#although i like so many of my older designs

[megwritesriddles]

Sweetest Nectar ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Neville Longbottom x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: Being at Hogwarts at university-level had it's perks, such as unsupervised days in the greenhouse with Neville. Reader finds herself in an unfortunate position thanks to a flower in the greenhouse and Neville has to figure out how to help while being a gentleman and preserving their friendship.

Tags: Sex pollen, Mildly dubious consent, Fingering, P in V, Unprotected sex, Begging, Friends to lovers, Minor yearning, HogwartsUniversity!AU, Post-war/Eighth year, Virgin!Neville (he just is, I don't make the rules), Too much backstory, Sentient Hogwarts, Silly fluffy ending.

Word count: 11.1k

Read it on ao3! | Masterlist

Authors note: Can you see why I've been gone so long??? This had zero business being 11k words but I'm a chronic overexplainer so here we are!! Skip the first 9 paragraphs if you don't care about any worldbuilding. Continuing my 'Neville gets muscular as he gets older' agenda as per. The last line is so dumb... Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

P.S. this is technically day 23 of my kinktober but it's january so lets not talk about that

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Hogwarts worked in mysterious ways, with its own indecipherable motives. This much had always been true but was especially recognised lately. Once rebuild efforts had concluded after the war, Professor McGonagall, like every headmaster before her, bar Severus Snape, had sent out invitations to recent graduates to join the Higher Education program, a two-year program that would prepare its students to become a professor in any chosen field, subject to meeting entry requirements of the course. Demand for this program was higher than it ever had been, so many recent Hogwarts graduates felt like they had missed so much time at Hogwarts, that they were willing to come back on the program just to make up for lost time. At first, McGonnagal thought of shutting the whole thing down or at least raising entry requirements for joiners; there wasn’t exactly enough room in the designated Higher Education quarters for all the applicants. And though the regular student population had dwindled significantly over the course of the war (best not thought about too hard), it seemed wrong to try and room adults with 15-year-olds just to fit everyone in. The night before she intended to send out the letters of amendment to the required marks, McGonagall felt bizarrely compelled to go on a stroll around the castle, feeling drawn down a route she didn't often find herself going. There, she found a brand new door, behind which were brand new living quarters, just big enough for all the applicants. Although she should have been relieved, McGonagall was initially rather frustrated by this. Why now did the blasted old castle decide it could build, when nearly all summer long volunteers had been slaving away to restore the castle? The windows glittered as if to wink at her, she decided that the daft old thing must have liked the attention. McGonagall found herself relieved, she too felt that the recent graduates were not ready for the career world quite yet, having had not only their final year of study lost to the war, but the years before that tarnished by looming threats and incompetent bumblers. Also, there was an urgent need for qualified teachers of magic, so the more the merrier, even if most of them would only use it as a springboard into something else. 

You had always been a shoo-in either way, although you never got to sit your NEWTs, the honourary grades you were given were stellar, supported by fantastic results in your OWLs and overall fantastic conduct in class. The blemishes on your record from the Carrow's note-taking were wiped, leaving your record squeaky clean. You received your acceptance letter and list of supplies and felt like you were eleven again. Everyone was required to specialise in a subject, and while you'd had a couple in which you had adequate grades which you might have chosen, you went for Herbology in the end, as it was something you loved.  In all honesty, you liked Professor Sprout the best and were eager to train under her. 

As soon as you received your letter, you wrote to Neville. There was no doubt in your mind that he would be studying under Professor Sprout alongside you, despite not even knowing if he had applied to the program initially. He quickly confirmed this suspicion when he wrote back to you, saying he had a sneaky feeling about you as well. The two of you had become fast friends in the sixth year, both being in Advanced Herbology. You'd known each other a little here and there before that, but in this class, your friendship truly formed. The class was very small, as the interest in Advanced Herbology was low, most careers only required a decent grade in standard Herbology, so even those with interest had to prioritise other things for the sake of their future, such as Potions or Charms. There were only the two of you and a pair of Slytherin girls who, despite seeming genuinely very passionate about the subject, refused to converse with the two of you and whispered amongst themselves all the time. This was fine with both of you, as you had each other, taking time to study together, walking to and from class, and working efficiently during any pair work. The two of you had been ripped apart during the war, you had to steer clear of Hogwarts for your safety, and Neville, being intensely monitored by the Carrows at the time, refused to write to you and risk revealing your location to them, so you had been out of contact for quite a while. You wrote to him again on his birthday and had been corresponding a little since, but things felt slightly stunted. You hadn't seen each other in so long and Neville was never the best when it came to socialising. 

Arriving at Hogwarts once again had been intensely bittersweet. So many good and bad memories to try and process all at once, it felt overwhelming. You'd had to step outside during the sorting but found yourself far from alone out there. So many people were broken. You apprehensively made your way over to Hermione and said hello. She pulled you into a tight hug, as you hadn't seen her for a long time either. You listened as she explained about Harry and Ron, that they didn't want to go into teaching, and though she'd explained over and over that most people that do the program don't end up teaching, they'd still refused to come. Trying to make the most of it, she tells you it'll be nice to spend time with other friends for once and you nod along. She is somehow specialising in three subjects, she'd wanted to do more of course, but it hadn't been allowed. Trust Hermione to work herself to the bone happily. You'd made it to your room later that night, a private room with an en-suite, which felt awfully fancy for Hogwarts, and settled in. Being back was an odd feeling, you could see the cracks in the stone everywhere you looked, there was pain everywhere, yet so much good to try and find.

To your complete relief, when you started your first day in the Greenhouses, things fell back into place with Neville instantly. At first, you'd greeted him with a hug, which had been awkward as he hadn't been expecting it, but very pleasant once he figured out what was going on. Soon after this though, as Professor Sprout set you her first task (to prepare some plants for her third years), things were back to as they were, perfect. You worked together well, talking and laughing easily, and though occasionally the chat went sour and the mood fell, this was happening with everyone lately, a byproduct of the war, there was so little to talk about that wasn't tarnished that it was a wonder the two of you were able to laugh as much as you were. Neither of the two girls from advanced Herbology were there, and although this initially saddened you both, you conceded that there could be many reasons for it. There weren’t many Slytherin returners, there never had been, but after the war especially, the turnout was pathetic. Most Slytherins avoided their peers after the war for fear of ostracism, which was fair as people had some pretty bad opinions on them but sad because there were several Slytherins who hadn’t been on the wrong side of history who were still facing hostility. 

The course was a lot of independent study of assigned texts and essay-writing, but all day on a Tuesday and half a day on a Thursday, the two of you were in the smaller greenhouse behind the ones for teaching, working on various projects, which also sometimes required your attention out of teaching hours. This greenhouse was set aside initially for research purposes at Sprout’s predecessor's request, but now was being used to train those in the higher education program. Despite this greenhouse being smaller than the two nearer the grounds, it was still fairly large and complex. Upon entering, you came into a little cloakroom, where you would have to don your aprons and gloves before entering, with a sink in the corner for washing up when leaving and entering. The next room was the main growing area, growing various plants that weren’t dangerous but were still perhaps best kept out of the reach of the younger students. There was a long wooden workbench in the middle of the room for potting and taking notes and whatever else you might need to do. Off of the opposite end of this room, there were three doors, one that led to a small room which was always kept humid and at tropical temperatures, one which was always kept cool and dry and one lockable room in which more dangerous plants were kept, such as venomous tentacula or fanged geraniums, only to be accessed with Professor Sprout supervising. 

Professor Sprout would only tutor the two of you on Thursday, so with the exception of the first few weeks, the two of you were entirely alone from 9 am to 4 pm on a Tuesday. Although it sounded a little salacious when you told friends, the truth was that most Tuesdays you were both too busy for anything to happen. Not that anything would of course, but certain assumptions were made when people heard you were alone together for hours with what they assumed was an easy subject. Mostly your days were full of tending to the plants, having to frequently refer to your notes for how each should be cared for (how much water? what temperature should the water be? do they require singing to?), observing any plants that were the subjects of your essays and preparing plants so they would be safe for lessons with younger year groups. 

It’s a Tuesday like any other. Neville is carefully planting some seeds across the workbench from where you’re delicately pruning a particularly active flitterbloom bush, setting the clippings aside to send to the potions department later. One of Neville’s research subjects is observing what methods of growth acceleration work the best and cause the least damage to the plants they’re applied to. He has been planting, growing and replanting dittany over and over for weeks now, but was still gathering more data as he came across more and more methods to test, and each had to be tested several times over to rule out external factors. 

Your research was on the merits and drawbacks of pruning, and which plants took best and worst to the practice. Pruning was useful as it allowed more ingredients to be obtained from individual plants for potioneering purposes, but generally was thought to be harmful to the overall health of the plant. You were attempting to write a definitive list of which of the 25 most common plants used in potions could be pruned and which couldn’t, which to your surprise had hardly been researched before as the belief of its harmfulness had permeated the field since 1870 and most Herbologists had steered clear of it since. Your research seemed to be proving it wasn’t nearly as harmful as thought.

The two of you chat idly as Neville uses a pipette to apply various growth potions to the soil of his newly planted seeds and you carefully measure the regrowth of a stem of the flitterbloom bush that you pruned a few weeks ago, struggling as the stem swayed about. 

“I can’t believe Hermione talked Ron and Harry into actually joining the course next term,” Neville hums, extracting exactly 5 millilitres of potion from a bottle with his pipette. You scoff. 

“For real this time? They keep saying that yet nothing ever comes of it,” you shake your head, scribbling down your measurement on the parchment beside you.

“Yes, really, two new rooms have appeared in the boys' dorms with their names on them, if Hogwarts knows, it must really be happening,” his tongue sticks out slightly between his teeth as he concentrates on dropping the liquid right in the middle of the little pot. Not wanting to throw his research, you wait until he’s done to reply.

“Perhaps Harry and Ron don’t even know it themselves,” you joke, making Neville chuckle. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the castle decided it for them,” he carefully pushes the cork back into the top of the potion bottle. “The castle is quite odd lately, perhaps it has whatever its equivalent of brain damage is from the war, it’s acting much more blatantly,”

“How so?” you tilt your head in his direction, soothing your finger over the agitated stem that you just had to hold taut for measuring. 

“I’m sure you’ve heard all the stories of people getting stuck in rooms with the people they like, doors literally disappearing until they confess or otherwise!”  Neville laughs, carefully moving his pots back to their designated spot on the windowsill. With his back turned, you can’t help but glance at the door despite yourself, wondering if it’s still there. It is. You quickly avert your eyes from the door as he turns back toward you. “It’s why there’s suddenly all these couples popping up, sure the castle has always been a little cheeky, but never so obvious before, it all started with the higher education wing appearing overnight and it’s seemingly been madness since,” he shakes his head, picking up another batch of pots containing little sprouts at various heights that he has to measure. 

“It’s sweet how many people have liked each other and not even known… has it always been people who like each other stuck together?” you ask, stroking your quill, feeling the soft tufts beneath your fingers. 

“As far as I’ve heard, each time it’s happened it’s ended well,” Neville shrugs, rifling through his bag for his measuring tape. You glance at the door again, seeing it still there. Unrequited, you figure, that door will stay right where it is. 

“I wonder where the brain of the castle is if it even has such a thing… it is sentient in some ways, so there must be an equivalent right?” you ponder as he loudly removes his books from his bag and thuds them onto the workbench. 

“The room of requirement? For some reason that comes to mind… a fire in your brain can’t be good,” he chuckles, his voice slightly strained as he peers under the table for the offending measuring tape.

“You can borrow mine,” you suggest softly as he comes up with nothing. 

“No it’s fine, you need it,” he waves his hand dismissively, standing up from his stool. “I’ll fetch mine from my room, I’m fairly certain I know exactly where it is on my desk, can’t believe I forgot it again,” he grumbles the last part to himself. “Be back in 15, watch my plants,” he smiles, although you can tell from his sheepish look that he’s embarrassed to have forgotten something yet again. Luckily, you could head back to fetch things at any time at your level, no longer having to ask to go to the toilet or anything like that. There was no one here to ask. You smile back, watching as he enters the cloakroom. A few moments later, you see his heavily blurred figure heading up the hill through the heavily rippled glass of the greenhouse windows. In the newfound quiet, you return to your work, hearing only the spray of simulated rain in the tropical growing room. 

Finally finished with the flitterbloom, you stand to retrieve your next plant, a valerian bush, for pruning. As you move to stand and step forward, you feel an odd pressure at your ankle. Stepping forward anyway, you realise too late that your foot is hooked on a support between the legs of your stool, sending both you and the stool off balance and toppling over toward the room-length counter that holds all the various plants. Reflexively, your body twists and your arms come up to shield your head as you thud loudly into the solid wood surface, causing a choir of wobbling pots, luckily with no ensuing crash of broken terracotta, you had to count your blessings somewhere. A dull pain throbs through your body, starting from the side that crashed against the counter. Thud! A yelp rips from you as the stool, still twined with your leg, falls onto your thigh. Luckily, it is only light and will leave a small bruise at most, your side colliding with the counter on the other hand…. You shut your eyes tight, feeling utterly embarrassed about what just happened despite being alone. You weren’t normally this clumsy and you were sure you looked a mess, an undignified heap on the floor, too shocked to stand up or even open your eyes yet. In the permeating silence, you sit on the cold stone floor and try not to cry, from the shock more than the pain. 

A violent sneeze overtakes your body, the action of it hurting your side. You sniff and cough, dust seemingly surrounding you. You must have jostled some old dusty plants that hadn’t been touched in a while when you collided with the surface. Surrendering to the coughs and sniffs that wracked through your pained body, you wait it out until the dust subsides, grabbing your bruised side as you double over with violent sneezes and sputters. Finally, a deep breath of clean air, you sag against the counter and try to gather yourself now you can breathe properly once more.

“It was exactly where I thought it was…” The door from the cloakroom creaks open in the silence as Neville enters, clutching his measuring tape. “I can be so scatterbrained,” he huffs, his eyes sweeping the room at the height he expects you to be. In embarrassment your eyes squeeze tighter, not wanting him to see the mess you’d gotten yourself into. Upon not seeing you, he glances around for any evidence you might be in one of the back rooms, though not thinking of a reason you would be. 

“Down here,” you squeak, your voice hoarse from coughing. The words itch your throat and you splutter slightly once more as he rounds the workbench and spots you on the ground. You give a sheepish smile, finally having opened your eyes. It’s painfully obvious from your stool-adorned leg what happened, you just hope he doesn’t think any less of you. He shouldn’t, he has a reputation for being clumsy himself, but you can’t help but worry. “I fell,” you rasp pathetically. 

“Are you alright?” he surges toward you and kneels, immediately examining your head for any bumps, rubbing over your scalp gently. The action makes your cheeks heat up, but you try to ignore it. 

“I’m okay, I landed on my side,” you reply as he carefully removes the stool from around your leg and stands it back up beside the workbench. His arms wrap around you and he carefully lifts you to stand, you yelp as the movement stretches your side and he shushes you gently. 

“It’s alright, there we go… just—,” he holds you steady until you’re stable on your feet. When he lets go of you, it feels oddly painful deep in your stomach, but you brush that off. 

“Thank you,” you whisper shyly. 

“Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?” he asks, bringing his hand up to feel your skull once more, worrying over whether you might have been badly injured. You lean slightly into his hand without meaning to.

“No I promise, it was just my side and my thigh,” you insist, inwardly wishing he’d brush his hand against those spots to check them. For a moment his hand moves like he might, but he stops himself. 

“If you’re sure,” he inspects you once more, hovering behind you as you sit back down on the stool, trying to brush past this whole incident. “Can I grab your plant for you?” he offers. “Which were you going for?” you want to complain, but his eyes are wide and earnest and you know he wants to help.

“The valerian… and could you pop the flitterbloom back for me?” you request, hesitantly testing the tender skin where the stool collided with your thigh, wincing at the throb of pain that followed your touch. Neville dutifully returns the flitterbloom to the counter, then places the valerian bush before you. Behind you, you hear him gently pushing some of the pots that had moved when you smashed into the counter back into place. You flush and keep your head down, pretending to inspect the valerian bush but not being able to focus. Your brain feels a little fogged up, you assume from the shock of the fall. Not wanting to alarm Neville in any way, you grab your tape measure and pretend to measure the leaf regrowth. He quietly moves around the workbench, bringing his pots over to your side of the bench and sitting down beside you to resume his work, his brows furrowed in concern for you. “Really, I’m okay,” you chuckle, but the weakness of your voice does little to reassure him.

“It’s better if I sit here, just in case something happens,” he says, more firmly than he usually says anything. That side of him was new since the war, this ability to stick up for himself in smaller situations. He’d always known how to stick up for the greater good, but little things like this, he would allow himself to be walked all over, too scared of losing a friend. Now that he has more confidence, he’s not so afraid to dispute his nearest and dearest, knowing you’re unlikely to end your friendship with him over this. And if you did, it would be weird and not his fault anyway. The tone of voice is also on the newer side and it stirs something in your belly.

You sit side by side working on your respective projects. Well, Neville is working, you’re more just going through the motions while your mind hovers elsewhere, not allowing you to focus on what you’re meant to be doing. Maybe you were concussed… but you hadn’t hit your head during the fall, so what was wrong? You take a few deep breaths, trying to slow your heart which still seems to be beating slightly fast. Slowly but surely, your body starts to feel a little warm. You glance to make sure the door to the tropical room hasn't opened as your cardigan starts to feel a little stuffy. No matter where you look in the room, you can’t find any source of excess heat. A puff of breath breaches your lips, you’re growing uncomfortable now, the heat only seems to rise and rise. With great unnecessary difficulty, you wrestle yourself free of your cardigan, throwing the wretched thing on the ground beside you with a grunt. Neville gives you a confused look, but not yet seeing anything obviously wrong with you, returns to his measurements. There is relief from the warmth that was engulfing you, but only for ten minutes at most, as soon you are sweltering once more. An awful voice at the back of your head tries to convince you to throw off all of your clothes, but you keep it together, merely squirming in your seat, rubbing your thighs together to try and quell the growing ache in your belly that your mind isn’t quite registering yet. In a last-ditch effort, you sip some water from your lukewarm water bottle, the relief it provides is even shorter than before. Your head whips around now, searching fruitlessly once more for the source of this despicable heat, but finds nothing. Neville is unfazed beside you, still wearing his sweater and looking perfectly comfortable. The only thing you can think of is that Neville must be radiating the heat, as nothing else could explain your sudden discomfort. You reach your hand out toward him, trying to gauge if it gets warmer the closer it gets to his side. This finally catches his attention and when he looks up, he’s met with your flushed clammy face and dilated pupils.

“Whoa! Is everything alright?” he sputtered, leaning back slightly as if worried you’re contagious. This upsets you and you let out an unseemly whine.

“I’m hot,” you huff, pushing your hair back from your face to get more cool air on your skin. “Really hot,” Neville’s eyes brush over you for a moment as he considers just how hot you are, before promptly snapping himself out of it.

“You do look a little… feverish,” he agrees, reaching out and touching the back of his hand to your forehead. You lean forward into the touch, moaning softly. Your skin is burning and slightly tacky with sweat, which makes Neville frown deeply. How could you have suddenly developed such a terrible fever? He pulls his hand back, but you immediately whine and claw at his arm to pull his hand back. Too baffled to protest, he lets you pull his hand to your cheek and watches you lean against it happily. He gently runs his thumb over your cheekbone before catching himself. “Are you alright?” he enquires once more, keeping his voice soothing.

“Don’t stop touching me,” you pout, looking up at him through your lashes with a look that is wholly inappropriate for an academic premises. He swallows.

“Wha-what?” he stammers, watching as you nuzzle against his hand.

“It helps the heat… don’t stop,” you whimper, reaching out to try and pull him closer by his sweater, but not being strong or focused enough to do it. This failure pulls another whine from you. Neville’s mind reels completely and he has to look away from you to compose himself, though he keeps your cheek cradled in his palm. What was going on with you? Were you ill? His eyes find the spot where he’d found you on the floor just earlier in his attempts to avoid the sultry unexplainable look you were giving him. “I need you to touch me,” you mewl, making him shiver.

“I’m not sure that’s–” he cuts himself off when his eyes land on the plant on the counter above where you fell. Lamprocapnos libidinosus, also known as the dripping heart, a magical relative of the bleeding heart flower in the muggle world. A common ingredient in lust potions and aphrodisiacs, highly dangerous in the wrong hands due to the potent amorous effects of its spores. Neville vaguely remembers Professor Sprout's warnings that one of the PhD students was being allowed to grow it for research and to steer completely clear of it. A warning he’s sure you would have headed if you hadn’t been tumbling toward it. Even from afar, he notices a couple of burst spore pods. “Oh no…” he mumbles to himself, dropping his hand from your cheek. You immediately protest but he stops you short. “When you fell… you didn’t happen to breathe in any dust, did you?” his voice shakes slightly, this cannot be happening to you. He always thought they shouldn’t have the plant growing in this greenhouse, even if only experienced herbologists were allowed in. Accidents happened as he knew all too well, and now his vague fears had become a biting reality.

“Yeah, why?” your voice is soft and sweet as you paw at him, trying to get him to hug you, or presumably something more. Neville flushes brightly and shoots upright, making a mad dash for his textbooks, still on the workbench from when he’d been searching through his bag. You wail at his absence, feeling the heat that had reduced to a low simmer return to a full boil. “Please…” you sob at him, not even knowing why you want what you want. “Just hold me, comfort me,” The look in your eye has him breaking, and if he remembers what little he’s read about the plant, you must be rather uncomfortable right now. He returns to your side and allows you to cling to his arm, bumping your head into his shoulder like a loving cat, while he frantically searches for the information he needs to help you. After several panicked flick-throughs, he locates the page.

Lamprocapnos libidinosus; also known as the Dripping Heart or the Flower of Lust.

At the top of the page is information entirely useless to this cause, the best season to plant, how much light is needed, etcetera, but finally Neville finds what he’s looking for under the ‘uses’ section. It’s tough to focus on reading when you’re practically trying to get under his sweater with him, pushing the knit material slightly up his side, your fingertips brushing his abdomen and making him jolt. He pushes your hand away but pulls you into a hug to silence your outcries, which you’re more than happy to sink into. He’s hugged you plenty of times so he pretends this is perfectly normal as he wills his brain to digest what's in front of him on the page. It’s hard to keep this pretending up as he can hear you sniffing him and moaning deeply at the smell of his shower gel, mixed with just a hint of sweat, which in this state only fuels your arousal, acting as a pheromone, worsening your need.

He skims the section frantically. Inhalation of the spores will lead to overwhelming feelings of lust even in small doses, however, the dose may affect who this lust is directed toward. Smaller doses will only worsen lust toward people already lusted after by the infected person, while larger doses will cause these feelings of lust to latch onto whoever is around, no matter prior relationships. The infected person will pursue their object of affection at any cost, they will be unable to focus on anything but the lust that has overtaken them. These feelings of lust, if left untreated, can cause extreme discomfort in the infected person, high fevers, intense symptoms of arousal (such as fluid secretions), shivers, brain fog and other symptoms varying by person and dose. The only way to cure the infected person of these symptoms and return them to full faculties is to have them reach climax.

It seems that you have chosen him as the object of your affections. Neville looks down at you as you hug him tight, continuously trying to slip your hand beneath his jumper. Out of selfish curiosity, he heads for the plant to try and determine how large of a dose you got and whether you may have already experienced feelings of lust toward him before the effects of the plant. When he moves away, you practically sob.

“Please don’t!” you wail, diving for him and into his arms once more. For now, you seemed to be mostly content just being held in his arms, and it’s clear you find it painful when separated from him for even a moment, so Neville has to relent. He delicately lifts you, and although having you wrap your legs around his hips hadn’t been a part of his plan, he supposes it does help keep you steady. He blushes brightly as he walks over to inspect the flower. He’s never held anyone like this, so intimately. Your skirt rides up where your legs wrap around him and he has to tear his eyes away before his thoughts become too inappropriate. You like the sight as much as he does. “You’re so strong,” you purr in his ear, your voice much lower than normal. He shivers and you feel it, the knowledge you’re having some effect on him overtakes your lust-addled brain. 

“Th-thank you, I’ve been exercising a lot since the war,” he mumbles, counting all the burst pods on the plant. He counts five, but he’s not sure if that’s considered a large dose or not. Probably, but the pods do look rather small.

“Mmm, it’s so hot…” you purr, trying to wriggle against him. Neville’s face turns red and he practically drops you, but holds you steady so you don’t fall once more once your feet touch the ground.

“Don’t say stuff like that!” he yelps.

“It’s true,” you pout. “I need you,” you try to hop up into his arms again but he holds you firmly on the ground, practically shaking. Really, this should’ve been a dream come true for him, he’d had feelings for you practically since the day the two of you met, but he felt disgusted with himself for every wave of excitement that passed over him. You were burning up, your cheeks brightly flushed, a deep ache at the pit of your belly and an ever-growing wetness in your underwear. All you could think about was how it might feel to have Neville soothing the fire inside you with deep strong thrusts, you moan aloud, if you focus enough you can almost feel it. “I bet you’re big, I bet you’d fill me up so well,” you murmur, looking up at him seductively.

“I- Merlin…” Now Neville feels overheated, he tries to push you away a little but you aren’t letting him. The image of filling you up won’t leave his head no matter how much he commands it to. It doesn’t help that you’re now trying your best to reach his jaw to kiss it. 

“Please…” you beg once more. “I need it so badly…” his resistance crumbles for a moment and his hands drop from your sides, allowing you to rush forward and attach your lips to his jaw. His eyes slip shut and he whimpers as you hold him close and lavish his neck and jaw with attention. His arms wrap around you, hands gently skimming your back as you continue to pepper him with kisses. “Please,” you whisper against his skin, your hand dropping to the buckle of his belt. The feeling of you tugging at his belt makes his eyes shoot open. He realises in a sudden flood of shame what he’s allowed you to do. You’ll hate him for this once you’re back to normal. He grabs your shoulders harshly and pushes you away. You squeak as he sits you on one of the stools, your eyes filling with tears at the rejection. You’d been so close to what you needed, and now with this newfound distance from him, you were in pain once more, a horrible throb in your stomach. 

“Listen to me,” he breathes shakily. “We can’t do this, you’ll regret it as soon as it’s over,”

“No, I–”

“You’re not in your right mind, you don’t know what you actually want,” he asserts again, reminding himself more than anything. He takes a deep breath and thinks. The only way to cure you according to the textbook was for you to reach climax. In colloquial stories about the plant, he’d always heard that orgasm would have to be reached with the help of another person, but the book didn’t stipulate this, maybe this was the answer. You could do it alone. His cheeks were flushed bright red as he opened his mouth once more. “What you need to do is… er… I’m going to take you into the cloakroom, alright?” he swallows, cautiously pulling you up from the stool onto your feet. You would need to sit somewhere to do this presumably and sitting on the stool or the workbench in here could lead to falling and disaster all over again. The best place he could think of was the bench in the cloakroom where people could sit to remove their shoes. You would have the wall to lean against and wouldn’t be sitting on the cold stone floor. Beneath you, he lays out a towel and then helps you to sit down on top of it. The towel was intended to make you more comfortable, but he considers with a blush that it might be necessary for other reasons also. He clears his throat. “Now, you have to… er… get yourself… uhm…” he can’t seem to make himself say the words. With a soft tug at his sleeve, you pull him to kneel between your legs, your faces nearly level given how much height he has on you. 

Before he can stop you, you kiss him. His brain stops functioning for a moment, all he can do is wrap his arms around you and kiss back, so intoxicated by the way your lips move against his. He didn’t have much experience with kissing, but there was no doubt this was the best kiss of his life. You moan against his mouth and it sets all his nerve-endings alight, making him push even closer to you in desperation. For you, the kiss is a sweet relief, cool water washing over your overheated body, but even so, you need more. There’s an incessant throbbing between your legs, a horrible feeling of emptiness that you know only Neville could fill. Trying to urge him on, you brush your tongue against his lips, hoping for entry. You’re allowed in for one tantalising moment before he pulls away with a start when your tongues graze against each other. The whine that rips from your throat is downright pathetic, but you don’t have the faculties to care at that moment. You look at him through your lashes, watching as he fights to regain his composure, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Never in his life has he felt as weak as in this moment, rendered so malleable by his desire for you. The two of you are friends. How will you react when you come back to normal and discover he let you kiss him in this state? That he’s allowed his selfishness to get in the way of what’s right? He jumps to his feet, ignoring your cries and protests as much as it pains him to do so.

“Look, the textbook says that the only way to cure you of this is… a uh… a climax,” he blushes and chokes on the words slightly. “I’m going to keep watch outside that nobody comes in, all you have to do is… you know…”

“Get myself off?” you supply in a sultry voice. 

“Yes, exactly,” he clears his throat, turning to leave you alone.

“Nev, please… I need your help… I don’t want to do it alone,” you plead, your voice soft and needy.  

“No, you can do it alo– oh… wow,” he exhales heavily as his eyes reach you once more. In an effort to persuade him, you’d pulled up the hem of your skirt and spread your legs, revealing your thighs and your soaked panties to him. The cold air makes you shiver but doesn’t actually cool you down in the slightest. It takes a great deal of strength to keep Neville from lunging himself at you. You look positively delicious, the wetness of your panties allowing him an outline of your most intimate areas, the skin of your thighs soft and plump and enticing. If he was even a slightly feebler man, he’d already be on his knees, devouring you through the thin, damp fabric. Just imagining how you might taste has him weak in the knees. “Oh Merlin…” he breathes, feeling his erection, which has been slightly present for the last half-hour or so, straining painfully against the zip of his jeans. The needy seductive look on your face almost breaks him, he takes a step toward you, causing you to light up, before he stops himself and just stares. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, unable to help himself. He watches you squirm in response. 

“Please, I need you,” you beg, unbuttoning your shirt as he observes. The garment falls to the ground, leaving you in your plain bra. Neville doesn’t seem to mind how simple the garment is in the slightest, his breath hitching as you reveal yourself.

“I really shouldn’t” he tries again, but he cannot rip his eyes from your body.

“I can’t do it alone, I feel so empty,” you whimper, spreading your legs further. “Please, fill me, I need your cock,” Neville nearly faints at those words, at the pleading way you say them, at how desired you’re making him feel. His legs carry him forward before his brain can catch up and he sits beside you on the bench. His brain finally does catch up just in time to stop you from sitting in his lap.

“Maybe I can help a little, but we can’t… I can’t uh… I can’t ‘fill’ you,” he gives in, despite knowing he probably shouldn’t. He had heard many times that another person was needed to reverse the effects of the Dripping Heart, so it was likely he did have to help, given the fact you hardly seemed satisfied with the idea of getting off alone. He could still be as much of a gentleman about it as possible. He knew the both of you had limited sexual experience, he himself was a virgin and though he wasn’t sure about you, he would guess you were in the same boat or had only had one partner before. With both of you having so little experience, he didn’t want to go all the way, as for you it would likely be regrettable. You plead with him softly, trying to climb into his lap still, despite his strong arms holding you at bay. Each plea weakens his resolve and he knows you know it because you’re babbling now.

“Please, please Nev, I need you inside me, to fuck me, I’ve never needed anything so badly, please, I know you want me too,” he deserved a medal for being able to resist you for this long, most other boys would have given in the second the girl of their dreams said something even remotely flirty, but he was somehow just barely resisting your pleas to have sex with him.

“Sit down,” he implores you, and you quickly obey, batting your lashes at him. “I’m going to help you, okay? But you need to stay still and just… take what I give you, don’t ask for more, okay?” These words seem to excite you, you squirm and nod, eagerly allowing him to spread your legs. His shaking hand rests on your bare thigh for a moment as he takes a few composing breaths. He couldn’t believe what he was about to do, it was something he had dreamed of incessantly, but now it felt like it could ruin his life if he wasn’t careful. You tug softly at his arm, trying to get his hand where you want it, bucking against the air.

“Please…” you sob, clenching around nothing as you look at his large hand against your thigh. He shushes you gently.

“I’m about to, just give me a second,” he stammers, trying to sort through his brain for any information he has on how to do this. He averts his eyes, figuring you wouldn’t have wanted him to see you so intimately, even if the damp fabric of your panties had already given him a pretty good look. Slowly, he places his hand on the apex of your thigh, shivering at the damp warmth he can feel radiating from your core. You mewl. Despite the pain in his neck from the position, he keeps his eyes locked on the wall behind you, pointedly ignoring how arousing the sounds you made were. Gathering his courage, he carefully slips the tips of his fingers past the fabric of your underwear and groans aloud at how wet you are. Your nectar gathers on his fingers and for a moment he just gently swipes them up and down to gather as much as possible, hearing your desperate moans as you lean your head on his shoulder. He never knew a woman could be this wet, and sure perhaps the flower was exacerbating it, but the thought still had him unendingly aroused. The angle wasn’t quite right, so he removed his hand, whining in unison with you at the separation. Your essence dripping down his fingers was like a siren song, trying to lure him to lick his fingers clean and finally get a taste of you. How could he ever explain that to you later? To his infinite regret, he doesn’t bring them to his mouth, sliding his hand into your panties once more, now from the top. This angle works a lot better, your hips immediately buck as his fingers slide over your clit.

“There, please, right there,” you beg, and he’s glad for the advice. A little unsure but determined (no point backing out now, at least he might be able to cure you), he relocates the spot that makes you shiver and whine. Your reaction tells you exactly when he’s found the little bundle of nerves once more and he takes a deep breath, before gently beginning to circle his fingers around it. It’s something he remembers hearing in the common room, and it seems it was good advice as soon you’re panting in his ear like a dog in heat, mewling his name softly. He can’t believe the noises you’re making, the sinful way you’re saying his name, it’s like perfect torture, it takes a lot out of him not to look. “Yes, fuck… Nev…” you whine, feeling the syrupy pleasure coursing through your body. “Yes, yes! More!” 

“More?” he croaks, unsure what you mean by that. As a guess, he tries circling faster, and though you definitely seem to like it, your hips canting up into his touch, he can feel you shaking your head against his shoulder.

“Need you inside,” you cry, making his cock twitch in his jeans.

“We- we can’t do- that,” he stutters, although he’s never wanted to more in his life. He wholeheartedly agrees with your pained sob in response, but he knows it’s for the best. “How about… er… my fingers? Inside?” he gulps, flustered that he’s even in a situation where he can ask such a thing. 

“O-okay,” you whimper. Neville fumbles around for a moment, trying to figure out where to put his fingers. It would be much easier if he could see what he was doing, but he’s already decided he shouldn’t. The fact that he touched you will no doubt be mortifying enough once you’re back to normal. With a little guidance from you, he very slowly and cautiously presses two fingers into you, making you gasp in pleasure. You’re wet and warm and tight around his fingers and he practically drools imagining how you might feel around his cock, almost cumming on the spot just thinking about it. Merlin, he was such a pathetic virgin, maybe he should be taking the chance and losing his virginity now, but it just doesn’t feel right when he doesn’t know how you’ll feel about it afterwards. He presses his forehead to the cool wall to calm himself down and prevent him from looking at how you took his fingers in, withdrawing them just slightly and then pressing them back in. The sound that comes from you makes Neville’s heart skip, so lewd and sinful and full of ecstasy. He wants desperately to kiss you, but he knows he shouldn’t. 

At your renewed pleading, he starts up a steady pace, thrusting his fingers in and out the way he wished he could with his cock, feeling filthy for even thinking it. The wet sound that each thrust made, accompanied by your wanton moans makes him feel like he’s the one who has been infected by the flower, so crazed with desire. Could there have been some pollen on you that he inhaled when he helped you up? It didn’t seem impossible, but he was also a young man, they weren’t exactly notorious for being level-headed when it came to sex. You lean heavily against him, gasping against his shoulder at each press of his fingers, the coil in your belly twisting tighter than it ever had before. You mumble incoherent pleas and he simply shushes you, not trusting himself not to give in to you if you keep talking. 

“Thumb,” you breathe between vulgar moans and though it takes his sluggish brain a moment, he realises what you want. He presses his fingers deeper, fumbling a moment before his thumb grazes your sensitive bud, making you sob in pleasure. His large deft hand pleasures you like it was made for it, all you can think of is the bliss he’s giving you as he hits all the right spots over and over. Your hand flies up, nails digging into his arm as you realise you’re dangerously close to exploding, despite the bite of your nails, he doesn’t let up his pace, too addicted to the sound of your moans to slow down now. “Nev… I’m–” you cut yourself off with a shout, pleasure shooting through your body like you were struck by lighting. Your muscles tense and tremble, your eyes rolling back in your skull, walls contracting around his fingers hard. The pleasure goes through you in strong waves, drowning you in it, not allowing you respite from shivers and moans for even a second as it wracks through you. You’d never felt anything so intense and all-consuming before. Neville feels your essence gush onto his fingers and though he should be relieved it’s over, he finds himself disappointed that he has to stop doing this, hearing those bewitching sounds. Gently, he removes his hand from you and guides your skirt back down your thighs so he can finally look toward you again. His fingers are covered in your essence, creamy and mouth-watering, the only thing that’s able to stop him from having a taste is your hand still clinging to his arm. He waits for you to gather your breath, silently smug he was able to help, but also petrified of what happens next. 

“Are you alright?” he asks delicately, shifting his erection away from your back now that you might actually register it. You open your eyes and look up at him, which immediately makes him frown. Your pupils are still almost comically dilated, your cheeks still pink and clammy, and though it could just be from the aftermath of your orgasm, he immediately knows something is still wrong.

“I feel better… but not entirely,” you whisper and Neville bites his lip. Great. He stands to wash his hands in the sink, and during that brief period of absence, he watches you become consumed by the effects of the flower again, pleading for him to come back. He splashes water on his face and takes a deep breath. You had reached climax, he may not be an expert in female orgasms but he knew what he just saw and felt, so what was wrong? Was the plant in the greenhouse genetically modified in some way? Would he have to call Professor Sprout to ask for help? How exactly could he explain that he’d already given you an orgasm and it hadn’t worked? Looking back, he should have taken you to Madam Pomfrey the second he’d realised what had happened to you, but he thought you would have found it too embarrassing. Now things would be infinitely more embarrassing for the both of you if you sought out help. Lesson learned, just because he’d survived a war it didn’t mean he could deal with anything life threw at him alone. He feels you approaching from behind and turns around, allowing you to sink into his arms. “Stay with me,” you plead, holding him close.

“Okay,” he sighs, because what else can he do now? “I’m here,” He caresses your bare back and tries to forget what he just did to you, but he can’t. “I’m sorry,” he huffs, kissing your forehead without thinking. “I’ve made a mess of things, we did all that and you’re not even cured,”

“Why won’t you fuck me?” you whimper. Your boldness doesn’t even surprise him anymore.

“Because it’s not what you really want, you’d never forgive me once things got back to normal, I was just the only person around for the pollen to latch onto,”

“But that’s what the pollen wants, maybe that’s the only way to cure it, I don’t just want an orgasm, I want you inside me,” you suggest. He’s glad you’re slightly more lucid from the relief of your climax, but you’re still not entirely yourself, your voice slow and sluggish like wading through water when trying to formulate logical thoughts. He can’t deny the way his cock, which had softened slightly, was coming back to life at your words. “Please…” you nuzzle against his chest. “I promise you, I want this even when I’m not… whatever I am right now,” you chuckle. He sighs. He doesn’t quite believe you but he’s running out of ideas of what to do, and your friendship is presumably ruined anyway. Maybe he’s making excuses for himself, but it feels more and more like there’s only one thing for it. He prays you’ll remember how much you begged and how hard he tried to be a gentleman and not hate him, even if you avoid him for the rest of your life after this. “I need you,” you whisper and he gives in.

“Forgive me for this,” he pleads, before lifting you into his arms and moving back over to the bench, sitting down and letting you straddle his lap. You smile at him softly, fluttering your lashes. At least the orgasm before made you a little calmer and more agreeable. If nothing else, if he gets you to orgasm again, you might be even closer to normal. He pulls you to his chest taking a moment to embrace you for what he worries may be the last time. You nuzzle into him eagerly. “I’m a virgin, you know?” he mumbles into your shoulder, not knowing why he feels the need to say it. Those words seem to embolden you, you paw at his chest.

“I promise it’ll be good, please…” you purr. He wonders how you might have reacted if you were your regular self. Would you have found it sweet? Would you have pitied him? You probably knew, everyone knew, but you never mentioned it to him. He allows you to pull off his sweater, lifting his arms and watching you discard it across the room. When you lean in to kiss him, he doesn’t even pretend to put up a fight, holding the back of your neck and kissing you back, pouring all his unspoken feelings into it. He tries to keep it slow and gentle, but you’re far too eager, and the heat starts mounting fast. He pushes away all his doubts, telling himself he can enjoy this, or else it would be even more of a waste. The t-shirt that was under his sweater is next to go, as he pulls away to allow you to rid him of it, he studies your face, still flushed and feverish, but so beautiful, full of lust. His hands fall, one to your waist and the other to your cheek, pulling you back in, pressing his lips to yours and sliding his tongue between them. You moan against his mouth, whimpering a soft sound, a thank you or a plea for more, it’s unclear. He groans back in agreement with whatever it was you intended to say. Your tongues languidly swirl together, caressing one another affectionately. Feeling your warm hands on his bare chest makes him shiver, feeling as you explore the newfound definition of his abdomen, only light, but still a change. In turn, he presses a few kisses to your chest, shakily reaching up to rid you of your bra. It falls away and his cock twitches at the sight of your bare breasts, his breath hitching. He could have never hoped he could see you like this, could have never hoped for any of this, and yet here you were, whining and guiding his hands under your skirt. He runs his hands up and down your thighs as he kisses and sucks at the supple skin of your breasts, giving himself some time to enjoy this despite your hurry. Under different circumstances, he would have liked to have left a mark and asked you to give him one in return, but he knew this was crossing a line as if a million lines hadn’t already been crossed today. At this thought he changes his mind and sucks a tiny mark into the centre of your chest that he’s sure will fade in a few hours, staring at the light pink mark a little wistfully. “Need you inside…” you whine, despite enjoying his affection. There’d be time for that later, but right now it felt completely imperative for him to be inside of you, fearing you might explode if he didn’t give you what you wanted.

“Alright, I get it,” he sighs, placing a few more lingering kisses on the swell of your breasts. Your hands find his belt buckle and without him stopping you this time, they make quick work of it. There’s an awkward shuffle as he helps you lower his jeans around his ankles, but once you’ve settled back in his lap, you take in the sight before you. He looks big even through his boxers, just like you predicted, thick and slightly longer than average. Just the thought of him inside you makes you moan and claw off your skirt with no regard for whether it survives the encounter. Neville’s overheated back presses against the cool wall as he leans back to watch you. He doesn’t bother feeling insecure, as you look like you’ve struck gold as you drool over his length, he supposes in this state you would have been happy with anything. His hands slide up and down your sides, being gentle, taking in the sight of your body, so perfect. He wishes in the back of his mind that this won’t be the last time he sees it, but hope feels too dangerous given the circumstances. He helps you slide your panties down, groaning softly as he spots a string of arousal fluid connecting you and the fabric for a while. You want him so badly. His boxers soon follow and he hisses loudly as your hand wraps around his length. “Oh Merlin…” he whimpers, bucking his hips into your hand. “Fuck, I need you,” he parrots. The ghost of a smile crosses your face as you recognise the words as your own.

“You have me,” you whisper, shifting your hips so you’re above his cock, holding him steady as he twitches. Deep brown hooded eyes stare into yours, he can’t believe his luck. Unable to wait any longer, you sink down onto him. Neville’s eyes squeeze shut in pleasure and he grabs your hips to slow you. You feel perfect around him, warm and silky and inviting, engulfing his whole being in sickly-sweet pleasure. He pulls you close, embracing you as you moan in his ear. Slowly, he lowers you down the rest of the way until your hips are flush with his. For a moment, he simply hugs you and kisses your neck. 

“Feels so good,” he pants in your ear. “So good,”

“You fill me perfectly,” you whine, squirming in his lap for friction. “So big…”

“Yeah?” he coughs, trying to sound smooth but failing, causing him to chuckle nervously. “I won’t last, I’m sorry,” he rubs his hands up and down your spine. “I wish this could last forever,” He lets go of you and leans back against the wall, his hands settling on your hips, taking a moment to admire the sight of you on top of him, him inside you. You feel him twitch within you. “Take what you want, love,” he encourages you to move. There’s no point in him trying to remain in control, all he cares about is that you reach climax, he’s bound to anyway. The nickname makes you even needier somehow, the way his voice is deep with desire. Your hands find his shoulders for purchase, eyes meeting for a moment. You’re both flushed and blissful and the look in his dark eyes shoots a jolt through you. He’s always been attractive, but to see him like this, vulnerable, needy, chest-heaving, it was something else. On his advice, you begin lifting yourself up and lowering yourself down onto his cock, moaning unabashedly with each motion. He stretches you open in the most delicious way, exactly how you’d been picturing all day, or for several years really, perfectly endowed. He relaxes and closes his eyes, groaning and whimpering as you move. Every rock of your hips stokes the flames in the both of you, sending you both toward a common end faster than you regularly might. 

“Thank you,” you purr between moans. “I’ve needed this so bad,” 

“I know,” he chokes out with a tired smile. “I’ve needed it too,” he gently massages the fat of your rear as you ride him, watching in bliss as he disappears inside of you over and over. Your moans rise to a fever pitch, your pace faltering slightly as your climax approaches.

“Yes! Yes!” you practically scream, all your senses heightened as you slam your hips down against him. His face scrunches up in pleasure.

“I’m going to– Ahh!” he grunts, body trembling as he releases thick ropes inside of you, whining with the aftershocks as you continue using him to chase your high. It’s so close, you can’t give up now. Neville’s hands weave into your hair, pulling your face down to his to kiss you. Your tongues meet messily as you struggle to focus on the kiss, preoccupied with your orgasm that is on the tip of your tongue. Heat pools strongly in your abdomen, and you feel the familiar ecstasy of the coil snapping in your belly. Your movement immediately ceases, walls spasming around his length as you moan loudly into his mouth, grabbing him and holding him as close as possible. Your vision whites and your brain goes blank, your whole body twitching violently. He tries his best to soothe you through it, but the pleasure isn’t allowing a single thought to form in your mind for several moments. Finally, your muscles relax and you collapse against him heavily, chest heaving with effort, skin slick with sweat. You vaguely register him removing himself from you and wiping you with a towel, but the corners of your mind are fuzzy and you just cuddle closer to him. You sit in silence for a long while and you nearly fall asleep against his shoulder when he speaks up. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” you hum. He tilts your chin up towards him.

“Open your eyes, love,” he implores softly, to which you flutter them open. He sighs a great sigh of relief, seeing your pupils shrink as they react to the light, dilated now a regular amount, and the flush on your cheeks is much less than before. “Do you still need me?” he asks.

“Don’t go,” you panic, holding him closer, but then you realise what he means. “Oh… no, all I want is to maybe have a nap,”

“Thank Merlin, I couldn’t have gone for another round,” he jokes stiltedly. You giggle, cuddling closer once more. “You don’t hate me then?” he mumbles, as if worried he will have reminded you to hate him, gently pushing some hair from your face. 

“No, you… saved me,” you shrug.

“Saved seems dramatic,”

“Well, who knows what would have happened to me if you’d just run away and left me alone? You didn’t have to do what you did, but you did it for me,” you lean up to kiss his cheek. “You gave yourself to me completely, just to save me from discomfort,”

“Trust me, it was my pleasure,” he laughs nervously and you gently swat his chest. “I’d do anything for you,” he whispers, kissing your forehead with a barely contained tenderness.

“Yeah, you’ve proved that,” you grin, kissing his cheek again. “And I for you,”

“You’d have had sex with me if I’d been the one to bump into the plant?” he prompts, sliding his hand up your bare side affectionately. 

“Of course, I’d have done it way sooner too, not wasted time being a ‘gentleman’,” you tease. “Thank you for that though, it was sweet of you, even if it was unnecessary because I don’t regret it one bit,” you promise him, kissing his lips tenderly. He embraces you tighter for a moment and then loosens his grip. 

“We should probably leave, I bet it's past teaching hours now,” he sighs before helping you up and to dress. Your panties are well and truly ruined, so you’re forced to go commando under your skirt. Neville wraps his sweater around your hips to help prevent it from flipping up as you walk through the grounds back to the dorms. He finds it difficult to dress himself as you keep eagerly kissing him, but finally get himself presentable, only to be pulled into another kiss. It’s not desperate or lustful like before, more playful and excited, and he’s happy to accept them. “I take it you like me,” he chuckles as you hug him tight, his arms around you in return.

“Loads,” you sigh into his t-shirt.

“I do too,”

“My room? I promise we can just cuddle and sleep,” you suggest, smiling up at him.

“Hey, give me a few hours, I might be raring to go again,” he jokes.

“Well then definitely my room so I can help you out, I owe you one, don’t I?” you giggle and wink. He blushes slightly and shakes his head. 

“That plant has made a monster, come on,” he takes your hand in his. “Let’s go before someone notices and starts asking questions,” he opens the door into the greenhouse, accio-ing both of your bags over, as well as the open textbook from the workbench. “Stupid inaccurate thing,” he grumbles, stuffing it in his bag. You merely giggle at his frustration. As you turn to leave, you’re met with a gleam of magic, the door to the outside of the greenhouse rematerialising. The two of you exchange a look, neither of you had realised the door was even missing amidst the whole debacle, but it must have been, or else it couldn’t have reappeared. Hogwarts had forced the two of you together, it was likely your fall hadn’t even been organic in the first place. You knew you weren’t usually so uncoordinated.

“Huh,” Neville blinks, checking that the door now works, wondering when exactly it disappeared and how he had missed it. You scoff and shake your head in disbelief before the both of you laugh earnestly.

“Hogwarts is a total perv,”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

xoxoxo

[fortunxa]

Fourteen days

[sequel to ‘Blue hair, blue eyes, blue lights’]

Jinx x fem!reader / modern AU

summary: They say the longer the wait, the sweeter the kiss. But, darling, I’m starving, so don’t keep me guessing.

cw: around 4k words but could be mediocre, mild nsfw

author’s note: I’m alive! Sorry for the delay in posting, I’ve been hustling :( But here’s the awaited sequel, so buckle up ;)

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“Uno, motherfucker!”

Jinx is… competitive, to say the least. As of right now, we’re lying on my bed, legs tangled, and playing UNO while it’s pouring outside. It’s well past midnight, and I stopped trying to shush her victory cheers after the second round. She has a way of making her presence known and commanding your attention, but truthfully, she isn’t hard to miss anyway. Every aspect of her exudes an unapologetic ‘Look at me!’ aura—from her infectious laughter to her bold fashion sense. Even her braids have a life of their own, swirling and swaying with every step she takes. She’s unforgettable.

But I’ve come to discover a more delicate side of her in her most vulnerable moments. It’s almost like she transforms into a different person, both in terms of her personality and, surprisingly, her appearance. Her features become softer, more child-like, her eyes wide and innocent. The way she effortlessly switches from one persona to the other is impressive to witness. On the flip side, she has a tendency to become obsessive and possessive, which resulted in us spending almost every waking moment together. You may call me crazy, but it makes me feel needed. Ultimately, isn’t that what we all want?

These are just a few of the observations I’ve made about her in the past two weeks. My mind’s file on her is growing exponentially, tucking away every information I learn about her in a safe place—from her preference for orange juice but hate for oranges to her strained relationship with her older sister, which makes my room the designated hangout spot whenever we’re stuck inside. Jinx is a complex person with many layers, and while I can’t claim to know everything about her just yet, I do feel like I have built a stable foundation of understanding what makes her unique. I certainly know enough to start falling for her.

“Alright, alright, you win. Again,” I say with a small smile playing on my lips and twenty cards in my hands. My phone is buzzing beside me—probably another message from my mom asking us to be quieter—and I ignore it. I still remember her face when she asked us how we met, and Jinx jumped up, telling her all about the police chase, earning a nudge in the ribs from me. It’s a miracle she still lets us hang out, but with the number of times the blue-haired girl sneaked in through my window, I don’t think it would’ve changed much if she didn’t.

I feel a yawn building up, but before it reaches the surface, I’m pinned against my bed. “And what do I get for winning?” Jinx teases as she straddles my hips, and I certainly feel awake now. Another thing that I learned about her is how touchy she gets, but it still catches me off-guard at times. My heart rate quickens, and I’m sure she feels it pulsating through my wrists. She smirks at my dumbfounded expression and lowers herself even more, brushing her nose against mine. “Cat got your tongue?”

This proximity between us takes me back to the night we met when we almost shared a kiss. Fucking almost. Although I’m familiar with many aspects of her, I’m still a stranger to the way she tastes. Is it sweet like the Skittles she keeps stealing from me or, on the contrary, sour like the Warheads? Perhaps it carries the freshness of her toothpaste or the fruity allure of her cherry-flavored chapstick. I need an answer to the question that’s been consuming my thoughts as of late, and I need it now.

Just when I’m about to get it, my phone buzzes again, and—you guessed it—Jinx pulls away and casually snatches it off the bed, reading the message. I feel like I’m about to explode.

“Aw, why didn’t you tell me that we woke your mom up?” she innocently asks as I stare at the ceiling with a blank look. I suddenly feel self-conscious. Maybe I was misunderstanding our connection since the beginning. Maybe she never wanted us to take it further. And maybe this is another thing that I need to learn about her—she’s just flirty, and there’s no ulterior motive behind her actions. How fucking stupid was I to think otherwise? I’d be fine if she wanted to stay friends, but this whole teasing is starting to make me feel like a toy. I need clarity.

“I guess I was too focused on our game,” I finally mutter as a reply, putting the UNO deck away before standing up to grab us two fresh pairs of pj’s. When I turn to face her again, she’s already watching me with a worried expression.

“You okay, toots?” I’m not. Jinx walks over, and her bare feet make a thumping sound across my carpet. She positions herself in front of me as her eyes analyze my demeanor, and I feel vulnerable under her scrutinizing gaze. I wonder if now’s the time to be open about my feelings, but as I take in her cerulean eyes—I stopped calling them blue as they’re so, so much more than that—I can’t bring myself to face the rejection.

My cowardice wins.

“I’m fine,” I say with a tight-lipped smile before presenting her with a nightshirt. She opens her mouth, presumably to push her investigation further, but decides against it. Her eyebrows knit together at the newfound awkwardness.

We change into our nightwear, and Jinx snuggles under the comforter while I head to turn off the lights. I remember her fear of the dark, and quickly turn on the nightlight, casting a soft pink glow across the room. I find myself wondering if she cares enough to remember the little things about me, too. I slide into bed alongside her, making sure to maintain a respectful distance between us. The air is filled with an uncharacteristic silence, broken only by the gentle patter of raindrops outside and our quiet breaths.

I flip on my side, my back toward Jinx as I try to fall asleep. I can sense her restless shuffling as she tries to find a comfortable position before she settles by wrapping her arms around my torso. She’s flush against me, and I let out a sigh—screw it. I turn around and face her before pulling her frame into my chest. Her grip tightens, and a shuddering breath escapes past her lips. I’m not a mind reader, but I know that the sudden sour mood brought her feelings of uneasiness, and a plethora of negative thoughts, igniting her own insecurities. I rest my cheek on top of her head and close my eyes. My hand finds its way into her hair, and I start massaging her scalp gently. When she finally relaxes, it doesn’t take long for me to hear her soft snores.

I don’t remember dozing off, but the morning light filtering through my window comes too early as I slowly flutter my eyes open. My eyelids feel heavy, and my bed is unexpectedly empty, fueling my disoriented state. I sit up groggily and rub the sleep from my face before scanning the room in hopes of catching a glimpse of Jinx, but she’s nowhere to be found.

Right as I’m about to sink into self-pity over her Irish goodbye, my bedroom door suddenly bursts open. I jump, and my tired eyes lock with her cheerful ones. I guess she never left after all.

“You’re finally awake! Good morning!” she exclaims with a radiant smile while skipping over to me, her slightly gapped teeth proudly on display. Her braids are tousled from sleep as she settles on the edge of the bed, presenting me with a plate of freshly made chocolate chip pancakes. “Made your favorite. And don’t worry, I already cleaned up,” she adds, and my heart swells as my eyes flicker between her and the breakfast she prepared. She does the same, a giddy smile on her face and her lower lip caught between her teeth. Yet, as I remain silent, her shoulders slump and the sparkle dims, replaced by a nervous fidgeting of her hands. “It’s okay if you don’t like–”

I interrupt her by pulling her into a tight embrace, expressing my gratitude. At first, Jinx is taken aback, but she soon returns the hug, burying her face into my neck. The scent of vanilla extract lingers in her hair—probably from messing with it during her cooking—and her skin radiates an unusual warmth, bringing a small smile to my face.

“Okay, trinket. Dig in and get some energy,” she says, pulling away as she walks over to my vanity mirror and starts unbraiding her hair. Well, don’t mind if I do. “It’s your college move-in day after all!” She giggles happily, and I almost choke at her words. It isn’t just move-in day; it’s my imaginary deadline of making her mine slowly ending. Despite my lack of progress, she has kept her word in showing me fun—however this friendship goes, I will be sure that I’ve felt alive at least once in my life.

“Shit, I forgot! What time is it?” I scramble to find my phone, which has been lost somewhere under the pillows. I leap to my feet, unsure of what to grab first as I start flailing around. “I still need to finish packing and–and load the boxes into the car, and I–”

“Woah, slow down!” Jinx grabs my shoulders and grounds me in the middle of the room. She takes a deep breath and urges me to mirror her actions. “What am I here for?” Her hands trail up my neck and rest on my jawline, leaving me breathless again. “Finish eating first, then we can worry about the rest. Capiche?” I nod, and she pats my cheek with a grin. “Good girl.”

I’m left flustered, and she resumes untangling her hair as if she didn’t just say the hottest shit I have ever heard in my life. I try to keep my cool and finish my breakfast, but my imagination is running wild with all the scenarios I could be a good girl in. I pick out some fresh clothes for the day, trying my best to act casual while my thoughts are anything but.

“I’m just going to freshen up. I’ll be back in a few,” I say and head to the bathroom, hoping that a cold shower would tame my heat. But, on the other hand, there’s a part of me that’s begging for her to join and do it for me.

She never does—obviously—but I come back with a clearer head. Jinx’s hair is now completely down, her vibrant blue waves cascading to the floor. I see her struggle to part it evenly and decide to step up.

“Here, let me help you,” I offer as I gently take the comb from her hands, carefully brushing out any leftover knots before dividing her hair into two even sections. As I work on the base of the first braid, I steal glances at her in the mirror’s reflection. Her eyes are closed, and she occasionally lets out content hums, seemingly lost in thought.

“For the record, toots,” she speaks up as she now deftly weaves the second braid with practiced fingers, “I don’t let just anyone touch my hair.” My brain is slowly putting the meaning behind her words together, and a smile tugs at my lips as realization dawns on me—I’m special. Despite my best efforts, I fail to conceal my grin. Jinx communicates a lot through body language, so when she explicitly says what’s on her mind, it stuns me a bit.

“So, I’m not just anyone, huh?” I tease and concentrate on finishing the braid.

“Clearly you’re my getaway driver,” she retorts with a smirk, and I nudge her shoulder.

Once we’re done working on her hair, we begin filling up the boxes and clearing out most of my room. It’s a mix of emotions knowing that I’m moving away, even if it's only temporary. But what really tugs at the strings of my heart is the thought of not being able to spend as much time with the blue-haired troublemaker. With my upcoming college schedule and her still torn between taking a gap year or not, the idea of our bond weakening is the most difficult part to imagine. If I’m lucky, perhaps life will allow our connection to endure and flourish.

“Sheesh, I don’t remember packing rocks. Did you?” Jinx huffs as she loads the last box into my car. I laugh and shut the trunk.

“It’s my books, dummy,” I reply and get behind the wheel as she takes the passenger seat.

“At least you’ll be too busy reading to hook up with anyone,” she mutters, connecting my phone to the car, and my cheeks flush. Totally normal thing to say to a friend.

The song Jinx chose is blasting through the speakers as I pull off. We fall silent, but I can see her bopping her head to the music in the corner of my eye, lost in her own world with her feet on the dashboard, which she had decorated ‘the Jinx way’ as she called it. Meanwhile, I’m filled with embarrassment as I realize that I haven’t even checked the released college roommate assignments. How awkward will it be if I introduce myself to my bunk buddy after moving in? On a scale of one to ten, I deem it a seven. I don’t even remember filling out the housing application, for fuck’s sake.

We’re halfway there when we decide to take a quick pit stop, and I pull over on a backroad underneath a row of trees. Jinx gets out of the car with an indecipherable expression, and I follow in confusion. I’m no stranger to her mood swings, but I still get concerned. She’s walking around in circles, kicking at the dirt and stray rocks caught in the crossfire of her boots. When I open my mouth to call out for her, she beats me to it.

“Can I talk to you about something, toots?” she asks as she whips around to face me. I simply nod, and she continues, “Somewhere private.” She climbs into the backseat as I look around the empty road. Doesn’t get much more private than this, but I digress. I shut the door behind me and get comfortable.

“So what did you–” I don’t have a chance to finish as she straddles my lap, and I get a sinking feeling in my stomach as I recall what happened the last time she did this—her teasing won’t stop unless I speak up, but when I take notice of the whirlwind of emotions flashing through her eyes, my hands subconsciously fall to her hips, tracing soothing circles on the soft skin. I realize I’d rather be stuck in limbo than lose her altogether.

“Is there something wrong with me?” Her question takes me by surprise, and my eyebrows shoot up. She squeezes my cheeks with one hand, turning my face upwards.

“W–what? Why would you think that?” I stutter as her gaze skims over my features.

“Why won’t you make a move already?” Her voice is wobbly, and I’m left speechless. My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of the water as I rack my brain for the right words.

“I wasn’t–I’m not sure if you want me to,” I finally reply, and she makes a face.

“Look at us, Y/N” –she gestures to our current position– “you’re a smart girl, don’t act clueless now.”

Realization hits me like a train. Jinx needs loyalty and devotion—she needs me to show her how much I want her. She wants to know that despite her complex character, I’ll stick around and fight for her. In retrospect, it all seems so simple and obvious.

“Jinx?” My voice is barely above a whisper as I look into her eyes. She can only hum in response. “I’m going to count to three, and then I’m going to kiss you.” Her grip on me loosens in surprise, and her wide eyes are blinking rapidly. “I’m giving you those three seconds to stop me if you change your mind.” She stays silent, and I begin my countdown.

1…

2…

3.

When I finally taste her, I realize how badly I’ve been starving.

My hands cannot bring her close enough to me as I snake my arm around her waist and rest my free hand on her jawline. I’m not holding back anymore. If she wants devotion, I’ll show her exactly that.

I’m furious—furious that I’d been denied this pleasure for so long, but my lips move against hers as if they’d already danced this way before. It’s effortless, like the gliding of a pen on paper from an inspired writer’s hand, and she’s the muse.

It’s not a gentle kiss, the way first ones usually go. It’s hungry, rough, and precisely what was needed to let out the pent-up tension. It’s swirling tongues, dripping saliva, and smudged lipsticks. Without ever pulling away, I carefully lay her on her back, and my fingers sink into the soft flesh of her thighs. Her colorful nails claw at my back, and I groan into her mouth, digging my hips into hers. We’re both breathing heavily through our noses, and my attention shifts to her neck by biting and sucking on the tender skin, letting my hands roam over her curves freely, mapping out her body.

A trail of hickeys is forming on her collarbone, and she’s a moaning and whimpering mess under my touch; it’s a blissful sight. She locks her slender legs around my hips and pulls me further into her, chasing more friction. Watching her become so needy thrills me even more, and my hand tentatively falls to her clothed crotch. Her jaw slacks in anticipation as my fingers ghost over the area where she needs me most, and her back arches into me in response. I want to watch her unravel beneath me, shaking limbs and sweat dripping from her temples.

But she’d teased me too many times for me to grant her this relief right now.

I relish the feeling of our closeness with one last peck and catch Jinx’s lower lip between my teeth, pulling on it slightly before letting go, earning a faint whine from her.

We’re both panting and trying to catch our breaths as I hover above her, my palms firmly planted on the seat on either side of her face, propping myself up. I can’t help but admire my work. Her cheeks are flushed, and her lips are swollen, her smudged plum lipstick matching the bruises on her neck—still, she’s absolutely beautiful. She watches me through half-hooded eyes with her pupils dilated, and I smirk at her breathlessness.

“Leaving me high and dry, trinket?” she asks, and her hands fall to my hips, trying to pull me back in.

“Call it payback,” I reply before hoisting her back into my lap, and she yelps in surprise.

Jinx grips my shoulders to steady herself, and I try my best to smooth out her disheveled hair. I start peppering sweet kisses to her bruised skin, and she lets her head fall back with a pleased sigh. I pull her back in so my lips can find hers once again. It’s much slower this time, grounding us in the moment, and there’s that delicate side of her peeking through with each swipe of her tongue. When I pull away and take notice of her peaceful state, I know it was all worth the wait. I caress her cheek with the back of my hand, and she leans into my touch.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve craved this?” I whisper, and an amused glint flashes through her eyes.

“Two weeks isn’t that long.” She’s giggling now, and this sound alone is enough to bring a smile to my face.

“It is when you’re right in front of me, and I’m unable to touch you properly.” My thumb starts working on cleaning up her smudged lipstick, and her features soften as she mirrors my actions.

Sitting in the backseat with her feels like a full-circle moment. This is where it all began—a simple thrill-seeking witness turned getaway driver for a blue-haired menace.

Fourteen days.

It took me two weeks to make her mine.

I can’t help the dumb smile tugging on the corners of my mouth as I start driving again. Jinx’s head is on my lap, the same way it was the night we met, and she’s telling me which houses she’s planning on tagging next. The drive goes by quickly as we exchange our opinions on what the Montana spray paint smells like—I say cotton candy, she’s hellbent on bubblegum—and before we know it, I’m parking outside my future college.

“Oooh, look how fancy,” Jinx speaks up as she analyzes the building, and she’s absolutely right. The size itself is intimidating, and I can already see myself getting lost in the halls. The architecture looks modern with futuristic touches, and the campus is surrounded by grass and cherry blossom trees. If it wasn’t for my scholarship, I wouldn’t even dream of affording to study here. “Is now a good time to tell you that I’m your bunk buddy?”

I turn my head so quickly I almost give myself whiplash, and I stare at her as if she grew a second head in the last thirty seconds.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I grab her arm in disbelief, and she shakes her head with a smile, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

“Surprise!” She laughs while I’m still processing her confession. “My mechanical engineering scholarship got accepted, so I filled out your housing application and requested myself. Then I filled out mine and requested you. I didn’t think it would work, but, holy shit, isn’t that awesome?”

Any sane person would feel violated by this. But me? I’m fucking delighted.

“You’re a gift that keeps on giving.” My hands cup her cheeks as I pull her in for a kiss, the excitement getting the best of me. One kiss turns into two, then three, and before I know it, I’m peppering her whole face in them as she laughs. When she finally settles, there’s a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Wanna test out the beds?”

[xamag-draws]

BBR thoughts 2024

Since I mentioned that I finally dusted off an old project of mine and was ruminating on how I'd remake it, I thought I'd elaborate a little, now that I've solidified some concepts. For funsies

This is gonna be a bit of a long and unfocused one, but I don't share my personal thoughts here often, especially the stuff about my projects I always marinate in. And for once it's something that people have existing context for, so hey why not

So for anyone who hasn't been following me for a gajillion years, The Black Brick Road of OZ was a webcomic that I posted around 2013-2015, back when I was in highschool going on college (which is kinda crazy to think about). It was sort of a darker twist on The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, although I definitely leaned a lot more into dark humor more than anything in those first few chapters

I don't think it's available to read anywhere anymore, and I know people have been asking me about it. So here's the full proper archive of BBR, as full as it can be with deceased Flash

I totally used it as an excuse to shamelessly and self-indulgently experiment. It had interactive pages and GIFs and was wayyy too overproduced for what I could handle or what was necessary, but I did have great fun making it while it lasted

Unfortunately, that excess and the fact that I've changed too much as a person by the time I was in college is what ultimately killed it. The direction I wanted to go in was practically unrecognizable from the original idea started back in 2011, so there were many old hold-ups that I felt ruined it

At the time I kinda wished I could start/rewrite it all over, but considering that I pretty much had the entire script done at that point, it felt like a pointless sisyphean task. So I just put it on a shelf and didn't look back for about 8 years, because I didn't know what else to do

Now to be fair, the nature of my art has always been iterative and cyclical; when I feel like my creative juices have run dry I prefer to leave a project to marinate and move on to something else; cycle through other old things and bring in new skills and perspectives into the mix when I'm ready again. Not very productive, but it is what makes me happy to work on my OCs; I'm doomed to hit a wall with them eventually and I need some time to be able to find a new direction

So that said, I'm glad that BBR was left to marinate for that long. I don't think I was prepared, emotionally or intellectually, to tackle it again until now. The Wizard of Oz book (and the entire series of them, really) has always been near and dear to my heart, but there's a lot of context around it that I'm only unpacking now that I'm older

I think I always inherently feel negatively about the stuff I've made in the past, like its faults always jump out to me more than the positives, especially the more time passes. I've never liked that, and I do really appreciate the kind things people have to say about BBR to this day. The fact that it still can be recognized and remembered is very sweet

When I left it, I already found it "kinda cringe", and that feeling only deepened with years. When I took my first look back at it, asking the question "how would I rewrite it now?", at first I took a very cynical approach, as in "everything would have to be torn down"

But the more I sat on it, the more I found that I still see some merit and charm in the ideas I was putting out; I just didn't know how to execute them at the time (not to pretend that I know what I'm doing now, but I certainly know more at least). Turns out a lot of my old concepts could be changed substantially with just a few small tweaks. So I'd say that's a nicer way to think about my previous work

If you haven't seen yet, I posted a first draft of my new designs for some of the characters (the main group, the Goods and the Wickeds). Definitely subject to change, but more or less how I see them now

I'm just playing with these concepts; by no means would I attempt to remake BBR right this moment. Call it a pipe dream among my other ones. But just for fun, this is the direction I'd like to take:

Nowadays I'd probably make it a visual novel, with more emphasis on the visual part than the novel because I'm no English prose writer by any means. It'd still let me play a little with the interactivity while helping cut some corners on the drawing part (only some, I imagine I'd go hog wild anyway)

I've always intended for some events inspired by the sequel books to take place in BBR's past. Stuff like Jinjur's revolt or Ozma's rule preceeds the main events here. So I think it would be fun to follow the past of a few key characters alongside the main story. One chapter focusing on the present quest to see the Wizard, then one focusing on the past events (that are maybe reflective thematically); rinse and repeat

I'm also sticking a little closer to the original text in some regards. Not everything that I enjoy from the books would be translated here, it's still just a very loose fantasy on the material; but I'd like to be closer in spirit at least

I like mature, wise and powerful Glinda, I like kind and vulnerable Tin Man, I like the Wizard being a pathetic yet loveable liar, so I'm sprinkling in more of that for example

I'd like to keep some whimsy, but make it more grounded and a bit more serious to be coherent in tone. I think the original TWWOOZ book was a more realistic fantasy in some ways, even for the standards of the time; I like its simple but vivid tactile descriptions and details like bringing attention that Dorothy needed to eat and sleep

I find it funny that Baum specifically was averse to making his books scary or unpleasant, finding that unnecessary for telling a compelling kids story, but they still can get pretty dark and disturbing, at least for our modern sensibilities. Let's just say that I intend to use the Evoldo and Chopfyt storylines for my purposes. In that way, I feel like a "darker" Wizard of Oz retelling can still mostly be tonally in line with the original and balance it with enough heart and occasional humor

I slowly grew to appreciate the quaint old-timey quality of the original series, as well. The first book is both timeless and very much a product of the 1900s. Originally I tried to give it a little modern or at least anachronistic spin, but it was moreso because it's what I knew best, so these days I'd rather intentionally lean into the time period. Still not fully historically accurate by any means, but at least directly acknowledging the influence

The events of the story span across 40 years of these characters' lives, so I'm drawing inspiration from the entire so-called La Belle Epoque: the time period around 1880s-1920s. Basically I'm cooking, and my soup is old Victorian fashion morphing into Edwardian fashion and slowly inching towards flappers

Some new Dolly outfits

Lots of crazy things, political changes and innovations were happening at the turn of the century, which I think is noted and reflected by Baum in the books as well; the character of Tik-Tok might not blow any minds now, but he was one of the first robot characters in literature at that point; and don't even get me started on Jinjur, etc. Plenty of really interesting stuff one could lightly ponder in an Oz adaptation these days

Aesthetically, art nouveau has always been a big artistic influence for me, and it'd definitely be its time to shine here. John R. Neill's illustrations of the Oz books often keep me company as well. Nouveau architecture in particular fits that fairytale whimsy extremely well imo

I'd allow myself a little bit of art deco here and there, but ultimately its intimidating geometrical splendor is an antithetical to the flowery nature of nouveau and I associate it with a completely different era. Definitely fitting some characters like my Wicked Witch of the West, but shouldn't be overused

One of my main problems with the original BBR was that eventually I lost track of what it was even about; and the original ending felt too mean and unfulfilling to be worth it. Now I'd like to stick to the theme of home and family as my main theme, but in a different, more bittersweet way than in the book

An interesting connection I made is that a lot of my aforementioned older key characters (the Witches, Jinjur, the Nome King, etc) all came from the same reformatory as kids, that's how they know each other. In my recent research I learned that in those reformatories it was usually frowned upon to release the children back to the families, which were seen as the original corrupting influence regardless of the circumstance. The reformatory did everything in its power to cut that connection and make itself the only family those wayward kids were supposed to know and love. That's an unexpected tie into the theme of home that I'd like to explore as well

So yeah that's the current state of it. I have a bunch of outfit concepts I'm slowly cooking, although I'm now sure whether I'd post them... But I do miss these funny guys, and I'm glad some people still do as well :)

[monstergyaruprecure]

Concept art for my precure fanseries, Monster Gyaru Precure!

This is a bit older, so their designs aren't fully up to date here.. But this is my lil team of sillies! Here's a brief overview of them (from right to left).. They will have their own posts dedicated to each of them eventually 💕💕

🎀Cure Beast - The Leader! Bubbly, sweet, brash, and very girly! Loves monsters and the supernatural, Gyaru and alt fashion, and food (she has a very big appetite)~ She can be very airheaded and doesn't think things through, but still always means well, always thinking of others~

🩸Cure Vampira - Outspoken, confident, and a bit spoiled (though one might say bratty)~ She too loves fashion, although unlike Cure Beast, she's actually quite scared of monsters and especially the dark. She tends to be quite cowardly when it comes to things she doesn't understand

🌙 Cure Luna - She is Cure Beasts childhood best friend! In contrast to Beast's very extroverted personality, Luna is much more shy and has many issues with self confidence. Still, her more reserved nature won't stop her from expressing herself through her art~ (Also, Luna and Vampira are sisters!)

👻 Cure Spectra - Cure Spectra is very.. quiet. But it isn't for a lack of confidence, she just never has much to say (but when she does speak it is straight to the point and blunt.) Because of this, she's the most observant in the group, and is the best at formulating plans. Her own personal passions are singing and photography, though she doesn't like people to know about her singing

🎉 Cure Party - She's the most energetic of the group (although she only beats Beast by a little bit) and is also the most emotional, dramatic, and carefree. She's also quite mischievous, loving to pull silly pranks on her friends (along with telling awful dad jokes and puns at any chance she can get)~ However, this causes her to struggle with taking things seriously

Ahhh sorry the writing and grammar sucks?? I'm not a good writer ( ；∀；) And again, I'll get into more detail about each of them and the story later (when I can actually figure out what I'm doing ahsjgsjdhsjsj)

[serawritesthings]

WHERE THE DEERS REST, first part

Pairing | LowHonor!Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader Summary | How can we do good when all we were raised to do is bad? A cruel fate, indeed. Yet when your past, and a certain outlaw, finds a way to set its claws in you once more, perhaps you'll soon find there is a way to change fate's design. Tags | sexual content 18+ minors dni, smut, heavy description of violence and wounds, angsty Word Count | 22k A/N | Oh god, I'm so nervous about posting this. First of all, thank you SO much for the love you showed to Our Dear, Green Little Friend. It has completely warmed my heart that so many of you like it, and even though it's taken me very long to post my next fic, it was one of the key motivations for me to continue writing on it. So thank you very, very much! <3 Also, like I said earlier, I'm very nervous about posting this fic since it's very long and perhaps quite different than what I've written before, but I hope to god you like it! I haven't been in the best mindset when writing it since I've dealt with some stress both privately and at work. I will let you know that I will soon go through it once more and edit it slightly, but I felt like I had to get it out to you guys since I feel bad that I haven't posted in a while, and I'm honestly quite sick of rereading the story time and time again. Please let me know if there are any serious misspellings, and I'll fix it directly! Anyway, sorry for the long text, and I hope you like it!<3

For some, it might’ve seemed cowardly, yet you couldn’t bear to unravel some memories, for they hurt too deeply–wounded too far. However, the thought of letting them fade was somehow worse, and while you feared the pain they would surely bring when confronted, you hadn’t been forced to face them until now. So, it turned out to be quite the coincidence they would come to haunt you now that time seemed to be at a standstill; the world around you had never been this calm before.  

“Miss, would you mind taking these back?” A hearty voice broke your thoughts, speaking in a mumbling fashion as the loud sound of books hit the wooden table. Wading through the dust that floated around you that stirred from Eustace’s sudden motion, you found his ageing eyes gazing at you amusedly, chuckling at the sour expression that formed on your otherwise soft features. 

“I don’t mind,” you said, giving him a small smile that turned vicious once the heavy pile of books was cradled in your arms. “If you don’t mind taking a round with the whisk.” You didn’t get the chance to see the irked look on his face, disappearing quickly into the towering bookshelves. 

“Don’t forget to dust the higher places as well!” Chuckling warmly at the man’s miffed mumbling, you walked on carefully, making sure not to stumble on the ratty carpet as his grumbling grew distant.

The bickering that seemed constant when you conversed with the older man was by all means with no ill intent, more so done in jest. And, while your friendship might seem rather unusual, there was no doubt that his presence brought you an undeniable comfort in a world that had done you more wrong than right. Sure, it might sound dreary, but you recently concluded that you grew more and more content with the thought of staying here.

You loved how a sense of calm always seemed to rest over the building, the smell of old books filling your senses, although an ever-so-poignant whiff of hot steel and grease found its way in from the open window as the train chugged to a stop and steam billowed through the surrounding air. Sighing, you took the liberty of closing the window, the sharp whistle making you cringe as it brought you out of your solitude.

Eustace had taken you under his wing when the bearings of your life had become too heavy, giving you a roof over your head and warm food in your stomach. It made you wonder how sparse kind souls like his were in this world, never having met one quite like him. While your compromised situation originally had been the reason for his kindness, he had found your fascination and vast knowledge of books intriguing and, therefore, refused to take no for an answer when he asked you to start helping him around his bookstore. Yet, despite how much you appreciated it, you couldn’t flee from the unease that still hooked its claws in you when you pondered the reason you had ended up here in the first place, the tendrils of it creeping into the sanctuary of the bookshop like ivy upon ancient stone. Despite your dislike of it, you bore the weight of it every second, and although well hidden, you had become tethered to the memories that followed your past. 

Like shattered glass, memories pierced your heart with sharp edges at every twist and turn. Distant echoes of laughter that had long since faded into silence, the faces blurred by time yet etched into your very being passing before you as your pace slowed down, the wooden panels creaking something so terribly under your weight.

With a heavy sigh, you moved among the hundreds of books, fingers deftly tracing the spines as you sought their rightful place amongst their brethren. Arranging them on the shelves, you tried to distract yourself from your thoughts by humming quietly in the otherwise quiet room. The shop had been empty for quite some time now; the townsfolk’s interest in the subtle words on the pages dimmed in their struggle to survive their daily life—only pretentious men stepped inside at times who, by crook or hook, imagined they would leave a mark on this world with their clever words and supposed hierarchy in society. It lessened, though, as they went for bigger–more extraordinary–things than this muck of a town, wherever that might be.

Amidst the quiet rustle of pages and the soft creak of wood–and your less than favourable words, the air suddenly turned congeal, thick with a sudden tension that tickled your senses with its uncertainty. A chill coursed down your spine as you felt an ominous presence looming behind you, casting you in its shadow as the weight of something cold and unyielding pressed against the tender flesh of your temple. With a tremble, you froze, the books once held tightly against your chest cascading to the ground in a tumble.

Your heart was hammering against your chest, beating against your ribs like a caged bird as its frantic beat drowned out the world around you. You grew too fearful to move, the clicking sound of a gun daring you to resist. 

“Easy there, miss,” a gravelly voice spoke, vibrating dangerously in your ear as warm breaths turned cold on the bare skin of your neck. “No sudden moves, and I won’t have to hurt you.”

You remembered that voice, feeling it dance just beyond the reaches of your consciousness, its familiarity almost touchable. How could you not voice it when the name lingered on your tongue, teasing and beckoning you? There had to be a mistake; there was no other conclusion to be made, for if it happened to be someone you had known, they might be less agreeable than the common bypasser.

“What do you want?” you managed to whisper, voice barely above a breath.

“Money, jewels. Whatever you got,” the voice replied, words heavy with a certain kind of roughness only a man holding a gun to a woman’s head could possess. “Just keep quiet and do as you’re told, and we’ll be on our way.”

Your mind raced in a jumbled mess of fear and uncertainty at the sudden intrusion you should have known was a high possibility in such a city as Blackwater. Yet, the thought only made your heart heavier against your chest, knowing all too well what kind of men hid in the darker corners of the alleyways. For one to threaten a woman in broad daylight, though, seemed very daring yet not an ounce less terrifying.

Summoning every bit of courage you possessed, you tilted your head to glimpse at the man pushing his head against the side of your face, opposite where the cold metal touched your temple dauntingly. As you did, you met the eyes of the man who held your fate in his hands–and in that fleeting moment, as your gazes met, you saw something flicker behind the hardened exterior of the outlaw.

Recognition dawned like a bolt of lightning. What stared back at you was not the face of a stranger but the familiar features of a man you had once known—a man whose presence had once held the promise of escape amidst the terrible deeds that clouded your life. Arthur Morgan, that’s who was standing behind you. His name echoed in your mind like from a long-forgotten dream, memories hidden so well you could barely remember them. 

Two broken souls, trying to find what others seemed to have handed to them on a silver platter: warmth and solace, the comforting thought of finding a home–somewhere to belong. Yet, the relationship wasn’t made to be perfect, and in your despair, nothing good could’ve come from it. As many things go, it became too fragile. It couldn’t—didn’t—last, and what you once saw as a light beyond the heavy curtains of darkness was quickly swallowed up.

Instead of the kind ones you remember, dark, dangerous eyes stared into yours, the swirls of blue coated in a rich black that ran like coal through his acidic gaze. So harsh and cold were they, burning through yours as thick brows fell like a shield over the dark pools, hiding behind his squint and hostile snarl. Almost unrecognizable, he was seemingly both older and larger as the lines on his face were more defined and wrinkles on his nose nearly etched onto his face. 

As your fearful eyes stared into his stoic yet calculating ones, you felt your body shiver in fright, every bell of alarm that once sounded so clearly in your mind turning quiet, now only the clock ticking discernible as blood rushed in your ears like a flood. The gun cocked dangerously, dread creeping through you at the wordless threat when you stayed quiet for longer than he had the patience for.

 “You deaf?” His growling voice burned deep in his throat. A warm breath brushed against your cheek as he kept your gaze wholly, completely disregarding the unmistakable fear in your expression. 

“I-”

You stumbled over your words, voice thick before a gasp left you. Between the disbelief of seeing Arthur’s face once again, although more weathered than you remember, and the thought of having a gun pressed to your temple, there was not a single word you could utter that would seem sensible.

Suddenly, you were turned around, hands pushing you against the bookshelves in a hasty motion, never minding their grip on you. Your head craned as the gun now found your neck, trying desperately to get away from it but instead having it digging harder into your skin. 

“Now, are you going to do as I say?” You could feel the tendrils of disgust burn through you, face contorting as you twisted in his arms, proving futile against his leverage. 

“Nah, none of that. You hear me?” His grumbling could be heard from deep within his chest while his face soured, the sharp lines of his frown growing darker under the shadow of his hat. Tightening the grip he had on you, his arms wound themselves like vices around you, daring you to make another move. 

He was close now, his hot breath chilling the skin on your face as the smell of sweat and leather filled your senses–tears almost welled up in your eyes from the stinging feel of smoke emitted from his clothing. Every calm yet strained breath that left him was audible, contrasting heavily with your hectic breathing that filled the now-empty room. 

It was daunting yet all too familiar as memories clouded your mind of the same man who was now threatening your life. Did he even recognize you? Or was he too far gone? Had the devil set its claws so deep inside him that he couldn’t longer differentiate friend from foe? It would seem so, you concluded, gazing again at his hardened face, which only recognized a stranger before him–a puppet to get what he desired the most.

“We ain’t got much.” Your voice strained against your throat, thick with unshed tears that lingered in the corners of your eyes. All you got in return was a faint squint of his eyes, gazing at you cautiously as he looked behind him calmly before returning his eyes to you. 

“Do as I say.” Not a word left you, and whether it was from stubbornness or fear, you couldn’t be sure, but the look you were given made sure to convey that crossing him would not end well for you. 

That was until it changed. Arthur’s features softened after he observed your face, running his eyes over your eyes and the slope of your nose until they reached your lips, quickly averting his gaze as he turned his head away momentarily. Did he remember you, you wondered, finding no other explanation to make sense.

It was a long time ago, too long for you to consider the shadow of a man standing before you a friend, yet you had never remembered him to be quite so harsh. So, brutal, perhaps? You had undoubtedly missed a few chapters, but the years were far apart, and time had a funny way of doing its worst to those who deserved it the least. Like wet paint, it spreads, leaching onto good people like a virus–just like bad fosters bad, and good fosters good. 

“Please…” You pleaded with him, fright seeping like syrup into your shaking voice, pathetic and childish. “I-”

There was no time to finish your sentence. The loud thundering of hooves broke through the room’s tension, audible even through the closed window. Loud calls could be heard, as well as swear words further into the building that you did not recognize as Eustace. Worry filled you when you realized Arthur hadn’t come alone in his business to rob you blind, and now you were fearful that your companion might be in an even worse predicament.

The frown on his face deepened, the hold on his gun softening just enough as he pushed you hastily back towards the bookshelf, your legs weakening underneath you as you fell towards the ground. In long strides, he marched towards the window, hiding behind the wall as he peered out, almost blending into the shadows as the light from outside shone brightly. You could see people running past it, in too much of a hurry to peer inside as the shouts grew louder.

“Arthur!” A voice called out, recognizable as the rich timbre echoed through the corridor, gravelly yet smooth. “We have to leave!” As the last syllable left his mouth, you jerked as the first sound of a gun going off could be heard, hands quick to cover your ears as the noise punched a hole in your gut. “Now, Arthur!” 

Everything after that became a blur, your whole body growing rigid as the world turned into chaos. Bullets could be heard going off left and right, rather like a thunderstorm than a gunfight echoing outside the room that now held you in prison. Your body stiffened, muscles tensing as you were brought back to the sounds that filled you with dread, memories flooding you, both unbidden and unwelcome. 

Faces twisted in fear, the acrid smell of burning flesh, rising smoke, and gunpowder–sounds of screams echoing in your ears. You wished for it to cease, for the images to disappear, searching every corner of the room for an escape, somewhere you could go to to rid yourself of the horrid thoughts.

Momentarily, amidst your glancing around in stress, you found a pair of calculating eyes boring into yours, seemingly undecided as they stayed planted beside the window. Your breath came out in ragged gasps, the staccato rhythm of gunfire echoing through the building, mingling with shouts of panic and the sound of breaking glass.

Arthur’s gaze was fixated intensely on you, and a sense of uneasiness settled when you realized. It was heavy, and your heart raced as your eyes stayed plastered to the others–the urgent shouts from outside pierced through the silence as danger lurked outside the room’s walls. Yet, you couldn’t help but feel as if he was searching for something in the depths of your soul, piercing you with a scrutiny that left you barer than if he were to strip you of all your clothes and examine you naked. You found yourself unable to look away, moved by the indescribable way he didn’t seem to be either.

“Arthur!” 

Barreling through the door in a flash of binges breaking loose and dust clouding your vision, a pair of men fell roughly onto the ground a few meters before you, blood seeping through their clothes like a rich, red paint. Splattering on the ground, it almost reached your clothes as bullets rained after them, shooting holes in the walls the few times it missed their targets. 

Frantic eyes searched the now corpses in front of you, expecting to see Eustace's body among them. Yet, you found none–and hadn’t you been too preoccupied with the currants of relief coursing through you, you would have seen the young faces of the poor boys who had found their doom that day only because their perpetrators wanted to fill their pockets.

It didn’t seem that Arthur paid any mind to the mess that transpired in front of your very eyes, more so, still focusing on you like you were the only one in the room. Visibly distressed, it didn’t seem to deter him, his fingers flexing as his gaze burned dangerously under the shadow of his hat. 

That was until he suddenly tore his attention from you in annoyance, seemingly finding the dead bodies in front of you a menace, a simple block in the road. That was until a faint grunt seemed to leave one of them, a grunt filled with pain as frantic eyes flickered around while the rest of his limbs appeared paralyzed, only able to stare at the roof.

Rounding him immediately, Arthur stepped around the man, walking with his dirty boots and rattling spurs into the blood that loitered the floor as the sound of the thick, wet fluid reverberated in your ears. Without a single word, he gave you one last glance. You stayed on the floor, clutching your shoulders with your hands as he bent over the man and stared him unapologetically in the eyes–the only sound after being the loud bang of his gun. 

The sight was gruesome, and to think a man could do something like that without a blink of an eye, you considered even more cruel. You had seen your fair share of malice and anger, anger that turned even the kindest of men into herds of both sheep and wolves, meaning you couldn’t possibly be surprised. Yet, it reminded you too terribly of a time you thought you now would get the chance to lay behind you, never more having to stare these horrible men in the eyes any longer but instead keep them closed.

And you did keep your eyes closed this time, waiting for the moment pain would fill your chest. Yet, it didn’t come since only silence followed, and when you opened them again, the room was devoid of any life except your own; Arthur now only seemed to have been a figment of your imagination if it weren't for the poor victim, his blue eyes staring lifelessly into yous, wide open and terrified, seemingly having turned to you in the last second, hoping you would save him from his terrible fate.

—

Some would say you were of the quiet sort, choosing the words that fell from your lips carefully, both pondering and cautious. It came from a life where those assets were vital, a simple way to keep your tongue in check and do what you had to survive –which you would like to say wasn’t easy when it felt like your mind ran a thousand miles a second, never resting and finding it troublesome to make sense of the world that unveiled itself before you. 

With your mother gone, you found yourself thrust into a world of uncertainty, your father's callousness only serving to worsen the fate you seemed to have been handed as he appeared indifferent to your loss, attention consumed by the demands of those around him. But alas, he was affected too, and you had come to learn that different people react differently to whatever hardships they come by–and those who don’t respond at all seem to be the ones that eventually act the harshest.

That was at least how your father had acted; you perceived his anger as something only a daughter could experience from a father. It was brutal and sudden, only appearing after a silence that rang like sirens in your ears–then grappling and choking. What could possess a man to harbor such anger, you couldn’t say, and while you knew he had it worse when he was little, you wondered if the thought of you only being a child ever crossed his mind.

You should be filled with anger and resentment, so much it could consume your life, fuel every action, and affect every choice you make. You should’ve been immersed in sadness, crying until your voice gave out and tears dried up, yet you couldn’t. They were inside of you; you could feel them leaking into your chest, and as you stared into your own dry eyes, you could only see the malice of your father reflected in them–the malice that seemed to be reflected in most eyes these days.

 It didn’t matter if it was the ladies who sometimes passed by the dusty town of Blackwater or the lone man begging for coins in the corner of some run-down store. Deep-seated anger was in them all, rooted so gravely it felt like the air blackened when you stepped outside. Like a curse, it seeped into the very bones and festered there. 

Why? Perhaps that’s just how humans work, always needing something to prove that the inhabited anger they felt had a cause, always searching to direct it to someone else less deserving of it. So, perhaps there wasn’t anyone to blame for the whole thing—maybe it was just the nature of humans–just like happiness or sadness is a natural way of expressing oneself. It seemed more manageable for you to grapple with it when thought of that way, for it became more of a fact than somewhere to cast your blame. 

That’s why, when the bodies being dragged out the door left their track of dark, red blood, you could only gaze at Eustace, who spoke to one of the officers, refusing to look at the bloodshed around you. It turned out that your old man had been fine, answering in irritation while he told the sheriff that the outlaws probably hadn’t found him big enough of a threat as they searched every cabinet and shelf, taking no care to be careful of the things around them as it tumbled in heaps to the floor.

You couldn’t be sure if you felt relieved or not to have been further away from Eustace than you had been, wondering how your fate would have been decided if the lot of them had found you instead. Perhaps it had been your saving grace to see that the man from your past reached you first, but you couldn’t possibly say. Or maybe your saving grace was the officers who reached you just in time, for there was no telling what Arthur would have done with you had they not arrived when they did.

When you thought about it,  he’d always been unpredictable. While his face was familiar to you, he was unrecognizable in many ways. His movements had been calculating and menacing, and his eyes looked right through you as if it didn’t matter who was standing before him. The only thought reflected in his eyes was the hope of shiny gold and glittering diamonds. But there was also greed–greed and hunger.

You could tell, for you had seen it before. There was a time when that was all you saw, and for a long while, you wondered how far a man could go to satiate his needs–if greed only could grow, worsen like a drug. The more you got, the more you needed, the high never enough, and the thought of gaining more pleasurable to the point of doing anything to receive it.

 However, it was never a look you had seen coming from Arthur when you’d known him, as he’d been more prone to emit a childish want for justice and righteousness, pride, and a strong sense of doing what was right though the act was considered wrong. But it was a long time ago, and you realized that your vision might be clouded by a young girl's naivety that the world was a good place–that people could be wholeheartedly good.

“Dear girl.” Your thoughts were broken by Eustace’s low, seemingly now more careful voice, walking over to where you stood amidst the rushing forms of lawmen. “Are you alright?”

Were you? It was hard to tell, so you had no straight answer to give him. It was too crowded, and since you had nowhere to gather yourself, you weren’t in the right mind to devise a sensible response. So, instead, you answered in a way that would get you the least amount of questions–even though it might have been considered lying.

“Oh, I’m alright, Eustace; they never got the chance to find me.” Giving him a tight-knit smile, you touched his arm, grateful for his concern. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?” 

You glanced up at him, finding his sharp eyes doubtful. You should have known. He never took kindly to lying and had an incredible knack for noticing when someone did. It would indeed be your doom one day–and many others, no doubt. 

“No, I suspect they didn’t find the old man much of a threat.” 

“Well, I’m glad they didn’t.” His eyes softened, and he heard your words despite your mumbling. Your gaze stayed stuck on his shoulder, deep in thought. 

Even though the danger had passed for some time, it still felt like your heart resided somewhere deep in your stomach. Your thoughts and the looming dread–the slightly metallic smell of blood filling your nose—were heavy. It didn’t help that Arthur’s face became more prone to showing up after that incident, his grim expression wearing a sharp nose and piercing eyes cutting through the yellowed paper plastered on the city walls, surrounded by his unlawful friends that didn’t look any less menacingly. 

5000§. That was the price for a man taking what he deemed his own, countless murders and robberies on his hands, blood heavy on his mind, and dollars flooding his pockets. It didn’t help your case that the poor boy selling newspapers in the corner outside the bookstore had pipes to last for days, reminding both you and the townspeople of their latest misfortune of having a gang hiding in the shadows. 

Since trouble always seemed to find you, there wasn’t much for you to chastise yourself with, all too familiar with the thought of being at the deep end of one conflict or another. It was laughable, really, that one person could be doomed with such a case of bad luck and an increasing magnetism towards people who fought with bloodied knuckles for power and status. But, in the end, maybe the weak belonged to the strong—just like flies sought feed from the skin of rotting corpses to consume the waste left by those who always strived forward, no matter their intentions or values. Perhaps it was an unspoken law of nature, an inevitable dance between vulnerability and dominance, where the fragile were snared in its horrid embrace. 

What could you possibly do against nature’s firm grip on the world? It wasn’t as if it was an imagined force you could call upon when needed—it was just how it was, and no amount of will or strength could make that fact undeniable. You came to terms with that realization long ago, but the gnawing feeling in your chest was more stomach-twisting than anything you had felt before. What you were scared of, you possibly couldn’t say. Perhaps it was the leftover tremors that still coursed through you or the dampening feeling of nausea that persisted, yet somehow, it was something else, a faint sense that the danger wasn’t over yet.

Could Arthur be the one causing the cold sweat to run down your back even though the room was boiling from the heat outside, making you twist and turn in your bed as you prayed that the wind that sometimes passed through the slightly open window would carry an ounce of coldness so you could feel anything but the enclosing heat that now seemed to warm you to the bone? Your eyes closed tight as if you pressed them hard enough; you would fool your mind that you were asleep, the gnawing voices in your head ceasing so you could, perhaps, finally rest.

There was no doubt about it—you were frightened. It was unusual, this feeling, since while you’ve had many instances in your life where fear was the key factor, after some time, your body—or mind perhaps— grows familiar with it, so familiar that it washes away with the wind. Some fare well when scared, responding automatically as if their minds grow clearer when faced with the means to survive. In others, which is the category where you fit in, grow blank, like a heavy fog settles, keeping you from sensing left and right. A perfect prey, indeed.

And a perfect prey you were, the open window inviting anyone who happened to pass by, and in excellent condition for someone to climb the two stories to reach the wooden frames and then slink into the room with their grubby fingers and glinting eyes—stupid girl, to think so carelessly as if the streets were safe and people were kind. 

Clothes rustling into the quiet night could be heard if you focused your ears hard enough, the floorboards creaking under the soles of muddy boots and clinking metal. Whoever could it be, one might wonder—and you grew paralyzed as the thought hit you, only able to stare at the tapestry that covered the wall in intricate patterns. The room’s darkness lets you hear every slight sound that would otherwise blend into the background, your senses heightened.

Perhaps the perpetrator thought you were asleep, your dreams already taking you to a land where you were dancing among clouds, not a single thought of the fright that would soon take over and turn the clouds so dark you couldn’t differentiate them from reality. Then, you thought, maybe you had been asleep as the sounds disappeared, all too familiar with waking up along the frantic beating of your heart, wide awake as horrible nightmares chased you till morning.

Your laboured breaths were the only thing that could be heard now, only a fool mistaking them for sleeping as you tried to steady your erratic heart. But you would soon find that the cold chill that ran up your clothed arm wasn’t the wind from the window caressing you but the hand of something more foul, riddled with scars that seemed insignificant in contrast to its owner’s sin.

Creaking under you, the bed groaned from the sudden weight, bedsheets rustling slightly as you closed your eyes tightly shut. The figure loomed over you, its large hand carefully moving further down your arm. You wondered, perhaps, if you stayed still long enough, you would be left alone or maybe dismissed as dead if you held your breath long enough. The thought seemed more appealing when you felt the cold skin burn through the garment, the smell of smoke so strong it felt as if you took a drag of the tobacco and let it scald its way to your lungs. It was vile, and in the presence of the sweat that bit its way through your nose, your eyes watered, your body begging to escape the horrid stench.

That was until the pressure lessened, and the room stayed quiet for a while, your heart beating so heavily it felt like someone held it right up to your ear, breath shaking with every small intake. But then, as the silence continued, you felt a warmth spread slowly down your arms, the substance thick like syrup as it made its way through the cotton of your shirt, spreading til the white fabric darkened to a deep, unsettling red. The scent of iron filled the air, subtle yet unmistakable as the shirt clung tighter to the skin beneath. 

You shot your squinting eyes wide open just in time to feel a heavy weight falling over you, unmoving and grim as what you now saw was a man gasping for air. Your first instinct was to scream, but you didn’t get the chance as a hand roughly placed its palm against your mouth, leaving the terrified noise that escaped you muted while your eyes flickered around wildly, trying to make sense of what was going on.

“Quiet now,” a rough voice spoke, removing its hand from your mouth when you became quiet, too shocked when recognizing who it was that spoke. It only grew heavier when your eyes got more familiar with your surroundings, the heaviness that lingered over you being in the form of a man, the warmth you had felt turning out to be from the deep cut across his neck, blood seeping like a waterfall from the paling flesh.

Another scream left you as you struggled to get the limbs away, squirming and trashing as you pushed the hand off you in the process as you begged for the suffocating smell of iron and sweat to disappear. When it did, you crawled backward, body bathing in the slick, blood-soaked sheets. Pushed to the floor, the man was left in a lifeless heap, eyes staring vacantly into the distance.

Those eyes–the sharp nose and squinting eyes—seemed familiar, reminding you of someone you couldn’t quite put your finger on, not while the room remained dark. However, you didn’t have the chance to ponder any longer as more harshly than before, a hand covered your mouth as you remained pushed up against the bedframe, coddling your hands to your chest.

Wet eyes stared into a pair of dark pools, once blue eyes now appearing black in the obscurity of the night as its facial features bathed in the light from the moon. Even still, it was hard to make out who it was, but his voice alone was enough for the realization to set in, now undoubtedly aware of who held your mouth with one hand and the shining blade of a knife in the other. 

“Keep screaming, and you’ll damn us both.” A familiar, grumbling voice spoke out, hushed, yet the warning of danger lay smoldering underneath the surface. 

“Arthur?” Your voice was hoarse when you spoke, riddled with shock when you realized that the man you had feared was in your bedroom, unwelcomed and unwished for. 

“Wh-” You didn’t get to finish your question before he ripped his hand from you, casting you a dark look as he stepped off the bed, the floorboards groaning awfully at the sudden weight.

“Quiet.” There was no need for him to say anything else as you complied, the rattling anger in his voice only fueling his hasty, rigid movements as he bent down, checking the pulse of the man bleeding out on the floor. 

The sight was gruesome, blank eyes shining in the moonlight as if they were somewhere far away, lost in a dream. A dream, you pondered amidst your shock. Yes, this could all very well be a dream—a bad dream, perhaps, yet the thought of it maybe not being real brought you a sense of comfort. But how could it be? It felt too real, and you could vividly recall every moment as it played out in front of you, feel every touch, and smell every scent.

Lost in a haze, you stared down at your body, the thick, red blood more visible as your eyes got used to your surroundings. Closing your eyes, you cast away the faint memories that grew bolder as the smell of iron crawled up your nose, almost gagged by the sight and the imposing smell that grew stuffier, fuller somehow.

Your eyes shot open, watching the dead body heaved on Arthur’s shoulder being thrown over the window sill, the impact noticeable with a loud thud. You could only stare at him as he leaned over, looking around quickly before turning towards you again, nodding his head towards the window. 

If you had been in the right mindset and not scared witless, you would have laughed at his blatant naivety for thinking you would dive head-first into the darkness of the night, with him no less. There might have been a time when you knew him, but that wasn’t the case anymore—the dark eyes cowering behind his hat were unrecognizable, and the unkind tone of his voice was entirely someone else’s. 

“Shit,” you heard him mumble when you made no motion to move from your spot, only cradling your arms tighter around you. Rubbing his eyes in stress, he glanced at you again, almost scoffing at you when you gave him a blank stare.

“Come on then, I ain’t got all day.” As you made no further movement that would give him the impression you were complying, he sighed and, with heavy steps, stalked towards you as the bed rattled slightly from his movements. You only held out your hands when he grabbed your waist roughly, fingers betraying you as they trembled wildly against his chest.

“What are you doing, Arthur?” His movements halted, his leatherbound hands stopped around your middle, and his eyes twitched when he heard his name being spoken. Along the ridges of harshness, you could see a faint confusion lingering in his stare, blatantly staring deep into your eyes unabashedly as he lifted you from the bed. 

“Wha—” You pushed against his chest, and while it didn’t succeed in making him back off, it only made his brows furrow deeper.

“Listen here,” he said darkly, grabbing your upper arms and shaking you slightly. “Do as I say—follow my every word, and you won’t die.” 

You stopped for a moment, bewildered by his words. You couldn’t make sense of it—none of it. Questions were brewing in your mind, but you couldn’t find the words to speak them, couldn’t find the words to scream for help. It might seem funny to be scared of a man you once knew to have a good heart, but you have known men your whole life, and it never takes much for them to see right from wrong and still do the wrong thing.

“What’s going on, Arthur?” you breathed shakily, glancing at his hands, which gripped your arms when they tightened. It was hard to imagine that they had once been so gentle, the thought seemingly miles away as you returned your gaze to his squinting eyes, so close now that you could feel his breath against your skin. “Why are you here?”

Your voice had grown quiet as the question hung loose in the air. Shuddering, the wind flowed wildly into the room, banging the windows against the wall.

“Come on,” Arthur curtly said as he pushed you in front of him. You quickly realized you could hear footsteps from the stairs behind the shut door—Eustace, you thought, a cold chill running up your back as you gasped. 

When you stopped before Arthur in protest, he only gave you a mean glance when you gazed back in concern, telling you all you needed to know. Disbelief was written on your face when you realized his cruelty, feeling it reverberating in your head a few moments before you could make sense of it. 

“Don’t-” 

“Then do as I say.” He whispered harshly, pushing you forward to make you move, and this time, your feet strode hastily toward the window. Two stories high, the room was, and before you could glance back in protest, Arthur pushed past you quickly, landing with a heavy thud against the dusty ground, clouds of it forming as it danced in the falling glow from the lamppost. 

The street below was bathing in darkness, the sullied street more daunting from this high up and saddening when Eustace’s voice could be heard echoing through the hallway, his worried tone reverberating through the walls. It was hard to leave and listen to him calling out for you, yet you realized there wasn’t a choice for you now, and a big part of you refused to see him come to harm. If Arthur would’ve stayed true to his threat, that is.

You couldn’t say why you were so scared, having faced dangers more bone-chilling than this. But perhaps you feared to once more fall into the wrong arms, the arms of a man who reminded you of a past you’d rather lay behind you. But that might’ve always been the case for people who lived a hard life, feeling it better to put it to rest than reawaken it.

Without casting a glance behind you to see the shadow in the hallway flicker wildly as a stressed cane could be heard audibly hitting the wooden floor; you climbed over the window frame, the chipping paint sticking to your tightly gripping hands. It wasn’t until the trashing of air surrounded you that you fell into a pair of arms that immediately embraced you, hands gripping under your waist to ease your landing. 

Quickly, before his hand could linger, you backed away, relieved when you no longer felt the tight hold he had managed to capture you in. His gaze remained heavy on you, and you did your utmost to avoid him, letting your eyes falter, not daring to meet him. How he could act so carelessly, you couldn’t possibly justify, yet his presence alone made you take a few steps back.

His movements were harsh as he adverted his eyes, and you could see how his body was rigid and tense, as if he’d been bathing in ice-cold water. He glanced towards the window, walking towards you as he motioned you to turn around and walk through the streets until the building disappeared behind tons of others, his grip on your arm tight like he worried you would slip out his grasp—or attempt to. Most likely, you thought, knowing exactly what he would do if you tried when considering his earlier threat.

“Where are you taking me?” You applauded yourself for dampening the tremble in your voice when you spoke, somehow finding the simple thought mildly embarrassing while aware it would be entirely valid if you did. This time, you found yourself getting an answer to your question, and although harsh and hasty, it gave you reason to question its meaning. 

“Somewhere safe,” Arthur grumbled under his breath before pushing your back against the local general’s store wall, your figure hidden behind his large frame in the deserted alley. You made another attempt to question him further, only managing to open your mouth before the leather of his gloves covered it, hushing you as his eyes found yours, a threat lying deep within them. 

A few moments passed in silence, the brick wall against your back cold as the small stones pressed uncomfortably against your shoulder blades. Moving slightly, you turned your head to gaze out towards the street, finding Arthur’s hand turning your face back instantly, shaking his head.

It wasn’t long before loud footsteps could be heard through the streets, metal clanking and murmurs echoing as their shadows grew taller from the orange light of the lamppost.

“Be still,” Arthur whispered under his breath, the sound of his gun cocking slowly as if to make as little noise as possible. Stepping away from you, he motioned you to step further into the alley, where the darkness would almost swallow you whole. “Stay there until l come back, and keep quiet.”

You didn’t get the chance to follow his command, though; the sharp sound of a gun went off, the noise so bone-rattling in the quiet, sleeping town it likened to the sound of thunder—a thunder turning into a full-blown storm as it didn’t even take a millisecond before bullets rained through the air, shooting holes into walls and shattering surrounding windows. 

Your back found the brick wall again, Arthur’s back meeting your front as he shielded you with his body. Peeking from behind the building, the sound of his gun went off booming in your ear, his face growing even more grim, cursing under his breath as a bullet flew right past him. His weight pushed against yours when he once more took cover, taking the chance to reload as you gazed at the small cut on his neck where the bullet had grazed him—happy that it hadn’t been you.

Your hands turned pale as they gripped Arthur’s jacket, eyes screwing shut as the noise around you only grew nearer, each intake of breath shallow and rapid, as if the air in and of itself had turned hostile. Desperation clawed at your mind, begging you to slip away from the man holding you back and make a run for it, but you found that you couldn’t, damning yourself for staying still when all you wanted to do was get away.

Although warmth suddenly enveloped your hand, the rough leather and warm fingers wrapped around your sweaty ones. You opened your eyes, breathing erratically as you were once more met with the familiarity of Arthur’s jacket. As you glanced down, you caught a glimpse of his hand encasing you before the sight disappeared just as the feeling passed. You wondered if the hard, cold man in front of you had been the one to do it or if you’d imagined it.

With no more time to ponder, Arthur hastily stepped out on the streets, wildly looking around him with his gun raised as he turned his body in all directions. All dead, you presumed, as no more shots were being fired, yet you could hear more footsteps coming your way, alarmed voices shouting as doors slammed open in the distance. 

“Shit,” Arthur muttered, a loud whistle cutting through the air before he returned to you, casting a glance your way as you gazed worryingly towards the direction of the loud calls, stumbling towards Arthur, feeling like the ground was tilting beneath your feet. 

“What’s happening?”

“Law,” he stated, grasping your waist and hoisting you up what you discovered was his horse. The strong muscles flexed under your weight as you sat behind the saddle, and the chestnut coat softened under your fingers as you tried to find stability.

“Hold on,” Arthur said after heaving himself onto the saddle, casting a look backward when you took too long to follow his words, only setting off when your hands crawled tentatively around his waist, gripping the material under your hands firmly.

You wanted to ask him where he was taking you, but fear choked up your words and rattled your brain as you tried to comprehend your current predicament. So, instead, you held onto his jacket til your fingers turned a paler shade, closing your eyes as you wished that with it, you could disappear—perhaps wake up in your bed once more and feel the morning sun shine brightly upon you as it had done now for quite some time, instead of the cold, harsh air blowing against you, seeping through every garment you were wearing.

You had happily laid the unknown fate behind you when you found Eustace, not knowing the past from the present—not knowing what lay before you. As a child, it had been everything you’d known. And, being brought up always moving, you’d grown used to a stable home, a far-off dream, if even that, since you had never known that stability existed. Food on the table, clean clothes that didn’t reek of sweat and were stained with dirt, and clean water that would surely do you better than the burning alcohol you often got as a substitute for liquid. 

All in all, finding a home with Eustace had been a blessing, no matter how absurd your situation may have looked to others. Therefore, suddenly, having to leave made everything ten times worse—you didn’t want to go, and you cursed the man in front of you, cursing him for disrupting your peace, for taking you away for—well, you weren’t quite so sure yet. 

Although it itched inside you to ask him, you hadn’t missed the part where Arthur seemingly wasn’t the man you had once known. Therefore, you kept your mouth shut, not daring to speak a word while you gazed behind you as the city lights dimmed with time, buildings replaced with trees, and people with animals that scourged away into the woods surrounding the path when the clacking of hooves grew near. 

You rode for a long while in silence, and with every chance you got, you glanced behind you, expecting to see the sheriff’s men closing in on you despite Arthur’s brutal pace—to see the pistols aimed at you in a way you’d thought you’d laid behind you after all those years on the run. But no, no galloping horses followed you, only darkness engulfing your sight as you looked back, the only noise the huffing of the horse beneath you.

Night turned to day, and you never stopped to regain your breath, to make sense of your surroundings. It was consuming, yet you took the chance to feel the now brisk air of the morning caress your cheeks softly, smell the bracing dew and the carrying of fresh air before the heat would set in a few hours. For a long while, you’d forgotten how good it felt to be outside of the city map with no walls confining you, no bustling crowds jostling for space. Nature’s gentle, soothing sounds replaced the constant hum of urban life—machinery and voices. The rustling leaves, the chirping of birds, and the distant call of wildlife may have once done their best to soothe your rattled nerves, yet it didn’t ease now, and you found yourself only growing more nervous.

—

“We ain’t got no other choice but to stay here tonight,” Arthur said as the horse slowed to a trot, examining the area as he squinted against the sharp evening sun. “Reckon, we’ll be safe enough out here. If they ain’t following us, of course.”

A small sigh left you, almost letting a groan escape you as you moved slightly behind the saddle. Feeling the muscles ache deep within, you were unwilling to face a second longer seated atop the horse. You didn’t even register his last words and their hidden threat, trying to remind you what heap of danger you were in—as if you weren’t aware, as if he didn’t already make you more at edge.

As the horse finally stopped at a place Arthur found agreeable, you didn’t wait a second to glide down towards the ground, feeling your feet planted on firm ground, the grass underneath them heavenly as you stretched with your newly-found freedom. 

“Don’t run away,” Arthur muttered as his gaze stayed on you, warning laying deep in his voice.

“And where would I go?” Raising your arms, you gave him a frustrated look, not understanding how he would even make the assumption that you could, the landscape stretching on for miles with only vegetation and no roads as far as the eye could see, only lurking animals awaiting you with open mouths and greedy arms.

“I don’t know, just don’t do it,” he grumbled, sliding off the saddle before throwing you a blanket. As he crouched down, making you believe he was setting up a fire, you walked closer to him, carefully watching the guns on his back, like devil horns sprouting like bone from his shoulders.

“Arthur,” you began, hugging the blanket to your chest. “Will you tell me who those men were?” His mood was terrible, yet somehow, the words left you before you could stop them. There was, of course, still lingering anger at him inside of you, the underlying tones of sorrow that stung its way through you. Yet, you had to know—had to understand why he had turned his visit into a raging bloodbath and who that man was whose blood had dried up your clothes as the fabric had now grown thick and pasty.

“The law, I already told ya,” 

“I know that,” you sighed, trying again, finding it easier to look at him when his back was turned. “But the men before that, and the man in my bedroom….” you trailed off, recalling the horrid moment and the consuming smell of blood, the lifeless eyes once again staring straight through you, brows still furrowed while the eyes stayed wide open.

He halted slightly in his motions, casting a glance sideways yet not entirely looking at you as he rubbed his eyes. Sweat ran down his face as he lowered his hat to rid himself of the still-blazing sun, cursing under his breath at the damned warmth that almost felt torturous when the wind laid to rest.

“Jesse’s men,” he said, continuing his earlier action. Your stomach plunged, shock traveling through your body as you froze, wishing sincerely he’d said any name but that. 

“And the man in my be-”

“Jesse.”

“Oh.”

Backing slightly, you could feel your throat constricting when the familiar name left Arthur’s mouth. It had been a long time ago, yet now it seemed so near, almost too near, being able to grasp the memories that made your heart lurch and stomach turn, something waxy and cold lining your insides at the thought.

Although, with it being given more thought, wasn’t this just your luck? Had it not always been your luck? To find yourself amid everything terrible, of all that was rancid and chaotic—entangled in the embrace of men who, above all else, desired more, strove towards gaining what they deemed necessary. Because of this, there had been many instances where you had felt greed, the familiarity with currents so strong there was no other explanation than rendering yourself no better than others when it came to it. And, unfortunately, it was consistent, for it appeared in everyone—everywhere—whether consciously or not, there had been no way for you to unsee it. 

“But I don’t understand,” you said, your voice quiet as you spoke to yourself, gaze far off as you absentmindedly stared into thin air. “Jesse already killed Charlie. Why would he go after me, and now of all times? He couldn’t possibly be that greedy?” Silence followed, Arthur’s eyes finally meeting yours with reluctance, as if your question bothered him more than he wanted to let on. “Could he?”

“It ain’t—” he trailed off, eyes flickering as if pondering how best to form the words soon to be said. “Well,” he said more directly this time. “Death ain’t enough for some, I guess.”

As his words sunk in, Arthur avoided your gaze, the silence from you enough to tell him that he’d struck a chord in you with his admittance. Horrifying, yet how could it surprise you when you had faced the inner turmoil of men many times, knowing the ways of honor and respect they so desperately clung to? Although there was an underlying dread to his words—like someone had wrapped a bag over your lungs when you thought of what could’ve been—where you could’ve been if Arthur hadn’t been there that night.

When you were both smaller and much more naive than today, you’d seen the bullet that flew right through your father’s skull with both eyes by the hand of Jesse, wide open and undoubtedly too young to stand witness to such a thing—no less it being a parent. You’d been too little; you simply didn’t understand it, and while you can honestly say it didn’t impact you then, being too used to seeing things like that firsthand and not particularly close to your father, it plastered itself onto you like a stamp whether you liked it or not.

Charlie, your father, had grown too careless and brave to think himself above others, particularly Jesse. All in all, that didn’t sit right with him, and as your father went through the grief of losing your mother, growing both colder and meaner with time—an image of his former self—he didn’t have much to care for except the gluttony that grew more consistent as the years passed. Sometimes, you’d ponder if any man could be blamed for it, for it seemingly was engraved in our bones, perhaps a fundamental part of the human mind. 

You’d concluded you couldn’t cast that blame at your father when he tried to usurp Jesse, for then greed battled greed, and you had to choose which one was more deserving of understanding. Yet, you soon came to realize it didn’t matter who was more deserving, for power played a bigger part, and it didn’t care for either justice or discernment—only in which hands it could grow stronger, in which mind it could spread its dark tendrils until it grew satisfied. The only problem was that it never did, and you deemed it the downfall of many, both great and horrible men, those who deserved it and those who didn’t.

After that, you didn’t have much more to say, continuing the late evening in silence as your mind raced terribly after your conversation. You couldn’t help but stay unsurprised by Arthur’s theory, somewhere deep down knowing they probably did have much more in the plan for their leader’s revenge. Death, all in all, might not be so horrible after all when you’d imagine all the other vile and stomach-wrenching things one could do to deem their revenge agreeable—righteous. 

It was impossible to imagine yourself being the one to endure it. You almost felt lighthearted at the thought of men’s grabby hands and hungry eyes, conjuring up bone-chilling scenarios that would make any sane person’s face pale and skin gray. The slap of a harsh backside of someone’s palm was, of course, humiliating enough for you. Still, with time, it somehow felt less personal, as if the memory healed with the bruise, while someone infringed on the fleshier part of yourself, not quite humiliation, for it stretched farther than that—scarred deeper. Pure rot and filth would surely spread through your body and mind, growing until it became a part of you, your past, and your future. 

Your fright for Arthur did lessen as you pondered, growing thankful when you deemed his company much more preferable than the men who sought after you. It reminded you of a time he’d been the safest point in your life—perhaps the first since you laid in your mother’s arms, the warmth only a child could feel from a parent. Safe and undoubtedly free, his arms around you not encasing you—caging you in—but pushing you forward so you could feel the air of the wild blow through your hair, showing you there was more to life than death and violence, that there could be more to a man than his demons.

Of course, you had known what he was capable of—the brutality he wielded with his hands, the blood that tainted them, tainted him. In some deranged way, that thought had always made him even more comforting than he would be without it. It was what you’d known your whole life, and there was no hiding it. It drew you in, but never once had he made the slightest incantation of hurting you, and that’s what made you stay. 

God, you’d been so alike, you and Arthur, and your childhood likewise. It felt like he’d been explaining your life when he told you of his. It didn’t help, for it glued you together, and you wondered if it could even be undone, knowing the rip of the glue, if you ever did, would strip away both skin and bones—take so much from you you were unsure if it could ever heal again. To think it would be horrifying indeed, and in the end, it was; the bruising went so deep you’d wanted to dry-heave when you left, almost ripping your heart out with everything else as you pushed him away.

You wondered, the saddest smile almost showing on your lips, if he had realized how carefully he had handled you since you first laid eyes on him, thinking not of his threats and harsh demeanor but the thoughts behind his actions. Ever so thoughtful and very unbecoming of him, yet somehow entirely expected of his character. You lowered your head, letting your hair fall around you as you tried hiding how the corners of your lips suddenly turned into a frowning smile like you were in on a sad secret only you knew about. 

As you tried forcing your lips to maintain their straight appearance, you raised your eyes carefully after some time, observing Arthur through your lashes as he gazed into the fire. Leaning against an oak, he sought shade from the sun after providing you with something to eat. He seemed deep in thought as the flames caressed his face in the darkening evening, highlighting his sharp, harsh features. A heavy shadow cast over his eyes, hiding what thoughts lay behind them. 

He looked no doubt like a man to fear, with features just as deadly as he was, like the guns resting on his hips and the twitching of his fingers ready for even the slightest inclination of danger. It looked like he was sleeping, yet he was vibrating with tension, like his mind was resting without his body, as if it ran on auto, already aware of every danger that could occur upon you as if it was plastered in the back of his eyelids. 

You conclude that living the life he did would surely do that to a person. You’re not sure what he’s been through since you last saw him but deem it nothing good. Your eyes wandered over his face, gazing over the slightly suntanned skin, watching how the evening breeze made his roughly cut hair tickle his face. The trail of beard started to form, littering down to his neck, where a cluster of chest hair took over, disappearing invitingly into the unbuttoned part of his shirt.

Lingering over the bare skin that glistened with an inclination of sweat from the still humid air and fading sun, they followed over the expanse of his chest that stretched the fabric of his shirt, rising steadily in harmony with his breathing. The faint feeling of his skin under your fingertips ran through your mind, the slight memory so far away that only the feeling persisted. The sharp, musky smell of smoke was almost burning under your nostrils as the feeling persisted, coupled with a smoldering scent that was hard to word; you could nearly feel the warm skin underneath you—the faint sense of hair tickling your cheek. 

It calmed you to watch him, the slow breaths that left him making your eyes grow heavy as time ticked on, the chilling fog of night settling in, accompanied by the warmth of the fire you so desperately relied on. It wasn’t until you were at the brink of sleep a pair of darkened eyes met yours, bathing in the glow from the fire, that your eyes faltered, a scorching blush fighting its way up the skin of your chest till it covered your cheeks wholly—shit. It grew hotter, the air suddenly turning stuffed as embarrassment from your delirious, wandering eyes had been caught red-handed.

You could only stare at the ground in shame, the small pebbles suddenly turning interesting as your eyes stared in false interest. You blamed it on your worn-out mind, the fatigue that had overtaken your body, trying to justify it to yourself. You felt the brutality of another pair planted on you, unwavering, hoping to higher powers they would dissipate so you could pity yourself without an audience. 

“Cold?” Arthur’s gruff voice broke the silence, the words still quiet, making it sound more like a statement than a question.

Did he mistake your blushing cheeks for you being cold? Or, had your distracted mind kept you from realizing that the cold air had done so when the darkening sky fell upon you, too? Crossing your arms over your chest, you felt a shudder run through you, hairs raising as if on cue. 

“I suppose so,” you mumbled, inching closer to the fire that had begun to falter. The embers around it were glowing red as they crackled loudly into the night, the sudden noise making you jump slightly. 

“Mmh.” 

You stared into the flames as silence followed, refusing to meet his eyes. Your pulse was still pounding quickly, and your mind was caught in the horrible moment. Hell, you’d say it bordered on humiliating, throwing off your facade of irritation directed at Arthur and his actions that you were so dead-set on keeping up as well as your walls—so high he couldn’t peer over them the way you couldn’t look over his.

“Come here.”

Your eyes fitted to his, in an instance, baffled by the words that left his mouth, if even that was what he said and not something your sleep-deprived mind made up.

You could only stare at him for a while, trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind his words. Your face was straight as Arthur stared back at you with an expression that could rival yours, arms crossed over his chest, and he leaned against the tall oak. You damned his ability to keep his face so unreadable, eyes still as sharp as they always seemed. His voice was calmer, perhaps slightly warmer, heating like embers glowing in the hearth.

“What?” you mumbled tiredly, voice laced with a sleepy confusion.

“You’ll die of hypothermia before I even get the chance to get you out of here.” His tone was laced with annoyance, grumbling irritably as if the mere thought of the conversation you had bothered him immensely—as if the words leaving him were reluctant and bothersome. 

He didn’t continue, staring at the flames flickering wildly when the wind suddenly picked up—if it was a means to avoid your now wakened eyes or the nonchalance in his spoken words, you couldn’t tell.

The irritation that had been simmering in your mind grew at his words. Your throat constricted with words you wanted to speak, wanting to tell him that there wasn’t a single fiber of your being wishing to be close to him, to give him such a privilege. Had the world turned his head that daft, or had he simply stopped caring what effect his words and actions had on others, no less you?

A few moments passed, and you stared at him, eyes growing hard and sharp like glass, where confusion and fear were replenished. So, to rid both of you from the onslaught of feelings coursing through you, you turned around on the hard ground, bringing your arms tighter against you for warmth as a shudder ran through you.

“When did you grow so cruel?” you asked quietly into the night, watching the warm air leaving your mouth become clouds when you breathed a shaking breath. You weren’t sure if you were speaking about his sudden audacity or the change in his character that so starkly contrasted the one you had known. Nonetheless, you didn’t expect an answer, but you did get one, and a humorless laugh accompanied it as if the truth was some masochistic joke.

“If you only knew.”

—

The night continued in silence, and you woke between the hours from the cold, staring heedlessly into the darkness, ears taut as every noise made your breath hitch, almost expecting to find prying eyes staring back at you when you got the guts to open them. But, as sunlight found its way to you behind the trees, rising warmly over the cliffs, you could finally feel yourself relaxing against the hard ground, bringing the jacket that lay over you closer as you breathed in the scent of smoke and something warmer, muskier.

Blue orbs, hidden beneath the surface of anger and hatred, gazed at you through squinted eyes as the orange tendrils hit the skin of your cheeks just above ĥis jacket. They followed along the strands of hair that ran down your face, tickling your skin slightly as you shook them away from your face in deep sleep.

For far too long, they had only seen gruesome sights—things that would make even the strongest men empty their stomachs. So they stayed a while longer, feasting their eyes on something lovelier—a forbidden fruit laid out before them. The steady breathing lulled them closer as if calling for them, begging them to stray nearer until skin touched skin.

The skin he had once known so well, so well the mere thought of it had become less of a luxury and more of a second nature, a constant need. You might’ve let time do its part in receding the memories, but not him—not when every thought of you had become his way of finding something good in this world—his world. Whatever was left of it gnawed at him, clawed at the inside of his flesh, the scars with age growing visible, larger to only himself; only the aftermath of anger and resentment was what was shown to the world. 

Embedded in the darkest corners of his mind, you laid like a hidden haven, formless yet shaped by recollection. He rarely touched it, for every time he did, he found the flesh of you that was once so bright, so warm, turned colder and grayer, rot spreading its way up your delicate skin, his disease only managing to span through your body. The eyes had grown too lifeless to be associated with yours, the sunken eyes dull and almost bordering on hateful. He couldn’t stand it, so he let it be after some time, outmost refusing to taint your memory with his cruelty and violence, refusing to cover you any longer with his filthy hands. 

It was a part of his life he’d had to lay behind him, a chapter that he had looked upon so fondly laid to rest, only for the next to take form. Oh, how it was riddled with filth and violence, the edge of the papers burnt and soiled. It was simply how it was, he’d concluded at the time, all too aware that it was what lay before him, what had always been destined to be his life. 

What once was a heroic attempt, a means to do good, had been overtaken by gluttony, the constant want for more. A bare and raw sin was what he had turned into, a hungry wolf, led by his brutality and fear—a fear of realizing what he was, what he had always been.

So, he couldn’t help but just for once take you in now that your watchful eyes weren’t gazing at him in fright—a fright he had grown all too used to when others looked at him, whether it was by the end of his gun or in the final short few breaths of their life. You had turned in your sleep, chin resting against the hard ground, when his eyes fitted over you, resting in the soft curves of your face and lashes that lay delicately on your skin. 

The gentle rise and fall of your chest was a lullaby of sorts, a contrast to the storm inside of him. He wondered what dreams might be drifting through your mind, hoping they were far removed from the darkness that often clouded his own, hoping he wasn’t turning them vile.

Arthur gazed over the plump cheeks that seemed fuller, akin to his memories, a soft glow over them as the morning sun washed over you. You had always looked prettier in the sunlight; it was something he had always thought, for it was like two twins meeting each other again, laden with the same light and warmth. The ghost of a wistful smile begged to tug at the corners of his mouth as he indulged in this rare moment of stillness—the rough edges of his hardened soul seemed to soften, if only for a heartbeat.

He wanted to reach out a hand, rough and scarred, and try to let it hesitate above your cheek as he thought it would break the spell of sleep that enveloped you. He could feel his breath caught in his throat, a mixture of awe and sorrow, for deep down, he was aware that the world he lived in had no place for such beauty and peace. He was a ghost in your serene world, an intruder with no right to stay. Still, he would linger, savoring the moment like a condemned man savoring his last meal. 

A dream was all it was, to imagine a different life where you could bask in the sun’s glow without fear and violence. But, as the sun climbed higher, reality would begin to seep back in, and he would reluctantly pull his hand away, the humid air now filling the spaces between you. The weight of his choices and the path he’s walked pressed down on him, so for now,  he’d indulge in the simple act of watching over you as you rested—not sure where to go where the men now seeking your death couldn’t find you yet promising to himself he would keep you far, far away from them.

—

When the sun’s warmth began to cover your skin in a faint layer of sweat, you awoke, being met with the smoking of a dying fire and a soreness in your body that only laying on hard ground could create. You had almost expected to awake in the comfort of your old bed, feeling the soft wind caress your face as it blew through the open window, curtains fluttering in the air as the far-away sound of people chattering could be heard, and the constant chugging of the train.

Homesickness, you thought. It was strange; never before had that feeling grappled you so intensely; never had the thought of being back with Eustace seemed so wishful, so desperate. It pulled something inside of you, and as you sat up, you could only find yourself wishing the feeling away, rubbing your eyes as you set your gaze forward, refusing to ponder over it any longer. 

“No sight of Jesse’s men yet, so I think we’re good,” a voice called out nearby. Looking behind you, you found Arthur going through the saddlebag, his back facing you as you slowly stood up.

“Do you-” You cleared your throat, still riddled with sleep, both rough and quiet. “Do you think they’re still after us?”

“Sure,” he drawled, fastening the bag before patting his horse encouragingly. “We just killed their leader; I don’t think we’re off the hook that easily.”

“You,” you stated, dragging your fingers through your hair as you felt the various knots get stuck in your hand. You tried to sort them out but found your effort unsuccessful. 

“What?” he said.

“You killed their leader, you mean.”

“Yeah, I guess, but they’re still coming for you nonetheless.”

“And the law?”

“If we keep away from Blackwater, we’ll be fine,” he said, turning towards you.

“Then where do we go now?” you asked, staring at the ground as you grieved at the thought of not being able to head back to Blackwater, back to Eustace. He only glanced at you, the slight movement of his shoulders indicating he wasn’t so sure either. 

You walked tentatively towards him, meeting his gaze as he leaned towards the tree where his horse was stabled. He watched you cautiously as if he had any reason to be careful around you.

“How did you know Jesse’s men were after me?”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, his eyes narrowing as he considered his response. “I have my ways,” he muttered, eyes darting to the horizon. “Words travel fast in these parts, and I keep my ears open.”

You only gazed at him for a while, hearing him sigh when you didn’t let your eyes waver, his eyes narrowing as he studied you, measuring how much truth to reveal. He adjusted his hat, the shadow casting a veil over his expression. “We heard things. Rumors in the towns. Jesse’s men have a way of making themselves known.” You nodded, absorbing the information. It made sense in a twisted way; your past seemed to chase you no matter where you ran or how far you went.

Arthur shifted his weight, his voice dropping lower, more serious. “And when we ran into some of his boys a few days back, well,” He stared at you hard. “They mentioned you.”

“Me?” Your breath got caught in your throat, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded.

“How did you know I was in Blackwater?”

Arthur’s eyes darkened slightly, a shadow crossing his face. He took a moment before answering, his voice low and steady. “I’ve been keeping tabs on you,” he admitted tersely.

You blinked in surprise, the revelation catching you off guard. “Why?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper, your tone betraying none of the turmoil. 

He only sighed, glancing away briefly before meeting your questioning eyes again. “Because I had to make sure you weren’t getting yourself killed,” he retorted sharply, his words tinged with frustration. “Especially after everything that happened all those years ago.”

Many emotions flooded through you—confusion riddled with anger, a strange sense of relief you wanted to cast far away. Anger at his presumption, a deep ache for the man he once was when he mentioned the past. “So you’ve been watching me all these years?” you countered, your voice carrying a cutting edge.

Arthur’s jaw clenched, his temper flaring. “I’ve been trying to keep you safe,” he mumbled, his voice growing snappier. 

The reality of his words sank in, and you struggled to process the implications. You met his gaze, trying to keep your composure, refusing to let his anger shake you. “Protecting me by keeping me under surveillance?” you shot back.

“Call it what you want, but I had to make sure you wouldn’t end up lying dead somewhere,” he said gruffly, staring stubbornly at you. “Jesse’s men aren’t exactly known for sending love letters.” 

“And did it ever occur to you that I might’ve been wanting to be left alone?”

“You don’t get it, do you? They’ve been after you this whole time; they still are. You think you can just walk away and be fine?” 

The air hung tense between you and Arthur, his words cutting through the warm air like a sharp blade. “You had no right,” you hissed, your voice low but filled with simmering anger. You knew you were right, and you were sure Arthur knew as he quieted down, grumbling as he strode past you, stepping on the fire’s dying embers to put it out, his movements stiff and rigid.

“We’ll keep moving, get you out of the wild for a bit.” You stayed facing away from him when he spoke, only moving when he extended his hand, motioning you towards the horse. 

“Listen,” he murmured, turning you around before you could sit behind the saddle. “I didn’t—” he turned his head away from you for a moment as if thinking about his following words, hands gripping your shoulders carefully, flexing slightly. “I know how these types of men work, and you would thank me for keeping an eye on you if I told you what they would’ve done to you.”

“And how are you so different from these men you talk of, Arthur?” Your voice was accusing and bitter, and only silence followed from his side. “I used to know a different man,” you murmured. One who was understanding,” you finally said, your voice barely a whisper as your walls crashed, a somber look glazing over your eyes. “Kind.”

You felt him stiffen before you, and he didn’t respond immediately, as if surprised by your words. “Things change,” he replied curtly, his voice devoid of sentiment.

“I can see that,” you said, lifting your hand as if to move his hat out of the way but faltering at the last second. “ I barely recognize you.”

You hadn’t failed to realize it, and it had consumed your thoughts fully since you first discovered it was him when he held that gun toward your head. Never did you imagine he would be the type of man to wield such a dangerous weapon towards a woman—towards you—yet that’s precisely what he’d done.

“You don’t understand the world we live in now,” he said, his tone hardening. “Things aren’t as simple as they used to be.”

“Maybe not,” you replied, feeling the weight of your disappointment settle in your chest. “But I didn’t think you’d let it change like this; I didn’t think you’d become-”

“What? Like them?” he interrupted, his eyes narrowing. “You think I had a choice?

“There’s always a choice,” you shot back. “You used to be a different man.”

“And what good did that ever do me?” he snapped, stepping closer. His breath was warm against your cheek when you lowered your face, staring at the fabric of his shirt. 

“The world is cruel, whether you want to acknowledge it or not, and I had to make sure to keep the gang safe, and I still do.” The last part, he muttered to himself. “And since you decided to leave me-”

“Leave you?!” you gasped, appalled at his choice of words. The familiar stabbing pain gripped your heart when he accused you, and you stepped backward slightly only to find his hands rooting you in place. “I had no choice!”

“No choice, huh?” He said, his lips curling into a bitter smile as if your words were ridiculous and filled with lies.

“I asked-, no begged, you to come with me, but you refused! Talking all sorts of rubbish about loyalty and Dutch this and Dutch that!” It felt like a stone the size of your fist was plunged down your throat while the muscle could only constrict around it, twisting your body slightly so he would let go of you. 

“I realized there wasn’t a place for me there, with you, any longer, so I had to leave before I went insane!” you said. “I couldn’t bear it, living that life anymore. My whole life had been filled with cruelty and violence, and I needed to feel as if I was the one living it instead of watching myself from the sidelines!” Flashes of faces, both grim and cruel, passed your vision, the image of a younger you looking for somewhere to hide but only finding broken souls wandering around you.

Like lost in a maze, you had tried left and right, but with no guidance, it proved useless as you kept wandering, trying to make sense of the world that you grew up in, parentless and abandoned in a gang whose hearts had been ripped out of their chests and feasted on by the devil. His pupils were all that was left, and you, a lost child, were made to endure a world that had been stripped of both kindness and care.

“But you-” your voice was choked up, trembling as your frenzied eyes flickered around you. “You didn’t care enough to see that, and now I can see why.”

“You’re just like them.” As your words ended, the onslaught of feeling simmered underneath your hectic breathing, and you finally felt the pressure loosen on your shoulders. Taking a few steps back, you passed the back of your hands over your eyes, feeling the warm liquid rub into your skin.

Those years felt distant now that they were brought up, and you had done your utmost to keep them far away until one day, you woke up feeling like that life hadn’t been your own; the person you were hadn’t been you and the memories entirely someone else’s. It had become too much, the air around you thick and nauseating when it felt like none of it would stop, like you were in a loop that never ended, only bringing you back to where you first started but with different people this time.

You soon realized that since you managed to remove yourself from Jesse and his men, you’d only wound up sleeping on a hard ground once more, the twigs and sticks poking you through your back like they’d always done. However, the people around you were new, but they were still the same lost souls as you, and the thought terrified you. You couldn’t handle the idea of that being your life, of always following someone who strived towards a goal that, when reached, would only be replaced by another one.

You didn’t dare glance at Arthur, yet you felt his eyes on you. As you tried to calm your breathing, you wondered why he didn’t say anything, defend himself, or retort and fight back like you thought he would. Yet, his lack of words made you second guess your revelations, shame soon filling your body when you realized how much of yourself you’d given a man who no longer cared to understand, who was so far gone your words meant nothing, just like the men he killed in cold-blood—a menace and an obstacle.

“Let’s go,” was all that he replied with after some time, avoiding glancing at you before grabbing your waist carefully to sit you behind the saddle, stomping one last time at the dying fire before sitting before you, no doubt noticing how your hands ghosted around his waist as if touching him alone was a vile and horrid thought.

—

You couldn’t help but ponder over what transpired this morning, all too aware it had to be spoken about sooner or later, but you wished he’d tell you more, explain why he’d acted the way he did and why he’d changed so much even though the words might’ve been said in anger. Yet, perhaps, that is a ridiculous exception, for who can say why they’d change if they even stopped enough to notice they did?  Still, you realized what he had to say might not be what you wanted to hear, and the thought didn’t fail to make your heart sink.

It’s terrible what time can do to one person, but you could not understand how it could wound its way into Arthur so firmly, as if not considering his past self that had been so different from who was before you now. Perhaps being young and in love had made you fail to realize that maybe the man he was now is only an older version of who he’d been then and that he’d only shown the sides he felt deemed to you. Why, you wondered. Had it been shame or fear, knowing very well the cruel place you came from, not wanting to admit that he was a criminal—that he did exactly what every other man would do when following another blindly?

Bringing yourself out of your thoughts, you observed that day had once more turned into night, the familiar setting sun casting its warm gaze over the landscape as the horse huffed underneath you in exhaustion from running all day—tired from the lack of rest and the growing tension that was heavy between its riders. 

Rising your gaze to look at his back for the first time since you set off, you let the follow along the chestnut tone of his hair, trailing over his tense back, eyes focusing on the various scratches and stains on his clothing, the blood that had been rubbed so many times it had turned into a lighter shade, yet the slight pinkness still resided, marking him unknowingly, as if his clothing represented his being. 

It was so unfair, you concluded, yet you felt angry at him, furious at yourself and the world for being unpredictable, for never making anything easy, and more so for laying trouble over minds that from the start were pure, a blank canvas now to be trifled with. But there was also a tinge of sadness over the people you had turned out to be and grieving over the man you seemed to have lost behind smokes of black and anguish.

The pit of darkness that now filled you turned into thunder, and as the rain began to pour, the cold drops doing nothing to wash away the hollowness you felt, you failed to hear the hooves that could be heard from a distance. Arthur, though, had sensed them for some time now, trying to make his abrupt, faster pace less noticeable, hoping to gain some distance before you could see their dark figures form behind you.

Unfortunately, they only gained on you with every minute that passed, reaching out for you with their slinky arms and wild gazes, bullets vibrating in the metal, begging to be released so they could bury themselves into your flesh. Yet, it was hard for them to see, the heavy downpour blurring their vision of you, the fading sun offering them no help, and the galloping of their horses dizzied their sight.

A gasp left you as the horse suddenly stopped abruptly, the reigns held tightly as it skidded across the slippery ground. You didn’t get the chance to be surprised, hastily brought down to the ground, Arthur’s hands almost lifting you with the way he pushed you as you clumsily glided across the ground, grasping onto his arms to find stability as you walked up the small stairs that appeared on front of you.

A small porch, desolated and lonely, spread out around you; from the hasty look you could get, the windows seemed dark and lifeless—not a single light shining through them. The two-story structure seemed to stand on the outskirts of a forgotten, overgrown field, its once-white paint nor a peeling, weather-beaten gray where ivy and wild vines clung to the sides, creeping through the cracks in the wooden boards. The roof sagged precariously, shingles missing in place, revealing patches of rotting wood underneath.

“Shit!” You could hear Arthur shout as the loud weather dampened his voice, grasping the handle as it refused to open. 

“What’s going on, Arthur?!” you said loudly so he could hear you, but you got no answer to your question. He pushed you to the side with one motion, trashing his shoulder into the door, and rusty hinges groaned in protest; the flimsy wood bent slightly before he bolted against it again. With this attempt, he opened it, and it smashed against the wall; the smell of something musty reached your nose as it escaped the house, contrasting heavily with the freshness of the rain. 

“Get inside!” he shouted, and as you hurried inside, you heard the door slam shut. Your back pressed against the wall beside it, and Arthur stood before you, peeking out carefully from the window beside it.

It grew quiet the minute you stepped inside, the rain reduced to a slight humming as it splattered against the one-story house that seemed long abandoned, the faint smell of mold and neglect traveling through the air–the stale, dry air left a metallic tang in your mouth, the taste of dust was ever-present, gritty and unpleasant, seemingly coating your tongue and throat with each short, terrified breath you took.

“Arthur,” you whispered, craning your neck so you could gaze up at him where he leaned against the window, his eyes scanning the storm outside as his hands squeezed your arms gently but firmly.

“I gotta hide you,” he said, his voice low, his throat straining around the words when he finally looked into your eyes.

He pulled you from the wall, leading you deeper into the cabin. The floorboards creaked underfoot, threatening to give away with each step you took. Moving through the tiny parlor, past the broken chairs and sagging sofa, you moved into the kitchen where the cabinets hung open, their contents long since scavenged or rotted away. 

As you gazed back, you found Arthurs’s eyes darting around the place, searching for a place where you would be hidden from the gruesome and horrible event that would soon take place in this already damned building. A small pantry, its doors hanging loosely on its hinges, seemed to be the only hiding place he deemed approvable.

“In here,” he said, guiding you towards it. 

“Why?” you asked, hesitating to enter the small space.

“They caught up to us,” he murmured, watching your hand grasp his shirt. “Jesse’s men.”

“What about you?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ll be fine,” Arthur replied, momentarily passing his hand over yours. “I’ll handle them, just please-” he trailed off, grasping your cheeks between your hands so you would focus entirely on his and his words. “Please don’t come out until I tell you.”

A few moments passed before you tentatively nodded, feeling his hands leave you so you could squeeze into the pantry. The small space was barely big enough to hold you as the doors were closed gently, slightly ajar so you could breathe through the thick, consuming air.

A few moments passed, your eyes wide in the darkness as you took in his words. It surprised you there were still so many, remembering the night in Blackwater where it seemed like bodies littered every corner of the streets when you passed them, lifeless and now soulless. How many, you wondered, were outside now, and how had you not managed to feel their presence before, to catch sight of them behind you, yet Arthur could without a glance?

As the first sign could be heard, you held your breath, the beating of your heart almost audible in the small space as it fought against your chest, your hands covering it as if it would give away your position. That was when the door burst open, and you could only clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle a gasp that escaped against your will, listening tentatively at every noise that could reach you.

You could only make out Arthur’s voice, low and steady, even though you couldn’t make out the words that left him, almost wanting to cover your ears as if it would help against the terror you knew would soon erupt, praying-no begging Arthur would be alright, that you wouldn’t have to be dragged away from there a weeping mess as Arthur lifeless eyes stared into your own, bullets imbedded in his flesh as you awaited your fate.

The sound of struggle filtered through the storm—the clatter of boots, shouts of men that boomed through the cabin, and the crackle of gunfire. Each noise made you cringe, squeezing your eyes shut as you tried to block out the terrifying reality, hands shooting up to cover your ears as the loud sounds lessened; instead, the more vile noise of flesh hitting flesh ensued, the noise bones made when broked and the bloodily smack of skin against skin. 

It ensued for a while, the disgusting sound of grunting and groaning making you remember the many times you had to hide your smaller self and only listen. Listen till the danger was over, examining every sound that could be heard to tell if you’d be alright stepping out or whether it would lead to your death—which had most of the time been the biggest possibility. You felt like you had traveled back in time, with not an ounce more courage than you had lacked back then, quivering like a fool while others fought like madmen around you, wishing you could be somewhere else—for someone to swoop down and save you like in some sad fairytale.

Minutes felt like hours as you waited, heart pounding in your ears as you didn’t dare to peek out from the cracks. Then, amidst the chaos, you heard a voice—Arthur’s voice, calling your name as you heard him breathing heavily, your name strained as he spoke. A sense of relief coursed through you, now knowing he was alright, yet you still lingered for a second, hand hesitating at the door as you feared what sight you’d be presented with. Yet, as you pushed it open, you stepped into the cabin again, taking small steps leading further into the house, trailing over the dark red liquid as you closed your eyes at the bodies it came from.

“They won’t hurt you no more,” Arthur murmured. 

He stood there, hands at his side, his eyes as blood-filled as his hands, the red liquid dripping onto the wooden planks, staining them til they flowed beneath the cracks. Fitting to yours, you could only gasp, taking a step back as you were filled with dread over what he just did, the brutality of his actions, and the lives that now lay devoid of it around you. There had been too much death over the last few days, and although it was either their life or yours, you couldn’t help but detest the constant smell of the deceased resting just under the tip of your nose. 

You gazed over the chaos; the broken glass shattered on the floor, blinding you when the sun was reflected on their surface. The white porcelain was stained red, and the walls had been painted the same color. You felt his eyes stay on you, unmoving and seemingly not bothered by the brutality he just possessed—always had possessed—but not making any attempt to move, as if he was waiting for you to make the first move, speak the first word. 

He looked tense where he stood, and despite his horrible deeds, he looked at you as if he searched for your acceptance, as if trying to convey that he did this for you, that he dirtied his hands only to keep you safe, just like he’d always done. And, as you stared at him, you could almost see his hand flex slightly, as if it wanted to reach out to you, yet was held back, rooting him to the spot.

It might surprise him what you would do next, as the first tentative step towards him—although riddled with a faint fright and shaking hands—never wavered, carefully stepping over the bodies in your way until you stood in front of Arthur, ignoring their deathly, vengeful eyes that almost followed you, rolling into the back of their heads when you went out of sight. 

His hands were still shut tight, knuckles white against the suntanned skin that flexed slightly when your fingers ran over them, bringing them higher as you felt the callousness that bruised his hands. They contrasted so heavily with your own, soft against hard, the veins beneath his skin protruding til the blue shades created valleys, irritated and angry. The warmth of your touch contrasted starkly with the cold reality of his actions, a shiver running down your spine when the blood on his hands painted your untouched skin. Arthur didn’t attempt to push away from your touch but stood like a statue, eyes cautious when you brought his knuckles to your lips, closing your eyes as you ghosted over them.

Every breath you took was heavy; each inhale difficult to make as his gaze remained locked onto yours. The bluish shade grew molten on the edges, warming up the coldness of the otherwise sharp hues, staring into yours like he was waiting for something or perhaps fearing something. It made the ache in your heart settle daftly, staring into the eyes you could now recognize from the ones you had known many years ago, see the man you hadn’t been able to remember till now rightfully.

You pulled away slightly when you realized that man wasn’t standing before you but a figment of him, perhaps a vivid remembrance yet not reality. Your fingers lingered on his skin, though, as if afraid to let go, afraid you might’ve lost him as you’d done before even though he wasn’t whole—the pieces of him scattered wherever he went, falling away like fragments with every step.

Brutally and cold, the devil resided in his eyes, each glance laden with sin and searing pain that engulfed like wildfire, encircling and trapping in its flickering, scorching embrace. It was a warmth that turned cold, caressing with its chilling touch, raising the hairs on your skin in protest—an unwelcome sensation that one dared not wish for. Yet, amidst this, your heart beats heavily–not in fear, but in yearning for his touch to linger.

How could your heart betray you so? How could it stray so far from reason, captivated by a man who made you unable to tell between reason and desire? Traitorously, it thudded heavily within, not out of fear but wishfully. It created an ache that settled so deep in your bones it hurt, a pain born of longing—a desire that scorched like a fever. Every instinct screamed for you to flee, to turn away against your now abandonment of all sense and sensibility—to run far away from the life he reminded you of, a life you’d so desperately feared.

You were caught between shame and confusion as if he could sense your pulse racing against the barriers of cotton and leather. Did he notice your heart’s betrayal and the quivering of your lips as your shaking breath rose like wisps of smoke in the cold air? Maybe he did, for as you closed your eyes, unable to handle the downpour of emotions coursing through you, you suddenly felt his breath against your lips as his presence enveloped you, casting a shadow over the world when he drew closer. Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes opened in protest; the space between you dwindled, narrowing to nothingness until you could feel the heat of his breath mingling with your own. 

His eyes burned like smoldering coal, holding you captive as every voice in your head told you to run, hit, scream–anything to get away from him—only to silence when his lips brushed against yours in a feather-light caress. It was far away and fleeting, the small touch of skin almost ghostly as they moved over your trembling lips. His breath was warm, so warm it made heat crawl up your neck, spreading slowly throughout your body.

His careful touch made you wonder when the world turned him so cold. To carry the burns of his soul, hideous and bare, with not a single kindness seemingly left inside him. Was he ashamed of his skin, which wrapped so harshly around his bones, scarred yet strong–cold but fond? Was it right for you to fear the hands that once fell so delicately on your skin, porcelain never having been touched as carefully as he had touched you? There were days you now could remember so clearly, the warm look in his eyes as they caressed over your skin, the naivety and desperation that shone so bright within them—a want so fundamental it made you wonder if it was even possible. 

The years had passed now, and you were both older and saner, but through the shades of blue in his eyes that were covered with darkness that rested like a veil over them, you thought you could still see the same man you had once known, and as his lips met yours firmer if felt like the past washed over you again. And it was good, so good you felt your knees almost give out, stumbling backward slightly but finding yourself not falling heedlessly towards the ground. Instead, the pressure of standing on the ground disappeared as your felt fingers worm their way under your thigh, lifting you in the air. 

Softly, your back met the planks that creaked audibly when Arthur pushed you against them, the material groaning and protesting when he leaned more of his weight against you as if the pressure was too much to bear. You were trapped in his embrace that spoke only of desperation—desperation so raw you wondered if it spread from his skin to yours like a disease, if it traveled through your body, infecting everything it passed in its way.

A certain rigidness could be felt in the hands that held you, their grip tight yet unmoving as if he battled against letting them touch any other part of you. They were there, yet somehow unwilling, like he needed to touch you but couldn’t bring himself to go any further. Perhaps, you thought, he shouldn’t. Maybe it would be best to end it here, not to get any more pain that would surely hurt more than do good. Yet you missed him, missed Arthur so much it felt like a part of you had returned when he was this close as if you could imagine him being who he once was. 

You chastised yourself for it when his lips caressed you softly, letting them push further against yours. The distant sound of chattering and calls beckoned you from afar, the clanking of pots loud in your ears as he had you pushed up against a tree, far and hidden from curious eyes, all your senses focused on him. It had been so simple then, such a warm, inviting touch, the feeling differing strongly against the violence and pain that had followed you until you met Arthur. It was the only reason you’d stayed with him for as long as you had, for never had hands handled you so carefully, so tender; never before had you stared into a pair of eyes that, without a blink, promised to keep you safe and sane.

It felt different yet the same; for now, those feelings mingled together, the brutality shining so strongly within him. Yet, his hands were so gentle, his means to keep you and cradle you in his arms til no one else could touch you so palpable it made every fear you had for him dissipate with the wind that flew through the cracks in the wall. It felt like you held a giant in your grasp, a lost soul seeking the goodness of his past, wishing to erase the bad and expel the vile, monstrous thoughts that he’d been forced upon—expectations he grew up with. How could you possibly blame him? How unfair was it for you to tell him he was wrong, that he acted wrongfully?

Your hands shook as you brought them up to his cheeks, claiming< them in your grasp, feeling him sigh when your fingertips ghosted over him as if the feeling alone chilled his blazing—scorching—skin. Following that means of human nature, his hands that kept you lifted from the ground raised one, caressed its way over the swell of your hips, letting it feel the warm flesh emitting from under your clothes until it followed the path of your sides til it found the valley which where your waist sunk in, letting fingers grip under the harsh bones of your ribs.

A gasp left you, lips parting as if to speak but only inhaling his warm breath, pushing your head away, yet your grasp on his cheeks making him follow you—ordering him to chase the pink, swollen skin that begged for the sensation of more—demanded it. You realized soon that you didn’t have to, his imposing frame pressing you further into the wall, no longer needing to hold you by the tight to keep you from the ground as his lips sensually now found yours again, a deep, dark rumbling—like thunder brewing—could be heard deep into his chest.

It was sickening, the air thick and pasty, like breathing into sourdough bread, the swelling yeast filling all spaces around you, making it difficult to breathe. When you needed air too much, begged for the oxygen yet displeased with the thought of parting with Arthur, he pulled his head away slightly, eyes opening to gaze at your closed eyes, the warm tint of red rising from your chest to your cheeks.

 Opening them, you’d only be given a moment to stare upon his face until he leaned in again, his lips finding their way to the dip of your collarbone, rising to cover the space where your shoulders dipped up to the slope of your neck. Inhaling, exhaling, he breathed in the dizzying warmth of your neck, groaning when he let his tongue taste the humid skin that was scorching under his wet, slippery touch. 

So divine, yet so dangerous to touch what wasn’t his anymore, what couldn’t be his—but he couldn’t deny he longed for you, couldn’t deny that your smell alone awakened the man he had been, your hands reaching out to him like the gates of heaven shining with its door wide open. A cruel joke was what it was, but he had no want to dispel it, to turn it away. It taunted him, laughed at him, giving him a fair bit of pleasure so the rest of his living days would turn to torture, a small taste of what he could’ve had before dooming him to an eternal defeat—dooming him to live the rest of his days a hollow shell.

Your hands found the back of his head, fingers threading through the strips of hair that felt like velvet under your skin. You couldn’t help but push on the back of his scalp to bring him even closer, dismayed when you realized he was as close as he could be, fingers gripping his hair so tight you feared you would leave tufts of it when you released your grip. You only got a hum of satisfaction in return, the feeling of a wet muscle traveling down your collarbones til they ghosted over the swell of your breasts carefully, like waiting on a signal before they could devour, let their touch consume you.

“Arthur,” you mumbled, lost in what was wholly him, the very fibre of your being begging for him never to stop, wishing he’d never done all those years ago.

You only got a low, appreciating groan in return, only gained the feeling of cold air hitting your legs as he snaked his hands under your skirt, hitching it up as he let them run over the bare skin like a starved man, not even an inch of you left untouched. The wind’s chill lessened when his rough, warm hands caressed you, soothing your aching, quivering legs. Almost, it seemed, he mended every bruise and hurt, internally or externally, replacing them with something that felt so divine you were nearly sure you were dreaming when he returned to your lips, his once guarded eyes bare before you.

He took a few steps back, letting your feet hit the floor as you followed him. You did not let him back away further as you walked with him, rising on your toes and writhing your arms around his neck. You were now the one to cage him in—cage him with your want and desire, your love and hope. It would be a terrible defeat if he stepped away from you, and your stomach twisted at the thought, the familiar pang of sadness only love could create.

“Don’t go,” you whispered, feeling his arms wound around your waist as he stumbled backward, his tall frame big and clumsy in the tiny house. He frantically ran his hands over you before hoisting you up again, seating you on the dark wooden table in the kitchen’s front of the sink. Your mind had grown clouded, his whole being morphing into the man that had once caressed you so gently—and when he did now, it made you dizzy, wondering if they were so unlike as you thought.

“I won’t,” he mumbled against your lips, the words hasty and muted when he didn’t want to waste a second of feeling you against him.

“I won’t,” he spoke once more, this time the words only coming out in nonsensical grumbling as he pushed you softly towards the poorly sawed planks after pushing the various knickknacks of it, plates falling audibly to the floor to join the rest of the mess, burying his face into the nape of your neck to once more take a final breath before standing up.

The mess around you turned vile and filthy compared to the wondrous look on your face as you watched him, the familiar pang of pleasure beating so heavily in his stomach he thought he might puke—coupled with the still warm, wet blood now lining the skin of your legs from his hands. A few moments passed where he stared at you, ignoring your hands that reached out to him as the horrid monster clad in black garments and poisonous fingers got to him first, digging its claws into his back, wrapping its fabric over his mouth till he felt himself suffocating. 

It wasn’t until he felt nimble fingers ghosting over his hands, running along the inside of his wrist until they intertwined with his, that the small, supple kisses on his cheeks became his saving grace. Diminished the cruel and twisted devil that rested on his back, all he could think about was the gentleness of your hands, gazing to watch your furrowed eyes filled with understanding—yet a gracious knowledge at that.

“I know you, Arthur,” you whispered, laying your head on his chest. Listening to his wildly beating heart, you found comfort in his erratic breathing.

“No,” he mumbled, resting his head on top of yours. His arms were slack on his sides as your hands passed over the broadness of his back. You gripped the dark leather of his haunches as you slid them down his arms, letting them hang in the stuffy, thick air. “Not anymore, you don’t.”

“Well, you’re still as stubborn as you used to be,” you said softly, the corners of your mouth rising slightly when a grumble left him, acting like you couldn’t feel his slight smile against your head. “Still as warm as you were then,” you mumbled, hands slowly running over his arms that flexed slightly at your touch, mouth opening slightly as they came to rest on the table, trapping you beneath them. “Still as strong,” you gasped when he leaned over you, pressing his weight into you.

He closed his eyes as you spoke, basking in your quiet, warm tone, which he missed hearing. “That don’t matter anymore,” he said, feeling you snake your arms around his neck, arching your body against his, as one of his hands naturally found sanction on your waist. “What I’ve done—” he trailed off. “What I am, it’s not something I can run from.”

You felt your brows furrow, grief finding you at his words that rang so melancholy into the quiet air, the heaviness of his voice alone ripping the tapestry and breaking the windows. As you were about to tell him he was wrong—that although his actions had been so blood-filled and vile, you knew who he was deep down, for you had seen it, seen it in his eyes when he looked at you, seen it in the way he still cared about you—he instead laid you back down on the table carefully, covering you with his body as he hitched your legs around his waist.

Your breath hitched when you felt the rigidness rest against your warmth, feeling it lay heavily under the fabric of his pants. “Yes, you can,” you gasped, hands finding his shirt as you searched for something to hold onto, wishing it away so you could see the skin underneath it and feel it against your own. 

You didn’t gain an answer, only the tugging of your undergarments, the chill from being bare cold against your skin, yet Arthur’s hands warming them straight back up when he tenderly caressed your inner thighs, stabilizing their trembling although never letting his palms stray too far, ignoring the way your legs tightened around him, trying to chase his touch as they attempted to chase his touch but finding his hips pressing into yours further, leaving you no place to go but stay in place.

The motion made a groan, quiet and unprepared, leave him, yet you had heard him. As your hands wound their way beneath his shirt to palm over the broadness of his chest, hips moving against him with the bit of space you had in protest, you looked up to find his gaze planted on you, head raised. Yet, eyes looking down at you, like he was trying to hold himself away, failing to escape from the softness of your touch. 

He was too deep into it now. He felt the restraints that once were so tight around him lessen as he kept staring into your eyes, those deep and fascinating eyes that he didn’t deserve—that no one would ever get the chance to deserve. It was selfish for him to continue, but he wished to feel you one more time so he could restore his memory of you until he turned viler, meaner, the black poison coiling around his heart til he faced its death wrapped up in its grasp.

So, he found himself leaning into you once more, focusing on your hands that now had seen the planes of his back, his muscles flexing involuntarily as you did, his hand hitching your dress up further, letting it go past the delicious curve of your waist, groaning internally when he realized he couldn’t rise it further. So, he let his head rest between your breasts, pulled out from the tightness of the fabric, letting his tongue run over the warm skin. 

You felt the arms of your dress hastily go over your shoulders down your arms, breath hitching when you felt his mouth able to travel lower until it caressed the inside of your breast, his rough stubble like sandpaper against the sensitive flesh. It was addictive, his whole persona making you desperately cling to every bit of him you could manage, grasping wildly as if he was made from thin air, trying to find something that would turn him back into a solid form, something you could touch. 

The slight feeling of him grinding into you made you clasp harder. Your hands found his biceps as the back of your head hit harshly against the table, and your hips wound tighter against his waist. The roof above you blended, the colors of brown and ashen blond mingling as the morning sun shone through the windows, the tendrils of the light casting the room in a way that almost looked ethereal—too good to be true.

And it was, the whole moment was, and you memorized the touch of his hands and traveling mouth, imprinting it in your mind so you could remember it forever. It still, despite his words, felt like he would somehow dissipate, and it turned into your worst nightmare, like the last pages of a book that would send you reeling, biting at the corners in despair and slamming yourself against the wall in anger. It was pitiful, the way you were brought to your knees in front of the man you had not nearly long ago feared—more so wondering if you feared his actuality or feared how long a time had passed, how time changed and ruled people's character, how you didn’t know him anymore.

Or perhaps you feared the way you knew it had been doomed from the start, always known, the very first day he had planted his brisk, blue eyes on you, full of life yet the underlying promise of something that could only be transcribed into pain—of hurt and blame. Perhaps you were afraid of knowing that it didn’t matter how often you’d come upon one another; it would always end the same way, for you were both too broken by the life you laid upon you. The chance of redemption was maybe possible once when you were younger, but you feared that it was lost. And, while Arthur reminded you of a past you’d rather lay behind you, prayed and prayed through years of peril and hurt, wished you could run from it, you perhaps had reminded him of what he’d once had and what he could never deserve to have again.

As Arthur lifted his head, you could see in his eyes that he knew, knew there might not be a time when you could live out your life together, for he too was aware that it might be too late, that the world's grip on the both of you was too firm. Yet you both ignored it, entangled with one another as your limbs melted into the others, your motions becoming erratic and desperate, wishing—no, seeking desperately to bring the other back to life, back to what you once had been. 

“Please, Arthur.” Clawing and almost beating his chest in desperation, the tension so ripe it felt like you might combust, you begged him to let his skin lay upon yours, bare and exposed, as close to each other as was humanly possible. It felt like a border, keeping you apart in a pitiful, almost laughable way. 

“I know, honey,” he murmured, his voice steady, yet the beating of his heart speaking more than his tone ever could. “I know.”

Rising from you for the slightest of seconds, he hoisted his pants down his hips and over his thighs, dark, desirous eyes never taking their gaze off you where you lay breathless on the table that, compared to you, looked like rotting wood. He damned himself for letting you lay upon such misery, to unveil you in such an appalling space that now reeked of death and foulness.

When your hands reached out to him, he let them bring him back down, watching the way your eyes fluttered when he graced upon your pulsating warmth, his own eyes closing for a second before opening again, looking away so he could regain his senses, regain his clouded vision that only flashed with pictures of you beneath him, as if you had surrounded him. That is, only for a short while, not taking long before he had to—needed to— return to you once more, to slip through the warmth of your walls that wrapped around him, the palm of his hands slamming down the table as you clenched around him, the sheer bliss that left your throat burning like embers inside of him.

There was no outlet for him, nowhere to go, so he hitched you further up the table, pressing into you so he could feel you closer. The feeling of your hands in his hair was nauseating, the taste of your skin intoxicating as he kissed the corner of your neck, burying his head into it as he felt your strands tickle his cheek. Slowly pushing out to then enter you once more, he grew greedy, not wanting to spend even the slightest of time away from you.

It was tender the way he moved—careful—and you could only follow his movements as he stayed on top of you, the strokes desperate and short. The small moans that left you rose into the quiet house, your breathing hitching with every thrust of his, almost feeling like the air was being punched out from your chest as you slid further up the table. Arms wound themselves under your shoulders, one hand grasping the back of your head to keep you in place—to avoid letting your head hit the hard surface.

It wasn’t enough; how could it ever be enough? Wrapping your arms around his neck, you gasped audibly when his hips moved faster, now almost grinding into you, his breath shallow and erratic, white knuckles grasping on the end of the table, as if he was controlling himself, unsure what to do with the pleasure that was riding through his body, bleeding into his very bones.

“Come here,” he murmured, gently lifting you so you were seated upon the edge of the table, looking up to meet his eyes. Continuing his tender thrusts, your lips sought him, finding his eyes not closing but planted on you, eyes lidded and chest red from exhaust. A sheen of sweat dripped slowly down his neck to his chest, disappearing through the unbuttoned shirt, the material sticking to his skin like glue. 

Pushing your hips further against his, he groaned, resting his head atop of yours when you placed mindless kisses on his exposed skin, mumbling nonsense as he hugged you closer, his breath hot and ragged. Every movement sent a jolt of pleasure through you, sharply white and burning red, coiling tighter and increasingly tighter within you. The sound of your mingled breaths filled the room, and you could feel his muscles tensing beneath your touch, almost seeming to tremble.

You whispered his name, a plea and a promise all at once, and he responded with a low rumble that resonated deep within his chest—a guttural groan escaping his lips as he pushed deeper, the table beneath you creaking with the force of his movements. The room seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, just like you were before, just like you once had been—Arthur guiding your movements as if he was determined to merge his body with yours. 

His arms tightened around you when you straighten your back to reach his lips, capturing them in a kiss that left you more breathless than you had already been as his pace quickened. The friction, heat, and sheer desperation were too much to bear, yet you craved more. His eyes were wild, almost desperate, as he responded to your plea, every thrust, every gasp, every whisper filling up inside you as you begged to god it would never end, hoping and demanding that nothing would take it away from you.

Yet, you knew it wouldn’t last, and therefore, you felt the tears burn at your eyelids, the hot liquid falling slowly down your cheeks as you found your back pushed against the surface of the table once more, Arthur’s hand softly wiping away the tear that fell from your eyes as despair filled his own.

“Don’t cry,” he mumbled, a low groan leaving him when you tightened around him, unable to ignore the way you sucked him back in. “I can’t-” He ground his teeth when the familiar coil spread through his stomach, wrapping itself around every organ and bone. “Please, honey, I don’t want you to cry.”

“I miss you,” you gasped under your breath, words choked up as you focused on the way he dragged himself in and out of you, feeling like someone was twisting your guts inside your stomach when you thought once more about him disappearing from you hold like ash, only leaving faint memories before blowing away with the wind. “God, I missed you, Arthur.”

He struggled to catch his breath, his hand finding your thigh as he pushed it further up the table, the new angle making your breath hitch. “I know,” he groaned. “God, I know-”

Was it all a dream, he wondered, would fade away from him as his evil deeds caught up to him, for once letting karma do its part? Would you vanish right before him, leaving him to face the consequences of his actions alone? He only held you closer as the thoughts passed, keeping you tight in his embrace as his elbows encased your head. Capturing your lips on his own, his eyes shut tightly as he tried to memorize the feel of you—the warmth of your breath, the softness of your lips, the way your body moulded against his. 

The time seemed to stand still, yet it passed too fast, the coil wrung so tight it felt like your stomach would combust, pleasure so raw filling you it felt more like torture than anything else, and as you felt his hips ground themselves into you, one hand stroking so tenderly over your brest it felt like shots of electricity zapped its way through your body, you thought yourself tightening around him, gasping for air.

“You’re alright,” he murmured against your lips, consoling you as your moans left you without your allowance, desperate and bordering on pitiful as your whole body felt like it was burning up—like the very flesh was set afire with gasoline. 

“Please, Arthur,” you gasped, not knowing what you were pleading with him for, yet the words left you involuntarily. Perhaps you wished for him to remove the hollow feeling that resided deep within you, to soothe the pain that never seemed to go. Or, possibly, it was deeper than that as you pleaded for him to return to you, to show that he was the man you’d remembered.

“That’s it,” he cooed at you, kissing your forehead softly as you clenched around him. Your hands found his shoulder as they gripped tightly, head knocked back against the table as a long, drawn-out moan left you. Staring up at the ceiling as the world grew dizzy around you, the bliss that traveled through your body was like no other. 

His movements didn’t slow as you relaxed slightly on the table, now running your hands over his skin soothingly, gazing into his eyes as he groaned audibly, chest heaving heavily as he frowningly stared into yours, observing you like you held something he couldn’t have that he strived for, pushing and pulling you closer to him.

Lost in pleasure, it felt like he was gasping for air, the sound of his skin slapping against yours echoing through the now quiet house, only the splatter of rain still audible from outside, yet his ears were focused on something else entirely as you whispered his name, beckoning him to your as your eyes were tired yet warm in the afterglow, looking like something not quite real—more or less surreal—or perhaps ethereal.

With one final thrust, he buried his head in the nape of your neck, hands grasping the edges of the bale as he grimaced, taking a few seconds before letting a guttural groan leave his chest and travel through his throat, muted into your skin as he gritted his teeth. Pulses of pleasure wound themselves through him in intervals, the warm, wet feeling of your walls encasing him, wrapping around him wholly as he, with one last movement, buried himself deep, so deep there was no way out—and god, he thought as his breathing stayed hectic, god how he wished there wasn’t.

Especially when he rested against you, trying to catch his breath, revelling in how you hugged his head closer to you, pressing small, quiet kisses against his jaw as if you tried not to disturb him, letting him regain his senses. Letting a hand travel down your sides, he caressed your skin, feeling the softness underneath it as it went further down to then rise back up again, finding pleasure in the way your breath hitched from the sensitivity as he passed a thumb over your breast. 

You didn’t speak much, for there was so much you wanted to say that it became overwhelming, leading to you saying nothing. How could you, when you weren’t even sure how to describe your emotions, which seemed still but then everywhere at the same time, running through your mind endlessly with no sense of direction or heading? Where could you go from here that would satisfy you both and let you stay with one another despite your differences? 

You wished you could drag answers out of Arthur, torture his mind and soul until he had no choice but to respond, yet you doubted he could even know what to tell you, for he wasn’t sure, and you could see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch that contradicted his mind starkly. Every motion and caress was soft yet reluctant, and you could hear the slight sway in his voice when he spoke to you as if he battled against his will and obligations. It tore you apart to realize he struggled against himself, struggled against his beliefs and wants.

You realized that whichever hands managed to strangle your relationship before would surely do it again. To be quite honest, it did scare you, more than you dared to admit, for you knew you were two different people now, and when your bond wasn’t strong enough all those years back, how could it be now that you both had your inner anguish that clawed itself inside your walls, thrashing and screaming. More so, changing for someone else is a terrifying thought per se, and there was no mistake in thinking that would be the case for both of you. A cruel, horrendous fate, indeed.

[azrakaban]

Theodore nott fluffy dating head canons please 🥺🥺🥺🥺

AGH YES YIPPEE I LOVE WRITING THESE I HAVE SO MANY IDEAS

Theodore Nott Headcanons <3

Let's get right into it with some basic Theo headcanons, and then some dating ones too!

- Deffo has a Bernese Mountain dog back at home tbh, his mum loved them and got one before she died, and he loves that dog because it's all he really has left of her presence in his home

- Besties with Mattheo since they were both really little

- His mum died when he was eight, in childbirth, when giving birth to his little sister.

- his family is the Slytherin equivalent of the Weasleys, but reversed. He has four older sisters, and two younger sisters.

- Forces Mattheo to help him babysit his sisters

- Lapses into Italian when he gets tired

- Deffo sleeptalks in Italian, and when you first started dating you probably got so confused 😭

- He's really irritating when teaching you Italian, he'll throw in a word into his sentence and then make you look it up in a dictionary

- For sure loves dancing, whether or not you're good, if you're alone and there's music, call yourself Ginger Rogers

- Big fan of hand holding, he likes the feeling of having you that close.

- Hilarious when drunk, drunk words sober thoughts fr. He'll insult Draco's bleach, but then look at you and be like "Amore mio! guarda Matteo, guarda com'è bella! Aspetta, cosa stai facendo? Smettila di guardare la mia ragazza!" (My love! Look Mattheo, look how beautiful she is! Wait, stop looking at my girl!)

- Definitely a cat person besides his Bernese, and would adopt a black cat ASAP

- Would totally be an animagus, probably a black cat or a wolf

- If wolf, he'd maybe let you ride on his back. Only if he was in a good mood though.

- His music taste: Classical, specifically Beethoven, chase Atlantic, Coldplay. Guilty pleasure is Ariana Grande.

- Love language? Teaching you Italian for sure. Although does give presents randomly if he feels like it, but not too often.

- Definitely ambidextrous, and will help you write your homework. He learns how to mimic your handwriting so that if you don't feel good, he can do your homework for you

- convinced he sleeps with so many blankets that trying to find him in that MESS of a bed is impossible 😭

- actually apologises to your teddies if they fall of your bed

- reads poetry to calm down and will write it about you (you'll never see it though)

- definitely the designated driver most of the time 😭

- he's got snacks stashed all over the castle incase you two get hungry but you'll never know where he's hiding them 😭

- he has a resting bitch face until you're in the room

- queen of accidental photo bombs and there is not a single cute picture of you two no matter how

- pookie CANNOT swim. Don't even get him to try 🤡

- he's an ambivert, so mainly introverted with people he doesn't know, but is actually the clown of the group (him and Mattheo)

- He can play cello and double bass, but only plays for you if you ask

- actually the biggest hopeless romantic, Mr Darcy type shit

- Insanely good singer, and will sing to you in Italian

- good at herbology, took it for OWLS and NEWTs and became friends with Neville through it, they partner every day

- his favourite colour is navy

- Will speak Italian to Mattheo, who can speak it too, just to be funny. Like he'll be glaring at Draco and saying to Mattheo:

"So you think firewhiskey is worse than Muggle tequila?"

"Uh yeah, why are we glaring at Draco?"

"I want him to think we're shit talking him. So do you eat crackers when you drink or not?"

"No, gross. Nutella pancakes."

"Sounds... surprisingly good."

- He cannot wink, so he'll pass you a note in class and try but it looks like he's got something in his eye because both his eyes start twitching 😭

- He thinks pick up lines are shit, and won't use them. He will however ask you out politely and take you on a date or a few before he asks you to be his partner.

Hope this is what you were looking for! Love and thanks for the request <3

[opbackgrounds]

About Hancock's design, these days it's basically One Piece 101 beautiful women design, but back then it was a little more unique and outstanding. Obviously Nami's and Robin's designs and that of other female characters were already migrating into that direction but Hancock set a standard for Oda he recreated from then on.

In my years long re-collection of OP at least.

I can’t say I agree. I see Nami as Oda’s default female design. If anything Hancock is too similar to Robin, who in turn over time has drifted more towards Nami.

In a vacuum I don’t have any issue with Hancock with her canon design being the in-universe most beautiful woman, but when every young woman is by default beautiful it takes away from that uniqueness. I remember so many people saying they found Marguerite more attractive than Hancock when these chapters released, but at least Amazon Lily does have a broad variety of body types. This isn’t a problem that Oda has with older women, as characters like Shakky and Otohime have unique features that are neither traditionally pretty nor complete gonks (although many of these still have that same hourglass shape, which is less than ideal)

There’s design drift with the men, too. Sanji used to have a more rounded jawline, for example, when compared to Zoro’s angular features, but Oda works from more diverse baseline with his men.

Part of this is because there are so many more men than women in the series. Like Amazon Lily, Baroque Works and WCI have a more balanced gender ratio, and the diversity of design was better in those arcs. But if there is only one or two woman per major faction, chances are Oda is going to default to that woman being generically beautiful.

[mayhem24-7forever]

Need You Tonight

Steve Harrington x Reader x Eddie Munson Fic

Author’s Note: IF YOU ARE NOT 18 OR OLDER, THIS IS NOT FOR YOU, DO NOT INTERACT! This is dedicated to and inspired by the lovely Shan/ @bvcksmurdock. Hope you like the title as a cheeky little inside joke. Special thanks to Arne @lovearne for finding me the floor plan of Eddie’s trailer and to Ashley @likedovesinthewnd and Nina @chaseadrian for helping me get the pipe smoking correct since I have only done edibles lmao. Also huge thank you’s to Vee @a-reader-and-a-writer , Leah @ohtobeleah and Shelby @rhettabbotts for beta reading/editing/giving advice when I was lost. I made the executive decision to set this in late 1987 specifically so I could include a reference to the song that gave me the title, which means it’s set like a year after season 4 so uhhhhhhhh fix it fic I guess. fic dividers from @firefly-graphics

Content Warnings: not canon oops, fix it fic kinda, SMUT, smoking weed/doing drugs, drinking/getting drunk, getting crossfaded (high and drunk at the same time), explicit consent despite mind-altering substances but I was still advised to say dubious consent because of this, blacking out/passing out (not any of the main three), dirty talk, swearing/language, dirty talk (like absolutely filthy, including the word “cunt” and “slut”), Dom!Eddie, Switch!Steve, Sub!Reader, M/M/F threesome, oral sex (female receiving), oral sex (male receiving), handjobs, fingering, penis in vagina sex, anal sex, double penetration (penis in vagina and penis in asshole), bondage (handcuffs and rope), gags (cloth/bandana gag), light spanking, BDSM elements, dom/sub elements, masturbation, brief love triangle that is ended by a threesome (as most love triangles should end), Steve and Eddie are consent kings, all three are unbelievably horny, spanking as flirting, orgasming so many times you pass out, Eddie is currently in charge of the singular steddie brain cell, aftercare, usage of a ridiculous amount of pet names (Reader calls them “Eds” and “Stevie”, Steve calls them “baby” and “lover boy” and Eddie calls them “princess” and “big boy”), Robin awkwardly walking in and seeing something she shouldn’t have.

“I swear to god, if you put Cyndi Lauper in my cassette player, I’m throwing the tape out the window.” Eddie warned.

“Oh, come on! I love this album!” Y/N replied incredulously. “It has all my favorite songs!”

Eddie was leaning back against the wall casually, beer bottle in hand as Y/N stood at the player, shoebox of cassette tapes in hand. Nancy and Jonathan sat behind them on the couch and even with just four people, Eddie’s trailer was already beginning to feel a little crowded. Jonathan was smoking a joint, his arm around Nancy as they talked quietly, making lovey eyes at each other. Nancy was sipping on a can of soda, having decided to be his designated driver. The whole group was having a party, although Steve, Robin, and her girlfriend Vickie hadn’t arrived yet. 

“Sorry, princess. This is a Lauper-free trailer. It’s out of my hands.” Eddie said, putting his hands up in a mock surrender with a shit-eating grin.

“Fine.” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Then I’m putting in ABBA.”

“Fuck no, you’re not!” Eddie said, pushing off the wall to get closer to her.

“God, you’re so picky Eds!” she scoffed, mildly annoyed. “Why’d you tell me to bring the music for the party if you’re not gonna let me play any of it?”

“Just let me see what else you have.” he said, walking over to her, taking the shoe box and immediately making a face as if the collection personally offended him.

“Oh, come on! I know it’s not heavy metal and rock ‘n roll but my taste in music is just as good as yours!” she exclaimed defensively. 

“Queen, Billy Idol and Oingo Boingo are good, you can play those. Tears for Fears and Duran Duran are a stretch that I’ll allow because you’re so cute, but the rest of this pop shit is staying in this box the whole night.” Eddie said and her jaw went slack with shock.

She knew that they were just playing, it was just something she and Eddie did, like how she and Steve were very touchy with one another. Everyone in the friend group, except for her, knew that Eddie and Steve both had crushes on her and were engaged in a (mostly) friendly competition to get her attention. And everyone in the group, except for Steve and Eddie, knew that she was head over heels for both of them but couldn’t pick between them. Unbeknownst to the three, Robin had even been taking bets from as to which one of them is finally going to do something and when. Even in his weed-induced haze, Jonathan knew that the bickering and flirting was only going to get worse the longer it went on and he decided to speak up.

“Oh, come on Eddie! Just let her play her music!” Jonathan interjected from the couch and Y/N shook her head in agreement.

“See, Jonathan is fine with my music!” she said with a pleased smile.

“Jonathan is high as a kite, I could put on whale sounds and he’d think it was the greatest thing ever made.” Eddie replied.

“Hey!” Jonathan protested before Nancy spoke up.

“Eddie, it’s her turn to pick the music for the party, you don’t get to control it just because we’re having it at your place.” Nancy said.

Eddie looked back to Y/N. She put her bottom lip out in the most pitiful pout she could manage, batting her eyelashes for good measure. He stared at her for a moment, trying not to think about what those big pleading eyes would look like under him, begging for release.

“Fine, I yield, my lady.” Eddie finally said, giving a little bow and a flourish towards the cassette player, using the same medieval-style voice he used in D&D. It was a flirting tactic he used often because the character she played in his campaigns was a princess, and Eddie was nothing if not thoroughly dramatic.

“Oh, thank you Eds!” She squealed in joy, grinning from ear to ear as she pounced into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and placing a grateful kiss on his cheek.

He returned her embrace, wrapping his arms around her waist until he had to pull away so she wouldn’t feel a certain appendage of his that was rising to the occasion in his pants.

 “I never can resist that lovely pouty face of yours.” he said with a charming smile and she blushed deeply before turning around to the cassette player.

She slipped a Hall & Oates tape in and hit play, the opening notes of “Maneater” booming from the speakers. She began to sway her hips to the beat, dancing as she smiled at Eddie, victorious. He shook his head, unable to stop himself from smiling. He took another swig of his beer as she danced, taking the opportunity to let his eyes rake over her body and thoroughly appreciate what he saw. She had taken off her heels almost as soon as she had arrived, preferring to traipse around the carpet of the trailer barefoot—not that Eddie minded in the slightest—as it allowed her to dance more freely. She was wearing a low cut blouse and a short skirt and as she moved around, her breasts bounced in her top, glimpses of her ass visible through the ruffles of her skirt. A knock on the door roused him from his thoughts of what she’d look like without all the clothes and he called out that it was unlocked, the door opened and Robin and Vickie coming in.

“We’re dancing already?” Robin exclaimed and pulled Vickie closer to the stereo, joining in as Y/N laughed.

“Thanks for the help Robin!” Steve said sarcastically as he stepped through the door, three pizza boxes with a few packs of beer on top in his arms, his sunglasses riding low on his nose.

“You’re welcome, Steve!” Robin responded with a laugh.

“Looking hot tonight, baby!” Steve said shifting the weight onto one arm so he could give Y/N’s ass a playful smack as her walked by her.

“Calm down, Stevie! You only just got here!” she giggled and Steve smirked as he entered the kitchen.

Eddie downed what was left of the almost empty bottle and put it down as he pushed off the wall to join Steve in the kitchen area. Steve put the pizza on the counter, took off his sunglasses, and was sticking the beers in the fridge when Eddie walked in.

“We need to talk, Harrington.” Eddie hissed lowly.

“Yes, her ass felt spectacular.” Steve replied with a smirk.

“No, Harrington. I’m serious.” Eddie shot back.

“Me too.” Steve said with a chuckle and Eddie grumbled, leaning in closer.

“Dude, I’m losing my fucking mind right now.” He said as Steve finished putting the beers in the fridge and stood up to look at Eddie properly. “If I watch her dance like that any longer, I’ll be cumming in my jeans. We have to do something.”

“Munson, we agreed that if anything with her is gonna happen for either of us, she’s gotta be the one to start it. We can flirt as much as we want, but no matter how sexy she is, or how much we want her, we can’t be the ones to make the first move. We agreed, man!” Steve replied, popping the top off of a beer bottle and taking a swig. 

“Harrington, fucking look at her right now.” Eddie hissed, swiping the bottle from Steve’s hand and taking a large swig. 

Steve sighed, grabbing another bottle and popping the top off before peeking his head around the kitchen cabinets to look into the living room.

He watched her dance for thirty seconds or so and then turned back to Eddie, adjusting the front of his pants awkwardly. “Yeah, we need to figure this out—and fast! I can’t look at her in that top all night and not ask her to fuck me. One of us needs to drop out.” The pair silently looked at one another, waiting for the other to just give up but neither of them said a word.

“Let’s just pull her aside together and tell her we both want her and see who she picks. It’s not the smoothest move but at least it’ll end this.” Steve finally suggested when it became abundantly clear that neither of them were ever going to volunteer to step out of the running. “She picks whoever she picks and the other one, probably you, just takes the loss like a man and moves on.”

“You seem very confident that she’ll pick either of us. We drop a bomb like this on her and ask her to make a choice and she’ll freak the fuck out.” Eddie said. “She’s never been able to make snap decisions, even for things she feels strongly about, so even if she’s already interested in one of us, she’s gonna get so overwhelmed that she’ll choose neither of us.”

“Well, what the fuck are we going to do then?” Steve asked. “Only one of us can have her… and that’s if she wants us after all.”

“Harrington, you just gave me an idea.” Eddie muttered, his face growing into a grin. 

“Enlighten me then, Munson.” Steve huffed impatiently.

“We don’t ask her to choose.” Eddie said.

“I’m not following.” Steve replied.

“We tell her that we’re both interested in her and that we’d like to share a night with her. Together.” Eddie explained, Steve’s eyes widening in recognition.

“Are you suggesting a threesome?” Steve replied and let out a small laugh in disbelief as Eddie nodded.

“As long as we can get along and share, then she wouldn’t have to choose between us. If she says no, then at least she’ll know we’re both interested and she can act on that information later if she wants to.” he said.

“And if she says yes…” Steve trailed off as they grinned at one another. “Fuck, Munson, I could kiss you right now.”

“Save that energy for later, big boy.” Eddie joked with a wink, giving Steve a light slap on the ass as he walked out of the kitchen with a smirk.

Several hours and a pack of beer or two later, Nancy announced that she was going to take Jonathan home, the pair walking out the door to a chorus of ‘bye’ and ‘have fun fucking’. Less than thirty minutes later, Robin and Vickie had passed out, super drunk, cuddling on the couch together as Steve covered them with a blanket.

“And then there were three.” Y/N joked, lying on the floor with one of the couch pillows underneath her head.

“I’m gonna smoke, wanna join?” Eddie asked, his back leaning up against the wall as he sat on the floor.

“Drinking and smoking?” she asked, clutching a hand to her chest and pretending to be scandalized. “How positively devious of you!”

“Princess, I’m barely even tipsy.” Eddie replied.

“Fuck, me too. I could use some weed.” Steve said, sitting on the ground beside Eddie. 

“That’s two. Princess, care to join us?” Eddie asked.

From their viewpoint, they could see the side profile of her body, her head turned towards them, one knee bent up in the air. They could see the swell of her breasts with every breath and part of her skirt had hiked up, providing a tantalizing tease of her panties. Every curve and dip of her body was on display like a statue of Aphrodite from a museum in the flesh. Her hair was fanned out on the ground and her eyelids just a touch hooded by alcohol, her wide pupils gazing at them through her lashes. Her lips were pursed slightly as she considered his proposition and the boys couldn’t help but imagine what they would look like wrapped around a cock. Eddie moved his beer bottle to cover the growing bulge in his pants and Steve tried to stifle a groan into a cough, both praying she wouldn’t notice.

“I want to Eds, but I’ve only done edibles.” she said with a shy smile. “I’ve never smoked, I don’t know how.”

“No time to learn like the present.” Eddie said and she glanced over at the sleeping girls.

“Won’t we bother them?” she asked.

“They’re out cold, nothing we do is gonna wake them up.” Steve assured her.

“Maybe we should move somewhere else, just in case. Eds, can we smoke in your bedroom?” she asked and the innocent tone in her voice made Steve stand straight up and pretend he was getting another slice of pizza, just so he could hide his boner from her as he tried to calm himself down.

“If that is what you desire, princess, then we shall make it so.” Eddie replied, getting up and moving to stand by her feet, trying to ignore the sexy way she looked laid out below him, like a spread from a porno mag come to life.

He lowered his hand to her and just as she took it, he hauled her up to her feet quickly and then over his shoulder in one swift motion. Steve took one look at her gorgeous ass on Eddie’s shoulder and bit his fist to stop from making noise, his eyes telegraphing to Eddie that if he kept this up, he wouldn’t last long. Eddie only smirked at him, very pleased with himself. When she realized what he’d done, she playfully slapped at his back, her legs kicking up a little in fake protest. 

“Eds! I can walk to your room myself!” she laughed.

“But my lady, a princess requires a royal steed! Her royal feet must not touch the same ground as commoners such as us.” Eddie replied in his D&D voice and she giggled, rolling her eyes. 

“Lead away then, stable boy.” she said.

“Stable boy?” Eddie said in mock offense. “I’m at least a coachman.”

“Are we going to smoke or just stand here arguing until the sun rises?” she said.

“Ooo, bossy tonight, huh?” Eddie replied, giving her ass a light pat before he started walking towards his room, her giggles filling the trailer as they went.

“Stevie, can you grab the boombox please?” she called as they passed through the doorway to Eddie’s room. 

“Ye- uh yeah.” Steve croaked out, his voice cracking a little as he grabbed it and followed.

Eddie dropped her on to the bed and her body bounced once before coming to rest on the mattress, her breasts bouncing and her skirt flying up for a moment. With great difficulty, Eddie pulled himself away from staring at her jiggling tits so he could rummage through the drawers of his dresser for the metal tin he kept his weed in. The bed was in the corner of the messy room and Y/N sat up with her back on the wall, leaving room for Eddie and Steve on either side. Steve entered the room, setting the boombox on Eddie’s dresser before plopping down at the end of the bed against the wall next to her.

“Heads up Harrington!” Eddie called before he tossed the metal tin at Steve who caught it easily as Eddie headed over to pick a tape for the player.

Steve opened the tin up and began grabbing what he needed to roll some joints. Eddie put in an INXS tape he had just bought.

“Haven’t smoked to this album yet, it should be good.” he said as he turned around.

“What’s with all the handcuffs, Eds?” she asked with a smirk, gesturing at the hook on his wall where he kept a bunch of them.

“Oh, they can come in handy sometimes, no pun intended. The ladies seem to love them and I haven’t had any complaints from the guys either.” he said with a wink. It was an open secret within the group that both Eddie and Steve enjoyed men and women, although they were generally pretty quiet about it. “Why, princess? Are you curious?”

“Just asking.” she said casually.

“Well if you’d like to try them on to see how they feel, that can always be arranged.” he replied and she blushed.

“Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you, lover boy?” Steve muttered, trying to keep his tone sarcastic and playful instead of revealing the jealousy he was feeling.

The boys made tense eye contact for a second but she didn’t notice because she was too busy reaching into the tin and pulling out a pipe to look at it curiously.

“How does this work?” she asked and Steve chuckled. 

“Just like a regular tobacco pipe, but with weed.” he replied.

“Can I try it?” she asked, looking over at Eddie with a smile.

“Whatever you want, princess.” he replied before walking to the bed and sitting next to her but with his back against the headboard so he could talk with her easily. “Steve and I are probably gonna share a joint though so we don’t have to keep repacking the bowl all the time.”

“My Stevie and my Eds playing nice and sharing something together? Voluntarily? Without trying to kill each other? Is the world coming to an end?” she questioned, surprised but pleased with their sudden cooperation.

“I think you’ll find that ‘Eds’ and I have recently realized our interests are aligned. We can play nice and share all sorts of things, baby.” Steve said, finishing rolling the joint and lit it, taking in a few puffs before passing it to Eddie.

To reach Eddie, he needed to lean over her. His head was near her chest as he stretched and she stopped breathing for a moment, just taking in his scent. He smelled faintly of hairspray, a scent that had become oddly comforting to her, lingering even as he pulled back. Eddie took a few puffs and then handed it back to Steve, leaning in as well. She could feel a few locks of his hair just barely grazing the bare skin on her chest and suppressed a shiver. His usual scent of cigarettes had invaded her senses and together with Steve’s hairspray were making it hard to think. 

Eddie sat back as Steve put some weed into the spoon-like end at the end of the pipe, explaining that it was called “packing the bowl” and she tried to rouse her thoughts back to the present. Steve leaned in to hold the pipe up for her and press a flame from his lighter under the bowl and Eddie gave her instructions on when to suck the air in, when to hold it, and when to let go, his voice low in her ear. 

As she blew out the last of the smoke, she heard him coo “There’s a good girl, you did it perfectly on your first try.”

She tried to ignore the way those two little words, just a simple “good girl” made her stomach flip, fanning the spark from deeper below until the desire was burning within her. She wondered if that was what his bedroom voice sounded like. They talked her through another one and as she exhaled, she heard Steve whisper in her ear, so low it was almost a growl.

“Doing so good, baby.” he said and she squeaked, trying to play it off as a cough.

Steve and Eddie knew exactly what they were doing to her, it was the same thing she had been doing to them all night, what she was still doing to them as she drew the phallic-looking pipe to her luscious lips and sucked in. Steve took another few hits of the joint and she watched as a single strand of his hair fell in front of his face, resting on his forehead. He leaned over again and passed it to Eddie, who brought it to his lips for a hit. He was taking a long drag when she found herself admiring how his mouth curled around the end and when he leaned his head back and let out a long exhaled cloud of smoke, she was struck by the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as his neck stretched ever so slightly. She was still staring when he finished the breath and his eyes caught hers upon him, a smirk growing on his face.

“Like what you see, princess?” he asked and her mind just stopped.

Suddenly, it was like someone had taken her brain and stuck it in a blender, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say to explain why she had been watching him like that. She couldn’t exactly tell him that she had been staring at him because being this close to him and Steve was making her unbelievably horny.

“I…umm, I just… I was just…I-” she stammered out and Eddie smiled.

“It’s alright princess, I don’t mind your pretty eyes watching me.” he told her, moving closer until his lips were only inches from her face. “Steve and I have been watching you all night.”

“You… you have?” she asked, barely a whisper.

“Baby, Eddie and I have been trying to get your attention for a while.” Steve whispered into her ear, now hovering just over her neck and she shivered.

“We were in a bit of a competition, both of us wanted you but neither of us seemed to be getting anywhere.” Eddie said, his fingers reaching under her chin to turn her head back towards him. “It’s been so frustrating, wanting you so bad, hoping we could make you want us before the other could. Tonight we decided to put our differences aside and come clean with you.” 

“You want me?” she breathed out and Steve’s hot breath was back on her ear as her body instinctually leaned towards him.

“We do.” he said. “And we’re willing to share, if it’s what you want.”

Oh god, did she want it. Her mind was screaming at her to say something, to tell them just how long she had been waiting for one of them to make a move, how never in her wildest dreams had she imagined they’d both want her and especially not that they’d want her together. She wanted to tell them how many times she had collapsed into her pillows with her hand between her legs thinking of them. But her mind felt like jello and all she could do was suck in a breath. Steve’s fingers inched along the skin of her thigh, Eddie’s dancing lightly on her arm, only further scrambling her thoughts with the finger-light touches. She closed her eyes, unable to do anything but feel and want and burn.

“Come on princess, I know I’ve been thinking about it all night.” Eddie said, still so close that she could almost feel the tip of his nose on hers. “The tentpole in Steve’s jeans assures you he’s thinking the same thing. And the way you’re squeezing your legs together so hard they might turn red makes me pretty damn sure you’re thinking about it too.”

“If you don’t want this, we can leave and pretend it never even happened. Nothing has to change if you don’t want it to.” Steve said, lips ghosting over the skin of her neck. “But if you say the word, you can have us, baby. Whenever you want. Wherever you want. However you want. One at a time… at the same time…”

She gasped and her eyes shot open. She found herself staring straight into Eddie’s gorgeous brown eyes, darker than usual with lust.

“Oh, you like that idea, don’t you?” he asked, smirking. “Want one of us buried deep in that tight, wet cunt of yours while the other fucks your pretty little mouth?”

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes, I do, I do…” she whispered and was rewarded with Steve’s lips on her neck, his hand finally finding hold on her thigh and she struggled to continue speaking as Steve attacked her neck with his skilled mouth. “Haven’t… done this… before. Not with… more than… one person.”

“That’s alright, princess.” Eddie assured her, his hand light on her cheek, his rings cool on her hot skin. “We can go slow. We’ll take real good care of you.”

Eddie’s lips crashed into hers just as Steve found the most sensitive spot on her neck and she gasped into Eddie’s mouth, quickly turning into a moan. She could feel Steve’s smile on her skin before he resumed to leaving a trail of hickeys on her neck and shoulder. One of his hands was gripping her thigh, the pressure keeping her grounded as the other hand splayed right in the middle of her back, pushing her closer to them. Eddie didn’t give up his assault on her lips, kissing her as if he needed it to breathe. One hand remained on her cheek, his thumb rubbing her cheekbone lovingly, a harsh juxtaposition of his mouth’s ferocity, his other hand resting on her chest, right on top of her heart.

“Wait.” She breathed out into Eddie’s mouth and suddenly their hands and lips disappeared from her skin, her body whining at their absence.

“If you don’t want to do this we can stop.” Steve said, his hazel eyes screaming his earnestness to her. “I told you we can pretend it never even happened if that’s what you want.”

“No! No, I really want to do this… but I’ve never done anything like this before. I don’t know how to do it.” she said, breathing hard as she watched them both pant, devouring her with hungry eyes. “I don’t know if I’ll be any good.”

“Oh princess, you’re already good at it.” Eddie said with a smirk and she blushed, her self doubts and anxiety beginning to melt away.

“We want you to be sure this is what you want. That it’s your decision, even with the weed and alcohol in play.” Steve told her and neither of the boys were expecting the firm reply she gave.

“I had one beer a few hours ago, I’m not even buzzed. And as for the weed, I’m pretty damn sure I’m in my right mind.” she said and the boys smiled. “So how do we start?”

“Maybe Steve and I should show you what to expect.” Eddie said, turning to look at Steve.

“That sounds like a great idea.” Steve said. “Let’s get her a front row seat.”

Eddie smirked and got off the bed as Steve led her by the hand to sit in the chair that Eddie pulled up next to the bed.

“Don’t be afraid to ask questions.” Eddie said as he and Steve sat back on the bed, facing one another. “It’s an interactive presentation.”

The boys smiled at one another and leaned in, their lips meeting softly at first, then slowly building in intensity. Steve had one hand on Eddie’s cheek, the other on his waist as one of Eddie’s hands came up to cradle the side of Steve’s neck, the other surging downwards. Steve groaned into Eddie’s mouth as his hand found the bulge in his pants, pressing against it firmly. His hand continued to palm Steve’s junk as he began to suck on Steve’s neck with the same ferocity Steve had for hers. Steve’s head fell backwards and he moaned, his eyes closing in pleasure as Eddie left what would probably be a very large hickey on his neck.

It was the hottest thing she’d ever seen. Better than the dirty magazines she had found hidden under her mom’s bed, better than any scene in a porno, better than anything she had ever imagined about them. Her hands flew in between her legs, as if the pressure or the friction of rubbing up against her arms could relieve the fire in her loins. It only made it worse. Her eyes flicked to the handcuffs on the wall, considering all the delicious possibilities and when her eyes returned back to the boys, they met Steve’s eyes, smirking at her as Eddie continued his movements on his neck.

“She’s looking at the handcuffs, lover boy.” Steve informed him quietly with a smirk, his gaze never once leaving hers. “Maybe we should show her how they work.”

Eddie pulled back with a wicked smile and a glint in his eye as he looked to her. “A fantastic idea. Take your shirt off and sit against the headboard, big boy.” he ordered, and Steve obeyed.

Before he went to grab handcuffs, Eddie stopped to press a brief but hard kiss onto her lips. “Because you’re being such a good girl watching us. Don’t worry princess, it’s almost your turn.” he said as his hand cupped her cheek lightly, his thumb tracing her mouth teasingly before he returned to the bed.

“Got a safe-word, stud?” Eddie asked.

“Red.” Steve replied before Eddie advanced. 

She could see only Eddie’s back for a moment, hearing the distinct clicks of the handcuffs locking but then he sat back on his haunches and she took in the delicious sight before her. Steve had a hand cuffed to both of the far posts of the headboard, stretching out his arms and putting his well-defined muscles on display. Steve looked at her and although he was the one handcuffed, she was the one who felt tied down by his intense gaze. He smiled at her and she felt her stomach flip once more.

“For my next trick, I’m going to need an audience volunteer.” Eddie announced dramatically before setting his eyes upon her. “How about you princess?”

She nodded and he smiled, reaching over and pulling her chair up against the bed in a swift motion. She was now close enough to touch them and she eyed the pair with anticipation, waiting for Eddie’s next order. 

“Doesn’t he look so pretty? All spread out like this and just itching for us to touch him…” Eddie spoke lowly and she kept her gaze on Steve’s restrained torso. “Go ahead and touch him, princess.”

Hesitantly at first, she reached out towards the top of his chest, near his collarbones and when just the very tip of one finger had grazed his skin, Steve bucked against his chains, holding on to them so hard his knuckles were turning white. His reaction spurned her on, her touches growing more bold by the second as she explored his body.

Her fingers trailed down Steve’s toned chest and through the patch of dark hair she had seen before when they had gone to the pool together. His breath hitched when she slid a fingernail against his nipple, catching it between her fingers and she repeated the movement on both sides a few more times. When he put his head back and groaned, she gave him reprieve, continuing on with a small but pleased smile. She stopped at each of the scars on his chest from previous adventures gone wrong and took an extra moment to skate the tips of her fingertips over the raised skin. 

“So beautiful…” she muttered, not even realizing she had said it aloud until she heard Eddie in her ear.  

“I agree. You’re doing such a good job playing with him but it’s time we stop teasing him and get to the main event, don’t you think?” he said and she nodded. “Unbuckle his pants and get his cock out for me, princess.”

Her hands continued on their journey and finally made it all the way down to the waistband of his jeans. Steve’s breath hitched, his hips bucking slightly when her fingers stopped on the button. She carefully undid it and unzipped his fly, biting her lip as she reached to pull down the waistband of his boxers, letting him spring free. 

She had often wondered what Steve’s dick would look like and she certainly wasn’t disappointed. She hadn’t seen too many dicks in person, mostly just in dirty magazines or the kinds of movies that were hidden behind a curtain in the rental store, but she knew enough to know Steve’s was larger than average, even only at half-mast. Steve had a smug and proud smile on his face and she looked to Eddie to find he was surprised but pleased by Steve’s cock.

“Not bad at all, big boy.” he complimented before leaning into her ear and whispering. “Get him hard for me, princess.”

She leaned over and pressed her lips to the head of his half-erect cock. Steve groaned, instinctively surging forwards before the cuffs pulled him back. She opened her mouth and let drool dribble down to coat his dick in a layer of slick spit. The tip of her tongue darted out and licked a bead of pre-cum off the tip of his cock.

“Oh, fuck!” Steve moaned and she smiled, continuing to rile him up by teasing just the head of his cock as his cock got harder and harder.

When he was fully erect, she carefully slid her hand down his length, moving so slowly and holding him so lightly that it was like torture, not allowing him the pleasure of release yet.

“Good girl.” Eddie whispered into her ear, his hand reaching out to guide her own in a few more slow and teasing movements. Steve bucked his hips desperately but Eddie simply pulled his hand and hers away completely. “Looks like he’s ready for me. Sit back and enjoy the show, princess.”

She followed his instructions and moved back to her chair although now she sat on the literal edge, as close to the bed as she could be. Eddie flashed a wicked smile before leaning down and pressing a feather light kiss to the tip of Steve’s cock.

“Fuck, please-” Steve choked out, rattling his chains, desperate for the torture to end. “Please, Eds I-” His plea was answered and cut off as Eddie began to take his length into his mouth.

She couldn’t see specifically what Eddie was doing with his mouth but from the lewd noises Steve was making, it apparently felt very good. Eddie raised his head up and Steve whined at the loss of his warm, wet mouth on his cock.

“Tell her how it feels, Steve.” Eddie ordered, in almost a growl. “Tell her what my mouth on your cock feels like. Tell her how it feels to have your hands cuffed to the bed and to be unable to do anything about it.”

“Fuck, it feels so good.” Steve whimpered, his words getting caught in his throat briefly when Eddie returned to his ministrations, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity like a dagger. “Oh baby, it feels so fucking good. I don’t have to be in control, I just have to trust Eds will take care of me. I love it, fuck, I love it.”

Steve was getting close, it wasn’t hard to tell. His hips bucked as much as Eddie’s hands would allow, the sounds of him pulling on the chains getting louder and more frantic as his cries grew louder too. He was begging Eddie over and over again, chanting “please let me cum, please, please, please Eds.”

“Cum for me, big boy.” Eddie moaned around around his cock and only seconds later Steve was screaming in pleasure as he came.

Eddie kept him there in his mouth, working him through the waves of ecstasy, milking his cock and swallowing every last drop. Steve was panting like he had run a marathon as Eddie pulled himself off of Steve with a wet pop. Steve leaned back against the head board, letting his body relax.

“Good boy.” Eddie purred as he reached up and unlocked the handcuffs, Steve’s arms falling to his side as he looked at her through hooded eyelids.

Eddie crooked a finger to her, beckoning her to join them on the bed. In one swift movement, he removed his shirt, throwing it onto the floor in a ball as her eyes raked over his body. He wasn’t as toned as Steve, he was more lean, and the only hair he had on his chest was a light treasure trail leading down into his pants. She knew that he and Steve had matching scars on their chests but seeing them at the same time only made it more clear just how identical they were. She also knew he had a lot of tattoos, she’d seen the ones on his hands and arms many times but this was the first time she got to see the ones on his chest more than just small bits peeking out of his shirt collar. He was beautiful and the colorful art dotting his skin only made him more attractive. He grinned when he saw her looking at him and let her hand trace the lines of ink for a minute.

“Alright princess…” he said lowly as he pulled her hand from his chest, his firm grip on her wrist. “It’s time to show Stevie how much you liked our little show. Go on and let him find out what it’s like to kiss and touch you. Put on a show for me now.”

She crawled up Steve’s body, his back still leaned against the headboard as she tentatively straddled his hips, hovering over his lap nervously. His hands instantly went to her waist and he pulled her down onto his lap, capturing her lips in a passionate kiss. She had made out with people before but never with someone so hungry and deliciously rough. His hands moved her waist to roll a little, grinding his bare cock against her pantied pussy as her skirt rode up once more. The feel of his cock against her core, separated only by the thin fabric layer of her panties caused her to gasp against his lips, a moan quickly being smothered and swallowed by his mouth. Her hands hooked around his neck and into his hair, tugging lightly to earn a few pleased hums. 

“Get that shirt off of her.” Eddie ordered calmly, and she could hear his belt being undone and his jeans being unzipped.

Steve obliged immediately, yanking her blouse above her head and throwing it across the room, so quickly and expertly that his lips barely left hers. Eddie spit into his hand before beginning to stroke himself, a groan slipping out as he moved his fist up and down his length. Steve continued to grind up into her, one hand snaking up her back to undo the clasp of her bra as the other found hold on the back of her head, tangling into her hair.

“I didn’t say to take off the bra, Steve.” Eddie warned and Steve’s hand disappeared from the clasp, making her whine into his mouth as it found purchase on her hip. “Patience, princess.”

Steve’s length dragged against her clit and she felt like she was on fire. She took a hand from around his neck and slipped it behind her, needing to free her aching nipples from their torturous confines. Just as her finger grazed the clasp, Steve’s hand on her hip shot up and grabbed her wrist. His large hand encircled her wrist tightly and held her arm against her back.

“Eddie told you to be patient…” Steve warned, pulling away from her to meet her eyes, a smirk when he saw the desperation in her features. “Don’t be a bad girl. You owe him an apology.”

“I- I’m sorry Eds!” she said quickly, glancing over her shoulder to gaze at him as his hand increased in speed in jerking himself off.

“For?” Steve prompted, applying an infinitesimal amount of pressure on both her wrist and the back of her neck.

“I’m sorry for being a bad girl and not listening!” she cried out, shivering when Eddie laughed darkly.

“It’s alright princess, it’s a learning experience. Just don’t do it again.” he warned, holding her gaze intensely before flickering to meet Steve’s gaze. “How wet is she?”

Steve’s hand released her wrist but stayed on her back, a silent warning not to try unclasping the bra again. Her hand returned to snake around his neck, once more finding and hold on his hair. Steve removed his hand from the back of her neck, dragging it down the valley between her breasts before slipping under her skirt and pushing aside her panties. As his fingers ran against her slick folds, she leaned forwards, burying her head in his neck with a pathetic whine. 

“She’s fucking dripping.” Steve said before nipping teasingly at her ear, her face still nestled in the crook of his neck. “Aren’t you, baby?”

She nodded but this wasn’t good enough for Steve, his hand roughly cupping her pussy, his thumb tantalizingly close to her clit but not close enough to give her the release she sought. 

“I said… aren’t you, baby?” he growled as she cried out in surprise.

“Yes! Yes! Oh god please, I need it so bad. Something, anything, please!” she pleaded and was surprised to feel a spurt of warm ropes on her back, Eddie groaning as he came onto her.

“Reward her with a finger, big boy.” Eddie ordered, panting as he came down from his high and within seconds one of Steve’s fingers slipped into her cunt.

Her walls clenched around it, desperate for more as he languidly pushed it in and out, curling it slightly to hit a spot that made her see stars. She vaguely registered Eddie wiping his cum off of her back with a piece of cloth, probably one of his many bandanas. She cried out and arched backwards, thrusting her tits into Steve’s face when suddenly she felt Eddie press his chest against her back. His breath was hot on her ear and she whimpered. 

“Good girl.” he cooed and she keened into his touch as much as she could. “It’s my turn to play too now.”

She couldn’t see it but Eddie held up two fingers with a smirk and Steve grinned wickedly. A second finger penetrated her and she panted as he continued his torturously slow ministrations in and out. Eddie’s hands went to unclasp her bra, finally, and he tossed the offending garment to the side. Cool air teased her heated breasts for only a moment before Eddie’s hands clasped around them firmly. A lewd moan fell from her mouth as his fingers rolled and squeezed, kneading the flesh and teasing her nipples. His hands continued their assault on her breasts as his mouth began on on her neck, deftly finding the spot that made her cry out. 

The sensations were all too much and yet not enough. Steve’s hands in her pussy, Eddie’s on her breasts, their mouths on her lips and neck, but no relief was given to her aching little bud, taunt with need. Steve was purposefully ignoring her clit, succeeding in making her more desperate for him to touch her there with every passing moment. Slowly, she slipped a hand down and was inches away from her fingers brushing against her clit when Eddie’s hands left her breasts and grabbed her wrists, wrenching them behind her back and away from where she wanted them. She whined and could feel Eddie’s smirk against her skin, shifting to whisper into her ear.

“Bad girl. Steve didn’t tell you that you could do that, did he?” Eddie asked lowly and when she didn’t respond, too overcome by the feeling of Steve’s fingers curling inside her, he moved her wrists to one hand, the other snaking around to the front of her neck and applying just a little pleasure, growling “I said, did he, princess?”

“No.” she moaned and his hand disappeared from her neck, moving somewhere behind her. “I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, she felt something cool against her wrist and a loud clicking noise. She gasped as she realized that Eddie had just cuffed one of her wrists with the handcuffs.

“This alright, princess?” Eddie asked, voice firm in his dominance yet with just the edge of softness as he checked in with her.

“God yes!” she moaned out and Eddie clicked the other cuff onto her other wrist.

“Oh, you like them that much, huh?” Steve asked, feeling her clench around his fingers at the sound of them locking.

“Yes, fuck, I love it.” she cried out, testing her bonds as Eddie let go of her wrists but they held fast.

With her hands trapped uselessly between her back and Eddie’s chest, she had to just feel them playing with her, their hands and mouths all over her body, bringing her closer to the edge but never all the way.

“What a dirty girl… a dirty girl who likes having her hands bound together like some kind of slut.” Eddie taunted and his words touched something deep inside of her.

“Fuck, Eds. She liked when you called her a slut, she squeezed my fucking fingers like a vice.” Steve groaned and Eddie chuckled.

“Give our slut another finger as a reward.” he ordered and Steve obeyed, smirking when she gasped at the stretch of another finger added to her wet, hot cunt.

“God, she feels so good Eds, I can’t even imagine what she would feel like on a cock.” Steve said through grunts as he continued thrusting up into her with his fingers.

“We won’t have to imagine pretty soon, big boy.” Eddie said. “If you’re a good girl and you ride Stevie’s fingers like a cock, Steve will play with that pretty little clit of yours and we’ll let you cum.”

She moaned at the challenge before bucking her hips, intent on riding Steve’s hand like a cowgirl on a bull at a rodeo. She put every bit of effort she could into moving her hips and she was rewarded when Steve placed his thumb on her clit. A few small swirls and she was on the edge, begging the boys to let her cum. Eddie gave her permission and suddenly she was coming, her walls clenching down on Steve’s fingers as she threw her head back onto Eddie’s shoulder and cried out in ecstasy. She continued riding him through the shockwaves of pleasure and felt a little disappointed when it ended. He removed his fingers from her cunt, bringing them to his mouth to taste her cum as she panted.

“She tastes delicious.” Steve said with a smirk that made her shiver before holding out his fingers to Eddie. “Want a taste?”

“Oh I do, but I think I’m gonna get it straight from the source.” Eddie replied, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“What are we gonna do with her now, lover boy?” Steve asked him as he brought his fingers to her mouth and slipped them inside for her to taste herself. “All tied up with no where to go, isn’t that right baby?”

She moaned a yes as best as she could with his fingers in her mouth, the taste of her own arousal only heightening the pleasure. The muffled sound went straight to their cocks and Eddie’s face lit up with an idea.

“What would you say to a gag, princess?” Eddie asked and Steve removed his fingers from her mouth. “Be honest if it’s not something you want.”

“What kind of gag?” she asked in anticipation.

“I have a ball gag around here somewhere but if thats too much for your first time we can just do a cloth gag. I have plenty of bandanas.” Eddie answered.

“Can we try the cloth gag?” she asked, her innocent yet intrigued tone making him smile (and making his cock twitch).

“Of course, princess. Steve, can you get her hair out of the way?” Eddie said as he pulled his favorite bandana from his back pocket and although it was phrased as a question, Steve knew it was an order.

“Yes, sir.” Steve said, gently brushing her hair from her neck and pulling it all up with one hand. “Open up, baby.”

She opened her mouth obediently and watched as Eddie slowly placed the bandana between her teeth and pulled the ends together at the back of her neck.

“Is that too tight?” Eddie asked and when she shook her head, he tied the ends off and Steve released her hair, covering it.

“You’re always beautiful but you look even more lovely like this.” Steve told her and she felt butterflies in her stomach.

“Alright Harrington, we need to huddle up and make a game plan.” Eddie said and she whined as he began to move away. “It’s just for a moment, princess.”

Once Eddie was clear, Steve carefully lifted her off of his lap and laid her down on the bed on her back. His weight disappeared from beside her and she turned her head to the side to see the two of them moving to the far end of the room, Steve tucking himself away. When they reached the far wall, they stopped and leaned into one another, whispering too low for her to hear, especially with the music still playing quietly and them so far from her. She watched them, both shirtless with only their jeans still on, a sight that made her press her legs together in need, despite having just orgasmed.

After what felt like an eternity of planning, they returned to the side of the bed, smirking down at her with her hands tied underneath her in only her skirt and panties and a bandana gagging her. Steve reached down and stroked the side of her face, chuckling when she leaned into his touch.

“Are you ready for the next part of the show?” he asked and she nodded vigorously. “Good girl.”

Eddie pulled her upper half off of the bed and held her up as Steve took his place sitting against the headboard again, taking his pants off so that he was only in his boxers. Steve pulled her from Eddie’s arms and nestled her to sit between his legs, leaning back on his chest. The way they handled her so nonchalantly yet still careful, like she was a precious doll, reignited the fire in her core. Eddie took off his pants to reveal his briefs before kneeling on the bed in front of her. He reached around and un-cuffed one of her wrists before pulling them both up over her head, re-cuffing them so her hands were bound behind his neck, stretching her out.

“Don’t pull on these too hard or you’ll hurt Stevie, alright princess?” Eddie asked and she nodded.

Steve lifted her hips up as Eddie pulled off the skirt and panties, leaving her completely naked, all of her bare for their hungry eyes. Eddie spread her legs and groaned at the sight of her pussy laid bare before him. Putting her head down in embarrassment as her cheeks heated, she tried to close her legs but was stopped by Eddie’s hands keeping her thighs spread.

“Are you shy, princess?” Eddie cooed and she nodded. 

“Do you want us to stop?” Steve asked and she shook her head. “Can you knock on the wall behind us?” She answered with a few knocks on the wall. “If you want us to stop, knock on the wall in groups of three, alright?” She nodded.

“You’re so beautiful.” Eddie told her, fingers stroking her wet folds delicately.

She shifted against Steve’s chest and whined, trying once more to close her legs. Eddie gave a light smack to her inner thigh.

“Bad girl! Am I going to have to tie your ankles to my bedposts to get you to stay put?” he scolded and she looked away in embarrassment. “Oh that’s it, isn’t it? That’s what you want. Usually I wouldn’t reward bad behavior but this is a special circumstance.”

Eddie leaned over to a dresser drawer and pulled out two lengths of black rope. Carefully, he lifted one of her feet and tied the silky rope around her ankle. He pressed a light kiss to her calf before pulling her leg down to lay straight on the bed sheets between Steve’s spread legs. As Eddie secured the rope to the bed post and moved to repeat his actions with her other leg, Steve began to lazily drag his fingers across her breasts. He let his nails lightly rake on her nipples, teasing her in the same way she had teased him. She gasped through the gag and squirmed in his arms as he continued his ministrations. His lips moved to her ears and she shivered when she felt his hot breath against her skin.

“What, baby? You don’t like it when you get a taste of your own medicine?” He murmured in a low growl and she could practically hear his smirk. “Guess you can dish it out but can’t take it.”

Eddie finished her other leg and sat back on his haunches to admire his work, Steve stopping his teasing so she would be still for him. Her glistening cunt was laid bare before him and his eyes shone with excitement. Her cheeks heated under his attentive gaze and she averted her eyes away in embarrassment. She felt completely exposed with her legs spread wide open and the silky rope that wouldn’t relent to her tugging, she couldn’t close her legs to staunch the self-doubts that began to pop up. Eddie and Steve were far more experienced than her and had probably seen far prettier girls’ bodies. Every imperfection of her physique suddenly felt mortifyingly unattractive and for a moment she considered tapping out so she could throw on her clothes and run away in shame. She could feel the tears gathering in her eyes as she imagined how hideous she must look to them, every curve, line, and mark mocking her in her head. Suddenly she felt Eddie’s hand on her cheek, gently pulling her attention back to him.

“What’s wrong? Do you want to stop? There’s no shame in that, princess.” He said softly and her heart flipped at his earnestness. 

She shook her head. 

“Are you feeling self-conscious?” He asked, Steve’s fingers trailing comforting circles on her sides.

She nodded, eyes shimmering with vulnerability.

“Oh princess, you have nothing to be self-conscious about. You’re fucking stunning. I’ve never seen anyone who looks so beautiful naked as you, except for perhaps Steve.” Eddie assured her and she smiled, tears of comfort and joy pooling in her eyes as Steve chuckled behind her. 

“I’ve been wondering what you would look like without clothes forever and never in my wildest dreams did I even come close to how gorgeous you are right now.” Steve said in her ear and she craned her neck up to look at him, admiration shining in his eyes. “So just lay back and let us worship you the way you deserve.”

As soon as he finished speaking, her attention was drawn back to Eddie gently stroking her folds with skilled fingers covered in those god-damned rings of his. He teased her for a minute or two, simply admiring her pussy as he hummed some rock song, paying no attention to her squirming or mewling. Her handcuffed hands right at the back of Steve’s neck grasped onto his hair and tugged on it in pure anticipation, needing to feel grounded to him as Eddie inspected her. When Eddie felt he had admired her cunt properly, he dove in and began to eat her out. She gasped out through the gag in relief and felt Steve’s chest rumble with a chuckle behind her, his hands roaming her skin until they found purchase teasing her breasts deliciously.

“Thought I wouldn’t get you back for that, did you?” He whispered in her ear and she keened, lost in the sensations caused by both boys. “Think you can tug my hair and play with my nipples and I won’t take advantage when I get the chance? Eddie may be in charge of the both of us tonight but right now, I’m in charge of you, baby.”

It didn’t take long for her to reach her second orgasm, not with Eddie’s lips on hers and his tongue coaxing her to the edge as Steve played with her tits like a violin and whispered dirty things into her ear. She came hard as Eddie looked up at her, grinning like a mischievous devil from between her thighs.

“Good girl.” Steve cooed in her ear as she rode out her pleasure, breathing hard through the gag until Steve removed it, tilted her chin up towards him and captured her mouth in a breathless kiss.

“Ready for the finale?” Eddie asked, pressing soft kisses to the inside of the thighs.

“So ready!” She replied with a wide smile.

A blur of movement later and her restraints were removed, Steve helping her stretch out her limbs as Eddie grabbed condoms and lube.

“Get on your knees.” Eddie ordered and she complied as the boys removed their underwear and she saw that they both had long cocks almost the same size except that Eddie’s was a smidge girthier. 

“How do you wanna do this, baby?” Steve asked her, stroking his gorgeous cock. “Where do you want us?”

“I don’t think I’m ready to do anal, at least not yet, but I don’t have a preference for who goes where.” She replied, gazing hungrily at them.

“Dealer’s choice, then.” Eddie said with a smirk. “Steve, you’ve been such a good boy tonight following my instructions, I think you deserve to pick.”

“I want her pussy.” Steve said, smiling when she blushed and shivered under his intense gaze.

“Are you still sure you want this?” Eddie asked her as he passed a condom to Steve, who began to put it on. 

“I’m sure, damn it! Just fuck me before I lose my mind!” She said before realizing herself an adding as an afterthought “…please.”

“Mouthy girl, such a brat.” Steve commented and Eddie chuckled as he stepped towards her, gently gripping her chin to look up at him

“Normally, I’d punish an attitude like that but you’ve been so good for us tonight and it’s a special occasion so I’m going to overlook it… for now.” He said, a dark and sexy look in his eyes as she nodded. “Hands and knees for the big finish, princess.”

She got into position as Eddie moved in front of her and Steve behind her, groaning when she wiggled her ass a little.

“Spank her if she does that again.” Eddie said, tapping her lips with his cock until she opened them and he slipped in.

She was so distracted by Eddie’s cock in her mouth that she almost forgot Steve was lining himself up until he slid into her wet cunt. Eddie chuckled when she moaned around his cock. It only took a few moments until they began to move, quickly setting a deliciously brutal pace. The boys were seemingly naturals at it and for a moment she wondered if they had ever actually shared a partner before with how practiced they seemed to be at anticipating one anothers moves. She-d never been fucked so fast and rough, bouncing between their cocks in a rhythm that made her feel better then she ever had before.

“Fuck, princess, suck just like that!” Eddie exclaimed, his fist wound around some of her hair just enough to be felt but not hard enough to hurt.

“You feel so good, baby.” Steve moaned, throwing his head back as his hands gripped her hips tighter allowing him to thrust into her even deeper. “Fuck, I’m so close.”

“You don’t come until she does so if you want it, you’d better help her along.” Eddie commanded and Steve moved one hand off of her hips and snaked it between her legs.

His fingertips quickly found her clit and it wasn’t long before she was clenching onto his cock with a loud moan as she came.

Steve and Eddie’s hands were the only things keeping her up, her body feeling like jelly as her orgasm hit. Eddie unraveled next, shooting his load into her throat and coaxing her through swallowing it.

“Good girl.” He panted and she felt her pussy clench around Steve’s cock, those two little words inadvertently causing her to help bring Steve to orgasm.

“Fuck, baby!” Steve groaned, his hips stilling against hers as he rode out his high, her pussy clenching around his as if to help milk every last drop.

They all stayed there for a moment, the boys catching their breath. Eddie was the first to pull out, wiping droplets of cum from around her mouth as she slumped forwards and he led her down to lay on the bed. She groaned as Steve carefully removed himself, disposing of the condom before helping her place her head on the pillow. 

Very sated from orgasming three times in one night, she reached out and latched onto Steve, needing physical contact. She heard Eddie murmur something to Steve about caring for her but she couldn’t comprehend his words with how euphoric she felt. Steve laid down with her and held her, stroking her hair and whispering about how well she did while Eddie helped clean her up. Even in her haze, she felt something was missing.

“Stevie, I want Eds too…” She whined into Steve’s chest.

“You heard her, get over here.” Steve said, pulling both himself and her towards the edge of the bed to make room for him.

“What the princess wants, the princess gets.” Eddie replied, settling in on the other side of her.

“My boys…” She sighed contentedly, drifting off to sleep from her post-orgasmic haze nestled snugly between Steve and Eddie’s bodies.

She awoke the next morning with her head on Eddie’s chest and Steve spooning her, his arm draped around her waist and his hand on Eddie. She smiled, feeling truly happy there with her boys.

“Morning princess.” Eddie said, his voice gravelly with sleep.

“Morning Eds.” She said, unable to contain her smile.

“I take it you had a good time last night.” He commented with a smirk.

“I did.” She said simply, gathering the courage to ask the question on her mind. “Eds… do you think you and Stevie would be alright with doing it again sometime? I don’t want you to think I’m indecisive or selfish, I just really like both of you. A lot.”

“Steve and I were talking about it last night after you passed out and we came to the conclusion that we’re both so head over heels for you that we’re willing to share if that’s what you want.” Eddie said and she felt like a weight was lifted off her chest. “Besides, Steve and I may have something deeper than just competition going on, we’ve just been too distracted to see it for what it was.”

“So, the three of us against the world?” She asked.

“Always, princess.” Eddie replied, pulling the comforter up to cover the three of them more fully and placing a kiss on the top of her forehead.

They were almost back asleep when the door swung open, revealing a very sleepy and apparently hungover Robin who looked very surprised to see them. Her eyes went wide with realization and shock at Eddie and Y/N, not even noticing Steve as he was covered by the comforter.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry! I thought this was the bathroom door!” Robin exclaimed, shielding her eyes before adding with a huge grin “...but also this is fantastic, Dustin owes me so much money!” 

With impeccable timing, Steve raised his head from behind Y/N’s body and sleepily said “I don’t think you’ll be making any money today.”

“I just learned way more about your love life than I ever needed or wanted too and now none of us are winning the bet.” Robin replied, a mix of shock and disappointment on her face as she turned to leave. “I’m going to go bleach my eyes… and my brain.”

She slammed the door behind her and all three inhabitants of the bed began to laugh. They sunk into a comfortable silence, content with each other’s quiet company.

“Robin was wrong.” Y/N said assuredly.

“Hmm?” Steve hummed in confusion.

“She said no one won the bet. But she’s wrong, the three of us won it.” She replied and Steve laughed.

“I agree, princess.” Eddie added with a fond smile, holding his two lovers close to him.

[flowerandblood]

Glass Cuts Deepest (1)

[ professor! • Aemond x student! • female ]

[ warnings: angst, mention of trauma and violence ]

[ description: A female painting student is finally able to choose the specialisation she has dreamt of - stained glass. She wants to become a student of the best specialist in this field, but he, for some reason, refuses to accept female students into his workshop. She finds out that he once slapped a female student of one of the other professors. Nevertheless, she makes an attempt to find out what happened then and to convince him to teach her. Slow burn, sexual tension, dark, agressive Aemond, great childhood traumas. ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

_____

She remembered exactly the one sunny afternoon when, still being a small child, she walked with her father into an old, gigantic Gothic church that seemed to her to be so high that it reached up to the sky.

As they stepped inside they were struck by the distinctive smell of incense, dampness and a strange, disturbing echo with each of their steps, as if reminding them that they were in the House of God.

She remembered clearly the narrow, long windows filled with figures of saints, shimmering with various colours of glass, as if they were really looking at her from the heavens themselves. The rays of the sun shone through them like the glory of God himself, and she thought then that she wanted to learn more about them.

She quickly began to draw. At first it was just her favourite cartoon characters, but as she got older she began to take an interest in art and paintings − on all her school trips she would look curiously at the works of the old masters in art galleries and then read about them at home.

When she managed to get into a painting department at a state university, it seemed like the happiest day of her life. One of the specialisations she could choose after the first year was that of stained glass, and it made her face flush all the more because she knew who taught there.

Although there were as many as three professors in the stained glass department, only one, the youngest of them, namely Professor Targaryen was so spectacularly successful internationally, to which he also owed his quick habilitation being only six years older than her.

For all she knew his talent had already been recognised during his studies and he was now carrying out gigantic commissions for new churches built by the richest archbishops.

She had seen his work in one of the churches in her town and had to admit that he was one of the best stained glass artists of their generation.

The holy figures in his works seemed light and halting, partly Baroque and partly Mannerist, their faces expressing some kind of heavenly anticipation, wonder or melancholy, the colours of the glass he chose contrasting wonderfully under the sunlight, creating a breathtaking composition.

He was a genius.

During her first year at university, she saw him fleetingly several times during a class on the basics of stained glass design, where everyone, no matter what specialisation they wanted to choose afterwards, learned how to cut glass with diamond blades, paint it and apply patina.

They were then taught by his assistant professor, Cregan Stark, and Professor Lannister's doctoral student, Meera. Both were very warm and patient – she took great joy in these lessons and stayed after hours to complete her work.

One day Cregan stood over her and seeing her painting her saint's face for the third time, this time with satisfying results, he nodded his head in approval.

"You are very hardworking and you are doing well. You should choose stained glass as a speciality." He said softly. She blushed all over and hopped up in her chair, happy.

"I am so pleased to hear that. I would love to study in your workshop under Professor Targaryen." She said quickly with excitement in her voice, and he raised his eyebrows and laughed. She blinked, confused.

"Forget about it, I advise you well. You're a good girl and you don't deserve what would happen to you there." He said, scratching his chin, looking at her apologetically, as if he resented himself for getting her hopes up. She felt a tightness in her throat not understanding what he was implying.

"What do you mean, sir?" She asked uncertainly and he sighed heavily.

"Ask your fellow students."

His words kept her awake and made her feel very uncomfortable – she had heard that Professor Lannister sometimes liked to flirt with his female students.

Was Professor Targaryen the same way?

Or worse?

Reflecting on this, she realised as she walked past the room where his students worked that she had never seen any women.

She asked this out loud the next day to her female colleagues, who looked at her surprised.

"Didn't you hear about that incident two years ago? He slapped one female student in the face during class. And she wasn't even his student! It landed him on the rug with the rector himself and he almost didn't get fired from the university. He owes his position only to his achievements and that thanks to him our university keeps getting new assignments from the curia." Said Ellyn, and she swallowed loudly, shocked by her words.

"Is it known why he did it?" She asked uncertainly. Lysa shrugged her shoulders.

"Apparently it enraged the rector the most. He didn't explain why he did it, he just said that she deserved it and that no whore – he probably meant woman – would cross the threshold of his workshop. He has one artificial eye and a huge scar, maybe because no woman wants him he behaves this way."

She lowered her gaze, heartbroken, feeling the cold sweat on the back of her neck, her heart pounding like mad.

What kind of man was this?

Now she wasn't surprised why Cregan had told her to let it go.

However, the closer she got to choosing a speciality and a workshop, the more she felt the need to fight for what she wanted.

Maybe if she stayed away from him and just worked hard he would give her a break?

Maybe he was annoyed by the way the girls dressed or behaved?

She decided to give it a try.

Despite everyone warning her not to do so, she submitted the papers, writing his name as her supervisor, whose workshop she applied to.

She had a feeling that it would lead to some kind of earthquake, but in the field of stained glass she wanted to be like him.

She thought through how she would dress – she decided that since she didn't like women, she would try to look as neutral and bland as possible.

She put on a large black hoodie from under which neither her breasts nor her buttocks were visible, tight black trousers and trainers. She tied her hair up in an elaborate braid to keep it out of her face, applied only foundation and no other make-up.

Dressed like this, she came to the first meeting of the new semester, where students found out what classes they had and met their lecturers.

She entered the room full of men and complete silence fell; she saw that the professor wasn't there yet, so she sat down with her notepad and pen at the very end of the table to just disappear. One of the boys with dark, curly hair turned to her.

"You're brave, but I already feel sorry for you. He'll kick you the fuck out of here." He said amused, several of the other boys laughed nervously.

She lowered her gaze, horrified, beginning to regret doing this instead of going to another professor who would have welcomed her applications with open arms.

When the door suddenly opened she curled into herself, not looking in that direction, resting her chin on her hand, swallowing loudly. She heard the sound of a chair being pushed back and someone sighing, then the rustling of pages.

"I'll start by reading out the list and welcoming the new students." She heard a cold, indifferent, stern voice that sent shivers through her, felt her breath get stuck in her throat with fear.

"Allan Baratheon."

"Mark Arryn."

"Royce Hightower."

"Matthias Martell."

"Well. I welcome you and will get straight to the task ahead of you this term." He said calmly, putting down the sheet of paper – she felt the stares of all the students on her.

He hadn't read her out.

She was sure she was on the list.

She pressed her lips together lifting her gaze to the boy who had spoken to her earlier – he just raised his eyebrows with a shrug of his shoulders in an I told you so gesture.

For a moment she wondered what she should do, feeling tears of helplessness under her eyelids – still not looking at him she raised her trembling hand slowly upwards. She heard him fall silent for a moment, but then he continued as if nothing had happened.

"− I have decided to hold a competition for the best design for three window quarters with a representation of the Virgin Mary surrounded by saints. The design will be chosen by me and the bishop, who will pay for the whole order, and then the whole workshop will work together to make this chosen design. Cregan will send you by e-mail the dimensions of each window and which specific saints are to be depicted. That's all."

He said and simply stood up, taking his papers and coffee and left, not paying any attention to her or her hand. Her classmates looked at her in shock.

"Oh fuck, that was horrible. He completely pounced on you. I'm so sorry." Her year mate said, patting her on the back, and she burst into tears, hiding her face in her hands.

"Don't cry. This is not about you. Go to Lannister and don't spoil your nerves." Said one of the older students and everyone slowly began to leave the room.

She looked blankly at her notebook and decided that she would try one last time.

She would try to talk to him.

She left and approached the locked room where a placard with his name on it was posted. She heard two voices coming from it, in one she recognised Cregan.

"− she's not like that, Aemond. Really. She focuses on her work, she's diligent. Three times I made her start the same face over and she did it without saying a word. She is humble and learns quickly. It's a shame to give her up to waste to Jason or Floris −" She heard Stark's voice and felt warm in her heart at the thought of him trying to defend her. For a moment he was answered by silence.

"No. There are always problems with them sooner or later. She was almost crying by now. I don't want any weepy scenes in my workshop. I −"

He didn't finish because of the loud knock on their door. She heard someone stand up inside, then the door opened and she saw Cregan standing in front of her. He shook his head quickly letting her know that this was a very bad idea, but she had already made up her mind.

She wanted to look him in the face before she gave up completely.

"Please, find five minutes for me, Professor." She directed her words to him rather than Cregan.

He sighed heavily, stepping back and it was only then that she noticed a fair-haired man with his short hair pulled back in black turtleneck, looking at her as if he had never seen a more disgusting thing on earth.

His artificial eye was cold and lifeless, his nostrils moving restlessly, his jaw clenched tight – she thought he looked more like a sculpture rather than a human being.

He seemed empty to her, created from stone rather than flesh.

He was silent for a long time and then rolled his eyes, sighing heavily and hummed under his breath, pulling out his phone, turning on the stopwatch.

"Five minutes." He said lowly, and Cregan quickly walked out, leaving them alone, closing the door behind him. She wanted to come closer, but his voice stopped her.

"Don't come up, just stand there and talk. You're running out of time." He burst out coolly, still facing her in profile, tapping his fingers impatiently on his armrest. She swallowed loudly, feeling her throat dry up, and opened her mouth to tell him all that she was holding inside.

"I know what rules you have set in your workshop and I wish very much now that I had been born a man, but unfortunately I am not." She said with difficulty hearing her voice tremble. She glanced at him and saw that he was still listening to her, so she continued.

"I saw your artworks while I was still in high school at St. John's Cathedral, and having always dreamed of creating stained glass for churches, I wanted to be taught by someone who is such an accomplished specialist in the field as you are, sir. I know how difficult the job is and I promise to do what you tell me to do without a shadow of dissatisfaction. I will not approach you except to revise my designs or projects. I will always work at the furthest table and sit in the last seat as far away from you as possible, dressing in such a way that you do not notice me and forget my existence on a daily basis. Please." She whispered the last word weakly – she saw his adam's apple waving as he swallowed loudly, tense.

He remained silent.

"Just because you're a fan of my works doesn't make you a talented person. What good is it to me that you work in silence if none of your pieces will be at least satisfactory and your colleagues will have to correct your mistakes?" He asked dryly, lifting his stern gaze to her – she swallowed loudly, feeling small, feeling like a nobody.

She did not bring her designs with her.

"Well. All I have with myself now are quick sketches in my notebook. They're portraits of people I see travelling on the bus to my classes." She said quickly and he sighed heavily, frustrated, and ran his hand over his face.

"So you are unprepared." He summarised, and she furrowed her brow, shaking her head.

"None of my colleagues had to −" She began, but he threw her a sharp, annoyed look and she realised at once that she had to back off, had to humble herself.

"− I − yes, I'm unprepared. I'm very sorry." She mumbled, fiddling with her notebook in her hands, her lips tightening.

He turned his head away from her, but extended his hand towards her in a movement full of impatience. She approached him uncertainly, handing him her sketchbook without touching his skin. He sighed and began to look quickly through what was inside without interest.

She saw that he had stopped at a few drawings, depicting a young woman with a child on her lap, an old man wearing a large black cap and winter scarf, and a stooped man asleep leaning his temple against the glass.

She saw him massaging his forehead and closing his eyes, clearly fighting with himself internally. He closed her notebook and waved it in his hand.

"Three of your fifteen sketches I would consider good. Do you think that's enough?" He asked dryly, without even looking at her. She felt a squeeze in her heart and a wave of disappointment knowing what he meant to say.

"No. It's not enough."

He hummed under his breath agreeing with her opinion, and then with a light flick of his hand, he tossed her notebook into the bin that stood by his desk. He glanced at her reaction and she gasped.

He wanted her to cry, to run out hurt and humiliated, to leave him alone.

No.

"So I'll do 200 sketches, 40 of which will be good. Or 300 of which 60 will be good. I will do as many of them as you see fit, Professor." She said with an effort, trying with all her might not to cry again.

He looked at her coldly in silence, the bell on his phone ringing out like something final. She felt cold sweat on the back of her neck as he reached over and muted his app, turning his profile back to her again.

"400 sketches. And they're all supposed to be good. Without them, don't even show yourself to me. Anything else?" He asked, and she shook her head.

"No. Thank you for the chance, Professor." She muttered and just walked out, closing the door behind her, feeling her whole body tremble.

He wasn't a man, but a walking monster breathing fire.

Cregan walked up to her, looking at her in horror, clearly seeing how pale she was.

"Did he agree?" He asked in a whisper, as if he was afraid he would hear them.

"He told me to bring him 400 good sketches and not to show my face to him without it." She mumbled apprehensively, wondering how long it would take her and how she would decide which were good and which were not. Stark looked at her in disbelief.

"I know it's no consolation, but you've just achieved the impossible." He said with some kind of admiration, and she sidestepped him, not knowing if she could call it that herself.

When she got home she started searching the gossip portals in the hope of finding out something about the incident from a few years ago, guessing that it must have been a big scandal and she was not disappointed.

Admittedly, she couldn't find his statement anywhere, and the student he slapped gave a wide-ranging explanation.

Professor Targaryen showed an unhealthy interest in me from the beginning and was also unpleasant and disrespectful. When we were left alone and I went to him to ask him to proofread my work, as my professor was on sick leave at the time and I wanted to move on with my job, he rose with anger and slapped me on the cheek shouting that I had no right to enter his workshop and invade his privacy. I believe this stems from his complexes and fear of women, and I regret that no justice reached him for this. Unfortunately, in this university everyone cleans each other's hands.

She read this, and she decided that she needed to be wary of him and keep her distance, not to approach him or frustrate him.

She spent the next week from morning to night sketching, sitting in the park and looking at people passing by, but she wasn't satisfied with her results.

She recalled her sketches he had stopped at and wondered what they had in common. She thought that as well as a study of the body there was a kind of melancholy and lightness in them, a snapshot of some fragment of life and situation.

She decided to go to church.

She made sketches of figures from the paintings in prayerful exultation, sculptures facing the heavens with outstretched hands, close-ups of their faces.

She thought he meant a character study like Leonardo da Vinci did, who caught facial expressions and gestures on the fly, making the viewer of his drawings go through a thrill of excitement.

She went round all the temples in her city and ended up with 500 sketches, from which she selected the agreed 400. She decided for her own satisfaction to bring him 401 drawings, which she managed to pack into two big folders.

She did not find him in his office so she set off towards his workshop where his senior students and her year mates were gathered. However, she didn't cross its threshold but knocked on the doorframe, eager to get his attention, to get permission to cross that magic line.

He was just leaning over another student's projects and glanced at her with a sharp, disgruntled look, clearly hoping he would never see her again. She lifted up her folders showing that she had brought what he wanted – he sighed heavily and moved towards her, avoiding her by a wide margin.

"Follow me." He said dryly, so she went straight after him. They entered a room with illuminated tables on which glass was usually cut and painted.

"Lay them out here. Show me the top 40." He said impatiently, and she swallowed loudly, wondering what she should show him. Her hesitation frustrated him.

"Can't you judge which of your works are suitable to be shown to me?" He growled and she shook her head, quickly searching for the works that were most memorable to her.

The woman turning to her over her shoulder with an enigmatic smile, the angel looking up to the heavens with his lips parted, the distraught Mother of God looking at her suffering son, Mary Magdalene humbly bent over in prayer, the nun covering her face with her hand, leaning over in thought.

She put down sheet after sheet, counting in her head, but then she lost track, stood up, trying to count them all over again, her heart pounding like mad.

"That's enough." He commanded coolly and walked over to the table, this time looking at each of her works in turn.

She stood at a great distance from him, not daring to come close, his face thoughtful, sharp and tense, his brow furrowed.

She was afraid he was about to humiliate her again, start crumpling up sheet after sheet and throwing them in the dustbin. He picked up a few, however, taking a closer look at them.

"Is that a figure from the church of St Michael the Archangel?" He asked indifferently, and she nodded quickly. He hummed under his breath and added nothing, putting the piece of paper down, watching further, his hands entwined at his back.

It seemed to her that his silence lasted for ages.

"A month. For a trial. If you disappoint me, I'll kick you out." He said low and unenthusiastic, turned and walked out, simply leaving her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, hiding her face in her hands, and burst into sobs.

She had made it.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess

[kedsandtubesocks]

your favorite kryptonite

Comic Bookstore Owner!Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

summary: you think it should be illegal for someone this hot to work at your favorite comics & fandom shop

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MDNI. non canon AU. Dieter as a big fandom nerd (affectionate), brief one sided annoyance to lovers, mentions and discussions of various medias including marvel, video games & anime/manga, light use of gendered language, moment of harassment from a creep, Dieter cosplaying surprise, spicy themes, reader wears Dieter’s robe but no physical description is mentioned, light drug use (marijuana), silly chaotic but sweet!Dieter

word count: 4.3k

a/n: So I’m back with another wacky AU LOL this is my love letter to all things wonderfully nerdy & to nerd Dieter who in my heart i believe is totally a Kakashi and Goku fanboy lol the biggest thanks go out to @perotovar & @burntheedges who helped championed this and gave me the power up strength to continue, so grateful for y’all babes! And to you reading this thank you so much ♡

The new mecha anime figurines immediately draw your attention. Their sharp beautiful sleek designs stand impressively and although you might not be a huge fan you admire the striking style.

You’ve been coming to Atomic Planet Shop since your best friend dragged you here in high school years ago. Containing a wide range of things like a whole area to flip through comics, to a wall of Japanese manga - it’s a nerd’s paradise.

Currently you search for a birthday gift to get your best friend and maybe snag a treat for yourself.

“Oh, a fan of Gundam I see.” An eager and new voice calls from behind.

Turning back you discover someone slinking out from behind the register. Normally Raymond, the sweet older man who runs the store, would be here. But now someone new stands in his place and you’re stunned.

The guy emerging from behind the counter is gorgeous.

Scruffy beard, fluffy hair, wearing earrings and rings on his hand, he’s hot. The shirt he wears says “Wolverine Call Me” in a heart shape. His deep chocolate even eyes seem to dance curiously.

“Uh, just looking.” You politely reply.

“Whatcha looking for?”

You explain how you’re here looking for a birthday gift for your friend.

“Oh nice.” He nods appreciatively.

While you’re turned, giving this new worker your attrition, you finally notice the glass shelf behind the register.

Your eyes go wide fast at what you spot.

“Is that a new Stardew Valley cookbook?” You can’t even process the words, you’re still in awe at the sight. Precious little drawings fill the space to show familiar dishes, like pink cake and lucky lunch, from the game. It’s gorgeous and so unique.

“Oh hell yeah, you a fan?” The mystery man exclaims. “You know we have a whole little-”

“Video game section off to the side. Yeah.” You warmly cut him off.

Originally the store had been very comics and graphic novel focused. However over the years it’s evolved to add more fandom-like elements and now there’s even a small but impressive video game focused area.

A sweetly surprised look falls over the guy’s face and it paints him utterly charming.

“So who’s your go-to spouse in SDV?” He asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

You tell him and he nods sagely.

“I always go for Krobus. Gotta respect our cute sewer dweller.” He says.

While you laugh a flutter scurries across your heart.

A ring at the door chimes in breaking your sweet conversation and a cluster of guys walk into the store.

“Guess I’ll get back to birthday gift hunting.” You smile at the cute worker then return to the comic stacks.

Flipping through the different series and passing through many fun options, you catch the conversation off to the side.

The pack of young guys that walked in seem to know the cute worker and snicker with him about something.

“Oh yeah man, so I was rewatching Endgame the other day and the part where Scarlet Witch goes one on one with Thanos? Unrealistic!” One of them cackles and you pause.

Did they not even see or know about how powerful she’s confirmed to be in the other MCU projects? Even then, in the comics Scarlet Witch flat out changes the trajectory of reality. If anything Thanos is only strong because he got lucky.

But you hold your tongue and continue scanning through the comics.

These guys are probably just punk ass kids. You don’t want to waste your energy on these guys who probably also hate on other characters like Shuri and Carol Danvers.

Now the cute store worker scoffs amused but doesn’t correct them. Your face scrunches up.

You thought he was charming, maybe a bit eccentric, like a 90’s vibrant Lisa Frank vibe. Yet now your skin crawls just a little bit thinking he might be one of those unfortunately toxic gatekeeping jackass guys.

You decide to leave now. You still had time to look for a birthday gift for your best friend. So you’ll just come back later. Without a second glance to the cute worker, you slip out and wonder about maybe checking out another store.

Of course, you’re too tired to actively look for another store. The next time you return to Atomic Planet, you pray Raymond is there.

You’re excited and almost relieved to see the familiar eccentric older man smiling toothy at you from behind the counter.

“Well, you’re a wonderful sight for sore eyes!” He greets you and happily you catch up and chat with him.

Suddenly a chaotic bang clamors in. The handsome worker from last time tumbles out from the back room into the front as if he tried to rush over.

“Dieter man, what’s the rush?” Raymond laughs.

Dieter. So that’s his name.

The guy, Dieter, this time wears a Naruto shirt under a sleepy and cozy green robe. His hair is still fluffy and you don’t miss how wide eyes stare at you.

“Hey.” You politely but curtly reply.

“Hi.” Dieter waves and you hate how cute he looks.

“By the annoyed look on your face, I take it you’ve met this new headache.” Raymond chuckles and embarrassment rams into you knowing your annoyance is that obvious.

“Don’t worry, he’s harmless.” Raymond waves. “He cries when he watches My Neighbor Totoro.”

“Hey what the fuck!” Dieter cries and you press your lips together trying not to laugh.

“Just ignore him, honey.” Raymond winks and you grin wide.

After thanking him, you head back to the birthday gift search. Searching now through the manga selection you notice something moves by the corner of your eye.

Turning to the side, a large Totoro plushie floats beside you obviously being held up.

“Please don’t be mad at me.” A high pitch tone acting as the adorable creature's voice speaks out and your lips twitch.

From the side Dieter pops his head out.

His hair, rivaling a bird's nest, creates a cloud around him and his wide doe-like eyes peeking out are so hard to be fully annoyed at.

“You know,” he now fully speaks in his voice, moving to hold the large adorable plushie in his arms. “Never got your name.”

“You have my full permission to beat his ass if you need to, dear.” Raymond yells dully from the cash register and Dieter squawks horrified.

You laugh bright. Turning to the side you see Dieter already holds his hand out. The half crooked grin on his face paints him so boyish.

“Name’s Dieter.”

You shake his hand, finally giving him your name.

“So, do you really think Scarlet Witch can’t take on Thanos?” You offer light.

Dieter sighs loud. “I knew those guys and what we were talking about might’ve pissed you off.”

So he was watching you. That brings in a curious warmth that courses through you.

“Well I do apologize.” He bows his head a bit. You at least appreciate that.

“I bet those guys are the same ones that don’t like Carol Danvers either or even know that Squirrel Girl defeated Thanos.” You add a bit snippy.

“You know your shit, I like that.” Dieter replies proud and the way his voice drips out smooth does something dangerous to your heart.

You shrug but fight off the smug grin threatening to mirror his.

“Maybe you need to go Gandalf on my ass and teach me a thing or two, like maybe over coffee?” Dieter offers and you’re knocked out.

So he feels this spark, chemistry or whatever it is, between you too.

“Maybe,” you reply back with a grin. “For now I gotta get back to gift shopping.”

“You still haven’t found your friend a gift?! Geeze, what kind of bestie are you?!” He cries out teasing and you roll your eyes.

It’s getting harder staying annoyed with him and not taking up his offer to get coffee.

You eventually decide on a comic art book for your friend and then spot the assorted mystery box trinkets to maybe snag a few for her and even for yourself.

“I know everyone says Goku would beat the fuck out of Thanos, but you know who else would too without breaking a sweat?” Dieter’s voice again arrives at your side. He’s rather persistent, your cute, slightly not so annoying gnat.

“Sailor Moon.” He answers himself sagely.

“Yeah, you’re right.” You snicker amused.

He practically beams besides you when you agree.

You ask if he’s a fan.

“Oh hell yeah! Sailor Venus is my fav.” Dieter cries. “I can sing the entire song theme opening for you if you’d like. Not to brag, but that and the second Naruto theme opening are my go to karaoke songs.”

You laugh, feeling it deep into your bones. He’s chaotic, but unbearably endearing.

In a blink, a rush comes in all at once. The fun sweet bubble you had been cultivating deflates and you hate how disappointed you get seeing Dieter scramble to try and work.

When you go check out, you’re surprised he’s the one at your register.

Even though he’s focused on working you don’t miss the way his eyes flicker up to you shyly but with a confident smirk. He turns to fully gift wrap the items knowing they’re going to be a present and you thank him for that.

When you grab your bag he gives you a smooth wink and you playfully glare at him.

Later at home, when you unpack everything, you find an extra surprise in the bag.

It’s a small box of strawberry pocky snacks you know you didn’t buy.

There’s a sticky note attached to it.

A sweet treat for a sweet customer! ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈ ♡)

Call me if you ever wanna get coffee or just talk nerd shit and make me absolutely fall even harder for you

Underneath the message, he left you his number and you can’t believe it. After squealing about it with a few of your friends, you text him.

Dieter replies back quick with the funniest excited cat reaction meme and you realize you might be in the best kind of trouble with this guy.

— . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.—

You didn’t expect the convention to be this crowded. Chatter fills the air as cosplayers move all around.

The booths stretch endless with countless tempting merch.

Your best friend tried to get you to plan a fun cosplay with her. However neither you or her could decide on what to pick in time. Now you're gladly comfortable in an everyday outfit and simply allow yourself to be in awe at the intricate lovely costumes.

While scanning the convention and taking in the beautifully controlled chaos in, you also hope to catch sight of someone in particular.

“Dude, stop trying to look for your hot nerd boyfriend.” Your best friend snorts and your heart trips over itself.

Embarrassed, you chide her and remind her that Dieter isn’t your boyfriend.

“Oh yeah because texting a guy everyday for the past month and going to cute cat cafes with him isn't dating.” She deadpans with a smirk.

You playfully glare at her.

It’s not official and you don’t want to rush whatever this is with Dieter. You haven’t even been to his place yet. You don’t mind though. You’ve just been enjoying getting to know him more.

You learn Dieter’s favorite video game is Hollow Knight and his favorite anime is Neon Genesis Evangelion.

His favorite comic book villain of all time is the Condiment King.

Matcha flavored Kit Kats have become his newest obsession session.

He saw all the Lord of the Rings movies in theater and can practically quote The Two Towers. Still has the comic book his best friend in middle school gave to him. Also refuses to let any of his Animal Crossing villagers leave because he’s so attached to them.

Dieter had made you laugh more than you can count, but he can be a bit ridiculous.

Like when he called you after he got off a late closing night shift to ask if Pacific Rim was real did you think the Kaiju monsters would maybe stop attacking if they found out how much he loves them.

Dieter does have his headache moments, but he’s an endearing kaleidoscope of a soul.

Earlier this week when you visited him at the shop, he said he was going to be here at the conversation. But with how bad the convention center’s wifi is, you haven’t been able to contact him.

“He even said he was coming in cosplay just for today right? Any ideas what he’s showing up as?” Your best friend wiggles her eyes while you and her stroll down an artist alley.

“No!” You huff still upset. “He said he wanted it to be a surprise.”

While you appreciate him wanting to wait for a dramatic reveal, you wanted to know what his outfit was from the minute he told you.

You wanted to maybe try dedicatedly searching for him, but you get completely enthralled by the mass amounts of merchandise delightfully distracting you.

You spot incredible fan art pieces, adorable handmade keychains, and very expensive but beautiful figurines.

It’s like a mini wonderland.

Checking out the cute earrings at the stall you’re at, you lose sight of your best friend. When you turn to excitedly talk with her, that’s when you spot it.

She’s a few steps away, very politely trying to inch away from a guy, dressed in a Deadpool suit without the mask on. He’s talking way too aggressively and getting way too close to your friend.

Immediately you rush over and happily jump in.

“I gotta show you this!” You thankfully have the best excuse to pull her away.

But the guy only takes it as an opening to instead follow you both now.

“Just ignore him.” Your best friend whispers to you.

You and her continue to stare at the jewelry. Yet the guy remains. He continues his discussion and seems to get upset that you or your friend aren’t replying. It’s creepy and persistent especially with how he refuses to budge or take the hint.

You try lightly deflating the situation by apologizing and saying you and your friend just want to enjoy shopping.

“Oh, is shopping all you two came here for? You know, you fucking losers aren’t even in cosplay. Fake ass fans.”

Now he gets really aggressive.

The air and tension shift. The poor cute shop owner in her adorable R2D2 dress even reacts getting upset.

“Look, we just wanna enjoy the con.” Your best friend replies sharp with a hard scowl.

“What in the fantastic fuck do we have here?”

Suddenly Dieter’s voice rings out excited and bright and you almost sob.

You whip your face around to spot him.

Except it is and isn’t him.

His hair is slicked back, gelled and curled. Thick gray colored hairs line his temples. It even looks like he shaved a bit.

He’s dressed as Reed Richards, Mr. Fantastic himself.

The outfit looks based on the classic 1960’s first comic book released aesthetic and it compliments Dieter’s frame gorgeously. His shoulders look unbelievably broad and his even arms seemed bigger in the tight soft baby blue material. You’ve never seen him in something so form fitting and it has your throat drying up.

You’ve even momentarily forgotten about the guy bothering you and your best friend.

“You bothering these two, ya fucking creep?” Dieter says with a nudge of his chin.

It’s hot as fuck.

The guy stunned gapes like a fish and stammers, but no words come out.

“Beat it before I shove a lightsaber up your ass.” Dieter replies bored, but it adds a sense of deadliness to his words.

The Deadpool cosplayer turns on his heels and immediately scrambles away. Your knees almost buckle overwhelmed.

Your best friend and even the stall owner cry out wildly excited in a bright neon awe of Dieter. You swallow back a sob as you turn to embrace him. His warm large hands pat you comfortingly.

“You saved us.” You teasingly sob, but truthfully you know he did.

“I’d been looking for you for a hot minute and was about to make some sort of raptor call noise to get your attention until I saw that shit going down.” Dieter explains.

“What a hero.” Your friend jokingly adds, but you hear it in her voice how grateful she is.

Dieter snickers.

“Guess you could almost say I was fantastic… mister fantast-”

You cut Dieter off with a quick kiss to his cheek before he can make the pun and your friend along with the stall owner laugh.

Gingerly, almost tentatively you move to intertwine your hand with his. He reacts immediately pulling you to his side.

For the rest of the convention Dieter stays besides you, walking hand in hand with you.

Even when you arrive at the booth for Atomic Planet, the real reason why Dieter was here to help work, Raymond waves him away saying to enjoy the convention with you.

Your heart flutters and Dieter squeezes your hand excitedly.

The rest of the time is a blissful geeked out dream. Dieter buys you a few keychains, even treats you and your best friend to a bite to eat.

You came to the convention with your best friend…

But you leave with Dieter.

Especially when your best friend urges you to go home with him and enjoy his hot cosplay.

You give her a look when she cheekily tells you that, but she isn’t wrong. Even when you grabbed the quick bite before the night ended, it was hard trying to ignore the amount of people turning to stare at Dieter with wide curious eyes.

And a little twinge of something faintly possessive bubbles in you.

That’s why when you slide into the passenger seat of his car, your heart drums loudly in your ears trying to fight against the urge to just suck his cock right here in the car.

“So uh…” Dieter begins cautiously and even a bit bashfully. “I don’t wanna sound too aggressive and you can tell me no, but can I kiss you-”

You don’t even let him finish before you’re sliding over the seat to him.

He scrambles and immediately pulls you close as his lips become a magnet to yours.

This is the first time you’re really truly kissing Dieter. You’ve kissed him gently good night before. He’s been cute with leaving kisses to your cheek or even against the back of your head like a Victorian gentleman. But now it’s a raw unraveling getting to tasting him from the source so greedy.

You won’t dare admit it outloud, but the soft feel of his lips, the scrape of his jaw, the smell of his delicious cologne, and how warm he consumes you -

It’s pretty fantastic.

— . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.—

Dieter’s room is a treasure trove.

Framed posters of Pacific Rim, AKIRA, The Iron Giant, and the original Pokemon Kanto generation line the walls. His bookshelf is filled not just with comic books and manga, but various impressive graphic novels.

A mock infinity gauntlet sits beside his television. So many anime figurines, including a really nice Goku one, stand protecting his reading collection.

What surprises you is his expansive and sleek gaming corner which includes a striking computer set up.

“You look hot as fuck standing in my robe and knowing I just came in you a few hours ago is even hotter.” Dieter says from his bed in the most sinful but half groggily asleep voice.

You smirk and continue to soak in his room.

“So do you get good discounts from the store?” You ask.

“Yeah, but it also helps that I co-own it.” Dieter casually tells you. You hear him shifting among the seats then catch the flicker of the lighter igniting.

However your eyes go wide realizing what he said and you whip back around to him.

“Wait?! You co-own the shop?”

“Well yeah, Raymond, that old fuck, is my uncle.” Dieter coughs out as he exhales from the hit he took off his weed pipe.

Dieter even explains how, because his uncle is starting to get a bit older, he decided to step in to help run the place.

“Besides, how else could I show off my extensive knowledge of elvish language other than at the shop?” He says proudly.

How did you just now learn this?

Dieter reminds you of a rubik cube you think you’ve finally figured out, think you found a groove for - until one out of the corners a jack in the box pops out.

Before you can even ask him about the shop or about his uncle, Dieter’s phone goes off.

The loud ringtone sings into the room and your eyes go wide hearing it. Dieter checks who’s calling then denies the call muttering out about how spam scam callers need to be fed to a sarlacc pit.

“Wait…is Cascada’s ‘Everytime We Touch’ actually your ringtone?” You ask, still not believing it.

“Fuck yeah it is, baby! That song is untouchable!” He cries and you can’t help but laugh.

Dieter smirks then pats the open spot on the bed where you had been resting before. Sliding back into the warmth with him, he gently pulls your face to him and kisses you softly.

The taste of the smoke lingers on his lips, but it’s still him beneath it all. You eventually wind up in his arms, cozy and warm in his embrace.

“I noticed the nice audio and mic setup.” You comment while his fingers draw aimlessly against your skin. “You trying to maybe go the YouTuber route?”

“Nah. Maybe. Who knows.” He shrugs. “It’s mainly for something else.”

Now his voice grows a bit distant.

You gently ask him what that something else is and Dieter fidgets

“Don’t… don’t laugh okay.” He mumbles adorably.

You reassure him earnestly you won’t.

He sighs.

“So I’ve been wanting to get into voice acting work.” Dieter reveals with a mutter, even sounding a bit embarrassed

However, you perk up so bright. Turning in his arms you eagerly smile at him.

“Di, that sounds amazing!” You mean those words.

You can’t help but ramble about how great he would be for that. He has the personality for it and he’s told you how he’s done some stage acting work. Plus, it just fits him. You think of all the silly voices he does and you hope now he can make this path a reality.

Dieter’s handsome face falls a bit and you stop. You wonder if you’ve scared him off, or maybe he thinks you’re possibly making fun of him.

You’re about to apologize when Dieter swiftly moves to kiss you feral and fierce. His tongue slides into your mouth with a moan you greedily swallow.

The conversation is put on pause when his hands slide up your thighs, straight to your core, and you fall apart with him once again.

Basking in the afterglow you rest against his chest now feeling sleepy, not even knowing what time it is. You realize being with Dieter is like existing in a realm a bit separated from reality sometimes and it’s beautiful.

“I don’t wanna be that lame guy,” Dieter begins. “But shit, I already really really kind of like you a fucking lot.”

Your lips fight back a smile you can’t beat. You turn to bury your face against his warm bared chest.

“I really kinda like you a lot too.” You admit.

“That’s unfortunate.” He replies and you snort.

“It’s okay. I only want the good discount on merch at the shop.” You reply cheekily.

“Aw! You don’t even want me for my body? Just my discount?!” He cries hurt and even jokingly moves to shove you off.

“Well.” Then he pauses. “Guess I could call my dick a discount, but then again… there isn’t anything short about that-”

You cut him off with an eye roll and he snickers wildly amused.

His fingers move to tickle you, to corrupt you into his same fit of giggles and you wheezing trying to squirm away from him.

Dieter’s hands eventually snake around you and draw you back into his chest. You melt against him willingly and even sigh comforted.

“Next time if we go to a convention, if you feel comfortable with it, you should cosplay.” He comments.

You admit that you’ve thought about it and list a few ideas you’ve had. But mainly, your mind thinks about the different outfits Dieter could go as.

The thought of him now as Doctor Doom instead of the heroic Reed Richards is a glorious thought.

But of course there’s so many other incredible options.

Dieter as Harvey or even Marlon from Stardew Valley.

Even a few anime characters that would fit him so well come to mind.

Specifically Kishibe from the series Chainsaw Man, with his striking cut across his mouth and incredibly lazy hot older demeanor, just fits Dieter so well it stirs something in you again.

“Maybe next con,” Dieter offers and pulls you from your thoughts. “I’m thinking about going as Tuxedo Mask. Do you wanna be my Sailor Moon?”

A couples matching outfit.

You didn’t even think of that. That’s what he was nudging towards.

You didn’t even think of that. But just getting to be beside him is something sweetly moving.

Then thinking about him in the sleek tuxedo outfit, in the white mask, is a dangerous thought you already ache to maybe see come true.

“We’ll see.” You hum with a smile, but when you go to kiss him it feels like a gilded warm promise.

“Never mind. I want us to go as Undertale characters and I wanna be Sans.” Dieter says suddenly and you snort against his shoulder.

This time spent with him, and the promise of maybe something more, is sweet starlit bliss.

[blacknedsoul-blog]

I think the Deans are fucking Lovecraftian gods

If you're a regular reader of my nonsense, you may have noticed that on more than one occasion I've referred to the Deans as "Nyarlathotep Tumblrsexymen": no, I didn't have a stroke on the keyboard, this is a reference to an entity that appears in the stories of Howard Phillip Lovecraft. A writer who is widely known because there were even people who thought that the Necronomicon, a fictional text part of his work, actually existed (and because he was such a recalcitrant racist that it has become a meme about how extremely racist he was).

And since I'm still going through my pile of papers on Gothic fiction, let me take a moment to talk about Lovecraft's work, why I have reason to believe that the Deans have something in common with these creatures, and what that might mean for the development of Nevermore.

A Little About Lovecraft's Gods

To understand a little bit about the kind of creatures we are talking about, I have to stop at a brief (seriously brief) description of cosmic horror: This is a type of horror that takes elements from the scientific publications of the time (which makes it close to science fiction) to give it verisimilitude, it has at its core a deep nihilism, the breaking of scientific canons, the fragility of the human mind and societies contrasted with the vastness of the universe, an enormous fear of "the unknown" for the white man (fed by his racist paranoia), and seasoned with tentacles and creatures that remind us of sea creatures, because Lovecraft had an enormous fear of the sea.

The gods in these stories represent, on a symbolic level, the vastness of the universe, the terror of the unknown, and the fragility of the human mind: they are entities older than time itself, contact with them tends to shatter the mind, and humanity must be very, very grateful that most of them are locked away or incapacitated in some way. Also, the way to access them is through very specific rituals that have been lost over time, so thankfully they're not very easy to contact either.

Similarities with the Deans

Let's start with the most obvious: the Deans, like the Lovecraftian gods, seem to operate in their own plane of existence, beyond what humans understand as "life" and "death": Nevermore is a kind of limbo, but we know, thanks to the Raven, that these guys came from another place and had enough power to kick the crap out of psychopomps without any problem.

However, just like Lovecraft's gods, these enormous powers don't make them able to do whatever they want; as I said, these entities are usually locked up or incapacitated in some way and can only have contact with humans under certain circumstances (like being summoned in rituals), and getting out of their prisons usually requires vague events like astral alignments that are completely out of their control.

The Deans, like Lovecraft's gods, seem to be subject to rules that are above them, and while they can bend them a bit to achieve their goals, it's not like they can do much about it.

Another thing they have in common with Lovecraft's gods is the ability to create servants that function as extensions of them to fulfill their designs. There are many creatures that follow this line in the stories that speak of The Myths, but the best known are the Shoggoth that appear in the novel At the Mountains of Madness: artificial beings created by the Old Ones to rule the Earth, described as amphibious, amorphous masses similar to amoebas.

Although the Deans prefer their minions in the form of animated dolls. I suspect this decision is based on the story The Sandman by E.T.A. Hoffman. I have no proof, but no doubt.

Now for the joke that brings this essay to life: the creature in Lovecraft's universe that most resembles the Deans is a being called Nyarlathotep. This creature belongs to the category of "Other Gods" (not the old ones like Cthulhu) and gets very nice nicknames like "Crawling Chaos".

Nyarlathotep is a being who enjoys causing chaos, death and madness wherever they go. They can communicate with humans, which they use to psychologically torture them and make them lose their minds. Something they seem to enjoy quite a bit. In the same way that the Deans view this sadistic battle royale, they have set up a fun game.

Then there is the ability to manipulate and alter the human mind, which is called into question in stories like Nyarlathotep and The Rats in the Walls (where it is apparently Nyarlathotep who messes with the protagonist's mind so that he tries to kill his friend).

This is something we've seen manifest in Nevermore in two different ways: the ability to trigger or unlock memories.

And the ability to change them. While we can't know if what was shown to Annabel is 100% real, we do know that showing her the end of her life caused a permanent change in the way she retrieves her memories: from the end backwards. If this memory is somehow altered, we also know that the Deans are capable of photoshopping people's memories.

Finally, Nyarlathotep has the ability to shape-shift, which allows them to appear as humanoids in several stories, such as The Oniric Quest of the Unknown Kadath or Dreams in the Witch's House. His human form is considered "unnatural", "strange" and "disturbing" by those who see it (remember that Lovecraft was extremely racist, so he always presents himself as a black man). As a pharaoh in the Randolph Carter cycle and as a charcoal humanoid figure in the second story cited).

Here, the human form of whatever the Deans are is also quite atypical: not only are they ridiculously tall (7 feet), they have heterochromia with a white-colored eye (which I would venture to say may be a reference to the cataract eye mentioned in the story "The Tell-Tale Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe), and their synchronized movements are amusing on paper, but possibly strange to look at for the characters.

Otherwise, there are two other entities in Lovecraft's universe whose descriptions can be loosely associated with the Deans: Yogg-Sothoth and Azathoth. Both are beings of dual nature.

The former is an entity associated with omniscience and appears in stories such as The Strange Case of Charles Dexter Ward and The Dunwich Horror. and is described as "the key and the door".

Azathoth represents omnipotence, is the center of the universe, and is described as "the beginning and the end" or "the alpha and the omega.

Implications for the comic

The fact that the Deans have elements in common with Nyarlathotep brings up an interesting point: although Nyarlathotep has far greater freedom than other beings, they is a servant of Azathoth. In other words, them powers are subservient to a more powerful being whose plans they must follow. They may amuse themselves in the process, but they is still essentially a butler.

On the other hand, the Azathoth connection might be vague, since this creature is a lobotomized god, so he can't do much. But if the reference is to Yogg-Sothoth, it gets a little more interesting, because that entity is the one who is supposed to release the original gods when the time is right.

And I don't know about you, but these references have me wondering if the Deans are working for something much more messed up than they are, or if they're using the souls of the students to bring back something much more sinister.

[bubamarra]

here's my mlp g6 cast! Some of the characters are inspired by G5 characters (most notably Lightning Bug, Starsong, and Misty--whose design I basically just copied because I love Misty), but I took most of the names from earlier gens. Some of the concepts from my older posts are here, some are slightly edited, and some are new. If there were to be a G6, I think a lineless style like this would be a cool way to differentiate from previous generations. I might make some fake screenshots in this style later :)

Razzaroo: Razz was born in the human world and used to work as a circus pony. She's optimistic, creative, and loves making new friends. Even when life seems dark, Razzaroo always holds onto the hope that she and her friends will be okay. Finding Equestria was her fillyhood dream, and she'll do anything to protect it.

Meadowmoon: Meadowmoon was also born in the human world, but she's a regular pony and has no magic. Meadowmoon didn't interact with many other ponies growing up, and basically just spent her days pulling farming equipment. She doesn't trust easily, and she's very practical. She's spent so much time working in the human world that she doesn't really know who she is outside of...horse.

Starsong: Starsong is the oldest daughter of the queen and the golden child. By the queen's rule, "no pony is allowed to shine brighter than the queen or her daughter." Starsong's mother forces her to perform to entertain the bored ponies of Equestria. Starsong wants to live up to her mother's high expectations, but something doesn't feel right about using her music to distract ponies from the queen's tyranny...sometimes she wishes that she could sing the songs that truly come from her heart.

Lightning Bug: Lightning Bug is the queen's younger daughter. She doesn't get noticed much by her mother, despite all the trouble she gets into. When Lightning Bug was little, she got into an accident and lost part of her wing. She managed to construct a prosthetic and discovered her love for building things. Although she's a daredevil, she's also very crafty.

Puzzlemint: Puzzlemint is an actor and a bit of a magician. He puts on secret plays at night to entertain bored ponies. He's silly and sometimes it seems like he doesn't take anything seriously. Puzzlemint loves making costumes and props, and knows a lot about Equestrian history from his collections of old plays. Since he's an actor, he's also very good at lying.

Misty Shores: Misty gets introduced later, but she has the ability to transform into a seapony, and might be the helper of some kind of sea monster-ish villain...

[ranticore]

selected pages from Shapeshifter Problems, a small exploration of old old concept art & thoughts on shapeshifter tropes (specifically the question of the 'true form') i posted to patreon earlier this year. there's a bunch more haha. here's some OLD art and bg process for writing said the black horse. I don't like my old art but looking back at it I'm really happy how I've developed since, I used to make everything too sharp, straight-sided, or skinny. I had to make a conscious effort to change that and now it's so much better.

image transcriptions under the cut (just the text sorry)

Image 1: "These are more of those older designs - the horns were a deliberate play into devil imagery on Puck's part while giving Félix this form (all to cause more torment of course) but again I couldn't vibe with it. Such clear statements of intent didn't work for me.

The scars remain canon but not quite so stark, more a difference in texture (again, moving away from visual details). His forehead scar is ALWAYS there."

Image 2: "Félix. These are really old - from 2019-2020. They're the first attempts at Félix's horse form. At the time I was leaning into some goat-like attributes. I liked the idea of something that looked like an emaciated amalgam of many familiar creatures but if you look closer, it actually doesn't look like any animal at all. The original body shape and proportions were inspired by moose. I didn't know how to draw convincing horse shapes which is why he had these hands and claws for so long. I still draw the little flower wheel pattern on his sides sometimes... a secret just for me. His belly fur, squared off ear shape, and beard are still defining characteristics"

Image 3: "More old art from 2020. Bottom left is my first ever painting on my iPad using Procreate. I still prefer SAI for creature drawings, or at least the original sketches underpinning a lot of my art. Below on the bottom was my attempt at a scarier form for the character but I ultimately decided that it ran contrary to the atmosphere I was trying to create. Top left is my first 'real' horse painting and it includes the tail shape which has not ever changed, and feathers, which I nixed because I wanted to learn how to draw the feet and legs properly and not rely on covering them up with flowing hair (my favourite thing to draw)"

Image 4: "Like the black horse designs, these humanoid designs for Félix (circa 2019 - OLD art!) started very complex and simplified over time. I decided to avoid visual complexity, but made the mistake of solidifying specific 'rules' for how the Púca servants' bodies work, and I deeply regret this. Because I wrote Said the Black Horse in 2021, I was still operating under the old mindset and that caused it to become somewhat established canon.

In his original iteration his tattoos represented magical contracts between him and various faeries, so they were supposed to be always visible as a reminder of that contract.

<- a really early furry version, I was playing with the eye on the neck as a design feature. Ultimately I feel that although it looks cool, the medium he exists in is proser. So I needed to move away from visually complex designs and towards designs which were interesting to different senses instead."

Image 5: "As time went on the design simplified. I enjoyed making fun textures using procreate brushes. These designs lack his forehead scar but do include his impalement scar. If you've seen my Hanged Man card you'll know how he got that one. But when I made the charts like this about how his body 'worked' in 2020, again I ran into the same issue I always do when writing about faeries... the more I explain it, the most 'logic' and 'science' goes into it, the less it feels like a faery story to me. Overexplaining is anathema to the faeries of Inver. so even though I like these design notes they just don't fit in this setting."

[suigetsusunny]

Temporary Whispers Of The Heart ⊹₊⟡⋆ | Sosuke Aizen X Reader Chapter 6 | Army Dreamers

TW: blood, gore mention, slight domestic violence (yelling and sibling violence)

*words / sayings that might be unfamiliar are tagged with asterisks and chapter notes about them are provided at the end of the chapter :)

˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Leaping into the air, you manipulated your Kido to allow your movements to stay fluid and elegant. The chill breeze of the night sky in the Human world greeted you, and you smiled feeling the wind sift through your flowy hair.

Your first lone mission as a Soul Reaper. You were jubilant, ecstatic in the moment as electricity pumped in your veins. Albeit still fairly inexperienced, you were to defeat a Hollow in the human world and bless its soul successfully. As you turn to the right, you see your companion leaping in the air, humming and grinning widely. He shot you an egotistical glance, the confidence embedded in his soul reflecting in his body language.

“Someone’s a bit too excited. Sure you won’t get too scared alone?”

Shuuhei nodded as he skipped over a building, laughing in response to your joke.

“I’m quite confident. I don’t need my elder to worry for me~”

You rolled your eyes, scoffing at his remark. “You better watch your tongue, young boy. I'm not even that much older than you. And who knows you won’t burst into tears again?”

“Ugh, my greatest apologies for holding a sympathetic and teary soul.” Shuuhei jested, faking his sorrow as he pretended to cry and wipe tears dramatically from his face whilst whipping his head away from you.

“Whatever you say, my little memeshī~*”

“Don’t call me that!”

You chortled at his flustered expression, guffawing at the sight of him so bothered over a simple tease.

Glancing at your Soul Pager, you discerned the location of the two hollows from the tags on the device. Albeit a little hesitant, you shut your pager and understood that this mission had to be done and was imperative to progressing your careers as Soul Reapers.

After notifying Hisagi, you both set off on your paths to the hollows you esteemed as your targets. The large, black and purple creature in sight towered over you, muttering incoherent sentences with jumbled phonetics as its crimson eyes latched onto you. You felt confidence, strength coursing through your veins as your body was energised with courage and determination. An easy feat as a Shinigami, right? You’ve done this many times before. Although many had resulted in dire failure, you were sure you had grown strong enough to complete such a simple task. 

The skeletal structures on the Hollow’s arms and face clunked against each other ominously as it turned towards you, each step served with purpose. Something felt off. It felt… Intelligent? As if a mind of its own resided in the empty crevice of its heart.

Whispering the name of your Zanpakutō under your breath, you brought out your Shikai and sent a smooth gash to its arm. As you ran up to the creature, you sliced all vital limbs and attempted to cut its neck. However, a blast of blue plasma from its fist abruptly sent you backwards with great force. You coughed and sputtered as you were sent flying, skidding on the concrete roads underneath you.

The surprise stained on your face was unmistakable as you watched it regenerate its limbs, gurgling under its mask.

…What on earth?

It was definitely not a normal hollow. But why would the Gotei 13 send you two to defeat such a beast? You had never encountered anything like it in the academy. Perhaps it was designed to be a struggle.

Trepidation beside you, you managed to rise back onto your feet to grip your sword properly with both hands and run towards the beast again.

Each move of your sword was met with another piece of its skeletal armour, its reflexes almost surpassing your own. After the creature blocked you several times over, another swift move of its arm knocked you out of the air and in its hand it held…

A Zanpakutō?

Too appalled to react, you were vulnerable and the creature took the chance to finish you off, sending you flying by another blast from its fist.

It cannot be. Hollows do not wield… They do not have a soul to imprint on an Asauchi..

Clutching your bleeding side, your glare was ravenous. No. You weren’t sure what mutation this was, but it would not reign defeat over you. You couldn’t humiliate yourself more than you already had, as the weakest member of the Shihōin family. A tarnish on an evershining vase. 

Determined, you snapped its limbs with your Shikai’s suppression and electric movements. Yet once more, a grotesque bubbling in its void black skin greeted you and its limbs were regained. You had never fought a hollow of this level and power… And the sword that you swore it held in its hand had not been erased from your memory.

The finishing blow greeted you as you had accidentally paused your sword for one second to catch your breath, a blast searing through half your being. You felt a sharp burn in your left ribs and warm, sticky liquid beginning to pool down your legs from your side. The blast caused your knees to wobble and you immediately fell to your knees, panting sporadically.

You couldn’t have lost such a simple mission… There was something wrong with this creature.

Mustering up all of your strength, you mumbled a final command under your breath, manipulating your Kidō to blast the beast with as much power as you could. 

Exhausted, you finally fell to the ground, toppling over and splayed out. You sighed in temporary relief, as the beast seemed to have been placated by you. Clutching your bleeding side, you coughed up viscous and crimson liquid from your burning throat. The hollow seemed to have been defeated, now all that was left to exorcise its soul. Opening your eyes slightly, you watched the hollow reduce into a smaller form, furrowing your eyebrows as it seemed like a controlled action, externally done on purpose... To make it weaker? A foolish thought really, wouldn’t the creature want to become stronger…?

In the corner of your eye, you swore you saw a glimpse of a man draped in black, extracting something of the hollow and suppressing it.

However, shock was short lived as impending doom suddenly overcame you at the sight of the Hollow standing up again, albeit smaller.

No… How did you not defeat it? You put every single fibre of your being into that battle?

Were you still so weak…? 

You shut your eyes, admitting defeat and disappointment as you awaited its final blast. You failed.

Long, black blades chained to their owner danced swiftly in the night sky, the moon illuminating their silhouette against the dark of the midnight.

A celestial glow accompanied Shuuhei as he elegantly sliced the Hollow’s head clean off, panting and bent over as its skeletal head slowly glided across its hemorrhaged neck, falling to the floor. 

“Your Reiatsu… You scared me. Are you okay?”

Hisagi ran up to you, kneeling down next to you as he aided you in clutching your side. 

“It’s… Not a hollow. It can’t be. It had … A Zanpakutō…”

You panicked seeing Shuuhei’s face of worry, clearly showing that he did not believe you.

“You tried your best, it’s okay… You're clearly in critical condition and not thinking right.“

Blood only sputtered out as you attempted to speak, coughing and sniffling.

“Please… Believe me.”

He nodded, and although sceptical, Hisagi would never question you.

“We can worry about that later. Let’s head back quickly.”

Short, scruffed hair swayed in the wind, weaving a melody with its inky strands in the moisture of the night sky. The man beside you prayed for the hollow exorcised by his Zanpakutō, blessing its soul.

You turned to your companion, Hisagi Shuuhei, as he opened the gate to the Soul Society swiftly by effortlessly swaying his hands to open the Senkaimon. 

An arm extended around your shoulders, and you reciprocated by clutching onto the tattered fabric of your friend, the other hand moving to press onto the gash on your side. 

Dusting yourself off, you trudged once more into the Soul society and looked solemnly towards your comrade.

“Hisagi, your efforts are truly unwavered even as just a novice reaper… I admire you.”

The raven haired man turned to you, scoffing and tucking his arms into his chest. 

“The same goes to you. Couldn’t have done it without my fellow Shishi. You did well weakening it.” 

You chuckled, shaking your head from side to side, the brief mirth erupted in your chest quickly dissipating as you realised what was to come. 

“I don’t know how I couldn’t defeat a simple hollow… You have to believe me when I say that I really don’t think it was normal. It wielded a sword.”

Shuuhei hushed you, telling you to rest as he helped carry you to the 4th Division for healing.

“I believe you. I do. I’m sure there’s some rational explanation.”

Hisagi could feel the fear course throughout you, a sinister feeling of dread sinking in your stomach as you feared what was to come.

˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

You managed to muster out a grateful smile to Shuuhei before he left you in Unohana’s care, and you shut your eyes, allowing yourself to recover.

Another shameful slash onto your royal name. An esteemed failure, you were. Had you really failed in such a pitiful battle against a weak Hollow again? Were you even worthy of the Shihōin name? The name of warriors, the ultimate marker of strength and courage in the Soul Society.

Something you were clearly not. The Zanpakutō wielded in your grip betrayed you once more, as you failed at another battle against a Hollow. Removal from the Gotei 13? Admonishment of your role? You weren’t sure what was to come. Yet all of this seemed minor in your thoughts as compared to the rumination of what your father may say. 

Hisagi Shuuhei you had met in the Academy, a friend a couple years younger than you. Another stain to your name, having to be saved by a Shinigami younger than you. You should have the experience, yet the sword you held did not wish to align with your rhythm. 

What did it want from you?

Alone in your bedroom now, you stared up at the ceiling, before turning to painfully look at the sheathed sword lying by your bedside. 

Often at night as well as now, you found yourself speaking to the essence of your soul reflected in the sleek metal, glistening as it bathed in the moonlight seeping into your room. 

,, Tell me, my Zanpakutō. Is the vigour in my soul not enough for you? Does the human blood in my heart seethe you? Answer me… For I have seen many mixed Shinigami blossom… Why not me? Why has the name of my family not blessed me like it has to my sister?” 

,, What must I do, to imprint the essence of my honour and devotion onto you, my sword? What lacks in my soul… What tarnishes my strength… Tell me and I will extract it from my veins.”

˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

The next morning, you were sent for a day of rest, informed to return to the Second division after your break to discuss the results of your first exam. 

As your mind ruminated on your walk home, you mentally and physically prepared yourself for the berating and degrading words awaiting you. 

Holding a hand to your heart and whispering your mothers name under your breath, you exhaled deeply and reached your destination. You latched your fingers onto the metal handle and slammed it twice against the Hinoki cypress wood to signify your arrival at the towering doors of the Shihōin minka.*

A familiar servant greeted you, yet the usual smile present on her face had faded. As expected after that deplorable presentation… 

Leading you to the common room, you bid a solemn farewell as jovially as you could before you slid open the shoji door in front of you, meticulously as if to not set off your fathers temper any more. 

In the middle of the empty room, a man with a lean frame and tanned skin sat cross legged, simply swiping his calligraphy brush with strategic and conscientious strokes. A murderous glance greeted you from the tresses of his ivory hair.

You silently kneeled on the tatami of the large room, your irises fixated on the low, wooden table frame and the colour of the ivory hadagi* that contrasted against his tan skin. The glare of your father sent shivers down your spine, as you swallowed the lump forming in your throat and forced it to dissipate.

“Byakuya Kuchiki has established his will to marry a commoner and tarnish the purity of his noble bloodline. It’s a very shameful act and it caused great disgrace to the Kuchiki family, I'm sure you’ve heard.”

Your eyes simply fixated on the tatami floor beneath you, nodding cautiously as your knuckles turned white from clutching the pant legs of your shihakushō harshly.

“Have you heard of the Shiba clan’s esteemed son relinquishing his role as a Captain and his Shinigami powers to settle with a Quincy?”

You gulped, afraid of what your father was getting at as you shook your head.

“It was such a dishonour that the Shiba clan has been removed permanently as one of the Five Noble Families. Such disgrace on such a distinguished name.”

The only sounds that could be heard were the gradually vicious strokes that Chika Shihōin slashed onto his page, his brush staining the paper so harshly as if he was shedding the blood of his enemies.

He timed each stroke with the rhythm of his words, his movements so fierce they could have cut through the paper if it were not for his impeccable craftsmanship.

“All of these… Stains, slashes, stabs to royal blood. Look how bad they have gotten. We do not even have five noble clans any more due to the incompetency of this youth…

And you.”

Your eyes did not dare to falter from his glare as the pain from his words seared through your heart.

”My biggest mistake. The illegitimate child of my late wife. You are incapable of being a Soul Reaper and an embarrassment to this family. It is already difficult enough trying to shield your human blood. You have definitely done it this time. What an utter disgrace. A simple hollow is incapable of defeat by your hands…”

“The route the youth of this generation are weaving will yield devastating results. I will not contribute to this any longer. As of now, I only have one daughter.”

Your body immobilised, before the adrenaline and shock finally slammed against your body and you pushed on your shins to rise and stand up for yourself.

“Father, it was but a simple mistake! You don’t understand… Please. It had the appearance of a low grade hollow yet its power was unmistakable-“

“You were saved by a classmate years younger than you. You should have been the one to save him. I have trained you conscientiously and exhaustively in the academy and allowed your Shinigami side to bloom and yet you are still such a disappointment. The impurity of your human blood is embedded permanently onto your sword, Y/N. I cannot allow the epitome of weakness to hold the name of a bloodline of indestructible men.”

”Father, I swear if you had met the hollow you would have known, for it wielded a Zanpakutō-“

“Are you making a fool out of me? I refuse to speak to this disgrace anymore. Yoruichi, my one sensible and virtuous daughter. Send her out. I’m sure you understand my will. A sutra in a horse's ear*, it was to try and raise her…” 

You looked frantically at your sister behind you, the model of your life leaning on the doorframe you entered from. Her golden irises did not caress yours with a gaze of softness, instead replaced by complacency and dissatisfaction. A strike of lightning so wretched it could have been aimed towards your soul by Zeus' spear himself penetrated your being as you perceived the dullness of her eyes and sudden grip on her weapon.

You retracted your steps slowly backwards as you creaked in a small yet fearless voice.

“Sister… Stop… Don’t do this.” 

Both of your hands were snatched by hers, and you cried for freedom in desperation. Her touch was not tender, nor one of a dear sibling. It was the searing touch of a thousand suns enclosing into a supernova, exterminating the entire universe with its flames. The genesis of a newfound resentment catalysed in your heart from the display of wretched impudence towards her own sister.

“What are you doing?!”

You choked on your sobs as you protested against the utter agony you were being burnt alive in.

“Quiet yourself. You know that this must be done.”

“You’re just going to kick me out without listening to a word of what even occurred?!”

Yoruichi halted her hastened steps suddenly, causing you to stumble over your feet on the tatami underneath you. She turned her gaze slowly from the shoji door lying at the exit to you, furrowing her plum brows.

“You are an abomination to this family name and had you any intelligence you would understand you cannot be part of this family any more. We are the saviours, not the ones to be saved. You don’t belong in this family.”

“What are you talking about?! Family isn’t defined by our powers, it’s defined by the love we hold for each other!”

She snatched your wrist with a harder grip this time, latching onto you and swiftly heaving you out of the door, causing you to topple over onto the wooden steps outside of the Shihōin minka*. 

“Love is not enough to hold a Noble family together. If that had been true, then the Shiba clan would not have been admonished from their role and Byakuya Kuchiki would not be repenting to his parents every single day for bequeathing himself to a commoner.”

You could taste the salt in your tears as your voice grew hoarse from your insistent begs, to have her love you, to have her embrace you again. To have her forget this all as a nightmare and go back to your normal lives.

“Does your honour matter more than your sister?!”

“Y/N. I will say this once and only once.”

You looked up in trepidation, wobbling and sobbing as you were greeted with a glare of disgust rather than the sweetness you were used to.

“Rid yourself of my sight before I tear the name of Shihōin off of you with your blood.”

And with that, the wooden doors of the manor shut for the last time.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

*memeshii: a japanese saying for a feminine man; like a man who behaves in a way traditionally associated with women *hadagi: yukata-like comfortable cotton garment worn in feudal japan, its like a white undergarment that samurais wore underneath their armour

*a sutra in a horse's ear: a japanese idiom / proverb essentially meaning ‘a wasted effort.’ (a sutra is a buddhist prayer)

*minka: traditional japanese home / mansion associated w feudal japan

I had this sitting in my drafts and i decided to polish it up while i was taking a break from exams. Initially, i was just going to have a flashback and then continue into the current story more but i felt it was more impactful leaving it here. so im sorry for the short length of the chapter !! im still in exams :p 

i apologise for not writing about aizen very much in this :c it felt more dynamic just leaving it here. i hope you enjoyed and as always comments and criticisms are very much appreciated!

happy reading!

- sumi

@noirfan12 @hon3ysun

[comicaurora]

Have you seen the new Superman show on adult swim? Himbo Clark Kent rights

It's off to an extremely encouraging start! Thoughts under the cut!

I like how they portray Clark's super-strength and how comfortable he is flying and using super-speed. They really feel like innate characteristics of his body rather than powers he switches on and off - things he keeps toned down when people are watching, but things that are always present regardless. The number of times I've pulled a push door or shoved something that was stuck and thought "if I had super-strength I wouldn't get a Take Two on this because my hand would've gone straight through that" is clearly something the showrunners have also thought about. This Clark lives in a world of cardboard and physically cannot stop himself from putting his hand through it at least once a day.

There's a physicality to the way Clark takes hits that really communicates how little he feels them most of the time. Eyes open, mouth closed, immediately getting back into the fight after getting punched into a crater. This is stuff I also think about when I draw supernaturally tough characters in combat situations, and it's cool to see someone else doing it - especially since one of my very few complaints about the older DCAU is that Superman always took every hit like it was a fully incapacitating blow, which Worf'd him pretty constantly.

I also like that we have so far never seen Clark angry. We've seen him scared, flustered, disappointed - but not angry. Even in fights where he's taking serious hits, he's only motivated by wanting to protect and save people, even his opponents - he so far has never been motivated by a desire to destroy. That feels like very good writing for Superman.

It's currently a little unclear how exactly his powerset is scaling - it looks like the blue-eye-glow-and-suit-emblem thing is a legitimate powerup that lets him hit harder and recover faster than his normal baseline, but how exactly that works isn't clear yet - although that is very obviously going to be a plot point later, since they keep giving him little flashes of the story of Krypton's destruction and what shenanigans they were getting up to when it exploded.

On that note, Kryptonian tech has never looked or felt so otherworldly. I love the distorted electronic backward-voice choir they use exclusively for when Clark is on the ship. I love that hologram Jor-El can't speak English, but can clearly understand Clark - also this is the coolest Jor-El has ever looked. Some comics wax poetic about how Clark is an alien space god who only pretends to be human, but I like how this show is firmly putting Clark on the side of the audience with regards to how unsettling the "alien space god" vibes truly are. He can't understand the nature of the ship or the words of its holographic inhabitant, he's not really interested in what it means or where it came from - he just wants to know who he is, or rather who Superman should be. And I like that he concludes that Superman should be him - the heroics he was already doing, except this time on purpose. Superman should not be this spooky glowing alien god thing, even if that's the vibe we get from Krypton itself.

I like that the ship gave Superman his modern no-underpants-on-the-outside suit and Ma Kent was like "we can do better than that" and added the underpants back on.

I also like how much setup there is for future plot stuff that a DC-familiar audience can see coming. Clark hasn't used any of his vision-based powers yet, and it's possible he doesn't know they exist. No sign of Lex Luthor or Kryptonite yet, two problems we know will become more severe with time. We've already got Amanda Waller being stoically nefarious in the background. Young Hot Deathstroke is a hell of a design choice and I am Here For It.

I also appreciate how many little referential jokes are packed into the dialogue, ranging from the obvious "it's a bird it's a plane" to some hella deep pulls like Jimmy Olson's youtube channel.

And fundamentally I love how this show starts from the jump with the thesis that friendly, humble, Normal Man Clark is the real person, and Superman is the job that Clark Kent does. The title of the show is "My Adventures With Superman." The POV character is Clark. He is the "my" in that title. This is Clark's story about Superman.

I really, really hope Batman eventually shows up, because this Superman would make that hilarious.

[burntsaltsblog]

tw: depiction of drug use (❄️) mdni

Chapter One

"Butcher's dead."

"Stop it," I snapped, turning to face the cracked TV in the basement of the pawn shop, our new home for the time being. "He's not fucking dead."

"Yeah, then where is he?" MM pressed. "I've known that motherfucker for a long ass time, and he would never abandon his team unless it's because he's dead."

"I'm sure he has his reasons," I said under my breath, crossing my arms and trying to focus on a re-run of Keeping Up with the Kardashians.

MM shook his head, standing from the couch where I was seated. "Face it, kid. He's not coming back. One of the many people he's managed to piss off probably put a bullet through his head."

I physically bit my tongue to stop myself from blowing up at MM. He didn't deserve to be yelled at when he was just trying to be realistic. Because that's what he was at his core: realistic and logistic, and I would be lying if I said our chaotic group didn't benefit from having someone like him around. But that didn't make his realism any easier to swallow.

When I failed to answer him, MM sighed before grabbing his leather jacket and jogging up the stairs. A moment later, the door to the pawn shop opened and closed with the ring of a bell.

"What was that about?" Hughie asked, tentatively exiting his room.

"Nothing," I mumbled. "Just MM trying to convince me that Butcher's body is rotting in an alley somewhere in the tri-state area."

"Yeah. He gave me the same spiel this morning," Hughie replied, coming to perch beside me on the sofa. Kim had begun to beat Kourtney relentlessly with her designer purse, and we focused on the fight that we had watched countless times by now.

"Don't be fucking rude," we sang in time with Kim as she continued to berate her older sister physically and verbally.

"Watching this show makes me glad I didn't have any siblings," Hughie declared as he propped his feet up on the coffee table when the reality show bled annoyingly into a commercial break.

"You and me both," I replied. "Although, I don't think all siblings are like that. Kim is just special."

Hughie snorted before we fell silent for a few moments. I broke the spell by asking. "Do you think if I got a nose job, I could get on a reality show like that and make billions of dollars?"

"And what show would that be? The Real Felons of New York?"

"Exactly. And then it would be me hitting some other poor bastard with my purse. But it would probably be from Target, not Gucci, so it would hurt a lot less with it being faux leather and all."

"Mhm, everyone knows it's real leather that leaves bruises."

I turned to Hughie and cracked a smile—my first one in weeks since Butcher's disappearance. But it didn't last long as I let out a long breath, still looking at my friend. "Where do you think he is, Hugh?" I whispered.

"I don't know," he answered solemnly.

"Do you really think Butcher just abandoned us?" I prodded as I turned to face him, bringing my knees to my chest.

"I don't want to believe that, Jo. But do you remember how he left us on the side of the road? He just drove off without looking back, so is it really so crazy to assume that he'd eventually abandon all of us?"

"But it's Butcher. He was our leader. What kind of leader would forsake his team?"

"I think you need to brush up on some history, Mademoiselle."

Hughie and I swilevled our heads to see our French friend as he descended the last few steps of the pawn shop basement with several bags in tow.

"I come bearing gifts," Frenchie announced before dropping his belongings on the small armchair by the couch. "A friend of mine works at the supermarket down the street, and he let me sneak in the back and steal a few items from their delivery truck."

"Thank God. I was getting real sick of Skittles from the vending machine upstairs," Hughie professed as he riffled through the bags of produce and frozen dinners.

"Really?" I inquired with a raised brow. "Is it because you stole mine all the time?"

"Only the yellow ones!" Hughie shot back, defending himself.

"Which is the worst flavor by far. Honestly, Hugh. You have no taste."

"Yes, I do. It's just very acquired."

"Ok, Buddy. Sure it is," I snickered, gazing back at the TV as Kim appeared once again, this time yelling at a different family member.

༺༻

"C'mon, just one more line," Brandon urged, pushing the stool closer to me that was balancing a tray filled with a hefty amount of coke.

"No," I said, running a hand down the side of my face to wipe away the sheen of sweat that covered my skin. "I'm already crashing. Besides, I need to get back to base. If I'm gone for too long, the others will start to panic."

Brandon casually snorted another row before wiping his nose vigorously. "You mean the rest of your team?"

"Yeah," I confirmed, which was much to his confusion.

"Why are you guys still together? I thought your boss left town."

"Well, what are we supposed to do? We're the most wanted criminals in the country. It's not like we can return to our everyday lives as if nothing ever happened."

Brandon processed my words as he massaged his jaw, which had begun to tremble. "I guess that makes sense."

I grunted an unintelligible noise as I stood from his floor, which was covered in brown, fraying carpet. My stomach flipped, and I placed a hand over my heart as I felt it beat much quicker than usual. I could already tell that this comedown wasn't going to be fun.

"Text me when you get back, yeah? I want to make sure you're not arrested on your way home. It would be pretty shitty to get sent to prison when you're coked out of your mind."

"That's for sure," I murmured as I moved towards his door, which was decorated with old bullet holes. Brandon's latest apartment was nothing short of dilapidated, and its seedy appearance motivated guests to leave as soon as they arrived. "Will you be around this weekend?"

"Nope. I got a deal down in Pennsylvania. Thirty pounds of weed for half a million," Brandon replied as he began creating random shapes from what was left of the white power.

I stared at him for a moment before shaking my head. "Alright, well, I guess I'll see you whenever you get back."

Brandon's only reply was the sound of him snorting his snow, and I exited his apartment without another word.

I wasn't looking forward to the forty-minute walk home. It was mid-November here in New York City, and the freezing temperatures made any outdoor activity downright painful. But it was my fault for venturing out in the first place. I just couldn't bear to sit in that dingy basement with vivid thoughts of Butcher's assumed demise running through my head anymore. Each time I pictured someone blowing his brains out, it got more and more believable, and I refused to acknowledge the fact that MM might be correct and Butcher might be gone.

Tiny flakes of snow dusted the top of my head, and I drew my thin jacket tighter around my body, desperate for any source of warmth. My shoulders rose to my ears, and I bowed my head, footing it quickly in the direction of the pawn shop. All I could think about was curling up with our small space heater and watching more shitty reality television on the sofa that was definitely infested with bed bugs.

My mind grew fuzzy, and the noticeable shake of my fingers made me curse myself for not taking it easier with Brandon earlier. My eyes darted around the empty streets as paranoia took over, and I regretted not bringing my handheld with me.

If it weren't for my fragile emotional state, I wouldn't've done so many lines. But my need to bury my feelings under a blanket of drugs was too strong for me to deny, and now here I was, coming down from an intense high in the middle of Chinatown at two am.

I supposed that's what I got for falling in love with Billy Butcher.

But could you call it love? In the past three months, I had begun to doubt everything I had ever felt for the man. Sure, I'd had a massive crush on him ever since he'd found me on the street, selling drugs, and recruited me for his team. We then proceeded to harmlessly flirt for the next four months before finally sleeping together one night. Then everything with The Seven went to shit the following day, and I never saw him again. So, was it love? I guess I'd never know.

The vibration of my pocketed phone grabbed my attention, but I ignored it as I sank my teeth into my lower lip and trudged on. It was most likely one of the guys, but according to my loose calculations, I should be home in less than ten minutes. So I'd see them soon enough. Also, I needed these next ten minutes to sober up as much as possible. MM had made it quite clear that he disapproved of my "habits," as he liked to call them, and I wasn't in the mood for another lecture about how crack was going to put me in an early grave.

As I rounded the corner of the pawn shop, I stopped to pull the hood of my jacket up to cover my frizzy, tangled hair and pinch my cheeks so I wouldn't look so damn pale.

After entering the crummy establishment, I reluctantly walked down the stairs, and I heard a debate that was ensuing in the dimly lit basement.

"Raynor is not going to hand us over. She's on the same side as we are," Hughie was saying.

"Side?" argued MM. "She's the top fucking dog at the CIA. She's up the government's ass. The same government, mind you, that's responsible for naming us wanted criminals."

"That was Vought, not the government."

I trailed my eyes on my scuffed-up boots as I tried to make a run for my room unnoticed. But my cover was blown when MM spotted me.

"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded.

I raised my gaze, preparing the lie I was going to feed him, but it got stuck in my throat when I saw who he was standing beside.

Butcher. Looking perfectly healthy. Without a single bruise or a speck of blood on him. In one of his signature Hawaiian shirts, he looked like he'd just gotten back from a vacation in the tropics.

My heart slammed against my chest, but it wasn't because of the coke this time. It had everything to do with the burly man who towered over me with deep, hazel eyes that made my green ones well with anguished memories.

"That's it, love. Come all over my cock for me."

Butcher's hot breath fanned over my flesh, raising goosebumps as his lips trailed down my neck, licking and sucking as he marked me in the most depraved way.

I clenched around him as I gushed all over his thick length, screaming his name-

I jolted back to reality and clamped my mouth shut, which was hanging open as I panted, and forced my eyes to settle on MM.

"Out," I said curtly.

I glanced at Frenchie, who stood a few feet from me by Kimiko, and he turned away before discreetly wiping his nose, signaling me to do the same. Thankful for his help, I traced a finger under my nostrils, feeling the remnants of the dust that I had carelessly left behind.

I tried to play it off, but Butcher's hawk-like gaze had caught every movement, and I fixed him with an indifferent stare. So what if he found out about the earlier events of my evening? It's not like he was going to pull every statistic on the internet regarding females under the age of thirty dying of a cocaine overdose and then formulate them into a PowerPoint presentation because, thankfully, he wasn't Marvin Milk.

"Well, when you were 'out,' did you forget how to answer your phone? You know the rules about staying in contact when we're separated," MM berated me.

"Sorry," I apologized in the same tone.

With disappointment written all over his face, MM shook his head before looking back at Hughie, who was leaning against the arm of the sofa. I shuffled over to sit beside him and waited for the heated conversation to continue. All the while, I avoided Butcher and the way his eyes burned into the side of my head, no doubt judging my disheveled appearance.

"Look, all I'm saying," Hughie expressed with crossed arms. "Is that Reignor is our only shot we have left at taking down Vought. If we can just get her a sample of Compound V, then it would finally be in the right person's hands."

"Should we really trust one of Monsieur Charcuter’s scorned lovers?" Frenchie asked. "A scorned woman is a vengeful woman."

"If I may," Butcher interjected, his cockney accent shining through, "'Lover' is a rather strong word to describe what we was doin’, which was havin’ a good fuck in a few bar bathrooms."

Everyone groaned before MM got the conversation back on track.

"Fine. All those in favor of scheduling a meeting with Raynor?"

Hughie, Frenchie, Kimiko, Butcher, and I raised our hands.

"Don't bother askin’ who's opposed. You're all alone there, mate," Butcher smirked at his second in command before turning to the rest of us. "Right, first thing tomorrow, I will call Susan up and arrange a meetin’. In the meantime, you twats better get a good night's sleep cuz now that Daddy's home, you're all gonna be workin’ your arses off."

I refrained from rolling my eyes as Butcher continued, holding up his duffel bag. "Now, which one's my room?"

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