#sting headers

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ do you think you’d kill for me, one day? ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ hwang in-ho x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! there is also a part one to this imagine, playing dangerous!

˚ ༘♡ the room plunged into darkness, and the air grew heavy with anticipation. bursts of violet and rose-red light erupted like fireworks, each pulse brighter and more jarring than the last. the lights burned into your retinas, blinding and relentless, painting the room in frantic, chaotic hues. shadows danced wildly across the walls, twisting and writhing as if they were living things. a smooth, mechanical voice rang out, tranquil and serene, “two.”

˚ ༘♡ you could feel your heart hammering in your chest, each beat echoing louder in your ears than the voice itself. your eyes scanned the chaos, flicking from face to face, desperate to make sense of it all. young-il, player 001, had already pieced it together. there were only fifty rooms, but one hundred and twenty-six people remained. at most, one hundred players would survive.

˚ ༘♡ suddenly, everything moved in a rapid blur. young-il, who had been quietly explaining what he believed would happen, was no longer talking. his hand shot out, gripping yours with a force that left no room for hesitation. his touch was steady, commanding, and before you could even process what was happening, he was pulling you forward. there was no time to think, no time to question.

˚ ༘♡ your feet stumbled beneath you as he dragged you through the chaos. panic gripped your chest and clawed without mercy, your breaths coming in searing, shallow bursts. ahead, a yellow door loomed like a shelter in a storm, sanctuary, a chance of survival. sweat trickled down your temple, stinging your eyes, as the two of you surged toward it. so close. you were so close.

˚ ༘♡ then the blow came.

˚ ༘♡ it was sudden, vicious, and it knocked the air from your lungs in an instant. a sharp, heavy kick to your stomach sent you sprawling to the cold, unforgiving floor. pain exploded through your abdomen, radiating outward until it felt like your entire body was on fire. you gasped, choking on the air that refused to return to your lungs. blinking through tears, you managed to look up. a tall, wiry figure stood over you, player 285. his face was set in stone, his eyes harsh and callous. you were nothing to him. just another obstacle to trample over.

˚ ༘♡ pain fogged the edges of your vision, but fear kept you moving. trembling, you tried to push yourself up, your arms weak and shaking beneath you. the countdown timer echoed in your mind like a death knell, each second slipping away faster than the last. a sinking realization clawed its way into your thoughts, you might not make it. the notion wrapped itself around your chest, squeezing until it was hard to breathe.

˚ ༘♡ young-il was at the door now, his moderate frame blocking the entrance as player 285 lunged at him, desperate to get inside. young-il didn’t waver. with a strength you hadn’t seen in him since he bludgeoned players 230 and 124, he wrenched the metal door open wider and grabbed player 285 by the collar. his grip was iron, unyielding. in one swift motion, he threw the man backward into the frenzied crowd, far from the door.

˚ ༘♡ “go!” he barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. the authority in his tone sent a jolt through you, and your legs moved on instinct. you scrambled to your feet and stumbled into the yellow room, the door slamming shut behind you. relief should have washed over you, but it didn’t.

˚ ༘♡ the room was drenched in horror. the walls and floor were streaked with blood, its metallic scent sharp in the air. in the corner, a man, player 343, sat quivering. his eyes were wide with terror, his hands twitching uncontrollably as he stared at you and young-il.

˚ ༘♡ young-il leaned against the door, his chest rising and falling heavily. the muffled shouts and pounding fists of player 285 echoed from the other side, but they barely registered. there were three of you in the room. the rules were clear. only two could stay. someone had to leave, or none of you would walk out alive.

˚ ༘♡ “please… please, we were here first…” the man stammered, his voice weak and desperate. his hands clutched at the wall as if it could somehow shield him. he made no move to fight, his stout body rooted to the spot.

˚ ༘♡ your gaze went to the countdown timer. twelve seconds. the world seemed to shrink, the weight of the moment pressing down on you in a suffocating fog of despair. your voice broke as you turned to young-il. “i’ll go,” you whispered. “if i don’t… we’ll all die.”

˚ ༘♡ the words tasted bitter, wrong. every fiber of your being screamed against the thought of stepping outside, of waiting to be executed in cold blood. but what choice did you have? standing there, all three of you frozen in fear, would only ensure everyone’s death.

˚ ༘♡ young-il’s face remained unreadable, his dark eyes blank as he stared at the man in the corner. then, with an abruptness that made your stomach drop, he moved.

˚ ༘♡ in a single fluid motion, young-il lunged at player 343. before you could process what was happening, his arm locked around the man’s neck in a crushing grip. player 343 thrashed, his limbs flailing wildly as he clawed at young-il’s arms, his face distorted in a mask of pure terror.

˚ ༘♡ your breath caught in your throat as you watched. the man’s struggles grew weaker, his movements slowing, until they stopped entirely. the sound of his neck snapping echoed through the small room, sharp and sickening.

˚ ༘♡ yet it wasn’t solely the act itself that made your stomach churn. it was young-il’s face. his expression was not cold or cruel, it was empty. hollow. there was no anger, no remorse, not even determination. merely a terrifying absence, as though he had flicked a switch and turned off everything human inside him.

˚ ༘♡ player 343’s body slumped to the floor, lifeless. the timer hit zero. the strobing lights stopped, and the door unlatched with a hiss. outside, the metallic scraping of corpses being dragged away filled the air, accompanied by blaring gunshots.

˚ ༘♡ you turned away, bile rising in your throat. your body shaking as you pressed yourself against the wall, unable to shake the image of the man’s lifeless eyes, his neck bent at an unnatural angle.

˚ ༘♡ “are you alright?” young-il’s voice was soft now, almost tender. you flinched at the sound, your mind unable to reconcile the concern in his tone with the monstrous act you had witnessed seconds prior.

˚ ༘♡ you forced yourself to nod, though the movement felt feigned. “yes… yes, forgive me.” your voice was shaky, but you tried to steady it. “i’m not used to… to seeing things so shocking.”

˚ ༘♡ young-il studied you for a moment, his melancholic eyes searching your face. “i frightened you,” he said simply, his voice flat.

˚ ༘♡ “you did what you had to do,” you murmured. “it’s not your fault. this game… it’s twisted. it forces us to do the unthinkable.” you glanced toward the door, unable to stop yourself from shuddering at the sight of masked guards dragging bodies through the blood-soaked corridors, leaving thick, smeared trails of scarlet ichor. “let’s go back.”

˚ ༘♡ young-il nodded and stepped out first, his broad shoulders slumping under an invisible weight. you followed, your legs heavy as you cast one last glance at player 343’s stiff, unnaturally contorted body.

˚ ༘♡ “you must understand,” young-il said as the two of you walked towards the exit. his voice was low, as though he were speaking more to himself than to you. “i didn’t do it for me. it wasn’t sadism. it was because you deserve to go home. you’re a good girl, i want to see you leave this place unscathed so you may see your loved ones again and lead a normal life. there are some who are too far gone for saving.”

˚ ༘♡ his words pierced the air between you, as if they had a tangible weight, sinking deep into your chest. you drew in a shaky breath, the lump in your throat rising as you fought to find your voice. “mr. young-il,” you called softly, barely above a whisper.

˚ ༘♡ he halted mid-step, the faint scrape of his shoe against the smooth, polished ground breaking the silence. slowly, he turned, his dark eyes locking onto yours. there was something unreadable in his gaze, something that burned quietly, akin to embers buried in ash.

˚ ༘♡ “i never thanked you,” you managed, the tremor in your voice betraying the emotion you tried to suppress. “you saved my life. i owe you my existence.”

˚ ༘♡ a shadow of a smile flickered across his face, fleeting and hollow, like the ghost of a feeling long forgotten. it never reached his eyes. “you owe me nothing,” he said, his voice low and rough, each syllable weighed down with exhaustion and something heavier, something unspoken. without another word, he turned away, his movements deliberate and slow.

˚ ༘♡ you stood still for a moment, your heart constricting painfully in your chest. the sight of his retreating figure, sent a ripple of unease and gratitude coursing through you.

˚ ༘♡ you forced yourself to follow, each step dragging as if the weight pressing on your chest had seeped into your limbs. the silence between you was stifling, so heavy it seemed to press against your ears, drowning out everything else. you longed to speak, but the words caught somewhere deep inside, trapped and unwilling to surface. so you trailed behind him, your steps hesitant and uneven, as though tethered to him by an invisible thread.

a/n: my second squid game fanfiction! i am so thankful for all the support and kind messages i received on my first hwang in-ho imagine! please let me know if you have any other requests! 🤍

[queenofstresss]

Everyone needs help sometimes | Leon S. Kennedy

Pairing: Leon Kennedy/female reader

Word count: 3,3k

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, smut but sweet as well, Leon is a horny sweetheart, unprotected sex, p in v, oral! f receiving, sub!Leon is you squint, dom!reader if you squint?, slight overstim, a scene with a certain loofa later, let me know if I missed any

a/n: this is probably all over the place lol, reader is not ashley. Proofread a few times but sorry for any mistakes that might be there. Just thought about this the other night and I had to try and whip up something for my man. Enjoy💜 cr. to who ever made the headers.

After escaping the Los Illuminados, Leon booked you guys a motel room. You both needed to shower badly, not that you couldn’t take one when you got home, but the jet ski you escaped with ran out of gas so this was more convenient.

The look on the receptionists face as she handed you the key, was horrified. You took the key and left to find your room number amongst the others. After fitting the key through the hole, Leon pushed the door open.

‘’You wanna take a shower first?’’ he asked politely as he took his shoes off.

‘’No, you can go first. I think you’ve earned it more than me.’’ you smiled at him. He thanks you and then disappears into the bathroom. You look around the room. There’s one double bed and one single bed. You sit on the latter and let out a sigh.

What a day its been. You think about what you both had to get through to get out of there when you hear painful groaning behind the bathroom door. You gently approach the door and knock on it. ‘’Leon, you okay?’’

‘’Yeah,’’ he groans again but tries to cover it. You try the handle and notice it’s not locked so you open it fully. Leon is shirtless in front of the mirror, trying to see his back. You watch his muscles flex as he breathes. There’s a nasty wound on the center of his shoulder blades.

‘’Let me clean that for you, it looks pretty gnarly.’’ you take some antiseptic spray and some cotton swabs from the first aid kit Leon had already pulled out.

‘’I can do th-,’’ he starts to protest, but you stop him.

‘’You can’t even reach it.’’ he sighs in defeat. ‘’and I want to help Leon,’’ you spray the wound and he winces. ‘’sorry if it stings, but it needs to be cleaned properly.’’ you say apologetically as you pat the sore spot with the swab. Once the wound is clean, you throw away the used swabs.

‘’Thank you,’’ Leon spoke quietly, like he was defeated. You caress his back near the wound softly. He sudders and you take your hand away.

‘’At least it’s not bleeding anymore. But probably better if you take a shower, before I put a bandaid on there.’’ He nods and turns to the shower, but doesn’t turn it on. ‘’Leon?’’ you ask again, being a little concerned. He says he’s fine but you can sense that some things are really bothering him. You close the door as you leave, giving him privacy.

--

After a while you still don’t hear water running and you get more worried. You knock on the door again, but there’s no answer. You try the handle again and open the door to find him sitting on the floor. You rush to his side, kneeling as you take his hand in yours. He breaks his stare to the void and looks at you.

‘’Do you need help?’’ you ask sympathetically. He takes support from the tub and lets go of you.

‘’No, I’m fine, just a bit exhausted from today,’’ he rubbed his neck, ‘’I’ll be quick now so you can shower too.’’ You didn’t listen to him and decided you should help. You went to plug the tub and open the tab to let it fill. He stood there watching you. You smiled as you went to close the door and then stopping before him.

‘’You need to take your pants off.’’ you told him. He snapped awake, looking down. As you waited the tub to fill, you collected the first aid equipment together that had been spread on the couter. When the tub was full enough so you closed the tab, squeezing some soap in there from one of the bottles on the shelf. You turned around and saw Leon sitting on the toilet seat. You kneeled again to help, taking a hold of his pant legs and pulling them away.

‘’You really don’t need to do that,’’ Leon’s voice broke out like he was embarrased. You smiled softly.

‘’It doesn’t make you any less of a man if you ask for help,’’ you folded his pants next to the toilet. ‘’or if you take the help you’re offered.’’ He huffed a little, like not believing what you said. You’ve sensed that Leon was the kind of man who had to do everything alone, like no one could or should help him. That he needs to survive everything on his own. Which is so not true. Everyone needs help sometimes and it’s okay. You told him to get to the tub as you turned away so he could strip all the way.

‘’Ohhh, didn’t realize I was this sore.’’ he hissed as he lowered his aching body into the water. You hummed agreeing as you took a loofa amongst the shower bottles and dipped it into the tub. You raised the wet loofa above his head and squeezed. Leon tensed and moved away slightly, looking back at you.

‘’It’s okay Leon, try to relax.’’ you softly spoke as you wetted the loofa again, raising it to him. He leaned back to the edge of the tub, back facing you, closing his eyes. He decided to trust you, which made you smile. You squeeze the water on his head again, before taking some shampoo in your hands.

The loofa now floating on the water surface. You gently put your hands on his wet hair, rubbing slowly. You hear him sigh contently. You massaged his scalp in circles, trying to relief any tension. His eyes are closed still, just basking in the feeling. ‘’I’m going to rinse now, if that’s okay?’’ you half whisper ask. He hums and nods.

After rinsing, you grab the loofa again and bring it to his shoulders, rubbing them. Your other hand resting on his other shoulder. Leon keeps humming softly and you ask, ‘’does this feel good?’’

‘’Yeah it feels nice,’’ he pauses a bit but continues, ‘’nice that someone is touching my body for some other purpose than trying to kill me.’’ he confesses. This makes you smile as you rub circles on his arms and back. You’re thinking of ways you could be touching his body, so you forget to actually answer him. ‘’oh I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said it like that,’’

You bring the loofa to his chest, rubbing it across his pecs. This made him look at you as his face fell backwards. His face was so close to yours, you could’ve easily kissed him. You wanted to, but held yourself back as you continued to wash his body.

‘’It’s okay Leon, I’m glad you like it.’’ was all you said instead. For a moment, he seemed to let go and truly enjoy this. His breathing got little heavier, making you test the limits. Your hand traced his abs, going down as your other took a hold of his hair. You were about to lower your lips to his neck, but he yanked himself away from you before you could do that. You were taken aback, feeling bad he’d move so suddenly and quickly off of your embrace.

‘’I can take it from here thank you.’’ he cleared his throat, taking the loofa from your fingers. You didn’t wanna upset him so you stood up and just went to the other room, closing the door behind you. Sitting on the bed you tried to think about what was wrong with Leon. Why’d he change so suddenly.

In the bathroom Leon was blushing from your touch. He hadn’t felt a womans touch in a long time and yours was extremely gentle. Which made him feel all types of ways, but he shouldn’t feel any type of way. The way your hand softly grazed the flesh of his abs, sent the blood rushing to his member.

He could feel it harden as your touch got lower and as your other hand grabbed his hair. He was a goner. He had to put an end to this, before it really began. He didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable just cos he hadn’t gotten laid in a while.

As you closed the door, he tried to ignore his aching dick, but his thoughts were making it very difficult. He stood up, pulling the plug with him. He’d be done soon anyway. The slightly cooler air above the water hit his cock, making it twitch a bit. Leon turned on the shower as soon as all the water was drained.

His hands brought the loofa under the waterfall, rinsing it, then tracing it across his body a few times. As it touched his dick, it made him bite his lip so you wouldn’t hear anything. He wrapped the loofa around the shaft, jerking it up and down. Fuck this felt good. Just few more movements from his hand at the thought of you, makes his cum ooze on the loofa. He evens his breathing before rinsing himself once more and shutting everything off.

You stand up as Leon emerges from the steamy bathroom. The water droplets on his chest make you tingle in places. He walks to the double bed, sitting his back towards you and mumbles that the shower is free. You make your way to the shower and close the door. You don’t take too much time. You wanna figure out if something is bothering Leon. You decide to use the same loofa that you used cleaning his body. Maybe not the cleanest option but you didn’t care. And little did you know what he did with it.

After you were done, you wrapped yourself in a towel and opened the door only to find Leon still sitting on the bed at the exact same spot. You remembered to take some bandaids from the first aid kit, before you sway closer to Leon.

‘’Hey,’’ you started and he flinched, ‘’we should cover the wound now,’’ you continued in a whisper.

‘’Oh, yeah, sure.’’ his voice unsure. You rise to the bed, kneeling behind him as you figure out how to cover it. As soon as you place it, you let your fingers trace the glue surface against his skin a bit longer than needed. He doesn’t pull away. Your fingers trace his other back muscles caringly. He lets out a sigh that’s almost like a moan. You lean a bit closer to him, letting your towel hit his back.

Your eyes wander around his body and see that his eyes are closed again and his towel is bulging. And then it clicks. He got a boner when you touched him before. This made you smirk and let go of any doubt. You knew he wanted this too. Your hands slid down his chest to his abs as you took the same position as before. Lacing your fingers through his hair and pulling his head back, made him groan.

‘’Can I help?’’ your voice sultry as your fingers fidgeted with the hem of his towel. Leon nodded quickly, deciding to give in while biting his lip. His chest heaved with anticipation as his hands took a hold of the mattress edge. You let his towel open up and fall to the sides. His cock stood proudly between his thick thighs. He’s quite big, you thought as you admired his length.

‘’I probably won’t last long,’’ he admitted quietly as he turned his head away. You took this opprtunity to place a kiss on his neck. He hissed at the contact, squeezing harder on the mattress.

‘’It’s okay, let me just make you feel good.’’ You let go of him and went to lean against the headboard, patting the place between your legs. Leon’s eyes lit up when he looks your way, seeing you let the towel pool around your hips. He places himself half sideways between your inviting thighs. Your smile makes his heart race faster in his chest.

You tip toe your fingers closer to his member, teasing him a bit before taking him into your palm. Leon inhales sharply, sneaking his hand behind your body to squeeze your opposite hip. You moan at his rough touch which makes him moan too. You jerk just the tip in your hand first, making him squirm.

Oh this man is way overdue.

Then you take your time to stroke his whole length slowly. His chest rises and falls quickly, trying to contain himself. Your hand picks up speed gradually, milking groan after groan from his luscious lips. ‘’does that feel good, Leon?’’ you breath against his ear.

‘’Yes, so good,’’ he whines as his hand squeezes your hip again. You quicken your pace on his tip, precum slickening the whole process, making it easier. The squelching sound made your pussy leak too. ‘’I’m close,’’ he mumbled into the air.

‘’I want you to cum for me Leon,’’ you tell him and with that he shoots rope after rope of cum on his stomach and your hand. His head falls back and he groans, trashing his hips upwards.

‘’Fuuuck it feels too good, please,’’ he moaned as you kept pumping his cum from his cock. ‘’it’s too sensitive, please stop.’’ You let go of his cock, chuckling a little but it turned into a yelp as he just turned around, lifting you to your knees and crashing his lips to your own.

You moaned into the kiss as you felt his body against yours, his cum sticking you together. His hands flew to your neck bending your head to his liking, plunging his hot tongue into your mouth. You gave him access instantly, smiling into the kiss as you felt his dick poking your thigh. As he pulled away, his strong hands lifted you up against the wall,

‘’Leoon!’’ you yelled as he put your other leg on his shoulder and then placing his hands on your butt, keeping you upright.

‘’My turn,’’ he breathes against your thigh as he peppers kisses on it, getting closer to your heat. Then his lips are suddenly on it. Just kissing the lips. It made you blush at how sweet he was. Soon enough his tongue comes out to play and he licks up your slit, making you gasp. ‘’you’re soaking wet baby,’’ he says before devouring your wetness.

‘’Ungh, Leo-onn,’’ you gasped as his tongue hit the right spot inside, making you grind your hips against his face. His nose hit your clit, letting more sweet sounds fall from your open lips. Leons rough palms grope your ass as he tries to keep you from falling over. This position could have been chosen better but you looked so hot like this so he didn’t mind. He moved his tongue in and out of you before he started to suck your clit, making you tense in his hands.

‘’Mmm, you taste so good baby,’’ he mumbled into you, fueling your feelings. Your body started to shake as you clenched around nothing.

‘’Fuck, Leon don’t stop, your tongue feels so good, please.’’ you begged. You didn’t know what, cos you knew he would make you cum. He wasn’t the kind of man to leave you hanging. Few tongue thrusts and clit sucks later you were screaming his name louder than before as he had you cumming hard. He let you enjoy the aftermath a little, before he lowered you onto his lap. His tip grazing your sensitive nub, making you whimper as you tried to grind against him.

Leon cupped your face and pulled you into a soft kiss. Slowly making out with you and letting your breathing calm down. You pulled away, smiling at him as you still grinded against his dick. He leaned back on the bed, on his hands, letting you have the lead. You took his cock in your hand again, stroking it a bit before lining him at your folds.

‘’Fuck baby,’’ he bit his lip, groaning as soon as his tip was inside you. You sink all the way down and start to sway your hips back and forth rapidly. Whining as his cock hits your cervix. ‘’your pussy feels amazing,’’ He lets you do the work for now and get what you want. He loved the way your boobs bounced as his eyes bounced along with them.

A groan escapes his throat as he leans forward to take your other nipple into his mouth. His hands sneaks behind you as well, hugging you against him. Your hips start to lose their momentum, trying to keep up with your need, but failing.

‘’Leon, I-I can’t anymore,’’ you say out of breath, stopping your hips. Leon’s hands grab your hips, helping you move on him. He lets go of your nipple and flips you two around as he lowers himself to kiss you. The kiss is sweet and gentle.

‘’I got you,’’ he mumbles to your lips and eases himself into your warm folds again. After a few test thrusts, he hoists your ass off the bed and pistons into you with full speed. You scream at the force, throwing your hands on his, clawing him. He’s pulling you towards him like crazy, moaning and groaning loudly as well. ‘’shit, you’re taking me so well baby.’’ You love that he's vocal.

‘’Leon, I’m cumm-INGG!!‘’ you screamed the last half as your orgasm took over you. Your body squirmed at his embrace, convulsing from the intense pleasure again. You tried to back up from his thrusts, but he kept you locked in with him. You let him chase his own high. After a few seconds he let your hips fall to the bed and slowed his rhythm a little. He leaned to your neck, kissing it sloppily as his thrusts were becoming irregular.

‘’Where to you want me to cum? I’m getting so close,’’ he nibbled your neck. You touched his sides,

‘’Wherever you want, I just want your cum, please,’’ you begged. Again. You didn’t know what. With those words he pulled out and started to jerk his dick over your stomach. White ropes shot out of his tip as he rode out his high, groaning. He huffed above you before he collapsed on the bed,

‘’You can’t say things like that,’’

‘’Is that not where you wanted to cum?’’ you teased him. He laid his head to the side to look at your face,

‘’No, I would’ve -,’’ he didn’t know if he should finish the sentence or not, ‘’I would’ve wanted to cum inside that pretty pussy of yours.’’ but did it anyway. He didn’t have anything to lose. What was the worst thing you could do? Leave? You were supposed to anyway. You blushed, but rolled on your side facing him and tracing his abs with your fingers.

‘’Maybe next time you should?’’ it was more of a question than anything else.

‘’Next time?’’ Leon almost choked on his saliva, not expecting you to offer a next time. You closed the gap between you two and placed a kiss on his lips.

‘’Yeah,’’ you stated as a matter of factly, ‘’but you know what?’’

‘’What?’’

‘’We need to take another shower cos you made us sticky,’’ you chuckled as you took his cum on your fingers and let it fall to your abdomen again. He rolled on top of you, rubbing his body on yours, getting you two even more sticky,

‘’Oh it’s my fault? I remember you being very much involved too,’’ he placed some loose strands of your hair behind your ear, then kissed your nose. ‘’I’ll go run the bath and then come get you,’’ He hopped off the bed, skipping to the bathroom again.

The water started running and you smiled as he became visible to you again with a huge smile on his face. He scooped you up in his arms and started to carry you to the tub.

After all, a little help from someone goes a long way.

If you made it here, thank you for reading this! My smol Leon infested heart is very happy💜 Please like, comment and/or reblog if you enjoyed what your eyes gobbled up. 👀

[muxshwriting]

coming home

Max Verstappen x reader

summary: max makes the decision no one thought he actually would. and he made the decision for you || word count: 950 || masterlist

You’re screaming as Max crosses the line. Yes, it’s P5 but it’s a championship secured. The team around you erupts as their dreams come true. There was a huge sense of anticipation as you ran through the pit lane towards parc ferme and towards him. You watch as he jumps out of the car with a weight visibly off his shoulders. He runs towards you, not a glance at anyone else.

“I’m so proud of you!” You’re shouting over the noise of the crowd but Max only hears you.

“I couldn’t have done it without you Schatz. For a second I didn’t think I would.”

“You made it. You won.”

He tears his helmet off, crashing his lips into yours and he finds himself home. The rest of the night is a blur as you watch Max receive his well earned celebrations for a season hard-fought. There’s nothing that could sour yours or his mood as the night burns on and Max goes from interview to interview, waiting for the time he can drink so much he forgets.

“Max, congratulations on the championship win. Would you like to speak about how much this means to you after this year?”

Max rubs a hand through his hair and adjusts his hat, a nervous tick he’d always had as he brought the microphone to his jaw. “Yeah. This championship means a lot because we weren’t sure it was going to happen earlier in the season. Of course it wouldn’t have been possible without my amazing team working so hard to make the car as good as it could be. It’s the people around us who push us to be the best versions of ourselves.”

Max can’t hope to get away sooner, to his team waiting to celebrate and to you. There’s always a choice in the back of his mind that tells him to abandon everything and run for the hills with you. Except this time, with the championship tucked in his belt, he’s not sure what’s stopping him anymore.

The triple header came to a close in Abu Dhabi, Max closing his season out with a glorious win but there’s a feeling in your gut that tells you Max is going to say it. You’d discussed his retirement before, and you’d always tried to persuade him to stick out his contract. You would tell him that you both had time to live your lives after his career. The last thing you wanted was for Max to throw his dream away for you.

A champagne-drenched Max finds you after the podium hiding in his driver’s room. “You’re going to announce it, aren’t you?” You quietly ask, not wanting to ruin the joy but needing an answer.

Max grinned, stripping his race suit from his body. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to me.”

“Then you know I am.”

“Max-“

He calms your worries with a simple declaration. “I love you. I know this is what I want. I’ve had my time, I don’t need anything more than you.”

You bite back the sting of tears and pull Max into a hug, pressing your lips against his.

“Is that a yes?” He whispers to you. “You’re okay with this?”

”Yes. I love you.”

With a kiss to his cheek, you send him to the hounds of journalists in the press conference and promise you’ll be right here when he’s done. It takes a moment for the right time to arise but when Max is asked a question about his hopes for the future, he only knows one answer.

“The future? My future? I’m retiring from formula one... effective immediately. I will be taking no more questions at this time. Thank you.”

And with that, Max put down his microphone. He stood and carefully removed his red bull hat and took a moment to simply look before he placed it where he had been sitting. He ignored the journalists practically screaming at him and the cameras that sounded like static. Without a word, he walked out of the door and promised himself he would never return.

The second he walks out of the door, your arms are wrapped around him and he falls into your embrace. Your words flow through him without being absorbed as he remembers and realises exactly what he’s done. A part of him will miss this life but most of his heart is grateful he stopped before it consumed his very being.

He had proved himself, set records for the ages and done what any formula one driver aims to do: win championships. Was it so unfair to want a different life than the one he had grown into? Was it so unfair to want that perfect family with a beachfront penthouse in Monaco or even a country home in the Netherlands? A house that always had spare bedrooms for guests to drop by, a house with love radiating from its walls and beauty running through it’s floors. Was it so unfair to want that before life slipped past him and he was a 40-year-old driving for a bottom ranking team trying to keep the dream alive?

But Max had a different dream now, a dream nothing could stop him from achieving.

Four years later, that dream is most certainly in progress as you sit in the window of that Dutch country home watching Max as he runs after your eldest daughter. There’s a babe in your arms and a feeling that nothing will ever be as perfect as this. There have been no regrets about leaving racing and no regrets about leaving that whole world behind.

Who knows what the future will bring? That’s the best part, it’s your future.

[qwimchii]

𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 (pt. 1) — 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘺

playlist pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3 pt. 4 pt. 5 pt. 6 pt. 7 pt. 8 (10/24)

𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘹 𝘧!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺 — 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵'𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘢𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘸𝘤 — 17.7𝘬 (crying TT)

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦 — 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵

𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴/𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 — 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘩𝘰𝘭, 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 & 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢, 𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘥𝘰𝘮!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘷𝘪𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘯!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵!𝘢𝘶, 141𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘨!𝘢𝘶, 𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 (10𝘺𝘳𝘴), 𝘤𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘴, 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘥𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯

note: the year is circa 1908 and 10 years after the spanish-american war (1898). reader has long hair bc i felt like that was historically accurate... hope that's ok <3

header gunslinger ghost render by @ave661

you had heard the whispers on the horizon.

the whole town buzzed with a sort of energy—a swirling mass of dusty brown and gurgling in your stomach.

anxiety. you saw it on passerby faces through Daddy’s saloon, the bouncing knee of your mama under the table while you said grace at dinner. she never bounced her knee. it was a strict habit she trained you out of from a young age. claimed that it wasn’t proper for a young, unmarried lady like yourself.

that morning, when you stood over the wash bin in front of the dusty mirror, you wiped at your face with an old washcloth and smoothed the lines of your face like your mama taught you.

Ghost was coming to town.

no matter how you brushed your hair, the dust climbing through the desert coated it in a thin, particulate grime. Mama tightened your corset as you shoved your toes into leather heeled boots.

“remember yourself, girl,” she spoke lowly. “remember your manners. behave for once and don’t embarrass your daddy.”

you only rolled your eyes at her hissed warnings. you had met with Daddy’s business partners over several dinners where you put on your best show to pour them a glass of Daddy’s fancy bourbon all the way from kentucky.

these were the rules: you don’t speak to them unless spoken to, and you let them touch you however they please.

you shuddered, stomach curling at the thought of the last dinner. Mr. Turner’s wrinkled hand had slid up your thigh and you twisted away in reflex, accidentally knocking a bottle of bourbon onto the floor that shattered and soaked the hem of his wife’s fancy dress.

she had screamed at you and your daddy’s face had gone red, sending you a look of warning. Mama barely spared you a glance as she pulled you down to the floor to clean it up, pinching the skin of your arm in frustration.

you couldn’t tell if it felt worse to have Mr. Turner’s hand squeezing at your thigh or to be at your knees in front of him.

the strings of your corset pulled tight and you bit back a gasp as Mama tied it deftly with the practiced curl of her rough hands. you put on your best blouse and tucked it into a navy skirt that flowed into a blue, watery circle round your ankles. looking into the mirror, you thought your mama looked so much more poised and ready than you.

with a shaky exhale, you turned to her and she slapped at your face. you winced at the sting it left on your cheek.

“you’ll be fine.”

you felt far from it, trailing after her as the orange sun bled through the grimey windows, a blanket of dust settling on them in the windy evening. you had scrubbed them only yesterday.

settling yourself behind the expanse of Daddy’s bar, you smoothed over the dark wood. the saloon was eerily empty and quiet, a silent omen of Ghost’s arrival approaching. he had sent word only a few days ago. he had urgent business with Daddy and he was coming. now.

as you shuffled through Daddy’s whiskey collection, rearranging and wiping bottles down, you remembered the legends that alcoholics brought in every other week. another story on Ghost—the masked iron harbinger of death and justice. he wasn’t a sheriff, a good and honorable christian, or a vigilante. he was a bounty hunter, a cold-hearted gunslinger with a nasty sore spot for bourbon, money, and women. someone who disappeared without a trace, shooting out runaway criminals, bringing back carcasses for an extra dime.

he wasn’t even human.

a ghost. or so you heard.

you combed through the alcoholic contents, anxiously placing them and replacing them. your mama would be calling you to dinner any second and lead you to the table, Daddy at the head and Ghost at the other, right next to your spot where his hand would be on your thigh, eyes burning into the curve of your cheek. 

swallowing, you leaned against the bar top. you wanted to run away. you didn’t know how much longer you could go—how many more business partners Daddy would work with to expand his saloon chain. how much longer until he would be selling his daughter’s honor for a bigger investment…

the familiar click and chime of the saloon doors swinging open came from behind. you crossed your arms and didn’t turn to see who it was. you knew Mama would’ve had your head for being so rude.

“saloon’s closed,” you called out, “Daddy’s got business with—”

“Ghost.”

you stiffened and uncrossed your arms to peer over your shoulder.

there, at the entrance of the saloon, stood a broad and tall figure, hips thick and laden with a gun holster. he hooked his fingers on his belt, embroidered silver buckle glimmering in the red hours of the evenings. his backlit silhouette stark against the sunset made it hard to make out anything else, but you were sure when you saw the shine of his red mask and the wide berth of his black Stetson, a silver skull and crossbones clasped to its brim.

Daddy’s got business with Ghost.

you were frozen. the casual way his thick gloved hand settled on his revolver sent tremors through you.

“you’re supposed to be at dinner with Daddy,” you said, throat tight, and he trudged forward, boots heavy on the wood floorboards. he walked with a heady weight, and as he neared, you could make out the darkness of his eyes piercing through his skull mask.

“wanted bourbon.”

you stared at him for a long moment. he sat at a barstool, all his weight and broadness settled over the bartop. whatever trance you were in broke when he tipped his head at you in question—or impatience, you couldn’t discern. probably the latter.

you fumbled for a kentucky bourbon. you had done this a million times over at the saloon, but the crackle of the air and his gaze following your every move had your hands wobbling. the shaky clink of the bourbon bottle against the glass grappled with the silence of the room. suddenly, you felt hyper aware of the looseness of your blouse when you bent to pour his bourbon. you didn’t dare look up into his gaze.

“you scared of me?” his accent was foreign and grating and sent shivers down your spine. you should’ve been hollering for your mama at this point, but you felt rooted to the spot. 

shakily, you exhaled. “no.”

when you pulled back, you watched in amazement as he pulled up the bottom of his black mask, revealing a canvas of pale skin, dark stubble, and a strong jawline that pulled into a tight frown on his lips. a litter of scars shone silver in the light when he tipped back to drain the glass of bourbon.

when he placed the empty glass back on the table, he reached into the inner pocket of his black trench coat and pulled out a cigarette. you flinched when his heavy gaze ran over you.

“light me up, lovely?”

you nodded dumbly, reaching for the lighter under the countertop and held it out to him. he looked up at you, unmoving, and you blinked in confusion before his gloved hand gripped your wrist with a tightness.

he moved your hand with his own, thumbing over the sparkwheel till the flame jumped to life and leaned his mouth forward to tip his cigarette into the flame.

your whole body felt light and fiery—like you were floating a bit off the ground, shoulders drawn with a tightness. a sharp exhale left you when he finally released you, the skin of your wrist tingling in the memory of his leather grip.

smoke clouded your eyes in a haze and you blinked rapidly, quickly wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. he huffed, corners of his lips twitching, a dark gleam in his eye. his rested his hand against the countertop, smoke trailing up in the room and you watched his lips part like he was about to say something—

Mama strode into the room, freezing at the entrance of the back door behind the counter. you had never seen her so tense, her eyes moving from you, to the hulking man smoking a cigarette.

“welcome, sir,” she greeted and he only nodded, pulling his mask back down as he snuffed out his cigarette in an ashtray.

it was like you remembered yourself in that moment, that the man across from you was Ghost, the bounty hunter, the murderer, and the devil. you shuffled away into her side when Ghost stood. her arm was tight when it circled your waist, and you mustered all your strength not to shake. Mama’s gaze was on him but Ghost was only staring at you.

you stared at the floor instead.

“this way, sir,” she said, gate polite and posture poised as she led you and Ghost to the dining room through the back of the saloon’s supply and storage to the other side of the building where he was supposed to enter.

his footsteps were heavy behind you and the hair on your neck prickled. you scurried forward but it was like you could feel his warm breath down your back.

when you found Daddy, it was almost a crushing relief to see the sweeping calm on his half-lidded face at the dinner table. he was so charming, you were sure he could use his business skills to weasel out of this. like he had a million times before.

Mama’s steaming food was laid out over the table—buttered chicken, thick mashed potatoes, greasy green beans with bacon bits. you tried to move to sit on the opposite side of the table, far away from Ghost, but your daddy’s eyes pinned you with a warning and you grimaced, sitting carefully next to him. Ghost’s gaze burned your face.

“Ghost,” Daddy greeted, “pleasure to see you again.”

he only grunted, mask pulled tight over his features. you couldn’t see anything but the dark swirl of his eyes. he didn’t even take off his hat at the table.

you glanced at your mother’s face by Daddy but her eyes were intent, focused on Ghost. she didn’t seem to care at all. you shifted in your seat. you knew Ghost was a very special guest, but not even special guests were above Mama’s rules.

“what brings you to our small town?”

Mama nudged you under the table with her foot, and you kept yourself from rolling your eyes, standing to serve Ghost food. you carefully dished it on his plate neatly, just like Mama taught you, but he didn’t even spare the food a glance.

“i was at your saloon in jackson county.” you froze briefly. jackson county is a long way from the west. he must’ve traveled day and night to reach your small town embedded in tumbleweeds and dust.

his head tipped thoughtfully so you couldn’t see his eyes anymore under the width of his hat. “it’s a nice place. good kentucky bourbon.”

Daddy smiled but his eyes narrowed. you were about to dump a spoonful of mashed potatoes on Ghost’s plate but he gripped your wrist lightly.

“i’m alright,” he said low, and your spine prickled. there was a warning in it, so you sat back in your seat, leaning to the furthest edge away from him. you dreaded the moment his gloved palm would glide up your thigh.

“why are you here, Ghost?” Daddy asked again, his hand reaching down below the table. you imagined it resting on the holster, revolver lodged against his hip. 

Ghost leaned forward.

“first, you tell me why I saw Turner’s boys loitering around jackson county.”

Daddy went pale in a way you’ve never seen before and Mama shifted uncomfortably. her knee was bouncing again.

“nearly got my head shot off. had to comb my way through texas to lose ‘em.” Ghost’s eyes narrowed in the dimness of the dining room.

“you know how i feel about the Turner boys, Henry.”

you shivered at his low tone. what the hell was going on?

there was a calculated thickness in Daddy’s voice. it blanketed all the desperation in his clenched jaw. “i needed investors, Ghost. Turner was the highest bidder.”

“do you need a reminder of who built your business from scratch in the first place?”

your brows raised. Daddy did business with Ghost?

“no i remember. i also remember how you high-tailed it out of here when the Turner boys showed up five years ago.”

you jumped in your seat when Daddy stood and placed his revolver on the dinner table. Mama gasped and murmured something like disapproval that Daddy ignored. it gleamed in the low light and your jaw clamped.

“i’m not afraid of you, Ghost. Turner’s protecting me now.”

Ghost’s silence was deadly, his hulking form too relaxed, but you could see his hand twitch where it lay on his holster. was this going to lead to a shootout?

you tried to convey your silent question in the way that you peered into the curve of his mask but his eyes were dead set on Daddy.

“Turner is protecting you now?”

“yes.” 

Ghost stared up at your daddy for a long time before his gaze traveled to you. you reached deep inside you to muster the courage and stare unflinchingly back.

“i want my money back, Henry.” it was a low deadly whisper, his eyes never leaving you. Daddy balked.

“you know i can’t do that.”

“but you can. and i want my money back or i can take something much more precious.”

his gloved hand came up to stroke at your cheek and you bit back a hiss, biting down on your lower lip. Mama stood now, clutching at Daddy’s arm.

“you won’t, you devil!” she cried and Ghost gripped firmly at your jaw, razor eyes digging into you. a tight hand around his wrist, you tried to pry him off but he was too strong. he wouldn’t budge. a traitorous tear spilled from the corner of your eye. Ghost brushed it away with his thumb.

“you have no honor,” your Daddy whispered and Ghost went lax. you pushed his hand away and pressed yourself to the back of your chair in a ball.

a new boiling anger built in you. you were being used again as another part in Daddy’s business transactions.

“you sell your daughter to investors for a buck. do you really want to talk about honor?” he chewed out the words and you shuddered, holding your breath to keep down the sobs that threatened to push up into your lungs.

“i protected you. this was my territory. i had men in your town and i made sure no bandits came near your saloons and i made sure none left alive. then, you went to work with Turner instead.” Ghost stood at the table, revolver in hand. he cocked the gun and Mama shrieked.

“this is a fair trade. give me my investment back or i’ll take her instead.” the barrel of his revolver slowly swung from Daddy to you. in his black suit in bloody mask, Ghost truly did look like the devil. you wanted to shake, to cry and scream and sob, but only a venomous anger spread through you.

what did Ghost know about fairness? 

“if i go it’s on my terms,” you hissed under your breath and Ghost’s eyes swiveled to you. Mama began to shout in protest but he pointed the revolver dead above her browline and your Daddy hissed, picking up his own revolver and cocking it.

“what’re your terms, lovely?” he asked in a low tone.

“you leave my Mama and Daddy alone.” with a harsh swallow, you wiped at the tears on your cheeks. “i can ride a horse. i can shoot well ‘cause Daddy taught me. i know how to pour a glass and tend a bar. i can read and write. i know good manners and i can talk smart when i need it.

Ghost’s eyes were half-lidded as he looked down on you, sitting as straight as you possibly could at the dinner table. your Daddy’s revolver was trained on Ghost now.

“i won’t get in the way. take me instead of the money.”

Ghost blinked. “what’re my terms?”

you hesitated, voice cracked wide open. “you…you’ll own me.”

his eyes narrowed. “body and soul?”

you nodded slowly, feeling your anger deflate as your mama began to sob. 

“body and soul.” you screwed your eyes shut, head dipping forward. the devil.

“Henry?”

your Daddy looked weakly at Ghost, his shoulders falling. he looked meek and small and not even half the smart man you thought he was. his revolver clattered to the dinner table in defeat and you didn’t spare him a glance when you stood from the dinner table to trudge up the stairs and pack your things, the food sprawled across the dinner table cold and forgotten.

you didn’t have time to think about what you needed or what to say goodbye to. the stuffed bear your daddy got you for your tenth birthday lay discarded among your bedsheets. old letters from the girls in town were strewn off your desk as you dug for stationary. you stopped midway when you realized there was no way Ghost would let you write your parents on the move through the west.

was this your new life? confined to bounty hunting and running from foes? living as a ghost?

you shivered, shoving blouses and skirts and a canteen on your nightstand into a knapsack. you pulled out the drawer of your dresser and dug under more clothes to find a revolver and pack of ammo. Mama would beat you if she ever knew it was there and that’s why you always kept it hidden.

you loaded up the cylinder, pushing the bullets into each chamber and ramming the cylinder back in place.

“gearing up to kill me?”

you froze and looked over your shoulder to find Ghost crowding your doorway. for someone of his stature, he moved too quietly. usually, you would be embarrassed at the mess dispersed across the floor, your undergarments at a pile by his dusty boots.

but you just narrowed your eyes, ignoring him as you carded through your room, collecting random essentials. matches, money, your sharpest letter opener, and in a last second grab, your journal.

he watched all your movements with an eerie silence.

“i’m not planning on keeping you forever.” he stepped forward till he was just a short arm length from your back. his voice was cold.

“your daddy’ll try and kill me first, then he’ll cough up the money eventually. it’s a temporary trade off.”

“i’m not one of your business transactions,” you snapped, and he blinked at you.

“‘course not.”

his words weren’t convincing. you tried to squeeze past him but his outstretched arm blocked your path. you almost snapped at him again but shrunk back when his steady eyes pinned you down. he crowded you back until you blindly hit the dresser. 

your neck craned up. he was so much bigger than you.

the swell of his chest with each breath almost brushed against you, and you squirmed under his intense gaze.

“you offered yourself up to me,” he said, calculated. “why?”

you swallowed down the anxious gurgling in your stomach. “you wouldn’t believe me.”

“tell me anyway.”

“i hate it here.”

he cocked his head at you. “the rich girl wants to become a bounty hunter?”

you frowned, raising the revolver and digging it into his stomach. “don’t think that i could?”

he gave you a long look before tipping his hat and stepping back. “didn’t say that, lovely.”

you whispered it under your breath. “devil.”

the grip on his holster tightened. “maybe. but i know how to be a gentleman.”

he picked up the knapsack on your bed, despite your grumble of protest, and slung it over his shoulder. 

“don’t worry. i’ll take real good care of you, princess.”

you could only imagine a smug smirk hidden by the shroud of his mask as he walked out your bedroom.

it was surreal watching the tears stream down Mama’s face as she cupped your face in her hands. facing them now, you searched your daddy’s eyes for an ounce of anger or fight. 

just give him the money, you wanted to scream at your daddy, but he stared straight through you and the hands that clutched at your face.

Ghost watched from a distance, arms curled over his chest, leaning against a fence post that his black stallion was tied to, leisurely grazing at the dry tufts of grass. your horse, Sugar, stamped in the dirt nearby, kicking up dust. Ghost’s dark gaze pierced you even at a distance.

Daddy could never out gun Ghost even if he tried.

you startled when Mama pulled you into a tight hug. she hissed low and angry, “you wait till he falls asleep and you kill him, you hear me?” she pinched at the skin of your arm. “you put three bullets in that devil’s heart and you run back to us.” 

she brushed hair away from your face, sweeping away the dust on the crown of your head. “okay?”

you nodded, swallowing, throat bone dry.

“you’ll be fine.”

those were her final words when your daddy led you to your horse and let you clamber up into your saddle. Ghost looked at you expectantly from over his shoulder as your daddy patted your knee.

“i’m sorry, sweetheart.” 

no you’re not.

you looked into his charming face, a twisted look on his lips. his eyes were tired.

“goodbye, Daddy.”

you took one look over the small town and the dust that blew through it. Ghost turned his horse into the dying light of the day and you dug the heel of your boot into the flank of your mare, tightening the reins, and took off after Ghost. soon, your mama and daddy become a dot in the horizon, and you almost suppressed a smile.

you weren’t sure how long you rode. it felt like hours, dust kicking up in a big cloud after the pair of you into the dark night. you only stopped every hour or so to let the horses rest up, drink, feed and you were off again. you should’ve been tired but you were so high with exhilaration, lungs burning with exertion from the long ride, that you almost didn’t catch Ghost’s call to rest drifting over the wind rushing in your ears.

your chest was put through the wringer, panting as you slid off your horse. 

“good girl, Sugar.” you slapped at her dapple gray shoulder. she snorted, tossing her mane anxiously.

as you traveled further into…wherever you were, the cacti and low brush built up into bushes and weedy looking trees. into a forest.

Ghost lit the lantern strung up on his saddle bags and gave you a sharp, wordless look before leading his horse by the reins further into the woods. you followed him, head on a swivel at the unfamiliar surroundings.

you were used to the big, brown, orange flat canvas of your small town. the green grass underfoot was unusual and the trees cast long, distorting shadows. you startled, stopping short when you heard an foreign call from the woods. Sugar huffed nervously, big nostrils twitching as she stamped her hoof.

“it’s a coyote,” Ghost grumbled, not stopping for your shenanigans. you scurried after him, hyper aware of the encompassing darkness around you and what may be lurking beyond it.

soon, a big structure obstructing the woods came into view and Ghost lifted his lantern to reveal a small wooden cabin. by the side, he tied up his black stallion on a fence post next to a hay feeder and water bin. when he stared at you, unmoving, you quickly followed suit and fumbled to unsaddle Sugar, carrying your knapsack inside and following after his heavy footsteps.

you’re like a lost puppy, a voice grumbled in annoyance. he’s always ten steps in front of you.

you shook away the thought and stepped into the cabin, watching Ghost as he lit the oil lamps littered around the room. there was a miniscule kitchen pressed in the corner, a desk by your side, and a bed on the other. the bed was small. very small.

you cleared your throat. “where are we?”

Ghost didn’t pause to acknowledge you, shucking his trench coat and rolling up the sleeves of his black suit, exposing the skin of his forearms. for a long moment, as he rummaged through a bag, you thought he would ignore you. but your silent stare was relentless.

“border of southern california.”

your brows rose. you weren’t sure how far that was from home, or how you could possibly find your way back. 

“and this cabin…?”

he paused to give you a brief look. “you ask a lot of questions.” his voice was pinched with annoyance.

“you don’t talk enough,” you shot back, tensing up. if you were going to be dragged around by this man for months, you thought you at least deserved to know where you were. or what the hell was going on.

he grumbled under his breath. “s’my safe house. we’re stayin’ for the night.”

the night. you nodded, feeling meek, remembering what Mama said. smoothing a hand over your chest, you shifted between feet in the doorway.

you can do this.

Ghost had his back turned to you, pouring his canteen of water into a pot and pouring a bag of something else in it that came out in a pebbled rush. for the devil himself, at least he knew how to cook.

“you gonna sit?”

feeling embarrassed, you moved to sit on the bed, the old mattress sagging under your weight. you kept smooth a hand over your blouse, carding a hand through your hair, till you got tired of it and wove them into messy braids and undid them again.

Ghost huffed, moving from the kitchen to the desk, putting his hat down. you stared.

“relax. no need to be so worked up.”

you nodded. “right.”

his eyes bore holes into you, and you took that as your que, swallowing as you began to unbutton the clasp at the top of your blouse. you paused when Ghost’s breath tapered, turning sharply away.

his accent thickened. “what are you doing?”

“i-i thought—”

“you thought wrong.” his words were cutting.

maybe you should’ve felt relief but you only squirmed in confusion. “body and soul?” you mumbled weakly, and he slowly turned back to you.

you fumbled with your hands awkwardly.

“i don’t bed rich, prissy girls,” he grinded out and you almost balked in defense, but you thought better of it from the way his grip tightened on his holster.

but you couldn’t hold your tongue long enough—

“who do you bed then? whores?” your brow arched against your will as you tilted your head. his eyes narrowed beneath the mask.

“careful, princess.” he grabbed something from a cabinet in the kitchen. “i’m the one who’s keeping you alive.”

a gloved hand held out a plate of some dried fruit and biscuits. a piece of jerky as well. you held your stomach.

you hadn’t touched a morsel of your mama’s food over that tense dinner, which seemed like years ago, and you were too nervous for Ghost’s arrival to eat lunch either. swallowing, you reached a hand out and Ghost pulled the plate back from your grasp.

you almost hissed at him.

“i thought you said you knew manners?” 

biting your lip, you sat up straighter and politely crossed an ankle over the other, smoothing your hands over your lap. 

“may i please have some food, sir?”

his voice sounded uncharacteristically smug. “you’re a good listener.”

you snatched the plate from him, his words thrumming low in your stomach. kicking off your boots and neatly lining them up by the nightstand, you politely curled your legs to the side and smoothed down your skirt to eat. Mama never let you eat on the bed, but you had snuck up meals some late nights. you almost felt giddy—as if you were breaking the rules when you were eight years old again.

Ghost watched you eat in silence before getting his own plate. the same thrill from that evening soared in your stomach when he tugged up his black mask to reveal his strong jawline and pinkish mouth. you noticed a silvery scar on his upper lip.

“did your father make you do that stuff?” you paused mid-bite of your biscuit, slowly chewing.

you swallowed. “what stuff?”

the twist of his lips seemed like exasperation. “going to bed with strangers.”

you flinched, and it was like an icy cold reminder that Ghost was a stranger—just as much as your daddy’s business partners.

“no.”

Ghost cocked his head. “that so?”

you nodded. “Daddy just had touchy customers.”

you quickly rephrased, putting down the plate on your lap. “but i can if you need me to. for your customers, you know.”

you knew you would need to be of use to Ghost in the coming months, if tonight didn’t go according to plan. the thought spurred on your heart, a looming dread clambering up your spine.

Ghost mouth twisted. “i don’t need you in that way.”

you blinked, frowning. “how do you need me then?”

“just….” he was frowning deeply now. “just do what you’re doing now.”

“what’s that?”

“bein’ polite.” he shrugged, putting down his empty plate. you felt disappointed when he tugged back down the mask. “bein’ a good girl.”

the funny thing is, being polite and a good girl was probably one of the things you were worst at in Mama’s eyes, but looking at Ghost, and the way he brandished his gun over the dinner table like a toy… your manners weren’t too bad at all.

you wondered when was the last time he stepped in a church.

finishing the last bits of dinner, Ghost excused himself to disappear into the woods, and you took the moment of privacy to quickly change into a nightgown, conscious of the way it exposed your collarbones and chest. 

you also took the moment to plan out the night, searching into your knapsack to find the familiar handle of your revolver. you tested the weight of it in your hand, before putting it back into the sack. if Ghost was a gentleman, as he attested, he would let you sleep on the bed. that means he would, most likely, sleep on the floor. and if he didn’t… you would just have to convince him that he needed to.

you closed your eyes to imagine leaning over your bed at night, the slow swell of his chest as you aimed the revolver right at his heart and pulled the trigger. three times.

you shivered violently, a chill passing over you.

“cold?”

you stiffened when Ghost stepped back into the cabin, pulling the door shut behind him. you nodded, but the movement felt restrained, fists balled as you crossed them over your chest.

“mhmm.”

he jerked his head to the bed.

“take the bed. i’ll be sleepin’ outside.”

you balked, fist clenching and unclenching.

“but…what about Mr. Turner’s men?”

he turned still, hand twitching at his holster.

“they won’t find us for days. don’t worry about them.”

“but…” Ghost moved to grab his saddlebag. 

“i’m scared,” you whispered, and he paused, peering at you through the mask. you gave him a meek look. it’s wasn’t a complete lie. you’ve been half-scared since he walked into Daddy’s saloon unannounced.

he sighed, long and hard. “alright, princess.” he pulled out a balled up blanket from his saddlebag and laid it on the floor, and you went lax with relief, lifting the covers of the bed to slide into them.

you stiffened again when you realized the sheets smelled of him—sweet bourbon, cigarettes, and an earthy musk like mud and woods. cheek nestled into the pillow, you watched him unbutton his vest, pull off his holster, and undo his bolo tie, placing them on the desk neatly.

you half-expected him to take off his mask, too, but he made no move towards it as turned off the oil lamps in the room. a bit disappointed, you turned to the wall once the room was shrouded with darkness.

quiet shuffling ensued, until there was a complete silence and his even breaths in the dark. it would’ve been easy to let sleep overtake you if the spike of your heavy heart wasn’t thrumming in your throat and a biting fear wasn’t corded in the back of your brain.

it took a conscious reminder to remember the large lump of man on the floor was a murderer. a cold-blooded one, too. he was a rich bounty hunter and hunting was his sport. he was a killer. he wasn’t here to feed you or take care of you. he was as sinful as they came.

you slowly shifted in the bed, reaching down into the knapsack on the floor by the bed. you groped until you felt a familiar cold, embroidered handle. 

you wait till he falls asleep and you kill him, you hear me?

your mama’s voice rang in your ears as you sat up on the edge of the bed. Ghost was flat on the ground, a blanket drawn up to his waist, arms crossed over his chest. your breath hitched in the dark. 

you put three bullets in that devil’s heart and you run back to us.

you stopped short at that, poisonous questions blooming in your head. it was dangerous, hesitating in the dark like this, looming over one of the most dangerous men in the west who had just, essentially, stolen you, with a loaded gun in your hand.

but your head was running away from you—how would you get home from here? did you have the supplies needed? you didn’t have the tracking skills Ghost evidently showed on your ride to the cabin, nor expertise in medical emergencies. did you even want to go home?

you stared at the side of Ghost’s mask, its red a cool blue gleam in the dark.

you could live the life of a gunslinger like Ghost—a merciless bounty hunter who murdered for money. you could imagine it, even now. shootouts with outlaws and playing friends with sheriffs to get big payouts. but… it would be under the pretense of being Ghost’s property.

you shuddered at the thought. as long as you were by Ghost’s side, you would be his captive. a precious pawn in a trade off—a hostage to use against your daddy and Turner. just another business transaction and you to take advantage of.

a small click in the dark seized you from your thoughts. Ghost’s black eyes peered up at you. cursing in surprise, your clammy hands dropped the revolver, and it clattered to the floor. you fumbled around for it and hugged it to your stomach, heart beating out of your throat.

he rested the revolver in his hand leisurely against his chest. too leisurely.

a bead of sweat slid down your temple when you realized he just cocked his gun. you didn’t remember him taking it out of his holster when he placed it on the desk. 

always ten steps ahead of you.

“gearing up to kill me?”

your mouth opened and closed, failing to shape out words. his gaze narrowed.

“m’scared remember?” was all you could choke out, a shiver gripping you intensely. you tried to play it off with a careless shrug, but you knew he couldn’t possibly fall for that.

your skin felt cold but his stare was hot.

“scared of what? the dark? the coyotes outside, Tuner’s boys?” his voice was dangerously soft. “...or me?”

you almost whimpered. “i’m not scared of you.”

the fabric of his mask stretched and the crumple at his eyes let you know he was smiling. it was more threatening than anything.

“let’s say you’re not scared of me…” he rested his revolver on the floor and he shifted onto his side to face you fully. “...and let’s say you didn’t just try to kill me.”

you grimaced under his piercing stare. “put down the gun, lovely.”

you complied and he practically purred. “you still scared?”

shaking your head slowly, your knee betrayed you and began to bounce.

“let’s say you’re not scared of me, and you didn’t try to kill me, but you’re scared of the dark and the coyotes…” you balked when he opened the covers of his makeshift bed to you. “come here.”

you stayed rooted to the spot, knee freezing mid-bounce. his arms were open, mask twinkling in the moonlight, but you knew in his unflinching gaze that he was being very serious.

“come here,” he commanded, and you stood stiffly, shuffling forward to crawl into the blankets. his strong arm hooked around your waist and you muffled a squeak when he pulled you down. 

you were pulled into his broad chest, warm and strong at your back and you almost melted if it weren’t for the fact that the man behind you was a cold-blooded murderer and the devil reincarnated.

his gloved hands crept beneath your shoulders around to your throat and pressed to the flying pulse of your neck. he hummed low in your ear, mask brushing the shell of it. the smell of smoke, woody musk, and bourbon filled your nose.

“sure you’re not scared, lovely?”

your jaw clenched. “yes.”

“really?”

his hand crept down from your throat to your collarbone and a loud gasp escaped you when he firmly pressed a palm to the flesh just above your breast. you knew he felt your heart’s fast thrum through the cotton of your nightgown.

“why’s your heart beatin’ so fast then?”

when the silence permitted, he offered you, “nervous?” his voice dropped an octave, low and throaty. “ever lie like this with a man before?”

you were as stiff as a board, a foreign warmth brewing in you that made your skin prickle and crawl, spluttering unintelligible sounds, when suddenly, he released you and you scrambled out of the sheets back onto the bed, pressing yourself to the wall.

he huffed a series of breaths that sounded like quiet laughter. you were just about to kill him. what was so funny about that?

like he heard your thoughts, he turned onto his back and crossed his arms again.

“would be concerned if you didn’t at least try to kill me.” Ghost closed his eyes. “you gonna try and run if i sleep?”

you stared at the side of his face. “no.”

he nodded. “good. there’s a lot more dangerous things in the desert than coyotes, princess.”

like you, you thought weakly, burrowing yourself back into the covers, face heating up when the smell of him against the pillow filled your head again.

your plans had just gone more than horribly wrong. with a heartfelt apology to your mama ringing heavy in your mind, twisting in the sheets, you tried to let sleep take you.

you barely slept that night. tossing and turning in the sheets, you listened for the sinister calls of wildlife just beyond the cabin, and the slow breaths from the floor. though a primal sense inside you let you know that Ghost probably wasn’t sleeping.

but you don’t remember when the sun came up, its first burning embers casting a thin glow in the room. you must’ve fallen asleep at some point because Ghost is gone in the morning, room eerily quiet and empty.

you take the moment to redress in your corset, loose white button up, a buckskin split skirt with fringe, pulling on your boots as you shove everything back into your knapsack. groping around for a familiar embroidered handle, you pause when you realize your revolver has gone amiss.

you sling the knapsack over your shoulder and find Ghost perched down by a fire outside, stoking at its flames. he’s back in his expensive full attire, black suit fresh in the morning light. he only spares you a glance over his shoulder before continuing to stir something in a pot hung up over the fire. 

you dropped your knapsack to the ground.

“where’s my revolver?”

he scooped up a spoonful of the stuff into two bowls and grabs something from his bag. he waves your revolver in the air with one hand wordlessly.

“revolver privileges revoked.”

“why?” you knew why, but you wanted to hear it nonetheless.

standing to his full height, he turned and gave you a look under the mask that you could only imagine as disapproval. he didn’t give you an answer.

“eat,” he commanded, handing a bowl to you.

you looked into the bowl to find a watery soup of beans and a dry biscuit half soaked in the liquid. not your finest meal but you were grateful for it. 

you eyed Ghost’s broad stature sitting on a log by the fire. he must’ve soaked the beans last night in that pot of water. if you, after last night’s events, weren’t going to try and kill him, or run away, you could at least play nice. for your revolver mostly.

you politely sat next to him on the log, curling your legs to the side and hooking one ankle over the other. taking small bites, you ate with the best manners you could muster without a table in front of you.

you felt Ghost’s gaze burning a question into your cheek, but you ignored it, feigning innocence.

you cleared your throat, nodding. “thank you for the food.”

he scoffed. “it’ll take a lot more to get your revolver back than that.”

you glared at him as he stood to resaddle his horse and tie his saddlebag down. finishing your food in a couple more quick bites, you moved to do the same, but stopped short when Ghost untied the reins of Sugar to bind her to his stallion.

“what’re you doing?” 

Ghost gave you a meaningful look but said nothing, heaving himself up onto the stallion. huffing with frustration, you grabbed the bridle of his horse who whinied in surprise.

“what are you doing with my horse?”

Ghost cocked his head at you. “you’re stayin’ here, princess.”

what?

“what?” 

“food’s in the pantry. take what you want. don’t wander more than a quarter of a mile from the cabin, you’ll get lost. i’ll be back before sunset.”

he began to turn his stallion away from you, but you held fast on the bridle, jerking its head back towards you. the horse huffed and stomped in retaliation.

“where are you going?”

Ghost just stared at you. “into town.”

you took a sharp breath, racking in your head. “i’ll run away.”

his tone was cold. “on foot? you’re not that stupid.”

“i will. i don’t care. you’ll never get your money if i’m dead of starvation… or…” you shuddered, “coyotes.”

he took you in for a long moment. “these were your terms, lovely.”

you ignored him. “i’m useful. i am. i’m useful for…” you trailed off. “business.”

“i know what you’re useful for.” his eyes narrowed. “you’re most useful right here, in this camp, far away from my business.”

that blow landed right in your gut. “i’ll build a big fire,” you whispered, “and it’ll alert Turner’s men. they’ll find me and bring me back to my daddy.”

he turned away. “do you really want them to find you? when they’ll do lord knows what to a young lady like you?”

every bit of the fight burning in you deflated, snuffed by his sharp words and harrowing logic. you felt small and defeated as you watched Ghost spur his horse on, Sugar trailing after them. a miserable feeling bloomed in your stomach.

is this what your daddy felt like last night at the dinner table?

“i’ll be back before sunset,” he called over his shoulder and took off into the early morning light in a cloud of dust.

time alone went slower than you could possibly imagine. you don’t remember the last time you were alone like this—your mama always hovering over your shoulder, or the girls in town spurring you to embroider and scrapbook with them, or maybe go shopping, even when you’d rather tend to the saloon and make an extra buck when you sang an a pretty song for the alcoholics.

your hands ached to do something, so you laid back in the afternoon sun and whittled at a branch with your letter opener. 

once you got tired of that, you began writing aimless entries in your journal with Ghost’s quill and ink on the desk, then, addressing your daddy and mama in a futile letter, vented that Ghost had run off into town for business. what business, you itched to know. 

later, you stretched back on the bed in your full attire and boots, which Mama would sorely disapprove of, and blinked away the sun that streamed through the greasy window panes. lids drooping, you found yourself falling into a deep slumber.

you awoke with a start, sweat pooling under your back, blouse sticking to your skin. the sun was settling lazily into the horizon, far into the hours after noon. it was darker than before, a blue tinge across the sky like it was on the verge of storming.

with a lazy sweep of your vision across the cabin, everything untouched, you knew Ghost was still out doing business. of which you, apparently, had no use.

you stretched out over your head and froze when you heard something—a clicking rustle outside the cabin. you strained your hearing, going completely still.

then, you heard distant voices chattering.

dropping to the floor with a silent thud, you peered out the front of the window by the edge of the bed. four men stood by their horses, poking at the pot of beans outside with his boot. you silently cursed when one overturned the watery beans over the dying embers.

a man looked up at the cabin and you immediately ducked, panicking when you heard quick, heavy footsteps nail up the steps to the cabin. you scrambled backwards under the bed and pressed yourself into a ball into the furthest corner of the cabin.

one man stepped inside carefully, and you watched his feet slowly pan across the room in a circle. the warmth drained from your face when you heard the cock of a safety.

who were these people? you racked your brain for answers. Ghost said Turner’s men wouldn’t find you for days. maybe weary travelers looking for a place to stay for the night? good samaritans who could help you escape Ghost?

and never return to your family, a voice in your head added quietly. you silenced it.

he stood by the desk and listened to him rummage over it. you winced—all your letters and writings were still strewn across the desk.

“Charles!” he called. then, abruptly, he neared the bed and reached down for your knapsack on the floor. you clasped a hand to your mouth. he pulled away, your knapsack going with him.

“she was here.”

your blood ran cold. Turner’s men had arrived earlier than Ghost expected.

a second man, Charles, you presumed, stepped into the cabin. more rummaging—probably the first man holding up the letters and your belongings for Charles to see. 

“they went to town. says so in the letters.” 

Charles huffed and turned on his heel back out the cabin.

“let’s move quick. Turner said the first man to lay hands on the girl gets dibs.” 

an icy drip went down your back.

low, raucous laughter and hoots ensued, and you heard more shuffling and the snorts of horses and the stamping of hooves that slowly faded into silence again. only the leaves rustling in the wind and pitched bird calls filled the cabin.

your heart was still beating out of your chest. 

Turner said the first man to lay hands on the girl gets dibs.

that shook you to your core. you wanted to run after them, to beg them to bring you back to your parents without harm, maybe bribing them with an extra sum your daddy could give them, but you knew it was futile.

you weren’t ever going back home, and you sure as hell weren’t letting Turner’s men lay their hands on you.

heaving yourself out from under the bed, you looked up at the darkening sky. a gray film was growing over it, blanketing the sun from view. a boom of thunder roiled in the distance.

you needed to move fast, somehow, to warn Ghost about Turner’s men coming for him in town. you cursed yourself for writing those letters in the first place—now, Ghost could be in danger because of you.

not that you cared much. but that devil was the closest thing to protection right now against your parents and Turner. except maybe yourself.

you picked up the knapsack that was thrown haphazardly on the floor and pulled out all your extra clothing and baggage. with only a canteen of water, and the leftover food from the pantry, the letter opener, and a box of matches, you trailed after the hoofprints left by Turner’s men, hurrying as the storm approached quickly overhead. 

you were dripping with sweat by the time you reached the edge of town. buckling over to clasp at your knees, you held your chest as you leaned against a tree.

you did it. you tracked those men through low brush and the deep, muddy hoofprints they left behind, some bushes snagged by charging through the forest at an alarming rate.

you did it. you only hoped that Turner’s men hadn’t found Ghost before you did.

the sky was still a murky gray—you had no idea what time it was, no idea if the sun had begun setting yet. you paled at the thought of Ghost riding back to find the cabin empty, your belongings strewn across the place, cabinets empty of supplies. you felt more sick at the thought of finding the devil in a dim alleyway, three bullets in his heart.

pushing forward, you entered the busy throng of the town, its twinkling lights and loud raucous contenting with the brewing storm overhead. men had holsters strung with guns, ammo slung over their torsos like a fancy sash.

some tipped their stetson to you as you walked the cobble streets, wiping the sweat and humidity from your brow. you ignored them to the best of your ability, shuffling along faster when a group of drunks meandered close to you.

sweetheart, they called, and you, in a dizzying panic, pushed into the nearest building, its doors swinging open to a rowdy, rowdy crowd of even more drunks. some smiled at your entrance, but most were too enthralled in their card games, betting, and bourbon to care. 

you took the moment to search the snaking crowd for a familiar red mask, but you found nothing. this didn’t feel much like Ghost’s scene anyway.

shoulders sinking, you were about to step back out onto the crowded streets, where a light drizzle was pooling, when a redhead with braids rushed passed you in a tizzy. 

she almost dumped a tray full of bourbons onto you. squeaking, she steadied herself against you, and apologized in a thick drawl.

“sorry, sweetheart! didn’t see you there—” she paused, narrowing her eyes at you. immediately, you reeled back.

you really wished you had a revolver slung in your holster in that moment, because you didn’t think to realize that anybody could be one of Turner’s men.

“you…” she cocked her head and you stiffened. “you’re the new hire, aren't ‘cha!”

you blinked in shock, voice cracking. “what?”

“glad you showed up early.” she gave you an approving nod and nudged you with her shoulder. “extra trays of bourbon are in the back. you wouldn’t mind passing them out would you?”

“i-” she was gone in a flash, disappearing into the messy crowd.

you should’ve left at that moment, taking the opportunity to disappear yourself, but instead, you thought this an opportunity to get close and personal with each customer. perhaps Ghost took off his mask for business—you knew you could recognize him by his expensive black suit and the stature he carried. the low timber of his voice, and the dark swirl in his eyes.

shivering, a drift came through and you rubbed at your bare neck. you quickly moved to man the bar. an easiness settled over you at the familiarity of it, grabbing bottles of bourbon and whiskey, pouring them neatly into bar glasses on black trays. you teetered from person to person, tray balanced in your palm as you peered into the face of each man, and even woman, hunkered down at a table to get a glimpse of their profile. 

tray after empty tray, you couldn’t find the man you were looking for, no matter how many more entered. soon enough, you bumped into the redhead with braids again and she gave you a cocksure smile.

“sure you’re a new hire?” she laughed loud, cheeks red, slapping at your back. “why don’t you go help across the way at our quieter location? you know where business—” she winked, “—gets done.”

you just nodded aimlessly, too overwhelmed to question it, and she beamed. “don’t worry. it’s more beginner friendly.”

you exited the saloon with the point of her hand to a quainter location on the other side of the street. a thick rain was coming down now. rushing into the parallel saloon, it was half as loud as the other, which your ears thanked, and a thick smoke hazed the room. groups of men donned in fancy suits sat at tables strewn across the room, discussing in low voices with fat cigars between their lips.

your eyes swiveled around the room, craning your neck to peer into the furthest corner of the saloon, but still, no red mask. deflating, you jolted when a barmaid gripped at your shoulder.

“new hire?” she looked disgruntled, eyes narrowing in judgment. you took note of her attire, eerily similar to your own, with a fine cotton blouse and buckskin skirt. now, you understood who the redhead may have confused you for: a fancy barmaid for the gentleman’s club across the way.

she appeared frustrated at your lackluster response. “can you sing?”

you balked at that but said yes nonetheless. your mother had taught you, much to your chagrin. 

she nodded. “good. men were asking for a performance. i know it’s your first night, but could you give them a bone to chew on?”

“i guess so,” you spluttered, and she barely batted an eye, already pushing you to the raised platform by the bar. a man already sat with a guitar, peering at you expectantly when you stepped onto the platform. 

turning to face the audience, you felt the blood drain from your cheeks. you hadn’t sung in front of an audience this big since your school’s talent show. clearing your throat, you flashed the crowd your prettiest smile, and clasped your hands in front of you politely. the establishment quieted, save for a few low whistles, and you began to sing along for a softer rendition of the fast-paced song to the slow strum of the guitarist.

my love is a rider, wild bronchos he breaks,

though he’s promised to quit it, just for my sake.

he ties up one foot, the saddle puts on,

with a swing and a jump he is mounted and gone.

it was the only song you could remember in the moment—one the girls and you would sing wildly in the evenings after church over loud laughter and iced tea. 

my love has a gun, and that gun he can use,

but he’s quit his gun fighting as well as his booze;

and he’s sold him his saddle, his spurs, and his rope,

and there’s no more cow punching, and that’s what I hope.

your eyes searched the crowd and you held back a gasp when you met eyes with a familiar red mask. he stood near the back of the club, bracing his forearm against a wooden beam. swallowing hard, you continued.

my love has a gun that has gone to the bad,

which makes poor old Jimmy feel pretty damn sad;

for the gun it shoots high and the gun it shoots low,

and it wobbles about like a bucking broncho.

his eyes pierced you, and you couldn’t suppress the slithering shiver that crawled down your spine. you wished he was closer—right at the edge of the platform so you could look down into his brown eyes, and maybe, try to discern what he was thinking under that blood red mask.

now all you young maidens, where’er you reside,

beware of the cowboy who swings the raw-hide;

he’ll court you and pet you and leave you and go

in the spring up the trail on his bucking broncho.

the room clapped and hollered when you finished, and you couldn’t suppress the smile that stretched your cheeks as you curtsied clumsily, gaze on Ghost. he tipped his hat to you, and a loud laugh clambered into your throat. it morphed into a blood curdling scream when a revolver fired and Ghost crumpled to the floor.

the club scrambled in a panic with loud wails, the assailant disappearing into the throng as you clawed your way to the man. he was clutching at his stomach, half-fallen against the wooden beam.

“Ghost!” 

a strangled noise strained against your throat. falling to your knees beside him, you pulled away his hand from his stomach, and you paled at the sight of the dark red coating his glove, sleeve, suit. it pooled underneath him.

quickly, you grabbed his bloodied arm and pulled it around your shoulder. there was no way you could heft his weight but you were going to try anyway.

“c’mon,” you coaxed impatiently, as he scrambled up the side of the wooden pole, trying to support his weight. a string of curses left his lips.

“you’ve got a pretty voice,” he rasped, and you almost wanted to drop his weight entirely.

“not important,” you groaned, taking slow steps out the saloon with his body strung over yours. with every step, you grimaced with effort, huffing heavily.

there was an even greater panic in the streets than in the club—a heavy, pouring onslaught coming down like a beating drum. across the way, the other saloon was being ripped apart by several men, upturning tables and firing their guns at the ceiling to clear out the place. Turner’s men.

you pulled Ghost in the opposite direction, appreciative of his black attire in the dark night, the debilitating rain, and the ensuing chaos. you tipped his hat further over that tell-tale mask. he grumbled something by your ear.

“what?” you shouted over the mix of shouts and rush of rain, stumbling when a man hurrying past clipped your shoulder.

his voice lifted. “don’t need your help.”

you rolled your eyes, head on a swivel. lodged between two buildings was an alleyway. a throng of Turner’s men overturned more establishments ahead. you made a beeline for the cramped space.

 “you’ll die.”

he huffed when you pressed him against the wall, clutching at the blood seeping from his stomach.

“no i won’t.”

you shot him a glare.

“ghosts can’t die,” he said, sounding high and delirious. he slid further down the wall, a pitched laugh escaping him.

now you knew he was really at his last wits. you racked your brain for answers. you didn’t know medical knowledge, you didn’t see an infirmary on the way here, and even if you did, you wouldn’t put it past them to turn you over to Turner’s men in an instant.

you almost screamed in frustration, tearing off the sleeve of your blouse to wrap around his middle. your hands fumbled clumsily, and Ghost must’ve at least come back to half his senses because he pushed your hands away and expertly knotted the thing despite his thick gloves. his head slumped forward into your shoulder, as if the action was so taxing, breath growing shallow against your exposed collarbone.

you slapped at the side of his face.

“do you know anyone who can get help?” you probed, unable to conceal the desperation in your voice, “anyone at all?”

he sounded smug. “people can’t help ghosts.”

you groaned, pushing his head back against the wall. he peered at you lazily, eyes half-lidded.

“if you don’t tell me something, i will rip that mask clean off your face.” that must’ve stirred something in him because his eyes flashed.

“i did not track Turner’s men for miles to find you just for you to die.” you pressed on. “they found the cabin and these stupid journal entries where i wrote that you were in the town. they didn’t know i was there and went after you. i had to warn you so i tracked them and—” he hissed when you pressed your fingers into his wound to make sure he was still conscious. “—this happened.

he huffed. “stupid girl.”

you could only nod pitifully, before squeaking in surprise when Ghost used your shoulders and the wall as leverage to lift himself.

“take me down this alleyway, then turn left.”

you immediately obeyed and half-dragged him in the direction of his rasped instructions, ending up in front of the back door of a leather crafts store. the streets were slowly emptying by the minute and every second outside in the line of gunfire felt a gaping vulnerability on your back, so you didn’t question his command to open the back door unannounced.

you also weren’t surprised to see the long snout of a rifle stuck in your face the second the door swung open. a woman in a checkered blouse and loose breeches squared her shoulders and jabbed the gun forward so it almost hit your chin where rain coalesced in a steam, falling to your boots.

“who in the devil are you?” she spat, low and deadly. she carefully eyed the man slumping against you.

a strangled warble left Ghost’s mouth, and he lifted a hand to toss off his hat. the mask must’ve been a point of recognition for her because she gasped and lurched forward, hefting up the other side of his body.

“what the hell are you doin’ here, Ghost?” she demanded, helping you carry him behind the counter of the store into the back room. she pushed off all the strewn materials at the table in the center of the room with one strong sweep, and you laid back Ghost on the surface, his eyes closed.

muffling a cry, you pressed your fingers to the pulse point in his neck. to your relief, it was throbbing, albeit weakly.

“business,” was all he mumbled in response and the woman shooed you from his side with an impatient wave of her hand.

you stepped back to the edge of the room, feeling your senses clouded with panic. you looked down to the blood covering your hands. out the window, there was more shouting, gunshots, and a building far down the street went up in flames. your breath hitched till suddenly you couldn’t breathe anymore. clawing at your throat, you slid down the wall, fighting the strain in your chest that seemed to close your airway.

you watched the woman cut through his vest and make quick work on the bullet wound, pliers in hand.

“you.”

she might’ve been shouting at you but it barely registered in your mind.

“get your useless behind off the ground and help me for god’s sake!” 

you just stared at her and she groaned in frustration. “some girl you have here, Ghost,” she grumbled and the weak grunt that left him brought you back to life.

you stood, steeling yourself, wiping the blood against your front. you felt calm. dangerously calm as you neared Ghost’s side. his eyes were screwed shut and you resisted gagging at the sight of her pliers fishing through his gaping wound for a bullet.

“what do you need?” your voice was weak and quiet. it didn’t even sound like your own. she shot you an impatient look.

“water. from the tap over there. and a needle and thread in that cabinet.”

you moved like you were floating off the ground, light and airy. like you weren’t really there, but you found your hands filling a bowl with water at the kitchen sink and grabbing a case of needles and a spool of black thread from a cabinet overhead.

by her side again, she unclasped the red mask from Ghost’s face and you stared unflinchingly with a hitch of breath. before pulling it from his face, she cocked her head at you.

“look away,” she snarled and you just nodded, stepping back from the table till you couldn’t see Ghost’s profile anymore. couldn’t even see the slow swell of his chest to let you know he was still alive.

you had to escape the room. you walked back out into the main storeroom and grated your hands through your hair, pacing. you picked up the rifle left on the glass casing over a showcase of different leather crafts, cocking it, just in case Turner’s men came barreling through the door.

when you put back down the rifle, you gasped at the sticky, bloody imprint it left on the handle. looking into a mirror by the entrance of the store, you shuddered at your image.

blood crusted your arms, like you had dipped your arms into a vat of it, and red fingerprints littered your throat and tinged your frayed hair. the front of your half-torn blouse was smeared in it too.

your hands shook uncontrollably, so you picked up the rifle’s heaviness again to still you, and sat, leaning against the glass showcase, muzzle aimed at the front door. you sat there for a long time, breath shallow and grating, till the shouts and gunshots outside subsided, and the billiard parlor down the street crumbled under the weight of flames.

you awoke for a second time with a start, the woman’s hand shaking your shoulder lightly. you rolled your shoulders, neck impossibly stiff from your weird sleeping position on the floor. it was no longer dark outside, the lightest tones of pink and blood-soaked orange rising with dawn.

had you really only been napping in Ghost’s cabin half a day prior?

the woman sat beside you, pushing a warm mug into your hand. she didn’t pull her rifle from you, which you were endlessly grateful for, because you just hugged it closer to your chest, its cold metal and cured wood easing your nerves.

“tea.” she nodded to the steaming cup.

“is Ghost okay?” your voice cracked from disuse and she gave you a weak look.

“for now.”

you just nodded, taking a sip of the stuff and wincing when it burned your tongue. chamomile. Mama used to make it too.

the woman cleared her throat, drawing up her blonde hair into a messy bun. “sorry about the shouting. i’m not used to foreign company.”

you shrugged, itching at the dried blood on your neck as you took another sip of tea. 

“i’m Kate.” she held out a hand to you. “Kate Laswell.”

you shook her hand slowly, grateful she didn’t cringe away from the blood staining your own. you gave her your name in return and her brow raised.

“Ghost’s girl, huh?”

you felt too tired to be confused. “i guess so.”

“well i just know the boys would love to meet ‘ya.”

you allowed yourself a sliver of confusion. “the boys?”

“‘course,” she said with a smile, “one-four-one.”

you almost dropped the mug in your hand. “one-four-one?” you repeated weakly and she gave you a cheery nod.

you’d heard of them before. you heard too much about them before. she rubbed your shoulder comfortingly.

“they should be here any minute now.”

great. you were soaked with blood, clothes and hair tattered with sweat. as if she read your thoughts, Kate stood and outstretched a hand to you, pointing to the back room.

“i’ve got a tub filled in the back for you. and some extra clothes.”

you took her outstretched hand gratefully, allowing her to pull you up and lead you through the storage space where Ghost lay stretched out, half-naked, and maskless. you noticed her rush to flank your side and obscure the view of his bare, sleeping face from you. deciding not to fight it, the gentle hand on your back led you down a narrow hallway to an even narrower bathroom with a tub about as big as a barrel.

you didn’t mind it after the events of the night, Kate politely closing the door behind you, as you stripped yourself bare and scrubbed the blood away in the tub. slowly, you settled in its lukewarm water in a ball and rocked there, choking back sobs in the privacy of the tight room.

once all your tears were wrung dry, you emerged from the tub, drying yourself and your hair before redressing in your corset, drawers, chemise, and a linen bell sleeve blouse Kate lent you. tucking them into your unruined item—the fringed buckskin split skirt—you pulled your boots on and smoothed the lines of your face in the mirror. like your mama taught you.

when you opened the door of the bathroom, low murmurs and new voices floated down the narrow hall. 

“she isn’t supposed to be here, cap’.”

a low husky voice grunted back, “i know that.”

a third man with an even stranger accent than the first two chimed in loudly, “she risked ‘er life for Ghost! Simon said she tracked ‘em for two and a half miles just to warn him about the Turner boys.”

you assumed it was Kate shushing him.

the low, husky voice returned. “it’s not up to us, Soap. she’s Ghost’s now.”

you crept slowly up the hallway, searching for Ghost’s body stretched out on the table, but he wasn’t there. in his place were three men, leaning against the table, deep in conversation with Kate.

you stopped short in the entrance till one of the men, a stout one, thickly corded with muscle, and an unusual looking hairstyle—like the ones you saw in the school books about iroquois from the east—beamed at you.

he shushed a bronze-skinned man at his shoulder, who turned his gaze to you. the third bearded man with thick chops and broad shoulders fell silent, as did Kate, and suddenly, the whole room’s attention was trained on you.

you slowly walked into the room, discomforted by the thick silence. you resisted fumbling at your skirt nervously. the man with a mohawk let out a low whistle and the bearded man swatted at his face while the youngest man stepped forward to politely offer his hand, taking off his hat to press to his chest. 

his face was pinched with a stoic look. “i’m Kyle Garrick. pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

your lips parted in surprise when he touched his lips to the back of your extended hand, and you politely curtsied in response, a blush touching your cheeks. 

the man with a mohawk stepped in behind him to give you a smug look.

“i’m Soap,” was all he offered. he clapped Kyle on the shoulder. “and this is Gaz. no one calls him Kyle.”

Kyle rolled his eyes in retaliation and released your hand, looking apologetic. you couldn’t help but softly smile as they began to quarrel and the bearded man reached out his hand this time to shake it firmly.

“John Price,” he said with a nod, voice husky. he jerked his head in Soap’s direction. “that’s Johnny Mactavish.” 

you murmured a quiet thank you as Kate comfortingly patted your back. 

“so this is one-four-one?” you mumbled aloud with raised brows. Soap and Gaz stopped mid-quarrel to peer at you. John shrugged.

“more or less.”

manners be damned, you fidgeted with your skirt. one-four-one was a legendary gunslinger group—on the run from the scarce law of the west, gambling, bounty hunting, and dueling for riches. you had no idea Ghost had friendly ties with them.

“where’s Ghost?”

John smirked at you, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “out.”

nodding, you felt an anxiety roll through you. out could mean anything with Ghost, you learned in your short time with him.

where are you, Ghost? a meek voice in you called out. smoothing a hand over your chest, you steadied yourself as Kate offered you a small plate of breakfast. a piece of cornbread on the side of a bowl of chili that you kept down easily, despite the nervous gurgling of your stomach.

“Turner’s men,” you began softly to Kate, putting down the empty plate, but you still drew in the attention of the other three men, “they’re gone?”

she nodded sullenly, and Soap added, “not without a fight. upturned half the town with them…” his eyes went dark, voice tinged with something violent. “...and left a couple dozen dead bodies.”

John knuckled his shoulder gently. “we’ll get ‘em back, Soap.” he said it like it should be comforting, but there was a deadliness in it that made you shudder.

Soap winked at you. “aye. we’ll kill all those Turner boys if we have to. we already took down half of ‘em yesterday.”

undoubtedly, you knew it was a promise. Kate said quietly, “neighbors said they gunned down a couple of ‘em before they fled town.”

your brows rose. “there were others fighting?”

Kyle shrugged. “it’s the west, ma’am. people’re itchin’ to break the law.”

you thought back to the assailant last night—how he high-tailed it after popping a shot.

“so the man who shot Ghost last night?”

Kyle shrugged again. “probably a drunk lookin’ for trouble. happens all the time in these parts.”

you tried to hide the look of horror curling into your face, something akin to disgust, but Soap, ever-observant, took amusement in it immediately.

“that scare ye, princess?” he leaned against the table, closer to your face, and your frown deepened.

“don’t call me that.” it sounded wrong coming from him.

John grabbed the scruff of his neck and Soap twisted, complaining loudly in his hold. “knock it off, would you? poor girl’s had a rough night.”

you gave John a grateful look. still, you were relieved to know Ghost was only shot by a drunk rather than found and almost killed by one of Turner’s boys. you assumed you got real lucky last night. or maybe unlucky since the drunk’s poor shot happened to pick out Ghost of all people at the club.

“what was Ghost doing in the town last night?” you piqued, and Soap went quiet. the whole room did. sheepish, you watched their gazes slide across the room, avoiding your own.

Soap shot out, “do we tell her?”

Kate hissed in response, scolding him with a tight grip on his ear, and Kyle smacked at the back of his head. you assumed Soap just let a vital piece of information slip from the way John’s mouth twisted.

“tell me what?” you pressed and Kate shooed you out the room, taking your arm in hers.

“help me out with somethin’ else, girlie, and i’ll answer half the questions you ask.”

half the questions, you ruminated with a bitter taste in your mouth. she led you out the door of the leather crafts shop before a word of protest could leave your mouth, and into the bright mid-morning light. shops littered down the street had owners stationed out in front, sweeping up debris, shattered glass, and shoving trash into sacks. Kate tipped her stetson to each one as you passed, and they would nod back in a way that forebode something ominous.

“these are the neighbors,” Kate explained in a low, smart tone. “and this is our town.”

you remembered what Ghost said to your daddy over dinner two nights ago. 

i protected you. this was my territory. i had men in your town and i made sure no bandits came near your saloons and i made sure none left alive. then, you went to work with Turner instead.

“and you protect them for a price?” you asked. 

she smiled lightly. “a small one.”

your daddy must’ve had an unlucky price to pay if his daughter was the bargaining chip.

“is this the only town you protect?” 

Kate laughed at that, patting your hand on her arm gently. “heavens, no. Ghost’s got all kinds of investments from the west to east. he isn’t home much lately because of it.”

your brows raised. “that’s a lot of land to cover.”

“we’ve got a lot of friends from down south to help.”

you cocked your head at her as you turned the corner, making your way past the saloon from last night. the redhead with braids was mopping up the floor of the torn-up saloon, and when you caught her eye, her gaze sliding from you to the woman beside you, she paled.

“friends?”

Kate winked at you. “mexicans. a blessing from the spanish-american war.” when you just blinked at her, she elaborated.

“the boys enlisted in the british regiment to fight the spanish alongside patriots and texan mexicans. i played dress-up as a man to fight in the war.”

your brows raised and she gave you a sly look. “even had a female companion to play the part.”

she continued on. “when the war ended, one-four-one just never left—made friends with lots of boys down in texas. now, they do all sorts of work with us.”

“who?”

“los vaqueros.” the cowboys. you had heard of them too.

you should’ve been scared, connecting the dots, the blood-ties and relationships fused on the battlefield that didn’t break even ten years after the war. these people were dangerous. but in a way, you contemplated, your daddy was too. working with one-four-one, protected by los vaqueros, and bargaining with an enemy, Turner. 

and you didn’t even know it.

you wondered if your mama did. thinking of the hardness in her face, and the back-breaking rigidness of her lifestyle, you assumed she carried that weight too.

Kate peered at the edge of your face, catching your eye. “you gonna run away yet?”

you gave her a long look, answering her as truthfully as you could. “no.”

she nodded. “good. because if you do, we may just have to kill you.”

eerily, you were reminded of Ghost two nights ago in the cabin, his arms crossed over his chest and half-asleep despite your attempt to kill him.

good. there’s a lot more dangerous things in the desert than coyotes, princess.

“you sound like Ghost,” you remarked with a grimace, and the long laugh that left Kate was airy and full of menace.

apparently helping out Kate meant running errands, restocking on preserves, fresh foods, and medical supplies. she kindly let you pick out your own stetson hat—a gus style, with three sloping dimples, cream-colored, and a leather brown cord tied round the base in a fashionable bow. your mama would’ve had your head for wearing something so manly, but turning it in your hands, the smooth velvet soft against your palms, your heart swelled at the thought of it being your own.

you would’ve paid for it if you didn’t carelessly lose your knapsack in the chaos last night, tending saloons and singing for drunkards. sighing at the cash register, you deeply lamented its loss and tugged the snug hat onto your head.

one-four-one wasn’t there when you returned to the leather crafts shop. Kate had given you a soft smile, saying they were out on business again. you had a sneaking suspicion that business meant shoot outs over encroached territory and fixing worsening investments.

as you prepared for dinner, it was uncanny to think that you were laying food out over the table where Ghost almost bled out the night before.

sure enough, just before the red crinkles of sunset, one-four-one meandered into the room for dinner, hats left by the hook at the door. you waited expectantly for a tall, broad, black suit and red mask to enter the room, but only deflated with disappointment. Soap shot you a knowing look that you pointedly ignored as the table joined hands to murmur a quick grace before digging in.

you could barely touch the food on your plate. any method you used to get under the boy’s skin about what business meant was quickly parried in clever ways that frustrated you more than your conversations with Kate. it was especially frustrating because you were beginning to think that business may circle around topics about you. 

you couldn’t weasel any more information out of them except that John, Gaz, and Soap had rode north to a nearby town they had business in. 

you were beginning to hate that word, you thought decidedly, trudging down the narrow hall to a spare bedroom Kate provided to you for the night. one-four-one would descend into the cool basement space with the preserves to their own quarters. you wanted to follow them, to peek down and see what was in there, but Kate was hot on your trail, and you knew they were probably hiding something else about business down there. especially since Kate would be sleeping down there as well.

that left you on the upper floor—which you contemplated with a frown because running away now would be easier than ever. except for the fact that you didn’t have a horse, gun, money, your knapsack, or anything at all in fact. unless you could scrounge around the kitchen a bit.

creeping from your designated room down the hall, you bit back any morsel of regret bleeding into your mouth as you entered the back room. one-four-one had shown you kindness, but technically, they had also kidnapped you and were forcing you to stay in their home. albeit, on your terms, according to Ghost. but you didn’t value the word of a kidnapper very much. even if, in the moment of your capture, you had wanted to leave home and never return again.

 oh—and you were being used as a hostage in a business transaction.

that thought spurred you forward blindly, and you rummaged around the kitchen as quietly as you possibly could, pocketing matches, a box of ammo, and a small bunch of rope beneath the kitchen sink. sliding the knife drawer open, you inspected each one carefully, watching the blade glint in the moonlight, before picking up a small one you hoped would go missing without notice.

“stealing my things again?”

you jumped out of your skin with a shriek, and mindlessly turned to the source of sound, brandishing your knife at the intruding form shrouded in shadow. he caught your wrist easily, stepping forward to press you back against the kitchen counter and your heart dropped to your stomach.

dark eyes and a red mask. his hat was off and the black fabric beneath his mask was pulled up enough so you could see his jaw, the soft pink of his mouth and the silvery scar on his upper lip.

“Ghost?” you whispered out, dropping the knife. it clattered to the floor and he tilted his head almost curiously.

for a long moment you just stared in silence, his knee firm between your thighs and broad stature lingering over you, gloved hand tight on your wrist. you searched his eyes, reaching up a hand to brush at his jaw, but he immediately stepped out of your proximity.

“brought you something.” he nodded outside and you looked out the kitchen window to see your dappled gray mare, Sugar, tied to the fence post at the front of the leather crafts store by his black stallion. breath hitching, you pressed your hand to the glass.

“thank you,” you whispered, looking back at him. wordlessly, he turned from you to peel off his black trench coat. 

when you noticed him wince, you immediately moved forward to help him out of his coat, laying it out over the table. mumbling a word of gratitude, he sat gingerly in a seat and leaned down to undo his boots. watching him struggle from the tenderness of his wound, you sighed, pushing his hands away to neatly kneel in front of him and smooth over your skirt. then, you carefully helped him pull them off.

“don’t need your help,” he grumbled from above, and you suppressed a smirk. you almost missed his grumpy remarks.

“that so?”

putting down his second boot by his feet, you looked up at him, heart jumping to your throat from the half-lidded look behind his mask. the gloved hand that rested on his thigh by your cheek twitched. you remembered its appearance yesterday—soaked in blood. his blood.

closing your eyes, you nuzzled your cheek into the hand, his palm cupping your face gently before moving down to stroke at your braid. he let out a low throaty sound when you looked up at him from where you kneeled, cheek pressed against his thigh, the fine worsted wool of his dress pants velvet on your skin.

“do you know what you do to a man?” he asked, voice soft. you only hummed back in sing-song question, eyes half-lidded, content where you leaned against the strength of his thigh.

“i searched half the plain for your horse. she got lost in the fray when i got shot.” his hand moved from your braid to your throat, stroking in time with the lulling pulse of your heart, leather cool on your hot skin.

“found her back at the cabin, sniffing around for you. the place was totally upturned, and all the food in my cabinets was gone.” he snickered lightly. “you thief.”

you smiled at that, gripping his wrist weakly.

“i like it when you talk,” you admitted, mesmerized by the slow way his soft lips shaped deep, grating words in that thick foreign accent.

you watched the bob of his bare throat swallow with a hunger pooling in your stomach.

“you should be afraid of me,” he whispered, gently pressing his thumb to your lower lip, “you were afraid of me.”

you couldn’t remember a time when you were afraid of Ghost—only a nervous anticipation crawling across your skin at his proximity. maybe you were never afraid in the first place. maybe you told yourself that you were afraid of him, out of your own unease, when the fear was something that you actually craved.

“i am afraid,” you said. his grip on your chin tightened. “but not of you.”

“who then?” he demanded, voice silky.

“Turner. his men.” an invulnerable shiver went through you. “they said the first man to lay hands on me gets dibs.”

you felt his thigh stiffen beneath you. “i won't let them touch you.”

you swallowed thickly, peering up at him. a dark, sinister voice inside you purred out. 

i want you to touch me.

he cocked his head at you, asking a silent question.

i want only you to touch me.

he voiced it. “what do you want?” his hand moved to stroke at your cheek, your brow, your hair.

you never had the luxury of pondering the question. your path was always laid out before you by your mama and daddy. there was no choice. only lingering, bitter feelings of resentment as you fought yourself to believe that tending Daddy’s saloon and entertaining businessmen was the life you wanted.

“i dont know.”

“tell me.”

your face heated with shame. “i want you.”

Ghost went very still. you couldn’t even hear his breaths in the darkness. “you’re sure?”

you nodded against his thigh. “mhmm. want you.”

“i’m the devil,” he murmured, sounding sullen, but you just shook your head.

“you’re Simon,” you corrected, and he flinched beneath you.

letting out a low curse, you didn’t even fight it when he scooped you up in his arms, and pressed you back against the kitchen counters, mask pressed to your hair, warm body against yours. your hand trailed up to press gently at the bullet wound buried beneath his black vest and button up. his hissed at the pressure but didn’t stop you as you moved to unbutton his vest.

“i want to see,” you explained softly, unfastening the thing completely. he tossed the vest onto the table, his holster following it, as you began unbuttoning his dress shirt, splaying out a hand over his warm chest. 

he was littered with scars—big and small, and you desperately tried to memorize the placement of each one as you revealed more of his pale skin, inch by inch, till his shirt hung loose at his waist. your eyes swept over the naked expanse of his toned torso and the white bandage soaked through with blood that clutched at the right side of his stomach.

slowly, you unwrapped it till the old dressings fell from his skin and a long line of puckered pink skin punctured through with a dark thread was revealed. you steadied your breath, brushing a hand over it. Ghost shifted overhead, leaning his weight onto the counter behind you.

“does it hurt?”

you couldn’t see his face, but his voice was wrung through in your ear. “no.”

the corner of your mouth twitched. “didn’t take you for a liar, Ghost.”

he just grunted in response. you smoothed your hands over the warmth of his torso.

“let me take care of you?” you offered, and his breath went shallow. you didn’t even know how to take care of someone. you had no idea what you were doing. but you offered anyway.

you could feel him smile into your hair, nose pressed to your ear. “always so polite, princess.”

you felt him tug your hair loose of its braid, and you took in a sharp breath as it fell in waves around your shoulders. he pulled off his gloves quickly, taking a handful of it, pressing the softness of your hair to his cheek. you shuddered.

“you won’t do a thing tonight, lovely,” he commanded lowly, and you nodded, hands clutching at his chest as he circled his strong arms around you. forehead pressed to yours, you looked up through his mask to find his rich brown eyes on you. his warm breath hit your lips.

he tilted his head in a gesture down the hall. “want you on that bed now.”

you complied immediately, taking him in your hand, going down the hall with one of his hands burning straight through the fabric at where he tightly gripped at your hip. crowding you into the room, and the door sealed tight behind you, he turned you by your hips, and gently pulled back your hair to expose your neck to him. you gasped when the soft wetness of his mouth kissed over it gently, his arm curling around you to pull you flush together.

a steady heat pooled in your stomach, and you squirmed in his hold.

“Ghost…” you begged, not even knowing what you were begging for. he hummed against your skin, undoing the clasp of your holster, then your skirt. you felt embarrassed by your clunky attire, kicking off your boots, hiding your face into his bare chest as he slid the article off your legs.

“don’t hide,” he warned in a light tone, expertly taking apart the back of your blouse to leave you only in your undergarments. the look behind his mask was dark and domineering, leaving you shaking in his hold. he smoothed a bare hand over your shoulder and arm, lifting the inside of your wrist to press a kiss there, before he was kissing up your arm in a hot trail. 

when he reached your jaw, a foreign and breathy noise left your throat. his eyes snapped back up to yours, pausing his ministrations as you blushed deeply. you didn’t know what those sounds meant—only that they left you feeling utterly sinful for being so exposed to an older man, unmarried, and so innocent.

you swallowed when Ghost’s hands went to the back of your corset, undoing its clasps blindly as he pressed more kisses to your neck, your cheek, and the corner of your lips. you squeaked, screwing your eyes shut and found yourself disappointed when he paused again.

panting, your brows pinched in confusion. Ghost was leaning a bit back now, looking down at you with an imperceptible expression.

“what? why’d you stop?” you whispered, scared to break the moment, but he unabashedly cut through the quiet of the room. “How much do you know about going to bed with someone?” 

you squeaked again, stupidly looking around the room as if your mama may have been hiding in the wardrobe. the look on Ghost’s face twisted into pure amusement, much to your chagrin, and you cursed yourself for the complete absence of confidence in you—like it had all run dry with your cheek pressed to his thigh under the dinner table.

“i know…” you fumbled for a word, “...a lot. so much.” 

Ghost huffed, taking one of your hands pressed to your chest and sliding it down, past his belt, to the front of his pants. you yelped when he closed your hand around something hard, something throbbing.

“you know what this is then?”

you nodded dumbly.

“really?” you had no idea.

you nodded again, and he laughed lowly, cupping a hand around the back of your neck to kiss your cheek softly, his cool mask brushing your skin.

he unclasped the top of your corset, and you jolted when pulled it slowly from your torso. the cold air of the room bit at your skin and you wrapped your arms over your chest. grumbling in disapproval, he let the thing clatter to the floor and untangled your arms from your chest, pushing you back onto the bed.

“don’t worry, lovely,” he slew sloppy, wet kisses over your breast and stomach, lightly nipping at the chub there, and a loud sound flew from your mouth from the ministration, your back arching in response. “i can teach you everything.”

a large palm slid over your stomach, keeping you pinned there with a dark look, black eyes pitched in a silver from the moonlight. “would you like that, lovely?”

you nodded wildly, clutching at his hand splayed over your tummy. 

“please, Simon,” you called softly, and a guttural sound left the back of his throat as he hooked a thumb beneath the waist of your lacey drawers and pulled them down, letting them pool around your knees for a moment as he leaned down over you to placing a comforting kiss to your shoulder.

then, you were bare, splayed out in the moonlight beneath his muscled stature. you squirmed in his hold, pressing your thighs together around his arm, but he pried them apart easily, baring your most sensitive parts to him. your whole body flushed when his eyes honed in on the throbbing between your legs, humming deeply. you yelped as he greedily tugged you to the edge of the bed, gingerly settling on his knees on the floor in front of you.

“your wound—” you cried out in surprise, but you were cut short when he buried his nose between your legs and breathed in deeply.

“Simon,” you called, voice breathy and panting, like you’d just run a far distance, and your hips jolting up against your will. there was a strange deep coiling in your stomach—a growing ache you felt like you needed to relieve with a crazy thirst.

he wrapped two strong arms round your thighs to pin your squirming hips down, nosing around the soft folds and plushness of your inner thighs. 

“patience,” he said, voice soft, and you keened, unsure what to do with your hands clenching and fumbling around the sheets. catching your wrists, he pinned them down to the bed along with your thighs. 

you felt the strange primal need to beg—to plead for his forgiveness, your whole body alight from the way he held your body in a bind, baring yourself to him.

“please,” you whimpered, unsatisfied with the way he continued to kiss and bite at your thighs, licking over them and periodically sucking the skin into his mouth. you canted your hips up, moaning when you found a delicious bout of friction against his turned jaw.

with a grunt of disapproval, he pinned you roughly back down to the bed.

“greedy are we, pretty thing?”

biting your lip, you didn’t feel an ounce of shame as you nodded. you needed that friction again. you didn’t know why, but you felt like you needed to grind against something desperately, just to relieve that sore aching inside you.

humming, Ghost lowered his mouth between your legs, eyes on yours as he gently blew cold air over the throbbing heat of you. you whined at that, hips trying to buck up, but he was just too strong.

“hurts,” you admitted in a whimper, and his eyes darkened.

“what hurts?”

you squirmed, whimpering helplessly, face flushing. “there.”

“where?” he asked, his lips twisted in a smug way.

you threw your head back, chest pushing up into the air with a frustrated whine.

“here?” he offered, his tongue coming out to lap over the throbbing thing between your legs. at that you gasped with a jolt, chasing his tongue. “this pretty little cunt aching?”

“yes,” you gasped, his tongue coming down to caress your core again and again, till it was lapping at it, almost playing with it.

the feeling was intense, nothing like you’d ever felt before. it bloomed like a fire in your throat, quenching the intense ache in your stomach, but every time he pulled away, the ache only grew stronger and stronger, like you needed to chase the pleasure with even more pleasure.

it was torture. you didn’t know whether to push him away or pull him closer.

the sight of him between your legs was so sinful, so wrong for a man to be lapping at you in such a forbidden place. but that intense feeling hung over everything in a foggy haze, blanketing any sense of foreboding shame that rang in the back of your brain.

there was only Ghost now—pinning your wrists and thighs to the bed, tongue rubbing strong circles into your fleshy pink skin.

when he pulled back, you almost cried out in frustration but he pinned you with a dark look of warning, releasing your wrists to bring a thumb to your cunt. he rubbed at in fast circles and a breathy moan escaped you, arching against the sheets.

he cooed. “so sensitive. you never touch yourself before, pretty thing?”

you choked out a reply. “no—it’s,” you gasped when his tongue came down to lap at your entrance, drawing teasing patterns over it, hooking inside then drawing out.

“sinful.” you finished with a drawl and he pushed his tongue inside, fucking you out of your wits with the wet muscle.

he hummed inside you, the tremors traveling all the way up to the place where he was rubbing with his thumb. you clutched at his hand, willing it to move faster, and he complied immediately. your body lost a fiber of control with every passing second. 

“you look like you’re enjoying it, though,” he spoke against you with a smug look. you barely heard him, a foreign sensation building in you so fast, the words of warning died in your throat.

“you like getting fucked out with my tongue? my thumb on your clit?”

“you like being my good little whore, pretty thing?”

“say my name, princess.”

his low, gruff words went straight to the blooming heat in your stomach, traveling straight to your cunt, and exploding out to your swollen clit as you chanted his name.

Simon, Simon, Simon.

every throbbing wave gripped you with an intensity, clenching around his tongue in delicious rolls of pleasure that had you squirming in the sheets, unable to keep still as he pulled you through a slew of ecstasy. 

Simon.

colors exploded behind your eyelids, jaw slack, you slowly laxed into the bed, melting as the sweet noises in your throat eventually subsided.

there was a lulling stillness in the room as your senses slowly came back to you, and you realized Ghost was speaking in a throaty, cracked murmur to you, voice raw and overused. 

“good girl,” he praised, and you looked up at him, leaning into his palm as he affectionately rubbed at your cheek, clambering over you to press a kiss to your ear, the tip of your nose.

his warm breath against your lips had you jolting to life, slapping a hand over his mouth with a gasp. he jolted against you and you scrambled up straighter, seized by what you had just done.

you, naked and bare on the bed, and he, shirt unbuttoned and jaw splashed with your slick. a question burned in the dark eyes behind his mask but you just made haste to cover your body with the sheets, scurrying out of his hold. 

he called your name out, voice dark and pinched. he reached for you, but you held up a hand.

“don’t,” you warned, gripped with such a burning shame that tears filled your eyes. you quickly wiped at them relentlessly, but more reappeared in their stead, and you drew the covers around your shoulders, unable to contain the shaking that wracked your body.

burying your face in your hands, thoughts convulsed wildly in your head. what have you done? what would your mama think? your daddy?

you whimpered. what would the lord think?

you shook so hard you barely noticed the black button up sleeve that Ghost wrapped around your shoulders, taking the sleeves to loosely tie them around your neck. he settled a fair distance from you, eyes full and glinting.

“alright, pretty girl?” he asked gingerly when your sobbing subsided.

you sniffled, voice strained and throaty. “no.”

you gave him a miserable look. “we’re not married.”

he tilted his head, mouth opening and closing. his hand clenched at the sheets then relaxed again.

“i don’t wanna be a whore,” you cried, feeling dumb as you wiped at the tears coming down your cheeks in an onslaught.

Ghost’s eyes narrowed. “is this because i called you a—”

“no!” you shouted immediately, then lowered your voice with a quick apology.

he slid to your side, flush against you and warm through the sheets. he pressed his mask to your hair.

“no one’ll think you’re a whore,” he mumbled, playing with your hair in his fingers, “you’re mine already.”

there was a deadpanned simplicity in his voice that made it easy to believe.

he took your tear-stained face in his hands. “besides, you’re too polite, princess. even in all that cowboy get-up.”

staring into his masked face, you nodded, chewing what he was feeding you slowly. he angled your face gently. when his lips made a slow descent to yours, you squeaked with a jolt and tried to scurry out of his hold, but he held fast, grunting with effort.

“what now?” he asked, exasperation flitting through his eyes, clenching at his jaw.

“i don’t kiss before a date—s’not proper!” you shot back with twice as much ire, and his eyes went wide before a huff of laughter escaped him.

“that so?”

you rolled your eyes. “yes.”

he hummed low, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “so proper, princess.”

you suppressed a laugh, trying to conceal your giggle with a frustrated huff, but Ghost didn’t fall for it as he drew you into arms, easily man-handling you into his desired position beneath the sheets before he slid into them behind you, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder.

you were pulled into a soft wall of warmth and bowing strength, curling around you in a sleepy hold. you couldn’t fight it even if you tried. he shifted against you, and you gasped when you felt something hard digging into the fleshy curve of your backside.

shooting a curious look over your shoulder, Ghost only offered you a lazy blink.

“don’t you worry your pretty little head about it,” he mumbled, drawing you in closer.

“but—”

“i don’t talk about those kinds of things before a date,” he said under his breath, and you could only laugh, relishing the way his lips curled into a smile against your hair.

an easy silence filtered into the room and you reached back behind you to grip at his shoulder, his neck, his skin. you took a deep breath. he was real. he was alive.

he slid his arms around your sides as a bind over your stomach, and you clutched weakly at the muscle of his arms smothering you.

“i thought you were going to die,” you ruminated softly, feeling a natural force pulling down on your eyelids.

“ghosts don’t die,” he reminded you, his lips against your neck. 

“devils don’t either,” you said, and he grunted in disapproval.

“you think i’m the devil, lovely?” his fingers stroked at your cheek. you leaned into his touch thoughtfully.

“maybe,” you answered in a truthful nod. “i don’t mind it though. i can make you good.”

his laugh was mirthless. “doubt you can, princess.”

you swallowed hard and closed your eyes. “you won’t ransom me back to my daddy, will you?”

you took his silence as a warning, an uneasy toil rolling through you. shifting in his arms, you turned to face him, the fabric of his mask pulled back down over his jaw, heavy gaze bearing down on you, half-lidded and sleepy. he just pulled you flush against his chest so you couldn’t see his masked face anymore, only the sounds of his deep, steady breaths in your ear that dragged you into a restless sleep.

p.s.: to any history buffs out there, i know that technically there was no actual british regiment in the spanish-american war but let's pretend that there was for the sake of plot holessss

...also imagining Gaz talk in a thick southern drawl was so funny to me he's so adorable

anyways hoped you enjoyed this long, self-indulgent chapter! more coming soon :]

[studioeisa]

LOVE&LETTER REPACKAGE ୨ৎ celebrating 10 years with SVT!

i said it once, i'll say it again: caratblr is populated by some of the most talented individuals you will find. incredibly lucky to be in the presence of these greats, whose writing change and challenge the ways we think and the stories we tell. here are some of my all-timers. ‹𝟹

footnotes: some of these work may contain explicit content. please heed the warnings when checking them out. all headers are from u/seventeenzone.

from the vantage point of death by @heartepub

when the lord of the dead meets the goddess of spring, all his plans are derailed.

there is simply no sugarcoating it: viv is a generational writer on this side of the fandom and beyond. this fic is a bullet point in the long list of reasons why. the tale of hades and persephone is time-worn and sometimes tired; viv makes a version of it that is entirely her own in ftvpod. in a way, this reads like a hozier song—haunting gospel, tender folklore, and understated sensuality. spring has come, and it's because viv has brought it in with ftvpod.

to love and to pound by @pochaccoups

There’s something different about Seungcheol since he got you pregnant.

char's work is never short of genius, but this particular piece strikes a balance between intimacy and smut that you are unlikely to find elsewhere. the time spent exploring the physicality of the couple—while also touching on sentiments that just feel so inherently seungcheol—really reminds you why she deserves to hold a username referencing pochaccoups. it bears repeating: char is one of, if not the, best writers you will ever find if you're wanting to read about choi seungcheol.

jeonghan drabble by @seungcheorry

it started with a "love, can i borrow a towel? i forgot mine" the first time he slept at your place; you gave it to him, a silly smile on your lips when he stepped out of the bathroom with your towel around his neck.

there is romance in the mundane, and cherry reminds us of that every so often. her writing has proven to be love letters to the slow days and the stolen moments; this jeonghan drabble is among her best work. there's sentimentality in this piece that manages to weave jeonghan so seamlessly into the seemingly 'boring' humdrum of daily life—proving, once again, that love can be found somewhere between takeout and shampoo.

‘til god breaks this spell by @joshujin

joshua's devotion to you rivals his devotion to his god.

faith is tricky. faith ebbs like the tide; faith finds itself in the oddest of places. some might say faith exists in good writing such as that of trixie's. 'til god breaks this spell is a heart-wrenching exploration of the religions we grow up with, the convictions we grow out of, and the loves we grow around. this is the kind of story that heals something long since forgotten—so, thank you, trixie, for the absolution.

soul like me by @lovetaroandtaemin

You and Joshua have been friends for most of your life, and you thought that you always would be. Turns out, your feelings for each other are stronger than you thought, but love isn't always enough to keep a relationship strong.

to write humane characters in fiction is a feat that ally never seems to struggle with. soul like me bares intrinsic flaws that i'm sure we would all rather forget. it raises a mirror to the people we become when we are hurting and when we intend to hurt. it begs the question: is love the end all be all? the answer lies somewhere in the fic; as for real life, though, ally continues to chart love in all its forms through her writing.

worth it by @chugging-antiseptic-dye

“But I've left no room in my heart to turn back. So if we're wrong, let's be wrong together.”

give a an inch, and she'll take a mile. worth it is reminiscent of the impactful writing one might find from classics like fanfiction.net. to anticipate the ending does not soften the blow. there are no gut punches in this story. just the quiet beginning and end of it all, and the sting that stays in the heartbeats that follow. helpless, thy name is mine, because a is bound to continue with these deep cuts in her future work.

elevatory by @wqnwoos

You were once deeply and irrevocably in love with Kwon Soonyoung, and it’s incredibly hard to avoid that fact when he works literally two offices down from you. It’s even harder to avoid when you’re stuck in a broken elevator with him for hours, and he seems determined to dissect everything that went wrong three years ago.

hana treats soonyoung with a level of respect so rarely seen in fics where he is at the center. the inventiveness of this story is noteworthy, but i firmly believe it's the emotionality that really makes elevatory shine. anybody who has loved, lost, and gained is bound to find something here—whether it is closure, grace, or nostalgia. i, for one, found one of the brightest writers you might ever find on caratblr.

wings against the wind by @diamonddaze01

The tide pulls in. The stars burn on. Neither of you move.

every time i think tara has reached the pinnacle of her writing, she puts out another piece that shows otherwise. what makes wings against the wind a fic worth coming back to time and time again is the setting of it all. their summers could easily be mine, or yours; all of us were sixteen, and eighteen, and twenty-eight once. there is comfort in writing that reminds you that you are not alone in the grand scheme of things. tara is that extended hand, charting the friendship and romance that we lose to the sea.

on call by @kkaetnipjeon

you'd never sleep in an on-call room, but that doesn't mean you won't find other uses for it.

i feel like a broken record who has ranted and raved about mj's writing way too often, but with works like on call, how could i not? this is a stellar intersection of humor, intimacy, and romance, in a setting that is just so utterly apt for jeon wonwoo. i knew this way back when, but this fic has convinced me i'd read 50k words from mj. or her grocery lists, even, if she is ever so inclined. before i'm properly derailed by fangirling: reading on call is the best thing you could do for yourself today.

maestro's muse by @ppyopulii

It’s HYBEHAX’s 10th year anniversary, and as the hackathon’s newest Design Team Lead, you are determined to make this year its best year yet.

jay's maestro's muse is an ongoing series that i can imagine jihoon being proud of. reinventing the form is a challenge few truly succeed at; jay does it, and will undoubtedly continue to do it. the world-building in this is simply lovely, and i'm among the dozens of people who await updates with bated breath.

chunhyangjeon redux by @shinysobi

If I had time, I would learn to love him in a softer way, perhaps, where my hands are bloodied and bruised from trying to hold on too hard.

as someone who has never been particularly well-versed in historical plots, i was pleasantly surprised to thoroughly enjoy chunhyangjeon redux. it might be easy to say that i come from a place of bias—i know how much work ro put into this piece, from ideation to eventual execution. that would be a disservice to the plain and simple fact that this fic is a brilliant period piece with a strong voice and immense soul.

neurosurgeon wonwoo x reader x neurologist jihoon by @thepixelelf

"He's frozen," you tell Jihoon, eyes set on the operating table and the man at the head of it.

there is no fic i think of as often as this. there's one line here—the ending one, specifically—that has quite literally impacted me so much that i continue to revisit this piece half a year (!) after i first found out. this is not an isolated incident; ursa seems to have a penchant for writing fics that truly stick with you. there's a tenderness to her characterizations that you simply can't replicate, which makes much of her masterlist timeless.

wasteland, baby! by @gotta-winwin

they say love can cure infection.

serena, harbinger of heartbreak, was kind enough to preempt me that this fic would rip my heart out of my chest. that did not make things any easier. wasteland, baby! reads like sand in an hourglass. there's a sense of dread that follows you throughout, but it goes hand in hand with hope. it's that heady cocktail of emotion that should convince you serena is worth reading until the end of the world.

golden promises by @diamonddaze01

And so it began. Minghao, who believed in fate, and you, who didn’t.

golden promises is more than just a crash and burn in slow motion. it's the final notes of your favorite song; it's the quiet beginning and end of it all. if you were to look up 'ache' in the dictionary, this fic would be an apt redirection exemplifying the word. while fate is bastardized in this story, it finds a home somewhere else. perhaps in the reminder that tara is fated to write, because golden promises is a fic that demands to be read.

glimpse of us by @gyubakeries

it's all wrong. when mingyu wakes up, a white ceiling presses down on him, the scent of oranges suffocates him, and skin that is brushing against his isn't warm.

you would expect tragedy to shape the form of a fic entitled glimpse of us, but tiya pulls the rug underneath your feet. this fic has a glaring amount of hope despite its heavy angst tag, and i do believe only a write like tiya could strike that balance without it feeling heavy-handed. narrative switches add to the emotional tug-of-war in this piece; redemption is earned, not simply granted. if this is your first glimpse into tiya's work, i urge you to look at the whole picture—it's a gallery worth visiting.

the subtle art of stirring the pot by @miniseokminnies

The kitchen at Quartz and Serenity in New York City runs like a well oiled machine. Then comes Lee Seokmin, the new sous chef, breezing in with a carefree attitude that disrupts your routine. All you've known for the last few years is studying, sleeping, and this kitchen. You try your best to work with the new addition to the chaos but what happens when the pot gets stirred?

if we're talking about the art of something, then let this be the art of writing lee seokmin. bennie nails the buildup and dynamic necessary to execute the tropes in this fic, and it can only come from a place of somebody who knows how to write seokmin. the tension crackles like a livewire in this body of work; much of bennie's writing, i believe, comes to life—whether in a kitchen, a record store, or during a game of chess.

something in the orange by @heartepub

remembrance is also reconstruction. reconstruction presupposes loss. a meditation on memory, narrative, and grief. and, of course, love.

it would be a lie to claim something in the orange as anything less than my favorite piece of k-pop fanfiction, bar none. this is the kind of story that you think of years down the line, even after you've left a fandom. i don't doubt i will. in sito, viv weaves a pulitzer-worthy story that simply cannot be boxed into the genre of 'apocalypse au'. this is grief. this is memory. this is what it means to be human, captured in 5k words featuring boo seungkwan. i will scream it from the rooftops, i will reconstruct to hell and back—sito is an absolute headliner.

it gets easier by @mercif4l

fingers off the unblock button or you're gonna regret it, girl.

rowan has a writing voice that is so utterly distinct, i could scroll through the vernon x reader tag for hours and find nothing like this. there is catharsis in hurt/no comfort, especially when done well. it gets easier gives you room to wallow, but it also reminds you of necessary evils that await on the other side of self-flagellation.

hello, darling by @sailorsoons

Vernon has been one of your best friends for years. Shy, quiet and calm, he’s always been a steady rock for you. He has no idea you’re in love with him, but that’s neither here nor there. After a strange series of events on Halloween night, Vernon seems a little… different, and the new version of him both terrifies and thrills you.

nobody is writing about svt like hali is. her body of work is an outstanding masterlist of alternate universes, spanning genres that touch on the human condition in ways that will leave you breathless. hello, darling is a prime example. the supernatural and thriller aspects of the fic unfold like a jordan peele plot—deliciously tense, intentionally vague, and loaded with suspense.

here, there, and everywhere by @chanranghaeys

This journal belongs to: me. If found, please contact this number. (And please do not read it—unless you want to read the ramblings of a person who fails to deny their feelings for a certain someone.)

here, there, and everywhere is an unashamed love letter to lee chan, from somebody who undoubtedly cares for him. like the song goes, hani knows that love is to share—and there is just so much of it in this fic. in between expressions of devotion and charting of affection through the years, here, there, and everywhere brings us to the very core of what it means to have a bias. overall, a beautiful ode to the man underneath the myth/legend.

not so loud by @daechwitatamic

You've been in love with Lee Chan for almost two years, despite his rejection seven months ago. When you're impossibly coupled up on a friendcation, you're determined not to make it everyone else's problem. Of course, you weren't expecting to have to room with him, and you certainly weren't expecting only one bed…

not so loud is a masterclass in friends to lovers. jo gives all her characters a level of autonomy that makes this fic a living, breathing thing. i remember sending this to four different people the first time i finished it, with a semi-crazed message of you have to read this. that still stands. this piece is gorgeous, not only in how it progresses the relationship, but also in how it resolves it conflicts and brings each scene to life.

MORE & MORE & MORE!

joshujin's we can be all we need (soonyoung)

100vern's while he's gone (soonyoung & vernon)

mylovesstuffs' a song for the ones who leave (vernon)

svtiddiess' the fae in my heart (minghao)

shinwonderful's freedom of choice

vampsol's a cut to remember (vernon)

vampsol's not a bad thing (vernon)

ppyopulii's hoshi + work song by hozier

etherealyoungk's ramen & fate (seungkwan)

shuacore's warm glow (joshua)

miniseokminnies' the boy who lives on the moon (jun)

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ your girl ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ cho sang-woo x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header!

˚ ༘♡ sang-woo held your hands carefully, his fingers scarcely brushing the raw, incensed marks from the rope burns. the reddened skin stood out against your pallid complexion, making the injuries look worse than you tried to let on. you flinched slightly when he turned your palms upward, his touch so delicate it made your chest ache. “it’s not so bad,” you murmured, your voice light, though the sting was anything but mild. you glanced up at him, hoping your slight smile would ease the worry etched into his exhausted, weary features.

˚ ༘♡ his brows furrowed together, your futile consolation doing little to calm him. his thumb drifted near the worst of the burns, as if he wanted to soothe the pain but didn’t dare. “i’m sorry,” he spoke, his voice desolate and tormented, as if it was meant for your ears alone, the others no concern of his. he shook his head, his jaw tightening. “if they’d given us water or even a cold drink, it might’ve helped. don’t put too much pressure on your hands, okay?”

˚ ༘♡ you gazed at him, surprised by the softness in his tone. “sang-woo, really, it’s nothing. we all got burns from the tug of war game,” you replied, your countenance softening as you glanced down at your scorched hands. “i’ll be fine.” the sincerity in his clouded gaze made your heart burn with adoration, although the sting from your injuries grounded you.

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t respond right away, his dark eyes lingering on your hands like he could will the pain away by staring at it long enough. for a split second, it seemed like he was about to say something, something you weren’t sure you were ready to hear, but instead, he let out a quiet sigh and bit into the corn cob the guards had distributed to the surviving players as meal rations. the stiffness in his shoulders stuck around, an indicative sign of his unease.

˚ ༘♡ “and you, babe!” mi-nyeo’s voice cut through the air, loud and exaggerated, she was player 212, who had been on their team for the last game. “three steps forward, huh? so cool.” her giggle was thick with flirtation as she strutted closer to sang-woo, clearly angling for his attention.

˚ ༘♡ but he didn’t so much as glance at her. not a single flicker of acknowledgment crossed his face. instead, his gaze flickered back to you for the briefest of moments, his lips pressing into a thin line when he saw your discomfort. you shifted uncomfortably beside him, your fingers curling slightly against your lap, but his knee brushed yours, whether intentional or not, it was enough to send a reassuring warmth through you. gi-hun, noticing the awkwardness brewing between everyone, laughed, his tone cheerful. “hey, sang-woo’s got a girlfriend already, so give it a rest.”

˚ ༘♡ mi-nyeo froze fora beat, her playful smirk disappearing. her eyes darted toward you, sitting stiffly next to sang-woo. she blinked in disbelief, her gaze flitting between the two of you before settling on you. “the foreign girl?” she scoffed, her voice rising. “seriously? come on, sang-woo, you can do so much better…”

˚ ༘♡ you opened your mouth to speak, but sang-woo beat you to it, his voice slicing through the tension. “why don’t we eat in silence?” his tone was cold, sharper than you’d ever heard it, and it left no room for argument. his dark eyes narrowed on mi-nyeo, making it clear he wouldn’t tolerate another word from her.

˚ ༘♡ a small tinge of satisfaction warmed your chest as mi-nyeo’s face fell, though you kept your expression neutral. she paused for a moment, clearly trying to think of a way to regain control of the conversation. eventually, she shrugged, her grin returning with a sly twist. “if that’s what you want,” she declared, drawing out her words before sauntering away with an exaggerated sway in her hips.

˚ ༘♡ the minute she was gone, you let out a slow breath, the tension in your chest easing slightly. sang-woo hadn’t moved, his posture rigid and his dark eyes fixed on the ground, though his tensed muscles revealed his lingering frustration. you glanced at him, hesitant but apprehensive. “you didn’t have to do that,” you murmured, your voice soft enough to be carried away by the air around you.

˚ ༘♡ his head turned toward you, his dark eyes meeting yours witha strength that brought you to stop speaking. “yes, i did,” he said, his words hushed and certain, as if it were the most evident notion in the world. “she doesn’t get to talk to you like that.” his manner of speech carried a modest intensity, the kind that didn’t need to be loud to make an impact.

˚ ༘♡ you blinked, surprised by the tenderness of his response. “it doesn’t bother me,” you said, though the strain in your voice betrayed the pitiful lie. you wanted to brush it off, to convince him, and maybe yourself, that it didn’t matter with how dire the circumstances were. yet he didn’t look away, and the way his eyes searched yours made it unthinkable to hold the facade.

˚ ༘♡ “it should,” he said quietly. his gaze went to your wounded hands again, fixated on the burns as his fingers twitched, as if he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he should. “you don’t deserve that insolent mockery and those rude insults.”

˚ ༘♡ the raw honesty in his voice made something inside you ache. you swallowed hard, your heart catching at the way he looked at you, in a way that betrayed that he cared more than he was willing to admit. “we all deal with it,” you said gently, the words feeling inadequate even as they left your lips.

˚ ༘♡ his expression didn’t change, but his voice softened just enough to make your chest tighten. “that doesn’t make it right,” he mumbled, almost to himself. he leaned slightly closer, his tone faint enough that it felt like the world around you had fallen away. “if i could make it easier for you, i would.”

˚ ༘♡ your breath caught in your throat, the unexpected affection of his words settling solemnly in the little distance between the two of you. for a brief period of time, neither of you spoke, the solitude stretching out in a way that felt strangely comforting. you could feel the unspoken significance of everything he wasn’t saying, everything he couldn’t put into words, and it was enough to make the misery of the desolate world seem distant, something nonexistent.

˚ ༘♡ “thank you,” you finally whispered, your voice barely able to be heard but carrying more meaning than the mere words could communicate.

˚ ༘♡ he gave the smallest nod, his lips pressing together as if to keep himself from saying more. the short-lived instance of genuine affection had ended, but the feeling it left behind stayed with you, lingering, quiet, and comfortable in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

a/n: a more lighthearted cho sang-woo fanfiction! let me know if you have anymore requests for him as well as your thoughts! 🤍

[cryoculus]

— TRACK 03: MORE TIME ⟢

the tour is in full swing, heavy with expectations and lingering doubts, and it comes with its own chaotic moments—both good and bad. you're still learning how to find your footing in the midst of it all.

★ featuring; mydei x f!reader

★ word count; 8.2k words

★ tags; rock band au, found family, hostile acquaintances to friends to lovers, grief/mourning, angst, slow burn, eventual smut

★ notes; you see, i've always wanted to write a fic where the characters are on tour LMAO so many things can happen in so many places, it's such a a juicy premise to work with, and i'm happy that a rock band au is the perfect avenue for the trope :3c

★ header art cr; sarhiyu on x & ig

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

You’re standing outside the label’s office, half-dressed in travel layers, dragging your feet while the crew finishes loading the last of your bandmates’ belongings. The bus door yawns open behind you like a threat. You’ve got five minutes. Ten, if Aglaea’s feeling merciful.

But you’re still on the sidewalk, hugging Hyacine like you’re about to be shipped off to war.

Which, emotionally? Same thing.

“I’m gonna miss you so bad,” she chokes out.

You start to respond but then Hyacine lets out a full-body, ugly sob, and your defenses crash like a stack of wet laundry. She’s clinging to your shoulders now, makeup smudged and nose red. Pedestrians are actively crossing the street to avoid the two of you.

“I can’t afford any of the tour stops outside Okhema,” she wails. “You’re gonna play in some glittering city state and I’ll be stuck here paying off my space heater.”

“I’ll send you videos,” you whisper, trying not to cry too. “Although I’m sure Garmentmaker and Tribbios will keep our socials updated.”

“It’s not the same!” Hyacine howls.

You rub her back, eyes watering, nose stinging. “I know. I know.”

You think she’s winding down, but you think wrong. She lets out a louder sob.

“I DON’T EVEN LIKE ANYONE ELSE IN THE BAND,” your best friend hiccups. “I only care about you! Erin would’ve said the same thing!”

“Hyacine, we both know Erin adored Phainon way too much for that to be true.”

That seems to make her laugh a little, but then you hear it: a third voice wandering into the quiet moment.

“Hey.”

You stiffen for only a moment before turning your head. Mydei’s hoodie is pulled over sleep-mussed hair, hands jammed in his pockets, and standing just beyond the emotional wreckage of your best friend.

“They told me to come get you,” he says flatly. “You’re the last one.”

Hyacine sniffs loudly as Mydei’s gaze slides toward her, taking in the puffy eyes, the tears, the quiet, shattered, hi. He nods at her a little stiffly. Like he doesn’t know how to navigate raw emotion at eight in the morning and has no interest in learning. 

“I haven’t said goodbye yet,” you mutter, wiping your face with your sleeve.

“You’ve got sixty seconds,” he replies, turning back toward the bus. “Then I start dragging you.”

Hyacine squints after him, eyes puffy but sharp. “That’s Mydei, right? God, he moves like he’s constantly disappointed in everything.”

You chuckle. “That’s because he is.”

“Kick his ass on stage.” She turns back to you, gripping your shoulders. “I still haven’t forgotten about the way he treated you when you were still new.”

“Already planning to.”

One last hug—tight, snotty, half-laughing through the tears—then you’re off, sprinting toward the bus with your bootlaces flapping. You haul yourself up the bus steps, chest still tight from the goodbye, and get hit with the immediate chaos of touring life.

Suitcases are jammed into every open corner. Somebody’s half-eaten protein bar is stuck to a pillow. Phainon’s sprawled across two seats, snoring like he’s been tranquilized, while Cipher’s crouched in the aisle with a soldering kit and what looks like a disassembled mic pack.

“Don’t step on the wire,” Cipher says without looking up. “Or do. Then I get to build a better one.”

Anaxa’s perched by the window with headphones on, deep in a playthrough on some portable gaming console while mouthing something that might be lyrics—or just insults. Castorice is in the back, already journaling with her legs tucked up like a kid at summer camp.

You plop into the most comfortable seat available and let your bag thud to the floor.

Across the aisle, Mydei slides into his own seat. He doesn’t say a word. The man doesn’t even look at you, but he does nudge a box of tissues your way with a socked foot. Casual and grossly unceremonious. Like maybe he wasn’t totally unmoved by the scene you and Hyacine made in front of the company building. 

You don’t thank him out loud, but you grab a tissue and blow your nose like a dying trumpet.

The engine groans awake beneath you. A low hum spreads through the floor, steady and strange. You feel it in your knees, your ribs, your throat. Like the bus itself is exhaling. 

Okhema shrinks behind you in the rearview.

Ahead are nine cities. A three-day music festival. A string of dive bars strung like bruises across the map. And ten weeks—seventy days, if you’re counting—of close quarters with people you’re still figuring out how to be in a band with.

You’re not ready.

But maybe no one ever is.

Somewhere near the back, Cipher looks up from a mess of wires and soldered ambition, a tiny glowing device flickering in her hands. She peers over to your seat with a wicked smile. 

“I keep forgetting this is your first tour with us,” she says cheekily. “Welcome to the next chapter of your indie rock memoir, newbie.”

You let out a breath. Something between a laugh and a groan as you roll your eyes.

This better be worth it.

THE FLAMECHASERS IGNITE ‘HELL IN THE REARVIEW’ TOUR IN OKHEMA 🎸🔥

Okhema, AM — Last Friday night, the city shook under the weight of raw distortion and gritty catharsis as The Flamechasers roared to life on the opening night of their much-anticipated Hell in the Rearview tour, its namesake a direct parallel to their newest album: Heaven on the Horizon.

Taking the stage at a packed out Marmoreal Stadium, the rock outfit tore through fan favorites and new album cuts with signature ferocity. While longtime fans still feel the absence of former guitarist Hephaestion, newcomer Diana delivered riffs with blistering energy and emotional edge, proving herself a force in her own right.

Manager Aglaea described the night as “exactly what we needed to burn the past down and start clean.” Whether that burn sticks remains to be seen, but if the opening night was any indication, The Flamechasers aren’t slowing down.

The tour continues through ten more cities, including stops at coastal festivals and a live-streamed charity performance expected to draw international attention.

 

💬 COMMENTS:

@CipherByBTS okay but can we talk about how DIANA KILLED that solo during Ashes to Ivory?? i ascended. i levitated. i forgave my ex.

@steelveil6 BRING HEPHAESTION BACK 🗣️🗣️🗣️

@gutterheartsclub i was skeptical but this new lineup is chaos in the BEST way. like watching a car on fire and cheering for it to win the race.

@ChaoticFriedRice glad they're back on stage, but I can't help thinking this tour is damage control. 🤷‍♀️

@MostNormalMydeiFan scalpers took off with tickets for the castrum kremnos stop, do something about that first maybe?!?!?!?!?

@Unknown471623 new girl's trying too hard it's pathetic. their management is really pushing their agenda lol

@trashcanromance Cipher’s stage dive cleared my skin. Mydei’s mic flip cured my depression. Diana is now my war goddess. That’s all.

On the first break of the Dolos show, the crowd’s still screaming when you stumble offstage.

There’s sweat in your eyes and a buzzing in your limbs that’s half adrenaline, half panic. Five songs down, ten more to go. Everyone scatters—Phainon vanishes for water, Castorice is deep in a hushed argument with the sound tech. You linger near the equipment crates, unsure what comes next.

You feel like you should, but you just don’t.

The others fall into a rhythm you haven’t learned yet. Inside jokes mid-set. Tiny rituals they don’t even explain. Things not even a superfan can possibly know about. Anaxa tosses a coin into one of the empty mic cases. Cipher bumps fists with Mydei three times in a strange pattern. You copy the movements half a second too late, and you feel twice as frustrated.

You shrink into the backstage shadows, hugging your guitar like it might muffle the awkward silence trailing after you. At first, you could still float—let the tide of this band carry you. Nod when they nod, laugh when they laugh, follow the rhythm like you were part of it all along.

But the longer you stay, the more the edges start to fray. The more you realize: you’re not a perfect fit in the puzzle of The Flamechasers.

You’re the piece they keep pressing in, hoping no one notices the corners that don’t quite match.

But you don’t let yourself spiral. You keep your head in the game—makeup retouched, outfit change seamless, guitar tuned and ready. Now all that’s left is waiting for Garmentmaker’s voice to ring through your in-ears and tell you it’s time to go back out there.

That’s until Anaxa plops right next to you.

His sudden appearance makes you startle. He’s a bit slick with sweat and lit like a devil by the amber glow of stage rigging. Even if he hasn’t said anything yet, you’ve been around him long enough to know that he does everything with a purpose. Whether you know it or not.

Anaxa’s not the type to make small talk. You expect a critique. Maybe a “try to keep up.”

Instead, he says:

“You don’t know what to do between sets, do you?”

You nod once, not trusting your voice. 

Anaxa leans back, eyes closed, as he sighs. "You’re doing fine, if it helps. You don’t have to fake it. We didn’t tell you anything."

That throws you off a little. “Thanks,” you murmur. Then, because the quiet itches: “Why didn’t you?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he exhales slowly, his gaze drifting toward the stage where Mydei and Phainon stand poised, ready to slip back into position. The noise around you blurs into a dull hum, fading beneath the heavy, almost rhythmic thud of your heart.

Finally, Anaxa whispers, “Because some of us are still pretending you’re not a replacement.”

The words land like a cymbal crash.

But he doesn’t flinch from the silence that follows.

“You didn’t ask for this,” he adds, tone softer now. “But Hephaestion... He was with us for a long time. His absence is loud. Sometimes we try to silence it by closing over the space he left, like it was never there at all.”

It’s not pity in his voice, exactly. But something clean and raw and brutal.

“You’re the last person I expected to talk to me about this,” you chuckle.

Anaxa shrugs. “Yeah, well. I’m not the best person for it. But none of these cowards will, even if somebody should.”

Despite the nerves coiled tight in your stomach, his bluntness feels strangely like mercy.

Somehow, it makes sense that it’s Anaxa who brings up Hephaestion. The name you’ve been avoiding even in thought, all while living each day in the space he left behind. You want to ask for more. Details, stories, anything. Real life is so much stranger than whatever fifty-minute YouTube video can conspire about. 

But the moment slips away too fast.

“The show resumes in thirty seconds,” Garmentmaker’s voice crackles through the comms. “Please proceed to stage access immediately.” 

Anaxa gets up, straightening his posture. But before the bassist walks off, he says, “You don’t have to make up for something that’s not your fault to begin with. Truth is, you’re one of us now, even if we’re all still grappling with the fact.”

You want to say something back, anything.

But the words get caught in your throat. 

Thirty seconds later, you’re back on-stage. The lights are still dim, but the crowd roars anyway.

You try to shake off your conversation with Anaxa, fully aware that giving it any more thought will just throw you off your game. But as you look for something to anchor your focus on, you catch Mydei’s figure in the sparse light. He’s adjusting the mic stand with practiced ease, and you assume he doesn’t feel the weight of your stare.

Until he turns and meets your eyes. 

Mydei doesn’t smile, but there’s a shift in his expression. Could be acknowledgement. Or approval, if you’re generous with your hope. But before you can make sense of it, he turns again—light edging around him like a halo before he’s swallowed by the noise and color waiting just beyond the curtain.

Then it’s your turn. You square your shoulders. Grip your guitar.

And let the music take over everything else.

When the show wraps up, the shuttle races through the freeway so fast, it makes you consider reactivating your health insurance. Phainon, your designated seatmate for every ride, tries to offer a mint once your feet finally touch solid ground.

You accept, but you don’t miss the way he tries to hide his laughter. 

While chewing on said mint, you file with the rest of your bandmates in the elevator with quiet murmurs. At first, you wondered how the lodging would work—especially since Aglaea was too busy to give all of you any details. But you're relieved to find that the company booked individual rooms for everyone. This will be the case for every stop on the tour, too.

Some R&R was direly needed. You were already planning on a long soak in the tub when your plans are rudely interrupted by someone knocking on your door. It starts with three fast raps, a pause, then two more. The rhythm is suspiciously familiar.

You open the door to find Cipher grinning wide like she’s about to commit a crime, Castorice behind her with a sheepish shrug and a coat in hand.

“Can I help you?” you ask, deadpan.

“Get dressed,” Cipher says, already inviting herself in. “You’re being kidnapped.”

You scowl as she makes a beeline for your half-unpacked suitcase, poking through it with the curiosity of a raccoon.

“Do I get a say in this?” you mutter.

“No,” Castorice says, sweet as sugar. “We just thought you could use a breather.”

Your room’s still dim, shadows stretched long across the floor. You were just starting to enjoy the quiet—no lights, no noise, just the muted hum of hotel air conditioning and your thoughts turned up too loud. But Cipher’s already hurling a hoodie at your head.

“We’re in Dolos, babe,” she says, grinning. “I know this city like the back of my hand. Trust me. It’ll be fun.”

You hesitate. “Fun” isn’t the word you’d use for diving headfirst into The Flamechasers’ offstage dynamic with no warning. But the idea of staying here, alone with your spiraling thoughts, feels even worse.

So you sigh. Pull on your jacket. And follow them out the door.

The walk to the bar is short but full of Cipher’s running commentary. She points out old murals she claims to have helped paint, side alleys with stories she refuses to explain, and a noodle shop that “once saved her life”. Castorice insists it just cured a hangover.

By the time you reach the bar, you’ve already laughed once. Maybe twice.

It’s tucked in the corner of a narrow street with no sign out front, only a faded painting of a dragon coiled around a lyre. Cipher slaps the door twice, as if greeting an old friend, and swings it open.

Inside, the place hums low. It smells like wood polish, citrus, and something sweet drifting in from the kitchen. The music’s live—something smoky and slow—and the crowd’s just dense enough to feel alive without being suffocating.

You spot the rest of the band before they spot you.

Phainon’s leaning halfway across a table, animated mid-story, his hands painting something in the air. Anaxa lounges beside him, half-listening, eyes flicking toward the door the second you enter. Mydei’s in the corner with one boot resting on the lower rung of his stool as he nurses a drink he hasn’t really touched.

Cipher whistles. “Boys! Look what the alley cats dragged in.”

Phainon looks up, grinning. “Finally! We were about to send a search party.”

“You were not,” Anaxa mutters, though his voice has no bite. He scoots over to make space anyway.

Mydei doesn’t speak, but when your eyes meet, he does something unexpected. He raises his glass slightly in your direction. It’s not a toast exactly, but there’s a flicker of acknowledgment in there. Then he looks away, as if that small gesture didn’t just thread itself through your ribs.

“Come on.” Castorice nudges you toward the open seat. “You survived rehearsal, the first two shows of the tour, and Cipher’s rambling. You deserve a drink.”

You sit without much coercion.

The table’s warm from the press of bodies and laughter. It feels oddly natural, like sliding into a rhythm that was already waiting for you. Cipher disappears for all of three minutes before returning with a tray of drinks—something colorful and fizzing, something dark and strong, and a safe bet she sets in front of you with a wink.

“Start slow. We’ve got the whole night.”

The first drink is easy. Second one, less so. Cipher keeps them coming with suspicious generosity, each glass more ridiculous than the last.

One of them arrives with a rubber duck floating on top. She names it General Quack and insists you give a toast in his honor. You do, mostly because Phainon’s already halfway through composing an anthem for the duck, and Castorice is too busy laughing to stop him.

It doesn’t feel like a band hangout. It feels like a friend group that happened to fall into music.

The fan in you takes quiet note of the way everyone leans into each other’s space, speaks in a shorthand built on shared chaos. They’re loose here. Whole.

For once, you don’t feel like a stand-in.

“Alright,” Cipher declares, palms slapping the table, “game time.”

“Every time you say that, someone ends up eating a chili pepper or crying,” Phainon groans. 

She just grins wider. “Truth or dare. No skips. Our newbie starts.”

You freeze with your drink halfway to your lips. “Why me?”

“Because you're the newbie,” she says sweetly, already passing you an invisible crown of doom.

You glance around the table. Castorice offers an encouraging smile. Anaxa raises an eyebrow like he’s daring you to back out. Mydei doesn’t say anything, but he’s watching again like he’s been doing all night. You’re starting to think that’s just how he is.

“Fine,” you mutter. “Truth.”

Cipher laces her fingers together conspiratorially. “Who in the band surprised you the most, good or bad?”

The table quiets a bit, everyone looking your way. You stall for a second, but there’s no malice in the question. Just curiosity, and maybe mischief.

You answer honestly.

“Anaxa,” you say. “I thought he’d be more of a dick.”

Anaxa lifts his glass, almost solemn. “The bar was on the floor. I appreciate that.”

“’Kay, Anaxa next then,” Cipher singsongs. “Have you ever fucked someone you shouldn’t be fucking?” 

The bassist levels her with a glare. “Aren’t you supposed to ask Truth or Dare first?”

“Fine. Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“I dare you to tell me if you’ve fucked around with someone you’re not supposed to~”

From where he’s seated, Phainon chuckles as he sips his drink. “What, like with a fan or something?”

Cipher grins. “It’s up to him, how he wants to interpret it.”

Despite the easygoing air, you can feel the animosity Anaxa is emitting towards Cipher. However, the band’s synth player is nothing if not a little rebellious. It makes you sift through your bunk of Flamechasers knowledge, trying to recall any romantic drama. Tribbios is far too good at her job, though; if there were any messy entanglements, they never made the headlines.

Still, you tuck this conversation into your head for later.

“No, I haven’t,” Anaxa deadpans with narrowed eyes. “Don’t you think Castorice has been a little quiet tonight?”

Castorice blinks. “Why are you dragging me into this?”

“Ooooh, Naxy’s right though,” Cipher giggles. “Princess Homebody, truth or dare?”

“Dare,” Phainon quips, and Castorice shoots him a betrayed look, like he just handed her over to the authorities.

“You can’t answer for me!”

“You hesitated,” he replies, utterly unapologetic.

Cipher is practically vibrating with glee. “Ohhh, I’ve got it. I dare you…” She drums her fingers on the table like a game show host stalling for suspense. “To do your best impression of Mydei. Bonus points if you include the brooding stare and cryptic one-liner.”

Castorice freezes like someone just aimed a spotlight at her. “No.”

“You agreed to play,” Cipher reminds her. “No skips.”

You almost feel bad for her—almost. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and mumbles, “I play rhythm guitar. I’m not supposed to be seen.”

“Too late,” Anaxa drawls. “You’re center stage now.”

Even Mydei tilts his head slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching. You’re not sure if it’s amusement or a threat. 

Castorice groans, drags her hands down her face, and stands like she’s about to face a firing squad. She shakes out her hair, rolls her shoulders, and adopts the stiff-backed elegance that Mydei carries like a second spine. Then she half-turns, casts the most dramatic sidelong glance you’ve ever seen, and murmurs in a voice low and cold as smoke:

“...The stars don’t ask for applause. They just burn.”

The table loses it.

Phainon nearly spits his drink. Anaxa actually doubles over. Cipher howls. You see Mydei’s brows lift just a fraction and then he laughs, a quiet, surprised sound like he hadn’t meant to. Castorice drops back into her seat, red-faced but grinning. “This is why I don’t speak in interviews.”

“Never do that again,” Phainon gasps.

“I hate how accurate that was,” Cipher wheezes.

Even Mydei offers a quiet, “Not bad,” before sipping his drink.

Warm laughter fills the air and smooths the sharp edges of being new. Someone else gets dared to sing the chorus of their least favorite Flamechasers song in opera voice. It goes downhill—and uphill—very fast from there.

Later, after a round of fries and Cipher showing you how to sneak onto the rooftop without getting caught (“Technically, I own half this place in karma credit”), you find yourself stepping into the open air, grateful for the breeze that cuts through the haze of jovial noise.

You almost miss him at first.

Mydei’s already there, leaning against the railing, half-shadowed. His posture easy but his gaze is a thousand miles away. You blink, realizing you never saw him leave the table. He doesn’t look over when you approach, but you feel the subtle shift in his stance as you join him. 

The city hums below. A few beats pass, steady and quiet, before he speaks.

“That song you were messing with on the bus the other night,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t want to disturb the dark. “The one when you thought everyone was asleep.”

“...You heard that?”

He gives a small nod. “Not all of it. Just enough to recognize it.”

There’s a pause. The rooftop air hangs between you, still and light.

You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes slightly. “How would you even know which one I was playing?”

He shifts, arms resting along the rail again. Doesn’t look at you when he says, almost offhandedly, “Because I’d already heard it before.”

“Wait, what do you mean—”

He glances at you now, expression unreadable, a flicker of something wry in his voice. There’s a glint in his golden irises that you’d always find on Cipher’s face, but never on Mydei’s.

“Does workigntitledotmp3 ring a bell? As in, the G before the N.”

You freeze.

It takes a heartbeat. Then two. And then your stomach drops straight through the floor.

“I saved it as an mp3 file?” you whisper, horrified. “God...”

That’s when he laughs—soft, sudden, and entirely real. It curls at the edges of his mouth, bright in a way you don’t see from him often. You don’t even bother asking how on earth Mydei got his hands on it, when you were sure you saved it on your laptop and not the shared cloud. He’s already heard it, and you can’t spare yourself the shame. 

“You did good with it though,” Mydei says, once the moment settles. “That fade at the end? Nicely done.”

You want to melt into the concrete.

“Quit lying. That’s not even the final version,” you mutter. “It’s like a regurgitated draft. Cipher and I were just messing around.”

“Well, whatever it is,” he says, eyes back on the skyline, “it stuck enough for me to remember.”

You shift your weight, suddenly feeling the heat of the conversation settle on you like a layer of something warm. You take a breath, deciding to lean into the vulnerability he’s offering.

“Thanks,” you say, quieter now. “For… trusting me to take it somewhere. I—I wasn’t sure if it would even work. I didn’t want to screw it up.”

Mydei’s eyes flicker to you for the briefest moment, his expression unreadable for a second before it softens. The shadows around him seem to fall a little quieter, his presence somehow more grounded. He gives a half-shrug, like it’s no big deal, but you hear the quiet sincerity in his next words.

“You didn’t screw anything up,” he says, voice calm, but heavy with meaning. “You turned it into something real, not just what we wrote. That matters more than you think.”

You stay where you are, letting his words simmer down to your bones. It’s hard to believe that not long ago, every exchange with Mydei felt like walking a tightrope. There’s a rhythm to it now. A gentler give and take. Talking to him doesn’t feel like a test anymore.

It makes you think of the versions of yourself that used to watch him from the crowd, bright-eyed and anonymous with a sea of noise between you. Back then, he was just a voice through speakers, a name in liner notes, a ghost behind a screen. Someone untouchable.

Now he’s standing next to you while the city glitters down below—real and imperfect and quietly perceptive.

He speaks to you like you're not just some last-minute addition or a fan with a lucky break, but someone pulling her weight in the sound. The shift is subtle, but it roots deep. You're no longer chasing the dream from the outside.

You’re shaping it from within.

When you and Mydei return to the table, it’s like stepping into a different dimension.

Anaxa is slouched over two pushed-together chairs, laughing to himself about something no one can decipher. Castorice is in Cipher’s lap, tearfully declaring her undying love for the band between hiccups. Phainon raises his drink in greeting as if you’d both just popped out to buy snacks.

“Don’t ask,” he mouths, but he’s smiling too hard for you to believe he means it.

It takes all of you—slightly tipsy, increasingly chaotic—to finally corral each other back toward the hotel. Cipher keeps announcing the street names like a tour guide, and you swear Anaxa tries to high-five a statue.

The elevator ride is a blur of giggles and leaning on each other for balance, and eventually you’re spilling out onto your floor, one by one, goodnights muttered like a ritual. You’re almost at your door when a hand closes gently around your wrist. It’s not a rough grip. Barely there, really, but the contact itself startles you more than it should.

Mydei doesn’t touch people. Not like this.

When you turn, he lets go. Steps back like the moment didn’t happen. 

“If you ever want help finishing that song,” he starts, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile, “I’m around.”

You arch a brow, smirking past your own surprise. “So you can take all the credit? If I recall correctly, you said it was mine now.”

Mydei lets out a low, amused sound that suspiciously sounds like a laugh. Then he’s already turning down the hall, hands in his pockets, humming something familiar under his breath. You stay there a moment longer, pulse still ticking fast from the touch and everything underneath it.

Then you slip into your room, the night replaying in pieces you don’t want to lose.

Two days later, you’re curled up in the back lounge of the tour bus.

There’s a lukewarm drink in your hands while some godawful romcom drones on through overhead speakers. Phainon’s responsible from the looks of it. He’d managed to get the old TV mounted at the front working again and decided it was time for a movie marathon. Most of the others are in their usual seats, groaning at every predictable twist.

Castorice had opted out early and joined you in the back, legs tucked under her as she stared out the window at the snow piling up in quiet drifts. She mentioned, offhandedly, that she once lived in Aidonia for a while.

“The summers don’t feel like summers here,” she murmured. “The city gets hit with stray blizzards that last for days. Even in July, you can wake up to three feet of snow.”

You glanced at her, amused. “Surely that won’t happen while we’re in town.”

She cracked a small, uneasy smile. “I actually brought it up. Told Aglaea it was too risky and she agreed.”

“So why are we here?”

Her gaze flicked from the snow to you. “Because Aidonia houses one of our biggest fanbases. Director Caenis insisted we push through.”

You sink a little deeper into the couch, suddenly aware of how much colder it feels near the windows.

Sure enough, the foreboding news came true. 

On D-0, the venue manager meets you all backstage with a haunted look in his eyes. His lips are chapped from the cold, and he doesn't bother hiding the fatigue behind his fur-lined hood.

“I’m sorry,” he says, arms crossed tight over his clipboard. “The city’s issued a full shutdown. No events. No crowd control, no transit, not even taxis. We have to cancel.”

Snow curls in through the open backstage door, dancing like ash in the spotlight beams. Aglaea steps forward, jaw tight. She’s wrapped in her usual structured coat, but the crispness in her tone has dulled from travel and tension. “And there’s no alternate venue? Nothing indoors?”

“None with capacity and power. We’re lucky the stadium still has heating.”

Behind you, Cipher lets out a long, mournful whine. “I swear there was sun this morning.”

“That was yesterday,” Castorice mumbles, her voice barely audible beneath her hood. Her scarf is wrapped up to her nose, and her fingers are clutching a cup of something from the green room, still steaming.

Phainon exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “Snow's pretty, sure. But this feels apocalyptic.”

Mydei is stone-still. He’s staring out through the open loading dock, where the tour bus sits half-buried in fresh powder, a skeletal crew still trying to wrap cables and protect equipment.

“So we’re what, stuck?” Anaxa asks.

Aglaea’s voice is flat. “Yes.”

There’s a mechanical click behind you.

Garmentmaker is unfazed, tapping calmly through their tablet interface, gloves whirring softly at the joints. “Performance cancellation confirmed. I am recalibrating timelines and logistics. Current projections: three-day disruption minimum. Rescheduling the Aidonia show is not advisable.”

Cipher throws her head back with a dramatic groan. “That’s Garmentmaker-talk for ‘we’re doomed.’”

“No,” they reply, level as ever. “This outcome remains within probabilistic tolerance. However, if weather patterns continue to destabilize—”

“Please,” Tribbios cuts in, appearing out of nowhere in a flurry of fur-lined boots and a pristine umbrella, somehow dry. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

She’s already typing something on her phone, perfectly manicured fingers flying over the screen.

“Damage control’s in progress,” she informs the group without looking up. “The fan channels are getting a ‘safety-related cancellation’ memo. Public statement drops in thirty. We’re spinning this as ‘nature’s surprise encore.’”

“We’ll regroup at the hotel. No press. No obligations.”  Aglaea turns to all of you, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You can rehearse if you want, but keep the energy up.”

You nod. What else is there to do?

Cipher’s already trudging out into the snow, pulling Castorice along with her like a bundled-up comet. Mydei lingers just long enough to meet your eyes. He doesn’t say anything. Just a faint tilt of the head, like we roll with it, and then he’s gone, coat flaring in the wind. You’re left in the half-lit shell of what should have been a show.

Lights still rigged. Cables coiled like sleeping serpents. The smell of dust and cold and effort hanging in the air.

Outside, the snow keeps falling like it just doesn’t care.

Unlike in Dolos, the hotel they’d booked here was never meant to be more than a crash pad.

It was a place to sleep for two nights at most. But stranded like this, it feels like limbo—too warm, too quiet. The kind of place where the carpet’s always damp near the vending machines and the hallways seem longer than they should be.

You all end up in the lobby, waiting for someone to say what comes next. Cipher and Castorice are curled up on a sagging loveseat near the fireplace, playing some guessing game with bits of hotel stationery. Anaxa is pacing, thumb hovering near his phone like he’s willing it to ring. He hasn’t taken off his coat. Mydei sits alone, nursing a bitter coffee in a styrofoam cup. He's staring at the muted TV bolted into the corner of the ceiling, where some local news crawl gives conflicting snow advisories and a recipe for stew in the same breath.

Aglaea’s in the business center, barking into a call with Director Caenis. She sounds less sharp than usual, exhaustion creeping in through the control. Tribbios perches beside her with a tablet in one hand and her phone in the other, typing on both. She looks like she hasn't blinked in ten minutes.

You’re halfway through an energy bar when Garmentmaker appears beside you. 

They hold out their hand. You crane your head in confusion.

Then, their head tilts slightly, making a holographic display flicker into the air: a color-coded projection of reroute options, risk evaluations, and something labeled Emotional Volatility Index – Live Tracking. Everyone’s name is listed.

Yours is pulsing orange.

“I’m fine,” you say, too quickly.

Garmentmaker nods slowly, recording that lie like it’s data.

Outside, the snow has turned everything grayscale. Cars buried to their headlights. People nowhere. The entire world feels paused.

Eventually, Phainon emerges from wherever he vanished to and dumps a giant bag of chips on the coffee table like he just returned from war.

“Hotel vending machines are tragic,” he announces. “We’re gonna die here. Just so everyone knows.”

“We’re not going to die,” Aglaea snaps from the corner.

Tribbios mutters, “Plausible.”

You don’t know what time it is. The analog clock behind the front desk has been stuck at 8:47 for the past hour, and your phone still won’t load anything but a blank weather app and the useless blinking of “Searching…”

The group begins to disperse one by one. Mydei rises first, tipping his coffee cup into the trash with a hollow thud. Anaxa gives up his pacing and disappears toward the elevator. Cipher yawns theatrically, flopping over Castorice’s lap before dragging herself up, muttering something about brushing her teeth with melted snow.

You push off the wall to follow, sluggish and heavy, but then the lights go out.

All of them.

The lobby plunges into a blackness so complete you feel your own pulse loud in your ears. A second later, the backup generator kicks in, but only halfway. Emergency exit signs cast a dim, blood-colored glow. Somewhere in the walls, you hear the mechanical sigh of systems powering down.

Garmentmaker’s projection flickers, then vanishes entirely.

No glow. No signal. Not even a whine of static.

“…Okay,” Cipher says slowly, her voice a small balloon in the dark. “Did someone trip a breaker, or is this a full-on horror movie situation?”

Aglaea’s voice is sharp. “Tribbios?”

“I’ve got nothing,” Tribbios mutters, tapping her phone like it’s a stubborn wound. “No data, no Wi-Fi, no cell. I can’t even load my files.”

Anaxa reappears from the hallway, face lit only by the cracked screen of his phone. “Elevator’s down,” he says. “I was in it when it cut. Had to pry the doors open by hand.”

Mydei stands perfectly still, head tilted. “Landlines?”

“Dead,” Aglaea replies. “Everything’s down.”

For a long second, no one moves. The hotel, already off the grid due to the snowstorm, now feels like it's clinging to its last thread of normalcy. The faint hum of a hallway light on the other side of the building, the distant murmur of staff somewhere down the hall, are the only things keeping it from feeling like it’s entirely stuck in a different time.

“We’ll wait it out,” Aglaea says finally, voice thinner than usual. “The city will be aware of this. Emergency services should be on the way. This kind of thing doesn’t last forever.”

“And if they don’t?” Castorice asks softly, voice barely carrying across the room.

Garmentmaker boots back online. Their form glitches for a moment, but their voice is as calm as ever. “I will continue monitoring for reconnection. I recommend conserving device batteries. Environmental stability: acceptable. Emotional stability: trending volatile.”

“Thanks,” you mutter. “That’s so comforting.”

You all linger in the dying glow of the emergency lights. Cipher unpacks snacks again. Phainon breaks open a deck of cards and deals a hand that no one plays. Mydei ends up sitting cross-legged by the lobby fireplace, not bothering to relight it. You drift over eventually, unsure whether you're looking for warmth or company.

It doesn’t matter.

Because out here, cut off from the world, there’s nothing to do but wait.

You don’t know who makes the call. Maybe it’s Tribbios, or the quiet consensus of a group with nowhere else to go, but eventually, all of you end up in her presidential suite, shuffled in like mismatched luggage. She’d swept in earlier, declared it the only room with stable heating, and told everyone to give Aglaea some space in her own suite until the blackout passed.

“Stick together,” she said as she flutters of to the bed. “No signal means no updates. Might as well not spiral alone.”

So now you’re here.

Anaxa’s asleep, or pretending to be, curled up on a chaise right next to Phainon, who’s doing card readings with a regular deck. Castorice keeps checking her dead phone, like willing it to light up might break the storm. Garmentmaker takes exactly four steps in, scans the room, and announces, “This environment meets temporary habitation thresholds. I will activate standby mode,” before hibernating in silence.

Cipher’s the last to come in, lugging a battered duffel she refuses to explain and a small fold-out light rig she sets up without asking. Soon, strips of soft pink and deep violet spill across the ceiling—her version of mood lighting in the blackout.

“It’s not much,” she says, fiddling with the remote, “but it beats feeling like we’re stuck in a freezer.”

Phainon groans, “We are stuck in a freezer.”

“Yeah, but now it’s a sexy one,” Cipher replies.

You’re settled near the door, where the cold seeps in slower. There’s a blanket already tossed over the arm of the couch, and Mydei takes the other end without a word. He just folds himself down beside you and lets the quiet simmer. You barely register the weight of him beside you until he speaks, voice low enough that no one else will hear.

“That your lucky charm?” he asks, nodding faintly at your neck.

You glance down.

The guitar pick. Its design’s half-worn from years of idle fidgeting—edges smoothed by thumb and worry. You didn’t even think about putting it on this morning. It’s just there, like it always is.

“Sort of,” you murmur.

He doesn’t press. Just waits, the way he always does when he’s asking without asking. You slide the pick between your fingers, turning it over.

“My twin sister gave it to me. Her name’s Erin,” you say eventually. “We were eighteen. She swiped it from some dive bar we weren’t supposed to be in. Said it was fate.”

A pause. You trace the faded swirl on its surface.

“She used to say music finds you before you know how to ask for it. And if it doesn’t? You steal it.”

He huffs a breath through his nose—almost a laugh, almost not. “Your sister seems smarter than most people I know.”

“Heh... She probably was.”

The silence creeps in again. But it’s gentler this time. Softer around the edges. You glance over. Mydei’s not watching the others or the the storm’s onslaught through the windows. His amber eyes are on the pick between your fingers, like it’s holding a story he almost remembers.

“Erin was the one who got me into you guys, actually,” you admit. “Dragged me into your music like she’ll throw a fit if I didn’t. She used to blast Firestarter in her room every time she skipped school.”

“Is that why you played it for the live audition?” His voice dips, barely audible.

You smile a little, even though your chest aches. “In a way, I do lots of things because of her. She said Firestarter made her feel like she was allowed to take up space. I think that’s why it scared her so much when she got sick. Like... the world was shrinking again.”

Mydei looks away, jaw tight, as if he was quick to understand the implications of your words.

“She would’ve loved being stuck in this room,” you add, quietly. “Just to say she survived it.”

He shifts, pulling the blanket a little higher over your shared corner. You feel the movement more than you see it—the press of warmth, the ghost of an anchor.

“She sounds like someone who should’ve had more time.”

“Yeah.” You blink slowly. “She really should have.”

Mydei doesn’t say anything after that. Just shifts a little closer on the couch, the blanket tugged tighter between you. You feel the brush of his shoulder against yours, steady and solid. When your knees knock lightly together, he doesn’t pull away.

Neither do you.

The room hums with low conversation, the occasional rustle of fabric, the whispery static of the storm pressing against the windows. But the corner you share feels separate somehow.

At some point, your eyes start to slip shut. His breathing slows beside you.

When you wake later, you’re still tucked there—his arm resting just behind yours, the edge of the blanket pulled up to your chin. Mydei’s head leans slightly toward your shoulder, and for once, he doesn’t look like he’s carrying something too heavy to name.

Just asleep. Just here.

You let yourself close your eyes again.

The second day of the blackout dawns even colder than yesterday.

Everyone's wrung out. The novelty of sharing one suite has curdled into cabin fever. You're perched near the window for slivers of light, scribbling half-lyrics on hotel stationery, when the mood shifts.

Cipher’s pacing again, mumbling about battery packs. Her portable light rig flickers in silent protest. Pale pink washes the walls, the last of its charge bleeding out. This continues until the door opens with a gust of hallway chill and Aglaea walks in.

She’s holding a tray with stale croissants and half-melted butter packets from whatever’s left of the breakfast service downstairs. Her coat’s soaked to the elbows. She must’ve gone looking for updates—or just to get air.

“Still no signal,” she says, setting the tray down. “Reception says the lines are down past the ridge. Could be hours. Could be another day.”

Cipher perks up. “Did you find the backup packs?”

“You burned through them yesterday,” Aglaea replies dismissively. “They’re gone.”

“You mean we didn’t bother bringing spares.” Cipher’s tone sharpens. “Real prepared, boss.”

“We’re in a blackout, Cipher. If you’d rationed the rig time—”

“Oh, I forgot,” Cipher cuts in, too fast, too raw. “Accountability’s not really your thing.”

The temperature in the room drops.

Phainon and Anaxa straighten up from whatever board game they were occupied with. Castorice lowers the book she'd been pretending to read for the past half hour. Even Mydei, who you thought couldn’t be surprised by anything, turns his head sharply with a look that says, watch your mouth. 

You don’t understand what just happened. Only that something broke.

Aglaea folds her arms. “Do you want to say something to me?”

“Yeah. I do.”

Cipher steps forward, jaw tight, voice shaking. “What? We’re still pretending he never existed? That saying his name is going to hex the whole goddamn band? You made that rule, Aglaea. You told everyone not to talk about him. Especially around her.”

She jabs a finger toward you.

Your stomach drops.

You hadn’t known there was a rule—some pact of silence wrapped tight around a name that clearly mattered more than anyone’s been willing to admit. Aglaea doesn’t deny it. She just stands there, caught in Cipher’s fire, her expression unreadable in the flickering light.

“You were Heph’s manager.” The choked up noise she makes almost sounds like a laugh. “You were supposed to protect him. But when things got hard? You threw him under the bus and let him leave. Then you acted like nothing changed. Like we could all just carry the weight he left behind and no one had to talk about it.”

Aglaea doesn’t flinch. But her voice goes colder. “That’s not what happened, Cifera.”

“No? Then tell me. Tell me how pushing him away helped him and his family.”

...His family?

“Hephaestion wanted out,” Aglaea snaps. “He asked for space. I gave it to him.”

“Bullshit,” Cipher says, shaking her head. “He didn’t want space. He wanted someone to see he was drowning in the choice he was forced to make.”

“I did see it.”

“Then why didn’t you do anything?!”

Aglaea draws in a breath, but she never gets the words out. Because Mydei speaks first.

“Enough.”

It’s quiet, but it lands like a dropped weight. There’s no fire in his voice, only a low, anchored thing that cuts through the air with more finality than shouting ever could.

You glance over. He hasn’t moved much, still seated on the same couch you fell asleep on together, but the shift is there in the way his shoulders square, in the way his eyes don’t rise to meet either of them. His jaw is tight, breath steady and slow like he’s fighting to keep it that way.

“Don’t talk about him like that,” he mutters. “Don’t stand here and twist the memory of someone who can’t defend himself.”

Cipher turns slowly toward him, whatever fire was in her eyes flickering uncertain. Aglaea’s lips are pressed into a line so thin it’s barely there.

“Hephaestion mattered,” Mydei says, softer now. “More than whatever point you’re trying to score. So just do everyone a favor and knock it off.”

It’s not anger exactly. It’s not even grief. It’s something older than both—worn and buried and aching in silence. The kind of hurt that doesn’t ask to be witnessed, only respected. You watch Mydei, breath quiet in your throat, and think: this is what it means to carry someone after they’re gone.

The silence holds long enough that even Cipher doesn’t seem to know what to do with it.

And then the door opens again.

This time, it’s Tribbios.

She’s ushering in a poor room service attendant who looks entirely out of his depth, wheeling a cart stacked high with mismatched mugs and two carafes of something steaming. Tribbios, ever the diplomat, is mid-sentence as she strides in, cheerful and bright like she’s walking into a press meet instead of a battlefield.

“—figured we could all use something hot. They still had some coffee left downstairs, miracle of miracles, and I told them to throw in tea for anyone who wants to pretend they’re above caffeine—”

Then she stops.

The tension doesn’t greet her. It collides with her.

Cipher’s still standing, fists curled. Aglaea hasn’t moved. Mydei’s gone silent again, gaze somewhere far and hard. And you—blanketed and still, watching from your perch by the windows—can only manage a weak smile in her direction.

Tribbios takes it all in with a single glance. Her grin falters just slightly, but she recovers fast. She gives the attendant a grateful nod and a soft “Thank you, I’ll take it from here” before guiding the cart the rest of the way inside herself.

The scent of the coffee cuts through the quiet, rich and earthy. It should feel comforting, but it doesn’t. 

From the corner, a voice crackles back to life. Garmentmaker, still huddled in standby by the kitchenette, lifts their head just enough to comment in that unchanging mechanical lilt:

“Emotional volatility has spiked to 3.4 times the baseline. Minimizing interpersonal engagement is recommended until levels return to normal.”

Upon hearing the data, Tribbios' gaze sweeps across the room, frowning.

“Do I want to know what happened here?”

None of you dares to answer. You just sink a little deeper into your little corner, a blanket pulled tight around your shoulders, as you stare out past the window’s frostbitten edge.

You just want this damn storm to end.

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[starryylies]

This is my very first request on a blog, so here it goes! I’d love to hear your thoughts and opinions about Simon with a reader who has lots of siblings (both older and younger) or perhaps is an elementary school teacher. I teach elementary kids myself, and it would mean the world to me if you could explore this idea. If it’s not something you can do, that’s totally okay too! Wishing you an amazing day, lovie! <33

The coolest ‘solder’ Simon riley

Si with an s/o who’s an elementary school teacher

AAAAA I’m so honoured for that!! 😭😭 no joke like seriously thank uuuu. Thank u sm for the req and I hope u like it 🩷🩷

And I made the header and drawing myself, I wrote and drew this during a long car drive so pls don’t judge 😭😭

He found out about your job the day he came over to your house, he was taken aback by the amount of ‘best teacher’ and ‘favourite maam’ cards you had.

While you made him a cuppa he lurked in your living room looking at all the messy drawings you had framed on your walls.

It made him feel a stinging ache in his heart because it reminded him of the drawings his nephew Joseph gave him.

As you told him about how you thought of each student as your own, he was enamoured

He adored the fact that you took your student’s well-being and artwork so seriously.

He’s the type of boyfriend/husband who listens to your student’s daily shenanigans in the classroom intently.

He also remembers all your students’ name’s, their likes and dislikes, which ones are mischievous and which ones are quiet

When you asked him to come at your school and give a small presentation to your students for career day so they can see a soldier- he was very reluctant but with loads of pleading and kisses, he agreed.

The second he entered the classroom, the noise and chatter all fell silent.

The kids were in awe of the big 6’2 man wearing a black vest that said ‘SAS’ and a skull baklava.

As Simon told your students about his job and how he gets to fight ‘bad guys’, a few kids started clapping at every opportunity they got.

After the presentation, all the kids raised their hands, asking all sorts of questions ranging from- have you ever killed anyone? Do you use guns?? Can you do a backflip…?

Simon answered all the questions trying his best to make it PG and well, not violent.

After the session ended a few kids came up to him and gave him a ‘coolest solder’ card and asked him to come back again. (I did the misspelling purposely cuz as a kid I lost marks for spelling soldier incorrectly)

It’s safe to say he will come back again and he will bring riley too :))

[orangez3st]

How Delta Squad boys confess their feelings for you

Delta Squad x GN!Reader

This one's in a different format than usual—it's in bullet points! Respect to the people who are more talented in writing bullets points/headcanons style bcs it's more difficult than I thought 🤝🏼 (as you can tell this is a little messy)

Enjoy this one, vode! 💛

Also this is for the talented @i-willstealyourtoes 🫶🏼

For @deltasquadweek | Alt. Prompt Day 7: "I Love You."

Masterlist | Delta Squad (in-header image)

Boss

You and Boss are running on a really casual relationship.

Everything's just been really nice in your own pace, and you don't want to pressure him into anything he's not ready for yet.

It's like you're the literal embodiment of patience and he loves you for it, he can't ever have enough thanking you.

You know what this relationship eventually entails—because honestly, he's just a soldier of the Republic, and both of you know well what that means.

And you never seem to mind that, every time you two meet to catch up you always have that smile and your eyes are sparkling at all times.

It'd be cruel, but Boss is a leader; he worries about every kind of scenario and he has to be ready for it, including the ones that scream every kind of ‘what if?’ in the back of his mind.

“You know that I could die out there, right?” he then asks you.

“I know,” you say with a smile, “But I don't want you to go out there with that kind of mindset, Boss.”

It's like his own nature of being an expendable soldier gnaws at his conscience, enough to make him realize that maybe he's not ready to die at all.

“Careful,” Fixer warns him, not hostile, but reminding him of what's drilled into them; that attachment could be weakness. In the corner, Sev is just shrugging and Scorch is examining his fingernails.

Boss keeps that in mind.

But he can't keep it anymore (his brothers aren't stopping him anyway).

He decides he's not going to die any time soon, and for the sake of fairness, he vows to be a better soldier, covering his squad more often on the field so no one's dying in the future.

And so he could come back home to you.

This is all happening inside his mind, so when he comes up to your door before the shuttle that’d take him to deployment leaves, you're surprised that he's there as he pulls you into his chest.

Your forehead bonks against the plastoid armor but you don't mind, laughing it off and your arms snaking around his huge frame upon instinct.

“Listen, cyare.” He can't be long, but he's using all his time by looking into your eyes, and you swear you can see the stars in the dark honey desert color of his own. “Can I make a promise to you?’

“I… Of course. What is it?”

“I’ll try. I promise I'll try,” Boss says, gently taking your hands in his gloved ones. “I’ll try not to die out there. I'll always make it home to you. Come back for you. I'd understand if that's some lesser thing for you to worry about because I'm the best kind of cannon fodder, but… I just want you to know. Think about it, perhaps. It should be something that you can’t possibly ignore when you're dating someone like me. I promise. You'll always have me back with you mission after mission. Okay?”

There's sincerity in his words. You've formed your own opinion about this matter some time ago, but Boss' promise to you scrambles what you've got, what once was standing firm in your grasp as a belief now bends to his promise—his declaration—to you.

“Okay,” you nod, eyes stinging with tears that obviously aren't out of misery. Your smile is shaky. “I heard you.”

Boss sighs softly. “Good.” The moment he hugs you tight, his armored arms wrapping around your form just as your limbs around his neck… everything becomes so clear to you like some divine revelation. You really don't want to lose him.

“Can't promise that I won't come back without scars, though,” he mutters close to your ear.

“That's fine,” you huff a laugh, pressing a kiss to his hair above his ear. “Just as long as you're alive. I'll be waiting until you're back home safe.”

Home. Safe.

Yes, that sounds about right. That sounds like he deserves that. Comfort. Quiet moments. Hugs, just like this. Everything that you've got to offer to each other in these trying times; your love.

Fixer 

Everyone knows Fixer worships regulations.

I mean, he calls his brothers by their numbers over the comms during active ops because a) as it should be and b) it's their real name.

But hey, he's melted a long time ago and resorted to call them by their nicknames when there's no officers around that he needs to worry about.

So yeah, everyone knows that, and so are you.

And you? You're the worst match ever for Fixer.

You break rules for fun, but enough not to cause permanent harm, and really, it's not big stuff like vandalism or something else that would end your day in Republic penitentiary, but still.

They're all harmless. Hiding one's jacket. Changing their ringtones. Talking to someone long enough while they're dipping their cookies so it would fall off. Turning off the light while someone's in the bathroom.

Fixer pretends not to acknowledge whatever the hell you've been doing because he's been trying to ignore that troublemaker trait of you so much (how did he end up with you?).

(Honestly, good question. No one knows.)

“Cyare, would you please stop?”

“That should violate about 28 rules, cyare.”

“No one's ever done that because they have brains and you don't.”

Oh he loves to bully you alright, but 100% out of affection. He really would hide a body for you if you've ever accidentally killed someone.

Also no, you don't know what cyare means. It sounds like a language he'd picked up, or taught

Fixer calls you that only because he doesn't know what to call you besides your name.

It just… came out.

You've tried to ask Scorch what it means but all he did was giggling and the next thing you know he was practically gossipping with Sev.

It has to mean something… mean.

Whatever it is, it's consuming your thoughts in the worst ways. They're making fun out of you. So one day when you're being particularly sulky and salty to everyone you know, Fixer's concerns take the best of him and steps in to inquire about your behavior.

“Cyare, wanna tell me what's wrong?”

“Don't call me that!” you snap.

Fixer’s brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean,” you mock, “What I meant is everybody and I mean everybody in your kriffing squad seems to make fun of me.” You roughly jab a finger into his chest. “Including you.”

“Make fun of you?”

“Are you deaf or something?”

“No,” he answers firmly, his teeth gritting. You don't even notice that his fists are clenching. “Tell me who made fun of you. What did they do?”

“It’s Scorch.” You don't waste time. Your eyes sting from unshed tears and when you wipe them with the back of your hand it's like popping water balloons—they stream down your face. “I just asked about that word you say often and he just laughed in my face like he's won candies or something.”

It's quiet for a while and you both stand there, Fixer's thoughts are growing louder. “What word?”

“One that you use to call me.”

He tilts his head. “‘Cyare’?”

You nod weakly, your tears still spilling out.

There's quiet, and Fixer bites his tongue to prevent a snort. Then he exhales instead, pulling himself together not to laugh and make worse of your overthinking.

“That chakaar,” you hear him mutter, stepping closer into your space and tenderly pulling you into his chest, as if you're a fragile piece of vase. “He could've answered it and you wouldn't have to shed dumb tears like this.”

And just like that you're broken. You're confused as kark that you're caught between snapping yet again, your mouth parted, and your hands firm on his chest to angrily push him away.

“What?” is all you can manage.

“It means…” Fixer’s gaze drift away from you, but you can see his neck and cheeks darkening with color. “It means darling. Beloved.”

“....Oh…”

“Yeah,” Fixer dismisses, looking rather shy with his eyes constantly glancing away from you as the colors in his cheeks make him look even more flushed. “So please don't fuss over it?”

“Say it,” you challenge.

“Say what?”

“The word.”

“I adore you.”

“No, I mean not—hhhggggghh…” You're cut off as Fixer squeezes you so tightly that your lungs probably shrink. You kick his foot.

Yeah. You know what he means. He'll come around with the balls to actually say it.

Scorch

You're not the first to discover that Scorch loves to talk.

And I mean, that man loves to talk.

He's always the first to engage in a conversation as if a dictionary of conversation starters was programmed into him when he'd been in the tube.

He's probably the most expressive person you've ever met and you adore him dearly for it.

Especially when he just leans on the kitchen counter, chin in palm, looking at you with the biggest heart eyes ever.

You know he's just teasing.

He always makes time to come by your home and stay over.

And you as a host are always ready to cook some hearty meal for him—when you learned the fact that they don't eat anything but protein sludge and plain carbohydrate blocks you couldn't take it.

Scorch doesn't want to make you fuss all over just for him, but you insist.

One day he's thinking about it. Does that mean something?

He knows he's been hiding his feelings for a bit too long—even Boss sternly reprimanded him once when Scorch was unable to focus during an op.

He's been thinking about you.

And now as he eats dinner with you, he's lost in his own thoughts and good food.

And by the time dessert comes in, he melts entirely at your great efforts to make him comfortable.

As he enjoys dessert he doesn't even realize that he says, “You know I love you, right?”

It hits you like a damn speeder that you lock gaze with him, Scorch is seemingly as surprised as you are.

“Y-you do?”

“I—I mean,” Scorch deflects, a wave of heat sliding into his cheeks. “I was… talking to the cheesecake.”

That was TERRIBLE.

To be fair it's a really great strawberry cheesecake.

“Oh,” you sulk, forcing a smile to your lips as you pick up your fork again, “Thought I misheard.”

If only you could hear Scorch's heart breaking in that exact moment.

“No, you didn't mishear,” Scorch hurriedly says. He takes your hand without thinking, and the heat in his stomach is bubbling over as he looks into your eyes. “It's um… You know that I've liked you for a really long time, right?”

You nod. “Yeah, and it shows.” Smiling a bit, you lace your fingers with his. “Consistently.”

“Yeah,” he huffs a chuckle. “And now I just really really really like you and everything you've done for me. I know it's just dinner but all this… it means a lot to me.”

Before you can say anything, he scoots his chair closer to you. It scrapes across the floor noisily in the midst of the silence of your home. He plops back down, his thigh touching yours.

“One question though,” Scorch cheekily says, “Did you put love potion in this thing?”

Your giggles are everything to him. “What for?”

“Uh-huh, that's right,” he grins widely, gently cupping your face. “You don't need to put love potion inside your finely-cooked dinner. I'm already in love with you.”

Scorch’s eyes map all over your face, his warm brown eyes glimmering in the romantic candlelight. “You have a strawberry jam in the corner of your mouth, though.”

“No I don't,” you chuckle.

“Mm, wanna prove it? If I kiss you right here,” he boops the spot, “And I taste strawberry jam, you owe me an actual kiss.”

“And if you're wrong?”

“I still get that kiss. I'm trying to woo you here, baby. Wanna appreciate my efforts?”

Eventually he throws the strawberry jam motive out of the airlock and places a cheeky yet long-awaited kiss on your lips. You can feel his smile, even.

Sev

Your relationship with Sev started quite strangely.

The two of you met in some rundown speakeasy in the lower levels of Coruscant, and both claim the ale that everybody says taste like gundark piss your favorite.

And then the talk spans to your favorite Huttese heavy metal band—his favorite too.

Your favorite limmie team—which is also his favorite (he also mentioned that he often played limmie when he was a cadet and he was a mean forward).

There's too many similarities between you already.

Okay well yes, besides breathing gore thriller holofilms, you have nothing else to compare against his dark sadistic humor.

But there's this new thriller movie you really wanna see already in theaters and instinctively, you ask Sev if he's down.

Naturally, with the duties of a soldier and the oftentimes-unexpected demands that entails, he turned down your offer.

You withdraw. Yeah, it was silly anyway.

But at least he insisted walking you home afterward.

Sev could see your disappointment. Days later it's gnawing at him, and Scorch that cheeky bastard notices.

“So you wanna tell me what's going on or would you like me to shove Fixer to have a go at you?”

“Don't drag me into this,” Fixer sighs from the other side of the room.

Scorch grins. “No, you said you wanted to know, so I'm extracting the intel straight from the source.”

“I didn't say that.”

Scorch turns back to Sev. “Now tell us or I'm betting your entire tenday stipend if Fixer pins you down next spar. We'll split, Fix. Don't worry.”

“Fine. I'm in.”

Sev grunts, already losing it. “Should I feel guilty for rejecting a date?”

“You fekking what?” Boss pipes in, this time.

Scorch claps loudly. “Alright vode, it's time for flash training for our psycho brother here, welcome to Dating 101. Guest lecturer Null-7 isn't available at the moment so you should feel lucky, Oh-Seven.”

He gave it all out.

Your shared favorites, things you have in common, stories traded over ales and a few things stronger—both of you were at that bar for five hours just talking.

Sev isn't sure if Scorch's been drilling the term ‘love at first sight’ too often and too much that it's eating him alive, but he's sure that's how he feels about you.

So he comms you, asking if you’ve watched that movie yet.

“Actually, yeah,” you answer, hope surging inside your chest. “But um, I've got loads of thriller holos, if you wanna come by. We could have a movie night, if you're up for it.”

By the time you've finished talking, Scorch smacks him in the back a couple of times, Boss pushes him towards the door, and Fixer is already tossing Sev his go bag.

That night, two days before his leave ends, Sev is settled with you on your couch, the glow from the holoscreen reflecting on your faces.

You notice Sev is sitting so stiff, so you nudge his elbow asking if he's okay.

He looks at you longer than he should—he’d be lying if he's not feeling everything so intensely all at once, especially when you're nearly pressed up against his side.

He’s attentive. He knows it's not casual. It's intentional from you. You want to be close to him, but without a little booze encouragement, he isn't sure how to proceed.

Then he remembers what Scorch said and decides to execute (with a little alteration).

Sev moves his arm up, but he's not looking at you (he tries to cover his blushing cheeks, okay, give him time).

You take his invitation and lean heavily against him to absorb his warmth.

Sev smells like fresh aftershave and something else (it's blaster cleaning solution) tried to be covered by modest convenience store perfume.

You commit that scent to memory and snuggle even closer to him. The tip of your finger is tracing the fabric lining on his shirt, and soon your focus is no longer on the movie.

“Do you let anyone you just met be this close?” you ask, curious about his change of mind.

“No,” Sev replies firmly.

“Then what changes?”

Sev takes a deep breath. “Couldn't stop thinking about you,” he mumbles lowly into your hair, movie be damned. “Felt bad for turning down when you asked. Truth to be told, it felt like I'm leaving someone behind in a crossfire.”

“But…” You raise your head to meet his intense gaze. “We've only just met.”

“Yeah,” Sev says carefully, “But we have a lot in common, it feels like I've known you a long time, too.”

You don't hesitate—you raise further to cup the side of his face and pull him down so you can press your lips against his. Sev's reflex kicks in rapidly, kissing you as well while grabbing you closer to his body.

It isn't said, but whatever it is, whatever you're feeling; it's blossoming, too.

Delta Squad Taglist (lmk to join!): @mutilatemyheart @alor-ika @hellfiresky @leiopython-rat

Dividers by yours truly!

[baby-dr1ver]

kinktober

sleepy/morning sex

charles x reader, carlos x reader

warnings: female!reqder, breeding kink, all around smut

CS55:

Carlos is tired, a triple header is grueling. Especially when he hasn’t seen you in a month.

He brings his suitcase into your room quietly, trying not to wake you in the late hours of the night. You looked so peaceful cuddled up to his pillow, hair thrown everywhere, blanket half off and-oh. N-no bottoms on, since when did you sleep naked? 

He stalked over to the bed, stripping down to his boxers on the way. He could feel his body wanting to shut down and sleep, but his brain wanted to wake you up and fuck you softly. The latter won and he shook you gently. 

“Bebita? Wake up, I’m home.” He whispered in your ear. You shuffled around for a minute but settled back in for sleep. Carlos decided to take an alternative route. He pushed you so you laid on your back and widened your legs so he could fit. He crawled in between your legs and laid so his torso touched yours and he could lay his head against your chest. The feeling of his hair made you start to wake up, your unconscious hand reached out and pushed his head away. “Los?” You asked with your eyes closed and fingers tangled in his hair. He lit up at the sight of you waking up. “Hi baby, missed you.” He let his hand wander past your tummy, over your bare mound, and felt how wet you were. 

“Fuck..whats got you so wet hm?” You whined and tugged on his hair. “Been so long, jus wanted to mmm.” Your eyes fluttered closed as Carlos started to rub your swollen clit. The feeling of your hips slowly pushing against his hand, had him lazily rubbing his cock along the mattress. 

“Amor need to….need to be inside please” You let out a shuddering breathe and nodded. “I’m all yours baby.” The next thing you knew, Carlos had his boxers down his legs and entered you in one swift motion. You held onto the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss. It was sweet and gentle just like the pace he had set. Everything was moving in slow motion, you limbs were heavy and you could tell you both were close to finishing. 

He kept lazily thrusting in and out of you when he brought your hand down to play with your clit. “C’mon amor, make yourself cum.” You moaned his name as you started to circle your button, trying ti keep in time with the movement of his hips. 

It all felt like to much, Carlos moans in your ear, the weight of his body against you, how warm he was inside you. What pushed you over the edge was the way Carlos had pulled your leg over his hip, causing him to drive into you deeper. 

“Los! F-fuck!” You moaned and raked your nails up his back as you came. The stinging of your nails against his skin caused him to follow right after. 

After he cleaned you up, he tucked you back into bed and drifted off with you. 

CL16:

Waking up next to the love of your life was a dream. Watching the sun illuminate there precious features you loved so much, the way the sheets looked against their skin, how comfortable they were in your presence. It was indescribable. 

That’s how Charles felt looking at you next to him. The glow of your sin, how soft you felt, your sharp nose and cheek bones. He knew the second you opened your eyes, they would sparkle against the sunlight. If this si what his future looked like, he was very much okay with that. 

He knew you were waking up by the way your breath changed, and your eyelids fluttered open. “Ma puce, good morning.” You smiled and reached for his hand, bringing it up to your face to nuzzle against. 

“Always a good morning when I see you.” Charles blushes and slightly pinched your cheek. He watched as you kiss across his palm and up his fingers, seeing the mischief behind your eyes. “Baby….”

“Happy Anniversary bubs.” Ah, so thats why. It had slipped Charles mind this morning about the special day. Your anniversary was sacred to the both of you. No matter where you guys were, on two different continents, racing, whatever, you never failed to celebrate. “Happy Anniversary amor, can’t believe we’ve been married for two years.” He really couldn’t believe it. 2 years with the person he trusted most, the person he wanted to grow old with, have kids and grandkids with. A conversation they had yet to have might I add. One that would get Charles hard as a rock. He’d always dreamed of being a dad, of having a kid to run home to, or to see at a race covered in ferrari gear. But, it was your body and he would always respect your decision. 

“Can’t believe you’ve put up with my stubborn ass for so long. Hopefully our kids won’t inherit that.”  Was she reading his mind? Charles looked down at the woman with an unreadable expression. “Cha? I’m-I’m sorry should I have not said that?” 

He shook his head and cupped your cheeks. “No! No no mon poussin, I just..we’ve never had this talk before.” 

She sighed, “It’s been your dream to be a dad since..well forever and I want to make that come true.” Charles heart just about melted at that statement. “I don’t want you to do it just because I’ve always wanted to have kids. I want it to be your dream too.”

She leaned into my hands and looked into my eyes. “It always has been, I just wanted us to be ready to start a family. Your at a good place with your career and we feel stable so..maybe it’s time?” She scoots closer so her body is pressed to his and he’s sure she can feel how hard he’s become. “Yeah? You think so?” Charles asked coily as he ran his hands down her body to grip her hips. 

“Yeah I do. So, you gonna fuck a baby in me Cha?” Oh.Fuck. 

He moves forward and kisses you like your gonna disappear. His mouth devoured yours and demanded your lips part so he could slip is tongue in. “Fuck amor, can’t wait to cum in you, see you grow with life.” He said as he started pulling at your clothes. Not that there was much to pull off. You always slept in panties and his shirt, while he just slept in boxers. Once he has your shirt off, Charles immediately goes for your breast while his free hand sneaks down to your pussy. He starts a minor prep before he fucks you. Charles wasn’t the longest but he made up for it in girth. You couldn’t fit your hold hand around him when getting him off and needed a little extra help before he was in you. 

“Cha..need your fingers, need them to stretch me out.” You moaned as he cupped your mound in one hand. He watched your face as he entered two fingers swiftly, and didn’t let up. Laying on your side, you only really had access to his neck which was his mistake. You bit and licked at his neck to distract you from cumming. You knew it was his weakness, his neck was sensitive and it was your way of slowing him down. 

“No bebe, don’t do this. Theres no slowing me down right now.” He pulled his fingers out of you and drug your leg over his hip. This opened you up a little more, allowing him to slot inbetween your legs. You could feel his cock drag in between your legs, the tip brushing through your folds and letting your essence drip onto him. Charles has never been in you bare. You two were always safe, especially since you weren’t on any sort of birth control, it was risky to even think about. 

But now that the outcome of this would be something you both wanted, he didn’t hold back. With a nod of your head, he sets off. The wind was knocked out of you with every thrust he made. You weren’t expecting him to take such a fast approach. 

“My god puce, fuck this is heavenly.” he stopped for a second to feel just how tight and warm you actually were. No layer separating your skin, just your gummy walls surrounding him and sending him to an early grave. 

Charles let out a string of french curses, a sign he was already close. “Cha, amor, put a baby in me. God I wanna be so full fo you, watch you drip out of me please baby I need it.” You took his hand and pressed it into the bulge in your tummy. “I know bebe, almost there.” he said almost out of breath. He pressed down harder on your stomach, making you feel every small ridge on his cock, and making him hit your g spot. “Can’t wait to watch your belly grow, my baby, our baby. Gonna look so pretty with your tits swollen and barely be able to put on your shoes-fuck.” Charles hisp started to stutter, and your moans got louder. He pushed his face into your neck to keep himself together, he smelled you. All of you. Your perfume, your body wash, your pussy. He couldn’t wait for your smell to change, he couldn’t wait for you to change. 

You let out a few more ‘uh uh’s’ before your body tremble as you came. You tugged on his hair so he could look at you. “C’mon amor, cum for me-cum in me, please.” With her words and the way she tugged on his hair, he shot his cum inside her with a shout. It was surreal. Charles could feel their cum mixing together, as he kept it all inside her, determining to make it stick. 

“You know, it might not take the first time.” She was panting as she looked down at the damage. There she goes reading his mind again. 

‘Yeah but, you can’t be to careful right?” 

A/N: hey everyone! I know some people wanted Lando in this but, I’m gonna combine the sleepy sex with shower sex! So it’ll happen i swear. Mwah, love you all <3

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Naughty Girl » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: Bucky punishes you for sending him dirty texts while he’s at work.

Warnings: Smut (18+), language, dirty texts, dirty talk, kissing, hickeys, fingering, male masturbation, unprotected sex, rough sex, daddy kink, praise kink, breeding kink, choking, degrading, handcuffs, sex toys, Bucky’s dog tags, name calling (slut, whore), aftercare, use of pet names

Written on my phone. I’m sorry for any kind of mistakes.

Header made by @buckys-wintersoldier

GIF IS NOT MINE! Credit goes to the creators. I found this one on Pinterest.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!🔞

Bucky pulled his phone out of his pocket when it vibrated. He smiles widely when he sees a text from you.

Doll🩷: I want you

Bucky: I’m in a meeting, doll

Bucky shut his phone off and continued to listen to the rest of the meeting. His phone vibrated again. He opened the message to see a picture of you completely naked with your legs spread in front of a full body mirror the two of you just bought, making his eyes go wide. Bucky shifted in his seat, feeling his cock get hard. He completely forgot he was in a meeting. His mind wandered elsewhere. Like how he was going to punish you when he gets home from work.

“You ok, Buck?” Steve asks.

“Uh huh, yea.” Bucky says, clearing his throat.

Bucky shut his phone off and put it back in his pocket. When the meeting was over, Bucky left the Avengers Compound and raced home, zooming through traffic on his motorcycle. Bucky slammed the door to yours and his apartment, walking straight to yours and his shared bedroom in search of you. He found you lying on the bed completely naked.

“Care to explain why you sent me a naked picture of yourself while I was in a meeting, babydoll?” Bucky asks, taking his jacket off and threw it somewhere in the bedroom.

“I was horny, daddy.” You answered. “I still am.” You say.

“Tell me, babydoll…” He approaches the bed. “Did you touch yourself?” He asks.

“Mhmm yes.” You hummed.

“How many times did you cum?” He asks.

“Two times.” You tell him.

Bucky licks his lips and sat down on the bed. He practically manhandled you to get you to lay across his lap.

“Since you decided to act like a slut when I wasn’t home, I’m going to treat you like one.” Bucky says.

His right hand rubbed across your ass cheeks before he landed a harsh smack on it, making you moan. He landed another smack on your ass that was harsher than the first one. Bucky spanked you eighteen more times. Your pussy was dripping by the time he was done spanking you. Your ass was red as a cherry with his hand print on it.

“Lay on your back.” He orders.

You listened and laid down on the bed, hissing when the sheets came in contact with your stinging skin on your ass. You watched as Bucky went in the closet and came out with a box. Your eyes widen. You know that box. It’s the box you and Bucky keep sex toys in. Bucky put the box on the nightstand and pulled a pair of handcuffs out of it.

“Arms above your head.” He instructs.

You put your arms above your head and Bucky handcuffed them to the bed frame. He tied your legs to the bed frame with silk ties. Bucky’s right hand disappeared between your legs, his fingers rubbing your pussy and spreading your wetness around. Your breath hitched in your throat when you seen him pick up a vibrator from the box. It’s the one that can make you cum in seconds. Bucky rubbed it in between your folds, covering it in your wetness before turning it on a low level and held it against your clit, making you squeak.

“Ah fuck, daddy!” You moaned.

Bucky loves watching you fall apart with the vibrator. You begging for him to fuck you with his fingers, tongue, or cock is like music to his ears. He watched intensely as your chest rose and fell, pants and moans of his name leaving your lips. His metal hand went to your breasts, giving one of them a squeeze before pinching your nipple. Bucky repeated the same actions on your other breast. Your pussy clenched around at the feeling. He turned the vibrator up to a higher setting causing you to moan loudly. His metal hand caressed your cheek, his metal thumb rubbing across your bottom lip. You parted your lips just enough for him to slide his thumb in your mouth. You wrapped your lips around his thumb and sucked on it, your tongue swirling around it like it were his cock while holding eye contact with him. A growl left Bucky’s lips as he watched you. Bucky put the vibrator on the highest setting. You arched your back and threw your head back against the pillow in pleasure. Your orgasm was building up quickly. You were right on the edge. It felt like a tidal wave was about to come crashing down on you.

“Oh fuck…” You whimpered. “Can I- ah fuck! Can I please cum daddy?” You asked desperately.

“Cum.” Is all he says.

A loud moan left your lips as you came hard, soaking the sheets beneath you and the vibrator. Bucky nearly came in his pants at the sight of you squirting. He shut the vibrator off and put it on the nightstand, making you whine. That earned you a smack on your thigh.

“Quit your fucking whining or I’ll give you something to whine about.” Bucky says.

You watched with hungry eyes as Bucky stripped off his clothes. Your eyes immediately looked down at his cock, hard and leaking with precum.

“My eyes are up here, doll.” He says, snapping his fingers in your face.

Bucky got on the bed in between your spread legs. You looked at him as he wrapped his right hand around his cock. He thumb swiped over his tip, using his precum as a lubricant. You watched with hungry eyes as he began pumping his cock. You licked your lips, wanting nothing more than to suck his cock. You whined and tugged on the restraints, making Bucky chuckle.

“You did this to yourself, babydoll.” Bucky tells you. “You shouldn’t have been acting like a little whore. Now you have to watch daddy play with his cock.” He says.

“But daddy…” You whined.

“What did I say about whining?” He asks.

“Quit whining or you’ll give me something to whine about.” You answered.

Your eyes stayed glued to his cock as he began jerking himself off. Tingles went through your body when moans fell from his lips.

“You could be putting that pretty little mouth of yours to good use, but it’s too bad you can’t.” He says tauntingly.

Your breathing hitched in your throat as his hand moved faster. Your pussy was wet with slick as you watched his hand move up and down on his cock. Precum leaked down his cock. He used it as a lubricant. You were so focused on his cock that you didn’t even realize that you were drooling.

“Hungry for daddy’s cock, doll face?” Bucky asks.

“I’m always hungry for your fat cock, daddy.” You say.

“Too bad you’re not getting it yet.” He chuckles, making you pout.

You desperately wanted to rub your thighs together for some kind of relief, but you couldn’t, due to the restraints. Bucky looks so incredibly hot. His muscles flexed as pleasure took over his body.

“You look so hot, daddy.” You say, bitting your bottom lip.

“Yea?” He rasps, moving his hand faster.

“Mmm.” You hummed. “So fucking hot.” You say more in a moan.

“I know what you’re doing, doll and it’s not going to work.” He says.

You huffed and pouted as you continued to watch him jerk off. His hand lost rhyme due to his orgasm building up, but regained it.

“You want daddy’s cum, babydoll?” Bucky asks, panting.

“Yes please! Give me your cum, daddy!” You say a little too desperately.

Bucky chuckles at your desperateness. He moved closer to you. His hand moved faster on his cock. Soon enough, his cum landed on your stomach and chest. You moaned at the warm feeling of it. Bucky sat back on his knees to catch his breath for a moment.

“Can you uncuff and untie me now?” You asked, tugging on the restraints.

“No.” Bucky says.

“But I’ve been a good girl for you daddy.” You say with a pout.

“That’s true, but I’m not done with you yet, babydoll.” He says.

Bucky rubbed his hands on your inner thighs, dangerously close to your pussy. He rubbed his cock in between your wet folds, covering it in your slick before tapping his tip on your clit a few minutes, making your hips jolt up at the sensation. He lined his cock at your tight entrance and slid it inside of you in one hard thrust, making you gasp.

“God damn, you’re fucking tight.” Bucky groans, tilting his back a little.

He pulled almost all the way out, only leaving his tip inside of you before thrusting back inside of you hard. You tugged on the handcuffs and threw your head back in pleasure. Bucky’s hands grasped your hips tightly as he fucked into you. Loud moans and screams left your lips. It was like music to Bucky’s ears. Bucky’s eyes wandered your body, stopping at your breast and watched as they bounced every time he thrusted into you.

“Tell me again, babydoll…” Bucky starts. “Why did you send me that naughty picture of you while I was in a meeting?” He asks.

“I wanted you so fucking bad, daddy.” You say more in a whine.

“You’re getting me now, doll face.” He says, his voice a little deeper than normal.

His vibranium hand left your hip, placing it on the headboard above your head. His dog tags dangled in your face. You desperately wanted to grab the chain of his dog tags and give him a filthy kiss. Your eyes wandered further down his perfectly sculpted body, watching as his abs flexed every time he thrusted into you. The perfectly trimmed hair at the base of his cock rubbed against your clit, stimulating it.

“Checking out daddy?” Bucky smirks.

“Mmm.” You moaned.

Your lips parted, a loud moan leaving them when his cock hit your sweet spot. You arched your back in pleasure, tugging on the handcuffs and pressing your chest upwards towards his face. Bucky took the opportunity to mark up your breasts with hickeys. His mouth was occupied on your left breast while his right hand found its place on your left one, squeezing it and pinching your nipple. A gasp left your lips when his teeth grazed your nipple. A tingling sensation shot through your body and your cunt squeezed around his cock at the feeling. He repeated his actions on your other breast, getting the same reaction from you.

Bucky stopped thrusting and pulled out momentarily to untie your ankles from the bed frame. A squeak left your lips when he flipped you over onto your stomach, the chain of the handcuffs twisting. He lifted your hips, angling your ass towards him. He placed his metal hand on the top of your back and pushed the top of your body down against the bed, making you stick your ass out more. He nudged his thigh between yours to spread your legs apart. You moaned when his thigh came in contact with your wet cunt.

“You look so much better in this position.” Bucky says, his hands rubbing your red and sore ass cheeks and gave them a squeeze, the coolness of his vibranium hand soothed the stinging of your ass.

“But I want to look at you while you’re fucking me, daddy.” You say with a pout, looking over your shoulder to look at him.

“You shouldn’t have a naughty girl and sent me a dirty picture of yourself while I was at work.” He says.

Bucky lined his cock at your tight entrance. He circled his tip around your entrance to tease you, making you whine which earned you a smack on your ass.

“How many times do I have to tell you quit fucking whine?” Bucky asks.

“Sorry, daddy.” You mumbled.

Bucky thrusted his cock inside of you in a harsh thrust, making you gasp. His thrusts were more harder and faster than when you were in the first position. His hands have a bruising grip on your hips.

“You look so breedable like this.” He says, taking in the sight in front of him.

“Breed me, daddy.” You blurted out in a moan.

Him hearing those words come out of your mouth made him go feral. The image of you pregnant with his child is the only thing in his mind at the moment.

“I’ll fucking breed you real good, babydoll.” His voice lower than normal. “Everyone will know who you belong to when they see you pregnant with my child.” He says, almost a growl.

His thrust sped up. The sound of skin slapping and the smell of sex filled the bedroom. His cock hitting your sweet spot perfectly with each thrust. Your legs began trembling as your orgasm started to build up. It felt like a tidal wave was about to come crashing down on you.

“Can I- fuck! Can I please cum, daddy?” You asked, begging. “I’ve been a good girl.” You say.

“Cum for me, doll.” He says.

Bucky’s vibranium hand left your hip and reached around your front, blindly finding your clit and began rubbing it in fast circles. A loud moan left your lips as you came hard, your cum soaking your thighs and his cock. Bucky gave your clit a particularly rough run before focusing on his own orgasm which was coming fast. His thrust became sloppy before he regained his pace. A moan left Bucky’s lips as he came inside of you, painting your walls. His thrusts came to a slow stop. He slowly pulled out and sat back on his knees to catch his breath. His eyes watched as his cum dripped out of your pussy. His fingers on his right hand scoop it up and pushed it back inside of you. You moaned and squirmed at the feeling.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, doll face.” Bucky says, uncuffing your wrists that are now red.

“Don’t wanna move.” You mumbled with a pout.

“I’ll carry you.” He says softly.

Bucky picked you up bridal style and carried you to the bathroom. He ran you a warm bath and helped clean you up before cleaning himself up. When you two were done in the bath, he dried you off and carried you back to the bedroom and laid you down on the bed after giving you one of his shirts to wear to bed. He got in bed next to you and wrapped his arms around you protectively, pulling you closer to him.

“I love you, doll.” Bucky says softly, kissing the top of your head.

“I love you too, Bucky.” You say sleepily before falling asleep with your head on his chest.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-Bucky’s Doll

[mysteria157]

Pairing: Sheriff!Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

Summary: You have a system, and it's worked perfectly until now. But in this dusty Western town, Sheriff Nanami Kento is making things...complicated.

By day, you're the town's sweet schoolteacher, loved by all. By night? You're the very secret that drives Nanami to sleepless nights and relentless pursuits.

You're drawn to each other, so it makes keeping your worlds separate a dangerous game that you can't help but play.

Rating/CW: slow burn romance, mild intoxication, brief violence, cowboy activities?, fluff, suggestive content, eventual smut, angst, explicit sexual content (eventually). MDNI!

WC: ~12k (strap in, I guess lol)

Author notes: Hello! It's finally here! I had so much planned for this story that I had no choice but to break it into parts. I struggled a little because there was a lot more world-building than I expected, but I'm proud of the result. This will be a slow burn, so please don't expect any smut right off the jump, lol.

Thank you so much, @pmpmyread @rahuratna, not only for looking this over, but for your advice and support! And thank you all for your motivation as I put this together!!

As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated.

Happy reading!

Header: myself (image from pinterest) | Divider: @anitalenia @saradika network tag: @pixelcafe-network

JJK Masterlist | Ao3 | Twitter | Part Two

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

The saloon door creaks open, letting in a blast of scorching summer air that does little to freshen the stale interior. Nanami steps inside, the cool dimness a refreshing difference from the blazing afternoon sun previously on his back. It smells familiar—scents of whiskey, tobacco, and sweat wrapped around camaraderie like an old, worn blanket.

Tired eyes flicker up from cards and empty glasses, recognition dawning on weather-beaten faces. A chorus of solemn nods greets him, a silent salute to their town’s protector. Nanami returns each nod mechanically, his own gaze carefully schooled to hide the bone-deep weariness that threatens to consume him.

His leather boots, caked with the dust of another fruitless chase, thud heavily against the worn floorboards. Each step feels like a defeat, a reminder of always arriving too late or right before his goal slips through his hands, touching his fingertips like a tease.

“Whiskey,” he grumbles as he plops onto a stool, the wood creaking under his weight. “The bottle, preferably.”

The young bartender—who he knows means well—sends a knowing smirk that sets Nanami’s teeth on edge. How many times has he found himself here, drowning his frustrations in amber liquid? Far too many, he thinks, as a tall glass of whiskey appears before him like a mirage in the desert.

Nanami snatches the Stetson hat from his head, slapping it onto the bar with a force that sends a small cloud of dust into the air. His fingers, calloused from years of handling a gun and reins and rope, curl around the glass, lifting towards the bartender in question. The young man simply shrugs as he cleans a cup with a dirty white towel.

“You drank an entire bottle two days ago, Sheriff. Gotta save some whiskey for the rest of us.”

Nanami doesn’t offer a remark because he has been drinking a lot more lately. While he’s never been one to be too many sheets to the wind, lately, consuming until his vision is fuzzy seems to turn off his thoughts. He takes a generous sip, the whiskey burning a familiar path down his throat but doing little to ease the sting of failure. As he watches the strong alcohol slosh in its glass, he gets lost in its color. The flaxen hue morphs into the fluttering of long lashes and mocking eyes, of a form quick and nimble—always just out of reach.

“You’ll catch ‘em eventually, Sheriff,” the boy offers, more out of habit than conviction. He’s seen Nanami here too many times, that frustrated look etched on his face, chasing something far too fast for him.

Nanami huffs an admonishing chuckle. “Maybe,” he concedes, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. “Or maybe I’m chasing the wind.”

He takes another swig, the alcohol doing little to dispel the sour taste of defeat or replace the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of justice served. But it’s all he has right now. As the waning daylight stretches long and hazy into the sky, somewhere out there, a thief laughs at the law’s futile efforts—at his futile efforts.

He downs the rest of his whiskey, slamming the glass on the counter and ignoring the eyes of patrons who dart up to him from the mild disturbance.

“More,” he demands, sliding the glass across the counter to the bartender. As he watches the whiskey pour, he wonders, not for the first time, if he’s lost more than just a criminal in this endless game of cat and mouse. His integrity, his purpose, his peace of mind—all sacrificed on the altar of justice. And for what? A town that still suffers, and a thief who dances just beyond his grasp.

While the whiskey offers no answers, it at least dulls the ache of what he can’t achieve. But that comes at a price. As his mind fades from the present, it ruminates on the past. On how he grew increasingly disillusioned with his responsibility to protect. It broods on that fateful day when a bullet tore through his dear friend’s body, losing momentum enough to strike Nanami’s badge with a dull thud—a cruel reminder of how close he’d come to joining Haibara, and how utterly he’d failed to protect him.

For a time, he disappeared, carving a new life miles away on his family’s ranch. It was quiet there, peaceful and free of the failure he feels now on a daily basis. But eventually…it wasn’t enough. It was one too many desperate souls who stumbled upon his doorstep, knowing that he would be the only one to help, that he finally decided to come back.

Not that it’s made any difference.

Nanami’s reputation precedes him—the best sheriff this side of the state, a lone wolf who gets results. His name alone makes outlaws think twice before darkening his town’s doorstep. Or at least, it used to.

These past few months, a shadow has been making a mockery of him. A bandit, cloaked in night and silence, slips through his fingers like smoke. Jewels, coins, and the like—all vanish under the cover of darkness, present one morning and gone by the time the sun rises again.

The most maddening part? It’s a woman. He’s caught glimpses—the curve of a hip, a mask of charcoal smudged behind alluring eyes, a whisper of a deep laughter on the wind. She’s a riddle wrapped in black leather, a ghost that haunts his waking hours and torments his dreams.

In all his years, he’s never encountered a more elusive creature.

He lifts his glass, ready to down the contents and ask for more when the rays of sun catch, making the amber gleam like a beacon. The flash of light makes him turn to the saloon’s grimy windows, eyes squinting against the sudden blinding glare.

That’s when he sees you.

Framed by the dusty window pane, across the street, you stand in the golden rays, a vision that seems to part the haze of whiskey and self-pity that’s been clouding his mind. Your smile always seems to make his breath catch; it’s warm and genuine and lights up your face when your smooth lips curl at anything you hear. Right now, he sees it as you bid farewell to your students. They swirl around you like an autumn breeze, their laughter permeable through the glass.

The pink-haired boy—Yuji—who loves to follow Nanami around, wobbles from around the schoolhouse, both hands on the reins of your beautiful Palomino Morgan mare, Buttercup, as he yells to you with a toothy smile.

Nanami blinks, realization slicing through his slightly alcoholic haze like a sharp knife. He’s lost track of time, nearly forgetting his daily ritual that you both share. With a muttered curse, he pushes away from the bar, throwing a few coins on the wood and leaving the half-empty glass behind.

The sudden brightness of the outdoors makes him wince, eyes adjusting to the shift, but never leaving your form. With a soft click of his tongue, Nanami’s handsome chestnut stallion, Flint, nickers at his approach on the side of the saloon, nuzzling his master’s cheek as Nanami strokes his mane and grabs his reins. The horse’s hooves kick up small clouds of dust with each step, matching the steady rhythm of Nanami’s spurs. As he crosses the dusty road, he hides his gaze beneath the shadow of his Stetson to take you in fully.

Nanami’s seen many pretty women in his lifetime. Delicate desert flowers that bloom and wither with the changing seasons. And for the sake of not being the hopeless romantic that Deputy Gojo makes him out to be, you are different. From the moment he laid eyes on you, stepping off that dusty stagecoach with determination set in your jaw and hope shining in your eyes, he knew you were something else entirely. It took him weeks to even speak to you.

Your hair, usually neatly pinned back for teaching, has come slightly loose after a long day with energetic children. A few curly strands dance in the hot breeze, catching the sunlight. Your dress, modest but well-fitted, flows down your body in pale blue, the hem slightly dirty from the grass and dirt. You stand with a posture that commands attention—an undeniable grace in the way you move and Nanami is victim to the call of your hips when they sway.

There’s a smudge of chalk on your cheek, dusty white against smooth brown skin that glows in the sun, and the slight furrow in your brow makes the side of his lips flinch to fight a smile. You’re tired—happy to have another day with children, but ready to get home and relax. You’ll probably take a bath, brush Buttercup’s mane, and try a new pie recipe. It’s little details about you that he’s learned over the years since you moved here, the small moments you’ve both shared that seem to make his heart pound faster than what it should when he’s near you.

Your beauty isn’t just the curve of your cheek or the curl of your lashes. It’s the gentle patience in your voice as you help a struggling student. It’s in your laugh, rich and uninhibited, ringing through his ears when he has the blessing to be near you. It’s in the fire that burns in your voice from ranting about yet another student leaving school to help his family’s farm, a passionate frustration that both terrifies and mesmerizes him.

The sun in this small town is unforgiving, but it paints you in hues of amber and gold, careful with its rays so as not to burn you. Nanami realized a long time ago that ‘pretty’ doesn’t begin to cover you. You’re breathtaking, in every sense of the word. A force of nature wrapped in pale blue calico and lace, stealing his breath and his weary heart with each passing day.

You ruffle Yuji's hair, taking the reins from him and nudging his shoulder to move him along, smiling as he takes off down the street towards his home. Sensing his approach, you finally turn to meet his gaze.

For a moment, Nanami feels exposed. Surely you can’t see the slight cloudiness in his irises from the whiskey? Hopefully, you can’t smell the alcohol that carries in the wind from his breath. Your smile only widens, a hint of knowing in your eyes, and his heart skips in his chest, missing a beat.

“Sheriff,” you greet him, a harmonious voice carrying a note of warmth that bubbles like hot oil in his belly. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten.”

Nanami clears his throat, fighting the rush of blood to his cheeks. “Never,” he manages, one hand resting on his horse’s flank.

“Still in the whiskey?” you tease, lifting an elegant brow. “My, my Sheriff, I didn’t imagine you to be the man.”

It’s easy for you to slice him open and leave him exposed to the open air, vulnerable. Nanami has never been one to be caught by surprise, but you always have him on his toes. In a gesture as old as the West itself, Nanami reaches up and removes his Stetson, holding it respectfully to his chest.

It’s a mechanical response, born from years of ingrained politeness from parents that have long gone, but it’s also more than that. The removal of his hat is an unspoken apology, a show of respect, and a moment of vulnerability all rolled into one.

He falters, unsure and throat tight as he struggles for something to say. To prove to you that he’s a good man and not the drunkard he feels like the mornings after a failed chase. He’s sure he looks like a schoolboy caught in mischief. But as he opens his mouth to defend himself, you chuckle, a rich timbre that makes the bubbling in his belly drip in thick rivulets down his pelvis.

“I’m only teasin',” you insist, stroking Buttercup’s mane, a mischievous smile doing little to help Nanami’s resolve.

Relief washes over Nanami’s face and he visibly relaxes, still not used to just how much you kid with him when you’re both together. He can’t bring himself to answer you or admit that drinking was exactly what he was doing. So he simply clears his throat, offering a gentle pat to your horse.

“Shall we?” he offers, moving to help you mount.

You nod, holding your breath as Nanami’s strong hands encircle your waist. With seemingly effortless strength, he lifts you onto Buttercup’s back, watching to ensure you’re secure before returning to his own horse. He swings himself up onto the saddle with ease, sliding his Stetson on carefully parted blonde locks. Side by side, you begin the ride home, your horses falling into a comfortable trot.

You never speak much, content to bask in your surroundings as you both walk together, but to him, just being close is everything he could ask for. He wishes he could whisk you up onto his horse and nuzzle his nose into the soft skin of your neck as you recall your day. He wishes he could smell the lavender soap you bathe with and the rosemary oil from your silky strands that he’s seen you buy at the general store. When he’s around you, he wishes for so much—he wants.

But an unmarried woman and man, both of position no less, would only garner gossip that he refuses to make you the center of. And his job is a dangerous one, filled with brutality and misery, of justice that seems to never be fulfilling, and he won’t be a man that leaves you in pain when he’s unable to come home.

As you both walk, the familiar sounds of the town surround them—the distant laughter of children, the creak of wagon wheels that pass them on the dirt road, the rhythmic sounds of hoofbeats and the occasional jingle of Nanami’s spurs, the smell of fresh-baked bread that floats in the cooling breeze, mingling with the earthy scent of dust and grass.

“How were the children today?” Nanami asks, trying to break through the self-inflicting resignation that clouds his mind.

You smile, launching into a story about Yuji's latest escapade with a frog in the classroom. Nanami listens, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he imagines the always enthusiastic boy causing a fuss. He marvels at the way your eyes light up when you talk about your students, the passion evident in every word.

As you speak, Nanami can’t help but think of all the times over the years he’s wanted to ask for more. To invite you for dinner, to teach you to shoot on the acres of his ranch, to ask for a dance at the town social when you’re sitting alone, clapping along as Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara scuttle wildly in the lantern-lit barn. The words have been on the tip of his tongue countless times, but he always swallows them back. Content to tell himself he’s doing something noble even as every fiber of his being screams the opposite.

Your laughter pulls him from his thoughts, guttural and melodic in the air, and he realizes he’s missed part of your story. It feels like a crime to not be fully in your presence.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” he asks, feeling the flush return on his cheeks. His mind has only wandered off for moments, but already your house is in view, the front door signaling another end to a conversation with you. Another walk over, another day done. But you’re safe, and for now, that’s enough for him.

“Sheriff, do you actually listen to me when I speak?” you begin, playful in your accusation.

“Of course I—”

“Or you just like hearing me speak?” you interrupt, a smirk growing, mirth sparkling in beautiful eyes that always make his throat dry. “I didn’t realize my voice was so alluring.”

Nanami chuckles softly, dismounting Flint when you reach the gate on the side of your one-story house. “I’m not sure I can answer truthfully, ma’am.”

You hum, pursing your lips as you smooth the invisible wrinkles off your dress. He refrains from tracing the movement of your hands as they ebb and flow generous curves that rest beneath the fabric. “So you just like me then?”

I do.

Is what he wants to answer. Because he wants, and wants, and wants.

Instead, he guides you down from Buttercup, savoring the meat of your waist between his fingers, the warmth of your body in his hands. He waits patiently as you guide her through the gate and inside the stable behind your house. When you return, he can’t help but note the subtle disappointment in your eyes, the way one side of your lip pulls in as you bite into it. He wonders if his own face conveys the same, if you can see the subtle sag in his shoulders of having to leave you so soon.

“Same time tomorrow?” you ask, eyes simmering with what he wants to think is hope.

“Because I like to hear you speak,” he unwittingly teases, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, ma’am.”

As he moves to mount his horse, you’re transfixed by the fluid grace of his movements. He places one scuffed boot in the stirrup, strong corded hands gripping the saddle horn as he swings himself up and onto the Flint’s back like it’s nothing.

Atop his chestnut stallion, Nanami cuts an impressive figure. His sheriff uniform fits him perfectly. A tailored deep blue shirt with long sleeves rolled to his elbows and tucked into denim around a lean waist. A sturdy brown leather vest creased from long days under the sun emphasize his broad shoulders. On one side of his chest rests a gleaming tin star, a symbol of authority and responsibility with a bullet-sized dent beneath the words that signify him. On his left hip, a lasso is coiled neatly, ready for action at a moment’s notice. On his right, his gun rests in its leather holster—a weapon you’ve seen him use a few times—and a constant reminder of the dangers he faces to keep the town safe.

The late amber light casts a warm glow over his features, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the tiny creases at the corners of his eyes—a man who’s seen both laughter and hardship. Laughter he gives you when he can, hardship he refuses to indulge. His Stetson sits low on his brow, casting a shadow over umber eyes that make his gaze seem even more intense as he looks down at you.

No matter how many times you are both together, you are always struck by how handsome Nanami is. Rugged and weather-worn, yet with a gentleness in his eyes and kindness in his warm voice that makes your heart flutter. He’s the embodiment of everything a cowboy should be—strong, capable, and undeniably attractive.

As if sensing your admiration, he clears his throat loudly, dramatically, the corners of his lips twitching as you blink back to the present.

You retaliate in the only way you know how. “And stop calling me ma’am, as if we haven’t known each other for a few years.”

You insist on this every single time the title slips past his lips. And like every time before, Nanami smiles softly, reaches up, fingers grasping the brim of his Stetson, and tips his hat to you in a gesture that’s both gallant and a little playful.

“Have a good night, ma’am.”

You roll your eyes, mouth pulling into a small smile, heart beating like a drum in your chest, before you huff. “Goodnight, Sheriff.”

He watches you enter your home, waiting until the door closes behind you before clicking his tongue and shifting his weight, setting Flint into motion. The ride back to his office seems longer somehow, the town sounds a little dimmer as he gets closer, and the alluring smell of fresh bread he noted on the way to your house is now replaced with an enticing whisper of more whiskey now that you’re no longer by his side.

The church bells chime softly as you settle into your usual pew, absentmindedly picking lint off your lavender Sunday dress. You nod politely to Mrs. Watson, the baker’s wife, as she shuffles past with a hand on her youngster’s shoulder. Your eyes, soft and inviting to all who meet them, scan the congregation with practiced nonchalance.

Pastor Roberts steps up to the pulpit, black hair slicked with too much pomade, enormous silver rings on too many fingers, his voice booming through the small church. “Before we begin, I’d like to thank everyone who contributed to our new railroad station fund. And I’d like to give a very special mention to Mrs. Thompson, whose generous donation has brought us significantly closer to our goal. Your generosity truly embodies the spirit of our little community.”

The crowd breaks into genuine praise and applause. Mrs. Thompson, always seated in the back pew in her faded but clean dress, ducks her head modestly with a sheepish smile. Your heart clenches in despair, knowing she works grueling shifts at the general store just to make ends meet, her children practically raised by her neighbors. You’re sure that she’s only going above and beyond so her husband, who works many miles away, can come home often. She probably has nothing left—you just know it—and the thought makes your blood boil.

“Now, regarding the final sum we need,” the pastor continues, clearing his throat, “I’m sure we can count on our more…fortunate members to help us reach our goal.”

From the front pew, Mrs. Jones pipes up, her haughty voice carrying over the congregation. “Oh, we’d love to help next time, Pastor! We would’ve contributed more, but we had an unexpected expense with some…essential purchases this past week.”

She adjusts the luxurious new fur draped over her shoulders, seemingly oblivious to the irony of her words. You glare at the offensive garment, boiling blood now thickening with unquestionable anger.

Like so many other wealthy families in this town, the Jones are always eager to flaunt their excess, parading their luxury with heartless disregard for those who sacrifice their last penny for the common good. Content to take what they want, they turn a blind eye to those who truly need help, their indifference as cold as the coins they keep to themselves.

To others like them, poverty is a personal failing. In their minds, if people like Mrs. Thompson would try harder, work longer, or simply stop being sad and hungry out of sheer will, they too could reach the heights of wealth and respect. Preaching a gospel of bootstraps and self-reliance, willfully ignorant of the walls that keep the poor trapped.

Stepping foot in this sweltering church each Sunday is a test of your patience and resolve. But, you push through, hidden behind a mask of piety. As the pastor’s words fade into a monotonous hum, your attention shifts to the whispered gossip around you, ears poised for information that might prove useful. If Mama was still alive, she’d probably scold you if she knew your true intentions.

“Shameful,” Mrs. Clark mutters to her friend, her tone leaking with disdain and disbelief. “The Jones had enough for that fancy social at their house last week and an entire shipment of new furs, but not enough for something that we were all asked to contribute to? Just shameful, I tell you.”

“And here’s Mrs. Thompson giving what little she has just so her man can come home more often.”

You shake your head as you pretend to join in the gossip, your resolve hardening by the second.

Bingo.

After the service, you linger, making small talk with a widow about her new rhubarb pie recipe, when you spot your target.

“Oh, Mrs. Jones,” you call out, your voice dripping with misplaced sweetness. She turns around to face you, regal in cosmetics, a shade too bright, her fur sitting nicely on her neck even as she sweats like a sinner. “I meant to tell you earlier. Your fur is lovely.”

Mrs. Jones preens, her chest puffing like a peacock, basking in the attention. “Why thank you!” she gushes, dripping with false modesty. “Got them fresh last week. I would love for you to see the rest when I’m back in town. Jimmy and I leave for Millbrook and we’ll be gone for a week or two. It’s so refreshing to meet someone who appreciates fine things.”

You offer a small smile, excitement filling your body of your plans unfolding before you. “You’ll surely be missed. I do hope you have a wonderful time.”

She beams again, red lipstick cracking down the middle. “Make sure you stop by when we return, won’t you?”

You do stop by, but it’s a day after the Jones leave, a shadow among shadows. Buttercup leans into your touch when you brush a gloved hand along her glossy mane. You hop on her back, clicking your tongue to urge her into the night.

It’s further out of town, which makes this better for you—the fewer eyes, the better. The Jones estate looms ahead, dark and silent. You leave Buttercup a few yards away, patting her side as she lowers her head to graze. “I’ll be right back, girl. Just wait for my call.”

You circle to the back of the Jones’ house, glaring at the clean paint and beautiful greenery. A flickering light from a first-floor window catches your attention, and you duck down on impulse—the night watchman, no doubt. The Jones have enough money but spend too excessively to afford a maid. While this is a hindrance you can easily deal with, it’s still a thorn in your side. Patience has always been your ally, but tonight, it’s tested.

You know the town’s law enforcement, led by Sheriff Nanami, has been increasing patrols around wealthy homes because of your activities. The thought of him potentially catching you always sends a confusing concoction of thrill and dread through your veins.

Still, you wait, hidden in the shadows and the lush greenery around you, watching the guard’s routine. He leaves every ten minutes to patrol the house, returns, and scratches the sparse hair of his beard before plopping in his chair. His yawns grow more frequent as the night wears on, but he seems to alert himself with each distant noise. It takes a few more patrols and a few deep breaths to soothe your anxiety when you think you hear hoofbeats in the distance, but eventually, he settles one final time, his chin dropping to his chest as he dozes off, and you make your move.

A few windows over, a trellis catches your eye—perfect. Years of practice have taught you to distribute your weight evenly to avoid creaks as you climb the lattice. At the second-story window, you pause, listening. From your vantage point, the only source of light dimly from the living room below is the guard’s open door. The sound of his distant snores sets you back in action.

With ease, you manipulate the window latch, easing it open slowly to avoid any squeaks. You slip inside, your feet silent as they land on a plush carpet. The lavishness is an immediate assault on your senses—the air tinged with rose and peppermint, your eyes widening at the guest bedroom walls covered in paintings and deer heads. You grimace. Extravagant niceties that those less fortunate would give their soul for the value.

You pause at the top of the stairs, eyes scanning the house around you for anyone else, ears straining for any sound from the guard below or, worse, the approach of patrol outside. Satisfied, you ghost through well-decorated hallways towards the master bedroom. Without a moment to waste, you scan the ornate space. You know to secure your exits, and your entrances, and you smirk when you spot a sturdy chair on the other side of the room.

Silently, you wedge the chair under the doorknob, its back legs lifted slightly off the ground. It’s not the best, but it should buy you precious time if needed. You turn back to the master bedroom, eyes narrowed as you move on to your next step.

You’ve seen it all before, and no matter what, they keep their valuables in the same predictable places. A bookshelf with too much space that you can push against to open a second compartment. A floorboard slightly elevated than the rest. But for the Jones, it’s the garish family portrait above their bed—the same one Mrs. Jones boasted about at church weeks ago. Another unexpected but essential expense.

Your fingers work quickly as you carefully remove the painting, revealing the gleaming safe behind it. You press your ear against the cool metal, your fingertips ghosting over the dial. With precision, you begin to turn it, listening intently for the telltale clicks of the tumblers falling into place.

First to the right, slow and steady. Click. Back to the left, past the first number. Click. Right again, slower this time, feeling for the slightest resistance. Click.

Your breath catches as the final tumbler falls into place, heart racing with the promise of success as you slowly turn the handle. The safe door swings open with a satisfying creak, and inside, illuminated by a sliver of moonlight streaming through the window, sits your prize. Stack of crisp bills and glittering jewels, a physical manifestation of the good that they can do in the right hands.

As you transfer the wealth into your satchel, a floorboard creaks downstairs. You freeze, every muscle in your body taut as a bowstring, lungs seizing in your chest. You hear the rustle of clothing—the guard stirring in his chair. It feels like seconds stretch into an eternity as you wait, hand hovering over the gun on your hip. Just as your lungs scream for air, his snoring resumes, and you exhale slowly, your racing heart gradually steadying.

You’re hyper-aware of every sound as you work. The whisper of the bills, the soft clink of jewels—each seems magnified in the stillness of this gigantic house. You’re nearly finished, only two more stacks, when another creak echoes through the house, this one closer, more deliberate. There’s no settling floorboards from a new house or snoring night guard.

Someone’s here.

Suddenly, the doorknob jiggles violently, a voice on the other side booming through the previously silent house. You know the voice anywhere, one that haunts both your waking hours and your dreams.

Your heart picks back up, ice water filling your veins as the hairs on your neck stand up straight, but your hands remain steady as you gather the last of the valuables and ease the safe closed. Even in the face of being caught, you have to remain calm. It’s what’s kept you unnoticed and alive this long.

You replace the painting, your eyes already scanning the room for escape routes. You can easily go back out through the window, but the trellis you came upon is in the guest bedroom a few doors over. The jump from this window won’t be damaging, but it’ll hurt, and you don’t have time to use your rope to help you down.

Banging erupts against the door, the wood jumping from the force of the assault. “Sir! I’m here!” The night guard’s voice joins in beneath the noise, and you hear his hurried gait up the stairs.

You don’t have time for schematics. Time’s up. You throw the satchel around your shoulder and bolt for the window, only seconds before the door frame splinters from the strength of two men, the chair tumbling across the floor.

“Freeze!” A deep baritone barks, harsh and volatile, but you’re already halfway out the window, your leather boots pressed to the paneling, your hands holding you up like a spider monkey. You can’t help but pause, your wide-brimmed hat and black bandana obscuring most of your features. Coal-smudged eyes, their true color blending with the blackness surrounding them, meet the gaze of the man before you. He’s never been able to get a photo or any sort of evidence from you, not in times like these. He’ll never know who you are. But you know exactly who he is.

Sheriff Nanami Kento stands in the moonlit room, his stance wide and authoritative. Protector of the town, your number one purser, and a man who, despite your best efforts, has made a permanent home in your thoughts.

Mysterious mahogany eyes, usually kind and warm when they look at you during the day, now burn with determination and anger. That gun that you’ve seen him use to shoot targets and make Yuji laugh now points directly between your eyes.

As you look at him—the tension in his broad shoulders as they rise and fall beneath his shirt and vest, the dark circles under his eyes that speak of sleepless nights chasing your shadow—a pang of guilt slithers down your chest. Maybe if you take a small break with your escapades, he could get some sleep. You hate it when he’s tired, especially when you’re the cause.

But these thoughts are dangerous. Over the years, you’ve let him get too close, allowed him to see much of the real you, and now you’re beginning to feel the consequences.

But you can think about this another time; you’ve stayed longer than necessary. Right now, you have a job to finish. With a hitch in your breath, you drop to the ground. You land with a thud, your ankles absorbing the impact. A sharp pain shoots up your right leg, but you grit your teeth and push through it. You can’t afford to stop now.

The wild grass is thick as you sprint through the open fields, the satchel of stolen valuables bouncing heavily against your hip. Your breath slices through your lungs in short gasps, the cool night air burning in your chest. Behind you, you hear the chaos of pursuit. Nanami’s commanding voice mixes with the night guard’s confused shouts, and the sound of boots hitting the ground tells you they’ve made it out of the house.

You ignore the ebbing pain in your ankle, pushing yourself harder, faster. The grass gets taller with every inch you gain, whipping at your leather-clad legs as you tear through the field, the darkness both a hindrance and a shelter. You use the moonlight to guide you, your eyes scanning the landscape for the rock face you left Buttercup at on your way here.

A distant whinny in your ear cues you instantly. You whistle for her sharply, praying your faithful steed is close enough to hear. Her thundering hooves answer your prayers, growing louder by the second as she matches your sprint.

She appears like magic, slowing enough for you to leap onto her back and urge her into a gallop with a click of your tongue and a squeeze of your knees. With your view no longer obscured by the tall grass, you turn back to the disappearing estate, your heart dropping when you spot several riders—Nanami’s men, no doubt—headed toward you.

Gunshots pop through the air, the whoosh of silver bullets whizzing past your ears and missing their mark. But they’re getting closer. You hold your breath, absorbing the minute fear that blooms in your chest as you risk another glance behind you. Nanami is now at the front, his face grim and emboldened.

A snort from Buttercup turns your attention ahead. You fold low over her neck, your thighs contracting and relaxing in harmonious sync with her thunderous gallops. You taught yourself how to ride after Mama died, determined to do whatever it took to make it through the world. You found Buttercup then, neglected and forgotten, a mirror of your own lost soul. Now, years later, you both move as one, you anticipating her every move born of trust and time, she responds to the smallest shift of your weight as if reading your very thoughts.

Up ahead, the path narrows, winding through a rocky formation that makes you pull in your shoulders on reflex, as if you’re squeezing to fit. You guide Buttercup with a slight shift of the reins and a coo to her twitching ears.

There’s a fallen tree a few yards away, blocking most of the path and making it almost impassable. But you know what you can do. With a click of your tongue and a minuscule pressure of your knees into her sides, she reads your message immediately, huffing before launching over the thick oak in a magnificent leap. She lands with grace on the other side, hooves kicking up dirt in victory. It buys you the seconds that you need, but it won’t be enough. Nanami and his men will find their way around, and you need this chase to end. Now.

Ahead, a boulder ten times your size, with jagged edges and thick cracks, creates a fork in the path. You form an idea that is risky but will buy you the time you need to get home safely.

You guide Buttercup down the left path, your hand reaching for the pistol on your hip. You wind up the reins in one hand, squeezing the leather to hold you steady as you swiftly turn in your saddle to face the dusty world behind you. With the change in position, your hips work against the momentum of Buttercup’s stride instead of with it, and your tweaked ankle stings with every slap against her side. But you’ve practiced this before, and your balance is perfect, hand steady even as you move at breakneck speed.

Nanami and his men emerge from the curve of the path, eyes locked on you with deadly intent, and in that split second, you take your shot.

You’re not aiming to kill or even injure—your target is the lanterns that hang from each saddle horn. Amidst the bucking of your hips and the wind that whizzes past your ears, you hold your breath—forcing your heart to slow as your vision tunnels, and your finger squeezes the trigger. Before Nanami and his men can even reach for their guns, the air cracks, gunshots from your firearm hitting their mark to make the lanterns explode. It has its desired effect—their horses are startled, bucking onto their back feet as they whine in fright.

Nanami doesn’t want to, you can tell from the look in his eyes, but he has no choice but to look away. His eyes leave you as he tries his best to console his stallion and the rest of his gang. You take advantage of the chaos and twirl back around, relaxing your hand on the reins and exhaling the painful breath that was lodged in your lungs.

“Good girl,” you murmur, patting Buttercup’s neck as you coax her into a more fierce gallop and disappear into the night, the sounds of pursuit fading behind you. The satchel on your hip bucks with your mare’s kicks, reminding you of a job well done.

Even with the adrenaline of success thrumming through you, your mind always wanders back to the ‘why’ of it all.

When the guilt tries to curl in your chest when you least expect it, you remember Mama’s sunken face as she divided a molded loaf of bread between the two of you. You remember the hollow eyes of your neighbors too proud to beg. You remember the day you and Mama stood outside the general store in your hometown, staring at a display of fresh fruit, its price more than your weekly earnings. You remember being shooed away by the store owner, muttering about “ill-bred women,” lowering the tone of his establishment.

That night after Mama finally fell asleep, you stole for the first time. So skinny that you could slip through the gap in Mr. Thornton’s fence of his apple orchard. You took only one—a small, slightly misshapen apple covered in dirt—fear rattling your bones at the thought of being caught. But its sweetness, shared with Mama the next morning, was everything you could have asked for.

The concept of right and wrong has always been blurred for you. You’re certainly not right in the eyes of the law, or perhaps even in the eyes of God that Mama believed in so much. But when you distribute your spoils in the dead of night, slipping money through house doors. When you see the disbelief turn to joy on a widow’s face because she can feed her children another week. When you watch a frail old man cry over a warm coat that will see him through the winter—you sleep a little better.

The world isn’t fair. You learned that lesson far too soon in your life. But in your own way, with these midnight heists and heart-pounding adventures, you’re trying to balance some sort of scale. It’s not justice…but it’s something. Something that lets you look at yourself in the mirror each morning, that calms the angry, helpless, and hungry child still living in your memories.

Tomorrow, you’ll begin distributing this wealth to those who truly need it. Yuji's grandpa will have enough to buy his grandson new clothes. Mrs. Thompson will have enough to make up for the remaining savings she gave to the church. And come Monday, you’ll greet Sheriff Nanami with a warm smile as he walks you home from a day’s work at the school, your secret safe for another day.

The thrill of every heist, the satisfaction of outwitting the law, the knowledge that you’re helping those in need—it all mingles in your veins like the sweetest whiskey you tease the Sheriff for indulging in. As the stars twinkle overhead as you wash the coal from Buttercup’s nose that hides her white markings, you allow yourself a moment of pride. It’s probably not much in the grand scheme of things, but to someone in this town, it’ll mean the world.

“Did you hear about Mrs. Jones’s place?”

“Ma says the bandit struck again, cleaned them out in seconds!”

You keep your face carefully neutral as you pick up on your student’s conversations that dance on the hot air, but you’re filled with pride and guilt. You can’t help but think of Sheriff Nanami, of the frustration you see etched on his handsome face so often. Even yesterday, those determined eyes flickered with hints of shame. For a moment, doubt creeps in, whispers in your ears like a tease, threatening to unearth everything you’ve worked for.

But then you look at Sarah’s new turquoise ribbon that compliments her wheat-colored hair as she twirls in a circle on the dusty road. You remember Tommy’s gait as he said goodbye to you just minutes ago, no longer wobbly now that his toes have room to move in new shoes.

The whispers of your students and how surprised and elated they were to find money under their doorstep make you steel yourself. Despite the risks, despite the growing complexity of your feelings—it’s always worth it.

Your life is a study in contrasts. Mornings are quiet affairs—a cup of coffee, a soothing hand down Buttercup’s mane as she eats her breakfast, the silence of an empty classroom. Afternoons explode with energy—eager questions, laughter, and the occasional disagreement amongst your students. You think of Mama, how she read to you as a child, planting seeds of knowledge that would one day bloom into your passion for teaching. It’s another way you give back—maybe some form of atonement you aren’t ready to address—but to fill another generation’s head with knowledge is a gift you wouldn’t trade.

Coming to this town years ago was an escape—from the pain of Mama’s death, from the constant fear of your life as a thief. You only meant to stay a few months, take what you needed, give it back to those like you, and vanish. But loneliness has a way of anchoring a soul.

Months became years. A solitary existence morphed into friendships with neighbors and an undeniable connection with the stoic sheriff who walks you home, an unspoken affection blossoming between you.

Years of experience have made you attuned to the whispers in town. You know how much Mr. Fletcher has hidden away in his safe. You know what date and time certain shipments come in and who they are going to.

Lately, though, whispers of a different sort have caught your ear. Tales of a hidden treasure in the old mine outside of town. Yuji talks about it almost every day, how his grandfather is convinced the treasure is real. The town’s cobbler rolls his eyes at the rumor, often grumbling about how the citizens should focus on earning revenue through hard work and no shortcuts. The more adventurous of the town have scoped the plains around this town time and time again. But it’s never bore any fruit.

Even you have dismissed it as just another local legend. But the thought nags at you, a persistent itch you can’t quite scratch. While you do not doubt the well-meaning residents of this town, they may not have your experience. They may not know how to scale a rocky mountain or where to look. But you do.

You’ve spent years justifying your actions, convincing yourself that the end justifies the means. That it’s a necessary evil in a world that turns a blind eye to suffering. To walk away now feels like the biggest betrayal of everything you’ve fought for, everything your Mama taught you about standing up for those who can’t stand up for themselves. Even last night, you went through your routine of reiterating that what you’re doing is for a good cause.

But the twinge in your ankle when you woke up this morning. The bleariness in your eyes from little sleep. The exhaustion weighs heavily on you. The loneliness is more palpable every morning when you roll over to an empty bed. Because you can’t share the darkness of your secrets with anyone. Is it selfish to want a normal life after being exposed to the rotten core of it? To want stability, a future untainted by the shadow of your past, to want love? Or is it more selfish to continue on this path, risking everything—including the hearts of those who’ve come to care for you—for a cause that seems never-ending?

The infinite revolving of these thoughts makes you think twice about those rumors. So…what if the treasure is real? What if there’s enough hidden away to help everyone in town, to right all the wrongs you’ve seen? Enough to let you hang up this hidden life for good, to just be the schoolteacher—no more lies, no more risks, no more seeing the weight of failure in Nanami’s eyes.

Hours later, after your students have long gone, you’re atop Buttercup, having decided an afternoon ride might clear your head. You break through the bustle of town, the sun painting the landscape of open plains. As you crest a small hill, you scan the horizon, absorbing every detail with practiced observation that’s served you well in your double life.

You remember it all from your first few weeks here—a dilapidated shed outside of town, a small lake where wild animals drink from to the north. But with more focus, to the West, you spot unfamiliar rocky terrain. What catches your eye is how the rocks seem to fit together—not stacked with the random chaos of nature, but with an almost deliberate precision. It’s as if the hands of a giant stacked them long ago, their edges now overgrown and softened by wind and time.

If you were to slowly move the rocks over time, you could find an unexplored cave on the other side—not a mine like the rumors claim. Whatever it could be, it’s definitely worth investigating. You make a mental note of its location, your innate sense of direction and topography—honed by years of midnight runs—ensuring you can find it easily again.

As you make one last sweep across the landscape, your ears pick up on the stressed mooing of cows and the yells of men. After riding toward the source for a few minutes, you finally spot the commotion. Mr. Williams’ well-maintained fence is broken with wooden boards sprawled on the plains as a group of cattle amble and run free. They shuffle as fast as their heavy bodies will take them, mooing loudly in distress.

You’ve done some wrangling as a young girl, a grueling job that paid you very little to feed you and Mama, so you immediately hone in on the weak points of the fence and the patterns of the cattle’s movement.

You spring into action, clicking your tongue and squeezing your thighs around Buttercup to make her take off. The wind whips through your hair, loosening curls from your usually neat bun. As you draw closer, your heart leaps in your chest.

There, in the midst of the chaos, is Nanami. He sits on his stallion with an easy grace that makes your mouth go dry. Eyes narrowed with determination, cheekbones glossy with sweat and dirt. His vest is gone, and you note the navy long sleeve that squeezes his thick form, his forearms exposed and veiny. His strong biceps flex as he twirls his lasso, long fingers cinched tight around the base of the noose, wrist twirling in a motion you’ve thought about late at night with your fingers buried deep inside of you.

Gods, he’s handsome. Even that first day when you both met in front of the general store, Nanami reaching down to collect the books you had dropped, you knew then he would be your undoing. He has proven to be the one constant in your mind when you should be thinking about your goal.

He’s the kind of man that you could bring home to Mama, though you’d have to keep a watchful eye on her so she doesn’t flirt herself. He’s the kind of man who can work the fields and protect a town, that can fend off criminals and walk children the school, that can come home after a long day and kiss you until your eyes roll into your skull. That can grunt in appreciation from the fingernails that dig into his back, your legs wrapped around his waist as he buries himself to the hilt and—

“Need a hand, Sheriff?” you call out, shaking yourself back to reality, swallowing the saliva in your mouth. You can think about him later. Right now, that adventurous itch comes to life at the base of your spine. You love being a teacher, but you miss things like this—the thrill of the ride, the tingling sensation of a challenge, and Nanami’s presence all combine to create a heady rush of adrenaline through your veins.

Nanami’s head turns at the sound of your voice, deep brown eyes widening in surprise. The movement of his wrist stops, and his lasso plops on his head, musing perfectly parted blonde locks as the rope smacks the sides of his face. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, yes, but adoration and something more pungent that makes your skin tingle.

“Ma’am, this isn’t exactly—” he starts, but you’re already taking off.

A whistle from your lips springs Buttercup into action, galloping a wide birth around the scattered calves. You free your own rope from your saddle horn, the weight in your hands a comforting reminder of late nights practicing in your stable. You hitch up, bunching your thighs with hidden strength, twirling the lasso once, twice, feeling the perfect balance of it.

Then, with a fluid movement, you send the rope flying towards the calf closest to you. It arcs through the air before finding its mark, settling around the calf’s neck with perfect precision. You ignore the feel of Nanami’s eyes on you as you wrestle to rebellious calf back into Mr. Williams’ yard. The man himself is already releasing the rope and ushering the calf away from the fence that is slowly being repaired by his ranch hands.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Nanami asks when you pace up next to him. The lasso is still haphazard over his head, lips parted in astonishment.

“Are you implyin' that I shouldn’t know how to do that, Sheriff?” you tease, guiding Buttercup in a slow trot around Nanami and his stallion. He fumbles to correct himself, cheeks heating as he pulls at the rope around his neck and shoulders. “Should I only know teachin' and how to care for a home?”

“N-now you know that’s not what I—”

You cut him off with a sharp chuckle, making another rotation around him and his steed, a mischievous glint in your eye. “You’re so gullible.” He throws you a wary look, finally pulling the lasso off his body in a huff. “Now, are you gonna help me, or not?”

You and Nanami fall into sync, working in tandem to herd the cattle back into Mr. Williams’ enclosed space. It’s perfect choreography—when Nanami moves right, you’re already swinging left.

Before long, you spot a flash of white in your peripheral vision. Deputy Gojo leans against the fence, his shock of white hair practically reflective in the sun. He’s been practically absent up until this point and, unlike you and Nanami, seems in no rush to join the action. He eyes you with a charismatic smile, flirtatious in his gaze, but you’re quick to roll your eyes playfully and get back to the task at hand.

There’s a grace to Nanami’s body as he works. His hips roll with each movement of his horse, the rock back and forth, a rhythm hypnotic and alluring. The muscles in his denim-clad thighs flex as he grips his mount, powerful and thick. His face maintains his usually iron-faced composure, focused on the task, but an undeniable beauty to his concentration. The setting sun enhances his features, the shadows accentuate his strong jaw and cheekbones. A bed of sweat traces a tantalizing path down his neck, disappearing beneath a collar that’s three buttons undone.

As you drive a cow forward, Nanami is there to lasso and guide it home. The way he hands his horse, the quiet commands and clicks, the subtle shifts of his body, and the grunts that leave his form when he throws his lasso—it all speaks of a man completely in control, and you find it mesmerizing…and utterly arousing. There’s something primal and enticing about watching him move, about being in such perfect harmony with him. It’s a blaring reminder of the attraction that’s been simmering between you.

At one point, you end up riding side by side, so close that your legs brush against each other. The contact, even through the layers of your dress, is scalding. You steal a glance at Nanami, darting through the disheveled curls in front of your eyes, only to find him already looking at you. Those dark eyes are smoldering—intense with an emotion that radiates from you both and squeezes your throat tight.

As the last cow meanders through the repaired fence, you both are panting from exhaustion, guiding your horses to a slow stroll. Mr. Williams jogs towards you both, followed closely by Gojo, a lazy saunter and an ever-present mischievous look on his face.

“I had no idea you could wrangle so well,” Mr. Williams exclaims, waving enthusiastically as he reaches up and takes the reins of both your horses to lead them towards a water trough. “That was incredible. I have no idea how to repay you.”

You wave him off, trying not to preen under the praise. Gojo's incredibly rare and well-bred snow-white Quarter Horse saunters up to you, the animal indignant in his strides just as much as its owner.

“Well,” Gojo drawls, crystal blue eyes sweeping appreciatively over your form. “Didn’t think a schoolteacher had fine lasso skills. Any other skills I should know about? You can show me at the town festival in a few weeks.”

It’s undeniably forward, enough to make a dignified man turn beet red in anger and a fragile woman faint. But it’s Deputy Gojo Satoru—uncaring of the world that he feels revolves around him.

“Gojo,” Nanami snaps, harsh and biting with an undercurrent that makes your spine straighten. “For once in your life, stop pestering every woman within a few feet of you.”

You can’t help but chuckle, shrugging dismissively and patting Buttercup’s neck as she drinks. “No harm done, Sheriff. I’m sure Deputy Gojo here was just being friendly, weren’t you?” You ask, voice laden with a double meaning that makes Gojo smile warily, suddenly apprehensive. “Though I’d caution against mistaking friendliness for interest. Wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea and end up disappointed…again.”

Gojo's jaw drops, Mr. Williams chokes on a snort a few yards away, and you hear Nanami stifle a harsh grunt that cracks on the edges.

Gojo sputters, pale white cheeks burning, his usual confidence faltering in the night air as he flaps his gills. “I’ll have you know, I’ve never been disappointed in matters of the heart.”

You hum nonchalantly, pursing your lips in disbelief. “Oh? So that wasn’t you I saw sulking behind the saloon last month? What was it you were muttering? Something about Geto turning you down for the second time?”

At the mention of Geto's name, Gojo's blue eyes widens, a squeak eeping from glossy lips. Nanami, unable to contain himself any longer, lets out a bark of laughter.

“I—that’s not—how did you—” Gojo stammers, looking between you and Nanami with wide, suspicious eyes. You simply shrug, glancing at Nanami. There’s a glimmer of amusement there, a shared moment of mirth at Gojo's expense. At some point, Gojo grows tired of entertaining you both, clicking his mouth in annoyance and taking off towards town. You snort at his retreating form, giggling with the rush of excitement of the evening.

When Mr. Williams sees you both off, the night is a cool blanket around you both. The moon sits high, a silver pendant on the velvet black sky, while the stars twinkle like scattered diamonds. For awhile, you both ride in silence, the rhythmic clop of hooves a soothing melody to your turmoil from earlier in the day. The air carries the scent of grass and wildflowers, mixing with the sweat that lingers on your skin. It’s Nanami who breaks the quiet, his deep voice a relaxing current of electricity down your spine.

“He will only take your wit as a challenge,” he muses, mildly amused.

“Gojo will forget all about me the minute Ms. Foxworth bats her eyelashes at him.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle, casting his face in a brief flash of masculine flirtation that makes your heart skip. “And Ms. Foster,” he adds, catching onto your game.

“And Ms. Chamberlain,” you continue, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

“And I’m pretty sure Mrs. Jones,” Nanami finishes, snorting to himself because she’s married, and that’s never stopped Gojo before.

Your eyes meet, scandalous realization settling over you both, and in that moment, the ridiculousness of it all bubbles up inside. Laughter erupts from you first, a released cascade of glee as your head tilts to the night sky. The sound of Nanami’s deep chuckles mingles with your giggles, creating a harmony that seems to resonate in your very bones. It feels good to laugh with Nanami. Just like any other time you spend with him. It takes your mind off the thought of leaving this town—of leaving him—forever.

The night is cool against your skin, but your chest blooms with warmth. You’re about to comment on the beauty of the star-studded sky when you notice Nanami reach into his vest pocket. He pulls out a cigarette, lips wrapping around the filter with a firm but gentle grip.

Your heart sinks, a leaden weight pulling it further down your rib cage. You’ve noticed he only smokes when he’s particularly stressed, and the sight of it now, after such a wonderful evening, makes you frown. You know it’s because of his work, the harshness he sees every day, and his relentless pursuit of the bandit—of you—only makes it worse for him. The remorse gnaws at your insides like a rabid animal.

Doing your best to mask the torrent of emotions threatening to consume you, you aim for a teasing approach. “Stressed, Sheriff?” you ask, quirking an eyebrow and hoping he can’t hear the slight shake in your voice.

Nanami pauses, the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He looks at you with a flicker of embarrassment, highlighting the tired lines around his eyes that you wish you could smooth away with your fingertips. “Ah, my apologies,” he says, moving to put it away. “The smell—”

You wave him off. “I don’t mind. Not much of a smoker when I need to relax.”

He hums but doesn’t respond, striking a match and cupping large hands around the flame. The brief light illuminates his face, casting shadows across his face. You find yourself transfixed by the way the flame reflects in his dark eyes, like embers in the night.

He takes a long drag, the tip brightening in burnt orange and gold. Nanami exhales, the smoke curling seductively from his nose and into the air, the sight more enticing than it should be. “So, when do you smoke, ma’am?”

His voice is entirely too low, entirely too deep. You playfully glare at the use of ‘ma’am’ for what feels like the nth time since you’ve known each other. You decide to be mischievous, precariously throwing caution to the wind.

“Oh, you know,” you say airily, looking up at the sky as you try to emit an air of faux innocence. Nanami looks at you cautiously, raising a dark blonde eyebrow expectantly, eyes narrowing as he picks up on the teasing tilt in your voice. “You smoke when you’re stressed. I smoke to unwind from a job well done. Preferably, after taking a good man for a ‘ride’.”

Heat simmers beneath your skin as you speak, low and husky and loaded with suggestive humor that surprises even you.

It’s an immediate effect and more satisfying than you could have ever imagined. Nanami sputters, choking on the smoke. His eyes go wide, and crimson erupts up the glimpse of open chest and neck, visible even in the moonlight, spreading to his cheeks in a way that makes you want to trace its path with your lips.

You can’t help but giggle as he coughs. “You make it too easy sometimes, Sheriff,” you say between laughs.

Nanami clears his throat repeatedly, desperately trying to regain his composure. But you catch the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting a smile that makes you bite into your bottom lip. His chest heaves as he takes in deep breaths, and your eyes watch the way his shirt stretches across his wide shoulders with each inhalation.

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he finally manages in a rough voice, glaring at you with a mix of exasperation and fondness that warms you from the inside out.

“So I’ve been told,” you reply with a wink, reveling in the way his breath catches again at your boldness. He shakes his head with a chuckle, turning back to the open plains in front of him.

You notice that some of the tension has left Nanami’s shoulders, his posture relaxed once more. Your guilt eases a little, knowing that, at least for this moment, you’ve managed to lighten his burden rather than add to it.

“Gojo likes trouble as much as he likes wit. Stay away from him and pick someone else.” He pauses, opening his mouth as he weighs his next words with delicacy. “I imagine you have a line of suitors with far more promise than Gojo hoping to escort you to the festival.”

Nanami’s voice is soft, almost wistful, wrapped around an overwhelming cluster of resignation that makes your heart clench painfully in your chest. His eyes are fixed on the horizon as your horses walk side by side, but you can see a tightness around his mouth, a tension in his jaw that speaks volumes.

“I haven’t really paid much attention, to be honest,” you admit, surprised at his sudden remark. You try to keep your tone light and nonchalant, praying he can’t hear the slight tremor, the silent truth that threatens to spill from your lips—that the only man you truly notice is him. Every day, all the time, from sunup to sundown, it’s always Nanami Kento.

Nanami hums thoughtfully, fingering the sharp cut of his jaw. “That fellow from the saloon a few weeks back? He seemed taken with you.” He pulls in a deep drag, sunset orange ebbing to life at the tip.

You can’t help but roll your eyes. The memory of that particular encounter was both amusing and exasperating. “He was three sheets to the wind, Nanami. Claimed to know my drink of choice and got it wrong when he recommended scotch, of all things.”

Nanami exhales a smoky breath, the wisps ghosting around a smirk that makes him look statuesque with the rolling plains behind him. “You prefer moonshine,” he muses, “The kind Kilmer makes, if I’m not mistaken.”

Your heart skips a beat at his casual observation. Moonshine isn’t exactly legal in town, but when the bartender Kilmer works the saloon on Wednesday nights, most of the residents ask for his prized moonshine if no deputies are around. Of all the things for him to pay attention to, your drink of choice seems like such a small, insignificant detail.

You bite the corner of your lip to keep from breaking into a wide smile, belly warm at the thought.

“Not like I can admit to that,” you tease, digging your teeth harder into your bottom lip as the simmering grows in your stomach. “Aren’t you supposed to be upholdin’ the law?”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you want to snatch them back. You’re aware of how much pressure the sheriff places on himself. How he feels unworthy of the badge on his chest. There has never been a day in your knowing him where you felt he was undeserving. Of the town, of all of its citizens, of you. If you could turn his face to a mirror and stand by his side while you tell him just how deserving he is, you would in a heartbeat.

Nanami’s smile fades slightly, a heavy weariness etching onto his features. He takes another drag and turns his head away as he exhales. “This town is small, and times are hard. Sometimes…moonshine is all someone can afford if they need to get away from the world for a while.” He pauses, his eyes meeting yours in the moonlight. “A good lawman knows when to look the other way for the sake of his people.”

It’s times like these when you admire the man Nanami is. He’s rough around the edges and stern with the law, but he’s also empathetic enough to know when some rules should be lax based on those they affect. Maybe he could think the same about you? Maybe he could understand your self-imposed noble acts and forgive you for causing him so much pain.

Nanami clears his throat, seemingly eager to change the subject. “The man at the general store two months ago? He could hardly string two words together around you.”

“He was at least five years younger than me,” you counter, giggling at his persistence. “Hardly appropriate. What will the town think?”

“That you’re incredibly picky—” he starts, but you cut him off with a playful swat to his arm.

“Or maybe,” you chuckle with a playful roll of your eyes, “they’ll think I have standards. Is that so wrong, Sheriff?”

“Not at all. Though, I can’t help but wonder what those standards might be.”

Oh.

You’re immediately aware of how dangerous this conversation has become. You’ve never flirted so blatantly before, never with such clear intention. The banter between you and Nanami has always been a harmonious push and pull, as natural as breathing, even though you both treat it as a forbidden dance. But this shift now—it’s palpable, exciting, and terrifying all at once. But the night air, the lingering adrenaline from the cattle drive, that pump of electric fire that pulses through your veins when you can feel free for a moment, all of it makes you bold.

“Someone kind,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder might shatter the moment. “Intelligent also helps, dedicated to his work and cares about the people around him.” You risk a glance, hiding beneath the curtain of your curls. Your heart races, each beat echoing the recklessness that coats your tongue with every word. “Someone who notices the little things…like a lady’s drink preference.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. It’s as if you’ve finally given a voice to the undercurrent that’s been flowing between you, transforming your ocean of subtle flirtation into something more tangible, more precarious.

Nanami’s gaze, usually so controlled, molds before your eyes. In the flickering embers of his cigarette, you see something molten, a desire that slides down your body with liquid arousal. His lips purse around his cigarette, your eyes flickering to the muscle that curls around the filter, watching with rapt attention as he inhales deeply, slowly.

When you slide your eyes up to meet his, your breath catches at the still-burning intensity. Your vision tunnels to the reflective desire in his eyes, the moonlight on his face, the tension that crackles between you like lightning before a storm. It’s almost too much, your chest tightening with still stolen breath in your lungs.

But just as quickly, he looks away, severing the connection and turning to exhale a plume of smoke into the darkness.

“He sounds like a fool.”

The tension breaks like a dam, and you find yourself choking on a surprised laugh, chortling at the full smile he shoots your way as if bashful. He seems like a flirtatious teenager, basking in the attention from his crush, and you hold on to the sight—to the way it’s making you feel.

As your laughter fades and he puts out his cigarette on the heel of his boot, the atmosphere shifts again. The sizzling lust that danced around you both softens into something more intimate, more tender.

The moonlight catches in Nanami’s hair, turning the golden strands liquid silver. No longer the pristine part he maintains, the strands fall in gentle tufts around the tops of his ears and over his eyebrows. Your fingers twitch on the reins of Buttercup, itching to reach out and brush those disheveled strands away, to feel if they’re as soft as they look.

Nanami, soft when he speaks again, almost reverent. “You’d be surprised, you know,” he murmurs, looking at you once more. “Just how many people notice you.”

His words sway in the air, loaded with meaning. You find yourself frozen, caught in the earth of his gaze, the sincerity making your throat dry. Even as your hips move with Buttercup’s trot, it feels like the world narrows to just the two of you, eyes on each other as everything else fades into insignificance.

Suspended in time and bathed in moonlight, you wish you could push a little further, draw out a confession, or make a declaration of your own. You want to stretch this moment into eternity, to live in this space where you only exist as a schoolteacher, and Nanami could put his own happiness first, just for once.

But reality intervenes, as it always does, with a painful wave of guilt that crashes over you. The weight of your secrets, of your double life, of your part in his pain, settles heavily on your shoulders like lead. So, instead of the words you long to say, you offer only a gentle smile, letting the serene silence of the night envelop you both.

As the first glimmers of the town’s lamplights come into view, you allow yourself this moment of peace. You bask in Nanami’s presence beside you, in the rhythm of the horses’ hooves, in the soft ‘plop’ of his Stetson against his back with each step. You breathe in the memory of shared laughter and adventure, storing it away like a precious treasure.

It’s dangerous—this indulgence—you know. Every shared moment, every word, every loaded glance yanks you further into a web of feelings you can’t afford to have. But as you ride side by side through the moonlight, you can’t bring yourself to regret it. Not tonight.

Instead, you hold this memory close to your heart, a keepsake against the long, lonely nights ahead. It’s a bittersweet reminder of what could be, in a world where you aren’t who you are—a world that exists only in these fleeting moments under the vast, star-studded sky.

By the time you clamber up to your doorstep, Buttercup is already resting in her stable, and that terrible feeling of guilt and confusion roars to life in your chest. You wrap your hand around your doorknob before turning to look at Nanami. He’s still there, with messy hair and sweaty skin, as he reaches into his vest for another cigarette. Handsome and otherworldly and right there. He catches your stare as he places the filter between his lips, one eyebrow quirking up in concern.

“Everything alright?” he asks, the unlit cigarette dangling as he speaks. “I’m not leaving until you’re safely inside.”

You wish you could relish in his concern, bathe in his care, and savor the warmth that blooms in your chest. But you’re not sure you’ve even earned it.

“I’m goin’, I'm goin',” you joke, cracking the door as you step one foot inside your home, still angled to him.

“Well, hurry along then,” he insists, a gentle demand lingering beneath. He lights the cigarette, cheeks pulled in as he inhales full-chested and exhales a deep plume of smoke. Through the haze that dances around him, you find mischief as he smirks. “Ma’am.”

The laugh leaves you before you can stop it, rolling your eyes at his deliberate use of the title he knows annoys you. With a final wave, you step inside, closing the door behind you.

The laughter dies on your lips as soon as the door clicks closed and you press your forehead against the cool wood, eyes stinging with the promise of tears. The clop of Flint’s hooves slowly fades as Nanami gets further away from you, and the only thing you wish at this moment is to yank open the door and run to him. To run away from your terrifying thoughts and forget everything.

Next week, when Mr. and Mrs. Phillips leave town, you have another heist planned. It should feel promising. Another chance to do good, to make others happy at the expense of your safety. But the thought sits heavy in your stomach, the lightness you felt moments ago with Nanami leaving in a flourish.

That nagging feeling from this morning, the festering loneliness born from your decisions, finally breaks free now that you have nothing else to distract you. It makes everything so much harder now. The thrill that once drove you feels muted now, overshadowed by something else—something warm and achingly intimate that’s taken root in your chest.

You slide down to the floor, back against the door, bottom lip quivering as conflict rages like an inferno within you. Tomorrow, you’ll have to start preparing. But tonight, you can’t help but wonder if your heart is truly in this anymore.

Thanks for reading! Here’s Part Two!

[freakyformula]

Car sex headcanon with Charles Leclerc

Warnings: Made in like 15 minutes lol, car sex, unprotected sex, creampie, praise kink

-

It was supposed to just be a car ride home from Nice. You'd just landed, and both of you were exhausted from the flight and the triple-header weekends. You looked forward to sleeping in your own bed and getting to wind down with Charles.

He looks over at you, as you sit in the passenger seat, arms crossed and dozing off.

Something about the fact that you looked so innocent and harmless sparked something in him and he felt himself growing hard in his pants.

He carefully places his hand on your thigh, giving it a light squeeze. He is desperate to feel you but doesn't want to wake you up.

Your head bobs up as he pulls over, confused as to why you had come to a stop.

"What's wrong, Charles?" You ask.

He sighs, and looks away, focusing on the traffic outside.

You notice the bulge in his pants and sigh, not from annoyance but rather to collect your thoughts.

You're about to say something but he beats you to it.

"I... I'm not sure if I can wait until we get home, Y/N." He says, looking at you with a frown.

"Hey..." You start, "Talk to me, Charles."

The grip on your thigh tightens as the fire in his eyes intensifies.

"Get in the back, mon amour." He orders.

And you oblige. You get in the backseat in record time, meeting him halfway across the seat. Your mouths crash into each other and his hands start wandering.

First, they find your neck, pulling you impossibly closer to his face.

His hands slide down to your chest, sliding his hands under your oversized hoodie, finding out you're naked under it. When his hands land on your tits, Charles lets out a satisfied sigh. "Naughty girl..." He whispers between kisses.

You feel his hands slide down your back, coming to a stop on your ass. He spanks you lightly, causing you to gasp out of surprise rather than pain from the sting of his hand on your exposed skin.

Your reaction makes him chuckle, "Sorry." He says innocently, even though you know he wasn't sorry about his actions.

He helps you slide your sweatpants off, and his hands instantly land on your ass again, toying with the lining of your underwear.

Charles keeps his eyes glued on your face to catch any sign of you feeling uncomfortable but instead, he's pleasantly surprised by you helping him slide your panties down.

"Touch me, Charles, please..." You beg while pulling on his hand desperately.

He huffs, "So desperate for me, chérie." But he does as you say, after all, you asked very nicely.

His lips land on yours, and his hands slide down from your shoulders to the small of your back, guiding you onto your hands and knees.

"Fuck, mon amour. So beautiful like this." He coos as his fingers slide the insides of your thighs, teasing you out of your mind.

When you hear the clinking of his belt you let out a small whimper, knowing what is about to come your way.

You grab the car door handle, steadying yourself.

"You ready for me, mon amour?" He asks, and you nod frantically as an answer.

"Good." He praises and gives himself a few pumps before lining himself up with you.

His fingers slide along your slit, collecting your arousal on his digits. The wetness of you earns you a groan from him.

When his tip touches your opening, you instinctively push back on him, making him pull back. "No." He says, with a prolonged "o".

He teases your opening, barely sliding in, and pulling out again.

You groan in annoyance, "Fuck Charles!" You yell, on the brink of feeling pissed.

He chuckles and finally finds his way home.

You both moan out brokenly as he burrows into you, centimetre by centimetre.

"Feel so good..." You whimper and clench around him, making him hammer into you harder.

His grunts become more frequent and desperate and you feel yourself getting closer to your release as he plays with your clit, and slides from where you are connected and back to your sensitive button.

His fingers did their magic and you soon came closer, almost tumbling over the edge.

"Cum for me." Charles demands, and you do, hard, like the good girl you are.

Charles keeps his eyes on your contorted face as you convulse beneath him, while he moves in you.

You feel your arms and legs giving up. When you are about to give in, Charles grabs you, pulling you up again.

His arms bring you up against his chest, allowing him access even deeper into you.

As you are sitting on his cock, he continues ravaging your pussy, slamming into your cervix.

His lips brush against your earlobe, nibbling on it, while praising you on how well you take him, and how well you are doing for him.

"I'm close, Y/N. I'm so proud of you..." He announces while slowing down his movements.

And a couple of thrusts later, he slams into you, painting your deepest crevices with his white cream.

"Oh my god..." You whisper, loud enough for him to hear clearly. His grunts in your ear egg you on even further, and you push down on him instinctively.

He pumps into you a few more times before stilling, waiting out the aftershocks.

"You did so well, my love." He coos.

When he pulls out, you are left clenching around nothing, and Charles seems to notice. He carefully inserts two fingers into you and plays with the cum threatening to escape onto the black seats.

"We can't let that happen, can we?" He says as you feel his hardening cock slapping against you, ready to plug you up with his cock. "Ready to be filled up again?" He winks.

[hanasnx]

jerk it out.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ NOTES: the header is from @/teefumz on tiktok and instagram. i couldn’t find anything about their rules on reposts used for personal reasons such as this which is why i really stress go check out the original artist on their platforms linked. WARNINGS: human!mordecai | situationship | fwbs | explicit sexual content | praise | doggy style | reverse cowgirl | squirting | vaginal fingering.

MORDECAI wasn’t always good at sex. When you first started out your little situationship with him, he had not impressed you with his skills in the sack. He made up for it in constant worship, and empty availability, essentially donated his flagpole of a cock for you to fuck yourself on whenever convenient. Even going as far as to make Rigby cover for him while he raced over to your place on work time. He’s still working off taking the golf cart for a personal call.

However, the longer this has gone on the better it got. Before when he’d beg you to do reverse cowgirl, you were hesitant because of your lack of view. You were used to doing most of the work by then, but he most enjoyed watching that pretty ass bounce on him. He’d wrap those long, ringed fingers around your ankles, stroking his thumb lovingly across your skin as he groans behind you.

Now that’s gotten more confident, he’ll make it worth your while. He’ll root his feet on the mattress so he can pick his pelvis up, juggling you on his hips as he fucks up into you. Your hair is corded around his palm—where he says it belongs—keeping your spine in a deep arch, just how he likes it.

Proving what a fan he is of hitting it from the back, doggy style is another favorite of his. He’s gotten exponentially more skilled on that one. Instead of plowing you with his rig and hoping for the best, he’s learned how to move you, and move with you. That hand places itself on your tailbone, bouncing you back, and letting your body spring you forth on its own. His lean and taut abdomen rolls as he fucks you, stroking your insides instead of ramming them. He learned the method from how well you responded when he ate you out, the motion of his tongue licking your hole taught him well, and you rewarded him with the hottest moan he’s ever heard and your claws dug deep in his faded dyed blue hair. Now he’s got it figured out, and by the way you’re yelling into his mattress, he’d say he’s doing a damn good job.

Like you want it, you’re backing up on him, meeting him halfway. The pace is set harder, slamming into you like you’re asking for while you writhe and clutch at his old and worn blanket. He goes for it, palming your head to shove your face further into the mattress, muffling you. The slightest change in angle transforms the sensation, and he starts fucking a limp body only interested in the way he’s hitting that pleasure spot over and over again. One of the reasons you liked Mordecai enough to hook up was his length because you’re into the pain. Now that’s gotten the hang of how to use it, you’re no better than a brainless doll, letting him fuck your hole like the expensive fleshlight he could never afford. Can’t beat the real thing anyway. Cunt gripping on him, tight and wet and sweet. He’s never had anything like it before, he fits in you like nothing else. “Taking it so good, can’t believe it. Can’t believe how fucking good you feel.” You can’t even respond, mindlessly babbling as he talks dirty to you.

When you start drying up from the harsh pace and his condom, he pulls out for your sake. You make a noise of disappointment but you’re satiated as soon as he hastily spits on your cunt. The gob slides down, and he spreads the moisture with three clumsy fingers, probing the entrance until he shoves them in. You jump with a cry, tensing under his touch but he doesn’t let up, banging his fingers inside you to coax that coveted release out of you. He knows exactly how to lure it out, he’s not trying to get you to cum. The familiar sting wells up in the pit of your stomach, screaming into his covers. Unconsciously you reach back to grab at him but he dodges you because he won’t let you get out of it. He wants his bed to smell like you.

Just like that you squirt, spraying him and dripping down his tense forearm. “Oh, fuck yeah, baby. There you go, fuck. Give it to me.” he encourages, plugging up your hole so it spills out from around him, over and over again, taking it from you while you bite hard into a bunch of blanket.

Tender, he extracts his fingers, having been held captive by your contracting pussy. Doesn’t matter that it’s sore and you’re coated in your own squirt and twitching, he feeds that long cock right back in to keep going.

[dymphnas]

a fragile game you play (with the ghosts of yesterday)

pairing: Guide!Wanderer x Traveler!Reader

wc: 1.5k

synopsis: While trying to locate elusive Aranara, Wanderer is trying to make sense of his feelings after remembering someone long forgotten. You are there beside him, witnessing his struggle with himself.

warnings: wanderer's POV, minor character death, mention of illness, (almost) panic attack, wanderer is emotionally constipated, abandonment issues, maybe spoilers for some part of the Sumeru Archon quest.

notes: This is from a random thought I had where wanderer is like paimon to the traveler, so basically like their guide throughout teyvat. they are on their way to do the aranara quest here. this post was inspired by a tag on this post that was like "unedited we ball" and I thought, why tf not post this, it has been rotting in my drafts for long enough. the header is from an old-ass genshin event with aranara like 2 years ago or something, it was the only screenshot of him and aranara that I had in my camera roll. lowkey hope this finds the discerning audience of awesome authors I admire. title is from the song Mark the Graves by Linkin Park. Dividers are by @uzmacchiato enjoy, my beloveds.

There seems to be a pain in his heart when he breathes, and the sensation catches Wanderer like a net ensnares unsuspecting fish. He has no heart, just as he has no breath. Puppets have no need for either. He glances ahead at the women holding their children and walking away, back to their homes. The children had been giggling around him just a few moments ago and, spotting his anemo vision, bid him to draw up a wind to make the leaves and flower petals dance. He obliged. Their tiny hands and trusting smiles brought back something deep from the recesses of his mind and he sees a face he wishes he could forget. The swirls of his (controlled) wind made them laugh, and their laughter made him smile in turn. He can allow himself this much. Reminiscing can't hurt people, he thinks, closing his eyes. That's why the humans do it so often.

It can't hurt to remember a child's delicate face, peals of laughter and deep set kind eyes, but, they're not deep set, are they? They're sunken in, with bruise-like dark circles around wet eyelashes that were just too long for a boy. The cheekbones are sharp with a diseased pallor, the eyes open, empty.

In an instant, he is standing in the house of his nightmares and a waifish child corpse greets him, clutching a doll with a feeble grip. The pale faced corpse looks at him, or perhaps at nothing at all and the memory burns behind his eyelids like the sting of betrayals and broken promises.

His hand comes up to his chest as his grief makes him breathless. His clothes feel like sandpaper. What's the use of a stupid muscle in his body when there is no blood in his veins or lungs when there is no need for him to breathe. Why make him touch divinity to be powerless? Why give him life if he was just going to be thrown—

"You have a teeny tiny soft spot for kids it seems," a voice interrupts his pain.

He schools his face into indifference, blinks the tears away. He's on the outskirts of Sumeru (not Inazuma, not anymore) and the children are gone now, not even pinpricks in the distance. It's sunset, and the hues of orange paint everything in the delicate shade of memory. The Traveler stands beside him, a soft smile on their face.

"Unnecessary animosity towards feeble things is a waste of time," he stands up and dusts off his garments, "Have you bought everything you need or did you get sidetracked by something inane again?"

"No, I got everything we need. And I do not get sidetracked by—"

"Then I suggest we keep moving. I think I saw an Aranara there." He grabs the pack and slings it over his shoulders. He takes a few steps too quickly and the Traveler struggles to keep up.

"I can carry my things, you know." They come up right next to him and make to grab the pack from his shoulders.

"I'm giving you permission to make good use of my kindness. You have only this opportunity."

"Hey! Wait up! You're walking too fast! HEY!"

He keeps walking and they follow, mumbling about strength and unnecessary endurance training. The soft scrunches of grass trailing behind affirm they're following close behind. It's not an unwelcome sound, but his mind is still a tangle of emotions and everything feels like it's trying to suffocate him.

There are things he'd like to say. That he should say. The Traveler is perhaps the only one who wants to befriend him in this world, at least. Wandering about Teyvat and exploring hidden corners of the realm had its appeal a few hundred years ago, but not anymore. He wants to thank them, especially for putting up with his shitty mood after facing his—his Maker.

Sumeru is a welcome change of scenery. The verdant plains lifted his spirits, and perhaps sensing his better mood, the Traveler wants to ask him some things. He can't have that conversation now, not right now, but maybe sometime later, he'd tell them of how he came into being, how he truly feels, and maybe even… how he's grateful for them in his life.

"The pack is heavy, you know. I know you're like, some kind of immortal being, or something, but you really don't have to carry it the whole journey. I'll feel bad." They tug at the strap on his shoulder, and his hands move to grab at their hand.

"Don't bother. I don't feel anything."

Oh, what a lie. That is not what he was trying to say at all. He was trying to go for something eloquent like: The burden is of next to no consequence. They look a bit startled at his sharp tone, did he overdo it?

He has stopped walking and, he realizes belatedly, he still has their hand in his. He lets go like he touched lightning, but their warmth still lingers. The Traveler does not recoil at his sudden movement. He sees himself in their eyes, and his face looks like he's in some kind of pain.

They take his hand in theirs. "What is it?" The whisper is petal soft, but it cuts into him all the same.

He wants to say, 'My creator made me with sparring in mind, you know? To spar against the most exalted and brilliant form of lightning. You don't need to worry about your measly backpack, it'll take more than that to crack my spine. I know exactly what it would take.'

It's not just about the backpack, he knows this. It's all a tangle in his heart, but he wants to say...something, and wills his mouth to form some words, but his lips remain as they are. Set in a thin line, a wretched mirror of the face in Tenshukaku.

He does not possess the ease with which to speak in soft words, without the bite of sarcasm. Looking into their inquisitive eyes, however, he finds the words come to mind easily enough, 'I do not mind doing this for you,' and 'I have been used all my life by people I did not want for a purpose I couldn't fulfill', or more wretchedly, 'It is not a burden to me, you are not a burden to me, let me do this for you willingly, let me be of use to you.'

The words come up to his throat and die there. Perhaps this reticence is also a gift from his Maker.

He snatches his hand away and keeps walking. The Traveler catches up, and he feels a pair of eyes bore into his face. When he turns to look at them, their expression is a bit…pinched? Or is it they look a bit… concerned? That must be it. Far be it from his companion to be pained on his behalf. They're just concerned…about his abilities as a guide. Yes, that's it. Maybe his distraction this afternoon made them think he is not serious about their journey. That must be it. He hopes it's not anything else. They start to speak, and it feels he's like walking straight into a landslide of feelings he has been actively avoiding, and no, no, no, just no—not today. He walks a bit faster and silently wills the Traveler not to say a word.

"Are we continuing this scenic hike in meaningful silence till we find that Aranara?"

"You will find, Traveler, that speaking is often silver, but silence is always gold." His heart is beating too fast, and did he seem too pathetic earlier? Archons, did he look like he was crying?

He walks faster and the Traveler catches up. They look like they're going to say something. He feels breathless once again, and for entirely different reasons, now. This conversation is veering towards a dangerous route, and he does not have the stomach or vocabulary for it. Besides, it is now nighttime, and the aesthetic view for exchanges of emotional depth has long since passed.

To his relief, they shrug. "Fine by me. You can keep that mysterious brooding thing going. It's charming, really." They run a hand through their hair, and stare off into the path ahead. "Why are we headed to Mawtiyima?"

"You've got a chance to stock up for yourself. It's time for me to gather my provisions."

"Thought you said you don't need to eat."

"I don't. But some things are not pursued out of necessity."

He bends down and picks up a rukkhashava mushroom and puts it in his own satchel. He can hear the vague thump, thump, thump, of an approaching slime. Ah, there's also fungi floating around. Lovely.

"Well then, shall we go and see what else we can collect while farming for these mushrooms?"

"What do you mean, what else we can collect-oh no no no these are—"

The slime chucks a smaller pyro slime at them, and they both get to their fighting stances. The Traveller laughs in glee as his elements hit the slime, while his anemo swirls the element to hit their airborne enemies.

The hard conversations could wait until after they've dealt with this. Maybe, just maybe, they will move on from today like it never happened.

[niki-phoria]

⋆｡°✩ I KISSED THE SCARS ON HER SKIN / I STILL THINK YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL

kissing their cursed marks with itadori yuuji, inumaki toge, kamo choso

notes: gn reader (no pronouns used), maybe ooc choso ?? he's a little insecure, sad yuuji, not proofread, header from pinterest, title from pierce the veil - a match into water

ITADORI YUUJI has the weight of the world on his shoulders. it’s a heavy burden to be the vessel of the strongest curse jujutsu sorcerers have ever seen - one that places an unrelenting amount of pressure on him to be perfect, lest the world be destroyed due to a moment of lost control.

yuuji moves in a daze as he trudges back to jujutsu high. some of the tension in his shoulders relaxes when he notices you, curled up on the couch in the common area, patiently awaiting his return.

you look up when he closes the door behind him, tossing your phone to the side. “long day?” 

yuuji sighs, all but collapsing onto the couch beside you. his head finds a place in your lap, resting against your thighs. “i had another meeting with the higher-ups.” 

you frown, gently beginning to card your fingers through his hair in the hopes of providing some comfort. yuuji looks up at you, unshed tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. “what if i lose control and he takes over again? what if i hurt you?”

“you won’t. and if you do, you’ll fight like hell until you get it back.” your fingers twist around strands of his hair; your nails gently massage against his scalp. yuuji closes his eyes when you brush your fingers against the small mark near his left eye. your touch is gentle - comforting. his breath hitches when you lean down, pressing a fleeting kiss against the scar. “i trust you, yuuji.”

INUMAKI TOGE’S hands burn as he wraps them around a hot cup of tea, feeling the warmth of the boiling water through the ceramic. his smile is hidden behind the hem of his jacket when you slip into the chair beside him, holding your own cup. 

underneath the golden glow of the kitchen lights, toge can see the fresh bruises littering your knuckles. he’ll have to remember to pick up some ointment the next time he goes out for cough medicine, he notes. 

“is your throat feeling any better?” 

“salmon,” toge nods. he tugs the hem of his jacket down just enough to expose his mouth before taking a sip of his now bearably warm tea. your own drink goes forgotten as you watch him, your gaze trained on the curse marks near his lips. 

“tuna?” toge asks, cocking his head at you in confusion. 

“everything’s fine. it’s just…” you softly smile, hesitantly reaching up to rest your hand against his cheek. toge watches with wide eyes when your fingers brush against the edges of his cursed mark. the skin is rough against your skin - permanently embedded with the mark of the inumaki clan. “you’re very handsome, toge.”

his face burns at the praise and toge has to resist the urge to hide behind the safety of his uniform again. 

but he doesn’t. 

instead, he leans into your hand, encouraging you to continue your ministrations. there are a million words lingering on the tip of toge’s tongue. but in the quiet of the night, nothing else needs to be said.

mornings with you were quickly becoming the favourite part of KAMO CHOSO’S day. waking up to your body curled up beside his; watching you carefully style your hair in front of the bathroom mirror; dancing around the kitchen together as you attempt to make breakfast - he could never get enough.

it was part of your routine. choso would watch you with an attentive gaze and a soft smile. today, however, was different. choso studies his reflection in the mirror, his eyes fixated on the mark stretching across his nose. 

“hey,” you whisper, placing a hand against his back. “is everything okay?”

choso relaxes a little at your touch before turning to face you. “do you think my curse mark looks weird?”

“no. of course not.” you furrow your eyebrows, cocking your head at him in confusion. “do you?” 

he remains silent, stealing another glance at the mark across his cheeks. “it’s just… humans don’t have curse marks. i thought you would prefer how i look without one.”

“choso,” you whisper. he can feel heat rising to his cheeks when you reach over to tilt his face to look at you. the edge of your thumb brushes against the edge of the mark; your fingers gently caress his cheek. he remains still when you slowly lean in, pressing a few stray kisses against his cheeks. “i love you. and your cursed mark. please don’t ever forget that.”

an unfamiliar warmth settles itself into choso’s chest. it’s a feeling he’s still not used to - how his heart beats faster around you. he softly smiles, leaning his cheek against your hand. “i love you too.”

taglist (open! send an ask/dm to be added): @sunoooism @vamxpi @sad-darksoul @kamote-kuneho

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