#i would like to draw/write all of it out but i know it's going to require proper worldbuilding too and i think i'm a bit too lazy to

[pinkkkkat]

Hi!! Hope ur having a good day! Could I ask u to write something abt caitvi x fem!reader who forgets to take care of herself (bonus points if she's a workaholic)

hi i’m SO late i’m so sorry baby

(reader is a student because i’m an overworked student and this is self-indulgent like everything else i write also this is nsfw sorry if that’s not what you wanted anon! no use of y/n)

it’s not new for you to work yourself to the bone. whether it’s pulling more than one consecutive all nighter to get papers finished on time, or spending full twelve hour shifts in the library pouring over your books and notes, you slip easily into an all-work and absolutely no play mindset (not that showering or hey, eating, counts as ‘play,’ but anyways)

usually, nobody notices. so what, you disappear sometimes (for weeks), but you always pop back up looking normal, so it doesn’t draw attention. everyone knew that you were a dedicated student. the only reason caitlyn notices you’ve stopped caring for yourself is because she sees the trait of obsessively working until you drop reflected in herself

you started dating caitlyn and vi in the early summer, so they had ever seen you in your element. when the academy starts back up in the fall, your girlfriends are excited to see the sparkle in your eyes when you tell them about your passion, hands moving animatedly as you talk at a rapid pace. vi often teases you for being a nerd, but cait is much the same, so it’s two against one there

anyways

i think cait would bring it up to vi first, asking if she’s noticed how you’re starting to pull away a little, and when they do get to see you, you’re not yourself. usually, you keep your appearance well put together, hair down and outfit chosen to bolster your look-good feel-good attitude. lately though, the bags under your eyes have become prominent, and some nights you don’t come home, saying you’re gonna work late at the academy, but then not going home at all

at first, vi is just super proud of you, for working hard at what you love. she understands what it’s like to want something so bad that you can’t help but “stay in the grind.” she sends you texts in the group chat often throughout your busy days, pictures of her at the gym or a gif of little cat, always with a message saying she’s so proud of her girl, that she loves you

after cait mentions how worried she is, vi starts to notice that you’re not as cheery as before, on top of the eye bags an disheveled appearance that is starting to become your staple look. she’s frustrated with herself for not noticing and taking care of you, and with you a little for not taking care of yourself. cait convinces her to let her try and help first, as someone with a more similar academic experience

caitlyn starts showing up at the academy, at least once every day. she brings food, and coffee, and sometimes she gets jayce, but more often viktor, out of the lab to accompany you. she always takes your hand, dragging you from what you’re doing to sit with her and just talk. she’s subtle about her worry, not wanting you to feel guilty, but wanting to change your habits slowly without you noticing (cait is so conniving i love her)

as the semester continues, you only seem to get worse, despite cait’s best efforts. cait is consistently holding vi back from saying something blunt, because she doesn’t want to upset you, or to cause you to give up on what you love all together out of guilt. in the end, you end up coming to them, having completely exhausted yourself and tilting your last straw

it’s late when you get to the kirraman household, knowing you girlfriends are there. you don’t know what time it is, the sun having set some uncounted number of hours earlier. you knock on the door (even though you know you can just walk in), embarrassed about how bad you’ve let yourself get. cait opens the door and envelops you in a long hug after taking one look at you, standing on her porch in a big sweatshirt, sniffling a bit, unwashed hair piled onto the top of your head

“oh my darling, come inside”

she’s warm and so soft with you, and you’re already feeling better. cait shushes every attempt you make to apologize, for showing up out of nowhere after not really showing up at all for a little while. she brings you up into her room, where vi sits on the end of the bed

vi nearly knocks you to the floor with the force of her hug. she’s strong, and she’s whispering to you about how much she loves you, and how proud she is of you for coming to them for help when you need it, for recognizing that in yourself. her words bring you to tears, and her arms wrap tighter around your torso. you feel cait join in on the hug, tucking you and vi under her chin and squeezing her arms around you both

they bring you to take a bath, and vi gets in first, hissing at the hot temperature of the water. you sit between her thighs, and she wraps her arms around your torso, calloused hands covering your entire stomach. cait sits on the edge of the tub, asking you about your work, and sternly but lovingly detailing how much time you’re allowed to spend at the academy from now on, until you find an appropriate balance between your work and your life. vi hums in agreement with everything cait says, punctuating every particularly harsh sentence with a soft kiss to the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder

they leave you in the bathroom to wash your hair in he shower, and when you come out of the bathroom, you’re wearing one of vi’s hoodies from her gym, and cait’s too long pyjama pants, and you look more refreshed than you have since the summer. you look so cuddly and cute that cait starts cooing at you, and you giggle, batting her hands away when she squishes your face

vi is sitting on the bed, manspreading in that way that she does, and she’s smiling softly at her two girls

(NSFW NOW BTW)

“c’mere baby”

and you do, standing between vi’s legs as she wraps her hands around your waist. you lean down to kiss her, and soon enough her tongue is licking at our b otto’s lip, and you’re opening your mouth to let her in, your hands draped loosely around her neck. you sigh into the kiss when vi’s hands starting palming at your hips, your waist

vi pulls you into her, lifting you effortlessly into her lap so you’re straddling her. the kiss gets deeper, and you whine when vi pulls back. she smiles at you, and tilts her head towards the top of the bed

“how pretty is our girlfriend, huh baby?”

you turn to look, and there’s cait, wearing your favourite set of pink lingerie and sitting up against the headboard, hair down and legs spread open only slightly. you flush a bright red when you see her, mouthing parting slightly when you lick your lips. vi bounces you on her lap for a moment when you don’t say anything

“tell her baby”

“cait, you’re gorgeous”

vi leans into mouth at your neck, murmuring to you about keeping your eyes on caitlyn, and you do. you’re still blushing, silly in your position, but you can’t help it, with how caitlyn is staring at you while vi sucks marks into our soft skin. vi shimmies further onto the bed with you, and hooks her hands under your thigh to lay your down softly on the bed, your back pressed to cait’s chest

cait is immediately sweeping your hair to the side and digging her teeth into the side of your neck, causing a sweet little noise to slip out of your mouth. vi groans at the sound, pressing a strong thigh up against you as your hands make purchase on her biceps. cait’s mouth on your neck is teasing, a nip followed by soothing kitten lick, and vi is holding herself up above you, her free hand hooking under your knee to bring your leg up over her hip as she pushes her leg against you more firmly

eventually, you’re getting desperate and whiny, and vi gives in as soon as she hears the first “vi, please,” slip from your beautiful mouth. she pulls your (cait’s) pyjama pants down, panties too, and your immediately rucking your hips into nothing, searching for some friction to help you out. normally, vi is a lot more teasing, but not today

“vi is gonna take care of you, okay sweet girl?”

and vi does. she presses her hands onto the backs of your thighs, pushing them open and up. without any prelude, she gets to it, licking through your wetness and groaning at the taste. you’re arching away from cait, whose one hand has taken to holding your hips in place to help vi, the other tucking itself underneath your (vi’s) hoodie to pluck at your nipples

it takes no time at all for your girlfriends to have you a whimpering, squirming mess, begging to cum. cait is whispering softly to you, hot breath slipping over the shell of your ear, shushing you and telling you how good you’re being for them, how much you deserve to feel good, and could you cum for them, please?

you do, of course. it cracks through you, hips stuttering on vi’s mouth, legs trying to clamp shut but stopped by vi’s strong hands. vi works you through it until you’re whining and pushing at her head, overstimulated. you collapse in heavy breaths, thoroughly sated and exhausted

caitlyn is instantly tugging at you to turn around, head resting on her chest. she pulls you tight to her with a hand on your waist after readjusting your sweatshirt to be comfy. her spare hand comes up to run through your still-damp hair. vi slides your panties back on but abandons the pj pants, kissing her way up your bare legs and rewinding you of how well you’ve done, and again how proud she is

vi tucks herself up behind you, spooning you, arm thrown over both you and cait. that’s how you fall asleep, pressed tightly between the two of them. you drift off instantly, and over your head, vi and caitlyn smile at each other

you don’t overwork yourself again

[transgenderpolls]

i really truly think that the best thing we can do as a community right now is to take the horror and the anger and the despair and re-orient that energy into something productive: a drive to help each other. the government won't do it, so we do what generations long past have always done and do it ourselves.

not everyone needs to be a full-time selfless activist going to meetings and organizing coups, but whatever you can do, DO IT. if all it is is existing, do that. there's a lot of trans kids feeling hopeless right now who will be encouraged to keep living by seeing other trans people. or hell, even a trans flag sticking out of the ground, or taped to a pole. you don't have to be visibly trans or out yourself to do it. there is genuine strength in numbers and, just the same as we get scared by being surrounded by maga signs, those motherfuckers will get scared if they know THEY'RE surrounded. they won't be as emboldened if they realize just how many of us there are.

i'm so serious. if you're trans or if you care about anyone who is, leave a mark. it doesn't have to be outside your home or on your person or anywhere else that could render you unsafe. just... print out or draw the flag, or write something, like "a world without trans people has never existed and never will," and go stick it somewhere. if every single one of us did that even just once, i think that alone would make a big fucking difference.

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Comfort Headcanons for Frank, Matt, and Mikey

A/n: so I am ridiculously overwhelmed by personal and political stuff right now. And I told myself I was going to write every day this week if possible, but my brain was being difficult today. So instead of working on a longer fic I wrote some self-indulgent headcanons about Frank, Matt, and Mikey caring for an overwhelmed partner. I hope you all enjoy. Please feel free to send me other headcanon requests!

How would they’d react to you being overwhelmed

Frank

Frank would pick up on this IMMEDIATELY

the second your self care habits change, he’s onto you. You stay up later than normal two nights in a row, or run out the door with a granola bar instead of eating a real breakfast, and he is concerned™️

He’s willing to entertain it for three days max. He knows life gets tough sometimes, and he doesn’t want to encroach on your process—but we all know that once this man is worried, he’s minutes away from taking control. He has issues but we love him for it.

On the 4th day, when you’re waking up exhausted after far too little sleep and rejecting his offer to take you out for breakfast, he puts his foot down.

“Gonna order in for dinner tonight, ok? We can watch that movie you wanted to see and turn in early.”

You hastily agree, bolting out the door before you end up late to your job.

When you finally arrive home, he’s all over you in an instant. Murmuring his hellos while helping you out of your coat and shoes, ushering you over the couch.

He’s insisting that you sit in his lap while the two of you pick out dinner, offering suggestions for restaurants instead of leaving the choice open-ended. Given how tired and generally stressed you seem, he wants to take as much weight off your shoulders as possible.

Once dinner has been ordered, he tucks you close to his chest, practically burying you in a jumble of muscular limbs, humming appreciatively when you nuzzle further into his space. His hand is cupped around your nape, thumb gently brushing over your spine as you hunch toward him.

“Ready to talk about what’s botherin’ ya, doll?” The question leaves room to decline, but his stern tone suggests you choose to answer.

He listens carefully as you tell him what’s on your mind, brushing silent kisses against your forehead whenever your breath wavers around a stifled sob. His hands never move from your skin, cradling you to him like he’s trying to absorb your pain.

He wouldn’t let you lift a finger the rest of the night. Retrieving the take out, dishing it up for you, drawing you a bath, tucking you into bed

When you’re beginning to drift off atop his giant shoulder, he’d rest his forehead against yours.

“I know it’s tough right now. But we’ll get through. I promise.”

“Please don’t leave, Frank.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, babydoll.”

Matt

Matt isn’t as observant of your habits and routines, but he can sure as hell pick up changes in body language.

Gritting teeth, blinking back tears, frustrated sighs—he notices all of it. He might not act on it immediately, brushing it off when you explain that you just had a bad day, but when your fatigue and growing apathy persist…

I think you hiding something from him would spook him for sure, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be determined to get answers out of you. He’d set his personal anxieties aside and prepare for a serious talk.

He’d leave the office somewhat early, asking you to meet him at his apartment. He’d offer you a beer, or whatever you were in the mood for (if his lacking fridge and pantry allowed for it), and he’d ask you the big question.

“You aren’t yourself lately. What’s going on?”

He’s not happy when you start crying, but he’s definitely relieved when you collapse into his arms and explain your recent mood. Even more so when you confess it had nothing to do with him.

As always, he harbors immense guilt for not being there, not being endlessly supportive, not being able to solve the issues gnawing at you with his own two fists.

But what he doesn’t realize is that he’s helping just by being there. By being present and absentmindedly squeezing you with his tree-trunk arms. By acknowledging your struggles and offering what he could.

He’d cut his patrols short for a few days, nearly begging you to sleep at his loft instead of in your own bed, so he could keep a metaphorical eye on you. He sleeps better with you by his side anyway.

Mikey

You’re Michael’s whole world, so he’d know you were overwhelmed before you realized it yourself.

As soon as he spotted the stress lines on your face, he’d be on his feet, trying his best to lighten the burden.

He’d walk you to and from work, as always, maybe even stopping by to keep you company on your lunch hour.

When he wasn’t with you, or ignoring his family, he’d be constantly cleaning the house and working through your joint to do list, taking task after task off your plate so you could properly decompress.

He wouldn’t pressure you to talk to him about it, but he’d give you the option.

“I’m here if ya want to talk, pet. Anytime ya need.”

And, of course, you’d take him up on it. Explaining that you could handle everything and you didn’t want him to overwhelm himself trying to help you because it was just a pile of small things that were wearing you down. But he’d have none of it.

“I wanna do this fer ya. Let me help, love.”

He’d bundle you in a knit blanket on the couch and set the tv to your favorite show, kissing the top of your head before heading to the kitchen to clean up after dinner.

I hope you enjoyed! And I hope you’re all doing ok this week. It’s rough out there.

[obscureother]

the f/o wheel said. . Gerik next :0

What do your f/o's hugs feel like? theyre very warm and secure. . for you. for him, part of it is still fearful of you disappearing or leaving him, but once he is married to you, they no longer hold so much of that fear. theyre only very loving and soothing. .

What are your favorite dates to have with them? tho im not normally much of a fancy dinner person, something about gerik would make them more comfortable for me. . though preferrably a little set up at home, and then afterwards we play piano together or listen to records. uvu

What are their favorite dates to have with you? he likes a similar thing, tho he likes to perform for me sometimes too. to show me things, he likes to share the arts. he'll show me works he's done or starting on, be that art or music, or talk to me of plays or operas from his era. he likes to teach the culture :0

Do you have any songs that remind you of them? Do they have any songs that make them think of you? the whole phantom soundtrack- no, obvi. for him. . classical music, tho i dont know very many specific ones. tho there is ONE (1) lindsey stirling song (not the poto melody-) that she did, i think its crystallize, that i think either sampled or accidentally used a few notes from Phantom that are unmistakable and cant be unheard once you hear them and i think of him EVERY time in those.

What's the height difference between you and your f/o? He is one of my tallest f/os :0 he is 6'3!! so if we go from 5'4" right between me and s/i 1 only a couple inches apart he is like. . 12 i- thats a whole foot. i didnt need to count that on my fingees, hold on. .

On a 1-10 scale, with 1 being the least and 10 being the most, how much do they like PDA with you? he is good. . 6/10 i think. tho he is very lovey wherever you go, he doesnt like to go out in public much for obvious reasons, nor does he want to be overbearing on you in front of people. on the inside he wants to kiss and hold and squeeze and love, but he holds back til you get back to the little sewer house he has. he sneaks lots of kisses tho. . and keeps his arm around me all the time uvu he is so happy jgdfk <33

What's your favorite feature about your f/o? he's gerard butler- /j i think his hugs tbh, he's very cuddle-able uvu look at him. he would give good hugs. his deformity is not the worst of the phantoms out there, but there is something endearing about him looking like he got microwaved right next to his very handsome other half of his face. he's kind of. . cute "ugly," but not really. <33

What do you think they smell like? c a n d l e . probably like lake water. for my own sake, he finds ways to get clean water to bathe in so he doesnt smell like SEWER. tho he might sometimes when he's depressed cos he gets too sad to take care of himself. but of all the things in the world, that man smells like freaking candles. candles and old, dusty fabric. the kind that you huff dust and you go "actually this is nice. this is not so bad. *coughs.*"

What is your f/os biggest love languages? They don't have to be one of the "five", it can be anything specific they use to show you love. his music omgg. . he writes songs for his loved ones. he writes his heart out, just like he does christine. . he draws them, he makes little versions of them, he makes them kith his little self :0 kind of creepy? yes, unless you also like him, then its kind of like "awhh thats cute. ." he will make outfits, he'll do makeup, anything so his partner feels lovely and pretty just like how he sees them, all the forms of creative expression he does for me or s/i 1 :0

Do you guys sleep in the same bed? If so, what's it like sleeping with them? oh yes. he will not sleep anywhere else. he wants to cuddle all the time and he is good at cuddling once he is let to. i love to cuddle him, he's very warm and soft. . he'll hum me to sleep, give kisses, brush through my hair, he's very tender and touchy for sleepy time.

What's your favorite headcanon about your f/o? for me, it is just that he is one of the softest phantoms i perceive of them. he is, though temperamental and passionate, very tender and sweet and just very cute as he is. there is also something neat about him as an f/o specifically, not the character or the adaptation or anything, but the f/o version that lives in the dome in my brain. . he glows gold?? i dont like gold normally, but his aesthetic is gold and dark, but he has this. . aura on him, of gold sometimes. very cool. . i dont know how he got it or what for, but he does that sometimes. he doesnt know how he's got it either.

What is the dynamic that you and your f/o have? ngl very similar to how he is with christine, but less. . convoluted?? he tries to help me keep going on my own passions and is very supportive, then when we come home, all he wants to do is love on and cuddle. odd for me to think of it as it is, he sort of. . worships his lover at the same time he is sort of that "im your angel, i take care of you" thing going on. not something im used to but he's very sweet. .

What does your f/o do for you when you're having a rough day? he sings to me, or gets me to listen to music he knows comforts me. or he will read me stories or show movies that he knows i like. . lots of caresses or petting from him. very warm hold. .

Do you like to hold hands? If so, what's that like? yeah, he likes to hold hands. he'll do it whenever i want, all i have to do is just grab his hand. uvu sometimes he'll offer it when we're walking somewhere or they arent busy with something as he does use them a lot.

Do they like to give you little kisses? If so, where is their favorite place to kiss? (Face, hands, etc) he loves to give kisses :0 he will give kisses ANYWHERE. he will give them on the hands, face, lips, and shoulder tho the most. . in a nonsexual way, he also gives chest kisses or kisses hips when he is laying or leaned below me somewhere. very tender he is. .

Vice versa, do YOU like to give them little kisses? If so, where is YOUR favorite place to give them? yes, i like to give him kisses uvu i give him kisses on his face, both sides when we're on our own so he doesnt get uncomfy when i lift off his mask from time to time. he gets forehead kisses, temple kisses, hand kisses. . sometimes i give him chest kisses to make him swoon a little. uvu

What's your favorite silly leisure activity to do with your f/o? i like to get him to do drawing or piano games with me :0 where we build off each other and do something silly. he will start off with like. . a lovely little sketch of something vague, and then. . i give it stick legs. dot eyes. and it looks like a goofy collision between comedic youtube animation and freaking glorious masterpieces. for something less silly, we do sometimes do nothing but sit and listen to music together. . it is nice too. .

What is your favorite compliment that your f/o gives you? What is your favorite nickname that they for you, if they have one? he calls me pretty french words i dont know the meaning of pdfs <33 some of them are related to heaven or angels i think, which totally go the opposite of where i normally tend towards, but. . for him. . it is an exception. . 💛 he does help me cope a tiny bit with aesthetics that make me uncomfy because he is halfway the opposite of my comfort aesthetics but he makes them not uncomfy for me. .

What's your favorite compliment to give THEM? What is your favorite nickname to call them? i tend to call him the things you would normally call the phantom of the opera, ngl. . angel or angel of music, opera ghost, things like that. like. . spooky-angel kind of things lol. i dont know how well to explain that. . there is also the whole thing of him being "potato," but thats lore for another time lol. i normally compliment him on everything tho. there is always something about him i like. i like his outfits, i like the way he looks with or w/o the mask or little wig thing, how he is built. . he is handsome in lots of ways that he does not realize, some of them not physical at all. cos lets face it, he's not built like leroux or lon chaney lol.

I want everyone to have the chance to ramble about their romantic f/os, so I'm gonna make a reblog game where yall can answer the plethora of questions I'm gonna toss down. Any of the questions you want to answer, as little or as much as you'd like!! I'll read them all. PR.O.SHIP DNI!!! AT ALL! GET OUT-

SO!! SELFSHIPPERS! RIDDLE ME THIS:

What do your f/o's hugs feel like?

What are your favorite dates to have with them?

What are their favorite dates to have with you?

Do you have any songs that remind you of them? Do they have any songs that make them think of you?

What's the height difference between you and your f/o?

On a 1-10 scale, with 1 being the least and 10 being the most, how much do they like PDA with you?

What's your favorite feature about your f/o?

What do you think they smell like?

What is your f/os biggest love languages? They don't have to be one of the "five", it can be anything specific they use to show you love.

Do you guys sleep in the same bed? If so, what's it like sleeping with them?

What's your favorite headcanon about your f/o?

What is the dynamic that you and your f/o have?

What does your f/o do for you when you're having a rough day?

Do you like to hold hands? If so, what's that like?

Do they like to give you little kisses? If so, where is their favorite place to kiss? (Face, hands, etc)

Vice versa, do YOU like to give them little kisses? If so, where is YOUR favorite place to give them?

What's your favorite silly leisure activity to do with your f/o?

What is your favorite compliment that your f/o gives you? What is your favorite nickname that they for you, if they have one?

What's your favorite compliment to give THEM? What is your favorite nickname to call them?

Okay I can't wait to see some answers!! Feel free to reblog as many times with as many f/os as you want. ANYONE CAN PARTICIPATE! SEEING THIS POST IS AN INVITATION FOR YOU!!

People I'd like to see answer this off the top of my head (but don't have to!!): @moxanji-real @one-winged-dreams @lovesickvalentines @graveluvr @clawingatmy-enclosure @starshakez @jpeg-indulgence @everynya @tropgothships @selfshipping-tboy @amelielovesamaris @pixel-comfort @fl0ralsxgar

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

For writing requests, could you write something with Wind and an older sister reader?

Glycerine

Pairing: Wind & Reader

Warning(s): None, just some found-sibling fluff!

Notes: Inspired by "Glycerine" by Bush. This is actually a bit angsty so prepare yourself lol.

Masterlist

You found Wind on the beach, sitting on the pale sand as his outstretched legs toed the line between surf and sand. It was a beautiful afternoon on Onset; the sun was high, the sky was clear, and tears had no place on the young hero's salt-swept cheeks.

"Wind?" you called, toes scrunching when they met sun-warmed granules, your boots kicked casually onto the grassy bank meters away. "Buddy?"

There was a gasp. The Sailor's shoulders jumped. He whirled to face you, already rubbing beneath his sea-colored eyes with a fist. He said your name, once, and forced a smile that looked entirely too watery for comfort. "H-Hey... I thought you were teaching Aryll how to sew."

You shrugged, taking a seat beside him. A part of you wanted to cringe at the thought of all the sand you would undoubtedly find on yourself when this was over, but a larger, stronger part whispered that it was worth it. For him. "I was, but she's a quick learner, like someone else I know."

Another soft, uncharacteristic smile, nothing like the blinding grins he usually treated you with. The muscles in your jaw ached as they fought to keep a neutrally-friendly expression. "Yeah," said Wind, sneaking unusually pensive glances at the roaring ocean. "Wild's pretty sharp, huh?"

Your brow furrowed. You scooted an inch closer. "I meant you, kid."

This time, he looked at you. This time, he seemed to see you. "I'm sorry," he apologized. A habit, you assumed, though it was wholly unnecessary. Tone heavy with an emotion that had your heart twisting in your chest, he continued: "I've just been... thinking."

Oh dear, it was one of those days. You planted your hands behind you, using them as makeshift anchors to lean back a few inches. A thick, salty breeze swept through the beach, further ruffling Wind's nest of hair. You debated running back to the house to grab a brush, but refrained. "About?"

Silence. You didn't push, but you did watch. Red-rimmed eyes, fidgeting hands, suspicious stains on the sleeves of his tunic. In so many ways, Wind was a fully-fledged adult. He could fight, swear, and scream, but it was always the little things that reminded you just how young he was.

The hero chewed his lip, knees drawing up to his chest. Your eyes flicked to the pants he wore–a gaudy orange that you weren't sure had come from teenage rebellion or a treacherously misguided fashion sense–and immediately settled on a small rip near the right ankle.

"I know Legend's prickly, but he'll help you with those if you ask," you mused, almost to yourself. Wind immediately glanced at his pants, and a heavy breath slipped past his chapped lips. Too sad, too old; something was definitely wrong.

"Oh, wow, I hadn't..."

'Noticed it' went unsaid, so you decided to fill the silence.

"You're only going to miss her more if you stay out here," the words slipped off your tongue like silk, though they could have weighed more than a thousand sparkling suns. Maybe they did, and you were simply used to the reality where hard things were said without a second glance.

"She'll miss me if I go back," said the young, vibrant, effervescent hero in a tone that was so melancholic that you briefly considered calling Time over from the comfort of the home's sleeping area, but the memory of him downing no less than four bottles of Elixer Soup suggested the eldest hero had plans that didn't include comforting whichever boy decided today was the day for a long-awaited existential crisis.

You sighed. You closed the distance, wrapping your arm around Wind's shoulders. They were broader than you remembered, but you'd be damned if you let the fact that he was growing intercede with hug timeTM. It didn't take long for the Sailor to accept his fate, shoulders finally dropping as he exhaled a breath typically observed in divorced men in their forties. You'd have to tell Warriors that one. "It's hylian nature to miss someone," you said; gently, not because he was a child, but because he needed it. "It means she cares. Means you care."

"Does it?" was Wind's response, and you couldn't help the snort that escaped you.

"Of course it does," you paused to let the meaning sink in, then added with a conspiratorial grin: "Didn't anyone tell you not to question your elders?"

Wind's ears perked up, but you couldn't find it in you to regret giving him an in. "Yeesh, I didn't know you were that old."

"Rude, I'm actually like, super young," you huffed, injecting as much faux irritation into your tone to hide the fact that you were secretly rejoicing the spectacular return of his borrowed dad jokes, because, really, one could only spend so much time around Warriors and Time before they too found themselves corrupted. You shifted in the sand, gaze turning to the sun, hovering above the horizon like a firebrand, and a small part of you was glad Twilight was currently consumed with that tile game Four played almost religiously. "It's getting late," you told the Sailor. Softly. Kindly.

Wind's toes curled in the waterlogged granules. A foaming wave washed forward, crashing against the boy's pruning skin. His response was a mere whisper above the roaring surf. "She cried when I left," a sandy-colored head leaned against your arm, soft enough that you could have pretended it wasn't there at all.

"Everyone cries, Link," you reassured him, though the results had yet to be seen. "It's what makes us hylian."

Silence.

You heaved a breath.

"Give your sister a hug, kid."

A pair of arms wrapped around your waist, and The Hero of the Winds began to cry in earnest.

"How is he?"

You were torn from your thoughts at the sound of Warriors' voice, glancing up at the Captain, who looked just as tired as you felt. His armor was nowhere in sight, leaving him in an off-white button-up and a pair of tan trousers.

A sigh forced itself from your lips, and you finally spared a glance at the sleeping boy on the mat next to you, one of your arms caged in his tight embrace while the other rested on your stomach. It had taken some convincing--and a hell of a lot of luck--to get the youngest hero into bed, and you hadn't the heart to tug yourself away when he latched onto you, face buried in the soft flesh of your bicep.

"Better," was your response, the ghost of a yawn tugging at the heels of your words. "If you couldn't tell, he's had a rough day."

The floor creaked as Warriors got comfortable beside you, keeping a respectful distance as he settled on one arm, gazing down at the both of you. "I'll say," he murmured, quiet enough that you hardly heard it. A pause, then: "You should rest."

This time, you didn't bother stifling your yawn, uncaring of how it might negatively affect your case. "Someone's gotta keep watch, Wars."

The Captain was unimpressed, raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow in obvious disagreement. You were almost jealous. "Yes, me. You're going to have just as rough a day as the Sailor if you don't sleep."

You rolled your eyes, hoping to draw things out as much as possible. You didn't want to leave Wind alone, you couldn't. "Pshh, who needs sleep?"

The floor groaned just as Warriors opened his mouth to offer what you assumed to be a spectacularly-planned rebuttal, only to let it click shut when Time's rumbling baritone filled the small room. Fuck. "What's this about sleep?"

Warriors cerulean eyes found yours, and it was a battle unto itself not to hiss at the smug glint that filled them. He nudged your shoulder, and you went ramrod straight, praying it wasn't enough to disturb Wind. "Just trying to convince a certain someone that insomnia isn't the answer."

That jerk!

"Is that so?" You could practically feel Time's gaze on you. Piercing, all-knowing; like a fucking owl. The floor groaned once more, and you turned your head to watch Time settle on your other side, directly behind Wind. Between him and Warriors, this was turning into a very unnecessary hylian sandwich. "The Captain is correct," said the eldest hero in a tone that sounded like he was laying down a law rather than talking about something as mundane as needing sleep. "Rest. We'll take turns."

"After you drank all that sleepy-time soup? I think not," you shot back, feeling a bit braver than usual. Maybe it was the night, or maybe it was because some twisted part of you wanted to be the only one to protect the youngest hero. "You two need it more than me. It's hard being old."

The Captain sputtered in quiet disbelief. Legend would be proud. "You think I'm old?"

"Actually, the word I meant was 'ancient'–"

"You're so lucky the Sailor's here."

"What're you going to do, lecture me to death–?"

"Quiet, you two," Time interjected, sounding every bit the old man that he was. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, allowing yourself to fall silent for Wind's sake. Warriors made a huffing sound, but also quieted, shuffling to lean against one of the beams protruding from the wall. "There's no reason for all of us to stay up," ugh, that's why you were doing it for them! The Hero of Time said your name like an errant child, followed by a very punctuated: "Go to sleep."

There was no fighting with Time, you knew. He would win, and you would still be on your back next to the youngest hero whether you wanted it or not. Fucking heroes, always trying to look out for others before themselves, and Hylia knew the boys practically drooled at the prospect.

With a drawn-out sigh that rivaled Wind's in supposed age, you let your head fall against the woven mat, a springy thing that would have coaxed you to sleep hours ago had it not been for the boy clinging to your arm. "Fine," you relented, a mere breath in the inky, candle-shadowed expanse of the room. Eyes shut, but not asleep, you mumbled: "Night, Wars, Time."

Warriors' arm stretched over your stomach, his hand reaching to pat down the hem of Wind's shirt as it stretched up, revealing pearly flashes of the Sailor's skin, warm with sleep and rising with steady breaths, not unlike the gentle rocking of a ship upon the Great Sea's waters. Even after the youngest hero's modesty had once again been preserved, the Captain didn't move his arm, and you suspect its purpose was as much to keep you in place as it was to correct a potential wardrobe malfunction. "You're a jerk," you mumbled in half-hearted exasperation.

The Hero of Warriors' chuckle was loud in your ear. "Takes one to know one."

"Children," said Time from the other end of the sandwich, and you rightfully shut up. Fuck him, you could wield a sword as well as any of the others, which meant you were basically an adult by those criteria alone. Plus, you were dashingly attractive and that had to count for something!

Whatever, dad, you thought with an imaginary eye roll, because the eldest hero practically had eyes on the back of his head. He would know, and you were in no mood for another lecture after the one you received for aiding Wild in his quest to ride animals that were most certainly not meant to be ridden.

Sleep never came easy when you were worried, but something was different. While Warriors wasn't mashing himself to your side like Wind seemed intent of doing, the Captain was no less warm, and it was a battle not to hum when an errant insect brought him scooting closer, the heat from his chest soaking into your other arm. It was becoming increasingly obvious: you were trapped by these lovable dorks, and when Time's miraculously un-armored arm swung over to plant across the three of you, the deal was all but sealed.

Darkness blackened the corners of your vision, and the last thing you saw was Wind's sleep-soaked grin uptick in the candlelight.

Someone was calling your name.

You cracked your weary eyes open, ears straining to catch the ghostly mumble of your name; a strange, simultaneously booming and whispered call that seemed to ring in the very recesses of your eardrums. A soft groan left your mouth, only for something to slap down on your face.

"Shh, shh, they'll wake up!"

...Huh??

There was something– nay, someone above you. Someone with stormy blue eyes, wavy blonde hair, and–

"Wind?"

Wind grinned at the sound of his name, his teeth glimmering porcelain in the faint candlelight. His hands returned to your shoulders, shaking softly, and you realized you were still in bed, surrounded by the limp, sound-asleep frames of Time and Warriors, the latter of whose arm was still slung tightly around your stomach. "That's me," he whispered, nearly vibrating with excitement. Ominous, but you were here for it. And, as if the Goddesses themselves had heard your plea for answers that weren't complete horseshit, he continued: "I thought of a new game to play! But I need to test it out first."

Ah, right. If anyone liked games, it was Wind, and you were his all-too-gullible partner-in-crime. Only, these types of exchanges usually occurred at respectful hours of the morning or afternoon, prompting another, less exhausted groan from your mouth. "Can't this wait until morning, bud?"

The Sailor paused to consider the conundrum. "I just..." fuck, he was bringing out the wet baby seal eyes. Little bastard knew you didn't stand a chance. "I don't want to forget it..."

As predicted, your resolve crumbled in the face of his patented sad animal eyes. "Okay, okay," you relented, sitting up on your elbows, keeping your tone especially low to keep the adults trapped in their slumber. "But you have to help me get past Wars, yeah?"

"Duh," was his response, and you had no choice but to crack an equally conspiratorial grin as the Sailor helped you lift Warriors' arm up. He held it as you slid free, snagging a stack of blankets from the corner as a decoy.

Until the Captain grunted, expression scrunching as he registered the change in warmth, and your soul nearly burst out of your chest. Gently, shoving Wind to the side, you bent down to whisper in the Captain's ear in your best barmaid sexy voice: "I'll be just a moment, sugar, then we can continue where we left off ;)"

Another grumble left Warriors mouth, but it was significantly softer, and punctuated by a smacking noise as he attempted to kiss the blanket pile, which would have made for spectacular blackmail, if you were being honest. Where was Wild's Shiekah Slate when you needed it?! With the Captain distracted, you slipped around him, linked arms with Wind, and skipped into the pseudo-darkness like the troublemakers you were.

Once outside, you turned to the Sailor. "So! What's up, buttercup?"

"Well..." and thus began Wind's explanation of his latest 'game', which honestly sounded more like an excuse to run around on the beach than something with actual rules, but, once again, you were here for it. Until he got to the part about rolling in the waves in the dark. Especially when he got to the part about rolling in the waves in the dark.

When he was done, you placed your hands on your hips and grinned like the responsible older sibling you totally were. "That sounds super unsafe, so it'll totally be fun!"

Wind's mirroring grin could have outshone the sun, which was especially helpful considering it was nearly pitch black outside. "Right?! I bet we can get Wild to play today, too!"

"Wait, don't you mean tomorrow?"

"Huh? It's totally today; you were asleep for a while."

"...Wind, were you watching me sleep?"

"What? No! That was Time," the Sailor jammed his thumb into his chest, not passing up an opportunity to throw shade on his brothers. "I have manners."

You raised your hands in faux distress. "Ah, my mistake, good sir! My deepest apologies."

"You should be!" There was a roar, and Wind's head instantly whipped to the foaming surf. "Okay, let's go play before Time and Warriors wake up."

"I'd love nothing more," you patted his shoulder, subsequently raising your palm to meet his in a high-five that rang through the beach like a particularly juice ass slap. Not that you knew what one of those sounded like, per se, but with Legend and Warriors' playful rivalry still going strong, you didn't need to.

"Last one to the waves is a crab!" Wind yelled, dashing towards the waves, with you hot on his heels as an answering whoop tore from your throat.

The game without rhyme or rhythm carried well into the night, until the early morning light bathed the crashing ocean and footstep-marred sand, kicked up from hours of play. Your legs ached from running, and you were sure even Sky could have overtaken you in a race at this point, but it didn't matter. You were free, and you were having fun.

"Can't catch me!" Wind screamed in delight when you tried to tag him, dancing just out of reach like the agile little shit that he was, but you had been preparing for this moment your entire life, using the last of your energy to perform a sort of lunging dive, catching him in the stomach and sending the both of you rolling into the shallow waves, coughing and sputtering as you fought to catch your breath, soaked from head-to-toe and damn proud of it.

"You were saying, you slippery munchkin?!" you giggled, nose throat sore from all the saltwater inhaled over the course of the night. The Sailor sorted, reaching into the shallows and flicking a clump of seaweed at your face. You shrieked and dodged spectacularly, but he was ready with another, larger wad that managed to smack against your cheek, effectively sending you into another half-sputter, half-laughing fit as gallons of saltwater soaked the thick fabric of your tunic and trousers.

"Eat weed, loser!"

"Never!"

Your hand sunk into the sand and, before you knew it, a large clump of it was flung in Wind's direction, catching him in the blue-clothed chest.

Wind gasped.

"Oh, it's ON."

The following ten minutes devolved into what could only be described as a sand-ball fight to the death. Sand was thrown, dignity was abandoned, and you were absolutely positive you would be picking granules out of your holes and hair for the next month, but the sound of his laughter was worth every single grain.

It was only when the front door to the house slammed open and a near-frantic Warriors stumbled outside did you pause, sand pouring from your half-cocked hand. "WHERE–" the Captain caught sight of the two of you, covered in dirt and grinning like the maniacs you were, and simultaneously looked like ten years of his life had been spontaneously snatched away. Rumor has it his groan could be heard on the next island over. "–oh, you've got to be kidding me..."

"I'm a crab!" You called over the waves, eager for yet another opportunity to screw with him.

"Actually, you're a–" Warriors paused, placing his hands together like he was about to pray that your stupidity didn't infect him, too. His mouth moved with exhausted desperation: "Calm, Link, calm."

You and Wind exchanged a glance, but it was quickly broken when Time's silhouette filled the doorway, face curiously blank as he surveyed the scene over the defeated captain's shoulder.

A beat passed.

Time turned on his heel. Time went back inside, steps heralded by Warriors' betrayed whimper. You and Wind high-fived.

It wasn't always easy staying positive when it came to life, but with them, you were willing to try.

Whew! That was a long one! I was super inspired for this, and I hope y'all enjoyed!!

A 'lil extra for y'all:

"Time to get back to bed... sugar," Warriors visibly cringed at your appointed nickname, arms crossed over his chest, and Time looked a hairs-breadth away from smacking his palm to his forehead in exasperation.

You and Wind exchanged a glance that spoke a thousand words. Ignoring the vexed shouts from the older heroes, the Sailor jumped on your back and the two of you sped off into the sunrise, whooping like the madlads you were.

[barrenclan]

i've absolutely LOVED reading PAFW and i'm excited to see what the rest of the epilogues have in store! (you've been posting them right before my planning period so they've been a nice mental break from working with middle schoolers all day lol) sorry if you've answered a question like this before, but i'm curious to know about your process for actually writing the comic! did you do a bunch of writing for issues and then go back and draw them out, did you do the issues one by one and thumbnail as you wrote… i tried making a comic years ago and it went very poorly, and i've never seen a comic formatted like this one before, so! just wondering as a fellow writer :]

Thank you! Working with middle schoolers takes a lot of strength so all the power to you.

In terms of this specific question, I had written an outline for about half the issues when I started the comic; basically a paragraph describing my ideas and what I wanted to happen.

A couple of months after I started, I wrote my outlines for the rest of the issues and decided how I wanted the story to end. I would then fully write out each issue as I went along, and render them (make all the drawings and lay out the text) after I finished writing one issue.

I talk more about the minutae of making an issue in this post here!

[muffinsin]

hi hi !

could you to HCs of the sisters and how they prefer sweet, romantic smut (if that makes sense). like i think dani would absolutely adore the slow, sensual, very loving stuff, but i wanna know your thoughts on it!!!

love ur writing btw, stay cool <3

Hiya, hon! :) Absolutely! Awhh, I can 100% see that. Our little romance bug for sure deserves some loving

The inbox is back open for the time being. Requests might be edited a little slow :)!

Let's get into it :)

Masterlists

Bela

Starting off, it’s very fair to claim Bela isn’t the most…sexual, of people outside of a relationship

She doesn’t go chasing highs with people that mean little to her, with random women regularly throwing themselves at her. Usually, that is, at least

And while her view and eagerness on this certainly shifts when she gets with you, she still isn’t quite one to rush things, to be hectic, to be rough exclusively

She likes to draw things out, likes to make them intimate

Who said even rough sex can’t be deeply intimate and even romantic, after all? She finds a way

Then, one night, when you’re curled up in bed together and tangled in one another, you “confess”

That you too prefer soft, sensual sex

The romance, the love

Of course, the two of you have times when the two of you like to indulge in one another a little faster, a little more cautious because you have little time

But, no matter how desperate, Bela likes to take her time with you

She likes holding you, likes to cup your face in her hands

She likes being tangled in one another

Likes to feel your breath against her skin

She loves to make you shiver and plead for it

At other times, she loves being made to plead and gasp and moan, in return

Her favorite way of being with you is at night, the room drenched in the dark shades of the night and illuminated by the warm, cackling fire

She likes the gentleness, the love shared between the two of you

And while she is by far not as romantic as her sister, she likes this better than fast, rough sex

At other times she likes to speak to you softly

To tie you for her, to caress your flesh

To drown in your scent and make you down in the pleasure she can grant you

Should you behave for her, that is

Cassandra

A sharp contrast from her sisters, this one

While Bela prefers slow, sensual sex and Daniela melts the thought of romantic, slow, passionate lovemaking, Cassandra has…different thoughts

She isn’t quite one for love, and affection, and her behavior in the bedroom certainly reflects this

Normally, Cassandra is all for taking what she wants from whoever she wants

Fast, hard, rough

Often, this leaves her “lovers”- what a ridiculous thing to call them, given how she cares for them little more than one might care for a toy- hurt, aching, dead in the worst of cases

She never cared, would have never cared

Why?, after all?

It’s not like they were lovers to her

Tools

Toys

Pets

Until you

And even with you, even as she cares for you deeply, the thought of taking things slow, sensual and romantic is almost foreign to her

She gets off, to no one’s surprise, to hard, rough, fast, even painful things. Whether they’re done to her or she inflicts them upon others depends entirely on her mood

Cassandra just doesn’t understand the point of taking it slow. If she wanted to hold you, after all, she would do just that

But, when you approach her about your wish to try a different, a more gentle and romantic route, she’s willing to give it a try

Anything for you. Well. Most things for you, she insists

And while she finds she doesn’t necessarily like it, she doesn’t care

She loves to watch you at those times, to bask in your love and happiness

It isn’t about the pleasure for her, then, and she usually wanders off to handle things herself, the way she’s used to, even while listening to some of her prey’s screams if you had to guess

She insists, she doesn’t mind

She likes watching you enjoy yourself like that. It gives her a sense of relief, to know she’s capable of being gentle and loving as it comes to this, even if being like that always isn’t her thing

Daniela

Oh, Daniela

Our little romance bug, really

Out of her sisters, she is by far the most romantic one

And, in turn, the one craving romance the most too

While she can enjoy rough, fast sex, there's often times she just craves something else

Something loving, and gentle, something romantic

Something so pure and intimate

When her cheek is cupped instead of her hair or throat, when her lips are wet from soft kisses instead of bruised from rough make out sessions

Not that she doesn't like those things, too

Ah, but she just melts when she's tangled in bed with you, when she feels the love shared between the two of you

When it comes to being with you, she goes all out very often

A dimly lit room, candles scattered up and about

A fire cackling in the distance

Delicious scents filling your noses

Flowers set up

Sometimes, she even likes to scatter a few rose petals about for you

All this, of course, pouring her little heart out, in hopes of this love and these efforts being returned

She's gentle with you, loves to praise you

She just has a way of making you feel like you're the perfect person in the world. She loves you so much

When it's you in charge, she absolutely loves when you treat her gently

Slow, sensual touches

Gentle, hungry kisses placed against her skin

Her face held, cheek cupped, while your fingers drive in and out of her sopping wet core

Oh, and just how wet she gets for you...

She's leaking, her pussy a wet mess, overly sensitive for you in no time

She can't help it

She's addicted to feeling loved

[starlit-writer]

in sickness and in health, ch. 3 - alpha!simon riley x omega!reader

here is chapter three!!!! this chapter did NOT go the way i thought it would, but i promise we're getting to the whole simon groveling and begging and all that lovely stuff soon - i just cant seem to stop writing these two FIGHTING! as always, if you want to be added to the tag list to make sure you stay up-to-date, let me know in the replies! eat well, lovelies <3

if you want to understand more about my omegaverse au, you can look at my masterpost here, and it'll help explain all of the intricacies that may or may not be explained well enough in these short-form fics!

word count: 4,208 chapter two masterlist ao3 link

You were in a forest, surrounded by pines. Snow was drifting down slowly, coating the needles around you in light flakes before they melted from the heat of your breath as you stared up at the grey sky. You felt… at peace, for the first time in a long time. You were wrapped securely in the knotted roots of one of the pine trees as they wrapped themselves over and between the straps of your tactical vest, the wood gently resting against a sticky scarlet mark where your heart was supposed to be. You turned your head as much as the roots would allow, and you could see flames in the distance of the forest, a cacophony of gunshots and explosions ricocheting through your ears as the scent of smoking pine and wet gunpowder reaches your nostrils-

You woke up with a start, a gasp of air drawing through your dry, chapped lips sharply, the movement causing your aching ribs to spasm in a coughing fit. Your hands flew up to your chest to check for the wound that you were so convinced would be there, only to be met with the soft, warm, flesh of a massive tattooed bicep that was flung across your chest. But the everpresent scent of smoked pine, wet gunpowder, and a freshly-lit cigarette was still burned into your nostrils.

It was just a dream.

You blinked a few times, the light filtering through the blinds too bright for your blurry eyes to handle. You tried to lift your head, to move, but your body felt far too heavy and sluggish. You were reduced to your basest of instincts - you felt better than you had in months, but it felt like your omega side had completely overridden your logical one. You tried again to speak, to move, anything, but all that came out from your too-dry mouth was a cracking, reedy omega whine.

That made the heavy arm that was draped over your chest move. It quickly lifted off of you, the bed that you were laying on dipping and shifting like sand underfoot as the massive bulk next to you moved. You flinched slightly as rough fingertips gently touched your cheek, the image of Simon’s face swimming above you as a look of concern furrowed his brow. Oh. That would explain why that scent was swimming around you. If you two had been in a normal, healthy mating bond, it probably would have been easier to recognize. But after the months of distance, and neglect, you had forgotten your own alpha’s scent.

You felt it as your own face morphed into a matching expression. Where were you? Why is Simon here? What the fuck happened? You opened your mouth to say something scathing, the words nipping at the tip of your tongue, but before you could speak, the back of Simon’s hand traced down your cheek, almost reverent in his guilt.

“Shh, shh, love. You’re okay, you’re okay. ‘M ‘ere. Just don’t… don’t move, okay? I’ve got some water here for ya-” his voice broke off as he twisted his torso, keeping one hand securely under your head while the other grabbed a white styrofoam cup with a bright white plastic straw sticking up from the lid and brought it back over to the bed. You had to fight to keep your expression neutral, as the sight of the sterile-looking aerated plastic and the very thought of drinking the disgusting water contained inside made your stomach dip in disgust.

Simon could have cried when he felt your disgust through the bond, the cavernous darkness that had shrouded you from him in his mind finally lifting enough to allow him to feel you again. However, that didn’t stop your feeling of disgust, even if it was directed at the apparently devil-like cup in his hands and not at him, from lodging into his chest like the blade of a knife. He winced and quickly moved the cup away from you, frantically looking around his quarters for some other source of water. When he didn’t find one, a short curse fell from his lips as he glanced back at you sympathetically, regret and guilt shining in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I- I just grabbed this from medbay… there’s some vitamins and electrolytes and whatever else you combat medics throw in it, and I figured that that would help since, you know, you’ve been asleep for three days.”

Your eyes widened in shock. Three days? Three days!? You could vomit, and you probably would have if there had been anything in your stomach.

Simon sighed, screwing his eyes shut as he realized that was probably not the best way to tell you that information. He brought his hand - the one still holding that damn cup - up to his face, rubbing his eyes with the back of his thumb. Gods, he sucked at this. He ran his hand down his face and moved to get up from the bed. “I’ll just… yeah, I’ll just go get you some, um, different water in a different glass and… yeah, I’ll be right back.”

As he moved to get up from the bed, your hand weakly shot out, your fingers feebly wrapping around his wrist. Simon glanced down at your hand in thinly-veiled shock before he looked at you. You were just as shocked. You were still angry, at least, you knew you should be, but the only thing you could focus on was the way your omega writhed in pain at the mere thought of Simon walking away from you again.

“You need to drink some water. And if you won’t drink it out of this,” he said as he raised the cup, “then I gotta get you something else.”

You looked up at him pleadingly, an absolutely pathetic look on your face. You didn’t have the strength or energy to fight against the instincts right now. Everything in you was screaming and clawing at the idea of Simon leaving, even just to get you more water, and your instincts didn’t care about how it looked, or if it made you seem like you forgave him and were willing to forget everything that happened. You knew, logically, that you weren’t, but logic was so far out of the realm of control, the only thing reacting in your mind was your wounded omega, desperate for the proximity of her alpha.

“I don’t wanna force you to drink this if it grosses you out that bad.”

Another needy, desperate whine was his only response as you let go of his wrist, your shaking hand held outstretched to take the cup. It was a clear message - I’ll drink it. Just don’t leave.

Simon’s gaze softened as he sat back down on the edge of the bed, bringing the straw close to your lips. You closed your eyes, the moment feeling far too intimate for the reality of your relationship with Simon as your dry, chapped lips wrapped around the plastic of the straw. After a few moments of forcing down the polluted-dirt tasting water, Simon slowly and gently pulled the straw away from you, his free hand coming up to your face to brush an errant strand of your hair behind your ear. His heart ached as your eyes fluttered open, still cold and guarded even as he could feel your omega pleading for him to stay through the bond.

“Feel better?”

You nodded slowly, the movement disjointed and sluggish as you brought a shaking hand up to wipe a small droplet of water off of your lips. “Yeah,” you muttered, the words thick and gruff with disuse. The thanks that should have followed that response stayed stuck in your throat like a pill that was much too big to swallow.

Simon nodded in response as he sat the cup back down on the bedside table. He then grabbed a wrapped protein bar, and tore open the packaging with his teeth. With the unwrapped protein bar in hand, he turned back to you, holding the bar near your face. “Eat.”

A pause, a short breath leaving Simon’s lips as he realized that a demand was probably not the best way to get you to do something at the moment.

“Please,” he amended, his voice softer, gentler. “You need to get your strength up,” he added, shifting the bar a little closer to your lips.

You knew he was right, ultimately, but it wounded your ego, accepting his help after all of the neglect he had put you through. You sighed softly and shifted on the bed with a groan as your muscles protested against the tiniest of movements. Simon’s hand quickly wrapped around your aching shoulder to help shift you on to your side, and you settled back down into the bed, lifting your head up slightly to take a small bite out of the protein bar. You figured it would be impossible to swallow, as all food had been the last few months, but you were shocked to find it easy to get down. You sat up slowly, achingly, agonizingly slowly, but Simon, shockingly, was there to support you. You reached out and took the bar from him, suddenly ravenous.

Simon watched as you all but scarfed down the protein bar, his gaze softening with guilt. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, looking down at his now-empty hands. He hated himself, the guilt and regret of being so blind to you throughout the entirety of your marriage, your mating bond, eating him alive.

You froze, mid-chew of the last bite as you heard his murmured apology. You didn’t know how to respond, feeling like a deer in the headlights of his sin.

“Simon…”

“No, I… I am. Gods, angel, you have no idea how sorry I am. I was such a dick to you, such a bad fuckin’ alpha, and I know that my words probably don’t mean much, or, really, anything to you, but… if I could reverse time, do it all over again, I…”

“Simon, stop,” you croaked out, your gaze fixated on the comforter that pooled against your sweatpant-clad legs, anything to keep your eyes off of him. You couldn’t look at him. It was all too much, far too quickly, and you had nowhere to even begin to parse through the emotions and pain that still existed under your skin like a thrashing beast, even if it felt more subdued than it did three days ago. You didn’t want to think too hard on that, though, wanted to ignore the way your alpha’s presence, his scent calmed the ugly thing, if only slightly.

You couldn’t - wouldn’t - forgive him. Not right now. Sure, he had kept one promise; he had stayed with you, but in the grand scheme of things? It didn’t mean much. You smoothed your hand over the soft comforter, balling the now-empty wrapper of the protein bar in your other hand. Too many emotions, too little time. You felt like you were trapped between your base omega desires and the reality of your situation. The wrapper crinkled in your hand louder as your grip became tighter, the atrophied muscles in your arms shaking with exertion and emotion.

You felt Simon’s hand as it inched closer to you, more than likely to try and bring you comfort, but you couldn’t take it. Right before his hand touched yours, you jerked it away, throwing the wrapper into some random corner of his room in your panic. You quickly scrambled out of the bed, your need to get away from him, from the situation, much greater than any of the aches and pains of your neglected body. You stood in the center of the room, your chest heaving from the exertion as you steadied yourself on your feet, your legs wobbling beneath you.

Simon just stared at you, wide-eyed and frozen.

You stared right back. Your mind was a mess, fractured between your omega and your logical, rational side. Your omega was screaming, tearing at the confines of your skin at the very idea of leaving your alpha, but you pushed it away. You felt cornered, and you were lashing out like a feral cat.

“I- I gotta go.”

And with that, you turned on your heel, and all but ran out of the room. Simon was still sitting on the edge of the bed, shellshocked and staring at the space in the center of his quarters that you were just occupying.

–

It had been about a week since you had left Simon’s quarters. That first day, after you had left, you were violent, volatile - your own quarters destroyed as you tried to release all of the pent-up emotions by throwing anything and everything you could get your hands on before you collapsed into little more than a heap of tears in the middle of all of the broken glass and ripped papers. You had slept there that night, on your floor, but when you woke up, there was one of Simon’s sweatshirts outside of the door of your quarters with a note.

I know you don’t want to see me right now. I know you’re pissed, and you have every right to be. But the bond is still fragile. Just keep this around, please? -Simon

Part of you wanted to burn it, still so full of rage and pain, but the desperation of your omega had you pressing your face into the soft, plush fabric, a small omega purr unconsciously pulling past your lips. As soon as the sound of your purr reached your ears, you threw the article of clothing onto the ground as if it was a ticking incendiary bomb. It was still there, in that corner, but it cursed the entirety of your quarters to smell like Simon, the scent of smokey pine, wet gunpowder, and the first drag of a cigarette cloying to everything, no matter how many of your own clothes you piled on top of it.

The rest of that week had passed by you like a blur. You had mostly stayed in your quarters, focusing on how to control and push down your omega desires, instead replacing them with the rage you knew you should feel towards Simon, definitely not because it was the only place that you could still smell him, certainly not. It was just that the thought of being seen out and about when your emotions and physical health were so volatile seemed like it wouldn’t be the best of ideas, and that was definitely the only reason.

But, today was the first day that you had actually gotten up and took a shower. Looking in the mirror, you noticed that your skin looked much more lively, the sickly grey of the bond sickness had dissipated, and the bruises that had covered your skin had all but faded away. It made you feel… wrong almost, to be, to look, “fixed”. The torment that you had undergone still lived and breathed in your very bones, and seeing yourself without the physical marks of it, even if they were self-inflicted, felt wrong. So, you quickly tugged on some workout gear, grabbed your keys, and left your quarters, determined to make someone pay for the grief and rage that thrummed under your skin.

You dumped your keys and your sweatshirt in a corner by the sparring ring, stretching for a moment as you scanned the gym. Plenty of people to spar with, but, more importantly, no Simon. And, before you knew it, an unsuspecting, far too cocky beta recruit was swaggering up to you. He was new to the base, you could tell. Fresh out of basic training, by the looks of it. You pushed a smirk down off of your lips, as you wanted the challenge. Wanted him to fuck up just so you could absolutely let loose. You batted your eyelashes up at him, really playing into the whole weak omega stereotype.

You ran your gaze up and down the recruit, sinking your teeth into your plush lower lip. You watched as the recruit’s eyes lit up at your actions, obviously taking them as flirtatious. Meanwhile, all you had wanted to do was knock him off his axis, get him thinking hazy.

The recruit smirked, rubbing his hands together. “Name’s Conwell. James Conwell. Need a sparring partner?”

You grinned up at him, the expression so fake and sickly-sweet as you leaned towards him slightly, clasping your hands in front of you. If it pushed your tits together, what was the harm in that?

“Oh, yeah, James, that’d be great! I might need a few pointers though. You okay with that?” The grin that the recruit gave you was downright predatory as he nodded and slipped between the ropes, bouncing around and shadowboxing, obviously trying to show off. You quickly stifled a laugh behind your hand, clearing your throat before you slipped between the ropes as well. Gods, new recruits, especially new beta recruits, were such easy marks. They always had such a chip on their shoulder, desperate to prove themselves, and certainly not above pretending to be something they weren’t to do so. And as you settled into your side of the ring, you could smell just how desperate this recruit was to be something he wasn’t.

He had sprayed fake alpha pheromones on himself. The scent was nauseating, making your stomach roll. But, you pushed it down. You’d play the part, let him get one or two good hits in, then it would be game over for the poor boy.

“How do I start this?” You asked innocently, looking down at the smooth vinyl that coated the floor of the ring. The beta’s (Jim?) grin widened as he sunk into his own fighting stance.

“Just like this, pretty girl.”

You suppressed a disgusted shudder at his words, painting that saccharine faux-innocence on your expression as you pretended to copy him, sinking into your own stance. Yours was a much stronger base, your legs spread wider to better accommodate your movement, your fists actually tucked up to your face as protection, unlike the way the beta kept his hands low over his bare chest, obviously believing the lie that you were no threat.

“You should probably swing first, you know, show an omega like me how an alpha does it.”

That did it. His eyes glinted with that repulsive possessiveness that every douchebag gets when you stroke their ego just right, when you pretend to believe a lie that they’ve tried so hard to force to be truth. And so he did, but it arched wide, giving you the perfect opportunity to dodge under and land a jab right in the left side of his ribs. You popped up, a glee-filled smile on your lips, genuine this time, as you looked at him as he gasped for air, bouncing on the balls of your feet.

He blinked, bewildered, as his head swiveled from side to side in an effort to find where you went. Once his eyes zeroed in on you, his lips pressed into a thin, angry smile, the kind that someone would give an annoying child after they spilt their snack for the third time in a row. “Wow, quick learner, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess!” Your words were bright, your eyes filled with a predatory glint that you tried to hide as you beckoned him tauntingly. “C’mon! That was fun!”

The beta growled in a terrible impression of an alpha rumble, swinging out in the exact same way. It forced you to wonder what the fuck they were teaching these kids in basic training nowadays. The velocity of this punch was slow, and you knew you had to let him get at least one punch in if you wanted this to last any longer than a few minutes before he stormed off with his tail tucked between his legs in embarrassment. Normally, you would have braced yourself for a hit that you knew was coming, but something else hit you before the punch could. Smoked pine. Wet gunpowder. First hit of a cigarette after a stressful mission. It pulled your attention just long enough to allow the beta’s punch to land squarely in your ribs, the force of the impact much greater than the velocity, which promptly knocked all of the air from your lungs. You stumbled back a little, but you forced your gaze to stay on your opponent, not allowing yourself to get distracted by the pheromones that had settled over you like an oppressive coat.

That was, until, you heard an actual alpha growl emanating from the door of the gym. It was so loud, so full of anger, that it caused everyone to stop what they were doing. You rolled your eyes, shaking out your shoulders as you sank back down into your fighting stance, but your opponent was frozen, his hands dropped as he turned to look at where the growl had come from. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who he was staring at. You sighed, your head dropping as you saw Simon’s long, purposeful strides carrying his massive bulk up to the ring. You heard your opponent get pulled from the ring, and before you knew it, Simon was in front of you, lifting your head up with gentle fingers.

“Did he hurt-”

You forcefully knocked his hand off of your chin, your eyes hardening. A small omega growl ripped past your lips as they curled up in displeasure. “Oh my gods, fuck off! We were just sparring!”

Simon’s gaze darkened as he looked down at you, but he, thankfully, didn’t touch you again. “You smell like fuckin’ shit. What, fake pheromones are what does it for ya now, huh?”

Your growl increased in volume as you shoved against his chest. The anger, pain, and guilt that swam between the two of you was almost tangible, the tension thick enough to cut through with a knife. You didn’t care. “Don’t pretend like you know anything about what ‘does it for me’,” you mocked as you put sarcastic air quotes around the repeated words.

Most of the gym had cleared out by now. Everyone knew how volatile the two of you could be separately, and when they sensed the heightened anger and emotions between you two, they quickly disappeared. For the few stragglers that were left, Simon fixed them with a glare hard enough to freeze an ocean, and they quickly packed their things and also scurried away.

“You wanna fucking punch something?” Simon growled as he took a step closer to you. “Punch me. Not some stupid prick tryna peacock around as if he’s an alpha. You fuckin’ smell like that shit ass cologne he was trying to pass off as his own.”

A downright predatory grin spread over your lips. You were pissed. Pissed that he was here, that he had taken away the one outlet that you knew you had to work through all of these emotions. So, you bit back. You knew you were playing with fire. It was one thing you were always good at, part of the reason the team, especially Simon, called you spitfire.

“Oh, is that what that was? It smelled so good, I thought it was real.”

You were lying, and the smirk that spread over Simon’s lips confirmed that he knew it too. You shook your head, blowing out a frustrated breath as you moved to step around Simon. You didn’t want to be around him right now. His hand shot out to grab at your wrist, but you jerked it away from him.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me,” you bit out as your teeth ground together. “I didn’t need you to come save me, and you had no right to storm in here like this.”

“No right?” Simon seethed lowly as he turned his head to look at you. “No right? Pretty sure that’s my fucking teeth marking that mating gland right there on the side of your neck!”

You froze, slowly turning to fully face him now. Your expression was set into a mask of absolute, unbridled rage that Simon had never been on the receiving end of. Your fists were clenched impossibly tight at your sides, and you could feel the anger rolling off of you in hot, tangible waves. You had known Simon didn’t know how to be a mate, but you had never imagined that this is the way he would deem acceptable to treat you. No matter what, you were a soldier first, more than capable of taking care of yourself, you didn’t need him breathing down your neck like some sort of denmother. It almost seemed like he was trying to overcorrect from his mistakes, becoming overbearing and overprotective. That almost pissed you off more.

“If that is how you think this bond is going to go, especially after everything you did, I will cut this mating bond out myself. Do not test me.”

You didn’t wait for a response. With that, you stepped off of the mat, grabbed your things, and walked out, not even bothering to look behind you as your hand rubbed harshly over the mating bite on your neck.

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

as always, thank you so so much for the support, and keep an eye out for chapter four! tag list: @kerst666 @misscaller06 @letaliabane @sai-int @itsmeamysworld @massivescissorsthingperson @aeeliy @alkalineapparition @cringeycookies

[joeyalohadream]

Last Line Tag

Thank you @swifty-fox , @stars-remain2 , and @donotnomi for tagging meee! 💕

Apologies for being MIA a bit. Life has been life-ing, I am incapable lately of saying no and setting boundaries with my managers and now I have some kind of flu and ugh. But I'm home and writing today and tomorrow so chapter four of Let your heart be light is hopefully coming tomorrow!

My nerves are fraying with my attempt to write anything explicit (apologies if it's awful), but I'm trying because it's important for Gale and John's relationship and the story. Bear with me as it's taking me longer than usual because writing anything like this is new to me.

--

Stupidly, Gale thinks of gravity as John’s hands slide down his back and settle on his waist. His skin is warm under the touch and he can’t contain the whine he lets out against John’s lips as the other man pulls him into his lap with a slight twist and flex of his body.

It took no effort, like the gravity left the room. Expect this feels like gravity. Like there’s some physical force pulling him into John.

Gale’s read enough books to know that the more mass an object has, the more gravity it contains. And his hands can’t stop roaming over John’s broad chest and down the planes of his soft stomach, back up over the breadth of his shoulders.

John’s big everywhere. His body, his smile, his personality, his charm, his sincerity and his care.

He shifts forward, feels how affected John is by all of this, just as hard as Gale is in his sleep pants, and he rocks forward again, swallowing John’s groan even as he flushes all the way down his chest at the confirmation that John really is big everywhere.

Large palms flutter over his waist, up his back, fingertips trailing up his spine and back down, leaving goosebumps in their wake when paired with the way John’s warm tongue curls gently against his own.

It feels too good.

He never wants to stop kissing him.

Can’t believe how good it feels to be held like this.

His breathing stutters as John rocks up into him. But then John’s slowing them down, tongue retreating, lips pressing soft strokes against his swollen lips and then nudging his nose with own.

“I knew it.”

Gale’s eyes flutter open at the words, at the break in the silence. He’s so hard he feels like he could come just from the feel of John’s breath on his cheek.

“Knew what?” He sighs, not surprised by how breathy his question comes out. His thighs are trembling and the ache in his hip is such a distant afterthought it might as well not be real.

John’s hand flex and tighten where they’re resting around his waist. “Knew my hands would feel good here.”

“It does feel good,” Gale lets out, heat creeping up his neck. But John’s eyes go all squinty and soft at his words and he pulls Gale forward until their hips are flush. It sends a shock through him and he buries his face in John’s neck to hide the sound it draws out of him.

“Don’t hide, sweetheart,” John voice rumbles against his chest.

But Gale shakes his head, keeps his face pressed close and mouths at the sweaty skin of John’s throat and starts to rock his hips, no rhythm to it, just pleasure as his cock strains to get to John’s.

“Oh, god, Gale.” John moans, head tilting back as Gale tongues at his pulse point and keeps moving his hips.

He feels a bit delirious, a little floaty. But so good he can’t stop.

[miwiheroes]

Dropping Byler Evidence Every Day Until Season 5

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Day 18: Mike's Bedroom Scene . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Everyone knows this scene, everyone here LOVES this scene (or they better love it). It's so ripe for analysis in every single way, not even just for byler, but for things that happen later on in the season. I think shots like this are extremely thought out. They chose a wide angle shot to show you Mike's bedroom for a reason. They also showed you this bedroom right after seeing El's, to show the contrast between their two lives and how they view each other.

I've already talked about this contrast between their two rooms and the fact that Mike has nothing from El in his room in this post.

1. Rainbow Letter + Closet

I want to talk about something else before the glaringly obvious queer coding first: and that is the fact that El has her own stationary specific for writing Mike's notes, while it is canon that Mike just writes his letters to El on some scrap pieces of paper, showing the unequal amounts they are putting into their relationship:

Anyways, back to El's letter to Mike having literal rainbows on it. For El, this is some clear foreshadowing for her being in the rainbow room, and we can all agree on that right?

So if we can agree on that, then I think we should agree that it could also be true this is queer coding for Mike. It's the first thing you see in this scene, even before you see a shot of Mike himself. Also the fact that the next shot of the scene is Mike next to the open closet with the light on, kind of implies or foreshadows his story being tied to queerness for the rest of the season.

Having the light on in the closet is also to draw your attention toward it. I've talked before about how often in film it is to use light to mean truth, meaning this would imply that being in the closet is the truth that Mike is hiding, since a lot of this scene is taken up by the fact El's lying to him. So what does he have to hide? The set designers utilise light in this scene very carefully, which I will touch on in the later sections <3

2. Posters

This is such a famous piece of evidence that I feel like I don't really need to say anything here lmaooo, like we can see in multiple different shots that instead of having posters of literally anything else on his walls, he has posters of men. Specifically buff men (or a dragon if u wanna be pedantic guys).

This seems so on the nose that it has to be queer coding, just like the scene where Mike goes to the wrestling gym while on his search for a DND replacement for Lucas, and stuff like this has been used on many different queer coded characaters in media for a long time.

I've heard people argue that there is also a girl character in the Conan the Barbarian poster, but honestly, if you watch the film you would know why this is not a great thing to say or equate women to lmao... Basically this film does not shy away from the fact that men in this time period treated women like property so I'd be careful saying that.

If you want to go past talking about the fact this CtB poster is just a poster of a buff man, I'd say that it could symbolise Mike's need to be normal and fit into the "male role" in society that we saw in S3. To be honest, if I saw a guy with this poster, I'd.....run, girl RUN

So anyways, not only is there one poster of a buff guy, there is another. The one on the left is a poster designed by Rick Ruhman, whose other posters can be seen in the show, like in Reefer Rick's house. Buff dragon poster you'll always be famous <3

This is two instances already of Mike being associated with buff men, um, and to be honest that should be enough, but it's funny that there are two other instances of this happening in the show. Another is literally in episode 1 of S4, where Mike goes to the wrestling gym, and another is when he mentions Superman in relation to El for some reason, rather than calling her 'Supergirl' like Argyle does 10000 times.

This is a pattern, everyone. And can be compared to the fact that other male characters who were around the same age as him have posters of women surrounding them in different scenes.

In Steve's room: he was 17

In Lucas's scene with the other basketball guys: he is same age as Mike

3. His Noticeboard

thanks to @runninguplenorahills for this very good photo haha

First of all, want to establish that the lamp is placed next to this notice board on purpose, in order to draw your attention towards it, just like his closet earlier on (and later, you shall see). So you are meant to view this notice board as having little hints on it.

And there are! Not just towards his queerness. and they are pretty much confirmed to be foreshadowing for some of the plot points in S4, so other stuff in his room could also be foreshadowing , but for his queerness too.

These Garbage Pail Kids cards clearly foreshadow some events of S4. I think Heavin Steven may have something to do with Steve literally biting the head off of a demobat, which makes sense, or it could be about him randomly pouring his heart out to Nancy in the caravan. Evil Eddie obviously foreshadows that everyone thinks Eddie is the head of an evil cult and has murdered a woman, which is what's happening in the card. Live Mike is either a reference to Eddie playing his guitar later on, or it could be a reference to Mike's monologue where there are many lightning strikes at the most interesting times... Finally, Mad Max's card shows a brain being outside someone's head, foreshadowing her mind visiting Vecna's mindscape and her being braindead by the end of the season.

Also on his notice board are:

Escape Fun City: reference to California

Pizza Sticker: foreshadowing his time in the surfer boy pizza van and the pizza place.

Will's Drawings: obviously showing that he places more care in Will's drawings than El's letters which I talk about on one of my previous posts. He also still has Will's drawings in his basement.

So how is this byler evidence? Well, I really think this proves just how much thought and care went into making Mike's room foreshadow some later plot points, because the audience can hardly see what's going on here, but it still foreshadows stuff. This leads me onto....

4. The One Way Sign ;)

This one is a classic, and if you don't know this already, then I guess you must be new here hello

I just want you guys to think for a second about the intentionality of this. And I want you to imagine people setting up his room for filming. Because it wasn't just created out of nowhere, people genuinely thought about each decision. Imagine this just being written off as a coincidence, because let's lay out some facts here:

A light has been set up in Mike's closet

That light has been pointed so that it is a beam towards Mike

The closet door has been opened for no practical reason

A one way sign has been ordered, put on the wall in this specific spot.

A one way sign does not foreshadow any other plot points in S4.

I am baffled when I talk to people and they don't think this type of stuff is intentional. It's a blink and you miss it hint, yes, but those types of hints are supposed to be subtle so that when you look back on them, they make a lot of sense.

Overall, this shot of Mike's room is the perfect introduction to his character this season and makes the most sense. There is no other way that he could have been introduced in S4, in my opinion. It's subtlety is only for people who care enough to look, but it heavily queercodes him nonetheless. Just because they're small, doesn't mean they are insignificant.

[rekino2114]

I've got one for a reader who has burn scars like the character below with the danganronpa girls Kaede akamatsu, mahiru koizumi,,Ibuki mioda Tenko chabashira and Kirumi tojo and he's insecure about his relationship with them because of his burn scars causing them to reassure him of their love for him.

Kaede,mahiru,ibuki,tenko, and kirumi with a scarred reader

Kaede akamatsu

Kaede is an incredibly caring and sweet person, and even more as a girlfriend, she loves every part of you including your scars and burns

It genuinely doesn't bother her at all, and she actually thinks make you look even cuter than you already are

If you're OK with it she'd love to kiss your scars every night whenever you cuddle just to show you how much she loves them, she also makes sure she doesn't hug you too tightly just in case they still hurt

She can't understand why you would feel insecure about your relationship. She has already made it very clear that she loves your scars and will never leave you, but she will remind you how many times is necessary

"Baby, I already told you I love you so much and will never leave you. Your scars are a part of you that I love like all the others"

Mahiru koizumi

Mahiru also doesn't mind your scars at all. Sure, she was surprised when she saw them for the first time but she doesn't understand why you would be so self conscious about her

She genuinely thinks they're beautiful, she compliments them a lot and says how unique they make you look

Her main way of showing you how much she loves them is taking pictures of them, she'd love to just snap a lot of pictures of all your scars and burns and put them in a big album just for you two

If hiyoko ever says something about you or your scars, she will receive such a big earful from mahiru

"Y/n, listen to me, don't be embarrassed about your body it's beautiful, and I have hundreds of pictures to prove it"

Ibuki mioda

Ibuki thinks your scars are so cool. They genuinely might be her favorite part of your body, she says they make you look so badass

The first time she saw them, she gasped and asked if you got them fighting a dragon, and she kept that enthusiasm for all of your relationship. She genuinely can't stop complimenting them

She also loves to kiss your scars and draw patterns with her fingers on them while you cuddle. Sometimes, she specifically puts lipsticks to leave marks on them

She wrote a song about you (one of the many), and in the lyrics, she told you how she loved you and your scars were the coolest thing ever to her, she'd yell it to the entire world if you still felt insecure

"*gasp* what are you saying y/n? Ibuki thinks your scars are the most awesomazing thing in the whole world, you know you're super cool right? Cause I'll write another song about it if you don't"

Tenko chabashira

Tenko also thinks your scars are very cool they remind her of battle scars, and they make you look like a cool fighter to her

she constantly asks you if a degenerate male gave you those, and you always say no, but she still continues asking....she just wants to make sure that you're not lying and feel comfortable around her.....and also wants to go beat up the hypothetical guy who hurt you

Speaking of, she will absolutely beat the hell out of anyone who says anything even remotely negative about how you look, especially if it's a guy, if it's a girl she'll ask her to stop before acting but if it's a male then they should just say their prayers

Tenko loves you with or without scars. In fact, they just make you look cooler to her so she'd never leave you

"Y/n, what are you saying? Didn't I already say that your scars just make you so cool, I love them, and they're beautiful, and any degenerate male who says otherwise will have to face me!"

Kirumi tojo

Kirumi treats your scars simply like they're another completely normal part of you. She loves everything about you, and your scars are no different

She liked to tell you how cute and beautiful your scars are and how handsome they make you look, especially whenever she's washing you when you're bathing or showering together. She just really likes rubbing and caressing them

If anyone (kokichi) insults you for your body and scars she will simply scold them telling them that they shouldn't comment about people's appearances and then kiss you reminding you of how much she loves you and your scars

Whenever you're feeling down because of how you look, she's very quick to remind you that you're handsome the way you look and that she loves you so much also because of your scars not despite them

"Dear, please look at me, I love you, all of you scars, burns and all, I will always love you no matter what and your body will never make me change my mind"

[solarpunkani]

Things To Do To Maintain Hope In These Trying Times

Okay so look. This isn't the desireable outcome for me and my fellow solarpunks, but I personally find that I have two options right now--panic and wait for the worst; or dream of, hope for, and work towards the best that I can manage. And I prefer that second option. Is a single individual going to be able to remold the societal systems we find ourselves in, reshape the fabric of our government and turn everything for the better in the next four years? If someone can, it's not me.

But what I can do is do stuff to make things better, lighter, and more hopeful for myself and my community around me, through actions big and small. So here's what I plan to do, or hope to take on, to keep myself from absolutely doomspiraling. And if this list helps you, inspires you to take up an action I'm doing or to try something completely different, by all means that's amazing! What's more solarpunk than inspiring others to be more solarpunk?

Anyways

1: Trash Cleanups and Other Volunteering

I joined a mutual aid group a few months back and lately we've been doing a lot of trash clean ups, which I find really fun! It also helps feel like I'm making a tangible, helpful difference in my community--the areas look nicer for humans, there's less litter issues for plants and animals--it's just a general improvement! I have recently found nothing gets me fired up quite like a trash cleanup these days. I would also like to join more volunteering/mutual aid groups in the area, I'd just have to find ones that fit my current work schedule (and aren't a huge commute to and fro). Maybe someday this year I'll get the courage (and time) to join the Food Not Bombs in my city for a few events!

Maybe picking up trash at parks and ditches and intersections isn't going to improve the entire nation's situation, I'll never claim that it would. But improving the world around you, even a little bit, can help get the ball rolling for other changes--maybe people will start using a park more once its cleaned up, maybe native plants will reclaim that ditch and create a new habitat, maybe people will see us cleaning and see our flag and check out other stuff our organization does! Bit by bit, we're contributing to a brighter, cleaner future.

Maybe I'll get the courage to clean up some trash on my own, who knows.

2: Make Stuff With My Hands

This covers a lot of things, and not always a physical thing to hold. Maybe it's crocheting little plushies, or hats and cardigans, or anything I feel like to accomplish something. Maybe I'll learn to sew more things, or how to embroider. Maybe I'll draw, or write more short stories, or work on my longer projects.

Sure, some things can be made to give away or donate, or can be made with a specifically solarpunky end goal and message. But honestly, even if I'm not writing solarpunk short stories or drawing solarpunky art, if I'm writing or drawing anything it helps bring me hope--and brightens the day of my friends who enjoy it too!

3: Gardening and Sharing

It's winter as I'm writing this, which means its about time to dive headfirst into garden planning and seed starting! Even the process of watching something grow from a tiny little seed to a fully-grown plant brings me hope, and every different kind of plant gives hope for a different reason! My pollinator garden helps me take action to assist the native pollinator species by giving them a place to feed and grow, and the more kinds of native plants I provide the more habitat I create for them! And the fruits and vegetables I grow bring a sense of accomplishment with each harvest, and satisfaction as I share them with family, friends, and neighbors! I am still chasing the high of sharing bowls and bowls of tomatoes and peppers with my cul-de-sac.

In addition to my own personal garden, my volunteering group is looking into adopting an abandoned community garden and bringing it back to life! If we can (still waiting for approval), it'll bring access to fresh veggies and herbs to the nearby community, and if it goes well we may even try to take up more around town! I'm really, really excited about this project!!

Maybe sharing produce from my garden will inspire my neighbors to create their own (I'm already lowkey claiming credit for inspiring one neighbor to start growing tomatoes last year), and share their extra produce, and inspire more people to garden! Maybe talking about my pollinator garden and sharing seeds with my friends and coworkers will create more interest, and more habitat for for local creatures! Maybe if I yap about milkweed and tree snags hard enough, people will see the expanses of grass on the sides of the road differently, or find a different species to advocate for!

Then of course there's the possibility of guerrilla gardening. While there are a lot of reasons I haven't taken it up super hard yet (not finding good sites, not having a lot of money for throwaway seeds, not wanting to be a black woman in the south doing 'weird stuff' on the side of the road, etc), maybe I will. In any case, I have brought up the idea of scattering wildflower seeds at some of the sites we clean up to my volunteering group--if that idea gets taken up, that could in a sense be guerrilla gardening, right?

4: Clean My Goddamn Room

"Ani what does cleaning your room have to do with hope in these trying times" Clean room, clean mind, more room to start seeds, less environmental stress. Maybe just doing a few chores when I'm feeling anxious can help me take time to think things through instead of downspiraling, or can help me work my way through a plot hole in a story, or think of a new project to take up.

Maybe for you guys its not 'cleaning your room,' maybe its some other task. Sometimes doing a small, mundane task for yourself can give you the vibes and energy to take up another challenge!

5: Encouraging Others

I've said it before and I'll say it again, is there anything more solarpunk than encouraging other people to be more solarpunk?

Even if you aren't waxing poetic about the values and virtue of the solarpunk movement, being a source of hope and light for others can do a surprising amount to get things done! For example, if I personally can't muster the courage to go to an FNB event or a rally, or if something comes up and I suddenly find myself unable to garden this year or keep doing trash cleanups, if I--through talking about my hobbies or sharing resources on how to start or just existing and vibing with my gay little NPC bounce and chatting about sunflowers in a checkout line--inspire five other people to take up an action, that's five more people taking up an action. And that action can lead to them doing more and more, bigger and better things. If I help a friend feel better when they're feeling down, maybe they'll have the energy to help others, who'll then help others, and help make the world just that much brighter! Even if the action is unrelated to what I personally am doing, it'd still be a beautiful and amazing thing! If me sharing my crochet projects inspires someone else to take up leatherworking or sculpting or woodworking, that's still more creative energy in the world! If me talking about native wildflowers burgeons an interest in native trees, or grasses, or hell even something like green building design or community planning somehow, that's someone developing an entirely different skillset than I could ever imagine, which can be used to do amazing things!

I'm not gonna pretend like its going to be all sunshine and rainbows from here on out! We're still talking about the person who literally refused to leave the house yesterday because she was so anxious something might happen, after all. But if I'm given a choice between wallowing in misery and anxiety and despair, or doing anything I can--even the smallest things--to make things a little bit better and brighter for those around me? I know what my choice is.

[out-there-tmblr]

Young zaundads wip (37)

***

"Five bronze," Babette says, when Silco asks if he can borrow clothes for a day. "With a thirty bronze deposit, in case they don't come back in the same condition."

In case they don't come back at all, Vander thinks. "I should come with you."

Silco rolls his eyes. It's not the first time Vander's suggested they should do this together and every time Silco says he'll draw less attention on his own. Someone Vander's size is going to be noticed in Piltover.

"I mean it," Vander says. "You've never even been over the bridge before. At least I've been in Piltover."

"As a child. Picking pockets while your mother worked," Silco replies, picking through the choice of shirts Babette spread over the table. "There is no way anyone looks at you and doesn't immediately know you're from the undercity."

"But you'll blend right in?" The worst thing is that Silco might blend in up there. He's always been a little too pretty, manners a little too fine, to fit in well in the mine.

"In the right clothes, hopefully." Silco holds up a black vest and a burgundy shirt to Babette, but she shakes her head. Silco picks up a pale green shirt instead, with an embroidered collar and fabric so thin you'd be able to count his ribs. "It would be a different story if Babette had any clothes that would fit you. You don't, do you?"

The yordle tilts her head, sizing Vander up shamelessly. "A pair of curtains, maybe."

"Cute," Vander says and Babette shrugs at him.

Silco strips off, and pulls on the too-thin shirt. "This isn't dangerous. It's not illegal to enquire about land ownership with a council office."

"And we all know enforcers have never arrested someone doing something that's technically legal." Vander crosses his arms, still unhappy. He watches Babette fetch a different vest, a rich blue, and a silver-grey long jacket to finish. The jacket is a little too tight on the waist, doesn't quite button up, but the overall look…

He looks like a topsider, wearing pale colours that would be smeared with soot by the end of the day. A shirt too thin to be practical, a jacket cut too close to be comfortable. He looks like someone else.

"Do up every button." Babette eyes Silco carefully. "You might need a tie."

Neither of them has any idea how to tie it, but Kane hustles Silco out of Babette's kitchen and makeshift office to sit him in front of a mirror. It takes a few demonstrations and a few practice runs, but Silco gets it eventually. Silco eyes his reflection, all sharp, pressed lines and soft colours. "What do you think?"

Kane laughs, her blond curls moving with the sound. "You look like a topsider wearing your best clothes. Try to look a bit more relaxed, like you wear this every day."

Silco looks at Vander in the mirror. "What do you think?"

"I think I'd feel better if I was coming with you," Vander says, and there's a flash of worry on Silco's face that suggests he might feel the same. It's gone quickly but it was there. "But I'm itching to punch you, so you look like a Piltie."

"How reassuring."

***

Vander does his best to hide his nerves, but he doesn't truly relax until Silco turns up at the mess hall, two hours before curfew. He's back in his own clothes: thick dark pants, dark cotton tops soft with wear, sturdy mining jacket. Seeing him is such a relief it makes Vander grin.

"Finally," Connol says, getting up and taking the spare seat next to Benzo, leaving Silco space to slide up against Vander. "He's been waiting for you all night."

"I was at Babette's." It's not a complete lie. There's dark liner along his lashes, a sure sign that Silco changed at Babette's on the way here. "Her workers had a few requests."

"If you get any more of that red lip stain," Felicia says, leaning across the table, "I want first dibs. I'm nearly out."

"Noted," Silco says, going so far as to pull out his notebook to actually write it down. He does keep records of requests and waiting lists.

Vander finishes his next drink and then makes their excuses. It's not that he doesn't trust his friends, but talking in a crowded hall isn't smart. They walk to the far side of the courtyard and then duck into the old mining tunnels, following their path back to their room. These days, Vander could walk that path in the dark.

"How did it go? Any trouble with the enforcers?"

"Turns out the enforcers don't bother you if they think you're one of them." Silco steps through the tunnel, sure-footed and certain, even with the lantern turned down low to preserve power. "It went better than expected. The land is abandoned, it was never sold. There's no access to the river or water, and no coal beneath it. It's considered worthless."

Just because Pilties won't pay for it, doesn't mean they'll give it away for free. "But it still has a price, right?"

"Administration fees to transfer ownership. A certificate fee to be able to prove it. I even had to pay for a copy of the forms to complete," Silco pauses, looking up at Vander as he holds the door open. He closes it behind Vander and locks it with a little metal latch Connol made. "Eighty-seven gold all up."

"So not impossible," Vander says, "but…"

"More than we have right now," Silco finishes. "There's a delivery of gas masks coming next week, that will get us close. But I'll have to check with the harbour master and see what ships are due before the end of the month."

Vander shrugs his jacket off and hangs it up. Everything they buy is based on trust and spoken agreements. They're not topsiders with legal contracts. If they don't have the funds to pay for each delivery, the next delivery won't come. They can withdraw more funds when the cash box comes next but they'll need enough funds to pay the next month's deliveries as well.

Silco holds out his jacket and Vander hangs it inside his own. They get undressed quietly, Silco lost in his own thoughts, as he undoes buttons and hangs clothes around the room. Turn the lantern down until it's a bare glow in a room of shadows.

"So it will take some time," Vander says, getting into bed. He holds the blankets up until Silco slides in beside him. "We didn't expect it would be easy."

Silco gets in, bare skin cool against Vander's side and feet this side of freezing. He curls up against Vander, head resting on Vander's arm. "Is it too much to ask that something could be easy?"

Vander presses a kiss to Silco's forehead. "Maybe this is the easy part."

"What?"

"You and me," Vander murmurs against his skin, wrapping an arm around Silco's lean chest. "Maybe that's the bit we get easy."

There's just enough light to see Silco's smile, the pleased glitter in his eyes. "Maybe."

***

[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 !!

[thursdayinspace]

Apparently writing smut during lunch breaks relaxes me. Interesting. Anyway. Let's pretend it's Christmas, Scully is visiting her family? And Mulder has been invited to come along but said no? And then he changes his mind?

He was invited for family Christmas but she knows he didn’t believe he was really wanted, and he’s still afraid of her brother. So it’s a surprise when the doorbell rings and she goes to open the door and sees him standing there.

“I missed you,” he says, and she jumps into his arms and kisses him and she doesn’t care who sees them.

She shows him up to their room and even though everyone is waiting downstairs, they end up making out on the bed. She’s just so glad he’s here with her. And he smells so good and he’s so solid underneath her as she stretches out on top of him. Even though it’s only been two days since they last saw each other, she missed him so much it hurt.

When his hands slide down her back and grab her ass, she rolls her hips against him and it feels so good she gasps into their kiss and does it again. She wants him so much she can’t stand it. They’re gonna have to go to bed early tonight. She’s already so wet for him. And the thought of him inside her, fucking her slowly while she tries to hold back her moans… it’s almost enough to push her over the edge right now.

God she’s so turned on she can’t stop. The pressure against her clit as she rocks her hips forward feels too good, and it doesn’t help that she can feel how hard he is for her. She needs to stop right now, but she doesn’t know how. She’s trembling with the effort to hold back.

He squeezes her ass and encourages her movements and she drops her head into the crook of his neck and breathes shakily against his skin. She’s so close, it would be so easy to give in and let herself come.

“Scully,” he whispers into her ear, his breath hot. “Come on. Let go.”

“I can’t,” she pants. “We shouldn’t.”

“For me,” he says, and she can’t deny him anything.

She grinds her hips down, rolls against him again and again, her inner muscles hungrily clenching around nothing. She feels hot all over. Her orgasm washes over her in spikes of pleasure so intense she has to muffle a cry against his shoulder as she rides it out.

She feels better than she has in days as her body starts to relax and she melts into him. He puts his arms around her and holds her close and she wishes they could just stay like this forever.

“What about you?” she asks.

“I’ll be okay.”

He’s still hard, she can feel it. “You can’t go downstairs like this.”

That draws a laugh out of him. “Just give me a minute.”

“I’ll give you something better,” she says, and slides down his body to pop open his jeans and pull him free.

“You don’t have to—” he starts, and then loses the powers of speech as she takes him into her mouth.

It doesn’t take long before he comes in hot spurts down her throat, barely making a sound. Having to keep quiet is its own kind of thrill, she decides.

They allow themselves another minute to simply drift in each other’s arms. Hopefully nobody will have missed them yet, but right now she honestly doesn’t care. She’s too happy to care.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Study Buddy 5

Warnings:this series will include dark elements which may include bullying, noncon or dubcon, or violent behaviour. Mind the warnings.

Summary: a group project leads to a tense partnership.

Character: Walter Marshall

Big thanks to those who read! Feedback always helps inspire and you know I’m always happy to chat about possibilities! Please reblog and comment ❤️

Despite feeling entirely out of place, you can’t resist the draw of sleep. Nestled on the couch beneath a blanket, a soft pillow under your head, you drift away from the tension rippling off your study buddy. Even in the next room, you sense the density in the air. 

You’re so tired, you hear yourself snoring from the depths of your unconscious. Your brain is sludge and your dreams are murky. You only wake up as you sense the murmur of voices. 

You open your eyes to the glare of the TV in the pale light of day. You rub your cheek as your vision clears. You blink at the screen as the teen drama plays out. 

“You snore louder than my dad,” Faye snorts. “Morning, sunshine.” 

You lurch up, almost top-turning from the suddenness of it all. You remember where you are in an instant. You knead your temple as you try to sort yourself out. 

“Um, good morning,” you croak through your dry throat. “How are you feeling?” 

“Better,” she grins, still in her pajamas as she drapes her legs over the armrest of the chair. “How about you?” 

“Urgh, tired,” you drop your hand as the blanket falls to your lap. “Sorry, I should go--” 

“Daaaad,” Faye hollers over you. 

You flinch and turn as you hear footsteps. As you glance over, Walter emerges in a bathroom. You can tell by the glimpse of his furry chest and the glisten in his curls that he just got out of the shower. 

“Your friend’s awake.” She chirps. 

He looks at you and his shoulders square. He really doesn’t like you. You can’t help but wonder why he insisted you stay. 

“It’s alright, I’m just about to head out,” you stand and fold the blanket and set it neatly on the cushion. “Thanks, again.” 

“You should at least have breakfast. Dad made waffles.” 

“Waffles? Oh,” you glance at him. “I wouldn’t want to... impose.” 

“No big deal, I saved some batter. Iron heats up in a snap,” he shrugs. 

You face him as you cross the room. You stop by the doorway into the entry, “it’s very nice of you but I’m okay. I really should try to catch a bus.” 

“Gimme a few and I’ll drive you.” He offers. 

“Really, it’s...” 

He’s already stalking away before you can finish your protest. You sigh and grimace at his back. He really doesn’t give you a chance to argue. With anything. Would it be easier to just have him look at the paper before you go and tell you everything that’s wrong? 

“My dad likes you,” Faye giggles. “He doesn’t like anyone.” 

“Um, I don’t think so,” you lean on the doorframe and stare at the TV, trying to make sense of the snarky conversation. 

“He does,” she insists. “I know, I’m the only other person he likes.” 

“Sure,” you tut. “Does it matter? I just need to get this project done.” 

“Don’t you think it’s funny? My dad taking a writing course? He doesn’t really seem like the creative type. More the bashing skulls type,” she cackles. 

“I don’t really know... him.” 

“What did you think when he showed up? I’d be pissing my pants,” she doesn’t look away from the TV as she speaks. 

“I don’t know, I thought someone named Walter would be skinnier... maybe have glasses and a pension?” 

She laughs even louder, “oof, don’t say that too loud.” 

You let yourself smile. She’s not a bad kid. If you were her age, you might be friends. 

“I’m just going to get my stuff together,” you say, “uh, Faye, it was nice to meet you.” 

“You too. Nice to have someone around to keep the wolf from coming out in the full moon,” she snipes. 

You snicker softly and leave her. The analogy isn’t far off. Walter does fit the type. He’s a bit furry after all. 

You check that everything’s in your bag and ben to put on your shoes. You pull on your jacket and Walter appears; he wears a black hoodie and dark jeans. He pulls on a jacket and leaves it undone before he grabs his boots. 

You zip up your coat and hook your bag on your shoulder, “thanks, again. You know, I have a bus pass.” 

He grumbles and you quiet. Don’t push your luck. Hopefully he only needs to revise a little and you can be done with all this. 

You flinch as he suddenly moves toward you. Your eyes round and you hit the door with your back. He tilts his head as he reaches past you for the handle. You look down and cringe. 

“Sorry, I wasn’t... paying attention.” 

He hums and you shift out of his way. He opens the door and lets you out first. You step into the sunshine, a deceptive beacon as your breath puffs out visibly. You cross your arms as he locks the door. 

He gestures you ahead of him to his truck. You go down the walk and to the driveway. You wait on the passenger side until the locks click. You open the door and climb in. He has a much easier time stepping into the high vehicle. 

He pulls his seatbelt down as you do the same. He turns the engine and lets it rumble as he turns the dials for the vent. He checks the mirrors and grips the wheel in one hand. He leans his elbow on the arm rest as he backs out. 

“You know,” he says as he rights the tires. “I got eye surgery so I don’t need the glasses anymore.” 

You squint at his remark. What? It takes a moment before you realise. Shoot. 

“It was a joke,” you say. “Obviously...” 

“No pension for another fifteen years at least and, well, helps to have a bit of bulk in my line of work.” 

Your cheeks burn in embarrassment. You really didn’t mean anything. 

“I’m sorry, I... yeah, I say stupid things.” 

He’s quiet as he steers. He sucks his teeth as he stops at a sign, “it was a good joke. Better than Faye’s werewolf schtick.” 

“Oh, uh, right,” you flick your thumb nervously. 

“You seem like the werewolf type. Know any good books?” He asks. 

“Werewolf type? Um, didn’t think I put out that vibe but... maybe Mongrels? I don’t read a lot about that stuff actually.” 

“Mongrels,” he nods. “I’ll check it out.” 

You’re almost flattered that he’d take your recommendation, less so that he thinks you’re a Twilight girlie. You stare through the windshield and take the victory for what it is. You don’t think you’ll be getting any more than that.