#and a little bit of common goddamn sense

[handshakewdeath]

anyone else having a hard time feeling any sort of sincerity in idkhow's (read as: exclusively dallon) portrayal of gender and use of dark imagery through the lens of "dallon is an active member of the mormon church and takes his kids to mormon church services"

[appalachiancowboy99]

After Dark

Arthur Morgan x CurvyFem!Reader Established relationship, high honor, grumpy Arthur in desperate need of release, 18+, MDNI (Minors DO NOT ENTER)

Arthur comes back to camp later than usual, with nothing but a bad disposition and a desperate need to release his pent-up frustrations.

Warnings: longer read, sexual content (oral, unprotected p in v, rough sex), mentions of violence, mentions of anger, and dabbles in sensual fluff.

Gif by: @sunwingsunset

A/N: Thank you so much to @photo1030 for not only being my sounding board in the never-ending chaos that is my writing process but also for being such a wonderful friend through it all. So grateful for you, don't know what I'd do without ya, C! <3 Thank you so much to @rivetingrosie4 for being an inspiration for my little works and being so supportive of my creative endeavors, not to mention the kind generosity of your friendship! Forever grateful for to have met you! @tortureddpoett I'm so excited to explore this budding friendship with you! Thank you so much for showing so much excitement for my work, IT MAKES ME EXCITED (EEP!). It means an absolute ton to me <3 @mr-inkslinger your friendship has been an absolute delight to explore! Thank you for posting that toe-curling smut that always has me giggling and kicking my feet! So happy to have met ya! And thank each and every single one of you for liking my first drabble and expressing interest in this next one. I'm so sorry it's taken me forever to publish this post, but hopefully, the next ones won't take me as long. I'll forever be grateful for your patience and kindness <3 But now, enough of my babbling, y'all enjoy yourselves with this one- I know I did ;)

Fuck. From the second he opened his eyes, he knew that the day was going to be fucking awful; his neck had a crick in it, his head was pounding from what little sleep he’s received over the last few nights, and now he had to trudge back out into the goddamn muggy heat to work. One disaster after another had piled up; everything that could have gone wrong, went so terribly awry that he wound up farther away from camp than he originally intended and managed to add a solid fifteen-dollar bounty to the mounting collection resting atop his head. Dutch had sent him out on a wild goose chase, following a lead from Micah that, of course, ended up being a complete waste of time. And that meant he was coming back to camp empty-handed, which almost certainly meant he'd be on the receiving end of another one of Dutch's lectures on the endless responsibilities placed upon his shoulders. He dreaded it, wanted to avoid spiraling down another conversation that would end in Dutch questioning his faith in the ever-evolving plan he’s found himself working on these days.

As if he needed any of that horseshit tonight. All he wanted was a moment of peace and quiet, a chance to catch his breath after the disaster of a day he'd just had, but instead, he was headed back to camp with nothing but bruises, a bloody lip, and a bad disposition to show for his efforts. Trees and other bits of scenery whipped by in a blur as Arthur spurred his horse onward, his surroundings melting together into a muddy mess of shapes cast by moonlight. He passed through New Hanover, his furious pace leading him down the familiar roads of Lemoyne, reaching the clearing outside of camp. Lenny and John are the first to spot Arthur approaching the thicket of trees disguising Clemens Point's main entrance. “Hey, who goes there?” Lenny’s voice echoes through the forest, bouncing off the thicket until it reaches Arthur’s ears.

“‘S me.” Arthur grunts out through gritted teeth, clearly not in the mood for any chit-chat. Even underneath the shadow of leaves and limbs, the scowl etched upon his face is easily distinguishable, a clear sign for anyone with any common sense to give him a wide berth for the rest of the night. Lenny and John, both, had a pretty good idea of what might happen when Arthur steps foot into camp and they don't want any part of it. As a result, they give each other a little knowing glance and stay in the treeline, preferring to avoid the impending shitstorm and let Dutch or Hosea deal with it instead. He strides past them in a fit of frustration, dismounting his mare with a jerky movement before she's even come to a complete stop. Kieran spots him and hesitantly approaches. That poor fool. "H-Hey, Mr. Morgan. Would ya like me to unsaddle the 'ol gal here?" Kieran's question was nothing more than an innocent query, but his expression turned the young man into a nervous wreck. If looks could kill, Arthur’s certainly could; his steely eyes are set ablaze with annoyance and irritation as he casts a hateful glance in Kieran's direction. Even Kieran knew better than to talk to Arthur when he was in this state, knowing that it would only lead to suffering at the hands of his unbridled wrath. Kieran’s eyes immediately darted to his feet, desperate to avoid Arthur’s icy gaze as his fingers trembled with the frayed ends of rope in his hands. Quickly as to not start any trouble for himself, Kieran took hold of the mare's reigns and led her away to the field of horses, putting as much distance between himself and Arthur as he could. A slight pang of guilt runs through him when he sees the way that Kieran high-tailed it out of his line of sight. He doesn't want to be harsh to the boy, he's been a useful asset to the gang, but his temper is just too far gone for him to muster up an apology. As fast as the angering thoughts snapping through his mind, Arthur turns on his heels and storms into camp in search of Dutch. His boots furiously hit the grass and reddened Lemoyne dirt as he passes by a few of the wandering eyes from those still awake at this late hour. Charles casts him a wary glance, and so does Sadie, but neither of them cares to look long enough to entertain what's about to happen. He passes by his own wagon and heads straight to Dutch's tent. Dutch is nowhere to be seen, yet the lamp light inside casts its soft golden glow upon the closed canvas flaps of the tent, indicating that he might be inside. Not wasting any more time than he has to, Arthur approaches the tent, not bothering to stop and think until it's too late. His hand raises, readying to peel back the canvas flap, when all of a sudden he hears the sweet amorous sounds of lovemaking echo through the night air.  Molly’s sweet voice gasps out between each movement of their squeaking cot, calling out for Dutch as the unmistakable sound of skin slapping skin penetrates through the thin canvas walls, revealing exactly what’s occupying Dutch’s time tonight.

“Oh, Dutch. Don’t stop,” she encourages through strained, unabashed moans of pleasure. Dutch’s deep, husky voice murmurs back something unintelligible, but the increased squeaking of their bed and the filthy little noises coming from Molly are a clear indicator that Arthur should be stepping away to give them some privacy. Embarrassment washes over him, causing a faint rosy flush to heat his face and bloom across his cheeks. For once, he's grateful for the distraction from his current frustration. On most nights, he'd find comfort in your presence, seeking you out to vent his grievances as a distraction from the ever-present aggravation that seemingly follows him around these days. But tonight, he just wants to retreat to his tent, away from everything and everyone, to try to calm down before he says or does something he regrets.

He strides past the dying campfires and tables that are askew from daily camp activities, and his mind tirelessly races from thought to thought, stealing his attention away from his surroundings. If Arthur had even bothered to look, he would have spotted your sleeping form laid out upon his bed the moment he stepped inside. You had been waiting for him all evening. After working yourself to the bone doing laundry, dinner prep, and other camp chores for Ms. Grimshaw all day long, you wandered your way over to Arthur’s tent in search of a quiet place to sit. Part of you wished to find him seated right there on his cot, wanting to simply have a conversation with the man who has stolen your heart, but to your disappointment, he wasn’t anywhere to be found. So, you waited for him.. And waited until the very idea of waiting became too tiresome and you unknowingly fell asleep.

Sneaking away from the gang for private talks with him has been one of your favorite things to do since you joined the gang so long ago. Y'all have always had a knack for avoiding the company of others. But somehow in the midst of squirreling yourselves away, both of you have come to find that you'd prefer being alone together. Eventually, this led to many nights where Arthur would seek you out just to speak his mind, allowing you to see the world through his eyes for a short while. You have not only embraced Arthur's thoughts, but in doing so, you have captured his heart all the same. If it weren't for you, he's certain he'd have lost his damn sanity long ago.

Arthur takes that dusty old gambler's hat off his head and runs his fingers through his hair, taking a moment to calm himself down. His eyes glance over the things laid out upon his bedside table before catching a glimpse of your figure awash by the pale moonlight in his periphery. Your hair is sprawled out over the small blanket you've rolled up into a makeshift pillow; curls flowing like a roaring waterfall, laying a mess, and finally free from the bun that was atop your head earlier in the day. His eyes rake over your voluptuous figure, noting every dip and curve from your plump waist and hips to the ample swell of your breast hidden by a layer of clothing. The moment his mind registers that your presence isn't a dream, his eyes soften and his mind no longer races with anger. You are his peace, the only thing in this world that he cherishes above all else. 

Sighing softly, he finally discards his hat from his hand and places it onto his nightstand before working off his worn leather jacket and satchel, resting them on the back of the chair nearest his shaving mirror. And while he's on his feet, he takes the time to carefully roll down the canvas walls of his tent, unraveling them with the quiet precision of a mouse, and securing them in a few simple knots to hide you two away from the world.

It's quite dark by the time he wanders over to the cot, dark enough not to notice himself brush against your legs as he takes a seat on the edge of the old creaking bed. The familiar, welcomed-warmth of his body pressing against your shins rouses you from your restful slumber. Your eyes flutter open to find his figure perched next to you, shrouded in a darkness so thick that you are sure you're still dreaming. His head and broad shoulders are slumped over as he begins working off his dusty boots, caked with remnants of mud and manure.

"Hmm... Arthur?" Your voice floats through the quiet darkness, laden with fatigue and clearly carrying the lassitude of someone who could fall back asleep at the drop of a hat.

He quickly glances over his shoulder at the sound of your voice, his eyes already adjusted enough to the shadows to see your tired face staring back at him with confusion. He silently curses himself for waking you. "Shhh, Darlin'. Don't wake up on my account. I'll be done in just a minute," Arthur lightly grunts out the last word as he struggles to remove his right boot.

Even in your own weary state, the exhaustion in his tone isn't lost on you. Thinking it best to rouse yourself as quickly as possible to free up his bed for him, you sit yourself up and will yourself awake with a slight stretch. "'S okay. You need rest more 'n me."

"No. You was restin' 'fore I got here. Go 'head and lay back down." He isn't having any of your courtesy tonight. He's worn out, far too tired to argue with you about whether or not it's appropriate for you to share his bed for the night.

The rest of the gang, aside from John, Abigail, Susan, and Hosea know nothing about the true nature of y'all's relationship. Although, the rest of the girls have picked up on the changes you've brought about in Arthur since your arrival so long ago now. Seeing him get all soft and doey-eyed at you over these last few weeks has most definitely tipped them off about what y'all really get up to when you're out running errands together. But they catch wind of you sleeping in his tent tonight, it will all but confirm their suspicions. And yet, you just can't bring yourself to move from the comfort of Arthur's cot with him sitting so close to you.

"What time is it?" The question falls from your lips, carried on the soft currents of a gentle breeze pushing through the tent flaps. Fine sinewy muscles flex beneath his shirt as he leans over to work off his other boot and you are powerless to admire the shape of his body beneath.

A muffled grunt escapes his mouth the moment he finally frees his aching feet from the confines of his boots, "Late," he simply replies.

You take a deep, cleansing breath, allowing the tranquility of the night to settle around you like a soft, comforting blanket. Outside these walls, no sounds of chatter or lively activity can be heard, aside from the gentle hum of crickets by the riverbank and the faint sounds of a squeaking cot stopping abruptly. The gang is unusually quiet, the air filled with repose now that Arthur's returned safely to you. Only a few stragglers tend to the campfires, their focus solely on themselves, interested in anything beyond the flickering flames; not even the sounds of Dutch and Molly or Arthur's irritation can disrupt the peaceful bubble encompassing Clemen's Point tonight.

The plush heel of your palm rubs over one of your eyes as you flit them toward the tent entrance, watching how the wind slightly ruffles the bottom of the canvas. It's only then that you realize that Arthur has tied down the walls for privacy on your account. Normally, he wouldn't bother setting up the walls before collapsing on the cot for a few restless hours of sleep. But tonight, he's gone out of his way to ensure your comfort. Your heart couldn't feel any more full of love for this man by your side, a man who puts your well-being above all else, even above his own. Never did you think that love would have been like this for you: sitting in the comfortable silence of privacy for lovers when that luxury is rarely afforded for women like you. But despite your gratitude for his thoughtfulness, a pang of guilt gnaws at you knowing he made the extra effort while you took up residence in his bed, a cot that's barely big enough for the two of you given your plump frame.

In an attempt to make up for taking up so much space, you roll yourself forward along the thin mattress and quickly slide past him, crawling toward the foot of his bed where his trunk of clothing is kept. You've decided to give him his space for the night, even though in your heart, you'd prefer to stay. Before your foot even slides off the trunk to touch the soft grass below, you're reminded of John stopping by Arthur's tent earlier in the day.

Through a half yawn, you speak, not giving Arthur the chance to catch-on to where you're headed, "'Fore I forget: John stopped by while you was out."

Arthur slightly leans back as his fingertips mindlessly fumble with the buckle of his gun belt. The slight clicking of the metal rings out as he works to remove the clunky accessory from his body. His strong back brushes against you as he moves with the comfortable ease he's come to enjoy over these last few weeks of secretly being yours.

"What about it?" His concentration is split half between himself and the presence of your body behind him.

Your words don't register in his mind until he's completely removed the belt from his body. He figures it was that stagecoach job he reluctantly handed off to John; it had completely slipped from his mind until this very moment, much like yourself. The cool metal filigree atop his trunk moves under your feet as you rest them just shy of slipping off its edge, causing the hazy memory to play out behind your tired eyes.

-

You were just settling yourself in, resting your weary body on the edge of Arthur's cot, just as you're doing now. Little beads of sweat accumulated on your forehead from working out in the intensity of Lemoyne's miserably humid heat. Grimshaw had you and the rest of the women working on camp chores, which you hadn't complained of, since it usually occupies the time until Arthur's usual return. However, the day was far too hot for you to not complain about the harsh conditions she had y'all in. Eventually, evening came and you were finally finished with the laundry, allowing you a moment's rest to seek out the comfort of Arthur's cot.

In the midst of wiping your brow down with one of his neckerchiefs you'd secretly swiped, the hard thump of boots hitting grass caught your attention. You'd anticipated Arthur's arrival, but something didn't feel quite right. The boots didn't move with Arthur's measured stride; they scuffed the grass and dirt, signaling a different, but familiar presence. The moment you look up, you spot John standing at the entrance of the tent, not at all surprised to see you sitting upon his cot as if it were your own.

For a brief moment, his brow furrowed in a mix of frustration and exhaustion. It was as if he was caught between the two warring emotions, each pulling him equally. Clearly, he expected Arthur to be back already.

"He not back yet?" The gruffness of his voice has you believe the former, rather than the latter.

"Not yet," you say in kind, hoping to ease some of his burden. "Was you needin' him for somethin'?"

John did and the news certainly wasn't going to sit well with Arthur at all.

-

When the thoughts finally coalesce within your fatigued mind, you internally grimace knowing that Arthur isn't going to like the reality of the situation. Gentleness has always been your strong suit, especially when it came to dealing with half of the bull-headed men in camp. So, you lace your words with the softest tone you can manage, "Said it weren't as much as y'all had planned on: about fifty-dollars tied up in what little him 'n Charles found."

And you were right. The news doesn't sit well with him at all. All of the compiled frustration of working a nothing-lead and now knowing that the other job didn't pay well either boils beneath the surface of his skin until he explodes like a whistling kettle. Preventing himself from lashing out at you, Arthur kicks his boot toward the other side of the tent, knocking it into the chair. The loud thunk of its sole hitting wood claps harshly and causes you to flinch, startling you fully awake from the suddenness of noise and his movement.

"Every goddamn day it's some shit," he spits through his teeth.

Although you know he'd never intentionally hurt you, the anger in his voice sends a cold shiver down your spine and your stomach flips and churns in knots. Usually, you'd blame yourself, reprimanding your big mouth for even opening up to mention something that you knew wouldn't bode well for his weary mind. But you're in too much of a shock to even consider self-deprecation as an option. Your wide eyes search through the darkness, watching the shadowed outline of the man you love heave in a deep breath to steal his nerves. His shoulders slump forward and head hangs low as he rests his elbows on his knees, utterly defeated from the compiled anger and exhaustion coursing through him.

It's at this moment that you remember the job Dutch sent him on earlier in the day; Arthur didn't want to go and had very little sleep after working on yet another lead that barely got them anywhere. If it had been left up to you, you would've made Arthur stay right here in this bed to get some rest like he deserves. You would've taken care of him so tenderly, but, as usual, what Dutch wanted would have far outweighed any of your concerns. You've learned to recognize the pattern of these situations by now, and given Arthur's aggression, assuming that today's job didn't go quite as planned would be hitting the nail right on its head. You test the waters with a quiet question, "Lead didn't pan out today, did it?"

The soft shake of Arthur's head, coupled with the shadow of his palm running over his face tells you all that you need to know: no, it hadn't gotten him any farther than where he had started. Another useless effort. Your heart aches watching him struggle with so much weight on his shoulders. No matter how strong Arthur might be, he's just a man struggling to carry his own burdens, let alone everyone else's. Ever since settling down here, Dutch has placed so much responsibility on him that you've wanted to scold the man for even mentioning Arthur's name in passing. He's worked himself thin and thread-bare, barely having any time for himself outside of the time he spends on the road traveling from place to place at Dutch's convenience.

Empathy for the man that you've fallen in love with so long ago breaks your heart, aching in desperation to relieve some of his pain. Instead of walking away, keeping to yourself, and silently shouldering any of the blame for setting him off, you choose to stay the night. Despite knowing full well that the girls will have their gossip circulating by morning, Arthur's needs are far more important than any snickering comment or playful jest that'll inevitably come your way.

You scoot back where you were and lean toward him with less apprehension than what your words had suggested. Resting your delicate palm between the broad expanse of his shoulders, you feel him tense at the soft slip of your tender touch over his shirt. The tips of your fingers glide over his shoulder and silently take purchase on the taut muscle there. With a gentle, yet firm pull, you coax Arthur back toward you.

"C'mere. Lean back 'n talk to me..." Your dulcet tone pierces through his irritation, encouraging him to rest in your awaiting arms.

Arthur slowly reclines back, allowing himself to unwind in your embrace as his much larger body sits snugly against your plump bosom. Relaxing doesn't come easy for him. Hell, you'd be surprised if it had, given the high tensions between him and Micah these days or the tiresome back and forth between the two rival families in Rhodes. He has every right to be terse and tensed up like a snake ready to strike, but you aim to comfort him even if that means you risk getting bit. Silence hangs in the air between you, aside from the gentle breaths and the occasional strained grunt catching in the back of his throat while he struggles to get comfortable against you, due to the remaining stress insisting on clinging to his tired body. Your loving hands splay out over the firm expanse of his chest, feeling the steady and reassuring thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms as you try your best to soothe your brooding lover. It's as if your mere presence cracks away at the anger lingering in the stiff tendons and taut plains of muscle along his torso until he relents and finally lets go. His body relaxes back into you as if he were sinking into the plush, luxurious drapery and bedding found in the finest hotels of Saint Denis; much like the bedding of the room he'd paid for the very same night he had whisked you away to bed you properly for your very first time.

He's silent for a long while, almost reluctant to burden you with his troubles. So, you take it up on yourself to start the conversation by spilling what had happened to you earlier in the day, thinking it might earn a laugh or two, "Well, I'm sure my day weren't as rough as your'n," you hum. "But I did fall off the dock, landing my hind-end right in that water."

The image would usually cause a humorous snort to escape him, but the irritation still bristling at his nerves prevents him from reacting with anything else other than a huff of annoyance, "I told ya to watch your footin' out there. Ain't no use to nobody if you get yourself drowned."

Fortunately, as he chides you his words begin to lack much of the anger from moments ago. But you sigh softly anyways, relenting to his incessant need to protect you from life's dangers, despite being able to handle your own, "I know, I know..."

With a few buttons of that old blue work shirt popped open by your deft fingers, the smallest opening there is just big enough to slip your hand inside and rest it up on the soft but wiry hairs at the very center of his chest. "You shoulda seen me, though," you murmur as you lean down toward his ear, lowering your tone as you press your cheek to the side of his head. "Was drenched head to toe, clothes clingin' to me like feathers on a wet chicken."

He sulks, trying to stay mad at anything and everything he can to give into the bristling anger at the back of his mind, but he can't. No, not when he can clearly envision you all soaked and surprised from falling into that cold lake. A faint smile curls up the corners of his lips and then, just as he almost chuckles, he clears his throat, holding his laugh back. However, you catch on far too quickly for him to play it off so easily.

You gasp softly in mock surprise as if offended by the idea of him laughing at you, "Arthur Morgan. Are you laughin' at me?"

That's when his temperament breaks, giving way to the huff of laughter rumbling through his chest. "I ain't laughin' atchu, per say..." he counters. "Just maybe at the thought of what ya mighta looked like comin' up outta that water: madder 'n hell, hair clingin' to your head," and as if to illustrate his point, Arthur reaches his hand backward and turns his head to try and catch a glimpse of you in the thick shadows, barely making your face distinguishable to his eyes, as he brushes his fingertips over the bits of hair clinging to your forehead from the muggy heat.

Though you narrow your eyes in mock annoyance, you lean into his calloused fingertips, accepting the gentleness of his touch while a giggle of your own creeps up into your throat, "Oh? Is 'at so? Maybe next time I find you out on that dock, I'll think 'bout pushin' ya in 'n lettin' you see how it feels."

He huffs out a skeptical breath and raises an eyebrow at the very thought of you even trying something like that with him. It'd be a futile effort and one that you truly wouldn't consider without the clear consequence of him pulling you right down with him.

And just as soon as the laughter came, it was gone again, replaced instead with a comfortable silence that settles between you two once more, giving him some space to think about what's happened to himself today. Long before the days of your arrival, Arthur would keep to himself and dwell on the ever-present burdens troubling his mind, brooding for hours. But with you, he feels a safety that men like him are rarely afforded.

"Well, if ya think fallin' in Flat Iron's bad..." he continues, "Try goin' halfway 'cross the state lookin' for a man that don't exist. Then when ya find someplace to get a drink, ya end up catchin' a few stray hits from some drunken bastard."

A soft gasp enters your lungs at the revelation. Another fight? You lean over his shoulder, reaching to take his scarred chin into your hand. It's hard to see through the inky-black darkness of the night, but even in the haziness, your eyes can make out the bruising along his jaw, the harsh scrapes of knuckles cutting over his cheek, and the jagged cut on his upper lip. It isn't a rare sight to have him come back battered and bruised by some job from time to time, but that still doesn't quell the uneasiness in your heart at him going through such pain and aggravation.

Your eyebrows furrow in sympathy for your rugged cowboy, eyes softening to match as you breathe out, "Oh, Arthur."

He's quick to dismiss your concern with a soft sigh, pulling away from you to lean forward and distract himself from your sympathetic gaze, "Ah, don'tchu go 'n worry yourself over me none, Darlin'."

Being fussed over or thought of so tenderly still isn't something he's used to; he's shown you that time and time again. But it never deters you from trying to make things better, to make things easier on him however you can. Whatever turmoil Arthur's got rolling about in his mind is far from the usual and it takes patience to understand; a patience that he finds only you can give.

You reach your hand out toward him. The delicate ends of your fingertips reach up to brush over the nape of his sun-kissed neck, grazing over the ends of his slightly overgrown hair, silently making a note to yourself that you'll trim it for him tomorrow. His body shuffles slightly backward, leaning in to accept your touch while he slips off his suspenders: pulling them down his shoulders heavy with burden, before taking his time to unbutton that tattered old work shirt you're so used to seeing around his muscular frame.

"'Sides..." he starts. "I did have some good that came from today."

"What's 'at?" you hum softly with a lilt of dryness. "Hittin' that feller back?"

He can't help the chuckle rising in his throat at the dry sarcasm touching your words. Arthur shakes his head softly, "Nah, Darlin', " the last word strains from his lips as he rises to his feet with a groan, leaving the safe comfort of your touch as he stands to undo his pants.

He glances over his shoulder, peering down at you through the darkness with a smirk curling up at the right corner of his mouth. Watching as your sweet eyes follow his every movement, Arthur turns to face you, allowing you to gaze at him as he slowly pushes the brass button through the eyelet at the top of his riding pants. The fabric opens effortlessly, revealing the red cloth of his union suit underneath. The sight of him before you, suspenders hanging loosely on either side of his long legs and his pants aching to be peeled from his strong form has your lips parted in awe at the man standing mere inches away from you.

He continues from just seconds before, "Seein' you laid out on my bed, purdy as a dream."

After stepping out of his pants now crumpled around his ankles, Arthur lowers one knee upon the cot nearest your thighs. He leans over you, using his thick fingers to tilt your chin upward, meeting his crystalline eyes. "Was one helluva sight I could get used to seein'."

The low timbre of his voice sends a shockwave of desire straight through your heart and into the aching pit of your stomach. Your lips draw up into a shy smile, and a faint dusting of pink envelops your cheeks just like the moment you'd first professed your feelings for him under that canopy of trees he led you through so blindly. Although it hasn't been long since that fateful night, the closeness of your relationship has escalated so quickly that your head and heart dizzy at the mere mention of his name.

Arthur's calloused thumb brushes over the supple swell of your bottom lip, enticing you to part them just for him. You comply, of course, unable to resist how a ghost of his touch makes you so pliant beneath him. And when he leans down to meet your lips with his own, your heart swells with tender affection. Those warm, slightly chapped, but pleasantly plush lips are heady as they connect with a passion that stokes the burning coals of desire in the very base of your core.

"Been waitin' to use that one for a while, hmm?" You hum contently while blindly guiding your hands toward the flare of muscle encasing his ribs. God, how you could worship this man and never tire of feeling how warm, how strong he is beneath your palms.

"Depends. It workin'?" He murmurs, smirking cockily against your lips.

Your mind begins to spin as the calloused pad of his thumb dips from your chin and swipes over your jawline. His fingers splay out over the side of your neck, fingertips gripping you with tender passion to hold you in place. He could easily break you, bend you with his finger and thumb as if you were nothing more than a twig beneath his rough and weathered hands. Never have you felt so small and fragile, always knowing in your heart that you took up much more room than other women. But, when you're with Arthur, he makes you feel as delicate as the petals on a beautiful flower, something so precious and worth loving; it's so much more than you'd ever experienced in your whole life. He touches you so tenderly as if you were made from nothing more than ash, a veritable pile of matter waiting to slip through his fingers at any moment.

You want to hum your praises to your lover, to let him know exactly how much you've wanted this, how much you've missed him, how well he's kissing you, touching you... But you can't. There are no words. He's stolen them from you, drawing all the air out of your lungs with his lips, leaving you gasping for the air coated in his divine masculine scent: sweet tobacco, wood ash, and mossy earth. He encompasses you, wrapping one arm around your waist as he pulls you close to his body, all the while shuffling himself forward to join you on the small cot. Your back presses against the hard wooden frame of the wagon making up the other half of his tent. He presses against you, holding you close to his strong body as he slides his right hand from your jaw, trailing it down over the soft skin of your neck, and down to your chest, where he heatedly palms your breast hidden just beneath your blouse. To have him touch you like this, like a man frenzied and dying for a taste of intimacy, has your head spinning and your heart on the verge of exploding if it hadn't already; for all you know, you could've died the moment his lips crashed into yours, and all that's left is a heaven you'd only dreamt of.

A low growl of appreciation rumbles through his chest for the plumpness of your body. Most men do not know the fine pleasures that extra curves on a woman can bring. But Arthur sure does. And oh how he worships your full figure, despite your opinions about yourself. His large, calloused palm shifts his attention to your other breast, kneading you tenderly while his lips work from your mouth, and instead, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses over your jawline and supple neck.

His name is a breathless sigh across your trembling lips as you allow your hands to explore his body in return. Touching over the large expanse of his torso and gliding your fingertips over the worn fabric of his union suit, you desperately search for the button that would bare him wholly to you. In the time it takes you to undo one of his buttons, his skilled fingers undo two of yours. Button after button unthreads upon both of your bodies, though his hands are much quicker at ridding you of your layers, leaving them strewn about on the ground until he's stripped you down and laid you beneath him in nothing more than your chemise and bloomers to conceal your decency. Arthur then crawls over you, his movements deliberate and enticingly slow as he cages you in with his hands pressed into the thin mattress on either side of your head. Shadows danced and shifted restlessly, playing tricks on your perception as you try to focus on what little of Arthur you could see through the haziness, making the absence of light feel alive. To feel him above you like this has your stomach in knots, tightening with a firey passion that's ready to snap at any given moment. Hearts are pounding, thrumming wildly against your ribcages like birds desperate to escape the confines of your chests. You hear it, hear how his breath shutters with each wild thump of his heart, and you feel it in his breath as it puffs over your cheek. He's losing himself to you and you him, slipping so quickly that rational thinking is no longer of use. You need him and he needs you.

The flaps of his union suit hang loosely from his body, allowing your hands to reach in and press flat over his heated skin. He shivers slightly at the contact, his muscles tensing and flexing beneath the tender meeting of your palms placed upon his scarred, goose-pimpled flesh. Your fingertips ghost over a scar on the right side of his ribcage, causing your face to crinkle with sorrow for what hardship your lover, this great outlaw, has had to endure in his lifetime. The damaged tissue is the result of a nasty fight he had as a young man: when someone stabbed him with the broken end of a beer bottle; they had aimed to kill him, but he had survived. The spot still aches with the memory of Hosea digging out the shards of broken glass from the angry, bloodied wound. But somehow, the way your delicate touch brushes over that old scar with such love and care causes the outlaw's skin to tingle, and his cock to ache with the pride of knowing that you love him so.

He takes his time with you here, laid out beneath him like a perfect little thing he's captured and kept safe by hiding you away in the privacy of his tent. After the day he's had, he wants to savor every bit of loveliness he's blessed with in your presence, so he can't rush this with you, not now. Arthur takes his time admiring you, letting his eyes rake over what he's able to see, and feeling what he cannot. Leaning down close enough to your face to capture that seductive glint in your glittering, lust-blown eyes, Arthur searches for any change within them as he maneuvers his right hand away from the mattress to trail along your sensitive flesh. The rough pads of his fingers ghost over your thigh, caressing the plump deposit of flesh along your middle, snaking up over your collarbones, and over your neck in search of your delicate face before sealing your mouth with his own in a kiss so tender you whimper from the initial contact.

Shivers of anticipation roll through him as your body responds to his touch: back arching off the bed, hands pulling on the nape of his neck to hold him down and assure that his lips won't leave yours, and the way your bloomer-clad hips roll upward in search of some much-needed friction. God how he could spend hours with you like this, letting his hands roam over your body to make you shiver and plead for any ounce of affection that he can give you. Your needy state is only exacerbated by the slight tremble in your thighs as he snakes his hands down over the pillowy flesh, seeking out the waistband of your bloomers. Ridding you of the cloth separating your pussy from his line of sight is an easy feat: the clad, slightly damp undergarment peels away from your plump hips with ease at the help of his precision; the Lemoyne heat causes the clothing to stick to your slightly dampened skin, but dammit if the temperature pales in comparison to how heated Arthur makes you feel. He tosses them down onto the ground, and places his hands upon your knees, spreading them apart as he sits above you to admire the feeling of your plump body beneath him.

His hand is unhurried and exacting, gently brushing his calloused knuckles down over your inner thigh, then lightly petting them over your soaked need covered by a soft thatch of hair. He can't see you fully, but that does nothing to stop his mind from envisioning how your cunt glistens with slick, all for him. The moment he presses his fingertips to your seam, parting you with the practiced precision of a lover, he lets a low, ragged breath escape his nose in appreciation for how wet you are. You shiver and instinctively try to close your knees from the pleasant surprise of his touch, and fuck does it feel good to have him brush over your folds like that.

"Always so ready, ain'tchya?" He murmurs, a teasing lilt to his voice as he takes his time in savoring the feeling of your slick upon his fingertips.

Your hips involuntarily twitch, bucking upward into his hand, seeking out his fingertips to make him swirl them over your aching little clit. You want him to touch you right where you need him, feel him right on that little spot upon that nub of nerves that makes your mind swirl and your body careen into a blissful orgasm. But he doesn't give that to you, not yet. He wants to work you over slowly, savoring every little sound he can draw out of those pretty lips. You're far too shy to answer him directly, instead favoring to cover your face with your forearms as he takes pleasure in taunting you like this. But the moment his fingertips threaten to part your folds, you let out a delicate little noise, someplace between a whine and a prayer to let him know that you're in no mood to endure his teasing tonight, "Arthur... Please."

Oh, how he loves to hear the sound of you begging; he's already half-hard at the idea of you wanting his touch, let alone hearing how desperate you are for it. He answers your prayer with a long, smooth stroke of his thumb parting your puffy, wet folds. You keen at how just a simple touch causes your stomach to flutter and your slit to clench around nothing at all. Your thighs, thick with strength, covered by a layer of squishy softness, part for him, relaxing lazily as he guides his thumb over each of your labia.

It was nearly impossible to get you to lay like this for him a few weeks ago; you'd been concerned about the unsightly appearance of your inner thighs: scarred over with dimples and imperfections, as well as the slight discoloration of having them rub together after so many years of being a larger woman. Most women that you've seen naked, don't have the same ailments upon their bodies as you have on yours. Just the other day when bathing with some of the girls in the lake, you'd noticed that even on Karen's body, a woman closer to your size, still didn't have the scars or discoloration across her skin in the same way that you have. And that night that Arthur had you laid out for him for the very first time, he'd noticed that apprehension in you, taking it as having second thoughts. But once you had explained how you felt about your own body, he hadn't even given the idea a single thought; his own body is mauled up, covered in old and ugly scars, and carrying more than three colors from all his time spent out in the sun. So, he couldn't have cared less about some scars, a little extra hair, weight, or even the discoloration over your thighs. What he did care about, however, was making sure that you felt loved in spite of it all. And now, it feels no different. To have you spread your legs for him like this, without a single worry holding you back, is a goddamn treat.

Fuck how good it feels to have the soft press of his thumb tease over your cunt, tracing the delicate path between your weeping entrance, to your swelling bud with a pressure so teasing and light that you squirm to feel more. Your plush lips tuck between your teeth to hold back any sounds that give away what you two are doing in here after dark, but it's useless; the lewd sounds of his thumb circling over your clit echo throughout the tent: a dead giveaway to anyone that dare walk by. Holding your breath like this isn't easy, not when the pounding of your heart echoes in your ears and your chest feels as if it's being seared from the inside out. A ragged gasp finally inhales through your nostrils, desperately trying to fulfill your body's need for air when you can no longer restrain your breaths.

He huffs out a low chuckle in amusement at the state he has you in: clearly desperate and in need to have your clit rubbed just the way you like it.

"Hmm.. Hear that?" He rasps out before going silent, letting you hear the sounds of your own slick being spread over your soaked cunt. He only continues when he finally reaches your clit, circling over the throbbing little nerve-ending to make you sigh out in pleasure for him. "So goddamn wet. All for me."

In a blur of movements, Arthur's chapped lips and teeth skim over your knee, slowly working their way down over your inner thighs. He nips at you, earning a few little squeaks and giggles until he kisses over your plump mound. His thumbs take hold of either side of your cunt, spreading you open to let the night air hit your wet skin. It's pleasant like this, to feel yourself spread out beneath him like a meal ready to be devoured and dammit if he ain't starved for a taste. Being eaten out has quickly become one of your favorite acts of intimacy in recent weeks; his tongue is so skilled at finding spots on you, making you come so deliciously, that most days it's all you've been able to think about. Hell, it's all you're thinking about now as his head sinks down to your core and his hot breath fans out over your aching need. His tongue slips out of that perfect mouth and flattens out over your seam, lapping at you once to earn him that little sigh of pleasure escaping your throat.

Your hands immediately seek out his head, combing through his slightly sweat-dampened hair as he swirls the blunt tip of his tongue over your clit.

"A-Agh, Arthur.. N-Not so fast," you whine out in protest, yet your hips bucking up into his mouth says otherwise. But he relents, nonetheless, giving you a moment of reprieve before he delves back in at the same pace.

He's aiming to make you cum quick and hard: slithering his tongue over your clit with the precision of knowing exactly what side and spot makes you writhe beneath him. Just left and then a little upward beneath that little hood of skin and he has you singing for him. Explicitves roll off your tongue one after another in between sweet little sounds that praise him for what effort he's putting in just for you. To hear you, feel you crumble beneath him like this is better than any robbery or score he gets out on the road. But just before he lets you come, he pulls his head back slightly and puffs cool air over your clit, making you whine.

"Shh.. Shh.. 'M gonna let ya cum, Darlin'. Don'tchu worry 'bout that none. 'M gonna take real good care of ya," he hums lowly as his lips and bristly scruff brush over your quivering inner thighs.

His promise isn't far off from fulfillment, not when he sinks his tongue into your heat and presses his opened mouth over the entirety of your cunt. He sucks hard, feeling your walls constrict around the wriggling muscle of his tongue as he laps inside your spongey center. Your thighs tremble with need as he fucks you with his mouth and slurps up your slick, drinking in as much of you as he can and relishing the tangy sweetness of your delectable taste. You throw your head back against the rolled-up blanket you had been using as a pillow earlier in the night, all while he eats you out like a man who's desperate to consume you.

But the aching throb of his cock, constricted by the thin fabric of his union suit, is far too angry for him to ignore. He's got to have you, now.

As he shuffles back up to his knees, leaving your cunt longing to cum on his tongue, you flutter your eyes open and snap your head up to try and catch a glimpse of what he's doing. Clearly, you ain't pleased with him teasing you like this, but when you feel his fervent movements, you realize that he's trying to work off his union suit. He wastes no time it peeling it away from his torso, but the moment he starts to tug it down his thighs, allowing his weeping cock to spring free, he nearly topples over and just about slams head-first into your body. Thankfully, he catches himself in the knick of time, grunting out a few curses as he grows impatient with his incapability to slide that damn fabric off his legs.

Amid his struggle to bare himself, you can't hide the giggle creeping up your throat as he curses under his breath, frustrated with how the fabric insists on clinging to his muscular legs. You help him slide the old red union suit off his body by digging your heels against the back of his thighs and pushing it down the long length of his legs until it reaches his ankles. The undergarment hangs loosely off his feet, causing him to kick it haphazardly off the side of the bed, letting it fall onto his trunk to skirt down on the grass below.

The instant his turgid length brushes over your inner thigh it twitches with the anticipation of feeling your tight, wet walls clamped around him, milking every drop of spend nestled away in his balls; spend that he so desperately wishes he could drain right inside of you. For now, however, just a single brush of your fingertips against him is enough. He has to hold his breath as he guides your delicate palm over his velvety shaft to stroke the needy ache away; if he isn't careful, he'd cum just like this. He hisses, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth as your fingers wrap around him and your thumb seeks out the weeping slit of his blunt tip. Arthur is, by no means, a small man: his legs are long, torso strong and wide, feet and hands are like bear paws, and his cock.. God, his cock is big. You could use both of your hands to stroke him and still, there'd be enough room for his tip to be entirely untouched. But you make sure as you stroke him with one hand, you pay extra attention to his tip, smearing his drooling precum over as much of him as you can, even down to the dark and wiry curls along his base and balls.

He's trying so hard to hold himself back, but with each tender pass of your thumb over that sweet spot along the underside of his tip, the last remnants of his patience crack away. You feel him crumbling like this, crumbling into a frenzied mess of low-hummed breaths and grunts through gritted teeth, and you fucking love it. Before you can even think about the desire roaring in the cavernous pit of your stomach, aching to be quelled, he smashes his lips into yours so hard that you're sure one of you is bleeding. The pain of his busted lip splitting back open is an angry reminder of the frustration still lingering at the back of his mind; he's as tensed up, pent-up, as a taut rope ready to snap.

With a quick movement, he swats your hand away, preventing you from jacking him into a fast climax. Then, in one swift motion, he grabs hold of your thighs and forcefully yanks you toward him, making the round swell of your plump ass plant firmly against the hard front of his strong body. Your thighs spread out, squishing over and conforming to the contour of his hips, the intimate contact leaving you both ragged and breathless. Your heart drums a frantic rhythm in your ears, drowning out all other thoughts and sensations that belong to you alone. It's as if your mind has descended into a tangled web of strangled noises and glorious sensations that only Arthur seems able to untangle or soothe. The faint outline of his body nestled between your thighs is a constant reminder that nothing beyond this moment, beyond him hidden away with you inside of this tent, matters.

The hard length of his turgid pride parts your folds, gliding over the slick thatch of curls usually concealing your cunt from his eyes, but with his sight hindered, he can explore every single nook, roll, and crevice without you shying away. His weight bares down on you as he holds your legs into the crook of his arms, nearly bending you in half as he drags his cock over your seam. It feels so good like this, even though you can hardly breathe with the thickness of your thighs pressing against your already plump stomach, but when the tip of his cock knocks into your clit, it makes the strained pain well worth it. The back of your hand flies over your mouth as he continues on like this, pleasuring himself and you with each agonizingly slow thrust. Hearing your ragged, strangled half-breaths, he releases your thighs, leaving them to splay out lazily on either side of his hips as he leans down to steal a tender kiss.

Upon breaking his lips away from yours, the low hum of his voice finds its way through the haziness of your lust-broken mind as he murmurs against the shell of your ear, "Gonna take ya just like this..."

Chapped lips skim over your jawline and trail to your lips, where he gives you another tender kiss filled with gentle affection: polar opposite to the rough sex-driven outlaw you've gotten a taste of tonight, but aligning perfectly with the man you fell in love with all those years ago. Scraped knuckles skim against your slick heat as he slips his hand in between you both and presses flat over the thick, dark curls at the base of his throbbing length. His fingers spread wide over his pubic bone, holding his cock between his middle and ring finger, stiffening himself outward to seek out your clenched entrance. With a slight pullback of his hips, he guides himself to your slit, catching right on the taut muscle before pressing forward and splitting you open.

A soft cry hums in the back of your throat and he shushes you so tenderly, sliding his hands over your knees and down your shins to soothe the ache he knows you're feeling. You're so fucking tight, hardly different from the first night he took you and bedded you properly back at the Saint's Hotel. It nearly shatters him when your walls flutter around him, squeezing and pulling him in inch by inch as if you were carved out just for him to sink into. He stills only for a short moment, letting you feel him nestled up against your cervix before he slides himself out and enters you again with a sharp snap of his hips. Lingering anger and frustration from the shit day he's had still pulsates at the back of his mind, desperate to be released as the tension in his body rises.

The tight walls of your cunt clench onto him for dear life as jolts of pleasure and pain rack through your body.

Behind the shield of your palm, you cry out, "A-Agh, Arthur!"

You're trying your best to be quiet, to still your ragged breaths and hide your whimpers, but he's making it incredibly difficult. Each slow drag of his cock coming out of you with a satisfying pop, only to pierce you with a hard roll of his hips, sends you reeling. You're seeing stars, shaking from the pleasurable burn of the passionate fire he's stirring within you. Strong hands grip your hips, keeping you still as his thrusts guide you into a steady rhythm that makes the old wooden frame creak and groan with every subtle and sharp movement that your bodies make. Being discreet has left his mind entirely, no longer concerned with what sounds are coming out of his tent as he fucks you good and proper. No, he couldn't care less when the sounds of your slick pussy squelches as he presses himself flush against you and groans against the pulse point of your neck.

"Don't want ya hidin' them purdy sounds, Darlin'. Let 'em out for me," he grunts out between slow but hard thrusts.

Usually, intimacy like this is savored in the shaking breaths and whispered little sounds only audible to your ears, but tonight... Tonight Arthur is something else entirely. Primal. A damn, dirty outlaw. You love this new view of him, but you can't allow yourself to let the others hear. What if someone were walking by? Or Hosea or Dutch hear you two going at it? You wouldn't be able to look at them for a week! But he doesn't give you much choice in the matter: snaking his hand down between your bodies, his muscular forearm presses against your plush belly while his thumb immediately finds your clit.

"O-Oh, God," you whine as the pad of his thumb circles over you, followed by his name dripping off your tongue like the sweetest honey. "At's it... Such a good girl takin' me so deep. Mmm.. Gonna cum 'round me ain'tchu? Gonna give me a real good one, baby?"

God damn him if his mouth ain't filthy. The way he croons out those little praises and words of encouragement has your climax building faster than you ever could have anticipated. And the swirling of his thumb? It has you shaking, whining, pleading, practically begging for your release as he talks you through it, "C'mon, Darlin'... I feel ya squeezin' me real tight," he praises, "'At's it. Focus on me."

With one more swipe of his thumb over your sensitive clit and his cock hitting that sweet spot right against your cervix, you're tensing, digging your heels into the thin mattress, and cumming around him so hard that you see white. It takes everything in you not to scream, but the strangled sound coming out of you is loud enough to warrant some head-turning if anyone were awake. The moment your walls flutter and start milking him, he falls forward and drops down onto his elbows to cage you in. His thrusts are relentless as he takes his anger out on you in this way, using every movement of his body to release the bristling anger clutching onto his mind like a damn vice grip. No matter how fervent and frenzied, he's still careful not to hurt you, always thinking about how good he's making you feel while chasing his own release.

Arthur isn't a man of many words, but when you're gripped around him like this, clutching him with your arms, legs, and your fluttering pussy, he is downright mouthy. "Oh, such a good girl for listenin' to me. Shh.. Shh. I gotchu, baby. I gotchu."

His mouth hovers over yours, claiming your lips as he kisses you hard and possessively. Moans spill out of you, traveling through the expanse of his throat until it hums within his chest and he echoes one back. To talk like this with him, in a language only two lovers could understand, is far more intimate and pleasurable than anyone could ever know. Arthur is yours and you are his, no ownership or proprietary claim, but just the pleasant knowledge that both of you choose to love each other is enough.

With a few more rolls of his hips, he's nearing his own orgasm: length twitching and engorging as his balls tighten. In desperation, he quickly climbs off of you and pulls his cock out from your core. His right hand tightens into a fist around himself, and although you can't see it, you hear the lewd, effortless slide of his hand vigorously pumping over his tip like his life depends on cumming for you.

Finally, his orgasm hits him, working its way out of his tightened balls and spurting over your plump mound and belly. If he could see his spend on you like this, it'd be enough to make him cum all over again. But both of you are far too exhausted to even consider that so soon. You're still shaking, panting heavily as he lowers himself down onto you, not caring that his sticky spend is now covering the front of his body as well, as your sweaty bodies come down from such an enormous height.

His touch traces a slow, deliberate path down your leg until his fingertips reach the softness of your hip, where he gives your flesh a gentle but firm grasp. Reveling in the smoothness of your skin and the feel of your curvy form beneath his palm, he lets out a slow exhale through his nose. The heat of his breath spills over your neck and shoulder, doubled by the heavy breaths leaving his lips as he lazily peppers your clammy skin with kisses.

After a long stretch of quiet spent nestled into his hair, breathing in the comforting remnants of campfire intermingled with his musky scent, your breathing finally begins to steady. Slowly, your senses return to you one by one, like pieces of a puzzle falling back into place. Shock and disbelief jolt through your entire being as it finally hits you how easily he manipulated your body with his own strength and skill as a lover. You'd heard of men being rough with women, but never did you think it could be this pleasurable.

Your voice finally cuts through the relative silence, carrying a deep sense of satisfaction and astonishment with it, "Wh-here in the hell did that come from?"

An amused chuckle rumbles inside his chest, slightly huffing out of his nose as he slightly pushes himself off of you to gauge your reaction, "Reckon I were a little pent up. Why? You like it?"

To say you liked it was an understatement, but you'd like anything as long as Arthur were right there with you to experience it just the same. While his right hand slides up over the plump contours of your body, appreciatively grabbing at the plushness of your stomach and breasts, he lovingly brushes a few stray strands of hair off your forehead stuck there by the sweat covering your body. You hum softly in agreement to his question, deciding that you did enjoy this different side of him you hadn't expected, despite his rough exterior.

"Mhmm.. 'S always good with you," the loving words you murmur cling to his heart and earn you a pleasant kiss that tastes like the remnants of his busted lip.

As his lips trail back down over your jawline, his beard delightfully scratches over your sensitive skin, causing you to hum in appreciation for him loving you like a man who worships the very ground you walk upon. Your own body follows his lead, fingertips glide down the entire length of his back, tracing the contour of muscle that hint at the immense strength lurking beneath. You can't help but marvel at his shape, this man you love so dearly, and how his body was molded for love and carved from such a hard life. While your fingertips glide across his muscled frame, you can feel the subtle shift of his body as he adjusts himself on top of you, notricebly more relaxed than before: a clear testamanet to the calming eddect your touch has on him.

Curiosity peaked, you murmur, "You relaxed now?" as your fingertips idly trace the two little dimples that grace the base of his spine, just above the firm and muscular curve of his ass.

An amused smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, obviously enjoying the path your fingertips are carving out over his back. He'd never admit it, but he loves it when you grab him unabashedly, palming his ass like he so often does to you. The warmth of his cock brushing over your leg, hardening much faster than he expected for a man his age, tells you all you need to know.

He agrees with you, humming softly against your chest as he inches himself down to where his mouth hovers over the plump swell of your breasts, "Thinkin' that we just might need a little more time for relaxin', don'tchu?"

A/N: Big thanks for the divider from @saradika-graphics and the beautiful gif from @sunwingsunset, please go send them some love for their work! <3

Other creators that expressed interest and drew inspiration from: @subpopizzy , @cassietrn , @coltermorning , @redwritr, @zae-heeyyy, @twola , @amorgansgal

Please do go check all the blogs I tagged! You surely won't be disappointed!

As always, sending my love - M. <3

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

So I

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Summary: your casual arrangement turns a bit too serious.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

There’s a knock at the door. You huff as you don’t need to look through the peep hole to know who it is. No buzzer but he always finds a way. 

You pick up your phone and open the chat, ‘told you I’m tired.’ 

The little check mark flicks down. Read. No reply comes, only another knock on the door. 

‘Long day.’ You send another message. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. 

“You really want me to knock the door down?” Bucky chuckles through the wood. 

You inhale and roll yourself off the couch. You drop the phone on the square end table as you pass and drag your feet to the door. You lean on the inside and yawn as loudly as you can. 

“It’s after curfew,” you jeer. He wiggles the handle. “Go home.” 

“You’re gonna leave me out here like a stray cat? Come on. I came all the way down here,” he pleads. 

You turn your back to the door and shrug, “told you not to. Besides, not all of us have a soft spot for alley cats.” 

“Alpine is not an ally cat. Come on, I brought beer.” 

You scoff, “thought that piss didn’t do anything for ya?” 

“No, but it makes you a lot of fun.” 

You huff and push off the door. You turn and slide back the chain. You flip the lock back and open up. You arch a brow at your uninvited guested. 

“Thank you,” you trill and grab the six pack from him. He catches the door before you can swing it shut. He tuts and steps forward, pushing his elbow into the wood until you let it go. 

“Don’t play games. You know, I can tell when you’re in need of a good fucking. You don’t send any emojis.” He snaps the door shut behind him as you retreat with your prize. 

“Or maybe I was trying to get you to stop texting so I could enjoy my new toy in peace. Ever think of that. Sometimes It's about efficiency, not passion.” 

“Passion?” He scoffs as leans a hand on the wall and lifts a foot to undo his boot. 

“Probably not the right word for this,” you free a can from the plastic rings and shove the rest in the fridge. 

“You and your goddamn toys. Let me guess, this one has blue tooth.” 

“Does yours?” You strut out of the kitchen and flick his arm in passing. 

“No but it’s got all the features you need and you know it.” He taps your ass before you can elude him. 

You crack the can of beer and take a deep gulp. The TV continues to blare the reality show retrospective you’ve been feeding your time to. You flop on the couch and sigh. You suck down the grainy brew and swallow a gulp before it can escape your throat. 

Bucky looms behind the couch and grips the back. He leans over you. “How many of those until those hideous pajamas come off?” 

“Ha? What? You don’t wanna fuck me in my Spongebob jammies? They’re vintage.” 

He snorts, “you really are good a killing the mood, aren’t you?” 

“You’re a real Squidward sometimes, you know that?” You slurp another mouthful. 

“I have no idea what that is,” he says flatly as he tickles along your shoulder. 

You hate it. You hate him. Just a touch and you’re ready to go. Minutes ago, you were ready to pass out but now you’re wide awake. And fucking horny. 

“BPM going up, body temperature rising,” he runs his vibranium knuckles along your cheek and you wince away from him. 

“I hate when you do that.” You pull away and stand, plunking down the can. You huff and peel off your tank top. “I have an interview for a promotion tomorrow so hurry up.” 

“Romantic? Do you still wanna use the new toy? You know I don’t mind filling your mouth when you get like this.” 

You stick your tongue out at him and point to the bedroom. He rolls his eyes and strides off. You pause the television and take another swig of beer. You need to sleep and he’s good at fucking you into a coma. 

As you reach the bedroom, he’s already naked. His broad shoulders are etched in scars, the left one mottled with aged burns along the border of vibranium. His muscles cord down along his rib cage and sides.

A year ago, you would never expect a man like this to be standing naked in your bedroom. A super soldier. Bucky Barnes. 

He turns to you and wiggles the little square between his two fingers. The wrapped condom reflects the overhead light with its flashy packaging. He flexes his chest as you reach to undo your bra. 

“Should I pop it on now or can I get a taste first?” He asks with a flick of his tongue. 

You march to him and swipe the condom from his grasp. You jab his chest and he staggers back to the bed, his legs pressing against the frame. He teeters as he smirks down at you. 

“I’ll give you a ride, cowboy.” 

He falls back and spreads his arms wide. The bed squeaks beneath his weight. You push down your pajama pants and climb over him. You toss the mattress to the top of the bed as you raise yourself on your knees, hovering over his head as his thick hair fans out beneath.

He turns to graze his beard against your thigh. You purr and lower yourself to smother him in your cunt. He hums and laps at you eagerly. 

Mmm. This is exactly the stress relief you need. 

[barblaz-arts]

As someone who ships Chaggie as well, I want your opinion on this.

Someone made a kinda good point about Charlie and Vaggie’s relationship; the point being that there’s a power imbalance between them. Charlie is the princess of hell. She wouldn’t physically loose anything or be hurt physically if she breaks up with Vaggie. But Vaggie would loose both the love of her life and her home and friends if they break off. And so they see this toxic dynamic because Vaggie is “walking on eggshells” in order to stay in Charlie’s favor and not getting on her bad side.

So….thoughts?

The problem is people who say these things treat the terms "power imbalance" and "toxic" and "unhealthy" as the same things when they are not.

There is a power imbalance, yes, definitely. I constantly make jokes about the fact that Charlie and Vaggie have a forbidden love story in a Boss/Employee HR violation kinda way for pete's sake. It's just a lot more funny thinking about the fact that that probably has more weight than the demon/angel situation.

But the thing is, no matter what Charlie will ALWAYS have a power imbalance with whoever she dates because she is literally the princess of Hell, as they have said. Even if she dates a fellow hellborn royal, the fact that Charlie is in a higher position of power will always be a fact because her parents are literally the only ones above that. So what? Should she just not date anyone??? Also, isn't the one has a higher position of power but still loves the other a super popular ship trope? Rich x poor. Royalty x commoner. Goddess/immortal x normal human. Popular in school x the social loser. The list goes on. So why is it a problem now?

The fact that they think Vaggie "walks on eggshells" around Charlie is a bit...? I'm just a little confused you know? Vaggie is definitely not afraid of Charlie. When they had their fallout, she wasn't afraid of losing the things she was dependent on Charlie if they ever broke up(i.e. a home, her safety, money etc) because Vaggie damn well knows Charlie wouldn't do that. Everyone in hell knows Charlie goddamn Morningstar wouldn't do that. Vaggie was merely afraid of losing their relationship, which is a perfectly normal thing to be afraid of. Vaggie's dedication to Charlie isn't rooted in fear, it's rooted in devotion in the name of what she thinks the person she loves deserves.

The thing that makes Chaggie so great despite that power imbalance is the fact that Charlie is an absolute sweetheart. She isn't the kind of person who would take advantage of that power and Vaggie, as someone who knows her so well, is perfectly aware of that. Vaggie is safe with Charlie in every way that matters, and this is where toxicity and the unhealthy elements come into play.

Charlie and Vaggie as individuals have all the ingredients for an unhealthy relationship. As Husk so plainly pointed out, Charlie would rather fix everyone else's problems than help herself. Meanwhile Vaggie has deep self-hatred that seeps into how she feels about everyone but Charlie. They're both the type of people who would rather think about others rather than themselves. This is the root of their codependency, and why their relationship can be quite unhealthy. It's extremely evident with Vaggie, which makes perfect sense since she probably never saw herself as a person before Charlie.

Those flaws can so easily be taken advantage of in a relationship, but the thing is, do they do that? Do either of them think the other ever would? As Rosie did say...

While Charlie likes to shoulder everyone else's problems, Vaggie looks at the love her life and decides she'll take some of that load so she doesn't get crushed under the weight of the world. Vaggie reels Charlie in by being the realist to Charlie's dreamer. Vaggie used to essentially be Heaven's living weapon, but she has now sworn to be the armor for someone who looks out for everyone but herself.

On the other hand Vaggie's self-worth is shrewed because she's an ex-soldier who thinks she should always be under someone's service to be deserving of anything. But here Charlie is who constantly calls Vaggie her partner and blatantly treats Vaggie as an equal and still loves Vaggie "more than anything" and doesn't doubt that Vaggie loves her in return even after finding out Vaggie's lie and true origins.

So are they good for each other? Maybe not, but there's still more of the show to see. They can be unhealthy, but not to the point that being together damages each other in any significant way. Their relationship is imperfect, which is fine. No relationship is. Especially not in fucking HELL. And perfect for a story because, yunno... They are still in an ongoing story. They aren't a lost cause yet. It's something they can develop from, something we can get to SEE them develop from.

Are they toxic though?? Are they harming each other physically, emotionally, sexually, or financially? Definitely not. Because although whether they're good FOR each other still remains to be seen, it is an undeniable fact that they are good TO each other, despite all the ways they could not be. The unhealthy elements are due to how they treat themselves, but their relationship can't be deemed toxic because of how they treat each other. And for now, that's what matters and that's why I love this ship.

[natewriteslol]

"Short" Fuse

Summary: Despite not really being close, Chilchuck opens up to you about being short, you listen and offer some interesting counters to his insecurities.

A/N: a lil sum sum :P

It had been a long, adventurous day, yet Laios continued his search within the dungeon for some food. The entire party was hungry, but of course the two chefs especially held the urge to eat. They both wanted to go after these specific monsters in the area that could be tasty, something about these snail creatures and main course. Despite apprehension from Marcille she tagged along and Izutsumi not wanting to miss out on the action and still wasn't tired due to her slight nocturnal nature followed suit.

They assured the remaining two should keep watch of the supplies of your camp. And with waves from all of them except from the beastman, the four were engulfed within the darkness of the dungeon.

Leaving solely you and Chilchuck.

Your relationship was most definitely not the closest as he adopted a fatherly nature amongst the other members of the party except for Senshi and you. And whilst that makes sense as the dwarf and yourself were both adults just like Chilchuck, it still was completely different.

You honestly just chalked it up to you joining the party at a later date than the rest, despite bonding with the rest of your other people, even getting closer with someone as combative as Izutsumi.

Truth be told, you couldn't stand it as you were at a stand still of a lack of satisfaction. You weren't liked and you weren't disliked as you both almost never spoke to one another. But you persevered and decided to completely break the ice, not caring if you were being weird at this point.

"How is your sight so good?"

He was caught completely off guard, thinking that you both were going to sit in silence the whole time.

"What do you mean?" Chilchuck asked back, side eyeing you.

"When defeating golems, you're the first to spot their hearts before anyone and you spot weak points on different creatures also that others are blind to. How do you do that?" You explained.

"Half-foots typically have keen eyesight, it comes with the hearing too. Big eyes, big ears," he put it simply.

You continued to poke and prod at him and you ended up making decent conversation with the man, even getting a couple of laughs. But somehow your topic had evolved from weaknesses, to then insecurities.

"Laois is an idiot, but I would rather have more height and be able to perform in battle a little more. Half Foots mainly need to stay out of the way and let other people handle it. It feels...cowardly," he says, putting his arms on top of his knees and sighing.

It was catching you a bit off guard but I guess the saying of opening up to a stranger than someone you know is making itself very apparent at the moment.

"I completely disagree man," you replied, taking a more casual approach.

Chilchuck didn't want to completely block your opinion and he was curious about what you had to say surprisingly , "What are you saying?"

"I'd argue every person in here obviously has an asset that they possess, meaning one would fall apart without the other. Also we have all been in close to death situations and you're usually the most likely to survive due to your height," you explained, poking at the fire with a twig as you sat on the cold dungeon floor.

"I guess," he replied, looking off to the side. But the look on his face had told another story, as if the brunette had more to say.

.

.

.

"Ever since my wife left me, I've been more caring about how people percieve me. Gets on my goddamn nerves."

There it was.

The Half-Foot blurted out, both horrified and relieved he got that off his chest. He held a small pebble within his palm, semi- gently throwing a rock into the fire, crackling the wood and which sent out light embers into the air.

He had been definitely holding that in for a long time, and had no idea how to say it or if he could even speak it aloud. It's common for people to feel that way, more vigilant and embarrassed over what others have to say about them especially if they're single. But it had been a while since the Half-Foot truly felt it after being married for so long.

And for the past five years, it had been completely gnawing at him and his security as a man. He was twenty nine yet still couldn't shake that feeling, but with his occupation, Chilchuck couldn't exactly dwell on romance mid-lock picking or battle.

But on quiet nights like this, it got to him.

"Well, you're lucky you're a good looking guy, otherwise you would be screwed," you said bluntly, taking off your boot to get some dirt out from the inside. He was honestly speechless, had you of all people thought that? Or were you just talking to make him feel better.

But this whole interaction makes him feel so weird, but it's not a... negative feeling.

"You are so damn ridiculous, you know that?"

"You can think whatever you want Chilchuck, but I think deep down you know I'm right," you said, your eyes still fixated on your boot cleaning process. Your statement made a blush spread across his cheeks.

"This dungeon is making me talk to you, I swear," he replied frustratedly, growing "tired" of your antics.

"Well good thing we had this talk, since we both have had things on our mind for a while, huh?"

Although you both opened up about how you've been feeling, Chilchuck was doing a majority of the talking on this subject. Was that what you mean? The beginning when you were talking about yourself and not his appearance and you finding him attractive?

Right?

And just as he was about to inquire further, the short man was quickly cut off by a certain loud blonde.

"Hey guys, we're back!" Laios said excitedly from afar, his voice echoing slightly on the dungeon walls, his hands were wet with wet giant snails whilst Senshi carried a large sack of god knows what on his back.

Marcille and Itsuzumi looked green in the face with disgust, but you knew they would most definitely eat the monster Escargot that you knew the dwarf would whip up. The sight always brought a smile to your face, especially their hypocrisy in finding everything Senshi and Laois made yummy.

As you sat up to go and help with dinner, you looked over your shoulder, "Thanks for the talk Chilchuck, we should do this more often."

This was might not curate the best outcome, but why didn't he want to stop?

Why the hell did he even care?

[slashingdisneypasta]

Kung Fu Panda Villains x Reader || Drabbles

Plot / Includes: The common theme is tea XD

General Kai x Immortal!Reader: After coming back to the living plain as a spirit warrior, Kai’s first stop is to find you, an immortal ex-lover. Will you be happy to see him, though??

Lord Shen x ChildhoodFriend!Reader: You make Shen some tea because he’s always so uptight, and you crave a nice moment with him ^^

Tai Lung x Reader: The first thing Tai Lung does after escaping prison is visit you, his girlfriend/boyfriend/romantic partner from before he was imprisoned- and you’ve been waiting for him ^^

Annnnd, this is my first attempt at writing any of these guys, so I’m sorry if they aren’t quite right!

Warnings: I guess Tai gets a little frisky with you? But not really XD He’s just happy to see you!! XD

General Kai:

… A spirit warrior. This man leaves you for war, starts stealing peoples chi, doesn’t come back for 5 hundred years- and when he finally does come back, he is something called a spirit warrior??

You are deeply unamused. And he knows it- how could he not? You are standing in your doorway looking up at him with a scowl on your lips. He better be intimidated.

“So… “Your voice is as cold as ice, eyes narrowing in distaste as he rubs the back of neck in nervousness at your reaction to him after all these years. Not because he is nervous, but because he has the good sense to look it. “how did it go??”

“Wh- uh… the war??”

“Yes.”

“Well, I um… Oogway banished me to the spirit realm… “

“I heard… “

“Oh, you know. So- uh- you know, that’s why I haven’t been around… not that I didn’t wanna see you, or forgot you or, or anything… “

“Uhuh… “

“Look, can I come in?” He suddenly snaps, dropping his large arms to his sides and moving in closer to you, letting go of the façade of nervousness. “I got other places to be.”

“Oh! You have other places to be??” Immediately Kai realises he has said the wrong thing, when you light up like this. “Great! Go there!”

Then you slam the door in his face. You think he was so close that it knocked his nose- you hope that it knocked his nose. You stay by the door just long enough to hear him grunt on the other side, before sweeping off further into your house to start forgetting he came at all. You spent over 500 years missing him, he can’t just come back one day and treat you like a stop along the way.

Also- what he did, what he is no doubt still trying to do, is unforgiveable. And you refuse to be party to it. No way.

When your door literally flies off the hinges behind you, slamming into the ground with a huge, loud THUD, you whip around with wide eyes and take in a deep breath- ready to yell at this bastard for knocking down your goddamn door-

But he strolls on in, breaking your door further when he steps on it, and holds a hoof up to your face- silencing you. “Y/N… Come on, lets just talk about this.” As you stay completely silent then, Kai takes the opportunity to soften a little bit, using those bovine eyes on you in that way he knows used to make you melt once upon a time. “I missed you.”

… damnit, it still has an effect on you. Not quite the same effect, you’re still holding together - you’re still pissed, - , but that little part of you that was there since you saw him today that desperately wants to accept him back- get a little bit louder.

Now, you can’t do that, you can’t just forgive him, but you can hear him out. On your terms, but… you can be okay with him being in your house… at least. You guess. So, straightening up, you brush his hoof out of your way with the back of your hand, relishing inwardly in the way his face drops at the motion, and head towards the kitchen.

“… fine. Fix that door and if you manage to do that before I finish the tea, you can have some. Deal?”

“I’m on it.”

Lord Shen:

“Shen? I made tea, and thought you might want a cup before you leave?”

“Tea?... I don’t need your tea- “

“Agree to disagree. Sit down.”

This made Lord Shen look at you as if you grew 3 heads and shat on the rug for a good long moment, but you don’t remove your gaze from his even though he’s scary, and after a few moments, he narrows his eyes at you and sits down on the other side of the mat. Success-

“Just a sip.” He tells you, in that hushed voice of his that can be goddamn terrifying depending on what you’ve done, as he picks up a cup in is wing. “I’ve never had tea from you, before… Wonder if it’ll be palatable.” He thinks out loud, half to himself and half to bother you, peering into the cup.

Oh, now- Rolling your eyes, you raise a cup to your own lips, feeling the warmth in your hands, and nod to him. Go on. “Well only one way to find out.” You’ve known Shen for a long time now, you grew up together, so his meanness doesn’t do quite the same thing to you as it does to others. Also, you’ve always been rather resilient, and a little naïve. No matter how hard someone may try to convince you, you cant truly believe that Shen is evil. Evil doesn’t really exist, and if it does then surely it has worse things to do then live inside Shen.

You feel like people calling him evil is just an easy way for them to compartmentalize, and you would rather know him. Which you do. That’s how you kept up eye contact with this insane bird-

“Right… “

As you take a sip yourself, and feel the warm liquid slide down your throat and fill your insides with lovely heat, you wait patiently for Shen to do the same. It takes him a moment, scowling at you as you drink your tea, before he lets out a dramatic sigh and tries it himself. “Alright, alright.” You watch his pretty face change, no longer does it look like he smelt something awful- it actually looks… surprised. Vaguely pleasantly surprised, as a matter of fact, as he looks back into the cup. “… hm.”

“Hmm?~ “

“Its… well, I’m not dead.”

“Did you really think it would kill you, Shen? That I would try to kill you?” You deadpan, but raise your brows expectantly when he raises his eyes to you.

… He pauses. “… well- “

“Shen!”

“You’re right, you wouldn’t have what it takes, would you? No… “ Smirking, Shen takes another sip of his tea. “Thank you, though. This tea is remarkably edible.”

… sighing, you roll your eyes look away as you take another sip yourself. “Thanks. You’re welcome.”

Shen steals your attention again, though, as he drains the last of his tea and holds out the cup to you, an oddly adorable - yet still crazy, - expression on his face. Soft, and almost pleading. “… Can I have some more, then?” His voice, of course, is still terrifying.

A slow grin spreads across your face. “… I thought you were on your way out?”

“Oh shut up, and pour me some tea.”

Tai Lung:

“Y/N!” A familiar voice yells, banging at your front door.

“Tai??” You ask, wide eyed and shocked as you pull the door open and see him standing there.

“Y/N.” He says again, unbelievable and desperate relief in his tone as he pulls you against his chest in the warmest hug you’ve ever experienced- well, since you last saw him. 20 years ago. He breathes in at your head, taking as much of your scent as he can. As he breathes out, he releases a growl, but it is not an unhappy one- its full of comfort. When he speaks, his voice pitters into a bit of whine, at the end. “It’s been too long… “

You just squeeze him closer to you, burying your face in his shoulder and closing your eyes. Its unbelievable to you that he’s here, with you again. How did he get out?? You don’t even care. You don’t even care if he should be out, or what he’s going to do now that he is, you just want to stay here tucked away in him, listening to his heartbeat and holding on to it.

After a few minutes, though, you begin to get nervous someone will see him and call someone- and he would be taken away again- so, sniffing, you pull back gently, and flash him a warm smile; nodding inside. “Do you- do you want some tea??”

Still holding onto your hands/the ends of your wings/paws/etc, his paws being so much larger than what you have, he keeps you close to his body and warmly grins. “I don’t want to let you go, little one.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Alright then.”

You lead him inside and he closes the door behind you both, and while you’re pouring the water into the kettle he wraps his arms around your body from behind and sets his head on top of yours, curling his tail around one of your legs as well. He purrs.

After you set the kettle over the fire Tai Lung sits himself down on one of your kitchen chairs - again, not letting go of your hand/wing/paw/etc at all for even a moment, - before urging you onto his lap where he wraps himself back around you again. “I’ve missed you… “He growls into your hair. “So much, little one… I thought about you, in there, you know… all about you… “

“Oh, I’m assuming you thought about other things, too… “You reply, rolling your eyes, though still very much happy he’s here. Other things, like the scroll… dragon warrior… Shifu… escape…

Chuckling against you, and brushing his tail against you, Tai nods. “Yes, but when I was thinking of you… “ He suddenly squeezes your waist in his paws, making you yelp. “You were the only thing, on my mind… “

“Hmm,” You just him, leaning your head on his chest.

After a few more moments of blessed enjoyment of each other’s company, each other’s touch and warmth, Tai speaks up again. This time, there is a hint of nervousness in his voice that causes you to lift off of his chest in order to watch his face; Concerned. “Were you… uh, I mean, have you… “ Sighing, he looks away for a moment and gathers himself. Then looks back, serious. “Is there anyone else?... “

The look on his face is saying that he wouldn’t blame you, if their were. You were without him for a long, long time. And he would prefer you be happy, with someone else… then depressed, and alone. It would hurt him… but he loves you.

It tells you that you made the right decision in waiting all this time.

With a small, sad smile, you shake your head at him. “I promised you- I would wait. I’m yours, Ta- Ah!“ He kisses you then like he cant help it, growling into your mouth.

When he pulls back, his paw on your jaw, theirs a pleased grin on his face- but unbelievably fond look in his yellow eyes. “… I’m yours too, Y/N.”

[orcasoul]

Joel Miller Imagine

How I imagine pre outbreak Joel would treat the woman of his dreams, aka you! 😍💘

Word Count: 757

Pre outbreak Joel who finally plucked up the courage to ask out his neighbour after weeks of subtle flirting over the fence.

Pre outbreak Joel who hasn't been on a date in foreeeever! He suddenly feels out of his depth, not knowing what the dating scene is like today.

Pre outbreak Joel who is stressing over every minute detail; should I clean shave or trim? Should I bring her flowers or will that be a bit too much for a first date? Should I play it cool or just be myself and hope for the best?

Pre outbreak Joel who's still a southern gent through and through, who comes to your front door (with a bunch of flowers, because... what the hell), opens the truck door when you get in (he even gave the inside a full clean so there would be no dust or residue from his work clothes), pulls your chair out at the restaurant and lets you order first.

Pre outbreak Joel who feels a surge of pride and elation swelling in his chest as your eyes light up when you arrive at the restaurant he wanted to surprise you with. It's the one you'd been dying to try for ages but just never got round to it.

Pre outbreak Joel who can't get over how stunning you look in your little black dress that hugs your shape, accentuating your curves in a sexy but classy way, who can't help but mirror your own smile as you get quite animated while talking about your interests and passions, who suddenly gets nervous and very aware of himself when you ask questions about him, hoping he can captivate you as you have him and not come across as a boring fart.

Pre outbreak Joel who offers you a taste of his meal and is delighted to see that you are comfortable enough around him to try some. You even offer him a taste of yours in return.

Pre outbreak Joel who loosens up as the evening progresses, realising you both have more in common than he could have anticipated; the same dry sense of humour, the same love of action movies, you even love playing the guitar for crying out loud!

Pre outbreak Joel who gets nervous once again as you both stroll through a nearby park later on, wanting so much to reach out and hold your hand but he refrains, not knowing if you'd appreciate it or feel uncomfortable, who feels relief flood his veins as you get closer, purposefully brushing your knuckles against his, a subtle, non verbal way of telling him you want the closeness as much as he does, who smiles as he threads his fingers through yours and feels your hand tighten around his in return.

Pre outbreak Joel who walks you to your front door, smiling like a damn fool when you gush about what a great time you had and ask him on a second date before he can ask you, who accepts eagerly and makes sure you know he also had a wonderful time.

Pre outbreak Joel who's heart is racing like a runaway train as you look into his eyes and then his lips before quickly meeting his gaze again, who may be rusty when it comes to dating but he knows exactly what you want and goddamn it!, he wants it too.

Pre outbreak Joel who throws caution to the wind and brings his palm slowly to cup your cheek (the calloused skin of his work worn hands and the soft smoothness of your cheek is a striking contrast) who leans in slowly, giving you the chance to pull away and who's heart almost bursts when you close the gap, meeting his lips in a delicate press which, after a few moments becomes more passionate as you thread your arms around his neck and his hands find their place on your hips.

Pre outbreak Joel who's just as giddy as you are when you both pull away, looking at one another as if you'd both hung the stars just for the other person, as if no one else exists, who kisses the back of your hand and tells you he can't wait for next friday night, who waits until you close your front door and hears the lock engage before he leaves your front porch with a smile that could rival the chesire cats'.

Pre outbreak Joel who knows something has shifted between you both; something huge!

Pre outbreak Joel who knows he's in trouble! 😌

[violetdaphne]

percabeth tv show-verse headcanons because middle school me is frothing at the mouth at her fav book series being adapted

when it comes time for offerings, percy does not move. he doesn't move a goddamn muscle, staying put at the poseidon table because, sure, his dad helped him during the quest but that doesn't mean he can forget so easily the shadow that came over luke's face when the older demigod explained how the gods expect their children to burn their own food just for a sliver of attention so percy chooses to just. not move. he sits and eats and ignores the curious glances he gets from other campers when its their turn. so no, he doesn't offer anything to his dad or any other god, even when Mr. D gives him the stink eye but what he does do is spot the glaring mission portion on annabeth's plate from her scraping off her own offering (she sits with him now, at the poseidon table breaking many rules about sitting with your own cabin because she can't stand seeing percy all alone, and, well, he's actually kind of fun to hang around for a seaweed brain), he sees the gaps on her plate and instead of offering anything to his dad he offers his own food to her, insisting when she protests and scoping a portion of his own meal onto her plate the moment he has an opening because he doesn't want her going hungry, not because of athena. it feels a little bit like blasphemy but also achingly devotional so he hides his grin behind a proud smirk and says no take-backies while she just raises her brows amusedly.

percy has developed a scary, uncanny habit that freaks out grover and other campers of being able to tell exactly where annabeth is even when she's wearing the invisibility cap. whether it be during capture the flag, sword training, climbing the lava wall, or just meandering about camp to avoid clarisse, percy just has a sort of annabeth-sense and can point with near complete accuracy where she stands when completely invisible to the naked eye. it becomes a camp favorite spectacle to watch them during games and training, fighting back to back, or against each other, and just how swiftly they move, even when percy can't see his partner. he's not sure how or why he is able to know where she is, but secretly loves how he is the only one able to pick her out in a crowd. percy jokes he has his very own spidey-sense geared toward annabeth but she stares at him blankly, the reference going over her head and he just mentally adds it to the very long list of movies he needs to show her. (he does end up, eventually, showing her spiderman but ends up shutting it off quickly when the sight of the spider biting peter parker send her spiraling)

sometimes, when her cabin is just too loud and her bunkmates are too rambunctious and the noise pulses in her ears and she just wants some peace and fucking quiet for once annabeth will slip her cap on and sneak away from her siblings and most often ends up outside the poseidon cabin, asking percy shyly if he minds if she hides out here for a bit because everywhere else is too loud and too much. she doesn't even get to finish her sentence before percy ushers her in and says she's welcome in his cabin anytime. it suprises her, an athena kid, how much she ends up liking the tranquility and ocean-air scent of the poseidon cabin. there's only a few bunks compared to the many that line the walls of her own cabin, so percy lets her chose one (she chooses the one closest to his own and decidedly doesn't think about what it means) and she finally gets some quiet time for her to read or work on blueprints or whatever else she wants to do. sometimes percy is there, sitting idly with his own craft or book to keep him occupied, and annabeth finds she quite likes these times where she and him can just sit together in a contented peace. it becomes common knowledge at camp that when one can't find annabeth the best place to look is the poseidon cabin, and when that doesn't work just find percy because the two are quickly becoming attached at the hip, much to grover's delighted annoyance.

speaking of grover, he gets first row seats to the developing friendship between the two and he knows, knows that this is it. this right in front of him, the bickering and arguing that can flip to deep understanding and compassion at the flick of a hat is fucking endgame, or the closest to it at just 12 years old. he watches how they work together during capture the flag, so scarily in tune that they are able to more than once outsmart clarisse and the other team. he watches percy practice controlling his powers and water abilities at the shoreline of camp, annabeth just feet away and watching in a poorly hidden awe as he moves the tide and waves with a flick of his wrist. he watches them sneak around after curfew because annabeth wanted to show percy the constellations and the best time to see them is in the dead of night so they brave the harpies and Mr. D's wrath to lay out on the pier of camp to see the stars. he watches them on the quest when annabeth insists he is alive after the arch, watches them hug like he isn't standing right there and the relief is palpable, and he just. knows. its so obvious and he loves to claim, years later, that he knew first.

the ocean and water and all its inhabitants are all extensions of percy, right? they're all in poseidon's, and therefore percy's domain so its only natural for them follow in his lead when he's around. therefore, its only natural for the water and it's grace to treat annabeth with the same respect it treats their demigod. percy makes sure of it, if inadvertently, chiding the tide to be careful and warning the waves to not chill her. and the kicker? he doesn't even realize he's doing it until annabeth mentions offhand that the water during her canoe lesson at camp was particularly and oddly calm when everyone else's was rough and choppy. he blushes so bad she offers to take him to the infirmary, which evidently only makes him flush harder.

poseidon realizes it too, of course, the ocean is primarily his domain and he knows well what's going on in every inch of it, so he senses immediately how percy is growing into his powers, exercising his control over the sea and growing more powerful day by day, and how it all seems to center around a certain athena kid. he rubs it in athena's face, the growing friendship between their kids, but find himself getting really quiet when she sends her owl after his eyes.

luke calls them an old married couple and they hate how right he is, and how they keep accidently proving him right. they argue over the littlest of things; the best type of jam to put on toast at breakfast, the pronunciation of greek words and monsters, the best way for percy to take care of his curls, anything and everything they will find something to bicker over until grover or whoever is with them just stares until the argument peters out and they move on to the next subject without missing a beat, leaving whoever their unfortunate third wheel is feeling very adrift.

[gatorlovebot]

read more of my king!simon blurbs here

you had accompanied simon far, far outside of the kingdom for a long stretch of days for a reconciliation hearing with another kingdom.

it was you’re first time ever taking a train and during the whole ride there you marveled at the beautiful scenery you drove past. the train car was also very comfortable. plush seats that allowed you to relax on the way there.

the way home on the other hand, was a different story. there was a delay in your travel for some reason or another that set back your return to the castle by hours. the sun already setting by the time the train started moving. the delay put everyone in a sour mood. except, of course, for simon’s secretary.

you’re roused from your sleep when a big presence seemingly throws all of its body weight into the seat, pressed close to you. you know it’s simon before he even talks. “fucking twat won’t shut up about the goddamn treaty.” he grumbled.

you settled back into your seat, shoulders bumping against simon’s. “what did you expect, your highness?”

“i expect to get some fucking peace and quiet.” he griped, tugging on the blanket you had draped over your legs, instead of just asking to share. once you had settled the blanket over the two of you he let out a heavy sigh, “sometimes it seems like you’re the only one that gets it.”

you hum in agreement, “i spend the most time with you out of anyone.” you sink back into the plush seat, cheeks smushing into simon’s shoulder. “i also have common sense.” you giggle to yourself.

“that you do.” he agrees.

you all finally arrive at the castle in the dead of night, simon ordering everyone to go back to their quarters for the night for rest. he turns up the steps to his chambers without a word, signaling to everyone to leave him alone for the rest of the night. you still followed, knowing your day was not done until the king was in bed.

he opts out of a shave with the promise he’ll let you do it in the morning. his bath is hot but mostly out of necessity. after a long day of travel he stinks but is too tired to really soak in the tub like he would prefer, knowing that he'd rather sink back into bed instead of dragging the task out.

you lay out his sleeping garments and once he’s out of the tub you sit down at his writing desk, back turned a little bit to give him some privacy. before you know it your heavy eyelids are drooping shut and you’re slumped over the desk.

simon turns to you, now dressed in the sleep garments you picked out for him. your head is tilted down and he can hear your soft little snores. he’s crossing the distance to you in seconds without even thinking, reaching underneath your legs to hoist you up into his arms.

you startle awake and jerk in his grip, having been much more asleep than you realized. “simon?” you question as he sets you down on the edge of his bed.

you watch as he walks to the other side of the bed, pulling back the blankets. “you should just stay here tonight, no use in you walking all the way down to your quarters in the middle of the night. can’t have you falling on your face if you shut your eyes for too long.”

“simon, i can’t just do that.” you protested. “i can have one of your guards walk me down if you’re so worried.”

he groaned, “no, just,” he huffs and makes his way back over to his closet, the one that holds his everyday clothes. he pulls out a shirt, soft and long, something he’d wear to sleep in the hotter months.

“here,” he tosses it towards you, “just wear this.”

you look at the soft fabric in your hands, contemplating what to do. simon seemed to be in no mood to argue, but you know he would let you leave if you really wanted to. your sleeping quarters were all the way on the other side of the castle, you could cry just thinking about the trek. and his bed was so much more comfortable than your’s. but how would that look? his little handmaiden not coming back to her own bed? the rumors would be something awful in the morning.

“love,” his voice breaks you out of your thoughts. “just put it on.”

his soft plea makes up your mind for you. you reach down to unclasp your shoes as you try to ignore the smug little look on his face. you twist your arm to reach back to undo the buttons of your dress but as you struggle to reach the ones up by your neck you feel the bed dip behind you, simon’s fingers working the buttons undone easily, “let me.” he whispers.

you take a deep breath as more and more of your back is exposed to him, his hand trailing down to the last button. he shifts again, “i won’t look.”

with his promise you stand and let the dress pool at your legs, pulling the sleep shirt over your head. you walk back over to his desk, carefully placing your dress over the back of the chair so it doesn’t look too wrinkled in the morning when you inevitably have to go back to your quarters to start your day again.

when you turn back to the bed simon has properly sprawled himself out on one side, underneath the blankets, head cradled by silk lined pillows. you almost feel giddy, as you approach the bed, about to experience a piece of luxury you never thought you ever would.

his soft mattress seems to mold to your body as you sink into it and you can’t suppress the satisfied sigh that leaves your lips as your head finally meets the pillows. simon keeps a respectable distance and before you can even worry about what tomorrow will bring, the world has gone dark again.

you awake to sunlight streaming through the thick curtains that you forgot to close the night before. there’s a warm weight across your back. simon.

you don’t know what time it is, but the deep snores emanating from behind you tells you that he won’t be up anytime soon. you selfishly curl yourself deeper into his embrace and your stomach dips when he in turn squeezes you tighter to his chest.

[tired-biscuit]

I just saw your drabble about kiba’s family smelling the fuck on you……what about baby fever Kiba that can smell you ovulating and you don’t know what’s gotten into him

the way you got me kicking my feet into the air with this ask, omg!! <3

18+ mdni, fem!reader / cw: breeding

i think he'd have the urge to breed you and knock you up pretty early in the relationship, like right from the very start. better yet, even if you're nothing but friends and he secretly fancies you, he's still thinking about it, considering it even, because he can smell whenever you're in your "child bearing prime" whether he wants to or not, and it's literally driving him fucking insane.

but being the respectful man that he is, bless him and his mother, he knows that it's not usually the way these things go; that social norms say that partners should probably get to know each other a little bit better and grow closer before starting families.

so he takes it down a notch when you become his girlfriend. of course he does.

i mean, he doesn't want to scare you away by forcing you to get so serious with him so soon, so what else can he do than tuck away that animalistic side of him - the one that's a pretty common trait to have in his clan - and say that he's completely fine with going super slow, that he's a-okay with using protection? hell, he even goes as far as to pretend that the sweet change in your scent which your ovulation causes doesn't faze him every month, even if it makes his goddamn skin feel like it's on fire.

and sure, he enjoys getting to know you better, settling down with you slowly and taking it easy, but the urge to fuck his kids into you just won't go away. it grows peskier and peskier with each passing week, month, year. it's in his blood after all, he can't possibly do anything about it; it's just the way he's programmed.

so i think - despite the precautions - he'd sort of loosen up and start hinting at it pretty early, after like a year or so. it'd start off innocent enough, like he'd just be talking about your future and stuff like that. but then your cycle comes to the ovulation part again, and all of a sudden he doesn't mind showing how it affects him as well. how clingy it makes him. how touchy he gets during it. how needy.

he follows you around the house during those days and constantly keeps you close. fucks you way more often. develops a daddy kink (or finally allows you to see it, who knows) and makes sex last longer; his dick buried so deep inside of you that you feel like you're going to fucking burst because of the mating press he insists holding you in despite that you aren't even mating technically (sadly) because of the condom that you make him wear.

he does admit at some point that the scent attracts him after you start questioning his sudden change in behaviour. he even tells you that he's grown so comfortable around you by now that he can't bother to hide it anymore. and well, it makes sense for him and his abilities, so you're not all that surprised when he's brushing against you in the kitchen when you're all hormonal once again next month; feeling his hands as he slowly drags them up and down your sides, while the bulge in his sweatpants presses against your ass in a way that makes heat pool between your legs.

however, something is different this time around. he doesn't stop tugging at your leggings when you remind him that he should go grab a rubber if he plans to fuck you on the kitchen counter. no, instead of running to the bedroom like he normally does, he just pushes his hips further into your own, and tells you that perhaps he wants to fuck you right here and now. that he's positive that you'd like it; that he knows you oh, just so well.

"c'mon," he says. "what's a lil' risk, mm?"

and you giggle at that, a faint blush searing your face because you think he's just joking, that he's just messing around with you like he has a habit of doing, but he still isn't moving. he just rests his chin against your shoulder, his sensitive nose nuzzling into the crook of your neck, as he sighs and tells you again how good you smell right at that moment. how sweet the scent is. how appealing it is.

and then one thing leads to another because you're hormonal and needy too, even more than he is if that is even possible. your panties are literally constantly soaked and your poor pussy needs to be taken care of, he knows it, so it's not even shocking that he manages to bend you over the counter and fuck the shit out of you completely raw as your toes curl in your little fuzzy socks and your eyes squeeze shut because of the realisation; because of the risk.

so you tell him, through broken moans and quick gasps, that he's not allowed to cum inside and that this is the only time you're risking it like this. and he agrees. he pulls out the last second - hesitantly, yes, but he does - and cums on your lower back instead, trying to ignore the way he felt your tight hole fluttering with intention to milk him dry.

and that's that.

well, for the most part.

because ever since then, you're getting raw-dogged every other night and are literally begging him to fill you up during your dazed state, because, well, it feels so good. because it's so fucking good and rewarding to see him be so into it; to be so into you. he's been passionate before, but this is on an entirely different level.

he's literally whispering the dirtiest shit into your ear as he breeds you, all focused and with eyes so fierce that they could burn holes through you. is telling you how good your pussy feels when it's soaking wet like this, that he can smell how urgently it needs him, and that he's just so fucking happy that he gets to experience it entirely at long last.

he's even calling you his pretty mate, how proud he is of you, how you're such a good girl for being willing to take his load, how he wants you to make him a daddy and to let him fill you up over and over again, until you're leaking his cum and are pregnant with his babies because he wants you, and he wants to have a family with you, and he just wants and wants and wants.

he's been wanting for all this time. a year and a couple of months of waiting may not seem like a long time for some, but for a man like him, it could have been considered as absolute torture.

so you suppose it's understandable why he turns sort of delirious when he at long last gets to fuck your pretty little cunt completely raw and spill everything he's got right into it. right to the very last drop, he'll even bend your legs flush against your chest just so that he can make sure his seed sticks.

it's just pure instinct. it's who he is.

and it makes him simply overjoyed that you finally understand.

[reduxulousoctopus]

X-Men '97, Post-Episode 7, ~2500 words Morpherine established relationship, missing scene (unless the show actually does explore what happened during that fight, in which case boy is there egg on my face).

I follow established show canon by referring to Morph as he/him in diegetic works (fanfic and fan art) and they/them in non-diegetic works (my episode analyses and reblogs), because that's the stupidest option and, like Morph, I am also an enby with a terrible sense of humor.

Now come watch me struggle to write two whole lines of dialogue for one of my favorite characters in the series, Beast, because Me Too Stupid to Write Smart Talk Good.

--

“You wanna explain what the hell happened back there?”

Although he considers pretending he didn’t hear the question, Morph reluctantly glances across the center aisle of the Blackbird to see Logan glaring back at him with an expression as hard as the adamantium underneath it. Although it’s a look he’s seen plenty of times before as an innocent bystander, Morph has only been the target of that glare on a handful of occasions. Usually when he’s severely fucked something up. Or when Logan is completely out-of-his-mind, cuckoo-bananas worried about him.

Morph suspects that this time, it’s a little Column A, a little Column B.

A wiser person might realize they were in a hole and stop digging; Morph smirks and asks, “What, the Summers Family Reunion? Well, you see, when a man and the clone of his wife love each other very much…” Morph chuckles. “By the way, this might be a bit creepy to say as one of his honorary uncles, but Baby Nathan grew up to be a serious hottie—emphasis on serious.”

No laugh. Okay, maybe that wasn’t his best material, but not even a lip twitch? Logan must be pissed.

Morph sighs and slouches in his seat. God, he doesn’t want to talk about this right now. Or maybe ever. He can feel his throat literally closing up to stop the words from coming out.

When enough time has passed that what little patience Logan had left in the tap completely runs dry, he goes right for the jugular: “I thought you were dead. Again.”

Morph winces.

“I saw that… ‘Trask Sentinel’ blow your goddamn head off. Then, next thing I know, you’re up and walkin’ around like nothing happened.”

“Not that you’re complaining, right?” Morph asks with a weak attempt at a laugh. “You know what they say about gift horses. Although, you’d think the lesson from the Trojan War would be that you should look gift horses in the mouth.”

From the seat behind him, Morph hears: “Although it’s a common misconception, that phrase actually has nothing to do with the Trojan Horse. The proverbial ‘gift horse’ is a literal, living horse, and to look it in the mouth—”

“With all those books you read,” Logan grumbles, “I thought at least one of them would've taught you it's rude to eavesdrop.”

“It would be difficult not to overhear, given the two of you are speaking quite loudly in a confined space while surrounded by people,” Beast points out. “Have you considered that this perhaps isn’t the best venue for a private conversation?”

“He is a super-genius. We’d better listen to him,” Morph tells Logan. “We’ll talk later, okay big guy?”

The stubborn set of that heavy jaw says Logan knows damn well ‘later’ means ‘never,’ and he isn’t gonna let Morph weasel out of this that easy. “If you ever want me to let you off this plane, you’ll talk now.”

“Let me?” Morph scoffs. He transforms into Quicksilver, puts on his best smug speedster grin, and says, “Just try and stop me, slowpoke.”

To his shock, Logan actually flinches. It’s a subtle thing, Morph might not have even noticed if he didn’t know Logan so well. The cause eludes him, however—until Morph remembers that he looked like Maximoff when the Thrask Sentinel… when everything went dark and quiet for a few seconds.

Funny. There was a time when Morph, blinded by youthful naivety and hero-worship, would have insisted Wolverine wasn’t afraid of anything.

Returning to his default form, Morph mutters out an apology. He tries to imagine what it would be like to see Logan die, only for him to get up a few seconds later and act like nothing happened. With that healing factor of his, they’ve gotten damned close to that exact scenario more than a few times.

How much worse would it feel, if Logan had kept his quick-healing abilities secret and Morph had to find out the hard way?

Morph takes a breath, looks out the window at the black clouds rushing by, and starts from the beginning.

“You know how most of us don’t know we’re mutants until we hit puberty, and our powers manifest? Well… I didn’t have to wait that long. Problem is, since I was just a baby, I had no idea how to control my powers—no more than a normal baby is born knowing how to walk or talk.

He holds out his hands with his palms cupped together to form a shallow, makeshift bowl.

“When I was born, I looked like a wriggling lump of white clay, about yay-big. No arms or legs, no face, no ears, no eyes. Just a mouth that would appear somewhere on my body whenever I was hungry or wanted to cry.”

Whatever Logan was expecting to hear, from the look on his face, it clearly wasn’t that.

“But even at that tender age, someone clearly recognized my star potential. I was only two days old when I made my media debut: Severely Deformed MUTANT Born In Pittsburgh Hospital.” Morph shrugs. “Not the most positive review, I’ll admit, but you know what they say: all publicity is good publicity. After all, that’s how the professor found me.”

Logan’s frown returns, more confused than angry. “You told me you didn’t meet Xavier until you were thirteen—after your mom passed.”

“That’s when I moved to the Institute. Turns out we actually met quite a lot earlier than I remembered, which is pretty embarrassing. Ideally, you don’t want to meet your future high school principal, college instructor, mentor, and world famous civil rights leader while wearing a diaper. Even worse, I was wearing a diaper, too—and I told him, mister, one of us is going to have to go home and change his outfit and it sure isn’t going to be me.”

That gets him a smile and a huff of a laugh, which would be an encouraging sign if he didn’t know how the story ends.

“So Xavier talked to my parents, explained the whole ‘mutant thing.’ Dad wasn’t happy. Then again, I’m not sure he ever was. He would have been disappointed to have a girl—a sentient lump of polymorphic biomass was right out. Thankfully, Xavier was able to use his telepathy to coach me through my very first transformation. He showed me how to turn into a normal baby boy, who would eventually grow up to look like this.”

Morph transforms into his old default, the one he still uses whenever he wants to pass: pale (although not that pale) skin, brown eyes, brown hair, hooked nose, pointed chin, gaunt cheeks, arched brows. Not exactly Fabio, but it’s the face Logan used to know him by—the face he sometimes worries Logan might secretly still prefer.

“Then he put some psychic blocks in place to limit my powers to something a bit more… manageable. Don’t give me that look. It sounds shady, but the professor messing with my head was the only reason I got to have a normal, happy childhood with my parents. God only knows what would have happened otherwise—if I’d even be alive now.”

The worry and suspicion that appeared on Logan’s face at the mention of psychic tampering grudgingly fade away. “When did you find out?” he asks instead.

“A couple months after the professor… y’know,” Morph sighs. “I hacked his personal files. Since he wouldn’t be around anymore to help you recover your memories, I hoped that maybe I could find something small he overlooked, some clue that might give us an idea where to look next.”

Logan’s eyes widen and his mouth goes slightly slack. “Morph…”

“I didn’t find anything, before you get excited. Not about you, anyway. Sure found out a lot about myself, though—a lot more than I was bargaining for.”

“That’s when your default form changed,” Logan realizes.

“Yeah. It was kind of hard to think of this,” Morph replies, gesturing at the face of his human-passing form, “as my ‘real’ face after that. Not that my new look is any more real, of course.”

“Who else knows?”

“Other than our friends listening to this conversation right now?” Morph asks pointedly, causing an entire plane full of X-Men to each make their best attempt at looking busy. Nightcrawler’s method of peering thoughtfully at the radio controls with one hand on his chin is particularly masterful—Logan mentioned he used to perform in a circus, so it’s no wonder he’s got such a good instinct for stage-business. “I told Hank and Moira not long after I found out. Seemed like a bad idea to keep that information from my doctors. Especially when one of them is also my therapist.”

At receiving a glare from Logan, Beast develops a sudden and convenient fascination with the view through the Blackbird’s window.

“But you didn’t want anyone else to know.” Logan could accept that, even if he doesn’t like it. Nothing personal. A man’s business is man's business, after all—even for a not-quite-man like Morph.

Too bad it wouldn’t be the truth; no more ‘real’ than any face that Morph wears.

“I didn’t want you to know.”

Morph can handle Logan’s anger, no problem. That’s almost charming, after all these years. But it’s the flicker of hurt, just like that little flinch earlier, that really cuts him to the quick.

“Not because I don’t trust you, or want to keep things from you or anything, it’s just… I didn’t—I couldn’t—”

He sighs and looks away again. He transforms back into his new default: smooth white skin, mask-like face. Obviously inhuman.

Still a lot more human than he looked when he was born, though.

“So, yeah. That’s why I’ve apparently gained the ability to survive having my head blown off. It sure would have been handy to know that my organs were optional the last time a Sentinel put me down. Now, instead of being out of commission for two years I’ll never get back, I can just squish myself back together and keep on keepin’ on.”

Logan doesn’t respond, and slowly, the mutter of other conversations step in to fill the void. Morph stares at nothing, sick with nerves. It’s deeply unfair that he can still feel nauseous even though he doesn’t have a stomach anymore.

He would say it’s all in his head, but if he can survive without one, maybe he doesn’t have a brain, either.

Badum-tch.

Good line. Hopefully he’ll remember it after the existential horror wears off, in the brief window when things will be funny again before the heartbreak sinks in.

Because there’s dropping a bombshell on a relationship—then there’s dropping a fucking nuke.

Oh God. There isn’t going to be a window, is there?

“Morph. Look at me.”

Although he considers pretending he didn’t hear the command, Morph reluctantly glances across the center aisle of the Blackbird to see Logan looking back at him with an expression as soft as the heart he usually tries to hide.

“No matter what you look like, there’s one thing you’ve never been able to change,” Logan tells him. “That’s real enough for me.”

A wiser person might realize they were in a hole and stop digging; Morph can’t stop himself from opening his big stupid mouth. No wonder that was the one feature even Baby Morph knew to give himself. “There are more blocks Xavier left behind that I haven’t pushed through, yet. Maybe I’ll even figure out how to change my scent, someday.”

From the look on his face, Logan clearly hadn’t considered that possibility. Morph immediately wishes he could take it back, feeling like he’s just tarnished something sacred.

It’s always been strangely intimate, the way Logan can recognize him by scent alone. Even from the beginning, when Morph decided to pull a prank on the grumpy new recruit, only for Wolverine to sniff him out mere seconds into his planned routine—it was as if, like the Emperor’s New Clothes, he suddenly realized he had been naked the entire time.

Another, smarter shapeshifter might have avoided Logan after that; Morph couldn’t get enough.

One-sided pestering turned into an unlikely friendship, turned into friends-with-benefits, turned into… whatever they have now. That which dares not speak its name.

The thought of losing that connection, the idea that someday he may be able to change himself so thoroughly that even Logan won’t be able to recognize him anymore… It’s too awful. Cursed knowledge. Like learning about the solar cycle when he was a kid, and suddenly having the horrible realization: if even the sun is going to die someday, what makes him so sure Mom will get better?

Out of the corner of his eye, Morph sees Logan’s hand start to move, stop, then start again, reaching across the aisle towards him. For a insane, terrifying moment, he thinks Logan’s about to hold his hand, outing them in front of God, the other X-Men, and everybody—but of course, that enormous, rough mitt lands on his shoulder instead. Perfectly platonic, approved for all audiences by S&P.

Though they’re shooting through the air at supersonic speed, under the heavy weight of that hand, Morph feels rooted to stable ground. He closes his eyes and takes a few slow breaths he doesn’t actually need, with lungs he only has when he remembers to make himself some.

If there are any people left when the sun finally burns out in a few billion years, they’ll still be telling each other jokes as they go into that endless good night. Just think of the money we’ll save on sunscreen. Maybe, but you know the light-bulb companies are gonna take us to the cleaners. Ha ha, freeze frame, theme song, end credits.

Even as her body slowly wasted away under the combined onslaught of cancer and chemo, Mom always laughed at his jokes, no matter how many times she heard the one about the chicken who crossed the road. His most appreciative audience, to the very last curtain call.

The world is pretty fucking scary right now, and only getting scarier. Sinister. Genosha. Losing Gambit. Sentinels again, in all new and even more monstrous forms. Even worse: total war between humans and mutants looming over the horizon, shaking the ground with each step, getting closer and more inevitable every time someone mentions it, like a demon whose power grows every time you says its name.

But just because things are scary doesn’t mean the world's turning into a horror movie, and just because things are sad doesn’t make it a tragedy. Everyone gets to choose the genre of their life story—and Morph will always pick comedy.

He gives the hand on his shoulder a friendly pat, and uses the motion to disguise a slightly more-than-friendly squeeze. “I’m alright, just a little airsick. I think it’s making me maudlin.”

As he pulls his hand back, Logan frowns a little in confusion—he knows Morph is experienced enough in the air that he shouldn’t be getting nauseous over what are, for the Blackbird, barely above pleasure-cruise speeds.

“How unfair is that, by the way?” Morph asks. “I don’t even have a stomach right now.”

Logan chuckles. Nah, baby, don’t give it up for me that easy, Morph thinks, fighting a grin. You gotta make me work for it a little…

He needn’t have worried, though. When he does make it to the punchline, Logan laughs so hard that he snorts, the laugh-lines Morph has personally carved into that seemingly indestructible face creasing and growing deeper still. And as their friends who Definitely Weren’t Eavesdropping join in—even Rogue, so teary and congested that her laughs would sound like sobs if she wasn’t smiling—Morph knows all their attempts to hide their relationship have been for nothing, because there’s no way that all the love he feels for Logan in that moment isn’t writ large all over whichever face he's wearing right now.

That’s real enough for him.

[toastling]

Ever wonder what would've happened if The Owl house aired in 2013?

That's right.

We would have had an OWLSTUCK.

They would've been rendered accordingly and there would've been a short-lived comic spoken of fondly by both fanbases.

Anyway here are some kids and their classpects.

Luz Noceda - Page of Light. Duh. Most obvious one on this list. You *could* make a very strong argument for Page of Hope too, but aside from her name literally BEING Light, I think it fits a bit more. Too bad you can't multi-aspect. Though let's be real, if anybody COULD, it would be Luz Noceda, so who knows, maybe that's her special Snest (in-world Sburb variant) given gift.

Amity Blight - Witch of Breath. Breath is a lot to do with one's self in the sense of self-actualization and understanding. She needed a lil help getting there but I feel Amity fits this quite well!

Willow Park - Mage of Life. In Homestuck, Life as an aspect is most closely tied to healing, but it can also be quite literal, as we do see Life aspected characters resurrect dead friends. I think if any aspect would allow one to wield life in the most literal sense via battle plants, it'd be, well, Life!

Gus Porter - Seer of Mind. This is a class and aspect wombo combo that fits him to a goddamn T. He's far sharper about others thoughts and natures than people think, including himself. Learning to trust in his intuition is his arc. He has a pretty good grasp of others, even if he does tend to try to focus more on the good bits than the bad, even when the latter may be pertinent.

King Clawthorne - Prince of Blood. Literal royalty in name and nature, with the Blood of the Titan running through his veins whether he realizes it or not. A Prince is an active destructive class with incredible offensive capability, one that destroys its aspect or through it, in this case, Blood. As a Titan, that potential is there for King. But we know the little guy wouldn't use it unless he had to. Right?

Hunter - Heir of Time. Of all the characters, no one fits the aspect of Time better than Hunter given his relations and just how many of him have existed throughout the ages. And as for Heir, I mean, could it be any more obvious?

Vee - Sylph of Space. Conceptually, Space means a lot of things in Homestuck, and is seen by the fandom as one of the "fundamental" aspects. A common theory is no game has a potential to win without both a Space and Time player. But one thing Space represents is Form and Boundary. It is the amorphous stage the play of reality is set upon. What better for a shapeshifter? Sylphs are essentially a Healer class.

Masha - Rogue of Doom. A Thief steals for their own benefit, and a Rogue for the benefit of others. Masha Stole Doom from the entirety of her Reality Check Summer Camp crew, *especially* Vee, giving her her very first friend, potential crush, and a new home and lease on life.

The Collector - Lord of Void. He is Everything and Nothing and can create or uncreate both at will. The Lord embodies their aspect to the absolute. They are a Master class, all-powerful and uncontested in their domain. He is a leftover from a previous game of Snest, one played between just two people, the other, of course, being...

Papa Titan - Muse of Life. We've never seen an adult play any variant of Sburb. But to deal with the Collector and his games, I think he may have had no choice. A Muse, too, is a Master Class, but far more passive. The Titan is how all life in the Demon Realm exists. The Titan *is* the Isles. How much more Life-aligned can you be? And as effectively just a corpse at this point, obviously, he's pretty passive.

Emperor Belos - Knight of Rage. A perfect mastery of his aspect to both directly harm and to manipulate, a truly terrifying foe. Again, adults aren't normally players, but, you better believe he's the reason this whole damn apocalypse happened in the first place.

Boom wrote that up in like 20 minutes, welcome to my special hell.

If by chance somebody actually *likes* this and wants more for some godforsaken reason, I'll give the kids a strife specibus too.

[hazshit-hotel-hater]

Since Viv still somehow cannot decide on what Angel overdosed on. I am taking my liberties and doing it my goddamn self. I will also be formatting this into a summary of what I think a good small backstory scene could be like while also giving Angel a safespace and bonding experience.

It’s in the tags but WARNING there is discussion of drug abuse and overdosing in this summary.

Urg, okay, Vague but also kind of not vague angel backstory stuff because ig viv cant make up her mind on her own OCs backstory

Angel is lying in bed with Husk sitting at the edge as per usual, and Angel starts talking about a few mild personal things (mental struggles, work, general issues, etc) and Husk suggests taking something mild to help him relax and sleep so he gets up and gets him a few pills and puts them in Angel’s hand; says its Benadryl just to help him sleep a bit, but notices quickly that Angel is suspiciously reluctant to take or even look at the pills. Obviously, he asks what's up and is met with the answer of, “Nothin’ I just don’t… use that stuff.” It piques Husk’s interest, and asks if it doesn’t work for Angel, who responds with, “It definitely works.” but ultimately, Husk decides not to pry; however, he lets Angel know he’s open to listen if it’s something he feels like he wants to talk about.

Angel, being weirdly stubborn but also becoming a bit more open with Husk by this time, takes a few minutes to actually say something but eventually informs Husk that it was something he used to try and get high off and had some really good and really bad trips with, but it was the drug that ultimately led to him suffering an overdose and never waking up after it. Both of them are quiet for a bit until Husk gets up and searches for something else to help Angel sleep and, once again, places a few small pills in his hand and says he can try these, but if not, he can try something else without pills. Angel is still reluctant but ends up accepting the offer and proceeds to carefully assort the pills into little categories, saying it’s something he ‘needs to do’. Husk doesn’t push further than that and watches Angel take the pills before the other lays down again.

Things once again go silent for a good ten or so minutes until Husk notices Angel uncomfortably folding his hands over his stomach but mentions that pills always make him feel queasy to an extent and that he only takes them with other people around so he’s distracted from the discomfort they give him. In an attempt to calm Angel’s apparent nerves on the topic, he decides to sit with the other until Angel falls asleep. Eventually, Husk follows suit, with both of them waking up the next morning and Angel giving a relieved and grateful, albeit shaky, sigh. The next morning consists of Angel thanking Husk but ends with the two coming to an agreement that next time Angel can't sleep, a liquid medication approach would be better.

I don’t know if I’ll ever do a full fledged writing of this, but the concept of triggers is something I’ve personally yet to see stated in Hazbin Hotel. This would be a good way to discuss clear lingering trauma Angel has while still treating it with the gentleness the character needs and severity the topic needs. Benadryl was also just becoming a thing around the 1940’s so it makes sense for this to be something Angel very likely could’ve overdosed on. The topic of common triggers is something interesting too; I’ve seen that in other media obviously but even though I know we won’t get it, it’d be nice to see the caution around said trigger and very slowly seeing the character become more open to it if it is a common thing like this. Not everyone will get over triggers and I myself also used to have a strained relationship with a certain pill like this, but there is always the chance that you will be able to use it somewhat normally again.

If this were to happen I’d be fine with it if Angel never got over the discomfort of pills, but much later on in the series if we saw him take some kind of antihistamine casually and comfortably it’d be really nice to see that kind of growth. And as for Husk, I’d like to see him be less shame-y with Angel’s struggles like he was in Episode 6. Since we’ve basically lost Cherri Bomb as his safespace from external stressors, I really think Angel will benefit from an actually deeply caring friend, especially one that doesn’t overstep his boundaries and doesn’t encourage self destructive behaviour. The same goes for Angel by the way, I’m really pissed that they didn’t have Angel apologise for harassing Husk and everyone else. It really is not that hard to at least try to have him feel sorry about that sort of thing. Fuck, here’s something I wrote in like 20 minutes.

——————

It’d be really nice to have someone to talk to, honestly, even though he didn’t speak to Husk very much at all prior to this; he was looking forward to it a little more now. Coming home… er… coming back to the hotel after work and chatting casually at a bar was just… something about it sounded so… calm. Sure, he could go to a random bar and flirt with some rando, but talking with an actual acquaintance while having a few drinks seemed so freeing. Not having to worry about someone staring at him from across the room and getting approached about some kind of ‘offer’ outside.

God, he fucking hated that... “Fuck…” Soft smile melding into a grimace, Angel began to chew slower and slower until he eventually stopped altogether and harshly swallowed. He’d probably been making Husk feel gross like that for ages now. Obviously, he’d seen the disgruntled faces he’d get in return for flirting, but he’d never actually thought about it like that until now. He couldn’t even say, ‘for some reason, it made him feel gross’; he knew exactly why; coming to terms with that, on the other hand, was a lot more uncomfortable than he’d imagined. “Hey, uh… Not to damper the mood, but… I…”His chest puffed as he took a deep breath, and each word pulled Angel to avert his gaze further from his food and the cat sitting across from him. “I was gonna say… I’m sorry for bein’ weird and touchin’ your face yesterday…” As he spoke up, his voice lightly cracked near the end of his sentence. “And when we were filmin’ the hotel commercial… And every time I’ve put my legs on ya lap… And any otha time I did somethin’ like that.”

——————

I haven’t even finished this writing yet (I’ll likely add the rest when I do finish it) but you can see that it genuinely is not that hard to fit in an apology.

Anyway I hope you guys enjoyed my little Angel Dust ideas. Be prepared for more eventually

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Okay idk if u wanna do this but May I request a crossover of vita Carnis and Mandela Catalouge headcanons?..

For Adam,Jonah and Mark. Basically they arrive at theyre s/o’s House..and find out they have a pet trimming named Meatloaf or something.s/o treat them like they’re baby like any pet owner would,what are they’re reactions?

Awwwwe yeah my two current analog horror fixations let's goooo

.......

Adam

He shows up at your door right as you were getting food for your pet.

It was especially important that you fed it at this particular time so it would settle down for the night...

But Adam's persistent knocking forces you to stop and answer the door, momentarily leaving it with an empty bowl.

"Adam? What are you doing here so late?"

"Did you get my message? Our client wants us to go to his place now. I got the salt and everything."

"...he's gonna have to wait a minute. I just gotta feed my pet and-"

"C'mon, babe. We can't lose this offer. I'm sure your pet's not gonna starve to dea-"

All of the sudden, both of you hear metal scraping and a loud whining noise that sounded like a dying animal, startling Adam while you just stare blankly at him. "You were saying?"

"..what the hell was that?????"

You decide it's better to just show him, so you go back inside and introduce him to your pet: a small six-legged fat lump of raw red meat with a collar around its neck.

"What the fuck is that?? An alien??"

"No, it's a Trimming. And their name is Meatloaf."

"....that literally explains nothing."

After feeding your Trimming and calming it down, you told Adam a little bit about its role in the Vita Carnis family.

Where you're from, they're common house pets, being even more popular than dogs or cats as they were docile and willing to eat anything.

When you're done explaining, he just stares at Meatloaf for a while, who's now swaddled in a blanket and curled up in your lap.

It looks kinda gross, but he is intrigued.

Apparently, it's trained to sniff out Mimics and scream when it detects one....which has saved your life on multiple occasions, and it did the same when it sensed an Alternate in your house not long after you moved here.

That's cool.

He thinks you should bring it on BPS assignments.

Jonah

On the other hand....

When you mentioned owning an exotic pet, Jonah didn't expect anything like this when he showed up uninvited, letting himself in with a spare key.

"Hey I brought some pizza for--WHAT THE HELL IS THAT, S/O?!!

Babe, please don't scream-"

"Am I tripping or is tHAT A FUCKING FETUS??!!!!" He points wildly to the Trimming sitting in your kitchen sink, covered in soap and looking saddened bc your bf interrupted bath time.

Meanwhile, you're pissed off by his yelling and covered its sensitive ears, glaring at him. "Will you calm down? This is a Trimming..you haven't heard of them?"

"No???? It looks like the goddamn chestburster from Alien! What is it?!!"

He was ready to run out of the house, but you convinced him to stay and you explained what a Trimming is, rinsing off the soap while doing so.

Poor guy's still trying to comprehend why (and how) a thing like this even exists, eyes wide as he watches you dry it off and care for it like you would a puppy or kitten.

It doesn't help that you call it "Meatloaf" and have a cute little bow on its collar/head.

Nothing you say will stop him from getting nauseous, suddenly losing his appetite for the pizza (especially since he got pepperoni and sausage on it).

You reassure him it's not gonna go to waste, instead feeding it to Meatloaf in bite-sized pieces.

Jonah's just in shock as it happily devours them with no hesitation, before it waddles back into your arms for cuddles.

You made it your mission to get him to hold it, trying to show him it's not scary at all.

It's....still a work in progress.

Mark

You knew exactly what he was gonna think of your Trimming.

So you explained what it was exactly, even showing him a photo so he's better prepared to meet it when he comes over.

The last thing you wanted was for him to scream "demon" and throw a bible at your sweet little nondemonic meat pet.

But still...he clams up when you greet him at the door, holding Meatloaf in one arm.

"O-Oh, it's..uh....cute...?" Mark tries his best to be polite, yet his face is as pale as a ghost's.

You're just relieved he didn't panic and cause a huge scene.

However, for a normally social creature...Meatloaf became unusually shy around him, flinching away when he attempted to pet it and whining if you put it down for too long.

It constantly followed you, refusing to be in the same room as him.

This keeps happening whenever he visits, and he's unsure what to do.

So one day he asks if it'll ever warm up to him.

"Oh! How could I forget? Trimmings usually like it when they're sorta "involved" in conversations..if that makes sense." You tell him. "Meatloaf probably thinks you're unfriendly because you talk to only me when you come over."

"....so..how do I fix that? By talking to it myself?"

"Yep!"

"Will it...understand me?"

"Not sure, but it just likes hearing chatter." You then speak to Meatloaf, scratching under its chin to stir it from sleep. "Hey, Loafy. My boyfriend wants to tell you something."

With the Trimming now looking at Mark, he feels...awkward, but he finally stutters something.

"H-Hey, uh...so I'm Mark. But you probably know that. S/o talks about me a lot and...uh....anyways we've been together for a few months. Sorry if I didn't seem that "friendly" to you, but I hope um...you...approve of us..?"

He trails off as it shifts out of your hold and climbs into his lap, curling up and cooing happily.

His eyes are HUGE and he's filled with fear(tm), but eventually makes the brave decision to pat its fleshy head, hearing it...purring?

Then you see his smile.

You're extremely happy about this bonding moment and had to snap a picture of the two.

'Yeah, this one's definitely for the books'

[wilcze-kudly]

As much as I like B4's finale, I hate that it happened in Republic City. Like first off, wanting to reclaim a Fire Nation colony that was not returned to the Earth Kingdom after the war ended is one of the very few points of Kuvira's that I could get behind, or at least see her reasoning.

Second off, however, Kuvira attacking Republic City feels a bit contrived and done purely to not make all the characters look like dicks because they were so obviously not gonna help the Earth Kingdom free itself from an oppressive facist regime that, let's not forget, Tenzin and Raiko did help put into place.

Like literally barely anyone other than the Beifongs seemed to give a fuck about the people dying in the presumed labour/concentration camps.

Like Raiko, Tenzin and Izumi were just ready to get into a cold war and call it a day. Tbh Korra didn't even seem that fucking broken up about it, more about still struggling with her own mental erosion (which is ok I like Korra's internal journey, but like, Girlie, things are going on rn.)

It just feels like if Kuvira didn't attack, the Earth Kindom would just get locked behind this handy reference to the literal Iron Curtain.

And if Kuvira does adhere to the the very obvious Stalin references she carries, the regular Earth Empire citizens are kinda fucked.

Like I get that this was a politically complex situation but there was no sense of urgency until they learnt that Kuvira would be attacking Republic City.

I genuinely wish tlok was less confined to their weird little America insert. When so much shit was probably going down in the Earth Kingdom we had to fuck around at the oriental reskin of New York city.

And it would be so much more interesting to see the Krew actually try to help free people from Kuvira's regime, as we see that there were common people who didn't support her. And the Beifongs, as an established Earth Kindom family, and Kuvira's adpoted family would also fit into this storyline perfectly but they got sidelined completely when they seemed to be the only people actively choosing to oppose Kuvira.

Like having the finale happen in Ba Sing Se or somewhere in the EK wouldn't give us as cool of a "mecha suit amongst big buildings" fights, but I think it would've been so much more interesting and poignant.

Goddamn I started writing and didn't realise I was this salty about this lol. Sorry if this comes of as bitchy. Like I said, I love the finale, I just think it could be so much better.

[cherrybomb107]

Okay guys, I actually managed to have a civil discussion with someone on Arcane twt who disagreed with me! Everybody cheer😭😂🤭

But fr tho, I admit that I did quote twt that person in bad faith. A friend of mine made a joke about how Caitlyn wouldn’t have missed(iykyk) and this person’s response rubbed me the wrong way. Think something to the effect of “violence is never okay. Shame on you for joking about this.” So, I saw his response to my friend’s tweet and decided to ask him who he thought the “true villain” of Arcane was. I had a feeling what his answer would be.

He said Silco was the main antagonist (fair enough) but then, ofc, he started talking about how, ultimately, “both sides” were at fault for all that’s happening in the show. Now I know that one’s opinions on the media they consume aren’t necessarily a 1 to 1 with their real life politics, but for the sake of the argument, I’ll ask: what’s this obsession that we, as a collective, have with making things more complicated than they should be?

A lot of times, situations really are messy and complicated. But in this instance, I don’t think that’s the case. I don’t think the situation between Piltover and Zaun is complicated at all. I see an oppressor (Piltover) being responsible for the centuries long disenfranchisement of the oppressed (Zaun). Then here comes Jinx, who has been victimized by Piltover for her entire life, becoming radicalized against them, and being violent towards them.

The idea that “violence is bad; full stop” is very dangerous. Violence against an entire group being conflated with violence on an individual level is not good. For example, let’s talk about stealing for a second. Is a poor, starving person stealing from a store that upcharges on necessities “wrong”? In my opinion, no. Is a corporation stealing wages(which is actually the most common form of theft) “wrong”? Absolutely! Now, if you wanna be technical, both examples are “in the wrong”. However, let’s be real here: one of these things is a hell of a whole lot more “wrong” than the other.

But to bring it back to Arcane, why is this idea that “the situation is so complicated, there are no good sides” so popular? There absolutely are! Violence against an oppressor is not a bad thing! I, a marginalized individual, am not anywhere close to being “just as bad” as the mfers responsible for my oppression!!! Why do so many of us feel that way? That doesn’t even make any sense! Stop feeling bad for people who don’t give nary a fuck, nor a shit, nor a good goddamn about you AT BEST! And at worst? They will GLEEFULLY partake in destroying your community!!!

I know the show is ultimately centrist asf(and therein lies the problem) but still!

Anyways, I say all that to say, it’s fine to disagree with people, cause I was able to have a nice discussion with this person, despite vehemently disagreeing with them. But like, I really wanna know WHY these people think the way they do. How could the situation between Piltover and Zaun be thought of as anything but chickens coming home to roost? If you’ve been paying even the slightest little bit of attention to the world we’re living in, and everything that’s going on rn, how could you not apply those same principles to the show?