#ITS SO GOOD AND ITS GONNA GET EVEN BETTER!!!

[noveauskull]

How Male WUWA Character's React When They Smell Another Man's Perfume/Cologne On You! (NSFW)

‼️‼️MDNI‼️‼️

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characters: scar, jiyan, mortefi, calcharo, aalto, yuanwu, geshu lin

warnings: 18+, smut, fem x male, prank, clit play, overstimulation, ideas of cheating, penetration (piv), tied up, mating press, punishment, passing out, hurting their feelings, dick riding, oral (m! receiving), spanking, wall fucking, use of toys, anal, biting, hickeys, throat fucking, clips on nipples and clit, apologies from the men

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SCAR:

You'd regret playing a prank on him immediately. Scar has a very sharp nose so when you come back home smelling like another man he doesn't say anything for a bit, he just stares at you waiting for an explanation.

Though the explanation had to wait until it was midnight and you were on your bed, wrists tied with a belt on the headboard and a vibrator pressed onto your clit, no foreplay whatsoever as he sits in front of you, fingers holding the vibrator with his legs crossed and another hand holding his head up, his eyes burning into yours. He hasn't smiled once ever since you came back.

When he finally asks you about the smell, you said that you had no idea what he was talking about, which made him more pissed, so he made you cum on the vibrator 4 to 6 times until your juices were dripping all over his fingers and palm.

You could tell despite being overstimulated it wasn't over, cause then he started pulling his pants down, not off, but down enough to reveal his hard cock, he cusses at how he still gets hard to you even though you're a potential cheater.

He'd have his cock punching into your cervix with every thrust, and he has a lot of stamina. At one point you can see the last shred of sanity in his eyes blink away as he pushes your knees onto your shoulders and hovers above you, putting you in a matting press when he keeps fucking you raw.

You'd finally surrender and give up when you started to notice you were gonna pass out real soon, the sun was starting to come up too, so you muster up the last bit of energy you had to tell him without babbling that it was a prank before completely shutting down.

The last thing you'd see is Scar's angry face turning to a shocked face before you passed out.

When you wake up in the afternoon, your wrists were no longer tied, the between of your legs are clean with none of yours or his juices left, you had a white oversized shirt on, and you can smell something delicious outside.

Scar would have came in a few minutes later with a big sheepish smile, wearing an apron and holding a plate of food for lunch as he apologizes to you.

"Damn. Sorry babe, I didn't know you had it in you to make a prank this good. I'll make it up to you, 'kay?"

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JIYAN:

He'd be incredibly disappointed that he doesn't smell your usual scent immediately, so he asks you why did you come home smelling like a another man. He would try to be very understanding with you but his patience is replaced with hurt when you tell him that you don't smell anything different about yourself.

He would come to the conclusion that you were cheating on him. You'd keep pretending like you had no idea what he was so silent about. When you initiated you two have sex like always he would comply, but compared to his usual sweet and gentle behavior, its replaced with something more meaner.

First he would tell you he wanted you to suck his dick off. He wasn't asking you like how he usually would, he was ordering you to do it, and you knowing what you did, you listened to him and did it without any questions.

He'd say "this felt better before today" and fuck his cock into your throat to make you swallow every last bit of his cum, even though usually he would cum outside of your mouth unless you asked for it inside.

You would have to be on top of him and thrusting his dick inside you instead of him just straight up pounding you until you were satisfied like always, and when you finally came, he would force you to keep going, if you didn't, he'd smack your ass until your cheeks went red.

This would go on until your legs were shaking, his slaps were very powerful, so everytime you bounce on his cock you'd falter when your sensitive red cheeks touch his thighs and you'd accidentally have his cock piercing to your cervix.

When he sees your movements getting weak, he stares at you with hooded eyes and furrowed eyebrows, sitting up from the bed to carry you and press your back against the wall, then fucking you so hard and deep you couldn't even let out a noise.

Your eyes would be rolling to the back of your head, and your mouth would be hung open with no sign of shutting. Your body would be twitching uncontrollably from all the crazy thrusts Jiyan is forcing you to take.

When he made you cum 3 times on the wall before putting you back onto the bed and fucking you again in doggy style, you had to force yourself to confess that you were just pranking him, to which all his movements would stop and he'd pick you up to make you face his shocked face.

While your pussy was still twitching and gaping from the shape you had to take for the past 5 hours, Jiyan eventually apologizes as he caresses your back while your head is laying lifelessly on his shoulder.

"Of course this was a prank... I'm so stupid, would you forgive me for acting so harshly?"

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MORTEFI:

He'd ignore the smell at first. You'd know that he isn't the type to jump into conclusions so you had to tell him about your day, how happy you were to have made a new friend and how he was super nice to you, making sure you didn't leave out on how touchy that new friend of yours was.

The longer you kept going the more he counted on the times he'd have to make you cum in bed, to which, you seemed to have exceeded over 10 times now.

When it was time to sleep, he'd have you thinking that he wouldn't do anything to you, so you believed his little act and slept for the night, only to wake up in the middle of the night with your hands tied to your back, face smooshed against your pillow with your mouth covered with a cloth and a vibrating dildo deep into your pussy, including an anal plug inside you all at once.

He'd have you squirming as much as you can but eventually you'd stop squirming just to twitch and shake because you'd cum shortly after. When you're at your 5th orgasm that's when he removes the anal plug inside you to shove his cock in.

For the entire night he wouldn't let you make a single noise, constantly smacking your ass and using your hole for his own pleasure, when he finally felt like he was finished that's when he removes the cloth on your mouth to let you speak, and that's when you tell him that it was a prank.

He'd feel incredibly embarassed and sorry that he treated you so roughly, you better expect top tier treatment from him for the rest of the week, but don't forget, this all wouldn't have happened if you hadn't played that stupid prank on him.

"You drive me insane sometimes, you know that?"

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CALCHARO:

NEVER underestimate this man's nose, he could smell your scent from a mile away. So when he smells someone else coming inside his house he's very alarmed, even more alarmed when he finds out that it was you this whole time.

He wouldn't even say a simple hi or even ask what the smell was, he would just grab you without letting you settle down and throw you onto the bed. He never lets you take even a moment to say anything to him as he's ripping, and I mean literally, ripping your clothes off your body.

Calcharo would order you to not move an inch while you're naked on the bed, before he leans in to your neck and sniffs you again. The smell would still be there and that made him want to bite you, so that's what he does, he bites on you all over and leaves marks in every single part of your body.

He's very mad, but he has to confirm if that part of yours has been used yet or not. So he pulls down his pants and he jerks off at your naked body in front of him. If you confessed that you had cheated on him the very least he wanted to do was to make it known that you had always belonged to him before letting yourself get fucked by another man.

Once his cum was all over your face, he uses his hand to wipe some cum onto him and palm your pussy, he may be mad but he's not mean enough to penetrate you without prep. Once your pussy was pooling with your juices that's when he breaks into your hole with his cock, in one harsh movement too, at the same moment he put his cock in he's already thrusting gigantic movements into you.

He'd have you crying and screaming by how fast and powerful his thrusts were. His hands holding onto the back of your knees as he uses your hole like a toy, you felt both pain and pleasure all at once, and he's already made you cum more than 5 times, switching to your ass and mouth from time to time making it more than 5 times since he came. And all your holes were being violated.

Everything had to end when you started to feel lightheaded, even though you had begged him to stop just so you could breathe, he never did stop, and it was really hard for you to tell him that it was all a prank.

So what you did was grab him by the hair as roughly as you can and yank it to your face, choking out the words "It's a prank" before you pass out completely, when you finally woke up, you see Calcharo sitting next to you with his hands on his head, feeling sorry for using you like a doll.

"Don't ever do that again, I don't want to hurt you over something like this ever. Idiot."

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AALTO:

He looks at you and says "Nuh uh, we are not doing this" when he smells another man on you. To which you act oblivious and shrug at his questions, but he's clearly not taking your shit.

For a bit, he analyzes the way you moved around the house, especially when you were on your phone texting to god know's who while giggling, when you do that, that's what makes him lose his patience.

He doesn't even bother checking who you were texting and throws your phone across the room. When you yell at him for throwing away something so fragile he just grabs your wrist and twists it to your back, now your ass was right at where his crotch was and your arm was in an uncomfortable position.

Aalto doesn't plan on keeping you on that position forever, so he grabs both your arms behind your back and presses your back against his chest while holding you.

He'd tease you while asking you questions, his hand would slip inside your pants and play with your clit. He's trying his best to remain calm with you since he knows that if he lets his mind win he would leave you so broken with his cum oozing out of you, so he edges you. 10 minutes turning to 30, 30 minutes turning to an hour, and an hour turning to 2 hours, and he's still teasing your clit.

He doesn't even bother removing your pants or underwear for you, he is literally making you soak your underwear and pants like it's been at the washing machine, no matter how much you beg him for release he wont give it to you until you tell him what actually happened and if you really did cheated on him.

And ding! Aalto wins, you can't bear to not get your release, so you admit to him that you were just pranking him. He'll smile at you and give you a kiss on the forehead before pulling down your pants, revealing a pool of your juices. There was so much juices that you two could fuck hours and hours on end.

He rewards your honesty by shoving his cock inside you and fucking you until you got as many orgasms as you wanted while planting you kisses all over. Smiling at you as you get your 3rd orgasm from his cock.

"I knew you'd never cheat on me, this is why you should leave the pranks to me instead"

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YUANWU:

He doesn't jump into conclusions, instead, he lets you settle down and rest before he asks you if you were using another perfume, and when you say no, that's when he asks if you were out with someone. When your response is "Oh, how did you know?", he'd simply ask you who you had been out with, but you didn't want to answer him. Hearing you respond like that shifts something in him a bit.

Next thing you know he has you bend over his lap, ass sticking out on one side while your face stuffed on the bed in the other, he smacks his hand on your ass in one moment before he fingers your wet pussy until you feel like your close, only to stop again just to smack your ass.

He keeps doing this until he hears an answer from you, but you were quite stubborn, and that was fine. Yuanwu knows exactly how to deal with you, so he keeps going. Everytime you try to push your hips back into his fingers he just spanks your ass, leaving it red all over.

When you finally gave up on begging him to stop and told him that you were just pranking him, he immediately has you sit on his lap while he rubs your asscheeks in a way to comfort the stinging pain he created, head on yours as he smiles at you, it seemed he knew that it was a prank, he just didn't like that you withheld information from him.

Before he lets you go, he rewards you by letting you cum on his fingers while kissing him to muffle your cries, at the same time caressing your red ass cheeks leaving you feel incredibly spoiled. His actions making you never want to lie to him ever again.

He gives you one last tiny smack on your pussy as a little punishment for the silly prank you played on him with a smile.

"You're so cute when you try to act sly, princess. But I hope this makes you realize it will never work on me"

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GESHU LIN:

Disappointed, angry and betrayed. He is definitely not letting you go until you explain yourself. He'd have you kneeling while he makes you suck his cock, having a vibrator not inside your pussy, but in your ass. He makes you swallow his cum for around 3 times, making your stomach full and your throat throb when he finally frees his cock from you.

He'll ask you why you smelled like a man, but a little throat fucking and anal won't make you confess so easily, so he plays your game, and goes completely insane.

He's leaving marks all over your body while punching your cervix with his cock behind you, never giving you a single moment to breathe, your nipples were being pinched by the clips he used on you, the clips having chains that connect on your clit, sometimes he would tug it making you scream in pain before he hits your spot to replace your scream with a delicious moan.

When using the clips on your nipples felt a little boring to him, he would move to the clip that was on your clit and make the clip shake with every rhythm in his thrust, all while the vibrator was still in your ass, having so many sensations at once makes you drool as tears roll down your cheeks.

You'd hear him cuss at you and call you a slut, asking if the man you were with could fuck you the same way he does. That's when you remember why you were getting roughly fucked for, so you immediately confessed that you never met any man at all.

You'd think he would stop, but no, he keeps going until he was satisfied. He's happy that you confessed to never meeting any other man but him, but that doesn't mean he won't punish you for playing such a dirty prank on him.

He'd unclip the clip on your clit before using his wet fingers that he used on his mouth to force an orgasm out of you so that you would cum at the same time as him, and when you finally do, you'd fall onto the bed passed out, while Geshu Lin is panting and wiping the sweat off his chin.

"This will remind you to never play such games with me ever again"

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A/N: NEW CHARACTER UNLOCKED FOR SMUT! SCAR AND GESHU LIN!! I was gonna add male rover but i ain't even gonna lie guys, im so tired I HAVENT EVEN LOGGED INTO WUWA TODAY IM CRYING

please enjoy this crumb i left for you all hungry beasts as i go farm convenes for Jiyan, HE HAS TO COME HOME!!!!!

[foreingersgod]

You (on my arm) . CH

pairing: caroline harvey x reader

synopsis: cute moments with kk throughout your relationship!

A/N: this came out kinda shitty, but i promise i’ll have better kk content coming haha

I wanna sit around and watch you do your hair

“you’re so pretty,” caroline sounded from the doorway of the bathroom “d’you know that?”

it was nearing 6:30 am on a friday morning. you hated getting up early with every fiber of your being, wanting to stay wrapped in caroline’s arms for as long as you could. but today, she had an away game, causing the both of you to pack an overnight bag and make an excruciatingly long drive.

you quite honestly looked a mess, dressed in your comfy clothes and your face decorated with the smallest amount of makeup. your hair was a disaster as you brushed it out, trying to style it in a somewhat presentable manner.

“shut up,” you laughed, looking at her through the mirror. she looked so good, also in her lazy day clothes as she leaned against the frame of the entry way, arms folded across her chest. she looked you up and down, smiling adoringly “i look like a disaster”

“not to me,” she came up behind you, moving stray hairs away from you neck so she could rest her chin on your shoulder. her hands planted themselves on your waist “you look gorgeous no matter what”

you turned your head, planting a kiss to her temple, humming against her skin. she sighed as she gave a gentle rub to your hip.

“love you” she mumbled, voice muffled by your sweatshirt.

“love you more” you confessed to her like you had a thousand times before. she was your person, your everything.

Talk it all into the ground

Have a ceremony there for something, don't know what it'd be

you were sprawled across the grassy meadow, long green blades standing tall, surrounding your body. your sundress rode up your thighs a bit, sneakers kicked off somewhere next to you. your arm was outstretched to your left as your hand fit snuggly into caroline’s. she laid next to you in the grass, smiling at you past the scattered flora. you looked radiant like this: skin glowing and sunkist, hair descending down your shoulders and onto the dampened earth beneath you, teeth sparkling as you let out the most infectious laugh.

she sat up, rolling onto her side and propping her head up on her hand as she stared down at you. her free hand maneuvered over to toy with the hem of your dress, fingers gliding across the soft material.

“i’m gonna marry you one day, i swear”

your cheeks burned from the sun, growing even hotter as she said that. there weren’t enough words to describe how caroline made you feel, so appreciated and wanted and loved. you had every intention of marrying her. although for now it would have to wait, you hated the idea of planning things and balancing school and a job and a full on wedding at the same time. but you both knew, without having to say it, that it didn’t matter if you married or not. the love was there all the same.

“one day,” you mirrored her movements, also rolling to your side “and i can’t wait for that day”

But it'd become nothing, it's nothing

And you'd smile at me

you had done it. through all the last minute study sessions, stressful midterms, and the nights spent crying at the kitchen counter as caroline rubbed your back sympathetically. you had finally graduated college. it was a beyond thrilling moment to slip on your gown and bobby pin the unflattering cap to the top of your head. just thinking of walking away with your degree made your stomach ache with excitement.

your high heel clad foot bounced against the floor as you stood in the long line. the room felt hot and crowded while you waited to make your way across that stage and get your degree. in the distance, the boom of the microphone could be heard echoing through the stadium as the names of the graduates were announced. with each passing moment, you were getting closer and closer to your turn. the hundreds of faces sat in the stadium made its way into the view as the line slowly inched forward. you strained your neck looking around the different sections, trying to find caroline’s familiar face.

unfortunately, your parents and the rest of your family couldn’t make it to this huge milestone in your life. you had gone no contact with the majority of them a while back once they ‘disowned’ you. when they found out you were dating caroline, a girl, they were furious and couldn’t stand having a daughter that followed such a lifestyle. your sister was the only one you stayed in contact with, but she was studying abroad and couldn’t make it back to the states in time to see you graduate. you were absolutely gutted about the whole situation.

but caroline was there for you through it all. sat with you while you sobbed the day before graduation because it was all settling in. she assured you that, even though it wasn’t the same as having your parents and sister there, she was going to be there front and center to watch you succeed. caroline was by far your biggest supporter, your rock through everything. you couldn’t believe you had gotten so lucky with someone so attentive and prideful towards you.

so as you finally reached the front, body shaking with excitement, your eyes bounced around all of the smiling faces. it was only when you handed the announcer your name card, taking your first steps onto the stage, you saw her. she was beaming ear to ear as she locked eyes with you. she had her phone out, ready to record her gorgeous girl accepting her degree. caroline had dressed up just for you, sporting a navy blue dress shirt and slacks to match the colors of your university. she watched as you accepted all the hand shakes, posing for pictures with the dean, and evidently walking off that stage with that cherished piece of paper.

you walked off the stage and started to make your way back to your seat to finish out the rest of the grad ceremony. you looked over to her, finally able to get a clear look at her face. you gave her an excited wave, showing off your degree to her. she clapped for you and blew you a kiss, still smiling as brightly as before.

‘i love you’ she mouthed ‘i’m so proud’

and you smiled, mouthing back to her with tears in your eyes ‘thank you’

I wanna be, I wanna buy you pretty little things

And never ever lie to you

“what’s all this?” you asked, stepping through the door into your shared apartment with caroline.

you had gotten off of work quite upset, driving home with irritation coursing through your veins. you got called in for a so called ‘emergency’ even though you had requested the day off for yours and caroline’s anniversary. in reality, it wasn’t an emergency, rather your boss just needed someone to run errands for him. your girlfriend was so sweet and had planned out the entire day to celebrate, you were in a bad mood the whole day wishing you could just got back home.

but when you walked through that door at around 7pm, the scent of pine wafting around the kitchen, your heart melted. a bouquet of your favorite flowers sat upon the marble countertop, a neatly sealed letter leaned against the vase. there was a small box that also sat next to it with a baby pink ribbon tied around it. caroline stood from where she was previously sitting on the kitchen stool, coming over to greet you.

“just wanted to do something since you had to work today, s’all” she shrugged, pulling you into her by your waist as you set your stuff down on table “happy anniversary, baby”

you felt like you could cry, tears welling up at your lash line. you had felt horrible for spoiling the day by going into work, but caroline was so sweet and understanding and always made sure you felt seen.

“caroline, you didn’t have to do this!” you gestured to the flowers and box, leaning in to smell the flowers “i spoiled our anniversary, i don’t deserve this”

“don’t be ridiculous, you didn’t spoil anything” she kissed your cheek, you could feel her lips curl against your skin “and of course you deserve it, you deserve the world. now open your gift!”

the small ribbon glimmered underneath your dim kitchen lights as you ran your fingers over it. you looked at her with a skeptical face, smirking slightly when she laughed at your expressed. she urged you on, promising that you would like the small little present. you untied the ribbon excitedly and lifted the lid carefully.

sat on a small bed of tissue paper, was the most beautiful charm bracelet you had ever seen. you instantly pulled it out, putting it up to your face to see it closer. it was only when you had gotten a closer look that you had realized what it was.

when you met caroline, you noticed she had always worn a small little bracelet on her left wrist. she told you about a month into your relationship that it was something she’s had since she was a kid, a way to keep important memories close to her. you adored the thing, always asking about the charms that she added and what her favorite ones were.

the bracelet she had gotten you was a near exact replica of hers. it shared a few of the charms that hers held, ones that you said were your favorite. but it also had several new ones. many came from the vacations you and caroline took together, others she bought because they reminded her of you, and one that had both of your initials in a heart. it was by far the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever gotten for you.

“caroline,” you exhaled, completely blown away “baby…i don’t know what to say”

she laughed, taking the bracelet from you and grabbing your hand. she delicately wrapped it around your wrist and secured the clasp. she pulled you in for a passionate kiss, wiping away the tears you seemingly couldn’t stop shedding.

“i hope you like it,” she said “i just know how much you like looking at mine and so i thought-i don’t know maybe it’s silly, but i thought you might like one of your own so we can match”

“of course i like it” you shook your head, looking back at your wrist to admire the charms “this is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me…thank you so much, babe”

you spent the rest of that night on the couch, curled up into her side with a glass of wine as caroline explained each and every detail of the charms she picked out. she watched as you giggled at every fond memory she took inspiration from, noticing how you ran your fingers across the intricate designs of the little pieces, thinking about how much she loved you.

Watch you get dressed

And compliment your taste

she laid on your side of the bed, extended horizontally so that her stomach stretched along the width of the bed. her elbows were propped up to support her head as she watched your gorgeous figure from across the room. at first she was scrolling mindlessly on her phone to pass the time until you were ready to leave for your guys’ date, but now she was beyond distracted.

you emerged from the bathroom, hair done up and makeup dewy, walking over to your walk-in closet. you wore nothing except your nude bra and underwear, rushing around frantically trying to pick out an outfit. caroline was practically ogling at you, drooling at the sight.

“is this cute?” she had snapped from her trance when you came out, holding up a yellow dress to your body “i don’t know i can’t decide”

her eyes flickered back forth between your stressed expression and the frilly, lacey dress that had previously been tucked in some corner of the closet. she had seen you wear it a few times, remembering how much she loved the neckline and the way it flowed gracefully down your thighs. in truth, she loved everything you owned no matter what it was. she thought you looked good in everything.

she grinned at you, wanting to scream from how beautiful you looked “yea honey, that looks perfect”

“are you sure?” you asked again. she knew you liked things to be perfect, wanting to look your best for outings and such. but caroline always thought you looked your best no matter what “is it too fancy or anything? i don’t want to look like an overdressed loser or something-”

“hey,” she interrupted, making you quiet down and take a deep breath “you’re gonna look amazing, ok? you could be wearing a paper bag over your head and you’d still turn heads”

“you’re too sweet to me” you said rushing over to press a small kiss to her forehead before scurrying back into the closet to change. caroline observed you through the small crack you left in the closet door. not in a lurking way, she just wanted to appreciate her girl.

she bit her lip as she watched how you shimmied the dress over your hips, how you stuck your tongue out as you tried to zip up the back, and how you ruffled up your hair in the mirror probably a dozen times before deciding you were ready. then you waltzed out, just as beautiful as you were before, grabbing your bag and ushering her off the bed. you kissed the back of her hand as you interlocked fingers, making your way out the door.

man, she had really hit the jackpot with you.

…I'd be better armed

If you agreed to take it <3

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

[kandlewick]

since its taking so long, im gonna drop a preview of my leona's ''i'll dry the villain's tears'....... this one is special because i unfortunately decided mid writing that i wanted it to be romantic but alas that means i had to scrap a lot of twst lore to fit my narrative hghfg so think of this one as an au to my usual entries. an interest check. these entries were MEANT to be strictly platonic but a few of them (leona, MAYBE azul and malleus (between lilia and the reader)), just gave me so many ideas.

SO IT IS UNFINISHED! its 4k words but still unresolved unless people like, want me to scrap twst lore as heavily as i did in this lmao

i'll dry the villain's tears pt. 3.1415926535897

you get reincarnated into a role that became the breaking point of the villain's story and you, be it an unwillingness to cause them harm or a desire to survive, must work hard to make sure they grow into a better (or at least safer) person.

all entries are USUALLY to be read as platonic however this one wouldn't go away. All are USUALLY meant to be taken place in the TWST universe accurate to the game but this one is special because I love leona and he'd be so cool as a manwha love interest.

You awaken one day with perhaps the largest bump you've ever seen placed nearly perfectly center on your forehead. You don't remember how you got it exactly but the two princes never left your side (Falena would not stop crying and despite his claims of laughter at your expense, you can tell his brother was equally worried), only being dragged away by their tutor as soon as they let their guard down.

You looked down at the hands on your lap and clutched your fists open and closed over and over again. Gone were your long fingers and wide palms, instead you looked down at the chubby hands of a child no more than six.

From what your handmaiden had told you, the three of you had been playing spelldrive together and Leona, in his eagerness to best his brother, had shot the disk perhaps a bit too strong and instead of flying in to the goal, it had changed course and struck you hard enough to knock you unconscious for the rest of the early hours of the morning.

You remembered this event. It's what led to Falena's betrothed sticking closer to him and farther from Leona. What once was a well balanced trio had become a teeter totter with Falena and her on one side and Leona alone, unable to change anything with what little weight he had to offer.

Falena's betrothed; that was you. From the story you had read, the two were deeply in love and ruled the kingdom hand in hand towards a brighter future... all while unknowingly leaving the youngest brother in the shadows, forgotten and alone and desperate. You couldn't afford for that to happen.

You don't see the two of them until late that evening. Falena looked exhausted, like the tutoring had beaten any last bit of energy he could spare and with a loud yawn, had eagerly hopped into the cot next to you on your right. Leona was slow to join the two of you but settled himself to your left, his shoulder bumping yours as you turned to give him your attention, curiously returning the gesture. Leona matched your gaze, looking you over for any signs of pain before he opened his mouth.

"You look ridiculous," he spoke aloud, glancing at your bruised forehead. Subconsciously, you reached up and checked the tender spot and gave him an unimpressed look.

“I only look like this because you can’t shoot a disk right.” You huffed, choosing to ignore his presence, instead cuddling up to Falena who was more than eager to reciprocate, easily wrapping a comforting arm around your shoulder and nudging your chin in a friendly hug. “At least your brother is being nice to me.”

However, despite your teasing voice, Falena was quick to come to his defense, “Leona’s just not good at showing he was worried about you. You should’ve seen his face when he saw you fall over, I’ve never seen him run that fast in his life.” Leona rolled his eyes but made no response as his brother laughed, choosing to settle himself in your cot while closing his eyes, his tail lazily curling up behind you. Your beastman tail - you don’t know when you would ever get used to that - sat itself besides his, curling the two into a gentle hold. Leona glanced over at you from the corner of his one opened eye but chose not to comment about it.

Even at your young age, you could tell that Leona communicated in a particular way. His words may be harsh, but his actions were tender.

“Mmm, someone had to.” Leona muttered, nuzzling himself deeper into the pillows, “Falena was too busy crying about you to be of any help.”

Falena made no effort to deny the claims and sheepishly smiled at you, “He is not wrong, haha. I was very worried for you! You should’ve seen the maid’s face when they saw you passed out in the field!” He reached out and plucked your hand into his. When you looked at him, you could still see the red dotting his eyes from how hard he had cried. It was no wonder your body’s original owner had fallen so head over heels for this boy. While he and Leona were brothers, they couldn’t have been more night and day. 

“You shouldn’t have worried too much, Falena! I’m fine, really. Kifaji said that I should be fine in a few days.” You waved his worry off with your hand, gingerly pressing the tips of your fingers against the small lump, “There wasn’t a concussion or anything but he wanted to make s- Hm?”

Falena and Leona both looked up at you with wide eyes, both of their gazes making you feel small. You slumped in your seat and blinked at the both of them, silently feeling sheepish all of a sudden, “Is something wrong?”

“Why are you calling me by my name!” Falena looked almost scandalized as he let go of you, his hands floating at your sides like he was too scared to touch you, “Are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong?”

“Eh? Eh?”

“Looks like I hit her a little too hard.” Leona chuckled, watching in barely contained amusement as his brother’s soul practically floated out of his chest, “What happened to calling him, ‘husband’?”

This body’s former owner was a precocious little child, wasn’t she!!! You couldn’t believe the audacity, calling your ten year old fiance ‘husband’!

As required of any royal belonging to the Sunset Savannah, you were expected to build lasting relations with other tribes and honorable guests much like any other adult and as such, other than the two royal siblings, you were given many playmates. Some were older than you and some were younger, but they were many and varied and always tried to stay on your good side. And as such, they were exceedingly worried about you when you arrived late to your most recent playdate with a freshly bandaged head.

“My liege, what happened!” the youngest cried, quickly latching on to your arm, tears welling up in his shiny eyes, “Are you alright? Does it hurt?” 

You waved them off with your hand, a soft but embarrassed smile on your face. Their eyes watered, their large elephant beastman ears flopping up and down wildly as they looked you over head to toe for any sign of injury. You could hear them loudly sniffling as they bit back tears. They’ve always been a bit of a crybaby from what your memories could tell you. A shy, but friendly young boy… if a little bit of a hypochondriac. One of your older playmates rolled her eyes but you could tell she was worried by the subtle way she refused to leave your side, glancing over at you from the corner of her eye.

“I can’t believe Prince Leona would do something as clumsy as hurting his brother’s fiance!” One of your newer playmates huffed loudly, her eyes narrowed in annoyance, “Really, he’s lucky his brother forgave him so fast - ah! You as well, it’s good you forgave him too!! He doesn’t deserve it if you asked me!” She huffed loudly as she played with your toys, her jaguar tail batting the floor loudly. She paid no mind to your two companions sounds of offense, instead choosing to meet your gaze from over her shoulder.

You blinked at her, your eyes wide in confusion. Your two other companions matched your expression, the two of them surprised she would dare to say anything like that outloud. Leona hadn’t meant to hit you after all! You were playing…

Your newest playmate, so new you could hardly remember her name scoffed at the three of you, obviously annoyed you didn’t join her in her thoughts. “For real, who does he think he is? He’s the second son, he should be bowing on his hands and knees at your feet! You’re the future king’s fiance, he should be grateful he’s even allowed to play with you two! W-”

You don’t know what came over you and why you did it, but you felt your body react to her words, and somehow, your fist made contact with her cheek sending her sprawling on the floor. The sound of her collapsing was loud enough to shock you out of your stupor, a dull ache throbbing around your knuckles. She looked up at you with wide eyes as she cradled her cheek, you staring down at her with equally large doe shaped eyes. You couldn’t believe you had just done that!

“Leona is my friend.” Your lips began moving before you could even think. You were firm on this even as tears began welling up in your eyes. Ah, you sighed. Even if your mind isn’t young, your body still is shaking like a leaf. The hand you had punched the child with quivered from nerves. “Dont - don’t speak that way about him!” Your voice raised in pitch, “His brother and I love him very much!”

The little girl bared her teeth at you, unwilling to take your actions lying down, “How can you say these things? He hurt you!” She hissed.

“It was an accident!” You matched her tone, the sadness quickly evaporating into anger, “Sometimes accidents happen when you’re playing! He’s good and kind and would never, ever hurt me! Ever!”

Your shouting was quick to alarm the servants stationed outside your playroom’s walls. Kifaji was the first one in, eyes sharp as he immediately separated you from the other children, stepping in the way with his back to you. “What is going on here?” He questioned. There was no room for nonsense in his expression and his words matched that as he gazed around the play area. The girl cradled her cheek as she glared at you, unwilling to speak up. She may have made the mistake of bad mouthing the second prince in the presence of other children, but she knew better than to say those words around another adult that wasn’t her own parent. Kifaji raised his brow at her silence before turning to your gorilla and elephant companions, silently questioning the two. They shrunk under his glare and made no move to open their mouths instead choosing to nervously shuffle closer to you. 

You tugged on Kifaji’s robes, the fabric soft between your trembling fingers. Glancing over at you, he leaned down and crouched to match your gaze. While his eyes were hard and strict, you could tell that he cared about you and the princes. He would listen to you. You could trust him.

“She was talking badly about Prince Leona…” You whispered to him, “so I punched her.”

Kifaji made a face, but nodded his head slowly. You hoped he understood. With a heavy sigh, he gathered up his robes and picked himself up.

“Come along,” He gestured to the girl, “Let us find your parents. I believe the playdate has come to an end.” and with a gentle hand, he helped her up as she began dabbing away at her eyes but not before shooting you a glare from over her shoulder. You stuck your tongue out at her. As soon as the adults exited the room, you quickly reached up and wiped away the tears staining your cheeks before returning to your friends, the mood sufficiently ruined for the rest of the play date.

It wasn’t until later that evening that Kifaji returned, a cross expression on his face. The guards at his sides were quick to disperse as he approached you, his robes billowing out behind him like colorful plumage. With practiced precision, he kneeled down to your eye level and reached out, bringing your small hands into his. His rough hands itched against your soft ones.

“What you did today could have ended very poorly, my liege.” He spoke softly, but his tone was firm, “You must remember, your position here in the palace is not final. If you cause too much of a ruckus…”

Was the king’s advisor really telling you to ignore this? That you should let Leona be bad mouthed by those in power? You were quick to glare at the older man, ripping your hands away from him and taking a few steps back, eager to separate the two of you.

“I’m not going to let people say whatever they want about Leona.”

Kifaji, shocked, stared for a moment before narrowing his eyes, “This is what I’m talking about, my liege. You are too quick to anger. You must calm yourself. I am not saying you must ignore the problem, but what I am trying to say is, your position in the palace as Falena’s future spouse, is not permanent.”

You hated to admit it but he had a point. You bit your lip but said nothing, cowed under his words. It was the truth. If you wanted to protect Leona, despite having the best intentions, you couldn’t exactly expect to have the sway as an adult. You were a child and easily replaceable. A glorified playmate.

“That is why, my liege,” Kifaji brought himself to his feet, dusting off his robe with a flick of a wrist, “you come to me.”

You turned and looked at him, not expecting the protective glint to his eye. He nodded his head before continuing.

“I will make sure that these things are handled correctly without repercussions. As the king’s advisor, I am not so easily replaceable.” He chuckled, fixing his glasses with a precise motion, “I will admit I am not as… in touch with the other servants in the palace and diplomats are always so careful with their words around me, it’s difficult to gauge their true intentions but with you, they will surely slip up and speak more plainly then perhaps they should.”

You stared up at the man in awe. You couldn’t believe your luck! Kifaji was taking your side and was going to actively help you in your quest to project Leona. Maybe before he was never given the opportunity, never had the time to set aside to investigate. Maybe he never knew. Now, however, he was given the chance with you to defend the prince. You very nearly teared up but were quick to wipe them away as Kifaji laughed, his hand reaching down to ruffle your hair affectionately. 

And so the two of you were quick to act, swiftly cutting contact with merchants and dignitaries that shared less than favorable feelings for the second prince. You and Kifaji would have monthly meetings together with snacks courtesy of the king and his wife as you spoke of matters in the palace. You had a special role, scouting out and spying on maids and soldiers that gossiped in the servant’s quarters. Nobody expected anything when you even brought in your two playmates, Magani and Akut (the gorilla and elephant beastmen respectively) to join in on the spying. This carried on for several years as you heavily vetted all coming through the palace all without letting Leona see the work you pulled behind the curtains. All the strings and wires were yours to control and you were going to make good use of the opportunities you were given. 

But, for some reason, Leona never seemed to want to leave your side. While you worked on your schooling, he would sit and while away the hours under the light of the sun from his favorite perch right beside your desk. Even in this life he was a lazy lion, preferring the quiet you brought then the loud personality of his elder brother. Sometimes you would join him on his naps, your tails quietly intertwining in a silent embrace. It was a comforting feeling. Moments like this were always a relief after the hours you and Falena had to spend together in your diplomacy lessons. A lot was expected of you as the future queen of Sunset Savanna. There were many late nights where you both stayed up till the crack of dawn together, stubbornly unwilling to give up with tears in your eyes as you studied until your vision blurred. It wasn't an uncommon sight for Kifaji to find the two of you bundled up together with books piled at your feet in the early hours of the morning.

Afternoon lunch dates with Falena and Leona were also rowdy and fun. While Falena was always quick to stay by your side and fight for your attention, Leona was seemingly content with letting your future husband monopolize your time. It wouldn’t be uncommon for Leona to doze off while Falena tried to do ‘couple-y’ things with you

It was all perfect.

Until Falena was accepted into the Royal Sword Academy. 

“You’re… breaking our engagement?” 

[xx-j4nu5-c4t5-xx]

"An ideal Sims game would have Sims 2's gameplay mechanics, Sims 3's open world, and Sims 4's graphics!"

I absolutely despise this take, and I want to explain why. This is a very long rant and it is full of piss and vinegar directed at everything in the Sims 4. I'm gonna try to keep everything kinda professional as much as I can but I can't guarantee an unbiased opinion.

If you'll let me talk your ears off for a moment, I'd like to explain, from my own experience as an artist and a casual player, my issues with the art style and direction of The Sims 4 compared to The Sims 2. (I'm not really going to comment on 3 because I've never played it.)

I want to start off by explaining the difference between better graphics and higher resolution. The Sims 4 absolutely blows Sims 2 out of the water when it comes to textures and polygon counts on sims, no contest. But I'd argue that the graphics themselves... aren't better. They're worse, even, so much fucking worse. The biggest problems come from the stylization and the animations, in my opinion, so I'll explain what I mean.

Have you ever felt like the Sims in 4 just look... weird? Not quirky, not kinda strange, but off. Distressing. Uncanny. Whatever the fuck the kids call it nowadays. When you strip away the packs and the CC and the shaders, the sims in the base game look bad. They're very close to being human; they walk like us, talk like us, have families like us, but they don't look like us, not exactly. There's always something off about them, no matter how close you try to get. Proportions will be a bit off, or your eyelashes will be like three polygons for some fucking reason, and the jig is up. The illusion is gone.

This is one of the instances where a higher resolution and more detailed models and meshes work against you. You aren't making believe. You are beyond the point of pretending that the pixelated shapes are real clothes and bodies and faces, because at this point, they're close enough that you don't need to. There's no gap to bridge. But that doesn't necessarily mean that they're lifelike, at least, not enough to be completely human. In some ways, they're still tethered to being cartoony and plasticky and fake. Just enough to frighten you. Enough to put you off. They're not using it to their advantage anymore, and instead, it's holding them back.

When the Sims 2 came out in 2004, the developers knew that they weren't going to make a perfectly accurate life simulator. They physically couldn't render every wrinkle in the face or fold in the clothing. In some animations, things clip strangely or the facial expressions are sort of janky or there's just some form of roughness around the edges. But that's okay; your brain doesn't need a perfectly accurate representation this time. That's not what you're here for, anyway.

The Sims 4 is basically Icarus-ing itself into disaster. The entire game sacrifices style for complete realism, a goal that was unachievable ten years ago, and is unachievable now.

The Sims 2 never thought of itself as a completely realistic life sim, though. It has cartoony, low poly meshes and exaggerated proportions and wild, raunchy storylines that would never occur in real life. BECAUSE IT ISN'T REAL LIFE. And it isn't like real life, not because it's failing to be, but because it doesn't want to be!

The Sims 4 is not ever going to completely replicate human looks or interactions or dynamics. And if it's trying to, it's doing a shit job of it. That shouldn't be the goal in the first place. If I wanted to watch a lonely college student talk to himself in the mirror to try and get better at interacting with people, I'd close the computer and go look at myself. It somehow highlights the most mundane parts of life without any of the whimsy and goofiness that the earlier installments had. It takes itself too fucking seriously for its own good, and it's killing both the gameplay and the art style.

The other point I'd like to bring up is the animation. The Sims 4 allows for much more customization of both sim and environments, but at the cost of dynamic animations. How many times is that grab animation reused? How many times is the same set of animations used for sims with wildly different personalities? Your sims barely feel alive with how little they express themselves.

Now, look, I'm a digital artist. I've dabbled in animation, but only briefly, and only in 2D. I've got no clue how 3D animation works, much less how it worked 20 years ago, but I can see the passion in every single animation in the Sims 2. The more niche interactions allowed for more expressive animations than in 4. They could afford to have a distinct animation for mean sims throwing the football extra hard to be assholes, rather than every sim using the same generic football-throwing animation to save time and money. I get where they're coming from. I get the idea. But in one move, you've both made the art style stiffer and less expressive, and you've made the personalities of the sims seem meaningless. Everyone acts the same, regardless of what their moodlets or their traits say. It's hollow. It's stifled. It's a waste of potential.

But for what Sims 2 lacks in polygons, it makes up for in smaller animated details. Quality over quantity. The sims have hair physics, they open the door before they get in the car, they take utensils out of the counters when they cook, they jump on the couch and the cushions smush under their weight. When they dance, the weight is realistic, and when they smile, it tugs at every one of the few dozen shapes that make up their faces. The sims are lively. They dance and sing and love and hate just like humans, and rather than being some strange attempt at mimicry, it's almost a tribute. They were made with love. You can tell that they were drawn up and rigged and animated by a bunch of people working together, studying each other and making faces in the mirror for reference and watching their kids and neighbors and dogs and hands for reference. The sims are not human, and not trying to be, but they're taking the most human parts of us and making them their own.

You could never have a game with the Sims 4's graphics and the Sims 2's gameplay. The gameplay and graphics are inexorably connected, and the Sims 2 just has so much glorious detail baked into it, that you could never really make it work underneath the limitations of the later games. The developers of 2 knew what their limits were, and they worked tirelessly to make the game as full and complex as they could within those limits. The developers for the Sims 4 just did not have those guidelines, and thus, the drive to bend the rules was no longer there. They didn't go wild in rebellion because they were never told they couldn't in the first place. They spent the entire time chasing a goal they couldn't meet, and lost sight of what made the series fun to begin with.

It wasn't the realism you came for; you had realism already surrounding you. It was the caricature of it that made it interesting.

[gatorbites-imagines]

Mark grayson x male reader with the powers of john Constantine? Maybe Mark on a mission involving demons and after some trouble Cecil reluctantly decides to call the reader for help

Mark Grayson x Constantine Male Reader

Headcanons

Guess who’s been ignoring his exam prep and watching YouTube instead? This guy. Reader is also a little older than the other characters, but how much older you can choose for yourself.

Demons weren’t something completely out of the norm for the heroes of this world. Way too many so called villains would summon low grade demons and imps to wreak havoc. Very few were actually able to summon sentient and powerful beings.

Invincible had been sent in since theyd just thought it would be like every other weak magician who thought they could take over the world. That was until the demon that appeared was actually one of the well-known demons from the bible.

Other heroes were called in, like the newer guardians of the globe. But even they didn’t stand a chance against this demon, who was getting a little too close to civilization for the GDAs comfort.

As much as Cecil hates it, he knows he has to call you. You’ve never had any respect for the GDA, for the government, and had always insulted heroes to their face, calling them government bootlickers and the likes.

Cecil would have locked you away a while ago, if you weren’t so damn good at what you did. There was also the fact that he, and the magicians he had on hand, were pretty damn sure you could unleash hell itself on earth if you wanted, so they were cautious.

You also just happen to be kind of a dick, though mainly to Cecil. For some reason you’ve always gotten along well with Donald for a reason the GDA doesn’t understand. You just know he’s a great guy though, which is why you’ll treat him a little better.

So with great reluctance, since he knows youre gonna be rubbing this in his face and ribbing him, Cecil contacts you. He would most likely have to use some kind of spell or sigil, since there’s no way you’d share your number with this guy, or pick up if he called.

The guardians of the globe and Mark aren’t really sure what to expect when they hear Cecil sigh over their earpieces. He sounds more exhausted and agitated than any of them have ever made him, which says a lot.

Cecil barely gets to explain who you are before you swagger out of a portal in your trench coat and a to-go coffee cup in your hand with your preferred drink.

Immortal and Robot are probably the only ones who know who you are. Immortal cuz hes worked with you in the past, and Robot cuz he’s a creep that knows too much, and there’s no way he wouldn’t know about someone as powerful as you.

The heroes would already be over your shit, since you paid way too much for this drink to let it go to waste. So, you are gonna stand here, and you are gonna finish your drink, and then you are gonna help.

Mark must acknowledge that you are pretty hot, with your exhausted features and the tired but knowing look in your eyes. Its like you know exactly what you are looking at, and like you know exactly what to do.

The heroes get thrown around a bit more, just for your own humor and cuz you know they can take it. them yelling at you in frustration just makes you pick at your nails and sass them, telling them you came here out of the goodness of your heart, and you feel so attacked right now?

Its only when Mark crashes into the ground right beside you, and this cute traffic light yellow guy with cracked goggles and a bloody nose politely asks you to help that you decide, sure, why not. It’s also definitely because of the cute pout on his lips and the puppy eyes he’s giving you form the crater he’s in.

You give him what’s left of your too expensive drink, telling him some flirty comment about “watch and learn, invincible”. You make air quotes with your fingers when you use his hero name, since nobody is invincible, even viltrumites. You know this since you’ve stumbled across quite a lot of them in hell over the years.

His small blush is very cute though, which makes you decide to wrap this up real quick.

To none of Cecil’s surprise. You know this demon, and it owes you a pretty big favor. You don’t use your favor obviously, why would you do that? Theres better things to use a demons favor for. Instead, you just use a good chunk of spells, sigils, and other magic arts to cast them back to hell.

Cue some complaining from multiple members of the guardians of the globe. If you could do that from the very beginning, why did you keep watching them get thrown around like that?

As they complain and argue around you, you just swagger back to where Mark was sitting cutely and sipping on your drink. It shouldn’t shock you a guy like him likes whatever sweet monstrosity you bought. Fits his cute smile at least.

Immortal doesn’t even argue with you, knowing its like talking to a damn wall. Except the wall claps back, and will be petty enough not to help you next time.

It also doesn’t shock Cecil when you ask Mark out for lunch, since you’re a known flirt. You also may be a flirt, but you are damn loyal, so he can’t even say to Mark you’re a bad partner.

Marks eyes widen comically, sputtering around the drink he had been nursing when you just dropped that on him. His face goes bright red, since no one has ever actually asked him out, especially so boldly.

He fumbles for a bit, but he does end up stuttering out a yes. He doesn’t know you too well yet, and neither do you know him, but what could lunch together hurt? So he ends up clutching your number, and sigil, on a piece of paper in his hand, as you portal away again.

The place is still a damn mess from the demon’s rampage, but Mark feels extra weightless as he helps clean up, not even really paying attention to some of the others complaining about how you left without helping clean up.

[rvzcvx]

I see your post we're you bored and idk what to write so another Idea :

Can you do Tom x(dom) m! Reader or non-gendered is not important (I prefer x m! Reader because I'm a guy obviously )During the 14th of July and we arrive in the evening at the time of the fireworks and Tom is really scared about firework (IDK LMAO, no judgment.) and reader tries to reassure him Fluff and maybe bonus where reader and Tom had sex because Tom can't calm down! As you wish

BYEE,LOVE YOU 💋

ANXIETY

pairing: tom kaulitz x male reader

warnings: smut

a/n: idk if thats what you meant, but i hope youre gonna like it!! its kinda long but I hope it will be a good to read!! you can send me more requests if you want me to write something

As the sun dipped below the horizon, we were walking through the crowded streets of Paris, my heart racing in anticipation of the evening ahead. Tom and I had planned this trip months ago, carefully timing our visit to make it in time with bastille day. But as we made our way towards the seine, where the crowd had gathered, Tom's grip on my hand tightened, and I could sense his growing unease.

We arrived at a place near the eiffel tower. People were everywhere, their excitement palpable. Tom's eyes darted around nervously, his usual confident demeanor replaced by an nervous tension. I squeezed his hand gently, hoping to provide some reassurance.

"You okay?" I asked, my voice low enough to be lost in the crowd. Tom forced a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah, just a bit overwhelmed. I forgot how crowded it gets here."

I knew it was more than the crowd. Tom had never been comfortable around fireworks. The loud, unexpected bursts and the lingering booms always seemed to unsettle him. It was something he rarely admitted, but tonight, as the first rocket flew into the sky, I saw him flinch.

"It's gonna be fine" I whispered, pulling him closer. "We'll stay back here, away from the thick of it."

He nodded, but his body remained tense. The fireworks began in earnest, vibrant explosions of color and light that painted the night sky. Each burst was met with oohs and aahs from the crowd, but Tom's reaction was a stark contrast. His jaw clenched tighter with each boom, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to block out the noise.

"Hey" I said softly, turning to face him and gently cupping his face in my hands. "Look at me, not at the fireworks." Tom's eyes fluttered open, meeting mine. "I'm trying" he muttered, his voice strained.

"Focus on my voice, on my touch." I ran my thumb soothingly over his cheek. "You’re safe. We’re safe."

He took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he concentrated on me. "Thanks" he said, his voice barely audible over the people around us.

I kept talking, sharing random stories and memories, anything to distract him from the noise. Gradually, his breathing steadied, and some of the tension got off him. As the grand finale approached, the fireworks intensified, the sky a chaotic symphony of light and sound. Tom winced, but he didn't look away from me.

When the last firework faded, I could see the relief on his face. "Let's get out of here" I suggested, threading my fingers through his.

We walked back to our hotel, the cool night air a welcome change from the crowded riverbank. Tom was quieter than usual, his earlier anxiety still lingering. Once we were inside our room, I closed the door behind us and turned to him.

"Sorry I wasn't much fun tonigh" he said, flopping onto the couch. "Don't apologize" I replied, sitting next to him and placing a hand on his leg. "I knew fireworks weren't your thing. I just wanted to be with you."

He gave me a grateful look. "You always know how to make me feel better."

I leaned in and kissed him gently, letting my lips linger on his. He responded eagerly, his hands finding their way to my waist, pulling me closer. The kiss deepened, and for a moment, all the stress and tension melted away.

"I don't know what I'd do without you" Tom murmured against my lips. "You don't have to find out" I whispered back. "I'm not going anywhere."

We stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the world outside forgotten. Eventually, Tom pulled away slightly, his eyes searching mine. "Can we just stay here tonight? Just us?"

"Of course" I said, brushing his thick dreads from his face. "We can do whatever you want."

He smiled, a real smile this time, and pulled me down onto the bed with him. We lay there, holding each other, the faint sounds of the city outside a distant hum. Tom's breathing slowed, his body relaxing completely for the first time that evening.

"I love you" he whispered, his voice filled with emotion. "I love you too" I replied, kissing his forehead.

We lay there in comfortable silence, enjoying the peace of the moment. The anxiety from earlier seemed like a distant memory now, replaced by a deep sense of contentment. Tom's hand found mine, our fingers intertwining as we simply enjoyed being together.

After a while, I felt Tom's lips on my neck, his breath warm against my skin. "You make everything better" he murmured, his voice low and husky.

I shivered at his touch, my body responding instinctively. "I try" I said with a smile, turning to capture his lips with mine.

We kissed slowly, savoring each moment, the tension from earlier completely forgotten. Our hands roamed over each other, exploring familiar territory with renewed intensity. Tom's touch was both soothing and electrifying, a combination that never failed to drive me wild.

As things heated up, I felt the urgent need to be even closer to him. We moved together in perfect sync, our bodies responding to each other's every move. The connection between us was intense, fueled by the events of the evening and the deep love we shared.

Eventually, we paused, breathless and flushed, our foreheads pressed together. "Let's take this to the bedroom" Tom suggested, his eyes dark with desire.

I nodded, my heart racing in anticipation. We stood up, still wrapped around each other, and made our way to the bedroom. I pushed open the bedroom door, my heart racing with anticipation.

I laid him gently on the bed, placing my weight on his body. "You're so beautiful" I murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips. He responded eagerly, his arms winding around my neck as he deepened the kiss.

I could feel the heat radiating off his body, and I knew that he wanted me as much as I wanted him. I broke the kiss, my lips trailing down his jaw and neck, peppering him with kisses as I went. He tilted his head back, giving me better access, and I couldn't help but grin at his eagerness. "You like that?" I asked, my breath hot against his skin.

"Yes" he moaned, his voice ragged with desire. "Don't stop."

I continued my assault on his neck, my hands roaming over his chest and stomach, feeling the muscles tense and flex beneath my fingertips. I could feel his cock, hard and throbbing, pressed against my thigh, and I knew that it was time to take things to the next level.

I pulled back, my eyes meeting his, and I saw the hunger and need in them. I reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head, exposing his toned, muscular chest. I couldn't help but let out a low whistle as I took in the sight of him.

"Fuck, you're so hot" I said, my voice filled with awe.

He blushed at the compliment, but I could see the pleasure in his eyes. I leaned down, capturing one of his nipples in my mouth and sucking hard. He cried out, his back arching off the bed as I teased and tormented him with my tongue and teeth.

I moved my attention to his other nipple, giving it the same treatment, and he moaned and writhed beneath me. I could feel his cock leaking precum, and I knew that he was just as turned on as I was.

I stood up, my eyes never leaving his, and stripped off my own clothes. He watched me, his eyes dark with desire, as I revealed my own hard, throbbing cock. I climbed onto the bed, positioning myself between his legs, and I leaned down to capture his lips in another searing kiss.

I reached down, wrapping my hand around both of our cocks, and I began to stroke them together. He moaned into my mouth, his hips bucking up to meet my movements. I broke the kiss, my lips trailing down his chest and stomach as I made my way to his cock.

I wrapped my lips around the head, swirling my tongue around it, and he cried out, his hands fisting in my hair as he held me in place. I took him deeper into my mouth, my throat working as I swallowed him down.

He was moaning and thrashing beneath me, his hips bucking up as I sucked and licked at his cock. I could feel my own orgasm building, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to hold back much longer.

I pulled off his cock with a pop, my lips wet and swollen from his abuse. I looked up at him, my eyes filled with lust and desire, and I saw the same need reflected back at me in his gaze.

"I need you inside me" he gasped, his voice desperate.

I nodded, reaching for the lube and condom that I had stashed in the bedside table. I quickly sheathed myself and slicked up my cock, my eyes never leaving his.

I positioned myself at his entrance, my cock throbbing with need. I looked up at him, seeking his permission, and he nodded, his eyes filled with trust and desire.

I pushed inside him, my cock sliding in easily, and he cried out, his hands reaching up to grip my shoulders as I filled him up. I began to move, my hips pistoning as I drove into him again and again.

He was moaning and writhing beneath me, his cock hard and leaking as I fucked him. I leaned down, capturing his lips in another kiss as I continued to thrust into him.

"You feel so good" I murmured, breaking the kiss. "So tight and hot."

"Yes" he moaned, his hips meeting my thrusts. "Harder, m/n. Please."

I increased my pace, my hips moving faster and faster as I drove into him. I could feel my orgasm building, my balls drawing up tight against my body.

"I'm close" I gasped, my breath coming in short, sharp pants. "Me too" he moaned, his nails digging into my shoulders.

I reached down, wrapping my hand around his cock, and I began to stroke him in time with my thrusts. He cried out, his back arching off the bed as he came, his cum spurting out in hot, sticky ropes.

The sight of him coming, of his body trembling and writhing beneath me, was enough to send me over the edge. I groaned, my cock twitching as I came, filling the condom with my hot, sticky load.

I collapsed on top of him, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me close. I took off the used condom and threw it somewhere, wrapping my arms around him too.

"I love you Tom" I said, resting my head in the crook of his neck. "I love you too" I heard him say and I smiled, feeling myself fall asleep after a while.

[bakughosts]

how real hunger has a real taste

Trigun Stampede ✮ Wolfwood/f!Reader, 18k. Also on AO3!

You want everything. You want the real and the not, who he is and what he sells people. You want to run your thumb across his jaw without the expectation of anything else afterwards. A touch for the sake of a touch. You’re struggling with understanding whether these thoughts are because of who he is or because he’s the closest thing you’ve had to an object of affection since—ever. Maybe if you closed your eyes, it wouldn’t matter if it was him or someone else. (It matters. And then he inevitably betrays you.)

notes: mutual pining, angst, wolfwood in early twenties but looks older & reader implied to be in mid-to-late twenties, a little praise kink for the both of you, love confessions (but who knows if they're real? definitely not you), spoilers for all of trigun stampede s1 (HEAVILY canon reliant so it probably won't make sense if you haven’t seen it; if you don't have the time etc. and still want to read this, reading on from 'before julai' should be just un-confusing enough to work for you hopefully???)

The Fall of JuLai

It’s not like Nick thinks he’s a good person by any means. 

He delivered Vash to JuLai Tower like he was supposed to, and even though he begrudgingly likes the guy, Nick knows that he doesn’t stand a chance against his brother. His ‘do no harm’ bullshit is gonna put paid to that. Meryl and Roberto are there, too, because they're nosy and got swept up in all the things happening on this hellish planet that Nick has too much to do with. You’re there for the same reason—and when you had your chance to leave, to get out of the city safely, you didn’t. Because you’re entirely too idealistic and you’re delusional enough to believe that Vash can save the world.

The streets of JuLai are crawling with vines and blooming flora, petals and leaves black as the heart of a killer. Fluorescent blue pestles illuminate ruined homes, collapsed buildings, bodies. Some moving, some not. 

People are crying out, begging for help—from others, from God, which is funny considering Nick has known since long before he signed his pastoral contract that there’s no way any God could’ve seen this planet and not been disgusted enough to destroy it.

Navigating the streets is easier now that there aren’t guards shooting at him every five minutes. He ignores the people around him—the moving ones and the motionless ones. Kicks rubble as he walks much too slowly towards the exit of the crumbling city. The cigarette that he bummed off of Roberto is mintier than the Skulls he usually smokes. He didn’t know you could get menthols these days. The taste is unpleasant. Explains why the old man always smelled a little like toothpaste under all that stale tobacco.

Roberto’s dead now. His blood is still drying on the floor of the elevator where his life abruptly ended. These people are going to die if they haven’t already. Meryl is going to die. Vash is going to die. You are going to die.

So no, Nick doesn’t think he’s a good person. He never has.

But his freedom is his own. The orphanage is safe. His family—whatever remnants are left, without Livio—are all safe. That’s what being the bad guy gets you, because no one gives a rat’s ass about how good you are. No one cares about anything but themselves. No one was gonna give Nick his freedom, give the orphanage its safety. Not without something in return.

He’s moving so goddamn slow that you wouldn’t expect him to have just given up everything—to have betrayed the only people that were kind to him, that cared about him when he saw his brother die, when his childhood home was almost obliterated. If he doesn’t start running, he’s gonna go down with this city, and all of it will have been for nothing.

He can’t stop thinking about the look on your face when you realized what he’d done.

Meryl’s nattering is something he hardly remembers, something about him being unbelievable, I thought better of you, why isn’t everyone a goody-fuckin’-two-shoes like me, but every time he blinks, he can see you in perfect resolution, like there’s a screen on the back of his eyelids replaying his worst memories.

You hadn’t even said anything. That was the worst part.

The street beneath his feet shudders, the entire city groaning, the metal hull on which it stands screaming out in protest. Nick stops. He stops moving, all because he can’t get you out of his goddamn head, like you’re some sort of worm that’s crawled its way in there, all cozy and nested where he wants you least.

Knives is gonna tear you apart. You and the bratty reporter. You’re strong—you’ve shown that to him in your travels, that you’re not one to back down from a good fight, and he liked seeing a gun in your hand, fire in your eyes, blood on your teeth—but Knives is on a whole other level. Even Nick couldn’t take him out, and he’s a freak of nature thanks to all the shit Conrad did to him. 

He and Vash moved a fifteen-ton ion cannon with their bare hands because they were built to, and you’re up there in that tower all soft and kind and human . 

“Fuck.” His cigarette burns down to the filter, the taste more like plastic than mint. His cross is heavy, shoulder protesting the one-handed hold with which he carries it. He’s not going back there. He did all this for a reason. He saved his own hide because he’s a bad person and that’s what bad people do. You shouldn’t have expected more from him. 

Even though you did. Even though sometimes you looked at him and he really thought—and don’t get him wrong, it’s because you’re delusional—that you might’ve actually believed he could be a better person.

“Fuck.”

He’s back in the building before the butt of his cigarette has a chance to hit the ground.

Following Meryl seems to be a bad idea, but you do it anyway. Even as she calls after Vash, climbing through the broken window of JuLai Tower’s penthouse office, even as you hear the sound of metal hitting metal, knives and bullets clashing in violent bursts of embers, even with Doctor Conrad behind you—a man who, not even fifteen minutes ago, you would have ripped apart with your bare hands—you keep going.

What else are you going to do? What else is left?

There’s the gleam of silver, the sound of something very sharp slicing the very air, and before you’re able to get outside, Meryl is thrown across the roof of the tower, the dome of the office collapsing inwards. Glass tumbles down on your shoulders and you have to move—that’s all you’ve ever known. Just keep moving.

You’re out of the window frame and running towards her in an instant, lungs burning, but Meryl is still rolling, still sliding towards the downturned side of the roof edge, and you’re going to lose her, you realize—she’s going to fall.

Maybe you call out to her—you’re not sure. Your throat is raw already from yelling, your bones aching from the multiple injuries you’ve sustained. You’ll die here too, most likely.

The realization feels peaceful in a very empty way.

But before it can settle in, you see a familiar figure—a dark suit, a too-large gun in the shape of a cross, and Meryl is yelling, “Undertaker?” and Nick is there and you hate him for coming back.

When you reach them, he barely looks you in the eye. Just motions to his shoulders, asks, “Think you can hold on?”

You don’t want this man to be your salvation. You don’t want him to have anything he can possibly use to redeem himself. But you’re not going to die because of your pride. You let him turn and kneel before you, and your arms are around his neck and he’s got his gun in one arm and Meryl in the other and you’re flying—

Honest to god flying through the air, falling far off the top of the tower and then further, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, Nick taking the brunt of each fall. You have to close your eyes or you’re going to throw up, and your legs are wrapped so tightly around his waist that you think you could cut him in half, and he smells like Roberto’s menthol cigarettes—and you knew something was different about him, that he was inhumanly strong, but the way he waltzes through the city from rooftop to rooftop while carrying a couple hundred pounds of extra weight is simply incomprehensible.

Things don’t feel real because there’s no way this could be really happening. You feel the wind against your face, the dulled impact of Nick’s feet hitting hard concrete and metal, and you can hear his labored breathing, hear Meryl scream for him to hold her tighter or she’s gonna fall, hear the gunshots of soldiers on ground level who have still, for some reason, decided that you are the enemy they should be after and not the miles-tall Plant aberration that’s growing out of JuLai Tower.

You can’t open your eyes even when Nick stops moving, when you’re far outside of the city. Even when his gun is on the ground, when he’s put down Meryl and lowered himself so your knees are on the desert floor. Prying your arms from around his neck would feel the same as dying.

Gently, Nick does this for you—moves your arms, but not off of him completely. Enough that he can turn so you’re both kneeling and facing each other, and only then do you open your eyes. He lost his sunglasses at some point during the escape. JuLai is a mess of pulsing blue behind him. He says your name very, very quietly. Your hands are curled at the back of his neck, fingers carding through the hair at his nape because at this point it’s instinct. His eyes are so dark they look black, and there’s blood smudged on his cheek, and your first instinct is to wipe it away for him—to remove any sign of hurt, any sign of injury. 

But Vash is gone, and Nick's the one that made sure it happened. 

You push away from him so quickly that you fall on your ass, sand dusted in a cloud around you. Maybe he was going to say something, some other half-assed excuse, but the hull of the ship that JuLai grows from groans loud, its metal body screaming for help into the desert night as if it’s not far past the point of salvation. The roots that pulse from the city begin to recede, crawling back through the holes they’ve made in infrastructure, curling back up to the top of the tower.

Much more quietly than it should, the largest city on the planet creaks, falls, and goes completely dark.

Before JuLai

Nothing annoys Nick more than routine gun maintenance, and the fight on the Sandsteamer had really done a number on the Punisher.

He always hated the way the doctor called him that—this is your duty, Punisher, this is what I created you for—as if he was nothing but an extension of his weapon. Though that’s all he’s really supposed to be. An executioner, an undertaker, a priest. A sentient trigger.

He doesn’t let things like that get to him. Seeing his brother as what he’d become, seeing him kill himself to escape the life he was living because he wanted to be just like Nick—

None of it gets to him. He doesn’t let it. He doesn’t care.

You sit down next to him when he’s in the middle of oiling one of the crossgun’s many chambers, kicking up sand in your wake. He probably shouldn’t have decided to sit out here to clean his gun, but where else is he gonna do it? In the car? Everything on the planet is covered in sand. He’ll have to deal with it. Still, he gives you a nasty side-eye for putting him back about three minutes of work.

“Am I interrupting? Sorry,” you say, and he can tell you’re not. “Thought you were gonna help us set up camp.”

“I’m busy.”

“You can get hot and heavy with your cross later. Meryl needs help getting a fire started.”

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t want to. The cloth he uses to clean the chambers is black with grease and he wonders when he’ll have to tear a piece of his shirt off to replace it with and he wonders if you got hurt earlier keeping the Bad Lads Gang off the reporter duo and he wonders what he could possibly do to get you to quit staring at him. His collar feels too tight even though the buttons start four inches down his chest. “Get Blondie to do it.”

At the top of the dune closest to camp, Nick has an excellent view of the stretch of absolutely fucking nothing that surrounds you all. Vash said his home was near here—needed to get his prosthetic arm fixed up by the people that built it. He probably isn’t in good shape to help anyone do anything. You both know that.

The wind pushes the dunes further out, transforming the desert into a rippling, golden sea. The sun is about to set, the sand already cast a shade of light pink by oncoming dusk. You’re silent for long enough that Nick is forced to look at you, which he doesn’t do often because it always makes him feel a bit hot under the collar, a bit hunted. He can’t explain it. Sure as hell doesn’t like it, though.

You’re not even paying attention to him. Instead, you take in the wide open desert as if it’s the first time you’re seeing it, and the sun touches your face soft like a lover and—there’s a pang of something in his stomach. Like jealousy. 

He can’t escape you. It isn’t like the others don’t try with him—he has to deal with Vash, who thinks he can befriend the entire fucking planet and bombards Nick with friendly remarks that he’s dying to see turn into banter; Meryl, who isn’t interested in him as more than a journalistic pursuit but still asks some very pointed questions; Roberto, who offers him a smoke every now and then and thanks him for doing shit that he didn’t do for anyone but himself in the first place.

And then he has to deal with you, too, but you approach him in a different way. A way he isn’t used to—not that he’s used to any of it—but that he can stomach. You’re open with him, but you don’t inundate him with things he doesn’t care about. You ask questions when they’re necessary. You give him disapproving looks when he runs his mouth a bit too much and much more pleased looks when he lets Vash wax poetic about saving the universe from evil. He finds himself shutting up sometimes just to see it—the slight curve of your lips, fond exasperation at Vash’s unyielding hope, a silent thank you in the pointed look you send his way.

“You grew up there?” you ask. “At that orphanage?”

You’ve decided, it seems, that these questions are necessary. He’d talked about the orphanage at some point in front of you, so he’s not exactly surprised that you know about it. Still, he’s in a shitty mood and he doesn’t want to talk about this with anyone. Especially you, even though most days you’re the person he’d be most willing to tell. “I never liked twenty questions. Too much talking involved.”

“I already know the answer,” you say.

“Then you shouldn’t have asked the question. That’s not how you win.”

“I’m trying to—I don’t know. Is it so ridiculous for me to ask you something personal every once in a while?”

He scoffs. “You’ve got more questions than bullets. And you fire them quicker, too.”

You fix him with a look, and he can only hold your eyes for a moment before looking back at his gun. Too much shit to do to get distracted, anyways. 

“How long have we been traveling together?”

“I dunno,” he says. “Couple months. Why?”

You shrug, and he can see it in his peripherals. You move fluidly, in a way he catches himself noticing too often. “Are you gonna tell any of us something real about yourself?”

“You should talk to Meryl,” he says. “I’m sure she could find you some kind of job in investigative journalism. Or maybe you could do some cam work, since you’re so far up my ass.”

“Fuck off, Wolfwood,” you say, but he can see the edge of your grin, hear the mirth in your voice. Something he likes about you: his attitude doesn’t piss you off. You take it in stride and on occasion, give it back. 

“I was here first,” he reminds you. “You should be the one doing the fucking off.”

You don’t fuck off. You sit next to him and things feel heavy but no heavier than they always do. 

He wants to hear you say his first name—a misplaced thought that he shouldn’t have had, like finding a coin in your pocket after it's already been through the dryer. (He’d kill to find a town with a laundromat, but they’re few and far between.) Wolfwood is so impersonal, what everyone he’s ever traveled with has called him. Punisher is out of the question. Nicholas he likes even less, somehow, because it feels like a name that was taken from him when he was too young to ask for it back. But thinking about the idea of you saying fuck off, Nick, or Nico, or whatever the hell you want to call him and trying badly to hide that little smile from him has his heart racing a thousand miles a minute. He looks at you and realizes what a bad idea it is because once he starts, he can't stop.

You frown—ruminative. Something’s on your mind. Something he’s worried you might try to tell him. “Are you ever, maybe…” you begin. Your words are quiet, measured. “Would you ever tell me something real?”

Nick’s hands are too clammy to keep working on the intricate parts of his gun. You’re setting him back even more. He hates it when you ask questions like this. He hates it when you mention the thing that sits between the two of you, the quiet understanding that even though you’d been a gun-for-hire traipsing around the planet and Nick had been tortured until his fucking eyes bled, you can somehow understand each other. He wants to knock you down a peg. To get you to leave him alone before he says something he’ll regret telling you. “I don’t know how you got the idea that you’re special,” he says, and the air in his lungs feels like too much for his body to hold, “but you’re not.”

You stare at him, hurt slowly curling your lips downwards. He shrugs his shoulders as if this isn’t how he wanted you to react and goes back to cleaning his gun. Tries to let himself breathe. It’s difficult. His big fucking mouth is gonna get him in trouble again if you don’t say something soon, or slap him, or leave, or—something. Nick doesn’t apologize for things. Never finds himself wanting to like he does right now.

“Forget it,” you say, standing to leave. “You—fuck. No, forget it.” 

You won’t look at him and he hates that you won’t. Some days it’s all he wants.

Traveling with Wolfwood is torture when he’s in a bad mood. He’s barely spoken to you since your conversation a few days ago—hasn’t even looked at you. That sucks for multiple reasons, but partially because today it’s you, him, and Vash in the backseat of the car, Roberto in the passenger (as always), and Meryl driving. 

You like Meryl—she’s sweet, and she has a lot of grit—but you don’t like the way she drives. The three of you slide all over the backseat like butter across a hot pan, your seat belts barely holding you in place each time she takes a hard turn—you’re in a desert, for Christ’s sake, and your destination is a straight line away from you, so you have no idea why she has to steer somewhere new every thirty seconds.

Vash had (without Meryl noticing, which would save everyone an earful) arranged the order of seating so you wouldn’t get crushed between him and Wolfwood, and took the driver’s-side seat so his prosthetic wouldn’t smack into whoever sat to his left and leave them with some nasty bruises.

Every two minutes your entire body slams into Wolfwood’s side, and he was already in a sour mood—by the time you reach the town you’ll be staying in for the night, he’s steaming, practically shoving Vash out of the car so he can leave the enclosed space he’s been forced to share with you.

Sometimes—or maybe more than sometimes, because you think about it often—you want to tell Wolfwood how childish he can be. You want to tell him that there’s more to life than smoking and sulking. But you prefer him when he isn’t giving you the cold shoulder, so you keep it to yourself.

The motel you find is cheap and clean. Well—clean might be a strong word, but at least it isn’t bug-infested like the last place you stayed, so everyone agrees to stay in town an extra day in order to rest. 

You all have lunch together (where Wolfwood ignores you), play games of pool in the motel lobby (where Wolfwood decides to go back to his room when you and him are finally up against each other), and even share a few drinks at the town’s bar after the sun sets (where Wolfwood flirts with any person that even so much as glances his way all night).

It’s not like you want to watch him shoot whiskey, head back and the long line of his throat exposed. It’s not like you want to hear the depth of his voice, its seductive edge, when he gets the bartender wrapped around his finger in under a minute flat. There’s just nowhere else to look, nothing else to listen to. The bartender leans in, smiling softly, as Wolfwood tells her something secret that has her face dusted a pretty pink. 

There’s a hand in front of you, snapping, and Meryl is asking you, “Are you even paying attention to me?”

“Yes,” you lie, “of course I am.”

She rolls her eyes. “What’d I just say?”

You genuinely have no idea. You didn’t even realize that Vash and Roberto had left the table, both fully concentrated on a game of darts across the bar.

“Yeah, thought so. Look—can you do something about it?”

“I still don’t know what you were talking about—”

“New subject. Keep up,” she says. “Can you and the Undertaker stop fighting? His moods drive me up the wall.”

Your eyes narrow. She’s doing that Meryl-thing where she asks you a question about something you’ve never established because she wants you to confirm whether or not it’s true. The amount of times Vash has been caught out by this technique is comical. 

“We’re not fighting,” you say. Fighting implies more than lukewarm camaraderie and routine disgruntlement. Fighting implies caring enough about each other to fight about something.

“Uh-huh,” she says, and you both watch as Wolfwood looks at the bartender and grins, all pretty white teeth, before glancing back at the table where you and Meryl sit. “So he’s doing this to, what, make me jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” you say, and the speed with which the words leave your lips has already damned you. “And he’s not—it’s not for me. It’s—he’s just being Wolfwood. What else do you expect? He likes the attention.”

Meryl only looks smug when she gets someone to say something she wants them to say, and she looks very, very smug. 

“We’re staying here extra time to rest,” you tell her, “not to—do whatever he’s doing. I’m not jealous, I’m annoyed. If I have to cover his ass in a firefight because he spent his spare time with some—some random, then I’m gonna be pissed.”

“Some random,” Meryl parrots, using her fingers to put quotes around the word. “Would you rather it not be someone random, then?”

You stand too quickly, the booze going to your head. You haven’t had that much to drink, you don’t think, but you sway a little on your feet. “I’m not going to be the one that lets down the team,” you tell her. “So I’m gonna get some sleep. For the team.”

Meryl hmms, amused, playing at believing you. “Go get some sleep for the team. We all appreciate your sacrifices.”

You laugh, and though you can only see him from your peripherals, you think you see Wolfwood’s head turn just a little. Probably looking for back-ups in case the bartender loses interest.

The walk to the motel is brisk and cold with the sun finally in bed for the night, and you hate the way you think about the slope of Wolfwood’s throat and the points of his canines when he grins and the darkness of his eyes peering over the rim of his sunglasses when he glanced back towards you—

You sigh, stopping outside your door and pushing your thumb and middle finger against your closed eyes, as if you can massage the images out of your sight permanently.

You can’t. No matter how hard you try. And you know why—really, it isn’t even buried that deep down. You like his cocky grin and dry sense of humor and the way his inky hair falls soft across his forehead. You like the way his hands look when he cleans his gun, long and pretty fingers removing and reloading clips of bullets that he clicks into place one-by-one with his thumb, quick and confident. You like talking to him in the middle of the night when you camp out in the desert and everyone else is asleep, and even though you’re both in your sleeping bags, you look up at the same stars and tell each other about your worst fights or about the people you used to know, and sometimes he makes you laugh so hard that you have to cover your mouth in fear of waking everyone else.

Sometimes, you think that—maybe he feels something like that too. Maybe there are things he likes about you that he keeps to himself, little secrets lined up like cigarettes in a pack. But he keeps you at arm’s length and it kills you. No matter how much he gives you, it’s never enough, and he knows it. You know a lot about him, but you don’t know him.

So when he flirted with the bartender, it wasn’t him trying to make you jealous. Because making you jealous implies that he wants something from you. 

Maybe he just wants to fuck you. That’s another fairly viable option, but not your favorite. It’s not like you’re asking him to profess his undying love—that doesn’t exist out here. You meet people and you form tenuous connections and you enjoy the time you have until it inevitably finds its end. Law of the wasteland. 

You just want something a little more real. You want him to like things about you the way you like things about him.

If it’s a physical connection he’s looking for, he can find it with the bartender once her shift is over. You’re in travel clothes still, cargo pants and the most worn shirt you own, and you’re covered in desert grit besides. The bartender is clean and pretty and much more accessible.

He can do whatever he wants. He just lost someone. Even if you were on the other side of the Sandsteamer, you’re positive you could've heard Wolfwood cry out when Livio’s body tipped over the side of the ship and melted into the sea of sand below. Maybe fucking away the pain is what he wants to do. And that’s fine.

When you get to the door of your room, you hear hurried footsteps and your hand is on your hip, finger already ghosting the trigger of your holstered pistol—but it’s him. Not enough for him to plague your thoughts, apparently. He had to follow you back to the motel and remind you that you aren’t going to be able to escape him for the foreseeable future.

“Why’d you leave?” he asks. Blunt, for him. You wonder how much whiskey he’s had. There’s a cigarette in his mouth and the smell of tobacco overwhelms you, makes you want one yourself. Smoking’s an expensive habit.

“Got tired,” you say. You’re pretty sure he knows you’re lying. It’s hard for you to not speak out of bitterness after you've had a little too much to drink. “I didn’t think you’d care that I left.” 

You don’t know how to define what you feel for him. It’s a soft spot, maybe. You like the way he looks at you. You like the way he seems to enjoy you looking at him. Maybe you’re both vain. Maybe you’re both lonely. Whatever it is, it’s been going on for too long and you’re tired of the uncertainty. 

“Nightcap?” he asks. You hadn’t noticed the bottle in his hand, some unlabeled, murky brown liquid.

“Have one with Vash.”

“I don’t want one with him.”

“What do you want, Wolfwood?”

He meets you at the door, and sometimes you forget how tall he is. But not right now. His hand covers yours on the door handle, cigarette between two fingers, and he’s standing closer to you than he ever has outside of a fight. Nothing you’ve felt has been as warm as his skin against yours. The ash that falls on your hand burns a little. “I want to have a drink with you,” he says. “And I want to tell you something real.”

“You’re drunk,” you tell him. His palm is softer than you expected it to be. “But I’ll humor you.”

When he grins, there’s something animal to it—something on the wrong side of feral. He pushes your door open and you follow him inside, sealing your fate for the evening.

There are no chairs in your room, so the both of you sit on the floor, backs against the foot of the twin-sized bed. There are no glasses either, so you both take turns with the bottle, choking a little after each sip. Whatever’s in there could level even the rowdiest bars in November, where you’ve seen more bourbon consumed in one night by your then-traveling companions than you’ve seen altogether in one location since.

“This your way of apologizing to me?” you ask.

He laughs a little then takes a long swig of liquor, inhales sharply through his teeth as the liquid burns down his throat. “I owe my fair share of apologies. What am I sorry for, exactly?”

What are you going to say to that? He hurt your feelings? He didn’t call you special, like some sort of child that needs the recognition, the assurance? He gave you the cold shoulder for a couple days? The way he’d laugh himself to death would definitely bruise your ego more than you can handle. “Tell me what you want to tell me or get out.”

“Don’t sound too eager,” he says. He hands you the bottle, whittling down his cigarette. The smoke that escapes his lips seems to sit between you instead of floating upwards and dispersing. Everything is hazy, soft-edged. “What do you wanna know?”

You wonder if you’ll only get one question, or if he’ll have patience for more. You wonder what the hell you’re even doing here, sitting on the floor with him, making progressively worse decisions. “Who was he to you?” you settle on. “The person that attacked us on the Sandsteamer?”

“No foreplay, huh? Getting right to the main event?”

You try to hide the choking noise that wants to escape you by taking a sip of the booze, but this makes you choke harder, and you have to cough for a few moments before you can even begin to consider a response that doesn’t bring your mind closer to Wolfwood and foreplay. Once you’re able to breathe again, you manage to say, “You were the one that said you wanted to tell me something real.”

He pulls one knee up, leaning forward to rest his elbow on it, and you watch as he cracks his knuckles slow and loud. Not a threat—a nervous tic. You’ve seen him do it after confrontations with Vash, after Meryl asks a question that hits too close to home. “He was, uh… someone I knew when I was a kid. Someone I was supposed to take care of. But I didn’t do a very good job.”

You’re sure he’s also thinking about Livio falling hundreds of feet to the planet’s surface, the sound of the gunshot when he killed himself, Wolfwood calling his name, crying out as he watched this person that he was supposed to take care of meet an untimely and awful end.

Guilt is something that everyone on Gunsmoke is familiar with. Its constant presence doesn’t make it any lighter to carry, any easier to share. Wolfwood bears far more than the cross on his back. The look on his face tells you he already knows where your mind is going and that he doesn’t want to talk about it. He holds out his cigarette to you in lieu of speaking.

You accept what he offers. Close your lips around the filter, try not to think about his lips touching the same place, about the nicotine you could probably taste on him. The drag you take doesn’t feel deep enough. 

“Your turn now,” he says, his deep voice almost too loud in the small room. “I want something real.”

You clear your throat, hand the cigarette back. “I give you real things all the time. You just never reciprocate.”

“My stuff comes with a price. Not my fault you give yours out for free.” Without his sunglasses, his stare is piercing. It makes you feel warm all over. 

Your fingers brush his as you both reach for the neck of the bottle, and neither of you move away. As if the liquor is a safe-ground where contact is okay. It doesn’t have to be questioned, because there’s reasonable doubt when it comes to either of you wanting to touch the other. The problem is that you’ve never wanted so badly to touch someone before now. 

“Tell me something,” he says.

“I want you to kiss me.”

His brows raise, shocked by your boldness maybe, but the cigarette is already out of his mouth and he’s flattening it against the floorboards beside him. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip and you need to know what he would feel like against you more than you need to breathe. “Yeah? You want that?”

You nod and everything else is forgotten. The liquor is pushed aside, his body flush against yours, his big hand cupping your jaw, and—how long has it been since you’ve been touched like this? 

His lips find yours too easily, the first kisses slow, exploratory, but he’s impatient—this shouldn’t surprise you. His tongue slides against yours, permission for more granted without the question ever being asked. You want him messy—you want him warm and whole and unrestrained. Every slide of his skin against yours feels electric, sparks flaring and wires buzzing. 

“This good?” he asks—as if he’s worried, as if this isn’t what you’ve wanted for weeks .

You can only hum in response, pulling him back to you by the lapel of his blazer—his dumb fucking blazer that he fills out so perfectly, all wide shoulders and strong arms and—it needs to come off. 

Pushing it down his arms yields little in terms of results, but he takes over for you, carelessly tossing it across the room before returning to the kiss, allowing your hands to run across his chest, up to his muscled shoulders, twining your fingers in his soft hair.

He doesn’t push—just takes what you give him, which means you have to give him more, breaking the kiss and hooking your leg over his lap to straddle him. 

“Fuck, okay,” he says, more to himself than you. His hands find your hips and squeeze, eyes locked on the touch, pulling you closer to him. Through his slacks, you can already feel how painfully hard he is for you. “Okay,” he repeats.

His uncertainty begins to worry you. You tilt his head up carefully, forefinger crooked under his chin. His stubble is rough against your hand and you can’t help smoothing your thumb across the cut of his jaw. “Wolfwood—you know we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“Are you—? Of course I want to,” he says, incredulous even though only a moment ago he looked absolutely at a loss for what to do with you. His hands move past the boundary of your shirt, warm palms against your sides, fingers digging into your skin a little desperately. “Fuck, baby, of course I want to.”

“But there’s something on your mind.”

From the way he pauses, you gather that there’s more than just one thing on his mind. He looks conflicted. His hands are still warm against you, and he squeezes your sides once again, warmly, before responding. “Use my name.”

“Okay,” you say, soft. You move your hands to the back of his neck, carding your fingers through his hair. It feels so good to touch someone after so long—but it also feels so good to touch him, specifically, after wondering what it would be like for all those months. “I can do that.”

“Nick.”

Something about the way he tells you this makes you laugh. “Do you think I didn’t know your name?”

He looks up at you, unimpressed. Even if you’re joking, he doesn’t like to be made a fool. “Didn’t want you to call me Nicholas.”

“Okay,” you concede, leaning closer to him. You won’t ask the reason because you’re sure it’s locked behind at least six boundaries you aren’t allowed to push. Into his ear, you whisper, “Is there anything else you want, Nick?”

You can feel his cock twitch against you, and he tries and fails to bite back a groan, exhaling hard, his lips ghosting your neck, the curve of your jaw. “Can you, uh—I just need to know that you… want this. You’ve gotta tell me. Keep telling me.”

Seeing him vulnerable is something you’re not used to. You get the sense that he’s not entirely comfortable with it either. He kisses your shoulder, bites softly at the junction of your neck, intent on not looking at you, you think, before you answer. 

“I’ve wanted this for a while,” you tell him, because it’s easier for you, too, when you don’t have to look at him as you say these things. “I’ve wanted—I want you.”

Before you can say more he takes your chin in his hand, pulls your mouth to his and kisses you hard, his teeth knocking against yours, and stands—stands while you’re in his lap, inhuman strength displayed in such a careless action. Your arms tighten around his shoulders, but his hands are on the underside of your thighs, holding you as if you’re lighter than air. He takes you to the bed and your back hits the mattress, a little dust springing up from the threadbare comforter. 

Looking at him above you is a religious experience. His eyes are black, clouded with lust, lips kiss-reddened, face flushed.

There’s an unparalleled need in his expression, his movements. He pulls your cargos off impressively fast, his knees hitting the wood floor hard enough that the impact rings through your bones as well as his. You’re wearing boxer briefs, you realize, because underwear is at a premium out here in the desert, and they’re fine but they don’t exactly make you feel sexy. Your face flushes a little, suddenly so worried about what he thinks of you, what parts of you appeal to him. “Nick—”

“What do you need, pretty girl?” He kisses the inside of your thigh after asking you this, eyes never leaving yours.

Christ—the pet name alone could kill you, but the look on his face is worse. Desperation doesn’t even begin to cover it.

His long fingers dip into the top of your briefs, and suddenly whatever you’re wearing doesn’t feel all that important. “I’m gonna take these off. That okay?”

You nod because you’ve been rendered unable to speak and he takes care of everything for you. He returns as soon as he’s physically able, kissing the inside of each thigh with a reverence you wouldn’t have ever expected to see from him. It draws a sigh from you, and it’s so nice to be touched, to feel Nick’s skin against yours, to feel the heat of his breath between your thighs.

The second his tongue is against you he groans, vibrations running straight through your body. “All for me, huh?” he asks, half-lidded eyes meeting yours, and you miss the heat of his mouth already. “I’m gonna make you feel so good. So good, I promise.” 

He kisses the inside of your leg once more and wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed, closer to him, and he eats you out like a man starved—there’s some sort of technique to it, but it’s lost in the fervor of his movements, in the desperation of his mouth, in the depth of the noises he makes, like he’s been waiting for this for months and now doesn’t know what to do with all the pent up want inside of him.

You tell him he’s doing so good, so perfect, treating me so well, and the encouragement spurs him on, but when he’s opening you up with his long, pretty fingers, when he curls them inside of you just right, your words lose their shape. 

You’re at the edge before you realized you were approaching it, and Nick doesn’t stop his movements. He’s intent on getting you off, tongue moving in rhythm and fingers hitting the perfect spot, his other hand gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise. There’s nothing you want more right now than for him to mark you, to stake some sort of claim on you. To want you for more than just this. 

On instinct, your fingers curl into his hair, guiding him to where you need him—and a second too late you worry that it’s too much, that he won’t like it, but when your grip loosens and you begin to pull away, he grabs your wrist and places your hand back on his head, urging you to take what you need.

And you do—his soft hair thick between your fingers, your grip tightening as you pull him into perfect position, as he lets out a half-broken noise against you, grip tightening painfully on your thigh. His fingers reach a feverish speed and that’s all it takes—you cum hard against his face, your legs tensing around his head, and he couldn’t pull away if he tried. 

But he doesn’t—he works you through your orgasm until you’re oversensitive, until you’re tugging at his hair to get him to stop, until words come back to you and all you can say is please, please, Nick, please.

When he finally relents, he’s breathless, his mouth and chin shimmering and slick. He wipes his face off on the inside of your thigh, which instinctually you want to give him shit for, but immediately after he licks up the mess, placing a kiss to your sensitive skin when he’s finished. “Was that good, baby?” he asks, his breaths heavy, arms still loosely wrapped around your thighs.

He can’t possibly be serious. Yes, it was good. You don’t think anyone will ever be able to follow that up, and all he’s done so far is eat you out.

His face lights up wickedly, and—you said that out loud, you realize, without meaning to. You can’t find it within yourself to care. It would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so wholly true. “So far, huh?” he asks. “Think you can take more?”

You tug at his shoulder because you want him close—you want to kiss him again, because you’ve gone so long not kissing him that even now, only five minutes feels like too long without. He follows your commands with no complaint, a knee up on the bed, leaning over you to kiss you and you can taste yourself on him, on his swollen lips and the wet slide of his tongue.

“Nick,” you say when he gives you a moment to breathe, and—you had an idea of what you were going to say, but you can’t fully reach it. Any time you’ve slept with someone, it’s been quick and perfunctory. Either you ask them to fuck you or they do the same, and that’s that. But this is so different. You want him to fuck you more than anything, but telling him that you want him to fuck you feels too small for what you actually want from him. 

You want everything. You want the real and the not, who he is and what he sells people. You want him to kiss you when you’re not in a bed in a cheap motel, and you want to sleep next to him, and you want to run your thumb across the stubble on his face without the expectation of anything else afterwards. A touch for the sake of a touch.

You’re struggling with understanding whether these thoughts are because of who he is or because he’s the closest thing you’ve had to an object of affection since—ever. You want him to touch you again. Maybe if you closed your eyes, it wouldn’t matter if it was him or someone else.

“I know,” he says, and he doesn’t because he can’t, because everything that’s going through your head isn’t allowed because that’s not how the world works. Because you think even if you closed your eyes, he’d be the only thing in your head, just his name on a loop and the sounds he makes behind it. He kisses the corner of your mouth and you wish you were in a different reality entirely. “Give me—five minutes, and I’ll be good.”

So he knows what you’re asking for. And he can’t give it to you right now. “Did you already—?”

He stops you before you get further. “It’s—I, uh. Fuck.” His olive skin hides any blush that’s not very deep, but there’s pink staining his cheeks, painting the tips of his ears. “Yeah. You just—yeah.”

“Oh my god.”

“Look, if you’re gonna have an attitude about it—”

“I want you so badly,” you say, and nothing has ever been more true. You’re kissing him before you can stop yourself and you’d thought five minutes was a generous estimate, but that’s really all it takes, his body pinning you to the bed, your hips moving beneath him, your hands running up his back and fisting in his hair. You pull at his shirt, barely buttoned now. “Take it off?”

It didn’t even need to be a question. He stands and his shirt is on the floor in seconds, his slacks following quickly behind. His skin glows in the low light, dark hairs peppering his chest and trailing lower, and you can’t stop yourself from reaching out, running a hand up his stomach, feeling the indents of long-healed scars and the coarseness of his hair. When he breathes out, it’s shaky, poorly controlled. He, too, is wearing boxer briefs, and even though this is normal because they're best for the heat, you somehow feel less self-conscious about anything from earlier. He’s hard again, the boxers stained dark because he came while eating you out which you wouldn’t have believed possible before right now and he’s so disgustingly sexy without even trying that you need him to fuck you right now, actually.

You’d been too enraptured watching him to undress, and his patience is short. Your shirt is pulled up over your head and quick work is made of your bra, and Nick’s breath comes out a little less steady when he palms your breasts, when one hand runs up your sternum, up the column of your throat, before tilting your head up for a surprisingly soft kiss.

He smacks the side of your ass lightly, herding you up the mattress, laying you out fully. When he’s fully undressed, when he’s completely yours to admire, you can’t take your eyes off the precum rolling down the tip of his cock, down the incredibly pretty length of him.

The things you would do to this man if you had time—which you do, but it really seems like you don’t, the pent up energy making you both hazy, rushing you towards what you need. With him on top of you there’s barely any room to move, the twin not built to hold a man as large as Nick, let alone a second person. 

He kisses down the length of your neck and your eyes flutter closed. You tell him how pretty he is, how badly you want him, and his hands squeeze your hips in response, pulling your body so, so close to his. He’s hard against your thigh and you need him right now—you could die tomorrow and be happy if you could just have him inside you this instant. He sucks a bruise into the skin right above your collarbone, and you’re too far gone to worry about whether or not your traveling clothes will cover it tomorrow. “This okay?” he asks, moving a hand between the two of you to position himself at your entrance and ever so slightly push.

“You don’t ever have to ask,” you tell him, voice almost too breathy to be heard, because you would have him whenever, wherever—whatever he wanted. 

Slowly, he thrusts inside, and each inch has your legs clenching tighter around him, your nails digging into his perfect shoulders, most assuredly leaving marks. When he bottoms out you basically whimper—it’s embarrassing, the sounds he’s coaxing from you. 

But you can’t help it—he’s so deep you can barely breathe, and his face is buried into the curve of your neck, moans muffled by your skin, teeth digging into your shoulder.

“Kiss me,” you manage to stutter out, the pace he sets slow and deep, and you want him closer, somehow, as if you could have him living in your skin and it wouldn’t be deep enough. 

He does what you ask, hips snapping to yours, the old mattress squeaking in protest beneath you. The kisses are sloppy, wet, at some points your tongues simply pressed together. He pants something against your mouth—your name, you think, though it’s too quiet for you to know for sure—and with each kiss his thrusts get sharper, deeper, hitting spots you didn’t even know existed. 

Your vision spirals at the edges, white and black stars sparkling in your peripherals. And in the center, Nick: pupils blown, lips a perfect pink, cheeks reddened, and his eyes always, always meeting yours when they can, as if it’s essential whenever your lips aren’t slick against his, like he wants to be connected to you in every way possible.

“Want you to cum again,” he murmurs. “You can do that for me, right?”

All you have to do is hum an affirmative and his hand is between your bodies, thumb honing in on your clit and rubbing tight circles, his pace measured and even and so, so deep, and the closer you get the harder it is to keep your eyes open, to stop yourself from curling into him.

His forehead is flush against yours, his explicit groans all breaths against your mouth. “Look at me, pretty girl,” he says. “I wanna see you.”

You moan his name like a prayer, your eyes opening, still so close to him and he’s beautiful—sweat dripping down his forehead, face so open and earnest, as if this is the closest he’s ever come to being completely vulnerable with you.

It only takes a few more thrusts, his cock curved in the perfect way to hit the right spot inside of you, and you’re coming apart, arms wrapping around his neck and fingers gripping his hair and his name on your lips over and over, because he’s the one that did this and you want him to know that you’re only thinking of him. 

Your vision is blank, head hazy. It takes a long moment for you to feel like you’re a part of your body again, Nick still fucking into you, thrusts becoming sloppy, his hands gripping your hips, fingers digging in so hard you’d be surprised if they weren’t meeting bone. He mumbles something into your neck that you can’t hear, and you can feel his muscles tense, and you say please don’t pull out and he’s cumming inside you while holding your hips flush to his, and he keeps saying things to you like he can’t stop himself. When your senses return to you, you realize he’s saying so good, baby, knew you’d take me so good—and then, out of nowhere, “Love you. Fuck, I love you.”

After a moment, Nick pulls out, his chest heaving with heavy breaths. He lays his head against your chest, one hand curled into your hair, the other gently tracing your side.

You can feel the exact moment that he realizes what he said. 

His entire body tenses, his hand stills, and it reminds you of the way a prey animal locks up when it knows it’s been spotted. When panic fills it so intensely that all bodily autonomy is removed.

What he said isn’t true, obviously. The words barely faze you. There are people in some towns that you can pay to sit in a room with you and tell you how much they love you, that they would do anything for you, that they would die for you. There are so few people scattered across the desert. If you’re a lonely traveler passing through, or even someone city-based but just as alone, being able to say you love someone and hear it back is intoxicating. The chances of anyone saying it to you organically are essentially non-existent. 

It’s certainly not something you’d have expected someone like Nick to be into, but who are you to shame him for the things he likes? He wants praise, he wants to feel wanted, he wants to tell someone that he loves them—there are much crazier things he could like. You’re fine with this.

What you’re not as fine with is the strained look on his face when he pushes himself up on his elbows, the way his words tumble out so quickly when he says, “I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s okay,” you say, but a stupid part of you stings in the face of such an emphatic rejection of any feelings he could have for you. “I know.”

Connections on Gunsmoke are forged fast and broken bullet-quick. You could meet someone and travel with them for a week and convince yourself you were in love with them because they’re the only person you talk to, the only person to offer you kind touches and pretty words. But those connections aren’t real. They don’t have weight to them, a foundation to stand on.

You and Nick don’t really know each other, despite the nights you’ve spent talking. Despite the ways he’s made you laugh and the ways you’ve made him smile genuinely—even if it’s a small ghost of a thing that doesn’t often grace his handsome face. Logically, he doesn’t love you. You don’t love him. There’s not even a fraction of you that’s tempted to say it because you know it’s not true. 

And yet, a small part of you yearns to have something like that—to have Nick tell you he loves you and mean it, and for you to love him back.

His face is red despite the aplomb with which you handled everything. He doesn’t quite look you in the eyes. “I’m, uh… Damn. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” You still like him being close to you. You like the way he touches you, the way he looks at you. You don’t want this to ruin the chance of getting to do this again.

“That was—a lot.”

You run the back of your knuckles across his stubbled jaw, pull him towards you with a hand on the back of his head. He follows without any complaint, even kisses you back when you lean up to kiss him, which really was a gamble because some people don’t like any kind of affection once the sex is over. “You can tell me you love me if that’s what you like,” you murmur against his lips. “I can say it too, if you want.”

He breathes in deep—his exhale almost sounds like a sigh, as if he’s about to deliver bad news but has to gear up for it first.

“If you want to do this again,” you say, pulling back to look him in the eyes—to make sure he knows you’re serious. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so presumptuous. “If you don’t, we can go back to how it was before. That would be okay.”

“I want this,” he tells you, eyes flicking to your lips for an instant. “I mean—I want to do this again.”

Smiling at him is easy. Identifying the warmth you feel in your chest is harder.

He kisses you and you sink into the comfort of him, his easy grins and soft moans and light touches. He only stops to ask you very quietly if he should be worried about finishing inside of you, but years of radiation exposure from the dual suns have taken care of any risks there. In turn, you ask him to stay the night. The questions both somehow feel extremely intimate even though they’re normal questions to ask someone you’ve just slept with. He doesn’t hesitate to say yes, and you think—maybe this will end well. Maybe it’ll be exactly what you need for the limited amount of time you have it. 

When he falls asleep, he has one hand on the back of your head, holding you to his chest, and the other in yours, your fingers loosely intertwined. It’s sweet in a way you’ve never experienced.

Maybe this will end well, but you’re almost entirely sure it won’t.

For the next three days of travel to Ship Three—or Home, as Blondie calls it, which is a stupid name—Nick feels like he’s dying. He chain-smokes faster than normal, burning through a pack every couple hours. It’s like his skin is being express-washed with sandpaper and bleach. He wants to touch you so badly it burns.

And you just sit there all pretty, in the back seat next to him and in front of the campfire and on the car’s hood when you have to pull over because Roberto gets too sick from the driving and the alcohol. You sew up the bullet holes in his blazer because of course you’d do that for him, and you laugh at Vash’s jokes and talk to Meryl about the time you both spent in November and you look at Nick and smile like it’s nothing—like your eyes on him don’t drive him insane. 

He gets lucky on your final night of travel, everyone asleep except the two of you, and he takes his time kissing you against the side of the equipment trailer, the car shielding the two of you from your snoring companions.

He’s not gonna ask you to say you love him—when you told him you’d say it if he wanted you to, it felt like there was a bug crawling around in his stomach, an unnameable feeling that he didn’t ever want to experience again.

Saying he loved you in the first place was embarrassing as hell for multiple reasons. First off, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t. Secondly, it was his goal when he approached you that night to play it cool, and he ended up finishing before he’d even started because of how good you tasted, how much he liked the way you pulled his hair, how pretty you sounded saying his name—and then on top of that, you let him cum inside you and you felt so good, so fucking right, and he spilled those words because in that moment, he loved you like absolutely nothing else.

He’s half-hard thinking about it, kissing you slow and deep because fuck, he loves the way you sigh into him when he kisses you like this, the way your hands grip the open sides of his shirt right below the collar as if you wouldn’t let him pull away if he tried. 

There’s not a second where he’s not tempted to mark you, to suck a deep bruise into your neck right below the jawline so everyone knows exactly what’s happening when they’re not looking. But he won’t. He won’t. He’ll be good. He’ll stop kissing you, he’ll ask if you want to lie with him for a little before you go to sleep, he’ll talk to you until you begin to nod off.

Let it never be said that Nicholas D. Wolfwood isn’t a paragon of restraint. He’s the king of it.

The only slight relief he gets is when you all arrive where Vash grew up, when you get to stay in rooms that are a little more private. When he can sleep next to you at night, sometimes after he fucks you as quiet as possible so no one but him gets to hear the noises you make and sometimes after he doesn’t. 

He thinks it should only be about the sex—that’s what everything else he’s ever done with someone has been about. But he gets possessive over your time. He likes to listen to your soft breathing as he falls asleep, likes to feel the weight of you against his chest. Likes when you wake up before him and trace the angles of his face and the planes of his chest with a feather-light touch until he’s up too, and he could never be mad about losing sleep over you.

And he’s a shitty person for doing this. For letting you sleep in his arms, for enjoying the way your hands feel on his skin. There’s so much you don’t know about him, but that doesn’t stop you from asking. He can’t tell you his actual age, he can’t tell you exactly what made him into the freak he is, he can’t explain to you why Livio was after Vash and how he was like a brother to Nick. He doesn’t want to disappoint you, doesn’t want you to pity him. And most importantly—

He can’t tell you what his mission is. The cost of his freedom. You’d never forgive him.

He tries not to lie to you. He avoids questions, omits information where he can. And he knows that this is essentially lying. It’s the same as a broken promise. He’s a hypocrite for calling out Vash’s lies while adding on to his own burning pyre.

This doesn’t stop him from wanting you. He takes back all the paragon shit—Nick has never been very good at denying himself what he wants.

It’s when you’re having breakfast with everyone on an unremarkable morning that Nick reaches his breaking point. Vash’s foster parents are keeping you all fed well, vegetables grown in actual gardens and meat cloned from animal cells on your plates every day.

Nick doesn’t eat breakfast—doesn’t need as much food as other people. He has his coffee like always, a cigarette soon to follow. He sits next to you because that’s his unspoken and permanent spot during meals and at the campfire and absolutely anywhere else. He leans back in his seat, sips from his mug, chimes in on the chatter when he has something to say. Everyone else is chowing down, and Vash says some stupid joke about forgetting what greens taste like when they’re not covered in sand, and you laugh—and something snaps in him.

Nothing big. It’s wishbone-small, the slightest crack. But it’s enough.

He drapes his arm across your seat, cups the back of your neck with his hand, strokes his thumb over the dip of your spine right below your hairline. You swallow hard and he can feel the vibration in his palm.

Everyone is silent. You turn to look at him slowly and he can feel the heat that crawls up your neck. He thought you might be mad—but your eyes are wide, mouth parted in surprise, as if you thought he wouldn’t want everyone to know you were his, as if he’d never claim you publicly.

He’d do a lot more to you publicly if you’d let him, but he doesn’t want to push his luck.

“What?” he asks, as if this is something perfectly normal for him to be doing. He looks between the four of you, and every single one of you is looking at him dumbstruck. “Guess staring problems are an epidemic.”

Vash’s face is a deep pink. He stutters out, “Wow, guys—congrats. Or, uh—I mean. That’s nice that you’re… that—”

“It’s just puppy love, kid, you don’t have to make it awkward,” Roberto says—and Nick barely stops himself from bodily flinching at that word. It shouldn’t be spoken in the context of the two of you so soon after his mistake. “Let the Undertaker have his moment in peace.”

Peace isn’t what Nick was aiming to achieve by touching you like this—but he still got what he wanted. You and Meryl are staring at each other, communicating in a series of complicated eyebrow maneuvers. Vash is looking anywhere but Nick. Roberto, somehow the voice of reason in all this, is already shoveling the rest of his breakfast into his mouth.

He’s itching for a cigarette. He slides his thumb over your soft skin once more, then stands, curling a finger under your chin to tilt your face up. You don’t protest as he leans down, as he kisses you softly and extremely chastely. It’s not like he doesn’t know that he’s pushing boundaries right now, that you might be pissed at him for this. He’s not gonna stick his tongue down your throat in front of everyone. But he couldn’t stop himself from having just one kiss. 

Whatever broke inside him couldn’t be patched up, and he just—he needed everyone to know what you were. That you were something. That he was the one that’d take care of you if you needed it, that he was the one you were sleeping next to every night, that he was yours.

“Nick…?” You don’t look angry with him. Just confused. Concerned, maybe.

“Gonna go out for a smoke.” He knows you don’t like him smoking next to you while you’re eating, or he’d already have a cigarette lit between his fingers. His thumb swipes across your lower lip because he has a hard time keeping his hands off you once they’re on. 

He turns from the table and heads towards the hallway—where he’ll be breaking out his smokes, because he’s not walking through the entire damn ship to have a cigarette if they haven’t complained about him smoking inside yet. 

Before he makes it to the door, he hears Meryl loudly whispering at you, questions pouring from her lips, and Roberto saying, “Christ, Newbie, let her breathe.”

Outside the mess hall, Nick turns to the wall of the hallway. Presses his forehead against the cool metal. He’s an idiot for doing things like this. For acting on impulse. For not being entirely honest with you.

Maybe if he could get his contract from the church, you’d understand. You’d see the clauses on there that he remembers watching Conrad write— if this contract is breached, the Hopeland Orphanage will be destroyed and the lives of every child that resides within will be forfeit. You’d see the thick black line at the bottom that he was forced to sign when he was too young to know what a signature was. Vash wanted to see his brother anyway. All he had to do was deliver the kid to Knives. It wouldn’t even be extra work on Nick’s part. 

But he knows you well enough now. Too well to ignore the fact that you don’t forgive easily.

And this still doesn’t stop him, because he’s an awful person. Blondie’s arm puts you back a few weeks—weeks spent gathering materials and waiting for the old scientist to finish his repairs. 

And even as you spend more and more time with him, holding his hand when you walk into the mess hall for breakfast, laying against his chest as you read old books from the ship’s small library, kissing him goodbye when you or he take turns helping out on scavenging trips, he doesn’t tell you the entire truth. 

Even as he finds such simple happiness in talking to you about your day, even as he finds some kind of divinity in the way you moan his name, in the way your nails scrape against his scalp when he fucks you—always face to face, because he loves the way you look at him, like he’s the only thing that exists to you—even then, he doesn’t give you the most delicate, secret parts of him.

Just once—just one time while he has you laid out beneath him, while he has you in his ear telling him what a good job he’s doing, he considers taking you up on what you’d proposed to him all those months ago. He thinks about what it would sound like if you told him you loved him, even if you didn’t mean it, and he cums so unexpectedly that his vision whites out, that he feels a tipsy sort of dizziness, that you ask him if everything is okay after.

You mess with his head. He doesn’t know whether he likes it or hates it. Doesn’t matter how he feels about it, really—wouldn’t stop it from happening every time you smile at him after you’ve been away from him for a little while, the first time you woke up in his arms and said morning, handsome and every time after that.

When Brad finally tells everyone that he’s almost done with Vash’s repairs, Nick is disappointed. He wants time. He’s only had a month of this. He wants all the time in the world and more because he’s greedy and needs every part of you.

Only a few days later, you’re in the mess hall for dinner and Wolfwood is coming back from helping Blondie scavenge around for old ship parts. There are specific metals the scientist needs for his final repairs, all located in burnt out scraps of fallen spaceships that litter the wasteland around Ship Three. He’s been gone for eight hours and it’s been too damn long with you out of his sight.

It’s later in the evening—most of the crew have cleared out, but stragglers sit at the tables around the edges of the room and chat tiredly. You’re already done with your meal and Nick is so ready to pick you up and carry you all the way back to his room and get you in his shower, because he can’t wait to touch you until after he’s clean, free of the sweat and sand that feel like a second skin at this point. 

Except you’re talking to some asshole with a lopsided smile on his face, obviously already half in love with you. The guy isn’t even your type. Too soft, baby-faced, completely untested by Gunsmoke and its inhabitants. He looks like he wouldn’t know how to shoot a gun if Nick put one in his hand with the safety off and positioned his finger on the trigger.

He leans the Punisher against whatever’s closest to him and its weight causes the metal table it falls against to scrape across the floor harshly. You turn to look at him and you smile so softly despite the loud noise, and maybe he’ll just hoist you out of your chair and carry you to his room right now even though you’d complain about him being rude to this wet rag that wants to fuck you.

You greet him when he sits in the chair next to you and he missed your voice so much. The guy you were talking to looks at Nick, brows raised, as if expecting—what, that you’d actually want this asshole? Over him?

Nick shoots the guy a withering glare, then puts his arm around your shoulders lazily, murmuring hey, pretty girl into your hair while this idiot keeps staring at him as if it could intimidate him into leaving.

“I’ve heard about you. The Undertaker, right?” the guy asks, holding his hand out, as if Nick would actually shake it. “I’m—”

“Leaving,” Nick says. “Unless you’re looking for a problem.”

You turn to look at him, his name a protest on your tongue, but the guy is already getting up, muttering to himself about Nick having awful manners. Doesn’t matter—he’d rather have every person on this ship hate him if it meant keeping you to himself.

“You can’t talk to people like that,” you say.

“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.” He could see the hunger in that asshole’s eyes, no matter how well he was hiding it from you. “He wanted something that wasn’t his.”

“Nick…” You pull back a little further away from him to really look at him, and he curls his arm around your shoulder because he doesn’t want you further away. He wants you against the wall of his shower right now, and then maybe on the countertop next to the sink, and then preferably in his bed for the rest of the night. “Maybe… we should go somewhere more quiet. To talk.”

Dread settles into his stomach so quickly that it’s like being hit by a bullet to the gut—and Nick’s taken plenty of those over the years, but none have felt quite as cold and heavy as this. He refuses to panic right now. “To talk,” he repeats.

You must see it in his eyes—the fear. Your hand is on his cheek in an instant, and you kiss him so soft and chaste, exactly like the first time he kissed you in front of everyone, and he feels safer. His heart stops beating out of his chest, the dread in his stomach warms to a tepid anxiety. He’s beginning to like kisses like these. Still not as much as when he can really kiss you the way he wants, long and deep and thorough, but there’s something in the simplicity of them that pleases him. They’re a message more than anything. An assurance. You still like him. You still want him.

Regardless, he follows you to your room with a stone in his throat. He’s not a big talker. Not when it comes to serious stuff. And this feels serious. You start pacing and his pulse quickens again, a raging beat against his sternum, an echo that rattles around his head.

When you stop, it’s sudden enough to rock you in place a little, as if you didn’t realize you were going to cease moving before it happened. “Sometimes,” you say, not looking at him, “you say things.”

He waits, but you don’t continue. “I tend to do that.”

“Nick—unless I’m not understanding things right, we’re not… we’re not together.”

Refusing to panic seems to be something he’s no longer good at. “We’re not together,” he repeats, because he’s an idiot that can’t string two words together if you haven’t already said them.

“Okay, that’s—that’s what I thought. I didn’t think you… yeah.” You still won’t look at him. You’re picking at your cuticles so hard that there’s already a little blood on your fingers.

His immediate instinct is to stop you—to step forward and take your hands in his, to smooth his thumbs over the wounds you’ve given yourself. “Look at me.”

When you look at him, your eyes are full of an emotion that Nick can’t name. Not desire—but want, on a certain level. There’s something you want that he can’t give you.

And he knows what it is. He’s not an idiot. He knows that the way you smile at him isn’t the way you smile at someone you’re not together with. He knows you don’t give him those reassuring kisses because you don’t want to be together with him. You don’t ever press him about it because this kind of stuff doesn’t happen. People don’t connect like this. Whatever the two of you are doing—it’s fragile, and you’re ready for it to fall apart at a moment’s notice. He is, too.

If there wasn’t so much he wasn’t telling you, then—he doesn’t even want to think about it. Because maybe he’d like that too. Maybe he’d be able to give you parts of what you want, to be enough of what you need in order for you to be happy. 

You’d do it for him, no question. You already do it for him. 

“I’m not great at this,” he tells you. He’s not. He’s slept with a lot of people, but that’s easy on Gunsmoke. If you’re even a little good looking, half the planet wants you. But he hasn’t held anything more real than that, hasn’t felt the weight of it in his palm. “But I want… just you.”

You bite the inside of your lip, unsure—because what has he given you, really, beyond vague answers and truths that aren’t fully fleshed out? He can understand your hesitance. You’re so devastatingly beautiful and he wishes he wasn’t a piece of shit.

“Okay,” is your eventual response. 

He can tell that what he said wasn’t enough. But it’s all he can give you. It’s selfish of him to want reciprocation, he knows. “Do you…?” 

“Yes,” you say, but you look so sad and he keeps fucking up more and more. “Just you.”

He wishes he could see what kind of thoughts are running through your head—whether you hate him now, whether you’re okay with just this, whether he could ever make you forgive him for everything he’s about to do.

“Kiss me,” you tell him. “Please.”

How could he deny you that?

He doesn’t take you to his shower but you don’t seem to mind the grit and sweat of the desert on his skin—you’re pliant underneath him, you come apart on his hands, you kiss him like you mean it, and when he’s inside you and he whispers I love you, I love you, I love you into your skin, you don’t question whether it’s real or not and he doesn’t tell you.

You don’t say it back, but he didn’t ask you to.

After JuLai

There’s nowhere you can go but Home.

The entire coast of the Great Sand Ocean is covered in the debris of JuLai, and even then—no Sandsteamer is going to stop on a random stretch of coast to take you somewhere safe. If you can all make it to Home, Meryl can go north to November, Nick can go back to December, and you can figure out what you’re going to do since you didn’t have the good fortune to die.

So many people didn’t make it. You should be happy you’re still alive. But traveling with Nick makes you wish that someone else was here instead of you.

Vash is nowhere to be found. You don’t think he’s dead—because it’s him. Even with everything that happened to him in that tower, you have such a strong belief that he lived through Knives’s torture, through that bright pink light in the sky that exploded up into space, through the collapse of the world’s largest city.

Maybe that’s naive. But if you can go look for him after you get situated, that’s—something. You can do something and not feel so empty. Or you could follow Meryl to November, become a gun-for-hire like you’d been for so many years.

It’s a week's journey to Home on foot. You barely sleep. You and Meryl take turns keeping watch at night, always right beside each other, because there’s no way you could trust Nick to keep the two of you safe after everything.

But you can’t kick him out of your little group, either, because you’re without cover and without your weapon, lost somewhere in the escape, and Meryl’s Derringer only has three low-caliber shots before the bullets Roberto gave her are gone.

As much as you hate it, he’d be your only chance of survival if you got caught in a firefight out here.

Nick doesn’t seem willing to leave, either. He doesn’t speak to either of you—out of shame, you wonder, or because he simply doesn’t care?—but he nods when you say that Home should be your next destination, follows quietly when Meryl begins to lead the trek with her unflappable sense of direction, smokes cigarette after cigarette until his borrowed pack of menthols runs out and he gets twitchy, bouncing his leg whenever he sits down, toying with the buckles on the cover of his gun tirelessly.

The noise doesn’t bother you when you’re walking, but in the middle of the night, it sounds like a fucking alarm going off. And he doesn’t sleep—at least, you never see him unconscious during your trek, even though you know firsthand that he’s capable of sleeping—but obviously there’s a lot he hasn’t told you about himself.

The night before you get to Home, it’s too much for you—you’re about to wake Meryl for her watch, and you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a week, and he’s flicking a buckle open and closed, and you find the half-finished pack of cigarettes in your pocket that, before everything, you’d been holding for him.

There are no campfires these nights. You don’t have the resources, and you sure as shit don’t want to be spotted by anyone that might be heading to JuLai to scavenge its corpse. In the shine of the five moons, you make your way over to him—he’s never too close, maybe because he’s trying to be conscientious. 

He looks up at you, surprised, and—he’s terrible enough to have something like hope on his face. It’s not a good look on him.

“Here,” you say, and you hold out the crumpled pack of cigarettes. He takes it from you slowly, like you’ll scare if he moves too quickly. “You need to stop fiddling with shit so I can get a good night’s sleep.”

“Thanks,” he says, but you’re already walking back towards Meryl, shaking her from sleep. 

The sound of his lighter clicking, the sound of him taking a deep drag and exhaling a long moment later—it’s so familiar. You’ve fallen asleep to that many nights over the past month or so, when Nick hadn’t been able to rest without a little nicotine to calm him down. He was always thinking hard when you were quiet in his arms, something in his eyes that spoke of conflict. You wonder now if he was thinking about the things he was keeping from you. The way he was about to betray you.

Meryl eyes the lit cigarette in Nick’s mouth when she wakes up, but she doesn’t look at you with any kind of judgment. She squeezes your hand and smiles at you, quietly says, “It’s okay. You need some rest.”

Maybe she’s talking about the noise that kept you awake every night—maybe she’s talking about something less tangible, an unrest that lives deep within you. You still don’t sleep well, and it’s his fault. Without the sound of the buckles clicking, you can hear him smoke, hear his deep breaths in the silence of the night. When you dream, it’s a hazy memory on loop, Nick holding you close and whispering things he didn’t mean.

Luida cries when you arrive and tell her what happened. You can’t blame her—you want to cry too. It’s all you’ve wanted to do for days. You just want to get to a room where you can be by yourself and finally, finally be allowed to feel.

Brad tells you that the room you’d stayed in is exactly how you left it, and you leave Meryl talking to the two of them, leave Nick leaning against the wall next to his gun, quietly smoking one of the last cigarettes from the pack you’d given him.

You get to your room, untouched to the point that it still smells a little like the body wash you used the last time you showered here, a little like stale smoke from when Nick would come to you at night because he basically refused to sleep if it wasn’t next to you, and you find that you can’t even do what you’ve wanted to do this whole time.

There are no tears. There’s no terrible cracking of the makeshift foundation you’d built to hold yourself up over the past few days. No collapse, no city falling dark. There’s nothing.

You shower and sit on the tiled floor, letting the spray hit your hair, your back, until the water goes lukewarm. Even after you’ve scrubbed every inch of your skin, you can still feel the desert on you, sand under your nails, baked into your hair, seared into your bones. You lay in your bed in clean clothes—truly clean clothes for the first time in more than a week, comfy pajama shorts and an actual sweater—and all you can do is stare at the ceiling, waiting to sleep, or to sink into the sheets and melt away, or to simply cease to exist.

He comes to your door in the middle of the night, knocks and waits outside, as if he couldn’t simply open the door himself. They don’t lock. People on this ship are respectful about privacy. There’s a large part of you that wants to leave him out there. He won’t come in if you don’t let him. You may not know a lot about him, but you’re at least sure of that. 

When you open the door, he’s flicking the butt of a finished cigarette to the ground. It bounces, crosses the threshold of your room. “Shit—didn’t mean to do that,” he says. I didn’t mean it, you hear. “Didn’t even think you’d see me, to be honest.”

“Do you need something, Wolfwood?” you ask. Whenever you’re not speaking your jaw is clenched so tightly that you can hear your molars grind against each other. He’s doing irreparable damage to your teeth. “Or are we done here?”

His face falls—not that it hadn’t been in a state that could be classified as ‘fallen’ before that—and he jams his hands in his pockets, swaying back on his heels, looking more above you than at you. The mask he wears to hide his thoughts from you doesn’t fit very well anymore. “I’m leaving,” he says. 

It’s what you wanted him to do, but it doesn’t stop you from inhaling sharp, from feeling a sudden pain against your ribs. 

“Thought I’d, uh…” He shakes his head. He’s replaced his sunglasses, or maybe he had them the whole time, and you can’t see his eyes in the hallway’s ambient night-time lighting. “Nah, never mind. Get some sleep. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

He turns to leave and the lapel of his jacket is suddenly in your hand, sandworn and stitched through. You sewed up the bullet hole that rests snug beneath your thumb. You ran your fingers over the skin of his chest not long after that, marveling at its smoothness, the lack of scars to follow the wound. You thought then: was he disappointed that he didn’t have any marks to show for the trauma he’d endured? Or did he prefer that—a blank canvas that let him pretend that everything he’d ever known hadn’t really happened?

You had eventually come to the conclusion that he didn’t care. His scars were littered across bone and organ, never to be shown to another person. The cross he bore was his own terrible burden to shoulder.

Back then, you had been okay with that. After everything that happened, you shouldn’t care. You should let him shoulder the weight. You should let him leave. 

There are more holes in the blazer now, wounds he picked up on the way to his betrayal. “Let me fix this for you.”

He says your name small, quiet, the same way he’d said it when JuLai was burning with life behind him, exploding in flowers and vines.

“Before you go,” you say. You have no idea what you’re doing. “I want to fix it before you go.”

He swallows, nods. You can tell he wishes he had a cigarette right now. “Alright. If you want."

It takes a moment for you to let go of him, as if he’d melt into sand once you let go, as if this is only an apparition before you and your grip is the only thing tying him to the physical realm. 

He doesn’t melt. He doesn’t fade away. He follows you into your room and shrugs off his blazer, offers it to you. 

You take it from him silently. The sewing kit you use is somewhere in your travel bag, right where you left it before you were stolen away to JuLai. The sooner it’s unearthed from your stockpiled life, the sooner he’ll be gone. You should get it. “What did you come here for?”

He leans back against the doorframe, arms crossed, fingers drumming against his side. After a moment he takes his sunglasses off, puts them down on the table at the end of your bed. Drags a hand down his face like he’s the most exhausted he’s ever been. “There’s not a lot I can give you. I don't have much.”

You weren’t asking him for anything. You bite your tongue when you go to remind him of this.

“But I have answers now. The ones you wanted. Before.” He clears his throat. “If you still want them.”

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. 

When you don’t stop him, he continues. “I had a contract.”

“A contract.”

“The people that drew it up weren’t above breaking a couple bones to get me to sign it. ‘Cause I’d just heal up, right?” He laughs, and it’s an awful, bitter noise. “I’d be back in one piece so they could break the same bones again.”

You’re quiet.

He holds out a crumpled piece of paper, obviously balled up at some point in time—at the top: Pastoral Contract. At the bottom: Nicholas D. Wolfwood in a series of childish curls and shaky lines. Nick had written the terms of his contract out in the careful cursive of someone still learning to use it. The word ‘receive’ is misspelled. “How old…?”

“Nine,” he says. “I’d just turned nine.”

The first thought that crosses your mind: how many people has he killed in his time as a pastor, and could he remember each one if he tried? “How long have you—”

“I’m twenty-two.”

You’re stunned into silence. There had been no question in your mind that Nick was older than you by at least four or five years. 

If things weren’t the way they were, he’d probably make a joke about looking good for his age. If things weren’t the way they were, you’d be examining how much his age matches up with the way he acts, his impulsiveness and brashness and possessiveness, the way he couldn’t even handle someone else looking at you.

But this is how things are, and you can only stare at him. “How.”

“Conrad created his perfect weapon. I paid a price.”

You sit on the floor. You’re not sure why. You just can’t be standing anymore. 

Nick looks at you for a moment, quiet—then slides down the doorframe, joining you. The room is small enough that there’s only a foot or so between you. His knees are bent, forearms resting across them, and he somehow looks small like this. Like there’s a weight compressing him, curling his edges closer to his center.

“You weren’t—when we… was it your first time?”

His eyes snap to yours and he’s incredulous, amused, unable to stop himself from laughing. “You didn’t defile my innocence, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Something about his smile makes you want to scream. He looks so soft when he’s not being entirely too serious, the kind of soft you can’t fully comprehend until it’s felt, like the leaves of lamb’s-ear you touched in Home’s gardens when Vash told you I have something to show you that you’re gonna love. Because you’ve always longed for softer things, for things that have no chance of survival in the desert. “How long have you… looked older?”

“Since I signed my contract.”

You try not to think about it and fail. How old did he look when he was nine? How old was he when the church he worked for sent him out on his first terrible assignments? You know what he’s done—you’d known the reputation of Nicholas the Punisher long before you met him—and though innocence isn’t something you find in spades on Gunsmoke, you can’t help but feel a gut-wrenching sadness because his had been ripped from him so early. When did he take his first life? When was the first time someone took advantage of him at such a young age without even realizing they were doing it?

Nick hates it when people pity him. He knows he was dealt shit cards—he didn’t hesitate to let you know that anytime he told you the smallest details about his childhood. Now you have the big details, and you’re positive he wants you to pity him even less. 

You toy with the collar of his jacket, resting atop your crossed legs, because you have to do something with your hands. You have to have somewhere to look other than him. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“You really think that would’ve gone over well?”

How could he even be asking that question?

“Yeah, I do. You know how Vash is.” Was, your mind supplies. You’re so, so tired. “He would’ve understood. He would’ve gone with you anyway if he knew what you were being forced to do. He would’ve jumped at the opportunity to help you. He cared about you so much.”

He cared about all of you. And you’d all failed him. He was the only fully good person you’d ever met and you all failed him.

“He knew,” Nick says. “Before he got to Knives—we talked about it.”

You know without having to ask that Vash forgave him. He’d probably pieced it together already and forgiven Nick long before they even got to JuLai. There’s cotton in your throat, your tongue is a stone. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

A memory crosses your mind—sitting in the desert with him atop a sand dune, his gun laid out before him, telling you that you shouldn’t think you’re special.

If he’d told you everything, maybe you’d be sitting with him and Vash and Meryl and Roberto in a bar in JuLai, drinking to your victory. Maybe you’d be here with everyone, and Luida wouldn’t have let out that awful noise when you told her about Vash—a long, drawn-out note that she couldn’t hold inside, a keening that begged the question of why? and tapered off into silence. 

Maybe nothing would have changed at all.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I should have. I just—I didn’t want to disappoint you. I thought that if I didn’t give you all of me, then it’d be easier when we… when I did what I had to. When things were over.”

So he’d also known from the start that things wouldn’t end well.

“I would’ve done anything for you,” you tell him. It’s embarrassing to say out loud. You shouldn’t have said it in the first place—shouldn’t have even thought it. But you’re past keeping things from one another, it seems.

He stretches out his long legs, leans a little closer toward you. His hand reaches out towards you, an invitation to be taken or refused. “C’mere for a minute?”

You let him hold you. Your legs are across his lap, your body pressed into his chest, your arms curled around him so tight that it can’t be comfortable on his end. He has your head tucked beneath his chin, one hand on your hair and the other pulling you closer by the thigh, like he could crawl into your skin if he just had you close enough. 

“Was it easier?” you ask him.

“No,” he murmurs into your hair. “I think it made things worse.”

“How?”

“I didn’t want things to be over. Still don’t.” His hand tightens on your thigh, his entire body shifting to get you closer. “I know I’m selfish for that. You don’t have to tell me.”

Maybe you’re selfish, too. Maybe the words are softening the wall around your heart because if you were in his position, you probably would’ve done the same thing. You still can’t forgive him. “Nick,” you say. Pull back and look at him. 

“What do you need, sweet thing?” His voice is quiet when he asks this. It reminds you of the first time you kissed him—the first time he said those three heavy words to you, accidental whispers that held no meaning. 

“I want you to tell me you love me.” Even if it’s not real. Even if it’s just for right now. Even if it’s something he only murmurs into your skin when he’s between your thighs, when he makes you see the face of God in the way he touches you.

You expect him to kiss you. To start this final goodbye. But he doesn’t. He pulls you close to him again, lays his cheek against the top of your head. “‘Course I love you.” 

It’s nothing above a whisper. It’s a breath released into the air, something you wouldn’t hear if everything else wasn’t completely silent. But it makes you feel like crying and maybe you don’t hate him like you thought you did, but why shouldn’t you? All this wasteland has taught you to do is never trust people. Nick showed you exactly what Gunsmoke had already shown you a million times over. There’s not a person you know outside of Vash and Meryl that hasn’t betrayed you at least once. 

You’ve committed your fair share of betrayals, too. Law of the wasteland.

When you pull away from him, he looks a little panicked—but all you do is perch yourself on his lap, your knees boxing him in on either side, your face above his. “Could you ever mean it?”

He looks up at you blankly.

“If we stayed together. If we traveled. Or settled down, whatever,” you say. “Could you ever be able to say that and mean it?”

His brows scrunch, confusion painting his handsome face. “I mean it now,” he says, as if it’s obvious. 

And it’s like everything comes to a screeching halt inside you: all the hurt, all the exhaustion, all the emptiness. Emotions flood into the cavity of your chest so quickly that you’re drowning, your lungs full of too many things that aren’t air. 

Because this doesn’t happen. Not on Gunsmoke. Not to you.

“How do you know it’s real?”

“How would I know it’s not? Is there a checklist I should be consulting?”

You don’t know how to answer that because you feel like there should be a checklist, something that was left behind on the planets before Gunsmoke, burnt up in the crashes of the ships that populated the planet. Something you’ll never know the contents of—only that it existed.

“I know because it’s how I feel. Not gonna argue with myself on that,” Nick says, and maybe it’s that simple. He cups your face with a warm, careful hand and you melt into the contact. The first time you’d touched him like this, you worried that it might’ve been the contact alone that you liked. Not the person providing it.

But you know now that anyone else could touch you like this and you wouldn’t feel even a shadow of the way he makes you feel.

“You’re being awful quiet,” he says.

“You hurt me really badly, Nick.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

You think he is. You want to stay angry with him but he makes it hard. He made a mistake. He didn’t trust anyone enough to share his burdens. And could you blame him for that? You know firsthand how frightening it feels to trust someone. To want to.

“Would you want that? Us—together?” you ask.

“Yeah, I want that.” He laughs, as if any of this is remotely amusing. “Thought I made it clear.”

“You’d have to tell me everything,” you say. “Be honest about whatever I ask.”

“For you, anything,” he says, because he’s a corny idiot who likes his one-liners too much and it’s this stupid line above anything else that actually brings tears to your eyes, that makes you realize how badly you would’ve missed him if he’d left without saying goodbye, how much you want to keep him and how much you want him to keep you.

You still don’t know what to do, so instead you kiss him and he kisses you back and he feels exactly like he did the last time you’d been together like this. Things devolve quickly, as they often do between you. He pulls your hips against his to create friction and you missed him. It’s messy and his teeth find their way into the kisses a little too often and he can’t even stomach moving from the floor before he touches you, it seems, because he’s already pushing your sleep shorts to the side, feeling exactly how badly you want him. 

“Shit,” he breathes. “Shit, I’m sorry, baby. I can’t wait.”

He unzips his slacks and pulls them down along with his boxers, just enough for him to free his cock, and you inhale sharply when he pulls you further into his lap, ruts against you, coating himself in your slick wetness. The noise he makes is haunting, a little broken.

You cup his head with your hands, fingers twined into his hair, and kiss him hard, licking into his mouth, grinding against his pretty length. He makes sounds you want to lock up and keep under your bed. He says your name as if it’s the name of God. “Can’t wait,” he repeats. “Need you to take it. Be good and take it for me, pretty girl.”

He positions himself so you can sink down onto his length, shorts pushed to the side, strong hands guiding your hips slowly. It hurts a little more than usual, but everything is so rushed, so feral, that it doesn’t really bother you. The warmth of having him so close, the delicious stretch of him inside you, the way he groans when he bottoms out—it’s all worth the pain. 

It’s almost a disappointment when he goes still, when he waits for you to acclimate to his size. “Okay?” he manages to ask, because he always has to make sure you’re okay with things, even when he’s being reckless. 

You nod and you don’t even get a chance to move against him—his feet are planted on the floor, still in his dumb little loafers, and his hands hold you exactly where he needs you for him to thrust into you over and over again, root to tip, so fucking deep that you can feel him in your stomach. 

Your hands are pressed flat against the wall behind him, your face buried in the crook of his shoulder to muffle the noises you can’t keep yourself from making. He just feels so good—so perfect inside of you and against you, where he was made to be, and you tell him this because he needs to know.

His hand finds the small of your back and pushes you into an arch that has you seeing stars with every thrust. Not even pressing your mouth to his skin can quiet the moans he’s eliciting from you, so you bite down on the junction of his neck and shoulder and he whines, body tensing, arms circling your waist to pull you against him in a crushing embrace as he buries himself deep inside of you. He twitches hard, talking without a thought like he always does when he finishes, saying that he needs you, saying that you’re the only person that's ever made him feel like this, saying that you’re the only person he ever wants to do this with for the rest of his life.

After his body loosens up, after he pulls out and his breathing slows to something manageable, he says, “One of these days I’m gonna be able to last more than a minute. Just need you to stop feeling that perfect.”

You laugh—honest to God laugh, and you want him so badly and you’re still so turned on and he’s exactly what you’ve always wanted. “You think that’s ever gonna happen?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” he says. His teeth nip at your bottom lip, the ghost of a bite. A hallmark of want. “Are you gonna let me take care of you?”

Always. You’ll always let him take care of you.

He carries you to the bed and your shorts are gone, your sweater is gone, your sense of dignity is gone because you would give this man anything right now. He lays you out and takes his time pulling you apart, breaking you down with his tongue, his hands, his long, pretty fingers.

When he finally gets you off he keeps going, driving you to a point where you can’t handle any more and then pushing you through it, and when you reach your second peak, he laps up everything you give him, sighing soft against you.

He tries to wipe his face off like usual and you stop him, pull him to you, gaze at the shimmering mixture of your slick and his cum that covers the lower half of his face. You run the flat of your tongue up his chin and you could get drunk simply off the taste of the two of you together. His eyes are half-lidded when you pull away, and he whispers, “Christ, you’re perfect,” almost more to himself than you. When he kisses you, he holds you so close you can hardly breathe.

The after with him is always soft. He undresses himself because you’re undressed, then holds you gently, kisses your hair, tells you sweet things that he’d never say in public.

At least—that he wouldn’t before. Maybe things are different now.

You’ve been lying together, quiet, for a long while before he says, “I’m not gonna ask you to say it back.”

The air conditioning kicks on, a low drone that hums through the room like a distant insect swarm. You feel frozen, unsure what to do with your body.

“But do you think you ever could?”

You sit up because everything suddenly feels too heavy. Your face feels hot. You’ve never been good at thinking through your emotions because you haven’t had to. You’ve been a mercenary for a long time. You’ve killed a lot of people for a lot less than they were worth. You’ve traveled with so many companions over the years that you can’t remember all of their faces anymore. There’s never been anyone you’ve had to think over your feelings for—it’s been either like or dislike for so long that it feels like it’s all you know.

The things you feel for Nick, though—would they be classified as like? Or something more? He makes you laugh. He makes you so frustrated you could scream. He makes you want to travel to places you’ve already been just so you can see them together. He makes you want to cry, sometimes, because you’re scared of this, and you forgot what fear was much too long ago to feel comfortable with it now.

“How can I know?”

He looks a little hurt by this. He’s terrible at hiding his emotions even though he thinks he’s good at it.

“Genuinely, Nick. I haven’t… had anyone like you. I haven’t wanted to be with anyone like this. I haven’t cared about anyone like this.” You look at his jacket, discarded on the floor, still riddled with bullet holes that you were supposed to fix. “But how do I know if that’s enough?”

He sits too, takes your hands in his. He’s always so beautiful like this—when he’s taken off all the armor he shields himself with and lets you touch what’s underneath. “It’s enough for me.”

You look at your hands, fingers intertwined with his. “I could, I think.”

“Don’t want you to feel pressured,” he tells you. “Just—if it happens, you know, I’d appreciate it if you’d clue me in.”

“I can do that,” you say, and you can, because he doesn’t look disappointed that you didn’t do something you weren’t ready to do. He doesn’t look angry. He smiles at you, so warm and genuine that your heart feels like it’s cracking open, like everything inside you is spilling out. “I do. I already do.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I love you.” You cover your mouth with a hand after you say it, because it feels so heavy and damning. But it feels so right , too, and you don’t know what to do with that. How to fit the rightness into the way you’ve built your life on the foundation of so many wrongs. After a long moment where he waits for you to collect yourself, you’re able to lower your hand. “I love you,” you tell him. “I want it to be enough.”

“It is,” he says, thumb caressing the back of your hand. “It’ll always be enough.” 

You’ve never expected to get everything you want in life, and you most definitely won’t. But you can have this. This delicate thing that you’ve been building together, despite the missteps. Despite the fear. And it’ll be okay, because there’s no checklist. No requirements. You just love him, and he loves you back, and you're both allowed to decide what that means.

It’s enough. It’s more than enough.

[lover-of-mine]

i'm fine with the bt scene being what it was because it showed what is. a shallow superficial relationship that is not being written as endgame so I'm fine with them not having a more emotional connection make it more obvious its BONES in s8.

Okay, I'm gonna say this and I need everyone to know I genuinely mean it, I'm not fine with it. I am tired of the show giving Buck and Eddie love interests that exist to have no agency besides girlfriend/boyfriend or plot device for an exposition dump. I desperately wanted to care about bt. Buck being bi is such incredible representation and I spent the whole season waiting to be convinced I should like T and bt together for anything beyond the fact that they are a queer relationship but I keep coming up empty-handed. I like being a hater right now because no criticism of him is allowed without someone screaming that you're homophobic or hate gay people and that everyone in the show is problematic why doesn't he get a pass too so I am grabbing on to every wrong thing about him the same way people are blowing the good things to justify my aversion to him. But the thing is, T is a character who's being written in a way that is so hard to sympathize with when it comes to Buck. He has this shell that makes him rigid and he has this dry sense of humor and he could be interesting if he was willing to bend a little bit for Buck. That relationship was not something I could get behind when T left Buck on the curb, because while I do believe T was incredibly justified in not liking the situation Buck put them in, he could've communicated that better before he was literally in the car leaving Buck behind, so there Buck was once again in a relationship with someone who left him because they can't handle who he is. That was the impression I got from that first date and I keep waiting for them to be cute for me to move past it and the show is giving me nothing. Why did they make the choice to not let T dress up for the bachelor party and indulge Buck when the job by definition requires for him to change into a uniform so he could've put in some effort? Why did he let Buck walk around with his face covered in soot when they could've shown us a shot of him cleaning Buck's face before they walked into the room holding hands and give the impression that there's more going on there than a few makeout sessions? Why weren't they affectionate at the ceremony? Why wasn't that conversation in the hospital, where it would've shown a level of care and that joke could've been seen as an attempt to make Buck feel better about what was going on? Why are they always two steps to the left of being cute or having any fighting chance? And that's ignoring how intertwined Eddie is with the beginning of their relationship because that's just disturbing. The triangle thing is annoying as fuck if Eddie was not gonna get confirmed as queer and the sides wouldn't actually connect.

I think narratively Buck and Eddie getting together is the thing that makes the most sense for both of their characters, but if that's not gonna happen, I wanna care about the people they're with. I love Buck as a character, I want him to have a nice love story if for whatever reason we are not getting buddie because love is the thing he's been searching for, and whatever bt has going is not it. And the thing that's killing me is that it could be. It's the same thing they did with Taylor because if Taylor was as intense about Buck as she is about the job, they could work, but the show made a choice to use the development of her character to stir away from Buck. And T, he's just there. And it's frustrating. I don't even wanna get into the comparisons between buddie and bt because imma be honest I'm still processing the way the show had T refusing to dress on theme and then had Eddie suggest matching outfits in the next scene, what even was that?? But the way the show constantly takes the chances they have to give depth to their relationship, looks it in the eye, and runs the other direction it's just........... yk? This is Buck's fifth relationship and I can't for the life of me look at it and see where it's going because they are making it seem like it's going nowhere. T parallels Taylor all the time visually, when it comes to screentime he's just a step above Ali, he's nowhere near as developed as Taylor was at this point. I had hopes for that scene when they started to talk about parents, for 20 seconds, I believed they were gonna give emotional depth to them, but they didn't. And I was literally sitting here begging them to give me something to care about when it comes to them if they are gonna keep them together but I have nothing to show for it and I hate it. There's no emotional connection, they will probably breakup at some point during s8 and I'm just gonna be there "oh wow another failed romance what a surprise" while they keep playing up Buck and Eddie's partnership and not letting them go all the way, and it's just tiring.

And this is ignoring the way we keep getting yelled at for not resonating with them. I sincerely don't want to hate them but I can't find a reason to care about them.

[angellurgy]

journal entry, may 30th 2024

i feel myself rotting from the inside. nothing brings the same joy it once did. ‘once’ being a time i can't even remember.

when i was a kid, i was free. i was alive. i know its common for trans women, we all lose something of ourselves growing up, probably. but the isolation took too much from me. it took my soul.

i used to be so cheerful, so outgoing. so uncaring of what others thought of me, so emotional. being forced into that room, a constant terror, i had nothing to leave the house for, no friends, no hope. i remember sitting on the dining room table, the only place wifi worked, from the moment i woke up to the moment my father came home, talking constantly to the only people i had, my discord ldrs, people who thought i was 16 when i was 13, people who loved me for the face i put on and who would listen to at least some of my cries.

i wish i fucking killed him. i shouldve taken that fucking knife and stabbed him over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. why was i so fucking stupid, to think me going to jail would change my life at all? everyone i know’s lives would be further improved by my utter absence of it. if i could be struck by a device that erased me from everyones memories, my friends would only be happier. mom would be happier without that breakdown. mutt would've been. all of them would. the only one who wouldnt is knives, and ive accepted that evil (selfishness) of my desire to die

it isnt some attempt at self depreciation, it is an acknowledgement of my place in this world. it may not inherently be better with my absence, but many people’s worlds would be.

its fucking stupid, really, what started this all on. my envy of those with more, my desire for a dad which i knew would never come to fruition, my desire for a family in general, my gradual loss of friendliness with my irl isolation alongside all of it, my failed attempts to make myself message mutuals like dadsmell or femboytorturer (especially stupid, i barely know her, but still. the point was in my general failure of not speaking.) then it all . spiraled. when i felt the cold that first time i was so happy that i might die. the guilt i was wracked with when i lived was so much worse than the terror i felt before it. so i hid, and tried again, and hid, until i had no choice, until i broke, talked to suffer, until i was brought to azriels.

that moment gave me an ounce of hope, hearing that i would have a friend in this city who wanted to hang out with me often and help me some too. its a shame i was a bit rude that one time in the depths of it. and its a shame he used that moment to tell people i attacked him days prior when i hadnt. i missed the show right after, the first show i was ever gonna be able to go to. we were sposed to go together. but. i dont really get to have fun like the other girls. all ive wanted for so long is to go to a show and dance, ive never danced, really. im too scared. it wouldve made so much better. idk why he. why that. had to happen, i actually felt good and tried for a day or two, until that happened.

ever since then its been worse and worse. i remember that nice puppygirl mutual who sent me puppy hugging gifs in my asks when i was sad, i remember miyoria checking in on me, after the cold of not talking for so long, after that server left me to rot. i remember getting to talk to soxy for the first time in so long. i remember trianon almost visiting, i remember us calling. i remember finally getting to dm w piper, and a lot of my favourite mutuals. i remember feeling good from all of that. the little bit of good i could. and now they're gone. the dying girls strife is too much to bear for so long- i already gave mom the worst breakdown, i wouldnt be surprised if i hurt more like this too. and yet i still love them. i guess its my fault, for letting myself fall like this. for killing myself.

when knives came, and helped me with my passport. its presence was so fucking good. but even if the passport goes through, i now have no one i care about who would even take me in, unlike before, when the offers were common. now i am rotten in the eyes of the beasts. this carcass is no good. i guess knives leaving was the nail in the coffin. that it doesn't get better. everyone forgets you, no matter what you do. youre hopeless, girl, all that you could've been is gone now. im sorry i couldnt have been a person . i rlly wanted to be and to try.

allure, you poor poor rotten girl. you were built to die, and nothing more. you were meant to be killed and feasted on. you were right when you said that this would make everything worse, you were right when you said that the world is not yours, and most sadly, you were right when you screamed out, with nothingness in your voice. was “allure” ever even real in the first place. was i? was she? you won't answer, i know you won't.

ive gained at least 200 followers on tumblr since this started. and i havent felt so alone in a long time. my attempts were less lonely than this. the few people who are left, i can barely even message often because of the crippling murderous cloud in my head, brought on by everything prior. i wish i couldve gotten a fucking chance.

i used to be, at least somewhat liked. people liked my little kink posts, i got some mutuals i could comnect w and who i thought were cool, who i rlly wanted to connect with. people thought i was cute, some people even wanted to play games w me, (thanks margo, love her) but now theres fucking. nothing. when i post online with an attempt at talking again i am left utterly hopeless.

and still, this has mostly just been my online strife. not to fucking mention the physical life, the way i have been left stranded every time ive been at a hangout, the way tgirls only think of me as ‘cute’ instead of anything actually tangibly good. not to mention the fucking uselessness of my soul and the rotten pit in my mind. im mentally ill, but in all the ways that make you a faker and an idiot and unloveable and imfuckingpossible, non existent. not real.

i miss you, my life. i miss you. i miss the little things i had, even thought i know that that isolation wouldve still killed me. a girl can only handle having all her interaction being vcing in a server of ppl who willfully ignore her for the more attractive and ‘good autistic’ ppl for so long before something snaps.

i miss you, my friends, the friends who will probably never talk to me again, the friends i havent heard from since this all began, i still miss and love. because i am ruined. god i miss them so bad. i wish i had a chance to have a life irl, hell i wish i had a chance to have a life even just on tumblr right now, but im being killed.

i cant write more. my throat has been torn and my hands have been assaulted. and my head is still dying of fog.

but i hate that im alive right now, i hate that i couldnt die yesterday. i hate that i am even here to write this, disappointing all, especially myself, especially her. fuck i miss her. all i can do now is keep trying whenever i can and let everyone give up so i will fade from memory even faster. its all i have, when no one is present.

[taintedpearls]

datting korra headcanons ♡♡ I love your page its so pretty ＼(^^)／

ཐི⋆༊·˚ཋྀ dating korra headcannons

daily click — palestine mp

note: fluff + reg text under cut – tysm anon! ur too sweet. i'm sorry it took so long and it's quite rushed :(

love language is physical touch and words of affirmation.

thoroughly enjoys pda, it soothes her whenever in a crowd. wether it's holding your hand or keeping a grip on your waist, she's keeping a grip on you to keep her grounded.

zero shame. whatsoever. she knows she's attractive so she's constantly making flirty jokes and comments that get you flustered and nervous

but you're also really fucking hot, so you use it to your advantage. getting up close to her, returning flirty comments, swaying your hips more than you usually would and now she's the one with rosy cheeks.

whenever she has a hard day of being the start (which lets be honest, is most days) all she wants to do is lay in your arms while you speak to her softly.

adores kissing you! she doesn't really have a preference when kissing tbh. this girl could have a surprisingly good day being the avatar and would rush home just to kiss you aggressively as if someone really pissed her off.

loves cuddling. once again, even in public! she's a very affectionate person and you will more often times than not find the girl sneaking up behind you and wrapping her hands around your waist with a head on your shoulder, hot breath going down your neck. doesn't matter if your in the middle of an important conversation!

there are these little moments whenever she's had a particularly busy week and hasn't been able to see you much that she'll just relish in seeing your face and being able to hold you, hugs last forever with this girl.

you two have this sort of balance to each other. shes hot headed and often speaks her mind but you're calmer and think about what you want to say before saying it.

if you argue she's massive on communication. with the limited time you two can see eachother, she wants to savour the time you do have. so if you're upset at her, she's forcing you to talk to her.

but on more stressful days if she's upset at you... she's harsh and doesn't think about what she's saying. she doesn't mean it, but her words come off mean. she needs time to cool down before you let her come to you.

that being said she can definitely come off as possessive and pushy... and she is!

well she's possessive at least, she just comes off as pushy.

she's not a "oh my god she's gonna leave me for someone else so i have to keep my eye on her at all times possessive" she's more of a "i'm literally the fucking avatar and i'm trying to make sure she's safe" type of possessive

for example, if you get hurt she's pissed. super pissed. blinded by pure rage that you got hurt, at both you and whatever caused it.

"how could you be so reckless! so stupid? i swear you don't think before marching into a fight-!"

"can you please stop? my head hurts"

and then she's rushing to your side, asking if you're okay and taking care of you like she didn't say anything she just did.

constantly worried about whatever you're getting yourself into when you aren't around her.

if she's injured, you just sigh disappointedly while patching her up. she tries to make a stupid joke like "i really outdid myself this time huh?" but you stay silent. you don't want to lash out.

to make it up to you she tries to make you something

key word: tries.

she's an awful cook.

tried to make you two breakfast one time and it looked like she had gotten into a fight with flour.

that being said you're usually the one to cook, even if you aren't much better than her.

ALWAYS TAKING FROM YOUR PLATE.

game nights go crazy! she's hiding about 247 uno cards under the table.

whenever she works out, she'll always invite you to come with her. wether or not you're working out yourself or sitting down and reading a book beside her, you just like being around her.

always organising little dates around town for the two of you.

going out at night to the markets and mucking around while finding little trinkets for each other.

yeah this girl knew she loved you when you bought a little ceramic polar bear for naga.

watching her early days of doing pro bending matches and SCREAMING her name so loudly she thinks the whole stadium can hear you.

[nanamisdickrider]

What are best friends for?

Characters: Bestfriend!nanami x reader

“You should calm down. He wasn't the one for you, I told you to leave him plenty of times.” nanami stroked your hair and wiped away your tears while you complained about your shitty boyfriend who was once again out with a woman. Your head was on his lap and your hands wrapped around his waist. You were feeling him squirm at times but you were too busy complaining and crying to pay any attention to his movements.

“he told me he will change for me nanami, he got me flowers every week after that!” Nanami sighed as you tried to defend him “I give you flowers almost every day.” you sniff and look up at him and then the flowers placed on your bedside table. Nanami did give you flowers almost everyday. You sometimes wished Nanami was the one with you instead of your shit boyfriend but who's gonna tell him that.

“I don't know nanami...I'm just so stressed out because of him..” you pulled away from kento's lap and sat up. “I understand. It must be hard for you, but you need to know.. you can find someone way better than him.. just trust me and leave him.” Nanami took off his glasses and put it away, throwing his head back on the pillow.

“trust you and leave him? What's gonna happen after that kento? Who's the ‘someone way better’?” you look at him with a pout, Kento opened his eyes and looked back at you. He turned to your side and sat up, his back on the headboard. “How are you so oblivious?” he asks and crosses his arms around his chest. “..what do you mean?”

“If I were to kiss you right now, will you stop me?”

Your eyes widened and your cheeks flushed. “Haha— W-what do you mean kento?” you laughed it off nervously but your mouth closed after seeing the look on nanami's face. He was dead serious. “No..I won't stop you..” you look away for a while. Opening your mouth to say something to break the silence but before you could even speak. Nanami's hand gripped your jaw gently and turned your face to look at him. His lips smashed onto yours.

Nanami leaned forward and pushed your body back on the clean sheets. His lips never leaving yours. He licked your lips and you instinctively opened your mouth, letting his tongue get inside and explore every inch of you. He pulled away to catch his breath. “Its me. I'm someone who's way better than your fucking boyfriend.” you smiled at him and got up and now it was his turn to lay flat on the sheets. You sat on his lap and kissed his lips and neck. His face covered with your light pink lipstick all the way to his chest. You started unbuttoning his shirt and then the belt tightly wrapped around his waist. Nanami gripped on your wrist to stop you midway. “Are you sure? I want you to be comfortable. And do know, after this you're leaving him. You're not gonna be his. But mine.”

You giggled and gave a kiss to his lips. “Im more than sure Nanami.” you pulled down his pants and threw it to the corner of your room. Eyeing the bulge inside his boxers, his veins still visible through the fabric. You palmed him and leaned down to lick the head through the boxers. “Mmh..D–dont tease me right now..” kento groans as you pull down his boxers and free his cock. The tip looked so messy covered in his pre-cum. You sat between his legs and wrapped your hand around his base and stroked it up and down. Your tongue swirling around his tip. Swallowing all of his precum— Nanami on the other side, was losing it all. Your mouth felt so good when it closed around the head of his cock or when you dragged your tongue from the base to his tip or tip to his balls. His cock was wet. He thought he'd cum when you looked into his eyes while going down on him. “Sto—Stop...” you pulled away and looked at his fucked out state. He never lost his cool so easily, he was around gojo and yuuji all day everyday anyways. But when it came to you. It'd make him as fragile as glass. One move from you and he's breaking.

“I don't want to cum like this.” he said and pulled you closer to him. Your clothed cunt on top of his cock. He kissed you, his hips bucking up in between your folds through the panties. You took off your skirt and pushed your panties to the side. His cock pressed flat against your folds. You were so wet. So so wet. He used your juices as lube. His hands went to your hips and his fingers dug in the fat there. his tip hitting on your entrance. He slowly pushed in. Your eyes widened at the painful stretch. His eyes rolled back when you clenched around his shaft. His hips stuttering beneath you. You slowly sunk on him. Sitting on his lap for a minute or two to adjust to his size. “Kiss me.” Nanami said, you cupped his face and kissed him for the millionth time. His hips slowly thrusting inside you. You moan in his mouth as his fingers found its way to your clit. He rubbed circles around your nub and he knew you were close with the way you couldn't stop clenching around him. His pace was getting faster, his tip hitting all of your hidden spots. The spots your boyfriend never hit, or even found. His arms caressing your back and breasts. Something your boyfriend never did. He only knew shit about his own pleasure. You felt tears forming in your eyes as you realized how badly you were treated. Nanami noticed and slowed down his pace. Kissing your cheeks and tears away. He smiled and rubbed his nose against yours “It's okay baby, I'm here now.” he says and a moan leaves his mouth when you start riding him. Your hips moving in a circular motion before bouncing on his cock. You were so close, nanami was closer. He wrapped his arms around your body before shooting warm ropes of his semen inside you. You don't stop your movements, only momentarily when you felt him filling you up to the brim. Chasing after your own high and overstimulating nanami in that process. He groans and thrusts his hips upwards one more last time before you're squirming on top of him and milking his cock. You fell on top of his chest and gasped for air. Nanami smiled at you and patted your head.

“Take it easy honey. Get used to this from now on too”

[whoiserenity]

Chris Sturniolo Headcanons

Here is a Chris version of the pregnancy headcanon, requested by an anonymous person!

Enjoy!

BEFORE FINDING OUT

He would rub your back when you vomit and tell you to not worry and just get it all out. He would cuddle you whenever cramps start. He thinks it's just nothing and assures you that it'll just go away.

"You feeling any better, babe?" Chris asked, his voice muffled because his head was buried in your hair.

"A bit," You replied.

"Don't worry, it'll go away soon." He said and pecked you on the cheek.

FINDING OUT

He would not believe it at first and thinks its a prank but then gets really excited when he realized you were serious.

"Baby, I need to tell you something." You sat down on the couch.

"What is it?" He turned off his phone and looked at you intently.

"I'm... pregnant." You looked at him and he only has his jaw dropped.

"No. You're joking, right?" He asked as you shook your head. "What, no. Is this some kind of prank? Is there a camera anywhere?" He stood up, looking around.

You showed him the pregnancy test. "No." He said, smiling, as he had his hands on his head. "So, you're telling me I'm gonna be a dad?!" He asked excitedly.

You nodded as he started screaming and jumping, he even went out of your apartment and shouted "I'm gonna be a dad!" so loud that the neighbours went outside and congratulated him. He even dapped up some other guys.

TELLING HIS BROTHERS

He'd immediately call his brothers and tell them about it.

"Guess what dude?!" Chris screams to his phone and Nick looks flabbergasted and you can only see Matt's forehead on his camera. "Okay, dude. You're blasting my eardrums, go on." Nick said.

"Y/N IS PREGNANT!" When Chris said the news, Matt's camera immediately shifted to his shocked face and Nick just yelled, "WHAT?!"

He would even show the pregnancy test to them.

GIVING BIRTH

He held your hand and encouraged you the whole time, even making jokes to lighten your stress with the pushing.

When the baby finally came out he told you that you did so good and that your baby was so beautiful just like you.

FIRST WORDS AND FIRST BIRTHDAY

it's now your kid's first birthday. He asked his boss if he could not attend work that day, it led to an argument but he didn't attend anyway. Just for your child.

"My little birthday girl!" He picked up his daughter and spun her around before securing her in his arms.

"I love you so much." He kissed his daughter on the cheek as she giggled. You looked at them both while preparing the table for her 1st birthday party.

"Papa!" The child giggled. Chris' jaw dropped. "Holy shit." He said, his voice trembling. "What?" You asked, worriedly. You thought that something bad happened.

"She just said her first words." He replied.

"PAPA!" The kid giggled again. You gasped and Chris started crying, he couldn't believe that her first words would be papa.

That's all! Thank you for reading my headcanon! Leave a like if you want to! Feel free to request! The inbox is always open!

[the-kingshound]

Warning inane ramble incoming, it’ll probably be annoying I apologize. (*_ _)人 I spent the last several days reading every post here. I managed to convince myself to start liking some (sorry about that I’m sure it was annoying to get all those notifications) I have this weird thing where I get nervous about liking older posts cuz I mean it’s been a long time and it’s unprompted so that’s weird right? It feels weird like I’m doing something wrong or I’m being annoying, I considered reblogging too but somehow that felt worse? Sorry I am not good with social rules they confuse me both on and offline Idk my brain is wrong and I’m just a nervous socially anxious snail. (＞﹏＜)

Anyways just wanted to gush about how much I love it here and I’m never leaving (´꒳`) ♡ First and foremost Yniol has a special place in my heart they will forever be my favorite bestie (*＾ω＾)人(＾ω＾*), yes I am biased as my partner is grey and though they don’t play IFs they were thrilled to learn about your character! Also your writing is just phenomenal, your fans are fun and creative, your characters give such warm and positive energy I love them so much they’re perfect, the inclusivity is such chefs kiss ( ´ з `) 🤌🏻✨, the angst is delicious, the fluff is so sweet and comforting, the spice is ... very blush-worthy (⁄ ⁄>⁄ ▽ ⁄<⁄ ⁄). This has been a journey I laughed, I cried, I giggled, and I blushed and I have enjoyed every bit of it from pasta discourse to Moldien cult wars to Arthur bunnies, I’ve had the most wonderful time. Now my mind is gonna be filled with Arthurian stuff for months my maladaptive daydreaming is having the time of its life I have a road trip next week and I’m so looking forward to just staring out a window for 6+hours while my Hound's just alternating daydream adventures with the cast o(≧▽≦)o. Also speaking of your amazingly wonderful, sweet, and supportive cast I have decided my (though I love them all) favorite poly pairings are Arthur/Morien and whole crew polycule I’d sell my soul for those but I 100% understand why you can’t really do that. I don’t think I have the endurance in me to code a single poly no matter how much I wish it so the fact you’re doing any let alone several is just god tier you are awe inspiring.

Alas I have rambled far far to much I wish I could be more eloquent in expressing just how much I enjoyed experiencing all of this but for now this is the best I can do (╥ω╥). Thank you for sharing your wonderful work it’s truly a gift to experience. ଘ(੭ˊ꒳​ˋ)੭✧ I wish you wealth, health, and all the best in all your creative endeavors. -🐌

No, please please do not apologize. You made my entire week <3 This ask is straight up going into the folder where i keep my motivation to write and to be just a little proud of my work, thank you so so much for sending it.

For anyone having the same thoughts about liking or reblogging old posts: please do it. When I see the notifications, get very giddy and pleased, and I hope you are enjoying the food. Liking, and especially reblogging things, even more so if you add tags and reactons, not only fills me with glee but it also reminds me of old asks that I want to reblog again for new followers. So yeah, I love it, please feel free to go on a liking/reblogging spree!

You are so relatable for the maladaptive daydreaming (this game was absolutely born out of my own mental movies), I wish I could speed up the writing and editing for the next update so you can read it while you travel but I'm afraid it's a lost cause (I have been working on things, even now, but I am currently rewriting like half of it and while it is way better it takes sooo much time and energy). Knowing my characters and story are in someone's thoughts it the best kind of reward I need. I will never likely monetise this game, so this is the thing I wish to leave people with, and I hope the characters can be comforting and keep you company <3

You have no idea how much I would love to write the full polycule... maybe one day :,) But don't lose hope for the Arthur/Morien poly yet, as I decided to cancel the Gwyar/Morien poly and now I have a potentially free slot. In any case, awww, please know that this ask made me so happy today and will be in my thoughts as tkh is in yours.

Please have a lovely day and a lovely week and also a very lovely trip! Thank you again so so much!!

[justallihere]

~MWAH MWAH MWAH~ (RESPECTFULLY MAAM)

Dain and Violet are meant to be besties and only besties.

“To you,” Dain said, and Violet laughed harder at the affronted look on his face. “He’d kill me and chop me up in tiny pieces to sprinkle at your feet if he thought it would make you happy.”

That line was so fucking funny bc its so true. Everyone and their mother knows who whipped Xaden is for Violet

Does Liam actually want to be squad leader or is he only saying he wants to, so Sloane has competition?

Sloane and Dain 👀👀👀👀 I can imagine Sloane is giving Dain the biggest stink eye and Dain is just 😊 BC EXCUSE ME THAT LINE????

Dain smiled at the back of her head indulgently

OMG PLOT PLOT PLOT!!! VENIN VENIN VENIN!!!!! VI'S BRAIDS ARE BACK!!!!!!!

The motherfucking consequences of your actions Xaden 😊

“I wish you would have stayed home,” Xaden said. “Did you come by yourself?” He sounded tense, though not quite angry. “I’m doing what you married me to do,” she replied, and he made a sound that might have been a growl 

I love how Vi can actually aim and she doesn't have to be stressed out figuring it in the middle of a battle. Canon had me stressssed

WE GOT TO SEE MIRA 😭 Will the 3 siblings be seen together anytime soon? I need to punch Brennan

For a split second, I thought Xaden became a venin when Sgayel screamed but he has to know better in SITQ?? riGHT ???? RIGHT???

Now its Vi's turn to be concerned for her husband 😊. We love equality. Xaden has watched Vi be mended twice now right (stabbing and torture)?

Seeing strong women in charge and being COMPETENT will always be a kink of mine

“You know,” Xaden said unexpectedly in a low, hoarse voice “You make a very good queen.” 

Xaden is such a smartass, never change shadow boy. One of these days, Xaden's going to smooth out her furrowed brow and warn Vi against wrinkles LMAO

They are so in love, just kiss already jfc (and i saw this not in a pressuring way but in a disgusted way LOL)

FUCK THE VENIN FROM DEPRIVING ME OF VI CONFESSING FUCK YOU HAHAHA

She spat it out, and it rolled across the grass, bouncing once, twice, three times before it came to a stop. 

This was so funny though 💀 I'm imagining the head is bouncing like a soccer ball

“I believe your husband is about to lose consciousness, Violet.”  

Andarna is so snarky I love it

Vi is such a good queen!! I can't get enough. I noticed she always asks for people's names and thanks them for any help they've given. THATS MY GIRL!!!!

Listen Xaden Riorson is not fucking subtle and it's so funny that even DAIN knows it. Poor guy never stood a chance against him and he tried to get with Vi before she ever even knew Xaden in this world

Liam wouldn't mind being squad leader! And he'd be very good at it. He also just likes to push his baby sister to be the best she can be (and annoy her in the process)

If Dain can put up with Violet, then Sloane is nothing. The man...has a type

Vi's aim still isn't perfect, but it's better (two-thirds, so we'll take it). Her training with Felix works!

It's gonna be another second before all the Sorrengails are back together!

your honor they're in love (derogatory)

Andarna my baby girl!! Saving the day and being insufferably smug about it forever!!

[fastestmanalive333]

Do you have a unique “origin” about Chris Kent? (Or “rewrites” like not aging him up, sending him back to the phantom zone in Last Son) or is everything the same like the comics?

Oh btw, I like that Chris drawing (the one with Superman on the side) very cool! Giving Chris a booty huh? XD

his sacrifice is important to his character, like he has a lot of interesting lore as his own personal character that goes beyond just being Clark and lois' kid so I wanted to sort of explore that more.. they are with him much longer tho a good 5-6 years they raise him for.. until zods attack in metropolis happens so its not a brief minute... but we get to see them grow a bit, clark and lois arent married yet theyre engaged.. but he really ends up bringing them closer together, makes them think about their future together and helps and she does see him for all intents and purposes as her son and he's still very, very close to her so his sacrifice is intact but it happens much later so it hits much harder and it happens the same time death in the family happens.. so he fends for himself stuck there for years and comes back in new krypton a year after jason returns as the red hood.. bruce and clark both felt loss around the same time and he helps bruce track joker down, bruce and clark take awhile and talk about how they both lost their sons.. they talk about how rough that year was for both of them.. and they grow to be better friends i wanted to add emotional beats, there's certain aspects that do make a character unique in their own way.. chris isnt like jon at all despite the comparisons i see a lot.. unlike jon there's similarities but he isn't jon.. people calling him prototype jon is tiring like he is more then just a cute kid, he isnt the next superman or superboy hes his own character with his own alias, mythos, and could very much stand on his own i feel, and he opens the door to the more mythical side of the superman mythos which as a vertigo fan and a huge fan of Peter David's supergirl I'm a sucker for.. hes shyer less outgoing then jon too... so hes reslly not gonna feel like him in any way.. so its steering away from the comparisons and keeping everything the same.. so trying to keep them and playing around is fun.. Clark and Lois do raise chris around the same time bruce raises jason so they interact a few times during that time.. jason died saving his mother, chris went back in the phantom zone to save the world... for he was keeping it open.. thara still finds him breaks him free times past, and he reunites with Clark, Lois.. and Jason's in a darker place.. the reunions are longer.. and there's a lot more emphasis on them.. seeing he came back after being gone for years.. jason wandered the streets practically a vegetable, until talia found him and threw him into the Lazarus pit... he cut ties with everyone he was alone... Chris was alone too.. but they dealt with it in different ways.. New Krypton happens.. the world's finest team up tho would probably be a reunion with jay instead of tim.. bit of a loss cause I enjoyed the little interaction... but.. it does open stuff up more and it works better in the context of the story.

Chris: "Jay"

Jason: "I know they call you nightwing but you don't look like one I've ever met.. how do you know my name?

Chris: *takes helmet off* we met once

*flashback*

Superman: robin this is chris.. Chris meet Robin

Young Jason: sup I'm jay.. you can call me toddster, big jay you name it!

Young Chris: toddster?

Young Jason: just a nickname.. cmon lemme show you around the five star hotel watch out for the cliff there's spiders..

Young Chris: *looks down* ...

Young Jason: *walks behind him arms crossed* BOO!

Young Chris: AHHHH!! *nearly falls*

Young Chris: woahh there hotshot *catches him by the tie of his school uniform* wouldn't want you falling now would we?

*present*

Jason: ...*eyes widen* ..Chris?

And yeah that's it, Clark, Lois, held on to pictures of Chris even after they got married.. despite all the struggles they end up happy together again, and Chris he helps Jason open up again so yeah that's his story mostly unchanged stuffs different here and there but it goes to the same points and beats but stretches it out to what I feel makes him a stronger character at the end of the day

[puhpandas]

SIDE ORDER IS INSANE SO FAR