#and those who can handle it will be just like me

[barnacles34]

Bells and Whistles (Professional Hazard pt.2)

Karina x Male Reader

18+

It's three days after that beautiful night. Still in Rome.

The voicemail plays in the quiet of her bedroom. First: silence. Then a sharp intake of breath that makes your pulse jump. 

Your thumb hovers over the phone as her voice breaks into those familiar wet sounds that have been haunting you all afternoon.

'If you play that one more time—'

'Shh. This is art.'

She's burrowed in her fortress of quilts, only eyes visible over the edge. A paperback lies abandoned by her hip.

'Delete it.' But her voice has gone soft around the edges.

'Not a chance.' You take your time with your shoes. Let her watch the deliberate movements. 'This is better than your debut song—and you know how much I love that song.’'

'You're awful.' The quilt slips as she shifts. 'I was desperate.'

'Were you?' You tap the phone, find that specific moment where her voice catches. 'Tell me about desperate.'

Her sock-covered foot sneaks out, hooks behind your knee. Tugs. 'Twenty minutes for milk. Who takes twenty minutes for milk?'

'Someone wearing very expensive, very tight jeans.'

'Someone being cruel.'

You catch her ankle mid-retreat. The quilt falls away, reveals cotton shorts still damp from earlier. Your thumb finds the arch of her foot, presses. She makes that sound again—the one from the voicemail.

'Cruel?' Your fingers trace higher. 'I'm not the one sending pornographic voicemails in the middle of the day.'

'I didn't—' She breaks off as your hand slides up her calf.

'No?' You hit play again. Her recorded gasp fills the room. 'What would you call this then?'

She bites her knuckle. You replace it with your thumb, let her teeth graze the pad.

'That noise you made,' you murmur. 'Right at the end. Makes me feel invincible.'

'Yeah?' Her tongue darts out, tastes salt.

'Like I could do anything. Find Atlantis. Solve world peace.' You brush her temple with your lips. 'Handle two of you.'

She snorts, shoves at your chest. 'You can barely handle one.'

'Want to test that theory?'

The laughter dies in her throat as your palm finds her inner thigh. Heat blooms under cotton.

'Stay.' Her fingers twist in your shirt like anchors. 'I'll send more. A dozen. Two dozen.'

'Greedy girl.'

Her eyes crinkle at the corners. 'Your fault.'

When you kiss her, she melts like she's been waiting all day.

Her tongue maps the ridges of your teeth, memorizing territory she already knows by heart.

‘Cheater,’ she gasps when you pinch the clasp of her bra.

‘Architect.’

Her shorts fall. The quilt tangles around her hips. She arches when your mouth finds her neck. Whimpers when your teeth follow.

‘Still deleting it.’ She breathes.

‘Try.’

You hit playback again. Her moan swells—raw, unfiltered—as your fingers slide into her.

‘Fuck.’ Her head thrashes. ‘That’s—’

‘—Proof.’ You curl your fingers. ‘You’re my religion.’

She chokes on a laugh. A sob. Her hips stutter. You drink the sounds from her lips. Let her nails carve half-moons into your shoulders.

Later, when she’s boneless and blinking up at you, she traces your collarbone.

‘Twelve voicemails,’ she yawns.

‘Thirteen.’

‘Why thirteen?’

You press her palm to your chest. Let her feel the gallop. ‘One for every time I died at this very second.’

She stills.

Her teeth flash. Dangerous. Devoted. ‘Gladly.’

Your fingers move lazy. Slow. Dragging out every twitch, every choked gasp. She arches into your hand, sweat gluing her bangs to her temples.

‘Still… deleting it.’ She pants, hips circling.

‘Try harder.’ You crook your fingers. Watch her back bow.

Her moan syncs with the recording still playing softly nearby—a stereo echo of need. You drink the sound. Memorize the way her throat flutters.

It’s pulsing, it’s so wet and hot. Sucking in your fingers like quicksand.

‘You’re mean.’ She whines.

‘Mean?’ Your thumb swipes. ‘You begged for this. Remember?’

The voicemail crackles: “—can’t sleep, can’t think, just… please—”

You smirk. Kiss her inner thigh. Salt and jasmine. Her hips jerk.

‘No—wait—’ Her hand fists your hair. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t pull. Trembles.

You nuzzle the damp cotton. ‘Scared?’

‘Never.’

Her shorts peel away. You linger—inhale her, lips hovering. She whimpers.

You chuckle. ‘Even your pussy smells like jasmine.’

‘Please.’

The first lick is a tease. A glancing blow. She curses. The second? A vow.

You map her with your tongue—slow, reverent. Learn the rhythm that makes her thighs clamp your ears. The angle that steals her words. She’s wildfire in your mouth.

‘There—oh god, there—’

You double down. Fingers curl inside her. Thumb presses just so.

Her scream is raw. Beautiful. The quilt soaks. You don’t let up—suck gently as she shakes, drag your tongue through every pulse until she’s clawing the sheets.

Her juices quicken, a pungent musk of sex that’s just pure fucking sin—and you’re sucking it up like a thirsty dog.

Your tongue drags a slow circle around her clit—not touching it. Just tracing the swollen bud through her folds. She whines, thighs tensing.

‘Tease.’

‘Worshipper.’ you correct.

Her hips lift. You press her back down with a palm to her stomach. Feel the muscles flutter, feel the soft cream-like softness of her beautiful midriff.

First contact: a glancing lick. Just the tip of your tongue skating over her clit. She gasps. You catalog the sound—high, sharp, yours.

‘Again.’ She breathes.

You oblige. Slower this time. Let your tongue flatten, drag wet heat across her, bury your nose into her pelvis. Her fingers knot in the sheets.

‘Good?’

‘More.’

You hum. Vibration ripples through her. She jerks.

‘Easy,’ you murmur against her. ‘Let me learn you.’

Your thumbs part her folds. Expose her fully—glistening, flushed, pulse visible in the throb of her clit. You blow gently. Watch her clench, flesh constricting.

‘Cruel—’ A high moan escapes her.

‘Thorough.’

The first proper lick steals her voice. You start slow. Broad strokes from entrance to clit, savoring her tang. Her thighs quiver.

‘There,’ she hisses when your tongue flicks her clit. ‘God, there—’

You zero in. Flick. Flick. Steady rhythm. Her breath hitches.

‘Don’t stop—don’t—’

You switch tactics—suck gently. Her back arches.

‘Yes—like—ah—’

Her clit hardens under your tongue. You trace circles around it, avoiding direct contact. She sobs.

‘Please—’

You reward her: firm pressure, rapid flicks. Her hips stutter. You pin her down, red blooming around the hold you have over her stomach—relentless.

‘Close—I’m close—’

You slide two fingers inside. Curl. Her walls clamp.

‘Fuck—fuck—’

Her clit pulses under your tongue. You suck harder.

She shatters.

A broken scream. Hips grinding against your face. You ride her through it—tongue gentling, fingers stilling.

‘Too much—’

You kiss her inner thigh. Two more kisses along the outer lips. Taste salt. ‘Beautiful.’

She trembles. ‘Again.’

Her thighs tremble as she nudges you onto your back. The mattress dips under her weight. You reach to touch her face—always reaching—but she catches your wrist. Presses it to the pillow. 

Her grip isn’t firm. A request, not a demand.

‘Let me,’ she murmurs.

You nod.

Her lips start at your collarbone—a closed-mouth kiss that lingers. She exhales warm breath against the hollow of your throat. You swallow. She smiles against your skin.

Another kiss. Lower. The swell of your pectoral. The scar from that cat. Her tongue traces the jagged edge. You hiss.

The way her thick hair travels along your chest tickles. The soothing aroma of her shampoo almost paralyzing you.

Her teeth graze your nipple. Bite down just enough to make your hips jerk. The denim of your jeans rasps against her bare thighs.

‘Off,’ she says.

‘What’s the magic word?’

Her eyes flick up. Dark. Glossy with submission. ‘Please.’

You sit up to shuck your jeans. She pushes you back down. ‘Let me.’

Her fingers fumble with your belt. The leather slips. She growls—a sound you’ve only heard when she lost at Mario Kart the day before. You bite your cheek. Laughter threatens release.

‘Shut up.’

‘Didn’t say anything.’

The belt clatters to the floor. Your boxers follow. Cool air hits your cock. Her breath follows—warm, uneven.

‘Look at me,’ you say.

She does. Pupils blown. Lips parted. A string of saliva connects her tongue to her lower lip.

‘Beautiful,’ you murmur.

She flushes. Looks away.

Your thumb hooks her chin. ‘Eyes here, sweetheart.’

A whimper escapes her. She obeys.

The first lick is tentative. A kitten testing cream. Her tongue swipes the underside of your cock. Your abs clench in response.

‘Jimin—’

‘Shh.’

Her lips wrap the head. Suck gently. Your groan claws its way out. She moans in response—vibration traveling straight to your spine.

Fuck.

Her hand wraps your shaft. Strokes in time with her mouth. Too dry. Too rough. Perfection.

‘Condom?’ she mumbles around you, the slightest gap allowed for conversation.

‘Later.’

She hums. The sound liquefies your bones.

And she continues. Swollen lips wrapped around your length, tongue slightly pushing on the underside.

Her free hand drifts between her legs. You catch it.

‘Focus.’

‘Meanie.’

You guide her head back down. ‘Earn it.’

She takes you deeper. Smoldering eye contact as she inches closer to the hilt, whereupon her nose almost makes contact with your pelvic bone. Gags. Pulls off. Coughs.

Strings of thick spit follow her mouth as she wipes.

‘Okay?’

‘Perfect.’

She tries again. Slower. Breathing through her nose. Her throat opens. Takes you to the root this time. Tears spill.

You bite down on your lip.

Her nails dig into your thighs. Sting. Ground. 

She finds a rhythm—suck, release, swirl. Strings of spit travel down your length. Where her thumb massages your balls with the spit. Your vision blurs.

Amidst it all, she’s staring into you—daring you to force her down on your cock. Begging, even.

‘Close,’ you warn.

She pulls off. Strokes you fast. ‘Come.’

You arch. ‘Where?’

Her tongue darts out. Catches the first pearl of cum. ‘Everywhere.’

The orgasm rips through you. Strips you raw. You spill across her lips, her chin, the swell of her breasts. She licks her lips. Grins.

‘Good?’

‘Amazing.’

She crawls up your body. Fully swallowing the load, then pressing a light kiss on your cheek.

Her mouth lingers on your cheekbone—wet, warm. The kiss sticks when she pulls back. Milky streaks still glisten between her breasts. You thumb one. She shivers.

‘Messy,’ you murmur.

‘Yours.’

Her nipples graze your chest as she straddles you. Heat blooms where skin meets skin. You palm her ribs. Feel the rabbit-quick thrum beneath.

Her hips lift. Your cock nudges her entrance. Slick. Swollen. You hold still. Make her work for it.

‘Please.’ She breathes, sinking down.

Heat swallows you. Tight. Quivering. You bite your tongue. Blood blooms.

She moves like water—slow swirls, thighs trembling. Her breasts sway. You catch one. Lick the salt from its curve.

‘Look at me.’

She doesn’t. Eyes screwed shut. Hair plastered to her neck. Hot and heavy with arousal.

You pinch her nipple. Gentle. Cruel. ‘Look.’

She whimpers. Lashes lift. Pupils black as oil spills.

‘Good girl.’

She whimpers. Clenches. Your fingers dig into her hips.

‘Faster.’

‘Make me.’

You buck up. She gasps. Nails score your chest.

‘Cheat—’

Her rhythm fractures. Hips stuttering. You let her chase it—the sweet friction, the burn. Her moans pitch higher.

‘Close—I’m close—,’ she whimpers.

You still her hips. ‘Wait.’

She sobs. ‘Please—’

‘Say it.’

Your thumb finds her clit. Circles.

She breaks. ‘Yours. Always yours.’

You release her. Let her slam down. Take what she needs.

Her orgasm rips through both of you—convulsions, bitten-off cries. Her rhythmic roll of hips turns frenzied. You let her ride it. Milk every pulse. 

After all, you’re obsessed—crazy about her.

When she collapses, you roll her over. Press into the sweat-slick hollow of her back.

‘Again.’

She shakes her head. Weak.

You bite her shoulder. ‘Again.’

Her body opens. Always opens. You grip your cock along her swollen slit, the sticky wetness almost  drives you mad. Regardless, you fuck her slow this time. 

Deep. Dragging each thrust. Feeling how her pussy drags on your cock, slick wet sounds singing into your ears.

‘Feel it?’

She nods. Pillow muffling her whines.

Your hand slides under. Cups her breast. Squeezes.

You curl over her. Chest to heaving back. Lips to her ear.

​​Her lips linger at your ear—sticky with confession. You taste salt when she pulls away. The room smells of sex and the spilt vanilla candle she lit hours ago, wax pooling like liquid amber.

She softly guides your hand to her throat. Your thumb finds the pulse. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. A trapped bird.

"Harder," she whispers.

You tighten. Feel her swallow.

Her breasts press against your chest as she arches, nipples pebbling against your scars. The heat between her legs slicks your thigh.

"Inside.’

You flip her. Sheets snag her knees. She whines. You bite the sound from her lips.

Her hands fist the headboard. You press into her slow. Molten velvet. Her moan fractures.

‘Eyes.’

She obeys. Always obeys.

You move. Deliberate. Each thrust a psalm. Her breasts sway—heavy, flushed. You palm one. Squeeze. Milk-white skin blooms red.

‘More—’

‘Quiet.’

She bites her wrist. You replace it with your fingers.

‘Sing for me.’

Her cry splinters the air. You swallow it. Fuck her deeper.

The headboard knocks the wall. Syncopated. Her ankles lock at your waist. Pull. Beg.

‘Who?’ you demand.

‘Yours.’

‘Louder.’

‘Yours~!’

The word still ringing when you slam into her. No finesse. Piston hips. Her breasts slap your chest—heat and sweat and jasmine.

She chokes. Nails rake your back. ‘Too—’

‘Take it.’

Her legs lock. Ankles digging into your behind. You fuck her like proving a point. Jackhammer rhythm. Headboard cracks plaster.

Dust rains down as you drag her hips back, slam into her harder. No rhythm now—just ruin.

She chokes on a scream, face mashed into the quilt, ass raised like an offering.

Your grip bruises her waist, fingers denting flesh as you split her open again. Again. Again and again. 

You can feel your balls hit the wetness of her pussy, smacking wet sounds onto her slit.

‘Take it.’ You grind deeper, pelvis punishing her clit with each thrust. Her thighs quiver, slick with sweat and your earlier release. ‘Wanted me rough? Here.’

She sobs into the mattress, voice shredded. ‘T-too—’

‘You don’t get to.’ You fist her hair, yank her head back. Her spine bows, throat exposed. ‘You begged for this. Remember?’

A nod. A whimper.

You snarl, slamming home. The wet slap of skin-on-skin drowns her cries. Her nails claw the sheets, nearly ripping threads. You lean over her, teeth scoring her shoulder. 

Her scream cracks as you pin her wrists, pound into her like you’re exorcising ghosts.

The bed groans. Her breasts sway, nipples raw from your mouth. She’s so tight, clenching around your cock like she’s trying to keep you trapped inside.

‘Gonna break you,’ you rasp, thumb digging into her asshole.

She shrieks, back arching. ‘P-please—’

‘Please what?’

‘Ruin me—’

You do. Hips pistoning, sweat stinging the bite marks on her neck. You don’t stop—can’t stop—driving into her convulsions until your vision whites out.

She sobs. High. Broken. ‘There there there~!’

Your thumb finds her clit. Grind. Her scream lodges in your teeth.

‘Come.’

‘Can’t—can’t—’

You bite her shoulder. ‘Come.’

She shatters. Walls milking. Clenching. Begging without words.

You drill deeper. Tip hitting that spongy ache. Her eyes roll back.

‘Gonna fill you,’ you snarl.

‘Please please—’

One last thrust. Hilt-deep.

You rupture.

Whiteout. Earthquake hips. Flood her until your knees buckle.

She collapses into the fault line you’ve carved. Whimpers when you pull out. Spend drips down her thigh.

Her finger swipes it—all that cumulative spend coupled along her swollen cunt. Lets the slurry couple along her tongue.

‘I love how you taste.’

‘God. You’re too fucking perfect.’ You drop down onto her. Cuddling.

Moonlight spills through the curtains. She's tucked against you, all soft edges now.

'You okay?' Your fingers ghost over her shoulder.

'Mm.' A pause. 'Was it too much?'

'Never.'

'But I was...' She shifts slightly. 'I got carried away.'

'Hey.' You tilt her chin up. 'That's what I love about you.'

'What? Being a mess?'

'Being real.'

She burrows closer. 'Still. Sorry if I—'

'Don't you dare apologize.'

'But—'

'Want some water?'

'If you move, I'll write a very detailed exposé about you.'

'About what? My green tea addiction?'

'Chapter One: The Man Who Chose Hydration Over Cuddles.'

'Riveting.'

'Mm. I'll even include citations.'

Your fingers trace idle patterns on her arm. 'What's Chapter Two?'

'Our future kids being haunted by your tea collection.'

'Kids, huh?'

'Tiny humans who'll only drink iced americanos.'

'In winter? That's grounds for custody battle.'

She pinches your side. 'They'll be perfect.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah. Little artists with their mom's smile and their dad's terrible sense of humor.'

'My humor is exquisite.'

'You'll teach them to be insufferable.'

'And you'll teach them to be beautiful.'

She props herself up. Hair mussed, eyes soft. 'Where should we live?'

'Somewhere quiet. With big windows.'

'And a garden?'

'For your flowers and my tea herbs.'

'Domestic.' She wrinkles her nose. 'I like it.'

You pull her closer. 'We'll need a library.'

'For bedtime stories?'

'And quiet mornings.'

'With a reading nook?'

'Big enough for three.'

'Four,' she corrects. 'Maybe five.'

'Ambitious.'

She kisses your jaw. 'Thought you could handle anything.'

'Try me.'

'Five kids. All girls. All with my stubbornness.'

'Terrifying.'

'But worth it.'

You thread fingers through her hair. 'Worth everything.'

'Even giving up your tea collection?'

'Now you're pushing it.'

She laughs, soft and real. 'I'll let you keep the fancy cups.'

'Generous.'

'I know.' She yawns. 'I'm a catch.'

'The biggest.'

Her fingers trail your chest. 'Hey.'

'Mm?'

'Think our kids will be tall?'

'With your genes? Doubtful.'

She bites your shoulder. 'I'm average height.'

'For a garden gnome.'

'For a normal person.’ She groans.

‘—Who has been crushed ever so slightly by a hydraulic press.’

‘Ugh.’ She falls back into the bed.

‘We need a shower.’

She huffs. ‘No, I need a shower.’

‘Hm?’

‘I know what you’re gonna do: act like it’s a shower then nail me for the next half-hour in there.’

‘Oh?’

‘Don’t oh me. My legs are still sore from the cumulative effects of the past 3 days’

'Fine.' You pull her closer. 'Five more minutes.'

'Five turns into fifty with you.'

'Can you blame me?'

She traces patterns on your chest. 'I have to be at the airport by six.'

'Skip it.'

'Right. I'll just tell my company I found something better to do.'

'Like?'

'Like getting ravished by a journalist with no self-control.'

'Sounds reasonable to me.'

Her laugh is soft. Sad. 'I can’t let go of this.'

'This?'

'You.' She props herself up. 'Your stupid jokes. Your hands. The way you look at me like I'm...'

Your fingers find her hair. 'How long?'

'A week. Maybe two.'

'I'll die.'

'Drama queen.'

'No, actually die. Waste away. They'll write articles: Local Writer Perishes From Karina Deficiency.'

She smacks your chest. 'Stop.'

'My last words will be "if only she'd stayed one more day."'

'I hate you.'

'You love me.'

'Yeah.' She kisses your jaw. 'That's the problem.'

She sits up suddenly. 'Wait. What if—'

'What if?'

'My apartment in Seoul has a separate entrance. Service elevator.' The words tumble out. 'Nobody uses it except staff. And I have this office, connected to my room—'

'Jimin.'

'—could set up a desk there. Get you one of those fancy writing chairs. And there's this cafe nearby, really private, the owner's super discrete—'

You prop yourself up. Watch her plan your smuggling with bright eyes.

'The security team changes rotation at 2AM.' She's drawing invisible blueprints on your chest. 'That's when we could—'

'Breathe, baby.'

'I'm serious.' Her fingers curl against your skin. 'I've thought about this. A lot. Like, embarrassingly a lot.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah.' She ducks her head. 'Have the whole thing mapped out in my head. When to sneak you in. Which staff to trust. Where to hide your toothbrush.'

'My toothbrush gets its own strategic planning?'

'Everything gets strategic planning.' She looks up. 'I'd make it work. I'd make it perfect.'

'Jimin.'

'I know it's crazy.' Her voice cracks. 'But I can't—the thought of not—'

You pull her down. Kiss her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth. 'Tell me more about this secret entrance.'

She breathes against your neck. 'Really?'

'Really. Though I should warn you—'

'What?'

'My toothbrush is high-maintenance. Needs its own security detail.'

She laughs, wet and relieved. 'I'm being pathetic.'

'You're being perfect.' Your thumb catches a tear. 'And I'm taking notes.'

'Yeah?'

'Mm yeah. Finally found my title: "How to Smuggle a Writer: A Professional Hazard."'

Jimin nuzzles into you further. Purring at this moment of peace.

2 Weeks Later

Dawn creeps through her expensive curtains. She's wrapped around you like a koala, skin on skin, taking up more space than her tiny frame should allow.

You try to slip away. Her arms tighten.

'No,' she mumbles against your chest.

'Tea.'

'Lies.'

'Green tea.'

'Worse lies.'

But she lets you go, rolling into the warm spot you leave behind. You pause at the door—she's barely covered by the sheet, hair a mess across your pillow. Perfect.

The kitchen gleams in morning light. That copper kettle she insisted on buying catches the sun—"Because proper tea needs proper tools," she'd declared, like your entire existence before her was barbaric.

She pads in almost-naked just as the water's heating, with your discarded shirt from yesterday.

'Cold?'

'Miss you already.'

'I'm right here.'

'Too far.' She hooks her chin over your shoulder, arms sliding around your waist. 'What blend?'

'The one you say you hate.'

'Mm. The grassy one?'

'Getting better at this.'

She hums against your skin. Already reaching for her cup—the blue ceramic one that somehow migrated from the hotel to her apartment.

First sip. Her eyes close.

'Well?'

'It’s okay.' She takes another sip. 'Bland. I guess.'

She grins wide as you turn around. Getting closer to you, inhaling the smell of your fresh t-shirt. 

'Noted.' You kiss her temple. 'Want the rest of mine too?'

'Yes.' A sleepy smile. 'But only because I love you.'

'Of course.' Your greatest triumph: her, here, stealing your tea and your heart. 'Only because of that.'

'Want breakfast?' She's already moving to the fridge.

'You're cooking?'

'Don't sound so scared.' She pulls out eggs, something that looks suspiciously gourmet. 'I've been practicing. Besides, I’m tired of eating the coal you call food, and the bacteria colony I call food.'

'Since when?'

'Since I decided to be domestic.' She hip-checks you away from the counter. 'Go sit. Let me work.'

You watch her move around the kitchen. Something's different. A nervousness in her hands, a flutter in her movements.

'Stop staring.'

She’s revelling in it, how she gets you dumb-struck every time you get a glance of her.

Too cute.

'Can't help it.'

She sets a plate in front of you. Simple breakfast. Eggs. Toast. But arranged with careful precision. Something white peeking out from under the toast.

'Fancy.' You reach for your fork.

'Wait.' Her fingers twist in your shirt. 'Look under.'

'Under the toast?'

She nods. Not breathing.

You lift the bread. There's a small note. Written as small as her hands would allow. 

‘Pregnant.’

The world stops.

'Jimin.'

'I know it's fast.' The words rush out. 'I know we just—but I've been feeling strange and the test was just sitting there in my bathroom for days and I finally—this morning while you were sleeping—'

You pull her into your lap.

'Say something.'

'When?'

'2 weeks, maybe? Remember that night after the bar?'

You remember. Of course you remember. A beautiful night.

'Are you...' Her voice small. 'Are you happy?'

You kiss her. Taste salt. Someone's crying. Maybe both of you.

'Ecstatic.' Your hand finds her stomach. Still flat. But now. But soon. 'Terrified.'

'Yeah?' She laughs through tears.

'Yeah.' You kiss her again. 'Best breakfast ever.'

'Even better than your tea?'

Instead of answering, you kiss her again.

What's tea anyway?

Fin

A/N: Goodness! They make a great couple. Hope you enjoyed!

[crookedteethed]

ᥫ᭡. that time you got period blood in rafe's bed.

warnings: nothing but fluff and that time of the month shenanigans

a/n: brain wouldn't shut up tonight, so here's some soft rafe cameron for you girlies. 🤍

You wake up to that familiar cramping sensation and immediately know.

Your eyes snap open in horror, taking in the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets beneath you – Rafe's sheets. Rafe's very white, very expensive sheets that now have a very obvious stain.

"Shit," you whisper, mortification flooding your system as you try to quietly extract yourself from his arms without waking him.

"Mmm, where are you going." His sleep-rough voice catches you mid-escape attempt. Before you can stop him, he's pulling you back against his chest, nuzzling into your neck.

"Rafe, no – I need to—" But it's too late. You feel the exact moment he realizes, his body stilling behind you.

"I'm so sorry," you start rambling, trying to wiggle free. "I know how expensive these sheets are. I'll replace them, I swear—"

"Hey." His voice has that edge to it, the one that means you're being ridiculous. "Look at me."

You shake your head, face burning. "I ruined your sheets."

"Baby girl." There's amusement in his voice now. "You really think I give a fuck about some sheets?" His lips find your temple. "You hurting?"

The gentle question beneath his usual rough exterior makes your chest tight. You nod slightly.

"Alright, here's what's happening." It's his business voice, the one that means no arguments. "You're gonna take a hot shower, steal whatever you want from my closet, and I'm grabbing you some aspirin." He pauses. "And those chocolate strawberries in the fridge? Yeah, those weren't for tomorrow's country club bullshit."

You look up at him, surprised. "You knew?"

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Princess, you really think I don't have your cycle tracked? Who do you think keeps restocking the tampons under my sink?"

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Of course he'd be smug about being thoughtful. Your heart then does that stupid flutter thing it always does when he shows he actually pays attention.

Later, curled up on his ridiculously expensive couch, wearing his softest hoodie, you watch him navigate your heating pad with intense focus. The chocolate strawberries are perfect, and every time a cramp hits, his hand finds your lower back like it's instinct.

"Better?" he murmurs against your hair.

"Mmm." You sink further into him. "Still sorry about the sheets though."

He snorts. "Baby, I could buy new sheets every day for the next decade and not dent my wallet." His arms tighten possessively. "Now shut up about the sheets and eat your chocolate."

You turn to look at him, this man who tracks your period in his phone but would probably murder anyone who knew about it. This version of Rafe Cameron – the one who handles period stains and midnight cramps with the same intensity he handles everything else – is just for you.

"I love you," you whisper.

"Yeah?" That signature smirk plays at his lips. "Prove it by stopping this guilt shit about my sheets."

But his kiss is gentle, and when another cramp hits, his hands are already there, steady and sure.

What Figure Eight would never believe: how the infamous Rafe Cameron keeps tampons in his bathroom and period tracking apps on his phone.

But that's okay – let them have their trust fund tyrant. This softer version is yours alone.

[megamindsecretlair]

Said I Wouldn't, Part 1

Pairing: Dad!Terry Richmond x Virgin!Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. SMUT. Cursing, teasing (fem receiving), fingering (female receiving), All consensual. Sorry if I missed some.

Summary: Babysitting for Terry had its perks. You were able to see his gorgeous ass every night before heading off to your own house next door. And because he went to the gym on Wednesday nights, you had extra time to explore his room and live in your delusions. But when Terry catches you, you are unprepared for what comes next. 

Word Count: 7,608k

AO3 Link

A/N: I...am just going to be honest. I am a WEAK woman when it comes to Aaron and since he's hellbent on killing me, I may as well surrender. Need that man. That full sleeve turned me FERAL. This should be a two-parter. I also fucked around and caught a bug, ugh. Pray for me. Toss a coin to your blogger by leaving a comment, gif, or unhinged ask.

“Will you marry me?” 

You gasped as you turned to Mr. Terry’s son, Troy, as he looked at you with the sweetest expression on his little face. His eyes were wide and pleading, a shy smile on his face, as he glanced at you like you hung the moon. 

Aww, how come there were no guys your age who wanted to marry you? Then again, you’d actually have to go out with someone for all that and well, you had better things to do. Like get your degree, find a better job, and actually do the whole adult thing before you brought a man into that.

You licked your lips to give yourself time to think of a proper answer. Though you didn’t know how you were supposed to navigate something like this. Mr. Terry hadn’t given you a laundry list of what was appropriate for you to handle and you were a bit out of your depth.

“That is really sweet of you to ask and you’re very brave. But I am entirely too old for you, buddy,” you said. 

Troy tucked his legs beneath him and sidled closer to you. His shoulder knocked into the coffee table disrupting his homework and you fought a smile at the eagerness in his little body. “I’ll be a great husband! I’ll open doors for you and make you chicken nuggets!” He persisted. 

See, the definition of romance. Who didn’t want their doors opened for them and chicken nuggets on demand? You put your pen down on the coffee table next to your own abandoned homework. You faced Troy and fought hard to keep the smile from your face. He was being serious so you’d respond in kind.

“That is a very tempting offer, Troy. But I’m very sorry. I have to say no,” you said.

His face crumpled but to his credit, he didn’t cry. He only scrunched up his face like he was lost in thought. He looked so much like Mr. Terry, it was frightening. 

“But you’re so pretty! Like Dad said. And you’re a good person. Dad always said to find the prettiest, smartiest, good person and marry them. Not like bad girls,” Troy said. 

“What makes a girl bad?” You asked. Out of all the things Troy said, your mind stuck on the fact that Mr. Terry thought you were pretty. It shouldn’t. It was wildly inappropriate, not to mention a cliche and a half, but…Mr. Terry was drop dead fuckin’ gorgeous. If someone like that called someone like you pretty, then…maybe…

“Dad said when they’re ma-man,” Troy said. He scrunched up his face again and then dug a small notebook from his pocket. He flipped a few pages before poking out his bottom lip. “Ma-mani-pu.” Troy sounded out the word, badly, but you knew better than to try and help him. 

“Manipulative,” Troy finally pushed out. 

You smiled and nodded your head. “That’s very good. You should stay away from those girls. In fact, the only thing on your mind should be those books you stopped paying attention to,” you said and tapped his math homework. 

“I can do both,” he said, giving you a grin. 

You chuckled. Just like his damn daddy… You rolled your eyes and tapped on his homework again. “Math homework, young man,” you said. 

Troy sighed but you could already tell this would be an uphill battle. He sat back on the floor and tucked his legs under the table to complete his homework. He was a bit too small to really manage, but he wanted to be next to you while you did yours.

You worked in silence, working on your own homework, and when Troy was finished you looked over his answers. This new way of doing math was beyond you and that was without struggling from the old way. It looked about right. Hell, Troy needed to look over your homework with how smart he was. 

“Great job, buddy. This goes straight to your backpack so you don’t lose it. And then it’s bath time,” you said.

Troy groaned, dropping his head dramatically to the coffee table. Your shoulders danced with silent laughter. What was it about kids avoiding the bath like the plague? Or maybe you were just a weird child all around. You loved taking baths and taking your Bratz dolls with you so they could go “swimming”. 

“You know, if you want to make a great husband, there’s nothing girls like more than a boy who has good hygiene,” you said. 

“Really?” Troy asked, popping his head up to look at you. “Even you?” After you nodded, Troy packed up his homework into his binder and then rushed to his room. This kid had your entire heart. You’d be sad to stop babysitting for him when Mr. Terry finally figured out what he’d do with the separation from his horrible wife. There would probably be a more permanent, vetted babysitter.

You were absolutely biased against Alivia, Mr. Terry’s wife. After moving in next door about a year ago, you had a front row seat to the awful way she treated Mr. Terry and Troy. Constantly shrieking and belittling them, no matter what they did. Keeping both virtually locked up in the house.

You could count on one hand the amount of times Mr. Terry or Troy had friends over. Or hell, a grandmother or cousin or something. When there were visitors, it was short lived. You were also witness to the screaming match when Mr. Terry finally threw her ass out of the house with nothing but a suitcase a few months back. 

How anyone could treat those two like that was beyond you. But you didn’t know all of it. Only what you were able to see and be nosy about. Since you had no real life of your own, you spent your free time making up scenarios about other people. It was fun…until Mr. Terry invited you into their world to be a babysitter.

And since then, your severe crush only grew more ridiculous. Bordering on creepy really. But you just couldn’t help it. You’d have killed to have a life like this. A stable home, a wonderful kid, and a husband who was good and provided. You didn’t think this life was perfect, no life was perfect, but dammit…you yearned. 

Troy started the bath and you stood up from behind the coffee table to stretch your legs. You fixed the deep rose colored bodycon dress you wore. Not entirely appropriate, but you skipped laundry day and who knows when you’d get another chance considering one of your roommates was a hog. 

You walked down the short hallway to the bathroom and knocked on the door. “I’m in here!” Troy called out.

“Good, make sure you wash behind your ears, please!” You said.

“I will!” Troy called back.

You had about twenty minutes before Troy would be done. So you looked around the house, knowing full well you were alone, and then snuck off to Mr. Terry’s room. Yes, you knew it was wrong, but you couldn’t help it.

You managed to swipe an old T-shirt of Mr. Terry’s a month ago and so far, he hadn’t noticed. Or if he did, he just hadn’t mentioned it to you. It was the stupidest, boldest thing you’d ever done, but you couldn’t muster the energy to feel guilty about it. It was an old MCMAP shirt that you slept in nearly every night. It still smelled like him, years of his natural scent soaked into the fabric. 

You did a deep dive on Mr. Terry after that, justifying it by telling yourself that you had to know who you were dealing with. Mr. Terry found you on a babysitting app but since you were right next door and a little friendly already, he bypassed all that to pay you directly. You appreciated the extra cash, but people were sick these days. 

But every piece of information you managed to find out only made you fall in love with him that much more. He was on the freakin’ Wikipedia page, like…how could you not fall in love? You loved when people were really good at what they did. You were sure there was a name for it, but fuck if you knew it. You only knew that when someone was exceptionally good at something, it got you all hot and bothered.

Slipping into Mr. Terry’s room, you took a deep breath. This was where he laid his head at night. The rustic decor somehow fit the image you had of him in your mind. He had a dark, rustic walnut headboard that stretched to the ceiling. On it were two lamps that pointed to the bed. 

On his nightstand, he had the same historical novel he started a month or so ago. He had a simple, thin brown blanket on his neatly made up bed. That was point one in why you would never actually work with someone like him. He was too neat for your blood. He’d probably have a heart attack seeing the state of your bedroom. 

You tried, you really did, but well. You were grown enough to admit you just hated picking up after yourself. Not when you had better things to do like binge anime and go down Google rabbit holes for random things you thought about. 

His furniture was simple, functional, much like the man himself but there was something so alluring about being in a man’s personal space. And you did mean a MAN. All capital letters included. You made sure to never touch anything. You just liked getting a peek behind that stoic exterior. 

You glanced at your watch, still making good time, as you looked at the small bottles of cologne. They were nearly filled to the top so maybe he didn’t use it as much? Maybe he naturally smelled that damn delicious. 

On his dresser, he had a few pictures thrown about of Troy and Alivia. You sucked your teeth looking at the batshit woman he married. Why did guys tend to go for the crazy, loud women? Were they allergic to peace? To a quiet night at home, basking in gooey love? 

As your therapist put it, the world was not a stage and no, you couldn’t direct people’s actions. You were not that powerful. What Mr. Terry decided to do in his own bed was his own business. Speaking of…

You sat down on the edge of the bed and cast your eyes about the room. You didn’t always come in here. You weren’t that big of a pervert. Just on Wednesday nights. That was when he stopped by the gym after work. And he always came home sweaty and out of breath. If he were a bit closer, you were sure that he would jog or bike to the gym rather than taking his car.

As you sat there, you let your mind wander. What would it be like coming home to someone of his caliber? Someone able to carry a damn conversation beyond wondering what you were doing every two seconds. Someone to discuss books and themes with. Someone to binge anime with you and discuss the power scaling. Fun stuff. 

An engine pulled up outside the house and you scrambled to get out of the man’s room as quickly as possible. The car door slammed outside and your heart pounded in your chest. Okay, he was a little too early tonight. You closed the door behind you just as his keys turned the lock. You jogged to the kitchen and opened a cabinet, grabbing a cup just as Mr. Terry’s keys hit the key bowl beside the door. 

“Mr. Terry, hi,” you said, closing the cabinet door. You walked over to the fridge and poured a glass of water that you clearly needed. 

Mr. Terry walked further into the kitchen and then gave you a small smile, putting his hands into his gym shorts pockets. He wore a simple gray T-shirt soaked through with sweat and damn, damn, damn, he looked good. His arms bulged underneath the short sleeved shirt, deep veins running along his arm. Delicious. 

“Dad!” Troy barreled into the kitchen with a towel wrapped around his waist.��

“Whoa, okay,” you said and turned around with a chuckle.

“Troy, we have company. You can’t run around naked like that,” Terry said. You heard movement but refused to turn around. 

“I asked her to marry me, but she said no. But I was able to say manipulative,” Troy said, slowing down around the big word. 

“Is that right?” Terry asked.

“Uh-huh. She said girls like when boys have good hygiene. So you should probably bathe too,” Troy said.

Terry laughed and you heard wrestling. “Is that your way of saying I stink?” Mr. Terry asked.

“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything…” you chimed in, not wanting to be left out. 

“Oh that’s cold, you both got jokes. You, put some lotion and clothes on. And brush your teeth,” Mr. Terry said. 

“Good night, Troy!” You called after the little boy as he took off towards the bathroom. 

“Good night! See you tomorrow!” He yelled.

“It’s safe to turn around,” Mr. Terry said.

Naw, it really wasn’t. But you took a deep breath and turned around anyway. Somehow, the second time seeing him in all his sweaty glory was just as heart-stopping as the first time. You forgot all about your guilty activities as you openly stared at him in the kitchen.

It was by no means a small kitchen, but it felt claustrophobic standing there. As if his presence was a physical force field pressing into you from all sides. It was your stupid crush on the man that made you all tongue tied when you got around him. 

“I hope he didn’t bug too much. I know he has a big crush on you,” Mr. Terry said. 

You waved your hand. “He’ll grow out of it,” you said. They always do. But you kept that little tidbit to yourself. Though…you did want to ask about the pretty comment Troy mentioned earlier. But you were too chicken. Instead, you stood there awkwardly in this man’s kitchen for no reason. Other than to count the drops of drool pooling in your mouth.

“I should get going,” you said. Your chest was still beating rapidly and you needed to get out of his immediate vicinity. Like right now. You washed out the cup you used.

“You didn’t have to,” he said.

You giggled. “Now, what kind of guest would I be if I didn’t clean up after myself?” You could clean up for other people but when it came to yourself, you lost all motivation to do so. It was the ass-backwards manners you were brought up on, but hey. It wasn’t like anyone was coming to visit your messy bedroom anyway. 

“Let me walk you home then,” Mr. Terry said. 

“I’m just next door,” you said. You dried off the cup and replaced it in the cabinet. He stepped out of the way so that you could walk past him. His eyes tracked you as you moved through the living room, collecting your homework and pens. 

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t?” Mr. Terry asked.

“Oh, you’re a gentleman now,” you said and giggled. Did you have a flashing neon sign professing your guilt? Or did your guilt make you suspicious of everything? Because right now, it seemed like Mr. Terry was employing high level interrogation tactics, staying cool and calm while he let your guilt do the talking for you. 

“I’ve always been a gentleman,” he said. 

You could only giggle, too nervous to say anything else as you loaded up your backpack and threw on your cut off jean jacket. Terry’s mesmerizing hazel eyes followed each movement. Were you that bad at acting? Was he about to tell you that he had cameras in his room and knew exactly what you did on Wednesday nights? 

You needed to get a life and a half. Because the thought of getting caught only made it that much naughtier. Your imagination ran wild thinking of ways he could punish you for it. Preferably with a spanking. You bet those beefy hands would give a good one. 

“H-How was work?” You asked. Damn, that sounded nervous, didn’t it?

“Same old story, different day,” he said.

You nodded. You sucked at conversation so you promptly shut your trap and walked with him outside of the door. The night air was crisp, the late January night so frigid that you could see clouds of your breath escape with each exhale. Dew collected on the blades of grass outside of Mr. Terry’s house and it soaked into your flat sandals, tickling your toes.

“How’s your degree goin’?” Mr. Terry asked, breaking the silence.

“Good. Though I think one of the professors hates me,” you said. You sucked your teeth, thinking of Mr. Shoop, your English teacher. If you didn’t have a comma in the right place, he marked you down for one reason or another.

“I’m sure it’s impossible to hate you,” Mr. Terry said.

You snorted with laughter, immediately censoring yourself as you released the ugly laugh. He didn’t need to hear all that. You cleared your throat and shrugged, telling him about the latest run in with Mr. Shoop. You made one little comment about the current book you were studying in class, and now he had it in his head that you were an uppity Negro. 

“Fuck him, then. You’re supposed to challenge the status quo in college,” Mr. Terry said.

You giggled and crossed the low cement border to your own place. The grass was less green, more brittle and dead because no one in the house fucking cared about aesthetics. This was not your forever home. Once you graduated, you were getting the fuck out of here as if your pants were on fire.

“You ever go to college?” You asked.

“Naw. Enlisted as soon as I turned 18,” he said. His voice was like sweet honey in the middle of spring. It didn’t belong on this cold, quiet night in the ‘burbs. “It’s why I want Troy to focus on his grades. Make sure he has every opportunity I didn’t.”

The automatic porch light turned on bathing you both in its warm, yellow glow. It also highlighted your ugly brick porch with the mailbox half hanging off of the wall. You cringed as you climbed the steps but focused on the conversation. 

“You’re doing an amazing job with him, Mr. Terry,” you said.

He scrunched his face, most definitely like Troy, and shook his head. “It’s just Terry,” he said. 

“Yeah but –”

Mr. Terry stepped closer to you, drawing up to his full 6’3 height and looked down at you. You hoped he couldn’t hear your painful gulp.

“No buts. I’m not stepping down until you agree. We’re damn near the same age,” he said. 

You opened your mouth to argue the point but his fierce eyebrows drew down in a challenge. You reared back with a grin and Mr. Terry’s eyebrow shot up in a dare. You licked your lips and nodded. Okay, touché. 

“Terry,” you said, trying it out. It still sounded so wrong. 

“Say it again,” Terry said, his eyes drooping lower. 

“Terry,” you nearly whispered. Terry - gah, that was still so weird - leaned forward and for half a second, you thought he would kiss you. That he would plant those gorgeous pink lips on yours and kiss your sandals right off your feet. 

Instead, he chuckled and then looked down. He shook his head and then stepped back. “My job isn’t done until you’re safe inside,” he said.

“You take this pretty seriously, huh?” You asked. Stupid. Why the hell would a man like that kiss his babysitter? Probably saw you as some teenager next door, even though he was correct. You were almost the same age. But he was more mature and put together than you could ever hope to be. 

“Very seriously,” he agreed. 

You dug in your jacket pocket for your keys, the tips of your ears aflame as you continued to berate yourself. To be clear, you knew you were pretty but you got tongue tied around gorgeous men. Regular men you could deal with. They were the regular, easy pickin’s off of any vine. But Terry was like a fully baked apple pie sitting in a window somewhere. Mouth watering, steamy, and sinfully tempting.

Men like that went for super thin fashion models or apparently, screaming harpies who liked to belittle men. And just like that, you remembered that he was technically married. There was no way that an upstanding man like Terry would step out on his wife, separation or no. 

“Well, the neighborhood is safe since we have a man like you to keep watch,” you said. You turned the lock and opened the door, waving goodbye over your shoulder. Terry waved to you and then took off down the porch, clapping his hands together as he went back to his own house.

You closed and locked the door behind you, leaning your back against it as you sighed. That was entirely too close. But in your defense, he typically showed up after Troy was done with his bath. You’d have to get your snooping down to a more manageable time. 

You groaned and headed to your room, bypassing the discarded clothing on the floor and random water bottles thrown about the foyer area. Pigs. 

Living with two guys and another girl was the bane of your fucking existence. You and Gia had to put your foot down and explain that you weren’t their mothers or sisters or maids and you would not pick up after them. In rebellion, the two men, Andre and Malcolm, doubled down by not picking up after themselves either. 

So if one of them slipped on their own shirts or didn’t have clean dishes, that was on them. Money was tight as you went through grad school, but you had enough to eat out and find alternatives to cooking. To each their own in this fucking house.

You made it to your room and closed the door, turning on lights and getting ready for bed. You settled in for your third watch of Jujutsu Kaisen, sitting comfortably in Terry’s MCMAP shirt but your mind raced as you played tonight over and over in your mind. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” Troy asked, the following Wednesday night. 

“Of course,” you said. 

“I like when you’re around. My dad doesn’t seem so sad,” Troy said.

Cue your heart breaking in three, two, one…you sighed and put your pen down on the coffee table. Right back in your regular seats, Troy continued with his social studies homework as if he didn’t just say the saddest thing ever. 

“What do you mean?” You asked. 

Troy stopped writing but didn’t look up from his homework. “Dad was sad a lot when Mom was here. But he smiles more when you’re around. So that means you can’t leave, okay?” He asked and looked back at you with a shy, sad smile on his face. 

“Troy, is that why you asked me to marry you? So I wouldn’t leave?” You asked. 

Troy nodded. “Plus you’re really pretty. And soooo smart,” he said.

Kids. You smiled and hugged him, bringing him closer to you. “You don’t ever have to worry about these things, okay? Your job is to do your homework and listen to your dad. I’m right next door. If you ever need anything, you come get me, okay?” You asked. 

Troy nodded but didn’t seem much convinced by your assurances. He was a kid but old enough to recognize when shit wasn’t sweet at home. With a mom like his, it was a wonder he stayed so innocent. 

You were playing fast and loose with semantics, but Troy didn’t technically ask you to keep the secret. Only if he could tell you one. You’d have to talk to Terry when he got home and make sure the man talked to his son. 

It couldn’t be easy trying to raise a kid in a broken home. The good Lord knew your own parents had a rough go of it. But Troy’s only concern should be which yogurt was in his lunchbox. Not his dad’s happiness or lack thereof. 

You helped look over his answers and helped him in the few areas he got wrong. You helped him solve the problem on his own, not just hand him the answers. “Alright buddy, bath time,” you said.

“Because girls like boys with good hygiene,” he recited.

“Exactly,” you said and nodded your head. 

Troy grabbed his homework and stuffed it into his binder. Then he turned to you with a serious expression on his face, entirely too much like his dad. He was eight. What eight year old needed to be so serious? 

“One day, I’ll be old enough to marry you,” he promised. 

You giggled. “You are going to meet the love of your life and forget all about little ole me,” you said. 

Troy shook his head and grinned. “I could never forget you.”

“You know what, you sweet talker. Bath time, now. You’re too young to think about marriage anyway,” you said with a giggle. 

Troy skipped into his room to put up his homework and then he trudged to the bathroom with a change of clothes and a fresh towel. You heard the bath water running while Troy hummed to some song you didn’t know. 

You checked your watch. After such a close call last time…you really shouldn’t. But it had become a ritual at this point. Your body compelled you to move, to go to his room and pretend for twenty minutes that he was coming home to you.

You didn’t actually want this type of domestic life but…well, who were you fooling? This was exactly what you had planned for your life. But as a nerdy, thickum Black girl with too much time on her hands, no one was exactly beating down your door for your hand in marriage. 

Let alone anything resembling sex. You’d become an expert at handling things yourself but you didn’t know what the actual act was like. And it was too embarrassing to tell grown ass men that you were a virgin and waiting on an actual connection before hopping in bed. 

Sue you, sex meant something to you. And you weren’t going to give up the cookies because some egg head batted his eyes at you and took you on one date. 

You spun around in Terry’s room trying to determine if he moved anything. Added anything. Removed anything. You just liked knowing him. Knowing a side of him that most didn’t get to see. It was what kept you going, something silly to keep your mind busy when school got too tough or the roommate situation sucked hot marbles. 

Your eyes caught on the book on his nightstand. He finally finished the historical novel. The new book he was reading was a crime novel and from the blurb on the back, it sounded pretty interesting. 

You were so caught up in the blurb and the first page, taking care not to disturb too much, that you didn’t notice Terry’s car pull up. Or his keys in the doorway, or him calling your name. You were so absorbed in it, that you dropped the book when Terry entered his room. 

“Oh,” you gasped. 

Your heart jumped to your throat as Terry smirked and tilted his head. “What are you doing in here? Where’s Troy?” He asked.

“Bath time,” you croaked out. Your throat turned dry and scratchy, pulling each word out as if it were being dragged over jagged glass. You had no good excuse for why you were in this man’s room, picking up his book, when you were supposed to be watching his son. 

What if Troy had drowned? What if he suddenly lit the house on fire? Shame made your stomach gurgle as your mind raced for any type of excuse or reason to be in his room. Babysitting 101 was watching your damn kid. 

Terry stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. You were frozen, rooted to the spot, heart beating rapidly and your fingers started to shake. What was he going to do? 

Terry walked closer until he bent down to pick up the discarded book. He flipped it over and dusted it off, being entirely too casual for your tastes. “What were you doing in here?” He asked, his voice too, too calm. 

You backed away towards the wall and shook your head. When your back collided with it, you were out of space. So you began to move to the side, sliding against the wall and trying to create some distance.

Terry turned with you, stepping in time with you, not letting you out of his sight. It was his right. It was his house after all. And you were the creepy pervert in his room. “I didn’t steal anything, I swear,” you said, your voice too small. 

“That’s not what I asked,” he said. He smirked as if this was all a funny misunderstanding. Like it was normal to find you being a creep in his room. 

“You don’t have to call the cops, I promise. I’ll leave and…I won’t come back,” you said. God, you didn’t even want to try and explain this to the cops or your family. You were completely mortified and disgusted with yourself. You knew you should have left it alone. 

“I didn’t say anything about the cops,” he said. He stepped closer to you and you smelled the sweat and overall male scent wafting off of him in waves. He wore a red shirt this time, soaked through with sweat and clinging to his well honed chest. 

He was tall as hell, looming over you whether he wanted to or not. You didn’t know this game he was playing and you just wanted to leave. You were at a loss of what to say or do. He blocked the exit with his body. There was just him. His broad shoulders, his wide chest, his hypnotizing eyes. 

“What were you doing in here?” He asked softly. 

“I just wanted to know you,” you said just as softly. It was a pathetic excuse but at least it was honest. 

“Why didn’t you ask me?” He asked.

You snorted with laughter before clicking your mouth shut. Terry’s eyebrows furrowed and he reached out to cup your cheek. You looked from his hand to his face. Was this man okay? Shouldn’t he be…angry? Upset? Confused? You’d broken his trust in the worst possible way. Got yourself plum fired over something so stupid. This wasn’t going the way you thought it would in your mind. 

“Why do you do that?” He asked. 

“Laugh?” You asked. God, you felt like an idiot. 

Terry smirked. “Stop yourself from laughing. It drives me nuts,” he said. 

“Oh,” you said. You shook your head and shrugged. “I have a weird laugh.” 

Terry leaned closer so that his nose rubbed against yours. “I keep waiting to hear it but you don’t ever let yourself laugh out loud,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes but you were slowly calming down from the threat of discovery. For the time being, it looked like Terry wasn’t going to smack you to kingdom come. This…you didn’t know what this was but you weren’t about to stop him either. This was the closest you’d ever been to him. Ever. You were going to soak up every detail before he kicked you out flat on your ass. 

“I didn’t know you were waiting to hear it,” you said. 

Terry leaned away so that he could look into your eyes. Fuck, he was so pretty. With his ever changing eyes, one of your favorite past times was trying to figure out what color they were. Sometimes they were so blue it would make the ocean jealous. Sometimes they were a stormy gray. Other times, they were a pale brown. It was insane but kept your mind busy. 

“You drive me crazy,” he said, the words slowly spilling from his lips with that subtle drawl. 

“Me?” You asked and snorted. Oh, if he only fucking knew… He drove you to distraction without even trying. One look, one sound from him and you were ready to bend over, ass up, and let him have his wicked way with you. 

“Is that surprising?” He asked. 

“Um…yeah,” you said and giggled. This was like the statue of David coming to life and asking a painting on a date. The mediums were both gorgeous but one was more lauded than the other. 

“I know I can be…serious,” Terry said. You snorted again and he tapped your nose. “But I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. Like I was some creep, you know?” He asked.

“Yeah, well. I’m the one who was in your room, being inappropriate. I completely understand if you want to fire me…”

“Troy would kill me if I did,” he said and smirked. 

You giggled. “You’d still have the right to. I am really, really sorry,” you said. 

Terry’s hand moved from your cheek, down the sides of your body before landing on your hips. You gasped, your body tingling in areas you didn’t know you could tingle. Like his hands were a live wire and your body responded in the most unusual ways. 

“You always seemed so nervous around me. I thought I scared you,” he said.

“The opposite actually,” you admitted. Hell, at this point, you might as well lay it all out. Put yourself on a silver platter, ready to be served up to Terry’s mercy. His thumbs pressed into your tummy and you gasped, shivering. 

“The way you respond…have you ever been with anyone?” He asked. 

You shook your head. You didn’t have the words to say you were a virgin. Didn’t want to be even more of a loser in his eyes. Terry cursed softly under his breath and shook his head. 

“So no one’s ever touched you? Why not?” He asked. 

You licked your lips and shrugged. “Guys just don’t like me like that.” It was the only answer you had to give. You were the in-between friend. You were the holdover friend people had before they found their forever person. Without fail, any man you were interested in went on one or two dates with you before suddenly finding the light of their fucking lives. 

After the last guy literally went to the bathroom on your date and came back with someone else’s number, you swore off any hunt for a partner. What was the point? You wasted outfit after outfit, faced disappointment after disappointment, and well, you just wanted off of the merry-go-round. 

Terry tilted his head before stepping away. He pulled you towards his dresser and made you face the mirror. He pressed in behind you and you sighed, feeling a bulge rub against your ass. 

You stared at his face in the mirror and watched as his face ran through a gauntlet of emotions. Like he was fighting with himself and losing the battle, fast. He placed his chin on your shoulder and then sighed.

“What do you see?” He asked.

“Me…and you…” You said. You weren’t trying to be a dumb ass, but it seemed like he was playing chess while you were playing Bingo. 

Terry smirked. “What do you see when you look at yourself?” 

You took a deep breath. You began to describe the features that you saw in the mirror. The way you did your hair, the way you did your makeup, the jewelry that you wore. Terry shook his head. 

“I see a sexy, beautiful woman. I see someone that drives me fuckin’ nuts. A woman that makes me want to do awful, disgusting things to,” he said.

“Ahh,” you said and shivered from the intense look in his hazel eyes. 

Terry’s hands moved up to cup your breasts over the top of your bodycon dress. You chose the burnished orange one today, once again at the mercy of Malcolm who acted like he was the only one who could use the fucking washing machine.

You moaned and bowed forward but Terry’s hands kept you upright. No one ever told you how different it was for someone to touch you as opposed to touching yourself. Everything seemed more intense, more lively, more electric. 

“And I just can’t hold myself back anymore. Tell me to stop,” Terry said. He moved his head to kiss your neck, your jaw, and behind your ear. 

You moaned, body shivering from how good he felt. How right his hands felt on your body. He pulled the top of your dress down, cupping your bare titties in his hands and pinching your nipples.

“Oh, fuck,” you moaned, knees getting weaker the more he tugged and pinched and pulled. Your pussy responded, throbbed, and you grew wet instantly soaking your panties. 

“Tell me to stop,” Terry said, near begging as he continued to kiss and lick on your skin. 

“I-I can’t,” you sighed. How could you tell him to stop when this was the only thing you ever wanted? The only thing you ever dreamed of? 

“If you don’t tell me to stop, we’re going to cross a line. I need you to say it, please,” Terry said. As he spoke, his hands gripped the sides of your dress and pulled until your dress pooled around your hips.

You moaned as his fingers touched your thighs, fingers digging in and massaging you. His hands moved towards your panties, cupping you over the flimsy fabric. There was a thin layer separating you from what you most wanted. 

“I can’t say it. You have to be the stronger one,” you said. He had to be. Because at this moment, there was nothing you would deny him. If he wanted a star from the Hollywood Walk of Fame, you’d be there the next day with a jackhammer and crow bar. 

Terry dropped his head to your shoulder and groaned, his fingers moving closer to the seat of your panties. “I need you to say it,” he said.

You shook your head. You leaned forward and planted your hands on the dresser top, no longer able to support yourself standing. You were absolutely weak in the knees, ready to collapse at any given moment. 

Terry’s left hand snaked around yours and grasped yours, fingers tangling. His right hand finally pushed your panties aside and he groaned, finding you soaking wet. “Fuck,” he moaned. 

“Oh my god,” you moaned. 

It was wildly different for his fingers to be there instead of your own. He moved expertly, soaking his fingers with your essence and playing with your clit. You shook violently on his fingers, too in your head to enjoy what he was doing.

“Breathe,” he whispered. 

You sucked in deep pulls of air, your breathing returning to a normal rhythm. You nodded though you were out of your mind with pleasure. With feeling. His fingers plunged into your pussy and you cried out. 

“Shh, shh,” he whispered.

Right. Right. There was an entire kid taking a bath at the moment. And here you were letting his dad play with you like a damn fiddle. You couldn’t find one ounce of regret. One ounce of shame. 

His fingers helped you find heaven, light exploding behind your eyelids as your stomach twisted and caved from the pleasure he was delivering. His left hand tightened on yours as you got closer and closer to your orgasm. 

“Fuck, fuck me. Please,” you begged. You needed to know what it felt like. Needed to know right this second what he felt like getting inside you. Your pussy was empty, aching, begging for his dick and you pushed your ass into his bulge to get him to cave. 

Terry groaned and pushed into you, pushing your hips against the edge of his dresser. He moaned as he dry humped against you, timing his wrist movements with his strokes. 

“No condom,” he panted in your ear.

“Please,” you begged. You whined, you cried. You didn’t have a fucking clue what you were saying, only that you needed that bulge inside you. NOW. 

Terry bit your ear. “I’m not gonna endanger you,” he said. 

You collapsed forward. He leaned against your back and then got down to business. Rubbing your clit in circles until you leaned up on your tip toes and bit your lip as you came, flooding his fingers with your slick as the orgasm rocked you on the spot. 

Your world quaked, cracked in half, and then was brought back together by Terry’s grunts and groans. As you came down, you panted and huffed, no energy left in your body. Terry withdrew his fingers and then brought his fingers to his mouth and suckled.

You watched him in the mirror as he closed his eyes. “Fuck,” you huffed. 

Terry winked at you as he adjusted your panties and your dress. You opened your mouth plenty of times but there were no words to be found. What could you say? What could you do? 

“Helllooooooooo,” Troy called out. He sounded as if he had been calling out for a minute. 

Terry adjusted himself and then kissed your neck. “Don’t move,” he said.

He left the room and you heard him talking to Troy. He told the boy to brush his teeth and Troy tried to argue until Terry threatened to check his toothbrush. Troy laughed and his footfalls ran back to the bathroom. 

You were still stuck in the same position you were before, hands planted on Terry’s dresser as if his command not to move had to be followed to the letter. You looked down at the pictures on his dresser, of his smiling wife and son. 

Yet somehow…fuck her. You didn’t feel any guilt fucking her man in what used to be her bedroom. You didn’t know where she was or if she was even coming back. You didn’t hold any expectations. Only that you wanted what you wanted and you weren’t going to apologize for it. If this was the only thing you got from Terry, then so be it. Because it was…life changing. 

Terry re-entered the room and closed the door behind him. He wrapped his arms around your waist and kissed your shoulder. “We’re going to talk about this.” 

You nodded. Yes, there definitely needed to be a discussion about this. “Not tonight,” you said.

Terry tilted his head at you. “I mean…we both need to cool down and Troy needs you. We’ll talk tomorrow? When you get home?”

Terry looked as if he wanted to argue. He rubbed his goatee and sighed heavily. But he had to know you were right. The last thing you wanted to do was interrupt Troy’s routine. Doubly so now that his mom wasn’t home. God, that poor kid had enough to deal with. 

Terry nodded but turned you around to look at him. He grabbed your chin and forced you to look him in the eyes. “We’re going to talk about this. Tomorrow. When I get home.” 

You nodded. Terry pulled you close, giving you a tender, beautiful but way too quick kiss and then let you go. You gathered your nerves and then left his room, looking out for Troy. Not seeing him, you hurried over to your homework and gathered it up, stuffing it into your backpack haphazardly. 

You were ten kinds of turned around. You needed to freak out about this before you could have an adult conversation about what happened between you. Time to lock down your emotions and feelings so that when Terry gave you “that talk”, the one about how this couldn’t happen again, you would be prepared. You wouldn’t embarrass yourself by begging, screaming, throwing up for not having another chance to explore more. 

But…you said you’d be happy with this. And you would be. You so would be. This was…honestly the best outcome you never planned for. You finished and pulled on your sweater and walked towards the front door.

Terry called out to Troy that he was walking you next door and you said goodbye to Troy. The night didn’t seem quite so cold this time around. Perhaps your body was still flushed, reliving the best orgasm of your life. 

Your shoes crunched beneath your dead lawn as you hopped up the porch. Terry stopped you with a hand on your arm. He rubbed his thumb back and forth but didn’t say anything.

What was there to say? He rocked your world? He shifted your axis? Up was down and down was up thanks to the power of his fingers? His fingers. Lordy lordy. Maybe you wouldn’t survive getting fucked by him. You were glad one of you had the presence of mind to be safe and not fuck without a condom. 

“Tomorrow,” you promised.

Terry nodded and then waited for you to get inside before trudging back to his place. And no matter how many times you tried to feel bad, the only thing you could think of was his face as he moaned and his fingers buried to the knuckle in your pussy.

I just ain't slowing down any time sooooon. The Secret Terry Richmond Files

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[witchyfleur]

pick a pile - relationship dynamics with your future person.

choose what your heart truly longs for, what your eyes linger upon. take what is gonna resonate with you and leave the rest.

pile i.

part i. intuition

there's a strong childish energy for this pile. you and your lover maybe are on the same age line or if not, they are definitely someone whom you share the same vibes and interests.

they are probably someone who is into art and music and there's a high chance that they will produce and make a song which is dedicated to you or even draw a portrait of your picture and gifting to you when you both celebrate your anniversary or if not, probably when your birthday.

otherwise, they are gonna put a lot of effort into giving something to you, it's one of their love language.

this couple which you can see chatting their day through smart phones like updating each other about what is going into each other's lives. although they're not usually in the same place, it's just they enjoy sharing their day and about what's going on throughout their whole day to one and another.

your partner is maybe someone who is a prankster and while as i feel here mirroring of what they've done to you. there's a very youthful vibes coming from the both of you.

you two might be exchanging pranks on each other. this couple is like an easy end happy-go-lucky team.

i think you are going to get influence with these treats. someone as time goes by you are able to adopt them.

before meeting them, your person is cheerful while you are probably someone who always ate up from the stress of life. for the cutest part, i see that they like trapping you from where you are and start pampering you kisses all over your face. fight it babe, if you can!

part ii. from the oracle and tarot cards.

it will be a graceful relationship, like as if you were shipping a boat with a calm sea. you two will never be bored with each other's company, there's always something to spice up this relationship(as i said like pranking, lol).

i see a lot of activities that you two may like to do, the energetic energy is always here and it never gone.

you like hyping up one and another. your person's love language might be an act of service, physical touch and giving gifts. they will show it by making you a coffee in a morning when you wake up before your work or sitting close next to you when you two alone or making a compilation collage both of your picture and then gifting it to you.

they are someone who isn't get treated rights by their by past lovers and so, they tried their best to be the best version of themselves when they're with you.

this seems one of your exciting parts of your life and love, this is one of your most awaiting phases of your life. where i can call a blissful and harmonious relationship with a potential soulmate connection.

you will totally swept this person feet off, and so, you should embrace this moment.

also i see teamwork, friendship and you two will value each other. your biggest flex about this relationship is your love and strength for each other, you two probably can catch each other up in a very downfall situation like "i gotcha babe, let me handle this." a very communicative and has an emotional intelligence couple.

this person is gonna accept and love your flaws, if you think you aren't perfect enough they think you did. i also see here, they view you as their ideal person. they seems view you in a rose-tinted glasses; fine and unrealistic.

you will probably gonna have a lot of moments in any waterfront or you may date a lot in places where water are very prominent.

this is probably type of couple where the two of them get healed while in relationship.

pile ii.

part i. intuition

this couple is giving me very quiet and calm vibes. you probably love to read books and share what you learned from those. and as i sense here, people view you as a powerful, intelligent and intimidating couple.

i'm seeing someone here, who likes to sew? sewing is probably one of their hobbies or maybe it's you. this maybe you or them, i only see hands sewing so i'm not quite sure who's that or what gender they're.

i also get that you probably don't want a child before getting married, you two prefer it afterwards. family planning is very important for both energy here.

i see that you will plan this very carefully before committing in a long term relationship.

well, the first intimacy will happen in a hotel probably a five star or in a big luxury house like. both will be loyal to each other, they're gonna cherish each other until the end.

you two are probably serious and committed individuals, even though you may lose some spark because this relationship may have boring phases but they will still stick to each other to rewind and back again, where they start loving each other. about how they fall in love to each other.

there is a big understanding here maybe because both of you are matured and know how to handle things in a professional way.

but i do have this feeling, that you both like the ocean. one of you may live near it. and oh my, while channeling i suddenly saw on the clock it's 5:55.

this maybe a reminder from the spirit team that this is the love story you are desire for. the romantic relationship you are longing for. the masculine energy here, love the hand and toes of the feminine energy. they like kissing, massaging and cleaning it. it's a pair of hands holding another pair of hands.

part ii. from the oracle and tarot cards.

yeah, totally well read couple. all the things happening between these two is being taken seriously.

one on one having rough and risky conversations with each other. with them, you will not be scared to be vulnerable.

i also think you're gonna have this "our song" which reminds you of each other. so cute.

your lover is someone who gives you clarity and doesn't leave you in doubt. they're very committed to this relationship. if you are working, they'll be supportive about it. they are so proud, like a parent seeing their child graduating at school.

although, i kinda understand the rough sides of this story. they would love you to know that they love to experience all things, emotions and celebrations with you.

be communicative with them, as per see here. they are eager to know how their partner feels and thoughts.

another fact for them, as they grow. become an adult. they develop trust issues and have a low self-esteem. people surrounds makes them feel unloved somehow, this is probably they may come up from a family that has many members. so attention kinda split up for all of the children.

they want to build a good foundation, where everyone in their future family will be appreciated and loved. they want to be a good parent and role model for their younger ones.

when it comes to finances, i can confidently say that you two may love to help each other. appreciate little things. although, there's a little bit of struggle handling or earning the money. your positivity, will bring courage to your lover.

if your fp is a male i can't wholy say that they are someone who is well off but they'll be good at providing.

pile iii.

part i. intuition.

i see distance. you're probably gonna meet this individual when you move or if not, you may meet them online. at first glance, there's already a strong connection and chemistry happening between the two people.

it also has delays on the connection itself. it won't happen immediately but yes, there's a strong familiar feeling between you and them. this seems like, two people secretly crushing on each other but don't actually have any idea about that.

like two people keep sabotaging themselves whether the other person does have any feelings for them or feel what they feel. there's so much wonderment or bewilderment but it's really obvious that you two do really like each other but are afraid to say so. maybe afraid, to ruin the friendship.

move on. when it comes to relationships, this is the type of couple that prefers to date once in a month or more than that. it's probably one or two is busy but still have this little time and space for each other. and oh well, it's kinda like "oh, let's try to drink coffee in this new café i see few blocks away".

despite that this person feels home to you, they bring peace and joy into your life.

kisses on the forehead is also a thing for a person to feel better or linking to each other's arms while walking.

i also got a feeling that one of you is hella sensitive while the other one is gentle. your lover language will be an act of service.

part ii. from the oracle and tarot cards.

your person likes to document things, they love photography. taking pictures is one of their favorite things to do like for them you are their perfect model. like an artwork from a museum that doesn't fade away as time gets by but it becomes more valuable.

however, one of you may need to do the first move as i see here you are both afraid of each other's opinion. yes, it's obvious that you liked each other but there is a strong hesitation here. i think you both will start as friends and end up being lovers. it may take a lot of courage from the both of you to tell what you are feel about each other.

the first kiss? it's probably gonna happen in a chaotic and funny way.

the wedding is gonna be breath-taking. i also think only a few people that matter for the both of you are gonna attend this ceremony.

there's mutual support, trust and respect in this relationship.

[sofiatarot]

PAC: If I were your partner: How I’d treat you, win your heart, and fulfill your desires... ❤️‍🔥

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have someone treat you exactly the way you dream of? the way you truly deserve? In this reading, I’ll dive deep into how I’d love, cherish, and spoil you as your partner. We'll see what makes your heart race, how I’d go the extra mile to win you over, and a glimpse into what the passion between us might look like. Let’s uncover what your perfect partner would bring to the table.

1->2

3->4

Take this as a sign—this is the lover you’ve been manifesting. There are no coincidences, only fate bringing you closer to what you truly deserve. Get ready, because the universe is sending someone who will treat you exactly like this… and maybe even better.

Group 1

Okay so... I get the impression that you wouldn’t make this easy… You crave a connection that’s more than just surface-level. You’re not here for fleeting infatuations or hollow promises—you need someone who can show up with passion, depth, and consistency. What makes your heart race is the idea of a partner who can handle the highs and lows of life with you, someone who knows how to celebrate your wins but also stand by you when the weight of the world feels heavy. You’re drawn to someone who’s bold enough to take action yet emotionally intuitive enough to make you feel understood.

I’d have to treat you just right to earn your trust… Winning your heart wouldn’t be a game; it’d be a commitment. You’d fall for someone who isn’t afraid to put in the work, to prove their loyalty through actions, not just words. I’d have to show you that I’m strong enough to carry my own weight while being gentle enough to support yours when you need it. You’d appreciate someone who takes the time to understand your complexities, who doesn’t shy away from your emotional depth, and who knows how to balance ambition with tenderness.

This is undeniable… I know you’d want something raw and real… Behind closed doors, you’re someone who loves intensity. You crave moments that feel almost electric—like passion that builds slowly and then crashes over you all at once. I’d know how to take my time, teasing out every ounce of desire until you’re begging for release. There’s something about the push and pull that excites you, isn’t there? The tension of holding back, only to give in completely. I’d make sure you feel like the center of my universe in those moments, with nothing else mattering but us.

I’d have to surprise you, though… You’re not someone who’s impressed by the predictable. You’d love a partner who keeps you guessing, who knows how to reignite the spark when things feel too routine. I’d make it my mission to keep things fresh, whether that means spontaneous adventures or quiet nights filled with whispered promises. You’d appreciate someone who knows how to balance the thrill of the new with the comfort of the familiar, always leaving you wanting more.

I think I’d have to match your intensity… You’re someone who needs a partner who can meet you on your level. You’re not interested in someone who’s going to shy away from the fire—you need someone who’s willing to step into it with you. I’d show you that I can handle your passion, your ambition, and your emotional depth without flinching. You’d love a partner who sees your strength and meets it with their own, creating a connection that feels both powerful and unshakable.

But I’d also need to make you feel secure… You’re not someone who can thrive in uncertainty. You’d fall for a partner who makes you feel grounded, who proves their love through their actions and their presence. I’d make sure you know that you’re my priority, that I’m here to support you and celebrate you in every way possible. You’d love someone who sees the beauty in your vulnerability and cherishes it rather than taking it for granted.

Oh, now this is interesting…

Something tells me you’d like to take control sometimes… You’re someone who knows what you want, and I’d love nothing more than to give it to you. Whether it’s letting you call the shots or completely surrendering to your desires, I’d make sure you feel empowered in every way. You’d appreciate a partner who can read between the lines, who knows how to anticipate your needs without you having to say a word.

I think you’d love the little things, too… You’re someone who notices the details—the way someone remembers your favorite coffee order or the way they hold your hand when you’re nervous. I’d make it my mission to show you how much I care in all the small ways, proving that love isn’t just about grand gestures but also about the quiet moments that make life beautiful.

And in the end, I’d make sure you feel like the only one… You’d love a partner who makes you feel like the center of their universe, who shows you every day that you’re cherished, desired, and deeply loved. I’d make sure you know that you’re my priority, always and forever. You deserve nothing less.

Group 2

I can tell you have a romantic heart but a practical mind...

You’re someone who loves the idea of deep, soulful connections, but you’re not here for fleeting infatuations. You’re drawn to love that feels purposeful, where every moment builds toward something meaningful. What makes your heart race is the idea of someone who understands both your dreams and your doubts, someone who can balance passion with stability.

Oh, there’s no question about it… I’d have to show you I’m serious about you… Winning your heart would mean showing you that I’m not just talk—I’d need to back it up with action. You’re not impressed by empty promises; you need someone who can follow through and prove their commitment. I’d make it clear that I’m here to build something real with you, not just chase after fleeting thrills. You’d fall for someone who sees your worth and doesn’t shy away from putting in the effort.

So I’d take my time making you feel special… You’re someone who loves the little moments as much as the grand gestures. Behind closed doors, I’d make sure every touch, every word, every kiss feels intentional. You’d love a partner who knows how to build anticipation, teasing out the tension until it’s almost too much to bear. I’d make sure you feel completely worshipped, like nothing else in the world matters except you.

I have a feeling you’re the type who craves a bit of mystery… You’re not someone who wants everything laid out right away—you’d love a partner who keeps you guessing, who adds a touch of intrigue to the relationship. I’d make sure to surprise you, whether it’s with unexpected adventures or the way I look at you when you least expect it. You’d love the feeling of discovering new layers to someone, always keeping things fresh and exciting.

I’d need to balance passion with stability… You’re not here for chaos—you want a connection that feels grounded yet still electric. I’d make it my mission to show you that I can offer you both security and excitement, blending the best of both worlds. You’d fall for someone who can handle your complexities without trying to change you, someone who embraces your depth and matches it with their own.

I sense that you’d appreciate being cherished… You’d love a partner who pays attention to the details, who notices the little things that make you smile and finds ways to incorporate them into everyday life. I’d make sure to show you that I see you, truly see you, in a way that makes you feel loved and appreciated beyond words.

And let’s be honest, you’d love to feel desired… Behind closed doors, you’d appreciate a partner who knows how to take control when needed but also gives you the space to express your own desires. I’d know exactly how to tune into what you need, finding the perfect balance between softness and intensity. You’d love someone who knows how to push your boundaries in the best ways, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

I’d make you feel like the only one in the room… You’re someone who loves to be reminded of how special you are, whether it’s through words, actions, or the way I look at you. I’d make sure you know that you’re my priority, that everything I do is with you in mind. You deserve nothing less than a love that makes you feel like you’re walking on air.

And in the end, I’d make sure you feel secure and adored… You’d fall for someone who makes you feel like you’re their everything, someone who doesn’t just say they love you but shows it in every way possible. I’d make sure you know that you’re deeply cherished, desired, and loved beyond measure.

Group 3

It’s clear to me now… you’ve got walls up, but they’re worth climbing… You’re someone who doesn’t let just anyone in—you need a partner who’s willing to earn your trust and prove that they’re here for the right reasons. What makes your heart race is the idea of someone who’s not afraid to put in the effort, who sees your strength and admires it but also makes you feel safe enough to let your guard down.

I’d have to show you that I’m not going anywhere… Winning your heart would mean proving that I’m here for the long haul. You’d appreciate someone who’s patient, who doesn’t push but instead lets the connection grow naturally. I’d show you that I see the real you, the version of you that you don’t show to everyone, and I’d make sure you know that I love every part of it.

I’d make you feel unstoppable… Behind closed doors, you’re someone who loves intensity. You’d want a partner who knows how to take control but also lets you express your own power. I’d make sure to create moments that feel electric, where every touch and every look sends shivers down your spine. You’d love the feeling of being completely seen, desired, and adored in those intimate moments.

It’s written all over you—you’d need a mix of strength and softness… You’re not someone who’s drawn to extremes—you’d love a partner who knows how to balance their strength with vulnerability. I’d make sure to show you that I’m both capable and caring, strong enough to stand by your side but also soft enough to hold you when you need it.

I’d need to earn your respect first… You’re not someone who’s easily impressed by charm—you need substance. I’d make it my mission to prove that I’m someone worth your time, someone who can match your intelligence, your ambition, and your drive. You’d love a partner who’s not afraid to challenge you but also knows how to support you when it counts.

Mhm, I can almost picture it now…you like to keep things exciting… You’d appreciate a partner who knows how to keep the spark alive, who’s willing to try new things and push boundaries. I’d make sure every moment with me feels fresh and exciting, whether it’s through spontaneous adventures or the way I look at you like you’re the only person in the world.

And let’s not forget—you’d love to feel adored… You’re someone who appreciates the little things, the moments that show you how much you’re loved and valued. I’d make sure to pay attention to the details, showing you that I care in ways that go beyond words. You’d fall for someone who makes you feel like you’re the center of their universe.

I’d make sure you feel completely secure… You’re not someone who thrives in uncertainty—you need a partner who makes you feel grounded and safe. I’d make sure you know that you’re my priority, that I’m here to support you and stand by you no matter what. You’d love someone who proves their love through their actions, not just their words.

And in the end, I’d make sure you feel truly seen… You’d fall for a partner who sees the real you, who loves every part of you, even the parts you try to hide. I’d make sure you know that you’re deeply cherished and adored, that you’re the love of my life in every way.

Group 4

I get the feeling you don’t just let anyone get close to you… You’re someone who knows their worth and keeps your guard up until someone proves they’re worth your time. What you crave is a love that feels equal, where you’re respected, cherished, and understood. You’re drawn to a partner who brings balance to your life—someone who knows how to handle your complexities while making you feel like the most important person in the room.

I’d need to show you that I can match your depth… Winning your heart wouldn’t be a simple task. You’d make me work for it, and honestly, I’d enjoy every second of the challenge. You’d need to see consistency from me—proof that I’m not just here for the good times but also for the hard ones. I’d show you I can handle your storms without flinching, making it clear that I’m not just here to take, but to give in every way you deserve.

Now, I’d make you feel like royalty… Behind closed doors, you’d need a partner who knows how to pay attention to every single detail of your pleasure. You don’t settle for half-hearted attempts; you want someone who’s completely attuned to you. I’d make sure to build anticipation, teasing and pleasing until there’s nothing left but pure satisfaction. With me, you’d never have to doubt how desirable you are—I’d remind you every second of the way.

You’re the type who’d keep me guessing, and I’d love that… You’re not someone who lays it all out on the table—you love to keep things intriguing. I’d make it my mission to uncover all your hidden sides, to show you that I’m just as fascinated by your quiet moments as I am by your wild ones. You’d love having a partner who keeps things exciting without ever rushing you, someone who knows how to navigate your rhythm.

I’d have to prove I’m someone you can truly trust… You don’t give your heart easily, and I wouldn’t expect you to. To win you over, I’d show you that I’m someone who can hold your secrets, your fears, and your dreams without ever using them against you. You’d appreciate a partner who makes you feel safe enough to be vulnerable, someone who protects your heart as if it were their own.

And I know you’d want a love that feels equal… You wouldn’t settle for a relationship where one person gives all the effort. You’d want someone who invests just as much as you do, who meets you in the middle and makes you feel valued. I’d make it clear that I see you as my equal, my partner in every sense of the word, and that I’m here to create something extraordinary with you.

Let’s be honest, you’d love a partner who can handle your intensity… You’re not afraid of passion, and you’d need someone who knows how to match yours without being overwhelmed by it. I’d make sure to embrace every part of you, from your fiery moments to your softer ones. You’d fall for a partner who makes you feel free to express all sides of yourself, knowing you’ll never be judged for it.

I’d make sure you feel seen in ways no one else could… You’d love a partner who notices the things about you that others miss—the way your eyes light up when you’re excited, or the subtle shifts in your tone when you’re trying to hide your emotions. I’d show you that I don’t just see the surface—I see the real you, and I’m completely captivated by every part of it.

And in the end, I’d make you feel irreplaceable… You’re not someone who’d be content with anything less than a love that feels all-encompassing. I’d make sure you know, every single day, that you’re my priority, my muse, and my greatest treasure. With me, you’d never feel like you’re settling—you’d know you’ve found someone who’s truly worthy of you.

I could be a better boyfriend than him—

xoxo🌙

[superficialdomina]

Down Under - Epilogue

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: 18+; minors DNI. After-effects of a debaucherous night. References to past sexy activities. Mentions of medical stuff. A teeny bit of fluff.

Part 5

Series masterlist

A/N: That's it, folks! Thank you to everyone who joined me in this absolute ridiculousness - I have appreciated every one of you so much.

Epilogue

You awoke on a transport bed, surrounded by the hum and click of medical machinery. Your head was pounding like the worst hangover of your life.

Bruce was hanging a serious-looking plastic bag above your head; it was only when you traced the line that you realised it was connected to a canula in your forearm.

“Welcome back,” he said with a smile. “How’re you feeling?”

“Ugh. Awful. What’s in the bag?”

“Just fluids. Y’all had a pretty rough night.”

Rough… It all came flooding back to you. The lab. The flask. The wild, uninhibited hours spent entangled with the pale, beautiful, trickster god.

“Oh God,” you muttered, then realising how they must have found you, “oh Christ - did the Captain see me naked?” You lifted your hands to cover your face in humiliation; your entire body protested at the sudden movement, and you were abruptly aware that you were very, very sore.

Banner looked surprised, and a little horrified. “No! No, when we got there you were passed out under a blanket, and Loki was meditating on the other side of the pool.”

Loki. True to his word, his priority had been to protect you. What did he tell them?

“Is he – alright? Wait, what do you mean, “got there”? Where am I?”

You finally had the wherewithal to take in your surroundings. You were in what seemed to be a makeshift medical bay in a large canvas tent; through the open tent flaps, you could spot the finger-like protrusion of Sundial Peak pointing up into the sky. It looked like early evening.

“You’re back at the Hall’s Gap base camp. Loki’s fine. Exhausted. He – he carried you down.”

You stared at him. “Carried me… What?”

“I mean, the rest of us – me, Thor, Cap, all of us – we took turns at the other end of the stretcher. But he took the front handles the whole way down. Insisted.” He shrugged.

It was all too much to process. You swallowed, then tried a different tact.

“Am I – cured? I mean,” you shook your head to clear it and instantly regretted it. “The fungicides... It wasn’t – what was it?”

“Ah – yeah. Sorry about that. Not a fungus, it turns out – a parasite. Those meds never had a chance.”

A parasite. You shuddered. “And – what, you’ve developed a cure already?” Even for a genius being bankrolled by Tony Stark, that seemed fast.

“Oh. Ah, no. It was…”

“Oh ho, she’s awake!” Ray’s sharp accent stabbed through the peaceful evening air. “Those antimalarials work a treat, eh?”

“I don’t…”

“It was Ray’s idea, actually,” Bruce explained. “Once we figured out that it was a parasite, we broke into the village pharmacy and grabbed a few doses of chloroquine. Tony’s got a team in town now, distributing it to the residents.”

“So, what – Loki and I were the guinea pigs?”

“Ah – no,” Banner said again, shifting awkwardly and looking anywhere but Ray’s direction. “No, we… ah – we three…” He trailed off, cheeks a delightful shade of pink; you understood very clearly what he, Ray and Thor had been engaged in when you’d tried to call the previous evening.

“Best night I’ve had in twenty years,” Ray said with a grin and a wink. “The big one’s got quite the weapon on him. Anyway - you’d better go tell that brooding mate of yours that you’re back in the land of the living.”

You looked to Bruce, whose face was still bright red. “Is that alright? Can I get up?”

“Yeah, if you can keep this above your head.” He handed you the saline bag attached to your arm; you tried awkwardly to lift it above you, but everything hurt too much.

“Here,” Ray offered, “how’s this.” She wedged the plastic handle of the bag into the jagged end of her walking stick, then planted the stick in your hands. “Oughta keep ya pretty upright, anyway.”

You stood, and for the first time, you noticed you were wearing your own clothing; another one of Loki’s gifts, no doubt. You took one wobbly step, then another, until you were confident that you could move about on your own, then followed Ray out of the med bay.

You found Loki at the edge of the lake, skipping stones across the water. He looked up at the sound of your footsteps, and you both spoke at once.

“Loki, I’m so sorry—”

“Please accept my apologies—”

You looked at him quizzically. “Loki… It was all my fault. I broke the flasks. If it hadn’t been for me, we never would have…” You stopped at the look on his face.

“Actually,” he said softly, “the culture flasks were sterile. The Doctor believes it most likely that we were infected upon close proximity to the rats.”

The dead rats in the lab. Or rather, in Loki’s interdimensional pocket. Or wherever they were now.

You hadn’t been aware of the guilt you were carrying until the weight of it was lifted. Now, you felt the heady rush of relief. Sterile. Not my fault. Almost unconsciously, you sat down beside him.

“…ask again that you please accept my deepest apologies,” Loki was saying. He bowed his head and lifted his hand to his chest.  

You were quiet for a moment, then said, “Banner told me what you did. Bringing me down off the mountain. I… Thank you. And thank you for… for staying with me.”

The corner of his mouth edged up into a smirk, and he raised his eyes to yours. “If I may boast,” he said in response, “the drugs they gave us had not yet taken effect when we brought your stretcher back to camp. It was the hardest” he paused for effect, “hike of my life.”

You imagined him sporting a raging hard-on as he carried you down the mountain, and laughed.

“You know the other three…”

“Oh, I heard. Your compatriot shared extensive details. A ‘Thorgy’, I believe she termed it.”

“Oh God, please don’t say any more.” Still laughing, you gave an exaggerated shudder. Then you sobered. “Um - how are you now? Recovered?”

“What exactly are you asking, darling?”

 “What? No! I mean – I just wanted to make sure…”

He smiled. “I jest, of course. I will be fine. A little more wary of abandoned research animals in future, but that only seems prudent.” He reached out and took your hand. “And you? Are you… well?”

You stared down at your hand, clasped in his. It was ridiculous – pathetic, really – that this simple touch could elicit the flutter of nervous warmth now inching up your arm. Not after… After everything. And yet you found yourself hoping he wouldn’t let you go.

“Yeah, I’m… I’ll be OK.” You gave his hand a small squeeze. “So – so that’s it, then?”

“That is it.”

You stood, trying to pull your hand from his grasp. But Loki held tight.

“Unless…”

You swallowed. “Unless?”

“Dinner. Next Saturday evening? My apartment. As I said, lefse is only truly delicious when it is fresh off the griddle.”

Tags in comments! xx

[christinaroseandrews]

Michigander/Native Coloradoan who lived in Florida for years here. FFR is right, your houses are not built to keep heat in. Especially your windows/doors. Additionally your furnaces/radiators aren't used to having to work as hard.

Here's a few tips from and some easy ways to keep heat from escaping because like OP says a burst water main is no one's friend.

First, if you haven't already and can access it... Turn off your water spouts that lead to the outside. Even in the north if they are left on they can freeze and burst. Ask me how I know... You need to turn them off and also open the nozzle outside to let the water out so that the residual water doesn't freeze.

Next, do what op suggested open your cabinet doors and run a tiny trickle of water. In particular for the pipes that run along exterior walls. If by some chance you are like me and have all of your water pipes more than 18 inches away from exterior walls... you still need to run water, but in this case pick the faucet the HIGHEST and FURTHEST from where the water enters the house (typically where the water meter is located). Also if you were like me and have your laundry in a shed outside of the home (This was when I lived in Florida) do one of the following -- invest in a space heater for the space, if you have a laundry sink run it, or resign yourself to having to do empty/small loads at regular intervals to keep the water flowing. When I lived in Florida and we dropped into the upper 20s for a few days that meant I was doing a load of laundry literally every few hours to make sure that the pipes didn't freeze.

Make sure all of your windows are covered. Ideally by some kind of fabric. Blinds are great, but nothing beats heavy canvas. Sheets and blankets can work in a pinch. As can large towels. If it's still available there are plastic sealing kits that you can put up that create an extra layer and seal out drafts... which are no one's friend.

Roll up towels and put them at the bottom of your exterior door frames. It prevents some cold air from coming in. At my house currently, I have essentially "snakes" that I put between the exterior door and the interior door as well as a second snake for the interior door. It stops a lot of cold air from coming in.

Pick a room that has as few windows/exterior doors and make that your main living space. It's a lot easier to heat one space than to heat a whole house. Close off the other rooms and in houses with forced air heating/central air close the register in the closed off rooms to direct the heat into your main space. It should go without saying but DO NOT DO THIS IN ROOMS WITH PLUMBING IN THEM! Those rooms need to stay warm. *Points to burst pipes*

Clothing wise. Layers are your friend and it is better to be a little chilly than to be sweating. For the under layers you want something that can handle being potentially damp without cooling you. Stay away from cotton. No really. Cotton can kill. This includes jeans. You're better off in polyester yoga pants than blue jeans.

Because losing power due to ice/overloaded systems/vehicles knocking over power lines is very possible, you'll want to keep your freezer and fridge as full as possible. It that means putting random containers of water in them, then do it. Your power grids aren't meant to handle this kind of load. And full fridges/freezers are more efficient. Even here I keep 2--liter bottles filled with tap water in my fridge & freezer to keep them more efficient and as a security against power outages.

Cook/Bake. Cooking food both adds moisture into the air as well as heat. It's also something that you can fill your working fridge with.

Hot water bottles are your friend. You don't have to buy anything fancy. Just fill to the brim a 2-liter with water and then squeeze it a little so that the water overflows and seal it. Stick it in the microwave for a few minutes (no more than 3)... and congrats you have a hot water bottle that if insulated in a towel will give off a lot of heat. I use these at home on my back all the time. And when the weather is really cold, I even take one to bed with me and it's still warm the next morning.

There's more, but those are the ones I can think of off the top of my head.

HEY PEOPLE IN THE SOUTH DEALING WITH ACTUAL COLD FOR THE FIRST TIME.

Open your sink cabinets and turn your faucets to drip cold water at night! The small but steady stream of water can help keep your pipes from freezing, something that not only cuts off your water supply but can also cause cracks and leaks in your pipes and even burst pipes leading to severe flooding and water damage.

[yup-thats-me]

born to die • Wi Ha-Joon

pairing: racer!Wi Ha Joon x fem!reader summary: how it'd feel like to have racer!Ha Joon as your bf? warning: dark, name-calling, suggestive, black flag, spitting,riding a dildo, +18 a/n: istfg all the actors from squid game has me in a chokehold😩

racer!Ha Joon who will have you suck him off before he has a race. he'd grab a handful of your hair, thrusting in your mouth relentlessly. his dick getting harder each time he glances down to see tears falling from your eyes, the water mixing with the mascara you wore.

"suck me off like your life depends on it, whore," he'd slap your face, enjoying how you struggled to breathe.

and your life did depend on it. if you were able to satisfy him fifteen minutes before his race, he'd kneel down and lovingly kiss you, enjoying his taste in your mouth. "thank you, baby," he'd say kissing the top of your head. "It'll be a nice game."

and it would happen as he said. on days your lover left with a smile on his face, he would win the race in record time. he'd even break his own records somedays too. you were his lucky charm.

however, if he had left the changing room with a scowl and spit on your face, he'd lose. miserably. crashing against the curbs of the track or sometimes even crashing into another car. those days were the most difficult ones, not for him, though. for you. because he'd tie you up and fuck you for days, for as long as it takes for him to forget about how badly he'd lost.

but don't get him wrong, though. when he wins, he'll shower you with all the riches and flowers and gifts in the world. whenever he wins a cup, he'd catch you as you'd leap onto him, ignoring the blinding flashes of thousands of cameras.

you're his babygirl, and he'll show it off without holding back.

as soon as he comes outside his car, and catches you in his broad arms. he'd be impatient to push you against the hood, your pink panties peeking from the side of your hiked-up mini skirt, both of which had been bought by him, for the world to see. and you couldn't deny that it was hot. incredibly hot.

as a celebrity racer, its a given he'll bring you to every races and all the gatherings with him. you're his prized girl, he'll dress you up himself. he always does. and, made sure you looked gorgeous enough to make other men jealous. he's a strong man. he can handle some douchebags with his bare hands, of course.

one time he nearly killed a man for daring to touch your shoulder. he was a fellow racer too, but that doesn't matter. Ha-Joon's better and richer than him anyway. even if he had killed him, Ha-Joon's sure his sponsors would have dealt with it like a breeze. nonetheless, that man had been hospitalized for a week.

from that incident onwards, no man, in the racer community or outside, for that matter, dared to look at you funny. they really did love their lives, if not their wives, at least.

he'd always had some pretty wild fantasies with you and his prized car, the two most important things in his life, more important than his own life.

so when he wins the racer of the decade, he'd have you ride a dildo stuck to the hood of his metal baby and record you as you rode the silicon toy with gusto.

he just wants you to doll up and be his trophy wife. he has a dream of coming home from a race to see you cooking or doing housework with nothing on except his racing suit. that fantasy won't play out if you work.

and if the thought of working ever crossed your mind, Ha-Joon would be angry. very angry.

he did not want you to work, not because he thinks you're incapable, not at all. he'll just not like it if other men interacted with you other than him. he knows you'd be a very valued worker, but he did not want that.

he's rich enough to provide for the two of you for decades to come and well, if fate has a much crueler destiny decided for him, Ha-Joon had taken care of every possible outcome. so when disaster will strike, you'll live a more than luxurious life.

afterall, you're his prized girl.

[rejectedbytheempty]

All Day and All of the Night

pairing: simon riley x f!reader, no use of y/n

word count: 2.7k

cw: references to kidnapping (no actual kidnapping)

synopsis: you wake up in a strange man’s room wearing his shirt after a night out and chaos ensues

Before you even open your eyes, you feel a painful throbbing at the base of your skull. You groan as you roll over onto your back, putting your hands on either side of your face as if it would soothe the pounding in your head.

The last thing you remembered was thinking that one more shot wouldn’t hurt and that it was the weekend anyway, what’s the worst that could happen? You guessed that there were many more drinks to follow, but nothing you could recall. you managed to peel your eyelids open, half-crusted with leftover mascara.

The room spun slightly as the world came into view and you resisted the urge to lean over the side of the bed and empty your stomach from the vertigo.

“Christ”, you muttered, your voice hoarse and painful.

Rubbing at your throat, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and looked out into your room. Only... it wasn’t your room.

It felt as if ice water splashed down your back as the haze from your hangover was won over by a new feeling: fear. Looking down, you saw that instead of the clothes you wore to the club last night, you were in an oversized army green t-shirt. Now you really felt like you were going to throw up, and you did, managing to scramble over to a trash can before last night’s dinner could be spewed all over the carpet.

After a few dry heaves, you figured the worst was over and you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. Now that the wave of nausea had lessened significantly, you started taking stock of your situation.

You were in a sparsely decorated room, a couple of books sitting on the desk, and a dresser nestled in the corner of the room. That, and the cologne smell that was wafting off the shirt you were wearing meant that you were in a man’s room.

Although your mini skirt and low-cut top were nowhere to be found, you did note that you were still wearing the same bra and underwear you had on last night. And it didn’t seem like there were any marks on you or any indication that you had been touched beyond the obvious fact you had been changed into different clothes.

Suddenly, you realized that your phone was nowhere to be found either, instilling you with a new sense of panic.

“Shit!” you muttered softly, searching under the covers and crouching to look below the bed frame. You looked over at the door, and since you didn’t have your phone or any way of knowing where you were, you supposed you were going to have to try the door.

You cautiously stepped over to it, reaching out for the handle like it was some kind of cursed object. You shrieked loudly in shock when the handle turned abruptly and the door swung inwards.

In stepped a behemoth of a man, with white scars running across his face, almost like how the sky looked in a lightning storm. The scar on his lip deepened as he frowned, looking directly at you. You were frozen in place, unable to do anything but stare at him like a deer in headlights.

“What are you yellin’ for?” he asked in a low, rumbling voice.

“W-what?” was all you could manage to say.

He stepped closer, shutting the door behind him, “You squawked like a chicken when I opened the door.”

You swallowed thickly, “You scared me.”

He seemed to soften at that, his brown eyes losing some of their edge as he took in your situation. You probably looked a mess, remnants of makeup still on your face, your hair mussed up from sleep, and a shirt about two sizes too big hanging off your frame, just barely covering the lace panties you had on.

To be fair, if he was the one who took off your clothes, then he had already seen them so it wouldn’t really faze him if he saw the black lace poking out. Not that those semantics really mattered to you when he was standing there and staring you down.

“Why am I here?” you asked suddenly, unsure where you got the courage to speak from.

He blinked at you and then his mouth twisted into a mischievous grin, “You mean, you don’t remember?”

Your eyebrows furrowed, as it seemed like this conversation was slipping away from your control by the second, “I.. uh, maybe, maybe not.”

His grin grew even wider at your words, then he started laughing, actually laughing in your face. You folded your arms across your chest, face turning into a scowl. Kidnapper or not, he was being rather rude.

“What’s so funny?” you asked.

He shook his head, still laughing softly, “Oh, nothing. Just that you got pretty wild last night.”

Your angry expression faded slightly, you let your crossed arms fall down from your chest to your midsection, “I was?”

He nodded, “Oh yeah, climbing on the bar, singing along to all the songs, even if you didn’t know the words.”

You gulped, feeling your face flush slightly, “I.. might’ve done that, I’m not sure.”

He nodded, and you noticed that he was enjoying this, the sick bastard. “Mhm, and you kept saying that you were, quote, going to remember this night forever! unquote.”

Your hands had now fallen at your sides as flames licked up your cheeks at the mentions of your antics. You looked down at the ground as you asked him, “So, how did I end up here?”

“After the bartender cut you off, you threatened to sue him and then you tried to punch him. I stepped in, pulling you off of him and wrangled you out of the bar. I was gonna get you an Uber or a taxi but you wouldn’t let go of me. Even after you threw up.. on the both of us.”

You looked up at the last sentence, suddenly realizing why he had changed you out of your clothes. It all made sense, and as he was describing last night to you, some fragments and pieces of your memory came back. Although, you wish they didn’t. You hid your face in your hands, groaning slightly, both from your memories and from the pain of your headache coming back with a vengeance.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry” you said through your hands, not even wanting to look him in the eyes.

There was a pause for a moment and then he said, “It’s alright, couldn’t just leave you to be by yourself like tha’ at the bar, who knows what coulda happened?”

You managed to take your hands off your face and look back up at him again, “Thank you, seriously. If there’s any way I can pay you back or-”

He put a hand up to stop you, shaking his head, “Don’t worry ‘bout it, how ‘bout you let me make you breakfast, hm?”

You weren’t sure if you could keep it down, but you nodded anyway. Who were you to refuse his offer when he had already done so much for you?

“Right then, it’s settled. Why don’t you freshen up some and breakfast should be ready by then?” He pointed to the hall, “the next door is the guest bathroom, has some toiletries for you to use.”

You nodded, “Thank you.”

He nodded gruffly and left the room. You shut your eyes forcefully, feeling the roar in your ears at the pressure. “Fuckkkkkkk” you let out a long sigh. After scrubbing your hands down your face, you decided to follow his directions and headed to the guest bathroom. You figured that maybe after you splashed some cold water on your face, it would turn out that this was all some horrible dream.

It wasn’t a dream like you were hoping but you were grateful for the toothbrush and toothpaste, finally cleaning the taste of bile from your mouth. Digging through the cabinets, you found a new package of travel deodorant and some hair products that you also made use of. You also found a container of paracetamol and quickly took two to ease the pounding in your head.

Looking in the mirror you saw death staring back at you, but at least the person you were looking at didn’t smell so much like vodka anymore.

He was right, when you walked into the kitchen he had just finished up breakfast and was setting out two plates with plentiful servings. You took a seat at the kitchen table across from him and after he picked up his fork and started eating, you looked down at your plate.

He had made you two fried eggs with runny, orange yolk, toast slathered with butter, strawberry jam dripping down the sides, and some browned sausage, covered in a light sheen of oil. Hesitantly, you picked up the piece of toast, taking ginger bites out of fear the food would come rushing back up.

After eating about as much as you could stomach, you washed it all down with the glass of orange juice he had set out for you. When you looked up you saw that he had raised an eyebrow at your still half-full plate but said nothing about it.

He gestured his head towards your plate in a silent question of ‘you gonna eat that?’ You shook your head and he eagerly took the plate from you, scooping your leftovers onto his own portion.

As he began digging into the spoils, you broke the silence, “Sorry, I’m not sure if you told me yesterday, or not, but what’s your name?”

He swallowed the bite he was chewing and shook his head, “I didn’t tell you yesterday, you were too busy puking on my leather jacket.” You winced at that but he continued, “The name is Simon. Simon Riley.”

You nodded, it was a fitting name, you supposed. In turn, you shared your name and he hummed in acknowledgement, “I know.”

At your confused expression, he elaborated, “I had to close your tab at the bar, needed to know your name so I.. may have looked at your driver’s license,” he at least had the decency to look slightly ashamed for going through your personal items. You weren’t really sure what to say. On the one hand, you were grateful he closed your tab for you, but he also invaded your privacy.

You settled on ambivalence for his actions, “Thank you, I guess?”

“You’re welcome” he said, around a mouthful of toast. You just barely hid your expression of disgust. As nice as he was, he didn’t really have any table manners, and must be limited on human interaction based on your short conversation with him.

“So,” he asked after he wiped his mouth clean, “were you there with your friends?”

“Yeah, we were having some kind of girl’s night.” He frowned at your words, “And your friends let you go on like that?” You opened your mouth to defend them, but at that moment, you couldn’t really think of anything to defend them.

For one, they watched as you got blackout drunk, and instead of making sure you got home, they let some random man take you home? You hoped they at least had the decency of texting you this morning and asking if you were okay. Speaking of, where was your phone?

“Did I still have my phone on me when.. well, when we went home together?” He nodded, “I put it on a charger last night, should be fully charged by now.” He pointed to an outlet in the entryway where your phone sat on a small wooden table next to a scratched up old iPhone, that looked so outdated that you wouldn’t be shocked if it was the first model Steve Jobs came out with. You laughed audibly but quickly covered your mouth when you realized what you had done.

“Right, what’s so funny, then?” he asked.

You turned to look over at him, and grinned, pointing at his phone, “This yours?”

He nodded, “Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”

You laughed again, “I’m surprised this old of a model still works!”

He narrowed his eyes at you, “Of course it still works, wouldn’t be using it if it didn’t.”

You shrugged, “Guess so, just maybe think about buying a phone from the past decade, yeah?”

He just grunted and shook his head, “Don’t need one with all those fancy gadgets and whatnot, if it works, it works.”

You took your phone off the charger and walked back over to the table, “Whatever you say, Simon.” He scoffed in response but seemed more amused than actually angry at your teasing. You smirked at him but then turned your attention to your phone as it powered back on.

Must’ve died last night, then, good thing Simon charged it, you thought.

You did have a few texts from your friends, as it turns out, but not the worried ones you were hoping for. They were all from last night, something along the lines of ‘met this cute guy, see ya!’ and ‘hope you have fun with that total hunk you left with.’ “Assholes,” you muttered under your breath as you scrolled through the thread.

You weren’t expecting them to babysit you, but maybe a little check on you would��ve been nice. What if you had been drugged, or Simon had been a kidnapper? Your death could’ve ended up on a true crime podcast sandwiched between a distasteful comment on how hot your kidnapper was and a Hello Fresh ad break.

“Not good news, I take it?” Simon asked.

Your scowl did make it pretty obvious, and you sighed, “Yeah, not good. I mean, it’s like they didn’t even care if I made it home last night!”

He hummed in response. He was not a man of many words, you had discovered.

“I mean, seriously, I can’t even count the number of times I’ve held their hair back when they puked behind the bushes, or gotten them home when they overdid it on the tequila, and how do they repay me? By leaving me in the dust, that’s what.”

You were genuinely fuming now, as if last night had woken up years of pent up rage. “They never appreciated me, they never invited me places unless they wanted to have someone DD, they always hung out without me, and they constantly asked for money without even paying me back for the other times I had lent them money!”

It was silent in the kitchen for a moment, then Simon laughed, “Good on ya, luv. Knew they were wankers anyway.”

You helped Simon clean up the dishes, even though he had emphatically insisted you didn’t need to, he finally relented when you had explained that it wasn’t fair that he do all the cooking and all the cleaning.

You both made quick work of the chore and as you wiped your sudsy hands on your shirt, you remembered that it was not, in fact, your shirt you were wearing.

“By the way, where did you put my clothes?”

“Laundry room, put them in a plastic bag on top of the washer. Figured you would want to wash it yourself, considering most girls have some kind of preference for drying or not drying, or the temperature of the load.”

Hm, someone cooked here.

“Oh, thank you. Just.. I figured I wouldn’t stay around long enough to do laundry at your place, and since I wanted to not get catcalled the second I stepped outside, I’d prefer if I had some kind of pants. Do you think I can maybe borrow one of yours?” You asked hesitantly, you felt like you had already overstepped a million boundaries and here you were asking the poor man for more things.

He nodded, “Sure, I think I have some old sweatpants in my closet that are too small for me now. You can have those. You can keep the shirt, too, I have about a dozen of the same kind.”

You brightened, “Thank you, so much. I mean, seriously, you’re like an angel or something.” He froze, blush spreading faintly across his cheeks, “Not an angel” he muttered softly, “but you’re welcome.”

a/n: ok i’m ngl, the other night when i couldn’t sleep, i wrote this on my notes app and it kind of got away from me.. do you guys think i should continue this or naw?

shoutout to @asknit for editing my late night ramblings 🙏

the dividers were made by @aquazero !!

[cursedcola]

Thinking on interesting premises for Yuu creation/character dev. in terms of the 'isekai' genre and... One interpretation I am highly favoring is a Yuu who thinks they were abducted by a cult at first - aka. they saw the Opening Ceremony and instantly thought 'oh this is such a scam' but plays along with it. They give the name 'Yuu' as an alias, carefully making choices to handle these conveniently timed conflicts and 'overblots' to please the Headmaster. Full on thinking they're stuck in something like The Truman Show. Somehow they keep developing their own explanations for the magic, school, setting, etc. It's realistic - seeing is believing can only get you so far. They're trying to logic their way out of everything, even convincing themselves that they must be in a comatose dream as a last resort. It could also explain why they're so active for someone trapped in an alternate reality. Always choosing to be a bystander who's conveniently at the right place at the right time. At the start they're planning to escape, and by Arc 6 they're convinced it's all just some elaborate dream in their psyche. Which is why they stop asking Crowley to leave or mentioning their world ( plus the Mickey mirror) to everyone in twst - interpreting the discomfort as their brain pushing them away vs. the twst cast simply not wanting Yuu to go.

Arc Seven for those of you who know (I will not elaborate for the sake of spoilers) would 100% be where the crash-out of 'oh. this is real. these are real people.' happens. The chapter line up is perfect for the realization to slowly be brough about, and conclusion sets a precedence for an entirely new pathway other than 'Yuu goes home' for Arc 8.

Anywho. This is a premise I'm considering for a new series (perhaps a series of comics) as the completion of 'TWST: Hall Of Mirrors' nears publishing. I've considered many backgrounds for my own personal Yuu and pathways...but this one continues to linger with me.

[bullet-prooflove]

Recipe For Disaster: Rip Wheeler x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @trublu2u @alisbackalleybbq @mia1653 @privatetruths

You have a problem.

It comes in the form of a six foot three Army Ranger that you find standing in your kitchen, wearing an apron and following a recipe from one of your mother’s old cookbooks.

“Harry.” You say as you hear Rip’s footsteps on the porch behind you. “What are you doing here?”

“Making dinner.” Your ex-fiancé says as if it’s the most natural thing in the world before leaning over to adjust the temperature setting on your oven. “I thought I’d make you something special for your birthday.”

Your birthday…

That was three months ago.

You understand almost immediately what Harry’s in the midst of one of his episodes. They’ve become more common over the recent years, they often take the form of phone calls because he forgets the two of you aren’t together anymore. It’s part of his condition, a traumatic brain injury he’d received when an IED exploded back in Afghanistan. It fucks with his memory, makes him unpredictable.

Right now he’s reliving your birthday from five years ago, the one where cooked your mother’s humble pie before he got down on one knee and proposed to you in front of the fire.

You feel Rip’s presence behind you, the shift in the air as his gaze comes to land on the stranger in your home, the one with the knife in his hand. It glints wickedly in the light, reminding you of just how quickly this situation can turn if it’s not handled right.

“Rip.” You say as calmly as possible because you know that every single instinct in him is vying to take down the threat. “This is Harry.”

You see the moment it dawns on him, who Harry is. His dark eyebrows furrow into frown because Harry shouldn’t be here, he should be in the VA care facility outside of Bozeman that specialises in looking after veterans with his type of illness.

“You staying for dinner Rip?” Harry asks him, his hand trembling just a little as he continues to dice the carrots into cubes.

“I…Yea.” Rip responds because there’s no way in hell he’s leaving you in the company of a man who once choked you out in the midst of a breakdown.

“Cool.” He says setting the knife down, before he clenches and unclenches his fist. “Man I do not know what’s going on with my hand today.”

You know. It’s another effect of the brain injury, a tremor that comes and goes depending on his stress levels. Escaping from the facility, making the journey here and breaking into your home, it’s all exacerbated his condition and you know what comes along with that, you still have nightmares about it.

“Why don’t I help you out there?” Rip says, stepping into the kitchen, his palm coming to rest upon the knife, pressing it flat onto the counter. “You can start lining the tin with that pastry and I’ll take care of the chopping.”

Your body tenses because you aren’t sure how Harry’s going to react to another man stepping onto his territory. You wonder if his fight or flight response will kick in, the way it usually does. To your immense surprise he concedes by nodding his agreement and  busying himself with the task at hand. The relief you feel in that moment is palpable, Rip must see it in your features as he tilts his head up to meet your gaze.

“Imogen, why don’t you make those calls.” He says gently before tipping his head towards Harry. “I’ve got this.”

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[sexhaver]

if your reaction to Musk pushing for more H1B visas is "wow the hitler salute guy accidentally did something good, this will be good for immigrants who get these visas" and not "hm, the richest guy on earth wants to expand a program that lets companies like his (and also literally his company in particular) hire immigrants in a way that gives the companies all the leverage and effectively stops those workers from exercising any of their labor rights (or even just switching to a better job) under threat of deportation, and he's also part of a White House that has been super vocally anti-immigration. perhaps there is some ulterior motive to this announcement and his proposed changes to the program that will result in these H1B immigrants getting taken advantage of" then you need to, idk, read the news more? stop taking fascists at face value? think about why fascists would support immigration specifically in the labor sector while physically blocking it everywhere else?

my issue with Musk proposing an expansion of the H1B program has not, and has never been, "competition" from immigrants. this job market is already horrendous, H1Bs are a drop in the bucket in that regard and anyone seriously mad that an immigrant "stole their job" is either racist or falling for racist propaganda. my issue is the opposite: if i and an H1B holder both get hired for the exact same job, they will be making a fraction of my salary (because of their immigrant status) with none of the protections against labor violations or even the ability to just walk away and work somewhere else (again, because of their immigrant status). they're doing the same work as me (better, actually, to qualify for a green card) and yet they're getting paid less and treated worse because they're an immigrant.

and in theory you can counter this with "okay but it's worth it for them to put up with that because after a few years they'll be a citizen and able to make the big bucks with labor protections too", but here's the thing: a fascist White House talking out one side of their mouth about issuing more H1Bs and making them cheaper, while simultaneously ranting about "closing the border" and sending Fox News teams out on ICE raids the day after inauguration, is not a White House that has any intention of letting these visa holders become citizens. big companies are overwhelmingly going to use these new H1Bs as a way to hire people, string them along for a while while underpaying and overworking them, and then find some reason to not give them a green card at the end of the process. formerly the incentive for companies not to do that was all the overhead fees associated with the H1B itself, but oh look, Musk wants to reduce those too.

like, yeah, i get it, the process of becoming a US citizen is a nightmare designed to be hostile and let in as few people as possible. the solution to that is absolutely not to let ELON FUCKING MUSK, the RICHEST MAN ON EARTH, rework + expand H1Bs. do you really trust him to handle that in a way that results in anyone but him and his friends winning. do you expect the average H1B holder experience to end in citizenship under Trump's administration. do you really.

[luanna801]

Despite me joking about Lan Xichen not reading the room re: NMJ and JGY, I actually disagree with the idea that the Sworn Brotherhood was inherently a terrible idea and he should have known it would make things worse. I think it's a classic case where because we as the audience know how it turns out, that outcome seems like an inevitability and the characters end up being called dumb for not predicting it. But I think with the information Lan Xichen had at the time, it wasn't unreasonable for him to think this might work and was at least worth trying.

And I think in a different story, this is the kind of idea that could easily have worked and led to a heartwarming story about redemption and healed relationships. MDZS is just sadly not that story, at least for these characters, but as always fictional characters don't know what story they're living in and can't be expected to predict the future. All they can do is act based on the information available to them, and I would argue Lan Xichen didn't really have enough information to predict how this would turn out:

(1) At this point, the only time Nie Mingjue has tried to kill Jin Guangyao is when he mistakenly thought JGY had actually betrayed them and defected to the Wen side. Once the truth was cleared up, NMJ is still furious but backs down from trying to kill him. (JGY, meanwhile, has made no attempts to kill or even harm NMJ yet, and in fact actually saved his life.)

From Lan Xichen's perspective, he has every reason to think this incident was just an anomaly based on a very extreme situation where NMJ was acting on faulty information. He has no reason to think Nie Mingjue would try to kill Jin Guangyao again, or vice versa, so as far as he knows the worst case scenario for the sworn brotherhood is just... that it won't go great. That maybe they'll never really get along again, but they'll still collaborate politically for the sake of the Sworn Brotherhood, and there will be no real harm done that they tried. There isn't really a way he could have predicted things would escalate to them trying to kill each other.

(2) Nie Mingjue and Jin Guangyao used to not just tolerate each other but get along/work together EXCEPTIONALLY well, and Lan Xichen saw them during that time. He also knows they're both pretty closed-off people who canonically don't have a lot of friends and are hurt by the way things fell apart. It makes total sense for him to think they might be able to get back to how things used to be if they just got a chance to clear up misunderstandings and be reminded of the things they used to like about each other. And it makes sense that as someone who cares about them both he would want that for them.

(3) Lan Xichen sees both Nie Mingjue and Jin Guangyao as fundamentally good people. We can argue that he's mistaken in one or both of those evaluations, but based on what he knows, and indeed what they're respectively actually guilty of at that time, I don't think it's unreasonable for him to think so.

Most of JGY's worst actions are still in the future at this point. His only real crime (other than the things he did undercover, which LXC doesn't condemn) is killing the captain, which is an ambiguous enough situation that it makes sense for Lan Xichen to not consider it conclusive. Especially when weighed against what for LXC is far more substantial proof of JGY's goodness, like JGY having saved his own life when he was on the run, his time loyally and effectively serving NMJ, his incredibly brave and critical contributions to the war effort, etc.

Likewise, Nie Mingjue has yet to start acting as violent and unhinged as he later will on account of the saber spirit. While he's gotten angry, it was typically in rational ways that are largely proportional to the situation. He isn't doing anything comparable to the way he later flies off the handle at both Jin Guangyao and Nie Huaisang in largely irrational ways.

(We could argue that LXC should have known that he'd eventually end up there because of how saber cultivation works, but considering even Nie Huaisang apparently didn't know about it, I don't know that a member of another clan would have that kind of in-depth knowledge of the effects of Nie saber-wielding. LXC presumably knows the basic idea, but that doesn't necessarily mean he knows the specifics or how bad it can get.)

Therefore, from LXC's perspective these are two fundamentally kind, good people who all other things being equal should be able to work things out. And on the whole, he has far more evidence backing that up than contradicting it at this point in time.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Two of a Kind 8

Masterlist

NO TAGS. Don’t ask.

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; manipulation; criminal behaviour; cumplay/creampie, talk of contraception; written for smut, just being honest. Not all elements will be tagged/warned.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. It features dark!Ransom Drysdale and dark!Modern Charles Blackwood. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Ransom and Charles are partner’s in crime but they’re looking for some pleasure after years of business.

Note: :)

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya.

Ransom paces. He’s agitated. Charles always has to be the big man. Always has to be in control. That’s not how this works. This is a partnership. They are equal, in all their gains. It’s why they’re so efficient. 

So how come he’s out in the cold and Charlie Boy is cuddled up nice and close with the kitty. He bets he’s in there getting a double dip. Fucking unbelievable. 

Ransom snarls and flops onto the couch. His satin boxers tickle his tip and he hardens. He hasn’t fully calmed down. Every time he thinks about how she squeezed him, he tingles and twitches. Fuck, that was good. Who would’ve thought?  

He sighs and stands up. He charges down the hall to Charles’ room then stops. He strides back to the front room and retraces his steps a second time. He snarls and cracks his neck. They had a fucking deal. They share. So why is he in there hogging her all to himself? 

He closes his eyes and pictures her shivering in the tub. The tears streaked down her cheeks and the glistening, sticky aftermath of fucking all over her skin. The way he covered her has him fully hard. Fuck it, he’s not waiting until morning. 

He turns the handle and swings the door inward. The room is dark. He can smell the chamomile. Charles’ snores rumble in the dark. He always sounded like a pig in heat when he slept. Ransom slows as his eyes adjust to the dim. 

He sees her squirm. She’s under Charles’ arm. He thinks she’s awake, he swears he can feel her eyes on him. He nears quietly, placing each foot carefully, and bends over the side of the bed. He measures’ his accomplices snores. 

He runs his fingertips down her arm and wraps his fingers around her wrist. He’s lucked out and he’s not gonna pass up the prime opportunity. He tugs her and she whimpers. He hisses out a hush. She gulps and slides out from beneath the blankets and Charles’ arm. 

Ransom stops and pulls her to him as the other man grumbles and shifts onto his stomach. He puts his hand over her mouth to quiet her gasp and she presses flush to him. She’s still naked. 

He turns her and walks her toward the door. He ushers her into the hall as she awkwardly mimics his steps. He reaches back to close the door and she whines. 

“Please, I’m tired--” 

“Shut up,” he snarls. “You can sleep, I’ll still fuck you.” 

“But... Ransom... I... I thought you liked me--” 

He chuckles, sure to keep it low. He nudges her down the hall. He points over her shoulder. 

“I like what you can give me. Well, more what you have. By nature, really. Nothing special but those holes do the job,” he smacks her ass and reaches past her to open his bedroom door. “So why don’t you show them off for me, baby.” 

She curls her shoulders, looking even smaller, and his balls throb. He feels full even though he was aching moments ago. Been a while since he felt so... ready. Usually, he just rolls over and prays he wakes up to an empty bed. 

She hesitates and looks around. He huffs. She’s a bit stupid. Her fear gets him going but it’s also fucking annoying.  

He marches up and grabs the back of her neck. He urges her to the end of the bed and guides her to kneel on the cushioned bench, like a fucking dog. Mm, he likes that. She’s his. His obedient little pet. 

Her back racks visibly as she quivers. He gets behind her and pushes down his boxers, the fabric catching on his swollen tip. He growls and stretches the elastic past his length. He lets the satin fall to his feet and grabs her hip. 

He steps closer and presses his tip along your ass. He smears around the precum already trickling out and shudders. His entire body pulses at the sensation.  

The surge drives him. He bends his knees and leans over her. She whines as he traces down past her ring, a moment of intrigue before he finds her cunt. Charles wouldn’t forgive him if he took her ass without him. 

He glides between her swollen folds and feels her flinches. He groans and rubs against her cunt. He pushes against her opening and she drones as she tenses. Her body resists his intrusion but it only goads him on. 

He snaps his hips and breaks through. She cries out and he once more brings his hand to her mouth. He puts his other on the bench as he bends over her and thrusts again. It takes several tilts for him to bottom out as she sobs into his palm. 

Her agony fills him with smoky delight. Fuck. Her walls throb, milking him as he tries to fight the pressure. He can’t blow already. 

He rolls his hips slowly, enjoying the feeling of her around him, so tight and slick, then the tingle of the naked air around him as he pulls out. In, out. He stands up, bringing her with him, and watches himself pump into her. Shit. Don’t, don’t, don’t. 

He exhales away the swell and carries on. He covers half her face with his hand and ruts harder and harder, pausing after each rippling slap of skin. He leans his head back as his eyes roll into his skull. Her fractured voice is smothered by his palm and she quakes uncontrollably at his mercy. 

He spasms as he erupts, unable to hold it in any longer. He fills her up as he fucks his cum into her until it squelches and leaks out. Even then, he doesn’t stop. He could keep her on him forever. 

👄

You stare at Ransom’s back. Your insides crawl and threaten to spill over. You stare at his muscles, the power woven through them, and you feel the weakness in you. 

His breath rises and falls as you lay in the soft hue cast through the window. You suppress a groan as you turn onto your back. It takes all you have to sit up. You hunch over and touch your pelvis as it scalds.  

You nearly stumble out of the bed. You limp to the door and glance back at his sleeping figure, focusing on him to make sure he isn’t awake. You slip through the door, leaving it slightly open, and creep down the hall. 

Your clothes are still on the floor. You dress in the grim night shade. The friction of fabric on your skin makes you wretch. You can’t stand even that. You never want to be touched again. 

You find your shoes and bag by the door. You stop to listen to the house as you put your coat on. You take out your phone before you flip back the lock. You sneak out into the whipping gales and steel yourself for the walk home. At least, you hope you find your way back. 

You open your maps app and follow the small blue arrow through the desolate night time. Each step is torture. When you trip off a curb, you feel it inside. 

You cry again, here and there, replaying the night in your head. Reliving your own mistakes. How could you ever believe Ransom? You really thought he was into you... 

Your mom can’t know. She’d be horrified. Or... what if she doesn’t believe you? 

That hurts more than anything they did to you. No one would believe you. If they did, they’d say it was your fault. You went to his house, you stayed there with both of them, you didn’t fight hard enough. No, you let them use you. 

You stop and sit on a bench. You know this part of town. You’re just too tired to keep going. You just need a minute. Or two. Or three. 

It takes you a while to get up again. Shivering, you watch the battery on your phone drain. You put it away as you recognise the street signs. It’s like a maze as you struggle to push through the pain and the blistering wind. 

You just want to go home and forget tonight. Forget it like it never happened. 

As you reach your front door, you fumble for the keys. You ease inside, keeping your steps soft and sitting to take off your boots. You hug your bag, huddling over it, and shuffle down the hall. The light flicks on above you. 

You blanch as your mother’s voice calls after you. You inhale and face her, hoping she can’t see your sadness. You force a smile. 

“Mom...” 

“There you are,” she says. “I’ve been waiting all night. I thought you’d be home before me.” 

“I’m sorry, mom, I... I lost track of time--” 

“You couldn’t call, or message?” 

“I know, mom. I—I—” You stutter. “I’m an adult.” 

She scoffs, “I know that but I worry.” 

“It’s okay--” 

“Okay? Out all night with a boy. You never know what could happen.” 

You sniffle, “mom.” 

“I’m just trying to look out for you, honey.” She girds and lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry, but... I’m just glad you’re safe.” 

She comes forward and you tremble. You want so desperately to hug her and cry against her. No, like you said, you’re an adult, you made this decision. 

“Well, did you have fun?” She asks. 

The question nearly bowls you over. You stare at her dumbly and shrug. She smiles and snickers, “oh, you don’t have to tell me everything.” 

Good, because you’re not telling her anything. 

[raddest-laddest]

ok me and a couple people had a huge brain dump on discord just now, here are some newly adopted OW headcanons of mine:

gneiss always tries to get everyone to play an instrument (to varying degrees of success.) it ended up becoming a big thing mostly between astronauts

the founders each played and instrument, though most of them stopped after feldspar disappeared

^ the way they handle their instruments after largely reflects how they deal with the feldspar situation

^^ slate hid theirs away in a pile of scrap material, just like how they hide away their true feelings on feldspar’s disappearance (which they blame themself for the most.) im thinking either they or mica will find it, and when they do, it sends them back into their angry frustrated grieving

^^ hornfels still played theirs for a period while they were trying to radio feldspar. they stopped when they gave up hope, and now it just sits in a closet or a drawer somewhere

^^ gossan hasn’t been able to touch theirs since it happened, but they still keep it perched up in their cabin, and they look at it a lot. (they cant seem to shake the feeling that their friend is still out there)

^^ feldspar plays theirs in the hopes that their signal can be found. even if they say they aren’t to keen on going back, they still hope to reach their friends, at least to let them know they’re ok.

if feldspar is ever returned:

they have a very delayed response to all the trauma they endured, not even realizing how much it screwed with them until they try flying again

^ (they freeze up in the cockpit as they’re about to launch. it’s a very big “what? why is this happening??” for them)

their body has a hard time handling regular food for a while, since they were forced to eat whatever they could find on dark bramble all those years (which is mostly centipedes)

^ this is a big point of frustration since “a strong stomach is the mark of a true hearthian.” it’s almost like they lost their… hearthian…ness

they hide a lot of their shit behind a hearty facade, cracking lots of jokes about it all. (especially about their healing progress and their food situation) this keeps them under the radar for the most part, but everyone is still quietly worried about them

^ it’s gossan who eventually pulls them aside and goes “cut the crap. tell me what’s going on.” and then they have to talk about it and stuff

and yea ::D

[red-doll-face]

Snow Angel 11

Chapter 11: fevered Series Masterlist

low - medium honor Arthur Morgan x fem. Reader

Arthur has been living by himself, laying low (for real this time) somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. After the whole Pinkerton and Micah debacle, he has been hiding away, waiting for it all to blow over, occasionally getting letters from the people who still know that he’s alive. He’s been alone awhile and at first, he thought he could handle a little loneliness. He has been wrong before. Lucky for him, you look like the perfect thing to break up the monotony.

Warnings: dubious consent, arthur’s mental health is kind of not so good…VERY low honor Arthur, darkish fic, a bit of naive reader. Reader has dated and period typical ideals, not very good ideas about men and marriage… if you want reader to be strong and a fighter… this is not for you sorry. suggestive themes. Huge HUGe Voyeurism bit, arthur being a perv 🤨👀 huge weirdo energy LMAO small mention of wanting death, WC: 7780 Hello snow angels : ) here is chapter 11!!! this chapter will be from arthurs perspective so very exciting 😳 i had a ton of fun just getting nasty with him and writing his fucked up little thoughts 😈 arthur inner monologue was a bit weird at first but im sure ill get better at it by actually attempting to do it LMAO i hope you guys enjoy and pls let me know what you think!!! i wanna thank everyone who has left replies and asks about this series, all of you have been so supportive and amazing, couldnt do it without you guys 🥹🥹💖💖💖 also this ended up way too long so sorry Tags: lots of angst todayyy, no TB, weird but not that toxic relationship, Arthur being a menace.Arthur being rude as always just… low honor arthur as a warning lol - What does it matter if the man who saved your life is a little strange?

It must be dusk falling too soon. Slow deprivation of heat and light; does things to his head, as if that wasn’t half screwed off already. Arthur’s fingers clutch the dusty curtain in front of one of two main windows at the front of his cabin; his eyes swear they can see…something out in the treeline. At first he thought of Pinkertons; to collect that bounty they were on about. Why they would follow him to the ends of the earth for that would be beyond him but Arthur had been known to do stupid things for a big payout. And of course, he hadn’t lived this long without a healthy amount of paranoia. Or what he called caution. Or perhaps Charles should have left his ass at the nearest asylum.

But he can sense that he’s wrong when nothing comes of it. No gunshots, no desperate shoot out for his life. Just the quiet again. In a minute, he’ll look out the window and watch the figure disappear. And he’ll shake his head, rub his calloused fingers over his tired eyes. He drops the curtain, pouring another cup of coffee at the silver percolator in the kitchen. He is not losing his grip; he isn’t. He’d leave that to Dutch. 

It’s gotten worse with the winter; those strange things he sees from time to time. They make him feel more out of place than he already does. As if there’s something wrong with him, wrong with this moment. The frost grows over the windows like mold.

The summer sun kept the darkness from slipping in and leaking into his vision. But that’s long gone, been gone for a month. Shit weather up here, long dragging winters. Summers that were too short for his liking and an autumn that was beautiful but also short lived. The winter is too heavy now to do much of anything but loop out to the stable and back. Not much sightseeing to do, the same shock white landscape to see everyday. 

In spite of how beautiful the mountain is; with its sprawling forest, creeks like liquid glass, the fresh winter air… Arthur finds it arduous to see it. Closing himself inside his cabin is easier. He could go and hunt something, draw the scenery. But was that any better than the fireplace? The comfort and simultaneous unease of staying inside the confines of his new home drag him in opposite directions. And even if his paranoid visions are just residue from another time in his life; he knows there are people who could be still searching, who might remember his face. Bad things had a way of following Arthur wherever he went. 

Even more loathsome is the lack of sunlight. The sun disappears around 4 or 5 and it feels like it was midnight by 6. The windows of his wooden cabin blacken like soot, leaving him tired and groggy. 

Arthur tries to keep himself going with bitterness like always. Coffee, cigarettes, and alcohol. He thinks the lack of light plays with his head. It’s easy to mistake shadows for ghosts, trusting himself was hard as it was. 

Damn snow, cuts to the bone.

The stunning silence surprises him still at these odd moments in the day. Arthur thought that maybe the peace would do him some good. But there was a need that scratched incessantly at the front of his skull. Over and over and over. 

He spent a long time being needed by other people. Dutch made him feel needed at the very least. Like he was part of something that symbolized how free a man could be. And he had devoted every shred of himself to the vision that Dutch had for the world. It was all that mattered to Arthur. His fealty was really all he had to give and so he gave it. 

God, had he felt the fool on the last day he saw him, when Dutch walked away, as if everything Arthur had ever done was nothing to him. Twenty goddamn years of his life. If he was being honest, he knew that his loyalty was wasted before that day but he had waited to see if the man he knew would emerge. If he could kill that gutless rat and show Dutch the truth but he refused, leaving Arthur with nothing to show for it. Helping John, Abigail and Jack to safety was barely a comfort when he thought of all that he wasted. All he did was hand another man a chance at the life that he wanted. 

But it was too late. As always with Arthur. (Everything was always too little; too late) Providing for others was embedded deeply in his being. It was something he had done for years, especially when he decided to get his shit together. He might have dallied, thoroughly enjoying his youth. But he learned (through several extremely painful lessons) why it was important that he pick up the slack. Loyalty isn’t represented by inaction. He hadn’t been all too kind to people but he had kept his comfort that in some part, his work was what kept that camp running. And when that fell apart; he really did try to help the less fortunate.

Really, he was making up for his failures to the people he cared about most. Arthur questioned if he had cared enough. If he did, maybe things would have ended differently between him and the people he harmed by being selfish.

Maybe Dutch put some modicum of power in his hands and Arthur had wielded it badly, went around acting like the cesspool he felt like most of the time. But at the end of the day, the camp ate because of him, they had medicine because of him, hell, they even drank because it was him that brought back more money than anyone else. 

There is no one who needs him now. Arthur scrubs his hand over his face then down to rub over his shoulders. Leans his head back. At first it was nice. The independence. No more debt collecting for Strauss, no more worrying if there’s enough food for Pearson, no more looking out for O’Driscolls. He thought he would like only having one person to worry about; he had been lying to himself. Although he still had other things missing from him. They’re like phantom limbs. He can feel where they were supposed to be but when he looks down they’re gone. Hosea’s guidance was missing from him. Even if he was terrible at following it. The sound of the girl’s giggling and gossiping. Even Uncle and Swanson ambling around, drunker than he thought was possible. Dutch looming, watching through his haze of maduro sweetened smoke. He keeps looking down but they’re gone.  

The fire crackles and the wind howls; picks up the silence. Sometimes the wind from the flue sounds like the breeze over Flat Iron Lake. The fire doesn’t sound any different than it did when it crackled warmly around a circle of a mismatched band of criminals singing songs together, alongside the chatter and the drunken crooning. When it was the background noise to thick Irish blabbering. The poor kid. He was going places, as most of the younger ones were, he and Lenny would have run that gang when they got past their growing pains. He could have told them that when they were living, that sentiment would have meant something then. 

It’s been a year or two, the days sort of connect like train cars and chug along, not because he wants them to but because that’s how life goes. It’s an endless drag, an endless struggle. He can’t see how this is much better than being dead. Arthur Morgan is one of the few people who knows how precious life can be, he spent a lifetime taking it away from people as he pleased. 

He tries to savor this peace (as if he knows how to). Tries to remember what it was like, not having any time to himself, always at Dutch’s beck and call. Barely any time to take a piss, let alone really rest, really give himself room to be anything but what others wanted. How he loathes those memories. The years he spent dedicating himself to another man's dreams. Watched all those years slip away, ashes in a smoke stack, rising forever upwards until they’re forgotten. 

Arthur refuses to recall how many things he gave up for that life; down to the simple pleasures. Love, privacy, a family. He convinced himself that anything else wasn’t living, that he couldn’t ever be tied down. That old life was just… what he had. There was nowhere else to go and when he was old enough to go his own way, there were kids like him with nothing left; nothing to return to, no one to look after them. He might not have been anyone to look up to. Maybe he was a shining example of what not to be. It was Arthur who was there to keep people in line, to show them how to be killers for Dutch’s aspirations. He’s sure he ruined lives more than he taught them anything useful.

Nothing about that life was rooted in anything real, substantial to the world. Pipe dreams. Vague imaginings of living free in the west or some such tropical paradise. What a waste. Just the thought of a secluded island with palm trees on it summons a bitter laugh. 

He sits and watches the fire. Tries to ignore the shadow in the corner. It's thin and wavering. Today, it looks a bit too much like Hosea for his taste. Especially when the log on the hearth cracks, it sounds like that ominous cough that followed the graying conniver everywhere he went. 

Arthur lights another cigarette. He’s been making (quite frankly, just awful) attempts at rationing and this is his allotted second cigarette of the day. He’s two for five. He curses himself every time he forgets to take the drags and it crumbles to ash too quickly, landing on the rug beneath his boots. He hisses, a singe on his fingers snaps him back to the present moment. It burns his fingers when he forgets that he’s holding one entirely, too busy drilling holes in the walls with his eyes. He can’t stand it but he doesn’t have another choice. The silence has the mysterious property of making Arthur lose track of himself. He should have listened but he never learns. 

This deep into winter, not too far from the base of Mt. Pàtu, he can’t just head out on the road and get more cigarettes. The nearest town is a six or seven hour ride and that isn’t happening, not in this weather. He might take Currant out for a light trot so he can get some exercise but he can tell something big is coming soon. The bellows of air from the west have him readying for storm weather. Best to get a move on now if he were to be going out. 

It’s dinner now. He’s not sure where the time went but he doesn’t mind too much. He’s got coffee and he’s got hot food. Salt pork with potatoes, boiled in the salt water from soaking the corns of salt off the meat. He’s gotten better at cooking at least. Arthur scoffs at the thought of the slop he used to be eating. He takes a glass out and sets it on the counter, along with his fifth bottle of Kentucky bourbon. He’s allowed 6 bottles a month. By anyone else’s standards it might be a lot but where he spent most of his time; around other drunkards and degenerates, it’s not enough. 

The storm hits full force now, there’s gonna be snow all the way up to the porch by tomorrow morning. But the air inside of his cabin is still and smoky. From the window, he checks the stable to see if the doors stay closed. It’s well insulated so Currant should be fine. The storm will have scared most of the game into hiding away, he contemplates when he’ll head back out for hunting. He takes a seat at his plain dining table, spends a while on the same glass of bourbon. The smell of cedar and salt is nice.  So is the warmth of his cabin but it’s all lost to him. His sense for how fortunate he is to be here and not dead in a ditch is dull. Only he could be the man to crave chaos and blood and the sound of gunshots while sitting on his ass all day, sipping bourbon. 

He thinks he’ll read a boring book or pretend to keep busy by stoking the fire. Arthur listens to the silence, waiting to hear something but the crackling and the draft from a small crack in the wall. But there’s nothing. He should have listened to Charles. But he insisted that he would be fine. He can’t go back on that now, he’s always been fine by himself. He’ll just wear the groove into his leather chair even further like the sorry bastard he is, trying to ignore how small and stiflingly warm the room feels.  

The blizzard gets louder and louder. Dozing off on the sofa or in his chair sounds like as good a time as any. But he isn’t exhausted, just annoyingly groggy. Bouncing his knee does not count as activity. Neither does all the fidgeting he does, twitching his fingers, putting his legs up and bringing them back down. He tries to pace a little but wearing treads on the floorboards isn’t doing any good either. He puts his hands on his hips. 

 He grabs his journal but he doesn’t have much to write. What would he write about? Surely, the exciting things he experiences everyday. Waking up feeling like hot shit on a platter after having too much whiskey was not the kind of thing worth memorializing in his journal anymore. He’s a little past the shame now too, the embarrassment. He lets his fingers feel the blank page, the tooth of the paper. 

He lets his hand form images of spring, the point of his pencil worn into a dull tip, recollected as best as possible. It’s nothing but a pale comparison. 

There’s a pat on the door. It’s soft and weak. And just as softly, there’s a voice pleading for help, asking if anyone is inside. A light shining in through the cracks of his world. 

He pushes himself up. He knows he hasn’t had that much to drink tonight. The worst possible outcomes play in his head. A ruse from bounty hunters, a local gang taking advantage (not a whole lot better than he would have done only 3 years ago), or another ghost from his past (the ones that play at the corner of his eye). His chest gets a little tight but he’s been good at keeping unease from holding him back. Arthur shakes his hand out, placing the book on the mantle of the fireplace.

“Who’s out there?” It’s an oddity. To hear another voice. One that isn’t his own. It’s a beautiful noise, a pleasing beckon. But he’s no fool. He doesn’t even particularly want to be here, why would anyone be here if they didn’t have to be? He grabs his revolver from the small table next to the entrance, one of the only loaded guns in the house. “Please, sir, I promise it’s just me,” and the earnestness in that voice, he has to believe that promise is true. He has to open the door. With a deep sigh, he stuffs the gun away after a second thought. 

The figure is much too bundled up to gather any immediate details. She’s not very much, standing there out in the cold icy fluff. It isn’t until he nods his head to direct her does she realize she should probably come in. He peeks out at the tracks, just one long line of horse tracks in the process of getting blown over by the harsh wind and the lashing ice. Her struggle up to the porch marked in snow. Arthur scans the tree line for any of those dark silhouettes but they’ve blown away in the wind, they’re pushed from his mind when he turns back and closes the door shut behind the both of them. 

He turns to her, he doesn’t mind the way she shrinks away from his body, skittish and slight. Such a small girl, alone in a snowstorm. He can’t think of a single good reason why she would be going it alone and what she could possibly need more than a night in. She should be warming her hands next to a fire. He could do it for her, could gather them and breathe on them. He tosses that behind him like an empty tin can. He has other things to focus on, mostly trying to get a better look at her and prying an answer out of her as to why she’s out here like this. 

He’s more rude than he intended to be but a little rudeness is nothing new to him. “What the hell were you doin’ out there?” He has been described as coarse. Intentionally and unintentionally. He’s a little bit like a puffed up rooster when he catches her looking him over, marveling at the size of him. But he lets that fall away, surely she needed no old man assuming things on her part. He knows he ain’t much to look at. At his gruff tone, she has no response. The poor thing is so cold, her teeth chatter, whatever she mustered up to yell at him over the storm has run out. Arthur feels a little of his hard veneer chip away. 

He thinks to take her coat, covered in frost and not nearly as insulated as he had hoped, it’s damp with melting ice now that she’s inside. But he feels like he’s dreaming again, peeling her coat off and hanging it on the rack, a faux gentleman. He doesn't know why he’s trying to impress but there’s a chance that she’d like a man like that. So he plays, pretends. He’s surely done that before.

When her coat is shed, all of those visions he’s been having must have caught up to him. 

Jesus, Morgan. You’ve really lost it now. 

This disease of loneliness he’s been given has surely destroyed the vestiges of his sanity. He must be imagining some young soft handed girl with warm bright eyes and vibrant, shiny hair. Face of an angel, looking hopeful; grateful. Her eyes on him burn like hellfire. He feels strange, watching much too close at how her tongue wets her lips; chapped from the cold. Beautiful; she must be someone’s girl, he hopes for a widow who had lost her husband to the winter frost. He’d gladly pick up where the fucker left off. Pry her from his cold hands. Could just be the loneliness talking. He can’t bring himself to care all that much about it. 

Arthur can feel shame eating away at him, like ants at the corners of a scrap fallen off the table. He could have found himself sick to his stomach not too short a time ago. A girl as young as her and he, an old dog with even older tricks have no business together. He knows it too. But he was done with that crushing feeling of dread that ate away at his very soul some days. He had enough of his life to feel awful about. Blood on the floorboards, forgotten promises, disregarded words of affection. Just these moments, where he can hoard the vision that is this girl to himself after so long of giving pieces of himself away. 

What has that shame ever done but made you worse? 

If there isn’t the will to keep his eyes off the girl then there’s the give in him. Like a levy, it cracks a little, breaks into a million pieces of splintered wood for her. It’s been too long since he’s seen something so pretty. All flesh and blood. No graphite on paper; recollections of the women from his past, no Gem of Beauty cigarette card. She carries the smell of soap and perfumed cotton. He thinks it's geranium scented or another delicate flower crushed to pieces to make her smell like she came from heaven too. It’s a weakness he hadn’t culled. 

This girl of his; she must be something quite real. His wishful daydream would have diverted to more intimate topics by now, and he’d probably imagine a woman he’s at least met before. Deciding if he’d prefer her to be real or a misty figment of his imagination; he can’t make heads nor tails of it. Arthur knows he’d probably end up disappointing a real person more than he could offend a figure cooked up in his mind. He sighs. He turns to the iron stove beside the dining table. There’s still coffee and he can distract himself from his ridiculous train of thought by clumsily pouring it out for her. 

Hopeful bastard.

“You mute, girl? Asked you a question.” He knows she isn't but he wants to hear her talk some more. And maybe if she hears what a brute he makes himself out to be most of the time, she’ll turn her nose up at him the way she’s supposed to. Lots of women have, she wouldn’t be the first warned away by his attitude like a bad smell. He could almost let that temptation win. To change who he is at this moment. If only for the selfish purpose of luring her further into his home. However, he’s too impulsive and his tongue is too practiced at offending. He has words that are about as gentle as a fist to the nose. 

He sets her cup down on the table. Arthur doesn’t wait for her to figure herself out, grabbing another cigarette, swiping them off of the coffee table in front of the fireplace. To hell with the rations. It was a special day after all, a goddamned holiday. He strikes the match on the table, lighting it as she tentatively steps forward. Nearly singes his finger on the match he forgot to put out, wincing and waving it out to put out the flame. 

She’s a pearl, surrounded by the ugly oyster that is the less than stellar home he keeps. Carefully, she steps into his space. Suddenly, he’s hyper aware of every thing she could find awful or garish; his hunting trophies or the weapons or the wall. Or the mess of papers on the desk in the corner. It has him gripping his cigarette a bit too tight. Her face hardly moves in any particular reaction, as if used to him already. A simple neutrality is what takes her as she looks at some of the things over the mantle, then her eyes track over the small hallway, leading to the bedroom and some storage. She’s quick to bring her attention back to him, a soft smile that stuns him graces her face, kicking up some long buried hope of his.

 If there was a woman who should be a lady, it’s her. She sets herself down on the sofa, neatly keeping her hands to herself, reaching for the cup he set out for her. But first checking to see if it wasn’t for him with a nervous flick of her eyes up to his own. He can hardly ignore how it pulls at him. She holds the blue speckled cup on her thigh. 

“No, I…was getting something for my granny…” She explains she couldn’t make it to the doctor in the almost fatal weather outside. He has a humorless laugh. How could anyone send her out for the sake of some old hag; already knocking on death's door? Selfless girl but stupid. Defenseless. Her own mother, too. He supposes he can relate. The man he regarded as his father had been the one to let him down the most.

 It’s always the ones you trust. 

He makes his opinion known to her, maybe he can talk some sense into her. 

“I can imagine. What kinda mother sends a pretty thing like you on a fool's errand? You really thought you was gonna bring your ol’ granny a doctor in this?” He reprimands her, she might need it. 

Little girl gone out by herself. Needs you, don’t she?

What she probably needs is someone to keep her from doing things that risk her life for nothing at all. Doesn’t have to be him but he won’t turn the thought away. Breaking her open on her marriage bed. Such a pretty thing, a distracted smile into her cup of coffee. Lost in a snow drift because no one cared enough to keep her inside. 

And she does nip back. Trying to give a rebuttal but he won’t have it. He knows he’s right, giving his idea of a light hearted joke, his particular brand of poking humor. Heavy handed as always. 

“Your granny probably already kicked the bucket while you were out here, damn near gettin’ yourself killed.” 

 Perhaps insinuating her grandmother was already dead wasn’t the best attempt at familiarizing her with himself, her face tinges with an expression he’s used to seeing. Dutch said he had a sharper tongue than people thought. Hosea said it was too blunt. 

“And if it weren’t for me, well…” she’d be dead. Forgotten somewhere in the snow with a dead horse for company. Such an image should hopefully be sobering for her. It’s a harsh reality but one he would prevent from happening.  His hand comes up to scratch at his brambly jaw. She probably thought his slightly overgrown beard was ugly and unkempt. His fingers raise the delicate rolled cigarette to his lips. A nice calming drag helps his nerves calm down, they quit jumping under his skin every time her eyes pull over him, over his scarred face and his crooked nose and his gnarled hands. She looks like she holds something back. Her tongue, he thinks. He wished she would have just come out and said it. 

But she’s a polite little thing, stifling herself with another drink of the coffee. The satisfaction on her face and the small droop in her shoulders now that she’s warm makes him smile. 

She speaks up with a tremor stuck to her words. “I’m sorry mister,” her nose scrunches a little, doesn’t even know how darling he finds it. “but I don’t think you gave me your name…” 

In a well practiced motion, he leans and ashes his cigarette. It took him a while to remember that he can’t just ash them on the ground anymore. He had floors and a permanent roof now. He tends to get the hang of things at some point. He kicks his legs up on the table, gently so as to not frighten the girl on his sofa, warming herself by his fire, and drinking his coffee. The thoughts tickle that provider’s instinct so deeply embedded in his being. His name, he almost forgets all about that, looking into her pretty eyes, blinking curiously. Right. 

“Arthur. You married?” He never liked small talk too much. Never one for the surface level bullshit people put on. He watches each of her features form into something like a smile but not. Too nerve-y, falls into something else when she presses her lips together, her brows twitch as they pull together and her fingers scrunch in her gloves. 

As if she’d marry you, ain’t exactly the pick of the litter, are ya?

His fingers twitch, squeeze his short nails into the give of his palm. Then why does she call him? So enticing, then, looking at him with soft eyes, her legs pressed together and slanted. A real proper girl. Cute thing. Naive enough not to recognize someone like him at first glance. He’s something to be avoided. He wishes he could see a ring glittering on her finger, to ward away the seething heat in his head and his gut. Like a prayer muttered in the presence of evil but he doubted it’d be strong enough. 

“No, I’m afraid not,” her voice is like velvet, the rub of a rose petal between his fingers. Her eyes flick away and her teeth press gently into her bottom lip, sweet looking. No man to look after her besides her worthless father, left her out here to freeze. Alone, really. Or she might as well be. The world has been known to be cruel to women. To his mother, to a woman whose life he had ruined, to Mary even, to Susan and Molly. Well, most every woman he knew. It wasn’t fair but many things in their lives were disparagingly slanted away from them, scales always uneven. 

“Young lady like you, unwed and caring for your Ma, Pa, all by yourself?” Arthur scoffs, even as he points out her tragedy. “Now that’s just sad, is what it is,” His fingers push his cigarette into the ash tray a bit too hard, twisting it. And he looks at her blouse, drawing the outline of her with his eyes. He’d put it to paper later. She has a small nod for him. A shining opportunity. But he has to introduce his own dingy reality. The one where he was probably old enough to have been able to hold her when she had just been born. 

“You are… a sight, for an old ugly bastard like me is all,” Honest words slip from him, too loose for him to keep them behind his teeth. The bashful look crosses over her face makes his lip curl up just a little. She deserved to have someone tell her how pretty she is, who wouldn’t ever let her forget for a second how lovely she looked. Where all of these sappy things come from is beyond him. They ooze into his mind anyway.

Delicately, she sets the cup down on the table littered with other cups he had forgotten to put away and empty packages of cigarettes. He rolls his eyes at himself, of course he doesn’t clean up the day he has company.

“I left my horse in the stable out front, I hope you don’t mind,” her hands pet at her thighs, he can see where the fabric is damp. Immediately, his mind clicks into place, thinking on how he can fix it. That’s what the fairer sex truly craved, wasn’t it? Not some puffed up egomaniac. A fixer. A solution. His hands itch to move. To pick up the pieces of her problems and push them back into the shape of something whole. “Ain’t no trouble,” the relieved sag in her shoulders tells him that she actually worried about it. 

So Arthur does, he’s nothing if not a man of action. “Why don’t I get you somethin’ dry to wear? Should be turnin’ in soon. Gettin’ late.” He’s up before he can hear a protest. But she doesn’t give much of one. In his bedroom, his hands swipe his hair backwards. The small mirror he usually keeps around strictly for shaving catches the light of the small oil lamp. 

God, his best years are way behind him. So say the lines at the corners of his eyes, the gouges of his age on his forehead and the delicate webbing of wrinkles under his eyes. All of the evidence of his lifestyle glares back at him. There’s a ruddiness over the higher planes of his cheekbones from burning them under the sun. Some of the fist and knife fights from his youth have left permanent evidence of his misgivings on his face. Mostly in the form of scars and his odd nose. 

You disgust her, don’t go kidding yourself. 

If he ever told her the truth of himself, he’s sure a girl like her would go running, suddenly not minding the cold. He never was good at keeping beautiful things by his side. They rotted or wilted, or blew away with the wind. His rough fingers rub at the back of his neck. He stares deep into his own eyes. Trying to force some normalcy, some sense into himself but it’s all in vain. He grunts, paying mind to other things. 

He opens his cabinet, all of the simple clothes he keeps. Something new and not so weathered, or dirty, something clean. Like her. Some nice cotton knit union suit, something he bought when he was preparing for winter. He grips them tight and hesitates at the door. 

Just go n’ give it to her, and try not to be an idiot; for god’s sake. 

And the sweet smile he sees knocks whatever sense he had gathered out of him, he can hardly form a word. He just holds the fabric out to her like an oaf. And she rises, as to keep things comfortable, good at reading his brutish signaling, taking them gently and skirting around him. And then she’s in his bedroom. With a mental cuss, he realizes that he forgot to clean the room before he left. 

Ah, she’ll find out how pathetic you are at some point. Just a matter a’ when… 

All those empty bottles and habits he’s formed from living alone. Dirty clothes piled somewhere and sheets that probably smelled a bit too much like sweat. Christ. He sighs, pinching his nose. He’s not sure why he’s putting so much thought into this. He doesn’t care. Not a care at all. Right…sure.

At first, he distracts himself with preparing food, his leftovers, hopefully enough for her. Doing this is an action which is perhaps a bit selfish. He wants to make it clear that he can give her things she needs. He could figure out wants later.. Typically, he hadn’t thought too much of what women wanted but with her he makes lists, takes out the fine brandy. Sometimes he took after Dutch more than he would like to admit, the man was all too good at forgetting about a woman’s wants and needs.

The food hasn’t gone too cold. His hands look for things to do, stirring unnecessarily. Fumbling the dish he places it on. However, the little comfort he gains from activity fades. He can only grip the counter like a vice while staring out the window above his sink for so long. The shades of brown and orange that make up his cabin blur into nothing, the wood grain isn’t as grounding as he wants it to be. 

But then his legs drift in the opposite direction, He can hear a soft sigh and the rustle of clothing behind the door. He wets his dry throat. Arthur shouldn’t salivate. He does anyway.

You’re a creep. Something in his head laughs at him. 

Been too long since you had a woman this close to your bed and she ain’t even in it with ya…c’mon. C’mon, just open the damn door. 

His heart is about to pound his ribs into dust. He’s among the worst of the worst but this… pushes boundaries. Lines drawn in the sand. Peeping on women wasn’t something he was raised to do. And if he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see, it was an accident. 

You ain’t that bad.

He’s used to letting the tide wash those out so he can draw new ones. And here is a new one. When his fingers push at the door and he can see the sliver where she bares her own flesh. Rubs her hands up her thighs, stepping out of her clothes. His throat goes dry, his teeth bite bluntly at the tip of his tongue as his jaw gets tense. 

His eyes follow the natural plush curve of her body, pale yellow lamp light glancing off of her. He’d kill a man to touch her and he’d kill a man for touching her. Devouring every inch, his eyes soak it all up, dedicating her to memory. 

 And then she’s stepping into the creamy cotton of his clothes. Doing up the buttons at her front. Unbidden by him, his cock fills out, half hard, pressing uncomfortably at just the sight of her. The perfection of her hips, her hair brushing over her back. 

The guilt is chewing a hole in his conscience. It’s like there are termites gnawing away at the foundation of whatever restraint he had. He’s felt less disgusting after killing a man, making him choke on his own blood as it fills his lungs. But the reward had never been so delightful. A sweet girl, so trusting, putting her hand to her chest and smiling as she realizes he’s there. It doesn’t feel good at all, the realization that he’s drooling over her like a mutt. All she has given him is reluctance, nervous glances. She doesn’t touch him or leave her hand to linger. A sweet-as-cream smile is all he has, enough to tide him over. He wants her anyway, needs her to stay. Letting her walk out after this will be next to impossible. 

“You scared me, Mister…” Mister. So polite, an angel delivered unto him. He can feel how his body is tense, tight like a spring. How she doesn’t notice the evidence of his wrongdoing, pressing at the front of his pants is luck or her naivety. His expression must be dazed, a foolish look because all he can do is stare, unable to stop himself. Observing the way his clothes drape over her, exaggerating how much smaller she is in comparison. How stunning she’d look, sprawled over his bed sheets. Precious girl; struggling not to cry when she gets all stretched out on something wholly too big for her. In his mind's eye, she mouths his name, looks at him like all she wants is him inside of her. Right. His name again. 

He dips back into his own ease in which he controls all of himself with. He is self assured and well handled. And he certainly doesn’t curl in on himself. Lets her see how big he is, slips back into old habits with the ease that comes with capability. “Morgan, Arthur Morgan,” his real name, no Kilgore’s or Calahan’s. She should know it anyhow, if he has any real intention in giving it to her.

It’s dangerous and it’s like she can feel it, somewhere in her body is that base instinct. One she was born with to protect herself from people with bad intentions. But she has another instinct, bares her neck to him. Arthur has always been good at suppressing his hunger, desire for soft pretty things. Settling like sediment on them was the control he had, buried them and buried them and buried them. She's a rainstorm, flooding his mind, washing out his carefully maintained resistance. Leaves his want raw and exposed and actionable. He wants her too much, wants her more than he has any right to. 

He feels what little control he has over his urges begin to slip with that thought.  Usually, he let them take over. Let whatever pain and anguish in him manifest into pure rage, cold and unadulterated. At first, it revolted him, his actions. And the reputation he built to go along with them. But they began to grow over him like a second skin until they encased whatever hope he had for a better life completely. His self induced hatred hid whatever pieces of him weren't supposed to be his to have and to share. The things he had to hide from himself even to feel like a whole person at any given moment. And he let himself be that awful thing people thought he was. Arthur Morgan. A force of nature. 

But he deserved it, didn't he? Everyone should keep their distance anyway. He has a habit of making things worse than when he found them. But all he wanted was for her to be close. Sure, he could play the vulnerable man who could pine after his sweetheart, go out riding after her, guide her home where she would forget all about him. Just a kind man out to help the world.

That's not what he wanted. He wanted her to stay here. Can’t bear the thought of being a good man, sending her away when the storm blows over. In sickness and in health, til’ death do us part. That’s what he sees when he closes his eyes. She’s standing in the kitchen, turning the spoils of his hunts into dinner. With that easy smile. His too empty house just wouldn’t feel like a home without her in it. He’s sick, he knows; but he’s sure she can cure him. 

Arthur Morgan has always wanted more than he could have. He chews on the thought like tobacco. Bitter but eventually he begins to need the taste, to crave it. 

“Put somethin’ on the stove for ya, man can’t leave no woman hungry…” God, his tongue feels too thick in his mouth and his jaw aches from gritting his teeth too hard. And of course, he lays all his cards on the table. Man can’t leave his woman hungry.

Every little gesture she makes, wrapping her arms shyly around herself, the gentle tilt of her head and the small affirmative gesture she makes is in no way unordinary. But they’re all dripping with her appeal. How can she smile at him like he doesn't look the way he does? Like he hasn't made the world worse just by existing in it?

 He soils her just by laying greedy eyes on her neck, on her nipples which he can make out through the fabric of his union suit. And when she opens her mouth, he knows he’ll end up calling her what she is. Sweet and syrupy, soothing on his throat. 

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I really appreciate your kindness,” Arthur is convinced he heard her wrong. But her honesty is in those radiant eyes, in her easy posture. It must be meant to be, it’s not every day a woman talked to him like that. Or talked to him at all. He was perhaps too busy making sure they knew what they would be getting into; dealing with him. 

It may just be the respectful manners instilled in her. He supposed her parents had given her that; mannerisms that made her quite the catch. Utter perfection. But really, even that was a disservice. They damned her to him. Makes him see glimpses of a life he could have. Hundreds of conversations, every iteration of the precious babe they'd have together with his hair and her eyes, a son or a daughter. Two of each perhaps. Hours and hours of her gentle, refined voice taking up the empty room. He bows his head as if he can keep his disbelief and joy under the brim of his hat, currently hanging by his front door. 

She comes nearer. He can smell her cotton scent, can see the way the light casts around her hair, feathering over her, turning it into gold. His body moves to make the smallest space for her. Hoping she’ll nudge against him. He doesn’t even realize the way he’s formed himself to keep her here for just a moment. So close, Arthur nearly loses track of what he was supposed to be doing.  

“Been a long time since somebody called me a kind man, usually it was the opposite,” apprehension floods her body, her features. Her eyes focus on him, waiting for something terrible to happen. Arthur sees how she bristles. He only meant to be honest but she’s already read between his lines. Smart girl. 

He shows her just what he means. Even when he knows better, even if he’s never been this far. It’s like he has to touch though. No where uncomfortable, just to be sure she isn’t a sign that he’s truly gone from this world. 

“Please, I-” 

Her plea goes down his spine. It rakes its teeth over the parts of him that are wrong. That weren’t formed with gentleness, aren’t intricate. Just instinct that he’s indulged. 

He may not be a good man. But he can behave well enough to keep her. Now that he has the room for her. He doesn’t live in a drafty tent. He’s not a dog chained to the hand that fed him too many years ago. He would never treat her like an object to display or a mistake made in a drunken night of pleasure. He wouldn’t throw this away, this one chance at having something real. Wouldn’t lay waste to this opportunity to fill a hole in him that yawned empty for what felt like eternity. She’d be his wife and he; her man. A husband. Mister and Missus Arthur Morgan. A crock of shit, he would have said a month ago.

That ain’t the hand you been dealt and you know it. You’ve made a mess of things enough.

 But now… it's a dreamy reality. It hasn’t quite taken shape but he can get it there. Determination starts to crystallize over the idea. She’s something good; doesn’t need him. He could try to make something better too, could make the best of a situation, try to show her the best in him. But he knows it’d never be enough for her. He always throws these good things away, always ruins it somehow. But he grips and shakes like a mutt at this idea, gnaws it until it's raw. He can just take what he wants. Done that before, hasn’t he?

Just leave’er alone. God, you never learn, goddamned fool…

His fingers graze over the skin on her neck, uncovered by the collar of the union suit he lent her. Here in the dark of the small hallway, he can swear there’s something in the way she breathes, shudders. “I think you need a man to take care of you, honey, need a man to keep you inside- wouldn’t let you go out alone like this if you was my woman… Lemme show you how a man looks after a girl like you,” He’s aware that he sounds like a right bastard but he’s only telling the truth. His hand settles at her back, like it’s supposed to be there. They’re meant to be, all he has to do is show her. 

ok yall how we feeling LMAO i think his perspective was interesting and fun for me to write but idk if its any good, but i hope with practice ill get more confident 🥹🥹 bro is a freak sooo yeah it was fun to write him as a freak he is very conflicted about everything and he is super weird but also sexy sooo😳 i hope you guys enjoyed this lil backstory on why arthur is a weirdo 😊😊😭😭 lmk what you guys think !!