#This is the first time I've ever painted without a line..

[driedposies]

If you climb into a saddle, be ready for a ride

Summary: You were never one for taking in strays, but when you discover a wounded man hiding in your barn... well, you've never rejected another helping hand.

Warnings: gun violence & the gore that comes with it, smut implications (18+), wild west period, robbery, sexual harassment, minor character death, small dose of angst (sorry, i had to)

Word Count: 12.1k

Song inspirations: "Short Change Hero" by The Heavy & "The Chain" by Fleetwood Mac

Notes: I went to my very first rodeo, and I've been ✨ inspired ✨

Part I, Within the Whale's Underbelly

The land of Kansas, as you first knew it, was a tapestry woven with the gold of prairie grass and the deep umber of earth, stitched together by the ceaseless wind that howled like a lonesome coyote at dusk.

The sky stretched wide and unbroken, a bowl of blue so vast it threatened to swallow the world whole, and beneath it, the sun baked the land until it cracked and yawned, thirsty for rain that seldom came. This was the world into which you were born, a world both cruel and wondrous, where every sunrise brought with it the promise of hardship and the hope of survival.

Your earliest memories are painted in the hues of hardship. Your father, a man of sinew and grit, taught you the language of horses and the art of silence. He was not a man of many words, but his hands spoke volumes; callused and steady, they could gentle a wild stallion or mend a broken fence with equal care.

Yet even the strongest oak may fall to the axe of fate, and so it was that your father’s life was snuffed out over a neighbour’s claim to a stallion as black as midnight, his blood soaking into the Kansas soil as if to nourish the land with his sacrifice.

After his death, your mother and you became shadows slipping through the tall grass, your hearts heavy with grief, and your eyes wary of every stranger. You left behind the only home you had ever known, your footsteps muffled by sorrow as you both made your way to Hays, a fledgling town born of ambition and desperation, its streets little more than muddy veins pulsing with the lifeblood of pioneers and outcasts.

Hays was a place where hope and despair clashed together in the dust. The town rose from the prairie like a mirage, its wooden buildings standing stubborn against the wind, their facades painted in the faded colours of dreams long since surrendered.

Saloons and brothels flourished like wildflowers after a spring rain, their doors swinging open to welcome miners, drifters, and men with the haunted eyes of those who had seen too much. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, whiskey, and gunpowder; a perfume as intoxicating as it was dangerous.

Your mother, ever resourceful, set her sights on the business of horse propagation. She was a woman of iron will and gentle touch, able to coax life from the most reluctant of mares. But the world was not kind to women alone, and so you were pressed into service as soon as you could reach the counter and pour a shot of whiskey without spilling a drop. The saloon became your second home, its smoky haze and raucous laughter a constant backdrop to your days and nights.

The men who frequented the saloon were as varied as the stars scattered across the Kansas sky. Some came seeking solace at the bottom of a glass, their faces etched with the lines of a thousand disappointments.

Others came to gamble away their meagre earnings, their eyes glinting with desperation and hope. There were men with hands stained black from the coal mines, men with silver-tipped canes and gold teeth, and men whose names were whispered only in the shadows, for fear of drawing their attention.

Marriage was a distant dream, a luxury for those with time and means to court. Suitors came and went—a coal miner with a heart as heavy as the stones he hauled, a saloon owner with a tongue as slick as an oil lamp, a wanted man whose smile was as sharp as the blade he kept hidden in his boot. But for nineteen years, your mother and you managed to keep food on the table and a roof over your heads, and in the Wild West, that was more than most could claim.

The arrival of the railroad changed everything. The iron serpent slithered its way through your young town, bringing with it a flood of new faces and fortunes. Goods arrived in wooden crates, stacked high and left unguarded, tempting even the most honest of men to consider a life of crime. The sound of the train’s whistle became a lullaby and a warning—a reminder that the world was changing, and not always for the better.

With prosperity came peril. Lawlessness flourished in the shadows, and the streets of Hays became a stage for violence and vice. It was not uncommon to hear the crack of gunfire echoing through the night, or to see bodies dragged from dry wells, their stories ended by greed or vengeance. You learned to keep your head down, to mind your own business, and to wave away trouble with a practised smile.

But fate, ever capricious, had other plans for you. In the year 1871, your world shifted once more. Your mother, worn thin by years of toil and heartache, passed away in her favourite chair, her hand still clutching the cup that had held her final comfort. The loss was a wound that would never fully heal, a hollow ache that echoed through the empty rooms of your home.

Left to fend for yourself, you traded three horses that year, unable to care for more than a handful of wild and unruly beasts. The money went to repairing the fence, a futile gesture, perhaps, but one that gave you purpose in the face of grief. The small spit of land, once alive with the sound of hooves and laughter, became a place of quiet solitude.

And then, as if guided by some unseen hand, Harriet entrusted her newborn daughter to your care. Harriet, who had once been your closest friend, revealed herself to be as insubstantial as a desert oasis. She sought escape with another man, leaving behind her child as if she were nothing more than an unwanted burden.

Em became your new salvation. She was a creature of light in a world grown dim, her golden curls and honey-brown eyes a daily reminder that beauty could still exist amidst the ruins. She clung to you with the fierce devotion of a child who has known too much loss, and you loved her as fiercely in return. She was more yours than Harriet’s, a gift you had never expected but could not imagine living without.

The years passed in a blur of hard work and quiet joys. Em grew strong and clever, her laughter ringing out across the fields like the song of a meadowlark. You taught her the ways of horses and the secrets of survival, preparing her for a world that would not be kind to a girl alone. You knew that one day, suitors would come knocking, drawn by her beauty and spirit, and you could already imagine shooing them off with a rifle to boot.

But happiness in the Wild was always fleeting, balanced on the edge of a knife. Trouble found you in the form of Luis Curry—a man whose name was spoken with equal parts fear and contempt. Luis was a creature of shadow and smoke, his eyes cold and calculating, his smile a mask for the rot beneath. He prided himself on his reputation as the best train robber in Kansas, a title earned through blood and betrayal.

Luis took an interest in you, circling like a vulture drawn to the scent of death. He saw in you a challenge, a woman who would not be easily broken or bought. His words were honeyed poison, his touch a threat disguised as a caress. You learned to watch for him in the corners of the saloon, his presence a dark cloud that threatened to blot out the sun.

Yet even as danger loomed, you refused to yield. The West had forged you in fire and sorrow, and you would not be cowed by the likes of Luis Curry. You kept your rifle close and your wits closer, determined to protect Em and the life you had built together.

The days stretched on, each one a battle against the forces that sought to drag you under. The wind whispered secrets through the cracks in the walls, and the stars watched over us with cold indifference. But in the quiet moments, when Em curled up beside you and the world seemed to pause, you found a measure of peace.

You forced yourself to remember your father’s lessons; the strength of silence, the power of patience. You remembered your mother’s resilience, her ability to carve out a life from the unforgiving land. And you remembered that even in the West, where life was cheap and death came swift, there was still room for love, for hope, and for the promise of a better tomorrow.

Part II, Eternity in an Hour

Dust motes danced in the shafts of dying light, swirling with each gust that barged through the batwing doors. The air inside was thick with the scent of sweat, old wood, and the lingering tang of spilled whiskey—a perfume as familiar to you as the lines on your own palm.

By late afternoon, the place began to fill with the regulars. Farmers with hands like gnarled roots, faces browned and cracked by sun and wind. Coal-streaked miners, boots caked with the black blood of the earth. 

Ranch hands, drovers, and drifters, each man bearing the day’s labour in his slouch and the dust on his hat. They’d shuffle in, boots thumping hollow against the plank floor, voices rumbling like distant thunder as they called for beer and company.

You worked the bar, sleeves rolled, arms moving in a rhythm as old as the land itself—pour, wipe, pour again. The kegs were warm, the beer flat, but nobody much minded; thirst in these parts was a beast that cared little for quality. Every so often, you’d glance down the bar to where Em sat perched on her stool, legs swinging, nose buried in the battered copy of Peter Parley’s Tales About America and Australia. She’d read it so many times the spine was near broken, but she never fussed, just turned the pages with a quiet patience that made your heart ache and swell all at once.

You caught yourself smiling, soft and secret, as you watched her. She was the one good thing you’d managed to keep safe in all this wild, ragged world.

A voice cut through your reverie, rough as gravel and twice as unwelcome. “What a pretty smile you’ve got, lamb.”

You looked up, cloth pausing mid-swipe. There he was, Luis Curry, leaning over the bar with that crooked grin, the scar on his lip twisting like a snake in the grass. His cattleman hat was tipped back, shadowing eyes that missed nothing, with a breath that smelled of tobacco and trouble.

You dropped your gaze, set your jaw, and scrubbed at a stubborn ring on the counter. “Can I get you somethin’, Curry?” You asked, keeping your tone flat as a dry creek bed.

Luis leaned in, close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him, the edge of his voice curling around your ear. “Oh, I reckon I’d like a whole heap of things from you, darlin’. But two fingers’ll do for now.”

You didn’t rise to the bait. Just fetched a glass, poured him two fingers of whiskey—no more, no less—and slid it across the bar. He wrapped his hand around it, knuckles white and scarred, and watched you with that wolfish look, waiting for something you weren’t about to give.

After a long moment, he chuckled low and took his drink, sauntering off to a table in the corner. Your silence was answer enough, for now.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding, glancing back at Em. She was still lost in her book, oblivious to the interaction. You prayed she’d stay that way, at least a little while longer.

Old William, the saloon owner, sidled up behind you, moving quietly as smoke. “Want me to run that snake off for good?” he rumbled, voice deep as a well. “Got a rifle out back. Ain’t too old to put the fear of God in him.”

You smiled, small and grateful. William was a bear of a man, broad-shouldered and sun-browned, with a stare that could freeze a rattler mid-strike. Folks said he’d once stared down a whole gang of Jayhawkers without so much as blinking. Even now, pushing fifty-odd years, he was a force to be reckoned with.

“No need, Will,” you replied, shaking your head. “I ain’t a woman to be trifled with, and he knows it.”

William grunted, lips twitching in approval. “That’s the truth, missy. Still, you holler if he tries anything. I’ll have his hide nailed to the barn door, see if I don’t.”

You laughed, the sound brittle but real. “Appreciate it, but Luis Curry don’t take kindly to threats. Best let sleeping dogs lie, for now.”

William nodded, but his eyes lingered on Curry, hard and watchful.

The saloon buzzed with the easy chaos of evening. Glasses clinked, dice rattled, and the piano man in the corner coaxed a tune from the battered keys, his fingers nimble and sure. Laughter rose and fell, punctuated by the occasional curse or shout. Outside, the wind carried the lowing of cattle and the distant whistle of the evening train.

A pair of ranch hands bellied up to the bar, hats in hand, faces red from sun and drink. “Evenin’, miss,” one drawled, voice thick with prairie dust. “Reckon we could trouble you for a coupla beers?”

“Comin’ right up, boys,” you replied, filling their mugs and sliding them across. “Y’all keepin’ outta mischief?”

The taller one grinned, showing a gap where a tooth used to be. “Ain’t no mischief left in this town since you started pourin’, ma’am. You scare it all off with that mean look.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “If only that were true, I’d be outta work by now.”

Em giggled from her stool, peeking over the top of her book. “Mama’s got the sharpest eyes in Kansas,” she piped up, pride shining in her voice.

“That she does, little miss,” the ranch hand agreed, tipping his hat to her. “You listen to your mama, now. She’ll keep you outta trouble.”

Em nodded solemnly, returning to her book.

The evening wore on, the saloon filling with the music of voices and the clatter of boots. You moved through it all like a ghost, hands steady, eyes alert. Every so often, you’d catch Luis watching you from his corner, his gaze heavy as a storm cloud. You ignored him, pouring drinks and swapping jokes with the regulars, but you could feel his attention like a brand on your skin.

At one point, a miner with coal-black hands stumbled up to the bar, slurring his words. “Miss, you got anythin’ stronger than this piss-water beer?”

You poured him a shot of rotgut whiskey, sliding it over. “This’ll put hair on your chest, Hank. Or burn it clean off, dependin’ on your constitution.”

He laughed, a rough bark. “You’re a peach, darlin’. If I were ten years younger, and a sight less ugly, I’d ask you to marry me.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “If you was ten years younger, I’d still say no.”

The bar erupted in laughter, the sound rolling through the room like thunder. Even William cracked a smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

As the sky outside deepened to indigo, the mood in the saloon shifted. The laughter grew louder, the tempers shorter. A card game in the corner turned sour, voices rising.

“You callin’ me a cheat, you son of a—?”

“Easy, boys,” William warned, stepping from behind the bar with the slow, deliberate menace of a man who’d seen his share of trouble. “Ain’t no need for gunplay tonight. Take it outside, or leave it at the table.”

The men grumbled but settled, cowed by William’s presence.

Luis Curry, meanwhile, nursed his whiskey, eyes never leaving you. Finally, he rose and sauntered back to the bar, boots thudding slow and purposeful. He leaned in, voice low and lazy.

“Y’know, girl, you got a way about you. Tough as old leather, pretty as a prairie rose. I like that.”

You met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “You like a lotta things, Curry. Don’t mean you’re gonna get ‘em.”

He laughed, the sound sharp as broken glass. “Maybe not. But I ain’t one to give up easy.”

“Suit yourself. Just don’t mistake stubborn for smart.” You shrugged, pouring him another shot.

He downed the whiskey in one gulp, setting the glass down with a thunk. “You ever get tired of this place, you come find me. I could show you a world outside these dusty walls.”

You shook your head, lips curling in a half-smile. “The world’s plenty big right here, far as I’m concerned.”

He studied you for a moment, then tipped his hat. “Suit yourself, darlin’. But the wind’s always blowin’ somewhere new.”

With that, he turned and strode out, the doors flapping behind him. You watched him go, tension draining from your shoulders.

“You all right?” William sidled up again, voice low.

You nodded, glancing at Em. “Long as she’s safe, I’m just fine.”

He squeezed your shoulder, rough hand warm and reassuring. “You’re tougher than an old boot, girl. Don’t let nobody tell you different.”

You smiled, feeling the weight of the day finally settle in your bones. The saloon buzzed around you, alive with the wild, untamable spirit of the West. Outside, the stars began to prick the sky, cold and bright.

Em looked up from her book, eyes shining. “Mama, will you read to me tonight?”

You brushed a curl from her cheek. “Course I will, sugar. Soon after I give feed to the horses.”

She grinned, swinging her legs. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

The prairie night was a velvet shroud, stitched with the silver thread of a waxing moon. The last echoes of the saloon’s laughter faded behind you as you and Em made your way home, boots crunching over the hard-packed earth. The air was cool and sweet, carrying the scent of wild sage and the distant promise of rain, a rare blessing in these parts. 

Your small property sat at the edge of town, a modest clapboard house with a lean-to porch and a barn crouched behind it like a faithful old dog.

Em skipped ahead, her book clutched to her chest, curls bouncing in the moonlight. You watched her with a weary tenderness, letting her joy be your lantern through the gathering dark.

“Hurry on inside, Em,” you called, voice low but firm. “It’s late, and the coyotes’ll be yowlin’ soon enough.”

“Yes, mama!” She chirped, darting up the steps and through the door, the lamplight inside painting her silhouette gold for a heartbeat before she vanished. You listened for the click of the latch, the familiar rattle as she checked it twice, just like you’d taught her.

Turning away, you let your gaze drift to the barn. The horses would be restless, their bellies rumbling for the evening feed. You crossed the yard, boots silent in the grass, the night alive with the chorus of crickets and the far-off hoot of an owl.

The barn loomed ahead, its weathered boards silvered by distant firelight. You slipped inside, the familiar scent of hay, horse, and leather wrapping around you like an old shawl. The horses nickered softly, ears pricking as you moved down the row, murmuring their names; a litany of comfort for both them and yourself.

You reached for the pitchfork, muscles moving on memory, and began to toss hay into the stalls. The rhythmic scrape and toss, the soft thud of hay hitting the ground, the gentle snorts and shuffling hooves, it was a ritual as old as your grief, as steady as the rising sun.

But tonight, something was off. A prickle ran up your spine, the hairs at the nape of your neck standing alert. You paused, pitchfork in hand, and listened. At first, there was nothing but the usual barn sounds, the shifting of hooves, the creak of old wood. Then, beneath it all, a ragged breath, sharp and wet, like a saw biting through green wood.

You set the pitchfork aside, moving slow and careful toward the haystack at the far end of the barn. Your hand found the handle of the old revolver you kept tucked in your apron pocket, a habit born of necessity, not fear. You stepped around the pile, heart thumping, and there he was.

A man, half-buried in the hay, his clothes smeared with dust and blood. He looked up as you approached, eyes wild and bright in the moonlight. His hand went to his throat, where a makeshift bandage, torn from a once-white shirt, was stained dark and glistening. The wound was ugly, puckered and raw, the kind of hurt that spelled trouble.

He tried to sit up, but the effort made him gasp, his face twisting in pain. “Don’t shoot,” he rasped, voice barely more than a whisper. “Ain’t lookin’ for trouble, ma’am.”

You kept the revolver steady, jaw clenched. “You picked the wrong barn to bleed in, mister. Who are you?”

He coughed, wincing. “Name’s Cassian. Got myself in a mess, is all. Just needed a place to lay low for a spell.”

You studied him, weighing his words. He was maybe not much older than yourself, but the lines around his eyes spoke of hard roads and harder choices. His boots were worn, his coat patched and threadbare. The gunshot wound at his neck was ugly, but not fresh—he’d been running, and running hard.

“Who shot you?” you asked, voice flat as the prairie.

He hesitated, eyes flicking to the door. “Didn’t catch his name. Fella on the road, wanted what little I had. Guess he weren’t a good shot.”

You snorted, not bothering to hide your skepticism. “Folks don’t usually get shot in the neck by strangers for nothin’. You runnin’ from the law, Cassian?”

He shook his head, wincing again. “Ain’t no outlaw, ma’am. Just unlucky.”

You considered your options. You could send him packing, let the coyotes and the cold finish what the bullet started. Or you could let him stay, patch him up, and risk bringing trouble to your door. A risk you couldn’t afford, not with Em sleeping just yards away.

Cassian must’ve seen the calculation in your eyes, because he spoke again, voice raw and pleading. “Please, ma’am. I ain’t got nowhere else to go. Just need a night, maybe two. I’ll be gone by sunrise, swear it.”

You hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on you like a saddle on a green-broke colt. The West was no place for mercy, but you remembered the cold bite of loneliness, the way the world could turn its back on you and never look back.

You lowered the revolver, just a fraction. “If you so much as breathe wrong, I’ll put a finishing bullet in you myself. Understand?”

He nodded, relief washing over his face. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

You knelt beside him, inspecting the wound. The bandage was filthy, the edges of the cut angry and red. You’d seen enough injuries, on horses, on men, to know infection when you saw it.

“This’ll hurt,” you warned, pulling a rag from your apron and dousing it with whiskey from your flask.

He gritted his teeth as you pressed the cloth to his neck, the whiskey hissing on raw flesh. “Hellfire, woman, you tryin’ to kill me?”

You snorted, but not unkindly. “If I was, you’d know it. Hold still.”

He obeyed, jaw clenched, as you cleaned the wound and wrapped it with a fresh strip torn from your petticoat. When you finished, he sagged back against the hay, breath coming easier.

“Thank you,” he said, voice hoarse.

You stood, brushing straw from your skirt. “Don’t thank me yet. You bring trouble to my door, you’ll wish you’d bled out on the road.”

“Understood, ma’am.” He managed with a weak smile.

You turned to go, pausing at the door. “I’ll bring you some water. Don’t move.”

He nodded, eyes already drifting shut.

You stepped out into the night, the weight of your choice settling heavy on your shoulders. The prairie was silent, the stars cold and indifferent. You crossed the yard, glancing back at the barn, half-expecting to see a posse riding up, guns drawn. But there was nothing, just the wind and the endless sky.

Inside the house, Em was curled up on her cot, book clutched to her chest, eyes heavy with sleep.

“Mama?” she murmured, half-awake.

“I’m here, sugar,” you whispered, brushing a curl from her forehead. “Go on and lay back down. I’ll be right back.”

You fetched a tin cup and filled it with water from the pump, your mind racing. Who was Cassian, really? A drifter, a thief, a man running from something worse than the law? Or just another soul chewed up and spat out by the West?

You carried the water back to the barn, the revolver remaining tucked in your apron, just in case. Cassian was still where you’d left him, eyes closed, breath shallow but steady. You set the cup beside him, watching as he roused and drank, the water dribbling down his chin.

“Thank you,” he said again, voice stronger.

“Don’t thank me,” you repeated, softer this time. “Just rest. You can stay the night. But come morning, we’ll see what’s what.”

He nodded, settling back into the hay.

You lingered a moment, watching him. There was something about him, something familiar, maybe, or just the echo of your own hard luck reflected in his eyes. You turned away, closing the barn door behind you, and made your way back to the house.

Inside, the lamp flickered low, casting long shadows on the walls. Em was asleep, her breaths slow and even, unable to fight the sleep in favour of your reading. You sat beside her, smoothing the blanket over her small form, and let your thoughts wander.

The West was a wild, hungry thing, always looking to take more than it gave. You’d learned that lesson young, and you’d taught it to Em with every story, every warning, every night spent listening for trouble in the dark. But mercy was a rare and precious thing, and tonight, you’d chosen to offer it.

You sat in the quiet, listening to the night, the horses shifting in the barn, the wind sighing through the grass, the distant yip of a coyote. You wondered what tomorrow would bring, what new dangers or blessings might find their way to your door.

But for now, you had done what you could. You had chosen kindness, even when it cost you sleep and peace of mind.

The dawn crept over the Kansas prairie, slow and golden, brushing the world with a gentle hand. The sky was a pale wash of lavender and rose, the kind of morning that made even the hardest days seem possible. You woke to the familiar sounds of the house settling, the soft sigh of the wind through the cracks, and the distant nickering of horses eager for their feed.

Em was still asleep, tangled in her quilt, her hair a golden halo on the pillow. You paused a moment, watching her breathe, the peace on her face a balm to your tired soul. Then you slipped from the bed, pulling on your boots and shrugging into your work-worn dress. The day waited for no one, least of all a woman with mouths to feed and fences to mend.

You moved through the kitchen, lighting the stove and setting water to boil, the motions as familiar as breathing. The memory of last night lingered, a wounded stranger in your barn, the sharp tang of fear and the heavier weight of mercy. You wondered if he’d be gone, as promised, or if you’d find trouble waiting in the morning light.

You stepped out onto the porch, the boards creaking beneath your feet, and scanned the yard. The barn stood quiet, its weathered boards glowing in the sunrise. You could hear the horses, restless and hungry, and, fainter still, the sound of a man’s voice, low and soothing.

Curiosity prickled at your spine. You crossed the yard, boots crunching in the dew-wet grass, and pushed open the barn door.

Inside, the horses were already nosing at their feed troughs, the air thick with the sweet scent of hay and the warm musk of animals. And there, moving slowly but steadily, was Cassian. There was an evident pallor to his tanned skin, the bandage at his neck stark against his throat, but his hands were sure as he filled the troughs, murmuring to each horse in turn. At full height, he was the largest man you had ever seen.

You watched him a moment, arms folded, suspicion and gratitude warring in your chest.

He looked up, catching your gaze, and offered a crooked smile. “Mornin’, ma’am. Hope you don’t mind—I figured I’d get a jump on the chores. Least I can do, considerin’.”

You studied him, noting the stiffness in his movements, the way he favoured his left side. “You oughta be restin’, not workin’. That wound’s liable to open up again.”

He shrugged, scooping another forkful of hay. “Ain’t the first time I’ve been shot, and likely won’t be the last. I’m no good at sittin’ idle, ‘specially when there’s a debt to be paid.”

You snorted, unable to hide your amusement. “Debt, huh? You sound like a man with somethin’ to prove.”

He grinned, teeth flashing white in the dim light. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I just don’t like owing folks, ‘specially not folks with kind hearts and quick hands.”

You shook your head, but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “Suit yourself. But if you keel over in my barn, I’ll have to haul you out to the well, and I ain’t got the back for it.”

Cassian laughed, a sound roughened by pain but genuine all the same. “Reckon I’ll try to spare you the trouble.”

You moved to the nearest stall, checking the water bucket and running your hand down the mare’s flank. The horses were calmer than usual, their eyes bright and curious as they watched Cassian work. Animals had a way of knowing a person’s true nature, and you trusted their judgment more than most men’s.

Cassian worked in silence for a while, his movements careful but competent. He handled the horses with a gentle touch, speaking to them in a voice low and steady. You found yourself relaxing, the tension in your shoulders easing as the barn filled with the quiet rhythm of morning chores.

When the last trough was filled and the stalls swept clean, Cassian leaned against the back stall, wiping sweat from his brow. “You got a fine herd here, ma’am. Strong stock. You raise ‘em yourself?”

You nodded, pride warming your chest. “My mama started the herd. I kept it goin’ after she passed. Ain’t much, but it’s honest work.”

He nodded, respect in his eyes. “Honest work’s hard to come by these days. Folks’ll do near anything for a dollar.”

You studied him, curiosity getting the better of you. “What about you, Cassian? What kind of work do you do?”

He hesitated, gaze dropping to the dirt floor. “Whatever needs doin’, I suppose. Been a hand on ranches, driven cattle, even tried my luck at the mines. Trouble seems to find me, no matter where I go.”

You considered that, weighing his words. The West was full of men running from something; past mistakes, lost loves, the law. You’d learned not to ask too many questions, not if you wanted to keep your own secrets safe.

A sudden commotion outside caught your attention, the sharp, panicked whinny of a horse, the crash of wood splintering. You exchanged a glance with Cassian, both of you moving toward the barn door in unspoken agreement.

The fence at the far end of the pasture had given way, a section sagging where the posts had rotted through. One of the younger colts had slipped through the gap, now prancing in the tall grass, tail high and eyes wild.

“Damn fool animal,” you muttered, grabbing a coil of rope from the wall. “That fence’s been threatenin’ to go for weeks.”

Cassian stepped up beside you, rolling his shoulders. “Let me help. Two sets of hands’ll get it done quicker.”

You hesitated, eyeing the bandage at his neck. “You sure you’re up for it?”

He flashed that crooked grin again. “I ain’t dead yet. Besides, I owe you.”

You relented, tossing him a pair of work gloves. “All right, but if you drop, I ain’t carryin’ you.”

He chuckled, slipping the gloves on. “Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am.”

Together, you crossed the pasture, the grass whispering around your boots. The colt danced away as you approached, tossing his head and snorting.

“Easy, boy,” Cassian called, his voice calm and steady. “Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you.”

You circled wide, rope in hand, moving slowly and deliberately. The colt eyed you warily, muscles bunched to bolt. You crouched, holding out your hand, murmuring soft nonsense the way your father once had.

Cassian moved to the flank of the colt, hands out, his presence quiet and unthreatening. The colt flicked an ear, torn between flight and curiosity.

“Now,” Cassian said, nodding to you.

You tossed the loop, catching the colt’s neck in one smooth motion. He reared, fighting the rope, but you held firm, muscles straining.

“Easy now,” Cassian called, moving in to steady the colt. Together, you soothed the animal, your voices blending in a low, steady hum.

After a tense moment, the colt settled, sides heaving. You led him back through the gap in the fence, Cassian following close behind.

“Good work,” you said, breathless.

Cassian grinned, sweat shining on his brow. “Teamwork, ma’am. Always works better.”

You tied the colt in the shade, turning your attention to the broken fence. The posts were rotten, the rails splintered and sagging.

“Gonna need new posts,” you muttered, eyeing the damage.

Cassian nodded, rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll dig the holes, you cut the rails?”

You hesitated, but his determination was plain. “All right. But take it slow. That wound of yours ain’t healed.”

Cassian winked. “Yes, ma’am.”

You fetched the axe and saw, setting to work on the nearest fallen tree. The rhythm of chopping and sawing filled the air, the scent of fresh-cut wood mingling with the prairie breeze. Cassian dug the holes, muscles straining, sweat darkening his shirt. You worked in companionable silence, the only sounds the rasp of the saw, the thud of the post-hole digger, and the distant calls of meadowlarks.

When the new posts were set and the rails nailed in place, you stood back, surveying your handiwork. The fence was sturdy, and the gap was closed.

“Not bad,” you said, wiping your brow.

Cassian leaned on the fence, breathing hard but smiling. “Oughta hold, at least ‘til the next storm.”

You nodded, pride and relief mingling in your chest. “Thank you, Cassian. You didn’t have to—”

He cut you off, shaking his head. “I did. A debt’s a debt. Besides, I ain’t had honest work in a long time. Feels good.”

You studied him, seeing the truth in his eyes. The West had a way of grinding a man down, but it could also build him back up, if he let it.

The sun climbed higher, burning away the last of the morning chill. You led the colt back to the barn, Cassian trailing behind, his steps slow but steady.

Inside, Em was awake, watching from the porch with wide, curious eyes.

“Mama, who’s that?” she called, voice bright.

You smiled, waving her over. “Come say hello, Em. This is Cassian. He’s helpin’ out today.”

Em approached, shy but curious, her gaze flicking from you to Cassian and back. “Did you get hurt?” she asked, pointing to the bandage at his neck.

Cassian crouched to Em’s height, offering a gentle smile. “I did, little miss. But your mama patched me up right as rain.”

Em beamed, clearly pleased. “Mama’s good at fixin’ things. She fixed my doll, too.”

Cassian laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “I can see that.”

You ruffled Em’s hair. “Go on inside, sugar. I’ll be in soon.”

Em nodded, skipping back to the house, book clutched to her chest.

You turned to Cassian, gratitude softening your features. “You hungry? I got some beans on the stove, maybe a bit of bacon if you’re lucky.”

Cassian grinned, rubbing his stomach. “I’d be much obliged, ma’am. Been a while since I had a real meal.”

You led the way inside, the warmth of the kitchen wrapping around you like a blanket. You ladled beans into bowls, slicing bacon and setting out bread. Cassian ate with the hunger of a man who hadn’t seen a meal in days, pausing only to thank you between bites.

Em watched him with wide eyes, clearly fascinated. “Where you from, mister?”

Cassian swallowed, considering. “All over, I suppose. Texas, mostly. But I like it here. Feels…honest.”

Em nodded, satisfied. “Mama says Kansas is the best place in the world.”

You smiled, ruffling her hair. “That’s ‘cause it’s home, sugar.”

Cassian finished his meal, pushing the bowl away with a sigh of contentment. “Thank you, ma’am. That was the best breakfast I’ve had in years.”

You shrugged, trying to hide your pleasure. “Just beans and bacon. Nothin’ special.”

He shook his head, eyes serious. “It is to me.”

The day stretched ahead, full of chores and small comforts. Cassian insisted on helping, mending tack and hauling water, his movements growing easier as the hours passed. You found yourself grateful for the company, the easy camaraderie that grew between you.

As the sun dipped low, painting the world in gold and shadow, you sat on the porch with Em and Cassian, watching the prairie come alive with the songs of crickets and the distant call of a whippoorwill.

The night settled around you, soft and peaceful. Quiet enough to make you realise your new predicament.

"You said you ain't got nowhere else to go," you start, staring down at Em's soft expression. You're only reminded how strung thin you are. "You seem to know horses pretty well. And... well, I hardly got the time to always be lookin' after them, let alone tame them into something rideable."

Cassian was watching you now, waiting for you to lay down your offer.

"Til' that wound of yours has healed over, I'll let you stay in my barn and have a plate at my table in return for your work," you state, firm, nothing else you're willing to give than that.

"Well," Cassian starts, a grin pulling at his stubbled cheeks. "I ain't never one to turn down such an honest offer of work."

Part III, One Life with so much Consequence

Hays stretched endlessly under a sky bruised purple with twilight, the air thick with the scent of sage and impending rain. Cassian’s silhouette cut a sharp line against the horizon as he mended the corral fence, his movements steady but guarded.

You watched him from the porch, Em’s voice drifting through the open window as she practised writing her letters. The rhythm of your life had shifted these past weeks, a stranger’s presence now as familiar as the creak of the windmill.

Even after Cassian had long ditched the linen that wrapped around his neck, you’ve grown to have little intention of reminding him of his impending leave, marked by the healing of his wound. And by his returning silence, it seemed he shared your similar sentiments too. 

Part IV, No Place to Call Home

The night pressed close, thick as molasses and twice as heavy, the hush broken only by the restless sigh of wind through the cottonwoods and the distant, lonesome wail of a coyote. The barn was a shadowed cathedral, beams arching overhead like the ribs of some ancient beast, and Cassian sat hunched in the straw, sweat slicking his brow, the rusted spur gripped in his fist as though it might anchor him to this world and not the one that haunted his sleep.

You stood in the doorway, lantern trembling in your hand, the golden light trembling across his haunted face. “Cassian?” you called, voice softer than a moth’s wing.

Cassian jerked, wild-eyed, the whites showing stark in the gloom, but then his gaze found yours and the storm in him ebbed, just a mite. “Just dreams, darlin’,” he rasped, voice gravelled and raw as a dry creek bed. “Ain’t nothin’ but ghosts gnawin’ at my bones.”

You stepped closer, the straw crunching under your boots. “Ain’t never nothin’ when it comes to dreams like that,” you said, kneeling beside him. “You wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head, jaw clenched tight as a trap. “Ain’t fit for decent company, what’s in my head.”

You reached out, laying a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, then let out a breath, the tension bleeding from him slow as sap from a wounded tree. “Ain’t no shame in carryin’ scars,” you murmured. “World’s full of folks actin’ like they ain’t never been cut.”

He managed a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “You got a way with words, I’ll give you that.”

You squeezed his shoulder, then stood, the lantern light flickering between you. “Come on. Air’s cool out, and the stars’re worth seein’.”

Cassian followed you out to the porch, the night wrapping around you both like an old quilt. He lit a cigarette, the ember flaring in the dark, and you sat beside him, listening to the hush between your heartbeats.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The prairie stretched endless and black, the sky a river of diamonds overhead.

Then, out of nowhere, Cassian’s voice broke the silence, rough and uncertain. “You ever regret choices you made?”

You turned, the moonlight painting his scar in silver, the lines of his face etched deep by sorrow and time. “Every day,” you answered, honest as the dawn. “But regret don’t feed horses, nor get tips pourin’ whiskey. All you can do is keep movin’, one foot in front of the other.”

Cassian huffed a laugh, bitter as burnt coffee. “No. It don’t. But sometimes it feels like the past’s got claws, draggin’ me back every time I think I’m free.”

You watched the smoke curl from his lips, drifting up to join the stars. “Ain’t a soul out here don’t know what it is to be hunted by their own mistakes, Cassian. But you’re here now. That’s somethin’.”

He looked at you, eyes shadowed but searching. “You ever think about runnin’? Leavin’ all this behind?”

You shook your head, the wind tugging at your hair. “Ain’t nowhere else for me. Kansas dirt’s in my blood. Besides, I got Em to think of. She’s my whole world.”

He nodded, silent for a spell, then said, “You’re braver than most. Braver’n me, that’s for damn sure.”

You snorted, a smile tugging at your lips. “Ain’t bravery, Cassian. Just stubbornness. World keeps knockin’ me down, I just get up meaner.”

He grinned, the first true smile you’d seen from him in days. “Mean suits you, darlin’. World could use more women like you.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “Careful, or I’ll start thinkin’ you’re sweet on me.”

He flicked his cigarette into the yard, the ember winking out. “Maybe I am,” he said, voice low as thunder. “Ain’t had much to believe in, not for a long while. But you… you make a man wish he was better.”

You felt your cheeks burn, but you held his gaze. “We’re all just tryin’ to be better, Cassian. Some days, that’s all we got.”

He reached for your hand, rough and calloused, and you let him, the warmth of his skin grounding you both. The night stretched on, the two of you side by side, sharing the silence and the scars, the wind carrying your secrets out into the wild, wild dark.

The truth came on a Tuesday, the sky a bleached bone-white, heat rippling off the prairie like a curse. You’d sent Cassian to town for nails, and he’d returned quiet as a shadow, his eyes avoiding yours like a sinner dodging the pulpit. The sack of supplies sat heavy on the kitchen table, and there, nestled between hammerheads and coils of wire, was the Dodge City Times—its ink smudged, its edges frayed, its headline screaming like a bullet through glass:

“WANTED: Cassian – Bounty Hunter Turned Traitor?”

The sketch beneath was crude, all harsh lines and shadow, but the eyes, those hard, haunted eyes, were his. The article spat venom, each word a barb: Cassian, once a respected bounty hunter, implicated in the robbery of the Santa Fe payroll. Suspected of collusion with the Red Canyon Gang. Armed and dangerous. Reward: $500 dead or alive.

Your hands trembled, the paper crinkling like dried leaves. Outside, Em’s laughter floated through the open window, sweet and bright as a meadowlark’s song. The sound sharpened your fear into something jagged, something that clawed up your throat.

You found him in the barn, brushing down the chestnut mare with slow, deliberate strokes. Dust hung in the shafts of sunlight, and the air smelled of hay and horse sweat and the faint tang of gun oil. Cassian hummed low under his breath, a tune you didn’t recognise—something mournful, something old.

“You lied,” you said, voice colder than a winter creek.

The brush stilled. Cassian turned, slow as a rattler coiling, and his smile died when he saw your face. “I didn’t—”

“Bounty hunter. Traitor. Criminal.” You flung the paper at him, the page fluttering like a wounded bird. “You brought your war to my door!”

Cassian caught the paper midair, his gaze skimming the words. For a heartbeat, his mask slipped—you saw the raw, flayed thing beneath, the man who’d been hunted longer than he’d been free. Then his jaw tightened, and he crumpled the paper in his fist. “It ain’t like that. The Red Canyon Gang set me up. I was trackin’ ’em, but they turned the law against me. That bullet in my neck?” He jerked his collar down, revealing the puckered scar. “Came from a sheriff’s gun, not some two-bit outlaw.”

Em’s laughter rang out again, closer now. She darted past the barn door, chasing a barn cat with a ribbon of sunlight in her hair. Your heart squeezed. “Get out,” you hissed, stepping closer, your voice a blade. “Before trouble follows you here. Before they come for her.”

Cassian flinched, hat crumpled in his hands, his knuckles white. “I’ll go. But know this,” he met your gaze, his eyes burning like coals in the dim. “I’d sooner die than let harm come to you or that girl.”

You followed Cassian to the porch, the sun hammering down like a blacksmith’s fist. He slung his saddlebags over his shoulder, his movements stiff, his back to you. The wind carried the creak of the windmill and the distant lowing of cattle.

“You think I wanted this?” he said suddenly, voice rough as a saw blade. “You think I woke up one day and said, ‘Hell, I’ll be a wanted man’? They took everything. My name. My reputation. My—.” He broke off, throat working.

You crossed your arms, the wood of the porch rail biting into your palms. “And that gives you the right to drag your mess into my life? Into hers?”

Cassian turned, his face a map of old pain. “Ain’t about rights. It’s about survival. You of all folks oughta understand that.”

The words hit like a slap. You thought of your father’s blood staining Kansas dirt, of your mother’s hands, cracked and bleeding as she gentled wild horses. Of nights spent listening for the click of a lock, the creak of a floorboard.

“Survival ain’t the same as trust,” you said, quieter now.

He stepped closer, the scent of leather and sage sharp in your nose. “You think I don’t know what I am? What they say about me? I’ve seen the way folks look at a man with a price on his head—like he’s rabid, like he’s already dead.” His hand hovered near yours, not touching. “But you… you looked at me like I was whole.”

Cassian mounted his horse, a rangy bay with eyes as wary as his own. The prairie stretched behind him, endless and indifferent.

“They’ll come,” you said, voice fraying. “The law. The gang. They always do.”

Cassian adjusted his hat, shadowing his face. “Let ’em come. I’ll lead ’em so far from here, they’ll never know this town existed.”

Em appeared at the corner of the house, her cheeks pink, hands full of dandelions. “Mister Cass! Look what I found!”

Cassian’s breath caught. For a moment, you saw the man he might’ve been, the one who could’ve knelt in the grass and named each flower with her. 

Then he nudged the bay forward, tipping his hat. “Keep your rifle close, darlin’.”

You watched Cassian ride out, dust rising in his wake, until he was nothing but a speck on the horizon. Em tugged your skirt, her voice small. “Where’s he goin’, mama?”

You knelt, brushing a curl from her face. “Where the wind takes him, sugar.”

But the wind, you knew, was a fickle thing. And the West had a way of circling back.

Part V, Crowded in the Absence

The heat that day was a living thing, coiled in the saloon’s shadows like a rattler ready to strike. Sunlight sliced through the gaps in the storeroom’s warped planks, painting Luis Curry’s face in jagged stripes as he crowded you against the shelves. His breath reeked of rotgut and decay, a sour cloud that made your eyes water. Barrels of pickled eggs and sacks of flour pressed into your back, their familiar scents drowned by the stench of his intent.

This was always going to happen, you think. A man with such pride never takes silence for an answer.

“Been waitin’ for this,” Luis slurred, his words thick as tar. A drop of sweat slid down his temple, cutting through the grime on his skin. His fingers, calloused and dirt-caked, brushed your waist. “Ain’t no one to play hero now. Just you ’n’ me, darlin’.”

Your hand closed around the neck of a whiskey bottle behind you, glass slick with condensation. “Touch me,” you said, voice low as a blade being drawn, “and I’ll split your skull like a melon at a harvest fair.”

Luis barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the jars of preserves. “Feisty. I like—.” His grip tightened on your wrist, yanking you forward.

The door exploded inward in a burst of splinters and sunlight.

Cassian stood framed in the wreckage, revolver steady in his hand, his silhouette sharp enough to cut glass. The light haloed him, dust motes swirling like gold dust around his boots. “Let. Her. Go.” Each word was a bullet chambered, his drawl colder than a Colorado winter.

Cassian’s face was enough to shock the fear of God out of you, like he were a ghost come back to life. 

Luis’s sneer twisted the scar on his lip into a serpent’s grin. “Or what, Cassian? You ain’t nothin’ but a washed-up bounty hunter with more bark than bite.” His thumb dug into your pulse point, a mockery of a caress. “Hell, I heard the Red Canyon Gang’s still laughin’ ’bout how you tucked tail and—”

A whiskey bottle connected with his temple in a shower of glass and amber liquid. Luis crumpled like a puppet with its strings slashed, his grip falling slack. You staggered back, shards crunching underfoot, the tang of spilled whiskey sharp in the air.

Cassian was on him before Luis hit the floor, a knee planted on his chest, revolver pressed to the soft hollow beneath his jaw. “You look at her again,” Cassian growled, the sound reverberating deep in his throat, “breathe her air, think her name, I’ll bury you so deep even the crows’ll starve tryin’ to find you.”

Luis wheezed, blood and whiskey matting his hair. “You’re… dead… Cassian,” he spat. “Law’s coming. Heard ’em in Dodge City… sniffin’ your trail.”

Cassian’s thumb cocked the hammer. “Let ’em come. I’ll save ’em a bullet with your name on it.”

The saloon’s piano music stuttered outside, patrons oblivious to the scuffle in the storeroom. You pressed a hand to your racing heart, the other still clutching the bottle’s jagged remains. “Cassian,” you breathed. Not a plea—a lifeline.

He glanced at you, his gaze softening for a heartbeat before hardening again. “Fetch the sheriff,” he said, voice rough. “This gutter snake’s got a date with a cell.”

You hesitated, your boots rooted to the floorboards. “He’s right, ain’t he? The law’s coming. For you.”

Cassian stood, dragging Luis up by his collar. The man sagged, half-conscious. “Ain’t the first time,” he muttered. He met your eyes, the storm in his own momentarily still. “Go on. I’ll handle this.”

You fled, the taste of copper on your tongue. The saloon’s main room blurred, faces of regulars, the glint of shot glasses, Old William’s brow furrowed as you flew past. The sunlight outside was blinding, the street a blur of dust and distant shouts.

By the time you returned with Sheriff Hayes, Cassian was gone. Only Luis remained, slumped in the corner, wrists bound with baling twine, a bloodied bandana stuffed in his mouth. The sheriff spat tobacco onto the floor. “That Cassian boy do this?”

You nodded, your voice trapped somewhere beneath your ribs.

Hayes chuckled, hoisting Luis up. “Reckon he saved me the trouble. Red Canyon’s put a bounty on this one’s head, too.” He tipped his hat. “You tell that boy… I ain’t forgettin’ what he did here. But the law’s the law.”

That night, you found Cassian on your porch like he belonged there, his profile etched against the indigo sky. The scent of sagebrush and gunpowder clung to him.

“You didn’t have to run,” you said, leaning against the rail.

Cassian didn’t turn. “Ain’t your trouble to bear.”

The silence stretched, broken only by the cry of a nighthawk.

“Why’d you come back?” you asked, the question hanging like smoke.

Cassian finally looked at you, his eyes reflecting the stars. “Told you I would. Ain’t a man who breaks his word.” A beat. “The Red Canyon Gang’s comin’. They’re plannin’ to hit the railroad shipment Friday.”

Your breath caught. “And you aim to stop ’em.”

“Aim to try.” Cassian stood. “But I need you to take Em and ride north. Just ’til it’s over.”

The fear surged; sharp, familiar. But beneath it, something warmer flickered. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

Cassian moved towards you, towering over you, his scent of leather and gunpowder dizzying. “Maybe. But I’d rather die clean than live like a ghost.”

Your hand found his, calluses grinding. “Then we fight this together.”

Somewhere, a coyote yipped. The wind carried the promise of rain and the faint rumble of thunder.

The days that followed were a fragile truce, uncertain and strained like a taught fiddle string. Cassian’s presence was a shadow at your heel, steady and sure, yet never quite within reach. He moved through your world with the quiet grace of a man who’d spent too long watching his own back, but in the golden hours between chores and dusk, you caught glimpses of something softer beneath the grit.

He taught you to shoot, and not just for show. 

“Ain’t no sense in pointin’ iron if you ain’t ready to use it,” he said, voice low as thunder rolling on the horizon. He’d stand behind you in the pasture, the scent of gun oil and grass thick in the air, his hands guiding yours. His palm settled on your shoulder, steadying your aim, and the heat of his touch burned through your dress like wildfire.

“Keep your elbow up, darlin’,” he’d murmur, his breath grazing your ear, “and don’t blink. World don’t wait for blinkers.”

You squeezed the trigger, the Colt bucking in your grip. The tin can atop the fencepost spun off into the grass, and Cassian’s laughter—warm, surprised—rippled over you.

“Well, I’ll be. You got a mean streak when you want it.” His eyes crinkled, the harsh lines of his face softened by pride. “Remind me not to cross you come supper.”

You tried to hide your smile, but it bloomed anyway, wild and bright as a prairie rose.

At night, Em would chatter at the supper table, her voice a river of stories and questions, while Cassian whittled a scrap of pine into a horse. His hands, so sure with a pistol, were gentle with the knife, and you watched the shape emerge, a proud little steed with a flowing mane and a crooked mouth. He handed it to Em with a wink, and she clutched it to her chest like treasure.

“Thank you, Mister Cass!” she beamed, and he ducked his head, a flush creeping up beneath his tan.

“Just a bit o’ nothin’, little miss. But every cowgirl needs a trusty mount.”

You watched them, something aching in your chest, a longing for a life you’d never dared to dream.

The evenings grew heavy with the scent of rain and the promise of summer. One night, as you scrubbed the supper dishes, Cassian’s reflection swam up in the window, ghostly in the lamplight. He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes unreadable.

“You’re a hard woman to figure,” he said, voice soft as a lullaby and twice as dangerous.

You didn’t turn, scrubbing at a stubborn bit of gravy. “And you’re a fool to try.”

He stepped closer, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. “Maybe I like fools’ errands. Gives a man somethin’ worth failin’ for.”

His breath warmed the back of your neck, and your hands stilled in the soapy water. The bowl slipped from your grasp, splashing in the sink with a sharp, final note. You flinched, heart thundering, and he reached for you, fingers brushing your arm.

You jerked away, the memory of his touch searing your skin. “This ain’t… I can’t—” The words tangled in your throat, thick with fear and longing.

He held up his hands, palms open, voice gentled. “I know. I ain’t askin’ for what you can’t give. But when this is over…” He let the promise hang between you, heavy and bright as a lantern in the dark.

You fled, the screen door banging behind you, the night air sharp in your lungs. The barn loomed ahead, sanctuary and prison all at once. You pressed your forehead to the rough wood, breath coming fast, the echo of his words chasing you through the shadows.

Inside, the horses shifted in their stalls, their soft nickers a comfort. You buried your face in the mane of your old mare, the familiar scent of hay and sweat grounding you.

“Fool woman,” you whispered, stroking the horse’s neck. “Ain’t no sense wantin’ what you can’t keep.”

The wind rattled the eaves, and somewhere out in the dark, a coyote called, a wild, lonely sound that made your heart ache. You thought of Cassian’s hands, steady and warm, and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing tethering him to this world.

You stayed there until the moon climbed high, silvering the prairie and painting your troubles in softer light. When you finally slipped back to the house, Em was asleep, clutching her wooden horse, and Cassian’s boots were by the door, a silent testimony to the man waiting for a tomorrow you weren’t sure you could promise.

But as you lay in the hush of your little house, the memory of his touch lingered, hope and warning, sweet as honey and sharp as whiskey. And you wondered, not for the first time, if maybe, just maybe, there was room in this wild, unforgiving land for a second chance.

You slipped through the door, boots silent on the worn floorboards, the hush of midnight pressed close about your shoulders. The lamplight in the kitchen cast long shadows, pooling gold across the battered table. There, as if conjured by longing itself, sat Cassian, hat in his hands, elbows braced wide, head bowed as though in prayer. The muscles in his forearms flexed beneath sun-browned skin, and the lamplight caught the gold in his curled hair, turning him half-myth, half-man.

He didn’t look up when you entered, but you felt the pull of him all the same, a gravity as sure as the moon’s. You hovered in the doorway, heart tripping, the silence between you thick with all the things unsaid.

Cassian finally glanced up when the wood beneath your foot waned. You met his gaze, throat too tight for words. You crossed the room, each step slow, deliberate. The air between you shimmered, charged with something wild and dangerous.

He watched you move with eyes that had your heart skidding like a stone over a lake, the colour of sunshine and whiskey, rimmed in weariness and want. “You look like you've seen a ghost, darlin’.”

You managed a crooked smile, nerves jangling. “Maybe I have. Or maybe I just seen a man too stubborn to quit waitin’.”

Cassian huffed a laugh, the sound soft, almost reverent. “Ain’t nothin’ else worth waitin’ for in this world.”

You stood at the edge of the table, hands twisting in your skirt. The hush stretched, taut as a wire. Cassian watched you, every muscle in his body drawn tight, like a wolf scenting blood.

Finally, you spoke, voice barely more than a whisper. “You meant what you said?”

Cassian nodded, slow and sure. “Ain’t never been one to say what I don’t mean. Not to you.”

Your hands trembled, so you pressed them flat to the table, anchoring yourself. “I’m scared, Cassian. Scared of what I want. Scared of losin’ it, too.”

He pushed his chair back, the scrape loud in the hush, and stood. “Ain’t no shame in bein’ scared. World’s a mean place. But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without.”

He crossed the space between you in three strides, boots scuffing on the boards. He stopped just shy of touching you, his breath mingling with yours, his eyes searching your face like a map to salvation.

“Tell me to go,” he said, voice raw, “and I’ll walk out that door, never look back. But if you want me to stay—if you want me, even a little—just say the word.”

You looked up at him, the ache in your chest blooming into something fierce and bright. “Stay,” you whispered, full of conviction.

He reached for you then, hands gentle but sure, rough palms cupping your cheeks. His thumbs brushed away the tears you didn’t know you’d started to shed. “You sure, darlin’? Ain’t no goin’ back from this.”

You nodded, breathless. “I ain’t never been more sure of nothin’.”

Cassian’s mouth found yours, slow and searching at first, as though he feared you might vanish if he pressed too hard. But you met him, hungry and desperate, pouring all your longing and loneliness into the kiss. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him, and you melted into his heat, the world narrowing to the space between your bodies.

He tasted of whiskey and smoke, of promise and regret. His hands slid down your back, tracing the curve of your spine, anchoring you to the earth. You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging him closer, needing more.

Cassian broke the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. “You’re playin’ with fire, sweetheart.”

You smiled, wild and reckless. “Maybe I wanna burn.”

He laughed, a sound torn from deep in his chest, and kissed you again, harder this time, all teeth and tongue and need. You clung to him, the two of you swaying, lost in the storm you’d both tried so long to deny.

He lifted you, easy as breathing, and set you atop the table, dishes clattering aside. His hands found your waist, thumbs tracing circles through the thin cotton of your dress. You arched into him, gasping as his mouth trailed down your throat, teeth grazing your pulse.

“Goddamn, woman,” he growled, voice thick with want. “You got no idea what you do to me.”

You fist your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer. “Show me, then. I ain’t made of glass.”

Cassian grinned, wicked and soft all at once. “That so? Reckon I’ll take you at your word.” He kissed you again, slower now, savouring every inch of you. His hands roamed, reverent and rough, mapping the planes of your body as if memorising you for the hard days ahead. You shivered beneath his touch, every nerve alight.

Cassian murmured your name, a prayer and a promise, and you answered with a gasp, your own hands hungry and bold. You tugged his shirt free, fingers splaying across the hard muscle of his back, feeling the scars beneath your palms. He pressed you down, the table cool against your back, his body a shield against the world’s cruelties. He worshipped you with his mouth, his hands, every inch of him singing with need. You gave yourself to him, fierce and unafraid, the two of you tangled in the golden lamplight, the night wind singing at the window.

Part VI, By love, With love, In love, For love

The night had been restless, the air thick with the scent of sage and the uneasy hush that settles before calamity. The Kansas grass, silvered by moonlight, whispered secrets to the wind, and every creak of the old homestead seemed a warning. When dawn finally bled across the horizon, it brought no comfort, only the silhouettes of ten riders, their horses frothing and wild-eyed, their faces shrouded in dust and bandanas, as if the very land itself had conjured them from shadow and vengeance.

Cassian stood by the split-rail fence, boots planted in the churned mud, your Winchester cradled in his arms. His silhouette was etched against the pale fire of morning, broad-shouldered and unyielding, a lone sentinel before the tide. The riders fanned out, horses snorting, breath pluming in the chill. Their leader, a man with eyes like flint and a voice rough as gravel, reined up close, the iron of his revolver glinting in the half-light.

“Last chance, Cassian!” The gang leader barked, his words slicing the hush. “Hand over the woman’s deeds, and we’ll make it quick.”

Cassian spat into the dirt, the gesture defiant. “You’ll get nothin’ but lead, you snake-bellied bastard.”

A hush hung, thick as molasses, before the world exploded.

The leader’s pistol barked, sharp and merciless. Cassian staggered, a crimson bloom spreading across his shirt, but he did not fall. Instead, he dropped to one knee, teeth gritted, eyes blazing. 

You screamed, the sound torn from your throat, and fired from the porch, the Winchester’s report echoing across the yard. The shot went wide, splintering the fence. The gang surged forward, a pack of wolves scenting blood.

You worked the lever, heart pounding, but the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Click. The sound was a death knell. One of the riders, a brute with a scar twisting his cheek, vaulted from his saddle, knife flashing. He loomed over you, shadow long and cold, the blade raised for the kill.

Then Cassian was there, moving with the desperate strength of cornered prey. He tackled the man, both of them crashing to the ground. Blood soaked Cassian’s shirt, but his fists were iron, his resolve unbroken.

You dropped the empty rifle, hands scrambling for anything, anything to fight with. Your fingers closed around the handle of a pitchfork, its tines rusted but sharp. As another outlaw lunged for the porch, you drove the pitchfork into his thigh. He howled, crumpling, and you wrenched the weapon free, the taste of fear and fury bitter on your tongue.

Inside the house, Em’s wail split the air, a sound of pure terror. Through the open door, you saw her, small and wild-eyed, as a bandit seized her by the arm and dragged her toward the yard.

“NO!” Cassian roared, his voice raw and ragged. He lurched to his feet, revolver in hand, and fired. The bandit fell, dropping Em, who scrambled free and ran to you, her arms flung around your waist, sobs wracking her tiny frame.

The remaining outlaws, seeing their leader dead and their numbers dwindling, broke. They turned tail, spurring their horses, leaving behind two of their own sprawled in the dust and the scent of gunpowder thick in the morning air.

Cassian staggered to the well, collapsing against the stones, his face ashen. You knelt beside him, pressing your frayed skirts to his wound, hands trembling.

“You idiot,” you choked, tears streaking your cheeks. “You stubborn, reckless—”

Cassian caught your face in his bloody hand, thumb smearing crimson across your cheek. “Worth it… to see you… fight like hell.”

You kissed him then, salt and iron mingling on your lips, the taste of survival and love and loss. Cassian smiled against your mouth, breath shallow.

“Knew you’d come around,” Cassian murmured, his voice a rasp, but his eyes bright.

The wind carried the scent of blood and gunpowder, the sun climbing higher, indifferent to the carnage below. You pressed your forehead to Cassian’s, your breath mingling with his.

“Damn you, Cassian,” you whispered, voice thick with tears. “Ain’t no sense in dyin’ for a fool’s cause.”

“Ain’t no sense in livin’ if you ain’t got somethin’ worth dyin’ for, darlin’.” Cassian grinned, teeth stained red.

Em clung to your skirts, her small hands shaking. “Mama, is it over? Are the bad men gone?”

You gathered her close, voice gentle. “They’re gone, sugar. Ain’t no one gonna hurt you now.”

Cassian coughed, blood flecking his lips. “Reckon I’ll need a new shirt,” he drawled, trying for levity.

You snorted, tears and laughter tangled. “Reckon you’ll need a new everything, you mule-headed fool.”

Cassian squeezed your hand, eyes soft. “Long as I got you, reckon I’ll make do.”

The sun rose higher, painting the world in gold and crimson. The bodies of the fallen lay still, the silence broken only by the soft sobs of a child and the laboured breaths of a man who had given everything for love.

As the day stretched on, you and Em tended Cassian’s wound, binding it as best you could with trembling hands and whispered prayers. The land, scarred and bloodied, seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see if you would endure.

Cassian drifted in and out of consciousness, his hand never leaving yours. Each time his eyes fluttered open, he smiled, stubborn and sweet.

“Don’t you go leavin’ me, you hear?” you whispered, fierce.

He chuckled, weak but unbroken. “Wouldn’t dream of it, darlin’. Got too much hell left to raise with you.”

The breeze sang through the grass, a mournful, hopeful tune. The homestead stood battered but unbowed, a testament to the grit and stubbornness of those who called it home.

When the sun finally dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fire and ash, you stood on the porch, Cassian’s arm around your shoulders, Em nestled between you. The world was changed, marked by violence and loss, but you remained.

Together, you watched the stars blink to life, each one a promise that the night would end, that dawn would come again, and that you would meet it together, unbroken and unafraid.

“Ain’t nothin’ in this world worth havin’ that don’t cost a piece of your soul,” Cassian whispered, voice soft as the dying wind. “But I reckon you’re worth every drop.”

And you believed him, with every beat of your stubborn heart.

[missanna001]

(¬_¬)

🍓

[captainsamuelmorrigan]

"Twilight vampires are stupid! Twilight vampires are for little girls!"

NO! LISTEN!!

Twilight vampires are a direct result of Purity Culture of the 90s and early 2000s, the AIDS crisis, and the War on Drugs.

Many vampires are prolonged feeders. Hell, the original literary babes like Carmilla and Dracula, feed many times from people, and those folks never went through any change besides anemia, potentially becoming obsessed with or enslaved to the vampire, or DEATH.

Not to say that some vampires in between don't have a one-and-done in biting and turning (My Best Friend is a Vampire [1988], Blacula [1972], My Babysitter’s a Vampire [2010]), but Twilight vampires truly do it with every aspect of these guys. Bella meets Edward ONE TIME and is obsessed with him, drawn to him. He seems to be her first love, and they end up getting married. They have sex THE NIGHT AFTER THEY WED, and BOOM, PREGNANT! True Love Waits, the organization that formed in 1993 with the aim of reducing premarital sex (some members even thought actually dating before marriage was toeing the line), had its first Purity Ball only seven years before the novel came out. Stephanie Meyer herself is Mormon, so the purity culture runs DEEP. This is an important context to be looking at this media from!

This one bite thing is not a popular thing in vampire media in years since Twilight, many people seem to prefer the method of vampires swapping blood with their sires (True Blood [2009-14], Interview With the Vampire [2022-present], What We Do In The Shadows [2019-2024]). One of the inspirations for Twilight, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, even has this method in place. But Twilight is in the age of D.A.R.E. where we gotta say, "Not even once!!"

These guys also really dig in on moral superiority of being "vegetarian." They are able to control their want to feed on humans, their LUST for blood, by feeding on animals. This is another product of purity culture! Vampires feeding has long been a metaphor for sex. They partake in a 'cleaner,' 'more moral' type of feeding, much like "soaking" or dating without engaging physically at all. Edward has been a good boy, basically his entire vampiric life, feeding on wild animals, and he constantly mentions that Bella even being close to him is a threat to her safety (and her mortal soul). This is straight-up purity culture nonsense!! Painting women as the gatekeepers of sex and pleasure, and men as wild monsters that seek to corrupt these delicate flowers.

Yeah, Twilight mainly appeals to teenage girls in terms of sincerely thinking that Edward or Jacob are good people worthy of being attracted to, but I think that the vampires in the franchise are incredibly fascinating in the wake of all of these important changes to how we as a culture view sex and sexuality! I've even seen cases made where these vampires are much closer to Mormon angels than vampires due to their diverse range of abilities and sparkly skin. These are bonkers versions of the vampire myth, but they are still important! All vampires ever are products of their time, and these sparkly, horny, guilt-ridden monsters are practically engineered for girls and women of the aughts, playing out the sexual and courting behaviors they have had shoved down their throats their entire sexual development.

Be nicer to the folks that like Twilight! And analyze your media!

[sinning-23]

Hello,

How about a LA luffy where he's dating Reader and he keeps talking about her but no one believes him until she comes and rescue them or something I know not much details but please take this to your account English isn't my first language so excuse me

OMG THIS IS PERFECT! Thank you for the request! I apologize for taking so long to write it I've been so busy and full of writers block its insane! I added a little twist with his and made th reader a gunslinger sooo yeah(for the plot) Anywa here we go! Enjoy

Warnings: None

The strawhat crew was becoming increasingly irritated with how much Luffy would speak of this mystery woman who he claimed to be his 'girlfriend'. In all honestly, neither of them thought he had the romantic capacity to even GET a girlfriend to begin with. But the way he spoke of her...it couldn't all be lies could it?

He mentioned how you'd saved him with your remarkable skills as a gunslinger and you were an amazing shot. He gushed about how it took only one bullet to kill three men who had threatened him and when it was all over you 'pepper his face with kisses'. How you were always there to save him more times than not and that you were just absolutely beautiful. The 'prettiest girl' he'd ever seen as he told it.

"If you guys are so in love why didn't she join you on this little pirate adventure." Nami quips, eyes rolling at the most recent story Luffy had explained. He only tilted his head and smiled as if the answer was just so obvious (it wasn't.)

"It wasn't her dream." He smiles, rocking back and for a bit as Zoro finished off his drink before speaking.

"This wasn't exactly our first choice either but here we are." the swordsman smirks, his arms crossed over his chest.

The smirk was soon replaced with irritation when the waiter went to speak.

"That's different. Besides, I'm sure Luffy wouldn't leave a woman like that all on her lonesome. Right?" Sanji questions, more so trying to convince himself Luffy had more sense than that. But the brunette only shakes his head.

"Nope, she said we would cross paths again one day and I let her be. It was a deal! And now I get to wait until one day I see her beautiful face again." And before anyone could protest or pry any further, Luffy stuffed his face with food.

A sigh rang out from Nami as she leaned against the seating of the booth they're in, only to quickly shoot back up with wide eyes. Since Luffy's bounty had got a hell of a whole lot bigger, there was always the occasional run-in with someone who claimed they'd be getting their money sooner rather than later.

On this particular night though, a gang of about 6 or 7 had strutted up to their booth and slammed his bounty on the cracked wood of the table, making it shake. Zoro paused, debating if these idiots were worth the fight and Luffy continued to eat without a care in the world.

"I'm getting that bounty tonight." Then, what they all assumed was the leader spoke, his hand drawing his sword. This could have gotten ugly rather quickly but the fight seemed to be over with the sound of fired shots ringing through the eatery.

It was so quick you'd almost miss it…each shot followed by another, and one by one each of the men dropped like flies, screams and gasps of frightened patrons filling up the space momentarily. From the darkened corner of the bar stood a woman in a rather large coat that almost touched the floor.

The revolver in her hand rattled before she tucked it away into one of the many pockets that adorned her body. She was a decent height, and her hair was pushed out of her face most likely to keep her line of sight from being obscured. Finally, the once look of disgust that was painted over her features was filled with joy as she stepped over the bodies of the men she'd just laid to waste.

"Luffy!" She squeals, practically vibrating as the Stawhat leaped form his seat and embraced the mystery woman.

This wasn't the usual hug though, Luffy had simply lifted the lady and twirled her, his face buried in the crook of her neck and she giggled and tangled her fingers in his hair.

"I'm sorry did we miss something?" Nami quips, looking to the rest of the crew to confirm they were just as lost.

"This is her! Remember the girl I've been talking about!?" He practically shouts, his hand secure at your waist as that iconic smile plays over his lips.

Oh okay it was finally starting to make sense. Two cinimon rolls but one can and will kill you if they so desire...well-

Nami is the first to laugh, disbelief filling her but the closer she looks the more her laughter and smirk dies down. Luffy's hand was firm at your waist, yours on his chest as you flash a content smile.

"Y/n, meet my crew!" Luffy introduces as you jut your hand out happily, meeting that of whom you soon learn is Usopp and Sanji. Nami was next and Zoro simple noddded in your direction.

"You really know how to pick em! Congratulations on this bounty by the way love." You hum, pressing kisses over Luffy's freckled cheeks.

Damn how much love and affection could you give? It was like every two seconds your lips were pressed somewhere against their Captain’s face! And he didn’t seems to mind at all! Well, not that Luffy was bothered by it but still! With one last kiss to your boyfriend’s face, you usher the crew out of the eatery, sliding the bartender some extra berrie to apologize for the ruckus.

The two of you looked so inseparable like that, hands interlinked and swinging back and forth simultaneously.

“You know what this means don’t you. Usopp teases, sticking his hand out awaiting Nami to fulfil her end of the bargain.

She swears in defeat roller her eyes before paying.

Who wouldn’t make a bet on something as outlandish as their captain having a girlfriend!?

[heartilywrites]

je t'aime, je t'attends ; c. hyunju

request guide | masterlist

summary: where you found your girlfriend participating in a series of deadly games.

cw: angst ; a bit suggestive ; a shit ton of narration and little dialogs, cho hyunju x fem!reader ; reader is a triangle guard 🗣 ; no use of y/n

wc: 2.3k

a/n: i love joining new fandoms, HI GUYS i've been simping for hyunju ever since i saw her and i needed to write for her or i'd die. hope y'all like it <33 feel free to request if you want, i'm a bit behind my rqs now bc of work but i'll do my best to write more for hyunju !!

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ Player 450

The robotic voice order, with your scope you looked for the poor soul, shooting without a second thought. When looking at the rest of the players, a familiar face was recognized by your orbs.

You knew that profile like the palm of your hand, you’ve spent way too many hours looking at it that it was burnt into your memory like your life depended on it. You had to be dreaming, licking your lips after a shaky sigh made the only sound in the small room you focused again on the woman. The number 120 was distinguishable on the back of her sweater as you made sure to memorize it, she was covering people behind her and a small sour smile painted on your lips, Hyunju didn’t change.

Your mind couldn’t concentrate anymore, what was she doing there? You’ve asked her time to get the money she needed, did you take too long? Did the salesman find her after you left? You were sure that was the case, if you knew she had been invited you’d done everything in your power to stop her from participating. A last gunshot was heard, you were quick to look over your scope; your heart stopped for a moment when you saw blood staining Hyunju’s face, but when your eyes concentrated on her and the kill was confirmed to be another player, you allowed yourself to relax a little bit.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍ Soldiers who have completed your mission, please line up outside the sniper rooms.

As if your own hearts were able to feel the presence of the other blindly, while you were putting away the gun given to you, your body began to tremble just like Hyunju was down at the play arena. Both scared for the woman’s life now, you didn’t know what to do moving forward.

You thought back to when the Masked Officer had recruited you offering a generous sum of money that could solve all your problems if you did a couple of tasks and your first thought was your girlfriend, on the future that could be forged for the two of you after receiving the money, you had imagined the two of you living a quiet life in Thailand as per request from Hyunju, you didn’t care what the job could be about or if it meant blotch your hands in blood. You’ve done it before, you were a very well trained defense guard who was struggling to find a stable job, most people didn’t care about your time in the korean military force or if you were one of the best snipers from your battalion they all ‘needed a man for the job’. You couldn’t rely on Hyunju either as she had been facing unemployment too for quite some time now, you had reassured her that you’d take care of the bills however you could.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “I’ll go back to being a guard for clubs if I have to,” you said to the woman while preparing dinner, a small sigh was heard from her that made you turn. You walked over to where she was sitting and took her face in your warm hands thanks to the fire of the stove. “It’s okay, Hyune, I got this. We’ll make it out of here, trust me.”

One of her hands looked to rest on your wrist, a sad grimace painted on her face. “You shouldn’t have to do this alone. I should be able to help you, to help myself… I want to contribute too.”

‍Your lips left a small kiss on her forehead. “We’ll be fine, my love, I promise.”

The mere memory made your heart ache with anguish, you had to get her out of there, you had to make sure she wins these games. You had to… You had to let her know you were there, didn't you? Maybe in that way she could feel more protected… Or maybe she would hate you for being there, maybe she’d break up with you, call you a monster, question how could you do that to innocent people?

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Hey, twenty-three, can you believe what eleven is doing?” a distorted voice asked behind you.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Couldn’t care less,” you said back, your voice sounded completely different too. After leaving the briefcase you were carrying back into place and taking a different gun you walked over the entrance. “I’m not part of the business and I don’t care what happens with it, I told you.”

‘I have more important things to worry about’ you thought to yourself while following one of the square soldiers and accommodating the strap of the gun on your shoulders.

You saw all the players grouped at the back of the big bedroom, you thanked the gods you were wearing a mask as your eyes looked desperately for Hyunju while the soldier was speaking, you didn’t care what was being discussed at all. Even when the so famous player 456 was talking you couldn’t force yourself to pay attention until a specific line that came from his mouth caught your thoughts.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Let us take our vote right now.” your eyes looked at the man with hope, your heart filled with gratitude, at least someone was sane enough.

Without turning your head upwards, you saw the prize being announced and a sigh left your mouth, your full attention was now on the room and each player as well as your superior.

You were asked to be beside the podium, you walked a little too quick for your taste. You positioned yourself while looking forward at each player and counting on your head the x’s, hoping they would win. And then Hyunju was called over, when you noticed your hands shaking you held tighter to your gun, you noticed she doubted for a second and then voted the circle. Your eyes shut and a shaky breath came out your mouth, you had to stay composed, you couldn’t break down there.

And when the circles won the poll, the players were told they needed to rest and feast for tomorrow’s games. The group walked out leaving a couple of triangles and the circle soldiers who were handing the food. After being instructed to leave for the night, you walked over to your small room and allowed yourself to break down once the door closed behind you. Leaning against the door you let your tears roll down on your face, how could life be so cruel to you? You just wanted to make your girlfriend happy and now she was condemned to die on an island away from home, you wouldn’t be able to even take her home with you.

No, you couldn’t think like that, you wouldn’t release that energy into the universe, you had to take care of her now. It didn’t matter if it cost you your own life, you would ensure Hyunju won the games. You would be like a hawk, watching over her as much as you could. The officer was more than pleased to see you ask for more responsibility, you tried to be where the players were at all times. Behind the triangle mask you were constantly watching Hyunju, following her discreetly on the six-legs game arena and cursing people who looked at her bad under your breath. You found yourself almost celebrating your girlfriend’s win with her group, thankfully you stopped before. After seeing Hyunju win, hope began to occupy your heart fully, convincing yourself there was a chance she could win this games, that she would be free.

At night you stayed to cover for a little, after all, you weren’t that sleepy now. Leaning your back on the wall you saw your colleague deny a permission to go to the bathroom and at first you weren’t against it, you knew the rules too, but when the older woman began to ramble about her bladder issues, you stood up again.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “I got this, I’ll take them.” you said to your company before they opened the door, a small thank you was said from the other guard.

When the door was opened and you saw the woman smile a giggle almost escaped your mouth, but any trace of a smile faded when Hyunju let herself show asking to go too. Your breath got stuck on your lungs as you watched closer now, forcing yourself to guide them to the bathroom, that was your time, you had to talk to her now.

You stayed outside for a few minutes to allow them to do their business and after a couple of minutes you turned to look everywhere hoping not to see anyone approaching, you knew the bathrooms didn’t have cameras so you took advantage of it to walk in.

Hyunju was watching her own reflection, it made your heart pound hard against your chest, she was as beautiful as ever. Brown eyes turned to look at you with a confused frown on her.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Do we need to-” she began to speak, being interrupted by your distorted voice.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “At ease, sergeant.” you said making her freeze on the spot, blinking a couple of times, she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

You two had met back when she was in the military forces, before she came out as the Hyunju you’ve been loving for some time now. At first you were just really good friends, but as time passed you couldn’t help falling in love with each other. You were there for her at every step, inviting her to live with you when everything was just going from bad to worse for her, losing her job, gaining debts one after the other, having everyone turn on her… But you, oh you were her rock, her place to rest from the crude world and now there you were, in a pink suit with that horrible symbol on your face that has been taunting her dreams for the last couple of nights.

Your name fell from her lips on a small whisper that could almost go unnoticed if you weren’t paying your full attention to her, you released your gun and took the mask from your face, tears wetting your cheeks and she held the bathroom sink tighter under her hands.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Hyunju…” you whispered back, breathing in deep to calm yourself.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “What are you doing here?” the two of you asked at the same time, she shook her head. “You shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be in that suit… What are you doing?”

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Trying to get the money to flee this shitty place.” you answered, taking a step towards her that she took back. “Hyunju, please.”

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Why would you accept to do this?” she asked now, you bit your lower lip for a moment.

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “Because I want you to be happy, I want us to start from zero, to have the life we deserve.” you started to answer, walking slowly her way to not scare her away. “We deserve to be happy, don’t you think, my love?”

‍ ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “You shouldn’t have come here, you shouldn’t have accepted it, we shouldn’t be here.” she began to speak a little faster and when you let your hands rest on her face she looked directly into your eyes.

Warm hands thanks to the gloves you were required to use made her feel at ease, made her feel like home. Troubled eyes were looking at each other, but you can sense the love and strong connection in them. Even in such a dangerous place with death itself roaming in every room, the love Hyunju and you shared had such power that could make any other emotion drown.

A silent discussion was held and not even a second later, your lips met each other with such hunger like you’ve been starving for so long, like you were far from the other for years. Without distancing from Hyunju you pushed the gun to your back so you could get as close as humanly possible with her, your right hand pulled her closer by the neck making Hyunju whimper for a small second, you smiled over her lips.

Aching hands looked to sneak under her shirt while her own hands clumsily tried to undo your suit, it was the sound of a flushing toilet that made the both of you jump and stopped grudgingly. Hungry eyes just looked at her as she was composing herself, Hyunju left a small sigh sound before looking again your way.

 ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “We have to get out of here,” she whispered, now Hyunju was the one holding your face in her own hands, you closed your eyes for a moment. “The two of us, safe and sound.”

 ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “You need to win the games.” you said back, opening your eyes again. “Do you remember our signal?”

Hyunju thought for a moment before taking away one of her hands to show you the sign you two had come up with back in your military days, you giggled and nodded.

 ‍ ‍ ‍‍ “I’ll be in every game watching over you, okay? When you see a guard doing it, know it’s me.” you whispered, she nodded too and stole another kiss from you. “We need to go back before the other guard comes to check, tell them, I’ll wait outside.”

The woman nodded again and as you were rearranging your suit, Hyunju pulled you in for a last kiss making you giggle like a teenager, almost giving in, but lastly stepping away and pulling your mask back on. You didn’t know how you’d make her win, but you had to go back home with her alive, you’ll figure it out in the way, but for now the only thing you could do was protect her.

[ceilidho]

The catfish price things is giving me vibes of “I’ll make her pay for daring to play with me like that, I’m a god damn respected man” and then just stalking her for a few days until he finds the perfect opportunity to make the pretty little thing pay, maybe take *real* pictures of her, after he messed her up pretty cute, filled up holes.

"Oh, you're fine," John clucks, verging on dismissive when she tries to twist out of his grasp again. He yanks her back by her hips before she's managed to wriggle even an inch away, relishing in the sound of her ensuing yip.

She squeals from where she's bent over the back of the couch, little feet kicking out, her painted toes barely grazing the floor. Her pleas come out garbled, muffled by the ring gag in her mouth. It's more than fair after what she's put him through. As much as John enjoys the sound of her pleasure, he prefers this, only the squelching sound of her pussy every time he fills it up and her pathetic little mewls.

He likes the way she looks like this. Hands bound at the wrist, toes curling and flexing every time he bottoms out, still a bit too tight to take him to the root. She clenches deliciously around his length, tighter than sin, hotter than hell. Everything he'd imagined she'd be like in the weeks since they started chatting online. The only thing he's thought about since the first time she messaged him unprompted and he laid eyes on the sweet thing smiling back at him from the photo next to her name.

"Miserable little thing," he murmurs, fingers squeezing into her hips hard enough to bruise. He'll have to tend to those later when they bloom. "After everything I've done."

John likes to think that he's a good man, but even his patience has its limits. He can handle being blown off once or twice, but five times in a month? While still brazenly asking him to send her another month's worth of rent? If he's going to be taken for a sucker, then he thinks some taking of his own is well deserved. Earned, even. He's paid three times over for the wet peach between her legs.

No one would call him the most technologically adept, but what he lacks in know how, he makes up for in resources. It hadn't taken him long to find her - or, more accurately, it hadn't taken the intelligence analyst whose shoulders John had held in an ever intensifying grip long to find her. After that, all he'd had to do was put in for his leave and pack an overnight bag before plugging her coordinates into phone.

"C'mon, 'nough of that. Can't push a man this much without expecting him to snap."

She wails something unintelligible behind the gag, but he's long learned to tune her protests out. She'd been full of them when he'd barged into her apartment earlier, steamrolling past her. The display of innocence would've been more impressive if he weren't in such a foul mood, in no right mind to hear the woman that'd been bleeding him dry for weeks claim to have never so much as heard his name before.

He lets go of her hip just long enough to pull his phone from his back pocket, sliding the camera open and framing everything from the line of her back to the soft curve of her ass. The soft shutter of his camera is loud enough for her to crane her neck back, eyes going wide at the sight.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," John tuts, tossing his phone away and bearing down over her until he can run his nose down the sweaty line of her neck. She shakes when he widens his stance, seconds from letting his mind go blank while he thrusts into her like a rutting bull. "You'll get yours too."

[inkedinshadows]

A Place Called Home

Pairing: Azriel x f!reader

Summary: Follow Azriel as he recalls all the places where he's lived but never belonged, until he finds the one where he finally does.

Warnings: a bit of Inner Circle slander, I guess? But not really tbh. Mentions of wing clipping

Word count: 2.1k

A/N: I don't know what I think of this one tbh. It's not exactly what I had in mind, but I've made my peace with it. @azrielappreciationweek

Azriel had never belonged in his father's mansion. He never once believed he did. But he didn't belong in Illyria, either.

Though he was Illyrian, he always disapproved of their backward traditions, especially regarding females.

He had seen how his mother was treated; he knew what had happened to Cassian’s, and too many times during his training in Windhaven, he had to witness brutal clippings without being able to stop them.

How could he belong in such a place? A place where females were treated as little more than objects and breeding mares, where children were taught to fight as soon as they could walk and left to care for themselves in the mud and cold?

He had done horrible things—most of which to protect his family and court—and they still haunted him in his sleep at times. But he liked to think that he was at least better than the Illyrian brutes he had grown up among. That there were certain lines even he wouldn't cross.

Illyria was a beautiful land, with its snow-capped mountains and frozen lakes. It could be merciless and harsh, but that was nature. Its inhabitants, however, chose to be that way, and Azriel had long since lost faith in any change.

~~~~~~

He didn't belong in Rosehall, either.

He was always welcome there and visited as often as he could, but that was his mother’s house. He had bought it for her as soon as he had enough money.

It was her safe place, her haven, where she didn't have to worry about anything and where she wasn't anyone's servant. Azriel remembered the tears shining in her eyes the first time he brought her there, when the house was still empty and cold.

It had taken him a long time to convince her that she didn't need to worry about money. He worked directly for the High Lord now, and he was paid well enough for her to furnish the house however she liked.

She had still tried not to spend too much, but she had chosen each piece of furniture and decoration with attentive care. It was the first time she had a place she could call her own after centuries of living, and Azriel liked what she had done with it. The place was simple yet elegant, with cream-colored walls and wooden furniture. Colorful flowers bloomed on the windowsills, and paintings hung in the hallway and the living room. She had even made sure to have a bedroom for him, so he could stay as long as he wished.

But Azriel's favorite part of Rosehall was probably the delicious smell of food wafting through the rooms. Now that she no longer had to cook for domineering males, she had rediscovered her passion for cooking. Whether it was spices, freshly baked bread, or roasted meat, the smell never failed to make his mouth water.

Yes, Azriel enjoyed his time in Rosehall and tried to visit as often as he could, but it was still his mother’s house—not his.

~~~~~~

He belonged in the Inner Circle, he guessed. Though sometimes he felt like he didn't.

Azriel cared about Amren; after all, he had known her for centuries. But it was still Amren. How many times had it been just the two of them, spending time like normal friends? Once, maybe twice, and even then, their conversations had mostly revolved around Court matters. Sometimes he wondered if they would have ever approached each other at all if it hadn't been for Rhys bringing them together.

And then there was Mor. He had spent centuries quietly loving her, longing for something he could never have. He had long since stopped believing that her concerned glances and gentle touches meant anything beyond deep affection—sisterly affection. Yet he'd held on to those feelings even when they started to fade, because he had never known anything different. It was a twisted form of both protection and punishment: if he still loved her, then he wouldn't risk his heart being broken by another rejection. Yet knowing Mor would never feel the same, that she had her own lovers and relationships, was like being stabbed in the chest. He wasn't sure when it started to hurt a little less each time he thought about it.

With that pain easing, the resentment he'd carried buried deep down for most of his life began to fade as well. He never once held it against Cassian. He knew it wasn't his fault Mor had chosen him. Who would have chosen Azriel anyway? He wished things were different, but he didn't blame either of them. It still chafed, though. It was something he couldn't shake, like a shadow lingered on the edges of his heart, and it resurfaced whenever he saw Mor and Cassian together.

And his brother… Azriel loved him deeply, and he was grateful to have him in his life. But there was no denying how different they were, and sometimes it felt as if Cassian didn't really understand him. There was a rage inside Azriel, rarely rising to the surface but it was there, born the moment he'd seen his mother's fear in the presence of his father. That rage never left. It grew until Azriel had to learn how to contain it, to live with it, for the sake of the people around him and his own.

Cassian never really understood it. Rhys did, though. Azriel knew that if he pushed, Rhysand would match him. Yet his brother still tried to thaw and tame that icy rage he had grown so accustomed to, which was probably an honorable aim—if Azriel hadn't lived with it so long that he wasn't sure who he would be without it.

He loved his family deeply, and he knew they loved him back. But they didn't always understand him, and he often felt out of place among them.

~~~~~~

Velaris was his home, and he'd do anything to protect it. He tortured and killed for that very reason many times. But at the end of the day, the City of Starlight was just that—a city. No matter how beautiful or welcoming, it was too vast a place to call home.

He had never bothered buying an apartment or a town house for himself. Maybe he should have. But the House of Wind had always been enough, with its views and endless rooms. It was practical living there—there was the training ring, the hall where Rhys held court, and the library for when he wanted some quiet.

But the House of Wind belonged to Rhys. Now that he had given it as a mating present to Nesta and Cassian, it was theirs. They assured him he could still live there, that his room would always be his, but Azriel had preferred to move out. He had no interest in living there during their mating frenzy.

The townhouse and the river house belonged, once again, to Rhys and Feyre. They never made him feel like he owed them anything for staying there—Elain lived there too, after all—but Azriel longed for a place he could call his own. Yet the idea of buying an apartment had still felt too definitive. He had tried, but none of the places he'd seen made him want to own them.

He had almost given up hope of finding a place he could call home, but then he met you. And he realized, after five hundred years, that maybe home wasn't a place at all.

“Az?”

Your voice cut through his thoughts, bringing him back to the present, to the feel of you in his arms and your big eyes staring up at him.

“Baby, are you listening to me?”

Azriel blinked, slightly shaking his head to chase away the remnants of his past. He looked down at you, and his heart fluttered at the love shining in your eyes.

“Hi,” you said with a soft smile. Your hand came up to cup his face, the touch warm and familiar. “I lost you. Where did you go?”

“Sorry,” he breathed. “I was just thinking.”

You waited patiently, giving him the freedom to continue or return to your conversion. Embarrassment flooded Azriel as he realized he couldn't remember what you were talking about.

He held you imperceptibly tighter, trying to find the right words to convey what he felt.

“I never felt like I fit in anywhere,” he said eventually. His voice was quiet even in the silence of the room, and he struggled to keep his eyes open when all he wanted to do was lean into your touch. “I've been looking for where I belong for centuries.”

It came easy to voice those thoughts to you. You never judged. You listened, and then you gave your opinion or simply shared your own thoughts. You saw all of him, and you didn't run from it. You accepted him. You loved him.

Sometimes, Azriel still wondered if it was all a dream or if you were really a part of his life.

“And have you found it?” you murmured, your thumb brushing his cheek just below his eye.

Azriel nodded. “I found it.” He took your hand, gently removing it from his face to bring it closer to his mouth. He pressed a tender kiss to your palm, his lips lingering on your skin before he repeated the gesture with your fingertips. Your smile was soft as he murmured, “I found you.”

Your eyes, which had been following the movements of his lips, shot up to meet his. Even after a year together, he was still mesmerized by how you always wore your heart on your sleeve. It was so easy to read you, and right now, blended with your unconditional love, he could see curiosity and amusement playing on your features.

“Me?” you repeated, your voice a murmur.

Azriel nodded once more, letting go of your hand only to bring his own up to your cheek. “Yes, you, my love.” He rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as he breathed in your scent. “It doesn’t matter where we are. You’re where I belong. You’re my home.”

Wherever you went, he would follow. If you woke up one day and told him you wanted to move to the Spring Court, or even to Vallahan far east on the continent, he would go with you. He would go with you to the end of the world if you asked.

He could feel your heart beating faster in your chest, and a playful smile appeared on your lips as you pulled back to look into his eyes. “So… is this the right moment to tell you that I wanted to ask you to move in?”

Azriel stared at you, eyes wide, a huge grin slowly spreading across his face. His arms tightened around you, and then you squealed in surprise as his hands found your backside and he picked you up. The sound was quickly swallowed by his lips crashing against yours, and you could do nothing but kiss him back and wrap your legs around his waist, careful not to brush against his wings.

You were both breathing slightly faster when Azriel pulled back, but he didn’t let you go. If anything, he held you tighter, as if worried you might disappear.

“I’ll take it that’s a yes?” you chuckled. Your fingers brushed the hair on the back of his neck, his wings rustling quietly at the sensation.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Of course it’s a yes, love.”

He didn’t care if your apartment wasn’t suited for an Illyrian, if he had to carefully maneuver his wings to avoid knocking things over. He had already spent so much time at your place that he was used to it by now. The thought of staying there permanently—of waking up with you in his arms every morning, of coming back after a long day knowing you’d be there too—filled him with so much joy that his heart could burst.

You beamed, and all Azriel wanted to do was to spin you around and never let you go. And so, he did, because nothing was stopping him. He was going to share a home with his love, and nothing had ever made him this happy before.

As he spun you around, you threw your head back and laughed joyfully, the sound echoing off the walls. Azriel’s laughter joined yours when he stilled, and then you were kissing him again.

After more than five hundred years, he finally knew where he belonged. And it wasn’t a place.

It was with you.

General taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @azrielslittleslut @lilah-asteria @aaahhh0127 @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @mellowmusings @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch

Azriel Week: @fourthwing4ever

[blarshwritezz]

This one was inspired by this post by @suiana <3

Yandere Beauty x Beast Reader

M yan x GN reader

TW - obsessive behavior, mass murder, maybe mild stalking(?), people are meanies

You've grown so tired of this life, but it was all you knew. You've been trapped like this for years with nothing but your own rage to accompany you. Many of the once priceless paintings in your palace were now destroyed. It didn't matter. No one remembered this place. No one remembered you.

And it would stay that way until you die.

Every now and then some adventurers or travellers would find your palace, hoping for a place to stay the night, only to run away in fear. They'd rather take their chances with the wolves than with such a terrifying beast.

You expected another one of those interactions when you heard a knock at the doors. Some didn't even have that much decency. You weren't expecting such a beautiful man to he the one at your door. Nor were you expecting him to get down on one knee and ask to be your husband.

"You are the most stunning creature I've ever seen...please, allow me the honor of marrying you!" Of all things, did he have to call you a creature? You were technically a person! At least, you were a long time ago.

Not wanting to go through with whatever he could possibly be planning, you slammed the door in his face with a firm "No." He was probably trying to make a fool of you, or perhaps even kill you. Even though you hated this life, you didn't want to die. Not quite yet

How you wished that was the end of it.

He started sleeping outside the door of your palace, insisting on marriage if he ever saw you. Whether you we stepping out on the balcony, looking out a window, or tending to the garden he'd beg for your hand in marriage.

Even though his appearance became disheveled after the many days he spent outside your palace, he was still more beautiful than any woman you met as a human. Such a beautiful man surely had plenty of eligible bachelors and bachelorettes lined up at his own door, so why did he insist on a life with you? A life of solitude and silence. A life without a single friend. Even your servants were long gone. Broken mirrors, dusty furniture, spiders and bugs infesting the least visited corners, was that really a l8fe to beg for?

You finally got agitated at all his begging and pleading, of all the surely empty promises. As he followed you through your garden on day, you lost it. You turned back and gripped him firmly by the jaw, smooshing his rosy cheeks together as you demanded an explanation.

"You're amazing, your majesty! You're my greatest dream." He admit, a deep blush growing on his cheeks as your grip tightened. "I'll admit, I wasn't planning to propose, so I failed to bring you a proper ring. But I came out here, curious if the rumors were true...and the second I laid eyes on you, I was in love!"

It sounded more ignorant than you expected.

"I fell to my knees once I beheld you. You were too perfect for me to handle, and I knew it was a sign that I had to marry you!"

You really didn't know what to say. Was this guy all beauty and no brains? You didn't realize those kinds of people really existed.

You dropped him, firmly telling him to get lost and marry someone else. Someone better. But he instantly feel to his knees, gripping your legs and begging with tears in his eyes.

"Please! At least give me a chance, my love!" You never realized someone could be so pathetic.

You dragged him away. First you tried tossing him off the palace grounds, but he came crawling back. Then you dropped him half way through the forest. Again, he refused to leave your side. So you left him the last place you wanted to go.

You dragged him all the way back to the village, and instantly received the backlash you expected. You tossed him to the crowd, and they instantly took him. And as for you? They threw rocks, rotten food, and whatever else they could easily throw. The assault lasted until you were out of their sight.

At least now you could continue your days in peace.

Oh, you thought. You wished, you prayed. Your peace didn't even last a day.

That night, when you went out to you balcony to stare into the night, an unfamiliar sight caught your eye. The bright light of a fire. A large fire, consuming everything in its path. A horrible fire, turning the village to dust.

You gripped your balcony, crushing the metal of the railing. What were you to do? The villagers hated you. They loathed your very existence. They didn't remember you as you once were, only the beast you were today.

You were still supposed to be their ruler.

They were still your people.

You had to protect your people.

Without another second of hesitation you rushed out of your palace and through the forest. Only to find one person on the path there. The beautiful man you gave back to them earlier.

"I got rid of them for you, darling. Those barbarians didn't see how absolutely beautiful you are, and they can't keep us apart any more." He knealt down on one knee, pulling out a black box and revealing a stunning ring.

"Now let me do this properly...will you marry me?"

I WAS INSPIRED, OKAY? I know I have requests to get to 😭

[eff4freddie]

Free

No Outbreak AU!Joel Miller x AFAB Reader

Words: 7.7k of basically porn lols

You confess to Joel one of your filthiest fantasies, something you've never told anyone before. He's a good man, but you underestimate just how much he will do for you.

Warnings: Minors DNI. Explicit. Free use. Public sex. Praise kink. Beer bottles and dirty dive bars. Tiny lil breeding kink if you squint. Like seriously guys, this is filth. I've gone a little shy of myself? Like wow we are learning some things about Freddie tonight.

Like most wildfires, neither of you were sure where the first ember landed. Joel preferred dive bars, liked the blues on the juke box, the fact that he would wear his flannel and jeans flecked with paint and wood shaving and no one would notice. He knew you preferred the fancier places, occasionally would make an effort, but knew you also didn’t mind sometimes slumming it with him, sometimes just leaning back into a booth and letting the neon red light leech over your skin. You’d never admit it to his face, never give him the power over you, but you didn’t really care where you were so long as it was with him.

You liked it when he lifted the beer to his lips, saw his throat work to swallow it down. It reminded him of the times you’d made him gasp, groan, as he worked his cock into your throat. It felt like an intimate thing, the chords of his muscles working just right there under his skin. Sometimes you reached out, ran your fingertips under his collar, made him shiver. He’d grab your fingers, put them on his lips, press a kiss to them, tell you off for lettin’ ‘em get so cold in the night.

On these nights, when Sarah’s with the sitter and you’re winding down from a long week of work, its these nights when Joel takes you out in a pretty dress or a shirt skirt, waits in his truck while you slip your panties off and puts them in his pocket, helps you down to the street with a hand gripping the back of your thigh. It’s these nights, when Joel’s worked up from the job site, when he’s stressed about Sarah’s teenage rebellious phase, when it’s been a while between drinks, that he’s handsy with you, pushing himself into a booth in a dark corner and pulling you down on top of him, perched in his lap with your legs spread over his so that he can face you out to the bar, open your thighs just as someone walks past, lets you feel the breeze on your cunt while you hide your face in his neck and burn, either from embarrassment or from how wet he’s made you, showing you off like this, you tucking his hands under your bottom to stop him slipping them into you while you try to concentrate on the specials board.

‘Shy, baby?’ he’d tease you, pulling your hair off your neck to bite at your jaw line, whisper dirty nonsense into your ear while you fought for some kind of decency, some way to cover yourself up, at least until you’d finished your first drink.

It was one of those nights, when he’d finally relented and let you eat your meal in peace, that he’d got it out of you, the confession that set the whole thing in motion, the idea taking root in Joel’s mind so swiftly that the tendrils of it spilt into his veins, spiralled down to his cock, made him harder than he ever remembered being.

You knew this about Joel. That it wasn’t a jealousy streak, or an insecurity, that it wasn’t even so much of an exhibitionist streak for him. It was just that he liked showing you off, liked knowing that of all the men in the room who were undressin’ ya, wantin’ ya, he was the one with his fingers buried in your cunt while you struggled to act like nothing untoward was going on. He liked the power of it, the power he had over you, and you wondered sometimes how far he would go with it. What would happen if you were ever found bent over with his cock buried inside you, his hands on your hips pulling you back into him, his teeth bared and his sweat dripping onto your back. You knew without having experienced anything like it that he would probably keep going, that he would like the watching. That he’d probably goad the audience into coming closer, commentate for them, let them see what he, and only he, was wringing from your body as it clamped down around him. The thought of it, the image of it in your mind, kept you awake at night, your cunt throbbing. You felt the pride in it, you supposed, that he desired you so dearly he wanted to show off that he had you.

You knew all of that when you confessed to him what you were thinking about, three beers in and his hand on your knee, rubbing little circles with his thumb, sliding his whole hand over your skin and back down again, not even noticing he was doing it. You watched his pupils blow wide, the far away look come over him as he imagined what you were describing, the way he swallowed, hard.

‘You want that right now?’ he asked, and he looked like a kid on Christmas morning, not quite believing he’d actually been given the bike he’d asked Santa for.

‘No, not right now, probably not ever,’ you said, flopping your head onto his shoulder and listening to his quickening heartbeat in his neck. ‘Just like to think about it, is all.’

‘Baby you can’t say that to me and not…you have to know what you’re doing to me,’ he all but whined, and you giggled.

‘You wouldn’t mind it?’ you asked, pulling up to look at him again, study his eyes, knowing that you were way out on a limb now. You saw not an ounce of hesitation on his face.

He barely got you out of the place before he had you bent over the bed of his truck, your hands clawing for purchase on the chrome as he drilled into you right there in the parking lot, your face buried in your arms in the hope that the darkness of the night was protecting you both from being arrested.

--

He didn’t bring it up again for another few weeks, both of your jobs getting too busy, Sarah getting too demanding and fourteen, the world conspiring against you to rob you both of your dirty Fridays. Joel was getting pent up, the idea of it bouncing around his mind too often for him to concentrate, but his bones were sore of a nighttime, and he only had the energy to relieve himself in the shower before climbing into bed and switching off the light. You didn’t mind it, had been together a long enough time now to know there would be ebbs and flows. He held you as you slept, he kissed you in the morning even as you tried to shove him off and scold him for his morning breath, promised to take you out when your schedules were clear and knew that he meant it, that he was a man of his sometimes limited words. Sometimes it just went with the territory of wanting him always, you knew, that there would be aching times of not-having.

So you were surprised when you came home from dropping Sarah off at her friend’s for the night and saw his truck in the drive, expecting him much later if the week had been anything to go by. You heard him in the shower and figured he was washing off another stressful day, intending to leave him to it, except that for a man with basically one good ear he was surprisingly adept at knowing where you were at all times, and he emerged, towel wrapped loose around his hips and dripping onto the carpet, to pull you by the arm in with him. You just managed to strip out of your jeans before he was on you, pulling your wet bra off your skin, slipping your underwear down your legs and throwing them into the sink.

‘Won’t need those tonight,’ he said, simply, as you gawped at him, the water running off his shoulders and into your eyes. You leant forward, resting your forehead on his chest. It had been an intense few minutes.

‘Where we going tonight?’ you asked, and he didn’t answer, instead pulling back from you and bending to lift your leg up, hooking it over his elbow. You leant back onto the cold shower tile, the water beating down on your chest, as he dripped your favourite body wash onto a loofah and ran it tightly over your skin, crouching down and slipping your leg over his shoulder to run it up and down the inside of your thighs, each time his fingers sweeping closer to your cunt, the heat and steam of the shower making you light headed as your clit throbbed for him. He was teasing you, working you up and you knew he was going to leave you like this, that this is how the whole night would go unless you did something about it, pushing yourself off the wall and crashing your pussy into his mouth, the sharp angle of his nose landing hard on your clit as he gasped.

It hadn’t been the plan but he wasn’t above improvising. In his head he was just going to tease you a little, make sure that you were up for what he had planned, but this was just as good, just as effective. He was careful not to let you come, careful to keep you right on the edge, the suds and the water running over his mouth and nose as he lathed at your clit, ran his tongue up and down your seam, not letting it dip inside where he knew you wanted him. He looked up your body, watched your hips shudder and the muscles in your tummy roll and contract as you tried to draw him in deeper. He grinned, a huffled little laugh into your pussy. You were furious when he drew back, wet hands trying to grip his hair and keep him there. He held you to him, wrapped you warm up in a towel even as you cussed him out, madder than a barn cat at having had your pleasure interrupted. You were perfect like this, he thought, watching you huff, wild for him. He reminded you to dress for a night out. He made sure your underwear stayed in the sink.

--

You were still pissed, but your curiosity got the better of you when he missed the turn off for the bar, heading instead over the railway track and further out of town. If you had been speaking to him you would have asked where he was taking you, but you were refusing to let him off the hook for his cruelty in the shower. Twenty minutes later, when he pulled up to a bar you’d never seen before, a couple of dirt bikes parked out the front and a few trucks in the lot out the back, he gave you a little tap on the knee. You turned to him, eyebrows shooting up.

‘Figured we better go where no one knows us, baby,’ he said, and he was grinning at you in a way that made your belly flip, an electric bolt shooting straight between your legs.

‘What are you up to, Miller?’ you asked, as he leant over and undid your seatbelt. He made you jump down out of the truck yourself, striding as he was towards the bar. The bright red OPEN sign buzzed over the door, the sound of it reverberating into the air beneath it where you stood, your nerves jangling in tune. Surely he wouldn’t, you thought. You pulled your short skirt down, worried now that without underwear a strong breeze would expose you to anyone passing by. He held the door open for you, darkness behind him and the sounds of clinking glass, tinny guitar over a shitty sound system, chatter and drunkenness.

‘Trust me, baby,’ he said, and you did, you knew you did. He held his hand out to you. You took it.

Once inside you could see a bit better. The bar itself was quite small, a couple of men sitting around it drinking beers and whiskeys. There was a row of booths under the blacked-out windows, a pool table in one corner. By the bar a hallway led down to the bathrooms. You shivered when you saw it.

He led you by the hand to the corner of the bar right next to the hallway, the single stool.

‘This is where I’ll be,’ he said to you, putting your hand on the bar to feel how solid it was, that it was real and that this was happening, to ground you. He pulled you forward, five or maybe six paces down the hallway, to a piece of wall right by the men’s bathroom. He backed you up against it, letting you glance over his shoulder to the stool where you had just been.

‘This is where you’ll be,’ he said to you, his voice heavy and thick and you recognised the want in it, the need. He spun you around, kicking your feet apart and holding your hands up above your head. You tried to breathe but couldn’t seem to get enough air, tried to expand your lungs but you could only puff and gasp, your stomach doing somersaults as he positioned you. He pushed them into the wall, the two of them held together under his palm.

‘You don’t move them from here,’ he said, stern and calm at the same time. ‘You look over your shoulder you’ll see me, but you don’t move these from here. Nod so I know you heard me, baby,’ he said. You nodded your head, your nose almost grazing the plaster of the filthy wall. He pulled your hips out so that you bowed slightly, your arse sticking back behind you. He ran his hands over the back of your thighs, leant down to cup your bottom as he ran his hands up and over, pulled your skirt over your hips.

Your heart was racing so hard you could feel it in your knees, your whole body thrumming as he exposed you to the room. You heard no shouts or protests, your eyes slammed shut and your face buried in your arm. You could feel cool air on your skin as he moved away from you, and you yelped, a bolt of panic shooting through you. You lifted your head and he was there again, his arms over yours as he covered you, brought his mouth down to your ear.

‘You can do this baby, I’m right here,’ he said, and you felt like you might scream or cry or come, you weren’t sure which or what you preferred, your mind scrambling to keep up with the fact that he was letting you play out one of your dirtiest fantasies, that he trusted you this much, that you knew he would keep you safe, would stop it from going too far if you needed him to, that you wanted this, that you wanted to give it to him.

‘Two rules,’ he said, when he could tell you were coming back into yourself, that you were listening. ‘Hands stay on the wall,’ he said, his voice rough and low as he stopped to chew on your earlobe. You could feel you were wet, could feel you were shivering. You hadn’t had a good look at the men in the bar. You weren’t sure if you were glad of it.

‘Second rule,’ he said, and now he was running his hands over your hips and down your belly to rub little circles into your clit. You shuddered, pushing back against him, felt that he was throbbing. ‘No coming ‘til I say so,’ he said, and then he was gone, your body cold and aching where he had just been.

You lifted your head and turned to watch him over your shoulder, your spine twisting to see without moving your hands, now resting palm-down above your head. You saw him calmly order a beer from the bartender, who didn’t bat an eyelid at you standing, skirt over your arse and bent at the waist, the seam of your pussy exposed to the entire bar, your thighs quivering as you felt the slick start to collect on your skin.

All you could do was try and breathe. Try to keep your knees from shaking, your legs from collapsing underneath you. You turned your face back to the wall, your nose resting on the brick, as you gulped down air and tried to swallow on a bone-dry throat. Maybe nothing would happen if you just stayed completely still, you thought. Wasn’t that how they survived the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park?

You could hear the toilet in the men’s room flushing, the tap running as the dude, mercifully, washed his hands. You knew you were seconds away from being confronted, that he would have to squeeze past you if he wanted to get back to his table, that maybe the others wouldn’t have seen you tucked away as you were down the side of the bar, but not now, not where Joel had positioned you. You closed your eyes, the humiliation of it mixing with heat in your cunt, and you couldn’t decide what you wanted to happen, couldn’t quiet your mind enough other than to count backwards from 10 and try to force your lungs to work.

10. You heard the door swing open, the rush of air ruffling the skirt over your lower back.

9. Footsteps striding out of the bathroom, stopping abruptly.

8. A short, sharp exhale of breath. A ‘what the fuck?’. Surprised, but not angry.

7. A long, heavy second or two of silence.

6. A slower footstep. Another. Towards you.

5. A hand, warm and foreign, on your hip as he moved behind you.

4. The thunderous sound of your voice in your head telling you to just stay still, stay still, stay still.

3. A nervous little laugh as he slid behind you, his hips to yours to get past you on the wall. His hand still on your hip but gripping, fingers squeezing at your flesh.

2. A soft swipe of your cunt as he clears you, his fingers gently fluttering over your seam as you stand, exposed and wet.

1. Your gasp, all of the breath you had been trying to get suddenly sweeping into your lungs, a needy little whine on the exhale, a shiver.

And a few moments later, laughter, a group of men on the other side of the bar, a hint of disbelief in it, a hint of awe. You blinked your eyes open, your body quaking. You couldn’t turn your head, wouldn’t turn your head to Joel, but you knew he was there, knew he was watching you quiver, knew he would stop it if it got too much, that you wouldn’t have to ask him, that he would just know. You felt heat on your cheeks and a twist of something in your gut. For a moment you wanted to skip forward to the aftermath, to Joel holding you in bed and loving on you, recounting the events that hadn’t even unfolded yet as you felt the heat of his skin and the strength of his arms, the muscles ripping under his skin as he kissed the shell of your ear and let you drift to sleep, wrapped up in him.

 Joel gripped the neck of his beer bottle harder than he intended, barely registering the cold on his hands. It had been his idea to set this up, he knew that, had rented the whole place out to make a safe space for you to play, had vetted the guys from the job site, had been careful to select the ones he knew would treat you right. Still, though. Still, he could see you were shaking, trying so hard to be good for him with your hands pushed into the wall, and he doubted for just a second, wondered whether he should call it. He could see you were slick between your thighs, could hear that you were breathing heavy. But he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t feel a surge of something a little like jealousy at the way the eyes of the guys travelled over your delicious curves, curves he had – up until this moment – reserved the sole right to traverse. He wondered if the guys would be able to stick to the limits once they had you under them. He was ready to pull you out of there the moment something got out of hand, but he worried, now and for the first time, that by then it could be too late.

You swallowed over your dry throat. You were trying to stay in your body, to close your eyes and give yourself over to it, but you were still struggling to quiet your mind. This is what you had wanted, and you knew Joel would never push you further than what you had told him you would go. You knew that. But did the other guys? You considered for a moment, the thought occurring to you like a lightning bolt, that Joel had worked you up in the shower precisely so that you would be horny enough not to run for the door the second he tried this. You almost wanted to laugh, except that you were too scared to lest you lose all control.

There were more footsteps, coming towards you from beside the bar, and you swore you heard a group of men cheering the man on. He wasn’t hesitating, whoever this stranger in the bar was, probably having spotted you from across the room. You kept your eyes on the floor, your head hanging low between your shoulders. From this angle you could see your ankles, the heels Joel insisted you wear even though you could barely stand in them, realising now why he wanted you off balance, why he wanted you unable to run for the door. Two pairs of trainers appeared between your ankles, a rough hand coming down to rest on your left butt cheek. It wasn’t a slap, wasn’t even a particularly hard grope, but you whimpered anyway, slammed your eyes shut and immediately wondered if it was better to look or not.

And throughout it all your pussy throbbed. Even if you were in turmoil it knew exactly what it wanted, was hungry for the attention and the desires of all these men, was having a fucking field day knowing Joel was watching you, wanting you, from across the room.

The man behind you slid two fingers over your seam, his breath on the back of your neck as he leaned over you. You shuddered, his skin rougher than Joels, as he prodded at you, eased your lips open and ran his fingers up along the flesh there. You realised he was collecting your slick, felt him pull away and his lips smack around his hand as he, presumably, sucked you off his skin.

‘Jesus, boys,’ he called to his friends over the other side of the room, and you startled. ‘She’s fuckin’ sweeter than honey and dripping onto the floor.’

Under the cheers you swore you heard Joel chuckle, and you shivered. You wanted this man to touch you again, almost whined when he instead moved back to his table. You were sweating, could feel that the small of your back was damp, felt like you had a fever, some kind of delirium, the pulsing of your cunt so intense it almost hurt.

You heard more shuffling footsteps, now, three or four sets, as you realised the table of friends were making their way over to you. You shivered, turned a wild eye over to Joel, who was sipping at his beer and watching you, nodding gently at you to keep you there. You kept your hands on the wall. You wanted to be his good girl.

‘And we can touch her wherever?’ a guy was saying, and you moved your face back to the wall, arching your back slightly, practically waving your cunt in the air.

‘She ain’t protesting,’ a voice said, and you recognised it as the man who had just touched you. To demonstrate his point, he extended his hand to your face and stuck two of his fingers in your mouth, and you sucked them willingly, tasting a hint of yourself on him. You felt your eyes close all by themselves, smiling as the man gasped.

‘Holy shit,’ someone else commented, and you were slapped hard on your arse then, the sting of it making you whine. A finger quickly followed, probing you open again, your copious amounts of slick easing the entry.

‘Like this?’ the voice said, and you realised he was asking you a question, and you nodded your head. ‘Yeah, you like this,’ the voice affirmed, a finger finally sinking into your cunt. You felt yourself spasm, throwing your head back and groaning, your hips rolling all on their own.

‘Tight little thing,’ someone said, and you grunted as another finger was added. You were being pushed into the wall, your face lying on the brick, your hands still planted above your head.

‘Ease it on her a little,’ a third voice said, and you felt another hand snake around you, this one cold on the fingertips, as it slid over your clit.

‘Oh!’ you gasped, the pleasure of it shooting through you. You could feel that you were clamping down on the fingers inside you.

‘She liked that a lot,’ the man beside you said, and he pulled his fingers from your mouth and dropped them to your tit, rubbing the nipple through the barely-there shirt Joel had picked out for you tonight.

You were whimpering, gradually losing control of the sounds you were making, of your little cries into the noise of the bar, and you could hear them snickering, laughing at your pleasurable distress, at the ache and thrum of your cunt, at the way you were so wet you were leaking down your thighs.

You were losing your grip on your thoughts, felt them slipping through you, unable to catch them as they dripped past. From somewhere a memory stirred itself up, sitting on Joel’s lap in the bar you always go to, his hand pushing on your clit from outside your panties as he shielded you from the rest of the patrons, whispering into his ear that you fantasised about being used by strange men, about being set up by him to be groped and fondled, to be watched as men took their pleasure from you, to have to wait for them to be done with you, to be bored of you, before you were released. ‘But they never get bored of me, not really. Sometimes they let me rest for a bit. But they want me that bad, they can’t stop.’

‘How long’s this all take, when you think about it?’ he asked, feeling even through the fabric of your underwear that you were dripping.

‘Sometimes hours,’ you whimpered, breathless just at the thought of it. ‘I’m free for their use, for hours. For hours,’ you said.

--

Now, with your hands against the wall in just the position you had described to Joel weeks before, you bite your lip. God, how long does he plan on keeping you here? You want to come already, want to push down on the hands behind you and flood them with your spend.

These men, though, these three, are just teasing you, and right when you start to rock your hips they pull away again.

‘Unreal,’ one of them says, as if you’re a work of art hanging on a wall in a museum, and you want to howl at them, want to grab their hands and put them back on your skin. You resist the urge, biting down hard on your bottom lip. Joel said no coming, so maybe you should be grateful. Even if you’re now quivering. Even if you’re not sure your legs will keep you standing.

You take a couple of shaky breaths, coming down enough to notice that your shoulders are starting to ache. You roll them, careful to keep your palms connected to the surface, trying to push the hair out of your eyes by running your face along your forearms.

You’re not sure how long you stand there. You try counting the songs on the jukebox but they all sound the same to you, and it’s hard to decipher when one stops and the next one begins. Every now and again there’s the sound of glasses being dumped into the trough behind the bar, clinking ice and peels of male laughter. Once or twice, someone walks past on the way to the bathroom and pat you on the arse, put a hand on your lower back and bend you further, pushing you until your sweet little cunt is more fully exposed. But no one is bold enough to touch, no one is as forward as the three men from before, and you’re feeling a twinge of disappointment settling in between the arousal and the shock. These scant touches aren’t nearly enough, and you realise that you’re pining for someone to come and tease you, play with your cunt or your tits until you’re gasping.

You chance a look over your shoulder at Joel and see that he’s turned away from you a little, his beer in his hand while he chats to a man beside him, and his casual disregard for your predicament infuriates you as much as it sends bolts of heat to your cunt.

You’re being ignored, you realise, and it makes your tummy do weird flips you don’t fully understand. You start to arch your back again, weave your hips in slow circles in the air. You don’t have a lot of mental capacity in this moment, so it’s only later you will consider that Joel had made sure you would beg for any attention, knew that you would be outraged at not being the centre of attention in this moment, that you would reach a new level of depraved heat just to get the eyes back on you. It had maybe been half an hour and you’d gone from praying no one would see you if you didn’t move, to trying to scent the air around you with your cunt, luring them to you like a siren on a rocky cove.

Now, though, now all you want is for someone to touch you, someone to ease their hands onto your skin and feel the heat of it, coo at how mean your man is, how silly for letting a pretty little thing like you out of his clutches. You realise you allowed to close your legs and you do, wrapping one foot behind your ankle so you can rub your thighs together. The skin slides easily and you sigh, gently.

You’re wrapped up in it, your ears tuning out the noise around you to properly concentrate on the thrum of your cunt, so you don’t realise there’s someone behind you until they’re basically on you, kicking your legs apart and arching you back again.

‘Naughty girl,’ the voice says, and it’s not Joel and you’re marginally disappointed but also it means this isn’t over yet, and you grin back at him.

‘Not sorry,’ you say, and you’re pulled back then, almost bent over in a right angle as your hands slide down the wall but stay on it, your arms now covering your ears.

You just barely hear a grunt, then something cold and hard is pushing at your lips for entry, and you realise that you are being fucked in a strange bar with a beer bottle in front of however many strange men, and you groan at the insanity of it, at the filth. He’s twisting it, his other hand finding your clit, and you’re throwing your head back now, your hair falling down your back as you arch, the glass so smooth and cold inside you that you wonder for a second if you’ve fogged it up. Its thrust into you three, four, five times before the man slips it from you, and you hear him take a swig of it, the taste of your cunt on the glass as he lifts it to his lips. He groans, rests a hand on the small of your back as he sips.

‘Sweet?’ someone calls out, and you hear him laugh.

‘Heaven,’ he says. ‘Come get yours before I ruin her.’

You hear chairs being pushed back, and looking down at the floor you count seven pairs of shoes assembling in a line behind you. You can hear some guys are still playing pool, the crack of the 8 ball as someone breaks. You look for Joel’s along the line of shoes behind you. You don’t see them.

There are fingers in your cunt again, two or maybe three, you’re not sure, and you have moved up a little, your tits pressed to the wall as they grope you from behind. It’s delicious, exactly the right pressure in exactly the right spot, as if someone has given them all a manual to your body. Someone lifts your leg under the knee and twists your hip so that you can rest your foot on his thigh, and then you’re even more open, even more exposed. You close your eyes, your spine twisting to keep both arms on the wall, but in this position one man can get underneath you on his knees and lick up into you and you gasp at the feeling of it, the warmth of his tongue compared to the cold of the bottle, and you’re really sweating now, want to rip your top off and pull the skirt from around your waist just to get it out of the way, but someone is using it to hold you still, the fabric bunched under your tits so that you won’t fall. With one mouth on your cunt someone else is behind you with his fingers inside you, and someone else is holding your tits in his hands, his thumbs squeezing and rubbing at your nipples.

Over your shoulder you can hear someone commentating for his friend. ‘Fuck, you thought she was wet before,’ they’re saying, and the way they’re talking about you like you’re not there, like you’re an object for them to play with, a doll, a toy, has you bucking against the tongue on your clit, against the fingers inside you. They’re setting you on fire, the embers catching on gasoline. It’s heaven and its torture and its so, so much.

Fuck, you’re going to come and you can’t stop it. But you have to, you promised Joel. You’re almost wailing now, trying to get the feeling out in some way so that you won’t tip over the edge, and the guys are laughing.

‘Listen to her hollerin’,’ someone says, and you can’t keep your eyes closed anymore, open them to see a bunch of men standing around you, all of them palming their cocks through their pants, as one man crouches under your form, his shoulder pushed hard into the wall to get under you. You can’t see the man behind you but one is off to the side, his eyes on our cunt as he bounces your tits in his hands.

‘Oh, hey beautiful,’ one of the men watching says when he catches your eye. He’s handsome, they all are, you realise, and they’re all in their early 30s and they’re all incredibly fit, and if you had any presence of mind in this moment you would consider that this was an odd coincidence, but as it is right now you just want their cocks in your mouth, want their come dripping over your tits and your face. The one behind you, with his fingers buried in your cunt, is grinding against you and for a deranged moment you consider freeing him from his pants and slipping him inside you.

‘She’s so fucked out,’ someone laughs, and you’re gasping, crying out as if that will stop you from coming, but it’s not enough, the cliff is right there. You’re rolling your hips, your mouth agape and gasping when you’re not howling for relief.

‘Like a bitch in heat,’ someone says. ‘Hey, tag out.’

All of them stop, hold you steady for a second. You’re panting, your legs weak as you lean your weight on the wall. You can feel yourself receding from the cliff again, can feel the throb in your cunt easing off just enough that you can think. Your leg is dropped back to the floor, and you are jostled back into position as the men rearrange themselves, and you realise they’re taking turns using you. Even without their hands on you, the thought alone could make you come. You want to turn your head to look for Joel but they’re crowding around you, and for a second there’s a drop of panic in your belly before it’s replaced again with wildfire. You know he’s there. Know he’ll stop it if he needs to.

‘Holy shit, she’s still so tight,’ someone says, slipping back into place in your cunt, and another man laughs. ‘Get the bottle again, stretch her out.’ Their hands are probing again, a man finger-fucking you from the front now, another holding you up from behind as they twist you off to the side. They’re all staring at your cunt, at where you’re spreading open to take them, marvelling at the intrusion.

‘How many fingers you reckon she can take?’ someone asks, and you buck your hips away from it, away from how obscene it is, from how irrevocably turned on in makes you.

‘Joel said not to mark her,’ someone says, and much later you will recall this, recognise this as the moment you might have realised he had set all of it up, including who these men were. As it was you were too busy trying to quell the rushing bliss thundering through you, trying to hold back the cracking dam with your pinkie finger and good will.

‘Scoot over, then,’ someone says, and you are moved again, your legs opened up a little further so that two hands can be inside you at once, their fingers moving just out of sequence enough that they rub at different speeds, forming a relentless piston, a wave of pleasure that’s going to drag you under, fill your lungs.

You can’t take it. Your eyes are blurring from unshed tears, the respite from moments ago disappearing under the weight of the bodies covering you. Are your hands still on the wall? You open your eyes a crack to check. You want them to throw you over their shoulders and slip their cocks inside you, one in front and one behind. You want to roll on the floor with them, have them line up and sink yourself down on them one by one like some kind of deranged Goldilocks. You want every last one of them to come on you, in you, to breed you, to make you theirs.

You can feel your back arching, can feel that you’re rearing up again, the pleasure twisting up your spine and elongating it, your head pulling hard up and away from your shoulders. You’re holding your breath, trying to keep the orgasm away, but it’s bolting up on you.

‘I can’t, I can’t,’ you’re saying, and you’re not even sure what you can’t do exactly. Can’t hold it back, can’t take anymore, can’t stop. Can’t come like this, not allowed to. Joel’s good girl.

‘Hey!’ a voice booms from the bar and you recognise it immediately, Joel standing up and moving towards you. He’s seen you struggling, has seen your hips rolling and heard your wails as you tried to hold back for him. ‘I said no comin’!’ he bellows, and you groan. Your knight in shining armour has arrived just to keep fucking torturing you.

‘Joel!’ you cry, whine, nearly in tears for the need of him. Suddenly you don’t want any of these guys, you just want him, want his smell and the sweet softness of his flannel, want his eyes on you and his whispers in your ear. Want his cock inside you, his come claiming you from within. He’s shouldering his way to you, pushing the guys out of the way, and then he’s with you, your heart racing as his hands are on your shoulders, turning you back to the wall.

‘So good f’me, baby, I know, I know,’ he’s soothing you and you realise you’re sobbing, your breaths coming in deep huffs.

‘Please, please,’ you’re calling for him, and you feel his arm around your waist, feel him scrabbling around to undo his belt and pull down his fly, at the same time as he’s lifting you up and pulling you down on his cock, the fit of him so perfect inside you, his skin inside yours. The guys are watching and you don’t care, because finally he’s with you again, finally he’s the right one, and you’re groaning and gasping, calling his name as he whispers filth in your ear.

‘None of these men get your come,’ he’s saying, ‘none of these guys. Just me that makes ya come, ya hear me?’ and you’re nodding.

‘I want you to make me come, Joel. Only you, only you.’

‘Can feel you grippin’ me, baby,’ he’s babbling, and he’s not sure he’s ever been so hard. He was so patient, watching the guys take you apart bit by bit, until your eyes were unfocussed and your mouth was hanging open, gasping and trying so hard to catch your breath. He could see it in the strain of your muscles, in the way you were panting and hollerin’, that you were holding off for him, that you were keeping yourself sweet and well behaved out of love for him, out of desire, and despite all the other men in the room that wanted you he knew in that moment you were his, that you were his good girl, his, his, his.

It hadn’t been his plan to fuck you like this, but he couldn’t help himself when he heard you callin’ for him. He’d thought he’d just let you come on their hands or their faces, or that you would eventually break and he’d get to slap your arse a little as punishment, but not that you would nearly snap every bone in your body, let your sinew scream and strain, just to stay his good girl.

He surges forward, gripping you to him with one arm, and raises his other hand to cover yours, still pushing into the wall of the bar. He can feel that the skin is ragged underneath, that the exposed brick has grazed you from your effort of keeping your hands there, and he resolves to bathe you in warm water and lick every inch of broken skin the moment he gets you home.

But not yet. Right now, he’s pushing himself further inside you, lifting you up a little so that you’re just on your tippy toes on the floor, balancing on his cock so he can get even deeper inside. You’re keening, your whole body shaking, and you’re not sure you’re going to survive this but you really, really don’t mind going out this way.

You don’t even have words. You can barely get air. You just entwine your fingers with Joels’ where he holds your hands to the wall, tuck your chin to your chest and howl, the orgasm crashing over you and rolling almost immediately into another one, Joel behind you and fucking up into you while you know you still have an audience, while they’re coming onto the floor at your feet, jerking it to the idea of them being the ones to be inside you, of their cocks splitting you open and feeling your cunt milk them dry. You don’t care about any of them, don’t care that they want you so much they’ll settle for their own fists, because all you want is this man, this one inside you and coming deep into your cunt, this one who loves you, who carries you now in his arms with warmth and strength, who is holding you up as he ruts his spend into you, as he gasps and cries out for you, in this very fucking public dive bar just off the highway, where you know you can never step foot again.

--

He doesn’t let you sink to the floor, no matter how badly your legs want to give out on you, but is instead wrapping his hands under your knees, under your arms and lifting you to him.

‘Dirty down there, baby,’ he says, and you open one eye to see the streams of come decorating where you were just standing. The men have all disappeared, knowing that the fun is over, and Joel has wrapped his coat around you at some point, and your muscles are loose and stretched and shaking, suddenly cold from the chill of your sweat in the open air. You tuck your head under his chin, listen to the way he grunts, quietly, when he pushes open the door with his shoulder and carries you to the car. You feel him drop you into the passenger seat of the truck, feel him put the seatbelt on you and turn the heater up as soon as the engine starts.

You can’t move, your whole body spent. You realise by how dark the night is outside the car window that it has been hours. That he has given you everything you asked for, and then just a little bit more. You crack one eye open to watch him as he drives, the streetlights strobing over his face, the scruff on his cheeks, the pointed angle of his nose, the greys appearing by the day in his hair.

You feel your eyes drift shut again, the heat of the car and the warmth of his jacket soothing you down to sleep. He has given you something you only ever dreamed about, something you never even hoped to one day have. You don’t mean the guys in the bar.

Tag list:

@kyloispunk

@604to647

[liiixsturniolos]

" A letter I wish I'd sent. " M.S

angst/fluff MATT STURNIOLO wc:764

| It had been a year now. Since you and Matt had ended things. Well, really, since Matt had ended things...

The night in the car when he'd broken up with you had washed and cascaded through your mind for months like a traumatic wave, coming back to haunt you and tease your brain. The memory of the pouring rain, Matts trembling voice and the tears which then streamed down your face as he told you the news.

A year. A whole year you'd gone without Matt, the man who used to dance with you at 3am, the man who used to push strands of your hair behind your ear when he'd kiss you, the man who used to write you letters about the way you looked, your 'angelic' voice and the adorable way you laughed.

Three hundred and sixty-five days without the man who you had sworn you would be with for the rest of your life. You don't even know how you got through it, it was a hazy year. Your friends helped you get back on your feet. You got a new apartment and focused more on your work. Over the year your wound healed up, and your undying love for Matt, died a little, and faded away, but you would still kill to see his face one more time, to kiss him one more time, that's all you wanted.

You hadn't found anyone new yet, you were just living contentedly. Alone, but peacefully, and sort of happy.

Your new job would bring you to New York. A place you were fond of and excited to go to. Packing your bags of course was a chore you'd put off until the day you had to leave for the airport.

It wasn't convenient but when the morning came you rummaged around your apartment searching for all of the things you had to bring.

Your eyes land on your book collection. Very dear to you, poetry books and romantic stories you knew you'd need to take. Your mind wanders as you flick through the pages of an old poetry book, then pick up another and do the same.

Your eyes halt to a sudden stop when you see a foreign piece of paper lodged into the page of a book.

On page number 58, a neatly folded, lined piece of paper read..

Dear y/n, I hope that whenever you read this, you're well. I hope that you've moved. I hope you're living out in a big city as you've always dreamed of. I hope that whoever you have found now treats you kindly and appreciates your melodic laugh and the intoxicating colour of your deep brown eyes. I hope that whoever you're with now knows that they have the most beautiful, smart, and funny girl to exist. Not everyone who walks into your life will be meant to stay, I certainly wasn't. I wasn't a good enough man for you. I got angry fast, and I hate myself for it. It's a weird feeling having to go from holding your head on my chest every night, and your face nuzzled into the nape of my neck to staring at the blank ceiling of what used to be our bedroom without you here. I can't sleep without you. You were the first person I ever loved Y/n. You will always be the only person I've ever loved. With every bone in my body I wanted to devote my life to you, to grow old with you and only you until my deathbed. You drew memories in my mind I could never erase, you painted colours in my heart I can never replace. I'm afraid I will never be good enough for someone like you, I loved everything about you and maybe that was my fault. You gave me something I had never had before, I found rest in your arms and peace when I looked at your face. I know that I will love you forever y/n. So whenever you read this, tommorow or in years I hope you don't love me back, because I could never deserve someone like you. Tommorow you will come to pick up your things from my house. The house that used to be ours. You'll hate me for a while and I know it. That's why I'm writing this to you. To slip it into our favourite poetry book that I read to you, when I stroke your cheek with my free hand and your eyes flutter asleep. I love you. I'll love you forever and that's my fault.

hey! I hope you liked this tysm for reading, please interact if you enjoyed!! part 2 maybe? [not proofread]

taglist hoes!: @matthewsroses @chrislilcumslvt @pvssychicken @ivysturnss @mattsbitchh @sturniolo-fann @matts-myloverboy @emely9274 @sophand4n4 @uncannyguava @chrissweetheart @certifiedstarrr @slut4chris888

[daryltwdixon]

hey! i have a request :) could you do daryl x fem reader who sings? she has never been too open about her singing but when she’s alone she’s singing all the time/humming to herself around others. she’s had a crush on him for a while but hasn’t been able to do anything about it because she’s not sure if he feels the same. but he hears her singing when she didn’t notice he was there and it sparks something <3

Daryl x Reader fluff

thank you so much for the request! I'm sorry I literally blanked on every cute folk song I've ever heard so I settled for this one that I hold dear to my heart from a trip I took to England. Hope this is kind of what you were hoping for!

here is the song

The sun dips low over the tree line surrounding the Greene farm, painting the sky in hues of deep orange and purple. For the first time since the world turned upside down, you feel something like ease. The farm is undeniably beautiful, a serene homestead somehow tucked away from the horrors beyond its borders.

You’re perched on the porch railing, a pair of knitting needles clicking softly in your hands as you work on a pair of woolen socks. Knitting had started as a hobby but quickly became a necessity when you realized just how unforgiving winter would be without the simple comforts of central heating and the yearly down coat you used to take for granted. Now, it’s your quiet mission to make sure everyone has warm socks before the temperature drops.

Knitting is a simple, repetitive task—one that keeps your hands busy but leaves your mind free to wander. Without even thinking, a soft melody escapes your lips. It’s a tune that’s always been stowed in the back of your mind, rising to the surface when the world around you feels still, or when you’re caught in the rhythm of something as peaceful as this.

mmm I want to linger,

mmm, a little longer

mmm, a little longer here with you

Between the steadiness of your needles and the soft melody humming from your lips, you don’t notice the figure standing on the steps until his boots creak against the top of the porch.

You nearly drop the fabric in your lap when you glance up and see Daryl Dixon, his blue eyes flickering with something you can’t quite place beneath his usual surly expression.

“S-sorry,” you stammer, gripping the knitting needles tighter. “Didn’t hear you comin’.”

He shrugs, a small, nonchalant motion, but his hand lifts to his mouth, the skin of his thumb settling between his teeth. It’s a gesture you’ve seen before, one you’ve come to recognize as his ‘thinking’ face. You hesitate, unsure whether to keep knitting or set it aside.

Daryl’s presence always leaves you off balance. There’s something about the quiet way he moves through the world—intimidating, yes, but also magnetic. You’re never sure how to act around him, but that hasn’t stopped you from wanting to be near him. Despite the brooding air and glowering gaze, you’ve caught glimpses of something softer beneath the surface.

“Don’t gotta stop ‘cause a’me,” he grumbles, his voice low, half-muffled behind his hand.

Your face grows warm under the weight of his gaze, and you quickly avert your eyes, focusing on the fabric in your lap, fumbling with it. “Oh, uh… it’s fine. I was gonna turn in soon anyway,” you mumble.

“You’re always singin’,” he says after a beat, his tone quiet. You can’t tell if it’s meant as a criticism or just an observation, but it catches you off guard all the same.

Your fingers pause over the fabric, smoothing the soft wool as you bite your lip. “I… I didn’t think anyone noticed,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

Daryl exhales sharply through his nose, a sound that’s somewhere between a sigh and a huff. He shifts on his feet, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him turn and make his way toward the rocking chair by the door.

You glance up, watching as he sets his crossbow down against the wall. Without a word, he settles into the chair with a kind of casual ease that only Daryl Dixon could make look both restless and deliberate. He leans forward, pulling one of his arrows free from the quiver, and begins sharpening the tip with his knife. The rhythmic scrape of metal on wood fills the silence.

“Well,” he grunts after a moment when he sees you still staring, looking up from his work, “go on then.”

Your brows knit together, caught off guard by his words. “Go on with… what?”

He spares you a brief glance, his knife stilling for a second before he returns to his task. “Singin’. Ain’t botherin’ me none.”

The heat in your face deepens, and you laugh softly, more out of nervousness than anything else. “I don’t really sing. Not, like, for people.”

“Ain’t askin’ for a concert,” he mutters, his voice gruff but not unkind. His attention fixes on the arrow in his hands then, but there’s something in the way he said it—something almost… expectant.

You hesitate, your fingers still fidgeting with the wool in your lap. The thought of singing with him sitting so close makes your chest feel tight, but the idea that he noticed, that he cared enough to listen, sparks something warm inside you.

After a long pause, you swallow your nerves and begin to hum a few soft notes, your voice barely audible over the sound of his knife scraping against the arrow. It’s tentative at first, shaky, but when he doesn’t react—just keeps sharpening his arrow with that same quiet intensity—you feel brave enough to let the melody take shape once again.

mmm, it's such a perfect night

mmm, it doesn't seem quite right

mmm, that it should be my last with you

The porch settles into an odd kind of harmony: the soft cadence of your voice mingling with the steady rhythm of his knife, your knitting needles back to work with a deliberate cadence. You steal a glance at him every so often, and for the first time, you notice the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. The world beyond the farm seems to fall away, leaving only the two of you under the fading light of the evening.

You let the melody flow, one note slipping into another, your voice growing steadier. There’s something about having Daryl nearby—his quiet presence—that makes you feel… safe. Like you don’t need to worry about being too loud, or drawing too much attention, because he’s there.

mmm, and as the years go by

mmm, I'll think of you and sigh

mmm, this is goodnight and not goodbye

Eventually, you glance over again, expecting to find him still sharpening his arrow, but instead, you freeze. His knife and arrow rest forgotten in his lap, and he’s sitting back in the chair, his arms crossed loosely in front of him as he chews his lip. His gaze is fixed on you, steady and warm, with a softness you’ve never seen from him before.

Your breath catches in your throat. “What?” you ask, your voice quieter now, almost uncertain.

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch or fumble for words like he sometimes does when he’s caught off guard. “Nothin’,” he says, his tone low and even. But the way he says it, the way his gaze lingers, it feels like more.

Your fingers tighten around the knitting needles still in your lap as you hold his stare, your heart beating louder than it should.

“You’re starin’,” you manage, a small, nervous laugh escaping you.

“Maybe,” he admits, the corner of his mouth tugging into the faintest hint of a smirk.

The continued warmth in his gaze sparks something in your chest, and for a moment, you feel like the air around you has shifted. You’ve seen Daryl angry, guarded, even awkward—but this? This is different. He’s not looking away, not retreating behind the usual walls you’ve come to expect. He’s just… watching you, like he’s really seeing you for the first time.

Neither of you say anything right away, but the silence doesn’t feel uncomfortable. It’s heavy in a way that makes you hyper-aware of the space between you, of the way his eyes stay on yours, steady and unflinching.

Finally, your lips tug into a small smile, letting out a sigh. He shifts forward, brushing his hand against the arrow he’d set aside. “You’re good at it,” he mutters, his voice low, like he’s not used to saying the words.

“Knitting?” you tease, trying to cut the tension with a little humor.

He lets out a quiet huff, shaking his head. “Singin’,” he says. “Ain’t just hummin’. You sound...nice.”

The sincerity in his tone makes your stomach flip, and your cheeks flush with heat. “Thanks,” you say softly, your voice more even than you expect.

The cool breeze nips at your skin, but you hardly notice, warmth spreading in your chest. There’s a look in his eyes—soft, almost contemplative—that makes your breath catch.

“Guess we should head in ‘fore it gets colder.” he says gruffly, as if remembering himself.

You nod, gathering your half finished socks and needles as you follow him toward the door. As you step inside, you can’t help but feel like something shifted tonight, something small but important. And for the first time, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, he feels it too.

[evangelical04]

A Single Daffodil || 1

Summary: Getting arranged to be married to your long-time crush wasn't exactly the fairy tale romance you were hoping for. Nor is the dynamic of the marriage, with your husband treating you like you don't exist. But you're going to make this work, whether he cares about you or not. And he definitely doesn't...right?

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Rating: 18+ minors DNI

Word Count: 2.7K

Genre: angst, romance, unrequited love, smut, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage au, businessman yoongi

Warnings: parental trauma, sibling trauma, toxic parents, unrequited love, explicit language, alcohol usage, yoongi's kind of mean, future smut

Author's Note: hello! i'm Eva and this is my first fic on tumblr ever! I've been a reader for so long and I've always wanted to write my own stories, so I figured I finally would. I know it’s kind of short but I promise the other parts will be longer. Please give me any feedback you have and let me know if you'd like there to be a tag list or anything! I hope you guys like it!! p.s. I'm totally posting this instead of doing my morphology homework that's due in 15 minutes

masterlist / next

The door to your childhood home looked artificially welcoming. There were too many flowers lining the walls encasing the looming wooden door. The grass on the lawn just was a bit too green without a blade out of place and the paved walkway was freshly powerwashed and missing even a speck of dirt. You let out the deep breath you were holding and gently took hold of the overly ornate bronze knocker adorning the painted wood of the door. Two loud thuds rang out as you knocked and the door quickly opened afterwards.

“Hello, Miss Y/N, your parents have been expecting you.”

“Yes, I know. Thank you, Mrs. Oh,” you responded quietly, nodding at the grey-haired woman. She shot you a sympathetic smile before ushering you in, taking your coat and carefully laying it over her arm. After removing your shoes, you followed her past the foyer to the living room where your parents awaited. 

You knew what was coming, you knew that this had been decided long before you were born. Yet, you still felt unprepared. You had grown comfortable, living in your simple apartment in Gangnam and your quiet work routine. Biting your lip, you reprimanded yourself internally, You should’ve brought this shit up in therapy before it happened.

“Here we are, Miss Y/N,” Mrs. Oh said, snapping you out of your self-pity session. You nodded gratefully at her, sending a small smile her way. Her eyebrows wove together in her own pity-ridden expression and she quickly whispered, “Good luck,” while exiting swiftly. You steeled your nerves and forced your chin up high, knowing that you’d most likely cower inwards as soon as you faced your parents anyway.

Stepping into the room, you noted the almost intervention-like setup your parents had arranged themselves in, with your father sitting proudly in his reclining, leather armchair, clad in a dark blue quarter zip and khaki pants. Your mother stood facing the fireplace, arms crossed, in a simple and elegant turquoise dress and hair tied up in a tight and neat bun, with her baby hairs smoothed back to prevent any imperfection. You could almost imagine her pinched mouth, forever encased in a stern and unamused expression. 

“Hello father, mother,” you started, trying to smooth the slight trembling in your voice. Your mother turned around, eyes narrowing at your form, “Sit down.”

You promptly obeyed.

“Your father and I have decided on your marriage. It’ll be to the Min family, to Min Yoongi.”

“What? To him? But,” you began protesting but your mother quickly cut you off with a steely glare. 

“It has already been decided. Your wedding will be in eight months. I’ll forward you the invitation list and you can add three people of your choosing. You’ll be having dinner with us and the Min family on Friday at six. I’ll have Yujin send you an email with further details. Don’t be late.” 

You looked to your father in a desperate plea but were only met with stony silence and a passive face. You turned back to your mother and registered the composed expression painting her face. Your fate had been decided, and it had not worked in your favor at all. Rising slowly, you set your hands by your side and bowed towards your parents, “I understand. I’ll be there.”

Your mother swiftly exited the room, evidently deciding the conversation was over. You could hear her dangling earrings tinkling against each other in what felt like a mocking melody. Your father calmly produced a cigar from the table next to him and lit up, no longer acknowledging you either. You let out another slow breath and walked out. 

Collecting your coat from Mrs. Oh, who tried to give you a comforting shoulder squeeze but it felt more like condolences than anything, and made your way to your car parked in front of the gate closing off your parents’ home. 

That’s it then.

You felt eerily calm yet stressed as you started up your car and carefully reversed out, making sure to avoid hitting the carved statues your parents had in front of the iron gate. As you drove home, your mind started racing with the information you had been relayed. 

Min Yoongi as your soon-to-be-husband? What irony.

Does he even know you exist?

Will you be able to survive this?

Hand gripping the steering wheel hard, you quickly dialed the most recent number in your contact list. She answered after only two rings.

“Y/N! Are you still alive? How’d it go?”

“Hi Joohee, not great. I’m completely and totally fucked.”

Joohee chuckled on the other end of the line, “Want to come over?”

“Yes,” you breathed, “I was hoping you’d offer.”

“I’ll get the booze.”

“Min Yoongi? Now that’s ironic,” Joohee chuckled, seemingly at your expense. You shot a glare her way which she shrugged in response to.

“How long have you been crushing on him? This is, like, practically fate. Maybe this’ll be a good thing.”

You scoffed in response, “A good thing? Joohee, be serious. The last thing I want to do is get with my long-time infatuation, not crush, by forcing him to be my husband.” You took another swig of wine. It was a cheap pink Moscato, perfect for nights like these with Joohee. 

Joohee shoved a pillow in your direction in an effort to gain more room on the couch you had stuffed yourselves onto. The trash reality dating show you had on in the background was showing a rather dramatic fight but you paid it no attention, “It’s just…I haven’t talked to him in the last, what, five years? He probably doesn’t even remember me. And you’ve heard the rumors, I don’t think he’ll be exactly thrilled at giving up his playboy lifestyle just because he has to marry me.”

“What if he doesn’t give that up?”

You stared at Joohee in slight surprise, “What do you mean?”

“Like, what if he says that he doesn’t want to stop hooking up with other people? What will you do?”

Your brows furrowed as you considered the question, “I don’t know, I guess. I mean, I can’t really stop him. I guess I’d just have to live with it.”

Joohee hummed in response before continuing on, “Well, this is happening whether you like it or not. Just try to make it amicable at the least. Maybe it’ll work out, you never know. Just look at Jin oppa.”

Kim Seokjin, Joohee’s older brother and a friend of Min Yoongi’s, was arranged by Joohee’s parents to marry Song Yeonhee, and the two had seemingly fallen in love after a rocky start to their nuptials. You had seen them recently at Yeonhee’s baby shower and she had been glowing, looking unbelievably happy. You recalled the loving gaze that Seokjin had sent her during the party and the pang of envy you felt, knowing that you would likely never get to experience that. 

“Yeah, well,” you responded, “He’s an outlier. Most of these types of marriages don’t work out. I have a feeling I’m going to be a part of that group.”

“You’re too negative, you haven’t even met him for dinner yet. Maybe he’ll surprise you. You just have to give him the chance.”

You mulled over Joohee’s words and nodded, “Yeah, maybe you’re right. I guess I’ll see how Friday goes.”

You weren’t technically late. 

While you still had about 5 minutes before the dinner officially started, you weren’t early, and that was unacceptable by your mother’s standards. A mini emergency at your job had left you scrambling to leave on time, only noticing the late hour when one of your coworkers asked if they should order take-out for the team. After profusely apologizing to your team, they encouraged you to go, practically shooing you out the door, claiming they could handle the situation for now. 

Which left you barely on time to park in the lot outside the ridiculously fancy Japanese restaurant your mother’s assistant, Yujin, had sent to your email earlier that week. You quickly stepped out, smoothing out your dress that you had kept in the backseat of your car and had hastily changed into in the parking lot of your office. Tugging down the hem, you took a moment to look at your reflection in your car window and attempt to look more presentable. Your hair was slightly frizzy but nicely combed back, and you had extremely minimal makeup on from only remembering last minute this morning, and your eyes looked tired. 

You felt tired.

Shaking off your nerves, you headed inside the restaurant giving your family name to the hostess who took you back to a private room where your mother and father were waiting. Your father spared you only a cursory glance before returning his gaze to his phone and your mother looked you up and down before uttering a curt, “Hm.” You held in an eye roll and quickly sat next to them, trying to calm your heart rate for the sure-to-be exhilarating dinner ahead. At six on the dot, you spotted the same hostess leading the Min family towards your table. Your mother stood, welcoming them and urging them to sit down. You stood as well, a little less welcoming, a lot more obligated. 

Mrs. Min looked like the epitome of a rich older woman with dark black hair combed back and glittering jewels lining her ears and neck, complementing the midnight blue gown she had on. Mr. Min was dressed quite similarly to your father, in a simple suit, the only difference being his starkly greying hair providing quite the contrast to his dark blazer. Close behind them was the person you were the most anxious about meeting, Min Yoongi. His pitch-black hair complemented his slightly tanned skin nicely and his feline eyes remained straightforward and untelling. He was dressed in a simple black suit as well with an expensive-looking watch adoring his wrist. His mouth was closed tightly and he did not smile at your mother when she greeted him, not at your father when they sat down across from your family, and certainly not at you.

Your hands nervously played with each other in your lap as you took your seat again. You listened quietly as the mothers exchanged pleasantries and the fathers gruffly greeted each other. You were trying to avoid looking at Yoongi as much as possible.

“So, Y/N,” Mrs. Min started, making you startle to attention, “How old are you now?”

“Twenty-nine, ma’am.”

“Ah, so only a bit younger than Yoongi. That’s good then. How is your work?”

You felt your father stiffen next to you and prayed your discomfort didn’t show on your face, “Good. I’m in the middle of producing a new project with my team.”

“How lovely. Although I’m sure you’ll be leaving that soon after the wedding. You won’t need to work then after all,” Mrs. Min smiled at you. It was hard to read her so you couldn’t tell if she was being genuine or not, though if you had to guess, it was likely the latter. Your job was a point of contention with your family. Choosing to work in a video game production company did not go over well, and if your older brother, Kyungsoo, hadn’t been in line to inherit Seo Industries, you would’ve never been able to keep it. 

You smiled awkwardly in response to Mrs. Min and returned your gaze to the empty plate in front of you. 

As the conversation dragged on, you couldn’t help but steal a glance or two at Yoongi, who was periodically checking his phone and looking permanently bored of the conversation. Not that you could blame him. The dull talk of social circle gossip and work was beginning to get grating, and even the introduction of fancy entrees wasn’t enough to stop your stomach from feeling queasy. 

Yoongi had yet to say one word to you. To be fair, you hadn’t said anything to him either, but he had barely looked in your direction since he entered the private dining room. How exactly were you supposed to start a conversation with that? 

Soon after the desserts came out and were finished, with you politely refusing, feeling like you were going to throw up any second, Mrs. Min suddenly pushed her chair back and stood. She looked down at you and Yoongi and announced, “Well. I think we can leave them to talk on their own for a bit. Why don’t you join us for a drink at our home, Eujin-ssi?”

At the sound of her name, your mother stood, nodding, “Yes, that sounds lovely. Let’s let them get to know each other a bit more.” With that, the parents swiftly gathered their belongings and left, before you could even protest, leaving you staring open-mouthed at the exit. 

Slowly, you turned to face Yoongi and were startled, seeing his eyes already boring into yours. 

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Yoongi stated, his deep and stable voice wrapping around you for the first time that night, “This marriage means nothing to me. It shouldn’t to you either. I’ll do my thing and you do yours. Most importantly, stay out of my life except when necessary. Just because my parents are forcing my hand doesn’t mean I have to adhere to every little thing. Nothing will be changing except for our living situation and a ring on our fingers.”

A little stunned, you could only stutter a passive agreement and watch as he rose and left without sparing you another glance. 

Letting out a deep breath, you closed your eyes, trying to understand what had just transpired. Your heart raced as you quickly stacked up the dishes to be a bit easier for the busboy and quickly made your way to your car. Sitting down in the driver’s seat, you vaguely registered Min Yoongi’s cold demeanor towards you.

It seems he didn’t remember you after all.

The dress you had on was itchy, but you knew if you complained, you would only end up with a sharp stinging on your cheek and tear-filled eyes. You had escaped the boring party with grown-ups and were sitting outside on a stone bench in the garden, trying to remedy your hurt feelings at the hands of the mean, older boy, Hyunsoo. 

He had confidently poked fun at your appearance, saying the dress was a bit too small on you and that your parents should’ve sprung for a size that could fit an elephant instead. He continued on, saying your parents must’ve forgotten to vaccinate you for measles considering all the red spots on your face that were actually acne. Being a tender twelve years of age and going through the worst bits of puberty, his words hit you hard and you quickly ran from the scene into the garden. 

Unable to contain your tears, they slipped down your face in large droplets and soaked into the front of your dress. 

“Hey, you.”

Startled, you looked up to see a boy a couple of years older than you standing in front of you, black hair shining in the light from the garden lamps. His sharp eyes trailed down your tear-stained face. You quickly turned away in shame, not wanting to undergo any more embarrassment tonight. 

“Hey, snot-face.”

You shot him a glare but softened when you saw his hand extended, holding a handkerchief, his face turned slightly away, “Use this. You look ugly while you’re crying.”

You gingerly took the cloth from his hands and blew your nose, noticing him wince out of the corner of your eye. 

“Thank you,” you managed and he only rolled his eyes in response. 

“Yeah, whatever. I think Joohee’s looking for you,” he grumbled before turning on his heel and stalking off back towards the party. 

Confused, your eyes followed after him, not knowing how he knew that Joohee would be looking for you. You unfolded the handkerchief and noticed an elegant embroidering of three letters in black near the bottom, MYG. 

Oh, you realized, Min Yoongi. Joohee’s older brother was friends with him but you had never seen him before. Joohee had described him as kind of rude and quite closed off, but you disagreed. He certainly didn’t seem that bad.

masterlist / next

[duckirubb3r]

To Be Hero X theory time

Disclaimer: I'm watching To Be Hero X in Japanese because it was the automatic option for the site I'm watching on. Because of this, anime-specific information will be using Japanese casting and English subtitles paired with the Japanese dubbing.

Okay so I never do this but I've become a deranged, obsessive fangirl who has been overanalysing everything for the past week and I have a major theory I need the world to hear before the second episode airs so it's apparent down the line that I'm either absolutely delusional, a giga genius, or some sort of mix of the two. There's only one episode so far and I want my 4D chess to pay off so I need as little canon evidence to go off of as possible to be more impressive.

I have more than one theory, but I'm going to focus on my biggest one. If you don't want to be spoiled or don't want to do a lot of reading, stop here. This post will be long.

Without further ado, my theory:

Ghostblade is the original Nice. The very first one to ever exist.

We know from episode 1 that anyone can replace a hero so long as people believe in them. Because no one was aware of Nice's suicide, everyone believed that Lin Ling, with his hair styled and painted white, was the real Nice. Thus, he became the real Nice. His hair became naturally white, his eyes turned blue, and his voice adjusted to sound like the former Nice's. Knowing this, it makes sense that even the Nice who killed himself probably wasn't the first Nice. Possibly not even the second or the third or even the tenth. There's a chance that a lot of former-Nices have existed.

After watching episode 1, I was desperate for more content which led me to this Tumblr post with character sheets for the top 10 heroes. When looking through each profile, I noticed something that felt way too strange to be just a coincidence: 4/10 of them, Nice included, have white hair, and all of those white-haired characters are 180cm tall. There's no way that's just a coincidence, right? So I ended up thinking about it more and more. I watched all of the character concept and character story movies (which I will henceforth refer to as CC and CS respectively) to look for more information and, before I knew it, I became a crazy theorist. My theories center around the white-haired heroes, but almost all of what I've thought of so far is exclusively about Nice and Ghostblade.

I saw the following promotional image that pictures the ten heroes focused on during the series.

Aside from the white hair and heights, I took particular notice of how Nice and Ghostblade look awfully similar in this image. This was when things really spiraled out of control for me.

Like dude, come on. Their hairstyle in particular is practically the same. It even parts on the same side.

Ghostblade's Character Concept and Character Story Movies

So I watched every character's CCs and CSs, but I really watched Ghostblades after coming up with this theory—and when I say I watched them, I mean I studied them. I analysed every frame I could, over and over. In doing so, I either became completely delusional or I found some very compelling evidence to support my theory that Ghostblade is the original Nice. I'm not sure how best to explain everything, so I'm just going to run through the videos themselves and do my best.

At the beginning of Ghostblade's CS, it shows him as a child—twelve years old, to be precise—in a dreary room with a mysterious man preparing to perform a surgical procedure on him. We're shown various screens with medical information on them. The text on these screens read:

“The cerebrum is not only the center of senses and voluntary movements, but also the center of mental activities such as memory and judgement. The cerebrum consists of two cerebral hemispheres connected by the corpus collosum, and the connection by the corpus collosum plays an important role in the signal transmission and interaction between the two cerebral hemispheres."

and

"The parietal lobe is located between the central sulcus and parieto-occipital sulcus, above the outer fissure, and contains the motor center that issues motor commands to the [...] somatosensory cortex [...] which are involved in processing [...] sensations such as touch, pressure, and pain, and are responsible for the sensory [...]"

All other text is unfortunately either unimportant or too blurry to read.

Using the text from these images, we can essentially determine that the surgeon was operating on twelve-year-old Ghostblade in an attempt to alter his voluntary movements, memory, judgement, sensations such as touch, pressure, and pain, and probably a lot more we aren't able to see.

Following this, we have a scene of Ghostblade standing in front of a mirror in what appears to be a restroom with smiley faces painted on the stall doors behind him. He takes a knife to the mirror and carves the Chinese character for “smile” before inspecting his teeth, leading us to believe the surgeon operated on them as well as his brain. But his teeth are perfect. Nothing is wrong with them. This means that the surgeon was probably correcting a flaw so that Ghostblade would have a better smile, hence the encouragement to smile with smiley faces painted on the walls.

So it seems to be the case that, whoever this surgeon is or whoever he's working for—whoever ordered these procedures to be conducted on twelve-year-old Ghostblade—was trying to make him a perfect person who's always shining a charming smile. Doesn't that sound familiar?

OH YEAH. IT'S HIM. "Mr. Perfect" a.k.a. Nice.

So, if Ghostblade's upbringing was an effort to turn him into the OG Nice, what other evidence is there for this? What are his parallels to Nice's character? How would Ghostblade fit into the Nice backstory? Don't worry, I've got you covered. Let's switch over to Ghostblade's CC for a bit. It's considerably shorter, but contains valuable insights. 

It starts with Ghostblade in some sort of open structure where a field of what looks to be daisies is blossoming and moonlight is spilling through. There's a bit of action, but the sequence of scenes that follow paint a grim picture. First, Ghostblade raises a hand. which transitions into the hand of a man (presumably him) and a woman in wedding attire with the groom slipping a ring onto the bride's finger.

Afterward, Ghostblade is looking up at the moon as its light engulfs him and it enters what appears to be a sequence of memories and daydreams where he's holding out his hand as the scenery changes. It cycles from the current moment

to the image of a girl's hand in his,

rain collecting on his palm,

his bloodied hand in the room of a child,

and his dirty/scratched up hand clenching into a fist above rubble where a single flower grows.

After the sequence, it returns to the flower field where Ghostblade is reaching out to the moon as what appears to be blood splatters begin to obscure the image.

That's basically it in terms of the visuals for his CC. The only thing left to mention is his theme song, because the lyrics are very notably about love which seems bizarre for a character who appears so dark, mysterious, and badass. The lyrics (chopped for the CC) are as follows:

And even if I have to start again It's all because of you If you don't know it by now My love for you will grow Know that this is true

So, what sort of story does his CC seem to tell? I think a good place to start is the flower field. The flowers appear to be daisies. If we assume they were deliberately selected, then if we look at flower language, in most cultures daisies apparently represent innocence, purity, loyal love, cheerfulness, childbirth, and new beginnings. Which lines up a lot with what I've observed so far! Ghostblade wears prayer beads around his wrist, so I'm assuming he's probably a religious man. That could easily align with ideals of purity and innocence. Loyal love/loyalty and love could obviously refer to a lover. Cheerfulness ties back to all the smiley faces and encouragement to smile. Childbirth is rather straightforward and will be relevant in a moment, and new beginnings... we'll come back to that in a bit, but for now, the lyric "and even if I have to start again" sort of speaks for itself.

To me, it seems to be a story about about a future Ghostblade could have had. The girl's hand in his was a lover he dreamed of marrying. The child's bedroom was one he hoped to one day have a child of his own occupy. The rain and the blood and the rubble were a memory, not a dream. His dreams died with his lover.

But who was his lover?

Well, he appears to have a fixation with the moon. When he's staring at the moon, the lyric that plays is "my love for you will grow" so is it possible that the moon might symbolise something? Yeah, sure. I can already think of at least one character who loves a moon—Nice lmao.

Does this mean that Moon died? Yeah. I mean, she died in episode 1 too and we know there's been at least two Nices now—Lin Ling and the Nice before him. There have probably been more Moons too! Whether the Moon I reckon Ghostblade loved in my theory was the OG Moon or not, I'm not sure... but probably? Either way, that detail isn't very important.

So! If we suppose that Ghostblade's CC is about him losing his lover, Moon, and, in turn, the future he dreamed of with her, then how does that tie back in to his CS? Let's pick up where we left off.

After the scene of child-Ghostblade checking his teeth in the mirror, there are various visuals of people smiling and more smiley faces. We're met again with Ghostblade in front of the same mirror he carved on as a child, albeit as an adult now. Looking into the mirror, Ghostblade puts on his signature metallic mask and a frowning face flashes on the screen, contrasting the smile that was so prevalent in his childhood. We then see a sequence of a slaughterhouse. Inside the slaughterhouse, there's a close-up of Ghostblade's eye as he looks at slaughtered animals, followed by a shot of what appears to be a difficult to distinguish image of a cow(?) giving birth. After that, it switches to Ghostblade fighting people in suits rather than your typical villain dressed as uniquely as the heroes are.

A birthing cow seems rather out of place, but we've already encountered the theme of birth. Previously, I mentioned that daisies can represent childbirth. Additionally, Ghostblade appeared to dream of a future where he'd have a child with his lover. This is also where I'd like to come back to the idea of new beginnings. Once again, the lyric that plays during this slaughterhouse/birthing cow/beginning of the fight scene is "and even if I have to start again." From this, it seems as though the birthing cow symbolises a rebirth of sorts when he engages in the slaughter of his enemies, comparing them to animals. This rebirth is also implied by the shot of him putting on his metal mask in front of the mirror with the sad face showing up after. It was likely the first time he donned the mask, as well as the moment he threw away his identity as Nice and was reborn as Ghostblade.

It transitions from the fighting to a scene where Ghostblade is standing by the ocean in civilian clothes without a mask. There are various things littered and washed up on the shore, such as empty soda cans, a shoe, a cigarette, a keyring, and a still-breathing fish. The items left abandoned in the sand, specifically the keyring, could symbolise him discarding things from his life as Nice, and the beached fish—the fish out of water—could represent how he's gone from spending his entire life up to that point playing the role of someone he was forced to be and now being out of his depths as he tries to become someone else, whether it's the real him or not, and start again from scratch.

There's another short fight scene where Ghostblade is curiously wearing sunglasses, a plain cloth face mask, and a normal jacket instead of his hero outfit and metal mask.

It's possible that, in this particular scene, the concept of "Ghostblade" didn't exist yet and this was the OG Nice disguising himself to commit these killings. If people recognised him as Nice doing something like this, his Trust Value would go down and he'd lose power. His reputation would be shattered. But who is he killing, anyway? Who are these people in suits who don't look anything like the villains that show up in the other CCs and CSs, aside from perhaps X's? Well, maybe they're the ones behind the death of his lover, the OG Moon. But what group of shady, well-dressed individuals would want to kill Moon, a hero? Well, how about Spotlight Organisation, the group that, in episode 1, was responsible for attacking Nice/Lin Ling (and Moon because she was there too...)? That checks out, surely.

Finally, at the end of Ghostblade's CS, we see him by the ocean again. A stuffed rabbit is caught in the tide and washes up to him. Maybe it's another one of the things he discarded from his life as Nice. But he reaches down to grab it. Before he can get ahold of it, it's pulled further away again. He begins walking into the water to chase after the rabbit.

Why is this significant? Why is he chasing the stuffed rabbit into the ocean? Well, there's a Chinese folklore story about a rabbit on the moon. Known as the Jade Rabbit, it lives with the moon goddess, Chang-e, and creates elixirs for immortality. During his miserable life being experimented on and forced to smile and be perfect, the only thing that allowed him to keep pushing on was Moon. The only thing that gave him life, just like the Jade Rabbit, was Moon. Perhaps the stuffed rabbit represents Moon, how she was swept away from him, and how he's still chasing after her.

Aw. How sad.

Okay, time for some nitty gritty details! In episode 1, after Nice killed himself and Lin Ling became the new Nice, Lin Ling was the one everyone was seeing and therefore interpreting as being Nice. Because of that, the former Nice was no longer "Nice"—Lin Ling was. Thus, Lin Ling's appearance started to change, physically turning him into the new Nice. Using this same logic, we can reason that it probably works the other way around too! The former Nice probably would have had his appearance start to revert to what he looked like before, had he not died, because he was no longer the person everyone thought was Nice.

We can apply this same sort of logic to Ghostblade with his transition from being Nice to being Ghostblade. We know that Ghostblade already had white hair as a kid so it would make sense for his hair colour and style to stay relatively the same when reverting from being Nice and becoming what is now Ghostblade. After all, if he was the OG Nice, then "Nice"'s appearance probably would have stemmed from his. Nice and Ghostblade have different eye colours and voices, though. This is a little harder to explain away, but eye colour is a feature that's harder to notice without close scrutiny. Even still, both Nice and Ghostblade have light coloured eyes and it's plausible that his Trust Value affected his eye colour either gradually or before anyone actually noticed, because being packaged and advertised as "the perfect hero" immediately evokes a certain image from people. His voice could have potentially undergone a similar sort of process, but we also know that the experiments on Ghostblade started when he was twelve years old. If he became a hero while he was still young, it's plausible that his voice hadn't properly matured yet by the time he publicly became Nice so it was higher and had already made an impression upon his public debut. After abandoning his identity as Nice, someone else probably took over and replaced him. When the replacement became known as the new Nice, it's possible that Ghostblade's eye colour and his voice reverted, but his hair colour never had to change to begin with. Because of him no longer being Nice and his features changing back to what they used to be, he could now be seen as a different person, therefore opening the door for him to become a different hero altogether—Ghostblade.

So, how delusional am I on a scale from 1-10? Did I cook or did this shit come out burned to a crisp? I can't wait for this theory to get ripped apart effortlessly despite all the hours of intense pondering I've spent on it. It's gonna hurt if not one single element of this was even remotely close to being right. If it's wrong? I'll probably just turn it into a fanfiction lmao.

Edit: I forgot to add this, but on his character sheet linked to at the start of this horrendously long post, Ghostblades interests and skills include homemaking and cooking!! Bro was already training to be a housewife, I'm telling you.

[miwiromantics]

ST ships and parallels - PART 3

this post is to point out similar parallels and their differences between the canon ships in the show, especially in favor of byler and jancy. this is a pro byler/jancy and anti-mileven/stancy post so if you ship the later dni or read at your own risk

this post includes: - byler/stancy parallel ✔️ - stancy/mileven parallels ✔️ - jancy/mileven parallels✔️ - byler/mileven parallels✔️ - byler/ jancy + canon ships parallels✔️

part 1. part 2.

Byler/Mileven parallels:

3. Conflicting

'life started that day' vs 'best thing i've ever done'

season 4 Mike conflicting himself in season 2 in his monologue scene. Mike tells El that his life started the day they found her in the woods while in season 2, he tells Will that asking him to be his friend was the best thing he'd ever done.

also Mike stating that his life started the day Will's turned upside down in front of him also hurts.

most of the ga take this as it is without understanding that this specific line his brings up a lot of conflict. It asks the question 'which scene is Mike lying in,' because both of this cannot be true at the same time.

as a byler i can say that the second scene is shot in a much more genuine way. there is no music in the background and no other shots at any character while the first scene has blaring music and shots at both jonathan, max and will.

4. Mike

there isn't much to expand on in these scenes but it is still very telling. both will and el are looking out the window, crying and mike is in both shots but he only looks at one of them.

personally, i feel as if this is a take on how well mike is at emotionally reading them just like i expanded on in point 3. even if no words are said, Mike still looks at Will. he still looks for Will.

even in the first scene, the camera pans over to Mike glancing at Will instead of his own girlfriend who was just publicly humiliated. i feel like this more of shows mike is more concerned about his relationship with will after their fight than about el.

------------------------------------------------------------

Byler/jancy (+ canon ships) parallels:

now this is the very obvious parallels used by many bylers to prove that they are endgame. most of these i have gotten from this post by @kittykat940. i won't post all their points, pls go through their original post.

1. Car talk

this car talks that usually happens between canon ships, usually when they have their heart - to - heart conversations.

2. Lies

alright, most obvious jancy/byler parallel is that both jonathan and will lies to nancy/mike regarding to steve/el. jonathan lies to nancy saying that steve is the one that told him to take nancy back home during the night of the party while will lies to mike saying that el is the one that commissioned the painting.

3. more parallels (because i can't name stuff)

4. Lumax/Byler parallels

5. Jopper/Byler

6. Byler/Rovickie

these two clips between will and robin is very important. they are both openly queer characters being portrayed in between their love interest and opposing ship. in the first scene, will is blurred out as the audience is meant to focus on mike and el reuniting but still notice that will somehow plays a big part in this. in the second scene, robin is seen more clearly to show her feelings towards what is happening between vickie and her boyfriend. in this scene, the audience is meant to feel bad for robin and root for her love. and we know for a fact, that both robin and vickie will be canon couple in season 5.

same with will and mike perhaps??

both vickie and mike looking at robin/will.

and in the end scene, both of these couples are seen together at the end of the season.

alright... that's all i got. i have linked the first two parts above and pls look at all the original posts.

[honeyydrunk]

reasons why i would and wouldn't have sexual relations with the nct ilichil members. and unfortunately majority of the "wouldn't" is just that they're in love with another member.

(just in time for their 8th anniversary).

the one the only mr johnny suh would: - mr big dick daddy johnny suh - unity the link focus + johnny solo stage - he'd take me out to dinner first - created sexy actually bc nct we are so sexy - his father actually so created coffee - he's like 6'4 (i'm like 5'10 on a bad day) - daddy long legs - he's from chicago - ohhh he's got me giggling not just because he's crazy hot but bc he's funny part time idol full time comedian - his tattoo is insanely attractive the design the everything - i want to carry his kids and i'm a guy bro what the flip

💚 !! lee taeyong !! 💚 would: - THE male AI visual - bros big boba 🧋 tea eyes - my wartime navy husband - theres only so many times i can say he's crazy ridiculously hot utterly insane what a face he's the only person i've seen get hotter without makeup actually crazy where's that list of adjectives like beautiful breathtaking gorgeous stunning SEXY SEXY MAN enchanting hypnotising so fine i'm getting whiplash from trying to comprehend him the neost neo to ever neo ethereal angelic the highest of all blessings from aphrodite romanticism personified he is THE muse fitting of all eras his face should be in museums shown to the world i have never seen anyone that competes with his face card face CARD? face global economy face universe economy i am so happy for everything that allows me to witness this that this timeline where he is here i am witnessing his beauty his presence himself he is the beauty of this world a gem that should be praised to the highest esteem i wish nothing for him but true happiness safety and love i've heard of beauty people go to war for but he is beauty i wish peace in this earth for so that he is residing in a world that is beautiful like him for beauty such as his shouldn't be living in a world with hate and horrid things. for me, i don't even wish for anything of him, i wish for happiness and love FOR him. he is beautiful like nature, something that is perfectly created and serene. something so perfect, natural, and stunning, i wish to be a better person for him. wouldn't: - he wants to be bullied and humiliated and idk if i have that in me. i want to shower him with love and affection and he wants to be harassed.

NAKAMOTO YUTA (be warned this list goes on long i wanna fuck this man so badly it's insane mark lee watch out)

what's that the gojo fangirls said about no lube no protection? would: (i would rather die than not) - he's so hot - bros an ultimate foreign swagger - HIS HEALING SMILE - he's a literal rockstar - his dark cherry red wolfcut - chain tattoo - butterfly tattoo ON HIS STOMACH - navel piercing - alleged tongue piercing - kawaita kaze o karanase anata wo tsureteku no sa honey so sweet - his bring me the horizon cover - suzaki ryo suzaki ryo suzaki ryo suzaki ryo suzaki ryo suzaki ryo suzaki ryo suzaki ryo suzaki ryo suzaki ryo suzaki ryo suzaki - he unbuttoned his jacket then kicked a guy in the head twice - his voice,,, man i wanna hear him talk in my mind constantly - his actual singing voice does crazy things to me though - he always EMBODIES the few lines he does get - his vocal tone is ridiculously clear and stable. genuinely unsure on how he's that mistreated his voice is insane. - i don't like drinking but when he does it, it's hot. - suzaki ryo - he takes selfies a little odd but that's okay bc he's so hot it doesn't even matter - him when he in that one kick it fancam when he just when he - "TOKYO ARE YOU FUCKING READY-?" yes i am so ready to be the baddie in your porsche. - he paints his nails cute little designs - he likes natto (i don't, so i respect this) - he was training to be a professional footballer before he joined sm - he's a scorpio - the xj kabedon incident the peppero game the favourite promotion ear furry rizz game whatever that was - he's ridiculously athletic - his lying is hot - he flirts so well wdym he got mark lee calling him oppa - he kissed that wall too well - no lube no protection all day all night any position any time place location anything he wishes anything he wants he could do anything to be and i'd be thankful on my knees thanking him

wouldn't: - he's in love with mark lee

jeong jaehyun i would because he's a february 14th valentine's 💌 boy. he's a romantic who's silly!! why wouldn't i want to dance around in the night making sure he lives the life of a romance novel even if i'm just someone he'll forget on his journey to find the one he'll truly love. i'm okay with that. please be my forever only, just for one night. why i wouldn't: jeffery jamal "can i please have 3 iced coffees?" he reminds me of handy mandy hes too much of a brother ik he has them high quality gags hidden his goofy aura ruins any sex appeal i have for him he has too many feet pics uploaded on instagram

kim doyoung would: - he's for the employed srry. - there's no way to explain his aura except he's super sexy in like a husband way. - i saw him in perfume and my life changed forever - i want to bring him home to my parents just so i could be successful for once - him when he reveals those mf collarbones and that waist of his - "tighter" yes sir - "i wanna kiss your lips" absolutely - me when he sings goes insane - he's got such a beautiful smile

wouldn't: - i'm not quite sure how sex with him would be like and this post is about sex not marriage,,,,, though let's be real if he proposed YES OFC?! - he sings like he's been through several divorces he seems so heartbreak and i don't want my heart broken (ignore how i'd break my heart into a million pieces for taeyong and yuta)

kim jungwoo

would: - two baddies era jungwoo changed me in ways you can't imagine - he's so tall woah (im the same height) - sugaring candy what's that doja said? - me when he in two baddies - i need fuckboy jungwoo to make a comeback - bro in the dojaejung videos made me go crazy - unity + the link jungwoo solo performance 'lipstick' - he'd play me and i wouldn't care

wouldn't: - how could we have sex when we could gossip

MARK LEE ITS BEEN A MINUTE IM IT RAWRRRRR WHAT IS A BAD VERSE? WHAT IS NO FLOW? WHAT IS NOT SERVING US W HIT AFTER HIT !!? would: - i'll make him pop w head no talk ay like chardonnay mwah cherry bomb - when he rapped his shi off on that glass box (quiet down, kyocera japan performance) - "ladies just wait for me good girl. i got a really big," show me rn no proof otherwise - "diamond. married the kitchen to cook you up," marry me - "topping your faves" i love myself so uh top me. (WHAT DID I SAY?) - when he swears it's crazy hot

wouldn't: - he moans too much but like doing normal everyday things don't think i've forgetting that one live - i'm not nakamoto yuta (i want nakamoto yuta) - he can say some real cringe things sometimes

haechanahceah my bro lee donghyuk the LEE HAECHAN

would - him in poison - him when glowy and tan - him when he sings - him when he dances - him when he raps - him when he does anything - him when he exists - him when he's with that messy eyeliner - him when he's barefaced - him when he flirts - him when moans (he has on live MULTIPLE TIMES)

wouldn't: - if he said anything in his aegyo voice i physically couldn't have sexual relations with him that's not smth i can stomach sorry guys - i'm not mark or yuta

love all my neos but a special shout out to the ilichils who have served us with absolute BANGERS timeless experimental classics. they've sacrificed a lot for us and work extremely hard for this. i want to thank them for 8 years !! and i hope that they can continue to bless us with more for as long as they wish to remain in the industry.

[zekyrith]

Chromatic Cabaret [Gay Bar/Club]

Hey, Simblr peps!

Here's a gay bar/club that I created, and wanted to share with you all. I call it the Chromatic Cabaret. It's a 40x30 lot, that I built for 28 Civic Circle in Lucky Palms. I built it with guys in mind because they're my favorite , but feel free to change if you.

This is pretty exciting, as this is the first time I ever shared anything I built, and I've been playing the Sims 3 for 16 years (by the gods, has it really been that long?).

Download: Google Drive | SFS

TOU:

None! Do whatever you want. Just credit me, and maybe don't put it behind a paywall.

Disclaimer: Please, please tell me if something is amiss with it, as the last thing I would want, is to share something that's broken. Also, maybe confirm it's free of bad CC. I ran it through Custard, and it looked fine, but I'm hardly an expert with it. Lastly, you may have to reapply a couple of patterns.

Content Used:

Official Content:

Expansion Packs:

Late Night

Into the Future

World Adventures

Generations

University

Showtime

Ambitions

Stuff Packs:

Town Life Stuff

Master Suite Stuff

70s, 80s & 90s Stuff

Worlds:

Lucky Palms:

Nectar is Necessary Barstool

Casino Column

The Wong Way Bistro Table

The Wong Way Bistro Chair

Yucca Plant with Blossoms

Yucca Plant without Blossoms

Palm Royal

Sectional Cement Fence

Roaring Heights:

Liquid Light Neon Tubes (all pieces)

Store Content:

Mid-Century Modern Dining and Style Set:

Countdown Sconce

Three's a Crowd Ceiling Light

Future Shock Living:

Botanists Nightmare

Ultra Lounge Bedroom:

Mirror-Mirror

Ultra Lounge Dining:

Grove Cone Ceiling Light

Viva Las Vegas Bedroom:

City Never Sleeps

Custom Content:

Custom Content by @aroundthesims:

Neon Lights:

[Link]

Neon Light - Line

Neon Light - Circle

Neon Light - Cocktail

Irish Pub Drinks:

[Link]

Bottle of Syrup

Whisky Bottle (don't remember which one)

Vodka Bottle

Porto Bottle

Martini Bottle

Gin Bottle

Bailey's Bottle

Custom Content by @murfeelee:

C2077 LGBT+ Mini Set:

[Link]

C2077 Male Neon Light

C2077 Love Neon Light

C2077 Misty Inspired Set:

[Link]

C2077 Tube Light - Vertical

Custom Content by @simcredibledesigns:

Teach Me Passion Mirror:

[Link]

Funny Lamps Drink Table:

[Link]

Invisible Dance Floor Rug (5x5) by Superstorm:

[Link]

Serious Bartender (Invisible Bar) by @aa6x7:

[Link]

Useless Hand Dryer by Cyclonesue:

[Link]

The Sims 2 Wall Decor - Part 3/15 by @martassimsbookcc:

[Link]

Sims Must Wash Hands Sign

Recessed Light AF709 by DOT:

[Link]

Rack for Cues by Simalia. Thanks @sims3lostsets:

[Link] (it's in the casino set)

Colorful Horizontal Pics by Lamare:

[Link]

Male Paintings - Part 3 by @venusprincess-ts3:

[Link]

Male Paintings - Part 1

The Perfect Night | Miranda Mocktail Drinks by @artvitalex:

[Link]

Rainbow Geometric Collection by @wanderingsimsfinds:

[Link]

Diamonds 4

Geometric 5

Patterns by @omfgingers:

[Link]

R5

R8

Male Angel Statues by sim_man123:

[Link]

Male Angel Statue 1

Male Angel Statue 2

Male Angel Statue 4