#I'm sorry I need to go

[captainjonnitkessler]

You know I used to think "tumblr's absolute refusal to actually engage with the Trolley Problem in favor of insisting that there must be a third, morally pure option that doesn't require them to make a hard decision and anyone who asks them to make a binary choice is just a short-sighted idiot is really fucking annoying, but I guess it's not actually doing any harm".

Anyway that was before we asked tumblr at large to decide between "guy aiding a genocide but making progress elsewhere" and "guy who would actively and enthusiastically participate in a genocide and would also make everything else much, much worse for everyone elsewhere" and the response was that there must be a third, morally pure option that doesn't require them to make a hard decision and that anyone who asks them to make a binary choice is a short-sighted idiot.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The Murderbot TV show is finally here!

[egophiliac]

Ernesto Foulworth and Gino… it wouldn’t surprise me if they had fake identities

I accept this explanation

(the problem is that I had a very regionally-specific immediate thought and I could not get it out of my head)

(sorry this is messier than usual, I refuse to put more effort into it than it deserves)

[salamispots]

speedrunning a bday gift for bb nephew hjdfgjh

[lazylittledragon]

what if i broke all the bones in your legs actually

[yeah-thats-probably-it]

Hot take maybe but I think Bertie would be FAR more likely to survive the first two months of Dracula than Jeeves would be. Bertie has a healthy sense of self-preservation. Jeeves consistently underestimates how dangerous a situation might get (Steeple Bumpleigh, the club book) because he’s overconfident about his level of control over any given situation. He'd handle Dracula masterfully if they faced off in England, but on Dracula's home turf? Much more doubtful.

I realize this might be a tough sell, so I will explain further (or it's not a tough sell, and I'm going to explain further because I want to). (criteria taken from @canyourfavesurvivecastledracula) Without further ado.

Would Jeeves and Wooster survive Castle Dracula?

Jeeves

Jeeves' survival will depend on how long Dracula finds him more entertaining than irritating. On that basis, I don't think he's long for this world. On the one hand, he has a huge wealth of knowledge about English society and culture that he can recite perfectly from memory. That should buy him at least a little time with noted teaboo Dracula.

On the other hand, he would be absolutely no fun as a vampire plaything. Jeeves cannot be got. Sneaking up on him while he's shaving will yield zero reaction (though that's at least good for his short-term survival--given that, although he DID take the crucifix from the old woman out of politeness, he certainly isn't going to wear it. The rules of fashion don't go out the window just because you're in a spooky castle). Then, although managing the whims of rich jerks is not an insignificant part of a valet's job, Jeeves usually does this by bending his employers to his will. Dracula is not the sort of employer this will work on. It'll just add insult to injury when on top of being impossible to scare, NOW Jeeves is telling Dracula that his favorite cloak is several centuries out of fashion and he's not allowed to wear it anymore.

Jeeves will 100% go exploring in the areas he was told not to go-- though to be fair, he MIGHT actually get away with this, what with his superpower of appearing in rooms without being seen or heard. Said superpower might save him from the brides as well (though this is by no means guaranteed). Since I find it doubtful that Dracula would come to rescue his annoying ass, not being noticed is his best defense.

There are a couple other things working in Jeeves's favor; the question is just whether they'll be enough to save him.

He DOES know shorthand, and could try to send coded letters. He might even have the foresight to squirrel away some extra stationary where Dracula can't find it. But could he get them posted? Would it even do him any good?

He certainly has enough cultural literacy to figure out what his new boss is pretty quickly. If he didn't chuck the crucifix out the carriage window, he might start carrying it around in his pocket.

Psychology of the individual, sure, but the individual in question is a 400-year-old vampire who lives in an isolated castle in a foreign country and is regarded as a terrifying mythological figure in the surrounding villages. Jeeves has never come up against anything this alien before, he's cut off from his normal resources, and opportunities to play people against each other are limited.

He probably has enough upper body strength from all that shrimping and fishing to climb the wall, so he COULD escape if he wanted to, if he survived long enough. It's just, again, that overconfidence, and also Dracula has a vast library full of rare old books that are entirely at his disposal. He's keeping his eyes and ears alert for potential escape strategies, of course, but I don't see him being as desperate to get out as Jonathan was.

There are just a lot of "depends on"s here, and I'm not convinced that luck would shake out in Jeeves's favor, all things considered.

Bertie

Bertie is so perfect for the job of Castle Dracula Prisoner it's like it was made for him. Think about it. Being held against his will in big manor houses comes more naturally to him than breathing. He's afraid of things that are scary. A lifetime of dealing with Aunt Agatha has made him the world's preeminent expert in "curl[ing] up in a ball in the hope that a meek subservience [will] enable [him] to get off lightly." He will NEVER go exploring in places he's been warned away from if nobody is forcing him to (Rev. Aubrey Upjohn's office notwithstanding. There were biscuits in there). He's both fun to talk to and easy to toy with (and extremely English). A+ prisoner. Dracula adores him.

In my opinion, Bertie is at Castle Dracula either because Aunt Agatha got some wires seriously crossed and thinks he’s going to meet an eligible potential bride (I mean, there are certainly brides there), or because Dracula has something Aunt Dahlia wants him to steal (far less likely, given that one of Dracula’s THINGS is famously not owning anything silver). Either way, he's shown himself entirely willing and able to escape down drainpipes if a sitch gets too scaly.

He DOES take the crucifix, and DOES wear it (which is what will save him during the shaving scene, because you KNOW he's going to jump a foot and cut himself like the dickens). He's read enough supernatural goosefleshers to be genre savvy about terrified old women cryptically pushing crucifixes into one's hands. I also think his sunny disposish endeared him to the villagers, and they were particularly vehement about urging him not to go. He doesn't speak German or Romanian, but he's empathetic enough to recognize Pure Terror. So by the time he actually gets to the castle, his imagination is already running wild and he's plenty aware that he is in imminent danger.

I think the biggest risk to Bertie will be the brides; whether or not he's susceptible to trances, if he thinks they're trying to marry him, it's against the code of the Woosters to turn them down. But that only becomes an issue if he comes face to face with them, which, luckily, I think is unlikely on account of the aforementioned "won't go exploring" (and if he did, Dracula would definitely rescue him).

I'm inclined to say due to his drainpipe-escape habits that he WOULD be able to climb the wall and MAY attempt to sneak into Dracula's room to look for the keys if his desperation grows to outweigh his fear. Whether he does or not, though, he does NOT have the stomach to attempt shovel murder, and therefore won't get magic brain fever, and may very well simply walk out the front doors when the people come to take the boxes away. OR he climbs his way out like Jonathan did. Either way.

When Bertie tells this story at the Drones later, Tuppy will say that no doubt it's been greatly exaggerated and all that probably happened was that he spent a couple months in an oldish house entertaining a weird loner.

[username0204]

Ok, here's a little experiment... since Will and Mike are just friends... this is totally normal and not at all uncomfortable, right?

Ok, are you calling the cops or should I?

Vol.2 Dustin & Lucas Vol.3 Hopper & Dmitri (Enzo) Vol.4 Jonathan & Argyle

[copia]

"Hope you're feeling it too!"

[vaguely-concerned]

the more I play the more I think lucanis basically knows it's illario who betrayed him right from the beginning (he's had a year in the ossuary to think. not that many people knew where he was going. when you ask him 'did Illario know you'd be on that ship' his only answer is the hardest flattest 'yes' you ever heard). so it's not so much about figuring out who the traitor is (because that's ludicrous. we all know. immediately. they didn't really bother to hide it lmao) as about methodically closing off every single avenue of denial lucanis has clung to that whole time with as much or little gentleness as you might prefer until he has no choice but to admit it. because the moment he has to admit it, he'll have to do something -- feel something -- about it. and that's such a catastrophic event in lucanis' inner landscape (he has had TWO people in this whole entire world up until now and will do anything to hold on to them with a heartbreaking child-like desperation, even at and especially through the detriment of his own self) that he'd rather just. not. what if we quite simply. didn't. what if we just stayed here in the emptiness where we can both pretend you didn't hurt me in a way I should never forgive. I have so much practice in that with caterina already it's always worked out great for everyone so far. (press x to fucking doubt but that's trauma logic for you lol)

after everything illario did, so much of the storm of lucanis' emotions around it is 'what the FUCK did you get yourself tangled up in this time and how do I get you out of this mess safely'. what's worse: the fact that your brother murdered you, or that he put himself in horrible danger doing so and thus exposed you to the risk of losing him forever. lucanis' heart certainly has an opinion here and it's fucking unhinged (affectionate)

the themes of dissociation in lucanis' character in general makes me feel nuts. allllll these contradictory messy things he needs to cut off from each other because they can't coexist or be easily reconciled inside him. but all remain stubbornly true separately anyway and will have their due one day. love and resentment. tenderness and fear and rage. terror and longing. love and freedom don't coexist. the burned out golden child anthem is playing in the background. he was always caterina's favourite and he has to keep striving to deserve that dubious honour with every breath he takes and then, presumably, mercifully, some day he will die and be excused and can rest. and until now he's suppressed all the -- natural, healthy, protective! -- negative feelings that threaten the few attachment relationships he actually has, at the cost of ever actually having his needs for connection and safety met and leaving his core self imprisoned and compromised. and spite goes 'what. no. that's dumb fuck that' (*spite voice* I do not understand that and even if I did I would not respect it) and does not allow him to fall back into that, which I think is what saves his life, ultimately. it took being possessed by a demon for lucanis to even contemplate telling anyone he loves 'no' in any way, but hey. whatever gets you there right lol

lucanis is dealing with the freeze response allll the way down baby. and he was even before the ossuary, that just turbo powered it and brought it to a breaking point way before it could happen naturally. but something was going to break eventually no matter what, and I'm just glad that in the end, through the power of friendship and also pure spite, it doesn't have to be him

[hellacioushag]

this mentality is SO WEIRD some of you clearly were not around for superwholock and it shows.

this obsession with needing to only ship something canon or to prove your ship is better because you think it will be canon... SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP! it shouldn't matter if people are shipping something that is or is not canon. let us play in our respective spaces and enjoy the content we want. it hurts literally nobody if fanart or fics are made for a couple that isn't canon. if it's upsetting to see then blacklist the tag and grow up.

[girldadbuckley]

His name is Buck.. a buck is a male deer.... Bambi is a male deer......

9-1-1 3.08 // Bambi (1942)

[uniquethingtastemaker]

This is from Vil x Reader -- Overblot Slap:

“Please, don’t look at me… Stop looking at me like that!” Vil screams, cowering away from you. “Why? I wanted to become the most beautiful in the world, but why am I so–so ugly! I’m so ugly!” 

The dorm leader clutches his hair, hyperventilating. Poisonous gas seeps into the hallway.

“Roi de Poison, you’re not ugly,” Rook refutes.

You give him an incredulous expression. Vil looks pretty ugly to you. He hasn’t looked good since you became an unwilling participant in the reality TV show that’s his life. He has such an obsessive and self-important attitude. It pisses you off. 

“Yeah! Neige and Rook didn’t drink the juice!” Kalim agrees. 

You gape at Kalim with wide eyes. Is he excusing Vil’s actions? That man attempted murder! He might not have done irreversible physical damage, but you have psychological trauma. It’s been accumulating since day one. You can’t do this anymore. You have to hit him before he overblots. As a magicless student, you’re pushed to the sidelines during overblot fights. However, you have a personal grudge against Vil. You’ve put up with his pretentious behavior in your house for a month. You’re going to express your feelings with your fists.

“Please, Vil, come to your–”

You stomp up to Vil and slap him. The sound reverberates off the walls. He stares at you. His eyes are wide, and he has a searing red handprint on his face. One of his gloved hands brushes over it in disbelief. You put your hands on your hips.

“Yeah, you’re ugly,” you confirm. “You’ve been acting ugly for a while now. You almost murdered Neige because of your stupid ego and inferiority complex. Not everything is about you. You don’t get to decide you’ve lost the competition before you’ve even performed. You have a whole team behind you. You’re not being a good leader.” 

There’s a period of silence. The dorm leader stares at you. After a moment, you slap him again. 

“Your face pisses me off,” you explain, “Get your act together and stop whining. You have other things to do, like apologizing.”

(this is the first page of the Overblot Slap fanfic. u're welcome and i'm sorry. u're going to be so mad at me. this isn't going to come out in a while. i'm mostly working on Rook x Observant Reader. Then, the Dreaming of You series... however... I will say that once I get Riddle and Azul's finished, I might work on this more)

[armand-dearest]

I'm in the middle of reading the Devil's Minion chapter and tbh why were the blenders and microwaves what people focused on when trying to sell how bizarre Armand is. Blending stuff based on colour alone and microwaving rats were the most normal vampire things about him that I've read so far 😭.

I'm more surprised that the guy has a literal gaming room. A whole room for his videogames. He also recorded a timelapse of himself sleeping, and watches it back for fun. He was obsessed with taking long haul flights, sometimes returning back to the same location on the same night. Bro just had a hyperfixation on planes, he did not care where he was going. He also hyperfixated on astrology and had massive telescopes installed onto buildings he only lived in for days at a time before moving on. He gets so impatient to go out with Daniel that he throws his boyfriend in the shower and washes and shaves him himself if Daniel is feeling sleepy. He's actually insane

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

✧ Fantasies in the dark - III

✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader ✦ Summary: The only problem with being in love with a flame is that you can actually get burned if you get too close… ✦ Warnings/tags: SMUT 18+, MDNI! Blowjob, angst with no comfort, cunnilingus, talking you through it, fingering. Reader has some self-esteem issues. Mention of difficult past relationships. ✦ Words: 5,1k Arthur's pic is mine, others are from Pinterest. Hope this won't disappoint after all this time! AO3 link here!

Part I - Part II - Part III

Wet noises and moans. The wood near camp is filled with them, contrasting with the tranquil, usual melody of the forest.

"Jesus, girl, easy…" Arthur hisses, pleads, even. His voice is low and raspy and so deep, close to that tone he has while taming a horse, but with that desperate urgency hidden inside.

You let go of him just for a few seconds, his tip tilting up on its own, twitching in nothing as he gasps sharply from the sudden change; boiling volcano to harsh, frosty air of this fresh dawn. He instantly misses the sweet and warm sensation of your mouth wrapped around him.

"What, you want me to stop?" You grin, teasing, your lips still close –too close– to his cockhead, brushing against its soft and wet skin, rosy color glistening and beading in the sunlight like an unresisteable treat for you to suck on.

He let out a short sigh, somewhere between a laugh and a snarl. "Hell no, but y'know I ain't gonna last long if ya- aaah"

Your lips had opened and eaten him and the last of his words whole, fully and voraciously. He curses, too loudly for his own ego not to frown at him, but what could he do? He had never been able to resist you since the very first time he had seen that silhouette of yours; now how could he, watching you on your knees, head between his thighs, his cock buried inside of your velvety throat. Every time, you were making him get closer to Heaven, achieving the miracle of opening the Gates once more.

A big hand gently falls on your head, fingers messily tangling in your hair, while he lets his hips succumb to the irresistible rocking they're urging him to, his fat shaft pulling in and out of your mouth. Not too brutally, never. You can feel the hardness of it against your tongue, against the back of your throat, and you smile to yourself noticing just how close he indeed is already. Your hands hold his shirt from each side of his waist –that overused blue shirt he hadn't stripped from, his member only fished out of his pants and union suit. Funny, how you noticed meaningless details in moments like those. Remnants of reality to keep you grounded on Earth, maybe. How the abused cotton feel under your fingertips. How his body and cock smell strong and manly and fucking divine. How the few dark curls escaping his clothes tickle your nose every time you push your face to his base. The way he tastes under your tongue, salty and heady. How the tip of his fingers feel against your scalp.

"Oh god, damn it, how– how can ya be so good every' goddamn time…" He rasps, his eyes closing as he feels his orgasm coming at him with the force and speed of an avalanche; his hips thrust a bit faster, but it's subtle. You know he doesn't allow himself to be rougher than that with you. Invisible threads braided from his own problems, insecurities and griefs holding him back, pulling on his limbs as if he were only a puppet of theirs. His speech flows more freely, though, like to compensate, sinful, incoherent words flooding and flooding and flooding as he praises you again and again to the very end…

"Yeah, such a good girl, so god-damn perfect, taking me so good darlin'." His hand tightens in your hair, "Aaaall that' dirty mouth, jus' for me." His hips shudder, his eyes shut close as he pounds one last time and stays right there deep in your throat. - Oh, shit!"

His dick hardens as he spills inside, unable to stop it, secretly not wanting to. And it's so perfect, his head almost gets dizzy from it, his free hand holding the tree against which he's leaning to stop himself from collapsing. His cum warm in the back of your throat as he sinfully paints it. Balls empty, as almost constantly now, a stark contrast to their painful fullness of a few weeks ago, he groans softly in pleasure and fatigue, breathing in and out heavily through his nose in this blissful state.

His hand travels from your hair to your cheek, caressing your skin in a tender gesture. A gesture of gratitude. Thank you for making me feel like this. Thank you for doing it every day. For stopping the pain in my bones from burning me more, even just for a few minutes. For bringing solace to both my body and my soul.

Of course, no words ever cross his lips as he helps you stand up. His legs almost go weak again when he catches you swallowing with that proud, self-satisfied grin of yours. A nymph, he had thought of you the first time you had slept together. More like a succubus of Lust, he corrects and chuckles to himself.

"You're a wild one." He states, buttoning back his union suit, then his pants.

"You like that about me."

"Probably more than a' should, dalrin" … Ain't proper for a man to fancy a girl that much."

"Takling about that, it ain't proper neither to cary yourself with a cock that big…"

His hands fumble with his belt he had just picked up from the ground, his Volcanic revolver suddenly falling in the grass with a loud, muted sound. His head snaps up to look at you, his cheeks tinged a beautiful pink as a teenage boy getting his first kiss right on them. He's genuinely flabbergasted for a few seconds, his mouth slightly open in confusion, thin lips hanging a bit dumbly. It reminds you of that night you had caught him in the act in Rhodes, and you let a chuckle escape.

"Ya shouldn't say stuff like that, 'specially not a few feet away from camp." He protests, his usual frown settling deeply between his brows, instinctively rejecting your praise. He finishes buckling up his belt as he intended to in the first place, trying to brush off the primal, manly feeling of pride your comment had ignited in his guts. His enormous pistol he shoves back into his holster isn't helping with that either.

"You weren't that bothered about sound a few seconds ago…" You remark, brushing your knees then trying to fix your hair not to look too disheveled -as if you hadn't just sucked the hell out of the gang's toughest enforcer just a few seconds ago.

"Hush now, woman." He replaces his hat straight on top of his head with one hand, an amused smirk pulling his lips up. He looks down at you, gaze full of softness, deep blue color the only witness to the meanderings of his thoughts.

Looking at those eyes was like looking at the depths of a lake from above. You could always tell there was some life and movement under the water's surface, but couldn't point out what mysterious creature was swarming in those abyssal, muddy waters.

"I'll take care of ya tonight. 'm gonna make that cheeky grin disappear."

You shiver at the promise. You knew just how good Arthur surprisingly was at taking care of women that way. Biting your lips, you whisper some sultry last words in return, saying how you couldn't wait, before turning your heels and walking off to the numerous amount of chores still waiting for you.

Arthur doesn't bother to ogle at your ass as you do, your hips swinging subtly under your dress, the movment hypnotizing as you had almost reached camp. You both really should have walked further away from it, but damn it he couldn't had waited a second more with how hellish you were making his life at camp be. Stealing secret kisses, bending just in front of him, purposely getting your clothes wet, sometimes even downright caressing his crotch when no one was looking. And at the same time, you made it all heavenly, as some sort of devilish salvation. He scratches his jaw and walks the opposite way, not wanting to appear too obvious with the both of you coming back from the same spot together. There probably was not much to save, but still. His cock soft and satisfied and comfortable in his pants, his heart light, his good mood pushes him to accept Javier's friendly invitation to go fishing.

He can't help but let his thoughts get back to you, though. It had become more than a habit at this point, it was an obsession. Tasting your flesh, touching your skin, making love to you, and making one with you, it had all made him a devotee. He was a preacher who had the unthinkable privilege of having met his God.

He isn't catching much fish compared to Javier who was emptying the damn pond by himself. But he didn't care at all. It was a good, sunny day. One of the best he was having in a long time.

Your face isn't hiding the euphoria you're radiating with. All the contrary. Sat under the girl's tent not too far from the lake's shore, bucket of soapy water between your legs, you even hum a tune that makes Tilly smile next to you, her mending on Hosea's jacket a little less mundane. You don't complain even once about your tiring chore as you usually do. In fact, it feels like there's no worry in the whole world. Like those quiet moments of peace, pleasant good weather between two storms. The frogs croaking from the lake, the birds and chickens chirping, Pearson and Grimshaw in deep conversation a feet away from you. Uncle's banjo. Not even Micah's filthy shirt covered in blood from a few moments ago could bring you down; the now-washed and mended cloth hung on the thread to dry along the dozen other ones you had taken care of.

"You're quite in the mood today, mh?" Tilly asks, an amused expression on her young face, with that light tone of voice you had grown to love dearly.

"Could say so…"

You voluntarily stay elusive, too proud and happy with yourself about all that had happened between you and Arthur since the gang had settled here. The thought of him emerges in your head once more as you realise the next piece of clothing to wash is one of his workshirts, the torn and dirty red fabric feeling coarse between your hands. It reminds you of earlier. The strong smell of his sweat fills your nose. It should have disgusted you more than anything, but all the contrary made your body grow hotter. You let a small chuckle escape you.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing."

"Is Arthur's shirt covered in some unknown substance again?"

"No, it's just…" You start, unable to resist the urge to finally tell someone about it, words simmering in your throat like an agitated pot. "It's just I can't help but think about what's actually under it, you know?" You hold the large shirt in front of you, eyes studying it with an obvious interest.

Tilly laughs quietly, her eyes still fixed on her knitting, slowly nodding with a knowing smirk. "Oh, trust me, sweetie, every girl here thought 'bout it at least once -

"No, I mean, I know how he actually looks… Without any clothes on…"

The needle stops in the air, and she turns her head to you, the biggest smile on her face, her eyes burning with that flame of curiosity that swallows everything once you've discovered the surface of something utterly interesting, a gold digger unable to stop searching for more. Her eyes dart quickly between the two of yours, as you can watch in real time the wheels turning in her head.

"Girl, are you serious right now?"

"We did it. Like, a lot of times." You drop a bomb, for the third time today. You can't help but love the way she's reacting, your heart swelling with pride, your brain bubbling from getting that sort of attention.

"I knew it! I just knew it! It was so obvious, I mean," the young girl expresses with the speed of a train, "Just the way he was looking at you, spending more and more time at camp, following you everywhere!"

You feel your cheek slightly burn, and your chest rising higher. Why was it all so important to you? You didn't exactly know, but it felt great hearing Tilly, a friend, maybe a sister even, expressing her excitement.

"Yeah, well, it was just for fun, you know? I guess he really needed to blow off some steam, and I was there, more than happy to help…"

"Oh my God, this is so exciting!" She puts her needle and Hosea's garment aside. "Tell me more! How is he like?"

"In bed…? Well, a bit like his usual self, I guess. Rough at times, but always… Gentle."

Tilly nods slowly in agreement, her lips still pulled into a mischievous grin.

"And he's needy and eager, oh my Lord Tilly, you have no idea how much he–

You were about to put Arthur's shirt in the laundry bucket and spill another juicy information before you're pulled off your perfect little cloud.

"I can't believe you're bragging about all this."

You tilt up your gaze, and you're met with Mary-Beth. She, so sweet and delicate, who had been so close to you since the first days you had joined the gang. Who had always treated you with kindness and understanding. You had never heard her talk to you this way.

Seeing you're not answering anything, Mary-Beth continues, her hands on her hips.

"Arthur's not your little toy to play with, [Name]. He's been through much more than you can imagine, and his heart should be nursed, not fooled."

Her tone isn't purposely mean, but it's still firm. It holds a deeper truth in it, something unsettling that puts you right back face to face with your flaws and responsibilities. She's scolding you like a mom would with her favorite daughter who had disappointed her. And it's moving, as difficult as it is to admit.

"I… I didn't think-

"Listen, I know you're not a bad person, and you don't think you're doing anything wrong," She starts, her arms now crossed on her chest, her eyes leaving you no escape. "But Arthur is fragile when it comes to love. I know he doesn't look like he could be fragile about anything, but it's the truth."

You search for words to answer, but nothing comes; it is as if you were trying to get out of quicksand with no branches strong enough to pull you out of the mess. You simply look at the ground, unable to hold her gaze any longer.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is, don't break his heart, please."

And she vanishes as quickly as she had appeared, heading towards Pearson's wagon. You can still see her from afar, and a weird, nauseous feeling settles in your throat. No words from Tilly, trying to reassure you in multiple ways, saying Mary-Beth is probably jealous or too worried, and that you should do what you want, could make it go away. She tries to cheer you up and ask some more questions, searching for the blaze of excitement and amusement from before, but the mood has definitely shifted.

You finally put Arthur's shirt in the bucket, its ruby color turning into a brownish, muddy one as all the dirt lifts off in the water. You watch it swirl in thick whirlpools of mud and foam intertwined, and you start to wonder. Was he falling in love with you? Were you about to break his heart? Was he searching for more, for something serious?

You had always thought Arthur was not the type to fall easily for someone. In fact, you had never seen him being romantically enterprising with a woman since you had known him. And between the two of you? It was all so recent. It all happened so fast. Inevitably, your thoughts travel to your past relationships. How they had failed, every time. How those men had left you, all without exception. How you had been deceived and cheated on and lied to. After years and years of it, you had come to the only conclusion. You were cursed. You were not enough. You weren't meant to be loved that way. To build something stable. You were sure of it.

"His heart deserves to be nursed."

That was certainly true.

But what happens to hearts that can't be saved or loved? What happened to hearts that had been dropped too many times, and left alone to shrink in the dark? Do they slowly fade and rot after so much time spent unused? Do they gather in a graveyard to die altogether, like a melancholic last procession before the unthinkable?

Are they capable of nursing another heart, although they haven't seen one in what felt like ages? Although they're already doomed?

Like a trap of glue engulfing you whole, those questions and reflexions stick to your skin and take up all the space in your mind for the rest of the day.

Arthur's tongue has no mercy for you. Well determined to give you a taste of your own medicine from what you had done to him in the woods near camp the same morning, he had been quick to shorten his dinner and usual evening around the campfire, not so subtly commanding you to come and join him in his tent.

You didn't even know the flaps could close before. Now, they're closed almost all of the time, guaranteeing the two of you a semblance of privacy, or at least a shield from the other's nosy gaze. Tonight it would save them from seeing you lying on your back on Arthur's cot right now, legs spread open, his huge, coarse hands keeping them in place, his head buried in your center as he drank from you like he would have from the purest and freshest of water from a wild cascade. Slowly, almost lovingly –and the thought brings back the knot in your throat– his mouth kiss and licks relentlessly your entrance, before laping all the way up to your clit, lips suckling at it as if wanting to suck poison from a snakebite.

You moan, the feeling delightful, the sight mesmerizing. Oh, those two blue eyes looking at your face from between your legs, those golden brown locks falling on his forehead, his lips red and wrapped around you, his crooked nose buried in your folds. You can almost feel how afire he himself is, like every time he takes care of you like this. And it doesn't surprise you. Arthur, the protector. Arthur, the giver. Arthur, the man who could spend a whole month outside in the wild if it would benefit Dutch or the gang. Arthur, the man who knocks giants down when they get too close to the girls and rips families from their lifetime savings, destroying his honor and dignity for his own folks. No wonder Mary-Beth was so protective of him, in return. Arthur could and would move mountains for them.

For you.

And it hits you, right in the middle of it, as this man is giving his soul to you, more dedicated to your pussy than you had ever seen any men be, eating every inches of it and thanking the Gods for allowing him to, lips litteraly french-kissing your slit with his eyes closed and his brows tilted upward as if tasting the most incredible meal he had ever tasted, drunk from it.

Of course. Of course, he was a head-over-heels romantic too.

Your brain starts to get caught in that glue trap again, but hopefully for you, it's the exact moment when he decides to brush a finger against your entrance. Pressing gently, reverently, his fingertip softly swiping against your skin, collecting your arousal and his saliva in a sinfully wet noise. And he sighs deeply. Oh God, how could you not have noticed before? Every gesture from him is a prayer to you. To his deity. He looks at you, attentive to your every reaction. Wanting to make sure you're feeling good, that you're feeling perfect.

He must have noticed you're not in your normal state, your teasing and provocative comments missing from the picture. He leave your cunt just for a few seconds, and his lips rubs gently against it as he talks, stubble softly scratching,

"You okay there, darlin'?" You can feel his warm breath against you, your legs going weak at it.

"All g-good, don't stop. Arthur, please…"

I don't want to talk about it. Please, please don't ask anything else, just keep going.

"Relax, sweetheart, everythin's alright, okay?"

And something in you almost breaks at how tender he is. He doesn't even know what's bothering you. But he notices it. And he cares about it, about you. Like he would do for a scared mare, he gently comforts and praises you, resting his cheek against your inner thigh as he regains some of his breath and uses his fingers to take over.

"That's it, girl, juuuus' like that." He groans in an affirmative tone as he feels your inside, warm and silky and softer than velvet. "Yeah, let yaself go, honey, come on." His index finger penetrates you in a slow, very slow push, every inch of it filling you little by little.

"Good."

His first finger is quickly joined by his middle one, and their tip directly reaches and starts to brush against that spot you like so much, making you arch your back and moan for his own delight.

"That's it, y'see? So perfect, lettin' all go for me." He hums in approval. "Ma' girl." He adds with a curl of his digits.

His girl.

Do you want to be his girl? Are you ready for this? For commitment? The questions are back in your messy brain. You will screw this up like always. Every time you had trusted a man, he had shattered your heart into a million pieces and had danced on it. The same heart beats fast in your chest, and you're afraid the baldly patched up pieces won't hold.

A weird mix of feelings overwhelms you; your soul a painting that uses too many colors that don't fit together at all; a grotesque blend of green and pink, and black and red. Every brush stroke covers you one by one like waves wash the shores -pleasure, fear, excitement, panic, affection, affliction.

"Let it go, darlin'," Arthur whispers again, almost begging you, his fingers curling again and again, brushing exactly where you need them every time, the pleasure reaching vertiginous peaks. This time he looks at them, shoving them in you, then retrieving and again, like in a trance. He's almost drooling at the sight. It's impossible to resist him. To resist this.

And it is so good that it finally suppresses anything else - a bucket of red paint splashed all over the canvas. One of your hand instantly reaches for his head, roughly bringing it back to your clit, and he happily complies, still groaning his praises when he feels your pussy pulsing around his fingers or hears your moans getting louder, the smell of your sex filling both his nostrils and his animalistic appetite.

His tongue finally finding again that nod of pleasure on the oustide, along with his two broad fingers that easily feel like a whole cock fucking that spot on the inside, the red leaks from the canvas and swallows everything in its path. He pumps and pumps and pumps faster and fasterand with a few more hard licks against your pussy, you finally come all against him, his mouth answering with a warm deep growling sound of pleasure coming deep from his throat.

A few moments of relief, when all that is heard is the camp's life around Arthur's tent, the frogs croaking from the lake, unaware of your inner struggles, and your heavy breathings.

Then the red curtain rises, and everything's back, in an even stronger way. You wish there were a way to stay in that sort of foolish, satisfied, dumb post-sex state. But Arthur using his black bandana to gently cleaning up your cunt grounds you to the inevitable reality. He hasn't even bothered to clean himself up first, his mouth and chin glistening in the dark of the evening. Once done, he gets up into a sitting position at the edge of his cot.

"Did ya like it?"

No man had ever asked you that. Nor looked at you with those big, shining, expectant eyes. Almost like a puppy. You want to tease him, as you had taken the habit of, as your nature was telling you to, but now, Mary Beth's words were resonating into your head, caging you once again. You shouldn't even be there in the first place. Both of you were going to end up hurt. You were convinced of it.

"Yes."

You can't say anything else. He looks at you while quickly wiping up his mouth and beard with his bare hand, waiting for more. But if you start talking, you know it won't end up well. Your body is screaming at you to flee. You don't even know why. Everything is jostled and tossed about in your head. So you listen to the irrational. You get up and reach for your undergarments, dressing back quickly. You wrap yourself up in your red shawl, covering the last piece of your skin from his gaze. And into your shell you go. The scarf feels like it's strangling your neck.

As you are about to wish him goodnight, one of his strong hands grabs your arm, holding a bit of the fabric too.

"Wait, [Name]."

You slowly look up at him. He's still as expectant as before. Your heart tightens.

"I erm… Y'know I thought… I thought that you could stay here a bit?" The puppy eyes again. There's a softness in this picture that makes your own self spit at your face for knowing you'll destroy it just in a few seconds.

"You mean, stay here and sleep with you tonight?"

"Well, yeah, if you want t-

"I can't."

An awkward silence slowly falls after your words and cuts deep through his flesh.

Your heart still beating powerfully in your chest, you feel like the roles are reversed from that unforgettable night at the Parlor house, this time you feeling like you've been trapped, or exposed, you don't really know, but like a frightened animal, your panic is getting the better of you.

"What d'ya mean you can't?"

"Arthur, I… This is complicated, I can't, I…"

I can't offer you what you need. Tell him. Just tell him. Why are you stuck like this, fucking tell him.

Both up facing each other, his hand still holding you firmly, your eyes cross his and there's a thousand unspoken words shared between your two souls. Flying and clashing silently like a meteor shower crashing against another one a thousand light-years deep in space, sound lost but consequences devastating. And you're a coward. His beautiful, rugged features are shutting, satisfied grin long gone. The blue of his eyes forever inscrutable. Your feet are acting on their own. You need to fly away, now. Getting too close is going to destroy absolutely everything. Run away. Now.

"I'm sorry."

Those shitty, dumb words fall from your mouth as some tears threaten to fall from your eyes. You walk away, his fingers closing in on your shawl. You almost run out of his tent, leaving it behind.

You don't even try to look back. You can't. You don't want to verify if you're actually destroying him right now, doing the very same thing your past lovers had done to you. Maybe he doesn't even care after all. You don't hear him say a word.

The painting inside you is saturated. A few new colors added: shame, guilt, sadness. It doesn't get better, as you take refuge in the girl's tent, not wanting to sleep right next to his. You see the form of the others on the floor, and as you lay and curl up to your side, you whisper for Mary-Beth to hear, or for you to ease your conscience and be able to sleep,

"I've stopped it before it was too late."

The days after are out of time for you. As if isolated in another dimension away from the real world, things are happening around you but it fly high above your head. People talking to you, chores, Abigail and John arguing, music notes from an instrument, you weren't not even sure which. And, to your awful surprise, your throat still feels tight and knotted. Frustrated, you try to ignore your own urges, too, your body screaming from the sudden lack of sexual satisfaction you had granted him more than daily, as if you had stopped smoking all of a sudden and were physically needing a sweetly burning cigarette at all costs. But as much as you think about him, you try to avoid Arthur.

It's only for the better.

Every morning, you keep repeating it. Trying to convince yourself you had not made a complete mistake. But truth be told, not talking to him feels heavier than you had thought. Seeing him going out of town with Sadie and coming back laughing with her, too.

Heav heavy heavy. Heavy to hold for this shrunk heart.

On the seventh morning, you're convinced you've made the worst decision that night. But you weren't one to let life bring you down. You could fix it. You would fix it. At least, would try and talk to him again. Be friends with him again. Was it even possible? You didn't know, but you had to try. Arthur's absence felt too heavy to keep living your life like this.

And, to be honest, the poor man deserved at least a proper explanation.

That was settled. Determined, searching for him to break the mutism in which both of you had fallen is the first thing you do after breakfast. Soon enough though, life's revenge smacks you in the face when Hosea informs you you wouldn't be able to find him in camp because he had just gone on a mission with Dutch and Micah. Something to do with the O'Driscolls, apparently.

No matter. You were sure of yourself now. You would talk to him as soon as he came home and get off his horse.

But you should have known it by now. Life is having a fight with you, and it always is one step ahead. Because Arthur didn't come back that night.

Nor the day after.

a/n: Sooo 5k words again, guess it is a habit at this point. Also super stressed again because this series is definitely having some attention and I'm so scared of disappointing. Also, having Reader's pov and reversing the usual roles is a bit of a challenge so I'm even more nervous about it, hope it was enjoyable!

Oh, and also as always, please let me know if there are any typos! This isn't proofread!

Anyway, thank you so, so much for the amount of love you're giving to those fics, guys!!

tag list: @a-court-of-valkyries, @redwritr, @cassietrn, @esquilone, @starlightt180, @narcoticv3nus, @thoughts-of-bear, @emjiroki, @prettyundeadgirl, @eternalsams @amyispxnk @babybatss-blog @ardeniaa @sauvignon-velvet @sweeterlilith @arthurmorganist @blueskies664 @tranquilty @stilliwait @maxiismp @stottlemorgan @lizynownow (I tried to tag people who had shown interest in part3, really sorry if I missed anyone!)

[wolfram-but-art]

some recent sketches i did without context

[pikapitou]

the world where eddie calls and he's a little breathless and scared but so so excited and is like. Buck. I've been thinking a lot. while I've been here. and I think—no. I know I am. I'm gay. and buck on the other end experiencing his very last defense against the In Love With Eddie Allegations being decimated by the Eddie Is Gay atomic bomb is just like. Wow. That's Great, Man. Gotta Go Bye! and eddie who went into this phone call assuming they'd end it deciding on a date for their wedding bc clearly and obviously they've been in love with each other for seven whole years. is like. What?