#so. when i wrote the original piece for this au.

[signanothername]

firstly: AAA YOUR ART AND COMICS AND STUFF ARE SO AMAZING!!!!

secondly: do you have any advice on how to come up with comics and then get them out of your head and onto paper?

BZHXHXHD THANK YOU SM!!!

And ooh that’s a good question

I usually come up with comics in one of two ways, either seeing something (whether another artwork, a text, something irl, etc) that inspires an idea for a comic, or via artworks I made that I expand on

Other times, it can actually be both

For example, the “A little life update” comic was actually inspired by this beautiful artwork, I saw it, and I immediately thought of Killer, idk something something about the despair of being stuck between a rock and a hard place etcetera etcetera (yes the comic that shows Killer to be in such a better place in life and show the hope he has, was inspired by crushing despair in actuality)

It made me wanna do something with Killer trying to call someone on a public phone, and so the first page came to be

Here’s the twist tho, I originally was gonna just make it into an artwork (yes, one single decision could’ve meant that comic wouldn’t have ever been made)

But a lil habit of mine is ask myself a shit ton of questions when it comes to my own artworks (it actually helps me turn what’s supposed to be artworks into comics), and that’s another way of how you can come up with comics, ask yourself questions, why is the character doing this? What are they doing? What if character did this? Etc

so I saw what was originally gonna be an artwork, and asked myself, who would Killer be calling if he ever did and why?

And the answer to those two questions that made sense to me most was Nightmare, but that led me to two more questions, when would Killer be calling Nightmare and for what?

And that led me to have a basic idea of how I wanted the comic to go

So it was basically like

Who would Killer be calling? Nightmare

Why would Killer be calling Nightmare if he ever did? That actually had different answers, to taunt him, to inform him of something, cause he misses Nightmare in his own fucked up way, etc

When would Killer be calling Nightmare? After he’s saved, or while still under him? After he’s saved makes more sense

What would Killer call Nightmare for? To give him an update about his life with Color

How would Killer be calling Nightmare? Through a public phone

Where would Killer be calling from? Somewhere in an AU in the surface

These six questions, what, why, when, who, where, how, are important to think of, they give you a basis to work on when it comes to comics in general

You don’t need to have a very clear answer to each of them to be able to work on a comic, but if you can at least answer 3 of them, that would give you enough information to work with in a comic

Now that I have a tiny bit of a clear idea about what I wanted to do (it doesn’t have to be perfect or completely concise) let’s talk about how you take these ideas out of your head and into paper

You can do that by imagining the dialogue in your head and then immediately putting it into paper, as I mentioned here, I actually struggle a lot with dialogue, art? No problem, I can easily imagine the art, but dialogue? It’s hell (please take the time to read the linked post, I talk in depth about how I handle dialogue)

That’s why you shouldn’t worry about perfection at this stage, just put every little piece of dialogue you imagine into paper, even if it feels like it makes no sense or is out of character, that’s something you can worry about later

Put in the dialogue, every little bit of it, and draw the panels that feels right for the dialogue

Here’s a little bit of example about what I mean when I say put the dialogue in then draw panels that make sense for it

This is a comic I plan on making, I actually drew that first panel as a stand alone artwork, then that inspired the dialogue, I wrote the dialogue down immediately, it’s a rough version of it, maybe I’ll keep it the same, maybe I’ll change it up as I work through the comic, but so far, I’m drawing the panels based on the dialogue so far, see what I mean by write the dialogue down? It helps IMMENSELY

It doesn’t have to be perfect and it certainly doesn’t have to be the final version, but writing it down will help you imagine the art that comes with it

Does that mean you can never start with the art then think of the dialogue? NO

You absolutely can start with the art for the comic first, in fact, sometimes, doing that actually helps you imagine the dialogue better, other times you can’t really think of a dialogue but have a very clear image in your head about certain character interactions, draw that it’s ok, silent comics focusing on character interaction, is a thing that you can do without worrying about dialogue

Now when it comes to the actual making of a comic, first tip is find your own footing when it comes to comic making

Like listen, people are gonna tell you that the correct thing to do is that you have to make thumbnails for the comic before you make the actual comic to make sure the flow is good and you have room for speech bubbles and what not

Here’s the thing, making thumbnails for your comic is a life saver, it’s great, if you can do that go for it! But for a person like me with little to no energy, I can’t do that without losing interest and immediately abandoning my comic, I can’t do that without becoming frustrated and hate art for it

That’s why I say find your footing, if making thumbnails before working on the actual pages works for you go for it! or you can immediately just work on the actual comic itself like I do, it’s all about what you’re comfortable with and what makes more sense to you

That being said, when it comes to the panels themselves, always aim for less panels and more pages than the other way around

Sometimes, emphasis on certain emotions or aspects of the comic can only be done with fewer panels

That’s why my own comics would sometimes have pages that are either one or two panels max

The less panels you have in a page, the more concise, clear, and easy to follow your comic is, one of the biggest mistakes I made as a beginner artist, is that I focused on cramping the story in as few pages as possible rather than focus on the clarity of the comic

Here’s an example

Good luck reading that dggxgdgdh

This is a very old comic I made back in 2018? 2019?, I wanted the comic to be one page so bad I cramped everything into it without thinking about the fact people are gonna have a very hard time reading it, like this easily could’ve been 3-5 pages but old me couldn’t imagine doing that many pages (if she could see me now with 15 pages comics dhhdhdg) not only that, but the panels’ arrangement makes 0 sense

So when you make your panels there are 2 things to keep in mind:

1- less panels and more pages = clear easy to follow comic, as well as a better emotional impact

2- panel arrangement has to make sense and should be easy to follow, you can make sure it’s easy to follow by reading your own comic over and over as you’re making it, if you find difficulty following the dialogue or art, then it’s best to refine, change or edit your panel or dialogue arrangement

Another thing to keep in mind when making the comic is the flow, the best way to go about making sure that the flow makes sense is by thinking of the comic as you would an animation, how did the character go from point A to point B?

For example this page

Killer clearly has a bit of a distance from Nightmare in the second panel, so how did Killer go from being at a distance (point A), to right in front of Nightmare in the last panel (point B)? That’s what the two panels in between the these two points are for, is to show you that 1- Nightmare is using his tentacle, and 2- that tentacle wrapped around Killer’s arm, the rest would easily be filled in by your brain that Nightmare basically pulled him closer

Now for the ending of a comic, not every comic has to have a clear ending where it marks the end of a story, but rather, you can go for whatever satisfies you as an ending, or keep an ending ambiguous or open, to expand on a comic later

I say that the perfect ending for a comic is what gets the point of a comic across, if the point is made, then it’s a good panel to end the comic with

Don’t be afraid to scarp any page or panels if they make the comic awkward or if they don’t make sense or if it seems out of character don’t hesitate to change, edit or completely delete it

An example is the “choice” comic, it actually originally was 4 pages, I just decided to scrap the last page cause of two reasons

1- it added nothing to the comic

2- it was out of character for Stage 2 Killer

My last advice is don’t force the process, sometimes, the best way to go about making comics is to make them on your own time and slowly, sometimes, you get stuck with certain things in the comic, other times, you need a bit to figure out how to proceed with the comic, completely normal in the process, that’s why it’s important to work on comics in a way that suits you, but you can’t find what suits you without trial and error, so go and test the waters, you can never learn until you practice it yourself

Good luck, hope this helps, lemme know if you need more clarification or help, i’d be happy to help where I can <333

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 15: i don't need you to help me, i can handle things myself

"I'm fine." + Suppressed Suffering

2335 Words; Raz Gets A Nap AU, based off of this ask answered by @erigold13261

AO3 ver

Mirtala shifted her grip on the portrait, trying to keep it from falling out of her hands.

She wobbled, a bit, as Queepie shuffled forwards—the heavy portrait was not working in her favor. And the straightjacket hanging off her shoulders wasn’t helping, either. It was long enough to cover Queepie’s face, and it was screwing with her balance just as bad as the portrait.

At least Queepie was the one holding the trophy. And at least they’d been able to close the jacket so that Queepie had enough of a gap to see through it. He shuffled forwards, Mirtala using every trick she had to hold her balance atop his head. Maybe she should be standing on her hands and holding the portrait with her legs?

“Greetings, Dr. Loboto.”

Well, too late to change positions now. Mirtala did her best to hold still as Crispin continued.

“Good to see your face.” Crispin drawled. Mirtala couldn’t see his through the portrait. “I see you’re wearing your favorite jacket, and if I may say so, your claw is looking especially menacing today.” It sounded like he fell for the disguise, though, and Queepie wasn’t making any moves to start running away.

“Up to the secret laboratory then, is it?” Crispin stepped to the side, coming into the edge of Mirtala’s view. She angled the portrait towards him as the sound of metal hinges grating sounded off in front of her. The elevator gate? Queepie shuffled over to it, careful not to ruin Mirtala’s balance as he spun around.

“Taking her up yourself this time, eh Doctor?” Crispin’s voice continued, and Mirtala did her best not to wobble. “Less work for me!” Mirtala heard the sound of the gate closing, then—

“Inmate Whytehead.” Oh, was that Fred? Fred was nice. Mirtala and Queepie got to play the board game in his head.

Whatever Crispin said in response was drowned out by the grind of the elevator going up, up, up, the sudden motion making Queepie stumble. Mirtala wobbled, the portrait threatening to drag her to the ground. She let it fall, not caring about the way it clattered. Crispin wasn’t here to see it, anyway—she didn’t need it anymore.

As the elevator came to a stop, Mirtala flung off the jacket. “Let’s go.” She urged, hopping off of Queepie as the gate opened.

Queepie followed after her. “It looks like a hospital.” He commented, as they crossed over the wooden bridge onto checkered tile.

“That’s because it is, dummy.” Mirtala replied as they continued through the twisting hall. Light floated down from a hole in the ceiling, the chunks big on the floor. Mirtala clambered up over them, Queepie jumping up with the help of a glowing brain ball. “It’s a…” She tried to find the exact words for it, and settled on, “hospital for brain stuff.” That wasn’t the word that she’d heard for it, but it was close enough.

“Yeah, well, it’s a sad hospital.” Queepie decided, using his brain ball to jump over a pile of mattresses. He came back over them after a moment, “It’s all dirty.”

“Because it hasn’t been cleaned, duh.” Mirtala skipped up the steps to the next floor, Queepie keeping pace. Ever since he went into Miss Milla’s head, he’d been hopping and gliding around on his brain ball like it was the coolest thing.

Mirtala wasn’t jealous. She wasn’t. So what if she wasn’t a weird fortune teller like Queepie (or Raz or Frazie)? She was an Aquato! She was a proud acrobat! She didn’t need silly mind tricks.

Mirtala nodded. Yeah. Even with his brain ball, she could easily keep up with Queepie. So really, he just needed the extra help.

They continued on, through poorly-lit halls that twisted around and around. They had to leap over a hole in the floor once, Mirtala grabbing onto a swinging light to get herself across while Queepie boosted his jump with his brain ball. He kept ducking into side rooms, searching for Psi-Cards as he went. Mirtala followed once she realized that the campers’ brains were similarly scattered around.

“It doesn’t squeak like a mouse…” She murmured, holding Benny’s brain. It also wasn’t who she was after—but it wouldn’t make sense for Lili’s brain to be left out in the open, Mirtala decided.

Something squeaked.

Mirtala and Queepie turned to the source of the noise. A rat stood before them, shaking in place. Its head was swollen in two shaking lobes, and it squeaked once more before bursting.

Mirtala wailed. Green gas pooled out from where the rat’s body remained, and Queepie ducked away. The world spun, everything swirling together as Mirtala shook—

And then the confusion faded away, and Mirtala had to run to catch up with Queepie. “Wait up!” She demanded.

Mirtala didn’t glance back at the rat as she continued. More rats came, and it wasn’t long before Queepie switched to shooting at them as they advanced, ducking in and out of rooms and over debris and old beds. A rusty wheelchair rolled past them, pushed by one of the rats exploding, its wheels squeaking and making Mirtala jump.

Queepie jumped higher, though, so at least Mirtala wasn’t the only one startled.

“I hate this place.” Mirtala muttered. She kept hearing weird sounds and squeaks, everything was dangerous and run-down, and the rats kept coming at them and exploding. It was awful. Absolutely awful. Mirtala wanted to find her friend and get out of here as soon as possible.

“Stop being a baby.” Queepie responded, already moving on. “We gotta find Lili.”

“I’m not a baby!” If anything, Queepie was a baby. Mirtala was a big girl! “This whole place is just awful!” It was poorly lit, the shadows crawling around the halls like icky sticky bugs, and Mirtala had seen no sign of her friends. Just more twisting halls going up and up and up.

Worse than the rats, and the broken floors and walls, worse than the dark and the fog—

It was quiet, outside of the rats. The only footsteps were their own, padding up and down the halls. Mirtala could hear her own breathing, hear every whimper when one of the rats startled her.

Which meant Queepie could hear it, too.

But Mirtala could also hear Queepie’s breathing, the way it sped up the further in they got. Mirtala wasn’t stupid—Queepie was just as scared as her. Her little brother was scared and the only thing Mirtala could offer was her own fear, the fear they shared as they climbed.

They went up another set of stairs. The floor was tilted, up here, off-kilter. Mirtala danced across it to the next door, ignoring the unease forming in her gut. Queepie clambered up onto the broken wall, the outside world spilling out before them.

“We’re so high.” Mirtala breathed, staring out at the night. A large part of her was thrilled—not even the trapeze in the Aquatodome could go this high! She could see across the lake from here!

But the reason they were up here clung to her like sweat, cold and slimy in the small of her back. Lili had been taken. Chloe had been taken.

Everyone had been taken, and Mister Sasha and Miss Milla were too busy doing something else to do anything about it. It was up to Mirtala and Queepie.

(Even though Mirtala had scarcely any idea what she was doing. She had to do it, because there was nobody else but Queepie.)

The next jump was too high for Mirtala to reach. Queepie stood on his brain ball, the light of it cutting through the gloom. “Get on.” He held out his hand, and Mirtala only frowned a little before taking it. She wasn’t jealous. Not one bit!

They jumped up together, the night air cold against them. The wind whistled through, and the tower as a whole groaned, like some giant monster waiting to swallow them both up—

Everything was getting more and more twisted. Mirtala wasn’t sure how it was all still standing, at this rate. The spiral staircase was twisted in on itself, the stairs sideways at the top.

Still, Mirtala and Queepie continued. They used an old bed to spring up to the next floor, walking along the wall—the whole hall was twisted onto its side.

“Grrk!” Something ahead of them squeaked. Something peeking down through a doorway in the ceiling-wall, long white curls hanging down below them.

Mirtala flipped forwards. But they were already gone.

She and Queepie continued, into a room so twisted that the floor curled up onto the walls, a pool of bubbling green in a hole in the floor at the bottom. They continued, up broken stairs and onto black and white checkered tiles, overlooking the outdoors once again.

The rest of the tower loomed before them, impossibly tall. A huge chunk of wall was missing, as was most of the floors, revealing an open space that seemed to just go up and up and up. But Mirtala was an acrobat! She and Queepie could handle this, no matter how high they had to climb!

(Even though Mirtala had never climbed this high before, even though this was nothing like the Aquatodome—

She’d make it. She had to.)

So they climbed, jumping up over broken concrete and swinging from bits of rebar. Mirtala ducked through a small window, and—

“Dogen!” Mirtala hugged the brain tight against her chest, “It’s good to see you again.” She’d get his brain back to him. She’d get all their brains back!

“C’mon!” Queepie urged, somewhere above her. Right.

Mirtala ducked back inside and clambered up a pole. She had to be careful—she couldn’t slow her fall like Queepie could. Knowing how to fall was all well and good, but it wouldn’t protect her completely. Not at these heights. Mirtala climbed up exposed rebar like it was a ladder, meeting Queepie at the top of it.

“I saw the thing again.” Queepie whispered. He pointed at a hole in the wall blocked by criss-crossing metal. “It was right there, and it was blue!”

So the thing they kept seeing was blue. Good to know.

Mirtala nodded, then started climbing. The metal went up, up, up, Mirtala and Queepie finally reaching the end of it and hopping off onto the concrete.

The tower still continued up, up, up, impossibly high. Mirtala wondered if she and Queepie would ever reach the top, or if they’d be climbing up it forever.

(The brains in her bag all seemed to pulse in tandem with Mirtala’s worry.

She’d get them all, and bring them back. She had to.)

The tower was quickly becoming near-unnavigable for her, the gaps too large for Mirtala to clear without the help of psychic powers. She was relying on Queepie more and more, and part of her grated at that fact.

(Family was supposed to help and support each other, though—Mirtala knew this.

But it felt like she was somehow inadequate all the same.)

The rats were coming in droves, now, their squeaking loud against the quiet of the night. Mirtala felt her throat tighten.

They made it up, and saw the thing again. “Scram!” They shouted, before disappearing up the hole in the room. Mirtala slapped the glass. “Wait!” But it was already gone. Was that Dr. Loboto?

She and Queepie continued on, clambering up whatever handholds were available. Mirtala grabbed Clem and Nils’ brains—she didn’t hug Nils’ brain as firmly as she hugged the others, opting to push it into her bag. Only four brains left to find—Vernon, Mikhail, Elton, and Lili.

Mirtala turned around—

The thing loomed before them, white curls spiraling above their head. They wore a bright red dress, and their voice squeaked as they spoke.

“This is your last warning! Go back down right now or you’ll be very very sorry!”

Mirtala flinched as lightning flashed through the sky. When the light cleared, the mysterious person was gone.

“Scary.” Queepie mumbled. His eyes flicked to Mirtala, “I mean—” He backtracked, “That wasn’t scary at all. Not at all. I’m not scared!” His voice echoed out into the night, his hands balled up into fists.

Mirtala side-eyed her brother. “Liar.” He was just as scared as her, and she didn’t need to be a fortune teller to tell. She could see it in the way his hands were trembling, in the way his shoulders were taught, his face scrunched into a stony frown.

(Mirtala was scared, too.

But she wasn’t going to say that aloud—not when it would only make the fear real.)

They clambered out onto the stairs that the mysterious person had been standing on, following them down towards another elevator. This was it.

“Big girls don’t cry.” Mirtala muttered. “It’s showtime, and big girls don’t cry.” Her eyes stung all the same.

Mirtala shook her head. She could do this! She was strong!

(She didn’t feel very strong at all.

But there was nobody else who could do this—not with all the campers brainless and the agents gone. It was just her and Queepie, and there was no way Mirtala was going to let Queepie do this alone.)

She was an Aquato. She ate danger for breakfast!

(She’d never been so high before. The wind tugged at her braids, at her clothes—would she be able to fall right, if she was knocked off?)

And Queepie had all those cool powers he’d picked up since coming here! They could do this!

(Queepie was a baby. He was strong, sure, but he wasn’t much taller than Mirtala.

And Mirtala wasn’t that much older than him, either.)

“I can do this.” Mirtala stressed. Her eyes stung, and her throat tightened, but she didn’t cry. She wouldn’t—big girls didn’t cry when the show started. She looked to Queepie, who stared back at her with wide eyes.

(Mirtala wasn’t crying. She was scared all the same.)

Her hand slipped into his. “On three?”

Queepie nodded, squeezing Mirtala’s hand. “On three.”

Right. Mirtala brushed her fears aside “One… two… three!”

As one, Mirtala and Queepie stepped onto the elevator. Show time.

[daddyplasmius]

hand on my stupid heart flashbacks

this is a No One Knows AU & Full Hazmat AU where Danny ended up in the Ghost Zone & didn't go back into the human world initially because he thought he was dead. by the time he realized he is, in fact, at least half alive, he'd already been missing for at least 2 weeks. will probs never finish homsh sorry. i wrote this a couple years ago in a haze & just haven't been able to finish it because i can't replicate the style, which i find is what i love about this fic the most. it wouldn't be the same without it. posting the flashback introsーwhich are meant to be read between chapters/the actual plot, starting after chapter 1ーcuz fuck it. excuse typos & shit, i never properly edited it, as i forgot it existed immediately after i wrote it original description of homsh: Danny Fenton has officially been missing for over a year. Maddie & Jack Fenton refuse to give up on their son. Sick and tired of the police running them in circles, and the case getting colder by the day, the Fentons turn to their last resortーPhantom. 800~ words (full unfinished fic is 20k~)

-

When Danny woke up surrounded by thick, green fog, and couldn’t breathe without swallowing heavy air that was more like water than anything, he was sure he was dead. The portal glowed behind him, illuminating the pitch darkness around him in soft, yellow, warm light.

He almost went back.

Almost.

He was dead. His parents were ghost hunters. They had drilled into his head from the moment he was born that he could never, ever panic in death. That he would accept it. That he would not be scared. So he would be prepared to be brave in the face of death and would not become a ghost.

He panicked. He did not accept it. He was terrified. And so he woke up in the Ghost Zone.

-

Danny went back through the portal when he saw some ectopuses acting… strange. Like they had an idea in their heads. Like they had a plan.

Which was weird, with animal ghosts. He had only been in the Ghost Zoneーmom and dad called it that, he rememberedーfor a couple weeks. Or, he had already been there for two weeks. Or maybe time worked differently and he was there five minutes, or four years orー

The ectopuses went through the portal and, despite everything, Danny went after them.

While he was busy reeling at being home, the ectopuses immediately attacked dad. Danny was horrified. Jack was overwhelmed. Danny stepped in, in a moment fueled by sheer adrenaline and stupidity, snatching a Fenton Thermos™ off a shelf and releasing his shaky invisibility. The ectopuses didn’t stand a chance. And when they were safely in the Thermos, he slowly turned around to dad, ready for the confrontation. Ready for the “what happened to you?” and the “where have you been?” and the “we’ve missed you”.

Dad scrambled to shoot at him.

Danny fled.

His parents didn’t recognize him.

-

The Lunch Lady attacked when Danny was mourning Halloween.

He’d waited all year. He made a costume that summer. He wouldn’t get to go trick or treating with Sam and Tucker this year. Or any year. For the rest of his lifeーor existence. Whatever.

The Lunch Lady appeared in the school and demanded in straight fury, “Who changed the menu?”

Everyone pointed at Sam.

Danny hadn’t known just how powerful ghosts could be. His parents never told him the specifics. Just that they were dangerous.

This ghost grew and her aura hit him like a hurricane, almost physically pushing him back. It was so strong that the students in the Casper High cafeteria seemed to feel it too.

The Lunch Lady was a much harder opponent than the ectopuses. She levitated meat. She used it as a weapon, and seemed to bring it back to life. She created weird meat creatures that grew sharp teeth and claws out of bones. They were mindless, attacking everything that got too close to the ghost. Danny would have run away without hesitation, if Sam hadn’t been in the crossfire.

Danny fought the Lunch Lady. It was a long struggle, but he caught her in the thermos after over an hour. When he turned to Sam and Tuckerーboth of whom he had to save due to Tucker trying to jump into the fightーall three of them bloody and bruised, he cringed. But a part of him hoped. Desperately.

Surely they would know him on sight.

“Wh-what are you?” Sam gasped at him finally.

Danny flinched as if she had struck him. “J-just… your friendly neighbourhood phantom.”

-

Danny didn’t know what possessed him. Oh. Pun not intended.

He just barely caught the Fentons leaving in the GAV, dragging suitcases behind them. He couldn’t help himself. What on Earth were they doing?

They were going to Vlad Master’s mansion for their college reunion.

It was a whole thing. But something was off. Besides all the adults reminiscing about the 80’s.

Danny sensed ghosts immediately but he couldn’t see anything. Unfortunately for him, Vlad could also sense him. It was two days of Danny staying invisible, and Vladーthe halfa? Is that what Danny is?ーtrying to kill Jack. Somehow, Danny managed to fight off Vlad, not turn back, and without the Fentons getting hurt. His secret intact.

VladーPlasmius, also learned about Phantom. And Vlad hated him. The manーghostーwhatever, seemed to only care about one thingーpossession. Of money. Of things. Of people. He was more ghost than Danny had ever seen. Vlad’s obsession was overwhelming.

Danny couldn’t believe someone so much like himself could be so disturbing.

[pennedbylisse]

INTELLECTUAL CRUSH

ep. 2 | ep. 3 | ep. 4 |

a multi-part series centered around the anonymous exchanges of namjoon and a literature girl. a separate but related installment of the halley universe (see Cupid Operation)

Books Nine Lives Company

Eco-friendly and sustainable trade of old books. Where we repurpose the neglected.

Namjoon pushes his weight into the swinging door and the store sign rattles.

A bell rings overhead - a jaunty, youthful chirp - as he enters the familiar bookstore to be encased in the scent of aged leather, the subtle-sweet vanilla essence of lignin wood-based parchment and the musty scent of carpet that has endured soiled shoes, coffee spills and bladder accidents from the part of the resident senior dog sleeping by the shop window.

He takes a practiced sharp left down a thin hall lined with mahogany-variation shelves, all crammed with books, without a single cubic inch to spare. The walls seem to encroach in on him, the further he disappears into the shop. Hardcovers and paperbacks - some surprisingly intact in condition, others faded, sun-bleached, tearing at the spines - spill from the shelves, pour into unstable, uneven stacks on either side of his legs.

Over the terrain of an old tapestry carpet, his worn logger-lace-up boots part a sliver of shuffling space.

His eyes dart over the labels meant to trim the seams of unrelated sections. During some point in the lifetime of the store, it proved effective. Now there's impractical irony to it. The books spill over their borders, congregate into uncategorized mounds, beg assortment and the inquisitive human graze.

Non-fiction, Poetry, Modern Poetry, Classical Philosophy . . .

"Kant...Kant...Kant," he recites beneath his breath, whilst drawing the tip of his forefinger over the lined spines. The ribbed feel of it in conjunct with the continued drum of his touch reminds him of sliding a hand across piano keys. An unattended grand piano on the courtyard of a local mall, the sound inflating beneath his hands, swirling up and around, diffusing through empty space and through an idle mind.

"Ka-" his finger halts, and shortly after, so do his steps.

He shuffles back to trace down the spine.

Namjoon saunters towards the front desk, skimming the dorsal face of the book cover with a furrowed brow.

There's a golden - well, once-golden, now-rusted coppery bronze - call bell that he would have once rang and been met with silence. He would have questioned ringing it once more at the risk of irritation.

Now, he only sets the book by the register and folds down to greet the senior dog curled into a ball over its dented, worn pillow. Grey, melanin-deprived hairs shade the corners of its snout, and highlight its brows, the tips of his billowing ear-lobes.

"How are you today, Apollo?" he whispers.

The dog lifts its head groggily to sniff Namjoon's outstretched palm. It scrunches and wrinkles its cracked nose and slightly parts the drooping lids of its eyes. Murky white clouds greet Namjoon.

"You make twenty the new twelve."

At the beep of the scan gun, Namjoon starts to rise.

The shop owner, Ruki, has a near-psychic ability to sense the presence of a customer within the maze of shelves. The call bell is for formalities, as is the dainty one hanging off the entrance frame. Uses them as fail-proofs while he disappears into the storage closet towards the rear of the store and pastes barcodes onto the covers of new arrivals.

Namjoon fishes a hand into the internal pocket of his winter coat for his wallet.

Ruki, behind the desk, mirrors the grey, melanin-deprived complexion of the dog, who once had been golden. The old man drums his knuckles on the wood counter and stares out the shop window contemplatively. It looks like it might snow today.

"Stray dogs," he voices, puckering wrinkled lips into a slight frown. "Invincible little creatures, aren't they? At this rate, I fear the damn dog will outlive me."

Namjoon thumbs the lined green bills nestled into his brown wallet.

"2.50's the sum, kid."

Namjoon folds the cash onto the counter and slides it into the man's wrinkled, patchy, outstretched hand.

"Everything alright, Ruki? With you, your family?"

"Yeah, I suppose." He shrugs. "Cancer's back." In a swift and practiced motion, he slips the receipt between the book pages like a bookmark. "I guess I can't be too upset with this fate. I only ever wished to live 'til 85. 84's not bad. Not bad at all." He slides the book face-up toward Namjoon, lets out a dry, humorless chuckle. It doesn't quite reach the point of crinkling the lines strewn around his eyes.

Namjoon grabs the book, taps it on the edge of the counter, as if gathering a deck of cards or a pack of printer paper. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be, kid," he slices right through the platitudes, having felt sorry for too long, having learned how much of a waste it is to live in regret and pity. "We all die at some point. It's nature. No use defying it."

"What about treatment? Technology, nowadays, is so advanced. I read a paper discussing the transplantation of a pig heart into a human recipient. Promising developments."

Ruki shakes his head markedly. "Can't go through that all over again. I won't spend whatever time's left - months, maybe a year, if I'm lucky - rotting because of chemo, not being able to tolerate my favorite foods, bleeding from my gums, in hospital rooms surrounded by people in the same death-bound state as me. I wanna be out here, where life is, all types of it. The pretty kind, sweet kind, the ugly, the morose, rude, and real kind. I wanna make memories with my daughter while there's still time."

Namjoon absent-mindedly frays the edges of the book with his thumb, liking the fluttering friction of the thin corners against the pads of his fingers. Tries to think of something better to say but realizes that sometimes silence holds more meaning. Ironically, his words fall short of any value, even amidst a bookstore overflowing with them.

Instead, he voices his unbridled curiosity. "What'll happen to Apollo?" He looks down at his left, at the dog. Very faint golden strikes up its flanks, transitioning into colorless white. "The store, too?"

"Ask myself that daily." He lifts his brows and lets them fall just as quickly, as if he's at a loss for a response himself. "I've been trying to persuade my daughter to assume my position. I even offered her the compromise of opening the shop only two days a week, so that she'll have the rest of the time to dedicate to her studies - wants to be a doctor, my little girl. I have no doubt she will be. Unfortunately, I likely won't be there to see it, to see her pledge her Hippocratic oath, get her white coat."

Namjoon sits at the bus stop, string earbuds in his ears, the book held splayed by the sturdy hold of his right hand over his crossed lap.

He draws the flame of his lighter to the cigarette balanced between his lips before slapping the case over the amber, extinguishing it swiftly.

Ashes descend onto his denim lap.

When the snow starts to glide through the sky, the grey nicotine ashes blend with the pale blanket by his feet. It is clean and fresh, yet untarnished by scruffy boots or bicycle tracks.

He'd read once, a statistic accusing nicotine as the leading cause of lung cancer. Quickly and half-mindedly brushed it off, like burdensome lint on a freshly-washed sweater. Plucked the doubts from his mind one by one before they could poison the rest of his thoughts.

It wasn't because he found it hard to believe. He was certain of its validity, the statistics were convincing, as was the logic, rather he didn't care. Cared more for taunting death a little, daring the universe to kill him the way he predicts. It's a little morbid but something deep inside him knows that life is rarely predictable or tamable.

He could do one action, and the opposite would unfold. It's not hypothetical. He'd tried to refute his hypothesis with trials; the amount of times it was supported soon became too burdensome to track.

Life isn't straight-forward. Good people get sick, die; the evil persist. The talented go unrecognized in the shadows, ghost writers; the connected thrive. It's all pointless to try and make since of any of it. It's all absurd, as Albert Camus would put it.

He tosses the butt of the cigarette to the ground as the bus pulls up, comes to a screeching halt before him, and squanders the faint amber with the sole of his boot pressed into the snow.

It fizzles a little through the worn-thin sole.

The bus shudders to a halt, and Namjoon shakes the slumber from his head, unfolds his lap, stuffs the book into his back pocket while he starts up, swaying clumsily, sleep-drugged. It was a routine practiced enough that he didn't need to count the stops, or read the street signs to know when to hop-off. There's some internal clock in his subconscious that starts ticking away at the minutes as soon as he climbs the steps up the bus before Nine Books.

The gates unfold and slide across the frame of the bus. It drives away with a long draw of its engine, and a squirt of inky smoke from its exhaust.

Replacing its sight, a vintage-style diner comes into view across the street.

Namjoon crosses the striped pedestrian markings towards it.

At the door, he tugs on the sign, hung around a snagged nail, twists it from displaying a scribbled "Closed. Come Again!" to a "Welcome!"

He strolls in, heavy boots echoing dully across the vacancy. Dispersing muddied snow on impact.

On the trajectory towards his quaint square office space towards the rear of the facility, he can't resist the nagging urge to flip the chairs resting on tabletops. He's got a chronic case of twitchy hands, likely a result of the incessant nicotine crave. Makes his mind race, his legs unsteady, unstill.

At first, he means only to flip one, and scratch the mental itch.

It persists.

After the second chair he starts circumferencing the table, figure eights in swift motion towards another table.

The chatter of the legs on tile is enough to fill the buzzing vacancy of his mind. Enough for his hands to clasp onto and anchor themselves.

But just as quickly, his focus starts to blur. Eyes skit over the distant counter in search of the next thing to occupy his time. His mind.

He's been down this road before. Has made it until noon stil in his winter coat, robust keychain clanking rhythmically against his belt clip. Goes hours without eating anything of substance. The gnawing of an empty stomach numbs before he circles back around to the first intention of the day: visiting his office.

"Office first," he reminds himself today. Inhales deep into his diaphragm and holds it lest it escape his dominion, like the rest of his thoughts and intentions.

He slips the jagged teeth of a golden key into the lock and twists the rusted knob. The door lets out a long groan as it swivels on tired hinges.

Nearing the disheveled surface of a wooden desk pressed against a wall, he plops down his latest read over an assortment of folded papers, receipts, stacked notebooks of moleskin and annotated promotional pamphlets. Try as he might to assign each item its designated square space, it never remains organized long enough. The universe tends towards entropy, he'd justify, it's just the law of nature.

Upon shrugging out of his winter coat, he drapes it over the backrest of his office chair.

His eyes habitually trail over a circular frame standing on the desk's edge. The textured frame accentuates a black-and-white image of his grandpa and grandma caught in a side-embrace, hands clasped over one another's at grandpa's breast.

Gingerly, his tremoring hands collect the frame. He draws his pointer finger over the smooth glass preserving the image, the single moment solidified in time.

He shakes his head clear of some dense sensation and places it back on its designated place, indicated by a square frame of gathered dust.

Shutting the creaking office door behind him, he fishes the carton of cigarettes from his back jean pocket. Plucks a single cylinder from its place and plants it between the groove where his ear adjoins his scalp.

He meanders into the vacant kitchen. Starts a pot of coffee. Nostrils flare as the acidic aroma starts to permeate the empty lot.

The brew drips and bubbles as he strolls to the dormant jukebox on the far end of the establishment. He bends down to plug its chord and starts up. Digs a spare coin out from his front pocket and slips it into the slit on the machine.

In response, it illuminates to life, flickers neon in a hypnotizing pattern.

Pressing a neon green button, he flips through the title slips. He's not registering any of them, though. Just lets his eyes become oversensitive by the mechanized motion of the slips. Defaults to inputting "1-2-4" on the selection panel.

Inside the glass, a wheel of two-hundred discs spins in search of the selection. It slows until it halts and a robotic arm upends a record disc from the rest, lays it out over a turntable.

In a synchronized choreography, as the record is laid over the turntable, a needle descends over its grooves and holds steady pressure.

The machine emanates a crackle that falls into a single voice: [The Song]

Namjoon shuts his eyes in that moment. Allows the familiar tune to send him back in time. An easier time, a more innocent one. Where his only worries consisted of finishing school assignments and coming home by the parent-designated curfew.

His grandparents would dance circles in the diner, hands clasped together, heads leaned to this very song. The customers would cheer, eyes sparkly. They'd submit petitions for the next songs by holding up a shimmery silver coin.

Namjoon would collect them, have them whisper the desired track into his ear. He'd skip back towards the illuminated machine and recite the corresponding track numbers until the current song would come to a cadence.

He sighs. Thinks, I should visit them while they are still there to visit.

It's not something he looks forward to, however. To come to terms with how much time has changed them. To accept that those fond moments are never coming back.

Circling around the kitchen, he procures a metal bowl from the cabinets. Tugs open a drawer and clasps a whisk, its metal cool to the touch.

Opening the fridge door, and bathed in its sterile light, he grabs a couple of eggs, skims the container counting the ones that remain. Provisions should arrive today.

While there, he grabs the tub of butter. Flings the door close with his boot and swivels to pour the ingredients over the counter space, next to the shimmering bowl.

He turns and leans over his head, grabs the flour and sugar from a high shelve. A bit of flour escapes a tiny hole on its bag and dusts his cheek.

Instinctually, he crinkles his eyes, coughs. Shakes his head.

As the batter inflates under the warm luminance of the oven, he grabs a broom propped against the wall inside a storage closet.

His boots clunk rhythmically over the tile floor when he makes his way towards the entrance. Props the door open with its embedded door stump. Starts to part a walkway through the compacted snow. Can't have customers slipping.

It's a cold day in January. The merciless kind of cold that can't be nullified by the festive spirit of the holidays. There's mutable wind changing directions immediately as it blows into him. Delivering the caress of winter and just as quickly withdrawing it.

The muscles of his back and shoulders tense in anticipation for the next gush of frigid wind. The hairs on his exposed forearms prickle.

He starts to envy the batter heating in the kitchen.

He thinks of burning the cigarette nestled over his ear. Imagines how the smoke would warm him up from the inside out. As though a steaming chimney lived inside him.

When he balances the cigarette between his chapped lips, he becomes aware of an approaching figure, strolling up the walkway. She's bundled in a coat, hunched in on her small figure. Raven black hair blowing in the wind.

Namjoon nods in her acknowledgement as he digs around his pocket for his lighter. It's clumsy and desperate and hurried, so the lighter slips his grasp on multiple occasions.

The incomer doesn't slow or detour.

"Morning, boss" the girl quips. Plucks the white cylinder from his lips.

He grimaces at the sensation that a part of his dry lips had been torn along with it. Cups his mouth to verify it isn't true.

"First time I actually get here before you light it."

"You owe me a pack."

"Yeah, well, you owe me the two years of extended lifetime I've gathered you."

"I don't think that's the actual math."

"I've saved you time. Can we just leave it at that."

Namjoon resumes brooming. Still cold. Still tense and prickled. Nicotine deprived.

She shrugs her shoulders out of the billowing coat to reveal at least three more layers of clothing beneath. Long sleeves tugged over her wrists to keep her fingers from tingling.

Norah's armored herself with a black apron, her name affixed to the collar with a pin. She pops out of the doorframe long enough to hand Namjoon a mug of steaming coffee, no sweetener, light milk, but not long enough to allow the wind to ripple a shiver through her.

Namjoon gratefully accepts. Holds the broom handle beneath his arm to allow himself to cup the mug with both hands and derive warmth from that. "Where's your partner in crime? Sleeping late, again?" He mumbles against the ceramic rim, steam billowing up his nostrils.

"En route," she responds over her shoulder. She rounds into the kitchen. Grabs the glass coffee pot and pours herself a black.

Namjoon chortles, accidentally inhaling a gulp of the hot drink. Dissolves into a coughing fit before he's finally composed enough to verbalize "From where? Mars?"

"Actually..." she sets down her drink on the counter. Loses her gaze out the front windows, ravaging her mind for recollection. "No. I think he mentioned it was from Saturn." She angles her head pensively. "Got caught in the current of those spinning rings or something like that."

Namjoon translates, "He's stuck in rush-hour traffic."

[thought of henry's place in addy larue while writing this so thank v.e. schawb for the imagery inspiration]

[calocreek]

OK here it is, a ton of 'production' stuff for the Hot Guy Comic Zine! I've never been part of a project like this. Even though I was working on my comic mostly solo (shout-out to my editor Violet!), the world-building and story arc planning was completely collaborative. For example:

We started out on the world-building by voting on character's superpowers! Plenty of powers were almost unanimously agreed on, but Cuteguy was a HUGE campaign. We were pretty much 50/50 split between can fly/can't fly. Propaganda was exchanged LOL, like this piece where I campaigned for limited flying capabilities 😂 And thats what we ended up settling on!

From there we worked on a ton of brainstorming/world-building that I mostly spectated with an occasional doodle like these haha. I'm new to such elaborate AUs!

Pitch time!! I had pitches for each era and they were all pretty light and banter-y, so my year 1 pitch ended up fitting the vibe the best. My original pitch was 'HG + CG learn some key things about each other and plan to set up a base they can use together.' But when I started my script, I got really caught up in how they were navigating a partnership without knowing each others identities. The more I wrote through that, the more I wanted my story to be ABOUT that! So thats where my script started coming together.

Designs! I'm definitely not a confident costume designer. I was trying to go for low-tech + practical since it was early in their careers, and of course, easy to draw 😂

Process went more or less like this! Full color comics take a LONG TIME but it was a total labor of love. I had the graffiti bgs in mind from the very start since I knew it was dialogue heavy, I wanted to make sure the art was interesting and worth spending time looking at. Oh lord did I get carried away. I'm OBSESSED with the symbolism the fandom has put to the life series and so I tried to sneak in as much meaningful symbolism as possible. AND THE RESULT:

Guess I did pretty well! 😂😂😂

Anyway, I can't overstate how proud I feel to have gotten to work on this project. My whole goal as a hobbyist is to get to work with other artists I look up to and respect so this was a dream come true! Thank you everyone for reading, for 15k downloads (!!!), and for just being an awesomely creative fandom space to make art in! I hope to do more stuff like this again some day 💕

[romugh]

SHE'S ON THE FLOOR ROLLING HER EYES AT ME- SJ

ROMUGH’S KINKTOBER

october 25th — stress relief, free use, friends with benefits

DAY SIXTEEN || kinktober masterlist || 2024.

pairing- scarlett johansson x fem!reader

cw- 18+!!; top!reader, bottom!scarly,

wc- 10 276 words

a/n- wrote this as i kept refreshing ticketswap in the hopes of scoring some last minute CAS tickets, and edited this for the past four days... i'm still not happy with it, but this is what you get! anyhow, got chase atlantic tickets for in april so i'm happy :ppp (recognise the title = smooch!)

synopsis- scarly + needy + strappy? = baby?? if only lol

taglist?- @lost-mortemanghel ♥︎, @idkwhatever580, @elliecoochieeater, @left-and-right-up-and-down, @deadlesbianwitches, @lizziewitchy ❀, @simpforlizzie, @riyaexee - comment or dm to be added :)

DISCLAIMER- i don’t believe any of what i write about real celebrities is or would be real, neither do i ever want to shove it down said celebrities faces. in fact, i'd rather they never see these kind of fics.

these fics ARE AU original pieces of fiction using actors as a general basis/face claim, so no need to spam my dm's saying 'writing rpf is wrong' :)

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the bedroom as you lay there, awake, with Scarlett nestled against you. Her body was draped over yours, one hand possessively holding your breast while the other gripped your shoulder tightly, as if she could anchor herself to you even in sleep. The gentle weight of her head resting on your chest brought a sense of tranquillity that contrasted with the restless nights she’d had lately, filled with endless to-do lists and the persistent hum of stress. Now, though, she seemed at peace—almost.

You felt the subtle movements of her body, the way her hips shifted and rocked in slow, rhythmic circles against your pelvis and abdomen. Even in sleep, Scarlett sought comfort, pressing her heat into you as if trying to chase away the tension that had become a constant companion. Soft breaths escaped her parted lips, each exhale slightly ragged as it caught on a moan, the sound barely audible but unmistakably there. Her brows drew together faintly, and her fingers tightened against your skin, clutching as though seeking reassurance, her subconscious yearning for the comfort only you could give.

You didn’t dare to wake her. She had been so tired, her exhaustion carved into the hollows beneath her eyes and etched across the lines of her face. It wasn’t just physical fatigue; it was something deeper, more draining—a kind of weariness that came from giving too much of herself to the demands of work and the expectations of others. She was juggling too many roles, always on the go, always striving to meet impossibly high standards. You had seen her push through days where every smile was a mask, her energy stretched thin, yet she still found ways to keep moving forward, never quite allowing herself the luxury of simply stopping.

Watching her now, you saw hints of the toll it had taken. The slight tremor in her exhale, the restless way her body sought friction, and the quiet whimper that escaped her throat—it all spoke of needs that had been left unattended, desires she had pushed aside because there simply wasn’t enough time or space for them. But here, in the stillness of your shared bed, her defences were down, and her body’s quiet pleading told you what she couldn’t say aloud: she needed release, a moment of surrender to let go of everything that had built up inside her.

As her hips continued their slow, unconscious grind against you, a sense of protectiveness welled up in your chest. You wanted to give her what she needed, to be the balm that soothed her stress away. There had been moments over the past week when her frustration seeped through in small, uncharacteristic snaps—brief flashes of irritability that hinted at just how much she was holding in. The way her voice would rise slightly when she answered the phone, or the way her replies grew shorter and more clipped as the day wore on.

You thought back to last night, when she had come home late again, her shoulders slumped and her gaze distant. When you had greeted her with a warm hug, she had melted into you, but her embrace had been tight, almost desperate, as though she was trying to ground herself in the solidity of your presence. There had been a tension there, an unspoken plea that came out in the way she clung to you a little longer than usual before letting go. Her laugh, when you managed to draw one out of her, had been tinged with a weariness that spoke of more than just a long day—it was the kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could cure.

Now, as she shifted restlessly against you, you could see all the signs, her stress manifesting in the unconscious roll of her hips and the quiet moans that slipped past her lips. She was craving not only the release of tension but the comfort of surrendering control, of letting someone else take the reins so she could simply be. 

With gentle fingers, you brushed a few strands of hair away from her face, watching the faint crease between her brows smooth out at your touch. The small sigh that followed seemed to echo through the quiet room, a sound that stirred something deep within you—something protective and possessive. You wanted to take care of her, to give her a space where she could let go completely. And perhaps that was what had driven your decision to surprise her later, to bring not only her favourite lunch but something extra, something that could offer the kind of comfort and release she so clearly needed.

You knew that later today, when you showed up at her office with the surprise lunch in hand, there would be a moment of recognition in her eyes—a quiet understanding of what you were offering her, not just a meal but an escape. And if she needed more than just a break from her day, if she needed to be taken to that place where she could let go completely, then you would be ready to give it to her. For now, though, you would let her sleep, cradled in your arms, her breath hot against your skin as her body continued to move in that slow, seeking rhythm.

Slowly, you reached for your phone on the nightstand, careful not to disturb her as she slept. A quick glance at the time told you it was nearly seven. Scarlett would need to get up soon, another busy day at the Outset office awaiting her. You considered waking her gently, but as her fingers tightened on your breast, you decided to let her rest just a little longer. She needed every bit of sleep she could get.

The day moved quickly after that. Scarlett had woken with a groggy smile, briefly leaning up to kiss you good morning before hurrying off to get ready. There was a hint of frustration in her movements as she pulled on a dress and hurriedly applied her infamous “three-step routine” in the bathroom mirror. It was subtle, but you could tell—she was rushing to keep up with the day before it had even begun.

When you made your way to the kitchen to prepare her coffee, you heard her phone buzzing incessantly on the countertop. It seemed as though even before she stepped into the office, work was pulling her away. She grumbled under her breath when she picked up the phone, irritation flashing in her eyes as she scanned through the endless messages and emails. You didn’t comment on it, only offering a reassuring squeeze of her hand as she passed by, but you felt the weight of her stress growing heavier by the minute.

Later that morning, as you packed the Thai dishes you’d just made—Scarlett’s favourites, the comforting aromas already filling the kitchen—you glanced at the clock. Time was running out, but the idea of surprising her made you move with purpose. 

You slipped them into a small cooler bag, and you couldn’t help but picture the look of pleasant surprise on Scarlett’s face when you walked into her office. She’d appreciate the gesture, you were sure of it. But you knew there was something else she needed, something she wouldn’t say out loud, and you wanted to be prepared for that, too.

With that thought, you made your way over to your shared wardrobe. Sliding open the wooden door, you rummaged through the lower shelf, past neatly folded stacks of Scarlett's favourite Black Widow pillowcase and spare blankets, until your hand found the strap stored in its leather case. You unzipped the case and pulled out the deep black silicone toy, its length heavy and textured with faint ridges. It wasn’t built for delicate moments like teasing or taking in one’s mouth; it was for pushing boundaries, for reaching places that nothing else could. Its girth was substantial—wide enough to fill completely without room for doubt, designed to stretch with every thrust.

You ran your fingers along the smooth, cool surface before setting it aside to grab the harness. The straps of the harness were made of black leather, worn soft over time from use and care, with an O-ring securely fitted in the centre to hold the base of the strap in place. It took a few moments to adjust the straps around your hips and thighs, tightening each buckle to ensure the harness fit snugly. Once you were satisfied with the fit, you slipped the strap into place, its weight settling low between your legs as you clicked it firmly into the O-ring.

Before pulling your pants back on to leave, you reached for one of Scarlett’s belts—a black leather strip with a gleaming buckle in the shape of a heart, adorned with the red emblem of a black widow spider nestled in the middle. The buckle’s metal was darkened slightly from wear, the edges smooth to the touch. Looping the belt through the harness straps, you cinched it tight around your waist to keep the strap hidden firmly in place.

You took a moment to adjust the angle of the strap and the harness, pulling your trousers over everything until the toy was concealed against your body, its outline invisible beneath the fabric unless one knew exactly where to look. If Scarlett didn’t want anything more than a warm embrace, you could keep the strap hidden. But if she did—if she gave you that look, the one that said she needed you to take charge—then you’d be ready. Either way, you were prepared to give her what she needed, whether that was a moment of emotional comfort or the kind of release only you could provide.

You took one last glance at yourself in the mirror before grabbing the cooler bag and heading out the door.

You stepped outside, bag in hand, as the crisp late-morning air greeted you. The cool breeze brushed against your cheeks, a contrast to the warmth of the sun breaking through the clouds above. With a sense of determination, you slid into the driver’s seat of your car, the leather interior cool against your back. You placed the bag carefully in the passenger seat and buckled up, a flutter of anticipation running through you as you started the engine.

The drive to the Outset office wasn’t a long one, but the anticipation made it feel like the minutes stretched on. The city was alive with its usual buzz—cars whizzing by, pedestrians rushing to their destinations, the distant hum of conversation in the streets. As you navigated the familiar route, your mind wandered back to Scarlett, imagining her sitting at her desk, probably typing furiously on her laptop or going over product launch strategies. You knew her well enough to guess that she was immersed in a whirlwind of tasks, the weight of responsibilities bearing down on her.

With each stoplight you passed, you could feel a rising excitement in your chest—a mix of eagerness to see her and the hope that you could lighten her burden, even just for a little while. You tightened your grip on the steering wheel as you thought of her reaction when she realised that you hadn't actually forgotten to pack her lunch. The idea of catching her off-guard, of seeing that flicker of relief in her eyes, was almost as satisfying as the thought of finally getting your arms back around her.

Turning onto the street that led to the Outset office, the sleek, modern building came into view. Its glass façade reflected the blue sky, towering high above the bustling city below. You pulled into the underground parking garage, your car’s tires humming softly on the polished concrete. Finding a space close to the elevator, you parked and grabbed the cooler bag from the passenger seat, taking a moment to steady your breath. The coolness of the bag’s handle against your palm anchored you as you stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for Scarlett’s floor.

As the elevator ascended, a faint hum reverberated beneath your feet, and you glanced at your reflection in the polished metal doors. The smooth surface captured the outline of your figure—a blend of strength and softness. Your broad shoulders filled the frame, the muscles sculpted from years of dedication and routine, yet there was a distinct femininity in the curve of your waist and the subtle swell of your hips. The light fabric of your shirt stretched slightly across your chest, hinting at the toned definition beneath while still showcasing your natural shape.

The faint glint of the heart-shaped buckle peeked through, just barely visible under the hem of your shirt. The black widow emblem in the centre was a playful nod to Scarlett's iconic role, a small but powerful symbol of your connection, one that spoke of shared secrets and mutual interests. The way the belt cinched at your waist, securing the strap snugly against you, made you feel empowered, ready for whatever the moment would bring.

You allowed yourself a small, satisfied smile, the reflection staring back at you with a quiet confidence that came not just from physical strength but from the knowledge of what awaited on the other side of the elevator doors. As the chime announced your arrival on Scarlett’s floor, you took a deep breath and straightened your posture, the movement of your muscles rippling subtly beneath your shirt.

Stepping out into the office, you let the brisk, cool air of the space brush over you. The Outset headquarters was its usual bustle of productivity, a place where sleek modernity met the frantic energy of constant motion. It was an environment Scarlett thrived in, even when the pressure was relentless. Her office came into view, the glass walls giving a clear sightline to her slender figure moving restlessly inside, one hand pressing a phone to her ear while the other gestured animatedly.

You walked with purpose, your frame cutting a path through the hallway as you approached her office. The slight click of your shoes on the floor echoed softly in the open space. The moment you reached her door, you paused, catching sight of Scarlett’s tense figure through the glass. She was pacing, her brows knit together in that familiar way she did when she was overwhelmed, the muscles in her jaw flexing as she spoke into the phone.

You noticed the fatigue etched into Scarlett’s face as soon as you walked through the door. Her eyes were slightly red from exhaustion, and the lines of tension around her mouth made it clear that she was on edge. The moment she spotted you, a flicker of relief flashed across her features, quickly replaced by a kind of resignation as she let out a deep breath.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she said, her voice strained and weary. “It’s been one thing after another all morning. Deadlines keep getting pushed up, and I’ve got interns running around like headless chickens. Nobody seems to know what they’re doing, and—” Her voice trembled as it rose in frustration. “I just…I don’t have the time or the patience to keep dealing with every little crisis. I swear, it’s like no one can make a decision without asking me first.”

Her words came out in a rush, each one clipped and hurried as if she could barely keep up with her own thoughts. She ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back from her forehead, and you could see the strain in the way her shoulders hunched slightly, the weight of all the things she was juggling pressing down on her.

You stepped closer, catching her eye as you listened without interrupting, letting her vent. She continued, her frustration spilling over into a few harsher words about some pressing deadlines and missed calls from her acting manager. The mounting stress was evident in her quick, shallow breaths, her gaze darting restlessly between you and the paperwork scattered across her desk.

“It’s just been…too much,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “I haven’t had a second to breathe.”

You moved with quiet purpose, closing the gap between you and Scarlett. Your hands found her waist gently, your touch firm but reassuring. “I know,” you said softly. “You’re doing everything you can.”

She flinched slightly at the contact, a reflexive reaction to the stress rather than anything else, but then her body seemed to recognize the comfort you offered. You guided her back toward her chair, steering her with gentle pressure from your hands, easing her away from the tense stance she’d held moments before. Scarlett's protests died down as you led her to the chair and then took a seat yourself, pulling her down onto your lap.

Scarlett's body sank into yours with a quiet exhale, her initial rigidity slowly giving way as she leaned into your chest. She brought her knees up onto the chair on either side of you, settling into the embrace as if finally allowing herself a few seconds of rest. You wrapped your arms around her waist, holding her close, the warmth of your body providing a buffer against the coldness of her stress.

“Just take a moment,” you murmured against her temple, your voice steady and calm. “You’ve been carrying so much.”

Scarlett rested her head on your shoulder, her breath coming out in a shuddering sigh. “Feels like there’s never enough time,” she admitted, her voice sounding small and fragile in a way that twisted something inside you. Her fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, as though clinging to the security of having you there.

You ran a hand through her hair, letting your fingers glide soothingly over her scalp, down to the nape of her neck, where you massaged in slow, steady circles. “There’s always time to take a break,” you assured her. “Even if it’s just for a few minutes.”

Her shoulders sank further, and you could feel the weight begin to lift ever so slightly. The quiet, intimate space you’d carved out in the chaos of her day wasn’t just about distraction or indulgence; it was about giving her permission to let go, to feel cared for in a way that went beyond the demands of her hectic world.

You brushed your fingers through Scarlett's hair, gently separating the strands as she curled closer against you. Her breathing had steadied, the tension in her muscles melting away little by little. The familiar comfort of her weight on your lap felt grounding as you began to braid her hair. Each twist and fold of the strands was a rhythmic motion, a quiet act of care that seemed to ease the lingering anxiety from her frame. Scarlett nestled into your chest, her head tucked beneath your chin, the warmth of her body melding with yours.

She was still exhausted, too worn out to notice anything beyond the calming sensation of your hands weaving through her hair. The strap beneath your clothes remained hidden, out of her mind and out of sight. You worked slowly, not wanting to rush the moment, letting Scarlett sink into the quiet reprieve, her fingers resting lightly on your biceps as you braided with steady precision.

The sound of the office door swinging open shattered the stillness. Jasmine, one of the newer interns, stood hesitantly in the doorway, a stack of folders clutched in her hands. “Um, Ms. Johansson, I just need you to—”

Scarlett's head snapped up, a frustrated sigh slipping out before she could hold it back. “Jasmine, this isn’t the time,” she cut in sharply, her voice carrying a bite that was usually softened by her usual patience. “I’ve told you a hundred times, if it’s not urgent, then leave it on the desk downstairs. I don’t have the bandwidth to handle everything right now. And please, call me Scarlett, I’ve told you already.”

The young intern stiffened at the reprimand, mumbling a hasty apology before backing out of the room. As the door clicked shut behind her, Scarlett slumped against you again, letting out a weary breath. “These interns are morons,” she mumbled, her tone softening with a reluctant fondness. “But I still love them.”

A chuckle rumbled in your chest at her words, the familiar warmth of your amusement bringing a slight smile to Scarlett’s lips. You could feel her body relax a little more, giving in to the comforting weight of your arms around her.

“Do you feel like eating?” you asked gently, stroking a hand down her back in soothing circles. Before Scarlett could answer, her stomach gave a loud, unmistakable growl that filled the quiet of the room. Scarlett let out a small, tired laugh, her head tilting back against your shoulder. “You didn’t pack my lunch or snacks or even make breakfast,” she mumbled in a small, almost whiny voice, her cheeks flushing with the faintest hint of embarrassment. “But I still love you… I’m just… hungry.”

You couldn’t help but coo softly, tightening your arms around her as you cradled her closer, allowing her to sink deeper into the embrace. You gently brushed a thumb across her cheek, taking in the weary lines beneath her eyes and the slight tremble in her voice. It wasn’t just hunger. It was a need that ran deeper, a desire for someone to take over for a little while, to let her stop carrying the weight of everything around her. Scarlett wasn’t asking for anything physical; she was reaching for reassurance, for the kind of care that allowed her to let go without the burden of being in control.

As you held her, you could feel her need to be taken care of, not in a sexual way, but in a way that reminded her she didn’t always have to be the strong one. There were times when she could lean on you completely and let you guide her through the chaos. You recognized that this was one of those times, and you wanted to show her that she could let go and be vulnerable without fear of judgement.

Before you could continue coaxing Scarlett into taking a break, the door creaked open again, this time revealing Kate. She took one look at the two of you, immediately picking up on the subtle shift in Scarlett’s posture and the protective way you held her. “Hey, I just wanted to check in—”

Scarlett didn’t respond, her eyes fluttering shut as she nestled back into the crook of your neck, ignoring the intrusion completely. Without a word, you lifted a hand, signing to Kate to give you both a little time. She gave a knowing smile, the kind that carried sympathy and understanding in equal measure, mouthing, ‘take care of her.’

You nodded appreciatively, watching as Kate quietly exited the office, pulling the door shut behind her. With a reassuring smile, you reached over and pressed the button that made the walls go from transparent to an opaque blackish tint, effectively sealing the room from prying eyes and granting Scarlett the privacy she so desperately needed.

Now cocooned in the peaceful dimness of the room, Scarlett seemed to relax even further, her breathing evening out as she sank completely into you. The weight of her exhaustion was palpable, and as you held her, you felt the silent gratitude in the way she clung to you, allowing herself, just for a moment, to be taken care of.

As began to feed Scarlett, it became increasingly clear just how much she was depending on you to guide her through every motion. She didn’t even lift her hand to help, allowing you to bring each bite to her lips and waiting passively for the next, her eyelids fluttering lazily shut between each mouthful. Her body moulded against yours, completely relaxed as if she’d given up any pretence of staying in control. You held her securely, making sure each bite was small and manageable, soothing her with your touch as you rubbed slow, steady circles against her thigh.

Scarlett’s breathing grew deeper and steadier as lunch went on, her tension melting away with every gentle caress and each soft word of encouragement you whispered. It was as though she were slowly being untangled, one knot at a time, her exhaustion finally seeping through and sapping what little energy she had left. The last few bites came and went, and when the food was finished, Scarlett rested her head against your shoulder, her arms draped loosely around you.

You set the chopsticks aside and adjusted her in your lap, wrapping her up in your embrace. Scarlett nestled deeper into you, her cheek pressed against your clothed collarbone, and you felt the weight of her beginning to sag. Her breathing became slow and even, and before long, her head lolled slightly as she slipped into a light sleep. You stroked her hair gently, the rhythmic motion comforting for both of you. As you watched her drift off, you couldn't help but notice the signs that had been appearing over the last few days—little hints that Scarlett was edging toward a kind of subspace, almost involuntarily.

It wasn’t the typical kind of subspace brought on by intimacy or desire; this was different, driven by sheer exhaustion and the need to relinquish the burden of control. The signs had been building, subtle at first—a slightly glazed look in her eyes when you’d run your fingers through her hair after a long day, the way her body would lean into you whenever you touched her, how her breathing would hitch when you whispered reassurances that she didn’t have to worry about anything for a while.

Flashbacks surfaced as you continued to soothe her, recalling the moments from the past few days that had hinted at her state. There had been an evening where she’d come home unusually late, her voice thin and frayed as she’d told you about all the missed deadlines and last-minute changes at work. You’d taken her coat off for her, helped her undress, and she’d stood there, motionless, as if she couldn’t muster the will to do anything but let you handle it. She’d sighed so deeply when you’d wrapped a blanket around her, her shoulders finally slumping with relief.

And then there was the morning she’d snapped at you about the coffee grounds being spilled on the counter before having rushed out the door. Frustration had flashed across her features before her expression had crumpled into a look of apology. She’d slumped against you right after, her forehead pressed against your chest as she whispered a string of soft “I’m sorry”s, letting you comfort her without any resistance. It was as if her need to be taken care of had become so great that she couldn't help but fall into it, the strain of trying to keep everything together becoming too much for her to bear alone.

Now, as Scarlett lay slumped in your lap, her breathing deep and even, you recognized the same look on her face—the softness around her eyes, the slight parting of her lips as she gave in to the comfort of your embrace. She was surrendering completely, leaning into the safety you provided and allowing herself to rest. It wasn’t a conscious choice; it was simply what she needed—someone to take over, to give her the space to let go of everything that had been weighing on her.

You continued to stroke her now braided hair, your fingers moving with a slow, reassuring rhythm, as you watched over her.

As Scarlett nestled further into your lap, her body began to shift again, the familiar rhythm of her movements returning. Her hips rolled slowly against you, just as they had that morning, with a gradual, seeking motion that brushed against your pelvis. Your hands moved to stroke her back, your touch soft and comforting, as if you were simply soothing her back into sleep. But as the moments passed, her breath began to catch, the quiet exhalations becoming small, needy whines that told you everything she couldn’t articulate. They were faint, almost imperceptible, yet heavy with meaning, spilling out with every unconscious shift of her hips.

She ground down in one particular motion, her breath catching sharply as if that angle had jolted her back to consciousness. Her eyes flew open, wide and glazed, but not quite seeing—her gaze locked on you, pupils blown, lips parted in a silent plea. You smiled gently, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, one that had slipped loose from the braid you’d woven half an hour earlier. Your hand lingered against her cheek, the tender touch grounding her as she trembled in your arms.

You didn’t move beyond that, didn’t try to push her one way or the other. You simply watched her, letting her find her own pace. Her grinding became more insistent, her hips rocking down harder, and her eyes searched yours with a quiet desperation. Her breath hitched again, the whine that escaped her lips now unmistakably filled with need. It was as though she was asking without words, leaning into you with all the yearning and exhaustion she had kept bottled up.

You ran your thumb along her cheek, brushing over the warmth of her flushed skin as you whispered softly, “You have to be quiet, Scarlett. We’re still in your office.” Your voice was steady, calm, as though coaxing her back to the reality of the room around you.

But Scarlett shook her head, her hair falling loose from the braid, the motion sending a shiver through her frame. She looked up at you with glassy eyes, her voice barely above a murmur, slurred with fatigue and longing, “Please just– make me feel good. Please, need it, need you.” The vulnerable pleas spilled from her lips, her tone so small and fragile, laden with all the need she’d been holding back.

You nodded slowly, your voice a calming murmur as you traced the curve of Scarlett's spine with your fingertips. "Okay, sweetheart," you whispered, “but only if you keep working. I’ll be right here with you…I’m not going anywhere.” Your reassurance seemed to steady her, a small spark of relief lighting up her eyes. She looked back at you, her lips trembling with need, before nodding faintly, as if agreeing to the terms in the only way she could.

Her hands moved to your waist, fumbling as she pushed your shirt and sweater up and struggled to free the strap from beneath the belt. Her fingers were clumsy with anticipation, each tug growing more frantic as she wrestled with the buckle. The blush that crept across her cheeks deepened into a rosy hue when she realised it was her favourite belt—the heart-shaped buckle with the Black Widow symbol a familiar sight. She hesitated for a breath, her eyes widening when it dawned on her just what you’d brought along.

Scarlett’s breath stuttered as the realisation sank in further, her skin flushing all the way down her neck. It was her favourite strap, the one she’d always gravitated toward when she wanted to feel utterly full and stretched to her limit. It wasn’t exactly discreet—meant for deep, satisfying penetration rather than anything subtle. Yet, here you were, prepared to have her on your lap while she tried to continue with her work, the mere thought making her heart pound in her chest.

She shifted on your lap, her dress sliding up as she positioned herself just right. The hem bunched up around her waist, enough to hide most of the intimate act from any wandering eyes. Her breath hitched sharply as she eased herself down, feeling the initial resistance before the strap slid deeper inside her, stretching her with a slow and deliberate pressure. Her moan came out as a half-stifled whine, the needy sound echoing in the small space of the office as she sank all the way down onto your lap. The fullness made her tremble, her thighs pressing into yours as she tried to get used to the sensation.

You shrugged off your sweater, knowing that technically, anyone could just walk in the room. The office was surprisingly cold, and you didn’t want to risk her becoming uncomfortable, so as an extra measure, you reached over Scarlett’s head and pulled the oversized hoodie down over her frame, adjusting it until it covered her almost completely, draping over her like a protective shield. Now, if anyone did happen to walk in, they’d see nothing but a cosy moment—Scarlett resting in your lap, wrapped in an oversized hoodie, looking every bit like she was simply leaning on you for comfort as she typed away on her laptop.

Her hands settled against the desk to steady herself, and you continued to caress her back over the fabric of her dress, letting her adjust at her own pace. There was a softness to your touch, a reassurance in the slow, steady movements that told her she didn’t need to rush.

As Scarlett nestled deeper into your lap, you could feel her surrendering to the moment, inching closer and closer to that delicate line of subspace where she felt safe, cherished, and utterly at peace. The way her breath began to deepen, slow and steady, was like music to your ears. It was a sure sign that she was slipping further into that blissful state of submission, her fingers moving sluggishly over her keyboard as if every keystroke required more effort than usual.

The trust she placed in you was palpable, and it made your heart swell. You watched as she leaned back against you, her body curving against yours, her entire demeanour softening with every gentle caress. It was almost intoxicating to see her give in so completely, the tension of the past weeks melting away as she became pliable in your arms.

To draw her even deeper into that trance, you began to tease her with soft commands and subtle touches, each action deliberately crafted to heighten her anticipation. “Keep working for me, babe,” you murmured, your voice low and soothing. Your fingers trailed along her back, sending shivers through her as you coaxed her further into the depths of her submission.

With every slow stroke, you could feel a different kind of tension building within her. Scarlett's breaths became shaky, little whimpers escaping her lips as her body reacted to your ministrations. You kept her on that precipice, refusing to let her find that release she craved. Hours slipped by, and with each passing moment, you noticed how her arousal grew. She was already so wet, the evidence of her need staining the fabric beneath her as she almost unnoticeably rolled her hips in a rhythmic, unconscious dance, seeking friction against you.

By the time the clock struck 6 pm, it became clear to you just how far she had fallen into that deep mindset. Her expression was one of pure need, eyes glazed over as she looked at you over her shoulder with an almost dazed desperation. The way her lips parted, the soft gasps spilling forth from her throat, and the subtle way her walls pulsed around your strap told you everything you needed to know.

“Please…” she murmured, her voice soft yet filled with urgency. “Make me forget.”

Those words sent a thrill through you, igniting a fire in your belly as you realised just how close she was to losing herself completely. The constant fullness had become a torment for her, a tantalising tease that simply wasn’t enough anymore.

With a firm grip on Scarlett’s waist, you lift her from your lap slowly, savouring every reaction as the thick length of the strap brushes over each nerve, dragging against her sensitive walls. Each inch you pull her away is torturously slow, every movement controlled, intentional, and you watch as her breath hitches, her eyes fluttering shut. Scarlett clings to your shoulders, lips parting with a soft gasp as her body shudders, helpless to the way each nerve is ignited with need. Finally, the strap slips free, leaving an obscenely wet sound in its wake, accompanied by a slick warmth dripping down her inner thighs.

 For a moment, you catch a glimpse of your mark left within her, her entrance still slightly gaping, pulsing, a visible reminder of her submission.

As you guide her to her feet, her legs are shaky, nearly giving out beneath her, but she’s obedient, unwavering in her focus, her mouth slightly parted, breaths coming in shallow waves.

“Good girl,” you murmured as Scarlett sank to her knees in front of you, her legs trembling from the effort. Every inch of her body speaks of surrender, from the lingering imprint of the strap to the way her thighs tremble as she kneels, waiting. You’re captivated, and that familiar thrill rises in your chest, igniting as she stares up at you, ready, trusting, and open to whatever you decide comes next. There was something undeniably captivating about the sight of her like this—kneeling obediently before you, her body still pulsing from the fullness that had just been taken away.

Another gush of wetness dripped down her inner thighs as she stayed on the floor, the evidence of her arousal glistening in the dim lighting of the office. You could see the way her skin flushed as she breathed heavily, eyes locked onto yours with a mix of exhaustion and submission.

“Stay right there,” you commanded, your voice soft yet firm as you reached for Scarlett’s laptop. “I’ll finish your work.”

Scarlett’s lips parted in a quiet sigh as she rested her hands on her thighs, her posture completely surrendered. She looked up at you with a gaze that was filled with trust and need, her body still trembling in the aftermath of the pleasure you had denied her for so long. It was clear she was still deep in her submissive headspace, her mind willing to follow your every word.

You placed the laptop in front of you on the desk, positioning it so that you could type while still maintaining a steady gaze on her. Scarlett remained still, eyes heavy-lidded as she watched your every movement, her breath hitching each time you shifted your attention back to her.

You felt Scarlett’s head grow heavier against your thigh as she began to drift, exhaustion wrapping around her like a shroud. You stroked her hair gently, pity filling your chest as you looked down at her. She was clearly on the brink of falling asleep, her breath deep and steady, her body lax and surrendered. But that wasn’t what you wanted for her—not yet. She needed to stay awake, even if just for a little while longer.

“What would help you, sweetheart?” you asked, your tone laced with gentle authority as your hand continued to comb through her loose hair. The question stirred her from the edges of sleep, her eyelashes fluttering as she blinked up at you with a dazed expression. You already knew the answer, your chest tightening in anticipation as you watched her cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink.

Scarlett’s eyes dropped to the strap that glistened between the two of you, wet and thick from being inside her just moments ago. The blush on her cheeks spread down her neck as she glanced back up at you, meeting your expectant gaze. Her lips parted, a small, needy sound escaping her as she reached up, her fingers curling around the base of the strap, but you tutted softly and shook your head.

“My princess knows to ask before taking,” you reminded her, your voice a mixture of softness and firmness. Scarlett’s eyes widened at the reprimand, a lone tear slipping down her flushed cheek as she let out a frustrated whine. She immediately lowered her gaze, her face nuzzling against your thigh to shield herself from the weight of your steady, commanding stare.

She rubbed her cheek against the fabric of your pants, her breath warm against your skin as she tried to gather the courage to speak. The struggle was evident in the way her body tensed and then relaxed again, like she was teetering on the edge of giving in to her desire and retreating into herself. You waited patiently, your fingers idly tracing patterns on her scalp as you felt the heat of her blush spread even further.

“Please…” she whispered, her voice shaky and filled with longing as she turned her head slightly to peek up at you, “Can I…?”

Your hand moved to cup her chin, tilting her face up to meet your gaze fully. “Use your words, Scarlett,” you instructed gently, thumb brushing over her bottom lip. “Tell me exactly what you need, or want.”

Scarlett's blush deepened as she pressed her lips together, her breath coming in short, uneven puffs. Her gaze flickered up to yours, and for a moment, it seemed like the words were stuck in her throat. But she finally found her voice, though it was timid and soft, barely above a whisper.

“Can I… suck your cock?” Her tone was a mix of hesitation and desperate need, her eyes searching yours for any sign of approval.

Your brow arched, the faintest hint of amusement curling at the corners of your lips. “And why do you want to do that, sweetheart?” you asked, voice low and calm, your thumb still resting against her chin.

Scarlett hesitated again, her blush spreading to the tips of her ears as she swallowed hard. “B-Because… it helps me,” she stammered, her voice faltering under the weight of her own admission. “It helps me… ground myself.”

Your eyebrow arched a bit higher, and Scarlett's cheeks burned even hotter. Another tear rolled down her flushed face, and she shifted uncomfortably on her knees, the movement betraying just how vulnerable she felt. The sight of her so deep into her own embarrassment tugged at something tender within you, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you traced your fingers along her cheek, your touch as gentle as your voice was firm.

“You know this isn’t a strap for sucking, don’t you, Scarlett?” you replied, your tone taking on an almost childlike quality as you tilted your head slightly. “It’s too big, sweetheart. I doubt you could even get half of it into that pretty mouth of yours.”

The humiliation was evident in the way Scarlett’s breath hitched and her eyes squeezed shut for a moment, as though trying to shut out the reality of your words. She hadn’t thought about it—not in the way you were explaining it now—and the realisation only made her blush harder. But then, her gaze found yours again, and the fire of determination burned behind the haze of submission. She shook her head, the movement small and insistent, as though a child refusing to admit defeat.

“I… I can do it,” she whispered, her voice trembling yet resolute. “I’m… I’m a big girl. A good girl.” There was a pleading in her eyes now, a desperation to prove herself, even as she quivered under your touch.

Scarlett's lips wrapped around your length, her breaths coming in soft, needy whimpers as she took you deeper with each bob of her head, her tear-streaked cheeks flushed and glistening. The room was silent except for the obscene, wet sounds filling the air, each desperate suck drawing her further into a space where her only focus was you, and pleasing you.

Her hands instinctively gripped your thighs for support, but your fingers threaded through her hair, tugging her back just enough to make her gasp. "Only please me with that pretty mouth of yours, princess. Hands behind your back," you murmured, your voice gentle yet unyielding.

A soft whine slipped from her lips as she obeyed, her hands slowly moving to clasp together behind her. The moment she relinquished that bit of control, the trust in her gaze only deepened, her vulnerability on full display as she gave herself over to you completely.

Scarlett’s determination shone in her glassy eyes, each tear staining her flushed cheeks and smearing her mascara. Her jaw worked tirelessly, her lips stretching around you as she pushed herself further, cheeks hollowing as she tried to take more of you, to meet your silent approval. She was so close, and the thought of making you proud fueled her every motion. Her breathing hitched when she reached her limit, her throat fluttering around you, but she pressed on, determined to make you proud, the weight of your gaze driving her to keep going.

Tears streamed freely as she strained, her whimpers muffled against you, her resolve unwavering. She was yours—utterly and unquestionably—and that trust wrapped around every hitch of her breath, every soft sob as she looked up at you, wordlessly asking for your approval.

Without a single word, you slipped your hand from her hair to cup her jaw, guiding her gently but firmly, pushing her down further onto the thick strap. Scarlett’s eyes fluttered, her throat contracting as she gagged, and the wet sounds grew louder. She tried to maintain her rhythm, even as tears mixed with her gentle make-up and streaked her flushed cheeks, but she never once pulled back or looked away. Her gaze stayed locked onto yours, wide and glossy, the vivid green of her irises nearly lost in the depth of her pupils.

You brushed your thumb across her cheek, a silent approval, watching the way she responded, eager and desperate to please. Her breaths came in choked gasps between each plunge, drool slipping from the corners of her mouth and trailing down her chin, mixing with her wet remnants already coating your strap. She was a vision of need and devotion, every part of her vulnerable and open, as though she’d surrendered not just her body but her very soul to you.

With every inch she took, she sank deeper, her whole being focused on this moment, this act of submission. The look in her eyes said it all: you were her entire world right now, the centre of her universe. And in that gaze, through her tear-streaked face and soft, muffled sounds of effort and adoration, you saw everything—her trust, her willingness, her absolute need to be yours.

Your fingers slip beneath Scarlett's chin, pausing her as she eagerly works over the strap, her lips glistening, cheeks flushed. You gently tug her back by her hair, watching as her gaze lifts to meet yours, her eyes heavy with a mixture of need and reverence. A quiet whimper slips from her, the loss of contact a sudden ache, but she doesn’t question it—she simply obeys, letting you guide her upwards.

As you guide Scarlett up from her knees, her breaths are still heavy, cheeks flushed a deep red that only adds to the haze of submission in her eyes. Your hands rest firmly in her hair, both grounding and possessive, as she rises, her hands slipping from your thighs to brace herself. The heat of her skin against you, the way she follows your lead without resistance, only deepens the thrill settling in your chest.

When she’s fully standing, you keep that hold on her, savouring the haze in her eyes, the way she’s waiting, hanging on your next move. Her breaths come shallowly, still tinted with the intensity of submission, her lips parted as if they’re still moulding themselves around your strap. You slide a hand to her waist, guiding her step-by-step back until her thighs brush the edge of her desk, a slight shiver running through her at the contact. Your hand releases her hair, trailing softly down her cheek as you turn, carefully moving her laptop to the side and making room for exactly where you want her next.

The moment you step back, Scarlett moves with unrestrained need, perching herself on the edge of her desk. Her hands move purposefully across the surface, sweeping documents and pens to the floor behind her without hesitation, clearing everything that separates her from you. Pages scatter around her feet like fallen leaves, forgotten in the moment as she leans back slightly, resting her hands on the desk for balance. Her parted thighs cradle the space between you, inviting you closer, and her chest rises and falls with each breath, anticipation radiating from her as she watches you.

When you step forward, her hands instinctively find your shoulders, holding onto you like an anchor, her fingers digging in ever so slightly. There’s a look in her eyes—one of complete trust and surrender, mixed with the rawest need. She is wholly yours in this moment, and you know she’d follow wherever you lead, without question. 

With a familiar but sturdy grip on her hips, you pull her close, her warm thighs parting to cradle you as she sits obediently on the edge of her desk, waiting with that unshakable trust and raw need in her eyes. Her hands immediately find your shoulders, clutching onto you as if you’re the only thing grounding her in this moment. Without a moment’s pause, you sink into her, filling her completely. The sheer stretch and fullness has her gasping, back arching as she lets out a guttural moan that echoes through the office.

You don’t hold back, finding a relentless pace that has Scarlett's fingers digging into your shoulders. Every thrust drives deeper, pushing her closer to that raw, untamed place where everything—stress, worry, tension—melts away, leaving only you and her together, bound by the intensity of this moment. Her head falls back, and you can’t help but lean in, pressing a hand gently around her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath your palm as you apply just enough pressure to keep her present, grounded, and so thoroughly yours.

Her breaths become shallow, eyes widening in rapture as you slide three fingers into her mouth. She accepts them eagerly, lips wrapping around them as her eyes flutter shut, sinking further into the rhythm you've set. The way she works her mouth around your fingers, desperate for that grounding sensation, shows just how deeply she’s fallen into her need. She gags slightly as you push in a little further, and you watch, captivated, as her cheeks turn pink once more with the effort, saliva beginning to trail from the corners of her lips.

The framed photo of you two, once sitting so carefully on her desk, topples to the floor with a muffled clatter, but Scarlett doesn’t even notice. Her world is so completely consumed by the feel of you, by the way you’re giving her exactly what she needs, that everything else has faded away. She clings to you even harder, nails pressing into your skin, her whines turning louder, more desperate as your pace grows even more intense, leaving no space for anything but this moment.

Her legs shake as she pulls you even closer, whimpering your name between gasping breaths around your fingers, her body surrendering completely to the rhythm, to you. Her trust, her submission—it’s all yours, and in this pure, raw exchange, you feel her stress, her tension, everything melt away, leaving only the beautiful, messy vulnerability she offers up so willingly.

You hold Scarlett so close that there’s no space left between you, and as your hand slides from her throat to cup her cheek, you murmur soft, grounding words against her lips. “I’ve got you, Scarlett,” you tell her, voice low and steady. “You’re safe. Just let go, baby—I’m right here.” The reassurance, the comfort—each word is like an anchor pulling her back to you as she spirals, her breaths catching in little, desperate gasps. She leans into every touch, every gentle kiss, letting you guide her, fully immersing herself in the trust and safety you've built together.

You feel her need, her trust in you heightening with each stroke, each whispered word, and you can’t help but tighten your hold on her, supporting her through every wave of sensation as she hurtles toward a release so powerful it could only come from the pure connection between you. 

It’s not just sex or making love, not just her body unravelling at your touch—it’s the way she feels seen, cherished, understood. It’s the way you’ve made it clear that nothing matters more than her well-being, her peace. You’d already planned the calls you’ll make, to Kate, to her agency, to give her this week she desperately needs, time to just rest, to be taken care of, with you.

You pick up the pace, pushing her further toward that shattering edge, watching her expression shift, eyes growing glassy, mouth falling open with the sheer intensity of it all. Her body tenses, thighs quivering around you, and you know she’s close, so close. You don’t hold back, murmuring her name, reminding her just how cherished she really is. “Let go for me, Scarlett. I’m here. Just let go, beautiful.”

And when it hits her—a release so overwhelming that it leaves her crying out, voice trembling and raw, her arms are ready to give out, her arched back ready to hit the surface of the desk with a small thud. Her whole body shudders, and you can see her pulse around you as the intensity rips through her, wave after wave, until she’s almost limp in your grip, barely able to keep herself upright. It’s a release that’s more than just physical. You know this moment is everything—safety, trust, the overwhelming knowledge that you love and worship her, flaws and all. One of Scarlett’s hands moves up to cling to your shoulders, nails pressing into your skin as if holding onto you will keep her grounded in this beautiful, freeing sensation.

And maybe, just maybe, you know there’s a part of her—a small, mischievous part that’s always secretly dreamed of this exact moment: of you absolutely wrecking her in her office. But that’s a story for another day.

A surge of need floods through you, and for a moment, you can’t hold back. The way Scarlett looks in front of you, her body open and ready, her trust so complete, ignites something deep inside. You gently push her back to finally hit the desk and slide her knees up, pressing them to her chest, taking in the flushed, glistening sight of her—all red, and achingly sore from how much you’ve already given her. Yet there she is, waiting, craving more.

You start moving again, each thrust deep and deliberate, eyes fixed on where your strap meets her. She’s pulsing around you, slick and needy, her wetness coating the base, leaving a faint, creamy ring with each pull out that only drives you further. Her pussy clenches around you as you thrust, the delicate flesh red and puffy, the way her body is moulding itself around your strap telling you everything you need to know—how much she needed this, how much you’re giving her right now. The red marks around her neck, the remnants of your grip, make your heart race with the raw intimacy, with how deeply she’s let you in, trusting you to push her limits but always knowing you’ll catch her when she falls.

Her face is a masterpiece of pleasure, mascara streaked down her cheeks, her eyelids heavy, lashes clumped from the tears she’s shed in complete surrender to you. Her beautiful lips part in that perfect “O” shape, soft little moans escaping with each movement. You watch her eyes roll back, her brows furrowing as she loses herself completely, letting those helpless “hmm, mmhh” sounds spill past her lips in pure ecstasy. The little gasps she makes, the way she trembles under you—it’s everything. Every reaction pulls you deeper, grounding you in this shared rhythm that’s both raw and profoundly tender, each of you finding something you didn’t even know you actually needed.

You feel her building up again, her body tensing, the pull of her muscles around you signalling that she’s close, so close, and you don’t hold back. You thrust with everything, moving in perfect sync with her, giving her exactly what she needs. And as you watch her, the trust, the love, the way her body is opening for you, you know you’ll stay right here as long as she needs you—filling her, grounding her, cherishing her, in every single way.

You see her tightening around you, each tremor intensifying, her body teetering on that precarious edge, and you know exactly what's coming. Her brows knit together, lips trembling, and with one last, deep thrust, she breaks. You watch as the first wave of her release hits, her walls pulsing around your strap, and then, just as you sink even deeper, you feel it—a sudden, hot rush of wetness spilling over, coating the strap, soaking down through the fabric to your thighs.

The base of your strap is slick and creamy, each pulse of her release making it even messier, her wetness spreading as she rides out the crest of her climax. You know you’ve pushed her somewhere she rarely goes. Her muscles contract so tightly, a light, glistening spray that soaks your clothes and the desk beneath, her body surrendering every ounce of pleasure you’ve built up in her. The sight has you captivated, watching the way her release catches the light, a rare and precious surrender that she only ever reaches when she’s completely given over to you.

This is only the third time she’s ever done it, each time burned into your memory like a treasured secret: once after you’d completely ruined her, left her no choice but to let go, and once after you’d edged her past the point of no return. That day, your phone—with which you had been filming—had been left drenched in the aftermath, proof of just how deeply you could unravel her. But right now, watching her face soften, her body convulse with those final aftershocks, you feel like this might be the most intense and beautiful one yet.

Her chest heaves, cheeks flushed, and she’s dazed, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, yet still locking onto yours with that unmistakable look of devotion.

You keep her close, feeling the tremors slowly fade from her body, gently running your hands over her skin, grounding her with each soft touch. Her breaths are still shallow and shuddering, so you murmur gentle praise, each word a steady reminder that she’s safe and cared for, and that you’re here to guide her back. “You did so well, my love,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’m so proud of you… I’ve got you.”

Carefully, you help her sit up, supporting her as her body relaxes into you. Her gaze is still hazy, her pupils blown wide, and you brush a few stray locks of hair back from her forehead, your fingertips warm against her flushed skin. She leans into your hand, eyes fluttering shut as if your touch alone is helping her find her way back. You take your time, reaching for tissues to clean her (and yourself) up, your movements gentle and patient, each pass of the tissue over her skin a silent affirmation of your devotion.

When she’s settled again, you take her hands in yours, kissing each knuckle softly. “This week is yours,” you say softly, looking her in the eyes as she begins to focus on you, fully present again. “No work, no stress. Just you and me.”

You feel her squeeze your hand in response, a subtle but sure sign that she’s starting to ground herself. She takes a deep, slow breath, the look in her eyes shifting, becoming clearer with each passing second. You stay like that, just the two of you in the quiet of her office, letting her absorb everything, taking the time she needs to process.

And when she finally leans into you, resting her head on your shoulder with a small sigh, you know she’s back.

You hold her close, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breath against you. She wraps her arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck, her vulnerability raw and open. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice soft and sincere. “For everything.” There’s a slight tremor in her words, and when you pull back to look into her eyes, you can see the depth of emotion there—a mix of gratitude, trust, and a kind of love that defies words. You bring a hand to her cheek, wiping a stray tear away with your thumb.

“You don’t have to thank me, Scarlett,” you murmur, brushing your lips softly against her forehead. “I’d do this for you a thousand times over. I want you to know that I’m here… always.”

She smiles, the edges of her mouth quirking up even as a blush spreads across her cheeks. For a moment, she just looks at you, as though memorising every detail, every feeling. Then, as if a switch has flipped, her eyes sparkle with a hint of mischief. “Well then…,’” she says, biting her lip, “we might just have to do it again sometime.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Exhibitionist,” you tease, and she laughs, that light, infectious sound filling the room.

“Only for you,” she replies, resting her head back on your shoulder, the weight of her words and the warmth of her embrace settling over you both like a promise.

“Thanks for the food, by the way. I’m expecting dessert for the rest of the week.”

a/n- i don't know how to feel about this one :') hope yuo guys like it x (sorry for the late post! stayed up and wtched AAA (kill me rn, agathario fics coming up.) and fell asleep! second-to-last kt fic tonight!)

[namisweatheria]

Sorry but I'm growing more and more fascinated in my head with how this would change (and eroticize) Nami and Luffy's relationship. It wouldn't happen all at once. At what point does Nami start seeing Luffy as a girl? She'd start treating her much, much nicer. I think this would be pretty confusing to Luffy, because as intuitive and emotionally genius she is, as I said before, gender is nothing to her. She doesn't get it!

Also, it might be a little saccharine, but I really do think Luffy would become at least a bit attached to being a girl because of Nami and Robin. In canon, he always wants his crew to be laughing and having fun as much as possible, and he seems to try a bit harder with them, because they (especially Nami with her grouchy anxiety) can be more difficult to get to relax and (especially Robin with her restrained demeanor) goof around.

When he finds something funny, he often tries to show Nami first. For as much as he often shows Usopp stuff first too, this might be a bit confusing since she's not an easy audience like he is. I think that's exactly why, though. He wants her to laugh more! And I suspect it's more rewarding to get a laugh out of someone who doesn't do it as much.

Plus, he often doesn't understand why Nami is upset over the things she's upset about. AU Luffy still wouldn't understand a lot of Nami's anger and worry, but I think with the parts she finally would understand she would value that very much. And be angry over, if it's someone's fault.

She'd be a bit of a trans power fantasy, because she wouldn't need to worry about her gender being invalidated and being targeted for it, and she also hasn't internalized some of the harmful gender norms that I think Nami and Robin both have.

Imagine the emotion Nami would feel seeing Luffy beat up Sanji for saying something rude to her and getting up in her space. This isn't something that would happen right away either. At first she'd be thrilled and unquestioningly accepting of the sudden influx of special food. It wouldn't be until she's had too many strangers on too many islands get up in her space and say rude things that she'd react when Sanji does it.

Ough imagining this hurts a lot actually... Nami...

At first Nami is shocked. That's not right! "Sure, it's annoying, but Sanji does a lot of nice things for us, and we know he'd never hurt us, so it's fine!" You're supposed to tolerate it, laugh it off, take advantage of it! "What are you doing?!"

Luffy had punched Sanji, and it wasn't playful. Sanji had been launched across deck, landing on the ground with a loud thud, blood on his face. And Luffy's anger hadn't abated.

"It's not fine! He's pissing me off!" Her gaze is single-minded and unforgiving as she stomps towards him.

"Woah, take it easy!" Nami tries to pull her back. The words ring in her head, and something catches in her chest, but she tries to focus on stopping the fight. This isn't right. This isn't how we're supposed to act. She thinks it, and she knows she doesn't mean the crew, but she doesn't know what she means. She doesn't like it, and it's too much.

"Why should I? You hate it too don't you Nami? Robin?" Luffy's gaze bores into her before she turns and tries for another swing, but not very hard, and Nami holds her back. She clutches tightly. Her eyes burn, and the knot in her chest is getting bigger and harder to breathe evenly around.

She looks around wildly and her eyes land on Robin.

"Robin, help me!" There was a catch in her voice that embarrassed her. Surely this situation wasn’t serious enough to warrant hysteria. But she just couldn’t feel calm.

Especially when Robin doesn’t acknowledge her, staring on at Sanji still on the ground, her eyes very far away.

"Ugh! Luffy!" Nami's face scrunches up in frustration, her mind was in a hot haze she was desperately trying to work through. She tries to plant her feet but Luffy manages to trudge both of them right over Sanji.

"He doesn't even see how tired you are!" Luffy says to her. She gets down in his face. "Sanji! We're tired! Stop it!" She yells, as he looks up at her with wide eyes.

"Okay." Sanji is glancing furtively between the three of them, blood dripping down his chin, and not from a nosebleed. He's confused, but he nods anyways.

There’s a beat, and Nami doesn't know why, but she bursts into tears. She puts her head down and runs off deck toward her room.

"Oh.." Sanji's face is shocked watching her go, before it turns into stupid delight. "See!" He exclaims up at Luffy. "She doesn't want me to stop!" Luffy gapes for a second before her face contorts into a furious snarl. She rears back, but-

Slap!

Silence. They both stare open-mouthed at the hand that had appeared in front of them, before jointly looking up towards Robin. Where she had before been in a typical lounging position, she had stood up, and looked down at Sanji with a dark expression.

Her face trembled with anger. She opened her mouth and closed it again, struggling. After a few moments she walked off-deck, following Nami.

Her gesture had been enough.

"Oh.." Sanji said again. This time his face became grim, and stayed that way. Tears started to well in his eyes, and he got up and walked off deck the other way, lighting a cigarette as he went.

Luffy stood up straight. She huffed. There was no sound now but the waves.

"ZORO!" She yelled. She didn't need to yell. The whole rest of the crew had been right there.

"Uh, yeah?" He answered. He was trying not to show it, but he was shaken by what he'd just seen. I mean, he'd always told that stupid cook off for being annoying, so it wasn't like it was his fault. But. If he had known how it was apparently weighing on Nami... Goddamnit. Why hadn't he noticed? What kind of crewmate was he?

"I'M STILL MAD!" Luffy yelled.

Zoro huffed slightly with amusement despite himself. "Yeah?"

"LET'S FIGHT!"

"Ha! Okay."

Usopp wandered over to Franky while Zoro and Luffy launched themselves at each other. Franky looked perturbed, but pulled a calm cheerful look as he noticed Usopp coming towards him.

Chopper ran over too and leapt into Usopp's arms. "I don't get anything!" He wailed, his furry face a mess of tears and snot. Usopp patted his head sympathetically, trying not to let himself tear up in response. "So Danji wab being mean to Nami bis whole timeb?" Chopper cried. Usopp frowned, unsure of what to say for once.

Franky stepped in. "I guess so little bro." He never minced words when it was serious. Chopper stared up at Franky. Usopp thought if his little eyebrows furrowed any more they'd be able to hold coins.

"But WHY?" The question seemed to come out of him with the sudden force and unpleasantness of a hairball. Neither Franky nor Usopp could take this much pathetic sadness for much longer without breaking down themselves. Franky resisted the urge to look away, but Usopp started finding the sky very interesting, unrelatedly.

"He didn't mean to. Sometimes things like this happen. They'll work it out. We always do on this crew don't we? Cause we're suuuuperrr!" Franky couldn't quite manage to finish saying something comforting without getting silly, but it was for the best, because when he lifted Chopper from out of Usopp's arms and up above his head with the word “super”, Chopper giggled a bit among his tears. He demanded to be let down right after, since as much as he likes to be babied sometimes this was a bit too much now. He is a nearly-grown pirate, after all.

"Should I go see Nami?" Chopper asked, standing now and looking thoughtfully towards her cabin.

"Nah, she just needs some time with Robin. Why don't you hang out with us while we wait for them to come out?” Franky said. Chopper looked a bit doubtful, looking between him and the door.

Usopp added, “Let’s play cards! I’m sure when they come back up they’ll want to join us!” Chopper looked up at Usopp hopefully. It was true both Robin and Nami loved cards.

Usopp struck a pose in response, swiping some cards from his pocket and making a fan in front of his face. "I'll have you know I've cheered up countless people with my show-stopping card playing tricks!” He shuffled the deck as he spoke. “The Amazing Card-Counting Usopp is a name known throughout all The East Blue! They'd take people dying of sadness to see me and they'd be so happy they'd live for hundreds of years!"

"Really? REALLY? Wow!" Chopper seemed to have stars in his eyes.

By the time Nami and Robin came back on deck, the four of them were deeply engrossed in a brand-new game that somehow blended card tricks, dancing, and hitting each other with sticks. Well, mostly Franky was dancing, but it seemed to all come together somehow. They managed to join in without any tension.

Before Nami sat down next to where Luffy was (gently) throwing sticks at a dodging and laughing Chopper, she knelt beside her and hugged her tightly.

"Hm?" Luffy said, glancing at her while switching to her other hand to continue throwing.

Nami pulled back a bit to look at Luffy. "Thank you." She said. When's the last time she took a moment to say that to her, so seriously? It had already been said, a long time ago.

Luffy stared at her intently for a few moments before breaking out in a giant pink-faced grin. Nami felt her heart skip a beat. Had those big brown eyes always been so beautiful? Frozen, she stared longer than she'd meant to. Her face suddenly felt very warm, as did her arms where they were still holding Luffy. Quickly, she pulled away and picked up a stick, throwing it immediately at Zoro. Luckily it was very light and didn't travel well, because she didn't spare any force.

"Hey! What was that for?" Zoro yelped it like a superbly grouchy dingo, but his eyes seemed serious. Was this my fault? He was thinking. Nami smiled at him, overwhelmed with sudden affection for her steadfast, loyal friend.

"How'dya play this game?" She asked with a grin. His shoulders relaxed before he threw it back at her. Bonk. It hit her head.

"Figure it out!"

Thinking so much about an au where Iva's hormone poison treatment also transed Luffy's gender as a side-effect. The way she would simply not care.

Things I'm imagining happening

Her typically refusing to explain how it happened while thinking she's giving a perfectly adequate explanation. "It just happened." "What do you mean??" "It just happened! Jeez." "Well do you want to change back??" "Who cares??" < usual bursting out laughing at Luffy being Luffy >

Everyone just accepting it after that single conversation

Her suddenly finding Sanji more annoying than weird/funny and beating him up until he starts acting normal

Relatedly becoming a lot closer with Nami and Robin in a new way because they keep getting treated the same way by strangers

Meeting Yamato in Wano and being like "Woah you can do that??" and Nami, gently, understandingly, being like "Do you want us to start referring to you as a man again?" and Luffy thinks for a second and is like "Nah, I like being a girl now. It's the same but I understand you better!!" < classic Luffy heart-attack-giving grin > Can you imagine Nami's face. T^T

Nami x Luffy friends-to-lovers slowburn

She'd look basically the same but the difference is enough to confuse the navy for awhile. Shenanigans.

Boa's lesbian awakening.

[littlereddream]

ok so that zombie apocalypse au with jason was absolutely insanely amazing. i love how you wrote the rationale behind staying with him. would you ever consider writing more on the time jason kisses reader the first time (the one after they’d been attacked by a horde? if not, totally fine! have a cool day

Thank you!! So glad you asked because I’ve been wanting to write more about this au lol

This fully escaped me and ended up being longer than the original. Included is the missing scene from Jason kissing the reader for the first time and (I know you didn’t ask for this but I can’t help myself) their second kiss.

Enjoy!

(The original)

Under Heavy Rot

Missing scenes

Zombie apocalypse au typical gore (though more than Under Heavy Rot), gn reader

It was like digging for iron and finding gold instead. The corner store, such a short walk away from Jason’s house, was like a piece of trapped, untapped history. Every shelf was untouched, fully stocked as if the employees had made it their very last duty to fill up the space with supplies.

It’s not all perfect, of course. All of the dairy products are well past their expiration date, leaving you to grab powdered milk instead. The power’s out, and likely has been since the very beginning of it all, so most of the refrigerated or frozen products are out of the question.

Still, candy bars and canned food are nothing to scoff at.

After confirming that you’ve busied yourself with shoving non perishables into your backpack, Jason goes off to secure the store’s outside.

It doesn’t take long to fill up your backpack, and you zip it shut before slinging it over your shoulders. At that point, you almost leave. You’ve done what you and Jason came to do, so what’s left?

Just exploring the chance that the store might have a bag of those chips you used to love. Jason’s not around to lecture you for taking unnecessary risks, so you make your way over to the back. You’ll take your chances.

Every little movement has the old tile creaking under your feet, until one step prompts a quiet splash. Your gaze flicks down to your shoe, finding a puddle of sticky, nearly black blood. It sticks to the bottom of your boot when you raise it, thick and gooey.

Your hand flies to your knife, drawing it out of its sheath. Walker blood. It’s too coagulated to be anything else, too dark to be from anything other than the dead. The puddle smears forward, creating a trail through the aisle before turning past your view into the next.

Slowly, weapon raised, you move forward to follow the bloody path. You hardly make it two steps until a shrill snarl is your only warning before a hand grabs your shoulder.

You whirl around, knife angled to slash, but the blade can only uselessly cut across the walker’s chest. There’s no reaction from it, entirely undeterred from your attempt. You step back, distancing yourself as best you can while trying to form a plan. It’s just one. You’ve taken down countless walkers before, why’s this any different?

Another groan, this time from right behind you. You look back and, fuck, there’s two, blocking the other end of the aisle. Okay. Sacrifices, sacrifices.

Turning back to the one, you grip your knife tight and rush forward at it’s feet, diving between it’s legs to get behind before twisting around to slash the back of it’s knees. The action costs you your knife, getting stuck in the flesh mid movement, but it’s fine. It’s enough to buy you time, let you find out where you’d gotten yourself.

To the very back, with three walkers gaining on you and a singular clear path to the exit the next aisle over. You don’t make it. They’re faster than you’d predicted, recovering too quickly for your plan to fall into any sort of action. Too close, too close.

The two steps back you do take have your shoulders pressing into a shelf, securing your fate.

Or not. You could’ve sworn that the walkers in front of you didn’t have those holes in their head two seconds ago. They fall, one by one until they’re nothing but piles of previously reanimated flesh in front of you.

Behind them? Jason, slowly lowering his gun to rush over to you. His brows are knitted together, frown tight on his face, and you can only stare at him as his hands come up to cup both sides of your jaw. He tilts your face in his hands, checking you for injuries.

Jason repeats your name quietly, mumbled like he needs it to breathe. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Did you get bit? Scratched? What happened? I thought…” he trails off.

“I’m okay, Jay. They didn’t hurt me. You got them,” you reassure, hands coming up to rest over his.

He’s close, enough for you to see the sweaty glow of his skin, the scuffs of dirt on his cheeks. You don’t think there’s ever been anyone so beautiful.

“You’re okay,” Jason repeats, like he doesn’t quite believe it himself.

You nod, sweeping your thumbs in little circles over the back of his hands. Jason doesn’t waste another second. You aren’t ready for it, you don’t think he was either. Between one second and the next, he has his lips pressed to yours.

It’s soft, sweet in a way you wouldn’t have expected from the same man who almost killed you during your first meeting. Though maybe you shouldn’t be surprised. He’s also the same man who changed the bandages on your wound as if you’re broken glass, bound to shatter entirely if he pressed a little too hard.

He holds your face in his hands like the world around you doesn’t exist. There aren’t dead walkers sprawled around your feet. You aren’t standing in a crappy, abandoned corner store. This isn’t about to end the second he pulls away.

But it does, and the second his lips leave yours, the real world falls back into place. You don’t think you’ve ever hated it more.

Jason breaks it abruptly, but doesn’t fully pull away. His forehead remains touching yours, eyes squeezed tight like he’s preparing himself to force his next words out.

“I’m sorry. It…you know. Adrenaline. It won’t happen again, promise.”

Jason’s hands drop down to his sides, and now even the warmth from your kiss is gone. The real world is cold, and all you can do is shiver.

But if he wants to pretend it was a mistake, then you’ll let him. At this point, you doubt there’s much you wouldn’t do for him.

The realization hits you like a bucket of cold water. You really, really don’t want to leave him. Judging by everything that’s happened, he doesn’t want you to either.

There’s nothing for you to say, not that he gives you any time to speak. He’s already grabbing more canned food to shove into his own backpack.

“I think we have everything. We’re probably good to head back. Need anything else?” He asks.

You need him to kiss you again.

“No. Let’s go.”

With a curt nod from him, you leave the corner store, your favorite chips forgotten.

Two weeks later, you learn that Jason Todd is a liar. A no good, handsome, filthy little liar. And sure, maybe it’s you that gave him the perfect grounds to break his promise, but still. A liar.

It’s not like you’re not grateful. If Jason hadn’t gone back on his promise, then you wouldn’t be sandwiched between him and the kitchen counter.

You’d gotten tired of watching him look away anytime you caught him staring, of seeing how he’d never allow himself to touch you for more than a second when pulling you out of danger.

Your exhaustion, well paired with the event of him wearing his stupidly fitting leather jacket around you, was the perfect recipe for you to damn the consequences and just kiss him.

You’d started with so much confidence. You thought you understood what he kissed like, thought you’d be the one to overwhelm him when you grabbed him by the collars of his jacket.

“I really want to kiss you right now. Can I?” You’d whispered, like you’d disturb the air around you if you were just that little bit louder.

He’d nodded stupidly, eyes wide and lips parted in shock.

You’d overwhelm him, you’d thought.

You’ve never been so wrong.

Within seconds of your lips meeting his, Jason doesn’t waste another moment before backing you up into the counter. This Jason is different than the one from the corner store, who was so sweet and gentle. This Jason kisses like he’s trying to steal the air from inside your lungs, more starved than the dead outside.

Your brain feels blank, all confidence gone along with any memory of what to do while kissing somebody. He doesn’t even give you a second to think, broad hands squeezing your hips like you’d even try to move away. What the hell, what the hell.

Jason pulls away to give you a total of two seconds to breathe, then he’s back, bringing a hand up wrap around one of your wrists, still resting on his chest. What is he- oh. With his hand guiding one of your arms to wrap around his neck, you manage to have just enough brain capacity left to bring the other arm up too.

You aren’t sure how long you kiss. What you do know is that even after your lips part for the final time, the real world isn’t even close to coming back. Your brain’s too fuzzy, head resting against his chest while his arms wrap around your waist, slowly swaying the both of you to a melody that only he knows.

You know that if you look up now, you’ll see the wide smile that he hasn’t been able to force down since you’ve stopped kissing, despite his best efforts.

Leaving. Right. As if. As far as you were concerned, the only way either of you would ever leave is with the other following right behind.

And it’s perfect.

[ivi-prism]

✨✨Mcytblr ask game for writers✨✨

Let's start the new year by prompting the writers in the fandom so they infodump on all of us <3

1. Where do you write? (notes app, Google Drive, word, a notebook, directly onto ao3, another word processor, etc.)

2. What was the first SMP or cubito you ever wrote for?

3. Which SMP do you find is the most fun to work with?

4. Anything you like in particular about writing for this fandom? (the setting, the aus, the people,etc)

5. How do you translate the world of Minecraft to fit into your fanfics when you keep the original setting?

6. Do you like using the mcyt multiverse as a concept? (all SMPS and MC content exists in the same universe)

7.How long does it take for you to go from an idea to the end product? (be it drabble in tumblr or fully published multichapter fic in ao3)

8.Do you edit and proofread your works yourself or do you have someone else to help you with that?

9.How do you worldbuild?

10.How do you do character arcs?

11.Are you more of a planner or an improviser?

12.Funniest comment you've ever gotten in a piece of work?

13.Any segment of your work that made you cry while writing it? (because it moved you deeply)

14.Most fun and/or engaging character voice to write in?

15.Writing in first, second or third person?

16.What do you think is the signature aspect of your work? What do you think readers see and go "Ah of course! [Writer] made this!"

17.Favorite dynamic to write? (ship, familial bond, friendship, qpr, rivalry, etc)

18.How similar are the things you enjoy writing to the things you enjoy reading?

19.Do you tend to take into account hybrid characteristics (avian, enderman hybrid, dragon hybrid, etc) when you are writing cubitos?

20.Which project have you poured so much of yourself into that it resembles more an original work than a derivative mcyt work?

21.What cubito have you stared from afar like a weird bug and thought "If I knew what was up with you or your world I'd try writing for you"?

22.Any popular fanfic you heard a lot of buzz around and thought "eh it's fine" just to read it later and decide "oh it does deserve all the hype it gets!"

23.What work of yours would you like to have the biggest impact on the fandom?

24.What work would you like to talk more about?

25.What works and/or authors in the fandom do you recommend?

[rowdyluv]

Mothers Know Best

summary: it’s luke’s off morning and he’s home alone with emersyn who isn’t acting her usual bubbly happy self. it’s when he puts her down early for her nap he notices something is actually wrong

warnings: soft dad!luke, fluffy -> angst, sick baby, stressed parent, parent feels they aren’t doing right

word count: 1.56k

notes: this was originally wrote for the single dad version of the au so if i missed any name changes please let me know

Emersyn was not the same today. Her usual bubbly giggles were replaced with whines that pierced the quiet afternoon like a siren. Luke had never seen his little girl so clingy and fussy. She was a ball of pink and white, sticking to him like a piece of gum to a hot sidewalk. It was a rare moment he had that she was distracted by her blanks or a toy next to her.

He tried everything to calm her down—his usual go-to distractions of peekaboo, Winnie the Pooh and even the tickle monster. Nothing worked. Her eyes searched for him, wide and desperate, every time he tried to sneak away. The house felt like it was closing in on him, the air thick with the weight of her cries. The moment his body crossed the threshold to the kitchen from the living room she was screaming for him. Mousey little calls for “dada.” Rattled out of her mouth just as the cries rattled her body. Tension was tightening in Luke’s chest, making it hard to breathe.

What was wrong with her? Why was she acting like this? She’s ate, barely, but he fed her. She has a clean diaper. He’s checked numerous times. They’ve played or he’s tried to play and she wasn’t having any of it. She has her blanks and her Finn plushie from Quinn. Luke pulled his hands through his hair and huffed out.

Emersyn drew him out of his thoughts by pulling on the hem of his shorts. She had blanks and fin in one of her hands and the other grasping his shorts. Her bottom lip stuck out quivering.

“Okay, okay, baby girl, let’s go for a nap, yeah?” Luke’s voice was strained with worry. He scooped her up into his arms, the softness of her skin burning against his. She didn’t protest, a sign that something was seriously off. Usually, she’d fight naps like a champ, insisting she was a big kid. But today she just snuggled into his neck, the heat from her forehead seeping into his skin. He carried her to her room, the hallway seeming to stretch on forever. The gentle squeak of his shoes on the floor was the only sound except for her shallow breaths.

Her nursery was a soft explosion of pink and white, but today it felt like a prison cell. The curtains were drawn, leaving only a sliver of light that painted the room in a sad, yellow glow. He laid her down on the crib mattress, her favorite blanket underneath her. He could hear the faint rattle in her breathing, and it was like nails on a chalkboard to his overworked nerves. He leaned over to kiss her forehead, and that’s when it all clicked. He realized how hot she was against him. She was a little furnace that had been running on overdrive. When he had picked her up first thought was she was warm from overworking herself. All the crying she had been doing was what made her warm. But no. This was definitely different.

Panic took over him like a wildfire. He knew that sound all too well. It was the same sound he heard last winter when she had croup. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but the feeling in his gut was heavy. He grabbed the thermometer and quickly scanned her forehead. The beep was like a gunshot, echoing through the room. He checked the display. 102 degrees. His heart plummeted.

With trembling hands, he picked Emersyn up again, cradling her closer to his chest. He didn’t know what to do. Was this just a cold or something more? His mind raced with all the worst scenarios. He needed Rosey, she’d know what to do. He fumbled with his phone, his thumbs slipping over the screen as he typed out a frantic text. “Come home. Emmy’s not okay. Something’s wrong.”

But as he hit send, he knew that wasn’t enough. He needed advice now, and his mother, Ellen, was the next best thing. He dialed her number, his voice wavering when she answered.

“Mom, Emersyn’s not right. She’s so warm and... I don’t know. Her breathing is funny again.” The words tumbled out of him like a waterfall.

Ellen’s voice was calm and soothing, a stark contrast to the chaos in Luke’s mind. “Okay, sweetheart, just breathe. Tell me what’s happening. Is she still crying?”

“No, she’s just... listless. And her breathing, it’s like she’s fighting to get air in. And she’s so warm, Mom. So warm. What if I’ve missed something? What if I’m not doing this right?” The doubt in his voice was palpable, even through the phone.

Ellen’s calmness was a balm to his fear. “You’re doing everything right, Luke. You’re a wonderful father. It’s probably just a fever, but we’ll figure it out together. Has she had any other symptoms? Runny nose, cough, anything?”

Luke’s eyes searched Emersyn’s face as he talked to his mom, looking for any sign of distress she might be trying to hide. “No, nothing like that. She’s just been clingy and whiny all day. And her breathing... I.. I didn’t notice it until I tried to put her down for a nap but I swear..it’s like she’s fighting for every breath she takes. Just like last winter.”

Ellen’s voice remained calm, her years of experience as a mother and grandmother steadying him. “Alright, let’s not panic. It could just be a summer cold, but you’re doing the right thing by keeping an eye on her. Give her some children’s Tylenol to bring down the fever. It’s in the medicine cabinet, right?”

Luke nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “Yes, but I’m scared, Mom. What if it’s more than just a cold?” His voice cracked, and he felt his eyes burn with unshed tears.

Before his mother could respond, he heard the sound of the front door bursting open, followed by the thunder of quick footsteps. “Luke? Emmy?” Rosey’s voice echoed through the house, filled with urgency. Relief flooded him, and he rushed out of the nursery, Emersyn still in his arms.

Her eyes searched the room, finding him in the hallway. They widened when she took in their daughters state. “What’s wrong?” She demanded, breathless.

He met her gaze, his eyes pleading. “Her breathing, it’s off. And she’s so warm. I don’t know what to do. I called you because...” His voice trailed off, his throat tight with emotion.

Rosey took Emersyn from his arms, her eyes scanning her daughter’s flushed face. She felt her forehead and nodded gravely. “We need to get her temperature down. Did you give her anything?”

“No, I just took her temperature and texted you. I didn’t know what to do. I called my mom too. She reminded me to give her medicine but then you got home.. God Ro. See I can’t do this without you here I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Rosey’s heart ached for the fear etched on Luke’s face. He was a fantastic father, but she knew he had moments of doubt like anyone else. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt for not being there when he needed her most, but he only has a couple free mornings and errands were demanding her attention. But now was not the time for self-recrimination. Emersyn’s health was the priority.

“Let’s get her some water and meds,” she said, taking the lead. She moved swiftly to the kitchen, her shoes slapping against the cold tile floor. Luke followed, his eyes never leaving their daughter. Rosey grabbed the children’s Tylenol and a sippy cup filled with lukewarm water. The kitchen was bathed in the yellow glow from the nursery, a stark reminder of the concern that now filled their usually cheerful home.

Back in the living room, she placed Emersyn in her play pen, surrounded by her favorite toys. The play pen had seen countless moments of giggles and growth, but today it was a makeshift sick bay. She unwrapped the fever reducer, and with a gentle touch, gave it to Emersyn. Their daughter’s eyes searched hers, full of trust despite her discomfort. With trembling hands, Luke gave her the water, his eyes never leaving hers. They watched as she took a sip, the medicine quickly following. Emersyn’s tiny hand clutched the cup, her grip tight.

Once the medicine was down, Rosey turned to Luke, her eyes softening. “Thank you for texting me. You did the right thing. We’re in this together, okay? Everything with Em is on both of us, not just on you or on me. It takes two, or an army as momma Ellen says.” She leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. The tension between them eased slightly.

“Thank you, believing in me, Ro,” Luke murmured, his eyes never leaving their daughter. The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. It wasn’t just about this moment, it was about every moment he felt inadequate as a father. Every time he didn’t know what to do, every time he second-guessed himself, every time he thought he was failing. Her belief in him was like a beacon in the fog.

Rosey leaned her head on his shoulder, her hands intertwined with his. “Lukey, I’ve believed in you since we were kids, of course I’m going to believe in you with our baby girl,” she whispered, her voice a balm to his fear.

[krizariel]

Oh don't tell me... you are f*cking my ex?!

(crack, not-fic, jaytim with past timsteph) Talking with friends about how a friend - who was into jaytim and was a tim fan before he was even registered in my radar - unintentionally got me into jaytim; but then he moved on pretty much as I came in and now he has to put up with me and my never-ending duck giggling butt emojis. Or how he eloquently put it: "I'm literally like a tragic dramatic irony mythical Greek MC, just a plaything of fate" Anyway, I remembered this vague idea and then this took shape:

No-capes AU in which Tim was never adopted by Bruce, but the rest (including Steph and Jason) were. Jason is very protective of his family, especially his sisters. And yes, Steph is a gremlin and gets in trouble more often than not, but damn it no one messes with his sister.

Tim and Steph started dating during mid-school; Tim tends to be asked out more often than not and he has trouble saying no. Often times he does not feel truly attracted to anyone; but he does not want to be seen as uptight or impolite or worse... questioned. He often accepts his dates until eventually they get bored of him. Steph was a change of pace of him and at some point he genuinely was feeling attraction to her; but maybe not to the extent she deserved. She asked him out and was always the one initiating anything, and he'd often go along with it. She was amazing, full of life, funny and so pretty; Tim didn't know what exactly she saw in him. However, she'd quickly notice his lack of enthusiasm/interest and often they'd fight. Why say yes when you aren't truly into it? They were on and off for a year until they broke things off for real. Jason of course hated Tim's guts; be that way whatever, but making his sister cry and mistreating her was a different story. After breaking up, Tim tried to reach out to Steph later, to try and explain himself better and be honest with her. She deserved that much. Except Jason found him before Tim could reach his sister; punched him hard enough to send him off-balance, grabbed him and pushed him against the wall to make it very clear he should not get near his sister again or else... (and Tim was scared to shit because danger danger but also creepily turned on when Jason grabbed him and raised him off the floor so easily. He needs to consult a therapist as to why Jason threatening turned him on and somehow that started his bi awakening) Eventually Steph and Tim moved on with their lives, continue dating other people, and given that they still have friends they reconnect, reminiscence of the past and talk it out. They also eventually come out and bond over both being bi. Fast forward years later, neither Tim or Jason had seen each other again; but Tim stays in touch with Steph. Tim is a well known editor at a big publisher and Jay is an aspiring book writer. Steph had given Tim her brother's original novel draft and he actually loved it. Steph: So, remember my brother Jason? Tim: Your hot brother who kicked my ass in front of half the school hates my guts? how could I forget. Steph: Yeah! He is the one who wrote this fabulous piece. Think you can help him? Tim *internally trying not to scream because what are the odds*: ...Sure. If he agrees to meet, I have time tomorrow. But you better be there, in case he remembers he told me not to get near you. I fear for my life. Steph: Don't be dramatic, he probably doesn't even remember you.

---- Steph: Sooo... I have a friend who is an editor at X publisher. He read your work and loved it. He actually thinks it has high chances to be published. Jason: Really? Steph: Yeah! Told him we could meet with him tomorrow for coffee and go over the details. Jason: Wait who is this friend? Do I know him? Steph: Well... remember this boyfriend I had back in mid-school... Jason, as he stops what he is doing, turns to Steph and glares: The one I hit and pushed against the wall and told to never get near you ever again? That one? Steph: Yes! Jason: Wait, he got actually near you again? *starts cracking knuckles* Steph: Yes, but not that way! I wouldn't take that human disaster for a ride and I'd pity anyone who'd date him. Plus I'm perfect with Cass, thank you very much. But we made peace long time ago and we've been good friends since. I'm sure he doesn't hold grudges, after all he knows the work is yours and had no trouble! It's been years, we have all grown up and moved on.

Jason: Fine. ---- The meeting was awkward at the beginning (especially due to Jason's perpetual scowl) but Tim is clearly very professional and jumps right into business. They exchange contact information. It's clear Tim genuinely likes Jason's work. He puts a lot of effort in navigating Jason through the process, giving detailed comments/notes and Jason is happy to see someone catching on the little details and talk excitedly about them. May not be much but internally he is preening. They start meeting often for coffee, at first they'd talk more about work rather than chitchat and then their meetings started evolving into less work and more random talk, getting to know each other. Sometimes they don't finish talking about the book because they got too distracted. Tim opens up about his teen years, how he was (and still is) too dumb for relationships. He didn't know better but as he matured he learned to accept himself. Jason realizes Tim wasn't that bad of a guy as he thought; just someone making mistakes, learning and growing.

Tim finds he hasn't enjoyed someone's company in a while. He has dated guys before and has matured enough to be better and accept what he wants. But as years went by he poured himself into work and has been so busy, he doesn't exactly have lasting relationships so he stopped altogether. This time around, he feels like he genuinely is giving his all. He decides that he will see that Jason's book becomes a reality because Jason is talented, he is amazing and deserves this. And then, he will gather the courage and ask him out. Jason is also troubled because he is developing a fat crush on his sister's ex and he did NOT see that coming.

The day Jason's book is finally out, they celebrate and Tim asks Jason out on a date. ----

Later: Steph: SMH I can't believe you! Jason: ... it's your fault

[travelingtwentysomething]

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[theminecraftbee]

fic masterpost

last updated: august 2024

note that this masterpost does not include tumblr-exclusive fics, because i write those as effectively "sketches"; they're practice and meant to be easy for me, so i deliberately don't 'take them seriously' enough to list them here. (also, there are probably over a hundred at this point.) you can find the tumblr exclusive fics in the tag 'a bee fic' if you're looking for them.

additionally: for ANY of my fics, you can always DM me to ask me to give you spoilers if the tags and summary do not give you enough information to decide if you want to read the fic or if the fic might contain one of your triggers. just let me know in a way i can respond privately, and i will give you that information!

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multichapter fics

this is about a stuffed bird, hermitcraft, T (warning: a bordeline M), 78k. in which an apocalypse happens that turns much of humanity into horrible monsters, mumbo gets a distressing call from grian and decides to travel across the country to meet him. still my most popular hermitcraft fic and my second-most popular fic overall. heavy on body horror, themes of what makes someone a person, and also evil x is here. i still love the mumbo voice in this, and it even has a complete podfic by quackingfish if you prefer audiobooks.

the continued adventures of the boatem road trip, hermitcraft, T, 28k. a series of events that take place as boatem is trapped in the void together for three months after big moon. originally written as a series of vaguely-connected oneshots on tumblr, gathered here into one place. the ending is a little abrupt, but if you're looking for something with the highest concentration of some of my favorite jokes i've made sitting right next to some good old cosmic horror, this is the fic for you.

the last days of the free angel of carrows, hermitcraft, T, 79k. the angel joe hills and the zombie cleo, owners of the atsign agency, investigate a strange mystery brought to them by pearl, and must save their city as they go. a noir-inspired urban fantasy i originally wrote for a big bang, and still my longest fic! it's got some of my favorite worldbuilding i've done, a great joe-and-cleo plot, a pearl i'm still obsessed with, and so much angel symbolism. if you like aus or urban fantasies, this is the one of my fics you should read.

solving counting sheep, evo, T, 78k. blade-three, living weapon of the watchers, is stolen by martyn after martyn finds its command words and taken home to jimmy to try to rehabilitate. what neither the property police or three itself know is that three is the ultimate fate of grian, their friend who they presumed dead. a fic that is very VERY much about identity and learning who you are, and also plays into many of my favorite living weapon and watcher!grian tropes--as well as subverts them in some heavy ways. probably one of the most personal fics i've ever written, as well. my understanding is that both people who like watcher!grian and people who hate it like this fic, which i take as praise.

the carriers, life series, M, 40k. PET mail (the group made up of Pearl, Etho, and Tango) are mail carriers after the zombie apocalypse, as well as asymptomatic carriers of the zombie virus. when cleo, a person from pearl's past, asks them to bring her a package, they go on a journey that barrels through all three of their pasts. this one is rated M for two specific reasons (both violence) but if you're chill with violence this one turned out pretty well! it is a very me take on a zombie apocalypse, what with the fact that the remnants of heavy industry are almost as much of a threat as the zombies, and a fic that leans pretty heavily on the double life soulmate pairs.

san luis, dream smp, T, 23k, perpetually unfinished. after the other three members of sbi die, philza tries to put back together the pieces. it would be easier if he wasn't hearing their ghosts. this is a fic i'm unfortunately unlikely to finish because it just makes me too sad to write after irl events, but it has some of my best handling of grief, and i know it brings some people comfort. if you don't mind me at my most unrelentingly sad, or are looking for that, i might still recommend it.

in deference to saint george, original superhero work, T, 42k. superhero superball, aka jack harlan, starts dating a customer he meets at the coffee shop he works at, while at the same time dealing with the attacks of the villain dragon and natural disasters. a hero/villain fic with a very ME kind of ending, i am still SUPER PROUD of this. i think the worldbuilding and characters work and it's my proof to myself i can write ow! also, if you've always wanted to read a superhero au from me, good news: this may not be an au, but it's very much exactly that.

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long oneshots

consequentialism, hermitcraft, M, 5k. as the members of boatem start falling in the boatem hole, their own dead bodies start showing up. peak "WOULD THAT BE FUCKED UP OR WHAT" horror from me, and also the first hermitcraft fic i ever wrote! if you like my horror writing and aren't too squeamish, good news: this exists.

to convey a certain brilliance, hermitcraft, T, 21k. joe hills and zombiecleo slowly, and through many death loops, drag their way out of their collapsed base to try to survive after a lunar apocalypse. this is the second hermitcraft fic i ever wrote and i wrote it before we knew how moon's big would end, inspired by super hostile; people still tell me it has some of their favorite joe characterization.

cura te ipsum, hermitcraft, T, 15k. tango, in a world where the hermatrix is canon, wakes up on-board the hermethius after dying to the moon and has to try to figure out how to cope. still one of my favorite oneshots i've written, full-stop, and the culmination of all my big moon emotions. it can be considered fully canon-compliant, and it's mostly about all the big emotions something like big moon would cause.

jevin's egg disaster, hermitcraft, G, 7k. the eggs from the season nine egg hunt turn into real children. chaos ensues. this is technically sorted into chapters, and written as a series of very short ficlets on tumblr originally. it doesn't really "conclude" as a result. however this is me on pure crackfic and contains my favorite joke i've ever made (it's in chapter 7 if you're wondering) so PLEASE read it if all the rest of my 'everyone talks about their big feelings' is causing you to need a laugh because it WILL make you laugh.

attempt thirty-three, hermitcraft, T, 14k. joe hills experiences the thirty-third loop of the time loop he's been stuck in, trying to save the world from the rift. a fic exploring the idea of "what happens in that middle part of the time loop when you've been there a while, but don't have things solved yet?" if you like joe hills and you also like hurt/comfort, this is very much a fic with both of those things, and some of my best with both of those things.

a thing that is thicker than starlight, hermitcraft, T, 13k. after reuniting on an adventure through space, long-lost siblings cleo and gem return home and try to figure out where they're supposed to fit into each other's lives. written for recursive exchange and based on "out to the galaxy steady she goes" by thedepressedcanary, although this fic stands on its own. it's a vaguely treasure planet-like au, but it's also MOSTLY about the trauma your parents leave you and the feeling of knowing you're supposed to care about someone (but don't know how to yet). this is my sibling feelings fic, read it for sibling feelings.

the inner mechanism of a black box, dream smp, T, 14k. techno is trapped, isolated, in a horrible version of the prison with only his voices for company. still my most popular fic, and also the fic of mine that is most describable as 'whump'. i still really love the techno writing in this one; it may be the first complete thing i posted to the account but it's still good. written before we knew anything about the prison, and so the situation is entirely speculative; also written before 'techno in prison' really became a genre. you can tell both of these things, for both good and ill.

revenant, dream smp, M, 11k. jack manifold descends back into hell in order to drag tommy back up and out with him. written in a fugue state during the like, three days tommy was still dead. jack manifold is way cooler than he deserves in this fic (he is also EXACTLY as cool as he deserves). to be honest i don't remember why i rated this one M, but not stuffed bird? if you can read stuffed bird you can almost certainly read this. has some of my cooler weird formatting decisions in it and a WAY COOLER VERSION OF HELL THAN THE DSMP GAVE US I'LL STAND BY THAT.

bad beat, dream smp, T, 10k. techno goes to play a high-stakes game of poker against quackity, hoping to win insurance for his friends' lives. do you like card games? i like card games. most of this fic is a thriller in which they are playing poker. both people who like and dislike poker like this fic, though, because the thriller elements still work. also, my one take on casino quackity, so if you like quackity, give it a shot.

a kind of playing heartstrings, empires smp, G, 6k. jimmy invites scott to a cod empire gathering. an older fic of mine that's a cute take on empires flower husbands with a LOT of music culture worldbuilding for the codlands! this is just a fic that makes me feel cozy and happy. it is uncomplicated fluff.

survivorship bias, empires smp, G, 9k. an amnesiac jimmy is fished out of the water and into a surviving village that exists a few decades after the rapture, but still a great deal of time before empires season two will happen. a combination of worldbuilding of that transition period and emotions about jimmy, who doesn't remember why he's sad but certainly feels it. i enjoyed meshing different empires cultures together for this a lot!

the perils of updating your vault hunters server before even the public release (seriously who qa checks this), vault hunters smp, G, 9k. in which a bug on the vault hunters server turns all of iskall's friends into cute small children and he has to get them out of a vault again. this one is just an excuse for me to write endless Cute Baby Shenanigans, and if Cute Baby Shenanigans sound like they're your kind of thing, give it a read!

it's a long way down if you want to get up again, yugioh dm, T, 12k. mokuba tries to puzzle out why his brother is acting so strangely; as it turns out, this is because kaiba has recently time traveled. a fic shoving DSoD kaiba into the earliest parts of yugioh. he is very bad as a time traveler, and he's not necessarily making things better, but they aren't necessarily worse. also, a fic with a lot of my feelings about mokuba and seto's relationship, as well as their relationship with gozaburo. the kaibas will always make me feel things.

on burdens, yugioh dm, T, 11k. kaiba realizes that jounouchi is both more complicated than he gave him credit for and probably being abused, which changes his perspective on him. violetshipping, but mostly pre-violetshipping. another fic where i write people playing a card game! it is also as much about kaiba having the world's worst emotional intelligence as it is about kaiba and jounouchi both having shitty dads.

-

selected short oneshots

a question for the dead, life series, G, 1.2k. a script-format fic interviewing the dead players of last life. one of my favorite experiments with formatting of all time, line after line of character study with no wasted words. read it.

different sort of soulmates, life series, G, 926. an aromantic mumbo jumbo hears about double life after the fact, and talks through with grian his fears that he wouldn't have been capable of having a soulmate. cute grumbo friendship and also some feelings about feeling disconnected from the people around you. a personal favorite ficlet of mine.

the long odds, life series, G, 1.8k. martyn is invited to the table with the other writers to play a game. a very meta fic in which martyn plays blackjack with watchers and listeners. this fic is like 80% metafiction and allegory by weight, and i like it very much.

a murder, life series, G, 483. before limited life, jimmy and joel realize it's coming via a flock of birds on empires. a fic both with jimmy and joel's unique friendship and a meta twist on the whole canary thing.

task: answer the following question: do you believe in curses?, life series, G, 1.2k. the surviving members of secret life explain their thoughts on curses. a spiritual successor to 'a question for the dead' and another one of my absolute favorite experiments with formatting. another one with no wasted words that hinges on the character voice of it all.

home, life series, G, 887. cleo and etho have a conversation about their new relationship after secret life, given that cleo's aromantic. man, i love cletho so much, and i also really like the idea of aromantic cleo, so this is my ficlet with both of those things.

do you even lift, bro?, hermitcraft, G, 2.4k. boatem fluff about who can bench press the most members of boatem. this fic is still really cute tbh, not much else to say.

like father, hermitcraft, T, 2k. grumbot prime decides he has to protect grian the same way grian protected grumbot in another world. the horror of being trapped by something you can't escape in a box designed to stop you from hurting yourself; also, the horror of your mistakes coming to haunt you.

forgetful, hermitcraft, T, 977. an interaction between evil x and xisuma near the end of season eight. a ficlet exploring some of my feelings about how season eight evil x can very easily be read as abusive and not even xisuma ever seems to acknowledge that. also, the horror of admin powers in minecraft.

to spite your face, hermitcraft, T, 980. a ficlet where joe gets to be mad about how he was treated by hermitopia during the crossover. i just think i still have so many crossover feelings about joe hills on empires, that's all.

as what you make becomes you, hermitcraft, T, 3.2k. decked out consumes tango, as seen from three perspectives. technically three separate oneshots collected into one fic as one story, the idea of decked out 2 'eating' tango is one of my favorite horror concepts from season 9. this is my execution of it.

missed the shovel talk so this is the next best thing, hermitcraft, T, 941. the rest of the NHO throws a party for doc and then interrogates him about when he even got married to ren in the first place. a goofy, funny fic about the hermits hanging out and being friends. this one is mostly jokes, but i think they're very funny jokes.

-

i also have a number of other 'shorter' oneshots that aren't included here for the sake of the length of the post. to find all of my fics, including those left out of this masterpost, check my ao3! and, as suggested above, browse the 'a bee fic' tag on tumblr to find a collection of everything i've written, including things i either haven't yet transferred to ao3 or will not transfer there.

i hope you enjoy my writing!

[cowboydisaster]

* ˚ ✦ Compass * ˚ ✦

chapter one: La Belle Fleur Sauvage

pairing: arthur morgan x f! reader

word count: 7.9k

summary: modern au; Living out your dreams on a ranch in Colorado; Arthur finally proposes.

a/n: This is a little gift for @margowritesthings. I originally wrote this for you a year ago, but I've rewritten it for you for this christmas. xx

Arthur is nervous, his palms clammy as he pulls a Carharrt t-shirt over his head. The dark hardwood floor is cold against his bare feet as he slowly pulls his clothes on, layering up to defend against the harsh weather. You sleep comfortably in his bed, unaware of Arthur's absence from your side. He slowly approaches, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. You smile in your sleep. 

"Gonna be a good day, darlin'.” He murmurs, pulling the white, fluffy blanket up over your shoulders before stepping out of the room, trying to keep his footsteps quiet.

The coffee machine beeps twice, notifying Arthur that the morning pick me up is finished. Two mugs sit by the machine, as always. But today Arthur doesn't grab his usual, opting instead for a travel mug. It's an old one. One that he'd gotten from some random bank event a while ago, "Strauss Financing" it read. 

He'd used that bank to get a loan for the house and the barn. God– nearly ten years ago now, Arthur realizes. 

The coffee is black and hot, steaming as it's poured into the mug. Arthur leaves the pot on for you before opening the door, and whistling in the direction of the bedroom. He can hear Copper jumping down off the bed, and then he rounds the corner, trotting towards Arthur and out the door. 

"Hey there boy!" Arthur laughs and gives Copper a few pats. He's had the old vizsla about as long as he's had the ranch. Copper follows Arthur outside, happily trotting after the man. Everything outside is coated in a dusting of white. It's the kind of snow that looks like diamonds, where ice clings to the trees and rooftops, but the sun shines down, making everything sparkle. 

When Arthur gets about a hundred feet from the house, with Copper circling around him, he stops and turns around. The log cabin stands proud before him, even after all these years. Arthur had built the place with his bare hands, just him and Copper. 

The Colorado mountains stand proud behind the house, hues of purple and blue painting  their cliffs, the morning rays of sunlight reflecting off of the snow on their peaks.  When he looks at the slowly aging wood of the house, and the warm glow of the porch lights he can't help but smile. It's not the house itself that he is so fond of, it is what you have made the house– a home. 

When the walls were bare, and the house was empty, save for the few pieces of furniture that Arthur could afford, it was incredibly lonely. He tended to the animals and worked on the ranch all day to avoid sitting alone in the house. He spent his evenings at the only bar in town, Pearson's Pub, drinking to forget and to ignore the empty house. 

Things got better once you moved to town, working as a bartender. You warmed the man's cold heart. You were like a breath of fresh air in this old town. You still are. You managed to take his frozen, barely beating heart and melt it in the grip of your soft hands. 

Arthur began to chat with you while you worked. After only a few interactions, he started coming in on the days he knew you would be there. 

Then, one day, he offered to cook you dinner, and you accepted. Now, you lie in his bed, cozy and happy while he plans for the future. Funny, how things work out like that. All those years when Arthur was young, he'd hoped for someone to love. As an adult, he was content with his solitude, until you came along, of course. Divine intervention, you are. 

Copper barks, stomping his paws in the snow, pulling Arthurs attention back to the present. The poor dog is probably cold. The nip in the air makes Arthur's cheeks and nose red, and his breath lingers in the air like a morning fog. 

The truck isn’t far, sitting halfway between the house and the barn. Arthur shoves his hands in his pockets, shaking some snow off of his hat as he makes his way towards the old rust bucket. Snow and ice fall from the door frame as Arthur swings it open, leaning in. 

He reaches across the steering wheel, jamming the key into the dash and turning it. He mutters a small prayer when the engine starts to stutter and hiss, but after a few seconds, it turns over. Once the engine is running, Arthur turns the heat the entire way up, setting the knob towards the windshield. 

“Should be right as rain, now, huh, boy?” Arthur smirks, stepping down from the truck, shutting the door. Copper barks, running into the wooden barn where Arthur is heading, stalking the chickens, as Arthur slides through the wooden door. 

He shakes the snow off of his hat, boots clicking on the floor as he grabs a few scoops of feed and dumps them into each horse's trough. Arthur greets each one, scratching behind their ears, patting their necks. He feeds, avoiding stepping on loose hens, until he reaches Boadicea's stall. A warm smile graces Arthur's face at the sight of the old chestnut mare. She brightens up at the man's arrival, and not just because of the feed he carries. Her head tosses as she whinnies for him..

“There's my girl." Arthur hums, dumping the feed, soothed by the sound of her chewing. Arthur scratches the underside of Boadicea's jaw, earning a slight whinny from the older mare. 

"S’a big day today, y'know." Arthur releases a shaky breath as he strokes the mare's neck. Boadicea lips at Arthur's jacket, searching for treats that he doesn't have. 

"I'm gonna ask her to marry me."

He huffs through his nostrils then, smiling as he pats the mare one last time. 

"You're gonna be a part of it. I'm countin' on you, girl." 

He then looks to the black quarter horse in the stall beside Boadicea. The horse has a star on his forehead, and a thick dark forelock that covers his eyes. When Arthur had gifted you the gelding, you'd named him Whiskey. It was both an homage to the bar where you met Arthur, and your preferred poison. 

"Hey there boy. You better be good for the lady today, ya hear?" 

He pats the horse who is hungrily lapping up his grain and then brings his wrist up to check his watch. The watch ticks quietly, showing the time as being 6:17am. 

Arthur decides that the truck has had plenty long enough to heat up as he makes his way out of the barn, pulling his jacket tighter around himself. Copper has gone off, probably chasing birds in the woods, or attempting to play with the cattle. Once he's done playing he will come into the barn for shelter, at least until you wake up and let him back in. 

Arthur's hands are tinted pink with cold as he opens the truck door, sliding in and shutting the cold out. The heat from inside the cab is nothing short of cathartic as it begins to thaw his frozen features, slowly melting away the ice and causing his nose to turn pale again. 

Arthur turns the radio up a bit, driving down the long road towards the city. He tries to avoid Denver as much as possible. The tall, leering buildings are suffocating, reminding him of a very dark time in his life. 

When Arthur's ma and pa died, he was placed into foster care. When he was twelve, he fought with the other kids, even beat a few nasty boys that were older than him. Arthur learned quickly that anger and aggression were the best ways to protect himself. 

He ran from every foster home he was placed into, never having anywhere to go, just running. Arthur slept outside many nights, surrounded by vermin– both rats and people. He was spat on, cursed at, and kicked down by many of the people he encountered. It wasn't until he was fifteen that he found shelter- a home. 

— — —

Arthur's feet pound against the pavement as he runs. The door remains open, swinging, as Arthur barrels down the driveway without shoes. The blacktop is rough on Arthur's feet, scraping and cutting into his heels as he scrambles, but he pushes through, determined to get away from the outskirts of Denver. 

He follows the driveway until it meets gravel, avoiding it by running through the grass, into the forest. Tears stream down his cheeks, rough gasps for breath mixed with raspy sobs erupting from his chest. 

Arthur bolts from yet another foster home– another abuser. He can barely see as the street lights get farther away, but he pushes on faster at the sounds of sirens. Sticks and rocks dig into the soles of his feet, but he continues, terrified. 

In his hand, Arthur clutches a small bag, carrying the few things that remain of Arthur's childhood: his momma's ring, and a photo of her when she was young. His knuckles are white in their grip.

Horror trickles up his spine, sickness twisting his guts and making him sick. Tears prick at his eyes, threatening to send him to the ground 

Did he just kill a man? 

Disgust bubbles up in Arthur's throat as he searches around in the dark forest, looking for somewhere to hide for the night. Not far in the distance is a building with a light on outside, it appears to be a barn. Arthur tries not to think about anything as he stumbles towards the barn, feeling like he may collapse at any second. His arms are wrapped around himself, and he shivers as he parts the barn doors, stepping inside, sheltered from the cold winds.

A few animals grumble at the intrusion, but Arthur can barely hear them. His vision is blurry, breaths coming in quick pants as he trips. He makes it a few steps to a pile of hay, mind fuzzy and body cold. Arthur is exhausted and unable to breathe.

Suddenly his feet are falling away from him and he collapses. The impact is made softer by the pile of hay, but it still knocks the wind out of him. Arthur stares at his blood stained hands as they clutch his mother's things. 

— 

There is a shuffle. A door? Footsteps? They stop. 

"My, my… What on earth do we have here?" A man says, his timbre deep enough to rattle the barn walls. Arthur's eyes flutter but he is not able to open them. 

"Christ, Dutch– the poor boy's covered in blood, he can't be more than sixteen." A second voice chimes in. 

Then Arthur is being hoisted into the air. He tries to fight, but slowly begins to lose consciousness again. 

"Well take him inside, have Bessie and Annabelle fix him up… Once he's awake, we'll find out who he is, and.. what he needs."

— — —

Arthur thinks back on that time with distaste as his truck rumbles loudly through the crowded streets of Denver. Things got better after he found Dutch and Hosea. He stayed with them, working on their ranch for many, many years, and once he turned twenty-five the two gentlemen gifted him one hundred acres, enough to start a small ranch of his own. 

Arthur sits at a red light, not far from his targeted destination. His fingertips tap the steering wheel impatiently as he thinks of that bag, his mothers contents inside. His stomach twists with anxiety. He hasn't been down this street in fifteen years. Muscle memory tightens his lungs as he pulls his truck along the street parking, brakes squealing before he pushes it into park. 

Arthur sighs, eyes glancing up to the ornate, tall buildings before him. It makes his stomach turn. All this money poured into concrete structures when kids are starving in the streets. 

He gets out the truck, straightening his shirt and jacket out of habit, before approaching the golden gate outside of the apartment building. 

It's not long before he's in the elevator.

Arthur goes to knock on the ornate door, knuckles hesitating for a moment before rapping on the wood twice. It's the only barrier between him and the penthouse. 

Arthur plans to make the trip as quick as possible. He’d vowed not to come here ever since the verbal assault had been thrown at him during an expensive dinner. He’d left in shambles, still young and naive. Arthur places his hands behind his back and pushes his shoulders back out of habit when the door swings open.

"Mary." Arthur acknowledges. 

Her voice is soft, her southern accent spilling from her lips, "Arthur?” She seems worried, shocked. Her eyes scan him quickly, identifying that he's not hurt, “Is everything okay? Dutch? Hosea?"

"Yes Mary, everyone's fine." 

Arthur takes note that Mary's father mustn't be home, and he instantly relaxes. His shoulders come down and his hands rest at his sides. 

“Come in.” Mary says, opening the door, gesturing to the white couch in the middle of the living room.

Arthur hesitates at the door, but complies when she starts leading the way. Nothing has changed in all the years that he's avoided this place. The carpet feels the same as he walks across it.  The couch dips under Arthur as it used to when he sits. 

Mary sits on a chair across from him. The couch he's sitting on is far more comfortable than the one at home, but he prefers the quiet oak house compared to this busy modern apartment. 

She looks to Arthur, her eyes curious. He hesitates, eyes unsure where to land– dancing between Mary's eyes and the floor. 

"I-” He starts speaking and then stops a few times, before taking a breath, getting the words out, “I've met a woman…” 

A pang hits Mary right in the chest, but she hides it well. 

“Happened a few years ago." Arthur speaks low and quiet, his timbre is deep as he explains. Mary remains quiet and allows him to continue, eyes drifting towards the windows, mind caught up in memories that threatens to pull her under.

"She's a fine woman Mary, and… Well, I'm gonna ask her to marry me." 

Arthur looks up to Mary then, her dark eyes contrasting his own. She has a puzzled look on her face as she replies, 

"Arthur, I'm happy for you, but I’m afraid I don't understand…? Did you come all this way just to tell me–”

“Mary…” Arthur whispers, cutting off her snowballing thoughts, redirecting her to the point that he is trying to get across without being harsh. Without demanding. 

She stops in her tracks then, realization dawning upon her, “Oh. I see.” She smiles, bittersweet. Arthur can see the regret in her eyes. He is quick to ease the tension, leaning forward, trying to soothe the old wounds that Mary has yet to heal. 

"I'm sorry, Mary, I am– that things didn't work out between you and I, but– it means a lot to me, and there's no other-”

Arthur is stopped in his tracks as Mary raises her hand to stop him, “It belongs to you, Arthur. She should have it, really.” Mary smiles sincerely. 

She loves Arthur, though she'll never admit it. She loves him enough to let him go, to let him be loved by someone he deserves. Mary doesn't know you, but she knows that since he came here, for this– you must be deserving of his love.

Mary places her pale hand up, signaling Arthur to wait as she stands and disappears into the doorway towards her room.

Arthur fiddles with his hands, emotion bubbling up as he waits. This is the final obstacle. Once he has his this item back he will be able to give you what you deserve, and if you accept, Arthur will be the happiest man alive. 

Mary rounds the corner, her lips pulling into a bittersweet smile, a few tears dripping down her cheeks. There is a small black box in her hand, extended out to Arthur.

His green eyes transfix on the box. The one he hasn’t seen in almost fifteen years. Arthur places his hands on his knees to push himself off of the couch, staring in disbelief at the old thing. 

It is carefully placed in his hands, and he slowly creaks the lid open, staring. It's a gold band, with a ruby placed in the center, and intricately placed diamonds on either side of the gemstone. It’s the one thing he has that ties the man he is now, to the happy young boy he used to be- when he was good. It was his momma's. One of the only things he has left of her. Arthur closes the box, tucking it away into his pocket. 

“Best of luck to you, Arthur.” Mary whispers, a sad smile on her lips. 

“Thank you, Mary.”

The ride home is quiet, for the first half anyway. As soon as Arthur is out of the city, back on dirt roads, he switches the old truck stereo on. A familiar song is playing, one that's been bringing him quite a bit of comfort in the past weeks. 

“Now I know the only compass that I need”

He smiles. One of his hands rests on the steering wheel, the other rests on his jean pocket. He palms at the box as he drives, making sure it doesn’t slip away. 

“Oh, is the one that leads back to you”

His voice is deep, rumbling in his chest as he taps his left foot against the floorboards of his truck. He thinks of you, riding your horse, smiling, of your hair in a messy bun and you in his too-big t-shirts. He thinks of how you love him, with a passion and a fervor. 

“Now I know the only compass that I need Oh, is the one that leads back to you”

He thinks of when you met for the first time, your fates tying together in ways you never could have imagined.

— — —

Arthur enters the old bar, same as he does most every night. It's the same bar he's been going to for fifteen years now. Contrary to some of the other fools here, he doesn’t always drink when he comes here. Sometimes, he just sits at one of the tables, drawing the scenery.

Arthur comes here to drown out the silence of the house, to get away from the loneliness that he refuses to admit is swallowing him whole.

Tonight, he walks around the tables that adorn the small place, straight up to the bar, sitting down in his usual seat. The place is busy tonight. Arthur assumes there's a game being played, or a rodeo on the tv, but he doesn’t ask. Plenty of patrons sit around the bar, most with women or men in their clutches. Laughter and the sound of glasses being slammed on the bar fill the air, and a neon light flickers on the wall.

Arthur is all too aware of the familiar atmosphere around him, and yet somehow, he misses the new bartender serving tonight. Typically Pearson himself is behind the bar, but tonight someone else is handing out drinks. 

Arthur knocks on the bar once, eyes watching the TV in front of him, a bulldogging competition. Suddenly, a form slides in front of him, blocking his view of the television. He adverts his attention to the person blocking his view, and his eyes go wide. 

You stand in front of him, smiling and whipping a bar towel over your shoulder. 

“What can I get for you, mister?” You ask, wiping your hands against each other. 

Your eyes twinkle like they're among stars, and Arthur is sure that he’s never seen a smile so bright. He doesn’t respond for a few seconds, basking in your beauty. Your hair is not tied up, and it falls down, cascading over your shoulders.

Your black long sleeved shirt is tight, clinging to your figure, but Arthur is caught up in your eyes. He shakes his head lightly before responding. 

“Yeah, uh… Sorry– just get me the strongest drink ya got. Make it neat.”

Arthur's typical order is a bourbon on ice, or a beer, but tonight he's going to need something stronger. Everyone knows everyone in this small town, but you're a new face, and Arthur can already feel the singe of the hot brand, burning you into his memory.

“Coming right up.” You raise a curious eyebrow, wondering about this man’s choice of drink. With your interest piqued, you grab a rocks glass and a bottle of patrón, pouring a few fingers of golden liquid into the glass, sliding it across the bar. 

“Have one for ya’self too.” Arthur tosses a bundle of cash onto the bar. 

“Thank you, mister.” You smile, pouring yourself the same drink. 

You eye the mysterious cowboy curiously, noticing the softness hidden behind his rough features. He is attractive, very attractive, with dirty blonde hair, and a five o’clock shadow that exaggerates the scars on his lip and chin. His eyes are hidden from you by a dark cowboy hat, until he peers up and you are met with the most strikingly beautiful, bright, blue-green eyes you've ever seen. 

You have to look down to hide the blush that creeps up on your cheeks from being caught in the act of staring. If he notices your gaze, he doesn’t say anything. Both of your crystal glasses are set on the bar as you lean onto it with your elbows. 

“You ain't from around here, are ya?” Arthur asks. You smirk. The ruckus from the bar seems to die down in your ears. Even your busy mind quietens as you focus on the peculiar man before you. 

“Is it that obvious?” You laugh, “No, I'm not from here, just moved.”

Arthur hums, content. There's an amused sparkle in his eyes. 

“How'd you know?” You ask, wondering what gave it away. What's making you an outsider? You moved here to get away, to blend in. Anxiety curls in your stomach at the thought of being found. 

“Well, miss, you’re far kinder, n’ far prettier than anyone in this old town… Don't help that everyone knows everyone here. We don't come by new faces much.”

Your anxiety quells, cheeks blushing a deep crimson, and after a moment, you raise your glass slightly, angling it towards his. 

“Well thank you kindly, mister.” You hum. 

“Arthur.” He corrects, clinking his glass against yours, swallowing down a swig of the burning liquid. You cock your head, not tracking at first. 

“My name's Arthur. Arthur Morgan.” He reiterates, and you smile. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Arthur Morgan.”

— — —

Your eyes flutter open slowly. The first thing that meets your eyes is the vase of purple flowers on your bedside table. The morning light hits them beautifully, reflecting off of their vase, refracting on the deep purple petals. 

A wave of realization dawns over you.

Sunlight? What time is it?? 

You sit straight up in bed, eyes immediately seeking the alarm clock on Arthur’s nightstand. It reads 9:25am and your heart leaps into your throat.

“Shit!”  You curse, swinging your legs out of bed, body barely covered by your cotton shorts and cami.

You feed the horses at 6am every day. Today your alarm mustn't have gone off.  You feel terribly, knowing that the horses must be starving. You frown, hair messily falling around your shoulders as you hurry to your dresser. 

A piece of paper sits on the mahogany, and you hesitate in your rush, placing your pointer finger on the paper and reading its contents. 

Fed the horses so you could sleep in. I had to run into town real quick. Should be back before lunch. Call if ya need anything, Sweetheart. Coffee is hot in the pot for you and Copper is outside. - A

The panic leaves your chest, replaced with warmth as you pocket the note, pulling your slippers on as you move towards the kitchen. 

Arthur is always doing this for you, taking on little tasks to remove some weight from your shoulders. Doing anything he can to ease your troubles. He knows that you've been crazy busy with work lately, as horse training always picks up in the winter, and he's been doing everything he can to help. 

You hum a tune as you round the corner, hand trailing along the smooth oak wall. Your slippers are soft and quiet against the floor as you enter the kitchen, eyes trained to where the black coffee pot rests on the counter top. 

You grab your clay mug, the one you'd made back when you were taking pottery classes, and you fill it with black coffee and a splash of cream.

Wrapping one arm around your torso, you move to the glass french doors in the kitchen, overlooking the barn and the pastures. You sip at your coffee, eyes slipping closed as the coffee wakes you up, the warm liquid heating down your cold bones. Your eyes trail over your farm, the brown and black cattle, starkly contrasting the snow. Snowflakes flutter past the glass as you watch the sun peeking behind a few pine trees in the yard. 

Copper runs through one of the pastures, throwing a stick up into the air and then grabbing it in his maw. You can’t help the smile that graces your lips. 

You head back towards your room, pulling out a pair of jeans. They hug your hips and waist, but leave room for your boots to lay under your pants at the hem. You pull on a long sleeved black shirt and your beige ranch coat before leaving your room and pulling your boots over your socks. 

With one last swig, you finish the last sip of your coffee and set it in the otherwise empty sink before opening the glass door and stepping out into the elements. 

You expect the cold to wind-whip your face, but it doesn’t. Instead, the sun shines down, adding some resistance to the cold weather. It causes the snow and ice to sparkle like diamonds as your boots crunch through the snow. 

You push the barn door aside, heart humming at the warm sound of nickering horses. 

“Alright. Who's up first?” You hum, looking to the chalkboard on the wall. It's outlined with feeding schedules, medication times and dosages, and your training schedule.

You find the designated box for today, seeing that today you'll be getting your work cut out for you. You're working with Doob, a seal brown thoroughbred, off the track, with more energy than he knows what to do with. His owners had brought him in for a bucking problem, one that you're already beginning to curb. 

You make your way down the aisle until you find his stall, promptly grabbing his dark green halter and slipping it over his head. 

“C'mon, boy.” You whisper, petting behind his ears, “You're just a big sweetheart, aren't you?” You chuckle as he nuzzles your palm. Of all the client horses, he's definitely carved a home in your heart. He’s a funny little horse, a character. You'll be a bit sad to send him back when you’re finished, but you know his owners will treat him right. 

A short walk through the snow leads you both to the round pen. You leave him loose in the small pen, and he immediately starts running. 

“Yeah, here we go.” You hum, cold biting your nose. You grab a green lasso from the fence post, moving him up with it, pushing him forward as he runs around the pen.

“Good boy.” You call, “Easy does it.” 

Doob gets his energy out, running to his heart's content, wind flying through his long black mane. You just let him run, only correcting when he tosses a buck or kicks. After a long while of working, he eventually becomes tired out.

“That's a good boy, whoa now.” You cue, and he stops on a dime, turning towards you, walking into the center of the circle. Your head turns at the sound of a rumbling truck, and your eyes brighten at the familiar sight of Arthur coming down the lane. 

“Good job, Doob. That's all for today. You go on and play now.” You smile, handing a treat out to the thoroughbred. He takes it happily before you remove his halter, letting him out into the pasture with the other client horses. He'll surely run off more steam out there. 

A few snowflakes are stuck in your hair, and your nose is already turning red as Arthur steps down from his truck. You make your way to him, ignoring the chill in your bones, and leaning towards the warmth before you. 

“Hey, baby.” You smile as he turns to you, shutting the door to his truck. Arthur smiles back, his hands extending as he grabs your waist, pulling you in for a kiss. Your lips are cold compared to his, and he runs his hand up and down your arms to warm you up. 

“Shit darlin’, you’re froze. I was gonna ask if ya wanted to go for a ride but-” 

His eyes go wide as you jump a little, gripping at his coat with your cold hands, interrupting him.

“No, I wanna go for a ride! I'm not too cold, I've got more clothes in the barn.” 

He chuckles, his warm breath creating a fog in the air as he hugs you tightly. You've never turned down a trail ride, not in all the time you've known him. 

“Alright, why don’t you start tackin’ up the horses. I gotta run in the house quick. I'll grab some food too. We can have a picnic.” His deep voice rumbles against your ear as he holds you in his embrace. 

“Okay, I'll grab the horses. Oh- grab the chocolate, okay? The good kind. There's some in the cupboard above the sink.”  

Arthur chuckles, “Sure thing, darlin’.” 

You go to pull away from Arthur, but before you're fully released from his grasp, he gently pulls you back by the chin, catching you in another kiss. He hums against your lips, and you relax into him, allowing him into your mouth. He chases after the taste of you.

After a few seconds, another light peck– or two– you pull away from each other. When your eyes slowly flutter upwards, you see intense emotion in Arthur's eyes. Love. 

Arthur loves you, and he always makes sure to display it, but he's being extra affectionate today, which has your eyebrow raising in curiosity. 

“Why are you lookin’ at me like that?” you chuckle, hands resting on the thick blue fabric of his wool coat. You look up at him with those sparkling eyes, and he falls in love with you all over again. The snow has made your nose pink and cold, and Arthur leans down to kiss it.

“Cause I love you,” Arthur pulls away, “Now, go tack up those horses. I'll grab us a snack.” you peel away from him then, shaking your head. 

One whistle for Copper, and the orange flash is running down from the pasture. Then, he's at your feet, whining happily. The snow crunches and creaks against your boots as you lean to pet the dog, and you both look at Arthur’s back as he opens the door to the house. 

“Your daddy’s actin’ weird today.” You whisper, curiously eyeing the blue coat that moves through the door. Copper barks, as if he is trying to explain, but Arthur had sworn the dog to secrecy. 

You pet Copper before standing up and brushing the snow off of your knees. When you step into the barn,you’re immediately surrounded by the soothing smell of oats and hay. The warm scents envelop you, and wrap you up like the warmth of the barn. 

By the time you have both Boadicea and Whiskey fully tacked up, Arthur is walking through the front barn doors. He pushes the door open wide enough for your horses to step through. 

“So where are we ridin’ to today? Maybe we could trail down to the creek? It's beautiful this time of year.” You ask, pulling yourself up into the saddle. The cold leather sends a chill down your spine as you rub at your thigh in an attempt to make warmth.

Arthur shakes his head lightly as he climbs up into the saddle, “Actually I was thinkin’ we’d go on up to the overlook today…”  

The overlook? You hum. Typically you and Arthur only go to the overlook for special occasions. The last time you'd gone up there was about a year ago. It's a special place. 

You both had said your first admissions of love there, let the words pour down into the plains below. Your first kiss with Arthur was at the overlook. 

But the overlook doesn’t just house good memories. You and Arthur had split up, briefly, a few years ago. The separation took place there. It’s a place of much love and heartache, it's you and Arthur’s spot. 

“Okay, sure… It’s been quite a while since we’ve been up there.” You respond quietly, curiously. Anxiety swirls in your stomach, but you push it down. 

You and Arthur trot beside one another, carried by your mounts. The air is chilly, but your heart is toasty warm as you and Arthur chat, laughing and smiling as you go. The ride to Horseshoe Overlook is a long one, and you make the most of the time as you and Arthur ride through the bright snow. 

“I'll race ya cross’ this hill up here.” Arthur drawls, his lips ticking up in a smile as he looks at you from under the brim of his hat. 

You eye the hill in front of you. It's open, probably over one hundred yards. The snow isn’t deep over the grass and it doesn’t appear to be slippery. Adrenaline seeps through your veins as you eye it, swirling and pumping through your heart, flicking the hairs on your neck up like static electricity.

“Alright then…” You adjust yourself on Whiskey, preparing to run.

“Get ready…get set–” You are cut off as the wind whips your hair and Boadicea starts charging forward. Your jaw drops and you watch Arthur barrel ahead of you. Quickly, you spur Whiskey and kiss and cluck to move him forward. 

“You cheated!!” You scream loudly, trumping the sound of pounding hooves. 

Determination sets in your bones then, and you lean forward, spurring the horse forward with every ounce of might in your body. Whiskey shoots forward until he is running side by side with Arthur’s mare.

“I don't play dirty, mister!” You yell in Arthur’s direction. Hooves are pounding loudly against the snow. The two horses are breathing heavily, each determined to win their own races. You see Arthur laugh, but he stops when you spur Whiskey, charging forward. 

Arthur curses as you shoot ahead of him and Bo. Whiskey's hooves kick up snow as he passes, sending it flying into Arthur's face. It slows him down, giving you the advantage. 

You and Whiskey run hard until you reach the top of the hill, and Whiskey slides into a deep stop right before reaching the tree line. After ten seconds, Arthur and Boadicea are at the top as well, stopping hard and breathing heavily. 

“Dammit woman, you can ride, I'll give ya that.” Arthur pants, face wind-whipped as you ride up beside him and lean over your saddle to kiss him. 

His lips are cold, as are yours, but the kiss is still alight with warmth. You grip onto the collar of his shirt, not releasing when your lips pull away from one another. If anything, your grip tightens on his collar as you eye him.

“I know.” You smirk, winking at Arthur as you pull away and canter your horse away from him, and towards the entrance to the overhang.

He watches you canter on, shaking his head. 

“You are somethin’.” He jests, trotting after you.

When the trees break, you nearly gasp. Though you have been here a handful of times, it always steals your breath away. You can see the house and barn in the distance, separated from you by miles and miles of white snow. Evergreens stand tall, dusted white, with a few herds of elk at their trunks. You can see for miles, past the house and to the tall blue mountains far in the distance. 

“So beautiful.” You murmur, eyes bright with wonder. 

“Sure is…” Arthur whispers, eyes not on the landscape, but on you. 

You hop down from Whiskey, patting him for his good work, and offering him the same treats that you'd offered Doob earlier. You always keep a few extra in your pocket. 

You walk towards the cliff, keeping a safe distance from the drop. Your eyes flutter over the rolling hills and plains before you. Everything seems so quiet up here. Troubles seem so far away. Unique snowflakes slowly drop from the sky, dusting your hair and coat with white diamonds. 

Boots crunch in the snow behind you, stopping just a foot from your back. You smile, but don't turn around when Arthur's chest presses against your back. One of his hands wraps around your middle while the other, unbeknownst to you, rests on the small black box in his coat pocket. 

The serenity of the overlook envelopes your senses as you breathe in deeply. The cold air carries notes of pine and sap, familiar scents that comfort you.

“Love you, y'know.” Arthur hums, leaning down, pulling your hair away from your neck, kissing the soft skin under your ear. Blood rushes to your cheeks, and you turn in his embrace, chest to chest. 

“You’re actin’ strange, Arthur. Are you feelin’ okay?” You chuckle. 

Arthur exhales sharply, otherwise ignoring your question. Instead, he pulls you up onto your tiptoes, your boots on top of his as he kisses you. 

You melt under his touch, kissing Arthur feels like your muscles relaxing after a long day’s work, like rain after a drought. Kissing Arthur feels like coming home. He's been kissing you all day, unable to pull himself away from you. 

You pull away only for a quick breath before your lips meet again. You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, straining on your toes to remain in contact with his lips. Arthur pulls away with a bite to your lip, smiling when he sees how yours are plump and swollen. 

The wind brushes Arthur’s hair into his face as he backs up, pulling you by your hand. He has placed a thick wool blanket on the snow for you two to sit on. You plop down on the blanket beside Arthur, your head resting on his shoulder. Your head rests on his shoulder. Heat radiates from the man, and you are glad for the extra protection from the cold.

“So what snacks did you bring, baby?” you ask, curiously peaking into the bag that Arthur has laid on the blanket. 

“Alcohol.” He says plainly. You laugh, smacking Arthur in the arm as he chuckles. 

“And your chocolates.”

“Arthur!” You chide as he hands you a bottle of golden liquid. You peer at the label. 

It's patrón. You quirk a brow at the drink of choice. Arthur rarely buys the expensive tequila. Curiously, you pull the round cork out from the neck of the bottle and take a small swig. The alcohol burns its way down your throat, warming you from the inside. 

You don't mind the burn, watching as a pair of pronghorn bucks fight in the hills below you. Their hooves slip in the snow as they each attempt to win their battle. Your hands numbly grip the neck of the bottle as you pass it back to Arthur. 

You huff before you speak, “I can’t believe we’re here Arthur. After everything we’ve been through we can just… live now…” You pull your knees up, curling more into his chest. Your past hangs over you, haunting you like a dark cloud. Bit by bit, Arthur has been helping you to push it away, to heal and move on. Today is a good reminder of that progress. 

His hands place the tequila in yours, and you down a swig.

“S’ like your readin’ my mind, sweetheart.”

You smile up at Arthur then, placing your hand on his stubble.

“Y’know this is the first place you told me you loved me…” Arthur says, low and quiet. You smile, the good memories filling your heart as Arthur continues,

“Also the first place I kissed ya…  a lot ‘a memories up here.” 

Your stomach flutters at his words, your brain is flooded with warm memories of Arthur and you in the overlook. 

“C'mere.” Arthur whispers, smiling, taking a shaky breath. Your eyebrows furrow together. but as he stands and extends his hand, you take it. Arthur pulls you up, hands in his own. 

The overlook is beautiful in front of you, serene and perfect. A moment he'd capture with a camera if he had one with. Whiskey and Boadicea watch on from the treeline, ears perked up. They know what's about to happen. Arthur's been telling them about it every day for months. 

“I love you.” Arthur whispers, deep and serious. His eyes soften, and your heart begins to pump loudly in your ears. A delicious red flushes into your cheeks.

“I love you too, Arthur… but why are you.. what's going on?” Your voice is higher than usual, eyes sparkling bright with wonder, reflecting the sun and the white snow.

It isn’t unusual for Arthur to admit his feelings to you, but there are too many factors for this to be a coincidence. Arthur was ‘shopping in town’ all morning, but had come home empty handed. He brought you out to your special spot, bought you your favorite expensive tequila– and is treating you with such delicacy, and love, that butterflies flutter in your stomach. 

Arthur huffs, letting out a humorous chuckle and looking up to the sky, projecting a short prayer, before he holds your hands a little tighter and begins.

“I love you more than I ever thought possible.” He looks away from you for a split second, staring at the ground, before anchoring himself in your eyes again, and continuing, “I didn’t think my life was goin’ nowhere before I met you… I gave up in my twenties, said I wasn’t gettin’ attached to anyone.” Arthur admits, and you frown. You know about his past. You've talked about it, and now you're trying to show him how much he deserves to be loved. 

“I stood by that for a long time…” Arthur's lips crack into a beautiful smile, a chuckle falling over them, “And then you stumbled along.” A single tear drips down his cheek, and landing in the snow below. Your eyes are threatening to overflow with tears of your own.  

“Arthur…?” You whisper, voice cracking. He squeezes your hands reassuringly. 

“You showed me what it felt like to be loved. And love ain't somethin’ I've felt in many a years.” Arthur pauses, gathering his words. A few tears trail down your cheeks, and Arthur’s thumb wipes them away.

“You make me want so much more outta life. You make me wanna wake up every day and work on this ranch, take care of these animals. You make me want a family. I wanna wake up n’ watch our kids playin’ from the window.” 

“But what I want most in life? More than anything…?” A pause ensues, his loving, green eyes locked onto yours, “I want to be with you, every day, for the rest of my life.” 

Arthur thinks back to the song he had been listening to earlier on the way home from the city.

“As long as my compass keeps pointin’ to you, I’ll be where I belong… I’ll be home.”

Tears flow freely from your eyes, and you gasp as Arthur reaches into his pocket, kneeling down on one knee in the snow. 

He looks up at you, one hand still intertwined with yours, the other extending out the black box. Arthur snaps the ring box open, presenting a stunning gold ring to you. The band is adorned with a ruby, and several small diamonds decorate the sides of the gem. Your hands come up to your mouth, as Arthur looks up to you, smiling. 

“This was my Momma's…” Arthur explains, and your eyes flicker down to his, “You’ve already made me the happiest man alive… and I wanna spend the rest of my life with you… So, would you do me the honor–”  Arthur chokes up, “Would you marry me?” 

He looks into your teary eyes, holding the ring box a little higher as he asks the question. You wipe the tears away from your eyes, sight locking onto the scene, wishing you could etch it into your memory forever.

Your head frantically nods, tears flowing down your cheeks as you cry tears of joy, “Yes, Oh, Arthur–of course. Yes, yes!” 

Arthur smiles the brightest that you’ve ever seen, standing before you and slipping his mother’s ring onto your ring finger. The band fits you perfectly, and you marvel at it for a second before Arthur’s arms wrap around your waist. He lifts you up into the air, and you wrap your legs around his waist, laughing and crying, overcome with a happiness unlike any other. Your heart leaps with love and passion for the man in front of you.

His lips crash against your, wet tears dripping down your face as you kiss him. Your hands entangle into the hair at the back of Arthur’s neck as you both kiss, pulling apart only to breathe or to laugh. The kiss is deep, bodies singing with love, energy overflowing from the both of you. He keeps kissing you, over and over again, never wanting to leave the taste of your lips. 

You pull apart, foreheads pressing against eachother's, his hands on your thighs, keeping you off the ground. 

“I love you so much darlin’.”

“I love you too.” You whisper against him, the happiest you have ever been. 

The ring rests on your finger as you kiss Arthur again, senselessly. The band of rubies and diamonds holds promises of a future, of a marriage  and a life with him.

As the wind rustles through your hair, carrying your joy so far down the mountains that it can be felt radiating even miles away, you can’t think of anything you could ever want more than that promise.

taglist: @margofiore @mrsarthurmorgan7 @woman-with-no-name @tillith @luvliewriting @pine4pple-b0i @photo1030 @dudsparrow @holyratrimony @twola

[cinnamostar]

02: self-fulfilling prophecy

part one.

pairing : jisung x gn!reader

summary : han jisung, the man who is incapable of maintaining a relationship for more than a few months. han jisung, the man who is in complete denial that maybe he is the problem. han jisung, the man who has convinced himself he isn’t meant for love.

wc : 4.6k

cw : not proof read, nonidol!au, angsty, sad, discusses insecurities in romance, sappiness, very dialogue heavy

a/n : if you haven't read part one, pls do! i hope you guys enjoy part two :') i didn't have a p2 planned when i originally wrote this, so i hope this is still good and an ending you guys will be happy with! <3 as always feedback is appreciated

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Tears rolled down your cheeks as you exited Jisung’s apartment building, your body on the verge of collapsing as your emotions choked your breathing, your heart feeling as if it had just fallen and shattered inside your chest. Each breath you took caused the emotional pressure on your chest to hurt more, feeling as if your airways had been constricted by your own agony. 

The dreary, rainy weather matched your mood as your legs carried you into the direction of Minho’s apartment, knowing it was the only place close enough for you to walk to at this time of night. The rain began to strengthen, the drops attacking your skin as your hair and clothes soaked it all up, a cold wind causing your body to shiver as you stumbled up the steps to Minho’s apartment. Your fists hurriedly knocked against the door, hoping Minho would somehow be able to sense the urgency behind it as your lips trembled in a poor attempt to stifle your cries.

Minho opened his door, his eyes widened at the sight of your distressed face, grabbing your hand and pulling you inside his home without a second thought, “Y/N? What happened? Are you okay?”

You tried to respond, but all that came out of your mouth was a gut wrenching sob, your body finally deciding to give up on maintaining appearances as you conceded to the stabbing pain your heart just suffered.

Minho stood there with panic rising in his body as he tried to piece together what could’ve left you in this state, unsure on how to comfort you in this moment. “Hey, it’s okay now, I’m here. Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll let you borrow some clothes? I’ll make you some tea in the meantime and then we can talk.”

You nodded thankfully at Minho, sniffling as he led you to the bathroom, handing you a bag to place your drenched clothes in, as well as a neatly folded pile of fresh clothes and a towel. 

You entered the shower, letting the water warm your shivering body that had just been brutalized by the cold rain. Your tense muscles slowly began to relax under the heat of the water, giving you a much needed respite from the weight of your emotions. Despite the momentary calm the shower gave you, tears still escaped your eyes, blending in with the water that cascaded from the showerhead.

After drying yourself and changing into the clothes Minho had given you, you found him sitting at the kitchen table with two mugs of tea waiting to be drunk. He smiled when he noticed you approaching, almost relieved to see how significantly calmer you had looked. As you sat down, he slid one of the mugs towards you, motioning for you to take a drink. 

“Did the shower help?”

You brought the mug to your face, blowing it gently to cool it down while nodding, “It did, thank you,” tears still pricking the corners of your eyes.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You placed the mug down on the table, taking in a sharp inhale as your chest tightened at his question as you recalled Jisung’s words, tears, once again, making their presence known. You did your best to get through your words, but your quivering voice revealed the hurt you were experiencing, “Well, I was with Jisung before I came…”

You squeezed your eyes shut in a feeble attempt to hold back a sob, “And I thought everything was fine, but out of nowhere,” you tried to rush through your sentence, but the overwhelming anguish you were feeling took control as you began to bawl.

Minho instinctively reached for your hand that was resting on the table, rubbing his thumb on your hand to soothe you, “Take your time, we have all night if you need, okay?”

Taking a few more moments to collect yourself, you continued on, “Out of nowhere, he told me he didn't think we were going to work and I… I don’t know, I just left. I feel so stupid right now,” you cried, your eyes puffing up from all the tears you were shedding. 

Minho remained quiet for a moment, confused at his best friend’s actions while trying to find the right words, “Did he say why?”

You sighed while shaking your head, feeling guilty that you had let your panicked mind take control of you in that moment, “N-no, I didn’t even give him the chance, I just… Left… I don’t know, I just didn’t want to hear it. It was only going to make me feel worse and it just felt like he led me on, like all the rumors were true,” you weeped, “I should’ve listened to Hyunjin and Seungmin.”

“I’m sorry Y/N, it must’ve been a lot to take in at once,” he spoke softly, still leaving a comforting hand atop of yours, “But I don’t think you’re stupid, there’s nothing wrong with taking a chance at love.”

“I don’t know, I’m just really sad right now.”

“That’s okay, you’re allowed to be. Is there anything I can do that would help you? Do you want me to call anyone over? Get you something to eat?”

You sniffled, nodding your head, “Could you see if Hyunjin and Seungmin can come over? But please tell them what happened, I don’t wanna say it again.”

“Of course, I’ll do that right now.”

“And can you check on Jisung? He was… he was crying a lot when I left. I want to make sure he’s okay too.”

Minho smiled, “Okay, I’ll have the boys come over and then I’ll head over to his place once they get here. Sounds good?”

You nodded, feeling grateful for Minho’s kindness and patience, but also relieved to know that Jisung would have someone to talk to soon enough.

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Minho lightly knocked on the door of Jisung’s apartment, anxiously waiting for the younger boy to open the door, his phone in hand ready to call if he took too long. From the other side of the door, he could hear hurried footsteps scramble towards the door as Jisung swung the door open, his face red and swollen from crying.

Jisung’s eyes widened in surprise and confusion, the hope he had in his eyes disappearing, “Minho? What are you doing here? I thought you were Y/N-”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Huh?”

“They showed up to my place crying and told me what happened.”

“Oh,” Jisung’s face fell into a somber expression as he tried to stammer out an explanation, “Look, listen, please don’t be mad-”

Minho shook his head, letting himself in and gestured to Jisung to follow him in as he sat on the couch, “I’m not mad, I’m worried.”

Jisung gulped, unsure where this conversation was leading as he sat next to Minho, his brain exhausted from the millions of emotions he had been flipping through.

“Jisung, I thought you loved Y/N-”

“I do! I really do, I love them more than anything and anyone, I know that for a fact,” he sighed heavily as he felt his heart tremble in his chest, the pit of guilt growing deeper and deeper, “But I’m scared, I’m really scared.”

Minho let out a deep breath as he ran his hands through his hair, perplexed at his best friend’s words, “Of what exactly?”

“Of hurting them! Of not meeting their expectations, failing them, all of it. I’ve never been a good partner in the past, everyone knows this,” he muttered out each word with shame, “And I just didn’t want to ruin their image of me, I didn’t want to risk hurting them like I’ve done to everyone else… They’d be much happier if we were just friends.”

Jisung tried to blink away his tears, struggling to put in everything he was thinking into a coherent string of words as he nervously scanned Minho’s face, trying to figure out what the older boy was feeling.

“Okay, I can see where you’re coming from, but didn’t you just hurt them anyway? Didn’t you just do the opposite of what you wanted to?”

Jisung stood silent for a moment, not being able to deny any of Minho’s words, “Well, yes, but it was for the best. It’s better to end it now than later because it would hurt more then, right? I would rather hurt them like this than fail them as a partner.”

“I say this with all the love in the world, but Jisung, you’re being an idiot.”

The two stared at each other, waiting for one to make a move. On one end, Minho was hoping Jisung would be able to realize the stupidity in his behavior, while on the other, Jisung was completely dumbfounded and awaited Minho to further explain himself.

Realizing Jisung was too wrapped up in his own thoughts, Minho continued on, “Jisung, look. Everyone knows how much you love Y/N, okay? It’s so obnoxiously obvious, plus I’ve never seen you be so caring and attentive to anyone before. Clearly, they hold a special place in your heart, right?”

Jisung nodded timidly, letting out a small hum in agreement as that was all he could manage while he silently wept.

“It’s okay to be afraid, especially with what you’re struggling with, but just because you’re afraid doesn’t give you the right to make that decision for Y/N,” Minho leaned forward as he looked into Jisung’s eyes as he tried to convey the importance of his message, “Did you even think to consider how Y/N would feel? They know about your past,  Jisung. Even Hyunjin warned them about you, but you know what? They still took that risk with you, and you were quickly proving them wrong before now.”

Minho sighed once more, “Jisung, it’s okay to be afraid, but you cannot make every decision so selfishly when there are other people involved. Y/N isn’t dumb, but they like you and want to take that chance with you. They like you despite your insecurities and flaws. You should’ve told them how you were feeling, but most importantly, they’re allowed to make their own choices. Let them choose to love you, don’t take that away from them.”

Wiping his tears away with his hands, Jisung jutted out his bottom lip in a pout as he sniffled, “They… they probably hate me now, I think it’s best I leave them alone.”

Minho rolled his eyes as he got up from the couch, still looking at Jisung, “Jisung, why don’t you stop assuming things for other people and find out from them directly?”

“But-”

“Y/N told me to check on you because they were worried. Just talk to them. If you truly love them, you’ll talk to them.”

With hands in his pockets, Minho made his way to the front door, “I have to go home, but you better talk to them. I’ll be really disappointed in you if you don’t.”

After Minho’s sentence, all that followed was the sound of the door shutting and the soft cries of Jisung, who was being eaten up by both guilt and anxiety, fearing how angry his friends must be at him. Part of him felt relieved that Minho was the first person he spoke to as his words brought him some sort of comfort, yet the overwhelming remorse and humiliation roared loudly in his mind. 

Doubt and confusion lingered in him as he processed Minho’s words, unsure if you’d even be willing to talk to him after this. In his world, he thought after the hurt he had just inflicted on you, he was even less deserving of you. His irrational behavior and his instinct to react based on his fears and insecurities served as more proof that he was not fit for a relationship, that you were better off with someone who had a better grasp of who they were and what they wanted.

Yet, while he thought what he was doing was for your benefit, he hadn’t considered once how you’d feel and how this would impact you, especially considering how you both were practically acting like a couple at this point. Especially after he told you he needed more time, but then completely flipped that on its head and left you out in the cold with no real explanation. Minho was right, he was only thinking of himself, this wasn’t him being merciful and saving you from him, this was entirely him avoiding to confront himself. He was fleeing his own vulnerability and masked under some sort of self-righteous sacrifice for you. Much like in the past, he allowed his own selfishness to blind him from reality of his emotions and actions, but at least he was somewhat aware of it.

While Jisung cannot find it in him to forgive himself, he wondered and hoped whether you would, whether you’d look past his mistakes once more and accept him for who he was. He prayed silently that you’d still give him the chance he so desperately craved, yet so foolishly pushed away in the name of fear, wishing you’d still choose him when he didn’t know how to do that himself. Maybe what he needed all along was your neverending affection to finally learn how to love the parts of himself he hated, maybe he needed your gentle hand to guide him through love, maybe he should’ve trusted you while he learned to trust himself again. Just maybe, he would be able to learn what love was truly about if he had just listened to his heart, not his own negative self-hating mind.

┈ ✁✃✁✃✁✃✁✃✁✁✃✁✃✁✃✁✃✁ ┈

Meanwhile, an extremely rageful Hyunjin and Seungmin sat with you on Minho’s couch as they tried to comfort you in sweet, hushed voices, doing their absolute best to keep their anger to themselves. Hyunjin held you in a tight hug as you cried into his chest, his chin resting on top of your head as a comforting hand rubbed your back in gentle circles. Despite the kindness of his actions, his face was a stark contrast as a scowl painted over his features, mentally cursing at himself for letting you get involved with Jisung and not doing a better job at deterring you from it.

Seungmin, on the other hand, was holding back as he bit his tongue, keeping any thought he had to himself because he knew if he opened his mouth, a fountain of expletives would pour out. He knew the last thing you needed right now was him speaking poorly of Jisung, even though he thought he deserved every angry world he had in his arsenal right now. 

Through gritted teeth, Hyunjin softly mumbled, “I’m sorry, Y/N, this isn’t fair to you. You deserve better than that.”

Hiccuping, you whispered, “But I don't want anyone else, I still want him even if he’s being a stupid idiot.”

“Well, he made his choices. A bad one, but all you can do is move forward from it,” he sighed, silently communicating with Seungmin through indignant looks.

All Seungmin could do was hum in agreement, not trusting himself enough to keep his thoughts to himself as he cracked his fingers in frustration, thinking about how he was going to rip Jisung a new one the next time he saw him. 

The front door clicked open, signaling that Minho had gotten back which caused you to sit up from Hyunjin’s embrace as you looked at Minho, tears staining your cheeks. The sight of your face had only made the flames of anger flicker more, serving as the perfect fuel for his seething body. 

“Before you ask, yes, he’s okay,” Minho ressaured you as he made his way to the living room, shooting both Seungmin and Hyunjin a warning look as the two boys quickly hid their vexed expressions from you. You gave Minho a grateful smile as you, for the nth time that night, wiped your tears away.

“I talked to him too, he’s probably going to message you sometime tomorrow to talk things over if you’re open to that.”

You were about to respond, but Seungmin spoke before you could, “Is that a good idea?”

Minho glared at him, “Seungmin, think before you speak.”

Seungmin shrugged, choosing to look down at his phone, but then Hyunjin added, “I mean, he isn’t wrong… I think Y/N should have some time to process their feelings at the very least.”

“Are you Y/N?” 

Both Hyunjin and Seungmin shook their heads nervously knowing they’ve upset the older boy, “Then that isn’t your decision to make. Let Y/N do what they feel is best. We all know how you guys feel about it, so please don’t make this any more difficult for them than it already is.”

The two boys muttered a quick apology to you, not wanting to add any more stress to your current situation, but you knew they only had your best interest in mind and wanted to protect you from any more hurt. 

“It’s okay, thank you for caring for me, but I’d like to talk to him,” you said gently, giving the two boys a reassuring smile, “I’ll be okay, I can hold my ground.”

Seungmin sighed, “Whatever, just say the word and I’ll beat the shit out of him if it doesn’t go well.”

“I’ll verbally beat him,” Hyunjin added, causing you to giggle at the seriousness of their tones since you could never imagine them physically harming any living being.And, as if on cue, your phone vibrated, lighting up with the message:

hi, im sorry about earlier. can we talk tomorrow?

┈ ✁✃✁✃✁✃✁✃✁✁✃✁✃✁✃✁✃✁ ┈

Across from you sat a nervous Jisung, who was fidgeting since the moment he entered your apartment, his fingers tapping the table anxiously as he struggled to find the words, not knowing if there was anything he could say to truly convey how sorry he was. You stared at him from his seat, arms crossed with an expectant - yet patient - look on your face.  Ten minutes had gone by since he had arrived, and not a single exchange of words had been made, and you were growing tired of it. 

“Jisung, please say something.”

The boy froze his seat, his body tensing, not expecting you to say anything to him, “I-...” he paused for a moment, taking a shaky breath in, “I just do not think there are enough words in the world to express to you how sorry I am and how ashamed of myself I am.”

Tears began to well up in his eyes, his legs once again bouncing as he tried to get the words out, “It’s just a lot for me, I don’t know. I know my feelings for you are like nothing I’ve ever felt before, I know that I want to be with you more than anything in my heart, but…” he sighed heavily, running a hand through his soft locks, “I’m really scared,” he whispered so softly, you barely caught it.

It was your turn for your eyes to water, your heart taking a hit as your eyebrows furrowed sympathetically at Jisung’s words. Although you can recognize his fears and could only guess where he was coming from, it didn’t take away from the pain he caused you and how much it affected your trust in him. 

“Could you explain to me what you’re scared of? I want to understand.”

The concern etched on your face and the genuinity behind your eyes makes Jisung fall in love with you all over again, seemingly making him melt under your gaze as his heart swells. But just as quickly as the affection rushed into his heart, also came the insecurity and negative thoughts that endlessly reminded him how undeserving he was of someone so considerate and selfless.

Jisung shook the thought out his head, reminding himself of what Minho had told him the day before, “I’m scared that I’ll hurt you. I have… well, you know, I’ve hurt my previous partners in the past and I’m terrified I’ll do the same to you,” he murmured, guilt lacing each word, “I’d hate to do the same thing to you, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself and even now I don’t know if I can.”

Part of you felt relieved to hear those words from Jisung, now knowing his reasonings were not due to a lack or loss of feelings, or did it have anything to do with your looks or his attraction to you, but rather he was battling his own bouts of insecurities. The other part of you felt guilty for assuming the worst in Jisung and not giving him a chance to explain himself initially, you felt terrible for thinking he was only having fun with you and leading on. The expression on his face told you everything you needed to know about him, and that was him being sincere with every word he spoke. He truly did care for you, he wanted the best for you, and was genuinely struggling with his own complex emotions.

“Jisung, it’s okay to be afraid. Trust me, I am too. I know about your past, even way before I even met Minho or you, but the person I’ve come to know is nothing like that. You’ve changed in the best way possible, I fell and still am falling in love with you everyday.”

Jisung’s eyes widened in shock when he heard your words. All his mind could focus on was how you heard about him way before you joined the team, you knew about every horrific thing said about him when you two first met, yet… You didn’t treat him any differently like others had, you gave him a chance to fully know the kind of person people thought of him as, you still… fell in love with him? Wait, did he hear that right? You love him too? Love?

How could it be possible, how could someone like you possibly love someone like him? How did you manage to see past all his ugly personality traits and still managed to fall in love with him? Oh, no. Did he trick you? Had he accidentally fooled you into thinking he was a better person than he actually was ever capable of being? Oh my, Jisung’s brain was short-circuiting as he started to panic, losing any sense of rationality he had.

Your warm hand resting on top of his caused him to break out of his stupor, his wide eyes softening around the edges at your loving expression and oh, how much he adored seeing himself in the reflection of your eyes filled with affection, a sight he swore he could die in.

“Talk to me, Jisung. Tell me what you’re thinking. I’m here for you, I won’t leave your side as long as you let me listen.”

“I… You’ve heard about me before you even met me?”

You laughed, “Yes, I did. Honestly, I thought you were a real asshole, but I’m glad I gave you a chance anyway. I don’t regret meeting you for a moment.” 

His mouth fell open, still processing each word, “Even after I hurt you?”

“Well, I know now you meant no harm. This is hard for you, I can understand that. I also understand being afraid. What you did hurt me, but I love and care for you too much to let that ruin something between us so long you give us the chance too.”

Each word you spoke was as if a love spell was being casted on him, bewitching him completely as his heart began to pound faster, butterflies warming up the pit of shame he had been carrying with him this whole time. Your words enveloped him into a gentle embrace, so tactful and ginger with his soul, so perfectly chosen that it felt like you were healing cracks in his heart he didn’t even know existed. Oh, how could he have ever been so stupid to push away love so saccharine and addicting? He never knew love was truly like, but now he didn’t want to ever let it go, he wanted to relish under his warmth as long as he possibly could. 

“Really? Do you really mean it?” Of course he knew the answer to that already. Just one look into your eyes, and he could see that you were offering him every part of you and a lifetime of love, and he’d be a fool to ever doubt you.

“I do. I mean it with everything in me.”

Your honey-coated words left him in a blushing mess, nervousness still present in his body, but all for a much different reason. Your sincerity excited him, yet it also filled him with anxiety, the fear of disappointing you looming over him, convinced he had tricked you into falling for a false image of him.

“But… What if I hurt you again? What if I disappoint you? What if I turn out to be as bad as everyone said? I’m not as good as you think I am, Y/N, really I-”

“Jisung.”

He stopped in his tracks, biting the inside of his cheek as he felt your hand squeeze his reassuringly.

“We are two different people, with two entirely different life experiences. Yes, eventually, you’ll hurt me, and I’ll hurt you too. In relationships, we are bound to upset one another, but what matters is how we approach those situations,” you whispered softly, scooting your chair closer to him, “I don’t care who you think you are because I love you for you, and I think you’re the most wonderful experience I’ve had. You can be afraid all you want, but I promise I’ll hold your hand through it and show you that you’re worthy of that love.”

As you scooted your chair next to Jisung’s, both your hands reached to cup his face, wiping away the tears he had shed, “I promise. As long as you let me, I’ll be here for you. Even if you don’t trust or believe in yourself, can you trust me? Will you believe me when I say you’re an amazing human being? Will you let me teach you how to love and be loved?”

All Jisung could do is marvel at the sudden closeness, his cheeks and ears flushing the instant he felt your touch. Your words only sent him further down into a frenzy, goosebumps forming at your declaration as he felt himself swoon in his seat, his head dizzying from the overwhelming sensation of both nervousness and affection. He had so much to say, yet his mouth could barely utter out a sound as he shrunk in his seat, your boldness taking him aback. 

Even though he hadn’t moved from his seat once, he felt himself become breathless as he admired each of your features, he swore he heard wedding bells in the background  as you spoke. Oh, c’mon, Jisung, you need to say something. He was panicking, much like he was during your first meeting, struggling to find the words as he became entranced with you, capturing every detail of your face in his mind so he’d never forget this moment.

“I love you.”

That was all he could say, all he could muster up, but that was enough. That was all you needed to hear as you let out a giggle, your eyes crinkling as you smiled, “I love you too.”

“I’m sorry for being an idiot. I want to try my best for you. I promise I will.”

“It’s okay. You don’t need to apologize, and I know you will.”

“Can… Can I kiss you?”

His question caught you by surprise, heat rushing to your cheeks while nodding, mumbling a quick ‘of course you can,’ as you pulled his face to yours, planting your lips onto his.

Maybe Han Jisung wasn’t so bad after all.

[mercy-love-joy]

Pride Comes At A Cost

A mini summary of an interaction between my Cookie-fied OC and DragonBerry Cookie

Beast Ancient AU belongs to @cuppajj

Main premise:

"Old Caviar" Cookie had a wife who was a family friend of Royal Berry Cookie. The girl was one of the few friends Royal Berry Cookie had growing up in the palace. Sea Anemone Cookie was an author who wrote many different genres of books (romantic comedy was once a favorite of HollyBerry Cookie) and "Old Caviar" Cookie was a Navy Captain before he retired to marry Sea Anemone Cookie.

After the Ancient Heroes became Beasts, "Old Caviar" refused to allow his wife to go anywhere near the "HollyBerry Kingdom" which has now turned into the DragonBerry Empire. Unfortunately, Sea Anemone Cookie grew ill, she was taken to the Creme Republic but was denied due to too many cookies fleeing to the city for protection, so "Old Caviar" Cookie takes her to a smaller village. In hopes that maybe DragonBerry Cookie was willing to help, "Old Caviar" Cookie sent a letter begging the Queen for help. But got nothing in return.

The author passes away by the touch of Saint Vanilla Cookie when the shark cookie goes to sea to find any medicine for his wife but fails. Struck with grief and guilt, "Old Caviar" Cookie stays on the boat where he and his wife live.

Sometime later, DragonBerry sees the old boat and she recognizes the ship. She goes over to see the couple, only to be greeted by an aggressive and distasteful shark cookie who does not like seeing the Queen on his boat.

The Queen demands to see the author but is struck with the reality of Sea Anemone's death. "Old Caviar" Cookie blames DragonBerry for his wife's death and demands she never speaks with him. And the Queen tosses a half-apology before leaving. The memory of the author disappearing as the Beast of Pride leaves the boat and leaving the old shark to wallow in his grief alone until he crumbles.

Some notes to add to the piece:

This was originally going to be a AO3 fic but I lost motivation as I started to press harder on the details for the drawing so I thought maybe this would be more acceptable. Maybe I'll turn it into a fic when I'm not so burned out.

First time drawing backgrounds and spaces. Somewhat proud but I can improve!

My favorite panel is the one with Sea Anemone Cookie floating behind DragonBerry Cookie, that was my favorite panel to draw and my least favorite was drawing that bookcase. It was so tedious to color and draw.