say it to your face.”

Tashi hums as she steps to Andra this time, brown eyes scanning over her features,“Tell me more.”

“I don’t want to do this with you anymore, Tash.” Andra’s hands are up in the air, “I removed myself from the situation long ago and after this weekend here, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. We just don’t mesh and that’s okay, I have boundaries and you have crazy standards that you expect everybody to follow. Art and I were cool before you came into the picture—

“Aht, don’t do that. We were high school friends before Art. Why should some man come between us?”

This was true, Andra and Tashi were the best of friends anyone can have as teenagers starting from their junior year. This wasn’t their first fight and wouldn’t be their last. They were in different groups by the time Andra came along since she was from Virginia but her family moved out to California when she was fourteen. They knew of each other since they had gym class together but didn’t get the chance to form a friendship until they were sixteen.

“You don’t get it,” Andra sighs, “it wasn’t just Art. It was everything for me and it would have killed me so I chose a different path. If you wanna be mad at me still over that, fine. We can’t change each other.”

“You honestly think that’s what our relationship was?” Tashi pries, “it was about challenging each other and shaping each other into the best of the best.”

Andra tightens her stare, “So tell me Tash, do you like the result?”

Tashi inhales, thoughts wandering as there’s more harsh knocks at the door. Andra deeply frowns figuring it’s Patrick who locked himself out as she looks away from Tashi, sliding the doors back to peek out. She can’t see from the doorway but she also doesn’t hear Patrick or Art talking.

The knocking sounds again and Andra steps out, followed by Tashi. Andra sees Art walking over to the door while Patrick brings his attention away from tinder on his phone.

“I thought it was you,” Andra tells Patrick, shoving his shoulder, making him lift his head to peek up at her.

Patrick snorts, “nah. My serve is more baseline.”

Tashi walks along the path between the couch and sliding doors, peering at the view of the afternoon sky turning lightly yellow against the blue. There’s birds in the sky but they’re flying further away. All of their heads turn back to the knocking, leaving Art to unlock it before Andra tells him to ask who it is.

Her attention is pulled away as Patrick starts carrying a conversation about dinner but she’s curious to who’s at the door. She see’s Art standing up straight before closing the door, locking it while holding a piece of paper.

“Who was it?” Patrick examines as Art makes his way over to the three still holding onto a fallen paper.

The blond shrugs, “some girl looking for some other girl.”

“God, I hope it didn’t slip to the paps that we’re out here.” Tashi actually seems uneasy about that, perhaps this news was more damaging than she was letting on.

Art replies, “Yeah that would not be great.”

“I mean…would it be the worst?” Patrick sits up on his elbows, “The press is hot right now and I’m the hottest topic—which I should be.”

“Yeah mainly for having a kid with your coach, who happens to be my wife.” Art retorts, “You should be so proud.” He flicks the paper into the air, leaving Patrick to reach up and snatch it.

Patrick turns his attention to Andra who’s sitting on the other side of the lounging shaven man, “…you never told us this was some religious town.”

“What?” Andra frowns, trying to not dissociate.

Patrick holds the paper up in the air as if it’s show and tell, “Latter-day saints? Don’t tell us you invited us here to join a cult?”

“I didn’t invite you!” Andra declared while Patrick flicks the paper to the ground and raised his hands in surrender.

Tashi asks Art, “what’s the name of the girl she said she was looking for?”

“It wasn’t Tashi.” Art notifies, “don’t worry.”

Tashi breathed out a laugh, “me? Never.”

Art moves to sit at the dining table glancing at the three in the room. Andra’s gone quiet, Patrick’s humming a tune while he’s messing around with his phone again, and Tashi is burning her stare into him. He knows they’re going to have to talk at some point during this trip but for now?

“Andie and I ate not too long ago but nows a good as time as any to decide what to eat for dinner. So…any suggestions?” Art questions, eyes moving around the sitting room.

Tashi mumbles that it doesn’t matter, arms crossed as she also seems to have a lot on her mind. Patrick is sitting up against the arm of the couch now, blabbing about many options that most likely wasn’t in the fridge or freezer. Art’s eyes are on Andra as she moves to pull the large curtain over the sliding doors, which makes Tashi eye Art watching her as well.

Andra moves back to the kitchen, pulling out some already prepared items from her assistant to rest on the counter. Patrick’s back at the record player and Tashi has now taken Patrick’s spot on the couch.

The braided woman flinches as she feels hands lightly grip her hips. “Hey, are you okay?”

Andra nods, “yeah…I think so. You?”

“Ask me tomorrow,” Art whispers into her ear.

Andra utters, “just need to get through tonight.”

“Yup. Perhaps slow and steady wins this race?” Art guesses as he swiftly presses a kiss to Andra’s hairline by her personalized chocolate chip.

When he leaves her side, Art catches Patrick’s eyes who has his brows raised at that exchange, waiting for Art to tell him something with Art’s own eyes. Art just shifts his blues, leaving the main area to take a minute to himself. That doesn’t last as Patrick shortly follows after Art, seeking answers about what his plan was with Andromeda.

Tashi turns to Andra as Patrick disappears into her shared room with her husband.

“Guess it’s our turn to be fucking housewives, huh?”

Andra leans her elbows along the counter, feeling a cramp in her stomach while she breathed through it, “the real ones just exited the scene.”

Tashi laughs at this as she pushes to her feet looking for a drink. She wouldn’t exactly call this, “happy hour,” but it’ll do for now. Andra knows it’s bad luck not to cheers and Tashi Duncan was one of the last people she wanted to do so with but Andra had a feeling that she didn’t want anymore bad luck.

So the glasses clinked while Patrick and Art hashed it out behind the barn doors. Outside of the cottage by the water, stands a darkened silhouette underneath the slight shade of a dogwood tree, just lurking and waiting for the right time to rally.

Dollface would soon be ready for the next task once the hours passed with some friends to bring to the match.

.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *

Continue with my summer anthology writings & prompts here.

[twodogs-twocats]

You're Not Real, You're Just a Ghost (Sleep Token's Vessel x fem pov) 18+, NSFW

A little odd but needed to get written. This has some layers but you don't need to read into it if you don't want to.

Warnings: SMUT - 18+, Minors DNI.

You pick up the pen, set it to paper. Words pent up, nuanced emotions that have few outlets other than this one, scrawled to be read only by those with similar fantasies.

The weather is warm, the sun just set, and your curtains flutter in the breeze coming through the open window. You begin to write, painting a picture you have been slowly losing yourself to for some time.

Hairs on your neck suddenly raise, and you shiver. Perhaps a night chill has set in, so you make your way to close the window when a phantom touch caresses your wrist. You turn with a start only to find yourself quite alone in your bedroom. Feeling a bit vexed, you make your way back to your desk, and after a moment become absorbed once again by your cogitations.

The writing feels easy, driven by nothing but insatiable lust. It is an ancient art, really, to write about beauty and love and passion, and as the words pour out, you are nothing but one artist inspired by another. This goes on for some time, until you feel an ivory touch down the side of your neck.

Instead of reacting with fear, this time you sigh with pleasure. You know this touch. You summoned him here with nothing but the power of your mind.

You allow Vessel to brush his long fingers down your neck, open palms traveling to the front of your chest. His lips follow his fingers, soft kisses along your neck and collarbone making your bare toes curl against the wood floor. You close your eyes and release yourself to sensation.

Vessel kneads your breasts now, massaging them over your lacy white pajama top. He plucks your nipples under the fabric and you hiss through your teeth. His presence behind you is both ethereal and dominating, and when he speaks, it is like his voice is emanating from the very matter of your mind.

It has been so long since I’ve seen you.

You chuckle. “Oh Vessel, you are always here with me. You burn in my heart and my mind and in my very fingertips.”

He hums, slipping the straps of your top down your shoulders as he trails kisses across your skin. Your shirt pools at your waist, leaving you exposed to him and his touch glides down your arm to capture your hand. He brings your fingers to his lips, kissing them one by one. 

I dream of these delicate fingers, he says. I yearn for their touch.

You turn now to face him, shifting yourself in your chair, and you are greeted by an apparition. He is Vessel - the mask, his black robe, the bare planes of his torso – so familiar that you can conjure his image at any moment. Yet he is shrouded. The details of him refuse to solidify as your mind struggles to grasp his form. He takes up every bare inch of space, both physical and cognitive, and still it is almost like he is not even there at all.

As your fingers come to the skin beneath the edges of his mask, you feel the prickle of stubble, the warmth of his body, and you also feel nothing. It is this very duality that makes Vessel so irresistible. He is both known and unknown to you.

Your touch his lips, his neck, his chest, and with each stroke, his face hovers closer to yours until finally he kisses you. You part your lips and his eager tongue slides into your mouth.

The kiss continues in the same way one would describe feasting, relentlessly and without restraint. With each brush of his lips, your thoughts rush to catch up with what’s next, what’s next, what’s next. 

Then you find yourself on your bed, legs spread wide and the brush of a breeze causing your nipples to pucker.

Show me what you like, he says with his mind-speak. Show me how to touch you.

“Vessel, you know what I like.” He did, probably better than anyone else ever could.

But Vessel’s story needed to unfold, so you slide your pants down your hips and bring your fingers to your center. Your fingers part and swirl and move in and out just the way you like. You are uncertain when your fingers are replaced by his, so perfectly does he replicate your motions. Embers kindle to flames. Moans escape your lips, growing in pitch and intensity with each curl of his long fingers inside you, in and up. His other hand comes to gently circle your neck. He knows you like this, so he does not need to ask.

His lips resume their exploration, starting at the top of your sternum and navigating down your body until they join his hand, his spit mingling with your wetness. It is pure ecstasy, and still you want more.

Vessel senses this. Of course he does – your minds are connected, your spirits intertwined – and in this moment, the entirety of his existence is for nothing more than your pleasure. He begins to disrobe, and you would mourn the sudden chill on your core as his fingers and mouth depart, if you did not know that something even better was in store.

When his cock springs out, your mouth salivates. This part of him too is an enigma, and although you can grasp his hardness in your hand, although you know it is perfect just like every other inch of him, the only realness of it you can truly comprehend is the depth of your desire to feel it inside of you.

He enters you painfully slowly, inch by precious inch, stretching you physically just as he stretches your known bounds of pleasure. Your eyes roll upwards, your spine arches away from the bed. This feeling is like nothing you could ever imagine, but yet it is also exactly like you imagined. Vessel. Vessel. Vessel. Fucking you gently. 

The curve of his hips hits you at exactly the right angles. His moans vibrate into your mind and in this moment you could almost cry. He is you and you are him and this is like the best of dreams, beautiful and sensual and yet just past the realm of reality.

His pace quickens and you find yourself entranced by the glisten of sweat on his chest. Each thrust burns brighter and brighter, your orgasm building with his. Fuck, he curses, final words spilled into you as you come together. You are left breathless.

He is perfection incarnate, the whole experience so utterly satiating except also never enough. He is so unclear it hurts, a low ache not quite severe enough to feel like a broken heart, but you are also pleased and so is he, joined by something too much like worship to really be called love.

What are you writing about? he asks as he holds you. It’s only a matter of moments until he disappears into the ether. You answer honestly, if only to keep him close a little longer. “I’m writing about you.”

[itsdrawingmen]

I saw a dunmeshi art where they lined up the characters in their underwear, and got brainworms from it. I'm not really good at painted studies, it turns out, or maybe it just didn't work right now, but I like how the drawing came out. It was an excercise in different bodies, and I think they’re all neat.

Some headcanons and musings:

Zen has boobs, tits even, but that's canon, and all the time I was drawing him I was thinking about that selfie from his album where he's wearing a half-buttoned white shirt and his cleavage is visible. I am looking at him respectfully (not really, I am looking at him like this:

He's shaved everywhere, and he wears very plain, neutral-coloured underwear. His normal state is being pretty meaty, but he doesn’t like himself that way. He’s often dried out for his roles.

Yoosung is narrow-chested, thin, covered in moles, and comparatively kinda hairy — not by my European standards, but compared to the others here. He doesn't care about shaving, for himself or anyone else. He often wears funky boxers, and has sort of got a collection. Even when it's not funky-printed, his underwear is usually bright-coloured. He's cringe, but he's free. Also, not pictured, but he’s often covered in hickeys, normally from the chest up. Not gonna say who leaves them, but anyone who knows me even a little can take a wild guess 👀

Jaehee is wide in the hips and big-breasted. Her underwear is normally mismatched, because she doesn't care. The only thing she cares about is that it doesn't show through her clothes. In the canon timeline, she usually wears those thick stiff heavily padded bras that smooth everything out, and then over the course of the postcanon she gradually switches to softer cups. She's sedentary, often stressed, and doesn't eat well, so she's not really thin. She has acne on her face, neck, back, chest, and shoulders. She shaves because she’s too used to it, but she gradually gets more relaxed about it.

Next up is Joori Nam, the MC. She's a big, tall young woman, quite heavy and strong. She likes to show off her edgy and feisty personality in clothes and underwear, and she's also pretty expressive and energetic in gestures. She's depressed and a self-harmer. She barely shaves, only where is absolutely necessary to look ‘presentable’ for work. Otherwise, she can’t be assed.

The Chois are emaciated and scarred. They've both got some mild pectus excavatum. The Mother Choi used to stub cigarettes on them, and Saeran has got it worse.

Saeyoung is slightly more muscular and slightly less scarred. He has knobby square fingers, and nails bitten to almost nothing. He's also an active self-harmer. He's missing several toenails. All of his underwear is a little baggy on him.

Saeran is even thinner and less muscular. He has a lot of piercings, and his tattoo is blacked out into a full sleeve. He has barely any body hair at all. He is pretty much covered in cigarette burn scars, as well as scars from being whipped with cables, and several deep and crooked scars from gashes made with glass bottles.

Jumin, without his PR team, can't pose for shit. He is good at doing what they tell him, and he looks fine when photographed candidly, but as soon as he starts posing on his own, he just looks awkward and stiff. He has a weird case of CEO-body, where he's fit, but also weirdly soft in unexpected places (namely, his chest and arms). He shaves because it's 'hygienic'. He also wears briefs. Sorry, to me he looks like someone who wears briefs.

Jihyun is normally pretty toned, but after the whole ordeal with Rika and having to cover for her he has gained some weight and gotten soft. He has a long torso and wider hips and a bit of a belly. He hunches his back a lot, and picks at the skin of his fingers.

Rika is slender and dancerly, and very traditionally feminine. She’s small and graceful, not muscular, but soft, with smooth porcelain skin. She wears lingerie, always matching, always beautiful, and pretty much only owns thongs and tanga. Somehow, despite always looking up at people, she can easily make you feel like she’s looking down at you.