#why isn’t there a tag for that already?

[quokkaholic]

Teenage Heaven h.j

Warnings: MDNI, fluffy smut with some plot, alcohol consumption, kissin and touchin, f nipple play, dry humping, cussing duh. Lightly edited

Synopsis: (NOT about teens)Y/n and Han are in the early stages of their relationship and are meeting up in NYC for the first time since you met initially while he is there for work. Despite being long distance, neither of you want to rush into sleeping together, but that doesn’t mean you guys can’t do other stuff to satisfy your cravings.

Song recommendation: Teenage Heaven by Be Your Own Pet

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Han was anxious to tell you that, as much as he wanted to greet you at the baggage claim, it just wasn’t possible, no matter how much he begged staff to allow it. Despite that, he assured you he’s tracking your flight and will be in a car there waiting for you. When the plane lands in NYC, you turn off airplane mode to send a message to Han only to be inundated by messages from him.

“I cant believe i get to see you in a few hours”

“Im scared”

“And excited”

“Mostly excited”

“I can’t think about anything else. Why aren’t you here already?”

“It’s only been like half an hour”

“Im going to squeeze the life out of you”

“You should be scared too”

“I’m getting no work done”

“This is dumb asf”

“I should’ve been camping at your gate since last night”

“Should’ve never left the airport, and just waited there for you”

“You should be landing in an hour and 47 minutes”

“I keep trying to get them to take me to the airport already. They brush me off like im crazy”

“not crazy”

“Maybe for you tho 😉”

“Headed your way! Yuuh!”

“We’re parked outside”

“You landed 2 minutes ago…WHERE ARE YOU?”

“I tried to make a break for it, but staff knows me too well. child lock is on”

You are grinning at the phone screen as you read them, not only because of how adorable it is, but because you feel similarly. You tried to take a little nap on the flight, but your nerves and anticipation kept you wide awake. You let Han know that your plane hasn’t even taxied into the gate yet, but you'll be with him as fast as your legs can carry you.

“What does your bag look like? I could send someone to go get it for you, so you can just come straight to me. I'm already doing it. What color is it? Does it have a tag or anything?” He’s doing everything in his power to get you into his arms as soon as possible.

“I didn’t check a bag, Sungie. I just have my carryon and a backpack, so I can come straight to you ☺️” 

“Perfect. Better run babe”

Typically when you fly, you are one of the last ones to exit the plane, waiting for everyone else to grab their stuff from the overhead bins and trudge through the crowded aisle, but today you were the first one standing. You think people could sense your urgency; no one even tried to hop out in front as you slipped between the seats. Following the signs, you speed walk to the pick up area that Han is parked at. Your eyes are immediately drawn to a blacked out luxury hatchback with a tint as dark as us legally allowed; there's a man standing at the back resting on the bumper, and he waves you over. As you approach you see an almost unrecognizable figure wearing sunglasses, a mask, and beanie with his face smushed up against the dark glass. When you reach the car, the staff member waiting for you opens the trunk, and you go to pick up your luggage to load it, but are thrown off by a shout from the backseat of the vehicle.

“Y/nnah! Get in the damn car!”

You stayed up late last night stressing about this very moment. How would it feel to see him again? What if the connection isn’t there like it was last time? Would it be awkward? Would you two just end up sitting in silence? As you enter the car, you realize your hours of anxiety ridden overthinking were all for nothing. He immediately clings to you pulling you in for a soul warming embrace. You somehow manage to end up simultaneously both be in each other's laps becoming a roiling lump of limbs and love, unable to tear your hands off him. Memorizing how he feels, for those nights where you question if he is even real or just a self indulgent illusion. There are a few shared kisses, but you are holding yourselves back for the sake of the driver and security in the front seat.

Seeing him in person is a bit like seeing a ghost, and it has you and Han both in a state of awe. There is, in fact, a period of dreaded quiet between you and Han, but it's not awkward. It’s one you two share intentionally to bask in your togetherness. You are both but caught up in the moment, unable to believe this truly happened and worked out. Smiling at eachother with rosy cheeks and racing hearts, you train all of your senses on him, barely even noticing the soft sound of the radio in the background. 

You go over what the next few days of your vacation have in store with Han. When planning, initially he pitched going on a date tonight, but after some discussion, you both decided it would be better to have a hotel room date and just order food, so you cans have uninterrupted couple time for the first time.

The hotel is stunning, way fancier than you've ever stayed at. You enter through a back entrance that is arguably more grandiose than the main lobby as it's only used for high profile guests. Han shows you to your suite; his room is only a little down the hall. Opposed to your typical single rooms with a bathroom and a kitchenette, this place is like a luxury apartment: bedroom, living room, dining area, massive bathroom with a bathtub and shower, and a separate toilet room all designed and littered in the most up to date, trendy decor.

“Ji, you didn’t have to do all this. A normal room would have been more than acceptable!”

“Y/nn I know I didn’t have to. I do this because I want to. Plus, I kind of intend to be over here a lot, so I didn’t want it to be too cramped. I also wanted there to be a place we could sit together that wasn't the bed to be… respectful I guess” He can’t hold your gaze as the last part passes his lips. 

“You're so sweet, Jisung” You say as you walk over to him after you dropped your bags. He's cheeks hot and avoiding your eyes; you are drawn to him, possessed to hug and squeeze and never let go. The snuggle pulls Han out of his shyness caused by your compliment.

“That was the first time I’ve heard you say my name in person” He says nuzzling his face into your neck. He snakes his hands around your waist and delivers his promise from earlier; Han squeezes you so hard, like an python, he manages to squeeze tighter and tighter while attacking your neck with quick tight lipped pecks until your back cracks. It startles him a bit, gasping and releasing his hold to grab your shoulders with a look of horror on his face. If you weren’t immediately cackling about it, he would have been worried he hurt you. 

Han was considerate enough to think ahead, and the food was to be delivered soon after you guys arrived at the hotel for an early dinner so you guys could spend the evening together. For now there is nothing to do but enjoy being in each other’s company, and it feels so right. It's tender beyond comprehension, but not overly explicit: gentle kisses and even gentler hands traveling up ticklish sides or through lush hair.  Running your hands up and down his toned arms, you can't help but grab them briefly, feeling his muscles flex under your touch; they have definitely grown since the last time you saw him. You guys slowly start to get more and more comfortable and bold. The soft grazes transition to firm pets, but there is soon a knock on the door. He took your suggestion, and ordered from your favorite restaurant from the last time you were here as well as a bottle of your favorite wine which he must’ve committed to memory from a long passed conversation, as you don't even remember sharing that info. 

Dinner is a dream. The table is by the massive glass sliding doors that lead out to the balcony allowing the city lights to stream in. It goes without saying that the chat is immaculate, but the energy is so familiar and fun. You aren’t worried about eating too much in front of him or talking with your mouth full. Jisung just makes you feel comfortable and admired, like you can just be yourself and he’ll savor every moment. Once dinner is over and the bottle of wine is empty, you two make your way to the couch under the guise of wanting to show you some new music he has been working on, but the intense stares and frequent brushing hands had the tension quite high. He simply turns on some tunes to not be in silence, before your lips find each other. 

The intimacy from early returns tenfold with newly injected sensuality. The firm grips progress to needy grasping, with daring finger dipping under the hems of your shirts, and you find yourselves in a passionate makeout. Although the kiss is hot and lustful, his tongue is timid in its exploration, so soft and gentle as it glides through your mouth, careful to tame his raging desire and not to use too much force. It becomes the sloppy and impassioned kind of kiss you can lose hours to. Your session goes till your lips are swollen and your hair is a mess. You would say the light lip product you had on was gone, but you know exactly where it is, it’s smeared out all over and around your mouths only adding to the kissed raw look. Han’s messy love drunk expression spurs you on, and while traveling your kisses down to his neck, his hands grip your hips to lift and guide you to straddle him. You don’t hesitate to follow his lead.

Settling yourself down onto him, you both let out a small gasp, and you have to fight your instinct to seek friction, but your restraint is short lived. After Ji undoes your bra and helps you remove it from under your shirt, his hands are glued to your breasts gently kneading while intermittently rubbing his thumbs over your nipples drawing soft moans from your lips and little circles of your hips.

You keep trying to give him attention by kissing his shoulders or nibbling on his ear, but he will only let you do it for a moment before he switches his affections back to you. Once you notice the pattern, you pull away for a second, also partially to catch your breath. You ask through pants,

“Am I doing okay? You keep cutting me short,” staring down into his eyes you see no sign of discontent. In fact, at your words his full cheeks tense into a big smile before going back to attacking your neck and mumbling against your skin like he can’t look at you when he admits,

“You just sound too good, Yn. I can’t get enough.”

His words alone make you whimper into his ear causing him to shiver. He begins to move lower, lingering on your collar bones. Licking and nipping. He lightly presses together and lifts your tits to his mouth to kiss them through your shirt. Kissing all over but planting light kisses to your hard bud before switching to the other. He reaches for the bottom hem of your top and looks up to check in before he proceeds.

“This okay?” You struggle to find your words and just nod down to him with your lips pressed together, but he asks again wanting a verbal confirmation from you as he begins to raise your top.

“Feels good baby?”

It would be much easier to respond if he wasn’t giving feather light kissing to your sensitive nipples.

“Yes, Ji. I… I really like it” you say, gasping as he pinches your bud between his top teeth and tongue. Screwing your eyes shut as seeing him look up through his tousled hair with his adoring gaze, mouth connected to your chest, makes you feel like you’re going to melt. You can no longer restrain the involuntary rutting of your hip and decide to just commit. One of Han's hands shoots down to grip your hip tight enough to leave fingerprints and presses you down to grind into him. His previously low and soft moans are rising in volume and frequency being dampened by your skin. Your linen pants are cute and were so comfortable for the flight, but they do little in the way of concealing what you are grinding against. They are so thin that you can target your clit onto the zipper fold of his jeans over the shaft of his hard cock.

With all the work Han has put in with his mouth, it doesn’t take many circles of your hips to get the heat and pressure in your lower stomach to rise. You grab either side of Han's face and remove his mouth as the pleasure was starting to become too much and smash your lips down on his and moan into the kiss. Keeping your pressure firm and rhythm consistent, Han’s breath is trembling, whimpering and whispering your name. His sounds, his words, his touch, it all works together in symphony, and you contract forward to rest your head on his shoulder and groan as the you reach the tipping point and you orgasm radiates through you. As you hold onto him and attempt to ride out your pleasure, the sensation of Han now gripping you with both hands pushing you down on his lap, aiding in your grinding as he fucks up against you have another high crashing over you. His voice is shaky when he finds the ability to speak,

“Fuck. Feels so… I’m gonna…Oh my god”

His rolling of his hips has turned to erratic bucking as he cums hard shuddering, wrapping his arms around you and squeezing like earlier.

“Holy shit. I haven’t jizzed my pants since I was a teen” Han giddily admits with just a twinge of embarrassment, still clinging to you trying to catch his breath.

“This is a first for me! Didn’t know it could even happen” you confess still winded from the pleasure, causing you both to let out weak laughter, neither of you daring to move for a few minutes, just lounging in the afterglow. You guys decide that Han will stay to watch some stuff and if he just so happens to fall asleep here, oh well, right? Getting two rooms was out of respect and consideration, but you both knew you’d end up sleeping in the same bed. He lets you freshen up in the bathroom first, and once you exit, he has a fresh set of clothes in his arms. He must’ve called one of the guys to bring them. 

The rest of the night is filled with endless snuggles and random movies you can find on the hotel channels; the Harry Potter movies always seem to be on TV, so you end up watching two random ones of the series out of order. Han offers to go get his laptop to hook up to the tv, but neither of you care enough to walk the 40 feet down to his room and back. This night isn't about the movies, it's about taking in every moment of being in the same room. You guys end up staying up late flicking through channels, becoming amateur film critics. It's a bit past 1am when Han has the brilliant idea for you guys to go to a convenience store nearby and pick up some ice cream. You are in the city that never sleeps, and you will never turn down an adventure or a sweet treat. He sends a text to Minho claiming he can’t get ice cream without at least offering to get one for his best friend.

“Going to get ice cream. Meet in lobby in 10”

You and Han put on your shoes and coats and share a few more smooches before you can’t for 20 minutes.

“Did Minho respond?”

“No but he read it”

“So..?”

“He’s probably already down there waiting for us”

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A.n- I initially wrote this for a Han fic I was making before I realized that writing long form fanfic was not for me, so there's a bit more plot in this one. Thanks for reading.

-mo 💕

Mastserlist

[pepstarvanmoon]

Someone please get El out of there

Is it not obvious what this is? Do you really not know what you should be doing? SAY THE DAMN WORDS.

Why do you think she’s doubting you? Can you really not tell?

Mike, sweetheart, your relationship balancing skills are a terror to your friends, family, and romantic partners.

This is why people found Midleven cuter in S1/2, because the day you made it official marked the beginning of El’s doubts in your feelings for her.

You cannot seem to grasp that El is your friend AND your girlfriend, and somehow treating El like a girlfriend equates to treating her like shit.

You cannot make this up. El needs WORDS because Mike’s ACTIONS actively make her feel unloved. She does not feel it, so she wants some kind of verbal/written affirmation because of how emotionally distant Mike feels.

(someone talented please edit Elmike to Hamilton’s Burn or send an existing edit my way, thank you ♡)

His actions do not align to her expectations of love, not that it’s a good idea to let TV define romance for you, but you’re allowed to want/expect certain things in a relationship, and El isn’t getting that.

And let’s not act like Mike isn’t good at making people feel loved/cared for. Will is in love with him for a reason. El loves him for a reason.

(It was difficult to pick scenes for this because I’ve read arguments for how these aren’t really romantic at all, but from 12/13-year old, “fresh out the lab” Eleven, it’s as romantic as romance gets imo)

El has been trying to convince herself that their relationship is better than it is, because once she admits to herself that it’s not working, what does she do?

Her day-to-day life isn’t that great. Sure, she has her new family in the Byers, but her dad recently passed away and she’s being bullied at school. She has no friends outside of Will, and while I’m sure their relationship is great (wasn’t explored that much tbh), he can’t keep her from feeling isolated, and his own trauma with bullying keeps him from standing up for her.

One good, unchanging thing she has is her relationship with Mike. He’s the one who took her in and housed her, he taught her what it meant to be a friend, and… I’m having a bit of trouble here lol. I was going to say:

Never used her for her powers (not true lol)

When she was burnt out, he never expected more from her (not true LOL)

Never treated her differently for her powers (for this one, he found her awesome in an awestruck way rather than a Brenner “I’m gonna exploit this” way, but when he thought she lied about Will/hurt Lucas he was on her ass lmao)

My girl has those ‘first love’ blinders on. I keep having to ask myself what she sees in him besides ‘first person to accept me + we kissed’ like besides the latter, Dustin was right there. A lot of the parts of Mike I enjoy don’t reveal themselves around El outside S1 (barely S2). He’s shown as caring and protective, but he’s like that for all of his friends?? Especially when they’re in danger so idk what’s different. I’d have to peruse the milkvan tag to get a hint, but I’ll probably get a better idea watching Sleeping Beauty.

I’m a firm believer that Mike kept it ambiguous because he didn’t want to admit what the real problem was to Will.

“I couldn’t tell El that I love her.” - simple as that. Must be something about Will that has him holding his tongue because after S3 I doubt he’d have that much trouble telling Lucas.

Are you embarrassed? If you thought it wasn’t that serious you wouldn’t have told Will that it was something you “can’t come back from”. Is love serious to you, Mike? Because you can’t love El in the way she wants, do you think you’re incapable of it? Do you feel wrong? Do you not want Will to know?

Hit a little too close to home, huh.

(and let’s not get into the "team, friends, best friends" scene they had together like what was the point in having them make contact a SECOND time.

They already established a connection between them. Mike could’ve asked to be a team after the "guess it's gonna be up to us again," and Will could’ve taken the painting offscreen (the focus shot of Will grabbing the painting gets me so bad like WHY), but instead they wanted them to blush and giggle over each other AGAIN before they got to the van.

Make it make non-Byler sense I'm begging.)

You’d think that’d be good enough, but Mike still feels conflicted and has to make it Will’s problem (actually, Will kinda made it his problem. The way they shot the triple take makes it seem like Will dragged Mike away for another talk because of how spacey he was being. Who knows.)

Tf do you mean you didn’t know what to say? “Maybe if I said that thing” so you DO know? It’s painfully cut and dry if you take emotions out of it. El wants Mike to say that he loves her, so to fix this, to come back from that fight, Mike has to say he loves her.

Why is it such an internal battle for him? If I were to take it at face value, I’d chalk it up to what he said in the van scene.

So your solution is to push your relationship to a point that has El crying and throwing all the loveless letters you sent to the floor? To tell her that she’s incredible and a superhero and that she should know how you feel about her because, despite the tears streaming down her face and her DIRECTLY asking you if you still love her, she must know how amazing she is too?

NEWSFLASH, Queerler! She’s learning just how much she doesn’t need you right now, so I guess it’s time to face your fears!

This isn’t what I meant, but go off ig (don’t, actually, this is awful for everyone involved).

No way you expect El to buy this. You’ve expressed this fear of "losing El" to Will, I’ll give you that, but nothing you’ve done IN FRONT OF EL has conveyed this. Your letters weren’t helping, and you being there in person only made it worse.

Eagerly awaiting the day Michael Wheeler stops lying.

Well, I guess he doesn’t lie ALL the time.

[red-doll-face]

Snow Angel 11

Chapter 11: fevered Series Masterlist

low - medium honor Arthur Morgan x fem. Reader

Arthur has been living by himself, laying low (for real this time) somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. After the whole Pinkerton and Micah debacle, he has been hiding away, waiting for it all to blow over, occasionally getting letters from the people who still know that he’s alive. He’s been alone awhile and at first, he thought he could handle a little loneliness. He has been wrong before. Lucky for him, you look like the perfect thing to break up the monotony.

Warnings: dubious consent, arthur’s mental health is kind of not so good…VERY low honor Arthur, darkish fic, a bit of naive reader. Reader has dated and period typical ideals, not very good ideas about men and marriage… if you want reader to be strong and a fighter… this is not for you sorry. suggestive themes. Huge HUGe Voyeurism bit, arthur being a perv 🤨👀 huge weirdo energy LMAO small mention of wanting death, WC: 7780 Hello snow angels : ) here is chapter 11!!! this chapter will be from arthurs perspective so very exciting 😳 i had a ton of fun just getting nasty with him and writing his fucked up little thoughts 😈 arthur inner monologue was a bit weird at first but im sure ill get better at it by actually attempting to do it LMAO i hope you guys enjoy and pls let me know what you think!!! i wanna thank everyone who has left replies and asks about this series, all of you have been so supportive and amazing, couldnt do it without you guys 🥹🥹💖💖💖 also this ended up way too long so sorry Tags: lots of angst todayyy, no TB, weird but not that toxic relationship, Arthur being a menace.Arthur being rude as always just… low honor arthur as a warning lol - What does it matter if the man who saved your life is a little strange?

It must be dusk falling too soon. Slow deprivation of heat and light; does things to his head, as if that wasn’t half screwed off already. Arthur’s fingers clutch the dusty curtain in front of one of two main windows at the front of his cabin; his eyes swear they can see…something out in the treeline. At first he thought of Pinkertons; to collect that bounty they were on about. Why they would follow him to the ends of the earth for that would be beyond him but Arthur had been known to do stupid things for a big payout. And of course, he hadn’t lived this long without a healthy amount of paranoia. Or what he called caution. Or perhaps Charles should have left his ass at the nearest asylum.

But he can sense that he’s wrong when nothing comes of it. No gunshots, no desperate shoot out for his life. Just the quiet again. In a minute, he’ll look out the window and watch the figure disappear. And he’ll shake his head, rub his calloused fingers over his tired eyes. He drops the curtain, pouring another cup of coffee at the silver percolator in the kitchen. He is not losing his grip; he isn’t. He’d leave that to Dutch. 

It’s gotten worse with the winter; those strange things he sees from time to time. They make him feel more out of place than he already does. As if there’s something wrong with him, wrong with this moment. The frost grows over the windows like mold.

The summer sun kept the darkness from slipping in and leaking into his vision. But that’s long gone, been gone for a month. Shit weather up here, long dragging winters. Summers that were too short for his liking and an autumn that was beautiful but also short lived. The winter is too heavy now to do much of anything but loop out to the stable and back. Not much sightseeing to do, the same shock white landscape to see everyday. 

In spite of how beautiful the mountain is; with its sprawling forest, creeks like liquid glass, the fresh winter air… Arthur finds it arduous to see it. Closing himself inside his cabin is easier. He could go and hunt something, draw the scenery. But was that any better than the fireplace? The comfort and simultaneous unease of staying inside the confines of his new home drag him in opposite directions. And even if his paranoid visions are just residue from another time in his life; he knows there are people who could be still searching, who might remember his face. Bad things had a way of following Arthur wherever he went. 

Even more loathsome is the lack of sunlight. The sun disappears around 4 or 5 and it feels like it was midnight by 6. The windows of his wooden cabin blacken like soot, leaving him tired and groggy. 

Arthur tries to keep himself going with bitterness like always. Coffee, cigarettes, and alcohol. He thinks the lack of light plays with his head. It’s easy to mistake shadows for ghosts, trusting himself was hard as it was. 

Damn snow, cuts to the bone.

The stunning silence surprises him still at these odd moments in the day. Arthur thought that maybe the peace would do him some good. But there was a need that scratched incessantly at the front of his skull. Over and over and over. 

He spent a long time being needed by other people. Dutch made him feel needed at the very least. Like he was part of something that symbolized how free a man could be. And he had devoted every shred of himself to the vision that Dutch had for the world. It was all that mattered to Arthur. His fealty was really all he had to give and so he gave it. 

God, had he felt the fool on the last day he saw him, when Dutch walked away, as if everything Arthur had ever done was nothing to him. Twenty goddamn years of his life. If he was being honest, he knew that his loyalty was wasted before that day but he had waited to see if the man he knew would emerge. If he could kill that gutless rat and show Dutch the truth but he refused, leaving Arthur with nothing to show for it. Helping John, Abigail and Jack to safety was barely a comfort when he thought of all that he wasted. All he did was hand another man a chance at the life that he wanted. 

But it was too late. As always with Arthur. (Everything was always too little; too late) Providing for others was embedded deeply in his being. It was something he had done for years, especially when he decided to get his shit together. He might have dallied, thoroughly enjoying his youth. But he learned (through several extremely painful lessons) why it was important that he pick up the slack. Loyalty isn’t represented by inaction. He hadn’t been all too kind to people but he had kept his comfort that in some part, his work was what kept that camp running. And when that fell apart; he really did try to help the less fortunate.

Really, he was making up for his failures to the people he cared about most. Arthur questioned if he had cared enough. If he did, maybe things would have ended differently between him and the people he harmed by being selfish.

Maybe Dutch put some modicum of power in his hands and Arthur had wielded it badly, went around acting like the cesspool he felt like most of the time. But at the end of the day, the camp ate because of him, they had medicine because of him, hell, they even drank because it was him that brought back more money than anyone else. 

There is no one who needs him now. Arthur scrubs his hand over his face then down to rub over his shoulders. Leans his head back. At first it was nice. The independence. No more debt collecting for Strauss, no more worrying if there’s enough food for Pearson, no more looking out for O’Driscolls. He thought he would like only having one person to worry about; he had been lying to himself. Although he still had other things missing from him. They’re like phantom limbs. He can feel where they were supposed to be but when he looks down they’re gone. Hosea’s guidance was missing from him. Even if he was terrible at following it. The sound of the girl’s giggling and gossiping. Even Uncle and Swanson ambling around, drunker than he thought was possible. Dutch looming, watching through his haze of maduro sweetened smoke. He keeps looking down but they’re gone.  

The fire crackles and the wind howls; picks up the silence. Sometimes the wind from the flue sounds like the breeze over Flat Iron Lake. The fire doesn’t sound any different than it did when it crackled warmly around a circle of a mismatched band of criminals singing songs together, alongside the chatter and the drunken crooning. When it was the background noise to thick Irish blabbering. The poor kid. He was going places, as most of the younger ones were, he and Lenny would have run that gang when they got past their growing pains. He could have told them that when they were living, that sentiment would have meant something then. 

It’s been a year or two, the days sort of connect like train cars and chug along, not because he wants them to but because that’s how life goes. It’s an endless drag, an endless struggle. He can’t see how this is much better than being dead. Arthur Morgan is one of the few people who knows how precious life can be, he spent a lifetime taking it away from people as he pleased. 

He tries to savor this peace (as if he knows how to). Tries to remember what it was like, not having any time to himself, always at Dutch’s beck and call. Barely any time to take a piss, let alone really rest, really give himself room to be anything but what others wanted. How he loathes those memories. The years he spent dedicating himself to another man's dreams. Watched all those years slip away, ashes in a smoke stack, rising forever upwards until they’re forgotten. 

Arthur refuses to recall how many things he gave up for that life; down to the simple pleasures. Love, privacy, a family. He convinced himself that anything else wasn’t living, that he couldn’t ever be tied down. That old life was just… what he had. There was nowhere else to go and when he was old enough to go his own way, there were kids like him with nothing left; nothing to return to, no one to look after them. He might not have been anyone to look up to. Maybe he was a shining example of what not to be. It was Arthur who was there to keep people in line, to show them how to be killers for Dutch’s aspirations. He’s sure he ruined lives more than he taught them anything useful.

Nothing about that life was rooted in anything real, substantial to the world. Pipe dreams. Vague imaginings of living free in the west or some such tropical paradise. What a waste. Just the thought of a secluded island with palm trees on it summons a bitter laugh. 

He sits and watches the fire. Tries to ignore the shadow in the corner. It's thin and wavering. Today, it looks a bit too much like Hosea for his taste. Especially when the log on the hearth cracks, it sounds like that ominous cough that followed the graying conniver everywhere he went. 

Arthur lights another cigarette. He’s been making (quite frankly, just awful) attempts at rationing and this is his allotted second cigarette of the day. He’s two for five. He curses himself every time he forgets to take the drags and it crumbles to ash too quickly, landing on the rug beneath his boots. He hisses, a singe on his fingers snaps him back to the present moment. It burns his fingers when he forgets that he’s holding one entirely, too busy drilling holes in the walls with his eyes. He can’t stand it but he doesn’t have another choice. The silence has the mysterious property of making Arthur lose track of himself. He should have listened but he never learns. 

This deep into winter, not too far from the base of Mt. Pàtu, he can’t just head out on the road and get more cigarettes. The nearest town is a six or seven hour ride and that isn’t happening, not in this weather. He might take Currant out for a light trot so he can get some exercise but he can tell something big is coming soon. The bellows of air from the west have him readying for storm weather. Best to get a move on now if he were to be going out. 

It’s dinner now. He’s not sure where the time went but he doesn’t mind too much. He’s got coffee and he’s got hot food. Salt pork with potatoes, boiled in the salt water from soaking the corns of salt off the meat. He’s gotten better at cooking at least. Arthur scoffs at the thought of the slop he used to be eating. He takes a glass out and sets it on the counter, along with his fifth bottle of Kentucky bourbon. He’s allowed 6 bottles a month. By anyone else’s standards it might be a lot but where he spent most of his time; around other drunkards and degenerates, it’s not enough. 

The storm hits full force now, there’s gonna be snow all the way up to the porch by tomorrow morning. But the air inside of his cabin is still and smoky. From the window, he checks the stable to see if the doors stay closed. It’s well insulated so Currant should be fine. The storm will have scared most of the game into hiding away, he contemplates when he’ll head back out for hunting. He takes a seat at his plain dining table, spends a while on the same glass of bourbon. The smell of cedar and salt is nice.  So is the warmth of his cabin but it’s all lost to him. His sense for how fortunate he is to be here and not dead in a ditch is dull. Only he could be the man to crave chaos and blood and the sound of gunshots while sitting on his ass all day, sipping bourbon. 

He thinks he’ll read a boring book or pretend to keep busy by stoking the fire. Arthur listens to the silence, waiting to hear something but the crackling and the draft from a small crack in the wall. But there’s nothing. He should have listened to Charles. But he insisted that he would be fine. He can’t go back on that now, he’s always been fine by himself. He’ll just wear the groove into his leather chair even further like the sorry bastard he is, trying to ignore how small and stiflingly warm the room feels.  

The blizzard gets louder and louder. Dozing off on the sofa or in his chair sounds like as good a time as any. But he isn’t exhausted, just annoyingly groggy. Bouncing his knee does not count as activity. Neither does all the fidgeting he does, twitching his fingers, putting his legs up and bringing them back down. He tries to pace a little but wearing treads on the floorboards isn’t doing any good either. He puts his hands on his hips. 

 He grabs his journal but he doesn’t have much to write. What would he write about? Surely, the exciting things he experiences everyday. Waking up feeling like hot shit on a platter after having too much whiskey was not the kind of thing worth memorializing in his journal anymore. He’s a little past the shame now too, the embarrassment. He lets his fingers feel the blank page, the tooth of the paper. 

He lets his hand form images of spring, the point of his pencil worn into a dull tip, recollected as best as possible. It’s nothing but a pale comparison. 

There’s a pat on the door. It’s soft and weak. And just as softly, there’s a voice pleading for help, asking if anyone is inside. A light shining in through the cracks of his world. 

He pushes himself up. He knows he hasn’t had that much to drink tonight. The worst possible outcomes play in his head. A ruse from bounty hunters, a local gang taking advantage (not a whole lot better than he would have done only 3 years ago), or another ghost from his past (the ones that play at the corner of his eye). His chest gets a little tight but he’s been good at keeping unease from holding him back. Arthur shakes his hand out, placing the book on the mantle of the fireplace.

“Who’s out there?” It’s an oddity. To hear another voice. One that isn’t his own. It’s a beautiful noise, a pleasing beckon. But he’s no fool. He doesn’t even particularly want to be here, why would anyone be here if they didn’t have to be? He grabs his revolver from the small table next to the entrance, one of the only loaded guns in the house. “Please, sir, I promise it’s just me,” and the earnestness in that voice, he has to believe that promise is true. He has to open the door. With a deep sigh, he stuffs the gun away after a second thought. 

The figure is much too bundled up to gather any immediate details. She’s not very much, standing there out in the cold icy fluff. It isn’t until he nods his head to direct her does she realize she should probably come in. He peeks out at the tracks, just one long line of horse tracks in the process of getting blown over by the harsh wind and the lashing ice. Her struggle up to the porch marked in snow. Arthur scans the tree line for any of those dark silhouettes but they’ve blown away in the wind, they’re pushed from his mind when he turns back and closes the door shut behind the both of them. 

He turns to her, he doesn’t mind the way she shrinks away from his body, skittish and slight. Such a small girl, alone in a snowstorm. He can’t think of a single good reason why she would be going it alone and what she could possibly need more than a night in. She should be warming her hands next to a fire. He could do it for her, could gather them and breathe on them. He tosses that behind him like an empty tin can. He has other things to focus on, mostly trying to get a better look at her and prying an answer out of her as to why she’s out here like this. 

He’s more rude than he intended to be but a little rudeness is nothing new to him. “What the hell were you doin’ out there?” He has been described as coarse. Intentionally and unintentionally. He’s a little bit like a puffed up rooster when he catches her looking him over, marveling at the size of him. But he lets that fall away, surely she needed no old man assuming things on her part. He knows he ain’t much to look at. At his gruff tone, she has no response. The poor thing is so cold, her teeth chatter, whatever she mustered up to yell at him over the storm has run out. Arthur feels a little of his hard veneer chip away. 

He thinks to take her coat, covered in frost and not nearly as insulated as he had hoped, it’s damp with melting ice now that she’s inside. But he feels like he’s dreaming again, peeling her coat off and hanging it on the rack, a faux gentleman. He doesn't know why he’s trying to impress but there’s a chance that she’d like a man like that. So he plays, pretends. He’s surely done that before.

When her coat is shed, all of those visions he’s been having must have caught up to him. 

Jesus, Morgan. You’ve really lost it now. 

This disease of loneliness he’s been given has surely destroyed the vestiges of his sanity. He must be imagining some young soft handed girl with warm bright eyes and vibrant, shiny hair. Face of an angel, looking hopeful; grateful. Her eyes on him burn like hellfire. He feels strange, watching much too close at how her tongue wets her lips; chapped from the cold. Beautiful; she must be someone’s girl, he hopes for a widow who had lost her husband to the winter frost. He’d gladly pick up where the fucker left off. Pry her from his cold hands. Could just be the loneliness talking. He can’t bring himself to care all that much about it. 

Arthur can feel shame eating away at him, like ants at the corners of a scrap fallen off the table. He could have found himself sick to his stomach not too short a time ago. A girl as young as her and he, an old dog with even older tricks have no business together. He knows it too. But he was done with that crushing feeling of dread that ate away at his very soul some days. He had enough of his life to feel awful about. Blood on the floorboards, forgotten promises, disregarded words of affection. Just these moments, where he can hoard the vision that is this girl to himself after so long of giving pieces of himself away. 

What has that shame ever done but made you worse? 

If there isn’t the will to keep his eyes off the girl then there’s the give in him. Like a levy, it cracks a little, breaks into a million pieces of splintered wood for her. It’s been too long since he’s seen something so pretty. All flesh and blood. No graphite on paper; recollections of the women from his past, no Gem of Beauty cigarette card. She carries the smell of soap and perfumed cotton. He thinks it's geranium scented or another delicate flower crushed to pieces to make her smell like she came from heaven too. It’s a weakness he hadn’t culled. 

This girl of his; she must be something quite real. His wishful daydream would have diverted to more intimate topics by now, and he’d probably imagine a woman he’s at least met before. Deciding if he’d prefer her to be real or a misty figment of his imagination; he can’t make heads nor tails of it. Arthur knows he’d probably end up disappointing a real person more than he could offend a figure cooked up in his mind. He sighs. He turns to the iron stove beside the dining table. There’s still coffee and he can distract himself from his ridiculous train of thought by clumsily pouring it out for her. 

Hopeful bastard.

“You mute, girl? Asked you a question.” He knows she isn't but he wants to hear her talk some more. And maybe if she hears what a brute he makes himself out to be most of the time, she’ll turn her nose up at him the way she’s supposed to. Lots of women have, she wouldn’t be the first warned away by his attitude like a bad smell. He could almost let that temptation win. To change who he is at this moment. If only for the selfish purpose of luring her further into his home. However, he’s too impulsive and his tongue is too practiced at offending. He has words that are about as gentle as a fist to the nose. 

He sets her cup down on the table. Arthur doesn’t wait for her to figure herself out, grabbing another cigarette, swiping them off of the coffee table in front of the fireplace. To hell with the rations. It was a special day after all, a goddamned holiday. He strikes the match on the table, lighting it as she tentatively steps forward. Nearly singes his finger on the match he forgot to put out, wincing and waving it out to put out the flame. 

She’s a pearl, surrounded by the ugly oyster that is the less than stellar home he keeps. Carefully, she steps into his space. Suddenly, he’s hyper aware of every thing she could find awful or garish; his hunting trophies or the weapons or the wall. Or the mess of papers on the desk in the corner. It has him gripping his cigarette a bit too tight. Her face hardly moves in any particular reaction, as if used to him already. A simple neutrality is what takes her as she looks at some of the things over the mantle, then her eyes track over the small hallway, leading to the bedroom and some storage. She’s quick to bring her attention back to him, a soft smile that stuns him graces her face, kicking up some long buried hope of his.

 If there was a woman who should be a lady, it’s her. She sets herself down on the sofa, neatly keeping her hands to herself, reaching for the cup he set out for her. But first checking to see if it wasn’t for him with a nervous flick of her eyes up to his own. He can hardly ignore how it pulls at him. She holds the blue speckled cup on her thigh. 

“No, I…was getting something for my granny…” She explains she couldn’t make it to the doctor in the almost fatal weather outside. He has a humorless laugh. How could anyone send her out for the sake of some old hag; already knocking on death's door? Selfless girl but stupid. Defenseless. Her own mother, too. He supposes he can relate. The man he regarded as his father had been the one to let him down the most.

 It’s always the ones you trust. 

He makes his opinion known to her, maybe he can talk some sense into her. 

“I can imagine. What kinda mother sends a pretty thing like you on a fool's errand? You really thought you was gonna bring your ol’ granny a doctor in this?” He reprimands her, she might need it. 

Little girl gone out by herself. Needs you, don’t she?

What she probably needs is someone to keep her from doing things that risk her life for nothing at all. Doesn’t have to be him but he won’t turn the thought away. Breaking her open on her marriage bed. Such a pretty thing, a distracted smile into her cup of coffee. Lost in a snow drift because no one cared enough to keep her inside. 

And she does nip back. Trying to give a rebuttal but he won’t have it. He knows he’s right, giving his idea of a light hearted joke, his particular brand of poking humor. Heavy handed as always. 

“Your granny probably already kicked the bucket while you were out here, damn near gettin’ yourself killed.” 

 Perhaps insinuating her grandmother was already dead wasn’t the best attempt at familiarizing her with himself, her face tinges with an expression he’s used to seeing. Dutch said he had a sharper tongue than people thought. Hosea said it was too blunt. 

“And if it weren’t for me, well…” she’d be dead. Forgotten somewhere in the snow with a dead horse for company. Such an image should hopefully be sobering for her. It’s a harsh reality but one he would prevent from happening.  His hand comes up to scratch at his brambly jaw. She probably thought his slightly overgrown beard was ugly and unkempt. His fingers raise the delicate rolled cigarette to his lips. A nice calming drag helps his nerves calm down, they quit jumping under his skin every time her eyes pull over him, over his scarred face and his crooked nose and his gnarled hands. She looks like she holds something back. Her tongue, he thinks. He wished she would have just come out and said it. 

But she’s a polite little thing, stifling herself with another drink of the coffee. The satisfaction on her face and the small droop in her shoulders now that she’s warm makes him smile. 

She speaks up with a tremor stuck to her words. “I’m sorry mister,” her nose scrunches a little, doesn’t even know how darling he finds it. “but I don’t think you gave me your name…” 

In a well practiced motion, he leans and ashes his cigarette. It took him a while to remember that he can’t just ash them on the ground anymore. He had floors and a permanent roof now. He tends to get the hang of things at some point. He kicks his legs up on the table, gently so as to not frighten the girl on his sofa, warming herself by his fire, and drinking his coffee. The thoughts tickle that provider’s instinct so deeply embedded in his being. His name, he almost forgets all about that, looking into her pretty eyes, blinking curiously. Right. 

“Arthur. You married?” He never liked small talk too much. Never one for the surface level bullshit people put on. He watches each of her features form into something like a smile but not. Too nerve-y, falls into something else when she presses her lips together, her brows twitch as they pull together and her fingers scrunch in her gloves. 

As if she’d marry you, ain’t exactly the pick of the litter, are ya?

His fingers twitch, squeeze his short nails into the give of his palm. Then why does she call him? So enticing, then, looking at him with soft eyes, her legs pressed together and slanted. A real proper girl. Cute thing. Naive enough not to recognize someone like him at first glance. He’s something to be avoided. He wishes he could see a ring glittering on her finger, to ward away the seething heat in his head and his gut. Like a prayer muttered in the presence of evil but he doubted it’d be strong enough. 

“No, I’m afraid not,” her voice is like velvet, the rub of a rose petal between his fingers. Her eyes flick away and her teeth press gently into her bottom lip, sweet looking. No man to look after her besides her worthless father, left her out here to freeze. Alone, really. Or she might as well be. The world has been known to be cruel to women. To his mother, to a woman whose life he had ruined, to Mary even, to Susan and Molly. Well, most every woman he knew. It wasn’t fair but many things in their lives were disparagingly slanted away from them, scales always uneven. 

“Young lady like you, unwed and caring for your Ma, Pa, all by yourself?” Arthur scoffs, even as he points out her tragedy. “Now that’s just sad, is what it is,” His fingers push his cigarette into the ash tray a bit too hard, twisting it. And he looks at her blouse, drawing the outline of her with his eyes. He’d put it to paper later. She has a small nod for him. A shining opportunity. But he has to introduce his own dingy reality. The one where he was probably old enough to have been able to hold her when she had just been born. 

“You are… a sight, for an old ugly bastard like me is all,” Honest words slip from him, too loose for him to keep them behind his teeth. The bashful look crosses over her face makes his lip curl up just a little. She deserved to have someone tell her how pretty she is, who wouldn’t ever let her forget for a second how lovely she looked. Where all of these sappy things come from is beyond him. They ooze into his mind anyway.

Delicately, she sets the cup down on the table littered with other cups he had forgotten to put away and empty packages of cigarettes. He rolls his eyes at himself, of course he doesn’t clean up the day he has company.

“I left my horse in the stable out front, I hope you don’t mind,” her hands pet at her thighs, he can see where the fabric is damp. Immediately, his mind clicks into place, thinking on how he can fix it. That’s what the fairer sex truly craved, wasn’t it? Not some puffed up egomaniac. A fixer. A solution. His hands itch to move. To pick up the pieces of her problems and push them back into the shape of something whole. “Ain’t no trouble,” the relieved sag in her shoulders tells him that she actually worried about it. 

So Arthur does, he’s nothing if not a man of action. “Why don’t I get you somethin’ dry to wear? Should be turnin’ in soon. Gettin’ late.” He’s up before he can hear a protest. But she doesn’t give much of one. In his bedroom, his hands swipe his hair backwards. The small mirror he usually keeps around strictly for shaving catches the light of the small oil lamp. 

God, his best years are way behind him. So say the lines at the corners of his eyes, the gouges of his age on his forehead and the delicate webbing of wrinkles under his eyes. All of the evidence of his lifestyle glares back at him. There’s a ruddiness over the higher planes of his cheekbones from burning them under the sun. Some of the fist and knife fights from his youth have left permanent evidence of his misgivings on his face. Mostly in the form of scars and his odd nose. 

You disgust her, don’t go kidding yourself. 

If he ever told her the truth of himself, he’s sure a girl like her would go running, suddenly not minding the cold. He never was good at keeping beautiful things by his side. They rotted or wilted, or blew away with the wind. His rough fingers rub at the back of his neck. He stares deep into his own eyes. Trying to force some normalcy, some sense into himself but it’s all in vain. He grunts, paying mind to other things. 

He opens his cabinet, all of the simple clothes he keeps. Something new and not so weathered, or dirty, something clean. Like her. Some nice cotton knit union suit, something he bought when he was preparing for winter. He grips them tight and hesitates at the door. 

Just go n’ give it to her, and try not to be an idiot; for god’s sake. 

And the sweet smile he sees knocks whatever sense he had gathered out of him, he can hardly form a word. He just holds the fabric out to her like an oaf. And she rises, as to keep things comfortable, good at reading his brutish signaling, taking them gently and skirting around him. And then she’s in his bedroom. With a mental cuss, he realizes that he forgot to clean the room before he left. 

Ah, she’ll find out how pathetic you are at some point. Just a matter a’ when… 

All those empty bottles and habits he’s formed from living alone. Dirty clothes piled somewhere and sheets that probably smelled a bit too much like sweat. Christ. He sighs, pinching his nose. He’s not sure why he’s putting so much thought into this. He doesn’t care. Not a care at all. Right…sure.

At first, he distracts himself with preparing food, his leftovers, hopefully enough for her. Doing this is an action which is perhaps a bit selfish. He wants to make it clear that he can give her things she needs. He could figure out wants later.. Typically, he hadn’t thought too much of what women wanted but with her he makes lists, takes out the fine brandy. Sometimes he took after Dutch more than he would like to admit, the man was all too good at forgetting about a woman’s wants and needs.

The food hasn’t gone too cold. His hands look for things to do, stirring unnecessarily. Fumbling the dish he places it on. However, the little comfort he gains from activity fades. He can only grip the counter like a vice while staring out the window above his sink for so long. The shades of brown and orange that make up his cabin blur into nothing, the wood grain isn’t as grounding as he wants it to be. 

But then his legs drift in the opposite direction, He can hear a soft sigh and the rustle of clothing behind the door. He wets his dry throat. Arthur shouldn’t salivate. He does anyway.

You’re a creep. Something in his head laughs at him. 

Been too long since you had a woman this close to your bed and she ain’t even in it with ya…c’mon. C’mon, just open the damn door. 

His heart is about to pound his ribs into dust. He’s among the worst of the worst but this… pushes boundaries. Lines drawn in the sand. Peeping on women wasn’t something he was raised to do. And if he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see, it was an accident. 

You ain’t that bad.

He’s used to letting the tide wash those out so he can draw new ones. And here is a new one. When his fingers push at the door and he can see the sliver where she bares her own flesh. Rubs her hands up her thighs, stepping out of her clothes. His throat goes dry, his teeth bite bluntly at the tip of his tongue as his jaw gets tense. 

His eyes follow the natural plush curve of her body, pale yellow lamp light glancing off of her. He’d kill a man to touch her and he’d kill a man for touching her. Devouring every inch, his eyes soak it all up, dedicating her to memory. 

 And then she’s stepping into the creamy cotton of his clothes. Doing up the buttons at her front. Unbidden by him, his cock fills out, half hard, pressing uncomfortably at just the sight of her. The perfection of her hips, her hair brushing over her back. 

The guilt is chewing a hole in his conscience. It’s like there are termites gnawing away at the foundation of whatever restraint he had. He’s felt less disgusting after killing a man, making him choke on his own blood as it fills his lungs. But the reward had never been so delightful. A sweet girl, so trusting, putting her hand to her chest and smiling as she realizes he’s there. It doesn’t feel good at all, the realization that he’s drooling over her like a mutt. All she has given him is reluctance, nervous glances. She doesn’t touch him or leave her hand to linger. A sweet-as-cream smile is all he has, enough to tide him over. He wants her anyway, needs her to stay. Letting her walk out after this will be next to impossible. 

“You scared me, Mister…” Mister. So polite, an angel delivered unto him. He can feel how his body is tense, tight like a spring. How she doesn’t notice the evidence of his wrongdoing, pressing at the front of his pants is luck or her naivety. His expression must be dazed, a foolish look because all he can do is stare, unable to stop himself. Observing the way his clothes drape over her, exaggerating how much smaller she is in comparison. How stunning she’d look, sprawled over his bed sheets. Precious girl; struggling not to cry when she gets all stretched out on something wholly too big for her. In his mind's eye, she mouths his name, looks at him like all she wants is him inside of her. Right. His name again. 

He dips back into his own ease in which he controls all of himself with. He is self assured and well handled. And he certainly doesn’t curl in on himself. Lets her see how big he is, slips back into old habits with the ease that comes with capability. “Morgan, Arthur Morgan,” his real name, no Kilgore’s or Calahan’s. She should know it anyhow, if he has any real intention in giving it to her.

It’s dangerous and it’s like she can feel it, somewhere in her body is that base instinct. One she was born with to protect herself from people with bad intentions. But she has another instinct, bares her neck to him. Arthur has always been good at suppressing his hunger, desire for soft pretty things. Settling like sediment on them was the control he had, buried them and buried them and buried them. She's a rainstorm, flooding his mind, washing out his carefully maintained resistance. Leaves his want raw and exposed and actionable. He wants her too much, wants her more than he has any right to. 

He feels what little control he has over his urges begin to slip with that thought.  Usually, he let them take over. Let whatever pain and anguish in him manifest into pure rage, cold and unadulterated. At first, it revolted him, his actions. And the reputation he built to go along with them. But they began to grow over him like a second skin until they encased whatever hope he had for a better life completely. His self induced hatred hid whatever pieces of him weren't supposed to be his to have and to share. The things he had to hide from himself even to feel like a whole person at any given moment. And he let himself be that awful thing people thought he was. Arthur Morgan. A force of nature. 

But he deserved it, didn't he? Everyone should keep their distance anyway. He has a habit of making things worse than when he found them. But all he wanted was for her to be close. Sure, he could play the vulnerable man who could pine after his sweetheart, go out riding after her, guide her home where she would forget all about him. Just a kind man out to help the world.

That's not what he wanted. He wanted her to stay here. Can’t bear the thought of being a good man, sending her away when the storm blows over. In sickness and in health, til’ death do us part. That’s what he sees when he closes his eyes. She’s standing in the kitchen, turning the spoils of his hunts into dinner. With that easy smile. His too empty house just wouldn’t feel like a home without her in it. He’s sick, he knows; but he’s sure she can cure him. 

Arthur Morgan has always wanted more than he could have. He chews on the thought like tobacco. Bitter but eventually he begins to need the taste, to crave it. 

“Put somethin’ on the stove for ya, man can’t leave no woman hungry…” God, his tongue feels too thick in his mouth and his jaw aches from gritting his teeth too hard. And of course, he lays all his cards on the table. Man can’t leave his woman hungry.

Every little gesture she makes, wrapping her arms shyly around herself, the gentle tilt of her head and the small affirmative gesture she makes is in no way unordinary. But they’re all dripping with her appeal. How can she smile at him like he doesn't look the way he does? Like he hasn't made the world worse just by existing in it?

 He soils her just by laying greedy eyes on her neck, on her nipples which he can make out through the fabric of his union suit. And when she opens her mouth, he knows he’ll end up calling her what she is. Sweet and syrupy, soothing on his throat. 

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I really appreciate your kindness,” Arthur is convinced he heard her wrong. But her honesty is in those radiant eyes, in her easy posture. It must be meant to be, it’s not every day a woman talked to him like that. Or talked to him at all. He was perhaps too busy making sure they knew what they would be getting into; dealing with him. 

It may just be the respectful manners instilled in her. He supposed her parents had given her that; mannerisms that made her quite the catch. Utter perfection. But really, even that was a disservice. They damned her to him. Makes him see glimpses of a life he could have. Hundreds of conversations, every iteration of the precious babe they'd have together with his hair and her eyes, a son or a daughter. Two of each perhaps. Hours and hours of her gentle, refined voice taking up the empty room. He bows his head as if he can keep his disbelief and joy under the brim of his hat, currently hanging by his front door. 

She comes nearer. He can smell her cotton scent, can see the way the light casts around her hair, feathering over her, turning it into gold. His body moves to make the smallest space for her. Hoping she’ll nudge against him. He doesn’t even realize the way he’s formed himself to keep her here for just a moment. So close, Arthur nearly loses track of what he was supposed to be doing.  

“Been a long time since somebody called me a kind man, usually it was the opposite,” apprehension floods her body, her features. Her eyes focus on him, waiting for something terrible to happen. Arthur sees how she bristles. He only meant to be honest but she’s already read between his lines. Smart girl. 

He shows her just what he means. Even when he knows better, even if he’s never been this far. It’s like he has to touch though. No where uncomfortable, just to be sure she isn’t a sign that he’s truly gone from this world. 

“Please, I-” 

Her plea goes down his spine. It rakes its teeth over the parts of him that are wrong. That weren’t formed with gentleness, aren’t intricate. Just instinct that he’s indulged. 

He may not be a good man. But he can behave well enough to keep her. Now that he has the room for her. He doesn’t live in a drafty tent. He’s not a dog chained to the hand that fed him too many years ago. He would never treat her like an object to display or a mistake made in a drunken night of pleasure. He wouldn’t throw this away, this one chance at having something real. Wouldn’t lay waste to this opportunity to fill a hole in him that yawned empty for what felt like eternity. She’d be his wife and he; her man. A husband. Mister and Missus Arthur Morgan. A crock of shit, he would have said a month ago.

That ain’t the hand you been dealt and you know it. You’ve made a mess of things enough.

 But now… it's a dreamy reality. It hasn’t quite taken shape but he can get it there. Determination starts to crystallize over the idea. She’s something good; doesn’t need him. He could try to make something better too, could make the best of a situation, try to show her the best in him. But he knows it’d never be enough for her. He always throws these good things away, always ruins it somehow. But he grips and shakes like a mutt at this idea, gnaws it until it's raw. He can just take what he wants. Done that before, hasn’t he?

Just leave’er alone. God, you never learn, goddamned fool…

His fingers graze over the skin on her neck, uncovered by the collar of the union suit he lent her. Here in the dark of the small hallway, he can swear there’s something in the way she breathes, shudders. “I think you need a man to take care of you, honey, need a man to keep you inside- wouldn’t let you go out alone like this if you was my woman… Lemme show you how a man looks after a girl like you,” He’s aware that he sounds like a right bastard but he’s only telling the truth. His hand settles at her back, like it’s supposed to be there. They’re meant to be, all he has to do is show her. 

ok yall how we feeling LMAO i think his perspective was interesting and fun for me to write but idk if its any good, but i hope with practice ill get more confident 🥹🥹 bro is a freak sooo yeah it was fun to write him as a freak he is very conflicted about everything and he is super weird but also sexy sooo😳 i hope you guys enjoyed this lil backstory on why arthur is a weirdo 😊😊😭😭 lmk what you guys think !!

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

okay the we shouldn't turn sebastian in but it has the you don't have all the facts

i love him meme

THIS WAS REALLY HARD FOR ME BECAUSE THIS IS SUCH AN EMOTIONAL SCENE AND IM NOT SURE I DID THE BEST JOB INCORPORATING THE HUMOR OF THE MEME INTO THE WEIGHT OF THE SITUATION BUT I TRIED MY BEST ANON.

Words: ~1,100

Tags: Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Canon Event Rewrite

The Undercroft was quiet, the usual sense of sanctuary replaced by an oppressive weight neither of you dared name. Ominis paced near the table, his wand gripped so tightly his knuckles turned white. You sat perched on the edge of a crate, arms crossed, watching him with unease. His usual composure had cracked, and the pieces were sharper than you were used to.

“We need to decide what we're going to do,” Ominis said, breaking the silence at last.

You straightened, already dreading where this conversation was headed. “I figured that was why you wanted to meet here.”

He stopped pacing and turned to face you. “I don’t want to lose him,” he admitted, his voice softer than you expected. “But I don’t think we have a choice.”

“You can’t mean that.”

Ominis stopped in his tracks, his blind gaze snapping toward you. “Can’t I? Merlin, look at what he’s done! The spells he’s used. The person he—” He stopped himself, swallowing hard. “He’s crossed too many lines.”

You stood, fists clenching at your sides. “But surely he hasn’t crossed the point of no return, Ominis. Not yet. We can still help him!”

“Help him?” Ominis snapped, a rare flash of anger breaking through his calm demeanor. “He doesn’t think he needs help. He’s convinced himself that everything he’s done is justified, no matter how wrong it is.”

“He was trying to save Anne,” you argued. “You know that.”

“And where does it end?” Ominis demanded, stepping closer to you. “When does trying to save Anne stop being an excuse for using Dark magic? For killing people?”

“He didn’t mean to!” you snapped, pushing off the wall.

Ominis’s face twisted with anger. “That doesn’t matter! He cast the Killing Curse. That’s not something you do by accident.”

“He was desperate!” you argued. “Solomon was threatening him. He panicked and you know it!"

“Panicked?” Ominis repeated, his voice rising. “That’s your excuse? He used Dark magic to murder his own uncle, and you think that’s something we can just brush aside?”

“I’m not brushing it aside!” you cried, stepping closer to him. “But sending him to Azkaban isn’t the answer. You know he wouldn’t survive there.”

Ominis shook his head, frustration written across his face. “He shouldn’t have to survive there, because he shouldn’t have done it in the first place! You’re acting like we can fix this, but we can’t. He crossed a line, and now there’s no going back.”

“There’s always a way back,” you shot back. “We’ve saved him before. We can do it again.”

“This isn’t like before!” Ominis snapped, throwing his hands in the air. “This isn’t him sneaking into the Restricted Section or using a spell he didn’t fully understand. He knew exactly what he was doing when he used that bloody relic, and he knew what he was doing when he cast that curse. He made his choice.”

“He made a mistake,” you said, your voice trembling. “He’s not some monster, Ominis. He’s our friend.”

"Was our friend," Ominis said, his voice breaking slightly.

You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. “So what, you’re just going to turn him in? Hand him over to the Ministry and let the Dementors destroy him?!"

Ominis flinched, his wand hand trembling. “If we don’t, and someone finds out we’ve been covering for him, they’ll come for us too,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less resolute. “It won’t just be Sebastian they punish. It’ll be all of us. You, me, even Anne. Do you want to see her dragged into this mess, after everything she’s already suffered?”

Your chest ached at the mention of Anne. You knew he was right about the risks, but the thought of turning Sebastian over to the Ministry made you feel sick. “We can’t just give up on him, Ominis. He’s not beyond saving.”

Ominis’s face twisted in anguish. “I don’t want to give up on him,” he said, his voice cracking. “But how do we save someone who doesn’t want to be saved?”

"We will find a way. We will," you said firmly, stepping closer to him again. "We'll pull him back from the edge."

“This isn’t a bloody edge,” Ominis muttered bitterly. “This is a cliff. And if he jumps again, we’re all going down with him.”

You placed a hand on his arm, your voice softening. “We haven’t lost him. Not yet. But if we send him to Azkaban, that’ll be it. There won’t be any hope left. Please, Ominis. One more chance.”

He turned his head slightly toward you, his expression filled with doubt and exhaustion. “And if he does it again? If he uses another Unforgivable or—Merlin forbid—kills someone else?”

"He won't."

Ominis stared at you, his face pale and tense, his expression hovering between disbelief and resignation. “You don’t know that,” he said quietly. “You can’t know that.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening. “I do.”

“How?” Ominis pressed, his voice sharper now, almost desperate. “How can you be so certain, after everything he’s done? After everything we’ve seen? He cast the bloody Cruciatus Curse on you and yet you still defend him! How can you be so bloody sure he won’t just do it again?”

"Because I know him, Ominis. And so do you! We know his heart. He’s not a monster. He’s not evil. He’s just… lost. And if we give up on him now, I don’t think he’ll ever find his way back.”

Ominis shook his head slowly, as if trying to process what you’d just said. “That’s not a fact,” he said, his voice trembling. “That’s... that’s not a reason to keep risking everything.”

“It is to me,” you said firmly. "Those are the facts. And I won't give up on him. Because I love him."

Ominis froze, his wand lowering as though the weight of your words had physically struck him. For a moment, it was as if the air had been sucked out of the Undercroft, the silence deafening.

“You…” His voice faltered, and he blinked, his pale eyes wide with shock. “You love him?”

“I do."

Ominis tilted his head back, letting out a long, slow exhale. “For Merlin's sake...” he muttered, though there was no malice in his tone. Just exhaustion. “Do you even... do you realize what you’re asking of me? All because you’re letting your feelings cloud your judgment?”

“I’m asking you to believe in him," you murmured. "Just one more time.”

He turned his head slightly toward you, his expression softening, though the pain in his eyes remained. “You really love him, don’t you?”

“I do,” you said again, the certainty in your voice unwavering. “And I think you do too. That’s why you haven’t gone to the Headmaster yet, isn’t it? He’s family to us, Ominis. And you don’t give up on family. Not when they need you most.”

For a long moment, Ominis said nothing. Then he nodded, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Fine,” he said quietly. “One more chance."

[kameyyy]

PASSION; atsumu miya x reader

subject: i don't fucking know

cw: 17+ to read, not proof read, cursing, mention of a deceased grandparent [please refer to the general tags/warnings on the m.list !]

a/n: the emails yn writes like i mentioned in chapter 1 !! pretty short but it's not supposed to be poetic since yn is just expressing her feelings here.

wc: 336

from: yn073ln279@gmail.com

to: gmn.ln1943@yahoo.com

subject: i don’t fucking know

hi grandma. 

atsumu showed up at my work. after years of nothing, he just walked in on a random day and tried talking to me like it was no big deal. like what happened between us was no big deal. he apologized for what he did, but it was obvious he didn’t mean it. he would’ve reached out sooner if he was sorry. like maybe 3 years ago. but he didn’t, so seeing me only reminded him of my existence. fuck him. ruining my life and then forgetting about me. lol i hate him so much. i don't even know why he bothered apologizing — just to ease his own guilt, i guess. though, he thinks what he did wasn’t completely wrong. pissed me off more than anything. how can you be this deluded. if what he did was good, then i wouldn’t work at a rug shop and do my masters like yukie. but no, i started college a year ago and i’m falling behind.

i’ll find out about my exams soon. i don’t even know how to feel about it. i hope they went well. my major isn’t something i love; it’s just what felt tolerable when i chose it. nothing really interests me. there’s nothing i’m passionate about, nothing that feels worth chasing or devoting the rest of my life to. it’s exhausting seeing everyone else, especially atsumu, seem to have it all figured out. it’s so easy for them. so clear. and i just feel stuck and lost for years already. like i’m on autopilot while everyone else is actually living. i don’t know what i did wrong. what i’m doing wrong. i don’t know. i just want to enjoy life like everyone around me is.

that’s it, i guess.

hope life in heaven is treating you well. or this black abyss. i don’t know what comes after death. i don’t even want to think about it. bye.

- yn

please consider leaving a like, reblog or follow if you enjoyed <3

masterlist ; playlist ; pinterest board

taglist, open (comment here or send an ask);

throne of honor: @solzscribblez @wyrcan @heartmaddie @causenessus @hyunteru

@angeleilee @kawoala @vertejay @vitoshi @kang-ulzzang @hanadulsetaad @nobodybutnnoorr @pookalicious-hq @gigiiiiislife @fridaenpina @sahrii @sakusasbadger @evilari111 @laceythespacey @cookielovesbook-akie @dearru @matchacharm

©kameyyy all rights reserved. please do not repost my work.

[waynes-multiverse]

The Exit Strategy – Part 3

Summary: Russell is ready to hang it all up and retire, open up a brewery, and enjoy the rest of his civilian life. However, there’s one important thing missing before he can take the big plunge. Luckily, he knows just the right person to help him find it.

Pairing: Russell Shaw x Female!Reader

Warnings: 18+, language, some spice & implied smut (incl. a bit of dirty talk), mentions of a terrorist attack, a tiny bit of angst & feels, fluffy fluff

Word Count: 6.8k

A/N: Thank you guys so much for your feedback on the last two parts! So happy I get to finally share this little adventure with you and that you all loved it so much 🥹🩵 Welp, let's dive in before I get too fucking sappy... 😝

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Part 3: This Is a Heart-To-Heart

With pursed lips and a clicking tongue, Russell’s eyes skimmed the seemingly endless aisle of breakfast cereals, his pointer finger drifting from box to box before it landed on the Lucky Charms. His lips rose to a satisfied grin, his heart skipping a beat as a memory popped into his mind.

The supermarket’s PA speakers announced the opening of a third cash register during the evening rush as Colter stood idly by, hands in the pockets of his jacket, and blew a raspberry. In his periphery, Russell could see his younger brother check his watch for the fifth time and smiled a little to himself.

“Russ, uhm, hate to break up your very serious choice of breakfast cereal here, but we need to move. We’re gonna be late,” Colter finally dared to remind him. Russell had wondered how long it would take. “Can’t you do your grocery shopping some other time?”

Russell only chuckled at that. “Oh, this isn’t that. I need this for tonight.”

“Uh-huh.” Colter wasn’t entirely convinced. “You do know we’re invited to dinner, right? There’s gonna be food. You don’t need to bring a–,” his eyes narrowed at the item Russell threw into the cart, “–box of Lucky Charms. Wow. Okay…” Colter scratched the nape of his neck. “You know, most people bring a bottle of wine. Flowers… You want me to–”

“Nope, I’m good.” Russell shook his head. “I have a plan, alright?”

“Oh, so now you have a plan?” Colter deadpanned. “Where was that plan when I got beat up in a supermarket alley?”

Russell snorted a laugh and cocked his brow. “Is that why you’re so jumpy since we walked in here? Did she actually give you supermarket PTSD?”

“I’m not jumpy,” Colter defended with a too defensive shrug.

“Well, alright, I’m almost done here,” Russell assured him and pulled out a tiny piece of paper with unreadable scribbles on it – his shopping list. “All I need now are Nacho Cheese Doritos, rocky road ice cream, brownies, and potato chips. Luckily, I already got the beer in the trunk.”

Colter’s frown deepened, but his lips quirked a tiny smile of amusement. “Alright, should I even ask?”

Russell laughed. “Trust me. Those are all the things I need to win her back. I know what I’m doing.”

Colter relented with a sigh. “Alright, gimme the list. I track down the snack aisle.”

“If you find them, I’ll give you a five dollar reward, little brother,” Russell quipped, earning him the middle finger as Colter rounded the corner.

Russell exhaled a sigh of relief once he was alone. All afternoon, he’d wracked his brain if he could or should tell Colter about you – about the fact he had a wife and two kids. Was now the right moment? Or had it already come and gone?

And if Russell was looking for a petty excuse, he could just audaciously claim Colter never asked. Never asked if Russell had someone special in his life. Never asked if he was an uncle yet. So, was it really on Russell to offer information that was never asked of him? Now, that wasn’t really his nature, was it?

Like he said, petty excuses…

Russell knew it was (mostly) on him. He did give way to the illusion he was a lone wolf without any strings anywhere. At the end of all his pondering, however, he came to the conclusion it was best to let you navigate how to proceed. You’d always been his compass.

On a late summer evening, with the sun slowly approaching the horizon and dipping the suburban cul-de-sac in shades of golden orange, you found two men on your doorstep: One who only looked familiar despite knowing him almost your entire adult life, and one who seemed familiar, even though you’d never met him before, but some unmistakable features and mannerisms reminded you of your husband.

Said husband beamed at you from ear to ear, carrying two paper bags worth of groceries in his arms. “Hey, sweetheart.”

The heart in your ribcage pounded faster as your eyes landed on his smile. Nothing and no one ever broke your composure or pulled the rug out from under your feet – but Russell had always managed to do both since day one.

“Well, I guess… come on in, guys,” you said with a small sigh of hesitation and held the door open wider, mentally preparing for an entirely unplanned night – they usually were whenever you spent time with the green-eyed chaos theory.

Never in a million years did you think you’d end up here when you met a young soldier on a sunny day at the American embassy in Iraq and put him through a baptism of enemy gunfire only a few hours later. And to be fair, he’d always been handsome, but the quirky shit didn’t reveal itself till later. If Russell Shaw had been a book, you would’ve definitely misjudged him by his cover.

Russell set the brown bags down on the kitchen island, a small smirk flickering across his plump lips. Internally, you heaved another sigh. Of course the idiot would think about sex – a curse conjured up by your own making. If Russell ever had a bad influence in his life, it would’ve been you.

“So, what did you bring me here?” you entertained his little plan, spying into one of the bags. You already had a pretty strong inkling of what might be inside, your heart swelling that he, A, cared and, B, even went as far as making a thoughtful, swoon-worthy effort.

He used to do these things all the time – till it all eventually stopped.

“Only the best for my girl,” Russell said, chuckling giddily as he hauled a tub of rocky road from a bag as if he was making a bunny appear from a hat. Only in your opinion, it was a way better magic trick.

“Oh no, you are the fucking best!” You squeezed his shoulders, short of jumping fully on him, with a grin from ear to ear. Your cheek muscles even began to hurt. You hadn’t smiled this much in ages. “Look at this! You even got brownies! You’re unbelievable, Shaw. You know I’ve been craving this shit for months. We’re supposed to be an organic family,” you explained with an eye roll, your hands still rummaging eagerly through the bags.

“Yeah, I figured somethin’ like this. Remember when you had to pretend to be vegetarian for that greenwashing gala?”

“God, don’t remind me. The asshole served cauliflower steaks and then turned around and shot a fucking lion,” you scoffed, both of you chuckling at the memory. Russell had been right in the chicken coop – it felt like no time had passed at all.

Not touching him and falling into his strong, warm embrace was hard. Not kissing him was harder. And being in his near vicinity without doing any of these things was unbearable. You weren’t just important to Russell; he was important to you, too. For a long time, he’d been the only person you could trust and confide in. You never lied to each other – that had been a rule.

“Wow, okay, so this is different,” Colter noted, you and Russell both glancing up at the young man across the island. As he was only met with two furrowed brows, he clarified, a finger gesturing to your cross necklace. “Just the-, uh, the whole swearing… I mean, at church you were… you know.”

You laughed when you realized what he meant. God knows your aliases had confused the shit out of Russell in the beginning, too – till he learned to take advantage of your role-playing skills. Then, he had tons of fun with it.

“Yeah, I know. Quite the mind-fuck, isn’t it? I usually only pretend to be someone else for a short job – a day or two, a single event. Deep-covers like this aren’t my favorite either,” you shared and hoped it would signal to Colter that he could relax. If his shoulders became any tenser, you’d worry they might freeze that way.

“Speaking of, where’s your husband?” Russell chimed in with a teasing grin.

For the briefest second, your reply would’ve been, “Which one?” Russell could see it, too – the twinkle in your eyes – but then you stopped short when you noticed his look.

Colter didn’t know you two were married. Oh, Russell…

“Basement. Finishing up our report,” you said in a quieter voice, turning on the faucet of the kitchen sink.

Colter’s brow knitted with an amused smile when Russell turned on the radio as well. “Is that really necessary?”

“Can’t be too careful,” both you and Russell replied, not even noticing you spoke at the same time, too zoned in on your routine.

“Who’s your mark?” Russell then asked, leaning back against the kitchen island in an angle that shielded his presence from the window as you got to work on your fake dishes.

“Congressman Eric Mueller.”

“A congressman? Really?” Colter’s brow raised before his eyes showed a little intrigue. “What’d he do?”

“Selling sensitive national security information to foreign agents,” you answered.

“How’s the pastor involved?” Russell asked, opening a box of Lucky Charms and stuffing a handful of dry cereal into his mouth.

“How do you know he’s involved?”

Russell only chuckled at your blatant diversion. “Oh, c’mon! You’re an open-minded person. I know you don’t hate the man for no reason. So, what’s the reason?”

You sighed in proud defeat – checkmate for Russell. “Mueller is laundering money through the church. Pastor’s taking a cut.”

“And?”

“He’s a pedo,” you finally admitted, dumping a clean plate ungraciously into the soapy water before swinging around to meet Russell’s eyes.

“There it is…” He nodded with a winning smirk that felt wrong, rubbing a hand through his beard. “Thought I caught a bit of a creeper vibe. Figured it was just all the kumbaya Jesus shit.”

“I wish… Every time he touches my arm, I wanna cut his hand off with a fucking spoon.”

“Well, we might get to that later if we find the time,” Russell quipped, flicking a marshmallow into the air before catching it with his mouth. You frowned – your son did the same damn thing in the mornings. “What information is Mueller selling?”

“Security protocols, blueprints…” you replied.

“To what?”

“Mall of America,” was all you said before the kitchen fell silent. Crickets. Well, and the faucet and radio… “Our intel suggests they’re planing an attack in December.”

“Well, merry Christmas,” Russell huffed bitterly. “So, that’s the carrot.”

“Yup, that’s the carrot,” you confirmed.

The lives of innocent children and families going about their Christmas shopping in America’s biggest mall was what the agency used to lure you back into the field – the carrot in front of your nose.

For days, you had debated whether to take the job or not, leave your family, and go back undercover to do things no one else wanted to do. But one look through the door at your peacefully sleeping son and daughter made the decision for you. How could you not go? If you didn’t do this, other parents might not get the same courtesy of seeing their children safe and sound in their beds and kissing them goodnight. So, you left your children for the sake of others.

Russell nodded with understanding, telling you he would’ve done the same thing if he were in your shoes. You knew he would have. Still, a part of you felt incredibly guilty, always hoping that Lewis and Amelia would understand someday when they were older.

“Who is it? Russia? China?” Russell asked.

“Neither. It’s an extremist splinter group. Has ties to both ISIS and Hezbollah, but works mostly out of Iran,” you said.

“How did you infiltrate Mueller? A guy trying to blow up a mall doesn’t strike me as a good Christian,” Russell noted.

“Well, he’s not, but his wife, Clara, is. She’s very involved in the church. Was easy to get in this way. I helped her with a few charity events. She got me a job as a bookkeeper for the church, not knowing I’d actually find a bunch of evidence there. Afterward, she invited me for coffee. Now, we have brunch on Mondays, play bridge on Wednesdays and tennis on Fridays. I’m at her house all the time. God knows I have the place bugged in every room now at this point…”

“Bridge,” Russell snorted in amusement, earning him a scolding glare from you. “Does she know?”

You shook your head. “Nope, doesn’t have a clue what her husband’s up to. Wonder what that feels like…” you muttered the last sentence under your breath, Russell narrowing his eyes at you. “He was in the Navy. Stationed in Pakistan. We think he got approached there. He was probably a sleeper agent till he got elected.”

“How far is he in it?”

“Honestly, can’t say. He might be fully turned or just doing it for the money and glory.”

“Glory?” Colter cocked a brow.

You confirmed his shock with a nod. “The mall’s in his district. After the attack, the plan is to portray him as a hero who vows to avenge his constituents. Puts him on the map as running mate for the next election.”

“Then they’d have someone on the top level,” Russell deduced thoughtfully and then found your eyes. “We can help.”

You felt the creases between your eyebrows deepening.

“Yeah, and I already told you – no, thank you,” you huffed, shaking your head. “I didn’t tell you all this as a sitrep, Russ. I told you, so you know we have everything under control, and you can leave again.”

“We both know I’m not going anywhere,” Russell replied stubbornly, his stern gaze drilling into yours. “I can help.”

Undeniably, Russell, with his expertise and certain skill set, would be a helpful addition. You had never trusted someone more in the field than him. The two of you had been an unstoppable team. After almost twenty years together, you could communicate with just a single look. You knew he always had your back, just as he knew you’d always have his – and in the espionage life, that was probably the greatest asset of all.

However, while your mind all too eagerly agreed with him, your heart protested just as heavily. It was a high-risk, high-stakes operation, and a part of you wanted to protect him and keep him as far away from it as possible. You’d known that feeling almost your whole adult life – since the day you’d met him, you had wanted to protect him. Whenever you ignored him, shot him down, or even left him, you were always doing it for his own good. Protecting him meant sometimes hurting him.

But the persistent motherfucker never listens…

Bringing your husband into this and turning your children into orphans wasn’t your only fear, though. There was still Colter.

“Oh, I know you can. I trained you. Remember?” you retorted with a fiery look.

Russell clicked his tongue. “So, this isn’t about me. It’s about him.”

“Oh, ‘cause I’m not one of you guys?” Colter quirked a brow and assured you with easiness in the shrug of his shoulders, “I can handle it.”

Ignoring him, your focus stayed on Russell – the culprit. “You brought a fucking clueless wildcard into a clandestine operation! No offense, Colter…”

“None taken,” Colter said with pursed lips.

“Bad move, Shaw,” you continued directing your anger at your husband.

“I can vouch for him. He’s good, alright? Trust me. He helped me out with something before. And just recently, he even stumbled onto a DoD black site,” Russell reasoned with a weak chuckle like he was sharing the family newsletter.

Your frown intensified. “Yeah, the word stumbled really fills me with tons of confidence here.” Then, you expelled a deep sigh. “Look, I know you two had a weird fucking childhood, but you, of all people, know it’s not the same thing! He isn’t trained for this.” Your eyes then drifted to the younger Shaw. “No offense, Colter, but if I ever need someone to kill a bunny, I call.”

“Little offense taken,” Colter quipped with a creased brow.

“I assure you he’s good, alright? Great, even,” Russell said, stepping closer to you. Your heart jittered, the movement like dominos that fell a path from your ribs up your spine and down your arms where goosebumps formed in their wake. “Everything he doesn’t know, I’ll teach him on the road. You don’t have to worry about a thing, sweetheart. Shaws are excellent at improvising. Remember the helicopter?”

“I remember screaming and wishing to die quickly for two hours straight.”

Russell pursed his lips, hiding an amused smile.

“You can fly a helicopter?” Colter asked, brow rising in genuine interest. He slightly leaned forward as if to hear better, cherishing those bits and pieces of his brother’s mysterious life. He hoped one day he would’ve collected enough of them till the nonsensical puzzle matched the picture on the box.

“Yup,” Russell grinned boyishly, wagging his eyebrows. “Named her Birdie. She was a beauty.”

“She was a piece of shit. And he couldn’t fly at the time, hence all the screaming on my part,” you clarified.

“She made me take flying lessons after, but honestly, I had a pretty good handle on it the first time round,” Russell bragged, earning him another frown from you. His irresistibly green eyes then bored into yours. “But it worked, didn’t it? We’re both still here, right?”

You exhaled another long sigh. You hated when he was right.

“Just take tonight to think about it, okay?”

“Fine, I’ll think about it,” you softened, feeling a warm palm gently splay across your back – slightly lower than a friend would place it. You knew Russell was lulling you into agreement – you had taught him that damn trick yourself – but you couldn’t deny it felt so, so, so nice.

“C’mon, ice cream’s melting. Let’s get some unhealthy food into you before you chew someone else’s head off,” Russell teased.

“I am kinda hungry,” you admitted in a meek mumble.

“Oh, I know. I can tell.” Russell chuckled behind you and kissed the top of your head, his arms snaking around your waist.

Fuck. It felt too good. Too familiar.

You wanted his hands to wander down, fingers lifting your skirt, brushing along your inner thighs on their way up. You wanted his head buried between your burning legs, fingers bruisingly gripping your hips while his tongue dipped into your heat. You wanted him to step even closer, tear your lace panties down, pry your buttcheeks apart, and take you hard and deep.

God, you hadn’t had sex in forever. Who could think clearly like that?

Swaying out of his embrace, you grabbed one of the paper bags and looked at him suggestively. “Wanna take this downstairs? I have to show you something.”

Russell’s lips twitched with a smile. He knew what it meant – not here.

His gaze then drifted to Colter. “You’re gonna be alright up here for a while?”

“I’m good.” His little brother nodded with a shadow of a smile as if he had only waited for the moment the two of you would excuse yourselves and retreat.

“I’ll send Tom up here. Have him brief you,” you said, both brothers’ eyes then blinking at you.

“Does this mean I’m in?” Colter asked.

“If you want to, you’re in,” you stated and muzzled a sigh.

Colter’s head bobbed for a moment, a hand scratching his throat. “Well, not exactly something you say no to.”

Russell and you shared an amused look and both replied, “We know.”

“Oh, Tom’s also made some lasagna. I’ll tell him to feed you,” you added kindly.

“Thank you.” Colter matched your smile.

“Whoa, not so fast,” Russell threw in, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “Did your cute little hands have any involvement in the making of said meal?”

“No, Tom wouldn’t let me get near it,” you huffed with an annoyed eye roll.

“Smart man,” Russell quipped and then turned to his younger brother. “You should be safe to eat it, then.”

His joke earned him a whack of his chest from you.

“Ow!”

Russell followed you down the creaking wooden steps to the basement. The walls were still raw, the giant room unrenovated. In passing, you switched on the washing machine for an adequate noise level and pulled back the thick, navy curtains to reveal a whole setup with desks and computers.

Russell whistled lowly, green eyes flashing around the room. “Got the whole spy gear down here, huh?”

“Yup.”

Sliding an old artwork to the side, you entered a code into the wall safe. It held mostly sensitive information but also some personal items. You retrieved your private phone before locking it again. You scrolled through your photos until you found what you were looking for, handing it to Russell.

As soon as his eyes landed on a picture of his son on a swing set – with a grin brighter than the sun and one that looked just like a copy of his father’s – Russell inhaled sharply, his grip on the phone tightening.

“He looks like you,” you said softly, leaning your head against his bicep, tangling your arms around his. Then, you swiped to the next picture. “That’s Amelia on her second birthday. She liked blowing out the candles so much, I had to light them seventeen times in a row,” you giggled. But Russell only swallowed thickly, quietly laying the phone down on top of the dryer. You could see the tears well in his eyes again. “Was this too much? I’m sorry.”

Russell shook his head, offering you a sad smile. “No, uhm, it’s too little.”

“Yeah, I get that. Feels like they change every time I turn around. Bet they’re already looking different now,” you said with the same regret-filled sadness in your voice.

“When this is over, you think I could see them?”

The hopefulness shimmering in his green orbs devastated you, adding a few more cracks to your already damaged and bruised heart.

“Of course you can. You can see them as much as you want,” you assured him. “Maybe Amelia first? She’s still little. I mean, it’s just–”

“No, I get it,” he brushed off your concerns with an easy smile, but you could see all the hurt underneath it. “Lewis is older. It’s more complicated. He probably doesn’t even remember me.”

“Russ… Of course he remembers you,” you said. “You’re his dad. He has a picture of you on his nightstand. He talks to you every day.”

Russell snorted a humorless chuckle, the guilt eating him alive from the inside out. “Kinda makes it worse, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t think it does,” you replied, smiling softly. “He missed you. We all did.”

Russell’s lips on yours took you by surprise, reminding you of the first kiss you’d shared – only back then, the roles had been reversed, and he’d been the shocked one.

The kiss was gentle and tentative, nothing hasty or thoughtless about it. He still tasted the same. He still felt the same, even though the beard tickled slightly. His large hands cupped your face – a perfect fit – his thumb sweetly caressing your cheek as he pulled back, hazy pine green eyes searching for yours.

“Sorry,” he said with a rather unapologetic smile and a bob of his Adam’s apple. “Couldn’t hold back any longer.”

“It’s fine,” you mumbled with a half-hearted shrug and tiptoed up to claim his lips again, your arms draping around his neck and pulling him closer.

What started slow and careful became a fever dream when your tongue slipped inside his mouth, his hands wandering down your sides till they reached their rightful place on your lower back. Your mind flooded with every kiss, every touch the two of you had ever shared, your heart close to bursting because it had found its missing piece again.

As he drew back, his nose brushed yours, his fingers lovingly tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear. His eyes then focused on the top of your head. A smile rose on your lips, guessing his intentions.

“Can I?”

You nodded, biting down on your bottom lip. “Go ahead.”

Carefully, he lifted the wig from your head, and a few sorries and giggles later, the fake hair was gone. Removing the hair clips and tie, you gestured with your chin to the desk.

“Can you hand me that blue case?”

Russell grabbed the small case and turned to you with a cheeky smile. “Eye drops, too?”

You nodded, and he came back to you with the requested items. Pulling your eyelids open with your fingers, you took out the colored lenses, placing them back in their case.

Russell held up the eye drops. “Want me to do the honors?”

You giggled and gave him another nod. “Yes, please. You know I hate doing that stuff.” Russell then gently pulled down your eyelid as you tilted your head back. “God, this feels so sexy…”

Russell laughed, the sound reverberating deep in his chest. “You’re always sexy. Doesn’t matter if I’m giving you eye drops or stitching you up.”

“That’s sweet, but shut up. We both know you’re lying. You’ve sewn me back together in some pretty rough states,” you remarked, but your cheeks couldn’t stop from rising higher and higher.

“And vice versa,” Russell said simply, administering the last drop into your right eye.

“Ugh, fucking burns.” You sniffled, blinking your eyes a couple of times till the sting subsided.

Russell’s hands then cupped your cheeks, bringing your focus to him. He smiled at you, bright and warm. “There she is,” he said softly, his voice only a whisper. Your heart tugged in your chest, trying to squeeze itself through your ribs just to be closer to him. “Missed those beautiful eyes.”

“You’re so cheesy,” you teased and pressed your lips on his, slow and sensual – careful. As you glanced up at him, your heart cracked a little more again, your eyes welling up and burning with tears.

“Hey, what is that? Why are you crying?” Russell worriedly checked on you like you were a kid with a fever, his thumb catching a salty teardrop that had escaped.

“It’s the eye drops,” you replied lightheartedly in a last ditch effort to hide the all-consuming guilt in your stomach.

Russell sent you a kind smile, stroking your cheek. “I don’t think it’s the eye drops, sweetheart…”

“I’m so sorry, Russ. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought I was helping you…”

“I know. I know…” he soothed and opened his arms. “C’mere.” As you fell into his embrace, he kissed your crown repeatedly, his arms holding you just as tightly as you held onto him. One palm patted the back of your head, the other rubbing your back in soothing circles. “I know you did, okay? And I know why you left. It did help, you know? To get my own head outta my ass… Just one of those things, I guess. Didn’t know I needed to hit rock bottom first before realizing what I’d lost. I’m only sorry I didn’t get my shit together sooner.”

Swallowing, with an ear on his chest, you listened to his heartbeat for a moment – steady, strong, safe. There wasn’t one single person in this world that could give you what Russell always could – comfort. It was what you wanted the most, what you needed during your worst times, and what you goddamn craved, always.

“You know, when you didn’t come back after a year, I was scared you finally found what you’re looking for, and it wasn’t me,” you admitted quietly, swallowing.

Before Russell, you barely ever shared your true feelings and thoughts with anyone, not even family and friends. Your heart, mind, and soul stayed hidden like your personality, your identity, and everything else that made you you. But Russell had always seen beyond the walls, the masks, and the aliases.

He drew back slightly, the hand that tangled in your hair lifting your head till you met his eyes and their loving crinkles. “Never gonna happen,” he assured you with nothing but honesty in his gaze. “You’re it, baby. You know I’m a one-and-only kinda guy,” he quipped, flashing you his signature grin. “You’re everything I ever wanted, sweetheart. The only family I ever had, really. I should’ve told you that sooner. Maybe you wouldn’t have left then.”

“This is soon enough,” you said and pecked his lips. “Why didn’t you tell Colter about me? Or the fact that he’s an uncle?”

With a sigh, Russell grabbed the brown paper bags, the ice cream in it surely melted by now, and settled down on the raw concrete floor, leaning his back against the rumbling washing machine. “Well, if we’re gonna talk, we might as well do it old school. Sit down. Eat,” he ordered you.

Taking a seat next to him, you grabbed a container of room-temperature rocky road and opened it. “Whoa, that is soup, yep!” you exclaimed with a laugh.

“Eh, it’s better when it’s melted anyway,” Russell remarked.

“So true…”

“Hand me the Doritos.”

“Yup.”

Quietly, you and Russell then created your dish like the two of you were parodies of Gordon Ramsey on the comedy channel, and only after savoring that first bite of rocky road cream soup with Nacho Cheese Dorito sprinkles (the croutons to your meal if you will), did you stray back to topic.

“So?”

“Right, uhm…” Russell scratched the back of his neck.

You snorted in amusement. “You always do this, you know.” He raised his brow, giving you a sideways look. “You change the subject and distract me in that cutesy way of yours.”

“I don’t think I’m cutesy.”

“You were twenty years ago,” you countered with a fond smile and took a crunchy, spicy spoonful of your soup. “I still see you that way sometimes, you know?”

“God, I hope not,” he groaned, chuckling. “That’s just horrifying.”

“You weren’t so bad. Pretty sweet, actually.” You shrugged, the hint of a smile tugging at your lips. Russell had always been the lost little duckling that had imprinted on you.

He smirked, but his cheeks betrayed him by turning sweetly red. “Yeah, that’s how I lured you in.”

“I don’t think you did much luring, big guy…” you retorted. “You had zero game.”

“What?!”

“Oh, c’mon, Russ… This can’t come as a surprise to you,” you said, giggling.

“Fine,” he caved with a roll of his eyes and chuckled lightly. He scratched the scruff on his throat. “Guess I was a little nervous that night. You were really intimidating.”

You snorted a laugh. “I know.”

“‘M glad you made the first move, though.”

“I made all the moves,” you corrected teasingly. Your gaze then fell pensively to your lap, where your fingers nervously fumbled. Your heart jolted once, like the jump start of a car. “So, uhm, you know… were you making any moves on other people?”

“People?”

“Women,” you clarified and pursed your lips. You didn’t look at him. You knew he would probably find your discomfort amusing.

“Ah.” Russell smacked his lips, trying his hardest not to grin. Then he looked at you – brow raised in an almost scolding manner, but his lips curved upwards and gave his act away, dimples barely hidden by the beard. He held that gaze till you finally met his green eyes. “Have you not been listening to me before? I told you – there’s only you, sweetheart.”

Your brows drew into a frown. “Don’t sweetheart me. It’s been three years, Russ.”

“So?” He twitched his broad shoulders. “You know that’s not a problem.”

“Well, that was before…”

Russell snorted loudly. The crinkles around his eyes doubled as he rubbed the tears out of them. “What, you think sleeping with you has suddenly awoken the dragon?”

“You don’t have to make it sound so ridiculous,” you muttered.

Russell licked his lips, nodding. “Well, news flash – you’re the only treasure for this dragon, baby.”

You stifled a gasp. “I said less ridiculous!”

His grin only broadened, but then he apparently decided to let you off the hook. “Look, in the past three years, has there been opportunity and maybe a little flirting? Sure. But nothing ever came of any of it. Twice, I came scarily close to kissing someone, but I bolted. Wanna know why?”

“Yes? I think…” you replied hesitantly, causing that infuriating smile of his to rise again.

“‘Cause all of it felt like cheating on my wife. So, are we done with this now?”

Defiantly, you shrugged him a nod, but your heart pumped warm, fuzzy happiness into your veins before Russell’s next question made them freeze again.

“Bigger question is, did you kiss a few toads? Or, you know, did some quacking?”

Your lips rose till dimples formed and your cheeks started to hurt. “Please let me be there when you give the kids the sex talk…”

“Okay, don’t even try to change the subject now,” he chided playfully. “I just meant out of the two of us…”

He choked on his words when you narrowed your eyes to a small glare.

“Out of the two of us what, Russell? Please finish that sentence.” Your voice rang with challenge.

“Nothing.” Sheepishly, he scratched the nape of his neck again. “I just meant that, you know, you’re the one who has more, uh… experience in that area.” When your glare morphed into daggers, he swallowed thickly and corrected course, clearing his throat. “Which, you know, I’m real happy about because God knows I’ve profited greatly off of it.”

“Are you slut-shaming me right now?”

“Nope, mm-mm. No, ma’am.” Russell’s lips pressed into a thin line. Then he muttered under his breath, “Not like you’ve sent more soldiers off to war than Bush… Ow!”

Russell rubbed the burning spot on his chest where you had punched him.

“That one hurt this time…” he groaned.

“Good.” The daggers in your eyes blunted back to a frown. You let out a sigh. “You’re an idiot. Please move on.”

“Yes, ma’am.” With curled lips, Russell bobbed his head. “So?”

Musingly, you then rolled your eyes to the ceiling, your head falling back as your tongue darted out between your lips. “Alright, let’s see… In the last three years, I’ve slept with one, two…” you muttered and then mouthed till #4, beginning to count on your fingers.

“Oh, stop it! You think you’re real funny, young lady, huh?” Russell huffed.

When you saw his exasperated expression, you bursted into laughter, the sound echoing off the bare concrete walls.

“C’mon, I had to,” you choked out your excuse between belly-crippling laughs and hysterical snorts. “I’m a single mom of two small children. I’m thankful if I get five minutes in the shower alone.”

Russell laughed a little too, but his heart flooded with relief. The thought of you with someone else had gnawed on him for some time, sharp little bites that pricked his soul. He didn’t know what he would’ve done if it were true – well, aside from dissecting amphibians.

“Almost gave me a heart attack, sweetheart,” Russell chuckled. “Can’t do this to me anymore. That was a young man’s game…”

Instead of uttering an apology, you captured his lips, kissing him till his head spun even more. His breathing quickened, his heart clinging to every last bit of oxygen when your tongue slipped past his lips. His hands tugged on your hips only all too eagerly until he had pulled you into his lap. Your legs straddled his muscular thighs, your clothed cunt rubbing against the growing erection in his jeans. Your underwear soaked at the thought of him splitting you open.

“Make me cum,” you sighed into his ear, nibbling on his lobe. “Want you inside of me again.”

“You’re killing me here,” he groaned as you kissed your way down his throat, teeth grazing over his skin. His fingers twitched with an itch to crawl up your thighs, push any obstruction to the side, and plunge right into your surely wet and waiting channel.

“Good,” you smirked, rocking your hips harder against his bulge.

“Sweetheart, I’d love to, but you’re not exactly quiet.” He chuckled against your lips. “We’d have to blast some death metal on the highest volume for the neighbors not to hear. Doubt they ever heard those sounds coming outta this house.”

With a frustrated huff, you relented breathlessly and slid from his warm lap back to the cold, empty space next to him, cursing the bad timing.

“First time I stitched you up was pretty memorable,” Russell noted after a labored minute, a tiny smirk tugging on his lips.

Your cheeks blushed, your chest still heaving with panting excitement, but you matched his mischievous smile with your usual cocky attitude. “Bet it was. I looked hot in that towel.”

“Yeah, you did. Had a pretty massive boner the whole time. Was surprised you never noticed,” Russell said.

You grinned. “Who says I didn’t?”

“Oh, I know you didn’t, or you would’ve jumped me right there in that bathroom,” Russell teased.

Gasping, you slapped his arm. “I did not jump you!”

“You kinda did.” Russell only laughed harder, with that same boyish grin he always carried when he was happy. “All you wanted was to pull my pants down and hop on for a quick fix.”

“Really? Are you done now?” you playfully scolded him. “And excuse me for wrongly assuming a soldier who’d been stuck in the desert for months with a bunch of other dudes might want sex if the opportunity arises.”

Russell’s boisterous smirk only grew wider. “You wanted me. You had it bad.”

The heat in your face was burning, your tongue poking the insides of your cheeks. “Alright, I don’t think you need an ego boost, Shaw.”

“Still think I’m handsome?” he asked you with a nudge of his elbow.

Pursing your lips, you musingly narrowed your eyes at him, assessing him in jest. “I don’t know. You are a little more rugged these days. The beard’s definitely a midlife crisis.”

Amused, Russell quirked an eyebrow. “Midlife crisis?”

“Yeah, what’s next? Buying a ridiculous car and brewing beer in your basement?”

“Actually, I brew it in the trunk of the ridiculous car.”

Your brows drew together. “Shit. Really?”

Russell laughed loudly, throwing his head back. “Yeah, really.” He then a hauled a bottle of unlabeled beer from the bag, handing it to you. “Taste it. It’s good.”

“If it tastes anything like that schnapps you made in that Guatemalan prison, then no thank you,” you retorted, uncapping the bottle and taking a sniff.

“I promise this wasn’t made in a designated pee bucket, alright?” Russell laughed. “Just drink it. Tell me what you think.”

“Alright, here goes nothing,” you mumbled and took a hesitant, quick sip. Then you took another longer one, squishing the liquid around in your mouth. Your brow raised. “Huh. Not bad,” you remarked, watching Russell’s grin widen. “Why do I taste marshmallows?”

Russell then fully beamed at you. “Knew you’d get it. Took me a while to perfect it. Wasn’t easy, you know? The secret is only adding one of those little Lucky Charms marshmallows. First try, I used the whole pack. God, that was gross.”

“That’s actually pretty genius,” you said with an impressed smile.

“Well, if it is, I kinda owe it to you. You were the OG food genius.”

Smiling, you leaned back against the washing machine with a small sigh, your head dropping to his broad shoulder as you snuggled up against him. He opened his arm and pulled you closer as you nursed your sweet-tasting beer. Russell placed another kiss on your temple, calloused fingers gently caressing your skin.

“When did this job get so hard?”

“Wasn’t it always kinda hard?” Russell answered your rhetorical question, mumbling half his answer into your hair.

“Guess so. Didn’t always feel that way, did it?”

“No, we had some pretty good times,” Russell said with a warm smile and pecked your crown once more.

“You think we’re bad people?”

Russell’s absentminded gaze dropped to you then, now fully focused. “What’s bringing this on, hm?”

You only shrugged in his embrace.

“Alright, I’ll play,” Russell said and then hummed. “Well, we’re not the best people…”

“I was hoping for a little more reassurance,” you said with a playful huff.

Russell chuckled softly. “Look, we always did what we thought was right. And we’ve seen real bad… evil. I don’t think we fall into that category, sweetheart.”

You nodded against his chest. “I guess so…”

Part 4: This Is Not an Exit – JANUARY 31

One of the things I loved writing most about this series were the deep conversations between all characters, but especially this one in the basement. Hope you enjoyed this as much as I did before we break some, uhm, news to Colter next week 😉

☕️ Ko-Fi 🩵 Tag List

TAGS:

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Series: @deansimpalababy @koalamama @inknopewetrust

[sentientfunfetti]

Make a Yandere Coraline AU! Wally, please

possessive coraline!wally/reader headcanons !

(coraline!wally and his au was made by @kylee_dottavioartist on tumblr + twitter)

REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED !

CW// POSSESSIVE/YANDERE THEMES + MENTIONS OF BLOOD AND BITING

-

-

-

when you first come to his world, he makes a point of giving you everything you could ever want just like usual, but instead of looking to feed on you like he normally does he has another motive: making you his. making you stay with him forever. you’re happier here anyway.

of course, he doesn’t recognize it at first. the longing looks he gives you, the way his buttons gleam when he hears you laugh, the way his webs constrict and vibrate when you walk around the red palace’s walls, but when he does it’s so intense he finds it hard to keep his composure. you just feel so alive to him, and it drives him crazy. you’re not like the other neighbors.

gives you gifts he thinks you would like. small bouquets of your favorite flowers, he makes you your favorite comfort foods, knits you scarves and blankets for the colder seasons. (his small mouse spies help with him choosing some of these things)

speaking of small mouse spies, he uses them to watch over you even when you’re away. he has to make sure his butterfly is safe and faithful. he wouldn’t want to have to find other methods of getting to you.

you vent to him sometimes. he listens. he chimes in with his own opinions. plants small ideas in your head. harmless things. “if i were there i would have defended you.” or “oh butterfly, i would never do such a thing to you…”. he soothes you all while furthering his goal of hopefully making you stay with him for just a little longer.

likes to keep…small trinkets of you. let it be a hair tie you forgot (or one he plucked off of you as you slept) or a bandaid you had on because of a kitchen mishap. the more of you he can keep around the better, but all of this is to bide time until you finally become his. fully.

loves indulging in your hobbies with you and showing you his. he’s a house husband, so he loves to do things like sew and cook. he loves cooking for you and with you, it’s one of his favorite things to do and he looks forward to it. he loves to hear you rant about your favorite things and subjects, sitting across from you and watching your lips move as you speak so passionately about your favorite things makes his day.

jealous. he turns green with envy. there are times where he’s silent the entirety of dinner as he mulls over things. he brings up his feelings passive aggressively. “oh. butterfly. i thought you were busy with the other neighbors…”.

when the subject of the buttons comes up, he’s understanding when you reject. after all, he would like to consider himself a patient man, and no matter how much he craves your time and gaze he could never force such a decision on you…that doesn’t mean he’s above trapping you in his world entirely if he can to help along your choice. he’s a patient man, but he has his weaknesses.

touch is something he’s usually adverse to. it never felt right on his skin…but when you touch him it’s different. he loves your touch. it doesn’t even have to be affectionate, you could brush against him slightly reaching over for an egg to make breakfast and he’ll be thinking about that all day.

sometimes his true form slips through the cracks. there are times you spend a bit too much time away from the red palace and he has to make due with what he has. he would never let you see him fully until he’s sure that you wouldn’t run away from him. if that were to happen, he’d be distraught.

ever since he let you see his teeth, there are times he daydreams of biting into you. affectionately of course, but the thought of the taste of your blood on his tongue makes him shudder in pure delight. he wants to feel your pulse bubble under his jaws.

if you accept him for his…eccentricities, he may open up more and show you more of them. it would make it harder for you to escape if need be, but why would you want to? you’re happy there. you have to be.

loves to wrap you up in blankets he’s knitted. it makes you look so tasty to him!

of course he would never act on his more primal urges. he would never hurt you…unless you wanted him to. then he would be more than happy to oblige. whatever makes his butterfly happy.

speaking of making you happy, he’s willing to do anything and everything. if you complain about a person a bit too often, they may go…missing…or get hurt unexpectedly. all for you, of course! all for you.

author’s note ⊹˚. ♡

EEEE! thank you so much for requesting this! i absolutely ADORE coraline!wally! you weren’t very clear about what you wanted so i came up with a few headcanons! i hope you enjoy them, neighbor, as i enjoyed writing them.

my requests are still open! make sure you check out my masterlist and my guidelines on order to request things! see you in the next one!

[yourgalgremlin]

Killing Eve 🤝 All For the Game:

Villanelle & Andrew = the adorable assassins.

[theeminentlyimpractical]

david tennant dropping an egg on the counter instead of just cracking it on a flat surface. wacky dad energy verging on “how ‘bout we let the kids cook breakfast, granddad?” I want to put him in a nice armchair with a hand-knit blanket and leave him be.

michael sheen using a vegetable peeler on an onion. fully “I hope they don’t figure out I’m just cosplaying a human” behaviour. I want to put him in a jar with nothing but the clothes on his back and see how long it takes him to escape.

[mischiefbuckley]

For this season being marketed like Eddie’s season again with Ryan doing so much press heading into the beginning of season 8… like where are all my Eddie scenes ABC??? Season 8b please deliver on more Eddie scenes and more focus on Eddie’s storyline please 🙏🏻

[fiapple]

i'm getting towards the end of the skypeia arc, & i'd like to say just how much i adore the way the female strawhats have been treated.

just... every aspect of how the way their characters have been previously contextualized influences the story-line is treated with a masterful amount of consideration. we're given so many layers to both of them that enrich not only their characters specifically, but the arc, and the one piece world as a whole. without nami & robin having their specific skills, and their specific values, without those being built upon, the story would have come to a halt.

you could not have skypeia without nami & robin being who they are as individuals. not just because they never would've gotten there without nami, but also because the way these women think is itself foundational to the machinations of the arc as a whole.

to be totally upfront, if you think any other strawhats were more central to the skypeia arc than nami & robin were you are full-on fucking lying to yourself.

[bluuscreen]

dark and stormy knight

[fluffypotatey]

just gonna say this once and then go back to having this blog solely focus on fandom shit, but the people trying to say that Harris lost because of her own failed campaign is just a plain over generalization and diverting so many of the US political issues onto her, do y’all realize what you are doing? do y’all understand the implications you are making pointing this all on her?

no? oh, no you didn’t mean it that way, right? because you only saw the policies, right? only saw the actions she made despite the dog shit campaign that was also being made, okay

look me in the fucking eye: trump was not re-elected because of a spoiler or because nihilistic moods towards foreign policy or because Harris “failed” to appeal to the demographic, making this all on her

if you still don’t know, then i pity you

[james-spooky]

this is a test

[honeyconez]

guys hear me out would painis cupcake pay taxes? Because he’s not like mega insane like ass pancakes I think he’d pay his taxes in my professional opinion.

[chibishortdeath]

Simon doodles I drew at like 1 AM or so recently. In an absolutely genius move, my dumbass started getting sleepy and decided to draw him being sleepy too about it instead of just going to bed 💀💀💀💀💀. Literally thought about The Guy before I realized I could (and should) go sleep